I had met Harlie, Vonna's husband, through the Phoenix Chapter of a national transvestite organization. He was the exception in that miserable organization. Most of the members were emotionally distraught, paranoid personalities unable to deal with the intimidation from societal attitudes. These were people in unresolved conflict between what society demanded of them and the irresistible demands of their biological realities. Harlie was made of sterner stuff. Transvestism was a part of his life, but neither it, nor societal attitudes consumed him.

Harlie and I shared many similarities. We both worked in computers, read Science Fiction, and we were both non-theist. That is we didn't believe in God, but neither did we actively oppose religion. When I met Harlie his most vital concern was a fear that no woman would want a man who wore women's clothing. I suspect this is why, after I introduced him to Vonna, he quickly married her. He didn't want to give her a chance to get away.

Vonna, on the other hand, open and loving with a flexible intellect, had more than once asked if I knew any single guys who dressed in women's clothes. When introduced to Harlie Vonna thought he was exciting and that Charlotte, his feminine persona, was delightful. One month after being introduced they were married. They stayed married three months and then, because of personality differences, they divorced. Proving that it takes more than sharing the same dresses to make a good marriage.

Harlie was stricken!

Where would he find another woman to love him, especially a woman as arousing in bed as Vonna had been? Where would he find another woman to enjoy his transvestism? Was he destined to live alone? He came to me demanding help.

``I wouldn't be in this fix if it weren't for you,'' he complained. ``Because of you I know what it means to be alone. At least, before you came along, I didn't know what I was missing. You've got to tell me what to do.'' His manner wasn't belligerent, nor was it agitated. It was almost matter-of-fact. Since I was the cause of his woe, then I should be the solution.

``Harlie,'' I announced, feeling a little put out to be held to blame for his predicament. ``The world is filled with women who can love you. Your only problem is that you don't believe it. Hell, you're a good man, strong, intelligent, kind, and honest. You've got a great job with a future, and make good money. You'd never hurt a woman, or a child. You're not an alcoholic, nor a drug user. What's not to love? So you wear woman's clothes, big deal. A smart woman isn't going to reject you because you want to wear her panties. Get real, there are women out there who would kill to have a man like you.''

``Where can I find these women?'' he demanded, although in a gentler tone.

``Start searching in the SCA. Women there are already into playing dress up, a man dressing in women's clothes will just be a novel twist. When you meet a woman that interests you, tell her straight away, don't mince words. If she doesn't respond positively, it's better to know and get it over with, then get on with your search.''

Harlie took my advice and shortly met an exceptional woman. They fell in love. I was invited to the wedding. An honor which moved me deeply and one, to this day, I have treasured. They have two children now, bright, strapping, fine boys, and they all live happily in northwest Phoenix. Our friendship, while we may see each other only once a year, still endures.

After his mother died, Kevin inherited a two acre ranch near 25th Avenue and Broadway. Mary had always wanted to live on a ranch, so we rented it. We bought some ducks, a red hen, a horse, and later added more chickens. With two acres of land surrounding the house there was a feeling of freedom, elbow room. There was room for the horse to run, room to play with our children, room to set up a horseshoe pit, and room enough for skyclad outdoor coven meetings.

One of the most difficult things about being different is the effect it has on your parents. No one could love their parents any more than I do and I didn't want to bring pain to them. Regardless, I needed their understanding and shortly after moving to the ranch I wrote them the following confrontational letter, an attempt to force a resolution.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Mom, you said something the other day that hurt. You said that if Dad ever saw me dressed as a woman it would kill him.

What am I, that the sight of me would kill my father?

Are you and Dad that ashamed of me?

I didn't choose to be me, and what I am isn't evil. I don't deserve to be told that the sight of me would strike anyone dead, let alone my father. If you can't accept me, I'll learn to live with it, but I won't hide. People like me have always hidden, and someone has to stop some time. Someone has to scream back, ``Enough! I am a human being.''

I exist! I claim my right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I am not a disease. I am not a birth defect. I have needs that, through no choice of my own, are at odds with the society I live in. But I am responsible, honest, and a genuinely good person. I will not permit myself to be diminished by the ignorance of others.

Sometimes you and Dad come to visit unexpectedly and I'm dressed in female clothes. Then, because I love you, I run around like a damn fool, scrubbing my face and changing my clothes. I'm fed up with it. You are on notice; from now on it's your choice. Stay or leave, but I won't run and change clothes like I'm ashamed of myself.

I love you both and am saddened this letter was necessary.

Love, Darlene

Mom's reply:

Dear Skip/Darlene,

We received your letter. I'm sorry we hurt you. We didn't mean to. I worry about your Dad. It's hard on him. He accepts that you're happy as you are, but feels he raised a son and that, if you tried, you could be a son and not feed your other side. That's his view, not necessarily mine.

To be honest, I think of you as you . . . Skip, our son with a dual personality. Perhaps this is my failing, but it's the way I am. We have never rejected you and never will. We will stand up for you, no matter what. I can walk in your shoes and have empathy, but Dad hasn't learned to do that yet. Be patient with us! Be patient with him! Try to understand his point of view. A man named George had a loved rooster. Then the rooster says, ``George, I'm a hen.'' George replies, ``No, you're a rooster.'' So the rooster dons a bonnet and dress and says, ``See! I'm a hen!'' George still says, ``No, you look and act like a hen, but you're still my rooster. If you're going to be a hen I don't want to know anything about it.''

I hope this explains how your Dad feels.

Love, Mom and Dad

My reply:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I appreciate your thoughtful letter and your comments. It saddens me that Dad feels the way he does. I am sad that it's hard on Dad. I am sad that he feels it's a choice and that by some exercise of will I could change. Could he change and be a woman if it would please me?

In your story of George and the rooster you make it sound simple. Either you're a rooster or a hen. Maybe it's simple for chickens, I don't know, but human beings aren't chickens. There is more that goes into the making of a man or a woman.

You see, George didn't have a rooster, he had a male child, a male child with a female mind. To please George the child tried to do the things a son was supposed to do. He played harder, ran faster, worked harder than other male children. Many times Dad said as much, as I'm sure you both remember. Well, this strange child wanted his Dad to be proud of him, even though the child was confused and felt miserable.

Not that there was anything bad about being a son, nor about being a man, but it just didn't feel right. George's son took a long time to understand ``herself'' and to believe in ``herself.'' She expects George will need time too, but, like a child in school, the child never learns if someone doesn't provide the knowledge.

You say you don't reject me, but you do . . . you reject that part of me that I know to be real, that person I know to be myself. The person you love is a chimera, an illusion, no more real to me than fairy dust. You have never met me. It is my fondest desire that someday you can love me as I know myself to be, for I most surely love the both of you.

Love, Darlene

Another reason for playing Gor was that I was still, on some lower level of awareness, attempting to ``be a good boy'' for my parents and for those that thought of me as a man, or as half-man half-woman. I had the notion that if I portrayed a strong enough super macho image as a man, people wouldn't despise me when I let the woman show.

I understood my parents feelings. I had understood and had to deal with their feelings my whole life. Now, it was time for them to understand and deal with my feelings. When I was young, vulnerable, and defenseless, their ``dirty'' jokes had hurt me, left me to cry in silence, and alone. Now, it was time for them to grow up, to make amends for their ignorance and the pain it had caused.

Not right away, but after a time, first Mom and eventually Dad came to accept me. Dad's acceptance came grudgingly, but then it was harder for him. I was a threat to his own sense of identity.

One breezy winter day visiting my folks in Goodyear, Dad and I were in the backyard sitting side by side on a swing that he had built. Hanging from a white frame, it was the kind of swing which allowed two people to sit beside each other and lean back in comfort. Many years ago, when homes still had porches, it would have been called a porch swing and hung from the rafters instead of from a specially built frame. Sitting beside my father on the swing, I was wearing a light and perky pastel blue frock sprinkled with tiny pink rosebuds. It wasn't the first time my father had seen me dressed as a woman, but it was the first time I had been to their home as a woman, and the first time I had ever been alone with him as a woman.

``You know, you don't own these feelings of yours,'' Dad remarked, in what was to be our only serious talk on the subject.

``What do you mean, Dad?''

``Just what I said. I've had feelings. When I was a kid one of my brothers cornholed me. A man doubts himself when something like that happens.'' His words were clipped and short, manifestly this speech was difficult for him.

Thunder clapped and lightning crashed! My father, the man who had wanted to kill me for wearing a brassiere, had been cornholed, and it had made him feel peculiar, a little bit feminine. Gazing at my father's face, pinched and drawn, I wondered what he was thinking. Why, after a lifetime of silence, was he telling me this now? Was he apologizing for the beatings, trying to explain his rage, rage at his brother that he had taken out on me?

``I expect,'' I replied, not knowing what else to say.

``I kinda figured you should put away those feelings.''

``I tried, Dad. You can't know how hard I tried. I'm dealing with 'em the only way I know how.''

``I don't understand what you're doing, but at least you carry yourself like a man about it.''

``Thanks, Dad.'' I answered, amused at his phrasing. It wasn't okay to dress as a woman, but if I carried myself like a man, maybe it wasn't so bad. Oh well, he meant well and I loved him.

Learning of my father's doubts about himself was troubling. My father, Mr. Macho, the toughest man on the planet, acknowledged having feminine feelings. What did it mean? Did all men have such feelings? Did all women have masculine feelings? Why, if Dad could control his feelings, hadn't I been able to control mine? Was this a genetic strain in our family, or was it in everyone? Dad didn't open up often, but when he did the earth wobbled in its orbit.

There are differences between men and woman, to be sure, but are any of us essentially any different from one another, or are all people just variations on a theme? True, I felt different from other people, but neither better nor worse, just different. I didn't doubt my masculinity, but I felt my femininity more intensely. Not feeling like a man, nor even precisely like a woman, I was more woman than man. That, my beloved father, is why I couldn't put it away.

Two o'clock one Saturday morning I was sleeping soundly. Suddenly, I was awakened by the sound of a key tapping on my window. At the same time, someone was knocking on the front door. Obviously, there was more than one midnight caller making this 2 A.M. debut. Mary, deep asleep, never stirred.

Rolling reluctantly out of bed, flipping on the bedside lamp, slapping on a quick application of face powder, putting on and adjusting my wig, just that quick, I had dressed and answered the front door. I even had time to turn off the lamp and take note that Mary, sleeping soundly, hadn't stirred. When I opened the door, it was Guida, one of my Tarot devotees, and three other people, two men and a woman. Hesitantly, I invited them in. Guida could be a pest and this wasn't the first time she had picked the wee hours of the morning to visit. Still, I had told my friends they were welcome anytime, day or night. Accordingly, my right to be exasperated was strictly limited.

Guida, a petite dark haired bar-girl, introduced her friends, Glen, 33, Tommy, 23, and Sue, 22. They had been out boozing it up and when the bars closed Guida suggested they come visit ``Good ol' Darlene.'' Sleepy, wishing they had more consideration, I was nonetheless flattered. Such was my need for acceptance and friendship. They were in good spirits; loud, boisterous, and the room was soon filled with their laughter. Without much success, I tried to get them to keep the racket down. Living in the middle of two acres we didn't have to worry about neighbors, but with Mary on midnight shifts at Motorola she needed her sleep on the weekends.

Guida asked if I'd play my guitar for them, and I quickly agreed. It had occurred to me that a little music would make less noise and might quiet the household. Although two years of lessons as a teenager hadn't made me an accomplished musician, I was able to produce a little pleasant music. Reaching behind the sofa I extracted my guitar from its case and rendered a few tunes. Everyone seemed to enjoy my music, but Glen was extravagant with his praise. I was flattered and played on. After an hour or so, the impromptu party ended. The revelers were wearing out and wanted to go home and to sleep. I was grateful when finally I was able to shut the door behind them. Returning to my bed, I found Mary had slept soundly through it all. She hadn't noticed them arriving or leaving. Smiling, I shook my head in disbelief, and went back to sleep.

Two weeks passed. I had almost forgotten the incident when, at midnight on a Friday, Mary at work and the boys asleep in their beds, there was knocking on the front door. Opening the door, I greeted Glen who was distraught and disheveled. His shoulders were slumped and there was an anguished look in his eyes. His jeans were splashed with what looked like blood.

``Guida says you help people?'' he questioned.

``I try,'' I answered. ``Come in. Come in,'' I continued, stepping away from the doorway. ``My God, what's happened? You look terrible.''

``You remember Tommy and Sue?'' he mumbled, suppressing a sob.

``Yes, I remember them. Why? What happened?'' I asked, the feeling of his dread telegraphing that there had been a terrible tragedy.

``They're dead! We were in two cars coming up from Tucson. They tried to pass me and hit a pickup truck head on. Tommy died at the scene. Sue died a few minutes ago, up the street at County hospital. I remembered you live nearby. I don't want to be alone tonight.''

``Oh my God, what can I do?'' I asked, not knowing what to say to ease his suffering.

``Don't let me alone, just don't leave me alone,'' he responded somberly, and then he requested, ``Play your guitar for me. We were all so happy the night we were here.'' His eyes were brimming with tears that he stubbornly refused to permit to overflow. I couldn't refuse him. I nodded and retrieved my guitar from behind the sofa. I played for a long time before he asked me to stop and then he asked me to sit beside him. It wasn't in me to refuse. After I sat down, he put an arm around me and pulled me close. Nearly swallowing my mouth with his, he kissed me. Over and over he kissed me. Heavy, desperate, violent kisses, kisses that threatened to pull my tongue out by the roots.

Perhaps a half hour passed while he fondled, stroked, and kissed me, then, laying me back on the sofa, he moved over top of me. Fumbling with his zipper, he requested, ``Let me make love to you.''

``I can't!'' I admonished him, a wash of fear spreading through me. What would he do if I told him about myself?

``Please, I need you. You don't know how much I need you.''

``You don't understand. I would if I could,'' I declared, then revealingly, ``I live as a woman. I have the emotional nature of a woman, but I was born with a male body.''

Wordlessly, he reached between my legs. Withdrawing his hand he looked at me for a long moment and then said, ``It doesn't matter, you're all woman to me. You're one of the sweetest women I've ever known. I want to make love to you!''

I nodded, a barely perceptible nod.

I had heard stories about making love to a man, stories I never thought would be useful in my life, but now they came back to me. Could I satisfy him with oral sex as I had David or would he want more? Would it hurt? Could I stop him if he did hurt me? I wasn't helpless, but he was big and strong, bigger and stronger than me.

``I've never . . . I, ah, know you probably think . . . but I haven't ever . . .'' I stammered, at a loss for words. ``I'm scared.'' I blurted out, ``I've never done this before.''

``I'll be gentle,'' he reassured me. ``I want it to be good for you. I won't hurt you.'' His look of anguish tugged at my heart. I wanted to ease his torment. Moreover, a part of me wanted to experience what he was offering. I wanted him to make love to me. I needed it every bit as much as he did.

Leading me to the bedroom he laid me on the bed and kissed me ever so tenderly. As he had promised he was gentle . . . at first. Sliding closer to me, encircling me with his arms, his lips met mine. He kissed me, once, twice, and then his tongue slipped through my lips exploring and thrilling me with its presence. A few more kisses and he slipped my gown down from my shoulders. Nibbling my ears, licking my neck, he slowly worked his way down to my small but perky breasts. His tongue felt hot and steamy and my body trembled with desire. Flicking the tip of his tongue across my right nipple he sucked it into his mouth, gently at first, then harder. Waves of pleasure rode on the pain from his sucking, the pain intensifying the pleasure. This man was doing things to me I had never dreamed a man could do, evoking feelings that had only been faraway fantasies. I quivered under his ministrations, deep sensual tremors racking my body, their intensity exciting and, yet, alarming.

Mounting me he rubbed his bulging erection, still contained in his jeans, into my abdomen. It made me ache for penetration where penetration wasn't possible. With moist lips he kissed each of my closed eyes, then the tip of my nose, my mouth, and then returned to my nipples. Watching, I saw him fumble with his belt buckle and zipper, setting free his blood gorged organ. It was large, larger than I had seen before. Fear must have shown in my eyes. He began kissing me again, softening my misgivings.

He got up and stretched. ``Would you like something to drink first?'' he asked.

I shook my head in dissent. I couldn't take my eyes off his prodigious manhood. I had never imagined anyone could be that huge. He slipped his jeans off and slid back into bed. He stoked my body until it was ablaze with desire, and then, when the flames were at their zenith, he shoved my head down over his cock. Thrusting forcefully, his salty organ thrust past my lips. I wanted to please him, to satisfy him. Stroking up and down, my tongue flicking expertly with a mind of its own, I brought him to a head. Feeling him writhe and shake titillated my own desire and I sucked harder and faster. Suddenly, he erupted. My mouth filled with his juice, and a feeling of triumph flowed through me. I held his wad in my mouth, not swallowing, until I could discreetly dispose of it in a tissue from the box on the bed stand.

Glen, laying beside me on the bed, had his eyes shut. He looked satisfied. It had been quite an experience, more like an awesome duty then sex, and yet, to be honest, the more stimulating for it. Nevertheless, I was glad that it was over and that he would soon be going home. I was relieved that he hadn't wanted anything more. Raising up on an elbow, Glen looked into my eyes and smiled. It was a wan smile and it did little to hide the hurt in his eyes. He asked if I had ever been with a man before. I told him I hadn't. It didn't seem appropriate to discuss my one misadventure with David. When Glen lifted my skirt and took off my panties I neither hindered nor helped him. A cold chill of realization shook me. He was going to do the other thing after all.

Indicating I should drape my legs over his shoulders, he curled me into a ball underneath him. ``If you relax,'' he said, ``it won't hurt.''

I relaxed my cheek muscles.

There was a moment of insistent prodding and then, as I clutched the bed until my knuckles turned white, he pierced me with a single powerful thrust. He was wrong. It hurt! There was pain, pain that made white flashes before my eyes. Still, gritting my teeth, I held on and let him thrust in and out. After a few strokes his movements took on a steady rhythm and the spasms eased. I relaxed my hands. Not knowing what else to do I just lay there. As each stroke gave less and less pain, they gave more and more pleasure. Soon I was enjoying the sensation and began to undulate counterpoint to his thrusting. It felt strangely good, intimate and titillating.

After his abrupt and forceful entry, Glen took his time, moving gently. His moist lips found my ear lobes and a warm sensuous feeling spread over me. A man was having his way with me, and it was all consuming. He continued his undulating motions, slow and easy, for the longest time. It was erotic, serene, throbbing, hot, delirious, almost hypnotic in its power. I had almost drifted off into a light slumber when he began longer, stronger, more powerful thrusts. He buried his manhood in me, bottomless thrusts that seemed to burst clear through my body and out my throat. His breathing became harsh and raspy. Sweat flowed from his body and down my legs. Spasms shook him, paroxysms of pleasure. I felt him climax, felt his juices erupting. This was my first experience with a man. It had been good! A little painful, but very nice all in all. Spent, he laid there quietly, his weight full upon me and his now flaccid organ still inside of me. This too felt good.

``I must be getting heavy,'' he said, allowing me to lower my legs from around his neck.

``Not at all,'' I responded with a little white lie. ``I like the feeling of you on top of me.'' I added truthfully.

We talked for awhile, his spent organ looking limp and lifeless. I reached over and brushed his hair out of his face. He leaned over and kissed my neck. I wrapped my arms around his neck and then noticed the tenseness, evidence of the horror he had been through that night and was still experiencing.

``You feeling any better?'' I asked.

``Shhhh!'' he hushed me, ``Don't talk about it!''

Laying quietly beside me, resting, he gave no hint of leaving. He was drained, I thought, and so I waited for him to gain enough strength to go home. Besides, it felt good just laying beside this man who had brought out such intense desire in me.

After awhile he turned over and began kissing me. His breathing became heavy and, against my leg, I could feel him getting hard again. I wanted to tell him that I had enough, that I couldn't take anymore. But I didn't! This time, turning me over on my belly, he penetrated me easily and with little pain. It took longer this time, his strokes almost leisurely. Shortly, my own hips were gyrating, matching his motion. I whimpered in pleasure as we moved together faster and faster. All sense of self disappeared; I had become nothing more than a pleasure giving thing, a pleasure feeling thing, my identity had slipped away. When I felt him orgasm, I too orgasmed, a psychological orgasm that shook me more than I had ever been shaken by a physical orgasm.

Enough was enough. I was done now. I tried to squirm out from under him, but he held me down.

``How many times are you going to do it?'' I asked, powerless to break his grip.

``Please! Don't ask me to stop. I need you,'' he cried out in anguish.

His voice, so filled with raw emotion, played on my sympathy. I found myself unable to refuse him. Through the long hours of the night, he made love to me again and again. For brief moments I fell asleep, only to be rudely awakened when he demanded entry. Other times I kissed him, stroked his face, blew his hair from his eyes, wiped the sweat from his brow, or just smiled at him. By morning I was sore, raw, and bleeding. I could scarcely walk. Walk, ha, I could scarcely stand! The last time he did me every thrust felt like a red hot poker. It took all my grit to pretend he was still pleasuring me.

Still, I did feel good. In my heart I had been a woman for a man, as much as ever a woman could. He had needed comfort and I had given him comfort. He had needed a woman and I had given him a woman. It was my first time, but in a single evening I was making up for what I had never had before.

It was now 6:30 in the morning. Mary would be coming home from work soon. I explained that he would have to leave. He said he understood and that he didn't want to cause me any trouble. As he dressed, I slipped into a night gown, and then we walked together to the front door. There he held me in his arms and thanked me. He told me I had saved his life, that if I hadn't helped him through the night he wouldn't have survived. When he arrived, he said, he had been considering suicide. He asked to visit again sometime under less depressing circumstances. I refused him, informing him I had only allowed ``this thing'' because of the circumstances.

``While I was making love to you last night I realized you couldn't know if I was playing straight with you. You're one trusting lady,'' he said, sending a cold chill of realization through my mind. Had I been suckered? Until that moment it hadn't occurred to me that he could have been lying.

``Was it a lie?'' I asked, dreading the answer. Suddenly realizing either answer would be painful, I wished I hadn't asked the question.

``No, ma'am. I wish to hell it was.''

With a final kiss he left me standing on the porch. Fate, a constant in my life, delivered the morning newspaper even as his car drove out of view. Opening the paper, I leafed through it for some mention of the now alleged accident. The story was on page four, in the lower left hand corner. It was true. Trembling, I sat down on the steps of the front porch and wrapped my arms around my knees. Uncontrollably, I started sobbing, bile threatening to erupt from my throat. Reality was rising with the dawning sun. While it had been happening, it was like a bizarre dream, a fantasy, unreal. Now, with the light of day, it was only too real. Two young kids were dead and, with mixed emotions of compassion and desire, I had let a man have his way with me through the long night. How dare that arrogant sun come up, as if it was just another day? I cried and cried, my heart aching. I was in shock, physically and emotionally. Yet, I have never regretted surrendering to the spirit of that night.

What is a person like when push comes to shove? When you are the type of person generally viewed negatively by society you hang your self-image on anything that tends to counter those views. The following episode, for many years, became central to sustaining my self-image. A reminder that, if called on, I could be counted on to do the right thing. In retrospect, as heroic deeds go, it wasn't much. It wouldn't be recorded in these pages, except it was significant to maintaining my self-esteem, which seemed under constant attack by society.

Mary, my sons, Anton still a babe in arms, and I were out for a Sunday drive in our Corvair. Corvairs, although I didn't know it at the time, are nasty little cars, cheap and dangerous. As we drove through a residential area I slowed to avoid a bunch of kids tossing a football around, then, glancing in the rear view mirror, I saw flames leaping from the engine compartment. The flames were higher than the view through the mirror could reveal.

``Mary,'' I said in slow deliberate tones hoping to avoid panic. Life's lessons had long since taught me that, in an emergency, it's necessary to slow down and do everything carefully and correctly. Emergencies don't usually provide an opportunity for do-overs. ``We have a serious problem and there isn't time for argument. When I stop the car I want you to get out, and get the kids out. Do you understand?'' Driving past the children playing with the football I moved the car closer to the side of the road.

``Why, what's wron . . . '' she began.

``Damn it Mary,'' I ordered sternly, while screeching the tires and bringing the car to a full stop. ``The engine's on fire! Get out and get the kids out. Now!''

Everyone leaped out of the car. I managed to snap a quick look over my shoulder. The flames were shooting ten, maybe twelve feet into the air. As soon as everyone was out I slammed the gas pedal down. Knowing the car might explode I drove on, searching for a place to dump the car. Fearing the worst, I exclaimed out loud, ``Ah shit! This is it!'' Fortunately, having driven only one block, I spotted a vacant lot. Halting the Corvair in the middle of the lot, my left hand opening the car door while still moving, I turned off the keys with my right, and then literally rolled out the open door. Picking myself up off the ground I ripped my shirt off and wrapped it around my hand. Grasping the latch to the engine compartment I threw it open. Flames, almost seeming to explode, leaped twenty or more feet into the air. I leaped back from the scorching heat. Scooping dirt in my hands I darted in and out, tossing pitiful little handfuls of dirt on the blazing inferno. I didn't know what else to do.

All of a sudden half a dozen men were beside me, helping to smother the flames. When the fire truck arrived, the fire was out. Streamers of smoke spiralling into the sky were the only sign of what had happened. Perfunctorily the firemen sprayed CO2 on the engine, but strictly speaking it wasn't necessary.

Heroic man, standing ready to do the right thing. Each man that rushed out to help that day, showed his mettle. This was man at his best, willing to risk himself to protect others, just as once upon a time, man had risked himself to protect and feed his tribe. Tell this story to a feminist and her reply is, ``That doesn't excuse them. Men do terrible things.''

Yes, some men do terrible things and nothing excuses them when they do. But some men do splendid things, heroic things, and these things shouldn't go unnoticed. Perhaps, in our brave new world, the call for men to be heroic has lessened, but it still survives. Had my car exploded before the fire was out, someone could have been injured or killed. I am grateful to the men who answered that call.

In September of that year my brother dropped by the house and asked if I would help him in a road rally. He had made a bet with a buddy at work, one experienced in road rallies, that we would come in ahead of his buddy's team. Road rallies, something that neither my brother nor I had participated in before, are controlled by a set of cryptic instructions that must be figured out and followed on a time schedule. Everyone is scored relative to a test car previously driven on the same route, and the closer you come to the exact time of the test car, the better your score. I was underwhelmed and reluctant, and agreed only after my brother assured me I wouldn't have to dress as a man.

Driving a once wrecked 1972 LTD, using the car clock for a time control device, we waited patiently for the race to begin. Some of the contestants had sophisticated timing devices and other fancy equipment. We were out of our depth . . . so everyone thought, including me. Brother drove and I, the navigator, read and deciphered the instructions. The route took about an hour and a half as it wound around in a crazy snakelike pattern all over the streets of Phoenix.

Beginner's luck or inordinate skill, we'll never know (although brother and I like to imagine it was inordinate skill), but when the checkpoint times were computed we were seventeen seconds off of the exact time. Our closest competition was a professional competitor who was off by one minute and thirty two seconds. Upon hearing the news my brother jumped up and down, yahooing like a banshee, and acting like a crazy man. He had won his five dollar bet, but more than won the bet, we had taken first place.

A private perspective: Brother asked me if I wanted to do it again next month. I looked at him and laughed, ``What and take a chance on losing?''

``Yeah, you're right!'' he agreed. ``Retire winners! Never having lost a road rally!''

Clever indeed! Retired Champions! Undefeated!

Brother and I were always close. I can't begin to recall all the times he repaired my car. After my brother married, his family and mine, gathered together for parlor games, went ice skating, or with Vonna in tow, we played Gor. Later brother, with his own friends, took to making up their own psychodramas and he would sing to me of his adventures, often as phantasmagorical as some of my own. However, more meaningful than any of this, was his acceptance of me. We rarely spoke of it, rarely exchanged words, yet, even before I had attained a full awareness of myself, he called me, Sis. It's a memory I shall always treasure!

Brother and I share many memories. One of those memories involves a dog named Bowser. Bowser was a pure bred Dalmatian I owned for a short time; a dog meaner than a junk yard dog. In fact, meaner than three junk yard dogs.

Bowser came into our family through an ad in the local newspaper. His owner was moving to an apartment that didn't allow pets, and he was heart broken that he had to give up the dog. In accepting him we kept his name, Bowser. He was five years old and changing names would have been unnecessarily confusing.

It was readily apparent that Bowser was a unique dog, a dog among dogs. Petting him was like petting fur covered steel and, while he tolerated such attentions, he showed neither relish nor disdain, content merely to stand still looking off indifferently into the distance. Never did a Dalmatian have a meaner expression. The black spots on his face were smeared across his nose in such a manner as to give him a perpetual snarl.

While we were putting him on his chain, the three guard dogs in the fenced junkyard neighboring us began caterwauling, issuing a challenge for Bowser to do battle. Without a sound Bowser sped toward the chain link fence separating our two properties, hurtling like some great engine of destruction. Propelled into the air as the chain brought him up short, his body twisted in mid air and was snapped back. In his eyes was a fierce look of determination, almost human in intensity. Petting him, calling to him, even giving him his supper didn't distract him from his task. Ceaselessly he labored to reach the three german shepherds, worrying the chain that held him, never uttering a sound. Never was a dog more eager to fight. As I retired for the night, taking one last peek out the window, I saw Bowser, silent as death, still worrying his chain. There was nothing to do but continue on to bed; shaking my head in wonder at the determination of this incredible animal.

In the morning, around six, I rose to a loud pounding on my front door. It was Jess, the owner of the junkyard. In one hand he held a steel pipe, and with the other, wrapped in the restraining chain, he had Bowser in tow. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I asked Jess what was going on.

``Your dog got loose this mornin'. Musta been worryin' that chain o' his all night. Durn near killed my three dogs. Tried to beat 'im off with a piece a wood. Didn't do no good. I had to use this steel rod to get his attention.'' answered Jess. He didn't seem angry, only impressed with Bowser.

``Jesus, I'm sorry Jess. I'll make sure he doesn't get loose again.'' I apologized meekly, feeling guilty my dog had broken free. ``Were your dogs hurt much?''

``Naw, they're okay. Don't want nothing more to do with your dog though. Got the shit scared out of 'em. You ever want to get rid of 'im, I want 'im. He's one helluva dog.''

Thanking Jess for bringing him back, I took Bowser from him and chained him up again. As I hooked him to his chain I noticed that, for the first time, his tail was wagging and when he looked at me I could swear he was grinning from ear to ear. Not just smiling like some dogs do when they're happy, but a full all out grin.

The next weekend . . .

Greg and I were tossing a Frisbee back and forth near where Bowser was secured. Each time we tossed it Bowser, chain and all, would leap into the air and attempt to catch it. The chain would snap taut with his efforts, bringing him to an abrupt stop in mid air. Worried that he might injure himself, and curious to discover how high he would jump for the Frisbee I released him. It was an incredible sight. This magnificent Dalmatian soared into the sky like some great spotted bird. Often his leaps were easily higher than our heads. Brother and I, amazed at the height he attained, threw the Frisbee over and over, marvelling at each new jump.

Suddenly, a German Shepherd in the yard at the property to the rear and left of our two and a half acres, issued a challenge. Bowser, landing from his latest jump, whirled and froze. Each muscle was as taut as a guitar string. His eyes narrowed as he searched the landscape for the source of that challenge. The other dog barked again, Bowser located the source and soundless as the wind he was off and running.

``M'god!'' shouted Greg, as Bowser shot past me. ``Catch 'im!''

My brother and I, too, were off and running. However, as we cleared the near fence Bowser was clearing the fence at the far end of the property and circling behind the neighbors shed which now was all that separated him from his prey. Temporarily our view was obscured by the shed.

``This way!'' I yelled to Greg, realizing if we leaped the fence on the near side of the shed we could make up lost ground. Fierce growls, barking, and snarling, were punctuated by a high pitched yelp, yelp, yelp. Bowser had arrived and had immediately launched an attack. ``Grab the other dog. Bowser knows me better.'' I gasped at my brother as we approached the two battling dogs.

Rounding the corner at the same time, the two dogs were locked in combat. Bowser, shaking his head vigorously and grinding, had the Shepherd's left foreleg in his jaws. The Shepherd, meanwhile, was trying to bite Bowser's neck, but was unable to penetrate the muscle. Launching myself through the air I fell on Bowser. I tried to pull him free from the leg of his victim, but he wouldn't let go. The shepherd in pain, although unintentionally, sunk his teeth into my left forearm. Brother, by now, was holding the other dog.

``Get this damn dog's teeth off my arm.'' I hollered, even as I used both hands to roll the skin of Bowser's mouth under his teeth, prying his jaws open. Greg, using the same technique on the other dog, a technique taught us by our father, pulled the Shepherd's mouth from my arm. Straightaway, each of us rolled free with our capture, separating the two dogs.

All the while the action was going on the owners of the other dog, a Mexican man, his wife, and two children, stood quietly in wide eyed amazement. What they thought as four savage beasts fought in their yard, heaven only knows. Holding tightly to Bowser's collar, while Greg turned the limping shepherd over to it's owner, I made our apologies and then, picking Bowser up in my arms, we took him home.

A few days later the Mexican man showed up at my house demanding payment for a veterinarian bill. His dog's leg had been mangled requiring extensive surgery and a cast. Young, brash, and unthinking I refused to accept the debt. It was, after all, his dog that had issued the challenge, neither of the dogs had been on a leash or chained, and I had been bitten by his dog. With hindsight, I'm not convinced the fault was entirely mine, but the least I should have done was offer to pay half. It's an embarrassing part of the Bowser story, but one I feel constrained to confess.

Seven shivering bodies sat within a nine foot circle in a forest glade near Prescott. The night was chilly and all were skyclad. Pandora (Vonna), the High Priestess, walked around the assembled group tracing a nine foot circle with the point of the magic sword, the sword of Covenstead Conan. East to south to west to north to east again; walking gracefully she closed the circle. Repeating her revolution around the circle she raised the sword at each cardinal point and called out in a loud voice, ``O Mighty Ones of the four corners, I, Pandora, High Priestess of Covenstead Conan, do summon, stir, and call ye up, to attend our circle and witness our rites.''

Mid-circle was the leveled stump of a large tree, a black velvet cloth draped over it, and on that cloth were the tools and artifacts of the craft: a white cord nine foot long, a white nine- pronged scourge, a wand, seven athames, a pentacle, a silver chalice, a decanter of wine, a bowl of consecrated water and one of consecrated salt, a crystal ball, a shielded candle to the left, another to the right, the Crown of Death and Rebirth, and the Book of Shadows. Off to one side of the altar rested a large black cauldron with a single candle inside.

Pandora, closing the portal from north to east, moved to the altar, laid down the sword, and picked up her silver athame. Drawing a five pointed star thrice in the salt, she chanted, ``Creature of salt, I call ye forth. Let all evil and malignancy be cast out, and all goodness and virtue enter.'' She repeated the same procedure with water while, with the point of her athame, adding three measures of the consecrated salt.

One by one each coven member came forward to be bound, purified with salt and water, and then ritually scourged forty times. Now they were ready to enter the realm of the Goddess and the God.

As Pandora finished the rites I moved to the altar and poured a goodly amount of light strawberry wine into the chalice. On my knees I held the cup before the Priestess. Slowly, her athame held firmly in both hands, Pandora dipped the blade into the wine. ``As the athame is the male and the cup is the female; so enjoined may they bring happiness.''

Withdrawing the athame she kissed the blade, her tongue flicking out to catch a lingering drop of wine. She smiled an amused smile and then, solemn again, spread her lovely skyclad body in the star position. With a conspiratorial wink and a whispered caution to take a small sip, I offered the goblet to each person in the circle. After all others had sipped I then wet my lips from the chalice and offered it to Pandora who, by law of the craft, had to drain it.

She stared at the nearly full chalice, glared at me, and then, proving her mettle, she emptied it to the last drop. Smiling malevolently at me she bent forward and kissed my cheek, whispering into my ear, ``It doesn't say how I must empty the cup. If you ever do that to me again, I'll empty it over your head.''

``Milady,'' I chided, ``would you waste good wine?''

Smiling she again took up the position of the Star Goddess; arms and legs spread wide in a star pattern. ``Call the Moon into me,'' she commanded.

``As you will,'' I responded, and crossing my wrists I knelt before her in the position of the Horned God. With reverent inflection I summoned, stirred, and called Down the Moon Goddess, ``Blessed Mother, bringer of fruitfulness by stem, and by bud, by root and by leaf, come descend into this the body of thy Priestess. Here, speak with her tongue, touch with her hands, kiss with her lips, that your servants may be fulfilled.''

Pandora's body appeared to glisten as I moved my hands from the crossed position and placed them on her hips. Raising myself off my knees I kissed her lips, her breasts, right then left, then kneeling once more I kissed her pubis, her knees, and her feet. I spoke these words as I advanced from station to station.

``Blessed are thy lips, for they shall speak the words of our Mother.''

``Blessed are thy breasts, formed in beauty and perfection.''

``Blessed is thy womb, from which all life flows.''

``Blessed are thy knees, which kneel before the sacred altar.''

``Blessed are thy feet, which have set thee on this path.''

Pandora turned to face her people and announced, ``It's done. Now, let us be joyful and make merry.''

Picking up the chalice I refilled it and drank deeply. I enjoyed being guest High Priest in Vonna's circle, as a guest there was less work. Leaning back on my elbows I rested and smiled, ``Pandora, my dearest love, we must keep meeting like this.''

Vonna, lighting the candle in the cauldron, sat down Buddha style and stared intently into its depths. Moving to her side, I too sat Buddha fashion and stared at the flickering shadows on the cauldron walls. Of the other people there that night, only Peter joined us at the cauldron. Peter was 5'8'', rakishly handsome and, although only 32, had wavy hair that was nearly white. His general appearance was that of the gaunt and hungry Cassius in Julius Caesar, or of Basil Rathbone in his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes. Peter, I was to learn later had been married and had his own contracting company. He had built a beautiful home for his wife and he had dreams of having a family replete with the patter of little feet. One morning, after they had been married less than a year, Peter found his wife in bed with another man. He sued for divorce and lost; losing his home as well as his wife. The courts awarded her the house. So Peter took a bulldozer and leveled it, then he walked away from his contracting company, away from contemporary society, and took up the life of a nomadic magician.

As Peter took his place beside me he grasped my hand and squeezed it warmly. I returned the squeeze. Peter was also Vonna's guest for the evening. He usually circled with Marge and me. It was Marge who originally introduced Peter and me. They had met at a pot party and it was there that Peter had told Marge he was a ceremonial magician. Peter, a cheeky fellow with an abiding interest in all things magical, wasn't officially a member of any coven, nor even Wiccan, but he felt good in our midst.

His home, a geodesic dome in a deserted area of New River thirty five miles north of Phoenix, added to his magical mystique. It could be likened to the Crystal Cave of Mary Stewart, where Myrddin Emry's Ambrosious weaved necromancy. There were odd gidgets, gadgets, books, magazines, and artifacts pertaining to sorcery and there was an atmosphere about the place, an ambience that screamed of wizardry. Our voices, magnified and echoing from the interior of the dome, added to the aura of magical influence. Peter seemed what he claimed to be, a vagabond wizard and a goodly fellow. I found no fault in him.

Shortly after I first met Peter he told me about a Druidic coven of his acquaintance, and of Maxine, the High Priestess. Somehow she had heard of me and through Peter, she conveyed her desire for a meeting. Some time passed, but eventually I agreed to visit her at her home, but only if Peter came along. Upon entering the house I saw a large grey-haired woman, about forty five years old resting in an easy chair. The top of her head, her calves and her forearms were all wrapped in white gauze bandages.

Noticing my look of inquiry, she answered my unspoken question, ``I have calcification of the bone.''

I nodded and took a seat on her sofa. Peter flopped down beside me. We talked of many things that night, not the least of which were the philosophical differences and similarities between the ways of Druids and the ways of Wicca. She also told me more about her condition. It had been coming on her for many years and had recently advanced to a critical stage. Her doctor didn't give her much time, a few months. However, doctors' predictions had long since ceased to impress me. After all, they were only licensed to practice medicine.

Borrowing a deck of Tarot cards, I had Maxine shuffle them and then I laid out a reversed Celtic Cross padded with two extra cards between each of the cardinal points; my own special spread. Using the cards more as a distraction than as a means to know the future, I concentrated on Maxine. It was from her that I would gain knowledge of her life, not from the cards.

``Maxine, you once belonged to a coven that attempted a ritual murder. You refused to cooperate and left the coven. Am I correct?'' This wasn't as wild a guess as it might seem. There were little clues in the conversation that had suggested she had been dissatisfied with her first coven and that she had left it under less than amiable circumstances.

``That's right! My first coven wanted to perform a psychic murder. I wanted no part of it.'' she replied, her eyebrows raising a little, surprised at my intuition. Evidently she was not one who understood cold readings ala Helstromism and Nelson.

``Your mother's dead and she appears to you in your dreams. Am I correct?'' Every sentence a calculated risk, tested for accuracy before going on.

``Yes, but how do you know? I've told no one about my dreams, not even Tom.'' Her eyes were wide now, and her defenses came tumbling down. I had proven myself. She believed in me. Now to transfer her belief back to herself.

``In those dreams she tells you not to worry, yet you refuse to listen. Why?''

``Yes, yes, she has told me not to worry. She said I'd get better soon.'' Tears were forming in her eyes and the energy flowing between Maxine and me was a tangible presence in the room. There was a hushed silence as Maxine and I continued talking. Even I was impressed; it had been a particularly fortunate string of guesses, not one wrong. Amazing! Leaps of intuitive logic are not clear cut insights. They are muddled, fuzzy things that form almost shapeless in the mind and are given substance by an extreme effort of will. Almost as though they have to be dragged out of my mind kicking and clawing. I began to tremble from my efforts. Peter, noticing the energy I was expending, placed his hand over mine. It was comforting. My eyes filled with tears and I returned my attention to Maxine. ``Maxine,'' I declared with conviction, ``you will get well. I have sat here and told you your past, told you your dreams, so too I know your future. Trust me, trust your mother, and trust yourself. You will get well.''

Her eyes tearing, Maxine sobbed, ``I believe you. You're a lot like my Mama. She could see into the future and she was always available when someone needed help.''

``Why was it necessary for me to tell you what your Mama has been telling you? What you yourself should know to be true?'' I asked accusingly. Scary business, this playing God. I knew she could still die, probably would die, but perhaps I could help buy her a little time. Failing that, perhaps just a little piece of mind in the time she had left, and perhaps, convinced that she could survive, she might not neglect the things necessary to insure her the longest time.

``I don't know. Until tonight, I couldn't trust my dreams. Now, thanks to you, I do.'' she responded, a smile spreading across her face that lit up her eyes. I knew what she wanted to hear, knew what she needed to hear. For good or ill, I answered her unspoken appeal. In the same circumstances, if someone was able, I would have them do the same for me. Take the risk, play God.

Admonishing Maxine not to lose faith again I turned to face Fran. I was on a roll and bound to make the best of it. Fran, a heavy woman about thirty wearing a green pastel dress, had an air of melancholy about her. Looking at me with anticipation, her eyes wide and hopeful, she was telegraphing her vulnerability. She was open to anything I could invent. Magic seemed to hang in the air, and hardened skeptic that I was, I felt it too. I was generating it; true, through techniques and methods devised from my own knowledge and talent, but who is to say that such is not true magic? If it serves the purpose, how is it less than some mysterious, unknown, and unpredictable force?

Laying out the cards once more I told Fran she had one brother and one sister, that her father had died of a wasting disease (it turned out to be cancer), and that she still lived with her mother. I also told her she was in love with a man five years younger than herself and, strange as it might seem, particularly since he was an irresponsible rascal, he was a father figure to her. I went on to tell her that her father had travelled when she was a child and she had felt like she never had a father. I warned her that her young man was carefree, irresponsible, and a poor choice for a lover. She agreed in all particulars and begged me to go on. The background was laid. Once again, cold readings and psychology had done their job.

``Love,'' I advised, ``is much more than companionship, sex, and a misplaced father image. Love, real love, must be based on feelings of mutual respect and the ability to see and love the real person behind the flesh.'' I was playing the guru to my fullest.

Tears brimming her eyes, Fran answered, ``Yes, I know. I know he doesn't love me, but I need him. I love him and no one else wants me. Who would want me?''

Crossing the room I knelt at her feet. She was sitting on a low sofa and I reached up and took her head gently between my palms. Drawing her to me I kissed her tenderly, firmly, lingeringly on the lips. ``I love you!'' I told her, as I pulled her into my arms and cradled her. ``I do truly love you,'' I repeated, stroking her hair softly as she curled into the crook of my other arm. For that one brief moment her barriers of fear came down. She threw her arms around me and sobbed and sobbed. I looked beyond her eyes, focusing on that private spot of identity behind the eyes, and for a third time, as she gazed back recognizing the depth of my penetration, I repeated, ``I love you.'' I paused. ``Do you understand?'' I asked. She nodded, between tears and sniffling. ``Now, learn to love yourself. If I can know you, and I do, then as I love you, you can love yourself. You ask me, who could love you? You! And if you love yourself, then who will not love you?''

After a time I loosened my embrace and, holding her hands, I gazed again beyond her eyes. I spoke in a soft voice, ``You have met many people that could have loved you, but your fear turned them away. You must rise above your fear, then you will find the love you seek.'' Taking a ring from my finger I placed it on one of her fingers. The ring held a silvered image of a naked woman dancing in wild abandon, symbol of the Moon Goddess, just an inexpensive trinket. ``Keep this ring,'' I directed, ``and when you look at it remember these words. When you can love a tree, fully and free, can hug it, kiss it, making no demands on it not in keeping with its nature as a tree, then you will know how to love. Give that love to yourself.''

I returned to my chair. There wasn't a dry eye in the room, not even my own. Somehow the intensity of what was occurring had moved us all.

``You are powerful, mi'lord,'' acknowledged Maxine.

``I'm not powerful,'' I replied in a whisper. ``Love is powerful. Love is the only magic. Our love for one another is the source of all power.''

I felt weak and drained and laid a trembling hand on Peter's knee to draw comfort from his presence. Peter smiled and acknowledged his understanding by placing his hand over mine. For an hour more the group exchanged pleasantries while easing down from our emotional high. Finally, warmheartedly kissing and hugging all present, Peter and I made our exit.

Peter drove me home. On the way we discussed the events of the evening. Peter, with enthusiasm, declared that it had been a magical night, that he had learned more about magic that evening then he had in all his studies. I couldn't deny it had been a magical night. A euphoria was bearing me along as if floating on a cloud. Arriving home, as I was preparing to get out of the van, Peter put an arm around me and kissed me, then we hugged and he kissed me a second time.

``I love you Peter,'' I declared.

``I love you too,'' replied Peter.

Anyone seeing us would doubtless have misunderstood what was transpiring. How could they have understood that what moved us was an enchantment, a special form of love that rises above desire. With a third and last kiss I left Peter and walked to my door. My mind was whirling, where would life take me next?

Returning to the present and to the cauldron in which we were scrying, I looked up and saw Peter. Yes, Peter was an unusual man, a ceremonial magician to be sure, and while he gazed into the cauldron I bent over and kissed him full on the lips. He smiled, then I bent the other way and kissed Vonna, my high priestess of the evening, and she too smiled. Neither were the least surprised, and both of them, still smiling, turned and kissed me in return. No words were exchanged between us, none were necessary.