Transvestia

guess is that it was in the early stages of puberty.

As these memories flooded out of my subconscious my first oral acknowledgement of them was nothing more original than: "My God, I used to do that, too!" My excursions into the world of cross-dressing had how- ever ended with those stolen moments of long ago, I had no clear recollection of how long or how frequently I had dressed in my mother's clothes, but I was certain that it had been at least 20 years since it had last happened. And, so what now? Or, more accurately, so what? One rose does not a summer make and one touch of nylon against the calves and thighs, one girdled touch of pressure against tummy, hips, waist and derriere does not a transvestite make (or does it?).

I finished the book and went to bed. But sleep would not come. Bits and pieces of my character and person- ality milled past my mind's eye like flotsam and jetsam in an eddy, and I tried to fit them together into some meaningful pattern.

I recalled the innumerable dresses, gowns and pieces of lingerie I had bought my wife over the years. In fact, I could not recall her ever having bought for herself. I remembered the times the salesladies had commented approvingly of my selections, complimenting me on my taste for style and color. Since my wife was seldom with me when I shopped (I like to give unsuspected, no-occasion-at-all surprises), and since I always bought haute couture, from panties to peig- noirs, slips to suits, and since I nearly always looked at the entire available selection of whatever item I had under consideration, was it possible that I was in some unconscious way soaking up vicariously some of the enjoyment I hoped my wife would derive from wearing what I bought her?

Lying there, I also began to assess women in general. I loved them. All my responses toward the gentler sex were those of a normal male. But there was more to it, I realized for the first time. I had my own

33