Brad's Bitch

The phone rang. I pulled it from my jeans pocket and saw that it was Brad. Shit! I really didn't want a call from him right now. Maybe I should just ignore it. But somehow he always knew when I'd just ignored his calls. And then that was even worse.

I answered it, thinking only fleetingly about "the speech" that I'd composed and honed over the years and knew now that I would never actually give. I don't know why I even thought of it anymore. Maybe it made me feel just a little bit in charge of my life to at least imagine that I'd freed myself from Brad with "the speech."

"Hey, Bitch." That's how he usually referred to me. It should still bother me, of course, but I'd gotten to the point where I didn't really hear it anymore. "Rachel's down at the outlet mall for the whole day. Get over here."

Phrases from the speech floated through my head: "This is over, Brad;" "I'm married to a beautiful woman now and I'm not your bitch anymore;" "Fuck off!" As these thoughts rattled around in my mind, I said, "Okay." Really, by this point, the speech was a piece of personal history-a remnant of a time when I hadn't made my peace with the situation.

It took me a little time to get ready. Brad was particular about how I was dressed when I showed up at his house, or wherever he wanted me to meet him. But I'd gotten pretty fast at this-I'd had enough practice-so I was out the door in under 15 minutes. That's all the time it took to drag my bag of paraphernalia out of its hiding place in the basement, strip down and take off my men's underwear, pull on the stockings and fasten them to the garter belt, slip into the panties and fasten the bra around my chest. Then, all I had to do was pull back on my men's outer clothing and grab the bag with my heels, wig, and breast inserts.

At this time of day, it was a 30 minute drive to Brad's house. I had a lot of time to think and I wound up replaying, as I'd done so many times over the years, how this whole thing began.