This is part 2 of "Not That Kind Of Guy" It's a stand-a-lone story, but you might enjoy it more if you read "Not That Kind Of Guy" first. Keep in mind, any subsequent stories will go by a different title.

Thanks to Angela Rasch for editing this. Angela (Jill) is teaching me grammar and I'm enjoying being her student.

This story takes place on 16-year-old John Butler's first day of summer vacation. His mother takes him to a salon so that he can look like her- a middle aged woman. It deals with his psychological anguish and tries to answer the question: What would it be like to be a fairly normal teenage boy and be thrown into a situation of having live out his fantasy of being a woman?

Hopefully the text formating works. I'm learning to transition MS Word to Text instead of writing in Text.

My name is John Butler, even so, I'm sitting in a salon chair staring into the mirror while Carol, my stylist, puts the finishing touches on my extremely feminine wig. My mother is hovering behind me and seems almost giddy with excitement.

"That make-up is marvelous Carol," my mother enthused. "Don't you think, Joan?"

Joan, that still sounds out of place. I tried to nod.

"Keep your head still," Carol said sternly, "or your wig will look like a skunk."

Carol was touching up my brown wig with gray, and since it was synthetic, she used paint instead of dye. It was taking so long because she had to paint one strand of hair at a time. The sights and smells of the beauty shop seemed like a sensual dream, but I knew I was fully awake because I could feel a breeze from a fan blowing up under my skirt.

"I know this kind of make-up and hair coloring is what you want," Carol fumed, "but for the life of me I don't know why. Don't get me wrong. I'm not making any judgments because I have a lot of gay clients.

Gay? I involuntarily grimaced. "I'm not gay!"

She smiled and shrugged. "Its just that I don't understand why anyone as young as you would want to look older."

She's not getting it and neither does Mom. "Look, Carol," I said to her while directing my comments toward my mother as well, "when you selected yellow uniforms for your employees you could have picked another color, right?"

"Of course," Carol answered. "but I went with yellow because they seem perky and I want my clientele to feel good when they come into my shop."

"And they are perky," I said. "But didn't you also choose yellow because that's a color you like?"

"Uh huh," she said without much enthusiasm. Then she brightened. "Come to think of it have a yellow car and my house is also painted yellow."

"Why do you like yellow so much," I asked?

"I don't know. I just do."

"It's like that for me about wanting to look and act like my mother. I really can't explain it, but it's always been like that for me . . . as long as I can remember."

"Whatever," Carol said, clearly not buying my explanation, as she turned off the hair drier and dropped the lock of my hair she had just finished. "I think we're done here. Your wig will be fine as long as you don't go swimming in it. And as far as the make-up is concerned, you'll do fine with that too as long as you remember to add the latex around your eyes and the by the corners of your mouth. You want to spread it so that it looks like age lines. Just be sure to use a base after you're done. I'm sure your mother knows what I'm talking about."

My mother sighed and put her hand on my shoulder. "Well don't just sit there Joan. Say something! What do you think?"

What do I think? About what? I was totally overwhelmed. I was thinking about a million different things at the same time. How had Carol done what she did and make it look so easy? I'd watched her and I understood what she did because she told me what she was doing while she was doing it, but that didn't make the end result any less astonishing. I don't look like myself any more.

I felt my mother's hand clench the skin on my shoulder.

"Well," she asked? "What do you think, Joan? Are you happy? Is it what you expected?"

"I look like you," I said happily.

"Well, not exactly," Carol said, "but the two of you will definitely pass for sisters, and that's the look you said you wanted."

"I can't believe it," I said. "It's so much better than I ever thought it could be. I know I'm not jumping up and down, but that's just because I still can't believe it's really me. I love it so much. Thank you!"

"Great!" Carol removed the smock from around me. "You can pay me up front."

I got up from the chair and stared at the mirror as Carol led my mother to the register. I picked my purse off the floor and slung it over my shoulder. It looked good with my navy blazer and skirt.

I took a deep breath and drank in my reflection. Everything looks so perfect. I can't see my pantyhose or sandals in the mirror, but I can feel them and I know they're there.

I pushed at my glasses so that they sat straight on my nose. I hadn't worn glasses since middle school when I changed to contacts. Mom's right. Glasses are a good touch. They make me look mature and feminine . . . and they help to create a distance between Joan and John - - and Joan and my mother. Mom called it the Clark Kent strategy.

The other thing that looked different about me was my ears and eyebrows. We'd gotten my ears pierced on the way to the salon and they still hurt a bit. Carol had done my brows.

I loved my femininely arched brows, but I was also afraid of them. I could take off the wig and the breast forms and the earrings, but the womanly eyebrows were there to stay until they grew back. Three months, I thought. Surely they'll grow back by the time school starts.

Moving my shoulders to the right I felt my breastforms sway in the same direction. I touched the ends of my wig and admired the gray that looked so natural. My new acrylic nails were long and had been painted a sexy red.

I look wonderful - - better than I had ever imagined in my fantasies. But it wasn't a fantasy, and that's what troubled me. This is real and I've gotten in deep. I'm in over my head and I'm drowning.

Have I ruined my life? I don't know. My life's a compilation of multiple pieces. As far as my friends are concerned, they think I'm catching shrimp off the coast of Alabama, so my secret's safe. But my brother and my parents know. Carol knows. And my mother's friend Doris knows. As a matter of fact, we're supposed to see Doris at her diner after we finish at the salon.

Look at me, I thought. I look like a woman! And I'm about to walk out into the world looking like this! My mother's best friend is going to see me like this. I've known her my whole life. She's known me since I was a baby. She's even gone to some of my football and baseball games. This is so crazy!

And what about my Dad? What's he going to think when he sees me like this? Forget that! I already know what he thinks. He thinks I'm some kind of a fairy. But its not like that.

"Come on, Honey," my mother yelled from the front of the salon. "We've got to go, or we're going to be late."

"Okay Mom," I said as I adjusted the purse on my shoulder.

"Call me 'Cathy,' " my mother corrected me.

"Oh yeah, right. Sorry. I forgot."

***

I didn't speak as my mother and I drove out of the parking lot.

She questioned me about my silence as she lit a cigarette for herself. "Are you having second thoughts about this? Because if you are, I'll tell you right now . . . there's no going back, at least not until school starts."

"Because of my brows," I asked?

"That and because you're being punished. It probably doesn't feel like it to you, but your father thinks it does. He wants this to hurt. You know that -- don't you?"

"It does hurt," I said. "I've lost a lot over this." I removed the leather cigarette case from my purse. "Is this okay?" I asked as I showed her the cigarette case.

My mother shrugged. "We already gave you our permission, so it's up to you about what you want to do with it. But I'll give you some advice, and you don't have to take it if you don't want to, but the more you smoke the harder it will be to quit in the fall. That is if you're still serious about playing football again."

"I don't smoke that much," I said as I pinched a white filter with my red nails and put it between my lips. A spark of excitement shot through me, just looking at my womanly hands holding that cigarette.

My mother laughed and told me that she'd said the same thing to her mother when she was my age. "And now I smoke two packs a day. I know you don't believe me, but it kind of sneaks up on you."

I lit the cigarette without responding.

"You didn't say whether or not you're having second thoughts about this," said my mother.

I reminded her that she had said it didn't matter if I was having second thoughts, because I was being punished. I looked out my window and saw an elderly woman driving in the next lane and I wondered if she had had a good life in her younger days.

"I'd still like to know how you feel about it," my mother continued. "Just for the record, I'm not the enemy here, and you're the one who said you wanted to be like me."

"Would you believe me if I told you this is like the best day of my life . . . but it's also like the worst? I mean it's not as bad as Dad catching me in the first place, or like when it all started. But it's bad because I'm not me any more. But it's so good because I'm like you."

"I do believe you," my mother said with a nod. "And for what it's worth, I think you're very brave for doing this, not that you really have a choice with your father and all. But I still think you're very brave. You're not scared are you, about being in public like this?"

The cigarette allowed me to take a moment to think as I drew a long breath of smoke into my lungs. I exhaled out the car window and felt much more relaxed -- and then told my mother that I was afraid of absolutely everything.

"Well don't be," Mom said. "Hold your chin up and poke out your chest, because you really do look like a woman. And no one is going to know any different unless one of us tells them."

"Three months is such a long time. I'm going to miss my friends."

"I'm sure you will, and I imagine they'll miss you too. But you can make new friends," she paused for a moment, "and you should."

"You mean I should make friends with grown-ups," I asked?

"Why not? They'll think you're a grown-up."

"But I wouldn't know what to talk about. I'm just a kid. I'm not even a real girl."

"Then study up on it," my mother said with a grin. "Read the newspapers. Watch the news on TV. Read my women's magazines. There's a lot of good things in there. Watch me and Doris. Do what we do and act like we do. And whatever you do, don't talk about sports. Some women like sports but most of them just put up with it because their husbands or boyfriends like it. And speaking of 'boyfriends', there's no rule about you not dating."

"Go out with a boy? On a date?"

"Not with a boy honey. With a man. You look way too old to be dating boys. Someone might get the wrong idea and call the cops. Not that you'd be doing anything wrong, technically speaking, but I doubt you'll want to go through the trouble and embarrassment of explaining your situation. Stick with men if you want to date. You're sixteen so if even if you get questioned, it won't be a problem - for you. But looking the way you look, I'm sure you're not going to be questioned."

Queasiness came over me, and I dropped my cigarette out the window without finishing it. The thought of dating men made me sick to my stomach. The worst part was that I didn't feel sick because I was repulsed. I felt sick because I was excited, kind of like butterflies. I know I'm not gay, but thinking about being on a date with a man and hearing him say I'm beautiful made my penis stand at attention.

My mother giggled. "I see that someone forgot to put on her gaffe before she went out."

Now I'm really embarrassed. I moved my hands to cover my erection. "That didn't happen because I was thinking about kissing men or anything."

"Oh no? Then why did it happen?"

"I don't know . . . it just did. You know I get excited about stuff like this. You know. Wearing your clothes and everything and looking like you. That's what did it."

"Whatever you say." She pulled into the diner. "But just so you know. It is okay if you decide that you'd like to date men. Just be sure they ask you out and it's not the other way around. I realize we're living in the nineties, but I still think its slutty when a woman asks a man out, unless of course they're serious about each other."

I wanted to open the door and barf. Does my mom really think I'm gay? Of course she does! She practically accused me of it when she said it would be okay if I wanted to date men. And why wouldn't she think that? I told her that I wanted to be like her. I told her that I wanted to dress like a woman and live like a woman. What else is she supposed to think?

But it's not like that. This isn't about liking men. This is about loving my mother. What's wrong with me, I wondered? I'm not the only guy in the world who loves his mother. But how many other guys love their moms so much that they'd want to actually be like them? This is so crazy. I'm so crazy. Why am I like this?

My mother was already out of the car. "Joan. Are you coming, Honey?"

"Yeah, Mom. Just a second."

"It's 'Cathy', Joan. You call me 'Cathy' and I call you 'Joan'. We're supposed to be sisters, remember?"

"I know," I said as I got out of the car, but Ms. Wagner knows who I am."

"You're right. She does. But you need to call her Doris now. I'm glad you're polite. I appreciate that and it makes me feel good about the way I raised you, but if you're going to be serious about doing this and not get hurt, you're going to have to act like you're my age -- not your age. Understand?"

I told my mother that I understood and promised to do better.

The diner had started out as a sliver trailer-looking building. The original counter, checkered-tile floors and stools were still there, as well as the five booths at the front. But Doris had since added on to back of the trailer, increasing the occupancy rating from 40 to 125 patrons.

Doris was working behind the counter when we walked in and immediately spotted my mom. She threw down her bar rag and ran around the counter to greet us.

I could tell from the excitement and wonder in her face that she was trying hard not to blow my cover.

"John. Is that really you?" she whispered in my ear so that none of the diners could hear.

I nodded sheepishly while we walk into an area of the diner that allowed us some privacy.

She let out a long sigh. "I can't believe it and, I never would have guessed it in a million years if your mother, I mean 'Cathy', hadn't called me with a heads-up. You look wonderful, Honey, but I have to admit, I thought your mother was joshing when she said what you were up to. Please don't take this the wrong way, but in all the years I've known you ... It's just that I never would have guessed that you were that kind of guy. You look so pretty! And I can't believe how much the two of you look a like. Are those crows feet real?" she asked as she touched the corner of my left eye.

"Its latex," I explained.

Doris laughed. "It must be nice to be able to wash your wrinkles away. I know you've been here before, but let me give you a tour around the kitchen." She took me by the hand and led me behind the counter with my mother in tow.

Doris introduced me to the waitresses and cooks as Joan Rogers . . . "Rogers" being my mother's maiden name. After giving us the two dollar tour of the place, she led my mother and I into her office, which was a lot more spacious than I thought It would be.

She told us to take a seat while she grabbed a stack of uniforms from the closet. "Your name badge is on my desk," she said as she placed the uniforms by the door, which she closed.

I knew from seeing Doris and the other waitresses that my uniform would consist of a pink blouse and skirt with black trim. There was also a black apron with pockets.

Doris removed a long, leather cigarette case from her apron and sat down behind the desk. She talked excitedly about our being there as she lit up one of her skinny, brown More menthol cigarettes. She had smoked them for as long as I could remember.

"I hope you don't mind," she said as she motioned toward my mother with her cigarette. "You and Dave haven't quit, have you?"

"I wish," my mother said as she pulled out her own cigarette case and lit up a Virginia Slim. "Dave and I still smoke like trains."

"Oh my," said Doris, as if she was just remembering I was in the room. "Our smoke isn't bothering you, is it, Honey? I can put it out if it is."

"No ma'am. It's okay."

Doris smiled at me in a way that made me melt, as my mother chimed in.

"You're never going to believe this, Doris, but young John here, a/k/a Joan, has taken up smoking herself."

I suddenly felt smaller than I was already feeling as I saw Doris' jaw drop with disappointment.

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed as she looked at me. And then she turned to my mother. "Tell me you're kidding, Cathy. John isn't really smoking, is he?"

My mother shook her head sadly and said, "I'm afraid so. Dave and I are so disappointed in him. But what are you going to do?" she asked as she raised both her palms in a gesture. "Dave is hoping he'll come to his senses and quit before football season starts."

"That's right," Doris said with some shock in her voice. "You're a football player and a baseball player. I'm sure you're coaches wouldn't be too pleased if they found out."

"I don't think they'd be pleased with any of this," I said glumly.

"Gosh, Honey," Doris said,"I didn't think boys like you played football."

Boys like me?!

"Well as long as your parent's don't mind and they say its okay, you can smoke while you're here," Doris allowed - pushing on as if she hadn't just labeled me as a homosexual. "All the other girls do, so you'll fit right in."

"Do you want a cigarette, Honey," my mother asked? She turned to Doris. "I gave him one of my old cigarettes cases that I wasn't using. He's a Virginia Slims smoker just like me. Aren't you, Honey? It's okay. You don't have to be embarrassed."

I shook my head in shame. Is my humiliation that obvious? Of course it is! I'm John Butler. At least I used to be. I'm a jock and a great athlete. I've had sex with three different girls. I'm not some little fairy. But here I am, sitting in front of my mother's best friend with boobs and wearing a dress. I've got cigarettes in my purse. My purse! Oh God, can it really be this bad? I'm not this kind of a guy, but here I am.

"It's okay," I said. "I don't feel like smoking right now." And that was the honest-to-God truth. All I want is to get up out of my chair and run for the door. I want to rip my wig off. I want to get out of this stupid dress and put on some real clothes. I'm ready to be a boy again. If only I could go back and undo everything I'd done.

I willed my face to turn back to its proper color as Doris and my mother caught up on old times and talked about me as if I wasn't in the room. My mom was telling Doris how my father had caught me wearing her nightgown. Is she going to tell her everything?

I listened as my mother told Doris about my father catching me smoking. She told her about how I took the Virginia Slims butts out of the ashtray and smoked them. By the expression on Doris' face, I could tell she thought it was gross. I do too, but it was better than putting my lips on the same cigarette filter that my father had smoked. That would have been like kissing my dad on the lips and that would have been way grosser. I could explain it to them, but why bother? It would probably only make things worse. And this is bad enough.

How could I think I could possibly do this and get away with it? But then again, it wasn't like I pleaded with my parents for this opportunity to humiliate myself. I reminded myself that I didn't have a choice in the matter.

This is going to be my life for the next three months, I thought as I burrowed through my purse for my cigarette case. What am I doing? Am I really going to do this?

The cigarette case felt as if it weighed ten pounds or more as I hauled it out of my purse. My mother and Doris had both stopped talking and were watching me as I removed a slim, white cigarette from the case and placed it between my lips. My face heated up and my penis stiffened under my skirt as I fired up the cigarette with my lighter. Despite the way I felt about myself, I feigned pride and held my head up high as I exhaled a long and satisfying cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

My mother stopped laughing and the Doris softened her gaze as she reached across the desk and touched my hand.

I had tried my best to make a strong impression on them. I had decided to bite the bullet and make the best of the situation, but...I was crying. I was crying like a scared little girl.

"It's okay, John. Don't cry. I shouldn't have been so hard on you. I know I tried to make you feel bad about taking up smoking, and maybe I shouldn't have. I understand how you feel as a woman, but your mother and I are mothers. And it hurts to see someone as young as you take up a habit that is as horrible as smoking. I overstepped my bounds and I apologize. If it's okay with your parents, then it's okay with me."

I sniffed and reached for my eyes to wipe them when Doris stopped me.

"Use a Kleenex," she said as she moved the box of tissues closer to me.

I thanked her and wiped at my eyes.

"You should really think about wearing water proof mascara," Doris said softly.

"We have some at home," my mother said, "but Carol at the salon used something else."

Quietly and without hesitation, I lifted the cigarette to my lips and double pumped it until my lungs were filled with mentholated smoke. "I must look like a clown," I said, as I dabbed my eyes with the Kleenex.

"That's easily fixed." My mother searched through her purse for what could only be described as a miracle repair kit.

Doris talked to me while Mom fixed my mascara.

"I know this must be hard on you, John. And I also know you're not entirely sure about whether or not you want to be here. You're mother told me this is your punishment and it's your father's idea."

I was too choked up to reply so I just nodded.

"When your mother told me that you thought you might want to be a woman, I'll admit I laughed. Knowing you the way I do, I couldn't imagine you pulling it off. You've always been such a he-man in my mind. But seeing you dressed the way -- and looking like you do, well...I'll be the first to admit I was wrong. I don't know if this is what you really want and I know the only reason that you're here is because you're being punished, but I want to tell you right here and now
that I have a lot of respect for you. And I want to be your friend."

I sniffed back my tears and thanked her.

"Are you feeling better?" Mom returned the make-up to her purse.

"I think so. How do I look? Is my make-up still running?"

"No," my mother answered. "But your eyes are puffy and red. Maybe we should have another cigarette and by then you'll feel up to walking out."

"Okay," I said as I reached across the desk and put my cigarette out.

We stayed in Doris's office for another 30 minutes and I smoked two more cigarettes without either of them laughing or me bursting into tears. Doris kept saying how much she admired my courage, but she also cautioned me how important it was to her business that I not let on to anyone that I was anything but what I looked like.

I'll do my very best to make sure no one ever finds out! I felt a heavy responsibility toward Doris.

Doris gave me a hug and a hand shake and said she was looking forward to my starting work with her the next day.

Even though I felt like crawling, I walked out of the diner beside my mother with my head held up high and my chest poked out. I wish my day was over and that I could sleep it off. The only problem is my father's going to be standing between me and my bedroom.

I wanted not to worry about it. After all, my father had seen me in my mother's clothes all week. But that was nothing compared to how I look now. I don't feel like a woman, but I sure as heck look like one.

***

My mother apologized to me as soon as we got inside the car. "I know things got a little rough in there, at times. I could have defended you better and there were a couple of times when I joined in. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings and neither did Doris. I can't speak for Doris, but my excuse for letting it happen is because I wanted you to really think about what you're doing."

"Why," I asked? "Its not like I can get of this, can I? This is my punishment and I'm stuck like this for the next three months."

"That's very true," my mother said as she lit a cigarette at the traffic light. "And three months is a long time, especially if someone can make you feel miserable about yourself, the way Doris and I did at the diner. What I'm saying is that you need to have a tougher skin about this and don't wear your heart on your sleeve."

I agreed with her but I also said I thought she shouldn't have done that to me in the diner. "You're my mother," I said.

"That's right. I am. And now we're going home and you're going to see your father. How do you think he's going act when he sees you like this?"

I shook my head and told her I didn't know.

"He loves you John. He loves you and George more than anything in the world. You two are his pride and joy. He's going to love you no matter what, but he's not going to give up his son without a fight."

"Well if that's how he feels then maybe he should let me go back to being a boy and figure out some other way to punish me."

"He's not going to do that honey. He made a decision and he's going to stick by it. With your father it's always about the principle of the thing. He loves you, but he's going to keep this up for the whole summer, and he's going to try beat you into submission. He thinks that if he can make you feel bad enough about what you've done, you'll never do it again."

I asked my mother if that was the she felt too.

"Not at all," she said. "Your father and I both agreed that you should do this, but our reasons couldn't be any more different. I think these are the most important three months of your life. Seriously, these next three months are going to have a huge impact on your future."

I told her I knew that.

"Do you really," she asked? "Then let's talk about it. Or maybe I should talk and you can listen. I think we both know the smoking part is obvious. If you keep smoking this summer, it's going to be very difficult for you to play sports next year. But I think that's the least of your problems. I'm more concerned about what you told me after your father caught you last week."

I told her I felt so bad that I couldn't remember what I said. "I was scared too. I might have said anything, you know, to keep something like this from happening."

"Or maybe you said it so something like this would happen," my mother offered. "You told me that you wanted to be like me, John. You said you think about it all the time. You told me you would give up the life you have now and skip the life you might have had to be a woman my age right now. Do you remember saying that to me?"

"Yes," I said softly.

"Okay then," said my mother. "You got your wish, or at least half of it. You look my age and you're beautiful. We could pass for sisters. But looking like me and being like me are two different things. You may look like a woman, but I really am one. And if you want this as much as you said you did in my room that day, well...you need to start acting like a woman. If this is what you want, then you should be happy and proud. I know I am. Do you understand what I'm saying? Is any of this making sense?"

I understood what she was saying and I said so, but I also told her that I was confused about my feelings.

"I get that you're confused," my mother said quietly. "I'd be confused too if I were in your shoes. Anyone would. But here's the thing. You got to where you are right now because of what you did and what you said. And I don't think you made those things up. I think you said them because you felt them. Now here is the point I'm trying to make. I know you're feeling traumatized to say the least. You've gone through a lot of major changes in a short amount of time. But this is the chance of a lifetime and you need to realize it and make the most of it.

"I'm not trying to tell you what to do with your life," my mother continued. "You can be a boy or a man, or a girl or a woman. You can be a smoker or a non-smoker. You can be gay or straight. It doesn't matter to me what you are as long as you're happy.

"I think the worst thing that could ever happen is that you make a decision based on what you think your father and I want rather than what you want. I don't want you to wake up some day when you're forty years old and think your life could have been better if you'd done something differently. And you're not going to know if you'd truly be happier as a woman unless you really try it on for size. And there's no better time in the world to do that than right now."

I felt terribly confused and frustrated. The worst thing was that we were less than a mile from our house. We were almost home, and I'd have to face my father in a matter of minutes. I asked my mother if we could pull over.

My mother turned into the grocery store near our house and parked in the back of the parking lot. "Just relax for a moment and pull yourself together," she said as she removed a cigarette from her case and lit it.

"I think I need a cigarette too," I said as I dug the leather case from my purse.

"Then you should have one. It's like I said a couple of minutes ago. None of this is about what your father or I want. It's about what you want and what you need."

I lit the cigarette and exhaled out the window. "I think I need this," I said.

"I'm sure you probably do," said my mother. "You're father and I have both accepted the fact that you're a smoker now. It's just a question of whether or not you'll give it up. And for all I know that may not even be a question. It's very possible that you're already too addicted to quit. After all, you didn't just start. You've been sneaking behind our back for the last two years. The damage could already be done."

I thought about what she said and I nodded in agreement. "So what should I do about Dad?"

"Well I could tell you to be yourself, but I don't think that would work in this case. If I was going to give you any advice, I suppose I'd tell you to be like me. That's what you said you wanted to do anyway. It shouldn't be that hard. You said you've been watching me your whole life. Walk like me, talk like me, smoke like me, just do everything like me. Act like a woman and don't be ashamed of it. The worst thing you could when we get home is to slink off to your room the way you've been doing."

"I know you're right but its just so hard around Dad. He makes me feel so bad about myself. He doesn't even have to say anything and I feel like crap."

"That's because he's disappointed. But it's not your fault. Every man wants his son to grow up to be like him and even be more than him. That's why he doesn't want you to smoke, and he certainly thought he'd never have to worry about your sexuality."

"What about you," I asked? "How do you feel about me wanting to be like you?"

"I'm not sure if I should even say, because I don't want to sway your decision. But I will tell you I'm flattered. When you said what you said, it surprised me, but it also made me feel very good about myself. It was definitely a big shock because I've always thought you were so much like your father. I didn't know you even had a feminine side, but now that I've seen it, I can tell you that I honestly like it, and I'd like to see more of it, even if you're not wearing a dress."

"I like it too Mom. And maybe that's the problem because I think I like it too much."

"Because you're afraid you might throw away your manhood and regret it?"

I finished my cigarette and dropped it out the window. "Exactly," I said.

"But don't you see, John? You could be making the same mistake with your womanhood. What if you throw it away and it turns out that you regret it? You have to be as sure as you can be. And that's why you have to make the most out of this summer."

"I do see it, Mom. But that's a problem too! It doesn't matter if I like being a woman or not, or even if want to keep smoking. When this is all over, I have to go back to being a boy again. I have to quit smoking. And I have to play football and baseball. Nothing is going to change. I'm still going to be the same old guy I always was, except you and Dad are going to know the truth about me."

"The truth. What truth," my mom asked? "That you really want to be a woman?" She paused to light another cigarette. "You know honey, you keep taking about this like you have to do this and you have to do that after summer, but you don't. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. And you can be anything you want to be?"

"But I have to go back to school. Don't I?"

"You're sixteen," my mother said. "You're old enough to make a lot of decisions for yourself. You can quit school, start smoking, or even get married if you want to. Of course you'd need our permission, but we'd give to you, if we thought it was what you really wanted and needed."

"Really?"

My mother nodded, and then exhaled out the window. "Really," she said.

I was stunned, but in a good way. For some reason or another I'd never considered the possibility that I might have any degree of control over anything that I did. I had always felt as if my parents had planned out my life for me and I had to make things happen according to their plans. I wondered if that was why I wanted to be a grown woman so badly - - so that I could make my own choices. But that didn't explain why I thought about being a woman. If what my mother said was true, couldn't I do the same thing as a guy?"

"Would you still let me drop out of school if I decided that I want to be a boy," I asked?

"I wouldn't want you to, but I suppose so," my mother said sadly. "But would dropping out for the sake of dropping out make you happy? Would it do anything good for you? And just so you know, I'd ask the same kind of questions if you told me you wanted to be a woman and drop out of school."

"So you're saying that this is really my choice and it's about what I want to do with my life? Either way?"

"Either way you decide," my mom assured me. "Does that change things for you?"

I shrugged. "I don't know if it changes anything, you know, about what I'll do. But it changes the way I feel now."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me feel like I have more control over things. I don't feel like a puppet any more. I mean I know I'm be punished and I have to live like a woman for the rest of the summer. But the things you said make me feel different, like it's not really a punishment."

"Kind of like an adventure or exploration?" my mother suggested.

"Yeah, a lot like that," I said.

"So this is a good thing," my mother asked?

"I think so."

"One more thing about your dad," she said. "When you said you wanted to be like me and proved it by doing all this, that has to hurt him a bit."

"Why?" I asked in shock. I've never wanted to hurt Dad.

"Because you didn't say you want to be like him," she answered plainly.

"Ohhhhh. But I love Dad. I think he's great."

"You need to tell him that. Even if I'm wrong, it wouldn't hurt for you to tell him how much you admire and love him every once in a while."

I nodded.

"Okay then," my mother said happily as she started the car, "lets go home, Joan, and introduce you to your father."

*****

My dad was sitting on the couch watching a VHS video of my last season's football game films on TV. I knew what he was doing before I even saw it because I recognized the roar of the crowd. It was then that I knew he was playing for keeps, and I understood why my mother had spent so much time priming me for this moment.

"Hey, Dad. Whata watching," I asked?

"Last season's game films," he said as he turned on the couch.

I saw the double-take in his eyes even though he apparently was trying hard not to telegraph his surprise. I could tell by the way he looked at me that I looked different to him than I had earlier in the day.

"So what do you think, Dave," my mother asked? "Doesn't she look beautiful?" She motioned for me to go into the living room. "She had her nails done. And look at her wig. Carol, at the salon, gave her a touch of gray and she was even able to add some wrinkles. We could almost pass for sisters. Don't you think?"

I stood in front of my father, between him and the television, and waited for his response.

"You really look different," he said, and then he lit a Marlboro and asked if I wanted to watch the video with him.

I knew what he was trying to do. He was ignoring the woman in front of him and was talking to his son.

"What's the matter," he asked petulantly? "You don't like football any more?"

"No. I still like it. I just don't know if I want to play it any more," I said as I sat on the couch beside him.

My father created some distance between us by shifting himself to the right while my mother sat in the chair closest to me.

She gave me a reassuring smile, and then winked as she removed the cigarette case from her purse.

I could feel her willing me to do the same. My purse was on my lap, and I placed my hand inside it and felt for my own leather cigarette case. I've never intentionally smoked a cigarette in front of my father before and I wonder if I have the courage to do it now. Apparently my mother seems to think it's a good idea, even though I'm sure she knows it'll rile him.

I thought about everything my mother had said to me in the car about my having a choice in the way I lived my life. I didn't know if I wanted to be a woman, but I did know I wanted to have a say in the matter. I felt the cigarette case in my hand, but stopped short of pulling it out of my purse.

My father jumped and yelled because I'd just made a tackle on the TV.

"You played that play so good, John ...I mean Joan. You really cleaned his clock."

"Thanks," I said as I closed my eyes and removed the cigarette case from my purse.

He must have caught my movement out of the corner of his eye because I saw him look down at my hand and my freshly-painted nails, and then look away toward the television.

I looked at my mother for more reassurance.

She nodded and bit her lip.

And then I thought of my father and the way he was ignoring me . . . looking at me and talking to me like I was his son and I wasn't wearing a dress or a wig. Does he even notice my eyebrows? Of course he does. But he isn't willing to say so. I wonder if he knows I'm wearing a bra, panties, and a slip underneath my skirt and blazer.

I studied my father as he lifted the ugly Marlboro cigarette to his lips.

Is that what I'll look like some day, I wondered? I hope not, because I never want to smoke like a man. Just thinking about it makes me feel repulsed. It's fine for Dad and other men, but not for me. I'd rather not smoke at all than to smoke like a man.

On the other hand, my feelings for my mother and her smoking were the polar opposite. I looked at the feminine way she held her cigarette and crossed her legs at the knee.

I immediately moved my purse and crossed my own legs so that I was sitting like my mom. Do what she does, I thought. Act like her. Be like her. What would she do? I know what she'd do because she's doing it.

What would my mother's sister do if Mom had one? What would Joan Rogers do?

I removed a cigarette from my case and held it femininely near my cheek the way I'd seen my mother do when she asked my father for a light. "Dave, would you be a dear and give me a light," I asked?

I saw him tremble and the veins above his temple began to pulsate. "What," he asked in obvious disbelief?

"Joan asked you for a light, Honey," my mother said casually.

"If you're old enough to smoke, then you're old enough to light your own cigarette," my father barked angrily.

I felt every ounce of my father's fury. His voice reeked with disappointment and disgust. I wanted to get off the couch and run to my room, but I didn't. I stood my ground and told him he was right. And then I took the lighter out of my case and lit my own cigarette in front of him. I inhaled deeply and tried to pretend it was satisfying and relaxing, but in truth I was choking on my own fear. But I refused to show it to him.

The living room was quiet except for the television, but no one was really watching it.

And then my brother George came bursting in through the kitchen with his best friend, Mark Kilgore, fast on his heels. They came to an abrupt stop when their feet hit the living room carpet.

It happened so quickly but it felt like slow motion to me. I saw George look at me and Dad sitting on the couch. And then he looked over to our mother. And then he looked back at me.

His eyes moved down to the cigarette between my fingers. It was the first time he'd ever seen me smoking.

I felt so ashamed of myself.

It was my mother who jumped to the rescue. "Look George, your Aunt Joan is here. She's going to stay with us for the summer."

And then my brother did something that I didn't expect him to do. He ran up and hugged me. "Hi, Aunt Joan," he said with obvious enthusiasm. He then turned back to my mom and asked if he could eat dinner at Mark's house.

"Is it okay with Mark's father," my mother asked? Mark's father is a widower.

Mark nodded violently. "We're having pork chops."

"Okay, but don't over-stay your welcome," my mother said.

George and Mark scurried out of our house with my mother's permission.

"Not so proud of yourself any more, are you," my dad asked? "Did you see his face when he saw you wearing that dress and smoking that girly cigarette? He's lost all respect for you."

"And who's fault is that," I asked? "You're the one who said I had to do this."

My mother jumped in and corrected me. "It wasn't just your father. It was me too, Honey. And you're holding up your end of the deal. Perhaps your father can do the same."

My father jumped off the couch and told us he was going to his bar to throw a game of darts. "I'll eat there," he added.

My mother and I watched as he scooped his keys off the kitchen counter and slammed the door behind him.

"Congratulations, Joan," my mother said. "You handled that like a woman. I'm very proud of you."

I blushed and a feeling ran through my body that I recognized. It was the same satisfaction I'd experienced after hitting a home run or making an interception.