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Walk in the Park

Copyright 1997 by Ellen Hayes.

No part of this work may be distributed as an original work by another
person or group.  Permission is given to redistribute this by electronic
means, as long as the entirety of the work is distributed, and credit is
given to the original author, me.  Any resemblance between the writings
in this work, and any actual persons or places, living or dead, are
purely coincidental, except when used for satirical purposes.

All rights reserved.

Furthermore,
This work contains adult situations, adult language, adult concepts, and
possibly sex.  If you are legally not allowed to read materials
containing such things, then you will be breaking the law by reading
this.  I am not responsible.
Continuing to read this document, or storing it or reproducing it
in any format means that you explicitly affirm that you are legally
allowed to possess and read such materials in your city, county/parish,
state, and country.


Walk in the Park

     Chris pulled into the parking lot, killed the engine, and just
shook.
     *Oh my God, how could I have been so stupid?* he wondered.

     He'd been seriously dressing for maybe six months, ever since he
got into the public library and read up on his condition.  He'd had a
name for his desires, and when he read the possibilities, they were too
enticing to ignore.
     Besides, his mom's clothes weren't fitting him too well these
days.
     So he got a post office box, and had nervously made a few orders
from the catalogs his mother seemed to accumulate.  They'd come in, no
problem.  The clerk hadn't even looked at him funny when he came in to
pick them up.
     Learning what to do with the Avon makeup had been harder, but he'd
worked at it when he could.  Eventually, he got fairly decent.
     There wasn't much he could do about his hawkish nose, not until he
could afford plastic surgery, but the rest of it had yielded to patient
learning, and time.  Especially the hair, dark and straight but thick,
which was now long enough to make some of the metalheads jealous.
     His girlfriend had loved it; she brushed it every chance she got.
He'd loved _that_..
     His parents hadn't freaked out too much about the hair, which he
found kind of odd.  But then again, who _wasn't_ wearing long hair these
days?
     A mere month ago, he'd taken a couple of self-polaroids, and looked
at them very closely, and decided he could go Out.
     The first couple of times had been nerve-wracking, especially since
he had to change outside the house at least once, and usually twice.
But he knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand, and hardly
anybody was around the churches during the week.  It just made him more
nervous.  Just what he needed.  But it was relatively safe.
     He'd just driven around the first time, afraid to even get out of
the car.  At least he had air conditioning in his car; that helped keep
him from sweating to death.  He still was soaked when he got home.
     After half a dozen tries that had gone off well, he'd "graduated"
to running a couple of errands, far away from any place he normally
went.  Things had gone pretty well.  He'd even been flirted with once,
although he still wondered if the little Iranian clerk had simply been
entranced by a woman's face he could _see_.
     Last weekend, he'd tried something even riskier than usual.  It had
been a nice day, Dad was working a Saturday and Mom was doing lunch with
a friend, his breast forms had come in and worked wonders, and he had
this sundress... so he went to Brentwood park.  To walk the dog.
Halfway across town was a helluva walkies, but he wasn't dumb enough to
do it near his house.
     He'd smiled nervously at a lot of people, and they'd smiled,
un-nervously, right back.  And nobody had really stared.  Oh, some of
them had _looked_, but nobody had that open-mouthed gape he'd read
about, the one that said, "You're nicked!"  He had come home, flushed
with success and daydreaming of a future life that would start as soon
as he got to college, and maybe sooner...
     When he found the pictures in his locker two days later, of him in
Brentwood park, he'd almost died.  There'd been a greeting card attached
to the best close-up shot, the one that made it plain as day who it was
(Chris) and what they were doing (wearing full makeup and a dress).
     It read: "Be at Brentwood park again, Friday at 7pm, at the red
pickup with the Z104 bumper sticker.  Dress nice.  Be ready to discuss
distribution of these photos.  Leave the dog.  D."
     He'd racked his brain for hours, trying to figure out who it was
and what they wanted.  The handwriting was feminine, at least.  And the
card had a kitten on the front, too.  That meant it was probably a girl,
which meant it was slightly less likely that he'd be beaten to shit.  On
the other hand, blackmail could get really ugly really fast.
     Nobody at school had acted any differently towards him that _he_
could tell.  He'd been looking, too; frantically scanning faces for a
sign that they had him over a barrel.  Nothing.
     He didn't want to go, but another card fell out of his locker
Friday morning.  Same card, same handwriting.  This one said: "Don't
forget Brentwood Park Friday 7pm, dress nice, or the previous photos get
plastered to the walls.  We need to talk.  D."

     Now he knew what fear was.  Fear was sitting, waiting for the time
of your doom to arrive, and getting out and walking towards it.  The
park was almost deserted, and the truck he was supposed to find was
blatantly obvious.
     He'd dressed nice, wearing a dress he'd gotten from one of the
ritzier catalogs.  It was a deep burgundy silk, and showed more curves
than he actually had.  The skirt looked tight but had a generous walking
slit in the back, which allowed him a rather extraordinary range of
movement, considering.  He'd also worn a pair of decent clip-on hearts
and a heart necklace, out of his very limited collection of jewelry. The
stockings and corselette that were his favorites were more for some sort
of insane morale boost than any expectation that anyone would actually
see them.
     When he'd tried it at home, a couple of weeks ago, it had looked
good enough.  He thought he looked rather like a high-grade secretary.
Like a lot of secretaries, he was also wearing sneakers and socks over
the hose today.  He'd been good in track - the shoes would at least give
him a chance.  If it was a beating someone had in mind.
     Practically panting with fear, he walked up to the truck slowly.
He still couldn't see anyone inside.  Was someone off in the trees
taking more pictures?  He looked around, but couldn't see anything that
looked like a person, or a camera lens.
     At the truck.  No one in sight, anywhere.  He checked his watch.
Seven o'clock on the dot.  Nobody there.
     As he looked around again, trying to figure out what was going on,
he spotted a card under the wipers on the truck.  *Oh no,* he thought.
That damned kitten stared out at him again.
     "There's a path ahead of you.  Follow it.  D."
     He muttered, "Oh God," but began to walk around the truck and down
the path.  It led right into the woods, but what else was he supposed to
do?
     He was glad he'd worn the sneakers when he almost fell.  He wasn't
walking very well today, that's for certain.  *Too nervous to
concentrate,* he thought for a moment amidst the swirling fear of his
thoughts.
     He walked along under the trees for long enough to get entirely out
of sight of the parking lot, and his car, and a possible escape.  The
only sounds he could hear were the birds twittering in the trees.
     Just before he was about to say hell with it and turn around, he
saw a building, with another kitten card on a door.  He looked around,
and stopped moving to listen.  Nothing.  Just the wind, and a few birds.
     His heart hammering, he walked up to the small building.  It was a
double bathroom, smelling of too much use and not enough cleaning. There
was just enough room for two one-person restrooms.  The card was right
next to the "Womens" sign.  It figured, in a weird way.
     This one said: "Go inside and check your makeup.  D."
     If he'd ever seen a setup, this was a bad one.  He'd be blind
inside the restroom, if anyone wanted to sneak up on him.  Maybe he
could leave the door open?  At least it was too small to hide anyone
inside.
     He went in, his shoes sticking to the floor between steps.  *Oh
God, I thought women's rooms were supposed to be cleaner,* he thought
ironically.  He left the door open.
     There was a mirror, and he dutifully checked himself out in the dim
light.  He looked decent enough, he thought, though there was a line of
sweat on his brow.  No surprise there.  He pilled a kleenex out of his
purse and blotted the sweat off his face, and used another in a futile
attempt to dry his palms.
     "Chris?" asked a man's voice from outside.  Chris snapped around
towards the open doorway.  *Ohmigod, ohmigod-*  "Chris?  Come outside."
     He was shaking so hard he could barely walk, but he managed to
wobble towards the door.  Just before he stepped outside, he took a deep
breath.
     *I wanted to do this,* he thought at himself.  *I wanted this so
bad, and I worked so hard for it, all my life.  I never knew what I was
working for until this year, but I wanted it, and worked for it, anyway.
I knew nobody would like it, and I knew I'd take hell for it.  I just
gotta face this.  I'll never be a woman if I can't take some shit
sometimes.*
     It didn't slow down the frantic fluttering of his heart, but it did
give him just a bit of resolve.
     He took another deep breath, and strode as confidently as he could
through the doorway.
     "Chris?" asked the voice again, from off to his left.  He turned,
ready for whatever happened.
     A young man stood there.  He was taller than Chris by a few inches,
though about the same build; blond and blue-eyed, with wire-rimmed
glasses.  He was dressed in a sport coat and slacks, carrying a camera
with a super-telephoto lens.  After a moment, he recognized him dimly as
one of the school newspaper photo hounds.
     "Yes?" he replied, covering his fear with a false bravado.
     The guy handed him a clear sheet protector, filled with negatives.
"I, uh, these are yours, if you want 'em."
     "What do you want?" Chris snapped.  "What do you want for these?"
*It can't be this easy...*
     "What do I want?" he asked in return, then leaned against the wall,
and grinned.  *Now it comes,* Chris thought, freezing.
     "When I saw you in the park," he said unexpectedly, "I thought I
recognized you, but I couldn't figure out where.  It took me a day or
two to remember it was school, and then I matched you up with your
yearbook photo."  He rubbed his nose, and showed his teeth in a
self-satisfied grin.
     "Look, what do you want, okay?" Chris stammered.
     "Just hold on a minute, and I'll tell you.  You have to listen to
this before you can give me what you owe me, alright?"  Chris took a few
deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to run, run far away...
     "So, once I figured out who you were, I couldn't believe it.  I
caught up with you in the halls, and it was like night and day.  Just
unbelievable.
     "I'm not an idiot, I could see you'd put a lot of work into this.
Not just the clothes and makeup, but the way you moved, too, and the way
you interacted with people.  I watched my sister learn what to do when
she was growing up, and frankly, it took a lot of work.  You had to have
done that same work, so it wasn't just a joke or an initiation or
anything.
     "So I looked through some books, and found out what the psychs call
it.  Transsexualism."
     Chris gasped.
     "So," the boy continued without stopping, "there I was, wondering
what in hell would make someone do that, for real.  And then I thought,
I know someone that could tell me.  You.  Except you wouldn't talk about
it if I asked.  I knew that already.
     "So, I made a few prints in my darkroom, at home, and put 'em in
your locker.  I thought you'd take the bait," he grinned.
     "So," he continued before Chris could object, "what do I want?  I
want to talk to you, get to know you, figure out what makes you tick.
Find out why you're doing this.  That's all.  I haven't told anybody
else, and I don't plan to.  I just want to know."
     "That's it?" Chris almost shrieked, stunned.  "You want to talk?"
     "That's it.  Oh, and dinner, if you'd like."  He smiled, a smile
wiser than a high school student should have.  "My treat, to make up for
the shock."
     It certainly was a shock.  Chris felt almost ill, and put his hand
to his forehead.  In a moment, the guy was at his elbow, gently holding
him up.
     "That's it?" Chris repeated weakly.  All the whirling thoughts and
plans and contingencies in his mind had simply fallen through a hole,
and now his head felt completely empty.
     "That's it," he said firmly, grabbing Chris's hand and placing it
in the crook of his elbow.  He kept his other hand on top of Chris's.
"Come on, let's go back to the cars.  It's getting dark."  He led Chris
out, and back down the path.
     "Oh, my name's Eric, by the way.  Eric Hamilton.  Sorry about
messing up the introduction."
     Chris walked dumbly along, propelled by Eric's gentle but firm arm.
This, of all things, was not what he had surmised...
     Eric chattily spoke, "You look really good, by the way.  I never
would have figured it out except I recognized you, from when you ran
track last year.  I did the photos for that one, and I caught one of you
right at the finish line.  It was one of my better shots last year, and
so I studied it pretty hard, which is why your face popped out in the
park."
     "And that dress looks really nice on you, too.  Where did you get
it?"  Chris looked over at him, still in shock.  He shrugged.  "Just
trying to make conversation," he explained.
     "Uh," Chris mumbled, overwhelmed.
     "It's okay, you'll get over the shock in a little."  Eric patted
Chris's hand gently.
     They walked the rest of the path in silence, Eric still leading.
     Chris thought Eric would stop at his truck, but he didn't let go
until Chris was by the driver's side of his own car.  "I was thinking,"
he said casually, "that with both cars here, that we should meet
someplace safer in a little."
     "Eric?" asked Chris, still stunned but coming out of the daze,
"you're not going to show the pictures?  Or tell anyone?"
     He shook his head enthusiastically.  "Oh, no," he said.  "Then
someone might also explain that I was gay.  And then we both lose.
See?"  He looked down at Chris's feet.  "I do hope you brought better
shoes, though."



*--*

"If you don't like it, write one yourself."

TS Tip #3: If you're missing head hair, shave the rest down and dye it
in leopard spots.  Then wear a wig.  If someone notices, pull the wig
off and tell them you have a day job.

"Tallyho!"      \   /     @>--,--'--  ehayes@nym.alias.net  + vicki .sig
Ellen Hayes --=(*)=(*)=-- Renaissance Woman    ==[--------  + virus 9.1a


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