Lawrence Sanders - Private Pleasures

There are a lot of guys with the same hobby, and I stay in touch with some I've met all over the country. We mail each other Polaroids of ourselves all dolled up. There are cross-dressing clubs in every city I've ever been, and we have cocktail parties and fashion shows with prizes for the most attractive outfits.

You're probably not going to believe this, but none of us are gay or have had sex-change operations. We're just normal, average guys who happen to enjoy wearing women's clothes. Hey, it's not a crime, there are no victims.

I've met several good clients at cross-dressing soirees, and one I met about a year ago-wearing an absolutely stunning strapless silver lame sheath-was the CEO of a company that sold cosmetics, grooming aids, suntan lotions, and stuff like that. I told him I was in the commercial information business, and he was very interested in what his competitors were having developed at the Mcwhortle Laboratory. He asked me to find out.

The Luck!

I tailed Marvin Mcwhortle for a week and discovered he was keeping a bunny named Jessica Fiddler. I ran a trace on her, and she had the specs of a sharp hustler. I figured she'd play ball, and she did. She sold me so many Mcwhortle secrets, including samples of new products, that I had three different clients buying information on perfumes, pharmaceuticals, and personal care products.

But when she told me about the ZAP Project to produce a testosterone pill that would make soldiers more aggressive, I knew immediately I was on to something that was too good to sell to a client for five or even ten big ones. Instead I went back to Big Bobby Gurk and treated him to a twenty-four-ounce steak dinner.

"Bobby," I said, "years ago you steered me into a new career, and I appreciate it. I owe you one, and now I'm going to pay you back."

"Yeah?" he said, chomping away. "How?" I told him about the ZAP pill and how, if it worked, it would make a Rambo out of a Milquetoast.

He stopped scarfing for a moment. "Hey," he said, "that's inarresting.

But what's it got to do with me?"

"Look," I said, "you're in the gambling biz. Maybe you don't book bets yourself, but your clients do, and everyone says you're the best man in Florida on odds, points, and spreads."

"Maybe not the best," he said modestly. "Harry Finkle in Sarasota is pretty good."

"And you got connections all over the country," I went on. "Right?"

"Yeah," he admitted cautiously, "I got a few contacts."

"Well, how about this…? Suppose, just suppose, the ZAP pill works, and I can glom on to a sample. We take it to a private chemist and he does an analysis. That's how we find out what's in the stuff. Once we know what's in it, we can have the chemist make up a supply."

"I still don't get it," Gurk said.

"Look, say there's a heavyweight title fight in Vegas We go to the challenger's manager and tell him we got a pill that will make his boy a tiger. The manager wants to win, his boy wants to win, and we want to win-especially if the champ is heavily favored and we've bet a bundle on the challenger who gulps a ZAP pill."

"Now I get it," Bobby said slowly. "Or like there's a football team, a bunch of palookas with the odds against them.

We play them heavy all over the country, and then we get the pills into their pizzas."

"Right," I said approvingly. "Or grind the pills into powder and sprinkle it into their water bucket. What do you think, Bobby?"

"Yeah," he said, pushing his empty plate away, "it might fly.

Providing the pill works, of course. When can you get one?"

"I don't know. it's just being developed. I'm telling you about it now to see if you'd be interested if it's a success." He looked at me.

"And if it is, how much you asking?

I shook my head. "This isn't a one-shot deal, Bobby. I want a piece of the action."

"Uh-huh ", he said, "that makes sense. I think we could work something out along those lines. Listen, I gotta get back to my office. Let me know when you got the pill."

Later that night I attended a Rumba dance at my private club. I wore a dress that had been purchased at a West Palm Beach shop specializing in slightly used haute couture, designer gowns.

Mine was a really gorgeous Galanos, a black lace chemise over a stretch body stocking. I had applied makeup, of course, and was wearing my new blond wig with short bangs and a chignon.

After the dance a fashion competition was held and I won first prize, a bottle of Dom Perignon.

The Luck was still with me.

Chet Barrow was just the handsomest boy I ever C met in my whole life.

And he was nice. I mean he never punched my arm or pushed me like that icky Ernie Hamilton does sometimes.

So when Chet told me he was thinking about running away I decided to go with him because in the first place I liked him and in the second place things were getting so nasty at my house that I just didn't want to live there anymore.

Like Daddy came home late one night, and you could tell he had been drinking alcohol. He and Mother got in a terrible fight.

I was upstairs doing my homework but I could hear them. Then I heard a loud slap and Mom came rushing upstairs. She came into my room and locked the door. One side of her face was all red, and she was crying.

She sat on my bed and I went over and hugged her and she hugged me, and then I started to cry.

"Don't cry, darling," she said, trying to smile. "Please don't."

"You're crying," I said, "so I can, too." I touched her cheek. "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head but went into my bathroom and washed her face in cold water. Then she came out.

"May I sleep with you tonight, Tania?" she asked me.

"All right," I told her. "But try not to snore. The last time you slept with me, you snored and I couldn't sleep.

She laughed and hugged me again. "I promise not to snore," she said.

Well, she didn't but I couldn't sleep anyway because I was afraid Daddy might break down the door and come in and kill us or something. I just didn't know what to do, and then I decided I would talk to him and tell him how he was making me and Mother feel.

I didn't get a chance until Saturday when she went shopping.

Daddy got up late and came downstairs acting grouchy. I made him some coffee and he said it was good coffee and drank three cups.

He also ate a sticky bun. I ate one also and sat at the kitchen table with him.

"Daddy," I said, "I don't think you should drink so much alcohol."

"I don't drink so much, baby," he said. "just enough to make me feel good."

"I am not a baby," I told him. "I'll be nine next year, and maybe alcohol makes you feel good, but it doesn't make Mother feel good or me either. And you slapped her. You shouldn't have done that."

He sighed. "I know I shouldn't, baby, and I'm going to apologize to her. Everything will be all right."

"Well, I don't see why you don't like her cooking. mother is a very good cook, everyone says so." you think I don't He looked at me.

"What makes like her cooking?"

"Well, a lot of times you don't come home for dinner, and you smell of perfume, so I guess you had dinner with some other woman because you like her cooking better." I smell of His face got all twisty. "Who told you perfume? Your mother?"

I didn't want to get her in trouble. "No," I said, mells "I smelled it myself. I know what perfume s like."

"Listen, baby," he said, "sometimes you get too bossy.

Maybe I do things that you and your mot er don't like but that doesn't mean I don't love you. When you grow up, you'll discover that at times you do things that seem wrong to other people, but you just don't change because of other people's opinions. Either because you can't or because you don't want to. It's your own life. Do you understand what I'm saying?