4 comments/ 21705 views/ 0 favorites Q Is for Queen By: BethanyJ *** Transgender-themed stories which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me! *** As I belted out the final chorus of 'Summertime', I felt the heel on my right shoe buckle. Of course, being a professional, I carried on to the end. Never let the punters down, the show must go on and all that. At the end I curtsied, I smiled, I blew kisses, it was actually a pretty good audience. I'd enjoyed the show too, the three Madonna numbers had gone well and the dancers in the 'Material Girl' spot - OK, just three of them, local guys from the Dramatic Society brought in to dress things up a bit - had done well. I was sure one of them had been a bit too keen - I got the distinct impression one of the six hands had gone up the slit in my skirt just a little further than was necessary for the proper artistic effect. The Shirley Temple songs? Well, I'm never too sure how good I look in a blue gingham dress and short socks. Glam I can do, very well. But sweet and twee, I'm not so sure. I never really enjoyed it but I know some of the punters got a kick out of it. Anyway just after I came off I managed to hobble to my dressing room and change my shoes for the expected onslaught of fans. Dressing room? Well, an ante-room off the entrance lobby of the hall, just past the ladies' loos. Actually compared with some I'd known it wasn't bad at all. And the hall had been better than I'd seen of late. The Celebration Hall, Cannock, I can recommend it to any self-respecting drag queen. Nice crowd of people. You can tell an audience for my sort of act by the number of women there and Cannock had provided quite a few. I poured a quick vodka in the dressing room, just a small one with quite a bit of tonic to add to the effect. Anyway I sat down and turned towards the door, checking my dress, quick look at the make-up in the mirror and touch up my lipstick, a little more blusher. And ready. I waited. I'd asked the stage manager to give me five minutes to sort myself. True to his word there was a quiet tap-tap-tap on the door almost exactly on cue. "Come in," I called, quietly. The door opened. The stage manager, a rather exalted title for the guy who sorted the chairs and tables in the hall and handled the curtains, thrust his head round the corner. "Ready mate? There's about four or five out here. Ready?" For a moment I couldn't remember his name, then it came to me. James. And he'd been emphatic about that, James and not Jim. And he had done a good job, I'll give him that. The little stage in the hall had been really well set up, nice lighting, the sound had been of a quality I'd not seen or indeed heard for a while. He'd called me mate, I don't think the Celebration Hall had played host - or should that be hostess - to many female impersonators. He'd been really flustered when Martin had gone into the dressing room and Marie - Marie Queen, that is, in the long red gown I almost always wore for my opening set - had come out. I'd played on it a bit, of course. I mean, in that outfit I knew I looked hot. Any drag queen has her own favourite colour, well I have two. I look good in the right sort of blue but I can look stunning in red, the brighter the better. So I'd strolled out of the dressing room and walked towards James, smiling and wiggling my arse, thrusting my long legs through the split in my dress as I moved. He'd just stood there open-mouthed. And as I got closer, as he got the whole picture, dress and legs and boobs, carefully made up face and big hair, he'd visibly whitened. For once - and I don't usually do it, I usually stay in role when I'm dressed - I dropped into Martin's voice. "Ready, James?" That had really confused him, I don't think he's too bright really. But, like I said, he'd done his job well. Decent services on stage, a nearly full house, I'd really launched into 'Summertime' at the end of my set. And after what I myself judged as a good performance I was ready for the fans. Four or five? Well, better than one or two except that I got the nutter first. There's always one. "Marie, great show. I saw you in Cinderella in Bradford a few years ago. I've been a big fan ever since". The slightly wild look in his eyes told me. Nutter. It wasn't the act he'd come to see, and certainly it wasn't 'Martin'. It was 'Marie Queen' the woman. The over-the-top woman sitting there in front of him wearing too much mascara and with enormous gold-effect pendant earrings. But this man wasn't seeing the impersonator he knew was in front of him, he really was seeing a woman. OK, a nutter, but still a fan. He might still buy a CD from the young local lads I'd got selling in the foyer so he needed to be nurtured. "Hello, so nice to see you. And thanks, I really enjoyed that role and I'm so glad you appreciated it." And, to keep him sweet, I smiled. I held out my jewelled decorated right hand. He didn't shake it, he held it and he kissed it! Actually very gently but it still surprised me. I shuffled a little in my seat, crossing my legs so he'd have a good view of my thighs as we sat there. He enjoyed that! Although most of the time, for all sorts of practical reasons, I wear a long dress or a gown for most of my sets, I do realise I have good-looking legs. And for my final three songs, a bit of a medley rather than an actual impersonation of a particular artiste, I've always thought that a tight blue mini-dress sent the audience away with good memories of Marie Queen. I chatted with that first guy for a couple of minutes more until I decided he'd had enough. I asked him if he wanted a signed photo and he said 'yes'. I thought I knew which one he'd pick but I was wrong, he went for the one in the blue mini-dress, the one I was wearing at the time. I wrote 'For Harry, with love, Marie Q' and a couple of X marks. He liked that, he also liked the hand on his bum and the brief kiss I planted on his cheek as he was turning towards the door. 'Keep the punters happy,' the golden rule, he might feel good enough to buy something at the merchandising table on the way out. The next two fans were just fans, or at least local guys who had come along to the Hall when they'd seen there was a show on. One of them did actually comment on how 'good' in the sense of 'realistic' I looked on the posters advertising the show. I asked which one, I knew there were two different ones, and he told me it was the one showing me in that same blue dress. After that I got a couple, husband and wife, which isn't all that rare really if you think about it. While some men might go along to a show like that for the vicarious thrill in seeing a man dressed up as a woman, lots of guys either couldn't or wouldn't want to go on their own or even with mates. The couple introduced themselves, or rather he did, as 'Keith and this is my wife Sarah'. I sat them down and took a brief sip from my vodka, and smiled, about to go into my spiel about 'nice to see you and I hope you enjoyed the show' and so on. But Keith cut me short. "We saw you, Marie, several years ago in a summer season at Blackpool. With Jim Kennery. The comic." I didn't need them to tell me that, I'd known Jim well before he tragically died a couple of years after that show. He was really more than just a comic, he'd have made a good character actor if he'd had the breaks. "It was after that show, Marie, it was our first holiday together and I'd taken Sarah and we really did laugh so much, you and Jim were so funny together. Like when you did that sketch with you in the French maid's outfit and him as the master of the house and he kept getting in the way of your duster..." Keith trailed off in laughter, Sarah was giggling too. And I was smiling, almost laughing too. I'd actually kissed Jim once after a show. He'd asked me about being a guy in girl's clothes and did I ever go out like that. And when I'd told him I sometimes did, not often, he'd wanted to know what I'd do if ever I got chatted up. I told him it had happened a couple of times and ended up kissing him to show I could do so convincingly as a woman. OK so I only ever did that once, that season anyway, but it made me smile thinking about it. "...and after we'd stopped laughing Keith's arms were round me, and we hugged, and he proposed. And we're still together after all these years." It wasn't many years ago really, and after they'd shown me their photos from Keith's wallet and told me how old their eldest son was, I realised he might well have been conceived on that holiday. He seemed the right age. They did say they'd enjoyed the show and I showed Sarah the 'diamonds' I used for the Material Girl song. We both agreed they looked even better than the ones on the original video though I've no doubt most of hers on that shoot were fake, just like mine. I ended up signing two photos for them, both of me in the red dress I'd opened with, and shook their hands gently as they left. Maybe that Blackpool season had been the pinnacle of my career, certainly it had been the best paid. I'd been on the same money as Jim and he was quite a big star at that time. As they left I reflected on the years in-between, they'd been good for quite a long time. Summer seasons, pantomimes, it was only recently they'd begun to dry up. What with all the new acts around, and the Internet and the up-and-coming 'girls' on the scene, there was beginning to be not so much work for drag queens like me. Not in the big time at least, I knew I could keep on working the clubs and halls for a few years yet. I'd never really had the ambition to go for the big time, not like acts such as Ru or Danni. I'd once had an enquiry from the Palladium, that was as good as it got although that came to nothing. But the income was steady specially with the merchandising I'd built up, the two CDs I'd recorded on a minor label. And the calendars I still did every year, when I did get a panto they sold well. I'd even seen one on a garage wall in Middlesbrough, in June it was, open at October's picture which thrilled me. Because that October photo was one of the best I'd ever had done, me in a white boob-tube and mini-skirt and showing cleavage for all I was worth. Untouched too, the picture that is, the boobs were all mine - or at least my breast-forms. I looked down. I smiled a little. That blue dress was almost as good as that boob-tube outfit had been, I could still create a very attractive figure even then. I caught my reflection again and, oddly, another memory flashed into my mind. Of me in a different blue dress somewhere down in the south-west. I'd decided to go home after the gig en-femme and had even dropped into a pub for a quick drink. I remembered the guy who had chatted me up and his delight when he thought he'd pulled. I'd been a bit down at the time and the attention and the excitement of snogging him had cheered me up no end. Pity I had to leave him in the lurch before he found out he'd been kissing a man in a dress. He'd been nice but almost certainly straight as a die. There was a knock on the door again. The last one, I thought, James had said 'four or five' and this was the fifth. I was beginning to get a little tired. I'd been up since six and had driven up from Colchester before the show. But, fans are what made me and I had a duty to do my bit. I forced a smile and opened the door. The last fan was - a little different. He had a suit on for a start. I invited him in and went to sit facing him, not so much trying to keep awake but really just a little jaded. I shrugged it off. "Hello there, good of you to come," I said maybe just a little too cheerily. "It's good of you to see me – er, Martin," he replied. Sometimes that happened. He wasn't sure. At least, unlike the first fan that night, he knew damn well he was in the presence of a female impersonator but he wanted me to feel comfortable too. Not knowing how far to go, since I wasn't on stage at the time being 'Marie Queen'. "You can call me Marie, if you like," I said in a rather off-hand way. "After all, I look more like a Marie than a Martin, at least I hope I do or I'm out of a job!" I rarely joked with fans about the subterfuge involved in my act, it surprised me a little that I did just then. "Oh you certainly do. As Marie, I mean, you look just gorgeous!" "Why thank you, that's so kind," I said, smiling widely. He seemed to have something of a grip on how to play this, so many men really can't deal with cross-dressed men whether they be transvestites or drag queens or even genuine transsexuals. But this guy seemed on the ball. He'd just called me 'gorgeous' but 'as Marie'. In other words I was doing the job well, doing a good-quality impersonation. "No, I mean it. To be honest I wasn't too fond of the Shirley Temple bit of your act but the segments before and after, really you looked stunning. And I love you in that dress, you look so convincing." Now that floored me. Not that I can't look convincing or at least I hoped I still could, but the make-up a drag queen has to use isn't intended to convince. It's supposed to look good, and attractive, and to over-emphasise female characteristics such as breasts and eyelashes and lips and hair and so on. Some DQs go way over the top, the one time I'd worked with Danni in a revue she'd had a wig about 12 inches tall on top of her head and way, way too much make up. But I really liked what I was hearing. As we chatted he revealed that he'd actually seen my show a few times in the previous couple of months, whenever it came to a venue in his area, and that he was a big fan. It turned out he'd had one of my CDs for a while and just bought the other before the show, though in fact he didn't have my calendar or any of my T-shirts. Actually he was maybe a little old for T-shirts anyway. He struck me as more the professional type, the suit seemed quite expensive. And he let slip that when I was due at a club just outside Tamworth the next day, he'd got tickets already. I glanced at the flier pinned on the wall just above his head. Caunston Hall? Yes, I'd done that about three years earlier, I thought. Tamworth, yes. As he left, after a chat which had gone quite a few minutes longer than usual, I didn't kiss him. It just didn't seem the thing to do. But I did squeeze his hand more than shake it. Then I realised I hadn't offered him an autographed photo. He asked me to autograph the CD he'd bought instead though. "Can you sign the back please, Marie? That really is a beautiful photo". I looked at the back to remind myself. Actually he was right, I remembered the photo session. Me in something resembling 'secretary' mode in a white blouse and black skirt with a rather different hair style, same blonde colour though, the colour I think suits me best. I remembered what the photographer had said when he'd shown me the results on the screen. "That one, Martin. I think that one on the back. It is very different from the glamorous red-dress picture we're picking for the front. Really very female, Martin, more of a good quality tranny picture than a drag queen." Some drag queens refuse to accept the label 'transvestite' but not me. I knew in all honesty I'd be somewhere in-between. If I wasn't doing it for a living I know I'd have been cross-dressing, hiding it from a wife maybe if I'd gone down the 'job-at-the-bank-and-wife-and-two-kids' route. And he was right. I've always liked the photos of me where I do look female more than the showy DQ pictures. Hell, I'd even gone out as a woman, rather than in drag, several times, just to enjoy the experience. I'd always been careful though - apart from that one time in Exeter. So I signed the CD and then the guy said something interesting. "You should do a video, Marie." "A video?" I replied, parrot-fashion sounding rather stupid. "Yes. I'm sure some of your fans would like that." I didn't tell him why I hadn't. I relied on live performance and the memories of those who came to see me. And if you've got the video of a performance, why go to see it again? I needed repeat visits and I'd always had the impression, misguided maybe but I'd stuck with it, that making a video would shrink my live audiences. OK, old-fashioned maybe but there you are. "Well, if you do, I know a company who might help you out. I - er - used to work with them. Do you want me to give you their number?" "Yes, thank you." I didn't want to offend him. He took a card out from his wallet and wrote a phone number on the back of one of them. As he handed it over, he smiled a little. "Ask for Jim Garner, tell him Paul Stisson recommended him to you." "Paul - ...." "Stisson. S-T-I-S-S-O-N. I know, it's an odd name but I'm stuck with it. Anyway, I should go, I've kept you long enough." And then, for the first time in a long time, something happened I wasn't expecting. HE kissed ME! Just briefly, the standard sort of goodbye kiss on the cheek. Well, nearly, his lips stayed in contact with my cheek just a little too long. And when he moved away, just as he turned towards the door, I could see that he was actually blushing. His face wasn't beetroot-coloured but it was quite red. He was embarrassed, but I could tell he'd really wanted to do that. If he hadn't straight away opened the door and rather dashed out I might have blushed too. I stared after his retreating figure as he walked quickly down the corridor and turned left towards the outside door. James was probably there, to let him out, everyone else was gone. He appeared from round the same corner. "OK mate, that was the last one. How long? About ten minutes? Fifteen?" "Sure," I said, this time still in my 'Marie' voice. "Hang on a moment." And I surprised him, I knew it would be OK since there were probably only him and me left in the building. I took two steps towards him, suddenly feeling very feminine, and went into the Ladies' loo. I saw his face. He definitely was surprised. After that I did get out in just over twenty minutes, with most of my make-up cleaned off. I'd finish in the shower back at the lodging house. And with 'Marie' packed up in my red case. I checked the CD-sales desk. The young lads who had been selling had gone but James had assured me they could be trusted. Nine CDs sold. The remainder were there, bundled, cash in the tin and ten pounds short, they'd taken the fiver each I'd promised. I slid the remaining 'merchandise' into the smaller case and strolled out into the hall car park. James locked up behind me. "It went well tonight, I thought," he remarked. "Yes it did," I said. Usually I'm quite chatty after a gig, despite being weary. But not this time. The nutter had disturbed me a little, that first fan, and that kiss had too from the last one. I drove to my lodgings and watched just a few minutes of late-night TV with the landlady and her husband, then announced I was off up to my room. "My friend Vera rang just before you came in, Martin. She was there tonight, she said it was a really good show." "Well, thank her for me will you?" I said. And went up to my room. The next day I slept in until after ten. I appreciated the luxury of being able to do that since the next gig wasn't too far away. "Good morning, Mr King." I remembered Mrs Watkins from staying with her about six months earlier when I'd had a run - two nights in a row would you believe, and both nearly sold out - in Wolverhampton. And she was always cheerful, nothing seemed to get her down. I really tucked into the full-English breakfast, one of the benefits of never having to watch my figure. Nervous energy, somebody had once said, that I could burn anything off because I used nervous energy being on the go all the time. After that I drove through a couple of country roads up to the M42 to avoid the dreaded M6 and arrived in Tamworth in the early afternoon. Q Is for Queen The gig was outside the town in a place called Caunston, in a converted pub which had been turned into some sort of supper club. So I was adapting the act for a cabaret rather than just the stage show. I liked that. Being able to interact with the audience, play up the gender confusion aspect of my act. After getting in touch with the guy with the keys and arranging to get in to do a sound check and start changing at about six, I realised I had a few hours to spare so I drove into town. I parked and looked round. It was just like any other town centre really, they'd started becoming so similar about a decade ago. The same stores, same designs, same street signs. Not many local trades-people any more. Even the town hall looked like all the other late seventies town halls, so did the library next door. The library. Something clicked in my head. Stisson. Stisson? I'd heard the name before. An unusual name, why was it sticking in my mind? I went into the library and got myself access to one of the computers round the perimeter of the bookshelves. Once, in a library in King's Lynn I think, I'd actually found a copy of one of my CDs on the shelves! So I'd got some royalties from whichever local authority that was, but what really got me was that it had been catalogued under 'female, vocal, solo'. I never actually looked for it again anywhere, I think that was maybe a one-off. I Googled 'Stisson Paul' and it came up with several thousand responses. The first page didn't look very hopeful so I re-did it with 'video' and got a few hundred. And the outline for the second on the list told me what I wanted to know. Or reminded me, rather, I'd seen the stuff in the press about a year earlier. I clicked on the link and got an article from the Telegraph, and a couple of photos. One was of the guy himself, Paul Stisson, and the other was of his wife. Or ex-wife really. Then I remembered what all the fuss had been about. He'd had to sell his company, some hostile take-over whatever that meant. He'd been forced off the board and then right out by some Americans who'd bought the whole lot. PSI Communications, maybe the 'PS' was for Paul Stisson. But it had hit the headlines because he'd been paid a big ex-gratia sum out of court and the actual signing was done a few days after his divorce got finalised. His ex-wife had sued for a share of the sum and he'd maintained, or at least his lawyers had, that she wasn't entitled to it. They'd said she'd been treated fairly, that she'd got her fair share of his capital at the time of the divorce. It ended up being settled out of court as well when the lawyers had negotiated a settlement of a quarter of the big payment he'd received for the company. The brunt of the article had been that she'd been very fortunate, especially since it was she who had done the dirty on him by having a torrid affair with some other guy about half his age. I rapidly read the last bit of the article, then followed another Link and discovered that he'd sold Caunston Hall quite quickly after the divorce but he still lived locally. He'd kept on a big house on the edge of what had been his estate and walled it off as a smaller, self-contained residence. So, he'd sold off Caunston Hall? That explained the expensive suit and the very proper, polite manner. That and the money he'd been forced to accept for the PSI company, that is. He was really an old fashioned country gentleman now in slightly estranged circumstances. Comparatively speaking, that is. The polite quiet coughing behind me reminded me that I was hogging one of the machines. I closed down the bit I'd been surfing and smiled weakly at the anaemically thin, baby librarian who had been behind me, and left. It had started raining just a little so I hied me to a burger bar and had a bit of a meal. Mrs Watkins's breakfast will nearly get you through the whole day but not quite. And sitting there eating meant that I didn't have to just walk round a strange town in the rain. Anyway, I got to the Hall just before six after one small detour. Though the town centre did seem to be entirely McDonalds and Boots and Poundland and Top Shop and all chains, my attention was grabbed as I passed one shop quite close to where I'd parked. I suppose in the past it might have been called a draper's, ladies clothes and fabrics and so on. Well, it had gone a little way down the road of trying to emulate Dotty P's or something similar but its window display was still of the old style. And there, next to a mannequin in a long evening gown which I knew damn well wouldn't suit me, and another in gorgeously sexy gold lurex mini-dress which I'd have loved to try on, was a 'business-suit'. It wasn't the suit that caught my attention though, the model was poised with jacket over shoulder and was wearing a lovely blouse. It reminded me straight away of the picture I'd signed for Paul Stisson the previous evening. Quite large yet delicate gold buttons down the front, long-sleeved, a tailored look. I knew I'd mislaid the original from the photo, I'd probably left it in a dressing room somewhere. But the photo had been a good one. The whole outfit had indeed given me a very feminine appearance. I went into the shop and found it in my size, and bought it. The assistant had looked hesitant. She was probably thinking I was buying it for a wife or maybe a girlfriend and maybe wondering if that meant she'd have to deal with a return in a few days time. She looked shocked when I told her I didn't want to try it on there and then, I knew the size would be OK. I glanced up to her left. She followed my gaze towards the flier pinned on the wall just near the door, the one advertising 'Marie Queen' at the Caunston Hall that night. Then she looked at me. "Is that you?" I think she'd actually seen some sort of resemblance between the glamorously-dressed diva on the flier and the man standing in front of her. That, added to the fact that I'd revealed the blouse was for me. "Yes," was all I said, handing over my credit card. She just swiped it and waited while it processed, then looked at the card while I did my PIN. "Mr M King," she read. "Martin King, as in Marie Queen," I replied. "Oh, right." And the way she said it convinced me that firstly she hadn't intended going to the show tonight and I'd not impressed her anywhere near enough to get her to change her mind. And secondly that she'd never before heard of either Martin King or Marie Queen. At five to six I was at the venue, meeting yet another so-called Stage Manager and again recruiting a group of locals, three girls this time, to deal with the CDs and T-shirts. Those T-shirts had nearly all gone, thankfully. I didn't like the way the designer had put it together. At the time I'd been down with the flu and hadn't had the chance to veto the final version. The idea was good, me in full songstress mode against the background of an ocean liner. The intended pun on my stage name didn't really work if you looked very closely at the background image and saw that it wasn't even the Queen Mary, it was the Aurora. The Stage Manager was OK even though he didn't have an actual stage to prepare. But I got things sorted, my small table at the rear of my performance area, with some of my make-up on it and a decanter of what looked like scotch and was really just coloured water. Both there for effect, the latter so I could walk round the floor with a glass in my hand singing 'One for the road' in something close-ish to a Billie Holliday style. And the makeup because occasionally I liked to add a little humour to the proceedings by touching up my lipstick on-stage and over-doing the actions involved. Though I say it myself that show went even better than the one in Cannock, and I'd thought the previous night had gone well. There was a bigger crowd. It may even have been a sell-out, and I chose well in picking people, all guys except one, for the audience interactions which are almost de rigueur in the cabaret setting. The best one was the last, the one I did in the blue dress while doing a Dolly Parton song. The guy I'd picked on was really up for it, as I sidled up to him and crooned in his ear while stroking his almost-bald head, he was grinning and looking round. He really did deserve the embarrassing peck on the cheek at the end of the song. I'd noticed Paul Stisson earlier. He seemed to know quite a few of the people there, and was sat with a group of four others though I imagined he hadn't actually come to the show with them. They were two married couples, almost certainly, and just for a moment I'd thought of choosing him to sing one of my songs to. But I didn't, somehow it seemed not to be the right thing to do. After the show, after my 'Summertime' encore-closer, I curtsied and took my applause and, as is the fashion these days, lifted my arms to applaud my audience as I walked through them towards the long bar which ran down one side of the hall. As I did so, there at my side was Paul Stisson himself. "Hello again," I said, smiling. No kiss, though, I was still a little worried about the exact manner in which we'd parted company the previous night. "Hello Marie. Great show, really great. Even better than last night. Can I buy you a drink?" He seemed more in control. Maybe because he was on familiar turf, being in Caunston and all that. As I said his manner in Cannock had rather disturbed me. "Thank you," I replied, keeping up the smile. "Vodka and tonic, please. Mr Stisson, isn't it, I remember the odd-ish name." "Please. Paul." The instruction to call him by his first name was only natural really. I did my usual trick for the benefit of any lewd punters there, lifted my bum onto the stool by the bar and crossed my legs to show a fair amount of thigh and maybe my stocking tops. Yes, some men are weirdoes but they still might buy CDs and T-shirts and indeed they had paid to come and see me. "Marie, I know you'll have fans to see and so on. I just needed to mention, after what I said last night. About the video." "Yes, I remember. John Garner, you said, I've still got his number." I remembered the surname from an old western series on TV. "Jim Garner. But I rang the video company this morning, just to check in with him. I didn't know, he's left the firm so they might not be the ones to use, if you thought of going ahead, that is." I sipped my vodka and peered over the edge of my glass at Paul. He was persistent, I'll give him that. Whether he was just a big fan or whether this might end up in some sort of stalker situation I didn't know. I'd only ever come across that situation once before, not with me but with my friend Jeannine. She's a regular girl, a proper one I mean, a 'GG' as they say. We'd done a bit of an act together doing 'Sisters' as my last song and her first. She'd had a stalker, a guy who kept appearing at her gigs and sending flowers and rather crude letters. Eventually she'd actually got the police involved and he'd been dealt with but she'd gone through quite a bit of heartache on the way. It's different, though for a GG. But Paul didn't seem like the stalker type. I slid off my stool carefully when I saw the SM coming over towards me. Clearly there was something of a queue backstage waiting to get things signed and have a word. It was just as I was going that one of the couples who had been with Paul trapped me briefly. "We enjoyed the show, Marie" said the wife, I assume, staring at my cleavage! "That Dolly Parton song was just great, you really did do the voice so well." "And the tits!" muttered her husband, with a wide lascivious grin across his face. In other circumstances I might have challenged him there and then, the tone of his comment deserved some sort of put down. But I wanted to get backstage so I just turned briefly to Paul. I thanked him for the drink, but didn't do any sort of kiss or hand-squeezing. It's a fine line I have to tread taking on the role of a woman sometimes. The kiss or squeeze or even fondle is OK in public as part of the act, and of course it's all right to do that sort of thing in private. I have to be careful though, in semi-public if you see what I mean. Paul had bought a drink for a drag performer and that was acceptable because it was in public and it was a bit of a thank-you for the performance. Yet it wouldn't have done to be in any way intimate there and then at the bar. I'd walked that tightrope for years and I knew just how far it would be appropriate to go in almost any situation. Even with at guy in Exeter I'd been in control. I'd gone for a few drinks in the bar and a bit of flirting and then some necking and heavy-duty fondling of his cock up against the wall behind the pub but I'd not gone too far. Though I'd been feeling pretty low before the groping it had done me a power of good and I'd known exactly how far to push him. I walked the usual sexy walk, in my high heels, behind the SM and back towards my dressing room. I have to say it was really a bit large and to some extent opulent really, not quite what I was used to in village halls and small theatres and Centenary Centres and so on. I skipped in front of the SM and closed the door behind me, having said I'd be ready in just a couple of minutes. And as soon as I had shut the door and turned round, well, the surprise I'd not been expecting greeted me. There just beside the mirror, and they'd not been there earlier, they must have arrived during the performance, was a large bunch of roses. Red roses. In my whole career that had never happened before, it really did take my breath away for a moment. There was a card. I think I knew where they'd come from - and I was right. I slid it out, noticing in fact that the colour of the roses almost exactly matched my long fingernails. I read it out, aloud for some reason but quietly. 'For Marie, good luck. Paul XXX.' It really did throw me. I poured a small glass of water and sat down - I'd had my post-gig vodka already and I was going to be driving back to my small hotel later. Paul Stisson had sent me roses. Wow! I got interrupted just then by the usual triple-tap on the door. Why do all stage managers tap three times? "Hello?" I called, basically relieved not to have to think about the roses. The SM came in and asked if I was ready. I asked how many were outside and got the same answer as the previous night - 'four or five'. So I set to it, the usual brief conversations, people saying nice things about my act and my singing and my dresses and so on. One woman asked how I managed in such high heels. I didn't actually say I'd been wearing then on and off since I was seven, I just replied that I'd got used to them by now. And no nutters. Not a one. That was a relief. After the interviews the three girls came in with my merchandising stuff. Eleven CDs and four T-shirts, amazingly. So I gave them a fiver each again since they'd done a job for me in packing everything together in my bag. I turned and picked up the bouquet. They really were lovely roses and I took a moment to savour their fragrance. I turned to move towards the door in order to lock it before starting to get changed. There was a double-tap at the door just as I put my hand on the key. I opened it. "Hello again, I just wanted one more word. I won't keep you, I know you have to change and so on." It was Paul Stisson. I wanted to hug him, to kiss him even. I just stood there with the big bouquet in my arms and felt a tear begin to roll down my cheek. "Paul, thank you so much. Nobody has ever given me such a beautiful bouquet ever before, they are just lovely." I was gushing, and I really was wondering if I was going to cry. But I couldn't kiss him. We weren't in private, the SM and one of the three girls were just down the corridor. I daren't cross the line even though I was so grateful to Paul for appreciating my femininity. And I was puzzled. OK so I had that blue dress on and high heels and very long nails and my gold jewellery and so on. The body was definitely female, I know I always do an extremely good job on decorating and wrapping up my figure. But the face and the make-up were those of a typically over-the-top DQ. OK so I felt female at that moment though I knew very well I didn't really look it. I just reached out, almost certainly out of the sight of the two on-lookers, and squeezed his hand and tried not to cry. Very luckily he didn't stay long, he never even came right into the dressing room. If he had I'd probably have flung my arms round his neck for the first time in a long time. With a man I mean. But he realised something of my plight, he maybe saw a tear in the corner of my eye. Maybe. "It's just that, if Jim Garner can't help out with the video maybe I could. I'm not involved with that company any more but it might be nice to do something like that myself. If you'd like, that is. I've not done it hands-on for years, always had people to do it for me. Or maybe you don't like the idea." He really was being kind. I didn't want to say no. "All right Marie. Maybe I'm being pushy. But on your flier about the tour the date for tomorrow is crossed off. With a thick black pen." I'd had to do them all myself. I'd been due in Barrow the next night but they'd had a small fire in the venue the previous weekend and had to cancel all their gigs for a couple of weeks. I didn't need to tell Mr Stisson that, though. "Yes, there was a cancellation. So I get a night off." "I see. Well, where are you staying?" "At the Armada Hotel," I replied, too quickly and without thinking. Was this the stalker-thing coming up again? "Well, if you don't mind - er - Martin - how about we meet up tomorrow? Late in the morning maybe, or the afternoon, have a chat about the video. It would be fun to shoot again, that's how I started out." Again, he was persistent. But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all, so I agreed. We settled on two-o-clock in the pub opposite the Armada. After he left the SM peered towards me inquiringly. I knew he wanted me out sharp-ish. "OK. Fifteen minutes." So it took me twenty again but I was relieved to get out of there in the end. The show was good and so were the sales, I'd definitely come back there again if I got invited. But I wondered about Paul Stisson. I could see his point about making a video really, and I supposed that after his divorce and losing his company the thought of getting back into something like video production might have been quite appealing to him. Maybe the dollar signs were rolling in front of his eyes, use this drag queen as a tester and then move onto proper videos like he had when he'd first set up PSI. It had, I remembered from my library research, started out like that, small videos of minor pop stars, before expanding into all sorts of multimedia after a few years. I smiled a little to myself at the 'er- Martin' when he'd said my name. I just wondered if he'd recognise me in the pub the next day. He probably would, that sales assistant in the shop where I'd bought the blouse had seen the similarity, I was sure. I didn't think I'd sleep that night but I did, a tribute to the beds in the Armada hotel really. The breakfast wasn't up to Mrs Watkins's standard but it was more than acceptable. I went back up to my room and packed my two bags, the red and the blue, ready to move out. Two cases, one male and one female if you see what I mean. It would have been catastrophic, after all, to turn up at a gig with the case with all my male clothes in having left the other behind. Who'd want a drag queen with not a thing to wear? Hence the red and the blue. I walked across to reception to settle my bill, then back to my room to get the cases. I recalled the 'er - Martin' comment again and smiled. I looked in the mirror, at Martin. Handsome enough really though not a great one with the ladies. I'd had my share though, never married but still managed to 'put myself about a bit' even in my youth. And then there had been Brenda only two months earlier, the landlady's mother would you believe. Forty-five going on twenty-five and dynamite in bed. Q Is for Queen I picked up the red case. I paused. Thinking. And I changed my plan. And I changed my life. The boy at reception, well the young man, had commented when I'd paid that the room wouldn't be seen to yet. Apparently his sister who did all that sort of thing was in Birmingham for the day and wouldn't be back until nearly four. So I still had several hours of use of the room if I wanted it. I'd made some sort of non-committal comment at the time. But like I said, I'd been thinking. I went back to my room. I left it at a quarter to two carrying the two cases, regretting that I had to leave my bouquet behind. I'd kept the card though, it was in my handbag. I managed to get out to the car park without going past reception itself and shoved the two cases in the boot. I left the car there and walked along to the street and towards the pub Paul had mentioned. I'd not checked the name before but when I saw the 'Green Forester' sign I knew I was in the right place. I pushed the door open and walked in, turning left towards the lounge bar. I could see Paul straight away sitting over by the window, with a small glass of something in front of him. Probably a scotch. He was reading the 'Financial Times'. I strolled towards him and stopped, waiting. He was engrossed. "Good afternoon Paul" I said. Quietly and gently. He looked up. Just for a second I saw - what? Horror? Shock? Surprise? Then he relaxed. He controlled himself. I really had caught him totally off guard as I'd intended of course. I knew very well that if I'd rung him that morning and offered him a choice he'd have said 'Martin'. But I didn't have his number though I'm sure I'd have been able to contact him somehow. But I hadn't. And I wasn't Martin. I was Marie. I read a story once where a T-girl did exactly what I'd just done to a man she rather fancied. When he saw her he just came out with 'Fuck me!' and she said 'All right then' and they did just that. The next couple of paragraphs were rather steamy and full of references to all sorts of body parts, male and female, some of which were actually involved in the scenario and some of which were just imagined and referred to even though they couldn't possibly have been there. Paul's reaction, after that initial horror, was more measured. "Hello Marie," he said, cool as a cucumber as he stood up. Old-fashioned and gentlemanly, I agree, but I liked it. I sat down next to him on the corner seat and crossed my legs. I know, it's corny but I loved to do it and to see his reaction. Again, maybe ten seconds after seeing me, he was in total control. He looked round towards the bar and lifted an eyebrow towards the young man at the bar who came straight over. He finished his scotch. "Another one please, Donald, and a vodka and tonic, is it, Marie?" "Thank you," I said, smiling at Donald and appreciating the fact that while listening to Paul he'd been looking at me. We both stayed silent while the barman got our drinks. I sipped mine and Paul looked. "Marie, you look great. Really great." That was what I wanted to hear. I mean I wouldn't have minded if he'd said 'gorgeous' or 'stunning' or 'beautiful' but I knew what he meant. 'Great' meant that I looked female. Convincing. And that's what I wanted. I'd been confident of course, having several times passed as a woman in different circumstances. Yet this was different somehow. This was with Paul, and I still hadn't properly decided what he was about. I sipped my vodka again and slid my other hand over Paul's on the small table in front of us. "I didn't want to ask you or even tell you. Somehow I got the idea you'd quite like me to look - like this." "Like it? Marie, I love it!" He looked round. There were only four or five other people in the pub at that time but we had no doubts who was the centre of attention. The tight leather skirt and black stockings and 4" stilettos made sure of that and I was determined to flaunt my attractive legs as much as I could. I put my glass down and slid my other hand across my exposed thigh. "I rather thought you might." I couldn't help grinning, aware that Paul was still staring somewhat. "It's your fault, you know, you reminded me what it's like to really look like a woman last night. That picture on the back of the CD cover. It reminded me of the good feeling when I'm being seen as a woman rather than as a female impersonator. So when I saw this blouse in that older draper's shop on the high street I just had to have it. And since you'd admired me wearing it on the picture I thought you might like to see the full effect - in real life as it were." And after that rather long speech I sat up, not entirely unintentionally causing my bosoms to push forward a bit, really to try to emphasise my figure. In the wide belt I thought I looked really slim and what with that and the short leather skirt, well, I was enjoying myself. I sipped again at my vodka. And then I surprised myself. I put my glass down and took Paul's hand in mine, just stroking it a little. "Paul, I'm still trying to work you out." "Really, Marie?" He took a large sip of his scotch though he didn't make me release his hand. "Do you like that?" I asked, looking down at our hands and then up at him through my long thickened lashes. OK so I was teasing him, flirting even just a little. But actually being properly en femme for the first time in a while was a very enjoyable experience. "Actually, Marie, I know it's a bit weird but yes. I do. It's nice." We chatted on about the video idea, and then about my tour and what I hoped to do next season maybe and possible panto and all that. I thought was maybe about twenty minutes, yet when I looked at my watch I realised it had been well over an hour. "Paul, really, this has been so much fun. I'm sure you understand that now, for a woman like me just to be able to spend some time like this. I've enjoyed myself so much but I mustn't keep you to myself any longer." He'd just realised the time too and was clearly set for a move too. "So, Marie, what's next? Didn't you say you've checked out already?" "Yes I have. I'm due in Cambridge for the final date of the tour tomorrow night." "So, hang on, if you've checked out of your hotel where were you going to change?" "I thought I might drive over to Milton Keynes en femme. My sister has often said I can stay with them overnight any time on my travels." "And if you turn up looking like you do?" "She'll be surprised. She's seen the show of course a couple of times. But she's never seen me actually en-femme as opposed to in drag. It's going to be interesting to see her reaction. And her husband's!" "I bet! But you're right Marie, we should get going. I know for a fact there's a group comes in here late afternoon for a bit of a get-together and it may not be a good idea for them to find us here." "You mean you don't want to be seen with me?" I teased. I took Paul's hand and swung round to face him as we went out towards the pub car park. "No, it's not that, it's just - oh hell." "Paul, don't worry. I'm only pulling your leg a bit. I do understand. You're an important person in this community and you have to be careful who you associate with. Anyway my car's in the hotel car park over the road. Maybe we should say goodbye now, it really has been a different sort of day. Have you enjoyed yourself? Better than sitting in a pub with Martin discussing videos? We've not really settled that idea." Paul was still holding my hand, rather tightly it seemed to me. "Marie. Look, we haven't talked about it, have we? Maybe we should." "Well, we can't here in the car park, can we?" He was STILL holding my hand. He looked me in the eyes. "Marie. I don't want you to leave." It was in the circumstances a bold statement. One which said quite a lot about him. He'd been sitting in the pub with a man dressed as a woman for almost two hours, and didn't want him to leave. Her. The trouble was that I didn't want to leave either but I couldn't really come up with a good excuse not to. I was desperately trying to think of one as we approached what I assumed to be Paul's car, parked on its own near the road, when another man got out of the car and came over towards us. Not as tall as Paul, really rather a rural-looking man, you know the type, ruddy complexion, the look of someone who'd spent a lot of his time in the open air. A farmer for example, or a farm hand. Paul smiled at him and then turned to me. "Marie, this is George. He's my general factotum really, handyman back at the Grange, decorator, and recently my driver." I smiled at the newcomer and held out a hand to gently shake his. My own hand, slightly large for a woman really though small for a man, was engulfed by his. He held mine rather delicately as if he didn't want to crush it. He seemed a rather muscular man, probably he could have done. "Good afternoon, Miss," he said. "Hello George." He'd called me 'Miss'! Well, of course he would, wouldn't he. "George is rather worried, Marie. He's been driving me round for six months. I'm afraid I had a bit of an argument with a speed camera and got myself banned." "Bit of an argument, Paul? You were doing 140 on the motorway!" "OK, OK. But the ban ran out two days ago, Marie, and George has rather enjoyed driving me around. It gets him away from Mildred." George and Mildred! I tried not to laugh or even smile. I turned away from George, and from Paul just for a few moments to regain my self-control. I don't think either of them noticed, their attention had been attracted by a bright red Lotus slowly making its way along the road. The driver was clearly looking for signposts or something. Typical men, cars first and women second! I turned back, Paul was looking at me and beginning to speak again. "Look, how about coming out to the Grange. Mildred can do us a bit of a snack and then you can decide on the best plan of action. It's just one stop up the M42, and you'd go that way towards Milton Keynes anyway." Paul had come up with a plan, and one which enabled me to stay en-femme for a little longer. I was getting such a thrill out of being a tranny rather than a DQ for a while, I had to agree with him. As we turned towards the car park Paul leaned in towards me. "Er – don't tell George – you know what – yet. Let's just see..." I didn't hear the rest of the sentence, as a large bus rolled past us rather noisily. We ended up giving George the keys to my car and instructions about where it was and so on and he went off to drive it along to the Grange, whatever that was. Just for a moment, while we were sorting the keys, I had to think about what he'd find in there. The answer was that there was nothing overtly male visible, just a few maps and other things which were not gender-specific. Most of my male stuff was shut in the boot inside my blue case. I clambered into Paul's vehicle, a big and rather splendid 4 x 4, and enjoyed being driven in some luxury up to the junction near the Services and then up the motorway. As he pulled off at the next junction I noticed we'd caught up with my old Astra which George was driving. We continued about 300 yards along that road and then Paul turned left through a gateway. "Behold, the Grange," he said. I looked at the rather large house in front of us as he swung round to the front door, just behind my own car. "Well, what do you think? It's not very grand but it's home now." It looked grand to me. It wasn't as big as the large sort-of-stately-home I could see maybe a quarter of a mile further down the road but it was still a substantial residence. As we went in I met Mildred, George's wife. It turned out that I was right, George had started out as a farmer locally but decided to sell up and move into town for some sort of health reasons. And then he and Mildred had ended up working at Caunston House when Paul and Kathleen and his mother had been living there. Basically the demands of the two women had required five staff in all though when Paul had 'down-sized' and moved into the Grange, he'd just kept the two staff on. Kathleen was of course gone, and his mother had decided she wanted more of the London life she'd had in her youth and had bought an small apartment in Chelsea. Which left Paul, with Mildred and George. Mildred really was almost as exactly as I'd imagined, rather rotund and jolly, she insisted on providing tea almost as soon as we'd arrived. She was friendliness personified, fussing over Paul who she just occasionally called 'Mister Paul' though clearly he was really on ordinary first-name terms with his staff. And she did, every time, call me 'Miss Marie' just like George did. I liked that! Having been properly en-femme rather than in drag for several hours by then I was really enjoying the role more and more. It was so lovely in the house, the 'Grange', oak panelling, period furniture and all, the log fire blazing, really no woman could have asked for more. Paul and I sat in the main lounge roasting ourselves and having our tea while Mildred prepared a 'proper meal' for us. Paul had said he didn't want me to go and to be honest, there and then, I still didn't want to. It was so warm and cosy, the house was so inviting. Mildred gave me a bit of a guided tour of the main house, proudly showing me the decorating she and George had done in two of the bedrooms and going on about how they were going to do up their 'apartment'. It turned out the house ended up with seven bedrooms altogether after the re-design before Paul had moved in. Two were in Mildred and George's end, really they had a 'semi' rather than an apartment, shut off from the main house. "It's a lot easier to keep up than the big House, Miss Marie. That had about thirty bedrooms, we never really were too sure exactly how many. And it was such a rabbit-warren, very difficult to keep up what with Mrs Kathleen and Paul's mother to cater for as well. George and I have it much easier now, and he's really been enjoying driving Mr Paul round while he's been banned. He's hoping still to be able to do some of that, gets him out from under my feet too." Mildred could talk for England and she did. I got the whole Stisson family history going back about three generations as we toured round and ended up back in the main kitchen. I mainly listened, it was a new experience for me and I'd been hesitant about it when she'd suggested the tour while the men-folk looked at something to do with George's car. Being with a woman, I mean. As a woman. I'd had some doubts about it. With men I was OK. I was confident about not being read but I really hadn't had much experience of being 'Marie' in female company. Almost none unless you count that landlady's mother who had got a kick out of being with me dressed up and then getting into my knickers. And that was different, I'd adopted the tranny-female role rather than the drag queen, that's what had turned her on. And when we'd started to get intimate, undressing each other and manipulating each other's breasts and lipstick-kissing and so on, I'd seen it as some sort of lesbian experience. But really even from before the moment she'd got my cock out I'd been a man in women's clothing. Yet with Mildred, I was Marie. Friend or acquaintance of her boss. As we progressed I became much more comfortable with the role in female company until at the end, when we sat down together for a small sherry while the cooking was finished. We were chatting woman-to-woman across the kitchen table. It hadn't been my intention, honest, but we did eventually get onto the subject of Paul's love life. Mildred had just briefly mentioned having to get that first spare bedroom sorted several months earlier for a woman visitor so I'd asked her about it. "She really was awful. Dorothy-something her name was. She was a gold-digger, George and I both saw it from the start. I think Mr Paul did too but he was a bit low at the time. It was about three months after the divorce got made final. She was very good-looking though, some sort of writer from London, I think maybe she was a friend of Mrs Kathleen. She only spent one night here though, Mr Paul got it right. He saw through her pretty quickly. George drove her to get the train very early the next morning. And the other one, well!" "Go on, well what?" Mildred was giggling, and took nearly a minute to calm down. Then she just said it. "Mrs Agatha Hortington-Smythe." And she burst into laughter again. "No!" "Yes. True as I'm sitting here." I had to try hard not to collapse in giggles. "Bloody awful name and really a bloody awful family if you'll excuse my French, Miss. Came one lunchtime clearly thinking she was going to have her way with Mr Paul and spend the night and all that. But when he took her out to dinner that evening her mother turned up. It seems she'd heard about her daughter's new beau, as it were, and she wanted to see the lie of the land. Mr Paul was steaming when they got back here." "What? With her mother?!" "Oh no. It was bad enough though. Mr Paul was horrified, said he could see the cow turning into her mother before his eyes. Said he could see why her husband had kicked the bucket, probably to get away from the cow. He kept calling her a cow, and he was right. Anyway we put her in the blue room, your room that is, Miss, and Mr Paul probably locked his door that night. Not at all what she'd imagined. Very frosty at breakfast they were, anyway she rang her mother straight after and off they went when she got here. The mother, that is." "So he's not been very lucky with women then, Mildred?" "Not recently Miss. I mean, we all were happy at the start when Mrs Kathleen first came and they got married. She was nice to us and good for him and all that. But it was that young man from Birmingham, I think he was. He knew he was onto a good thing with her and when it all came out, well, nasty business." Mildred clearly held her employer in some regard, she had been upset by the events before and during the divorce process. "It cost Mr Paul a fair bit in the end what with lawyers and the like. But he argued her down when it came to settlement, since it was her fault having the affair and so on. I don't think Mr Paul so much as looked at another woman while they was married. Anyway, Miss, I've probably said too much. I'd better get on with the cooking. Should be ready in ten or fifteen minutes." I strolled out of the kitchen door having worked out that I could get through the garden back to the main lounge area. Just looking round I felt more at ease than I had done in years. With no gig tonight, and no rush tomorrow, I could still get to Claire's house for the night to give me a shorter drive the next day anyway. The sun was setting over the woods I could see in the distance. OK so there weren't birds singing but there was a brook babbling. It was really idyllic. I had to be careful negotiating the steps up to the house in my heels but did OK without stumbling. Paul was standing with George looking out of the French windows from the lounge onto the patio. It was still warm and I noticed a small table on the patio with two place settings on it. They saw me and George said something to Paul before turning to go back in the house. Paul came across to greet me, extending a hand which I gladly took, and held on to. "Paul, this is gorgeous here. Mildred said you kept some of the land when you sold the big house." "Yes, only about thirty acres though. There's about five with the main house. I insisted they use it for social housing. You know the sort of thing, mainly flats so that youngsters from the area have somewhere to live. The developers weren't happy about that until they realised they had four acres for over-blown big houses to build and overprice."