Go to Chapter List
CHAPTER FIVE
 inah and I were good for each other, fitting
together like two
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She
was in a loveless marriage, I, her confidante, even confederate.
In turn, helping her provided
me with many opportunities to express my femininity. The latter
was the excuse we gave Kevin
for going out every weekend; to develop my confidence and
femininity. All true as far as it went
and my confidence was developing. As I think back on those days,
considering what I know
today, my good fortune seems amazing. Knowing nothing of the gay
community and the
backhanded acceptance crossdressing is extended, I, tagging along
with Dinah, patronized
Mexican bars, Mexican restaurants, and cruised around in the
Mexican areas of Phoenix.
Over time we evolved a regular routine for the weekends; on Friday night we drove to Los Olivos Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge. Staying until 1 A.M. we drank, gossiped, and listened to Julio singing his heart out. More than once the mariachis played to our table, getting an eyeful of my legs and ass in my short skirts. After 1 A.M. Julio and Dinah went their way and I was left to my own devices. At first, too skittish to be on my own, I usually went to some secluded spot and changed clothes. Then, dressed as a man, I'd return home. On Saturday morning Dinah would ring me and tell me what time she had arrived at her house, in case Kevin would ask. Come Saturday night, if we had nothing else brewing, we picked up three or four six packs of Coors and spent the night in girl talk at my place. No question, Dinah thought of me as a girlfriend. Her hair came all the way down on those Saturday nights. Usually we began by reviewing her evening with Julio, including a detailed description of their love making. This was followed by an account of her most recent quarrels with Kevin. In the process, a six pack bit the dust, three cans a piece. If the beer was cold both of us could drink like a sailor on shore leave. Dinah, on the other hand, could drink like a sailor on shore leave even if the beer was warm. I couldn't take warm beer; cold beer was, at least, manageable. Dinah enjoyed back rubs and, about the time she finished bitching about her husband, our clothes would start coming off. Dinah took everything off except a pair of panties and then laid down on her stomach while I rubbed her back. Although never entirely flat-chested, I felt too inadequate to strip down to less than panties and bra. My teats, without a padded bra, were small and, without my tight elastic panties, an unseemly bulge vexed my femininity. Dinah had a fine, if a bit plump, form with large, but not pendulous breasts, a thick waist, and ample hips; not quite a Rubenesque figure, but nonetheless attractive. Skin stretched over an ironing board with arms was never my conception of feminine pulchritude. I admired her body, almost envied it, but never lusted after it. Perhaps, had she made a move on me I might have wanted more from her, but she didn't. That was how we spent our Saturday evenings together. Baby oil, rubbing alcohol, beer, intimacy, and gossip. Quiet, pleasant evenings, two women embracing, neither wanting aught save friendship. My male apparatus, always peculiar, rarely bothered me unless I was being actively pursued by a sexually aggressive woman. Even then, it required considerable foreplay and the patience of the Sphinx to get a rise from the little bugger. I wasn't easy to seduce. Besides there was never any leaning in this direction. We were sisters and my genetic sex never came up. If you catch my meaning. Eventually, as evening became morning, we grew tired and I would drive her home. Recognizing the sins of driving drunk, I attempted to compensate with a mental maneuver. I convinced myself that I was temporarily and partially sober. I objectively observed my reflexes, which were considerably off, and drove accordingly. I was drunk, but used all my remaining faculties to compensate. With that piece of braggadocio out of the way, it's probable that our safety hinged more on the fact that there was no one else on the road at that unseemly hour of the morning. Even the most disreputable drunks had long since retired for the night. Dinah, more than anyone, except perhaps Mary, thought of me as two separate people. To be fair, I did nothing to dissuade her. I feared losing her friendship. Larry was very special to her, perhaps more special than me. When Dinah had been growing up her father was on a perpetual vacation with his best friend, Buddy Booze. For that matter, so was her mother. Dinah felt she had never had a real father and with Larry offering unconditional love it was natural for her to gravitate toward him. Larry became the father she never had. Larry, because I was Larry, and Dinah also had an intimate although asexual relationship. It was peculiar but, at one and the same time, I was both sister and father to Dinah. A relationship, I must honestly add, I worked to maintain and feared to lose. Dinah thought of me as two separate people and would tell me secrets asking I keep them from Larry. She didn't want Larry to know her secrets because, as a man, he wouldn't understand. Her clandestine affair with Julio was one such secret. She feared that if Larry knew about it, he'd tell Kevin. I indulged her in her fantasy, finding it faintly amusing. When I met Dinah I was too timid to venture out alone. Evenings, when Dinah and I were going out, I dressed at her house. With Dinah at my side I felt poised to go anywhere. She boosted my confidence by her open armed acceptance. After a short time I began exploring the world on my own. Timidly, late at night, I peered cautiously out my back door. Covertly, like a thief, I scanned the streets for human life. If the streets were empty I stepped out into the yard, quietly easing the door shut behind me. Nerves jangling, I'd brave the short distance to the sidewalk and begin a stroll around the block. At first, if I saw someone approaching, I'd cross the street or turn around and walk in the opposite direction. Later, as I became bolder, I'd smile pleasantly when passing other people, taking immense satisfaction if they returned my smile. It was particularly enjoyable to meet another woman on the street. Other women would almost always smile, whereas men were sometimes too preoccupied or too surly to smile. When I started going out in public in the daytime my anxiety reached its zenith. I was anxious and unsure. It was like being a hunted animal. My walks sharpened my senses. I had to know what people thought when they saw me. Were they laughing at me? Straining to read their body language and facial expression, I watched their eyes. People's thoughts are often revealed in their eyes. I was one frightened cupcake. My friendship with Dinah and Kevin opened other avenues of self expression. Whenever they threw a party, once or twice a month, usually on a Friday, I was expected to tell fortunes for their guests. This was wonderful exposure for me because I insisted that ``Larry'' couldn't read the cards. As anticipated, they insisted I come to their parties as a woman. Sometimes, if I couldn't attend the party, Dinah would apologize for my absence. I acquired a knack for phoning during these discussions concerning me. Eventually, she began telling party-goers I would phone whenever she concentrated on me. Either our timing was impeccable, or some kind of unexplained contact existed between us. There was a game she and I played with a deck of cards. We took turns trying to read each others minds. I could usually get eight or nine right, while she rarely got more than one right. To augment her ability I attempted to look into her mind and tell her when she was thinking of the correct card. ``No, not that one. The one you thought about previously. Yes, that's the one,'' I'd inform her. Somehow this strange messing around increased her hit rate to three or four. After a short while she could get three or four without my assistance. When he was younger, my brother and I were better at this game than Dinah and I. Try as I might, it never seemed to work well with anyone else. Telepathy? Naw, I'm skeptical of such nonsense. It was just one of those curious things in life which, for now, remain unexplained. With a recently acquired Tarot deck, my flair for telling fortunes brought many new friends. I was grateful for these friendships. In each case we had an unspoken contract. In return for their acceptance of me as a woman, I would be their conscientious mystic, advising them in all areas of their life. Counseling other women, caring about their concerns, was nothing new for me. I had been doing it since high school. What was new was that through fortune telling my words took on greater authority. Oddly, as a woman with a male body, my authority as a fortune teller was even greater. I became known for considerable mystical insight. Although, to assuage feelings of doubt, I referred to myself as the Reluctant Psychic. Everyone was required to understand that I answered questions with a combination of reason and intuition, not psychic ability. Psychic ability, I proclaimed, was either fraudulent or self-delusion. Nothing more! Life was sweet. I had a good job with a future, a nice apartment, girl friends, Dinah as a sister, and finally, my wife and children were coming home. Mary had gained some independence in Akron, discovering that she could earn a paycheck. She also had time to reflect on how she felt about us, about me. She loved Larry, but she wasn't fond of ``his'' dressing and acting like a woman. Once, during a phone conversation, Mary asked if I still dressed in woman's clothes. My stomach felt like an express elevator going down. I knew what the question meant. She had talked to her mother about my peculiarities and had been persuaded not to come back if I was still wearing women's clothes. At the time I was living at the print shop and going to business college. My time was taken, every minute of it. So, when Mary asked this question, and truthfully as far as it went, I replied that I hadn't dressed in women's clothes for months. I didn't volunteer the information that the feelings were still there, that only the opportunity had been missing. It was a willful deception. I was afraid of losing her, and afraid of losing my kids. To my mind, if she wanted to break up, she should come home first. Later, when I began to blossom under Dinah's tutelage, I remembered Mary's question, but she didn't ask again and I didn't volunteer the information. Had she asked, I would have told her the truth. Telling the truth makes life simpler. Besides, sooner or later, I knew Mary would have to know about my friendship and adventures with Dinah. I never intended to deceive Mary, only to keep the boat afloat until she came home. Then, away from her mother's influence, we could talk and determine whether she wanted to stay with me or to leave me. Finally, a million years after they left, my family arrived home. Larry remembered me, greeting me with a warm hug and kisses, but James was aloof and distant. Mary also seemed less excited than I had hoped. Not that she was cold and distant, but she seemed restrained. Her attitude was apparent, as were the reasons for it. I had failed. I couldn't find a job, had been fired from the jobs I did manage to find, and, in the end, had to be rescued by our parents. Her feelings were weighted by her work experience in Akron. She had been working. Getting a job hadn't proved difficult for her. Was something was wrong with me? Why hadn't I been able to get a job? She thought it. So did I. Mary wasn't entirely thrilled to be home, but she was really pissed when she learned I was still dressing in woman's clothes. ``Why'd you lie?'' she screamed. ``If I had known I wouldn't have come back.'' ``I didn't lie,'' I justified, attempting to absolve myself. ``When you asked, I hadn't dressed up for months.'' ``When you started again you should have told me,'' she pointed out angrily. ``Yeah,'' I said meekly, ``I probably should have, but I love you and I love my kids. If you want to call it quits, you have to do it face to face.'' Storming off she went to the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her. Time passed while she stewed in her room; an interminable time before she came out again. ``All right,'' she replied. ``I love you, and I'll stay with you, for now. But we keep this thing private. You can dress up in the bedroom. Nowhere else.'' Her canon reminded me of something I had read in an antiquated psychology text. ``Little boys, like little girls, sometimes like to wear Mommy's clothes. To discourage this behavior you must impose certain minimum rules. No dresses at the supper table and no flowers in the hat outside the house.'' Right, I would have been in heaven had I been allowed to wear dresses openly. Now, no longer a little kid, rules didn't amuse me. It has always been my heartfelt belief that an adult doesn't make rules for another adult. Consequently I would have rebelled at any rule she made, let alone one that chaffed as this one did. Grandmother Naomi tells a story about me when I was four years old. She describes me as the sneakiest kid she ever knew. When I wanted to do something that was forbidden I'd wait until Grandma was busy in the kitchen, then taking the newspaper to Grandpa in the living room I'd say, ``Read a paper, Grandpa. Read a paper.'' They used to laugh at the machinations I used to hide the mischief I intended. With their encouragement my skills sharpened. The problem: 1. I couldn't tolerate ``dressing'' only in the bedroom, hiding. I had begun to live, to have a life and an identity of my own. I didn't need this kind of tomfoolery. 2. I couldn't tolerate losing my boys. 3. I couldn't tolerate losing Mary. Therefore: I needed another strategy, a simple strategy that would bring my world back into balance. Phase one: I obeyed her rule, but when dressed as a woman I treated Mary with the utmost respect, deferring to her opinions, seeking out her advice, letting her know I loved her. I did everything in my power to make her happy when I was present. At the same time I was a little more distant when dressed as a man, never mean, but never as generously loving as when dressed as a woman. Also I dressed often. The more she familiarized herself with me as a woman, the less strange I would seem. Phase one worked admirably. After a short time Mary considered me a real person. She came to like me. I became a friend. Phase Two: When the house was dirty, or the dishes needed done, or some chore was neglected, I expressed my willingness to help, and my understanding that, with children to take care of, it was difficult to do everything by herself. I offered my assistance with the housework and, as her husband, I made it known that a dirty house was intolerable. Mary, a low energy person, took the bait. Less than three weeks passed before I was out of the bedroom, dressed, cleaning house, and doing the dishes. I had become Supermom, but I got what I wanted and gladly paid the price. Phase Three: Having made myself real to Mary, I introduced her to Dinah; explaining about Dinah's loveless marriage, her affair with Julio, and that Dinah needed me from time to time. Mary reluctantly agreed that I could continue going out with Dinah. I wasn't mean to Mary, quite the contrary. During the day, I worked hard to support my family. Changing clothes after coming home from work I did housework. As a woman I befriended Mary, was her confidante; as a man I was her husband, lover. We were both getting what we wanted out of the relationship. Phase Four: This phase could be described as, ``What Mary doesn't know can't hurt either of us.'' I began sneaking out for walks late at night while Mary was fast asleep. Fortunately she needed lots of sleep and I could depend on her to remain asleep. On the other hand I needed little sleep. Four hours a night was standard, and I could get along on two in a pinch. This provided a window in time that I could use to broaden my experiences as a woman. Not the safest window, perhaps, but it was the only window available and I opened it, climbing out into adventure. Which was how, as described at the beginning of this
narrative, I came to find myself tripping over an invisible
wire with two police
officers hot on my heels. As I fell forward I caught
myself, scooting forward into an awkward run that kept me from
sprawling
flat on my face. Then leaping over
the wire I bolted across the yard. My car was directly ahead. I
ran to it. Tearing my wig off,
throwing open the car door, I slid into the driver's seat and
started the engine. Turning on the
headlights I rolled slowly out onto the roadway. Dragging a wet
wash cloth across my face and
lips I finished in time to casually observe the policemen as they
burst into view. Nonchalantly,
I looked at them, then down the street as if I trying to catch a
glimpse of someone having just
run past. They took the bait. Ignoring me they were off chasing
my illusion. I drove slowly away
in the opposite direction. Breathing a sigh of relief, I knew I
had escaped rather easily.
On another occasion, late one Friday night, Mary softly snoring into her pillow, an urge to adventure beckoned. Glancing at the clock it was midnight, shank of the evening for fidgety souls. Having bathed and dressed I applied fresh makeup, grabbed my purse and jacket and was off into the brisk, cool, winter air. In Phoenix, winters aren't all that brisk or cool, not even at midnight; I draped my jacket over my arm. Strolling down Grand Avenue my appearance in store windows was gratifying, furnishing a feeling of confidence. From nowhere a black Chevy whizzed by, an older model. Wolf whistles and ``Oh baby'' were hurled in my direction. For a moment I was gratified, a carload of men thought I was hot stuff. Then the car slowed and hung a U-turn. Instantly alert, the hair on the nape of my neck stood up. I prepared for flight. Cutting down a side street in front of me the car stopped and two men jumped out. The car sped away. I breathed a sigh of relief, evidently these guys had been dropped off by their buddies. They probably lived nearby. Nevertheless I turned and walked in the opposite direction. Reaching the end of the sidewalk the same black car, having circled the block, came to a screeching halt directly in my path. Looking over my shoulder, the two men were strolling leisurely a short distance behind. From the car, the two remaining men scrambled out and walked toward me. Trapped between four men, I slipped off my heels while searching for an escape route. ``Hey baby,'' called one with a Mexican accent, ``Don' be frightened. We don' wanna hurt you. We just wanna talk.'' I suspected they had a different idea of hurting than I did. I was absolutely sure what they had in mind would cause considerable distress. Ten yards separated me from the closest when I bolted across Grand Avenue. My assailants, unable to act quickly in their inebriated state, stared for a moment. A precious moment during which I gained a substantial lead. Behind me I heard one shout, ``Get her!'' It lent swiftness to my pounding feet. Darting left behind the nearest store and without breaking stride I surveyed the landscape. Across a vacant lot was a road, beyond the road was a row of houses. Surrounding the nearest house was a high hedge. ``Would I make it in time?'' I thought, panic threatening to overwhelm me. Legs churning, my nylon-clad feet ripped by stones, pebbles, and broken glass, I accelerated to breakneck speed. Headfirst I dived at the hedge from a considerable distance. ``I'm not going to make it,'' I thought, even as my body skimmed the top of the hedge. Landing with a heavy thud inside the yard, the breath knocked out of me, I managed to roll up against the hedge and freeze. As I struggled to catch my breath the four drunks erupted around the corner of the store and into the vacant lot. They stopped to look around. ``Aw, Chris', man, where'd she go?'' asked one. ``Fucking Jackrabbit,'' said another. ``I'll show her Jackrabbit, man,'' promised a third. A number of disagreeable remarks escaped their lips while they milled around unsure of what to do. After a few minutes they decided to return to their car, using it to continue the search. I had managed to catch my breath during their conversation and, as they disappeared back onto Grand Avenue, I stood up, jumped the hedge, and started down the street. What possessed one man to step back and take one last look I'll never know, but he did. ``There she is,'' he howled. We were off and running again. Sprinting down the road I turned in the driveway of an old red-brick house. My intent was to elude pursuit zigzagging through backyards. It was almost a fatal mistake. A six foot storm fence topped by barbed wire surrounded the property. I looked behind me. A few yards away and moving fast the first of the four men was gaining. Taking off my jacket I flung it over the barbed wire. It was a thin jacket but would provide some protection against the bite of the barbs. Quickly, tossing my purse and pumps to the other side, I leaped on the fence. Clutching with fingers and toes I began climbing. I was about to hurl myself over the top when a hand clamped around my ankle, another seizing the hem of my skirt. With my free foot I kicked back as hard as I could. It felt satisfying when my foot connected with a face. The hand on my ankle came free, but so did my skirt. The side seam ripped and it came loose in my assailant's hand. Flipping myself over the barbed wire my slip caught and slit down the side. Brushing against the sharp barbs my left leg took a deep gash shredding my nylons in the process. Perforated in a half-dozen places my hands stung like hell. Landing on the balls of my feet I snatched up my purse. Making no attempt to save my shoes or jacket I was off and running. A random thought shot through my mind, ``Size 11 shoes are hard to find.'' Without slowing I snapped a quick glance over my shoulder. The four men, stunned expressions on their faces, were still on the other side of the fence. Escape was assured. They were too drunk to climb the fence. I was grateful for small miracles. Without pausing I ran for three more blocks. It seemed I had lost them, but I was still frightened. I knew they might still be hunting for me. Nevertheless I couldn't run anymore. My legs and lungs were hurting. At a slower pace I made my way through the back streets leading home. Almost there a neighbor, probably on his way to work judging from the lunch pail he carried, was opening his car door. Nowhere to hide, wearing tattered nylons, a ripped slip, and no skirt, I felt flustered and bewildered. The neighbor noticed me. His eyes widened a bit and he asked, ``Are you okay Miss?'' I nodded affirmatively. ``You look like you've had a bad time. Anything I can do to help?'' I shook my head negatively. ``Do you live around here?'' Affirmative nod. ``Are you going straight home?'' Affirmative nod. ``Okay, but if I can do anything to help, let me know.'' I smiled an appreciative smile and walked towards my home. He was kind and it helped to keep the night's events in perspective. The world contained good guys as well as bad guys. At that moment I needed the reminder. Entering my house I looked in on Mary. She was sleeping. Slipping off my damaged slip I tossed it in the garbage can, and next I tended to my injuries. Somewhat refreshed I slipped on a black floor length nightgown and then poured a shot of brandy. This was one adventure I wouldn't be sharing with Mary, not for awhile at any rate. Always pissed off when I went walking, tonight's events would really sizzle her bacon. Settling back in an easy chair with my brandy, I considered the circumstances of that night. Was this what other women had to put up with? What would have happened if I had been slower, or weaker? Would they have tried to rape me? I didn't doubt it. I needed to be more careful in the future. However, all in all, the evening had been a success. Had they not thought I was a female? Had they not wanted my body? And, after all, I had eluded them. Nonetheless, after the incident on Grand Avenue, I walked in more respectable residential areas avoiding main drags. Thus, one dark and moody night I drove my car to a nearby residential area parked on the street and got out for a stroll. Having walked no more than a block an enormous man fell into step beside me and initiated polite conversation. Tall, a half head taller than me, he had broad shoulders, brown skin, and wavy black hair. His features were clean, strong, and he was muscular. Eyes twinkling with a pleasant gleam his demeanor appeared friendly, not the least bit threatening. ``Hi there,'' he said. ``Beautiful night isn't it?'' His voice was pleasing, even disarming. I should have kept on walking, ignoring him until he gave up, but I liked his looks and the sound of his voice. Pausing for a second I made motions with my hands indicating I couldn't speak. I hoped to gently discourage him. Imagine my astonishment when he began to sign. Cupping my hands over his I shook my head to show I didn't understand sign. ``Can you hear?'' he asked. I nodded a confirmation. ``Can you form words with your lips?'' I formed my lips and said, ``Yes!'' ``Terrific! I work with hearing impaired people. If you mouth the words I can read your lips.'' You could have flattened me with a fly swatter. What were the odds? It was too good to be true. Here was an opportunity to communicate with a man who would only know me as a woman. I was flabbergasted. It was an irresistible opportunity. He introduced himself. His name was David. I told him my name in return. ``Darlene, that's a pretty name. Would you like to sit in my car and talk?'' he questioned. ``NO,'' I mouthed firmly. I was naive, but not that naive. I realized in his car, his territory, I would be at a disadvantage. ``Would you feel safer in your car?'' he inquired. Without thinking, believing I would be safer in my own car, I nodded and mouthed, ``Yes!'' After all, what harm could it do? He must have been watching when I parked because he led the way directly to my car. Opening the passenger side door he ushered me in and then, shutting the door, he rounded the car and climbed in himself. Laying my purse and coat on the seat between us I shifted to present my lips clearly for our conversation. ``Where's your car?'' I asked. ``Right behind yours,'' he answered. ``Slide over here, closer!'' he requested with a smile, meanwhile moving my purse and coat to the back seat. ``It'll make it easier to read your lips.'' Trustingly, I obeyed. ``You're very attractive,'' he said, placing an arm around my shoulder. ``Do you like me?'' Placing his other hand on my leg, he stroked back and forth ever so gently. That was the moment I should have reacted, done something to discourage him. But I couldn't. I was enjoying the attention, the feeling of being a woman with this man. Strong emotions were stirring. Aches, yearnings, desires I hadn't known existed, were surfacing. He leaned toward me and before I knew it his lips were brushing mine. Electricity! An enraptured thrill coursed through me as he wrapped his strong arms around me. The aroma of this man filled me. There was a feeling as if he had already started to penetrate me. I had never felt like this before, never imagined I could feel like this. I pushed him away. ``You said we'd talk.'' No matter how much I enjoyed it, I didn't dare let this go on. I couldn't give him what he wanted. ``We will. What would you like to talk about?'' he asked, one arm still around my shoulders and his free hand inching up my skirt. This was too much. I couldn't let him find the secret tucked away there. It would ruin everything. I pushed his hand away. ``What's the matter?'' he asked, as if I should feel guilty for resisting him. ``I'm married and have two children. I agreed to talk, nothing more.'' His hand crept back to my leg and, and as long as he kept it away from my skirt I thought it best to let it be. ``It doesn't matter if you're married. Who's to know?'' ``I'd know! I don't mess around.'' ``Your kiss said you do. You want me as much as I want you.'' His hand slipped under my skirt again. I pushed it away. He withdrew his hand and placed it on my breasts, gently massaging them. My breast padding was carefully constructed from birdseed and hair gel. They felt completely realistic to the touch. I was confident they would feel real to him and, rather than chance his hand under my skirt, I let him continue. As he did so, the artificial breasts rubbed against my own. The sensation was electrifying. My breasts, sensitized from Mary sucking on them, were easily stimulated. ``Please! Please, let me go,'' I pleaded. ``My husband expects me home. He'll kill me if I'm late.'' He pulled me to him, kissing me hard, passionately. A large probing tongue filled my mouth and his breathing was hot and heavy, blowing against my face in steamy waves. His taste was sharp, pungent, and the more sensual for it. I did want him. I wanted to yield to him, to let him have his way. It was impossible. Then his groping hand seized my hand roughly forcing it to his lap. Somehow he had unzipped his pants freeing his throbbing member. My hand folded around it. It felt fiery hot and was as hard as a steel rod. Shifting my weight I rested my head against his chest and began a steady stroking, careful to let the tips of my fingers rest on the sensitive cord running up the base on the under side. This I could handle. I could please this man after all. I stroked. He moaned and writhed with delight. His breathing was heavy and his smell filled the air. It went on for a few minutes. It was pleasant cuddling against him, watching him writhe as I stroked him. I enjoyed his excitement. Almost thrashing now, I could sense he was nearing climax. I stroked faster. Suddenly, he pulled my hand from his erection and, with both his hands, he thrust my head downward. I resisted! I tried to hold my head away from his crotch. He grabbed my hair and thrust my head until my lips, clinched tightly shut, were touching his throbbing organ. I was frantic! I tried to pull back; it seemed my resistance only stimulated him more. He slipped a hand around the back of my neck and squeezed hard. My mouth opened in pain and surprise. At that moment, startled by my own reaction, he thrust forward. Holding my head painfully, his hands pressed tight around my ears, he thrust violently with incredible speed and power. His engorged member kept hitting the back of my throat. I couldn't catch my breath. Gagging and choking I still couldn't free myself. The more I struggled the more delight he seemed to take. With a last hard drive he erupted. I would have thrown up except there was no passage for it. My throat was filled with him. He had spent himself in me. Helpless as a used rag doll he collapsed, all energy seemed drained from his body. In spite of exhaustion he managed to whisper, ``Sorry I was so rough. Couldn't help it. You're one hot lady. Something about you really turns me on.'' On one level I was terrified, but on another level I felt oddly satisfied. I had been used as a woman. I needed that experience. It released feelings I had never felt before. Sex had never been overwhelming, although I knew it was a major preoccupation for the majority of people. Certainly, I found sex a pleasant experience, but I couldn't understand why it obsessed anyone. This, however, had been different. The more this man wanted me, the more I wanted to please him. My mind had been screaming at me to run away but my body, flushed and glowing, betrayed me. I was bewildered by the flood of emotions. I had liked it. I had been taken, had satisfied a man, had swallowed his life essence, and I had liked every moment. ``God,'' he exclaimed again. ``You're good, I never had anyone swallow it before.'' Pulling me closer, kissing me warmly, he curled an arm around my shoulders. I snuggled into the crook of his arm. It was a lazy, quiet feeling, warm, safe, and comfortable. Presently, he fell asleep. I must have fallen asleep shortly after, because the next thing I knew it was nearly dawn and he was kissing my eyelids. My eyelids, my face, my hands, all received his tender kisses. Presently he was aroused again. His arousal excited me. Eagerly, I returned his kisses, knowing I could satisfy him. He removed the belt from my skirt, and started to unzip it. ``You can't do that,'' I admonished, still mouthing my words.``It's my period.'' `` I don't mind,'' he retorted. ``I do! I get painful cramps.'' ``Will you use your mouth again?'' Nodding that I would I slid down on the seat and slipped my mouth over his massive organ. From personal experience I knew what felt good and what didn't feel good. I licked along the cord, then the head, then the balls. I took the head in my mouth and slid the shaft deep into my throat. I brought him nearly to climax and then would shift my attention, letting him cool down a little, only to bring him back again. I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to hurt from wanting me. When I finally allowed him an orgasm I sucked it out, swallowing the salty bittersweet pungent juice with each suck, and then, as he cooled down I licked him clean. Finally, as he relaxed trying to recoup his spent energy, I curled up next to him, one nylon covered leg over his crotch tight up against his now flaccid organ. I kissed him gently. The look of satisfaction on his face was reward enough, but there was more. I had experienced my own sexuality, a feminine sexuality. It was frightening in its intensity. When we finished we talked awhile, then I told him firmly I had to go. He refused to get out of the car until I agreed to meet him again. I made a date for Saturday and he asked for my address. Perversely I gave him an address a few houses down the street from mine. A relationship was out of the question. Yet, I had felt more like a woman with him than I had ever felt before. What, I wondered, would it have been like to be this man's woman. An enchanting thought, one I lingered on for a time. Driving to my home I entered the house. First thing, I looked in on Mary. She was sleeping soundly. She was wearing baby doll pajamas, our signal that ``Larry'' was to make love to her. I couldn't. Suffering from a guilty conscience while feeling very feminine, I had no desire to play the man. Taking myself into the living room I curled into a tight little ball on the sofa and waited for Mary to wake up. When she did wake I was sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees. Through the front window I had watched the sun come up. It seemed weird, after my experience, that the sun should still rise. My mood was obvious and Mary demanded to know what had taken place. I told her everything, including my emotional reactions. Incredulously she wasn't angry. She understood what I had been through and related a similar experience that had befallen her when she was fifteen. These things happened, she declared, and were part of learning to be a woman in a man's world. What she didn't understand was why I made a date with the guy and gave him an address on our same street. Didn't I realize he could identify the car? If he showed up, Mary threatened to make me go out with him. According to her it was wrong to encourage him only to brush him off. Her attitude was puzzling. Why would she want me to go out with a man that had virtually forced me? A man that had taken advantage of my naivety? Why was she always quick to favor men? Did she think what he had done was right? Sure, I wasn't blameless, but neither was he. I felt a queasy sensation in my stomach, she was practically ordering me to have another sexual encounter with this man. Saturday came. Mary was right; he did find our apartment. Thankfully, after a bit of persuading, Mary agreed to tell him that Darlene, her husband, and her two children, had returned to Los Angeles. David replied gruffly that he didn't believe she was married and wanted her address in Los Angeles. Mary refused to give him an address and he stormed off in a huff. For many weeks, every weekend, we saw David's car cruising our neighborhood. Eventually, after almost six months, he stopped coming around. It was a revelation. How could one night of passion and pleasure generate such intense desire? What must it be like to have a sex drive that intense? Was that kind of intensity usual for a man? No wonder men had such a problem. No wonder women had such trouble understanding it.
I also discussed my experience with Dinah. Dinah informed me that she had been fourteen the first time a man took advantage of her. This was a strange new world for me. A world where men were powerful, determined animals, and women were vulnerable and yielding objects to be overwhelmed. I had a lot to learn. But, I was learning fast. Dinah suggested, if I intended walking alone at night, that I should develop an appropriate voice. Recognizing the reasonableness of her suggestion, I began working on a female voice. In private, driving my car, or at home when everyone was gone, I talked and sang in a falsetto. I practiced at every opportunity. For weeks I sounded like Minnie Mouse with a frog in her throat. Then, it got worse. I persisted. Six months passed. It was hopeless. My voice would never produce the right sound. I was ready to give up when unexpectedly my hard work paid off. My vocal chords, stretched, produced a soft, breathy, feminine voice. At first I didn't believe it. I tried it over and over, afraid I might forget how to produce the exact tone, the precise pitch. Later in the day, more confident, I decided to try it out. I called Dinah. ``Hello Dinah,'' I said sweetly and softly. ``Who's this?'' she asked. ``This is Darlene.'' ``Darlene who?'' she demanded. ``Darlene, your best friend Darlene.'' I announced proudly. ``Darlene. Is that you? You've done it. My God, that's terrific!'' ``You like my new voice? Will it do?'' ``Yes, it's fantastic. I love it!'' I was now ready to meet people and interact. Eagerly I anticipated the experiences to come. ``Do you think I'm a lesbian?'' asked Mary arriving home from her work. Startled by the question I responded, ``No. I don't think so! Why? Are you?'' ``No! But when we make love, it makes me feel like one. You're more feminine all the time and I don't like feeling like a lesbian.'' ``Okay,'' I answered pensively, ``you don't want to make love anymore?'' ``No. I want a male personality. That way when we make love we'll still be heterosexual. I want some male clothes and I've picked a name, Steven Michael King.'' At first the idea was unsettling. Steven wasn't something Mary experienced as an intense need. He was a pretense, bogus, a thing of make believe. Her request made it seem she thought I was bogus. Still, if it made her more comfortable, who was I to criticize. Realizing my femininity wore hard on Mary I decided if she wanted to be a man, let her be a man. It could be fun. Two months had passed since my family's return. James had been aloof and distant during this entire period. Then came the day James tested my mettle. Larry and he had been playing quietly in their bedroom. Alerted by the uncommon quiet I peeked in to see what was going on. The sight was utter chaos. Quiet to be sure, they were quietly coloring the floor and all four walls. Red, blue, green, purple, and yellow crayon scribbles crisscrossed across the floor and up and down the walls. Wide marks, skinny marks, circular marks, and angled marks snaked up and down, back and forth, across the room. After administering the customary ten swats on the buttocks I prepared a scrub bucket and brushes. Aware they couldn't really clean the mess, I felt a token effort was essential. Larry began scrubbing immediately, but when I handed James a brush he glared at me and let it fall to the floor. A second time I handed him the brush, again he let it fall. Defiance was written in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw. Taking off my belt I swatted him once on the butt. He glowered at me making no attempt to pick up the brush. Grabbing up the brush I dunked it in the bucket and scrubbed a small portion. I handed it to James and said, ``Now, you do some.'' He let the brush drop to the floor. I swatted his behind and said, ``Pick it up.'' No response. Another swat. ``Pick it up,'' I repeated. No response. Another swat. ``I can keep this up longer than you can,'' I warned. ``Let him be,'' screeched his mother entering the room. ``He doesn't understand what you want.'' Observing his eyes wandering to his mother, then back to me, he knew exactly what I wanted. He had set himself not to obey; his mother, now, was a possible reprieve. ``He knows! If he gets away with it I may never gain his respect. Stay out of it, Mary Ann.'' I swatted him again. He looked to his mother again. During this time Larry had been scrubbing. ``Okay Larry, that's enough. You've done a good job. You can go now,'' I informed him, hoping James would understand and appreciate the message. Larry put his brush in the pail and hurriedly left the room. James wrinkled his brow, his eyes wide, as he realized I didn't require him to scrub the entire room, only part of it. He looked at the scrub brush, at the amount Larry had done, at me, and then reluctantly picked up the brush and began scrubbing the floor. He had understood perfectly well. After that James and I became close. For the next couple of years family life was peaceful. I had always enjoyed children. Children of other people in my family, friend's children, neighbor's children and now, my own children. They were never a burden to me, nor was the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. If a parent considers a child a burden, that parent doesn't deserve children. Children are a delight, a worry sometimes true, ungrateful at times I agree, but one of the most magnificent joys life has to offer. Mary and I had both wanted children. According to the terms of a verbal agreement decided before we married; she was to care for the children until they were two years old, after that they became my responsibility. Mary loved babies. Older children held less interest. I loved babies. Who doesn't? But I loved children of all ages. I wanted my kids to know how to think and to think for themselves, the latter not the same thing as the former. To facilitate this process I employed logic games of various sorts, beginning with chess. It seemed a painless way to put their mental locomotives into motion. For a year or so I let them play with the pieces, then I taught them the names of the pieces and how to set up the chessboard. By the time Larry was five and James four, they could set the chess board, name the pieces, and understood that each piece had a specific movement. The following year they began actual play. James showed a remarkable talent. Chess was a major diversion, but we played other games as well; monopoly to Wff N' Proof (a game of propositional calculus). Physical activities were not neglected. We went swimming, horse back riding, and picnicking. Both boys were bright, eager, and to all appearances happy. Larry, his hands slim with long fingers, had unusual mechanical skills. However, after he was grown, his academic gifts blossomed, eventually equalling those of his younger brother. A late bloomer, he didn't attain any laurels in his formative years. Nonetheless, as an adult, he worked a full-time job while carrying a 4.0 grade average in college. James, short and slight, was a conspicuous and highly visible intellect. At age four, he knew the multiplication table to 12, and by five had drawn and memorized charts to 25. On his first day his teacher informed the class she would be teaching them the multiplication table through 9. She boasted that she knew it up to 12. When James told her he knew it to 25, she chastised him for lying. James insisting, she threw problems at him one after the other. The only one he didn't know was 18 times 17, and he multiplied it real fast in his head so she never discovered he hadn't memorized it. It amused me when the teacher called that evening wanting to know if I was aware that my son knew the multiplication table to 25. Had he lived in an orphanage the first six years life? Who drew his first charts? Who encouraged him? The Easter Bunny!? At five, he came in second in a chess tournament with other children through age thirteen. He would have won except he was so excited, knowing he was far superior to his final opponent, that he fell victim to the scholar's mate. Four moves and it was over. He looked up at me with a pained expression almost as if to say, ``It isn't fair. Isn't there some rule about a game taking only four moves? Can't we play again. I can beat him easy.'' They did play again, a skittles game. James won in twelve moves, but the first place trophy was not for him. He had learned a valuable lesson, one he never neglected again; never underestimate your opponent. The following year, at six, he won the same tournament with deft careful moves that expressed his mastery of the lesson he had learned the previous year. Now he was the predator, a killer stalking his prey. That year James played a simultaneous match at the Phoenix Country Day School's Chess Club. The Phoenix Country Day School in Scottsdale is a private school for children of the rich and famous. Their children experience a more ``progressive'' education and are isolated from some of the dangers inherent in the public school system. Dangers such as drugs, fights, and beatings. Having heard about James' reputation through the Phoenix Chess Club, he was invited to give a demonstration. James, a first grade student from Rio Vista, the poorest school in the district, would play nine players, all 7th and 8th graders, simultaneously. When we arrived the room was already prepared. The chess players were seated behind three long tables, three to a table with their chess sets on green and yellow plastic chessboards set before them. James would play white in each game, as is customary for the invited dignitary. Because James was exceptionally short, nine wooden boxes had to be found and positioned before each competitor's station. As the games began, eight boys and one girl were seated around the room. All were grimly determined to show up this arrogant diminutive pretender to the throne of chess excellence. James was familiarized with his opponents, each standing and bending over the table to shake his hand as the teacher introduced him around the room. The boy who was to play number-one board was tall, neatly dressed in white shirt and tie, as were all the boys. He ignored James proffered hand and looking down on James he grunted, ``You don't look so tough!'' James, dressed in sport shirt and dress slacks, an intent furrow creasing his brow, looked at the boy. Suddenly, brightening and smiling broadly, he shrugged his shoulders and moved on to the second board. James realized his power and used the chessboard as his means of humbling opposition. When they were wise guys his amusement was intensified. Once the preliminaries were over, the games began. James moved from one game to another, climbing up on a box, making a move, climbing down from that box and up on the next, over and over. Within an hour all the boys had fallen or were in the process of falling to his merciless attacks. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, the first to fall had been the boy at number-one board; a crestfallen look revealed a deflated ego. I wish I could report that the contest had produced energy that crackled in the room, as it often would when James played at his own strength, but it didn't. It was shockingly easy, the ability of these players was slight and James hardly expended any effort to defeat them. More effort, James would later disclose, was expended climbing up and down the boxes than in the actual play. Strangely, however, the one girl, playing a terrible game, was managing to survive. Time and time again I puzzled as James ignored obvious mating attacks. After all the boys were defeated James thrust his hand out to the girl and offered her a draw. With a smile that outshone the sun, she accepted gratefully. The games finished, scattered applause from the players and a handful of spectators showed James their appreciation. One teacher came over to me and said, ``At least he's not unbeatable.'' She also admonished that the girl who drew him was their worst player. ``No one is unbeatable,'' I replied. With the games over, I was anxious to leave, eager to ask James about the mysterious draw. Outside and alone, a wide eyed questioning expression on my face, I asked, ``What the hell was that all about?'' ``I liked her,'' he said matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders. ``We need to encourage women chess players. Besides, those guys'll never live it down,'' he said suddenly snickering. I couldn't help but laugh . . . six years old and James was already playing a tougher game than chess. Larry and James were both a little precocious and, like most brothers, they had their disagreements. One afternoon, Larry, seven, and James, six, my mother overheard an altercation and brought it to my attention. ``James,'' mother bewailed, ``is giving Larry an inferiority complex. I heard them fighting and James refuses to give Larry some thing that Larry says belongs to him. Larry seemed terribly upset and James sounded arrogant.'' The two boys often had disagreements. Ordinarily I didn't pay much attention, but my mother's concern persuaded me to investigate. Calling the boys, who were just outside on the car port, I questioned them. ``Grandma heard you guys fighting and thinks you, James, are giving Larry an inferiority complex. What's going on?'' I asked, directing the question to both. Larry answered, irritation sounding in his voice, ``James won't let me have Australia ...'' ``... I offered Africa for it,'' James interjected, equally agitated. ``He's got more territory than I do if I give him Africa.'' ``I don't care. Australia's the most strategic continent. Without Australia what's to stop James from taking the whole damn world?'' ``I gave you my word,'' barked James. ``Don't want your word. I want Australia,'' countered Larry. ``Hold on guys,'' I interjected, ``What are you talking about? Which Australia are you talking about, some sort of game?'' ``No,'' answered James, ``when we grow up and conquer the world. We've agreed to divide it between us.'' ``Oh, okay,'' I said, smiling at their presumption and dismissing them. ``You can go back outside now. But no more fighting. Share Australia. Half for each of you, Okay?'' Nodding, granting disgruntled promises, both boys returned to the car port. Turning to mother I started chuckling and offered, ``It doesn't sound like either one has much of an inferiority complex to me.'' Indeed, two weeks later, one of the ladies in our neighborhood came to visit with news she considered deeply disturbing. ``Did you know what your son, James, has been doing?'' she asked, rhetorically, standing in the doorway, unwilling to enter my house. ``He's been going around to every house in the neighborhood and asking the men if they want to join his army. He wants to take over the world.'' She talked fast and in a high pitch, conspicuously animated in her manner. She felt James behavior was bizarre, perhaps even dangerous. ``Has he got anyone to join him?'' I asked. ``Well no, but he seems so determined,'' she answered. ``I wouldn't worry about it. James has discovered the world is filled with hardship. He believes the solution is to bring the world together under one government. That's why he's trying to recruit an army. He cares about people,'' I answered, a bit proud of James for getting a reaction out to his childhood diversions. ``He was saying somethin' like that when he talked to my husband,'' she acknowledged, then added, ``your kids are strange. I don't like my kids playing with your kids.'' ``Why not?'' ``For one thing they know too much about sex and they've told other kids in the neighborhood. I don't want my kids learning about sex from other kids.'' ``Neither do I. I taught mine. If you don't want my kids teaching yours, then maybe you ought to teach them yourself. Goodbye,'' I stated flatly, dismissing her. Shutting the door, she was gone from my thoughts. Gene Willard Craig Lansberry was born October 2nd, 1964. As early as his first year I suspected Gene had serious inadequacies, but Mary insisted he was fine. She accused me of trying to steal her role as a mother. She believed that if something was wrong with him she would know . . . ``After all,'' she informed me, ``she was his `real' mother.'' Gene had come into the world six weeks premature. We were at a Glendale Clinic unprepared to deal with premature babies. It didn't even have a single incubator. Mom brought us to the clinic and after the birth she and I rushed Gene to Maricopa County Hospital, a distance of 15 miles. It was a blistering hot day and the car wasn't refrigerated. When we arrived, Gene, suffering oxygen insufficiency, was turning blue. Whether it was this, or something biological, Gene came replete with more than his fair share of apprehension, confusion, and commotion. As time would later reveal. Reading a short piece in the newspaper about a people called
Intuitively my heart reached out to the berdache. Were they
accepted by their tribes or
were they looked down on as homosexuals and transsexuals are in
contemporary society? Why
did the writer have to address these people with masculine
pronouns? This was an obvious bias
rooted in western culture. Was the writer obtuse, unable to
perceive that this was disrespectful?
Considering the other insults liberally laced throughout the news
clipping, I knew the answer.
He simply didn't care.
After reading the item in the paper I mused over my own
existence. What was I? Was
I a woman, a man, or a man/woman like the berdache? Maybe I was
something else entirely.
Why was so much hatred and antagonism directed toward people with
my nature? There was a
centuries old tradition for such animosity in Judaism and
Christianity, but there was no
explanation. We were evil, a fait accompli, a given without any
reason furnished. Who knew,
centuries after the fact, that it involved destruction of ancient
Goddess religions? I didn't.
The Bible depicts same sex loving as a grievous sin; the
Bible also says wearing the
clothing of the other sex is an abomination. Violators are to be
killed. Dispensation isn't
permitted. A warm, giving, compassionate person must be put to
death for these ``terrible
offenses''. Senseless to the point of comatose, it is still
believed by many ignorant people.
Knowing what was in my mind and heart, I liked what I found
there. Nonetheless,
articles in the newspaper, public opinion, and other attitudes
toward people like myself, invaded
my hard-earned composure and threatened my self-esteem. Realizing
I shouldn't care what other
people thought, I did care. I liked people and, for the most
part, people liked me. Would they
like me as a woman?
Some people liked me neither knowing nor caring whether I was
a man or a woman.
Lloyd and Evonne Campbell were two such people. Evonne was full
of life, happy, laughing,
and deeply loved Lloyd, her husband. She wasn't a beautiful
woman, but she had a sparkle about
her that was delightful. Lloyd, a quiet man, had a pleasing and
relaxed manner which bespoke
a person who had rarely seen hostility.
Lloyd and Evonne lived next door and they envied us our
children. Married nearly two
years they had yet to conceive. A typical earth mother, Evonne
yearned for children. They informed us from day one that they
were available to watch our
``wonderful'' kids. Lloyd was
as eager as Evonne. He also wanted me to teach him how to play
chess.
At first Mary was a tad suspicious of their motives. They
seemed almost too friendly, too
willing to insinuate themselves into our life and the lives of
our children. My intuition, while not
entirely able to dismiss dark possibilities, informed me that the
Campbells were exactly what they
portrayed themselves to be; a warm, effusive couple with hearts
as big as all outdoors and very
lonely without children of their own. We became fast friends and
remained close even after they
moved to another part of town. Although it wasn't our habit, we
did permit them to babysit on
a few occasions.
At his request, I taught Lloyd to play chess. Lloyd was an apt
pupil, bright and quick,
learning the fundamentals with little difficulty. Most
importantly, he thoroughly enjoyed the mental discipline required
to master the game.
Shortly after Lloyd and Evonne moved away, they began
protesting the marked drop in
how often we got together. Lloyd, in particular, was distressed
because I was the only person
he knew who played chess and after their move he rarely had
occasion. They both kept up a
steady, not altogether unwelcome, pressure to visit.
I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. My experience
with David had left me
with some reticence about taking walks as a woman, but I still
sought and needed experiences
to encourage and cultivate the feminine side of me. With this in
mind I ``bit the bullet'' and told
Lloyd and Evonne about myself, and about my nightly sojourns and
the danger they sometimes
involved. Good-hearted and as non-judgmental a couple as I ever
hope to meet, they invited me
to visit anytime when I was out and about. Which, for many
months, until they moved away to
a small town in northern Arizona, I did.
When visiting, Lloyd and I played chess. He was a taciturn
man, more so when playing
chess and he took quite some time before making a move. In
between moves Evonne and I
chatted amiably as she went about her housework. These were
pleasant evenings, dear to me and
an instrumental milestone in my growth and development as a
woman. At the time, not fully
understanding their significance I neglected to tell them how
much they meant to me. Not only
because they brought me in off the streets, but because I learned
to feel comfortable being a
``transsexual woman''. Being among friends who understood
and
accepted me was a fantastic
experience.
Evonne was especially helpful in that regard. Immediately
switching to the use of
feminine pronouns, she made me feel completely at ease. Lloyd, on
the other hand, found
feminine pronouns more difficult, and more difficult still on
those days when I beat him deftly.
Still he took it in stride and, after my initial explanation, we
never discussed the subject again.
I was Darlene, their friend and a transsexual woman.
One evening, as a gesture of my gratitude for their many
kindnesses, I offered to read
tarot. During the reading I foretold that they would have a child
soon, and I promised a boy. Before the Campbells moved to
northern Arizona Evonne's eyes began
twinkling, suggesting a
pregnancy. Her condition was confirmed a few days later by a
missed period and a subsequent
visit to their family doctor. It was a joyous day when, later in
the year, I received the birth
announcement confirming the birth of a healthy baby boy, mother
and child both healthy and
well. I never met a couple more worthy of children, nor more able
to give a child the love and
support it deserves.
During the same period that Lloyd and Evonne were our
neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Brown,
were also neighbors. Mr. Brown, more than Mrs. Brown, went on to
become a friend, regularly
stopping over to visit. Partially too, he needed respite from his
demanding wife. Despite being
a Fundamentalist Baptist, Mr. Brown was a genuinely nice man,
totally non-judgmental, although
somewhat less than average in intelligence. A hard-working man
with strong principles, he
married his deceased brother's wife, taking on the support of her
and her children. There is such
a law in the Bible and Mrs. Brown, upon the death of her husband,
was quick to bring the
reference to the attention of Mr. Brown. She charged that he must
obey the law of God as recorded in His Holy Word. That's the
story Mr. Brown told and I
have no reason to doubt it.
Mr. Brown, a slight man, skinny as a broomstick and scarcely
more than five feet tall,
had to work two full time janitorial jobs to support Mrs. Brown,
his brother's son, and his
brother's daughter. In the meantime, Mrs. Brown, a demanding
woman, tall, heavy, weighing
nearly four hundred pounds, remained at home to reflect on how to
increase her demands on her
husband.
Mr. Brown didn't have many spare moments, but when he did he
would visit and talk
about his troubles and the burdens he had taken on. His life was
as incomprehensible to me, as
my life would have been to him. Their marriage was loveless ...
in fact, they seemed to scarcely
like each other. The only reason they were together was because
of that ridiculous dictum in the
Bible and Mr. Brown's utter faith in his religion. Having little
enough money to support the
family, Mrs. Brown demanded Mr. Brown tithe ten percent of his
income, before taxes, to the
ever-grasping clutches of the church. This was the situation one
evening when Mr. Brown,
distraught and highly agitated, came knocking on our door.
Inviting him in and offering him a
seat on the sofa, I asked what was upsetting him.
``I'm going to get fired. My car broke down and I haven't
been
able to get to work the
last two days.'' As often happened when he was visiting, his
troubles poured out of him. ``The
mechanic said it will take two weeks to fix it and I can't wait
two weeks. I went to my church
and asked the pastor if he or anyone in the congregation could
help. After all my wife is the
organist and I've given 10% of my income for a lot of years.
You'd think they could do
something. The pastor said there was nothing he could do, told me
to pray and rely on the Lord.
How am I supposed to feed my family, or pay their damn 10%, if I
lose my job?''
Fortunately, Mary and I had two cars. With the proviso that we
could get a ride should
Mary or I need one, I loaned Mr. Brown our green station wagon.
This came as an incredible
shock to him. He knew I was an atheist, in fact, he and his wife
had once taken me to an
evangelical tent meeting where ``sinners'' were exhorted
to come
forward, confess, and be
saved. The fragile suggestibility of the human species is nowhere
more evident than at these
meetings where impressionable young, and sometimes not so young,
people are coerced,
swindled, and hoodwinked into believing they are experiencing a
transition into the presence of
their God. It's a sad, and frightening experience to observe.
Regardless, I digress, Mr. Brown
couldn't understand why I, an atheist, would do him a kindness
that his church had refused to
do. Totally alien to him was friendship for friendship's sake,
kindness without expectation of
return. His wife, on the other hand, had no problem accepting my
graciousness as evidence that
her Lord was hard at work through me. Irritated, perhaps unduly
so, I demanded to know if Mr.
Brown felt their God had provided my car for them. Assuring me
that he was grateful and that
he knew his God had not provided him ``my car'' I mellowed
out.
Still, agitated with his wife's
arrogance, I had been fully prepared to take the car back and
would have, had I not received Mr.
Brown's assurance. Not only did Mr. Brown understand my feelings,
but he informed me that
he would make sure Mrs. Brown understood them as well.
The height of Mrs. Brown's arrogance, however, displayed its
ugly head one morning
after Mary had taken me to work. Mary needed to go to the grocery
store and our other car
wouldn't start. Mrs. Brown had taken Mr. Brown to work in the
green station wagon and had
returned. It was parked out front. Mary approached Mrs. Brown and
requested a ride to the store
or to borrow the car back for a short while. Mrs. Brown, refused
to give her a ride and refused
to relinquish the keys.
When I heard this nonsense I was livid and vociferously
growled at Mr. Brown when he
came visiting that evening. Mr. Brown, rushed home and read the
riot act to Mrs. Brown.
Everyone in the neighborhood could hear him, word for word. Later
that evening he came over
and apologized, assuring me that, in the future, if Mary or I
needed a ride, in our car or his, we
would not be refused. He hoped we knew he appreciated our
kindness and that it had changed
his life. At church he had told them off. They wouldn't be
getting his 10% anymore. Instead he
was starting a savings account. He wasn't going to get cut short
again. Furthermore, he was
changing religions because his next door neighbor, an atheist,
had more love for people than the
whole ``damn'' congregation. Beaming from ear to ear, he
was
proud of what he had done and
more followed. He had taken his wife by the arm and with kids in
tow, stormed out of the
church. Not only had he taken control of his religious life, he
had taken control of his wife and
family. He made it clear that he would follow the law in the
Bible only so long as they followed
those laws. He was the man, the husband, the father, the head of
the household, and if they
couldn't deal with that, then he felt no obligation to continue
taking care of them.
Indeed, Mr. Brown was a hard-working man of more than a little
principle and perhaps
considerably more intelligence than first appeared. I was proud
to know Mr. Brown, and proud
to see his transition from an over-used dishrag to the head of
his house. It was the theme of an
old movie, with type casting, played out before my wondering
eyes.
The moral: If one lives by the sword, it is only fitting
that
one be slashed by that sword.
Mrs. Brown had been using the Bible as a sword upon which to
impale a noble man, and now
she would feel the bite of that two-edged blade on her own
voluminous flesh.
|