RANSVESTIA

"I think we ought to make her raise her neckline," said another. "It's unfair competition."

"But then we couldn't see her pretty bra," said a third, taking the liberty of loosening the tie of my blouse and lowering the neck still further.

I went to the kitchen to refill my tray.

"You are making quite an impression. One of the girls has asked me how much you charge. Should I tell her?" Sally asked.

"Lay off."

"She wants you to dress like a Playboy bunnie."

"Tell her to go to hell."

"Tell her yourself. She's the one in the green dress."

It was unreal. Sally was making fun of me, and I knew it. Still it was an idea that built on all the thoughts that had been fleeting through my mind since the party began. I began to see myself in long net stockings with a red satin corset riding high over my hips, with bare shoulders and even more of my bosom showing than now, a black rib- bon around my neck, and an up-swept hair-do. Could I really do it?

I carried in the tray.

"Tell me," said one of the girls, who had had a little too much to drink, "where did you learn to do it, you know, I mean how did you learn to use makeup and things?"

"What she means," added her companion, "is how did you come by the, uh-"'

She indicated her meaning by putting her finger between my breasts and feeling around. I whipped around, and headed for another group.

And then I became aware of it. Like rain it had begun to patter on my ears, remarks made with less and less restraint, with less and less care if I heard them. How long they had been going on, I don't know, but there was no longer any doubt about it. They knew I wasn't a girl,

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