~o~O~o~

Amtrak got me to D.C. in good time and I was back in my apartment by mid-afternoon. I unpacked my suitcase and found myself grappling with the novel problem of how I was going to wash all of my new feminine attire. In the absence of a better alternative, I hand-washed it all and hung it in my bathroom to dry. I certainly was not going to risk taking it to the laundry in the basement of my apartment building! So in short order my bathroom was festooned with lingerie.

I stayed firmly in “Cam” mode, however. I had gotten some work done on the train, but I was trying to finish reviewing responses to interrogatories and requests for production that we had received from opposing counsel in one of the cases I was working on. We had scheduled a meet and confer session with the other side for Wednesday and our team had yet to meet to decide which of their objections we should fight. We didn’t have a time scheduled to do that, and for all I knew the partner in charge would want to do it first thing in the morning.

I worked straight through the evening, skipping dinner. I had a bite on the train and can often get by with short rations. Around 10:30, I got that gritty feeling in my eyelids that was a sure sign I was starting to hit a wall. I saved my comments and decided I would get into work early to finish before the rest of the team made an appearance.

I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and the unusual “decorations'' reminded me that Liz had said she was going to send me credentials for a private email account for Candi. I checked my personal email account on my phone and, sure enough, there was a message from Liz. The message simply thanked me for the weekend and included an email account name – meyecandi@boogiemail – and a password – lycra&lace#1.

I turned on my pad, went to my preferred web browser and set it for private searches. Using the information provided by Liz, I accessed the boogiemail account, and found both an automated welcome email from boogiemail and a separate email from an account I did not recognize – Bossofyou@boogiemail.

This proved to be from Liz as well. It read, “Hello, Candi. Welcome to your new space. Memorize your credentials and have Cam erase my earlier emails from his system. Do not change your password for any reason. Feel free to record videos and writings in the cloud storage attached to this account. No-one will read them but you and me. I have recorded a video that you should watch now, containing your first homework assignment. I am sure you will give it your very best, as always.”

I found the video and downloaded it. Liz in her living room, in front of the fireplace. She was back in her full Merry Widow, coupled with black silk stockings and panties, and high-topped black leather boots. Her feet were set shoulder-width apart and she was toying with a leather whip that I had seen in her photograph – but not in person. Her costume, posture, and dramatic makeup all worked to enhance the impression of sexual power. The camera, set below waist height, gave her the illusion of greater height.

She gave it a moment for the image to set in, then she looked straight at the camera and said, “Hello, Candi. It’s time for you to receive your first assignment.

“You have the heart of a sweet, submissive girl. But you are inexperienced, like a child. I can dress you to look pretty, or sexy, sweet or sultry, alluring . . . but a woman needs to know how to do all that herself. Women work at it from a very young age, and you have no idea how hard we work, because we also learn how to make it seem effortless.

“Well, Candi, it’s time you learned. Cam figured out how to ‘think like a lawyer;’ You’re going to learn to think like a girl. I know you can do this, if you apply yourself properly.

“Your disadvantage is that you haven’t been doing it all of your life, but you have advantages as well. I know you’re smart and I know that your powers of observation and analysis are very well-developed. You simply have never been asked to apply them to this problem before.

“So, start by thinking about your body critically, like a girl would. You do have experience knowing what guys find attractive. Use it. What things about your face, your hair, your body would be attractive to men? Which parts are most feminine, or might appear feminine with work. And work is important. Because girls learn how to make the most of their assets and minimize or disguise their liabilities.

“Think about what colors would look good on you. What fabrics, what styles, would showcase your prettiest and most attractive features. Apply the same objective analysis to your makeup, your nails, your hair.

“And, understand that it is not enough to know what works in the abstract. The right fashion also depends on the time of year, the occasion, the people who may be there, and the message you want to send them.

“So, here is your first assignment, Candi. Imagine that a couple of your girlfriends from high school are in town, and you are taking them out for dinner and a performance at the Folger. Decide what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your hair and makeup, and what color you will use on your nails. Obtain the necessary items, practice your look, refine it, and give me a virtual demonstration in two weeks. Put it on your calendar: October 13, 7:00 pm. I will call you then. If you have any questions, email me.

“I think you will enjoy this assignment, and I fully expect to enjoy the results of your efforts. I expect to enjoy it a lot.” The video ended.

I played the video again.

I sat still for some minutes after that, just absorbing the message. I suppose that I should have been shocked, hurt, or angry. Two months before, I would have been.

Instead, floating on the powerful sexual charge of my response to Liz’s effortless dominance, I was excited. Not just sexually, although I was that – almost painfully so. I was excited emotionally, intellectually. Creatively. I wasn’t just willing to complete her assignment, I was eager to. The sensation was overwhelming.

I made my way back to the bathroom, stripping as I went. The sheer material of my lingerie had dried quickly. Thrilled by the realization that I was, indeed, thinking of it as my lingerie, I slid my ice-blue panties up my smooth legs and hooked into the matching bra.

I looked at my image in the mirror and giggled. My chest lacked volume and my panties held too much. I retrieved the breast forms Liz had given me and carefully inserted one into each cup of my bra.

Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and willed my body and my whirling brain to stillness. Another breath. And another. I felt myself slide from dizziness, from giddiness, into calm. Breathing slowly, deeply, I let the calm grow.

I opened my eyes. I felt tranquil without any diminution of my sense of purpose, my eagerness to be about my task. The unsightly bulge in my panties had diminished substantially, and I tucked back without further thought. Better.

I went into my bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. As Liz had commanded, I looked at my body objectively, critically, using criteria I had never thought to apply to myself. Can I be attractive as a girl? I began to consider my assets and liabilities.

Asset: I have nice eyes. Even without makeup, my deep blue eyes pop.

Liability: My Adam's apple isn’t pronounced, but my throat doesn’t have the completely straight lines that most women possess.

Asset: Because my experience with puberty had been mild, I’ve never had much acne. As a result, I have very clear skin. It’s not as soft or smooth as a woman’s skin, but I can work with it.

Liability: While my shoulders aren’t broad or powerful, they are definitely wider than average for a woman, and the downward slope from neck to shoulder blade is less pronounced. Though not out of the ordinary, women whose shoulders have more of a drop give the appearance of having, longer, more graceful necks. I don’t have that advantage. As a mitigating factor, my neck isn’t wide compared to my head or face.

Asset: I don’t have much body fat and my muscles are lean rather than pronounced. My upper arms have more definition than most women. I can’t pull off petite or delicate. But I know plenty of women, including Liz, who have as much muscle tone in their biceps.

Liability: No way around it, my hips are narrow and my ass is small. In addition – and in consequence – I have very little by way of a waist, and what I have is too low. My shoulders are a couple inches wider than my hips, which in turn are an inch or two wider than my waist. So I don’t have the delectable, luscious curves that so easily turn heads. Not that turning heads is my goal. But I want the looks that have that effect.

Asset: I’m not sure about the legs. I went and grabbed my new strappy sandals and put them on. In heels, there was no doubt: I have really nice legs – long, decently muscled, devoid of fat, and shapely. Definitely an asset.

So it went. My hands fell into the asset column; my fingers were long relative to my palms, making them appear more graceful. My feet were liabilities, though not irredeemably so. My ankles and wrists were fairly narrow – a plus. My height was fine; I knew plenty of taller women, though again I would never be cute or petite. I had a flat stomach, but even tucking away my penis, I lacked the swell of a woman’s mound over my pubic area.

My breasts, of course, were non-existent. While the silicone did wonders – thank you Liz! – I was not confident that even the best makeup on the seams would stand up to close inspection in bright light. I would need to wear fashions that assisted the deception. I judged that my augmented breasts were a C cup because they were around the size of Liz’s natural assets. Of course, I could always get a larger set of prosthetics, but the set Liz provided seemed well paired to my frame.

My face seemed to be neutral. I had no features that were overtly male or female. No pronounced jaw; no particularly full lips. My nose was unremarkable, my eyebrows neither elfin light nor Neanderthal heavy. Looking closely, I did appear to have relatively long eyelashes.

My hair presented a challenge. It was very dark brown, almost black, and thick. I had not had it cut in three or four years; out of my habitual low ponytail, it was somewhat wavy and fell to around the center of my shoulder blades at its lowest point. But it did not fall particularly evenly. No woman would tolerate it. I wasn't sure what I could do about it. Everything I did to look sexy on the weekend had to be reversible for Monday morning.

It was strange to think of myself in these terms, on multiple levels. First, obviously, it was strange to think about whether my body could be “pretty” or evaluate it for femininity. Second, and equally strange, was to view it as something malleable. As a guy, I assumed my body was what it was. Girls might find it attractive, or not (generally the latter), but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Even when I had decided to grow my hair out into a ponytail or get an earring – something I had done in law school, when I was finally away from St. Louis and everyone who knew me – I wasn't trying to improve my looks. I was just trying to make a statement, suggest that I might be more interesting.

As a girl, my view was radically different. I could view my face and body as a project, clay to be shaped, or a canvas that could be painted and repainted to achieve different effects. Blemishes could be hidden; good points could be showcased. The thought was intriguing.

Fi had always complained about her flaws, many of which I thought were imaginary. Does being a woman involve constant self-image critiques?

I took off my heels and bra, but left my panties on and slid my new nightgown over my head, shivering as the silky fabric slithered over my bare chest, caressed my ass, and settled around my smooth calves. However I looked, that nightgown made me feel feminine, pretty, and very sexy. Rather than sliding into bed from the top, I pulled back the sheets, sat mid-way between the head and foot of the bed, swiveled and lifted my legs in, to keep my nightgown from riding up. I covered up and fell quickly to sleep.

I dreamed a scene from Cinderella. But the fairy godmother appeared, not before the put-upon village beauty, but to a young lad. She pointed her wand and his form appeared to melt, shift, becoming softer, settling into the sweet, graceful lines and curves of a woman’s body. The fairy warned, “Remember, dear, the spell will only last until morning.” As she finished speaking, my alarm went off.

I lay in bed for a few minutes, simply enjoying the silky feel of the nightgown and panties against my skin, thinking about fashions, and makeup and hair styles, until my alarm went off a second time. I was startled. Cam needed to get his sorry ass into work, but Candi did not want to depart.

~o~O~o~

Finally I barked, “Enough,” rolled myself out of bed, stripped, and went to shower.

The week that followed was one of the strangest I had ever experienced. I began each morning early, getting into work and putting in an hour or two before grabbing something light to keep me going. There was a shop across the street that did smoothies of various sorts, which were adequate to the purpose. If I got hungry in the early afternoon, I could get a pre-made salad at the cafeteria in our building, which (I told myself) was better than the sandwich options. I usually did not leave work until after 7:00.

My days were filled with reviewing documents, doing quality checks on contract attorney’s document coding, writing summaries, and meeting with other lawyers on the litigation team. I sat through a nearly three-hour conference call with opposing counsel on Wednesday while the senior associate did the talking. I was very busy, very engaged, and thoroughly enjoyed feeling like I was a valuable (if junior) member of the team.

But when I finally left the office, Candi came back to the forefront of my consciousness. Candi was as focused on her assignment as Cam was on his. So I would wander around the National Harbor area or Dupont Circle or go to a sports bar (important, because the Cardinals were in the playoffs!), and people watch. More specifically, I was looking at the women, but in a way that I never had before. I wanted to learn from them. Were there women who had narrow hips and broad shoulders? There were. Were they pretty? Some no, some yes, some strikingly so. What were they wearing? Did it look good, or not? How were women wearing their hair? What colors were they painting their nails? How did their makeup look? What shoes were they wearing? What jewelry?

I would see a beautiful girl and think, could I look like that? Often, and regretfully, the answer was “No.” No, I could never look like the stunning Latina girl, all full, rounded curves, whose low-cut, ribbed cami-top displayed ripe, perfect breasts that looked as soft and welcoming as down pillows. I could never look like the delicate Asian girl with the perfect features, tiny waist, and size two shoes. Even with girls closer to my size, I would find that I could not copy the styles that worked so well for them. Like the sultry blonde in the golden brown, low-cut slip-dress. Expose that much of the seams on my prosthetics and I might give away the game.

I was usually home by 10:00, but Candi would spend another hour or so online, trying to get ideas to fulfill Liz’s demand. By Friday, I was exhausted, and seemed no further along. I had no way to vet the websites that dispense fashion advice the way that I screen data sources I use professionally. Unsurprisingly, the advice they provided went every which way.

Because of my eye color, hair color and skin tone, I was apparently a “cool winter” type, but websites differed on what colors I should and should not wear as a result. And, what do you do if the colors that supposedly look good on you don't match the season you are in? Some websites suggested that women with broader shoulders should avoid tops with skinny straps; others thought such styles flattering. Same with hair. Shoes. Makeup. I felt like the Cardinals, unable to figure out Atlanta’s pitching, just flailing and floundering.

I'm not used to floundering.

I decided that, much as I hated to contemplate it, I had to get help or I would fail the straightforward task Liz had given me. I did some discrete web-searching to find out if there was someone who could provide the sort of beauty guidance I clearly needed. And that’s how I found myself, early Saturday afternoon, taking the Green Line out to College Park, near the University of Maryland, to a salon owned and run by Al and Javier, an apparently gay couple who advertised their work with the LGBTQ community and their absolute discretion.

I called ahead, using a VOIP app that assigned a random telephone number, and spoke with Al before deciding to go through with it. I knew that not all members of the gay community are supportive of transpeople. While I didn’t think I was trans, I decided that it was the most plausible explanation for what I was asking them to do.

“We don’t discriminate here,” Al reassured me firmly. “We have lots of clients who are cisgendered biological girls. But we have clients from the gay community and the trans community, too. Everyone comes for the same reason: we are really, really good. Mostly we just do hair, nails, makeup. But if you want a private consult that includes lessons, we can do that too. You would be very welcome.”

If Liz had told me to talk to another guy, in person, about how to make myself look pretty, I would have put up a red light, or at least a yellow. But somehow this felt different. She hadn’t told me how to do her project, she just expected it to be done well. And I found the possibility of failure to be intolerable. So what had been unthinkable suddenly became imperative. As per Al’s instructions over the phone, I entered the salon through the back door, filled with trepidation, determination, and maybe a bit of hope.

A middle-aged man came down the narrow hall from the front of the salon when he must have heard the buzzer from the back door. He was a bit over six feet tall and well-built, clean-shaven and with short-cropped blonde hair. He introduced himself as Al and then, before I could respond, said in the kindest possible voice, “What name would you like me to call you?”
 

I hadn’t introduced myself on the phone, and I hadn’t thought about the fact that I would need to provide a name when I came in. But Al’s demeanor, his voice, and the careful way he had framed his question told me that he was sincerely interested in meeting me where I was at, without judgment.

I did not need Cam for the preliminaries. “Please call me ‘Candi,’” I said, offering a handshake with a gentleness that I would never have used in Cam-mode – less shaking hands than offering my hand to be shaken. “Thank you so much for making time for me on such short notice.”

He brought me into a back room that was outfitted with a sink, a barber’s chair, and a makeup station. It also had two occasional chairs, and he seated me in one and sat down in the other. He offered me tea or water, but I was too nervous – too excited – to accept.

“So, let’s talk about what you would like to do today. You mentioned your hair, your nails, and your makeup, right?”

“Yes, please,” I said, then added, “I’m trying to learn how to look and act like a woman. A friend who isn’t local is helping me by giving me discrete projects – trying little bites rather than one big gulp. So, she said I should imagine that I’m taking some old friends from high school to a play and to dinner, and put together an appropriate look. I've spent a week doing research and I feel completely lost. I thought you might be able to help me. But, I have to be able to continue looking like a man for my job. Can you teach me some skills that I can use for hair, nails, and makeup, so that I can put it on and take it off without help?”

“We absolutely can, Candi. And, I think you’re going to be impressed. Whether you know it or not, you’ve got a lot of potential. I’m the hair guy and Javier does the makeup magic.”

“Great! Where do we even start?”

“Here’s my suggestion. Javi will come in first to work with you on nail polish – help you select some colors, show you a bit about caring for your nails, show you how to put on extenders and polish. He’ll get all that going, then I’ll come in for a bit and help you with your hair while your nails are drying. Then Javi will work with you on makeup. When you are done, we’ll show you how to take everything off so that you are ready for work. Sound like a plan?”

“Perfect,” I said, with enthusiasm. Oddly enough, it sounded positively heavenly.

“Then let’s get started,” he said. “I’ll ask you to change into this robe so we don’t get product on your street clothes, then I’ll ask Javier to switch with me. First, though, could you pull your hair loose? I want to get a better idea of what I have to work with.”

I pulled the tie out of my hair and shook it loose, feeling a bit sheepish at its unkempt state.

Al looked unfazed. “Hmm. Yup. You are going to be amazed.” He grinned, left me with the robe, and went to get his partner.

Javier was a bit shorter than me, with hair so black it made mine look light. His eyes were a warm, golden brown and his face exuded enthusiasm. “You are going to love what we can do!”

I spent the entire day being swept to sea in waves of femininity, and I soaked it all up like a thirsty sponge – eagerly, joyously. A bit ironic, since my spirit guides were two men who were not personally attracted to the female form. Yet they were both highly knowledgeable about feminine aesthetics. They were masters at color and texture, knew what looked good and what didn’t, and had detailed ideas for how to achieve looks that suited any occasion. Amid a wealth of information, they also gave me ideas for achieving a look appropriate to the assignment Liz had given me, and walked me through execution of the ideas multiple times.

At no time did either Al or Javier ask me anything about myself, or why I wanted to appear as a woman. That was clearly one of their unspoken rules. I had asked for specific help in an area of their expertise, and it was no part of their business to find out why I wanted it. I was incredibly grateful for their professionalism, which put to rest my fears of disclosure.

It was 7:30 in the evening when Al and Javier had me stand in front of their full-length mirror and view their handiwork as a unified whole. I had seen each part, multiple times, over the course of the day, but I had not gotten the full impact. I was stunned, to the point where I just stood there, stupidly staring at my image in the mirror, my eyes wide, and my glossy red lips parted slightly in wonder.

I wasn’t pretty – my features were a bit too strong to pull that off. But Al and Javier had gone, instead, for beauty, and . . . succeeded? I couldn’t believe it. The subtle colors around my eyes, coupled with the mascara, made my deep blue eyes luminous. My skin looked healthy and smooth. They had given definition to my cheek bones and softened my cheeks with blush. My lips and nails were a rich red, somewhat darker than scarlet. The gloss made my lips appear fuller, moist . . . definitely kissable.

Black hair framed my face in soft curls and waves, sweeping over and down across the right side of my forehead from a left-of center part. Al had gone very light with the scissors to permit me to restore my normal style, but had trimmed the ends and achieved marvels with mousse, large curlers, and a touch of hair spray. He’d held a master class along the way so I had a chance of repeating the effect.

While I lacked my feminine attire, the softly-quilted, pale-blue robe that left my smooth forearms uncovered and shaved legs exposed from mid-thigh hid any male attributes and kept the focus on Al and Javi’s work.

I saw Al and Javier exchange a high five at my long and obviously rapturous appraisal of their efforts.

Then Javier began to chuckle. “Got you!” he said cheerfully.

I turned away from the mirror to give them both a huge smile. “You sure did! I said. Then I spontaneously gave them each an enthusiastic hug. I had never hugged another guy – apart from my dad, when I was little – but it felt completely right to show my appreciation to Al and Javi with a hug. Girls hug, all the time. And that vision in the mirror is all girl.

Finally, Al said, “Okay, now let us show you how to get everything off and set you up with a nightly beauty regimen.”

I felt like I had just been lifted to the top of the world, then pushed off the edge. I couldn’t help myself. Tears started to leak from my eyes, then gush. In a heartbeat, I was wracked with sobs, my shoulders hunched, my body shaking. It was crazy.

Al pulled me in close and held me wordlessly while I wept into his shoulder. I must have carried on for a while before he said, “It’s going to be okay, Candi. Come and sit down for a minute; Javier has made you some tea.”

I did as I was told, sitting with my legs together and folded to the side as I took shaky sips of tea. It helped. Eventually I was able to pull myself together enough to say, “Thank you. I’m so sorry; I don’t know what came over me. I’m afraid I’ve ruined all your beautiful eye makeup, Javier.”

Javi handed me a handkerchief. “Nothing to worry about, Candi. You now have the ability to restore that magic, whenever you want. That’s the ‘beauty’ of it.”

He looked at Al for a minute, and some wordless communication passed between them. Then Javier said, “Listen, Candi. A friend of ours in the trans community asked us to help someone, years ago. A young trans girl who had run away from her family at sixteen because they wouldn’t accept her. By the time we met Tina, she was eighteen and pretty close to the end of her rope. We converted our garage into a small apartment where she could stay while she got her life together. She was . . . she became . . . ” Javier choked up and stopped, unable to continue. He lowered his head.

Al picked up the story. “She was like a daughter to us. We loved her. She was kind, and giving, and just a beautiful soul. She was with us for almost three years. She got a job in a local coffee shop and was starting to put her life back together. But her family must have found her. We came home one day and found a note that said her past had caught up with her and she had to run fast and far. We haven’t heard from her since. That was four years ago.”

I looked from one of them to the other, then put my tea down. “I am so sorry. Sorry for everything that you’ve been through, and sorry for bringing it all back to you. This must have been so hard for you both.”

Javier looked up sharply, grabbed my hands and pressed them firmly. “No, Candi. Do not apologize. What we did today, that was not hard. We did it with love, just as we had for Tina. And for the love that we have for her. No. I only decided that we should tell you because we wanted you to know that, whatever it is that you are going through, we do understand. We don’t need to know the particulars. But we know how hard the world can be for transpeople. And we care. So if there is anything you need, anything we can do to help, we are here for you. You don't need to carry this burden alone.”

I found myself tearing up again. “But you don’t even know who I am,” I whispered. “I’m not Tina. I might not even be trans.”

“We don’t know what’s in your heart, Candi,” Javier responded honestly. “But we know what we’ve seen these past hours. And we saw how you reacted when it was time to go back to whatever it is you are going back to. Does the label matter? The world is a hard place for people who feel what you felt today. And, we want you to know that we won’t see that suffering and do nothing.”

Al put a hand on my shoulder “We don’t know who you are, Candi, and we don’t need to. But you should know who you are, and it seems like you are struggling with that. Like Javi, I don’t know if there is anything we can do to help, but we’re here if you need us.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both so much.” I felt overwhelmed by their kindness – kindness I had not earned and didn't feel like I deserved. “I think I’ll be okay now. I just . . . todaydid feel wonderful, and I somehow didn’t want to let it go.” I gave both their hands a squeeze. “But I’d really better get going. I’ll be back though. Count on that.”

“Of course,” said Javier. “So let me start by showing you how to take off your makeup properly, then we’ll work on your nails.”

I pulled myself firmly back together and paid close attention while they showed me how to restore everything to its “original manufacturer’s settings,” then made my way home heavily laden with hair-care, skin care, and beauty products, as well as well-wishes from Javier and Al. It had been an expensive day, but I lived frugally, and I counted the money as very well spent.

I had a week left before I had my remote call with Liz. I still didn’t know what I was going to wear, but I felt more confident that I would somehow find a way to pull this off.

~o~O~o~

I stopped my recording, reviewed the tape, and uploaded it to the account I had set up for Candi. I couldn’t believe I was posting a no-doubt-about-it pornographic video to the cloud. This was crazy. Stupid. Reckless. But also thrilling, liberating. Sexually powerful.

I had a busy couple of weeks at work, trying to settle into my new assignment. Initially I had to absorb several preliminary studies we had done attempting to identify and quantify the market for the service the company was thinking about developing.

I also needed to think about how to design more detailed and comprehensive studies that would provide input to the design people, as well as sketch a critical path and timeline for each step of the process. It was fascinating. Management would do the risk/reward assessment once they had the data.

I had a lot of late nights, but made a point of checking the secure email I had set up to receive Candi’s communications at least once each night. Nothing. I was surprised; I had invited her to send questions. Maybe she didn’t have any. But maybe my request had scared her off.

I spent an uneventful weekend getting in some strenuous exercise, both doing a long run and hitting the gym. I hadn’t realized how much tension I needed to work through. Part of it, I’m sure, was just work. I was enjoying my new assignment, but I felt a lot of pressure to succeed. I had the strong sense that I had been given the chance to coordinate the project as a test of my abilities.

Corporate didn’t know quite what to make of me. I wasn’t your average junior executive – twenty-five, just out of college, limited life experience. I was older and . . . different. If I performed well, I might advance very quickly; if not . . . well, a big company has lots of places to park people, performing jobs that must be done but don’t require the skills of the company’s best and brightest. I was determined not to end up in a backwater, dead-end job.

But part of my stress was more personal. I was enjoying my exploration of sexual fantasies with Cam/Candi – enjoying it a lot. But at the same time, I had made it clear that it was not an exclusive relationship. I had broken up with Cam because our love-making was not satisfying for me.

What I really need, I thought, is a good, hard fuck. By the second Friday night since I had seen Candi in Philadelphia, I decided to do something about it.

So I found a hotel in the city, I found a bar in the hotel, and I found a guy in the bar who was looking for what I was looking for. As I said before, it’s not hard. He bought me a drink. We engaged in the requisite byplay. By the end of the second drink, we had made our mutual positions clear. I took him up to my room and pulled him in.

I know. It sounds crass, and casual. And exploitative. But Derek – that was my date-for-the-evening’s name, or so he told me – was honest about what he wanted, and so was I. Neither of us were looking for anything complicated. This was not about love, this was about sex, and we were both fine with that.

Derek was well-built – not in Jack’s league; few guys are. But solid. I had his shirt off quickly and was running my fingers across his hairy pecs while he reached behind me to pull down my zipper, dropping my dress to the floor and leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. Since I had planned the evening with this in mind, these items were designed to be pleasing to a bed-mate rather than comfortable to wear. They were also not difficult to remove. I took care of that, while Derek took care of his footwear, pants, and utilitarian underwear. Praise be, he was well-endowed and ready for a rodeo.

Then it was no quarter asked, and none given, and he pounded me mercilessly. I had missed that in all the months I dated Cam, and even in our later sex play.

But it was four minutes, tops. He came, hard, and his powerful ejaculation triggered my own orgasm in response. But then he was spent, while I was still hungry for more. Damn! We cuddled for a couple of minutes, and that was nice as far as it went. But I wanted more, and I didn’t want to wait forever for him to recover.

I knew how to speed the process. It had always been a turn-off for me, so I had generally declined when Jack suggested it, at least after the first early years of our marriage. Another source of tension we had had to deal with. But if I wanted Derek’s cock ready for action and knocking at heaven’s door – and I did – nothing would turbocharge the process like a bit of oral attention.

I had the puckish thought that I needed to channel Candi. I imagined her slithering down Derek’s body until her face was properly placed. Imagined her massaging his balls, kissing his shaft, licking the sensitive ring below the head, all while gazing up into his eyes adoringly. Amazingly, the mental image kept me hot and wet while doing what needed to be done. His cock was sticky with both my juice and his, but I avoided thinking about the smell or the taste by fantasizing about Candi. I fondled, licked, and sucked Derek back to life, and in no time his large, throbbing member was once again buried deep inside me.

He might have managed eight minutes this time.

Between his cock and my fantasy-inspired waking wet dream, I had at least two more orgasms and a lot more fun.

I actually told Derek my first name earlier in the evening and after we were done, at his request, gave him an email address where he could contact me. Not an address that included identifying information. I assumed he was being polite. I didn’t ask for his contact information. I enjoyed the hayride, but was not looking for entanglements. Besides, that’s not how the game is played.

I was back at my own house Saturday morning, feeling far less tense. Seems like my body had known what I needed to do for relief better than my mind. I spent the weekend doing the sort of household chores I, and most people I know, put off. Raking leaves, cleaning laundry, scrubbing bathrooms, paying bills . . . you get the picture. By Sunday afternoon my “to do” list was noticeably shorter and I was feeling pretty damned virtuous.
 

The week after I met with Al and Javi was even more hectic for me than the one before it had been. I needed to lock in their lessons on makeup, nail polish, and hairstyling, which required practice every night. I needed to take some long, soaking baths with oils to improve my skin.

And I needed to work up the courage to buy a nice dress. Target would not do; I hadn’t seen anything there I liked for my assignment. And, Cam was demanding all too much of my time.

It was bad enough that I worked in Cam-mode from around 7:00 am until 7:00 pm. Cam also wanted to follow the Cardinals’ playoff games and the news from Capitol Hill, where it seemed increasingly likely that the House was going to impeach the President for an extortion scheme involving the President of Ukraine.

It’s not that I don’t share these interests; after all, I am Cam and Cam is me. But, as Candi, I have a set of priorities Cam lacks. He would set aside a game or the news if he had a deadline. And for me, my Sunday evening deadline was important. I needed time to find the right dress, and I wasn’t getting it. My frustration grew.

The Cards clinched the division series against Atlanta in game five on Wednesday (scoring a record ten runs in the first inning – how’s that, tomahawk lovers?), so I was finally able to get out to Bloomingdale’s in Pentagon City.

It was embarrassing, since I felt like anyone would see through my excuse of wanting to buy something special for a friend. It was also frustrating not being able to try anything on. I had to eyeball the size and hope for the best.

The embarrassment of searching for a pretty dress in public excised any indecisiveness. Based on my in-person observations and my online research, I wanted a dress; I wanted it to be pretty rather than either sexy or professional, and that I wanted something conservative on the top with a defined waist and a full skirt. There weren’t all that many choices that fit those criteria, which made the shopping go more quickly.

I found a light blue, A-line dress that appeared to fit the bill, with a floral pattern that spiraled dramatically down from the left shoulder, across the bust, turning at the waist to pass over the buttocks and around to the front of the skirt. I took my best guess on sizing, brought it to the desk and paid with a gift card.

The cashier said, “Oh, that’s pretty.” But she didn’t ask any questions or look at me funny when I said, “I hope my girlfriend likes it as much as you do, or I’m going to be in real trouble.”

She simply explained the store’s policy on returns and asked if I wanted a gift receipt.

I took her up on it.

When I got it home and tried it on, I was reasonably satisfied that I had chosen the right size, and I liked the way the dress looked on me. It was late, so I skipped my hair and makeup practice and decided I would try to put everything together the following night and figure out whether I needed anything else.

So when I got home the following night, which didn’t happen until 8:30 (Cam had to work even later), I attached my prosthetic breasts, put on my blue bra and panty set and my camisole. I passed on the nails, regretfully, but applied makeup, then brushed out my hair. I carefully stepped into my dress and zipped up the back, adjusted the waist and checked the mirror. Not perfect, by any means. But definitely on the right track.

I took everything off, scrubbed up, and went to bed feeling more confident. By Sunday night, I would be ready.

It’s just as well that I made so much progress on Wednesday and Thursday. Cam needed to work late Friday and Saturday, and the Cardinals played both days (losing both to the improbable Nats, and managing to score only one run in eighteen innings. Ouch).

But I had almost the whole day on Sunday. I spent it in my apartment, enjoying the feel of just being a girl for a while. I padded around in my charmeuse nightgown until late morning, having a light breakfast, doing some ironing (for Cam as it turns out) while watching the Sunday morning news shows and reading various online papers. I looked at fashion magazines and read beauty tips.

By the afternoon, I had managed to slow down my brain and put aside the many distractions that kept trying to grab my attention. I was just me, just Candi, spending a moment on an island of peace while the world spun crazily around.

I stood, slipped off my nightgown, and went into the bathroom to begin my preparations. I took a long, soaking bath with plenty of Javier’s skin-softening oils. Every bit of body hair had to go, and I learned to use the razor even on my underarms while re-Nairing my pubic hair. The only hair I had left – the stuff on my head – got the full treatment: shampoo and conditioner, mousse, and hot rollers, just as Al had demonstrated. I applied glue to my chest and attached my prosthetics, then slipped into my ice blue bra and panty set.

Makeup was next . . . moisturizer, cream, foundation, blush, eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss . . . layer after layer. Then I glued extenders on my nails and applied polish. The imperative of allowing my nails to dry properly forced me to sit and do nothing for half an hour.

I pulled Stravinsky’s Firebird up on my playlist and sat quietly, breathing deeply, eyes closed, every muscle relaxed, simply living the moment. The music captured me, pulled me in, infusing the moment I was in, this act of becoming, with profound, heart-stopping beauty.

I felt like something momentous had occurred, like a reordering of tectonic plates.

Whatever it was, it didn’t distress me. It was a strange, but deeply peaceful feeling. The moment passed – just a brief half-hour of a random day at the end of another busy week – but I knew, somehow, that I would always remember it.

~o~O~o~

I decided to treat myself to a nice, soaking bath before getting ready for the video call I had scheduled with Candi. Then I had a glass of dry rose, a bit of cold chicken, and a beet salad before getting on my power lingerie, boots, and makeup. I set up the camera, checked the time, and made the call, still wondering whether anyone would answer.

And she was there. Like me, she had set up an external camera, so that I was getting a head-to-toe image of her, while she was seeing my image in the phone she placed on a side-table next to her. She faced me like a goody two-shoes schoolgirl caught by the principal in some minor infraction: ankles and knees together, shoulders back (which did a nice job emphasizing her breasts), pretty hands together just below her waist, and eyes downcast.

The transformation was incredible. Candi was wearing a simple, sleeveless cocktail-length A-line dress with a crew neck in light blue with a floral print. The skirt was full and flared, and the waist gathered by a belt of lace in some stretchy fabric. She wore drop earrings and the white strappy sandals I had given her two weeks before.

But the real transformation wasn’t the clothes. Her makeup wasn’t just improved, it was subtle, appropriate and perfect at feminizing her features and highlighting her startling blue eyes. Her black hair was glossy and full, with waves and curls spilling over her left shoulder to the top of her breast. The contrast between her pale, pale skin, dark hair and incredible eyes gave her an exotic look.

It was very clear that her hair and makeup had been done professionally. For starters, her hair had been carefully and properly trimmed since the last time I saw her. And, the improvement in her makeup was more than a mere two weeks of practice would likely produce. On top of which, she had extenders on her fingernails, well-shaped and painted to compliment her medium-red lip gloss.

I was tempted to ask her about it, but decided not to. If she felt the need to get professional assistance in her feminizing efforts, all the better! I imagined Cam having to go into a salon and ask for makeup lessons . . . delicious!

I was almost too dumbfounded to engage in my part of the game. I wanted to gape at her, to exclaim, to tell her that she was stunning. As I forced myself to get a grip, she bent her head, pulled her skirt gently outward with both hands, and executed a deep curtsy.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” she said in a soft voice. “How may I serve you tonight?”

Intended or not, her act of submission immediately got me back in role – and turned me on.

I stayed in character and studied her look more carefully. It was not flawless, of course. If you knew where to look, and looked closely enough, there were still clues that she was not biologically female. But the overall effect was so good that it was very easy to miss the clues, and there was nothing that would make you look more closely in the first place.

"Well done, Candi. Now, give me a twirl.” I watched her execute the maneuver, flaring her full skirt, before returning to her original pose.

“I would like you to walk me through your choices for your evening with your girlfriends. What was the look you were aiming for, and how did you seek to achieve it with your clothes, hair, and cosmetics?” I was fascinated to see how well she was learning not just to look like a girl, but to think like one.

“Yes, Ma’am.” She said, then paused to think before replying, “I wanted to look good, to look successful and put-together, like you always seem to be. But I didn’t want something I might wear to work, and I didn’t want it to look like I was trying to be overtly sexy. I figured that if I was going out with girlfriends, I wanted to look, well, ‘girly,’ for lack of a better word. Approachable. Fun.”

I interrupted her. “Interesting. Did you think about what your girlfriends might be wearing? Would you want to look ‘successful,’ if maybe they aren’t?”

“Certainly not, Ma’am. I wouldn’t want them thinking I was trying to one-up them or anything. But . . . you said that I was taking them to the Folger and to dinner. The girls that I knew in high school – boys too for that matter – well . . . if they were the sort to be interested in a Shakespeare play, they are among the bright kids, the strivers, who worked hard and got out. Like I did.”

She thought a moment more. “I knew plenty of kids in high school that would be very uncomfortable going to the Folger for a play. I wouldn’t take them there. There are lots of other places I might take them in D.C. to show them around that I would be sure they would enjoy, and I would dress differently for that.”

“That seems judgmental,” I said, trying to probe her thinking.

“Yes, Ma’am. But practical too. I would want my girlfriends to feel comfortable and I would want to make sure they had fun. I might misjudge their interests, but I’d still try my best to get the fit right.”

Truth is, I couldn’t argue with her. I would do the same myself. “Go on. Explain how you chose to achieve the look you wanted.”

“I chose the dress because it’s a simple, classic style, but the floral print would be too pretty to wear in the office. Well . . . in my office, anyway. The dress doesn’t show too much flesh, and there’s nothing overly sexy about it. But I really like the way it looks on me. The color seems to work with my eyes, hair, and skin tone. I wasn’t confident that my breasts would look natural if they were exposed, especially in daylight, and the crew neck took care of any issue that way. The wide elastic middle pulls the fabric tight across the chest, so it makes me look a bit bustier.”

She blushed a bit, and added, “I like that. And it takes attention away from my shoulders, which are a bit wider than most women’s. The elastic also made me look like I had a bit of a waistline, and the full skirt made my hips and rear end look a bit more feminine as well. I don’t have much to work with down there.

“I thought the dress looked better with bare legs, and it seemed to go well with the sandals you got me. My legs looked better when I was wearing the sandals too – the heels really seemed to shape them.

“I went back and forth on the hairstyle. I wanted something that framed my face in a way that my normal ponytail doesn’t. But I didn’t know whether to wear it completely loose and symmetrical, or with some sort of braid, or off one shoulder would work best. I chose this style because I thought it looked fun without being too casual.

“Finally, I chose makeup that was a bit darker than you showed me two weeks ago, because I would expect to be out late. But nothing over the top. Again, I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard to be sexy. I just wanted to look good.”

I was impressed. She had clearly given it a lot of thought, and her outfit definitely looked appropriate for the assignment I had given to her. Moreover, she was right that it looked good on her. Really good. She was definitely thinking like a girl, following the same winding paths that BethAnn had mastered all those years ago.

Not that there weren’t some grounds for improvement. “I think that you’ve done very well, Candi. But let me give you a few pointers. First, have you thought about the weather?”

“Yes, Ma’am. It’s been in the 70s and dry all week, so I thought that I could still get away with a summery style, even though it’s late enough that I could go with autumn too.”

“But what if it’s cold when you get out of the theater?” I asked.

“I hadn’t thought of that, Ma’am,” she conceded.

“It’s often a good idea to bring a sweater of some sort with you, or a light jacket, when going sleeveless, especially late in the season,” I told her.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Next, you are supposed to be paying for the play and dinner, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How were you planning to do that?” I asked.

She looked puzzled. “With a credit card?” she responded, turning it into a question.

“But where will you put the card, Candi?” I inquired.

Then she caught on. “Oh!”

“Right.” I said. “Do you ever see women going out without a purse?”

“No, Ma’am, I never do.”

“Of course not,” I said. “A purse isn’t just for putting a wallet – and no, Cam’s wallet would never do. You need it for a lipstick in case you need to refresh. You need it for a pocket makeup mirror, for your keys, for tissues. You need it to carry a spare tampon, or a pack of condoms in case your boyfriend forgets. It’s an essential part of any outfit.”

“Of course, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am,” she said ruefully.

“Final point,” I said. “If you’re going to a theater and someplace nice for dinner, you would probably want to think about adding some accessories. A ring or a bracelet or two. Maybe an anklet if you’re feeling adventurous. Possibly a simple necklace. It’s not required, but it’s an easy way to dress up an outfit a bit.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now," I asked, "are you ready for your next assignment?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said without hesitation.

“I have a double assignment this time. First, assume that you’re meeting a friend for a workout at the gym. The gym has male and female members and staff. When you get back from your workout, you are going to change and go clubbing. You will set up your equipment so that I can see you change from the first outfit to the second. Can you be ready in a week?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she breathed. She sounded excited.

“Good,” I said. “Same time next week. Put it on your calendar.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Nice job, Candi. I look forward to seeing your continued progress next week.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

We said our good nights and I cut the video and audio feed.

Around forty-five minutes after I had ended the call with Candi, I picked up my phone and dialed Cam on his regular line, audio only.

“Hey Liz,” he said, picking up. “How’s tricks?”

I chuckled. “Just checking in. Any issues that you want to discuss? Any worries or problems?”

“No,” he said. “It was a very interesting assignment. I learned . . . well, I learned a lot.”

“I noticed! We’re still good?”

“Yes,” he answered, very positive. “We’re still good. And I’m fine, so don’t be worried on my account. Like I said last time, none of this is easy. But I’m absolutely enjoying it. How about you?”

I thought, That’s a relief. I’m pretty weird to get off on feminizing someone, but so long as Cam/Candi is enjoying it as much as I am, I can put that thought aside. I told him I was having fun with our voyage of exploration as well, and we left it at that. We kept talking for another forty-five minutes or so, though, going through the events of our work weeks, the Cardinals’ playoff chances, and the craziness in Washington.
 

The call came in right on time. Liz looked hot as always. She also looked a bit pole-axed, which was highly unusual.

I was secretly pleased – my appearance must have impressed her! But I thought it would steady her if I gave her a curtsy and figuratively showed her my belly. It worked.

She was quickly back in command, and had me give her a twirl and explain my fashion choices. The only real pushback she gave me involved my assumption that my high school girl friends would appreciate a look that indicated success, or be offended by it because they were less well off.

It was a bit hard to explain this one. In St. Louis, there were people who would go to Shakespeare plays, and people who thought that folks who went to Shakespeare plays were effete liberal elite snobs who looked down on real Americans. You would not take the latter group to a Shakespeare play, and it wouldn’t matter how much you might think they would enjoy it.

I knew both types of people. Some of the people in the second group were very successful and many weren't, but there weren’t a lot of unsuccessful people in the “Let’s do Shakespeare” group. So I dressed for success, as it were.

Evidently I managed to get that point across, or something like it. She moved on to give me pointers on some things I missed, which mostly involved appropriate accessorizing. I honestly hadn’t thought about that, and any girl would have automatically. Because I have no mental equivalent of muscle-memory where being a girl is concerned, I would have to reason my way to what any girl would know by instinct long before she reached my age.

I wasn’t dismayed. I just have to work harder, that’s all.

She gave me another assignment. Her specific choices – exercise apparel and something appropriate for clubbing – presented new and exciting challenges.

I was happy that she wanted me to explore more feminine adventures. There is something about me, about Candi, that feels whole and at peace in a feminine world. I applied a touch of perfume today, even though Liz could not appreciate it, but because it made me feel more whole. More complete.

I wanted the game to continue.

~o~O~o~

I was back in the office early on Monday with even more to do; the reward of good work being more work. The firm’s senior litigation partner, Eileen O’Donnell, had specifically assigned me to work on one of her cases that was already far advanced and likely to go to trial in March. That sounds like it should be a long ways away in October, but nothing could be further from the truth.

In big civil cases, litigators move the case along for years, going through endless motions and discovery. Career trial lawyers often parachute into the case a few months out from trial. They are the experts at presenting the case to the judge or jury, not necessarily the experts in the subject area of the lawsuit.

That was what Eileen was doing now, and I had apparently impressed the firm enough that she wanted me on the trial team. It was very exciting, but of course I had a lot to learn about a case that had already been in litigation for four years. And, I was still working on other cases.

However, while I was no doubt brought into the case because I had a good work ethic, Eileen also believed that it was important to take time out when you could, since there is no time out when trial begins. The firm had a set of tickets for game three of the NLCS, which was being held in our very own stadium. My Cards were going to avenge their ignominious losses in games one and two. Eileen gave me one of the tickets, so I would get to watch in real time!

Well . . . it didn’t quite work out that way. Strasburg was every bit as good a pitcher as Mad Max, and held the Cardinals scoreless through six brutal innings. We got one run off him in the seventh, but that was all, and the Nats scored eight. As a Cards fan, it was crushing.

But as a baseball fan, it was also exhilarating. Some teams, in some moments, are magic. The 2004 Red Sox, the 2016 Cubs . . . the teams that get counted out until, improbably, they are transformed and can’t be stopped. The Nats had that magic. Enough that the “Baby Shark” theme that the crowd picked up from Geraldo Parra’s walk-on music seemed like pixie dust. The stuff of dreams . . . and legends. My Cards were the victims that night, but not everyone gets to see that magic in their lifetimes, even if they watch a lot of baseball. And I got to see it, in person. That’s something.

I didn’t go to the following day’s game – one night out is all I could spare, and the firm had other plans for Tuesday’s tickets, so I live-streamed the radio broadcast while I worked late, wading through mounds of electronic documents that had been tagged as hot. The Cardinals were swept, and all of Washington that cared about such things rejoiced. Much of official Washington had other things on their minds, of course. Their loss.

Once Cam was finally willing to stop obsessing about baseball, I started to think about my next assignment from Liz. And honestly, while I was excited, I was also starting to get worried. I was able to finesse my last outfit, but my lack of hips, ass, and waist would be more apparent in women’s athletic wear, which was becoming ever more revealing.

I could pass, but I wanted to do better than just pass. I wanted Liz to be impressed. I wanted to look good.

I was also starting to panic about wandering into stores and buying women’s clothes. At some point the “buying for a girlfriend” line wasn’t going to work. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about shopping online but got paranoid about the paper trail. It’s almost certainly true that no-one would notice or care, but it sure didn’t feel that way.

I decided to reach out to Al and Javier again. They weren’t fashion guys, but they were in the business and had contacts. They might have ideas, and I could use some help coming up with hair and makeup ideas for my two looks. Besides, I wanted to tell them how my first effort had gone.

I called the salon and got Javier. He was delighted to hear from me and suggested that I come out first thing Saturday morning. I figured that I could do it, so long as I gave Cam a lot of time to work on Thursday and Friday. And probably Sunday as well. Sigh. He suggested that I bring some of my things, and they both wanted to see the dress from last week.

I got there around 9:00 and Al bustled me into the back room. Javier popped in. First I started to answer their questions, then finally I laughed, threw up my hands and shooed them out long enough to put on my prosthetics, slip on my bra and panties, put on the dress, and then run a brush through my poor hair.

They came back in and said I had made good choices.

I beamed. Something about these two guys made me feel very happy. We talked about my next assignment and my misgivings about pulling it off.

Al said, “Candi, they make padding to give a better feminine contour to hips, butt, and pelvis. It’s no different than wearing falsies. There are plenty of women who have your shape, more-or-less. They call it the ‘inverted triangle.’ But if you want to add to the attractions, so to speak, we know someone who can help. We would need to go to her shop, though. Are you ready for that?”

“Is it someone you know?” I felt a bit vulnerable.

“Oh yes,” Al replied. “She’s the woman who asked us to help with Tina all those years ago. She runs a boutique for crossdressers and transpeople a couple miles from here. One of us can drive you.”

I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you two. But I think I’d like to go. I’d feel a lot more confident if I looked a bit better down below. Just give me two minutes to change back into street clothes.”

“Why change?” asked Javier. "Just put on some morning makeup, do something easy with your hair, and go as you are.”

I was struck dumb. Panicked. “But I . . . someone might see me!”

“It’s possible,” Javi said reasonably, “but not very likely. Our car’s out back. Sarah’s shop has a back entrance too, and we’ll call ahead while you’re fixing your face. Anyhow, anyone who sees you, especially from a distance, is just going to think you’re a girl. At worst, they’ll think you’re overdressed for this time of day.”

I looked at them wordlessly, feeling helpless.

Finally, Al said, “Candi, if you don’t trust yourself yet, you should. You look fine. Your problem isn’t going to be passing as a girl, it’s going to be changing back and forth. Do it here, while you’ve got friends around to help. Or, do you want to stay in your room forever?”

That hit home. Some part of what I had felt last Sunday, that sense of a momentous change, echoed through me again. I discovered that I didn't want to sit at home, becoming Cam every time I went out.

What did I want, then?

I wanted to walk down city streets, feeling a breeze blow up my skirt. I wanted to feel the wind in my unbound hair. I wanted to browse through bookstores in a cute outfit, feeling sexy and alive. I wanted people to see me and think, “Damn, that’s a good-looking woman.”

Somewhere in my brain, Cam was quivering with fear.

I sat on him. “You’re right,” I said, feeling decisive. “Give me a minute to fix my face.” Less than twenty minutes later, I was walking into Sarah’s Transformations. It was time for me – not Cam, but me – to face the world.

Sarah was a bit younger than Al and Javier – maybe in her late 30s. She was short, somewhat stout, and had brown, shoulder-length hair and big round eyeglasses. She looked like a librarian, if such a profession still existed in Alexa’s world. She brought me in and told Al he could pick me up in an hour.

I gulped. I suppose I had thought he would stay.

Sarah noticed, and laughed. It was a nice laugh – clean and round and completely without malice. “You won’t need any protecting from me, Candi. Al knows that, or he wouldn’t have left. I owe Al and Javier, but I’d help you even if I didn’t. This is what I do. It’s my life. My ticket to hell, if you listen to preachers. So I don’t. Now, you look like you’ve got your girl shit going pretty well. What can I do for you?”

I told her what I was looking for, and she propelled me over to the side of her shop and showed me some specialty items. “This is what you want,” she said, “and I’m confident in the size, looking at you. But with all the underwear, if you try it on you need to buy it. I can’t sell it used.”

I understood, and took the package into the changing room. It was a form of panty, high waisted and cut on the bottom like boy shorts. It was padded back, sides and front with silicone of some sort. The fitting at the bottom puzzled me. I finally had to ask for help, red with embarrassment.

She told me it was a gaff and explained how to use it. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than tape.

When I had it on properly, I lowered my skirt and left the changing room to check my modified image in the mirror. It was a definite improvement.

The padding only slightly expanded my hips, but the little bit definitely helped to smooth the curve from thigh to waist. The front wasn’t noticeable at all in my dress, but the big difference was clear when I checked out my rear in the double mirror. The panties not only padded out my checks a bit, they also lifted and separated them. The whole effect, visible even through my full skirt, was a far more female shape to the rear, and a more dramatic delta from the small of my back to my ass. I was thrilled.

I bought three pairs of the supporting panties, all in the same nude tone.

Sarah said they were designed to prevent any visible panty line, and could be worn under a standard pair of panties. The third pair had somewhat more generous padding. I wasn’t sure if an outfit might require it down the road. It’s good to be prepared.

Sarah also pressed me to try on a pair of tight-fitting stretchy jeans, and a plain white blouse with three-quarter sleeves.

I asked her why.

“You told me you’re worried about buying women’s clothes when you’re dressed like a guy. Which I totally understand, by the way. Being trans is scary because there are people out there who get completely freaked out by transpeople.”

She looked at me from over her glasses, and became very suddenly dead serious and very intense. “Now listen up, ‘cuz this is important. Like, ‘save your life’ important. Your best defense is to look convincing as a woman. You need to blend in, look like any other woman wherever you are.”

Indicating the jeans and blouse, she said, “If a woman wants to go to a mall to buy something cute to wear at the gym, or a dress for clubbing, she’s probably going to be dressed something like this. If you go to the mall in the middle of the day, dressed like you are now, you’ll stick out. You don’t want to stick out, Candi. You don’t. Got it?”

I nodded, sobered. As Sarah’s words forcefully brought home, this was no game.

~o~O~o~

When Al picked me up, I was properly dressed in jeans that presented a pretty convincing feminine silhouette, a simple blouse, and a pair of flats. I had a couple bags of other goodies, and a small purse was slung over my right shoulder.

He grinned, shouted a ‘Thanks!’ to Sarah, and told me to hop in. “So, what’s next? Are you ready to go shopping, or do you want some face and hair work first?”

I grinned at his assumption, which I suddenly shared, that I would go out shopping dressed as a woman. “The salon first, I think. I want to make sure I’ve got my ‘A’ game on before I go out in public.”

We spent a couple of hours on hair and makeup lessons, going through ideas for tomorrow’s looks and settling on a look I would wear to go shopping. I had plenty of “sit” time while my hair or nails were setting, and most of the time Al, Javi or both were in the front of the shop with their other customers. But I got plenty of tutoring, too.

When I decided that I was presentable, I nerved myself to go out shopping.

Al offered to take me. But both of them were clearly busy, and if I was going to do this I needed to be able to do it on my own. So I paid for my hair, nail, and makeup work and lessons, and prepared to take another big step.

Al offered to let me borrow their car, pointing out that it would give me room to put my purchases, as well as a safe get-away if I should feel I needed one.

Thinking of Sarah’s words, I accepted.

Javi said, “Call if you need any help, understand? One of us will be there, if you need us.”

Then Al pushed me out the door, laughing and telling me to bring his car home in one piece.

And there I was. Uncaged! I checked the mirrors, put it in gear, and headed out. I decided to go to Potomac Mills, an outlet mall south of D.C. Far enough away and large enough that I could be anonymous. It was almost 1:00 when I got there, and I discovered I was starving. So my first order of business was to get some food. I found a place to get a pretty uninspiring salad and found a corner table where I could people watch while pretending to read on my pad.

People mostly ignored me. They had their own things going on, and there wasn’t anything about a twenty-something girl having lunch that would cause them to pause or look twice. I took my time over lunch, and felt my heart-rate and breathing go back to normal.

I can do this.

Eventually I got up, bussed my table, and went shopping. And did I shop! I went to a lingerie store and got a couple different bra-and-panty sets, as well as another camisole. I went to an athleisure store and found an outfit for exercising. Skin-tight; they all were. But my padding held up and looked genuine through the tight lycra.

I spent a longer time hunting for a dress to go clubbing in. I had a good idea of what I wanted, but dress shopping was fun! I went to several stores and tried on several things, just for the sheer sensual pleasure of it.

I ultimately decided to go with something very daring. Daring for me, anyhow, though not at all out of the ordinary in a nightclub. I had very little body fat, and even my prosthetics were modestly sized. If they stayed in place – and the glue had never given me any issues at all – I could wear a slip dress without a bra, so long as the neckline covered the seams of my breasts. I found one in a scrumptious deep red that did exactly that, having the added advantage of being short enough to highlight perhaps my best feature – my legs. I felt amazing trying it on, seeing the silky fabric fall loosely over my body, highlighting my breasts, making my hips and ass look more prominent, and even touching the slight feminine mound between my legs. I absolutely had to have that dress!

The dress required the purchase of some hosiery and appropriate shoes. The latter required quite the search, since I needed a style and color that worked. Then, mindful of Liz’s lessons last week, I went to find some inexpensive jewelry to dress everything up a bit.

I was getting a bit loaded down, so I decided to put my current purchases back in the car before doing anything else. I had a bit of an accident at the door, dropping a couple bags.

Suddenly, there was a guy at my side helping me pick them up.

I held down my panic, thinking of Sarah’s admonition to blend in. I managed to look him in the eye, smile and say “Thanks,” and mean it.

He offered to help me carry the bags to my car, but I said, “No, thanks, I don’t have far to go.” And amazingly, that was all there was to it.

After unburdening myself, I went back in and did some shopping for sundries. Hair pins and scrunchies. Some toiletries. Running shoes. A clutch. A belt. A coat that I could wear over my slinky dress. A simple above-the-knee black wool skirt and a few cute tops. Another nightie, with a coordinated dressing gown. Slippers.

It was all so wonderful, I couldn’t resist.

I finally managed to pull myself away, having done more retail therapy in one afternoon than Cam had done in the past nine years. I felt great. Liberated. I had spent the entire afternoon dressed as a girl, very much in public, doing very girly things, and no-one had given me a second glance.

I was feeling so euphoric that I called Al and Javier and offered to take them to dinner as a thank you, then drove back to their salon.

They laughed when they saw how much I had bought. “Where are you going to put all of this, Candi?” Al joked.

But, I realized with a sinking feeling, that actually wasn’t a joke at all. I had been so caught up in the fun of shopping that I hadn’t even thought of how I was going to get everything home, bring it to my apartment unobtrusively, or store it. Then there was the cleaning . . .

“I did kind of forget about the practical element,” I said ruefully. “But look, let me change into something more appropriate and we can go to dinner.”

So off we went, to a nice tapas restaurant, where we had good food and I had a bit too much celebratory wine. They were fun to talk to, and our conversation touched on food, and travel, where they came from, how they met. And baseball, and philosophy. We didn’t leave the restaurant until 10:00.

Al said firmly, “You’re not going back to town tonight, Candi. We can put you up for the night, and we can talk about how to deal with your loot tomorrow.”

I was too tipsy to argue much. But when they took me out to the garage, I stopped. “Are you sure, guys? I know this was Tina’s place.”

“It’s not a shrine, Candi,” Javi assured me. “We’ve used it for guests before. Besides, we’ve got no reason to think that Tina will come back.”

The garage apartment was very nice for one person. It had a full bathroom that was enclosed, and the rest of the space was an open floor plan that included a small, but full, kitchen, a living area, a double bed, and a long closet along one wall.

I gratefully made use of the facilities, cleaned off my makeup and changed into my new nightgown. (It was full-length, medium green, with a lacy v-neck and lingerie straps that went all the way down to the middle of my back. Not an especially practical garment, but I hadn’t been feeling very practical when I bought it). After covering it with the forest green dressing gown, I luxuriated in the feel of the two satiny fabrics sliding across each other and across my body.

I put on my new slippers, rummaged through the kitchen, found some tea bags, and then made myself a cup. Then I sat in the room’s comfy chair, tucking my legs under me, sipping my tea and thinking about the remarkable day I had just had. From a frightened rabbit living in secret to a woman reveling in her first shopping spree. I had had dinner, in public, with two friends, and had been able to just be a normal person – a normal female person.

This wasn’t just about getting sexually excited by the “forbidden fruit” of women’s clothes, much as I enjoyed them.

Nor was it just a sexual fantasy game I was playing with Liz, though I also enjoyed the game.
Liz would go her own way at some point, and the thought – which had devastated me only a couple months before – did not distress me. We enjoyed each other, and we were engaged in a mutual exploration that was yielding some unexpected fruits. But when the day came that she found a new interest, or decided she had learned what she needed to learn, the intimacy she shared with me – with Candi – would end.

What I was feeling was different. Less transitory; more fundamental. Something about who I am, my core identity.

Candi, I decided, was not simply going to disappear.

– To be continued . . . .

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