TG, cd							§§§§§§§§
From: Denise Em <"em_d"@rem$01.com>
Subject: New TG: As Good As A Woman
Date: Tue, 24 Dec 1996 16:50:48 -0800

Hello all,

It's long since time that I made some, however humble,
attempt to give something back to this newsgroup for
all the _good_ stories I've enjoyed reading here.

As Good As A Woman was written in 1990 and 1991, and
rejected by Sandy Thomas as too tame.  So, I'm sorry,
I happen to like sweet tales with minimimal coercion,
(although maximum con-job is OK with me.)

Kudos - if any actually result from this - will be
cheerfully accepted here, as will _reasonable_ criticism.

Flames: send them to my (obviously, bogus) mail address.

Sorry about that, but I haven't yet found a suitable
substitute for PENet, and Netscape won't let me send
anything without *something* in the field.

Enjoy,
Denise Em


You know the drill.  If you aren't at least 18, OUT OF HERE - NOW!

Actually, I'd be *very* surprised if you'd find anything in this
that wouldn't be found on prime-time television network programming.

Nevertheless, standard disclaimers apply.  This is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to any real persons or events is purely coincidental.


AS GOOD AS A WOMAN (Part 1 of 6)

by Denise Em

Chapter I

The barbs were begining to get to me.  I appealed to Diane,
"Look, I'll concede that you women do have a little tougher time
of it, but you do choose to dress that way.  Besides, it still
isn't anything us guys couldn't do just as well, if it were
actually important."

Jean, in for another handful of reports, heard that and
challenged me, "OK, prove it."

All I could do was look at her quizzically.

"Show us how you can do it just as well," she demanded.

"How?" I asked.

"Is it too simple for your complex mind?" she sarcastically
asked.  "Do a full day's work, wearing a skirt and high
heels."

*--*

It had all started on a particular government holiday, which was,
unfortunately, not observed by the company that I work for.  The
office I worked out of was somewhat special, in that the majority
of its business was government related.  Because many of the
field technicians would have little to do, it was an ideal time
to schedule several of the field technicians into the office for
a "workalong day".

Thus, I found myself assigned to work with the Service Response
Coordinator, Cheryl Diaz, taking calls from the customers who
were still open for business.  It was a function Cheryl normally
shared with Diane Parker, the contracts administrator.

I had the filing system for customer records figured out by ten
AM.  By eleven, I was taking customer calls as though this were
my normal job.  Having long been on the receiving end of the
dispatch process, it wasn't especially difficult to learn how to
assign the calls.  Perhaps it was the way I had fit right in,
that made an offhand comment lead to my present circumstances.

Several technicians, with no calls to keep them busy, were
hanging around the office.  Remarking on how well I was handling
the job, one of them added an observation that although she
couldn't identify what it was, something didn't seem quite right.

Knowing that the position had always been held by a female, I
made the mistake of quipping, "I suppose you'd feel better about
it, if I had longer hair and wore a dress?"

That drew several laughs from around the room.

Gregg Avery, another technician, spoke up, "Only one way to find
out!"

I gave him a hard look.

Another call came in, breaking that train of conversation.  While
I was handling it, the discussion had wound down. When I'd
finished, Cheryl reopened the topic.

"...really!  You're only doing part of the job.  It's a lot more
difficult to do while managing a skirt.  All the getting up,
bending, stooping, maneuvering around desks and cabinets, all the
while, tethered by the headset cord - it's much easier in
slacks."

"Then why don't you just wear slacks all the time?" I asked.
"I've seen you wear them sometimes."

"Just on rain days," she parried.

I had to grin, as I sprung my trap.

"Then it's not part of the job; it's just personal preference."

"Oh, yes, it is.  The people coming through here expect a certain
'ambience' at the SRC desk.  Maintaining that is part of the job,
too."

I rolled my eyes at that response, and said no more.

Someone mentioned that it was nearly lunch time.  A short
discussion followed, concerning where to go.

It was Cheryl's turn to stay behind and answer the phones, so
Diane came with the rest of us.  During the trip to the
restaurant, she sort of attached herself to me.

While we were waiting for our orders to be served, she remarked,
"Sometimes I wonder about Cheryl."

"What about her?" I asked.

"Oh - you know - that business about wearing a skirt on the job.
I mean, that really is a bit much, expecting a man to be able to
manage a skirt - especially in those circumstances."

I hadn't listening that closely, so I asked, "How is that?"

"Well, it takes special skill to wear a skirt and not make a
spectacle of oneself.  It isn't fair for her to put a guilt trip
on you just because you can't do it."

Some days I can be just plain stupid.  Instead of recognizing her
troll I demanded,  "What do you mean, CAN'T?"

Diane responded, "You don't have any experience with it."

I became indignant.  "I didn't any experience with our equipment
before I signed on, either, but I've certainly shown that I can
do the job."

So far, no one else in the group had contributed anything this
conversation.  However, Jean Cox, from the billing department,
could no longer hold back.

"It isn't the same, Ted.  Girls spend years, growing up in
skirts, learning to handle them gracefully.  You can't just read
a manual and expect to do it right."

For some reason, it still hadn't occurred to me to question why I
should even care.  "So, what's there to learn?  Don't bend over
so someone can see what's underneath..." I quipped.  I was
getting sucked right in.

At this point, Gregg decided to add his tupence worth, "It ain't
that simple ..."

Jean interrupted him, "What do YOU know about it, anyway?"

Kate Nichols, another technician, who, as it happens, never wore
skirts to work, admonished her, "Hey, he is on our side, here."

She then directed her remarks toward me.

"There really is a lot to be aware of.  You don't want to sit on
a fold and make a wrinkle of it.  You have to be careful not to
snag it on anything, because a skirt doesn't follow your
movements closely, the way pants do.  Outside, you have to watch
for breezes, and, inside, low air registers.  It's a different
way of living."

Still not realizing how deep I was getting, I philosophized, "It
sounds like it's just a matter of situational awareness."

Jean couldn't let go without a final word on the subject,  "Sure,
only, like saying goes: Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred
Astaire did, and wearing high heels when she did it.  Do You
think HE could have done HER job?"

I didn't bother to answer what appeared to be a rhetorical
question.  While we ate our meal, the conversation drifted to
other matters.

While Cheryl was at lunch, Diane guided my work.  I completed the
rest of the day's work satisfactorily, although not without
having to hear an occasional comment about how easy I had it.

That probably would have been the end of the matter, except that
I have only one account to service.  It is a production facility,
and it needs two full time tech's to keep all the equipment
maintained.  The second week following the holiday, my account
was scheduled to take block vacation.  Normally, I would have
been assigned calls in other territories, to help out the other
technicians.

That's just the way it turned out, the first day.  However, when
I arrived at the office Tuesday morning, I discovered that Cheryl
had been injured during the previous night's softball game.  She
would be out at least a week.

The office manager asked me if I would mind covering for her.

Since I had been good at it, it didn't occur to me to have any
reservations about taking the assignment.  Perhaps I should have.

First came an occasional comment about the nameplate on the desk,
"You don't LOOK like a Cheryl."

Jean was considerably less subtle, "At least, you could have
dressed for the part."

Still, I was handling the job well enough, and, by noon, Elaine
Ross, our office manager, was generous in her praise.  Jean had
stopped by the desk to pick up service reports, and, hearing
Elaine's comments, appended, "Sure, he's almost graceful, working
around the call station.  If Ginger Rogers had worn flats, she
could have made Fred Astaire look like a klutz."

Everyone in the office had become accustomed to militancy of
Jean's feminist rhetoric and pretty much ignored it.   Elaine,
however, glared at her, as if to say, "what does that have to do
with anything?"  Jean took the hint and went about her business.

Still, she didn't let the matter drop.  Each stop for paperwork,
she found something provocative to say, until she finally got the
opportunity to make her challenge.

*--*

I tried to demur, "You're making a big deal about nothing."

"You're the one that claimed it was easy.  What's the matter, is
it too big a project after all?"

"No," I told her, "I just don't see any point in proving the
obvious.  There's nothing in it for me."

She pressed, "What would it take to make it worth your trouble?"

Elaine could hear all of this through the open door of her
office.  I could see that she was about to step out - perhaps to
tell Jean that she was out of line - but she halted when Diane
spoke.

"Hey, cut him some slack, if he weren't here doing Cheryl's job,
I'd have to do both mine and hers.  He's doing just fine as he
is, so leave him alone.  You don't even want to be the one who
drives away my golden goose."

Unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account my ego. It
had taken all the battering it could stand, and I was nearly
ready to accept.

"How MUCH worth my trouble?" I asked.

Jean was quick, "Dinner, my treat."

"Get serious," I responded.

I think Diane surprised Jean, when she raised the stakes. "How
about dinner, your choice of menu, every night for a week, the
weekend included?"

I had to think about that, which was a big mistake.  The question
is: did I think too hard, or not hard enough?  Hey, I can cook
well enough, but I'm not such an ambitious chef that I don't get
bored with my own cooking.  Besides, I wanted to see how far
they'd bid for something this crazy.

Jean was about to break the silence, but something held her back
just long enough for me to yield first.

"And?" I ventured.

Jean was aghast.  It didn't take any genius at reading body
language to tell that she was ready to tell me where I really
stood - which, presumably, wasn't very high.  Fortunately, she
wasn't fast enough.

"And the satisfaction that you really can do something most other
men wouldn't even attempt," Diane offered, as she gently grasped
my upper arm.  "All day tomorrow, skirts and high heels - do we
have a deal?"

I certainly hadn't expected such a hard sell, so I accepted
without really thinking about the full implications.  The next
thing I knew, Diane was leading me to Elaine's office to get her
concurrence.

Elaine listened to Diane's explanation, as though it were the
first she'd heard of it.  She expressed reservations about how my
altered appearance might prove disruptive in the office, but, in
the end, she gave her consent to the arrangement.

I suppose that if this had been a major city office of the
company, she'd have been more concerned about "image".  However,
out here, in an predominantly rural area, nonsensical pranks were
a common form of entertainment.

Diane quickly thanked her, then tugged me along, back to our work
area.  There she had a quick conference with Jean.

"Then it's settled," Jean confirmed, "your first dinner is at my
place tonight.  Be there at seven."

Regaining a little of my presence of mind, I responded, "No,
that's OK, I haven't won my prize yet; you don't have to feed me
tonight."

"Unh-uh," Diane intervened, "We want you to come over tonight,
anyway.  You need to get fitted out, and learn how to get along
with the articles you'll be using.  In fact, let's make a list of
your sizes."

This she proceeded to do, and, with Jean's help, converted them
to `misses' sizes.

"Now, all we need," Diane advised me, "is to find people who will
let us borrow the things you'll need."


Chapter II

After work, Diane stopped at Cheryl's and brought her up to date
on events at the office, including my agreement.

Cheryl is a big girl - not fat, but 71 inches tall and size 14.
Reviewing Diane's list, Cheryl noted that she could have supplied
almost everything I'd needed.  This led to an animated
conversation, and a trip through Cheryl's closet and chest of
drawers.

When I arrived at Jean's apartment, I didn't make much notice of
the crowd of cars, until the door opened and I discovered that,
seemingly, half of the women in the office were present.

"Dinner won't be until eight," Diane announced.  "In the
meantime, you can get changed and try out your outfit."

"Why can't we start after dinner?"

"Because we have lots of time now.  Besides, then you can
practice even while you are eating."

Again, I wasn't thinking fast enough to ask what it might be that
I'd need to practice, while sitting down to eat.  It would be
quite awhile before it dawned on me that they intended for me to
learn more about femininity than just adeptness at walking in
high heeled shoes.

They sent me into the bathroom with an A-line skirt to put on in
place of my slacks.  In a tartan plaid, which barely reached the
tops of my kneecaps, it presented a kiltish appearance.

On returning, I was presented a pair of mid-height, black,
T-strap pumps.  When I had difficulty getting my feet into the
close fitting shoes, I was given a pair of slipper-like nylon
half socks, which allowed my feet to slide right in.

Then my education began.  I was drilled in walking, turning,
sitting, and all I would need to know to be able to handle the
thin heels and flaring skirt.  Just about the time I was
beginning to feel accustomed to walking mainly on the balls of my
feet, dinner was ready.

One thing I might have noticed, had I not been so preoccupied
with my situation, was that no one was digging at me, as had been
the case during the day.  It was almost as if I was being
accepted into the conversation nearly as "one of the girls", even
if most of what they had to say concerned my efforts to master
the feminine articles which I was wearing.

The training didn't stop at dinner time.  Comments were regularly
directed my way, explaining that I shouldn't sit like so, and to
hold my fork like thus, and to leave my other hand in my lap, and
on, and on, throughout the meal.  It was done in such a amicable
way, that I couldn't take offense, but instead adjusted my
posture and gestures to meet with their approval.

When dinner was over, I offered to help with the clean up,
something which, when I thought about it later, surprised me.
Kate suggested that, to make the best use of my time, the ladies
would do the washing and drying, and I could put things away,
with Diane's guidance.  So, I found myself rushing back and forth
across the kitchen, trying to keep up with the stream of dishes,
pots, and pans being washed and dried.

By the time everything was in order again, I was most grateful
for the chance to sit down.  Even though the heels were barely
over two inches high, my ankles were screaming for relief.

It was when I passed through the doorway from the bright kitchen
into the more dimly lit living room that Kate discovered a
problem.

"Ted, I'd hate to say this, but you're going to need an slip
under that skirt; I can see right through it when you're
backlighted."

Some discussion followed, about what all a slip was for, and,
although I was resistant to wearing one, I finally conceded that
modesty was an important issue.

Jean, having caught just the end of the conversation, hastily
added that something ought to be done about my hairy legs, too,
which immediately brought me to the edge of cancelling the whole
deal.  Diane was ready for this, too, and suggested that opaque
hose would solve the problem.

When all the details regarding my wardrobe had been settled, I
drove home and went straight to bed.  As I was drifting off into
sleep, a thought barely flickered across my mind.  Just how had
everything been on hand - in the right colors, even - to cover
the changes they had thought up?


CHAPTER III

Early the next morning, I drove over to Diane's.  While I was
getting into my "uniform of the day", I began to doubt the wisdom
of my insistence that the change stop at the waist.  Last night,
some of the women had expressed dismay at the overall image I
presented.  They had suggested that a complete makeover might be
preferable, even from my point of view, since I would draw less
attention that way than dressed half-and-half.

Next, I was confronted with the problem of what to do with the
things I usually carried in my pockets.  I didn't find Diane's
suggestion, that I might need a purse, the least bit funny, and
decided to leave behind everything except my wallet and comb.
Fortunately, the skirt turned out to have side pockets, so I
didn't have to carry them in my hand.

Diane and I rode to work in her car, which insured that I'd see
this through, since I couldn't drive anywhere to change - not to
mention that my pants and shoes were still inside her apartment.

The jokes and jibs didn't last long that morning, because there
were plenty of service calls to keep the technicians out of the
office.  That left just the office staff.  Jean, of course, just
had to tease me some, although she admitted, grudgingly, that I
was handling my part rather well.

By mid-afternoon, the strain of dealing with the unaccustomed
clothing was beginning to tell.  I wobbled on those darned skinny
heels even more than I had that morning, on the way down Diane's
stairs.  My calves were sore from stooping so much to get into
low file drawers.  Finally, during one rush to get to the phone,
I tripped, narrowly avoiding spraining my ankle, but breaking a
shoe heel.  Finding it hazardous to be hobbling around with one
heel elevated, and the other not, I took Diane's suggestion and
removed both shoes, going about in my stocking feet.  At day's
end, I put them on so i could hobble out to her car and, in turn,
up the stairs to her apartment.

Along the way home, Diane had expressed generous praise for my
performance that day.  It paralleled that which I had already
received from the office manager - especially about being a good
sport and all.  Nevertheless, inside the apartment, with Jean,
Kate, and the others, she agreed with Jean's assessment: I hadn't
done it entirely right.

"He broke the heel on the shoe; that's not a successful
completion," Jean complained.

Kate became my advocate.

"I suppose you've never broken a heel?  He did as well as anyone
I know, carrying on in spite of it."

Jean wasn't about to concede easily.

"He not only broke the heel - he also worked part of the day with
no shoes on.  The deal was skirts AND heels, all day."

"Don't I at least get partial credit?" I asked. "I mean, after
all, I did go the whole morning as agreed."

"The agreement for for the whole day."

Diane then suggested that I be allowed to make up the last part
of the day.

Jean was adamant, but saw that her support was eroding.  Almost
defensively, she insisted, "He broke the heel."

By now, my expression must have shown that I was becoming
resigned to the notion that I'd done all this for nothing.  At
best, they had conceded that I had a legitimate alibi for the
only part in dispute, equipment failure.

"OK," Jean suddenly relented.  "Teddie, do you want to try it
again?"

"An hour and a half tomorrow?"

"Unh-uh.  The whole day tomorrow."

I arranged my demeanor to reflect a distinct lack of
enthusiasm.

"We'll throw in four more dinners, to balance the good part of
today," Diane offered.

I held off making a reply, but Jean must have seen my intent from
my facial or body language.  I was about to make a counter offer,
when she spoke with renewed firmness, "All, or nothing."

I stood up.

"Then, nothing," I declared.

Jean grinned victoriously.

"I told You he couldn't hack it," she exclaimed to the group.

A voice from out of my line of vision decried, "Party Pooper."

"Why are all of you so anxious to get me into a skirt, anyway?" I
demanded.  "I'd have thought your main goal would be to keep me
OUT of your skirts," I added, in an attempt to inject some humor.

Jean responded, "Who was so cocky about being able to do ANYTHING
a woman could?"

"I never said that," I insisted.  "I'm well aware that there are
things that you ladies can do, which I, as a male, can't even
hope to."

"Maybe not so many as you were thinking, honey," advised a voice.
It was Anita Wells, from the parts department.

As I turned so I could see her, she continued.

"I was just reading, last week, about how researchers think  they
can implant an embryo on a man's intestine, and it will  grow to
term.  You might not be able to conceive, but bearing a  child
may be within your reach."

At that description, I put my hand to my brow, while my face and
neck glowed with embarrassment.

"Well, come on `Mr. Macho', lets get you out of that skirt," Jean
prodded.  "We wouldn't want anyone to think you were a sissy,
now, would we?"

I glared at her.

"Was that the point of this whole deal?  To see how much You
could embarrass me?"

With the question still in my expression, I turned to face Diane,
then Kate.

Diane spoke first, "It wasn't like that at all, Ted.  You were
the one claiming you were capable of it; we just gave you an
opportunity to prove or disprove it.  And ... I did already tell
you that I thought you acquitted yourself very well."

"Ted," I heard Anita begin, "if you feel we weren't fair, don't
forget that you were offered a chance to make it up."

Kate added, "Despite what Jean said, Ted, no one is going to
think badly of you if you drop it.  You made a good faith try,
and I, for one, think you've earned another dinner, if not the
whole week's worth.  If they don't want to spring for it, I'll do
it myself.

"Thanks," I replied as I turned toward the bedrooms.

"On the other hand, if you want to try again," she looked around
the room, "how about double or nothing?"

She got nods of agreement from the other women, albeit with
widely varying enthusiasm.

I can hardly believe that I actually hesitated for a moment,
considering her offer.  However, I didn't answer.  Instead, I
resumed my progress down the hallway.


AS GOOD AS A WOMAN (Part 2 of 6)

by Denise Em

Chapter IV

The next morning, I was back on the job with my normal
appearance.  The day started well enough, but, from the first
time that Jean came by for the paperwork, things started going
awry.

She hadn't been the least bit subtle in telling me that I
didn't belong there.  She insisted that I couldn't hope to fill
the shoes of the person whose job I was pitifully trying to do.
Her criticism actually unnerved me.  I began misrouting calls,
misfiling call slips, and making mistakes on the report sheets.

When the foul-ups came to Elaine's attention, she had Diane
help straighten out as many as could be found.  She wasn't happy.

"What is wrong?" she asked.  "It's almost as though you'd
forgotten how to do the job.  You were doing a far better job
yesterday, even with your `handicap'."

Not wanting to be seen as trying to put the blame on someone
else, I didn't mention Jean's influence.  I rationalized to her
that I'd been rattled by the rapid pace at which calls had come
in earlier in the morning.

Diane tried to lighten up the mood with some humor, "Perhaps
you should have taken the double-or-nothing offer after all, Ted.
Maybe the job is EASIER to do in skirts."

"Oh, sure," I mockingly agreed, "without the high heels
slowing me down, I go too fast and make mistakes."

"Only one way to find out," she responded.

"Spare me."

Nevertheless, I did slow down and concentrated on being more
methodical about each task, as if I were learning the job anew.
Aother thing that seemed to help was forcing myself to make my
motions more fluid as might a dancer.

At lunchtime, Diane chose the second shift. That put me on
the same lunch break as Jean and Anita.

Much as I'd have preferred to decline their invitation to
join them, I couldn't bring myself to be rude.  So, along with
Gregg, and Kate, I accompanied them to a nearby restaurant.

I fully expected Jean to use the opportunity to continue
harping on my shortcomings.  Instead she was about as pleasant as
I could ever remember; avoiding all mention of the previous day,
or the way I was handling today's work.

When we'd finished eating, everyone but Jean and I went their
own way to do errands.  That was when she finally started laying
it on.

"Well, you couldn't cut it, after all, could you?"

"What?" I asked mechanically, before her meaning had
registered.

"You know, in skirts and heels.  You couldn't do a simple job
that any woman could do."

"That's baloney, and you know it.  I was doing the job; I
lost on a technicality.  Furthermore, I'd bet that any woman
would have trouble with the heels, too, if she hadn't ever worn
them before."

"Are You complaining that You didn't get enough practice?"

"Forget it."

"Oh sure, now that you've failed, you want to hush it up.
Well, the next time you think you're as good as a woman, just
remember yesterday."

There was no reasoning with her, so I was silent the rest of
the way to the office.

A little later, Diane was commenting on the graceful way I
was navigating around the dispatch station, and I let it "slip"
that I might be interested, after all, in trying for the
double-or-nothing.

"I don't know if that offer is still open, Ted," Diane
remarked. "I'll ask around."

Jean made a show of objecting to a repeat of the offer, but
let herself be persuaded, perhaps with uncharacteristic ease.
Kate proved to still be amenable to the deal, so I found myself
being invited to Diane's place after work.

"This time, we draw up a contract, spelling out exactly what
is expected," she advised me.

Alarms went off in my mind.

"What do you mean, a contract?" I exclaimed.

"Just that if the expectations are in writing, there won't be
any ambiguities to be disputed after-the-fact."

Elaine, having heard part of the exchange, came out to the
dispatch center.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

Diane explained.

After a moment's silence, she sighed.

"I do hope you haven't forgotten that this is a business, not
a playground for your 'inner children'," she reminded us.

I felt a sudden inclination to drop the whole matter.

She turned to me, however, and asked, "Why are you putting up
with this?"

Now on the defensive, I found myself trying to justify the
situation without any real conviction behind my logic, "It seemed
like an easy way to get a couple of week's worth of dinners."

Her stern expression melted slightly, into an exasperated
grin, and she shook her head.  Turning her attention back to
Diane, she said, "Goddess help me, I hope I don't end up having
to justify to Region why I'm allowing this nonsense."

An hour after work, I was in Diane's living room, negotiating
the terms of my "contract".

When all the details had been worked out and committed to
paper, the group dispersed.  Jean offered to stay and help Diane
prepare dinner.

Diane suggested that it would be to my advantage to get all
the practice on heels I could, before work tomorrow, so why not
start right now?  That turned out to mean: with panty hose and a
skirt - the same one I'd worn yesterday.

After dinner, Jean suggested, half in jest, that we go to a
movie.  I was willing - as soon as I could change into my own
clothing.  I should have known better.

Jean was interested only if I went as I was.  That discussion
was aborted when Kate rang the bell, and Diane let her in.  The
discussion turned back to the coming day, and how I simply
COULDN'T wear the same skirt twice in the same week.

When I asked `why not', Kate observed that it was a feminine
custom.  "Also," she pointed out, "you spilled some of your
dessert on it."

Consequently, I was presented a different skirt, white, with
a linen texture and box pleats.

Then they invited themselves over to my place to find an
appropriate shirt to go with it.

Kate had brought in another pair of pumps, with low, two inch
heels.  When she offered them for me to wear during the trip, my
objections were sidetracked by Jean's protest.

"I hope those aren't the shoes he's wearing for work," she
said.

"I thought they'd do for the spare pair," Kate explained.

"Spares would have to be the same height as the first pair,"
Jean stated flatly.

Kate looked over to Diane, who didn't object.

"OK," Kate agreed, "but these will do for the trip to Ted's
place."

I didn't really want to go outside again, dressed as a woman
from the waist down, but after Kate had taken my side, I didn't
have the heart to argue the issue with her.  So, still wearing
the plaid skirt and the mid-heeled shoes, I was escorted out to
the parking lot, where we all got into Kate's car.

I live in a rambling old cottage, twice extended by previous
owners.  It sits well back on a deep lot, shaded by a thick
canopy of old trees.  Because the view of passersby was blocked
by heavy shrubbery, I wasn't bothered about going from the car to
the house, dressed as I was.

Inside, matters soon became a little more complicated.
Although they found a dark blue oxford shirt that looked OK with
the skirt they'd brought, none of the women thought it a truly
suitable pairing.

Kate went out to her car and brought in a top that obviously
was the mate to the skirt. It had three-quarter sleeves, a jewel
neck, and buttoned up the back.  It wasn't near as much trouble
as they might have expected to get me to try it on.  However,
after I saw myself in a mirror, I didn't like the mixed image.

Jean started teasing me about how I was starting to look
quite cute, and that a little makeup might help even more.

After that comment, I prevailed upon Diane to unbutton the
top, and I went to my room to change into a jogging suit.

When I returned, Diane reminded me that I'd have to go back
to her apartment for my car.  Then she extended an invitation for
me to spend the night in her apartment.  Her housemate had two
weeks to go on an overseas assignment, she explained.  She was
sure that Carol wouldn't mind if I used her room.

"That way," she rationalized for me, "you won't have to get
up so early, yet you'll have plenty of time to get ready for
work."

I couldn't think of any rebuttal to her logic - or even to
ask why I'd need much time to get ready.  Taking my lack of
objection as capitulation, they helped me gather up the items I'd
need for that night and the next day.

Back at Diane's apartment, Kate brought up a large case, as
well as an overnighter.  Among the items inside were two pairs of
dress pumps that had the same heel heights.  That was how they
got me out of the jogging suit again, by insisting that I had to
try on the whole outfit for tomorrow, including both pairs of
shoes.

When I got to see myself in a full length mirror, I again
became dismayed at the mixed image.  Somehow, the contrast hadn't
been so strong with the plaid skirt.

That seemed to be Kate's cue.  She turned on the charm,
asking me to please go along with them for just a few minutes -
which turned out to be two hours - and let them try a different
approach.

Soon, I was back in the linen suit, wearing pantyhose which
bore a faint honeycomb pattern and ankle strap pumps.

That put me at the precipice of my comfort zone.  What they
wanted next, pushed me right over the edge.

"It's so close," Diane mused.

"Why don't we see?" Jean asked cryptically.

Diane led me into her bedroom.

"Sit down right here," Diane directed, pointing to a padded
stool next to a small table.

Tilting up the top of the vanity to expose a mirror and a
compartment underneath, she removed a bottle. She soaked a square
cotton pad with a portion of its contents.

When she began wiping it across my face, I reached up and
grasped her wrist.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Just cleansing your skin," she answered.  It was in a tone
of voice so absent of guile, that I let her continue.  "How often
do you shave?" she asked, as she gently stroked my face.

"A couple of times a week, I guess," I responded.

"That's unusual for a twenty-five year old, isn't it?"

"Not in my family," I said. "My dad didn't need to shave
every day until he was nearly forty, neither did any of his
brothers.

When she had finished, she brought out another bottle, which
I immediately recognized.  It was liquid makeup.

"Whoa, there.  You aren't thinking what I think you're
thinking, are you?  You're not putting any of that stuff on me -
no way."

Then the air was filled with the sweetest plea's and
"please's" for my indulgence.  Wouldn't I just let them show me
what was possible?  It would wash right off, afterward.

Their appeal to my male nature was so transparent, that it
was disarming.  I had it in my power to make them happy, merely
by sitting there - and letting them have their way with me.
Only, it wasn't in a way I wished they had in mind.  Still, all
that attention was intoxicating, so I acceded.

By the time they had finished, I was sure I knew how an
artist's canvas might feel.  After the liquid foundation had been
spread, blended, and set with translucent powder, they began
applying other powders in various hues.  Kate stroked each side
of my nose, and the tip of my chin, with a brush bearing traces
of tan.

Diane made me smile, then lightly dusted the fullest part of
my cheeks with pink, and followed with a darker shade just below.
Next she took a clean brush and went over the same areas, with an
interruption to use an previous brush to add a little more color
to one side.

Kate took over, and with light and dark shades of a brick
colored powder, began dusting my eyelids.  Next, she used a dark
pencil to draw along the edges of my eyelids.  She followed with
cotton swab in short strokes that didn't feel like they quite
followed the way she'd drawn the original lines.

When they were both satisfied, Diane fitted me with a wig. It
was a dark, golden blonde in color, and not quite shoulder
length.  She arranged it with an odd sort of comb which had only
four, long, widely spaced, teeth and rattail handle.

Only then was I allowed to see a mirror.  I found myself
unable to deny that they had done an excellent job.  I wasn't
exactly pretty, but my own mother probably wouldn't have
recognized me, or even, perhaps, that I wasn't a woman.

Still, the suit didn't look quite right; I wasn't curved in
the right places.  Returning to the case, Kate removed a long-
line brassiere and some pads for the cups; then she retrieved a
panty girdle which had pads strategically placed.

They moved me along quickly, forstalling any questions: suit
off; foundation garments on; a full slip, much fancier than the
half slip I'd used at first - a little lace would show in the
walking slit; then back on with the suit.  Much better. Clip on
some earrings.  Another look in the mirror.

"This is unbelievable," I whispered.

Kate gently suggested that I was so convincing that no one
could possibly guess that I wasn't what I appeared to be.
Furthermore, she insisted, this person before them was far too
feminine to be even a `Teddie', much less a `Ted'.  Her
conclusion, therefore, was that they ought to call me `Tess'.

Had the same thoughts been expressed by Jean, even in the
same tone of voice, I would have taken instant offense.  Instead,
I was so much under the spell of the moment that it entirely
escaped me that a guy shouldn't think of that as much of a
compliment.

Jean decided she'd had enough for tonight.

"I've got to get some sleep.  See you in the morning."

A round of hugs, and Jean was gone.  Then Diane began to ply
the `big sister' routine in earnest.

"Ted, you might want to consider going into the office like
this, instead of just half-and-half."

My eyes went wide.  "Why?" I said.

Kate took over "For one thing, because you'll be less likely
to get unwelcome attention from outsiders."

"Which is bound to make Elaine feel better about this," Diane
interjected.

Kate continued, "For another, I think you'll have an easier
time with the in-house people, too.  That gender-bent image you
presented Wednesday will just get you a lot of unwanted
attention."

"And you think that showing up, completely made over as a
woman won't?" I asked incredulously. "Anyway, that's not the
question I meant to ask. Let me try again. Why is it that YOU
want me to do this?"

"Because you are a macho pig," Kate teased, adding, in a
dramatic voice, "and we want you to walk a few miles in our `high
heeled moccasins' so you can know what it's like for the other
side."

As if on cue, Diane continued Kate's thought, with equal
exaggeration, "It's the least you can do, you know, considering
the thousands of years of oppression we've suffered at the hands
of you men."

After working with me for two years, they knew how responsive
I was to wry humor.

In a sudden reversion to seriousness, Kate moved in to close
the sale.

"Because we want you to win."

I tried to counter, "I can win without all this other stuff,"
gesturing at my head and upper body.  I saw a satisfied smile
form on Diane's face, which she quickly suppressed.  Instantly, I
realized it was because the gesture had been executed in a
feminine manner.

Weakly, I tried again, "Why aren't you on Jean's side?
You're each committed for equal shares of the dinners.  If I win,
you lose."

"I only did that to make sure Jean got her hook set firmly in
her own gills," Diane answered.

That left me speechless.

She continued, "Honestly!  It isn't as if you'd never been
invited here for dinner, before this."

With Diane pushing my ego with the prospect of forcing Jean
into providing dinners for me, and Kate assuring me that I
appeared absolutely authentic, my resistance was crumbling.  Add
an "assist" from the image I saw in the mirror, and my defenses
were overwhelmed.

Once I had committed myself to that, it wasn't much more
trouble for them to finangle me into going with them, as I was,
to get frozen yogurt cones at a nearby Dari-Delite.  All they had
to do was assure me that we'd go through the drive-through, so I
wouldn't have to get out of the car.

I became apprehensive when Kate insisted I sit up front.  She
chose to sit behind Diane.  However, once we were there, I
realized she'd done me a favor, by putting me as much out of view
from the service window as was possible.

I wasn't sure if Diane was teasing or not, when she suggested
that we take a parking place and eat right there.  Fortunately,
she yielded easily to my pleading and drove directly back to her
place.

All the excitement - and the extra time it took to remove the
makeup - rendered me one tired soul when I finally collapsed into
my borrowed bed.