Please excuse the wordiness - I am new at this type of writing and have 
edited it several times - but ya gotta give up and send it in eventually.   This 
story has several spin-offs that need to be written, especially what happened 
afterward and is briefly described in the epilogue.  

This is an attempt to transition between a drawing with five good looking 
guys and a picture with five beautiful women.  Suppose there had been a bet 
and the picture showed before and after... what if this bet was over a ten year 
period and the main character wasn't exactly sure what had happened to the 
other four, but only knew they had transformed - and "she" was meeting 
them .  What if there were different reasons each was now appearing to be a 
woman.  What if all this occurred at a....

REUNION
by Orlando

You Can't Tell the Players Without a 
Program.........................................................

I couldn't tell who was who.  It had been ten years and we had all gone 
through some major changes in our lives, I mean really major changes, and I 
knew I would have a hard time picking out my old college friends out in this 
crowd.  Changes - I suppose when I said "changes" most people would 
assume I was thinking of the standard things that happen when people 
graduate from college - marriage, children, careers... mortgages, death and 
taxes.  I was thinking of something a very different...  very different indeed!

Tonight would be a night to remember forever!

Well, it looked like no one had died, ha! - morbid thought.  After fifteen 
minutes of clandestine searching I was almost certain the four stunning 
women I had picked out of the crowd at were the four friends I was here to 
meet.  I had heard college reunions like this one were not as stressful as 
horrors known as the "High School Reunion," but I was not too sure at the 
moment.  

Actually, I had skipped my high school reunion.

 I hadn't anything in common with those long forgotten pimple-faced 
adolescents with whom I once shared a penchant for ragging the teachers and 
trying to score - not knowing exactly what "scoring" really meant. I had not 
been popular with the upper level cliques, nor had I been socially active in 
those so called "wonder years."  Typical of many young boys, I had been 
interested in girls but not much on relationships.  Although never exactly a 
"wallflower", I had never dated a steady girl in high school.  As young as I 
was at the time, college had been my goal and main focus.  Naively, I 
thought I had other life ambitions to work toward other than the trap of early 
marriage, the collection of a parcel of snot-nosed kids, and a struggle to 
maintain a low paying, dead end job.  Call me prejudiced, but I thought I 
knew what I wanted then, even as a dumb adolescent.

But did I know what I wanted now, many years later?   Can anyone EVER 
know what they want?

College had been a thrill, and I was lucky to get out in five and one-half 
years, in a "supposed-to-be" four-year curriculum in engineering. If it had 
been left up to me I would still be in school - I loved having little 
responsibility and leisure time - although classes and tests did cut into my 
freedom.  But family pressures, common sense, and finally a lack of money 
had forced me to end my days of a "professional student."  After several 
changes in majors, including a year in Drama, engineering had finally become 
my poison of choice, a forty-year sentence of work, although my instincts 
had rebelled against spending the upcoming days of my life in cubicle 
somewhere, crunching numbers for some big company.  

But luck had been with me.

After several false starts, a marriage, and some miscellaneous scary 
experiences, I was now a successful "associate" in a big subcontracting firm.  
My bosses were generally fair in their treatment of me, and the company was 
both young and small enough to let me work out most work problems in the 
field, rather than from behind a desk. I was perfectly happy, or I should have 
been.  

"No cubicle existence for me!"

I smiled, looking around at the two or three hundred people in the Bellwood, 
Belwin... whatever...Country Club Banquet Hall, rented that night for the 
Class of Ought Two. (What a year we had had laughing about that date. "You 
ought too?  Sure aren't you?")  But now I was thinking, a bit derisively, as I 
looked about me, "How many of these poor slobs here now hate their job!"  
But it was false bravado.  Secretly I felt a little overwhelmed. These people 
looked awfully prosperous and healthy in spirit.  I suppose the unhappy, 
unsuccessful and poor had stayed home.  Reunions were for strutting your 
stuff, looking your best and bluffing casual friends and acquaintances from 
the past. Everyone knew that.  Was I out of place?  But there were mingling 
singles and clumps of couples - no one had looked identifiable at first, 
although I thought I might recognize a flash of presence here, a glance of face 
there.  Everyone was playing a game.  "Do I know him - or her - or is that 
someone's spouse - or do I know anyone here?"  

Darn, it was so awkward.

What a posh setting for the charade!  This was the obvious meeting spot for 
the 30ish aged, well-dressed crowd assembled to celebrate ten-years-after. I 
suspected the reunion committee was also on the Board of Directors for the 
Club.  I wondered if they would have considered me eligible for membership 
if I still lived here, as outrageous appearing as I felt now.  Reunions were 
apparently some sort of big social test, and I was wondering if I could pass... 
in more ways than one.  I know I had starved myself for half a year to get to 
a believable size, and had worked with nano-enhanced hormones and 
specialized exercises to sculpt my body. "Boy oh boy, what am I doing 
here?" and I took another sip of the yellowish "cool-ade" they were passing 
off as wine. I had said "boy" out loud? 

Ha, what an irony - not much "boy" left in me!

These thoughts nagged me, but I pushed then back into that file area of the 
brain marked "worry tomorrow."  I had another problem here at hand.  Who 
was who?  Just who... was... who?  And I didn't mean the general crowd.

Why were we meeting here after so long a time?  Certainly after being 
separated for ten years, we wouldn't have the same interests anymore - other 
than the obvious obsession, of course.  "Obvious to whom!?!"  I thought, 
wondering why I hid so much from myself.  After all, if I wasn't a friend to 
myself, who would be?  Maybe that was what I was here to find out... to see 
if I still had friends...  to see if I was indeed a friend to myself.

It had all started with that dumb, stupid Drama Club.

My grades had turned to crap in the second part of my junior year in civil 
engineering, reflecting my general burnout.  Hopelessness had turned to 
apathy.  My parents had thrown up their hands.  "Do what you want!" they 
had screamed, "we don't know you anymore!"  Hell, I didn't know myself!

At that time, I had no real girlfriend although I had been involved with several 
very nice, if a bit flighty... girls... young women... you know the type.  But 
I had found I was normal - heterosexual - and that was really nice to know!  
As I had been going through my life, since I was six years old, wishing I had 
been born a girl, and it was nice to know I could function in the body God 
had given me.  I certainly wasn't ever going to change things, or so it 
seemed.  But hot, passionate sex had worked for me... that was a relief.  
That was much better than finding myself a sexless androgyne or something 
worse, forever!  A sad, sad thought to miss out on that sexual part of life that 
is such a driving life force! I had agonized for years about where I was going 
, where I would end up. 

Cliche' -  woman in a man's body.  

During my years, my young years of growing up, the world had changed 
from absolute shock, to voyeuristic fascination, to grudging acceptance of 
trans-sex.  Of course, things were different now in 2012 with the new nano 
medical advances.  The world, at least the industrialized western world, now 
seemed rather bored with the idea of changing sex.  This was understandable 
as now,  in public and outward appearance, "nano" women and men were 
indistinguishable from "natural" women and men.  Only those persons who 
had known a new woman or new man in the past knew she or he had made 
the sex switch.  But there had been little tolerance when I was in college.

Me?

Stress had always caused me to question my male identity - and my life 
goals. Crappy grades, no real idea of where I wanted to go, sexual identity 
rearing its (beautiful? -  ugly?)  head again... what was a person to do?  
Then, perhaps not now, but then... I was determined to do something totally 
out of character to straighten out my supposedly ruined life... that was the 
wonderful idea I had then...  not knowing I would soon make a change that 
was to affect me deeply.

My brilliant strategy was something like: no acting skills, so why not change 
my major to DRAMA - ha!  The logic path whereby I derived this cure-all 
concept escapes me now.  I suppose the fact that my last girlfriend had been a 
drama major had nothing to do with that decision.  Looking back I wonder if 
I had still hoped to save that relationship - foolish of me - she had already left 
school for reasons that were never really too clear to me.  So she wasn't 
around to prop me up - but I guess I thought I might do okay, regardless.  
And I hated everything I was then:  a young man in a technical school 
studying engineering, unsuccessful in relationships with women, unable to 
please my parents...  unable to please myself.  I was a confused fellow!  

Confused?  Try bewildered, bamboozled and  befuddled!

As it turned out I did fine in my new choice of study.  I liked the public 
speaking training, the study of the ancient arts of drama, and the chance to 
release myself in sessions of being someone, something else.  As I 
progressed into theater, latent and unsuspected thespian skills came to the 
forefront and I gradually moved up from "spear holder" into some semi-
important acting parts.  I suppose it was my youthful "All American Boy" 
good looks that helped me in auditions.  Perhaps it was the ill-concealed need 
I had to play a part, any part but myself, that attracted me to the casting 
directors. I knew I had no ambitions to be a star-of-stage-and-screen, but I 
did like the idea of being versatile enough with my quasi-talent to play almost 
any character parts.  But it wasn't meant to be, although I stayed with acting 
as a hobby even after my senses returned, and I had gone back into an 
engineering major.  

Engineering, yes, a profession that allows you to pay the bills in a timely 
manner.  My talents, good as they were, were not ever going to be great 
enough.  I also realized the acting profession was too uncertain as a career.  I 
suppose I lacked the "hell-bent-for-glory" drive needed to focus on such an 
endeavor.  After a heart-to-heart talk with friends, and a not so happy meeting 
with one of my more critical professors, I learned about a 'Snowball's' 
chance in a very hot place - as applied to my chances of ever succeeding on 
stage, movies  - or home videos.  "The world's a stage - that should be 
enough for you!" I think entered the conversation.  But I had had a secret.  
No one knew I had been acting in playing the role a male - son, brother, 
boyfriend etc. - for years.  I knew I could play the part of "a man who is an 
engineer" and go back to technical studies - at least it would make my parents 
happy.

Get back to the point - forget the ole days!

Oh the Drama Club, oh yeah.... yeah.  Drama majors got extra credit if they 
joined the Drama Club. I had joined and stayed with it, later, even after 
changing back into engineering. It became my true life's passion, I guess, as 
it mixed easily with my life's compulsion.  Participation in the Club allowed 
me to keep my old friends, made a few new ones, and eventually form some 
close alliances.  That comradeship kept me sane.  I wished I could have gone 
on forever, but time stands still for no man (or woman!).  

However, I now know the meaning of the old saying "be careful what you 
wish for..."   

Buzzz bzzz zzz bzzzt... the sounds of the crowd awoke me to the reunion's 
realities... 

I wondered if the long-lost-friends had been comfortably reminiscing  or if 
they were waiting for me to join them before playing the reunion-catch-up 
game.  Had they kept in touch with each other through the years or was this 
all as new to them as it was to me?  Did they all feel I was the outsider now 
trying to break back in?  Were they at this very moment taking about me and 
laughing?  Snickering?  Mocking? The letter insisting I attend had only been 
signed "Brady and Shelby."  The conditions of the meeting were clear: the 
"Bet" would be in force.  I steeled myself up to meet my old pals from The 
University Club of Dramatic Arts.  

The Bet................................................................ 

Betting, a vice of the worst kind or the spice of life?  In this one case, my 
case, their case... for this one spectacular Bet... the concept of  formulating a 
"bet" always seemed to me to have been an excuse.  I felt it was a means, 
almost a devious trick, to allow all of us - the players of parts under most 
circumstances, already - to expose deep, dark, hidden... even banished... 
parts of the secret psyche.  At least it seems so in retrospect.  Originally I 
don't remember feeling the bet was anything more sinister than a dare, but 
that did not last long.  Typically, as with most things that are turning points in 
life, it began as harmless speculation - and then got very complicated.

It had first started after one of those long, hard, tiring nights of rehearsal... 
rehearsal... rehearsal.  Betting had been brought to the table suddenly and 
dramatically - literally brought to the table - the bar table at Bunny's Bar.  We 
were the "tighter inner circle" of a "circle of close friends and fellow 
students" in the Drama Club. I had originally speculated we close because we 
were the ones who could best hold our liquor in those after-hour meetings. 
Our mutual interests turned out to be more personal.  We had a lot more in 
common than we knew. 

Wow - did we ever!

Okay... in retrospect the BET was a culmination of a lot of tension, tension 
created by a topic we five guys had been discussing privately for months.  
This early form of the Bet turned out to be based on many factors, but the 
bottom line?  It mainly resulted from our shared fascination of males playing 
the parts of women.  We had actually been doing this in several vignettes and 
full length plays, which all had parts played in drag.  Sometimes it was acting 
the part of "a parody "of a woman, other times it was playing a real female.  
Once it was even acting the role of a man playing a woman playing a man... 
or something else as delightfully wacky.  The bottom line ....   we were 
hooked on the concept of male to female transformation!

We all had been taught he history of the theater was rampant with examples 
of cross-sex - back to the earliest Greeks, through Shakespearean plays, and 
into modern times.  Call it whatever, the need for one sex to masquerade as 
the other seemed to be deep seated in human psychology.  Historians and 
psychologists mumble through a multitude of theories: burlesque, religious 
mythology, comedic relief, diversion, perversion... lack of suitable 
personnel, moral prohibitions against the use of "real" women, et cetera...  ad 
nausium. Their list of "why do people do it" is long and varied.  It is obvious 
the types of plays, public enactments, and movies that have been written, 
produced, and acted are even more varied in the twists and turns of plot 
necessary to allow one sex in the role of the other.  

We five had been fascinated with it in all its forms, and, frankly, it obviously 
was an fascination for every member of our unofficial group. Some of us had 
it worse than others, psychologically speaking, but the enthusiasm was 
equal.  When on a dare... asking  each other to rate ourselves on our erotic 
reaction to playing a woman's part on a scale of 1 to 10 - I had confessed to a 
4.  Secretly I knew I was almost a 9.5.   All the others were lying too, with 
their low numbers... I knew that, everyone knew they were lying too.  I am 
certain we knew all were essentially obsessed with playing cross-sex roles.

We did not always avoid the intimate discussions about our secret desires, in 
the more private moments - especially when we were relaxed.  There were 
long nights with strong, tall drinks and strange smelling tobacco,  where the 
group was small enough to talk of our darker, sides - our hidden sides - our 
thoughts of the limitations and advantages of gender.  When there were just 
the five of us, things got really good.  The more we shared our confessions, 
the closer we came to know we were simply different cuts of the same cloth.  

Well, that sharing of our confidences evolved into THE BET.  In hindsight I 
thought it seemed harmless at the time, but how was I to know it would 
unlock long closed doors - and that ten years later I would be still under its 
ongoing power.

"Obsession" is a good word - "compulsion" works - "addiction"  also comes 
to mind.

Brady was the ringleader in those days.  I liked him but never seemed to get 
close - he just let people see the top 10%.  An iceberg -  an iceman, in some 
ways.  He was manly, handsome beyond reason, smart and powerful in 
manner.  But I recalled him as rarely creative in his thinking.  He was always 
seen in the company of his friend and companion, Shelby.  Some whispered 
they were gay lovers, but I never saw any outward evidence.  Later, I had 
heard they had gotten married, but under unusual circumstances.

Shelly was always quiet. His "too-pretty-to-be-a-boy" face accentuated his 
delicate "fayness".  He insisted he had the soul of a poet, but the work he 
actually produced in that mode was a bit shallow and, frankly, too naive for 
any lasting value.  Perhaps he needed to experience some hard living and 
suffering.  Like "Blues" singers, poets traditionally seemed to do better work 
after being hurt by life, or so I had been taught.  Thinking on that, it seems a 
terrible thing to wish upon anyone!  Still, I had liked Shelly, but we never got 
to be close friends been because of Brady's constant presence.

I had a big mouth in those days, Irish heritage I suppose - but I was not on 
top of the command ladder in this group, probably because of my less 
distinguished acting background and relatively "new arrival" status.  My 
suggestions, comments, remarks etc. were often met with a friendly, if 
irritating indifference. "Shut up, Mickey!" was often voiced, especially by 
Brady.  I wondered if I would still like her.

The real idea man of the group had been the gruff but fun loving Joe Patrick.  
I always felt this was a real puzzler because football jocks were supposed to 
be dull.  It was his idea, as I remember it, to put up the first challenge that 
evolved into The Bet.  Joe Patrick just liked to enjoy living.  We were pretty 
close friends, although my idea of sports was a hard game of racquetball.  
She should still be "buff" and easy to recognize,

The fifth and final member was the comedian, the clown... and the group's 
personal joker - John the Gateman.  We called him "Gateman"  because: 1) 
his last name was Gates, 2) he provided a "gate" to booze, pharmaceuticals, 
food - whatever -  when the rest of us ran low on cash and credit.  His 
parents were loaded with money.  He was also the "gateway" to many of our 
adventures, prompting us on when we hesitated to pursue some of our crazy 
schemes and dares.  Most people knew him because of his famous father.  I 
never cared how wealthy he was and "ragged" him unmercifully, constantly 
hinting he could never be as good as us because he had had it all given to 
him.  That wasn't actually true because he was a good fellow.  We two 
became very close, and I was sad when he suddenly dropped out of the 
picture - traveling the world - going where his money could take him.  His 
apparent abandonment of our group seemed to counter all I had thought he 
was - I hoped she was here tonight, most of all the group.

This remembering of days gone had put me in a saddened mood... reruns of 
those past memories supposedly long put away...

I was flooded with images of weekends where rehearsals for the student 
plays extended after hours into the explorations of possibilities of theatrical 
makeup and wardrobe.  I especially remembered those episodes of 
"perversion."  It was fun to play act our "feminine" sides, first as a joke, later 
as a competition in the group to see who could be the most convincing.  
Pictures flashed of unremembered others who came into the larger group - 
and faded out - but always it was we five at the end.  And we five were here 
tonight.

The Bet, oh yes... yes, THE BET.

Joe Patrick, with much beer and pizza deep in his digestive tract, said 
something like, "You know, we are gettin' really good with this 
crossdressing, female impersonation shit!"  Joe had never been as articulate 
as he was intelligent.  "We aughta put it on the stage for the public, perform 
as real women, maybe do some mild strip-tease, an' maybe make some real 
bucks."  This led to a long semi-sober discussion on our peculiar talent.  We 
had put on a many a student show, but they had been burlesque like the 
"Harvard Hasty Pudding Shows," and not what we wanted to do anymore.  
We wanted something new and unique. Someone replied, "Shoot, (or a 
stronger expletive if it had been Joe Patrick), we'd be great!  I bet no one 
would really know we were really guys until the end, you know, like when 
we took off our wigs and stuff for the shock value.  We gotta do it!"

Everyone hesitated to discuss this radical idea.  Not all wanted to be exposed 
to the public, our peers, our friends - and forever be branded as 
crossdressers, or homosexuals.  "I bet," Joe began again, "if we really tried, 
really tried hard, we could be convincin' women... and not ever have to 
show ourselves as guys, even after the show.  We could even pass as girls 
by goin' to classes and stuff." 

Yea, yeah...YEAH!  Enthusiasm gradually built.

And so it went that night.  Scary "why-on't-we's, and "what-ifs" for five 
young men - supposedly heterosexual and close college friends.  I remember 
thinking, an erection building in my pants when thoughts went in this 
direction, "Am I QUEER?  Is everyone in the room gay and I haven't 
noticed?  Whoa - what is going on here!"  But I remember everyone was 
extremely excited with the idea.

Actually, that wasn't the "real bet' that had brought me here tonight  but it 
started the thinking that led to THE BET.  There were many resulting sub-
level bets, dare, challenges made, won, lost, contested and argued over - 
remade, re-enacted... on and on that whole semester, and into the 
next...whew.  I am still amazed at what we tried - and usually got away with.  
There were some spectacular failures and terrible consequences, but 
somehow youth, luck and great portions of the Gateman's money and 
influence saved our tail.  We eventually got really good at being women in 
public, wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted.  Heady times!

THAT led to the "real bet."  Who was the best, who was the most 
convincing?  Who could best convince the world he was really and truly 
female - without question - without detection - without effort?  We all 
obviously had the same driving passion, fueled by different reasons: 
childhood trauma, problems of identity, sick pleasures.. who knows... we 
didn't really care...

But we all had the same need to be accepted as female.

THE BET: but were we be able to convince each other? Always? 
Unconditionally?

Okay, everyone has a theory:

The great test of female impersonation is to look in the mirror and be able to 
believe.  To not see that reflection as yourself in "drag," and instead see " that 
woman," wow... is difficult, often impossible.  You know your body with 
all the imperfections and flaws, all the glitches and trouble spots, all the 
compromises taken to perform this transformation to female.  The mind's eye 
image of your "real" body is a ghost in the mirror, overshadowing all 
reflections.  To be able to truly - truly! -suspend disbelief is a rare 
occurrence, dependent on a hundred thousand factors.  It is achievable, but 
takes dedication and will, obsession and perseverance... and sometimes a 
little special help.

If successful at the mirror and at home, the female impersonator eventually 
desires to go in public.  To be successful there, "She" has to suspend 
disbelief in others.  "Passing" is too weak a term for this type of success. 
People not only have to believe they see a woman, but they have to maintain 
that belief regardless of what she does and what others do with, to, and for 
her. Strangers who don't know, understand or recognize the original "body" 
can usually be convinced.  They usually don't give a damn - unless they 
begin to suspect she is different from them. It is a terrible risk... and a 
fabulous emotional high, if successful.

What next?  One possibility:  if "she" succeeds in public, the impersonator 
tries to play the part to it's fullest, living as female for a time, perhaps 
permanently.  If so,  how does she convince her closest friends she is really a 
woman?

Could I be convincing?

Me among my peers... all college students, young and experimenting with 
the possibilities...we of the group all tried hard to convince each other again 
and again, until we got really good at being  women - actually feeling like we 
were truly female!  I remember the effort, the money, the time spent on this 
obsession.  But this female characterization, impersonation, conversion... 
this unnamable thing ...was extremely difficult, nearly impossible, to 
successfully pull-off within the group of five perfectionists for any length of 
time.  Eventually, we would get extremely critical in our comments to each 
other. We were friends and confidants who also knew each other's physical 
faults, mental hang-ups, and worse.  And we were intimately familiar with 
each other's appearance as a male.  We cursed and fussed like the "bitches" 
we thought we were playing.

At the time we thought this picky and grueling critique process was 
constructive.  If we could convince each other in our feminine appearance and 
manner, we were capable of convincing everyone.  The only problem was the 
length of time to qualify for acceptability - to pass muster by the group - 
became longer and longer.  The contests and matches we had were absolutely 
and positively amazing!  I am sure if we had put the same effort in to college 
studies, we would have graduated as the top five in the college.  Dangerous 
times!  There was a barely perceived fear some - or all of us - would advance 
past impersonation,  toward transformation of a more permanent nature.  
Blame the bet for aggravating this possibility!

And it started with a lot of money.

A BET amount was set. We had to make this situation of cross-gender 
impersonation more "conventional" than what we suspected it really was - a 
perversion - an obsession - whatever.  We had to have a reason for doing 
what we were doing - a bet, for example, would add legitimacy. There 
eventually was a formalization of the bet and it's valuation, which probably 
took place at the same bar, I don't remember.  We bet one thousand each for 
one year.  A thousand dollars was a considerable amount in those days and 
would pay for all books for two semesters. The first year's contest was a 
bust.  I thought we all were convincing as hell, but there were some 
questionable practices taken to achieve femininity - hardly a good start, but it 
seemed to make the obsessions to pass as girls even more insidious!. 

At the first "public appearance", there had been no consensus within the 
group as to who was the most convincing and who had been "en femme" 
long enough too qualify.  No one won that night.  It was decided to roll the 
money over and do it again another year, every year if necessary, until 
someone won. This resulted in the establishment of a bet of one thousand 
dollars each plus any roll-over funds - awarded, based on consensus - to the 
member of our group of five that was the most convincing woman for that 
calendar year.  We even called ourselves "The Fem-five." By agreement, 
there was to be no formal rules, just a money award for being the most 
convincing female - and it must include living the part.  The vote had to be 
unanimous!

Supposedly, this had been going on for ten years.  I dropped out just before 
the second year "appearance," when I had gotten engaged to be married. I 
suspected The Fem-five (or did they call themselves Fem-four) would rarely 
have had a consensus - the pot probably was huge.  I had received an 
unexpected and insistent invitation to rejoin the competition, the "appearance" 
occurring the same night as our ten year college reunion.

  I was here.  I was one hundred percent ready.  It was time to see who 
would win this year.  I knew it would be me!

 The Fem-five........................................................ 

Time to confront the group.  After carefully setting the wineglass down on 
the fireplace mantle so I wouldn't chip my polished nails against the rough 
brick, I started across the room.  This wasn't going to be easy and I wanted 
to verify one more time I was approaching the correct people.  Where was 
that photo?  After I had dropped out of the BET after the first year, I had not 
seen anyone of the group in person - but I knew in my heart all would be here 
tonight.  Woman's tuition?  Ha!  I had been practicing enough for it to kick 
in.  I carefully took the last photofax I had of the group out of my purse and 
reviewed the faces one last time to be sure.

(image) (Insert illustration, five men 2-001.jpg)

(Start caption under insert)

Who was who?  I remembered them all from their male appearance in school, 
but what would they look like as women... ten years later?

(End caption under insert)

 It felt so odd to be here tonight.  Me recognize them?  I was not the "man" I 
had been ten years ago and I wondered if they would recognize me.  I had on 
a linen, midriff  length, open front, cuff-collared jacket with a full reveal slit 
back that flashed the smooth skin of my back as my arms moved up or 
forward.. The just below knee-length, 12 inch side-slit, semi-formal black 
sateen dress was spectacular!  It had crescent cutout  sleeves that closed 
tightly to my wrists, concealing in front but backless in a narrow vee to 2" 
below the belt line.  I knew I looked good! My weight and size revealed little 
flab, yet what was showing was soft and rounded.

  The picture I looked at was held in a beautifully sculpted feminine hand - 
hands being my one concession to surgical alteration in ten years.  Actually 
my hands AND my formerly size twelve feet.  My feet were now comfortably 
enclosed in 3 1/2" heeled black satin sandals, size 7 1/2, single strapped at 
ankle and across the toes.  Two years ago I had given up trying to convince 
the world I was a woman with big hands and feet.  A man with small hands 
and feet was not generally noticed.  

The nail reshaping and sizing on both hands and feet had been a maintenance 
problem.  Through the years I had come to rely on a professional "curist" 
who seemed able to shape them neutral or feminine size with ease.  The 
spectral highlighting subsurface to the bright burgundy nail polish I wore 
tonight was strictly formal, a concession to the fashion of the day.  I 
preferred the older style "au natural" or with just a pretty transparent pink. 
But the nails had been nano-shaped for tonight, and would be shorn down to 
their normal slightly rounded 1/4" length tomorrow.  I was unused to the 
almost "cat-claw" length and shape and was "clicking" on everything!  At 
$10.00 a fingernail I was not going to ruin them!  Besides, I liked their feel - 
they reinforced the formal, polished look of my attire and accessories.  I 
supposed the toenail treatment could have been skipped  - over-painted 
toenails were not mandatory in today's fashion, but what the hell, I thought.  
Go for it girl!

So, photofax delicately held in hand, I reviewed the faces one more time, as 
best I could in the dimmed lighting of the dance floor area.

Photofaxes of ten years ago had good color and detail, but were a bit grainy.  
This photo had been artfully "squiggled" so it resembled a hand drawn 
picture.  This is still a typical modifications to real time Photofaxes, and as an 
engineer, I marveled how the nearer technology gets to producing perfection, 
the more society desires it to be more natural,.  Everyone opts to pay for 
machines that reproduce typefont as natural, individualized handwriting.  
Fortunately, this photofax had survived ten years and was very readable.

Now, who is who?

That was me at the upper top.  By pushing the read plate, I was able to see 
the text overriding my face, ghosted in with the wording:  "Mickey 
Barksdale, Future Drama Critic."  I had given up stage acting by the time the 
photofax had been made, but still held dreams of being a writer.  The only 
"critiques" I did now were in front of a mirror.  Hell, back then I had to write 
in something associated with acting, as they all had been watching!  Fading 
the letters I saw my old face, 3/4 profile: Unkempt, shortish, unruly dark 
brown hair (Ugh, pretty much the same unruliness as now - except I now 
wore it about four inches past my shoulder - but in a ponytail, and usually a 
mess  - tonight it was highly coiffured and shaped).  What else in my 
photofax image?  Slight sideburns (gone), "sincere" blue/gray/green "hazel" 
eyes (color the same  tonight -  though I don't know how "sincere" I felt), 
ruddy cheeks (tonight, carefully toned down with foundation), and "rugged 
just-above-average" good looks (partially reworked by age and diet - the 
boyish ruggedness now smoothed out with the feminine pattern fullness of 
nano hormone treatment),   I couldn't see a real beard in the photofax, but 
that too was long gone.  Hardly any males sported body hair now, with the 
new nano electrolysis available commercially.  

Who else was there?  In front of the photofax, proud as a peacock, and 
dressed like one,Mike Brady.  I didn't need to push the text tab.  His would 
say "Future Leading Man" and it was believable,  looking at his full front, 
half chest pose.  Actually, I supposed that's how I knew him by sight, and 
would know him tonight.  He was famous, even now as a nano-woman.  
Brady was a familiar face - and body - in the visual media as he - and she - 
were models for clothing, products, and consumable goods.  Most all knew 
"them", he earlier, she in the last year, in his/er poses - sometimes clothed, 
sometimes less than - in sexy poses to promote, well, whatever was trendy at 
the moment.  Brady was probably very wealthy by now.  He had been 
"beautiful," even in this ten year old photofax.  It showed him with black, 
black hair, full and combed back off a noble forehead (probably a  different 
hairstyle tonight - It wouldn't be long in length after one year).  And what 
else?  Full sideburns then (very commanding on a man, gone now of course - 
I remembered he had resisted losing then even after body hair became 
unfashionable), lips stolen from a comic super-hero (reworked to the 
feminine equivalent - obvious in her latest advertisements), and deep blue 
eyes out of hell!  

And the cobalt colored eyes had been the reason for her continuing 
popularity.  Eyes not cold, not fiery, but deeply penetrating...  as if the devil 
was judging your soul's value (her newest nano-woman photos showed the 
same now - almost as devastating on a female.  Not many male models stayed 
as popular after trans-sex).

Brady had had the classic "beautiful male, bodice ripper hero" lower face - 
chin and jowls (but now all reshaped into the current concept of feminine 
beauty).  As I understood it, Brady had kept her professional name.  She had 
been fortunate it was originally non-gender specific. I was certain I could see 
her in the group now, profiled - best side to me - as I was approaching.  
What a beauty, wow!   I wondered if I would really dislike her now.

The photo - next to Brady - looking down, who was this?  I pressed and saw: 
"Shelly Brown, Future Poet."  Now... that raised an interesting question.  
Had Shelly aspiring to be a poet because of his name had his name derived 
from his wanting to be a poet?  Someone once claimed his real name had been 
Claude, or Clyde and he had it legally changed to Shelly when he came of 
age.  Shelly!  One of those "too-pretty-to-be-a-boy" type guys who had the 
good looks travel in the "Brady" circle, but a guy not "rugged" enough to be 
a model in a modern, polarized world.

  Today a man was a man and had to looked like it. Same judgment for a 
woman. Feminine men and masculine women were suspect, at least if in the 
public eye of today. Perhaps that's is why so many feminine appearing 
fellows, tired of fighting prejudice, nanoed to a fully feminine looking 
female. And the same in reverse applied to big boned or mannish looking 
women.  Interestingly, trans-sex nano, although originally a male-to-female 
trend when started, had changed to a female-to-male majority.  Some trend 
watchers were predicting an eventual 50-50 mix when the rush to trans-sex 
settled down..  Full nano was very expensive, and required some personal 
ethical deliberation due to the source of materials available.  I had decided it 
was not for me, for those and other reasons.

I didn't have any idea of what Shelly looked like now.  I remembered him, as 
in the picture, having curly blondish hair and a thin, esthetic looking face.  
Although the eyes in the photofax were downcast, I remembered them as an 
icy blue, just short of washed out.  No real problem there, I knew I could 
find Shelly in the group by seeing who was attached to Brady - probably 
physically touching in some way.  I could see the back head and torso of a 
impeccably dressed Nordic blonde woman, slight of frame and holding a slim 
arm and hand against the lower forearm of Brady .

"I've found Brady and I've found Shelby, " I thought, giving my head a little 
shake.  

Pendant earrings swayed mostly unnoticed against the back end of my cheek 
and against my lightly perfumed neck.  Such sensations had become 
subliminal long ago, and the pendants had replaced the usual plain gold 
hoops I usually wore. I have always preferred "danglies" but was hard 
pressed to afford anything as expensive as these jeweled beauties, the shape 
of small abstract winged dragonflies in flight. They were rentals, but even 
then extremely pricey.  I did drop my mouth open in amazement when I put 
them on the first time - they made me look so gooooood.  Carol almost 
drooled when she first saw them and I let her borrow the pair, and she went 
to work overdressed.  They were still warm from her body afterward, when 
she handed them to me to put on.    The other two, um.... I wasn't sure.  
Looking at the  photofax.  In the upper right corner, 3/4 profile, was a thin 
faced young man with short, unruly dark hair.  I well remembered this face 
as belonging to John Gates... "Gateman!"  Pushing for text: Gateman, Future 
Millionaire.  Hell, he didn't even print in his full name - I had forgotten.  
Millionaire?  Why, nobody wanted to be just a millionaire in those days, and 
he was being modest because his trust fund alone was over a billion dollars!  
The picture showed him small framed and small headed, but passable for a 
young man.  He was youthful looking, toothy and had a "twinkle" in his eyes 
-  light brown eyes, if I remembered correctly, the color of brown sugar, 
light.  What was she like now?  I was too far away and it was too dim to see 
clearly.

In the middle of the photofax was: everyone's favorite jock, Joe Patrick.  He 
was mixed heritage, which he claimed as American Indian - Filipino, but his 
last name was Santangelo, which I once found in some 'family-heritage' 
book as Italian, Sicilian Italian, actually.  Pressing for text one last time: 
Joseph Patrick Santangelo, Future Thespian.  I remembered now he felt his 
direction lay toward the Elysian Fields, rather than the playing fields.  
Humm,  actor of myths or mythical sports hero, not much difference in 
today's world.  He was always the least likely "woman" of the Fem-five, 
convincing at a distance but when viewed up close, "TOO BIG'.  I wondered 
what she looked like now.  Looking at his picture I saw an athletic face with 
short, dark, air-dried combed back hair. What else? Ethnic coloring in dark 
skinned good looks, dark and liquid "cow-brown" eyes, a full lower lip, and 
good athletic casual clothing.  I hoped I could pick her out by her probably 
oversized frame. But no one seemed to fit...

They were looking around the room now.  I suppose they could hear the faint 
click-click of my heels as I approached. Would they know me all dolled up? 

Brady looked right past me at another woman walking in the general 
direction. Shelly glanced and then looked down shyly.  The other two looked 
me in the eye and their faces lit up with hopeful recognition and a glow of 
expectation!

Conversations on Past and Present.........................

 "Mickey?" said the pixie looking woman, wrapped in flat black - no, dark, 
dark green sleeveless gown of unknown fabric, "it's me Gateman... well, not 
really gate"man" anymore, but surely you remember!"  Her voice was almost 
girlish.

This deep mahogany tone redheaded beauty was my billionaire friend... I 
could just see him in her face - a pixie now except no green complexion, no 
pointed ears.

"Aaaaaah!" I lightly screamed, and we buzzed each other's cheek.  I had 
sworn to myself I would take each one in separately, and individually, not 
rushing past anyone to see another.  It was going to be necessary to do so as 
long, as I could force myself to take the time, or things were going to get 
complicated fast!.  I was mesmerized by this new woman who said she was 
my old friend John.  She did not have the slightly mannequin look of the 
standard nano trans-sex..  "What is the story here,"  I thought.

"What have you been doing with yourself... you look so good... I don't 
know if I would have recognized you... how are you... do you still go by 
"Mickey"?   She was gushing, just like the old joker used to do when excited 
about something new or different!

"Wait," I gasped, "one question at a time. Or better, tell me about you!  I can 
explain "me' later to all of you at once, okay?"

"Darn!  I spent all this time trying to stay as close to the original  me as 
possible, and you don't recognize me instantly!  But there's time... I have 
had a wonderful decade... I use the name Trixie now, but you can call me 
"John" or "Gateman" or whatever... I think I will probably remember to 
respond... it has been a long time since I've been called anyone else but 
Trixie... but you can call me what you want... Oh gawd, I'm repeating 
myself aren't I? ... I guess I am excited. " 

'Trixie the Pixie," appropriate. I could see we would have a lot of catching 
up.  "Gateman" was now a cutie and a real character.  There seemed to be a 
story here - I wanted to know everything, and told her that.  I so wanted to 
ask, "Where the Hell have you been, and why did you drop from sight?"

Patience, my love, " she said, casting her head aside to the others, her curly 
crop flipping with the motion.  "You, need reintroduce yourself to everyone!"  
Trixie's melodic voice now reflected the twinkle in her eye.  "Did you know 
us?... how did you find us in the crowd?... I..."

I had to cut her off if I was to ever see what these other old friends looked 
like, or she and I would be gushing back and forth forever.  Looking at all 
the others, desperately trying to make it seem meeting four beautiful women 
who used to be four old college friends - male friends! - was no big deal.

Nervously touching back a few escaped strands of my hair with a sweep of 
my hand,  I stammered out, "Hi!  I was afraid I might never find you!  Then I 
decided I would simply look for the four bested dressed and most convincing 
ladies in the room!  (I Blushed - not too thick now).

There was a slight pause - had I said something wrong?

"This is Brady, dear," said Trixie pointing to the drop-dead beautiful, super-
perfect, super ... well just about everything... woman to my immediate right.  
This was a no-brainer effort.  Brady was Brady was Brady was Brady - 
male, female, Indian chief!  I mused, silently to myself for a second, catching 
my breath.  Of course - so this is Bill Brady. Would he-and-now-a-she 
answer if I called him "Bill" or Billie"?

  This was going to be difficult - I needed another glass of wine..  I had 
always been slightly jealous of Brady as a man and now - now as a woman - 
she was almost too gorgeous for me to be jealous anymore.  I was getting 
excited down south and it hurt. The blue of her eyes - but wait... the light 
seemed to be a bit duller than I remembered... in fact, she didn't seem to be 
one hundred percent in the room.  Drugs?  Apathy?  Boredom? ...I wanted to 
say 'hellooooo, anybody hooooome?'  Geez, was I was getting bitchy ? ... 
and the night was young.  My wife had warned me about hormones but I 
thought I had stabilized after six months!  I had to be the wine, but I was 
ready for something stronger, now.

Trixie had turned to the bar next to the group and secured four glasses of 
champagne, balancing them back to us on a plastic tray.  Umm, not as strong 
as I needed, but better.  Returning, she had passed them to us surreptitiously, 
bless her... and I nearly choked as I watched we five former beer and whisky 
drinkers delicately sip so as not smear our lipstick.  Damn, long nails and 
champagne glasses - what a combination.  I could see we five all had 
perfectionist "curists".  The dim lights in the room caused the photochem to 
glow, twist and twirl perfectly as designed.  Nails on the feet of all wearing 
sandals or open toed pumps did the same.

"Brady!" I exclaimed.  "It is sooo good to see you!" (I hoped I wouldn't go 
to hell for lying - it wasn't that good - but, damn, she was sexy!) "I have 
been following your career for years.  You were so well liked and popular as 
a male model.  I am sure you will knock 'em dead as a woman!" 

I knew she had been a she only a few months, but I wasn't sure if all the new 
media ads were recent or had been held back while the older male-Brady 
contracts were completed.  So many of the male models have switched that 
the competition is extremely fierce in this erotic sub-field.  Advertising used 
any means to promote attention to a product.  The notoriety and novelty of 
trans-sex modeling had been a big market advantage at first. 

 Secretly, I suspected this gender shift might have been a move designed to 
boost a starting-to-decline career, rather than the "celebration of the feminine" 
bullshit her press agents were shoveling.  As I remember, Brady was very 
proud to be male in college.  During our Fem-five period I always suspected 
he liked to be "feminine" for sexual thrills, rather that for psychological 
needs. Who knew his reasons now - I didn't even know my reasons, 
anymore.  Some people still insisted he was gay, and now she was in a 
lesbian affair with....  Oh, yes, Shelly!....  I needed to talk this through with 
Shelly.

 Out of the corner of my eye - wow -dear quiet Shelly looked different.  But - 
remember - talk to one person at a time my sweet precious! (This to myself - I 
liked thinking of myself as a "sweeter person," somehow, when female.)

"... and that beautiful outfit, you have certainly developed a fashion sense!"  
Brady was saying . I missed the earlier part of this conversation while 
musing - a bad habit of mine when confused. He had never complimented me 
before in his life.  Was she sincere?   Or what was wrong with this dress?  
my accessories? 

 "I wouldn't have known you if you hadn't spoken," she continued.  What 
did she mean by that?   My voice!  It must sound too deeply pitched - 
thousands of hours practicing, and I lose it when it counts 
most!....................... calm down girl!  Take it all at face value until you 
know better.     "Er...thank you. ...and this is Shelly Brown?"

"UM hum, but mostly I use "Shelly" without a last name, like Brady does."  

Oh no... Shelly and Brady, Brady and Shelly.  It sounded like a sit-com on 
the old "television" revivals seen late at night.  Pause... and that was all this 
lady was going to say without a whole lot of prompting.  I would have to get 
her aside and away from Brady, like in the ladies room or something. No that 
wouldn't work.  I think they peed together too.  Well, somehow.  They 
certainly weren't together always... humm, again, this isn't going to be easy.  

I wanted to know the truth.  Were they lesbian lovers? America's readers 
want to know - ha!  Actually, I was pretty sure they weren't - probably not - 
not if Brady had cut off her penis and testicles. Shelly used to love Brady's 
penis (and probably the testicles!)   That first year of the BET she presented 
herself completely trans-sexed!  It had been one of the reasons the bet was 
aborted.  She later in the contest announced she had moved in with Brady.  
No consensus had been possible under those circumstances.

 Wow - what would I have done if given the chance to trans-sex back then?  
Another frightening thought crossed my mind. Would I love to make love to 
this beautiful Brady, if had the chance, regardless of who had what ?!?   I 
was beginning to get a bit confused again.  Who was WHAT? was a more 
pertinent question  than who was who.

And who here still had penises?  This was going to be some conversation... I 
couldn't just look for crotch bulges - gaffs and appliances would hide the 
evidence... I couldn't just ask outright, could I?  What if they alllll had had 
'em loped off and I was the only one who could still pee standing up - that 
was a scary idea!

One more to go!

Wide eyed and eager, the only one who looked like a totally different person, 
looked straight at me with beautifully sensitive and kindly eyes.  "You look 
so beautiful!" she said in a voice that could launch a thousand ships, "but, I 
knew it was you when you first walked up."  This was Joe Patrick.  A 
feeling of belonging again was starting to wash over me.  It's strange how 
some people make you feel that you are starting up a friendship just where 
you left, and this was after ten long years.  

"Joe?  Joe Patrick?  Is that you?"

"Yes," she exclaimed -  in perfect pitch to her medium soprano speaking 
voice, but up an octave.  She was excited. I truly pecked her a kiss in the 
cheek and hugged her body lightly to mine.  Jeez, what a thrill. She looked, 
smelled and felt like a real woman!  "There went the Bet money!  Shit! - I 
mean "shoot!,"  I thought, amazed at this development.

I had to know her history and I started in, "where... how... what... you look 
so different..."

  I had forgotten to ask her what name she used now.  Joe Patrick wouldn't 
use 'Jo' or "Pat,' she was too clever for that.  

My mother wouldn't be proud of  my Ms. No-Manners here, would she?  
But to elaborate, she weren't toooo proud of Ms. Mikki either!  Dad?  He and 
I just went our separate ways, it was easier that way. 

"I'm sorry Joe... I should have asked..."

"Hey, no problemo," she interrupted in that impossibly sweet voice.  "Call 
me Bonnie!" 

  Bonnie... "Bonnie"?!?  With all these Trixies and Bradys and Shellys... a 
Bonnie?  Darn, she must really feel good about herself to stay with such an 
old fashioned moniker!  She had made up for it in other ways.  Her body was 
as fine and slim as the others, but more womanly, somehow.  She looked as 
if she could have a ten kids and bounce back for more.  The other looked... 
'fragile?'... staged?... planned?  -  as if they had searched after their ideal and 
perfect female body and then occupied it.  Bonnie looked as if she was born 
to hers.  What did I look like to them?

We needed to sit down soon.  I really needed to sit down immediately!  My 
feet hurt and the champagne was making me spin a bit, already.

Others must have felt the same because as soon as I suggested it, a little sigh 
went up and we scouted for a place to park.  Fortunately, there was an alcove 
just around the wall, behind the wine-bar, and it helped to have a barricade 
between us and the just starting live band music.  We ditched our champagne 
glasses and dove for cover.

Whew,  I was so ready to alight in a overstuffed wingchair I almost missed 
watching the other girls sit.  Hesitating - appearing to fiddle with the 
alignment of the fully jeweled bracelet on the left wrist, now uncovered from 
the sleeve cuff,  I  judged their individual performances as women in evening 
wear - sitting.  This might be revealing.

The protocol for a woman's sitting is a complicated one, especially in a 
formal situation with expensive clothing and accessories.  She must:  1) scout 
the area to see who is watching  - male, female or mixed - friends, strangers 
or rivals,   2) calculate the size and shape of the seating target, height off the 
floor etc.  3) determine the possibilities of placement of hand held items - 
glassware, purse and such - never sit with items clutched in the hand unless 
absolutely forced!   4) back to the chair and take aim by feel at the back of the 
knees or calf,  5) sit as gracefully as possible keeping the center of gravity 
aligned so as to descend down in a neat drop, never a plop - at the same time 
sweeping skirts and miscellaneous free objects under her - keep skirt ride-up 
to a minimum, as applicable - and it usually is - and try not to expose her 
boobs too much if wearing something low cut - et cetera.

   Then there are the decisions as how to sit with legs and hands positioned. 
Is it preferable to have the back straight or relaxed, etc. - should she be 
presented in a formal, semi formal or informal pose.  Body language is 
important in sitting, as is modesty and a show of breeding in execution.  
Most decisions and executions take place in a second or less, and is usually 
unconscious effort.  

All four sat differently, as expected, but all were graceful enough.  No one 
had missed any practice - the Bet was going to be a hard win.  The placing of 
sheer stocking covered ankles varied in style, some simply sat uncrossed, 
feet out of sight.  All feet were beautifully, tastefully, expensively shod. Most 
in formal high heeled sandals of designer origin, various heights and shapes, 
none less than 3"in rise.  Trixie was the only daring one with jeweled dress 
boots, but the a size five feet could carry that off, even with extra height 
heels.  The rhinestones on my straps probably sparkled in the subdued light 
and I caught Shelly sneaking an appraising glance.  My wife and I now had 
the same size feet and she had coveted these delicate beauties as I charged 
them to our joint moneycard.  I suspected they would be on her feet at our 
next formal excursion.

Dress length was pretty much set by the fashion of the day - about six inches 
below the top of the knee.  Sitting lengths varied, though, because of the cut 
of the dresses.  I was average, just at the knee below the big joint, not 
showing any kneecap.  Some were up or down an inch more, but the big 
difference was the closure of the walking slit.  There were slit sides, a slit 
rear - most showing acres of smooth calf in the sitting position (or while 
dancing - or while striding purposefully across a room!).  None of these 
magnificent gowns were under a thousand dollars in price - and though 
Trixie's  one piece body sleeve was unadorned and unpatterned, it probably 
cost many times the price of all others combined.

 I could see we had all taken measure in a tenth of a second.  This included 
the time for evaluation of jewelry, hosiery... and underwear.   It was obvious 
to me some had very little on underneath.  How much was held in place with 
tape, glue ... good intentions?  Underwear could be very shear, but there is 
usually a bit clothing held back by its friction, a tiny fold her, a tuck there 
which gives away the secret.  Some had no secrets I could see.

  Of course hair, nails, makeup, jewelry, accessories and personal hygiene 
had been evaluated upon first glance at the very beginning of the meeting 
between individuals.   Women always performed this once-over with each 
other.  They  usually reviewed the men they met, but with a different agenda.  
It was a matter of checks and balances, an evaluation of worth in others and 
themselves.

I looked again verrrrry carefully at Brady, but we were too close for me to 
look directly below her exposed chest - cleavage, actually.  It wouldn't do to 
be too inquisitive of the Brady body - not with this beautiful Brady. The blue 
eyes were again  penetrating - apparently her interest was piqued  - and I was 
beginning to feel like falling in.  Was it a sin to want a woman that once was 
a man?  I wondered what this super-model body had cost her... 'take off 
most of the chin, trim the jowls, but leave the cheekbones, please!'  "Model 
the body after xxxxxx,  yyyyyy  and zzzzzz - the perfect, most marketable 
women of that particular moment, according to my consultant's statistical 
analysis."  Oh,  but what results! 

Me?  Little ole me?  I had stayed with what Mother Nature had given me, 
sorta.  Well, I enhanced what she had provided, perhaps.  From all the 
bulging cleavage I could see around me I was probably the only one here 
with natural breasts, as small as they were.(a healthy 34 B!).  Big boobs 
looked good on Bonnie, but the others, sheik!  Tip over time tying 
shoelaces.... Time to move on, this wool gathering was getting personal and 
depressing.  Maybe I should have considered nano augmentation rather than 
nano hormone enhancement. My wife hadn't wanted me to look 
"augmented." I did justice with my dress - the heck with 'em.

I turned to Bonnie, asking, "how do manage to look so natural?"  But she 
wanted to know about me.

Then she almost ruined the perfect woman image, uttering, "Shit, nobody's 
asked you what you go by."   This was in a melodious woman's contralto - 
but I heard it in the old baritone of Joe Patrick.

You can take the jock out of the body, but you can't change language 
patterns.  Actually, you can.  It takes observation, a good ear - probably a 
good coach, if you can afford one - and practice -practice- practice.  I knew 
this because I practiced every day - like my special regimen of  body toning 
exercises.  Tone the voice, tone the body.  It was hell keeping up appearances 
- harder carrying them off..  I suddenly empathized with Brady and what a 
super-model must have to do to stay in shape, a shape to please the masses - 
well, she probably had a trainer.

At least Bonnie didn't say "ask'd  ya."   

"I don't know now.," I replied. "I have used 'Mickey' en mano,  Mikki en 
femme."  I liked mixing my French and Spanish - thought it impressed 
people who didn't know any better, gave a laugh to those who did. 

 "But, in such a distinguished crowd of beauties, I feel that is such a cliche'. 
"   I was pouring it on a bit, expecting them to say something like, 'Oh no!  
Mikki is a wonderful name!'  Didn't happen that way.

Trixie, eyes sparkling, laughed.  "Mikki, do what the drag queens say.  Take 
the name of the first pet you had as a child, add to that your mother's maiden 
name."

I couldn't answer - I was stifling an unladylike snort!  Bubbles O'Malley - 
just toooooo silly!

"Cat got your tongue?" Said Bonnie with a grin.

"No...," I said hesitating.  "My first pet was a goldfish, not a cat."

But they all  seemed to miss my little joke.  I had always had that problem in 
the Fem-five, and apparently the novelty of  a new "Mikki" was wearing thin.  

"Still a crossdresser, Mikki?" said Bradey.  "I heard you were married!"  I 
wasn't the only one feeling a little bitchy.  How did he know I hadn't gone 
full nano?   I wasn't going to win the Bet at this rate unless I explained 
myself.

"True, but there is an interesting story there."  All continued to look 
"interested", so I took a deep breath and continued.  (I love it when my chest 
motion expands my breasts in a tight bodice!)  I told of how I had gone 
through a period where I lived as a man at work, but a woman at all other 
times. (Get them "time-as-a-woman" points, girl!)  Then I had had a bad day 
at my favorite restaurant. 

They laughed with sincerity when I told them about meeting my wife in the 
ladies room... fully decked out, of course.  I was still using props in those 
days, but looked real enough.  She had heard me in the stall next to hers, 
bawling like a baby."

  I remembered it so well and the story was easy to tell.  

"I was in the middle of an anxiety attack.  An over attentive waiter had spilled 
something, soup or coffee, I don't recall, and ... and had insisted on helping 
clean it up.  He had 'touched' me while trying to clean my pant suit."  

" I didn't have on a gaff, as it was really hot and humid that night.  The suit 
was so generously cut, " I sighed, and they commiserated.  "I was the picture 
of the proper 'Lady,' explaining how someone awful had done something 
terrible!  I remember I almost wished I had a lace handkerchief at the time - if 
they had still made lace handkerchiefs.  All that over a stupid gaff, not a really 
ladylike problem, but I saw the look on the waiter's face and... you know... 
I was crushed."   More sympathy.

"Her name was Carol and she passed me a handful of facial tissue under the 
stall (they were out of 'TP' as usual in the women's room).  It was so hard 
telling her what had happen without saying too much, and it came out all 
garbled.  I certainly couldn't explain in real detail - you know - so she 
assumed the waiter had somehow 'felt me up' or something and was ready to 
storm out and tell the management.  I calmed her down and we begin talking"

"It got to be real confusing and all - and we both collected ourselves, we 
ended up on chairs in the sitting-room area of the bathroom.  It was a fancy 
place after all.  And we were both a little drunk.  She had to tell me her 
problem with her latest boyfriend 'standing her up' so we got to exchanging 
stories and all, bashing all the world's men, recalling moments of 
mortification and so on.  Soon things were not so bad.  In fact, everything 
got funny and soon we w