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