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Synopsis:

Jessica had left Eloise a decade ago, and then fulfilled a lifetime dream. She had made a break with her past, until an invitation to her high school reunion caught up with her.

Story:

I read it as a positive omen. The invitation to my fortieth high school reunion had found me, even though the address was from five residences ago and, of course, my name had been legally changed.

Eloise and I had left a forwarding address with the apartment management when we purchased our home nearly thirty years ago, but who would have thought they would still have it on file, or would have forwarded mail from that long ago?

We haven’t talked much since the divorce and the ensuing legal battles. Even though it’s been over a decade, some scabs are best left undisturbed. I hadn’t received forwarded mail in all those years; and wouldn’t have expected to. Yet, she took the time to forward the letter to me from my old classmate. Perhaps she delighted in the conundrum such a letter would present to me.

As far as I knew, no one from my high school knew that I had transitioned to my true gender through sex re-assignment surgery, but the time had finally arrived.

Even though our high school was located sixty miles west of the Twin Cities, a decision had been made to hold the reunion at a hotel in Minneapolis. The letter said so many of my classmates lived there, it just made sense. Also, for those like me, Minneapolis was much easier to travel to.

As my limo sped along I-494 from the airport to the hotel, I checked my face in the lighted mirror and smiled at my reflection. I looked good. The SRS had been a fountain of youth and my daily regimen of exercise, proper diet, and a dozen or so lotions and crèmes kept me looking “forty-ish.”

A huge sign floated above the hotel lobby. Welcome Hawks! I had been a sports nut in high school and had worn out two Hawks’ lettermen’s jackets. Looking down at my size six body I wondered where the forty pounds had gone from my playing days as a safety on the football team. Thank goodness our coach hadn’t believed in weight training. Losing all that weight had been hard, but keeping it off came naturally.

I had written back to the reunion committee telling them “Bob” Wilke was no more and future correspondence should be sent to “Jessica” Wilke at my new address. The last letter I received had said there were over one hundred of the 172 in my graduating class who would be attending. I’d made a list of the ten I really wanted to see and had quickly narrowed my short list down to -- one.

John and I had been best friends. We had played football, basketball, and track together. He was faster, but I wanted to win more, so we were fairly equal competitors. Our friendship had cracked one blustery winter night during our senior year. The two of us had spent a hilarious night playing board games. Ron and Greg had promised to play with us, but had both failed to show. They were normally reliable, but Ron got called into work stocking shelves at the supermarket and Greg remembered a paper he had to write for advanced composition.

We had played Stat football, which involved cardboard cards, dice, and a board football field. His team won on the last play of the game when he ran the only play he could have won on, and then only if I played the absolute wrong defense and he rolled boxcars. We had played the game so many times the veneer on the coffee table in their basement had worn through from tossed dice.

At the door he did his normal good night routine by grabbing himself in an embrace, so from the back it looked like there was someone hugging him, He made it look even more authentic with loud kissing noises. We both had steady girlfriends and considered ourselves super-hetero. Although – I had my little secret desire to be a girl and he was mega-cute.

“That was a great kiss,” he said, coming out of his self-embrace.

I laughed. “You don’t even know what a great kiss is. Ann tells me my kisses are super.”

“Super?” He smirked. “Are you sure Ann didn’t say ‘stupor’?”

“No. She said s-u-p-e-r. Here let me show you.”

I had meant it to be a joke. He was supposed to have ducked away in mocked horror, but instead he stood his ground with a strange look on his face. I should have backed down, but it had become a macho thing, so I went through with it and kissed him. At first it had been a joke, but then our raging teenage hormones kicked in and we both got into it. I’m not sure how long our kiss lasted, but when it was over I glanced down and saw two very aroused penises straining at the front of our tan Levis.

I turned and tore out of his front door, struggling to find my way through anxious confusion and a roaring blizzard.

We never spoke of that night, but John and I made sure we were never alone together again. We went to different colleges and saw each other only occasionally over the summers. After college I went east and he moved to St. Louis.

My plan for the night was to seduce him, if at all possible. Over the years, he had become the object of hundreds of my masturbation fantasies. My imagined life with him had grown to the point that we had children with names and complex little lives.

At the registration desk, the first thing I did was checked the list of attendees. “Will John Ulte be coming?”

The women behind the desk looked familiar. I hadn’t quite learned reunion etiquette. I’d looked in her eyes when I should have peered at her nametag.

“He’s registered, but he hasn’t checked in yet. I’m sorry I have to ask, but – your name is?. . .”

I finally found my way to the name pasted to her chest. “Susan Height. You’re Susan Height!” Susan had sat next to me in junior physics. We had dated a few times, but hadn’t really struck up a relationship.

“That’s right,” she smiled, “but, the thing is – I need your name so I can check you in.”

Susan had always been a little anal and evidently hadn’t changed much. “I’m Jessica . . . Jessica Wilke.” I extended my hand toward her, but she looked down at her list without accepting my greeting. I swallowed hard and prepared myself for a put down.

“Wilke? Hmmm. I don’t remember a Jessica . . . Ah, here you are. You’re Bob’s wife, Jessica. We were so-o-o sorry to get your letter. Bob was a good friend. We dated.”

Sorry? Bob’s wife? Good friend? The nametag she gave me said “Mrs. Bob Wilke (Jessica).”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s been a. . . .”

“Oh, I love your bag,” she gushed.

I had decided to use my white leather Fendi purse. It wasn’t quite as stylish as some others I might have chosen, but it was large enough for traveling.

“I’ve been saving up to buy one like that,” she simpered. “Where did you go to find one that looks so authentic?”

Ahhhhhh. The games had begun. In that last moment she had made all the planning and care I’d taken to look my best - worthwhile. “I just picked it off the rack at Neiman Marcus. Donna is such a great little helper. When I come in she drops everything, because I’m so useless when I try to shop by myself.”

Her eyes registered the proper respect.

I was both pleased I’d won round one and embarrassed I’d stooped so low. I picked up the catalog envelope with my name on it and noted the schedule posted on a placard on the table. “I see dinner is at 6:30. I think two hours will give me time enough to take a nap.”

She nodded. Her lop-sided smile indicated “Mrs. Bob Wilke” would be topic “A” with her girlfriends.

I glanced around the lobby and saw one or two others who looked like they might be the “silver edition” of my classmates, but none that could be John.

A bellman approached with my luggage and escorted me to room 718. My fear of heights prevented me from renting a luxury suite on the top of the hotel, but my room was their finest below the tenth floor.

After securing his promise that room service would freshen my outfit for the evening, I gave him a tip that would assure he’d see to my needs. He was about the right age and appeared to be well-endowed. I caressed his hand lightly to cover my bases should everything else fail.

I sat upright in an overstuffed chair so as not to mess my hair, but tried to catch a short nap. The encounter downstairs had sharpened many memories of high school. I’d been relatively happy. I was good-looking enough to have my pick of girls, but not so handsome that I could escape the occasional turn down. I avoided sex, because I didn’t want to knock up some loser, and then be tied down for life. Girls saw that as a sign of respect.

My sports career had been spotty -- a varsity player in three sports, but not a star. Thank God I hadn’t gotten my wish in grade school and grown tall for basketball. As it was, I looked perfect in high-heels. So many of those in my transition support group had been doomed to a life in flats.

Each of my operations had gone well. My plastic surgeon could only be termed a genius. My wife said I looked like a stranger to her. Not once since I’d recovered after the final procedure had anyone seen me as remotely male, including an army of lovers. Each one had been affirmation I greedily lavished upon myself.

The error the reunion organizers made on my nametag offered an option I hadn’t considered -- I could bide my time and “expose” myself, when and if I wanted. The idea of spending the evening as “Mrs. Bob Wilke” wasn’t horribly unappealing. The only person I really cared to see was John, and he was the only one who had to know.

When I selected my Gucci dress I’d wondered if it might be a bit too much. Donna said fuchsia brought out my best features. I love silk; and the georgette, open-back styling seemed right. In the end I decided I deserved to wear the gown - given everything I’d done to get where I was. Later that week, when I showed it to my personal trainer he’d said, “That little dress is lucky to have found you. You’re the only woman who could do it justice.” He’s such a dear!

When I entered the ballroom, which would provide the setting for both the banquet and the following dance, Susan practically ran to my side. “Jessica,” she chirped, “you just have to meet some of Bob’s friends.” She dragged me by the hand toward a group of women who were grasping their drinks with ardor. “Girls, this is Jessica . . . Bob Wilke’s wife.”

“You’re gorgeous,” the first woman cooed.

I recognized Barbara immediately. She had gone hippie after high school, and was dressed in a collage of fabric that appeared a little like Annie Hall on hormones.

She continued her praise. “Bob always had an eye for the lookers. I was so sorry to hear he passed on. He was one of my best friends.”

As I recalled, Barbara’s best friends were a one-eyed cat named Franko and a bong named “Bigboy.” “Nice to meet you, Barbara. Bob told me a lot about you. He considered you to be like a sister to him.” I’d cast my lot for at least the next few hours.

“I’m Joellen,” a big-breasted blonde breathed toward me. She was either drinking straight vodka or jet fuel. Joellen had come out of the closet in college. The way her hand was resting on mine gave me the indication she had more than a little interest. Maybe her eyes showed some recognition, but they quickly left my face for my breasts.

“Bob had nice things to say about you, too,” I said. Nice and horny things. Long before John took on the role of Dreamland Steamy, she had stirred my melting pot.

“We switched things around so you could sit with us,” Susan said, letting me know just how powerful she was. “Catherine just got bumped from the fur-er-runt table.”

The three women giggled like junior high meanies.

Joellen took me by the arm and walked me toward the banquet area. “MMMMmm. I love women who wear Bijan. I guess I just love spicy woman. How about you?”

Joellen's flowery Tresor clashed with my plans for the evening, but I kept the “Jolly-Roll” option open by squeezing her hand lightly.

Our table consisted of Susan, Barbara, Joellen, me, and Ann and her husband, who unfortunately had the surname of Rand.

“I didn’t write The Fountainhead,” Ann wryly apologized before anyone asked.

“That’s good, darling,” Joellen quipped, “because it was published five years before any of us were born.”

We sat seconds before our salads were placed in front of us.

Susan dug right in. “Jessica,” she pointed her fork at a spot near my nostril, “Bob never came to the reunions. This is our fifth.”

“That’s right,” Barbara bubbled. “We had a fifth year, a tenth, a twentieth and a thirtieth.”

Joellen clutched my thigh with meaning. “Each one has become a lot less proper and a whole lot more fun.”

Ann’s husband looked at something over my shoulder, but obviously directed his response to me. “You’re going to have to excuse these girls, they’re almost ready to burst with curiosity and if I know them, you’re going to get asked more than a few questions that will seem inappropriate.”

Susan nudged him with her elbow. “Nothing’s ‘inappropriate’ at these reunions. Remember what you said last time when Elizabeth’s zipper broke.” She grinned and turned to me. “He said, without a moment’s thought, ‘It’s about time you opened up.’ ”

I managed a grin, but didn’t see the humor. I was sipping on a diet Coke and probably never would find hilarity in something, or someone, so dull.

“Okay, I’ll ask it, so no one else has to,” Barbara said, dragging her words together through a lifetime of cannabis haze. “Are you a trophy wife?”

Few things have caused me to blush for the last many years, but that did the trick.

“Come on, answer,” Joellen demanded, as her hand ran on eager fingertips from my knee to my waist.

I could spend the night with her. Women had often found their way to my bed. About the only sexual partners I couldn’t enjoy were gay men.

Joellen leaned in close to me and nibbled on my ear before she pulled back and spoke. “You’re about fifteen years younger than all of us, so you must be something Bob found after he made all his money.”

“Yeah,” Susan brightened, “how did Bob make all his money?”

“Bob was only married once, and he was in import/export,” I answered. “Bob” had founded his own business shortly after college and built it slowly around a core of very loyal staff. When the time had been right to transition, I’d sold the business. Unfortunately some of those people were immediately let go, but I had needed to get top dollar to pay for the SRS and everything, and to set up my “retirement.”

“Did you work with him?” Ann asked. She hadn’t looked at her husband all evening. It was painfully obvious she couldn’t stand him. When Eloise and I had gone out together we couldn’t keep our eyes or our hands from each other. She was my soulmate. I closed my eyes and pictured her the last time I’d seen her . . . in court . . . when she had won a permanent injunction to keep me away from our children. She had looked absolutely stunning that day, as always.

“We worked very closely,” I offered.

The main course was a cut of meat that might have been loosely described as filet mignon. The green beans and baked potato were cold and served without seasoning. My dish had a large chip and the silverware was stained, so that I was tempted to wipe it with my napkin, which also showed signs of too much use.

“Do you have children?” Ann asked. “We tried for years and then gave up. I don’t know why we never adopted.”

Children? I frowned as I thought of Becca and Reese. I hadn’t seen so much as a picture in the last decade. I hid my mouth behind a napkin until I could plaster a smile on my lips. “Two – a boy and a girl.”

Susan whistled. “How did you keep your figure after two kids? Each of my three boys added ten pounds to me, and not where I wanted them.”

After that I was off the hot seat and the conversation turned to the Vikings’ football prospects. My mind drifted to my life with Eloise. She had been as positive as any woman could be about my nature, even though from time to time I would do something that would embarrass her.

A neighbor had seen me walking one morning en femme and cornered Eloise about it. Becca had walked in on me while I was dressed in a nightgown when she was three and gone screaming to her mother. Several times I had made Halloween very uncomfortable for Eloise by the obvious comfort I felt while decked out in front of our friends as Chris Evert or Dolly Parton.

We’d had an understanding that she broke when it came time for me to be true to myself. I’d expected we would remain married and I would be a second mom to our kids. She refused to be logical and ripped our lives to shreds. God only knows what it did to Reese to grow up with only one parent.

“There’s John,” Susan yelped. “Jessica, you’d asked about John. Boy is he looking good. Jessica, did you have a particular reason to want to meet him?”

I shook my head; partially to tell Susan “no” and mainly to clear the fog from my brain - that seeing John had caused. He looked yummy. All thoughts of possibly hooking up with the bellboy or Joellen had been swept from my mind. My mission had been made perfectly clear.

As soon as the mint ice cream cups had been cleared, the band started a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night. I cast aside all inhibitions and floated to John’s table.

“John,” I said, as I tapped him on the shoulder, “care to dance?”

He looked at my nametag, and then locked on my face. “Bob’s? . . .”

“I’d love to dance with you.” I’d cut him off, and then wondered what it was he had been ready to ask.

He stood and took my hand.

I glanced around the table he’d been sitting at and was relieved to see no sign of women.

The dance started with him holding me at arm’s-length. Mrs. Gassman would have approved. She had chaperoned at our high school dances and always said she wanted to see sunlight between us while we slow-danced.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

I nodded. Immensely so, now that he’d violated Mrs. Gassman’s edict and pulled me to him.

“You haven’t been to one of these before, have you?”

I shook my head, but didn’t raise it off his shoulder - where it had found a home.

The band moved quickly from one slow song to another, having accurately gauged the desires of the pentagenarian crowd.

Each song heightened my need for John’s arms around me. Every step moved us closer to the king-sized bed in room 718. The foreplay from forty years prior at the door of his parents’ house had left embers in my soul that quickly burst into flame when his breath rushed into my ear.

I forced myself not to grind my hot sex into his groin, sensing we would have a long night to enjoy one another.

If he had a wife, she couldn’t possibly be attending the reunion or she would have torn my eyes out after the second song. If she did exist, I would deal with her in the morning. John would be mine for at least a night and more than likely much, much longer.

I was ready to leave after the first set. “John, would you like to have a drink in my room?”

“I’d love to,” he said. “Let me get my life partner, Louis, and the three of us can go up and have a talk and catch up on things. Forty years is a long time for good friends not to see each other.”

The End

Thank you to Erin, Jenny Walker, and Dimelza Cassidy for their kind support.