Tomboy

Davita Minton

Serial Trans

Tomboy

    It was out of the ordinary for her to travel.  She preferred the relative safety of her own lodgings.  This, however, was a special occasion.  On a whim; most likely because there was a picture attached, she clicked on a 't4m pic' ad.  ''Or was it 't4t pic'?''  She mused at a later date.  She could not remember.  Notwithstanding, it was an exceedingly rare thing for her to do.  Upon reading the post and discovering it was actually a 'tt 4...' anyone and everyone she hopefully responded, complete with pictures and full stats, posthaste.  And when she read the timely e-mail response that not only extended a friendly invitation to attend the gathering but also the secretly hoped for information that a 'top' had already committed to attend, she thought; ''Oh yeah.  I'm going.''

    In her favorite short shorts and a tiny sleeveless pink 't' and her various and sundry rings and bracelets and anklets and necklaces and nothing else she tramped around the grounds of the labyrinthine apartment complex, in the dark, barefooted, for several minutes, barely avoiding detection twice, until she finally reached her destination.  And to her great disappointment she learned that the 'top' had opted to leave even before the beginning of the festivities.

    ''They're not model quality girls certainly, but they're not that bad.''  She thought, in an effort to understand why the fellow had left before consummation.  For a moment she was tempted to ask Lisa; the obvious Master of Ceremonies, if she had shared with the gentleman the pictures she had sent her in her initial response but then, upon sensing that the implications of such a question were indiscreet she thought better of it.

    Lisa was a tall, very thin, almost gaunt creature with intensely engaging and ceaselessly searching brown eyes and long, straight, bleach-blond hair that she assiduously kept the long bangs of which positioned as close to the margins of her eyes as possible by routinely and fastidiously gathering them between her elegantly long and thin fingers and then gently and repeatedly pulling them straight down over her high cheekbones and past her pronounced jaw line to very near her breasts.  Her nose was unremarkable possibly because of its proximity to her perfectly sized and beautifully shaped mouth.  She was dressed from head to toe and to the palms of her lovely and graceful hands all in black.  The only flesh beyond that of her face and hands that was visible was her long, slender and sinewy neck and a thin sliver of each upper thigh between the bottom of her impossibly tight corset and her opaque thigh high stockings.  And in stocking feet she soundlessly and gracefully flitted about the cramped and cluttered confines of the tiny place serving refreshments and retrieving necessities.

    The other attendee was almost wholly unremarkable accepting for her ridiculous bouffant hairdo and her extraordinarily strange behavior.  All she did was lay on the bed and comment on, or describe, or repeat things she or Lisa either did or said.  And she constantly addressed Lisa as 'Mastor'.  ''Mastor is getting drinks.  You look lovely Mastor.  Oh, Mastor is coming to bed.  Oh, Mastor.  He's got a big one.  Mastor going to suck that big one.  He's going to kiss you Mastor.  He's going to fuck you Mastor.  Mastor getting fucked.  I want to get fucked Mastor.''  And on, and on, and on.  ''It's no wonder that guy left.''  She thought.

    The first attempted session ended unsatisfactorily, all around.  ''This is not my thing.''  She thought.  She was considering whether or not to make her apologies and discretely but hurriedly leave when Lisa suggested another drink and some straight porn.  ''Mastor putting on porn.''  

    Soon she found herself sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed watching pornography on an old 19' television.  The content; while interesting, was working to little effect.  ''Hell.  I could have done this at home.  And with better results.''  She thought.  But then, Lisa glided over to her with a fresh drink and snuggled up behind her on the bed and began to gently yet maddeningly kiss her neck and ears while whispering stimulating words of encouragement.

    All around, the second session ended most satisfactorily.  She joyfully fulfilled the requirements of a role she had not played for a very long time.  On the way home, and in bed that night, and for days to come she was haunted by visions of Lisa.  Her hair, her eyes, her mouth.  Kissing that mouth, and her cheeks, and her ears, and her neck, and her eyelids and......  She had not kissed anyone like that, with that kind or passion for many years.  Soon, however, the visions and the memories and the desire to maintain them and even recreate them; albeit with someone other than Lisa, engendered first confusion and then fear.  And compounding the issue even further was the fact that she had only recently extricated herself from a wholly unfruitful 'traditional' male/female relationship with a female co-worker whom she had grown, with time, to love; grown to love for in the beginning the impetus had been a pure public relations ploy, yet that she had known from very early on would never consent to a truly honest and open relationship with her.

    Truly bereaved as she was, in the aftermath of these two episodes, especially concerning that of her co-worker she wondered; ''What am I doing?  Why am I doing this?  Why am I feeling this way?  What does it mean?  Am I really... who i think I am?''

    ''It's just a caprice.  Nothing more.  A phase I'm going through.  I keep getting the same guys after me all the damn time.  I'm bored with them.  New talent is so rare now.  I've tapped this market out.  This is nothing.  It will pass.''  She told herself, in self-defense.  And to a certain extent, she was correct.  As the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, and as she searched for and discovered new sources of potential companionship the feelings of loss and doubt ebbed away.  Moreover, she also surprised herself in that she accepted and even embraced what she now considered to be a long latent desire for female companionship.

    Over the next several months she tried, in vain, to find either a Trans woman or a cis gendered woman to develope an open and honest relationship with.  But then, on christmas eve, Lisa resurfaced.  And even though she knew that it would be the same as before, just another one time thing, as so many of her liaisons were, and that she would most likely, once again, have to endure the lingering effects of intense intamcy, which she never had to do before Lisa, she sent the invitation anyway.

    It was wonderful from the very first moment.  She was just the same as she was before.  Her lovely hair, perfectly bisected by her shoulders, hung close to her mesmerizing eyes.  And that mouth, and those lips, and the entirety of her small, soft, painted, and provocatively upturned face.  She was close, with her arms around her waist, never looking away.  They exchanged pleasantries and embraced.  They parted slightly and looked at each other.  Then they kissed and kissed and kissed.  On and on and wonderfully on.  And into the gloaming below, without ever looking away, Lisa glided down and down and down.

    This time it was just the two of them.  They could linger in each others arms as long as they liked.  They could commiserate in peace and privacy.  At one point Lisa produced a long blond hair wig from her overnite bag and offered it for a try on.  Lisa humbly insisted she be allowed to position the wig properly and brush it out before viewing in the mirror.  As if with a trained hand Lisa worked her magic.  When she saw herself for the first time as the possessor of long beautiful blond hair she gasped and brought both hands up to cover her mouth.  Even in the dim light of the kitchen area candles the experience was transformational.  She darted into the bathroom for a better look.  She gasped again.  For several minutes she went back and forth from one mirror to the other marveling at the complete change in her that this simple thing had wrought.  She told Lisa she had a strange and uplifting feeling of recognition, as if she had seen this person in the mirror before.  ''It's you my dear.  The 'You' you've denied for decades.''   Lisa said.  And when next Lisa produced a lovely backless and sleeveless knee length black dress and outfitted her with it and introduced her to herself in the mirror; ''Come meet the real you.'' she was speechless.  She blushed.  She cried.  The implications were staggering.  They embraced.  They kissed.  They fell together again.

    In the afterglow, for one shining moment, all was right in her world.  But then, reality, cloaked in the guies of a few simple words, interjected itself with humbling force.  ''Don't judge now.''  Lisa softly implored as she produced from her over-nite bag a 'bic' lighter and a small thoroughly blackened glass pipe.  And as Lisa studiously imbibed whatever poisonous concoction that lay within the hideous looking thing she watched her in wonder as she was reminded of her earlier centiments.  She thought; ''Maybe there is no 'right one' for me.''

    Soon they were commiserating again.  Swapping stories and tips and accessories.  She joyfully consented to keep both the wig and the dress but only when Lisa consented to accept a rarely used set of 'C' cup sized self-adhesive silicone breast forms in exchange.  The locale before the full-length mirror was a busey place that evening.

    Deep in the night, inhibitions drowned, with delayed regret but instant gratification for both of them she relented to partake of Lisa's chosen poison.  Lisa was right.  A body that was previously unresponsive to stimuli was suddenly enlivened and intamacy was reborn anew, and enhanced, even to the point of inspiring the utterance; yet all to often in vainglory as it was in this instance, of a certain liberating three word phrase.

    Mindfullness found her behind her time.  ''How long had they slept?  Had they slept at all?''  She wondered.  It was all a blurr.  Regardless, she would be late for work.  ''No matter.''  She told Lisa as she downed one last shot.  ''It's christmas.  There will be very few guests about. I'll get some sleep at work.''  But then, suddenly, she was mortified.  She had never before been in this situation.  No one she knew well had ever seen her dressed.  And conversely, no one that had seen her dressed had ever seen her otherwise.  The prospect of anyone at all ever seeing her in both iterations of herself had always been; since the moment several years ago when the possibility of such an event first occurred to her, an utter and incomprehensable anathema.   But there was Lisa, in the bathroom, with the door open, metamorphosizing before her very eyes.  She reluctantly began to don what she often considered; ''loathsome and burdensome garments of falsehood.''

    ''Hell.  She's not bad looking that way either.  Perhaps a little to short and thin for me, but I'd let her do me right now anyway."  She thought.  "Oh yeah!  She doesn't do that.  Mores the pity.''  Then, as she dressed, she shared her concerns on the subject of wardrobe choices.

    ''Whats the big whoop?  It doesn't bother me.  Now I'd prefer......  Well, you know.''  Lisa replied.  And as she replied she paused and looked her up and down as she finished dressing.  Then, with a warm and friendly smile she added; ''I like it.  Now you're a Tomboy.''   She immediately apreciated the centiment and they both had a good, if not ironic laugh at the situation.  Then they hugged and made their perfunctory promises to stay in touch and meet again, and then they parted company.

    Her first few hours of work were brutal.  This day, of all days, her supervisor said he was staying awhile; ''to catch up on some paperwork.''  But as she suspected, and hoped, however, he soon made his excuses and left mid-morning.  And on a sun-swathed wind-swept un-occupied penthouse balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico she took a much needed nap.

    Later, as she was making her duely appointed rounds, and as the fog of over-indulgence began to dissipate she remembered 'Tomboy' with a wan smile.  ''Yeah right.''  She thought, as she stopped and looked down at herself.  But then, not a minute later, when she caught herself standing in a forbidden posture; forbidden for she feared it belied her true self, she burst out in cathartic laughter as an ephiphany dawned.

The End

Moving Day

Davita Minton

Trans Tales

Moving Day

    This would be her third; ''And final.'' she thought, attempt to move to San Francisco.

    ''That's where my people are.''  She often thought, in reference to the question that no person had ever asked of her, yet that she often imagined would be asked of her if, that is, she had ever openly admitted that this was her true destination, which she had not done either of the previous two times, and which she fully intended not to do this time either.  Unlike before, however, when she told her family in Illinois; her two adult children and her two brothers, that she was moving to Los Angeles she had no family or friends here to tell anything to.  Here, she had only co-workers and they would be told nothing.

    It wasn't' so much the LGBT community that drew her to California.  Nor was it the climate so much either, although both were significant factors in her choice.  Overall it was the California mystique that drew her there.  The most liberal state in the country.  The 'Left' coast.  Hollywood. The Haight and Summer of Love.  The Castro.  Harvey Milk.  California here I come.  Go west young man.  And to top it off with an LGBT community and culture that seemed; at least from a distance, to be thriving and prescient, that she had heard about innumerable times over the years in every conceivable pop-culture genre, combined with a moderate climate and immediate proximity to an ocean, it was the stuff dreams were made of.  It just seemed like the safest place to live.  The safest place to live openly, that is.

          She lived in a coastal community now.  Just five minutes from the beach.  And she worked at a beachfront condominium complex.  She loved the beaches there.  In places there were miles of unbroken undeveloped and sparsely peopled stretches of coast.  During the off-season, on weekdays, there were beaches within a twenty minute drive where a shy girl could walk and swim and sunbath clad however she wished, unabashed.  And any time of year; except for the relatively few days a year it was to cold to do so, this place was perfect, she felt, to indulge her long innurred and secretive nocturnal erotic ramblings.

          "Woman cannot live by beach alone."  She told herself.  "I need to be free.  And I want to be with like minded people.  And more men.  And something else besides the beach that's pleasing to the eye.  And more men.  And cities.  And mountains.  And forests.  And more men.  And culture.  And no more predominantly ultra-conservative, creationistic, bigoted and culturally backward general population.  And more men.  And maybe even a few receptive women as well"

          As was originally conceived the plan called for her to get 'dressed' the morning of the move and never look back, either on NW Florida or her former life as a man.  However, with the passage of time; and a lot had passed for she had postponed the move three times already, many questions and previously unforeseen problems and doubts and fears had crept into her mind undermining the efficacy of the original plan.

          As the first of the three proposed dates for the move approached she began to both visualise and speculate on milestone type events.  And from the very beginning potential problems very quickly presented themselves.  When she began to think about what it was she was going to wear that first day, on the road, in the car, she encountered her first roadblock.  "Oh shit!"  She thought, stupefied by the simplicity of the thing.  "How could I have not foreseen this?"  She was referring to the first time she would have to face the general public.  At a gas station or rest-stop or Restaurant or convenience store.  "What the hell am I going to wear?"

          During the previous two abortive cross country moves from central Illinois to San Francisco she had worn her favorite cut-off short shorts and a halter top and pink flip flops; but only in the car.  Never outside of the car.  Always beside her on the passenger seat she kept her protective clothing.  A track suit.  Pants and jacket and slip-on shoes.  Given the nature of a 2100 mile, three day drive and all the requisite interruptions of progress she soon became well practised at both donning and doffing her protective clothing.  "If I had owned a smartphone back then who knows how long it would have taken me to get there."  She thought, in reference to her behind the wheel behavior during those two trips when she would often slow her speed when passing tractor-trailer trucks and linger a few seconds alongside the cabs of the trucks with the hope that operators with certain proclivities might appreciate and react to her shaved and naked thighs.  As she recalled there were a few reactions, but to her disappointment nothing ever came of them.

    "I cannot dress like that this time.  No fucking way.  Not if I'm all in on this.  I cannot be slutting it up at gas stations and rest..... stops.''  And here she froze as the spectre of one of the most basic human needs and animal functions concerning the primary function and very reason for the existence of rest-stops unleashed a cataract of perceived challenging and potentially catastrophic situations.

She visualised herself walking through the lobby of a typical government style, floor-to-ceiling tiled building with the unruly hair of her wig blurring her vision and stopping in front of the two competing open-entry style lavatories.  'Men' on the left.  'Women' on the right.  Her thoughts now spiraled out of control.

''What do I do?  Left is out of the question no matter what I'm wearing.''

''Unless I go 'track-suit' and pull off the wig every time.''

''But that's not the plan.''

''But right?''

''Not slutting it up you're not.''

''What about my capri pants?  With that little blouse and the open front sweater and wig and flip flops?''

''Make-up!  Without make-up they'll know.''

''I'll get make-up.  How much could it cost?  I can afford it.  It won't break the budget.  Then I can confidently........''

''But no boobs!  Flat chest will give me away for sure.  Must have boobs.''

''You were going to buy some later anyway.''

''But only after getting there, and getting a place and a job.''

''It has to be done.  The budget will be ok, I hope.''

''But what about day two?  And day three?  And day four or five in San Francisco?  The same cloths for four or five days?  And........ where the hell am I gonna shave?''

''Electric razor.  In the car.''

''But it doesn't shave as close.  Will make-up conceal what's left?  Damn!  Where am I going to put it on?  And take it off?  If I can't go in without make-up, where am I going to put it on?  And take it off?''

''In the car?''

''Really?  With no experience?  You really think you can apply make-up using a rearview mirror?''

''I'll get a hand held mirror.''

''But what about privacy?  There's no privacy in the front seat of a car.  And no lighting.  Make-up by dome light?  And space?  It will be too......''

''Cheap motels!  That will solve every problem.  Thorough shaves.  And not just my face.  Space and privacy and lighting for makeup.  And a good nights sleep.  You know you hate sleeping in......''

''Now!  There goes the budget.  Fuuuuuck!''  And here she hung her head in exasperation. Very quickly, however, she raised her head again and sat very still with a wry smile creeping into her features as a new and exhilarating idea swept away the ambivalence induced confusion pervading her mind.  ''Why not?''  She thought, in reference to the erotic possibilities inherent of cheap motels.  ''If it's the cost of doing business, I might as well get my moneys worth out of it.''

For a time, as the first, then the second and the third proposed move dates came and went she thought little of the challenges that lay ahead.  She felt she had survived the first assault of adversity and persevered quite nicely.  She had addapted her plan; for somewhat selfish reasons she understood, and accepted the reality of unforeseen expenses.  Occasionally other daunting possibilities relating to post-transit situations flitted through her mind, but usually only when a proposed move date loomed.  As each date fell victim to postponement, however, her anxieties waned accordingly.   But now a new date; or rather a new approximate date was set.  ''May.  Yeah.  Sometime in early May.  There are three paydays in April.  That should boost my savings to an acceptable level.  Or early June, at the latest.''  She thought.  As it was late January now, the 'new approximate date' was still comfortably three months away, at the earliest.  Unlike before though, when she had set a date and then all but forgot it until the date was a mere three or four weeks away, this time things were different.

She couldn't remember when, exactly, this new and deeply disturbing idea had occurred to her.  She supposed it might it might have appeared as early as just after the first postponement.  But back then it was easily shrugged off as little more than self-flagellation for a perceived failure.  But now with three postponements and no exact date set the idea that she was deceiving herself, that she never really intended to go, that she never really intended to come out.  And additionally that she was beginning to believe an ancillary idea just might be true.  That she had missed her window and she was too old and tired and fat and ugly and stupid and worthless to make such a journey and face such a litany of challenges.

Every time there was any reference to anything even remotely related to California; and there were many such reference it seemed for she was an avid and daily consumer of multiple different podcasts, she was reminded of the move and all of its implications and ramifications.

"I mean how long do I have really?  Before I'm so old I'll possess no resemblance whatsoever to a real woman.  Before I become a spectacle.  A ridiculous old man in a dress.  Ten years maybe?  Is it worth it?  Is it really worth all the pain and heartache and danger of living openly for such a short period of time?  And transition?  Really?  By the time I've completed that...... I'll be......"

"Oh stop it.  You're still doing well.  Hell!  You just had a twenty one year old give you a serious dicking down.  And he love it.  He said so.  And his passion and longevity proved it.  And he wants to come back for more.  You still got it."

"But for how long?  I do not want to be ridiculous."

"How long?  How long?  How long is right.  How long can you go on like this?  This thing is progressing rapidly.  You're doing more and more all the time.  And you want to do even more.  You want to go all the way.  You know that.  And the longer you stay here....... Doing more and more; sometimes despite yourself, you are going to be outed.  You want that here?  Really?  You know it would be ugly.  This is pro-active.  It's the right way to do it, and in the right place too.  The safest place.  The best place."

"Then why do I do this every damned day now?  Why?  Why do I keep putting it off?  And what about when you get there?  Are going full- time?  Or are you going to slink around in the shadows like you do here?  And she wants to visit again in May.  And he will want you to visit them in Atlanta in June.  How do I say no to either of them?  I love them."

"And here we are again.  It all comes down to having to choose between the pros and the cons.  And telling them 'no' is definitely a con."  And here she began once again to visualise and contemplate her written pros and cons list.  And yet again, upon summing it up, nothing had changed.  Including the three word final product of the summation process. 'You are going'.

And channeling her beloved Humphrey Bogart she thought;  "Yes you are."

The End

Surprise

Davita Minton

Trans Tales

Surprise

    She had shaved her legs before.  It had been years, however, since the last time that she had.  She often thought about it though, even to the point of yearning to do so.  There were times when she believed she could actually feel an annoying, irritating and low-grade collective and chronic pain emanating from each offending follicle.  There were also times, on rare occasions, when she feared that in an unguarded moment, in a state of pique or, when in her cups, she might make an impetuous decision and just do it.  Shave it all off.

    ''It would be glorious though.''  She thought.

           ''And disastrous too.  Well....  At least potentially, anyway.''   The reasoning behind the latter cautious position was, that if she shaved her legs she would be required to wear long pants for several weeks wherever she went in public; that is if she were to maintain 'Deep Stealth', and she fully intended to.  Furthermore, the very act of clothing herself in such a way, for weeks on end, at this latitude; where it is common even in the dead of winter to have sunny sixtyfive degree days when nearly everybody reverts to shorts and sandals, just might be the one additional and final suspicious behavior that could lead someone, anyone, to an unfavorable opinion.    

    ''And what if I slipped up somehow and someone saw a section of smooth skin.''  The cautious her thought.  ''It could happen.  Like when I pull my pant leg up to re-tie one of my boots, or to pull up my sock.''  The absurdity of the possibility of being exposed in such a way as this immediately occurred to her.  Simultaneously, the debilitating exasperation she felt over having to live as she was; ever increasing with time, suddenly and completely consumed her.  A confusion of thoughts raced through her mind and reverberated back on themselves.  Impossible, ridiculous, contradictory, old, new, and dangerous ideas.

    "Just do it.  Do what you want.  You always do, anyway.  Just be your selfish self."

          "But thats how I ended up this way.  Conform.  Assimilate. Be normal."

          "Normal!  Normal?  Oppressed.  Constipated.  Confined.  Life is short.  Then its over.  Nothingness.  Oblivion.  One life.  Just one life.  Remember?"   

          "But the risk.  Joblessness.  Homelessness.  Humiliation.  Fear.  Terror.  Violence.  The horror of what this life is really all about.  Nothingness to soon.''

''But you're smart though.  And lucky.  You've been lucky.  Otherwise you wouldn't be here now.  You have discretion.  You have good instincts.  You listen to your gut.  And there's risk now.  Just think of the things you're doing now.''  And here the phrase; 'The cost of doing bidness.' flashed through her mind.  Which was something she often told herself when she reflected upon the means by which she found sexual gratification.  "If putting it all out there for anyone in the world to see; FOREVER, isn't a risk...."

"But it's well managed risk."  She told herself.  Yet something felt wrong.  She was tempted to ignore it, but she didn't.  There was an undercurrent of doubt coming from somewhere.  And it was powerful.  She could not ignore it.

''Am I managing my risk well?''  And with this question a cataract of memories began to rush through her mind.  Here, she was outside; dressed, sunning her legs and feet; thus in broad daylight, after merely checking the driveway.  And there, she was walking to the laundry room; dressed, passing several windows of the main house; during the day, after merely checking the driveway.  And here again, she was taking the trash out; dressed, to the front of the house; albeit after dark, but then rolling the containers to the roadside exposing herself to the light of a nearby streetlight, and then continuing on, fully exposed, across the street to check the mail.  And there again, on several occasions she had 'visitors' in her room, knowing full well that at least one of, if not all of her housemates were in residence or soon would be.  And then there were her thoughts.  Dangerous thoughts that seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Such as; on multiple occasions while conversing with acquaintances at work she thought; ''What if I told her/him that I was Transexual?''  And on other occasions when co-workers asked the perfunctory question; ''What did you do last night?''  If something had happened she wanted to answer truthfully.  As in; ''I got lucky.  I had sex with a hot young black guy from Mobile that I met on Craigslist.''  And several times of late, following a particularly enjoyable evening the night before, she arrived at her place of employment overjoyed and filled with an instinctive desire to share her gospel with another human being only to become completely crestfallen by the time of mid-morning break when the spectre of the ineluctable reaction of her co-workers to such a revalatory recapitulation evinced itself in her mind.

''Why?  Why?  Why am I doing these things?''  She asked herself suddenly, in an unconcious effort to quickly truncate the ongoing inventory before the curtain could be pulled completely away.  The answers that soon followed were forcefully put forward yet, the undeniable creeping and insidious feeling of doubt remained.

''You're getting lazy and feckless Goddamnet!  And forgetful in your dottage as well.  And you're drinking to much, which only exacerbates the other problems.  But what about the episodes at work?  What in the hell is causing that lunacy?''  No immediate answer was forthcoming.  With extreme trepidation she thrust the curtain aside, and there in the wings lurked the truth.

She thought it may have had its roots in the seemingly innocuous; or so she thought at the time, and perfectly natural desire to share the truth with her daughter.  On several occasions she very nearly did so.

 ''She's young.  She's female.  We're close.  She already suspects something.  She will understand.''   All things she told herself when contemplating coming out.  But she never did.  On several occasions back then, before she moved away, she had imagined and practiced what she might say and how she would say it.  But now, as she looked back on those not to distant reveries she realised she never had intended on telling her daughter the whole truth.  Only that she was gay.

"Hell!  I didn't even know the whole truth at that time.  I was just fooling around with it back then.  I had a few things....  Maybe a drawer full....  Or so.  I didn't know.''

''But you do now.  And this..... this.... this elephant is a far cry from that.  Telling her that is nothing compared to this.  Like....  Confessional to judgement day.''    And with that thought the 'This' or 'Elephant' she had been desperately trying to avoid acknowledging the existance of finally overtook her.

It had begun simply enough.  One evening while sitting alone by the window contemplating her legs and feet and lamenting the irritating matt of hair that extended almost unbroken to very near the cuticles of her painted toe nails she had the thought; ''What would it look like really?''  And for a moment or two she imagined just what it might look like.  ''No!  No!  Don't be stupid.''  She said, with disgust.  ''The real truth would be patently obvious.  And you'd look absolutely rediculous.''  She continued in thought, in response to the images she had imagined depicting herself in her threadbare, faded and earth-stained work shorts and boots with shaved legs.  ''Perish the thought.''  She said dismissively.  But it did not perish.  Quite to the contrary actually.  Immediately, as the first anathematical images were summarily banished, much more pleasing images of herself appeared before her minds eye in what she perceived would be womens work attire.

In keeping with her present occupation the colors were dull and drab earth tones.  The work shorts were form-fitting and markedly short in length but; ''Still respectable though.''  She thought.  Her boots were over-the-ankle, thin soled, dark brown, soft leather with many closely spaced laces eyelets strung with thin honey colored leather laces and built upon a tapering three-quarter inch heel.  Accompanying the boots she wore thick, ribbed, tan socks folded down over the top of the boots leather upper about an inch.  For a top she imagined something form-fitting with very short and tight sleeves, just over the shoulder, and short length'd with a slightly looser shirt- waist that softly tapered down from each side, back and front, that at its lowest point only partially covered a medium-sized, flat-finish, dark leather belt.  And to complete the ensemble she imagined wearing a floppy large-brimmed straw hat under which she would wear a colorful bandana in such a way as to completely cover her shaved pate.

''Perfectly natural and reasonable.''  She thought, in summing up how she thought she would appear in the aforementioned attire with shaved legs.  Then, with a forceful and disapproving sniff she rolled her eyes and shook her head as a sardonic grin crossed her features.  Yet, from that point on, with ever increasing discomfort and alarm, each time she suffered an episode of obsessive pre-occupation with shaving her legs, this fantasy returned.  And with time the fantasy grew and sent its runners into every fertile region and monopolized resources and choked and stunted all else until finally when fully blossumed was truly a terrible thing for her to behold.  From a simple one-off reverie to recurring distraction to imaginings for every aspect of her occupation to on-line window shopping to wardrobe planning for all seasons to bursting forth into the light for all the world to see and all the reprecussions thereof.  Who would be the first person to see her?  What would there reaction be?  Who would be the first to hear the words of confirmation from her?  What would her co-workers or her supervisor or the general manager or the board members or the owners or the guests say?  And what would they do?

''Its all getting so overwhelming.''  She thought.  ''And confusing.  I can't keep track of it all.  The more you do, from the collecting of lost and discarded and pilfered things to actually purchasing specific items.  From cloths to nail polish to wigs to breast forms.  From dressing only occasionally or when aroused to every waking private moment.  From never leaving the house.......  From simple fleeting thoughts.......  The more you want to do.  But theres to much already.  I can't keep track of it all.''  Then, from a small desperate place deep within came the thought; ''Throw it all away.  Everything.  There will be no evidense then.  Nothing will be hidden.  There will be nothing to hide.  Then nothing can be discovered.  And there will be no deception to maintain.''  

For a moment everything was arrested, even her resperation.  In a matter of mere seconds it all played out in her mind.  She had done this before.  She knew what to do and how to do it.  Every drawer and every cabinet and every nook and cranny and box and bag would be searched, again and again.  And she would use opaque bags like she had before and.....

''Do they make a bag for ideas?  Or desires?  Or thoughts?  Or feelings?  Are they opaque too, my dear?''  She thought, in mockery of herself.

''Yes.  I've done it before.  AND IT DID NOT WORK!  Who are you kidding?  Don't deceive yourself.  You can deceive the world but not yourself.''

''Not for much longer though, the way you're going.  Theres just to much.....  to remember......''  Then, suddenly, it hit her.  The words 'deceive' and 'deception' came back to her.  She had just used them in her inner dialoque.  Coupled with the concepts of 'to much to remember' and 'can't keep track of it all' it struck her all in a rush.

''This is like a lie.  A giant elaborate lie.''  And then all the old adages and aphorisms and sayings about lies and liars flooded into her mind like a cleansing wave.

''Omission not commission.  You're not telling lies.  You're not a liar.  You are living a lie.  Living a lie.  Your life is a lie.  You..... are a lie.

THE END