Date: Sat, 25 Nov 2000 17:31:26 EST
From: DEANECHRIS@aol.com
Subject: TAG 2 - Best of Both Worlds.  TG - Magical/Scifi

Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist 2 - BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

By Deane Christopher

DEANECHRIS@aol.com

Edited by Constance Grant

Copyright 2000


****************************************************************************
	Several years ago I wrote the story HEELS which told the tale of a
man and a magical pair of stiletto heel pumps which allowed the gentleman
the ability to change into a fully functional female on a purely elective,
part-time bases.  Well, as fate would have it, another pair of those rather
unique high heels has come into the possession of yet another young man.
In a serialized, five part Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist (TAG), I have
tried to explore how an avowed heterosexual male might use such heels to
his advantage.

TAG 1 - Practice Makes Perfect
TAG 2 - Best of Both Worlds
TAG 3 - Inside Trader
TAG 4 - Balancing Act
TAG 5 - Confession is Good for the Soul

****************************************************************************

	As expected, Joe awoke that Saturday to find his gray tabby, Tom,
curled up in between his lower legs.  Jeri, his precocious and
unpredictable tortoiseshell, lay, as was her wont, nestled up against his
midsection.

	"Sorry, guys!  Hate to do this to you, but your dad's got to get
up!"

	Though he wished he could postpone the inevitable, Joe, aware that
Beth Hammerman was expecting a call from his feminine alter ego, got out of
bed and headed straight way to the bathroom.  There, after brushing his
teeth, he jumped in the shower, hoping that its' refreshing waters would
help invigorate him.  Toweling himself off, Joe pondered over the matter of
whether or not he should shave.  Aware of the fact that he was planning on
spending the day as a physically functioning member of the opposite sex,
Joe came to the conclusion that he might as well just forego the hassle of
shaving.

	Returning to the A-frame's loft bedroom, Joe gather up the articles
of clothing that he had discarded upon going to bed in the wee hours of the
morning.  Knowing that those magical, transsexualizing pumps of his would,
in the do course of things, make them as fresh as if they had just be
laundered, Joe, instead of going through the rigmarole of procuring a new
set of underwear, donned the set he worn the day before.  Rousting a
somewhat perturbed Jeri from where she had just parked herself atop his
jeans, the very same jeans, which had been, but a few short hours before, a
slinky pair of leg flattering lycra-spandex leggings, Joe picked them up
and proceeded to slip them on.  Holding off on his stone washed denim shirt
for the moment, Joe nonchalantly sat on the bed and, with a few grunts and
groans escaping his lips, managed what was for that moment in time for him,
the arduous the task of pulling on those previously worn socks of his.
Standing and using the toe of his right foot, Joe skillful finagled those
daintily sized high heels of his into an upright position, where upon he,
with the practiced ease that comes with time, stepped into first the left
one and then the right one.

Pumps that should have only accommodated the feet of an extremely petite
woman's perceptible grew larger as those manly toes of Joe's passed within
the magical confines of their stylish U-throats.  Likewise, Joe's average
sized masculine looking feet underwent an almost instantaneous downsizing
and startling reapportionment, becoming, within half a heartbeat, the high
arching instep of an average sized female's.

Had Joe waited but a couple more seconds, as he had done on numerous
occasions in the past, he could have withdrawn one or the other of his
newly feminized feet, only to find that its' toenails had become magically
coated with a very flattering, understated shade of nail gloss.  Then, with
the knowledge that his socks were already well on their way to becoming
some sort of nylon hosiery, Joe took a moment to jot down the approximate
time he had donned the heels.

	Earlier on, relying on the trial and error method, Joe had come to
the realization that the heels not only turned him into the girl of his
dreams while wearing them, but they sustain him in girl form for a like
amount of time once he took them off.

	That's to say that if Joe wore the heels for an hour and then
removed them, he would remain a female for another hour afterwards.
Likewise, if he kept them on for full twenty-four hours, once he took them
off, he would maintain his femininity for another twenty-four hour period.
Borrowing and bastardizing the term residual nitrogen time, a term he had
learned when taking a course to become a certified scuba diver, Joe
classified his additional time spent as a crotch creased member of the
sugar and spice and everything nice club as residual girl time.

Careful tracking and accurate documentation was the key to Joe's past
success in avoiding embarrassing situations that might arise due to his
rather unusual predilection to spending a good deal of his leisure time as
a functional female.  Though he had come awful close to slipping up on a
few more occasions than he would like to admit, all things considered, Joe
had a pretty good track record managing his allocated residual girl time.
While it was true that his self imposed femininity had caused him to be an
hour or so late for work on several occasions, those occurrence were few
and far between.

Though Joe was no where near being what one might refer to as a neatness
freak, he did try to keep the rustic A-frame that he had inherited from his
parent's reasonable tidy.  However, though it generally irritated the hell
of him to do so, Joe had this pesky and persistent foible about liking a
fresh made bed to crawl into whenever he or, given the prevailing
circumstances, she went to bed each night.  That being the case, Joe, upon
pulling on that previous worn denim shirt of his, but leaving it unbuttoned
for the moment, busied himself with the mundane and often irritating task
of making the bed.  Moving about that king-sized bed that he religiously
reserved for use by his feminine alter ego, Joe, not wishing to catch a
glimpse of the bizarre absurdity of his rapidly herifying physique in one
of the room's several mirrors, kept his eyes averted.

	Having just fluffed the first of the bed's two pillows, Joe became
keenly aware that he had reached the point in his ongoing
transsexualization where his primary sexual equipment was on the verge of
once again being damn near instantaneously retrofitted into that of a
woman's.  Hugging the pillow for all it was worth, Joe stopped what he was
doing in order to savor the erotic, sub-orgasmic rush that wantonly
heralded the wondrous event of being fitted out with his very own little
honey pot.

	Half tempted to say, 'The hell with it!' and shit-can her plans for
the remainder of the morning; climb back into her nearly made bed and
there, go for the gold, Jo, feeling like she had an obligation to return
Beth Hammerman's call, allowed reason to prevail.  Though it took every
ounce of will power she could muster and then some, Jo managed, by the hair
of that still very masculine cast chinny chin-chin of hers, to summon the
wherewithal to ride roughshod over those newly imposed and damn near
insatiable carnal cravings that relentlessly assaulted her.  Though the
urge to reach down and grope the living shit out of those revamped loins of
hers never completely left her, a sexually frustrated Jo returned to the
simple task at hand.  Re-fluffing the pillow she had, but a moment before,
been squeezing the hell out of, Jo positioned it carefully before moving
around to the other side of the bed to repeat the process with the other
satin pillowcase ensconced headrest.

	Round about the time Jo had finished with the chore of making the
bed, she was well aware of the fact that her hips had splayed, her tummy
had flattened and her waist had constricted.  In other words, at that
precise moment in time, Jo was already in possession of roughly two thirds
of the fetching, man-troubling, hourglass figure that the heels were
incrementally bestowing upon her

	Early on, Jo had come to realize that the high heels possessed a
rather nifty ability that allowed her to instantaneously transform any
article of clothing that she was wearing into any other article of clothing
that she might wished to be wearing.  All she had to do to accomplish this
rather remarkable feat was to close her eyes and formulate a mental picture
of herself dressed the way she wished to be dressed.  Then, upon opening
those ever so enchanting baby blues of hers, Jo would find herself attired
in an exact duplicate of the apparel that she mentally designed for
herself.

That morning, in effort on her part to keep things casual, Jo formulated a
mental image of herself decked out in a pair of ever so flattering,
skintight, wear-faded blue jeans; the heels and a smartly tailored,
shirt-styled, shimmering pink satin blouse.  Deciding it was high time for
her to head down to the kitchen and eat some breakfast, Jo, having scanned
the bedroom to make doubly sure everything was in order, made for the
spiral staircase that granted access to the floor below.

	Starting her descent with a pair of pre-pubescent girlish nubbins,
Jo reached the downstairs landing fitted out with an ample and nicely
conical rack of truly outstanding chest melons, the like of which would no
doubt make a whole bevy of other women extremely jealous of her.  Halting
her progress for a moment or two, Jo, cupping the underside of those nice
new mammary glands of hers, jostle them into a better positioning within
the sleek and dreamily sensual confines of the hot pink satin bra that her
T-shirt had correspondingly transmogrified itself into.  Though she could
hazard a pretty good guess as to what she would find, Jo, curious as all
get-out to see what the heels had made of those baggy boxer shots of hers,
sneaked a peek.  She had guessed right.  Those frumpy boxer shorts of hers
had become a sinfully skimpy pair of French-cut, bra matching, pink satin
bikini briefs.

	Halfway along the A-frame's central hallway en route to the rear of
the house and the kitchen, a contrary strand of strawberry blonde hair fell
across her face and in so doing, appraised Jo of the fact that her
transsexualization into a vibrant and gorgeous young woman was nearing
completion.  Looking to those callused and work ravaged manly mitts of
hers, Jo watched with rapt attention as the last vestige of her masculinity
was expunged.  Fingers that had been but a moment before the weathered,
gnarled, and big knuckled stubby stumps of a man who was not afraid to get
his hands dirty doing manual labor, had become the long, lovely and
expertly manicured fingers of a charming and fashionable young woman.

A short time later, having eaten a breakfast consisting of juice, a bowl of
cereal, two pieces of toast and a cup of decaf, Jo, though she was somewhat
reluctant to do so, figured that she better call Beth.  Topping off her cup
of decaf, Jo, mentally ran over the strategy she would employ while on the
phone with the very nice young lady that she - as a he - had made love to
the night before.  Making sure she was using the phone line she used only
when operating as a female, Jo took a deep soothing breath so as to
re-enforce her resolve and then and only then, dialed Beth Hammerman's
number.

	Before the phone completed a second ring, a breathlessly expectant
Beth answered, "Hello!"

	If the conversation was going to go the way Jo wanted it to go, she
knew she had to establish control right from the get-go!  "Beth!  It's me!
Jo!

	Then, in a calculated effort on her part to keep Beth from trumping
in and wresting control from her, Jo charge ahead, "Look!  I know you want
to tell me all about your date last night!  And, I assume from the message
you left on my answering machine that you had a really good time!  And, I
assure you that I want to hear all the gory details, but I'm sad to say
that I've got some errands to run this morning!  So, if it's all right with
you, how about the two of us meet somewhere for lunch and maybe some window
shopping afterwards?  You know, so you can tell me all about what went on
last night!"

	It was clear to Jo that Beth was busting a gut to tell her all
about her date, so much so that Jo had to repeatedly remind Beth that she
was already running late and therefore, didn't have time to chit-chat no
matter how much she really wanted to.  Assuming the role of a tender
hearted, but nonetheless relentless taskmaster, Jo tactfully managed to get
Beth to agree to meet her at the Brentwood Mall's food court around eleven
thirty that morning.

	With a, "Bye now!  See you at the food court around eleven thirty!"
Jo terminated the call and hung up the phone

	With the call to Beth behind her, a somewhat relieved Jo remained
at the kitchen table long enough to polished off her second cup of coffee.
Then, aware that she had a few hours to kill before heading down to the
mall, she decided to attend to a few things around the house that needed
attended to.  Putting in a load of wash, she returned to the mudroom off
the kitchen and there, made quick work of changing out the litter in Tom
and Jeri's litter-box.  Next, informing herself that she really needed to
do so more often, Jo got the vacuum out of the hall closet and gave the
whole downstairs a cursory once over with it.

	Then, upon realizing that it was getting late, triggering the
self-targeted admonishment that she had best get her ass in gear and get a
move on it, Jo availed herself of full length mirror that was mounted on
the inside surface of the downstairs' bathroom's hallway door.

	Egotism aside, Jo, viewing herself through the filter of that
extremely healthy an oft times lecherous leaning male libido of hers, knew
that she earned at the barest minimum, a solid rating of fifteen on a scale
of one to ten.  That's to say that Joe was not just cute or attractive or
even pretty.  She was all of those and more.  She was gorgeous.  Drop dead;
balls to the walls gorgeous.

Ever thankful of the fact that the heels' inherent magical wherewithal
negated her having to fuss with perfume, make-up, jewelry and all that
infuriating nonsense that normal women have to contend with on a day in day
out bases, Jo beamed a knowingly impish smile at herself.  Wishing to make
a slight adjustment, Jo closed her eyes and formed a mental picture of
herself with that lovely blonde hair of hers done up in a stylish and very
flattering French Braid.  Then, adhering to the admonition that an ounce of
prevention was worth a pound of cure, Jo took a step that was clearly
calculated to help her fiend of any untoward advances that the egotistical,
God's gift to women types might lavish on her while she was out in public.
Closing her eyes for a second time, Jo pictured a somewhat ostentatious
white gold, diamond crested engagement ring encircling the ring finger of
her left hand.

	Informing her cats that they best behave themselves while she was
out, Jo donned a lightweight leather jacket that quickly began to adjust
itself to better fit her femininely form.  She then picked up the small
black leather purse that her wallet had transmogrified into and headed for
the detached garage and the utilitarian Saturn sedan that had formerly
belonged to her mother.


* * *


	As Jo inserted the key in the ignition, she once again wished that
the heels possessed the magical wherewithal to affect her mom's car in very
much the same way they did her apparel.  While the Saturn had been a
reliable vehicle, not to mention a free one, Jo would have preferred
something sportier, something a little snazzier, something with a ragtop
and two seats.  Something along the lines of that MGB that she had owned
back when she first came into possession of the heels.  But, since beggars
couldn't be choosers, her mother's Saturn would have to suffice until Jo
could come up with the money to purchase a replacement for it.

	Flipping on the radio, Jo heard the opening strains of the song
'Three Times a Lady', a song she had long ago mentally linked to the heels
themselves.  And, that got her to thinking about how she had come into
possessions of those stiletto-heeled pumps of hers in the first place.

	Long before Joe's mother got her own car and drivers license she
loved to spend her Saturday mornings going to yard sales and flea markets.
However, putting it mildly, Joe's dad didn't.  Truth be told: Joe's father
hated going yard saling with a passion.  So, in an effort to give his dad a
break, once a month Joe, playing the part of the dutiful son, would relieve
his father from obligatory drudgery of having to chauffeur his mom and her
one sister around.

	So anyhow, one Saturday morning some ten years prior, in mid to
late September, after an hour or so of unproductive yard saling, Joe, on
his mother's urging, drove her and his Aunt Clara over to a huge,
combination tent and building housed flea market.  Having agreed on a
prearranged time to meet back at the car, Joe, whose interest varied from
that of the two women, parted company with his mother and her elder sister
and took off to browse around the place on his own

	An hour later as he was in the process of putting a real hurting on
a hot dog he had just purchased, Joe passed out from under one of the huge
open sided tents only to enter another across the way.  There, as he
meandered down the tent's rather congested central aisle, out of the corner
of his eye, Joe caught sight of the high-heeled pumps.  They were sitting
upright amid what looked to him to be a whole hodgepodge of unrelated
whatnots and assorted doodads, the sort of random junk that his Aunt Clara
sarcastically referred to as OPTs (Other People's Treasures).

	Joe had always thought that the classic, pointy toed high heel pump
was the epitome in the design of what one might think of as fashionable
women's footwear.  Being an aficionado of the tantalizingly sculptured
female leg, he felt that the stiletto heel pump lent the otherwise
unattractive appendage of the female foot a sense of elegance and extremely
alluring sensual grace.  However, as much as he like seeing women in heels,
Joe was not so enamored with the shoes themselves to be considers as having
even a mild level foot fetish.  Heels, much like clothing, makeup, perfume
and jewelry, were mere add-ons, employed to enhance, embellish and package
the final overall product and make it as appealing and presentable as
possible.

	Why Joe was drawn to the heels like he was that auspicious Saturday
still mystified and, to a lesser extent, intrigued the hell out of him.

	Oddly enough, to Joe's way thinking, the extremely obese and
slovenly dressed woman whose table the pumps resided upon seemed as
perplexed by their presence among the various articles she had up for sale
as he did.  However, though the woman appeared to have been momentarily
taken aback by the presence of the heels, she was nevertheless keenly aware
that Joe presented her with yet another opportunity to make a quick sale.

As had happened so many times before, someone walking by the overly large
woman's table had most likely seen something that tickled their fancy and,
more than likely, had set the pumps down in order to further examine
whatever it was that had caught their eye in the first place.  Then,
without thinking, they had up and moved on, forgetting to reclaim the heels
they had probably purchased earlier in the day as they did so.  Applying
the finders keepers losers weepers clause that governs acquisition and
procurement of saleable items, the obese opportunist, with a blatant
disregard for the fact that the heels weren't really hers to sell, was not
about to look a gift horse in the mouth.  The glint in Joe's eyes had
marked him as a prospective buyer and the woman, in an effort to make a
fast buck or two, was not about to let him get by her without at least an
attempt at making a sale.

"Tell you what, young fellow!" she hoarsely bellowed in an effort to be
heard over the song 'Three Times A Lady' that was obnoxiously blaring out
one of the flea market's tinny sounding PA speakers that was mounted on the
pole directly behind her.  "Five dollars and they're yours!"

Though Joe hated bartering and had not given any thought to purchasing the
heels, for some reason or another he hastily countered, "Tell you what!
Make it two and you've got a deal!"

	Fearing that the real owner would return and reclaim them at any
moment, the woman, acting as if she were doing Joe a big favor, replied,
"Alright, sweetie!  Here!  Let me put them in a plastic bag for you..."

	A moment later, as a thoroughly bewildered and irately bamboozled
Joe Grant began to once again make his way down the tent's table bracketed
concourse, he began to mental chastise himself. 'Just what in the hell were
you thinking?  I mean, whatever possessed you to buy these shoes in the
first place?  You know, because for one thing: they're not in style now!
And, for another, they're really, really small!  You know, so it's a cinch
that you're never going to be able to give them to anybody who will ever be
able to wear them!  You know, so you aren't going to be able to use them as
a Christmas gift or a birthday present...

	'Basically - Asshole! - what you did was: you just went and wasted
two dollars!' Joe internally fumed, feeling as foolish as all get-out!
'And, do you know what you ought to do with these dick teaser specials you
just went and bought?  You ought to just give them the old heave-ho and
toss 'em in that trashcan over there!'

	And, Joe came within a hair's breath of doing just that.  Striding
purposely over to one of the red painted fifty-five gallon drum that served
as waste receptacles at the flea market, Joe was on the verge of dropping
the shopping bag containing the heels into its' crud encrusted maw when,
all of a sudden, he thought better of it.

	Though the 'why' and the 'wherefore' eluded him, for some elusive
reason that he could not even begin to fathom or comprehend, Joe could not
muster the necessary wherewithal to part company with the heels.  As unable
to explain the impetus behind why he had purchased the heels in the first
place, Joe found that he could not provide a rational explanation as to why
he wished to hold on to them.  All he knew was that he was not about to
throw them away, half suspecting that when push came to shove, he wouldn't
want to give them away either.

	The heels were his now!  And, though he harbored no illusions about
ever wearing them himself, given the fact that they were one: two small,
and two: women's shoes, Joe was not about to part with them.  Though it
would take him quite awhile to grasp and categorize the extraordinary
emotional surge that had influenced his impulsive decision to first
purchase and then, retain possession of them, Joe eventually became aware
of the fact the Biblical term covet clearly delineated his feelings
surrounding the pumps.

	All of a sudden, Joe, who was starting to feel like some perverted
fiendish ghoul, realized that if he showed up at the car with bag in hand,
his mother would want to know what he had bought.  And, that would only
lead to more questions.  Questions that Joe could no more answer than get
pregnant and have a baby.

	Realizing that he had a problem on his hands, Joe, having seen the
very item that would solve that problem a few tents back, hurriedly began
to retrace his steps.  Luck was with him.  The moderately large molded
plastic toolbox he had eyed up earlier had not been sold as yet.  Without
haggling, Joe coughed up the ten dollars asking price and the case was his.
Then, in an after thought, Joe also purchased a combination lock from the
very same guy he had bought the toolbox from.  Lifting out the removable
tray, Joe carefully placed the bag containing the heels inside the toolbox.
Replacing the tray to its' nifty molded perch inside the upper rim of the
box, Joe pooped the lock out of its' blister pack and, having tucked the
torn-off piece of cardboard packaging that display the lock's combination
in his wallet, Joe secure the toolbox with it.

	Oddly enough, the heels remained locked away and all but forgotten
in that toolbox for the next four months.  It was only when Joe moved out
of his parents' house and into his own apartment across town that he was
reminded of his impulsive and thoroughly illogical purchasing of them.

	Several weeks after moving into his own place, while he was still
attending to the irksome chore of unpacking his belongings, Joe got around
to opening the toolbox.  Taking a minute to examine the heels, Joe, having
once again castigated himself for having purchased them in the first place,
nonchalantly placed them on top of his chest of drawers where they would
sit, functioning as little more than stiletto heeled dust collectors for
another month and a half.

Still damp from an unusually early evening shower, a bathrobe attired Joe
Grant returned to his bedroom only to hear the song 'Three Times A Lady'
pleasantly wafting from the clock radio that sat unobtrusively on the
nightstand.  Why, he didn't know, but for some reason or another, that song
made him think about the heels.  Walking over to his chest of drawers, he
picked one up and began to curiously examine it as he moved to the bed,
turned about and promptly sat down upon it.  Having used his towel to
remove most, but far from all of the dust that had accumulated, Joe began
to turn the shoe this-a-way and then, that-a-way, endeavoring to examine
the pump from every conceivable angle.

	Though Joe knew he had no way to determine whether he was making
the correct assumption or not, he tended to believe that the heels were
handmade and that the shoemaker, if indeed there had been one, was a
top-notch artisan. Interestingly enough, lending support to Joe's
supposition, the heels bore no sign of a manufacturer's logo or, for that
matter, any discernable marking that would serve to indicate what size they
were.

	There was one thing that was obvious.  The heels were small, sized
to fit the feet of a very petite woman.

	Just for kicks and giggles, Joe, hoisted his left leg and set the
outside run of its' left ankle on top of and slightly behind the crest of
his right knee.  He then positioned the high heel he had been so intently
examining up alongside of his average sized manly foot in order to gauge
just how really small the heels were.  Needless to say, his foot looked
huge next to the daintily sized pump.  Next, Joe moved the U-throat of the
shoe forward, placing it slightly in front and a little below those stubby
and gnarled toes of his, so as to provide himself with a better perspective
on just how narrow there were.

	So what does Joe do next?

	He does exactly what any red-blooded American male, operating in
the privacy his own bedroom, would do in a similar situation.  Knowing that
the heel would never even come close to fitting that manly gunboat of his,
Joe nevertheless playfully attempts to try the shoe on.

	Using his big toe as more or less a guidepost, Joe, fully aware
that he is engaging in what will no doubt prove to be a fruitless and
foolish endeavor, gingerly maneuvered the pump's U-throat about it.
Thinking that he will meet with daunting resistance with each passing
second, Joe is rendered awestruck and then, flabbergasted as the sleek
stiletto heeled pump slips easily and effortlessly onto his lower
appendage.

	"What the..." Joe, in a knee-jerk reaction, exclaimed aloud.

	Joe could not believe what had just happened.  A shoe that
shouldn't have fit - did.  And, shocking the shit out of him even more so,
he realized that the pump fit comfortably.  While being snug, it didn't
crimp his toes or feel in anyway uncomfortable or constrictive.

	It was as if the heel had been handcrafted to fit his foot and his
foot alone.

	No.  That was not it at all.  Joe was quick to realize that it was
not the pump alone that had undergone some sort of instantaneous up sizing
in order to accept the intrusion his foot.  Correspondingly, his left foot
appeared to have undergone a radical downsizing in order to accept the
pump.  While the high heel appeared to be perceptibly larger then he
remember it being, a stare and compare with his unshod right foot informed
a alarmingly baffled and increasingly bewildered Joe Grant that his left
foot was not just a little bit smaller than his right one.  It was in fact,
a whole hell of a lot smaller.  And, not only was it smaller, it was
nowhere near as manly looking as its' unshod mate.

	Truth be told, though Joe was as yet unready to acknowledge the
fact, what was unarguable a woman's shoe, fetchingly adorned want was
unquestionable a woman's foot.  And, not only had his foot become that of a
female's, but so too his ankle and the shin portion of his lower leg.
Incredulously, Joe looked on in horror as the heel-induced femininity began
to claim the lower extent of his left leg, rendering it hairless and
provocatively smooth and creamy as it did so.

Then, just when his calf muscle was about halfway through the male libido
affronting process of being progressively emasculated and thusly feminized,
Joe frantically reached down and plucked the heel from off his foot.
Though it took an extremely tense moment or two for Joe to notice any
perceivable return to its' formerly manly stature, relief soon flooded over
him as he began to take note of the fact that his left leg was once again
becoming not only masculine but, hirsute as well.

	Needless to say, his first experience with the heels was a very,
very unnerving and a thoroughly unsettling one.  However, after taking a
good fifteen minutes to mull over what just had occurred, Joe, thoroughly
intrigued with the myriad of wildly imagined possibilities, felt himself
ready for a return engagement with the pumps.  Opting to see if the other
pump would produce the same sort of results that its' mate had, Joe placed
it upright on the floor before him and adroitly managed to insert his right
foot into it.  Using the once again pettily sized left pump as a gauge, Joe
confirmed the fact that the heel ensconcing his right foot had in fact
becoming perceptible larger.  In like fashion, though he already knew this
to be the case, another stare and compare informed him that he had not been
hallucinating before, due to the fact that his stiletto heeled right foot
was indeed a good deal smaller and unquestionable daintier than his unshod
left foot was.

	Still uncertain as to how he really felt about what was happening
to him, Joe, intrigued as he was, waited until the heel induced
feminization process had laid claim to his right knee before he once again
reached down and removed the pump.

	Repeated experiments followed all throughout the evening in which
Joe donned first one, and then the other, and then both of the
transsexualizing heels.  However, even though he incrementally allowed the
process to work steadily up his lower appendages, Joe was careful to never
let it reach a point where it lay claim to his loins.  Though he came
within an ominous and fretfully acute RCH (red cunt hair) of saying: "The
hell with it!" and allowing the process to continue unabated, Joe allowed
reason to prevail.  Before progressing any further along with his
experiments, he knew he needed some time to think over the practicality of
his doing so.  There were a whole shitload of questions he needed to ask
himself, and a lot of jumbled emotions that had to be sorted through before
he took the next step and found out just how much of a female those heels
of his would end up turning him into.

	Apprehension and expectation made for a fretful night of sleep for
our young Mr. Joseph Grant.  He tossed and turned from the time he went to
bed till the time got up the next morning, due to the fact that he was
unable to rid himself of the damn near omnipresent thoughts of how the
heels had affected his anatomy.

	Likewise, his day at work was almost a total washout.  Having
already pretty much come to the conclusion that, regardless of the risk he
was incurring, he would take his experiments with the pumps to the next
logical level that evening, Joe had a hell of a hard time concentrating on
matters pertaining to work.

	Over and over and over again, Joe kept asking himself the very same
questions.  'Will the heels really turn my you-know-what into a vagina?
And, if they do, will I like having one?  Will I end up with breast?  If
so, will they be little ones?  Or, will they be great big ones?  Or,
what...

	'And, what if I let them do whatever they're going to do?  Will
they end up turning me all the way into a woman?  I mean, will I think and
act like a woman?  And, if they do, will I all of a sudden start finding
that men, rather then women, are my cup of tea?  Or, will I just look like
a woman?  You know, physically...

	'And, let's say they do turn me into a woman, I wonder just what
kind of woman I'll end up becoming!  I mean, given how terrific these legs
of mine looked last night, it's a fairly safe bet that I might end up a
pretty one!  Maybe, if I'm real lucky, even a beautiful one...

	'But, that begs the question: do I really want to be a woman?'

	The answer to that question was a big, fat and emphatic - no!  Joe
liked being a man.  However, though he did, given the opportunity to find
out what it was like to be a woman, on purely elective, part time bases,
Joe, being totally honest with himself, had to admit that it was certainly
an intriguing notion that had a whole raft of positive possibilities.

	But, that lead directly to the next series of questions. 'If the
heels do in fact change me into a woman, will I be able to change back by
merely taking them off?  And, what in the hells happens if I don't turn
back into a man again?  I mean, am I really prepared to live out the rest
of my life as a woman if such should happen?'

	Once again, the answer to that question was a big, fat,
emphatically resounding - no!  There was no way Joe could see himself
living the day to day life of a female.  He liked being a man far too much
to want to be a woman on a full time bases.

	However, if the heels worked the way Joe hoped and prayed they
would, allowing him to transform himself into a female on a purely
elective, part bases, he could have the best of both worlds.  Through their
judicious use, Joe knew that they might afforded him the unique opportunity
to get first hand knowledge of how the other half lived, knowledge he could
then employ to its fullest advantage.

	In others words, if the heels functioned like he kind of thought
they might, Joe could become an inside trader in the grand Game of Love.

	And, that realization begged the question: 'Was it worth the risk?'

	Though Joe waffled throughout the day, when push came to shove, he
was more inclined to think that it was worth the risk, rather than not.

	Stopping at a fast food for a quick bite to eat on the way, Joe
returned to his apartment and there, made a beeline for the bedroom.
Stripping off his clothes, he put on his trusty terrycloth bathrobe.
Plucking the heels from off his chest of drawers, he then moved to the bed
and plopped his ass down upon it.  Taking a deep breath to reinforce his
resolve and with the fervent hope that he was not about to embark on a one
way trip into the mysterious realms of womanhood, starting with his left
foot and moving directly on to his right foot, Joe donned the heels.

	Several minutes later, with serious doubts as to whether he was
doing a wise thing or not, Joe, who was becoming as horny as all get-out
regardless of the trepidation he was feeling, stilled himself for the
anticipated change that was about to be enacted on his loins.  Then, as Joe
craned his neck over to get a bird's eye view of what was happening, within
the encapsulated time span of something just shy of thirty seconds, his
male genitalia fluidly and erotically reconstituted itself into that of a
female's.  And, as it did so, Jo's arms and legs prickled into a multitude
of Goosebumps, as jolts of pure, unadulterated, sub-orgasmic pleasure
sensually coursed and cavorted all throughout his physicality, threatening
in a most compelling way to override his resolve to abort the process
before he was completely female.

	Though she dearly wanted to reach down and grope the livin' shit
out of herself and there by, begin a thorough exploration of that new,
nifty and neatly tucked away sexual apparatus of hers, reason stilled Jo's
hand.  Though she was loathed to do so, round about the time that the
upwardly flowing femininity had reached her navel, Jo reluctantly reached
down and quickly plucked the heels from off her feet.

	Trouble was, the prior episode had left Jo feeling as horny as
hell.  So horny in fact that as Jo's manhood began to reassert itself, it
clearly evidenced just how sexually torqued and turned on Joe was.  Rushing
to the bathroom and from there, into the shower stall, Joe, as he did on a
regular on going bases, especially so when he was wallowing in a dating
lull, took the matter in hand, as he sought release from the crass carnal
need that had beset him.

	Fifteen minutes later, Joe was back in the bedroom for another go
around with the heels.  Oddly enough, as soon as he put the heels back on,
his penis, as if anticipating what was to come, came to immediate
attention.  Then, without any need to jump in and lend a hand, on the cusp
of being revamped into the elusive nub of a woman's clitoris, Joe manly
member erupted, launching a hefty projectile-like wad of semen arching
towards the ceiling.

	Having allowed the sexual re-structuring of her body to progress a
little further up her torso then she had the previous time, Jo reached the
stage where she was just beginning to feel her chest distend outwards.
Though she was loathed to do so, having reached the benchmark she had set
for herself, Jo once again prudently reached down and divested herself of
the heels.

	Twenty minutes later, at the point where she sported an extremely
promising pair of adolescent nubbins, Jo, once again removed the heels and
so, triggered what she had come to think of as her elastic and ever so
erotic return to maleness.  Roughly Forty-five minutes later, a pair of
rather ample, nicely conical and super-sensitive mammary glands became Jo's
undoing.  Though she had planned on once again pulling plug at that
particular juncture, all those new erogenous zones of hers weren't about to
allow Jo the necessary mental wherewithal that would allow her to ignore
them a moment more.  They yearned for attention and Jo found that she could
no longer deny them their pleasure.  Cravenly, with her left hand toying
with the nipple and corresponding areola of her right breast and her right
one, groping the liven' shit out of that newly installed pussy of hers, Jo
became subjugated to those wanton needs of her manly entrenched libido

Being a neophyte at the fine and ever so pleasurable art of female
masturbation, Jo, unaware of the vast amounts of luxurious pleasure she was
denying herself, threw caution to the wind as she began to none to gently
rub and tweak herself into the self-aggrandizing, body-bucking sexual
hissy-fit.

All to soon, her self-targeted manipulations culminated, ushering in the
madly careening and recklessly kaleidoscoping rush of multi-orgasmic
ecstasy.

	With a voice that purred and reeked with a raw and eager
sensuality, a voice that she was as yet unaware that she possessed. Jo,
faintly extolled, "Holy shit!  That was fantastic!  Absolutely fantastic...

	"I mean, I knew women had it good!  But, I never - Ever! - knew
they had it that good!

	"I mean, that was wonderful!  Absolutely wonderful...


* * *


	A few minutes later, a still quivering Jo reluctantly returned to
the here and now, only to realize that, somewhere along the line, the heel
induced transsexualization had run its' course and that every last vestige
of her former manhood had been expunged.  Physically, she was all woman!
Her mental state was something that still had to be determined.  Though she
was clearly ensconced within a woman's body, she still perceived herself as
the man she had been born to be.  The question was: did she still think
like a man?"

	The mirror mounted on the door of her bathroom's wall mounted
medicine cabinet gave Jo her first indication that, mental speaking, she
still retained a very manly attuned mind.  And, if her mind was not still a
man's mind, there was no getting around the fact that her libido was
definitely that of a man's.

	One quick look was all it took for Jo to fall madly in love-lust
with her new femininely re-vamped self.

	The heels, she was quick to realized, had turned her into a lesbian
narcissist of the First Water.  For there, reflected upon the mirror
surface, was the brazen, blonde haired nymphomaniac that had been
conceived, cast and then so loving nurtured in the sex crazed crucible of
her own mind's eye.  That's to say that Jo had been turned into the
physical personification of her own wet dreams.  Though she lack the
necessary sexual equipment, equipment that engorged massive amounts of
blood to render itself hard and firm and thereby, ready willing and able to
penetrate the female form, that new body of hers responded in the only
manner available to it.  That's to say those sexually upgraded titty-wittys
of Jo's began to mimic the johnson arm she had once possessed, while her
vagina, not to be left out of the equation, started in leaking love juices
like a sieve.

	Unable to restrain herself, Jo once again began to play a frenzied
and furious game of titty tweak and stink finger with herself.

	It was only later, as she lay brazenly spread eagled across her
bed, dreamily languishing in the blissful recollecting of her second,
self-engendered, multi-orgasmic episode, that Jo came to the startling
realization that while she still wore a robe, the robe she wore was no
longer made out of terrycloth.  Though it sill was of a deep navy blue
coloration, the robe that lay in random disarray about that ever so
heavenly new body of hers was of a finally tailored shimmering and sensual
satin nap.

	The heels, she gleefully summarized, had somehow affected her robe
as well as her body.  And, though she had yet to grasp the full
implications of exactly what that meant to her, that knowledge would lead
Jo to further experiments with the clothing business.  And, those
experiments would, within the next several days, lead Jo to the clear
understanding that she could be wearing any article of clothing that she
wished to be wearing when physical female.  All that was required of Jo was
for her to close those ever so compelling bedroom eyes of hers and
carefully construct a mental image of herself decked out in the apparel she
desired to be wearing and the heels would kick in with their magical
wherewithal and - Whalla! - she would open her eyes to find herself thusly
attired.

	That's to say that once Joe got the hang of how it worked, she
could go from wearing a skimpy thong bikini to a glamorously flowing
evening gown in the wink of an eye.  All to soon Jo would realize that the
permutations for self-target enticement and titillation were only limited
by the scope of her own vivid and, at times, somewhat wrapped and perverted
imagination.  In rapid succession, she would find that she could go from
being dressed as a French maid, to a high school cheerleader, to a Playboy
Bunny, to a harem girl, to a stiletto heel shod prima ballerina, or
whatever in the hell tickled her fancy at any given moment in time.

	But, that was all in her future.

	What concerned Jo then was now that she was a woman, would she ever
again become a man she had been?

	Realizing that there was no better time to find out then right then
and there, Jo, with a silent prayer to God to please let her be a man
again, reached down and removed the heels.

	Jo waited a moment and nothing happened.  She then waited another
moment and then, when still nothing happen that would indicate that she was
beginning the fluid transformation back into manhood, Jo panicked.  She
became unglued and then, on the heels of that, hysterical.  She felt the
urgent need to call someone - Anyone! - and ask them to help her.  She
toyed with the idea of getting dressed, climbing in her MGB and rushing
helter-skelter to the nearest hospital's emergency room and there,
imploring the doctors to do something to help her out of the ludicrous
predicament she found herself embroiled within.

	Then, just when she was on the verge of calling her parents and
informing them of the foolish thing she had done, Jo, even as she was
reaching for the phone, noticed that her hands were once again the hands of
a man.  Giddily, feeling like the weight of the world had been lifted from
her shoulders; Jo dashed into the bathroom.  There, relief flood over her
as she beheld the visage of that old male kisser of hers, wearing the
biggest shit-eating grin she had ever seen, moronically smiling back at her
from the mirrored surface of the medicine cabinet's door.

	Two hours later, Joe, having given the matter a lot of thought, got
up the gumption to don the heels again.  This time though, fighting hard
against the ever so persistent and pervasive urge to have at herself, Jo,
once she felt as if the transsexualization process had run its' course,
jotted down the time.  Waiting a full fifteen minutes, Jo once again made a
notation of the time and then bent down and remove the heels.  Fifteen
minutes after that, Jo was relieved to find herself changing back into a
man.

Over the next couples of weeks, Joe, through repeated nightly experiments,
discovered a wealth of information about the heels.  First, just to make
sure he was not going off half cocked and fooling himself in the process,
Joe got the residual girl time business down pat.  Then, especially so
during his even expanding stints as a femme fatale, he began to get a
handle on how he - as a she - could instantaneously access the heels'
inherent magical wherewithal and so, re-attire herself to suit any
capricious whim that arose to tickle that quirky fancy of hers.  Then,
quite by accident, Jo found that she was not locked into just being a
blonde haired Caucasian.  The heels gave her the leeway to assume the
physical attributes of any other ethnic heritage she wished.  Using the
same exact technique that she employed with her clothing, Jo could become a
woman of color.  She could easily pass as a Hispanic, Asian, Pacific
Islander, African, Middle Easterner or a composite mixture of any two or
more should she wish to do so.  She could be tall or short, dark skinned or
light.  Her hair could be long or short, straight or kinky.  However, while
the heels would allow her to assume a stature that was just a shade or two
shy of the lower limits of being pleasing plump, they wouldn't comply with
a mental directive which would have her appear either to fat or to skinny.
The heels also saw to it that no matter what Jo opted for, she was going to
be one beautiful and alluring woman.

	Joe also learned a hell of a lot about himself during that pivotal
period in his life.

For instance, within a few days, Joe felt reasonable certain that those
stiletto heeled pumps of his only affected only his physicality when they
whipped a heavy handed dose of femininity on him.  Mentally, he truly
believed that he retained a very manly mindset even when his body was that
of the opposite sex.  The one thing that he was certain of was that his
libido never wavered.  It was manly attuned before he ever came into
possession of the pumps and manly attuned it remained, regardless of his
body's sexual affiliation.  And, due to that, be he male or female, Joe
remained sexually attracted to women.  That meant that as a man that he was
born to be, Joe was a confirmed heterosexual.  However, be that as it may
be, as a woman, who was still sexually attracted to other women, Jo had to
consider herself an avowed lesbian and therefore, firmly entrenched in the
homosexual camp.

Trouble was, the way the game was rigged; the woman who pulled at Joe's
heartstrings the most was none other than Jo herself.  And, that made Joe a
fill-fledged narcissist in damn near anybody's book.

	Joe also was also quick to acknowledge that while there was no way
in hell that he would want to live out the rest of his life as a woman,
being one or an purely elective, part-time bases could be a real eye
opening and thoroughly enjoyable experience.  Or, to put that the way Joe
would have put it himself, as long as he could opt-out at any given moment
in time, being a part time woman could be a real blast.

	For starters, Jo absolutely loved the sexual gratification she got
out of being a girl.  She loved that fact that as a female, she was
multi-orgasmic.  And for toppers, Jo loved the fact that as long as she
didn't do something so stupid and foolish as to rub herself raw down there,
stamina was the only thing that governed the number of repeat engagements
she could lavish on herself.

Ironically, though she never thought she would feel that way, once she got
passed her initial reservations and revulsions about wearing women's
clothing, Jo found that she was like that proverbial kid in a candy store
that you're always hearing about ad nauseam.  That's to say that, once Joe
realized that the heels weren't about to garb her in anything other than
the most sensually alluring and libido pleasing outfits imaginable, Jo,
figuring in for a penny, in for a pound, more or less just went with the
flow.

	In other words, Jo, more times than not, revealed in fact that the
heels pretty much dictated that she dress like a dick teaser.  Trouble was,
the dick she teased most was none other than her own.  Meaning: Joe, as a
direct result of his spending a good deal of his leisure time as a sexual
attired femme fatale, ended up, as a man, dealing with an inordinate amount
of sexual tension and frustration.  And, that in turn, had forced him into
taking the matter in hand in order to address those rather perverted
narcissistic fantasies he had begun to entertain that dealt with his male
self getting it on with his female self.

	While it would take Jo almost six months to get up the gumption to
venture out in public as an anatomically correct and snappily dressed
member of the opposite sex, she eventually did.  Using the baby step
technique as described in the movie 'What About Bob', Joe started off by
doing his weekly grocery shopping as Jo. Then, as her comfort zone
increased and she became more confident that she could pass herself off as
the vivacious young woman that she appeared to be, Jo began to expand her
feminine forays out in the public arena.

	Initially, the inordinate amount of attention that a lot of men
afforded her gave Jo the creeps.  Though she - as a he - was guilty of
committing the very same sort of offense that she found so unsettling, Jo,
who found herself eyeing up other women the very same way men were eyeing
her up, nevertheless still found it unsettling to be so lewdly ogled.
Leering was one thing.  Being leered at was something else altogether.

	Though she freely admitted to herself that she was operating under
a double standard, given her rather peculiar circumstances, Jo felt that
she had every right to adopt such an arbitrary double standard.

	The other thing that unnerved the hell out of Jo was when some
egotistical, God's gift to women type tried to make a pass at her.  And, as
unnerved, as she was when such occurred, she absolutely hated it when some
SOB laid one of those trite, ego affronting pick-up lines on her.

	Early on, Jo had come up with the engagement ring ploy.  Just
flashing it generally discouraged any follow-up attempts to come-on to her.
And, for those that didn't get the message that she was already spoken for,
Jo had six years of martial art training from her misspent youth to rely on
to, as she liked to say to herself, repel boarders.  When a polite reply
wouldn't do the trick, a swift knee in the groin usually worked wonders.

	Understandable, as Joe became increasingly acquainted with all
those new and extremely nifty erogenous zones of hers, his proficiency and
thusly, his value as a male lover increased exponentially.  The girls he
dated over the years, while not the least little bit happy about the shroud
of secrecy he tended to enveloped his day to day life within, absolutely
loved it when he administered to their carnal needs.  Over and over and
over again, the women he dated would unabashedly confirm the fact that Joe
was not only the best lover that they had ever shared a bed with, but that
he was just to darn good to be true.  Joe knew how to satisfy women and
satisfy women was just what he did.  For about a six year stint or there
abouts, Joe, who had quickly gained a reputation as being phenomenal in
bed, adopted the kid in the candy store attitude and so, dated a whole slew
of attractive young women before toning down his endeavors and becoming
somewhat more selective.

Trouble was: as Joe honed and perfected his love making techniques into a
rare and ever so well received art form, he increasingly began to become
more and more envious of the women he preformed the selfless act of
cunnilingus on.  Though he - as a she - had enjoyed an occasional lesbian
fling over he years operating as a female, Jo never had shared a bed with a
female lover who was as gifted as she was when it came to clitoral
stimulation techniques.

	And, that galled Joe to no end.

	While he truly believed that the heels provided him with the best
of both worlds, the insight they afforded him had pretty much spoiled him.
Though he had dated a fair number of women that he could have conceivable
built a future with, none of them measured up to the woman he himself was.
Basically, Joe was always pulling what he had come to term a 'Jerry
Seinfeld' in which he would find fault with some aspect or another of each
of the women he dated that would in turn, lead to the inevitable and
hopefully amicable parting of the ways.

	There were several other obstacles that stood in the way of Joe
being able to sustain a lasting relationship with a woman.  Earlier on,
though he was loathed to admit it even to himself, Joe had become
hopelessly addicted to the sexual aspects of spending a fair amount of his
leisure time as a functional female.  While he would be agreeable to make a
few concessions in that regard, Joe knew that there was no way in hell that
he would ever go cold turkey and give up being a part girl completely.  He
enjoyed his stints as a femme fatale far too much to ever make such a
promise, knowing that it would be a promise that he'd never - Ever! - be
able to keep.

	Though an optimist would no doubt label him a pessimist, Joe was,
if nothing else, a realist.  And, because he was a realist, he knew that he
had as much of a chance of finding a woman that would put up with him
spending several hours a week as a women himself as did a snowball
surviving even a minute's sojourn in hell.

	By the same token, Joe was well aware of the fact that a long-term
relationship with a lesbian wouldn't work out for him either.  As much as
he - as a she - loved being the recipient of a proper tongue lashing and
having that nifty little pussy of his being enthusiastically and
energetically eaten out, Joe enjoyed sex as a man far too much to ever give
up that aspect of his life as well.

	That left him with only one option.  If Joe was going to find the
happiness he was searching for, he had to find himself a bisexual woman to
form a long-term relationship with.

	Though he had never really confirmed the fact, he tended to believe
that he had dated a few women who were in fact bisexual.  Several times he
believed he had done so as a male and once, as a female.  Trouble was: none
of women he suspected as being bisexual came even close to fulfilling the
other criteria he was looking for in a perspective wife.

	Maybe, though he had his doubts, Beth Hammerman would prove to be
the woman that would complete his life.

	Four years earlier, Joe, aware that what he really wanted out of
life was to find himself a wife, settle down and start raising a family,
grew weary of the kid in a candy store routine of endless bed-hopping.
Opting out of the bar scene, Joe decided what he really needed to do was to
drastically change his modus operandi when it came to hooking up with women
to date.  Taking a page out of an old friend of his' book, Joe, under the
guise of his feminine alter ego, began to get involved in a whole bunch of
social activities

For instances, even though he had been a certified scuba diver since his
junior year in high school, Jo, hoping that she wouldn't be the only girl
enrolled in the class, signed up for a basic certification class over at
the junior college.  Luckily for Jo, she was not the only girl taking the
course.  There were two other women beside herself in the course.  Both
were single.  Both were young.  And, both were pretty in their own
rights. Jo, taking it upon herself to make the first ovation of friendship,
while getting dressed after what had been a grueling pool session, casually
made the suggestion that it might be nice for the three of them go grab a
late night bite to eat at a near by dinner.  Two weeks later, Jo had set
Joe up with a blind date with one of her classmates.

	Even though the relationship with the delightful young lady lasted
only five months, Joe realized right off that he had hit upon the perfect
ploy.  Employing his feminine alter ego as the go between, he could
function as an empathetic confidant and there by, gain insider information,
which he then could use to his advantage in planning his next move.

	Granted, Joe sometimes felt like a real cad doing something of that
sort.  But, given the limited field in which he operated, Joe pretty much
rationalized that unless and until he came up with a better way of
screening for prospective bisexual girlfriends, he would continue to have
his feminine alter ego beat the bushes for him.

	As time went on, Joe began to refine his selection criteria.
Basically, what he was on the lookout for was the touchy feelie kind of
woman that had a marked tendency to repeatedly invade another woman's
personal comfort zone.  While it was true that such behavior didn't by any
stretch of the imagination necessary indicate that a woman was a either a
lesbian or a bisexual, in that she could very well be a card carrying
heterosexual, Jo used such conduct as more or less a jumping off point.
Then, if during subsequent conversations with a prospective dating
candidate, Jo learned that the woman had been used, abused, and generally
taken advantage of by one or more of the men in her past, she would adopt a
very compassionate and conciliatory manner.  Via the use of some empathetic
hand holding, garnished well with some sympathetic hugging, Jo would
endeavor to ingratiated herself with the prospect and there by, set the
stage for the possibility of a future sexual tete-a-tete with the woman.

	While Joe seriously doubted that she would pan out in the end, he
had to admit that, given the way that Beth had accorded herself when she
and his feminine alter ego had been together, there was an outside chance
that the shapely Ms. Hammerman harbored some latent bisexual tendencies.
He also found that he not only liked Beth as a person, but that he was also
sexually attracted to her.  Plus, as he had come to find out the night
before, she gave great head.  And, great head, as he had come to realize,
was nothing to scoff at.  If she could only see her way clear to giving
great clit as well, little Ms. Beth Hammerman might well prove out to be a
keeper.


* * *


In an effort to broaden the scope of her search for the unique sort of
feminine companionship she so ardently longed for, Jo, hoping that she was
not getting in over her head, had joined a health spa and enrolled in one
of their biweekly scheduled early evening aerobics classes.  Though she
endeavored to portray herself as sort of a laid back extrovert in such
situations, Beth beat her to the punch.  No sooner had Jo entered the
staging area where the aerobics class was to assemble, Beth, beaming a
friendly welcoming smile, walked right over to Jo and, with a perky "Hi!
How are you?" proceed on to introduced herself.

	Later, as the two of them sat in a booth at the spa's heath bar, Jo
came to the realization that, even if Beth didn't pan out to be a bisexual,
she was nevertheless a kindred spirit that could, and more than likely,
would become a fast friend.  She was cute, spunky and was alluringly
packaged in a body that wouldn't quit.  Jo, well aware of the fact that she
could easily become quite smitten with Beth Hammerman, threw caution to the
wind, as she energetically engaged in a very pleasant give and take
conversation with the engaging young brunette sitting directly across the
table from her.

	Though Jo, out of necessity, had become a pretty good judge of
character over the years, Beth, due to the mixed signals the young woman
seemed to be incessantly giving off, remained somewhat of an enigma to her.
One minute Jo felt that she had Beth pretty much pegged.  And next, back to
curiously wondering about her sexuality.

	Beth was, like many women, an enthusiastic hugger and an energetic
cheek kisser.  She, as Jo quickly learned, was also a toucher, who seemed
to be always laying her hand on Jo's forearm as sort of a physical preamble
she gregariously employed to add emphasis to her saying something she
deemed to be of either interest or importance.

	And, then there were those long, appraising, dreamy-eyed looks that
Beth seemed to be always lavishing on Jo whenever she thought Jo was
unaware of her doing so.

	Jo was no stranger to such appraising glances.  Men were constantly
undressing her with their lewd and lascivious eyes.  But, to have a woman
look at her in what Jo took to be a similar manner, while flattering, was
still somewhat disconcerting, even though Jo was surreptitiously looking at
Beth in pretty much the same lewd and lascivious way Beth was covertly
gazing at her.

	Several times when they were together, Jo got the distinct
impression that Beth was on verge of throwing caution to the wind and
putting a move on her.  However, on each occasion, round about the time Jo
was reflexively bracing for what she ardently hope would follow, Beth, with
a shiver and a shrug, quickly backed off, as she awkwardly endeavored to
change whatever subject they had been taking about at the time.

	Then, adding to the enigma that was Beth Hammerman, Jo, eager to
learn exactly what buttons to push, sat with rapt attention as Beth giddily
told her all about her love-life and the various men she had dated over the
years.  Then, upon learning that Beth was new to the area and presently
unattached, Jo, taking advantage of the opportunity afforded her, assumed
the role of a concerned friend and amateur matchmaker.  Informing Beth that
she had this male friend of hers, who was likewise unattached at the
moment, Jo continued on to suggest that this friend of hers might be just
the kind of guy that Beth was looking to hook up with.

	Intrigued by Jo's suggestion to act as a go-between and set up some
sort of meet, Beth asked all the obligatory questions and then, saying that
she rarely if ever went out on a blind date, gave Jo the go-ahead to see if
she could arrange one for her.

	Three nights later, Joe called Beth and, as she knew he would,
proceeded on to ask her if she would like to go out to diner and movies
afterwards.  Four and a half hours later, after an extremely engaging
conversation in which the two of them talked about damn near anything and
everything, Joe reluctantly bid Beth a gracious goodnight and nonchalantly
placed the receiver back upon its' cradle.  Then, even as he began to
formulate a fantasy tabloid in which he envisioned Beth and that sexy
feminine alter ego of his having at one another via the use of the vaunted
sixty-nine position, Joe made for his A-frame's loft bedroom and those
magical high heels of his.  The very same heels that allowed him to enjoy
the very best of both worlds.


Tales of an Amateur Gynecologist will continue in TAG 3 - INSIDER TRADER