Transvestia hands, but she swept him aside imperiously and moved in on the hiding-places he himself had never dared explore. It was brutal, impersonal surgery that she performed, but when it was over, he felt cleaner than ever before in his life. Each girl friend was examined, inside and out, her flaws noted, and her forever deflated image put back in it's place. On his transvestic life, she was less efficient, and kept puzzling over "Why?" did a man, with a good career job and everything in his favor, want to be a lousy girl? His struggles to adapt his structure to a feminine shape she took in with more sympathy than he expected over the make-up work, as he smiled and conceded he had worked hard and with good results, but his expeditions on the street filled her with undisguised horror. With all his faults, so very obvious to her, to venture out in public seemed suicidally foolish. The fact that he had missed arrest she attributed entirely to public indifference and gave no credit at all to his protests that he had "passed". The parallel to her own dual life, she felt, was a false one; everything SHE did was strictly functional! And then she healed all his wounds with one magic phrase by saying, "well I guess you're a lot more feminine than I."

His tour of her sex life was a very different matter, The partner in each of her half-dozen affairs was mounted neatly, like a large butterfly, in a frame! Neatly labeled, dated and classified, they stood like the records of a series of experiments. And that was essentially what they were, she confided; one and only one of each kind. Some for pleasure, one for position, the rest to gratify curiosity. And there were a number of empty frames, obviously for future experimental animals! He was a little revolted, and she caught the thought. Her revenge was immediate and complete; one of the empty frames suddenly filled with a blue- chinned gargoyle in a fright wig, bright orange sweater,

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