she came over to welcome me to the building. We had a cup of coffee and some

cake she brought over, but she had to run. Going to her dance class she said.

I had taken some dance, so I asked about it. Apparently it was right across

the street, and many people from the building went, but she wasn’t sure that I

would like it, but, if I wanted I could tag along. There was a smile in her

eyes that wouldn’t let go. I put on my sweats and followed her.

It was three floors up. I was the only man in the place, and I could tell that

this wasn’t a soft workout for chubbies. Every woman there had a body that was

toned like a 64 Rolls. They wore their leotards with the grace of professional

dancers, flowing through the room. Many wore a wide sash of embroidered fabric

around their hips. They smiled at me. I was glad I wore my grey sweats.. they

were loose where it counted. I smiled back.

Donna introduced me as a visitor. The class started, and I knew what the

problem was.. It was a Belly dance class. I’m all man, and I’m no quitter, so

I got in and did the work. Shimmys, pelvic thrusts, everything. I was pretty

good. The instructor said they’d never had a guy come here twice, but maybe I

could be the first. The gleam in her eye was more challenge than I’d seen from

many a tough guy. I gave her my winning smile, and asked when the next class

was. The way the women looked at me as they left, I knew I’d found a winner.

It was about the fourth week. They had a present for me. I opened the paper

and found a black and aqua lycra leotard, footless tights, a jogbra, dancebelt,

wig, and a length of material for a sash. I had to think fast. This was a

test, and if I wanted to keep the respect of these dames I couldn’t fail. I

went behind the curtain, and emerged, fully dressed. I had done the right

thing. I went through the class looking at myself in the mirror. The leotard

was very high cut and the aqua hourglass pattern on the front gave the illusion

of a female figure. The sash filled out my hips.

I was good that night.. better than ever before. My appearance has helped me

lose myself to the dance. I got compliments.. and a few more phone numbers.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Donna talking to the instructor. She walked

me home.

Donna explained that I had a decision to make. I was being offered admission

to the Slata.. the sisterhood. The first man ever. Most of the women in the

class were members.. it was a society that helped others learn the tricks of

Belly Dancing. Problem was, there were rules. I would have to follow the

dress code at classes. Have to learn the rules. Have to make a costume. Have to

perform in public. And have to go through the initiation.

The Sisterhood taught total release of self during dance. You followed the

rules, you lost the hung up you, found your freedom. She came closer to me,

her face begging for my acceptance. That night I was in. In more ways than

one.

The dress code was clear. No hair on your body. Any where. The hot wax smelled

of honey. A few shots of Jack Daniels, and the sting of my pubic hair being

yanked out was just a deadened hum. Proper makeup. Base, contour, rouge,

shadow, liner. My wig was full and frizzy cascading onto my shoulders. Show

your breasts proudly. Well they were just foam latex over silicone, but they

were mine.

The thin lycra stretched tightly over my breasts, high heels clicking on the

terrazzo floor, I began my journey. The first step was across the street, but

I had no idea how far it would take me.

I just stared at myself in that big mirror. I snapped open the front of my

skirt and slipped it off. My legs looked so bare, covered with nude pantyhose.

My balls were taped up into their sockets with moleskin. A ribbon around its

head pulled my penis back between my buttocks. My hairless pubic area showed

under the tight fabric. My hairless armpits were sensitive to the wind, and I

was almost overwhelmed by the scent of my own perfume. I danced. Every ripple

of my body was visible to all. Every eye was on me. I was sexy as hell. I

wanted to rip off my clothes and dance naked for all the women, to open myself

up and take the sexual heat that pounded trough that place into my body. I was

going to writhe and sweat until my muscles couldn’t move anymore. The warmth of

my skin mixed with the strong musk of my perfume.

Did I dance. As they left, a number of women touched me, their long fingers and

bright nails stroking me through the lycra, damp from sweat so it clung as if

it was glued to me. The places where they touched me heated up, hot and

driving.

The chill city air snapped my leotard cool as Donna and I walked across the

street. Follow me, she said and I did. Into the bar across the street, and down

at a booth. We ordered white wine, and I glowed when I saw the red lipstick

mark on my glass. We were seated where I could see myself in the mirror. I

looked fabulous.

Nature calls. We picked up our purses and wiggled back to the loo. The leotard

slid off my body,still with a cling from the sweat. The panty hose rolled

down, and Donna got behind me to release my cock from it’s home. I had gotten

used to the continual excitement of my buttocks rubbing against my helpless

cock, but when it was freed I looked down through my adhesive breasts to see it

stand out free and proud. Donna took it between her long nailed hands. We’re

sisters now, and sisters share everything. Soon my back arched crazily as she

took it in her mouth.

I thought of the men outside nursing their beers. I looked into the cracked

mirror and saw the red nipples of my foam breasts bouncing. The lipstick tasted

creamy as my tongue circled my mouth. I wanted to cry out as she sucked harder,

her tongue in a frenzy, stroking my glans. My calves ached from the tension

pushing against the 4 inch heels. I came for what seemed like hours.

We caught our breath, did what we had to do, put our clothes back on and

checked our makeup. A couple of guys bought us some drinks and got a little

thigh, but we were going home “alone”.

A good costume takes hours of work. Beaded push-up bra with silicone inserts

that make it all look like me. Scanty panties. A heavy girdle..a beaded, coin

bedecked belt that accentuates the movement of the hips. A thin skirt, veils,

and heavy jewelry. Had to pierce my ears, and the heavy earrings pulled at my

lobes.

When I put it on I was another person. Meena. No last name, no family, no real

life, just a beautiful sexy dancer. I danced with my soul, unladen of worldly

worries. I worried about keeping a perfect tan, about keeping my skin supple,

about if I should get a jewel for my navel. I was a creature of the body and

soul, and my intellect drifted along, released from a need to control my every

move.

Donna and I sat home, practicing our dance, sewing beads, or spending hours

practicing sexual techniques from the Kama Sutra. Our hairless oiled bodies

moved too slowly to see as our souls hovered above and watched.

The initiation took all weekend. All of the initiates were stripped naked. We

were to be cleansed fully. Each of us assumed the position of the dog and the

goddess of all came along to cleanse us. From the front of her robe came a

long hollow dildo. She inserted it deep into the vagina of the first initiate,

and shot a quart of soapy, perfumed water deep into her. Her braething became

deep and heavy, panting with the fullness. I felt the woman next to me receive

the cleansing, her body quivering. They lubricated the dildo for me, and it

sank slowly into my anus. My balls were taped inside my body, and my penis hung

below my hairless pubis. I tensed up as it entered, but changed my focus. I was

being entered by the earth, by all. I was being cleansed. My body began to

quiver, and I felt myself coming to the orgasm that Donna had spoken of. The

water was in my bowels, flushing out the impacted debris of this society. I was

cleaned.

We dressed. For me that meant tying my penis back between my buttocks, putting

on a garterbelt, stockings and high heeled sandals, and slipping into a long

fox coat, lifting my long hair over the collar. The satin lining caressed my

skin and caught lightly on the erect nipples of my latex breasts. My long red

nailed fingertips swept through the luxuriant fur. We were going out dressed

like this, ready to bare ourselves to the world. Donna had the Polaroid camera

to snap the flash pictures.

The fur had no closures.. I was all that held it shut. In the back of the cab

I saw the cabbie stare into the mirror. I let the fur slide open, shut it

quickly as the cab swerved across the street. In the mirror I saw my face with

a huge wicked smile showing white teeth outlined in red lipstick.

Our first stop was the mall downtown. It was all but deserted at 2 AM. I opened

my coat wide and Donna snapped a picture. My eyes were bright red dots, my

hairless body was luminescent against the dark lining, and the lights of the

city shone behind me. I exposed myself to the world, showed that I was not

ashamed of my nakedness.. but was in no hurry to get arrested either!

As we walked the satin rubbed against my body touching and caressing my flesh.

We entered a greek resturant. I didn’t check my coat. I had been there before

to awtch the cabaret dancers, but only in my male clothes. Let them stare I

thought.. I am beautiful! The bartenders jaw dropped, but Donna snapped some

picures with my coat open and we moved on. I saw the bouncer stop someone from

following us as we walked away.. Donna had friends.

We got on a subway and rode to the beach. The photos on the subway were

wonderful, and I let my coat hang open and the air come against my hairless

pubis. My finger strayed under Donna’s skirt to her clitroris. It was dark at

the beach, but I felt powerful, and shed my coat as Donna snapped me

sillouetted aginst the reds, golds and purples of the rising sun.

Just looking at the photographs were a powerful turn-on. I fell to my knees and

put my head under Donna’s skirt and ate her hungrily. We had sex on the beach

under my fur, and went home. I had two more days to go to become the first male

sister.

After a few hours sleep, It was time to dress for my first public performance.

We drew a hot scented bubble bath and relaxed. Donna rubbed my tan body down

with perfumed lotion. The tan lines from the bikini to I wore at the tanning

booth were faint but noticeable. Full makeup went on, from deep contour to

tons of eyeliner. My breast forms that had been removed for the bath, but

tonight all the flesh would be my own. I pulled on the beaded bra, and lifted

my breasts so that they would be pushed into place by the silicone inserts.

Donna ran her hands over my newly formed breasts, and i felt a tingle in my

nipples. Usually we have one of these for both holes, Donna smiled, but you

only need one. She inserted a butt plug deep into my anus. My cock was again

imprisoned between my buttocks, lavishly lubricated to ease the constant

friction when I walked. It held the plug tightly. The panties slipped over

all of this, cut so high that the clefts between my legs and hip showed all the

way up. My pubis was smooth and hairless, so nothing peeked out. The

embroidered skirt went over that.. in belly dancing the positions of the legs

are not always attractive, and the skirt conceals as much as it reveals. The 10

pound girdle went on next, weighing down my hips so that every move of them is

accentuated, so you feel the weight bearing down. The veils covered me. I

slipped on a pair of heeled sandals, my toenails painted the same shade as my

lengthened fingernails, and I was ready.

Walking to the studio was different. I felt my buttocks squeeze my cock, and

the butt plug made me squirm.

Our first performance in public was scheduled for a local mall at the height of

day. A stretch limo had been hired to drive us to the mall, and the we piled

in. I was dressed in pink and purple, but with my sisters in orange, red

,green, in all their shades, we were wildly colorful. The limousine smelled of

perfume and the perspiration of our half naked bodies. We swept through the

crowd at the mall, veils flowing behind us, and went to the central stage. My

heart pounded with adrenaline as I thought of all of those people watching me

be something that I wasn’t. I was a faker in this outfit of chiffon and silk.

There was a mirrored facade on one of the stores, and I saw four beautiful

women making their way through the crowd. I retreated into my mind and

remembered that I was Meena, lovely dancer whose body and talents were meant to

serve and delight. My body loosened as I relaxed and in my next glance in the

mirror I was walking with the grace and fluidity of one born to dance. I

accepted the heat coming from the audience, accepted their visible desire for

me as my due. I was a sister in the dance. I was the object of their

affection, and I embraced it and it made me strong.

We walked to the stage, and the music started. We danced together, and then

each had a solo. We cheered each other on, and the audience joined in. I was

in in ectasy during my solo. I could feel my penis grow in my cleft, forcing

the butt plug deeper into me. As I forced my hips forward in an age old

pantomime pantomime of sexuality. The audience was my partner, and I could feel

them heating up, twitching and throbbing to my unbridled sexuality. We were one

joined, together. There was the wet feel of semen between my buttocks as I wal

walked off stage.

The walk back to the limo was delicious agony. My sensitive penis was wet by

come, and it tingled with every step I took. My hips swiveled wickedly to

accentuate the stimulation. My breasts heaved with every breath and I longed to

touch someone, to have someone touch me. It was the most delicious foreplay I

had ever had.

In the limo I learned that I wasnt’t the only one to have had an orgasm during

our performance. All of us had. We slid the divider between us and the driver

shut.

Clothes came off. I remember having one woman sitting on my cock, and another

sitting on her face. The smell of musk was unbelievable. My brain was unhooked

from my pulsing body. My hands reached out blindly and found a tender nipple to

stroke. Every time I felt myself starting to come, the rhythm changed. My penis

was a mass of nerve endings, sore and hot. I reached up to gab the hops of the

woman above me, and force her down so my tongue could penetrate her deeper.

There was a chain reaction of orgasm, as four voices cried out together. We

lay together in a crumpled mass, and adjusted our breathing to each other.

The car pulled to a stop. We scurried back into our outfits, all the women

reinserting their dildos with a short gasp. As we walked upstairs to the

studio, we knew that now we were sisters, the four of us, bound through the

dance, and though the basic needs of our bodies.

I could tell by the looks that everyone knew what had happened. I suspected it

wasn’t the first time. The knowing smiles were contagious.

We had performed well, and we would celebrate with a fabulous feast. We were

to serve.

All of our clothes were slowly removed. We were told to lie on plastic covered

tables, and we were given slow delicate sponge baths. The warm water tingled on

my hairless skin. There wad the mild tang of disinfectant in the air. Every

part of me was scrubbed with a natural bristle brush. I relaxed , and let the

many hands touch and soothe me.

We were to serve these foods. We were to be human platters, our clean skin

laden with the many tasty dishes.

The food was brought out. Pots full of spicy stews, meant to be eaten with the

fingers or with pita, warm and fragrant. Cool yoghurt dips, flavored with nuts

and essences. Bowls of prepared fruits in a sweet honey sauce. Creamy farmer

cheeses, soft and spreadable.

Each of these was ladled onto us. The contrast in textures, in temperatures,

started my heart to pound. The scent wafted up to my nostrils. I could barely

lie still.

The dinner was invoked. The room was darkened, lit only by candles. The Sisters

filed in, almost 35 of them, all dressed in ceremonial costumes that barely

covered their breasts and genitalia.

As we opened our mouths, wineskins were held over them, and we were given

drink. The dinner started.

At first I felt many fingers touching my body and lifting the food, but as more

wine was consumed, I felt the fiery tongues scrape off the warm food. Teeth

scraped my breasts lightly as my sisters grasped honeyed fruit in their mouth.

I felt my penis rise, covered with a milky sauce. My breathing speeded to a

deep pant as four or five tongues lapped up the yoghurt. My back arched, and I

heard a cry from the next table. I knew that all of the initiates would be

forced to come. I fought the feelings, but to much wine had been poured down my

throat. As I came many fingers grasped my penis and squeezed every drop of

semen out of it, greatly prolonging the delicious agony of orgasm. Even as I

was coming, they licked, bit and touched my body.

There was no rest. Amidst much giggling they set about to make me come again.

By the time they succeeded I was sore and every nerve ending in my body felt

shrieked with pain and delight.

My knees were trembling and weak as I was helped up and lead to the shower.

Transsexual Sex

The therapist was next. Her name was Janet, she explained
that the process was to talk things out. She would have him
explain his life to her. The process was like peeling an onion,
one removes one layer at a time.
Anderson digested that. “But there’s nothing distinct about
the center of an onion,” he remarked. “How do you know when you
get there?”

It took four days to arrange for the movers to come and take
everything he couldn’t fit into his car. Then he went home. The
leave was less than satisfying; neither one of his parents were
supportive of his desire to stay on active duty. Anderson visited
his brother and left him the car and his personal gear (including
a fair number of firearms). He did a little bit of traveling, and
presented himself to the military air terminal at McGuire with two
weeks’ worth of leave remaining.
The Air Force sergeant who was at the receiving desk read
Anderson’s orders and then checked a file. She told Anderson to
go check into the transient BOQ and stay there; he’d be notified
when his flight was called. Anderson had taken MAC flights before,
one normally has to wait at the terminal for one’s name to move up
the waiting list. This treatment mystified him, but he just did
as she told him to.
The phone in his room rang a day and a half later. Anderson
switched on a light, picked it up and muttered his name into the
handset.
“Lieutenant Anderson? Master Sergeant Wilkes at the MAC desk.
Your flight leaves at 0430. A car will be at the Q at 0410 to pick
you up.”
“What time is it now?”
“A little after three, sir.”
“All right, thanks.” Anderson set the handset back into the
cradle. Fucking zoomies, scheduling a flight on the rev watch.
Oh, well. He rolled out of bed, shaved and showered. The desk was
open 24 hours, he was checked out by four and waiting for his ride.
An airman came over to him. “Are you LT Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your ID, sir?” Anderson handed it to him. The
airman looked it over and handed it back. “Come with me, sir.”
He led the way to a “blue steelie,” Air Force lingo for an issue
sedan. Anderson got into the right-side seat. He was a little
surprised when the airman passed by the MAC terminal and drove to
a hangar after passing a security check from the APs, who were
wearing woodland camo uniforms and carrying M-16A2s. The airman
drove out onto the ramp and up to an Air Force C-12, their version
of the Beech King Air. This one had seen better days, it was set
up as a cargo carrier (or “trash hauler”), complete with a load of
cargo. The pilot, a woman in a USAF pilot’s jumpsuit with
captain’s bars waved him on board. Anderson stowed his bag between
two crates and settled into the right seat.
“You might want to put on that headset,” she said. “This old
beast can get pretty loud.”
Anderson did so, adjusting the headset to fit and the boom
mike to almost touch his mouth. “Can you hear me?”
“Sure can.” The pilot ran through the starting procedure with
the economy of motion born of great amounts of practice. She soon
had both PT-6 engines turning. She received her IFR and taxi
clearances, then taxied out to the runway. They had to wait for
the wake of a departing C-5 to dissipate, then they were on their
way.
The flight went to Wisconsin, Anderson guessed. He could
recognize Lake Michigan and he did his best to follow along with
the air traffic controllers working the airplane. Dawn was
breaking when the pilot started her descent. There was nothing but
woods, then he saw a small town next to an airport. When they
landed, he looked with surprise at the collection of airplanes on
the ramp. He hadn’t seen so many tailwheel airplanes in one place;
everything from a few J-3s up to three Twin Beeches, a C-46 and two
DC-3s. There were a few tricycle-geared airplanes, but damn few-
- a couple Cessna 172s, a Mooney, three Bonanzas and a King Air.
Everyhting was painted in civilian schemes, complete with N-
numbers.
It looked like a civil airport in Alaska, except the man
coming out to greet them had an assault rifle slung over his
shoulder. He told Anderson to go to the line shack, then he
started talking to the pilot about refueling the C-12 and unloading
the cargo. Anderson trudged over to the shack. A woman with a no-
nonsense demeanor asked for his ID. She compared the card to a
list, then handed it over. She stuck out her hand and said:
“Welcome to school, Sherry. I’m Doris Stackpole. I’ll be your
training coordinator while you’re here at the school. Let’s get
you situated. Come with me.” Doris led the way out of the other
end of the building.
“What is this place?”
“It’s a training facility for all sorts of students. Some of
the students are training for covert ops, some are here above
board. First rule is: Don’t talk to anybody about who or what you
are or what you are here for. Everything around here runs on a
`need-to-know’ basis. Understand?”
“Sure do.” They had walked across the road to a small area
of townhouses. Doris led the way to one of them and opened the
door with a key, which she gave Anderson.
“This is yours for the duration of your stay.” She showed
Anderson around. The townhouse was on two levels; upstairs were
two bedrooms and a bathroom, downstairs was a kitchen, dining area,
living room, a study (complete with a computer with a 19″ screen)
and a half-bath. “You’re getting this place because it’s so close
to the field, most of your training is going to be in flying.”
“Which of those planes will I be flying?”
Doris shrugged. “If you complete the course, all of them.”
“Even the DC-3?”
“Yes, but you’ll have a few other things to worry about.”
Anderson didn’t like her grin, but he’d do a lot to get a DC-3 type
rating. Doris went to the door. “You have an appointment. Bring
your stuff, they’ll take it and issue you what you need.”
Anderson followed along. They walked to a building almost a
half-mile away. There they went into a room where Doris told him
to strip to his underwear. Anderson did, two women came in and
started measuring his body; one measured, the other recorded. They
traced the outlines of his hands and feet. The real surprise was
when they measured penis size, both flaccid and erect. Anderson
was embarrassed at that, but the two were just doing their job and
did it. Afterwards, Doris gave him a pink terry-cloth robe and
told him to take his underwear off. She collected all of his
things and marched out of the room.
For the first time, Anderson was scared. He had no idea where
he was, had no money, no ID, and all he had was a pink bathrobe.
Doris returned about forty minutes later with some clothes.
She handed him a pair of white cotton panties, “I think you know
how to wear them,” she said. Next was a yellow and black t-shirt,
a pair of white socks, women’s blue jeans and a pair of Reebocks
that were white with pink trim. “Other clothes will be sent to
your apartment. Now, let’s go to medical.”
“Another physical?”
“Not like one you’ve ever had before.” This time, they drove.
Doris had the keys to a jeep-like vehicle that ran on batteries.
She drove to a hospital that was a couple of miles away by road,
although it was right across the airfield.
Doris was somewhat right. It was a thorough physical; but the
difference came when they had Anderson lie down for a whole-body
CAT-scan. He almost freaked out; he had to lie on a very small
white tunnel while the machine hammered and whirred. He could have
sworn the thing was going to grind him up. After the scan, Doris
took him to the cafeteria for lunch. The food was about the same
as any other hospital, barely edible.
The PA system paged Doris when they had almost finished. She
left the table to answer it, then returned. “C’mon, Dr. Trotti
will see you now. We’ll find out what he can do for you.”
They finished quickly and left the cafeteria. Anderson wanted
to ask what was going to happen, but there were other people
around.
Dr. Trotti was in his late 40s. He shook hands and led them
into a darkened room. There was a screen on the wall and an
overhead projector that could project computer images. “Sherry,
my field is reconstructive surgery, though maybe should say
constructive surgery. Take a look at this.” He turned the screen
on.
Anderson looked closely. The image was of a woman wearing a
tank top and a skirt that came to just above the knee. Her breasts
swelled the top and showed a little cleavage. The skirt clung to
nice hips. Her face was not that of a raving beauty, but she had
nice cheekbones and didn’t look bad at all. “Who is she?”
“That’s you.”
“What?”
“Yes.” Dr. Trotti shifted to another screen. “This is your
skeletal structure..” He went into a lengthy discussion of how they
could modify Anderson’s skeletal structure to make him look like
a woman, followed by a discourse of what plastic surgery techniques
they could use. Anderson felt the MEGO (for “Mine Eyes Glaze
Over”) factor kicking in. Adding pieces here, taking pieces out
there. It wasn’t his body, it was a biological erector set.
After Trotti said his piece, Anderson asked the key question:
“How much of this is reversible?”
Dr. Trotti considered that. “Most of it is. We can change
everything back that required surgical techiques. You are going
to need a fair amount of electrolysis for us to be able to
accomplish what we need to do. That isn’t reversible.” The doctor
just smiled. Almost everyone he had worked on asked that question.
He had done the reversal surgery on about five percent of those he
had worked on. But he didn’t say anything.
“All right. When does the electrolysis start?”
“Right now,” Doris said. They said goodbye to the doctor and
went to another part of the hospital. There a nurse injected a
painkiller similar to novocaine inside his mouth. She had him lie
on a table, then after about 30 minutes, she started to work.
Another nurse came in and started on the other side of his face.
Anderson could hear the humming of the machines and the occaisional
`zap’ as a needle vaporized an oil pocket. The nurses would wipe
his face with an antiseptic every so often. He was very tired and
since he was feeling no pain, he fell asleep.
They woke him up four hours later. His lower face was wrapped
in a cold mask, it had tubing through which a chilled solution was
circulating. When they took the mask off, one of the nurses
closely inspected his face. “Not bad.” She gave him a tube of
antiseptic ointment and a small bottle of pain pills. “See you
tomorrow,” she said.
Anderson wanted to say something, but his face was numb.
Doris took him back to his townhouse. She showed him the clothes
hanging in the closet, mostly variations of what he was wearing:
jeans, different tops, several pairs of running and aerobics shoes.
There was an assortment of unisex-athletic gear.
“You get food by placing an order through your computer,
though you’ll have to cook it yourself unless you order the
microwavable dinners; I recommend them as you won’t have a lot of
time. The instructions are next to it, it’s fairly self-evident.
You can order any books, tapes, CDs or videos the same way. The
computer also ties into the training database for unclassified
material; you’ll be taught how that works starting tomorrow.
Anything you order will be placed on the living-room table, except
for perishables which will be put into your refridgerator or
freezer. There are some tapes by the VCR to start you off. I’ll
be by tomorrow at 0730. Any questions?”
Anderson made writing motions. Doris found a tablet and a
pen. “Toothbrush? Razor,” he wrote.
“Toothbrush is upstairs in the bathroom. No razor, it’s
easier to work with longish hair. See you in the morning.”
Anderson half-heartedly watched a video, then found a chicken
dinner in the freezer after his face denumbed enough to eat it.
He took a shower and rubbed the ointment over the areas where the
eletrolygists had worked. He soon fell asleep wondering waht
tomorrow would bring.
Tomorrow brought flight training. Doris took him to a
classroom next to the airport. She turned him over to an
instructor named Craig, who proceeded to start teaching him how to
fly by instruments. Classroom work was in the morning, simulator
work in the afternoon.
This routine went on for a solid month: electrolysis one day,
flight training the other. As Doris had promised, all the course
work was on a computer database, so Anderson was able to work on
the rating in the evening. The simulator gave way to an IFR-
capable Cessna 180; Anderson became able to fly an approach to
minimums and follow up with a good landing. “It’s a lot harder in
a taildragger,” Craig explained. The electrolyis was a lengthy
affair, Anderson sometimes had several techicians working on his
body: they removed all the hair from his face, the back of his
neck, his arms, legs, chest, and back. The process was always
accompanied by localized painkillers. They thinned his eyebrows
to ones that could be either masculine or feminine.

By the end of the month, Anderson had an instrument airplane
rating and the body hair of a woman.