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I had to know what all thatsilky and wonderful clothing felt like. I had to know what it was liketo wear stockings and high heels and dresses. What started as acuriosity became a compulsion, a compulsion wherein each tentative stepled to the next. Lingerie led to dresses led to high heels led to wigsled to makeup, if you are reading this you know about the evolution of acrossdresser and have likely traveled the same path. There was a freedomand yes a sexual aspect to it.Growing up I was not particularly interested in the standard and overtmacho role nor was I effeminate. I stood in the middle somewhere.Growing up in the 1960's gender roles were massively enforced andstifling; the fear of being outed was palpable. Men's clothing was, andis, purpose driven, rough, confining and restrictive in all aspects; theform and function of it was strictly enforced as though it was auniform. Women's clothing on the other hand was about freedom andbeauty. Men's clothing is boring; women's clothing. Mohit smiled warmly and accepted Ayesha's hand of friendship. Thus Mohit was Ayesha's first male friend. The trio enjoyed their coffee and talked for hours. This was the first time Ayesha had felt this kind of comfort with a guy. He was down to earth yet confident. He was funny, but not cheap. He had a warmth and charm around him that made her trust him despite the short duration of knowing him. What Ayesha didn't know and failed to realize that this friend ship was going to progress a lot further than either of them anticipated or thought possible.A week later, Ayesha got a call from her new friend asking her to accompany him to a dance party the following weekend."I don't know Mohit," Ayesha said apprehensively. "I've never dance with a guy before." This was a dream come true for Ayesha, but imagining something and having it come true was a totally different issue."Well Ayesha," Mohit said at the other end, "It's a couple only party and no single men allowed. I'd really like to go.
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I sobbed and sobbed for a while longer, wiped my eyes, walked out of the stall, fixed my hair and makeup, and walked back into the sanctuary with the bearing of a true southern lady my mother and years of cotillions and etiquette classes taught me to be. We don’t make a spectacle of ourselves in public. It was acceptable to shed a few tears at a funeral and dab our eyes with a handkerchief but we don’t lose our shit in public as I did in the restroom. Three days later I had a mental breakdown, went bat shit crazy, and broke almost everything I could in my bedroom before my father stopped me. My mother, my father, and I dealt with the tragedy in different ways. Me it was an eight-month stint in a mental hospital and drinking and drug use and years of therapy. My father became very despondent towards my mother and buried himself in his job and in making money through investments and real estate ventures where he was very successful. My mother dealt with the loss of her son and.

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