Transvestia

different person than her brother "Bill", a girl with an identity all her own.

My days in uniform and my precious hours en-femme were, by and large, the happiest of my life thus far. I thrived in the femme world--which did nothing for my wife's peace of mind. Soon there were more argu- ments, more heated than ever before. I was more adamant than ever for holding my hard-won ground. She was less tolerant than ever. I have often re- gretted not being able to convince my wife of the purity of my intentions. We might then have avoided many harsh words. However, after two years, my tour of duty was over and we moved back to my hometown, hoping to begin a more normal family life.

In a

Resuming civilian life also meant the return of all the old repressions and Marryann had to go under- ground...at least until my wife was not home. I began rebuilding my feminine wardrobe an item at a time, secretly. It was much a matter of trial and error, for I wanted so hard that often my acquisitions were hasty and in poor taste. Yet they were mine and I treasured them for what they stood for. small apartment there are few secrets. Ultimately, my wife discovered my "treasures" and insisted that they be disposed of--immediately. I promised to burn them, but just couldn't bear to do it. The internecine warfare raged on, and on. By now my hours of Marryann were infinitely precious and since the opportunities for her to come were increasingly rare, I began wear- ing "a little something" under my street clothes-. panties, or slip, or hose. I still follow this prac- tice as a token of my recognition of 'her'.

In the early 20's, news of Christine Jorgenson's "miraculous" sex change broke into print. This was the first time in my life that I knew that there were others like me. "Her" operation suggested to me that "this was the way out". Then the Charlotte MacLeod and Tamara Rees stories appeared and the sex change idea preyed on my mind night and day. I

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