``Until the day he died, he fucked me two or three times a day,'' she said boldly, as if proud of it.

``Was that why did Dad made us go to bed early all those years?'' I asked, receiving an affirmative nod of her head.

Here I was, grown and I didn't do fuck. I didn't sleep much either, never more than six hours, often as little as four. On this night, having retired at midnight, I hadn't slept at all. I just lay in my bed, hands folded behind my head, reviewing the events of the evening. My body was filled with a strange electricity that often quickened my blood during early morning hours. With hindsight I suspect the restlessness energizing my body, giving me so little need for sleep, was the same as that which inflamed and awakened my father's incessant need for sex.

After an indeterminate and sleepless time passed I answered that electric tingling and got out of bed. There was nothing else to do, it was pointless to just lay there in the darkness. I peeked in on the two boys. Larry II was sprawled on top of his covers. I eased the covers out from under him and tucked him in. ``Little good that will do,'' I thought, knowing he would only kick them off. James, curled up in a small ball, had his covers pulled over his head. I turned them down to let him breath. Smiling as I looked at both boys, I wondered what the future held in store for them.

Shutting the door to their room I went into the hall and opened the closet door. I kept a few of my feminine clothes there for emergencies, late night forays into the night. Selecting a full flowered skirt, a white peasant blouse, and a pair of black flats I slipped silently into the bathroom and dressed. Leaving the house I started the engine of our primeval grey clunker, a Ford, and drove south on Central Avenue toward South Mountain Park. At that time the park didn't need protection from the thoughtless. It was open 24 hours. In later years there would be a midnight curfew.

Hard pressed to inch up the steep narrow road snaking up the mountain, the car chugged, coughed, and sputtered. I could easily end up walking home. Oddly, the thought both thrilled and terrified me. Still, for good or ill, the car kept running. Light cast by the headlights, scarce able to illuminate the stygian night, created eerie silhouettes out of the palo verde and saguaro cacti. After a short time I reached the parking area for Lookout Point. I turned off the engine, and stopped the car. It barked once, a muffled cough, and then I switched off the headlights. I was instantly wrapped in a cloak of utter darkness, the impenetrable darkness of the desert at night.

Exiting the car, I stepped into that darkness. Gazing into the moonless sky I observed an endless expanse of stars, yet no light brightened the earth below. Enveloping me, there was nothing but obscure shadows, inky black, blending the landscape into almost total invisibility. It was eerie. I liked it. I craved it. To be awake while others slept, viewing ordinary sights without the distraction of other people, made me feel alive. Always, I had loved the darkness for that very reason. Even as a child I used to climb the stairs to my room without turning on the light, then climbed in bed without a light, and often laid there in the gloom, sucking up excitement from that strange new world revealed when lights are out.

Cautiously I picked my way down to the stone ramada overlooking Phoenix. From there I could see the myriad specks of light coming from the city. A warm breeze whistled through the shelter and caused my skirt to dance against my legs, a pleasant sensation. My senses were alive. I felt alive.

Gazing at the distant lights both above and below me, a pensive furrow on my brow, I wondered if ever a Hohokam Indian, the original settlers of this area, had realized the greatness that would rise from their settlement. Were they one of the tribes that honored their male/women and female/men? What was that word, berdache? Had ever a Hohokam male, garbed as a Hohokam woman, stood where I now stood and wondered, as I now wondered, at the strangeness of life? Did that Hohokam berdache, as she did in many Indian tribes, hold a position of high esteem? Did the tribe believe the berdache possessed a special kind of magic? Do we have a special kind of magic; some of us? Is this a truth lost in the social separateness of modern society?

In the book, Don Juan: a Yaqui Way Of Knowledge, Belisaurus writes ``some men wear women's clothes to gain heightened awareness.'' Perhaps there is some truth in this, but for me the perspective is skewed. A berdache is not precisely a man, nor does wearing woman's clothes confer heightened awareness. It is in the nature of a berdache to have heightened awareness, and it is because of this heightened awareness, whether a male/woman or a female/man, that the berdache experiences the wholeness of the human condition. Young yet, I would begin to experience heightened awareness when something would tear it down. In years to come I would learn more of the berdache, and more about myself.

Recalling the conversation with Tim I reflected, what could he do that I hadn't tried? What was this thing about me that caused such turmoil in everyone, even aliens from outer space? For me it was a feeling of being free, a feeling of sensuality, of gentleness, kindness and caring, a feeling of being myself. Were these feelings forbidden simply because of an accident of birth? I had read that when a person looks at the world and observes madness, that person is mad. What if the world is mad? Would anyone know? Could a sighted man survive in a world of the blind? A vague memory of a quote came to mind, ``A fool would fare better in a world of the wise, than a sage in a world of fools.''

``Beautiful, isn't it?'' asked a voice behind me, startling me out of my reverie. Spontaneously, I jerked. ``I'm sorry Missy. Didn't mean to frighten you,'' sounded the voice. An old man stepped out of the shadows. He was in his seventies, drawn and thin, dressed in rags, and his smile was dull and listless. I relaxed! He seemed harmless.

``Not many people come here this time a mornin', specially pretty young girls,'' he went on, his voice cracked and ancient. I smiled a timid smile and backed away. I wasn't frightened of the old man but if he had funny ideas I didn't want to be forced to hurt him. ``Don't be afraid of me, Missy. Days long past since I could do what's fretting you. I'd be obliged of some gab though. If you wouldn't mind spending a little time with an old coot.''

The disconsolate tone of this aged outcast, a reject of society, reached me, touched my heart. Was he, after all, more outcast than I? I doubted it. ``I'll talk to you,'' I whispered. ``but I have to whisper. I have laryngitis,'' Not having developed a feminine voice yet, I reasoned both sexes sound much alike when whispering.

``That's a shame. Hope you get better right soon. My name's Hank. What's yours sweetheart?''

``Darlene!''

``Darlene! That's a right pretty name.''

``I couldn't sleep and drove up here to be alone.''

For more than an hour we talked. That is Hank talked, I listened. He talked about his life, the adventures he had as a young man, why he dropped out of school, and how he had been married once and his wife left him for another man. He complained about trying to find work, but ``with no schoolin'' and ``not bein' smart as some folk'' no one would hire him. He vowed, perhaps protesting too much, that he had never touched a drop of ``likker'' until after his wife had left.

His story was engrossing. I couldn't help feeling sorry for him and, having an urge to hug him, I did, and then I kissed him gently on the cheek. I had enjoyed meeting him. It had heightened the evenings adventure. But it was time for me to go, first light was beginning to spread over the land. Hank was disappointed, bursting with more stories to tell, but he thanked me for my time and bade me goodbye.

Returning to my car and the road home I speculated on the coming day. How would Tim react when I told him about me? My thoughts returned to my meeting with the derelict. I reflect- ed on the importance such moments held for me. These adventures were opportunities to express a part of me that as a man had to be suppressed. I wondered, would a man have hugged and kissed the miserable old tramp? Then I laughed, not many women would have either.

Reaching the house I undressed and crawled in bed beside Mary. I gazed at her sleeping form and wondered what she really thought about me. When we first met I had discussed my wearing feminine clothes and my feminine feelings. I had been up front with her and she had approved, even indicating she shared the same interests. With the birth of Larry II, her approval waned. Not that she actively opposed my femininity, but now there were rules. Her permission was required before I dressed or acted feminine. Which encouraged me to slip out late at night, alone. It was the only way I could be a woman without having to beg permission. Fortunately, Mary was a heavy sleeper.

There was another reason I slipped out of the house as well. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I was seeking experiences to broaden my horizons, to give shape and substance to the woman. I sought maturity, authenticity, much as any person seeks it when growing up. The only difference was that I had two patterns, one as a man and one as a woman. The former because it was expected of me, and the latter because of forces within me over which I had no control.

I stood mute looking down the road in front of our rented house in Litchfield Park, a town a few miles from Goodyear. When I made my call to Tim, he accepted my story with good grace and we decided to get together and talk at eight o'clock. I also suggested I dress as a woman and he agreed, although he didn't think it was necessary. However, I did. It was another opportunity for experience, another adventure, another little bit of life.

I walked down the drive and circled around to enter the house through the back door. Mary was washing the supper dishes. I recall wishing I was the one washing dishes and she was the one waiting for Tim. Hearing me enter, Mary turned.

``Settle down, Darlene,'' she said, wiping the soapy film from her hands. ``Tim said he would be here at eight and it's only ten after. It's a long drive from Phoenix and he proba . . .''

Even as she spoke there was the sound of a car pulling in the drive, tires crunch-rolling over gravel. Tim and his family had arrived. By the time Tim knocked on the door I had dashed into the living room and seated myself on the sofa. Mary opened the door and Carla came in first.

``Good God Larry,'' said Carla, catching sight of me. ``I thought you'd look terrible. You look fantastic. If I had met you on the street, I'd never have known.''

I thanked her as Tim was stepping through the door. Tim snapped at her, ``Carla, take Mary and the kids and go for a drive. Give us about an hour before you return.'' Mary and Carla, begrudgingly, took the children and left. Tim shut the door behind them.

Walking across the room Tim sat down on the sofa beside me. For a long moment he stared at me, unsuccessfully attempting to make me feel self-conscious, and then he asked, ``Well, where do we begin?''

``I don't know. Don't you know? Didn't Theron tell you what to do?'' There was a hint of sarcasm in my voice, but Tim didn't detect it. It wasn't meant for him to detect. My misgivings about this attempt to cure me had put me in a bitchy mood. At some level, not in my verbal consciousness, I sensed a wrongness about what we were trying to do. On the other hand, what choice did I have? I wanted to be third level, to be significant in making the world a better place.

``When did you first start dressing like this?''

I told him about the bike accident, the half-slip, about being drawn to my grandmother as a role model, about taking care of my brother, my experiences with my father, what happened at the State hospital, and my attempts at self-analysis. I was curious what Tim would make of it all. ``Can you remember anything else? Anything at all?'' he asked.

Having forgotten to tell him about the Halloween Party at Junior High school, I narrated it. When I was finished, folding my hands in my lap, I waited silently for his response. He shifted uneasily in his chair and cleared his throat. He looked puzzled and uncomfortable. This bothered me. How could he be a specially bred human being, capable of dealing with aliens from outer space, if he was having difficulty dealing with me?

``What about your early feelings toward your mother and father? What did you think of them? Tell me about your mother first,'' he said, his voice sounding hesitant, perhaps even agitated.

A fishing expedition. How discouraging. The great wise teacher for the Galactic Government was reduced to a fishing expedition. I was disappointed and yet, I had expected nothing more. My god, how simplistic. I loved my mother and father and respected them. Sure, my father was terrifying when angry, but not when he wasn't. Mom, true enough, was a flighty butterfly, but a loveable butterfly. If Tim was searching for causation in my relationship with my parents. He wouldn't find it. Besides, I had already covered that territory.

``Mom was okay. A bit sneaky,'' I replied, pasting on an aloof smile. ``She had subtle ways of getting what she wanted. Dad, on the other hand, was direct and dominating. There was never any doubt that he was head of the household, but neither was there any doubt that Mom had her ways.''

``Did you love them?'' he asked.

``Yes, very much.''

``Love can be close to hate,'' he commented idly.

``I've heard that old saw. I don't believe it, but I've heard it. When I love someone I love them, I don't hate them. Actually, I can't think of anyone I've ever hated.''

``Maybe in some ways you hated them?'' he persisted. His determination to find fault in my family was beginning to irritate.

``I may have disliked some of the things they did, but hate is an ugly word, and inappropriate.''

``Tell me more about your mother.'' he probed, annoyed that he wasn't getting anywhere. It was obviously inconceivable to him that there could be any physiological factors behind my femininity. My mother, my father, my hobby horse, my toilet training, something in my past had to be the explanation. Tim, the alleged end product of 600 years of special breeding, was rapidly revealing himself to be entirely out of his depth.

``Mom liked to glamorize our house. She saved money from the grocery allowance to buy decorative plants for the house. She'd tell Dad a fraction of the real cost, but Dad knew what she spent. He let her get away with it,'' I responded, stifling a yawn. Tim was really getting nowhere, worse, he didn't even know it.

``Did you want to be like your mother?'' he asked.

``Lordy, No! She's a butterfly, she describes herself as a butterfly. I wanted to be like my grandmother. I already told you that.''

``Did you feel sorry for your Dad?''

``Sometimes. Wouldn't you?''

``Larry, the root of your problem is you hated your mother and until you can admit it we aren't going to get very far.'' His tone was one used to reprimand a child. He had made his decision about what motivated my behavior and then, with the tenacity of an English bulldog, he hung on with grim determination. However, his speculation was infantile and the childishness of it was disillusioning. I realized that Tim was incapable of dealing with aliens from another world. He wasn't able to deal with me, only a little bit alien as people go.

``I didn't hate my mother or my father. I loved them. I have great parents; my entire family is extraordinary,'' I answered, refuting his nonsensical drivel.

``You're in denial. Your problem was caused by an unhealthy environment. I suspect your parents abused you, perhaps even sexually. You've forgotten it, suppressed it?'' his voice was sincere and he leaned forward as if to shove his intensity down my throat. ``Try to remember. Try hard!''

``Tim, you're full of shit! My folks didn't even talk to me about sex, and sure, Dad was strict, but they were fine. No one abused me.'' Attempting to change the subject, I requested, ``By the way, if we're going to continue this charade, call me Darlene, not Larry. I never liked the name, Larry.'' His simplistic attempt at psychotherapy was annoying, and it was obvious Tim had nothing to offer in the way of help.

``You are Larry though! Like it or not,'' he admonished, his face red and his body tense, looking ever so much as if he feared I might attack him.

``Am I? Is that what I am? A name? No more! What's in a name? Is a name given to me at birth by my parents more appropriate than one I select myself? Is it more meaningful, more real? Many people find their names are inappropriate and change them.'' Drumming my fingers on the sofa arm as I spoke, I crossed one leg over the other, letting it swing back and forth in agitation. More than annoyed, I was getting irritated; not so much at Tim as at myself. What had I expected? A miracle? Had some part of me believed that Tim and the Space Brothers could do something that God and all His angels hadn't been able to do? Something I myself hadn't been able to do? Apparently, I had.

``I didn't know there was this much of a split in your personalities,'' he went on. ``I admit, talking to you isn't like talking to Larry. You seem like a different person. But you're not real, not really. You're a cancer eating away at Larry's identity. You're preventing him from becoming third level. You want him to be third level don't you?''

``You mean that Space Brother nonsense?'' I replied with a nasty laugh. ``And you think I've got a problem? I bet you believe in Santa Claus too! So, I'm not real! I'm sick,'' I spat at him, my eyes flashing a warning. ``Telepathic space beings told you all about it. My goodness, Tim, if you need to talk with someone, maybe I can help. Tell me, did you hate your mother? Were you abused as a child?''

``You're a snide bitch aren't you?'' he snarled, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. His face was turning redder by the minute. I realized I had struck an uncomfortable nerve. Smirking, filled with self-satisfaction, I noted he had acknowledged my reality. He had called me a snide bitch. At that moment I realized, after all our hoping, believing, and working for the Galactic Government, it wasn't going to happen. It was a sham! Tim wasn't a specially bred human being. He was just a young man with a deft mind playing a complicated game. A man incapable of dealing with the intricacies of his own mind, let alone mine or minds from other worlds.

Nevertheless, he was my friend and he meant well. Having come to my home with good intentions I had been treating him shabbily. Intending to destroy my illusions, he had given me the power to destroy his, and I was doing just that. I was deliberately contentious and confrontational, reacting to yet another attack on my gender identity. Not to mention, it was uncomfortable having my illusions of the Space Brothers shatter before my very eyes. Fortunately for Tim, I didn't want to destroy his illusions.

Besides, illusions, even when recognized, seem to have a life of their own, tenaciously we hang on to them because we need them. I realized he needed his illusions. I had needed them too. They simply could no longer sustain themselves in the face of what I now knew. This evening had been a disaster. It was time to put an end to it. What would be the easiest way? Tim believed Theron had told him he would be able to cure me. That didn't leave many options; I'd pretend to be cured. It would cause the least emotional turmoil.

Dropping my head and shoulders I assumed a dejected demeanor; subsequently burying my head in my hands. ``Tim,'' I spat out in mock anguish, my words muffled by my fingers. ``My head hurts. It feels like a hard knot's in the center of my brain. What's happening? Maybe, maybe you're right. Maybe I did hate my mother and . . . and . . . and at the same time I wanted to be just like her,'' pausing for effect I cried out again, feigning anguish. ``Oh, God it hurts. I feel nauseous, but you're right, I'm not real. I'm a delusion,'' I barked, copious tears flowing from my eyes while my body shook. For a few long minutes pretending to sob, Tim let me cry. Then, for a moment, there was silence. A moment more and I lifted my face from my hands and looked into Tim's eyes. He smiled and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. ``It'll be all right, now,'' he intoned in a comforting voice. I smiled and nodded my acquiescence.

Had I been successful? Had I been convincing? Perhaps not, perhaps I hadn't deceived him at all. It seemed a piss poor performance to me, transparent and obvious. But Tim had deceived himself. It was an essential deception, required to preserve his illusion of a Galactic Government. Tim needed to feel special, to believe in the Space Brothers. What choice did he have? He believed what was needed to maintain his sense of mission, his purpose for living.

``What happened, Tim? Did I fall asleep?'' I asked in mock innocence, a pretense that ``Larry'' had suddenly regained control. ``The Three Faces of Eve'' had been a popular book and, having read it, I replayed a scene from the book. My performance seemed less than convincing, but Tim accepted it without resistance.

``You're cured, Larry. You had a compulsion but it's gone now,'' he pronounced with a sigh of relief.

``I'll never have to dress in woman's clothes again?'' I cooed the question and then in mock gratitude went on, ``Oh, thank you. Thank you for everything.''

``You might still dress a time or two,'' he cautioned, ``but only to prove to yourself you don't need it. Rest assured, it's over! You're cured.'' In the syrupy voice of a television evangelist proclaiming someone a born-again Christian he proclaimed, ``You can be third level, now!''

``That's great! Thank you,'' I responded, anxious to put an end to the charade. Shifting my weight uncomfortably, I looked at the dress I was wearing with a perplexed expression. My ploy worked as intended.

``You're welcome,'' he said beaming and then added, ``The girls will be home soon. Go change. When they get back we'll all go out for a bite to eat? We haven't had our supper.''

``Sounds great! We've had supper, but a little dessert would taste good.''

Following his suggestion I proceeded to the bathroom to change clothes. Looking in the mirror I smiled sadly and shook my head. ``That's it,'' I thought, ``there are no Space Brothers, no salvation for the world. Nothing's changed!'' Wiping the makeup off with a damp washrag, then I removed my clothes and put them away. Pulling on pants, socks, shoes, and a shirt I looked in the mirror once more. ``Nothing's changed,'' I mumbled, ``and everything's changed.'' Taking off my wig I combed my hair while managing a cockeyed smile, then muttered under my breath, ``Life does get tedious.'' A choice phrase of my father's that I was beginning to appreciate.

October 14, 1961, seven days before the landing, the original six of us plus our four children were gathered at Tim's house. Tim announced that some third levels were being teleported to the moon that night at midnight. Ted and Tim, their wives, and their children, were among them. Everyone was excited and a little frightened. There wasn't any doubt in their minds that at midnight they would be whisked away, teleported to a secret base on the dark side of the moon.

What gave them such fervent belief in such nonsense? The same thing that persuades anyone their belief is absolute. Without ``something'' there seems no meaning to life. We are consumed with presumptions of immortality, narrowing our view of the universe. ``The universe,'' we believe, ``must have a beginning and an end; anything else is inconceivable.'' After all, we have a beginning and an end? Life must have some grand purpose. Reality can't be indifferent to human desire, impervious to our egocentric preconceptions. Our small band of merry folk with our belief in Space Brothers were no different than any other group of believers. Recognizing our impermanence, our mortality, we denied it. Not out of fear of death, but in fear of insignificance.

I hadn't the heart to tell Tim I no longer believed. Besides, what if I was wrong? Shortly, it would all be over, one way or the other. Sweet illusions of youth, knowing better, a part of me still hoped it was true.

``Well Tim,'' I asked knowing what the answer would be. ``Will Mary and I be going along?''

``I'm sorry Larry, you're needed here after the landing. Theron said you became third level too late to be processed for the moon jump. In a few days you'll be given your new assignment.''

``Hey, don't feel bad,'' spoke up Ted, buoyant, cheerful, soon to embark on a marvelous adventure. ``After the landing Sharon and I'll take you and Mary and tour the solar system. How's that sound?'' Ted was a large man, tall, good looking, and made a living driving semi-trucks. He didn't seem the type to get sucked into this sort of scene. Although, I suppose none of us seemed like wide-eyed cultists. What, besides gullibility, are the requirements for such an obsession?

``Sounds great,'' I answered with pretended enthusiasm. Then, making our excuses, Mary and I took our leave. I had to get out of there. It was too hard keeping up the pretense. Moreover, wanting to believe, while not believing, made awkward conversation. That night, whatever happened, would spell the end of our evenings together. Our common purpose, our shared sense of meaning, would all be finished. Melancholy, had I stayed, I might have wept. What explanation could I have given for my tears?

``Why did we leave so early?'' asked Mary once outside and in the car. ``They aren't being transported until midnight.''

``Mary, they aren't being transported at all,'' I sadly informed her, starting the engine of the car.

``What makes you say that? They have to be transported, the landing is next week,'' she replied, sincerely curious at my pronouncement.

``There isn't going to be a landing. There aren't any Space Brothers and there's nothing special about Ted, Tim, or me. It's all been a fantasy. They're going to be terribly hurt when midnight comes, but I can't do anything about it,'' I affirmed, hoping to soften the emotional tempest rushing down on her. Also, selfishly, I wanted someone to know I had broken free before the end. My ego, bruised from two years of chasing rainbows, demanded it.

``You're wrong,'' she replied pouting. ``You're just jealous. They're going to the moon and you aren't.''

``Damn it, I'm not jealous. It'd be great, if it was true. I'm not jealous. I'm not wrong either.'' Sure, it would have been great. The Space Brothers were going to put an end to war. Cures for most of our diseases would be delivered. One piece of machinery produced food and other goods from pure energy. No one would ever want for anything, ever again. Our learn curve would leap forward. Telepathy, telekinesis, and teleportation would eventually become commonplace. Oh my, oh my, indeed, how I wished I was wrong.

``If it isn't true, why'd Tim make a specific date and stick to it all these months?'' Mary asked, her irritation with me intensifying. After all, I was destroying her illusions.

``I don't know, maybe to put a deadline on madness. Remember when we were first married and I was convinced I'd die young? I set the date a couple of different times and those dates came and passed. By setting a date and getting past it I realized my prediction was nothing more than anxiety. Tim set a date for the landing. When that date arrives and nothing happens he'll know the whole enchilada isn't real. His mind will be free to forget it, to put it behind him, and to go on with the rest of his life.''

``What about your dressing? Theron and Tim cured you of dressing up as a woman,'' she implored with, perhaps, the essential rational for her resistance.

``No! They didn't. Tim didn't cure me. Nothing has changed,'' I informed her, a chill in my voice. Wasn't losing the benefits to the world more important than whether I felt like a woman?

Mary greeted this piece of intelligence with stony silence. The remainder of the ride home was filled with empty silence. Lost in my own brooding thoughts, I didn't mind. Arriving home, putting the kids in their beds, we turned in too, wanting to hurry the coming of dawn. In the morning we could call Tim. If he didn't answer then maybe, just maybe . . .

Morning came. Waking, I dialed Tim's number. It rang once, twice, three times, four times. I was beginning to have a glimmer of hope ... on the fifth ring, he picked up.

``Hello,'' answered Tim.

``Hi Tim. Just calling to . . . well, you know?''

``Yeah! Look Larry I don't want to talk right now, okay?''

``Sure! I understand. Later,'' I replied. A clicking sound indicated he had disconnected before hearing my reply.

I hung up and turned over in bed. Mary was sleeping but I shook her gently and said, ``It's over. They didn't go to the moon.'' Mary made a soft mewing sound to show her disappointment and then went back to sleep. I marvelled at her ability to sleep, wishing I could do the same. I was always the last person to fall asleep and the first to wake up. Like Aunt Kathleen, I had to know the business, all the business.

A short phone conversation with Tim on Wednesday resulted in being told that our group had been rejected by the Space Brothers. The landing was still on, but we weren't going to be part of it. We had done something wrong; we had lost the faith. I smiled sadly and shook my head as I hung up the phone. It was his turn for the illusions to slowly fade away. I didn't worry about him, his mind was healing at its own pace. He'd be fine.

October 22, 1961 came and passed without incident. As the reader knows, there wasn't any landing. In its passing it left a handful of hurt, bewildered people. Tim was sullen and with- drawn, ashamed to talk to the people he had so recently brought together. Carla felt the Space Brothers had betrayed her husband. She was angry with them and a little frightened of what these new developments might portend for the future. Ted and Sharon claimed they never believed in the first place; I knew better. A blind man could have heard the disappointment in their voices, a deaf man the look of disappointment in their eyes. Mary decided, arbitrarily, that the Space Brothers had changed the date. We would be contacted again someday. As for me, I was embarrassed. I had ``preached'' the landing to everyone I knew. When anyone showed doubt I was insistent. I was the bearer of the Good News. A world of love, compassion, and fellowship among all nations was in the offing. And now, now I was a deluded, mindless youth.

NOON, October 23, 1961. I drove to Lookout Point and sat in my car looking out over the city. Pensive, disappointed, feeling dismal, I buried my head in the crook of my arm. Leaning up against the window, I wept. Seeking truth, I had believed a lie. It was a rude awakening. I slept on, a healing sleep. After a time I awoke. Lethargic, I shook the cobwebs from my mind, then smiled wryly. I smile a lot, sometimes inappropriately. I smile when I'm happy, when I'm amused, when I'm sardonic, when I'm pensive, when I'm depressed, and even when I'm hurt. This smile was pained. My pride had been bruised. Discovering the truth only days before the end was small comfort.

``Okay,'' I admonished myself. ``It's over. You've learned. Get on with your life.'' I started the engine, backed the car out of its parking spot, even chuckling as I made my way down the mountainside. ``Never again,'' I promised. ``Never again.''

A few months later Tim divorced Carla. Ted and Sharon would eventually divorce too. Ted said he was tired of Sharon and wanted a younger woman. As for Mary and me, we would stay together a long time.

Litchfield Farms brought in automated weight checking. My job was no longer necessary. Once again, I was out of work. In November we moved into Phoenix hoping for greater opportunities in the big city. Renting a ramshackle apartment in a run-down crime infested area of the city was the best we could manage. It wasn't much, but with a little paint and elbow grease we transformed it into a clean ramshackle apartment in a run-down crime infested area. We were soon to discover, much to our chagrin, Larry II had an unusual talent with locks.

Even before Larry was born we surrounded him with classical music and, after he was born, we showered him with attention. Whether it was the music or by inherent disposition he was a sweet tempered baby, alert but well-behaved. Those first precious years of his life he and I were inseparable. An almost mystical bond existed between us. When he was crying he'd instantly quiet down if I picked him up. If Mary picked him up he would cry until she gave him to me.

One night, shortly after moving into that house on 5th Ave., the boys sleeping soundly, Mary and I decided to take a short walk. The front door was double latched; one lock near the doorknob and the second lock at the top of the door. The back door was equally secure and could only be opened with a key. Double locking the front door we left by the back door, carefully locking it behind us. We were confident the boys would be safe for a few minutes.

Less than fifteen minutes later we were returning home. Two policemen were in our front yard, one of them was holding Larry. Taking our baby from him we invited the police into our home. Between the four of us we pieced together what had happened. Larry, not yet three years old, woke up and went looking for us. Not finding us in the house he used a kitchen chair to undo the top lock, then unlocking the second lock he strolled outside. Undaunted, he wandered down the street, which is what he was doing when the police officers spotted him. Fortunately, James, a year younger, was still in his crib, blissfully unaware of the night's excitement.

Finding a job in the early years of our marriage was difficult. Keeping a job was even more difficult. It seemed hopeless! When I was working I made minimum wage and a large portion of that was spent paying bills that accumulated when I wasn't working. Instead of life getting better, we were being sucked into a gigantic whirlpool of poverty from which there seemed no escape.

Christmas 1961 was a bleak Christmas. Thanks to Crayola we did manage a Christmas Tree, of sorts. I ``Crayolaed'' a Christmas tree on a piece of cardboard cut from an old refrigerator carton and stuck it on the wall with thumbtacks. Presents for the boys, except for a few bargain basement toys bought at Goodwill, were homemade. Christmas dinner was string beans, mashed potatoes, and meat loaf. Ice cream cones from the local drugstore were served for dessert. It was a bleak Christmas, but we had more than some and we had each other.

January 1962 our parents offered to deliver us from our difficulties. Mary's parents offered to keep her and the boys in Akron, while mine offered to put me through a data processing course in business school. The idea of a separation was agonizing, but Mary and I knew something had to be done. We couldn't go on living on the edge of hopelessness.

Optimistically, I had believed that if you worked hard life would be rewarding. Bums, tramps, beggars, the homeless, the unemployed, were shiftless, lazy, good-for-nothings. Yet, here I was, young, strong, willing, with a family, and I couldn't keep us fed or the bills paid, not even with financial help from both our parents. On occasion Mary's folks sent a few dollars, and sometimes mine bought groceries for us. Both Mary's father and mine believed I was nothing but a shiftless freeloader. Yet, no matter how many places I went to look for work, no one wanted me. Everyone insisted it was my fault; I was doing something wrong. Otherwise someone would hire me. Of course, when asked what I was doing wrong, their advice turned into disappointed grunts. When I did get a job, at minimum wage, it lasted about three months, until my first raise was due. Then I'd be let go and some other poor bumpkin would be hired at minimum wage.

My ship of self-esteem was rapidly sinking beneath an ocean of humiliation. ``Maybe,'' I thought, ``everyone's right. I'm worthless. God, if there is a God, is punishing me because I'm an abomination.'' Time and time again I pulled my mind back from the brink of despair. Each time it required a greater effort. So it came to pass, with gratitude, Mary and I accepted our parents offer of assistance.

Mary and the kids went on to Akron, while Dad paid my tuition and bought my books for Durham Business College. I signed for a six month course to become a Data Processing and Wiring Specialist. Business computers hadn't been developed and business transactions were processed on machines called Tab Equipment; huge, ungainly machines programmed by wiring panels and sliding them into slotted doors. These machines would be my stepping stone into the world of the gainfully employed and would salvage my self-esteem.

Dad paid for business college, but I still had to find a way to survive. Ted, who had kept in contact, owned a print shop in Phoenix and offered to let me sleep there and feed me one meal a day if I worked for him. The deal I made with Ted was daunting, worse than any job I ever had. Having no choice, I accepted his offer.

Once a day, when Ted had lunch, he bought me a steak dinner. He could afford steak. I was, essentially, working for free. Once every other week, he laid 20 bucks on me to assuage his feelings of guilt. He also brought me an air mattress to sleep on. It was okay. It would only be for six months.

Nights were hardest. Alone in the dark, a fine mist of ink from the day's runs settling on me, I had time to think. Many nights I lay staring at the ceiling, aching to be with my family. At these times, tears in my eyes, my heart ached. Each night drifting off to sleep I imagined we were all together again, renewing my determination to succeed.

I attended school three days a week; Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On those days I worked for Ted six hours, on the remaining days I worked 8, 10, and sometimes 12 hours. Ted liked his weekends free, so I was off Saturday and Sunday. That gave me time to study and, while I worked hard in the print shop, I worked harder on my schoolwork. I graduated at the top of my class with a 99%, the second highest score in the history of the school. The highest score was 100%. The ignoramus of my class, looking over my shoulder, had cheated and knew the answer to the one question I missed. I'd never have known except he bragged about it after grading was final.

With my diploma proudly in hand, I took a bus to Goodyear making an unexpected appearance at my parents' front door. Mother, noticing the blue tint of my white shirt from the printer's ink, had me strip, bathe, and dress in some of Dad's old clothes. I felt like a refugee from a third world country going through decontamination, but I was a refugee with citizenship papers; my diploma. Everything would be okay now.

Bursting with pride I reported to my father, entreating for a stake to get new clothes before starting my search for work. Pleased and proud, he bought me five shirts, two pair of pants, underwear, socks, and a pair of shoes. He even rented a room for me in a boarding house in Phoenix. I was overwhelmed by his generosity. I promised to pay him back as soon as I was employed. Gruffly, he growled that the only payment he needed was to see me working at a steady job.

Monday morning I started searching for work. I listed every place in Phoenix that might need data processing help and proceeded calling all of them. Returning again and again the more promising places I made over 200 calls the first month. I went to seven, eight, nine places a day and was out looking for work each day except Sunday. At the end of the first month I went back to Dad and showed him a list of the places I had been and what I had been doing. It was damned discouraging. I had worked my ass off to be the best in my class, and still no one would hire me. Every place I went wanted someone with experience. All the hard work, all the money I owed Dad, not to mention Mary's parents, and it had come to nothing. No one would give me a chance. Driven by desperation I asked Dad if he'd loan me enough money to go to Los Angeles. Maybe, I'd have better luck in a bigger city. He was inclined to say no, but after thinking it over he lent me what I needed. In his opinion he was throwing good money after bad, but he wanted to give me every chance. I wasn't sure he wasn't throwing good money after bad. My track record wasn't good. I didn't want to let him down, let my family down, or let myself down, but what if I was a loser?

I was in L.A. two days when Mom called long distance, the City of Phoenix wanted me. She said to hurry home; I had an appointment in two days. I grabbed the next Greyhound bus back to Phoenix. Dressing for my appointment I wore a cream colored suit, white shirt, brown tie, my nails sparkled, and I was squeaky clean. Scrubbing myself until raw, my skin actually hurt. Finally, slicking my hair with pomade, I made myself letter perfect in appearance.

``So you're Larry?'' said the interviewer. ``I've heard about you. Everyone's heard about you, did you know that?'' asked Ken Crider, supervisor of the Tab Department.

``No sir. How's that, sir?'' I asked, terrified I would do something to screw up this opportunity.

``Data processing is a closed network of people. Supervisors and managers get together to talk about the data processing business. At the last meeting everyone knew your name. You've been pestering everybody for a job.''

``Yes sir. I want to work.''

``We usually require a couple years experience, but you got yourself noticed. We've decided to give you a chance.''

``I'm hired?'' I asked, excitedly.

``Yeah kid, you're hired. But do me a favor, take that damn suit jacket off. You look hotter'n hell. You know, half your problem getting someone to hire you is you try too hard.''

Finally, I had a job and with a decent wage. It had benefits too; medical insurance, sick time, and vacation pay. I was in heaven.

``Yes sir! Thank you! When do I start?'' I inquired, while removing my suit jacket.

One day, looking back and remembering what Ken Crider had said, ``I tried too damn hard,'' I would understand. I worked hard at everything I did. Going to work early, staying late, concentrating all my efforts on doing the job. I played hard too. For Chris' sake, I lived hard. What else could I do? I was trying to do good, trying to get people to like me. If I was perfect in every way, maybe people wouldn't hate me when they found out I was an abomination.

Reporting to my father I had been hired by the City of Phoenix Data Processing Department was a pivotal moment in my life. It was the first step in reversing the downward spiral that had been devouring me. I even reprimanded Dad, reminding him that he had called me shiftless and lazy.

``You were shiftless and lazy. You ain't now,'' he responded matter-of-factly. I walked away without comment, although shaking my head. I was grateful for everything he had done and didn't want to fight with him.

Eight months passed from the time I started business college, was hired at the City of Phoenix, and saved enough to rent an apartment on the west side of Phoenix. Mary, working at Sears, had been paying our outstanding bills. Now, with both of us working, it wouldn't be long before everything was paid and we could be together again. For the first time things seemed to be working out.

In the meantime, living in the apartment alone gave me a measure of freedom. Each evening when coming home from work I changed into feminine attire to do the household chores. Keeping my house immaculate was enjoyable, but it wasn't enough. I wanted more out of life. I wanted other people to know me. I wanted friends who knew me as a woman. How could such a thing be accomplished?

I devised a bit of a scheme. Phase One:

At Goodwill I purchased various articles of clothing: pants, shirts, hats, coats, skirts, blouses, etc. I also bought a supply of theatrical pancake make-up in many hues: ebony, milado, clown-white, and natural #2. I bought lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, and blush from the Five and Dime. I packed everything neatly into a suitcase. My multi-purpose handy-dandy disguise kit was complete. Phase Two:

I made a white conical hat out of stiff white cardboard and painted it with black half- moons, stars, circles, and magical markings. I constructed a magic wand out of rolled up white paper and put a gold star on the end. Last of all, I cut a head hole in a white sheet. My costume was complete. Slipping it on I looked in the mirror for a final check. The dried egg-white on my face and hands had aged my appearance, the white talc on my hair made it appear grey, and the fine lines I added to deepen and accentuate my wrinkle lines looked genuine. I didn't seem made- up, but I did appear strange. Phase Three:

Tossing my disguise kit in the back seat of my car I, wizened wizard, climbed in and turned the key of my magic chariot. I rolled through the city and stopped at the home of my friends, Kevin and Dinah. Kevin and I had been friends for several years, ever since I rescued him from his confrontation with the four hoods. After he married a young woman, Dinah, she and I also became friends.

Plucking myself from the innards of my mighty chariot, bent and shaking, worn and weary with the weight of the world on my frail old shoulders, I hobbled toward the back of their house. Fortune, as it often did, hobbled along beside me, the Mystery waited to be amused. In their backyard, Kevin and Dinah were mowing grass and trimming bushes. Kevin, looking up from his labors, saw me first. ``Oh my GOD,'' he exclaimed. ``Dinah! Look!'' His eyes were bulging out of their sockets.

Dinah, her back to me, was trimming a hedge. Turning around she started to say, ``What do you want . . . '' but changed it mid-sentence, ``What the hell is it?''

``I don't know,'' answered her husband, ``Pero, Cuidado!'' (But, be careful!)

``In the name of the Great Tetragrammaton, I bid you good afternoon,'' I said in a loud quavering voice. ``Could you spare a drink of water for a tired old man?''

Stepping close Dinah looked into my eyes and seeing the twinkle there recognized me, ``Larry? Larry! Is that you? You scared the piss out of me. What are you made up like that for?''

Laughing I explained it was a joke, that I had a disguise kit and had been messing around with it.

Kevin, with a wide expansive grin and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes said, ``Eddie's over at the gas station.''

``Oh God yes,'' agreed Dinah. Eddie was her younger brother, ``You've got to pull this on Eddie.''

The gas station was a few yards down the alley, and, with only token resistance, I consented to do as they requested. In truth I was eager. The more they enjoyed this part of my game, the more likely they were to fall in with the next part.

Kevin and Dinah followed at a discreet distance as I made my way round to the front of the station. Eddie, back to me, was seated on a motorcycle. The station mechanic was in front of him and looked up as I entered. His mouth dropped open and, visibly paling, he took a step backwards. Eddie, observing his reaction, looked back over his shoulder. Seeing me he leaped off the cycle, whirled around, and grabbed a monkey wrench off the nearby work bench. Bran- dishing it, ready to bash my head in, he paused, obviously unsure of what to do next.

Waving my paper wand in a trembling hand raised high above my head, I commanded in a thunderous voice, ``In The Name Of The Great Tetragrammaton, I Command You . . . Drop That Wrench!'' I had a little conception of the power of the human voice, and of psychodrama, but it was a complete surprise when his fingers opened and the wrench fell, clanging and clattering, to the cement floor. Step by step I drew closer toward the two men standing motionless before me. I was enjoying the moment, delighting in it, savoring it. Strangely, my strategy had a life of its own, and such zest it gave me. Scant inches from Eddie's face I grinned broadly and in a normal voice said, ``Hi Eddie! How's tricks?''

Realization! Recognition! Consternation! ``Larry! Larry! Damn you! You son-of-a-bitch,'' he screamed, whirling in a full circle and stomping his feet on the floor. Smacking both fists on the wall he turned to face me, scolding, ``You dirty rotten son-of-a-bitch. You scared the shit out of me.''

I chuckled, ``I noticed.''

Eddie dropping the wrench on my command had been a surprise, as bluffing the four thugs out of beating up Kevin had been unexpected. I was learning human beings reacted fearfully to the unexpected, a lesson that would stand me in good stead throughout my life. Phase Four:

Back at Dinah's house I brought my disguise kit in the house and showed it off, careful to display, without emphasizing, the female disguises. This was the crux of my rather complicated ruse. A means of dressing as a woman in front of my friends without them thinking it peculiar. It was to work beyond my wildest dreams.

``I enjoy disguises,'' I explained. ``My costumes give me access to places I couldn't normally go; a tramp from skid row, a black man on Buckeye, a lady in church, or a wizard in your backyard.''

``You're gonna get killed someday,'' remarked Dinah, her eyes sparkling.

``Probably,'' I replied laughing.

``We're having a party Saturday? Would you come and wear a disguise?'' asked Dinah.

``Sure! What'd you like me to wear?''

``Come as a girl. That'd be trippy,'' she said, her enthusiasm exciting me.

This was turning out better than I'd dared to hope. I'd be dressing as a woman in front of my friends and a whole crowd of people and with Dinah's support. If anything went wrong she'd stand up for me. ``Sure,'' I replied, scarce able to contain my exhilaration. ``What time should I be here?''

``Come early! I want to see how you look before the party starts. Say sevenish.''

``Okay,'' I agreed simply, but with secret relish.

During our conversation Eddie, having returned with us from the gas station, was enjoying pawing through my disguise kit. Suddenly he asked, ``Hey Larry, can I try some of this stuff on?''

Moments later Eddie was wearing a full flowered skirt and a white lacy blouse. His appearance was amusing. Heavy work boots with white woolen socks stuck out from the bottom of the skirt, while huge hairy bulging biceps erupted from the white frilly blouse. His jutting jaw, black moustache, laughing brown eyes, and black disheveled hair added a touch of the bizarre. ``Come on Wiz,'' he announced, turning to me. ``Let's go for a ride.''

Eddie owned a Honda 50, a small motorcycle, or large motorbike, depending on whether or not your talking to a ``real'' biker. Once outside Eddie climbed on the front urging me to climb on back. I did. Eddie took off shrieking a war whoop at the top of his lungs. For the better part of a half hour we drove around the streets of Phoenix, waving and calling to people as we passed by. What a sight we made. The world's hairiest woman and a strange old man in a bed sheet, cackling, shrieking, laughing, having the time of their life.

One of the peculiar stories of my life concerns my friendship with Eddie Choate. Eddie was accident prone. His accidents were even predictable, occurring most often in the month of August. In the last four years, Dinah advised me, her brother had four automobile accidents, each in the month of August. With August only a week off, and Eddie riding a Honda 50, she was concerned. Approaching me as an oracle, rather than as her friend, she asked if I could tell if Eddie was going to have another accident.

Not having an immediate answer, I begged off by asking if I might sleep on the question. That night, after fretting most of the day, I had a dream. I dreamt Eddie had a horrible accident on his Honda, dying in a pool of blood. The next day, visiting Dinah, I asked her to invite Eddie over. A short while later, confronting both of them, I was adamant that Eddie must sell his motorized death trap.

Eddie would have none of it, scoffing at my over-reaction to some stupid dream. Besides, he needed his Honda to make deliveries at his place of employment, and no, he couldn't afford a car. He requested that I drop the subject.

For two days I fretted. There was something I could do, but it was irrational. It was crazy. Mary thought I was crazy too. With each passing hour, the compulsion grew stronger. If I didn't do something and Eddie was killed, I couldn't live with it. However, if I did what I was considering Mary and I wouldn't have a car.

Our car was a honey too. It had a 1957 Super-Charged police special engine in a 1952 frame. That was what my mechanically minded friends told me, including Eddie. When cruising at 100 miles per hour on the freeway, a slight touch on the gas pedal and it would slam me back into the seat. It had cost 600 dollars at a time when 600 dollars meant something.

I asked Eddie if he wanted to trade his Honda and 100 dollars for my Oldsmobile. At first he didn't believe me. Then he wanted to know if something was wrong with the car. When I explained my reason he accepted, remarking he felt guilty taking advantage of an idiot. He asked if I could wait a couple of weeks for the money, until payday. I agreed.

I felt like an idiot, almost wanting to cry. Nevertheless, going ahead with it, I signed over my car and he signed over his Honda 50. Climbing on, I rode it home. It wasn't even in good condition, barely putt-putt-putting along. Deliberately taking a loss due to a dream and a maddening inner compulsion was insane. Mary agreed, reading me the riot act.

Two weeks later I received a call from Dinah. Eddie was over at her house, she asked if I would come over immediately, and hurry. Fearing something terrible had occurred I rushed. As I entered she grabbed me, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. Eddie grabbed me too, shaking my hand and patting my shoulder. There were tears in his eyes. ``What's happened?'' I asked, overwhelmed by their behavior.

``Sit down first,'' suggested Eddie. Dinah, Eddie, and I took seats around the kitchen table. Solemnly, Eddie pronounced, ``You saved my life. Some damn woman in a Caddy hit me two blocks from work. The Olds was totalled. Crumpled up like a crushed can. The Caddy too.''

Dinah, who was still holding my hand interjected, ``He left work to make a delivery and would've been in the same place at the same time if he had been on the Honda. He would've been killed. As it is, the Olds protected him; he walked away without a scratch.''

``How in hell did you know? I thought you were crazy,'' Eddie, obviously in shock, was fervent with his praise.

``Honestly, Eddie, I figured I was crazy too. I'm glad you're okay,'' I answered enthusiastically, overwhelmed at the turn of events.

Without a vehicle Eddie lost his job and couldn't afford to pay the hundred dollars he owed. Under the circumstances I didn't mind and, until we could afford another car, I took great pleasure riding the Honda, a constant reminder that the trade had saved Eddie's life. Additionally, the passage of time would demonstrate, Eddie was no longer accident prone.

There's an interesting post script to this tale that would take place in the far future. One day, me without a car and recovering from a heart attack, Eddie delivered a Chevrolet to my door, handed me the keys, and said, ``I owe you this.'' It was a generous and touching gesture that brought tears of gratitude to my eyes.

When the day of the party arrived, the hours seemed to drag. I spent an hour bathing and dressing and another hour doing my makeup. I was still ready ahead of time. Leaving my apartment around 6 o'clock I drove to Dinah's. No one was home, but the door was left ajar for early arrivals. I went inside. Practically family, I had a standing invitation to go in anytime.

I was sitting on the sofa when Carol, Kevin's sister, arrived with her fiance. She saw me and spoke up in a friendly voice, ``Hi! My name's Carol. What's yours?''

``Uh,'' I stammered, startled that Carol had come to the party. ``Tonight, call me, Darlene. But you know me as Larry.''

``Larry! Wow! Why're you dressed like that?'' she asked, her voice animated, eyes sparkling, and her interest aroused. After all, I was still Superman in her eyes. Anything I did was perfectly fine.

After I made a brief explanation she declared, ``You look terrific. No one would ever know. But come in the bathroom and let me redo your eyes.'' We retreated into the bathroom, leaving her fiance to fend for himself, where she played with my makeup for the next half hour. When she was finished it looked dreadful, but there would be plenty of time to fix it before the party started. With that said, I enjoyed letting her fuss over me. It was a triumph.

When Dinah returned home she, Carol, and I huddled together in the bathroom planning strategy. I would be introduced as Laura, a high school chum of Dinah's and, to avoid giving myself away with my deep voice, everyone would be told I had laryngitis. At my request, both women agreed I would sit quietly, not talking, nor dancing.

Sitting in a corner of the room, sipping a rum and coke, I watched as other guests arrived. Despite the support from Dinah and Carol I was close to an anxiety attack. As I held the glass my hands trembled slightly, my stomach churning apprehensively. After my first drink, however, I relaxed considerably. Content to sit quietly I was able to compose myself. My repose was rudely interrupted when Carol brought a tall, good-looking man over and introduced him. I tried to catch her eye, to signal her to back off, but she avoided my glance.

``Laura, this is Stan. Stan, this is Laura. Laura, Stan wanted to meet you. He'd like you to dance with him. Don't worry, dear, I explained about your laryngitis.'' Taking my arm she pulled me to my feet. What could I do? A hot flush surging through my body I stepped out on the floor. Scared half-to-death, my knees weak, I would have sunk to the floor if Stan hadn't been holding me.

Pulling me close he took the lead. For one brief second I resisted, but then, recalling women follow, I stepped back and flowed with his movements. An excellent dancer Stan moved gracefully around the floor. Marvelously I discovered dancing's easier and more enjoyable with someone else guiding your movements. Relaxing, I yielded to his motions, free to concentrate on the music and my own movements. It was a delightful sensation. Flushed from the alcohol and the excitement we whirled and twirled, swished and swayed. I was thoroughly enjoying my first precious moments as a woman with a man, relishing my first dance.

A slow dance came up next. We continued dancing. His body was warm from our previous exertion, his face glistening with perspiration. Then, I noticed something more. Holding me close his penis was growing stiff and hard in his trousers. It was prodding against my leg. I felt it pressing through his trousers and the material of my skirt. The exertion alone wasn't making him hot and sweaty. Never had I contemplated anything like this. It produced a strange ache in my abdomen, an empty feeling, a yearning that frightened me with its intensity. ``Nonsense,'' I thought, ``I can't give him what he wants.'' It was impossible, all the same, I wanted him. I wanted this man to fuck me. No love making, nothing sweet and romantic. I wanted him to throw me down and fuck my brains out. The thought was terrifying, delightfully terrifying. I hadn't known that I could have such emotions.

Bringing his face close to mine he kissed my neck. A shiver shook my body. He held me close and tried to kiss my lips. ``Enough,'' I screamed silently. Slipping from his grip and pushing him away, I smiled and mouthed the words, ``Thank You.'' Panicky, I rushed off to find Dinah. Dinah was in the kitchen fixing herself a drink, and flirting with one of the guests.

``Dinah,'' I whispered ``can we go somewhere and talk?''

``Sure,'' she said in a loud, slightly inebriated voice. ``Let's go out back,'' she suggested, leading the way into the backyard and the privacy of the night.

Standing there in her backyard, the sounds of the party drifting through the open back door, I explained to Dinah what had happened while dancing with Stan. I confessed it confused me and gave me feelings I hadn't known I could have. One thing led to another and I told her everything. Dinah was supportive and understanding.

She led the way to her car, a white late model Chevrolet, and we sat down in the front seat. Dinah had the radio turned on low. It was set to a Spanish station. The night had cooled considerably and, sitting there sipping our drinks, an intimate friendship sprang up between us. She recognized I needed someone to help me grow and learn what a women needs to know. She needed a confidante, someone she could trust with her deepest feelings and darkest secrets. Dinah was having an affair and needed a bright and clever accomplice. I would do nicely.

The next couple of hours we spent sitting in the car pouring our hearts out to each other. We talked about my feelings, and we talked about her lover. His name was Julio, a Mexican guitarist and singer at Los Olivos, a local nightclub. Together we schemed how she could rendezvous more frequently with her lover, while, at the same time, allowing me to get out more often. We hugged each other and cried, then made a solemn pledge to be friends forever. My head was swimming, I had a ``real'' girl friend. It was miraculous; my four step plan had worked better than anticipated. Fortune, as ever, seemed my co-conspirator, a truth that would become more manifest as my life unfolded.