La Traviata

MEANT TO BE

Then quite naturally it happened, I found a male lover. Alan worked out at the gym, and he was buff and masculine, so at first, I thought it odd he befriended me and asked about my wife. Asking about his wife, he told me he was divorced, so I just got this strange vibe he was subtly hitting on me. My inhibitions were loosening so I made up my mind that if the opportunity arose, I would dress for him. At the gym I would wear tight clothing in as bright of colors as I had, and around Alan, I would assume my "Natalie" personality and sassiness. In reality, we were flirting. After gym one night he invited me over for a drink. Declining, I told Alan not tonight, but that I would come over the night after next on my regular gym night rather than going to the gym. Alan told me that it would be super, maybe we could watch a movie. This way it would not create suspicion from Mary by staying out too late and I could either chicken out or gather the courage and go meet him.

Perhaps you could call it "gaydar", but I just got this feeling, this sensation Alan was hitting on me, the way he talked to me, smiling and sweet. Not thinking a masculine guy like Alan would come off like that to another guy, so it really made me feel like a girl. When I got to his house two nights later, I had a small knapsack that I set by the end of the couch as he fixed me a drink. We sat apart on the couch, awkwardly finding our way. Alan put on an X-rate movie as we both could tell where this was leading. As the movie played, and it was just a straight XXX flick, it was triggering our mutual arousal.

Excusing myself, I brought the knapsack to the bathroom with me. Pulling on some silky white floral panties and a yellow floral sundress, I applied some lipstick and some high heel sandals of Mary's that fit me, but she rarely wore. I knew Alan wanted me, I'm not sure he was expecting what he was getting when I sashayed out displaying myself as the feminine creature I truly was inside. Sitting close to him on the couch, I put my hand on his knee and whispered a soft "hi". In a flash we were kissing and instinctively I rubbed his cock through his pants. As we kissed and nuzzled, groped and felt each other up Alan kept saying "Wow, you're hot".

The flood of memories I had of my affair with James resurfaced as Alan led me into the bedroom. Our mutual attraction burst into ravenous kissing, groping, fondling each other as my dress came off and his pants came open. Kneeling before him I began to worship his magnificent cock; it had been so long. All the sensations and desires I knew from long ago with James came back in a rush; the scent of cock, the taste of cock, the shivering sense of femininity that sucking cock gave me. All the repressed sexuality from so many years past flooded my yearning as the dam broke and I gave myself to Alan. His big hard hairy cock tasted so fucking good as I licked it, kissed it, sniffed it, mashed my face into it and wholeheartedly sucked on his cock. My own much smaller penis ached hard in my panties.

Pulling me into bed we rolled around and kissed like long separated lovers. Being in bed with a naked man was the most exciting thing I had ever felt as the years of denial and repressed sexuality melted away. The excitement you feel as a femme closet homosexual finally being able to express your true sexuality with a man is beyond compare. Never had I felt more alive sexually than I did at this moment, feeling like the femme fag I knew in my heart I was. We kissed and groped at each other as Alan spread my legs and licked at my hard little penis. When he went lower and his warm, wet masculine tongue began licking my tight, sensitive little butthole, I about lost it in a fog of unrestrained pleasure. Never had anything felt so wonderful as his tongue molested and pleasured my sensitive boy pussy. He then fucked the living daylights out of me as our short-lived affair began.

That night at home after getting laid by Alan, overpowering guilt and shame racked me as I saw Mary who was unusually sweet and loving to me. She had no idea that I was having wonderful gay sex while I was dressed as a woman rather than being at the gym like I was supposed to be. This guilt did not last long, as from there I found any chance to be alone with Alan. He was so good to me and began buying me clothes to dress up at his place; dresses, shoes, lingerie. There were times in the middle of the day or in the afternoon that I'd sneak over to his house, dress for him and be his lovely girl.

Sex with Alan was always more exciting than sex with Mary as feeling femme and gay was many times better than acting like a man in bed. We'd hang out on his couch looking at Victoria's Secret catalogs as I'd rub his cock through his pants as we'd pick things out for me. Always we'd have torrid sex as he'd tell me how hot I was. Being mauled and molested by Alan as I was femme and sexy made me feel like a little hussy. Sucking cock, kissing him, spreading my legs and getting fucked with me in high heels and stockings took me to a place I'd missed since my days with James. My femininity rebloomed during these wonderful liaisons.

Then almost as quickly as it began, Alan moved away. We had been lovers for over seven months when he told me he was moving back to Michigan. Telling me he'd love to take me with him, I knew he was joking and couldn't. I was racked with sorrow when he was gone, along with the guilt knowing I still loved Mary. Yet the powerfulness of my feminine homosexuality continued to make my life as a straight married man a charade.

MAXIMILLAN

The fuse that was lit so long ago with James and exploded with Alan, were now the glowing embers of my closet homosexuality. I'd go to New York City with regularity, but it was big and scary; it might prove difficult to find a kind lover with so many perverts and wackos. Like any closet homosexual, perusing personal ads was a common activity, whether or not I had the nerve to act on them. There was one ad that intrigued me in the gay personals section I had seen several times over a span of many months:

"Big burly gay man looking for that special "Lady", I still haven't found you. Looking for more than just sex, looking for brains and beauty. I'm classy, U B 2. Theater District"

That's all it said. So, I replied, knowing I'd probably have no shot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My inquiry was genuine and short, telling him my sister taught me how to be a lady, that I had only a couple of very good experiences with men but that I knew in my I heart that I was a much better 'girl' with a man than I was as a man to a woman. I also told him I was married. When I received a reply, my shock was paramount, especially since he wanted to meet me dressed in public. In the vernacular of crossdressers, the term "passable" is often tossed around. Perhaps I was "passable", yet it was never my intention to come out or be out and about flaunting my charms. Now I was in a spot. I had never been out in drag before, never. Could I do this? It would be like a job interview.....in a dress and high heels.

I was content to transform into a feminine creature to quench my untamed desire for this type of homosexual activity, the underlying reasons for which I knew exactly why I had developed as such. Only I knew this secret, this activity I kept hidden from everyone. My experience with a male lover, produced a sexual high that I could not achieve as a "straight" married man with Mary.

When everyone thinks you are straight and normal, yet you transform into a flaming free-floating feminine fairy fag for a secret male lover, this is the sensation a true married closet homosexual understands quite well. You step through the door into this secret world, play act out your deepest, darkest, gayest longings, then close the door behind you, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired, and continue on with your ordinary life. Now I was being beckoned outside the door, outside the closet. I called Natalie. She knew about Alan; I had told her. After he moved away, I was crushed. My conundrum of being married to Mary yet knowing I was a flaming closet homosexual was wearing me out. Natalie never came out and said it, but I could tell she never cared for Mary.

Natalie was sweet and supportive, but really did not try to over coach me. She just told me to be myself, dress in what made me feel the best and to be sexy, not too much makeup, don't look slutty. Max had me meet him in the lobby of my hotel, I had never been out in public before dressed as a woman. The sensation was intoxicating, walking in a dress and high heels when you are certain everyone knows you are a guy in drag. Too fucking bad, fuck 'em. This was a new sensory experience, and I was floating on pink fluffy clouds as the sound of my high heels clicked across the floor despite the fact I was shaking like a leaf on a tree. Dress in what made me feel the best, Natalie had told me, so I did. It was a spaghetti strap cocktail dress, off white, chiffon, just above the knees. Silver strappy high heel sandals (my favs!) bangle bracelets and a simple, stylish, short-ish strawberry blond wig. Max and I had never even exchanged photos.

He said I'd know him the minute I saw him, and he would know me. He liked surprises, he liked drama. I had practiced for years walking in heels, so my feminine sway carried me as I floated across the lobby, the click clack of my heels unmistakable. Regardless of how passable I knew I could be going out in public for the first time, it was frightening. But it worked in my favor as my nervousness and fright turned me into a shy, demure young woman.

And so, we met, it was lightning in a bottle. Max was unlike anyone I had ever known. Maximillian Barriente, a big bear of a man, balding on top but a full beard and a chest full of hair as thick as a forest. Gay as the day is long, he was quite wealthy as well, from what I could gather, but that was none of my business, of course. Max was cultured and boisterous, everything I was not. I was timid and reserved but at least I could hold my own in conversation. He was surprised I knew the likes of Scarlatti, Corelli and Verdi. The 19th century operas of Rossini, Bellini, and Verdi were his special joy, as was baroque music from an earlier era. Bach and Handel were wonderful he told me, but there were so many obscure baroque composers whose works had found him and were not so overplayed. He insisted he would take me to the opera on one of my visits, though the opera held no special place in my heart like it did his.

We had dinner that first night but not sex, only a simple peck on the cheek as we parted. He said he'd call me again and he did. I made a point to be feminine, be natural, to dress stylish. I was able to carry myself with the verve and sassiness I had acquired from Natalie while being in drag, venturing out in public with Max. It was a sensation that thrilled me as my true gay feminine persona blossomed. After the third date on one of my subsequent visits to the city, we made love, his overwhelming masculinity brought out my natural femininity like nobody's business, I was soaring......and sucking cock, and getting laid like a good girl does. Max liked me because I had the spunk and the mannerisms I acquired from my sister, yet I was boyish enough to come off as effeminate and gay. Some masculine gay men love effeminate males. Max was one of those men; I was one of those effeminate males.

He became my lover when I was in New York. Max could have the pick of the litter of all the traps, cd's, femboys and trans girls in NYC, yet I think I was one of his favorites. In the connection people make with each other, sometimes it boils down to a special "something" of one's touch, one's scent, how personalities interact with one another that can transcend differences in class, age and upbringing.

Perhaps also, he was enamored with me, because I was not there all the time and was really not that attainable as I was married and living far inland across the river. Still, my flings with him a couple of times a month when I was there on business could almost count as a steady relationship. And because I was married, I was less likely to be viewed as a gold-digger. On some of my recent visits he plied me with gifts of clothing; dresses, lingerie, shoes, slacks, women's sweaters, even a $400 YSL purse.

"Max, why do you do this?" I told him. "You know I can't take any of this with me."

"Because you are deserving. Because you look fabulous in it. We'll just put it in the closet till the next time," he chortled at me.

This man always kept me on my toes and sometimes I was uneasy with his moods and the force of his personality. Yet, I loved being his "girl". I loved acting like a flaming fag for him traipsing around like a teenage tart with him lusting after my smooth boyish feminine body as he forced his abundant masculinity on me. With Max, I was a natural at expressing this aspect of my sexuality like I had before with Alan, my former lover. Max was a gentleman, and he never once used the fag word or the "S" word around me, always treating me like a lady even though really, I could put on a show with and talk with an over exaggerated lisp worthy of flaming gay memes of the ages. I loved kissing him, loved dressing for him, loved sucking his cock, loved spreading my legs and taking him deep up my tight boy cunny.

His cock was chiseled stone, a work of art that could bellow out copious amounts of semen as he bellowed out his orgasmic moans. He told me I was gay (I didn't really want to deal with coming out, I just liked sex with him while crossdressing), he told me I should come out, leave my wife and become his wife. This he would tell me with greater frequency especially after we had made love. It made me feel uncomfortable when he insisted that I was gay and should come out. Sex with him when I was his girl was out of this world, yet I always negated any questioning about my true sexuality. I didn't want to deal with any reality other than the top shelf sex I had with him. It gave me a release from the burdens and reality of a rather mundane profession and an otherwise boring yet loving marriage.

ROSALIE

On this next particular visit, my fourth, in five weeks, it was a mere week after the last "business trip". When I arrived at the hotel that Max had reserved for me near the Theatre District, things moved so fast, I had no time to collect myself. No sooner than I arrived in my room, Max called. Rosalie would be coming to do my nails and my makeup. In the room there was a huge bouquet of expensive flowers and two bottles of Dom Perignon on ice. On the bed was a massive gift box with felt ribbons and an oversized pink bow among numerous other gift boxes of various sizes. I was not to open any of it; Rosalie would help me get dressed.

"Take a long hot bath, get comfortable, Rosalie would be there in an hour, at seven," I was told. He would be there at eight-thirty. "Tonight, is special, we'll celebrate."

A little before seven there was a polite knock on my hotel room door, just as I was getting out of the bath. I let Rosalie in as she sized me up as I stood there in the plush robe the hotel had provided. This was a different hotel than the one I usually stayed at. It was an older hotel, a boutique hotel, with arched doorways in the room, an old-time radiator heater near the window and décor reminiscent of the 1940's. The "Barrymore" at one time had fallen into decline and for many years was a ratty, filthy flop house used by crack heads and heroin addicts. A developer came in and poured ungodly sums of money into it, restoring its charm back to and above and beyond its former glory. In the back of my mind, I wondered if Max had a hand in the project.

Rosalie was in some sort of service uniform with teal light green slacks and matching tunic with a crisp white collar and carried a small suitcase on a handle. When she greeted me with a polite "good evening", she had a slight accent that was not Hispanic, though with her black hair in a neat bun and olive skin that might have been your first impression not hearing her speak. Perhaps she was from the Balkans, France or even Lebanon I mused, as she politely asked me "well, we ready?" walking into the bathroom.

Being there in New York in a chic old hotel about to be made up into a beautiful woman by a professional stylist for the purpose of having sex with another man gave me a massive dose of unreality. Creeping into my mind were doubts of who I was, why am I during this, why am I such a sex crazed pervert. My wife or anyone who knew the "other" me would be shocked at my behavior and my secret life. Processing all this was becoming more difficult in the charade I was putting forth in my life. For heaven's sake, this business trip was not even a business trip like I told my wife it was. Since I had met Max, I started making excuses every chance I could to go to New York. The only reason I was here on this visit was to see Max; there were no meetings, no associates or contacts to see, no deals to be struck. This was Broadway and I was going to be the show. A one man-woman "Le Cage aux Folles" with Max both as Georges and director Arthur Laurents. Surely, I would not be tasked to sing?

Rosalie was not tall and had me sit on the commode as she opened her case and filled the pedestal sink with warm water taking a washcloth to moisten my face, then patting it dry with the plush hand towel. Diligently she went about her business with foundation, eye liner, eye shadow, mascara, worked my brows very dark and pencil thin, then blush and rouge on the cheeks. Before pulling out the items to do my lips, from her case she pulled out a pill bottle and tapped 3 small white pills into her palm and offered them up to me. Saying "here, for jou" in her noticeably European accent as she filled water in the glass that sat on the glass shelf below the mirror.

A twinge of fear overcame me as I had no idea what they were. This growing sense of unreality that was creeping into my mind led me to question if the pills were hormones; Max had mentioned more than once in prior visits as he played with my skinny naked body that it was perfect except if only, I had the breasts of a very young woman. Seeing the trepidation and uncertainty in my look, Rosalie then said "om phet uh meyne" in her accent. It took a moment for me to collect exactly what she had said, amphetamine. They were "white crosses", "speed", popular in the '60's and '70's, I had never taken them and barely knew what they were or that they still existed. My look was still of bewilderment as Rosalie then again tried to explain:

"Um-pheta-mey-ene, Maximillian say for jou," she said in her accent and not quite proper grammatical use of someone with English as a second language. "He say jous needs fors tonight to keeps jous awake. Long night. Jou's wants a Scoe-tchay or bore-bone?" she went on as I hesitantly took the pills from her and the glass of water.

"Scotch," I replied, knowing I would just sip it and not drink it too fast like I've been known to do with bourbon, as Rosalie watched to see me take the pills before fetching the Scotch from the console in the anteroom.

Great, I thought to myself as I heard her clink ice in the glass from the ice bucket on the console. Just great, here I am on "business trip" being dolled up for sex with another man, getting doped up. Farther down the rabbit hole I go, Alice. Rosalie watched me take a sip of the Scotch, took the glass from me and set it on the glass shelf, then she continued with the makeup application. Even without the wig yet on, Rosalie was transforming me into a classy, sexy feline. My own pedestrian makeup skills paled to the work of art Rosalie had produced.