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    ME AND BOBBI©
    by George Wilkerson


    The Queen of Hearts

    Ed. Note: Bobbi, George, is sharing an internal conversation with us, and in effect, outting herself to the world. We think you'll find her (and his) point of view interesting

    Bobbi
    Bobbi
    "The queen of hearts, she baked some tarts, "Bobbi is singing.

    "I don't think so," I say.

    "You don't like my singing?"

    "You know what I mean. You sing just fine. it's your outfit I don't like."

    "Horsefeathers," she says. "You're the one who picked it out. Remember?"

    "Of course I remember. And the fact is that we both picked it out, although it's more like YOU picked it out and I paid for it."

    She tugs at the skirt and smoothes the snug top over her breasts.

    "Look at yourself," I say. "You look like a hooker."

    She smiles. "Thank you very much."

    "Come on...five inch heels? An 18 inch skirt? I can see the tops of your stockings. And that's cleavage, isn't it?"

    She cups her hands under her breasts and lifts them. "You'd better believe it."

    I move into the living room and, of course, she follows me, the click-click-click of her high heels echoing down the hallway.

    "You know you like it, dear," she whispers. "Admit it."

    "Of course I like it. WE know that. OK? But we also know we can't go out in public looking like that."

    She sits on the sofa and crosses her legs, tugging at the skirt again to keep it below the stocking line. "You take all of the fun out of it," she says.

    "I know...and, I hope, all of the risk."

    She looks down at herself, at the short skirt, the crossed legs, the spike heels, and sighs. "But you'll be with me. Right?"

    "Yeah...right. And a lot of good that will do. Ever tried to run in those shoes? Save them for the T Party, San Francisco, someplace where they won't be out of place."

    She stares for a moment, then stands up and heads back to the bedroom, dragging me along with her. "You want conservative," she mutters, "we'll do conservative," and in another moment she is frantically kicking off the shoes, slipping out of the skirt, and pulling the snug top over her head, nearly dragging her wig along with it. In another moment she has pulled on my jeans, slipped into one of my white shirts and crawled into my brown loafers. "Why bother at all," she mutters. "Let's just do the purge thing one more time. That was loads of fun. Remember?"

    I nod and try to coax the outifit off of her, but to no avail. "Of course I remember. I'm not suggesting..."

    "I do not like this intrusion," she says, looking me square in the eye, which of course requires that she look into the mirror. "I am who I am and do not appreciate any intrusions once I am who I am. Once I am who I am, I want to be dealt with for who I am and not..." She stops short. "Oh my..."

    I shake my head and pull back from her. "What?" I ask.

    "Do you see what I see?"

    I have to laugh. "I'm pretty sure of it."

    "Well then?"

    And that's when I notice...the look. It's Annie Hall, in drag. And she's looking at me and laughing now. "This is just too unreal," she says. "You see? It's NOT what you wear, it's how you feel. The clothes bring out the feel, but once you feel, the clothes aren't as important."

    I shake my head. "I really hate these moments of insight."

    "But look," she says. "It looks good! Don't you think?"

    And I have to agree. It DOES look good. It's good and scary all at the same time.

    George
    She stops grinning and looks me in the eye again. "Scary?" she asks. "Why scary?"

    "Because we're getting closer," I say. "That's all."

    Turning away from the mirror, she begins to unbutton the shirt and kicks off the loafers. "Honey," she says softly, "we couldn't GET any closer."

    But I know that's not true and even though she knows I know that, we don't discuss it any further.

    "Now," she says, turning back to the closet, "find me that slinky little wine colored number you're so find of."

    To be continued...

    © 1997 George J. Wilkerson and Bobbi Wlliams. Unless otherwise specified, you may not reproduce the contents in any form without permission.