Tuesday, February 03, 2009

The Maid

What follows is advice that any Dominant might find useful in managing, directing or choosing a domestic maid. The discussion is meant to be thorough and complete, and the author sincerely intends to continue upon the work already done.

I. What Goals May Be Achieved

Any Dominant recognizes that performance of the household duties by an outfitted and obedient maid is a thing to be sincerely treasured. Consider what qualities you would seek: certainly that your maid should do her work well, and dream of making herself a fixture within her Mistress’s life. Certainly that your maid’s own joys and sorrows would reflect the state of her Mistress’s affairs, so that your maid’s whole sense of worth derived from simplifying and managing her Mistress’s home as to make it a place for your comfort and luxury in every instance. Certainly that there would never be any mention of compensation, for your maid’s sympathies and attachment made repayment for her efforts an inconsiderable manner. Certainly that your maid would never regard her work as beneath her, so that she would always know that her proper place and her labours always went hand in hand, the more so when her labours were well and conscientiously done. Certainly that she would never catch some illness of the mind, that would poison her with some false view that she should seek some other vocation, or strive to do as little of her work as she possibly can while hoping to retain her Mistress’ affections.

Sadly, it is more common to find untidiness, indolence and dishonesty occurring within one’s maid, rather than the desired skill, energy and loyalty one hopes to find. All too often, your would-be maid is too in love with her situation as an ordinary individual and does not want to sacrifice the hours or her present vocation in order to remain a maid of all work for the rest of her life. While the idea may be romantic, the reality is less so.

For many, the attempted solution is to make arrangements which give the domestic certain hours of the day, or certain days of the week, in which the uniform will be worn and the work will be done, with remaining time allotted to her and her own freedom. More often than not, this offers no inducement for the “girl” to become skillful or expert at her work, nor does it encourage her to increase the time at her duties. Commonly it only creates resentment against those days when she must work, and wishing for those days where she is without responsibilities, compelling her Mistress to police her endlessly, snapping her lazy self into action on those days when she must work.

What then is a Dominant to do? Certainly the whole system by which domestics are found and directed to serve has become inundated by those who see nothing in their service except their own immediate gain, more or less in terms of the attention they receive and the manner in which their own desires are fulfilled. A Dominant is bound to be at the end of her wits should she consider her own needs to be absolute, or that a servant act selflessly or at least obediently. The result is a perpetual coming and going, each would be failing to live up to promises and commitments made, followed by sulking, resistance and finally withdrawal.

Whatever the accusations which “girls” might make against their superiors, most commonly that their Mistresses did not “do enough,” that they were too “tyrannical” or too “exacting,” it is for the Dominant to decide how matters should be settled under her roof. This, first and foremost, must be made clear to anyone new who enters into your home: that it is without question YOUR home, and that the first rule modifying any behavior which goes on will be left to your decision ALONE. All too often a Dominant enters into the matter by failing to establish at the outset where the power in the household will reside—and as such, power becomes the bone of contention which destroys all the good which may have come from a new maid, behaving appropriately and loyally towards you and your happiness.

All that a Dominant can do to remedy this evil is to promote utter frankness from the first meeting. Whatever status your future maid may presently enjoy as an individual, you must fully outline exactly what your expectations are, what privileges will be granted, what consequences will occur should you be disappointed and under which terms you will release your domestic temporarily from obligations. Finally, you must be absolute with regards to those situations that will terminate all ties. If your would-be maid is not pleased, let her depart without regret. But if you engage her, then let it be said in no uncertain terms that you are the Mistress of the House, and claim without hesitation the right to have the work done in your way, to decide the measure and amount of the work and to decide what days will be required for faithful labour.

It should be said that although you are a Dominant, you must have for yourself a remarkable skill at domestic service if you expect the same from any whom you direct. You ought to be able to do everything better and quicker than any domestic who ever dared think of doing it. If ever a Dominant gives orders that betray her ignorance, she may as well resign her sceptre at once in shame and humiliation, for it will certainly undermine the conscientiousness of her help. No Dominant who does not know the scope of what can be done by a domestic can ever correctly direct the actions of that domestic. And when a Dominant has the maid who meets her needs, even then a turn in the household chores for a day or two will often be like a revelation to her, expanding her knowledge in how her home may be better cared for—after all, it remains HER home, and will bear examination from time to time.

There are many ways in which the Dominant will improve her life and the quality of her servants merely by addressing her own faults and failings. She should never cease to learn. She should never believe that the limitations she now possesses cannot be expanded and overcome. She should examine pointedly her own emotions, fears, fantasies, ideas and thoughts, with an eye to understanding their origin and towards shaping their design.

She should accept herself as a Dominant, and never feel ashamed or intimidated by her personal desires to be cruel or to enjoy the suffering and degradation of others, if that is her mindset. She should be happy in the knowledge that her pursuit of self-interest has won her many material benefits as well as the worship and obedience of others, and if it should be that she finds herself believing that she is better than or more worthy than others whom she sees as inferior, then she should find happiness in this also and not shame.

She should strive to be elegant in movement and in speech, to carry herself with style and grace, as these attributes will invoke awe and respect in both her peers and her inferiors. In all things, if she does not act with hesitation or confusion, if she instead should appear self-assured and magnificent, then she will draw obedience from her subjects. She should always be willing to learn and grow in this way.

She should resist the desire to be fickle, as mixed messages and dishonorable behavior serves only to undermine a servant’s loyalties. She need not be excessively arrogant or abusive, though she should indulge herself if she has not done so lately. She should always be open to new ideas and innovations.

She should be patient, and recognize that methodical explanations and time serve best towards training a domestic in her duties. She should remember always that the responsibility for a domestic being correct or derelict in her duties rests with the Dominant alone—any domestic trained well by a thoughtful, careful Mistress will behave according to their instruction. If the instruction be poor, so then will follow behavior. But if mistakes have been made, the matter at hand is action, the acceptance of responsibility and the correction of those mistakes, and not recriminations.

The Mistress of the House should always be the Mistress of her temper. Praise should be given when it is deserved, but should never be given lightly or frivolously, as this will encourage low standards. If anything is done improperly, take proper time and have it done correctly, again and again if necessary. In most cases of incompetence, this will serve well enough as punishment.

If it should happen, however, that the difficulty is not incompetence, but recalcitrance, as the domestic is stubbornly resistant to authority or control, then arrange punishment fairly. Explain again the arrangements that were clearly stated from the first, that this is your house and that your rules apply equally towards both activity and attitude—then apply lashes, confinement and the deprivation of customary indulgences as necessary.

Punishment should be reasonable with respect to the nature of the crime. Forty lashes for failing to hang a dishcloth next to the sink would be somewhat excessive, while obviously a three-minute scolding without administered correction for failing to wash the kitchen floor would be far too generous. Have in your mind a rising scale of offenses, and punish accordingly, being ready to raise the level of punishment if a particular task is repeatedly left undone. How to catalog this rising scale is a matter that shall be discussed in detail later. Never diminish the level of punishment, for it will make you appear yielding and weak. Knowing this in advance, remember that too much punishment will ruin a potential domestic.

It is better to err on the side of weakness than the side of brutality. A weakness in the beginning can be corrected, while brutality will only destroy a servant’s affection. Never forget that it is only a servant’s complete adoration for the magnificence you display which will ensure continued, unremitting obedience and faithfulness. It is to attain this faithfulness that you as a Dominant strive always to be a keener, fuller, more profound Woman; that your word should become law by the virtue of the words you choose and the degree in which your justice is dispensed. While you may dispassionately distribute harsh punishment, you must also remain dispassionate with regards to perceived insults that are no more than the limitations displayed by a “girl” incapable of being anything more than a domestic. Find fault with as little annoyance as possible, particularly at the beginning of a domestic’s training, remembering that a sharp and bitter rebuke may reveal a tendency towards the hysteric; do not become drawn into emotional dramatics. Deal exclusively with her punishment and give the matter no more thought.

To be magnificent requires also that you be magnanimous. Give your maid all the privileges possible, and when obliged to deprive them on account of errors made, give your maid the opportunity to win them back again. Provide somewhat for the maid’s comfort, and for the attractiveness of her wardrobe, as pride in being a maid is heartily important to her. She desires to appear pretty and pleasant to the eye, does she not?

A servant who is tucked away in a gloomy attic, unfinished, uncarpeted and uncurtained, with the hardest bed and the meanest bed clothing in the house, can hardly be expected to be neat and tidy in her personal habits. Such things will only encourage her to seek solace elsewhere, whereas a place made personal by the generous providing of sentimental objects, a desirable wardrobe and comfortable furniture will serve to provide a home sorely to be missed, thus securing and keeping a good “girl,” winning her into sympathy and attachment to her Mistress.

To do this a Dominant must respect her maid as a sensitive, vulnerable creature, and not class her as a mere drudge. It is indisputable that a faithful maid, whatever her status or wealth, retains her invaluable, irreplaceable character, a circumstance to be treasured. You must let your domestic see that you do not consider her work unappreciated, but delightfully appreciated, and that you do not for a moment expect your maid to regard it in any other light.

While you may, unapologetically in your heart, view your domestic as your inferior, you must never show her by word, look or action that you look down upon her because of her work. The work is a prized, valuable commodity, and does not in itself diminish the domestic. Rather, the domestic is promoted in your estimation by the work she does, and in that way EARNS for herself the privilege of being in your presence. Never should a Dominant reward such an earned presence with dismissiveness.

By the cultivation of such amenities as these, the house may really be made a home for the domestic. The Dominant who has accomplished this may well congratulate herself on having escaped the worst and most perplexing ills of the life of a self-styled Superior Woman. In her efforts to bring about such a result, she may confidently count on many cases of incompetence, stupidity, and even ingratitude from many who think themselves suitable to be her maid. She will often have to show such creatures to the door. The experiment, however, is in the right direction; and if it fails to achieve complete success, it cannot be wholly without good results.

II. What Expectations There Are

It is recommended that your list of expectations be comprehensive, uncompromising and specific in both detail and in the described consequence should your maid fail to adhere. They should not, however, be unrealistic, nor excessively demanding. Your maid should be easily able to live within the context of your rules and guidelines, so that after a few months she might so quickly adapt as to believe herself in nearly every one. You must grant that some odd rule will seem virtually impossible for your maid, but if it is fair and if it reflects truly a wish that you hold dearly, your maid will come to see the wisdom of your expectation and will recant her resistance.

We shall from this point consider a number of proscribed recommendations that the Dominant might wish to adopt. This list may be considered by some as excessive, and by others as not nearly complete. Nevertheless, those things that are included will be discussed at fair length, so that the wisdom of the proposed rule may be better understood.

Appearance & Hygiene

It is best that we begin with this, as these apply precisely to the manner in which your future maid will first be judged when met at the outset, and will certainly be the first good habits you wish to instill in her once she has become your servant.

Each morning, she should rise at a proscribed time, early enough that she should be brightly awake and ready to act in your service. Therefore it is best if she has already been up for hours, for then there can be no chance that she will be still suffering from the physical effects of a poor night’s sleep—her face will not be puffy or blanched, her eyes will not droop, her movements will not be slow and full of aches and her head will be clear and fresh, the better to accept instructions should you choose to give them.

It is for that reason that your maid should be awake at six bells or perhaps six-thirty, certainly no later than seven. Any earlier and the time must be stolen from the evening before, when you may chance to find use for her. Any later and she will still be preparing herself for the day when you might chance to awaken, peckish or ready to be dressed. Let us therefore assume that your maid has been expected to rouse herself at six.

Her first activity will be to bathe herself, to keep herself as clean as possible. She should be sure to wash her hair, to clean beneath her fingernails, to brush her teeth and to apply deodorant. The various products that she should use will be chosen by and provided by the Dominant; you should expect them to be used in their proper amounts without exception and not wasted. Doubtlessly you will proscribe hair products to be applied once she has left the shower, plus a shaving kit, to be used for her legs or the rest of her body as need be. During the evenings she will perform the greater part of her body chores, such as tweezing her brows, defoliating her entire body, buffing her feet or hands, polishing her fingernails (in a selected, muted color) and so on, that in the morning the merest maintenance may be applied in the shortest possible time as to prepare her to look her best. You may insist upon some make-up, or none at all, and you may wish that she should not polish her nails or polish them with only clear polish to protect them. You may wish some degree of perfume, or not. These are decisions that only you as her Mistress can make.

Before dressing, your maid should take steps to fix her hair, which you are recommended to keep as long as possible, as its maintenance and care will help to provide her with a degree of femininity amid the drudgery of a maid’s life, which she should certainly cherish. This hair should be braided if there is time, or placed into a ponytail or into pigtails, or pinned in place so as to be no distraction during the day’s work. As many Dominants desire that the uniform include a hat or other decorations about the top of a maid’s head, it is recommended that your maid be given instructions on how you wish her hair to be pinned; if she has not had any previous experience with pins, this may prove a challenge for her, but additional instruction and practice may be assigned in the late evening when her chores are complete.

Her nails should be kept short, as this will be most practical for working. It will take only a minute or two in the morning for her to quickly buff them, address her cuticles and ensure that during the day they will not tear or break and therefore be no problem for her.

Water should not be left on the bathroom floor following your maid’s morning routine, and this should be cleaned up immediately, along with the sink and any other affected area, and not left to wait until your maid has completed dressing. This is simply a question of being prepared; should her Mistress rise unexpectedly and have use for the bathroom, it will be in proper order. If her Mistress should rise while the maid is still applying her toilet, the maid’s immediate presence ensures that the floor can be quickly wiped and the sink cleared—which cannot happen if the maid has returned to her room to fit herself into her uniform.

The Dominant may expect her maid to be done with the bathroom no later than six-thirty, and to be completely dressed in her uniform by quarter of seven. This makes her ready to slip into the kitchen for a quick breakfast before being completely ready to serve by seven-o-five or seven-ten, a good hour before her Mistress might be expected to rise before going to work, even longer if Mistress works from home. On a weekend or a vacation day the maid may have been at work three or four hours before her Mistress has any reason to rise at all, which is best.

There are those who would prefer to keep out of the subject of uniforms altogether—but as there is so much written on the subject, and a variety of designs and methodologies to be considered, it would be remiss not to give the matter ample space and time in order that it may be viewed in its entirety, and thus the decision made properly and then left behind.

There are two pronounced schools of thought on the matter: that the maid should be dressed in an excessively feminine style, in clothes designed to exhibit fully the complete humiliation that a maid might experience as an inferior servant in the household; and that the maid be dressed in a thoroughly practical manner, without any flourish at all, so as to be ready to scrub and clean in clothes designed fully for the purpose and to virtually vanish from the gaze of any member of the household not specifically in service. Nearly all forms of proposed dress may be placed upon a line stretching from one extreme to the other; it is to be devotedly wished that, except in certain circumstances, normal daily wear for normal daily service to tend more towards the dour and featureless end of the spectrum rather than towards the excessively decorated.

That said, there are certainly circumstances in which an absurdly feminine uniform might be appropriate—when, for instance, there is no hard or dirty work for your maid to do, except to dance attendance upon her Mistress at the supper table or in her Mistress’s bedchamber; there might also be circumstances in which some carefully chosen ridiculous finery might serve as punishment, to bring a blush to the cheek of your maid and thus draw from her an honest appreciation for her ordinarily assigned attire.

What then, might this include? Perhaps something incredibly pink, with several layers of pink petticoats, supported by satin bloomers with an abundance of lace and ribbons; perhaps a voluminous array of petticoats beneath an embarrassingly short dress, the sort characterized as “French,” fashioned of rich satin or velvet; then perhaps either overlaid by fancy pinafores, well-starched and ruffled along the shoulder, embroidered of course; alternately to be added might be bonnets or bibs, aprons or caps.

More appropriately, however, a Dominant should choose materials and designs more durable for what work needs to be done, putting aside fanciful costumes for play. Such costumes may have appropriate uses in times when no real work is to be done, for managing to dress her Mistress in the morning, or waiting upon her Mistress at the dinner table in the evening, or serving at fancy dress parties. It has occurred to some Dominants that compelling their domestics to wear ridiculous clothing has the effect of discipline, resulting in a greater appreciation for the dull daily wear of a maid-of-all-work.

However, an ordinary uniform need not be dull. It should, on the contrary, have definite features which suggests a pretty, feminine resident of your home—she will have, after all, a certain ornamental appeal for visitors and for yourself, as a Dominant’s home should reflect both the character and style of its chief inhabitant. Therefore, be sure to select a durable, yet attractive frock as the principal garment of the uniform.

Lingerie beneath the uniform should be matching and kept in excellent repair. While it will not be ordinarily seen, the wearer will be aware of its condition and this will affect her self-image and her overall attitude. Either black or white should be selected for undergarments—any other color would be far too pretentious. If you will be purchasing these garments, allow her a moderate degree of decoration, as a bit of lace or embroidery serves to encourage her to feel less a drudge.

Stockings and a slip will be completely necessary, as both will conceal the effects of the domestic’s perspiration as she sets about her tasks. If you choose to allow her thigh-high stockings, insist upon a garter belt, as a full day’s work will play havoc with elasticity. A petticoat will serve to reduce how overheated your maid will become through the afternoon, but resist the urge for something fluffy or extravagant, as this will only become cumbersome in bending and kneeling throughout the long day.

A pinafore will also help to conceal stains or spots acquired by the uniform’s frock, and have the added usefulness in that they can be discarded the moment some accident has occurred and replaced with one that is fresh and clean. This greatly reduces the need for many uniforms, as six pinafores will suffer the damage of twenty frocks—and may be replaced that much more inexpensively. It is recommended that the pinafore should not have too much in the way of flourish, as wide ruffles tend to be caught on corners and fixtures.

Alternate to the pinafore would be the commonly chosen starched cotton apron, often supported by a bib to protect her front. Often, both pinafore and apron may be worn together, particularly in the kitchen where stains are a constant difficulty. A thorough Dominant may consider circumstances in which a particular apron or pinafore ought to be worn; a particular pinafore only to worn while cleaning the bedrooms, another for the bathrooms, and an added apron for the kitchen. Such matters are best left up to the Dominant.

All pinafores and aprons should be thoroughly starched to increase their durability and the neatness with which they appear upon the shape of the uniform. Anything very dirty that might need to be done, such as cleaning the fireplace or scouring, ought to done while wearing a head-to-toe plastic smock, covering the maid both front and back, along with matching cap, rubber gloves and even protective eyeglasses or goggles (depending on the activity). In the kitchen, some sort of hairnet should be worn.

Shoes may have some heel, but it should be no higher than the maid can prove to wear practically throughout the length of the day. Like other fanciful attire, anything above an inch is likely to prove more trouble than its worth. Some maids, however, are remarkably able to wear a higher heel and experience no effect on their practical output. This, too, is left up to the Dominant to decide.

There is nothing wrong with a little unpretentious jewelry, such as a necklace or earrings, as long as these do not hang out of place and thus become a distraction. Small ear studs and a neat necklace are best.

Finally, a word about corsets. While they may seem proper, and often suggested by literature or by the Dominant’s imagination, unless a considerable training course has been adopted it will be without question a virtual impossibility for your maid to complete her work while steadfastly laced into a full-length, or even a partial corset. If you feel that this must be incorporated in order to create the right posture for a servant, begin with a very light lacing of the garment, insisting that this been increased over a period of months. You may also consider seriously that a girdle might serve to produce the effect wanted. Do not make absurd physical demands where no such demands can be possibly met! Young girls with no previous corseting experience must be weaned into the practice through patience and reason, and not willy nilly on the unconsidered ambitions of their Mistresses. Remember always that the first order of business is work done and done well—appearance comes second, and should be sacrificed until steps are taken to correct what deficiencies exist. With a proper attitude towards both, both appearance and service can be improved together, without risking the growing loyalty of your domestic as she, too, comes to understand the importance of your goals for her.

The body of the uniform should be either black or grey, as these colors work the least to reveal imperfections brought about by the day’s work. The cuffs, collar, apron or pinafore should be white (again, color would be pretentious). It should be of some fabric that is a stiff cotton or a light wool, depending on the degree to which the environment will be heated and, of course, the overall climate. The principal frock should reach to below the knee, so that it will move up when your maid kneels (staining her stockings but not the uniform) and will fall back in place to cover her knees when she stands. Her undergarments should be of a strong fabric that will tolerate a great deal of perspiration and will not be a problem during those times when she will have her period.

Three uniforms should be considered a minimum. This will twice allow the replacement of her uniform during the day—in which case she should immediately launder those that have become unwearable. Six pinafores or six aprons should also be the minimum, as alluded to already. The replaced parts of her uniform should never be allowed to lay in the laundry until the next day, but should be cleaned by the next morning. At the end of each day she should hand wash her uniform and leave it to hang dry in the laundry, that it may be ironed in the morning when she begins work. Other parts of the uniform may be laundered in the machine, white pinafores and aprons washed separately and with bleach.

Whenever you feel you should inspect your maid’s uniform—and this should be done daily whenever possible—you should be on the lookout for efforts to keep her skin clean or to properly change her apron or pinafore when appropriate. A minor stain on a black dress may be ignored, but a similar stain on her white collar or her white apron, particularly one that has quite obviously been there for some time, warrants a harsh word and punishment, and she should be sent to remedy the situation before continuing in her duties.

Look also for signs that her uniform is becoming frayed or in need of repair. These are things that your maid should be noticing from daily ironing her clothes and reporting to you before you have a chance to discover it for yourself. All parts of the uniform should be present and properly worn. Look for smears on your maid’s face, hairs out of place that should have been fixed or scuffs and marks on her shoes. Her stockings should be agreeably straight, seams at the back, her garters fastened correctly and orderly, and her stockings replaced in the events of runs or quite obvious stains. You should not allow her to present a slip-shod appearance, as a complimentary appearance will augment the approval she keeps for herself.

This is particularly true if your maid should have any reason for leaving the house, as her uniform and its appearance is a statement about her Mistress and the sort of environment you keep. Your maid is an ambassador of sorts to other homes in the neighborhood—it is your responsibility and your maid’s duty to see that she presents a fine diplomatic image.

At no time may the maid’s clothes be laundered in the machine with those of the Dominant or her family. Some parts of the maid’s uniform may be laundered at the same time as those clothes she wears in the evenings or on her days off.

Throughout the day, the maid should always wash her hands with soap and water, for the appropriate hygienic period of at least twenty seconds, applying a brush for the purpose, before and after handling food, before and after handling any infant or child in the house, or whenever she has used the toilet or whenever she has completed any task using her hands which might be inconvenient with regards to her next task. She would not need to wash her hands between vacuuming and the laundry, but she would certainly need to wash her hands between cleaning the bathtub and folding clothes.

To ensure a proper night’s sleep, your maid should be directed to her room after 9 P.M. and expected to be in bed with the lights out no later than 10:30. She should expect to spend some of her evening prior to this in primping her brows and other features, brushing her teeth and bathing. She may not let her hair down within the presence of her Mistress, even after she has completed her duties, until she is in her room and alone.

If it should happen that your domestic becomes ill of health, she should let you know at once. In that manner you may correctly oversee the manner of your maid’s care and recovery. She should know that her health is her Mistress’ main concern, and this should be made clear to her through consideration and with formal statements positively asserting the fact. As such, she must be made to understand that following all your instructions without question will lead to her rapid recovery, and should not balk nor resist your administrations. She will not do so as long as you are sound in your judgment and improvements arrive in good time.

Attitude

From the first day, a Dominant must impress upon her domestic the measure of their relationship, and what personality traits the maid will be allowed to betray as part of her service and which ought to be firmly repressed. A maid is not a companion; she is an employee, expected to be focused upon her work and to receive her reward from a job well done. She should not be encouraged at the outset to believe that she is a favored member of the household or a “member of the family.” This is something that she may become after years of proven service, but it is not a status to be awarded upon the first day of employment.

Often a Dominant believes that through treating a maid with kindness or generosity, the maid will be grateful and work hard. Never presume that a giving attitude will encourage a strong work ethic. In nearly every instance the opposite has been proved to occur. Sloth is encouraged by the belief that no consequence will result from failing to do one’s work; only by the strong suggestion that this is not true will a Dominant create the sort of positive attitude needed for a maid to reach her full potential.

This is not to say that you should not provide words of encouragement for a job well done; only that the job should be completed excellently and in good time before approval is given. At all times, keep your praise in reserve; distribute it fairly, but only in rare circumstances. Too much praise will have the effect of creating in your domestic’s mind the belief that you require little effort to please, and therefore she will make less effort to do so.

It is best to upbraid her for any faults at once, or tell her immediately if she has made a mistake. Do not keep your opinion to yourself, believing that your maid will somehow sense your disapproval and correct the problem. You must correct her shortcomings before they become habits, which will plague you in the future and become much harder to repair. A sharp rebuke may today create discord in your maid’s happiness, but it will later on save many long scoldings.

Do not ever feel that you must retain your domestic’s approval at any time. It is the habit of maids to harbour resentment for their Mistresses whenever they themselves are at fault and are looking for someone to blame. It is equally in their nature to forego this resentment whenever they discover themselves to have ever been in the wrong. By not airing these hard feelings in the present, maids often preserve themselves from deserved feelings of humiliation when they discover they have reconciled themselves to their Mistress’s point of view. If you do see some demonstration of disapproval in your maid’s eyes, it is often best ignored. If, of course, your maid should be imprudent enough to announce her poor attitude openly, you will be forced to act. In all other cases, you will do better to allow time to diminish your maid’s improper mindset.

This is aided by the practice of maintaining a disciplined formality at all times. Whenever your maid addresses you, either in answering an instruction or command, she should use the title you have selected. Traditionally in previous centuries the Mistress of the House has been addressed simply as “Mistress.” In later times, “Madame” or even “Ma’am” has become common, and even “Mrs. Smith” or “Ms. Smith.” The archaic “M’Lady” may prove less effective as it has developed a degree of mawkishness through overuse in film and elsewhere.

Your maid should be attentive and focused when given instructions. If it should happen that she does not have a good memory, she should be allowed to take notes. The correct answer when directed to do anything would be a direct “Yes” without further embellishment. Any question should be prefaced with the request, “May a maid be permitted to speak?” or merely “Permission to speak?” Please and thank-you should be used in every appropriate instance. Any information given, such as the dinner being ready, should be announced clearly and as briefly as possible. It should not need to be said that a maid will always approach her Mistress and speak in a soft, conversation manner, emphasizing a demure femininity; she should never call out with a raised voice from another room. The one exception might be that, when called, the maid will commonly answer at once to indicate that she is hurrying to appear. In every case, the last word spoken will be the Dominant’s title.

A maid should never raise her voice for any reason, no matter how anxious or perturbed she might be. No word not deemed polite should ever fall from her mouth, nor should her mannerisms or the way in which she expresses herself convey anything but the height of respect.

She should absolutely refrain from initiating any casual dialogue with her Mistress, as this always results in work done in a slip-shod manner and encourages a sense of equality where no equality exists. It is not for the maid to waste her time in gadding about or in gossip with any member of the household, nor with visitors to the household such as laborers or deliverers. If she is to interact with such individuals, signing for things that are delivered or to let such a person into the house, she should go about her duties and keep her mind wholly on her work. Such engaged contractors do not enter the Dominant’s home to provide a holiday for domestics, particularly those who seek to parade themselves as somehow associated with the management of the house when they are in fact similarly engaged.

Moreover, she should not draw inappropriate attention to herself or to the fact that she is driven by emotional needs for affection or approval. She should very certainly not bear herself in a manner that could be interpreted as lascivious. Though it may be recognized that a maid likely carries such feelings, they should not interfere with her work or with the ornamental appearance she presents as part of her Mistress’s household.

Very often a maid will seek to interject her own opinion into a situation, as to express a better way in which something can be done, or a better order in the timeliness of her duties. A Dominant may occasionally be indulgent, but on the whole such vocalisms ought to be discouraged. It will lead often to wheedling, as most domestics will seek to manipulate their Mistress’s if some better situation can be managed for themselves. A Dominant might deliberately seek a maid’s opinion; a maid should never announce her opinion unsolicited.

If it should happen that something is done incorrectly, a Dominant should expect an apology. When the error is addressed, the maid should behave humbly and listen patiently for instructions on how it should be corrected. She should not “fly off” to fix the situation themselves, nor wave off her Mistress when the time is being taken to correct her on what was done. It is for the Dominant to decide further action and to decide on what will action is required. The maid should wait to be told, however uncomfortable she might find this.

Mistakes should be remember and not repeated. If a maid is repeatedly inconsistent or fails to take instructions regardless of how often they are given, you will have to make arrangements for strong discipline. If your domestic proves incorrigible, do not hesitate to dismiss her. Very often the problem does not lie in your management skills, but in the very real fact that the domestic is unmanageable for reasons deriving from a number of outside circumstances beyond your control. It is best to eliminate such a person from your life and begin with a maid who proves more compatible.

Make it clear that if there are other members of the household, that their instructions should be followed as carefully as your own—even if their directions appear to conflict with your own. Your maid should follow the instruction and inform you afterwards of the situation, allowing the Dominant to straighten out the miscommunication yourself. Your maid should not refuse, citing precedent; this is not her place as help. If a particular matter is handled differently on one occasion as the result of a member of the house not knowing how something is usually done, it is the maid’s position to accommodate; certainly nothing extraordinarily bad will result. If it should, beware of any impulse to punish your maid and recognize that the matter should be taken to the source. Never punish your maid for following instructions, even if they are not yours.

Naturally it may happen that the other person will claim the maid acted inappropriately without instruction. If you as Dominant are certain of your training and of your maid, you will know this is false at once, for you may rely upon the simple knowledge that a domestic in your house would never have done such a thing on her own recognaissance. Being in the possession of a well-run household provides such benefits.

It will likely happen that your maid will possess many beliefs that are not shared by the household in which she works. She should be made to understand very clearly that such beliefs are not appropriate if openly expressed in a Dominant’s household. Though a domestic may possess a particular faith, superstition or philosophy, the knowledge of such should never impugn upon her Mistress’s space or be spoken of within her Mistress’s hearing. Maids may confine their personal beliefs to their personal space, where she may be given the opportunity to incorporate them into her environment.

Similarly, domestics should exhibit a sincere gratitude for the opportunity to serve in her Mistress’s home, particularly in thanking her Mistress for food that is provided or for anything that is given, even if it is something that is commonly provided every day. A maid should not be fussy nor complain about her food or meals, or what living arrangements have been provided for her, or about any circumstances which she might find unpleasant. As a Dominant, it will ease many concerns if you will take the time to discover if there are any reasonable dissatisfactions you might correct. This would also be a good time to assert your reasons for why you have made the decisions you have. Your maid should be made to understand that her situation was not casually created, and that you continue to give it thought as matters change. If it should happen that your maid will prove herself worthy, of course you would want to improve her benefits. This should also be made clear.

This leaves two particular attitudes that must be addressed most seriously. The first being that all too often maids are given to telling untruths, or for fabricating false details about matters. Associated with this matter of lying are maids who flagrantly give out too much truth mixed with falsehood about a Dominant’s household, telling tales to strangers or repeating what she has heard or seen to whomever might come into her company.

Such indiscretion is to be devoutly punished. A character that shows continued faults of this kind should be dismissed dispassionately and directly. Attempting to correct the problem, or make allowances, will only leave you further compromised and deceived. This is not to say that a maid should not be expected to lie, only that any maid who does so with an unremitting, imprudent or perverse relish should be shown the way to the curb and directed on her way.

A maid should never fail to inform her Mistress regarding anything that might happen, such as the breaking of a vase; or of anything she might see, such as the indiscretion of one of Mistress’s lovers; or help to cover up an impropriety committed by a child. A maid should do so immediately, as her loyalty requires that she be the eyes and ears of her Mistress, and not the protector of those who would deceive her Mistress. Failure to do so is in itself a deception.

A three-strike rule is very reasonable, mitigated perhaps if occurrences are stretched out over a period of years. More often, however, a liar may be presumed to be obstinate in their ethic, this habit being indicative of a wanton character, sorely to be gotten rid of.

Similar to the habit of telling tales would be the habit of stealing. This is of course much more serious, and may even involve the police. Most commonly, the activity extends only so far as filching food from the pantry, which in small amounts may be treated with the same discrepancy as lying—the maid being corrected twice and then dismissed for failing to listen. Objects should never be “borrowed.” If such occurs, circumstances might mitigate punishment—but a Dominant ought to resist too much indulgence.

If actual materials should disappear from the household, however, and the maid correctly implicated, very serious action should be taken. Be certain, however, before exploring your maid’s room. An incorrect accusation will damage forever whatever success you have had with your domestic in the past. Treat this circumstance, or a circumstance where you may not be sure who is telling a falsehood and who is telling the truth, with deliberation. The matter need not be solved within the hour, and more often than not the guilty party will be revealed through their consistent behavior. Resist therefore the desire to “hold court” in the immediate sense to settle the issue at once. Lay patiently and exercise caution.

Possessing a maid who always tells the truth, who earnestly keeps promises she makes and succeeds in applying herself well to her tasks is a girl to be truly appreciated. A Dominant must be constant with her if she has thoroughly proved herself to be loyal in the past. A single incident, overblown and incorrectly managed, will shatter not only a maid’s simple faith but all the effort that has been taken…forcing a Dominant to again take that effort with someone else.

Therefore protect your maid, as well as employ her. If deserved, you will find her devotion the only reward you require.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The Seattle Trip

The quintessential moment comes when you are standing at the border with $14 in your pocket, 700 miles from home, no return ticket, a satchel full of women’s clothing, watching your bus pull away. It is a moment that makes a man, that tests him.

Unfortunately, I am not a man; I am an idiot.

My decision to go to Seattle began with a relationship—one of those computer things. Her name was Cindy: a woman of questionable morals. A woman with experience.

A dominatrix.

Me, I’m a transvestite who happens to like pain a little. It’s no big deal. But I’m drawn to women who like to cause it. More than a little.

The job I had was enough to pay my bills, but I wanted to meet with this woman, and she wanted to meet me. So Cindy offered a deal: if I could pay my way down, she’d pay all my expenses while I was there, and for my return ticket. I scraped the money together and went.

And I mean scraped. I had the bus ticket plus about $40. The trip was twenty hours. I left Calgary at 9 PM and hit Vancouver at 2 the next afternoon.

Thing about bondage games—they are serious. I took with me a nice collection of dresses, nightgowns, shoes, boots—and toys. Leather harnesses. Handcuffs. Rope. A paddle, a couple of whips, and a 28” riding crop. The crop barely fit into my duffel bag.

Naturally I was worried about the border. A few friends had given me advice, warnings…but I decided to go ahead and be stupid anyway. I was determined to be open about my lifestyle, and dare them intellectually to judge me. I felt their embarrassment would get the best of them before mine would worry me.

What I didn’t realize was that “money” would be the problem. That I didn’t have enough of it. Even though I didn’t have a return ticket, I had been ready to bluff my way through. I wore a suit jacket, a nice shirt. They’d believe me.

We left Vancouver at 2:30 in the afternoon and got to the Surrey border crossing at 3:15. They threw us all off the bus and the fun started.

We were shifted among the guards and I found myself facing this mean-looking mo’fo who didn’t like me. I could tell. I didn’t take it personally. He didn’t like anyone.

He rattled off some questions, and asked to see my return ticket. I explained that it was waiting for me in Seattle. He asked me if I had money to buy a ticket. I lied and told him I’d transferred my money to a Washington bank. He looked at my name on the I.D., and asked if I was a Canadian citizen. I said I was.

“When was the last time you were in the United States?” he asked.

“Thirteen years ago,” I answered.

“Why so long?”

What was I going to tell him? That I didn’t like his stupid country? I told him that there’d been no reason to go. To which he answered, “Do you have something against America?”

I wanted to tell him that it was because I wouldn’t go to America on a bet. But instead I said it hadn’t come up for awhile.

Did I have a record? No. Why was I going? For fun. This seemed to bother him. He told me to stand away from the others, at a special desk.

I stood there with four Iranian men, none of us speaking, while the processing of most of the passengers continued. Finally, an aging, bored officer came and checked through the passports of the Iranians.

When all the passengers had been sent through, the very unhappy officer whispered into the ear of the bored officer, and I was politely denied access into America.
So there I was, abandoned at the border.

I don’t know if you’ve been to Surrey, B.C., but there ain’t nothin’ there. There was the Canadian Consulate, the duty shop (closed, as it was a Monday), and a dance club.

The Consulate looked at my I.D. and told me that a bus would take me back to Vancouver—but that didn’t help me get back to Calgary. Maybe I could call a friend and have money for a ticket wired to me. Maybe.

I wandered over to the club and found the bartender taking stools down for when they’d open in a few hours. He agreed to give me change if I would show him my I.D., because I couldn’t come in without being carded. That was all right; I got the change, went to the payphone outside the club and called Cindy.

Cindy wasn’t home. Of course. But I talked to her roommate, explained the nightmare, and told her that I would call again in an hour. I hung up the phone in despair, and then started up the highway, where I could see a building two miles away. Hopefully I could get a pop or something. I couldn’t afford more.

I got all my anger out as the cars went whizzing by.

I said I’m not a man. That’s the truth. I’m not that sort that hitchhikes, not the sort that breaks the law. Sure, intellectually, I understand why people do these things—I can even condone them. But under this outer tough exterior male skin beats the heart of a ten-year-old girl that cries when her ponytails are pulled. I just want to throw my arms up in the air and let someone else handle it.

I came to a big convenience store/gas pump. I reached it about 20 to five. I bought a drink, sat on a bench, and started reading: Much Ado about Nothing.

At five I sacrificed a dollar on the payphone and called Cindy. Thank the heavens, she was home.

Was I panicking? You tell me. But it took Cindy awhile to get a rational explanation out of me. She told me to wait. Call her in an hour. I followed instructions.

The sun was starting to go down, and I pulled out my jacket and went on reading.

At six I called again, and Cindy wasn’t home. I freaked. Her roommate told me to settle down and wait—that Cindy was working on the problem. And to call back in an hour.

Cindy needed to have a solution before 8 PM, I decided, because I’d go back to the Consulate and take the bus to Vancouver. Meanwhile, for two-and-a-half hours I’d been hanging around this convenience store, and I was cold. I explained myself to the two girls working, and asked if I could wait inside. They agreed, but weren’t interested in talking to me…I went back to my book.

The night was full now, and I called Seattle. Again. Cindy answered. “Keep tight,” she said. “Someone’s coming to get you. His name’s Darren.” I asked who he was, and she told me, “the ex-husband of a friend.”

Darren lived in Canada, in Abbotsford, about forty minutes from Surrey. I was supposed to wait for him, and he would take me back to Abbotsford; then Cindy and a friend, who had a car, would drive up to get me. They’d bring a return bus ticket for me, and $200 for me to keep in my pocket when we tried to cross the border again, this time at Huntingdon, east of Surrey. Fair enough.

Another hour passed as I got tired of reading and sitting on the convenience store floor. And about then I found out my I.D. was missing.

Now, reading this, you know exactly where it was. But I didn’t. In the stress and anxiety, I hadn’t a clue. I went through my baggage a dozen times, knowing that without the I.D. I couldn’t get access across the border. And I’d need to get to Seattle to use the ticket back to Calgary.

Darren arrived at nine. I got into his car (his 7-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter were in the back seat), and explained the newest crisis. He was very nice about it. He patiently drove me back to the Consulate, and I ran inside. I asked several people there if my I.D. had been found. They were very apologetic.

Only after walking out of the Consulate did I remember giving my I.D. to the bartender. Sheepishly I went into the nightclub and got my card back.

Darren talked to me about his work as he drove me back to Abbotsford, in between keeping his kids under control—they were overtired. So was I. Darren pulled into his driveway and I stumbled into his house.

He put a coke into my hand and began talking to me about his recent trip to Herefordshire, England. He showed me pictures of his trip. I nodded politely and fought to stay conscious…but finally I begged to go sleep on his sofa.

I got maybe an hour’s sleep before Cindy arrived. I hugged her with all my might, this woman who I had never seen in the flesh but who was saving my ass just the same. She cuddled me, assured me that everything was going to be all right.

Tina waved hello to me as we went out to her car, and all together we started off.

We got to Huntingdon crossing about 12:30 AM. And then we began to go through all of the same bullshit all over again.

This time, the money didn’t get mentioned. We showed the customs officer the bus ticket, and he looked querulously at my I.D. And at me. And clearly did not believe I was a Canadian.

Then it dawned on me what was going on. It was my Russian name! So what if I looked clean-cut, the border cops weren’t buying it. Both the big guy from that afternoon and this new fellow had decided that I had to be some member of the Russian Mafia, with a very practiced Canadian accent, trying to break through into their country!

We got waved over, told to get out of our car and enter the customs office. Cindy gave me a hug. I was nearly hysterical.

A second officer joined the first and the questions began vigorously. My address, my record, had I been arrested, what were my plans in Seattle, why was I going to leave Seattle on that day, what job did I hold (I worked in a coffee bar) and on and on.

I’m flanked by two American women as the questions are thrown at me. Cindy is answering some of them, taking control of the situation. Meanwhile everyone is getting more frustrated.

“I think we should look in your baggage,” the first officer said at last, asking Tina for her car keys. Tina gives them.

“I’m not going to find anything dangerous, am I?” the officer asked.

Dangerous?? Like whips, crops, paddles?

But before I can answer, he asked—seeing my hesitation—“No guns or knives, or anything like that?”

“No,” I answered. “No guns or knives.”

He brought in the bags and asked me to open them.

I took a breath. “All right,” I said. “But I think you should know—I like to wear women’s clothing. And you may see some strange things.”

He gave me a look, and FINALLY I knew I was in control of the situation. I pulled out the crop and laid it on the counter. And then I piled up an assortment of crepe and satin dresses in front of the two stunned men. Then came the leather harnesses. And so on.

The other officer pointed at the crop and asked, “What is that for?”

I pointed at Cindy. “She likes to hit me with it.”

Cindy didn’t miss a beat. “I’m his Dominatrix.”

The two officers were completely non-plussed. The wind had been knocked out of them. I wasn’t a Russian terrorist. I was only a garden-variety freak.

They did their best to save face by letting us go.

Perhaps there may be hope for the world yet.

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Monday, July 23, 2007

Separation

- i -

She brought a chair. They were going to have a long talk and she wanted to be comfortable. It would not be their last “long talk.” He would not understand her message, even after hearing it many times. She was fine with that.

In making the decision to move, she had also made a decision about their relationship. The two were only somewhat related—even if they had not moved, she would have come to the same place in her head. But the move and the changes involved with it were instrumental in making up her mind. She knew the move would help him adapt. New surroundings would help with a fresh start.

True, his perception of “help” and her own were going to be very different. For him it would mean much discomfort, a constant sense of imbalance and—she might as well admit it to herself—fear. Fear would be the watchword for him. She could do nothing about that. She did not want to do anything about that.

She opened the basement door and began down the stairs with the chair. He had been growing anxious, although it had only been twenty minutes. As she descended to where she could see him, she noted his body had stiffened as it always did when she approached. Sometimes, if she crept towards him in stockinged feet, she could surprise him while still relaxed. Today, however, she did not want him relaxed. She had put on her heels to be sure he could pinpoint her as she moved around.

The basement was unfinished and bare. There were concrete walls and a concrete floor. She had decided that nothing would be brought down during the move—no boxes, no furniture, not even the washing machine and dryer. All was stacked on the main floor, where it had been left by the movers yesterday.

She put down the chair in front of him, so that the legs rapped on the floor, about five feet from him. She sat. She took a few moments and observed him.

There was nothing unrecognizable in his predicament. They had been playing games for some time. For four years, in fact. His being trussed up, wrapped in plastic and leather, manacled and gagged—that was a part of their games. All that was different, this time, was that he was less comfortable than usual. She’d made use of the steel support pole in the center of the basement—there’d never been one available for her use before. His back was to the pole. He was on his knees. His hands were in leather mittens that encased his fingers and cuffed his wrists, which were joined together behind the pole. At the tips of the mittens were rings which she had clipped to the cuffs around his ankles—those, too, were locked together behind the pole, the steel shaft between his shins. With his bottom against the pole, he couldn’t rest on his heels.

She knew he hated being on his knees. This position, in particular, put much of his weight square on his kneecaps. Even after such a short time, she saw that he was sweating. That he was shifting his weight from one knee to the other. She mused about that for a moment. There was nothing wrong with his knees, no reason why he could not remain on them for many hours. Still, he had a tendency to whine about his knees. Which was why she chose to bind him that way.

Of course he was beside himself about it. He might have said something, except that he had a leather gag in his mouth, and she had gone to the extra effort of packing two silk handkerchiefs into his cheeks. He had an annoying habit of trying to talk around the gag and halfway succeeding.

If there were any day he would try to talk, it would be today. Today she didn’t want that.

He began grunting and shaking his head, wanting her to free his mouth. Demanding it, really. It was something he did when things got too rough for him. Twenty minutes on his knees on pavement fell into that category. She had anticipated that…so she hooded him, to keep him from seeing where she was or what she was doing. Also to keep him from using his tongue to push out the handkerchiefs. The hood was laced and skin-tight. She supposed his cheeks would be hurting.

All the better reason for him to be relaxing them, and not tossing his head around and half-howling his impatience.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you want to find out if I’m ready to kick you in the balls, keep making those noises.”

The effect was immediate. She knew it would be. Again, his body stiffened, his head freezing in mid-swing. Blessed silence.

He would wait on tenterhooks for her to speak again. She was satisfied to let him wait.

The hood was made of heavy PVC, which went with the rest of his outfit. From head to ankle he was suited in a PVC tube-dress. Under that was a merry widow corset, all the better to restrict his movement. But then, he had no chance of getting off his knees anyway.

She sat and watched. After a minute or so, he began to shift his knees. They must be hurting him badly, she thought.

Well, too bad about his knees. He would have to get used to that.

Anytime before, she would have relented and ungagged him. Anytime before, after hearing his complaints about his position, she would have uncuffed him. A day later they would be having a conversation—began by him—about how weak he felt in failing to live up to her expectations, about how much he wished he’d had the strength to endure the position a little longer; about how it had been very restrictive and intense, even spiritually overwhelming. If only it hadn’t been so painful, he would say.

The same sequence had played over the entire course of their relationship. What he wanted and what he was able to endure were never in synch with one another. He fervently wished to feel her authority, and he fervently feared her authority. She wanted to feel in control; but she feared what her control would do to him. And so it went.

They had reached this place by first meeting each other and finding they had compatible goals. She was anxious to experience being a dominatrix. He was a long time practitioner who had never quite achieved the intensity he longed for. She wanted to learn. He did not want to teach, but he was willing to once he accepted that she could not do it alone. He resisted leading her; she encouraged him, until she could grasp for herself what to do. He knew he could not get what he wanted otherwise.

What he wanted. That had been the great mystery she had pursued as he lectured and explained and expanded her perceptions. She did not mind that it was Pygmalion. She was eager to learn. She forced herself to abandon the rules of her upbringing. She fought her own prejudices. She made her mind free to grasp what he had to say. Whenever there came a flash of enlightenment, there would invariably follow an intense scene during which she would feel a part of the raw power she ached for.

Then, a period of adjustment. The scene scared him. He would retreat, denying her another chance for weeks, or months…until the period of adjustment ended, and he would be ready to go farther.

So the relationship grew over five years, always a little bit more towards her making the decisions for both of them, a little bit more towards the sacrifices she wanted him to make. It did not seem to be moving slowly. There were many things to try, many ideas to think about.

Then she sensed that there had been some kind of change. Less than a year ago, it seemed there was only one thing he wanted her to learn. She could see that it possessed him and frightened him. She could not isolate the message behind what he was saying. In so many ways she was already thrilled with the places they had gone: in experimenting with strap-ons, enemas and his drinking her urine; in dressing him up in maid uniforms and sharp little house-dresses; in whipping him or paddling him, making welts rise on his flesh that would last for days. And in other things. But he had stopped speaking about those things, rarely making suggestions about her technique. She was completely on her own there and now he recognized it.

Yet there was still this thing he wanted her to understand. So the confusing discussions went on, about human nature and gender interactions, about exploitation of the weak and the nature of the will. She did her best to answer his frenetic questions. Sometimes her answers would infuriate him, sending him into another complicated metaphor about socialization or mental development, or self-actualization, or something else.

In the end she circumvented his logic. In the end she didn’t need to understand his arguments to finally see what he wanted. What he wanted disturbed her.

Not that either one of them were terribly saintly. His desire to be humiliated and her having spontaneous orgasms from the sounds of his pain would seem to put both their characters in question. They were both depraved, at least by the standards of anyone outside who could have watched them.

But for the past five years, they had been depraved together.

Now what he wanted would put a wedge between them. However happy she was, she knew that he was not. She may have been contented to play for a few hours and then free him, but he was not contented. Always that discontent would seep into their daily lives and spoil any given moment they’d made for themselves. She didn’t understand him. She loved him. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted him to get what he wanted.

He wanted her to make herself happy—without being dependent on his happiness. He wanted her to be absolutely selfish. Nothing less would satisfy him.

She did not understand how she could ever be happy knowing that he was not. He could only find what he wanted by having everything taken away from him. For long nights she tried to look at his desire from every angle. She saw how he had made each piece of their relationship a part of his final goal. She confessed to herself, not to him, that she had been complicit from the beginning.

She had wanted his obedience on demand, at any time. She had pressed to have him follow instructions about cleaning the house and maintaining his body. She loved that he shaved his legs and torso regularly and that he tweezed his eyebrows. She grew wet when she saw him tramping around in high heels, moving like a girl, even behaving like a girl when he was not meant to behave like a man. She had taken on most of the outward responsibilities. She ran the household accounts, giving him an allowance and denying him any banking privileges. She paid the bills, managed whomever they hired and dictated their future plans. She had chosen to buy a house, had made the decision on which house and had made the downpayment on her own, all without his input. She determined the day they would move. He had not raised an objection. As always, he deferred to any decision she made—whenever she made one. During their scenes, they had no safeword and theoretically she was free to take it as long and make it as hard as she wanted. He might protest…but supposedly if she didn’t accept his protests he would have to accept her authority. In their discussions, it wasn’t a “game,” it was a serious commitment they’d made towards her being in charge and his being acquiescent to her needs.

But…she knew…it was all shit. Maybe the rules were very complex. Maybe they didn’t count the times they’d failed to live up to their own fantasies. Maybe their activities were rigged in her favor, since she was getting orgasms and he wasn’t. But this whole time he had still been “leading” her. Because she couldn’t actually abuse him by forcing him to serve past his willingness. That definitely made everything a game. Five years ago he had said he didn’t want that. For five years he had gotten it anyway.

When she saw that, it disgusted her.

Then, like a series of tripped circuits, she got it. She did not understand his motivations. She did not need to understand. She knew for a fact what his feelings were. He loved her. He loved her completely, even devotedly. He did not feel that she needed to love him.

Perhaps he didn’t need her to stop loving him. At the very least, he wanted her to act as though she did not. She knew that it could not be an act. She knew that once she treated him as a slave, without worrying about him at all…if she could do that…even for five minutes…

She knew that would prove she had never loved him.

Had she? She wasn’t sure, now. Knowing that he didn’t want to be loved had certainly derailed many of her assumptions about him. It had left her non-plussed. For an entire afternoon she had sat at a downtown fountain watching water flow in a circle and then over the lip of the fall, puzzling through all their moments together. Not love him? Seriously, she wondered. Was that really the question?

Part of her said, Leave him. Leave him now, before getting any deeper. She answered herself: “Leave him for what?” For a man she did love? She loved feeling power, the thrill of making her own decisions and having them carried out by someone who didn’t question her. What man—besides a submissive—was going to let her live that way?

What was more important, after all? That she love, or that she be loved?

The day at the fountain was followed by weeks of doubt that wracked her. Amidst anxiety attacks, she fell ill. For a two-week period she was too sick to rise from the couch. She sweated and slept, twice completely around the clock, while he fretted and waited, unaware. Whenever she woke he was beside her, ready with broth and juice and medicines, whatever she needed. He patiently saw her through. She watched his exhaustion break him down day by day, as he split his time between work and waiting on her hand and foot.

She thought about his behavior...and her own. At some point on the last day of her illness, she knew she had turned a corner. If either of them were going to get what they wanted, circumstances would have to change. He could not change them. She would have to.

There was more than that. He wanted to feel owned. She realized she wanted to own him.

Having him as actual property meant doing more than bossing him around. It meant taking full and complete responsibility for him, the same responsibility she’d take for any animal—horse, dog, whatever. Too long she had been delegating half the responsibility for his slavery to him...not out of laziness, but out of respect. She did respect him. He had taught her. He had revealed his whole life to her. He had even provided her with the assurance to keep going. If a scene failed, she knew she didn’t need to depend on herself; she could ungag him, sure that he would know what to say, or what to do. He hadn’t been fighting to keep control so much as she had been giving it to him.

That would stop. All weakness would stop, from times when she would free him from too hard a bondage to letting him ramble about his needs and feelings when he ought to be finishing chores and getting about the business of serving her. She wound up her courage and held her projected self at the fore of her mind, getting ready.

Still she did nothing. There was one thing that blocked her: fear of the unknown. A month went by with her knowing what she wanted and needed to do. Then another month. Nothing changed. Next weekend, she thought, she would tell him to quit his job so he could stay home. She went over their finances alone at night and knew they had enough money until she could find a better paying job, or until she could determine what kind of income he could earn from home. Next weekend, she thought, she would go into his closet and find all his male clothes and throw them away, leaving him with nothing but a selection of women’s blouses and slacks when he needed to go to the market. Next weekend, she thought, she’d buy a single bed for the main floor bedroom and start forcing him to sleep there, not permitting him to share her bed but having to sleep downstairs in the room next to the kitchen, his maid’s uniform on the back of his door and ready for him to wear first thing in the morning. It was always next weekend.

Then the idea of buying a new house struck her like a beacon in a storm. A complete change—of location, of regime. The chance to establish herself anew, in an untouched abode, as the unquestioned queen of her domain. Setting out to make him understand as she now understood, on the first day they moved in.

She clung to those thoughts as a bride to her wedding day. The ceremonial comparison was not lost on her—nor was its stark reality, as they moved towards possession. She sold their old house. An agent showed her a dozen properties which she saw alone. She measured each house against her plans, fundamentally seeking to purchase a house where she would live as its only legitimate tenant. He would be her pet, nothing more. As she came home after each sojourn to dinner and an evening with him—all the time without explaining her motivations—her resolve hardened. At first, she thought for certain the idea would consume her and she would have to tell him...but after two weeks, she felt no need. The emotion she was feeling, she felt at last, was disdain.

She had never experienced it before on such a level. Now she wallowed in it. Daily, her tone grew more reproachful. She criticized his habits, his appearance, his shortcomings, his sloppy efforts as she never had before. Once he lashed back, and she bit her tongue to keep control. In time, she remembered. Thereafter she remembered, too, to hold herself in check. If she had any doubts, they were dispelled when, an hour after he lost his temper, he returned. He apologized, and begged her to forgive him, saying he’d try to be more patient, that he knew how much stress she was under, getting the new house and preparing for the day they’d move.

She found it all too easy. The hard work she simply delegated to him. He packed the boxes, hauled the collected things they didn’t want to the dump, did the grocery shopping to save her time, managed the lawn and cleaned their old house for the new owners. At worst, she spent a few harried days running around to meet homeowners and being sure the home inspector did his job in time for papers to be signed.

The day before taking possession, she declared that a hotel room was waiting for them both, and that they’d be staying for the night before and the night of the move. He wouldn’t need to visit the new home during the move at all. She’d handle the movers and take care of any details. She gave him a little pocket money, told him to enjoy the pool and see a movie. She told him she’d be back in the evening and they could have dinner.

He was excited. Several times he described his anticipation, wondering what kind of house she had chosen. When he got affectionate in the hotel room, she quietly discouraged him; “Tomorrow,” she said. “In our new home.”

She had been denying him any long sessions for a month. Twice they played for a few hours, no more. When he remarked on it, she promised it would be different after they moved. Until then, it was too tiring.

So when she parked a block from the house and put a blindfold on him, he accepted it. “This is the best way to enter our new home,” she told him. His heart thumped wildly as she fitted the blindfold in place.

Not long after she had led him from the garage to the basement, dressed him and fixed him into the position on his knees. Now as she sat in front of him, silently watching him suffer, she knew he fully expected to play. He did not know the playing was all done. She felt he would not know it for some time...not really. She had taught herself her own lesson: his understanding wasn’t very important. She understood enough for both of them. It would be enough if he learned the meaning of disobedience, and the consequence of it. It would be enough if he learned that she was not the same woman who had loved him. She intended to keep him in the basement until he knew.

She was crystal clear about how long that was going to be.



- ii -

She opened her legs, straddling the chair, letting her heels click on the floor. His body came to attention. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, looking into his leather-covered face. “Here’s the trouble, sweetie. This has all been my fault. I knew nothing about being a dominatrix. I completely missed the point. I tried to believe that we were moving towards something. That each thing we tried was taking us some place, a future I guess. Now I see where that was wrong.

“I think I didn’t want to understand. I’ve been so wrapped up in what it took to torture you, give you pleasure, humiliate you...knowing you wanted to be abused and wondering if I would damage you if I abused you too much.”

He shook his head. She overlooked it.

“I’ve always had the thought in my mind that I might go out of control. Hospitalize you, or give you some trauma. Scare you so bad we’d never play again, even make you leave me. I’d lay in bed at night and worry about how far we had gone—and then I’d have fantasies about places we never dared go. If I talked about those things, then you’d panic and put on the brakes. If I thought about actually trying those things, I’d panic and put on the brakes.

“So that’s where we’ve been. Stops and starts, that’s all it ever is with us. This whole time, I’ve been thinking that’s how we had to do it. Both of us, getting what we wanted. Especially you.”

Again, he shook his head.

She clenched her teeth for the count of five, then said evenly, “Honest...if you don’t stop...and I mean stop every sort of twitching, and I mean right now, I’m going to get that inch-thick walking cane from upstairs and beat your thighs black with it.”

She watched his throat quiver with his effort to keep still.

“That’s better. This is a one-sided conversation. This is not something for baby-bitch slaves to jump into. I don’t want your input. You better get that clear in your mind right now.”

She took her time standing up. She took a half a stride forward and kicked him in the crotch.

The reaction was predictable. Bound as he was, he could do little more than cough out a cry, drop his head and shudder. Waves of pain expanded outwards from his member into his legs and shoulders. She gave him a minute to recover, was not surprised when he did not lift his head again. No matter. He would be listening, now.

She sat again. “Where was I? Yes. You getting what you wanted. That was fine. It had to be that way...you were teaching me, you had to teach from your point of view. I think you did it as honestly as you could. We’ve gone a long way and if not for that we wouldn’t be here, now, in this basement. So there’s nothing to apologize for. There’s nothing to deny.

“And I’ve gotten some of what I wanted. That isn’t your fault either, because this whole time I didn’t really know what I wanted anyway. I wanted to have you as a slave. I wanted to hear your cries, I wanted to see you in the outfits I chose for you, I wanted to watch you service me. I just didn’t know, was all...that I wanted more.

“I didn’t know that ‘more’ was something we couldn’t have.”

She listened to his ragged breathing. She fancied she could smell his sweat.

“The problem has been this ‘we’ thing. We played, we practiced S&M, we experimented, we were a bondage couple. I would say all those things and it made me feel good to say them. I was part of a ‘we’...I belonged. I had never thought before what I was belonging to, or how that lowered me.

“The big moment of clarity has been that there is no ‘us’. Saying that there is an us means one of two things: either I am lifting you up to my level, or I am wallowing in yours. I don’t think there’s any question—given your position at the moment—about my being definitely the higher one. But the lifting versus the wallowing...there is some question about that.

“It would be nice to think that I’ve been lifting you. Except that until this moment I have not felt at all like I could lift myself. And you have been doing the teaching. No doubt, the teacher must be higher than the student. So I have to think I’ve been wallowing. I’ve got to admit, sweetie, I have a lot of unexpressed anger about that. Very much like buying a car that turns out to be a lemon...and then finding out the dealer knew it all along...and finally learning that the dealer sold it to me just because I was a woman. The only reason you’re not getting a beating right now is that I think it’s more important that you know why you’re being beaten.

“So...being in any place with you just now makes me feel...well, very much like a prostitute. For five years I’ve been dumb enough to think our relationship mattered and now I find out I’ve been whoring myself. I wanted so much to believe that we loved each other...and that love mattered. Instead, I wake up and find that I’m a slave owner and you’re a slave. That it’s been that way the whole time and that I’ve been blind, stupid and dumb.

“Just like that, you ceased to be a person to me. I did wonder, for a few brief moments, if it was still possible to love you. I just didn’t know. I’m being honest when I say I nearly packed my things and left you. I’ve had to struggle to stay. Why should I? I’ve been asking myself for a month. I couldn’t see myself asking you...that would have been ridiculous, wouldn’t it? A little sickening, too. Even now...but I have held back all this time, so I can withstand a little nausea for the sake of honesty. I’m not completely gone, you know. I’m aware that your perception of yourself as a slave isn’t one one-hundredth as clear as my perception. I know that the only thing keeping you silent is the near certain knowledge that I will kick you in your balls again. That’s fine. Neither one of us needs another prolonged session of you raving up and down about right and wrong and what I need to think about.

“Here is what is important. I am staying for me. Maybe I loved you before, maybe I didn’t. If a person really loves someone, is it possible for them to fall out of love? Maybe not. So maybe I’ve never loved you. But maybe if something changes enough—if a person changes enough—the reason for the love goes away. Whatever. When I say I’m staying for me, all you need to know is that I’m not staying out of love.

“What that means is that from now on, you are alone. Whatever happens, however it comes around that I get what I want, I am not going to be worrying about you. You will just have to handle whatever on your own. I’m not here to help you, or counsel you. I’m not interested in what you ‘discover’ while being my slave, or what enlightenments you have. I will be conscious of your physical needs, but I won’t want you or need you to tell me what those are. If you try, then you will discover what I mean by expressed anger.

“No doubt it’s going to suck to be you. But considering what you are, I don’t know why that should matter.”

She waited for effect. He heard the words, yes. She was certain he was incapable of believing the words. Making him wait...without his daring to answer...that was her best tool for cracking his cynicism.

“While were still on the subject, let’s touch a bit on what you are. Not that I’m going to rattle off some kind of list or slap on a few labels. Honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. No, what I’m interested in discussing is self-awareness. The big question, the one I want you asking, is ‘What am I?’.” She stood up, and walked around him. She smacked her hand across the side of his head. “I hope you’re not trying to answer that question. I don’t want answers. Asking it will be enough for now. You don’t have what you need for some big understanding of WHAT you are. And while you’re trying to grasp what I mean, think about the fact that I know exactly what you are. I’m the ONLY one who knows. I am not the one in bondage. I am not the one who’s fucked. I’m not pretending to be four different things at the same time. I’m not strutting around acting like I’m important. I’m not acting. I AM important.

“I will make one confession. I don’t have a terrifically clear plan on how to teach you what you are. I do have some ideas...and I think I’ll have more as we go along. All I know for sure is that it’s going to take a really, really long time for you to get it. Since it took me five years, and I’m a lot smarter than you, it’s hard to say how long we’re talking about. But then, I didn’t have myself for a teacher. Lucky you.

“That’s a very nasty position you’re in, isn’t it? Your knees must hurt terribly.” She waited. He made no sound, he did not move. “Good. It’s good you didn’t try to answer. It’s very important that you don’t try to answer when you’ve been told to be absolutely silent and absolutely still. Make any twitch at all and I’ll show you just how little emotion I felt when my foot connected with your genitals.

“Oh...when I say I’m not going to worry about you, I really mean that. I’m not worried that I’ll kick you and something really awful will happen, like a testicle will rupture or whatever. If your testicle ruptures, then it wasn’t much of a testicle, was it? And you’re probably better off without it.”

She saw his muscles tighten and she chuckled. “Oh, don’t freak. As if. Your testicle is NOT going to rupture. You should be so lucky. If it really did rupture, there’s some chance that I’d have to bind it up somehow and stop kicking you in the nuts. That’s the kind of thing you should be grateful for...or will be grateful for.

“Meanwhile, though, you’ll have to give up on wishful thinking and concentrate on what’s going on. Your knees must feel like they’re cracking open on this concrete floor. They aren’t. I’m looking at them and they’re just fine. Well, they’re under the PVC at the moment, so I can’t actually see them, but you’ll just have to trust me. I’ve read lots about political prisoners being forced to kneel for hours and hours, and I’ve never read anything about someone’s knees bursting open spontaneously. But you go on thinking they will, that’s fine. You’ll discover in a few hours that they haven’t, and that you can stand all sorts of agonies and still be healthy for a few more. It’s all about what I said, about discovering who you are.

“Let me just say the same thing goes for your wrists and your back...which ought to be on fire by now. I’m not going to change your position—but you feel free to pray that I will. The sooner we get past you thinking I’m going to be sympathetic, the better.”

She returned to her chair. “That’s the reason we’re going to ‘play’ differently today.” She dragged her chair closer, to where she could sit and reach him. “We’ve been playing for far too long, I think. This will be better.” She spoke more quietly: “I know that you’re turned on. I know you love what you’ve been hearing. It’s what gets you hot.” She reached out her hand, pressing it on his crotch. “I want you to cum for me. I want you to cum right now.”

She did not need to say anything more. It was pathetically easy. His body bucked in the way she had grown familiar with, and she felt the telltale pulsing under the PVC and his corset. She took her hand away. “That’s a good slave.”

He breathed in heavy gasps, as though he’d finished a sprint. She did nothing, merely rose to her feet and backed away. She stood quietly and waited.

In a less than a few minutes, his breathing fell to normal. As expected, he lifted his head, listening for her. He waited for her to untie him. He expressed an incomprehensible, questioning moan.

“No,” she said.

Again, the expected response. He danced on his knees. He waved his head at her.

“I decided it would be too easy for you to spend this time all turned on. That’s why you’ve been given an orgasm. But you’re not going to be set loose. Free creatures are set loose, and you’re not one of those. You’re going to kneel and suffer and remember what I’ve told you. Without being turned on by it.”

He made an angry scream through his packed mouth. She made no effort to correct him. Tied or not, he was at his most dangerous, and she knew it. It wouldn’t be necessary to add to his unhappiness. Not now.

There was nothing left to do but go.

He screamed again, trying to make understandable words. “Scream all you want,” she said. “We’ll see what noises you make after a few hours.”

Her heels clicked on the basement floor as she went up the stairs. At that point he went batshit, flailing his body around uselessly, making the chains jangle. The wailing went on until he struck his head on the pole. She paused on the stairs and watched as he groggily shook it off. She amazed herself—it was his head, therefore it was his problem.

That made her smile, and the smile became a laugh as she climbed the stairs and closed the basement door.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Career Girl (conclusion)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chase walks through St. David’s Hospital, bringing flowers. Finds it a private joke—were the flowers a reminder of masculinity lost, or femininity gained. Chase has thought of many private jokes these last days.

St. David’s is private, wealthy, quiet. Deathly quiet. Chase walks along the halls, conscious of the echoing sound of her shoes. A cathedral could not so intimidate her.

It is the hospital Chase would choose to die in.

Room 301 is on her left. She stops before the door, lifts her bag off one shoulder. Winces a bit at her wrist, tucks the purse under her arm. Goes in.

Debbie lays on the bed. Eyes closed. Sheets across her waist. Upper torso wrapped in heavy bandages, waist bound with tape to keep her ribs immobile. Both feet jutting from the bottom of the sheet, with metal struts curved around her ankles and along her insteps. Surgical tape binds her feet and ankles to the struts. Left arm in a cast from shoulder to wrist, bent at the elbow. Propped against his body, fingers slack in the air. Bruising of various shades paints his face. Almost no cuts or abrasions.

She sleeps. Sun, shining through the window, makes shadows on her nose and brows. Chase steps into the beam, casts Debbie in shadow. Her eyes flutter. Comes awake.

Sees Chase. Takes a deep breath, releases it. “Hello Miss Chase,” she says weakly.

“Debbie,” Chase says. “I know, I should have come sooner. I’ve asked Lon and Robert about your condition. They both say you’re doing fine. They both asked me to come earlier, said you wanted to see me. I wanted you to be strong enough before I did.”

Debbie closes her eyes. Says earnestly, “It’s okay, Miss Chase.”

“I know you don’t want me calling you ‘Howie.’ But I’ve decided its all enough. Last time we talked, I said I was letting you go. But I wasn’t, not really. This time, it really is over.” She finds a packet in her purse. “This is for real. There’s your ID. Your real ID. I’ve put money into your bank account. I’ve got a passport for Debbie Moore if you want to leave the country, and then after you can be Howard Pope again. Start over. Fix what Persis and I did to you.”

Debbie stares.

Chase leans forward, kisses Debbie’s forehead. “You saved my life. You bought your own back. It’s really over.”

“It can’t be,” Debbie answers. Holds out her hand, means for Chase to take it. Chase does. Debbie pulls Chase’s hand down, lays it on her own chest.

Chase raises her brows. “Debbie?”

Debbie lets go, lets her hand fall. Says softly, “Lift up the bandage.”

They’re loose. Chase slides a finger carefully underneath them, bends over to peer at the skin underneath.

A dark black and purple scar. A crescent, tucked and stitched where surgery has been done; the crescent crosshatched with lesser incisions, stitched in turn. Flesh in abundance where there should not be.

Not a ‘C’ cup, not that much. An ample ‘B’…pressed flat by the bandages, easily unnoticed.

Chase forms the question: “Which one?”

“Lon. As a wedding present for Robert and me. Look in the closet.”

Chase does, opens the door, finds a brocaded, snow-white gown. The draped undercarriage fills the bottom of the closet; the bodice beaded and covered with vintage French lace. “Debbie…” Chase starts.

“You know about Robert now. Lon didn’t. We had been seeing each other—and when Robert found out, he told Lon everything. They fought, with their fists, right at the bottom of the bed. For me. Then they went out and had drinks and decided what to do. It was hours before Robert came back and told me.” Debbie reaches out one hand. “Please…can you bring the dress? I want to touch it.”

Chase reaches into the closet, takes down the gown, brings it to the bed. Pushes up the plastic so that Debbie can rest her good hand on the dress’ fabric.

Asks, “So they decided to fix your breasts?”

Debbie closes and opens her eyes. “Yes. It’s the one thing you didn’t do.”

“Oh, Howie…”

Shakes her head. “No…no. Debbie. It has to be Debbie.”

Chase looks away.

“You made me,” Debbie says. “Changed me. Created me…like this. Won’t change, not again.” Voice gains conviction. “Robert wants me. Not as a girl, and not as a boy. But for what you made. I can accept that because he can. I have to accept it. Because it’s not about whether you let me go—” has to fight not to use her title; “—Chase. It’s about Robert never wanting to let me go.

“I never had that. Never had anyone want me. I never liked myself, did you know that? I never had anything I wanted, I never knew what I should have wanted. I…” Tears verge.

“I hurt you so bad…Ch-Chase. When I left you. Before. You tried to tell me, but I didn’t care. All you wanted was to feel like you were important to me, and I treated you like shit. As though you were punishing me. And all you wanted to do was love me.”

Chase hesitates. “I have punished you.”

“Yes.” She manages a smile. “I understand about that. I never knew before, never knew how bad I was. How much of a pig I was. Or Howie was. I’m not that any more. I don’t know if I like myself now, but I’m better than whatever I was then. So please just call me Debbie. And I’ll keep calling you Miss Chase. It makes me feel better. To remember.”

“All right.” Chase doesn’t know what to think. Watches Debbie stroking her dress, wonders about fairy tales.

A knock on the door. It’s Robert.

“Hello girls. Playing with dress-up, I see.”

Chase smiles. Notices that Debbie’s face is shining.

Robert drops to his knees beside the bed, kisses Debbie’s good hand. “How are you, love? Lasting the day?”

Debbie nods.

Robert turns to Chase. “Can you believe my girl? She tried to go to the bathroom herself this morning.”

“I had to,” Debbie protests.

“Shhh! The doctor said no.” Robert touches Debbie’s nose. “You know you have to obey doctor’s orders. Mine too, once we get married.”

Debbie nods.

“Do you mind, Chase?” asks Robert. “We just need a few minutes.”

“No, not at all. I was going.” She backs off, giving Debbie a wave. Debbie says goodbye.

Three quick steps and Chase is in the hallway. Everything’s done.

She stifles a laugh. Shakes her head.

Strolls away.

END

Career Girl (twenty-three)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chase opens the door of her office. Says, “Debbie.”

“Yes Miss Chase?”

“Come in here and speak to me.” Chase leaves the door opens. Debbie closes it. Stands ready.

“Sit down.” Debbie does. Chase returns to her chair. Sits, studies Debbie. Admires the discomfort as it grows, decides to not be distracted. It’s the third of April. The day of change. “Debbie, I’m letting you go.”

“Miss Chase?”

“I’m having Curtis take over your duties. You can clean out your desk, and any trash you’ve left on the computer.”

Debbie pales, assumes she and Robert have been found out. The affair has been going on for five weeks, right under Lon’s nose. Five beautiful weeks. They’ve been so careful. Not careful enough, Debbie thinks. This would be just the way Lon would reveal that he’d discovered—

Chase smiles. Not a cruel smile, not like the ones Debbie has learned to fear. Different. With kindness.

“Debbie, I know what that sounds like. I’m not being cruel. You’re not losing your job...I’m sure William can find you something if you let him know. Lon will definitely find you something—but I think he’d prefer you went about it yourself. I’ve talked about this with him. I don’t mean to shatter your morning. Not this time.”

Chase sees she has. Rises. “Poor Debbie. Persis and I did too good a job on you, didn’t we?” Leans on the desk, raises Debbie’s chin. “You don’t understand, but it’s okay. Let me say it again. I’m letting you go...Howie.”

Debbie snaps at the name. Parts her lips in stunned surprise, half shakes her head.

“You have become everything I wanted you to become. You have done everything I wanted you to do. And I have done everything to you that I intend to do. So we’re finished. That’s all. Do you understand, Howie?”

“Please...Miss Chase. Please don’t call me Howie.”

“I thought you still wanted to be Howie.”

Debbie swallows. “I don’t know what I want to be. Miss Chase.”

Chase shows surprise. “I suppose that’s fair. I’m still asking if you understand me.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“All right Debbie, we’ll go slower. Recently Lon has been showering you with gifts. I understand he’s even bought you a car. I’m sure you tried to tell him you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Yes, Miss Chase.”

“Well...” She leans back, opens her drawer, plucks out a card. “You do now. And I have other identification for you. I have a birth certificate and a social security number, and even a credit card. I went to the trouble to change your last name from ‘Poutsmore’ to just ‘Moore.’ Consider it an act of kindness.”

“Miss Chase...?”

“Why? I’m sure you want to ask it, but of course you don’t dare, do you? Well, this time I’m going to let you ask. Go ahead.”

Long pause. “Why, Miss Chase?”

“Because it is time for you to fly from the nest, little girl. You are no longer the ugly little duckling you were, you’re a beautiful swan. No? Not enough for you? Well then, this: I never wanted to have you forever, Debbie. I wanted to punish you for what you did to me, and to Dana. I wanted to stop you from becoming any more of a prick than you already were. But this was never meant to last. This wasn’t love, Debbie. I don’t love you. Oh, not because you’re a woman now, not because you make me sick or anything like that. Just because I’ve moved on. And because I’ve moved on, it’s time for you to move on, too.”

Debbie feels the tears coming.

“I’m not abandoning you. Not completely. I will still be here, and if you’re smart you’ll stay with the company. Chances are Lon is going to want to do something more with you, eventually set you up as his permanent mistress or whatever. Be smart, Debbie. Be whatever he wants you to be. Don’t forget that nothing else has changed. If anyone fingerprints you or does a DNA test, they’re going to find out the truth. False ID won’t change that. And in prison, Debbie, they won’t let you be female. If that’s what you’ve decided is best for you.”

“I don’t know.”

“No, of course not. Whatever...you’re not going to find it easy going back to being a man, if that’s what you’re thinking. And if you do try, I won’t help you. But I won’t stop you either. Be a man, be a woman, go out into the world with whatever you can scrape together for money and live however you please. That’s what I’m giving to you now. I’m satisfied that you’ll never be what you were. It’s almost been two years, hasn’t it? If you stick around, maybe we’ll cook up some kind of celebration for you. Although I don’t think you’ll want to celebrate that, will you Debbie?”

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know up from down. Tears are falling from his eyes.

“Now Debbie. You know not to cry in here. Where to office girls cry?”

“In the washroom, Miss Chase.”

“That’s right. So. Is there anything else? I’ll give you the rest of the day to clean out your belongings. And just for the record, if you want to see me after this, Debbie, you’ll explain why to Curtis first. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Chase.”

“Very well. Go on. Have yourself a good sniffle, and then go out and get lunch on your new credit card. Here. I picked out a pretty lavender wallet for you. There’s five dollars in it...use it for tissue. Then, when you’re ready, you can come in and clean out your desk.”

Debbie rises. Walks uncertainly to the door.

“Chin up, Debbie.”
“Yes Miss Chase,” she says before walking out.

Chase takes a mirror out of her desk drawer. Looks at herself. It was a lot harder than she expected.



The elevator opens onto the underground parkade. Chase gets off, turns towards her car, heels clipping on the pavement. Feels the draft from the street level, pulls her coat around her. It’s chilly, late afternoon. Walks a little faster, following the concrete wall.

From around the corner ahead, Piqueur steps into sight. Hands in his pockets, wearing a long woolen coat. Black cap pulled onto his head. She sees him, stops.

“Good day, Ms. Bowyer.”

“Mr. Peeker? No, that isn’t right. It’s French. Piqueur, right?” She smiles. “I’d forgotten. How long has it been?”

“Seven months.”

“Really? And what have you been doing all this time?”

“Learning. Preparing. Making my decisions carefully.”

“Oh? And they involve—?”

“Ms. Bowyer, I have not known you to be stupid. You don’t need to bluff. My decisions involve you.”

“I see.”

“That is better,” he says.

“What do you want.”

“I find it best to say things directly.”

She folds her arms. Waits.

“We have both known for some time,” he continues, “that I have not believed the things you told me. That there has been no fooling of each other. And that you are not completely surprised to see me.”

Chase tightens. “I’m not.”

“You have found Mr. Summer impossible to find, yes. Ah. I can see by your face that you have. Then shall I tell you what I know? I know that you did not go to the Prince George Hotel with Howard Pope after you released him from jail. I know that you took him to a house in Saddle Ridge, which is owned by a Persian named Gamal Behjatamir. I know that you kept Howard Pope restrained there. Using the things in that basement, you and another woman, Persis Jaozar, tortured Howard Pope. My guess is the torture continued for some time. Finally, after you had exacted your pound of flesh, you murdered him.”

Chase feels her flesh stiffen. Her face grows hot. She measures Piqueur’s expression before she speaks.



Robert eases his Cabriolet into the parking garage. Debbie sits in the passenger seat. He looks at her, pats her on her folded hands. She has been crying.

“Thank-you Robert. Thank you for helping me get through the afternoon.”

“I don’t know what power this woman has over you. I hope someday you’ll tell me.”

“Someday. Maybe.” Debbie starts to get out.

“Wait.” He does nothing but touch the underside of her arm with his fingertips. She waits.

“What are you going to do? Go upstairs?”

“No. I’ve cleaned everything out of the office, so I don’t have to do anything except get in my car and go home.”

“Come home with me.”

“Please...don’t ask me to do that. I can’t tonight. I’m a complete basket case. I need to think.”

“All right, all right. I won’t push. I’ve been thinking too, is all...I thought we could have a special dinner. Tomorrow night. If that gives you enough time to think.”

“A special dinner.”

“Well then, just dinner. I’m not rushing into anything. I’m not rushing you. It’s just...you’re good company. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since—ever. You’re wonderful.”

Debbie blushes. “Thank-you, Robert.”

“My good mannered girl. Stop thanking me for a moment and kiss me.”

They do.

Debbie breaks it. “We can’t have any special dinners until we tell Lon.”

“Yes.” Robert stares at the walls. “Yes. We better think about telling Lon.”

“Since he’s still buying me presents. Since I’m still at his beck and call.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Then tell him. I’m not going to tell him.”

“Yes, we talked about that.” Robert looks at the line of cars. “Which one did he buy you?”

“You see the pink one? At the end?”

“He bought you a baby-pink Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

Again, blushing. “Yes. I do.”

“Then I’ll buy it from him.” He leans forward, kisses her. “Call me tonight?”

Debbie gets out. “I will.”

“Okay. You’ll be okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I’ll call around eight.”

Robert blows her a kiss. Pulls the Cabriolet out. She watches him drive away, digs for her car keys. Walks towards it.

It is a cute button of a car. The pink is soft, almost fleshy. The dash and interior leather are pink to suit, a shade darker for contrast. Fuzzy fur wraps around the steering wheel; a satin pink heart and a black teddy bear hang on ribbons from the rear-view mirror. Debbie knows they’re supposed to represent her and Lon, but they don’t. They are her and Robert.

Debbie hears voices, stops walking.

Someone is arguing.

“It doesn’t matter that I have no body. The police will insist on knowing what you know—and the IRS will discover all your assets when they examine the files Summer made and YOU made!”

Debbie catches her breath. She knows.

Chase’s voice, bouncing off the roof of the garage. “You think that will be enough? For you?”

Swallowing hard, Debbie inches forward. Hears her heel tap on the concrete and stops. Listens.

“What more will I need than the truth? The game is over, Ms. Bowyer. You have lost.”

Frantic, removing her shoes, flying forward, hunching lower than the cars. Seeing the two of them. Chase and a stranger. The man has his hands folded across his chest, leaning against a wall. Chase, clasping her purse. Pulling away. The man jumps forward, grabs her.

“Howard Pope is the key. He will be found. And to be sure that he is, I will expose everything!”

“So do it!” Chase shouts. “WHAT do you want?” She tries to throw off the man’s hand, fails.

“I want compensation. A considerable sum of money. And you have considerable money.”

“Money!”

“Yes, Ms. Bowyer. Money.”

“Hah. Blackmail. Step up for a bounty hunter, isn’t it?”

“You will give me half of what is in the accounts Summer and you created. Or I will go to the police.”

Chase sneers. “Do you think I care? Do you think Howard mattered? Let me go!”

The man does.

Debbie falls back. Understands. The man knows. Debbie presses a hand to her chest. Feels lightheaded, certain that Chase doesn’t care. She’s had her revenge...why shouldshe care?

Piqueur is speaking. Debbie can’t hear for the thrumming in her temples. Presses her palms against her mouth, feeling sick.

Has one chance. Fingers clutch around the car keys. Debbie scrambles to her feet, back towards her Mercedes. Squatting, works the keys into the slot, feels a rush of deja vu. A panic she has not felt in...how long?

Opens the door, climbs inside. The seat is cold. She hardly notices. Closes the door. Grips the fur-covered steering wheel. Thinks, prison.

Whispers aloud, “I cannot go to prison.” Fumbles. Puts the key in the ignition, chest beating tympanically, threatening to burst on her. Fingers shake. A chill grips her. “Please, please,” she murmurs, struggling to get under control.

Puts her bare feet on the pedals and realizes she’s left her shoes behind.

“Doesn’t matter,” she hisses at herself. “One chance. One chance.”

It’s all she has.



Chase doesn’t panic. It is not in her. Piqueur’s assertion that Howie is dead sets off relays in her head. She knows he’s trapped her. What can she do? Produce a living, breathing Howard Pope? In the flesh? And Howie to condemn her afterward, her career lost, jailed. Lon would lose his toy and become her enemy because of it.

Better for Piqueur to think Howie is dead.

She says, “If you have no body it doesn’t matter. You get nothing.”

“I will make it matter. Whether the body can be found or not.” He watches her, will not let her run. “I suspect that it won’t be.”

Chase laughs. “It won’t be.”

“Ah. Admittance. Then business is not far behind.”

“Fuck you. I won’t give you anything.”

“The police will search the house. They will discover some evidence that Howard Pope was there...that he was there for months after leaving the jail. I have no doubt they will prove that YOU were there.”

“The house can’t be searched. The owner has diplomatic immunity.”

“Mr. Behjatamir. Yes. I understand that he does. But the house is not Persian soil. It will be searched, rest assured.”

“Proving nothing.”

“It will prove that you were deceptive after posting bail. That you took part in questionable activities with Howard Pope. Even if it does not, once Summer’s records come to light, it will be known that you stole money from Howard Pope, that he stole from Founders Insurance.”

“Damn you.”

Piqueur chuckles. “Two million dollars. What is two million dollars? You will steal more. Or is it that you are afraid I will never stop returning to collect a little more? That I will never be satisfied. Is that what concerns you, Ms. Bowyer?”

She shakes. Closes her fists.

“In that case, you will be one of my soldiers, will you not Ms. Bowyer? Is that not how you put it? That the employees that work for you depend on you for their lives? How adept. How clever of you to see that. I’m sure you see it just as clearly from the other point of view.”

“I’m disappointed,” she mocks. “I thought you were an intelligent man.”

Somewhere in the garage, a car starts.

“Where would you derive the delusion that an intelligent man is somehow the more moral, Ms. Bowyer? You are intelligent. Where is your morality? You are a murderess, which you nearly admit but certainly show no signs of regretting. Not merely that, but you brutally tortured Howard Pope for no one can know how long. It may be that you are a lesbian, else your relationship with Persis Jaozar would not be so trusting. You are a thief. A liar. And an autocrat. Still you don’t think of yourself as stupid. Am I stupid because I am a blackmailer?” He laughs. “No. I think you are only desperate. Snatching for a straw.”

“You’re stupid because you don’t know who Gamal is.”

“The pathetic threat of the Arab assassin.” He raises his hands, laughing. “Ever the refuge of the desperate. That you will make a call and—”

—screech of tires—

—flash of pink—

Chase falls back.

The car smashes Piqueur’s body; it flops in half around the front bumper. Life snaps away in the instant of a film ripped from a projector.

At forty miles an hour. Bone, flesh, metal, cloth, plastic...crush and shatter against the concrete wall.

—glass splinters, knifes through the air—

—Chase feels her cheek cut—

Finds herself dumped at the base of the wall, ten feet from the accident, wrists crossed and folded under her belly. Rolls onto her side. Thinks one wrist is sprained.

Sits up. The noise is gone. Except that somewhere water is dripping.

Chase looks at the wreckage.

Metal folded over metal. The Mercedes, compressed. The front tires flat, twisted into the wreckage of the engine. The block, thrown up and stacked on top of the front dash, over the passenger’s seat. Glass scattered, all covered in powdered concrete dust.

Debbie, unconscious. Sprawling around the expanded air bag, trapping him against his seat. One bloody arm lays through the burst driver’s window.

Career Girl (twenty-one & twenty-two)

Chapter Twenty-One

A late evening on Lon’s arm, quietly sitting in a booth, hardly listening to the conversation between Lon and his friend Robert, senior partner of his own law firm. The two debate the social effects of foreign entanglements, hotly discussing the government’s dilemma, neither supporting the government nor opposing it. Throwing out rapid facts, lists of important considerations, newpaper articles, journal opinions, squeezing points out of each.

Debbie can remember when he did likewise, now cannot keep his mind on the debate, finding his gaze drifting over the scenes playing out around them.

A private club, elites escaping through drink, shouted arguments and a scattering of escorts, some owned as apartmented mistresses, some rented for the evening, some freelanced by agents supplying the atmosphere. Debbie sees one give a handsome sexagenarian a massage while they sit at the bar, her hand appropriately concealed by her thigh, his expression passive and controlled. Only the moderate shaking of his hand as he reaches for his drink on the bar gives the picture away. There are none to care, as more blatant sports are carried on in booths, behind half-parted curtains...all warm-ups for the real sports carried on in private apartments over their heads.

Debbie drinks his Manhattan, deciding to finish it so Lon will buy him another. Sees Robert—Bob, as Lon calls him—give another look, fascinated by Debbie’s shoulders, his eyes roaming over the line of Debbie’s collarbone to the collared dress high on his throat. Robert is clearly interested. Debbie neither discourages nor entreats...does nothing more than present his shape as his Na-na taught him, chin level with the floor, chest pushed slightly forward, hands crossed at the wrist on the table, motionless as a statue. Knows from the corner of his eye when he’s being looked at, gives no reaction.

A man is coming over. He shouts, draws attention to himself, throws a joke at Lon, shakes hands around the table. Lon introduces him to Debbie, his name is Colin. Colin leers, makes a joke at Debbie’s expense, smiles to reassure the she-male it isn’t meant. Lon invites him to sit. Says, “We need to take a tour Colin. Will you watch our Lady while we’re gone?”

“Gladly,” he says.

Lon kisses Debbie. “Be a good girl and entertain Colin. He owns a few newspapers...ask him to tell you about them. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Lon leaves his juice, Robert takes his gin with him. Debbie watches them go. Turns to Colin and asks.

He waves a hand. “No, let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you. Are you a new friend of Lon’s? Or would you be one of the rented girls?”

Debbie smiles...

Lon takes his friend past the nearer bar, shepherding him through one of the other rooms of the club until they find a quieter corner, a high table. Lon says, “I had to take you away from her. What do you think?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Bob—”

“Yes, all right...she is the kind that attracts me. She’s quiet and she doesn’t fuss and she seems very friendly. So I wonder what she is doing with you.” He takes a drink. “Probably for your money. Which tells me much more about her than the way she looks or the way she acts. What are you grinning about?”

“Bob...Debbie is a very special girl.”

“Oh?” Pauses. Looks more carefully at his friend. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah...yes I mean it. You don’t know how much I mean it.”

“So you’re telling me...there’s something here? Between you two?”

Lon knows his friend. Sees underneath the carefully practiced deceptive layer of the lawyer, catches the bare glint of bitterness...yes, Bob is interested. Treads lightly.

“I think you’d have to say it was something between us, yes.”

Robert puzzles. “Something...no.” Chuckles. “No, no, you’re not telling me that. You are not telling me you’re interested in this girl on more than a gut level. Not my friend Lonnie.”

“Well...”

“What are you saying? That you love her? Are you saying that you love her?”

“Love might be a little strong. Let’s say I’m infatuated.”

Robert laughs. “Oh really.”

Lon takes a breath. “That’s why I wanted to talk to someone. I really do find myself...in new territory. I keep thinking to myself that it’s crazy, that I ought to—well, end it. Before I get myself in any deeper.”

“Lon, I don’t see why you shouldn’t—”

“No, listen. I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s difficult for me...even telling you. To do it right, I’ve got to go slow, not rush myself. Because I think that way you’ll understand why I need you to talk me through this. Because I don’t want to end it. I want it to go somewhere...I don’t know where yet, but somewhere farther than I’ve been in a long time, I think.”

“Lon, if it’s about the girl not being that attractive...”

“What do you mean, not attractive?”

“Lon—”

“I saw you looking at her enough.”

“Because she is my type. I admit that. But Lon, I’ve never seen you give more than ten minutes to a girl that wasn’t ready for a runway. That’s why you spend half your free hours chatting up those people, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“Well yeah.”

“Fine then. Debbie is a pretty woman...yes, very pretty. A bit mannish, but you know I like that. It’s just that I can never remember you liking that.”

“Well it isn’t about how she looks. Not exactly.”

“Then what—exactly—is it?”

Pauses. “Bob...you wouldn’t say I’m particularly considerate when it comes to women.”

“No. Not particularly. It’s pretty much a case of you throwing them away before they get tired of your money.”

“Thank you. That’s honest.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I think that I’ve found a woman that doesn’t need me to be considerate.”

“Sorry? She’s a doormat?”

“No. She’s...a man.”

What?

“Let me explain...”



They return twenty minutes later, finding Debbie surrounded by four men, including Colin, cheering each other on towards finding a question that might embarrass their captive—so far, no one’s succeeded well enough to gloat. The quest began when Colin made a joke about a high school girl he knew once who had gained a reputation as B.J., whereupon Debbie let it slip that he possessed a familiarity with the name. Colin had stopped, stunned, had begun rapid firing questions...had drawn the attention of others. At the point when Lon and Robert reappear, the subject on the table had been golden showers, the question being, would Debbie rather perform them or be under them. Without the slightest blush, the answer comes that Debbie is ready to perform. Colin, at least, feels his heart flutter.

“Debbie,” says Lon. “We want to change tables.”

“Of course Lon,” he says, slipping into Lon’s side, both hands folding over his arm. They move lightly across the floor, leaving behind Debbie’s audience. Robert follows.

Lon chooses an alcove, draws the curtain closed. “Debbie, stand there.”

“Yes, Lon.”

“Bob, sit here. Don’t say anything. Debbie, I want you to look into Bob’s eyes...do that for me.”

He does. Holds his eyes, without so much as a glance away...until Robert is looking back with the same intensity.

“Do you believe it?” Asks Lon.

Bob hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“Debbie...lift your dress.”

Debbie snaps a look, sees the serious expression in Lon’s face. Carefully gathers the hem of his dress, raises the Egyptian cotton above his thighs so that his panties show.

Robert tilts his head. “Is that...?”
“Debbie, move closer to Bob, so he can pull your panties down.”

He obediently moves forward.

Hands shaking, Bob carefully takes the panties between fingertip and thumb, and pulls them down enough to look. “Oh my god.”

“Debbie...are you a girl?”

“Yes, Lon.” Chase taught him always to answer that.

Lon’s voice is sharper. “Debbie. Are you a man?”

A heartbeat of a pause. A blush. “Yes, Lon.”

Lon laughs. “See?”

Robert is still holding out the panties, still looking. “Yes. I see.”

“It’s like having a toy,” says Lon. “A very pretty, very obedient toy. You’re my toy, aren’t you Debbie?”

“Yes, Lon.”

“Still your type, Bob?”

Bob lays the hem of Debbie’s back on his abdomen. Draws his hands away. “Lon...” More words won’t come.

“Bob, if you want to know if Debbie is angry or shocked or hurt about anything that’s going on, why don’t you ask her? Debbie...don’t tell Bob anything you don’t want to tell him. Don’t answer in ways meant to make me happy. I want your real, honest response.”

Robert looks at Lon, looks back at Debbie.

“Bob, I promise, I am not influencing her. Am I influencing you, Debbie?”

“No, Lon.”

“There. Does that sound honest?”

“Debbie,” asks Bob. “You’re not hurt? Not by anything that’s been said? Not by me touching you?”

Debbie doesn’t know why, but looks very intently at Bob. Answers as sincerely as he can, “No, Bob.”

Lon turns to Debbie, walks around behind Robert, gazes at the she-male. “Debbie...you like Bob, don’t you?”

Debbie nods.

“That’s good, Debbie, because Bob is my best friend. And I want you to like him.”

“This is creepy,” says Robert.

“You always say to me to go with my instincts. That I have good instincts.”

“Yes...but I don’t know where they’re taking you now.”

“Bob, there isn’t a thing to worry about. I have my own reservations, yes...but Debbie’s free mind isn’t one of them.”

“You really aren’t embarrassed, Debbie?”

Debbie’s dress is still at his hips, hands still holding it. “No, Bob.”

“Put your hands down, Debbie.” Lon moves behind him. “Kneel down, right here. Right in front of Bob. Don’t stop looking at him. You two make a very pretty picture.”

“I don’t know,” says Bob.

“Bob, close your eyes. Reach out and touch Debbie. Debbie, say something nice to Bob.”

“I think you’re very handsome, Bob.”

Bob, eyes closed, finds the voice unmistakably female. Doubt grips him.

Lon speaks softly. “I’m going to step out now, my friend. I’ll leave you in B.J.’s very capable hands.”

Bob doesn’t hear him leave. Moments later, feels fingers taking down his trousers...moments after that, doesn’t want to open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.



Chapter Twenty-Two

Same night, in the car, driving home. Debbie sits quietly, hands on his lap, waiting as Lon drives him home. A Celtic aria plays on the stereo. Light from the freeway lamps flows through the car’s interior, sodium orange. Thrumming sound of the wheels on the road. Debbie has his eyes on the city as it passes, thoughts far away...images of the evening, wondering about the source of the music, connecting the shape of the distant buildings with their purpose or their owners.

Lon drives. Looks at Debbie repeatedly. Hesitates to speak. Feels proud of his girl, questions the very thought, does not know where it comes from. Looks again, reminds himself...finds he must remind himself often.

“Debbie,” he says at last. They have not spoken since starting the car.

“Yes Lon?”

“Did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yes Lon.”

The words hang in the air. Debbie still watches out the window. “I’m really asking,” Lon says. “I really want to know.”

Debbie does not look at him. “I had a good time, Lon.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending.”

“Because if you really don’t like me doing things like that to you...you should just tell me. I’d feel better about it if it was all out in the open.”

He looks at Debbie. Debbie meets his eyes.

Lon looks at the road.

“I’ve been trying to tell you this for weeks. Trying to talk about the first time we met, about in my office. About what I did...then. On the floor. Not my brightest moment. I was surprised; you really did surprise me, Debbie! Just at that moment, finding out that you were a...yes, I was surprised. And I think...” Breathes out; “I think that I behaved like a lunatic. Like a fucking asshole, in fact. Not that I haven’t behaved like an asshole before, but I’ve never felt like this before and it’s got me somewhat confused.

“On the one hand, I have to remind myself that you were acting under false pretenses, presenting yourself as a woman to others—and to me—creating this reputation for yourself that I bought into. I guess you could understand that, couldn’t you? What it’s like being a man and thinking about having a woman—which is precisely what I was thinking about you, before I knew that you were...different. So. There’s all that.

“But then I think about the fact that you’ve become my girl. Pretty much full-time, too, and not one word of complaint. That goes a long way towards telling me what you must have thought after that scene in my office. Which makes me think, it wasn’t that bad, was it? She enjoyed it, you enjoyed it...assuming that you did enjoy it. Did you enjoy it, Debbie?”

Debbie doesn’t flinch. “I enjoyed it, Lon.”

Lon flinches. Doesn’t believe him. Acts as though he does. “Well there you go. I have been worried that you’ve been going along with this whole thing for other reasons, like you’re afraid I’ll expose you, or have you arrested or...I want to tell you that I would never do that. That it never occurred to me to do that.

“If you’re with me because you’re afraid of the consequences, then...I want you to say so, and I’ll stop this.”

Debbie shakes his head.

“I’m developing feelings for you, Debbie.” Upon saying it, Lon lets out a sigh of relief. A great load has just been put down.

“I understand, Lon.”

“That’s good. Because I don’t understand at all. You are a man, Debbie. I just made a whole scene with my best friend about you being a man, made you go down on him...just like I was your pimp or something. And the only thing I can think about is how proud I am of you. That you never hesitated, that you gave Bob a thrill.

“When you got on your knees in front of him, at that moment I’m sure I...well mostly sure. I’ve never loved anyone before, Debbie. I hope you can give me time for it to sink in. You see, most of my life I’ve lived by my own rules. Anyone else’s rules, they were about putting their thumb on top of me and I’ve never let anyone do that. All the relationships I’ve had challenged my goals, my freedom and the path I was on. And because my only desire has been to rise, I couldn’t let anyone press me down. Not anyone.

“Which is why you are a complete mystery to me, Debbie. Man or not, girl or not, I do not feel for one second as if you have a thumb at the ready. I feel no thumb at all. That scares me. That makes me worry there is something I’m missing. I’m not used to worrying. So I have to ask and ask...did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“Yes, Lon.”

“Okay. I guess I won’t beat you to death with it.” Goes silent, mind still in turmoil. Unsatisfied. Turns the car onto the off-ramp into Debbie’s neighborhood.

Neither of them speak. Debbie’s eyes are on the houses as they pass.

Lon parks. Steps out, opens the passenger door, helps Debbie alight in his heels. Holds his shoulders, presses his lips to the lips of the she-male. “Good night, Debbie.”

“Good night, Lon.”

“I want to see you tomorrow.”

Debbie looks up at him. “I’ll wait.”

Lon forces a smile. “That’s my girl.”



Twenty minutes later Debbie climbs out of the shower, wraps a towel around his head, slips into a red satin Oriental dressing gown. Fixes the togs into their loops. Raises his head at the sound of knocking on the front door.

Walks to the door, knows for certain what Lon wants, puts himself into the mindset to provide it. Fits on a pert smile, opens the door without a glance through the peep hole; “Lon, are you—” Stops. Expression falls. “Robert?”

Robert’s face reddens. “Debbie. Please forgive the intrusion...I hadn’t thought that you’d be...” He looks at the towel on the she-male’s head. “This was a bad idea. I’ll go. I’m very sorry.” Backs away a step. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Hurries to turn. Walks to the stairway door.

“Don’t go, Robert,” Debbie says.

Stops. “I—I think I should.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe not...” Struggles. “I don’t want to go. I want to tell you—” Can’t get out the words. “I’m sorry I got you out of the bath.”

“That’s okay.”

“Could I come in? I think I’d do better if I could have a drink of water, maybe.”

“Yes,” says Debbie, moves back from the door. “Come in.” Watches him enter, closes the door. Robert gazes around at the apartment. Debbie takes his coat, finds no resistance.

“You do live here, yes? I saw the outside of the building, but I thought maybe the apartments—”

“Yes.” Eyes drop, ashamed. “My little apartment.”

Robert shakes his head. “I had a place just like this once. Long ago, yes...but I remember that—” Smiles nostalgically. “I remember I really loved it. Forgive me. I just thought that Lon would spend the money to put you somewhere...else. Forget it. Let me just get my water.”

“There’s wine in the refrigerator.”

“Will you have a glass too?”

“Yes. If you want.”

“What I want doesn’t matter. Do you want a glass of wine, Debbie?”

Hesitates. “Yes. Okay.”

Robert nods his head, sighs, heart beating with anxiety. “Good. That’s good. I’ll get the glasses, I’ll pour. Go ahead and sit down.”

Debbie eases into the corner of the sofa, wraps his legs beneath him.

Robert searches for the glasses. “Can I just talk? I’m full of about a million thoughts, I’d feel better if I could get a few of them out.” Puts two glasses down on the cupboard. “Would that be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Let’s see, wine, wine...wine. Corkscrew? Oh, it’s open.” Pops the cork with his fingers. “Where to begin. I’m just, I’m just...I can’t get myself to stop, what is it, um...I can’t stop shaking. Debbie, this evening, the very second that you picked up your skirts and showed me that—that you’re a...well, I think something snapped in me. That’s the best way I have of putting it. Something just snapped.” Finishes pouring the wine. Brings one glass to Debbie, holds the other one. Doesn’t sit.

“It’s nuts of course. It’s not like I’ve been a homosexual for twenty years or anything. But I have been...” Laughs. Knocks himself in the forehead with his knuckles. “Idiot. You don’t know what I’m talking about. And I’m not helping much.”

Takes a drink. Sits at the other end of the sofa. “Debbie, about a year ago I found out something about myself. Actually, I found it out about twenty years ago, but it was only last year that I really accepted it. I guess you know what I’m going to say. I guess that’s obvious. But knowing deep inside that you’re a homosexual and letting yourself think that you are a homosexual, those are two hugely different things.

“Not like you don’t know that. You must. I mean, judging from the performance you put on, you really must! I wish I could be one one-hundredth as controlled as you were tonight. Look at me. I’m a mess right now, and I didn’t even do anything. My involvement was...well, it was exactly the same as it would have been if you had been a real woman, if you know what I mean.”

Takes another drink. “I want to confess something. Tonight...that was my very first homosexual encounter. Lon knew that, of course. He’s been trying to get me to—take a leap—for a long time now. I think before I knew, sooner or later, that I was going to have to. Take a leap. I guess I have. Sort of.” Shakes his head. “Not really. Debbie, can I confess something to you? The whole time, knowing that you were a man, it didn’t make any difference. When you were—doing what you were doing—I never stopped thinking of you as a woman. Not once. You were—are—a woman to me.”

Debbie stares. Gulps a drink.

“I think I know exactly why I haven’t been able to make any kind of move. Call it an epiphany. Tonight I realized that I don’t want men, and I don’t want women.” Robert puts his drink down, moves off the couch, falls to his knees in front of Debbie. “I want you, Debbie. I knew it before. I followed you and Lon here, watched him drop you off. I sat in the car trying to get up the nerve to come tell you.”

Debbie shakes in confusion. “Robert—”

“Wait. Please, before you say anything. I know this looks a little crazy. I’m a little crazy. But I’m not asking anything of you. You tell me to go, and I’ll walk right out of here. I won’t argue. I made a promise to myself before I came in here. I’d make my case and then I’d accept whatever decision you make.

“If you could just consider one thing. Lon asked you to do something for me tonight. I don’t know what his motives were, I don’t know what yours were. You said you wanted to do it...maybe you did, and maybe you didn’t. I’m not making any assumptions. But I wanted you to know my motives. Debbie.” Gathers his courage. “Debbie, if you’ll let me—I’d like to return the favor.”

The she-male whispers: “Oh my god.” Reaches out to set down the wine glass, misses the table, drops it on the floor.

Robert gently takes hold of Debbie’s wrists, his hands big enough to wrap completely around them. Finds his feet, lifts Debbie from the couch. Wraps his arms around the she-male’s shoulders. They embrace, Debbie half-heartedly, Robert paternally. The towel falls from Debbie’s hair to the shoulders, then to the floor.

Robert presses his lips against the other’s soft throat, makes a line of kisses from the nape to below the ear. Debbie responds. “Where is the bedroom,” asks Robert.
Debbie points.

“I want to carry you, but I think that’s probably out of the question. Will you come?”

Debbie nods.

Robert takes hold of a hand, feels fingernails press his palm, draws the she-male after him down the hall to the bedroom. Finds the light, turns it on. Turns Debbie around him, lays the girl on the bed as though it were made of flowers. Debbie’s arms spread out. Robert puts a knee on the bed, between Debbie’s thighs. Carefully unfits a toggle from its loop at the bottom of the Oriental gown, spreads the fabric apart, reveals Debbie’s little shape. Robert’s hand strokes the skin around it, across the healed scars, unfolds and caresses the growing penis between them. “Debbie, I want to apologize,” Robert says. “I’m new at this. I want to do as good a job as you did.”

Debbie gives out a little moan.

Robert leans in. Opens his mouth, fills it. Tries to remember all the ways he’s ever been satisfied, works to make his tongue reproduce them, works to make Debbie happy.

Debbie’s eyes fill with tears. They fall away, streaming down the sides of her face, wetting her hair.

Her hands tug at the bed sheets.

In the end, Robert swallows everything she gives him.

Career Girl (nineteen & twenty)

Chapter Nineteen

Today the train is late. Debbie gets to work, finds the coffee kiosk closed, no reason given. The elevators are out of order, he must climb twenty-five floors. Dozens of people do likewise. The echoes of feet on the stairs, voices, deafening. He rests on Fourteen. Reaches his floor with a headache. Sweating. Makes a quick stop in the bathroom, pats his face. Powders.

Comes to his desk, finds someone there. Using his telephone.

Lon Charles. Of course Debbie knows him. Not all that well, no working together…the Chairman and CEO rarely mixes with the company management, prefers to direct. Never thought much of Howie. Debbie stops when he sees him, half panics.

Lon notices, points at a chair against the wall. Debbie sits. Watches Lon. Silver hair, full, brushed over his temples. Dominant jaw, high cheekbones, eyes like hard embers. Firm shoulders, toned body from climbing, sailing, riding. Men’s pursuits, pursued by Lon into his fifties. With the money and time to do as he liked.

“Settle it,” the Chairman says into the phone. “Find a way. We won’t be going to court, take my word on that.” Looks a Debbie. “Bob, I’ve got to go. Just tell them.”

Hangs up. Stands, straightens his sleeves. “Hello,” he says deeply. “You must be B.J. I’ve heard lots about you.”

Debbie blushes at the name. Has heard it already.

“Lon Charles,” says the Chairman, putting out his hand. He’s five inches taller than Debbie.

“Debbie Poutsmore.”

“Wonderful. I was wondering if you might be able to come up to my office this morning. Say about Ten o’clock. I’ve spoken to Chase about it.”

“Yes sir.” He drops his eyes.

“Thank-you Debbie.” Lon walks around the she-male, doesn’t look back.



Chase inspects him, pats him on the cheek. “Don’t worry about a thing, girl. He’s heard about your reputation is all, and he wants to learn for himself. You look very pretty and blue looks very good on you. Just remember your knee-pads and you’ll do fine.”

Inside joke. Debbie doesn’t ask.

“Debbie?”

“Yes, Miss Chase?”

She looks intently at him. Leans forward, kisses him on the cheek. Debbie responds, flinching. Surprised.

“You make me very proud, Debbie. Now be a good girl and run along.”

Debbie leaves, upset by the brief, unexpected praise. Puzzles in the elevator as it rises to the Twenty-eighth floor. Presses the back of his wrist to his forehead, takes two full breaths before the doors open.

The executive assistant acknowledges him, waves him through. Debbie walks past a waiting appointment, conscious of his shoes sinking into the thick carpeting. Reaches the double door of Lon Charles’ office. Hesitates at the last barrier, carved from oak, inlaid with brass, with smooth metal handles. Prodigiously heavy. He doesn’t want to enter. His chest is fluttering, terrified. Pushes through.

The office occupies the corner of the top floor of the Founder’s Insurance Building, built in 1932; an ‘L’-shaped room, refurnished and renovated. The outside wall has no sill, only glass rising from floor to ceiling. City towers in full view, Debbie can see past them for miles. Has been in the office twice before, and of course never in heels. A wave of vertigo overcomes him, shakes him up. He raises a hand to his chest and looks away. A perfectly expected reaction for his appearance.

Along the inner wall, a line of four stones, unworked, unshaped. Six-foot tall free-standing pillars. Exactly as they were when the mason cut them from their quarry. Deformed sentinels, icons of the company. Debbie remembers the floor has been reinforced to accommodate them. Passes them, moving towards the corner, knowing that Lon’s desk is there, that Lon is waiting.

Debbie finds him working, hands on the computer, resting on his desk. The desk is one more slab of marble, polished to a gleam on the top side. “The foundation of the company,” Lon calls it.

“Debbie,” he says, leans back in his chair. “Please sit down.”

The she-male gathers his skirt and sits.

“Let me play host,” says Lon. “I rarely get to do this. What would you like to drink?” Answers his own question: “Cranberry juice, of course. Slice of lime. That’s the best thing.”

Debbie waits. He pours it.

“Pardon me for not having any alcohol,” Lon says. “I don’t drink it, don’t approve of it. No way for an intelligent human to live his life.” Gives Debbie the drink.

“And we are intelligent humans.” He returns to his seat. “We’re not apes. We’re three hundred feet above the ground, we know it and this feels perfectly natural. No other animal on the planet can say that. How is your drink?”

Debbie sips. “Good…sir.”

“I’m so glad. Debbie, having you come up here is a simple pleasure for me. To talk to one of the members of the staff. Get to know her. There have been a few that I’ve spoken to who have talked about you. They’ve been very high in their praise. But some of what I’m hearing concerns me.”

He pauses. Frowns.

“Rumors are never good in a company. They breed discontent and that brings rot. Before you know, the rot has eaten away at the structure and all you can do is burn and move one. Please, Debbie, have another drink. It grows on you.”

Debbie does, dutifully.

“Rot is the bane. And all the worse if the rumors are true. A single truth is worse than rot, it is a catastrophe. The kind of thing that destroys a company overnight. Truth is the great leveler, Debbie. Truth ends flexibility, it swallows confidence, it cripples negotiation. Utterly. In short, truth has no place in business.

“It is like this, Debbie. A rumor remains a rumor until someone proves it. Until then it can be squashed and forgotten, replaced with other reliable falsehoods—reliable because we know that they can never be proven. Thus, the mill runs smoothly on hearsay and opinion. But let one little rumor be proven true…and no one will ever forget it.

“I’ve brought you up here, Debbie, because I know there is a truth about you. A truth that cannot be allowed out. So steps must be taken to be sure that control the truth, manage it. I think you know what truth I’m talking about, Debbie.”

The she-male trembles. Lon using the term nickname. Now the shit hits the fan. Lon would put a stop to everything, clean out his house, drive the whores from the temple. Oh heaven, Debbie thinks. What will Chase say?

“Sir…I never meant to—”

Lon holds up a gentle hand. Debbie claps his mouth shut.

Slowly, very slowly, Lon stands and goes to the window. Time passes. He says, “No one thinks you’re responsible, Debbie.”

The words shake Debbie. Did it mean Lon knew about Chase? About the transformation?

“A girl like you can’t help what she is…” continues the Chairman. “A she-wolf is a she-wolf, a titmouse is a titmouse. You act as you were constructed to act. I don’t expect you to change.” Turns, looks straight at Debbie. “I only expect you to stop acting here.”

Debbie swallows. “I…You’re…you’re firing me?”

Lon grins. “Really, Debbie! You’re quite wonderful, do you know that?” Raises his hands, to show there’s no malice. “Is that what you think I’ve been saying?” Comes forward, picks Debbie up by the shoulders. “You silly girl.” He kisses Debbie’s forehead. Takes him by the arm.

Lon’s whole demeanor reassures. Debbie thinks, He doesn’t know. It is another man, is all. Another man with the hots for Debbie the company slut.

Lon gently, but firmly, leads Debbie back to the window. They stand inches from the glass. Straight down, Debbie can see cars, roofs of buildings, car parks, gardens, glass skylights…bites his bottom lip, closes his eyes.

“Look at all that, Debbie. See it, really see it for the first time in your life. How tiny it all is. How they are. Millions of them. And not one of them is like you.”

It’s a line, just a line, meant to impress girls. Debbie feels too close to the window, can’t help holding Lon’s arm for comfort.

“They don’t count. Because they are down there and we are up here. See what I’m saying, Debbie? There is the boundary.” Taps his knuckle on the glass. “The line between what they are allowed to think, and what we know. From now on, I’m going to keep you on this side of that line.”

Debbie’s stomach tightens. The she-male wishes Lon would just get started, stop seducing and just ask for what he wants.

Lon takes Debbie’s face in his hands. “Tell me you want what’s best for you.”

Debbie nods. Lon lowers his hands, kisses him.

The kiss goes on, Lon’s shaved face rough against Debbie’s chin, hands firmly holding Debbie above the elbows, slowly pressing his fingers into Debbie’s flesh, possessing him. Debbie doesn’t fight, even finds himself slipping into a supine pose, opening his lips and yielding to Lon’s tongue as it enters.

Finally Lon breaks the kiss. Smiles down at the feminine one in his hands.

Debbie sees the glint in the other’s eye. Knows what to do. Begins sliding to his knees.

Lon holds him. “No, Debbie. I don’t do that. I fuck my women.”

Takes two seconds for the she-male to completely understand the substance of those words. Half again as long to run over his options. Twice as long to convince himself to take action. The whole seven seconds, his eyes lock with Lon’s.

Debbie wrenches free from Lon’s hands with a shake, breaks for the door. Doesn’t work. Lon is ready for him, grabs his quarry’s wrist and twists it, turning Debbie’s arm behind his back. At once, the man’s arm clamps around Debbie’s corseted waist. With uncompromising strength.

“Oh no! You’re not going anywhere.” Chuckling, Lon pushes him against the glass, twenty-eight floors above the street.

Debbie struggles. The street is too close…imagines the window breaking, both of them plummeting to the street. Presses his hand against the glass in futility, long nails clicking the surface. Digs with his toes, pushes with his knees. Lon controls him easily, drops his head to the nape of Debbie’s neck, giving a kiss. A sigh escapes Debbie; he stops struggling.

Lon kisses him again.

“Pleeease,” moans Debbie.

“Please? But of course. Pleasing you is the entire point.” His hands move down Debbie’s dress to the hem, a finger lifts up the hem, up, over the top of the stockings. Slips under the garter to the line of Debbie’s panties. “Mmm,” Lon mutters. “Your skin, my darling. I love to touch it.”

Then…his finger stops moving.

A long pause.

“Debbie,” Lon begins. “Something…hm. Something isn’t right here.”

Debbie shudders.

Lon pulls him from the window, turns him around. Let’s go. Debbie falls, off balance, towards one of the stone blocks. Lands on his bum.

“Debbie…explain yourself!”

Debbie crawls to his knees. Reaches out to the block for support, finds too little. Knees tucked underneath him, shakes his head. Voice quavers: “No one needed to know,” he protests feebly.

Lon stares.

“I never wanted this…” Debbie rambles. “If only…if only…” Stops there.

Lon advances, grabs him roughly, lifts him from the floor. Debbie squeals. Lon drags him, to his desk, onto the top of it, pushes the she-male onto his back. Debbie struggles. Lon slaps him. Knocks his head to the side. The skirt has ridden up. Debbie’s knees are apart. Lon takes the, holds them open, puts his body between them. Looks down at the visible soft-blue panties. Hooks his fingers into them, rips them away.

The penis, taped down, shows its little head. Just enough shaft remains untaped to allow Debbie to pee sitting down.

Lon is frozen. His hands clamp Debbie’s thighs cruelly, his knuckles whitening, flesh beneath already bruising. He frowns. Thinks of all he’s seen, considers the preconceptions, makes up his mind. Gazes at the she-male, now weeping and afraid to move, laying on the desk.

And LAUGHS.

Roars at the colossal joke of it all, the men in the company who have dubbed the “girl” B.J., taking about “her” giving the best head and being such a ready slut!

“Oh damn!” he shouts. “Oh fuck!” At once cursing the joke, saluting it, letting go of the pinned whore and clapping his hands together, doubling over in sheer pleasure at the parody. Gripping his stomach, gasping for breath. At last, lifts his head and looks at the creature again, now sitting up, palms on the desk, willy taped between thighs. Throws his arms wide, shouting at the roof.

“Oh my Christ that’s FUNNY! Damn, oh GODDAMN, that’s a riot!” Laughs. Stands straight and applauds Debbie. Claps his hands together, smiling, clapping.

“Good for you! Goddamn good for you!”

Debbie is crimson from cleavage to forehead. Covers his face with both arms, holding his wrists high in the air…jumps from the desk, flees, screaming and crying with humiliation.

Lon catches him before he reaches the door, arms around Debbie’s body like a rugby player, bringing the she-male to the carpet with a crash. “Oh, NO! NO, no, no! You can’t go anywhere, my stupid little animal! This is the best thing I’ve ever seen, and you are NOT getting away from me NOW!” Lon chortles, climbing on top of Debbie, pressing his back to the floor. “I brought you up here to give you the fuck of your life, sweetheart, and that is EXACTLY what I intend to do!” He unbuckles his pants, delighting in the squirming, feminine beast under him, relishing the thought of pushing his hard cock into Debbie’s tight, humping asshole.

Debbie abandons all reason. Fights with all his terror, finds it isn’t enough. Throws out his arms, aiming to grab something to beat the man away, finds nothing. Finds himself flipped over, chest flat to the floor. Lon opens Debbie’s thighs with his knees, moves his hand into the small of Debbie’s back.

Debbie pushes with his elbows. Lon grabs the slut’s hair, leashes the slut into position. Works himself inside with the expertise gained from much practice.

Raped. Debbie shrieks, bucks, flounders. Kicks his feet. Beats the floor with his palms.

“Oh baby,” says Lon, firmly in the saddle, riding the bitch. Takes hold of girlish hips, makes himself comfortable. Rams deep. “Shit, I’m loving this.”

Debbie gives in. Accepts the thrusts. Exhausted, brutalized…crying through the event. Like a bride on her wedding night, wedded to some stranger chosen by her father…



Chapter Twenty

Lon Charles rests his feet on Chase Bowyer’s desk and grins. Has just asked if Chase knew about the provocative creature working at the secretary’s desk outside. Has received a healthy affirmative.

Asks, “You know who it is, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Howard Pope! Of all the unbelievable places for him to pop up. You know, I hadn’t realized it until I’d finished up with him.”

Chase accepts the confession. Lon acts as though he hasn’t made one.

“Mr. Charles,” she begins. “I didn’t know your tastes leaned in that direction.”

“It wouldn’t do to publicize it, would it? Besides, I’m not sure I am ‘gay.’ I don’t believe I’m anything, actually. Labels are for the common folk. I simply follow my instincts.”

“You have good instincts, Mr. Charles. The company proves that.”

“No butt-kissing, Chase. And it’s time you were calling me Lon. We have the goods on one another now, so it’s best we stay intimate. And as far as instincts go, let’s just say that I’m lucky.”

“More, I think.” She smiles.

“Such faith.” He chuckles. “It stands that I went where I did with Howie—no…I think we’ll keep calling him ‘Debbie.’” Blinks his eyes, looks away. Shrugs. “My blood was up. Man or not, Debbie is all woman. I wanted her. Sounds funny, doesn’t it. But that’s how it played out in my head.”

Chase sips her coffee. “Doesn’t sound funny to me. Other people can be judgmental. I have no time for it. But…what happens now? Fire him?”

“No.” Lon’s face shows he’s perplexed. He brightens. “I’m completely amazed at myself. “I’m completely astounded. Since yesterday I’ve been dwelling on it. The whole concept, really. The reputation she has around here, the way she kicked her feet and squealed, and then…how she pulled up her panties and went out humbly, her head bowed. And today! I could see she was afraid to see me. Complete terror. But she just smiled like a trooper and wished me good morning. It was wonderful!”

“That’s our Debbie.”

“How did he get like this? It’s unbelievable.” Peers at her. “Did you help her?”

“Oh…could be.”

“But you don’t want to say how. That’s clear. You and Howard—Debbie—were lovers once, weren’t you?”

“More than two years ago.”

“I thought so. Hm…if you’re worried about what I’d think regarding that business with the dead girl in the bathroom, I assure you I don’t care. I guess you and him cooked this up for him to go underground. That’s fine with me, I’ll keep the secret. Between you and me, I always thought he was a bit queer.” Puts his feet down. “No matter. Chase, I don’t mind telling you, since you’re the only one who knows. I don’t want to deny it, I felt something yesterday afternoon. I want to examine it further. You seem to be the one playing interference for Debbie, so I’ll let you handle it. Tell her I want to see her on a date Friday night. Tell her to spread the word that she’s unavailable. Or do it yourself. Until further notice.”

Chase hesitates. “You want to…go steady with her?”

“Yes! Hmph. Isn’t that the oddest thing? But I keep thinking about her hips in my hands.” He stands. Voice changes, becomes that of the boss. “Let her keep working for you, down here. But sit down and have a talk with her. She can keep up the fashion show…that number she’s wearing now is a beauty. But make it clear to her from your position as her employer. The sex checkers stops. I’m sure you two communicate on levels I couldn’t guess at…and I don’t care to. At any rate, put the message across.”

Pauses. "Meantime, I'll create the rumor that I have my eyes on her. That should discourage the wolves."

Walks to the door. "Chase, I knew I chose right when I promoted you."

Leaves.

Chase ponders. Shakes her head in wonder. Thumbs the phone, picks it up. "Debbie...come in here please."



He is a marked woman.

The mark may truly be there, as everyone knows to avoid him. Men circumscribe wide circles in the corridors as they pass him, do not meet his eyes, respond to his morning greetings with mumbled returns…not unfriendly so much as fearful. There are no more ass pats by the coffee station; no more errands. During the meetings, people go out of their way to make Debbie’s life easier. Even Chase has relaxed the many duties, to make her more available in case Lon should call. A helper named Curtis is expected to run around the building now whenever something needs to go out; Debbie is not to leave her desk.

Debbie has never been so alone. He files his nails, reads his magazines through, sits, stares, plays solitaire until quitting time. More often than not, Lon doesn’t call. Then Debbie sits alone in his apartment all evening. There are no more dates, no drinks, restaurants or shows. Except for twice a week there’s only the television line-up and the phone…which might ring but doesn’t. In case it does, Debbie must be at home. Lon won’t let him have a cell phone.

Lon has not spoken about knowing Debbie’s identity. Debbie worries that he will find it out. So he behaves.

It is not all bad. There is shopping. Weekends only, Saturday afternoon when Lon plays golf. The expensive shops with hundreds of other women, always haut couture, with Lon’s inexhaustible credit line at Debbie’s beck and call…though each time Debbie must wait while the clerk calls Lon on his cell to see if its okay for a woman to use his card. Lon likes the little interruptions, likes having the leash.

The thigh-showing skirts are lower, the see-through blouses less translucent. Lon went through Debbie’s apartment, ripping the unwanted clothes from their hangers, throwing them out. Debbie sat on the bed and watched, numb. Those things Lon particularly did not like he ripped apart with his hands…and after, when it was done, Debbie was fucked on the pile of torn clothing.

Now there is Donna Karan, Prada, Louis Vuitton…Debbie dares buy only the best, playing a game with Lon, knowing that Lon will rip the clothes away if they’re not right. He’s twice left Debbie in only his lingerie, slipping out of the office in a much-appreciated trench coat. Debbie knows to always have one handy.

The Chairman takes him to fashion shows where he meets models, people in the business, top dressers. Once Debbie’s “special” circumstance was blatantly exposed…to a designer, who made a gaff for the she-male. Debbie waited bright-red while Lon and the designer pointed and discussed his tiny snake, absent the testes that went with it. Sniffing and tears falling from his eyes. Lon told him be a good girl and be silent.

Sometimes Debbie will spend a weekend at Lon’s house in Litchfield, the two days serving as a dress mannequin with legs for spreading. Meals break up the monotonous parade of clothes he changes into. Even if Lon is generous, allows Debbie to slip into a suit for swimming...still there are changes into new bathing suits to be made, into something different, prettier. Lon doesn’t like to swim, but likes to watch. Likes variety.

Variety includes many games, some with handcuffs and some with ropes…but never with punishment. The first time, Lon scared Debbie as memories of Na-na came back, with cruel rods and tools. Wasn’t like that at all, though, there was only tying, and playing with Debbie’s body, teasing, always ending with a hard fuck as Lon rapes him.

Debbie knows to lay when it happened, how to put on a performance when Lon touches him, knows to twist his hips, knows to moan when Lon enters, even if it hurts. Knows how to be quiet when Lon is busy, knows to wait like an unpacked toy, set and ready when the time comes.

Wonders where it will lead, what is it all for. How long it will last and what will happen to him when Lon is finished. Believes there will still be Chase, even finds...unimaginably...comfort in that.

Career Girl (seventeen & eighteen)

Chapter Seventeen

He thinks about running. Stripping off his female disguise, even going out femme—taking a feeder train to the suburbs, then onto a road and hitching his way into another state or across the country. Get out from under Chase’s thumb, make his own life, reinvent himself somehow, eventually get over the nightmares. Be a man again. Get a job. Fix his testicles. Fuck a girl.

The thought doesn’t last.

Instead he dolls up for work, remembers he’s never had a straight job, that hitch-hikers get kills, that someday someone would spot him and he’d be in prison. Only a week ago there’d been an ad in a newspaper looking for any leads on the whereabouts of Howard Pope. Chase had seen it, was beside herself with glee. Made Debbie’s stomach roll.

He waits at the train station and counts on his fingers how long he’s been a girl. All summer and all winter. Eleven months. Finds the stockings are easy to put on. Makeup is second nature. Manicures are muss-free. Not being in a corset leaves him frightened and exposed. Even the heels are comfortable…some days.

The train is coming. It will be the same trip downtown as always. Home and office are safe, predictable places. The open road terrifies him.

Debbie carries a copy of Cosmopolitan, but other days it’s She or Mademoiselle. Doesn’t like reading “men opinions,” finds they don’t understand. Chase encourages those thoughts, quickly points out when Debbie makes one of his own. Deducts from his salary or takes out her rod when that happens. Debbie has grown familiar with the back of Chase’s office chair pressing into his stomach, hands holding the weave, waiting for the steady rain of blows she delivers. Reads and practices some of the words, memorizing them.

Chase sometimes compliments Debbie when she comes in…if the “look” is feminine enough. Debbie hopes for that. Those days, Chase is kinder. If Debbie doesn’t impress her, the whole day goes hard. Chase wants him to invent new looks. So he reads.

In the morning like the evening, the train is standing room only. Debbie will get off the train, buy a cup of coffee at the kiosk in front of his building, walk through the empty office and get to his desk forty-five minutes before Chase gets in. Will take the opportunity to organize the day’s schedule and finish his coffee. His only breakfast.

When Chase arrives, the day starts.

The word is out that Debbie is a “can-do” girl. The phone will almost certainly ring before ten. When he answers, someone—John Dancer, maybe—will say, “My daughter’s thesis needs to be typed up. Could you do that, Debbie?”

And he’ll answer, “Yes sir. No problem.”

“That’s terrific Debbie. How much?”

“Oh, no charge sir. Just glad to help.”

“Hey, that’s appreciated. We should go for lunch sometime.”

“We should, sir.”

But when the thesis is typed up and delivered, Mr. Dancer won’t phone until he needs something else.

After that another person—maybe Billy rose—will come by and ask if Debbie has time to drop by the dry cleaner’s, because he has a meeting that’s going to run late and he’d so appreciate it. And Debbie will answer, “Of course sir, I have to go out anyway to pick up a card for Mr. Latham’s wife.”

He’ll say, “You’re a prize, Debbie. Let’s get a drink on Friday.” Or something like that.

“Love to, sir.”

Like when they wound up has his place with Debbie on his knees in Billy’s front hall, Billy’s three-inch dick in his mouth, trying to keep quiet so the daughter upstairs wouldn’t hear. Billy’s wife went out of town from time to time.

On through the morning, then, people would go in and out of Chase’s office, giving Debbie a little pang of memory. About when he gave the meetings, when he saw the people, made strategies and forecasts. Made policy. Found excuses to talk about football.

Chase holds real meetings. People leave her office looking haggard and pale. Sometimes she’s worried them. Sometimes they hurry up their pace and they go away.

She keeps Debbie busy, sending him for R&A forms, the last quarterly tax report, records on property adjustments for the last two years, more and more. Zoë Sawyer handles the real overload for Chase’s work, not Debbie. Either of them will call Debbie in, bark at him to get them coffee, keep him running.

Debbie gets everyone coffee: “Yes ma’am. Yes sir. Cream or sugar?” So goes the morning.

Lunch hour comes and he’s a gal on the go. A granola bar’s enough now, more makes him sleepy and the corset goes on easier the next morning anyway. There’s the dry cleaning and a pound of coffee for Mr. Blank because he needs decaf, and cough medicine for Mr. Fill-his-name-in-here who has a cold. The legal intern a floor down asks him to give something to mailroom the minute he gets back to his desk, which starts off a chain reaction of deliveries. Debbie gets them done, and will reach her desk in time to be told by Chase that there’s a board meeting that day.

Board meetings are the craziest. Debbie’s job is to help everything go smoothly and “facilitate.” That means rushing in six different directions.

“Debbie, could you get me another coffee?”

“Debbie, I need another highlighter, this one’s dry.”

“Yes, Mr. Wayans—here’s your coffee, Ms. Wainwright.”

“Debbie, do you know anything about chairs? This one seems broken.”

“I’ll be there in two shakes, sir.”

“Debbie, make a note about setting a meeting with AstroTech for next week.”

“Yes, Ms. Ganillo.”

“Oh, damn. Debbie, I’ve spilled my coffee.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get a cloth. Mr. Dancer, the chair just needs a little tightening. Sit on this one.”

“Thank you Debbie.”

“Debbie, I can’t find page four.”

“I’ll see if I’ve forgotten it, sir.”

Chase will watch, saying something like, “Debbie?”

“Yes, Ms. Bowyer?”

“Jump.”

Debbie looks confused.

“I just wanted to see,” says Chase, “If you would ask ‘how high.’”

Everyone laughs.

Red-faced, Debbie returns to his duties.

The meeting over, everyone goes. Someone will stop and give Debbie one last errand, someone will stop and tell him, “Good job today.” Then Debbie writes up the minutes, distributes them by email, picks up his messages, returns calls. Crusades his way through the tasks he’s been given.

Sometimes it means going down a floor to processing, or up a floor to treasury…where rows of cubicles filled with women are a kind of Antarctica. No one has a word for him, not a single “Good afternoon.”

In the days when Debbie had been Howie, he had prowled those rows. Hunted along them. Bagged game many times. Dana had been seated in one of those cubicles, and so had Jackie. Before the days when five minutes in the executive washroom had destroyed him, Howie had been master among those rows.

Today, Debbie feels there’s a shadow pacing ahead of him, whispering in the ears of the women. A frozen chill following, from every face that looks at his notice-me clothing and then away in disgust. Unsaid thoughts manifesting themselves like ice crystals in the atmosphere. Slut…fucking bitch, can you believe she’s wearing that?…I heard Mr. Dancer fucked her last week…Oh yeah? I hope he catches a disease…

Debbie stands it for as long as he can. Does his job. Closes his eyes and his ears. Thinks, Dana went through this. Eventually retreats, shivering. With goose bumps rising on his flesh.

Isolated the rest of the afternoon, there’s time to concentrate on his tasks and forget the hate. Chase disappears for an appointment, often doesn’t come back for many hours. Debbie’s social calendar needs to be open, so there’s less make-work. Chase wants him gone by five, as the rest of the office empties out, giving him time to rush home, stuff a few bits of food from one of the week’s doggy bags (he’s forever nibbling at the food men buy for him). Then a quick primping, ready to zip out again for a cozy dinner and drinks. Girls with his reputation don’t have quiet nights.

He’s become “functional.” Wakes, works, plays, all according to rules he didn’t write but knows how to follow. Knows when a man at a coffee machine is going to ask him out; when another man’s too shy—though he might say something to Chase, who is sure to push Debbie into making the first move.

Knows how the nightclub game works. When they buy him drinks, he has to drink. His dates don’t like it if he doesn’t. They think it means they won’t score. But of course, they always score. He let’s them order whatever they decide, ready to have more than one. The number is determined by his date’s appearance. Debbie knows how fast to drink so he keeps his head; knows that when he drinks one so that it’s three-quarters gone, another will appear. Knows that when he stops drinking, his date will get the signal.

Sees it every time, the “I’m gonna make my move” look. Has to escape to the bathroom, sometimes, when it happens. To get himself together. To focus. Knows what to focus on now, knows why he kept doing it as a man, because he liked the sex. Had liked the sex as a man, now likes the sex as a woman. Wants the few minutes of intimacy, but no more than that. Couldn’t give women more than a few minutes…that made him feel inadequate, proved to him he was a failure. To cover up his failings, he fucked them and ran.

With men, he was an all-star. They never wanted more than a few minutes intimacy. They only wanted a willing cocksucker, to get them off and finish it. Intimacy to go.

If every man at Founder’s Insurance was going faggot, it could only be sweeter that it was happening without their knowledge—as far as Debbie was concerned. He reminds herself of that every trip he makes to the bathroom, with a wink. Emerging from the bathroom, he takes over, leading the man out of the club by the hand like a boy, out to his car or sometimes to his apartment—but never further than the front hall.

The boys don’t want to fuck. Once they find he’s ready to do the head-bob, they’re relieved. Freed from some gruesome undertaking that involves getting off the girl’s pants and sticking himself into a dirty place.

Debbie has no dirty place, but he’s ready to make it easy for them. It doesn’t take long. Debbie always swallows. Tried not to, early on…bad scene. Messy. Easier, simpler, quicker to swallow. So he does.



Chapter Eighteen

Building entranceway. Young man, expensive shoes, coat thrown over his suit, smoking. Moving to keep warm. One hand in pocket, the other holding the cigarette, knuckles turning white, back of his hand turning red. Icy cold.

Front door opens, another building inhabitant emerges, sees the smoker, moves over to him. “Hello,” the second man says. Takes out a cigarette. Makes a show of lighting it. First man acknowledges him.

They stand and smoke. Moving to keep warm.

“Cold,” says the second man.

“Yeah,” nods the first.

“Cold in our office, too.” He changes hands.

First man shivers. “Yeah. Takes them a month of winter to turn the heat on.”

“Oh.”

“You’re new to the building.”

“Ah, oui. Moved here from Montreal. A month ago.” Takes a drag. “You’re in what office?”

“Gareth and associates—”

“On the third floor, right. The accountants.” Looks at his watch. “Bit late for you, isn’t it?”

“Well, tax season. That’s how it is.” Finishes the last drag, pushes the cigarette out in the bin. “So long.”

“I’ll walk you in.” Puts out his own. Leads, opens the door, follows.

The first man, the accountant, pushes the elevator button.

Second man looks at his watch. “Can you tell me what time it is? I think this is off.”

“Sure. Twenty to Seven.” The elevator bell dings.

Second man sets his watch. The doors open, both enter. The accountant presses the third floor. Looks at the other.

“Oh. Five please,” says the second man.

Elevator climbs two floors. The bell dings. “Well,” says the accountant. “See you.”

“See you.”

Door opens. The accountant steps off.

Piqueur hits him in the back of the neck. He goes down like a sack.



Three hours later, wakes in his office. Wrists tied with twine, ankles tied, wrists tied to ankles. Sitting on the floor, back pressed into a space between the wall and a filing cabinet. Mouth stuffed with a gag. Looking up at Piqueur, sitting at the desk. The accountant’s desk.

Paper thrown all over. Drawers opened, emptied. Files stacked, stacks fallen over, strewn over the floor. Piqueur reading. Hearing the other wake up, raising his head. “Good. You’re awake.”

Muffled reply. Threats. Attempts to free himself.

“You are Dave Summer. You worked as an accountant for Howard Pope.”

Dave stops twisting. Eyes focus.

Piqueur smiles. “Good. I want to be understood. I will take out the gag. You will answer questions. Confirm. You will not make noise. I will not hurt you. Yes?”

Dave thinks. Nods.

Breathes heavily as the gag is removed. Shakes his head, clears his sinuses.

Piqueur sits down. Lifts a file folder. “This name...Bishop. This you used for Howard Pope, yes?”

Dejected, Dave answers, “Yes.”

“And the name Fletcher for Chase Bowyer. Yes?”

“Not original.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“True. These companies, these insurance claims. You created them in Bishop’s name, filed taxes for them, made books for them.” Piqueur’s hand rests on a stack of ledgers. “You collected claims money from Pope and channeled that money offshore into these accounts. Channel Islands. Reunion. Yes?”

Dave glares. Answers proudly. “Yes.”

“Created identification, pin numbers, codes.”

“Yes.”

“Then Howard Pope was arrested. Then Howard Pope disappeared. Then Ms. Bowyer approached you, threatened to expose you.”

“Not in that order.”
“Sorry?”

“She came to see me before Howie vanished. He wasn’t even in jail yet. She wanted me to cut the legs out from under him, move the money before he had a chance to know it had been moved. Then, when she had it, she was going to take off. I’d have been off this hook.”
“She didn’t.”

“No shit she didn’t. Howie got his ass slung in jail and she changed her mind. Wanted to keep going. Oh, no new accounts, no new claims. But still holding this whole thing over my head. If she’d just left the country like she said she was going to...”

“You killed off Bishop. Produced a death certificate...” Piqueur searches, holds up a copy of the form.”

“I know a guy,” Dave says.

“Provided a will.”

“She did that. Took real pleasure in drawing it up, too. Glee. If you get my meaning.”

“Transferred the money into her name.”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“And what access do you have?”

“Huh?”

“Are you able to access the transferred money.”

“Do you think I’d be in this shit office if I could? If I’d be in this country? Brother, I’d be so far away from here—”

"Then how did you manage this?” Piqueur raises another folder.

“Manage what? I don’t know what you’re holding.”

“This…let’s see. Contract with a bail bonds company in Texas. Six hundred and twenty thousand, all told, so it appears. Transferred to them, I assume so that they would be able buy the contract from the original company. And in return, you and Chase get…well, that’s not very clear.”

Dave pales. “I just brokered the deal.”

“And you did not know Howard Pope was dead.”

“No!”

“You were ready to kill Bishop. Perhaps you were just as ready to kill—”

BISHOP is not a real person!

“Yes. That’s true. Not a very flattering comparison, just the same. You knew Howard Pope. We have a motive. We have opportunity.”

“Honest to God, I only fixed books. Jeezus, that bitch had me over a barrel, she knew everything…but if she killed Pope, I never knew a thing about it.”

Piqueur reaches for the phone, puts it in front of him.

“Wait a minute! WAIT!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t call the police! I’m begging you! You’re not a cop, that’s obvious. Detective, I’d guess. You’ve got nothing to gain turning me in. Listen. I can pay you.”

“Continue.”

“I can give you $26,000 right now. I’ve got $6,000 in that safe behind you, and $20,000 in bonds at my house. If you give me a week, I can raise three times that much money. I just have to sell some things.”

Piqueur stares.

“Okay, look, I get it, you’re serious. Just give me a chance. I ain’t going anywhere, you’ve got me cold. You can follow me around for the next five days if you want to. I can talk to my bank, get a line of credit on my house. That’s worth more than a hundred, easy. That’s more than $200,000. That’s all I’ve got. Just...just be fair. Don’t call anybody.”

“I think that this was worth more than that to you. I think that both Howard Pope and Ms. Bowyer paid you.”

Dave sweats. “Sure, yeah, I’ll admit that. Maybe I do have more. You gotta leave me with something. Let’s say three hundred. Three hundred, all right?”

Piqueur rises. Collects papers from the desk, pushes them into one folder. Looks up. “Forget it. I do not want what you have. I want nothing from you, except that you remember that I know. That I have these. And keep silent.”

Dave shakes his head. “Man, I’m not going to say anything.”

Piqueur moves to leave.

“Hey! Untie me!”

Stops. Tilts his head. “There are scissors in the drawer. Goodbye.”



A day later. Piqueur descends a flight of stairs, pushes through a door. Follows an aisle between boxes, filing cabinets, reaches a desk. A short man, glasses, greased hair, sits behind it.

Piqueur speaks. “You summoned?”

The man pats an bulky, padded envelope from the top of a pile in the box marked Out. “There it is.”

“And?”

“Matches. Your blood sample to the DNA in Pope’s glove.”

Piqueur reaches for it.

“No, don’t touch that. That’s evidence now.”

“Then you called me because…?”

“I need this filled out.” Lifts a sheaf of paper from a drawer, drops it on the edge of the desk in front of Piqueur. Forty pages. “And when you’re done with that, you can fill out this…” Another sheaf. “And this.” Two pieces of paper, stapled together. “Request form, a personal statement describing where you found the blood, identification, the usual crap. This guy Pope’s been gone for a year, huh?”

“Yes?”

“Where did you find the blood?”

“In a gas station toilet south of Williamsburg.”

“He kill someone?”

“Cut himself shaving. Wasn’t sure I was following the right man.”

“Ah.”

Piqueur takes the paper. “Give them to the sixth floor?”

“Sixth floor.”

“Goodbye, Charles.”

“I keep asking you to call me Charlie.”

Career Girl (fifteen & sixteen)

Chapter Fifteen

Rain-soaked street. Secluded estate-houses behind twelve-foot hedges kept trimmed. A pristine street paved with granite stones, braced by clean gutters, grass tailored, sidewalks wide and swept free of dust or stones. Night lamps shining with new bulbs, green posts painted within the last year.

A jogger. Hooded. Expensive shoes, tracksuit. Pocket music fed into his ears. Unconcerned with the eight million dollar properties, front gates, ironwork, concrete walls, private cops. An unmarked car goes by. The jogger waves. Just another night.

Sky is clear, the clouds blown off, leaving the musty smell of rain, the dank smell of dead leaves before the first November snow. The jogger rubs his nose. Sneezes. Stops and stretches his leg tendons at the gate of a large white house. Spends a few minutes at bending his knee, breath puffing out small clouds.

Straightens. Walks to the gate, takes out a plastic-and-electronic pad, presses it over the gate’s security panel like a tiny blanket. Plays his fingers over it.

The gate opens.

The jogger folds up his pad, sticks it into his pocket. Saunters onto the grounds as the gate closes automatically behind him. Sizes up the lawn, the house, the shrubbery surrounding it with a practiced eye...rolls up a sleeve...pulls off a rod duct-taped to his arm. Walks. Points it one way, points it the other. Changes direction.

Trial and error brings him to a power box hidden behind the garage. Fishes the pad out of his pocket again, applies it. One moment later, flips the critical switch. The security goes off.

He walks to the front door. Draws two tiny picks from the drawstring of his jogging sweats. Cleans them with his fingers. Fits them, one at a time, into the front door lock. Pushes the door open.

Clean front hall, twenty-foot ceiling, flight of stairs going up to the banister-fronted gallery. A hanging clock, reads past midnight. Mirror-like marble floor. Black marble table on gray marble legs, silver and china objects on it.

It’s quiet.

He removes his shoes, his socks. Tucks the latter in the former. Wipes his bare feet. Takes thin gloves from the other pocket and slips them on. Moves from the hall by starlight coming through the windows. The hall leads to a corridor, to a drawing room, to another corridor and another flight upstairs. He follows the corridor, brings him past a heavy door. Presses his hand against it. Cold. Decides it’s the garage door.

Walks on. Enters a hot tub room. Lifts the little rod still in his hand, fiddles with it. Flashlight. He plays the beam along the rim of the tub, over the floor. Shakes his head. Ignores the door on his left and walks through an opening, into an adjacent gym.

Work-out playground. Exercise bike, stair-climber, rowing machine. Two stacks of fresh towels on a shelf set into the wall, stereo-system, water cooler, standing oak-and-glass case with hand-weights, gadgets, instruction books. Everything gleams in the flashlight’s beam...everything is clean. He backtracks, through the tub room and into the adjoining kitchen.

It’s big, spotless. Floors cleaned and recently waxed. White, empty counters, chef-chosen stove, more gadgets. Walk-in freezer. Stand-alone cutting board, eating table. He opens the fridge, sees nothing, notes it’s turned off. No ice in the freezer compartment. Listens for the hum of the walk-in and doesn’t hear it.

Thinks. Bites his lip. Closes the fridge, goes back to the stairs leading up.

Begins a methodical search of the upstairs. Takes time. Finds the decoration tasteless, homosexual. Too much color, too plush. Feminine in an unfeminine way. He examines the bathrooms, the medications in the cupboards. Semi-prescription, for hypochondriac use. Diuretics, emetics, emollients. Downers.

He’s ready to leave the bathroom, spots something behind the toilet. Drops to one knee, shines the light. A steel ring, set into the floor, where no ring needs to be.

He straightens. Strides to the nearest bedroom. Lifts a corner of the bedcover, showing heavy oaken legs.

Rings on them. Steel, one inch wide and heavy. Three inches up from the floor.

Drops the cover. Turns, walks down to the main floor, heads directly to the hot tub room. Points the light at the door he’s passed three times, shakes his head at being so foolish. The door includes a deadbolt that requires no key. For trapping people downstairs.

He opens the door.

Steep flight of stairs, leading down. He descends them.

Stairs creak under his bare feet. He steps onto the black tile floor. Ignores its cold touch...gazes around, letting the flashlight play about. Says flatly, “heh.”

Ironwork shafts, brackets, rods, pieces, stretched and bolted along the ceilings and walls. Leather, latex, plastic, steel tools hanging on iron and plastic hooks, predictable assortment for players. A mirror reflects his flashlight beam into a corner with a vinyl-and-wood bench sits, complete with straps and buckles. A vertical cross with eyebolts beside it, more straps. A birthing chair rigged for electricity. A cage, fixed to wall brackets.

Above him, a garage door opener in the ceiling. Cable hangs down. A sink.

He moves forward, notices the floor slopes to a drain, rises again. Walks through, takes his time. Shines the flashlight on each object. Touches a gloved hand along the grooves made in the wood by use. Places where the chrome polish is flaked by striking metal. Streaks in an otherwise perfect floor. Missing tiles next to the drain. The metal floor of the cage showing signs of being scrubbed and scrubbed. With steel wool.

He heads through an archway, black tile gives way to white. A second drain in this floor, too. The tile covers both walls and ceiling. In the middle of the room, a porcelain tub with a locking lid, a slot for the victim’s head. Another sink. A hose.

He sniffs the air. Odor of strong cleaning fluid. No circulation. A very thin layer of dust. He thinks, the cleaners don’t come down here.

Moves back again into the main room. Sees where the shape of the wall conceals a passageway. Crosses towards it. Slips through, finds two sinks in a tiny room. Plastic curtain concealing another alcove. The sinks are scrubbed clean. Old soap bars on the rim next to the taps. “Hm,” he says, picks on up. Recognizes the hospital odor.

Pushes through the curtain.

“Ah.”

An operating room. Metal cupboards with glass doors and pharmaceuticals. Equipment for general practice. Surgical instruments, surgical trays. Anesthetic stand without bottles. An EKG. A gurney in the center of the room, without padding.

He stares for a long time. Looks from side to side and flips on the operating lights. Blinks his eyes.

Moves to the gurney, leans over it. Inspects the top carefully, inch by inch. Squats and does the same with the floor beneath. Then along the legs and metal fittings. Gets up, walks around, squats again. Peers. Then freezes.

Stands with his face blank. Opens a drawer, then another. Finds a small plastic bag. Walks across to the surgical tray and selects a scalpel. Returns to the leg of the gurney, holds the bag open. Slowly, methodically, scrapes the bits of a small red stain into the bag with the scalpel.

Wipes the scalpel. Returns it. Closes the drawers.

Unhurrying, he turns off the light and walks through the scrub room. Then up the stairs and to the front hall. Mind turning things over and over, puts on his socks and shoes, relocks the door and leaves the house. Crosses to the alarm box and flips it on again. Stalks back to the street.

Gets himself through the gate and onto the sidewalk. Takes two deep breaths.

Begins to jog.



Chapter Sixteen

Debbie finds the finance department’s lunchroom in a state of chaos. The tables have been pushed against the walls. A team of people filter through boxes in the center of the floor, unpacking them, sorting papers inside, repacking them. Debbie doesn’t recognize Gary…knows he must be new or someone promoted from the faceless ranks in the last year. Gary is tall, slightly balding, wears a tennis shirt and tan slacks. Once he could have been handsome. Now past his prime.

Debbie, uncomfortable, waits to be noticed. Gary hands out papers as he walks through the room. “This is the list, people. I don’t want any of these names in the boxes we’re sending out.” Stops in front of Debbie. “Who are you?”

“Debbie…uh, Poutsmore. I’m from legal.”

“Oh right, of course.” Gary gives an approving look. “Good.” He pulls up a chair. “You sit here. I’ll be right with you.”

Ten minutes pass. Debbie watches the others, four of them, two women, two younger girls. The girls chat. The women concentrate on the documents. Debbie sees what’s going on…an audit of some kind, a subpoena for the company records. The company protecting itself.

Gary appears and leans over Debbie. “We appreciate the help, let me tell you. Things have been crazy.” Pulls a box towards him “I need you to go through this. And if you find anything with Lon Charles’ name on it, you put it in this box.” Puts an empty file box in front of Debbie. “When you finish with this box, you go through those other boxes there…all right?”

“Yes sir,” says Debbie.

“Great.” Gary stops and looks at the she-male. His eyes flash over the shiny vinyl blouse. “You know, I gotta say…that top looks great on you.”

Debbie can’t help reaching up to touch her blouse, self-consciously straightening at the shoulders. He drops his eyes. “Thank-you,” he answers…then absurdly, after a long pause, adds, “…Gary.”

Has no idea why he answered like that! Why he waited before saying the jackoff’s name. Knows that he’s blushing now…tries to stop. Swears at himself.

“Say,” Gary starts. “I just had an idea. I’m meeting with the State Department’s legal counsel for lunch today to discuss an alternative to litigation. You could come, sit in on the meeting, get up to date. What do you think?”

“Um…”

“It’s just for a few hours. I’ll make sure you’re credited. This would be a high-profile op for you.”

Debbie knows this game. Struggles to say something, doesn’t dare say no. Can’t bring himself to say yes, too terrified to make even a lame excuse, never mind a good one. Weighs the chances that Chase will find out, knows she will, thinks about what Chase will do, decides not to risk it. Gary is still waiting. The she-male blinks his eyes. Nods his head mutely.

“Great! I’ll come find you about 11:30.” His hand reaches down, closes around Debbie’s upper arm, gives it a squeeze.

Debbie swallows. Turns, starts to work.

Ten minutes in, has a clear idea how boring the work is going to be. His mind is soon completely involved in what happens later, imagination taking over.

Stop it, he tells himself. It’s only lunch. Reminds himself that he can control what happens, that Gary and whoever he’s meeting will be busy talking to each other. There might even be a chance for him to get the first real rest he’s had all week. He couldn’t eat very much on account of his waist, but a whole hour off his feet! Heaven.

Hardly any of the papers are about Lon Charles. He shuffles through them, moves onto the next box, then the next one after that. An hour goes by. Dull.

One of the young girls answers the phone, calls out, “Hey…are you Debbie?”

Debbie nods.

“Phone.” She lays it on the desk.

He walks across the room, speaks carefully: “Hello?”

“Hello Debbie.”

“Oh…hello, Ms. Bowyer.”

“I wanted you to know that Gary Hawthorne’s been up here pumping people for details on you. Can’t imagine why. But I made sure he got a first impression.” Chase snickers.

“Oh!” Debbie peeps. Hisses, “Ms. Bowyer!”

“Mind your manners, Debbie. You’ll need them, believe me. Whatever Gary has in mind, it is out of my hands. This is it, girl…you’re on your own. For real. Whatever happens, I can’t wait to get the whole story. Don’t forget the rules, and DON’T disappoint me.”

“Yes Ms. Bowyer.”

The phone goes dead. Debbie stares. Hangs it up. Goes back to the table, completely ignored by the other. They haven’t so much as said hello yet. Their disapproval of his clothing is clear.

He begins again, finishes the box. The time is ten-thirty and that means one hour before…he doesn’t know what. Possibly something unexpected; some arrangement Gary is making. What did Chase tell him?

Work progresses. The phone rings from time to time. The same girl as before shouts, “Debbie, its for you again.”

Debbie clips across the room in his heels, towards the girl, who’s covering it with her hand. “It’s Gary,” she says, passing the phone.

“Hello?” asks Debbie.

“Hello Debbie. There’s been a change. The meeting’s been cancelled. I’m sorry, I know you’re disappointed.”

“I’m…uh, all right.” Debbie averts her eyes from the eldest woman, who’s openly staring.

“No, let me make it up to you. There’s a bunch of us going out for a drink after work, you can come with us. I can explain it all to you. Sound good?”

Debbie remembers the rule. “Y-yes.”

“Good. That’s great. You’re a good sport. I’ll give you a shout around 4:30.”

“Okay. But…”

“What’s wrong?” Gary’s voice seems controlled, ready.

“I’m almost finished the work you gave me.”

“Oh, that’s fine. When you get it done, you can go back to legal. Tell Chase I can still use you on Monday, though.”

“Yes sir.”

“Call me Gary.”

“Yes Gary.”

“Good girl. See you later.”

Debbie has everyone’s attention now. One girl even glares. Debbie doesn’t know what he’s done, somehow feels they’ve made some conclusion already that isn’t good. Turns his back on them, sits back down, thinks about the unfairness. Hears giggles. Turns red.

Quarter after twelve. He finishes the last box and takes the elevator back to his floor, let down that his hoped-for hour of lunch is gone. Arrives at his desk, sees that Chase’s coat is gone. Smiles a tiny smile. At least there’ll be time for lunch, as each day before Chase always found an excuse to disrupt his meal.

But waiting next to the computer is a five inch stack of paper. On it, a note from Chase:

“Gary says he’s done with you for the afternoon, and the two of you are going out after work. I’ll be gone for the rest of the day. These papers need to be filed before the day is done and you have other work to do, Debbie, as well you know. Be sure it’s done before you go anywhere, and you’d better not disappoint Mr. Hawthorne!

Ms. Bowyer.”



Debbie’s heart sinks. He opens his drawer, takes out his lunch. Opens the plastic containers. Touches his keypad, begins working on a business letter, eats.

The phone rings at 2:30. Debbie rushes from the file room, grabs the phone. “Hello?”

Gary again. “Good, glad I caught you. Some of us are working a bit late, we thought we’d push the drinks back to seven o’clock. Is that good for you?”

Eyes closed, Debbie hears himself say, “Yes.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at home. Better give me the address.”

Debbie wants to say, No, get me at work so I can finish! Knows he can’t. Knows, too, that he’ll have to go home. Trapped. Gives his address.

“Good. We’re going to this little jazz bar, so you might want to dress a bit.”

Debbie knows there won’t be any business talk, that ploy was gone. “Okay,” he answers.

“You’re a special girl, Debbie,” Gary says. Then, dial tone.

Debbie sighs. Knows the game very well, remembers playing it himself. Pushes himself, finishes his work, puts on his soft leather coat and silk scarf around his neck to keep off the autumn chill…Chase won’t let him have a woolen one. He walks to the lobby, feet aching in his shoes from the whole afternoon of filing. Counts his money for the subway, squeezes in with the other commuters, stands the twenty minutes it takes to get home. The train is crowded. He’s sure some pervert’s hand touched his thigh.

Again.

The elevator is still broken in his apartment. He climbs the stairs. Kicks off his shoes once inside, notes the clock: 5:20. No time to wash his hair. He pulls a shower cap on, gets into the bathtub. Knows a shower’s better, but his feet need rest.

Cat naps. Scrubs his heels with a pumice stone, shaves his legs up to the knee, soaps his body, rinses, climbs out. 5:55. Checks his face, reassures himself that there’s no facial hair, knows there can’t be as the laser clinic promises three weeks after treatment and it’s been one. Worries anyway. Quickly reapplies his make-up, fixes his hair, dresses in his foundation garments before running to the living room.

Clock says 6:31. He hurries around the apartment, collects the few things left out from the night before and that morning: magazines, dishes, bottle of nail polish. 6:37 and he’s back in the bedroom, taking his tight burgundy dress from the closet and sliding it up his hips, pulling the zipper at the back up, doing up the three buttons that go down his thigh. It’s the dressiest thing he owns that doesn’t cost a lot of money. He doesn’t want to be too fancy, knows not where he’s going.

Fits his feet into heels and chooses some jewelry to put around his neck and wrists.

6:54. He has the refrigerator door open. Three spoonfuls of yogurt, half an apple…better be no more than that. Sees the small bottle of wine that Chase allows him, decides not to pour himself a glass. Better to keep his head clear.

6:59. Sits down in the living room and looks at the door.

7:00. Waits.

7:03. Gets up as his heart beats too fast. Stands at the window over the street for two minutes, feeling like it’s twenty.

Says aloud, “Relax.” Goes back to the bedroom, thinks he must have a few more minutes, perfects his blush, applies a little lipstick. Adds some mascara. Sees a breath mint in the bathroom cabinet and sticks it in his mouth. Stares at his familiar femme-self in the mirror…feels an inward, helpless shudder. Thinks, No girl ever lived like me.

Returns to the living room. 7:11. Takes his feet out of the heels, grateful for two minutes. Presses his soles on the floor. Sighs. Tells himself to put the heels back on, that he’s going to wear them all night anyway. Promises himself that he will in three minutes.

7:20. Still has the heels off. Looks out the window at the street, wonders out loud, “Where is he?”

7:32. The television is on. Debbie flips channels and finds nothing. Chase allows him minimum cable. He watches the news. A man is raping women in California. He feels a strange revulsion about it; changes the channel to a Spanish night soap he doesn’t understand.

7:45. The news is on again. Debbie takes out the bottle of wine, pours himself half a glass. Closes the fridge and stares at the clock. The five changes to a six.

Thinks now that Gary is never going to show up. Can’t feel happy about it, as Gary might, and always there’s what Chase might think about it. Speaking at the television, says, “Come on you little prick.”

7:55. The wine glass is empty. Debbie closes his eyes, wanting to rub them, not daring to spoil his make-up. Takes a deep breath.

A knock at the door.

Debbie comes awake with a shock, looks desperately around. At the clock: 8:52. Hisses, “Shit!” Darts his eyes around, looking for his shoes. Calls out, “Just a minute!” Another knock answers.

The shoes are under the coffee table. Debbie pushes his feet into them, rushes to the bathroom, prays he still looks right, won’t have to have Gary waiting in the apartment. Looks at himself. Blinks the sleep from his eyes and looks again. Everything’s okay.

Another knock. “Coming!” Debbie shouts again, rushing to the door. Spies through the peephole, catches his breath, slides open the door lock. Pulls.

Gary gives Debbie a look from top to bottom. Debbie says nothing, looks away. Gary has had a little to drink, is well primed but not drunk. “Yes…looking good. Ready to go?”

Debbie wants to scream at the bastard for making her wait. Instead, just nods helplessly.

“Great! That’s what I like about you, Debbie. You don’t make a man wait. Come on—got my car downstairs.”



Surprisingly, there are a dozen people from the office, no one Debbie knows, all from the accounting department. They’re blowing off steam. Debbie accepts Gary’s arm around his waist, there’s no point in resisting. Accepts Gary dragging him back and forth across the room to meet acquaintances. Accepts Gary ditching him to get cigarettes and being gone for twenty minutes. Gary does all the talking. Debbie listens, marveling at Gary’s impressive ability to speak without pausing for three seconds in a row. The subject of conversation: himself. Mixed with steady reassurances that Debbie is having a really terrific time. Standard procedure for Gary, describe own importance and make sure it’s believed.

Gary pays for the drinks—as many as Debbie wants. Not only Gary, either. Debbie goes to the bar for two minutes, asks where the bathroom is, finds a drink waiting for him when he gets back. Long Island ice-tea. An admirer watched him.

Debbie’s head spins. He always thought “girl drinks” were safe. Is fast discovering that’s not true, that his choices are doing a better job at making him blotto than high balls. There’s some kind of logic there, but he’s too drunk to put his finger on it.

Something else is unfamiliar, too. The jazz quartet is good…actually very good. Debbie can’t remember hearing good stuff before in these places. Can’t remember listening at all, really. At some point the ice teas, the sangrias, the fuzzy navels perfectly drown Gary out; all Debbie can hear is the sax complimenting the bass and trumpet. It’s right. It’s good.

He looks up and sees Gary pointing his finger at another guy. They’re wrapped up in some conversation about a hockey team that was doing well and is now doing badly. Debbie doesn’t know which team and doesn’t care. The piano player had changed the rhythm and now Debbie can’t help moving his feet.

“Hey babe, let’s dance,” says Gary, jerks the she-male up, pulls him through the crowd, pushes him into an empty space on the dance floor, starts making his moves. Puts the full-body massage on Debbie. At once the music is just noise and the alcohol is sludge in Debbie’s system and nothing is right AT ALL. Gary has a hand around the she-male’s waist and there’s even a brush against a boob, something Debbie can’t feel but sees it happen, recoiling like it’s the real thing. Some other man’s body is pushing him from behind now…Debbie sees it’s the hockey guy. Gets shoved, grabs Gary for balance, feels a chest pushing against his back, realizes both Gary and the hockey guy think he likes being crushed between them.

Pushes his hands out, pushes them both away, stumbles away in his heels, going to the wrong table on the first try. Somebody collides with him. Debbie’s wet…how it happened, doesn’t know, but its wet all over the front of his body.

“Hey!” shouts Gary, rushing at someone. “You fucking drunk, that’s my girl!” A bunch of stuff falls over and Debbie sees some guy on the ground and then, like that, HAS to puke. Has to puke right NOW. Thanks god for knowing where the bathroom is, only just manages to get the stall open and fall onto his knees before the drinks pour up and into the bowl through his mouth and nose. Feels his corset resist the twisting of his bowels and squeals from the pain.

Woman comes in, leans over, asks if Debbie’s all right. Asks if Debbie’s done. Helps Debbie up. Walks her over to the mirror, talks about seeing the whole thing. Insults men as Debbie looks at his face, wanting to fix it and remembering his purse is on the table in the bar. Wipes his face, cleans away the spit from his lips. He looks like a girl. Even without full makeup, even messed up, he’s a girl.

The woman helps with things from her purse. She combs his hair, helps him clean up his mascara. Debbie sees a slut in the mirror and cries. The woman says, “Don’t, sweetie, don’t! He’s not worth it!”

Together they put Debbie back together. Other women come and go and make comments. Some helpful, some not.

Outside the bathroom, Gary’s waiting for him. The other woman disappears. Gary has Debbie’s coat, puts it over the she-male’s shoulders. Makes his goodbye to his friends, gives Debbie his purse, takes Debbie outside. The air is crisp, nice. Makes Debbie feel a little better. He grabs Gary’s arm for support.

Gary opens the car door and Debbie gets in. Realizes he’s in the back seat. Starts to ask, then Gary is sitting beside him. Gary is smiling.

Says, “Some pretty girl has had too much to drink.”

Debbie shudders.

Gary kisses him. Debbie feels the first man’s tongue ever in his mouth. Gary’s hands are on Debbie’s soft, fake breast. The other hand is undoing the buttons on his dress. Slides the dress up Debbie’s thigh.

Debbie panics, beats off Gary’s hand. “Uh uh!”

Gary stops. “What?”

Debbie breathes heavily, holding Gary off at arm’s reach with painted fingernails, silver bracelets hanging on his wrists. Gary looks at him, moves forward. “Aw baby, there’s nothing to worry about. Your pal Gary’s gonna take real good care of you. Now you just open these a little…” A hand dips between Debbie’s thighs.

Desperately Debbie throws himself at Gary, pressing lips together, slipping his tongue into Gary’s mouth. Works…for a moment. Debbie’s hands fly like they have a mind of their own. He thinks how good it is to be drunk. Drunk makes the thought possible. Debbie open’s Gary’s fly, reaches inside Gary’s pants and pulls out Gary’s cock. Slides to his knees behind the front seat. Opens his mouth. Closes his eyes. Let’s the fat, pulpy sausage between his teeth.

Gary spreads his arms across the seat and window. Electric shocks flow through him. “Oh, god, shit…yes! Fuck, I love a girl who’s willing!”

The first four thrusts are the worst. The cock is rubbery on Debbie’s tongue, the end sharp against his pallet, the fat flesh hot, a little flabby. It hardens, thrusts into his mouth. Debbie lets it, pushes back in disgust, thanks God, Jesus, Santa Claus that his urge to vomit had been taken care of ten minutes before…still there are dry heaves. Gary thinks this is the best feeling ever.

“Yeah, yeah, deep throat it, FUCK, yeah, DEEP THROAT it…”

Debbie is motivated, can’t let Gary need to fuck, Gary can’t fuck, can’t fuck…repeats it over and over like a mantra, trying to recall everything his old self ever liked about being sucked. Wishing, when there had been a chance to ask questions, his agenda had been wide enough to think about them. Repeats, can’t fuck, can’t fuck. Gary’s hands come down on the back of his head and help him deep throat. That’s all right with Debbie, as long as it works, because Gary can’t need to fuck, can’t fuck, can’t fuck.

Gary comes.

Debbie has nowhere to go, he’s stuck on the end of the fire hose. The coppery, ugly gel fills his mouth and the back of his throat. When he swallows, it begins as a reflex and keeps going until it is all gone, all down his throat. Gary’s hands are still twisted in the she-male’s hair. Debbie presses her eyes together tight enough to blind himself, to keep from seizing up and screaming, or maybe biting off his organ.

Gary lets him go and Debbie falls back against the car door.

“Oh baby…no one ever gave me head like that before. You’re a fucking wonder.”

Debbie nods. Feels revulsion. Not only from the cum in his mouth, not from the balding fuck sitting up on the seat while Debbie’s knees are cramped under him, not from the setting, or the sick feeling in his stomach, or even the thought he’s going to have to keep seeing Gary in the halls for shit knows how long.

It is that Debbie liked it.

Friday, March 30, 2007

Career Girl (thirteen & fourteen)

Chapter Thirteen

Debbie stands next to the radiator, shivers. Chase finishes removing her own gloves, takes them in hand, leads the landlady into the kitchen. Says, “My cousin is a wonderful girl…but she knows almost nothing about taking care of herself in the big city. She doesn’t have work yet—but she has an interview with my company tomorrow afternoon and I’m sure she’ll be hired. In the meantime, I’ll be paying her first and last month’s rent. And I’ll co-sign the rental agreement…so you needn’t worry about anything.”

The landlady, Mrs. Prang, looks at Debbie. “And you, dear…will that be all right with you?”

Debbie nods. Answers quietly, “Yes.”

“Is there any problem?” asks Chase.

“No, that is all fine.” Mrs. Prang looks Debbie over, says to Chase, “Rent is due on the last day of the month.”

“Rent will always be paid,” Chase answers absently. “This gas stove works?”

Debbie stands to one side and looks on as the landlady goes over the kitchen for Chase. Looks around himself, struggles to imagine living in the cheap-plastered cramped apartment. Chase expected him to…to have a place. Live on his own.

“Its time you began again, Debbie,” Chase had explained. “A young lady must learn responsibilities. She must have a career. That’s what I expect of you, Debbie. Nothing less.”

He had listened stunned, terrified of what it all meant, listening to Chase explain:

“I want you to remember what you are and who you are. You’re my invention—and you’re not independent. You’re not smart enough to know what you want and you’re not to start trying to think! Remember, Debbie. Remember before you do something stupid. You have no identification. You will never have any. If you attempt to apply for ID, people will find out who you are. Without ID you will not be able to travel, to buy tickets, to rent a car, to get credit or even another job. Try to run and you will get nowhere.

“You will report to me at Six A.M. every morning and Nine P.M. every night, in addition to being at work every day. No calling in sick! If I do not hear from you within one hour of both those times, I will give a complete description of you to the police, with your real name and with the address of your new apartment. And I will give them pictures. You’ll certainly be a prize in jail with your pee pee and no balls, won’t you?

“You will go to your interview when it is arranged and you will get the job. You know the consequences if you don’t! And when you are AT work, you will never refuse to follow anyone’s request. Do you understand that?”

Debbie had answered, “Yes, Miss Chase.”

“I don’t care what it is! Remember that you have your new career to think about now, and if there’s anything that business people do NOT understand, it is a poor sport! So paste a smile on your face and say a merry ‘Yes Sir!’ when it’s expected of you. That’s how a good girl gets ahead, Debbie.”

There had been lots of other things said. About his clothing and makeup, about where he could eat his lunch (at his desk, of course—the mid-day was not for lounging!), about surprise inspections of his person and his apartment. About his tone of voice and enthusiasm. And most of all, of Chase remembering always to hide his maleness. Again and again, the subject of the police was mentioned.

“Other than the things you need, you may spend your money how you want. You may see movies, you may buy things for yourself. You can eat whatever you want, but do not gain weight! I see an ounce of fat on you and there will be hell to pay, young lady!”

The words stay in his mind as Debbie watches Chase and Mrs. Prang make the arrangements. Na-na is gone. She has taken a flight for Persia, for no known period. Debbie actually feels “odd” about it. As though a dear relative has left, leaving him empty.

And Chase, too, practically throwing him into the street. He thinks he should feel free. Wasn’t this better? Instead he feels nauseous.

Mrs. Prang calls on him to sign the lease. “There you go, dearie. Now don’t you have to be worried about me. You need anything, you just holler.”

“I will Mrs. Prang.”

“So polite. But make it Velma. Call me Velma.”

He feels a perverse need to call her “Miss Velma.” Only nods.

Mrs. Prang shows them out. Chase walks down the steps to her car, not concerned about Debbie…knows he will be right behind her. Opens the passenger-side door, leaves it for Debbie to get in. Debbie lifts her feet carefully into the car.

“Here’s the apartment key,” Chase says, once behind the wheel. “I will put you in a hotel tonight, but tomorrow you are on your own in getting your ass to your new home in the evening. The phone will be connected for you. You can call me tomorrow morning from the hotel.

“The movers will come before you get home tomorrow to deliver some sticks of furniture I bought you. You will OWE me…I will take it out of your pay cheques. If there’s something you don’t like, you can replace it later when it’s your money.

“Remember! Your appointment tomorrow is at Ten A.M. I want you there fifteen minutes early. And don’t forget—Billy Rose likes tight sweaters.”

Debbie almost moans. The idea of facing the personnel director as a woman turns his bowels to water.

Chase starts the car. “Be sure you wear one, slut.”



Ten A.M. The office staff works. People move through the waiting room, dart quick looks at his legs. He’s conscious of them, the consciousness aggravating the heart beating in his chest, symptom of the anxiety attack since calling Chase four hours ago. Feels exposed, wants to lay his coat over his legs to stop them looking. Knows that Chase is somewhere in the building, that she could appear at any moment and that she wouldn’t approve. Keeps the sharp, expensive leather coat folded neatly over his plaid skirt, sits straight. Fights the urge to pull at the skirt’s hem. Blinks his eyes at each brush of air that touches his legs through their silk stockings as another man speeds past.

The receptionist calls for “Debbie Poutsmore.” Debbie rises. It’s the new last name Chase has chosen for him. He hates it.

The receptionist shows him past her desk and into the short fifteenth-floor hallway leading through Personnel. He knows the hall perfectly well. Gives no sign that he does. Comes to the door of William P. Rose, Vice President of Personnel. Waits as the receptionist opens the door. She pushes it open, stands aside.

Debbie keeps his face expressionless as he enters, pale at the thought his old buddy Billy will recognize him. Billy doesn’t. William Rose looks over the new “administrative assistant” carefully. Notes the pretty nipples poking through Debbie’s cashmere sweater, never suspects they’re anything but real.

“Good morning Debbie,” he says. “I understand you’re coming to work for us.”

Debbie answers, “Um, yes. But…I thought this was an interview.”

“Oh now, that’s all decided. A recommendation from Miss Bowyer is enough for us. Particularly since you are so—” The pause was negligible; “—qualified.”

Debbie stiffens.

“No,” continues William, “this is more of an orientation. It’s always best if relations between the Personnel Department and the employees is kept at its most sympathetic level. Compassion, that is the watchword. We want you to understand that we are at your service.” Debbie watches him stand up, sit on his desk. “Debbie…from what Ms. Bowyer tells me, you’re from a small town. That’s a fine place to be from. It takes a lot of bravery to come to the big city and you’re to be admired for that. I don’t know just what your experiences have been…but I would imagine that to you, a company like this would seem a cold, emotionless place to work for. Big, self-important…even that the management would seem distant and inaccessible. Aloof, if you will. I want to reassure you that none of that is true.” He moves, walks as he talks. “Founders Insurance remains a viable force in the market place for one reason: because we keep the people who work for us viable. And the parameters of that viability are kept penultimate through the company’s manifest benevolence…that is, by showing our generosity of spirit. In return, we receive stability and an enduring commitment from our employees. Instead of appearing discouraging, we appear open. Instead of being a cruel taskmaster, the company is a parent, a familial force in our employees’ lives. Lon Charles, Chairman of the company, is the paterfamilias, if you will. And we are the brothers and sisters, the sons and daughters, cousins, grandchildren, aunts and uncles.”

The hairs on the back of Debbie’s neck are standing. William has finished his speech by placing himself immediately behind Debbie—paternally, he rests his hands on Debbie’s cashmere-covered shoulders. “Debbie…my door is always open, any time, at any hour, should you have any kind of concern at all.” A moment passes. William lifts his hands, reluctantly, knowing they’ve left their impression. Moves around her, returns to his desk. Sits and smiles warmly.

Debbie feels sick. Was almost ready to scream when Billy touched him. Had no idea that Billy gave this speech to all the girls who came to work. More than understands the message Billy means to send.

“So,” says William deeply. “Where do you see yourself fitting into our company?”

Debbie swallows, controls his voice. Gives his answer: “I want…I want to make everyone’s life easier. I mean, by doing my work, and doing it well, so that everything for everyone goes smoothly.” It is not exactly what Chase had told him to day, but a far cry form the smart answers Howie would have given once upon a time.

“Well, that’s a good attitude, Debbie,” William condescends. “But don’t try to do everyone’s work. You must keep your priorities.”

“Yes sir,” Debbie answers, forcing a pretty smile.

“I can see you’re not going to be any trouble at all.” William has another look at the girlish breasts. “You have a particularly mature attitude.”

Debbie’s blood freezes. Thinks, He’s going to ask for a date! Remembers Chase’s rule about never answering “No.”

But William puts out his hand. “Welcome aboard. If you’ll find your way back to Miss Escher’s Desk, she’ll get you up to Miss Bowyer’s office. You’ll be working as her assistant.”

Debbie isn’t surprised. Is relieved that Rose didn’t make a firmer pass, feels pretty sure that one is going to come eventually. Lifts himself shakily onto his three-inch heels, shakes the VP’s hand, concentrates on doing it femininely. Escapes. In the hall outside, unobserved, can’t help resting one hand on his heart and the other on the wall. Takes two deep breaths before walking back to the receptionist’s desk.

Miss Escher gives him a smile and picks up the phone. Debbie smiles back. In a moment, Zoe Sawyer appears, her hand out.

Debbie’s heart flutters again, thinking of the three weeks he and Zoe spent leap-frogging among the hotels a few blocks from work. Flashes an image in his head about the afternoon at the Metropol Hotel nearby when he fucked her and dumped her.

Zoe doesn’t recognize him either. “You’re Debbie?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good. I’m Zoe Sawyer. Come along, I’ll show you the way. Chase Bowyer is ten floors up.”

Debbie remembers to smile.

Zoe goes ahead and presses the elevator button. “So. Did little Willie touch you much?”

“What?”

“Oh, I know he touched you. Was it the fingertip or did he use the ‘clutch’?”

“Um…his hands.”

Zoe chuckles. “That means he likes you.”

The elevator opens. Empty. They go in.

“He does have a little one, by the way,” Zoe says. Holds up a baby finger. “Like this.”

“Isn’t it…isn’t what he does sexual harassment?” Debbie is sure he’s never used words like that before.

Zoe tosses off a loud laugh. “Oh, girl, you’ve got a lot to learn! This company is permanently stuck in the 1970s. I’d leave if the money wasn’t so good.”

The doors open. “Well, there you go. There’s only three offices on the floor. Chase Bowyer’s is the one at the end of the hall.”

Debbie takes a few steps forward. Zoe waves and the elevator doors close, stranding the she-male. He moves along to Chase’s office, once his own. Déjà vu hurts him.

A girl is at the desk in front of the office, notes Debbie’s arrival. Thumbs a phone, speaks into it. “Ms. Bowyer, the new assistant is here.”

He struggles not to fidget while he waits in front of the girl. Finally Chase comes out. Looks at him. “You can go, Monica.”

The temp gets up, moves a few papers, puts two things in her purse. Walks quickly to the elevator.

“This way, Miss Poutsmore,” says Chase. “We have lots of work to do.”



Chapter Fourteen

Debbie touches the sugar packet hesitantly before convincing himself that he does want it, in spite of his diet. Chase wouldn’t approve—but it has been such a long morning and already he’s had to put off lunch an extra hour because of an impromptu “meeting” he’s had, bent over Miss Chase’s desk, learning from a cane that he must work harder.

It is Wednesday morning, and five times he’s been pulled into his boss’ office to be dressed down, and twice she’s finished her lecture by using the cane. Debbie’s rear is aflame, and there’s still the whole day for him to sit on it. He just has to have the little pick-me-up the sugar gives—and besides, Chase didn’t actually say not to have sugar. Weight was not his biggest fear right now. But Debbie draws the limit at one packet just the same. Doesn’t dare touch the cream.

A strange man, an employee that Debbie doesn’t know, enters the coffee station. Debbie feels the man’s eyes crawl from his yellow-jelly high-heels, over his stockinged legs and the matching yellow skirt, stopping at the obvious yellow brassiere beneath the black sheer blouse he’s wearing. Three days and already Debbie loathes that look. “You must be new around here,” says the man.

Debbie swallows past the insulting tone, the mix of easy familiarity and condescension. Smiles politely and says, “Yes sir.” Turns with his coffee to go; the man gets in the way.

“Are you a temp?”

“Oh no, sir. I’m Ms. Bowyer’s new assistant.”

“Wonderful. It’s always nice to have another pretty face around.”

Debbie doesn’t break his smile. “Thank-you, sir.”

The man takes the response and the smile as a clear sign he can go a step further. Grins, the teensiest hint of a leer in his eyes. Tells the she-male, “Well. You better get back to work, cutie.”

“Yes sir, thank-you sir,” Debbie answers, slipping around the man and darting away.

All the little phrases that men use…Debbie’s more familiar with them now than he was when he used them himself. If there’s anything to be hated about it, it’s seeing his own face whenever a wolf puts him in some spot, teases him about some thing. Debbie thinks it’s a queer sort of masturbation.

A stack of correspondence waits for him to get through. And email. Debbie sits down gingerly, starts to work. Changes addresses when they need to be changed, drafts letters for wealthy, long-term clients to assure them the insurance company still cared, enters all correspondence into the computer for cross-reference. Suspects that it’s all make-work. Doesn’t dare say so.

The hour drags on. Never in his life has he worked so hard or felt so useless. Things that seem purposeless, notes that will never get read, phone numbers that will never be called. He follows through on each task because she says he must do them…but he can’t see they need to be done. Can’t reconcile his activities with the position he used to hold, except in memory of how good it felt to have a secretary sitting at the desk outside his office…of how important it made him appear. Tries to remember the name of his assistant, however long ago that had been. More or less than a year. Can’t remember the woman’s name.

Now and then the phone rings. It seems at least worthwhile to be here answering it. But Debbie always finds the people calling are unpleasant or hurried or just plain rude. They don’t want to talk to him, of course—they don’t even acknowledge that he’s a person. Once when he had to tell someone Chase was out of the office, the caller had personally insulted him. Debbie thought that wasn’t right.

A young man Debbie recognizes as Larry appears in the hall, carrying three large binders stacked in his arms. Stops in front of Debbie’s desk. “You’re Chase’s assistant?”

Debbie nods.

“Your boss says you have some time. Can you go through these binders and photocopy any papers that relate to Alison, Manx and Buckley?” He drops them on the desk.

“Yes sir,” Debbie answers, hiding his disappointment.

“Oh good. I need it all by tomorrow, all right? No problem?”

The binders are each three inches thick. Debbie finds the will to smile. “No sir, no problem.” Thinks, big problem!

Larry looks carefully at him. “You do understand what you have to do, right?”

Debbie struggles not to show any sign of being insulted. “I understand perfectly, sir. Really. Alison, Manx and Buckley. By tomorrow. Will do.”

“Okay. Have a nice day.”

Debbie looks at the binders. His heart falls. Knows it means that, with the nonsense work Chase has given him, going home before nine or ten that night is impossible. The third night in a row of working late.

The phone buzzes. “Debbie, will you come in here please?”

Heart stopping, as it always does when she calls him, Debbie rises and immediately enters her office. Closes the doors. Moves and stands stiffly in front of her desk.

Chase doesn’t look up. Continues writing in a notebook. “I heard the conversation you just had with Larry, Debbie. And I am not happy.”

“I…I tried to be as polite as I could—”

“You didn’t flirt, Debbie. What did I say about flirting?” Doesn’t wait for an answer. “That was a major opportunity. You should have asked him in a very stupid and idiotic fashion to show you exactly what he meant, and taken the opportunity to press your body against his! You’re never going to get any consideration from the men in this office if you don’t learn how to play the game, slut.”

Debbie feels a real tear forming.

“At any rate. That’s not the only reason I called you in here.” Chase leans back. “I was going to tell you earlier, I want to see your hips moving a little more from side to side. The weekend is approaching, and you still don’t have a date.”

“A…a date, Miss Chase?” Debbie tries not to think about it.

“Yes, a date! Every girl wants a date, doesn’t she? So I’ve taken some steps towards getting you one. I have a sure-fire plan. The Payroll department seems to be behind this week, so I’m sending you down there on Friday to help them out. It will give a chance for Gary Hawthorne to have a look at you and get some idea of what salary we can set once your probational period is over.

“Gary is a good, interesting man. You’ll like him. Of course, it will interest you that he likes bad girls, because being forewarned means being forearmed. I want you to wear something black and vinyl for Friday. A blouse. High fashion, naturally. Be sure to go out shopping and get something. I think you’d better try Ville Neuf on Seventh.” Chase reaches into her desk, gives Debbie an envelope. “Here’s two hundred and fifty dollars to cover it. Make sure that I see a receipt.”

“But…but…”

“What is it, Debbie?” Chase asks, a bit perturbed.

“How am I going to get it?” Debbie is on the edge of frustration. “Larry—I mean, Mr. Astley—just put a bunch of work on my desk, so there isn’t any time tonight, and tomorrow’s Thursday and that means I have to spend my free time at the health club like you said…”

“Stop that!”

Debbie’s mouth closes.

“You can go during your lunch break,” says Chase. “Do it today. It won’t hurt you to be without another hour of sitting comfortably on your ass. Like every other office girl, you have to learn to make the best use of your time. Now get out. You’re dismissed.”

Without a word, Debbie hurries out. Shuts the door, catches his breath. Thinks, It isn’t right. It just isn’t right! A look at the clock tells him he better hurry and get certain things done before he runs out to the boutique. When was he going to eat lunch?

Sighs. Tells himself, Don’t think about it, girl

Blinks. Stares at the computer screen. Realizes he’s just called himself a girl.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Career Girl (eleven & twelve)

Chapter Eleven

Morning, and Debbie lays on his back in bed, wrists and ankles cuffed. In a chemise. Waiting for Na-na to wake him, set him free, take him to breakfast.

Not this morning. Na-na won’t be coming.

He thinks about the day at the mall. What it means about his accepting anything. He doesn’t accept it, hates being dressed as a girl, will always hate it. Cannot see that it will ever change.

There has been a change just the same. He’s resigned. A puppet at the mercy of tough strings he cannot break, lifting his arms, shuffling his feet. For all the thinking he needs to do, his head may as well be wood. Events are decided for him. The day laid out. Nothing to do but go through the motions, even to wait for the motions when there are none. In his bed, forgotten by the puppeteers.

There’s no pretense. Chase knows he enjoys nothing…no lip service is given to his pleasure. No fantasy that he’ll suddenly find enlightenment in the process, that a light will go on and he’ll be happy as a girl.

That doesn’t matter. His approval was never asked for. Never needed.

Left in his bed he doesn’t know today is a special day. There is no one to tell him it is. Or care what he would think about it.



Chase slides the white latex gloves over her clean, scrubbed hands, up her arms, over her elbows. Pulls the white cuffs of her polyester smock down over them, sealing her skin. Looks down at the plastic booties over her shoes, mystified. Runs her latexed hands over the plastic apron covering the front of her clothing. Looks at Persis, dressed the same way.

Asks, “Are we really doing this?”

Persis’ face is fixed, deliberate. “If we go ahead, you have to be ready. I’ve watched this many times, but I’ve done it only twice. Both times, you know, as an assistant. I’m perfectly able. But I will need you to be sharp.”

Chase nods, firmly. “I will be.”

“All right.” Persis slides a cloth mask over her nose and mouth. Helps Chase with her mask. Chase experiences a flush as the cloth presses against the bridge of her nose; an odd invulnerability. A quickening of her heart. Persis had explained to her, it would not be something she could enter without feelings…the strength to follow through would come from her character, not her will. Chase closes her eyes and finds her center. Opens them and sees Persis has moved around, facing her. Their eyes lock. They do not touch.

Chase nods. “I’m fine.”

“I remember my first time,” Persis says. “They expected because I was a girl, because I was fifteen, I would lack the nerve. You know I didn’t. The men were shocked. They said that my eyes, watching, were scary.”

Chase sees in those eyes the excitement to get started. Feels the same excitement. Chase wonders how her own eyes look.

Debbie has been collected from his bed. At noon they put him in the room. Persis backs against the door of the room, and she and Chase enter.

Gamal had put an O.R. in his house.

White linoleum floors curve into walls, leaving no corners. Ceramic-tiled floors, polished so that they gleam, show no cracks. The porcelain sink and floor basin have chrome and steel fixtures. A standing shower is included in one corner.

Upright medical instrumentation has been pushed from the center of the room to make walking space around the gurney. This metal bed waits center room, above a small grated drain. Debbie, conscious and helpless, lays waiting.

A thin towel has been laid over the gurney’s stainless steel, and the patient on top—naked. Washable canvas belts, those made for asylums, strap the she-male’s body to the table. The first fixes his forehead so that he cannot turn his head. Others hold his chin, throat, chest, upper and lower arms, abdomen—at the hipbone—thighs, shins and ankles. The legs are pulled apart. The genitals hang free. The embrace otherwise is complete.

At the opening of the door the patient moans out terror from his throat. A steel and plastic contraption separates his jaws by plates on his upper and lower teeth. A turned screw holds them apart. The sounds he can make are low-pitched. Animal. The women ignore him.

Chase feels her palms turn sweaty inside the latex. Her heart is in her throat. She crosses to a chrome bowl holding water. A straight razor lays on a towel, beside shaving cream. She gathers the items. Turns to the patient.

Lifts his testicles. Wets them. Covers them with foam. Shaves them, wiping the tiny hairs on the towel. The place has been shaved weekly for months. She has little trouble.

Persis opens a folded plastic bundle. There are dozens of little pockets. On a cloth-covered tray she sets out gleaming, stainless instruments, unhurried, each designed for surgery. The greater part of them are hemostats. Eight-inch long clamps, tapered. At the end points, the metal stems make an abrupt bend…the clamp, when opened, has two small “feet,” to hold the desired tissue firmly between them.

The instruments are sterile. Persis sets them down with steady, unconcerned hands.

The patient’s noises provide an uncontested background.

Chase is half finished. She cannot keep from occupying her mind as she scrapes his hair away. “Persis?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I don’t think you said. How did this room get built, anyway? I mean, who for? You and Gamal?”

Persis laughs. Finishes laying out her instruments. “No, oh no! Poor Gamal would never ask for this! He wouldn’t find it…well. Just trust me.” Pauses. Wheels the tray on its stand to a place near the patient. “Gamal had a friend who was a surgeon at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. Quite fanatic about medical play. It’s quite a story.”

“Can you…?”

“Oh of course Cha. The surgeon had a scrub nurse who worked with him for operations. His dominatrix, actually…just the sort of sadist he needed. Except that they had no place to play. Gamal gave them this room as a gift.”

“Expensive gift.”

“Gamal has always been too generous.”

Chase rubs the genitals clean. Washes the area. Persis folds a towel carefully, lays it on top of the wide canvas belt above the patient’s torso.

“Did they use it?”

“Often. They thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The nurse had learned a lot of surgery from her slave in the O.R., and she’d practice them here. Sometimes during an operation at the hospital, he would show her things on a patient—surreptitiously, of course—and then later they’d come here and she’d try them out on him.”

Eep!

“I so agree. But it takes all kinds. She’d remove pieces of his skin or sew parts of him together or bleed him. All without anesthetic.”

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly.”

Chase watches Persis frame the genitals with towels. “Where are they now? They haven’t come here.”

“Mm. Just a minute. I think we’re ready to start.”

Persis picks a hypodermic from the tray with deft fingers, slips her index and middle fingers into the proper grooves. Lifts the needle level with her eye, gives a slight push. A bit of fluid shoots up, spattering her knuckles and the floor. “A local,” she says. “We can’t have the little darling going into shock. But a general isn’t needed. We don’t want her to miss anything.”

Chase giggles.

Persis spreads her fingers, presses down with thumb and the first two across the flat of his abdomen, just above the root of his cock. Positions the needle, inserts it into the smooth-shaved mound where the skin rises between pressure points. Debbie feels it. Cries out, through the mouthpiece. The corners of Persis’ mouth twitch, a bit of a smile. She squeezes the hypo. The fluid enters Debbie.

“There. That wasn’t so bad.” Persis puts the needle down, empty. Pats the she-male’s abdomen. “That will deaden the area in just a little while. Meanwhile…” She lifts a strange-looking pair of “tongs”—two opposite, spoon-like bowls. Chase knows that they are forceps, takes them as they’re offered.

“Take hold of his teste,” tells Persis.

Chase presses her fingers together, opening the instrument’s arms. Lowers them around the free-hanging sac. Lets the two rounded ends cup the teste firmly. Cold metal. Debbie reacts.

“Good for a first time. Now push the ball into its socket.”

Chase is careful. She moves the tool around, finally pushes Debbie’s teste into its protective alcove, inside his body.

“Yes, that’s it. Hold it there.” Persis picks another set of forceps and one of the long narrow clamps. Forceps in her left hand, she catches hold of the loose skin—now empty—that has surrounded the genital. Pulls it out, away from his body. At the base of the flap, she moves the tiny feet of the smaller clamp. Lets it close, pinching the skin from the body.

Chase watches, silently fascinated. Debbie, evidently, can still feel. But can’t squirm. He lets out an intermittent peep.

A second clamp follows the first, then a third. Soon Chase can let go of the teste. The line of clamps holds it inside. The loose skin hangs where it’s divided from the body. It steadily turns grey.

Persis sighs. “There.” She walks around the gurney. “Let’s begin again.”

It takes three tries for Chase to get a good grip this time. “That’s fine,” says Persis. “Take your time.”

Chase eases the teste into its socket. Can’t stop her hand from shaking, uses both hands to keep the forceps in place.

“Breathe sweetie.”

“I’m fine. It’s just nerves.”

“I know.” Persis systematically begins to attach the second line of clamps.

Chase asks, “What about the surgeon and the nurse? Did they get their own place?”

Persis answers while she works. “He was in love with her. And he became obsessed with giving her something from his own body. She loved the idea. Push that thing in a little deeper, honey.”

Chase does.

“I heard the story from Gamal. The surgeon wanted the thing from his body to be a kidney. He would masturbate at the idea of her holding it in her hand. But she wanted something else. A pound of his flesh. She thought it was romantic. And he could refuse her nothing. They began to talk about it all the time.

“Sometimes the hospital would do belly tucks and things like that. Both would trade off to work those operations. Each opportunity they got, he would tutor her. Finally he thought she was ready. They decided to take a piece from his belly. Right here.” Persis drew a finger in the air across her waist, careful not to touch herself. “The day came and she gave him a general anesthetic. To be safe.”

Persis works with a difficult clamp, takes a minute before she can get the right bite. Debbie has stopped making sounds. He’s numb.

“So?” Chase asks. Relaxes one of her hands.

“She killed him. Right here. On this table.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Awful thing. She probably did the operation correctly. Who knows? He had an arrest, from shock or something else. He was fifty-two.”

“Disaster.”

“Girlfriend, when you play games like that that, you want to die. Best way for him to go, really.”

“But she must have felt awful!”

Persis finished the second testicle. “Gamal was never sure if she really did. She was crazy as a crack-addict. But Gamal took pity on her, got her out of the country. She worked as a nurse in Palestine for a few years. We lost touch with her after that. Gamal thinks some sort of accident. I think someone did a job on her.”

“Ick.”

“I met her once in Damascus. Heavy, ugly woman. No redeeming personality at all. But that was after killing her lover. Maybe she’d been different.”

Persis takes an alcohol bottle, squirts it over the genitals. Chase is ready and sponges it dry, while Persis lifts a pair of tiny, sharp scissors. “I don’t think she felt any remorse. Her whole conversation was about amputating limbs and people with deformities. I’ve never been sure, but I think she could have killed the surgeon intentionally.”

Debbie whimpers.

“Gamal didn’t think so. But men are blind to things like that.” Persis cuts along the place where Debbie’s skin is pinched off…above the little feet of first clamp. Makes a neat, quarter-inch notch. There’s no blood.

“Here we go.” Persis releases the clamp. A well of blood rushes out. “Needle.” Chase gives the arcuate sewing needle to her. Dabs the fresh wound with gauze. Persis professionally sews it closed. Stops where the cut meets the next clamp.

Chase’s heart pounds. Excited at actually slicing into someone’s flesh. Unnaturally mutilating it. Persis cuts again along the next clamp. The skin falls from the scissors like damp paper. Chase fulfills her part with the thrill of being allowed to handle the controls of a jumbo jet for a few minutes. Knows she’ll never forget the feeling.

There is quite a lot of blood. The gauze pads, soaked through, pile up on the tray until the tray won’t hold them. “Let them fall on the floor,” says Persis. “It doesn’t matter.”

Each sewing shrinks the multiple incisions, shortening the lengths so the whole scar stretches only an inch. The flesh surrounding it is bruised, angrily black. It will heal.

As they work to stitch the second testicle inside Debbie’s body, Chase praises Persis’ needlework.

Persis shrugs. “I wish I could get more practice. I’d adore working when every morning I could do this. In a men’s prison, say. Damn…that would be fine.”

Chase was glad it didn’t bother her stomach any. But two hours had passed and her feet were sore.

“How long will Debbie be in recovery?” Chase asks.

“Not long. We can’t let her touch herself for ten days. She might be tempted to rip the stitches out. That would be very bad. Little girls don’t always understand just how bad that could be. But after it’s healed, I think we can trust our charge to behave. But I want to ask you. Are you sure you don’t want to take the worm off, too? Or at least half it in size? We can do that.”

“No. I want Debbie to remember what she was before I turned her into a freak. That’s important. Also…I don’t think a woman will ever want to fuck that. Would you?”

Persis laughs. “Not I!”

Chase laughs too. “You hear us, Debbie? You’re all done now. You’re absolutely perfect for what I have in mind!”

Debbie doesn’t know what that means. And doesn’t want to know.



Chapter Twelve

Sidewalk café. Bobbie Wainwright waits, hand nervously moving up and down the silver chain on her neck. Eyes moving left and right, watching the street. A seven-dollar bottle of water on the table, next to that a glass. Next to the glass, a plastic bag holding a file-folder. Bobbie’s hand is pressed on top of the folder possessively.

Piqueur approaches, from the restaurant. “Hello Miss Wainwright.”

She jumps. “Jeez—you scared the crap out of me!”

He pulls out a chair, sits down. Puts his satchel next to his feet. “That was not my intention.”

“You’re late. And where did you come from? I’ve been watching the street.”

“Do you have—”

“The folder? Yes. It’s on the table. In the bag.”

He reaches. Her hand remains clamped on it. “May I?” He asks.

“Here? Out in the open?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“What if someone sees? Do you know how much trouble I could get into? Taking it out of the building’s reason enough to get fired. Talking to you is probably reason enough…people know who you are, what you look like—”

“Please calm yourself.” Moves her hand, takes the bag. Extracts the folder. “No one is watching.”

“That’s easy enough for you to say.”

“Do you think there is something dramatic occurring here? You enter a file room, you look at the files, you remove some to take back to your desk. If anyone sees you putting a file in your briefcase, would they think anything except that you were taking work home? No. You have nothing to fear.”

Bobbie is unconvinced.

He opens the folder. Moves the papers from one side to the other, looking at them.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” she says. “Except that you said it would help find Howard. I wouldn’t have done it just for the money.” Hesitates. Watches him. Shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “You don’t know what it’s like…knowing he’s out there somewhere, wandering the streets. Not knowing what he’s thinking. What if he’s…” Takes a breath, rubs her palms together. “What if he’s thinking about doing something…to us I mean. Me, or Zoe. Or Jean. We’re the ones who came forward, right? That makes us targets, doesn’t it? I tried explaining that to the police, but they don’t care. They’re not doing a thing to find him. And they won’t provide any kind of protection.”

The waiter appears. Piqueur orders a soda water and lime. Bobbie waves her hand, wanting nothing.

Piqueur lifts several papers, stapled together. “This is one of the files indicating a payment for a claim, yes?”

She looks. “Yes.”

“And the company name is here?”

“Yes.”

Piqueur sorts.

“I mean, you called, and I thought to myself, why not? Someone has to do something. At least you’re looking. I don’t think the police are. There’s been nothing about it, nothing for months. Months. What is a person to do? I’m not sleeping at nights, thinking about that bastard out there. I’m seeing a therapist. He has me on pills. Big help. So you called, Mr. Peeger, and I—I just wanted to…”

“May I ask a question?”

“Uh, yes.”

“These were the last files signed by Howard Pope.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me…I notice that several of these don’t have a company name, only numbers.”

“That’s right. Numbered companies.”

“And seven out of twelve of these companies have numbers. All different. Is that typical?”

“Well…no, I guess. But we handle a lot of offshore accounts. That could be it.”

“Hm.” Piqueur flips through them. “Domestic addresses.”

“Oh, well…that doesn’t mean anything. Almost everyone keeps some kind of address in the country.”

“I see.” He closes the folder, bends over, puts it in his satchel. Lifts the satchel onto his lap. “There was one other thing?”

“Oh. Oh yes.” She opens her purse, searches one moment, removes a scrap of paper. “I got the name of his accountant from Zoe Sawyer. She knew who it was.”

He takes the scrap. Puts it in his satchel. “Thank-you.” Stands up. Reaches into his inside breast pocket and removes a cheque. Gives it to her. “Cash this today.”

Her eyes widen slightly as she reads it. “I will.”

“Goodbye.” He goes.

The soda arrives a minute later.



Third floor office near the railroad tracks, overlooking Sterling Plaza. Piqueur enters the door marked “Surety Transfer Agents,” throws his coat over one of the stuffed chairs in the outer office, greets the receptionist. She rises, opens a nearby door and calls Jerry out.

“Armande,” says Jerry. “I thought you weren’t getting in until the weekend. I told you to relax.”

“I cannot relax in Florida. I hate the people.”

“Right, you’re like that. Come on in.” Leads him through the door. “Take a seat. I wanted to thank you. Did a good job on that Indiana case. Sorry about the train hitting the target…but you cleaned that up, handled the details. Was a pleasure wiring you the money. Same goes for that freak in Tampa…did he really jump?”

“Jerry, I have only a few minutes.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. I’d give you something, but like I said, you weren’t coming back until—”

“Who did you send after Howard Pope?”

“Oh, Christ.” Jerry rubs his forehead. “It’s been two months.”

“I want to know who.”

“All right. I gave it to Dubbers. But he doesn’t have it any more, no one does. I sold the contract.”

“Sold?”

“Yeah, to a big national group. They covered the cost, they covered the expenses, yours and Dubber’s. So we’re out of it.”

Piqueur thinks, leans forward. “Why would they want to buy a dead contract?”

“How should I know? Maybe they need the tax loss. I’m sure they need it a hell of a lot more than I do.”

“What was the company name?”

Jerry shakes his head. “Nope. Not going to tell you that. Part of the arrangement. How’s am I going to keep up my end giving you their address? I want you working for me.”

Piqueur stares at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. You were obsessed with this thing anyway. Now you can drop it. You do better with the nuts anyway.”

No answer. Jerry shrugs. “Fine. You’ll get over it. But stew somewhere else. Get out, find a girl’s shoulder to cry on, do what you have to do to get it out of your system. I told you so two months ago. I don’t want to see you until Wednesday next week. No sooner.”

Piqueur doesn’t answer. Leaves.



Two weeks later. New York Hotel, a block east of Broadway. Piqueur moves up to the main desk, puts down a suitcase, waves over a clerk. Gives his name, watches as the clerk looks for the reservation.

“Mr. Peeker?”

The voice is familiar. He turns, finds himself next to a woman, checking in at the same time. “Ms. Bowyer,” he says.

“Fancy seeing you here. Pursuing someone?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine you travel a great deal.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

Chase smiles at him. “Do you get to enjoy yourself much?”

“Honestly? No, not much.”

“That’s too bad. Perhaps we could have a drink together. Now, for instance. After we get through here. Does that work for you, Mr. Peeker?”

“Piqueur. Armande, in fact. And yes, that works fine.”

“Good. You should call me Chase.”

A few minutes later, they’re sitting together in the hotel bar. They’ve managed some small talk about the weather and politics. Drinks have been delivered. Chase is speaking.

“It has been six months and I’m completely comfortable with the position. At first, it was a little creepy, being that…well, it was Howard’s. But I had been doing the work even when he was there, and it’s the same work.”

“Why did you?”

“Don’t know. I guess because a woman doesn’t expect anything different. Maybe it was because I was still in love with him. I did his work even before we dated. And after we dated…I felt sorry for him. Plus the fact that no one was ever going to make me vice-president of anything, so I thought. I’d about given up hope.”

“So it worked in your favor.”

“Now, Armande. That is a very underhanded statement and you know it. If you want to make accusations, just come right out and make them. I did not make Howard’s mistakes for them. Only Howard knows what his motivations were…and since you did not find him, whose fault is it that we don’t know?”

“Touché.”

“Yes.” She takes a drink. “Not very nice of me, I’ll admit. And I’ll admit that yes, Howard fucking up worked very well for me.”

“It broke the glass ceiling.”

“Oh, that. No, the glass ceiling is a myth. It isn’t men making boundaries for women, its women who create their own limitations because they’re willing to work without the title.”

“Go on.”

“I will if you take a drink.”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes and I have not seen you take a sip. Is there something wrong with it?”

He looks down. “No. I…I was caught up in the conversation. And I don’t like to eat or drink in public.”

“Really.”

“Yes. There’s something…vaguely disgusting about the visual aspects of someone eating. It has always bothered me. I’ve never gotten over it.”

“I find that very strange.”

“It is strange. Nevertheless.”

“Well.” Chase reaches, lifts up his glass. “You agreed to go for drinks with me, so I insist that you drink something. Here you go.”

He tilts his head. Shrugs. Takes a big drink.

“There,” she says. “Ritual complete.” Drinks her own, to further christen the moment. “I think that was a very intimate moment between us. I’d ask to toast it, but…” He has his eyes on her. She studies him. “We won’t go that far.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll continue then, as promised. I don’t get to talk about this very often…about women and their limitations. Women won’t admit them and men assume them too easily.”

“I shall try not to.”

“Good for you. So let me ask: why does a man want success? For the feeling of power, of course. He doesn’t worry himself about whether or not he likes the work. Men can do all sorts of distasteful things, all their lives, without the slightest concern for whether the daily activity ‘fulfills’ them. The goal is clear. He will rise in the ranks. Someday there will be no one left to tell them what to do, and all the others will obey him. It’s that simple.”

He puts down the drink. “Not every man.”

“Only the ones that count,” she answers quickly. “We’re not talking about the great unwashed. Only about the corridors of business, whether its sewage or law. Where there’s money and power to be had. The man’s world, if you will…or was, for a long time, before women entered into it. Which begs the question: do women want power?”

“Yes.”

“No. Some women, yes. But most women…not at all.”

“Because…”

“Because she does not think of herself, that’s why. She’s much to busy worrying about whether her children will pass their biology finals, or if she’s going to have enough money to see her parents over Christmas or whether her boss can count on her. That’s very important to a woman. A feeling that other people can really count on them.”

Piqueur waves a hand for attention. “Howard Pope, then, counted on you.”

She smiles. “Oh Howie. Poor Howard. Yes. Yes, he could count on me. But then, we’ve already talked about how Howard’s gone, and how I’ve begun to see things a little more clearly. You see—Armande—I really was happy just going Howard’s work. He needed me. And a woman likes to feel needed. But lately, I’ve begun seeing the world from a man’s point of view. That the work doesn’t mean very much. Opinion, on the other hand…other people’s opinion. Of me. That means everything.”

“But isn’t that just another way of worrying about others? About what they want from you?”

“You misunderstand me. I’m not interested in what other people want. I’m talking about what other people fear. When a man in my office sees me as a threat to his job and his security, I know that there’s a man I can use. He’ll work hard, he’ll obey. He won’t question my authority unless I give him reason to think he should…like if I give signs that I’m sorry for him, or that I’m worried about him. That is the great determiner in all relations. The one that worries is the one on the bottom.

“I am surrounded by men, but I don’t worry about any of them. That is what ‘thinking like a man’ is. The more people surrounding me that I threaten, like the man I mentioned, the better the leverage I have over my competitors. Business, Armande, is like building an army ready to fight someone else’s army. Sometimes its another company, sometimes it’s someone in your own company. You have to be ready for attacks from within and without. You organize your troops. You drill them. You drive them hard. And when its time for war, you don’t go lightly on them—you expect heroics. You shoot deserters. Show compassion for your foot soldiers and one of them will shoot you in the back.”

He nods, bemused. “The same goes for women?”

“Yes. Women make wonderful soldiers. They rarely question orders. They DON’T stab you in the back. Show me a woman and I’ll show you a workhorse, plain and simple.”

“You’re a woman.”

“Am I? Sometimes I wonder.”

He drops his hand, lifts his drink. She watches as he takes a little sip. Gives him an encouraging smile. “Well,” he acknowledges. “But let me say. It all sounds very harsh.”

“It is. And it isn’t. Women simply are not interested in the same things. I’m different—I’m willing to sacrifice my personal life for my work. Women…most women…are not. I don’t have to lean so hard on women, since women don’t need to be frightened in order to put in a full effort. Men will take a certain amount of abuse, if there’s a carrot somewhere in sight. Women won’t…but they will work tirelessly even if there are no rewards, as long as you give her space for her personal life. A woman will ‘willingly’ work herself to death for the right employer—or husband, or parent. Or for any child of her own. Totally foregoing every personal desire, making a complete sacrifice—for no reason beyond service. Tantamount to stupidity, if you ask me. But a woman’s like that.

“Men are not. Men will desert you if there’s something better. Even if it seems…” She stops.

“Something wrong?”

“No. But let’s change the subject. I think I almost had a personal moment, there.”

“Of course.”

“Tell me something about you.”

He tells her about the man he was after a week ago, who tried to make a leap from the top of a five-floor building onto the top of a three-floor building. About how the buildings were thirty feet apart. And yet he made it...and broke a leg in the process. So it was no trouble for Piqueur to catch him.

He feels certain that Chase Bowyer has killed Howard Pope. Feels equally certain she knows their meeting at the same hotel was no coincidence, that she hasn’t the slightest concern what he might think or do. He wonders if she’s a true psychopath. Decides it is best to treat her as one.

Spends another hour telling her stories, finding things to make her laugh, which is easy. Allows her to pay when she insists, walks her to her room, shakes her hand politely at the door.

A thought of doing more does not enter his mind.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Career Girl (nine & ten)

Chapter Nine

Armande Piqueur and another man get out of a car. It is dark, very early in the morning. Nothing moves. They do not speak, climbing steps to the door of a townhouse. Piqueur finds the door keys. Uses them. They enter.

Piqueur is the owner. The other man waits, hands in his leather trench coat. Watches. Piqueur drops his coat on a chair, crosses the living room to a row of filing cabinets. Next to those, a drafting table, a desk in one corner. On top of the desk, wire baskets full of papers. Beside the desk, a safe, sitting on the floor. A sofa, arm pushed against the safe, along one wall. A coffee table in front of the sofa.

Piqueur squats in front of the safe, between the other man and the dial. Turns it, opens the safe, takes out money.

Returns, gives it to the man. Counts out five hundred dollars.

“Thank you,” the man says. “It’s over now. Right?”

“I want to talk about that, Jerry. Have a drink with me.”

There are no protests. Jerry takes off his coat, drops it on the chair. Sits on the couch. Piqueur opens a cabinet in the attached kitchen, finds a bottle of malt scotch, pours two glasses. Holds them in one hand, brings the bottle with him. Lets Jerry take a glass, sits in the chair behind the desk. “There is more about this than it seems.”

Jerry says, “I said I don’t want to know why you were there.”

“You must know. I cannot make you understand if you do not know.”

“I don’t want to be a witness. Do you get that? I don’t want any kind of exposure. That’s the way I like it. That’s why I pay you to run around after these bastards. You bring them in, I make the money. Simple.”

Piqueur says, “Sometimes…not so simple.”

“Yeah. So. That’s the job.” Jerry drinks, finishes the scotch.

Piqueur pours him more. “We are friends, no?”

“We were.”

“But not now.”

“No, not just now. It’s three in the morning. I just bailed you out of jail. I don’t want to know what you did. I don’t want to be your confessor. You want to cry on someone’s shoulder, get a girlfriend.”

Piqueur drinks. “Then there is nothing to say.”

“Exactly.” Jerry stands, reaches for his coat. Thinks. “You’re not…” Pauses. Drops his hand. “You’re not stupid enough to go back there.”

“Yes.”

“No. No you’re not.”

Piqueur pours himself more. “Yes. I am.”

Jerry stares at him. “You’re not chasing her. You’re chasing Howard Pope.”

“Exactly.”

Jerry sighs. Rubs his forehead. Sits. “All right. Let’s have it then.”

“I cannot chase Howard Pope because he has not run anywhere. In the first…he has no money. There are means of getting money—make it, steal it or borrow it. He cannot make it because he cannot work. He would not steal it because he is soft. He must borrow. From family? They do not speak and they have little. From friends? There are only the people he works with. From a lover? That is Chase Bowyer.”

“She gave him money. She told you she gave him money.”

“Five hundred. Not enough to buy a car. So he must buy a ticket. He dares not fly. He must use the bus. The bus that is full of those who watch news channels. Who would have seen his face many times. Who would have remembered.”

“Maybe.”

“It has been four months. There have been no sightings. No calls. No trail to follow. Can mean only that he has gone underground.”

“That does not mean—”

“She is the only person he can go to.”

“You can’t know that. Who knows who he might have known? What kind of secret life he had? He’s one of these rich bastards…they’ve always got something on the side, some apartment the keep for the women they know. What if he was one of those freaks that crawl the Boulevard?”

Piqueur holds up a finger. “Chase Bowyer puts up the bail.” A second finger. “Describes herself as raped by him at the Prince George Hotel.” Third finger. “The two clerks recognize her from a picture, but do not recognize Pope. That is important. They remember the woman but not the man. I paid to see the register. There was Pope’s name only…not hers. She says this is because the room was for him. But the clerks remember that she filled out the register.”

Jerry drinks. “So? He was in all the papers…maybe he didn’t want to be seen.”

“Let us say she lies about the rape. It is easy to believe. He is known as a rapist, and of women he knows. Her performance includes enough confession of fault, that she was weakened by her sympathy for him. She does not scream invectives. This makes her seem all the more credible. All the more reason not to trust her.”

“Armande…”

“I began to follow her. To watch her.”

“And got arrested sitting in a car outside her house. In that kind of neighborhood. How many times did the private cops ask you to move on before they arrested you?”

“It was not her house. She goes there every day but she does not live there. Her income was $340,000 last year…she does not have enough to own a ten million dollar house.”

“You don’t know why she goes there.”

“The owner is an Iranian. Gamal Behjatamir. He has not entered the country in five years…according to my sources. Chase Bowyer is the only person I have seen come and go from the house…except for a maid, a gardening service, and—for ten days now—a woman who may be Sudanese or Egyptian. I am waiting to learn how she knows either Bowyer or the Iranian. I have a picture…” Piqueur rises, lifts one of the baskets, searches it.

“Enough.” Jerry stands. “I’ve heard enough. I appreciate the wild theories. Did you think about the possibility that someone might have heard about you prowling through Saddle Ridge? Do you know how publicity like that can hurt me? I’ve done very well…I get a fair business from these rich fucks. Because they trust me.”

“You pay me to find them.”

“Not in that backyard. You go poking around among those people and they won’t let it lay. If Howard Pope IS in some hot tub in Saddle Ridge spending his days watching soap operas and waiting for his rich lawyer ex-girlfriend to bring him sushi and sake, then he gets to stay there…and YOU will not batter your way in to find its just a fantasy.” Jerry sees his face. “Save me the righteous crap. I’ve known you too long. And you know me. You know I mean it when I say its time to drop this crap. Time to move on. I know Pope is worth fifty thousand to you. I’ll give you ten to drop it. And tomorrow I’ll have a nice simple case for you. Some nice white trash girl in Indiana whacked her husband and ran off to Florida. I’m sure you can pick her up in a week.”

Piqueur watches Jerry. Says nothing. Jerry puts on his coat. “Thanks for the drinks. I think you should probably drink more. A lot more. If you do, I won’t expect to see you in the office until the afternoon.

“And one last thing. If the police catch you around Bowyer again…or if I do…I’ll have Karl break both your legs.” Jerry nods. “I mean that now. Don’t think I’m above having someone tail you.”

Jerry leaves.

Piqueur pours himself another drink.



Chapter Ten

A birthday cake waits. White icing, blue candles, blue writing: “Happy Birthday, Debbie.”

Chase sits next to the cake, bemused. Watches Persis, who could not look more the mother. A rose dress that flares at the waist, with wide pockets and white lace trim. It is exactly the right costume, though it does not look right against her color nor on her frame. Over the dress is a sweetheart apron, with rose-laced breast pocket. She wears a pretty white pearl choker and make-up that belies the clothing’s character. The make-up is Joan Crawford let loose from an asylum. Military red lipstick, applied crisply and overmuch. Navy blue eye shadow slashed over her eyes. Savage plum blush has been chosen for her brown cheeks. She is an African tribeswoman in an American suburban pot.

Chase is dressed elegantly; a black sheath dress, silver earrings and necklace, short leather gloves. Her hair coutured for the event.

“Come out, Debbie!” Persis commands.

So enters a third woman—in appearance, at least. A she-male. Gliding forward on two-and-a-half inch heels. Wearing soft white stockings and a bright teal party dress, suitable for the occasion. White satin gloves. A white bib. Jeweled necklace, borrowed, gracing his throat. Glossy, burgundy lipstick. Bobbed haircut, making the most of his growing locks.

“Oh Perse!” says Chase. “Is that really her? Or have you switched her with someone else?”

“Oh no, it’s really her. Say hello, Debbie.”

The voice produces an unreal tone. Trained, harnessed, practiced, squeezed through the vocal cords of his male throat into a semblance of femininity. Not a squeak or a squeal, but breathy. Inviting. “Hello, Miss Chase,” says Debbie.

Persis decided he could use first names, with the added address. If he spoke graciously. Which he was taught to do.

“It’s amazing Perse!”

“Isn’t it? Only three months to work a miracle. Sit at the table, Debbie, in front of your cake.”

Debbie does as he is told.

It isn’t the first time Chase has seen Debbie since Persis took over as “Na-na.” But the visits have been less often, twice a week. Then once a week. Chase escaped, jetted to Bermuda for three days. Laid on the beach, picked up a few boys and had hard, sweaty sex. Came back and picked up the slack at work. And trusted Persis to do everything.

Which Persis was happy to do. She loved fresh meat.

The ugly habits in Debbie were squished and scrubbed out of him. When he was a drama queen, screaming his little bits of indignation at the treatment he received, Persis whacked his thighs and buttocks until they were raw, gagged him, marched him through the house and into the garden, where he knelt on concrete blocks until cuts grew in his knees. When he pouted, his lip growing bigger with the passing minutes, she slipped a cable around his testes, drew it between his legs and prodded him forward on four-inch heels until the sweat streaked his corset…and all the while Persis tore and yanked at his root while he walked and screamed. She wanted smiles and he smiled. She wanted silence and he became golden. Everywhere there had been resistance, now there was fear.

Sitting in front of his cake, Debbie shivers. His skin crawls with terror. He fears to touch the silverware or his glass, for to drop either will mean a long night of torment, shrieks, whip-cut skin…followed by days of recovery while he learns his lessons. There are no end of lessons. Diction, presentation, dress, posture, manners, voice, obedience. And devoted, focused attention to every nuance of Na-na’s voice.

Chase lights the candles. Persis snaps her fingers, draws the she-male’s attention. “Debbie, you will be allowed to have some cake and presents only if you are a good little girl. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Na-na. I will be a good girl.”

“Very good. You may blow out your candles now.”

Debbie pauses, straightens himself. Feels bad thoughts of shame and unwillingness seize him. Closes his eyes tight against them. Blows out the candles without raising his lids. It is so cute.

A sole candle still burns when Debbie opens his eyes.

“Oh, you left one!” shouts Persis. “No wish for you, young lady!” Both women laugh.

It had not occurred to him to wish for anything. Not even an end to the nightmare. He regrets that. The idea had not tickled his brain that the horror could end.

“It means he has one boyfriend, too,” says Chase. “I wonder who it could be.”

“No time for boyfriends yet! Now pick up your knife, Debbie, and cut your cake.”

He picks it up, feeling its slipperiness in his glove. He wants to tighten his grip, but dreads the knife shooting out of his grasp. So painstakingly he makes the movements to cut a piece of cake. Slides it onto a plate, using knife and pie server. Offers the cake to Chase.

“Thank you, Debbie.”

Debbie cuts another piece for Persis. And is thanked again.

“Now cut one for yourself, girl.”

Debbie does. Then correctly picks up his fork and cuts away a tiny mouthful. Lifts it with the fork, slips it delicately between his teeth.

“Debbie got dressed for Na-na by herself today,” says Persis. “That is, except for the corset. But she put on her own make-up, and did her own hair—I helped a little—and even put on her own earrings.”

Debbie drops his eyes, remembering the pain from a few weeks ago, when Persis pierced his ears with a needle. Two sweet chrome hearts dangle from his lobes.

“She picked them,” Persis says proudly.

Chase giggles. “Why Debbie. How sweet! Did you have love in your mind when you chose those?”

Debbie picked the hearts because they weighed less than the hoops and ornaments that were his other choices. He regrets it.

The three women eat their cakes silently for a few moments. Debbie looks down. Persis nibbles her cake and sets it on the table. Where it is forgotten. Chase can’t take her eyes off the she-male. The alteration is eerie. Yes, Howard was a pretty boy. But never so pretty as he is in the new clothes. Chase blinks. Wonders how she ever found such an effeminate attractive. Then considers again. Debbie is becoming. A soft, wanting flower. So yielding, now. So ready. Perhaps its something Chase always saw in him. Perhaps it was something she actually wanted.

She shakes her head. That made no sense at all. Why would anyone want this weakling? She dismisses the thought in remembering what comes next.

“Put down your cake, Debbie!” she says. “You can eat it later. You have presents to open.”

Debbie takes the news like the crack of doom. Pulls into himself, fearing what “presents” might mean. Persis leans forward, slaps him lightly across the face.

“Pay attention, girl! Sit up straight!” Debbie does, helplessly. Lifts his chin. Waits.

Persis crosses the room to get her present for Debbie, but Chase slides hers across the table at once. “Open mine first, Debbie. I want to see what you think.”

Debbie lets his hands fall numbly on the feminine paper, the bows, the ribbons. His nails are natural, a bit long, painted blue to match his dress. He looks at his hands as the open the present with hopes of disassociation. They are not his hands. This is not his present. He is not really here.

But none of the effort works. He knows where he is.

The wrapping falls away, and inside the loaf-sized package is a box from an elegant boutique. He lifts the lid. Turns back the tissue paper until he can see a soft-gray leather purse, expensive, with silver detailing. A rich, musky smell fills his nose. He knows he must lift it out, does. Turns it over in his hands. Finally opens it. A white-silk interior, completely empty.

“Now you will have a proper place to put your things when you are ready to go out, Debbie.”

He looks at Chase. Comprehends what she means by “out.” Feels a queer sensation go through him, like free falling. Shudders.

Chase stares at him. And he knows why. “Thank you, Miss Chase,” he says.

“You’re welcome, Debbie.”

Persis puts her present down. “Go on. Open Na-na’s.”

The ritual is repeated. The package is smaller. This time it is a leather-bound book, with a clasp that fixes it closed. Debbie realizes it’s a day-timer. Instead of a title, on the cover is stamped his new name, in gold letters.

“Your world is getting so complicated, girl. You’ll need this to keep up.”

“Yes, Na-na. Thank you, Na-na.”

Persis continues. “Now, just so you know, it is September the seventeenth. You may look in your day-timer for what it says on the twentieth, which is Saturday.”

Debbie’s heart stops. He wills himself to open the book.

The dates are in cursive, feminine script. Under the twentieth, three days away, it says, “Go to the mall with Miss Chase and Na-na.”

Debbie’s mouth drops open. The women give a slow chuckle, building to a gloating laugh. “Oh, yes Debbie! You are going OUT!”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. But it is written in his day-timer, and that alone forces the truth home. As the laughter continues, he bites his lower lip, tasting lipstick. And feels that every sensation, every moment, is somehow made to brutalize any pride he might try to have.

A tear rises to his eye.



They are parking the car. Debbie sits in the back. Is overwhelmed by the first sights of the real world, the first in almost seven months. Dreads the moment when the car will come to a stop, when he’ll be expected to get out. Where everyone can see him.

The two women are adamant. They find a stop near one of the mall entrances, and get out without a moment’s hesitation. Persis opens the backseat door. “Get out, Debbie!”

For a moment, he dares open his mouth in protest. Seeing his Na-na’s face, he clamps his teeth together. Knows that in his corset he is no match for her. Slides across the seat. Sets his heeled toes on the asphalt. Alights from the car.

The gritty surface is strange beneath his feet. He has never worn heels anywhere but on floors or carpets, or out the smooth stones of the garden. And now there are little stones, cracks, curbs, all threatening to topple him.

The Autumn breeze, too…that’s all wrong! He wears a knee-length burgundy velvet dress, not fancy and not too richly colored. Feels the air tickle his stockings and along the exposed flesh of his thighs where the stockings do not cover. The wind leaves goose pimples on his calves.

He closes his eyes, swallows…hears Chase say, “Come on girl. Time for you to get your beauty treatments. I think that we’ll have your nails down properly, first. Acrylic. And after that, we’ll see about laser treatments. We can make an appointment for them, at least. Don’t dawdle. There’s a long day ahead of us!”

Heart sinking, he makes himself follow the women. His two-and-a-half inch heels click on the pavement. His hips sway, like his Na-na taught him. He knows he’s drawing attention. Doesn’t dare look around to see from where. Keeps his chin up, his false boobies and chest pushed forward in the direction he walks, his shoulders square. Puts one foot in front of the other.

The new purse rests on his shoulder. Persis looks back at him from time to time and he dares not fall too many paces behind. They near the mall doors. A slow panic seizes the bones of his spine. Tightens his jaw. Presses his temples with blood until his head and the back of his neck both throb. He steps through the glass doors, into the air-conditioned, artificial, prefabricated interior. Sweat greases the back of his neck and he is grateful it is still cool.

There are others all around them. A thought seizes his mind. Why doesn’t he rush up to someone, anyone, and scream for help? He doesn’t know. The dilemma tears him apart. How can he? Go up to a stranger and admit to the clothing he’s wearing? To the charade he’s carrying out?

He wants to, oh, how he wants to! But when he thinks of opening his mouth, his balls shrivel and his heart nearly stops.

“I want to see you smile, Debbie,” says Persis.

“Yes, Na-na.”

He smiles.

The polished, waxy floors of the mall way are a new experience for him. Debbie fears he’ll slip and fall in his heels. The women ahead of him walk so fast. He walks carefully, hand out from his body for balance. Chase sees that and grins. He blushes. Turns his face away and catches a fourteen-year-old boy checking out his false mammaries. Inwardly protests against the humiliation. Feels outrage, face flushing. Strides forward a bit too fast…

“Debbie!” scolds Persis in a half-whisper. “Be a lady or we’ll visit the powder room together!”

He blinks his eyes against the quick tears that form. Adjusts his steps, slowing them. “Yes Na-na,” he says.

They pass shops for clothing, for books, for tanning, for chiropractry. Chase stops to look as a sales rack with shoes. Her and Persis deride the cheap quality, the insipid designs. Both have bought only designer clothing for years.

But they talk about what Debbie should wear. They don’t make her try anything on. The nail salon is waiting for them.

Debbie wishes he could drop his eyes, look only at the floor. But he holds his chin up, like he’s been told. Even as his confidence grows as he comes within inches of mothers with their children, girl mall rats, polyester-dressed grandfathers, security guards and kiosk tenders, still he is upset by the din. The occasional nudging of shoulders and hips is enough to drive him into hysteria. His velvet dress, though conservative, the silver hoop earrings, the heels with their smoky black stockings, his youthful make-up—all draws attention. Eyes follow him, he cannot move his head without encountering a stare. Even those who might not look at struck motionless by the cloud of lilac that lingers in Debbie’s wake, not to move again until it passes.

Chase takes his upper arm and veers him into a storefront. The salon.

He passes a mirror and shies his eyes. Doesn’t want to see. The technician greets him. Debbie gives a polite hello. Follows the technician away from the twin smiles of the women. Takes his seat as offered, a plastic-cushioned stool. Extends his clear-glossed fingers.

There is a brief gasp. The technician shoots him a quick, disturbed glance. A creeping look of glee sweeps her features.

She knows he thinks. And she doesn’t care.

The process on his hands begins. He screws up his face at the smell, then fears what Chase and Persis will do if they see him not smiling. He’s never felt such a strange thing done to him. It is almost obscene. He feels coldly raped, exposed. As the acrylic is painstakingly fixed to each fingertip, quivers grow in his palms that he has only associated with unpleasant things…like the feeling of a tiny bit of brown paste from a toilet tissue as it brushes skin. He sits dumbly as the new nails are polished a deep purple to compliment his dress. Closes his eyes as the heater cooks his knuckles.

The women hardly watch him. They read, talk, buff their nails. They both leave for ten minutes before coming back again. He does not know where they go.

It takes so long. Not once does Debbie ask when he’ll be done. Then the technician says, “That’s all.”

She sees his relief. “This is your first time, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“Well, they look beautiful.”

He looks at them. She’s right. “Thank you,” he murmurs helplessly. The technician rises, moves to the cash register. Chase meets her there.

Persis stands in front of Debbie. “Get up girl. We’re going.” He stands. Follows Persis to the door. Chase pays and joins them outside. “Let’s see,” she insists.

Debbie holds up his fingers and the women “ooo” and “ahh” excessively. “You are so pretty, Debbie,” says Persis.

“They suit you so well!” adds Chase.

“Thank-you Na-na. Thank-you, Miss Chase.” His face burns with shame.

“Well, come on. We’ll go see about some laser treatments for that beard. I swear, I can almost see it, in spite of everything we’ve done to hide it!”

“Yes, Na-na.”

But they go about twenty yards when Chase grabs Persis’ arm. They’re outside a European chocolaterie. “Oh! Look at that!” Chase licks her lips. “We’ve got to get something.”

Persis smiles.

Debbie has walked in front of a mirror. It’s the first time he’s seen himself, from head to foot, fully transformed. And he’s stunned.

They are his eyes, looking back. Nothing else is him.

He blinks, thinking it’s a dream.

Oh my God! He thinks. I’m hot!

He flashes back to his life as a stud, girl-magnet, the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em guy that he was. Stares at himself. “I would have fucked that,” he almost says aloud, his lips moving.

The weight loss, the corset, his legs in heels. His hair, grown out and silky with treatments. The colored nails, dripping with sexuality. The dress, tight over his fake breasts. And his eyes, with dark, smoldering shadow surrounding his wide, shocked peepers.

Completely girl-like, he covers them with his two hands. Lets out a tiny cry. Shakes. Then swears he’s heard someone murmur, and looks around.

Yes! A man, middle-aged, is watching. He nods approvingly at the she-male.

Debbie almost screams. She stumbles from the mirror, cringes in expectation of Na-na’s sharp rebuke.

But Na-na isn’t there! She’s…it takes a moment to find her…she’s in the chocolaterie! He shakes his head, disbelieving. Both Chase and Na-na are completely focused on the display. Picking out chocolates for themselves. Debbie darts his head around, almost faints at the surge of HOPE that grips him.

It’s an emergency exit! Not ten feet away.

He doesn’t hesitate. Debbie flies in her heels, not looking back. Slips through the door, catches it before it can bang shut. Lets it click softly into place.

One hand gripping the stair rail, like a trapeze artist he sticks out his other arm for balance and rushes down the steps. Another exit is at the bottom. He laughs in relief. Throws it open and he’s outside! He’s free!

The shock makes him giddy. He feels the first stages of his blacking out. Falls against the brick wall in the door’s alcove, head resting on the rough surface, hand pressed between his breasts and over his heart. Calm down, he thinks…knows he has to relax because of the corset strangling his body. There really was a danger he could pass out at any moment. Na-na had taught him how to calm himself. Made him practice it.

No, no, no, no more Na-na! He was Howie again. Oh, oh, that sounded so good! “Howie,” he whispers aloud.

Terror, then. He has to get further away. They’ll look for him.

A cab. He needs a cab. But he stops in mid-step.

He doesn’t have any money!

Wait, wait. He can explain, beg for the cabby’s sympathy, get a ride to—

Where?

Stop, stop! You’re getting confused. Get away! Then you can think straight!

Heart pounding in desperation, he walks quickly away from the mall. Doesn’t question where he’s going. Knows he looks like a girl, knows everyone will think he is one.

A restaurant is just beyond the parking lot. He must get out of sight. Begins to head towards it.

A minute later he’s there. Through the doors, into the foyer. Promptly a hostess appears, a tiny girl of fifteen years, in black waistcoat, pants, white shirt. “Are you alone, Ma’am?”

Howie shakes his head with a snap. Uses his girl voice, his mind racing. Asks to use the phone. The girl sees nothing wrong, shows him the phone in a half-booth next to the cash register. Leaves him alone.

The phone is a talisman. He hasn’t touched one in seven months. Grabs it like a life preserver, takes it off the hook. Then seizes up. Who did he intend to call?

He has no family. He has no friends. When had he needed friends? Friends were people above him that gave him a hand up—afterwards to be used as footholds to go higher.

Someone from work? He tries to imagine explaining this to Will Rose. That shit-eating motherfucker would never stop laughing.

An ex-girlfriend? Howie shudders.

The police!

He punches “nine” and “one” when he realizes the police will put him in jail. As soon as they know he’s the rapist they’ve been looking for, no one will listen to a word he says.

He breaks out in a sweat. Slowly, slowly, puts the phone down.

A front manager comes up to him. “Are you all right, Miss?”

He blinks at the question. “I…I’d…like to use your restroom, please.”

They show him to the woman’s room. He goes in. Shuts himself in a stall. Finds tissue in his purse. Sits down on the toilet, cries into his hands. His shoulders shake.

I’m a helpless woman, he thinks.

Blows his nose. Even that he does effeminately. Wonders, How could they change me so much?

“Please, Howie…THINK!

Shuts his mouth quickly. Did he say that in his normal voice, or not? What was normal? He holds his breath—fearful that someone will discover he’s a man in a woman’s bathroom.

Takes a great effort and forces himself to stop shivering. Talks to himself. Soothes himself. Thinks, Okay, you’re alone.

There was nothing he can do alone. Nowhere he can go without money. No motel, no travel, no way to get anywhere or even eat anything. He can’t even dine and dash in his heels. He pales with terror that someone will see through him. Even if he goes to a homeless shelter…get men’s clothes…word would get out about how he was dressed when he arrived. Someone might try to…do something. And always, there was the police.

Maybe he could steal clothes.

From the mall? NO! With Chase and Na-na trying to find him? But then, from where? How could he get somewhere else without help? He couldn’t even find the courage to explain himself to someone…they’d laugh, think he was crazy, even call the police. Always the police!

Trapped, for a half hour he hides in the bathroom. Women come and leave.

There’s a knock on the stall door. “Hello?”

He can’t keep the weeping he’s done out of his voice. Yet still a woman’s voice: “Yes?”

“Um,” says a young woman. “It’s a waitress. They sent me in to find out if you’re all right.”

“Can we help?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I’m okay. I just need a few more minutes.”

Pause. “Sure.” The waitress goes.

He struggles to make himself move. If he could just wait in here forever. If only no one ever found him!

But what if the restaurant calls the cops?

He opens the stall, carefully. He’s alone. Goes to the mirror. Is horrified by his appearance. Fearfully, he opens his bag and sees everything there that he will need. He’s glad he knows what to do. He repairs his face, prays no one will come in until he’s mostly done.

Minutes pass. Very bravely he exits the bathroom, strides out of the restaurant. The manager and a girl stare at him. No words are said.

A bit of wind has come up. It’s colder. He wraps his arms around himself, puts his head down.

Thoughtlessly, he starts back towards the mall.



Persis closes her cell phone. Smiles at Chase. “Nothing to worry about,” she says.

“I am worried. I’m risking a lot.”

Persis shakes her head, sips her wine. Watches her friend. Says, “No you’re not. You’re not risking anything.”

The women wait in a bar inside the mall. Another twenty minutes pass. Chase is untalkative. Persis drinks more than Chase does.

A message comes over the public address:

“Could a Chase Bowyer please come to the East Mall Information Booth? That’s Chase Bowyer. Please come to the East Mall Information Booth. Your companion is waiting for you there.”

Chase’s mouth drops. She tears up with relief, stifles a loud shout of relief with her fist against her lips.

“What did I tell you?” says Persis loftily. “I said he was ready.”