Lawyers in Love Part 8

I don’t know what made me decide to go back. It certainly wasn’t that I liked being a man more. Maybe it was ambition; maybe it was delayed shame about Juan. Partly it was the knowledge that if I didn’t stop the hormones, I wouldn’t have a choice. For whatever reason, it felt like the right decision at the time.

On the plane back to Pennsylvania, I told my wife that I wanted to stop the hormone treatments, have the implants removed, and try to get a legal job as a man. I thought she would give me an argument; that now, with all the decisions to be made on the new house, that she needed me as a woman more than ever; that my income wouldn’t matter; that I loved my new life. But she surprised me once again. She said I had lived up to our agreement and that she was fine with my decision. She said she would talk to Doctor Spector and arrange for vials of testosterone as well as pills to help me transition back. She even went along to the day surgery center a few days later when the implants were removed.

The removal itself was hardly worth mentioning; I received a shot of local anesthetic in the scar line below each breast; the doctor made a small incision, reached in with a special tool, and extracted the implant. It took less than an hour. And it didn’t make too much difference. With the implants I was a large C, almost a D; without them I still just about filled a C cup. My slightly smaller breasts made my aureoles even more prominent. I was no closer to passing as a man than before.

That evening I tried on one of my old suits, to gauge what kind of impression I would make in an interview. I had no shirts, but I did have a white blouse just to see how I looked. It did not go well, either. For one, my old pants did not fit at all. Men’s pants are straight up and down; they did not fit my curves. I could barely get my pants over my hips, and they were far too big at the waist. I was afraid if I sat down they would rip in the seat. The jacket fit no better. It hung loose in the shoulders and was so tight across the chest it couldn’t be buttoned.

I showed my wife. “It’s hopeless. This doesn’t look like it belongs to me.”

“Not anymore, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “Look, if you want to go for a job, you’re going to have to interview as a woman. I talked to Doctor Spector. It’s going to take months to see if we can get your old appearance back.”

I studied my reflection. I looked ridiculous. I shook my head. “If I’m going to be a woman, I might just stay in the job I am.”

That seemed to make her happy. “If that’s what you decide, that would be wonderful. But you don’t need to look for work now, anyway. We have this new house to deal with. What if, you take your testosterone for a few months, you still be my maid, and we work on the house? You can try passing as a man then, if you want. Or try getting a law job as a woman.”

It sounded so reasonable, so sensible. “There’s nothing to lose.”

The next few months were a busy time. She was putting in long hours and relied on me for most of the decisions about the new house. And there were many—furnishings, appliances, curtains, painting, wallpaper. The house was basically in good condition, but the bathrooms and kitchen needed renovation. I spent weeks meeting with interior decorators, furniture salesmen, contractors, and all of the other people necessary for a renovation. I wore regular dresses, not a maid’ uniform; my introduction was,” This is Suzee; she has my confidence and whatever she decides, is fine.” What everyone thought, I don’t know. I think that some of them thought I was her lesbian partner, but of course no one said anything. And as the new house was coming together I had to deal with selling the old one; meeting with realtors, helping to show the house, making sure it was always ready for showings. Coupled with my continuing electrolysis sessions and my drama classes, my days were full.

It was an exhausting time. We fell into bed and slept like the dead. Sex became a twice a week event. And as much as I continued to enjoy it, Key West had changed things. Having a woman fist me was nice. The fantasy of having a man inside me was even more exciting, in ways that made me uncomfortable. I knew that I was genetically a man. So if I was attracted to another man, I was gay. But I had never had these feelings before, so that had to be coming from the female hormones. So it was the woman in me. But that sounded too pat, like “The Devil made me do it.” I was only going to be comfortable being attracted to men if I was a woman, and I wasn’t ready to take that step. Not yet, at least.

It was the middle of May before we were settled in the new house. It was a wonderful property, with a huge master suite upstairs, three bedrooms, and a servant’s quarters at the end of one wing. The yard was huge and well landscaped, with a small pool in a secluded corner. The house was everything we’d dreamed of.

My only disappointment was that I was still a long way from being able to pass as a man again. The shots just didn’t seem to be working. My breasts were smaller without the implants, of course; and for a short time as the skin tightened up they seemed to get a little smaller, but then the shrinkage stopped. I put on a few more pounds during the spring, and the weight all seemed to go to my ass and breasts. I could feel a definite sense of mass in my hips when I walked now, and my waist got even narrower. I was a full C cup again. My testicles remained shrunken and there were no erections at all. I let my pubic hair grow back in the hope that I would at least feel a little more masculine, but things had changed in that way, too. My old pubic hair had been lush and wiry and extended almost as high as my belly button. The patch that grew in was fine, straight hair that grew in a neat triangle. It made my cock look even smaller.

Looking back, I can’t remember if I discussed any of this with my wife. For one, she could see it for herself. And it’s hard to remember exactly how I felt about it at the time. Probably ambivalent. I had decided to change my outward appearance to female for a particular reason, and that reason was now over. But in the meantime, more than my outward appearance had changed. The male part of me was dwindling away, replaced by my female part. One of them would have to win. Each day the male part seemed more remote, less accessible. I found my memories changing; when I thought of an event from years ago I would remember that I had participated as a woman, even though I knew that could not possibly be correct. I think my biggest hesitation wasn’t sex, but money. If I went back to being a man I might be able to earn my own living. Perhaps not in Philadelphia, but somewhere. If I stayed as a woman perhaps I could find some job as a lawyer, but the kinds of employers that overlook a six year gap in a resume do not pay well. So living as a woman meant being the maid, and being penniless. After the bankruptcy, I owned absolutely nothing—no house, no car, no pension, no bank accounts, not even a credit card. But as a maid I had job security . . .

We had a housewarming party Memorial Day weekend, outdoors, to celebrate. We had some neighbors, some clients, and a couple of people from her firm. It was an easy party to serve, no silverware and no complicated dishes. The only person I recognized was Gino; I noticed that he was without his wife. In summer clothes, he was an even more impressive man; well muscled, tanned, with athletic movements. As I handed him a beer, I noticed how the breeze moved the thick hair on his forearms. I felt a sudden urge to brush my hand over the hairs. I turned away and the feeling passed, but I was unsettled.

My wife helped me wash dishes afterwards. I mentioned Gino’s wife. She told me they had separated a few months ago. She had alcohol problems and she was infertile. He’d caught her having an affair and moved out.

“Gino confides in you,” I said.

“I owe him a lot. We wouldn’t have this except for him.”

She said it with more force than it needed.

“You care about him, don’t you?” I asked. It hadn’t occurred to me till I said it out loud.

I wasn’t prepared for her reaction. I expected anger or denial. She simply said, “Yes.” She put down her dish towel. “Sit down.”

I should have seen it coming; in the early days she had talked about Gino all the time, what a great boss he was. Then there was a period when she talked about more personal things about him; his hobbies, his family. And then, two years ago, she stopped talking about him at all. Right about the time she started working late more often.

“I think I have this figured out,” I said.

“I didn’t mean it to turn out this way,” she said

“This house . . .” I said. “Is for you and him.”

“And you, too.”

“And another man,” I said mildly. I wasn’t mad. Or jealous. I felt a sense of calm, of order, that I was understanding the puzzle.

“No, not . . . the way things are with you. There aren’t two men. There’s a man and two women.”

I thought about my moment of fantasy with Gino’s forearms. Was she right? “How long have you been seeing him?”

“The first time was three years ago. We got together again about a year and a half ago. It’s been steady ever since.”

“I see.”

“You have every right to go, of course. No matter what, you are my husband and we’re been cheating on you. But I would like you to stay.”

“When he moves in with you.”

“I think you would like it too, if you gave it a chance.”

“I would be here as the maid.” I occurred to me that when I’d served dinner for Gino and his wife, he’d known exactly who Suzee was.

“It’s what you love. And it doesn’t have to be as strict. It would be more like, you were the housewife for us. We’ll both be working long hours and it would be great to come home to you, to let you take care of meals and clothes and errands. You can wear a uniform if you want, or not. And you can hire someone to help with the routine housework if you want.”

“You are moving him into this house. With me.”

“You’re free to leave, of course. I’d pay for whatever treatments Doctor Spector says you need if you want to go back.”

Going back to being a man. Going back, retreating, going away from what had happened to me in the last year . . . It wasn’t something I wanted. “But if I stay, I have a job and a place to live; if I go, I have nothing.”

“So don’t go. Please.”

“Is this what Gino wants?”

“Yes, he does.”

“He doesn’t want me gone?” How could that be?

“If you hadn’t been . . . changing, I don’t know. But it’s like I said, it’s two women and one man.” She looked at me. “You kind of like that, don’t you?”

“What does he think?”

“He knows, of course. He thinks of you as a woman. He’s told me, after he’s been here for a party, that he would never have guessed. That you’re a beautiful woman.”

I didn’t want to think about their private conversations, what hotel they took place in, what else they had talked about. “How can he not want you all for himself?”

“He accepts you for what you are. He doesn’t want to interfere with your life.”

“As the maid.”

“It’s a choice you made, and we are both OK with it.”

It was crazy. Either Gino or I would be jealous. I would be ashamed to be around someone who knew. It could never work. The only argument in favor of staying was that I had no choice. For better or worse, at least until the treatments took hold, I was a woman. But it wasn’t that simple. I had to acknowledge that I liked living as a woman. I might not like it all the time, but every day I went to bed a little less a man and woke up a little more a woman. And the most complicated part of all was the idea of being around Gino.

“I can see why you’re attracted to him,” I admitted.

“Then it’s okay?”

“A lot of husbands would leave right now.”

“I hope you’re not one of them. You can always change your mind.”

I took a deep breath. “We’ll give it a try.”