By Rachael Robbins
© 1996 Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins
Episode 4: Shopping is a Girl's Best Friend
At 6:38 Monday morning, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, thinking that Death had already taken the maiden. With the sensitivity of a bricklayer, I trowelled on foundation in a largely vain attempt to cover the horrendous bags under my eyes. I'd slept terribly the past three nights, troubled by dreams in which I was dancing with a strangely androgynous creature -- one in which I could alternately recognize both David Baker and his beautiful alter ego, Ashley. Each time, the dream (and my night's sleep) had ended with me bolt-upright in bed after the thing's lips, locked sensuously with mine, had turned into a . . . well, never mind.
Now, as I stepped into a pair of stirrup pants, I banished thoughts of that night with Ashley from my mind. It must've been the wine, and the lambent evening, that had made me want her, and left me sitting in her car, bereft at her leaving. She was a man, damn it! I settled the fluffy auburn wig over my crew cut with a savage jerk, and touched up my lipstick. It would have to do -- I'd managed to conceal the bags, but there was an indefinable sadness on the features of the woman who stared back at me from the mirror. I grinned, and she grinned, but hers had a false look to it, as if she were only going through the motions.
I shook myself. Her? She? Jesus Christ -- I was getting schizophrenic. The "woman" in the mirror was me. Don Benedict, biological, heterosexual, male. Pretty soon I'd be talking to Dawn, and she'd be answering, and I'd be ready for the funny farm.
In the living room, I stared out the window at a sodden world. A front had moved through in the night, leaving Seattle gray and misty, like the land of the fairies, only with smog. I switched on the television just in time to see the moronic Channel 8 weather-lady draw a big frowny-face on the map. Never mind that rain of any volume would be welcomed by the weary firefighters up against the Cascades -- it wouldn't be good for tourism, which Seattle businessmen worshiped with the fervor of Priestesses turning tricks for the Goddess.
For once, Frenchy arrived at the office pretty much on time, about a half an hour after I got there. I heard her puttering around in the outer office, pouring coffee and leafing through Saturday's mail, before opening the door to my inner sanctum. She stopped in the doorway, and stared appraisingly at me.
"You look terrible," she said.
"And, good morning to you, too."
"No, I mean it, Dawn . . . you look like something a buzzard spit up." She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the cheery words "Gut-shoot Men at the Border" emblazoned across the front. Her dark, unruly hair spilled across her forehead, almost, but not quite, hiding her intelligent eyes. I couldn't help comparing her to Ashley . . . two completely different, yet equally compelling women. One of whom was a lesbian, and one of whom wasn't a woman at all. And a suspect in a murder investigation to boot. I sighed.
"Thanks for the compliment, dear. By the way, I just love your t-shirt. Where'd you get it . . . "`Dykes R' Us?'"
"Little feminist book store in South Center, and don't change the subject." She narrowed her eyes shrewdly. "So. How'd your date with Ashley go the other day?"
"You know it wasn't a date, it was an interview, and I found out some very interesting things. For one thing, Johnny was not being blackmailed. Not over David's crossdressing, anyway. And for another . . ." I trailed off. Frenchy stared at me, one brow cocked.
"Yes?"
"She kissed me, Frenchy," I whispered.
"All right Dawn!" A huge grin appeared on her face. " Didja make it? How was she? I mean, he?"
"No, we did not `make it'," I replied, and banged my fist on the desk. "I am not gay!"
She just waited, with that maddening grin on her face. I looked down at my desktop, then back up.
"But, I guess I kind of . . . enjoyed it," I paused. "You know, so much of my identity, my sense of who I am is tied up in my heterosexuality."
"Tied up in your homophobia, you mean."
"No, not homophobia . . . You and I get along, don't we? I just never was interested in men."
"I remember when I was in denial. I had this date -- my sister fixed us up. He was a chemistry major named Fred," she said. "It was a total disaster -- he kept trying to get into my pants. Finally, I kneed him in the groin." She paused as I clapped my legs together reflexively.
"That's when I realized that boys were not for me," she continued. "I couldn't even imagine that clod's hairy body next to mine."
"Thank you for that lovely story," I said, "But I hardly think I'm in denial . . ."
"Oh, no? Then why did you enjoy it when he kissed you?"
"I guess I just got carried away -- David is gorgeous as a woman," I replied, and buried my face in my hands. "I'm so confused . . ."
"Join the club," she said with a smirk. "Listen, I know what'll cheer you up . . . I've gotta go pick up a few things at the mall."
I lifted my head. "Shopping?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Can we go up to Northgate? Nordstrom's having a sale on shoes . . ."
"Anywhere you want, Dawn."
"Just let me touch up my makeup and grab my purse," I said, and ran to the bathroom.
Ok, so I'm just a touch shallow.
We took the freeway North to 135th, and pulled into the Northgate Mall parking lot; I was in much better spirits by the time we entered Nordstrom's. I resolutely marched through the cosmetics section, with it's army of over-madeup sales girls, who reminded me of inexperienced transvestites at their first support-group meeting, and didn't even look twice at the displays of diaphanous stockings, or the new fall fashions in their dreary earth tones, all designed to look good on anorexic teen-agers after a three month fast. No, I was on a Mission for God, and when we reached the shoe department, Frenchy resignedly settled in for a long wait.
The salesman was a slender, good-looking man of around twenty five, with hair swept back from the forhead in the latest GQ style. I just knew he was gay.
"Good morning, Miss," he oozed, meeting my gaze with a twinkle in his light blue eyes. "What size are you? About a six?" I could hear Frenchy choking back laughter beside me.
"I'm afraid not," I replied. "More like a nine-and-half or ten, depending on the shoe."
"Oh, surely not, Madam," he said. "Here, let's measure."
He pulled out the scale, and placed my stockinged right foot in the saddle, giving it a subtle stroke as he did so.
"Sure enough . . . a nine-and-a-half. You sure had me fooled . . . Now. What can I show you today?"
"How about those white pumps over there?" A girl can never have enough pumps.
"Good choice, Madam . . . elegant understatement." This bozo was really laying it on and I, of course, loved it. "I'll see if we have them in your size." He left for the back room.
"`Elegant understatement,'" Frenchy mimicked. "I think I'm gonna puke . . ."
The salesman, whose nametag proclaimed him to be "Raul", returned carrying several boxes.
"I brought nines and tens, as well as the nines-and-a-half," he said, and placed my foot daintily on the stool. He ran his hand discretely along the back of my calf as he fit the first shoe, and a speculative look came over his face.
"My, Miss, you must work out . . ."
After we put the left shoe on, with a repeat performance of the calf-stroke, he held out his hand to help me to my feet, and I walked an experimental few steps. The pumps felt marvelous -- they had a sassy, three-inch heel and a low-cut upper, and made my feet look almost naked. I put a little extra wiggle in my behind as I sashayed down the aisle, and when I returned I saw Frenchy making a little gagging motion with her forefinger in her open mouth.
"You look fabulous, Miss," Raul said breathily. "Have you ever thought of going on the stage?" He winked at me, and suddenly I knew exactly which stage he was talking about.
"The stage?" I stared at him fishily. He turned red and began to stammer, no longer sure of what he was dealing with.
"Uh, what I mean to say, is . . . you carry yourself like an actress, and I just thought . . ." he said, lamely. Frenchy grinned wickedly behind him.
I ended up buying three pairs of shoes from the embarrassed man -- the white pumps, another pair in fire-engine red, and some darling green flats. On the way out, Frenchy commented on my insatiable lust for footwear.
"I just felt sorry embarrassing the guy that way," I replied. "He obviously had more than a passing knowledge of where I was coming from, if you'll pardon the pun."
"Sure you did, Dawn."
Kiko's is one of those horrible Mall restaurant chains, with trendy, overpriced food for trendy, overpriced yuppies. Nevertheless, Frenchy and I ended up eating a late lunch there, because it was either that or one of the kiosks in the food circus. My companion just had to have a cigarette, so we sat in the bar. Ever conscious of my girlish figure, I ordered a house salad, while Frenchy had her usual cheeseburger and fries. One of the truly odious features of my associate was her ability to eat apparently endless quantities of cholesterol-laden junk food and not gain an ounce.
While we were waiting for our orders, two drinks appeared unbidden on our table.
"From the gentleman at the bar," our waiter, who had insisted on telling us his name was "Bill", informed us.
I looked over and smiled at our benefactor, a rather good-looking middle-aged man with distinguished gray hair, and blew him a little kiss. When I looked back at Frenchy, she was smirking at me.
"What?" I asked, in all innocence.
"Yeah, you're het, all right . . ."
"Jesus Christ, Frenchy -- are we going to start that again?"
"You bet," she replied. "We're gonna talk about it until you see that this ridiculous obsession you have with your sexuality is nothing more than blatant homophobia. Who do you think --"
"Just a minute," I cut in. "I am not homophobic. You're one of my best friends, for Christ's sake."
"Yeah, and how do you think it makes me feel? You're so smug, and so sure you're not one of those dirty little faggots . . . well let me tell you, jerk-off, being a transvestite is no prize, either. Talk about the bottom of the food chain . . ."
By this time, we'd gotten loud enough that the other patrons of the bar were beginning to stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our erstwhile benefactor quickly turn away. No more free drinks from that quarter, I thought to myself.
"Will you keep it down, Frenchy? You may be out, but I can hardly say the same . . ."
"What a fucking joke. As if half of Seattle didn't see you on that silly-ass TV show the other day. Are you so ashamed of what you are? That you'd screw up a potentially great relationship over a little thing like being the samesex?" She paused for breath, and I could see she was just getting wound up. "Let me ask you just one thing -- how straight can someone be who gets off on looking attractive for other men?"
I tried to look wounded. "Now, you know I'm just --"
"`Exploring my feminine side'" she finished mockingly, and heaved a great sigh. "Look -- you can be whatever your little heart desires, but will you just answer one question?"
That was her second question in the space of thirty seconds, but I wasn't about to point that out. I nodded meekly, and she leaned over the table and poked me in my right breast form for emphasis.
"When you're with Ashley, do you think of him as male or female?"
That, of course, was the hundred thousand dollar question.
To be continued . . .