After work the next day I received the call I anticipated from Lloyd. He had left a message on the hotel voice mail assuring me that he was available for dinner (and maybe other things) and that he would call back by 9pm. Frankly, I was surprised because I was pretty certain that Lloyd had gotten all that he was looking for and needed time to assimilate the experience.

This certainly had been true for me. All day long I had Agony and Ecstasy attacks. Almost involuntary mental replays of images from the night before. They permeated my every thought, feelings of guilt countered by feelings of excitement and joy. I found it more than a little hard to work and was surprised at how effective I could be in spite of the ongoing disruption.

From the ecstasy side I wanted more. I wanted to act out each of my fantasies, trying them on one by one, in a festival of feminine sexual pleasures. But the agony... I thought I would feel some strange guilt about having been bi-sexual for the first time, about doing things that I had been conditioned to believe were unnatural and wrong. But on this count I was fine. The feelings of guilt and sadness which washed over me were about the betrayal I had perpetrated against my sweet S.O. For more than a decade I had rigorously kept my promise of monogamy, now it was destroyed...this was where the pain was.

I needed a rationalization, I grasped for any mental relief and failed miserably. When I sorted it out the only thoughts that seemed useful were: a)I felt no significant affection toward Lloyd. He had been a catalyst in my transformation and I in his. We used each other physically but nothing that happened qualified as a disloyalty of the heart and b) There was so much latex and lingerie between us that it was like making love through a plastic membrane. Yeah that was it! Mutual masturbation...things just got a little weird...no harm done.

It was the "Honey, we never really touched" scenario. Yeah right...

I finally had to accept that there was no acceptable rationalization. I had done what I had done. And while I wasn't about to send out public apologies to my friends and family, it would be the pain of this broken promise that I would have to live with for quite some time.

In looking at this later, one idea did help to diminish some of the pain: I , like many others, am and always have been a victim of a restrictive and intolerant society. This was certainly the cause of my perpetual psychological entrapment and continued to complicated my life with inflexible either-or rules about what gender I am supposed to be and how I am allowed to express it. I was disloyal only in the context of an unreasonable design for people lives, their love relationships and the promises they are forced to make.

By 10pm. Lloyd hadn't called back. I had been stood up! I was simultaneously pissed and relieved. With everything I was feeling about sex at the moment, it was nice to know that I wouldn't be tempted by further moral dilemmas tonight. At least not from Lloyd. On the other hand I was all dressed up, ready to go but feeling pretty squeamish about taking on NYC single handedly. I paged Sly....no return call. I paced, changed clothes, dawdled. It was my last night here and I wasn't going to spend it in my room. By 11pm. I got up my nerve, grabbed my list of TG friendly bars and headed for the car.

During rush hour the grid lock had been so bad that I abandoned car in a semi-legal parking spot several blocks away. This meant having to traverse the same well lit stretch of Little Italy that I had been so unwarmly received in the night before. I moved quickly and tried to stay in the shadows. This was an all time low for my passability confidence and my heart was pounding heavily.

I had opted to wear my most passable look- simple jeans, top, low sandals and short blond hair. Now I wished the hair would grow, like one of those Barbie dolls with the endless hair, I could pull on it over and over until I was able to completely wrap myself in the fully extended curls. I would appear to passers by as some indistinguishable girl with unfashionably long hair...or perhaps they would think I was a related to the impish Cousin IT of the Addams Family...anything would be preferable to the experience of feeling so exposed.

I made it to the car without incident. There was an Italian street festival taking place so I was able to walk down the middle of the now closed boulevard (that also explained why it was so hard to get any closer to the hotel this afternoon), I just wish I felt more passable.

For my first stop, I tried to head toward the outskirts of Greenwich Village. There was supposed to be a bar just outside of the warehouse district which bordered the TG friendly area. As usual I was on my way to getting lost. I misread a critical sign and ended up in the Holland Tunnel. In addition to having to pay the toll, I was forced to drive to New Jersey before I could turn around. On the Jersey side I had a little celebration commemorating yet another state line that I had crossed en femme.

Once back in Manhattan I drove confounded by one-way streets, toward the club address on Greenwich. I passed the number several times, unable to see anything resembling a club (even a well disguised club with an ambiguous facade which NYC is famous for). I decided to give it one more pass, and drove south for a couple of extra blocks to ensure that I would be able to track the all of the numbers when I headed north again.

Just as I was trying to turn under a viaduct to change direction, I ended up in another famous NYC grid lock. The police seemed to be at the center of this one, directing traffic ineffectively, letting Taxi's and commercial vehicles take the expedient route while forcing private vehicles into some sort of traffic glut...then I realized where I was... It was a police blockade and they were inspecting cars!

My heart was in my throat. There I was, doing what I felt was a fairly unconvincing imitation of Grace Kelly and now I'd have to explain myself to some New York cops. The area under the viaduct, though crowded by cars/drivers in the process of being questioned, was shadowy and fearsome. A good place for a quiet beating. I had had my silly and unfounded paranoid fantasies in the past, but now the possibility f

being seriously harassed in the shadows of a New York viaduct seemed all to likely.

Forced to patiently wait my turn for interrogation brought to mind a composite of suspenseful W.W.II border crossings.

"May I see your papers please?"

"Yes, yes of course...here they are."

"Hmmm, please wait here..."

The interrogator returns with his superior...

"The Private here tells me he is concerned about your information...uh, Miss..."

A long silence ensues...

"H-how so, C-Captain..."

"He points out to me a major discrepancy...do you know what that is?"

"I-I'm not c-certain, C-Captain..."

"Tell her Private..."

"Your photograph...it was taken before Memorial Day, yes?"

"Well, I guess...yes it was in early May.."

"You are wearing summer white! You should be wearing winter white before May 30th...didn't you know this?!"

"Y-yes, my apologies P-Private...since the war our wardrobe choices have been limited and that was my only business suit..."

"There is never an excuse for bad fashion! We should execute you right here! What do you say Captain?"

"We'll let her go this time...but you must have that picture retaken immediately...right over there miss.."

"Yes, thank you..."

Now it really was my turn. An officer leaned in the window.

"How are you doing tonight miss?"

"Fine...(in my undisguised male voice)...is there a problem?"

"May I see your license please?" I had it ready and handed it to him quickly, trying not to show my growing fear. Once he was holding it, I nervously mumbled about how I didn't always dress like this... He was completely non-pulsed by the obvious difference between my license and me.

"This is an Ohio license..."

" Yes, I'm visiting from out of town and...."

"Please stand by..." He walked away...uh oh, things were taking a bad turn. Suddenly I pictured being dragged from the car and getting roughed up against a dark wall under the highway. After a long and nerve racking wait he returned, put his hand on the door...and handed me my license.

"Okay, go ahead, sorry for the inconvenience..."

Though I'm not a religious person, I said a quick thank you to all gods on all channels...Jesus, what a night!

I gave up on the dance bar and headed into the Village, there was supposed to be a TG restaurant, Lips, well inside the Gay safety perimeter. I only hoped it actually existed. Several confusing one way streets and illegal parking choices later, I stepped out of the car and walked two quiet blocks to Lips, a tribute to Transvestites everywhere.

"Hi honey, how are you tonight?"

"Fine." I lied and quickly tried to assimilate.

The upstairs bar and restaurant was done up like a 90's version of New Orleans house of ill repute. The "girls", most of whom were well over six feet tall in 6 inch spikes, were certainly dressed for the occasion. Without a doubt I obtained an instant visual to go with the words "High Drag". Low neck lines, high skirts, one waitress wore shear hot pants with a black thong bikini panties visible...not to mention hot legs and a great little androgynous butt.

Wild nails, hair, eye make up, fabrics, jewelry and an amazing array of patrons and waitresses.

"You should have come here earlier honey, we're gonna close pretty soon."

I chose not to explain my evening and my life to her..."Can I still order a salad and some wine?"

"Sure, sweetheart...not a problem."

The "regulars" weren't very welcoming so I found a little table facing the "action". Compared to this group, I felt like the matronly chaperone at a parallel universe Junior High School dance. I stopped by the ladies room to repair what must have been the physical effects of stress on my hair and make up. Not an easy task considering the room, labeled with a question mark, was lit by a very unflattering red light.

After a quick dinner I spoke with Roxy the hostess to find out if there were any TG oriented bars within walking distance...she suggested a nearby gay bar, Monster, which was famous for it's piano bar. Supposedly "they", some the Amazon babes from Lips were going there after closing. Convinced that I wouldn't be the sole TG gal in the bar I headed over there (the Amazons never showed).

Monster was only a couple blocks away. It, like all of the really hip bars in New York, had no identifying marks on it. Save for an elaborate array of Christmas lights and a TG bouncer, Jeniffer (not en femme), there was no certainty of what it was.

"Roxy sent me", I said to Jennifer who may have been a heavyweight wrestler in a former life, "she said this was a good place for a girl like me..."

"Oh yeah, honey...go in. Have a great time!"

About 10 feet into the bar, a guy who I assume was one of the regulars, stopped me to tell me/tease me about how much my hair resembled that of Joan Rivers. I played along but took the comment to heart. Just for once tonight I'd like to be mistaken for a woman...not that Joan isn't...but she wasn't the woman I hoped to be.

I headed downstairs to the dance floor, a churning, flashing, blaring, low ceiling disco scene. I found a place along the sidelines and scoped out the crowd. No TG's that I could see. While I was in safe territory, gay, tolerant, etc., there wasn't really any target group with whom I sensed commonality. I tried to relax a little. Let myself sway, trying to locate the feminine side of my dance capabilities.

I was never any good at the silent sexual politics of Disco dancing and age, experience and a temporary sex change hadn't done much to alter my outlook. I moved with the contagious music, and watched various dance dramas unfolding. What looked to be a straight couple was tearing up a section of the dance floor. As always I was compelled to watch the girl. She had these sexy moves and a great dance dress to go with them. I wanted her and...I wanted to be her. Under other circumstances I might try to imitate her until some of those moves became natural for me but tonight I continued to feel off balance and out of place.

I hadn't noticed it at first but a couple of male go-go dancers had been slowly disrobing and were now down to g-strings. I found this to be pretty sexy, all of those sweaty muscles undulating in an alluring one-sided mating dance. The sight was enough to make me temporarily forget the agonizing aspects of my post-Lloyd experience.

After a while the dance floor got tiresome. Even in my girl persona I retain a certain amount of goal-oriented drive. Sometimes the goals are questionable, e.g. getting picked up and laid, but they are goals all the same and they help me to focus my energy. Now I had no clear goal, I felt lost and unfocussed. I entertained the idea of getting picked up but any additional sexual experiences would blow my already overloaded assimilation circuits. I started to have that "all dressed up and nowhere to go" feeling...only this time I was where I thought I wanted to be.

I headed up stairs to the main bar. That's when I saw the Piano Bar.

Still off balance, and feeling like I was standing out a little too much, I stood awkwardly at the perimeter of the piano bar action. Set in a little alcove sat a beautiful full grand piano surrounded by tall bar stools. The pianist, who stopped to entertain requests, played brilliantly arranged show and jazz standards off the top of his head. He also sported a versatile singing voice.

Being a frustrated lounge performer myself, I was drawn toward the music and over a matter several minutes, I slowly approached the piano. The stools were occupied by guys who sang along energetically even though they appeared to have been there all night. One guy, not so energetic, dozed drunkenly in spite of a rousing version of Oklahoma, the empty cocktail glasses which surrounded him implied the source of his weariness.

When I got within eye contact range, I received a nice array of welcoming smiles. A wiry hyperactive looking guy graciously gave up the bar stool he'd been using as an ashtray stand, and invited me to sit. The display of friendliness and chivalry gave me a nice girl feeling and I moved in my best feminine manner, making a lovely show of sitting down.

On one side of me sat the chivalrous guy, Jock, who I now realized created more smoke by-products than a US Steel coke plant (this had an instant negative effect on the smell of my hair and clothing). On the other side I was flanked by a gay couple, Paul and John, who intermittently teased/playfully insulted one another. I was drawn into their game when Paul started to loudly complain to me about John and "her slutty ways". Later Paul teased me too and I was grateful, happy to be included in something for the first time tonight.

The other seats, excepting the one which contained the sleeping drunk, regularly changed hands, filled by people who would join in the singing for a while and then flitter off. I sang along, (I can do a pretty convincing feminine alto), happy to be part of a chorus of what turned out to be some very good voices.

It was now 1:30am, the place was open till 3 and still generally crowded. Now a new variety of singer started to show up. Edward, one such vocalist, pulled up to the piano, requested Old Man River and threw a 5 dollar bill in the pianist's tip jar. As the opening bars sounded he took a deep breath and proceeded to deliver one of the most dramatic and heart wrenching performances of this piece that I have ever heard.

It went on like this for an hour. Various singers, men and women, some with their own music, some accompanied by what looked to be their managers, delivered remarkable performances: My Funny Valentine, I'll Be Seeing You, Ain't Misbhavin, The Music of the Night, an endless fireworks display of Broadway Show Tunes. After a while I began to think that a requirement for living in NYC was to be able to perform like this....

"Hello Mr. Mayor, nice to meet you, you have a great city here..."

"Yeah, right. So you want to live in New York, huh?"

"Oh, Yes. Very Much!"

"Well you know you have to audition in order to get in."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I'll be doing a selection from Fiddler today, here's my resume. In D-flat please... "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find........unless he's the perfect catch!", polite applause. "Thank you...thanks very much. So am I in?"

The mayor leans over and whispers to his deputy, the deputy whispers back and after some delay the mayor speaks...

"Well, Miss that was pretty good but.....we don't think you're Manhattan material...you'll have to live in Queens...with rent control of course."

"Oh, thank you Mr. Mayor...you've made me so happy but is there a chance I can audition for Manhattan in the future?"

"Sure kid, in about six months...you'll get a letter... Next!"

By 2:30am I was slowing down. I also noticed that I had been unconsciously worrying away at my foundation and figured I had a growing hole in my feminine persona. I said my good byes, complimented and tipped the pianist and headed for "home". I thanked Jennifer who was still at the door ensuring that the right kind of people were getting in. She sounded more femmy now and gave me a motherly "take care, honey" as I walked away.

The night air perked me up a little, this would be my last prance through NYC so I picked up my step and let my hips swing. My body eventually found a rhythm and attitude that would make my pimp (if I had one) confident that I could turn a profit. A cab driver slowed, honked and offered me a "free ride" to wherever I'd like. A lovely compliment and a questionable offer which I graciously declined. Instead of seeking any more trouble I sauntered off to my car, happy to see it was still where I'd left it. I hopped in, started up and sought out after a direct route back to my hotel. I knew that this departure signaled the close of yet another episode in my sordid feminine life.

As I drove I reflected on what had been an unbelievable collection of events, a tapestry of memories and feelings of 3 remarkable days. Another installment of the life I live intermittently, a discontinuous life, the existence of my other self. I could hear the closing music swelling up as the credits rolled and pictured the image of my car diminishing into the perspective of the cityscape. The music bittersweet, a combination of ecstasy and agony, a guitar playing upbeat blues and a singer grinding out the final lyrics- "if you can make it there you'll make it anywhere, it's up to you New York, New York."

It sounded poetic, but I didn't know what it meant...oh well, sometimes you just have to accept that there is no good explanation.