Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Re-rants from the Chair: You Think You Know Somebody

[Author’s Note:  Here’s a piece I posted back in December 2010, before I started sharing my blog on Facebook.  I think it’s fun, and definitely worth re-ranting about!  Hope you enjoy.]

At the end of 1995 things were going well, and the year had been positive.  August had me happily divorced, again; September had my daughter leaving my nest empty; and October had me beginning a new relationship.

This “new” man, we’ll call him Jeffrey, was someone I had known for twenty years.  We met when my boyfriend-at-the-time Marcus and I moved to a Southern California beach town in 1974.  Through a dear, longtime girlfriend of mine, Marcus and I met and hung out with a fun and boisterous group of fire fighters and their women. 

So I became great friends with Jeffrey, who was also in a relationship at the time.  He was tall, black-haired, cute and very funny.  We all spent countless hours playing Backgammon, drinking shots, smoking pot, going out to dinners, movies, taking quick ski trips, and lazing on the beach. 

Fast forward twenty years later, I am living in Gainesville, Florida, and I receive a surprising phone call from Jeffrey.  He tells me he’s been divorced twice, has no kids, doesn’t fight fires anymore, is working on his Ph.D. in psychology and has moved to Jacksonville to be near his family.

“Remember all those long, serious talks we used to have?” he asked.  “And how much we used to laugh? Will you have dinner with me? I’ll be in Gainesville next week.”

Thus began a couple of really exciting months of dating, getting to know each other again, meeting each other’s families, trips back and forth between Gainesville and Jacksonville.  And sex.  Really good sex.  I honestly thought I had died and gone to heaven. 

Except for one nagging little thing:  Jeffrey kept telling me he “had a little secret.”  But when pressed, he would say, “You’ll know soon enough, my love!”  By December this was beginning to gnaw on my last nerve. 

On New Year’s Eve we were having this fancy late dinner out with his parents and siblings, when he whispered in my ear about his “secret.” I said, “For the love of God, Jeffrey, will you please tell me what it is?”  “Later,” he replied.

We finished a fine meal, toasted in the year 1996, and as we drove home to Jeffrey’s house we talked of being horny for each other and of cracking open another bottle of champagne.

“Lemme slip into something more comfortable while you pick out the music,” he said, breathing heavily between deep kisses as he body-pressed me against the beveled glass of his front door.  “Champagne’s in the fridge,” he whispered, nibbling lightly on my right earlobe.

Feeling weak-kneed and dizzy, I lovingly scanned the titles in his tall, teak CD rack next to a set of giant speakers.  He had the Allman Brothers’ Live at the Fillmore.  He had Steeley Dan, the Temptations, and even Tower of Power.  I adored Tower of Power.  He had Tyrone Davis!  Otis Redding!  Gabor Szabo!  The Average White Band!

I decided I wanted to hear “Stormy Monday” and after opening a bottle of champagne and pouring two glasses, I sat cross-legged on the floor about two inches from the speakers. 

I looked at my watch.  One-forty-five a.m.  What was taking him so long?  I put on some Sergio Mendez.  Perfect! Nothing like a little swing and sway in the background for hot, sweet passion on the living room floor!  I turned the music down low, lit the vanilla candle on the coffee table, and I waited.

“Jill,” he said suddenly from somewhere behind me.  I felt excited by the smooth alto of his voice calling my name.  I turned to face him.  He stood in the doorway.  Light from the bedroom behind him outlined his form, making it difficult to see.  He moved toward me, and then stopped under the track-lighting in the hall.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” I whispered.

There he posed, his tall, hairy bulk adorned in matching, sea-foam green camisole and slip, trimmed with delicate antique-white lace.  An enormous boner protruded proudly from under the fine silk.

I focused on the stubbly squareness of his jaw for what seemed like forever.

Finally I said, “Your chest hairs are poking out through the lace.”

He opened his arms to me, but I sat riveted to my spot, not daring to move.

“Come to me sweetness,” he said hoarsely.  “I need you now.”

“What is this, a joke?” I asked hopefully.  “Your version of Milton Berle doing his best drag bit?  Because quite frankly, Jeffrey, your timing is lousy.”

Then I started laughing like a maniac, and as a result I watched as his smile slowly vanished, his erection grew limp.

“Aha!” I exclaimed.  “So that’s why you have Victoria’s Secret catalogues on the coffee table!”

The smile reappeared.  “Wanna see my wardrobe?  I have gorgeous nightgowns and sweet Baby Doll see-throughs in all colors!”

I swear to God.  He was literally beaming he was so proud.

“So…what are you, gay?  Bisexual?”

“No!” he shouted. 

“What does your shrink say about this, Jeffrey?”

“She tells me if I want a healthy relationship with a woman, I have to give up my passion!”


“I told my shrink if a woman can’t take it, then I don’t want her!”

I tried.  Really I did.  But the transvestite act was such a profound turn-off for me; I just couldn’t deal.

So that was it.

I told him I preferred my men in Jockey Life Slim Guys, boxers or briefs, and that was the end of that.

You think you know somebody.


July 25, 2012 - Posted by | Cross Dressing | , , , , , , ,

1 Comment »

  1. you’ve got me here, Jill. I’ve never seen it for real but have discovered through conversation a similar situation. One good reason to simply sleep in the nude and forgo any negligees in your dresser.

    Comment by geri wright | July 25, 2012 | Reply

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