Jamie, Wendy, Christmas

This is my first contribution and, I hope, a Christmas story the community might enjoy.

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Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Thursday 12-28-2006 at 8:17 pm, this retro classic Christmas Special was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers. ~Sephrena
 

Jamie

We’d been dating since late winter. In August we were sharing an apartment. My roommate for the last school year had transferred and Wendy’s lease had run out on the first of June so we decided to spend the summer together. We wanted to see if we should to move in together for — well, maybe, permanently. Both of us were working full time but we’d finagled it so our schedules were approximately the same.

Of course, lovers spending the summer together is such a stereotype, but we didn’t care; we lived it for all it was worth. We spent warm evenings on the porch reading or on the couch watching videos; mornings reading the newspaper together — Sundays we’d splurge on the New York Times; days at the beach and nights on the town; breakfasts at a local diner or dinners at cheap restaurants — we were both twenty, not-quite-poor college students and in love.

And we learned about making love. Now neither of us was a virgin and we’d had our share of sex together while dating, but that summer we found out so many new things about how to please each other. We tried the different positions and places; played the games and roles; bought a couple of toys; tried trying each other up and giving “sensuous” massages. Neither of us were very good either of these latter two; we’d usually end up giggling. We found out what felt good and what felt great, what was uncomfortable and what hurt; what worked for us and what didn’t. Exploration and discovery were our modus operandi.

Mostly, though, we learned much more about each other; the family stories, our fears and dreams, our likes and dislikes. Each found more about the other’s habits — some that were endearing, others that were annoying. Gradually we started to live as a couple not just as bedmates.

The one thing I hadn’t told her about was my “Big Secret” — and I mean that with the capitals and the quotes. I was truly in love with Wendy and felt that this might be “IT” — might be the life-love most of us long for. But I knew that before we settled in together for the fall semester I had to tell her.

I had to tell her that I’m a cross dresser.

I really don’t know where it all began. No… that’s not quite true I do know when I first wore “girl’s” clothes. It was during a Christmas pageant in kindergarten. Whatever my costume was — I was probably an elf - I got to wear tights — white tights. And they felt good. My sisters wore tights. I wanted to keep them. I was in tears when told they were only for dress-up and that “boys don’t wear tights.” I remember thinking, “Why can’t I wear them for dress-up?”

You should know that I have four sisters: three older, one younger. Always, their under-things were in the laundry or hanging up to dry. All I had were jockey shorts and tee shirts. That is probably what started it.

In my family everyone had their turn at doing the laundry (and the dishes and cooking for that matter.) Once I was old enough, I was part of the rotation for laundry. I should note that everyone also lent a hand milking the cows, mucking out the manure and doing the haying; it was an equal-opportunity family — everyone had to do everything. Once you could lend a hand, you did.

But I digress…

Granted, in kindergarten I wasn’t yet doing the laundry but I did know that girl’s clothes were much nicer than boy’s. Later, my sisters’ undies — panties, bras, nylons, tights — were in the clothes that I washed and folded. They always seemed so much prettier and more exciting than any of my clothes. I tried them on whenever I could.

Sometime along in first or second grade, my mother surprised me while I was in a sister’s dress. I was lost in admiring myself in the mirror when she came through the door and froze.

“Jamie,” she said gently, “Come here.”

I skipped over to her and asked, “Don’t I look pretty?”

She made I noise that I now suspect was a cut-off sob. Sinking down onto her knees to be at my level, she reached out and put her hands on my shoulders.

“Jamie dear, you have to listen to me. Okay?”

Looking up at her seeing how serious she was, I was suddenly scared.

“Uh huh,” I said.

“Sweetie, you’re a boy. Boys shouldn’t wear girl’s clothes. Do you understand me?”

Then I knew I’d done something wrong and could only look down at the floor.

My mother put her hand under my chin and made me look up at her.

“This is very important, Jamie,” she admonished me. “You mustn’t ever let anybody see you in your sister’s clothes. I know you want to put them on but you’re a boy. And boys don’t wear their sister’s clothes.” She said this very slowly so it would sink in.

Then she repeated, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, mama.”

“Okay,” she said. Then added, “And yes, you do look very pretty. But you have to promise me; don’t ever play dress up when anyone else might see you. You make sure you are alone and don’t let anyone else find out. Okay?”

“Okay, mama.”

“Good,” she acknowledged. “Now, take that off and put your own stuff back on. Daddy’s making ice cream and it’s almost ready!”

Looking back, I know I remember it clearly; she didn’t say don’t do it, she said don’t get caught. From then on though, I was always very careful.

But then one Halloween, I must have been in fifth or sixth grade, I forgot all that she’d said. A couple of my sisters thought it would be a good idea to dress me up as a girl for treat or treat. I don’t know if one or more of them really knew my secret, I suspect they might have. I couldn’t have been more thrilled - big mistake.

Most of the details of that night have faded. I do remember I wore a white blouse, a full slip, a blue jumper and shiny, black Mary Janes. And white tights. My sisters also applied red lipstick and a pair of my grandmother’s clip-on earrings. I don’t recall what we did about my hair but it didn’t matter. I was so happy that night.

The next day was another story. The next day was hell. Classmates had seen me. I was teased and taunted for being a sissy and a pussy. And it never let up — my reputation never recovered. Then I remembered my mother’s warning. It’s stayed with me ever since — dressing-up (as I then thought of it) could be a dangerous thing.

Luckily we sold the farm and moved across the state the next spring.

In spite of all the bad stuff, I was hooked.

Whenever I could I’d put on my sisters’ panties, pantyhose, blouses, dresses, skirts: if it fit I would try it. Later, after most of them moved away or went to college or I left for college myself, it got harder. I still dressed when I could, but I was very, very careful.

Living in a dorm freshman year wasn’t conducive to my “hobby.” Then, for my sophomore year — freedom; I got an apartment off-campus. Even though I shared the place with another guy, we each had our own bedroom so I had more opportunity to indulge my inclinations — even if only in the confines of my bedroom. Privacy is a wonderful thing. I was able to purchase my own women’s underwear and clothes at thrift shops and on sale without any of my acquaintances knowing. I could wear panties, sometimes pantyhose and during colder weather, when layers of clothes would cover what lay beneath, even bras and camisoles.

Since my disposable income was quite limited my collection of ladies under things was not very extensive. Still, I enjoyed what I had. But I’d learned to never let on to anyone. In the years since, that Halloween, no one has found out my secret. I had a couple heart-pounding close calls but was never discovered.

Then I met Wendy.

Wendy was everything I could have asked for in a girlfriend. She was widely read — we talked about books; she was a film buff — we compared directors and actors; she knew art — we discussed Impressionism, Post-Modernism, Dadaism even.

And she liked baseball.

Okay. So I grew up in New England. I couldn’t have rooted for anyone but the Red Sox: to do so would be a worse sin than… well, cross-dressing. Wendy is from New York — City - Queens actually. Thank goodness she and her family are all Mets fans. We could watch each other’s team and cheer them on together. Even when they competed against each other we would applaud the good plays and cringe at the bad ones — no matter who made them. If she’d been a Yankees fan, I don’t know… we probably wouldn’t have made it past the third date — we certainly wouldn’t be living together.

I’d been worrying all summer about how to tell Wendy about cross-dressing but could never get up the nerve. Of course I was a bit afraid she would reject me outright. I thought I knew her well enough and was pretty sure she wouldn’t reject me over this but still... the lessons of my youth remained.

And cross-dressing was not the same as how you folded the towels or whether the toilet paper came over the top or down behind. I was deeply in love with Wendy and I thought the feeling was mutual. However, this was a part of me she would have to accept if we were going to spend our lives together. I had to tell her soon.

So…

One Sunday morning I decided to let her “discover” my fetish and I’d accept the consequences. We made breakfast and went for a run together; grabbed a Times and returned to the apartment. I took a shower and then turned the bathroom over to her. She rinsed the sweat off quickly and then ran a bath — luckily our place had plenty of hot water. While she was shaving her legs and then soaking in the tub I got ready.

Actually, “got ready” is a bit melodramatic. All I did was put on a pair of bikini briefs that had a bit of lace detail around the waist — nothing terribly sexy but they were comfy and one of my favorites. Then I just pulled on my shorts and a tee.

I was puttering around the kitchen, putting away the dishes, when she rejoined me. I turned to kiss her and, as I thought she might and she often does, Wendy slipped her hands around behind me and down under my shorts to caress my butt. When her fingers touched the unexpected lace they stopped. I felt them double-check — confirming what they had encountered — then they froze for a moment before retreating. She took a step back, a puzzled look on her face.

“Are you… Are you wearing my undies?”

She did have a pair of the same kind.

“No,” I replied, paused for a second and continued quietly, ‘They’re mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said… they’re mine.”

Wendy let that sink in. She gave a little shake of her head in disbelief.

“Yours? They’re yours?”

I nodded.

“Huh?” She stopped, obviously still trying to absorb this idea. “Wait a minute. You have your own?”

“Yeah.”

She stood there, just looking at me, at a loss for words. Her hands were up near her shoulders, palms forward, fingers curled over into loose fists; defensively ready to ward off… something.

“I like to wear women’s clothes.” There. I said it. Tense, almost shivering with fear and waiting for her reaction, I stood, holding the sink behind me for stability.

She backed up another step, crossed her arms over her chest in an unconscious shield. Her brow furrowed; a lost, bewildered, indeed almost panicked, look on her face.

“Jamie,” she said quietly, “I don’t understand.”

“Wendy, I been trying to figure out how to tell you, like… well, all summer. I’m a cross-dresser. I like to wear girl’s clothes.”

“Ookay..” she said, dragging the word out. She paused for a moment and then, all in a rush asked, “Like, what? What do you wear? No, wait a minute. Why?”

Another pause and she repeated, “Jamie, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story,” I said and then asked, “Can we go sit down?”

She just nodded.

Grasping for any delay I asked, “You want more coffee?”

Breaking out of her somewhat dazed attitude she glanced briefly over at the coffee maker and then slowly returning her eyes to me she said, simply, “Yeah.”

Then she gave a shake, added, “I’ll be in the living room,” turned and left the kitchen.

It took me a second to release the sink I’d been gripping so hard and go through the motions of making cups of coffee.

I entered the living room. She was sitting at one end of the couch, feet up on it, hugging her knees against her chest, looking tense - like a scared kid - like her whole world had been upended on her. Well, I suppose it had.

I gave her the coffee — she took it with both hands and held it on top of her knees - a wall between us. Wendy would normally keep her coffee near her while reading or working, reach for it without looking, take a sip and return the mug to it’s parking place — hardly even noticing the whole procedure. This has led to the occasional spill when she’d let go while setting it down on the edge of a table. Her hiding behind it like this was not good.

I sat down at the other end, tucked my feet up under me and took a sip before beginning.

Starting with a deep breath I related my story; about growing up wanting to be like my sisters and having their nice clothes; about the Christmas show and the white tights; about the Halloween dress-up and how white tights again made an impression on me; about how wearing pretty under-things made me feel nice; about buying clothes at thrift shops. I told her honestly that sometimes cross-dressing was a sexual turn-on but generally it was just comforting and felt good, felt right; sensual maybe, but mostly it seemed natural.

Eventually my tale wound down.

She just stared at me; actually, her eyes seemed focused beyond me. Wendy had the look she gets when she was puzzling through a tough problem — working it over in her mind until she resolved it or decided on an alternative approach.

She re-centered her attention on me.

“You’ve been doing this since you were a kid?”

“Yes.”

“And you have your own — girl’s — clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

I nodded.

“Where?”

“That old suitcase in the back of the closet.”

“Okay,” she said. With both hands still cupped around her coffee mug, she took nervous sip. I was amazed she had any left; I’d gulped down mine and set my aside my cup minutes ago. I could tell she was on the verge of a question but she appeared hesitant about asking it or maybe uncertain about hearing an answer.

I saw the point where she firmed her resolve, slowly and deliberately Wendy placed the mug on the window-sill behind the couch, brought her arms back to reinforce the barricade created by her knees. Looking straight at me she asked, “Do you want to be a girl?”

“What?” I was totally surprised by the question. I suppose I shouldn’t have been; Wendy wasn’t stupid and it was a logical connection to make even if, usually inaccurate.

“Do you want to be a girl?” she repeated. “Are you a, what is it, um, transsexual, transgendered, whatever it’s called? Do you want to be a girl?”

‘No, I don’t.”

“Honestly?” she asked.

“Honestly!” I said.

Her shoulders, which had been drawn in and tense, slumped. “Oh thank God!” she exclaimed.

At that she pivoted over the balls of her feet, dropped her knees to the couch and launched herself at me. The tears were flowing before she reached my end of the couch and wrapped her arms about me.

“Oh Jamie,” she sobbed, “I thought… I was so afraid...” and buried her head on my shoulder.

Wendy

I don’t think I’d ever been more shocked than the day I reached into Jamie’s shorts and encountered those undies.

The only time that comes close was when a good friend in high school came out that she was a lesbian. But with her… well I think I had unconsciously suspected. And it wasn’t like she was in love with me, quite the opposite. She just let me know one day that she wasn’t attracted to boys and she had a Girlfriend (with a capital “G”).

So I listened while Jamie told me about his - his what? his fetish? his need for women’s clothes? Anyway, I grew more concerned that this was more than just — cross-dressing. I thought maybe he was trying to tell me he was transgendered. Actually I believe my thinking at the time was more on the line of, “Oh shit. He wants to be a girl.”

Now, I’m not narrow-minded — I knew a number of kids in the LGBT community on campus. Some were good friends. But I’m straight. I’ve never been attracted to girls and, as I listened to Jamie, I kept reading into it that he really wanted to be a girl. I was on the edge of panic. I was in love with this man. It sounds a cliché but I thought he was my soul mate. I keep thinking about a future together but now… I didn’t think I could love him as a her. When his account finally came to any end, I asked him. My fingers almost hurt I’d been holding that damn coffee mug so hard. When he said “no” the dam broke. I cried — hard and long. All the while he held me, stoking my hair, trying to calm me, telling me it was okay. But he was crying too.

When I’d finally, we’d finally, cried ourselves out, we separated a bit. He handed me some tissues and grabbed a couple for himself. We went through the classic wiping of tears and blowing of noses and then sat, facing each other, cross-legged. He reached over and took my hands, looked directly at me and said, “I love you, Wendy.”

“I know, Jamie. I love you too, but, this is, I don’t know… I need some time… Damn it, Jamie! I don’t know what to think.”

“I know,” he acknowledged.

After a while of just sitting, holding his hands and looking at him, it hit me. “This is real, isn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

Quiet filled the room. I mulled over what he’d said. Questions filled my mind. Could I live with and love a man who did this? Would it be different if it was hidden — like if he just wore under-things? What if he wanted to, say, wear a dress all day? Around the house? Or even outside? Could I deal with that? Would I want to be seen with him?

Then, unbidden came the thought: what would he look like in a dress? I raised my gaze to his and that notion was driven away by seeing the anxiety on his face.

“Oh sweetie,” I said. “We can deal with this. I think… I need to get used to it, though.”

At that point I again noticed the pressure from all the coffee I’d consumed - I’d been ignoring it

Jumping up I said, “I need to pee.” I rushed from the room, partly from urgency and partly from a need to escape. I sat for the necessary relief and then for much longer, chin on my hands, tracing the pattern of the floor tiles with my eyes, contemplating what to do. Finally, I decided on a plan of action, finished in the bathroom and steeling myself to accept the consequences, I returned to the living room.

Jamie was looking forlorn, still sitting as when I’d left. I walked over, grabbed his hand and, saying “Come on!” dragged him off the couch and pulled him into the bedroom.

“Get out your suitcase,” I told him.

A look of panic crossed his face.

“No!” I said. “We need to do this now - before I lose my nerve.”

You’ve heard the phase, “moving like a condemned man”? Well I think I understood it somewhat that afternoon in our bedroom. Jamie approached the closet hesitantly. Then I could see a change as if he firmed his resolve to act this drama through to its conclusion and accept the consequences. I was learning Jamie was like that — he might agonize over a decision, but once made, he followed through.

He moved a couple boxes out of the way, pulled the bag out and put it on the bed.

A question came to me.

“How did you get out the undies you have on?”

He gave a little smirk.

“I didn’t. I had them buried under some stuff in the dresser.”

Jamie opened the suitcase to reveal his stash — all very painstakingly packed away. I must say it was a bit incongruous. Jamie isn’t sloppy — I mean he doesn’t throw his clothes all over the place — but he is a bit careless about how he puts his stuff away. Sox and undies get jammed into one drawer, tee-shirts, half-folded, into another. Shirts don’t really get hung on hangers — more the hanger gets hung with a shirt stuck on it. But here he had a suitcase with his — girl clothes — carefully, neatly arranged.

He gently placed his items on the bed.

There was a pile of panties, all painstakingly folded. And not just plain cotton briefs but satin and lace and mesh; bikinis, hipsters and boy shorts. I remember thinking that some of them were nicer, sexier, than my own.

He had: three bras — two plain white and one a black, lace, demi; a half-dozen camis and tank-tops; several blouses — most simple, cotton or poly prints but one a very elegant light-blue silk number. There were several skirts — a demin, mid-thigh, mini; a very nice pleated, grey, wool, A-line, one; a few others including a couple, India print cotton “hippy” skirts and a couple pair of slacks and women’s shorts.

There were several pair of pantyhose, a full and a half slip, a couple pair of trouser socks and, I couldn’t believe it, a garter-belt and hose. “Damn,” I thought, “I don’t even own a garter-belt.”

And he had two dresses. One was a light, yellow, sun-dress and the other was a solid blue, half-sleeve, button-down-the-front, shirt-dress.

There were three pairs of shoes: one of simple black flats, on pair of simple sandals and finally, dark-blue, sling-back pumps with about a 2” heel.

All this he laid out on the bed. Watching him I got the sense that he was almost reverent about this, his treasure-trove. But then, looking closely as he picked up the sun-dress and held it up, seemingly oblivious to my presence, I realized that he had the look I’ve seen on girl-friends when shopping: he was visualizing how it would look on him.

Finally, the last thing out was a small black, nylon bag.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Huh?” he came out of his reverie. “Oh! Um, make-up, jewelry and,” he hesitated a moment and blushed, “uh, breast forms.”

“Excuse me?”

“Breast forms,” he repeated. “You know? You put them in your bra to…” he started to explain.

I cut him off - “I know what they’re for!”

But I couldn’t say anything else; I didn’t know what to say.

When the suitcase was empty he stepped back, tried to put his hands in his pockets, remembered he had none in his shorts - finally just crossed his arms defensively across his chest and looked inquiringly at me. I just stood for a moment trying to absorb it all.

I stepped over to the bed and examined what was laid out before me. This was way more than I expected when I decided to drag him in here to show me his “dress-up” clothes. I don’t know what I was expecting — maybe a couple pair of panties, nylons and, I don’t know — a dress? But this? This was… serious.

I picked up the shirt-dress and examine the tag — Donna Karan. And the panties some were name brand too. There was stuff here from Nordstrom and Macy’s as well as Target and Penny’s.

Then something else stuck me — we were the same size! Now, I’m 5’-6”, but Jamie is only 5’- 7” and we are both pretty slim. I’m not anorexic or anything but I run, I work out — my hips a pretty small — for a girl. Jamie’s hips are smaller than mine (I may be an athlete, but I’m still a girl.) I don’t have an hour-glass figure, by any means but my waist size is less than his and my butt is bigger. Looking at his panties, I realized that I could wear any one of them. Some better than others maybe, but all would fit.

I picked up one of his bras — 36B — exactly my size. I used to be self-conscious about my small bust but had long since gotten past that. And Jamie had never shown any disappointment with my lack of endowment. Indeed, he was very attentive to my breasts during our love-making.

But this… okay, the clothes were a surprise: both the quality and the quantity. But the same size? This was just getting weird.

However, I could deal with this — I thought. I loved Jamie. It’s just clothes I reflected — he’s not gay, he’s not trans-gendered, he just likes to dress-up. He’s still my Jamie.

Okay! What do I need to do? I need to be non-judgmental - this coming from some psychology class I’d taken. I need to let him know it is OK.

“Is it OK?” I wondered. I wasn’t sure.

Not certain how to react, if I should react or keep silent, but then feeling I had to say something, I blurted the first thing that came to mind, “Jamie, how… where did you get all this?”

“Oh,” he responded, seeming relieved to say something. “Actually it’s pretty easy. Most of it is from Salvation Army and Goodwill and that thrift-shop over off State.”

“You bought used undies?” I asked dubiously.

He relaxed some and laughed.

“Ah, no. Mostly ‘Our Semi-Annual Lingerie Sale’,” he said using a ‘TV-commercial’ voice, quoting a newspaper insert. “Or,” he continued in a normal tone, “Christmas, Valentine’s Day. It’s pretty easy if you find the right sales lady - older if you’re looking for plain ones, younger if you want something sexy. You just have to put on the right air of helpless embarrassment about wanting to get something for your girlfriend and they’ll go out of their way to help.”

I tried to picture him doing this and found I could easily do so. Jamie was a natural actor and mimic. I’d been with him when he’d pulled similar stunts in a grocery store — trying to find some unusual mushroom he’d ‘seen’ on TV - or in a book store asking for an obscure history of Victorian era novelists some ‘professor’ suggested he read. I had to shake off those thoughts to get back to the present.

Gathering my thoughts, quelling my nerves and choosing my words carefully, I reached out. He stepped over to embrace me but I grabbed his hands instead to hold him at arms-length.

“Alright,” I started, “I’m still… I don’t know about this. I understand it’s a part of you but I, I don’t know. It’s hard for me… I need to get used to it.” I looked straight at him and almost pleaded, “Can you understand how hard this is?”

“I think so,” he responded.

“Okay,” I took a centering breath, “we’ll try it. You pick something to wear this afternoon. Put the rest of this away,” I swept my hand over the clothes on the bed. “And I mean in your dresser and hanging in the closet, not hiding back in that suitcase.”

“Okay?” I asked him.

“Okay,” he almost choked on his assent.

“I’ll be in the living room.”

I turned and left - escaping.

Back on the sofa I paged through the paper, reading the words but not absorbing a one, waiting for him to rejoin me. But I listened intently as he moved around in the bedroom. I heard the drawers open and close, the hangers rattling on the bar in the closet and then the water running in the bathroom. The latter didn’t make sense — I couldn’t place what he was doing. Eventually, there was silence and a long pause. Then I heard him approaching. He came out of the hallway into the living room and stopped, waiting for a reaction. I put the paper down and just stared at him. I consciously stopped my jaw from dropping.

Jamie is slight. As I said, he’s about five-seven and thin. He has high cheek bones but not much of a chin. His light-brown, almost blond hair comes down to his shoulders and he doesn’t have much body hair — what he does have is very light and not really noticeable. While he could never be taken for a macho-man you would never call him effeminate either. He always carried himself with a quiet confidence that seemed to project that he was not one to take lightly. That, however, was not who I saw standing across the room.

There stood a person I barely recognized, wearing the sandals and the yellow sun-dress. I wondered for a moment what he had on underneath but let that pass as my eyes were drawn to his face. He’d shaved — obviously that’s what the water was running for earlier. There was a hint of rouge on his cheeks and very pale gloss on his lip. The hair was pulled back with a barrette on each side. While he couldn’t quite pass for a woman, I don’t know… pluck those brows a bit to give them a bit more arch, do a little something around the eyes, shave the legs, touch up the hair a tad, add earrings, a bit of jewelry and nail color and you might have something. I also observed he’d not used the breast forms; I wondered why. They would have added a lot to add to the effect. As it was…

He seemed to quail somewhat under my gaze and, apparently wanting to break the tension, did a twirl, fast enough that his skirt flared out. Spreading his arms down and out in front as he faced me again, he said, “Ta Dah!” Then, seeming to re-think that dramatic gesture, he dropped his hands to his side and asked, almost shyly, “What do you think?”

What DID I think? Other than this was totally whacked? Actually that was the first thing that came to mind. Remember that this was - what? — barely an hour after I’d found out my boy-friend was a cross-dresser. I was still trying to take in all of this; I hadn’t had a chance to integrate it all. So, yeah, my first thought was that it was just too weird. Then I shook it off. I knew, rationally, that cross-dressing, in the grand scheme of things, was a fairly tame… thing? obsession? fetish? But still…

So I tried to be neutral. I mean I loved this guy. I knew it deep down. I didn’t want to say something hurtful. Then I thought of something and I meant it and it was true.

“Cute.”

“You think so? Really?” he asked, as he walked over to the couch.

“Yeah,” I said. “Although…”

“What?” he inquired.

“Well, you probably need to shave your legs to really pull it off.”

Jamie settled on to the couch, pulling his feet up under himself and spreading the skirt over his knees.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged, “But I can’t - until cold weather.”

I knew what he meant — he couldn’t wear shorts, as a guy, with shaved legs.

All I said was “Right.”

“Anything good in the paper?” he asked as he picked up the front section I’d put down, almost unread, a moment ago.

“How the hell should I know! You expect me to read the God-damn paper when you just did this to me?” I wanted to yell. But I didn’t. It occurred to me that he was on the edge himself and was also trying to grasp some semblance of normalcy.

So I just said, “Not really. But I haven’t read much yet.”

And we settled into a — sort of — normal Sunday afternoon. It was good, actually, to have the distraction and ordinariness of reading the paper and watching a ball game. We were both trying to ignore the 500 pound gorilla in the room — namely that yellow dress. Although, if you were to ask me then what happened in the world that week or even who the Sox played that day, I couldn’t tell you.

At some point, I dropped the Book Review into my lap and asked, “Why did you tell me today?”

“Oh!” he responded, “I figured there’re three weeks until the first and we’d both have time to find new room-mates. If you decided to leave…” He kind of trailed off.

This time my jaw did drop.

“What? Huh? What are you talking about?” I stammered.

“I thought if you left now you could still find another apartment.”

“You thought I’d leave?” I was still flabbergasted.

He took a deep breath. “Wendy…” he started and then stopped, gathering his — thoughts? courage? He began again. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react. No - I didn’t think you’d leave but I thought it was a possibility. Look, I’m pretty sure I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Okay?”

I could only nod, speechless - partly because he’d never said this to me before.

“So I had to tell you this now ‘cause… well…The thing is, is this is what you get, warts — or panties — and all.” He gave an embarrassed little smirk and then continued, “I don’t think I can give this up. And I don’t want to try and hide it from you anymore.”

“I couldn’t wait much longer ‘cause I figured if we stay together for September that’s, like, a real commitment. And what if I were to tell you then and you couldn’t accept it and it’s mid term and you weren’t able to find another place?” This all came out in a rush. “What kind of schmuck does that make me? So this is my last chance to give you an out and not be a complete jerk and not fuck up your whole semester”

Sitting there I could still only just look at him. I didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d leave you,” I finally told him after a few moments.

“Wendy, do you know how long I’ve lived with this? Lived with hiding this? I couldn’t be sure how you’d take it. I’m still not sure. Are you sure yourself? Honestly?”

I looked at him. His eyes were watery — the way eyes get before tears break out and start rolling down your face.

“Oh, Jamie,” was all I could say.

I brushed the remaining papers off the couch and we came together into an embrace. And damn, if the tears didn’t start again.

Finally they ebbed.

I sat back a bit so I could focus on his face while saying, “I love you Jamie. I don’t know how we’re going to deal with this but I don’t think its going to kill this relationship. Understand?”

He sniffed and nodded. Our eyes met again, “Damn good thing you didn’t put on any mascara or you’d be a mess now.”

That brought on a laughing/crying hug.

Eventually we settled down with him sitting and me stretched out with my head in his lap. A question that had been bothering me came to the fore.

“Why didn’t put on the breast forms?”

“I didn’t want to push my luck,” he replied.

“But rouge and lipstick were okay?” I asked with a small laugh.

I felt him tense up and realized I’d made a mistake. Sitting up, I said, “Sorry. That was inconsiderate… and mean.”

“No,” he said, “it’s okay. I just, well, it’s been so long. I wanted to do a little make up. The breasts… I wanted to but I didn’t want to scare you. I figured they might be too much.”

I raised an eyebrow. “After everything else today?”

“Yeah… Well… I didn’t say it made sense.”

I laughed then. He smirked back at me and then started laughing also. Laughing was as good a release as crying and soon we were hugging again.

Then I asked the other nagging question I had. “Did you mean what you said about spending our lives together?”

“Nah,” he answered. “I just said that to butter you up.”

I blinked before I realized he was pulling my leg. So I grabbed a chunk of the paper and hit him with it.

“You brat, I’m serious.”

“I know sweetie,” he countered. “And yes, I think I do.” Then he turned really serious and asked, “What do you think?”

“Yeah, I think… maybe.”

“What about this?” he waved his hands down his front, indicating the dress.

“I still don’t know,” I said honestly. “I mean, it’s still a bit of a shock. And… I’m not sure. But, well, it doesn’t scare me the way it did… when you… well a couple hours ago.”

Feeling a pang, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 6:30.

“You hungry?” I asked. “Want some supper?”

“Sounds good,” he responded. “Pizza?”

“There’s a couple in the freezer,” I said. “Or we could order one.”

“Frozen’s fine for me. You?” he asked. When I nodded he added, “I’ll get it.” And he headed into the kitchen.

I stayed on the couch as he went to deal with the pizza, still trying to grasp this whole afternoon.

He stuck his head back through the kitchen door. “White or Margherita?” he wanted to know.

“Um, Margherita. Do we have any pepperoni?”

“I think so.”

“Throw some on. Would you please?” I asked.

“Okey, Dokey,” he responded with a grin and returned to the kitchen.

A couple minutes later he zipped through on his way to the bathroom. I wondered how he dealt with that and after he returned to the couch I asked.

“Do you stand or sit?”

His cheeks turned red.

“Ah… I sit.”

“Just wondering.”

I grabbed the flicker and turned on the news. It was depressing; more bad news from the Mideast, congress people saying stupid things again, the president… well let’s not go there. At some point the pizza was done. I was content to let him serve me.

As he came and went, it struck me that he was completely comfortable sashaying back and forth in a dress. He acted like it was completely natural. He smoothed it under himself as he sat and spread it over his knees afterwards or when he brought his feet up under himself. He seemed completely at ease. I wondered if I could deny him this. I wondered if it bothered me.

Later, as we each settled into our current books - he was into the latest S. M. Stirling alternative history trilogy about the Pacific Northwest after all technology stopped working. I’d just picked up “Mistral’s Kiss” at the library the day before. I was a bigger fan of Anita Blake than I was of Merry Gentry but anything Hamilton wrote was fine by me. Anyway, we were both immersed in our respective books. I suspect he was having an easier time reading than I; I kept getting distracted by his dress and all that it implied.

Some where along during the evening, a thought struck me. I put my book down and asked him what was bothering me.

“Jamie?”

“Huh?” He broke away from his book. “What?”

“Have you ever worn any of my clothes?”

He got a very uncomfortable look on his face.

“Oh crap!” I thought to myself. But I asked, maybe more harshly than I should have, “What? What have you worn?”

Now he looked even more uncomfortable.

“Jamie?”

He looked at me and said “Um. Okay. You know that blue blouse with the flower print?”

“Yes.”

“That,” he said, “And the blue-grey skirt with the pleats?”

I nodded. Those were two of the nicest items I owned and they went well together. But I had to ask. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” he affirmed. “I wanted to. But after I tried those two, well I felt kind of bad, like I’d violated you somehow. I don’t know, but it didn’t feel right.”

I could only stare at him.

“Nothing else?” I repeated. “You never put on any of my undies?” This was important to me.

“Never.” he affirmed.

I don’t know why, but I said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Why that was significant I don’t know. No that’s not right: his use of the word “violated” was appropriate. That’s exactly what I would have felt.

And I knew he was being truthful. I knew him well enough at that point that I could trust him on this. I don’t think he’d ever lied to me. I was slightly pissed that he’d hidden his cross-dressing from me for so long but I could understand why.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he responded.

“Promise you’ll never wear anything of mine again… without asking first.”

He looked at me and said, almost formally: “Wendy Davidson, I promise - I will never borrow any of your clothes without your permission.”

Then he grinned and added, “Except maybe your bathrobe. I still might need to use that on occasion.”

“Okay!” I said with a laugh, “But that’s it.”

Jamie

So I’d told her.

Deciding to and then doing so were the hardest things I’d ever done. And that afternoon was, well, I don’t want to say it was hell but it sure was hard for both of us. Now she knew and the load off me was tremendous. But now she had to deal with it. I’d never wanted to put her through this but knew I’d had to tell her or else live a lie. So I felt good and I felt bad.

But we stayed together and that was something. Soon we each started our junior year and were back into the rhythm of classes, papers and tests. Now that Wendy knew, I could at least wear underclothes when I wanted to. Even so, I was self-conscious about it and I was careful to be discrete.

For instance — when dressing - putting on panties - I tried to stay out of her sight. She knew and I knew she knew but I didn’t want to rub it in. Not having it right in front her, I thought made it easier. So we had an uneasy peace. I didn’t repeat putting on a dress in her presence for a while after that first revelation.

Then, sometime in late September, I was at Salvation Army and found this cute nightgown. A light cotton floral print with some nice lace detail around the neckline, it was the kind of thing I’d wanted for a while — so I bought it. But I was still not quite sure about Wendy’s reaction so I played the same kind of “let her discover it and see what happens” game I’d done back in August. Now we hadn’t had any more talks about my “special” clothes but we’d done laundry together where my panties and camis were in the mix and she’d just sorted them into my pile without comment. So I felt pretty okay about it. Still I was kind of shy about dressing in front of her.

So I put the nightgown in my dresser and that night, while she was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I put it on and pulled the covers up over my shoulders.

She finished up, joined me in bed and turned out the light and reached over to give me a hug and kiss goodnight. As soon as she touched the nightgown she froze.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A nightgown. I got it at Salvation Army today.”

“Shit! Jamie! You can’t do this to me. I had a shitty day. I can’t deal with this right now. Take it off… just take it off.”

I got up, took it off and put on a tee-shirt.

When I crawled back into bed, her back was to me. I reached over to put my hand on her shoulder; she just pulled it away.

I lay there for a time, trying to decide if there was something I could say. Eventually I gave it up as a bad job and rolled over so we were back-to-back.

The next morning, over breakfast, she said to me:

“Jamie. You can’t just, spring shit like that on me. I’m sorry I snapped at you like that, but I had a lousy day, my poly-sci class is not going too well. I can’t deal with surprises like that.”

“Okay. I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t do it again. I was just… well I really liked it and… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…”

“No,” she interrupted. “Please… Just don’t surprise me like that again. Okay?”

“Okay,” I assented.

I thought to myself, “Jamie you are a total asshole!”

But I never surprised her like that again.

Eventually I asked if it would be alright for me to wear it to bed and she consented.

One night as I wore it and we were cuddling I got an erection. We were starting into some serious foreplay when Wendy just stopped. She scooted back away from me, far enough to be able to see me and said, “This isn’t working for me.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to make love with you dressed as a woman. I’m sorry. But can you take it off?”

She was gentle about it but obviously it bothered her.

So I took it off.

It took a while for us to get back in the spirit but we did. Later, spooning with me behind, she said, “Jamie?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I couldn’t get past the night gown. I mean, I’m ok with you wearing it to bed but when we started… getting going… I don’t know, it just seemed to get in the way. It was almost like I was seeing you as a girl. And I couldn’t take that.”

At that she rolled over. Even though the lights were off and we couldn’t see well in the dim glow of the city filtering through the curtains, it seemed that she needed to address me directly.

“Jamie, I will never ‘put up’ with something if it really bothers me. Alright? I can’t do that. I may take it even if it makes me uncomfortable — once. But not if it’s truly bugging me. Okay?”

“Yeah, sweetie, it is,” I reassured her.

“I’m still trying to take this in — and I’m not there yet. Intellectually — I understand it and it’s okay. But emotionally — sometimes it’s just too much to take. Does that make sense?”

I was quiet for a bit: trying to frame a response. I must have taken a little too long.

“Jamie?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was thinking.” I stopped for a moment before continuing.

“Lovie,” I said, “I know give and take is part of every relationship but I don’t want you to surrender to things that bother you and be the only one giving. I know it’s hard for you to accept my cross-dressing. If I push it too far you need to tell me. And, if you hit a point where you can’t deal with it at all, you need to tell me that too. Okay?”

“Yeah, Jamie, okay.”

“I love you,” I told her.

“And I love you too,” she answered.

We kissed. She rolled back over. I snuggled up to her and kissed the back of her head.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jamie.”

Towards the end of the month we were talking about the big, campus Halloween party. She wondered if I wanted to go. I did, and I told her so.

“Any ideas for costumes?” she asked.

I did and took a deep breath be fore asking, “Could you handle it if I went as a female vampire?”

She looked at me, an eye-brow ached up and she asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“What would I go as,” she wanted to know.

“Well you could go as a vampire too.” I hesitated before asking, “Maybe a male one?”

She just stared at me. But I continued.

“I figured it’s a safe time for me to go out, dressed up, in public. I really want to. And you could switch roles too, and maybe get an idea of what it’s like for me.”

I tried not to sound pleading but I truly wanted to go out dressed as a woman. Halloween was the perfect cover. And maybe there was some remembrance of a Halloween past…

“I don’t know Jamie…”

“Look,” I said, “you could be sort of androgynous. Or maybe we could pretend to be each other.”

“But what would I wear?” She looked doubtful.

“Some kind of dark suit — I know we can find something at one of the thrift shops.” I had a sudden inspiration, “Or better yet, maybe we could find something light, and seventies — something kind of Bowie-esque? Talk about androgynous.”

“I don’t know…” she started. After a moment of staring through me she refocused on my face and added, “Let me think about it. Okay?”

That Saturday we were combing through thrift-shops and second-hand stores searching for costumes. She was okay with me as a female vampire and had agreed to at least look for possible male get-ups that would work for her. We had a full week before the party. There was lots of time to come up with an alternative if she didn’t like anything that we found today.

We had a lot of fun. We told the sales people what we were trying to do and most of them got into it. Except the folks at Salvation Army; I don’t think they wanted to assist with two evils — cross-dressing and vampires. But they didn’t throw us out either.

The coolest thing was that I got to try on dresses — in public. It was so much fun. And Wendy got into it - which was even more enjoyable. She picked out dresses, helped me check their fit and style (or lack of style), made comments about how well (or not) it would work for our intended plan. Ultimately we settled on a black satin party dress with half-sleeves, a high neckline, empire waist and a hemline at mid-thigh. Whoever thought it looked fashionable once must have been high - but we figured it would serve our purpose. The bosom was bigger than my breast-forms, probably a C- or D cup but we could pad it. And it was just goofy enough. Add a little blood, over the top make-up, fishnets and you have a vamp slut with no taste who thinks she looks good.

Wendy was having a great time and getting into the swing of things after starting the day kind of skeptically. We started looking for her outfit in earnest. She had as good a time trying on the suits as I did with the dresses. We eventually found an elegant, two-piece linen ensemble that we figured we could combine with a ruffled blouse she owns to give the impression of a southern dandy - maybe in the French Quarter as a kind of low-rent, faux-Lestat. On the way out I found the perfect accessory — a cream colored fedora with a powder-blue band.

“This’ll top it off perfectly,” I told her.

I had to jump away as she groaned and took a swing at me with the bag she carried.

But we bought the hat.

Wendy

Halloween was my turning point.

Jamie came up with this idea of us cross-dressing as vampires. I know a big part of it was him wanting to go out as a girl — he even said so. I wasn’t so sure. I was willing to let him play the game — I knew how happy it would make him. As for me, well I could play along just this once. It wouldn’t kill me. But I was not really looking forward to it.

Then we went out shopping and it was a gas. It was like shopping with a girlfriend.

Jamie and I had never shopped for clothes together, only groceries and household stuff. This was a completely different experience. Partly this was because it was like a holiday — we were play-acting, goofing around. But he had taste. He pointed out a couple blouses and a skirt he thought I’d like and noted how they matched or complemented pieces I had already. He was right. And I bought them.

So we we’d found our costumes. We got some cheap, theatre makeup so we could have pasty white skin along with vampire fangs.

I’d been thinking about him in that black dress. I felt there was something missing and finally hit upon it. “I think you need to dye your hair black or a very dark red,” I told him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Your light hair doesn’t go with the whole theme of vampire temptress. You’re supposed to be scary-dangerous - not air-head bimbo.”

“Okay… maybe… probably,” he replied slowly, as if chewing over the consequences, between each word.

Then he asked, “You sure?”

“I am!” I asserted.

“Okay. I’ll trust you on this.”

“It’ll look great,” I assured him. So that’s what we did.

Getting ready for the party was an eye opening experience. The times I’d seem Jamie putting on his women’s clothes he’d dressed pretty plainly: mostly it was a matter of him putting on panties, a camisole or tank-top, once or twice his sun-dress and a couple, two or three, times that night-gown.

But for the party he was going all out. It was fascinating to watch — and be a part of.

First he used a depilatory to remove most of his body hair below his neck. (I was amused later when I saw he’d trimmed his pubic hair into a little, heart-shaped patch.) He showered and then asked if he could use some of my bath-beads. I came in later to find him soaking in a lavender-scented tub. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.

“Comfy?” I asked with a grin.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Good,” I responded, “But we only have about an hour so you better get going.”

“Okay,” he sighed.

“Oh. And make sure you use some of my moisturizer. Here.” I put the skin cream on the sink. “That hair removal stuff can be kinda rough on your skin.”

My outfit was a light-colored linen jacket with matching trousers and a ruffled blouse. We wrapped an ace bandage around my chest (over a sports bra) to flatten my breasts. It wasn’t too comfortable but I could take it for an evening. We slicked back my hair into a pony-tail tied with a piece of black leather. The fedora, a penciled-in mustache, fangs and bit of painted-on blood trickling out of one corner of my mouth completed my costume.

After helping me, Jamie dropped the bathrobe he’d worn into our bedroom and proceeded to get dressed.

I was dumbfounded as he dressed and transformed himself into a stunning looking — woman.

He pulled on a thong, then the stockings: He rolled those fish-nets up his legs and smoothed them carefully into place. He was so deliberate and careful it was obvious he had done this before — and often. Jamie clipped the garter belt around his waist and then attached it to the stockings.

For a bra he chose a fairly plain white one. We stuffed the cups with panty-hose from both of our drawers. The biggest bra either of us had was a B-cup. His dress needed at least a C. So we over-stuffed and stretched the bra — probably ruining it for ‘normal’ use again.

Then he put on his dress. I zipped the back for him and he turned around. The effect was stunning. Seeing him previously in his sun-dress, I’d thought he looked OK but would take some work to pass as a female. Now, here in front of me was a person who was almost there. I let took in a quick breath.

“That good?” he inquired.

“I’m… amazed,” I replied. “Can I do your make-up?” I asked in return.

“Would you, please?” a shy inquiry from him.

“Of course,” I assured him.

When I was finished, Jamie got up and turned to the full-length mirror across the room.

He brought his hands up to his cheeks. Then he lowered them to his “breasts”, slid them down his waist, ending at the skirt he wore. I was behind him, looking over his shoulder has he checked the image in the mirror. He grabbed the skirt in either hand and gave it a swish, turned left and right to get side views and then turned to face me.

There were tears in his eyes.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed. Then more quietly, almost a whisper, “Thank you.”

“Careful, dear,” I told him, “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

He sniffed, started to bring his hands up to rub his eye but halted before doing any damage.

I found a tissue and handed it to him. “Here,” I said handing it to him, “Dab carefully. Don’t rub.”

It stuck me then, how much this meant to him.

When that emotional crisis was past I touched up his make up and we left.

The details of the party are kind of blurry now. We danced: with each other and with others — some of the opposite gender, some opposite of our ersatz genders. Mostly we had lots of fun — there was a freedom gained from being behind masks such as we wore. I watched him throughout the evening. Jamie was comfortable in this role. Sometime over the course of the night I realized what this was for him: it was a role, an act, a shell to put on. I was doing the same kind of thing during that party. Maybe not as seriously as he but I was enjoying that act.

He’d been right earlier when he said I might “get an idea of what it’s like” for him. I think I finally did.

Lots of our friends commented that evening about how good our costumes were and how great we looked. I felt some pride for us. We didn’t win the best costume prize — that half-naked, alien couple did. I wondered how she pulled off those realistic, four breasts and how he’d managed to exaggerate his “equipment” so dramatically. We did, however, take third place. I felt pretty damned spanky about that. Jamie was flying high.

We got home at last about 1:00 - still buzzed. Collapsing on the couch, we re-lived the night, relating our reactions to various outfits — both good and bad. Winding down finally, we ended resting against each other.

On an impulse, I turned and kissed Jamie — aggressively. He melted under my assault. We made out on the sofa for a while before I stood and reached out to pull him up. I felt empowered by my costume and led him into our bedroom and onto our bed. Pushing him onto his back, I crawled up over his legs and leaned down to kiss him — forcefully once more. Then, inspired again by the vampire persona I’d worn all night, I moved my mouth down to his neck and pressed my teeth into him. It wasn’t that hard but it was sufficient. The whimper that I heard was enough. I attacked.

His dress was thrown up and that thong pulled aside. He was hard. Quickly getting off the bed, I removed my pants and boxers and returned the task at hand. I spread his legs, got between them and mounted him. I was horny and slick. I pounded onto him and ground against him — he was mine to take. We didn’t last long. Rare for me, without his being very attentive, I came first - but he wasn’t far behind.

Later we undressed and took a quick shower together to get all the makeup off. By the time we got under the covers for sleep, it was well after two.

Lying together, I was behind him with my arm thrown over him, I queried, “Jamie?”

“Yeah?” He was almost asleep.

“I think I understand.”

His chest contracted several times in kind of dry sobs, almost like a hiccups — not quite crying. He knew what I meant.

We slept eventually.

Christmas

Wendy’s and Jamie’s relationship changed after that October night. Each was more attentive to the other — if that was possible. Wendy was certainly more accepting of Jamie’s dressing in women’s attire. Jamie was less shy about donning those clothes in her presence. The two also shopped together. Each asked the other for advice and assistance when evaluating clothing. Sometimes they’d disagree about an item but they would at least listen to the other’s opinion. They did not purchase, or even look for, any more feminine clothes for Jamie — mostly because it was end-of-term; they did not have much spare time for shopping.

For Thanksgiving they went to New York; it was not very comfortable for either of them.

Wendy was an only child. Her parents had always been very protective. Even though Jamie and Wendy had been living together for nearly six months, they had to sleep separately at her parent’s house. It was not a completely comfortable holiday for either of them. But they enjoyed the Turkey-day feast. Her folks accepted Jamie although he did have to endure — well grilling is probably too harsh a word — an interview by her father. Her father wanted to know Jamie’s “intentions” and “prospects.” Jamie answered the queries as well as he could but came away with the impression that he would never quite live up to the expectations of Wendy’s dad.

Christmas was another story. For Christmas they went to Vermont to spend the holiday with his family.

The two of them had visited the Vermont homestead a couple of times already — once during the summer and again during foliage season when the hills seemed aflame with autumn colors. Wendy had met all his family so the December visit was not an introduction, it was just - “Jamie’s girlfriend is coming for Christmas.”

Wendy was kind of overwhelmed by it all — she was simply accepted as another member of the extended Mackenzie family. Being an only child, she was not used to being around other siblings and two aunts and one uncle were not close to her folks. In Jamie’s family not only were there four sisters and two brothers-in-law, but there were Jamie’s three nieces and nephews. She was taken aback the first time she was called “Aunt Wendy.” But it was nice; it felt… well, it felt, normal.

And the two shared a bedroom. His parents didn’t have problems with this - quite the opposite. The Mackenzie’s treated them as adults and as a couple.

On Christmas Eve, after settling into bed for the night, Jamie asked, “Should we ‘announce’ it?”

She’d been wondering about it herself.

On the train back to Boston at Thanksgiving they had first discussed the subject seriously. Previously, they had skirted around the subject and made jokes about being married but had never approached the idea directly. It was nothing as dramatic as Jamie getting down on his knee; he simply asked, “Do you think we could do this for life?”

“Like, getting married?” she asked after a lengthy pause.

“Yeah,” he replied.

There was another long silence,

“Next summer?” she asked.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Okay,” she said.

Then, as the import of what they had just done finally sank in, they hugged and they kissed and they shared some tears.

So, somewhere in the middle of Connecticut, on Thanksgiving weekend, they had decided to get married. Although they talked about it more over the next few weeks, on that train trip they’d made the commitment.

Returning to the present, she asked, “When do you think?”

“How about after Christmas dinner?”

She mulled that over for a bit before answering, “Okay. I’m ready if you are.”

“I am!” he affirmed. “I only wish we could afford to get you a ring; that would make it perfect.”

“Oh you!” she admonished him, “it’s perfect enough. Besides, it’s you I want. I’m not worried about a ring, so don’t you be.”

Seated around the table after dinner was over, the adults sipped coffee or tea - the kids had cocoa in the living room where they played with their new toys. As was often the case with this group, conversation flowed around the table; sometimes as many as four were going. Every now and then these would merge into a single, table-wide discussion which would invariably break up again into smaller ones.

Jamie’s mother sat back at one point to take in her family and smiled to herself. “They’re a pretty good brood,” she thought, “We didn’t do half-bad raising them.” Her eyes were drawn again to Wendy and Jamie. She’d been observing those two for most of the day. If she had ever seen two youngsters more “in love”, she couldn’t recall it. Little things all pointed to it — gentle touches, finishing each other’s sentences, exchanged glances and smiles, the way each one’s face lit up when the other entered a room.

And, especially, she’d watched Wendy. Here was a girl who could fit into this family. Wendy had held her ground in arguments, defended positions taken by others, laughed at and made bad puns with the rest. Once the girl had gotten over her initial shyness at meeting the Mackenzie tribe, an ordeal which could be very intimidating — several boyfriends had not survived that test - she fit in as if born into the clan. Wendy could take it and dish it out with the best of them with humor and wit. Jamie had finally “found” someone.

She was looking at them during a lull in the conversations around the table. Maybe lull wasn’t the right word; it was more a slight lowering of the general background roar. Anyway, she noted when Wendy leaned over to Jamie and whispered something to him. He in turn reached out to take her hand, turned to look at her directly and nodded. Jamie’s mother had seen that scenario before — at this very table, she knew what was coming and she choked up. Her husband, sitting next to her noted this and reached over to her. She just leaned over and said quietly, “Jamie,” and nodded her head towards her son.

His father looked over just as Jamie announced, “Hey everyone! Can I say something?”

The place went silent — except for the kids rough-housing in the adjoining living room.

With all the attention on him, Jamie said, “Wendy would like to address this august body.” That drew laughs.

Wendy lowered her voice and said, as if addressing a convention, “Thank you for that introduction, Mr. Mackenzie.” Then, after the whistles and catcalls died down, continued in her normal tone. “I wanted to say thanks for letting me share this.” She spread her hands to indicate the whole table before going on. “I’m an only child and this kind of Christmas get-together is a new experience, so thank you. It’s been a real treat to be part of this holiday with you.”

Lots of “You’re welcomes,” answered that statement.

“I can see now where Jamie gets both his gentleness,” here she reached over to take his hand, “and his weird sense of humor.”

Chuckles and outright laughter greeted that comment. And Jamie asked, “Wait a minute! Weird?” — to further laughter.

Wendy ignored that. She looked directly at Jamie’s mother, then father and said, “Mrs. Mackenzie, Mr. Mackenzie, thank you, so much, for welcoming me in to your home.”

At that Jamie’s mother reached across the table to take and squeeze Wendy’s hands. There were tears in each of their eyes. The room was still; others now knew what was playing out in front of them.

“Anyway,” she kept going, “Jamie and I…” she reached over to take his hand, “we wanted to know if, maybe you’d like to come to our wedding next August?”

A stunned silence followed, for maybe two seconds, before all hell broke loose.

There were hugs and back-thumpings and “Congratulations!” greeting the couple from all directions.

Jamie’s mother’s first reaction was “That was different.” Meaning usually the family member made the announcement. She met Jamie’s eyes and he mouthed, “Gotcha!”

She laughed. And the laugh turned into tears as she threw back a kiss.

Later that evening, after most his sisters and their families had left to return to their own homes, Jamie went upstairs to retrieve the book he was currently reading. As he walked past his parent’s bedroom he heard his mother’s call, “Jamie! Honey!”

He did an about-face and entered the room.

“Mom?”

She was sitting on her bed, hands on her lap. She seemed to him, a bit tense.

“Come here a minute,” she commanded and patted the bed beside her.

He went over and sat next to her.

“Sweetie,” she began, “Wendy is wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, mom. I love her, a lot.”

“I can tell,” she replied. She wondered if she should ask the question that was hovering in her mind. But she and he had always had a pretty open and honest relationship. So she risked it.

“Does she know about your cross-dressing?”

She felt him freeze.

“How do you know about that?”

“Sweetie, I’ve known it for years, going all the way back to when you wore Anna’s dress and asked me if it was pretty. What were you? Six? Seven? You weren’t as careful as you thought over the years. And last Christmas… you left a pair of panties in the laundry. So I knew you still did it.”

“Oh mama!” he exclaimed.

She reached over to hug him.

He hugged her back and broke into tears as she held him.

Eventually, after he settled down, she asked, “Does Wendy know?”

“Yeah, mom, she does.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

“Yeah. She is.”

“Good. I’m happy for you,” she told him.

Then she asked, “Jamie dear? Do you know what the key to a successful marriage is?”

“No. What?” he asked.

“Honesty.”

“Honesty?” he asked.

“Exactly,” she answered. “Don’t ever hide anything from her.” Then she smiled at him and added, “Of course, it helps a lot if you don’t do anything that you have to hide.”

He looked at her and saw she was smiling. He laughed and said, “Thanks mom.”

“You’re welcome honey.”

They hugged again. As they separated, she got up off the bed. He started to rise himself but she stopped him.

“You stay there a second,” she told him.

He watched as she walked across the room and took something out of her dresser. She returned with whatever it was hidden in her hands and sat down next to him again.

“Obviously, you haven’t bought a ring for her. Have you?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I wanted too but…”

His mother took her hands out of her lap and offered him what she held.

“This was your grandmother’s. She wanted you to have it.”

Jamie looked down and saw a small box that could only contain a ring. He took it and opened it. Inside was a simple, rose-gold engagement ring with a single diamond. He had no idea how big it was. He didn’t know anything about diamonds. But it looked like the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

“Momma!” He threw his arms around her yet again. His tears flowed again — for the ring, for her love, for her acceptance.

Over the course of that evening, Wendy sensed that something was up. She couldn’t put her finger on it but Jamie seemed out of sorts, more fidgety than normal. Later, back in their room, sitting on the bed as she took off her earrings, she saw he was standing there, looking kind of lost.

“Jamie?” He jumped at her inquiry.

“Huh?”

“Honey. What’s the matter?” she asked.

He turned to her and came across the room. She was puzzled as he knelt in front of her. He pulled something out of his pocket, cupped it in his hands, manipulated it somehow and then offered it to her.

Her eyes were glued to the ring he presented to her. She almost didn’t hear as he asked, “Wendy, will you marry me?”

“What?” she asked. “Where… where did you get this?”

“It was my grandmother’s. Mom gave it to me tonight… to give to you.”

She took the box and examined the ring, pulled it out and held it. It was a simple setting, just the diamond on the band. She started to put it on but then changed her mind. Handing it to Jamie, she said, “I think you’re supposed to do this.”

He accepted the ring, took her left hand and slid the band onto her ring finger.

Wendy brought her hand up to look at it for a moment and then reached out to pull Jamie up to her. They hugged for a second before she started crying - soon he was also. It was a while before they settled into bed and sleep.

On the twenty-sixth they drove back to their home — it felt like that now. All the way Wendy couldn’t stop fiddling with her new ring. She had not expected an engagement ring — she knew Jamie couldn’t afford one - but now that she had one she was completely enamored with it. And it was so new and different she kept touching and playing with it. That it connected her to his family made it even more special.

They got back to their apartment at about six that evening. Jamie was lounging on the couch at eight, flicking through the channels, when Wendy joined him. She had a wrapped present with her.

“I’ve got one more thing for you,” she said. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone else. It’s… well it’s just between us. Okay?”

Jamie was puzzled. He couldn’t think what she would want to give him that had to wait until now. Looking back afterwards, he wondered how he could have been so thick.

Wendy was sitting next to him as he opened her present. She was very tense, worried about his reaction, hoping he’d like what she’d gotten him. She wanted him, needed him to understand the spirit it which it was given. He needed to know that she accepted him - all of him. She wanted him to see that who he was, was okay with her. So she watched for his reaction.

Jamie removed the wrapping paper and opened the box. Inside was tissue paper. He folded the paper back and pulled out what was inside and held them up. In his hands he held a pair of white tights.

Notes:

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