Squirrel Cage

by Cindi Jones

“Yes, thank you very much” said Cory. “We’d both like a screwdriver.”

  The connotations of that very name bring a smile to me as I write this. We were in a gay bar. Neither one of us was admittedly gay. And ordered a screwdriver. Cory knew that I did not drink. Why had she ordered me a screwdriver? My life was going to hell. “Who cares?” Squirrel piped up.

  Although it was very cool outside, the heat of a hundred bodies accumulated. I had been dancing and I was very thirsty. I eagerly drank the orange juice with out tasting the drink. Cory glanced a warning that I did not heed. The drink went down and another shortly arrived. I drank screwdrivers and danced, danced and had screwdrivers. I loved the passion of the music, my body moving in rhythm. My mind numbed as the alcohol from the first drink started to wend its way through my system… and there were three or more just starting, waiting in cue. I had never had an alcoholic beverage before this night. They affected me in the worst way.

  We had only been there an hour and I was totally intoxicated. The music slowed somewhat to a clutch dance. It did feel nice being held by someone while I presented the illusion of Cindi. “You know what he wants Cindi, you need to get out of here,” Squirrel warned through a thick haze.

  I paid no mind to Squirrel as I turned to putty. The slow song ended and an upbeat song started. The boom of the bass pushed me across the floor as I dizzily accepted what this environment proffered. My dance partner did not release his grasp as he started a sexual dry hump.

  “Cindi, we need to get out of here” Squirrel pleaded unsuccessfully as I stared at the mirrored dance ball spin, dancing reflected light around the hall. It was all I could do to stand as my partner continued to grind. Floating, gliding, swimming, sliding…. My mind was in never never land.

  “Please, someone help me,” cried a voice from some lost corner in my mind.

  “Excuse me.” Cory yelled as she dragged me from the floor. “I’m not leaving you out there for another minute,” she flatly stated, somewhat yelling to rise above the din.

  “I’m taking you back to your hotel room.” I realized that she was helping me. I was grateful.

  The taxi pulled us to the front of the hotel; Cory paid the driver and then extracted me from the back seat. The stupor of drunkenness drove Squirrel out. He picked up a position well behind us as he followed us into the hotel. Cory rummaged through my purse to find my hotel key. She read the room number and escorted me into the elevator and then down the hall to my room. Squirrel watched from behind as Cory propped me up while opening the door. Cory dragged me into the room and sat me on my bed. Squirrel scurried in behind. “I’m going to leave your key right here by the television. Do you need help getting undressed?”

  “Ah… Cory…. I’ll be okay. Thank you so much.” My mind managed to find the words and slowly spin the wheel that made my mouth say the words. Cory left and closed the door. I fell over on my side with my feet dangling at the end of the bed. I was asleep before my head hit the bed.

  “Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring “ I lifted myself from the bed still dressed from the night before. “Good morning, this is your wake up call.”

  “Thank you” I managed to say as my voice cracked.

  “Have a great day” the voice finished as I hung up the phone. I was tired and I needed a shower. After my morning shower, I felt fine. I thought about the events the previous night. I did have a good time. I decided that I should never again get drunk. I also knew that I was definitely NOT gay. Cory had shown me something about myself. I had tested my bounds and some defining lines were drawn. It would be the last time I saw Cory. I wouldn’t be able to return to Boston for a very long time and we lost track of each other. She had indeed been a good friend to me. She had seen my naiveté and understood something about my innocence. She knew the shock that I would feel. She helped me see new things and saved me from an embarrassing situation. But most of all, she was a companion to talk to in a quiet coffee shop.

  I continued travel about the country, meeting new faces, learning little bits here and there, trying to fit a 10,000 piece puzzle together. It had no box cover picture for reference. All the pieces looked the same. I did have some fun. I got to go dancing. I had many quiet dinner conversations. They were indeed good times. The memories managed to get me through David’s disintegrating life at home. But they were fleeting. The little bits and pieces were not enough to sustain me or provide an opportunity to truly socialize in “my” role.

  David was confident, smart, and could put a square peg in a round hole if he had to. He could give a public presentation on a moment’s notice. He could pull teams together. Cindi was young and uninitiated. She had no social reference to continue her development. But David was being erased from the scene.

  I had come to know that my quest for the ultimate change, gender reassignment surgery (GRS), would require me to live life as a woman for this very reason. The life test would immerse me in a full time role. I also knew from the stories that I heard, there were many who did not make it. They would surrender. They would be literally be discarded as trash on the highway. Many would not survive, accepting suicide as the only way out. And most, after succeeding to obtain the ultimate prize, would live a lonely life spurned by our society. The prospects were dismal. Yet it was my dream.

  Revelation, part1

  So, there are these two friends Bob and Fred. They play basketball at the gym every day after work. One day as they are disrobing to get dressed in their gym clothes Bob notices Fred is wearing a pair of red panties. “Uh Fred, when did you start wearing women’s underwear?” Bob asks.

  “When my wife found them in the glove box of my car” Fred answers.

  My deepest secret, “I want to be a girl”, was still a secret. If there was one thing holding me on the edge of the pit it was that. I knew that I could not bear the thought of discovery. If Charlene found out, she would tell her mother. And if her mother knew, her entire family would soon know. It would not be long until my mother would know and then she in turn would tell my siblings. My mother couldn’t keep a secret very well either. I loved both Charlene’s mother and my own mother very much. But Pandora’s Box could never be opened. Its very existence could not be revealed. It must be hidden in a very secret place.

  If these people were to find out, I would not survive the discovery. The sense of shame that I would feel would be unbearable. I could not and would not live with people knowing this most embarrassing thing about myself. I knew that I would either commit suicide or have to leave my family. They could not know. I could not let the secret out.

  I tried so hard to keep everything in line, everything hidden, no clue detectable. But how can you hide a secret life? I did not know, I could not know, the pain and the suffering that revealing my secret would produce.

  My story, my feelings, and my desperations were not freely offered to anyone. The cloth of my being had to be unraveled thread by thread. This was perfomred mostly by external sources. I would not volunteer a single fact. I was terrified by what would most certainly be a religious assault on my faith in God, belief in myself, and love of my life and family. I was indeed justified in holding my closely hoarded feelings to myself as later events would prove.

  “What is this? Charlene yelled as she threw the undergarment at me. She had been away with her parents for the weekend.

  I had rented some movies to watch and settled in for a weekend alone at our home. I was going to keep the demon at bay for that weekend. I had only been out en femme a few times during my business travels. I still was not very good at it. I looked absolutely disgusting in drag. At the time, I still did not know what my condition was. I still did not know the enormity of what my future would dump in my lap. Although, I did think that I was a cross-dresser, that was as close as my feeble knowledge could admit.

  I retrieved the first tape that I would watch and pulled it from its protective sleeve. As I put it into the VCR I noted the two little reels that contained the tape. And the Squirrel started to spi
n its wheel. “I am going to sit here and enjoy this movie,” I told myself.

  Squirrel started up. “No one is here. Can Cindi come out and play?”

  “Oh come on, why do I have to go through this crap every single day of my life? I’m going to watch this movie,” my mind screamed back.

  I watched the movie. I don’t remember what it was. I don’t even remember if I liked it. Squirrel and I argued throughout the entire film.

  “Can Cindi come out and play?”

  “No, I’m going out for a burger.”

  Leaving the house and getting something to eat would perhaps help me put Squirrel off for a while. I loved burgers. In the afterlife, I would become known as burger queen at one job. It is also something I would have to unlike after I would be diagnosed with diabetes. But for the time in my mid twenties, burgers were the perfect food. I drove not to the first but the second McDonalds farther away. I thought the longer drive might help push these desires away. The burger was good. But Squirrel would not shut up for the entire time.

  Squirrel had figured out the strategy for the entire weekend. And it was easy. Nothing had to be hidden. All I really had to do was prepare for the contingency of Charlene returning early. She had taken our little son with her. I knew that I would hear her parent’s car arrive in the driveway giving me plenty of time to dodge to the basement for a quick change. All I had to do was to make sure I had a quick change of boy clothes in my office. I could lock the door while I changed.

  Squirrel knew that I would give in. My thoughts changed from resistance to total acceptance in one instant.

  I spent the rest of the weekend at home, en femme, watching video tapes, much time in personal introspection, and generally goofing off. The whole weekend. It was a very long time to be en femme. I had never done it. I loved it. For two days I enjoyed the feeling of who I was wanted to be. For two days I would endure the loneliness of self condemnation. It terminated with unaided sexual release on cue as it always did and I went to the bathroom to clean it up. And that was when it must have happened. I left that piece of underwear in the bathroom. I cleaned up everything and carefully put it back in the special hiding place. But IT was left out. IT would be my undoing. I did not know that IT would be found.

  Charlene did find it. As I returned from work, she confronted me. I did not know what to say. I stood there dumbfounded. Charlene taught piano lessons and the doorbell rang signaling the arrival of her first lesson of the day. She ran to the door with tears in her eyes. I knew that she would be occupied for at least a half hour, the duration of the lesson.

  I retreated to my office and thoughtfully composed a letter. I had twenty minutes to compose it. I did not want to give it to her. I would leave it on the counter and then run away until she could read it and perhaps reflect upon it for a while.

  Dear Charlene,

  The clothing is mine. I am not having an affair. I don’t know how to tell you this but all of my life I have been a cross-dresser. I have always been embarrassed by this and I have never told you. For this I am extremely sorry. Please, please don’t tell anyone. We can talk about this when I come home.

  I love you, David

  I left in my car, and headed out for a burger. I was indeed the lowly serpent of Eden. I was thinking it would be nice to be a mouse and then I could run out into the freeway. A car would crush me and it would be over. A serpent could certainly do that. Squirrel had retreated into a corner of its cage. If I had the will and the power I would have ended my life right then and there with a snap of my fingers. How would I ever live through this?

  I returned home well after Charlene had finished her lessons and put our little boy to bed. She was angry and her face flushed red. It was clear she had been crying. Charlene’s strong will revealed itself with every question demanded, not asked.

  “What is this?” she demanded as she waved the letter at me. “Why did you never tell me?” she further demanded as the tears welled up in her eyes.

  She had every right to be furious at me. She had every right to demand a divorce on the spot. She had every right to have me shot. I can’t express how deeply sorry I felt for all of this. How could I have betrayed my true love? The woman I cherished? I had no answer to that question.

  “I’m very sorry Charlene. I can’t express just how sorry I am. This sadness I have burns through to my very soul. This passion, this deep dark secret I have has haunted me my entire life.”

  “I don’t believe this!” she interrupted as she threw her hands into the air and dropped into the couch. She was truly sobbing now. “You’ve known this your whole life? And you have never thought to tell me?”

  “Charlene, I have known this my whole life. When I was on my mission I had a long talk with my mission president who was then and still is a general authority of the church. He told me that it was good I had come into discuss it with him. He told me that I should come home, get married, attend my meetings, have a family, and study the scriptures.”

  “Oh!” she cried sobbing with her face in her hands “How could this ever happen to me? What did I do to deserve this. How could you do this to me?”

  “Charlene, I could call a therapist. I have a name and phone number for someone who was recommended.”

  “Are you telling me that you are crazy too?” she demanded.

  At the time, we had a common understanding that you only talked to a therapist if you were really crazy. Therapists couldn’t help normal people with normal problems. But, I did think that I was crazy.

  “No, I am not crazy,” I shakily stated. I knew better but couldn’t dump that on her too.

  “Oh, Oh,” she sobbed as she swayed back and forth “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

  “I could call my mission president and we could both go and talk to him. I know that a few other missionaries have talked to him.”

  “Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” she said flatly, with no emotion.

  We agreed that was the thing to do. For the rest of the night, the gloom wafted from room to room pushing the stench of guilt, assaulting my senses. The clock audibly announced every single second of every single minute of every hour of the night. Rest would not come to the miserable and deceitful pervert.

  The very next day at work, I called the church office building and asked to speak to Elder Bradford. “Elder Bradford’s office,” answered the receptionist.

  “May I speak with Elder Bradford please?”.

  “I’m sorry but Elder Bradford isn’t available right now. May I take a message?”

  “Yes I answered. I am one of his missionaries. I have a problem in my marriage that may end in divorce if he can’t talk to us. Can you please ask him if we might have a meeting with him?” I gave her my name and contact information.

  “I can surely pass along your message, David. I’m sure that he’ll want to talk to you. He always makes time for his missionaries.”

  “Thank you very much,” I concluded as I hung up the phone.

  I could not handle my projects at work. My mind hung in limbo contemplating black clouds of uncertainty. I really need to complete a cost justification for a proposed engineering enhancement. The work was straightforward enough. I could work it up by pulling numbers out of the air if I had to. But I wanted to do it right. I picked up my pencil and started working on it. Numbers turned to doodles and the black clouds kept passing by, becoming more ominous with each passing minute.

  Elder Bradford’s office returned the call two hours later. “Hi David, Elder Bradford will be happy to see you on Wednesday at 2 PM.”

  “Thank you so much” I replied as I hung up the phone.

  “Before you go back to wallowing in your misery” said Squirrel, “you need to call Charlene.”

  “Yes I should.”

  I dialed my home phone number. “Hello” answered Charlene.

  “Charlene, I have an appointment with Elder Bradford on Wednesday at 2 PM,” I said and waited for a reply. She paused for q
uite a while as I imagined her emotions welling up. I knew that her life had been crushed. I was the one who did it.

  “Good. I’ll see you later.” And she hung up.

  I arrived home on time for once that day. I usually worked late and considering the circumstances it would have been much easier to stay at the office. I knew that the air would be thick with tension at home. I would endure the piercing stare of a love betrayed all night long.

  Charlene met me at the door. She looked awful. “My mother called today.”

  “Did you tell her everything?”

  “No”, she replied. But she could tell that something was wrong. I did tell her that we were going to talk to Elder Bradford.” Charlene had a wonderful way of communicating without saying it specifically. I could only imagine the conversation:

  “What’s wrong?”

  “David and I are having problems. And we are going to talk to his mission president on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Why do you have to talk to his mission president?” (this was a pretty big step going over the local chain of command in the church clear to the top.)

  “I can’t tell you Mom, I promised.”

  “Don’t tell me that he is sleeping around.”

  “No that’s not it Mom. I told you that I can’t tell you.”

  “Well is he homosexual?”

  “No Mom that’s not it either, I can’t tell you.”

  And so the conversation would go until her mother would ask the correct question. Based on later interactions with her family, I got the impression that they thought I was gay but had not consummated my desires. These were my impressions, I did not know for sure.

  These next two days would be living hell for all of us.

  Elder “Blood N Guts” Bradford, as we called him in the field, called us into his office. The offices in the church building were nice but not extravagant. We sat down in two chairs placed squarely in front of his spacious desk. I looked at Elder Bradford. He hadn’t changed much.