Date: Wed, 27 May 2020 03:15:12 +0000
From: Katharine Sexkitten <katharinesexkitten@hotmail.ca>
Subject: TENDERNESS

TENDERNESS

By Katharine Sexkitten



          What have I done?

The wind was howling, whipping at my face.  My longish hair was blown all
over the place.  Most people would worry about how it looked, I suppose.
But I didn't care about things like that.  Certainly not now.  I never
had, really.  The sun was fully set in the west, lending a darkened
atmosphere to my already dour mood.

          What had I done?

          What the hell had I been thinking?

This was my secret place, where very few people ever disturbed me, off
the beaten path.  I would spend hours here, sometimes, wallowing in my
loneliness, silently bemoaning my place in the world, trying to find
solace through nature.

It was early April, so there was still a genuine and almost bone-chilling
briskness to the wind, as it battered me in gusts and pushes.  The
river's edge that I stood on was treeless, and offered no break from the
stormy air, as it shoved and pulled at me, my hands at my sides,
shivering from the liquid running down my legs, trying to stay warm.

Like always, trying to understand how I got here, and why the journey has
been so unsatisfying.  How it always seemed so stormy.  Like the weather.

The philosophers of human history have provided us with their unique
individual ideas as to why we're here, and what our purpose is, we
humans.  Many of these `higher' thinkers have postulated about the
grand thematic idea of a `meaning' of life.  I can recall a variety of
moments, from high school and beyond, at parties or gatherings, sitting
around with family or friends debating these issues, different people
proffering differing opinions, disparate thoughts as to humanity's role
in the universe.  Academic questions?  Of course.  Was Kant correct, when
he said "I think, therefore I am"?  Does our sentience qualify as the
starting point, or was it in fact the finish line?   Was John Donne
prescient when he said "no man is an island"?  Are we connected to each
other, metaphysically, or just distinct bodies, trapped together in some
battle for meaning amongst all the noise?

          I had always enjoyed listening to the debates.  I'd never
found any conclusions, however, over the years, no matter how persuasive
the various arguments had been.  Academic or not, the questions are
interesting, and the wide variety of people I've known have offered a
wide variety of perspectives and given me a lot to think about over the
years.  Have I come to any conclusions?  No.  Is it all God's plan?
Whatever suffering each of us goes through, was it seemingly the
necessary lesson from some sort of benevolent yet at times mean-spirited
deity?  Or was it all random?  Maybe it was just the natural movement of
energy through the universe, collecting at times in indiscriminate
swirls, unconnected dots of something that just happened to coincide with
other unconnected dots?

          But here, at the river's edge, my life seemed to be guided by
neither of those opposing ideas.  Mostly, I reasoned, and for not the
first time, that my life was guided by nothing.  Fate seemed to have
shone a different kind of light on me than I was hoping for.

          What in God's name had I done?

          Mostly, my existence was long periods of not much going on,
every once in a while interrupted by short bursts of something.  But, I
had to admit, even those little somethings didn't make the overall
picture right.  Or better.  I was disjointed.  I was lost, I thought.
Adrift, on a raft of my own making, bobbing up and down on the ocean.
Except my ocean had no land disrupting it here or there, no safety to
float onto.  There weren't any rescue ships out looking for me.  I
couldn't seem to find a safe harbour.  Sometimes I worried about my
mental health.  I wasn't depressed, in the clinical sense.  I did some
research and most of the symptoms seemed far worse than what I felt
like.  I wasn't tired, specifically, or sad, specifically.  I didn't
have thoughts of suicide, or ending it all somehow in a dramatic
look-at-me fashion.  I was the opposite of that.  I didn't want people
looking at me, I didn't want the attention.

          I did lots of research on the subjects of happiness.
Spiritual and physical.  On all the normal levels, I should be happy.
I'd been telling myself that for years.  I was raised by good people who
taught me to be genuinely appreciative for the blessings that I have.
And I tried to be, because I did have blessings.  I had food on the
table, and a roof over my head, and money in the bank.  I had friends,
and acquaintances, and family.  I had never suffered from any serious or
life-altering incidents, or accidents.  I was healthy, physically.

          How could I ask for more?  The morals my parents taught me were
to be positive, help others, and not complain about our lot in life.  One
of my dad's favorite parables was the "I met a man who had no shoes..."
one.  Be genuinely and sincerely grateful for the good things that life
has to offer.

          And I was, on many levels.

          But I wasn't happy.  And for so many years now I couldn't
understand why.  Did I have unrealistic expectations of this life, or the
people around me?  Was I being selfish in wanting more?  Could it be that
my definition of happy was not right, or not valid?  Not that I could
define what happiness was, mind you.

          But I knew I didn't have it, whatever it was

          I read about a condition called adondia.  The best definition I
could find was that people who suffered from it had their happiness meter
stuck on zero.  Most normal people would say they would swing between
three and nine on a scale of ten, throughout their lives.  I seemed to be
forever trudging along at a one, with an occasional two popping up.

          But sometimes, I hated to admit to myself, I could feel the
zero.

          I was fifty years old.

          I felt alone.

I felt as a speck of sand would feel on the beach.  Surrounded by
billions and billions of others, and yet completely on my own.  Did the
other specks even know who I was?  Did they care?  Would any of them
reach out to me, sensing my discomfort?  Or to offer me support, or a
kinship of some kind?

Deep down in my life there was something missing, but for the first fifty
years I didn't know what it was, or never realized I needed it as badly
as I did.

          I'd arrived at the big five-o.  And where was I?  Married,
with no kids.  We had planned on them and talked about them when we first
met thirty years ago, but I came to realize early on in our relationship
that my chosen one had some issues with occasional very real depression,
as well as other modest burdens on her mental health, which showed
themselves in crazy mood swings, and while she was never a danger to
herself or me, I wanted to wait until she'd dealt with her issues
professionally before subjecting children to them.

          The problem was she didn't see things that way.  She didn't
think there was anything wrong with her.  I suggested counselling, and
she said no.  I suggested therapy, and she said no.  I would occasionally
bring up the idea of talking to someone in health care, that talking in
itself could be therapeutic.  From time to time I'd bring up the idea
there might be medicines available.  Happy pills, perhaps.

          She'd get miffed at me, usually, when I brought the subjects
up.  I'd promise her my undying love regardless, but I hoped she would
consider outside help.

          She never did, so it never happened, and I gave up on the idea
of having kids a long time ago.

          My wife's occasional mental health issues, coupled with her
on-going soap opera of familial issues (which are too many to describe
here) meant that ours was a relationship that looked good from the
outside, but wasn't even close to that in reality.  If I'm being honest
with myself.  Sure, to others, unaware of our day-to-day, it looked
loving, it looked successful.  Certainly my wife always concentrated her
energies on making sure that her family and friends thought we were a
successful couple.  How things looked was vitally important.  I had
promised "till death do us part", and I'd meant it with all my heart.
Back when I was all-in on this love thing, or what I'd thought was
love.  And I rationalized that I had the integrity to do what I had to
do, always, to make her happy.  I'd be the strong one.  I'd be the rock
of sanity and contentment she needed to be calmer, saner, happier, and
easier to be with.

          Happy wife, happy life.  Right?  That was the cliché.

          Mind you, it's not that my life was horrible, or anything like
that.  Please don't put that impression in your mind.  I was a mostly
contented person.  I guessed it was contentment.  I didn't really have
any other word to use.

My career was successful, I had people I knew and liked there and for the
most part enjoyed my days and tried to help others enjoy theirs.  My wife
and I owned our own home, nothing huge, but comfortable enough for two,
and I had plenty of things to occupy my time and bring some small moments
of fun to my life.  Hobbies.  I played guitar, to myself.  Nothing worthy
of going on the road, but I was a competent rhythm player.  I loved
jigsaw puzzles, the more intricate the better, and would spend hours on
them.  We had an expensive indoor exercise bike and an elliptical trainer
that she'd insisted on buying and then hardly ever used, and I would
spend hours each week working out, by myself, away from her, listening to
music on my headphones.

We had a cat.  She paid me attention.  She was my only source of
affection, truth be told.  Whenever I came to that realization, which was
more than once every day, it would make me happy and sad.  Happy that
there was at least one creature in this world that did love me, and
showed me.  But sad too, for the same reason.

          I also golfed.

          I loved the game, the chance to get outside in the sun and the
fresh air, and hit some balls with friends.  I had three buds and we
played every Sunday morning.  We had been doing it for close to three
decades.  And as sad as this sounds, it was the only true joy I felt in
my life.  The laughter, the camaraderie.  It was without question the
highlight of every week.  It was the only time my joy meter went above
three or four.  And sure, it could cost a lot, some of the time,
depending on which course we played, which my wife would always complain
about, but because she knew the other three guys and their wives or exes,
she couldn't ever make herself look like she was one of those badgering
wives, so she only ever complained to me.  We could afford my golfing, of
course, but it always seemed to me that in our relationship she could buy
anything and everything her heart desired, but me spending money on
myself was inconvenient for her.

          Part of my better half's condition, the way her issues
manifested themselves, was that she was almost completely self-absorbed.
Everything was about her.  Every issue was skewed towards her needs, her
wants, her biases.  Even things that were just plainly mine,
matter-of-factly about me, would become about her in an instant.  Her
career was more important than mine.  It took up most of her time, and
all of her energies.  Mental, physical, spiritual.  And I wanted our
marriage to work, from day one, so for almost thirty years I had more or
less just been saying "yes, dear" and doing what I could to make her
relax, and perhaps stop with the criticisms.  Her levels were paramount.
Her ideas of how we decorated, how clean the house was, how the yards
looked, which food we bought.  I got some say in all of them, if I'm
being honest, but only a little.  Once in a blue moon she'd relent and
allow me to have something my way, but it was only so she could wax
euphoric about all the sacrifices she had to make for me.

And I was fine with that.  I'd tell her from time to time that if she
wanted something a certain way that it was great with me, if it would
make her happy.  I meant it.  There was very rarely anything that I found
so important that I would care to argue about it.  That was almost always
my prevailing attitude.  If she's that set on something, what do I
care?  She wants the dining room a certain colour, okay.  I'd paint.
She demanded a certain piece of furniture, even if the old one was just
fine, I'd never say no.

Anything to make her happy.

          The problem was she was almost never happy.  Now, it wasn't
like she was a bitch all the time.  No, not at all.  A few moments here
or there, sure.  Occasionally a day here or there.  But in all fairness,
she wasn't that way all the time.

          Most of the time she wasn't too mean, or too bitchy.  Most of
the time she was okay.  Chatting with friends, doing work at home,
gabbing with the girls, planning shopping trips and the like.  Most of
the time the best I could hope for was that she was okay.  I tried to
coexist, and nothing more.

          I thought about divorce, of course.  Who wouldn't?  But the
optimist in me kept holding out hope that she'd get better, easier to be
with, more fun, more affectionate, more loving.

          Some day.

          We were a couple.  But everything was tilted in her direction.

          Romantically as well.  Sexually too.  She was an unaffectionate
person, the exact carbon copy of her mother.  She'd learned from the
best.  Or the worst, depending on how you looked at it.  Mom was prim and
proper, and cold in those affection kinds of ways.  So my wife learned
that kind of passionless life, and never grew out of it.  This was her
norm.  No hugging, no kissing, no cuddling, no groping, no hand-holding,
no caressing.  Unless I instigated it.  And in the first few years I did,
often, and always encouraged her to do the same with me.  I mean, who
wouldn't want to give and receive affection, right?  She put up with it
for a short while, but it was just obviously not her, which made me sad.
For her.  I thought, she's missing out on the best things in life!!

          Soon enough she pushed me away, both literally and
figuratively, for good.

          We became housemates, more than anything else.  I spent most of
my time trying to keep things to where she would be tolerable.  And she
was, barely, in many ways.  But there were always things about me or the
household or life in general that frustrated her, or things she "hated"
or things that would set her off, and she'd become darker, and harder to
be around.

          I spent a lot of time in my backyard, where I had a small
storage shed, for the lawn mower and tools and the like, and I would
enjoy smoking some weed.  I was a teenager in the seventies, and puffing
was something I'd been doing for decades.  It kept me calm, and helped
my normal contentment stay alive, even in the periods when she was really
ragging me.

          Everything was about her, I suppose.  And for the most part, I
was willing to accept that.  I gave up my hopes of out-and-out happiness,
and settled on contentment.

          But there was very little affection.

          After the first ten years, there was no sex.

          She didn't want it anymore.  It didn't interest her anymore.
And I spent years trying in my way to convince her that sex was one of
the best things in life, the best things about being with another
person.  Love-making.  Romance.  Sex.

          She was more concerned with the cleanliness of the house, and
why I hadn't done such and such a chore yet.  Because her time was so
overloaded with her career, I ended up doing almost all the housework.
In the evenings, after work, I'd be the one vacuuming, straightening up,
washing floors, doing laundry.  And I was happy to do them, almost right
from the beginning of our relationship, because I thought if she had less
to worry about in life she'd be happier, and have more time to spend
affectionately with me.

          When we first got together, our love-making was once a week.
That's it.  Except for one week every month, of course, when certain
things were happening.  And it was always the same, our sexual times.
Lights out, under covers always, one or two kisses and that was it, I
would finger her, or perform oral sex on her, to get her wet, climb on
top (always me on top doing the work), and enter her.  My lack of
experience, right from the get-go, meant I would last a dozen strokes or
less.  I'd cum, she'd more or less push me off, go to the toilet to
clean out, and then back to bed in boring P.J.'s, on her side of the
bed, no cuddling.  She didn't ever want to touch my penis.  She thought
it was disgusting.

          So I became a masturbator.  I mean, of course I'd done that as
a youth too, incessantly, every day, sometimes multiple times a day.  My
five inch uncut penis became my best friend, the center of my sexual
universe.

          I hadn't been a Romeo as a teen, and so I'd only been with
three women before my wife.  Two of them were one-night stands, and
wholly unsuccessful.  I'd always cum too soon, and then not be able to
get it up again quickly.  So I had no confidence with women at all.
Marriage, I'd thought at the time, would allow me all sorts of
opportunities to get better at the sex thing.

          It never happened.

          Porn was there too, of course.  I could watch all sorts of
things and imagine myself being involved in them.  Threesomes, group
scenes, outdoors, interracial.  Different scenarios for different
nights.  Lots of lesbian porn, which I always enjoyed, as usually they
were soft and gentle with each other, which really turned me on, and I
knew that the ones wearing lots of sexy lingerie were my absolute
favorite.

I'd watch other stuff too, of course.  Women getting fucked by
big-cocked men.  I envied the men, for being with such gorgeous women and
having the ability to keep it up for long periods, and how a lot of them
seemed to be in such great shape, toned and muscular and bronzed.

All the things I wasn't.

I was five-nine, one hundred and sixty pounds, with a slim build, but not
muscular.  I was in okay shape, and did my best to avoid a mid-life
belly, like a lot of other men my age.  I was paler than most everybody,
because me and the sun didn't get along all that well, and my body was
actually free of hair, because in my teens I'd suffered from occasional
recurring acne, really badly at times, and sometimes the pores would get
clogged and swell up, and I had to have a few actually cut out of me by a
doctor, until one old skin specialist told me that the hair on my body
was making things worse, and I should just shave.  That was when I was in
my early twenties, and I've been smooth ever since.  It's a little
embarrassing, in a way, being a slight, hairless, pale-skinned guy, and
people have made fun of me over the years, time to time, but I always
tried to ignore it.

Still, I didn't have much self-confidence about my looks.  Average face,
I thought, with a nose I wish was just a tad slighter, and a few freckles
spotted around my cheeks.  I usually didn't go out into public in shorts
only, like a lot of guys do.  It would just embarrass me, people seeing a
guy who looked like me, ghostly-pale and hairless.

Over the years, I began to envy the women in my porn too.

          It must be amazing to be with a sexual dynamo, especially the
really big guys.  Big in body size, yes.  But big in equipment size too.

          I grew over the years to watch almost anything.  Except I
didn't like the bondage stuff, or the pain stuff.  That seemed to me
antithetical to sex.  Shouldn't sex be about pleasure?  And not pain?
Wasn't that the whole point of it?

          I'd seen gay porn too, of course.  Some of it was
entertaining, but again I seemed to tilt towards the more romantic
stuff.  Kissing, cuddling, stroking, soft movements and real affection
leading up to passionate sex.  Those were the kinds of things that
interested me.  They seemed to fit my definition of love-making more.
Sure, seeing a stallion of a man pounding the stuffing out of some other
guy was entertaining, but I knew the movie clips that put me over the
edge were the ones where there was at least some semblance of care.
Something romantic and delicate, before all the animalistic stuff.

          For my fiftieth birthday, my three golfing buds bought me some
lessons.  For thirty years we'd all played together, and for thirty
years I was always the guy who scored the worst.  Not much worse, since
the other three were all about the same.  But I was always last.  And I
never complained about it.  Ever.  Not once.  It's just the way it was,
I reasoned.  I loved the time playing, and tried my hardest to get
better, to improve, and over the years I did learn some things.
Repetition teaches too, in some aspects of life.  But I could never put a
good round together score-wise.

          The boys would laugh about some of my shots.  I could, at
times, be aiming at one thing and then swing and the ball would go
completely in the wrong direction.  Even when I did connect well, I
always had a slice, or a less-than-gentle fade.  And no matter how hard I
tried, I could just never hit any club as far as my buds.  My driver
would barely get me two hundred yards, while the other three guys were
always at least fifty yards ahead of me.  And they were usually in the
fairway too, while I was almost always in the rough.  Or the trees.

          So they bought me four lessons.  And not from the golfing
academy at our local driving range, either.  This was an accredited
teaching professional who worked one-on-one in an indoor set-up.

          I called to set up my first appointment.  The professional
instructors name was Gary.  He was an enthusiastic, friendly guy, on the
phone.  I felt an instant warmth coming down the line.  With some people,
you can tell that their friendliness is put on, assumed.  But Gary came
across as genuine, as sincere.

Gary seemed real to me.

He also seemed genuinely keen on helping me improve.  He told me over and
over again that he could help me, after I described my deficiencies.  He
loved seeing the look on people's faces when they got better, when they
realized that there was light at the end of the tunnel.  It made his
day.  It made his week, sometimes.

          We set up my first lesson.

          On the appointed evening, right after I'd cooked dinner for my
wife, who groused a little bit about my choice of vegetables but ate her
meal regardless.  I drove to a small industrial park, about forty minutes
from home, first stopping at my favorite spot by the river to take in
some fresh air, relax, and spark up half a joint.  The address was a unit
in a commercial building.

          I rang the bell when I arrived, a few minutes early, and
moments later the door opened for me.

          There he stood.  Gary, the golf pro.

          He's a much bigger human than me.  I'm five nine and one
sixty.  He's six three, and probably two thirty or so.  Six years older
than me put him squarely in middle-age, but other than a slightly bulging
middle, he looked in good shape.  Certainly his arms were much bigger
than mine, and more muscular.  He was wearing proper golf shorts and his
legs looked like tree trunks.

          And he was a hairy man.  His legs were bushy, his arms were
bushy, and there was a forest of hair popping up in the V-neck of his
golf shirt, on his upper chest.  Almost instantly I realized that I was
staring at his chest, which was far more defined than mine.  His nipples
were obvious.

          Why did I notice his nipples?

          "Hi, Michael, is it?" he asked, a wide grin on his face.
When I said yes, he shook my hand.  His fingers were big, like sausages,
and my hand more or less become enveloped by his.

          His skin was warm, strikingly so.

          I felt it, running up my arm and into my body.  His warmth.  It
filled me, like a drowning man taking in air.  It made me straighten my
back, trying to stand taller.  It was as if his energy was pumping me up.

          His skin was so warm.  I liked it.

          Gary took me inside, locking the door.  His shop was set up in
what had been a boutique warehouse. Just a few hundred square feet, but
two stories tall, with a roll-up bay door at ground level.  He had a
small office in the front too, with a desk and chair, and two guest
chairs, a storeroom of some sort, and a small kitchen area with a kettle
and a microwave and a bar fridge and a two-seater sofa.

          He offered to make me some tea.  I thanked him, of course, for
his generosity, but I was a coffee guy.  I'd brought one with me, from a
drive-thru.  He asked me if it kept me up at night, and I said no.  It
never had.  I loved coffee.

          Gary took me into the studio, his workspace.  A huge screen was
set up, about fifteen feet away from a tee-box area.  There were huge
mirrors on one wall, and equipment all over the place.  Sensors and
cameras were in various places, and he explained how they all worked.
When the ball was hit into the screen, the computer generated a visual of
the ball flying through the air, and where it would have landed on an
actual golf course.  It was like a really huge life-sized video game.
And all the measuring equipment would also then detail a myriad of
statistics.  Club head speed, swing plane, ball rotation, spin rate, club
face angle, and more.  He could then play a computer-generated version of
me making the swing, realistically replicating my movements, which could
be slowed down or viewed from any angle or vantage point.  Every swing
could then be analyzed, Gary said, and the good parts celebrated and the
bad parts highlighted, so I could begin learning where improvements
needed to be made.

          He set up a ball on a tee and made a swing, to show me how it
all worked.  It was perfect.  Gary's swing was fluid, and strong.
Amazingly strong.  His body rotated and torqued in all the right places
at all the right times, and he smashed the ball with the club.  It
sounded like a shotgun going off.  The ball hit the big screen like a
missile, and then the computer generated a realistic view of his shot,
perfectly arced with a slight draw two hundred and ninety seven yards
down the middle of the fairway.  We watched it together.  He was in the
perfect finish position, perfectly balanced.  Even resting at the end of
his swing, he looked powerful.

          His second swing went three hundred and eight yards.  The third
one was two hundred and ninety four.  I watched each movement of his
body, each motion, his assured easy pace, his muscles rippling at times,
the club itself scything through the air with an audible `swish', the
club head shattering the silence of the room each time it connected to
the ball.

          Gary was really good at this.

          I wasn't.

          My joy at watching him doing it all so well was quickly
replaced with embarrassment, over my own inadequacy.  I can't do that, I
thought, and he'll take one look at my swing and dismiss me as a total
idiot.  A loser.  He'll take my money, of course, but I worried that he
would think the less of me.

          And for some reason, I didn't want him to think the less of
me.

          Then it was my turn to hit.  I had my clubs, and he suggested I
start warming up with a five iron, or some middle club.  I found myself
more nervous than I'd ever been.  I didn't want to disappoint Gary.  In
all my years of golfing, I'd never tried harder to swing slowly and
smoothly and try to be square to the ball when I hit it.

          I sliced it.  Of course.  I know my face went red, after I
watched the computer-generated graphics show my shot sailing off to the
right, over the rough and into the forest.  One hundred and thirty seven
yards.

          I felt pathetic.

          My head dropped down, all the air coming out of my lungs in a
sigh.

          I was pathetic.

          I looked up at him, finally.

          Gary was looking at me, but not with derision.  His eyes were
open wide, and alive with energy, his demeanour kindly, his smile
unforced.  He had sandy-grey hair, cut short, and his skin was very
tanned from all his years outside playing golf.

          "Try another one," he said, his words calming and supportive.

          My second shot was better, but not by much.

          Gary found something positive to say about it.  He asked me to
hit a few more with a variety of clubs, aiming to get an overall review
of my swing, and where I needed help.  And it was all being filmed as
well, each shot, and after the first half dozen he suggested we look at
the video.  Standing in front of the monitor, we had to be physically
close to both see the screen.  His left leg ended up next to my right
one.  I could feel his body heat.

          It made me feel warm.  Inside.

          We watched a few of my swings, and he'd slow the playback down
here or there to point things out to me.  How I was bent.  Where my
shoulders were, and where they should be instead.  At the side of the
screen were a bunch of stats, and he pointed out my club head speed,
which was low, and some other numbers as well.  And he kept reassuring me
that we'd get them all better over the course of my lessons.

          Together.

          Just him saying that word to me, the way he was looking at me
when he said it, the kindness and gentleness in his voice, the sparkle in
his eyes, all made me think that maybe I did have a chance at
improvement.

          Maybe I did have a chance at something.

          The lesson was supposed to be an hour long, but Gary ended up
working with me for close to double that.  At one point, early on, he
asked me to swing back, but not down, and hold my position.  Then he came
around behind me, and after asking if it was okay to touch me, he put his
hands on my hips, and gently positioned them closer to where they needed
to be.

          My breath caught in my throat.  His hands were touching me, one
on each side.  After fifteen years of no physical contact with my wife,
I'm ashamed to say that the simple act of him touching me initially
shocked me.  I'm just not used to human contact.  But again, his big
hands were warm.  I could feel it radiating up and into me, through the
material of my golf shirt and khakis, where his sausage-sized fingers
ended up.

          Gary was touching me.  Demonstrably.  His hands at my sides
felt like fire.  I shuddered, and it's rippling almost made me cry.
I'd not felt anything like it, for so long.

          "Are you alright?" he asked, still standing behind me, his
voice soft and deep and breathy.  I sensed a real concern, a genuine
worry for my well-being.

          I could barely find the strength to answer him, so I just
hummed my okay.

          We took small breaks.  He cautioned me against hitting too many
balls, too fast.  It was better to relax, and mimic the real life
experience of golfing.  Hit a different club each time, he suggested,
just like out on the course.  He had a gregarious attitude about him, and
we began to get to know each other on a personal level.

          Gary was single, divorced, with three daughters, all in their
twenties.  He still entered the occasional tournament, maybe ten or so a
year, in our region.  Just the past weekend he'd ended up seventh and
won a couple of grand at a professional two-day tourney at a golf course
I'd heard about but never played.  I mentioned that it was on my bucket
list of places to try, and he smiled at me and encouraged me to do so.

          "You'll love it," he said, warmly, "it is a gorgeous
facility."

          The way he said the word `love' made me think that there was
hope for me, some chance in this lonely world of mine to find those kinds
of feelings again.

          At the end of that first lesson, we chatted socially for a
bit.  I lied and told him I was happily married.  I made a joke about how
she kept a big industrial sized bottle of aspirin next to her side of the
bed, so she could claim a headache whenever I was in the mood.  The
typical politically-correct joke, like so many guys do about their
wives.  I saw something in his eyes when I said it, as if he could
somehow tell that I was bullshitting.  Maybe it was just my imagination.
I wasn't sure.

          His handshake at the end of the evening lasted longer than a
standard one.  Gary held my hand in his, and brought his left hand over
and gave me the two-handed shake.  I shuddered again, feeling twice the
warmth coming from him.  And again, I sensed something from him, like he
wanted to react or say something.  But he was the consummate
professional.

          We set up my next visit.  He told me he was glad to have met
me, and that he was really looking forward to working with me.  He really
wanted to make me happy.  He meant with my game, I assumed.

          Didn't he?

          I thanked him for his time and energy.  I felt like I had to
apologize for my lack of ability, and tried to make a smile out of my
words, telling him that he'd met his match in me in terms of his
teaching skills.

          "Michael, no," he admonished, kindly, "you have to keep a
positive attitude, in everything in life.  That's what I told my girls
all the time, as they were growing up.  There is always an upside.  A
silver lining.  We'll get you to where you need to be.  I've already
noticed some improvement, just in the last hour."

          My first thought was that he was just being nice, saying things
in a kind way, to pump up my obvious low spirits and embarrassment about
my swing.

          "Really?" I asked.  "You honestly think so?"

          He smiled and nodded.  "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean
it.  That's the one thing I'll guarantee you right now.  I'm a
truth-teller, always have been and always will."

          I was a little confused.  "And you think I've gotten better
already?"

          Gary reached out his right hand, and lightly placed it on my
left shoulder.  It was so warm, so soft, and so gentle.  It surprised me
that a big man like that could be so delicate.

          "A little bit, you bet," he said, "the last few swings you
made you were getting better distance.  You saw it.  I pointed it out to
you, remember?  So absolutely, my friend, you are getting better.  We'll
keep at it and get your distance up even more and we'll get you straight
too."

          His voice was deeper than mine, and smooth.  A real manly
voice.  I wondered what it would sound like if he was singing.  I thought
he would have a real crooner's voice, smooth and silky.

          Masculine.  And, I realized, very attractive.

          He had called me `friend'.  As I drove home, I realized I was
smiling, from ear to ear.  Gary considered me a friend.  And though I
didn't think I'd made any improvements during the lesson, just having a
new friend was a wonderful outcome.

          Gary was my friend.

          All week long, I thought of him often.  His easy manner, his
smile, the way he just exuded warmth from his skin, whenever he touched
me.  The affection he gave was warmth of a kind as well.  On the weekend,
I thanked my buddies for the lessons.  They all agreed after our round
that it hadn't done a thing for my game.

          But I knew it had done something for my soul.

          I arrived for our second lesson almost late.  I'd had to rush,
after making dinner for my wife, who was in a particularly bad mood.
Complaints about work, me, traffic, me, the neighbours making noise, me.
She played up her disappointment that I was going out, wondering aloud
who was going to wash the dishes.  I suggested she could if she wanted,
but the horrible look on her face made me instantly regret it, and I told
her I'd do them when I got home.

          Gary was at the front door when I arrived, waiting for me.  His
smile was real, and infectious.  It made me smile.  It lightened my
heart.  His handshake was once again warm and welcoming.  We held it for
longer this time.  When he showed me inside after locking the front door,
I saw a coffee pot on the little kitchen counter.

          "I'll get a pot brewing for you, Michael," he said, from
behind me.  When I turned to look at him, I saw his eyes coming up to
meet mine.  It hit me like walking into a wall.  Had he been looking at
my backside?

          "You don't have to..."

          "C'mon, my friend," he cajoled, his voice once again deep
and manly and smooth.  "I'm happy to."

          It struck me that there was no coffee pot last week.

          "You, you didn't buy that coffee maker just for me, did
you?"

          For the first time, I saw him blush a little bit.

          "I did, actually," he said, a little quietly.

          "Oh Gary, you shouldn't have done that for me."

          It was my immediate reaction, no filters.  It was the way I
felt.  What a wonderful gesture!  I was suddenly filled with warmth.
>From him.

          "It was my pleasure," he replied, and he meant it.  I could
tell.  "That's what friends do for each other, right?"

          For a few moments, I couldn't think of a thing to say.  I just
stared up, into his eyes.  They seemed to me like they were glowing.

          "But it cost you money," I babbled, "I can't believe how
nice you are.  You don't even know me."

          He studied me.  "Michael, it's okay.  Besides, I do know you,
a little.  And I hope to get to know you more, too.  You seem like a
really great person, and I've always believed that I could use more
great people in my life.  So I'm hoping we do become good friends.  And
after all, it's fun to do nice things for people, you know?"

          I did, deep down.  I tried to live my life that way, and do
nice things for others.  I was just shocked that someone had done that
for me.  I wasn't used to such generosity, in my existence.

          And the sincerity on his face was magical.  He genuinely wanted
to do something nice for me.  I still felt slightly awkward about it, but
I realized that I too could use more great people in my life.  Didn't I
deserve that too?

          Gary, I decided, was very much a great guy.  I liked him.  And
it warmed me even more in my heart to think he liked me too.

          "Thank you," I said.  Slowly.  With meaning.  It's just the
way the two words came out.  "Now I want to do something extra nice for
you, too.  I just don't know what that might be yet."

          He smiled more.  "Well, and please don't be embarrassed, but
I couldn't help but notice that your eyes look like, well..." he paused,
"...well, they look like two piss holes in the snow is the old
expression, so I know you enjoy the ganga a little bit, correct?"

          I nodded, cautiously.

          "If you're looking to do something nice for me, which you
really don't have to feel obliged to, then maybe one of these nights we
could share some.  After the lesson?  It's been a few years for me,
since I smoked weed, but I would love to join you, if that's okay?"

          I immediately said a firm and loud "of course!  I finished a
roach on the way over, other than that I didn't bring any with me
tonight, but I can next week."

          Gary smiled, and reached over and rubbed my shoulder again with
his big right hand, like last week.

          "It's a date," he said.  "Now, let's get you warmed up."

          So I began warming up in the shop, and a few minutes later he
brought me a steaming hot mug, its aroma wafting at me.

          "Okay," he said, "let's see some swings."

          We began the lesson.  He reminded me of a couple of things from
last time, and after my fourth slice he stepped up behind me, and asked
if it was okay with me if he touched me again.  Like last week.

I answered yes quickly.  It just blurted out of me.  But it was the
truth.

          I was totally okay with him touching me.  For the last week
I'd found myself often thinking about the heat that jumped from his skin
to me.  How my heart would beat stronger, and faster, and my lungs would
expand more, as if I could breathe in his vitality and his affection.  I
mean, I know I lived a life mostly devoid of affection, so any touch from
anyone would be out of the ordinary, but still.

          Being touched was intoxicating.

And he was a man, for gosh sakes, not my wife, not some sexy woman I
somehow met, not anything of the sort.  The traditional part of my brain
told me I wasn't supposed to feel this way with another man touching me.

But I was feeling this way.

I couldn't deny it.

I was elated, delighted, and encouraged.

Some of the same elements of feeling loved.

Loved.

          As before, he moved behind me, towering over me, and those
strong hands once again settled on my hips, the heat from him instantly
affecting me again.  I had to stop a little murmur of a moan from going
through me.

          I'd never felt like this before.  His touch, through my
clothes, was mesmerising.  It was like a drug of some sort, like some
liquid I'd just injected into a vein, moving its silky way through my
system.  But rather than dangerous and downright life-threatening,
Gary's heat made me safely high.  Wonderfully high.  And getting a
little higher with each contact.

          He outweighed me by a good sixty pounds or more, and he was so
strong, but his touch was delicate.  It was soft, and reassuring.

          It was tender.

          He helped me through a couple more swings that way.  I had to
be careful not to hit him with the club, as I turned back.  And that took
most of my concentration, since I suddenly felt that there was no way I
wanted to do anything to cause any pain to this incredibly nice man.  How
could I even risk hurting Gary, this new friend in my life who was so
simply and wonderfully nice to me.

          Again, we took little breaks.  I drank more coffee.  It was
dark and rich and filled me with heat, adding to the heat I felt from his
touch, and just being around him in the first place.

          I looked at my watch at one point, and realized we'd gone over
the hour limit already by about twenty minutes.  I mentioned it to him,
and wondered if I was delaying him from his next student.

          "You're the only one on my schedule tonight," he said.

          "I'm not keeping you from your social life, am I?  Or your
daughters?"

          He shook his head.  "That's sweet of you to ask, Michael.
Thank you.  But no, I see the girls on the weekends mostly.  And I don't
really have much of a social life, to be honest."

          The way he said it made me feel sad for him.  I liked him, a
lot.  He was kind, and warm, and friendly, and he should be happy!

          Then I thought, yes, he should be happy.  And I should be too.

          And I am.  Here.  Now.

          "I'm not trying to intrude, Gary.  I just think that a great
guy like you should have lots of people wanting to be with him."

          He blushed again.  A little.  Then he looked at me, and
grinned.

          "Tonight, you're my social life."

          Now I blushed.

          "Back to the lesson," he said.

          I worked a couple of dozen more swings.  Five of them were with
his hands on my body.  They were the best shots I made.  It just felt
better, the swing itself, when he was helping me with the turn and
rotation by guiding me with his big strong hands.

          Another hour or so later, we started wrapping it up.  Then he
asked me a question.

          "Do you ever watch golf on tv?"

          "Sure, when I can," I said.

          "I assume, based on how much I know you already, that you
examine their swings, study them, try to compare them to yours, try to
find things that they do to emulate in your own swing?"

          I nodded.  Yes, of course.  If you want to know how to do
something, watch the professionals, right?

          "You should watch the women."

          "Really?  The LPGA?  How come?"

          He thought for a second or two.  "Let me explain.  When
you're watching the men pros, have you ever seen any of them tuck their
shirt sleeve up under their armpit before they swing?"

          I thought about it.  "Yeah, I have, now that you mention it.
Why?"

          "They do that as a sort of cheat.  Or a shortcut, if you'd
prefer.  They do that to remind themselves that you have to keep the
inside of your forearms right up next to the chest, touching the sides of
your pectoral muscles, through the whole swing.  So they tuck their
shirt, and at the end of the swing if it isn't still tucked then they
know their arms separated from their torso during the swing, and it's
something they need to work on.  It's a vital part of the swing."

          Visualising from past tournaments I'd watched, I remembered
seeing different guys do it over the years.  I'd never thought to wonder
why, before.

          "The women," he continued, "don't have that problem,
because they, um, well, obviously, they have breasts."

          "Because they have breasts?  How does that help them?"

          "It helps them a lot.  Think about it.  Men have to
concentrate on maintaining that contact with their torso, between the
sides of their upper chest and the inside of their upper arms, right?
But women have breasts, and yes they're all different sizes and shapes
and all that, but they spend their whole life having that contact of
flesh, their arms are almost always touching the sides of their breasts.
They're completely used to it, and so when they swing they maintain that
contact at all times, naturally.  And because they do have breasts, even
when they do have separation issues it's an easier fix for them."

          I thought about it.  It seemed like a perfectly rational
explanation.  I would have never considered it, of course, since I
didn't have breasts.  I never had to deal with it before.

          "Can I show you?" he asked.

          "Yes, of course."

          He paused for a second.  "I'll have to touch you again, if
that's okay?"

          I nodded.  I tried not to look too eager, but deep down I
welcomed his touch.  I wanted the warmth he transferred to me every time
it happened.

          "Some men aren't all that comfortable with being touched by
another man, so I always ask first."

          "Sure," I said, "but you can touch me."

          He got a concerned look on his face.

          "It doesn't make you feel uncomfortable?  You're okay with
it?"

          "No," I said, and without thinking I added, "I like it when
you touch me."

          I watched his Adam's apple go up and down.

          "Okay," he said.

          Gary stepped up behind me, and told me to assume the address
position, but without holding a club.  Once I was in my stance, he got
closer to me, and I could feel his heat without him making any contact
yet.  I could sense that he was just inches away from his body touching
mine all the way up from the floor.

          I wondered how that would feel.

          Then I realized it would feel wonderful.  Somehow I just knew
it.

          He spoke again, his head above and behind mine, but close.  His
voice was soft, and deep, and caring.

          "What I'm going to do is to try to simulate you having
breasts, if that's okay?"

          I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but I was more than okay
with it.  I trusted him, this man I'd only known for a few hours.

          "Yes, okay."

          "So I'm going to bring my arms in-between your arms and your
body, and then you can pretend to be holding your club and address the
ball."

          I bent my knees slightly, getting into what the pros call the
athletic position.

          Then everything about the world changed.

          Gary slipped his arms between my body and my arms, and brought
his hands gently up, his big strong fingers lightly cupping my pecs.  It
must have looked like a boy trying to cop a feel from a girl.  But my
heart just about stopped.  I was holding my breath, my lungs full.  The
light scant hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I had goose bumps.
Everywhere.  Instantly.

          And, to my utter shock, I realized that I had an erection.

          For a second I worried that he might sense my reactions, and
find them offensive in some way.  I was a man, after all, and so was he.
Men weren't supposed to react this way to another man touching them,
were they?  Sure, men didn't usually go around cupping another man's
boobs like this, but still.  Would he notice?  Would he care?

          Then I realized my nipples had hardened, and were sticking up
into his palms.  I could feel them, like pencil erasers, under the
pressure of his skin.  And his warmth flowed into me again.  I felt
almost light-headed, practically giddy, and it was like all of my senses
had woken up.  I could smell him, a combination of after-shave and his
natural musk.  He even smelled warm.

          My arms came down of their own volition, and trapped his arms
next to my body.  He whispered that I should try a swing, slowly.  As I
moved, as my torso rotated and my arms came up, his hands never left me,
never lost contact with my chest.

          I didn't want them to.

          Gary stopped me at the top, and got me to reset.  He asked me
if I could feel the difference between this and my normal swings.  I just
blurted out yes!  I could feel it.  Moving with him essentially feeling
me up made the swing different.  It was as obvious as anything.

          Unfortunately, I had fallen back to an old habit with my hips.
Without his hands on me, down there on my hips, my life-long bad shift
had come up again.

          "I can't have my hands both on your hips and your chest," he
said, quietly.   "Let me think.  I suppose I can try to brace you with
my lower body, if that's alright?"

          It was very alright with me.  I was practically overdosing on
his touching me.  As sad as it sounds, I hadn't been this close to
another body in years, male or female, and I never wanted it to end.

          And who would have thunk that?  He was a man.  A man.  And so
was I.  And these kinds of things weren't supposed to happen to me with
a man.  Were they?

          The next thing I knew, his right leg was up against my right
buttock.  It felt blazing hot to me.  I waited for him to say go ahead,
and then I did the swing again, slowly, at his direction.  His leg
didn't move, which with my turning increased the pressure on my ass,
which I loved for some reason, and his hands cupping my breasts stayed
there.

          Firmly.  If anything, his grip was even more pronounced.  But
not pawing, or groping.  Just warm, and sensual, and caring.  Even with
my nipples poking into his palm.

          I slowly got to the top of the swing, and then went slowly back
down to where I'd started.

          "How did that feel?" he asked, quietly and reverently.

          The word just came out of me.  I didn't have time to stop it
and think of something else.

          "Wonderful."

          I could almost feel him nod.  "Yes, it did feel good.  It
feels much smoother, and you're focussing on your upper body more, so
you were much more square to the ball coming down."

          We wound the lesson down after that.  When I had the guts to
look him square in the eyes afterwards, I thought his smile was bigger
than before, and there was slightly more colour in his face.  It could
have been my imagination, but I got the impression he was so happy for
me.

          And maybe happy for himself too, in some way.  Maybe he'd
enjoyed touching me that way?

          Our handshake at the end was longer again, and his eyes glowed
even brighter than before.  I thanked him over and over, and he kept
telling me it was his pleasure.

          On the drive home, I considered what his pleasure might be.

          My next game with the boys saw my score improve.  Not
earth-shattering change, but definitely better.  They all commented on
it.  I wasn't duffing as many balls as usual, and even the shots I did
mis-hit weren't as badly sliced as I usually did.  At the end of the
game, when we went into the clubhouse for some food and a beer or two, I
bought the first round.  I was beside myself with happiness.  Before I
drove home, I texted Gary and told him my great news and thanked him
profusely.

          A minute later he texted me back.

          Great to hear, Michael!  I'm looking forward to seeing you on
Tuesday night.  We'll get you even better for next week's game!  Take
care!

          The work with Gary was already proving valuable to my game.
And, I realized, that my time with Gary was also making improvements to
my non-golf life.  I thought of him often, and how he made me feel better
about myself.  How he seemed to genuinely like me.  But most importantly,
how his touches were becoming so important to me.

          And yes, how he seemed to like touching me.  Sure, maybe he was
just doing his job, and there was nothing more to it than that.  But in
just two lessons we'd already spent time becoming friends, learning
about each other.  He'd told me that he always welcomed more friends in
his life, and how he didn't have that many to begin with.  I expressed
mild shock at that, when he'd said it.  A guy like him, and he didn't
have a lot of friends?  I found it hard to believe.

          My wife was out with friends when I got home, so I sat down and
watched some golf.  The men were on one channel, and the women were on
another.

          I chose the women.  I watched them swing.

          The night of our third lesson, I got home from work late, and
my wife was already home and bitching about having to make supper.  I
apologized, of course, even though it's not really my fault, and took
over, whipping up a meal for us.  I wolfed mine down, and hit the
shower.  I wanted to be fresh.

          For Gary.

          I remembered to bring a doobie with me.  I drove a little
faster than usual too.  Normally I'm a cautious driver, but I found
myself taking a few more chances than normal.  I wanted to get there
fast.

          He was at the door, waiting for me.  His smile was huge, and
infectious.  He made me smile.  When I reached out to shake his hand, he
pulled me a little bit, and we did the bro hug thing.  He's so much
taller than me that he had to bend a bunch, so our shoulders could meet,
our heads turned away from each other.  We went inside, and he poured me
a fresh mug of coffee he'd already prepared.  And he had donuts too.  So
we noshed a bit, and chatted, before the lesson.

          I excitedly told him all the juicy details about my last
round.  How I'd done better, had hit less crappy shots, how I'd
improved my score.  The near chip-in on twelve.  Even my putting was
better!  I thanked him about a hundred times, over and over.  The smile
on his face was priceless.

          It was the most attractive smile I think I'd ever seen.

          We went into the shop, and I warmed up with a few shots while
he disappeared into a back storeroom.  When he came out, he was holding
something behind his back, so I couldn't see.

          "Michael," he said, with some trepidation in his voice,
"I'm wondering if I can try something a little unusual with you
tonight."

          I was curious.  "What do you mean, unusual?"

          "Well," he continued, "look, I've never done this before,
though I really think it could help your swing.  But," he paused, "it
is kind of out there, idea-wise.  So before I even ask, can I just get
you to promise me that you won't be embarrassed or offended?  If you
don't like the idea that's totally understandable and I won't pressure
you at all, I'll never mention it again.  But I've thought about you a
bunch over the last week.  Well," he added, defensively, "I've thought
about your swing a bunch."

          "Okay," I said, still curious, "so what's your idea?"

          "Well, remember how when I held your, um, your..."

          I giggled.  A grown adult man of fifty, and I giggled!

          "My boobies?"

          Gary laughed.  "Yes, your breasts.  Do you remember?"

          I nodded my head.  My voice got very quiet.

          "I remember."

          "You were probably distracted by me, but did you notice that
your swing was much better?"

          He was right.  I had been distracted by him.  I mean, he had
his hands on my breasts, from behind, as if he was a randy teenager.  Who
wouldn't be distracted?  And yet he was also right about my swing.

          It was better.

          "So," Gary continued, "after a lot of thought during the
last week, I came up with something that I think might be an invaluable
teaching aid."

          Then he smiled, and while it was warm and inviting, it was also
tinged with a little nervousness.

          "Okay," I said, "what would I have to do?"

          "Well," he said, searching for the way to say whatever he was
thinking, and then finally just blurting it out.

          "I'm hoping you'll wear this."

          From behind his back, he brought his hand around.

          He was holding a bra.

          Black, with thin straps and lace cups.

          A bra.

          I was flummoxed.  I was surprised, more than ever in my life.
He wanted me to wear a bra?

          Gary must have seen my reaction and interpreted it as me being
offended, because he immediately whipped his hand so it was behind his
back again.

          "Look, dumb idea, I know, but..."

          I sensed he was embarrassed somehow, at asking me such a silly
thing perhaps, and I could see his complexion redden up, become a little
ruddier.

          "No," I said, instantly not wanting him to feel badly,
"it's fine, really.  I mean, it's not a dumb idea."

          Gary looked at me, perhaps sensing I was trying to make this
easier on him, this awkward idea of his.  "Yeah, it probably is a dumb
idea.  My mistake.  Let's just do a lesson the normal way."

          He turned to start walking back to the storeroom.  Probably to
drop off the bra.  Maybe even to take a few deep breaths, to rid himself
of his nervousness.

          "Do you really think it would help?" I asked.

          He stopped walking, spun, and looked at me for a moment.

          "It could."

          I thought about it for a second or two.  Did I want to wear a
bra?  A bra?

          "Well, if you think it'll help, I guess I could try it."

          Gary smiled.  It practically bathed me in warmth.  I felt all
the blood in my body running around, suddenly excited.  Why does this man
make me feel this way?

          I looked around, for a change room.  There was none.

          "Off with your shirt, then," he said.  Quietly.

          Once again, I became nervous.  I don't like showing my body to
people, men or women.  I'm fifty now, and not the thin svelte guy I used
to be.  Plus, because the sun and I don't get along, and never have,
I'm as pale as a ghost, and I instantly worried about how it would look
in front of this man.

          "We're both men, there's nothing to be embarrassed about,"
he said.

          I couldn't think of a valid reason to avoid it, so I looked at
the floor, reached my hands down to the hem of my shirt and began pulling
it off over my head.  I pretended to be worried about where to put my
shirt, so I could turn my body away from him, away from what I was sure
would be his negative reaction.  All I could find was an office chair, on
wheels, off to the side, and I draped my shirt over it.  Then I turned to
him again, and cautiously chanced a look.

          His eyes were fixed on me.  Staring at me.  He wasn't moving,
or saying a word.  I began to feel like I'd made a mistake, like I'd
done something unbelievably stupid, and was just putting myself out there
for shaming.  He was a man's man, tall and built strong and tanned and
muscular.

          I was short, and slight, and hairless and pale.  Compared to
Gary, I didn't even look like a man.  Everything about me was the
opposite of him.  I waited for him to say something, or do something, to
break the silence in the air.

          "Can I help you put it on?" he said, quietly.

          I'd seen my wife do it, of course, many times.  Start with the
cups on your back, the hooks in front.  Do them up, and then slide the
whole unit around until the cups were in front.  Then slip your arms
through the straps, and then move the bra into place, cupping the
breasts, and making sure the straps weren't bunched up or twisted.

          "I'd like that, thank you," was all I could think of to
say.  It came out quietly, barely there.

          Gary moved behind me, and I slid my arms in the garment.  He
pulled it snugly to my body, running his fingers around the front to make
sure the cups were in the right place.  His skin was hot, transferring to
me lightning fast.  I was trembling, my nerves and excitement getting the
best of me, the strangeness of the situation making them even more
pronounced.  My nipples were rock hard again.  Perhaps it was the cool
air on my skin, I thought.

          Perhaps it was the heat of his touch.  While he was fitting the
cups to my breasts, his fingers had brushed my nipples twice.  The first
time made me catch my breath.  The second time made me moan, just a
little, and I tried to make it as super quiet as I could.  But I
couldn't be sure he hadn't heard me.

          Looking up, at the mirrored wall, I saw me.  Naked from the
waist up, my skin porcelain and hairless.  Gary stood behind me, taller
by a mile, staring into my eyes through the reflection.  My mind tried to
control the situation, tried to bring myself back to a grounded level.
But it wasn't working.

          I had a bra on.  It was black, and lacy, and very sexy.  Not
me, I wasn't sexy.  But the bra was.  I'd always loved women who wore
sexy lingerie, and now suddenly there was some sexy lingerie right in my
view.

          I was wearing sexy lingerie.

          Gary slowly hooked me up in the back, running his fingers
gently under the back strap, to smooth it out over my skin.  His heat was
unmistakable, and for a brief second I wanted to lean back into him,
wanted to feel his arms come up and around me and hold me to him, to
comfort me and ease whatever awkwardness I was feeling.

          I wanted to be held by him.  The way a man holds his woman.

          After he'd untwisted the straps, he just looked at my eyes,
through the mirror.  We stared at each other, and I tried to find
something to say, but words were failing me.  The sparkle that always
seemed to be in his eyes for me also seemed larger now, and brighter.
Through my embarrassment, or whatever I was feeling, I got the sense that
he was happy, that I'd made an idea he'd worried about offending me
with actually work.  He'd taken a risk, I realized, asking another man
to wear a bra, and I somehow knew that now that I had put it on, his
anxiety about my reaction was gone.  His nervousness was gone now, and he
was amazed and so satisfied that I had done this for him.

          Then I realized that it felt amazing.  Foreign, yes.  Alien to
my previous fifty years of existence, yes.  But I liked it!  I was
standing there absolutely loving wearing a bra.  For some reason, I felt
suddenly alive!

          He briefly ran his fingers up my back, from the hooks, and he
ran his big fingers through the bottom of my hair, which fell down over
the nape of my neck.  The tiny hairs stood up in a heartbeat, and I was
overwhelmed with goosebumps again.  All over.

          I looked at us again, in the mirror.  A big man, standing
behind a smaller person, with slightly longish hair and wearing a bra.
And for just a brief fleeting second, I realized I looked a little, well,
feminine.

          Then he broke the moment, and reached over to the chair,
grabbing my golf shirt.  He handed it to me, and I slipped it on.  Then
we both looked in the mirror.  You could tell I had bumps in front, for
sure.  But they weren't very big.  If you ignored my face you'd think
you were staring at a woman with very small breasts.  Almost
flat-chested.  The feeling of it on me was completely dazzling to me.
The fabric was soft and delicate, the straps and hooks holding it tight
to my body.  I'd never felt anything like it.  I couldn't get over how
unfamiliar it was.

          I also couldn't get over how much I liked it.

          Gary's smiled was even bigger now.  Then I saw a thought enter
his head, judging by the reaction on his face.

          "Wait right here," was all he said, and then he walked back
to the storeroom, reappearing moments later with something else in his
hands.  Two something elses.  They looked like clear rubbery blobs.

          "My youngest, Katie, was a late bloomer, which she hated, so
she bought a few of these over the years.  They're for padding the bra.
They're inserts."

          I turned to him.  I noticed that as I did, my chest led the
way.  My new bra led the way.  Is that how women do it?  Does their
chest, no matter how big or small, become the central point in movement?
This was new to me, and I was a complete blank in my head.

          "How do they work?" I asked.

          "You slip them into the bra," Gary replied.

          "So I have to take it off and then put it back on again?"

          He shook his head.  "No, I think if you lift up your shirt I
can just slip them in."

          I considered it for a bit.  "Do I need them?"

          His warmth to me turned up a notch or two.  "I think the
bigger your breasts are, the easier it will be to feel the effect.  That
way you'll be able to get a far greater understanding of the
relationship between your upper arms and your torso."

          Gary smiled more at me.  It was like the sun.

          "Okay."

          I lifted my shirt, almost all the way over my head, more or
less blinding myself with the fabric, but exposing my bra and body to
him.  Feeling him near me, judging by the increase in how hot he made me,
I pushed my boobs towards him.  That'll help, won't it?

          Despite having big thick fingers, his touch was gentle.  And
soft.  It seemed caring, and thoughtful, and considerate.

          He was tender.

          There was no way he could slip the inserts in without touching
my skin, touching my breasts.  It was lucky in a way that I had my shirt
up over my head, so he couldn't see my reaction.  I was trembling,
inside and out, and the heat from his skin on mine was the most thrilling
I've ever felt.  He slid the first gel insert in fairly quickly, the
back of one his fingers rubbing my nipple, making me gasp slightly.

          I hoped he hadn't noticed.  I'd just die of embarrassment if
he thought this was exciting me.

          Then I wondered something I could never have imagined wondering
in my entire fifty previous years of life.

          I wondered if he was excited by this too.

          I wondered if he was excited by me.  Half-naked, wearing sexy
lingerie.

          NO!  That only happens in stupid fantasy stories.

          The second insert went in much like the first, and then he
lowered my golf shirt for me, and stepped out of the way, so I could see
ahead of me to the mirror.

          My heart stopped for a few seconds.  I'm sure of it.  I know I
couldn't breathe.

          Now I had curves.  Now I had breasts.

          In my bra.

          Gary moved behind me, and turned me forty-five degrees or so,
so I could look from the side.  Standing there with my slightly
longish-hair, my shoulders back, was me, but not me.

          I looked like a woman.

          I had breasts.  Not just something a barely-pubescent girl
would have either.  I had two nice handfuls.  My golf shirt strained at
the new shape of me.  A relatively flat tummy, thank you exercise bike,
and instead of my little man boobs above, I had breasts.  Curved,
rounded, swelling.

          Breasts.

          The emotions that were swirling through me were too many to
even catalogue, yet mention.  I was transfixed.  I was rapt with
attention, staring at myself.  I was excited, like a giddy kid, and
trembling, like a nervous bride on her first night.  I felt feminine.

My blood was speeding all over me, my skin felt alive everywhere.  My
breathing was heavier than normal.  Much.  And I watched in absolutely
joyous rapture as my breasts rose up and down, like a woman.  I was
somehow able to ignore the male looking parts of me, and only see the
female me.

          The weight of the inserts were considerable, and they made me
square up my shoulders more than normal, basically pushing my breasts
forward, like I was showing them off, like I was sticking them straight
out in front of me for the world to see, shouting `hey, everybody, look
at me!  Look at my tits!'

          Peering down, I realized that having that weight on my upper
body, having breasts like this, made me naturally just arch my lower
back, sticking out my backside as well.  Like a counterbalance.

          WOW! I thought.  Standing like that, with my bum pushed out and
my breasts pushed out, now I really looked like a woman.

          Gary let me enjoy the moment, I guess, because he disappeared
for a minute or two.  I was still ogling myself in the mirror when he
came back out with a fresh mug of coffee for me.  I thanked him for his
generosity.

          I noticed my voice was quieter, for some reason.  Less
strident, more breathy.

          He was eyeing me up and down, while trying hard not to.  Or
maybe just trying hard not to get caught doing it.  He was smiling
though.  A lot.

          "How does it feel?" he asked.

          "God, it feels...I don't know...it's so strange and new, of
course.  I'd never really realized how tight a bra can be.  But it
feels...wow, it's weird, but it feels kind of...I don't know the right
word, Gary...it sure makes me think about my upper parts more than
before."

          He nodded, enthusiastically.  "That was my thinking.  I'm so
glad you're not put off by the idea."

          I just kept checking myself out in the mirror.

          Ignoring the masculine bits.

          "Shall we start the lesson, then?" he asked.

          So we did.  I grabbed a driver, and put a ball on the tee.  He
got all his computers and cameras running, and then asked me to begin.
My breathing was going in and out really quickly, with the strangeness of
the entire situation, and I took a moment to try to calm it down.

          But that was a daunting task.  How do you calm down, being a
man and suddenly wearing a bra, suddenly having noticeable breasts, a
really sexy size?  How do you bring your heart rate back to normal when
everything about the situation isn't normal?  What could I do to deal
with these feelings I was having?  These feminine feelings?  I was
surprisingly bubbling with emotions now, dressed as I was.

          Dressed partially as a woman, in front of Gary.

          A man who was a new factor in my life, in just two short
weeks.  I was already so enamored and affected by his kindness, his
amiable nature, and his genuine worries about my comfort.

          His respect for me.  His help in making me a better golfer.

          And the friendship he was showing me.

          His tenderness, I realized.

          I took the last of a few deep breaths, feeling my breasts rise
up and down, and then got ready to hit.  When I bent over slightly, as is
the proper technique, I felt their weight gently pull at my shoulders, my
upper body.  My neck straightened more than usual, and my lower back
arched all by itself.

          That led to me sticking my bum out even more.

          I heard Gary murmur, just a little.  It sounded like the most
satisfying noise ever heard.  He was more or less off to my side, so I
couldn't see him directly, but I could see his reflection in the
mirrored wall.  I marvelled again at how big his legs were.  How big he
was.  All over.

          Then I thought something that stopped me dead.  Did that
mean...?

          And all of a sudden I was in the most surreal headspace.  These
last few minutes of unexpected femininity were shaking me to my core, and
I liked them.  I really liked them.  They made me feel things that were
new and different, emotionally.  They made me feel electrified, inside.
I was jumbly and roiling, in the most delicious of ways.  New ways.  I'd
never felt this alive before.  It was like all the things I'd done in my
life were nothing, were vapors, were distant memories.

          I wondered if this is how women felt, some or all of the time.
I couldn't remember much of the previous fifty years of my life.  I was
standing here, in front of my new dear friend Gary, an attractive,
sensitive man, and I was wearing a bra, and I had lovely breasts, and he
was so big, and I was actually wondering if that meant he was big
everywhere!

          My mind wanted to know.  If his body was so large, so solid,
and so manly, does that mean his penis was that way too?  Is the old
cliché true?

          Then I wondered what it looked like.  What Gary's penis looked
like.  The very realization that I was thinking about another man's
penis stunned me for a second.  I should be ashamed of myself, shouldn't
I?  It was wrong to think that way, wasn't it?  Some of my own relatives
would say it was a sin.

But I did want to know.  I did.  I couldn't deny it.  And I was flooded
with other thoughts.  Was he circumcised?  Was it big?  Hairy?  Did he
shave himself or was his groin as hirsute as the rest of him, the parts I
could see?  Did he have a big vein or two running skitter-skatter up the
shaft?

Was the tip wet?  Did he produce pre-cum a lot, like me?  Was it shiny?

I came back to earth and took a swing.  I made sure to concentrate on
feeling my upper arms connect to my breasts.  To my bra.  At the same
time, I tried to remember about my hip movement, and be on top of that
too.  And of course, I was trying to swing slowly and steadily as well,
keeping my adrenaline from making me move too fast.

When I struck the ball there was a completely different sound than
normal.  My old swing hits sounded like little taps.  This was more like
a rifle report.

As my head came up, I saw the animation on the big screen, and my ball
was flying higher than ever before, and farther than ever before, and not
nearly as right as I usually go.  By the time I came to a full stop, the
data from the shot was on the right hand side of the screen, projected
for all to see.  My distance was almost thirty yards more than my
normal.  My club head speed had gone up a whole bunch.  I wasn`t in the
fairway, but I wasn`t in the forest either, which is where my slice
always took me.

I heard Gary from behind me quietly say "Yes!"

My balance was pretty good too, at the end of the swing.  I was standing
there, feeling my right arm up against my breasts, my chest facing the
target, the tightness of the bra straps holding me in their control.

I had never felt better in my entire life.

I turned to Gary, my mouth wide open in shock and surprise, my lips
forming the biggest smile ever, and his eyes came onto mine, his smile
huge and warm and genuine and proud.  I dropped the club.  I was wracked
with emotions, all of them positive, which was a huge change for me, and
my desire to roar out the biggest proudest laugh humanity has ever seen
came out as a giggle.

I was giggling to Gary.

He was laughing, his deep voice rumbling out of his broad chest in
ripples, pride and joy and happiness for me obvious on his face.  That
look of wonderment that comes when something happens you didn`t think
would, and is way better than you could have imagined.  And he was
feeling that way for me.

For me.

For a few seconds, we just stared at each other.  Then, completely out of
the blue and totally unplanned, I just launched myself at him, three
steps almost running, his big strong arms opening wide, welcoming me in,
as my arms went up around his neck, my hands to the back of his head, my
fingers running through his thick hair, the last step off my left toe and
moving my body upwards to him, his big arms coming around me, our bodies
touching, our fronts, just melting into each other, his grip on me strong
and steady and oh so warm, the heat exploding through me as more and more
of us touched, my face settling by nature in the crook of his neck,
smelling his musk and delighting in the delicate brushes of all his chest
hair poking out of the V-neck of his shirt against my skin, like a
million little feathers deliciously tickling me, feeling his heart beat
in the pulsing of his skin, his hands grabbing onto the tops of my
buttocks, squeezing them.

My breasts against his body.

My breasts.

My breasts, crushed against his body.

I realized we were both laughing, uncontrollably.  Cackling.  Unfiltered
mirth and joy.  He was holding me, in his arms.  I was holding him, in my
arms.  His voice was deep and resonant in my ears, all the way down into
my soul.  I tried to get closer to him, to feel his affection and warmth
even more.  I snuggled my body into his, and he pushed back at me.

And I felt it.

I felt it.

It was so obvious, so blatant.  So rigid and so very strong and masculine
and so very right there, pushing against my lower belly.

His penis.

Was it hard?  Or was it this big all the time, even when he was flaccid?

I heard him say loudly "That was great, Michael!"  His head was next to
mine and above, and I could literally feel all the muscles in his chest
moving as he spoke.  It felt to me like how a hug should feel.

His hands slid just a little bit farther down my backside, his arms being
long enough, and he gently caressed and squeezed my bum cheeks.

I felt my breath catch in my throat.  We both stopped laughing.  The next
squeeze made my heart stop.  The next made me realize that my penis was
shockingly completely hard.  I was painfully erect.  The following
squeeze made his penis move, in his slacks, just a little, and get
perhaps just a little bit bigger.  It wasn't my imagination, I knew
instantly.  I felt it.

And then my mind went blank.  I was overloading on all these new sensory
experiences.  I was being held, and hugged, by someone who cared for me.
I was in the arms of another man, whose kindness and passion and
tenderness were real and unforced and making me swoon.  No woman had ever
made me feel this way.  No other human being had ever taken me to this
level of feelings.  A level that I didn't have any relationship with,
and could barely understand or put a name to.  But I did.  After a few
more delicious moments of just absorbing his warmth, I knew what it was.

Intimacy.

Bereft in my life, I was now surrounded by intimacy.  The fact that it
was from another man made it unusual, of course, but I'd never been more
aware of real happiness, never closer to joy, than this.  My meter was
dangerously close to ten by now.

"Thank you," I breathed out finally, into the skin of his neck.  I
opened my eyes and could see his chin, and his ear lobe, in front of me.
"Thank you so much, Gary, I can't begin to..."

Gary shushed me quiet.

"Thank me by doing it again," he said.

I looked up at him, and he looked down at me.  Our faces were so close to
each other.  His eyes were intense, almost boiling with energy and life.
His skin was tanned, and firm.  His lips were full and shiny and closed
except for one little break right in the middle, where I could barely
make out just a sliver of white.  I could hear the blood rushing through
my veins, whooshing in and out like a tide ebbing, powered by my heart,
which was beating more fiercely than I could ever remember.

We looked at each other.  Our faces were so close, so near.  I could feel
his breath on my skin, every time he breathed out.  He seemed to be doing
it more than usual, and I could feel his chest rising and falling against
me.

Time seemed to stand still.  I held onto him and Gary held onto me.
Neither of us moved.  My brain was a scattershot of images and ideas and
feelings.  I was beside myself with so many diametrically opposed
sensations: satisfaction and fear, joy and nervous trepidation, the
warmth of his body soothing me and calming me and making me feel like I
was wrapped in sunlight.  Being held like that, something so foreign to
me for so many years, now the center of my world, the one and only thing
in my existence.  All the social codes of formality and norms seemed to
have gone, replaced with the simple basic physical sensations of touch,
which were consuming me.

I wasn't thinking, I admit it.  I was acting purely on instinct; these
new feelings of human contact were taking over me, consuming me,
controlling me and all my movements.  Propriety and decorum and the
unwritten rules of the road became wisps of smoke in my rear view
mirror.  I had just enough room, just enough stretch in my body.

I stood up on my tip toes and kissed him.  On the lips.  Softly.  My
lips, touching his.  My mouth, quivering slightly with nervous energy and
the fear of the unknown, meeting his.  The enormity of it, all of it,
standing there in his arms, being held by him, in his powerful arms,
against his strong wide body, feeling his heat and his energy touching me
and filling me, my breasts mashed into him, my bra tight around my body,
the inserts heavy and life-like, my nipples harder and more swollen than
I could ever remember them.

My penis harder and more swollen than I could ever remember it.

I kissed Gary.  I kissed him.  He's a man, and I'm a man, and I kissed
him.  Not a peck, not a brief, fleeting moment in time.  Not the kind of
kiss you'd give your father on his deathbed, which I had done.  No.
This was not a kiss of mercy, or of pain.  This was joyous, and
delicious, and real.  My lips, pressing against his, with urgency and
meaning.

I kissed Gary.

For about a millisecond I created images in my head of him throwing me
off, yelling and screaming about my forward behavior, being called a fag
or something else mean-spirited, little mental snippets of being in
physical danger as he kicked me out of his place of business, out of his
life.  Ruining everything.

But he didn't do any of those things.  He just kept holding me, wrapping
me in his arms, making me feel protected and loved and wanted and human.
And his lips never left mine.  Neither of us seemed to want it to end.
Or perhaps both of us were just so shocked at this unexpected turn of
events that neither of us knew what the hell to do.

No tongues were involved.  It was just lips on lips.  Soft, gentle,
yearning lips touching other lips.  My eyes were closed, my head swimming
in the sensations of kissing him.

I was kissing a man!

All too soon, although it probably took at least a minute or two, sanity
seemed to slowly creep its way back into me, and the strength in my
calves began to waver from being on tip toes, and I broke contact with
his lips.  As I did, I breathed out the biggest sigh I'd ever known.

Gary sighed too.

Now I was embarrassed.  I couldn't look at him.  I let my fingers
untwine and my hands left the back of his head, softly moving down his
massive upper chest as I withdrew.  His pecs were huge, and hard like a
man's chest should be.  Our bodies stopped touching, and his hands
finally left my buttocks, all of me instantly missing his warmth, his
touch.

Awkward was the word that screamed out in my head.  I couldn't look at
him, couldn't find the strength to see what his reaction was.  I simply
turned, and walked three steps back to the mat, picked up my driver, and
set myself up to hit another shot.  I chanced a quick peek in the mirror
at him, trying to be furtive about it, to avoid any possible situation
where he might be angry or offended or about to beat the crap out of me.

But he wasn't that way at all, and I should have known that.  I had only
been acquainted with him for a few hours now, over the course of three
visits, but deep down I already knew that he wasn't that kind of a
person.  He was kind, and considerate, and thoughtful, and even though he
was probably upset somewhat by having this customer of his kiss him out
of the blue and unexpectedly, he would be respectful and dignified about
it.  Of course.  Gary was perhaps the gentlest, politest person I'd met
in years.  And it was a momentary lapse of reason.  I could only hope and
trust that he'd feel that way about it.

My quick glance showed him standing there, his arms by his sides, his
chest going up and down a little quicker than normal.  His tanned face
seemed to have a little more colour than usual too.  I saw his tongue
briefly come out and run over his bottom lip, as if he was trying to
capture another last taste of me.

I set up and hit another shot, focussing on keeping contact with my
breasts, feeling the tightness of the bra around my torso.  I found
myself thinking it felt great, being strapped in like that.  The weight
of the inserts, the heft of my breasts, something totally new to me, was
intoxicating.  Slightly bent over, my bosom made me arch my lower back,
which played into a good swing position perfectly.  It made me stick my
bum out, without me thinking about it.  It was like second nature.  And
my second shot was even better than my first.  I managed yet another
eight yards of distance, and while I still wasn't in the fairway, my
slice had dampened down into a fade, and I was just outside the first
cut.

Better than ever.

He finally found his voice and said "Yes, Michael, that's the way!"

I looked up at him in the mirror, and he had a huge smile on his face.
Then I looked at me, seeing my new curvy shape, my new breasts, seeing
the bra strap lines under my golf shirt, the swell of my boobs so foreign
and unusual and new to me.  And so sexy, I thought.

My smile was off the charts.

"Hit again," he said, "and remember to keep that back hip solid and
firm.  Use it so that when your arms come down, they meet that hip, and
they use that solidity to whip the club head through the ball, okay?"

I set up and hit again.  And again.  And again.

Each successive shot was good, much better than I'd ever done.  A dozen
shots later, and I was almost getting used to being a "boomer".  I was
quite literally smashing the ball, the boom of the contact reverberating
through Gary's warehouse.  My distance was amazing.  If this was a real
golf course, and I was out with my buddies, I would be hitting it as far
as they did.  Maybe even farther, with some of my shots.

But I still had an annoying fade.  Gary saw my frustration with it.

"Okay," he said, moving towards me and taking up position behind me
again, "I'm going to touch your hips again, if that's alright with
you?"

I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

"Gary, you can touch me whenever you want."

He smiled at me, in the mirror.  I'd only known him a short time, but I
got the impression he hadn't smiled like that in a very long time.

His fingers felt like fire to me, as his hands lightly landed on my
hips.  Standing there, addressing the ball, my forearms pushing into the
sides of my breasts, with my slightly longish hair at the back and sides
of my face framing the biggest grin I'd ever had, making me look, I
realized at that point, like one of the LPGA women I'd watched on tv.

I looked like a woman.  Sort of.  Partially.  A little bit.

His hands held my hips, and in order to make sure I didn't hit him with
the club as I swung, he moved himself closer to me.  His right leg ended
up behind my right buttock, and his left leg behind my left buttock.  My
stance, with my new breasts, made me automatically push my bum out, more
than usual, and as he settled in behind me, I felt it again.

His penis.

He was touching me with the front of himself.  He had to, or I might
clonk him with my driver on the backswing.  So he was directly behind me,
and safety made him squeeze up close to me, touching me, molding his
groin into me.

His penis was there, above my bum crack slightly.  I chanced a glance up
into his face in the mirror.  Gary's eyes were boring into my
reflection, a new level of intensity in them.  He wriggled himself,
ostensibly to find comfort I suppose.  It made his penis move back and
forth, across the top of my cheeks a few inches.  His face was redder
than normal.  Mine was flushed and more alive than I could ever remember.

"I'm going to make sure you don't let your hip relax or buckle,
okay?"

I just nodded my approval.  I couldn't find any energy to make sounds.

I made the swing, and several after, with Gary holding me that way.  Each
time I could feel his body, his groin, his penis, pushing into me, moving
with me, trapped as it was in the confines of his clothes.  Our
reflection showed a powerful strong man behind what appeared to be a
woman, almost holding her.  My mind should have been on what I was doing,
the ins and outs of the swing, learning more about the process and the
mechanics.

But all I could think about was how he was holding me, touching me, how
his strength and masculinity were so much different than mine.  How I
wasn't looking anything even close to masculine at that moment.

Then I remembered the previous lesson, one week ago, and how he had stood
behind me and how his hands had cupped my breasts from behind.  Like an
amorous teenager, copping a feel.  I remembered how my nipples had
engorged so much that I could feel them poking holes into his palms.

And then I realized that I wanted that again.

The rest of the lesson was wonderful.  I had gained about thirty yards of
distance on my drives, and almost as much on some of my other clubs.
Gary got me to swing for well over an hour, well past the time I'd paid
for, using different clubs, sometimes on my own, and sometimes with him
standing behind me again, holding my hips with his big strong warm hands,
his groin pressed into my bum.

Those were the best swings.

After we had worked for almost two hours, I was flying high.  I was
elated, more than any other time in my life.  I was alive with feelings
of success and accomplishment and a job well done.  But moreso, I was
awash with feelings of joy, of physical and emotional happiness.  I was
being touched by another human being, in ways that were new to me, and
while daunting on some levels, I could tell it was like a drug, and I
wanted more and more.  I wanted to trip away on this narcotic of intimacy
that I was feeling with Gary.

Then I remembered the doobie I'd brought with me, something he'd
requested at the end of our last lesson.

"Gary, did you still want to smoke a joint with me?" I asked as he was
shutting off the lights and getting ready to close up for the night.

"That would be great, Michael," he said, his voice dripping with warm
hints.  "Just let me get everything shut down and I'll meet you
outside, okay?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, suddenly remembering what I was wearing,
"I should probably take the bra off."

He said "no" really quickly.  Then he paused for a second or two,
almost as if he was trying to find the words he wanted to use.

"I think the more you wear it, the more you'll get the feeling for the
weight of the breasts, the weight of your chest, and its relationship to
your arms.  You can keep it on, if you like.  It might help you."

It made sense to me, so I smiled and said "okay."  Then I thought for a
second, and added, "but I can't wear it playing with my friends this
weekend."

Gary laughed.  "No, you probably shouldn't."

"Or around my wife," I added.

"No," he said, more seriously, "you definitely shouldn't."

I walked out into the parking lot.  And I marvelled at how just walking
with this new weight on my chest, from the bra and the inserts, made me
walk a little differently.  I was leading with my boobs.  It was
remarkable!

There were stars out, up above, once I looked away from the commercial
lighting of the building.  My little car was parked over to the side, and
there was a white Sprinter van that I assumed was Gary's in front of the
business.  One gigantic amber light was on the outside of the building,
up high, casting an arc of illumination.

I unlocked my car doors and put my clubs inside.  I thought about
starting up the engine, but decided I didn't to waste the fuel.  I left
the keys in the ignition, with the driver's door open.  The buzzer had
broken years ago.  After a couple of seconds more of waiting, Gary came
out, turning and locking the front door of his suite with two different
keys.  He moved over to his van, and I followed.  The light was
sufficient to see what we were doing, and his vehicle more or less
blocked anyone from the road from seeing what we were doing.

I lit the joint, and took a deep hit from it.  The smoke filled my lungs,
and instantly I felt the relaxation and gentle mellowness of the weed hit
my brain.  Aaah!  Handing it to Gary, our skin touched again as he took
it from me.

"As I mentioned," he said, his voice soft and deep and warm, "I
haven't done this in a long time, so I might get a little goofy.  I'm
just saying."  Then he held the doob to his mouth and inhaled.  I
watched his reaction, his eyes closing momentarily, his chest expanding,
his lungs filling.  My eyes seemed to have a mind of their own, and I
surreptitiously ran them down his body, to his feet and back up again.
His legs were thick and hairy and powerful, like an athlete.  And there,
in his golf shorts, I could see again clearly what I had felt earlier.

His penis.

And again, I marvelled at the size of it.  He's a big man, yes, so it
makes sense that that part of him would be equally as impressive.  But
still, the lump in his clothes looked bigger than before.  Or was that
just my imagination?  I didn't have any experience with this sort of
thing.  I wasn't used to judging other men that way.  I'd never really
thought about it, other than when I was watching porn and masturbating.
But now, tonight, I'd felt it against me, both my front and my backside,
and I knew that he was bigger and thicker and longer than me.  Bigger and
thicker and longer than some of the penises I'd seen online, in porn.

He handed me back the joint, and I took another toke.  I let the
sensations wash over me, taking me further into mellowness.  He breathed
out, the air around us filling with smoke, and then he coughed a few
times.  It had indeed been a while since his last toke.

We stood in silence, outside the front door of his business, bathed in
the amber security light attached to the building, smoking the joint.
After a couple of additional tokes, Gary waved at me that he'd had
enough, so I pinched the cherry off the end and put the rest back in my
pocket.  Both of us were facing each other, just a foot or so apart, next
to his van.  I was trying to navigate my way through completely uncharted
waters.  I wrestled with these feelings.  He was a man, and I was a man.
And yet I felt such new and exciting things towards him.  His natural
kindness, his innate warmth, attracted me like nothing I'd ever felt
before.  Yes, I thought, I'm affection-retarded, in a way of describing
it, and so anything he had done would be thrilling to me, but I felt at
the same time like there might be more.  But then maybe I could be wrong,
right?  After all, this was all so new and shocking to my system.  I had
no history of these kinds of feelings to judge with.  My brain bounced
back and forth, between what might be fantasies and what probably were
realities.

Gary looked off to his right, at his van, and then laughed a little bit.
Out loud.

"What's so funny?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Look at our shadows," he said, a tone of playfulness in his voice.

I turned my head to my left and saw what he was talking about.  With the
security light up high and to my right, our shadows were being cast out
larger than life, across the pavement of the parking lot and then up the
side of his Sprinter.

What I saw made my whole life change.  I saw the shadow of a man, rugged
and tall and barrel-chested, standing in front of the shadow of someone
shorter and smaller who had longer hair and a pronounced rear end
sticking out, and the very obvious curves of breasts.

My shadow looked like a woman.

I was still wearing the bra and inserts.

I looked like a woman.

Immediately, I turned to look up into Gary's eyes again, fearful of what
he must be thinking.  Instead of derision, or shame, I saw something else
entirely.  I saw what looked like hunger.  Was I wrong?  Was I insane?
Was I imagining things, both for me and for him?

He had chuckled a little, so I chuckled too, and hoped it didn't sound
too forced.  I felt like I had to say something, anything.

"I see what you mean," I said, quietly.  "It looks like the shadows of
a man and a woman."

"Yes," he whispered, "it does."

Then there was a pause, as we both stood there gazing at the shadows.

          Then he spoke again, quietly.

          "A man and a sexy woman."

          His words cut at me, like a knife.  I looked like a woman, in
the shadow.  But the shame of being somehow considered less than a man
that I was expecting never appeared.  I just suddenly felt accepting of
it.  I mean, I did look like a woman.  My shape was entirely feminine in
appearance.  My hair, my breasts, my bum.  All womanly.

          "That's really good weed, Michael," he half-whispered.  "I
haven't smoked any in a long time, and I can already feel it.  I
haven't felt this good in forever.  Thank you."

          I was still looking at our shadows, playing out away from us
onto the side of his van.  But he was right, it was good weed.  I was
feeling mellower by the second.  I wasn't nervous anymore, or even
thinking about being worried about looking like a woman.  I realized that
I hadn't stopped staring at my figure, black against the white of the
vehicle.  It was amazing to me.

          I looked like a woman.  I felt a thrill rush through me, like
an avalanche rumbling down the side of a mountain.  My skin got goose
bumps again, everywhere.  All over my shaved body.  My penis was
straining at my underwear, which felt wet too.  I knew that it was
pre-cum, because I've always been a steady leaker of that when I'm
excited.

          And I couldn't deny that I was as excited as I'd ever been.

          "Hey," he said, holding out his right hand, "give me your
hand for a moment, would you?"

          I looked at him, quizzically.  He recognized my confusion, or
perhaps curiosity.

          "Let's see what this looks like, our shadows," he said, and
taking my left hand in his, he bowed his body, leaning towards me, and
pretended to kiss the outside, like a fine southern gentleman would to a
belle while being introduced.  We both turned our heads to look at the
shadows.

          Sure enough, other than me not wearing a billowing evening
gown, we did indeed look a man and a woman, at a formal occasion, the man
reverently and respectfully showing his manners to a feminine creature.

          We both giggled this time.  The shadows could have easily been
a work of art, our silhouettes painted onto a canvas.

          Gary stood up again, and I looked back into his eyes.  They
were full of mirth, and playfulness, and what I felt might be real and
genuine affection.

          Affection.

          That basic human quality I'd been missing for so long.

Still, we were both enjoying this.  I smiled up at him even more.

"How about this shadow?" I asked.  Then I stepped closer to him,
placing the palms of my hands flat on his chest.  On his pectorals. He
was so big across that my hands looked small somehow.  And the instant I
touched his shirt, my breath quickened, and his did too.  And I noticed
two points appear under the fabric.  It took me a second in my stoned
daze, but then it twigged.  His nipples, I realized.  Did I do that to
him?  Then I leaned my upper body closer to him, keeping my arms in a
position that the light could still show my breasts, and stood up on my
toes, like a woman would do if she were chastely and properly about to
peck a man on his cheek.  We both turned our heads, me to the left and
Gary to the right.  Our shadow was perfect.

A woman, leaning up towards her man.  Without any thought at all, my
right leg bent at the knee, and I brought my foot up behind me, on a
ninety degree angle, flexing my calf muscle, and making the shadow even
that much more feminine.  Take a picture, I thought.  Not a single person
in the world would say that the image was two men.  No, no way.  For fun,
and again completely without any pre-thought, I tilted my head up and
quickly waggled my hair, allowing it to flow out from behind me more,
taking advantage of the little bit of natural wind outside.

Now it looked like a video silhouette.  A man, big and strong.  And his
woman, her hair dancing in the wind.

I was so erect in my underwear, and I could feel the dampness of my
pre-cum, which I knew had to be pulsing out of me by now.  My entire
world was focussed on looking like a woman for Gary, seeing the two of us
in this intimate pose.

My heart lurched when I saw his arms begin to move, and his hands slowly
reaching out towards my hips.  Instantly I thought, he's going to pull
me towards him!  YES!  Then that thought vanished, and I thought no,
surely he must be trying to respectfully and gently push me back.

God, I've got to stop letting these pathetic fantasies take over my
thoughts! I admonished myself.  Why would he want to pull me towards him?

Then his hands stopped, and his arms slowly pulled back.  My world sunk,
right then and there.  See!  I was right!  I'd crossed a line, I
reasoned.  My own pathetic situation had somehow pushed me to obliterate
so many lines of proper behavior.  Instantly I began to fill my head with
bad thoughts.  I was so lonely, I reasoned, that I'd made him hug me,
made him hold me.  And even positing that he was a very nice human being
who was simply allowing another human being to express emotion that way,
and of course I knew that there were men like that, there was simply no
way that he would have ever been thinking that another man would dare to
kiss him.  I suddenly felt shame wash over me.

          What had I done?

He'd been nothing but nice to me, nothing but friendly and cordial and
kind and flattering.  And I'd completely lost any sense of reality I
might have had!  You idiot!  I began cursing myself, silently, and
leaning back away from him, expecting him to break this moment, sure that
I'd offended him.

          Tears filled my eyes.  I knew I had only a second or two at
most to reel them in, or I'd be crying in front of him.  Crying in front
of this man.  The potential embarrassment of that washed over me,
amplifying my shame.  I felt my shoulders shaking a little.  I had to
escape.

          "I wonder how the shadow would look, you know, of what we did
earlier," he whispered.

          I was knocked back emotionally a little bit.  "Earlier?"

          He nodded, his stare intense at me.  His eyes were still boring
in at me, but they had that tell-tale redness around them that just
shouted out `dope-smoker'.  Still, the smile on his face was magical.

          "Earlier, when we...uh..."

          "Hugged?"

          He nodded again, more emphatically.

          "And kissed."

          Just hearing him say the word, I lost my control.  The tears
started rolling down from the outside of both eyes, winding down my
cheeks towards my chin.

          "I'm so sorry," was all I could think of to say, and it came
out in a strangled whisper.

          "No," he said, and I could tell he had more words to come,
but through my tears and a sob I cut him off.

          "I'm so sorry, Gary, please...I'm so sorry, I...I...you must
hate me...I'll just go..."

          He reached out and grabbed my hands, holding them in his.

          "No, no, Michael, no," he said, stepping closer to me until
we were about an inch away from each other.  He had to bend his neck
down, and I had to crane mine up, such was the difference in height.
"It's okay, really."

          I couldn't help myself.  I was sobbing now.  "No, no...I'm so
sorry...I shouldn't have..."

          "Michael," he said, with more authority, forcing me to stop
my blubbering, "listen, please?  It's okay.  It is."

          Two more tears rolled out of me as I stared up at him.

          "It is?"

          He nodded and smiled again. "Of course."

          "You mean it?" I asked.

          "I told you the first time we met that I'm a truth teller,
remember?"

          I did, and I said so.

          "So believe me, it's okay.  Don't feel embarrassed, or
ashamed.  Please?  You were in the heat of the moment."

I nodded.  I had been, of course.  He was right.  And he was being so
unbelievably nice about it, too.

Then he said something that I hadn't seen coming, in the most serious of
whispers.

"It was a really nice kiss."

          His hands were gently caressing mine, reassuring me through his
touch.  And again, my total lack of being touched in my life meant that I
was almost overwhelmed by his warmth.  It was more than I could ever
possibly hope for.

          Even quieter, he said, "it was a great kiss."

          He let me feel better, all the while staring at me, trying and
succeeding to calm me with his demeanour.  He was so gentle with me, so
kind.

          He was so tender.

          Then he reached up and wiped a tear off my cheek.  "Let's see
what the shadow looks like, okay?"

          So I nodded, and he guided my arms up towards his neck, and
like it was the most natural thing to do I moved into his embrace.  His
hands came down and around me, pulling my body to his, my breasts
crushing into his torso, my face coming to rest on his collar bone, my
hands up around his neck, my fingers touching the back of his hair.  His
big hands slowly made their way to my bum, and he delicately grabbed each
of my cheeks, pulling my crotch towards his.

          It felt like the wind being knocked out of me, when I felt his
body against mine.

          Why?  Because there it was.  Again.

          His penis.  And this time it had shifted positions in his golf
shorts.  This time it was different.

          It was bigger.  Much bigger, much thicker, much more around
than before.

          And longer too.

          And the heat coming from his penis came through the clothing
between us and made my little penis shiver in erection.  I had never ever
ever been harder than this.  It was making me shake, which he felt, and
must have reasoned that I was chilly in the night air, so he pulled me
closer to him, pressing my body into his forcefully, lovingly.  Giving me
his heat, to make me feel more comfortable.

          We turned our heads, and looked at the shadows.  I couldn't
see my bosom anymore, the graceful curve of my breasts, because they were
pressed into him as hard as I could, but otherwise we did indeed look
like a man holding a woman in his arms.  A man intently wrapping his
woman in his arms, protecting her, cuddling her, making her feel safe and
secure and loved and wanted.

          As if on cue, we both turned our heads back again, to each
other.  Gary was looking at me differently somehow.  The tornado of
emotions I'd been going through in the last two hours were wreaking
havoc with my analytical abilities, and I couldn't decide if I knew what
he was thinking.

          He just kept looking at me.  And I couldn't stop looking at
him, my head craned up.  The maelstrom inside me wanted to repeat what
had happened earlier, the last time I was in his arms this way.

          I wanted to kiss again.

          Like a child on Christmas Eve, I was sending out wishes into
the universe for the greatest present I could ever imagine receiving.  I
was stunned at myself, realizing that I was wishing for a kiss from
another man.

          A man I realized I was practically falling in love with.

The thought of which staggered me, deep inside.  I was wishing for a man
to kiss me.

Was I losing my marbles?

But the next thing I knew, we were kissing.  Again.  Just like that.  One
second nothing, the next second everything.  I wasn't crazy.

          Gary's lips were big, like him, and full, and at least ten
degrees warmer than mine, because my lips almost felt seared by him.  My
breath caught in my throat, and my entire world transformed.

          We were kissing.

          This man and I, his feminine-looking student, were kissing, lip
on lip, breaths snorting in and out of our nostrils.  Kissing.

          OH MY GOD we were kissing.

          I moaned.  He moaned.  Our heads turned naturally back and
forth, following the passion of the moment, but our lips never lost
touch.

          WE WERE KISSING!

          He pulled me closer to him, his hands now unrestrainedly
clutching my bum cheeks.  My groin was pressed up against him, his
against me.  He was rhythmically increasing the pressure and then letting
off slightly, forcing us closer together slowly and seductively and then
easing away slightly.  He was simulating the thrust and withdrawal of
intercourse, but for the first time in my life I was the woman, moving my
hips to him, trying to increase the pressure of his body on mine, to feel
the hardness of his penis against me more and more.

I realized I wanted to feel his penis, to feel it in me.

I wanted to feel his hard penis inside of me.

I wanted to go there, to that place, where I'd never even considered it
possible.  My heart told me, in no uncertain terms.

I wanted to feel his penis inside me.

My fingers were knotted in his thick hair, at the back of his head,
pulling myself closer to him, wanting more and more of his lips.

          Then life changed again.  His tongue poked gently out of his
mouth, tapping me on the lips, asking permission to go further.  I opened
my mouth to him, willingly, wantonly, shamelessly.  I wanted him to
French kiss me, I wanted it more than anything.  Again my brain marvelled
at this turn of events.

I wanted this man to French with me!  A man!  Holding me, caressing me,
softly grinding his large penis into me, and me softly grinding my little
penis into him.  My body was alive with sensations, my
denied-of-affection life turned upside down in a moment.  Like a starving
man on his dying breath suddenly finding himself in an all-you-can-eat
restaurant with an unlimited credit card.  A tidal wave of physical
intimacy was washing over me, drowning me, making me in some ways
absolutely furious at my wife for never showing me love, when I could now
see that it was the most glorious thing on the planet.

That which I had not had for so long, now so blindingly prominent in
front of me.

Passion.  Romance.  Human touch.

His breath was sweet in my mouth, his tongue dancing here and there, my
tongue trying to catch his, at one point my lips just forming around the
width of his tongue and I began suckling it, in waves, bobbing on it
while never losing contact with his lips, which were like candy to me.

I thought about how it would feel to do that kind of sucking and bobbing
on his penis.  Loving him with my mouth.  Giving him oral pleasure.

These were things I'd just never ever considered before.  I was stunning
myself on a minute-by-minute, second-by-second basis, new and heretofore
unimagined acts of sexual expression on my mind, except now I was
dreaming of being a lover with another man, not a woman.

Now I was the woman?

My body started moving into his faster and faster.  We'd probably only
been kissing for a few minutes, but they'd been the best minutes of my
life!  And now I was grinding into him harder, my body taking over, any
reason or sanity just disappearing.  I was overcome with emotions, the
world outside was gone, everything and everyone vanished, all seven point
eight billion people but a trifle.

Our kissing became more intense.  Our rubbing against each other became
more physical, more real, and more aggressive.  Then, it only took
another few seconds or more, when I felt it.

My brain focussed long enough to let me know.  I was building to an
orgasm.  The signs were all there: rapid breathing, uncontrolled fire
raging in me, that unmistakable pulsing growing enormity of feelings.

Wait!  Stop!  I didn't want to do it. No, that was too much.  It could
ruin everything!

But I couldn't stop it.  The roiling got bigger and bigger, and then
bigger and bigger again, and then it got huge, and then huger, consuming
more of my insides, until I had to stop kissing Gary.  I took a huge gulp
of air as my lips left his, and my head slipped away, and my forehead
fell to his shoulder.  My lower body just grinded on him, even as his
lips found my earlobe.

He pulled me to him even harder.  Could he sense what was happening to
me?  I had to stop it!!!

Then it crescendoed, and I started audibly wailing "no no no no NO NO NO
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!".

And then I just convulsed, a full body wracking motion, my front
shuddering into his, and I began spurting semen into my underwear.  I
came and I came and I came and I came, moaning out loud, almost wailing,
my voice strained and full of drama.  Instantly I felt wet in my clothes.

I had never orgasmed so hard.

Gary must have realized what was happening, and he began whispering in my
ear. "Let it out, let it out, let it all out," he said, the perfect
words in that moment.  I had his blessing, his encouragement.

He sounded happy to hear and feel me releasing.

I'm old enough to remember tube television sets, and I can vividly
recall that when you turned them off they became black from the outside
edges inward, ending up with a little tiny dot of white in the middle of
the screen, which would then poof! disappear after a couple of seconds.
That was what my consciousness was like.

That's how overwhelming my orgasm was.  That's how completely powerful
it was.  It took over, controlling my body and my mind.  In all my fifty
years, I'd never felt this sexually drained before.

And yet my little penis was still very hard, and still pumping out
ejaculate.  In much smaller amounts now, but I was experiencing a
continual wave of thrills that bordered insanely close to unbearable at
the same time as being the most wonderful and powerful ever.

I had the most complete body stone of my life.  To a level I hadn't ever
dreamed possible.  Total, complete, utter sexual bliss.

Gary held me, the shaking and tics of my involuntary body movements
slowly subsiding.  His breath was still in my ear, louder than the
outside world.  My breasts were still mashed up against his torso, his
arms still holding me, his hands still on my buttocks, gripping them and
caressing them.

A few more moments later, however, the enormity and the totality of what
I'd done hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Shame, abject shame overcame me.  From head to toe, and in the blink of
an eye, I went from the highest I'd ever felt to the lowest.

WHAT HAD I DONE?

For the second time in one evening, owing to my life of yearning for
human affection and intimacy, I'd crossed every line possible of
normality and decency and manoeuvered the situation to make this lovely
man have to hold me, have to feel my unnatural sexual dirtiness against
him, and have to kiss me.  Yes, I admitted momentarily, he'd seemed to
like it, but that too had to be my horrible imagination playing tricks on
me.  He was a man, goddamn it!  I was a blubbering simpering pathetic
little thing, not even a man, and I'd manipulated him somehow.  That's
how my brain saw it, in that second.

And how he must feel pity for me, perhaps even disgust!  This tiny little
needy man, maybe not even a man, crying and blubbering and then rudely
spewing my filthy seed into my own clothes.

WHAT HAD I DONE?

Fight or flight kicked in, and I pushed away from him, out of his arms,
and I ran to my car, bawling my eyes out.  Jumping in, I started the
engine and threw it into gear and ripped away, even as I heard him
running after me and yelling at me to stop.

The last I saw of him, in my side mirror, I could see he was standing
more or less where my car had been, and I could see his mouth moving, and
I could swear I saw his lips say "come back!"

I cried.

Tears poured out of me, in rivulets, streaming down my face.  There were
so much of it in my eyes it affected my vision, made everything on the
road blurry and wriggly.  I had to tear myself away from my misery enough
to make sure I didn't crash my car.  How would that look, being found by
the paramedics or the police wearing a bra and inserts with my pants and
underwear dripping in my own orgasmic juices.  My own cum.

  How could I have been so foolish?  So brazenly and pathetically weak?
How could I have done that to such a wonderful lovely man like Gary?
How?  I was crying and crying, ashamed and degraded.  What must he think
of me now?

The squishy liquid in my pants was moving, and I looked down and saw that
there was a stain forming on my khakis.  It must have been the biggest
explosion of my life, because I can't ever remember making that much cum
ever.  What did that say about me?  That being held by this man, taking
advantage of his kindness and friendship and manipulating him into
kissing me, could result in the most satisfying sexual experience of my
life?

How could I go home looking like this?  How could I sneak this past my
wife?

What kind of a person am I?

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.  Somehow I just knew it was Gary.  I
could just sense his outrage, his understandable offense at me.  At what
I'd done to him.

Deciding I couldn't go home in the condition I was in, I drove to my
secret spot.  By the river.  My phone buzzed three more times on the
way.  I was relieved when I approached the pull-out that no other cars
were there, off the river road.  Sometimes people came down here to
party.

I was in no mood to party.

So I stood by the river, the wind whipping my hair, my groin wet and
drying, the occasional droplet still finding enough weight to let gravity
pull it downward, streaming down my leg, floating over the cool smooth
hairless skin, almost tickling me as it went.

What have I done?

I don't know how long I stood there, battered by the chilly wind,
wallowing in my pain.  Eventually, I took my phone out of my pocket, and
saw the four texts.  All of them were from Gary.  My right arm, holding
the phone, just reared back, and I went to throw it into the water, but
then practicality kicked in and I recognized the verbal hell my wife
would give me if I told her I'd lost my phone.

So I stopped.  I looked at the texts.

The first one said: Michael, please come back!

The next said: Please Michael, please come back!

The next said: Michael, please let me know you're OK.  Please?

The last said: Michael, I know you're upset and I'm to blame, but
please, please let me know that you're alright.  I would hate myself if
you were hurt in any way.  Please let me know?  Please?

I just cried and cried.  How can he be so wonderful?  He was such a nice
man, so kind and thoughtful.  It was there in his texts.  I mean, he was
actually worried about me, after what I'd just pulled.  He was rising
above whatever embarrassment I'd caused, and acting as the bigger
person.  I couldn't believe how much that impressed me, how much that
made me admire him more, and then how much shame I'd brought on myself.
How I'd ruined the chance to have this friend in my life, even if only
for one more lesson.  And I was sure right there and right then that I'd
never get the final hour with him, even though it was paid for.

Why would he want to put himself through that awkwardness again?

Finally, I was cried out.  I wiped my nose on my sleeve and got back in
the car.  I decided I couldn't disrespect him again, adding to the
already huge list, so I texted him a message back.  I tried half a dozen
different sentences, but none of them made me happy.

Finally I just sent him this: I'm so sorry.

Then I turned my phone off.

Halfway to home I realized that I was still wearing my bra, and the
inserts.  I'd become so accustomed to them that I wasn't thinking
straight.  It hit me that despite the emotional pain I was putting myself
through with Gary, I really enjoyed wearing it.

It made me feel special.  It made me feel liberated, and sexy.  For the
first time in my life.

It reminded me of Gary too.  I felt sure I'd never see him again, which
generated a couple of more tears tumbling down my cheeks.  I was
shivering in the car, with the heat on, and I knew they were my nerves,
all my anxieties making me quake, reminding me of what I'd done.

As I approached my street, I formulated a plan.  It was late enough that
I was sure my wife would be in bed, asleep.  In order to avoid having her
see me dressed as I was, with breasts, my lower half covered in
ejaculate, I grabbed my clubs and took them to my shed in the back yard,
down the side of the house.  It was dark enough even nosy neighbours
wouldn't have seen anything unusual.  I was calming down a little, and
the shed had a portable light in it, giving me enough to peel off my
pants and underwear.  They were soaked.  And the smell of it wafted up
and hit me like a punch.

I'd never smelled anything so erotic.  So sexy.

My penis was hard again.

After wiping myself down with the stained underwear, I slid on a pair of
nylon rain pants I kept in my bag, for rainy days.  I took off my golf
shirt, and managed to get the bra undone.   I always found it hard when I
was taking off a woman's bra, getting the little hooks undone.  Now I
was doing it on myself.

Taking my own bra off.

It was much harder!

I stowed everything where no one would find it.  I would clean it up
tomorrow, after work.  Once inside, I took a quick shower, to wash off
the smell of my own semen, and almost had a heart attack when I was
drying myself afterwards.  I looked up into a mirror, and saw strap marks
on my skin.

Bra strap marks.  On my skin.  Painfully and glaringly obvious.

I threw on pajamas, so there was no way she could see it.  I slipped into
my side of the bed in the darkness, hearing her slight whistling
breathing, the kind she did when she was totally asleep.

Images of Gary filled my head.  And my heart.  A mad, whirlwind jumble of
remembrances, crashing around and around in my head.  His lips, his
smell, his kiss, his arms holding me, his hands on my hips, and the feel
of his beautiful penis pressed up against me.

The moments when I was wishing his penis was inside me.

I slept horribly.  If at all.  I couldn't not see the images, and I
couldn't not feel the pain, at how low I'd become.  I'd flip between
the rapturous joy of his affections, his kiss, his masculinity and the
morose feelings of shame and regret over my stupidity.

Dragging myself into work, my manager took one look at me and told me to
go home.  I'd always been the one helping others, putting in extra
unpaid time.  Go home, he said.  You've earned it.

My silent voice said `I've earned it, alright.  I've earned the shame,
the long dark abysmal tunnel of self-loathing, the embarrassment of my
ridiculous silly girlish sick little fantasies.'

On my way home, my phone buzzed again.  It was another text, from Gary.

Can we get together and talk?  Please?  There are some things that need
to be said.

I couldn't find the nerve to answer him.

At home, I tried to relax.  At least my wife would be at work all day,
and I could begin to deal with my shame and embarrassment slowly, without
her around.  Then I remembered I had some clean up to do.  Going out to
the back yard, I opened the door to the shed, and was almost knocked to
the ground by the odor.

It smelled like sex.  Raw sex.  Pure sex.  It smelled like the essence of
life, with all the façade of modern living whisked away.  Nothing
manufactured or plastic or cloying.  Just pure unashamed sex.  My whole
shed smelled like the greatest night of sex anyone had ever had.  That
musky, cloying, earthy, animalistic pungency that can only be one thing.

Cum.

I found a garbage bag, and bundled up my underwear and pants from last
night.  Holding them in my hands as I was placing them in the bag, I felt
some coolness touching my palm, some liquid that still hadn't quite
dried.  It stopped me dead.  My mouth watered, and my lips trembled, and
my tongue involuntarily shot out of my lips, wetting them.  What was I
thinking?  I wanted it.  Standing there, in my shed, realizing that I had
cum on my hand, my cum, and all I wanted in the world was to taste it.
Taste it!  My own cum!  What was happening to me?

And then my brain thought, whatever was happening to me, I had never felt
so alive, so excited, so sexy, or so free.  Free of what I couldn't
tell, but it didn't matter.  There was no denying where all my thoughts
were.

Should I do it?  Should I?  Then I wondered, could I?  It was cum,
something my wife despised, something the other three women I'd been
with thought was disgusting as well.  Cum.  Could I actually taste it?
Was I that far gone that I would actually lick up my own cum?

A microsecond later I had my hand up to my face, and my tongue had
reached out and licked the dollop of cream.  I closed my eyes and savored
the taste of it, salty and almondy and cool and thicker than water.  It
was unlike anything I'd ever tasted before.  It was syrupy, like the
thin maple stuff they give away at fast food places, except a million
billion times stronger, and a million billion trillion times better.  The
taste was like nothing else I'd ever had, like something so delicious
that no one had ever told me about before, to keep it to themselves.  A
delicacy, I reasoned, it had to be.

I let my body absorb my semen, my sperm, as it travelled down to my
stomach, igniting a fire inside me everywhere it touched.  So many of the
sensations I'd first experienced last night, feelings of glee and bliss
and happiness, came rushing back at me.  Letting it all flow through me,
these feelings of delight, I filled my lungs with new air, and prepared
to stow the bag in my trunk and get rid of it in some anonymous dumpster.

Just as I got going to leave my shed, I spotted it.  Off to the side.  I
espied the life-changer.  That which started this incredible new euphoric
trip that I was on.  I found the bra.

My bra.

And the inserts.

My brain said put them in the garbage bag and be done with it.

My heart wasn't so sure.

So I held them in my hands, just feeling their weight, and trying to see
if they could somehow talk to me, inspire me just from contact, and tell
me everything would be alright someday.  No doubt my bra could tell me
that I was a pathetic idiot, and brazenly childish and immature, but that
the silver lining was that I probably wouldn't see Gary ever again and
my shame would, over time, slowly disappear. Perhaps just holding them,
feeling the material, and the weight, would help assuage my fears, and my
sadness, and make the night of new feelings and experiences become a
distant memory, eventually settling into one of those corners of my brain
where it might never show itself again.

Except when I was desperately lonely, and then I'd remember how being
held by Gary had made my heart smile.

Instead, the memories evoked by holding the bra told me how good I'd
felt wearing it.  How sexy I'd felt.  How much I'd LOVED it!

NO! I said, don't be that way!

But I was awash with twittering joyous feelings.  All my nerve endings
were throbbing, and I felt as though my skin was pulsing with energy.
This bra, these gelatinous inserts, had put me in a place where I was
feeling things I'd NEVER felt before.  EVER!  Sensual feelings.  Sexual
feelings.

Yes, I'd blown it.  Yes, I was a fool, a silly little emotional fool,
desperate for attention, desperate for affection.  I'd ruined a man's
night, perhaps even his whole week.  I'd opened a door neither of us had
been expecting; only for him it meant having this little student of his
suddenly completely losing his mind and his self-control.

Even the shame of having an orgasm while he hugged me couldn't take away
from the tingly euphoria I'd felt wearing this bra.

My bra.

Gary's bra, I realized.  He'd given it to me.  He'd said it was one of
his daughters.

He'd probably want it back.

I realized then that I'd have to give it back.

That made me hold it harder, clutching it to my chest.

I looked up at myself, at my reflection in the one greasy window in the
shed's door.  I saw the garment in my hand.

Truth hit me like a slap on the face.  I didn't want to give it back.

Ever.

Back in the house, I hemmed and hawed and finally decided that I had
close to six hours before my wife would be home.  Counting time for
making dinner, I had five hours in the clear, where I'd be safe.

If I wanted to, maybe, you know, wear it again, I was safe.  One last
time, I reasoned, before I had to return it.

In the bedroom, I slipped out of my tie and collared shirt, and standing
in front of the full-sized mirror, I put the bra on again.  The first
second the fabric touched my skin, where I could still see the remnants
of strap marks, I sighed, the pleasure of it gripping me.  Doing it up,
spinning it and moving it into place, cupping my natural bumps, and then
adding the silicon discs.

I had breasts again!

For the first time since last night, I smiled.  It wasn't ear to ear,
but it was real and it was the truth.  I had breasts again!  I had curves
again!  I was in love with what I was seeing, what I was feeling.  The
tightness of it gave me support, gave me strength, holding me strongly,
like a brace.  The constraint of it, bathed in soft feminine materials,
made me feel wrapped in love.  It was like I was only now this second
finding out that I could be comfortable on this planet.

It rocked my world.  I had to sit down, on the edge of the mattress, or I
would fall down and hurt myself.  What a revelation!  Finally, after
fifty years on the planet Earth, it took a golf lesson gone sideways to
get to the point where I was satisfied in my own skin.

As long as that skin had this lovely sexy brassiere on.

My bra.

For the longest time I just stared in the mirror, visually loving my
curves, the roundness of the cups, the delicacy of the lace tatting, the
way my entire chest rose and fell with my breathing.  With my hair just
past my shoulders, I could see more than ever how from the waist up I did
look womanly.  Feminine.  Soft, and supple.  Delicate.

Lovely.

And I couldn't get over the feel of the fabric.  The material.  I'd
never paid attention to such things before, but now I was revelling in
the soft and sensuous sensations. Why didn't all clothes feel like
this?  Smooth, delicate, satiny, caressing my skin.  Why did men's
clothes have to be so rough, and coarse?  The gentle feathery touches on
my hairless skin were rapture.  Pure and simple.

Why can't all clothes feel like this?

And then, all of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  What I
needed.  What I needed to feel even better.

Panties.

I don't know why that entered my brain.  I just knew that the idea was
awe-inspiring.  I thought, if a bra can give me this much joy, this many
extraordinary new feelings of sensitivity and sultriness, then surely
adding panties would make it even more special.  Right?  I reached a new
mental level of peace, and spiritual contentment.  Just with the idea.

Panties.

Immediately I turned my head, and looked over at my wife's dresser.  The
top two drawers were where she kept her bras and panties.  I knew that
from all the laundry I've done and putting everything away.  And I also
knew that while most of her lingerie was boring and utilitarian, she
actually did have a few pairs of sexy panties, stuffed at the back on one
drawer.  Hardly ever used.

I fairly leapt up, pulling the drawer open.  I tugged so hard it came all
the way out, and I had to catch it quickly so it didn't dump all her
neatly arranged things all over the floor.  The second of panic
disappeared, and then my joy tripled or quadrupled.

There they were.  The black, sleek, thin, gorgeous, lacy panties.  I'd
bought them for her, for Valentine's Day, years ago.  She'd never worn
them, to my knowledge.  They were basically a thong.  The front
triangular panel was almost see through, and then slimmed down to a thin
strap underneath and back up, joined at the hips by an equally thin
strip.

My hands started shaking.  Tears came to my eyes, thinly collecting in my
lids, obscuring the images, like driving away from Gary last night.  So I
wiped my eyes, pulled the panties out of the drawer, and replaced it in
the dresser.

Then I stood back in front of the mirror.  Naked from the waist up,
except for my bra.  My bra, with the inserts, creating my breasts.
Round, symmetrical, gorgeous.

My breasts.

For two fleeting moments, I wanted breasts.  Real ones.  Hanging from me,
making me stand up straight and proud, my nipples round and flush with
blood and unashamedly showing my excitement and delirium.

Practically zombied out with images of breasts, I undid my belt,
unsnapped my pants, and let them drop to the floor.  Two more quick
motions, and my underwear joined them.  My penis was stiff, erect.  It
was throbbing, bobbing up and down with my movements.  And the head was
covered in shiny liquid.

I wasn't thinking.  I was on auto-pilot.  My fingers reached down and I
covered one in the juices collecting in my foreskin.  It made my finger
wet and liquidy, all the way up to the first knuckle.  On instinct, I
brought it up to my face.  I smelled it.  It wasn't as strong as the
odor in my shed a short time ago, but it had a unique smell all on its
own.  It smelled like being horny.

I tasted it.  I dabbed my finger gently on my tongue, quickly.  Then I
closed my lips and slowly rolled the liquid in my mouth around and
around, coating my taste buds.  I had never done this before, all these
years.  And like a medicine slowly moving outward in the body, the
sensations started small and then exploded through me.

It was delicious.  It took my breath away, for a moment.  How did I go so
long without knowing this?  This delight, this liquid aphrodisiac, this
sexual goodness?  How did I not know this?

All my misery, all of my sadness, and shame, vanished in that moment.
The taste of my own pre-cum washed through me, setting my insides on
fire.  The fog of bad feelings vaporized, and my world became clear, and
focussed.  Tang resonated in my mouth, on my tongue.  Everything was
enflamed.  I wanted more.  As good as my cum was, this was also a taste I
wanted to repeat.

Reaching down, I gathered more with my finger, my penis still amazingly
hard.  I sucked the finger in, eager to enjoy my syrup again, wanting it
badly.  The second helping made me sigh and moan, and I shook, my body
visibly jolting.  If wearing the bra made me feel comfortable, this was
making me feel beyond that.

I was excited.  Passionate.  I wanted more, I realized. I knew.  More, of
all of it.  Wearing a bra, having breasts, being erect all the time, and
drinking my pre-cum as fast as I could make it.

Then I remembered.  Panties!

I bent over, and began sliding them up my legs, lifting one foot into the
holes at a time.  When the fabric touched the bare smooth skin at the
back of my calves, I let out huge moan.  God help me, it felt, well, the
only word I could think of is `divine'.  It felt like what heaven
should feel like.

All the way up my legs, the fabric touched and enticed me, here and
there, as it moved.  Too soon, I pulled the triangle of lace up around my
erection, sighing as the material wrapped around my shaft, like the
softest warmest wispiest blanket.  Then my thumbs guided the top up to my
hips, and the single thin strip settled between my buttocks, sliding
sexily inside them in the most sinful way.

Instantly, I was transported back to last night, to that moment when I
was kissing Gary with all my lust, when the realization that I was
building to an orgasm overtook me.  OH NO!  I was going to cum again, and
again too soon.

I breathed in and out quickly, calming myself, and bringing myself back
down from the edge.  Deep breaths, my eyes closed, holding my arms out to
my sides so I didn't touch myself.  What was obvious to me was that I
wanted to masturbate, wanted to make myself go over the edge.

But another part of me wanted to prolong it.  My wife wouldn't be home
for hours still.

I could make these exquisite feelings last all day!

Standing in front of the mirror, I saw myself.  I saw a version of me I
couldn't have imagined in all my fifty years.  I saw someone new, but
not unfamiliar.  Those were my eyes, staring back at me, alive and
pulsing with energy.  My cheekbones were the same, a little flush with
colour and spotted with faint freckles.  My jawline was unchanged.

I was naked.  And not naked.

I wasn't wearing clothes, as I had defined them for my entire life, and
yet I was wearing clothes.  Women's clothes.  Lingerie.  Sexy black
lingerie.  Sexy black feminine wickedly-delightful panties, and a bra.

My bra.

And now, my panties too.  I decided that immediately.

The phantasmagorical vibrations inside me went berserk.  It was like I
was bubbling from my core, waves of deliciousness followed after each
other.  My nostrils were open wide, I noticed, and I was practically
gulping in air.  My pale hairless body glowed in the dappled sunlight
coming through the windows, I was a vision of white, dramatically broken
up by two black items of apparel.

My bra, holding my breasts.

My panties, caressing my penis and testicles.

And I floated away.  Daydreaming, seeing visions of myself in other
feminine clothes.  Dresses, corsets, stay-up stockings, or better yet
gartered stockings, skirts, high heels, bright shiny lipstick, sexy
earrings, long nails, jewelry.  Then I began to see me completely dressed
up, walking down city streets, in the malls, being admired by men,
wanted, desired.  On dates, wearing sexy evening wear and little black
dresses and going dancing and being held by men while soft romantic music
played, feeling safe in their arms, loved in their grasp, feeling their
lips on my skin, my neck, their hands reaching to caress my ass, touching
me, my hands softly feeling their skin, their rugged chests, down across
their middle, over the lump in their trousers.

I saw myself, looking up into the man's eye, Gary's eye, as I held his
penis in my hand, and began bringing it to my lips, glowing sexy red
lips, my tongue stretching out to get a first taste of his...

My phone buzzing brought me out of reverie.

I was standing in front of the mirror, in my bra and my panties.

Looking at the screen, I saw it was a text.

From Gary.

Michael, I don't want to bother you, or impose on you, or make you feel
uncomfortable.  I'm not trying to intrude.  But I really would love it
if you'd agree to talk with me.  Please?

Tears filled my eyes as I read it.

I had to respond, I realized.  I had to say something.  I owed him that,
out of pure respect.  I had to apologize for everything I'd done, and I
had to allow him his opportunity to tell me how he hates me.  So I began
composing a response to his text, when my phone buzzed again.

Michael, I know that you hate me now, for what I've done, but I really
need to explain to you what happened.  I'd prefer to do it
face-to-face.  Texting is just so impersonal.  I had a couple of students
earlier but I couldn't concentrate, so I've cancelled the rest of my
lessons for today, I'm so shook up about last night.  I couldn't
sleep.  Won't you please let me see you?  I promise to be respectful.

Just like a dam bursting its seams, tears cascaded down my face.  How
could I have messed this up so badly?  He thinks I hate him?  No, no,
no!  I could never hate him, no.  He's kind, and generous, and strong,
and considerate, and his friendship means so much to me.  I knew it.  His
friendship meant the world to me.  How could I have made him think he's
the bad guy here?

What kind of a horrible person am I?

Through my watery eyes, I texted him back.

I came home from work.  I was too upset to work.  You're right, I have
things that I need to say to you.  I can be at your office in forty
minutes.

Waiting for his response, I went back to looking at myself in the
mirror.  Slowly turning and twisting from the hips, I tried to see all of
me, all of this sexy womanly person I'd become.  All the heart-warming
emotions I'd felt wearing this bra last night were nothing compared to
wearing it with the panties.  How could I ever go back to my real
clothes?

My phone buzzed.

Michael, thank you.  I can't wait to talk.  Please drive safely.  See
you soon.

The bra and inserts were in a plastic shopping bag.  I couldn't drive
cross-town wearing them in broad daylight, as much as I wanted to.  I
took the panties off, and put my underwear and trousers back on.  But
then I couldn't do the right thing, which was put the panties back into
the dresser.

I wanted to keep them.  I wanted to wear them.

I stuffed them into a pocket.

The drive over was nerve-racking.  One second I was telling myself it was
the adult thing to do, to show respect and try to return some of the
consideration Gary had treated me with, the next second my brain would be
screaming at me to turn around and go to my spot by the river.

To cry.

The parking lot was fuller than last night, but I found a spot.  I had to
take a few big breaths in and out in the car, after I'd turned it off.
Just to steady myself.  Walking towards his door, I saw myself reflected
in the glass that fronted the office spaces in his complex.  At first, I
was jarred by not seeing the curves of my breasts, from the bra and
inserts.  It made me sad.

Mostly I was just anxious.  More nervous than I could remember.  As I
approached the door, it suddenly swung half-way open, and there stood
Gary.  I stopped, and looked up at him.  His eyes were glistening, and
flickering with energy.  They were the most beautiful things I'd ever
seen, and I was so staggered that I couldn't think of anything to say.
We just stood there, and looked at each other.

Finally, I held out the shopping bag towards him.

"I brought back the...um, you know... the...um...that you gave to me..."

He was just about to say something to me, when inside his office the
phone rang.  Turning to look at it, he looked back at me and beckoned me
inside.  Running to the phone, I heard him answer it, "Hello?  Yes,
Barbara, yes...hi, how are you?  What's that?  Oh, did you?  Oh, okay.
Um sure...I'll be here for a while, sure.  Okay...okay...no, that's
fine...okay...I'll see you then."

He hung up.  Then he turned to look at me.  I was standing just inside
the door, still holding out the plastic bag.

"Sorry about that.  One of my students left her purse here, probably in
the bathroom.  She's on her way to pick it up.

"That's okay," I breathed out.

"Michael, thank you for agreeing to see me.  Please, come in.  Please?"

My feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds, but I managed to move to
the nearest chair, still closer to the front door than Gary was.  I guess
some part of my mind thought I should prepare in case I had to run out.

"I put some coffee on for you, after you texted me.  Let me get you a
cup, okay?"

Gary walked to the little kitchen, and then brought me a steaming mug.
As he got closer and closer to me, all the nerves I was feeling got
bigger.  Stronger.  I could feel them growing.

I could also feel the good feelings too.  How just being nearer to him
was warming me inside, was pumping huge amounts of sunshine into my
heart.  No matter how much I'd offended him, and how slim the odds were
that he'd forgive me, or that I'd ever see him again, it was wonderful
to feel his effect on me again.

"Thank you," I whispered, taking the coffee and tasting it.  It was
dark and rich and strong.

He sat a few feet away from me, on the front edge of his desk.  I saw him
roll his lips together, as if he was preparing to say something
difficult.  I decided to pre-empt him.

"Gary," I said, tears rising to my eyes, filling them again, "I'm so
sorry about last night..."  I looked away.

"Michael, no," he said, but I cut him off.

"No, please, can I just try to explain?  It's just that," a tear
rolled down my cheek, "it's just...I'm so sorry for my actions...I've
never done anything like that before...and I hate myself for what I did,"
two more tears streamed onto my cheeks, "you've been so kind to me,
right from the first second, and treated me so nicely, with support and
laughter and friendship...and I...I...I'm just not used to...I don't have
that in my..." more tears came out, "I lied...I'm so sorry, but I
lied...about...you know, about...about my situation, and..."

Gary was staring at me, rapt with attention, and although I obviously
don't know him that well yet, I felt like there was genuine concern in
his eyes.  How amazing!  After all I'd done to him, and he could still
feel worried about me.  He was not just a bigger man physically; he was a
bigger person than me.

"What do you mean, your situation?"

His voice carried concern too.  It was quiet, and warm, and deep, and
reverent.

"My...I...I told you I was, you know, happily married...I'm so sorry, I
don't know why I said that..." my cheeks became wet again, "I'm not
happy at all, I...I...we...she...we don't...you know, we
aren't...um...intimate...we haven't been like that in a long time...and
she's not a...you know, she's not...um, lovey-dovey or anything...so,
I...it's just you touched me, inside...in my heart..." the tears were
flowing now, non-stop, "you were so warm to me...you show me, um...you
showed me affection...and...it's just that I'm not used to that,
and...and...and it made me feel things I haven't felt in...well, in
forever...and last night, wearing my...I mean, wearing the bra that you
gave me...and the gel things...it just, it just made me feel like I've
never felt...it started fireworks inside me...I can't explain it...I don't
even understand it...wearing it made me feel...made me feel...right."

Through my watery eyes I looked up at him.

His eyes were full of water.

"And then I hit that shot...and it was so fantastic, and I was so happy,
so effing happy, I was just gone...just out there...I can't ever remember
being happier...and you looked so happy for me...and I wasn't thinking, I
was just acting...and then...then...god, then I threw myself into your
arms...I wanted to hug you...I just...I needed to show you how grateful I
was for your help, for your support, for you...and...and...it just felt so
good...so amazing...being held by you...being held...having arms wrapped
around me..."

"Doesn't your wife hug you enough?" he asked.

I shook my head, silently, like a child.  "She doesn't hug me at all."

His voice had an edge to it now.

"Ever?"

I sobbed, and shook my head again.

"The last time she hugged me was the morning my dad died."

"How long ago was that?" he asked.

I counted the years in my head, the number making me cry even more.

"Sixteen years."

His face clouded over, and I could see anger.

"Shame on her."

We stared at each other for a few moments.  I had to finish what I'd
come to say.

"And then, oh god...then..." yet even more tears rolled out, as my shame
came washing up on me again, "then I kissed you..."

I was shaking saying the words.  My whole body was quivering.  I wrapped
my arms around myself, trying to give myself something to hold onto.

"...I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry...I kissed you...it was so wrong...my
pathetic little life got me to that point, all my loneliness and sadness
just got the best of me...I'm so sorry...you must hate me..."

Sobbing slightly, I wiped my runny nose on my sleeve.

Gary's voice was eerily strong and quiet.

"I could never hate you, Michael."

"And you were so...so gracious about it...you let me kiss you and hug you
and feel your warmth and you inspired me to keep practicing...and I was
wearing a bra, and I had breasts...and I shouldn't say this as a man,
but...but I...it's just that I...I loved it...it made me feel better, having
it on...having the bra on...having breasts...and you supported me and worked
with me and held my hips when I needed it and...you were touching me more,
again...and I don't get that in my house...in my life...which sounds so
pathetic, doesn't it?...and I was hitting the ball so much better!...and
then after, when we stepped outside, to smoke a joint...and I got so
high...I was already so high, on all the crazy emotions going through
me...and then we did the shadows thing, and I was laughing and having,
well, um, having...fun...real fun...it's been so long since I had fun...and
all of it just got the better of me...and then..." the waterworks started
up again, and my body's shaking became noticeable as the nerves burned
up through me, "and then I took advantage of your friendship, and I let
myself...I forced you, again, to....kiss me again...oh god...I'm so
sorry..."

Gary started to speak, but I cut him off again.

"No, please Gary, please let me say what I have to say...I've spent
every second since last night hating myself...just...hating what I've
done...I couldn't sleep...I dragged myself to work but they sent me
home...I couldn't concentrate...I don't know how I made it to work or
back home without crashing my car...I'm so sorry..." I was blubbering
now, "I'm so sorry...please don't hate me...please..."

I was almost all talked out.  Like a man of extraordinary patience, he
let me finish.

"And then," I said, quietly, looking down at the floor, the sheer
humiliation of it all rearing its ugly head again, "then I...I got so
excited...I couldn't control myself...I, I couldn't stop myself, and...oh
god, this is so hard...even saying it..."

There'd been times in my life when I'd felt low, felt worthless, felt
hopeless and despondent.  None of them came close to what I was going
through now.  But I had to plow through.  I had to say it all, everything
in my head.  I assumed it wouldn't make any difference with Gary, but I
hoped it would do something to assuage my guilt.  Something to stop my
tears.

"...I lost my mind...I'm so sorry...I got so worked up...I was overdosing
on the feelings of being held, and kissing...and I was rubbing against
you...I couldn't help it...I...I...you know...I had an accident...in
my...um...in my pants...and...oh my god...I'm so sorry...and...I have to go."

I was all cried out, and petrified of what he must think of me, and I
rose and moved towards the door.  I wanted to leave.  I had to get out of
there.  I felt like the flight option.  For a big man, he was very fast,
because he got there before me, and locked it.  Turning back to me, I saw
tears running down his cheeks.

It floored me.

It nearly made my heart stop.

I'd hurt him so much, this beautiful man, this beautiful person, that
I'd made him cry.  His eyes weren't all scrunched up like mine,
though.  They were open, and vibrant.

"Please don't go," he whispered, "please?"

I looked at him.

"Why are you crying?" I asked, barely making any noise at all.

His face became serious.

"Because I hate how I've made you feel, what I've put you through,"
he whispered.

"How you've made me feel?"  I was stunned.  It seemed incredulous.

He nodded.  "You said you've been hating yourself since last night,
and, well, it sickens me to say this, but all that is on me."

I couldn't believe it.  What?  How?

The look on my face asked the question for me.

"Please, can we sit down again?  Together?"

Gary pointed at the two-seater sofa near the kitchen.  I wiped my cheeks
dry and moved to it, taking the right-hand seat.  Gary slowly sat down
next to me, but we weren't touching in any way.

Still, I could feel his vitality.  His warmth.

"I have a confession to make," he began, "look, remember our first
lesson, how I told you I'm a truth-teller?"

I nodded.  "Yes, I remember."

"I drilled it into my girls when they were growing up.  Tell the truth,
always.  Good, bad, or indifferent.  Be honest, and be forthright.  But
being a truth-teller carries a huge responsibility, you know, because you
have to be able to tell the truth about yourself, too.  You have to be
able to tell the truth to yourself.  It means you have to constantly
analyze your own behaviours, your own actions, your own thought
processes, and really go after them as objectively as possible.  It's
real easy to tell the truth about others, which can a lot of the time be
emotionally painful for them to hear,  but it's a whole different animal
when you have to be true about yourself.  To yourself.

"So I have to be honest.  I owe it to you, Michael, of course, but at
the end of the day, I owe it to myself."

He paused for a second, collecting his thoughts.

"Truth.  Truths, actually.  First truth is, the bra.  See, there's
commercially available products at any golf store that can train you to
keep your arms close to your body.  They're basically just rubber bands
that go on both arms, and a fabric that stretches across the chest.
I've never tried one, but a few people I know have, and the general
consensus is they can help golfers who suffer from chicken wings, as we
call it.  I was going to pick one up for you, for last nights' lesson.
But then, I don't know, I don't know what came over me, but, well, the
truth is...the truth is for some reason I just thought that a bra might do
the same trick, or even better, for you.  And, the thing is, I thought it
would, um...I'm trying to find the right words here...I guess I thought a
bra would, I don't know, flatter you."

"Flatter me?"

"I thought it would suit you.  That it would look good on you.  I hope
that doesn't piss you off, or offend you.  I don't know, the idea just
came to me, that you could benefit from it, and, since I'm telling
truths, I also deep down just wanted to see you wearing it."

My heart starting beating again.

He looked me in the eyes.  I could see softness, and honesty.

I could see tenderness.

"And then you agreed to it, and you took your shirt off, and you let me
help you put the bra on, and then the breast forms, and, well, Jiminy
Crickets I'd never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.  Which was
such a surprise to me.  I mean, I'm a man.  I'm a straight man.  I
always have been.  I've been married, I have three daughters, I've
always dated women.  I've always made love to women."

What was he saying?  Making love?

"I've never thought about, um, playing for the other team, as they
say.  And you're a man.  I know that.  I could see that.  It's crazy, I
know, but seeing you like that wearing the bra, giving you curves, it,
it, I don't know, it made me feel things I'd never felt before.
You're a man.  You're a man, but you have something about you, that
makes you different than other men, most men, in many ways.  Does that
make sense?"

I could only nod.  What was he saying?  Was he alright with this?

"You looked lovely.  That's the word.  Absolutely lovely.  I can't
lie, there's a part of my brain that told me to stop being so silly.
But I couldn't deny it, I couldn't not see it.  I couldn't not see
you, the lovely you, the feminine you.  You know, being a truth-teller.

"So the truth is that I know you're a man but seeing you with your hair
and the bra and the forms, well, you just seemed like the textbook
definition of feminine to me, at that moment.  Or at least the better
qualities normally ascribed to femininity.  And then, well then you made
that swing, and it was so much better than all your other swings, and the
look on your face, that look of pure abject joy, it was like it lit a
rocket inside of me.  It lit a fire inside of me.  I was so happy for
you, and then you jumped into my arms, and I wrote it off as just
exuberance.  You know, heat of the moment kind of thing.  All three of my
daughters were like that, growing up.  Go with the passion, that's what
I always said.  But, here we go with truth again, my thought about
exuberance lasted for less than a heartbeat.  Then I realized that it was
amazing, and so, so, I don't know, perfect.  And to this very second, I
can honestly say it was the second best hug I'd ever had."

"Really?" I asked.

He nodded, confidence creeping back into his face and voice.

"And then the kiss."

I gulped.

"You may have started it.  I'll give you that one.  But the truth is,
and believe me I've never said this in my life, ever, but the truth is
if you hadn't started that kiss, I might have."

My heart skipped about three or four beats.

"I don't know why.  I'm a man, you're a man.  I know that.  I've
never had any, um, any gay thoughts in my life.  Ever.  It's so weird
even saying that, as if I had to defend it.  Anyhow, looking at you,
holding you, feeling your gentle spirit, your open heart, the radiance of
your hug, I've just never felt better than that moment.  And, well, the
kiss made me realize that I'd been missing something in my life, for a
long long time."

"What?"

"Passion.  Your kiss was passion.  I felt it in every cell of my body.
Later on, outside, well, man, I got silly on the weed.  I haven't smoked
in a long long time, I think I told you, so, wow, was I flying!  And the
shadows game was funny, and charming, and I was trying to flirt with you,
but it's been so long since I've flirted with anyone, so long since
I've met anyone I wanted to flirt with.  But you, you looked like a
dream to me.  I know you're a man, but you must understand that you have
these qualities that are more associated with women, you know, with being
a woman, being feminine.  You're soft, and lovely, and gentle, and
there's a spirit in you that just, I don't know, got to me."

I didn't know what to say.  I was stunned.  He wasn't mad at all?  He
was actually feeling things for me?  Is that even possible?

I sensed he wasn't finished.

"Michael, this is new territory for me.  I'm not usually at a loss for
what to do next in life.  And I wasn't last night."

He leaned closer to me.

"Remember how I said that first hug was the second best hug of my
life?"|

"Uh huh."

"The hug outside was the best one, by far.  More truth-telling now.  You
didn't force me into anything, emotionally or otherwise.  I wanted that
second kiss, I needed it.  Your kiss is like your weed.  It's fantastic,
and it makes me high."

Tears came back to his eyes.

"And now I hear you say that you've hated your life since then?  How
you've spent all these hours beating yourself up, tormenting yourself,
hurting yourself emotionally and mentally, over something that wasn't
your fault?  That was totally one hundred per cent on me?  I can't let
you take that blame.  I could never live with myself.

"So please, I'm begging you, please don't regret anything.  Please
don't damage yourself, emotionally, or psychologically.  This is all on
me.  All of it.  All I wanted to do was to see you wearing a bra.  I just
wanted to see if it looked as good on you as how I imagined it."

One single tear fell down his left cheek.  I automatically reached out
and touched it with my fingertip.  I brought it back to my face, and
while he was watching I placed it in my mouth, just the tip of the
finger, just enough for me to slake my thirst for him.  I wanted to feel
the saltiness, and the bitterness, of his tear.  I made a moan, probably
imperceptible to Gary.

His moan, I could hear.

"And me wearing the bra met your expectations?" I asked.

He smiled, huge and proud.  "It was light years better."

Then a thought entered my mind.

"So, um..."

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Yes."

He shook his head.  "I don't know.  Like I said, this is all new for
me.  But, truth-telling time," he paused, working up his courage, "I am
very attracted to you.  There's no point in denying it.  You've entered
my life now, and I know that I don't want that to end.  Not now.  I only
got to see you in the bra once, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't
want to see you that way again."

"I have panties."  I just blurted it out.

Gary's smile got bigger.

"Panties?"

"Black, like the bra."

He got a questioning look on his face.  His voice came out in a whisper.
"You're wearing them now?"

I shook my head.

"No, they're in my pocket."

He thought for a second.

"Can I see them?"

I reached in and pulled them out.  They were folded up and just looked
like a small pile of black material.

He smiled.  "I mean, can I see them, you know, on you?  With the bra
too?  Would you do that for me?"

All the tension of the last twelve hours or so released from me.  In a
heartbeat.  The enormous weight of guilt and fear and humiliation I'd
thrown on myself were gone, to my shock and amazement.

Gary wasn't mad at me!  He didn't hate me!

He wanted to see me in my bra, and my panties!  He wanted to hold me, and
caress me, and kiss me!

The tears that flowed instantly out of me this time were tears of joy.
Tears of amazing and unparalleled joy. Utter and total peace.  Complete
euphoria.  Every fear, every worry, each speck of sadness I'd ever felt
were gone.

All there was, and ever could be, was love.

Tenderness.

We were sitting close, and I wanted to jump into his arms again, more
than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life, all of them,
together.  They couldn't match the rise of my spirits.

But then I decided to prolong it a bit.  I stood up quickly.

"I'll change in the bathroom," I said, and began walking towards it.

Gary stood up, and watched me walk.  As I got to the doorway, he smiled.

"I'll meet you in the studio, okay?" he asked.

I nodded, and turned.

"Oh, Michael?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Can you see if there's a purse in the bathroom.  That crazy woman, uh,
Barbara is on her way back to pick it up.  If it's there, can you bring
it to me?"

I said yes.  Once in the little bathroom, I saw her purse, open, sitting
on the floor, by the toilet.  She must have been looking for something in
her bag while she was doing her business.  I picked it up, and heard
things clunking inside.  The clasp was undone, and it was open, and I
could easily see a change purse, and a hairbrush, and some tissues, and a
pen, and three different little half-full containers of mints.

And I saw a tube of lipstick.

My brain had shut off, I think.  I reached inside the bag and pulled out
the tube.  Not recognizing the brand name, I noticed it said the color
was `Coral'.  I pulled the top off and spun out the little shaft.  It
was pinkish and had orange undertones.

It was coral.

I wondered what it would look like.  To put some on.  I looked up at my
own face in the mirror, and saw my own lips, and seriously thought about
how that color of lipstick would look.  On me.  On my lips.

The part of my mind that should have reminded me that it wasn't mine and
therefore I had no right to take it wasn't working at that point.  I
stuck it in my pocket, and took the purse out to Gary in the main office.

Returning to the bathroom, I closed the door.  I stripped, just about
ripping my own clothes off.  I'd never been so eager to get naked.  But
then I realized I wasn't going to be naked, exactly.

Once nude, I slid the bra around me, connecting the hooks.  Then I spun
it around, and slipped my arms in the straps.  Instantly, I felt the
satisfaction of its embrace of me.  The bra was holding me, caressing me,
and thrilling me.  Moving it into place, I could feel my nipples again,
feel how hard they were, feel how full of blood they were, longing to
have the inserts against them.  I sighed out loud when the coolness of
the gel bag touched my breasts, and staring in the mirror I saw my curves
reappear, to my great delight.

I had my breasts again!

Marvelling at how just the sight of curves could excite me, I slipped the
panties up my legs.  Slowly.  I wanted to make the exquisite sensations
last as long as possible, the teasing of my skin everywhere the fabric
touched.  Smoothing the front panel around my little erection, and
delicately folding my testicles into the shrinking fabric underneath, I
snapped the top strap up and around my hips.  Looking in the little
mirror above the vanity, all the rest of the world just disappeared.  I
was naked, wearing my bra and inserts and my new panties!

I grabbed the tube of lipstick, and leaning toward the mirror, I put the
flat facet on my lower lip.  I'd certainly seen women putting lipstick
on in my life, lots of times with my wife alone.  So I swiped and
smoothed and pursed and made a kissy face and coated my lips with the
pink shade.

MY LIPS WERE SO KISSABLE!

The feminine sight in the mirror, looking back at me, was without
question the happiest thing I'd ever seen.  The smile I'd had last
night, hitting that first shot wearing my bra, and seeing it fly through
the air farther and faster than I'd ever done, that was nothing compared
to now.

In bra, and panties.

And lipstick.

The concrete floor of the studio was cold on my bare feet, so I moved to
the center of the room, and stood on the mat.  The artificial turf
tickled me, and I scrunched my toes into the plastic faux grass.

"I'm ready!" I said, loud enough for him to hear me from the office.

The few seconds I had to wait were the most dramatic and enjoyable of my
life.  Anticipation, sweet nervous waiting, my white skin glowing against
the black darkness of my bra and panties, my heart beating almost out of
my rising and falling chest, my pre-cum leaking out of me in pulses,
making the front panel of my panties deliciously wet.

And then, there he was.  Standing in the doorway, just looking at me.

Just staring at me.

His chest was rising and falling quickly too.  Really quickly.

"Oh my," was all he said.

We stood and faced each other.  Gary, my newest and dearest friend, a
rugged tall big man, sweet and kind and caring and tender.  And me, his
golf student.  In his golf studio.  Wearing nothing.

Almost.

Wordlessly, we just stared.  Him at me.  Me at his reactions.

I watched his eyes.  I watched his breathing.  I watched his groin.

His penis was huge now, almost upright, and pushing the fabric of his
golf shorts to the max.

For me!

Then he moved, quietly and quickly.  The next thing I knew, he was
standing right in front of me.  Maybe two or three inches away.  I could
feel his breaths.  I could smell him, his passion and ardor oozing out of
his pores.  As were mine.

He was looking at all of me, all of my face, yes.  But his eyes kept
coming back to my lips.  To the lipstick.  He made a questioning look.

"Do you like it?" I asked, almost breathlessly.

"Oh yes, very much.  Your lips are so sexy! Is that your wife's
lipstick?"

I shook my head.  "No.  I borrowed it from Barbara's purse."

Gary laughed out loud.  "She never looked this fantastic wearing it."

I blushed.  "Maybe I should put it back in her purse, before she gets
here?"

Gary shook his head.  "No way.  Your mouth looks delicious that way!
You keep it, Michael."

Then he paused, and looked at me slightly weirdly.

"What?" I asked.

"Michael," he said again, and paused again, "I'm sorry, it's just
that you don't look like a Michael right now."

Like being hit with a lightning bolt, I just blurted out what was on my
mind.

"I've always liked the name Melody."



Gary's eyes shone brighter at that.

"Melody.  My Melody."

His hands came up, and with the most gentle of touches, he cupped my
face, looking down at me.  His eyes were like fires, burning for me.
I'd never seen such desire, and wanting, in another person before.

My affection-deprived life.

No more.

He kissed me.  Softly.  Gently.  One perfect kiss, lips on lips.  Sweet,
and romantic, and it made me breathless.

Then he stopped, and we both opened our eyes, and looked at each other.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Wow," I echoed.

His hands, cupping my face, brought me up to him again.  His head came
down to me again.  We kissed, again.  This kiss was longer, and stronger,
and carried way more emotion.  This kiss thrilled me to the bottom of my
feet.  I couldn't see anything in the entire world that could be
better.

Standing in this man's studio, wearing lingerie, and being softly
kissed.

A reverie that was broken by the buzzing of his front door buzzer.

"Shit," he said, "she's here."

I sighed.  "She has terrible timing."

Gary chuckled.  "She has terrible everything.  She doesn't even golf
much, really.  She's just one of those rich women who think she can
seduce the golf pro.  The old cliché."

"No," I whispered, "that's my job."

"What's your job?" he asked.

All my filters were gone.  I said the first thing that came into my head.

"To seduce you."

He kissed me again, and the buzzer went off again, and I could hear the
sound of someone trying to open a locked door.

"I'll be right back.  Don't go anywhere."

I shook my head.

"Believe me, there's no way I'm going anywhere."

He mouthed the words "thank you" to me, and scooted out.  I turned on
the mat, and looked at myself in the huge mirrors.  With my hands behind
my back, in a pose I felt was lady-like, I looked at myself from several
different angles.  My heart was bursting with love and happiness.  My
behind looked awesome in panties.  Since they were basically two straps
and a small piece of fabric, I could see all of my bum.  And the
roundness of my cheeks.  And how I curved down into the back of my
thighs, and how my legs looked so sexy, pale and hairless.

Then my brain saw my legs with stockings on.  Black stockings, sleek,
sexy, fishnet, lacy. Delicate, and feminine.

YES!

I realized I wanted more of this.  More lingerie.  More dressing in sexy
soft satiny silky clothes.  No more ugly man clothes.

This was what I wanted.  This.

And I thought of Gary, and his truth-telling.  It was the way to be, for
sure.  And my truths were never more self-evident.  I wanted more than
just wearing lingerie.

I wanted Gary.  I wanted Gary to make love with me.

I wanted to feel Gary inside me.  I wanted, no, needed, to know what it
would be like to have his big penis inside me, filling me, taking me,
connecting me with him on the most private level, the most intimate
coupling.

My lips looked outstanding, pink and shiny.  Even after three kisses with
Gary, they still looked womanly, and full, and sexy, and desirable.

I wanted lips like this for always.

Gary came back into the room, and dimmed the lights.  I watched him in
the mirrors.  Again he impressed me with how quickly and quietly a big
man could move, because almost instantaneously he was behind me, blazing
streaks of fiery lust at my reflection.  Then his thighs touched the
backs of mine, his belly touched my back, and his hands slid between my
arms and my body and over my belly, and he not-so-gently pulled me back
into him.  My head lolled back, and landed on his right shoulder.

In the mirror I saw us, my man, and his lady.  I've never felt this
enamored before, in my fifty years of living.  I've never even known
this kind of intimate connection could exist between two people.

His lips burrowed into the side of my neck, soft and wet and wandering.
I moaned out loud, and pushed myself back into him.

And there it was!  Again!

His penis, his big hard penis, standing almost straight up in his shorts,
pushing into my lower back and the top of my buttocks.  Last night, it
was a turn-on to feel it.

Now, it was my life's purpose to feel it.

I spun, quickly, in his arms, and he pulled me to him, tighter than
before.  My head came up, his came down, and our kisses began anew.  And
it was fantastic, just so far and above all my other life experiences.
Is this what heaven feels like?  Because I just couldn't imagine
anything better, than being held by this man, this gorgeous, kind,
loving, affectionate, passionate man.

I wanted him to hold me like this forever.

We kissed for a long time.  Soft delicate kisses, and then enflamed
open-mouthed tongue-teasing kisses.  Mixing it up. My hands just kept
kneading the thick hair at the back of his head.  His hands kept kneading
my buttocks.  My ass.  After I don't know how long, he reached lower,
under my buttocks completely, and lifted me up, so my head was more on a
level with his.  Allowing myself to react naturally, my legs splayed out
and then around his waist, my ankles locking together behind his back.

I could feel how hot and hard he was.  It made me quiver.  It was right
up against me, pulsing with energy.

We kissed for a long time. Gary held me that way, effortlessly.  And I
had no worries that he'd drop me.  None at all.  He was big, and strong,
and virile.

My man.

Finally, he broke the kiss, and stared fiercely into my eyes.

"Melody," he breathed out, "can you feel how hard I am for you?"

"OH GOD YES GARY!" I sighed.  "Last night, feeling your, your...your
penis up against me, it made me melt inside!  I couldn't believe how hot
it made me feel.  And now, here, being held like this, of course, I can
feel how hard your...your..."

He smiled.  "Cock.  My cock.  How hard my cock is.  Say it."

I smiled.  "Your cock!  How hard your fantastic cock is!  Last night, I
thought about how it would feel to hold it in my hands."  He hummed a
delightful noise.  "And then I thought about how it would feel to taste
it, to taste your cock, and your cum."  This time he moaned.  I blushed
saying the words, but they were the perfect ones for the moment, I
realized.  "And," I continued, "I finally I wondered how it would feel
inside of me, making love to me."

Gary's voice was deep and soft and reminded me of the warm coffee he'd
made for me.  Smooth.

"And now," he queried, "tonight, right this minute, what are you
thinking?"

I looked him straight in the eye and became a truth-teller myself.

"Gary, make love with me.  PLEASE?  Make love to me.  I want you inside
me, touching me as deep as you can go.  I should have stayed last night,
I should have had you inside me then!  Please Gary, please!  Please make
love to me!"

"Melody," he whispered, "my Melody.  There is nothing in this world,
nothing in this universe, that would be strong enough to stop me from
making love with you."  He paused, and an idea flashed in his head.
"Melody, my angel, come home with me, right now.  Okay?  Please?  Come
home with me, and we'll make love.  We'll make love all day and all
night."

I said yes by kissing him, kissing him harder than a human being has ever
kissed another human being.  Yes yes yes yes YES YES YES YES!

I wore my bra and inserts, and my panties, on the drive to Gary's
townhouse.  We went in his Sprinter van. I had thrown my shirt and pants
back on, covering up my feminine look to get into his vehicle, just so
his commercial neighbours didn't see me, but less than five minutes
after we'd left, while driving down a major thoroughfare, I undid my
seat belt, and pulled my shirt off, and then my pants.  I wanted to be my
feminine self now.

I wanted to be my feminine self for always.

He held my hand for the rest of the drive.  As we entered his townhouse
complex, I said I'd put my clothes back on, so I didn't embarrass him
in front of his neighbours, people he had to see most every day.

Squeezing my hand tighter, he said the most amazing thing to me.

"Melody, I'm not ashamed.  Don't cover yourself up, not for that
reason.  If you feel more yourself the way you are now, in that sexy
lingerie, then I have zero problems walking you from the driveway to the
front door just the way you are.  I don't care what my neighbours
think.  I'd be proud to walk with you just like you are, right now.  If
any of them asks, I'll tell them the truth."

I giggled.  "Which is?"

His voice got louder, and filled with sincerity.

"I'll tell them this is the newest most important person in my life.
The sweetest most lady-like person I've ever known.  My new girlfriend.
My Melody."

I couldn't help it.  Again.  Tears ran down my cheeks, happily.

"I love you."

I meant it.  I did.  I barely knew him, on some levels, but I knew more
than anything that I did love this man.  I loved his strength, and his
sensitivity, and his kindness, and his romance, and his playfulness.

And, I realized, I loved his penis.  His cock.  I wasn't used to using
that word, and yet it was feeling more and more right every time I said
it. His cock.  His cock.  Gary's cock.  His thick, long, throbbing,
manly cock.

Which I still hadn't actually seen yet.

He looked over at me, taking his eyes off the road, and smiled.

"I love you too, Melody."

He pulled in front of his townhouse, and shut the van down.  Getting out,
he came around and opened my door for me, and I slid my bare legs out.
The driveway was cold on my feet, and the April wind was brisk on my
skin, as I stepped out into the world wearing pink lipstick and a black
bra with gel inserts and black thong panties.

The feminine me.  The alive me.  The new me.

Melody.

We held hands to the front door, and I tried to discretely look around me
in a big circle, to see if anyone was staring, and after we stepped
inside, he turned me to him, and again we melted into one another and
began softly kissing.  Gentle, romantic, loving, lip-sticking kisses.  I
was lost to him, mentally and physically, and spiritually.  I was his,
however and whenever he wanted.

He picked me up, in his arms, like a new husband carrying his bride over
the threshold, and walked me upstairs.  I'd never felt safer, or more
loved, his arms under my shoulders and knees, my arms around his neck, my
head on his shoulder, my eyes closed, my mind awash with pleasure.

For one brief moment, I compared my two lives.  The former one, thirty
years of struggle, and pain, and loneliness.  And now my new life, full
of passion and eroticism and unmitigated happiness.

Full of sexy lingerie.

Full of Gary.

As I was soon to be, I hoped.  And I thought, WOW!  I can't imagine a
time in my life when I would have said those words, or thought of them.
And now, here I was, dressed in lingerie and dreaming of taking his cock
inside me, inside my body, filling me with his love.

He carried me into his bedroom, and laid me gently on the mattress.
Again, for a very large man he was extraordinarily fast, and he busied
himself closing drapes and shutting out the world from our view.  I
realized he wanted me all to himself, with no distractions.

I settled back on the bed, my head on his pillows.  The room was sparsely
decorated, but still homey.  Pictures of Gary with various women were
strewn on the walls, all of them his daughters at various ages, and all
of them showing him to be the proudest of papas.

He stood at the foot of the bed, and just stared at me.  I had one leg
partially drawn up, my knee bent, looking like the languorous woman,
relaxing before her man.  Enticing him, inviting him, making him fill his
lungs with air and his brain with pride.  Yes, you scored yourself a hot
one today!

And yes, you're going to get lucky today!  And better still, so am I!!

I can't believe where my mind is going now!  I never want it to stop!!!

His eyes never leaving mine, he pulled off his golf shirt, in a
decisively masculine way.  Showing me his hairy chest and belly, I
swallowed hard and smiled.  Gary had hair everywhere, soft and some of it
greying, and growing all over him.  His nipples were red against his
tanned skin, and sulking.  I immediately wondered what they would taste
like, in my femininity overdose.  I wanted to lick them, to kiss them, to
suckle on them.

It struck me that perhaps I really had become the best of both worlds.  I
was a combination of the strong sexual drive that most men seem to have,
coupled with the strong desire to wear sexy clothes and be as female as
possible, attracting other men.  For a moment, I studied the issue
intellectually, and reasoned I could be the subject of someone's PhD
dissertation in psychology.

Then Gary unsnapped his shorts, his eyes never leaving mine, and allowed
them to fall to the ground, and all my thoughts vanished into the ether.
He smiled, from ear to ear, and then pushed his underwear to the ground,
stepping out of them as I lay there.

I gasped, out loud.  It was as if my world had just begun, that this was
day one, of the most gloriously delicious feminine journey ever.  In
front of me stood this kind, gentle, masculine man, this paragon of
strength, someone who I was wholeheartedly in love and lust with, baring
himself for me to see.  His entire body, tanned and toned and hairy, was
there for me.

For me.

Can this really be happening?

His skin seemed flush, more than usual, with colour.  His eyes danced
with glee and passion.

His penis...no!  His cock, now freed, pointed to the ceiling, and thrilled
me to my core.  My man, standing there, proudly naked and proudly erect,
for me, his shit-eating grin like a lighthouse beacon, pulling me in,
guiding me to salvation.

Gary stepped around the foot of the bed and walked up the side, stopping
when he was next to me, looking down as I gazed up.  Into his eyes,
seeing the want and the need and the yearning.  Then, I travelled down
his body, again being mesmerized by his massive pecs, his chest, rugged
and virile and strong enough to build my new world upon.

Finally, I gazed at his cock.

Is there a greater sight in all the world?

My left hand absentmindedly reached out and I closed my fingers around
the shaft of him, oohing at just how thick and round he is.  His skin was
hot!  His cock was so much longer than mine, by at least three inches,
but more impressively it was so much thicker than mine.  Whereas my penis
was thin and narrow, his was solid and almost menacing.  I WAS STROKING
ANOTHER MAN'S COCK!  I'd never felt so satisfied, so at peace with my
life, as that moment.

He too was uncircumcised, like me, and his foreskin was massive and
holding back a small lake of precum.  Maybe there was a second nature
inside of me, or perhaps it was a result of having a penis of my own, but
I began stroking him, gently, my hand squeezing slightly and moving up
and down his shaft, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for
a fifty-year old man wearing panties and a bra to simply masturbate
someone else's cock.

There was no denying the truth, though.  No denying what I wanted.  I did
want this penis in front of me.  My own sense of sexuality, knowing what
I like, as a person with a penis, took over.  My hand just naturally did
what it wanted.  I felt him from just under the head all the way to his
body, the side of my hand coming to rest in a thick blanket of his pubic
hair.  Then I moved up to the top again, and began my journey back to the
base.  His huge foreskin was moving with me, covering the head completely
on my upstroke, and exposing the massive helmet on my down stroke.  It
was huge!  My lips were quivering; my tongue was dancing inside my own
mouth, my taste buds going crazy with anticipation.

It's amazing what one can do totally unbidden, totally on the merits of
impromptu feelings.  I didn't think, I just reacted.

Lifting my upper body from the pillows I was resting on, I raised up on
one elbow, opened my pink lips as wide as I could, and guided that
massive cock head into my mouth, absolutely savoring the taste of his
liquid.  As soon as the first molecule of salty tang hit the first taste
bud, my eyes closed, the most massive and delicious moan came out from
deep within me, my heart started beating faster than I could remember,
and all my cares in the world vanished.

His moan, loud and deep above me, went almost unnoticed.

I HAD A COCK IN MY MOUTH!

Fifty years of living hadn't prepared me for this.  Crossing this line,
from porn-driven fantasy to reality, staggered me emotionally.  All the
events leading up to here, everything that got me to this point, from
childhood through puberty to adolescence to adulthood to marriage to
career to decades of sadness, all the moments that make up a life, were
gone.

I WAS SUCKING GARY'S COCK!!!!

A single tear ran out of my left eye, and down my cheek.

I had never been happier.  I had never been more alive.  I had never been
this excited and satisfied all at the same time.

Gary's big hand came down on the top of my hair, without putting
pressure on me, and I moaned again.  He was telling me in his way that my
mouth around the head of his cock was the best thing he'd ever felt.
More saliva than I could have dreamed of just appeared in my mouth, all
of me watering at his taste, and his size.  My tongue was firmly on the
bottom of his cock, along the gigantic vein that ran up, and I was
wriggling it to and fro, making me feel wanton, and making him moan more.

I decided to make it better for him.  And for me, I fully admit.

Closing my lips hard over his cock, I looked up at him, and our eyes
met.  His, silently saying `yes yes yes!', and mine, saying `yes yes
yes!' right back at him.

I shut my eyes, and sucked his cock through my mouth, and down into my
throat.  My very first time, ever, with another man's organ in my mouth,
and I wasn't some fish out of water.  I instinctively knew what to do,
as if millions of years of training were embedded in my DNA.  As if I'd
been doing it all my life, my breathing switched to my nostrils, and my
mouth moved forward, taking him into me, swallowing when the head of him
touched the back of my throat, feeling his thickness against all the
walls of my windpipe, pushing everything outwards, expanding my trachea,
lovingly causing my insides to mold and adapt and renew their own shape.

I WAS SUCKING HIS COCK!!!!

I bobbed back, letting him out of my throat, almost all the way out of my
mouth, my tongue slurping and slathering his helmet, loudly sucking at
the elixir he was producing.  His pre-cum was tangier than mine, and I
was glad to see he made as much as I usually do.  As much as I could
already feel in my panties.  I couldn't get enough, my tongue and lips
searching and searching.

Taking a big breath, filling my lungs, I plunged my head back down on his
cock again, letting him into my throat again, feeling him widen me up
again.  I surprised myself for the second time.  I wasn't gagging, or
coughing, and I had no fears about my air supply.  I knew, deep down,
that I could breathe, and I knew that I wanted nothing more than Gary's
cock inside me.  As far as I could get it.

A dozen or so more bobs, up and down, and his cock was shiny wet, to
almost three-quarters of his length.  Each new journey into my mouth made
him groan louder, and then louder, and then LOUDER!

My hands found themselves caressing his skin.  The backs of his thighs
were massive and muscly and hairy, and I was touching them all over.  My
left hand found itself holding on to his ball sac, his testicles.  It
wasn't hard to do, because as with everything else, his was so much
larger than mine, and completely covered in a forest of the finest hair
I'd ever felt.  Once again, as if I innately knew how to do these
things, like I'd been doing them my whole life, I was fondling his two
balls, caressing them, rolling them in the palm of my hand, being careful
not to hurt him in any way, knowing how my own little balls could be
tender with the slightest wrong movements.

There was no way I was causing pain to this man.  Ever.  My job, and more
importantly my need, my goal, my heart's desire, was to bring him
nothing but pleasure of the highest order for every remaining second of
his life.

To that end, I pulled my head off his cock, the last sucking motion so
strong that there was an audible popping noise as it left my mouth, I
looked up at him.  His eyes were closed, but they opened when he felt the
air, cool against my saliva, on his cock shaft.

When his eyes met mine, I said the words that would forever change me.

"Please Gary, make love to me now!"

Like an Olympic athlete, he bolted for the door of his bathroom, and I
heard a drawer being pulled open and then shut quickly.  Back in the
room, he approached me with two things in his hand.

A condom, in a wrapper.

And a tube, filled with clear liquid.

As he got to the side of the bed I skooched over, giving him room.  He
laid down on his left side, the entire bed shifting with his weight, and
we stared at each other, both of us breathing hard.

I pointed at his hand.

"You won't need that," I whispered, full of confidence.

"The lube?" he asked.

"No, silly," I giggled, "the rubber."

He looked down at his hand, and then back at me.

"Society says we should practice safe sex," he said, with caring in his
voice.

"Gary," I said, pronouncing the two syllables as if they were holy
words, "I haven't been with anyone in almost twenty years.  And you
said you haven't been with anyone in quite a while too, right?"

He nodded.

So I smiled, and leaned over to kiss his lips, softly, but with hunger.

"So we're safe.  No rubber is needed.  Besides," I added, breathily,
laying back, opening my arms, and spreading my legs apart, "I want to
feel all of you when you're inside me."

The look on his face told me all I ever needed to know.  Joy, passion,
zeal, plain old horniness, and unmistakeable love.

He threw the condom over his shoulder, onto the floor.

"Now," I breathed out, my voice soft and assured, "please please
please make love to me, Gary."

As I slid a hand down to pull the panties out of my ass crack, I pulled
up my legs, bringing my knees to my chest, exposing my hole to his view.
Showing him that I was his, that I was ready for him.

But was I?

At that moment, the reality of what we were about to do hit me like the
proverbial ton of bricks.  I was asking him, no, fairly begging him, to
slide that massive piece of man-meat into a very tight hole, one unused
to insertions of any kind.  Suddenly, waves of nervous energy and fear
overtook me, confronted me, and scared me.

He must have seen the look on my face change, because he flipped the
little top open on the tube of lube, moved his body closer to mine, and
as he was squeezing some lubricant onto a finger he leaned down and
kissed me, softly, his tongue gently moving out and into my mouth,
mimicking what he was about to do with his finger.

Then I felt it, the coolness of the lube, touching my outer ring.  I
gasped into his mouth, the enormity of what was happening playing out in
my head, almost like I was watching one of the those videos on the web,
the ones where a strong virile stud of a man was getting a smaller
feminine creature ready for the act.

Getting the woman ready for insertion.

Getting me ready for his cock.

His finger, cool and sleek, rubbed for a few seconds against my tensed
ring, but his kisses soothed me, and without thinking about it I loosened
for him.  And just like that, his big digit slid into me, into my ass.  I
gasped into his mouth, as his tongue teased me over and over.

It felt like he was able to slide all of his big finger inside me, and he
left it there for a few moments.  Then he slowly withdrew, and I felt him
squeezing some of the lubricant on me, just above my hole.  The pleasure
of its coolness sliding down was indescribable.  As the glob met the top
of my hole, his big finger squished into it, and easily entered me.  But
he didn't leave it there for long, instead sliding it out and then using
the lube to push two fingers in me.

I couldn't stop the moan I made, followed quickly by his own deep
murmur.  Both his fingers went in me, as far as he could push them, and
he slid them almost all the way out and began pushing back in again,
twisting them clock-wise.

Which is a jolt of pleasure I'd never contemplated before.  The circular
motion, combined with the lube, opened me more.  I could feel the rush
inwards of air, cool on the delicate tissue.

Unbelievable heaven.

Gary slowly fingered me in and out in a sensuous pattern for a few
minutes, twisting his hand from time to time, sending me into spasms of
delight, and much to my surprise making me push my ass towards his
fingers.

I wanted them!

Still kissing me, he pulled his fingers out and squirted more lube on me,
in the same spot, and as gravity took it and it dribbled down onto my now
slightly-gaping hole, he gently slid three of his sausage-sized fingers
into me, stopping about halfway as my lower body lurched upwards and my
breathing stopped, but barely a few seconds later as I began to relax he
finished his motion, and I had three of his fingers inside me.

THREE OF HIS FINGERS INSIDE ME!

Inside my ass!  Inside my body!  A lifetime spent never considering this
amazing pleasure, this exquisitely unusual stretching of my hole, was
blown away.  I pushed up against him, wanting more, needing more, my
tongue and his dancing back and forth from his mouth to mine.  Not
thinking, I reached my left hand down blindly and found his arm, and
pulled it toward me.  I wanted more of his fingers, more of his body
inside me.

I wanted him inside me.  His cock.  I wanted all of him inside me.

More than life itself, I wanted him to make love to me.

We broke the kiss, and just stared at each other.  I could barely catch
my breath, and he wasn't far behind me.  Both of us were murmuring,
little moans and grunts and sounds coming out of us.  He reached for the
tube and squeezed a large drop onto his palm, and not breaking eye
contact with me he began running his hand up and down his own cock,
lubing it, getting himself ready.

For me.

"I can't wait any more, Melody," he whispered, "but I don't want to
hurt you."

I shook my head.  "No Gary, no, don't worry...I want you inside me
now...please...please...make love to me...now...I can take the pain of
it...make love to me now, please baby?"

I was almost crying.  I lay back and spread my legs, as far as they could
go.  He reached over me and grabbed a spare pillow, and doubling it up,
he slid it under my ass, and with a little help from me nudged it under
until it was directly supporting my lower back, tilting my ass up towards
him.

Towards the cock that would take my virginity.

Moving over me, he placed his left hand down beside my right shoulder,
and with his other hand, he guided his cock towards me.

Towards my ass.  My hole.  My...my pussy, I realized.

I was the woman.  That part was obvious now.  He was the man.  That was
irrefutable.  Men have cocks, which go into the pussy of a woman.  So
there and then, that second, I decided I would never call it my asshole
again, forever.

It was my pussy.

And it was about to receive my first man.

The man I loved, without question.

He pulled his foreskin forward, covering his giant helmet.  He was ogling
my pussy, which I could tell was still slightly open, from his fingers.
Then he looked up at me, with a pleading demeanour.

I nodded at him.

"Do it, Gary.  Love me!  I want you inside me.  I want your fantastic
cock inside my pussy!"

Words just can't be found to describe that moment, that second or two of
time in a life when everything changes.  When life as you knew it ceased
to be, instead turning into a different existence, one you couldn't have
imagined in a trillion years.

That moment happened when his cock touched my skin, all around my pussy.
I got to enjoy that epiphany for only a millisecond though, because then
Gary slid the head further, which began to open me again, and then
further, which opened me to the extent that his fingers had just been,
which made me gasp, and then he pushed further, opening me up like never
before.

My cry was involuntary.  The pain flared like a lightning bolt, searing
and vicious and all-encompassing.  I just bellowed out, a yelp, loud and
strong.  He stopped, and began to slip backwards.

Even through my pain, even through the agony I was completely unprepared
for, my arms shot out around his back, reaching down as far as I could,
touching the top round start of his buttocks, which were covered in hair
and as hard as granite, and I pulled at him, my scream of pain morphing
into "NO!  DON'T PULL IT OUT!"

Gary stopped, and waited for me.  His belly was touching mine, my little
penis trapped in the fabric of my panties, being rubbed by his skin.  I
couldn't imagine letting that go away.

Instead, I bore down, and focussed, and as the pain levels came down he
seemed to pick up on it, and began sliding into me again.  The pain came
crashing at me again, making the tears run down my cheeks into my ears,
and I cried out again.

Still, my arms pulled at him.  Telling him to give me more, even as I
struggled beneath him.  Even through all that pain, the likes of which
I've never had in my entire life, there was a voice inside my head that
kept telling me to fight through it, to take more of him, to absorb the
pain, that it would get better, that it would get easier, that the
horribleness of it would fade, that I could have all his cock in me, all
the way inside me, reshaping my channel to his size.  I just had to get
used to it.  The voice kept telling me I would.

Gary was sweating, some droplets falling on my body and neck, and he kept
whispering how he didn't want to hurt me, not his sweet Melody.  My eyes
were squeezed shut in pain, so I couldn't see him, by my hands kept
pulling on him, inspiring him to push more into me, an inch or so,
perhaps, and then stopping to let me deal with it.

It was excruciating, at times.

But it was the most exhilarating moment of my existence on this planet.

Slowly, too slowly, almost unbearably slowly, the pain began to ebb.  And
like he'd been doing it all his life, he seemed to sense my ease, and it
inspired him to push more into me.  Finally, after what seemed like
hours, but in reality was only a few minutes at most, the pain had gone,
replaced by a kind of nirvana.

It was heaven, I decided.

I was full.  I was so full.  So amazingly full.  Fuller than I could have
fathomed, in my old life.

But now, it was a full I never wanted to end.

I opened my eyes, tears still streaming out them, and looked into Gary's
eyes.  Into the eyes of the man inside me, all the way.

The man making love to me.

His eyes were alive, and as wide as I've ever seen them.  He looked like
he was having the biggest surprise ever.

"Can you feel me, Melody?  All the way inside you?  Can you feel how
hard I am for you?"

"Oh god, YES!" I blurted out.

"We did it, Melody!"

"YES YES YES, OH GOD YES WE DID IT!"

He laughed out loud, which caused his whole body to shake, most of his
weight on me, so both of us rocked, which generated a thrill inside me
that felt like I was being electrocuted.  Tased, with love.

"My angel, Melody...are you okay?"  His look had changed to one of
concern, deep worry.

I hummed my answer.  "Mmm mmm."

"Am I hurting you?"

I couldn't get over how much concern this man had for me.  How he had
his cock buried as deep as it could go in my pussy, and still he was
worrying about how I felt.  It made me love him more, again.

"No, Gary, my baby," I whispered, "you're not hurting me...I feel so
full, so full of cock...I can't believe how full I am, how right it
feels...I'm so full of your cock, baby!  My whole life, this is what I
wanted...you, Gary...you...your cock in me, making love to me...I can't
believe how right this is...I feel so good...so good...so FUCKING GOOD!!!"

He laughed again, causing the same jolts inside me.  Tased by cock.

"Melody," he whispered, and buried his head into the pillow, next to
mine, his mouth next to my ear, "mmmmmm, I can't wait baby, I can't
wait..."

His body began moving, his hips pulling back, his cock, his beautiful
cock, sliding almost all the way out of me, and then he just rammed
himself back in.  Knocking the wind out of me, he split my pussy open and
the room reverberated with the sound of his body slamming into mine, the
front of his thighs meeting the backs of mine, with my legs crossed over
his back, my ankles locked together.  SLAM!  SLAM!  SLAM!  SLAM!

Each thrust into me rocked my whole body, into the mattress, his entire
weight coming down onto me, his entire cock shooting up into me, opening
me again and again.

I had my mouth clamped down on his shoulder, biting, but having enough
presence of mind to not actually go into his skin, and the breath was
being knocked out of me with each slam, and all my conscious mind could
respond with was a never-ending series of words, babbling noises,
sometimes incoherent sounds.  "...love me, love me, love my
pussy...uhhhhhhhhhHHHHHH....I'm so full...nnnnngngngngnng....love me,
baby......oh god GARY FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME!!!"

Time became meaningless.  I was teetering on the precipice of awareness,
every nerve in my body responding physically to his thrusts, his cock
fucking me, his arms wrapped around me, his massive tree-trunk thighs
battering into me, bending me backwards more and more, sweat pouring off
of him onto me, into my open mouth.

Gary was babbling too.  I could hear his groans, from deep within his big
chest, mixed with soft tones of mind-shattering joy, as he was exhaling
big lung fulls of air, making elongated
syllables..."mel....o.....dy....mel....o.....dy"

He sped up after a while.  I don't know how long, exactly.  It had been
a monumental time, and then it got better.  His body began moving faster,
the athlete in him beginning to play in championship mode.  The increased
pounding made some of his thrusts arrive at different angles, inside my
pussy.  On several of his strokes, the angle was unique enough that he
touched something inside of me that fairly exploded, and made me scream.
A scream unlike anything I'd ever heard before, from me.  High-pitched,
and intense, and wailing.  AND IT WAS FANTASTIC!

On other strokes, I had the insane thought that I was going to pee!  It
was like a vibration began, deep inside me, and the rumbling of it caused
me clamp my Kegel muscles down, holding off the imminent rush of liquid.
Naturally that caused me to clamp down my pussy hole ring on his cock,
and he groaned almost as loud as my scream.

It was the fourth time he made me scream that my entire body started
twitching, shaking uncontrollably, pinned to the mattress by Gary's
body, and the riotous motions inside me just became a volcano, and I
started crying and screaming into his neck and began spewing out my cum,
my little penis hard as it's ever been, trapped in my panties, and
trapped by his lower belly.

I came harder than I could handle.  I lurched, underneath Gary, and
poured out juices, again and again and again.  I was completely out of
control, completely unable to manage anything.  It was as if I was
allowing my body to disconnect from my brain, and just let it go with the
flow.

My body seized up and let go and seized up and let go and seized up and
let go, and Gary just kept slamming his cock into me, burying himself
inside my body, again and again and again.

I rode out the shockwaves of my orgasm and picked up where I'd left off
as Gary's tempo increased again.  The sounds coming out of him straight
into my ear were animalistic, throaty and guttural and completely
unrehearsed.  Moans and grunts and words here and there and heavy
breathing that was so loud it sounded like a rock concert.

No drug could come close to it.  No poet could ever describe the depth of
sensation and emotion that enveloped us.  All the scientists in all the
laboratories of the world could work their entire careers and never be
able to synthesize it.  Minute after minute after minute he fucked me.
With all of his might, and all of his manliness, he slammed into me and
slammed into me and slammed into me and slammed into me.

How high is high?  How much of a good thing, hell, how much of the best
thing in the world can anyone take?  As much as we can, in the moment.

It had to end.  I felt perhaps a dozen more jolts, as his cock angle
changed from stroke to stroke, and had two more surges from within.  Two
more mini-cums.  Neither of them was as powerful or all-encompassing as
the first one, but they still took me to the edge of passing out.

Finally, his moans became shouts.  He just kept saying "take me, take
me, take me," as he sped up, his slams into me coming faster and faster
and faster and faster.  Having probably sixty or so pounds on me, the
effect was unlike anything else.  I was being pummelled, into the
softness of his mattress, the short headboard above me tapping out the
rhythm of our love.

Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

We were both screaming.  His last final thrust into me bent my lower back
more than any other.  My ass was almost pointed directly up into the sky,
allowing his cock to stretch me to the utmost, and fill me more than
before.

As I screamed "LOVE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" he let go, and came
inside me.  I felt instantly wet, wetter than the ocean, as he sprayed
his semen again and again, each blast accompanied by his lower body
shaking, and his voice yelling into my ear, "MELODY!!!!!!"  He made
five or six pulses into me, painting my insides with his sperm, breeding
me, and then all of his massive body collapsed onto me.

Crushing me, pushing on me unlike anything I've ever experienced.

I wanted it, forever.

I was crying again, streams of salty tears running down my cheeks.  But
as opposed to before, these weren't tears of pain, or anguish.

These were the best of all tears.  These were the tears of finding love.
Thirty years of what I now understood was misery, gone.

I had found the love I was looking for.

I had found the man I'd been looking for.  The man who completed me.
The man who discovered the real me, who saw me as I am, before I did.
The man who inspired me to begin my journey to being feminine.  The man
who nurtured the woman in me, who brought me out, and gave me freedom.

Gary.  My Gary.  Tall, handsome, strong, caring, understanding,
compassionate, giving, loving.

Gary gives me love.  Gary gives me joy.

He gives me tenderness.

And that, dear reader, is all there is.  All there is to ask, and all
there is to offer, in this world.

Tenderness.



The End.