The story so far: debt-ridden Sissy Blane's first obligatory date with Mr. Plumrose is about to take place.
'...there's nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' The truth of the old saying occurred to me as I awoke on the fateful Friday and was surprised to discover that I was looking forward to the events of the coming evening.
Arising from my bed feeling energized I bounced downstairs to make a breakfast of oatmeal and raisins and some french-press coffee. I decided that would be it, food-wise, for me that day, because I was determined to be sharp-eyed and alert in the P.M. No point endangering my coming efforts with the vagaries of digestion on this fraught day.
Back upstairs I showered, then looked at the clock to discover it wasn't even 9 o'clock in the morning yet, so I cleaned the bathroom. Then I washed my wig. I used baby shampoo and followed up with an expensive conditioner. My casual wig was short and perky but this one was for my more ambitious forays and it was a heavier shoulder-length style. The manufacturer called it 'Luxury' and it was meant to be glamorous and seductive in a rich, controlled, old-school mode; gentle waves, a flirtatious fringe and realistic looking strands of ash interwoven with strawberry blonde made this peruke a real crowning glory. This would be the third time I wore it. After the conditioned rinse I pinned it to a Styrofoam wig-head and left it to drip into the sink.
If there was a worry in my day it was only over what to wear. I decided on a charcoal tweed micro-miniskirt with a raspberry stripe. It would just cover the ecru welt of my thigh-highs when I stood in the pointy black patent flats I chose to drive up to the Plumrose place in, they being practical and comfortable, but attractively assertive. (Besides, there was no telling whether or not the man would even personally meet me in my 'street clothes', so I might as well please myself.) Over this, I'd wear a sleeveless cream shell and a close-fitting black cardigan woven of synthetic fibres which gave it a slightly lurid sheen. Last but certainly not least I chose for my underwear white, Bali Secret Hug full coverage briefs (with the seam running vertically between the butt cheeks) and a vintage Frederick's lightly padded white bra.
There had been no talk of my upper torso in my interview with Madame and so I assumed that Mr. P was, like most admirers of sissies and T gjrls, strictly a leg man. The babydoll nightie hanging in my garment bag had the suggestion of a built-in bra in its bodice which outlined each breast with an elastic triangle, my nipples stroked the tender weave of the chiffon gently, a bit like a young girl might feel in a training bra. I liked the way such things put me in mind of a maiden, on her first foray into the wider world of male appreciation.
Cindy had kindly offered to come by around six to check my makeup and catch anything I might have missed. Until then I had plenty of time for fine tuning; applying my tweezers to hairs at the corners of my mouth, my eyebrows and my chin; applying toenail polish (pink); and taking an electric razor yet again to my underarms and the area to the left and right of my brown pubic 'landing strip' (not to mention the skin of my scrotum and perineum which had already been polished to a fare-the-well.) My actual facial shave would be the last thing I would do before applying my makeup in the early evening.
After a couple of hours of this puttering, I went out to the 'backyard' to check out my car. Most of the homes in my neighborhood did not have driveways in the front of the house but used an entrance off the alley that ran the length of the block behind the homes. This was convenient for discreet crossdressers like myself, who appreciated the anonymity it conferred. The Karmann Ghia sat on the brick patio pointed at a gap in the hedge. I lifted the hood and squatted behind the motor bay to check my oil. I also gave a tug to the gas line where it ran into the carburetor (I'd had it pop out on the freeway once when I was 'Betty' and it was a frightening experience.) I looked at the battery cable too. Mechanically I was good to go.
I did love the little mole-grey coupe. My aunt had pampered it and re-upholstered it in brown naugahyde and installed a cassette-based sound system back when that was the cutting edge technology. She had never switched to digital so if I wanted to listen to current sounds I just played my phone through Bluetooth speakers. Madame H had insinuated that I dishonored my dear aunt's memory with my current lifestyle. But I felt I honored her every time I drove the Ghia and maintained it faithfully against the inroads of time, wear, and weather
"I want you to try this on your eyebrows, Betty." Cindy gave me the prosthetic adhesive and showed me how to brush it into the brow hair and press the brow flat while pulling it into a thin feminine line. It smelt terrible coming out of the bottle but that was fleeting. It was tenacious stuff that turned my eyebrows into plastic. Cindy also brought along the patent solvent you needed to get it off.
"Get it at Cinema Secrets, Betty, when you run out. But it's not cheap."
I knew I would always need this stuff. Some T girls shaved their eyebrows and painted perfect brows on but I couldn't do that if I was going to get a job, which it seemed I would have to do, pronto.
Something that didn't smell terrible coming out of the bottle was my late aunt's Chanel No. 5 eau de parfum. After she died it contained just a millimeter or so, coloring the bottom of the glass, and I had spent the last year judiciously dabbling precious drops behind my ears but on this occasion I decided to go for broke and placed the fragrant droplets on all my pulse points and on that special topiary above my pubis. The huge and ancient bottle that had always had pride of place in my aunt's boudoir was finally empty! Cindy couldn't help but comment about how wonderfully the hall smelled when I had greeted her a the door.
"Also, Betty. I don't want to hurt your feelings but I AM glad I came over. That mini-skirt is not going to work, you look like a transvestite circa 2005 going to 'schoolgirl night' at the club. Plumrose won't see you until after you change, if my experience is any indication, but you never know. Even if you are met by one of his people you still want to make a good impression and that skirt is really just a wide belt. Anyway, I anticipated this, so brought along something new for you to try on... "
Cindy bent down to retrieve an American Apparel bag from her carry-all. It contained a grey pleated mini-skirt. I stepped out of the skirt I was wearing and pulled the new item up over my hips and buttoned it in the small of my back. The waist was navel height, the hem hit a handspan above mid-thigh and when I twirled the pleated skirt flowed out wonderfully.
"I love it!" I said.
"Size 8. It's much sexier than the other one, Betty."
Cindy's final suggestion, that I use press-on nails instead of painting my own pampered fingernails also made sense to me if I were gainful employment soon. She had even brought some in her bag of tricks and after we applied them together I admired my outstretched hand; the French nails struck me as equally sexy and sophisticated.
I followed Cindy's Land Rover out of my yard and through the streets to San Vicente Boulevard where we both turned right; she, a few blocks to her home and I all the way to Brentwood where a left on Kenter took me up to Sunset. I'd left the house at 8:30 which was cutting it a bit fine but I had a notion that in this case ten minutes late would be more welcome than five minutes early. As I drove I reflected warmly on Cindy's generosity. I glanced down at the tennis skirt she had gifted me. The tweed mini that had been my first choice would have revealed my undies as I drove in this low car with its scooped-out bucket seats. SUVs in the next lane or pedestrians at corners would be treated to not just a fleeting triangle but a blinding white pyramid of white nylon tricot between my thighs, but the pleated tennis skirt nestled itself into an arrangement of folds that glided across my lap demurely as my legs worked the pedals. As a matter of fact, I started to find the whole ensemble not a little arousing in the cold cockpit of the Ghia. My thighs were warmly ensconced in my nylon thigh-highs and my chest and shoulders were protected by the black, 3/4 sleeve cardigan, but my plucked forearms and my bare legs in that unguarded border between stocking-top and panty enjoyed a feeling of naked freshness in the unheated car. This and the weight of my glamour wig brushing my shoulders made me quite aware of the mantle of girly-ness I carried through the early Los Angeles evening.
The traffic on Sunset was busy but fluid, the late rush-hour had given way at last to pleasure seekers headed toward Westwood and points east. I slipped a Cal Tjader cassette into the player and pressed the button. At Beverly Glen the left lane was backed up with Valley dwellers, waiting to turn onto Beverly Glen. I kept to their right and seemed to zoom by in the span of a vibraphonic arpeggio and I thought that I just might be on time this evening.
'If you pass The House of Blues you've gone too far', had been Cindy's parting directions, but here it was before me and on my left was the street that would take me up into the hills. I turned rather abruptly across the oncoming traffic and began the ascent. In half a block I could see that Madame H was right, it would be second gear all the way. Never mind, second was a gear this car liked very well. I kept the revs high and I climbed rentlessy up the steep grades, my eyes equally on the street signs and on the spectacular vistas that were revealed in the gaps between the houses: the towers of Century City, the bright fun-scape of West Hollywood, immediately below, and far to the east, the Emerald City skyline of downtown L.A.
It seemed as if I had been scaling the mountainside for fifteen minutes, although it couldn't have been half that long. Tilted back in my seat, with my legs working the clutch and throttle, my skirt had slid all the way up my thighs and uncovered my brown stocking tops, I smoothed it forward as I pulled into an entryway bearing the street number I sought. A gate barred further ingress and I cranked down my window to press the intercom button mounted on a stanchion.
"Yes, hello?" A mildly accented female voice came through the night's almost alpine crispness.
"It's Betty Blane, I have an appointment with Mr. Plumrose," I replied, my demure femme-voice sounding suddenly absurd to my ears.
But the reply came brisk and cheerful, "just park anywhere in the driveway and I will meet you at the door."
A Bentley convertible and a Mini Cooper were parked next to the curb of a circular driveway that created a tiny park in its center which was planted with a small, spikey, floss silk tree. I stood on the walkway next to the Ghia and I could just barely see over the property's wall. The view was, of course, quite grand. As I was bending over retrieving my garment bag from the vestigial backseat the house door clicked open behind me. I jerked upright and when I turned I saw a young woman, short and small-waisted, with straight blue-black hair that fell below her shoulders, she wore a white tailored blouse tucked into very expensive and very tight jeans.
She said, "Hello, Betty. Won't you please follow me?" And I did follow her, my eyes on her heart-shaped bottom, into an entrance hall where her black heels clicked on a parquet floor. We stopped and she turned and smiled prettily at me.
"My name is Lourdes, Betty, you will find everything you require in this room."
She gestured toward a walnut colored door with her right hand.
"I will be back in fifteen minutes. Will that be enough time?"
"Oh yes, thank you, Lourdes," I replied, feeling unduly grateful for some reason.
"Excellent!" she said, "Mr. Plumrose is anxious to meet you."
She turned crisply and left. I had almost expected the woman to click her heels.
Once inside I discovered a bedroom much like my own at home, spacious, with an attached bathroom, but, I would soon discover, better appointed to an alarming degree. I'll admit that the new surroundings, indeed the novelty of my current mission had me a little discombobulated but I shook off the strangeness and addressed myself to the business at hand -- fifteen minutes is not long for a t-girl to change clothes.
Throwing the garment bag onto the queen bed, I kicked off the flats and stripped naked. Before I went into the bathroom, in which Lourdes, or someone, had left a light burning, I searched for the room light and found a rheostat switch on the wall by the door. I pushed it up. The splendor I had sensed, and smelled, was laid bare. One wall was entirely mirrored, seams in the brilliantly clean glass panels revealed that they were several doors of an immense closet. I watched myself as I crossed to the bathroom. I found my makeup in excellent repair and I just plumped my wig with my fingertips and stepped back into the mirrored room.
I just had to see. I strode to the glass closet doors and slid them open. What I saw made me gasp, I felt a twinge in my groin and shut the doors immediately. In the mirror I saw myself with my knees bent as if I had to pee, my eyes were wide and one hand covered my gaping mouth. My reflection looked back at me as if to say, 'did we really see that?'
Yes, we did. I went to the garment bag and retrieved my cell phone from its pocket. Opening two closet doors wide, I stepped back and took a picture of the closet' s interior.
Reviewing this high-def snapshot later, by myself, and also with Cindy, I realize that the reaction I'd had to the closet was a result of the theatricality of its contents and that my impression was exactly what the designer of any spectacle wanted to elicit - shock and awe. I might have opened a wardrobe door in the dressing rooms of a Las Vegas chorus line, or more likely the Moulin Rouge or Crazy Horse. To the left and right of me had been racks of lurid outfits; pink and black and blue gingham onesies, tight dresses in lurex, leather, lycra and vinyl of various degrees of shinyness and transparency. Beneath these garments were shoes and boots, all high-heeled, that I could see, both in and out of boxes. Directly before me stood a waist-high chest-of-drawers upon which a wooden wig-head sported a towering honey blond headpiece of the kind worn by country music queens and strippers of the last century or drag queens of any century. There was a tiara on its crown and it was magnificent.
Below it was the tiers of drawers, half a dozen of them. They had no drawer pulls but featured cut-outs to insert one's hand into. But one didn't have to open a drawer to see it's contents: the cutaway in all cases revealed the neat folds of lingerie, some with edges of lace both modest and broad on garments of nylon and silk, sheer, black, red, white, champagne, coral and mauve.
I could guess what was behind the other doors of this wall closet, this was just a third of it. I forced myself away. Away and back to dressing. I had wasted five minutes with this fascinating distraction but luckily there wasn't much for me to put on. I shimmied the babydoll top over my head and pulled the linen garter belt around my waist and booked the clasp in front of my navel, nice and tight, then sucked in my tummy even tighter while I slid the belt one hundred and eighty degrees so the pretty panel faced front. The stainless steel tab eyes dangled cold against my thighs in this freezing room. Now came the delicate part - pulling the full fashioned stockings up and attaching the garter straps, the straps should be as straight as possible and left and right ranks should be a mirror image of each other. I accomplished this quickly but carefully and took a moment to lie back on the bed and lift my legs into the air while caressing the miracle fabric they were woven of, the feeling never failed to thrill me. I dropped my feet to the floor and worked the sheer Nancy King panties up my legs, loving the drag of the elastic as it skipped across the woof and weft of the nylons.
I tucked my incipient chubbie down between my thighs, as I pulled the panties up over the garter straps and settled the waistband atop the linen garter belt itself. I expected Lourdes at the door any time now. I shoved my feet down ruthlessly into the beautiful, cruel pumps and stood beside the bed. I took a few steps, the discomfort and the concentration required to wear this outfit was transformative, it drove niggling, distracting thoughts clean away and left behind focus and an elegant kind of gravitas. When Lourdes' rap-a-tap-tap came through the door a minute later, I was composed and ready for battle.
I followed Lourdes around a corner and into a long corridor adding my clicking heels to hers in the chilly and nearly dark hallway, (only a white LED strip along the baseboard guided our feet) the left-hand side of the passage was entirely clear glass.
