Trust

Trust

Conclusions

I did not have a happy week. As the joke goes, "She doesn't call, she doesn't write!" Sunday I drank the rest of the bottle of wine, a half-bottle of vodka that had been in my freezer forever, and then went out and got some beer. I drank myself insensible. Nothing Sunday. Or Monday. Tuesday I considered calling, but put it off. Wednesday I did call, but she didn't answer. I began to be convinced that instead of managing a brilliant coup, the Committee had, once again, landed me in the soup. Thursday I even called her at work, but when Jimmy the Freak answered, I just hung up. Called back again, and got one of the women, but she refused to pass me on to Nancy. She didn't pick up her phone that evening, either. I even drove over to her apartment, but lost my nerve. I had a key. But she had specifically told me not to come over. And, I guess, I was a little afraid that the key wouldn't fit.

Friday afternoon ended things. I called her office again. Got a runaround. Called back. Got Jimmy the Freak. And heard myself say, "Would you tell her that my sister Ginny is in town and wants to speak to her?" Held my breath.

"Ginny?" Thank the gods! Her voice. Like angels singing.

"It's me," I said, in a small voice.

"I'm glad you're back in town, Ginny," Nancy said, in an oddly constrained voice. "I'd like to talk to you about that brother of yours."

I couldn't think of anything to say. "Okay," I managed, finally.

I heard her let out her breath. "Sit tight," she said.

And hung up! I sat, staring at the receiver, for ten minutes before I managed to put it in the cradle. And then I laid my head down on the desk and sobbed (this was at my office. I like scheduling office hours on Friday afternoons; I always get an undisturbed nap that way).

I had recovered, more or less, when, astonishment of astonishment, I got a knock on my office door. Could it be Her? No, impossible. More likely to be that one-in-a-million student who wasn't drunk by Friday afternoon.

"Come in," I called, and then cleared my throat and repeated it without the quaver.

It was her. She didn't look happy, though. She eyed me carefully. Closed the door. "Ginny?" she asked, cautiously.

Tears sprang to my eyes. "N-Nancy, it's me! Just ... me," I repeated, and my voice quavered again.

She sniffed. "I hate that cologne. I want to talk to Ginny. Or at least be sure that she's back."

"No!" I cried, and tried to squeeze back the tears. She turned, abruptly, for the door. "No!" I yelped, "Please!" I thought I'd sobbed myself out, but the tears welled up, and I added, "Please, Nancy, don't leave me again!" Then covered my face with my hands, and started crying in earnest.

I got my breath back when her hand touched my chest. My shirt, to be exact. I swalllowed, hiccuped, and cut myself off. "Why aren't you wearing a blouse?" she asked. When I looked up, she added, very softly, "Lee, I'm not the one who keeps leaving. Who keeps running away."

I bit my lip and turned my head, until I thought I had enough control to speak. "I-I'm t-trying to be m-more masculine. Like J- Jimmy the Freak, and that. So, so you'll want me, as a man."

Silence. I dared a glance at her face. She was shaking her head, slowly, and looking troubled. "Lee," she said, catching my eyes, "I thought we'd been through this already. What does an ape like James have that you don't have? Why should I want him instead of you?"

"H-he's a m-m-m-man!" I said, on a rising sob. Choked off the hysteria again, and managed, "Not a f-freak. A p-pervert. Who'd want me?"

Silence, again, until I met her eyes. "Anyone who likes men in dresses. Like me. Does that make me a pervert, too? Careful how you answer!"

I laughed, involuntarily. "N-no! B-but sooner or later, you'll get t-tired of, of a sissy."

"No. I won't." Very firmly stated. "I love you. Not 'because' anything, but it certainly doesn't hurt that you like making yourself pretty and feminine. I like your feminine side. And there are a lot of advantages to it, too."

"What?" That was a new one. "Like what?" In a tone of complete disbelief.

She smiled. "Well, for one thing, I don't have to worry about being raped. Or so I thought. You aren't going to try that again, are you?" I gulped, shook my head. "For another ... oh, I know that the only skirt you're likely to chase is one on sale!" That startled a giggle out of me. "And, all things considered, you're not likely to cheat on me. That might be different if you were gay, but you're not. So long as I've got you in panties," she said, with a sudden fierceness, "you're mine!"

That went straight to my heart. My face crumpled like wet cardboard, and I doubled over crying. Her feet clattered on the floor, and then she was there! With, when I exhausted myself again, a rather damp shoulder. I sighed, and tightened my arms around her. "I'd like to be yours, again," I whispered. "All yours, forever."

She leaned back, brushing my hair away from my face. She looked troubled. "Lee. I want you to think about some things, all right? Who's harmed by your dressing up? If someone doesn't like it, or thinks it's wrong, or sinful, or, I don't know ..."

"Disgusting," I put in, in a whisper.

"Or disgusting," she amended, then looked at me, and asked, "How could it be disgusting? It isn't baby raping, you know. Nobody's hurt, except when you decide to torment yourself. Sure, there are a lot of people out there who would disapprove. A lot of people disapprove of oral sex, too. And spanking, probably. And homosexuality, certainly. Does that make 'all those people' right? Does it even make them worth listening to?" She was growing animated, holding me by the shoulders and giving me little shakes for emphasis. "Don't you think that people who get outraged are merely expressing the narrowness of their own tiny little minds? Lee, think! Stop being a little boy who feels guilty about stealing his sister's underwear, and grow up! If it doesn't hurt someone, why can't you do it? And why, in heaven's name, can't you believe that I want you to, that it turns me on, that I could fall in love with a man who's sentimental, soft, romantic, pretty, and a bit silly? Just because you want to do it so badly? Is that a reason? Is everything that you really want automatically bad?" She released me, then, and sat back. "Now that's sick."

I stared, at a loss for an answer. She seemed to make so much sense, but ... well, it contradicted what I thought I knew. Maybe that showed on my face. "Well, it's a lot to think about, maybe. Are you coming over tonight?"

And everything was all right.

Actually, of course, it didn't end there. It took about a week for things to fall, more or less, into the pattern that had gone on before. More or less, I say, because I was a lot quieter, and very conscious of whatever I happened to be wearing, wondering how it made me feel, and if that was really okay, and what other people would think. Not only that, but Nancy, I thought, was avoiding me, often getting home late in the evening, and exhausted. That initiated something slightly new; I started trying to figure out treats for her, that would entice her home, perhaps, earlier. Foot rubs, back rubs, little sweets, hot baths, and ultimately, after a couple weeks of this, I started laying out casual clothes for her and helping her change.

The things that I began to recognize were disturbing. As Nancy had pointed out, they didn't hurt me, or anyone else, but they were far from the ideals of masculinity that I had grown up with.

For instance. I finally admitted to myself that I like to be, put simply, pretty. I don't have a classically feminine face, but it'll pass. I like my face better, though, when my lips are full, red, and pouting, and my eyelashes long. When I have a pink bow on the top of my head. It doesn't necessarily make me horny, but it does make me feel, sometimes, languorous and sexy, and at other times, simply secure in the knowledge that I have a pretty face.

Or panties. I finally learned to say that word without stuttering. But, gods, there's a combination of fetish and practicality. I like panties that are pink and lacy, and it is my considered opinion that they fit men better than men's underwear does. They hold me more securely, since the legs are elasticized, and are actually easier to forget that I'm wearing. Except that the ones I like are nylon, and if I want, I can remember them, and then feel the cloth of my pants or skirt brushing against them, and the delicate bite of lingerie elastic around my legs and my belly, and it makes me feel just incredibly sexy. I like them pink and lacy because I like pink and lacy, because those are the things that turn me on, and because they remind me that I don't have to act macho. Because I've got Nancy, I also have the assurance that they'll turn my partner on.

They do that because she likes being in control, being dominant. She likes me submissive, and in fact, I like being submissive. That doesn't mean only spankings, either. I simply like looking after her, taking care of her, and making sure that things around her are pleasant. That's almost stereotypically 'girl,' the nurterer. Well, maybe I should have been born a girl. But why should it be necessary? Then I wouldn't have had Nancy, and being submissive and nurturing doesn't mean I don't like sex! Just exactly the reverse, in fact. In the weeks immediately after our reconciliation, though, I wasn't getting enough, and so I sometimes floated around the house wearing my sexiest perfume and sending her significant glances or pouts. I didn't do that so I could imagine being a girl, but so she would take me to bed and let me show her exactly how hot a lover a sensitive and- -should I use the word?--sissy man could be.

I like the feel of skirts, and the look, and the way that high heels show off my legs, and all sorts of other things that might make a 'self-respecting' man laugh in derision. Let them respect themselves, then, for narrow-mindedness and lack of imagination in bed; I discovered, as I began exploring and accepting my submissive and feminine qualities, that I could send Nancy out of her mind with bliss. I paid attention to her, and my own gratification, though it had driven me to bed, was something to be ignored--no, not merely ignored, but put off as long as possible. I fully intended to make her so dependent upon me as a gentle, sensitive, and responsive lover that the thought of going for a piece of meat attached to a set of muscles would be completely laughable.

I didn't work all this out in a day, of course. Nor was our home life all smooth sailing, with turbulence reserved for between the sheets. As I was considering these things, I started thinking about the image I presented at school, and began to soften it, deliberately. Until one day I wore a bra under my blouse to school, and got away with it. I crowed about it to Nancy, that evening, and she went into a rage.

She was tired from the extra work she was doing. But after she calmed down enough to explain it to me, and managed to get me to stop crying, she explained it. My acceptance, she pointed out, didn't change the opinions, or if you wish, the prejudices of society. Had someone caught me, doing a job in which I was known as male, and expected to set some sort of example (a stereotypical example), I would at least have become a figure of fun, and possibly something much worse. It was, as she told me, our secret, and had to be, because what I could share with her wasn't something that the world was willing to share, or even to permit us to share, if it were to become known. In fact, that was why she had introduced me as Ginny at her workplace, because no one there had seen me more than a time or two, back when I still had my mustache and dressed as drably as possible. That meant that anyone seeing us together, when I was dressed to pass--and her colleagues were likelier to see us than mine- -would assume that it was Nancy and Ginny, not Nancy and Lee. Should someone from the school catch sight of me, we had that alibi already firmly established, and an entire business office ready to swear to the independent existence of Ginny.

At that point, I realized that one of the other things I enjoyed about cross-dressing was thumbing my nose at society. Secretly. Our occasional (very occasional, at that stage) outings turned from something dreadful and frightening to adventures. And did the sparkle in my eye increase the gleam in hers? Just guess!

In mid-May, though, I found out what had been occupying Nancy all those long evenings. She'd been trying to find us a house, that we could together afford. One with a hedge, or a fence, or somewhere enclosed so that I wouldn't have to be perfect just to get out in the open air. Open air, in fact, is a marvelous aphrodisiac. When she told me, my jaw dropped in amazement, and we went to see the house together. It was wonderful. Perfect. Two bedrooms ("One for us and one for Lee," she said, and I understood), an enormous living room, a dining room with panelling ... a wonderful house. With a hedge all around the property, and a neighborhood in which the neighbors weren't nosy, and there weren't any kids to come and stare, giggling, through a hole in the hedge. We could barely, together, afford the payments. But we did it. On my birthday, even.

On the day we moved in, though, I got another shock. I made us dinner, and Nancy solemnly produced our original relationship agreement ... and tore it up. She refused to make another ... I begged her to. I wanted to tie her to something. And then, with an odd little smile, she told me that I could dress exactly as I pleased, so long as I didn't try wearing a dress to classes.

I spent a very confused pair of weeks. At first, I thought it was a signal that she had tired of me in feminine attire. So I conscientiously began trying to play boy, again. It was an uncomfortable time, with us new in the house, and new living together (I had always, in the past, had the security of knowing that there was a place I could go to.

It was really only at the beginning of June that all the insights that I mentioned above, the true acceptance of myself, began to click into place, and I began to veer from a carefully male presentation at home to something more androgynous. I caught a few subdued smiles from Nancy, and puzzled over them for days at a time. But while I may be slow at figuring out things in relationships, I eventually got there.

Release. "If you love something, let it go ...." And blah, blah, blah. I caught on, in what was nearly a religious burst of enlightenment, in the first week of June. And carefully hid the fact. Nancy's birthday is exactly a month after mine, so this year, it was going to fall on the one-month 'anniversary' of our new home together. Better yet, it was a workday for her, but school was out for me.

I made very careful plans. I found that horrid black outfit. It wasn't really so bad, and in fact I looked really good in it, but it had some pretty horrible memories. I met her at the door, wearing it, and let her avoid the kiss I offered, leering. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the look of horror that passed over her face. She gave me a very mistrustful look. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," I told her, and guided her to a table laid out as nearly like that fateful dinner in my house as possible. She was beginning to look seriously disturbed. I thumped off to the kitchen, careful to make as much noise as possible in my boots.

The kitchen didn't take long, though. Just turn up the oven, slip out the kitchen door, and into the window I'd carefully left open. Coming back was slightly trickier, but I managed it without tearing or running anything. I was literally giggling with excitement, knowing that her tension was rising in the dining room, when I smelled the first whiff of burning rolls. Then ... a match in the fat, open the oven door ... damn. Hold a match under the smoke alarm, and then push the bowl off the table. And let out a squeal, as of dismay.

The hardest part was getting the silly grin off my face, and manufacturing a look of frightened horror when she came dashing through the kitchen door. "I b-burned the d-dinner," stuttering from the effort to choke giggles, and then exaggerating it, as if I were very embarrassed. I clutched the sides of my skirt in both hands and raised them to my mouth, trying for the image of the little girl caught being naughty, and also aware that she could see the triangle of my Valentine's day panties perfectly clearly. The skirt proved useful, since it hid the smile that I couldn't keep back, and I managed to make the giggles sound more or less like frightened sobs. I kept my eyes wide, though. Of course, the mascara helped.

She finally broke her paralysis, and rushed to the stove to put out the fire. Good thing, I was getting a little worried. "You ...." she said, and couldn't continue. She twisted, wildly, and fixed the smoke alarm. "You ...." she tried again. She looked at the floor, where the shattered bowl lay--nothing else, though, no beans or salad, and I hadn't wasted chicken to burn, either--and then she grabbed a potholder, dumped the rolls in the sink, slammed the oven door shut, turned it off, and turned to face me. "You ... little imp!" she cried, and dissolved into laughter.

I waited, manfully suppressing the wellspring of laughter that was rising in me, until she began to recover, wiping her eyes, and then I dropped my skirt, gave her my best tragic look, and asked wistfully, "Do you suppose we could go out?" Paused, carefully, and added, "For pizza?"

She rushed across the floor to envelop me in a hug, and this time we both went into a fit of laughter, that turned into a fit of giggles, and almost couldn't be stopped. We kept starting over every time we looked at one another.

Finally, she blew out a breath, and slipped a hand under my skirt. "Oh, god, Lee! Do we have to have the pizza first?"

"Ooh!" I squealed in mock fear. "Are you gonna send me to bed without supper?"

She did, eventually, ask me again about my feelings. And so I've written them down, all in order, just as it happened.

Epilog: Nancy claims it was a double wedding. I think that's stretching the boundaries of the language a bit. The first one was perfectly normal, as such things go, with her stunning in white, and me in a tux. And the wedding night was as perfect as such things can get; it's a bit nervous, being married. For both of us.

The second wedding was just us, no family, and some of our odd new friends. Found through the internet. Some interesting sorts of people. This time, the bride wore the tux, and the groom wore white. It's a beautiful gown. We didn't have the traditional wedding feast, either. We had pizza.

Well, we had pizza first.