VERONICA STEELE — SISSY FINDER by Throne

VERONICA STEELE — SISSY FINDER

by Throne

SIDENOTE: This is a character that I created for a new Comic series that I will start doing this coming year... She's AMAZING! Veronica Steel!

It was just after sundown and the city streets were already shrouded in shadows.  It had rained earlier, so there were puddles that reflected the light of streetlamps and the few storefronts that were still lit.  Traffic was minimal.  Moving along the sidewalk, I was noticed by a few guys.  As a curvy dame, I'm used to that.  They took in my wide-brimmed fedora and how long auburn hair flowed down from it in soft waves.  They also checked out my belted trenchcoat, which hugged my considerable bust.  My high boots completed the image that drew their attention.  I project a certain confidence, so men tend to leave me alone.  My attitude comes from the work I do.  I'm a private eye.  Much of my time on the job is spent tracking down runaway girls and doing surveillance for insurance companies to see if supposedly injured claimants are out bowling or playing tennis.  

Those cases are typical for someone in my profession.  But I have a specialty.  When a woman thinks the guy she's with is secretly playing dress-up in panties and silk blouses, capri pants and flashy heels, I'm who they call.  There's not a lot of that business but there's also not anyone else who has my experience or high rate of success in it.  

I figure that's why I got called by Mrs. Murchison.  She was made of money and had no qualms about paying to get some answers.  Her husband Desmond was the suspect.  She came to my office, which is on the third floor of an old brick office building, serviced by a rickety elevator.  I got up to let her in through the battered door.  On the frosted glass panel was my name, Victoria Steele.  Below that it just said Investigative Services.  That attracted those typical cases.  The ones involving crossdressing came to me through professional referrals and word-of-mouth from former clients.  My reputation precedes me.  

Marta Murchison was overdressed for my workspace.  There's a desk with one chair behind it and two in front.  In the corner is a metal file cabinet.  Against one wall is a bookshelf with some legal volumes on it and a miscellany of fiction.  I like to read and there's a certain amount of downtime in my line of work.  Next to the lavatory door there's a coat tree with my hat and trencher hanging on it.  In the bottom drawer of my desk are a bottle and two glasses.  Usually, I only need one glass.  That day I didn't take out any.  I didn't think my client would want what I'm accustomed to drinking.  Her clothes were all from top designers.  When you're dealing with crossdressers, you get a sharp eye for fashions.  I'd encountered some queens who would have been happy to have what the lady was wearing.  Of course, given a choice, they would have preferred something gaudier.  

I asked her, "What makes you think your husband has a predilection for dressing?"

"Well," she said, placing her hands palms-down on the desk, "Desmond keeps his body's hair shaved off.  He says it's a habit from when he was on the swim team in college.  But at his class reunion I mentioned that to one of the women and she said he was only the assistant to the coach.  There's also his taste in clothes.  Some of what he wears is, in my opinion, less than manly.  He favors silk underwear.  And sometimes he even critiques my choices of what I wear."

I nodded.  "That's enough to raise some suspicions.  If there's nothing else, I can tail him and see where he goes.  Does he have a fixed schedule?"

"Not really.  Almost all of our money is mine.  He has a position in a company my family owns, but it's mostly just for show.  The thing is that he's away from home a lot more hours than his limited amount of work requires."

I switched from my attentive expression to the one I use to show I'm suddenly very serious.  "Mrs. Murchison, is your marriage stable?  Have there been any... disruptions lately?  Changes in your husband's behavior?"

She shook her head, demonstrating that whatever held her hairdo in place was sticking like glue.  "No, nothing like that.  It's just what I mentioned noticing and a few phone calls that he leaves the room to take."  

"Give me your address and I'll start there in the morning.  What does Desmond drive?"

She named an expensive car.  Though she wasn't sure what year it was, she knew he'd bought it new within the last two years.  I considered having her put a GPS tracker on it but then decided that she wouldn't want to get her hands dirty, even if doing it was only figuratively.  

The next day I drove to their home.  It was big enough for several families, with a landscaped lawn, long driveway, and portico over the entrance.  There wasn't anywhere I could park without being conspicuous.  But I did see his car out front and there was only one way for him to exit the property.  That put me on a side street, next to where he would be cruising by.  Good enough.  

I followed him into the city and watched him go onto the enclosed parking lot next to his place of bogus employment.  He was only there for an hour before he reappeared and I was on his tail again.  Matters became more interesting when he headed toward an industrial area on the edge of the city.  There was only one place down there that I would expect him to want to visit.  It was a club called Sparkles.  I'd been there more than once on past investigations.  It was a watering hole for guys and dolls who were one and the same.  The parking area he went onto was unpaved.  I stopped my car at the curb.  That would be less obvious and better for an unnoticed departure.  The place's neighbors were a showroom for store fixtures and an import company.  Across from them were a cheap diner and a place that sold auto parts to garages.  Further up the street was a bar that catered to workers from the industrial park.  I was sure they did a great lunchtime business and then had a rush when the warehouses and fabricating plants let out at the end of the day.  No one cared enough to worry about there being a drag club in their midst.  

Desmond, still in his suit and tie, scurried from his car to the discrete side entrance of Sparkles.  I snapped a picture of him as he moved.  With my distinctly feminine facial features, I wasn't going to try to pass for a non-professional transvestite.  Most of the customers wouldn't be dressed up that early anyway.  I traded my usual hat for a beret and switched my trenchcoat for a bottle-green blazer that I carried.  Big disguise.  Then I went to the front door.  There was no rule against real women stopping in for a drink and at that hour the place would be glad for an additional paying customer.  I slipped into the dimly lit interior.  There were mirrors behind the bar but they were blue glass, so that didn't add much illumination.  A few drinkers in male attire were perched on barstools.  Two were next to each other and chatting.  The others were flying solo.  I found a seat near the door, along the shorter length of the bar's 'L' shape.  That gave me a good view of the entire space.  Force of habit.  

My quarry was down the far end.  He spoke to the bartender, one I didn't recognize, who made him a mixed drink.  The booze went into a lowball glass instead of one of the bowled ones that were used for colorful tropical drinks with paper umbrellas in them.  He put money on the bar and, a moment later, waved away his change.  From the back a familiar figure emerged.  It was Mamma Pajama, wearing the silky sleepwear that was her trademark and the source of her name.  She was a heavy middle-aged guy with a well-maintained wig of platinum curls.  He was the club's hostess, MC, and housemother.  Always available to lend a chubby shoulder to lean on or cry on.  She was fulfilling that duty now as she sat on the far side of my mark.  I set my bag on the bar and made a show of fishing out some bills.  I also managed to aim the concealed mini-cam and capture an image of Desmond and Mamma.  The wandering husband's face was turned away from me after that, but I guessed from his animated hand gestures that he was pouring his troubles out to the TV who was dressed for bed, either to sleep or seduce.  

The bartender approached me.  Unlike the police, in my profession there's no rule against drinking on the job.  I ordered a white wine.   When he brought it, I tipped generously.  You never knew who might be a source of information later, but mixologists were a good bet.  Mamma put a consoling hand on Desmond's shoulder.  He might very well be conflicted about whatever sort of double life he was leading.  I didn't get a gay vibe from him.  If he was a straight crossdresser, I had to consider that most ladies (A) didn't date guys who dressed better than themselves and (B) not many females considered this a proper pick-up bar.  I'd seen small groups of girls show up, still in their secretary and female executive garb, out of curiosity, but not seeking someone to go home with.  So, what was going on?

I decided to nurse my drink and wait for developments that might never come.  It wasn't a bad way to spend some time.  The bartender had a few telltale signs.  His eyebrows had been thinned and shaped.  His body language was another giveaway, with a limp wrist here and a swish-swish there.  He was young and slender. I figured him for a celebrity impersonator.  His drag name might be related to whoever he imitated.  Maybe he called himself Taylor Switch, as in gender-switch.  

Mamma excused herself.  There might be a new performer coming to the backstage area, for who she would assume the role of mother hen.  She could be nurturing but at other times displayed a foul mouth.  It was common for her to tell lewd jokes laden with obscenities when she was on the low stage at the far end of the room.  If she wasn't doing that, she was probably dispensing sensible advice, mending broken hearts, or discussing her ideas about fate and supernatural forces.  As much as I would have liked to know her better, I had avoided a personal relationship for business reasons.  The less people who knew my true motive when I showed up, the better.  

Desmond finished his drink.  I captured one more picture of him.  It never hurts to have extras when you're briefing a client on what you found.  That makes it appear that you've done more work that you actually have.  My instincts told me he wasn't likely to do anything else suspicious but I discretely followed him anyway.  True to my expectations, he headed straight for home.  I took the rest of the afternoon off.  

Two days later, after dark, he drove into the city.  That was the scene I opened with at the beginning of this account.  Desmond ducked into a clothing shop that didn't openly cater to CDs, but everyone in that community knew they did it.  I stayed out on the street, across from the place, with a view through the display window.  Between the dummies adorned in flashy dresses, I could see Marta's husband.  He was talking with an effeminate clerk.  The man gave him a flat white box tied with string. Based on its size, I speculated there was a dress inside.  My subject paid, got back in his car, and headed to Sparkles.  Now we were getting somewhere.  

At that hour, the club was bustling.  It was a performance night.  The queens would lip-synch to songs that were emotional, had special meaning for them, or went with how they were costumed.  Their pantomimes varied in quality, but the audience was there less to encounter talent than to admire make-up and costumes.  There would be some catty criticisms but that was to be expected.  Around me was a mixed crowd.  There were plenty of guys showing off their female impersonation skills.  Along with them were young buff dudes who were fans of what they did.  Lots of same-sex couples were present, most of them males, with one table of lesbians off in a corner.  There was even what appeared to be a straight boy-girl couple.  My trained eye told me that the guy was most likely a closeted dresser whose girlfriend went along with his hobby.  That was fine with me.  

Mamma came onto the stage, and was greeted by enthusiastic applause.  Her pajamas were yellow silk with dragons embroidered on them.  Not cheap.  Might be a gift from an admirer.  She told some risqué jokes, poked fun at herself, and went into a comic monologue about cock sizes.  She chided the listeners for how they ate up her act, and turned that into a naughty comment.  Then she introduced the first of what she referred to as her Sparkles Sparklers.  It was a young Latino guy in a gold lame dress that fit his slender figure perfectly.  He mouthed along to a sad ballad, the words of which I couldn't understand because they were in Spanish.  I did recognize 'corazon' and 'amor', but his sinuous movements, languid gestures, and sorrowful expression told more than the lyrics.  He was followed by a middle-aged guy in an intentionally absurd juvenile outfit and a blond wig with sausage curls.  He carried an oversize lollipop.  The song he chose was about an inability to get a boyfriend.  It was cute and the crowd reacted politely.  

My man came on third.  It looked like what had been in that box was not a dress but a French maid outfit.  Carrying a big feather duster, Desmond, under the name of Desiree, minced about and dusted invisible furniture, as he mouthed the words to a tune about being just the hired help.  It sounded like it was from the 1940s or thereabouts.  I guess there isn't a whole library of selections that would be so appropriate for his act.  Anyway, he was competent, somewhere below professional but above amateur-night level.  Good for him.  

After he swished out of sight, Mamma made an extra effort to stir up the watchers on his behalf.  Perhaps she was trying to make him feel better after whatever they had been discussing the other afternoon.  She also put in a plug for her mystical mumbo jumbo sessions, in which she gave spirit guidance to troubled trannies.  Well, whatever worked was good.  That could be the connection between her and Desmond, aka Desiree. 

I went back on the next show night.  There were new acts.  The one exception was Mr. Murchison, who did his maid routine again, but to a different song.  This time the music the lyrics were about generic loneliness.  Still, I did see a pattern forming.  The most important fact, from my perspective, was that his tastes were likely focused on the role he was repeating.  

I could have gone to Marta right then and blown the whistle on her spouse.  However, he struck me as a nice guy and I didn't want to disrupt his marriage more than I had to.  I decided to take a big step that I hoped I wouldn't regret.  The plan was to expose my true role to Mamma Pajama.  That could negatively affect my ability to snoop around the nightspot.  On the other hand, she seemed easygoing, so it might work to my advantage in the future.   

When she showed up it was another slow afternoon.  I approached her, said I'd like to buy her a drink and have a talk.  She was agreeable to that.  I broached the subject carefully and then moved on to Desmond specifically.  

I pushed back my wide-brimmed hat to expose more of my face.  That was supposed to elevate the trust factor.  I told her, "He's got a wife and she needs to know about his secret sissy side.  What I'm hoping is that you can tell me something useful for helping them work out a compromise."

She smiled wistfully and sipped her non-alcoholic drink.  "I'm not sure but I'll try.  He's like a lot of guys who keep it hidden.  We've had some one-on-one spiritual chats and he's opened up about his fantasies.  Whether or not his Missus would want to play along with them is where he might have a problem."  She sighed.  "I'll let you in on what he wishes for and trust that you'll use good judgement with what I reveal."

Mamma filled me in and I agreed with her that the results of informing Marta could go either way.  If Desmond's wife rejected everything, I would do whatever damage control I could, but didn't see a happy conclusion on the horizon if that was the case.  On the other hand, if the lady was willing to play along, there was great potential for a happily-ever-after.  

The next day, after ascertaining that Desmond wouldn't be home until dinnertime, I stopped by to see Marta Murchison.  We sat down in her palatial home and drank champagne.  I was glad about that because I thought a little alcohol but not too much was just the thing to help her through what I was about to reveal.  

I said, "What you thought about your husband is true but it isn't all bad.  First off, he's not into messing around with guys.  He's straight."

"You mean a man can want to dress up in drag and still be straight?"

"It happens," I assured her.  My calmness seemed to transfer itself to her.  

"So," she wanted to be told, "what am I supposed to do now?"

"Here's what I suggest..." I began.  Then I laid out one path that she could follow and told her where it could ideally lead.  

My next move was to revisit the club.  I needed to speak to Mamma again and recruit her to do something for me.  We had a chat and I was happy when she decided to cooperate with it.  I faded into the background before Desmond, aka Desiree, showed up.  This time he was in a little back dress and a string of pearls, holding a clutch purse.  The queens approved but I think that was because they thought he meant it to be campy.  My opinion was that he intended it to be taken for exactly the understated image it was.  

I was gratified when Mamma approached him.  They vanished through a curtained doorway that I figured led to backstage.  A half hour later they reappeared.  Desmond was obviously deep in thought.  The heavyset hostess gave him what appeared to be a brief pep talk and sent him on his way.  I mentally crossed my fingers.  What happened at home was going to be a make-it or break-it for my client and her husband.  

I won't keep you in suspense.  Mamma's advice to Desmond, into which she mixed some of her psychic ingredients, convinced him to tell all to his wife.  My advice to Marta was influential enough that she listened to him without criticizing.  Then she proceeded to make him an offer that he couldn't refuse.  When he was home, he would act as her maid.  The deal was non-negotiable.  With his submissive streak, he was happy to accept it.  He had brought his favorite outfit home from its hiding place at Sparkles.  At her insistence, he got into his French maid costume at once.  He had remembered to include his feather duster, too.  He fell into his preferred role.  She assumed the part of demanding employer, ordering him around and not holding back when pointing out what she saw as his shortcomings.  

A few days later, I was invited to come and witness the results of my detection and intervention.  He was put off by someone else seeing him as Desiree, but once he learned who I was, and my role in his new situation, he relaxed.  I acted superior and condescending, which obviously appealed to him.  His wife snapped orders at him.  When he made some minor mistake, she threatened him with a spanking.  That really lit up his lights.  My solution had worked much better than I could have hoped for.  I wondered what else appealed to his sissy side.  She sent him away to hand-launder her lingerie.  While the male maid was gone, I made a casual remark about how some guys with his leanings like to have their spouse cheat on them.  

She gave me a wide grin.  "After I shared the truth about Desmond, someone else told me about how that works.  It was my driver, Pierre.  Let me contact him."  

She opened her laptop.  A video image appeared.  It was of a tall handsome Black man.  He was in a garage.  Her car was there, with the hood up.  He responded to the call and they chatted.  Pierre said that he was almost done doing a carburetor adjustment and that the car would be available very soon, as would he.  She said she'd see him soon and then ended the video chat.  

I stated the obvious.  "He could be more than just a driver."

"He never was before, but we've started moving in that direction."   

I nodded my approval and said, "It's okay by me."  

It appeared that Desmond/Desiree was going to get more than they had anticipated.  Based on my experience, I was confident that after he got over the initial shock of being cuckolded, the husband would be more than happy.  He would still be permitted to perform at Sparkles.  The big difference was that now Marta and Pierre would be in the audience.  

*********

(The Veronica Steele character was created by Devin Dickie)