RANSVESTIA

relationship with her. But when I told her, in all fairness to her, that I was a transvestite she was quite abusive and cruel and it hurt deep and long. I went back to the room and started to cry. Arnie came in and asked what was wrong. I told him a girl had rejected me because I was a transvestite. He looked at me and said, "Cripes, she was α Republican and you didn't make a stink about it." That night Arnie did the town up right with Bobbie at his arm.

Arnie went out with real girls, of course, and so did I. We'd even double date from time to time, but his dates with Bobbie were special. After college we both found ourselves living in Manhattan and still managed to see a great deal of each other. Sometimes I was Greg, sometimes I was Bobbie, but Arnie was always Arnie, thank God for that.

Once out of the tub I shaved, dried and powdered myself, then returned to my bedroom. I pushed the sliding door of the closet aside and was greeted by the faint trace of my perfume. I decided to wear my short silver sequin dress. I am an absolute maniac when it comes to sequins. The dress in question is sleeveless and has a round neckline perfect for giving the illusion of a soft, full bosom. The important thing about my little silver number is that it's cut a good six inches above the knee and does a bang up job accenting my long legs which are probably my best feature as a woman. I enclosed those terrific legs of mine in panty hose with just a few traces of silver in them. I put in my contact lenses which serve the same purpose as the metal frame glasses I wear as a man. Then I dressed, put on my make-up, false fingernails, bracelet, rings and wig. I then stood to check myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the bathroom door. A very attractive young blonde, ready for an evening on the town, looked back from the glass. I smiled at the knowledge that the woman in the mirror was me.

As I put on my thin gold watch I noticed the time and realized I'd have to hustle if I was going to meet Arnie on time. I put on a pair of silver evening slippers, transferred my money and keys to my evening bag, wrapped my six-foot white feathered boa around my shoulders and was ready to go. Stepping out of the elevator I crossed the lobby, past the doorman who knows who I am and thinks I'm no more unusual than the lady on the eighth floor who talks to her poodle when she takes him for a walk, and moved out into the neon-laced night.

When I first started going out as a woman I would be charged with a near electric form of excitement. My heart would race and my ears

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