Club Le Femme

George entered the small apartment and looked around with an appreciative sigh.  It was so good to be back in his little nest, he thought, removing his tie and letting his gaze roam over the banks of silk floral arrangements and statuary framed with swags of shimmering, fuchsia cloth.  Crossing the living room, he inhaled the aroma wafting from the shallow crystal bowls of potpourri.  In the hallway, he smiled at the gallery of framed photographs that lined the wall, and remembered the many parties that they commemorated. 

"Thank God it's Friday," he murmured.  For two whole days there'd be no worry about playing the right role or of prying bosses.  He could simply be himself. 

Shrugging out of his jacket and unfastening his belt, he crossed the bedroom toward the closet, shimmied out of his trousers and carefully hung up the suit.  An expression of distaste crossed his face.  The dead-end job of accounting clerk was so unglamorous; but at least it paid the bills.  How great it would be to work full-time at the Club.  Maybe one day it would happen.

The bathroom was all white marble, sparkling mirrors and gleaming chrome.  Thick towels of maroon and pink hung from crystal rings; a brandy snifter, heaped with pink and red, rose-shaped soaps, sat next to crystal bottles of perfume and scented bath oils.  George stripped off his shirt and briefs, dropped them into the wicker hamper and smiled.  There'd be no more heavy cotton for two whole days. 

Carefully selecting a bottle of oil, he crossed to the tub and turned on the faucet. 

While the scent of jasmine permeated the room, he began the process of shaving off his body hair.  Really should start the Treatment, he thought, then I wouldn't have to bother with this all of the time.  When he had finished with his legs, he ran his fingers lightly over the smooth skin; admired the reflected image and smiled. 

Long and shapely, his were legs that would make any woman proud.  Selecting a large plush towel, he crossed to the tub and, with a contented sigh, stepped into the foaming water.

Sometime later George emerged from the bathroom swathed in a pink silk dressing gown.  Going to the chest of drawers, he took out a black, bikini gaff and slipped it on, carefully arranging his genitalia.  Then he reverently removed a small box from the drawer and carried it to the make-up table.  Taking out a strip of double-sided tape, he peeled the backing and positioned it above the right nipple on his smoothly-shaven chest.  A second strip was snipped in two and positioned on either side and the process was repeated on the left side.  Nodding his head in satisfaction at the position of the tape, he removed the silicone breast-forms from the box and pressed them into place.  Closing the box and standing up, he belted his robe and stood for a moment admiring his newly created body shape.  "So much better than a pair of rolled up tube socks," he murmured, giving a little jiggle and watching the natural-looking bounce that resulted.  "Now, what do I wear?"


"Good evening, Ginger," George said an hour later to his mirrored creation.  "How are you this evening?"  The beautiful woman who gazed back at him with twinkling eyes and a red-lipped smile was indeed stunning.  She was tall and shapely with shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair.  A soft, clingy, blue sweater brought out the color of her eyes; a black leather miniskirt showed off legs clad in black lace stockings, while black leather pumps encased her feet.  She smiled and tossed her head, "Ta-ta."  With a little wave, she turned and strode out of the apartment.

The Club, where Ginger worked weekend nights as a cocktail waitress, was only a block and a half away.  With her long strides, she covered the first block quickly and started diagonally across to the Club.  A chorus of wolf-whistles rose above the noise of the crowded street.  Turning toward the direction of the sound, she saw three young men standing, staring admiringly at her.  Without breaking stride, she tossed her head and gave them a brilliant smile. 

Before entering the door beneath the neon script reading 'Le Femme', she stopped to admire the photographs of Lady Jessica, the Club's star attraction.  Once every hour the Grand Lady did a fifteen-minute show of raucous comedy.  Ginger especially liked the songs, when some of the other girls had the opportunity to go onstage and join her.  One day perhaps, Ginger would be the star of her own show.  But Jessica had made the Change. Would that be a requirement for Ginger to realize her dream?  Why had she been born into the wrong body anyway?  Slowly, she began to climb the stairs to the second-floor Club.

The bar and the small stage with its dark blue velvet curtain filled nearly a third of the small room's floor-space, while tiny tables covered the remaining area.  A few early customers were scattered about; nothing to what it would be later in the evening.  As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Ginger spied a coworker standing near the doorway of the backstage area, keeping an eye on her customers. 

"Rikki!" she said, rushing over to take her by the shoulders and brush her cheek against her friend's.  Her gaze dropped to where the roundness of blossoming bosoms peeped above the deep, wide oval of Rikki's neckline.  "Looking good!" Ginger said admiringly.

Blushing with pleasure, Rikki looked down at the swelling roundness.  "They are, aren't they?  It won't be too much longer until I'm ready for the Operation."

Ginger nodded, noted the smooth skin, untouched by any razor, and sighed.  "In a way, I envy you."

Rikki laughed.  "So when are you going to take the plunge?"

Ginger slowly shook her head.  "I don't know.  I just can't seem to decide . . . "  Her voice trailed away.  How could she explain?  As much as she loved wearing the beautiful, soft clothes - not to mention getting the admiring reactions like those guys on the street - she just wasn't sure that she really should take such a drastic step. 

For as long as he could remember, George had never seemed to be able to fit the mold that everyone else had set out for him.  Even as a small child, he had never been interested in the same activities that the other boys had been.  His father's extreme disapproval was evident when he saw that George preferred tea parties with his sisters and their dolls to climbing trees and playing ball.  George would never forget the punishment he'd received when they had all dressed up in their mother's clothes and paraded through the house. 

Thereafter his dress-up sessions had to be carried out in secret.  But he hadn't stopped.  He couldn't.  The pull was just too strong.  How nice it would be to have the Full Treatment.  By taking the hormones followed by the surgery, he would, at last, actually be the person that he'd always known he should be.  If only there were someone with whom he could discuss it; but all of his friends and family were too prejudiced - one way or the other.

Ginger's reverie was interrupted as Camille burst through the entrance and rushed toward her, arms widespread.  "Dearest Ginger!  How are you?" she enthused, wrapping her coworker in a hug.  The scattered customers turned toward them with bemused stares.  Camille gave a deprecatory wave to the burly male sitting nearest them.  "Don't worry, Honey," she assured him.  "You can be next."  The man blushed, held up his hand and shook his head.

"That's okay," he said.  "I'll pass."

As Camille laughed and pulled back, Ginger felt  a fully formed breast brush against her arm and knew that it was not silicone.  At the same time, Camille's gaze swept over Ginger's chest.  "You're looking great," she murmured.

"New forms," Ginger whispered.  "They feel almost real."

Camille threw back her shoulders and grinned.  "There's really no substitute!"

Ginger nodded and turned toward the man at the nearest table.  "Can I get you another drink?"

He raised his glass and surveyed the liquid level.  "When's the next show?"

Ginger glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar.  "In about a half-hour."

"Okay.  Bring me another Jack and water."

Ginger turned toward the bar just as Samantha, the Club's newest employee, came through the door.  Ginger waved, her gaze sweeping over the tight sweater and noting the budding nipples.  And our newest convert, she thought. 

By the time Ginger had made the round of the existing patrons, a sudden influx of new customers kept all of the girls busy filling the orders.  Ginger was just serving her last one when a drum-roll sounded, a spotlight lit up the velvet curtain, and she felt her pulse increase its speed.  She slipped between the tables and took up her position along a wall that offered an excellent view of the stage.

The curtain rose on Lady Jessica, magnificently dressed in a flowing satin gown in royal purple and a neckline that plunged obscenely low.  Her blonde tresses were piled high and topped with matching purple plumes.  For a long moment she stood, regally surveying her audience.  Tenting her fingers just below her chin, she leaned toward the microphone.  "Good evening," she said in a husky, whispery voice.  "I'm so glad to see you all here this evening."  With that she was off in a rapid-fire delivery of fifteen minutes of ribald comedy.  The crowd repeatedly roared with laughter at the jokes and Ginger admired the coy expression with which Jessica accepted the tribute.  At the final punch line, she tilted her head slightly to the right, and then bowed it low.  The curtain began to fall and applause exploded from the audience.

Ginger applauded enthusiastically.  She started as Rikki spoke close to her ear.
"She's really something, isn't she?"

Ginger nodded and clasped her hands over her heart.  "My heroine.  I just wish I could be like her."

"You really should go for the Treatment."

Ginger sighed.  "It's just that it's so . . . so permanent."

Rikki laughed.  "But isn't that the whole point?"

"I guess.  It's just that . . . well, my father would never accept it, and I . . . "

Rikki nodded.  "At any rate, next show Jessica wants you and I to sing with her.  I think she wants to do that Beverly Hillbillies parody."

Ginger watched her walk away and then moved to clear the tables that were quickly being vacated.  No, she thought, my father barely acknowledges my existence now.  He would never accept the transformation.  And what of mom, she thought.  She had always seemed more tolerant, but how many times had there been pain and sadness in her eyes?  Too many, Ginger decided with a sigh.  The only person who had ever seemed to really understand was grandfather.  If only she could talk to him. 

Ginger began to automatically serve the influx of new customers.  When one particularly handsome guy began to flirt with her, she flirted back, thoroughly enjoying the exchange.  Yes, she thought as she went to the bar for his drink, inside I truly am a woman.  I must talk with grandfather, she decided.  I'll go see him Monday after work.


On Monday evening, George left his office building and retrieved his car from the parking garage.  He drove to one of the city's older subdivisions and parked in front of a small cottage.  Walking up to the house, he noted the peeling paint.  The front door was unlocked as usual.  He turned the knob and stuck his head inside the opening.  "Gramps?  Gramps?  It's me, George."

"In here, Georgie." The voice came from the living room, off the central hallway. 

George stepped through the doorway, looked around and smiled.  Unlike the dilapidated exterior, the inside of the house was well maintained, very neat and orderly.  Dressed in brown slacks and a beige sweater, the old man was seated in an antique rocking chair, an open book in his hand.  "Come on in, son, and sit down.  This is pleasant surprise.  What brings you to this part of town?"

George sat down stiffly on the edge of a chair.  For a long moment he sat, contemplating his entwined fingers.  How should he broach the subject?  What should he say?  "I needed to talk to you, Gramps.  You're the only one who might understand."  The old man frowned and then nodded.

"Go on."

"Well," George began hesitantly.  "You know the trouble I've always had with my father."  He paused, waiting for affirmation and saw the previously twinkling eyes cloud.

Finally the old man nodded.  "Yes," he said slowly.  "He was never able to accept you for who you were."

"Right, and what I'm now considering . . . well, I don't know but . . . I'm sure he would accept even less."

"What are you considering?"

George took a deep breath and plunged onward.  "I've been working weekends at a club, Le Femme," he said hurriedly.  "I just love it and what I'd really like to do is someday have my own show there, or somewhere else.  But I doubt I'll be able to do that without having an operation."

The old man's eyes now displayed an expression of understanding concern.  "And what of this operation?  Is it safe?"

George shrugged.  "As safe as any surgery, I suppose.  Most of the girls at the club . . ." he felt a slight blush creep into his cheeks, then hurried on, "have had it.  They keep encouraging me to do it, but I just don't know.  Father would be furious.  He'd probably never speak to me again."

The old man nodded.  "That may be true.  But you are the only person who really knows how you feel."  He sighed and sat silently for a long moment.  "We should not allow other people - any other people - to decide how we should live our lives.  You have to follow what is in your heart.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I guess so," George said, wondering what conflicts the old man had endured.  Had he, too, been born into the wrong body and been forced to conform?  Gramps had, after all, been born into a much more restrictive society that the one that George now faced. 

"Before you decide anything," the old man continued, "check into this operation.  Read up on it.  Make sure you know what you might be letting yourself in for."

George sighed at his feelings of relief.  He would search out more information about the whole Treatment.  Find out what side effects he might expect and then he would decide.  That was the whole point, wasn't it?  It was his decision.  He would decide.