RANSVESTIA

that pushed against the gauzy veil that covered her bust and upper arms. Her partner clasped her tightly for the sensuous dance, thrusting her head back so that the long blonde hair and the dark gold-rimmed earrings swung crazily and sexily just above the floor. She wrapped herself lithely about her partner while he tried to fend her off. The dance was acrobatic and expertly performed. The crowd roared its approval at the finish as the girl ended up, her skirt ripped away to show off her fine, slim legs, at her partner's feet, while he looked down at her in lordly fashion.

She was tired and hadn't even begun to remove the overly thick stage makeup when the manager ushered me into her dressing room. Her blonde hair clung to the perspiration on the back of her neck. I slipped the man his fee as he'd demanded and pushed the door shut behind me.

She turned and recognized me. "Al!" she said, and she sat, stock still.

I nodded and went over towards her. She shrank away a little and I sat on the sofa near to her makeup mirror. "You've changed your hair," I said, as lightly as I could.

"Yes," she said. I was trying to read her expression, but she seemed more frightened than anything.

"Does Carlos"-her partner-"prefer it blonde to red?" I asked.

"He's only seen it blonde," she said, turning to the mirror. She began to smear her face with cream but her hand shook as she put the lid back on the pot. "Wh-what are you doing here?”

"I came to see you, Romy," I said as quietly as I could. "I came to see if you loved me at all."

She buried her head in a cloth, and when she pulled it away, she had no makeup on her face at all. Somehow, she looked very young, very feminine and very vulnerable. "I want a man," she whispered, not looking at me. "I want a man to look after me. I can't make it on my own." I knew what she was saying. She was telling me that I could carry on as "Al Evans"-my life of avoiding ridicule was acknow- ledged, by her at least.

19