his large but well-shaped fingers, past the immensity of his wrists and calves, through the magnificence ofhis thighs and chest, to his infinitely succulent neck, he was an artist’s dream come true. Where he transcended artistry and bordered on divinity was in the generosity and perfection of his most masculine of attributes. Looking as he did like Clark Kent when clothed, it was difficult not to extend the analogy to that fictional figure’s other persona when he was divested of clothing.
Bill’s physical perfection was only one of his qualities. Fastidious to an exaggerated degree, he introduced me to the seductive delights of natural scent. Just smelling him was a pleasure in itself, exceeded only by the pleasure of tasting him. I could have happily feasted upon him for hours on end. I had not expected to fall in love, and of course it exacerbated my impatience to have my gender problem solved, especially since Bill did not love me as I loved him and continued seeing other girls. I blamed my inability to deliver the ultimate goods, though I can see now, looking back, that that was at best a marginal factor. I did not know whether I should confide in Bill, or just let him continue thinking that I was an old-fashioned girl. I decided that I had better examine the issue carefully, as it was one I might have to address again. As I saw it, I did not owe anyone any explanation unless the relationship was heading towards the altar. At that point, my history would become material – not every man would necessarily want a wife who had spent her childhood in boys’ clothes. Besides, I could not envisage a marriage without genuine solidarity, which obviously meant that my husband-to-be would have to understand the circumstances that had shaped me. Regrettably, Bill and I seemed in no danger of getting married, much as I would have liked it, so I decided to keep my own counsel. Nevertheless, I continued to see as much of Bill as I could. Despite being caught up in the maelstrom of passion and emotion that only unrequited love brings, I still led a full and energetic social life with my smart friends.
Often, I would go on to Bill’s club, or we’d go together to Billy Gallaher’s all-night drinking club on First Avenue and Sixty-First Street after one of Serge Obolensky’s balls or Bob Taplinger’s parties. At first, eyebrows in those clubs would raise when I arrived in some exotic creation or ball gown, but only too soon I was a regular fixture whose presence required neither comment nor explanation except to newcomers. Indeed, when Bill was in a jocular mood, he would rib me gently. ‘Come on, tell the girls what the Duchess of Windsor is like,’ he urged after I had been to Raffles with the Duke and Duchess. I told them that she was small, sparrow-like, stylishly dressed, chic, and quintessentially American in an early twentieth century way (accent, powerful but charming manner, gracious to the point of largesse), while he was tiny, mild, almost Transatlantic at times (in speech and manner), but had a quiet dignity. In America, where wealth and celebrity are more openly acknowledged than in Britain, I was intrigued to see that there were residues of the old European imperial class structures. Society was then regarded as being ‘above’ celebrity, so, while Bill and his friends were established professionals with the status and salaries to match, and I was merely a well-bred young girl who got asked to nice parties, I was perceived by his friends and employees as ‘ranking’ above them. This perturbed me, for Bill maintained that ourrelationship could never work as anything more than an affair because we were ‘from two different worlds’.
You might imagine that, loving Bill as I did, I would remain faithful to him. But I was about to discover some interesting facts about myself, not the least of which was that love frequently has little or nothing to do with passion. All my life I had heard how passionate the
Bill’s physical perfection was only one of his qualities. Fastidious to an exaggerated degree, he introduced me to the seductive delights of natural scent. Just smelling him was a pleasure in itself, exceeded only by the pleasure of tasting him. I could have happily feasted upon him for hours on end. I had not expected to fall in love, and of course it exacerbated my impatience to have my gender problem solved, especially since Bill did not love me as I loved him and continued seeing other girls. I blamed my inability to deliver the ultimate goods, though I can see now, looking back, that that was at best a marginal factor. I did not know whether I should confide in Bill, or just let him continue thinking that I was an old-fashioned girl. I decided that I had better examine the issue carefully, as it was one I might have to address again. As I saw it, I did not owe anyone any explanation unless the relationship was heading towards the altar. At that point, my history would become material – not every man would necessarily want a wife who had spent her childhood in boys’ clothes. Besides, I could not envisage a marriage without genuine solidarity, which obviously meant that my husband-to-be would have to understand the circumstances that had shaped me. Regrettably, Bill and I seemed in no danger of getting married, much as I would have liked it, so I decided to keep my own counsel. Nevertheless, I continued to see as much of Bill as I could. Despite being caught up in the maelstrom of passion and emotion that only unrequited love brings, I still led a full and energetic social life with my smart friends.
Often, I would go on to Bill’s club, or we’d go together to Billy Gallaher’s all-night drinking club on First Avenue and Sixty-First Street after one of Serge Obolensky’s balls or Bob Taplinger’s parties. At first, eyebrows in those clubs would raise when I arrived in some exotic creation or ball gown, but only too soon I was a regular fixture whose presence required neither comment nor explanation except to newcomers. Indeed, when Bill was in a jocular mood, he would rib me gently. ‘Come on, tell the girls what the Duchess of Windsor is like,’ he urged after I had been to Raffles with the Duke and Duchess. I told them that she was small, sparrow-like, stylishly dressed, chic, and quintessentially American in an early twentieth century way (accent, powerful but charming manner, gracious to the point of largesse), while he was tiny, mild, almost Transatlantic at times (in speech and manner), but had a quiet dignity. In America, where wealth and celebrity are more openly acknowledged than in Britain, I was intrigued to see that there were residues of the old European imperial class structures. Society was then regarded as being ‘above’ celebrity, so, while Bill and his friends were established professionals with the status and salaries to match, and I was merely a well-bred young girl who got asked to nice parties, I was perceived by his friends and employees as ‘ranking’ above them. This perturbed me, for Bill maintained that ourrelationship could never work as anything more than an affair because we were ‘from two different worlds’.
You might imagine that, loving Bill as I did, I would remain faithful to him. But I was about to discover some interesting facts about myself, not the least of which was that love frequently has little or nothing to do with passion. All my life I had heard how passionate the
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