Missing the Cut


"Let's get this over with," he said, getting back into character. "The sooner I can get out of these stupid heels and stockings, the better."

"Now you really are starting to sound like a woman," I teased him. "Ah, they have a Talbot's. Let's try our luck there first."

"What are you going to wear Tuesday night?" he asked me as we walked through the mall.

"Hmmm…I hadn't really thought about it. Just a dress, I guess."

"That's so helpful."

"Don't worry, I'll help you find something. What do you feel like wearing?"


"Do you want to wear pants or a dress?"

"Give me a break. Of course I want to wear pants, but I'm afraid if I do, I'll start walking around like a guy."


"My acting coach warned me about it. He told me the more I dress like a girl, the more I'll find myself acting like one."

"So it's a good thing you have to play golf in a skirt."

"I guess."

"Tell me something, Denny. Deep down inside, aren't you enjoying this, just a little bit?"

"I told you, all I'm thinking about is that million dollars." We got to Talbot's, and I led Denny over to the racks of summer dresses, which were already being pushed aside for the fall arrivals. I found a nice black sheath with tiny silk flowers woven into the fabric, and asked him his dress size. He screwed up his face and said, "Fourteen, I think." The biggest one they had was a twelve, but I knew that Talbot's sizes ran large, so I suggested that he try it on. I watched him as he held it up against himself and turned this way and that, studying his reflection in a full length mirror. A saleswoman intercepted us, and led Denny to one of the changing rooms.

I browsed through the store while I waited for him, lost in thought. Was I really shopping for a cocktail dress for the former PGA champion? What a story! I was sworn to secrecy until after the tournament, but then I was free to tell the world. This could be a book! I had to get some pictures of Denny now, like this. My reverie was interrupted by a sweet voice behind me. "How do I look?"

When I turned around, I actually gasped. Denny Grimes was absolutely adorable in his little black dress. It was short for Talbot's, just skimming the tops of his knees, and it draped his slender body like it was made for him. His white bra straps were visible, but that could easily be taken care of, and he would need a black half slip. I wondered if he had any sheer black stockings and a pair of black shoes.

* * *

A few hours later, we spied an open table at Starbucks, and aced out two guys who saw it first and let us have it. Laden with packages, we sat down gratefully and relaxed over ice cold mochas, kicking off our shoes and giggling like schoolgirls as we recounted our adventures at the mall. Denny had scored a black Coach handbag at 50% off, and a pair of black heels at Nordstrom's that were to die for. His black lingerie and stockings filled another shopping bag, and we even found a pearl pendant that would be perfect with his earrings.

"Are you sure you're not having fun with this?" I asked him as we got ready to leave.

Denny let out a deep sigh. "Do you have any idea what it's been like being Denny Grimes for the past two months? Having total strangers come up to you on the street and call you a loser? Watching yourself get trashed every night on TV? Getting hate mail from nut jobs around the country? The first time I went out in public dressed like this, I was scared to death. It wasn't until I started to get my confidence up, after I was sure that nobody could tell that I was really a guy, that I realized something. It was like I had become invisible. I mean, I was still Denny Grimes, but now when I went out in public, nobody recognized me.

"So when you ask me if I like being a girl, all I can say is, it's a hell of a lot more fun than being the guy that I was. When I put on makeup and a dress, I think of it as escaping into my secret identity."

"Superheroine Denise Kamm! I love it. How did you come up with that name?"

"Pronounce it slowly," he said with his sweet southern accent.

"Denise Kamm. Oh my…Denny's scam!"

* * *

I returned to my apartment in New York late that afternoon. Dateless, as usual, I spent Saturday evening scouring the Internet for a hotel to stay at during the tournament. The Short Hills Hilton was way above my budget, and it took me a long time to find a place I could afford. Three days later, I felt slightly ridiculous walking across the parking lot of my crummy motel on Route 22, dressed to the nines for the media bash at Fairmount. I got lost once trying to find the club, winding through the back roads of rural New Jersey before I got straightened out. The cocktail reception was in full swing by the time I parked my car at the far end of the lot and made my way into the Fairmount Room.

Denny was surrounded by a group of guys near the bar. He spotted me when I walked in and broke away from them, greeting me with a big smile. "You made it," he said.

"I got lost out in the sticks. Look at you!" Denny was stunning in his black dress, in stark contrast to most of the women in the room. Some of the golfers hadn't even bothered to change after their practice rounds earlier in the day, and the buffet line was an eclectic montage of shorts, pants, and a few skirts and dresses. The men, mostly reporters and a few Revlon executives who were in the dark about Denny, were better dressed than the women. "Sorry to take you away from the guys," I said.

"That's okay. They'll just figure you're my girlfriend. I'll bet half of the women in here are gay."

"That's a myth!" I said as I surveyed the room. "How are you getting along with the competition?"

"They don't even know I exist. As far as they know, Denise Kamm is the 'niece' of some Revlon suit who got her an exemption into the tournament for giving good head. Nobody's expecting anything from her, which is exactly the way I want it. You look hot, by the way."

I did look hot, and I knew it. "Right now I'm the second best looking woman in the place. Sorry I guessed wrong about what to wear. We're way overdressed for this shindig."

"All the better. The girls have written me off as a ridiculous bimbo, and the reporters just want to get into my pants. Wait till I get out on the golf course. They'll never know what hit them."

"What time do you tee off for the pro-am tomorrow?"

"I don't. Told them I had to scratch, and they seemed happy not to have me. After all, that's mostly for fat cats who spend big bucks to play a round with the pros. Nobody wants to get stuck with a walk-on."

"When's the last time you played golf?"

"Before I went into the spa. Look, don't worry about me. It may take me a few holes to get used to my women's clubs, and I'm going to have to fem it up our there so I don't give myself away, but it's no big deal. I'll smoke 'em."

* * *

It took me forever to fight my way through the rush hour traffic on Thursday morning, and I arrived at Fairmount just in time to find Denny hitting the last of his practice shots on the driving range. He was as cute as a bug. His long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he had a pink sun visor on his forehead, a perfect match for his obligatory pink skirt. It was very short, showing off his long, slender legs, which were deeply tanned. A white banlon shirt, little white sox and white golf shoes completed his outfit.

I watched has he went about his business on the range, and noticed that he had changed his swing. Denny Grimes was never a power hitter, but it was obvious that he had made some changes to his mechanics in an effort to conceal his true identity. He seemed to be having some difficulty with his shortened backswing, and he barely acknowledged me when I came up to say hello.

"You go, girl!" I said as he followed his caddy to the first tee. He gave me a wan smile, but he seemed totally preoccupied, so I melted into the gallery that was watching each of the groups tee off. Denny was paired with an Amazon named Bertha, and I wondered cattily if the Big Bertha line of clubs had been named after her. Bertha was up first, and she crushed a monstrous drive about 270 yards down the fairway.

The first hole at Fairmount is a long par 5. Denny took his time setting up, and I noticed that his trademark waggle was missing. His swing was graceful and compact, and his drive went about 240 yards, straight and true. I followed along with a handful of other spectators as Denny and Bertha walked in silence down the fairway. Denny took a 3 wood from his caddy and once again used his new swing, which almost made it seem like he was hitting the ball in slow motion. His shot landed about ninety yards short of the green, in perfect position to attack the flag. Bertha slugged a fairway wood and ended up in light rough to the left of the green.

Denny saw me out of the corner of his eye as I walked outside the ropes, and he winked at me as he selected a wedge. Another easy swing, and his shot landed just past the pin and spun back, ending up about six feet below the hole. Bertha chipped onto the green, and her ball ran past Denny's, leaving her with a difficult downhill putt for birdie. After she missed it and tapped in for par, Denny crouched down next to his ball, totally focused on the grain and the line. There was a commotion behind the green, and cameras started clicking like crazy. Completely absorbed with his putt, Denny didn't pay any attention to them, nor did he seem to hear the guffaws that started to ripple through the crowd around the green. I walked over to the people who were making the noise, and when I looked back at Denny, I realized what had them so excited. Not accustomed to wearing a skirt, Denny had opened his legs when he crouched down next to his ball, giving the crowd, the photographers, and the cable television audience a perfect beaver shot.

Denny finally looked up to see what was happening, and when he realized what he had done, he frantically tried to stand up, losing his balance and falling right on his ass. A roar went up from the gallery as Denny pulled his skirt down and got back on his feet, his face now pinker than his skirt and visor. When he finally regained enough composure to attempt his putt, he sailed it five feet past the hole, and he rushed his comebacker and missed that too. Bogey six.

It went downhill from there. He skied his tee shot on the second hole, a short par four. It went straight up, like a moon shot, and ended up less than a hundred yards down the fairway. It took Denny two more shots to reach the green, and he two-putted for bogey five. The third hole, another short par four, saw a new side of Denny, as he eschewed the graceful swing and hit the most vicious hook I have ever seen on a golf course. It veered over Southern Boulevard and disappeared into the Great Swamp, scattering migratory game birds after narrowly missing a car.

By the time Denny Grimes staggered onto the eighteenth green, he was sixteen over par. Nobody in the gallery or the press contingent was the least bit surprised that the unknown beneficiary of a charity exemption had played so poorly, and Denny was on his way to his car as soon as he changed out of his golf shoes and signed his scorecard. I was waiting for him in the parking lot, trying to figure out what to say.

Denny looked up at me as he opened his car door. "Get in," he said, and I climbed into the passenger seat and strapped myself in beside him. "Don't say anything," he said. He peeled out of the lot, and started to drive back towards his hotel. When I looked at his face, I could see tears streaming down his beautiful cheeks. His blonde hair was disheveled, there were grass stains on his skirt, and his bare legs were flecked with sand from his adventures in the traps.

I couldn't stand the silence. "Denny, what happened out there?" I finally asked.

"I suddenly realized what a farce this is. Look at me." I stared straight ahead. "Look at me, God damn it!" he shouted in his normal voice. "Two years ago, I won a major championship. Now I'm sitting here in a fucking skirt, and I just shot an 88. Christ, I haven't shot an 88 since I was in seventh grade."

"You started out so good…."

"You mean until I gave the nation a look at my panties? Gee, do you think that had something to do with the way I played out there?"

"It just seemed like you were trying too hard."

"Damn right I was. One thing I'm not is a quitter. After I skied my second tee shot, I figured the femboy swing wasn't working, and I started trying to find a groove out there." I sat fascinated as Denny replayed the entire round, shot by excruciating shot, finishing up as we pulled into the parking lot at the Hilton. He waited until the valet opened his door, then swung his legs gracefully out onto the curb, back in character as a woman once again. I followed him up to his suite, and he asked me if I wanted to come in.

"Sure," I said. Maybe I could help him over this. He still had a round of golf to play tomorrow, even though making the cut, and winning the million dollars, was now outside the realm of possibility.

"How about something to drink?" he asked. "God knows I could use a hard one."

"Thanks, so could I. Are you going to play tomorrow?"

"I told you, I'm not a quitter," he said as he reached into the minibar. "My deal with Revlon is that I play as long as they'll let me, even if I don't have a chance in hell of making the cut now. Cheer up. You'll get to see my blue panties tomorrow."

Suddenly I lost it. I sat down on the sofa and started to cry, shaking with sobs. Denny sat down beside me and handed me a bottle of Vodka. "Women," he said. "I'm the one who should be crying. Drink this."

I did as I was told, shivering as the cold Vodka burned my throat. "I'm sorry, Denny. This is all my fault. If I hadn't come up with this stupid idea, none of this would have ever happened."

"Maybe not, but it's turned out great for you. You'll get a book deal out of this. Can I get an autographed copy?" he asked as he kicked off his sandals.

"Damn it!" I shouted. "Can't you be serious about anything?"

"You think this is all a joke for me? Face it, I'm fucked, Carrie. What was left of my reputation is going to go right down the tubes when the press gets wind of what happened today. 'Former PGA Champion Turned Crossdresser Misses the Cut at an LPGA Tournament.' What a headline. What a fucking disaster."

"Maybe I won't write the book."

"Oh, you'll write it, all right. You'd be crazy not to. This is your shot, Carrie, you've got to take it. Drink up. Here's to Denny Grimes. He used to be one hell of a golfer."

I took his face in my hands, and kissed him, hard on the lips. He seemed totally surprised, but after a moment's hesitation he kissed me back, gently at first, then with a sudden passion that swept us both away. He pulled my top right over my head, and started to fumble with my bra. I reached under his shirt, and found myself grappling with his. I was faster, and his breast forms tumbled onto the floor as I tore off his shirt. I slid my hands up his skirt and caressed his smooth thighs until I reached his panties. There was a moment's confusion while I felt around for him. Meanwhile Denny had my pants and panties down to my knees, and he paused to unzip his skirt and fling it across the room. He pulled off his panties, and an evil-looking gaffe which had tucked him away. As soon as it was off, his penis sprang to attention, and he was on top of me.

It was the quickest fuck I have ever known, but I wasn't complaining. He stayed inside me as he played with my hair and my breasts, and I tried to make sense out of what was happening. From the waist up and the ass down, he looked, felt, smelled and tasted like a girl. I have never been attracted to women, but there was something about making love to a soft, sweet, smooth guy that was incredibly arousing. Before I knew it, he was hard again, and this time he took his time, easing himself in and out of me as he built up steam. I could feel myself starting to lose control, and when he came again, I was right there with him, lost in the throes of the most exquisite orgasm of my life.

I stayed with him all night. Except for a brief break for room service, we spent every minute in bed, going at it again and again. The last time, we did it with me on top, like he was the girl, and when we came together, each of us cried out in ecstasy. When he finally fell asleep, totally spent, he had a look of angelic contentment on his beautiful face.

* * *

The next morning, we showered together, shaving each others' legs and shampooing each others' hair. Denny had a skirt and blouse which fit me, and I put them on as he dressed himself for ladies' golf. He looked sensational in his blue top and matching blue skirt, and when I teased him about going another round before we left, he looked forlorn. "Afraid I'm tapped out," he said.

"I'm disappointed, Missy. We only did it six times, or was it seven." Then it occurred to me. "Denny, when you think about it, you're like a girl right now."

"Huh?" he said as he put on his lipstick.

"Your testosterone level has been drained down to zero. It's like you've been unmanned. I mean, it's only temporary, but right now, you probably feel more like a girl than a guy."

"Maybe that'll help my game," he said with a sigh. "God knows, I won't have the energy to hit anything hard out there. I'll have to play like a girl today."

We got to the clubhouse very late, and Denny had no time to warm up before his tee time. His caddy was having fits until Denny kissed him on the cheek and told him to relax. I took my place in the gallery and waited for him to tee off.

In the history of sport, nothing can compare to what I was about to witness. Some have likened it to pitching a perfect game, but that is not an apt analogy in my opinion. A baseball pitcher would have to strike out all 27 batters to come close to what Denny Grimes achieved that day.

When he hit his drive off the first tee, there was no indication that something special was about to occur. His swing had an easy languor that seemed almost effortless, and his ball came to rest a mere 240 yards out, but smack in the center of the fairway. Big Bertha, his playing partner once again, was thirty yards ahead of him, and she waited impatiently as Denny relaxed over his second shot. He lifted a 3 wood into a beautiful arc, and his ball came to rest just short of the green. An easy chip, and he was putting for birdie from five feet. The gallery snickered as he studied his line, but this time he kept his knees together in ladylike fashion before he stroked the ball into the cup.

Denny had the honors after Bertha made par 5, and he would not relinquish them for the rest of the day. His drive on the second hole was straight and true, although Bertha outdrove him once again. He hit a perfect six iron that stopped dead on the green, three feet from the pin, and once again made birdie. The third hole was tamed in almost identical fashion. For the first time, a little buzz started to spread through the gallery, and I noticed that people who had hunkered down on some of the greens began to gather up their things and follow us as we continued towards the fourth hole. It was just a trickle, but it was soon to become a torrent, and then a tsunami, as Denny Grimes, using unfamiliar clubs in a short skirt on two hours' sleep, played a game for the ages.

Although I have never said this publicly, I am convinced that the night Denny and I spent together was the magic ingredient in his performance that day. Liberated from the influence of his libido, it was as if his psyche temporarily melded with his androgynous form, allowing his body to take control of his mind and put him in "the zone" once again. Whatever the reason, as he continued to work his magic on the golf course that day, there was a serenity about him, almost a godliness, that I have never seen before or since.

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