Something in the Water

The new house was a dream come true and, believe me, we had needed a change; oh, how we had needed a change. Married for seven years, and it was true; there was a seven-year itch, an itch made that much more intolerable by the fact that it was unscratchable. How could you scratch THAT itch when you loved your wife so much that it was unthinkable? Well, obviously thinkable, but dismissed as being permanently damaging to your soul partner, and thus not an option.

Here I was, thirty-one years old, married to a woman to whom pole dancing would have been conceivable if she had had the inclination. She did not, and I was glad of that. I watched her now from behind as she stepped up to the front door, her buttocks swaying in her dark grey business skirt, the sensible three-inch heels clicking on the concrete of the door step, and I marveled at her beauty, the grace of her slender hands as she unlocked the door, the way she turned to me, long ear rings swinging outward with centrifugal force, and with a girlish smile saying, "Well, what are you standing there for? Aren't you supposed to carry me over the threshold or something?"

She held out her arms as I said, "Well, technically that's supposed to be reserved for our first home after marriage, but I'll make an exception."

Her long auburn hair swished over my arm and shoulder as I lifted her up, with difficulty I might add, as I am not a big man, and am in fact the same size as she is. But when you have been married to a woman for a certain length of time you learn to man-up and do what you are supposed to do without complaint. I swept her up in apparent ease (interpret high difficulty here), and staggered through the door, both of us laughing as I banged her head on the door frame.

I set her down in the main entrance and once again was taken by her, my Jenny, in awe at times that she had chosen me above so many. Her round laughing face with dimples as quotation marks stared at me as it faded to a sultry smile. Her green eyes flashed with playfulness, a stark change from her normal ordered self.

The house was empty of course, as the furniture was to arrive by mid morning, but we had brought two folding patio chairs and a bottle of champagne, the necessities for a private house warming on this bright August day. The house echoed as we walked across the outrageously expensive hardwood floor toward the patio, but the chambers held promise, promise of a new beginning.

I left her on the patio staring west at the Rockies, the Bow River running raggedly rapid below the escarpment at the edge of our property. We would have to wait till the afternoon for the sunshine to arrive on the patio, but it was still pleasant, although I noticed Jenny's nipples harden under her silk blouse, indicating one of two possibilities.

Returning with the champagne and chairs we sat down and sighed. At last, eleven months of construction, and it was done, even the green sod and shrubbery; it was all in place. The cork whizzed off into the underbrush as we laughed and I poured the magical drink, different from any other alcohol, the one which loosened tongues and tightly held fantasies.

"Here's to our new beginning," she said, as we clinked glasses.

"Yeah, beautiful isn't it?" but I paused and added, "But I have to wonder what you mean by a new beginning. A new house, or a new something else? There's something in your eyes I can't read today."

"Really?" she asked, "Could be. Maybe I have a new outlook on life."

"New outlook?" I said as I poured another glass, "Do we need a new one?" I knew the answer, but I wanted to know if she saw it as well.

She flashed her green eyes at me again and winked while saying, "Possibly."

The mood was changed when a para-glider emerged from behind the promontory of the escarpment, soaring up then down, free and full of grace. The light wind kept him aloft and he steered to within yards of where we sat before catapulting upward and southward out of sight.

"Wow! I want to do that some day. I want to be free," she said wistfully.

"I'll do it with you," I said, "I want to feel free too, and I want to free you. I've always wanted to set you free."

She reached out to me, touching my hand, "I know you do. I know."

The meaning of the conversation was deep and dark. She knew it and I knew it.

The oblique reference was to our sex life; I was experimental; she was not. I was kinky; she was not. I craved spontaneity; she required order and predictability. But we both knew where predictability went; right beside the wool pajamas and a good night's sleep; comfortable but lacking.

There was a long pause. Suddenly she said, "I've been thinking."

"Yeah? What about?" I asked, hopefully.

She poured herself another glass of champagne and said, "I've been thinking I'm going to be drunk before noon. I'll deal with the other stuff later."

Knowing that with her, probing was like pushing on a string, I said, "Yeah, me too. Fuck it. The moving guys will get a big tip then, won't they?

Her cell phone rang. It was her office of course, from which she had escaped for the day, being Friday. She owned a corporate design company and few details could be decided without her consent and advice. She always needed to be in control and have order in her life despite the fact she was of Italian descent.

This was one of the reasons I chose her; I thought that would translate to the bedroom as well, as I am passive in nature and desire to be led. In fact, that "un-masculine" trait had other manifestations. Which came first is the proverbial "chicken and egg" argument, and all my life I have had difficulty in dealing with it. The "it" in this case was cross dressing. I have always cross dressed, even before puberty; it is not as much a sexual thing as it is an essential thing in my functioning as a human being. I need it. I crave it. I have to have it. It has been seven years without it. That is the itch.

I had told Jenny about it two years after our marriage and got a very stern and definite response, "Cross dressing is like cheating on me," she said, "and surely you can just stop it, can't you?"

I tried to explain the urges, the guilt, the numerous purges of clothing and trying to start over, but she just assumed it should be like quitting smoking, something we both did just before the wedding. The cross dressing was from a realm that she perceived as being out of her control, and therefore to be feared, resisted, and rejected.

For seven years I made love to her from my well of passion, adored her in her lingerie and tried to do everything I could to be normal, and it was wearing me down. The passion was disappearing; it was an act of respect, not lust. But my love for her, and her love for me persisted. The seven year itch manifested itself in the decreased frequency of sexual encounters and the ultimate question, "Is sex necessary for a good marriage or not?"

She ended the phone call, shaking her head and saying, "I have to figure everything out. Can't these people think for themselves?"

"Jen, you don't let them think," I said, "They have no need to think; you think FOR them. Why do you even bother hiring them?"

She looked at me, for once with an indication she was getting what I said, but the concept needed soak time in her head, so nothing else was said.

Yes, we were semi-drunk when the movers arrived, okay...drunk, but the furniture got placed in the correct rooms, in the correct positions, and facing the correct ways. By the time it was over, we both had headaches and collapsed on the sheetless bed and slept until the sun was streaming onto our patio and into our bedroom. We woke up thirsty and hungry, and after ordering a pizza we started the task of removing the boxed items, an endless procedure that actually lasted days. We slept when we were tired; we ate when we were hungry. There was no time or energy for sex, and the tension between us disappeared within the mutual need for order...yes, in this case, for me too.

It was Tuesday night. The house was now a home, the boxes not necessarily unpacked, but the majority was, and the rest was out of sight. Jen even cooked supper and we sat on the patio in the evening with a cooled bottle of Chardonnay and a cold pasta dish from the Home and Garden magazine. A mule deer sauntered past our yard, unconcerned about our presence. It was peaceful, and we said nothing, nor was anything required.

"We need a change Jake," she said abruptly.

Surprised at her outburst, I said, "What, the new house isn't enough?"

She had set her wine down after finishing the pasta, and she reached out, touching me on the arm, "Nope. This is not enough, and you know it. I've been doing a lot of thinking about us, mostly about you actually. You're drying up aren't you? And I can't stand to see it. I need you. I need you as you are, as you really are, not as you try to be."

"What the heck are you talking about?" I was genuinely puzzled.

"You know what I mean," she said accusingly.

"No. No, I don't actually." At that time I really didn't.

Those green eyes looked into mine as she said, "The cross dressing. You need it."

Those were words that were not mentioned between us, not ever. It was taboo. I choked slightly on my wine, recovered, and then finished the glass while reaching for the bottle and more numbness. I said, "Jeez, we've only been in this house for four days. Why are you bringing this up?"

She continued, "I've been reading up on your urges and your fetishes for quite awhile now, and I can honestly say that I think I understand your needs. Fill my glass up would you?"

"Look, everything's fine Jen, really. Leave it alone okay?" Since her rejection of my urges years before I had burdened myself with shame and guilt and didn't want to talk about it.

"I need to say I'm sorry Jake. I really am," she said while clasping my hand.

I felt extremely awkward. All my mental strength for the past few years had gone into the inevitably futile attempt to be "normal" and I resisted attempts to pierce the protective armor, for I knew it revealed a slippery slope.

"You're sorry? For what? I'm the one with the perversion. I'm the one that has to deal with it."

"But you're not Jake. Now listen. As I said, I've learned a lot and I'm prepared to learn more. I know I like things to be orderly and in control. But something's changing within me as I see you drifting off to amoeba-like asexuality. To be quite frank I now understand exactly what to do with you." She looked at me with confidence and said, "Jake, go to the bedroom. I've laid some things out for you on the bed, and when I get there in ten minutes I expect you to be wearing them."

"Wait Jen, no...I, I...can't... Jeez, is there something in the water here? Why are you doing this?" My head was swirling. Years of craving, wanting, denying, cautioned me against anything that could potentially be false, and this seemed false. Don't go there. Don't go there. Don't ever go there.

The Chardonnay had softened things. Jen got up and stood in front of me and leaned over, putting her hands on my burning cheeks and whispered, "It's okay Jake; it's okay. Now I'm TELLING you to go to the bedroom and do as I ask. Go."

She kissed me on the cheek and pulled me out of the wicker chair. I felt dizzy as I walked off the patio, glancing occasionally at her to confirm I wasn't dreaming this. She just smiled.

As I entered the house I started to get angry, believing that she had set me up in some way, and what a cruel joke that would be, and then I saw the bed in the bedroom and my heart started to race, finally believing a lifelong dream might be coming true. There on the bed was a pink bra and panties, black garter belt, and stockings, as well as a black skirt and white blouse.

Breathing heavily like the pervert I thought I was, I frantically stripped off my clothes and stepped into the panties, the delicious feel of the silk rising past my knees then over my penis, the elastic snapping at my waist. It had been seven years and I fumbled with the bra, finally fixing it in place, and then the garter belt. The black hose attached to the garters, and I pulled on the skirt, zipping it up in the back. The blouse was plain, but silky in texture and buttoned up the front. I stood there, out of breath, when I turned and saw Jen at the door.

She smiled and said softly, "Take the blouse off; it's on backwards. It buttons up the back, not the front. I'll help you."

My face was burning red and I was speechless, other than to say, "Oh, sorry, okay."

After doing me up she stood me back so she could look at me, and just before awkwardness could take over, she pulled me to her, pulled me tight and kissed me passionately, caressing my panty-encased ass. Suddenly she pulled away and said, "You need socks."

"Socks?" I asked.

"Yes, for your bra stupid. I've ordered some silicone breast forms for you which should be here soon, but for now we use socks. By the way, your new name is Jackie, okay? And when you're dressed like this you call me ma'am okay? You see? I have been doing my homework, haven't I?"

What the hell was happening here, I thought? But I answered, "Yes ma'am." And I started to laugh. She did too. I was as aroused as I had ever been in my life. I wanted her so desperately, and it was obvious.

"Well, not bad," she said, "but I'm sorry to say you look like a man in drag. The wig will be here this week, and the corset won't arrive for another six weeks, as I'm having it made special. There are other things which I won't discuss with you now."

Jen, my lovely and suddenly mysterious Jen, moved towards the bed and removed her clothes to reveal her exquisite body, no underwear, just her. Motioning to me with her finger to approach, I did so, slowly at first and then I embraced her with a passion and necessity I had never felt before. Then I stopped, realizing I was the only one with lingerie on.

"Should I, umm, should I take this off, umm, ma'am?"

"No," she said, "No, you shouldn't. Let's just say, I have everything under control."