On the Run

I loved my new car, a 3 series with all the bells and whistles. After I opened the sunroof to let the heat escape, I lowered the visor and examined my makeup in the vanity mirror. It was a different face from that of the 22 year old girl who had taken Phoenix by storm in her red convertible, and the woman who looked back at me now had a glow of self-confidence about her. In addition to my new haircut, I could detect in my softer features the results of two months of hormone therapy. My physician had prescribed a cocktail of estrogen, progestin, and for good measure, an anti-androgen to suppress my production of testosterone. One welcome side-effect was the absence of the raging hard-ons which used to plague me when I dressed up in women’s clothing. I thought perhaps I might miss them, and even perhaps that they were the driving force behind my desire to become a woman. Instead, I found the loss of my male sex drive a profound relief, much like the feeling I used to experience after having an orgasm. As my male ego withered away, the angst and shame which used to nag at me gradually gave way to a new-found contentment.

A woman of property now, I had just closed on a two bedroom condominium with a stunning view of Camelback Mountain, and I was expecting my new furniture to arrive that afternoon. The past two months had been consumed with establishing my new identity, including finding the right doctor to prescribe my hormones, hunting for a place to live, and shopping for all the things that Victoria Ross would need to begin her new life. I was blowing through my fortune like there was no tomorrow, but I knew that once I settled down, I could trim my expenses back and live in quiet luxury until the time came for my operation. Only one thing was missing, something that had haunted me since the day I left Phoenix, a lifetime ago. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, but I knew I had to try.

* * *

After the men from the furniture store were gone, I spent some time hooking up my new computer. Although my condominium was air conditioned, it was a hot afternoon, and I was glad I was wearing only a sundress, bra and panties. I padded around my new home in my bare feet, putting everything in its place, until I spied my one piece swimsuit, which had a little skirt to help conceal my package, and a matching cover-up.

Memories of the last time I made a nest for myself in Phoenix came flooding back. Although my budding breasts were barely an A cup, I decided I could do without my breast forms. I put on my swimsuit and sandals, draped my cover up over my shoulders, and headed out for the pool, which was set amidst palm trees and oleander a few hundred yards away.

It was deserted. I lowered myself into the water and began to swim laps, exaggerating my strokes to make them appear more graceful. The cool water felt wonderful against my shaved body, which slid through the water like once before. My seven years in a federal penitentiary seemed to fade into distant memory as I relished the sensation once again. I was rich. I was free. I was starting a new life.

* * *

The next morning, after sleeping late, I sat out on the terrace in my nightgown with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. The terrace was beautifully landscaped, and I had furnished it with a lounge chair and a small breakfast table and chairs. Bright red bougainvillea on the stucco walls framed the majestic profile of Camelback Mountain in the distance.

The night before, after returning from the pool and fixing myself a salad, I logged onto the Internet and conducted a search for Brian Robbins. The newspaper archives from seven years back were not available from the web site of the Arizona Republic. Eventually I was able to find a few sites with caustic stories about the Phoenix banker who had been duped into allowing a man dressed as a woman to transfer stolen money into a new account, and then let himself get tied up in the transvestite’s bra and stockings after taking “her” out on a date and bringing “her” back to his apartment. Brian Robbins was evidently the stuff of urban legend, but there was no information about his current whereabouts.

I got up and walked back into the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee, and I returned with the cordless phone and the yellow pages. I tucked my legs up under my nightgown as I flipped through the directory until I found the number of the bank where Brian used to work. But when I put in a call, the operator assured me that there was nobody by that name working for the bank, and they had no information about his current employer.

What a surprise. After what I had done to him, he was fortunate that they didn’t remember him at the bank. No doubt he had been drummed from the corps, disgraced and humiliated, with no chance of ever working for another bank. He probably left for New Zealand or Argentina, I mused, as I flipped idly through the directory. What were the chances he was still in Phoenix? It was a long shot, but I returned to the kitchen and picked up the white pages. When I got to the R’s and ran my finger down the columns of names and numbers, there he was: B. Robbins, still living in the same apartment in Scottsdale, less than a mile from my condo!

My heart jumped to my throat. Fighting the instinct to call him, I put down the phone book and tried to think. Why had he stayed? What could he be doing now? How would he react if he saw me again?

I tried to sip my coffee, and realized that my hands were shaking. Suddenly faced with the reality that I might see Brian again, I was forced to confront the tangle of emotions that was tearing at me. Foremost was guilt, for ruining his career and probably screwing up his head for the rest of his life. How would I have reacted, when I was a normal guy, if I found out that a girl who gave me a blow job was really a man?

Maybe I felt so strongly about it because I knew what that experience had done to me. It wasn’t seven years in prison as the plaything of hardened criminals that had turned me into a woman. It was one magical night with Brian Robbins. Against my better judgment, I dialed his number. No reply. I waited for his machine to pick up. At the sound of his voice, I felt a tingle in my panties: “This is Brian. Please leave a number and I’ll call you back.” It was him, all right. He sounded older, more worldly wise somehow. Weren’t we all?

So he wasn’t home. Suddenly I had an inspiration. I went inside to the night table beside my bed, and found the junk that I had thrown there, including Brian’s old wallet. I reached inside the wallet and felt around. Sure enough, there was a key to his apartment in an inside pocket, right where he had left it almost eight years before.

It was insane, wanting to see him again, let alone breaking into his apartment, but I couldn’t help it. I had to apologize to him for destroying his life, and I needed to find out if he was married or had a girlfriend. But I couldn’t just call him out of the blue. The shock might send him off the deep end. No, this called for something more subtle. An old-fashioned stakeout.

* * *

What did a girl wear to stalk a man when it was 100 degrees in the shade? I settled on the coolest clothes I had: a miniskirt and a halter top, and little white sneakers for sneaking around. With sunglasses and a Diamondbacks cap pulled down over my face, I drove to Brian’s apartment complex that afternoon and parked in some shade a safe distance from the entrance.

I called his number again with my cell phone. Still no answer. Before I could change my mind, I got out of my car and walked quickly to his apartment building. I bounded up the stairs to his apartment, put his key in the lock and held my breath. What if he had changed the locks? Could he have an alarm system?

No on both counts. As soon as I was inside, I could tell that he was still single. No woman would put up with a dump like this. It was the same apartment I remembered, only the furniture was worn and shabby now, and the floor was littered with dirty clothes and newspapers. I peeked into his bedroom, where the unmade bed was covered with more dirty clothes. I thought I saw a uniform shirt. I picked it up and read the nametag. “Valley Pool Service” in bold letters, and “Brian” in cursive below. Oh my God. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and started to cry. Brian Robbins was reduced to cleaning swimming pools, thanks to me.

I wiped my eyes and got up to leave. I was out in the hall when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. What if it was Brian? I turned around and started walking away from the stairs, past Brian’s apartment and down the hall. I heard a key in a lock and turned around to catch a glimpse of Brian opening his door. His apartment might be a dump, but the years working outdoors had not been unkind to him. He was as handsome as I remembered, in terrific shape, and deeply tanned.

I waited until he went inside, and then I did something which to this day I cannot explain. I walked back to his apartment and knocked on the door. My knees were shaking as I waited for him to open it. When he saw me, at first he didn’t know who I was. It was only after I removed my cap and sunglasses that he realized it was me. I waited for him to say something, anything. He just stood and stared at me. It occurred to me that he was waiting for me to speak.

“Brian, I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, then I began to cry again. He stood there, silently, watching me break down. Then he pulled me into his apartment and closed the door.

* * *

I sat down on his couch and started talking as he stood with his arms folded across his chest. I told him everything, beginning with the theft of the money that I had deposited with his bank, how I came to disguise myself as Victoria Ross, and what I did after I knocked him out and tied him up in his apartment. I held back nothing as I recounted my years in prison, the recovery of my fortune, and finally my determination to live the rest of my life as a woman.

“You look like you’ve taken care of that already,” he said, the first words he had spoken to me in over seven years.

“I owe it all to you.”

“What does that mean,” he asked, an edge to his voice.

There was no point in holding back now. “It means I fell in love you in there,” I said, pointing towards his bedroom. “And since neither one of us is gay, that meant one of us had better become the woman. I figured I was the obvious choice.”

He actually laughed. “Is that why you hit me over the head and stole my car?”

“I was very confused.”

“I don’t think so, Vicky, or Derek, whatever your name is. Everything you did was calculated. I mean, maybe you didn’t really want to wreck my career and ruin my life, but that’s what happened.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you really want to know? Let’s start with what it was like to wake up in my own bed, bound and gagged, having to lie there for hours with a concussion until I was finally able to spit out your panties and call 911. Or how about discovering that the woman who spent the night with me, giving me the best sex of my life, was really a man? Then there was finding out from my boss that the big account I landed was opened by a transvestite fugitive with stolen money. Do you want to hear what my friends and family had to say about that?”

“Brian, I’m so sorry.”

“Save it. You know what the funny thing is? I really liked you. I’ve been in therapy for years now, trying to understand what happened to me. At first I thought I must be gay. That was before I lost my mojo, thanks to you,” he said, his voice trailing off sadly.

I was so close to him, yet I felt so far away. I made one last attempt to connect with him. The rest of our lives were riding on it. “Did you mean what you just said about the best sex of your life?”

He looked me hard in the eyes. “Did you mean what you just said about falling in love with me in there?” he asked, motioning towards the bedroom.

I nodded my head, and once again I started to cry. Brian sat down next to me and lifted my chin with his hand. “How can anybody so fucked up be this goddamned beautiful?”

I blinked back my tears. “Maybe I can help you get your mojo back.”

“That’s all I fucking need. Another night with a man.”

“Not if we wait.”

We sat on the sofa and talked all night. Brian was fascinated when I described what the hormone therapy was doing to my body, and the steps that would lead up to my sex change operation. When I commented on how good he looked, he told me how much he loved working outdoors, and told me that if he only enough money to buy a new truck, he was certain he could start his own pool service and build a successful business. I knew then and there how I was going to invest the rest of my money.

It was almost like we were two different people, meeting for the first time. In retrospect, I suppose we were. When he asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner the next day, I was as excited as a teen age girl.

* * *

The doorbell rang as I was zipping up my white pleated skirt. It was short, almost six inches above my knees, and I wore it with a pink short sleeved turtleneck that clung to my emerging curves. For old time’s sake, a colorful silk scarf was tied gaily around my neck. “Coming!” I shouted as I tore open a pair of nude pantyhose and tugged them up my legs. As I lifted up my skirt to twist them around, I realized that I must have snagged them, because I noticed a small run on one of my legs, from just above my knee to my crotch. No time to change them! I slipped my feet into a pair of white pumps while I gave myself a final inspection in the mirror. With my pixie hairdo, I looked younger than my 30 years, and very pretty, if I did say so myself.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” I shouted once more, throwing lipstick, compact and keys into my white purse. When I opened the door, Brian gave me a double-take. “Wow. You look terrific.”

“Thanks.”

He peered into my condo. “Nice place. Well, we better go, or we’ll be late for our reservation.” He started walking me towards his Integra, but I stopped him when we got to my BMW and handed him the keys. Without a word, he opened the passenger door for me. I sat down as best I could in my short skirt, knowing that he was staring at my legs, just like I used to do when I let a girl into my car.

Brian drove fast, but well, and I folded my hands in the lap of my skirt as the wonderful memories of my first date with him came back to me. This time, I didn’t have to remind myself that I was a girl. We were headed for the same restaurant he had taken me to during our first night together. When he pulled up to the curb, the valet opened the door, and I got out gracefully and followed Brian into the restaurant.

It was cool and dark, and the maitre’d led us to a quiet booth. Brian ordered a bottle of Pino Grigio, and we studied our menus in silence for a few minutes as our eyes adjusted to the light from a flickering candle. I looked over at Brian, who was concentrating on the fine print. He was just as handsome now as he was on our first date. Would I always see him that way? Once again, it made me feel special to be in the company of such a good-looking guy.

A waiter appeared, and after he recited the specials of the day, I ordered angel hair pasta with basil and tomatoes in olive oil. Brian ordered veal Marsalla and fettuccini alfredo. We made small talk as we sipped our wine.

“I can’t believe you brought me back here again.”

“I can’t believe you’ve got a BMW.”

“Would you still go out with me if I wasn’t a rich girl?”

“Give me a break. I’m going out with you and aren’t even a girl.”

Our dinners were served, and we ate in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I began to feel light-headed as I finished my second glass of wine. Good thing Brian was driving. The waiter offered coffee and deserts, which we declined, and we chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the check. I was beginning to think my first date in almost eight years was going well when I felt Brian’s hand on my leg.

Gently but firmly, I took his hand and slid it all the way up my silky thigh. I was no longer capable of erections, but I felt a warm glow between my legs when his hand came to rest against my panties.

Brian pressed his head against mine. “You’ve got a run in your stocking,” he whispered.

“One of the dilemmas of being a woman.”

“I think it’s sexy.”

I looked down with bliss when he squeezed my knee. On the run.

From the author of “The Jessica Project”