Chapter 4

One morning while we were dressing, Monica for the office and me to do some shopping for dinner that night, Monica said to me, "Oh, never mind that. We've been invited out."

It took a moment for that casual remark to sink in and astonish me. "What?" I said "By who? How?"

"Oh, don't look so shocked! It's nothing! I told two of the girls we deal with at the office about you, that you're pretty much house bound these days, and they asked me to bring you over for dinner to help clear the cobwebs out of your mind. It's nice to meet other people now and then. That's all!"

"That's all? Do you mean meet them as Andrew or as Andrea?"

"Of course as Andrea, silly. I'm proud of you, and want to show you off. You've come such a long way. Though your hair could use a touch up. Don't worry. Run over to Joellen's this afternoon and tell her to do her magic, and I'll pick you up at six. I think your green silk taffeta would be fine." She paused to appraise me. "Ask her to lighten your hair just a touch, and to do your nails. You're a lovely woman now, Andrea, and you have nothing to hide. Time to move on."

I took that to mean she had to leave now, so the discussion was over, so I asked hastily, "Wait a minute. Are these... er... girls married? Will they have dates? Will there be men at this dinner?" For some reason I felt ashamed to be seen by men who knew I was a man. I'd sacrificed all of my manliness, willingly, but they might be offended or amused by it, and think me ridiculous.

"You *are* a shy one, aren't you, love. 'No' to the first question and 'Maybe' to the second. Denise and Tinka are lesbians who have lived together for years and are a respectable couple, like us. Denise is pregnant, and they're both looking forward to having the baby. Then a boy friend may show -- she wasn't sure. A friend who's a boy, named Eric. He's the baby's father. But there's no problem between them about it, because he's gay. He wouldn't even screw her once, not even to please a dear friend, so they had to use a gravy baster to deal with his donation. An ideal stud, because all he wants from them ever is conversation. I've met him. He's no way effeminate, just not attracted to women. They're nice people. You'll enjoy them. And they're really looking forward to meeting you! Tell Joellen I'd love to see you in bangs, I think you'd look just darling. Ta ta!"

And she was gone.

I scheduled my session with Joellen for the early afternoon, right after my weekly shot, and I felt so good when I waltzed in that I didn't notice at first that Joellen had four other customers having things done to them, and two other operators combing, teasing, polishing, doing what needed doing. The place was packed! Joellen saw me and came over saying, "There you are, Andrea dear, just sit right here and we'll get right to you. My you look lovely! Your skin seems so much smoother today. Are you doing anything for it?"

"Monica thought I'd feel better if I took some shots," I said with a nervous little laugh. "And I must say, I certainly do!"

"I'll bet!" said Joellen. "Well, let's lighten you and tidy you up for tonight. Monica called and told me what she wants. I agree with her about having bangs, now that your hair's a bit longer. You'll look adorable. But now that you're really into it, this time we go the distance. Nails, facial, waxing, everything. Monica tells me you're never going back. Welcome to the world of women, honey! You'll love it! We should probably talk about some permanent changes to your face, but that can come later."

I'd never told Monica I was never going back, I thought to myself. We'd never discussed it. Did I want to be a woman for good? Well, right now I just loved being a woman with my wife, and that was good enough for me for now. When I left Joellen, there was a spring in my step, and my nails were long and red, and my face felt so perfect it might have been lacquered on. I spent the rest of the afternoon dressing, and practicing my postures and gestures, walking daintily, staying loose-wristed, talking all up and down the scale instead of in a male monotone, things like that. I felt very good about my upcoming coming-out dinner party, and felt like celebrating something. When Monica arrived home to change she was pleased to hear me humming and singing in the kitchen in my sweetest falsetto, no longer nervous. She suggested we have a drink before we left, because the girls were likely to serve only wine. But on top of whatever the doctor gave me I was already two drinks ahead of her, feeling no pain at all.

I remember the first part of the evening well enough, but very little of the rest of it, and nothing at all about how I got home and into bed. In fact the next morning when I woke up, Monica was already half-way out the door to work, with time for only a few amused, cryptic remarks, something about how some girls can't wait to make up for lost time, and how I'd certainly never need a gravy baster. Then as I stepped into the shower I noticed that my rear end was crusty with something or other. But I didn't realize what until later that morning when I was rinsing some of our lingerie. Monica's panties were only lightly soiled, with that heavy, musky aroma I was learning to love dearly, I spent so much time with my nose in her crotch. Mine were stiff with a clear dried fluid in front, which I recognized as my post-vasectomy cum. I wondered how it got there. But the seat of my prettiest panties, the ones I'd worn last night, was stiff with dried, thick stains and streaks, gobbets of them, and I realized it was someone else's heavily laden sperm. What had happened? What had I done?! I spent the day agonized, fearful I had thrown away my new precious relationship with my beloved wife, worried I might have done some perverse thing to disgust her, that now she would leave me.

So when Monica got home I met her at the door with a Martini, and with many kisses and flourishes I fed her the most elaborate meal I knew how to cook. She seemed untroubled. But she'd also seemed untroubled the first day after she'd caught me wearing a dress, that time we nearly broke up over it. That's how she was until she'd calculated how to deal with a problem.

Over dessert I asked her, as casually as I could, what I had done at Denise and her lesbian friend's house.

"You really don't remember any of it?" she asked me, her eyebrows raised. "Not at all?"

"The early part," I replied. "The delicious dinner with Denise and Tinka, I think that was her name. She's a wonderful cook. Four kinds of wine, and she kept refilling my glass I'm afraid. Denise looked huge, almost ready to deliver, but still very beautiful, glowing, and Tinka was looking forward to taking care of the baby when Denise goes back to work and returns to a heavy schedule of out-of-town selling trips. But can that be right?"

"That's right. When the baby's born Tinka will take over. That's how they mean to share the child-rearing. Tinka will do it all. She's the homebody, loves cooking and keeping house, and so on. Denise isn't."

"Now how is it I already know that?"

"You went upstairs with Tinka to look at her recipe files, and promised to send her some of your own. You took a long while at it. She told us you got to talking with her about breast feeding as against bottles. One thing led to another, and you started sampling the alternatives, apparently. Then fell asleep. She said that you looked and felt so sweet at her breast that she hated to take her nipple out of your mouth and wake you."