The large matron in the dull, brown uniform led me into the room and pointed toward the metal table and chairs, where a young woman sat. The woman was dressed in a fashionable gray, summer-weight wool skirt and jacket. A black purse that matched her shoes sat on the table in front of her. She was busy scribbling on the yellow pad lying on the bare table; when I approached her, she stood up and lifted her hand.

“Hello, I’m Nancy Leonard,” she said with a smile. “I’m a reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Courier.”

“Good morning, Miss Leonard,” I replied, shaking her hand.

“Please be seated.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Carter...”

“It’s Mrs. Shelby. My name is Sugar Shelby,” I interrupted her.

“Oh! Of course. Please forgive me, Mrs. Shelby,” she apologized.

“I had it legally changed from Carter to Shelby several years ago. At that time, I also had my name changed from Timothy to Sugar,” I explained.

When I answered, the reporter furiously began writing notes on the yellow pad. She paused to glance up at me.

“But you weren’t legally married to Mr. Shelby,” she said.

“Oh no,” I laid my hand on hers, “My husband and I were married in Sweden. After my surgery, they recognized me as a woman there, and we were married in ’65 at the Storkyrkan Cathedral in Stockholm.”

The young woman wrote quickly, and I corrected, “It’s S-T-O-R-K-Y-R-K-A-N. Have you ever been to Sweden, Miss Leonard?”

“Ah, no. I haven’t.”

“My husband and I traveled a bit. He took me to Stockholm, Paris, London, Rome, and Madrid. I liked Madrid. We saw a bullfight there,” I said wistfully.

“Mrs. Shelby, you seemed to have led an interesting life. I think people would like to know your story.”

“My story?” I smiled. “I was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I married an older man for money. Turned out, I fell in love with him,” I became quiet, thinking of Hank.

“Mrs. Shelby, ah... may I call you Sugar?” the woman asked.

“May I call you ‘Nancy’?”

“Certainly,” she smiled back at me. “Sugar, you mentioned you were from the wrong side of the tracks, but you speak very well.”

“My husband insisted I speak properly. Many of his friends and business clients would have found it unacceptable to be with me socially if I had not learned. I tend to fall back into my old accent when I relax.”

“I hadn’t noticed. Let’s begin, shall we?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Start at the beginning,” she said.

“You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”

“Why, yes.”

She retrieved a familiar red and white pack from her purse to offer me one, then handed me a lighter. I lit the cigarette and drew the blue smoke in. I studied her. She was young, pretty, educated; her family was probably upper-middle-class. I blew out the smoke, and I placed my hands on my lap; I thought for a moment.

“Where to start?” I questioned.

“Well, to be blunt--” I looked directly at her. “Mama was dead. Alice, my sister, had left for college, and Daddy,” I sighed. “Daddy worked twelve hours a day at the rail yard laying and repairing tracks. He may still live in the tiny shack on Pike Road and still be a drunk.”

Nancy stopped writing to look at me. I let the blue-white smoke drift out of my mouth, then continued.

Alice and I were only a year apart. When Mama died, Alice took over the housework, and I did my best to help her. I would make supper while she did her homework. Unlike me, she always did well in school and was working towards winning a scholarship. I could barely read, but I was good at singing. I sang along with the Opry on the radio; even Daddy liked to hear me sing.

Many times Daddy wouldn’t come home until late, especially on payday. He went to O’Malley's Tavern across from the yard and drank. Afterward, he stumbled home, smelling of beer and whiskey, expecting a warm dinner. Either Alice or I would pull his plate from the stove and set it on the table. Daddy might eat it, shove it to the floor, or he might leave it on the table to pass out on his bed.

I crossed my legs and let the drab gray prison skirt fall over my knee.

Alice graduated from high school with honors and was awarded a scholarship. When she started attending, she would write and tell me the most wonderful stories of her classes and friends at college. She pledged a sorority and made the dean’s list. I was very proud of her, but I missed her so, so much. My heart ached for her.

I looked down at my nails; they were a bit ragged. I hadn’t had a manicure in weeks. I glanced up at the young woman to gauge her expression.

“How detailed do you want me to be?” I asked.

“We are alone; share what you want to." Nancy looked up from her notepad. “I’m not a priest or psychiatrist. I am not here to judge.”

I flicked the ash from my cigarette and thought, Liar.

I was a normal boy at that time. I thought about baseball and girls. When I thought about girls, it was how soft they were, who was the prettiest, or who had the largest breasts. One of the local boys taught me about masturbation. I often masturbated to models drawn in their underwear in ads of those pulpy women’s magazines. Occasionally, the subjects of my lusts were found in men’s magazines, that the other boys stole and passed around. One magazine had a story about a lesbian couple. I thought the writing was sexy, but I found myself wanting to be the younger woman in the story.”

“One night, I began to miss Alice. I went into the little room she had to look at her things; I opened her closet and found a dress she had left. It was a simple, cotton shift whose once bright pink color faded, and the material was thin. I took it from the closet and, for some reason, I had to wear it. I stripped my jeans and t-shirt off, and I stepped into it. Its hem fell a couple of inches above my knees; I glanced at myself in the mirror and imagined myself at Alice’s college taking classes and having friends,” I said wistfully.

“Was that your first time to impersonate a woman?” Nancy asked.

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to impersonate her, more of…admiring her,” I explained.

Since I was now responsible for all the chores and didn’t have a washing machine, I took the clothes to a laundromat near our house. One day, I was folding the laundry and discovered a pair of pink, nylon panties in our clothes. I didn’t know where they came from, but I was intrigued. They were soft and slick. When I returned home, I immediately stripped off my worn jeans and slid them on. It was like an electric shock. I would wear them after Daddy went to bed and during my private moments.”

I waited for her to glance up, but she didn’t. I took another puff, then continued.

As a senior in high school, I was able to leave early. Alone at home, I would wear my pink panties and Alice’s dress. I saved enough to buy a pair of used heels at the thrift store. I would imagine myself at college with my friends, and eventually, I fantasized about having a boyfriend. He would be tall, well-dressed, and an athlete - captain of the basketball team or baseball team.

I stopped going to school. No one seemed to care that an eighteen-year-old boy, literally, from across the tracks, never came to high school. I would get up, make Daddy’s breakfast and lunch, then clean the house. Afterward, I might go to the laundromat or mend his clothes while I listened to the Opry. At night, I made sure to have dinner ready for him. The school didn’t care. He didn’t care. No one did.

It was a cool September Friday night when Daddy was out spending his paycheck, I was at home alone. I was singing with the Opry while wearing my cotton dress, and I held the skirt out to practice a dance step. I twirled around to land in the arms of Calvin Borne. Calvin worked with Daddy at the yard and was a giant of a man.

When he caught me, I didn’t know what to do; I just stared at him. He was dirty and smelled like whiskey. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as his massive hands held me like a child. He dropped me from his grip to circle me. His eyes started at my high heels, and I felt his eyes travel up my body.

“I heard you singing outside,” he explained. “I came into the house to see if Daryl was home.” 

“Daddy’s not here,” I whispered.

“Oh,” he said and looked around, a bit confused.

“I like to ah... pretend I sing on the Opry,” I mumbled. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, his eyes drifting down to my legs. “Does your Daddy know you do this?”

“I... ah... I... no.”

Calvin stumbled over and sat down in the big sofa-chair facing the radio. He reached in his back pocket and drew out a half-empty pint of rye whiskey. He tilted the bottle back and took a long drink.

“Let’s see what you can do, girly,” he slurred.

Nervously, I stepped in front of him and waited for the song to begin. Luckily, I knew the song on the radio; it was one of my favorites, and I began to sing. His eyes never left me, but he continued to sip from his bottle while he watched me. I swayed to the music and slowly performed the dance moves I practiced. I noticed several times he shifted in the big chair, and openly tugged at his pants.

I stepped close to him, and he caught me by the wrist to draw me down to sit on his lap. When I fell on the big man’s lap, I felt his member, through the dress' thin material, hard against me. His eyes locked onto mine, and I caught my breath; my heart was thumping in my chest. My mouth opened slightly, and then he pushed his thick lips against mine. I felt his tongue wet with rye whiskey penetrate deep into my mouth to fill it. I do not know how long we kissed, but I heard myself moan softly. My hands pressed onto him and pushed aside his dirty workshirt, my fingers buried into his chest hair. He laid his head back into the sofa-chair, and I kissed his bull neck.

"Yeah, baby doll," Calvin muttered.

I continued to kiss the big man, whose breath quickened. I shifted slightly to place a thigh between his legs to caress his excited manhood. Calvin placed his hands on my arms to pin me in place. My leg moved slowly at first; his hips rocked with me; he moved his hands to grip the cheeks of my ass. I quickened my thrusts, and he lifted his pelvis to meet them.

"Keep it up, baby doll," he moaned.

I slowed down, but Calvin slapped an ass cheek. I immediately increased my pace. He moaned again. A few seconds later, he arched his back and gripped my cheeks. I pressed my lips to his, and forced my tongue into his mouth. He grunted and shuddered underneath me, then lay still.

I looked at him, his eyes closed, panting. I kissed his lips softly. He opened his brown eyes and looked into mine. He pushed me off his lap and rose out of the chair. I heard the screen door slam shut in the kitchen.

The large matron opened the door; I pulled the cigarette from my mouth and blinked. The memory faded from me, leaving me in the cold visiting room at the state penitentiary. My eyes lazily drifted up to focus on the young reporter, who sat still, biting her lower lip.