The Secretary Experience

Glorious.

I turned on the television and sat in my dad's favorite chair. It was a dark blue recliner that was starting to fray at the twin cushioned armrests. We'd had that chair since before I was born. I could just imagine the stories it could tell. I flipped through the channels, not really watching anything but watching everything. I held the remote; I decided what to watch.

Dinner time came and I made a bowl of ice cream. Why not? It was my choice. Ice cream had never tasted so sweet. Mostly because it wasn't what one should eat for dinner. That made it so much better.

On TV, Radar was looking for his missing teddy bear. I flipped channels. Andy was teaching Opie some life lesson. Flip. A woman was browsing through a rack of blouses.

The remote control fell from my hand, bounced off one still slightly intact armrest, before falling to the floor.

I stared at the TV, watching the woman shop for a new shirt. I glanced to the closed door that led outside. My attention reverted to the TV. I looked down the short hallway to my parent's bedroom and then back at the screen. The woman was holding a cream-colored blouse to her chest, picturing how she would look wearing that fashionable top.

I stood up, not knowing I was going to until after it was done.

My mouth was dry, and I was trembling. Watching that woman holding the blouse to her breast had triggered an idea that couldn't be denied. How would I look in a blouse? A skirt? Both. More importantly, how would I feel? Surely, I would discover my intense fascination was fleeting, and once my curiosity was satisfied then the strange thoughts I had been having while staring at the soiled magazine currently hiding amongst the dust bunnies beneath my dresser, would fade away like stars disappearing to the dawn.

I double-checked that the house was locked. I did not want anyone barging in and even though my parents were a few hundred miles away I was still terrified that they would arrive home unexpectedly and catch me doing what I knew was somehow wrong. I shouldn't want to wear a skirt or a dress, panties, and a bra, but now that the thought had entered my mind, I couldn't shake it. A tick biting flesh didn't grip as hard as the idea of sneaking into my parent's closet and trying on my mother's clothing. My mother's favorite dress.

I walked down the hall, an electric charge in the air. I felt the little hairs on my neck standing up as an undercurrent of anticipation raced along my spine. I was a kid at Christmas, a little girl catching her first fish, a young man touching himself for the first time, not knowing or caring why it felt so good. I was all those things wrapped up tight like a Cuban cigar waiting to be smoked.

My parent's bedroom was cool. Dark curtains blocked out what little light that crept in from the outside. I paused as I reached for the light. Would anyone be outside to see that the light was on in that particular room? I doubted my neighbors would notice or even understand that this room should be empty but still the thought stayed my hand. I turned and flipped on the hallway light. The light chased away the gloom.

I snuck into the room and opened the bifold doors. My mother's clothes took up two thirds of the closet. My dad had the rest. I ran my hands over my mom's clothing. There were blouses and skirts, pants and dresses. My mind was already fixated on one. It was short and black with thin spaghetti straps with delicate lace piping along the fringes. It was the one my mom called her date-night dress and when she spoke about it, she would always smile. That dress made happy or at least the memories of it did. I had not seen her wear it in a while.

I pulled the dress from the closet. It felt heavier than I expected but I thought that was because of how it made me feel. I was nervous and excited, scared and dismayed. I felt my whole body trembling. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. My lips felt cracked and my breathing came in short, staccato bursts. The anticipation was killing me.

I stripped off my jeans and t-shirt. Standing at my parent's closet, wearing nothing but my underwear and a pair of socks I took that pretty dress off its hanger. And the dress was pretty. I unzipped the back and raised the hem to my head. I pulled the dress down, shaking my hips to settle the dress in place. The thin straps eased onto my shoulders. I tried to reach behind me to pull up the zipper, but I couldn't reach. I gave a nervous laugh. How many times, in movies and television shows, had a woman asked a man to zip her up? Now I needed someone to do that for me.

The room felt cold, and I was sweating. The dress was a little tight at the waist and hung limply at my chest. I didn't quite fill out the dress but that didn't matter. How if fit was secondary to the fact that I was wearing a dress and that I knew at that moment it would not be the last time. I was confused by everything that I was feeling. I still felt nervous and scared, the idea that I could be caught never far from my thoughts, but those feelings were being replaced by other, stranger notions. I felt comforted and comfortable, calmly nervous which seemed like a contradiction but still somehow made perfect sense. It felt like I was wearing what I should have been wearing my whole life. My jeans and t-shirt, sitting at a lump at my feet, felt alien, like something that should be shunned and avoided.

I took two steps to stand in front of the large dresser that sat opposite my parents' bed. I had to see how the dressed looked. It hung low, almost reaching my knees. The waist that I thought was too tight now seemed to fit me perfectly, like the dress was supposed to be snug. I guess it was. I didn't even remotely fill out the top, but that I could fix. That I had to fix. I was a junky with a drug, racing to shoot the poison into my veins.

I opened the drawers to the dresser in front of me and found one of my mom's bras. In no time I had it on, tugging the top of the pretty black dress lower to do so. I fastened the bra around my chest, spun it around so that the trio of clasps were in the back and then settled the straps into place. It was a little loose; I had just barely grown taller than my mother, but I wasn't as thick. With the bra in place, I rushed out of the room to the linen closet just outside my bedroom. I threw open the closet door and fished out a stack of washcloths. They were small and varied in color, from blue to green, from brown to yellow. I stuffed the cups of my bra with the washcloths, not caring that my faux breasts were misshapen, only that they were there. I filled the cups, and satisfied, I pulled my dress back in place. The top fit so much better.

I walked back to my parent's room. Standing in front of the mirror I loved what I saw. The dress hugged my new form. I turned left and right and left again. At once I would smile only to frown a moment later. I reached under the dress and pulled down my underwear. I had visible panty lines only I wasn't wearing panties. I had a raging need to fix those ugly lines. I became focused on the illusion I hadn't known I was seeking.

I opened the drawer below the one that held my mother's bras. Dozens of panties stared back at me, mostly hidden by shadows. Still, I was reluctant to turn on a light, relying only on the light coming from the hallway. I looked at the panties. So many colors met my eyes, looking drab in the room but still shining in my eyes. I wanted them. I needed them.

I put my hand in and pulled out a pair. They were simple and yellow, with a bit of black lace piping. A tiny black bow decorated the panties just below the lacy edging. They were smaller than I imagined, far littler than my own discarded briefs. I felt my hands shaking as I held them to my waist. They would fit, I knew that, but they would still show beneath my beautiful dress. I knew that, too.

I rummaged around my mothers' panty drawer, pulling out panties of various colors and styles. Blacks and reds, yellows and even a few whites that looked far to similar to my own underwear. I pulled out briefs and boy shorts and finally I found a few thongs. It was at that moment that I knew why thongs were invented. It wasn't because they were sexy, though they were. No, it was to hide the tattletale lines that other, bulkier panties made beneath skin-tight dresses. I sorted through a few thongs, trembling slightly when I latched onto a red pair made of some soft, shimmery fabric.

Pulling that red, satin thong up my legs felt like quenching some unimaginable thirst. I tried to swallow again but my throat was tight. I heard an electric buzzing in my ears and felt like my skin was crawling with ants. I shuddered in the partial gloom as I settled that thong into place. My knees buckled, sending me to my knees as I ejaculated in those panties. I had never felt such excitement. I had not realized such excitement was even possible.

I was disgusted with myself and I didn't care in equal measure. I stood up, my hands balled into fists, and stared at my reflection. I stepped forward, paused, moved backwards and smiled, satisfied as I was able to hide my head above the mirror's frame. From the neck down I looked like a girl. I grabbed the hem of my dress and swayed side to side. The dress was a little bit too tight for that, but it was so feminine, and so natural, that I loved the reflection that came back to me.

From that moment I was hooked.

I spent the rest of the night first cleaning myself and then trying on everything I could. I tried on skirts and blouses, keeping my stuffed bra on but replacing my soiled thong with a different pair. The second thong was black with equally black lace around the waist. They weren't made of satin, but cotton and lace and I didn't care. They made the tight dresses look better.

I tried on my mother's shoes as well, working to complete my outfit. I wobbled as I paced in front of the mirror, finding it easier to take smaller steps. I practiced walking further and further, finally marching from one end of the house to the other. My calves started to ache, but I found that slightly painful feeling to be deliciously intoxicating. The sound my heels made as I walked across the tile in the kitchen was one of pure delight.

Still, I needed more.

I searched the dresser and found pantyhose. Those went on next. I tried pulling them up my legs like socks but found that nearly impossible. Bunching the nylons into a taut tube and then unfurling them up my legs worked and soon I felt a new overwhelming sensation that caused me to soil a second pair of panties. I couldn't help it. The feelings were too intense, something like a car battery jump starting every never ending in my body.

A third pair of panties, white decorated with orchids or tulips or some such flower, this time donned over my pantyhose, finished my outfit. I was wearing a white jumpsuit, my huge breasts jutting outward hiding my feet now back in a simple pair of black pumps with a three-inch heel. I strolled through the house, aware of everything and stunned by it all. My legs tingled in my hose and my calves burned in a way I was certain I'd still feel in the morning.

I went to the kitchen and made me a drink of water. I was parched. A glance at the clock told me how late it was. I'd have to go to bed soon though I did not feel tired. I was wired and bouncing with anxious energy. Still, another new idea reached my overtaxed brain. I returned to my parents' room, once again enjoying the sound of my heels on the tile. In the bedroom I searched the same treasure chest I'd been raiding and found a stack of silky nighties. It was time for bed, but I'd sleep dressed in lingerie, not in my ugly, slightly stained briefs.

I fished out a nighty. It was soft and silky with thin straps with three tiny little bows down the front. I stripped out of my jumpsuit. Doffed the black panties and pantyhose before pulling the panties back up my legs. I shimmied into the nightgown. It hung down just below my behind and when I walked, sadly barefoot now that it was time for bed, I enjoyed the way the hem toyed with my naked thighs.

I went to bed, falling asleep quickly, with my overly stuffed bra making it hard to get comfortable and that discomfort led to an even more noticeable distraction inside my black panties. Not wanting to soil another pair of panties, and amazed I'd stained two already, I tried to ignore my erection. And failed.

I took care of my need in my normal way, cleaning myself with a discarded sock and then tried to sleep again. It was slow going but finally that first day alone, a day full of discovery, faded away.

*****

Bonnie looked at me. "Have you ever been caught?"

"Just once." I didn't need to say anything more than that. I had never been caught until I woke up from a coma and let a simple tour of my home give me away.

The look Bonnie gave me made me bark out a surprised laugh. It was one of shock and incredulity. "You believe that don't you?"

I nodded. I knew I was right.

She laughed at me, "your mom knew the day she got back from her trip."

I shook my head. "No, she didn't. I put everything back exactly as I found it. I washed everything I wore. I was careful." Even as I said the words, I was pondering what Bonnie was telling me. She had a look of absolute certainty on her face. She believed what she was saying, but so did I. So why did it suddenly feel like I was lying? How careful could an overly hormonal eighteen-year-old be discovering what would turn into a life-long awareness of who he was? I wanted to protest. I started to but even as I began to speak the words just melted away leaving only doubt and uncertainty in its place.

"Trust me, George, she knew."

"She never said anything."

Bonnie smiled at that, too. She got up to make a fresh cup of tea. I sat in my recliner, staring at the television set. Bernadette and Howard and the rest of the Pasadena gang had been replaced by Conan O'Brien. I turned off the TV. We weren't watching it anyway, having turned down the sound when I started my... my what? Confession? Maybe that's a good a word as any.

Bonnie returned with a steaming cup of tea. She set it on the coffee table and then grabbed my cup of water. She carried a cup of ice water into the living room, setting it next to me. I took a sip as Bonnie took a seat. "Where did you get all those clothes? If you never got caught, were they all bought online?"

I nodded, "Yeah. Where else?"

"Haven't you ever wanted to go shopping? Try things on?"

Bonnie chuckled as my voice cracked, "God, yes. That's part of the dream."

She leaned forward. The couch creaked as she shifted in her seat, "Oh, so there's a dream. This is getting good."

I felt the heat rush to my face. I'd said too much and had now revealed even more. "It's nothing."

Bonnie knew I was lying but like before she didn't push. I liked that about her. More than that, I respected her for it. Instead she said, "can I see your closet now?"

I sighed, "why not."

"Goody!" she squealed, jumping to her feet. Her leg hit the coffee table making her cuss and spilling a bit of tea. "Ouch!" she said, not really sounding like she was in pain.

I teased her, "poor baby."

She stuck out her tongue and raced me to my bedroom.

Chapter 5

I mentioned that there are worse things than getting fired from the same job twice. Two days after Bonnie promised to investigate my parents surprising disappearance, she showed up at my house wearing a look on her lovely face that was part pain and part despair. Normally she wore a smile but that morning she was wearing a frown that aged her just a little bit. Her eyes were puffy, and her nose held a slight red hue. Had she been crying?

"Are you okay?" I asked, stepping from the door so that Bonnie could enter.

She took my hand and quietly led me to my recliner. "I have to tell you something."

I knew it was going to be bad. The look on Bonnie's face was one thing but the way her voice cracked was something else entirely. She stood above me. I could see the beginning of fresh tears in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, George."

Pulling a piece of paper from her purse, she explained the accident that had taken my parents life so many years earlier, showing me a news article print-out from the Mobile Register. I felt the weight of her words pummeling me like I was in a boxing ring with Muhammad Ali or George Frasier. Each word struck me harder than the one before. I started to cry and then sob, pulling my legs higher so that I could hug myself like an infant in its crib. The pain I felt was fresh and unwavering and I think worse the second time around. I had made peace with my parents passing but now I was living it anew, only now I had the fresh pain of knowing that I had forgotten what had happened. It somehow made it worse. Fresh pain intermixed with the pain of forgetting.

Bonnie dropped to her knees and hugged the same legs I was hugging. She pressed her damp face against my jeans, crying right along with me. I can't say it helped but the sentiment was appreciated. I tried to thank her but couldn't seem to find the words. My parents had died and now I had felt that horrible pain twice and both times it was fresh.

It took twenty minutes for my sobbing to stop. During it all Bonnie stayed on her knees, consoling me, holding me, rubbing my fingers and telling me how sorry she was. It helped. Had I had anyone to comfort me when they had died the first time? I don't think I did.

Once I had my crying under control, I made myself to the kitchen to make Bonnie a cup of tea. She sat at the little table in the breakfast nook and talked with me for over three hours about my parents. I told her all about them. I told them how they met their second year of college when my dad had accidently backed into her as she was taking a sip at a water fountain, sending her head bobbing downward onto the spigot. "She came up coughing with water up her nose, ready to fight," I said, smiling and wiping my eyes again, "but laughed instead when she saw the guilty look of terror on my dad's face. He was trying to apologize and didn't understand why she was laughing."

I told her about their life together, about how she loved being a stay-at-home mom and raising me while my dad built his ships. "She was proud of him and he loved her."

Telling Bonnie the story of my parents made me feel better. We both cried. We both laughed. I did not have this cathartic conversation with anyone after they died the first time. The second time was made a bit easier thanks to Bonnie.

I have much to thank her for. My wife most notably. Bonnie introduced us on the last day I ever saw her.

Three days later I was lying on a table having a fresh MRI of my brain. The technician handed me a pair of black headphones with clear tubing running from the cups instead of wires. He asked me what station I wanted to listen to, and I chose the local rock station. AC/DC and Poison and Eminem all wailed at me, each trying and failing to block out the loud banging the MRI machine made. I lay on the table, my eyes closed for nearly forty minutes, trapped inside a tight sarcophagus while strange angry noises assailed me, drowning out other bands like Pink Floyd or Metallica.

"You're all set," the technician said. He was round, almost as tall as he was fat. He reminded me of a basketball.

"Thanks," I said. I was glad to have the test behind me but afraid of what the results would bring. Still, knowing was better than knowing. With knowledge you can make a battle plan.

A week later my MRI came back clean which was more of a relief than I was expecting. My memory was not bothering me as much as I hadn't noticed any odd lapses and I had not had a repeat of that humiliating trip to the office where I no longer worked. I doubted I would make that mistake again as I had written a note and stuck it with a brown and white magnet that read Wossamotta-U, the fictitious university from those old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons, onto my refrigerator. The note simply reminded me that I needed to find a new job. I didn't need a blunt reminder that I'd been fired. The simple note telling me to search for something new was direct enough.