Back on the Run

“Good luck, Derek. You’ve paid your debt to society, and you’re a free man. As I say to all my departing guests, don’t let me see you again.”

I shook the warden’s hand and walked outside the prison walls, breathing free for the first time in seven years. My new shoes pinched my feet, and my new suit felt as cheap as it looked, but who cared? As I waited for my bus on a beautiful April morning, I knew I wouldn’t be wearing them for long.

Seven years! I went into the big house as a callow youth of twenty-three, and I was leaving as a thirty-year old man. Still, my body was lean and limber, and by the grace of God I still had a full head of hair. Physically, I had never looked better. Mentally? One of the benefits of being incarcerated in a federal institution was unlimited access to psychiatric care.

After countless hours of analysis by a revolving cast of shrinks, I was well and truly certified as a pre-operative transsexual. Although my pleas for hormone therapy had been rejected, and to all outward appearances I was a normal man, the piece of paper in my pocket would authorize any board-certified physician in the United States to slice and dice me into a woman.

There would be a one-year waiting period while I lived as a member of the opposite sex, and it seemed unfair that the past seven years didn’t count for that. God knew, that was how the boys inside had treated me. How many times had I taken it up the ass in prison? Hundreds, perhaps thousands. I had long ago forgotten what it felt like to be with a woman, and I no longer had any interest. My goal was to become one.

In truth, it wasn’t prison that did it to me. It was three incredible days, seven years earlier, during my brief getaway from the police after I was caught stealing half a million dollars from my employers. Disguising myself as a woman, I was on the brink of starting a new life as a pretty girl when my past caught up with me. Down but not out, I had managed to stash the loot in a place where it could safely grow into the nest egg I would need to start my life over, once again, as Miss Victoria Ross.

* * *

The bus ride from Leavenworth to Las Vegas is not to be recommended. After sitting and sleeping in my prison-issued suit for over twenty-four hours, I looked as dreadful as I felt.

For seven long years, the key to the safe deposit box where my fortune was hiding lay buried under a small patch of grass in front of the Tropicana. I grew sick with worry as I walked down Las Vegas Boulevard, eyeing with astonishment the new mega-hotels and casinos on every corner. What if the Trop had been torn down, to make way for another new monstrosity? I held my breath as I approached the intersection. There, in the shadow of the Empire State Building and the MGM lion, was my beloved old Tropicana, serenely oblivious to the frenzy of new development around it.

After I checked in, I bought myself a tee shirt and swimming trunks. For the rest of the afternoon, I lolled around the tropical themed pool, sipping margaritas as I dreamed about the last time I drank one. I was a pretty girl, driving a red convertible, on a lunch date with a handsome man in Phoenix. I wondered what ever happened to him? I drifted off in my lounge chair, only awakening when the sun dipped behind the ersatz New York skyline across Las Vegas Boulevard.

Although I was sorely tempted to hit the buffet and gorge myself on real food for the first time in seven years, that was not the way to maintain my girlish figure. After a bowl of soup in the coffee shop, I took a long walk, stopping at a large drugstore to purchase some essentials. It would be hours before the pedestrian traffic on the strip thinned out enough for me to return to the grassy patch where my treasure was buried, and I killed the time by shaving off all of my body hair in my hotel bathroom. Every night in my prison cell, I had dreamed of this moment: the first small step in my metamorphosis from male to female. When I was done, I filed my long fingernails into feminine shapes. Without polish, they would not attract undue attention.

I killed a few hours in the casino, playing quarter slots until most of the other players had scooped their remaining coins into their slot buckets and drifted away. Finally, at three o'clock in the morning, I went outside and loitered on the small rectangle of lawn between the port cochere and the sidewalk. When I was certain that there was nobody nearby, I dropped to my knees and began to probe the soil with a knife that I'd stolen from a room service cart. Within seconds, I felt the blade strike the top of the sealed plastic container which I'd buried there that November morning, a few hours before I turned myself into the FBI. I dropped the knife and dug furiously with my hands, hoping as I did so that I would not ruin one of my nails. When the hole was big enough, I lifted the container out of the ground, stuffed it into a hotel laundry bag, and headed back to my room.

I bolted the door behind me and carefully shook the loose dirt off the container before I laid it on the bed. My fingers were trembling as I pried open the lid and looked inside. It was all there: Brian Robbins' wallet with his identification and credit cards. An Arizona driver's license and ATM card in the name of Victoria Ross. And at the very bottom, a slim brass key.

* * *

You can do almost anything twenty four hours a day in Las Vegas, except shop for a complete woman’s wardrobe. After a restless night, I had a modest breakfast in front of a kiosk in the hotel lobby and caught a taxi to a shopping mall a few miles from the strip. Here was where the locals shopped. If I were in search of a designer outfit to wear to a gourmet restaurant, no doubt I could have found one at any of the boutiques along the strip, but my needs were different this morning.

My cash on hand was down to three hundred dollars, and I knew I had to save enough for my final purchase as I made my way through the racks at Marshall’s. Soon I was paying for a knee-length denim jumper paired with a short sleeve cotton top, an all-in-one body briefer, a slip, two pairs of pantyhose, a gold plated necklace, and clip on hoop earrings. I attracted no unusual looks from the girl at the register or the other customers in the store. This was Las Vegas.

A Payless shoe store yielded a pair of brown moccasin flats and a matching shoulder bag, and after half an hour in a large drugstore, I had all the cosmetics and other feminine necessities I would need for my transformation. Except for the most important thing. I had a little over $100 left in my wallet to pay for it.

So I walked the two miles to another strip mall, and into a wig store which advertised heavily in all the throwaway tabloids distributed up and down the strip. “Showgirls!” blared the ad copy. And in smaller print, “Chemotherapy patients. Complete privacy.” When I walked into the store, my arms full of shopping bags, the woman behind the counter sized me up with weary eyes.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asked. She was wearing one of the store’s offerings, a bright red Sassoon bob which looked ridiculous over her weather-beaten face.

“I need a wig, inexpensive but very natural, that I can wear to a costume party.” Halloween and Mardi Gras had come and gone, but if she thought my request odd, she gave no indication. She sized me up for a second, and walked into a back room. When she returned, she had a short wig in her hands, light brown like my hair.

“If you want to try it on, put this net over your head first,” she said, handing me a thin mesh skullcap. Beyond embarrassment by this point, I thanked her, tucked my hair under the net, and sat down in front of a mirror on the counter. After looking around to make sure nobody else was in the store, I tugged the wig down over my head. It was sensational. A perfect fit, the curly tresses were indistinguishable from the real thing.

“How much?” I asked her.

“Retail is $129, but I can let you have it for $89,” she said.

“Sold,” I said, putting the last of my bills down on the counter. I would even have enough money for a taxi back to the Tropicana. Things were falling into place perfectly.

* * *

Later that day, Victoria Ross entered the lobby of a Wells Fargo bank in downtown Las Vegas. Her languid pace, and the glow in her face, were attributable to the three orgasms I had experienced while transforming myself into her in my hotel room. After seven long years of frustration and denial, my body had responded with unrestrained joy to the wonderful sensations of wearing women’s clothing once again. I ejaculated unexpectedly while I was putting on my makeup, again while I was easing my nylons up my legs, and once more when I surveyed the finished product in the full length mirror on the closet door. Seeing myself in a dress again, a pretty yarnbow in my hair to match the flowers on my top, wearing dainty shoes and stockings, had been enough to buckle my knees as my aching penis throbbed in ecstasy.

“May I help you, Ma’am?” a middle-aged man asked when I approached the mahogany rail separating the lobby from the officers’ desks. When did I go from being a “Miss” to being a “Ma’am?” I wondered to myself as I looked around. The bank was just as I remembered it.

“I’d like to access my safe deposit box, please,” I said in the feminine voice which I had practiced every night in prison.

“Certainly. May I see some identification?” The moment of truth! I fished the old, phony Arizona drivers license out of my purse and held my breath. But he seemed not to notice the expiration date, merely writing down my name in a logbook before he handed it back to me and asked me to follow him to the vault.

It was cool and dark, and I had to wait while he opened a waist-high door and led me into a chamber filled with row upon row of gray metal boxes. The little brass key was clutched in my trembling hands. He inserted a master key from a chain attached to his belt into one of the boxes, I inserted mine, and he slid the box back and handed it to me. He opened the door to a private booth and told me to buzz him when I was finished.

I waited until he was gone before I peered inside the box. There it was, a stack of zero coupon municipal bonds, which had been quietly earning interest for seven years and were now worth almost a million dollars, tax free. Suddenly impatient, I stuffed the bonds into my purse, along with a few thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills which I had placed in the safety deposit box along with the bonds before I surrendered empty-handed to the FBI.

I buzzed for the bank officer to return. When he did, there was a frown on his face.

“Miss Ross, we have a little problem.”

I held my breath. “Problem?”

“Yes. It seems that you haven’t been paid the annual rent for this box in years. In fact, our statements to your address in Phoenix have all been returned.” He looked at me accusingly. “You’re lucky we haven’t drilled the box. We just haven’t gotten around to it.”

The blood returned to my face. “I’m so sorry,” I told him. “I’ve been abroad, and I completely forgot about it. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s up to $295.73 with penalties and interest,” he said in a stern voice.

I pulled three hundred dollar bills out of my purse and placed them in his hand. “Keep the change,” I said, spinning on my heel, a rich bitch once again.

* * *

I took a cab to the Forum Shops and treated myself to a long lunch at a nice restaurant, overlooking a bogus Italianate fountain under a vaulted ceiling painted to look like the sky. Everything in this town is artificial, just like me, I mused as I sipped on a glass of expensive Chardonnay. Two losers in gold chains and open necked shirts at the next table were trying to flirt with me, and I noticed that they were staring at my legs. I looked down and realized that I was giving them a clear shot at my panties. My male ego, extinguished by my third orgasm, watched helplessly as I crossed my legs and tugged my dress down over the hem of my slip.

It was time to get out of Las Vegas. Through my prison connections, I had learned of a little shop downtown where I could get a phony birth certificate and social security card, which would be all I’d need to reestablish Victoria Ross as a lawful member of society. Once I redeemed my municipal bonds, I knew where I was headed. Like the mythical Phoenix which rose from the ashes, that was where my self-discovery had begun, and that was where I would start my new life.

* * *

Two months later, my hair was just long enough to style into a pixie cut. I checked out of my suite at a Residence Inn in Scottsdale and loaded two new suitcases crammed with a complete new wardrobe into the trunk of my blue BMW. It was the middle of June, and I was dressed for the blazing heat in a sundress, sandals and a sun visor. The tan leather seats burned my bare legs as I got behind the wheel and turned on the air conditioning.

I loved my new car, a 3 series with all the bells and whistles. After I opened the sunroof to let the heat escape, I lowered the visor and examined my makeup in the vanity mirror. It was a different face from that of the 22 year old girl who had taken Phoenix by storm in her red convertible, and the woman who looked back at me now had a glow of self-confidence about her. In addition to my new haircut, I could detect in my softer features the results of two months of hormone therapy. My physician had prescribed a cocktail of estrogen, progestin, and for good measure, an anti-androgen to suppress my production of testosterone. One welcome side-effect was the absence of the raging hard-ons which used to plague me when I dressed up in women’s clothing. I thought perhaps I might miss them, and even perhaps that they were the driving force behind my desire to become a woman. Instead, I found the loss of my male sex drive a profound relief, much like the feeling I used to experience after having an orgasm. As my male ego withered away, the angst and shame which used to nag at me gradually gave way to a new-found contentment.

A woman of property now, I had just closed on a two bedroom condominium with a stunning view of Camelback Mountain, and I was expecting my new furniture to arrive that afternoon. The past two months had been consumed with establishing my new identity, including finding the right doctor to prescribe my hormones, hunting for a place to live, and shopping for all the things that Victoria Ross would need to begin her new life. I was blowing through my fortune like there was no tomorrow, but I knew that once I settled down, I could trim my expenses back and live in quiet luxury until the time came for my operation. Only one thing was missing, something that had haunted me since the day I left Phoenix, a lifetime ago. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, but I knew I had to try.

* * *

After the men from the furniture store were gone, I spent some time hooking up my new computer. Although my condominium was air conditioned, it was a hot afternoon, and I was glad I was wearing only a sundress, bra and panties. I padded around my new home in my bare feet, putting everything in its place, until I spied my one piece swimsuit, which had a little skirt to help conceal my package, and a matching cover-up.

Memories of the last time I made a nest for myself in Phoenix came flooding back. Although my budding breasts were barely an A cup, I decided I could do without my breast forms. I put on my swimsuit and sandals, draped my cover up over my shoulders, and headed out for the pool, which was set amidst palm trees and oleander a few hundred yards away.

It was deserted. I lowered myself into the water and began to swim laps, exaggerating my strokes to make them appear more graceful. The cool water felt wonderful against my shaved body, which slid through the water like once before. My seven years in a federal penitentiary seemed to fade into distant memory as I relished the sensation once again. I was rich. I was free. I was starting a new life.

* * *

The next morning, after sleeping late, I sat out on the terrace in my nightgown with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. The terrace was beautifully landscaped, and I had furnished it with a lounge chair and a small breakfast table and chairs. Bright red bougainvillea on the stucco walls framed the majestic profile of Camelback Mountain in the distance.

The night before, after returning from the pool and fixing myself a salad, I logged onto the Internet and conducted a search for Brian Robbins. The newspaper archives from seven years back were not available from the web site of the Arizona Republic. Eventually I was able to find a few sites with caustic stories about the Phoenix banker who had been duped into allowing a man dressed as a woman to transfer stolen money into a new account, and then let himself get tied up in the transvestite’s bra and stockings after taking “her” out on a date and bringing “her” back to his apartment. Brian Robbins was evidently the stuff of urban legend, but there was no information about his current whereabouts.

I got up and walked back into the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee, and I returned with the cordless phone and the yellow pages. I tucked my legs up under my nightgown as I flipped through the directory until I found the number of the bank where Brian used to work. But when I put in a call, the operator assured me that there was nobody by that name working for the bank, and they had no information about his current employer.

What a surprise. After what I had done to him, he was fortunate that they didn’t remember him at the bank. No doubt he had been drummed from the corps, disgraced and humiliated, with no chance of ever working for another bank. He probably left for New Zealand or Argentina, I mused, as I flipped idly through the directory. What were the chances he was still in Phoenix? It was a long shot, but I returned to the kitchen and picked up the white pages. When I got to the R’s and ran my finger down the columns of names and numbers, there he was: B. Robbins, still living in the same apartment in Scottsdale, less than a mile from my condo!

My heart jumped to my throat. Fighting the instinct to call him, I put down the phone book and tried to think. Why had he stayed? What could he be doing now? How would he react if he saw me again?

I tried to sip my coffee, and realized that my hands were shaking. Suddenly faced with the reality that I might see Brian again, I was forced to confront the tangle of emotions that was tearing at me. Foremost was guilt, for ruining his career and probably screwing up his head for the rest of his life. How would I have reacted, when I was a normal guy, if I found out that a girl who gave me a blow job was really a man?

Maybe I felt so strongly about it because I knew what that experience had done to me. It wasn’t seven years in prison as the plaything of hardened criminals that had turned me into a woman. It was one magical night with Brian Robbins. Against my better judgment, I dialed his number. No reply. I waited for his machine to pick up. At the sound of his voice, I felt a tingle in my panties: “This is Brian. Please leave a number and I’ll call you back.” It was him, all right. He sounded older, more worldy wise somehow. Weren’t we all?

So he wasn’t home. Suddenly I had an inspiration. I went inside to the night table beside my bed, and found the junk that I had thrown there, including Brian’s old wallet. I reached inside and felt around. Sure enough, there was a key to his apartment, right where he had left it almost eight years before.

It was insane, wanting to see him again, let alone breaking into his apartment, but I couldn’t help it. I had to apologize to him for destroying his life, and I needed to find out if he was married or had a girlfriend. But I couldn’t just call him out of the blue. The shock might send him off the deep end. No, this called for something more subtle. An old-fashioned stakeout.

* * *

What did a girl wear to stalk a man when it was 100 degrees in the shade? I settled on the coolest clothes I had: a miniskirt and a halter top, and little white sneakers to sneak around in. With sunglasses and a Diamondbacks cap pulled down over my face, I drove to Brian’s apartment complex that afternoon and parked in some shade a safe distance from the entrance.

I called his number again with my cell phone. Still no answer. Before I could change my mind, I got out of my car and walked quickly to his apartment building. I bounded up the stairs to his apartment, put his key in the lock and held my breath. What if he had changed the locks? Could he have an alarm system?

No on both counts. As soon as I was inside, I could tell that the years had not been kind to Brian. It was the same apartment I remembered, only the furniture was worn and shabby now, and the floor was littered with dirty clothes and newspapers. I peeked into his bedroom, where the unmade bed was covered with more dirty clothes. I thought I saw a uniform shirt. I picked it up and read the nametag. “Sun Valley Pool Service” in bold letters, and “Brian” in cursive below. Oh my God. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and started to cry. Brian Robbins was reduced to cleaning swimming pools, thanks to me.

I wiped my eyes and got up to leave. I was out in the hall when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. What if it was Brian? I turned around and started walking away from the stairs, past Brian’s apartment and down the hall. I heard a key in a lock and turned around to catch a glimpse of Brian opening his door. His apartment might be a dump, but the years working outdoors had not been unkind to him. He was as handsome as I remembered, in terrific shape, and deeply tanned.

I waited until he went inside, and then I did something which to this day I cannot explain. I walked back to his apartment and knocked on the door. My knees were shaking as I waited for him to open it. When he saw me, at first he didn’t know who I was. It was only after I removed my cap and sunglasses that he realized it was me. I waited for him to say something, anything. He just stood and stared at me. It occurred to me that he was waiting for me to speak.

“Brian, I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, then I began to cry again. He stood there, silently, watching me break down. Then he pulled me into his apartment and closed the door.

* * *

I sat down on his couch and started talking as he stood with his arms folded across his chest. I told him everything, beginning with the theft of the money that I had deposited with his bank, how I came to disguise myself as Victoria Ross, and what I did after I knocked him out and tied him up in his apartment. I held back nothing as I recounted my years in prison, the recovery of my fortune, and finally my determination to live the rest of my life as a woman.

“You look like you’ve taken care of that already,” he said, the first words he had spoken to me in seven years.

“I owe it all to you.”

“What does that mean,” he asked, an edge to his voice.

There was no point in holding back now. “It means I fell in love you in there,” I said, pointing towards his bedroom. “And since neither one of us is gay, then meant one of us had better become the woman. I figured I was the obvious choice.”

He actually laughed. “Is that why you hit me over the head and stole my car?”

“I was very confused.”

“I don’t think so, Vicky, or Derek, whatever your name is. Everything you did was calculated. I mean, maybe you didn’t really want to wreck my career, but that’s what happened.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you really want to know? Let’s start with what it was like to wake up in my own bed, bound and gagged, having to lie there for hours with a concussion until I was finally able to spit out your panties and call 911. Or how about discovering that the woman who spent the night with me, giving me the best sex of my life, was really a man? Then there was finding out from my boss that the big account I landed was opened by a transvestite fugitive with stolen money. Do you want to hear what my friends and family had to say about that?”

“Brian, I’m so sorry.”

“Save it. You know what the funny thing is? I really liked you. I’ve been in therapy for years now, trying to understand what happened to me. At first I thought I must be gay. That was before I lost my mojo, thanks to you,” he said, his voice trailing off sadly.

I was so close to him, yet I felt so far away. I made one last attempt to connect with him. Both of our lives were riding on it. “Did you mean what you just said about the best sex of your life?”

He looked me hard in the eyes. “Did you mean what you just said about falling in love with me in there?” he asked, motioning towards the bedroom.

I nodded my head, and once again I started to cry. Brian sat down next to me and lifted my chin with his hand. “How can anybody this fucked up be this goddamned beautiful?”

I blinked back my tears. “Maybe I can help you get your mojo back.”

“That’s all I fucking need. Another night with a man.”

“Not if we wait.”

We sat on the sofa and talked all night. Brian was fascinated when I described what the hormone therapy was doing to my body, and the steps that would lead up to my sex change operation. When I commented on how good he looked, he told me how much he loved working outdoors, and told me that if he only enough money to buy a new truck, he was certain he could start his own pool service and build a successful business. I knew then how I wanted to invest my money.

It was almost like we were two different people, meeting for the first time. In retrospect, I suppose we were. When he asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner the following day, I was as excited as a teen age girl.

* * *

The doorbell rang as I was zipping up my white pleated skirt. It was short, almost six inches above my knees, and I wore it with a pink short sleeved turtleneck that clung to my emerging curves. For old times sake, a colorful silk scarf was tied gaily around my neck. “Coming!” I shouted as I tore open a pair of nude pantyhose and tugged them up my legs. As I lifted up my skirt to twist them around, I realized that I must have snagged them, because I noticed a small run on one of my legs, from just above my knee to my crotch. No time to change them! I slipped my feet into a pair of white pumps while I gave myself a final inspection in the mirror. With my pixie hairdo, I looked younger than my 30 years, and very pretty, if I did say so myself.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” I shouted once more, throwing lipstick, compact and keys into my white purse. When I opened the door, Brian gave me a double-take. “Wow. You look terrific.”

“Thanks.”

He peered into my condo. “Nice place. Well, we better go, or we’ll be late for our reservation.” He started walking me towards his Integra, but I stopped him when we got to my BMW and handed him the keys. Without a word, he opened the passenger door for me. I sat down as best I could in my short skirt, knowing that he was staring at my legs, just like I used to do when I let a girl into my car.

Brian drove fast, but well, and I folded my hands in the lap of my skirt as the wonderful memories of my first date with him came back to me. This time, I didn’t have to remind myself that I was a girl. We were headed for the same restaurant he had taken me to during our first night together. When he pulled up to the curb, the valet opened the door, and I got out gracefully and followed Brian into the restaurant.

It was cool and dark, and the maitre’d led us to a quiet booth. Brian ordered a bottle of Pino Grigio, and we studied our menus in silence for a few minutes as our eyes adjusted to the light from a flickering candle. I looked over at Brian, who was concentrating on the fine print. He was just as handsome now as he was on our first date. Would I always see him that way? Once again, it made me feel special to be in the company of such a good-looking guy.

A waiter appeared, and after he recited the specials of the day, I ordered angel hair pasta with basil and tomatoes in olive oil. Brian ordered veal Marsalla and fettuccini alfredo. We made small talk as we sipped our wine.

“I can’t believe you brought me back here again.”

“I can’t believe you’ve got a BMW.”

“Would you still go out with me if I wasn’t rich?”

“Give me a break. I’m going out with you and aren’t even a girl.”

Our dinners were served, and we ate in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I began to feel light-headed as I finished my second glass of wine. Good thing Brian was driving. The waiter offered coffee and deserts, which we declined, and we chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the check. I was beginning to think my first date in seven years was going well when I felt Brian’s hand on my leg.

Gently but firmly, I took his hand and slid it all the way up my silky thigh. I was no longer capable of erections, but I felt a warm glow between my legs when his hand came to rest against my panties.

Brian pressed his head against mine. “You’ve got a run in your stocking,” he whispered.

“One of the dilemmas of being a woman.”

“I think it’s sexy.”

I looked down in bliss when he squeezed my knee. On the run.

The End

since 04/28/03