RANSVESTIA

would ordinarily have to do. I cooked, ironed, and dusted. I even began the mending that she had accumulated.

For several days, it went like that. Sally would come home and ex- cept for a crack or two about how good a girl I'd make, she'd act as if my being in skirts were the most natural thing in life.

When she got home on Friday, however, she blew up. She came out of the bedroom just furious.

"You've been into my clothes again."

"But I haven't."

"You seem to think I'm a damn fool."

"I tell you I haven't."

"Larry, if it takes everything I've got, we're going to get this thing out into the open. You want a girdle? Then for God's sake admit it, and I'll buy you one. Lipstick? Stockings? I'll buy you sanitary napkins if you want, but don't go sneaking into my things. You leave my things alone. Strictly alone, do you understand?"

"But I have."

The fact was that I had been into her things, and I realized that my denials were in vain. Sheepishly, I reversed my stand and admitted having as a matter of curiosity seen what wearing makeup was

—

like. And stockings.

"It's beyond me," she said, more to herself than to me, "how you can get any pleasure out of cramming yourself into a girdle all day, or spending time to make up your face. If I didn't have to I'd never wear a girdle or a bra. Yet you do it out of choice. I find it absolutely incom- prehensible."

"It's a matter of curiosity. I want to find out what it's like."

"How long does it take? she asked sarcastically.

Next morning she left the apartment without saying anything, and was gone until late in the afternoon. She returned with so many bags and boxes that she could scarcely carry them.

11