The Triangle

© 2017 by Thrillerauthor

CHICAGO

1988

The middle-aged woman glanced at the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. Her brown pencil skirt just covered her knees, above still-shapely legs shimmering in sheer nylon stockings. The neck of her patterned blouse was graced by a triple strand of pearls, and the brown jacket which matched her skirt completed her ensemble for the day. She stepped into a pair of designer flats and sat on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs as she rummaged through her purse to make sure her keys, wallet, lipstick and such were tucked away. A last glance at her handsome face in the mirror confirmed that her hair and makeup were presentable, then she was on her way out the door.

Her apartment was in a high rise overlooking Lake Michigan, and as always, her pulse rose slightly as she waited for an elevator. When the doors opened, she smiled at a young mother carrying her baby in a papoose, and quickly turned her back to stare at the floor lights as they raced down to the lobby. She stepped off the elevator first, and mouthed a hello to the doorman when he opened the door for her. She fell into a leisurely pace as she made her way down the crowded sidewalk towards Michigan Avenue, where another day of work awaited her.

She paused at the corner of McClurg Street to remove a cigarette from her purse, which she lit with her lighter before she continued on her way. How many times, she wondered, had she started a day like this? A single woman for life, making her way through a world full of strangers, each preoccupied with his or her own affairs, paying little or no attention to her. This was the life she had chosen, she reminded herself, far preferable to the life which she might otherwise have faced....

At the intersection with Fairbanks Street, she looked both ways before crossing, but missed the police car which pulled out of a driveway and began speeding towards the crosswalk. Too late, she saw it bearing down on her, and she screamed a moment before it lifted her off her feet, out of her shoes, and sent her flying through the air. Already unconscious, she landed with a sickening thud on the pavement as the police car screeched to a halt, and a crowd of pedestrians began to gather around her.

Her skirt was hoisted indecently above her panties, and her stockings were torn to shreds above her bloody feet, but the most shocking sight was her balding head, stripped of the wig -- a stylish bob -- which was lying in the gutter a few feet away. The driver of the police car, Officer Helen McInnis, tried to maintain her composure after she radioed for backup and an ambulance, her pursuit of a suspected car thief quite forgotten. She felt for a pulse, which was very weak, and tried to keep from crying as sirens filled the air. The victim's purse was still strapped to her shoulder, held fast by one of her hands in a death grip, and the officer gently pried it away and opened it to look for identification.

Another police officer, the first to respond to her radio call, looked over her shoulder as she went through the victim's wallet. "Andrea Dowd," he said out loud. Andrea's Illinois driver's license showed her address as 441 East Erie Street, a few blocks away. The officer, Marcus Robinson, was a seasoned veteran who'd seen everything during his twelve years on the force. "Does that license look funny to you?"

Helen studied it closely. "It's a forgery for sure."

"Then I wonder who she is?" Robinson asked. "And why is she carrying fake identification?"

"I wonder who he is," Helen responded. "That's a man's haircut, and look at that Adam's apple."

"Damn, you're right. I wonder who he is? And why is he dressed like that?" An ambulance pulled up, and they watched as the victim was carefully lifted onto a stretcher. "Try to get some fingerprints as soon as you can," Officer Robinson told the paramedics as they put their patient in the back of the ambulance.

* * *

The patient admitted as Andrea Dowd drifted in and out of consciousness as the doctors and nurses labored over her in the Emergency Room at Northwestern Medical Center. When they stripped off her bloody hose and panties, they immediately discovered that officer McInnis was correct: their patient was indeed a male. Fingerprints were taken, and while they were being faxed to the FBI's crime laboratory, the medical team made a thorough assessment of Andrea's condition: fractured skull and concussion, multiple cuts and abrasions, and a severely bruised wrist, but no broken bones, which was a small miracle.

By the time they'd finished examining their patient and cleansing his wounds, there was little to suggest that less than an hour before, he'd been dressed and made up as an attractive woman. The revelation of his true identity, when it came over the wires from Washington, would solve a decades-old missing persons case. Oblivious to all this, as the patient tossed and turned on his hospital bed, he was haunted by vivid memories of a tumultuous life -- a life that was changed, radically and unexpectedly, some twenty years earlier. It all came back to him, beginning that soft autumn day in Princeton, New Jersey....

* * *

"Did Jimmy Stewart really get his start here?"

"Yes, along with Josh Logan and Jose Ferrer. But the brightest star back in the day was our literary icon, F. Scott Fitzgerald."

It was freshman weekend, and I was talking to an upperclassman at The Triangle Club's signup booth on Cannon Green. The Triangle Club was the premier theatrical group on campus, which had been doing outrageously campy musicals forever. The highlight every year was the all-male kickline.

As a public school boy who was used to having girls in class, Princeton was a cultural shock to me. The Triangle Club seemed like the ultimate mindbender, and the fact that F. Scott Fitzgerald was a Triangle Club alumnus intrigued me. Fitzgerald had been one of my idols ever since I read 'The Great Gatsby' in tenth grade,

"Was that before he wrote 'This Side of Paradise'?"

"Sure, and before he flunked out. In fact, his grades were so bad that they didn't let him appear as the female lead his junior year, even though he wrote the lyrics, but his publicity pictures made the New York Times."

I was amazed by the old photograph he showed me. "Wow, he was beautiful."

"'The Prettiest Girl at Princeton' the Times called him. Of course, since there aren't any girls at Princeton, that wasn't much of a statement."

"I guess all the girls' parts in the show are played by guys?"

"Well, duh," he said, looking at me like I was a little dense. "That's the way it's always been, and unless and until the trustees decide to admit women to Princeton, which will never happen, that's the way it'll always be."

"So what are my chances of getting into this year's show if I sign up?"

"Seniority has its privileges. You'll probably start with the backstage crew, although there are always auditions and it's possible that you'll make the kickline. I wouldn't bet the ranch on it, but you've got to join to find out. How about it?"

I shook his hand and said, "I'm in."

Of course, I didn't make the kickline freshman year, but I did learn a lot working behind the scenes. It was pretty amazing what costumes, makeup and choreography could do! Most of the guys looked ridiculous, but a few of them were transformed into really pretty girls, and it was an open secret that the female lead in the show, Jarvis Reed III, was a closeted homosexual. The first time I saw Jarvis in costume, with stage makeup and a long blonde wig, I actually felt myself become aroused. I told myself it was because I hadn't seen a woman in months!

As a lowly freshman, I kept my nose to the grindstone that first year, and the Triangle Club was my only extracurricular activity. You might think that I joined because I had a hidden desire to dress up as a girl, but that came later. My motive was much simpler: to meet enough upperclassman to pave the way for a successful "bicker" (Princeton's equivalent of rush week) and get into a top eating club, which would be the key to a successful social life on campus.

After the show closed, I concentrated on trying to bring up my grades, which were mediocre my first semester. Looking for a "gut" - an easy elective to pump up my grade point average - I enrolled in Classics 101, a survey of Greek and Roman mythology taught by Professor Stanley Hart, who was rumored to be a little light in his loafers. The course had been recommended to me by Jarvis one afternoon during rehearsals. Jarvis seemed to be taking me under his wing, and it was nice having an upperclassman show me the ropes. Little did I know what Jarvis had in mind for me....

Picture a large auditorium in McCosh Hall, with the lights dimmed low and a large screen next to the lectern, where Professor Hart would stand as he took us through slides depicting the characters we were reading about. Two particular episodes stand out in my mind.

The first involved Achilles, the hero of the Trojan War. It seems that when Achilles was a boy, his mother had been warned that a grisly fate as a warrior awaited him, so she disguised him as a girl to prevent him from being conscripted into the army to fight the Trojans. For years, he grew up as one of the girls, wearing women's dress and contenting himself with female pastimes. But the wily Odysseus (who later invented the Trojan Horse) somehow learned that a great warrior was hiding out amongst the girls, and he tricked Achilles into exposing his true gender by calling on the women as a traveling salesman and showing them his wares. The other girls were fascinated by the mirrors, cosmetics and jewelry, but when Odysseus pulled out a sword, young Achilles instinctively picked it up and gave himself away.

The second episode had a more profound effect on me. Professor Hart had a hypnotizing voice, and I fell under his spell as he related the story of Salamis, an island whose mountains rose above the sea to the west of Athens. Salamis was held by the Megarians, who had seized it from the city of Athens by force, so the Athenians appointed a soldier named Solon to recapture the island. Solon realized that a frontal assault against the more powerful Megarians would end in disaster, so he decided to rely on trickery. A dozen soldiers, all slender with delicate features, were selected and trained to disguise themselves as women. They were kept out of the sun so their skin would take on the fair appearance of girls, their hair grew long, they were schooled in the art of cosmetics, and they practiced for months deporting themselves in long, loose gowns that made them appear as attractive females.

When Solon was finally satisfied that his soldiers were undetectable as pretty girls, he sent word through a spy to the Megarian warriors in Salamis that they might have a good chance of seizing some of the principal lades of Athens. The Megarians, not knowing that the message was a trap laid by Solon, hurried onto a ship, landed on the Athenian coast, and saw what seemed to be a crowd of beautiful women dancing at a festival. With a shout they rushed forward, only to be surprised when the supposed ladies drew swords which had been hidden under their flowing dresses and slaughtered every last one of them! Solon went on to recapture Salamis, much to the acclaim of the grateful Athenians.

Professor Hart closed by telling us that "you will meet many such tales of trickery in the history of war in ancient times, and I fear that in our own days also men do not hesitate to deceive their enemies, and they think it quite right to do so." But I couldn't take my eyes off that slide of that beautiful young boy, disguised as a girl....he reminded me of Jarvis!

I was walking back to my dorm room later that evening when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Jarvis, who stood a head taller than me and was quite handsome. "Are you enjoying 'Greek for Geeks'?" he asked.

I was momentarily flustered before I replied, "Oh, you mean Hart's class. It's pretty cool. Thanks for telling me about it."

"Have you gotten to intercrural sex yet?"

I had no idea what he was talking about. "Maybe I skipped that lecture?"

"Why don't you stop by my room for a drink, and I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

The accident victim drifted in and out of consciousness for two days before he finally came around. Helen McInnis was standing by his bedside. She had been a frequent visitor since he got out of intensive care, and she was holding a piece of paper in her hands. An FBI Airtel.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," she said gently. "Shall I call you Andrea or Andrew?"

He squinted at her as his eyes gradually came into focus. "Who are you? Where am I?" He spoke with a woman's voice.

"I'm Helen," she said. "With the Chicago P.D. And you're at the Northwestern Medical Center. You've been out for the past two days."

"What happened to me?"

"You got in between my patrol car and a car thief. Sorry about that."

Something she'd said a moment ago hit him like a ton of bricks. "How did you know about Andrew?"

"Maybe we'd better start at the beginning. How long have you been living as Andrea?"

"Maybe I should talk to a lawyer."

"You said the magic words," she sighed. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning." She placed the Airtel on the corner of his bed, and walked out of the room.

* * *

Jarvis had done well in room draw: a single in Foulk Hall, on the ground floor, with a built-in bookcase that created a nook between the comfortably furnished living/study area and a small bedroom complete with dresser and closet. I sat awkwardly on a plush loveseat while he poured us each a tall glass of Wild Turkey. There was a mini-fridge beside his desk, from which he produced some ice cubes for our drinks before he sat down casually next to me. "Cheers," he said. "To the best-looking member of the freshman class."

It may have been my freshman naivete, or maybe I was too afraid of offending an upperclassman who could make or break me in bicker, but I didn't run for the door. "Thanks," I said nervously. "This is an amazing room."

"Yeah, I got lucky. "So tell me, what do you know about the sex lives of the ancient Greeks?"

"Uh, nothing. I guess we haven't gotten to that yet...."

"Well, chances are when you do, old Professor Hart will leave out some of the high spots. He's come close to getting busted, more than once, for getting a little too familiar with some of his protegees."

"Really?"

"I'm surprised that you're surprised. Anyway yes, really. I should know, because I was one of his protegees."

"You mean he hit on you?"

"Dear boy, you have a lot to learn. The ancient Greeks -- by which I mean the top men, like Plato and Socrates -- had a fondness for young boys. It wasn't considered queer back then, for a learned philosopher to get his rocks off with one of his pupils. And God knows, it's the only way to survive here at old P.U., with no decent women within a hundred miles."

Now I was getting uncomfortable! I took a long pull of my Wild Turkey, which hit me like a sledgehammer. Jarvis got up from the loveseat and came back with a large book -- "Art and Archeology of Ancient Greece" -- filled with color reproductions and photographs of paintings, sculpture and other objects d'art. He flipped it open and thumbed through it till he came to a page devoted to a Greek vase, which graphically depicted a strapping man and a young boy engaged in a shocking act of sexual exploration.

"Is that what you meant by intercrural sex?" I asked.

"No, dear boy. Prepare to be enlightened." He finished off his drink, stood up, and took me by the hand. I drained the rest of my glass and followed him unsteadily to his bedroom.

* * *

The Airtel read like a treatment for a screenplay. "Andrew Dowd was a summer intern in the Nixon White House when he disappeared in 1972. He worked closely with Jarvis Reed III, who was later convicted and imprisoned for his role in the Watergate coverup. Dowd was said to be in possession of damaging files which could have blown the Watergate scandal wide open before the Presidential election. He was last seen leaving the White House with a large briefcase, and was reported to have stolen confidential files from the Committee to Re-elect the President (CREEP) evidently in an attempt to aid the McGovern campaign. However, there is no evidence that Dowd ever approached McGovern officials, and his disappearance remains a mystery."

* * *

"I'm not sure we should be doing this."

"Oh hush, it's not going to hurt anyone. And it doesn't mean that we're not normal guys. Don't you know how Navy men get through those lonely nights at sea?"

" I just never thought about doing anything like this...."

"Listen, it'll be our little secret. I saw the way you looked at me when I was dressed up for the show. You have what it takes to follow in my footsteps, if you'll just open up your mind a little." I stood next to him as he tore off his shirt and unbuckled his khakis. His body was as beautiful as I remembered. I stood there drunkenly as he pulled my sweatshirt over my head, then he reached for my belt buckle, and my jeans fell to the floor. Then he surprised me by opening one of his dresser drawers and pulling out a silky women's nightie. I gasped when he dropped it over my head, then he pushed me back so I fell onto his bed. Before I could react, he sprang on top of me, and began to tug off my underwear and sox.

"Please don't," I whimpered.

"Don't be such a baby! I'm not going to hurt you." With that, he grabbed a tube of lube off the shelf next to his bed and rubbed it all over the tops of my legs. Then he laid down on top me and began to slide his penis in between my thighs. I could feel him stiffening as his thrusting intensified, and although he never tried to penetrate me, the sensation for him as I squeezed my legs together must have been very intense, because before long he groaned, "Yes! Yes!" and I could feel his jism squirting all over me.

As soon as it was over for him, he sprang out of bed with a sheepish look on his face. "Now you know what intercrural sex is," he said matter-of-factly as he pulled his clothes back on. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and I looked around for a towel so I could clean myself up. He tossed me one, and he watched with amusement while I stepped out of my nightie, wiped off as much of his semen as I could, and hurriedly got myself dressed. "Remember, this is our little secret," he said as I put on my coat and headed out into the night.

* * *

I saw very little of Jarvis after my seduction, and he graduated that spring. Although he kept his distance, he must have put in a good word for me at his eating club before he left, because I came through bicker with a coveted bid from Colonial Club.

And I made the Triangle kickline my sophomore year! It was more hard work than glamour, with endless rehearsals as some choreographer from Broadway put us through our paces, patiently teaching a bunch of wrongfooted guys how to dance in high heels.

But the costumes were fun, and the wigs and the makeup, and I didn't look half bad by the time we were ready to take the show on the road. In addition to appearing on campus before packed houses, we traveled by train to half a dozen cities up and down the eastern seaboard, which looking back was the highlight of my Princeton experience.