Shifti - User contributions [en]

Weapon of Choice

2011-02-06T23:06:38Z

Bad Guru:

==1.==

Inside the club it was like being at the bottom of the ocean, a dim, uncertain place filled with random movement and sound. Grant Blackley moved through it like some great marine predator, shoals of lesser creatures parting before him as if unconsciously realising all of this was his territory.

Because it damn well was, Grant thought. He took up one of his regular positions at the top of a flight of stairs, overlooking the dance floor. At six foot five he hardly needed the extra elevation to see what was going on, but it amused him to stand there like some kind of warden, and who the hell was going to tell him no? His name might not be on the deeds, but everyone knew he was the ruler of this place, the power behind the throne. As long as he kept the customers in line and the money rolling in, Solomani would turn a blind eye to whatever else went on.

No point in having power if you didn’t have fun with it, hey? He enjoyed the looks on their faces when he refused them entry for not meeting the dress-code – when his own habitual choice of t-shirt, jeans and boots would never have got him into anywhere remotely classy. Also the expressions of anyone he’d caught using on the premises, when he’d ‘confiscated’ their stuff and thrown them out. What were they going to do, go to the cops? Even if they did, Solomani had friends.

Yeah, Solomani had friends, but that was all his boss had going for him, Grant thought. When it came down to it he could snap that runty bastard in two any time he wanted. Some would say that he, Grant, should officially be in charge of the place – he was the one who kept it running, after all. Well, maybe, Grant thought. Solomani could keep all the hassle and paperwork and headaches. Grant was happy where he was.

The music shifted and slowed and fragments of conversation from the people around him became audible. Usual clubber shit, Grant thought, but then his ears pricked up at something he heard:

‘...worth millions, man, I tell you. And he just keeps it locked up in the lab...’

Someone hurriedly shushed the speaker but not before Grant could zero in on him. A couple of college-boy types, looking kind of out of place here, standing together beneath and to one side of where Grant was. One of them looked considerably more hammered than the other, and it was he who’d spoken.

‘...don’t shush me, you asshole... you got to talk to him, there’s a fortune just sitting there and no-one’s allowed to touch it?’

‘Benny, shut up.’ The drunk’s companion, a tall-ish, sandy-haired man, glanced around him. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. It’s supposed to be secret, remember?’

‘Secret, schmmm... shurm... shu-secret,’ Benny eventually managed to say. ‘Guy, if it was so important they’d have put it somewhere more secure, wouldn’t they?’

This all sounded kinda interesting, but Grant’s earpiece blipped: somebody wanted him at the entrance. Reluctantly he left Benny and Guy to their squabble – though he took care to fix both their faces in his memory – and lumbered off to the door.

Ratman and Karl, two of his guys, were on duty there, currently being bawled out by some yuppie asshole in a suit. With him were a couple of assholes from kind of the same mold, and some women. Hell, now, they were something else, though... the one with the lead asshole had reddish-brown hair, fabulous green eyes, and a body that had him starting a boner just on seeing it. He grinned at her but she just scowled and looked away.

‘I want to see whoever’s in charge,’ the asshole said to Ratman.

‘Mr Blackley’s in charge of admissions,’ Ratman said, smirking and indicating Grant.

‘This? This is the manager?’ The asshole stared at Grant with disbelieving contempt all over his face. Grant knew right then he was going to hurt this guy before many more moments passed.

‘Yeah, I’m in charge here,’ Grant said, scritching at his beard and grinning at the guy. ‘Gotta problem with that?’

‘The problem is, your men here won’t let us into the club,’ the yuppie asshole said.

Jesus, Grant thought, why did they want to come into a dive like this anyway? He had no illusions as to the quality of the place. Maybe this bunch was looking to get their kicks by slumming it amongst the lesser mortals. He made a show of looking the man up and down. ‘Yeah, well. Maybe we don’t want your type in our nice night-club.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ The asshole was getting really angry now, it was funny to watch.

‘You’re an asshole who’s not getting into our club?’ Grant said. He heard Ratman and Karl laughing, which was right, that had been a damn funny line. He smiled at the asshole’s woman. ‘If you ladies want to come in, though...’

The woman was still staring at him like he was a piece of shit, though, and that was starting to piss him off. Didn’t they know who he was? He was Grant Blackley, damn it, shitkicker-in-chief around here, and that meant something.

Incredibly, the yuppy asshole was now jabbing at Grant’s broad chest with his forefinger and yelping at him. Maybe he’d already had a few drinks to build his courage up. ‘We have a legal right to come into this establishment –‘

Grant slammed both his palms against the asshole’s own front, sending him reeling back a few feet. ‘Stuff your legal right up your fuckin’ ass.’

The asshole turned purple and, even as his friends made to restrain him, lunged at Grant, swinging. Grant felt the man’s fist bump against his jaw, and was amused more than anything. As he threw another punch Grant let it smack into the wide expanse of his palm then closed his fist around the man’s, squeezed.

‘Aahhhh...’ the yuppy asshole said, sounding more like a pussy than ever. Grant jerked his arm, forcing the man to his knees in front of him. ‘You bastard ape!’

‘That’s not nice,’ Grant said. He could feel the bones of the man’s hand grating together in his grip, and that gratified him. He drove his boot into the man’s stomach and released him. The guy doubled over, retching, sobbing for air, and clutching himself all at once.
He stepped back as the asshole’s friends gathered around him and helped him up. ‘Ladies, the offer still stands,’ he said.

‘I’m going to call the police about this!’ the asshole’s woman said, glaring at Grant.

‘He started it. Can’t have troublemakers in our nice club, can we, boys?’

‘No way. He started the whole thing,’ Ratman said from somewhere behind him.

The asshole was mumbling incoherently now. His woman went to his side and started speaking to him comfortingly. ‘It’s okay, George. Forget about this thug. In five years time he’ll still be a thug but you’ll be a partner in the firm...’ She shot Grant another of her toxic, contemptuous looks

The party withdrew. Shame, Grant thought, he had only just begun to enjoy himself. Something about the whole thing had annoyed him, though, was still nibbling away at the back of his mind. He turned back to Ratman and Karl. ‘Why didn’t you wanna let them in, anyway?’
Ratman shrugged. ‘Just because. Thought we might have more fun if we didn’t.’

‘You got that fuckin’ right,’ Grant said. He looked after the retreating group. ‘Jesus, how’d a prick like that end up with such a babe?’

‘God knows, man.’

‘I mean, look at the guy, he was such a pussy, whinin’ like a little girl... what’s wrong with the fuckin’ world?’

‘Money, dude,’ Karl said. ‘These guys are all born with it comin’ out of their asses. Some chicks dig money more than bein’ a proper man.’

‘No reason why you can’t be a proper man and have money too, though,’ Grant said. That was what was bothering him, the total failure of that woman to recognise... well, recognise what a dude he was. That irked him. Were there many people who’d think that way? Not that he’d see down the club or in his own group of associates, not normally. But the very fact that they existed out in the wider world was an insult to his pride.

He’d never worried about money before, not seriously – it was easy enough to score a few bucks here and there, if you were Grant’s size and fairly cautious about who you leant on – but maybe that oughta change. He would be twenty-nine later in the year. Maybe it was time to start thinking longer-term.

‘Going back in. Blip me if there’s any trouble,’ Grant said.

He prowled around the edges of the dance-floor for an hour or so until one of the bar staff hustled up to him. She knew how the place worked, both officially and in reality. ‘Think we got a guy carrying drugs,’ she said.

Grant nodded. ‘Where?’

‘At the back, near the bathrooms. Green shirt.’

He told the woman she’d get her cut of whatever he made off this and drifted over in that direction. God must be smiling down on him, because the only green-shirted guy up there was good old Benny, looking more wrecked than ever now, clearly having taken something else on top of the booze. Benny who’d been so loose-tongued about the hidden fortune in the lab...

Grant waited until Guy went to the bathrooms then went up to Benny. The man goggled at him.

‘Need to talk. My office,’ Grant said, smiling thinly.

His office was, of course, the alleyway out back. Benny looked around in agitation upon realising the two of them were alone there.

‘I – er – what’s all this?’ Benny said, shuffling around to face Grant.

Grant unloaded one deep into the man’s stomach. Usually he preferred to go for the face, but on this occasion he didn’t want to leave marks.
Benny toppled over and puked spectacularly. Grant waited until he was done and gasping for breath and grabbed the front of his shirt.

‘You come into my place and do fuckin’ pills? You bring narcotics into my club?’ Grant hauled him up one-handed and drew back his other fist, making it clear that this one would indeed go into Benny’s face.

‘Oh God, oh Jesus, no, I’m sorry! Please! Please don’t hurt me!’

Grant affected to look unsure. ‘Why shouldn’t I just fuck you up? Or at least call the cops, you fuckin’ junkie asshole?’

‘Oh, God, please!’ Grant liked it when they started crying, gave him a warm feeling inside.

‘Well, okay, but it’ll cost you...’

Benny started fumbling for his wallet. ‘I’ve got forty dollars...’

‘Jesus!’ Grant threw him across the alleyway. ‘It’ll take more than that, you cocksucker.’

Benny struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it –‘

‘Shut up. Earlier I heard you and your boyfriend talking, somethin’ about a fortune, worth millions, in some lab somewhere? Not locked up too tight, either...’

Benny’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, God. Look, I – I can’t tell you any more about that –‘

Grant nodded. ‘Okay, then.’ He balled up his fists and again and made to start swinging.

‘No, no, please!’

‘So tell me - where is it and how’d I find it?’

‘Lab building four on the university science campus.’ Benny was sobbing. ‘The stuff’s in the chemistry lab at the back of the building, in a big metal cabinet marked ODM-13. But you don’t understand –‘

‘Chemistry?’ Grant grinned. Looked like he might have unearthed himself his own drug stash. ‘Okay, I’m gonna let you go, but don’t tell anyone about this, okay? And if anything should happen at your lab, you keep quiet – or we’re gonna have another conversation where I’m less fuckin’ agreeable.’

Fear and uncertainty were dancing in Benny’s eyes. ‘Ah - okay.’

‘Now fuck off,’ Grant said. ‘I’ll tell your friend you had to go home unexpectedly.’ He didn’t want this clown back in the club, shooting his mouth off.

Benny nodded and set off, a run that was half a stumble. Grant went back inside and found Guy, who was obviously looking around for his companion. He looked like less of a cock than Benny, not that that was saying much.

‘Benny had to go,’ Grant said.

The guy looked at him almost as if doubting Grant’s word. That pissed him off and he had to fight down the urge to get physical with him. ‘Why didn’t he tell me that himself?’

‘Beats me,’ Grant said. ‘Argue about it between the two of you. None of my fuckin’ business, is it?’

‘Thanks,’ the guy said, still obviously unsure what had happened. He finished his drink and made to leave.

Grant watched him go. Another college boy with money, he thought. There was no fuckin’ justice in the world whatsoever.

==2.==
Grant arrived back at his building early the following afternoon, having spent a couple of hours scoping out the university science campus. He had drawn a few stares due to his size and way of dressing, but everyone had been too pussy to challenge him over what he’d been doing there. He hadn’t actually been able to get into the chemistry lab in building four, but he knew where it was and also that the security set-up there would pose no problems.
As he entered the building his landlord shuffled out of his own room. Old Lazarenko was wrapped in a bathroom and clutching the day’s paper. ‘Ey, ah – Blackley!’
‘Mister Blackley,’ Grant said, rounding on the old man. He shrank away momentarily.
‘Mr Blackley, your rent’s overdue again,’ Lazarenko said, crumpling up the paper between his fingers.
‘End of the week, pops,’ Grant said, hiding his irritation. Here he was on the brink of something fuckin’ huge and the old coot was bleating on about the same old same old.
‘That’s just not good enough, Mr Blackley!’ The old man’s voice shot up, which kind of ruined the effect.
Grant stuck his face into old Lazarenko’s, so his beard almost scraped the man’s nose. ‘It’s gonna have to be, isn’t it? I’ve told you, end of the week. Are we gonna have a fuckin’ problem with this?’
The old man paled, shook his head. ‘No, no –just as long as it is the end of the week...’
‘Didn’t I just say so two times?’ Grant sighed. He set off up the stairs to his apartment. Flies, fuckin’ flies buzzing around him all the time...
His mood did not improve when he arrived at his apartment. Brandi was clearly getting ready to go to the mall, putting on her jacket and checking her makeup in the mirror.
‘Where the fuck you think you’re going?’
‘Just out, see friends.’ She glanced nervously at him. ‘I told you yesterday...’
‘Ratman’s coming round, talk business,’ Grant said.
‘Well, baby, surely you don’t need me –‘
‘We’re gonna want somethin’ to eat pretty soon. You want me to have to cook my own food in front of Ratman? That the kind of pussy you think I am?’
Brandi met his glower for a few seconds then looked away. ‘No, Grant.’ Her voice was tiny. ‘I’ll text and say I can’t make it. Can I borrow your phone?’
He remembered she’d been on at him to buy her one, but what did she need a phone for, after all? He fished it out and handed it to her, watched while she sent the message.
‘Good girl.’ He gave her a hug then looked again at her more carefully. ‘Christ, what are you wearing?’
Brandi looked down at her t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. ‘Just clothes.’
‘You look like a guy. How many times we got to have this conversation? You know the way I like you to dress – something that shows off your legs and tits. Get changed, I bought you enough nice stuff. Ratman’s comin’ in ten minutes.’
Brandi had wriggled into a mini-skirt and low-cut bodice and was just starting the food when the doorbell went. Feeling magnanimous, Grant got the door himself. It was Ratman, as expected.
‘Hey, dude.’ They bumped fists. ‘Come on in.’
‘Hey, Brandi,’ Ratman said as they sat down.
‘Hey, Ray,’ Brandi said. Ray was Ratman’s real name, but Grant never used it. Ratman was funnier, especially with him being so skinny with a big nose and all...
‘Okay, so here’s the score,’ Grant said, once they both had a beer. ‘Got a tip – shitload of designer drugs in one of the labs on the university campus.’
‘Why would there be designer drugs on the campus?’
Grant shrugged. ‘Dunno, but my source is A1. I went over there this morning and checked the place out. Tonight we both leave the club an hour early, go over there, rip it off. All the alarms are ancient, should be no trouble to someone like you...’
‘Wait a damn minute, Grant,’ Ratman said, frowning. ‘I did five years the last time I got caught on a B&E. They catch me doin’ something like this, I’m looking at ten years inside...’
‘Ratman, the stuff’s worth millions. Ain’t that worth a risk? I’m gonna be there with you, ain’t I?’
Ratman looked away. ‘I don’t want to do any more prison time, Grant. You don’t know what it’s like, all you ever did was a little juvey.’
Grant let his face harden. ‘You don’t think you owe me a favour or two? You know what Solomani would say, he knew I was using ex-cons as door staff?’ He thought Solomani probably wouldn’t give a shit, but he wasn’t about to tell Ratman that.
‘So much for fuckin’ friendship. And you think I don’t know you been keeping your hand in? That jewellers over by the theatre getting ripped off? The pawnshop? Always on your night off from the club, too...’
‘Jesus, Grant, keep your voice down,’ Ratman said. ‘You blackmailing me into doing this, Grant? That it?’
‘I’m just lookin’ out for you, man. You’ll thank me when we’re both rich off the back of this thing. So – you in?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
Grant didn’t bother to answer that one, started drawing a diagram of the building. ‘So, anyway...’

3.
‘Okay, we’re in. You’re up,’ Ratman murmured, stepping back from the lab door even as Grant pushed it open and went inside. The room seemed composed of different planes of shadow, starlight filtering dimly in through the blinds. He went to the centre of the room and moved the beam of his flashlight about carefully.
Ratman followed him in but stayed at the door, keeping watch. They had half an hour before the watchman did his next round. So far Ratman had had no difficulty in dealing with the building’s alarm systems, and Grant was feeling confident. That feeling only intensified when his flashlight lit up a tall metallic cabinet with the magic symbols ODM-13 stamped on its front.
‘Found it,’ Grant whispered, going over and looking at the cabinet. Even to his amateur’s eye it didn’t look to be wired up to any alarms. But it did seem to be clamped shut, with a wheel at the top and bottom of the door needing to be unscrewed. He got to it. No alarms went off, no lights came on: this had to be destiny at work, he thought. He grinned and hauled the cabinet open.
‘Fuck.’ The grin turned to a frown.
‘What is it?’ Ratman was still at the door.
‘I dunno.’ Inside the cabinet there were not the boxes of pills or bags of powder he’d been half expecting. Clipped inside it were two large cylinders like fire extinguishers, gaudily marked in green and orange. There was some kind of valve or screw at the top of each. ‘The stuff’s in canisters, or something.’
‘So grab one and let’s go!’ Ratman’s anxiety was getting on Grant’s nerves. He grabbed one of the cylinders and pulled it from its clips, but found he had seriously underestimated its weight. Even with his immense strength he needed both hands to lift it, let alone carry it at any speed. He grunted and let the end clunk to the lab floor.
‘Keep the fuckin’ noise down, you asshole!’ Ratman hissed.
‘Shut the fuck up. It’s too heavy. I’m gonna see if I can open it up and put the stuff in something lighter...’ Grant set to twisting at the screw which capped the cylinder. His hands were sweaty and the metal smooth, and he could find no purchase to begin with. Then – he bared his teeth triumphantly – the screw slowly began to turn, opening the canister, so –
With a shrill hiss something sprayed out of the top of the canister directly into Grant’s face. He grunted in surprise and then yelled as his eyes began to sting. Clumsily he screwed the top down again until the spray ceased, but his skin was beginning to burn now and he was feeling dizzy and his vision was blurred.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Ratman sounded more agitated than ever.
‘Fucker lied to me,’ Grant said thickly, blinking desperately. ‘Fuckin’ acid or something.’ He took a few steps, somewhat unsteadily.
‘You mean there’s no fuckin’ stuff? Oh, fantastic!’ Ratman shook his head. ‘I’m gettin’ out of here.’
‘Wait! You gotta help me, I – Ratman, give me a fuckin’ hand!’ Grant forced himself to sound threatening, in control.
Ratman paused at the door, clearly uncertain. ‘Cops grab me I won’t keep quiet, I promise,’ Grant said.
‘Jesus. Come on,’ Ratman said, coming to help Grant.
By the time they were off the campus and felt safe, Grant found his vision had cleared and his dizziness had passed. Thank God for that, he thought. He still felt vaguely nauseous in the pit of his stomach though.
‘Just who was your A1 source, anyway?’ The scorn in Ratman’s voice was like a slap in the face. Normally Grant wouldn’t have stood for it.
‘Some fucker from the club,’ Grant said. ‘I’m gonna bust that asshole up for this.’ Just as soon as he felt 100% again.
‘Jesus, I just realised. We left that stuff all over the floor, they’re gonna know we were there... you kept your gloves on?’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ Grant said.
Ratman nodded. ‘Maybe it’ll be okay then.’ He paused. ‘You feeling all right, man?’
‘Yeah,’ Grant said.
‘Okay, then. See you at the club,’ Ratman said.
‘See you,’ Grant said, and they parted. So much for God, so much for destiny, he thought. He felt angry, which was familiar enough, but he also felt humiliated and a fool, both of which were new and unpleasant. One thing he was sure of: he was going to be tracking Benny down and showing him exactly what happened to people who fucked with Grant Blackley.

4.
‘So, dude, any joy finding your friend who led you astray?’ Ratman asked.
It was a couple of nights later. The break-in at the lab had made the papers but the police – so far – had made no progress and Grant was beginning to relax and forget about the whole thing. He found he’d lost his appetite and wasn’t sleeping too well, but was putting that down to the stress of what had happened.
‘No. Fucker’s done a runner,’ Grant said. The two of them were on the door at the club, surveying the queue. A fairly routine night so far, no heavy action. Maybe that was just as well, the way he was feeling.
In truth he hadn’t even attempted to find Benny yet. Part of him – maybe most of him – just wanted to let the whole thing slide and be forgotten. Not that Ratman seemed likely to let that happen, he’d been kind of in Grant’s face about it ever since. If he kept it up, Grant would mess him up. He had to show everyone who the big man was, after all.
Karl emerged from the depths of the club and grinned at them. ‘Hey, Grant, rumour is you’re getting a new car. One with a sun roof.’
‘What the fuck you on about?’
‘Or maybe fitting solar panels to your apartment?’
Grant stared at him. ‘Somethin’ fuckin’ wrong with you, man.’
Karl sniggered. ‘You mean you haven’t noticed, dude?’ He put a hand to the back of his own head, rubbed it.
Grant copied the movement, found to his utter horror a bald spot on the back of his head. Christ! This was what stress could do to a guy! He was only twenty-eight, how could he be going fuckin’ bald?
‘Fuck!’
Ratman joined in with Karl’s sniggering. ‘Hey, you know what they say, Grant – hair today, gone tomorrow...’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You know there’s solutions to this kind of problem? Keep calm, no need to wig out,’ Karl said.
He rounded on Karl, who flinched, but a wave of weakness rolled over him and he found he could do nothing more. ‘Shut up,’ he eventually said, lamely.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Karl said, obviously astonished not to be dodging punches and clearly realising Grant was not himself. But the smirk on his face did not entirely disappear.
Grant went to the men’s room and checked the mirror. The spot was completely hairless and a little bigger than a quarter. He couldn’t believe it had grown so big without him noticing, but the alternative was that it had suddenly appeared almost overnight. Was he sick, or something?
*
He kept the lowest profile he could manage around the club, given his position there. Every time he saw Karl and Ratman they seemed to be laughing together about something, and he could guess what it was. Why wasn’t he just going over there and busting them up? He never normally backed away from a fight. But he felt so tired, it was like his appetite for life was fading or something... It was a relief to get away and go home to Brandi.
*
Grant woke not long before noon the next day, as usual. Brandi was still asleep next to him. She was looking sweet, and normally he would have nailed her, whether she was up for it or not, but he found he just couldn’t summon the energy. He rolled over and lay there, eventually heard her wake up.
‘Morning,’ Brandi said.
‘Hey,’ Grant said. ‘Get me some juice or something, will you?’
‘’M okay.’ He felt her moving around in the bed, then heard her try to stifle a giggle.
‘What’s funny? Get my juice, wilya?’
‘Sorry. Just – your hair...’
‘Yeah, yeah. I got a bald spot. Hardy fuckin’ har.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Spot? Spots, more like...’
Grant clambered out of bed and went to the bathroom. Jesus, the bitch was absolutely right! Just to the left of the spot he’d found the night before (which now looked a little bigger), another one had appeared, about the size of a cent. It had appeared in the night.
Grant went back and stared at his pillow. It was covered in black hairs. Brandi looked from him to it and back again, clearly not understanding, clearly alarmed. Jesus, they felt the same way. Grant found himself scritching at his beard again, the same way he always did when he was thinking. Except this time a steady stream of hair was tumbling away from where his fingers were at work – he was giving himself another bald patch there, on his jawline.
‘What’s it mean, honey?’ Brandi asked.
‘Dunno,’ Grant said, suddenly deeply concerned.

5.
Maybe it was alopecia, or something. He’d heard about that kind of thing. Whatever it was it showed no signs of quitting. His head hair was falling out, his beard was falling out, even his eyebrows and body hair were beginning to go. Well, he thought, desperately looking for an upside to this, bald can be badass.
Except he didn’t feel like much of a badass any more. Quite apart from the nervousness his hair loss was causing him, Grant found his lack of energy was persisting and getting worse. It was becoming a bit of an effort to get up and walk around, let alone do his shift at the club that night.
Nevertheless, he went to work as usual. It was just his luck that this was one of the nights that Solomani chose to put in an appearance. The little orange bastard seemed to figure out straightaway that Grant had some kind of issue going on, but said nothing. Karl, Ratman and the other security guys also kept their mouths shut, but he could feel their respect and his authority ebbing away along with his strength...
...and, impossible to figure out though it was, his height. Things had seemed indefinably weird all day and night but when he returned home he figured out what it was. Usually he had to duck his head to avoid banging it on the way up the stairs, the building was built for midgets or something. But not tonight. He had a few inches clear headroom at least.
In his apartment he measured himself. He’d been six five since he was eighteen. Tonight, though, he was six foot nothing. And he could see it in the way his clothes were starting to look baggy on him, now he was looking for it. He weighed himself – he’d lost fifteen pounds without even realising it.
Christ, this was impossible! How could it be happening at all? Despite his panic and fear he found he was just too tired to sit up and worry about it. He pulled off his clothes, taking a bit more of his hair with them, and crawled into bed with Brandi.
*
Another restless night spent on the edge-of-sleep, feeling no real benefit at its end. When Grant drifted back to full wakefulness he found Brandi had already got up. As usual, he looked at his pillow: it was thinly covered with hair, but only because he didn’t have a great deal left. The patches of hair left on his scalp and jaw looked like continents on a world map.
And... something new. A splash of red on the pillow – had he had a nosebleed or something? He felt his lip, cheek. Nothing. Then he noticed a small white object on the sheet next to the pillow, picked it up. It was a tooth.
Desperately he probed with his tongue, found almost at once a gap on the upper right hand side. It hadn’t even felt loose the night before! Delicately he nudged at the others, felt queasy when they wobbled, ever so slightly, at the touch of his finger.
Hair, build, teeth, this couldn’t just be stress. This had to be some kind of disease, or poison... that chemical shit he’d been sprayed with... Jesus! That had to be it! That bastard Benny had set him up for this, and now... abruptly he felt deeply and urgently nauseous and hustled his way to the bathroom, quickly.
He puked at length into the bowl, didn’t feel much better afterwards. He was dimly aware of a faint jab of pain in his mouth while bent over and spewing, and, sure enough, discovered the pressure of vomit had been enough to dislodge his lower left canine. Now he had two new gaps in his teeth.
Grant showered, noticing but not really caring that he was sluicing away the last of his body-hair. In the mirror he looked pasty, skin loose and almost chalk-white. Under his skin, his muscles were looking like sludge ladled into plastic bags. And... something was happening to his tattoos. They were breaking up, fading away. How could that be? The ink was supposed to be indelible.
His guts gurgled and he had to go to the john again, badly. The stink of his own doings was almost enough to set him puking again. He pulled on his robe and stumbled into the main room.
‘Shit, Grant, you look sick,’ Brandi said. She was watching the TV.
‘Shut up,’ Grant mumbled. He peered at her – she was wearing the t-shirt and jeans again. ‘What did I fuckin’ tell you about dressing that way?’
‘I wanna dress the way I wanna dress,’ Brandi said. ‘You can’t make me always wear the stuff you like...’
‘The fuck I can’t,’ Grant said, attempting to stand up, but abandoning it. He glowered at her but she met his gaze. Dumb fury mounted inside him. You’ll pay for this when I’m better, bitch, he thought.
‘Get me a doctor, Brandi, I’m really ill,’ he eventually said.
‘It’s probably just flu or something, honey.’ Brandi put her hand on his forehead. ‘Jeez, you feel warm!’
‘I need a doctor!’
‘You really want someone doing blood tests after all the shit you put in your system?’ She seemed quite happy to ignore everything he said.
‘This is serious! I – I’m getting smaller,’ Grant said.
She laughed in his face. ‘That’s impossible, sweetie.’
‘I checked last night. I was six foot, not six foot five.’
‘That’s just not –‘
‘Get the fucking tape.’
Making it clear she was just humouring him, Brandi checked his height. Her eyebrows shot up.
‘See?’ Grant asked. ‘I’m six foot.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Yes I fucking am!’
‘No, you’re not six foot. You’re five eleven.’
Another two inches gone... how could this be happening? ‘You believe me now?’
‘Something really weird’s happening to you,’ Brandi said. ‘It’s like you’re shrivelling away or something.’
‘Thanks. Get me to a doctor.’
She stood up, briskly. ‘Let’s give it couple of days – maybe you’ll feel better.’
‘Days? You stupid bitch, don’t you –‘
She slapped his face. She, the bitch, slapped him, Grant Blackley, in the face. ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ Brandi said, matter-of-factly.
Automatically he pulled back his arm to return the compliment but another wave of dizzy nausea struck him and he let it fall. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ he whispered.
‘Always so big and strong. Always such a fucking alpha dog,’ Brandi said. ‘Cook what I want, Brandi. Wear what I want, Brandi. Screw when and how I want, Brandi, and always your fist there if I ever said no... how does it feel now, Grant? Still feeling big and strong –‘
Grant fought to stop himself recoiling from the force of her quiet anger. ‘Brandi, honey... you’re my girl –‘
‘I’m your fucking pet, or your toy. Or I was.’
‘When I get better –‘
‘Maybe you’ll be as a big a bully as before. We’ll see,’ Brandi said. Suddenly she was smiling. ‘I’m going to the mall!’
And there was no way he could stop her.
*
She still hadn’t returned by the time he had to go to the club. Doing nothing all day had left Grant feeling marginally better and he got dressed, uncomfortably aware of how loose his clothes were on him now and how weak he felt. There had been a number more volcanic emanations from his bowels in the course of his day – it seemed like he was losing weight faster than anything else.
He made it down to the club okay and took his usual position at the door. Karl and Ratman weren’t even bothering to make cracks at his expense any more, but he could see knowing looks passing between them.
It seemed like another quiet night, thank God. He was doubly thankful, because Solomani turned up, looking neat and slick in yet another new suit. Must be his time for going through the club accounts in detail again – along with all the other funds that got pumped through the place’s finances.
‘Grant, a word, please?’ Solomani asked. ‘Step up to my office.’
Grant could hardly refuse, followed him. He had a sick premonition of what this might be about.
‘You’ve kept this place nice and quiet, on the whole, Grant, and I appreciate that,’ Solomani said when they were alone.
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘But... surely you realise it’s obvious that you clearly have some kind of problem?’
‘Boss, I –‘
‘No-one here is blind. You look sick. Quite apart from anything else, you’ve lost most of your hair. I have to ask: what the hell is up with you?’
‘I – I don’t know, sir. I know I’m having a few problems right now, but I can still do my job, I promise.’
Solomani looked doubtfully at him. ‘That’s a little hard to believe, Grant.’
‘Trust me, sir.’
The little man took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You can carry on as normal – for the time being.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
*
The guy was some kind of jock who’d had too much to drink but was refusing to admit it, and now he was standing in the middle of the dance floor defying them to drag him off it. Normally Grant wouldn’t have thought twice – on one occasion he’d taken on the entire offensive line of a college team single-handed, grinning all the while – but right now he paused while the guy roared abuse at him.
Ratman was with him, and beyond Ratman was a circle of fascinated clubbers, eager to watch the cabaret. Ratman grinned. ‘Problem, boss?’
‘No problem,’ Grant said, looking at the jock.
‘Want me to step up for this one?’ That impudent, sneering look was back on Ratman’s face, saying: you’ve lost it, you’re through, who the fuck are you, anyway? That was enough to send Grant onto the floor to tackle the jock.
‘C’mon, buddy, party’s over,’ Grant said, hoping this wouldn’t turn into an actual fight.
The jock spat and swung at him, but he dodged it. With the guy off-balance he charged him, hoping to get him round the waist and knock him off his feet. But his instincts betrayed him and he realised he just didn’t have enough mass any more. The jock broke his grip easily and hammered a fist into Grant’s stomach.
Grant doubled over and knew he was going to puke. Even at the moment the jock’s other fist smashed into the side of his face and sent him to the floor, teeth spattering across it as well. He heaved, feeling his bowels go simultaneously, found he literally couldn’t move beyond those functions. He was dimly aware of Ratman and the others tackling the jock as he lay there.
Eventually he became aware of a presence by his side. Solomani was crouching there, shaking his head. ‘Grant, Grant. I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re no use to me at the moment. Don’t bother coming back here until you get yourself straightened out.’
He knew that tone of voice. It was the one that made him realise that being a serious shitkicker was one thing, but being the kind of person who gave orders to serious shitkickers was something wholly different. It was not to be challenged or even really questioned. He nodded and started to clamber to his feet.

6.
Finally the sandy-haired man came out of the building. Grant had been waiting under a tree all day, trying to be inconspicuous. So far as he could see it was his one hope of finding out what was happening.
He’d barely slept since being fired from the club the night before, had got up first thing to go to the public library and check their medical books. His clothes fit even worse than before, making him think he’d lost at least another couple of inches in height, and his joints were starting to stiffen up and ache. The pain was almost enough to make him cry like a pussy. Almost.
There was nothing in any of the medical books about a disease that made the sufferer lose their hair and teeth and physically shrink. He had to find out what had been in that canister, that had been when all this had started. And his only contact was Benny. He’d gone to the science campus and been waiting outside the building ever since. No Benny, but his friend was here.
Grant moved quickly to intercept the man despite the pain in his joints. ‘Shcuse me...’ He was finding it difficult to speak clearly with nearly all the teeth gone on one side. Those remaining were wobbling freely in their sockets now.
Guy glanced at him, patted his pockets. ‘Sorry, no change.’
‘No, I need your help. Where’sh Benny?’
Guy stared at him. ‘I know you... you were at that club – the bouncer, right?’
‘’Shnot important. Where’sh Benny?’
He shrugged. ‘God knows. Nobody’s seen him since... well, we had a break-in in the lab a few nights ago, and as soon as he heard about it Benny disappeared. Said something about the mob coming after him...’ The man looked at Grant again, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Why do you want him, anyway?’
Benny had known he would come. Grant’s heart sank. He grabbed at the last possible thread of hope. ‘In your lab, that shtuff... ODM-13... what is it?’
‘How do you know about the organo-dimutron?’ Guy was looking hard at Grant now. The tumblers were clearly clicking into place. ‘Oh my God, Benny told you about it, and you tried to steal it – why? What possible use...?’
‘Benny said it was worth millionsh – a forchune...’
‘To the military, or big business, yeah. Organo-dimutron is a mutagen we’ve discovered – so incredibly powerful and dangerous we haven’t risked testing it or even announcing it exists. It affects living things on a molecular level...’ The man looked more closely at him. ‘You’ve been exposed to it, haven’t you? Christ - look, you have to get to a hospital straight away...’
Grant grabbed the man’s shirt front. ‘You have to help me. You. No hospitals.’
The man shrugged him off easily, to Grant’s horror. ‘Don’t be a fool. You have to –‘
His anger flared but all in that moment he realised it had no outlet. His strength had shrivelled, his power was gone... there was no reason for anyone to do what he wanted them to. Absurdly he found himself crying at the unfairness of it, that this should happen to him, Grant Blackley, of all people. What was he supposed to do now? He had no idea.
‘Please help me. Please, please. I’m begging you...’ Grant tried to stop himself sobbing, couldn’t.
‘You need a hospital,’ Guy said.
‘No hoshpital,’ Grant said. Even if he lived it was a short step from there to prison, and he couldn’t face that as he now was. He’d rather die. He turned and shuffled away as quickly as his joints would let him, aware of the man staring after him, apparently uncertain of what to do.

7.
‘Five foot six and a half,’ said Brandi, rolling up the tape measure. She did not sound too concerned.
It was that evening. On returning home Grant had taken a shower to try and alleviate his joint pain, but had only succeeded in completing the total loss of his head and facial hair. He looked like someone who’d been having chemo. His tattoos had completely gone as well.
His clothes hung on him like an adult’s on a child. Physically, he looked hideous, all his old muscle had seemingly turned into slack rolls of fat which hung off him like the folds of a robe. Any kind of serious movement had him yelping in pain – and yet he had to move, if only to get to the bathroom when one of his bouts of diarrhoea or puking struck him. He still had a couple of teeth left on one side, but none on the other.
In the end he had just stripped off and crawled carefully into bed. When Brandi appeared she had looked at him with interest but not much sympathy. In the end she had measured him, more for her own curiosity than any other reason, it seemed.
And now she was moving around the room, doing something complex and time-consuming when he just wanted to sleep. ‘Brandi, pleash,’ Grant mumbled.
‘Sorry, baby. But I really think you’re going to die quite soon, and I don’t want to get stuck with answering all the questions about how and why it happened,’ Brandi said.
Grant looked up and realised she was packing her bags. ‘You carn go!’
‘You can’t stop me.’ She smiled. ‘You know, I’ve wanted to leave for months but I know what you’d have done. You’re just not as scary as you used to be, Grant. Now you’re just some big baby that lies in its own shit calling for help.’
Part of him knew she was right. He stifled a moan. ‘Pleash, Brandi... I need help...’
‘See?’
He found he was sobbing freely again. Brandi ignored him and carried on packing. ‘I’m not taking any of those whore clothes you bought me,’ she said, conversationally enough. ‘Maybe you can find some other dumb bitch to wear them, huh?’
Try as he might, she would not stop, and as she carried her bags into the main room he found himself rolling out of bed and crawling painfully after her, sobbing from the pain and calling her name.
Brandi paused at the front door and looked at him, and for a moment there was a trace of doubt on her face, as if she were seeing him just as was then, weak and needing help – but then her face hardened, and Grant could imagine the dozens of memories crowding out whatever sympathy she might have felt. She smiled tightly, muttered something under her breath, picked up her bags and shut the door firmly behind her.
Grant lay there and cried himself out.
*
And soon enough his teeth had gone the way of his hair and he was somehow back in his bed with his body aching and cramping and spasming around him. He found he could weep again soon enough, and that he had plenty of reason to. As Brandi had said, he was not much than a toothless, hairless, squalling incontinent child.
He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness even as the room pulsed and faded with light. Oddly, hunger did not seem to be a problem – his body seemed to be devouring itself – and when he dragged himself to the bathroom he drank endless water.
He knew he was just postponing the inevitable, that his death could not be far away, and could not understand why it was taking so long to come. In the end he just closed his eyes and abandoned himself to whatever lay next.

8.
And then Grant awoke and there was no real pain in his body, and the only complaint coming from his gut was that it had not been fed nearly enough of late. He felt a strange vibrancy, almost a hum of health and energy, throughout his limbs and torso. He felt strange, but also great.
He got out of the bed, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the soiled sheets, but marvelling at how easily he could move. Either he was dead, or he had survived! Yes! He, Grant Blackley, had ridden it out.
He punched the air with both hands. ‘I’m fuckin’ back!’ he said, and even as he did so he was suddenly aware of the thirty-two small hard new teeth studding his jaws. He’d grown new teeth! He put a hand to his head and felt a fuzz of new hair starting there. There was none on his face or chest, but a little in his armpits.
Even better. Still naked, he started cheerfully for the fridge – then realised it was not all good news. The room was wrong. The perspective was all messed up, everything was too far away or high up... it was like a giant version of his apartment...
The tape measure was where Brandi had left it. With shaking hands he measured himself. Christ. He was only five foot one. He looked down at himself and saw how small and slim he had become, as well – his arms and legs seemed athletic, rather than muscular, while his chest and stomach had virtually no muscle definition at all.
Grant weighed himself on the bathroom scales. Oh, dear God. He was only 105 pounds. He hadn’t weighed so little since in about twenty years. He stared at himself in the mirror and saw two things: firstly, that the new hair he was growing was not the old black, but a very light shade of brown, and that he looked like a kid. An unathletic kid.
If anything, his cock and balls seemed to have dwindled even more than the rest of him. They were rather sensitive to the touch so he left them alone. The hair down there showed no signs of growing back either.
He munched a bowl of cereal and pondered just what the hell he was going to do now. There was no way Solomani was going to employ a five-foot tall bouncer... and even the idea of asking him was repellent. They’d laughed at him simply for losing his hair... how would they react if they found he’d turned into a child?
Grant recalled the eagerness with which they’d capitalised on his weakness. Some fucking friends he’d turned out to have. And Brandi, after all he’d done for her... Still, that didn’t help him. What the hell was he going to do now?
It wasn’t even as if he could go out and look for a new job. After eating he tried to get dressed, but it was hopeless. He could practically fit both feet down one leg of his old jeans. He would look utterly ludicrous trying to wear that stuff out on the street...
...not that he wanted anyone to see him, of course. No way. What would they say, what would they do? He didn’t want to find out.
In the end, somewhat reluctantly, he just pulled on one of his old t-shirts. It hung almost to his knee and looked more like a dress than anything else – not something he was remotely happy about – but what options did he have?
Grant was still thinking about this when there was a knocking at the door. He looked round in alarm, and as he did so someone spoke through the door.
‘C’mon, open up. We know you’re in there. Police.’
Oh, Jesus. It occurred to him that there was no sense in delaying the inevitable and before he could talk himself out of it walked over to the door and opened it. Outside was a uniformed cop and another man in a suit.
‘Yeah,’ Grant said, expecting the bracelets to instantly appear. His voice had risen, which was another shock to his system.
The guy in the suit smiled. ‘We’re looking for Grant Blackley. Is he in?’
Grant blinked at them, amazed and appalled. They... didn’t... recognise him. ‘G-grant?’
The detective glanced at the uniformed guy, gave a ‘kids today, huh?’ kind of look. ‘Yeah, Grant. Big guy, six five, dark hair and beard? Lives here?’
‘He’s out,’ Grant said, forcing a smile onto his face.
‘Mind if we look around?’ the cop said, already coming into the apartment and glancing around.
‘Why not,’ Grant said, smiling nervously.
The two men looked in every room, clearly disgusted by the state of the place. Grant drifted after the detective. ‘Why d’you want Grant, anyway?’
‘He’s been linked to an attempted theft from the university science campus. One of the staff figures there was a link, plus a man matching his description was seen in the area the day before. His former employer gave this as his address.’ The detective sighed. ‘But like you said, seems he’s out.’
They returned to the front door. ‘Look, missy, if he resurfaces, tell him to come see us, okay?’ the detective said. ‘We’re bound to catch up with him sooner or later. It’s not like he’s easy to miss. Come on, Roy.’
Grant closed the door after them, almost unable to believe it. Was he so unrecognisable now? It seemed so, and a good thing for him as well. It was like a fresh start, in so many ways... but a start in what? All his life he’d been bigger, stronger, tougher than anyone else he knew... his muscle had been his weapon of choice in any situation. Now he was without it, what was he going to do?
He was sitting contemplating that when something else occurred to him that he’d missed at the time. The cop had called him ‘missy’... not only had he not recognised Grant as himself, he hadn’t even recognised him as male.
It was the way he was dressed, that was all. Grant told himself that over and over until he almost started to believe it.

9.
There was enough food in the fridge for the time being, and he had no real need to go out. Also there was five hundred bucks stashed at the back of the wardrobe, which nobody else knew about... except it seemed that Brandi had been a bit more perceptive than he’d thought, and taken it with her when she’d gone. He was down to the forty bucks he’d had in his wallet when he’d been fired from the club.
He’d think of something. In the meantime he sat and watched TV and tried to get used to his new physicality. It seemed that whatever the ODM-13 had done to him, it wasn’t quite finished yet. When he’d woken that morning, there hadn’t been much more than a fuzz of stubble on his head, but by the time he called it a night it was over an inch long and brushing the top of his ears. Not quite light brown, he accepted – more like dark blonde.
The next morning it was twice as long again, reaching most of the way down to his shoulders, and lighter still at the roots. If only that was all he had to worry about, Grant thought. There was absolutely no sign of stubble on his cheeks or jaw, or anywhere else that his beard had previously grown.
And on his chest, the centre of his nipples had sprouted into thick studs like pencil erasers. Each now sat in the middle of a wide disc of sensitive, wrinkly skin – wider than it had been before, he was certain.
It was so difficult to be certain about things like this... but weren’t his balls smaller, pulled tighter to his body by a scrotum that seemed to be furling up on itself? And while the meat of his cock seemed shorter and narrower, the skin in which it was cloaked seemed looser and fleshier, too.
No, no, it couldn’t be happening! It was impossible! He told himself not to cry, with little success. The thought was just too horrible to contemplate. In the end he just sat in front of the TV and gave himself over to it entirely, not thinking about himself or his own life at all.
The day dragged by, a whirl of soap operas, game shows and chat shows. At the end of the afternoon he was disturbed by another knock at the door. Startled and nervous, Grant got up, as he did so realising his hair had continued to grow at an incredible rate – he could feel it brushing his shoulders now through the thin fabric of the T-shirt, still his only garment.
He went over to the door and opened it. The grizzled face of his landlord peered through the gap at him. ‘I want to talk to Blackley.’
‘He – Mister Blackley’s gone away,’ Grant said. The high softness of his voice had a connotation now he really didn’t like.
‘Well, he should’ve paid his back rent before he went,’ the old man said. ‘This isn’t a mission building, you know, young lady.’
‘He’ll pay you when he gets back,’ Grant said, desperately.
Lazarenko snorted. ‘He doesn’t get to choose when to pay his rent. I want the money by the end of tomorrow or he’s out on the street.’
‘He won’t be back by then -!’
‘Then he’s out on the street anyway. You too,’ Lazarenko said, smiling nastily.
‘You can’t speak to me like that, you old bastard!’ The words burst out of him automatically.
The old man colored. ‘Watch your mouth! I’m within my rights to have you both thrown out this evening.’
With sick horror Grant realised that the man was right, and nothing he said or did could intimidate him anymore. His power was gone and he had to remember that. He dropped his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, sir. I just panicked.’
‘Mmm, well. I just want the money, from him or you, I don’t care. But by six tomorrow, or you’re both out, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I understand,’ Grant said. He closed the door. What the fuck was he going to do? He had no savings, and all his usual routes to quick money were closed to him now he was so puny and soft. He couldn’t go out on the street looking the way he did now. He didn’t even have any clothes.
Grant padded back into the centre of the apartment, head bowed, hugging himself... but realised that something felt strange about the hug. Feeling a sick sense of the inevitable he pulled his t-shirt off over his head and looked down at himself. The flesh of his chest was beginning to swell, a small soft dome building up under each sensitive nipple. He had titties.
Further down it was even worse. His small, hard balls were held tight against the flesh of his body, while the substance of his cock seemed to be withdrawing into his body – only an inch or two were really left - leaving only the loose folds of thick skin that had once surrounded it hanging loose. He prodded at his crotch and gasped despite himself. It was as sensitive as ever, and seemed to set off some kind of resonant tingling in his new titties.
‘I’m turning into a girl,’ Grant said to his reflection, which looked as horrified and feminine as he did.

10.
He didn’t have time to freak out about that. He needed to get money from somewhere, anywhere, or he wouldn’t just be a girl but a homeless girl, with no real clothes and in a rough part of the city. That was enough to start him sweating and panicking again.
His friends. His friends would help him out, wouldn’t they? Sure, they’d made fun of his baldness and that kind of stuff, but they’d been buds, hadn’t they? Sure they had. Grant looked around for his phone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Shit. Brandi must have taken it.
He’d have to go down to the club in person. Grant went into the bedroom and tried to get dressed in his old gear – the t-shirt was like a tent on him, but that was minor compared to the fact that his shorts wouldn’t stay up and, once he’d finished cinching the waist and rolling up the legs, his jeans looked like clown pants. His old boots and shoes were waaay too big as well.
A pair of Brandi’s old shoes had got left behind and, although deeply reluctant, he tried one of them on. It was actually a pretty good fit. Oh, Christ, was he now the same size as Brandi?
Going to the club in his old clothes he’d look ridiculous and attract attention to himself. Even if he could get there without major wardrobe malfunction. There was no choice, he thought. He would have to see what else Brandi had left behind when she’d gone.
Oh, crap. He remembered now her parting words: she’d just left the stuff he’d bought for her, so no jeans, no t-shirts, nothing... nothing sensible. But he had no choice: it was either now, and briefly, or tomorrow night, and for the foreseeable future after that.
With deep distaste he picked up a pair of lacy panties and stepped into them, figuring there was no sense in taking any chances – also that they might disguise the remains of his manhood. (Did that mean he’d rather be thought of as an actual girl than the strange inbetween-thing he currently was?) They settled about his hips quite comfortably.
He didn’t need a bra and so he pulled on a dark green halter-top. To finish with he found a blackskirt that finished just above mid-thigh, with about three layers of frilly ruffles on it, and put that on as well. It felt kind of odd around his comparatively narrow hips and backside, but there was no help for that.
Grant looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a girl, there was no denying it. He arranged his hair over his shoulders to try and increase the impression, realised what he was doing and stopped. Just pass muster, he told himself.
Thank God it was a warm night. He’d never bothered buying Brandi a coat and it was a long way to walk bare-legged and with just one of his old shirts as a makeshift jacket. For a decade he’d walked these streets with supreme confidence, but everything had changed now. Every alleyway seemed to pose a threat, every passing man a figure wrapped in terrible suspicion.
Grant had never been more relieved to arrive at the club. It was very early and there was no queue, but Karl was still lounging around at the door, same as he ever did. Grant realised he’d no idea what he was going to say to him. In the end he just walked up to where the man was.
‘Go straight in, honey,’ Karl said, grinning. ‘Pay at the desk.’
‘Karl – it – it’s me. Grant,’ Grant said.
Karl snorted with laughter. ‘What? You high, girl? This some kind of joke?’ He looked around to see who might be watching to see his reaction, then stared again at Grant’s altered face. ‘Jesus...’
‘I don’t know how it happened. Some chemicals. But it changed me and I really need –‘
But Karl was already calling into the club. ‘Ray! Get out here now!’
His friends believed him. They would help. Grant let himself relax, and then Ratman emerged from the club, dressing sharper than he had before.
‘Look at this,’ Karl said, grinning as he indicated Grant.
‘So what,’ Ratman said, glancing at him. Then he frowned and looked closer, his face slowly breaking into a huge grin as he did so. ‘Grant!?! That you?’ He burst out laughing.
Grant felt his cheeks burning. ‘Quiet, for fuck’s sake.’
‘This is what that chemical stuff did to you? Man, am I glad I stayed by the door! There but for the grace of God...’ Ratman was still chuckling.
‘You get the full set, Grant?’ Karl stepped forward and grabbed at one of Grant’s tits. Grant slapped his hand away in shock and stepped back.
‘Karl!’ Grant said, hating the note of feeble pleading he heard in his own voice. The two of them were openly grinning at him.
‘So, you want to come into the club, then?’ Ratman asked.
‘Ratman, I need help – my landlord wants the rent, and that bitch Brandi ran off with my dough,’ Grant said. ‘I just need a loan, just for a while...’
‘Till you come back as a bouncer?’ Karl laughed.
‘Ray,’ Ratman said. He wasn’t laughing.
‘W-what?’ Grant asked.
‘My name’s Ray. You’re the one who started the whole Ratman thing, you – you dumb bitch,’ Ratman said, smiling mirthlessly. ‘Why the fuck should we help you? What did you ever do for us?’
‘I – I –‘ But before Grant could finish the sentence Ratman had turned and walked back into the club.
Karl didn’t speak for a moment. ‘So, you coming in the club or not?’ he eventually asked.
‘Uh – I –‘
‘Cause Ray doesn’t like it if we just let people hang around out here...’
‘What – what’s he got to do with it?’
Karl shrugged. ‘Ray’s the boss. Solomani gave him your old job.’
‘Oh.’ An interesting feeling, this numb bleakness inside, Grant thought. He looked at Karl again. ‘I – just need a little money, Karl...’
‘You know, you’ve turned into a pretty hot chick,’ Karl said, looking Grant up and down again in a way he really wasn’t comfortable with. ‘How bad do you need the cash?’
‘More than anything,’ Grant whispered.
‘Come round tomorrow afternoon. You know where I live,’ Karl said. ‘I’m sure we can work something out... if you really want the money that bad.’
Grant felt sick again, something purely psychological this time. He backed away from Karl, turned his back, hurried towards his home, feeling his stomach turning over and over, not because he didn’t know what he was going to do but really because – deep down – he did.

11.
Incredibly, Grant still somehow managed to sleep that night – on some level his body was still exerting itself as his transformation approached its conclusion, and he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But as soon as he properly awoke, the realities of his situation crashed in on him and a bleak detachment consumed his mind.
He sat up, wincing at an odd twinge in his side and hips as he did so. The mass of his hair flopped down over his shoulders, reaching well down his back and tickling his – oh, Christ, his titties had blown up like balloons in the night. The sheer weight of them against his chest was almost impossible to believe. He was huge. They were like porn-star tits.
With a dull sense of resignation he pulled the sheet aside and looked at his crotch. He’d still had a little stub of an actual cock left the night before, hiding amongst the folds of flesh, but it had almost totally retreated into his body now, and sat at the top end of... ah, Jesus. His cock had turned into a clit and from somewhere a cunt had opened up. He really was a girl now.
Numbly he got out of bed and stood up – but even as he did so he felt a horrendous crunch somewhere in his pelvis and the muscles in his sides and waist cramped agonisingly. He swayed a little, feeling his bones and organs slide into a new arrangement... and then it was over and the pain suddenly receded.
Grant clutched at himself and pattered through into the bathroom to confirm his suspicions: his waist had contracted enormously, while his hips had simultaneously widened to accommodate his new anatomy. His ass-cheeks seemed to be filling out as well, giving him a big old booty.
There was really no way to tell, from looking at him, that Grant had ever been the mountain of a man he had enjoyed being so much. He was a short, pale, feeble looking chick... and Grant Blackley looked at his new self and sobbed openly for many long minutes.
But there was enough of the old Grant left for him to realise his new body had a rack and an ass and legs to die for... and his face wasn’t too bad, weirdly enough. The mane of long blonde hair – which seemed to have stopped growing so fast - made him look utterly different anyway.
Karl had been turned on by him last night. That reaction would only be strengthened, the way he looked now. The knowledge repelled him even as he knew it was his best chance to find the money he needed to keep the apartment.
Maybe he could just lead Karl on, dupe him into handing over some money... Karl was the type of guy who only ever followed his dick around anyway... in Grant’s desperation it seemed to make a kind of sense, formed the rudiments of a plan. In any case, he had no choice.
He ate slowly and sparingly and thought it through while watching soap operas. There seemed to be no other option. Damn it, he’d be willing to even give the guy a kiss if it meant getting some cash... Soon it was after lunch and he knew he had to go round, if he was ever going to.
Grant dressed. Scanty black-lace thong. Bra of the same material – though Brandi’s old bras were all a little too small to be comfortable (strange how he just accepted that: it seemed his reservoir of shame was not inexhaustible). Tight top and leather mini. He let his hair hang free and pulled on a pair of leather boots with little heels on them.
Still not quite enough to guarantee over-riding Karl’s natural wariness, Grant thought. He hunted around and found some old make-up Brandi had left behind. Clumsily and slowly he pulled out the brightest lipstick he could find and started applying it around his mouth.
*
Karl’s apartment building was even shittier than Grant’s, which was saying something. Grant made his way up to his friend’s door and hit the buzzer, glanced around nervously as he waited. There were no pockets in his outfit so he’d stuck his keys and cash in a tiny black bag he’d bought Brandi but which she’d never used.
The door opened. Karl stood there, wearing a pair of jeans and apparently nothing else. Surprise bloomed on his face as he recognised Grant, followed rapidly by a broad grin.
‘Hi,’ Grant said. ‘You said to come round... that we could maybe...’
‘Sure thing,’ Karl said, opening the door and stepping back from it to allow Grant in. Grant could feel his eyes rake over him as he went through into the main room.
‘Can I getcha beer?’ Karl asked, heading for the fridge himself.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Grant said automatically. He sat down on one of the chairs, leaned forward. Don’t look too nervous, he told himself. Act casual.
Karl returned with a couple of bottles, handed one to Grant. He took a swig of it as Karl flopped onto the sofa, looked at Grant again, apparently in amused disbelief.
‘Still can’t believe it’s really you,’ Karl said, taking a gulp of his own drink.
Grant shrugged. ‘Well, it is.’
Karl nodded. ‘So. What’s it like? Being a girl, I mean?’
‘I – I don’t know. Same as before, except...’ He touched his chest, found himself coloring.
‘Yeah, you got the boobies now,’ Karl said, grinning again. ‘You also got the...?’ He looked knowingly further down.
Grant felt his cheeks burning. This wasn’t going at all how he’d imagined it might. He took another big pull from the bottle of beer. ‘So I need a hand,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘That old bastard at my place wants rent but Brandi ran off with all my money, the bitch...’
‘Yeah, you said,’ Karl said. ‘And, you know, I said we could maybe do a deal...’
‘I just need to borrow some cash. Till I figure out what I’m going to do,’ Grant said.
Karl inclined his head. ‘Seems to me like you are not in what you’d call a strong bargaining position.’
‘What – what’d you mean?’ Grant asked.
‘Well, how’d I know you’d ever be able to pay me back?’ Karl seemed quite relaxed about the whole conversation. ‘It’d be a big risk for me, wouldn’t it? Money for you, and nothing for me but risk.’
‘Karl – Karl, we’re buds, aren’t we?’ The pleading note was back in Grant’s voice and he hated himself for it.
Karl laughed as he finished his beer. Grant found his own bottle was nearly empty, was dimly aware this new body had nothing like the tolerance of his old one and he was going way too fast. ‘We ain’t buds any more, Grant,’ Karl said. ‘I’m not sure we ever were.’
‘Please, Karl. I need the dough,’ Grant said.
‘You want another beer?’
Grant found that he did, despite everything. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
Karl sat back on the sofa and smiled. ‘Well, get me one while you’re there, wilya? You know where they are.’
Grant nodded and went through to the kitchen. He pulled another brace of bottles from the refrigerator and opened them before carrying them back through. He held one out to Karl but he did not take it, instead patted the sofa next to him.
‘I – I’m okay on the chair,’ Grant said.
‘Wasn’t asking,’ Karl said, smiling.
Grant nodded and sank onto the sofa next to Karl. They both pulled at their drinks then he was aware of Karl setting his down on the floor. Then he felt Karl’s fingers running through his hair.
‘You sure were a big ugly bastard until a few days ago,’ Karl said. Grant felt Karl’s hand leave his hair and slide about his waist. ‘I prefer you the way you are now a lot.’
‘Karl...’ Grant looked away, tried to dislodge the hand, failed. ‘You know it’s still me. Still Grant.’
Karl pointed to his temple. ‘Stuff up here knows that, faint-like.’ He pointed to the crotch of his jeans, where a sickening bulge was starting to show. ‘Other stuff doesn’t give a shit.’
‘Karl –‘ But he was taking Grant’s drink from him and pulling him closer. Grant found himself staring into Karl’s face, with one of the man’s hands on his side and the other stroking his bare thigh. And Grant was horrified to discover this new body responding to the sinewy strength of Karl’s, a strange fluttering tension appearing in the pit of his belly and elsewhere.
‘Ain’t gonna force you. Not really,’ Karl said, grinning. ‘You can say “no,” walk out, any time.’
‘...my money?’ Grant asked.
‘I’ll see you right,’ Karl said. ‘So...’ He moved his face towards Grant’s, and Grant forced himself to stay still and receive the kiss. Karl’s arms were wrapping more closely around him and he found he was reciprocating, sliding onto his back on the sofa with Karl on top of him, pressing down on his tits, which were starting to throb. No, Jesus, this could not be him, not Grant Blackley...
One of Karl’s hands found his tit and started to fondle it. Grant heard himself moan, was dimly aware of Karl sliding his hand up under Grant’s top to stroke his breasts more directly. Through his pleasure Grant caught himself thinking: this wasn’t supposed to be how it happened!
‘Aw, shit! Sorry, K!’ The scrawny guy in a pair of shorts and vest who’d just wandered in on them looked on in embarrassment as they tried to disentangle themselves.
‘That’s fine, Ty.’ Karl sounded more disgruntled than anything else. ‘My old buddy Ty. Ty, this is... this is Grace.’
‘Hiya, Grace,’ Ty said, nodding.
‘...hi,’ Grant said. He sat up, adjusted his clothing.
‘...I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Ty said, making to leave the room.
‘Ah, hell. Don’t worry,’ Karl said, standing up. He looked down at Grant. ‘I was just thinking we should adjourn this to somewhere more intimate, right, Grace?’
Grant swallowed hard as Karl held out his hand. If he went to Karl’s bedroom with him...but if he failed to get the money he needed... and the fire running through his new body... and somewhere deep down the need to know... and his hand was in Karl’s without his consciously being aware of having moved it, though he knew he had.
‘Grace?’ was all he could think of to whisper as Karl led him out of the room.
‘It’s a nice name,’ Karl said, snapping a quick grin over his shoulder. ‘Can’t go on calling you Grant while we’re fuckin’, that’d just be messed up.’ He seemed quite matter-of-fact about it.
Karl’s room was small and untidy, a medium-sized bed at its centre. Grant surveyed it and smiled weakly and nervously at its owner, who was still lounging against the door he’d just closed.
‘May’s well make yourself more comfortable ‘fore we get down to it,’ Karl said. His meaning was clear.
Grant nodded and sat on the edge of the bed to unzip his boots. He was aware of Karl’s eyes on him all the time. Barefoot now, he stood up and fumbled to unfasten the clasp on his skirt, unzipped it and wriggled it down his legs. He forced himself to glance at Karl, reminded himself of how it had felt to be kissed and held, even if only by a man like him. That helped a little.
He pulled his top off over his head and threw it down, stood there in bra and g-string, hoping for some sign of approval from Karl, hating himself for being so weak.
‘An’ the rest,’ Karl said.
Grant reached behind him and unhooked his bra. Strange how he’d got used to the feel of it. He turned his back and wriggled it off, covered his breasts with his hands before turning back. Then it occurred to him he was being ridiculous and he let his hands fall to his hips. Karl grinned fiercely.
Grant got onto the bed, up on his knees. Forcing a smile onto his face he slid both thumbs into the waistband of his g-string and slid it down over his hips, to his knees. He went down onto his back and kicked his last garment off, lay there looking at Karl, legs slightly apart. He had never felt so totally naked before in his life.
Karl did not speak. Abruptly he unfastened and unzipped his jeans and started pulling them off. As Grant had thought he was naked beneath them and the effect Grant’s strip had had on the man was obvious. Karl crawled onto the bed, moving over Grant, face a mask. Grant felt the tip of Karl’s cock brush his belly and let out a little whimper.
‘Don’t hurt me...’
‘You left it a little late for that,’ Karl said, sounding amused. His mouth came fiercely down onto Grant’s as his hands got back to work on Grant’s breasts. Grant felt the uncontrollable tides surging in his body again and found he was clutching at Karl’s shoulders and back, then his waist and buttocks... and then Karl brusquely jerked Grant’s thighs apart and thrust his cock into him.
It’s not me, it’s not me, it’s not me, Grant thought, almost in time with the rhythm of Karl’s thrusts and his own little helpless barks. He tried to abandon the body, abandon the flesh, this was just a business arrangement, but then the power of his climax broke through the flimsy barrier and he couldn’t help but cry out...
When it was over he lay on Karl’s bed, a sheet thrown over him, feeling sweat and other fluids drying on his skin. I can’t deny it, he thought. This guy just fucked me. I’m a girl now, whether I like it or not.
Karl himself did not seem inclined to linger on the bed with him. Almost at once he got up and started pulling his jeans back on, looking pleased with himself as he did so. ‘Jesus, Grace. I think you missed your vocation in life.’
‘What?’
Karl spared him a glance. ‘You were a pretty fair shitkicker, but you’re a premium piece of ass.’ He snickered.
Grant caught himself on the verge of saying thank-you, made himself stay silent for a moment. Then: ‘Karl... my money?’
‘Ah yeah. A deal’s a deal,’ Karl said. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, slid out a wad of notes and tossed them onto the bed. ‘Any time you get short again, feel free to come round...’
Grant gathered up the money. ‘Karl, this isn’t as much...’
‘Shoulda made the deal clear beforehand, sweetheart.’ Karl almost seemed to have forgotten that Grant had ever been a man.
‘Karl...!’ Grant sat up, feeling his eyes start to sting, ignoring the spoilt, whining tone in his voice. Karl sniggered. ‘You fuckin’ bastard, you think you can just fuck me and gyp me? You god-damned ass-hole – aahhh!’
He fell back onto the bed clutching his face where Karl had slapped him. ‘You’d better remember who you’re fuckin’ talking to, bitch.’ Karl didn’t actually sound angry. ‘You’re not a bad-ass any more, baby. You’re just a piece of ass. You can’t go givin’ shit to dudes any more less you wanna get knocked about.’
Grant stared at him, then nodded. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Karl put his hand on Grant’s ass, gave it a pat like one might a family pet. He smiled . ’That’s okay,’ he said. ‘Just bear it in mind from now on, okay?’ Grant nodded.
‘Now get the fuck outta my bed. I gotta go out and I ain’t leavin’ you here by yourself.’

12.
Grant went back to his apartment, sat curled up under the shower until all the hot water was gone and it was just a blasting icy jet. It didn’t help much. Eventually he became dimly aware of someone pounding on the apartment door and got up, pulling on a thin old robe as he went.
Lazarenko glared in at him through the crack in the door. ‘Has Blackley come back?’
Grant shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think he ever will,’ he said.
The old man sniffed. ‘Well, then, if that’s so you’ll have to get out of that apartment, young lady.’
‘Please...’ Grant went over to his discarded purse, pulled out the money Karl had given him. ‘I have a little money... can’t I pay what he owes you? I’ve got nowhere else to go...’
Speaking like this to the old shit made him want to yell and break things, but he forced the old Grant down into the darkest depths of himself. As he turned to face the man he was aware of the old eyes running over his breasts and body. That what you want, you old bastard? Grant thought. Well, if that’s all it takes... if I gave it to fuckin’ Karl of all people, why not you?
He handed the money to his landlord and as the old man checked it he ran a hand through his hair, surreptitiously tweaked the front edges of his robe a little further apart. He knew well enough what it took.
When Lazarenko turned back to him he paused, momentarily. ‘Well, I don’t know...’
‘I’d be so grateful, mister,’ Grant said. ‘You wouldn’t want me out on the street, would you?’
‘It’s a little short, that’s all.’ The old man looked flustered, just a touch. ‘But I suppose...’ His eyes were not on Grant’s face.
‘I’ll make it up, I promise. Any way I can,’ Grant said.
‘Hmm, well. I’ll take this as a down payment – just a down payment, mind,’ Lazarenko said.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Grant forced himself to dart forward and plant a kiss on the old man’s unshaven jowl.
‘Umm, well, yes, whatever.’ His landlord had colored and was almost twitching. ‘What was your name again?’
‘G-grace. Grace Benson,’ Grant said.
‘Well, Grace,’ the old man said, giving him an awful, crooked smile, ‘I expect I’ll see you soon. For the rest, you understand.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Grant said, smiling and looking breezy. ‘I’ll look forward to it!’
‘Me too,’ said the old man, and after a moment handed back a ten. He smiled again and closed the door behind him.
Jesus, Grant thought. He would’ve done it as well, if it had meant the difference between keeping the place and losing it. He still might have to. What the hell, he told himself. It wasn’t as though it needed to mean anything. With Karl it had been weird and new but not entirely bad. Karl had seemed satisfied.
He’d lost his old power, the weapons of his arms and legs and fists and muscles. But it seemed like maybe he had a new power, a new set of weapons that were slower and slyer but just as effective when it came to getting him what he wanted. That was all he needed to get back on his feet again. Grant Blackley was nothing if not a determined guy, he told himself. Then it occurred to him that he was Grace Benson now, and not really a guy at all.
*
Back at Karl’s place, a day or two later, banging on the door. He was in fishnets, leather boots and skirt, bustier, hair up, caked in makeup. Karl had made him the offer, after all, but this time he was determined to drive a harder bargain.
After a moment the door opened. It was Karl’s roomie Ty, who grinned at the sight of Grant. ‘Hel- lo...’
‘Hi. Karl in?’
Ty shook his head. ‘Went out early, don’t know where.’
‘Ah.’ Damn, he really needed the money.
Despite everything some of his disappointment must have crept into his face because Ty said, ‘Anything I can help with?’
Grant put his head on one side and looked at Ty anew. His face was kinder than Karl’s, for one thing. ‘Well, I dunno...’ he said, putting a note of playfulness into his voice.
‘Guess I know what you want,’ Ty said, grinning. ‘Wanna come in?’
‘Sure,’ Grant said, following him into the apartment.
‘Grace, right?’
‘Yeah.’ Grant took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa.
Ty sat down next to him. This was becoming routine for him, Grant thought, this assumption of the role of Grace... he knew how she would talk, behave. It was almost as though she were a real person and he could just sit back and let her take the controls.
‘You and Karl aren’t, you know, exclusive?’ Ty asked, his fingertips stroking Grant’s knee through his stockings.
Grant relaxed and let Grace work her wiles. ‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, giggling. ‘You don’t have to worry about nothing like that...’
‘Oh, good,’ Ty said. He leaned in and kissed Grace on the mouth. She mmmed with pleasure and slid her hands onto him, then broke it off sharply.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ Grace said, looking sadly at him. ‘I’d love to stay and fool around, but I can’t, things being the way they are...’
Ty was clearly already hooked. ’I don’t see what the problem is, honey...’
‘My rent’s due,’ Grace said, shrugging helplessly. ‘I was hoping Karl would, you know, help me out with some money... if he’s not here...’
‘Hey, baby, I’d be happy to lend a hand,’ Ty said, stroking her face.
‘But you don’t know me...’
‘Reckon I know you well enough,’ Ty said, grinning. ‘How much you need?’
‘Fifty, maybe?’
Ty nodded. ‘Can do, no problem.’ He grinned and leaned in to kiss her again.
‘Baby,’ Grace said, jerking her head aside. ‘Can you just give me the money now, maybe? So I can relax and stop worrying...’
Ty nodded again, clearly fully understanding the situation. ‘Money’s in my room,’ he said.
It wasn’t much different from Karl’s. As Ty started to count out bills, Grace smiled at him and started to unzip her skirt.
*
Ty and Karl had various buddies who knew value when they saw it, and even when all them were busy it was easy enough to find guys in a bar or club who wanted to show off their wallets, like that made any difference. Grant knew that was riskier, though, and that if he carried on like that too long the chances were his body’d turn up in a dumpster somewhere. The logical thing to do would be to cut someone in – Ty or Karl, maybe – for part of the take, in exchange for looking out for Grace’s safety.
But he resisted that, because he knew what people like that were called, and what that in turn would make him. Deep down the remains of the old Grant were still resisting what he’d become.
That said, he was dimly aware the boundaries between Grant and Grace were sliding... or simply fading away. This was his life – Grace’s life now – no-one was even calling him Grant any more, as far as everyone except Ratman and Karl were concerned Grant had just dropped out of sight. He was really Grace now, in every sense that mattered. He was her.
*
Late at night, on a weekend, and Grace was walking back home down main street. She was stiff and sore after a rough encounter in the back seat of a Chevy, and the guy had tried to gyp her – might have managed it, too, if he’d been less drunk. She wondered how long it would be before he noticed his wallet was gone – he might be one of the ones she had to look out for in future.
Shit, she was tired. Still, had to make money somehow, and she was doing okay, keeping the old bastard in the apartment block happy, eating okay, a little left for herself. Men were such dumb fucks when you really got down to it. None of this was what she’d have chosen for herself, but she was doing okay.
Red light at the crosswalk. She paused and looked around. The good people of the town were out and enjoying themselves, drifting between bars and clubs. Well, good luck to them ‘em, all she wanted was her bed – and just the bed.
A couple came up to the crosswalk, and Grace realised there was something vaguely familiar about them. She was gorgeous, tall, long red-brown hair, great body, dress that must’ve cost a thousand bucks. The guy was well-dressed too, flash suit – looked to be in good shape, for all that everything about him seemed to yell ‘yuppie asshole’.
The woman noticed Grace looking at them and returned her gaze. She looked Grace up and down with a faint smile on her face, almost a look of pity in her eyes. Grace found herself getting angry, he cheeks starting to burn. The man glanced at Grace and whispered something to his partner. They both laughed, just as the light turned green.
Grace stayed put as the two of them walked away, tried to fight down the rage that suddenly gripped her... but it was quashed by something even more awful, the realisation that whatever they thought of her, it was probably true.
Jesus, what was she? What had she become? And how could she change it? It preyed on her mind all the way home, and did not allow her to sleep until well into the night.

13.
None of the fuckin’ men she met had any class, that was the problem. She needed to start moving in better circles. Not much chance of that, though, the way things were. More than ever before she sensed the barrier between herself and the haves of the world, and it burned at her. She was – she was Grace Benson, she told herself, and as good as any of them – as smart, as tough, as ruthless. All she needed was the smallest opportunity to show it.
But try as she might Grace couldn’t think of a way to catch that opportunity. So she rubbed along a while longer, out with her men-friends in the afternoons and evenings, sprawled in front of the TV the rest of the time. It was there that she lay when there came a knock at the door.
Shit, it was probably that old fart sniffing around her again. She pulled a robe on over her slip, pulled an appropriately friendly look onto her face, and opened it.
To Grace’s utter astonishment it was Guy, Benny’s pal, the man from the lab. He flashed a somewhat awkward smile in her direction. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ Grace echoed.
‘I – ah, I’m looking for Grant Blackley,’ Guy said. ‘Someone told me this was his place.’
Man, he stood out in this shitty building like a visitor from another planet. ‘Kinda,’ Grace said, opening the door. ‘You wanna come in?’
Guy nodded and came into the apartment. Grace kicked herself for not keeping the place tidier. ‘You, ah, want a beer?’
‘Er, no thanks,’ Guy said, looking around.
‘So, why do you want Grant?’
‘Well... I know he got sick – just before he disappeared. The cops seem to think he’s left town, but... I don’t think he would’ve been able to,’ Guy said. ‘I know how sick he was.’
‘That was weeks ago. No-one’s seen him in ages,’ Grace said.
‘Yeah, well, it’s taken me this long to track down his address,’ Guy said. ‘You haven’t seen him in weeks?’
Grace shook her head, starting to think it was maybe an error even as she did so. Guy nodded and sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point me bothering you any further,’ he said.
‘It’s no bother,’ Grace said, even as Guy turned back towards the door. She shot him a quick smile. ‘Why are you looking for Grant, anyway?’
Guy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What was happening to him was pretty severe, I just – maybe wanted to see if I could help him. Also...’ He laughed, almost harshly. ‘Whatever happened to him’s never happened before... so, you know, it’d have scientific value, if I could look at him...whatever’s left of him...’
‘Aha,’ Grace said. Guy wanting to help Grant she couldn’t really understand but the rest of it made perfect sense to her: the man was just looking out for his own reputation and career.
‘Anyway, I should go,’ Guy said. He started for the door again, in his smart suit, no doubt heading down to his expensive car which he’d use to drive to his nice house...
‘Aw, d’you have to?’ Grace asked. She turned her smile up to full intensity. ‘I, you know, don’t see many people –‘
‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said, smiling awkwardly.
He was seconds away from walking out of her door forever. ‘Guy,’ she said desperately.
Guy paused in the doorway, frowned at her. ‘How’d you know my name?’
‘You said you wanted to see what was left of Grant,’ she said. She held her hands out, looked down at herself. ‘Here it is.’
Guy stared at her, his frown deepening. ‘What?’
‘The last time you saw Grant,’ Grace said, taking a deep breath and trying to force the emotion from her voice, ‘he came to you outside your lab. He – I was losing my teeth and hair, couldn’t walk properly... I was really bad.’
‘I... I still can’t believe...’ Guy said, but he was looking at her properly now.
Grace sank into one of the chairs. ‘You talked about... I don’t know, some kind of chemical. Orgasmatron or something.’
‘Grant could have told you that,’ Guy said in a low voice. But he walked over to her, put his hand under her chin and raised her face. ‘Christ. Your coloring’s completely changed, but... there’s still some of your original bone structure left.’
‘Not enough for most people to recognise, though,’ Grace said, forcing a smile onto her face.
Guy stepped back, shaking his head. ‘Your hair grew back? Your teeth?’
‘Really fuckin’ quick.’
‘And – and the rest of it?’ Guy raised a vague hand.
Grace couldn’t help but smile in earnest. ‘Not sure what you mean... but I’m all girl. Far as I can tell, anyway. Didn’t want to go to a doctor.’
Guy nodded. ‘Well, maybe you should... how’ve you been feeling? Generally, I mean?’
She shrugged. ‘Fine. Good as ever, once the actual change was done...’
‘This is... this is incredible,’ Guy said. ‘I should be taking notes. You really ought to have some tests, you know... at the lab or something.’
Grace smiled at him. ‘I’d really like to keep this unofficial, doc... you know, the cops are still looking for Grant... if anyone finds out I used to be him, you’d be doing your tests on me while I was in the pen.’
Guy seemed to think about that for a moment. ‘I guess most people would say you’ve already been punished enough for that break-in,’ he said, eventually. ‘Okay, let’s keep this unofficial, for the time being.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I need to go and get my notebook, some other stuff,’ Guy said. He checked his watch. ‘Damn it, I have to be at a staff meeting this afternoon.’ He glanced back at Grace. ‘Is it okay if I come back this evening? Do it then?’
‘Yeah, okay. Only... I lost my job,’ Grace said. ‘For obvious reasons. Kinda been struggling...’
Guy nodded. ‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ he said.
No change there then, Grace thought. ‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ she said. ‘Seven?’
Guy broke into a thin smile. ‘Seven,’ he said.

14.
Grace was waiting for him by six thirty, wearing the classiest clothes she had – her figure was still pretty blatantly prominent, of course. She’d even made an attempt at cleaning up the apartment. Don’t make this too obvious, she repeated to herself like a mantra. You had to play a big fish on a long line. Or something like that. (She’d never actually been fishing.)
When he eventually appeared (ten minutes late, not that Grace was going to make an issue of it), Guy was wearing the same clothes as earlier and looked slightly surprised that she’d dressed up. He wasn’t thinking of this as a date, Grace realised. Well, it wasn’t, strictly speaking.
‘Thought we’d get some food,’ she said, brightly.
‘Er, yeah. Okay,’ Guy said. ‘Where’s good around here?’
‘Everywhere’s shit,’ she said with a grin, then made a note to cut back on the cursing. He looked uneasy with it.
‘Well, I’ve got the car with me,’ he said, smiling.
They drove to a pizza restaurant slightly uptown – a quiet place, thankfully, because it was clear Guy’s first objective was to ask an immense number of questions: how exactly had Grant felt immediately after his exposure to the organo-dimutron? How long before the physical changes had started to appear? How exactly had they progressed?
Grace did her best to answer them, but began to feel frustrated. He was being so damn brisk and professional about the whole thing, there was barely any sign he’d even noticed her as a woman. Oh, Jesus, don’t say he was gay... that really would be the crowning indignity of all...
‘Okay, I think we’ve just about covered the physical side,’ Guy said, making a final note. ‘I’d still really love for you to have a proper exam at some point, though. Now... this may not be something you care to discuss...’
‘Go on,’ Grace said, sipping at her beer.
‘ It’s whether the physical change has been accompanied by any... psychological alterations,’ Guy said. ‘I mean, most obviously, you’re wearing very feminine clothing, and make-up...’
‘Ah,’ Grace said. Better not let on the real reasons for that, she thought. ‘Well... you know... my old clothes were no good any more... and I thought there was no point trying to pretend to be something I wasn’t any more...’
Guy nodded. ‘A conscious choice. I’m just interested in how much that decision may have been influenced by changes in brain chemistry...’
Grace shrugged and smiled. ‘Can’t help you there, doc.’
‘It’s okay if you want to call me Guy,’ he said, making another note.
‘To be honest, it’s just a relief to be able to talk to someone about all of this stuff,’ she said.
‘You haven’t told anyone? Friends or family?’ He did not look up.
‘Don’t really have any of either. This has made me realise that,’ Grace said. Damn it, she thought, that was perilously close to being true, and she clamped down on the emotion the fact stirred in her. Don’t go soft, bitch...
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Guy said. ‘It must have been very difficult for you.’
She’d meant to get all tearful at some point in the evening, Grace told herself. Just hadn’t expected it to come so soon or so easy. ‘Guess so,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry...’
‘That’s okay,’ Guy said. He waited until she had recovered herself before going on. ‘I really think you should consider getting professional help, Grace. Medical and psychiatric.’
‘Thought we’d discussed that,’ she said. ‘Anyway... just talking to you’s really great. I feel so much better.’ She put her hand gently on his and smiled at him again.
He blinked at her and smiled back, clearly a little surprised. ‘Uh... thank you, Grace.’
‘You wanted to ask me some more questions about my change?’ she asked.
‘Um... yeah.’ He pulled his hand away, a little reluctantly she thought. ‘Do – do you think of yourself as a woman? Inside, I mean?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Yeah... but I didn’t feel like I had any choice there, either... with the way I was feeling... you know, fantasies and stuff...’ She looked away and did her best to look bashful.
‘Oh,’ Guy said. ‘You mean – sexual fantasies?’
She met his gaze and nodded, paused before answering further. ‘Me and a guy together. You know, being intimate. They were so vivid... so enjoyable...’ And so entirely imaginary, too, but she had to start him thinking about her in that kind of context and this seemed a neat way to do it.
‘Aha,’ Guy said, taking a sip of his own drink and looking slightly ill-at-ease.
‘Oh, God, I’m embarrassing you! Sorry,’ Grace said. She smiled and shrugged. ‘Well, you did ask...’
‘Yeah,’ Guy agreed. He looked at his notepad and seemed to be thinking of a way to frame the next question. ‘This is a really personal question, and you don’t need to answer it... but do you still have these, uh, feelings?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? I mean, yeah,’ Grace said.
‘And have you, ah – what I mean to ask is, have you – have you made any attempt –‘
‘Have I done it with a guy yet?’
‘Er, basically, yeah.’
‘Jeez, doc, what kind of girl do you take me for?’ She smiled at him. ‘C’mon, you’ve seen where I live, the kind of circles I used to move in. I don’t want that kind of guy. I want someone nice. Classy.’ Again, she found she was speaking the truth without intending to and it rattled her.
‘Well... I can understand that,’ Guy said.
He was definitely thinking of her in that way now, Grace thought. She hoped she was coming across the right way – vulnerable and uncertain, but passionate. Then again his eyes were sliding down off her face more and more, so it was a fair bet that he wasn’t completely paying attention to what she said...
He picked up the check and drove her back to her place. A long line, Grace told herself as Guy escorted her up to her apartment door.
‘Hope I answered all your questions okay,’ she said, as she unlocked it. ‘I had a nice evening, regardless.’
‘Yeah,’ Guy said. ‘Yeah, it was great.’
She turned and leaned against the doorframe. ‘So, doc... are you going to want to see me again?’
Guy shrugged. ‘Well... there may be a few follow-up questions... and I think it’d make sense for someone to keep –‘
‘That, ah, wasn’t really what I meant,’ Grace said. She took hold of his lapels and pulled him down so she could kiss him, just for a moment or so. As he was standing there looking stunned she pulled out the slip of paper with her new phone number on it that she’d had in her purse all night and pressed it into his hand.
‘Good night, Guy,’ she whispered, stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.
Well, she thought, standing with her back to the closed door, listening to the sound of him walking slowly away, that had just about gone according to plan. Now it was just a case of waiting in the expectation of him calling her...
*
...which he did, less than thirty-six hours later.
Sucker, Grace thought triumphantly. She started to idly contemplate what clothes and other new shit she wanted.

15.
Guy pulled the car up in front of the building. ‘Here we are.’
‘Thanks... I had another lovely evening,’ Grace said, running her fingers through her hair. ‘You, ah, wanna come in?’
‘Why not,’ Guy said, smiling.
He took her hand as they went inside. Two weeks and five dates in and she was pretty sure she had him hooked good and proper. Time to start reeling him in.
She started to exaggeratedly tiptoe, putting her finger to her lips, as they passed Lazarenko’s door, all the way up to the next floor.
‘What...?’ Guy asked when she started walking normally again.
‘Oh, it’s just my landlord, he’s been giving me a hard time over the rent,’ Grace said, sighing. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet old guy, but I think he owes somebody else...’
Guy frowned. ‘Well, surely that’s his problem, not yours...’
‘Yeah, but – see, when I was Grant, he cut me some slack, because I helped him out around the place... and since he started thinking I was Grant’s old girlfriend, taking over the lease, he’s gone easy on me – till recently... so I can’t really complain,’ Grace said, thinking fast.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Guy said.
‘Can’t be helped,’ Grace said. She opened the door and let them into her apartment. ‘Coffee?’
‘Sounds good,’ Guy said, sitting down.
The place was really sort of transformed, even if Grace thought so herself. Not exactly spotless, and still not what you’d call nice, but it looked like a single girl’s flat now, rather than a pigsty. A single girl desperately short of cash, of course...
‘How much short are you, anyway? I know that’s kinda personal,’ Guy said.
‘After all those other personal things you started off asking me?’ Grace giggled. ‘You know, honey, I don’t actually have what you’d call an income. I don’t have a job, and I can hardly claim social security...’
‘Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Are you just burning through your savings?’
Grace nodded. ‘Been looking for a job, but you know how things are at the moment...’ She carried two cups of coffee over to where he sat.
‘Dammit. If only we could go public about this, the university’d probably be able to give you a support grant, or something...’
Grace sat down next to him, sipped at her coffee. ‘Would the university be okay with you dating a test subject?’
‘Maybe not.’ He lifted his own cup to his lips, but his eyes were always on her. She leaned back and smiled at him, injecting just a nervous edge into it. Eventually he put the cup down and reached hesitantly for her.
He was shy, almost timid, and much gentler than any of the others. In a strange way that made it much harder to shut him out of her mind and feelings, but she did her best. They relocated into the bedroom leaving a trail of clothes behind them, sliding into the bed. He’d brought his own rubbers with him, which astounded her – the old Grant would have mocked and despised something like that, but her feelings were in motion, confused – and then they were together, sliding together, like they were in synch, connected... and that made it something new and unfamiliar... when she came it was stronger, deeper than ever before. She shivered and clutched at him, buried her head against his chest.
And then they lay together and Guy whispered, ‘I love you, Grace.’
Something froze inside her, not in a cold way but like the pause button on a DVD – everything seemed to stop. She had thought that one day she would make him say it to her, but not so easily, not like this...
‘I love you too,’ she murmured in response, feeling something leap within her as she did so, maybe something that objected to her saying it so emptily and coldly – because, of course, it was a cold and empty thing for someone like Grace Benson to say.
They lay there together a while longer. ‘You’re really not in touch with your family at all?’ Guy asked, after a while.
‘No.’ She shifted against him. ‘Why?’
‘I thought, I don’t know – I can’t imagine what that’s like. I guess I’m lucky, we’ve always been close.’
‘That is lucky,’ she whispered.
He sighed. ‘My mom’s pretty sick at the moment. Has been for a while. She’s always been kind of the lynchpin. Don’t know what we’d do without her, any of us...’
‘Sounds like a nice bunch of people you have.’ She fought to keep the resentment from her voice.
‘I always just assume every family’s like that – I thought yours could help you, or you could stay with them...’
Grace couldn’t help but let out a laugh that sounded harsh even to her. ‘That’d be kind of ironic. My parents put me up for adoption...’
‘Oh, Jesus, baby, I’d no idea...’
And it was the absolute truth, that was the weirdest thing, something she’d never told, would never have dreamed of telling anyone when she’d been Grant. She felt emotions stir and grow within her, huddled closer to him. ‘I never really knew why... thought my mom must’ve been too young, or something. Then my sister tracked me down a couple of years ago. She’s not that much younger than me, and my mom kept her. So I figure she must’ve wanted a girl. I wasn’t good enough... Like I said, ironic, isn’t it?’
She felt his arms close around her, tried to resist but found she couldn’t. ‘Grace, that’s not it,’ Guy said. ‘You can’t know what your mom’s situation was...’
‘Well, maybe not,’ Grace said, rolling over to face him. ‘But I’ve made it all alone this far. Don’t see any reason to change that now.’
‘Keep on going it alone, huh?’ Guy’s embrace seemed to slacken a little. ‘Okay. I see.’
‘Honey, that’s not what I meant. You know that, right?’
Guy nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said.
*
Well, she thought, the next morning after he’d gone, she couldn’t have done much more to snare him. He seemed to have it pretty bad for her... poor fool, she added automatically. Now she’d even given up the goods to him, which had been a bit of a gamble given she’d no guarantee of his coming up with the cash she wanted. Still... it had been okay. Sex as a girl had stuff to commend it after all, maybe one day she might even consider it just for fun...
Damn it, she had to toughen up. Why was she feeling so tired? No, not tired, exactly, just... it was difficult to get it clear in her head. Soft. She was feeling soft, uncertain, sensitive in a way that just wasn’t like her... at least not like the person she’d been. Maybe she really had been transformed in every way and it had taken getting with Guy to make her realise that...
No, the idea was bullshit. She was her own person, somebody tougher than that. She was taking the man for whatever she could get, first and foremost. She had to start remembering that, whatever he said, however he acted, however her feelings seemed to be betraying her.
She kept that thought in the forefront of her mind for the rest of the day. But then that evening Guy turned up without even calling. He looked even twitchier and more nervous than usual, which was enough to set her worrying too. Jesus, had she scared him off somehow? Had it gotten too heavy too fast?
‘Hey,’ Guy said. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Oh, sure,’ Grace said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Well...’ Guy was practically pacing up and down on the rug as she sank into a chair. ‘I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last night... the trouble you’re having...’
This sounded more hopeful, but she knew not to sound too eager. ‘Yeah?’
‘Grace... you know how I feel about you,’ Guy said. ‘I want to help.’
Mentally she was punching the air, but she contrived to look shocked and delighted and disbelieving... ‘Guy... I don’t know what to say...’ She wondered how much she could realistically hope to get out of him.
Guy hunkered down in front of her, grinning. ‘You’re okay with that? You don’t think it’s too soon?’
‘Honey... I’m so grateful! It’s wonderful!’
‘You’ll really like the place. At least I hope you do. We can always...’ Guy stopped as he realised she was looking at him in confusion.
‘W- what are you talking about, sweetie?’ Grace asked.
‘Well – I was kind of asking you to move in with me,’ Guy said.
‘You mean – permanently?’
‘Uh, yeah. What did you think I meant?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I... I just thought you were offering to help out, you know, with the rent...’
Guy looked away. ‘Well... if you don’t think you’re ready for something like that...’
His disappointment, and maybe the beginnings of embarrassment and doubt, were obvious. She grabbed his hands and squeezed. ‘It’s just a big idea to take in, honey, that’s all. I need a little time to think about it,’ Grace said.
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
They stood up. ‘You want a drink, something to eat?’ Grace asked.
Guy shook his head, smiled. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘Okay, then.’ She kissed him, put a lot into it, but his response was only half-hearted, uncertain. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’
‘Nothing. I should go,’ Guy said. He smiled. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Grace said. She saw him to the door and closed it after him.
Suddenly she felt nervous and worried herself, skittish inside. For the first time he was looking uncertain about the whole thing, and – ah, Jesus, with hindsight it was obvious – she’d basically rejected him, to his face. She should’ve said she was locked into the lease, or something, unable to move out... but that wouldn’t have made sense, and he’d have probably insisted on talking to Lazarenko himself, and the whole edifice of deceit would’ve come crashing down on her...
It wasn’t as if she felt that attached to this shithole anyway. She looked around the apartment and found she had little real affection for it any more. It was too redolent of the old Grant, and Brandi, and all the other girls that had come before her (and also occasionally while she was out)... She’d never seen Guy’s place, but she’d seen how he dressed, the car he drove – it had to be better than this, didn’t it?
Wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted? To move up in the world, to start moving in a slightly classier circle? A better apartment would be just the start of that. And she’d basically be living there rent-free. She’d be able to stop giving Karl and Ty and their friends rides just for day-to-day money. That would be a real improvement, though of course she’d still have to keep Guy happy. She smiled and thought of herself making him happy in his own bed. Not quite living rent-free, after all, she thought... but it wouldn’t hardly feel like a chore, not with him...
Okay. Her mind was settled: she was moving up and moving out. Idly she started to make herself a meal, planning how she was going to break the news to him.

16.
Guy didn’t have an apartment, he had a house. Okay, it was a small house, and not new enough to be cool or old enough to have class, but it was a house with its own four walls and a yard at the back... and it was hers to live in, very nearly for free.
Thankfully, the next time they met Guy was his old self again, and had looked genuinely absolutely delighted when she’d told him her decision. It was all she could do not to stop him leaving the restaurant then and there to go and help her start packing her things. She made him wait until the weekend – and then she moved out of Lazarenko’s building, leaving the old man a reasonable roll of cash but no forwarding address.
Guy admitted to being slightly surprised at how few possessions she had, particularly clothes. ‘It makes sense, though, I suppose,’ he said, watching her unpack at his place.
‘None of my old stuff was any good,’ Grace said. ‘Threw it all in the trash.’
‘Where did you get all your clothes from, anyway?’ Guy asked.
‘Just stuff an old girlfriend left lying around the place.’ She smiled.
‘Yeah...’
‘What?’ She could tell he had something on his mind.
‘Well, I mean, do you like it? Dressing that way?’
Grace looked down at herself. As usual, she was wearing a strappy top, miniskirt and high-heels. ‘I don’t know. Don’t you like it?’ She smiled at him.
Guy grinned. ‘Well, yeah, but... it’s a bit obvious...’
She put her head on one side. ‘You saying I look trashy?’ She couldn’t figure out why that should upset her so.
He raised both hands, a placatory gesture. ‘I’m just saying you can get some new clothes now. Dress how you feel comfortable dressing.’
‘That’s not important, baby.’ She stepped up to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘I just want you to feel good...’
Because that was part of the deal, wasn’t it? She kept him happy and he kept her... well, he just kept her. Although, if the guy was happy for her to let her end of the deal slide, why not? More fool him.
Except, of course, he wasn’t thinking of it in terms of a deal. He was in love, the poor... the poor fella, Grace thought, surprised by her inability to think of him in any harsher terms. Christ, though, he seemed like a decent man – trusting someone like her, taking her into his home. He deserved –
Grace was angry to find herself slipping. He deserved whatever he could carve out for himself, same as everyone else in the world. Grant had used his strength to do it, she was using sex, and if Guy couldn’t use his obvious smarts in the same way, that was his look out.
So to keep him happy and because it actually was more comfortable, she let him buy her a few long skirts, and blouses, and pairs of pants. The kind of stuff he’d hated to see girls wearing when she was Grant. She stopped wearing make-up, except when they went out together, and he didn’t even comment on that.
Grace found the routines of domesticity surprisingly easy to master. Her rudimentary cooking skills started to improve and she accepted that some cleaning and doing of laundry comprised her side of the deal, along with the sex.
That was the main thing, the focus, after all. Whether it was dumb or not, she was strict with herself, never refusing him and always initiating sex three nights a week, without fail. She gave him the stuff she knew he wanted but was too embarrassed to own up to: oral, anal, her in teddies, costumes, whatever. And, really, it was getting better between them, not that it had ever really been a disappointment.
So it came as a real shock one night when she was wrapping herself around him and he just smiled gently and said, ‘You know, you don’t have to, Grace.’
‘But I want to, honey, I want you to be happy...’
‘What’d really make me happy would be for you to relax,’ Guy said, following it up with a kiss. She took that as a sign that he wanted it after all, but clearly it was a sign she’d misread, as he gently resisted her again. ‘Darling, I mean it.’
‘I... I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t ask you to move in because I wanted to have sex all the time... I asked because I love you, and I think we could be really happy together...’
‘Could be? I thought we were.’
‘Yeah, but – I just get the feeling you think you have to do all these things to repay me, or something,’ Guy said.
‘But you’ve given me so much, and I don’t have anything to give you back except –‘
‘You can’t just go through life thinking in terms of getting one thing for another, Grace.’
‘Well, you’re talking about giving me something for nothing, and that’s dumb...’
‘Then I’m dumb,’ Guy said, shrugging. ‘But I’d rather have it that way. Grace, I love you. That takes all the price tags off as far as I’m concerned.’
She couldn’t think of anything to say, then buried her face against his shoulder, feeling her body start to shake.
‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ His arms held her gently as she trembled, battling to stay silent. Eventually she had to extricate herself and be apart from him while she recovered herself, told herself again who she really was.
*
So she started to let the three-times-a-week-without-fail thing fall into abeyance, and Guy seemed happier. But she felt less certain herself, felt like she was drifting into somewhere strange and alien. Yeah, he was giving her something for nothing, so she should’ve been happy, laughed at him as a fool behind his back... but why did that seem so difficult?
How could his loving her so truly feel like such a demand upon her? It didn’t make any sense, and yet it did. No matter how many times she told herself she had to toughen up and just live with it, it didn’t seem to get any easier.
But life carried on, and was good, until one day when she got home from the mall to find Guy on the sofa, phone on the coffee table in front of him. His face was a blank mask, but there were glittering trails down his cheeks where tears had run.
She had a premonition of something terrible approaching. ‘Guy? Honey, what’s wrong?’
‘My... my uncle called. It’s my mom,’ he said in a voice which sounded kind of dry and husky.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Grace knew Guy’s mom had been having a particularly tough time of it lately, and that – together with the fact that most of his family lived on the other side of the country – was really the only reason why she hadn’t been taken to meet her yet. ‘She – she got worse –?‘
Guy sank his face into his hands. ‘Uncle Lou said it actually happened pretty quick, in the end...’ He could clearly find no other words to say.
‘Oh, Guy. Oh, baby.’ Grace knew what the situation demanded of her, put down her bags and went over to him. But her movements felt stiff and jerky, like she was a puppet, but being worked by herself...
She put her arms around him and was surprised by the ferocity with which he held her back, pressing his head against her side. She made vague ssshing noises and stroked him uncertainly, knowing she should do more, and suddenly realising she had it within her to do so, but that it would mean abandoning any pretence of distance or reserve in this relationship...
And she couldn’t do that. Not now, not just like that. She realised the idea terrified her more than anything had, since those dark days in her old apartment as her flesh and bones had warped and shifted around her.
But neither could she just continue to pretend, not at a moment like this for him... he deserved more than that, a man like him. He deserved honesty, if anything.
‘Baby...’ Grace found her own voice was breaking, her own eyes were stinging. She pulled away from him, felt another dagger in the heart as he stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘Baby, I’m sorry... I just... I’ve just got to...’ And she turned and ran unsteadily for the door.

17.
Grace had thought she’d just been walking aimlessly, lost in her thoughts, and was slightly surprised to find she’d wandered back into her old neighbourhood. It figured. She’d be back here soon enough, after all. No way would Guy want her back after she’d run out on him the first time he really needed her.
Well, it looked like she’d get what she deserved in the end, anyway. Some poor slapped about bitch of girlfriend to an asshole like Karl, or maybe even somebody really vicious – like Grant had been, she realised. Christ, it was like the revenge of karma, or something.
She sank onto a bench and watched the traffic and people go by. How’d one go about finding a pimp, anyway? The prospect seemed blackly comic, but there was no point hiding from the truth – for all her ideas of using sex as her new weapon of choice, she’d basically gone from being a thug to being a whore.
Weapons. Jesus, she’d still been thinking like Grant then – everything a fight, a contest of strength. Maybe Guy had been trying to show her that there was another way after all – not consciously, but still...
‘Hey, honey. Got a light?’ Another woman, looking tired, sank onto the other end of the bench.
‘Oh, sure.’ Grace fished out her lighter, and as she handed it to the woman realised it was Brandi – in jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket. Brandi showed no sign of recognising her.
‘Thanks,’ Brandi said. She looked at Grace, smiled. ‘Jeez, look at you. Cheer up, it might never happen.’
Grace forced herself to smile. ‘Maybe,’ she said. After a pause: ‘It – it’s Brandi, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah...’ Brandi frowned at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember...’
‘It was, like, another life ago,’ Grace said, smiling. ‘My name’s Grace.’
‘Still doesn’t mean a thing. I got to cut down,’ Brandi said, returning the smile. ‘So – wanna talk about it? Whatever it is?’
‘It’s about a guy...’
‘Isn’t it always? I tell you, he can’t have been as bad as some of the assholes I’ve been with,’ Brandi said with a harsh laugh.
‘No, he’s... he’s great. Almost too great,’ Grace said.
‘No such thing. What’s the problem, then?’
‘Oh, it’s me... I went into it just thinking about me, and that was fine... but he never thought of it that way. And now, it’s like he really loves me... I just feel so fuckin’ guilty...’ Her old self was already starting to resurface, she thought.
‘Sounds like... nothin’ personal, Grace... sounds like it’s not all one way affection,’ Brandi said, looking away.
‘I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t. But I’ve been lying to him all along, so why should he –‘
‘Listen, sweetheart,’ Brandi said. ‘The past’s done with. Everyone’s done stuff they regret later. So what if you were a bitch to the guy yesterday? Doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch to him today. People can change, you know.’
‘Yeah,’ Grace said. ‘I guess you’re right.’
‘And if he really cares about you as much as you say, he’ll understand. You might have to work at it a bit, though.’
Grace looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. It would mean abandoning the last of herself, but that would surely be no great loss to the world. Eventually she looked up at Brandi and smiled. ‘Thanks. Can I ask – Brandi, are you okay? Happy, I mean?’
‘Getting by,’ Brandi said, shrugging but giving a thin smile. ‘Best any of us can hope for, right?’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Grace said. ‘I like your clothes, by the way.’
And she left Brandi staring after her in some confusion as she started back towards home.

18.
Grace let herself into the house. There was no sign of Guy in the living room, and no answer to her calls. Could he have gone out? The car was still in the driveway. Oh, God, don’t let him have done anything stupid...
She found him in their bedroom, lying on the bed in his clothes. He looked blankly at her as she came in.
‘You came back, then.’
‘Of course... honey, I’m so, so sorry... I don’t know what to say...’
‘But you came back,’ he said quietly.
‘Yeah...’ She took a breath. ‘Honey, I really love you, I just never realised how much, or what that really meant before today... And it scared me. I just... I just needed to...’
Guy nodded slowly and a smile came onto his face. ‘And are you okay with that now?’
She walked towards him, slowly, timidly. ‘I don’t think I have any choice. I mean, it’s not like it’s something I can stop myself from doing.’
He laughed, softly. ‘No. The same for me. Not that I’d ever want to.’
Suddenly they were in each others’ arms. Grace found herself saying, over and over, ‘I’m sorry... I’m sorry...’ and maybe it wasn’t just to him, but to Brandi, and Lazarenko, and a thousand other people who deserved at least that much from her.
‘It’s okay,’ Guy whispered, and she recalled how much reason he had to think of himself at the moment, instead of reaching out to her this way. Was that what it meant? Was she really capable of that?
She knew she was going to try.
‘I love you,’ she said, and for the first time how he responded did not matter to her in the slightest. It was not said for profit, or as a ploy, or with any thought of its wider implications. She was simply saying it because it was the truth. And that was surely a good place to start.

Weapon of Choice

2011-02-06T23:02:37Z

Bad Guru: Created page with '1. Inside the club it was like being at the bottom of the ocean, a dim, uncertain place filled with random movement and sound. Grant Blackley moved through it like some great mar…'

1.
Inside the club it was like being at the bottom of the ocean, a dim, uncertain place filled with random movement and sound. Grant Blackley moved through it like some great marine predator, shoals of lesser creatures parting before him as if unconsciously realising all of this was his territory.
Because it damn well was, Grant thought. He took up one of his regular positions at the top of a flight of stairs, overlooking the dance floor. At six foot five he hardly needed the extra elevation to see what was going on, but it amused him to stand there like some kind of warden, and who the hell was going to tell him no? His name might not be on the deeds, but everyone knew he was the ruler of this place, the power behind the throne. As long as he kept the customers in line and the money rolling in, Solomani would turn a blind eye to whatever else went on.
No point in having power if you didn’t have fun with it, hey? He enjoyed the looks on their faces when he refused them entry for not meeting the dress-code – when his own habitual choice of t-shirt, jeans and boots would never have got him into anywhere remotely classy. Also the expressions of anyone he’d caught using on the premises, when he’d ‘confiscated’ their stuff and thrown them out. What were they going to do, go to the cops? Even if they did, Solomani had friends.
Yeah, Solomani had friends, but that was all his boss had going for him, Grant thought. When it came down to it he could snap that runty bastard in two any time he wanted. Some would say that he, Grant, should officially be in charge of the place – he was the one who kept it running, after all. Well, maybe, Grant thought. Solomani could keep all the hassle and paperwork and headaches. Grant was happy where he was.
The music shifted and slowed and fragments of conversation from the people around him became audible. Usual clubber shit, Grant thought, but then his ears pricked up at something he heard:
‘...worth millions, man, I tell you. And he just keeps it locked up in the lab...’
Someone hurriedly shushed the speaker but not before Grant could zero in on him. A couple of college-boy types, looking kind of out of place here, standing together beneath and to one side of where Grant was. One of them looked considerably more hammered than the other, and it was he who’d spoken.
‘...don’t shush me, you asshole... you got to talk to him, there’s a fortune just sitting there and no-one’s allowed to touch it?’
‘Benny, shut up.’ The drunk’s companion, a tall-ish, sandy-haired man, glanced around him. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. It’s supposed to be secret, remember?’
‘Secret, schmmm... shurm... shu-secret,’ Benny eventually managed to say. ‘Guy, if it was so important they’d have put it somewhere more secure, wouldn’t they?’
This all sounded kinda interesting, but Grant’s earpiece blipped: somebody wanted him at the entrance. Reluctantly he left Benny and Guy to their squabble – though he took care to fix both their faces in his memory – and lumbered off to the door.
Ratman and Karl, two of his guys, were on duty there, currently being bawled out by some yuppie asshole in a suit. With him were a couple of assholes from kind of the same mold, and some women. Hell, now, they were something else, though... the one with the lead asshole had reddish-brown hair, fabulous green eyes, and a body that had him starting a boner just on seeing it. He grinned at her but she just scowled and looked away.
‘I want to see whoever’s in charge,’ the asshole said to Ratman.
‘Mr Blackley’s in charge of admissions,’ Ratman said, smirking and indicating Grant.
‘This? This is the manager?’ The asshole stared at Grant with disbelieving contempt all over his face. Grant knew right then he was going to hurt this guy before many more moments passed.
‘Yeah, I’m in charge here,’ Grant said, scritching at his beard and grinning at the guy. ‘Gotta problem with that?’
‘The problem is, your men here won’t let us into the club,’ the yuppie asshole said.
Jesus, Grant thought, why did they want to come into a dive like this anyway? He had no illusions as to the quality of the place. Maybe this bunch was looking to get their kicks by slumming it amongst the lesser mortals. He made a show of looking the man up and down. ‘Yeah, well. Maybe we don’t want your type in our nice night-club.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ The asshole was getting really angry now, it was funny to watch.
‘You’re an asshole who’s not getting into our club?’ Grant said. He heard Ratman and Karl laughing, which was right, that had been a damn funny line. He smiled at the asshole’s woman. ‘If you ladies want to come in, though...’
The woman was still staring at him like he was a piece of shit, though, and that was starting to piss him off. Didn’t they know who he was? He was Grant Blackley, damn it, shitkicker-in-chief around here, and that meant something.
Incredibly, the yuppy asshole was now jabbing at Grant’s broad chest with his forefinger and yelping at him. Maybe he’d already had a few drinks to build his courage up. ‘We have a legal right to come into this establishment –‘
Grant slammed both his palms against the asshole’s own front, sending him reeling back a few feet. ‘Stuff your legal right up your fuckin’ ass.’
The asshole turned purple and, even as his friends made to restrain him, lunged at Grant, swinging. Grant felt the man’s fist bump against his jaw, and was amused more than anything. As he threw another punch Grant let it smack into the wide expanse of his palm then closed his fist around the man’s, squeezed.
‘Aahhhh...’ the yuppy asshole said, sounding more like a pussy than ever. Grant jerked his arm, forcing the man to his knees in front of him. ‘You bastard ape!’
‘That’s not nice,’ Grant said. He could feel the bones of the man’s hand grating together in his grip, and that gratified him. He drove his boot into the man’s stomach and released him. The guy doubled over, retching, sobbing for air, and clutching himself all at once.
He stepped back as the asshole’s friends gathered around him and helped him up. ‘Ladies, the offer still stands,’ he said.
‘I’m going to call the police about this!’ the asshole’s woman said, glaring at Grant.
‘He started it. Can’t have troublemakers in our nice club, can we, boys?’
‘No way. He started the whole thing,’ Ratman said from somewhere behind him.
The asshole was mumbling incoherently now. His woman went to his side and started speaking to him comfortingly. ‘It’s okay, George. Forget about this thug. In five years time he’ll still be a thug but you’ll be a partner in the firm...’ She shot Grant another of her toxic, contemptuous looks
The party withdrew. Shame, Grant thought, he had only just begun to enjoy himself. Something about the whole thing had annoyed him, though, was still nibbling away at the back of his mind. He turned back to Ratman and Karl. ‘Why didn’t you wanna let them in, anyway?’
Ratman shrugged. ‘Just because. Thought we might have more fun if we didn’t.’
‘You got that fuckin’ right,’ Grant said. He looked after the retreating group. ‘Jesus, how’d a prick like that end up with such a babe?’
‘God knows, man.’
‘I mean, look at the guy, he was such a pussy, whinin’ like a little girl... what’s wrong with the fuckin’ world?’
‘Money, dude,’ Karl said. ‘These guys are all born with it comin’ out of their asses. Some chicks dig money more than bein’ a proper man.’
‘No reason why you can’t be a proper man and have money too, though,’ Grant said. That was what was bothering him, the total failure of that woman to recognise... well, recognise what a dude he was. That irked him. Were there many people who’d think that way? Not that he’d see down the club or in his own group of associates, not normally. But the very fact that they existed out in the wider world was an insult to his pride.
He’d never worried about money before, not seriously – it was easy enough to score a few bucks here and there, if you were Grant’s size and fairly cautious about who you leant on – but maybe that oughta change. He would be twenty-nine later in the year. Maybe it was time to start thinking longer-term.
‘Going back in. Blip me if there’s any trouble,’ Grant said.
He prowled around the edges of the dance-floor for an hour or so until one of the bar staff hustled up to him. She knew how the place worked, both officially and in reality. ‘Think we got a guy carrying drugs,’ she said.
Grant nodded. ‘Where?’
‘At the back, near the bathrooms. Green shirt.’
He told the woman she’d get her cut of whatever he made off this and drifted over in that direction. God must be smiling down on him, because the only green-shirted guy up there was good old Benny, looking more wrecked than ever now, clearly having taken something else on top of the booze. Benny who’d been so loose-tongued about the hidden fortune in the lab...
Grant waited until Guy went to the bathrooms then went up to Benny. The man goggled at him.
‘Need to talk. My office,’ Grant said, smiling thinly.
His office was, of course, the alleyway out back. Benny looked around in agitation upon realising the two of them were alone there.
‘I – er – what’s all this?’ Benny said, shuffling around to face Grant.
Grant unloaded one deep into the man’s stomach. Usually he preferred to go for the face, but on this occasion he didn’t want to leave marks. Benny toppled over and puked spectacularly. Grant waited until he was done and gasping for breath and grabbed the front of his shirt.
‘You come into my place and do fuckin’ pills? You bring narcotics into my club?’ Grant hauled him up one-handed and drew back his other fist, making it clear that this one would indeed go into Benny’s face.
‘Oh God, oh Jesus, no, I’m sorry! Please! Please don’t hurt me!’
Grant affected to look unsure. ‘Why shouldn’t I just fuck you up? Or at least call the cops, you fuckin’ junkie asshole?’
‘Oh, God, please!’ Grant liked it when they started crying, gave him a warm feeling inside.
‘Well, okay, but it’ll cost you...’
Benny started fumbling for his wallet. ‘I’ve got forty dollars...’
‘Jesus!’ Grant threw him across the alleyway. ‘It’ll take more than that, you cocksucker.’
Benny struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll get it, I’ll get it –‘
‘Shut up. Earlier I heard you and your boyfriend talking, somethin’ about a fortune, worth millions, in some lab somewhere? Not locked up too tight, either...’
Benny’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, God. Look, I – I can’t tell you any more about that –‘
Grant nodded. ‘Okay, then.’ He balled up his fists and again and made to start swinging.
‘No, no, please!’
‘So tell me - where is it and how’d I find it?’
‘Lab building four on the university science campus.’ Benny was sobbing. ‘The stuff’s in the chemistry lab at the back of the building, in a big metal cabinet marked ODM-13. But you don’t understand –‘
‘Chemistry?’ Grant grinned. Looked like he might have unearthed himself his own drug stash. ‘Okay, I’m gonna let you go, but don’t tell anyone about this, okay? And if anything should happen at your lab, you keep quiet – or we’re gonna have another conversation where I’m less fuckin’ agreeable.’
Fear and uncertainty were dancing in Benny’s eyes. ‘Ah - okay.’
‘Now fuck off,’ Grant said. ‘I’ll tell your friend you had to go home unexpectedly.’ He didn’t want this clown back in the club, shooting his mouth off.
Benny nodded and set off, a run that was half a stumble. Grant went back inside and found Guy, who was obviously looking around for his companion. He looked like less of a cock than Benny, not that that was saying much.
‘Benny had to go,’ Grant said.
The guy looked at him almost as if doubting Grant’s word. That pissed him off and he had to fight down the urge to get physical with him. ‘Why didn’t he tell me that himself?’
‘Beats me,’ Grant said. ‘Argue about it between the two of you. None of my fuckin’ business, is it?’
‘Thanks,’ the guy said, still obviously unsure what had happened. He finished his drink and made to leave.
Grant watched him go. Another college boy with money, he thought. There was no fuckin’ justice in the world whatsoever.

2.
Grant arrived back at his building early the following afternoon, having spent a couple of hours scoping out the university science campus. He had drawn a few stares due to his size and way of dressing, but everyone had been too pussy to challenge him over what he’d been doing there. He hadn’t actually been able to get into the chemistry lab in building four, but he knew where it was and also that the security set-up there would pose no problems.
As he entered the building his landlord shuffled out of his own room. Old Lazarenko was wrapped in a bathroom and clutching the day’s paper. ‘Ey, ah – Blackley!’
‘Mister Blackley,’ Grant said, rounding on the old man. He shrank away momentarily.
‘Mr Blackley, your rent’s overdue again,’ Lazarenko said, crumpling up the paper between his fingers.
‘End of the week, pops,’ Grant said, hiding his irritation. Here he was on the brink of something fuckin’ huge and the old coot was bleating on about the same old same old.
‘That’s just not good enough, Mr Blackley!’ The old man’s voice shot up, which kind of ruined the effect.
Grant stuck his face into old Lazarenko’s, so his beard almost scraped the man’s nose. ‘It’s gonna have to be, isn’t it? I’ve told you, end of the week. Are we gonna have a fuckin’ problem with this?’
The old man paled, shook his head. ‘No, no –just as long as it is the end of the week...’
‘Didn’t I just say so two times?’ Grant sighed. He set off up the stairs to his apartment. Flies, fuckin’ flies buzzing around him all the time...
His mood did not improve when he arrived at his apartment. Brandi was clearly getting ready to go to the mall, putting on her jacket and checking her makeup in the mirror.
‘Where the fuck you think you’re going?’
‘Just out, see friends.’ She glanced nervously at him. ‘I told you yesterday...’
‘Ratman’s coming round, talk business,’ Grant said.
‘Well, baby, surely you don’t need me –‘
‘We’re gonna want somethin’ to eat pretty soon. You want me to have to cook my own food in front of Ratman? That the kind of pussy you think I am?’
Brandi met his glower for a few seconds then looked away. ‘No, Grant.’ Her voice was tiny. ‘I’ll text and say I can’t make it. Can I borrow your phone?’
He remembered she’d been on at him to buy her one, but what did she need a phone for, after all? He fished it out and handed it to her, watched while she sent the message.
‘Good girl.’ He gave her a hug then looked again at her more carefully. ‘Christ, what are you wearing?’
Brandi looked down at her t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. ‘Just clothes.’
‘You look like a guy. How many times we got to have this conversation? You know the way I like you to dress – something that shows off your legs and tits. Get changed, I bought you enough nice stuff. Ratman’s comin’ in ten minutes.’
Brandi had wriggled into a mini-skirt and low-cut bodice and was just starting the food when the doorbell went. Feeling magnanimous, Grant got the door himself. It was Ratman, as expected.
‘Hey, dude.’ They bumped fists. ‘Come on in.’
‘Hey, Brandi,’ Ratman said as they sat down.
‘Hey, Ray,’ Brandi said. Ray was Ratman’s real name, but Grant never used it. Ratman was funnier, especially with him being so skinny with a big nose and all...
‘Okay, so here’s the score,’ Grant said, once they both had a beer. ‘Got a tip – shitload of designer drugs in one of the labs on the university campus.’
‘Why would there be designer drugs on the campus?’
Grant shrugged. ‘Dunno, but my source is A1. I went over there this morning and checked the place out. Tonight we both leave the club an hour early, go over there, rip it off. All the alarms are ancient, should be no trouble to someone like you...’
‘Wait a damn minute, Grant,’ Ratman said, frowning. ‘I did five years the last time I got caught on a B&E. They catch me doin’ something like this, I’m looking at ten years inside...’
‘Ratman, the stuff’s worth millions. Ain’t that worth a risk? I’m gonna be there with you, ain’t I?’
Ratman looked away. ‘I don’t want to do any more prison time, Grant. You don’t know what it’s like, all you ever did was a little juvey.’
Grant let his face harden. ‘You don’t think you owe me a favour or two? You know what Solomani would say, he knew I was using ex-cons as door staff?’ He thought Solomani probably wouldn’t give a shit, but he wasn’t about to tell Ratman that.
‘So much for fuckin’ friendship. And you think I don’t know you been keeping your hand in? That jewellers over by the theatre getting ripped off? The pawnshop? Always on your night off from the club, too...’
‘Jesus, Grant, keep your voice down,’ Ratman said. ‘You blackmailing me into doing this, Grant? That it?’
‘I’m just lookin’ out for you, man. You’ll thank me when we’re both rich off the back of this thing. So – you in?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
Grant didn’t bother to answer that one, started drawing a diagram of the building. ‘So, anyway...’

3.
‘Okay, we’re in. You’re up,’ Ratman murmured, stepping back from the lab door even as Grant pushed it open and went inside. The room seemed composed of different planes of shadow, starlight filtering dimly in through the blinds. He went to the centre of the room and moved the beam of his flashlight about carefully.
Ratman followed him in but stayed at the door, keeping watch. They had half an hour before the watchman did his next round. So far Ratman had had no difficulty in dealing with the building’s alarm systems, and Grant was feeling confident. That feeling only intensified when his flashlight lit up a tall metallic cabinet with the magic symbols ODM-13 stamped on its front.
‘Found it,’ Grant whispered, going over and looking at the cabinet. Even to his amateur’s eye it didn’t look to be wired up to any alarms. But it did seem to be clamped shut, with a wheel at the top and bottom of the door needing to be unscrewed. He got to it. No alarms went off, no lights came on: this had to be destiny at work, he thought. He grinned and hauled the cabinet open.
‘Fuck.’ The grin turned to a frown.
‘What is it?’ Ratman was still at the door.
‘I dunno.’ Inside the cabinet there were not the boxes of pills or bags of powder he’d been half expecting. Clipped inside it were two large cylinders like fire extinguishers, gaudily marked in green and orange. There was some kind of valve or screw at the top of each. ‘The stuff’s in canisters, or something.’
‘So grab one and let’s go!’ Ratman’s anxiety was getting on Grant’s nerves. He grabbed one of the cylinders and pulled it from its clips, but found he had seriously underestimated its weight. Even with his immense strength he needed both hands to lift it, let alone carry it at any speed. He grunted and let the end clunk to the lab floor.
‘Keep the fuckin’ noise down, you asshole!’ Ratman hissed.
‘Shut the fuck up. It’s too heavy. I’m gonna see if I can open it up and put the stuff in something lighter...’ Grant set to twisting at the screw which capped the cylinder. His hands were sweaty and the metal smooth, and he could find no purchase to begin with. Then – he bared his teeth triumphantly – the screw slowly began to turn, opening the canister, so –
With a shrill hiss something sprayed out of the top of the canister directly into Grant’s face. He grunted in surprise and then yelled as his eyes began to sting. Clumsily he screwed the top down again until the spray ceased, but his skin was beginning to burn now and he was feeling dizzy and his vision was blurred.
‘What the fuck happened?’ Ratman sounded more agitated than ever.
‘Fucker lied to me,’ Grant said thickly, blinking desperately. ‘Fuckin’ acid or something.’ He took a few steps, somewhat unsteadily.
‘You mean there’s no fuckin’ stuff? Oh, fantastic!’ Ratman shook his head. ‘I’m gettin’ out of here.’
‘Wait! You gotta help me, I – Ratman, give me a fuckin’ hand!’ Grant forced himself to sound threatening, in control.
Ratman paused at the door, clearly uncertain. ‘Cops grab me I won’t keep quiet, I promise,’ Grant said.
‘Jesus. Come on,’ Ratman said, coming to help Grant.
By the time they were off the campus and felt safe, Grant found his vision had cleared and his dizziness had passed. Thank God for that, he thought. He still felt vaguely nauseous in the pit of his stomach though.
‘Just who was your A1 source, anyway?’ The scorn in Ratman’s voice was like a slap in the face. Normally Grant wouldn’t have stood for it.
‘Some fucker from the club,’ Grant said. ‘I’m gonna bust that asshole up for this.’ Just as soon as he felt 100% again.
‘Jesus, I just realised. We left that stuff all over the floor, they’re gonna know we were there... you kept your gloves on?’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ Grant said.
Ratman nodded. ‘Maybe it’ll be okay then.’ He paused. ‘You feeling all right, man?’
‘Yeah,’ Grant said.
‘Okay, then. See you at the club,’ Ratman said.
‘See you,’ Grant said, and they parted. So much for God, so much for destiny, he thought. He felt angry, which was familiar enough, but he also felt humiliated and a fool, both of which were new and unpleasant. One thing he was sure of: he was going to be tracking Benny down and showing him exactly what happened to people who fucked with Grant Blackley.

4.
‘So, dude, any joy finding your friend who led you astray?’ Ratman asked.
It was a couple of nights later. The break-in at the lab had made the papers but the police – so far – had made no progress and Grant was beginning to relax and forget about the whole thing. He found he’d lost his appetite and wasn’t sleeping too well, but was putting that down to the stress of what had happened.
‘No. Fucker’s done a runner,’ Grant said. The two of them were on the door at the club, surveying the queue. A fairly routine night so far, no heavy action. Maybe that was just as well, the way he was feeling.
In truth he hadn’t even attempted to find Benny yet. Part of him – maybe most of him – just wanted to let the whole thing slide and be forgotten. Not that Ratman seemed likely to let that happen, he’d been kind of in Grant’s face about it ever since. If he kept it up, Grant would mess him up. He had to show everyone who the big man was, after all.
Karl emerged from the depths of the club and grinned at them. ‘Hey, Grant, rumour is you’re getting a new car. One with a sun roof.’
‘What the fuck you on about?’
‘Or maybe fitting solar panels to your apartment?’
Grant stared at him. ‘Somethin’ fuckin’ wrong with you, man.’
Karl sniggered. ‘You mean you haven’t noticed, dude?’ He put a hand to the back of his own head, rubbed it.
Grant copied the movement, found to his utter horror a bald spot on the back of his head. Christ! This was what stress could do to a guy! He was only twenty-eight, how could he be going fuckin’ bald?
‘Fuck!’
Ratman joined in with Karl’s sniggering. ‘Hey, you know what they say, Grant – hair today, gone tomorrow...’
‘Fuck you.’
‘You know there’s solutions to this kind of problem? Keep calm, no need to wig out,’ Karl said.
He rounded on Karl, who flinched, but a wave of weakness rolled over him and he found he could do nothing more. ‘Shut up,’ he eventually said, lamely.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Karl said, obviously astonished not to be dodging punches and clearly realising Grant was not himself. But the smirk on his face did not entirely disappear.
Grant went to the men’s room and checked the mirror. The spot was completely hairless and a little bigger than a quarter. He couldn’t believe it had grown so big without him noticing, but the alternative was that it had suddenly appeared almost overnight. Was he sick, or something?
*
He kept the lowest profile he could manage around the club, given his position there. Every time he saw Karl and Ratman they seemed to be laughing together about something, and he could guess what it was. Why wasn’t he just going over there and busting them up? He never normally backed away from a fight. But he felt so tired, it was like his appetite for life was fading or something... It was a relief to get away and go home to Brandi.
*
Grant woke not long before noon the next day, as usual. Brandi was still asleep next to him. She was looking sweet, and normally he would have nailed her, whether she was up for it or not, but he found he just couldn’t summon the energy. He rolled over and lay there, eventually heard her wake up.
‘Morning,’ Brandi said.
‘Hey,’ Grant said. ‘Get me some juice or something, will you?’
‘’M okay.’ He felt her moving around in the bed, then heard her try to stifle a giggle.
‘What’s funny? Get my juice, wilya?’
‘Sorry. Just – your hair...’
‘Yeah, yeah. I got a bald spot. Hardy fuckin’ har.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Spot? Spots, more like...’
Grant clambered out of bed and went to the bathroom. Jesus, the bitch was absolutely right! Just to the left of the spot he’d found the night before (which now looked a little bigger), another one had appeared, about the size of a cent. It had appeared in the night.
Grant went back and stared at his pillow. It was covered in black hairs. Brandi looked from him to it and back again, clearly not understanding, clearly alarmed. Jesus, they felt the same way. Grant found himself scritching at his beard again, the same way he always did when he was thinking. Except this time a steady stream of hair was tumbling away from where his fingers were at work – he was giving himself another bald patch there, on his jawline.
‘What’s it mean, honey?’ Brandi asked.
‘Dunno,’ Grant said, suddenly deeply concerned.

5.
Maybe it was alopecia, or something. He’d heard about that kind of thing. Whatever it was it showed no signs of quitting. His head hair was falling out, his beard was falling out, even his eyebrows and body hair were beginning to go. Well, he thought, desperately looking for an upside to this, bald can be badass.
Except he didn’t feel like much of a badass any more. Quite apart from the nervousness his hair loss was causing him, Grant found his lack of energy was persisting and getting worse. It was becoming a bit of an effort to get up and walk around, let alone do his shift at the club that night.
Nevertheless, he went to work as usual. It was just his luck that this was one of the nights that Solomani chose to put in an appearance. The little orange bastard seemed to figure out straightaway that Grant had some kind of issue going on, but said nothing. Karl, Ratman and the other security guys also kept their mouths shut, but he could feel their respect and his authority ebbing away along with his strength...
...and, impossible to figure out though it was, his height. Things had seemed indefinably weird all day and night but when he returned home he figured out what it was. Usually he had to duck his head to avoid banging it on the way up the stairs, the building was built for midgets or something. But not tonight. He had a few inches clear headroom at least.
In his apartment he measured himself. He’d been six five since he was eighteen. Tonight, though, he was six foot nothing. And he could see it in the way his clothes were starting to look baggy on him, now he was looking for it. He weighed himself – he’d lost fifteen pounds without even realising it.
Christ, this was impossible! How could it be happening at all? Despite his panic and fear he found he was just too tired to sit up and worry about it. He pulled off his clothes, taking a bit more of his hair with them, and crawled into bed with Brandi.
*
Another restless night spent on the edge-of-sleep, feeling no real benefit at its end. When Grant drifted back to full wakefulness he found Brandi had already got up. As usual, he looked at his pillow: it was thinly covered with hair, but only because he didn’t have a great deal left. The patches of hair left on his scalp and jaw looked like continents on a world map.
And... something new. A splash of red on the pillow – had he had a nosebleed or something? He felt his lip, cheek. Nothing. Then he noticed a small white object on the sheet next to the pillow, picked it up. It was a tooth.
Desperately he probed with his tongue, found almost at once a gap on the upper right hand side. It hadn’t even felt loose the night before! Delicately he nudged at the others, felt queasy when they wobbled, ever so slightly, at the touch of his finger.
Hair, build, teeth, this couldn’t just be stress. This had to be some kind of disease, or poison... that chemical shit he’d been sprayed with... Jesus! That had to be it! That bastard Benny had set him up for this, and now... abruptly he felt deeply and urgently nauseous and hustled his way to the bathroom, quickly.
He puked at length into the bowl, didn’t feel much better afterwards. He was dimly aware of a faint jab of pain in his mouth while bent over and spewing, and, sure enough, discovered the pressure of vomit had been enough to dislodge his lower left canine. Now he had two new gaps in his teeth.
Grant showered, noticing but not really caring that he was sluicing away the last of his body-hair. In the mirror he looked pasty, skin loose and almost chalk-white. Under his skin, his muscles were looking like sludge ladled into plastic bags. And... something was happening to his tattoos. They were breaking up, fading away. How could that be? The ink was supposed to be indelible.
His guts gurgled and he had to go to the john again, badly. The stink of his own doings was almost enough to set him puking again. He pulled on his robe and stumbled into the main room.
‘Shit, Grant, you look sick,’ Brandi said. She was watching the TV.
‘Shut up,’ Grant mumbled. He peered at her – she was wearing the t-shirt and jeans again. ‘What did I fuckin’ tell you about dressing that way?’
‘I wanna dress the way I wanna dress,’ Brandi said. ‘You can’t make me always wear the stuff you like...’
‘The fuck I can’t,’ Grant said, attempting to stand up, but abandoning it. He glowered at her but she met his gaze. Dumb fury mounted inside him. You’ll pay for this when I’m better, bitch, he thought.
‘Get me a doctor, Brandi, I’m really ill,’ he eventually said.
‘It’s probably just flu or something, honey.’ Brandi put her hand on his forehead. ‘Jeez, you feel warm!’
‘I need a doctor!’
‘You really want someone doing blood tests after all the shit you put in your system?’ She seemed quite happy to ignore everything he said.
‘This is serious! I – I’m getting smaller,’ Grant said.
She laughed in his face. ‘That’s impossible, sweetie.’
‘I checked last night. I was six foot, not six foot five.’
‘That’s just not –‘
‘Get the fucking tape.’
Making it clear she was just humouring him, Brandi checked his height. Her eyebrows shot up.
‘See?’ Grant asked. ‘I’m six foot.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Yes I fucking am!’
‘No, you’re not six foot. You’re five eleven.’
Another two inches gone... how could this be happening? ‘You believe me now?’
‘Something really weird’s happening to you,’ Brandi said. ‘It’s like you’re shrivelling away or something.’
‘Thanks. Get me to a doctor.’
She stood up, briskly. ‘Let’s give it couple of days – maybe you’ll feel better.’
‘Days? You stupid bitch, don’t you –‘
She slapped his face. She, the bitch, slapped him, Grant Blackley, in the face. ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ Brandi said, matter-of-factly.
Automatically he pulled back his arm to return the compliment but another wave of dizzy nausea struck him and he let it fall. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ he whispered.
‘Always so big and strong. Always such a fucking alpha dog,’ Brandi said. ‘Cook what I want, Brandi. Wear what I want, Brandi. Screw when and how I want, Brandi, and always your fist there if I ever said no... how does it feel now, Grant? Still feeling big and strong –‘
Grant fought to stop himself recoiling from the force of her quiet anger. ‘Brandi, honey... you’re my girl –‘
‘I’m your fucking pet, or your toy. Or I was.’
‘When I get better –‘
‘Maybe you’ll be as a big a bully as before. We’ll see,’ Brandi said. Suddenly she was smiling. ‘I’m going to the mall!’
And there was no way he could stop her.
*
She still hadn’t returned by the time he had to go to the club. Doing nothing all day had left Grant feeling marginally better and he got dressed, uncomfortably aware of how loose his clothes were on him now and how weak he felt. There had been a number more volcanic emanations from his bowels in the course of his day – it seemed like he was losing weight faster than anything else.
He made it down to the club okay and took his usual position at the door. Karl and Ratman weren’t even bothering to make cracks at his expense any more, but he could see knowing looks passing between them.
It seemed like another quiet night, thank God. He was doubly thankful, because Solomani turned up, looking neat and slick in yet another new suit. Must be his time for going through the club accounts in detail again – along with all the other funds that got pumped through the place’s finances.
‘Grant, a word, please?’ Solomani asked. ‘Step up to my office.’
Grant could hardly refuse, followed him. He had a sick premonition of what this might be about.
‘You’ve kept this place nice and quiet, on the whole, Grant, and I appreciate that,’ Solomani said when they were alone.
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘But... surely you realise it’s obvious that you clearly have some kind of problem?’
‘Boss, I –‘
‘No-one here is blind. You look sick. Quite apart from anything else, you’ve lost most of your hair. I have to ask: what the hell is up with you?’
‘I – I don’t know, sir. I know I’m having a few problems right now, but I can still do my job, I promise.’
Solomani looked doubtfully at him. ‘That’s a little hard to believe, Grant.’
‘Trust me, sir.’
The little man took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You can carry on as normal – for the time being.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
*
The guy was some kind of jock who’d had too much to drink but was refusing to admit it, and now he was standing in the middle of the dance floor defying them to drag him off it. Normally Grant wouldn’t have thought twice – on one occasion he’d taken on the entire offensive line of a college team single-handed, grinning all the while – but right now he paused while the guy roared abuse at him.
Ratman was with him, and beyond Ratman was a circle of fascinated clubbers, eager to watch the cabaret. Ratman grinned. ‘Problem, boss?’
‘No problem,’ Grant said, looking at the jock.
‘Want me to step up for this one?’ That impudent, sneering look was back on Ratman’s face, saying: you’ve lost it, you’re through, who the fuck are you, anyway? That was enough to send Grant onto the floor to tackle the jock.
‘C’mon, buddy, party’s over,’ Grant said, hoping this wouldn’t turn into an actual fight.
The jock spat and swung at him, but he dodged it. With the guy off-balance he charged him, hoping to get him round the waist and knock him off his feet. But his instincts betrayed him and he realised he just didn’t have enough mass any more. The jock broke his grip easily and hammered a fist into Grant’s stomach.
Grant doubled over and knew he was going to puke. Even at the moment the jock’s other fist smashed into the side of his face and sent him to the floor, teeth spattering across it as well. He heaved, feeling his bowels go simultaneously, found he literally couldn’t move beyond those functions. He was dimly aware of Ratman and the others tackling the jock as he lay there.
Eventually he became aware of a presence by his side. Solomani was crouching there, shaking his head. ‘Grant, Grant. I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re no use to me at the moment. Don’t bother coming back here until you get yourself straightened out.’
He knew that tone of voice. It was the one that made him realise that being a serious shitkicker was one thing, but being the kind of person who gave orders to serious shitkickers was something wholly different. It was not to be challenged or even really questioned. He nodded and started to clamber to his feet.

6.
Finally the sandy-haired man came out of the building. Grant had been waiting under a tree all day, trying to be inconspicuous. So far as he could see it was his one hope of finding out what was happening.
He’d barely slept since being fired from the club the night before, had got up first thing to go to the public library and check their medical books. His clothes fit even worse than before, making him think he’d lost at least another couple of inches in height, and his joints were starting to stiffen up and ache. The pain was almost enough to make him cry like a pussy. Almost.
There was nothing in any of the medical books about a disease that made the sufferer lose their hair and teeth and physically shrink. He had to find out what had been in that canister, that had been when all this had started. And his only contact was Benny. He’d gone to the science campus and been waiting outside the building ever since. No Benny, but his friend was here.
Grant moved quickly to intercept the man despite the pain in his joints. ‘Shcuse me...’ He was finding it difficult to speak clearly with nearly all the teeth gone on one side. Those remaining were wobbling freely in their sockets now.
Guy glanced at him, patted his pockets. ‘Sorry, no change.’
‘No, I need your help. Where’sh Benny?’
Guy stared at him. ‘I know you... you were at that club – the bouncer, right?’
‘’Shnot important. Where’sh Benny?’
He shrugged. ‘God knows. Nobody’s seen him since... well, we had a break-in in the lab a few nights ago, and as soon as he heard about it Benny disappeared. Said something about the mob coming after him...’ The man looked at Grant again, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Why do you want him, anyway?’
Benny had known he would come. Grant’s heart sank. He grabbed at the last possible thread of hope. ‘In your lab, that shtuff... ODM-13... what is it?’
‘How do you know about the organo-dimutron?’ Guy was looking hard at Grant now. The tumblers were clearly clicking into place. ‘Oh my God, Benny told you about it, and you tried to steal it – why? What possible use...?’
‘Benny said it was worth millionsh – a forchune...’
‘To the military, or big business, yeah. Organo-dimutron is a mutagen we’ve discovered – so incredibly powerful and dangerous we haven’t risked testing it or even announcing it exists. It affects living things on a molecular level...’ The man looked more closely at him. ‘You’ve been exposed to it, haven’t you? Christ - look, you have to get to a hospital straight away...’
Grant grabbed the man’s shirt front. ‘You have to help me. You. No hospitals.’
The man shrugged him off easily, to Grant’s horror. ‘Don’t be a fool. You have to –‘
His anger flared but all in that moment he realised it had no outlet. His strength had shrivelled, his power was gone... there was no reason for anyone to do what he wanted them to. Absurdly he found himself crying at the unfairness of it, that this should happen to him, Grant Blackley, of all people. What was he supposed to do now? He had no idea.
‘Please help me. Please, please. I’m begging you...’ Grant tried to stop himself sobbing, couldn’t.
‘You need a hospital,’ Guy said.
‘No hoshpital,’ Grant said. Even if he lived it was a short step from there to prison, and he couldn’t face that as he now was. He’d rather die. He turned and shuffled away as quickly as his joints would let him, aware of the man staring after him, apparently uncertain of what to do.

7.
‘Five foot six and a half,’ said Brandi, rolling up the tape measure. She did not sound too concerned.
It was that evening. On returning home Grant had taken a shower to try and alleviate his joint pain, but had only succeeded in completing the total loss of his head and facial hair. He looked like someone who’d been having chemo. His tattoos had completely gone as well.
His clothes hung on him like an adult’s on a child. Physically, he looked hideous, all his old muscle had seemingly turned into slack rolls of fat which hung off him like the folds of a robe. Any kind of serious movement had him yelping in pain – and yet he had to move, if only to get to the bathroom when one of his bouts of diarrhoea or puking struck him. He still had a couple of teeth left on one side, but none on the other.
In the end he had just stripped off and crawled carefully into bed. When Brandi appeared she had looked at him with interest but not much sympathy. In the end she had measured him, more for her own curiosity than any other reason, it seemed.
And now she was moving around the room, doing something complex and time-consuming when he just wanted to sleep. ‘Brandi, pleash,’ Grant mumbled.
‘Sorry, baby. But I really think you’re going to die quite soon, and I don’t want to get stuck with answering all the questions about how and why it happened,’ Brandi said.
Grant looked up and realised she was packing her bags. ‘You carn go!’
‘You can’t stop me.’ She smiled. ‘You know, I’ve wanted to leave for months but I know what you’d have done. You’re just not as scary as you used to be, Grant. Now you’re just some big baby that lies in its own shit calling for help.’
Part of him knew she was right. He stifled a moan. ‘Pleash, Brandi... I need help...’
‘See?’
He found he was sobbing freely again. Brandi ignored him and carried on packing. ‘I’m not taking any of those whore clothes you bought me,’ she said, conversationally enough. ‘Maybe you can find some other dumb bitch to wear them, huh?’
Try as he might, she would not stop, and as she carried her bags into the main room he found himself rolling out of bed and crawling painfully after her, sobbing from the pain and calling her name.
Brandi paused at the front door and looked at him, and for a moment there was a trace of doubt on her face, as if she were seeing him just as was then, weak and needing help – but then her face hardened, and Grant could imagine the dozens of memories crowding out whatever sympathy she might have felt. She smiled tightly, muttered something under her breath, picked up her bags and shut the door firmly behind her.
Grant lay there and cried himself out.
*
And soon enough his teeth had gone the way of his hair and he was somehow back in his bed with his body aching and cramping and spasming around him. He found he could weep again soon enough, and that he had plenty of reason to. As Brandi had said, he was not much than a toothless, hairless, squalling incontinent child.
He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness even as the room pulsed and faded with light. Oddly, hunger did not seem to be a problem – his body seemed to be devouring itself – and when he dragged himself to the bathroom he drank endless water.
He knew he was just postponing the inevitable, that his death could not be far away, and could not understand why it was taking so long to come. In the end he just closed his eyes and abandoned himself to whatever lay next.

8.
And then Grant awoke and there was no real pain in his body, and the only complaint coming from his gut was that it had not been fed nearly enough of late. He felt a strange vibrancy, almost a hum of health and energy, throughout his limbs and torso. He felt strange, but also great.
He got out of the bed, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the soiled sheets, but marvelling at how easily he could move. Either he was dead, or he had survived! Yes! He, Grant Blackley, had ridden it out.
He punched the air with both hands. ‘I’m fuckin’ back!’ he said, and even as he did so he was suddenly aware of the thirty-two small hard new teeth studding his jaws. He’d grown new teeth! He put a hand to his head and felt a fuzz of new hair starting there. There was none on his face or chest, but a little in his armpits.
Even better. Still naked, he started cheerfully for the fridge – then realised it was not all good news. The room was wrong. The perspective was all messed up, everything was too far away or high up... it was like a giant version of his apartment...
The tape measure was where Brandi had left it. With shaking hands he measured himself. Christ. He was only five foot one. He looked down at himself and saw how small and slim he had become, as well – his arms and legs seemed athletic, rather than muscular, while his chest and stomach had virtually no muscle definition at all.
Grant weighed himself on the bathroom scales. Oh, dear God. He was only 105 pounds. He hadn’t weighed so little since in about twenty years. He stared at himself in the mirror and saw two things: firstly, that the new hair he was growing was not the old black, but a very light shade of brown, and that he looked like a kid. An unathletic kid.
If anything, his cock and balls seemed to have dwindled even more than the rest of him. They were rather sensitive to the touch so he left them alone. The hair down there showed no signs of growing back either.
He munched a bowl of cereal and pondered just what the hell he was going to do now. There was no way Solomani was going to employ a five-foot tall bouncer... and even the idea of asking him was repellent. They’d laughed at him simply for losing his hair... how would they react if they found he’d turned into a child?
Grant recalled the eagerness with which they’d capitalised on his weakness. Some fucking friends he’d turned out to have. And Brandi, after all he’d done for her... Still, that didn’t help him. What the hell was he going to do now?
It wasn’t even as if he could go out and look for a new job. After eating he tried to get dressed, but it was hopeless. He could practically fit both feet down one leg of his old jeans. He would look utterly ludicrous trying to wear that stuff out on the street...
...not that he wanted anyone to see him, of course. No way. What would they say, what would they do? He didn’t want to find out.
In the end, somewhat reluctantly, he just pulled on one of his old t-shirts. It hung almost to his knee and looked more like a dress than anything else – not something he was remotely happy about – but what options did he have?
Grant was still thinking about this when there was a knocking at the door. He looked round in alarm, and as he did so someone spoke through the door.
‘C’mon, open up. We know you’re in there. Police.’
Oh, Jesus. It occurred to him that there was no sense in delaying the inevitable and before he could talk himself out of it walked over to the door and opened it. Outside was a uniformed cop and another man in a suit.
‘Yeah,’ Grant said, expecting the bracelets to instantly appear. His voice had risen, which was another shock to his system.
The guy in the suit smiled. ‘We’re looking for Grant Blackley. Is he in?’
Grant blinked at them, amazed and appalled. They... didn’t... recognise him. ‘G-grant?’
The detective glanced at the uniformed guy, gave a ‘kids today, huh?’ kind of look. ‘Yeah, Grant. Big guy, six five, dark hair and beard? Lives here?’
‘He’s out,’ Grant said, forcing a smile onto his face.
‘Mind if we look around?’ the cop said, already coming into the apartment and glancing around.
‘Why not,’ Grant said, smiling nervously.
The two men looked in every room, clearly disgusted by the state of the place. Grant drifted after the detective. ‘Why d’you want Grant, anyway?’
‘He’s been linked to an attempted theft from the university science campus. One of the staff figures there was a link, plus a man matching his description was seen in the area the day before. His former employer gave this as his address.’ The detective sighed. ‘But like you said, seems he’s out.’
They returned to the front door. ‘Look, missy, if he resurfaces, tell him to come see us, okay?’ the detective said. ‘We’re bound to catch up with him sooner or later. It’s not like he’s easy to miss. Come on, Roy.’
Grant closed the door after them, almost unable to believe it. Was he so unrecognisable now? It seemed so, and a good thing for him as well. It was like a fresh start, in so many ways... but a start in what? All his life he’d been bigger, stronger, tougher than anyone else he knew... his muscle had been his weapon of choice in any situation. Now he was without it, what was he going to do?
He was sitting contemplating that when something else occurred to him that he’d missed at the time. The cop had called him ‘missy’... not only had he not recognised Grant as himself, he hadn’t even recognised him as male.
It was the way he was dressed, that was all. Grant told himself that over and over until he almost started to believe it.

9.
There was enough food in the fridge for the time being, and he had no real need to go out. Also there was five hundred bucks stashed at the back of the wardrobe, which nobody else knew about... except it seemed that Brandi had been a bit more perceptive than he’d thought, and taken it with her when she’d gone. He was down to the forty bucks he’d had in his wallet when he’d been fired from the club.
He’d think of something. In the meantime he sat and watched TV and tried to get used to his new physicality. It seemed that whatever the ODM-13 had done to him, it wasn’t quite finished yet. When he’d woken that morning, there hadn’t been much more than a fuzz of stubble on his head, but by the time he called it a night it was over an inch long and brushing the top of his ears. Not quite light brown, he accepted – more like dark blonde.
The next morning it was twice as long again, reaching most of the way down to his shoulders, and lighter still at the roots. If only that was all he had to worry about, Grant thought. There was absolutely no sign of stubble on his cheeks or jaw, or anywhere else that his beard had previously grown.
And on his chest, the centre of his nipples had sprouted into thick studs like pencil erasers. Each now sat in the middle of a wide disc of sensitive, wrinkly skin – wider than it had been before, he was certain.
It was so difficult to be certain about things like this... but weren’t his balls smaller, pulled tighter to his body by a scrotum that seemed to be furling up on itself? And while the meat of his cock seemed shorter and narrower, the skin in which it was cloaked seemed looser and fleshier, too.
No, no, it couldn’t be happening! It was impossible! He told himself not to cry, with little success. The thought was just too horrible to contemplate. In the end he just sat in front of the TV and gave himself over to it entirely, not thinking about himself or his own life at all.
The day dragged by, a whirl of soap operas, game shows and chat shows. At the end of the afternoon he was disturbed by another knock at the door. Startled and nervous, Grant got up, as he did so realising his hair had continued to grow at an incredible rate – he could feel it brushing his shoulders now through the thin fabric of the T-shirt, still his only garment.
He went over to the door and opened it. The grizzled face of his landlord peered through the gap at him. ‘I want to talk to Blackley.’
‘He – Mister Blackley’s gone away,’ Grant said. The high softness of his voice had a connotation now he really didn’t like.
‘Well, he should’ve paid his back rent before he went,’ the old man said. ‘This isn’t a mission building, you know, young lady.’
‘He’ll pay you when he gets back,’ Grant said, desperately.
Lazarenko snorted. ‘He doesn’t get to choose when to pay his rent. I want the money by the end of tomorrow or he’s out on the street.’
‘He won’t be back by then -!’
‘Then he’s out on the street anyway. You too,’ Lazarenko said, smiling nastily.
‘You can’t speak to me like that, you old bastard!’ The words burst out of him automatically.
The old man colored. ‘Watch your mouth! I’m within my rights to have you both thrown out this evening.’
With sick horror Grant realised that the man was right, and nothing he said or did could intimidate him anymore. His power was gone and he had to remember that. He dropped his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, sir. I just panicked.’
‘Mmm, well. I just want the money, from him or you, I don’t care. But by six tomorrow, or you’re both out, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I understand,’ Grant said. He closed the door. What the fuck was he going to do? He had no savings, and all his usual routes to quick money were closed to him now he was so puny and soft. He couldn’t go out on the street looking the way he did now. He didn’t even have any clothes.
Grant padded back into the centre of the apartment, head bowed, hugging himself... but realised that something felt strange about the hug. Feeling a sick sense of the inevitable he pulled his t-shirt off over his head and looked down at himself. The flesh of his chest was beginning to swell, a small soft dome building up under each sensitive nipple. He had titties.
Further down it was even worse. His small, hard balls were held tight against the flesh of his body, while the substance of his cock seemed to be withdrawing into his body – only an inch or two were really left - leaving only the loose folds of thick skin that had once surrounded it hanging loose. He prodded at his crotch and gasped despite himself. It was as sensitive as ever, and seemed to set off some kind of resonant tingling in his new titties.
‘I’m turning into a girl,’ Grant said to his reflection, which looked as horrified and feminine as he did.

10.
He didn’t have time to freak out about that. He needed to get money from somewhere, anywhere, or he wouldn’t just be a girl but a homeless girl, with no real clothes and in a rough part of the city. That was enough to start him sweating and panicking again.
His friends. His friends would help him out, wouldn’t they? Sure, they’d made fun of his baldness and that kind of stuff, but they’d been buds, hadn’t they? Sure they had. Grant looked around for his phone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Shit. Brandi must have taken it.
He’d have to go down to the club in person. Grant went into the bedroom and tried to get dressed in his old gear – the t-shirt was like a tent on him, but that was minor compared to the fact that his shorts wouldn’t stay up and, once he’d finished cinching the waist and rolling up the legs, his jeans looked like clown pants. His old boots and shoes were waaay too big as well.
A pair of Brandi’s old shoes had got left behind and, although deeply reluctant, he tried one of them on. It was actually a pretty good fit. Oh, Christ, was he now the same size as Brandi?
Going to the club in his old clothes he’d look ridiculous and attract attention to himself. Even if he could get there without major wardrobe malfunction. There was no choice, he thought. He would have to see what else Brandi had left behind when she’d gone.
Oh, crap. He remembered now her parting words: she’d just left the stuff he’d bought for her, so no jeans, no t-shirts, nothing... nothing sensible. But he had no choice: it was either now, and briefly, or tomorrow night, and for the foreseeable future after that.
With deep distaste he picked up a pair of lacy panties and stepped into them, figuring there was no sense in taking any chances – also that they might disguise the remains of his manhood. (Did that mean he’d rather be thought of as an actual girl than the strange inbetween-thing he currently was?) They settled about his hips quite comfortably.
He didn’t need a bra and so he pulled on a dark green halter-top. To finish with he found a blackskirt that finished just above mid-thigh, with about three layers of frilly ruffles on it, and put that on as well. It felt kind of odd around his comparatively narrow hips and backside, but there was no help for that.
Grant looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a girl, there was no denying it. He arranged his hair over his shoulders to try and increase the impression, realised what he was doing and stopped. Just pass muster, he told himself.
Thank God it was a warm night. He’d never bothered buying Brandi a coat and it was a long way to walk bare-legged and with just one of his old shirts as a makeshift jacket. For a decade he’d walked these streets with supreme confidence, but everything had changed now. Every alleyway seemed to pose a threat, every passing man a figure wrapped in terrible suspicion.
Grant had never been more relieved to arrive at the club. It was very early and there was no queue, but Karl was still lounging around at the door, same as he ever did. Grant realised he’d no idea what he was going to say to him. In the end he just walked up to where the man was.
‘Go straight in, honey,’ Karl said, grinning. ‘Pay at the desk.’
‘Karl – it – it’s me. Grant,’ Grant said.
Karl snorted with laughter. ‘What? You high, girl? This some kind of joke?’ He looked around to see who might be watching to see his reaction, then stared again at Grant’s altered face. ‘Jesus...’
‘I don’t know how it happened. Some chemicals. But it changed me and I really need –‘
But Karl was already calling into the club. ‘Ray! Get out here now!’
His friends believed him. They would help. Grant let himself relax, and then Ratman emerged from the club, dressing sharper than he had before.
‘Look at this,’ Karl said, grinning as he indicated Grant.
‘So what,’ Ratman said, glancing at him. Then he frowned and looked closer, his face slowly breaking into a huge grin as he did so. ‘Grant!?! That you?’ He burst out laughing.
Grant felt his cheeks burning. ‘Quiet, for fuck’s sake.’
‘This is what that chemical stuff did to you? Man, am I glad I stayed by the door! There but for the grace of God...’ Ratman was still chuckling.
‘You get the full set, Grant?’ Karl stepped forward and grabbed at one of Grant’s tits. Grant slapped his hand away in shock and stepped back.
‘Karl!’ Grant said, hating the note of feeble pleading he heard in his own voice. The two of them were openly grinning at him.
‘So, you want to come into the club, then?’ Ratman asked.
‘Ratman, I need help – my landlord wants the rent, and that bitch Brandi ran off with my dough,’ Grant said. ‘I just need a loan, just for a while...’
‘Till you come back as a bouncer?’ Karl laughed.
‘Ray,’ Ratman said. He wasn’t laughing.
‘W-what?’ Grant asked.
‘My name’s Ray. You’re the one who started the whole Ratman thing, you – you dumb bitch,’ Ratman said, smiling mirthlessly. ‘Why the fuck should we help you? What did you ever do for us?’
‘I – I –‘ But before Grant could finish the sentence Ratman had turned and walked back into the club.
Karl didn’t speak for a moment. ‘So, you coming in the club or not?’ he eventually asked.
‘Uh – I –‘
‘Cause Ray doesn’t like it if we just let people hang around out here...’
‘What – what’s he got to do with it?’
Karl shrugged. ‘Ray’s the boss. Solomani gave him your old job.’
‘Oh.’ An interesting feeling, this numb bleakness inside, Grant thought. He looked at Karl again. ‘I – just need a little money, Karl...’
‘You know, you’ve turned into a pretty hot chick,’ Karl said, looking Grant up and down again in a way he really wasn’t comfortable with. ‘How bad do you need the cash?’
‘More than anything,’ Grant whispered.
‘Come round tomorrow afternoon. You know where I live,’ Karl said. ‘I’m sure we can work something out... if you really want the money that bad.’
Grant felt sick again, something purely psychological this time. He backed away from Karl, turned his back, hurried towards his home, feeling his stomach turning over and over, not because he didn’t know what he was going to do but really because – deep down – he did.

11.
Incredibly, Grant still somehow managed to sleep that night – on some level his body was still exerting itself as his transformation approached its conclusion, and he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But as soon as he properly awoke, the realities of his situation crashed in on him and a bleak detachment consumed his mind.
He sat up, wincing at an odd twinge in his side and hips as he did so. The mass of his hair flopped down over his shoulders, reaching well down his back and tickling his – oh, Christ, his titties had blown up like balloons in the night. The sheer weight of them against his chest was almost impossible to believe. He was huge. They were like porn-star tits.
With a dull sense of resignation he pulled the sheet aside and looked at his crotch. He’d still had a little stub of an actual cock left the night before, hiding amongst the folds of flesh, but it had almost totally retreated into his body now, and sat at the top end of... ah, Jesus. His cock had turned into a clit and from somewhere a cunt had opened up. He really was a girl now.
Numbly he got out of bed and stood up – but even as he did so he felt a horrendous crunch somewhere in his pelvis and the muscles in his sides and waist cramped agonisingly. He swayed a little, feeling his bones and organs slide into a new arrangement... and then it was over and the pain suddenly receded.
Grant clutched at himself and pattered through into the bathroom to confirm his suspicions: his waist had contracted enormously, while his hips had simultaneously widened to accommodate his new anatomy. His ass-cheeks seemed to be filling out as well, giving him a big old booty.
There was really no way to tell, from looking at him, that Grant had ever been the mountain of a man he had enjoyed being so much. He was a short, pale, feeble looking chick... and Grant Blackley looked at his new self and sobbed openly for many long minutes.
But there was enough of the old Grant left for him to realise his new body had a rack and an ass and legs to die for... and his face wasn’t too bad, weirdly enough. The mane of long blonde hair – which seemed to have stopped growing so fast - made him look utterly different anyway.
Karl had been turned on by him last night. That reaction would only be strengthened, the way he looked now. The knowledge repelled him even as he knew it was his best chance to find the money he needed to keep the apartment.
Maybe he could just lead Karl on, dupe him into handing over some money... Karl was the type of guy who only ever followed his dick around anyway... in Grant’s desperation it seemed to make a kind of sense, formed the rudiments of a plan. In any case, he had no choice.
He ate slowly and sparingly and thought it through while watching soap operas. There seemed to be no other option. Damn it, he’d be willing to even give the guy a kiss if it meant getting some cash... Soon it was after lunch and he knew he had to go round, if he was ever going to.
Grant dressed. Scanty black-lace thong. Bra of the same material – though Brandi’s old bras were all a little too small to be comfortable (strange how he just accepted that: it seemed his reservoir of shame was not inexhaustible). Tight top and leather mini. He let his hair hang free and pulled on a pair of leather boots with little heels on them.
Still not quite enough to guarantee over-riding Karl’s natural wariness, Grant thought. He hunted around and found some old make-up Brandi had left behind. Clumsily and slowly he pulled out the brightest lipstick he could find and started applying it around his mouth.
*
Karl’s apartment building was even shittier than Grant’s, which was saying something. Grant made his way up to his friend’s door and hit the buzzer, glanced around nervously as he waited. There were no pockets in his outfit so he’d stuck his keys and cash in a tiny black bag he’d bought Brandi but which she’d never used.
The door opened. Karl stood there, wearing a pair of jeans and apparently nothing else. Surprise bloomed on his face as he recognised Grant, followed rapidly by a broad grin.
‘Hi,’ Grant said. ‘You said to come round... that we could maybe...’
‘Sure thing,’ Karl said, opening the door and stepping back from it to allow Grant in. Grant could feel his eyes rake over him as he went through into the main room.
‘Can I getcha beer?’ Karl asked, heading for the fridge himself.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Grant said automatically. He sat down on one of the chairs, leaned forward. Don’t look too nervous, he told himself. Act casual.
Karl returned with a couple of bottles, handed one to Grant. He took a swig of it as Karl flopped onto the sofa, looked at Grant again, apparently in amused disbelief.
‘Still can’t believe it’s really you,’ Karl said, taking a gulp of his own drink.
Grant shrugged. ‘Well, it is.’
Karl nodded. ‘So. What’s it like? Being a girl, I mean?’
‘I – I don’t know. Same as before, except...’ He touched his chest, found himself coloring.
‘Yeah, you got the boobies now,’ Karl said, grinning again. ‘You also got the...?’ He looked knowingly further down.
Grant felt his cheeks burning. This wasn’t going at all how he’d imagined it might. He took another big pull from the bottle of beer. ‘So I need a hand,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘That old bastard at my place wants rent but Brandi ran off with all my money, the bitch...’
‘Yeah, you said,’ Karl said. ‘And, you know, I said we could maybe do a deal...’
‘I just need to borrow some cash. Till I figure out what I’m going to do,’ Grant said.
Karl inclined his head. ‘Seems to me like you are not in what you’d call a strong bargaining position.’
‘What – what’d you mean?’ Grant asked.
‘Well, how’d I know you’d ever be able to pay me back?’ Karl seemed quite relaxed about the whole conversation. ‘It’d be a big risk for me, wouldn’t it? Money for you, and nothing for me but risk.’
‘Karl – Karl, we’re buds, aren’t we?’ The pleading note was back in Grant’s voice and he hated himself for it.
Karl laughed as he finished his beer. Grant found his own bottle was nearly empty, was dimly aware this new body had nothing like the tolerance of his old one and he was going way too fast. ‘We ain’t buds any more, Grant,’ Karl said. ‘I’m not sure we ever were.’
‘Please, Karl. I need the dough,’ Grant said.
‘You want another beer?’
Grant found that he did, despite everything. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
Karl sat back on the sofa and smiled. ‘Well, get me one while you’re there, wilya? You know where they are.’
Grant nodded and went through to the kitchen. He pulled another brace of bottles from the refrigerator and opened them before carrying them back through. He held one out to Karl but he did not take it, instead patted the sofa next to him.
‘I – I’m okay on the chair,’ Grant said.
‘Wasn’t asking,’ Karl said, smiling.
Grant nodded and sank onto the sofa next to Karl. They both pulled at their drinks then he was aware of Karl setting his down on the floor. Then he felt Karl’s fingers running through his hair.
‘You sure were a big ugly bastard until a few days ago,’ Karl said. Grant felt Karl’s hand leave his hair and slide about his waist. ‘I prefer you the way you are now a lot.’
‘Karl...’ Grant looked away, tried to dislodge the hand, failed. ‘You know it’s still me. Still Grant.’
Karl pointed to his temple. ‘Stuff up here knows that, faint-like.’ He pointed to the crotch of his jeans, where a sickening bulge was starting to show. ‘Other stuff doesn’t give a shit.’
‘Karl –‘ But he was taking Grant’s drink from him and pulling him closer. Grant found himself staring into Karl’s face, with one of the man’s hands on his side and the other stroking his bare thigh. And Grant was horrified to discover this new body responding to the sinewy strength of Karl’s, a strange fluttering tension appearing in the pit of his belly and elsewhere.
‘Ain’t gonna force you. Not really,’ Karl said, grinning. ‘You can say “no,” walk out, any time.’
‘...my money?’ Grant asked.
‘I’ll see you right,’ Karl said. ‘So...’ He moved his face towards Grant’s, and Grant forced himself to stay still and receive the kiss. Karl’s arms were wrapping more closely around him and he found he was reciprocating, sliding onto his back on the sofa with Karl on top of him, pressing down on his tits, which were starting to throb. No, Jesus, this could not be him, not Grant Blackley...
One of Karl’s hands found his tit and started to fondle it. Grant heard himself moan, was dimly aware of Karl sliding his hand up under Grant’s top to stroke his breasts more directly. Through his pleasure Grant caught himself thinking: this wasn’t supposed to be how it happened!
‘Aw, shit! Sorry, K!’ The scrawny guy in a pair of shorts and vest who’d just wandered in on them looked on in embarrassment as they tried to disentangle themselves.
‘That’s fine, Ty.’ Karl sounded more disgruntled than anything else. ‘My old buddy Ty. Ty, this is... this is Grace.’
‘Hiya, Grace,’ Ty said, nodding.
‘...hi,’ Grant said. He sat up, adjusted his clothing.
‘...I’ll leave you guys to it,’ Ty said, making to leave the room.
‘Ah, hell. Don’t worry,’ Karl said, standing up. He looked down at Grant. ‘I was just thinking we should adjourn this to somewhere more intimate, right, Grace?’
Grant swallowed hard as Karl held out his hand. If he went to Karl’s bedroom with him...but if he failed to get the money he needed... and the fire running through his new body... and somewhere deep down the need to know... and his hand was in Karl’s without his consciously being aware of having moved it, though he knew he had.
‘Grace?’ was all he could think of to whisper as Karl led him out of the room.
‘It’s a nice name,’ Karl said, snapping a quick grin over his shoulder. ‘Can’t go on calling you Grant while we’re fuckin’, that’d just be messed up.’ He seemed quite matter-of-fact about it.
Karl’s room was small and untidy, a medium-sized bed at its centre. Grant surveyed it and smiled weakly and nervously at its owner, who was still lounging against the door he’d just closed.
‘May’s well make yourself more comfortable ‘fore we get down to it,’ Karl said. His meaning was clear.
Grant nodded and sat on the edge of the bed to unzip his boots. He was aware of Karl’s eyes on him all the time. Barefoot now, he stood up and fumbled to unfasten the clasp on his skirt, unzipped it and wriggled it down his legs. He forced himself to glance at Karl, reminded himself of how it had felt to be kissed and held, even if only by a man like him. That helped a little.
He pulled his top off over his head and threw it down, stood there in bra and g-string, hoping for some sign of approval from Karl, hating himself for being so weak.
‘An’ the rest,’ Karl said.
Grant reached behind him and unhooked his bra. Strange how he’d got used to the feel of it. He turned his back and wriggled it off, covered his breasts with his hands before turning back. Then it occurred to him he was being ridiculous and he let his hands fall to his hips. Karl grinned fiercely.
Grant got onto the bed, up on his knees. Forcing a smile onto his face he slid both thumbs into the waistband of his g-string and slid it down over his hips, to his knees. He went down onto his back and kicked his last garment off, lay there looking at Karl, legs slightly apart. He had never felt so totally naked before in his life.
Karl did not speak. Abruptly he unfastened and unzipped his jeans and started pulling them off. As Grant had thought he was naked beneath them and the effect Grant’s strip had had on the man was obvious. Karl crawled onto the bed, moving over Grant, face a mask. Grant felt the tip of Karl’s cock brush his belly and let out a little whimper.
‘Don’t hurt me...’
‘You left it a little late for that,’ Karl said, sounding amused. His mouth came fiercely down onto Grant’s as his hands got back to work on Grant’s breasts. Grant felt the uncontrollable tides surging in his body again and found he was clutching at Karl’s shoulders and back, then his waist and buttocks... and then Karl brusquely jerked Grant’s thighs apart and thrust his cock into him.
It’s not me, it’s not me, it’s not me, Grant thought, almost in time with the rhythm of Karl’s thrusts and his own little helpless barks. He tried to abandon the body, abandon the flesh, this was just a business arrangement, but then the power of his climax broke through the flimsy barrier and he couldn’t help but cry out...
When it was over he lay on Karl’s bed, a sheet thrown over him, feeling sweat and other fluids drying on his skin. I can’t deny it, he thought. This guy just fucked me. I’m a girl now, whether I like it or not.
Karl himself did not seem inclined to linger on the bed with him. Almost at once he got up and started pulling his jeans back on, looking pleased with himself as he did so. ‘Jesus, Grace. I think you missed your vocation in life.’
‘What?’
Karl spared him a glance. ‘You were a pretty fair shitkicker, but you’re a premium piece of ass.’ He snickered.
Grant caught himself on the verge of saying thank-you, made himself stay silent for a moment. Then: ‘Karl... my money?’
‘Ah yeah. A deal’s a deal,’ Karl said. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, slid out a wad of notes and tossed them onto the bed. ‘Any time you get short again, feel free to come round...’
Grant gathered up the money. ‘Karl, this isn’t as much...’
‘Shoulda made the deal clear beforehand, sweetheart.’ Karl almost seemed to have forgotten that Grant had ever been a man.
‘Karl...!’ Grant sat up, feeling his eyes start to sting, ignoring the spoilt, whining tone in his voice. Karl sniggered. ‘You fuckin’ bastard, you think you can just fuck me and gyp me? You god-damned ass-hole – aahhh!’
He fell back onto the bed clutching his face where Karl had slapped him. ‘You’d better remember who you’re fuckin’ talking to, bitch.’ Karl didn’t actually sound angry. ‘You’re not a bad-ass any more, baby. You’re just a piece of ass. You can’t go givin’ shit to dudes any more less you wanna get knocked about.’
Grant stared at him, then nodded. ‘I – I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
Karl put his hand on Grant’s ass, gave it a pat like one might a family pet. He smiled . ’That’s okay,’ he said. ‘Just bear it in mind from now on, okay?’ Grant nodded.
‘Now get the fuck outta my bed. I gotta go out and I ain’t leavin’ you here by yourself.’

12.
Grant went back to his apartment, sat curled up under the shower until all the hot water was gone and it was just a blasting icy jet. It didn’t help much. Eventually he became dimly aware of someone pounding on the apartment door and got up, pulling on a thin old robe as he went.
Lazarenko glared in at him through the crack in the door. ‘Has Blackley come back?’
Grant shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think he ever will,’ he said.
The old man sniffed. ‘Well, then, if that’s so you’ll have to get out of that apartment, young lady.’
‘Please...’ Grant went over to his discarded purse, pulled out the money Karl had given him. ‘I have a little money... can’t I pay what he owes you? I’ve got nowhere else to go...’
Speaking like this to the old shit made him want to yell and break things, but he forced the old Grant down into the darkest depths of himself. As he turned to face the man he was aware of the old eyes running over his breasts and body. That what you want, you old bastard? Grant thought. Well, if that’s all it takes... if I gave it to fuckin’ Karl of all people, why not you?
He handed the money to his landlord and as the old man checked it he ran a hand through his hair, surreptitiously tweaked the front edges of his robe a little further apart. He knew well enough what it took.
When Lazarenko turned back to him he paused, momentarily. ‘Well, I don’t know...’
‘I’d be so grateful, mister,’ Grant said. ‘You wouldn’t want me out on the street, would you?’
‘It’s a little short, that’s all.’ The old man looked flustered, just a touch. ‘But I suppose...’ His eyes were not on Grant’s face.
‘I’ll make it up, I promise. Any way I can,’ Grant said.
‘Hmm, well. I’ll take this as a down payment – just a down payment, mind,’ Lazarenko said.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Grant forced himself to dart forward and plant a kiss on the old man’s unshaven jowl.
‘Umm, well, yes, whatever.’ His landlord had colored and was almost twitching. ‘What was your name again?’
‘G-grace. Grace Benson,’ Grant said.
‘Well, Grace,’ the old man said, giving him an awful, crooked smile, ‘I expect I’ll see you soon. For the rest, you understand.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Grant said, smiling and looking breezy. ‘I’ll look forward to it!’
‘Me too,’ said the old man, and after a moment handed back a ten. He smiled again and closed the door behind him.
Jesus, Grant thought. He would’ve done it as well, if it had meant the difference between keeping the place and losing it. He still might have to. What the hell, he told himself. It wasn’t as though it needed to mean anything. With Karl it had been weird and new but not entirely bad. Karl had seemed satisfied.
He’d lost his old power, the weapons of his arms and legs and fists and muscles. But it seemed like maybe he had a new power, a new set of weapons that were slower and slyer but just as effective when it came to getting him what he wanted. That was all he needed to get back on his feet again. Grant Blackley was nothing if not a determined guy, he told himself. Then it occurred to him that he was Grace Benson now, and not really a guy at all.
*
Back at Karl’s place, a day or two later, banging on the door. He was in fishnets, leather boots and skirt, bustier, hair up, caked in makeup. Karl had made him the offer, after all, but this time he was determined to drive a harder bargain.
After a moment the door opened. It was Karl’s roomie Ty, who grinned at the sight of Grant. ‘Hel- lo...’
‘Hi. Karl in?’
Ty shook his head. ‘Went out early, don’t know where.’
‘Ah.’ Damn, he really needed the money.
Despite everything some of his disappointment must have crept into his face because Ty said, ‘Anything I can help with?’
Grant put his head on one side and looked at Ty anew. His face was kinder than Karl’s, for one thing. ‘Well, I dunno...’ he said, putting a note of playfulness into his voice.
‘Guess I know what you want,’ Ty said, grinning. ‘Wanna come in?’
‘Sure,’ Grant said, following him into the apartment.
‘Grace, right?’
‘Yeah.’ Grant took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa.
Ty sat down next to him. This was becoming routine for him, Grant thought, this assumption of the role of Grace... he knew how she would talk, behave. It was almost as though she were a real person and he could just sit back and let her take the controls.
‘You and Karl aren’t, you know, exclusive?’ Ty asked, his fingertips stroking Grant’s knee through his stockings.
Grant relaxed and let Grace work her wiles. ‘Oh, no,’ Grace said, giggling. ‘You don’t have to worry about nothing like that...’
‘Oh, good,’ Ty said. He leaned in and kissed Grace on the mouth. She mmmed with pleasure and slid her hands onto him, then broke it off sharply.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ Grace said, looking sadly at him. ‘I’d love to stay and fool around, but I can’t, things being the way they are...’
Ty was clearly already hooked. ’I don’t see what the problem is, honey...’
‘My rent’s due,’ Grace said, shrugging helplessly. ‘I was hoping Karl would, you know, help me out with some money... if he’s not here...’
‘Hey, baby, I’d be happy to lend a hand,’ Ty said, stroking her face.
‘But you don’t know me...’
‘Reckon I know you well enough,’ Ty said, grinning. ‘How much you need?’
‘Fifty, maybe?’
Ty nodded. ‘Can do, no problem.’ He grinned and leaned in to kiss her again.
‘Baby,’ Grace said, jerking her head aside. ‘Can you just give me the money now, maybe? So I can relax and stop worrying...’
Ty nodded again, clearly fully understanding the situation. ‘Money’s in my room,’ he said.
It wasn’t much different from Karl’s. As Ty started to count out bills, Grace smiled at him and started to unzip her skirt.
*
Ty and Karl had various buddies who knew value when they saw it, and even when all them were busy it was easy enough to find guys in a bar or club who wanted to show off their wallets, like that made any difference. Grant knew that was riskier, though, and that if he carried on like that too long the chances were his body’d turn up in a dumpster somewhere. The logical thing to do would be to cut someone in – Ty or Karl, maybe – for part of the take, in exchange for looking out for Grace’s safety.
But he resisted that, because he knew what people like that were called, and what that in turn would make him. Deep down the remains of the old Grant were still resisting what he’d become.
That said, he was dimly aware the boundaries between Grant and Grace were sliding... or simply fading away. This was his life – Grace’s life now – no-one was even calling him Grant any more, as far as everyone except Ratman and Karl were concerned Grant had just dropped out of sight. He was really Grace now, in every sense that mattered. He was her.
*
Late at night, on a weekend, and Grace was walking back home down main street. She was stiff and sore after a rough encounter in the back seat of a Chevy, and the guy had tried to gyp her – might have managed it, too, if he’d been less drunk. She wondered how long it would be before he noticed his wallet was gone – he might be one of the ones she had to look out for in future.
Shit, she was tired. Still, had to make money somehow, and she was doing okay, keeping the old bastard in the apartment block happy, eating okay, a little left for herself. Men were such dumb fucks when you really got down to it. None of this was what she’d have chosen for herself, but she was doing okay.
Red light at the crosswalk. She paused and looked around. The good people of the town were out and enjoying themselves, drifting between bars and clubs. Well, good luck to them ‘em, all she wanted was her bed – and just the bed.
A couple came up to the crosswalk, and Grace realised there was something vaguely familiar about them. She was gorgeous, tall, long red-brown hair, great body, dress that must’ve cost a thousand bucks. The guy was well-dressed too, flash suit – looked to be in good shape, for all that everything about him seemed to yell ‘yuppie asshole’.
The woman noticed Grace looking at them and returned her gaze. She looked Grace up and down with a faint smile on her face, almost a look of pity in her eyes. Grace found herself getting angry, he cheeks starting to burn. The man glanced at Grace and whispered something to his partner. They both laughed, just as the light turned green.
Grace stayed put as the two of them walked away, tried to fight down the rage that suddenly gripped her... but it was quashed by something even more awful, the realisation that whatever they thought of her, it was probably true.
Jesus, what was she? What had she become? And how could she change it? It preyed on her mind all the way home, and did not allow her to sleep until well into the night.

13.
None of the fuckin’ men she met had any class, that was the problem. She needed to start moving in better circles. Not much chance of that, though, the way things were. More than ever before she sensed the barrier between herself and the haves of the world, and it burned at her. She was – she was Grace Benson, she told herself, and as good as any of them – as smart, as tough, as ruthless. All she needed was the smallest opportunity to show it.
But try as she might Grace couldn’t think of a way to catch that opportunity. So she rubbed along a while longer, out with her men-friends in the afternoons and evenings, sprawled in front of the TV the rest of the time. It was there that she lay when there came a knock at the door.
Shit, it was probably that old fart sniffing around her again. She pulled a robe on over her slip, pulled an appropriately friendly look onto her face, and opened it.
To Grace’s utter astonishment it was Guy, Benny’s pal, the man from the lab. He flashed a somewhat awkward smile in her direction. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ Grace echoed.
‘I – ah, I’m looking for Grant Blackley,’ Guy said. ‘Someone told me this was his place.’
Man, he stood out in this shitty building like a visitor from another planet. ‘Kinda,’ Grace said, opening the door. ‘You wanna come in?’
Guy nodded and came into the apartment. Grace kicked herself for not keeping the place tidier. ‘You, ah, want a beer?’
‘Er, no thanks,’ Guy said, looking around.
‘So, why do you want Grant?’
‘Well... I know he got sick – just before he disappeared. The cops seem to think he’s left town, but... I don’t think he would’ve been able to,’ Guy said. ‘I know how sick he was.’
‘That was weeks ago. No-one’s seen him in ages,’ Grace said.
‘Yeah, well, it’s taken me this long to track down his address,’ Guy said. ‘You haven’t seen him in weeks?’
Grace shook her head, starting to think it was maybe an error even as she did so. Guy nodded and sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point me bothering you any further,’ he said.
‘It’s no bother,’ Grace said, even as Guy turned back towards the door. She shot him a quick smile. ‘Why are you looking for Grant, anyway?’
Guy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What was happening to him was pretty severe, I just – maybe wanted to see if I could help him. Also...’ He laughed, almost harshly. ‘Whatever happened to him’s never happened before... so, you know, it’d have scientific value, if I could look at him...whatever’s left of him...’
‘Aha,’ Grace said. Guy wanting to help Grant she couldn’t really understand but the rest of it made perfect sense to her: the man was just looking out for his own reputation and career.
‘Anyway, I should go,’ Guy said. He started for the door again, in his smart suit, no doubt heading down to his expensive car which he’d use to drive to his nice house...
‘Aw, d’you have to?’ Grace asked. She turned her smile up to full intensity. ‘I, you know, don’t see many people –‘
‘I’m sorry,’ Guy said, smiling awkwardly.
He was seconds away from walking out of her door forever. ‘Guy,’ she said desperately.
Guy paused in the doorway, frowned at her. ‘How’d you know my name?’
‘You said you wanted to see what was left of Grant,’ she said. She held her hands out, looked down at herself. ‘Here it is.’
Guy stared at her, his frown deepening. ‘What?’
‘The last time you saw Grant,’ Grace said, taking a deep breath and trying to force the emotion from her voice, ‘he came to you outside your lab. He – I was losing my teeth and hair, couldn’t walk properly... I was really bad.’
‘I... I still can’t believe...’ Guy said, but he was looking at her properly now.
Grace sank into one of the chairs. ‘You talked about... I don’t know, some kind of chemical. Orgasmatron or something.’
‘Grant could have told you that,’ Guy said in a low voice. But he walked over to her, put his hand under her chin and raised her face. ‘Christ. Your coloring’s completely changed, but... there’s still some of your original bone structure left.’
‘Not enough for most people to recognise, though,’ Grace said, forcing a smile onto her face.
Guy stepped back, shaking his head. ‘Your hair grew back? Your teeth?’
‘Really fuckin’ quick.’
‘And – and the rest of it?’ Guy raised a vague hand.
Grace couldn’t help but smile in earnest. ‘Not sure what you mean... but I’m all girl. Far as I can tell, anyway. Didn’t want to go to a doctor.’
Guy nodded. ‘Well, maybe you should... how’ve you been feeling? Generally, I mean?’
She shrugged. ‘Fine. Good as ever, once the actual change was done...’
‘This is... this is incredible,’ Guy said. ‘I should be taking notes. You really ought to have some tests, you know... at the lab or something.’
Grace smiled at him. ‘I’d really like to keep this unofficial, doc... you know, the cops are still looking for Grant... if anyone finds out I used to be him, you’d be doing your tests on me while I was in the pen.’
Guy seemed to think about that for a moment. ‘I guess most people would say you’ve already been punished enough for that break-in,’ he said, eventually. ‘Okay, let’s keep this unofficial, for the time being.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I need to go and get my notebook, some other stuff,’ Guy said. He checked his watch. ‘Damn it, I have to be at a staff meeting this afternoon.’ He glanced back at Grace. ‘Is it okay if I come back this evening? Do it then?’
‘Yeah, okay. Only... I lost my job,’ Grace said. ‘For obvious reasons. Kinda been struggling...’
Guy nodded. ‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ he said.
No change there then, Grace thought. ‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ she said. ‘Seven?’
Guy broke into a thin smile. ‘Seven,’ he said.

14.
Grace was waiting for him by six thirty, wearing the classiest clothes she had – her figure was still pretty blatantly prominent, of course. She’d even made an attempt at cleaning up the apartment. Don’t make this too obvious, she repeated to herself like a mantra. You had to play a big fish on a long line. Or something like that. (She’d never actually been fishing.)
When he eventually appeared (ten minutes late, not that Grace was going to make an issue of it), Guy was wearing the same clothes as earlier and looked slightly surprised that she’d dressed up. He wasn’t thinking of this as a date, Grace realised. Well, it wasn’t, strictly speaking.
‘Thought we’d get some food,’ she said, brightly.
‘Er, yeah. Okay,’ Guy said. ‘Where’s good around here?’
‘Everywhere’s shit,’ she said with a grin, then made a note to cut back on the cursing. He looked uneasy with it.
‘Well, I’ve got the car with me,’ he said, smiling.
They drove to a pizza restaurant slightly uptown – a quiet place, thankfully, because it was clear Guy’s first objective was to ask an immense number of questions: how exactly had Grant felt immediately after his exposure to the organo-dimutron? How long before the physical changes had started to appear? How exactly had they progressed?
Grace did her best to answer them, but began to feel frustrated. He was being so damn brisk and professional about the whole thing, there was barely any sign he’d even noticed her as a woman. Oh, Jesus, don’t say he was gay... that really would be the crowning indignity of all...
‘Okay, I think we’ve just about covered the physical side,’ Guy said, making a final note. ‘I’d still really love for you to have a proper exam at some point, though. Now... this may not be something you care to discuss...’
‘Go on,’ Grace said, sipping at her beer.
‘ It’s whether the physical change has been accompanied by any... psychological alterations,’ Guy said. ‘I mean, most obviously, you’re wearing very feminine clothing, and make-up...’
‘Ah,’ Grace said. Better not let on the real reasons for that, she thought. ‘Well... you know... my old clothes were no good any more... and I thought there was no point trying to pretend to be something I wasn’t any more...’
Guy nodded. ‘A conscious choice. I’m just interested in how much that decision may have been influenced by changes in brain chemistry...’
Grace shrugged and smiled. ‘Can’t help you there, doc.’
‘It’s okay if you want to call me Guy,’ he said, making another note.
‘To be honest, it’s just a relief to be able to talk to someone about all of this stuff,’ she said.
‘You haven’t told anyone? Friends or family?’ He did not look up.
‘Don’t really have any of either. This has made me realise that,’ Grace said. Damn it, she thought, that was perilously close to being true, and she clamped down on the emotion the fact stirred in her. Don’t go soft, bitch...
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Guy said. ‘It must have been very difficult for you.’
She’d meant to get all tearful at some point in the evening, Grace told herself. Just hadn’t expected it to come so soon or so easy. ‘Guess so,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry...’
‘That’s okay,’ Guy said. He waited until she had recovered herself before going on. ‘I really think you should consider getting professional help, Grace. Medical and psychiatric.’
‘Thought we’d discussed that,’ she said. ‘Anyway... just talking to you’s really great. I feel so much better.’ She put her hand gently on his and smiled at him again.
He blinked at her and smiled back, clearly a little surprised. ‘Uh... thank you, Grace.’
‘You wanted to ask me some more questions about my change?’ she asked.
‘Um... yeah.’ He pulled his hand away, a little reluctantly she thought. ‘Do – do you think of yourself as a woman? Inside, I mean?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Yeah... but I didn’t feel like I had any choice there, either... with the way I was feeling... you know, fantasies and stuff...’ She looked away and did her best to look bashful.
‘Oh,’ Guy said. ‘You mean – sexual fantasies?’
She met his gaze and nodded, paused before answering further. ‘Me and a guy together. You know, being intimate. They were so vivid... so enjoyable...’ And so entirely imaginary, too, but she had to start him thinking about her in that kind of context and this seemed a neat way to do it.
‘Aha,’ Guy said, taking a sip of his own drink and looking slightly ill-at-ease.
‘Oh, God, I’m embarrassing you! Sorry,’ Grace said. She smiled and shrugged. ‘Well, you did ask...’
‘Yeah,’ Guy agreed. He looked at his notepad and seemed to be thinking of a way to frame the next question. ‘This is a really personal question, and you don’t need to answer it... but do you still have these, uh, feelings?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? I mean, yeah,’ Grace said.
‘And have you, ah – what I mean to ask is, have you – have you made any attempt –‘
‘Have I done it with a guy yet?’
‘Er, basically, yeah.’
‘Jeez, doc, what kind of girl do you take me for?’ She smiled at him. ‘C’mon, you’ve seen where I live, the kind of circles I used to move in. I don’t want that kind of guy. I want someone nice. Classy.’ Again, she found she was speaking the truth without intending to and it rattled her.
‘Well... I can understand that,’ Guy said.
He was definitely thinking of her in that way now, Grace thought. She hoped she was coming across the right way – vulnerable and uncertain, but passionate. Then again his eyes were sliding down off her face more and more, so it was a fair bet that he wasn’t completely paying attention to what she said...
He picked up the check and drove her back to her place. A long line, Grace told herself as Guy escorted her up to her apartment door.
‘Hope I answered all your questions okay,’ she said, as she unlocked it. ‘I had a nice evening, regardless.’
‘Yeah,’ Guy said. ‘Yeah, it was great.’
She turned and leaned against the doorframe. ‘So, doc... are you going to want to see me again?’
Guy shrugged. ‘Well... there may be a few follow-up questions... and I think it’d make sense for someone to keep –‘
‘That, ah, wasn’t really what I meant,’ Grace said. She took hold of his lapels and pulled him down so she could kiss him, just for a moment or so. As he was standing there looking stunned she pulled out the slip of paper with her new phone number on it that she’d had in her purse all night and pressed it into his hand.
‘Good night, Guy,’ she whispered, stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.
Well, she thought, standing with her back to the closed door, listening to the sound of him walking slowly away, that had just about gone according to plan. Now it was just a case of waiting in the expectation of him calling her...
*
...which he did, less than thirty-six hours later.
Sucker, Grace thought triumphantly. She started to idly contemplate what clothes and other new shit she wanted.

15.
Guy pulled the car up in front of the building. ‘Here we are.’
‘Thanks... I had another lovely evening,’ Grace said, running her fingers through her hair. ‘You, ah, wanna come in?’
‘Why not,’ Guy said, smiling.
He took her hand as they went inside. Two weeks and five dates in and she was pretty sure she had him hooked good and proper. Time to start reeling him in.
She started to exaggeratedly tiptoe, putting her finger to her lips, as they passed Lazarenko’s door, all the way up to the next floor.
‘What...?’ Guy asked when she started walking normally again.
‘Oh, it’s just my landlord, he’s been giving me a hard time over the rent,’ Grace said, sighing. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet old guy, but I think he owes somebody else...’
Guy frowned. ‘Well, surely that’s his problem, not yours...’
‘Yeah, but – see, when I was Grant, he cut me some slack, because I helped him out around the place... and since he started thinking I was Grant’s old girlfriend, taking over the lease, he’s gone easy on me – till recently... so I can’t really complain,’ Grace said, thinking fast.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Guy said.
‘Can’t be helped,’ Grace said. She opened the door and let them into her apartment. ‘Coffee?’
‘Sounds good,’ Guy said, sitting down.
The place was really sort of transformed, even if Grace thought so herself. Not exactly spotless, and still not what you’d call nice, but it looked like a single girl’s flat now, rather than a pigsty. A single girl desperately short of cash, of course...
‘How much short are you, anyway? I know that’s kinda personal,’ Guy said.
‘After all those other personal things you started off asking me?’ Grace giggled. ‘You know, honey, I don’t actually have what you’d call an income. I don’t have a job, and I can hardly claim social security...’
‘Jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Are you just burning through your savings?’
Grace nodded. ‘Been looking for a job, but you know how things are at the moment...’ She carried two cups of coffee over to where he sat.
‘Dammit. If only we could go public about this, the university’d probably be able to give you a support grant, or something...’
Grace sat down next to him, sipped at her coffee. ‘Would the university be okay with you dating a test subject?’
‘Maybe not.’ He lifted his own cup to his lips, but his eyes were always on her. She leaned back and smiled at him, injecting just a nervous edge into it. Eventually he put the cup down and reached hesitantly for her.
He was shy, almost timid, and much gentler than any of the others. In a strange way that made it much harder to shut him out of her mind and feelings, but she did her best. They relocated into the bedroom leaving a trail of clothes behind them, sliding into the bed. He’d brought his own rubbers with him, which astounded her – the old Grant would have mocked and despised something like that, but her feelings were in motion, confused – and then they were together, sliding together, like they were in synch, connected... and that made it something new and unfamiliar... when she came it was stronger, deeper than ever before. She shivered and clutched at him, buried her head against his chest.
And then they lay together and Guy whispered, ‘I love you, Grace.’
Something froze inside her, not in a cold way but like the pause button on a DVD – everything seemed to stop. She had thought that one day she would make him say it to her, but not so easily, not like this...
‘I love you too,’ she murmured in response, feeling something leap within her as she did so, maybe something that objected to her saying it so emptily and coldly – because, of course, it was a cold and empty thing for someone like Grace Benson to say.
They lay there together a while longer. ‘You’re really not in touch with your family at all?’ Guy asked, after a while.
‘No.’ She shifted against him. ‘Why?’
‘I thought, I don’t know – I can’t imagine what that’s like. I guess I’m lucky, we’ve always been close.’
‘That is lucky,’ she whispered.
He sighed. ‘My mom’s pretty sick at the moment. Has been for a while. She’s always been kind of the lynchpin. Don’t know what we’d do without her, any of us...’
‘Sounds like a nice bunch of people you have.’ She fought to keep the resentment from her voice.
‘I always just assume every family’s like that – I thought yours could help you, or you could stay with them...’
Grace couldn’t help but let out a laugh that sounded harsh even to her. ‘That’d be kind of ironic. My parents put me up for adoption...’
‘Oh, Jesus, baby, I’d no idea...’
And it was the absolute truth, that was the weirdest thing, something she’d never told, would never have dreamed of telling anyone when she’d been Grant. She felt emotions stir and grow within her, huddled closer to him. ‘I never really knew why... thought my mom must’ve been too young, or something. Then my sister tracked me down a couple of years ago. She’s not that much younger than me, and my mom kept her. So I figure she must’ve wanted a girl. I wasn’t good enough... Like I said, ironic, isn’t it?’
She felt his arms close around her, tried to resist but found she couldn’t. ‘Grace, that’s not it,’ Guy said. ‘You can’t know what your mom’s situation was...’
‘Well, maybe not,’ Grace said, rolling over to face him. ‘But I’ve made it all alone this far. Don’t see any reason to change that now.’
‘Keep on going it alone, huh?’ Guy’s embrace seemed to slacken a little. ‘Okay. I see.’
‘Honey, that’s not what I meant. You know that, right?’
Guy nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said.
*
Well, she thought, the next morning after he’d gone, she couldn’t have done much more to snare him. He seemed to have it pretty bad for her... poor fool, she added automatically. Now she’d even given up the goods to him, which had been a bit of a gamble given she’d no guarantee of his coming up with the cash she wanted. Still... it had been okay. Sex as a girl had stuff to commend it after all, maybe one day she might even consider it just for fun...
Damn it, she had to toughen up. Why was she feeling so tired? No, not tired, exactly, just... it was difficult to get it clear in her head. Soft. She was feeling soft, uncertain, sensitive in a way that just wasn’t like her... at least not like the person she’d been. Maybe she really had been transformed in every way and it had taken getting with Guy to make her realise that...
No, the idea was bullshit. She was her own person, somebody tougher than that. She was taking the man for whatever she could get, first and foremost. She had to start remembering that, whatever he said, however he acted, however her feelings seemed to be betraying her.
She kept that thought in the forefront of her mind for the rest of the day. But then that evening Guy turned up without even calling. He looked even twitchier and more nervous than usual, which was enough to set her worrying too. Jesus, had she scared him off somehow? Had it gotten too heavy too fast?
‘Hey,’ Guy said. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Oh, sure,’ Grace said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Well...’ Guy was practically pacing up and down on the rug as she sank into a chair. ‘I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last night... the trouble you’re having...’
This sounded more hopeful, but she knew not to sound too eager. ‘Yeah?’
‘Grace... you know how I feel about you,’ Guy said. ‘I want to help.’
Mentally she was punching the air, but she contrived to look shocked and delighted and disbelieving... ‘Guy... I don’t know what to say...’ She wondered how much she could realistically hope to get out of him.
Guy hunkered down in front of her, grinning. ‘You’re okay with that? You don’t think it’s too soon?’
‘Honey... I’m so grateful! It’s wonderful!’
‘You’ll really like the place. At least I hope you do. We can always...’ Guy stopped as he realised she was looking at him in confusion.
‘W- what are you talking about, sweetie?’ Grace asked.
‘Well – I was kind of asking you to move in with me,’ Guy said.
‘You mean – permanently?’
‘Uh, yeah. What did you think I meant?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I... I just thought you were offering to help out, you know, with the rent...’
Guy looked away. ‘Well... if you don’t think you’re ready for something like that...’
His disappointment, and maybe the beginnings of embarrassment and doubt, were obvious. She grabbed his hands and squeezed. ‘It’s just a big idea to take in, honey, that’s all. I need a little time to think about it,’ Grace said.
He nodded. ‘Sure.’
They stood up. ‘You want a drink, something to eat?’ Grace asked.
Guy shook his head, smiled. ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’
‘Okay, then.’ She kissed him, put a lot into it, but his response was only half-hearted, uncertain. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’
‘Nothing. I should go,’ Guy said. He smiled. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Grace said. She saw him to the door and closed it after him.
Suddenly she felt nervous and worried herself, skittish inside. For the first time he was looking uncertain about the whole thing, and – ah, Jesus, with hindsight it was obvious – she’d basically rejected him, to his face. She should’ve said she was locked into the lease, or something, unable to move out... but that wouldn’t have made sense, and he’d have probably insisted on talking to Lazarenko himself, and the whole edifice of deceit would’ve come crashing down on her...
It wasn’t as if she felt that attached to this shithole anyway. She looked around the apartment and found she had little real affection for it any more. It was too redolent of the old Grant, and Brandi, and all the other girls that had come before her (and also occasionally while she was out)... She’d never seen Guy’s place, but she’d seen how he dressed, the car he drove – it had to be better than this, didn’t it?
Wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted? To move up in the world, to start moving in a slightly classier circle? A better apartment would be just the start of that. And she’d basically be living there rent-free. She’d be able to stop giving Karl and Ty and their friends rides just for day-to-day money. That would be a real improvement, though of course she’d still have to keep Guy happy. She smiled and thought of herself making him happy in his own bed. Not quite living rent-free, after all, she thought... but it wouldn’t hardly feel like a chore, not with him...
Okay. Her mind was settled: she was moving up and moving out. Idly she started to make herself a meal, planning how she was going to break the news to him.

16.
Guy didn’t have an apartment, he had a house. Okay, it was a small house, and not new enough to be cool or old enough to have class, but it was a house with its own four walls and a yard at the back... and it was hers to live in, very nearly for free.
Thankfully, the next time they met Guy was his old self again, and had looked genuinely absolutely delighted when she’d told him her decision. It was all she could do not to stop him leaving the restaurant then and there to go and help her start packing her things. She made him wait until the weekend – and then she moved out of Lazarenko’s building, leaving the old man a reasonable roll of cash but no forwarding address.
Guy admitted to being slightly surprised at how few possessions she had, particularly clothes. ‘It makes sense, though, I suppose,’ he said, watching her unpack at his place.
‘None of my old stuff was any good,’ Grace said. ‘Threw it all in the trash.’
‘Where did you get all your clothes from, anyway?’ Guy asked.
‘Just stuff an old girlfriend left lying around the place.’ She smiled.
‘Yeah...’
‘What?’ She could tell he had something on his mind.
‘Well, I mean, do you like it? Dressing that way?’
Grace looked down at herself. As usual, she was wearing a strappy top, miniskirt and high-heels. ‘I don’t know. Don’t you like it?’ She smiled at him.
Guy grinned. ‘Well, yeah, but... it’s a bit obvious...’
She put her head on one side. ‘You saying I look trashy?’ She couldn’t figure out why that should upset her so.
He raised both hands, a placatory gesture. ‘I’m just saying you can get some new clothes now. Dress how you feel comfortable dressing.’
‘That’s not important, baby.’ She stepped up to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘I just want you to feel good...’
Because that was part of the deal, wasn’t it? She kept him happy and he kept her... well, he just kept her. Although, if the guy was happy for her to let her end of the deal slide, why not? More fool him.
Except, of course, he wasn’t thinking of it in terms of a deal. He was in love, the poor... the poor fella, Grace thought, surprised by her inability to think of him in any harsher terms. Christ, though, he seemed like a decent man – trusting someone like her, taking her into his home. He deserved –
Grace was angry to find herself slipping. He deserved whatever he could carve out for himself, same as everyone else in the world. Grant had used his strength to do it, she was using sex, and if Guy couldn’t use his obvious smarts in the same way, that was his look out.
So to keep him happy and because it actually was more comfortable, she let him buy her a few long skirts, and blouses, and pairs of pants. The kind of stuff he’d hated to see girls wearing when she was Grant. She stopped wearing make-up, except when they went out together, and he didn’t even comment on that.
Grace found the routines of domesticity surprisingly easy to master. Her rudimentary cooking skills started to improve and she accepted that some cleaning and doing of laundry comprised her side of the deal, along with the sex.
That was the main thing, the focus, after all. Whether it was dumb or not, she was strict with herself, never refusing him and always initiating sex three nights a week, without fail. She gave him the stuff she knew he wanted but was too embarrassed to own up to: oral, anal, her in teddies, costumes, whatever. And, really, it was getting better between them, not that it had ever really been a disappointment.
So it came as a real shock one night when she was wrapping herself around him and he just smiled gently and said, ‘You know, you don’t have to, Grace.’
‘But I want to, honey, I want you to be happy...’
‘What’d really make me happy would be for you to relax,’ Guy said, following it up with a kiss. She took that as a sign that he wanted it after all, but clearly it was a sign she’d misread, as he gently resisted her again. ‘Darling, I mean it.’
‘I... I don’t understand.’
‘I didn’t ask you to move in because I wanted to have sex all the time... I asked because I love you, and I think we could be really happy together...’
‘Could be? I thought we were.’
‘Yeah, but – I just get the feeling you think you have to do all these things to repay me, or something,’ Guy said.
‘But you’ve given me so much, and I don’t have anything to give you back except –‘
‘You can’t just go through life thinking in terms of getting one thing for another, Grace.’
‘Well, you’re talking about giving me something for nothing, and that’s dumb...’
‘Then I’m dumb,’ Guy said, shrugging. ‘But I’d rather have it that way. Grace, I love you. That takes all the price tags off as far as I’m concerned.’
She couldn’t think of anything to say, then buried her face against his shoulder, feeling her body start to shake.
‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ His arms held her gently as she trembled, battling to stay silent. Eventually she had to extricate herself and be apart from him while she recovered herself, told herself again who she really was.
*
So she started to let the three-times-a-week-without-fail thing fall into abeyance, and Guy seemed happier. But she felt less certain herself, felt like she was drifting into somewhere strange and alien. Yeah, he was giving her something for nothing, so she should’ve been happy, laughed at him as a fool behind his back... but why did that seem so difficult?
How could his loving her so truly feel like such a demand upon her? It didn’t make any sense, and yet it did. No matter how many times she told herself she had to toughen up and just live with it, it didn’t seem to get any easier.
But life carried on, and was good, until one day when she got home from the mall to find Guy on the sofa, phone on the coffee table in front of him. His face was a blank mask, but there were glittering trails down his cheeks where tears had run.
She had a premonition of something terrible approaching. ‘Guy? Honey, what’s wrong?’
‘My... my uncle called. It’s my mom,’ he said in a voice which sounded kind of dry and husky.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Grace knew Guy’s mom had been having a particularly tough time of it lately, and that – together with the fact that most of his family lived on the other side of the country – was really the only reason why she hadn’t been taken to meet her yet. ‘She – she got worse –?‘
Guy sank his face into his hands. ‘Uncle Lou said it actually happened pretty quick, in the end...’ He could clearly find no other words to say.
‘Oh, Guy. Oh, baby.’ Grace knew what the situation demanded of her, put down her bags and went over to him. But her movements felt stiff and jerky, like she was a puppet, but being worked by herself...
She put her arms around him and was surprised by the ferocity with which he held her back, pressing his head against her side. She made vague ssshing noises and stroked him uncertainly, knowing she should do more, and suddenly realising she had it within her to do so, but that it would mean abandoning any pretence of distance or reserve in this relationship...
And she couldn’t do that. Not now, not just like that. She realised the idea terrified her more than anything had, since those dark days in her old apartment as her flesh and bones had warped and shifted around her.
But neither could she just continue to pretend, not at a moment like this for him... he deserved more than that, a man like him. He deserved honesty, if anything.
‘Baby...’ Grace found her own voice was breaking, her own eyes were stinging. She pulled away from him, felt another dagger in the heart as he stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘Baby, I’m sorry... I just... I’ve just got to...’ And she turned and ran unsteadily for the door.

17.
Grace had thought she’d just been walking aimlessly, lost in her thoughts, and was slightly surprised to find she’d wandered back into her old neighbourhood. It figured. She’d be back here soon enough, after all. No way would Guy want her back after she’d run out on him the first time he really needed her.
Well, it looked like she’d get what she deserved in the end, anyway. Some poor slapped about bitch of girlfriend to an asshole like Karl, or maybe even somebody really vicious – like Grant had been, she realised. Christ, it was like the revenge of karma, or something.
She sank onto a bench and watched the traffic and people go by. How’d one go about finding a pimp, anyway? The prospect seemed blackly comic, but there was no point hiding from the truth – for all her ideas of using sex as her new weapon of choice, she’d basically gone from being a thug to being a whore.
Weapons. Jesus, she’d still been thinking like Grant then – everything a fight, a contest of strength. Maybe Guy had been trying to show her that there was another way after all – not consciously, but still...
‘Hey, honey. Got a light?’ Another woman, looking tired, sank onto the other end of the bench.
‘Oh, sure.’ Grace fished out her lighter, and as she handed it to the woman realised it was Brandi – in jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket. Brandi showed no sign of recognising her.
‘Thanks,’ Brandi said. She looked at Grace, smiled. ‘Jeez, look at you. Cheer up, it might never happen.’
Grace forced herself to smile. ‘Maybe,’ she said. After a pause: ‘It – it’s Brandi, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah...’ Brandi frowned at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember...’
‘It was, like, another life ago,’ Grace said, smiling. ‘My name’s Grace.’
‘Still doesn’t mean a thing. I got to cut down,’ Brandi said, returning the smile. ‘So – wanna talk about it? Whatever it is?’
‘It’s about a guy...’
‘Isn’t it always? I tell you, he can’t have been as bad as some of the assholes I’ve been with,’ Brandi said with a harsh laugh.
‘No, he’s... he’s great. Almost too great,’ Grace said.
‘No such thing. What’s the problem, then?’
‘Oh, it’s me... I went into it just thinking about me, and that was fine... but he never thought of it that way. And now, it’s like he really loves me... I just feel so fuckin’ guilty...’ Her old self was already starting to resurface, she thought.
‘Sounds like... nothin’ personal, Grace... sounds like it’s not all one way affection,’ Brandi said, looking away.
‘I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t. But I’ve been lying to him all along, so why should he –‘
‘Listen, sweetheart,’ Brandi said. ‘The past’s done with. Everyone’s done stuff they regret later. So what if you were a bitch to the guy yesterday? Doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch to him today. People can change, you know.’
‘Yeah,’ Grace said. ‘I guess you’re right.’
‘And if he really cares about you as much as you say, he’ll understand. You might have to work at it a bit, though.’
Grace looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. It would mean abandoning the last of herself, but that would surely be no great loss to the world. Eventually she looked up at Brandi and smiled. ‘Thanks. Can I ask – Brandi, are you okay? Happy, I mean?’
‘Getting by,’ Brandi said, shrugging but giving a thin smile. ‘Best any of us can hope for, right?’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Grace said. ‘I like your clothes, by the way.’
And she left Brandi staring after her in some confusion as she started back towards home.

18.
Grace let herself into the house. There was no sign of Guy in the living room, and no answer to her calls. Could he have gone out? The car was still in the driveway. Oh, God, don’t let him have done anything stupid...
She found him in their bedroom, lying on the bed in his clothes. He looked blankly at her as she came in.
‘You came back, then.’
‘Of course... honey, I’m so, so sorry... I don’t know what to say...’
‘But you came back,’ he said quietly.
‘Yeah...’ She took a breath. ‘Honey, I really love you, I just never realised how much, or what that really meant before today... And it scared me. I just... I just needed to...’
Guy nodded slowly and a smile came onto his face. ‘And are you okay with that now?’
She walked towards him, slowly, timidly. ‘I don’t think I have any choice. I mean, it’s not like it’s something I can stop myself from doing.’
He laughed, softly. ‘No. The same for me. Not that I’d ever want to.’
Suddenly they were in each others’ arms. Grace found herself saying, over and over, ‘I’m sorry... I’m sorry...’ and maybe it wasn’t just to him, but to Brandi, and Lazarenko, and a thousand other people who deserved at least that much from her.
‘It’s okay,’ Guy whispered, and she recalled how much reason he had to think of himself at the moment, instead of reaching out to her this way. Was that what it meant? Was she really capable of that?
She knew she was going to try.
‘I love you,’ she said, and for the first time how he responded did not matter to her in the slightest. It was not said for profit, or as a ploy, or with any thought of its wider implications. She was simply saying it because it was the truth. And that was surely a good place to start.

User:Bad Guru

2011-02-06T23:00:39Z

Bad Guru:

== The Mitigating Circumstances ==

Hello. I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru.

A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've written TG since 1997 and posted it (rather infrequently, I acknowledge) to FictionMania since 2003. However, I do write other kinds of TF once in a while and this looks like it would be a good place to put all of it.

'''APFS Stories'''

''This is a loosely-linked series of stories set in a near-future version of our world, where gender has become inexplicably and randomly mutable. Very occasionally characters from one story appear briefly or are referred to in another, but the stories are all standalones. They tend to be focussed on character and dialogue, ideally as realistic as I can manage.''

*[[Stripped Away]]
*[[A Different Kind of Love]]
*[[A Woman Within]]
*[[Inbetweener]]
*[[The Realm of Flesh]]
*[[Ordinary Moments]]

''Should anyone be interested I have written some [[Notes on TG Fiction and the APFS Stories]], in which I share my thoughts on the genre and give some background on the series.

'''Other stories'''

''What it says on the tin.''

*[[Descent]] - A non-specific animal TF: humans from a dying Earth are forced to take desperate measures to ensure their survival in an alien environment. About as close to traditional SF as I've written recently.
*[[Monarch of Monsters]] - A TF take on a well-known Japanese cinematic universe. Say no more.
*[[The Cycle of Wisdom]] - TG. An attempt at a pastiche of H.P. Lovecraft's Dreamlands stories, not that anyone's noticed so far. Hey ho.
*[[Weapon of Choice]] - TG. Written-to-order as a commission - the client has kindly allowed me to publish it elsewhere. A small-time thug's attempts to get rich quick backfire horribly on him.

Hot Under the Collar

2011-01-13T21:14:09Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]] [[Category:Animal]]
{{DEFAULTSORT: Hot Under the Collar}}
[[Category:Metamor Keep]]
[[Category:Oberon]]
{{editing requested}}{{universe|Metamor Keep}}

By: [[User:Oberon|Oberon]]

When I got back to the Keep with my escort, a ferret morph whose name was Finbar, the first thing that I did was head for the baths. There I could take care of the dirt that was still in my fur from when I coated myself to avoid detection while I infiltrated a lutin encampment a couple of nights previously. My clothing was also in need of cleaning since it was dirty, too - partly because of my dirt trick, and partly because of the time that I had spent on the trail. As soon as I lowered myself into the water it turned black as the loose dirt began to be wash out of my thick fur. I used my hands to softly massage the fur to try and get the rest of the dirt out. It was at that point that Drift, the white Samoyed morph who I had met on my first full day of being conscious came into the room and took off his clothes before he slipped into the water.

He looked over at me and then his ears went back before he said, "You know Oberon you are crazy. To go offending Misha like you just did is probably one of the stupidest things that you could've done on only your second day here."

"I think that I understand that now and I will have to do something to to assuage his temper."

"My first piece of advice to you is not to go out there and do something foolish again. That's something that is bound to get Misha's tail in a knot, but, what you can do is to simply respect the rules around here and operate to the best of your abilities."

I nodded somewhat distractedly as I tried to get some of the dirt out of the fur on my neck ruff. He noticed the dirt and then asked me "Why is your fur so dirty?"

I grinned at him, confident that he knew what I meant in the gesture before I replied. "While I was out there I had to infiltrate a lutin encampment and I needed some way to avoid detection. In the winter that wouldn't be a problem but since it's spring and the all of the snow is already melted I kind of stand out in the bush."

Drift nodded in apparent understanding while I struggled to get the dirt out of my thick fur. When I was human I had used this trick many times to conceal myself, but now it seemed it was something that I should only do under the most dire of circumstances since it was such a pain in the tail to remove the dirt when the time came. Drift looked at me as I struggled with the dirt before he asked me if I had any brushes and the sort for grooming my fur.

"No, I have yet to get any of them - but I can assure you that now I will make a point of it."

"Well, there are some brushes here at the bath that you can use for the time being, but I would advise you to get your own as soon as you can."

“Thank you for the information,” I told him, before he left and I continued to clean out my fur. It took me another hour and a half to get all of the dirt out of my fur and restore it to its pristine black and white striped appearance. Once I was satisfied with my appearance I made my way back to my apartment to get dressed. I also spent some time exploring beyond a door that I hadn't seen the the first time that I was there, though I may have just missed it. Behind the door was a fully equipped forge with all of the implements that I would need to make any kind of weapon that I could imagine. In one corner there was the fire box itself with the bellows and the flue leading up and out of the room. In the middle of the room were two troughs, one contained water and the other contained oil, they were both used for tempering swords and other bladed weapons. There was also a box of clay in the corner and all of the various tools that I would need to do the job correctly. In a bin beside the fire-box was an assortment of ten iron rods that I would use to make anything that I wanted to. As a Blademaster of the Gold I was highly skilled in the creation of Kelmar weapons. Being both a Blademaster of the Gold and a Swordmaster of the Black I was, in fact considered a Bladelord of the Bronze. Bladelords were the rarest type of Kelmar Warrior with their numbers naturally limited to less than one hundred per generation. Most Kelmar Warriors excelled in only one discipline, either the creation of Kelmar weapons or the use of them; however bladelords were skilled in both the creation and utilization of weapons.

It had been roughly thirty years since I had had any chance to practice my skills as a Blademaster of the Gold. I would take this opportunity while it was here. However, right now I had something else to do, I needed to get some food, and I needed to purchase a grooming kit so that I could keep myself looking presentable. I put on a lighter belt that I had been storing for a long time and attached my single-handed sword, short-sword, and heavy dagger to it before I grabbed my favorite black cloak and headed out to take care of my errands.

I actually had to go into the town of Euper to find a kit that would fit my needs and it cost me a fairly large amount of money, considering that it was just a collection of brushes. The total that the merchant forced me to pay was a moon and five crescents. His reason was because the set was particularly complete and he complained about my coins because they were from the Midlands and not the same weight or purity as the coins that were from the Keep itself. I grumbled about the charge all the way back to my room, but as soon as I began using my own tools I appreciated the cost, even though it had been high. Once I was completed a proper grooming of my fur I went down to my usual mess facility for lunch before I went back to my room.

Now that I had eaten I was ready to begin work in the forge. I took one of the bars of iron and placed it on the anvil and began to beat on it with on of the larger hammers that was available. The first step in making a Kelmar Sword was to cold fold the metal one time before even starting to use heat to fold it a further nine times. The folding increased the blade's strength though it did have a tendency to make the metal more brittle. However that problem would also be solved by giving the weapon a core that was made out of more flexible steel that had only been folded the first time without heat. The final, and key step, in forging a Kelmar sword was the tempering process which utilized metal straps, clay, water, and oil to make the edge as hard as possible. I was starting from scratch and so had a lot of work to do in the next couple of weeks.

*

As Misha reached the Keep he thought about the mission against the lutin raiders that he had just led. It had gone well and the two remaining forces had been exterminated, though it had taken them nearly a week and a half to bring the last of the lutin parties to bay and destroy it. Though he didn't like to have to chase the lutins around the Giantdowns north of Glen Avery, he didn't like the idea that there were some lutin raiders still around ready to try and attack the town though it was well guarded, especially considering the fact that Misha's friend Charles Matthias was living there at the current time. The rat was probably one of Misha's greatest friends and one of the most fearsome fighters in the Long Scouts. He currently lived in Glen Avery after being sent there in the wake of the Yule Assault that had happened in December during the yuletide. Now, though, Misha was glad to be back at the Keep where Caroline and Madog and his other friends lived. Here he didn't have to worry about lutins coming out to ambush him in the halls. However his peace of mind was soon disturbed again when he asked about the crazy Kelmar Warrior that had caused all of the fuss in the first place. Just about no one had seen him since he had gotten back. That was just what he needed now, more trouble with that blasted warrior cat, this guy was turning into a major pain in the tail. Misha scoured the place from the baths to the bar before he finally got a hint from on of the other people in the keep. The man was an older guard that had worked in the keep almost all of his life.

"Well Misha sir, I've seen this guy you bin a lookin' fer off in da baths ever day but that not all, he also come by da main mess to eat his grub but he stay all by himself not talkin' to nobody."

"Thank you, old timer, I much appreciate the information." Misha was understating the facts quite a bit, he really wasn't in the mood to chase down that blasted cat in the Giantdowns north of the Keep. The fact that Oberon was still in the Keep was pleasing but there was still one thing that bothered Misha, and that was where Oberon spent his time if he wasn't down in the practice fields sparring with other soldiers. In the end he simply thought about where Oberon was and let Kyia carry him to where the Kelmar Warrior was currently spending his time. After a few minutes he stepped around the corner in the hall and found himself standing in front of a door that was marked with oddly shaped runes that he had never seen the like of before. He slowly raised a hand-paw and knocked on the worn-looking oak door.

*

I had just finished polishing and sharpening the last of my recently completed set of new weapons, which included a new hand-and-a-half long-sword, a short sword, and a new dagger. They were all marked with Kelmar God Runes that helped make them a little better than normal swords made of steel. These blades when properly forged wouldn't rust, dull, or chip making them almost incalculably valuable. I had also created a new sword belt to carry this set of weapons. As I ran the soft cloth over the gleaming metal of the blade and marveling at the Hatkarat Watermark on both edges of the blade a loud knocking sounded from the other room. I quickly stood up and placed the new sword in its scabbard and then took it in my left hand as I went to the door. When I opened it I was surprised to see Misha Brightleaf, the fox scout, standing in my doorway with an axe in his right hand. I bowed my head and then said something which I had been planning to say ever since I had gotten back to the Keep.

"Misha, I apologize for my actions up in the Giantdowns, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive a foolish old warrior's harebrained escapade."

The fox looked surprised before I turned to where I had placed my newly crafted set of weapons and picked them up. I held the three weapons out to him. I had designed these weapons for his use and his use and his use alone. Though I hadn’t managed to get precise measurments I had still managed to get the dimensions correct.

As I held out the three weapons out to him I said, "Sir, I have been in the service of many different people and organizations over the past thirty years, and I have almost forgotten some of the lessons that I was taught by my teachers in my homeland, all those long years ago. As a token of my respect and as a form of apology I would like to give these weapons to you. They are blessed by my gods never to lose their edge or luster so they will always serve you well in battle. You are probably the first non-Kelmar ever to receive weapons like these and so please carry them with the dignity and respect that they deserve."

He looked stunned for a moment, I could've hit him with one of the two remaining iron bars in my forge an not gotten a more stunned expression out of him then I was getting now. Finally he managed to put enough of his head back together to respond, although his response was still a little wooden. He took the weapons from my hands and then pulled the sword out of its scabbard to expose the runes and the hatkarat to the light of the sun that was streaming in through on of the windows in my apartment. After a few more minutes of regarding the weapon and gathering his thoughts together he finally managed to speak.

"I am a little surprised that you've decided to give this to me, considering what I said out there in the Giantdowns."

"No, even though I am shamed by what you said, all of those things were true. I didn't know the terrain, I didn't know my enemies, and I didn't know the risks. In truth if I was still under the command of a Kelmar Warlord I would've been in all likelihood been ordered to go remove myself from his sight, permanently."

"That is a little harsh isn't it?"

"Harsh but necessary, otherwise you would have Warriors who aren't trained as scouts running around in the deep woods trying to find the enemy with no concept for the common good of the Clan Army."

"Are you a trained scout?"

"Not really. I was trained as a Kaharatak, a Heavy Combat Specialist, though since I left my homeland roughly thirty years ago I have served as just about everything from a scout and assassin to a flag level officer in an army."

"If you aren't a trained scout, then why did you go out there without anyone else knowing about it?"

"I went out there for reasons that I've already explained. I don't take to well to not having a purpose in any place. Most of the time when I left someone's service I would do so because I perceived that they no longer really had a need for my services and that they were keeping me around simply because they enjoyed having a man of my skills around in case they needed me. Now here I am in a place that I can never really leave because of how I look and they view me in the same way as they did in some of my other assignments."

"Oberon, we don't view you that way, it's just that you have to follow the rules here. You need to prove your skills, your loyalty, and your ability to obey orders before I can even think of sending you out there. Even then it will not be my decision as to where you go, it will be up to Patrol Master George to decide."

"Haven't I already proven my abilities?"

"Yes, you have proven your abilities to me, but I am not the one that you need to be concerned about. The person that you need to impress is George." I nodded slowly before I asked him how I should go about doing that.

"Well for one you can follow all of the rules of the Keep. Though with your experience I believe that there are many jobs that would suit you. For instance if you could teach others how to make swords like this one you could probably be the most sought after smith in the Midlands."

e field when I was five and a fully fledged warrior by the time I was sixteen."

"That sounds like you didn't have much of a childhood."

"I enjoyed what I had and I made the most of it."

Misha looked at me for a second and then shook his head before he commented. "That still isn't much of a childhood."

I didn't say anything more. I just nodded my head and thought back to all of those hard years while I was growing up, learning from the masters of their crafts. The hundreds of hours learning discipline and swordsmanship, the times that I would spend outside in the grip of the cold north wind meditating on the meaning of the life of a warrior of the clan.

"Oberon, are you okay?" Misha's voice brought me out of my memories and back to the present.

"Yes I was just going over some of my memories. Trust me when I tell you that I have a lot of memories."

He looked into my eyes before he nodded and turned away. "If you don't mind we could go spar again for a while. It would help take your mind off of the past."

I nodded and told him that I would be a while. I had to put on my full body armour, though the leg pieces, and helmet didn't really fit anymore. Once that was done I grabbed one of my belts with a broad dagger and looped it around my waist and attached my normal hand-and-a-half long-sword to the loop on the my left hand side before I reached into the chest at the foot of the bed and grabbed one of my Gatraibvan practice swords and headed out the door towards the inner ward where there was some room for sparring. In the middle of the practice field there was a large group of young keepers swinging at targets. On the edge of the field watching the youngsters was a grizzled old jackal morph who looked like he had seen a lot of action in his career. Misha stepped out of the other door and then asked George if he wanted to spar with me. The old jackal looked over at me, where I was slowly taking practice swings with my weapon, and then nodded before he went off to put some armour on. I wouldn't usually have worn full armour but under the circumstances I had decided that it might be a good idea.

"Oberon, why don't you have a helmet?" Misha asked me.

"I don't have one, because my old one no longer fits and neither do my greaves."

"Well the Arsenal Tower has something that will fit you."

"How can you be sure about that?"

"The tower is part of Metamor Keep and hence is provided with any kind of weapon or armour that you could imagine. Though it doesn't do all that well when it comes to weapons like your swords since they are enchanted to some extent."

I nodded before Misha shouted to one of the young keepers to go get an assortment of helmets and greaves to fit me. Five minutes later George and then the young soldier came out of the tower, George wearing a brigantine with a shield on his left arm and a training broadsword. I looked over the assortment of helmets and greaves that the young Pine Marten held in his arms and selected a helmet and a pair of greaves that fitted me perfectly. The nice thing about these new pieces of my armour was that they matched perfectly the style of my existing equipment. Once I was comfortable I picked up my training sword and held it over my head in the style that was known as Btrena-Kel-Yukate. Kelmar training swords were actually heavier then combat swords so that if a warrior got used to his training sword then he would find the real thing to be easier to use than the training sword.

George made the first move, a sudden lunge at my exposed midsection but I brought down my own weapon and parried the blow before counter-attacking with a blow of my own to his left side. George's moves showed both an immense amount of experience and his growing age so I took it easy on him. I didn't go too easy, though, because I still had to prove to the old warrior that I was at least reasonably competent with my weapon. However, what I wasn't expecting was the deviousness of his maneuvers. He seemed to know any number of moves that were underhanded and just plain nasty. After only ten minutes I was panting and feeling hot. Blasted fur! It wasn't really meant for constant heavy activity in the latter end of spring.

When I lowered my weapon in a silent request for a break the jackal lowered his weapon before asking me, in a gruff tone of voice, "Are you all right?"

I waved him off before I replied. "It's okay, I'm just a little warm right now." I went over to where a jug of water sat on a cobblestone and took a heavy drink lapping at the cold watter with a will. The cold water felt so good that I was surprised when I noticed that the jug was empty. I looked around for another jug of water and I found one nearby and began to drink that as well.

"Oberon, are you sure that you're okay?" I heard Misha ask me. I raised my head from my drink and looked at him before I replied.

"It's nothing, I'm just a little hot that's all."

"Get out of that armour now."

"No, I'll be fine, just give me a moment."

"Get out of that damn armour, you furry fool, and into some cool water before you get heatstroke!" I put the Gatraibvan on the ground and then reached up to undo the clasps on my cloak but my vision was starting to swim. I looked over at the fox and the jackal only to see more than one of them.

"Wwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhooooooooooo arrrrrreeee yyyyyyyyyoooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu," I slurred before I hit the ground with my hands. My vision was now seriously degrading as I tasted the warm stones of the practice grounds. In the distance I heard a voice shouting.

"Get that armour off of him and get us some water, he's going into heat shock." At some point someone rolled me onto my back and undid the clasps to my armour and my cloak. An instant later I was hit by a deluge of pure bliss as someone dumped a bucket of cold water on me. After that everything black as I passed out.

I don't know how long it was but when I awoke I was looking up at a very familiar ceiling. I was in the infirmary again though I couldn't remember why I was here this time. Maybe I got hit on the head because my head was pounding like a Hjaktan War Drum.

"You're covered in fur now Oberon. You need to always worry about the heat. You might want to consider clipping off all that thick winter fur in the summer," I heard a voice say, and I managed to look over and see Misha standing there looking down at me with an expression that I can only describe as a sort of frustrated concern. For some reason this fox always seemed to be saving my hide. Finally I mustered a response.

"Are you out of your mind? I do have my dignity - what's left of it at least - and I will not go around naked."

Misha laughed before he replied. "It's either your dignity or heat prostration. You '''have''' to deal with the heat one way or another."

"Is there any way that I can maintain my dignity without burning up?"

"Perhaps, but it will mean some magic. I made a magic a ring for Drift to protect him from the heat of his tinsmithy. I could do the same for you."

"What would I owe you for that, sir?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred suns, perhaps, for the metals I'll need. The spell is simple enough."

"That sounds good. I can give you the money as soon as I get out of this infirmary."

"Good! What do you want? A ring? I'm not a jeweler so it won't look fancy but it will work!"

"Okay but I think that a collar would probably suit me a little better, I could lose a ring in the middle of a battle and then where would I be?"

"All right. It'll be a big collar to fit that fat neck of yours. I should have the collar roughed out in a day or two."

"I'll take it easy for now until I get it because I don't want to go through this again."

"You have to think furry now my friend. And remember that long tail of yours. The first time you get it caught in a door you WILL feel it."

"I've been very careful about it and I've managed to keep it out of the way most of the time. I think that my experiences with my Soul Guide have helped me adjust to it, though I have put it in my own door once and I can tell you that I won't ever forget that feeling, no matter how long I live."

He laughed before shaking his head, probably at a memory, before he told me that I should try and be more careful for the next little while, at least until I got my collar from him. Shortly after that he left me in the room to my own thoughts. Well not precisely alone, because shortly afterwards Brian came up to me.

"Do you know how hard I had to work to save your life, Adòn Naharél?" he asked me.

I shook my head carefully to ensure that I didn't get a headache before I replied. "Not really, sir, but I will try and make sure that it doesn't happen again."

"You had better, because I'm starting to get tired of seeing your tail in here every day."

"You think I like always being here, Brian? I have a life to lead and I would rather I didn't spend too much time in the infirmary. Although my profession does dictate that I will be here from time to time, to get patched up."

"Certainly hope not."

"Same here, I would rather not have to spend any time here, but it seems that I have still to adjust to this body." Every person in the Keep had had to adjust to whatever the curse did to them, but all the same none of them had come in here so quickly after.

I nodded at the raccoon before I let my head fall back to the pillow to get some more sleep. I knew that when I awoke again I would end up going back to my apartment, without the headache, hopefully the three runes on my back and my inherent Kelmar ability to heal could take care of any issues that arose from my abuse of my body today. However, I was going to have to be more careful about what I did in the near future.

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Hot Under the Collar

2011-01-13T21:13:15Z

Bad Guru: grammar, spelling, & punctuation edit

[[Category:Story]] [[Category:Animal]]
{{DEFAULTSORT: Hot Under the Collar}}
[[Category:Metamor Keep]]
[[Category:Oberon]]
{{editing requested}}{{universe|Metamor Keep}}

By: [[User:Oberon|Oberon]]

When I got back to the Keep with my escort, a ferret morph whose name was Finbar, the first thing that I did was head for the baths. There I could take care of the dirt that was still in my fur from when I coated myself to avoid detection while I infiltrated a lutin encampment a couple of nights previously. My clothing was also in need of cleaning since it was dirty, too - partly because of my dirt trick, and partly because of the time that I had spent on the trail. As soon as I lowered myself into the water it turned black as the loose dirt began to be wash out of my thick fur. I used my hands to softly massage the fur to try and get the rest of the dirt out. It was at that point that Drift, the white Samoyed morph who I had met on my first full day of being conscious came into the room and took off his clothes before he slipped into the water.

He looked over at me and then his ears went back before he said, "You know Oberon you are crazy. To go offending Misha like you just did is probably one of the stupidest things that you could've done on only your second day here."

"I think that I understand that now and I will have to do something to to assuage his temper."

"My first piece of advice to you is not to go out there and do something foolish again. That's something that is bound to get Misha's tail in a knot, but, what you can do is to simply respect the rules around here and operate to the best of your abilities."

I nodded somewhat distractedly as I tried to get some of the dirt out of the fur on my neck ruff. He noticed the dirt and then asked me "Why is your fur so dirty?"

I grinned at him, confident that he knew what I meant in the gesture before I replied. "While I was out there I had to infiltrate a lutin encampment and I needed some way to avoid detection. In the winter that wouldn't be a problem but since it's spring and the all of the snow is already melted I kind of stand out in the bush."

Drift nodded in apparent understanding while I struggled to get the dirt out of my thick fur. When I was human I had used this trick many times to conceal myself, but now it seemed it was something that I should only do under the most dire of circumstances since it was such a pain in the tail to remove the dirt when the time came. Drift looked at me as I struggled with the dirt before he asked me if I had any brushes and the sort for grooming my fur.

"No, I have yet to get any of them - but I can assure you that now I will make a point of it."

"Well, there are some brushes here at the bath that you can use for the time being, but I would advise you to get your own as soon as you can."

“Thank you for the information,” I told him, before he left and I continued to clean out my fur. It took me another hour and a half to get all of the dirt out of my fur and restore it to its pristine black and white striped appearance. Once I was satisfied with my appearance I made my way back to my apartment to get dressed. I also spent some time exploring beyond a door that I hadn't seen the the first time that I was there, though I may have just missed it. Behind the door was a fully equipped forge with all of the implements that I would need to make any kind of weapon that I could imagine. In one corner there was the fire box itself with the bellows and the flue leading up and out of the room. In the middle of the room were two troughs, one contained water and the other contained oil, they were both used for tempering swords and other bladed weapons. There was also a box of clay in the corner and all of the various tools that I would need to do the job correctly. In a bin beside the fire-box was an assortment of ten iron rods that I would use to make anything that I wanted to. As a Blademaster of the Gold I was highly skilled in the creation of Kelmar weapons. Being both a Blademaster of the Gold and a Swordmaster of the Black I was, in fact considered a Bladelord of the Bronze. Bladelords were the rarest type of Kelmar Warrior with their numbers naturally limited to less than one hundred per generation. Most Kelmar Warriors excelled in only one discipline, either the creation of Kelmar weapons or the use of them; however bladelords were skilled in both the creation and utilization of weapons.

It had been roughly thirty years since I had had any chance to practice my skills as a Blademaster of the Gold. I would take this opportunity while it was here. However, right now I had something else to do, I needed to get some food, and I needed to purchase a grooming kit so that I could keep myself looking presentable. I put on a lighter belt that I had been storing for a long time and attached my single-handed sword, short-sword, and heavy dagger to it before I grabbed my favorite black cloak and headed out to take care of my errands.

I actually had to go into the town of Euper to find a kit that would fit my needs and it cost me a fairly large amount of money, considering that it was just a collection of brushes. The total that the merchant forced me to pay was a moon and five crescents. His reason was because the set was particularly complete and he complained about my coins because they were from the Midlands and not the same weight or purity as the coins that were from the Keep itself. I grumbled about the charge all the way back to my room, but as soon as I began using my own tools I appreciated the cost, even though it had been high. Once I was completed a proper grooming of my fur I went down to my usual mess facility for lunch before I went back to my room.

Now that I had eaten I was ready to begin work in the forge. I took one of the bars of iron and placed it on the anvil and began to beat on it with on of the larger hammers that was available. The first step in making a Kelmar Sword was to cold fold the metal one time before even starting to use heat to fold it a further nine times. The folding increased the blade's strength though it did have a tendency to make the metal more brittle. However that problem would also be solved by giving the weapon a core that was made out of more flexible steel that had only been folded the first time without heat. The final, and key step, in forging a Kelmar sword was the tempering process which utilized metal straps, clay, water, and oil to make the edge as hard as possible. I was starting from scratch and so had a lot of work to do in the next couple of weeks.

*

As Misha reached the Keep he thought about the mission against the lutin raiders that he had just led. It had gone well and the two remaining forces had been exterminated, though it had taken them nearly a week and a half to bring the last of the lutin parties to bay and destroy it. Though he didn't like to have to chase the lutins around the Giantdowns north of Glen Avery, he didn't like the idea that there were some lutin raiders still around ready to try and attack the town though it was well guarded, especially considering the fact that Misha's friend Charles Matthias was living there at the current time. The rat was probably one of Misha's greatest friends and one of the most fearsome fighters in the Long Scouts. He currently lived in Glen Avery after being sent there in the wake of the Yule Assault that had happened in December during the yuletide. Now, though, Misha was glad to be back at the Keep where Caroline and Madog and his other friends lived. Here he didn't have to worry about lutins coming out to ambush him in the halls. However his peace of mind was soon disturbed again when he asked about the crazy Kelmar Warrior that had caused all of the fuss in the first place. Just about no one had seen him since he had gotten back. That was just what he needed now, more trouble with that blasted warrior cat, this guy was turning into a major pain in the tail. Misha scoured the place from the baths to the bar before he finally got a hint from on of the other people in the keep. The man was an older guard that had worked in the keep almost all of his life.

"Well Misha sir, I've seen this guy you bin a lookin' fer off in da baths ever day but that not all, he also come by da main mess to eat his grub but he stay all by himself not talkin' to nobody."

"Thank you, old timer, I much appreciate the information." Misha was understating the facts quite a bit, he really wasn't in the mood to chase down that blasted cat in the Giantdowns north of the Keep. The fact that Oberon was still in the Keep was pleasing but there was still one thing that bothered Misha, and that was where Oberon spent his time if he wasn't down in the practice fields sparring with other soldiers. In the end he simply thought about where Oberon was and let Kyia carry him to where the Kelmar Warrior was currently spending his time. After a few minutes he stepped around the corner in the hall and found himself standing in front of a door that was marked with oddly shaped runes that he had never seen the like of before. He slowly raised a hand-paw and knocked on the worn-looking oak door.

*

I had just finished polishing and sharpening the last of my recently completed set of new weapons, which included a new hand-and-a-half long-sword, a short sword, and a new dagger. They were all marked with Kelmar God Runes that helped make them a little better than normal swords made of steel. These blades when properly forged wouldn't rust, dull, or chip making them almost incalculably valuable. I had also created a new sword belt to carry this set of weapons. As I ran the soft cloth over the gleaming metal of the blade and marveling at the Hatkarat Watermark on both edges of the blade a loud knocking sounded from the other room. I quickly stood up and placed the new sword in its scabbard and then took it in my left hand as I went to the door. When I opened it I was surprised to see Misha Brightleaf, the fox scout, standing in my doorway with an axe in his right hand. I bowed my head and then said something which I had been planning to say ever since I had gotten back to the Keep.

"Misha, I apologize for my actions up in the Giantdowns, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive a foolish old warrior's harebrained escapade."

The fox looked surprised before I turned to where I had placed my newly crafted set of weapons and picked them up. I held the three weapons out to him. I had designed these weapons for his use and his use and his use alone. Though I hadn’t managed to get precise measurments I had still managed to get the dimensions correct.

As I held out the three weapons out to him I said, "Sir, I have been in the service of many different people and organizations over the past thirty years, and I have almost forgotten some of the lessons that I was taught by my teachers in my homeland, all those long years ago. As a token of my respect and as a form of apology I would like to give these weapons to you. They are blessed by my gods never to lose their edge or luster so they will always serve you well in battle. You are probably the first non-Kelmar ever to receive weapons like these and so please carry them with the dignity and respect that they deserve."

He looked stunned for a moment, I could've hit him with one of the two remaining iron bars in my forge an not gotten a more stunned expression out of him then I was getting now. Finally he managed to put enough of his head back together to respond, although his response was still a little wooden. He took the weapons from my hands and then pulled the sword out of its scabbard to expose the runes and the hatkarat to the light of the sun that was streaming in through on of the windows in my apartment. After a few more minutes of regarding the weapon and gathering his thoughts together he finally managed to speak.

"I am a little surprised that you've decided to give this to me, considering what I said out there in the Giantdowns."

"No, even though I am shamed by what you said, all of those things were true. I didn't know the terrain, I didn't know my enemies, and I didn't know the risks. In truth if I was still under the command of a Kelmar Warlord I would've been in all likelihood been ordered to go remove myself from his sight, permanently."

"That is a little harsh isn't it?"

"Harsh but necessary, otherwise you would have Warriors who aren't trained as scouts running around in the deep woods trying to find the enemy with no concept for the common good of the Clan Army."

"Are you a trained scout?"

"Not really. I was trained as a Kaharatak, a Heavy Combat Specialist, though since I left my homeland roughly thirty years ago I have served as just about everything from a scout and assassin to a flag level officer in an army."

"If you aren't a trained scout, then why did you go out there without anyone else knowing about it?"

"I went out there for reasons that I've already explained. I don't take to well to not having a purpose in any place. Most of the time when I left someone's service I would do so because I perceived that they no longer really had a need for my services and that they were keeping me around simply because they enjoyed having a man of my skills around in case they needed me. Now here I am in a place that I can never really leave because of how I look and they view me in the same way as they did in some of my other assignments."

"Oberon, we don't view you that way, it's just that you have to follow the rules here. You need to prove your skills, your loyalty, and your ability to obey orders before I can even think of sending you out there. Even then it will not be my decision as to where you go, it will be up to Patrol Master George to decide."

"Haven't I already proven my abilities?"

"Yes, you have proven your abilities to me, but I am not the one that you need to be concerned about. The person that you need to impress is George." I nodded slowly before I asked him how I should go about doing that.

"Well for one you can follow all of the rules of the Keep. Though with your experience I believe that there are many jobs that would suit you. For instance if you could teach others how to make swords like this one you could probably be the most sought after smith in the Midlands."

e field when I was five and a fully fledged warrior by the time I was sixteen."

"That sounds like you didn't have much of a childhood."

"I enjoyed what I had and I made the most of it."

Misha looked at me for a second and then shook his head before he commented. "That still isn't much of a childhood."

I didn't say anything more. I just nodded my head and thought back to all of those hard years while I was growing up, learning from the masters of their crafts. The hundreds of hours learning discipline and swordsmanship, the times that I would spend outside in the grip of the cold north wind meditating on the meaning of the life of a warrior of the clan.

"Oberon, are you okay?" Misha's voice brought me out of my memories and back to the present.

"Yes I was just going over some of my memories. Trust me when I tell you that I have a lot of memories."

He looked into my eyes before he nodded and turned away. "If you don't mind we could go spar again for a while. It would help take your mind off of the past."

I nodded and told him that I would be a while. I had to put on my full body armour, though the leg pieces, and helmet didn't really fit anymore. Once that was done I grabbed one of my belts with a broad dagger and looped it around my waist and attached my normal hand-and-a-half long-sword to the loop on the my left hand side before I reached into the chest at the foot of the bed and grabbed one of my Gatraibvan practice swords and headed out the door towards the inner ward where there was some room for sparring. In the middle of the practice field there was a large group of young keepers swinging at targets. On the edge of the field watching the youngsters was a grizzled old jackal morph who looked like he had seen a lot of action in his career. Misha stepped out of the other door and then asked George if he wanted to spar with me. The old jackal looked over at me, where I was slowly taking practice swings with my weapon, and then nodded before he went off to put some armour on. I wouldn't usually have worn full armour but under the circumstances I had decided that it might be a good idea.

"Oberon, why don't you have a helmet?" Misha asked me.

"I don't have one, because my old one no longer fits and neither do my greaves."

"Well the Arsenal Tower has something that will fit you."

"How can you be sure about that?"

"The tower is part of Metamor Keep and hence is provided with any kind of weapon or armour that you could imagine. Though it doesn't do all that well when it comes to weapons like your swords since they are enchanted to some extent."

I nodded before Misha shouted to one of the young keepers to go get an assortment of helmets and greaves to fit me. Five minutes later George and then the young soldier came out of the tower, George wearing a brigantine with a shield on his left arm and a training broadsword. I looked over the assortment of helmets and greaves that the young Pine Marten held in his arms and selected a helmet and a pair of greaves that fitted me perfectly. The nice thing about these new pieces of my armour was that they matched perfectly the style of my existing equipment. Once I was comfortable I picked up my training sword and held it over my head in the style that was known as Btrena-Kel-Yukate. Kelmar training swords were actually heavier then combat swords so that if a warrior got used to his training sword then he would find the real thing to be easier to use than the training sword.

George made the first move, a sudden lunge at my exposed midsection but I brought down my own weapon and parried the blow before counter-attacking with a blow of my own to his left side. George's moves showed both an immense amount of experience and his growing age so I took it easy on him. I didn't go too easy, though, because I still had to prove to the old warrior that I was at least reasonably competent with my weapon. However, what I wasn't expecting was the deviousness of his maneuvers. He seemed to know any number of moves that were underhanded and just plain nasty. After only ten minutes I was panting and feeling hot. Blasted fur! It wasn't really meant for constant heavy activity in the latter end of spring.

When I lowered my weapon in a silent request for a break the jackal lowered his weapon before asking me, in a gruff tone of voice, "Are you all right?"

I waved him off before I replied. "It's okay, I'm just a little warm right now." I went over to where a jug of water sat on a cobblestone and took a heavy drink lapping at the cold watter with a will. The cold water felt so good that I was surprised when I noticed that the jug was empty. I looked around for another jug of water and I found one nearby and began to drink that as well.

"Oberon, are you sure that you're okay?" I heard Misha ask me. I raised my head from my drink and looked at him before I replied.

"It's nothing, I'm just a little hot that's all."

"Get out of that armour now."

"No, I'll be fine, just give me a moment."

"Get out of that damn armour, you furry fool, and into some cool water before you get heatstroke!" I put the Gatraibvan on the ground and then reached up to undo the clasps on my cloak but my vision was starting to swim. I looked over at the fox and the jackal only to see more than one of them.

"Wwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhooooooooooo arrrrrreeee yyyyyyyyyoooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu," I slurred before I hit the ground with my hands. My vision was now seriously degrading as I tasted the warm stones of the practice grounds. In the distance I heard a voice shouting.

"Get that armour off of him and get us some water, he's going into heat shock." At some point someone rolled me onto my back and undid the clasps to my armour and my cloak. An instant later I was hit by a deluge of pure bliss as someone dumped a bucket of cold water on me. After that everything black as I passed out.

I don't know how long it was but when I awoke I was looking up at a very familiar ceiling. I was in the infirmary again though I couldn't remember why I was here this time. Maybe I got hit on the head because my head was pounding like a Hjaktan War Drum.

"You're covered in fur now Oberon. You need to always worry about the heat. You might want to consider clipping off all that thick winter fur in the summer," I heard a voice say, and I managed to look over and see Misha standing there looking down at me with an expression that I can only describe as a sort of frustrated concern. For some reason this fox always seemed to be saving my hide. Finally I mustered a response.

"Are you out of your mind? I do have my dignity - what's left of it at least - and I will not go around naked."

Misha laughed before he replied. "It's either your dignity or heat prostration. You '''have''' to deal with the heat one way or another."

"Is there any way that I can maintain my dignity without burning up?"

"Perhaps, but it will mean some magic. I made a magic a ring for Drift to protect him from the heat of his tinsmithy. I could do the same for you."

"What would I owe you for that, sir?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "A hundred suns, perhaps, for the metals I'll need. The spell is simple enough."

"That sounds good. I can give you the money as soon as I get out of this infirmary."

"Good! What do you want? A ring? I'm not a jeweler so it won't look fancy but it will work!"

"Okay but I think that a collar would probably suit me a little better, I could lose a ring in the middle of a battle and then where would I be?"

"All right. It'll be a big collar to fit that fat neck of yours. I should have the collar roughed out in a day or two."

"I'll take it easy for now until I get it because I don't want to go through this again."

"You have to think furry now my friend. And remember that long tail of yours. The first time you get it caught in a door you WILL feel it."

"I've been very careful about it and I've managed to keep it out of the way most of the time. I think that my experiences with my Soul Guide have helped me adjust to it, though I have put it in my own door once and I can tell you that I won't ever forget that feeling, no matter how long I live."

He laughed before shaking his head, probably at a memory, before he told me that I should try and be more careful for the next little while, at least until I got my collar from him. Shortly after that he left me in the room to my own thoughts. Well not precisely alone, because shortly afterwards Brian came up to me.

"Do you know how hard I had to work to save you life Adòn Naharél?" he asked me.

I shook my head carefully to ensure that I didn't get a headache before I replied. "Not really, sir, but I will try and make sure that it doesn't happen again."

"You had better, because I'm starting to get tired of seeing your tail in here every day."

"You think I like always being here, Brian? I have a life to lead and I would rather I didn't spend too much time in the infirmary. Although my profession does dictate that I will be here from time to time, to get patched up."

"Certainly hope not."

"Same here, I would rather not have to spend any time here, but it seems that I have still to adjust to this body." Every person in the Keep had had to adjust to whatever the curse did to them, but all the same none of them had come in here so quickly after.

I nodded at the raccoon before I let my head fall back to the pillow to get some more sleep. I knew that when I awoke again I would end up going back to my apartment, without the headache, hopefully the three runes on my back and my inherent Kelmar ability to heal could take care of any issues that arose from my abuse of my body today. However, I was going to have to be more careful about what I did in the near future.

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Notes on TG Fiction and the APFS Stories

2011-01-10T14:39:26Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Essays]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

So, what exactly is the deal with the APFS stories? Where did the idea come from and are there any interesting facts about the writing of the stories themselves?

Well, what astute and pertinent questions. I commend myself for asking them. In order to answer them, however, I'll need to talk a bit about the nature of TG fiction as I see it.

A lot of TG seems to me to be written just to push people's buttons - if you get my drift - first and foremost the writer's and then, with luck, those of the readers. In some cases that's the beginning and the end of the story development process: just think of a scenario that makes you all pleasantly throbby and write it down, and you're done.

If, on the other hand, you want to put a bit of craft and narrative merit into your story, things can be a bit trickier, particularly when it comes to the credibility of your story. TG fiction revolves around gender change, and while this is possible in the real world it's a tremendously demanding and lengthy process and doesn't lend itself well to many types of story. Realistic gender-change isn't very fantasy-friendly.

However, any other kind of gender-change isn't very credibility-friendly, no matter what method you opt for. There is the 'miracle pill/injection' subgenre, the 'exposed to toxic waste', the 'weird alien radiation' subgenre, many different varieties of magic, body-exchanges, and so on and so on. Using any of these catapults your story into SF and fantasy realms.

That said, SF and fantasy are harsh mistresses and most people just seem interested in writing about one specific change rather than building a whole world where TG is a routine fact of life (a shame, and a gap in the market I may explore myself one day). Fair enough, but the result is a succession of stories where incredible scientific discoveries are made by college students by accident, or mad scientists build incredible machines in their basement, or sorceresses with awesome world-changing powers spent their time hanging around in bars being hit on by jerks... I can never quite take these stories seriously, simply because they're so pulpy and melodramatic.

For me there is the added element that I'm most interested in following the physical and psychological transformation of an individual. The exact reason for the change isn't that big a deal for me, as became apparent as soon as I started writing TG of my own.
The very first TG story I wrote, long since lost to history (thank God), was entitled ''The Companion'' and concerned an amateur demonologist who got into a deal with a demon whereby he'd get enormous power in exchange for becoming the demon's companion on a part-time basis. This seemed like a good deal to our man until he found himself swelling up in odd places... you know the drill. However the character's psychological reaction and adaptation to the transformation fascinated me much more than the 'how does she stop the demon from raping her' element. In the end I just had her think 'well, if I don't actually claim my enormous power, he can't claim his side of the deal either (and I'm quite enjoying being a girl anyway)'. Thankfully my plotting has improved a bit since then.

Given that I wasn't interested in spending half the story explaining exactly the reasons behind the change, or writing convoluted pulpy melodrama plots, I found myself gravitating towards a style of story where the change just happened with minimum explanation given and the characters just struggling to adapt. In the end I decided to dress this transparent plot-device up by inventing APFS.
The first proto-APFS story was begun in 2002, I think, with a couple of others following in the next year or so. None of them were finished. I was now at the point, after writing dozens of TF stories which all got thrown out, of thinking that it was just possible other people might enjoy them, so the next time the mood was on me I wrote the story using a computer rather than in longhand. I finished it, it got put up on FictionMania, it got what seemed to me to be an amazingly good response, and the rest was history.

That first story was ''[[Stripped Away]]'' which sort of set the template for the rest, in terms of setting and characterisation. It still seems to me to be rather crude and obvious, and the 'I'm going to become a stripper!' plotline is just one of my personal quirks intruding into the narrative, but... it's okay, I suppose.

I didn't intend to just write APFS stories and the next couple I attempted used different plot triggers. One of them was going to be the story of a trio of guys sharing a flat who all used (I cringe to reveal this) some kind of dodgy shampoo which wound up turning them into girls. It was going to be a sort of portmanteau story with the three of them having their own different experiences in tandem. The only one I plotted out in detail was between a big rough blokey guy who found himself getting a bit giggly and soft, to the bemusement of his slightly dopey best mate. These two were based on guys I knew slightly from my local wargames group.

In the end this story fascinated me so much I ditched the rest of the idea and reused APFS. The resulting story was ''[[A Different Kind of Love]]'' which I'm still really happy with, for the most part. Most TG (and TF) stories are told from the POV of the person going through the change, and I thought it would be interesting to see it through the eyes of the people closest to the transformee - so we only see the story from Tony's perspective in the first and last scenes. I think it works quite well.

(Several years later I got a hell of a shock when I met the RL Tony and Lance in the street after a long period of not seeing them. Real-life Lance was dressed as a woman and had started going by the name of Louise. I couldn't help feeling somehow responsible.)

''[[A Woman Within]]'' was an attempt to broaden out the APFS world a bit and also really dig into the psychological aspects of the story. I think it's okay - I had a hell of a time writing an ending that a) wasn't utterly depressing and b) actually felt like a proper ending at all. Deciding what to call it when it was finished gave me a few headaches as well.

I've no idea why there was a two-year gap between ''A Woman Within'' and ''[[Inbetweener]]''; although in that time I started a couple of APFS stories but never finished them. They were both set rather further into the future than the ones that have seen the light of day, though I've no idea why that should have put the jinx on them.

Anyway, ''Inbetweener'' started life under the title ''The Road to Heaven'' and was ultimately inspired by Pawel Pawlikowski's wonderful movie ''My Summer of Love'', although virtually nothing from the movie survived into the story-as-written. It ended up as a sort-of memoir of my university days - nearly all the places in the story are real, and once again some of the characters are based on old friends of mine. Some people thought there were too many pop culture references and political views in the story - I agree with the former but not the latter.

I wrote ''Inbetweener'' in early 2006 and spent most of the next three years travelling around the world. I spent nearly a year in a desperately poor Asian Third World country, which had a bit of an impact on me, and that fed into ''[[The Realm of Flesh]]'' when I started writing-for-publication again. The key thing with this story was the idea of a person who didn't want to change and under other circumstances wouldn't have had to; I suppose it's arguably a sort of metaphor for the unfairness of life.

Partly because it needed the character to be in a very specific set of circumstances, the plot of ''Realm of Flesh'' ended up sort-of swallowing the story of the main character's change - including a whole raft of non-TG characters didn't help. It has been criticised for being only marginally about the TG element, which I wouldn't necessarily disagree with, but I think some of the writing is quite good. No-one seems to have noticed the fact that nearly everyone in it is named after a character from stories by a very famous English writer of the 20th century!

(I did keep writing while I was travelling, including a lot of TG stories, some of them not bad. Unfortunately all my notebooks are elsewhere and I hate retyping stories. Maybe one day...)

Given that ''Realm of Flesh'' got criticised for being only marginally TG, not to mention a bit dour - I myself was starting to see a vein of misery stretching through all the stories from ''A Woman Within'' onwards - I decided the next APFS story would have to be properly about the transformation, and that the characters involved would - as far as was plausible - have some fun. The ultimate result of this was ''[[Ordinary Moments]]''.

On top of my basic aims, it also seemed to me that most TG characters seemed to have no social lives to speak of, and the only people who seemed to be affected by their change were their significant others. This seemed to me to be worth exploring, which is why ''Ordinary Moments'' is sort of an ensemble piece. Luckily the characters who turned up when I started writing all seemed decent sorts and the story skipped along cheerfully. I enjoyed writing it, and most of the feedback on it has been very positive. So that's everyone pleased!

As far as the future is concerned, I'm not sure. There will probably be more APFS stories, once they've finished cooking in my subconscious, but I've no idea what they will specifically be about. In terms of the internal chronology of the universe, I know what the first and the final stories will be - ''Pebbles'' and ''The Use of Man'' sound like good titles, don't they? - but I've no idea when they will put in an appearance. Keep 'em peeled.

Notes on TG Fiction and the APFS Stories

2011-01-10T14:38:03Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:Essay {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} So, what exactly is the deal with the APFS stories? Where did the idea come from and are there any interesting facts …'

[[Category:Essay]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

So, what exactly is the deal with the APFS stories? Where did the idea come from and are there any interesting facts about the writing of the stories themselves?

Well, what astute and pertinent questions. I commend myself for asking them. In order to answer them, however, I'll need to talk a bit about the nature of TG fiction as I see it.

A lot of TG seems to me to be written just to push people's buttons - if you get my drift - first and foremost the writer's and then, with luck, those of the readers. In some cases that's the beginning and the end of the story development process: just think of a scenario that makes you all pleasantly throbby and write it down, and you're done.

If, on the other hand, you want to put a bit of craft and narrative merit into your story, things can be a bit trickier, particularly when it comes to the credibility of your story. TG fiction revolves around gender change, and while this is possible in the real world it's a tremendously demanding and lengthy process and doesn't lend itself well to many types of story. Realistic gender-change isn't very fantasy-friendly.

However, any other kind of gender-change isn't very credibility-friendly, no matter what method you opt for. There is the 'miracle pill/injection' subgenre, the 'exposed to toxic waste', the 'weird alien radiation' subgenre, many different varieties of magic, body-exchanges, and so on and so on. Using any of these catapults your story into SF and fantasy realms.

That said, SF and fantasy are harsh mistresses and most people just seem interested in writing about one specific change rather than building a whole world where TG is a routine fact of life (a shame, and a gap in the market I may explore myself one day). Fair enough, but the result is a succession of stories where incredible scientific discoveries are made by college students by accident, or mad scientists build incredible machines in their basement, or sorceresses with awesome world-changing powers spent their time hanging around in bars being hit on by jerks... I can never quite take these stories seriously, simply because they're so pulpy and melodramatic.

For me there is the added element that I'm most interested in following the physical and psychological transformation of an individual. The exact reason for the change isn't that big a deal for me, as became apparent as soon as I started writing TG of my own.
The very first TG story I wrote, long since lost to history (thank God), was entitled ''The Companion'' and concerned an amateur demonologist who got into a deal with a demon whereby he'd get enormous power in exchange for becoming the demon's companion on a part-time basis. This seemed like a good deal to our man until he found himself swelling up in odd places... you know the drill. However the character's psychological reaction and adaptation to the transformation fascinated me much more than the 'how does she stop the demon from raping her' element. In the end I just had her think 'well, if I don't actually claim my enormous power, he can't claim his side of the deal either (and I'm quite enjoying being a girl anyway)'. Thankfully my plotting has improved a bit since then.

Given that I wasn't interested in spending half the story explaining exactly the reasons behind the change, or writing convoluted pulpy melodrama plots, I found myself gravitating towards a style of story where the change just happened with minimum explanation given and the characters just struggling to adapt. In the end I decided to dress this transparent plot-device up by inventing APFS.
The first proto-APFS story was begun in 2002, I think, with a couple of others following in the next year or so. None of them were finished. I was now at the point, after writing dozens of TF stories which all got thrown out, of thinking that it was just possible other people might enjoy them, so the next time the mood was on me I wrote the story using a computer rather than in longhand. I finished it, it got put up on FictionMania, it got what seemed to me to be an amazingly good response, and the rest was history.

That first story was ''[[Stripped Away]]'' which sort of set the template for the rest, in terms of setting and characterisation. It still seems to me to be rather crude and obvious, and the 'I'm going to become a stripper!' plotline is just one of my personal quirks intruding into the narrative, but... it's okay, I suppose.

I didn't intend to just write APFS stories and the next couple I attempted used different plot triggers. One of them was going to be the story of a trio of guys sharing a flat who all used (I cringe to reveal this) some kind of dodgy shampoo which wound up turning them into girls. It was going to be a sort of portmanteau story with the three of them having their own different experiences in tandem. The only one I plotted out in detail was between a big rough blokey guy who found himself getting a bit giggly and soft, to the bemusement of his slightly dopey best mate. These two were based on guys I knew slightly from my local wargames group.

In the end this story fascinated me so much I ditched the rest of the idea and reused APFS. The resulting story was ''[[A Different Kind of Love]]'' which I'm still really happy with, for the most part. Most TG (and TF) stories are told from the POV of the person going through the change, and I thought it would be interesting to see it through the eyes of the people closest to the transformee - so we only see the story from Tony's perspective in the first and last scenes. I think it works quite well.

(Several years later I got a hell of a shock when I met the RL Tony and Lance in the street after a long period of not seeing them. Real-life Lance was dressed as a woman and had started going by the name of Louise. I couldn't help feeling somehow responsible.)

''[[A Woman Within]]'' was an attempt to broaden out the APFS world a bit and also really dig into the psychological aspects of the story. I think it's okay - I had a hell of a time writing an ending that a) wasn't utterly depressing and b) actually felt like a proper ending at all. Deciding what to call it when it was finished gave me a few headaches as well.

I've no idea why there was a two-year gap between ''A Woman Within'' and ''[[Inbetweener]]''; although in that time I started a couple of APFS stories but never finished them. They were both set rather further into the future than the ones that have seen the light of day, though I've no idea why that should have put the jinx on them.

Anyway, ''Inbetweener'' started life under the title ''The Road to Heaven'' and was ultimately inspired by Pawel Pawlikowski's wonderful movie ''My Summer of Love'', although virtually nothing from the movie survived into the story-as-written. It ended up as a sort-of memoir of my university days - nearly all the places in the story are real, and once again some of the characters are based on old friends of mine. Some people thought there were too many pop culture references and political views in the story - I agree with the former but not the latter.

I wrote ''Inbetweener'' in early 2006 and spent most of the next three years travelling around the world. I spent nearly a year in a desperately poor Asian Third World country, which had a bit of an impact on me, and that fed into ''[[The Realm of Flesh]]'' when I started writing-for-publication again. The key thing with this story was the idea of a person who didn't want to change and under other circumstances wouldn't have had to; I suppose it's arguably a sort of metaphor for the unfairness of life.

Partly because it needed the character to be in a very specific set of circumstances, the plot of ''Realm of Flesh'' ended up sort-of swallowing the story of the main character's change - including a whole raft of non-TG characters didn't help. It has been criticised for being only marginally about the TG element, which I wouldn't necessarily disagree with, but I think some of the writing is quite good. No-one seems to have noticed the fact that nearly everyone in it is named after a character from stories by a very famous English writer of the 20th century!

(I did keep writing while I was travelling, including a lot of TG stories, some of them not bad. Unfortunately all my notebooks are elsewhere and I hate retyping stories. Maybe one day...)

Given that ''Realm of Flesh'' got criticised for being only marginally TG, not to mention a bit dour - I myself was starting to see a vein of misery stretching through all the stories from ''A Woman Within'' onwards - I decided the next APFS story would have to be properly about the transformation, and that the characters involved would - as far as was plausible - have some fun. The ultimate result of this was ''[[Ordinary Moments]]''.

On top of my basic aims, it also seemed to me that most TG characters seemed to have no social lives to speak of, and the only people who seemed to be affected by their change were their significant others. This seemed to me to be worth exploring, which is why ''Ordinary Moments'' is sort of an ensemble piece. Luckily the characters who turned up when I started writing all seemed decent sorts and the story skipped along cheerfully. I enjoyed writing it, and most of the feedback on it has been very positive. So that's everyone pleased!

As far as the future is concerned, I'm not sure. There will probably be more APFS stories, once they've finished cooking in my subconscious, but I've no idea what they will specifically be about. In terms of the internal chronology of the universe, I know what the first and the final stories will be - ''Pebbles'' and ''The Use of Man'' sound like good titles, don't they? - but I've no idea when they will put in an appearance. Keep 'em peeled.

User:Bad Guru

2011-01-10T14:31:10Z

Bad Guru:

Ordinary Moments

2011-01-10T13:20:51Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} __TOC__ ==One== "Please stop staring at me like it's some enormously big deal," Pete said, s…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}
__TOC__

==One==

"Please stop staring at me like it's some enormously big deal," Pete
said, swilling his drink in the bottom of his glass and pointedly not
meeting any of their eye-lines. "I mean, come on, given the state of the
world today and the number of really important problems that cost people
their lives..."

There was a moment's silence in the living room, as the others struggled
to process the news Pete had shared so casually with them. Pete sat back
and sighed, his composure all the more surprising given his apparent
youth. Danny knew that he was really the same age as the rest of them,
but being only five foot three and slight with it they all tended to
treat him as the baby of the group. He normally accepted that with his
usual good humour.

"Pete, you're turning into a woman," Sarah said. "Of course it's a big
deal."

"Not definitely. Not for sure. The doc said they're going to put me on
these pills and -"

"I'd heard they were only, like, fifty percent effective," Cameron said.
He got up off the sofa and headed for the kitchen, then realised it
might be politic to get permission from the host before raiding the
fridge and looked hopefully at Danny. Danny nodded.

"More than fifty," Pete said.

"You are being, like, freaky calm," Danny said. "If it were me with the
Girl Flu, I'd - I don't know what I'd do."

"Typical man," Sarah said with a sigh. "One threat to their manhood and
they lose it." There was a noise of agreement from Joanne, sitting next
to her.

"Well, what would you do? There is a version of Girl Flu that attacks
women, it's called AFPMSAF..." Danny realised the acronym had got away
from him.

"APMS. Like APFS, except you swap an M for the F - masculinisation, not
feminisation," Joanne said in her usual withering way. "I think the very
fact you describe it as an attack is very telling -"

"You think a sudden, involuntary and irrevocable sex change is a good
thing," Danny said.

Joanne shrugged. "Nobody's died of it. Not directly."

"Not directly. Right," Danny said. He looked at Pete and smiled. "Well,
look on the bright side, mate, you're not in Africa or Iran or the Bible
Belt - you're pretty unlikely to get lynched for getting sick."

"Why does everyone assume it's a sickness?" Joanne asked.

Danny rolled his eyes. "Pete, how'd you find out you had this thing?"

"The doctor told me."

"There you go, case answered, I think," Danny said.

Cameron returned from the fridge with a freshened glass. "So how'd you
get it, anyway? Are we still okay using the same toilet and stuff?"

"Oh, for God's sake..." The two young women looked at each other, then
Joanne put a hand over her eyes and Sarah stared at Cameron. "Cameron,
have you not seen any of the literature or documentaries about this?"

The big man shrugged and sat down next to them. "I saw one about Jim
Carrey - sorry, Jemma Carrey. I don't think she's as funny as she was
when she was a man."

"You don't 'catch' it. It's not like it's an actual virus or anything."

"Oh." Cameron swigged his drink. "So what is it then?"

"I think we're getting off the point a bit," Danny said. He looked at
Pete. "How exactly did you find out?"

Pete shrugged. "Woke up a few days ago feeling a bit rough - you know,
flu-ey, headaches, stiff joints. What with everything I, ah, don't take
chances with my health."

"You mean you're a hypochondriac," Cameron said.

"Very likely." Pete smiled. "Anyway, the net said the symptoms could be
APFS, so I bought one of the new self-testing kits. The little tab
turned green, which means see a doctor. The doc did a proper blood test
and..." He shrugged. "It was confirmed yesterday."

"Who else have you told?" Sarah asked.

"Nobody. You lot are my closest friends, and if these pills work out it
won't actually make very much difference to my life..."

There was a moment's silence while they digested that. Then Cameron
said, "Have you actually changed at all yet? You know -" He gestured
vaguely yet evocatively in front of his own body.

"Jesus, Cameron. Why exactly do we spend time with you?" Joanne said,
folding her arms.

Cameron shrugged. "I guess I'm just lovable."

"No," Pete said, answering the initial question. "We caught it early
enough, it'd be a few weeks before - things started to happen. Sorry."

"Well," Danny said, "thanks for sharing. I'm not sure I'd have had the
balls to - if you'll pardon the expression."

Pete smiled his wide and sunny Pete smile. "I thought you ought to know.
In case I seem a bit weird."

"Thanks," Danny said. "Now, are we going to watch this movie or not?"
There was general assent and he got up and went over to the
entertainment console under the TV.

*

"Part of me never even thought it was real. I thought it was, I don't
know, just an urban legend or something," Sarah said as she and Joanne
walked to the bus-stop together. They both had to be up early the next
day and had left the others in Danny's flat.

"Somebody where my cousin used to work got it," Joanne said. "Big blokey
bloke, apparently, went all voluptuous to listen to Jim tell the tale."

"What happened to him? The guy with the Flu, not your cousin."

"Working as a sex dancer now, apparently." The night air was cool but
Joanne's tone was infinitely frostier. "Black Cat Boothroyd or
something."

"Well, he - she had the choice..." Sarah said.

"It just shows the kind of stereotypes of women most men have in their
heads. That's what they feel they have conform to if they change sex,"
Joanne said. ""I am a woman with an attractive body so obviously I'm
going to use it to make money." It's illuminating, isn't it?"

"I don't think either of us knows what it would be like," Sarah said. "I
mean, if you started changing into a man, you'd try to fit in, wouldn't
you? Cut your hair, stop wearing skirts."

"Isn't that just reinforcing gender roles, though?" Joanne seemed to
relent a little. "I must say I admire the way Pete's dealing with it. He
doesn't seem that bothered at all."

"Yeah, well... knowing Pete as I do, I can kind of understand it," Sarah
said.

"You've known him a lot longer than me," Joanne said. "I don't know that
much about his past."

Sarah shrugged. "His dad walked out on him and his mum when he was two,
or something. He's not set eyes on him since. Then when he was thirteen
his mum died and he had to go and live with his grandparents. They were
pretty elderly even then, and his grandmother passed away last year."

"God, I remember -" Joanne looked at Sarah. "You mean, he doesn't have
anyone?"

"Not really - a few cousins down south who he hardly ever sees. He's on
his own."

"I never would've guessed," Joanne said. "I mean, you know him, he's
always so -"

"Yeah. I know. He's one of the good guys," Sarah said. "Of all the
people this could happen to -"

"It's not that bad, remember," Joanne said a little sternly. "Anyway, we
should help him. If, you know..."

"You mean, if it turns out to be drug resistant and he has to make the
change anyway?" Sarah looked at her friend, with more than faint
suspicion. "Help him how, exactly?"

Joanne shrugged. "Help him turn into a normal woman, not some
exaggerated cartoon like Black Cat or whatever her name was. Can you
imagine what it'll be like if he spends too much time around Cameron
while he's changing? He'll end up as the kind of slapper who makes Katie
Price look like Andrea Dworkin."

"I think we're supposed to call her Princess Jordan since the wedding,"
Sarah murmured.

"You know I'm a republican, Sarah."

"Hum. Well, look, he's going onto these pills, and that'll hopefully
suspend the whole metamorphosis thing. Unless you're suggesting he
should just let nature take its course as some kind of gesture of
solidarity?"

Joanne shrugged again. "That's his decision to make."

"Right," Sarah said. "Let's just see what happens. We all want what's
best for him, don't we? One way or another things are going to work out
fine."

*

"Al reet, I must be off," Cameron said, getting to his feet. "Thanks for
the movie and beers and stuff, Dan."

"No problem," Danny said, showing the big man to the door. "Take it easy
getting home."

"No worries. Ta ra, Pete!"

"Seeya," Pete called from the living room.

Danny closed the door behind Cameron and made his way back to where Pete
was sitting, sloshing half a can of beer about thoughtfully. "You okay,
mate?"

Pete grinned at him. "Yeah, of course. You know me."

"Yeah," Danny said, sitting down again. "Christ, I -"

"You still can't believe I'm not climbing up the walls." Pete smiled.
"You know, there's so many much worse things that could happen to me -
even if you don't include all the different ways you can die these days,
I could still go blind, or get some condition that screws up my nervous
system, or EOD, or - as it is, the worst that can happen is I won't be
able to have kids."

"?"

"Post-APFS - and APMS - you're sterile. The sex cells don't survive the
metamorphosis intact, or something, and the -" he cleared his throat "-
the plumbing's not quite one hundred percent on the inside."

"Well, I didn't know that," Danny said. He sat back.

"Do you think that'll be a big deal for most people?" Pete too was
staring into space.

"What?"

"Not being able to have kids."

Danny shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose if you really loved the other
person it'd be a shame, but you could live with it. Find a way round it.
Finding someone special's difficult enough, after all, you couldn't just
give them the shove for something beyond their control..."

Pete was grinning, in the apparent belief he had successfully read
between the lines. "You're still Mister Lonely Heart, then."

"Bugger off." Danny scowled at him. "Okay, so it's been a while, but
that doesn't mean -"

"Dan, I was joking. Don't - look, there'll be someone, all right? You're
a top bloke."

"Yeah, well. So are you, so it's not like I don't have competition.
Thank God Cameron's there to make me look good."

"Ah, so that's why we hang around with him," Pete said, nodding
thoughtfully.

"Actually, if you do turn into a woman three of my best friends will be
chicks and Cameron will be the only other bloke people can compare me to
-" He broke off. "Sorry, that wasn't funny. I didn't mean to -"

Pete smiled and shook his head. "That's fine. I'm glad you can joke
about it. I just hope that if the drugs don't work I turn out as
fantastic as a girl as everyone claims I am as a man. I'll have to start
worrying about finding a fella..." He finished his can and got up.

"Christ, if you're even half decent, I'll take you on myself," Danny
said. He froze and looked at Pete, who was staring at him, eyes wide.
"Look, mate, sorry again. I should just -"

"No. No, don't worry about it," Pete said. He put his head on one side
and smiled. "Was that a serious offer?"

"Pete, come on." Danny looked at him nervously.

"Cos I don't have to go on the pills..."

Danny stared at Pete, his face a mask of shock and horror, until Pete
cracked up and started laughing. "Christ, you're so easy to wind up,
Dan!"

"Out!" Danny shouted.

"Would you prefer me in a basque or a camisole?"

"Out!"

"G-string or French knickers?"

Danny grunted and opened the front door. Pete grabbed his jacket and
went past, tutting. "This is no way to treat a lady!"

"Good night, Pete." Danny couldn't keep a smile from his face any
longer. "Take care, you crazy man."

"You too. Seeya."

==Two==

"Pete's late tonight," Danny said, glancing up and down the menu. It was
a formality as he knew he would have the same as usual. That was the
advantage of eating at a big chain, he thought.

"I think he started his medication a couple of days ago," Sarah said.
The group, minus Cameron who was working, was supposed to be reconvening
for a pizza prior to a trip to the cinema, but only Danny and the two
young women had showed up so far.

"Oh, right," Danny said. "I haven't seen him since last weekend."

"I hope he's okay," Joanne said. "Maybe we should call him."

"You know Pete, he can look after himself," Danny said.

"How can you say that, with what he's going through?" Joanne tutted.

"I know we all automatically try to look after the little guy, but I
don't actually think he really needs it a lot of the time," Danny said.
"If it were me, I wouldn't want people banging on about this all the
time."

"Have either of you spoken to him since he started the drugs?"

Danny nearly snapped at Joanne's persistence, but forced himself to be
civil. "Not me."

"Nor me," Sarah said. She made it sound like an admission of guilt.

Joanne nodded. "All right then." She pulled out her own phone. "I'm just
going to see if he's all right."

They waited as Joanne dialled. After a moment she mouthed "Voicemail" at
them. "Hi, Pete, it's Joanne. Just wanted to make sure you were still
coming. Speak to you soon..."

"He'll probably walk in the door in a minute's time," Danny said.

But he did not. After they ate without him, Joanne suggested they
abandon the planned cinema trip and go to check on Pete at his flat, but
Danny and Sarah both felt that would probably constitute overkill in the
circumstances. They agreed that if they hadn't heard back from Pete the
next morning they'd go around and see him the next day.

*

Which was what duly happened. At one the following afternoon they
gathered outside his flat and Danny leaned on the bell at length. There
was no immediate response but when he put his ear to the woodwork he
could hear vague noises within.

"I think he's coming," Danny reported.

"He must be sick," Joanne said. "Maybe the drugs..."

"Let's not get carried away," Sarah said. "Maybe he's just caught
something else. True flu, maybe."

The door cracked open and Pete peered out at them. Danny was shocked
despite himself - Pete was virtually chalk-white, except for the bags
under his eyes which were a rich purple.

"Oh. Hi guys. Was gonna call you. Sorry..." Pete seemed tranquilised.

"Jesus, you look terrible," Danny said.

Pete nodded and did not reply. He opened the door the rest of the way.
"Come on in." He shuffled off up the hallway, wearing pyjama bottoms and
a t-shirt, still giving off the same aura of slight detachment from
everything around him.

"Pete, are you okay?" Sarah got to the point.

Pete sank onto his sofa, upon which he'd clearly been installed under a
duvet. "Honestly, I feel..." He took a deep breath. "Well, like complete
shit, to be honest."

"Is it the APFS drugs?" Joanne asked quietly.

"I suppose it must be. Sit down, if you like," Pete said. "This came on,
like, an hour after I took the first capsule. They said some people had
side effects, but..."

"What exactly's wrong?" Danny asked.

"Oh. Ah... splitting headache, dodgy stomach, constant tiredness..."
Pete ticked them off on the fingers of one hand.

"Your body'll get used to the drugs, though. The side effects will
reduce with time, won't they?" Sarah asked.

Pete shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes, apparently, the side effects
show the drugs are working - if they start to fade you need to go onto a
stronger dose. Though I can't imagine feeling much worse than I do now."

There was an awkward silence in the room. Danny stole a glance at Sarah
who made a tiny gesture of uncertainty. Joanne sat down next to Pete on
the sofa. "You know we're here for you, Pete. Whatever you decide to
do."

Danny frowned at her. "What are you talking about, Jo? I'm really sorry
to hear this, mate. I wish there was something we could do."

Joanne looked at Danny. "Well, if this does keep up, Pete's got a choice
to make, hasn't he?"

Danny shook his head. "That's not a choice, Jo."

"I think it is," Joanne said, looking back at the smaller young man.
"Peter, I know this might sound strange -"

"Do you really think I haven't already thought about that?" Pete smiled
wearily at her. "Stay on the pills and lie here like a cripple for the
rest of my life, or sacrifice me male ego and live a fulfilling life as
a woman?"

"What do you think, Pete?" Sarah was careful to keep her tone light and
neutral.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know. I keep hoping the
effects will calm down a bit, but it's been three days now and no
change..."

"You did say, it's not that big of a deal," Joanne said gently.

"Joanne," Danny said. He shook his head when she looked at him.

"Well, why not? It's stupid to just give up on a proper life, even Pete
says it's just his male ego involved..."

"It's Pete's decision," Danny said. "Give it time. Maybe he will get
used to the drugs. It may not be that straightforward a choice anyway."

"Please stop arguing," Pete said. His voice was little more than a
whisper. He lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"I'll stay with you for a bit," Sarah said, stroking his forehead. The
startled look she shot the others indicated Pete was running a fairly
severe temperature. She indicated they should go.

"I can't believe you just did that," Danny said as they went outside.

"What?" But Joanne was already defensive.

"You're basically encouraging him to... you know. To change sex."

Joanne shrugged. "I don't understand why he shouldn't, if the
alternative is... well, you've seen how he is."

"It's been three days. Maybe they can change his dosage or something. I
don't think he needs telling what's involved for him, anyway."

"Well, I think he needs help if he's going to look at this objectively
without a load of macho bullshit," Joanne said.

"And I think you're just seeing this as an opportunity to strike a blow
for the Sisterhood," Danny said. "Win another recruit, or something. For
God's sake, he's our friend -"

"Well, at least we can agree on that," Joanne said.

Danny was aware he might have spoken too harshly to her. "Look, I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just worried about him."

Joanne shrugged. "Me too. I'll call you."

"All right. See you."

*

Pete showed little sign of improvement, and as his debility continued it
began to expose elements of his personality that most of his friends had
never seen before: he became withdrawn and uncommunicative and his
habitual optimism and good humour slowly faded. After a few days his
friends agreed to institute a system where one or more of them would
look in on him and make sure he was okay.

Cameron was happy to do his part, although his capacity for
thoughtfulness and ability to raise Pete's spirits were not perhaps as
accomplished as those of some of the others. He found keeping Pete
company slightly boring, to tell the truth, and was rather delighted
when his knock at Pete's door was answered by a slim young woman with
long black hair wearing a faded t-shirt, short denim skirt, black tights
and leather boots.

"Oh. Hiya," Cameron said after a moment spent looking her up and down,
and then up again. "Is Pete in?"

"Yeah," the young woman said, putting her head on one side. Her accent
was even more northern than his. "You must be Cameron."

"Yeah." Cameron couldn't help grinning.

"You'd better come in, then." She led him through to the main room where
Pete lay sprawled in his customary spot.

"Oh, hiya mate," Pete said. "All right?"

"Yeah, fine." Cameron sat down. When the girl's back was turned he
jerked his head at her and made a WTF face.

Pete stared at him for a moment until the penny dropped. "Oh, sorry.
Cameron, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Cameron."

Charlie sat down opposite him. "I'd worked that much out," she said.

"I... I mentioned you guys to her," Pete said.

"I think it's great you're looking out for him," Charlie said, smiling
at Cameron. He found himself smiling back.

"Well, you know me - well, you don't, obviously, but - as we get to know
each other you'll see that's the kind of guy I am." Cameron nodded
thoughtfully and tried to look sensitive yet masculine at the same time.

"...right," Charlie said.

The old magic didn't seem to be working and Cameron said, "So, how do
you know Pete, Charlie?"

"Well - you know what a tough time Pete's having with his medication,"
Charlie said. "Lots of people get mild side effects but not usually this
bad. Pete's specialist thought it would be useful if I came round and
talked through a few things with him. "

"Cool," Cameron said. She didn't look like a medical expert, but then
perhaps this was just informal. He imagined what she might look like in
a white coat or a nurse's uniform and the next thing he knew several
seconds had passed and she was smiling at him again. "Maybe you could,
you know, talk to the rest of us about, you know, things we could do to
help him. Or you could just tell me and I'll pass it on."

"God, you're a smooth operator," Charlie said, deadpan. Pete smiled,
which in itself was remarkable these days. She shrugged. "There's not
much else you can do. In any case, I'm not really an expert on the
medical side."

"Oh," Cameron said. He frowned. "So - I don't mean to be funny - why are
you here, then?"

"Well, to talk about the psychological and social stresses Pete's going
to go through if he decides to come off the drugs." Charlie looked at
Pete and smiled sympathetically.

"Change into a girl, you mean? Jesus." Cameron blinked. "Why didn't you
just ask Sarah or Joanne, mate?"

"Because they haven't done it, Cam," Pete said. "They've always been
girls." He looked at Charlie with an apologetic expression.

Charlie smiled brightly at Cameron. "I've had APFS. My name used to be -
"

"Jeee-sus! You're a bloke?" Cameron felt momentarily queasy. "I'm really
sorry, I'd no idea -"

"I used to be a man." Charlie was clearly used to going through this
sort of thing. "Now I'm a woman. I fancy men and everything, Cameron. I
just don't advertise the fact I've had a sex change."

"If I'd known, I wouldn't, you know, have -"

"And given that, I wish I'd told you the moment we met," Charlie said.
She smiled. "Forget it, anyway. I'm seeing someone."

"Right..." Cameron said. He couldn't help staring at her anew. Christ,
he thought, there was no way of telling. This Girl Flu was more of a
menace than he'd anticipated. How many of the girls he innocently
letched after every day had started their lives with a different
anatomy?

"My APFS was drug resistant. My family weren't sympathetic, either."
Charlie was looking at Pete and speaking seriously. "I was only in my
teens - I had a really rough time of it. As long as you've got friends
around you it should be easier for you."

"You had friends?"

Charlie rolled her head. "Not really. I had... I suppose you'd say I had
better than a friend. Somebody who - well, he was there for me. He knew
what was happening to me and accepted it. You might even say he wanted
it. It was complicated."

Pete nodded. "I think I understand."

"I'm buggered if I do," Cameron said. "Pete, you're not seriously
considering - well, being a girl?"

"It's better than spending the next thirty or forty years laid out like
this, isn't it?" Charlie said.

"But - a girl, Pete?"

Pete shrugged weakly. "I don't know, Cameron. I'm just sick of feeling
like shit all the time. What's the point in being a man - in being
alive, even - if you can't actually do anything you want to?"

Cameron knew his limitations, and had figured out that this situation
was really beyond his limited diplomatic and persuasive skills. He stuck
it out for another half an hour, listening to Charlie share more details
of her own story, but eventually his own mounting agitation forced him
from his seat. (The pop culture references and political overtones
Charlie insisted on inserting were also distracting.)

They didn't seem to mind too much when he announced his departure. The
first and only thing he could think of to do was to call Danny.

*

"Hello, Cameron, what's up?"

"Danny, you've got to do something about Pete."

"Why, what's wrong? Is he okay? You sound -"

"He's thinking of turning into a girl. They've sent some ladyboy round
to persuade him, she's with him now."

"What?!? Cameron, have you been drinking?"

"I'm serious, mate. He's thinking that he can't hack being on these
drugs for the rest of his life, so he's thinking about -"

"All right, all right. I get that part. What's this about a ladyboy?"

"She - she says she used to be a guy before she got Girl Flu herself.
She's telling him how the change was for her."

"So she isn't actually a ladyboy."

"Well, no. But mate! You've got to talk to him, before he does something
stupid."

"All right, all right. I'll go round straight after work."

*

To be honest, from what he'd seen of Pete's condition, Danny wasn't at
all surprised that Pete was thinking what Cameron evidently considered
the utterly unthinkable. Deep as his sympathy for Pete was, privately he
knew that they couldn't really commit to keeping him company for decades
to come, because he wasn't the old lively outgoing man they'd originally
grown so fond of anymore. The drugs had taken that person away. If the
feminised Pete that APFS would produce was even vaguely like her male
precursor then he thought he might prefer that to the husk-like invalid
they were currently spending time with.

So all in all he probably wasn't the best person to talk Pete out of
coming off the APFS-inhibitor drugs, which was what Cameron clearly
wanted him to do. He went round to the flat anyway, suspecting Pete
might want to discuss what Cameron's mysterious "ladyboy" had told him.

She had gone by the time Danny arrived and he had to wait for Pete to
stumble to the door as usual.

"All right," Pete said, letting him in.

"All right," Danny said. They went back to the lounge. "I heard from
Cameron, he said you'd had a visitor."

"Why didn't MI5 snap him up?" Pete flopped down onto the sofa. "So quick
on the uptake. Such a cool head under pressure."

Danny grinned. "He's worried about you, though. Same as we all are." He
sat down.

"What did Cameron say exactly?"

"Reading between the bullshit, he said that someone who'd already had
APFS and gone through the change came round to discuss what would happen
if you decided to come off your medication."

Pete nodded. "That's about right. I asked them to send someone."

"Are you seriously considering it?"

"I don't know, Dan." The eyes that looked at him were suddenly
glistening. "This isn't going to get any better. They've basically said
as much. If they lower or change the dose it'll just mean I'll change
really slowly - over years, maybe. You know me, mate. You know the kind
of person I am - was, I should say. The kind of life I wanted."

"I know," Danny said quietly.

"I'm only fucking twenty-two, Danny! I've never been to South America,
or New Zealand. I can't even concentrate to read a book the way I am
now. This is just turning me into a vegetable. That scares me almost as
much as the idea of being a girl. I want to be me again, not this - this
lump."

Danny sighed. "If you feel that way, mate... then go for it. Come off
the pills."

Pete looked at him. "You really mean that?"

"I want you to be you again," Danny said, smiling. "You know us - or I
hope you do, anyway. We'll look out for you, do everything we can. Just
don't tell Cameron I encouraged you, I'm supposed to be talking you out
of the idea..."

"It's still a scary bloody idea. Charlie - that's the woman I spoke to -
she said it was easier for her because..." Pete broke off and looked
away.

"If you decide to go through with this, then you know I've got your
back, right?" Danny squeezed Pete's shoulder in an attempt to reassure
him. "Whatever I can do, you know I'll do it."

"You really mean that, Dan?" Pete was looking at him oddly intensely,
Danny thought, but he could hardly qualify his position at this point.

"Course I do."

"Thanks, mate." To Danny's surprise Pete got to his feet and threw his
arms around him. He had always been an expressive and tactile sort of
bloke, Danny thought, but this was unusual even so. He put it down to
Pete's slightly addled mental state, a product of the drugs. He was
right, of course, but would have been stunned to learn just exactly how
significant the conversation they'd just had would turn out to be.

==Three==

Pete texted them all the next day and told them he'd decided to come off
the drugs. Danny received this with regret but not surprise, Sarah was
cautiously optimistic, Joanne indulged in some metaphorical rolling up
of sleeves and rubbing of palms, and Cameron's howl of horror was
audible from the next street. Pete also invited them all round,
supposedly to say thank-you for the support they'd given him during his
debility.

They were all startled by the change in their friend - the reappearance,
to put it more exactly, of the Pete they'd known prior to his APFS being
discovered. He was bouncy and positive and very nearly his old self
again as he welcomed them into his flat.

"Pete," Cameron said, without any preamble and before anyone else had a
chance to speak, "for God's sake think about this. There's still time."

"Cameron!" To say Joanne was looking daggers at him would be a major
understatement - looking broadswords at him would be closer to it. "It's
Pete's decision to make, isn't it?"

Cameron looked miserable. "Pete, you're still a guy. Think about that,
while you can."

Pete grinned. "Thanks, Cam, but I have had a lot of time to think about
this. And, you know, nothing's actually physically changed yet, so if I
do change my mind I've not lost anything."

"Is that likely?" Sarah asked as they hung up their jackets and made
themselves comfortable. "A change of mind, I mean."

Pete sat down. "I don't think so. I'll probably get an attack of the
nerves when, you know, stuff starts happening, but it'll be irrevocable
by then." He picked up a bottle of beer and grinned, but it looked
brittle.

"You're being really brave about this," Joanne said. "That's so great."

"So - how long until you're, ah, done?" Danny asked.

Pete smiled at him in a slightly arch way Danny couldn't quite work out
the reason for. "Couple of months. Soon enough."

"Better make the most of things, then," Cameron said, managing to sound
glum and cryptic simultaneously as he grabbed a beer for himself.

Pete seemed a little reluctant to talk about his plans in too much
detail, and so they spent most of the evening filling him in on what
they'd been doing while he'd been under the weather. It was a successful
evening, Danny thought, the usual glow of camaraderie and light-hearted
piss-taking, very much like the old days. He wondered how much things
would change once Pete's metamorphosis was complete, and fervently hoped
it would be as little as possible.

Pete surreptitiously asked him to hang on after the others went and he
did so - they tended to arrive together and drift off in ones and twos
at these kinds of gatherings at people's flats anyway, so it was hardly
unusual.

"Great to see you looking better, despite everything," Danny said, when
they were alone together.

"It's such a relief," Pete said. He smiled the same slightly odd smile
again and got up. "Anyway, i've got something to show you."

"Oh yeah," Danny said, settling back on the sofa.

"Uh-huh." From somewhere Pete produced a print-out of a photo in a clear
plastic folder and handed it to Danny before sitting down next to him.

Danny looked at the picture. It was a passport-style photo of a young
woman, blonde. Her eyes were wide and blue and the combined effect of
her cheekbones and jawline gave her face a slightly feline cast. There
was something indefinably familiar about her.

"What do you think?" Pete asked.

Danny shrugged. "Very nice."

"Would you, though?"

"Pete, I'm not the most discerning judge right now. If we got on, then
yeah, I probably would." He handed the photo back. "Who is she, anyway?"

"Me," Pete said.

Danny nearly choked on his beer. "What?"

Pete shrugged. "It's this new thing they've got. They scan your face and
it predicts what you're going to look like when - when you're a woman.
And this is what I'm going to look like, more or less." He looked at the
photo thoughtfully.

"Well, if I'd known... yeah, mate," Danny said, finding himself oddly
uncomfortable. "Yeah, she's - I mean you're - you're going to be a
looker."

Pete nodded. "And you said you would."

Danny stared at him. His friend looked oddly triumphant but for no
reason he could discern without severe concern. "I didn't know it was
you when I said that. Don't take it the wrong way -"

"How is that the wrong way?" Pete sighed and looked away. "Danny... I
told you other day how scary this was for me. How important it was to -
to know I had people there for me."

"And you do. As friends." Danny wasn't sure why he felt the need to
clarify the situation.

"I know that, but...God, you don't know what it's like. You think it's
easy for me to talk to you like this?"

"It's no easier for me, I promise." Danny made to get up. "Look, let's
just forget -"

"No, please. Let's get this straight, one way or the other," Pete said.
He took a deep breath.

"So - so what? Are you saying you fancy me, or something?" Danny looked
away and tried to keep his squirming to a minimum.

"Oh God, I thought you understood... no, I don't. Not yet. Not
physically," Pete said.

"Thank Christ for that."

"Seconded," Pete said. "But I know you're a ... you're just a good
bloke, you'd look after a girl, treat her properly. I think I might need
some looking after, you know, as time goes by."

"Jo and Sarah will do anything you ask of them, I'm sure," Danny said.

"Yeah, I know, but... Charlie talked about how important it was to her,
how supportive, to have someone who knew everything and still wanted to
be with her. You know. Not just as a friend."

"Pete, you're my best friend, but... I can't just say yes to something
like that. Not with things the way they are now. In a few weeks time I
might not fancy you, you might not fancy me - Christ knows most girls
don't - how can we even be talking about this?"

"I'm not asking you to commit to anything definite," Pete said. "I'm
just asking you to keep an open mind when the time comes."

Danny exhaled and raised his eyebrows. "How will we know when that is?"

Pete shrugged. "I think we'll just know."

"All right." Danny finished his beer. "I think I should probably go
now."

"Okay."

Danny got up and fetched his coat. When he turned back to Pete the
smaller man was holding the photo of his predicted future self out.

"Something to bear in mind," Pete said, smiling a crooked smile.

Danny nodded and took the picture with him when he left.

*

There was hardly anyone Danny could discuss their conversation with,
even if he'd for a moment thought that Pete would have been okay with
him sharing it. Cameron and Joanne would both have flayed him alive for
even broaching the subject, for rather different reasons of course, and
he was reluctant to share it with Sarah. She was sensible enough but...
no, the situation was too private.

What was he going to do, anyway? It was probably a mistake for him to
have taken the photo, because he did find it preying on his mind
somewhat. The woman in it was very attractive in a pixie-ish sort of way
and he found himself wondering what the rest of her would be like. He
told himself this was his best friend he was fantasising about, but, as
every man knows, the black beast of the libido cannot be controlled,
only loosed or killed. Danny's had been in captivity for quite some time
now and took to this new outlet with alarming aptitude.

And as the weeks went by and Pete began to show the first signs of his
change, things just got worse. The structure of his face started to
shift so from some angles he almost resembled the woman in the picture.
The hair on his arms started to thin out considerably, and while they
were all watching a movie on Cameron's TV Danny caught him idly plucking
dead hair from his chest through the gaps between his shirt buttons.

Pete had never spoken to him again about their conversation but he
thought about it nearly every day and especially when he spent time with
his friend. The prospect of what they'd discussed still alarmed him on a
very deep level but it was clear that the time was approaching when it
might well be back on the agenda.

*

"Pete, hi." Sarah let him into the flat she shared with Joanne. "How is
everything going?"

"Pretty good, thanks." Pete's voice had softened a little but he had
grown used to it; to be honest, the loss of most of his body hair and
muscle tone was causing him more concern. He'd always been small for his
age and now he was beginning to look almost prepubescent.

He followed Sarah through to the kitchen where Joanne was washing up.
"Hi."

"Hi." Joanne gave him a hug, which he thought she never would have done
prior to his starting to change. She looked him in the face carefully.
"I can't believe it doesn't hurt at all."

He shrugged. "No more than - getting older, or growing your hair does."
His hair had lightened a little but he was continuing to keep it cropped
short, in what he was assured was a hybrid of a mop-top and a dido flip.
He supposed that learning to speak Hairdresser was just one of the black
arts he would have to master, which was partly why he'd come here this
evening.

"Dan and Cameron aren't coming?"

"No, they've gone to the darts," Sarah said. "I'm surprised you didn't
go."

Pete smiled at her somewhat sheepishly. "Well... this is going to sound
stupid, but... I wanted to come to a proper, you know, girly night. The
three of us."

"Of course, that's fine," Joanne said, squeezing his forearm.

"Great," Pete said.

They sat down in the main room with a bottle of wine and some pocky.
"What you've got to remember," Joanne said, with the air of someone
relieved to be sharing a great universal truth, "is that just because
you're a woman you shouldn't feel obliged to look feminine."

Pete blinked. "Right," he said, uncertainly.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I think what Joanne's trying to say is that you
don't have to live up to anyone else's idea of how you should look."

This was all a bit heavier than Pete had been anticipating. He sipped
his wine and crunched through a pocky stick nervously. "I had no idea it
was so complicated," he said.

"Men never do," Sarah said, exchanging a satisfied look with Joanne.
"But at least you understand it now."

"Better late than never," Pete said. "Do I - do I still look like a
man?"

They sat and looked at him thoughtfully. Pete was aware he had never
been the most imposing of specimens, and the loss of his muscles and the
beginnings of the lightening of his bone structure had caused a
significant change in his appearance. He was pretty sure he'd lost an
inch or two in height as well. "Well... male, maybe. Not really a man,
I'm afraid," Sarah said.

"I'd say more androgynous than anything," Joanne said, and Sarah mmed
her agreement.

That had been pretty much what he'd expected and he nodded. "Maybe I
need to start thinking about that a bit more. My appearance, I mean."

Sarah smiled. "You're fine for the time being, Pete. Nothing to worry
about."

"Yeah, but..." Pete shrugged. Part of him wanted to engage with this
thing head on rather than just being swept along in the flow of it. "I
mean, if I wanted to think about things like make-up, is it too soon?
Would I just look stupid, like a drag queen?"

The two of them exchanged looks and Joanne sat up a little straighter in
her seat. "Pete, like we said - you don't have to live up to anyone
else's expectations of you, just because you're a woman."

"You can look any way you want to," Sarah said, leaning forward
reassuringly.

Pete blinked again. "And I want to see what I look like in make-up. Is -
is there something wrong with that?"

Joanne went back to the kitchen and clattered and clanged around in
there rather ostentatiously, for reasons Pete couldn't quite work out.
It was Sarah who sat down with him and took him through the basics of
things like foundation, lipstick and eyeshadow.

"I had no idea this was all so involved," Pete said, dabbing off an
application of foundation which Sarah had decreed had been put on with
all the finesse of a man plastering a wall.

"The things we put ourselves through for you," Sarah murmured. "I mean,
for men."

"I'm beginning to see what Joanne was getting at. About not feeling
obliged to do this," Pete said.

"Mmm. But you've got such good skin," Sarah said. "Oh, I don't know. If
you can get away without it, then fair enough. But I think for a lot of
women it's a confidence thing. You won't look good if you're not
confident, make-up or not. And if you don't look good..." She trailed
off. "Well, you won't be worrying about that, will you? Not for a
while."

Pete felt a prickle of excitement: in terms of both intimacy and subject
matter the conversation was entering a zone he'd never visited before.
Not while talking to a woman, anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Men," Sarah said. She put her head on one side. "I mean, you're not
actually attracted to guys yet, are you? You will be at some point, I
suppose..."

"Chances are," Pete said, browsing through Sarah's collection of
lipsticks. "There's like a fourteen percent chance I'll become a
lesbian, or something. Actually, I'm not attracted to women at all any
more, so I guess my fate is sealed..." The casual way he found himself
saying it came as a shock - to her as well, he realised.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Maybe that's the reason for the sudden
interest in make-up," he said.

"Pete, can I ask something personal? Are you still, you know -?"

He smiled. "Anatomically correct? Just about, though I'm not the man I
was." He shrugged. "I think I'll be leaving the seat permanently down
after a few more weeks."

"You're so... I mean, Cameron and Danny would be on suicide watch if
this was happening to them," Sarah said.

"Cameron, maybe," Pete said. "Danny's sensible enough, don't you think?"

"Well, maybe," Sarah said with a smile.

"Can I ask you something personal? Were you never tempted to, you know -
"

"What, with Danny?" She stared into space thoughtfully. "I suppose I was
when we first met, but then it wasn't just the two of us, we were part
of the same circle of friends and... I didn't want to commit until I was
sure he felt the same way. And I never was, and the moment passed...
why?"

"Just wondered," Pete said. "Okay, let's have a go with the eye-
shadow..."

*

A few days later Pete went through a fairly uncomfortable interlude
where the most extraordinary internal sensation presaged the retraction
up into his body of first one ball then the other. Their former
residence remained intact but showed signs of furling itself up against
his perineum and repurposing itself. He had avoided all the literature
with its useful step-by-step guides to what exactly would happen down
there on the grounds that he enjoyed eating occasionally: he would
continue to make his regular visits to various specialists and when the
gynaecologist declared everything to be in its new position and open for
business he would take her word for it and go on his way, quite possibly
with a smile on his face.

His manhood certainly was still intact, though rather reduced and
permanently inert. His libido had apparently gone into hibernation a few
weeks earlier and it was a definite shock when, a day or so later, he
experienced a definite jolt of what he could only describe as desire.

He had popped down to the corner shop, wrapped up in loose clothes and a
woolly hat, absolutely un-made-up, his only intention to buy some fruit
juice and bread rolls. He was queueing for the till, glancing at the
newspaper racks - all the tabloids were revelling in Princess Jordan's
latest antics - when someone pushed past him, smiling their gratitude as
he stepped out of the way to let them through.

And something stirred inside, flickered into life, so familiar and yet
almost forgotten... and in a whole new context, because the feeling was
one of raw physical attraction and the person who'd triggered it was a
man. A big man, six three or four, wearing some kind of labourer's
overalls and with a day's growth of stubble on his jaw. Pete felt
himself flutter and flush and forced himself to look away.

Oh, boy, he thought weakly. Whole new ball game.

It was not just a one-off, either. While his new libido was rather more
measured and discriminating than the old one, it seemed very nearly as
insistent. Men on the bus, pictures in magazines, even Bill Turnbull for
one slightly bizarre interlude early one morning. He supposed he'd
become accustomed to living without one, which was why its sudden
reappearance had knocked him for six, and he would eventually get used
to it. He would have to, mainly because there wasn't much chance of his
being able to satisfy it these days.

*

After all the craziness of recent weeks, Danny was glad to have one of
their routine movie nights to look forward to. Unfortunately it was
Cameron's turn to choose the movie, but the big man seemed to be
becoming moderately more inclusive in his choices and there seemed
little chance of a repeat of the furore that had erupted the night he'd
turned up proposing a double bill of Satan's Cheerleaders and Hollywood
Chainsaw Hookers. Now all they need to do was wean Joanne off Julia
Roberts's back catalogue and peace might reign eternally.

The others turned up at the usual time bearing takeaway pizza and
alcoholic beverages, wrapped up somewhat against the cold and the rain.
He put the extra beers in the fridge while they hung their coats up and
went back and -

The girl from Pete's photo was in the room. No, he realised, that was an
exaggeration, but there was more of her face there than the old Pete's.
He realised it had been coming on for some time and only recently passed
some indefinable tipping point that had provoked this reaction in Danny.
It's Pete, Danny told himself, your friend Pete - but his hair was
different, his face had altered and - great Scott! - he seemed to be
wearing subtle lipstick and a trace of eye-shadow. Much to Danny's
relief he was in one of his old plaid shirts and a pair of jeans. Ah
yes, whispered a malevolent interior voice, but what's he wearing
underneath? Danny forced the thought away with all the mental violence
at his disposal.

Pete's body still looked - well, on the male side of androgynous, but it
was hard to tell. None of the others seemed to have an issue with the
slight but telling change in Pete's style. Knowing his friends as he
did, Danny thought that Joanne wouldn't want to draw attention to it,
Sarah was probably indifferent, and Cameron hadn't noticed. He found he
was staring at Pete and that Pete was smiling back at him.

"What?" Danny said.

"Nothing," Pete said, sounding amused, his voice softer than ever.

After prefatory drinks and catching up they watched, with a due sense of
forbearance and out of loyalty to Cameron, a double bill of Belly of the
Beast and Shadow Man. Danny found his attention wandering, which was
hardly a surprise in the circumstances, but even so. As Steven Seagal
waddled around the screen Danny found himself turning to steal glances
at Pete, who was apparently watching the movie raptly.

He was nearly beautiful, Danny thought. The projection had been pretty
much on the money so far and Pete indeed seemed to be turning into a
woman with a definite pixie-ish quality to her. And, oh God, he was
having to fight quite hard to keep reminding himself this was his old
friend, his best friend. If only Pete hadn't let on as to what might be
on the table between them... but perhaps that had been his intention all
along, the same with the photo. No, no, he told himself. That had been
ages ago and Pete had no doubt changed his mind, wouldn't thank him for
being reminded of it.

Danny turned to steal one more glance at the new Pete and found Pete was
already looking at him. Pete smiled an understanding smile and turned
back to watch the movie. Danny did the same but found his stomach was
suddenly churning.

*

"...well, it's not impossible to shoot down a helicopter with a hand-
gun," Cameron said, putting on his coat.

"Whatever," Joanne said. She handed Cameron his scarf. "I promise you,
Cameron, there are going to be reprisals for this."

The big man paled. "Oh God, Jo, no! Not -"

"Yep. Next time it's my choice we're watching Sex in the City 4. What do
you think, Sarah?"

"I think the most unbelievable thing about that movie is that they
persuaded Imelda Staunton to be in it," Sarah said. "You coming with us,
Pete?"

"Think I'll hang on for a bit, got a beer on the go," Pete said from his
position on the sofa.

"Okay then. Night, Danny."

"Night," Danny said as the others went, leaving him alone with Pete. He
closed the door behind them and went back into the main room. His
stomach was still rolling over and over.

"Remember the last time we had one of these here?" Pete said, looking at
him and smiling. "I'd just got diagnosed."

"Ah yes," Danny said. "I do remember."

"We had a joke about it," Pete said, finishing his beer and standing up.
He smiled. "Doesn't seem quite so funny now, does it?"

Danny shrugged. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

Pete walked up to him and put his head on one side. "Still, the
questions still stand. Would you prefer me in a basque or camisole? G-
string or French knickers?"

Danny found, to his enormous embarrassment and shame, he had started to
get hard. "Pete... please..."

Pete went and sat back down. "I'm only joking. I've hardly got the body
for anything like that yet." He sounded amused, indulgent - playful,
even. "But I'm going to, fairly soon."

Danny exhaled and re-took his own seat, feeling the need for a beer. "I
know. I can see."

"Dan." Pete was looking at him and smiling. "I think the time has come.
The time we talked about."

Danny nodded. He could hardly deny it given the way he'd been behaving
all night. "All right. What - what are we discussing?"

Pete patted the sofa next to him and Danny reluctantly moved over to it.
"I've started fancying men - including you, as you may have guessed,"
Pete said. "And it's pretty clear you're having certain feelings about
me..."

"You look so different - the make-up, the hair..."

"I wanted to do this my way," Pete said. "I suppose on some level I
thought it might make things easier for you, as well."

"Easier may not be the right word," Danny said.

Pete smiled his brilliant smile. "We really need to decide what we're
going to do about this. The way we feel."

"Pete, you - you're going to be hot, I can tell. But at the same time,
you're my friend..."

"Isn't that how it goes sometimes?" Pete took his hand and squeezed it.
"We've got two options, haven't we? I don't think the status quo is one
of them. We can back off from this and just see less of each other, hope
it'll fade away - or we can see what happens."

"Which would you prefer?" Danny asked.

"Sometimes it feels like I've been on my own all my life - my dad going,
then what happened to my mum, and then..." Pete took a deep breath. "The
people I rely on always seem to leave me when I need them the most. I
really hoped it was going to be different this time." He dropped his
head.

"Oh, mate..." Danny cupped Pete's jaw in his hand and brought it up. His
friend's face was as delicately beautiful as it had seemed all evening.
Pete's cheeks were damp but his face had kept much of its composure. He
knew in that moment, seeing the vulnerability and essence of the person
before him, that he was lost. Not knowing quite what he was doing he
jerked his head forward and kissed Pete on the lips.

Pete's hands gripped his biceps lightly as he returned the kiss, then
they broke off.

"Oh man," Danny said, feeling giddy. "I just kissed -"

"Your girlfriend," Pete said quickly, pressing his hand to Danny's
mouth. "You just had your first kiss with your new girlfriend." He
smiled, and this time there was delight in it.

"My new girlfriend," Danny said. It was okay if he thought of it like
that and he smiled back. The first kiss had been so agreeable he decided
to try for a second, and found that Pete had the same idea.

Very rapidly he ran up against the reality of the situation: that their
options were as yet extremely limited, at least as far as Danny was
concerned. Eventually he stopped kissing Pete's mouth and neck and sat,
holding him lightly.

"Give it time," Pete said. "We'll both grow into this."

"Okay," Danny said. A thought occurred to him - with laggard slowness,
he realised. "What are we going to tell the others?"

"Oh - I don't know - nothing," Pete said. "Nothing, for now."

"You're sure that's a good idea?"

"Do you want to be the one to tell Cameron? He'll probably try to set
fire to you," Pete said with a giggle. "And as for the others -"

"Point taken," Danny said, smiling. "So what now?"

"I have to go or I'll miss the last bus," Pete said.

"You can always stay -"

"Easy, tiger..."

"On the sofa, I meant."

Pete acknowledged the innocence of Danny's intent. "Still, better not.
I'll call you."

"Okay."

Danny walked him to the door and they kissed one last time before Pete
went. It hadn't felt like kissing a guy at all, Danny thought. Then
again, it was only a habit of thought that insisted that was what he'd
been doing. Amazed and quietly happy he closed the door after his friend
- no, he told himself, after his girlfriend. He hoped he got home
safely.

==Four==

They started to see each other more apart from the others in the group,
meeting for lunch and occasionally visiting each others" flats - all the
things that a couple just beginning a relationship did, in public at
least. They went on dates, in other words. It seemed odd to Pete to be
going through all this with someone he already knew very well, but that
very fact gave them the solidest of foundations to build on, and a great
confidence that there was a great potential here if only they could
exploit it. When Pete started to slip his hand into Danny's when they
were walking together, Danny accepted it - provided that Pete was made
up enough to pass as a woman to casual glances.

He called round at Danny's one evening, not calling ahead to inform him.
As he'd expected Danny was in and surprised to see him.

"Oh, hi." Danny gave him the automatic kiss he'd grown accustomed to and
they went through into the lounge. Pete took off his coat, underneath it
he wore a loose denim shirt and baggy jeans. "You didn't tell me you
were coming."

Pete grinned at him. He'd been brimming over with anticipation all day
ahead of this, and didn't want to spoil the moment. "I've got a surprise
for you," he said, waggling his (immaculately shaped) eyebrows.

"Yeah?" Danny looked uncertain, but pleased: he was catching on.

"Yeah. Come here," Pete said.

Danny walked over to stand in front of Pete. "What -?" He blinked as
Pete took his wrists in his hands.

"Now how about this?" Pete whispered, guiding Danny's hands so one palm
rested on each side of his chest, finding the tiny hills of flesh that
had swelled into being there over the last day or so.

Danny's eyes widened and Pete took his hands from Danny's wrists. As if
making sure, Danny shifted his hands, stroking with his thumbs and
forefingers. Pete shifted a little as pleasure bubbled through him.
"Harder," he said.

"Pete, I can feel them," Danny said, still looking like someone
unexpectedly given an extra birthday.

"I know, but you can still stroke harder," Pete said. He clasped his
hands behind his head and gasped as Danny kneaded the beginnings of his
breasts. In the end he put his arms around Danny's neck and pulled him
in to kiss properly.

"Can I?" Danny's hands were on the buttons of Pete's shirt. Pete nodded
and Danny unbuttoned the garment. His nascent breasts were much more
visible through the fabric of his t-shirt. Danny put his hands on Pete
again and they kissed.

"Still having trouble thinking of me as a girl?" Pete asked as they sank
onto the sofa, joyously tangled together, hands exploring.

Danny seemed to take a moment to consider that. "Do you think of
yourself that way?"

"I - I don't know," Pete said. "Maybe I should. Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. You're not wearing a bra..."

Pete grinned. "I don't exactly need one. Yet. But then we'll be back to
the same old question..."

Danny kissed his throat. "Basque, definitely."

"You'll be lucky. And for the lower portion...?"

Danny looked at him in surprise. "I didn't think you'd changed much..."

"Not much, but some," Pete said. He grinned. "Want to see? Nothing
indecent, before you get too excited."

"Well, yeah. Whatever," Danny said.

Pete got up, and, looking coyly at Danny, started to unbuckle his belt.
With it unzipped his jeans fell around his ankles. He was wearing plain
black briefs. He turned his back and pulled his shirt up out of the way
so Danny had a better view of his hips, backside and legs.

Pete's legs were almost hairless and his thighs were swelling, taking
on a more womanly shape. He knew his arse and hips were also filling out
a bit. He wiggled them from side to side and chuckled at the look on
Danny's face.

"You're so cool," Danny said, apparently almost awestruck.

Pete giggled and fell back into his lap, not bothering to pull his jeans
up. "What makes you say that?"

"Well - it's like you're almost enjoying this."

"Aren't you?"

"Yeah, but... blokes dream about moments like. Did ever you dream about
- I don't know, stripping for your boyfriend?"

"No." Pete kissed him seriously. "But I'll always remember this. It
tells me I - I'm making it work as a girl."

"How can you doubt it..." Danny kissed him back.

"And - what's happening to me must be good, if it means we can share
this. It's positive, on some level at least," Pete said. "That's why
this is so important to me. Why you're so important to me."

"I hope you know what you mean to me, as well," Danny said. "You're
so... well, who you are, what you do, the way you look..."

"Just imagine how I'll look when I'm finished. And dressed properly,"
Pete said as they cuddled.

"I'm trying not to. I'll save that for when... anyway," Danny said,
reddening a bit. "You're going to start dressing -well, like a woman?
Properly."

Pete shrugged. "Seems silly not to. I'll have the body for it very soon,
after all."

"That I'm looking forward to."

"Me too," Pete said, glancing at the clock. "Gotta go, babe." He stood
up and started putting his clothes back into some semblance of order.

"See you at the weekend," Danny said, showing him out.

"If not before," Pete said, giving him an arch look that drew entirely
the response he was hoping for.

*

Joanne wasn't very surprised when Pete came round to see them one
Saturday morning. Privately she was rather pleased at the obvious ease
with which Pete was embracing his burgeoning femininity - much more
easily than she could have hoped, in fact. But it was still
understandable he should come to them for guidance once in a while.

"Hi," Pete said, coming in. He was bundled up as usual but had not
neglected to pile on the eye-shadow, Joanne thought.

"Hi," she said. "You know you can go a bit easier on the -" she
indicated her eyelid.

"Yeah, I know." Pete sounded surprised. "I just like the way it looks."

"Oh." They went through into the living room where Sarah was watching
TV. "Pete's here," Joanne said redundantly.

"Hi, Pete -" Sarah frowned. "Are you going to keep Pete? When you're
completely a girl, I mean."

Pete blinked. "Hadn't really thought about it."

"You could do a straight feminisation and go for Petra," Joanne said.

Pete grimaced. "That sounds like the kind of name you'd call an
Alsatian."

"You could have anything you want, then," Sarah said. "It's your
choice."

"I don't want a complete change. I don't know, I'll think about it,"
Pete said. "Anyway, that wasn't why I came here. I want to go shopping
and I could use some help with, you know, styles and stuff."

Joanne could understand that. She prided herself on being a sensible yet
stylish dresser. "That's fine," she said. She put her head on one side.
"Are you sure you don't want to wait a few more weeks? Until, you know?"

Pete grinned and started unbuttoning his coat. "Baggy clothes hide a
multitude of things," he said, dropping the coat on the sofa and pulling
his jumper off over his head. He clasped his hands behind his head, bent
one leg and smiled sheepishly. "See what I mean?"

Joanne struggled not to stare at the pert, firm, near-as-damn-it perfect
looking breasts outlined by the taut fabric of Pete's t-shirt. Envious
and unworthy thoughts threatened to crowd her head and she attempted to
dispel them by looking down to the swell and curve of Pete's hips and
behind... oh, damnation! This just wasn't fair!

"Wow," Sarah said, expressing everything both of the long-term women
were thinking with impressive brevity. "When did this happen, Pete?"

"Last week or two. Like I say, I've kept it covered up. Most of the
time," Pete said, coughing and looking away. It was understandable he
should feel embarrassed, Joanne thought. She chided herself for her
earlier jealousy and smiled at him understandingly.

"Of course we'll help you. Let us get our coats and we'll be with you in
a moment."

*

"Pete, I understand you want to fully embrace everything," Joanne said
carefully, an hour later. "But there's really no need - women don't have
to wear skirts these days." She indicated the women's slacks section
with a hopeful gesture.

Pete nodded. "I know that," he said. "But, I don't know... I think I've
got quite nice legs, so -"

"Doesn't mean you have to show them to everyone," Joanne said. Her
resolve to be accommodating, already stretched thin by Pete's attitude,
was not helped by Sarah sighing loudly behind her.

"Well, what's the point in having them, then? It's like having a nice
face and wearing a bag over your head."

Joanne was almost certain he was doing it to wind her up. "That's not
the same thing at all."

"This place is a bit staid, though, Joanne," Sarah said. She looked
around the interior of M&S with a look of mild distaste. "I mean, even I
don't shop here that much..."

"And I've never bought clothes here. Well, maybe socks and pants," Pete
said.

Joanne sighed. "All right. Where do you want to go?"

"Let's just walk around and see," Pete suggested.

So walk around they did, soon leaving the comparatively safety of the
high street for some decidedly eccentric places down side-streets.
Joanne's carefully-dropped comments about Pete's budget were rendered
impotent when he revealed the government's APFS-accommodation budget
extended to a healthy new clothing allowance for sufferers.

"I wondered where all my tax went," Sarah said, upon hearing the news.

"I think they just pay for it out of the all money they've saved since
they got rid of the nuclear submarines," Pete said vaguely. His eyes lit
up. "Aha!"

"Good God," Joanne said as Pete looked with evident glee at a pair of
thick leopard-skin tights. "You're not serious."

"Why not?" Pete set off for the cashier.

Well, Joanne thought, even as a man Pete had always ploughed his own
furrow fashion-wise. But she did begin to wonder why she had come at all
if all Pete was going to do was buy violently-hued crop tops, mini-
skirts made from unlikely fabrics, leather pixie-boots and sundry other
bizarre items. The new Pete style, if that was the right word for it,
was about as different from her own as could be imagined. She consoled
herself with the thought that she and Sarah were being quite useful when
it came to finding things in the right size - in most of his dimensions
Pete was now more petite than either of them - and doubtless providing
invaluable moral support.

Eventually they wended their way back onto the high street. Joanne
thought they would now be safe, but Pete's gaze alighted on a place that
Joanne had long ago promised she would only go near in order to petrol
bomb.

"Alexandra's Enigma," Pete said, smiling at the pair of them. "Come on."

"Absolutely not," Joanne said. "It's a sex shop."

"It's not a sex shop," Sarah said, sighing. "But it is a shop that just
sells sexy underwear. Pete, why do you want to go in there? I mean, for
Christ's sake..."

Pete looked away and shrugged. "I want to be ready for any occasion."

"Pete, are you serious about being a proper woman? A person in your own
right?" Joanne asked. "Because that place only caters for women who are
willing to degrade themselves just to satisfy the carnal desires of
their partners."

Pete thought about that for a moment. "Well, as long as there's a bit of
degradation on both sides, where's the harm?"

"Pete." Sarah's tone was flat. "Is there something you're not telling
us?"

"I'm not telling you," Pete said. "Come on, it'll be fun."

And so Joanne stood on the pavement on the other side of the street,
pacing up and down while Sarah became an accomplice in the wilful self-
abasement of her friend. The shame, the shame.

*

"We need to organise an intervention of some kind," Joanne said as she
busied herself over the coffee. Pete had gone home loaded down with bags
and Joanne shuddered to think what he would look like once their
contents were unleashed.

"An intervention. Jo, he's not an alcoholic, he's just bought a few lacy
bras. God knows he's got the tits for it," Sarah said.

"Must you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sarah said. "Look, it probably all just went to his
head, that's all. Went out to buy a skirt and a blouse and didn't know
when to stop. We've all been there."

"Mm. Even so, we need to make him see what'll happen if he goes out
actually wearing most of that stuff," Joanne said. "What he'll have to
endure. The ugly side of the male population, unleashed."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Sarah asked.

Joanne smiled. "I'll call Cameron. We'll go round to Pete's with him,
unannounced, and just mention casually that he's done some shopping -"

"That's a fairly horrible thing to do to a friend, Joanne." Sarah
frowned at her.

"Cruel to be kind, Sarah. Pete'll thank us for it in the end."

"So will Cameron, probably... just exactly why are you friends with him,
anyway? I've always wondered," Sarah said.

Joanne huffed and did a pretty good impression of how Pete had looked
when asked an awkward question outside Alexandra's Enigma earlier that
day. "He reminds me of what men can really be like," she eventually
said.

"Right..." Sarah said. And against her better judgement she let Joanne
put her plan into action.

*

Come round about 8, the text had said. It was eight now and Danny
knocked on Pete's door. He heard light footsteps on their way and smiled
to himself.

"Hi," Pete said, answering the door. He was in make-up and was wearing a
sleeveless black-and-silver t-shirt under a fuzzy white cardigan, with
black leggings and socks. The contours of his figure were barely
disguised.

"Hi," Danny said, coming into the flat, still staring at Pete's outfit.
Pete drew him down and kissed him languorously on the mouth. "You look
amazing. You went shopping, then?"

"Earlier today. This is my first time dressed completely as a girl -
every single stitch," Pete said, looking down at himself and twirling.
"What do you think?"

"You look fantastic," Danny said. He smiled. "Every stitch?"

"Every last one," Pete said.

"Not sure if I believe that," Danny said, putting his arms around him.

"Well, maybe later I'll show you the proof." Pete did not pull away and
Danny felt Pete's hands slip around his waist, enjoyed the feel of his
softness against him.

"I wish I could tell somebody about this," Danny said, holding Pete
against him. "It just feels like we're lying to all our friends..."

"I know." Pete sounded regretful about that too. "The moment'll come,
though. When it'll feel right to tell them."

They went over to the sofa and sat down. "What'll we say? By the way,
guys, Pete and I have been going out for weeks, we just didn't tell
you?"

"Maybe not," Pete said. "It just sounds weird if you talk about "Danny
and Pete" as an item... that doesn't help."

"Can't help it unless you change your name," Danny said.

Pete smiled at him. "Yeah, I've been thinking about that. I've changed
everything else, no reason to hang onto a name, is there?"

"If it's what you want. Have you decided?"

Pete smiled again. "Well, I want something that sounds a bit like Pete
that isn't a dog's name. Short and starting with a P E."

"Penny," Danny said.

Pete wrinkled his nose. "I want to be a Peri."

"Is that actually a real name?" Danny frowned.

"Yeah, I checked. Some woman off the TV," Pete said. "So I'm going to be
Peri now, my sweet. Do you think you can handle that?"

"As long as everyone knows. If it makes you happy..." Danny looked at
Pete - no, he corrected himself, Peri, and grinned. "No problem."

"Call me by my name," Peri said, smiling.

Danny was suddenly aware this was another of the first times that his
friend - his girlfriend - was saving, treasuring. "Hello, Peri," he
said.

"Hello," Peri said.

It seemed to be the moment for some serious kissing and Danny felt
Peri's lipstick smear all over his cheek. Then he was being helped off
with his jumper and wriggling Peri's cardigan off his shoulders - damn,
these pronouns still seemed inappropriate - and then Peri was giggling
as he slid his hands up under the fabric of his t-shirt - damn it, it
was no good, he could no longer sustain the fiction that this was
another male and why should he want to anyway - he reached up, hands
drifting over the softness of her skin towards the rich bounty of her
breasts...

"Shit," said Peri as there was a pounding at the door. She wriggled out
from under Danny. "I'll get rid of whoever it is. Keep the home fires
burning."

"Never in doubt," Danny said, turning over onto his back and smiling at
the ceiling. He heard Peri pad off to the door and open it and then a
kind of strangulated yelp.

"Hi! We just thought we'd pop round and see how you were getting on..."

Crap. That was Joanne's voice and it was getting nearer and... Joanne
breezed into the living room with Peri still desperately trying to
deflect her, Sarah and Cameron trailing along behind in an even greater
state of confusion than usual.

"Oh. Hello," Danny said, wondering which he wished for most: for his
clothing to be less dishevelled, for there not to be lipstick all over
his face, or for the building to collapse on all of them at that moment.

Peri stepped away from the others and shrugged. "Well, I'd say
something, but you'd have to be an idiot not to be able to figure it out
for yourself."

"Oh, hi Danny," Cameron said. "Didn't know you were coming."

"Hi, Cameron. Same here," Danny said, swinging his legs off the sofa. He
looked at Joanne and Sarah and winced. "There's going to be some
shouting now, isn't there?"

At roughly the same time:

"How could you do this to your own friend?" shouted Joanne.

"I don't know what to say," Sarah said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"It really isn't what it looks like!" Danny said, arguably incorrectly.

"Look, we can explain!" Peri cried, trying to raise her voice above the
babble.

"I've missed something important here, haven't I?" Cameron said, but was
unfortunately drowned out. As a result he looked more carefully at his
surroundings, a trick which had served him in good stead in the past.
One of several pennies finally clunked into place.

"OH MY GOD!" At full volume the sound of Cameron's stunned disbelief was
nearly enough to stun everyone else in the room. As it was they all
stared at him. "Pete's got tits!"

"He's turning into a woman - she is a woman - Cameron, you already knew
that," Danny said.

"You seem pretty well-acquainted with the fact, too," Joanne said
primly.

"Look, it's my body," Peri said, folding her arms and sitting down next
to Danny.

"I don't blame you, love," Joanne said. She looked venomously at Danny.
"You know how vulnerable he -"

"She," Peri said.

"-she must be at the moment, but you still steam in there, you selfish
prick. It could take years for him -"

"Her," said Sarah.

"- her to get over this."

"Am I allowed to say anything here?" Danny looked at Joanne and Sarah
intently. "Do you really think I'd do anything to hurt Pe - Pete? You
know he - she's my best friend." He looked at Peri and she took his hand
and squeezed it.

"Yes, just go on and tell yourself that," Joanne said. "We all know how
desperate you've been for a shag, Danny. I even felt sorry for you a few
times myself -"

"Not that sorry, thank God," Cameron said.

"Cameron, shut up," Sarah advised.

"-but I'd never have expected you to -"

"This is my place, isn't it?" Peri raised her voice over Joanne's.
"Don't speak to Danny that way. You don't know what you're talking
about. I invited him here -"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

" - if you're not going to listen to me you can just get out!"

Joanne folded her arms. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."

"Oh, for God's sake..." Peri put her hands over her face.

Danny got up. "It's all right. I'll go."

"But I don't want you to..."

"Just try to explain," Danny said. He reached for his coat.

"I'll come with you," Cameron said, brightening up.

"All right."

Peri saw them to the door. "See you soon," she said, looking at Danny.
Well aware they were still being watched, and probably because of it,
she pulled Danny's face down to hers and kissed him hard.

"See you," Danny said when she released him.

"Hey, hang on a minute -" Cameron's face was showing flickers of
comprehension.

"I'll explain on the way," Danny sighed, wrestling him out of the door.

*

Sarah stood back and watched Joanne square off to - well, it hardly
seemed right to call this self-assured young woman by a man's name, even
if they had been friends for a long time. This was someone new -or a new
version of an old person, anyway.

"Are you still calling yourself Pete?" Sarah asked. It was a nice
neutral question intended to lower the tension in the room.

She went over to the sofa and pulled her cardigan back on. "I've decided
I want to be called Peri."

"Is that a real name?" Sarah said it without thinking. Peri rolled her
eyes.

"The name's immaterial," Joanne said. Perhaps realising she had been out
of line, she sat down carefully on the sofa herself. "How did it
happen?"

Peri still looked defensive, Sarah thought. "I fancied him, he fancied
me. That's how it usually happens, isn't it?"

"So I hear," Sarah said. She sat down on one of the other chairs. "I
think what Jo's really wondering is - did he force you? Was it his
idea?"

"Danny? You know him, Sarah, you know he wouldn't do something like
that!"

"All men -" Joanne started to declaim.

"This isn't the time for The Vagina Monologues," Sarah said. "I know,
he's Danny. But - this has just been such a shock. Why didn't you tell
us?"

"Because I knew you'd react this way. Oh, God, I hope Cameron doesn't
hurt Danny..."

"With the kind of reaction times Cameron's shown tonight, Danny's got a
week or two before he needs to worry," Sarah said. "This isn't a new
thing, is it? What's going on between the two of you."

Peri shook her head.

"How long?" Joanne asked.

"Since the Steven Seagal double bill." Peri seemed subdued but also
defiant. "I can't explain it. I just needed someone and Danny was there
for me. That's all there is to it."

"You're sure you haven't been conned or forced? That this really is your
choice?"

"How can she be?" Joanne asked.

"How can any of us?" Sarah said.

"I think so," Peri said. "I was sure of him, sure he was the right
man... sure enough, anyway. I didn't want to wait too long and let the
moment pass."

Sarah nodded and smiled. "Point taken," she said. She looked at Joanne
and shrugged. "We can be justifiably pissed off at them for keeping us
in the dark, but what they do is their decision."

"Mm." Joanne still sounded unpersuaded.

"You know we're still here for you," Sarah said, taking one of Peri's
hands. "I'm sorry we made such a fuss. Really, really sorry."

Peri sighed and shrugged. "It's probably best that you know," she said.
"We were talking about telling you, I promise."

"That's all right," Sarah suddenly. Apparently on impulse, Peri gave her
a quick, fierce hug which she returned.

Peri got up and went over to Joanne. "I'm sorry for not being the kind
of woman you want me to be."

Joanne sighed. "I suppose it's all right as long as you're being the
kind of woman that you want to be." They hugged as well.

"I think I've got some wine somewhere," Peri said. "May as well try to
stop the evening from being a total waste."

*

"Hang on, you what?"

Danny was starting to regret even launching into this explanation. They
trudged on down the street towards the pub. "Pete is... well, you know
he's turning into a girl?"

"Yeah, of course," Cameron said.

"Well, he's - she's, I should say - she's sort of my girlfriend."

"Give over."

"No, really," Danny said.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What, so you, sort of...?" Cameron wheeled out another of his mimes.

"Not like that, not yet anyway - not that it's really any of your
business. Look, you've seen her - she wears girls" clothes, she's
started using a girl's name..."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"She wants to be called Peri."

"That isn't even a real name."

"Well, you can tell her that," Danny said. "So that's what's happening.
We were going to tell you, and probably soon, but then you all came
round tonight and walked in on us, so..."

"Uh."

Danny looked at the big man with a trace of nervousness. "You're not
angry with me?"

Cameron shrugged. "No, not really. I think you could've done better for
yourself, but if you could talk Pete into it, fair play to you."

"I didn't talk Pete into anything..." Danny sighed again. "It was - I
don't know, she fancied me, I fancied her... you know?"

"Uh." Cameron sounded unconvinced but also not particularly bothered.
"It just wouldn't have occurred to me to do it."

Danny almost asked what the "it" was he had apparently done that Cameron
wouldn't, but decided to get out while he was marginally ahead. The pub
sign came into view: seldom had it been more welcome in the past.

"So," Cameron said. "You and Pete done it yet?"

"Cameron. I'm not going to talk about that kind of thing with you,"
Danny said.

"Fair play," Cameron said. Danny relaxed and then he said, "I'll just
ask Pete. He always fills me in about stuff like that."

*

Danny phoned Peri late that night. "Hi..."

"Hiya, sweetheart. Cameron left you alive?"

"Physically, but I'm not sure about the rest. How did you get on with
the Germaine Greer sisters?"

She giggled. "Sarah's not that bad. Neither is Joanne, really. Once I
persuaded them you hadn't bent my innocent young body to your evil will
they were okay."

"Did they seem jealous of you, at all?"

"Don't push it." She sighed. "And I had such plans for tonight..."

"Oh, God, don't start - hey, Cameron says you routinely tell him all
about your love life."

"Love, this is Cameron. I just say things like "I went on a date" and he
imagines the rest."

"You're still using the present tense."

"Everything that passes between us is hereafter sacrosanct, okay?"

"Okay. I can still come round if you like..."

"I'm too exhausted from building bridges with Jo and Sarah."

"Ah."

"Don't be too downhearted. Do you want to hear what I'm wearing?"

"Hmm. Wouldn't mind. Hang on, let me put the phone on hands free..."

"Who says romance is dead?"

"Sorry. Okay. Ready."

"Well, it's a black silk negligee with lace panels down the sides, that
reaches just below my hips... it clings to every curve of my body and
makes me feel terribly sexy. I'm touching myself right now... Danny, are
you still there?"

"Eurk."

==Five==

The friends assembled for a meal at a safely neutral Indian restaurant a
few days later. Peri found she was oddly nervous ahead of it and told
herself not to be so silly - these were her closest friends, her
surrogate family. It wasn't as if she was meeting them for the first
time, or anything.

Then again, in a way she was. They were Pete's old friends, Pete's
surrogate family, and she knew enough now to realise that she wasn't
quite the same person. And she was there in a dual role - there as
Danny's new girlfriend, and subject to all the scrutiny that entailed.
It was strange to think of it that way but she supposed it was
necessary.

She decided not to dress down but to please herself and pulled on a blue
crop top and the tights that had so exercised Joanne, wearing a baggy
sweater and a denim skirt over them, along with a pair of leather boots.

Danny picked her up and they walked to the restaurant hand in hand.
"You're quiet," he said.

"Just a bit nervous, I suppose. Aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Either we can adapt to them or them to us. If we adapt,
it'll probably mean breaking up. So that's not going to happen. They can
get used to it."

Quiet joy thrilled in her to hear him talk like that. "You're really
serious about this."

"I thought we both were. Peri, I -" He looked away.

"What is it? You can say anything to me, you know that."

"I love you," Danny said simply. "You're the most important person in my
life right now. I'm sorry if that -"

"Sssh. No, that's great." If only she'd had more warning, she'd have
prepared herself so she could recall every detail of the moment when
he'd said it for the first time. "I love you too."

They kissed and walked on towards the restaurant. The others were
already there waiting for them, with Cameron making heavy inroads into
their poppadom ration.

"All right, I give in," Sarah said as they sat down. Her tone was
amused. "Look at their faces, it's obviously the real thing."

"Hm," Joanne said, then nodded. "I suppose I owe you -"

"Ranjit! More poppadoms and another lager over here, please!"

"Cameron! Danny, I owe you an apology."

Danny smiled. "That's okay, Joanne. We could probably say the same to
you. No hard feelings?"

"Well, no more than usual," Joanne said, sipping from her drink. "Fresh
start?"

"Fresh start," Peri said, finally allowing herself to relax.

And after that things were... well, not quite the way they always had
been, for how could they be? They were not just the same old five
friends, because there was a couple amongst them now... and even beyond
that, she was not the same person she had been, and that spun everything
away in a new direction as well... But things were relaxed, and
friendly, and the others were just as Peri remembered them - except that
she saw Pete's memories from her own perspective, which made them feel
oddly strange and new, something she'd inherited rather than formed
herself... was she really Pete in any sense that meant anything? If not,
then who was she? As the evening rolled on, though, she relaxed and
began to think it really might not matter after all: she was with people
she loved and who showed every sign of reciprocating that, and that was
surely what mattered, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

In the end the meal broke up and they went their separate ways: Cameron,
Jo, and Sarah in one direction, she and her man in another.

Danny's relief was almost palpable. "Well, that went okay, didn't it?"

"I thought so," Peri said.

"Everything's back to normal." He phewed almost audibly.

"Normal?" She grinned at him. "Does this count as normal for you?"

Danny nodded, grinning back. "Well, maybe not. Be good if it was,
though."

"I'm not going anywhere." She cuddled against him as they walked.

"Still, though, the end of a good evening."

"Evening isn't over yet," Peri said. He smiled, clearly not taking her
seriously, and she went on. "Saw my specialist yesterday."

"Wow, you should've said," Danny said. "Is everything okay?"

"Seems to be."

"How long until you're - you know - finished?"

"He said I finished the change some time last week. I was pretty sure of
that myself, I just wanted him to confirm it," Peri said. "I'm as much a
girl as I'm ever going to be." She smiled at him, the special smile that
was for him alone.

"You mean - we could...?"

"If you like. If you're ready."

"Is it what you want?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Let's go back to your place and see how we
get on."

"Sounds good to me."

"Hey, I've only got short legs. Slow down."

*

"Ah, well. I suppose we have to get used to Danny and Pete being a
couple," Joanne said as the three of them walked in the other direction.

"Peri, not Pete," Sarah said.

"I'm still not convinced that's a real name," Joanne said.

"I said that," Cameron agreed.

"Guys, that pop-singer what's-her-name called her last baby Roll-top
Desk," Sarah reminded them. "Compared to that I don't have a problem
with Peri calling herself Peri."

"'S gonna be funny knowing two people in a couple," Cameron said.
"Still, they look good together."

"Yeah," Joanne said, a little wistfully.

"I thought we were all going to be single forever."

"Yeah," Joanne said.

"Then again, I used to think you two were lesbians." Cameron chuckled at
the memory.

"Yeah - what?" Joanne stared at him.

"Don't worry, Pete - Peri - you know - told me otherwise, ages ago."

"Well thank God for that," Sarah said.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't a big surprise. I always thought you weren't good
looking enough to be proper lesbi - that's a joke! That's a joke!" He
recoiled as they bore down on him.

"Honestly, Cameron," Sarah sighed.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks," the big man said.

"For what?" Joanne asked.

He shrugged. "I know I can be a massive pain in the arse sometimes -"

"Most of the time," Sarah said.

He didn't argue. "But I like being with you guys. All of you, I mean.
You - you're all right."

Joanne patted him on the shoulder. "Cameron, I never thought I'd
actually say this, but you're all right too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Cameron and Joanne looked at each other for a long moment, and
suddenly both of them were smiling.

Bugger me if this isn't turning into a Richard Curtis movie, Sarah
thought. She cleared her throat. "I've just realised I need to buy some
stuff from the all-night shop. You two go on without me."

"What kind of stuff?" Joanne asked.

"Stuff stuff."

"Oh!" Realisation finally dawned on Joanne. In some ways, Sarah thought,
and despite all outward appearances, perhaps these two were quite well
matched after all. "Okay. See you later."

"At some point," Joanne said, watching them walk away. "Sooner or later.
In the fullness of time."

They didn't hear her as Joanne was trying to pitch her invitation to
come in for a coffee at a level that was, on the one hand, understated
enough to be subtle, but, on other hand, obvious enough for Cameron to
pick up on. It was only two hundred yards to their door and Sarah hoped
Joanne would have enough time to manage it. She smiled to herself and
walked off in the other direction. After a while she started to whistle.

*

Peri pulled her jumper off over her head just inside the door and they
proceeded into the bedroom kissing and stroking each other urgently.
They flopped onto the bed, Danny kicking off his shoes and Peri taking
slightly longer to pull off her boots.

"Love your tights, by the way," Danny whispered.

"Wait till you see what I keep in them," she said, wriggling underneath
him. She closed her eyes and virtually purred as he cupped and stroked
her breasts through the flimsy layers of fabric she still wore. She
tugged him down to her and kissed him, they way they'd done so many
times before. There was no reason to hold back any more, she reminded
herself. They could do whatever they wanted.

She reached down and unbuttoned the denim skirt, unzipped it and started
to wriggle it off, eventually kicking it away into the corner. Danny got
the idea and started to unbutton his shirt. Peri paused and curled up
her legs, still in tights and top and essentially covered up.

"What do you think it's going to be, love? G-string or French knickers?"

He smiled at the old joke. "I don't care as long as it's you inside
them."

"Ooh, good answer." She slipped her hands into the waistband of her
tights and slid them smoothly down, then started tugging them off her
feet. "For the record, though..." Divested, she lay back so he could get
a good look at her.

"Good choice," Danny said, reaching for her.

"Ah ah," Peri said, retreating across the bed. "You too."

"I'm not wearing either," Danny said. He unbelted his trousers and
slipped them off.

"Wow, you really do like me," Peri said. She whipped her top off over
her head and showed herself to him, with, she thought, justifiable
pride. She let her hands drift over the lines of her lingerie, her body.
She knew she would always remember the tension and excitement, and even
- yes, really - the passion and love in his eyes.

She let him come to her and take her in his arms and they lay back on
the bed together, flesh on flesh, skin brushing skin except where the
scraps of their underwear intervened. She pulled his out of the way and
let him unfasten her bra and slide it off her. A moment later they were
both naked.

"I love you," she said again.

"I love you." He said it as if despairing of how limited and inadequate
it was, but it was enough for her, it would always be enough as long as
it was him saying it, and he said it in just that way. She parted her
legs, breathing a little hard herself now, and beckoned and guided him
in. Thrust upon thrust, and with each one she loved him a little more
fully and knew he was giving of himself in the same way. Thrust upon
thrust and she clutched at him and cried out and knew rapture and
amazement and mixed in with them was the strangest sense of
disappointment because while there was a first time for everything there
could only be one and this first time, this most important first time,
was inarguably now over...

There would be others, she knew. But never the quite the same. That
shouldn't matter, though - should it?

==Six==

"You know, I'm starting to change my opinion of Cameron," Joanne said.
It was a few days later and she had met Peri for lunch.

"Really? For the better, I assume."

"Why do you say that?"

Peri shrugged. "Because I can't imagine how it could possibly get any
worse."

"Hum." Joanne stirred her coffee. "He's really not that bad when you get
to know him."

"Jo, I do know him, remember? I've known him longer than you."

"Oh yes. I'm sorry." Peri's appearance was now so totally different from
her memories of Pete it was easy to forget they were, on some level, the
same person. Peri had had her hair bleached and various piercings done
in her ears, nose, and bottom lip. "Well, anyway, we talked properly the
other night, just the two of us... stop looking at me like that."

Peri shrugged disingenuously. "I didn't say anything!"

"You don't need to."

"Okay. I'm sorry - nothing on the cards there, I understand."

Joanne tried to hide behind her coffee cup. "Well, I wouldn't
necessarily say that..."

Peri slapped the tabletop. "Ha! I knew it! Wow, I've started a trend."

"Don't say anything. I'm still bringing him round to the idea," Joanne
said.

"Wow. You and Cameron," Peri said. "Are you sure about this?"

Joanne wobbled her head. "Well, if by doing this I can help make him a
more thoughtful and reconstructed person -"

"Don't give me that, you're just after some hot action," Peri said,
without malice.

"Oh, really!" Joanne reddened, then gave a tiny nod. "Don't think too
harshly of me."

"Why should I? Natural enough. You know, it's totally different as a
girl, Jo, not at all how I expected it."

"Mm?"

"You know, doing it. Rogering. I mean, when I was a guy -"

"I'll take your word for it," Joanne said. She felt the need to change
the subject and indicated her earlobe, nose and lip. "I see you've been
down the ironmonger."

"What? Oh, yes." Peri touched her lip-stud. "Well, you know, it was
just another of those things you can do as a girl that a guy can't get
away with so easily. Not in, you know, polite society."

Joanne found herself on the verge of saying that as friends of Cameron
their claims to be members of polite society were frankly on dodgy
ground, but realised she would have to stop all that sort of thing.
"Don't you think - don't you think you might be rushing it? Just a bit?"

Peri looked at her, almost frowning. "How do you mean?"

"Well - I'd imagine that for a lot of people going through what you are,
they'd need a lot more encouragement and time to do all the things you
have."

"I don't follow..."

"Well, you were so keen to start using make-up, you practically dragged
Sarah into Alexandra's Enigma to help you buy your first lingerie... I
just wondered why you were plunging into it so readily. Do you think you
secretly wanted it all along?"

"I - no." Peri looked away, obviously uncomfortable. "It's just... I
wanted to be positive about it. If I wasn't then I could just see myself
falling to bits, you know? That was my attitude. That's why... why being
with Danny was so important. The more of a girl I could become the
closer we could get, and that had to be a good thing for us both."

Joanne nodded. "I think I understand."

"I suppose they were sort of like milestones - stages on the way." Peri
was still looking off into space, but smiling now. "First time I wore
make-up for him. First kiss. First time I let him touch my body. First
time in panties and a bra. First time we -"

"I get the idea," Joanne said. "So what now?"

Peri frowned at her. "I don't follow."

Joanne looked at her for a long moment, then shook her head. "Doesn't
matter. Silly question, I expect..."

*

"Jo's going after Cameron," Peri reported as soon as she arrived at
Danny's. She kissed him. "Mmm."

"Mm," Danny said. "You sure?"

"She seems fairly determined," Peri said, settling down on the sofa.

"When worlds collide," Danny said, sitting down next to her. "I'm not
sure who to be more sorry for."

"Hey. I think they'd be good for each other," Peri said, wriggling off
her boots and sliding her legs into his lap.

"It's what I'd call a high-stakes gamble. Either we'll end up in a new
golden age or in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Socially speaking," Danny
clarified. "Either way it's the end of the world as we know it."

Peri leaned back and put her arms behind her head. "I thought this was
already our golden age."

He smiled at her. "Well, obviously it is. I was speaking more
generally."

Peri rubbed the ball of her foot against his crotch and smiled. "Speak
less generally."

He grinned and in a sudden movement scooped her up in his arms, started
carrying her through to the bedroom. "You're going to wear me out at
this rate."

"You love it really - eep!" He dropped her onto the bed and she started
pulling off her clothes. He did the same.

"Wait," Peri said. She felt something odd within her, the same drive
she'd felt for a long time, yet it was frustrated now, nosing blindly
where once the road had seemed clear. Uncertainty swelled within her and
she thrust it aside.

"What?" Danny said, startled.

"I want to do something you'll always remember," Peri said. She wriggled
her skirt off, stripped down to just her panties while he stood blinking
at her, shirt half-on. She smiled and reached for the zip of his
trousers.

"What? Oh my," Danny said, his cock springing more fully to life as Peri
coaxed it out into the open. He heard her giggle, but there was a
tension and a nervousness in it. "Love, you don't have to -"

He gasped as he felt her tongue quickly on him, stroking him. Her hands
were unfastening his trouser s and pulling them down along with his
underwear. And then he was in her mouth, the faint sensation of her
teeth around the base of his cock, her tongue and lips working at him.
The power of speech seemed to have deserted him and then all too soon he
felt his muscles spasm as he came.

He collapsed onto the bed as Peri went through to the bathroom. He heard
the mundane sounds of spitting, rinsing, a tap running, everything the
fantasies glided smoothly over. Eventually she returned and crawled onto
the bed, straddling him.

"How was that?"

"Oh, Jesus. You didn't have to..."

She rested her hands on his chest. "I told you, I wanted to do something
special for you."

"Every time with you is special..." He frowned as she laughed. "It is, I
promise."

"Whatever." She curled up next to him. "Let me know when you're ready to
go again."

*

The following night Sarah came round with Peri.

"I just need a break from everything that's going on round at ours,"
Sarah said. She certainly looked worn out. "It's like a rom-com written
by Schroedinger's Cat."

"What?" Danny was a media studies graduate and so only got the first
part of the allusion.

"It's like maybe they're a couple and maybe they're not, I don't think
even they know for sure."

"You mean Cameron and Joanne," Danny said.

"Of course she does," Peri said. "I told you yesterday Jo was in hot
pursuit."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way," Sarah said, frowning.

"I'm not sure we can do anything about that," Danny said. He put his arm
round Peri, who rested her head on his shoulder. "Are you okay, Sarah?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well - we've gone from being five singletons to one, possibly two
couples and you..." Peri said.

"I don't need pity, thanks." Sarah looked amused but there was an edge
to her voice. "I always thought that things being the way they were, if
coupling up did happen then it'd be one of you or Cameron who ended up
on his own. Damn the mutable nature of modern gender, eh?"

"You'll meet someone," Danny said.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "People in relationships say always that to
single people. It's easy to say, it's impossible to disprove, it shows
they're trying to be sympathetic and it lets them feel good about how
sympathetic they are. It doesn't actually achieve anything, though."

"Um," Danny said. "Well, if you do wind up being single forever, you'll
always have a couch to sleep on with us."

"That's much more helpful, sweetie. Well done," Peri said, rolling her
eyes.

"Us?" Sarah put her head on one side. "Us as in shared living quarters?
Are you two already contemplating -"

"Well -" Danny had really only meant it as a figure of speech but Peri's
eyes had lit up a little.

"It's something to think about, isn't it, love?"

"Er, yeah." Danny moved the subject on quickly and inexpertly.

While the two women had arrived together, Sarah departed first, leaving
Peri and Danny to talk. He was hoping to discuss their plans for the
weekend and if possible avoid the topic Sarah had alluded to entirely,
but Peri brought it up virtually as soon as the door closed.

"What do you think about what Sarah said?"

"In what way?"

Peri shrugged. "Moving in together."

"Um - I don't know. It's come up a bit suddenly, that's all."

"Just think about it... we'd have our own place, our own bed. We could
be together all night, every night."

Judging by recent events, Danny thought, he'd be dead inside a month
from exhaustion if that were the case. "Peri, you know how great I think
making love with you is... but it's not the most important thing for
me."

"I know that," she said. "But we could be together, I mean. Like a real
couple."

"We are a real couple. Or at least I thought we were," Danny said. "Are
saying we're not?"

Peri sighed. "That's not what I mean, Danny... I mean..."

He moved over to be next her and kissed her. "You've got nothing to
prove to me. We've got nothing to prove to the world. We don't have to
do anything we don't want to."

She smiled and kissed him back. "Do you want to?"

Danny always found it so difficult to refuse an offer like that, despite
the misgivings he still had. He took a quick shower and returned to the
bedroom to find Peri naked on the duvet, artfully arranged.

"Let's try something new," she said.

He'd kind of expected that. "What did you have in mind?" He grinned.
"More oral?"

"Done that already," Peri said. She rolled onto her front and got up on
all fours, wiggled her backside at him. "Care for a little doggy-doggy?"

It had never been a particular favourite of his but it clearly seemed
important to her that they try, so he agreed. At the end he got the
unsettling impression that she was mentally ticking off things on a
list.

"You don't have to keep doing these things for me," Danny said gently as
they lay together.

"What do you mean?"

"The piercings. The hair-dye. The oral sex. All the different
positions... it's okay. If I wanted any of those things I'd talk to you
about them."

"Who says I don't want them?"

"Love, you just seem... I don't know. Like you're trying too hard. I
love you for who you are, not what you do."

"I know that," Peri said. But she sounded uncertain.

==Seven==

A few days later Sarah effectively shot Schroedinger's Cat. Long since
having grown tired of the unresolved romantic tension around her flat
she sent Cameron a text message revealing that Joanne had confessed her
feelings to her, and an identical one to Joanne with the key information
reversed. (Both revelations were almost entirely fraudulent.) Somewhat
to her surprise it did the job and when the friends assembled for their
next beer and movie night at the womens" flat, Danny and Peri arrived to
find Cameron already ensconced on the sofa, his arm around Joanne.

"Hey," Danny said, very nearly feeling the ground shifting under his
feet at this sight.

"Hey," they chorused back.

"I suppose some sort of congratulations are in order," Peri said,
hanging up her coat.

"Well, I think Jo's kind of a winner as well," Cameron said.

"Nice to see some things haven't changed," Danny said. "I'll go and put
these beers in the fridge."

"So what movies did you go for, Peri?" Joanne asked.

"A couple of Pegg and Frost comedies. Apparently they're supposed to be
hysterical," Peri said as Danny went out to the kitchen.

Cameron cleared his throat. "You know, Peri, that's a word that hates
women."

Peri looked at him blankly. "What?"

"Hysterical. You know the word derives from the ancient belief that
lack of sex caused the uterus to dry up and migrate around the body,
causing a number of diseases, and as such it's really directly linked to
a patriarchal attempt to use sex as a means of control over women, and
your use of it suggests you condone that. Or something." Cameron looked
sidelong at Joanne, who nodded and gave him the thumbs up.

"Oh brave new world, that has such people in it." Having returned to
catch most of Cameron's lecture, and looking slightly shell-shocked as a
result, Danny went over and sat down next to Peri. "Where's Sarah?"

"Drying her hair," Joanne said. She got up. "I'll go and stick the
pizzas in the oven."

"So," Peri said to Cameron, "how'd it happen? You and Jo getting
together."

"Well, you know how it is," Cameron shrugged expansively. "It's silly,
really, but you can be spending time with somebody for years and never
actually realise that's you're actually perfectly matched."

"Mm," Danny said. "Sounds like you've been discussing a few ideas with
her as well."

"A bit," Cameron agreed. "I've got to say, she's really helped me to
appreciate the true complexity of the dynamics of gender relations in
the modern world. I feel like I've developed a whole new perspective.
And Christ! She makes a bloody fantastic ginger sponge, as well."

"It's fantastic news." Peri said. "The pair of you getting together, not
about the pudding," she added as Cameron looked at her in surprise.

"Hello, hello," Sarah said, coming in, hair still visibly damp.
"Everyone okay?"

If Sarah felt uncomfortable being the only single person there now, she
didn't show it, and the evening went just as Danny had anticipated it
would. The films were as funny as they'd heard, the pizzas were just
right, and the aura of quiet, if somewhat startled, happiness coming
from Cameron and Joanne was actually rather touching.

But Danny knew Peri much too well not to notice that she seemed oddly
ill-at-ease as the evening wore on. He couldn't quite work out why, and
she hid it well from the others, but there was definitely something
wrong. She was subdued on the walk home at the evening's end, to begin
with.

"I wonder if Cameron and Jo'll move in together," she said.

Danny had a pretty shrewd idea of where this might be heading, but kept
his reply mild. "It's early days for them, Peri. How long have they been
together, less than a week?"

"Yeah, but they've known each other for ages. Same as us," Peri said.

"Not quite the same as us," Danny said, almost amused.

"You wouldn't know that from the way people treat us." He was surprised
to hear a definite edge of resentment bubbling to the surface in her
voice.

"Do you really want to be treated differently by everyone?"

"Well..." Peri shrugged, clearly finding it difficult to articulate her
feelings. "I don't know..."

"Love, you're a woman now - no-one seeing you doubts that. They're going
to treat you just like anyone else unless you actually tell them you
used to be a man. And if you do, you'll just get stared at..."

"Oh, I know..."

They arrived back at Peri's flat and went inside. She sank onto the sofa
and sighed, still clearly unhappy about something.

Danny got them both a drink and put his arms around her. Automatically
she started to respond but he gently dissuaded her. "This is just cuddle
time. We need to talk, not attempt the modified T-square or the bicycle
pump or whatever."

She smiled weakly at him. "I only want to make you happy..."

"I know, but there's more, isn't there? You're always wanting to move
on, do something new..."

Peri sighed. "I know... but it's just the way I've got used to
thinking. Looking ahead to the next thing. When we would kiss, when I
would start wear proper womens" clothes... and I've done all of those
things now, and I don't know what comes next."

"There doesn't have to be anything special that comes next," Danny said.
"Not in that way."

"I suppose that was why I wanted to talk about us moving in together. It
would be another sort of milestone for us."

"And then we'd get married, I suppose," Danny said. "And then what?
Adopt?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"I understand how you feel," Danny said, holding her close. "But you
know life isn't like that - it's not a story with a big climax and
everything just stopping afterwards. You've got a whole life to lead as
a woman now."

"I know," Peri said with a sigh. "You can't just go live from one
milestone to the next. Life's what happens in between. The ordinary
moments."

"Do you really think of yourself as a woman? Deep down?" She looked at
him in surprise and he hurried to explain. "Because... if you do accept
that this is who you are, with nothing to prove, with just a normal life
to lead... I think it would help."

Peri thought about that for a moment. "I suppose on some level I have
been... well, getting a rush out of thinking how much like a real woman
I've been acting. I suppose that means you're right and I'm not quite
there yet after all. Jesus, Dan, I was a man for so many years..."

"And that's a fact of history," Danny said. "But it's also a fact you're
a woman now. Just relax and be that woman."

"I'll try," Peri said. She kissed him. "Want to...?"

"Bicycle pump?" His tone was wary.

"Any way you want," Peri said smiling.

They went through to the bedroom. "Just living like this... I don't
know," Peri said, as they undressed. "I'm not sure if I can do that."

"Yes you can," Danny said. "I'm certain of it."

"Why so sure?"

"Because you did it before you changed. I do it. Sarah does it, and Jo,
and Cameron -"

"Living," Peri said.

"It's the best way to get through your life," Danny said, reaching for
her. "One moment at a time."

"Ordinary moments." She slid into his arms.

"If you want to call this ordinary," he said smiling.

Peri smiled back at him. "I'll let you know in a bit," she said.

The Realm of Flesh

2011-01-10T13:05:48Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} __TOC__ ==One== They were taken off the plane and led, some of them still blinking and compl…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}
__TOC__

==One==

They were taken off the plane and led, some of them still blinking and
complaining, to a shack by the side of the runway. Even in the dead of
night the air throbbed with either the memory of yesterday's heat or the
promise of tomorrow's. Farrant tried to work out what was going on,
looked at his watch, wrestled with the elapsed flying time in his head.
He'd been asleep during the landing, had woken to find himself being
shaken, virtually dragged to his feet by one of the soldiers. He tried to
work out the time difference in his head, failed, but knew deep down that
something had gone wrong. They were still somewhere south of the Sahara.

The shack had concrete walls and a corrugated iron roof and it stank.
Their luggage had been piled up at one end, while down the other hard
wooden benches had been set around the walls. There was a desk somewhere
in the middle. Farrant sank onto a bench and glanced at the other
passengers. There were five of them, four men and a woman. She and the
man who was presumably her husband sat quietly, holding hands and
occasionally murmuring to each other. He was in his fifties, she a few
years younger, both fairly conservatively dressed. She was attractive and
had a good figure for her age. Farrant was by no means an old Africa hand
but the obvious conclusion came to him at once - the crucifix she wore,
the fish pin in his lapel made it virtually certain. Crazy. The
missionaries kept coming despite the wars and the plague and the
indiscriminate slaughter that had consumed the continent in the last few
years, smiling politely at the facts but not wanting to get too involved
with them. Then again, what right did he have to criticise? His own
motives for being here were hardly pure.

There was at least one other Brit here, anyway, a heavy-set man with
thinning black hair. The fingers of one hand drummed restlessly against
his thigh as he glanced around the room, occasionally muttering under his
breath. Farrant had heard the man introduce himself to the missionaries
as Dallow, but knew nothing else about him. He was difficult to read.
Slightly easier was the youngest man here, an American like the couple.
He had short hair and glasses, but his clothes were practical and well
worn. He was a long way off the regular backpacking trail here, wherever
here turned out to be. Seeming to sense Farrant's scrutiny of him, the
American rose to his feet, spoke to one of the soldiers lounging inside
the doorway.

'Excuse me? I want to get in touch with the nearest US embassy -'

The soldiers - guards, Farrant now realised - stared at him with cold
hostility. One of them flapped his hand down, hard. 'Asseyez-vous!
Maintenant!'

The young man glanced around with a grin creeping onto his face. 'What'd
he say?'

Farrant resisted the urge to roll his eyes: his own French was only
schoolboy standard but the meaning had been obvious. The guard was still
staring at the American youth.

'He said sit down, now.' The other man from their group had spoken. He
was in his late thirties, perhaps a little older, receding hair shaved
almost bald and with a thin greying goatee. He spoke quietly, without
looking up, his English precise enough to sound a little unnatural. 'I
recommend you do as you're told.'

'Uh, right.' The American sat down next to the European, held out a hand.
'Owen Querry.'

The man shook it brusquely. 'My name is Krogh.'

'You don't sound French,' Querry said with a grin.

'You don't have to come from a place to learn the language,' Krogh said
dryly. 'As the popularity of English shows.'

'You can't learn 'em all,' Owen Querry said with a shrug. 'English,
German, some Russian - thought that'd get me by. Oh, and Church
Slavonic.'

'Very useful,' Dallow said, half-stifling a chortle. 'What are you, a
missionary?'

'No, just travelling,' Querry said.

'You picked an interesting part of the world,' Farrant said.

'Liberia seemed safe enough,' Querry said. 'Same goes for Tunisia. I
never planned on ending up in... where the hell are we, anyway?' The
woman missionary pursed her lips in obvious disapproval at this
outrageous profanity.

'Too far south-east for comfort,' Krogh said. 'This isn't a matter of
engine trouble or anything technical, we were deliberately diverted.'

'What?' Dallow stared at him. 'Why didn't you say anything? Do
something?'

'Such as what? Overpower the pilots? I can't fly a plane. In any case,
one of them was carrying a gun.'

'I - I didn't notice,' Dallow said. He pulled out a foul-looking hankie
and mopped his face.

'He didn't advertise it.'

'So where do you think we are?' Farrant asked Krogh.

Krogh shrugged. 'Near the front line. Benin, Togo, maybe Burkina Faso.
Close enough for us to think about what we're going to say when the
Soldiers of God roll into town.'

'I'm sure there's just been some mistake,' the male missionary said.

'I hope you're right, Mister -'

'Smith,' said the man. 'In any case, we've heard that the Soldiers'
reputation is largely undeserved...'

'Maybe,' Krogh said. 'I've no particular desire to find myself living in
a theocracy unless it's on my own terms, however.'

Owen Querry let out a deep breath. 'Look, let's stop panicking ourselves.
We're American citizens. American or Brit, anyway. They're not going to
do anything to us, are they? Why would they -'

The guards shifted into a semblance of attention as a man in an officer's
uniform came into the shack. He sat down behind the desk and spoke in
good English. 'I will need to interview all of you, one at a time.'

The Smiths went up first. They spoke good French and the interview was
carried out in that language. If Krogh or Dallow were listening in they
didn't show it. After a few minutes the Smiths returned and Krogh went
and spoke quietly with the officer, also in excellent French. Then it was
Querry's turn.

Farrant heard him repeat his request to be put in touch with the US
embassy, didn't quite catch the officer's soft reply. Querry replied to
the questions about his nationality and profession, but his voice was
becoming increasingly shrill and strident. Farrant remembered a line from
a book - the main problem with Americans trying to deal with the rest of
the world is that they subconsciously expect to be loved wherever they
go. Suddenly the dispute reached such intensity that one of the guards
came over to stand by Querry's shoulder. Querry rose and slapped
something down on the desk, stalked back to the benches.

'All right, fuck you, take it. People know where we are,' he snapped over
his shoulder.

'What - ?' Farrant said.

'Took my god damn passport off me,' Querry said, scowling.

'They said it's only -' Mrs Smith began.

'Next.' The officer's voice cut across them.

Farrant got up and went over to the desk. The officer looked at him with
no discernible emotion. 'Sit, please.'

Farrant obeyed.

'My name is Akueson. I apologise for this inconvenience. Do you speak
French?'

'I'd prefer English,' Farrant said with a weak smile.

'Very well.' Akueson turned a new page in his notebook. 'Name, please.'

'John Farrant.'

'Nationality?'

'British.'

'Occupation?'

'Architect.'

Akueson frowned slightly. 'What would a British architect be doing in
Liberia?'

'I was in talks with some people wanting to build a hotel there. I didn't
do too well in the last financial crash, I couldn't turn it down without
at least talking to them, seeing the site...'

'I understand. Once again I apologise, Mr Farrant, but as you know there
is some instability in this region. Travel can be dangerous and I'm
afraid we can't permit you to continue your journey at this time -'

'Why not? Where are we?'

Akueson continued heedlessly. 'However, you will be made comfortable as a
guest of our government until such time as it's safe for you to leave - '

'Do I even get a choice?'

Akueson shook his head silently. 'For your own safety I must also ask
that you allow us to look after your passport while you are here.'

Something suddenly occurred to Farrant. 'How long are we going to be here
for?'

'I don't know.' Something in Farrant's demeanour seemed to catch the
soldier's interest. 'Is it important?'

Farrant recovered himself, realised he had to stonewall. 'Well, only
inasmuch as I have a life back in London...'

'As I said, I apologise for the inconvenience. Your passport, please.'

It was a meaningless document now, Farrant was beginning to realise that.
His lack of options was also becoming wholly self-evident. He took it out
carefully and passed it to Akueson, who put it with the others he had
taken.

Farrant went back to the others and Dallow took his place. He sat next to
Krogh and said quietly, 'What do you think is really happening here?'

Krogh touched a finger to his lips. 'Best not to look too smart for now.
I suspect we will have plenty of time alone later.'

Dallow came back and they sat in silence for a while. Farrant dully
realised that they still had no idea even what country they were in, but
the fact was weirdly irrelevant. So much of life - borders, politics,
emotion and imagination - just went on inside people's heads with no
physical component whatsoever, and one always relied on everyone else
playing by the same set of rules... but here it seemed that normality was
suspended.

The rules of at least part of reality were physical, though, and the
buzzing of Farrant's pocket alarm disturbed the whole hut. He glanced
around apologetically, silenced the alarm. Carefully he found the
dispenser inside his pocket, clicked the stud and felt the little plastic
capsule drop into his palm. As surreptitiously as he could he drew his
hand from his pocket, feigned a cough and brought his hand up to his
mouth -

And one of the guards was there, dragging him to his feet and swatting
Farrant's hand away from his mouth. The capsule flew off into the shadows
of the shack. He was hauled away from the bench and shoved up against the
wall. The others were making outraged noises but quietened down in a
hurry when the other soldier unslung his assault rifle and covered them
with it.

'Reposez-le,' Akueson said, and Farrant found himself back in the chair
in front of the desk. The officer had drawn his handgun and laid it in
front of him. His stare was still cold. After a moment the guard found
the capsule and handed it to the officer.

Akueson turned the little red-and-white object over between his fingers.
'What is this?'

'Medicine. I - I need it,' Farrant said.

'You don't look very sick to me, Mr Farrant,' Akueson said mildly. 'Is it
serious?'

'Yes. Please - '

'Are you - ah, contagiuex?' Farrant felt the guards stiffen at the word
and felt the hairs on his spine prickling.

'No. I'm not contagious at all, but if I don't get my medicine -'

'You will die?'

Farrant avoided the man's level gaze, looked at the desk, the walls. 'Ah
-'

'Mr Farrant, we have our own doctors here. I can't allow you to bring
drugs into our country this way unless they are absolutely vital -'

'But this ''is'' absolutely vital -'

'I think you are lying to me. Empty your pockets, please.' They stared at
each other for a long moment then Akueson nodded to the guard, who moved
forward.

'All right, all right.' Farrant fumbled in his pocket for as long as he
dared, then pulled out the plastic dispenser and handed it to Akueson.
The officer clicked the stud a few times and more of the red and white
pills pattered onto the table.

'What exactly is your illness?'

'It doesn't matter,' Farrant said numbly, staring at the object in
Akueson's hand. 'If it's money you want, I have dollars, but I need those
pills -'

Akueson placed the dispenser on the table. 'We have had a drugs problem
here in the past. Always people demanding drugs for money. I have no time
for addicts, especially ones who think their money can buy anyone. You
are in our country now, Mr Farrant.' Sharply he picked up the handgun,
barrel first, and smashed the butt down onto the dispenser. It shattered
and pills skittered across the table. Farrant made to grab at them but
found his arms pinioned by one of the guards. Akueson assembled the pills
inside a folded sheet of paper and smashed at them again with the butt of
his pistol until only a fragmented slime remained within.

'If you do get sick, Mr Farrant, we will get you a doctor, I promise,'
Akueson said.

Farrant was put back on the bench. The others were staring at him,
clearly curious. The Smiths obviously couldn't decide whether the pills
had been medicinal or narcotic.

'Should've put it in the luggage,' Dallow murmured.

'The luggage will also be searched. Don't expect to keep your valuables,'
Krogh said. He glanced at Farrant. 'That was quite foolish of you,
Farrant.'

'I didn't have a choice,' Farrant said, his eyes drawn to the bin where
the remains of his medication had been tossed. 'It's too late now,
anyway.' He sat back and forced himself to wait twenty minutes before
surreptitiously checking his pocket for the pills he'd got out of the
dispenser while fumbling with it. Eight of them, maybe a week's worth if
he took his time between doses. Only a week, and then... he shuddered.

==Two==

After an hour's wait they were led out to a battered land rover and told
to get on board. The horizon was beginning to glow a fierce, rich orange
as dawn approached, and the heat was already rising. Farrant loosened his
tie and took off his jacket.

Mr Smith looked at Akueson, who was giving orders to the small group of
soldiers who would be escorting them in a pair of battered and rusty
jeeps. 'Where are we being taken, Captain?'

'A place of safety, Mr Smith, I assure you. You will be staying with
another foreigner.'

Farrant could tell Smith wasn't completely happy with that, but he helped
his wife aboard the land rover anyway. They all squeezed into the back,
with two soldiers in the front. Akueson was in the leading jeep, the
second followed them. After a moment the little convoy pulled out through
the gates of the airstrip and set off. Scrubby trees lined both sides of
the road.

'Excuse me. Excuse me,' Krogh said to the soldiers. They glanced at him
but said nothing. 'Excuse me,' Krogh murmured to Mrs Smith. He tapped one
of the soldiers on the shoulder and smiled. 'You have a very small cock,
and your friend here buggers you up the ass.' He nodded and grinned.

The soldier nodded and indicated for Krogh to sit back in his seat.

'What on Earth -?' Mr Smith looked startled.

'They don't speak English. I didn't think they would. We can talk,' Krogh
said in a low voice.

'We're going to escape?' Owen Querry looked at the older man hopefully.

Krogh rolled his eyes. 'Don't be stupid. We are in the power of these
people. I don't think we are any immediate danger, though.'

'Well, that's a relief,' said Dallow.

'I still don't understand,' Farrant said, almost reluctantly, the words
coming one at a time as he forced them past the numb awareness of his own
situation that threatened to monopolise his brain. 'What's happened to
us?'

'Politics,' Krogh said. 'These people are desperate for help and they
think keeping us as hostages will force our own governments to assist
them.'

'That's ridiculous,' Dallow said.

'As I said, they are desperate. We are near the front line of the war
down here, and I don't think our hosts are faring any better against the
Soldiers of God than the Cameroonians or the Chadians did.'

'Mr Krogh, I wish you wouldn't talk like that,' said Mrs Smith. 'For all
we know -'

Krogh shrugged. 'The army of the Central African Alliance is effectively
the instrument of the Church of the Soldiers of God. The alliance is a
theocracy. If you want to sit here and debate semantics - ' Abruptly he
laughed, sharply. 'Well, I suppose we'll have plenty of time for that,
come to think of it.'

'So they want military aid to fight the alliance,' Owen Querry said
slowly. 'And they -'

'The pilot of our flight was either bribed or replaced in order for our
plane to detour south-east into their territory, yes,' Krogh said. 'Now
they have us. No doubt our governments will be being informed of our
status.'

'I'm not sure I like being used as political leverage like this,' Mr
Smith said.

'You don't get a choice,' Dallow said, laughing. 'Oh, God, this would be
priceless if...' He shook his head, looked at Krogh. 'You seem very well
informed about all of this, Krogh.'

'Yes,' said Krogh. 'I am.' He met Dallow's gaze in silence for a few long
seconds until the big man looked away.

'So what happens now?' Farrant asked after a few moment's silence.

'What do you think? Mr Smith, do you think your government will be
sending in the aircraft carriers in order to secure your release?'

Smith shook his head. 'And I'm not sure I'm sorry about that. The
alliance is a Christian state, after all -'

'Yeah, and the Christian right in the States would kick up a hell of a
fuss if we went to war with them even by proxy,' Owen Querry said,
sounding weary.

'Nobody back home wants to get into another war, anyway,' Mr Smith
concluded.

'The same is true of Europe, of course,' Krogh said, sounding almost like
he wasn't involved in any of this. 'Except perhaps for the religious
element. All the developed countries have their own problems at the
moment, they're all introspective. That's partly why Africa and Asia are
in such upheaval. Their leaders have realised that all the old rich and
powerful nations aren't as rich or powerful as they once seemed to be.'

'This is all very interesting, Krogh,' Dallow said, 'but what's going to
happen to us?'

'I don't know. It's not in our hosts' interests to kill us, and once they
realise we've been abandoned by our governments they'll have no reason to
keep us hostage.'

'So they'll let us go,' Farrant said, grabbing eagerly at the thought. If
it was resolved quickly enough...

'Possibly. But a bullet is always cheaper than airfare, and this is a war
zone,' Krogh said placidly. 'It all depends on... well, the politics of
the situation.'

'Who was it who said politics is the art of the possible?' Dallow said,
looking grim.

'Butler,' Owen Querry put in brightly.

'Actually, it was Bismarck,' Krogh said. He shut his eyes and leaned back
in his seat and seemed to go to sleep almost at once.

*

The cars bumped on for hours through a landscape that varied only when
they passed through a village, shabby houses and scrawny animals sliding
past on each side. Farrant managed to take one of his pills without the
soldiers or anyone else noticing; the man not driving seemed to be
asleep. So were Krogh, Dallow, and Mr Smith. He was exhausted himself and
let himself slide off into a doze regularly interrupted by the jolting of
the land rover.

When he properly awoke he found four hours had passed since they had left
the airfield. As far as he could tell they were heading northwest,
roughly. Where were they going? If this was one of the countries on the
coast the capital city would be in the south, by a port. Then again, he
had no reason to think they were heading for the capital. The sheer lack
of information beyond Krogh's surmisings was frustrating.

The front jeep abruptly slowed and turned off to the left. The trees had
thinned out considerably while he'd been sleeping and the landscape was
now really more one of dusty scrub. The convoy was heading more slowly
down a narrow lane. Up ahead was, well, the largest building they'd seen
for a bit, a big old house, two stories, with other smaller buildings set
around it, all of them browned and peeling as if suffering from sun burn.
Akueson's jeep stopped in front of the main house and the others pulled
up behind him.

Querry opened the door and got out before being told to. Farrant
clambered out after him, stiff from the journey and needing the bathroom
badly. One of the guards leaned on the horn and the blare of it seemed to
hand in the air around them. It was the middle of the day and Farrant
felt his shirt slowly adhering to his shoulders, sweat running freely
down his sides.

The front door of the house opened and a woman emerged. She looked old,
but then living in this climate must do that to people, Farrant thought.
Long silvery hair trailed out from under the broad-brimmed hat she wore.
She was staring at Akueson with undisguised annoyance.

'Don't you know the time, Captain?'

'I'm sorry, Miss Scobie. My orders were - '

'Yes, I can imagine.' Miss Scobie surveyed the little group of
travellers. 'Well, I expect you must be hungry and thirsty.'

'Well... yes we are, ma'am,' Mr Smith said with a thin smile. 'I could
use a...'

'Yes, yes. First thing is to get you out of the sun.' Miss Scobie was
ignoring the captain completely, Farrant thought, bleakly amused. Akueson
was tolerating it impassively, of course. 'How many are you?'

'Six,' Krogh said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 'Four single men, and
Mr and Mrs Smith here.'

'Plenty of room here for you all,' Miss Scobie said. 'Three bedrooms in
the house and four in the bungalows. Your men will be staying in the
village, Captain?'

'My men will be around,' Akueson said, noncommittally. 'We don't require
the same level of comfort as you Europeans.'

'I'm American,' Owen Querry muttered to the ground.

'I'm prepared to leave you here with Miss Scobie,' Akueson said. 'Do not
attempt to leave, my government can't guarantee your safety if you do. If
you're found off Miss Scobie's land you will be escorted back here. Is
that understood?'

They mumbled or nodded their assent. Farrant thought they must share his
mild surprise at being, seemingly, abandoned here. Maybe no greater
security was necessary now. Where were they, after all? Where could they
go with scarcely any money or food? Akueson and all but two of his men
piled into the vehicles, which turned around and left. The two men left
ambled into the shade of one of the trees and sank onto the ground,
pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

'Come along,' Miss Scobie said briskly, leading them inside. Owen was
eyeing up the two soldiers, but Krogh put his hand on the younger man's
shoulder and steered him indoors.

'At least have a drink before you get yourself killed.'

Inside the house was a jug of water and too many glasses; she must not
have known how many of them to expect. They all drank deep, perhaps a bit
too deep, Farrant thought as his bladder continued to complain. One of
Miss Scobie's African servants, a young boy who answered to Centime,
showed him to one of the privies. When he returned the others were just
beginning to look refreshed.

'So, is this your house, Miss Scobie?' Mrs Smith asked.

'Yes, my family has lived here for over a century. Grandfather came over
from France at the end of the Great War and started building this house.'

'Forgive me, but your name is not very French,' Krogh said, smiling.

'My grandparents only had one daughter. She married an Englishman who
ended up out here after Hitler's war, they stayed on after independence.
As did I. I haven't been to Europe in over forty years. No desire to,
now,' Miss Scobie said.

'What do you know about the situation here?' Dallow asked. 'We're
assuming our being here is something to do with the war - '

'Yes, I think so too,' Miss Scobie said. 'I know the Army of God or
whatever it's called is coming this way. Well, we were here under the
French, we were here under several nasty dictators, and we're still here
now. The alliance can shoot me if it wants to, but I'm not leaving.'

Farrant couldn't help smiling at the old woman's matter-of-fact
resilience. 'How do you get on with the current regime?' he asked.

'We avert our gaze from each other. Until you lot came onto the agenda.'

'Yes, this isn't quite the accommodation I was anticipating,' Krogh said,
glancing around the large colonial living room.

'They want to know where you are, but they don't want you mixed up with
the common people too much - the alliance has people sniffing around,
apparently. A place like this is about the best they can hope for.'

'We're not exactly under guard, though,' Querry said hopefully.

'Young man, don't be foolish. You wouldn't get ten miles. The best you
could hope for would to be caught straight away and dragged back here.'

'That's as maybe, but if you could just give me a little food and point
me north-west - '

'No. I'm responsible for you and I'm not going to help you get shot,'
Miss Scobie said, looking hard at the young American.

'So we should just sit around here until the government realises we're
useless? That's your plan?' Owen Querry looked around at the others,
searching for support.

Farrant thought of the seven pills he had left, the time limit that must
mean. Reluctantly he said, 'I can see Querry's point. Staying here - '

'Is our only option right now,' Krogh said. 'Akueson hasn't evaporated.
He and his men are still in the area. In this part of the world we are
somewhat - conspicuous. Getting to the border is one thing, maybe we
could manage that. Doing it without being seen? I don't think so. If the
government didn't spot us then no doubt a group working for the alliance
would.'

'Word gets around. I think that other westerners have been, er,
'persuaded' to enjoy the government's hospitality,' Miss Scobie said.
'The alliance may be searching for you, just in case the government's
plan looks like working.'

'The alliance doesn't need to use us as hostages, though,' Farrant said,
sudden hope springing in his chest. 'Wouldn't they want the goodwill
releasing us would earn them?'

'Frankly, I doubt they'd care much either way,' Dallow said with a
mirthless smile. 'Besides, do you really want to take the chance?'

Farrant felt his spirits sink again. 'No. Maybe not,' he said.

'So that's settled then,' Miss Scobie said. 'No-one leaves. I have plenty
of food and a good water supply here, so nobody's going to starve.
There's a few jobs around the place that you gentlemen might want to look
at, too - once you've settled in. I'll show you to your rooms now, if you
like.'

It seemed obvious that the Smiths should take one of the spare bedrooms
in the house, and Dallow claimed the other one without even asking the
other men. He seemed quite unselfconscious when it came to his
selfishness. Farrant wondered who the man was, why he had been flying out
of Liberia in the first place. The expat community there were viewing the
inexorable advance of the alliance up into West Africa with an
indifference born of several thousand miles' distance. No doubt they
would be clamouring for seats on any plane out of there if the alliance
looked like taking Mali or the Ivory Coast.

Miss Scobie showed Farrant, Querry and Krogh to the low buildings
outside. Each one contained a small but airy bedroom and an equally
spacious living room. They were wired for electricity and running water,
but neither was currently working.

'Father had an idea about taking in paying guests at one point, had these
built,' Miss Scobie said with a wry smile. 'But we were too far off the
safari trail and they just ended up being used by our friends when they
used to visit.'

'Where did your electric power come from?' Krogh was idly flicking the
switch on and off.

'A generator, but we can't get the petrol to run it. I don't really miss
it, to be honest. I'd like to get the water running again, though.'

Krogh treated her to his sardonic smile. 'Maybe we could look at that for
you while we're here.'

'I'd be very grateful. I'll leave you to rest now, gentlemen. Dinner will
be on the verandah around six.'

Miss Scobie withdrew. When she was well out of sight and earshot, Querry
whistled incredulously. 'Reality check for table two, please...'

'What do you mean?' Krogh asked.

'It's like some kind of time warp. Here we are in the twenty-twenties and
she's still behaving like a character from a Somerset Maugham story. The
sun still hasn't set on the British Empire here.'

'I suspect Miss Scobie may consider herself French, if she claims any
nationality,' Krogh said. 'I'll say one thing for the British Empire,
though - the British may have been imperialists, but at least they did it
moderately tastefully - eh, Farrant?'

Farrant allowed himself a smile. 'No empire builders from your country,
then, Krogh?'

Krogh returned the smile. 'Only one, a magnificent lunatic who invaded
Russia and ended up fighting the Turks in Turkey. We learned our lesson
early. My people are perhaps too sensible that way.'

'You seem like your head's screwed on okay, though,' Querry said.

Krogh acknowledged the compliment but seemed dubious about it. 'Not what
they would say back home.'

'Anyway... you two guys seem sensible,' Owen Querry said. 'Are we really
going to just sit here and do nothing?'

Krogh shook his head. 'Absolutely not. As I just said, I intend to look
at the plumbing.'

'Don't make fun of me, man. I'm talking about escaping.'

'Don't be a fool, Querry, we've discussed this already. Where would you
go? How would you travel, what would you eat? This is a hard country,
there is a war here.'

Querry looked at Farrant. 'You're very quiet. Earlier you seemed up for
the idea...'

Farrant shook his head. 'I don't know, Owen...'

'What about your stuff? You said you needed more or you'd get sick,'
Querry pressed. 'You think Miss Scobie's got some in her medicine chest?
You think -'

'I don't know! Leave it, will you?' Panic suddenly threatened to
overthrow Farrant. Instinctively he patted his pocket, felt for the seven
capsules still there. 'I need to think about it.'

'I need to get some sleep,' Querry said. He nodded to them, went out.
Farrant and Krogh were alone together.

'What exactly is your condition, Farrant?'

'Why do you ask?'

'The six of us - seven, if you include Miss Scobie - are a group, whether
we like it or not. What affects you may impact on us. I think we ought to
know if you're going to become seriously ill, or - how is it? - strung
out, or...' Krogh shrugged. 'Are you simply another addict as the captain
thinks?'

'No, I'm not. I - look, it's, it's personal.' He dipped his hand into his
pocket, produced the handful of capsules. 'It's not immediately urgent. I
managed to save a few.'

Krogh nodded. 'I thought you had. How long will they last you?'

'Maybe a week.'

'And what happens then?'

Farrant didn't trust himself to reply. 'I'll worry about that when the
time comes,' he said.

'I can't make you talk if you don't want to,' Krogh said. 'I'll see you
at dinner, then.'

Farrant found himself left alone in the bungalow. He looked again at the
capsules. One week. Very wearily he went into the bedroom and started to
peel off his clothing.

==Three==

He slept like a log and when he woke the darkness was already beginning
to gather outside. In the main room he found his luggage, along with a
jug of water and a large bowl. He washed himself as well as he could in
the circumstances and pulled on a clean shirt and pair of trousers, then
went outside.

The verandah was round the back of the Scobie house, illuminated by
hurricane lanterns. Miss Scobie, Dallow, and the Smiths were already
there enjoying a drink before the meal. Maybe Querry had a point, Farrant
thought - it was like a scene from a costume drama. He made his hellos
and took a seat. Gin had never been his favourite drink but Miss Scobie's
drinks cabinet was not especially extensive.

'Mr Dallow says you're an architect,' Miss Scobie said.

Farrant glanced at the big man. 'Yes, I am. On paper, anyway. I always
say it's a bit like being a novelist, half the work is selling the idea.'

'What do you think of the house?'

'Very impressive, seems to be standing up well, if you see what I mean. I
imagine termites must be a concern around here, with so much wood in the
building?'

'Well, we have to be a bit careful,' Miss Scobie nodded.

Farrant looked at Dallow. 'I never caught what your line was, Dallow.'

'Call me Jim,' Dallow said with an expansive gesture. He grinned as
Farrant continued to wait for an answer. 'I do a bit of everything,
Farrant. Go where the money goes.'

Farrant smiled. 'So what were you doing in Liberia, of all places?'

'Think I heard about that hotel deal of yours, the other end of it,
maybe. Is it going to happen?'

'I got a bad whiff off it, that's why I'm - why I *was* - heading back to
the UK. Even if it does go ahead, some other poor guy'll be doing the
designs for it, especially now I'm, well, here.'

'Personally I'm not that fussed either way,' Dallow said. 'Nothing for me
back there. Not much even in Tunisia, to tell the truth. I'll quite
happily sit it out here for a few months - with Miss Scobie's consent, of
course - until things calm down a bit.'

'Unless one side or the other shoots you, of course,' Farrant said.

'I'm a businessman, sort of, anyway,' Dallow said. 'I don't think we're
seriously in danger of being topped - not unless we do something stupid.
There's no percentage for the government or the alliance in killing us,
is there? Doesn't make sense.'

'I hope they consider it as rationally as you do, Mr Dallow,' Miss Scobie
said. 'You're all quite welcome to stay for as long as you need to. What
about you, Mr Smith? Have you a pressing need to be somewhere else?'

'No, we can do our work here as well as anywhere,' Mr Smith said with a
smile. 'Is there a church in the area?'

'Er, yes, but I believe it's currently lacking a preacher,' Miss Scobie
said. 'I remember that people used to go there mainly because they didn't
want to upset the last man we had. The villagers around here are still
fairly unreconstructed in their beliefs.'

'Poor creatures,' said Mrs Smith, but Farrant saw the happy little look
that flashed between them at the news.

At that point Krogh and Querry, in a fresh shirt and t-shirt
respectively, appeared and Miss Scobie decided there was no reason to
wait any longer for dinner. It was chicken with rice - rather more of the
latter than the former - well spiced, and well prepared. It made a very
welcome change from the fast food Farrant had grown accustomed to and he
realised he was ravenous: they all were. They ate solidly for a while and
then started to discuss the situation again, in a very abstract and
rather detached fashion. Farrant found himself fighting down the urge to
burst out laughing. Drinks before dinner! Prepare the guest bungalows,
Centime! And meanwhile, not too far away, child soldiers were loading
their rifles, the government - not realising how small its problems were
in the world today - was desperately trying to hold them to ransom, the
Soldiers of God were marching onwards, ever onwards, and in his
bloodstream the chemicals he'd taken were slowly frothing away and
becoming inert, his cells preparing to contort themselves unless another
dose came along. He was being held to ransom doubly over, he realised,
his body demanding the drugs in order for it to remain his body in any
meaningful way. He found his hands were shaking, all pressure to laugh
was gone. He excused himself from the dessert course, went round to the
courtyard between house and bungalows to get his breath back.

He was sitting on the steps staring into the darkness when someone
quietly sat down next to him. It was Owen Querry.

'You see what I mean. They're all nuts, right?'

'It's not without a surreal element,' Farrant said. He glanced at Querry.
'But I don't see we have any choice. Trust me, if I thought we'd have
even one chance in a thousand, I'd be leading the escape committee. With
my condition, I wouldn't be sitting around here if there was anything I
could do.'

'Yeah. Your condition.' Querry sounded dubious, clearly had him pegged as
someone with a chemical dependency. 'Well, I'm sorry, man, but I'm going
to give it a try.' He slapped his thighs and stood up.

'Querry, don't be stupid,' Farrant said. 'You can't just - '

'Watch me.' The young man quickly darted into his cabin and emerged with
his small backpack. Farrant was still wondering whether to alert Krogh
and the others to Querry's intentions. Maybe the kid was right, maybe if
he did get away it would bring rescue closer for the rest of them... and
he objected to being forced into the kind of co-dependent group Krogh had
talked about.

'All right.' Farrant held out his hand. 'Good luck, Owen.'

'You too, John.'

They shook, and the young American loped quickly out of the courtyard and
off into the darkness. Farrant sat down again and watched the great bow
of the Milky Way as it shimmered overhead. There seemed to be little else
to do.

'Looks like I picked a hell of a year to quit smoking,' he muttered,
half-smiling to himself as he did so. Even half a smile did not last
long.

After a while he heard distant farewells and the sound of people,
presumably Miss Scobie, Dallow and the Smiths, going into the house.
Krogh came round the corner from the verandah, hands in pockets.

'Beautiful night,' the older man said, looking up at the arch of the
galaxy.

'It is,' Farrant said.

'We will have to get used to waiting, I think,' Krogh said, apropos of
nothing. 'It's just a question of how we fill our time until...' He
shrugged, smiled suddenly. 'Is Querry in his room?'

'I saw him go in,' Farrant said carefully. Secrets and half-truths, the
world they were all now in.

'Good. I think he will bear watching, maybe even more than Dallow.'

The fact that Krogh saw him as some kind of ally surprised Farrant nearly
as much as Krogh's assumption of whatever authority he seemed to think he
possessed. 'He's a grown adult, isn't he?'

'Don't you think that's rather naive, Farrant? We don't need him to
antagonise our hosts by doing something stupid.'

'Maybe you overestimate our hosts.'

Krogh did not reply. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' he eventually said and went
into his bungalow. Farrant sat stargazing for another ten minutes before
turning in himself.

*

Pounding on the cabin door. Farrant woke, confused, looked at his watch.
It was an hour past midnight. He groaned as the battering continued,
rolled out from under the mosquito net and stood up. He staggered to the
door and threw it open.

He found himself face to face with Akueson. The captain took a step back,
and Farrant saw two of his soldiers behind him, something on the decking
in front of them, something loose and awkward - Jesus! It was Querry!

'He was warned,' Akueson said. 'The next person who tries to leave
without permission will be shot.'

'Christ...!' Farrant crouched over Querry. He was still breathing, but he
was out cold and there was blood on his face. 'We're no use to your
government if you kill us, Captain.'

'Personally I don't think you are much use to us in any condition, Mr
Farrant, but I obey my orders,' Akueson said. 'I doubt a bullet through
the kneecap would be fatal.'

There was movement from one of the other cabins and Krogh emerged from
the shadows, took in the scene in an instant. 'Dumbom!' he said, staring
at Querry.

'I think I can guess what that means,' Farrant said. 'Krogh, give me a
hand getting him inside, will you?'

They picked up the American and carried him through into Krogh's cabin,
laid him on the small sofa there. Farrant mopped some of the blood off
his face while Krogh went outside and spoke urgently with Akueson in
French. After a moment he returned and Farrant heard the soldiers
trudging off into the night.

'It's not as bad as it looks. Bump on the head and a few scrapes but he
just seems to be unconscious,' Farrant said.

'Luckier than he deserves.' Krogh said. He sat back. 'All right, you can
leave him here. Get some sleep. I'll talk to him when he wakes up.'

Farrant nodded and went out. Querry had a splitting headache and a
bollocking off Krogh to look forward to when he awoke. He'd only known
the man for about a day but he wasn't sure he wouldn't choose the sore
head, given the choice.

*

'They let me get to the edge of the estate, then bam,' Querry said, a
touch ruefully, when he appeared the next day at lunchtime. He seemed
thoroughly crestfallen, beginning to realise that even youthful energy
and enterprise were not universal panaceas. Farrant noticed he was
avoiding Krogh's gaze, for all that Krogh didn't seem to be treating him
any differently.

'The captain said he'd shoot you if you try again. Not to kill, but
somewhere painful,' Farrant said.

'I heard. Don't worry. I'm with the program now. A good little guest of
the government... what exactly is there to do around here, anyway?'

The answer was, not much. The almost torpid pace of life on Miss Scobie's
estate took most of them by surprise. Krogh, as they were starting to
realise, never appeared to be surprised by anything, and if he was as
restless as they he didn't show it. After only a day or two Farrant found
himself sliding into an easy routine - sleeping relatively late, rising,
attempting one or other of the odd jobs around the house beyond the
expertise of the servants until the heat of midday made any exertion
impossible, a siesta, then late in the afternoon either a walk around the
estate or a game of cards with one of the others. Finally dinner, and
more often than not an early night. It was the same for Dallow, and
Querry, and Krogh, but the Smiths were always up early for a pre-
breakfast walk. After a day or two they arranged a meeting for themselves
with Captain Akueson, and to the astonishment of the others the officer
allowed them to go into the nearest villages, under escort of course, so
they could continue their good works even here.

It was one way of passing the time, Farrant supposed. He had his own
preoccupation, counting down the hours and then the minutes to his next
pill, and beyond that the inexorably dropping number of capsules he had
left. Tension started knotting in his stomach. Mr Smith said Akueson had
heard nothing from the government concerning them. If the Foreign Office
in London did their research and learned of his condition, then maybe...
no, it was an impossibly long shot. Above all else, he had flown out here
with a two-month supply of medication, much more than he needed - they
would have no way of knowing it had been destroyed. He was going to run
out of his drugs. And then what? He'd never even asked what would happen,
and how quickly, should he ever stop his medication. Why would he? He'd
been so grateful that the drugs worked in his case it probably hadn't
even occurred to him.

The others, even Querry, seemed to be relaxing into their odd new
lifestyle of enforced leisure, but he couldn't. It was impossible. Three
days worth of capsules left. Two. His mood was constantly dark now, his
nerves on edge. He found himself avoiding the others, keeping to himself,
obsessively checking his appearance in the mirror as if trying to commit
it to memory in its original form...

Late in the afternoon there was a knocking at his door. It was Krogh; he
had a box and a small square sheet of wood under his arm.

'Hello. What can I do for you?'

'I wondered if you played chess, Farrant,' Krogh said with a pleasant
smile. 'I've grown a little tired of Dallow and his games of poker.'

'I play a bit,' Farrant said carefully. 'Did you ask the others?'

'Dallow only plays game of chance. I did play Querry a few times but he
is really only a novice. I thought I would ask Mr Smith once he returned
from the village, but seeing as you are here now... am I disturbing you?'

'No. All right then, I can't promise to be any good.' The distraction
would, he supposed, be welcome.

They set up the board in the shade of the courtyard and began. Krogh
played a solidly traditional Ruy Lopez style which he clearly knew
backwards; Farrant was soon uncomfortably aware that he was out of his
depth, bogged down in his own territory.

'Sorry I'm taking so long.'

'It's not a problem,' Krogh said. A pause. 'You've been keeping to
yourself this last couple of days.'

'It's nothing personal.'

'Your medication issues, I expect.'

Farrant did not reply. He shuffled a bishop a square back towards his own
board edge, more as a stopgap than anything else.

'Are you sure you're going to be all right, Farrant? I'm sure Akueson has
been ordered to do everything he can to keep you alive -'

'Which would be why he smashed my pills up, I suppose.' He glanced
sharply at Krogh. 'Relax, Krogh. I'm not going to die or go crazy or do
anything to upset our hosts, although quite why that's so important to
you I can't understand.'

Krogh's pawn advance rolled inexorably on. He had a material advantage
and was looking to exchange off as much as he could, to free up the board
for the kill. 'Let us do a deal. We can be friends as long as we respect
each other's privacy. Is it agreed?'

'Do you really want to be friends, Krogh? I can never tell...'

'Want is...' Krogh made a dismissive, ethereal gesture. 'Need is what
matters. We all need friends in our current situation, I think perhaps
you more than most.'

'Whatever you say.' Farrant toppled his king in disgust. 'You're too good
for me.'

'You had your chances, John,' Krogh said. 'Another?'

This time Farrant was white. From the depths of his memory he dredged up
an obscure opening called the Spike and deployed it against the older
man. Opponents usually either became overconfident against it and fell
into any one of a number of traps, or became wholly defensive. It was
effective in formal games, he recalled, because its unfamiliarity put
one's opponent under severe time pressure. Informally it just meant games
tended to drag on forever provided both players were competent. Krogh was
at least competent. They were still in a deadlock when the gong was
struck for dinner.

==Four==

They played at least once a day after that, but Farrant could only hold
Krogh off when the other man was tired or distracted. Wins for him were
very rare. It wasn't his main concern, of course. The last of his
medication was gone now, and it was surely only a matter of time until -
well, something happened. Checking his reflection, morning, noon, and
night, became a ritual for him. He wasn't sure, he was imagining seeing
tiny changes where there were perhaps none... but, only a couple of days
after his drugs finished, his shoes suddenly began to feel half a size
too large for his feet. He knew the metamorphosis had begun.

He played badly that night, unable to concentrate. Krogh's demolitions
were even quicker and more comprehensive than usual. Farrant spent half
his time leaning over the board, cursing quietly to himself, constantly
running his hand through the sweaty mass of his hair, pulling it out of
his eyes.

'May I ask you a question, John?'

Farrant glanced up at him. 'You're not usually so reticent.'

'I think this is a personal question.' When Farrant did not reply he
pressed on. 'I imagine your medication is all gone now, has been for a
few days. Am I correct?'

He had no desire to get into this at all. 'Yes,' he said.

'So whatever you were afraid of must be starting to happen,' Krogh went
on.

'What's your point?'

'I don't think the others have noticed yet, but they don't spend a few
hours a day sitting a metre away from you,' Krogh said. 'Your hair has
grown three or four centimetres since this time yesterday. There's
something strange about the bones in your hands and wrists, too, and the
hairs are falling out on your arms. Is this the problem you anticipated?'

Damn it! Farrant stared down at his hands, realised Krogh was right. It
made sense, given the dwindling of his feet. 'Yes,' he said blankly. 'Yes
it is.'

'So you have one of the changing diseases. I understand your reluctance
to discuss it,' Krogh said. 'How long -?'

'About six years now. I was lucky, I spotted it early - flu out of
season, no one else I knew had had it - and they put me on the drugs
before I really changed significantly at all. I just forgot about it,
took a pill every twelve hours, got on with my life,' Farrant said. It
was almost a struggle to talk about it to someone he still didn't really
know. He put his hands to his face. 'This was never supposed to happen.
Why - oh, fuck it. Why me,' he whined with ferocious self-mockery. 'Just
my bad luck. As usual.'

'You are becoming more feminised?' Krogh was being so damned forensic
about it as usual.

'I'm turning into a fucking woman, Krogh. In three weeks or a month none
of the doctors in this country will be able to tell I was ever a man.'

'I'm sorry, John. When were you going to tell us?'

'I thought it would become self-evident sooner or later,' Farrant said
heavily.

'I think you ought to be discreet about it -'

'What did you think I was going to do?'

'They have APFS in this continent, too, and no drugs to stave off the
change, even for the lucky few that they might help.' Krogh paused. 'Here
they think it's witchcraft or something supernatural - hell, they may be
right, our science can't explain it. Why do you think groups like the
Soldiers of God are taking over throughout the developing world?'

'I - I hadn't thought about it -'

'Famine, plague, poverty, and now miracles like this - men inexplicably
spontaneously changing sex. Do you know how the people here think? How it
seems to them when a preacher declares these are the signs of the last
days? They are ready to believe.' Krogh paused, sat back. 'You have a
more pressing concern. There is a widespread superstition here that men
who become women through APFS are magically pure and healthy, they have
been touched by God and can catch no other diseases.'

'If only,' Farrant said.

'The men also believe that if one has sex with one of these 'magic women'
one acquires some of this immunity. I'm sure you can appreciate how
important that would seem to a young uneducated African man, like one of
Akueson's soldiers.'

Farrant felt nauseous. 'Oh God,' he said weakly.

'We'll protect you,' Krogh said. 'If the time comes.'

'I - thank you,' Farrant said. He looked urgently at Krogh. 'Don't tell
the others yet. Please.'

'It's your choice,' Krogh said with a touch of reluctance. He looked down
at the board. 'I think we should abandon the game,' he said quietly, and
Farrant did not object.

*

Conversation at dinner that night went on as normal. He supposed it was a
miracle that anyone apart from the Smiths found anything to talk about
day after day, because all their days seemed to be smearing together into
one baked and sweaty mass. He gathered that Querry was now theoretically
two hundred dollars in debt to Dallow as a result of all their card
playing; if Dallow was annoyed that the debt would likely never be
honoured he did not show it.

'I've always thought -' began Mr Smith carefully, but they were never to
learn exactly what. Somewhere out in the darkness sounded the percussive
rattle of automatic weapon fire. A long way off, but not too far not to
silence the conversation. It was answered by another burst, sounding
slightly different. The call-and-response continued sporadically.

'Could that be Akueson or his men - shooting for fun, or something?'
Dallow asked. He was looking at Krogh: they had all come to take it for
granted that he seemed to know just about everything.

Krogh shook his head. 'Too far away. I would imagine they're under orders
to save ammunition, with the war going the way it is. Was, ten days ago,
anyway.'

'You mean that could be the Soldiers shooting?' Querry stared out into
the encompassing black. 'The war's here?'

'I don't know. From what I understand, the alliance tends to send
elements ahead of its main advance to disrupt the country they're moving
into. The front line, such as it, may still be a long way off.'

Dallow nodded. 'The main fighting'll be down south around the capital. Up
here we're more likely to have trouble with deserters and chancers trying
to exploit the power vacuum. There could be a while between the
government falling and the alliance imposing law and order out in the
countryside.'

'We should see about securing the house,' Miss Scobie announced. 'Some of
the shutters have probably rusted open, they'll need looking at.'

'We'll start first thing,' Krogh said. A rattle of gunfire from out in
the night seemed like a strange echo.

*

They considered all moving into the main house, but it was decided for
comfort's sake to leave that until there was a definite need for it.
Farrant hoped they'd get enough warning in the event of that happening.
The other shacks and outhouses were emptied of food and valuables,
though, and they set about doing what they could to make the house a
little more defensible. Their only weapons were scissors and kitchen
knives, which Farrant supposed made the whole thing slightly farcical,
given the assault rifles, hand grenades and machine guns any assailants
would doubtless be armed with, but it was something to do. They couldn't
just sit here and do nothing with the war finally sidling up to their
doorstep.

Farrant found himself looking at some of the rusted shutters in the
company of Miss Scobie. The hinges were heavily corroded, but the damage
seemed to be mostly superficial. It would take some work with the old
tools they'd found to get the shutters to close. He looked at them
ruefully.

'You're thinking they won't keep anyone out for long, aren't you?' Miss
Scobie said with a smile.

'Frankly, yes.' Farrant pulled his hair back out of his face. It was
starting to curl slightly but had kept its black colour; it would be
pony-tail length in another day or two.

'It's the message it sends, do you see. Anyone coming to this house and
seeing the doors and windows closed and shuttered will know it is
occupied by people who will not give it up easily.' An unaccustomed flush
had come to Miss Scobie's face.

'Maybe.' He poked at one of the hinges with a blunt chisel. Flakes of
rust scraped away, but the shutter still barely moved. He grabbed for a
hammer. 'What would you have done had you been alone here?' he asked, but
suspecting he already knew the answer. No answer came anyway.

He glanced up and saw Miss Scobie with her eyes shut, fists clenched,
obviously struggling to stay on her feet. Her face had drained to a
strange yellowy-grey colour and he could hear the quick gasping of her
breath. He dropped the tools and went to her; she practically swooned
against him. He helped her into the shade, sat her down on a bench.
Slowly her colour returned a bit and her breathing eased.

'Miss Scobie? Are you all right?'

She smiled feebly at him, squeezed his hand. 'It's just my age. The
excitement of having so many new people in the house. Everything else
that's happening. I'll be fine, my dear.'

'You should rest. We can do all the work on the house,' Farrant said.

'You're very kind.' Her smile became stronger. 'You're a very good actor,
you know. I wasn't going to say anything, but -'

'What, what do you mean?'

'When your hair was shorter I really thought you were male. I'd heard
that men and women had equally opportunities now, but that can't be true
if you needed to pretend to be a man... Did you want to come and see
Africa, a bit of an adventure?' Her gaze was still slightly unfocussed.

'Miss Scobie... it's not like that...' Farrant struggled to put it into
words she would understand, but suddenly realised she was as much a
stranger to the modern world as he was to living in the backcountry here.

'It's all right, my dear, I admire your spirit. I won't tell anyone.'

He helped her inside and vented his emotions on the rusted metal until it
became too hot to work.

*

He felt obliged to tell somebody what he had seen, and Krogh was the
obvious, perhaps the only candidate. He doubted Miss Scobie would
appreciate being fussed over, and Krogh definitely didn't seem the type
to do that.

They sat down for their daily chess session a little later than usual,
having made at least some progress on making the house more secure. The
Smiths hadn't helped, not that they could have done much: they just went
off into the village as usual to do whatever they did there under the
watchful eye of Akueson's men.

'I don't think Miss Scobie is quite as redoubtable as she likes to make
out,' Farrant said after a while.

'Why do you say that?'

'I was working on the windows today and she was watching me. She had some
kind of... I don't know, a seizure. Maybe that's too strong a word for
it. She nearly fainted, struggled to breathe.'

'Mmm. Sounds like it might be her heart,' Krogh said neutrally. 'There's
not much we can do for her except to keep her from working too hard and
avoid stressful situations.'

'Will you send a memo to Akueson and the Soldiers of God? ''Please fight
as discreetly as possible.'' '

Krogh acknowledged the difficulty of the situation. 'Out here one
realises how little one is really in charge of events.'

'You don't have to remind me,' Farrant said sourly. He was having to pad
his shoes in order for his feet not to rattle around in them and his
clothes were beginning to feel loose across the shoulders and long in the
legs. He didn't tell Krogh about the mistake Miss Scobie had made - if it
really was a mistake, and not a confused kind of premonition.

'You still haven't told the others?'

'Maybe tomorrow,' he said reluctantly.

*

There was sporadic firing later in the afternoon and at intervals all
through the night, along with one or two distant explosions. Farrant was
sure he heard a helicopter go overhead at one point, but almost too faint
to be heard. After they had finished preparing the house and had their
siesta, Krogh went off to look for Akueson, intending to get some kind of
solid information about the situation in their area. The Smiths were
still in the village, Miss Scobie seemed to be asleep, and Farrant had
only Dallow and Querry for company.

They were playing cards on the verandah as usual, keeping score in a
small notebook Dallow had produced. Farrant swallowed hard, sat down and
watched the game. Maybe now was the time to tell them about his change.

Querry was talking. '...no question about it, man. This is the most
interesting thing that's ever happened to me and I can't get to my vlog
or even use fucking email to tell people about it. The net, that's what
I'm missing most. What about you?'

Dallow let out a foul chuckle. 'Need you ask, son? If I hadn't been
taking matters into my own hands I'd have balls the size of melons. Stuck
out here with only Mrs Smith and Miss Scobie as examples of the fairer
sex, can you credit it? Even if they were willing, how drunk would you
need to get?' He cackled again.

Owen Querry grinned. 'You could ask the soldiers, see if there's any
action down in the village...'

'Ain't got johnnies with me,' Dallow said. 'Going with one of these local
girls, God knows what they're carrying. It's like playing Russian
roulette with a shotgun, I tell you. Anyway, there's something to be said
for wanking, it's sex with someone you love - eh, Farrant?'

Farrant forced himself to smile at the feeble old joke, did not trust
himself to speak.

'You ever fucked an African girl, Owen? You should give it try before you
leave,' Dallow said. 'Talk about uninhibited - it's the nearest thing to
bestiality that's legal.'

'Had a girl in the old Czech Republic once,' Querry replied. 'That was
pretty intense. Her name was Katya.'

'You remember all the names? Christ, you're still so young,' Dallow said,
dealing the cards.

Farrant felt more than vaguely sick as the big man mopped at his brow
again then concentrated on his cards. He imagined what would run through
Dallow's head once he became aware of Farrant's condition and suppressed
a shudder. There was no way he was going to tell him any sooner than he
absolutely had to. Querry seemed harmless enough but appeared to have
fallen into Dallow's gross and seedy orbit. He would keep his silence for
as long as he could.

==Five==

That night Krogh told them the little Akueson had been willing to reveal.
Though the exact circumstances were murky, alliance troops had crossed
the border and heavy fighting was occurring as the army retreated towards
the capital city in some disarray, most likely simply buying time for the
president and other ministers to organise their escape. The rest of the
country seemed to be sinking into chaos as deserters, bandits and
opportunists made the most of the breakdown in authority.

'To be honest, I'm surprised Akueson and his men are still around,' Krogh
concluded.

'Kidnapping us didn't achieve a thing,' Farrant said, trying to keep the
sick bitterness out of his voice. He could have been back in the UK, back
in his own life, still wholly male, and it would have made no difference
whatsoever to anything that happened in this nightmare country. The skin
around his chest and waist was beginning to feel stretched and itchy, but
there were no visible changes there yet. 'Why don't they just let us go?'

'I think they have other things to worry about,' Dallow said. 'What's six
people in the middle of a war zone?'

'I guess the best we can hope for is to be forgotten about until things
calm down,' Owen said with a nervous grin.

'That's possibly the most sensible thing I've ever heard you say,' Krogh
said, smiling. 'You are right; we need to be invisible here.' He looked
at the Smiths. 'Could you stop leaving the estate? Maybe tell the
villagers you are leaving.'

Mr Smith smiled back. 'I appreciate your concern, Mr Krogh, but the
people there need our help. Mrs Smith and I both feel it would be
inexcusable to abandon them in a crisis like this -'

'You realise you may be endangering all of us, not just yourselves?'
Krogh asked quietly.

'I'm very sorry, Mr Krogh,' Mrs Smith said seriously. 'But my husband and
I have our calling and we cannot abandon it.'

Dallow made a vague disgusted noise and looked away from the American
couple. 'Well, as long as we've got our priorities straight,' he
muttered.

Krogh ignored him. 'As you wish,' he said.

*

The next afternoon Farrant discussed it with Krogh as they played.
Farrant's hair was now past his collar and he wore it tied back. He could
see little subtle alterations in his jaw and cheekbones beginning to
manifest, his eyes appearing larger and rounder. There would be no more
concealment in a few more days, maybe even sooner if the tightness across
his chest delivered on its promise.

'What can we do? We can hardly lock them up against their will?' Krogh
said.

'Maybe you're right. I just - ' he shook his head. 'It just seems kind of
stupid and selfish.'

'They would probably see it in opposite terms. The lens of faith,' Krogh
said, shaking his head.

'If the government does fall -'

'More of a when than an if, but go on.'

' - what should we do then?'

Krogh shrugged. 'Wait for order to be restored. The alliance will
probably put an intendent in charge of this district, and if you make
your situation known to him he may be able to do something... though
travel in and out of the alliance's territory is not noted for its ease
or convenience, even with all the right documents.'

'You sound like you have other plans,' Farrant said.

'Do I?' Krogh smiled genially, made a move.

Farrant couldn't help smiling back. 'You're going to have to come clean
some time, Krogh, even if only to me. I told you my secret -'

'I guessed your secret, John,' Krogh reminded him.

'All right then. But you clearly know this situation backwards, you've
not looked surprised by any of it, sometimes it's even as if everything
that's happened is - I don't know - according to plan, or something. We
don't know anything about you, why you were in Liberia, your job, where
you're from - '

'I'm from a little town called Kisa, seeing as you asked. Please be
careful who you tell,' Krogh said, deadpan.

'Okay, so where's that? Finland? Denmark?'

'I'm from Sweden,' Krogh said. He smiled. 'Is that better?'

Farrant got the distinct impression he was being made fun of, flapped his
hand at Krogh in disgust. 'All right, all right. Forget I said anything.'

'As if I could,' Krogh said, the smile remaining.

They both looked up as engines sounded on the driveway. Two jeeps were
pulling in; Akueson in the first, the Smiths in the back of the second,
surrounded by soldiers. The Americans got out clumsily as the other
hostages gathered outside the house.

'My men and I have been ordered to leave the area,' Akueson said when
they'd all assembled. 'I can't take you with me. The situation is not
good; the Soldiers of God will be here in a few days. You should all be
very careful.'

'At least leave us weapons,' Querry said.

Akueson shook his head. 'Everything is needed for the defence of the
capital.' He looked at his driver. 'Allez!'

One of the men in the back stared at him. 'Mais capitain, les ordres...'

Akueson shook his head again, sharply this time. 'Je ne suis pas un
murdrier. Allez!'

They had to step back sharply as the jeeps wheeled round and vanished up
the drive. When they had gone the silence seemed somehow deeper and
emptier than before.

'What was that about orders?' Dallow asked.

Krogh raised an eyebrow, glanced meaningfully at Farrant. 'We owe Akueson
a favour.'

'Oh, really?' Farrant folded his arms.

'He said ''I am not a murderer'',' Krogh said.

They stood in silence for a long moment.

'A good man, in the end, I think,' Mr Smith said quietly.

'Yeah, it's just too bad his conscience didn't show up two weeks
earlier,' Farrant said.

'If it's any consolation, if he's been ordered south he'll likely be dead
in a couple of days,' Krogh said mildly.

'I didn't say I wanted him dead, just -' Farrant shook his head in
irritation.

Dallow turned round and started ambling towards the house. After a moment
Querry followed him.

'Do you think we have time to get to the village and back before dark?'
Mrs Smith asked her husband quietly.

'Not today, I'm afraid...' Mr Smith replied, giving her a wistful smile.

'You should really reconsider going at all,' Krogh said. 'Without your
escort you would be very vulnerable.'

The Smiths looked at him, almost seeming surprised, then smiled
pleasantly and went into the house together. Krogh looked at Farrant and
shrugged, then went off to his bungalow. Farrant stayed where he was,
kicking stones idly across the driveway, then went indoors as well.

*

There was more shooting in the night. The next day they found the Smiths
had already got up and left for the village: so early even the servants
didn't remember seeing them go. The four men met out amongst the trees,
not through any spoken arrangement, but just through a shared sense of
something important needing to be discussed.

Farrant was still in a surly mood, the creeping pain in his joints not
helping matters much. 'If they want to risk their lives, let them. You
warned them often enough.'

Krogh raised his eyebrows. 'And I thought I was meant to be the ruthless
one.'

'If it was just about them I'd agree with Farrant,' Dallow said, leaning
back against a tree. The poor diet and heat had not appreciably reduced
his rolls of fat. 'Let 'em take their chances.'

'I sense a but coming,' Farrant said.

Dallow nodded. 'Every time they go out there, they're advertising to
everyone who seems 'em that there's a house here full of defenceless
foreigners. That can't be good, right now, can it?'

'What's your plan? Lock them in the cellar?' Owen said. 'Manacles?'

Dallow shrugged. 'I don't know, I'm just saying we have to think of our
own needs, not just the social niceties.'

'I can't imagine that presenting you with much of a strain, Dallow,'
Krogh said.

The big man stared at him. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Come on, let's keep it together,' Owen Querry said quickly. 'Jim's got a
point. It's not just themselves they're endangering.'

'You said yourself we can't exactly physically prevent them,' Farrant
said.

'So we'll try again to persuade them verbally,' Krogh said. 'That would
be the ideal solution, wouldn't it?'

'Guess so,' Querry said.

'All right. Maybe if we talk to them individually rather than as a
couple. I will talk to Mr Smith.' Krogh's gaze flicked quickly from
Dallow, to Querry, to Farrant. 'John, will you try Mrs Smith?'

Farrant shrugged. 'If you think it would help.'

*

For the first time they heard gunfire during the day, in the early
afternoon, from a different direction to the one all the other shots had
comes from. So they were surrounded. Maybe. It was impossible to know
anything for sure, they were so isolated from the outside world. But it
gave the situation with the Smiths an extra sense of urgency.

The couple returned a little later than usual, clearly not having
anticipated how long the walk back would take. They looked tired and worn
and hardly ready for a serious discussion. Farrant screwed his sympathy
tightly back - that was an advantage, then, wasn't it?

Krogh took Mr Smith off on the pretext of discussing the food supply
situation, leaving Mrs Smith in one of the smaller sitting rooms in the
main house. Farrant stood awkwardly in the doorway and smiled weakly.

Mrs Smith returned it, wearily. 'Can I help you, Mr Farrant?'

'I - I don't know, I was just wondering how it was in the village?'

'The same as usual, I guess,' she said.

'Are the people scared?'

'Most of them are too busy working to stay alive to be scared. People
like us don't realise what it means to be really hungry or poor or sick,'
she said.

'I suppose not,' Farrant said. 'Do you think it'll make a lot of
difference to them, if the alliance takes over?'

'I suppose we can hope,' Mrs Smith said. 'The alliance has so many people
of God in positions of power, you'd think it'd have to be an improvement,
wouldn't you? I know you're not a believer, Mr Farrant -'

He smiled. 'It's okay. Do you think the villagers will still need you,
then?'

She looked at him sharply, but kept her smile. 'I'm sorry, Mr Farrant?'

'I mean - with the alliance coming -'

'Mr Smith and I could just stay here all day like Mr Krogh wants us to?'

'It's not just Krogh.'

It was her turn to wave aside his interjection. 'For shame, Mr Farrant.
We don't just do this because we think it's a nice idea or it's sensible,
we do it because we have to, because it's demanded of us...' She broke
off. 'Do you honestly think it would make you any safer if we stayed here
all day? Do you think the servants don't talk, when they go into the
villages? That Captain Akueson's men didn't talk to the locals? People
know we're here. Maybe if Mr Smith and I do something to help them, they
might be a little more ready to help us if we need it. Does that make
sense in your terms, Mr Farrant?'

He raised his hands, felt a burning flush settle on his cheeks. Maybe she
was right. Maybe she wasn't. It all existed up in that immaterial
dimension, the realm of ideas and politics and religion and emotion,
which was seeming increasingly irrelevant as time went by. They lived in
the realm of flesh and fear and food now, of gunshots in the night and
listening carefully for every engine noise that approached. He heard
someone clear his throat behind him, turned and saw Mr Smith. The man was
smiling, as usual, but it had no warmth in it.

'Coming upstairs, dear?' Mr Smith asked.

'Yes, of course,' Mrs Smith said. She moved past Farrant with a serene
smile on her face and the two of them went up to their bedroom. Farrant
turned and saw Krogh waiting in the hall. He shook his head. Krogh smiled
ruefully and held up his hands in a what-can-you-do? gesture. Then they
went their separate ways.

==Six==

An eerie silence all that night and the next day. Farrant was struggling
to find things to do to fill his time, to cope with the enforced
inactivity. It seemed the same for Querry, who'd taken to going for long
runs around the estate first thing in the morning and before dinner.
Dallow didn't seemed troubled at all; Farrant often came across him
asleep in the courtyard, whether it was near siesta time or not. He
actually seemed to be putting on weight. Krogh was inevitably a sphinx.

But the Smiths did not return for dinner that night. They waited an hour
or two and then ate without them in silence for a while.

'Maybe they got sick,' Owen Querry said eventually.

'They'd've sent a message. They'd know we would worry,' Krogh said.

Dallow snorted. 'They've hardly been that considerate so far.'

'Mr Dallow,' Miss Scobie said sharply. 'Mr and Mrs Smith have been
impeccable members of our group so far. Please don't insult them behind
their backs.'

Dallow looked startled, mumbled an apology: the bad boy scolded by the
teacher, Farrant thought with a smile. 'Could we get Centime or one of
the other servants to go to the village tonight and check?' he asked.

'I'd rather not send anyone tonight,' Miss Scobie said. 'But first thing,
certainly.'

*

The Smiths had still not reappeared the next morning and Miss Scobie
assured them that she had sent one of the boys to the village. They
passed a nervous morning, not speaking much, until the boy returned at
lunchtime, looking nervous. He went in to see Miss Scobie, who joined
them on the verandah after a moment.

'Lucien says the people in the village haven't seen Mr and Mrs Smith for
days,' she said.

Owen frowned. 'I don't understand - did he go to the right place?'

'Oh yes, I'm quite sure of that,' Miss Scobie said. 'It could mean - oh,
dear - ' She looked away, grew pale.

Dallow scowled. 'Lying bastards...'

'Don't be so harsh,' Krogh said. 'Fear has been part of these people's
lives for generations.'

'What do you think's happened to them?' Farrant asked.

'Something bad, if the villagers are all refusing to talk about it. I
don't think it's necessarily their doing, but simply admitting to knowing
something can be disastrous sometimes... guilt by association, you know,'
Krogh said.

'So what do we do?' Querry asked, staring at the tabletop.

Dallow heaved his shoulders up and down. 'We tried to warn them.'

'You would abandon them?' Miss Scobie looked icily at him.

'We have no weapons, no real knowledge of what's happening around here,'
Krogh said. Dallow looked surprised to be backed up by the other man. 'We
don't know who to talk to, where to look... it would be taking a big risk
to press the issue in the village.'

'I guess you're right...' Owen Querry said, avoiding looking at any of
them.

Farrant swallowed hard. Self-preservation, self-interest was king in the
realm of flesh, it seemed. He felt a sudden desperate longing for the old
world, the world of ideas and sentiment - an equally fierce need to send
out some sort of signal, showing himself that he could hope to return
there one day. 'Krogh... you once spoke to me about the group... about us
looking out for one another...'

Krogh nodded. 'Yes I did.'

'We can't just give up on them so easily. Even if it's just so we can say
''at least we did something'' ten years from now... for our own sake as
well as theirs...'

Dallow made an amused snorting sound but Querry looked up, almost
hopefully. Krogh was silent for a long time, then nodded, a slight smile
playing across his face. 'John is right. It may not be sensible, but it's
human. I will go into the village this afternoon.'

'I'll come with you,' Farrant said.

Krogh shook his head. 'I think no. Mr Querry, will you come with me?'

The American looked confused. 'Yeah, sure,' he said.

Krogh looked at Dallow, smiling. The big man laughed to himself, then
shook his head. 'Forget it.'

'As I thought. Stay here with Farrant and look after the house,' Krogh
said. He stood up. 'I'll start getting things ready, we'll go about two.'

Krogh and Querry went, followed after a moment by Miss Scobie.

'This is turning into Big Brother,' Dallow said, sounding darkly amused
as usual. 'Last one to leave the house gets to keep breathing. You
genuinely wanted to go, didn't you?'

'I didn't want to go, I felt I had to,' Farrant said, aware of how much
he was echoing Mrs Smith's sentiments from their last conversation.

'Well, anyway, you got lucky. Krogh doesn't want you along,' Dallow said.
The man's curiosity was obvious, and Farrant felt his eyes on him
uncomfortably. 'Do you know why?'

Farrant knew exactly why and was suddenly very grateful to the older man.
'No.' Lying to Dallow scarcely felt wrong at all.

'Mmmp.' Dallow got up, clearly still suspicious. Farrant was glad to be
alone, still felt on edge.

*

The house and its surroundings felt suddenly deserted with the Smiths,
Krogh, and Querry all gone. He spent the afternoon in his cabin, half-
sleeping, uneasy. What if whatever had overtaken the Smiths swallowed up
Krogh and Querry as well? Would he be stranded here with Dallow?
Something about the idea made his skin crawl. He began to regret even
suggesting that they should look for the Smiths, forgot his earlier
ideals.

Night fell and he ate a small meal by himself. The normal susurrus of
insect and bird noise from the trees and scrub surrounding the house felt
almost like a physical wall closing in around them, with the stars
glinting down dispassionately from overhead. Still no sign of Krogh and
Querry returning.

The coughing of an engine in the drive took him totally by surprise and
he was out in the courtyard before he knew what he was doing. A decrepit
jeep was standing in front of the house with its engine running, and
standing around it were four men in shabby nondescript uniforms, carrying
guns of various types. He noticed Dallow coming around the back of the
house cautiously even as Miss Scobie emerged from the front. She said
something sharply to the nearest man in one of the local languages.

Clearly unused to being snapped at by an old woman, the man responded
harshly, pointing to the house, the bungalows. He hefted his weapon
pointedly. Miss Scobie responded with a stream of outraged fury, which
provoked only laughter from the men. Their leader shouted something to
the others over his shoulder, made for the front door, but found Miss
Scobie in his way, beating at him with her tiny fists. Without even
pausing he backhanded her across the face, smashing her to the ground.

'Wait!' Farrant found he was running forward, putting himself in view of
all four men. They were all staring at him now. The leader came towards
him, ignoring Miss Scobie, who lay on the ground like a broken doll. The
man asked a question, but it was just alien sound to Farrant. He
shrugged, smiled feebly, found a block of ice swelling in his guts. The
man made his demand again, again, and then one of the others muttered
something and he nodded.

Farrant took a step back and the man said something sharply. He froze.
The man reached out and plucked at the collar of Farrant's shirt, looking
him up and down with open curiosity. He said something to the others and
this time they laughed.

Farrant panicked, turned to run, but the man's hand was grabbing at his
hair, pulling the ponytail loose. He yelped in pain as the man hauled him
back, grabbed at the neck and shoulder of his shirt. Fabric tore noisily
and he felt the shirt come open at the front. His legs were kicked out
from under him and he hit the ground hard. The man stood over him,
looking down stonily. Farrant glanced at his exposed chest: it was
hairless and his small breasts were evident even in the dim light from
the jeep's headlights. The man reached down and grabbed his hair, dragged
him upright regardless of Farrant's shrieks.

Farrant felt his hair fall in a tangle around his shoulders. The man
looked sternly at Farrant and plucked at his own shirt, said something.
Farrant shook his head, helpless, uncomprehending. The man sighed,
muttered something and pulled one side of Farrant's shirt off over his
shoulder, then plucked at his own shirt. Farrant shook his head again
desperately, but the man hefted his rifle again silently. Farrant nodded
and quickly slipped off his shirt, considered trying to cover his
breasts, put his hands on his thighs nervously. The man in front of him
leered and touched his own trousers.

Fighting nausea, Farrant unfastened his belt and let his trousers fall.
He kicked them off along with his shoes. He was going to be sick any
moment now. The man made a 'carry on' gesture. Numbly Farrant slipped
down his underpants and stepped out of them, naked but for his socks. The
tiny vestiges of his male genitals were still just about visible. The man
in front of him seemed impressed by his pale white figure, as were the
two men by the jeep. There was something odd about that but before he
could think the man had grabbed his arm and was dragging him towards the
house -

The shot sounded clear and crisp at short range. The man thrashed once
and something splashed onto Farrant's face and chest, then he fell,
releasing his grip as he did so. The two other soldiers boggled for a
moment, then started to turn, but as they did so the gun sounded again
and one of them was knocked from his feet as well. Farrant stared at the
jeep. Krogh was standing behind it holding a handgun, looking calm,
almost as if this was routine for him. The last soldier started to bring
his gun up and Krogh fired a third and fourth shot. The soldier went down
without a sound.

'Krogh... I.... oh my God.' Farrant felt his knees give way and flopped
loosely onto the ground, the bare soil coarse against his naked legs and
buttocks.

'It's okay,' Krogh said. 'There were only four of them.' He stepped over
the body of the last man, whom he'd taken the pistol from. 'Luckily they
were all looking at you.'

'Lucky,' Farrant said. Suddenly the urge to vomit was uncontrollable and
he retched onto the ground in front of him. 'If you hadn't come back...'

'I'm sorry,' Krogh said. He glanced over his shoulder. 'You can come out
now.'

Querry emerged from the scrub, looking pale. He stared at the four
corpses helplessly, until he noticed the naked Farrant kneeling on the
ground, at which point he started staring at him. 'Jeeezus... Farrant,
you're a girl...'

'Shut up, Owen,' Krogh said. 'Dallow, it's safe for you, too.' His tone
was as close to mocking as it had ever been.

Dallow came out from behind the house, looking almost slyly amused, if
anything. 'They weren't the only ones looking at Farrant. You're a dark
horse, aren't you? Dark mare, I should say...'

'Fuck you, Dallow,' Farrant said wearily. Dallow's only response was a
grin.

'Oh shit! Miss Scobie!' Owen had finally noticed the old woman's sprawled
body.

'Damn,' Krogh said. 'We need to get her inside. Dallow, give me a hand.
Owen, move the jeep and the bodies. John, will you be all right for a
while?'

Farrant nodded as Dallow started to object. 'Who the fuck put you in
charge?'

'If it makes it any easier,' Krogh said shortly, 'this does.' He held up
the handgun he still gripped, but pointed it up in the air rather than at
the big man.

Dallow came forward in silence and helped take Miss Scobie's legs.
Farrant grabbed his clothes and went into his cabin, sat emptily on the
bed, made no attempt to dress again. Eventually he lay down and
eventually he went to sleep.

==Seven==

The next day he did get up and he did dress and he went into the main
house. He found Krogh sitting in Miss Scobie's room, looking at the old
woman. She did look like an old woman now, pallid and brittle somehow.

'How is she?' Farrant asked.

Krogh shook his head slightly. 'Her heart again, I think. Her pulse is
not strong and she hasn't really woken up since we put her here. How do
you feel?'

Farrant shrugged. 'Could've been a lot worse. Part of me thinks that
everybody knowing is the worst thing. At least I won't have to worry
about hiding it now.'

'That's why your hair is loose, I suppose,' Krogh said.

'Uh - yeah,' Farrant said, putting a hand to it instinctively. 'Any sign
of the Smiths?'

'Nobody would talk. I am afraid of the worst,' Krogh said. 'I don't think
we will see them again.'

'Could they have met those men? The ones from last night?'

'Maybe. Who can say?'

'Who were they? Alliance?'

'I doubt it,' Krogh said. 'Not disciplined enough. Maybe deserters, from
either side. Possibly just bandits, they had a mix of weapons.'

'You're an expert on guns,' Farrant said; a statement, not a question.

'Of course,' Krogh said with a thin smile. 'I helped Owen move the bodies
once Miss Scobie was safely up here. I thought it best to secure the guns
before he or particularly Dallow had any ideas along the same lines.'

'You take it for granted that you're the only person entitled to have
access to weapons, then.'

'Yes. I know how to use them, for one thing. Do you object?'

'I've no right to, I owe you - God knows how much I owe you,' Farrant
said. 'Krogh - I - last night -'

'Don't mention it. What else was I supposed to do?' Krogh asked. 'But...
I'm sure you are intelligent, John. Think about your situation here now.
Let's try and keep things... rational, shall we say.'

*

He couldn't figure out what Krogh had meant. Not that he didn't have
enough to worry about. He felt more aware of his change than ever now,
and perhaps he was further along than he had realised... life in the
house had changed forever now that the Smiths were gone and Miss Scobie
was so ill - and, he supposed, now his own secret was out. The big group
meals on the verandah were a thing of the past, and most of the servants
had dropped out of sight, run off back to their families, perhaps.

Looking after Miss Scobie became their main concern. She never seemed to
be completely conscious, never looked like leaving her bed. They took it
in turns to sit with her, just to keep an eye, even Dallow doing his bit,
waiting, just waiting, day after day. One of the servants told Krogh that
news was that the capital had fallen and there was a new government now,
a new president. What did that mean, Farrant wondered, were they free to
go?

He was sitting in the courtyard thinking idly about it and picking small
stones out of his feet when Owen Querry came out of the house. 'Hey,' he
said.

'Hey,' Farrant echoed. 'How is she?'

'She's not getting stronger,' Owen said. 'Maybe with a proper doctor...
shit! It just seems ridiculous that... I don't know.'

'I know how you feel. You mean it could have been avoided so easily if
people just behaved sensibly,' Farrant said. He looked down at himself.
'Believe me, I understand.'

'Was going to go for a walk round the estate, just check, you know,'
Querry said. 'Do you want to come with me?'

'I - ah - no thanks, Owen,' Farrant said. Something about his manner was
making alarm bells ring in the back of Farrant's head. 'My shoes don't
fit me any more.'

'Maybe Miss Scobie has something you can borrow, I'll wait.'

'No, don't. Maybe another time,' Farrant said. Querry nodded and went
off, looking a little crestfallen.

He needed a new pair of shoes, though. He needed lots of new clothes, if
he was honest. His old male gear fitted on him, yes, but it was
ridiculously loose and poorly fitting, even when it wasn't too heavy.
Miss Scobie was too tiny and birdlike to be anything close to his size,
but... Jesus. The Smiths' stuff was still in their old room. They'd idly
talked about clearing it, or at least putting it in one of the outhouses,
but maybe they were still hoping for a miracle... the Smiths would've
approved.

'She would've approved,' Farrant told himself as he went quietly into
their room. Mrs Smith's stuff was still in the chest of drawers and
wardrobe. He struggled to throw off the sense of guilt that settled onto
him. Mrs Smith, I'm sorry, he thought, framing the words in the closest
thing to a prayer he'd made in decades, but I really need your help. I
hope you understand why I'm doing this. Absurdly that made him feel a
little better. He picked up her sandals. They fitted him quite well,
maybe a little tight across the instep. Apart from that it was simply a
relief to be wearing something that actually fitted him.

He pulled at his shirt idly and then started to undress properly. He
looked at himself in the mirror, starting to accept that to a casual
observer his body was now apparently female. It was not him... not the
old him... but it was still his flesh, he realised. With a little
internal gulp he found a pair of panties and pulled them on. They were
hardly stylish, as you'd expect from a missionary in her late forties,
but they fit. He found a pair of slacks he'd seen her wearing and tried
them on too. All right, he thought, I'm wearing women's clothing, but it
fits, that's the important thing, it fits and it's practical, and
everything else is... he let go of the thought, picked up a plain white
blouse made of a coarse linen. Farrant slipped it on and was impressed by
the fit, but the material prickled across his nipples and he made to
discard it again.

Then... oh, what the hell, he thought, and started putting on one of her
bras. Man, woman, it's just an idea anyway, isn't it? He tweaked the
straps and cups into place, looked at himself in the mirror and saw
himself nodding. Actually, it looked like a slim youngish woman with long
dark hair nodding, but... He slid the blouse on again, over the bra, and
this time it was fine. He slipped on the sandals and made for the door,
buttoning the blouse as he went... saw a shadow looming there.

'How long were you there watching me?' Farrant said, trying to keep his
voice low and even.

Dallow grinned. He looked Farrant up and down, slowly. 'Long enough. No
harm, is there? All boys together now, aren't we?'

'Don't be stupid,' Farrant said.

'I'm not the one who came out here with the Ladyflu,' Dallow said, still
smirking. 'How's it feel, Farrant? What's it like when you get wet? Good
as jerking off?'

'Oh, fuck off,' Farrant said, more in disgust than anger, turning away.

'Or don't you know yet? If you need a hand... or anything else...' Dallow
let the offer the trail away in the air. As Farrant strode away he found
himself blushing furiously.

*

'You're quiet, John,' Krogh said after dinner as they played chess by
lanternlight. Dallow was upstairs supposedly looking after Miss Scobie;
Querry had gone for another walk. Once again he had invited Farrant to
join him.

'I...' Farrant shrugged. 'I don't know what to say, Krogh, this'll
sound...'

'Try me.'

'The others are - they're being weird.'

'Mmm. Why do you think that is?'

'Don't act stupid, Krogh, it's because of -' He indicated his altered
body, clothing, hair. Even his voice was sliding up the register.
'Because of this.'

'They're treating you like a woman. How does that make you feel?'

'Weird.' He struggled to be more specific. 'I don't feel... I don't know.
Not safe, somehow.'

'You're effectively a single woman all alone in a lawless area with three
single men deprived of all other female company.' His eyes flicked up to
the house. 'Miss Scobie barely counts. I'm not surprised you feel
threatened.'

'So what can we do?'

'We?'

Farrant realised with a shock how much he'd come to rely on Krogh's
counsel and insightful thinking. 'I... I'm asking for your advice,
Krogh.'

Krogh surveyed the board for a long time before speaking. 'Dallow simply
wants to have sex with you. Owen appears to be on the verge of falling in
love with you, or at least persuading himself he's in love with you,
which is basically just so he can justify his wanting to have sex with
you. You'd get no emotional sensitivity from one and probably too much
from the other. It's not an ideal choice.'

'I'm not going to have... I'm not choosing either of them, Krogh. I don't
have to,' Farrant said, appalled at the chilly logic of the man.

'Well, if you think so, you don't have a problem, do you?' He smiled
reasonably and carried on with the game.

==Eight==

A well-maintained and reasonably clean land rover came up to the house
the next day, quite unexpectedly, the red-and-white emblem of the
alliance flying from a pennant on the bonnet. Two men in the uniform of
the alliance military got out along with a young man in a grey suit.
Querry was the first to see them and urgently called them together in the
main room. A servant went upstairs to sit with Miss Scobie and the
foreigners and their visitors sat down a little awkwardly with the suited
man and one of the soldiers; the other was around somewhere, assessing
the estate.

'Well, then,' said the man in the suit. His English was excellent, with a
faint American accent. 'My name is Jacob Canaan, and I am the new
intendent for this district. I hope you are all well?'

They made vague, positive noises, and then Canaan went on. 'What do you
understand of your situation here?'

'The old government took us hostage to try and strong-arm the west into
helping them fight - well, your side,' Querry said with a shrug. 'That
didn't work out, so we've been stuck here in the middle of nowhere with
no news, nothing. There were two other Americans here - a couple. They
went out a few days ago and haven't come back. We're worried - '

Canaan made a gesture indicating helplessness. 'I have no information.
Until recently this area was completely lawless - I would not expect good
news.'

'I take it this country has now joined the alliance?' Krogh asked. He
seemed slightly tense, Farrant thought, most unusually for him. Moreso
than the others, in fact.

'Yes, indeed,' Canaan said, his smile returning somewhat. 'The war is
over.'

'Forever?'

'We will always have enemies,' Canaan said mildly.

'Does that mean we can go?' Querry asked.

Canaan looked slightly evasive. 'There's still a degree of turmoil in
this country. In addition to this, normal relations have not yet been
established with countries outside the alliance itself... you have no
documents...'

'So we're still stuck here,' Dallow said. He grunted. 'Brilliant.'

'Your current situation does not seem disagreeable,' Canaan said, gently.
'We have no intention of - interfering with your lives here. If you give
me your names and details I will inform your governments, your
families...'

It made no difference now, anyway, Farrant thought. He was a woman now,
really, had become one here in this house - he had no idea how he would
pick up the threads of his old life back in the UK... remembering it was
remembering another person in every way that actually meant anything.
Suddenly he was aware of Canaan smiling at him, expectantly.

'Your name, please?' Canaan said, obviously not for the first time.

'Farrant. John Farrant. British citizen. My - '

'John Farrant?' The soldier spoke for the first time, sounding bemused.

'Farrant's had the sex change virus,' Dallow said.

'There's no such virus,' Canaan said blandly. 'For us it is simply the
Lord's will.'

'In any case, Mr Farrant wishes to retain his male gender,' Krogh said.

Canaan shrugged. 'You are our guests.'

The men from the alliance finished taking their details and rose. Canaan
said, 'We'll keep you informed of the situation. As soon as possible
we'll try to have you repatriated or moved to a better location.' He
nodded, clearly assuming the meeting was over.

'Actually - ' It was Krogh. 'There's a matter I'd like to speak to you
about. Privately.'

Both the Africans looked surprised, but nodded. Farrant, Querry and
Dallow found themselves out in the hallway.

'What the fuck's he playing at?' Dallow said, looking at Farrant.

'I don't know. Why are you looking at me?'

'Cos you two are thick together all the time, you're the one he talks
to.' Dallow loaded the sentence with insinuation.

'Come on, she doesn't know. Leave her alone,' Querry said.

'Oh, my hero,' Dallow said.

'Grow up, both of you,' Farrant said. He went upstairs, dismissed the
servant watching Miss Scobie. The old lady was continuing to deteriorate
quickly. He held her hand impotently, not really expecting her to wake up
again.

After a long while he heard cautious movement in the doorway. 'Any
change?'

'Only for the worse. What was that all about, Krogh?'

'My business. I've done my bit to keep everyone else safe, I think I've
earned a little privacy,' Krogh said, going over to look out of the
window.

'I can't argue with that. But I thought... well, it would be more than
just earning merit and rewards and... whatever,' Farrant said. 'You were
the one who said you needed friends. That what affects one, affects
everyone...'

Krogh nodded. 'I can't see it'll make any difference. All right, I was
basically asking the alliance for a job.'

'You what?'

'I am - was - a professional soldier. The alliance has a huge army but
it's badly trained, amateurish. They need skilled people to train their
men. I am a skilled person.'

'You're a mercenary.'

'If you like, but that really just means I work for money, not any finer
feeling. I suppose you design buildings for the love of it?'

Farrant sighed. 'That's different.'

'And I thought you were becoming a pragmatist, John. Anyway, I knew I
could get a good position here, it was just getting into alliance
territory that was a problem. I'd heard rumours of westerners being -
diverted - into the front line area as hostages. I knew it could be my
way in.'

'So you knew our plane was going to be rerouted -'

'I suspected, I didn't -'

'Why didn't you tell anyone? The Smiths are probably dead! Look at me!'
Farrant found himself crying with anger and shock and - yes, damn it -
betrayal. 'If you'd said something -'

'They'd have kidnapped another group anyway,' Krogh said sharply. 'I
didn't know any of you. I'm truly sorry about your condition, John, but I
didn't know you then. If the Smiths had been reasonable they'd still be
alive now.'

'You're so fucking cold -' Miss Scobie moaned in her sleep, clearly upset
by Farrant's shouting. Farrant stood up, shut his eyes, forced himself to
speak civilly. 'Can you look after her?'

'That's why I came up here.'

'Good. I don't want to be here with you any more.'

Farrant went downstairs, found he was still wiping tears from his eyes as
he went out into the courtyard.

'Trouble in paradise?' Dallow was sprawled in the shade, smoking a
cigarette he'd obviously cadged from one of Canaan's men. 'That was a
loud old tiff the two of you had. You always so noisy, Farrant?'

'Fuck you,' Farrant said wearily, not even meeting his gaze, and went
into his cabin.

*

There was no chess game that afternoon. Farrant had never felt so alone,
repelled by Krogh's icy manipulativeness, Dallow's lasciviousness,
Querry's loose and adolescent emotion. He napped alone, sat alone, ate
alone, went to bed after an evening alone, fell asleep alone.

He was dimly awoken by the sheet he lay under being drawn back, snapped
fully alert by the sweaty paw groping at one of his breasts. It took a
moment for everything to snap into place, but then in the blue-greys of
the deepest night he could make out the bulk of Dallow, naked, as he
lowered himself onto Farrant. He was grinning, glistening with sweat.
Farrant heard an inarticulate choking noise, realised it was him.

'Fuck *you*,' Dallow was whispering. 'Yes I am, I'm going to fuck your
brains out, Farrant...'

'Please, no...'

'Oh, you want it really, I can tell...' With surprising speed Dallow
grabbed one of his wrists, pulled his arm back over his head. 'You don't
need to act all unfriendly any more...'

'The others - '

'I don't give a shit about the others. You invited me in here, didn't
you? My word against yours... you might even like it...'

Dallow's surging erection brushed against Farrant's belly and he
shrieked, a full, high, girlish scream. Dallow was startled, flinched,
and Farrant tore his hand free, squirmed out from under the man. He tried
to run for the door but Dallow backed up too quickly and Farrant
retreated to the far corner.

'All right then, we'll do it rough,' Dallow said, starting to advance.

Owen Querry appeared in the doorway behind Dallow, his eyes boggling as
he realised what was happening.

'Owen, help!' Farrant said, not even worrying about his own nudity.

'All right Owen, no need for fisticuffs,' Dallow said, not even looking
at the youth. 'We can both have a go. Just look at her...'

'You bastard,' Querry said. 'Get out of here!'

'Oh, fuck off,' Dallow said. 'Join in or get out, son.'

Querry moved forward, trying to get his elbow around Dallow's throat in a
chokehold, but the big man simply bent forward, pulling him off his feet.
Dallow moved quickly and smoothly, slamming himself against the wall and
crushing Querry with his own bulk. Owen sagged, winded, and Dallow turned
and drove his knee into the American's groin. Querry grunted in pain and
his arms spasmed uselessly; Dallow delivered one heavy shot to his head
from each fist and Querry slumped to the floor. Dallow turned again, and
now he was grinning as he came forward; if anything his prick looked even
more urgently engorged.

'This is getting me in the mood,' he said.

'All right, Dallow.'

This time it was Krogh, and Farrant felt his heart swell with an
inexplicable, inexpressible relief. Dallow turned round quickly to see
the other man in the door. 'Krogh - '

'Would you like to fight me as well?' Krogh spoke very quietly.

Dallow took a half-step back. Farrant sprang across the bed to stand next
to Krogh. 'Listen, Krogh - she invited me - it was all her idea, the
bitch - '

'Spare me.' Krogh moved further into the room, freeing the doorway. 'Get
back to your room.'

The big man grabbed the clothes he'd removed and left them alone there.
Now Farrant was suddenly aware of his nakedness; clearly Krogh was as
well. Without a word needing to be spoken, Farrant pulled on a pair of
knickers and one of his old male vests, which now served quite well as a
nightdress, while Krogh gently woke Querry up.

'W-what happened?'

'You beat him. Good job,' Krogh said. 'You should go back to bed now,
though.'

'Oh, okay...'

While Krogh helped Owen to his own room, Farrant sat down on the edge of
the decking outside the bungalow and ran a hand through his hair. If
Dallow had thought to gag him first - if his scream hadn't reached Querry
- if Krogh hadn't heard the brawl from where he'd been sitting with Miss
Scobie - he would have been raped by now. Dallow was clearly capable of
it. He was now physically capable of being raped. He swallowed hard.
Krogh came and sat down next to him, silent.

'I'm sorry,' he eventually said.

'Hardly your fault,' Farrant said tiredly. 'What do we do now?'

'Do you want me to kill Dallow?'

'Are you serious? Jesus...'

Krogh shrugged. 'There's no police force here, and even if there was,
it's only your word against his. If I have to go away... how will you
protect yourself? If you want to be sure he won't try again...'

Farrant rested his forehead on his knees. 'Oh Christ, I don't know.'

'I'd rather kill him than see him destroy you,' Krogh said.

'Really?'

'No question,' Krogh said, smiling.

'I - no, don't kill him.' Farrant sighed. 'Let's see how it goes for
now.' He was dimly aware he was letting sentiment get in the way of self-
interest, not yet fully at ease in the realm of flesh...

Krogh nodded, stood up. 'Will you be all right now?'

Farrant glanced at the door to his bungalow, the shape as black and
rectilinear as a grave. He couldn't suppress a shudder. 'I can't promise
to sleep much.'

'Ah. I see.' Krogh looked away. 'You don't have to be alone. You can
sleep in my cabin - if you wish.'

'Are you sure?'

Krogh nodded again, helped Farrant up. Krogh's bungalow seemed
meticulously well arranged even though it was virtually identical to
Farrant's own. He had no sofa or couch, but his bed was easily big enough
for two to sleep, barely touching. Farrant kept his things on, slid under
the mosquito net a little nervously, closed his eyes. He heard vague
noises, realised Krogh was undressing. He felt the other man - *other*
man? - slide under the sheet next to him, faintly felt the brush of skin
on skin, found he was flushed and nervous, braced himself for whatever
came next.

'Goodnight, John. Sleep well,' Krogh said, briskly, and the light went
out. A few seconds later Farrant could hear snoring.

==Nine==

Farrant was woken by the early light, took a moment to recall where he
was - and why. Krogh had shifted in the night and his arm lay gently
across Farrant's side, his hand resting on Farrant's belly. He seemed to
be sleeping peacefully. Possibly more carefully than he'd ever done
anything in his life, Farrant dislodged the hand without waking its owner
and slipped out of the bed.

He dressed and, not without a little trepidation, went into the main
house. His first visit was to the kitchen, for some juice and a chunk of
bread. The breadknife went into the belt of his trousers, just in case.
He had every reason to think Dallow was in this house somewhere. He went
upstairs as quietly as he could. Dallow's door was almost closed, the
room beyond dim. He found his fingers playing with the handle of the
knife, recalled Krogh's offer the previous night. No-one's ever offered
to kill someone for me before, he thought to himself. Did he want the fat
man dead after all he'd done, or tried to do? What was the sensible
option? What was the civilised option? Which was applicable in this place
and at this time?

He went into Miss Scobie's room and relieved the servant girl who'd been
with her all night. The old lady was breathing in quick little gasps,
more than asleep. Farrant sat with her silently, thinking, another
pointless victim of another pointless conflict, only important to the
mighty thinkers on each side, nothing really changing for the people
caught in the middle of it, what were ideas, theology, politics? Labels
for empty jars, as far as the villagers were concerned. No changes.

He looked at the woman who sat looking sadly at him from the mirror.
Well, maybe some things changed. He thought the woman might look quite
beautiful if she ever smiled. That seemed pretty unlikely at the moment.
He rested his head against the back of the chair, curled up his legs, and
after a while he slept again.

*

He woke again in the heat of the day, found Krogh's hand on his arm as he
offered him a glass of water. Miss Scobie was still out, her breathing if
anything even more rapid and laboured.

'Do you think it's just her heart?'

'I don't know. Medicine is sort of the opposite of my trade,' Krogh said
with a bleak smile. 'I don't think... well, I don't think she has long.'

'This is her house. What'll happen to us?'

Krogh shrugged. 'We have nine-tenths of the law on our side. She has no
heirs... I shouldn't think it'll be an issue, for the time we'll be here
at least.'

'What happened with your...' Farrant couldn't help smiling. 'Your job
application?'

'Canaan's taking it to his superiors. I'm quietly hopeful. The alliance
has expanded a long way in the last two years, they'll be looking to
consolidate and build up their defences. That's my territory.'

'There won't be any ethnic problems?'

He smiled. 'The generals will be pragmatists. Idealists don't live long
enough to get promoted. I may have to go to church twice a week for the
look of the thing, but I've done worse in the line of duty...'

'I'll bet...'

Farrant got them both some lunch and they ate in silence. 'Have you seen
Dallow today?' Farrant said eventually.

'I haven't been looking. Have you thought some more about...'

'If I start thinking like that, I'll never be able to go home again. Once
you...'

'Once you surrender yourself, it's an irreversible transformation. I
know,' Krogh said, staring into space.

Miss Scobie's breathing was becoming shallower, harder to hear. Her
fingers twitched limply on the sheet and Farrant took her hand, squeezed
it hard. The three of them sat there until the breathing faded away
entirely and there were only two of them in the room.

*

Farrant went out into the grounds with Krogh and Querry and watched the
two men dig the grave. He couldn't contribute, but didn't want to be
alone in the house with Dallow still around somewhere. The ground was
hard and dry and the two men were soon sweating profusely, too exercised
to talk. It was growing dark by the time the job was done.

'Do we do it now?' Owen Querry asked. He had a bruise on one side of his
jaw but showed no other sign of his run-in with Dallow.

Krogh looked up at the darkening sky. 'I don't fancy filling this in
again in the dark. We'll do it first thing.'

They went back to the house and scratched a meal together - their house,
now. Farrant could sense them realising it simultaneously with him. It
was one way to get on the property ladder. After dinner Querry excused
himself and left the two of them alone.

'Chess?' Krogh asked.

They sat and played in the courtyard, by lanternlight as usual. It was a
close game; Krogh was contemplating his movie when he instantly noticed
Farrant freezing. Dallow had come up the drive, his clothes even
scruffier than usual. His eyes met Farrant's, and they were empty,
Farrant thought, full of nothing good, nothing warm. Krogh looked round
at Dallow but did not speak. The big man did not come any closer, just
went into the house through the front door.

'He was out all day,' Farrant said, running his hands through his hair.
'Jesus, what am I going to do?'

'My offer still stands,' Krogh said.

'Which one?'

'I was under the impression there was only one.' He sounded mildly
surprised.

'I...' Farrant shrugged helplessly. 'I don't want to sleep alone if he's
around... if I could sleep in your room again... we don't even have to
share the bed...'

Krogh looked away. 'You expect a lot from me,' he said.

'Please, I only want to sleep in the same room as you... I need to be
with someone I trust -'

'That's what I mean. John, you're - you appear to be - a very attractive
woman. I'm not so different from Dallow in some ways. You, ah...' he
smiled. 'You make it hard for me.'

'I - I didn't know.'

'And that didn't help,' Krogh said. The smile had gone. 'You need to be
aware of these things. Your life has changed.'

'I - I'm sorry.' It was all he could say.

'It's all right. Now you know,' Krogh said. He moved his bishop forward
and they completed the game in silence.

Farrant yawned. 'I can't believe I'm so tired...'

'Nerves,' Krogh said, collecting up the pieces. 'We should be up early
for the burial, anyway, before it gets too hot.'

'Okay.' Farrant stood up, headed for his own doorway uneasily.

'Where are you going?' Krogh sounded puzzled.

'I thought -'

'I didn't say no. If it will make you comfortable - ' Krogh indicated his
own room in silence.

They undressed in silence, Farrant stripping down to just his long vest.
As he'd thought, Krogh slept nude. The older man didn't seem to be
stealing any glances, but Farrant couldn't help swallowing hard a couple
of times, for no reason he could rationalise. Finally they were laying
side by side together, facing in opposite directions. Farrant lay there
restlessly and then rolled over and whispered quickly before he could
think about what he was saying.

'Krogh, if you really want me you can have me, I realise it's got to be
someone in this situation and I'd rather it was you than Querry or
Dallow, so just tell me and we can...' He broke down feebly.

And Krogh snored at him peacefully.

==Ten==

Krogh hadn't heard it, but that didn't mean Farrant hadn't said it. Had
he really meant it? He woke in the pale pre-dawn, turned the proposition
over and over in his head, could find nothing false about it. He glanced
at Krogh, still asleep, but realised they had other, more important
things to attend to first.

He went into the house, wary as ever for Dallow's lurking presence, ate
sparsely and went up to the Smiths' room. Out of a vague sense of what
felt correct, he searched through Mrs Smith's clothes and found a light,
bluish dress that looked fairly formal, and put it on. It was his first
time in a skirt or dress and the sensation was initially strange, but it
soon became apparent it was considerably more comfortable than a shirt
and heavy trousers. He wrapped his hair in a silky scarf and decided
Miss Scobie would not have found him unpresentable.

And then the three of them wrapped Miss Scobie's body in her bedclothes
and laid her in the grave they had dug. While they were doing it, they
were suddenly aware they were not alone - silently coming through the
trees, there was Centime, and Lucien, and the maids and the cook, all the
old lady's servants had somehow heard. Suddenly it was a ceremony, and
Farrant felt a desperate need to do or say something that would make it
truly feel like one. As usual, Krogh stepped up and took responsibility.
He grabbed a handful of the red soil and scattered it down onto the
slight shape in its shroud. 'Miss Scobie was kind and generous to us. She
made us welcome in her house and did everything she could to keep us
safe.'

Querry took his own pinch of soil, threw it down. 'She was a great old
lady,' he said.

It was Farrant's turn. He struggled to find something which wouldn't
sound trite. 'She was our friend,' he eventually whispered.

Then the others took their turn, murmuring in French or the local
language, until it was done. Querry and Krogh set to filling in the grave
properly before they were swallowed by the heat of the day, and Farrant
started walking back to the house. He was suddenly dimly aware he was not
alone - found the maids and the cook trailing him.

'Is there something wrong?'

'Mr Canaan came to the village, said you and the men would need looking
after, same as Miss Scobie, perhaps,' one of the girls said.

'Er - yes, that would be good. Thank you,' Farrant said.

The women beamed at each other and went into the house, and it was only
later that Farrant realised it was hardly a humanitarian gesture; it was
their living, after all. He himself realised that he had something to do
if he was really to feel comfortable in the house. He went up to Miss
Scobie's room. She had had surprisingly few personal possessions and not
many clothes, but it still took him quite a while to put them all away in
the ancient trunk he found in her wardrobe. Maybe it was callous to do
this with her not yet buried, but sentiment was a distant thing, part of
the other world. He kept the thought in mind, cleared the Smiths' room as
well, keeping only those clothes of Mrs Smith's he thought he might
possibly wear. It didn't leave him much and he was surprised to find
himself idly wondering where he could find more in this area.

He lay down on Miss Scobie's bed as the heat mounted. Dimly he could hear
the servants but there was no other movement in the house. With all her
things gone, the room looked fresh and blank, but houses never seemed to
completely forget, Farrant thought. Or perhaps that was just his
imagination. In some way, for him this would always be her house - he
supposed that for her it had always at least in some way been her
parents' house. Did it really matter? Could you measure memory or
sentiment, weigh it, use it to stay alive? He couldn't think how, but the
idea that this made it somehow completely immaterial still disturbed him.

Farrant woke with a start, found the day's heat had abated somewhat. He
still felt thirsty. He went downstairs and found Krogh and Querry just
finishing a meal.

'Any sign of Dallow?' It was becoming a ritual question. Querry shook his
head.

'We should probably tell the staff to be careful around him,' Krogh said.
A moment's silence. 'You've had Miss Scobie's things and the Smiths' put
in one of the outhouses.'

Farrant nodded. 'Yes I did. It wasn't going to achieve anything just
leaving them there, was it?'

Krogh did not disagree. Owen said, 'We found the drinks cabinet broken
into. He must've done it while we were outside this morning.'

'Did he leave anything?'

'Dallow never struck me as a man in control of his appetites,' Krogh
said. 'No, it was empty.'

The thought of the man lumbering around outside somewhere, half-crazed
with alcohol, was not a comfortable one. 'What are we going to do about
him?'

Krogh shrugged. 'I'll try to talk to him, but I'm not inclined to go
looking now. Let him stew for a while.'

'You sure that's safe?'

'He can't have an unlimited supply of liquor,' Krogh said.

'And if something happens to him in the meantime?' Querry asked.

'He beat you unconscious. You know what he tried to do to John. He made
no attempt to help when the bandits came here. Do you really care what
happens to him?'

'Krogh, he's one of us...'

'Your definition is more generous than mine, then,' Krogh said.

Querry gave a vague shrug. 'I'll see you later,' he said, got up, left
them there alone.

Krogh looked at Farrant with one of his thin smiles. 'Do you think I'm
being too harsh on Dallow?'

'Do you think I'm being too harsh about Miss Scobie and the Smiths?'

He nodded. 'I think we understand each other, then.'

This was the moment, Farrant realised, or the beginning of it. 'Let's go
outside. Go for a walk,' he said, trying to keep the urgency from his
voice.

'Any particular reason?'

'Just to look over our new kingdom,' Farrant said, standing up and
smoothing down his dress.

'Maybe best not to get too proprietorial,' Krogh said, but he stood as
well.

They went out into the trees. Farrant could sense Krogh's curiosity, but
he was obviously not going to force the issue. 'I understand now what you
meant when you asked me to be rational.'

'I don't know. Maybe I can be too cold sometimes,' Krogh said.

'I want to do a deal with you. A rational deal,' Farrant said. 'I - here
and now, life isn't about emotion, or history, or what's polite, just
what's - life's just about staying alive, staying safe... Krogh, I want
to be your woman, if you'll have me. If you take care of me - I'll do my
best to make you happy.'

Krogh walked slowly towards him. Farrant dropped his arms to his sides,
forced himself not to step backwards. Then Krogh's hands were at his
waist, and he lifted his chin to accept Krogh's kiss. It was hard and
serious like Krogh himself. Almost involuntarily he twined his arms
around Krogh's neck and shoulders, until the Swede broke the kiss.

'Very well, I'll have you,' Krogh said, a smile playing around the
corners of his mouth.

'Do you have a first name?'

'Erik,' said Krogh. His smile broadened but did not warm. 'Do you?'

'You - you can call me Joanna,' Farrant said.

'All right. Joanna.'

'Now kiss me again.'

*

The mood around the house was oddly subdued at dinner that night, but
then Farrant supposed it was only to be expected. It was not saying too
much to speak of darkness piling upon darkness when thinking of all that
had happened there recently. He himself really had no reason to feel so
assured, so secure, given he had yet to make it through the night to
come. There was still no real sign of Dallow - where could the man be?
What could he be doing, for that matter? It occurred to him he really
should be thinking of other things. Krogh was inscrutable as ever, his
feelings and expectations completely masked. But for all that... Farrant
felt safer now.

'Chess?' Krogh asked after dinner, once Querry had said his goodnights.

'Is that what you really want to play?'

'Well - I would hate to appear presumptuous or demanding - '

'Erik, you don't have to worry about anything like that,' Farrant said,
smiling. 'I know you well enough, I chose you anyway. We did a deal,
remember? I expect to keep my end of it.'

Krogh nodded, stood up and took Farrant's hand. He led him into his room
- their room, now, Farrant thought. He kicked off his shoes and unbelted
his dress, slipped it off. He ran his hands through his hair, saw Krogh
was looking at him with unmistakable appreciation.

'You too, Erik,' Farrant said gently.

Krogh nodded and started to unfasten his shirt. Farrant unhooked his bra
and slipped it off, slid down his panties and sat on the edge of the bed.
He had never felt so naked in his life before, so voluntarily exposed. He
rolled onto the bed, lay down as Krogh finished undressing. He was
already hard and Farrant smiled despite the ragged nervousness sawing
away in his stomach. Krogh came to the bed, touched Farrant on the
shoulder. 'You are trembling,' he said.

Farrant stroked his wrist, smiled. 'I'm not scared.' He parted his legs.
'I'm excited.'

Krogh's mouth came harshly down on his and he surrendered to it
unreservedly, felt Krogh's hands drift across his body, the weight of the
man settle on him, the first electric brush of genitals, the tempo
between them building, and then he gasped and spasmed as Krogh was inside
him, driving at him, an experience so intense and novel he struggled to
assimilate the feeling, he heard himself groaning, moaning, until,
until...

...oh...

And later they lay curled together, quiet, Krogh at least showing no sign
of falling asleep on this occasion. 'I hope you feel you made a good
deal,' Farrant whispered.

He felt a kiss planted precisely on the curve of neck into shoulder.
'Well, you must grant it's a seller's market,' Krogh murmured, but there
was amusement in his voice. 'I have no complaints at this point.'

'I'm glad.'

And sleep crept up to and overtook them both as they lay there together.

==Eleven==

But it took a little longer for Farrant to fully adjust to his changed
situation. He was Krogh's woman now... and absurd as that sentence was,
his self-image had to adapt to it, given that in appearance, clothing and
habits, John Farrant was little more than a ghost, almost wholly erased.
While to begin with he was only Joanna when he and Krogh were being
intimate together, their new intimacy rapidly seemed to bleed out into
every aspect of their lives, until even Querry was routinely calling him
Joanna, and he was replying to it, and to the servants he was 'madame'...
until Joanna was no longer an affection, but simply who she was.

She felt slightly sorry for Owen Querry, isolated as he now was, palpably
not sharing the same closeness of relationship that she and Krogh
enjoyed. There had been no sign of Dallow for days. But, abruptly, news
eventually came of the big man.

Shortly after breakfast nearly a week after they'd buried Miss Scobie,
the alliance car appeared back on the driveway. As before, Canaan and his
soldier companion emerged and made their greetings. They assembled again
in the main room of the house. If the Africans were surprised to find
Joanna there wearing a dress and with her hair loose, they did not show
it.

'I should tell you the legal owner of this property has passed away,'
Krogh said, before Canaan could say anything. 'We are really... well,
squatting here. We have no right to the house.'

'I don't see that being a problem,' Canaan said. 'I suspect Miss Scobie
died without leaving a will, and I doubt any legitimate heirs are even
aware this property exists. In any case, as the intendent I can grant you
the use of it for the time being.'

'Thank you,' Krogh said.

'All right,' Canaan said. 'I have a number of pieces of information for
you. Firstly...' He looked slightly uncomfortable. 'Your companion,
Dallow.'

'We have no affection for the man. You needn't worry about telling us bad
news,' Krogh said.

'Ah.' The man's relief was obvious. 'He was, er, apprehended in a village
near here two days ago. He was drunk and - ah - tried to assault one of
the young women there. Not much more than a girl, really.'

'Bastard,' Joanna whispered, unable to stop herself. She felt Krogh's
hand on hers, giving a gentle squeeze.

'He was held by the villagers until our forces took him into custody.
This area is still under martial law, and given the nature of his
offence, there's no question of his actions being overlooked -'

'Good,' Joanna said. 'He won't be brought back here?'

'No.'

'We're not materially involved in this at all?'

'No. I just thought you would want to know - '

'Thankyou for telling us. I don't think any of us particularly care what
happens to him. He deserves whatever it is,' Krogh said. Even given what
she'd heard concerning the draconian severity of law in the alliance's
territory, Joanna found she didn't disagree in the slightest, though Owen
looked a bit shocked. He would get over it, she thought.

'On a more positive note,' Canaan said. 'The situation in this country
has now become sufficiently settled for us to offer you the chance of
moving.'

'We can go home?' Querry's uncertainty of a moment ago was gone in the
light of this news.

'We are still trying to normalise our relations with many other
countries, so this may not be possible yet. But I am authorised to offer
you the opportunity to live in one of our regional capitals, Yaoundé, a
modern city with all that implies. It still has a small expatriate
community who I'm sure would be very welcoming to you all.'

Querry looked hopefully at them. 'That sounds great,' he said.

Krogh was impassive. Joanna nodded. 'Thank you for the opportunity,' she
said.

'How soon can we go?' Owen asked, looking ready to run out to his
bungalow and start packing.

Canaan seemed amused by his enthusiasm. 'It'll take a few days to make
the arrangements,' he said.

'Is there any other news?' Krogh asked.

'Yes, Mr Krogh, there is, but I thought it would be best if we spoke
privately?'

Querry took the hint, nodded and went out. Joanna took Krogh's hand and
settled back on the sofa next to him. 'I'd like to stay, if I may, Erik.'

Krogh seemed to accept that this was justified. 'You can speak freely in
front of Joanna, Mr Canaan.'

'Well, my superiors have checked your credentials, Mr Krogh. You were not
exaggerating.'

'It's not my style,' Krogh said mildly. 'And?'

'Our army needs training. Our defences need building. Much of this
continent is still dark and godless. The alliance would like to offer you
a position as an advisor to our armed forces with the effective rank of
Colonel,' Canaan said.

'My compensation for my services?'

'Roughly in line with what we initially discussed,' Canaan said. 'You
would be based in this region, at least part of the time. We would give
you the legal rights to this property and pay your servants' wages in
lieu of part of your fee.'

'That seems quite reasonable. I will need to see paperwork, hear from my
banker, and so on,' Krogh said, smiling. 'When do I start?'

'You know how slowly things can move in this part of the world,' Canaan
said. 'Relax for a few days, Mr Krogh - Colonel Krogh,' he corrected
himself. 'I think my superiors will be keeping you very busy for a long
time.'

*

'You got what you came for,' Joanna said, after the officials had gone.
She kissed Krogh lightly on the cheek. 'Congratulations, Erik.'

'Thank you. Good news for all of us, though, surely?'

'Owen seems pleased enough. I don't think he's been comfortable here
since Dallow...' She trailed off.

'I think it was partly our fault, my sweet,' Krogh said. 'But it's over
now, anyway. You can -' He stopped abruptly.

Joanna smiled at him. 'Were you going to say, ''you can get on with your
lives''? My life is - ' she shook her head. 'I don't know.'

'Well, you can make a better life for yourself than here, perhaps,' Krogh
said.

She sat back, sighed. Here, she knew who she was, knew who the people
around her were. The prospect of travelling to an unknown city, with no
idea of really what to expect... she felt the old twinge of nervousness
in her stomach. 'Do you want me to go?'

'It's not my decision, is it?'

'Well, what would be your preference?' She looked at him seriously.

'I - ' He paused.

'Just say what you want. Don't worry about, I don't know, what you think
I feel or want or need - '

'Are you saying you want to stay?'

'I don't know. I don't think I'd want to stay if you didn't want me
here,' Joanna said. The naked emotion of the statement startled her, and
it seemed to hang in the air between them.

Krogh stroked her face. 'I think we are just going round and round in
circles with this conversation. One of us has to be the first to be
honest about - ' He broke off.

'I didn't think you had feelings, only needs.' She felt impatience, anger
flicker within her.

'You know that's not true.' Krogh looked irritable himself. 'Look, stay
if you want to stay.'

'Ask me to stay,' Joanna whispered. 'So I know it's what you want.'

He stood up, walked to the window, hands in pockets. 'I thought this was
to be a rational arrangement.' There was a tight edge of anger in his
voice.

'I don't think men and women can be rational together,' Joanna said. She
got up. 'Erik - '

But he shook his head sharply. She nodded and left him there.

==Twelve==

And now the atmosphere in the house was strained. Krogh was detached
towards both her and Owen - the American seemed to understand something
had happened between them, tried clumsily to make her feel better. Was
her discomfort at the turn of events so obvious? Krogh was right, she
thought, it had been a rational arrangement, nothing more. Was she so
upset that he'd had no real attachment to her? Or was it because she'd
allowed herself to grow so dependent on him?

'For what it's worth,' Querry said hesitantly, finding her sitting
disconsolately in the courtyard one day, 'I don't think he's being
reasonable.'

She looked at him. 'I'm sorry?'

'You shouldn't feel bad, Jo - Krogh's got no right expecting you to stay
here with him, when - '

She closed her eyes, shook her head. 'Owen, that's not it. Look - I
appreciate what you're trying to say, but... I don't want to talk about
it, okay?'

Querry looked puzzled, but nodded and went away.

Joanna was back in the room she'd had as a man, of course - the strained
coldness that existed between her and Krogh made their sharing a bed
impossible. It looked as if their understanding had come to an end anyway.
She wondered what life would be like in the old Cameroonian capital.
Another complete change, but the prospect neither excited or scared her.
It was the future, immaterial, and living in the now had become a habit.
So why was she dwelling on the recent past so much? she wondered.

*

Canaan returned after only a couple of days to finalise the details of
Querry and Joanna's departure. They would collected by land rover the
next day, he announced, ferried to an airfield - maybe even the one
they'd arrived at, weeks earlier, Joanna thought - and then flown even
further south-east down to Yaoundé's own airport.

'Please be ready first thing,' Canaan said, doing a good impression of a
holiday rep on this occasion. 'Do you have any questions?'

Querry shook his head, grinning, while Joanna forced a smile onto her
face. The American went off to start packing in earnest, even though he
had only one small backpack to prepare.

'There will be plenty of opportunity for you to buy appropriate female
clothing in the city,' Canaan said encouragingly, clearly thinking this
must have been troubling her.

'Thank you,' she murmured.

Krogh rapped a little self-consciously on the doorframe and came into the
room. Canaan stood up, almost jumped to attention in fact.

'Colonel Krogh.'

'Mr Canaan.' Krogh hadn't even looked at her, she thought; the
realisation was like a dull blade in her chest. 'I have a few small
questions about the terms of our deal.'

I hope this one goes better for you than the last one, Joanna thought, as
Krogh continued with a few minor queries about money and his exact place
in the chain of command. Then he paused. 'I have one other request to
make,' he said.

'Of course,' Canaan said.

'I would like Miss Farrant to remain here with me,' Krogh said. He turned
and looked at Joanna. 'Always providing she is willing to, of course...'

Joanna found herself physically unable to speak, tiny astonished happy
noises emerging randomly from the back of her throat as she boggled at
Krogh. He smiled at the sight of her.

'I... yes, of course. Yes!' she eventually managed to get out.

Canaan, however, had a troubled look on his face when they both turned
expectantly to him. 'That would be difficult to arrange,' he said.

'Why?' Krogh asked, though something in his tone suggested he at least
suspected the answer.

'The law of the alliance is quite clear about unmarried men and women
cohabiting together,' Canaan said, regretfully. 'In the case of visitors,
such as you have been until this time, we have turned a blind eye... but
Colonel, you will be an employee of the government, a significant
figure... you must be, well, beyond the reproach of your men. I am
sorry.'

Canaan seemed pleased to go, after that, promising to return at first
light with the land rovers that would take them away.

Joanna put her arms around Krogh, kissed him. 'Thank you. Even if you did
avoid asking me to my face.'

Krogh shrugged, put his arms around her. 'It's not easy for me.'

'I know.'

'And if I'd known the alliance would refuse... oh, we've wasted the last
couple of days, my sweet. I'm sorry.'

She smiled, rested her head on his shoulder. 'Don't worry. We have plenty
of time left, although I'm afraid my wedding dress may leave something to
be desired.'

He stared down at her, his turn to be speechless. 'Are you serious?' he
said in the end.

'It's just a piece of paper, just another necessary transaction,' Joanna
said, smiling. 'It doesn't mean that we love each other - doesn't mean
that we don't. But it does mean we can be together, and I think we've
figured out that's what we want, isn't it?'

'You're right, of course. All right,' Krogh said. He looked at her and
smiled a smile wider and warmer than was normal for him. 'My wife. I
didn't come here looking for one - '

'Well, I certainly didn't come here expecting to find a husband,' Joanna
said dryly.

He squeezed her. 'No regrets, though?'

She smiled. 'If you can tell me the weight of a regret, then I'll admit
that the question's important,' she said.

*

They went with Querry as far as the village, then the young American,
alone in the land rover but for the driver, disappeared out of sight.
He'd promised to stay in touch - promised to contact Joanna's friends and
family, too. She wondered what they would make of the news that John
Farrant, the struggling London architect, was now Mrs Joanna Krogh, wife
of a military advisor to the CAA army and mistress of her own estate in
the African bush. Because she was. Thankfully the Church of the Soldiers
of God did not go for overly long or complicated ceremonies, and they
managed to get it pared down still further, to the bare essentials.

Canaan's driver took them back to the house - back home. Krogh had
already had Dallow's possessions disposed of, and they moved into the
main bedroom that night, commemorating the occasion in an appropriate
style - several times, in fact. And as she lay in her husband's arms,
Joanna Krogh wondered which was the real world, the world of power after
all - the realm of flesh, the rational, physical, immediate world she'd
thought she'd adapted to living, or the other world, the one she thought
she'd left behind, where people were in the sway of immaterial,
unquantifiable things. She couldn't tell, for all that she was still
here, the two of them finding themselves connected by something
invisible, untouchable, immeasurable - but also, it seemed, unbreakable.
Maybe there was only really one world after all, and the fault lay inside
people.

And in a day or two Erik went away to begin his work for the army. He
assured her his absences, though frequent, would usually be short. Joanna
hoped so - she wasn't sure exactly how much fonder her heart could
possibly grow of him. But she knew one thing was certain, as she set to
shaping her house and servants to suit her wishes - and that was that
however long he was away and wherever he went, when he returned he would
always find her there waiting for him.

Inbetweener

2011-01-10T12:45:17Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} __TOC__ ==One== They had been shifting the crap for nearly three hours now and Carl was sta…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}
__TOC__

==One==

They had been shifting the crap for nearly three hours now and Carl was
starting to feel the ache deep down in his muscles. He hadn't properly
exercised in years and so he had no idea if the worst of the fatigue
was just down to his poor condition or due to the other thing.

It didn't seem to be bothering his co-worker too much. 'That's what
really pisses me off about these clowns,' said Adrian the Student. 'I
mean, look at Batman, here's a guy who spends his whole life fighting
crime and trying to help people, and then some knob starts bothering
the prime minister, climbing up Windsor Castle, whatever, impersonating
him and being a nuisance. There ought to be a law against dressing up
as a public figure and committing crimes.'

Adrian the Student had been riffing on these lines for the last fifteen
minutes. It sounded like a well-rehearsed routine. Carl picked up
another box of crap and carried it through to the junk room at the back
of the cellar. It would be dark outside by now, but down here the gloom
and dust and must were all-pervasive. He went back to the front
basement, passing Adrian the Student on the way. He wondered if
Shirley's Keith hadn't deliberately stuck them down here together just
to get at Carl even more comprehensively. He doubted it, but only
because Shirley's Keith's capacity for forethought didn't match that
for malice.

'I suppose,' Carl said, grudgingly letting himself be dragged into the
conversation, 'it could be that these guys really believe in their
cause. They've been doing this for nearly years, after all.'

Adrian the Student looked startled. 'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully. 'I
suppose it must be different when you've actually got kids and can't
see 'em.'

'That's the point, I think,' Carl said. He grabbed another box.

There was, literally, no getting away from this guy. 'You got any plans
in that direction?'

Carl felt a warning seismic shift in his disposition, ignored it,
looked sharply at him. 'What are you trying to say?'

Adrian the Student sensed, against all prior form, that he might have
said something unwise, and blinked at Carl. 'Well, you know... it's a
sort of cultural thing, isn't it?'

'Not everyone who can't afford university has as their life's ambition
settling and down and having eight kids before they're thirty,' Carl
said quietly. He put down the box. 'I'm not going to have children.'

'Oh... okay.' The Student dumped his own load. 'Look, I'm going
upstairs for a fag and a slash, all right?' He was clearly nervous.

'All right, but don't take all night about it,' Carl said. 'I want
these finished by nine.' He had no claim to authority in the basement-
clearing line beyond simply being the basement owner's brother-in-law,
but Adrian the Student nodded and trotted off anyway.

It was a crap job, which was probably why Shirley's Keith couldn't get
his own employees to do it. There was also the fact that it was a
distinctly murky enterprise, cash-in-hand, no tax paid, well below
minimum-wage. Only the desperate and students (if that wasn't a
tautology) need apply. He'd considered shopping Keith to the DWP but
had reluctantly concluded that the gigaton-level effect it would have
on family relationships outweighed whatever schadenfreude he would
derive from it. Anyway, he needed the cash until his next signing-on,
and it wasn't as if there wasn't enough shite going down in his own
life just now.

He picked up another box, felt his muscles strain at the effort of it.
It should be this difficult. But then life shouldn't be this difficult.
He felt a strange internal fluttering, breath catching in his throat, a
throbbing round his neck where the marks were still faintly visible if
he took his scarf off. He managed to get the box down before he dropped
it but found himself breathing hard. The rough red-orange walls and
cement floor seemed to be shifting and billowing. He found he was on
his knees with the sound of the tide in his ears, and skewering into
the pit of his stomach was a blade as cold as time that reeked only of
despair.

He swallowed hard but the attack was on him now. Sobbing, he clawed the
little bottle from his pocket and twisted off the cap. The pills
pittered into his hand and he forced them into his mouth. Probably too
many but he didn't care.

Almost at once his breathing got back to normal, and rapidly the world
seemed to recede. As ever, the anxiety attack seemed so irrational
while the pills were working. The whirl of emotion was like an alien
thing. It hardly seemed worth getting so agitated about anything. It
was such an effort to feel at all.

Carl looked over his shoulder and saw Adrian the Student looking
nervously at him. He absently noticed he was still kneeling on the
floor in front of the box.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. Yes I'm fine,' Carl said. He supposed he was. It was hard to
tell. There was a kind of refuge to be taken in having all your
emotions chemically moderated but perhaps there was a sort of cowardice
to it too. But right now he couldn't bring himself to care either way.
He got up. 'Let's get on with this.'

*

They finished at a quarter to ten. Adrian the Student, confidence
restored by what he took to be Carl's placidity, loudly complained that
they'd have been done an hour earlier if Carl hadn't been such a
perfectionist. Carl doubted that, and knew that the slightest trace of
a sloppy job would be pretext enough for Shirley's Keith to try and gyp
them.

Adrian the Student suggested they went for a pint and numbly Carl
agreed. Drinking was supposedly a bad idea given the medication he was
on but he honestly couldn't care about it. The Student put on a
blatantly affected floppy-brimmed hat, which even if it had nothing
else going for it at least performed the valuable public service of
indicating even to people who were out of normal earshot or deaf that
its owner was a complete twat, and took them off to what he described
as a 'habitual boozer'.

To Carl's muted relief they bypassed the Rat and Ratchet, which was a
regular pub of his that thankfully only postgraduates had so far
discovered, and ended up across the road from the campus and next door
to the old cinema. Adrian the Student pronounced it time for serious
drinking to begin and bought himself a Southern Comfort-and-lemonade.
Carl got himself a pint of Bass and stood next to him.

It was getting crowded and hot in the pub. Carl decided to risk taking
his leather jacket off, tied it round his waist by the sleeves. The
heavy fabric resisted the knot and he had to hold it in place with one
hand.

'You got a sore throat or something?' Adrian the Student looked amused
and Carl realised it was because he still had his scarf knotted around
his neck.

'Something,' Carl said. Either the alcohol or the pills or something
else was making the slight hoarseness in this throat more pronounced.
There seemed to be something in his head messing up the thoughts.

Then, with a chorus of shrill squeals and a more air-kisses than London
fashion week, several of Adrian's friends from the media studies course
found them. Listening to his companion talk, shifting a few
hundredweight of boxes from one room to the next was an heroic exploit
equal to the sluicing of the Augean stables. Adrian was obviously cast
in the Herculean role, and Carl wondered where that left him.

And then a girl was looking a bit shyly at him. 'What's your friend's
name, Ade?'

'Oh - ' Adrian the Student seemed to notice him again. 'This is Carl.
Carl, this is Tabitha.'

Carl smiled at her automatically. He noticed with a shock that while
Tabitha did indeed look a bit shy, the bit that was not shy was not
remotely shy at all. She was tall and slim and her curly hair was a
subtle shade of honey. Memory told him she must be very attractive. But
even had he not had his mood artificially stabilised he knew all he
would be feeling was shame and despair. His neck started throbbing and
through the pharmaceutical fug he felt the blade start to twist in the
pit of his belly once more.

'What do you do, Carl?'

'I... I'm not a student. I'm... unemployed,' Carl said. His voice was
rough.

'Oh,' Tabitha said. He could tell that had disappointed her a little
but knew that had he wished it then it could still definitely be Game
On. 'How do you know Ade?'

'We've been doing some work for my brother-in-law.' He sought for
something funny or even just mildly interesting to say, failed. He
settled for a gormless smile.

She returned it emptily and now he knew it was over. Briskly she turned
back to the group. Marshall McLuhan was the topic of discussion and
while Carl knew he was a good deal better read than he looked, this was
a discussion he couldn't have participated in even had he wanted to.
Even had they wanted him in it. He picked up his pint and went over to
the fruit machine.

The clatter of the spinning drums was a brief distraction. But his
vague sense that the inside of his head had come away from its anchor a
bit was only growing. The lemons glowed fiercer than suns, the cherries
like splatters of arterial blood. They spun and rattled and the machine
spoke to him in chiming electronic notes. Occasionally it spat money at
him. He fed it again. Until there was a presence at his shoulder.

'Hold the plums.' The man looked a few years older, late twenties
maybe. His face was lean and relaxed, short hair, small dark eyes.
Retro seventies leather coat, dark jeans, some kind of leather boots.

Carl obliged. The machine chimed its disappointment, volunteered no
money.

The stranger smiled, laughed to himself. 'Sorry, mate.' He took a
mouthful of what looked like whiskey.

'No worries,' Carl said mildly. He played a few more spins in silence
until his money finally ran out.

'Bastards always win in the end, wot?' His new companion grinned a
brief savage grin.

'Yeah, suppose so.'

'Max.' The man stuck his hand out.

'Carl.' The stranger's grip was firm and dry but Carl could sense a
strange fierce nervousness in him. Carl's granddad had kept ferrets and
he remembered they were the same just before being loosed down a rabbit
hole, scenting the hunt.

'Are you at the university, then?' Carl asked after a brief awkward
silence.

'Guilty as charged. Mature student, obviously,' Max said. 'Guessing
you're not?'

Carl nodded. 'How'd you tell?'

Max shrugged. 'You don't look the type. You looked less than delighted
when the pride of the home counties descended on you and your mate over
there.'

'He's not my friend,' Carl said automatically, then looked at Max more
seriously. 'You've been watching us?'

Max put his hands up in mock surrender. 'Sorry. Well, I've been
watching everyone. Bad habit. Sorry.'

'What are you, police?' It was said straight faced but meant half-
jokingly.

'Worse.' Carl looked suspiciously at him. 'Actor,' Max elaborated.

'Didn't think the uni here had a drama department,' Carl said.

'Doesn't, no Gulbenkian dosh to be had in these parts,' Max grinned.
'Closest this hole's got to a theatrical tradition is having that bald
guy off Star Trek as the Chancellor.'

They both smiled at that, Carl a little woozily. 'So what *are* you
studying then?'

'English lit,' Max said. 'Been trying to carve out a second career
thing as a writer, figured I could use some formal study. We're close
enough to Manchester and Leeds here for me to stay in touch and do the
odd job on the quiet.'

'Bet it beats doing black-economy jobs for your brother in law,' Carl
muttered. If Max heard him he didn't respond.

'Guessing this isn't your usual haunt,' Max said eventually. He moved
in front of the machine himself, commenced the feeding ritual.

'Too many posh kids,' Carl muttered. He looked quickly at Max, aware he
might have offended him, but the older man was grinning again. Max
seemed fairly authentically proletarian anyway.

'Damn right. I only came in here cos it was where everyone else off the
course came. I don't know this town too well.'

'How long have you been here?' It was early spring; if Max really was a
student he had to have been here at least five months.

'Yeah, I know,' Max said, understanding his bemusement. Cash clattered
in the belly of the machine. 'I've not been out and about much. Been
seeing someone out of town, spent a lot of weekends away.'

'But she's not on the scene anymore.'

Max nodded, acknowledging Carl's insight. 'So I'm at a loose end. I
haven't met a single real person in this place. Well, present company
excepted.'

Carl accepted the compliment with a tight smile. He'd become rather
cagey around strangers and in recent weeks he had slowly drifted apart
from his remaining friends. But it was a relief to have a conversation
uncoloured by all the shit in his life.

'Not bothering you, am I?' Max asked with a casualness that somehow
didn't quite ring true. 'I just realised I barged over here and started
yapping...'

'It's okay. Honestly. I'm... glad of the conversation. Thanks.'

'You sure? You seem a bit...'

'I'm on medication...' He was surprised at himself for letting this out
to a stranger, but Max nodded.

'I've had a touch of the flu myself. Serves me right for going to KFC!'

Carl smiled and finished his pint. Money clattered against itself,
filling the tray of the machine.

*

At chucking-out time they walked over to one of the kebab houses in the
warren of streets near the railway station, intent of putting some of
Max's winnings to good use. Neither said much, but this was mainly
because out in the street they were both able to smoke. Max smoked a
strong brand that came out of a black packet with a skull on it: that
amused Carl. He was grateful he'd been offered one, it would have been
embarrassing if he'd had to ask for one.

The streets at this time of night were a distinctly dicey proposition,
variously home to chavs, BNP knuckleheads (although the border between
the two inevitably got a bit foggy), and ethnic kids claiming to be
militant Wahabists (though here again it was doubtful whether they
could even spell the word). But the square between the library and the
shopping precinct that overlooked the campus was fairly well-equipped
with CCTV and they sat on the library steps eating their kebabs. A few
shiny-shirted kids went by on the far side of the square, revved up and
clearly off somewhere exciting.

'So what are the clubs round here like, anyway?' Max asked.

'There's the Students Union, which is fine if you like youth club
discos but with cheap pissy beer,' Carl said, smiling sourly. 'Or
there's a place near the station called Callisto's or something like
that, which is usually full of tanked-up housewives pretending they're
still eighteen. There used to be another one down by the health club
but it might have shut, I haven't been paying attention.'

'Nowhere decent, then,' Max said, lighting up another of his skull
cigarettes.

'Not if you like music that wasn't written by a computer, no.' He
shrugged. 'Leeds and Manchester might be a better bet, but you probably
knew that already.'

'Mmm. A mate of mine runs a Northern Soul night over in Chadderton
every couple of months, that's usually pretty good.'

Carl didn't know much about that kind of thing, beyond something to do
with a Marc Almond cover version, but found he didn't want to admit his
ignorance in front of Max. 'Oh yeah?' he said casually.

'Mmm. You want to come next time we go over?'

Carl felt the black weight of reality descending on him again. 'Oh, I
don't know... I'll probably be busy...' he said uneasily. He had tried
not to think about the future too much for the last few weeks.

'What, round here?' Max looked amused rather than offended.

'Oh - I...'

'Look, it's okay, I just thought you might be interested. You seem all
right, you know, I didn't mean to...' Max rolled his eyes, put on an
accent, '...overstep the mark or anything. My mistake.'

'No, it's... I... oh, fuck it. Yeah, why not? If it's in the next
couple of weeks, after that, I...' he shrugged.

'Good man.' Max pulled out a battered mobile, flipped it open. 'Giss
your number, then.'

==Two==

It was gone midnight when he wearily trudged up the street to his
house. To the house his mother shared with Roger, he corrected himself.
The whole town was built in a valley and of course his luck meant that
the trip home was inevitably a trip uphill.

He fumbled his key into the lock and started up the stairs, wondering
why he'd given Max his number. There was no point trying to make
friends in his situation. Must have been the booze, or the combination
of booze and mood stabilizers. He'd have a sod of a headache in the
morning, he realised. Or maybe, he thought, it was just that he'd not
actually gone and enjoyed someone else's company in what felt like an
aeon. Not since before. Not since well before. Still, was that all?

'What sort of bastard time do you call this, then?' Roger's bellow
emerged from the room he shared with Carl's mother, fractured against
the wall of the stairs, and resonated around him.

'The time I come in and go to bloody bed, all right?' Carl shouted
back. The effort hurt his throat. He heard a muffled row start in the
main bedroom and smiled as he went into the bathroom.

One long and immensely satisfying piss later he went into his room and
sat down heavily on the bed. What a night. He tugged off his boots and
socks, threw his jacket in the corner and carefully unwrapped his scarf
from around his neck. He looked in the mirror over his chest of
drawers, pulled his mop of scruffy black hair back out of the way. The
reddish-purple marks around his neck were still faintly visible. On
impulse he pulled his T-shirt off over his head and looked more
carefully at himself.

Yes, he was still getting slighter and softer, though his muscles
seemed to be keeping what tone they possessed even as they shrank. He
had the beginnings of a definite waist and his body was, of course,
almost completely hairless. Even in his face he could see a certain
fragility that was new.

But even the reality of his situation couldn't quite dispel the sense
of wellbeing the evening had generated in him. He stripped off the rest
of his clothes and crawled under the duvet, falling asleep almost at
once.

*

The hammering on his door came just before eight the next morning. He
groaned, clutched his temples.

'Up! Your mother and I are going out in five minutes.'

'Sod off,' Carl muttered under his breath. Naturally Roger wouldn't let
him stay in the house during the day. He might have had his own key but
Roger refused to trust him with the code for the burglar alarm. It was
supposed to encourage him to find a job or move out - and he was sure
his stepfather would prefer the latter. He suspected that were it not
for his condition he would have been kicked out by now already, for all
that his mother fought his corner. He almost wished she didn't, because
Roger clearly resented his pre-eminence in her affections. Why did the
women in his family always fall for such bastards?

Still, he knew the warning was in earnest and rolled out of bed. At
least he didn't need to worry about shaving any more. He splashed cold
water on his face, pulled on a fairly clean t-shirt and shorts, covered
them with jumper, jeans, leather jacket. The scarf to cover his neck,
of course. He was a bit under five minutes but Roger was still standing
impatiently in the hall as he came downstairs, waiting to switch the
alarm on. His mother was out in the street.

'Lazy sod,' Roger muttered as Carl passed him.

'Tosser,' Carl murmured back.

Thankfully Roger and his mum went separate ways almost at once. He
walked alongside her down the hill, sensing her obvious concern for
him, resenting it.

'Don't see why he won't leave me inside on my own,' Carl muttered. He
knew how peevish he must sound.

His mum took his arm, squeezed it. 'You know what he's like,
sweetheart. Besides, maybe he's right - if you're indoors watching
telly all day, you won't have any incentive to get a job.'

'Have you seen daytime TV? Anyway, what kind of job can I get right
now? It's pointless, I'd have to quit in a few weeks anyway.' He looked
sharply at her. 'What happens when my change starts showing? Is he
still going to kick me out every day?'

His mum looked away. 'We'll worry about that when it happens,' she said
quietly.

'Can you not talk to him about it?' he insisted.

'Carl, it's his house. You know how he can be.' She looked rather
miserably at him. 'Please, love, don't make a fuss. For me.'

'Why do you stay with him, mum?' He felt a stab of almost physical
pain, unutterably frustrated.

'Because I've got nowhere else to go, either,' she said. 'And I don't
want to be alone.'

He had no answer to that. They caught the bus to the town centre
together and then parted. He resigned himself to another long day of
hanging around the library and the shops.

*

Days dragged by. Normally relations between Carl and his stepfather
recovered a bit after a bust-up but this time the chill seemed
permanent, for all his mum's efforts. He resigned himself to spending
empty days in town and empty nights up in his tiny room. Not for the
first time, he was grateful for the numbing sanctuary his medication
allowed him. Perhaps he was becoming addicted to oblivion.

Then, one night, tennish, his phone bleeped. He didn't recognise the
number. He took the call. 'Hello?'

'Hiya, is that Carl?'

'Yeah, who's this?'

'It's Max. We met in the pub, the other week, dunno if you remember...'

'Course I do.' A thrill of energy seemed to infuse him. Thank Christ
he'd kept the phone charged. 'What's up?'

'That Soul night over in Chadderton... there's one this weekend, if you
still want to come.'

'Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great,' Carl heard himself saying. He was
suddenly glad he'd refrained from blowing all the cash Shirley's Keith
had reluctantly stumped up for the box-shifting job. Shirley's Keith
and Roger got on really well, of course.

'Top man.' Max sounded pleased. 'Tell you what, I'll see you in Yates'
about six on Saturday night , all right?'

'Right,' Carl said. He suddenly realised he might be displaying
unfashionable levels of excitement and relief over the prospect of a
simple night out, but Max seemed not have noticed - and he'd hung up
now anyway.

He rolled over onto his back on the bed, realised he was smiling like a
wanker. It's not that big a deal, he told himself. Not that big a deal.

*

They met up in Yates', had a pint, then walked over to the station for
the train to Greater Manchester. Max looked as laconic as ever in much
the same outfit as he'd worn on their first meeting. The nights were
drawing out and it was still quite light.

'So what's with the scarf, then? Fashion statement or something?' Max
sounded casual enough.

'Oh, no.' Carl put a hand to it instinctively. It was definitely
unseasonable clothing now. The marks had almost gone, but if anything
the rough edge to his voice was getting worse. That was beginning to be
a worry. 'It's a... a long story.' He felt another flutter of alarm,
was grateful he'd packed his medicine, realised he didn't want to spend
this night a zombie.

Max nodded, accepted that. He offered Carl a skull cigarette. 'Been up
to much?'

'Nothing,' Carl confessed. 'No chance, no money, no -' he stopped
himself.

Max put his head on one side quizzically, but they were queuing for
tickets now and not alone. When they were out on the platform waiting
he smiled. 'No chance, no money, no friends?'

'You're good at that,' Carl said sullenly.

'What?'

'Guessing.'

Max shrugged. 'Naturally lucky sod, man, what can I say? Being lucky is
the best luck in the world.'

'Cute.' Carl leaned out, looking down the tracks for the train. A small
crowd of people all heading into the city had assembled. 'And being
unlucky?'

'That's really unlucky. I'm serious,' Max said. 'A guy with crap talent
and a lot of luck will always get further than one with a lot of talent
but crappy luck.'

'You should write that down.'

'One day I will,' Max said with a smile.

The train appeared and they filed on board, grabbing two seats opposite
each other. Carl found he wasn't keen to talk about his own situation
any more and to deflect the conversation he said, 'So you're an actor?'

Max waggled his head. 'Occasionally.'

'Done anything I might have seen?'

The older man shrugged. 'Did an episode of The Bill, but you know what
they say - one of those comes free with your Equity card. Most of my
stuff's been on stage. I've done a few bits and pieces for Alan
Ayckbourne over in Scarborough.'

'Oh yeah,' Carl said sagely. He ignored the grin that Max was trying
his best to repress.

'Just didn't fancy the nine to five, that's all. Can't understand
people who spend most of their lives doing stuff they get nothing out
of but the money. Listen to me, I sound like a hippy.'

'No, I know what you mean,' Carl said. He recounted a few of his own,
inevitably brief experiences in paid employment. 'But there aren't any
jobs round here any more. The pits shut years ago and now the factories
are going the same way.'

'You want to get the fuck out of Dodge, man,' Max said, looking out of
the window at the smeary orange blobs that were the only sign of
civilisation.

'Easier said than done.' He felt the darkness upon him and sank a
little lower in his seat.

'Hey.' Max nudged his shin gently. 'Turn that frown upside down, fella.
We're here to get away from all that.'

*

The club was maybe fifteen minutes walk from the station. Although it
had been a fine day there was a threatening nip in the air and Carl's
scarf suddenly didn't look quite so out-of-place. Max led him to a
shabby looking-pub on a council estate, rejoicing in the name of the
Shoulder of Mutton. The Soul Happening was in a function room at the
back. It was already part full of a varied bunch of vaguely boho
looking types. Music was playing, heavy on horns and percussion.

Max went up to the guy behind the decks, who looked to be in his early
thirties, with manic hair and Lennon specs. 'Heya, Birdy.'

'All right, Max.' The two bumped fists, semi-ironically Carl thought.
Max indicated him, hanging a step back. 'This is Carl. Carl, Birdy.'

'All right,' Carl said. Birdy smiled in response, looked at Max.
Something seemed to flash between them, a rapid exchange of looks and
faint gestures, too fast for him to properly follow. Max looked around
the room. 'Where's Doug?'

'He's buggered his knee, can't walk,' Birdy said.

'How'd he manage that?'

Birdy shrugged. 'You remember Ross? He's getting wed, invited Doug on
his stag weekend. They all went snowboarding up in Scotland.'

Max raised his eyebrows. 'Reckon I can guess the rest.'

'Well, things were all right to begin with,' Birdy said, 'but pretty
soon it all went rapidly downhill.'

'Jesus,' Max rolled his eyes, looked at Carl apologetically. 'I don't
actually consider this guy a friend, by the way.'

Carl grinned, at the terrible joke and his friend's response to it.
'Maybe you should write that one down as well one day. I'll get them
in, what do you want?'

'Black velvet, please,' Max said. Birdy had one on the go already and
shook his head. Carl left them talking and went to the bar.

As the room slowly filled the tempo and volume of the music Birdy was
playing increased. Soon couples and singletons were quietly starting to
dance to it unselfconsciously. As ever, an invisible tipping point was
reached and suddenly there were more people dancing than looking on.
The energy and atmosphere were infectious and Carl found himself unable
to resist joining in, moving to music he knew nothing about, surrounded
by total strangers. Some mob spirit had possessed them all, transmitted
by horns and keyboards and guitars and the high pure vocals. A few
classic mainstream soul numbers slipped into the mix: Otis Redding,
James Brown, Aretha. He found himself blissed, but also suddenly hot
and crowded.

The side door of the room had been left ajar and opened onto the back
of the pub. Carl slipped outside and leaned against a pile of empty
crates. It must be getting on for midnight. The air was bracingly
chill. He leant back and enjoyed the moment. On an impulse he loosened
his scarf, undid the knot so it hung around his neck.

'You're having a good time, then.' Max had come out, was next to him.
'Sorry, man, I didn't mean to abandon you like that. Birdy's an old
mate, and there are other guys here...'

'That's okay. It's... I'm enjoying myself.' Carl took a skull cigarette
from the pack Max was proferring, lit it. He took a deep nicotine
breath and grinned into space.

'Your screws do seem a bit less wound up,' Max agreed. He took a drag
on his own smoke. 'You okay drinking and smoking with your medicine?'

'What? Oh... I haven't needed it tonight. I just get a bit depressed
sometimes. Anxiety attacks. I do stupid things when I'm not calm.'
Instinctively he put a hand to his throat - a reflexive gesture, but
one Max clearly noticed.

'Jesus, your neck,' he said. Carl flinched, tried to turn away, but Max
was gently moving his shielding arm aside and peering at his flesh. 'Is
that what I think it is?'

Carl stared at the tarmac between his feet, felt a prickling in his
eyes. 'Yeah, probably. I just lost it one night, went crazy. It's
amazing what you can do with an old skipping rope and your household
banisters. Or what you can really fail to do if you're as skilled at
fucking things up as I am. Just my luck my stepdad forgot his keys for
once and came back in to get them just as I was...' He shook his head,
looked away, sniffed.

'That wasn't bad luck, mate,' Max said gently, clasping his shoulder
lightly. 'Nothing of the sort. You're okay now, though?'

'They let me out the hospital, equipped with enough pills to stun an
army, so they must think so,' Carl said. 'The marks are taking forever
to fade.'

'Stuff the marks. At least you're still here. Your situation does seem
pretty bad, but... it can't be so bad that you're better off topping
yourself, you know?'

Carl blinked, smiled at him. 'You reckon?' He took a deep breath, stood
up before Max could reply. He dropped the cigarette and ground the lit
end under his boot. 'Let's get back in there. We're here to get away
from all that, remember?'

*

They danced and drank until the last possible minute and had to run all
the way to the station for the last train home, laughing as they raced
down streets that suddenly seemed to have been dusted with diamonds as
the frost set in, their steaming breath stretching behind them like the
contrails of a jet plane.

They stumbled aboard the train just as it was pulling away and flopped
into seats, breathing hard, high on life. Someone who'd enjoyed himself
a bit too much was unconscious across from them but otherwise there was
no-one else in sight.

'So,' Max said when he'd got his breath back, 'what do you think?'

'That,' Carl decided, chuckling, 'was a hell of a night out. Thanks,
Max. Really.'

Max shrugged. 'No problem. I'll give you a bell when it's time for the
next one.'

'Ah.' Carl looked down at the seat, across the carriage. 'Yeah.'

'What's up?'

'I probably won't be able to make the next one. Stuff going on.
Personals,' Carl said. 'Also I could only afford tonight cos Keith
offered me some dodgy work, and there's no guarantee of that happening
every month.'

Max looked sour. 'Shit. I hate to say it, but you seem like a guy more
in need of a social life than most.'

'Maybe. Like I said, just my luck,' Carl said. 'Sorry.'

'Come to think, I need some decent company myself,' Max said. Carl was
allowing himself a smug little glow inside at the compliment when Max
went on. 'Okay, but you can still go out round town once in a while,
right? No train fare, no entry money required.'

Against his better judgement, Carl said, 'Yeah, suppose so.' He knew
this could only end badly when his condition inevitably became
apparent, but it was surely folly to prematurely turn his back on
whatever vestige of a normal life he could maintain. 'Yeah.'

'So I'll give you a ring. We'll do a couple of pubs or whatever,' Max
suggested. 'You can cope with that, can't you?'

Carl put an ironic grin on his face. 'Should be able to,' he said.

==Three==

The following Thursday they were in the Old Steam Pig, a fairly quiet
pub across the canal from the town centre. They'd inadvertently come
along on quiz night and were unofficially trying their hand at
answering the questions. Max made it clear this was because actually
competing and trying to win would look deeply uncool. Carl pointed out
that he should also bear in mind that if two young men who looked like
students were to come into a pub like this one and win the quiz from
under the noses of the locals, it would probably result in them both
being beaten to death.

'This lot don't seem that keen,' Max said, sotto voce. He looked around
a bit disdainfully, supped at his pint.

'They're probably more interested in the side competition.'

'?'

Carl explained than in addition to the main quiz there was a second
prize for what was officially the Funniest Wittiest Team Name (as
decided by the landlord). Max was mildly impressed by the creative
aspect of this until he learned the winner of this award on Carl's last
visit was the team entitled Posh Spice Takes It Up The Shitter.

'Wit ain't what it used to be,' Max said drily.

'Round here it never was,' Carl said. He relaxed into his seat, his
jacket slung over the back of it. He wasn't wearing his scarf, but was
now mildly concerned by the way his adam's apple seemed to be being
swallowed up by the flesh of his increasingly slender neck. The
quizmaster boomed out another question. 'Reckon the answer to that's
Steven Soderbergh,' he said.

'Yeah,' Max nodded. He glanced sidelong at him. 'For someone who didn't
finish his A-levels you know a hell of a lot more than I'd've thought.'

'I don't have qualifications - doesn't mean I'm stupid,' Carl said with
a fierce grin. 'I spend most of my days hanging round the library,
remember?'

Max nodded, accepted that. 'You've got to get out of this place, son,
before it eats you alive or you go mental and - shit, I'm sorry. I
didn't mean...' He looked away, obviously disgusted with himself.

'It's okay. I know what you mean.' Carl squeezed Max's wrist, tried to
show he wasn't bothered. 'It's easier said than done, though.'

*

Another night, another set of pubs. They ended up back at Max's flat on
the edge of the town centre. It was up a flight of steps, above a
disused shop. It had a tiny kitchen and a smaller bathroom, but was
mostly just the one big room. There was a bed in one corner, a couple
of mangy armchairs and a table. Most of the rest of it was filled with
books and CDs and piles of clothes. Carl, here for the first time,
looked around in fascination.

Max lit a handmade cigarette and a familiar tangy scent filled the
room. Carl grinned and accepted it, took a seat in one of the chairs as
his friend fiddled with the CD player. Despite his limited experience
of recreational narcotics (this due more to lack of resources than any
moral objection) he immediately knew this to be quality stuff.

'Good shit,' he said, handing the joint back to Max. Delicate sounds
came out of the speakers and someone started to sing about Sunday
mornings. He coughed a bit; the drugs were making his voice a bit
shrill. At least, he hoped it was the drugs.

'Certainly hope so,' Max said, drawing the smoke into his lungs.

'Foreign?'

Max chuckled to himself. 'I doubt it. Certainly not Acapulco Gold -
more like Accrington Brass.'

'Accrington Brass.' Carl giggled. They sat there in silence, passing
the joint back and forth and listening to the increasingly unearthly
music. As angular guitar competed with a shrieking violin and a terse
singer told them of his shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather, Carl
looked over at Max, stretched out on his bed, eyes shut, seemingly
oblivious. He felt a sudden rush of fierce affection for his friend -
gratitude, loyalty, warmth, and...

He shook his head. Had to be the drugs. He was tripping when he should
be mellow. He gripped the arms of his chair, conscious of the sudden
cold sweat on his palms. Fighting back his alarm he forced himself to
his feet. 'I should be getting off.'

Max opened his eyes, looked vaguely startled. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah, it's getting late.'

'You can crash here if you like,' Max said, sitting up. 'I've got a
spare blanket somewhere, it'll save you being kicked out of bed by your
dad first thing tomorrow...'

'Stepdad,' Carl corrected automatically. 'No, no, I should go. My
mum'll worry,' he said, struggling for an excuse.

Max smiled a bit at that. 'Fair enough. We still on for Friday night?'

'Er -yeah, why not,' Carl said, swallowing hard. He picked up his
jacket and looked awkwardly at Max for a moment, almost expectant but
not sure of what. 'Give us a call.'

'Sure will. Seeya.'

'Seeya.' Carl clattered down the stairs, stomach clenching and
unclenching. Oh, God, please let it be just a drug thing. It was too
soon for anything else, and especially not with Max...

*

But it seemed otherwise, and it was with a sinking sense of despair
that Carl realised that he'd for some time been looking forward to the
company rather than the activity in his social life. Objectively, it
was perfectly understandable: his orientation had always been likely to
change, and Max was very attractive on a number of levels: looks,
attitude, style, background. It didn't make it any easier to cope with.

Their next few nights out were excruciating: he couldn't deny the
strength of his attraction to his friend and the pleasure he derived
from his company - but it was equally impossible to ignore the pain of
knowing Max hadn't the slightest clue about how Carl really felt.

His other, more concrete problem was his throat. The marks had finally
vanished but the roughness in his voice had turned first into a soft
huskiness and then into plain softness as it crept up the register.
Sounding unambiguously male was now a definite effort, and distracted
as he often was when he was with Max, he frequently slipped. If Max
noticed he said nothing. Carl was grateful for that at least.

*

A day spent washing Shirley's Keith's fleet of delivery vans gave him
the cash to be able to afford another trip away. They'd just missed the
latest Soul Happening, and Carl knew he probably wouldn't be able to
keep his secret hidden until the next one, so he suggested they had a
trip over to Manchester. Max agreed.

Spring was showing signs of metamorphosing into summer as they strolled
the streets of the city. Max took them to a favourite old record store
of his, Vinyl Destination, but couldn't find anything that he really
liked the look of. Carl found plenty but of course couldn't really
spare the cash. When Max insisted on buying him a couple of discs he
resisted, but not exactly whole-heartedly. In the end he accepted the
gift - they were Northern Soul, a reminder of how things had once been
in his life.

They walked back to the centre and ended up in a swanky pub between
Piccadilly and the UMIST campus. Faintly visible through the window
Carl could see a couple of army recruiters doing their best to entice
the weekend crowds to consider a change of career.

'You no like-a,' Max said. It was a statement: Carl hadn't realised his
distaste was so clearly displayed on his face.

'No. We get them back home as well. Cunts,' he said.

'I've seen them. Khaki boys with feathers in their hats. Don't take
sweets from strangers, kids. Or uniforms,' Max said. 'They've had a try
at you?'

'Used to. They tend to go for teenagers now.'

'You'd better hope they don't bring the draft back in for a few more
years.'

'You reckon that'll happen?'

Max shrugged. 'The world going the way it is, could be. Big chunks of
it are just turning into a meat grinder for poor western kids.'

'Shirley went on an anti-war march back when it all properly kicked
off,' Carl said. 'She was political back then.'

'You didn't go?'

He laughed. 'Give us a break, I was only about eight, I didn't even
know where Iraq was. You wouldn't believe the rows she had with my dad
about it.' He stared into his drink. 'We had rows but I think we were
all happy. Even if my dad's ideas were...' He shook his head, annoyed
with himself.

Max clapped his shoulder. 'Don't worry about it. I can never get that
angry - those guys who started it may have colossally fucked up the
world but I genuinely think they meant for the best.'

'The road to hell is paved with good intentions?'

'Something like that, yeah,' Max nodded. He looked levelly at Carl,
smiled. 'You don't agree.'

'You know I said I don't have any friends? Well I never had many, and
some of them listened too long to the recruiters round town. Off they
went to the Royal Yorkshire Regiment...'

'And never came back,' Max said. He looked away impassively.

'One did. Well, some of him.' Carl laughed. 'Christ, this is getting
heavy!' He tried to laugh again, found he couldn't even fake it.

'What happened to your other mates?'

Carl scratched at the back of his head. He stared town at the tabletop,
the patina scored with rings and scratches from a thousand drinks.
'There's... stuff going on, in my life, recently. It makes it difficult
for me to have friends.'

'I've noticed,' Max said.

'No, you don't understand... I can't explain it... it's just the way it
is.' He looked up, met Max's gaze, felt a sudden ache inside. 'I... I
can't... I can't be your friend anymore, Max. I'm sorry. I can't
explain, it's just the way it is.' He shut his eyes, looked down,
looked up again and opened them. Max's face was flintily enigmatic.

'Do you a deal,' Max said.

'What?' Carl said, not comprehending.

'I'll do you a deal. I'll make you a bet and if I win you forget all
that crap you just said and we carry on hanging out like before, okay?'

'What kind of bet?'

'I bet I can guess what's got you so screwed up,' Max said. He picked
up his drink, swigged confidently at it.

Carl blinked. Were there enough signs for Max to figure it out,
considering his legendary good fortune? And, if he knew already, was
there any point in ending their friendship to preserve a secret that no
longer existed? He realised his resolve was quavering anyway, now that
he was at the point of decision.

'All right,' Carl said, and suddenly realised this was one bet he was
hoping to lose.

'Okay. Bet's a bet.' Max extended a hand and they shook, firmly.

'Go on then,' Carl said nervously.

'Dead easy,' Max said. 'You've got the ladyflu. Or Acquired Progressive
Feminisation Syndrome, whatever you wanna call it. Upshot's the same
either way, you're turning into a girl.'

'Fuck,' Carl said. He felt the strength draining out of him, sat back.
'How...?'

Max grinned, counted off points on his fingers. 'Since I've met you
you've never shown a single trace of stubble, no matter what hour of
the day or night. Unheard of in an unemployed bloke your age. When you
take your jacket off, the hair on your arms is really, really thin.
Your voice has gone up nearly an octave since we met. Your face has
changed a bit too, though not much. And in the pub the night we met,
that student girl tried to pick you up and you blew her out, but it
looked like it broke your heart to do it. A gay guy wouldn't have felt
such a sense of loss.'

'So... hang on...' Carl rubbed his head, confused. 'You've known all
along? Since we met? Since before we met?'

'Yeah,' Max said.

'Doesn't it freak you out? Disgust you?'

'No. I must not be like your friends or stepdad,' Max said with a thin
smile. 'Look, I know a bit about it, I know it's not your fault. As far
as I'm concerned an all right person is an all right person, whether
they're male, female, or in transition from one to the other. I suppose
I must have felt sorry for you, if you must know...'

Carl shook his head, unable to take it in. 'Why didn't you say?'

'You were trying to cover it up. I didn't want to embarrass you. You've
had enough grief from this thing already. It was cos of the flu you
tried to hang yourself, wasn't it?'

Carl nodded. 'Couldn't face it.'

'You'll manage fine. I've seen others do it. So anyway,' Max went on,
'I win the bet, right? You forget all this crap about becoming a
recluse?' He grinned.

Carl couldn't help grinning back. 'All right, you win. But... I'm
finding bits of this really difficult to deal with. I'm scared I'll do
or say something that seriously pisses you off or freaks you out.'

'I don't scare easy,' Max said in a cod-heroic accent. 'Look, son,
relax. I've got your back no matter what crazy shit you get up to.'

'Thanks,' Carl said. He felt his eyes stinging again, looked down at
his feet.

Max got up. 'Anyway, glad we got that out of the way. What are you
drinking?'

==Four==

He was back in Manchester later that week. Home wasn't big enough to
warrant a dedicated APFS counselling centre so he trundled off to the
city once a month for a check-up and a session with the shrink. It was
a nice change to be able to go there with some positive news for once -
he'd not had an anxiety attack in nearly a fortnight, his social life
had reappeared virtually from nowhere, and he did generally feel better
about himself. Of course, there was the skipload of emotional turmoil
his friendship with Max was generating... rather shyly he confessed his
feelings to the counsellor. She hadn't much definite to offer by way of
help but telling it to someone was a bit of a relief.

He emerged from the office feeling fairly cheery, went off to reception
to claim the money for his train ticket back. The receptionist was a
blonde woman about twice his age, nicely dressed, tiny metal cross
around her neck. He handed over his receipt for scrutiny, found she was
looking at him with a faintly troubled expression.

'Were you in town this Saturday just gone?' she asked.

Carl nodded. 'Yeah, I was. Why...?'

'Can I have a word?' She turned to her co-worker, smiled. 'I'm just
going on a break.'

Out back was a small garden with a bench. A pile of dog ends revealed
what the office staff normally came here to do. The woman lit a
cigarette of her own, didn't offer one to Carl. Typical, he thought.

'So?' he said eventually.

'I saw you in the city centre. You were with David.'

'Er... no. Sorry, missus.' He grinned with sudden relief. 'Must've been
someone else.'

'I'm sure it was you. You were coming out of a pub with David Maxwell.'

'Maxwell...' He felt the grin drain from his face. 'What about it?'

'You do know about him, don't you?'

'What about him?' He stared hard at her.

'He... he's a predator. He gets off on befriending men who are going
through the change, then as they transform he seduces them. He's
notorious in this city for it.'

'Jesus...' Carl stared across the garden.

'It's like some kind of fetish. There's a support group for people like
you in Manchester... it meets in one of the colleges in the evening. I
help with the running of it. There was a drama class happening there
the same night, and Maxwell was doing some teaching for it. As soon as
he found out about our group, he started hanging around during the
breaks. At one point he was seeing three men with various stages of
APFS. As soon as they became ostensibly female he would drop them and
move on to the next. That man's the devil, Carl. I thought I should
warn you, before...'

'Yeah,' said Carl, distantly. 'Thanks... he's actually got a thing for
people having the change?'

'Yes. They don't even have to look that feminine,' the receptionist
said, wrinkling up her nose. 'It's disgusting, isn't it?'

'Yeah,' Carl said. He felt slightly stupefied by this revelation.
'Thanks again.'

The woman smiled sweetly. 'Glad to be able to help,' she said.

*

'What's up with you?' Max put their drinks down on the table. They were
back in the Old Steam Pig. 'You've been... I dunno... weird, all
evening.'

Carl shrugged. He couldn't deny the nervous tension charging his body.
He supped at his pint. 'I don't know,' he lied.

Max sat down opposite him. 'How you doing anyway?'

Carl grinned at him. 'How do you mean?'

Max shrugged evasively. 'Just generally.'

'Same as usual, I suppose,' Carl said. 'You?'

'Pretty much,' Max said. He stirred his drink with a finger, realised
Carl was watching him. 'What?'

'Ahhh...' Carl felt a nervous flutter in his chest and throat, glanced
at his watch. 'I had a counselling session the other day.'

'Yeah? How'd it go?'

'Pretty average. But... I did meet somebody who knows you...'

'Doubt that,' Max said, laughing.

'...David,' Carl finished his sentence. Now it was Carl's turn to smirk
at the look on the other man's face. He tried to recover the situation.

'Who?'

'Come on, Max, you're good but you're not that good,' Carl said,
smiling. 'She told me the score.'

Max looked slightly bilious, nodded. 'Fair enough,' he said curtly,
downed the rest of his pint. 'Looks like I'm not so lucky after all.
All the best, then. Sorry to have mucked you about.' He stood up and
strode quickly for the door.

'Shit,' Carl muttered. He knocked back another mouthful of Bass,
grabbed his jacket and ran for the door himself. Max was already a way
off, striding down the hill towards the centre of town.

'Max, wait! Don't be so stupid!' He ran after him, jacket flapping in
the warm evening air. 'Max! For Christ's sake -' He caught him up,
grabbed his shoulder.

Max spun round with surprising violence, jabbed a finger at him. 'I
don't need sermons and I don't need your fucking understanding either,'
he said. 'I didn't ask to be the way I am or want the things I want,
all right, so you can stop looking down at me that way. I said I was
sorry and I'm not going to bother you again, okay? So you can just piss
off into your life and I'll piss off into mine. Agreed?'

Carl just looked at him, smiling, surprised. 'Max... I'm the last
person who should be pointing the finger at someone and calling them
weird... I'm not angry with you. Like you said - an all right person is
an all right person, no matter if they're straight or gay or bi
or...whatever fucked up thing it is that you are.'

Max looked away. 'Maybe I'm not an all right person.'

'I've been given the warning,' Carl said. 'I'm an adult, I can make my
own choices.'

Max looked hard at him. 'What is it you're saying?'

'Oh Jesus.' Carl stepped closer, put his hands on Max's shoulders.
'Just shut up and kiss me, will you?'

He felt Max's arms suddenly tight around his waist, pulling them
together, and shut his eyes, leaning back his head to accept the kiss.
It felt like... well, it felt like being kissed, which was always
great, obviously. But to be kissed with such obvious urgency and
desire, well, that was a different thing. He slipped his hands round
Max's neck, stroked the short coarse hairs there. He felt desire
surging between his thighs and prickling across his chest, trapped,
caught in a body lacking either male or female means of expression.

He pulled back, broke the kiss. They smiled at each other. Max showed
no signs of releasing his embrace.

'Come on, darling, let go of me,' Carl said, patting Max's shoulders.
The d-word was alien on his tongue but it felt good to say it. 'I can't
think of anyone round here who we'd want to catch us like this.'

Max sighed, nodded, dropped his arms. 'You're right. What now?'

Carl shrugged, put his head on one side. 'We take it as it comes,' he
said. 'What's the rush?' He turned and started down the hill into town,
looked over his shoulder expectantly. Max ran to catch up. After a few
paces Carl felt Max's hand take his. He let it happen. Feeling a glow
of excitement, he walked down the hill with the man he realised he
would have to start thinking of as his boyfriend.

==Five==

Things carried on as before for a while. Just getting it out in the
open relieved a huge amount of Carl's stress and tension, and he
realised he was less confident of what he really wanted than he had
thought. They saw each other three or four nights a week now that he
felt less awkward about letting Max pay the lion's share of the bills.
He did his best to hide his newfound contentment at home, but they
inevitably noticed. They didn't mention it, but he wouldn't have talked
about it even had they enquired. The fact it was a secret made it more
precious somehow.

It gave an added frisson to the stolen kisses and quick, hidden
displays of affection which were all they could manage when they were
out in town together. Most of the time they were the same as they'd
ever been, just two friends trawling the pubs and takeaways of a shabby
northern town. But sometimes in the queue for a burger or kebab they
would catch each others' eye and share a tiny, special smile, one born
of the fact that they knew nothing no-one else in the world knew.

But as time passed and Carl felt the changes in his body and mind
continue, he realised that he had not been mistaken. His body was not
deceptive, in that one respect at least. The prospect terrified him,
but he had spent enough time in the pall of dark emotion. He found he
wanted to get ahead of the game and do something from choice, rather
than out of resignation.

And so when, one night after a few drinks, Max casually suggested they
go back to his flat for a few more, Carl found his initial reaction was
a mixture of fear and relief and a nervous prickling in the pit of his
belly. He was quiet on the walk from the pub, wondering how this might
play out. Max seemed subdued too, perhaps thinking the same thing.

It certainly seemed that way, as as soon as the door at the bottom of
the stairs swung to they were in each others' arms with neither
entirely sure who had initiated it. Carl felt the wall against his back
as he wrapped his arms around his man, closing his eyes and kissing him
long and hard. It was the first kiss since their first that had had the
opportunity to truly ripen. He felt his heart pounding and gasped for
breath as Max broke, only to almost at once start hungrily kissing at
his cheek and neck, running his hands through Carl's now-longish dark
hair. He hugged him close and swallowed hard.

'I had no idea you were so eager,' he whispered.

Max paused in chewing on his ear. 'I didn't know how ready you were for
it,' he said.

Carl smiled broadly and sinfully at him. 'Do you mean my state of mind
or the state of my cock?'

Max inclined his head noncommittally. 'Either. Both.' He raised his
eyebrows quizzically, clearly expecting a response.

Carl smiled again, brushed past him, started up the stairs to the flat,
not bothering to conceal the sway of the hips his walk had begun to
develop. He heard Max following.

Up in the flat he threw his jacket in the corner. Beneath it he wore a
scruffy grey shirt, black t-shirt, dark jeans and boots. It was getting
quite warm to be wearing two shirts and a jacket, even at night, but it
helped conceal the shape of his body when out and about.
Counterproductive, now, he thought, and idly popped a few buttons open.

'Drink, Accrington Brass, both?' Max enquired casually, hanging up his
own coat.

'Just a drink. You choose,' Carl said, crouching by the CD player.
Music throbbed: the Pixies pounding out Monkey Gone To Heaven.

After a few minutes Max handed him a mug. It looked and smelt like
coffee, but the aftertaste was vaguely fruity and it kicked hard.
'What's in this besides the instant?' he asked.

Max took a gulp. 'Rum. An old girlfriend was a sucker for it. The
hangover can be a bit of a bastard though.'

'Tomorrow can look after itself,' Carl said. He watched as Max sat down
in one of the chairs, smiled, sashayed over deliberately and slid
himself into his lap. They listened to the music, drank their drinks,
and then were embracing again. Carl felt his fingers rasp over Max's
stubble, felt the wiry muscles of his arms and back. He himself could
feel Max delicately exploring the real contours of his body. He
squirmed a bit with pleasure.

Before they knew it, it was well past midnight. Max made a little
clicking noise in his throat, disengaged Carl's arms from round him.
'It's late. We should think about getting you home,' he said.

'If you say so,' Carl said, wriggled against him. He smirked fiercely
at Max's expression. 'Do you really want me to go?' He leaned down and
kissed him, hard and serious.

Max smiled back, but it was guarded somehow. 'You don't have to do
this,' he said, eyes flicking round the room.

Carl slipped off him, walked towards the bed. He turned around, started
unlacing his boots. 'I know, that's part of why I want to.'

'I'm serious,' Max said. His hands were resting lightly on the arms of
the chair but Carl could see the tension in his shoulders as he watched
him take his shoes and socks off.

'Yeah, right,' Carl said lightly. He finished unbuttoning his shirt,
let it slip to the floor. 'This is what you've wanted ever since we
met. This is what you were thinking of from the moment you picked me up
in that pub. Isn't it?' He started on his belt and fly.

Max swallowed visibly, sat forward in his seat. He opened his mouth to
say something, shut it again. His hand skittered nervously to his brow,
across his scalp.

Carl smiled. 'You can't deny it.' He stepped out of his jeans, kicked
them away. The flat was not that warm and he felt a frisson of
nervousness. Before it could ripen into something else he pulled his t-
shirt off over his head. It was strangely intoxicating to surrender
himself this way, to put himself in his man's power. He looked at Max,
mesmerised by his slender limbs, slight frame, budding breasts, and
realised the other man was just as helpless in his own way.

Max stood up, took a step towards him and the bed. Carl felt his heart
leap in his chest, frightened, exhilarated. He slipped his thumbs into
the waistband of his briefs and after only a second's hesitation slid
them down and off. Naked, he slid onto the bed, coyly shielding the
chaos between his legs with one arm. 'Come on then, lover. What are you
waiting for?'

With quick, fierce movements Max stripped. He was already hard. And
then they were together on the bed, lost to reason and consideration.
They were both out of control, Carl thought hazily. Up until now he had
still basically regarded himself as male but that would very obviously
have to change now. The tip of Max's cock brushed across his belly and
he found himself quivering and moaning.

One of Max's hands slid up between his thighs and he parted his legs.
Then he felt the touch upon the wadded flesh that had once been his
sack - with the possible exception of what remained of his own manhood,
it was the most sensitive part of his body. He twitched and writhed as
Max probed and kneaded at him. This was something wholly new, only
compounded when Max started on his breasts with tongue and teeth. He
clutched his lover to him instinctively and then - ah Christ - he came,
crying out, arching his back, then slumping sweatily against his man.

Max grinned down at him. 'I'm guessing you liked that.'

'There's something to be said for an older man,' Carl whispered. He
took Max's cock in his hand. It felt enormous. The least he could do
was return the favour. Max was already very close to coming, as it
turned out.

Then they crawled under the duvet and lay together, knowing the next
time would be soon, anticipating it.

Hating to sound so needy, but needing to ask, Carl said, 'Am I any
good?'

Max grinned, kissed him. 'Absolutely. Definitely top ten material.'

'Bastard!' Carl giggled. He started feeling Max's body again, nestled
against him.

'You are... keen,' Max said drily. He squeezed a buttock
affectionately.

'You mean, you have to work harder to seduce most...' Carl wasn't sure
if the right word would be 'boys' or 'girls'. Anyway, the whole thought
made him vaguely uneasy. His knowledge of Max's past was the elephant
in the sitting room as far as they were concerned: a cornerstone of
their relationship, but never to be directly mentioned.

'A bit harder, sometimes, yeah,' Max said casually. 'But... Christ,
I'd've bust a gut to get you, love. You throwing yourself at me was a
dream.'

Carl let out a little delighted squeal, sat up, straddling him. Max
reached up and toyed with his nipples, grinning. 'Just tell me this
isn't all down to the rum.'

Carl smiled down at him. 'Not a chance. I'm sticking with you, for a
bit at least. I want to know how it feels to have that swarthy cock of
yours inside me.'

Max laughed. 'Christ, you're a filthy-mouthed girl, you know that? No
wonder you give me the fucking horn so bad.'

'I can feel it,' Carl said, bouncing up and down, feeling Max's member
stir against his arse. He put his head on one side, brushed hair from
his eyes. 'So... you think I'm a girl now?'

'I may be a bit deviant, but I've never had sex with a man,' Max said.
'You're one of the sisterhood now, sweetheart, one way or the other.'

'I'm a girl.' Carl let himself fall forward onto Max, felt arms enfold
him. Max rolled over and now the weight of his man was pressing down on
him. He wriggled again as Max's cock began to swell against his thigh.
'I'm a girl...'

'You're my girl,' Max whispered. It sounded like a promise more than a
statement of fact.

'So give me a girl's name,' Carl said. It was one part of his identity
he would never really be able to claim as his own, but that seemed like
a fair price.

Max kissed him hard on the mouth. 'Charlotte,' he said.

'Charlotte?' Carl grimaced.

'Charlotte,' Max said. 'You didn't get a choice first time round,
either, remember?'

'True...' He felt desire swelling in him again, no longer wanted to
argue.

They moved together again and afterwards lay tangled, awaiting the slow
return of their energies.

'It's going to be fucking hard to go out with you and just pretend to
be your mate after this,' Carl said, brushing hair out of his eyes.

'So don't,' Max said with a thin smile.

Carl rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, this is great, but I didn't anticipate our
relationship being solely confined to your bed from now on.'

'You can pass as a girl now. You've been able to for a bit,' Max said.
His voice had a surety born of experience to it.

'Really?'

'Yeah, really. Shave your legs, dress differently... do something with
your hair, try makeup...'

'You think I'm at the point of needing a bra?' Carl asked playfully.

Max grinned. 'I think you're past the point. But anyway...'

Carl looked down at himself dubiously. 'I'm not sure... my thighs are a
bit fat...'

'So you'll look a bit Miquita Oliver, so what? Trust me.'

'Who's Miquita Oliver?'

'She was on TV when I was your age.'

'Pardon my ignorance, grandpa...'

'Hey...' Max slid his arms around him, and Carl found himself unable to
usefully resist. That was scary and sexy at the same time. 'You trust
me, don't you, Charlotte?'

He smiled up at his lover. 'Yes,' he said. If Max could tell he was
lying, he didn't show it.

*

Their hangovers the next day were indeed bastards, but they found a way
to keep their minds off it.

==Six==

It was evening a few days later when Carl bounded up the steps to Max's
flat. Normally they met wherever they were going to start their
evening, but tonight was going to be special. Or so he told himself. He
squeezed the carrier bag he held, nervously.

Max opened the door and Carl gave him a quick kiss and went into the
flat. As before, he was wearing jeans, shirt, leather jacket, boots. He
grinned at Max and started taking his boots off.

'Thought we were going out tonight,' Max smiled as Carl dropped his
jeans and stepped out of them.

'We are,' Carl said. He ran a hand down his thigh: under the jeans he
was wearing dark tights and black cotton knickers. It was his first
time cross-dressing - dressing for his new sex, he corrected himself -
and it still felt weird. He pulled his socks off and started
unbuttoning his shirt.

'You okay paying for all this stuff?' Max asked, content to sit and
watch the transformation, smoking a skull cigarette as he did so.

'I've been getting vouchers,' Carl said, pulling his t-shirt off. 'APFS
compensation, you know.' From the bag he'd brought with him he pulled
out a bra that matched his knickers, and slid it on. Max gave him a
hand with the hooks. He only had a relatively small amount of cleavage
but he realised it had a disproportionate impact on the way he looked.
He grinned and pulled his t-shirt back on, noted the difference in the
way it filled out.

Also from the bag came a short black leather skirt. He stepped into it,
zipped it up, settled it around his narrow waist. 'Now, how'd I look?'

Max smiled at him. 'You're still wearing a man's watch.'

'Ah.' He took it off.

'Maybe do something with your hair?'

Carl nodded again, went over to the only mirror in the room. Max
watched as he combed it out and put it into rock-chick plaits, one on
each side. Now the old male him really was becoming a memory. Before
Max could comment again he pulled lipstick and eyeshadow from his bag
of tricks, set about applying them.

'You've been to see your counsellor, haven't you?' Max guessed.

'Yeah,' Carl said. 'Not just shrinkery but practical feminine life
skills. And people say their tax is wasted.' He finished, looked at
himself. A girl about his age looked back. He realised he was still
effectively barefoot, looked around for his boots.

'Ah,' said Max. 'Present for you.' From under the bed he produced a
pair of knee-length high-heeled leather boots.

'Wow. I'm going to be falling over all night,' Carl said, sliding them
on. 'Don't tell me, this is a cunning plan to keep me clinging onto
you.'

'Damn it, you see through all my little schemes,' Max said drily. Carl
put his jacket back on, ready to go, smiling. 'That's my sweet
Charlotte.'

'Do you think anyone will recognise me?' Carl asked, more fascinated by
the change he'd undergone than worried about being spotted.

'No chance,' Max said, confidently, and incorrectly as it turned out.

*

And now they were properly together, as a couple, whenever they were
together. And this was more often than not, for all that Max had his
course to think about, with exams on the not-too-distant horizon. Carl
could almost feel the vestiges of his masculinity froth miraculously
off him as full immersion as a girl took its effect. What was initially
a novelty soon became routine, and that of course had a strange magic
of its own. He found himself making friends with other people, through
Max, and answering as Charlotte without even thinking about it.

Together with the ongoing adventure of their sex life - a genuine
journey of discovery, as his body almost visibly swelled and contracted
and reshaped itself - it was almost overwhelming. In the end he was
almost glad to go back home for a bit when the money ran low or Max had
an essay to work on.

Being back in definitely male clothing, without slap and his hair in
disarray, was now the unusual sensation. He tried to keep his
bemusement concealed as he made his way up the hill towards his
parents' house one evening. He'd been spending so many nights at Max's
that this place somehow didn't feel like home any more.

He let himself in and headed for the stairs, but almost at once Roger
loomed into view from the living room doorway. He was scowling. This
was not unusual, but something about it rattled Carl.

'Yeah?' he said, forcing his voice down low.

'We'd like to talk to you,' Roger said curtly.

He's not shouting or swearing, Carl thought: damn, this is serious.
'Later,' he said.

'Now,' Roger said.

Carl nodded, and went past him into the lounge. His mum was sitting
their, doing her smiling-bravely-through-the-tears face. 'Hello, love.'

'Mum.' He stepped aside as Roger closed the door and moved to sit
beside her, sliding his arm supportively around her. 'What's up?'

'Where were you the night before last?' Roger asked.

'Went to Yates', with a mate,' Carl said, glancing around at the floor.

'At least he's not lying to us,' Roger murmured under his breath.

'I saw your friend Toby's mum in Sainsbury's today,' his mum said.

He'd not spoken to Toby since just before... he found himself rubbing
his neck almost as a Pavlovian gesture, stopped himself irritatedly.
'Oh. How was she?'

'She said Toby saw you downstairs in Yates' with your... friend,' his
mum went on.

'Oh. I didn't see him,' Carl said, trying to sound breezy and casual.

'Apparently you were rather distracted,' Roger said darkly. 'You and
your mate were all over each other on the dance floor.'

'Toby said you were wearing fishnets and a miniskirt, and lipstick,'
his mum said. She sounded horribly wounded.

'Yeah. He's right, I was,' Carl said. He looked defiantly at them. 'I'm
virtually a girl now, a woman, even.'

'This is the man you've been staying over with,' Roger said.

'Yes.'

'He's having sex with you?' Another sob from mum as Roger asked the
question.

'We're having sex with each other,' Carl said, feeling his cheeks burn.
'He calls me darling, his sweetheart, and then we lay down together and
make love. And it's fantastic.'

Both of them looked sickened now, which angered him more than anything
else. 'Don't look at me like that! You knew that I was going to change,
you know how down I was about it to begin with! Aren't you pleased at
all that I'm happy?'

'You've kept all this a secret from your mother and me,' Roger said,
staring at him. 'If you're so proud about it, why didn't you even
mention to us that you were seeing this man, dressing differently?'

'Because this is me, my life, just mine,' Carl said, looking away. 'And
I knew you'd want to start trying to control it again.'

'You could have at least told us.' His mum looked him up and down.
'You're hiding it now. You're trying to act like nothing's changed.'

'Fine.' Carl turned, went out into the hallway, up the stairs. He went
to his room and up the stairs, where he stripped. It was almost a
ritual act, he thought, a final shedding of the old mask. Then he
dressed again in Charlotte's wardrobe and went back down.

'Jesus Christ,' Roger said as he appeared.

'Happy now?' Carl asked. He was in a tight vest and short skirt,
tights, sneakers - a deliberately provocative outfit. 'This is me. My
friends call me Charlotte.'

'You look... pretty...' said his mum, without any real conviction.

'You look like a slapper,' Roger said.

'Well, you've chased enough in your time,' Carl shot back
automatically. Roger's fists bunched and he rose, took a step forward.
Then he stopped.

Carl grinned. 'What a gentleman, he won't hit a girl.' He sat down in
one of the other armchairs, drew his legs up under him. 'Anything else,
now?'

It appeared not. EastEnders dragged by as usual: ironically enough, the
latest actor to play Pauline's grandson had APFS and this had been
hastily written into the script. The ad hoc nature of the revision was
painfully obvious. After that was a chatshow, a documentary about sea
lions and then the news. It all passed in the most excruciating silence
Carl had ever encountered. He found himself quietly relishing his
parents' discomfort.

The next morning, he was astonished to find that they had both gone out
leaving him in the house alone. Clearly they were more terrified about
what he was getting up to in town than any damage he might cause
domestically. It amused him more than anything, it had a rich if
unsubtle irony and pretty much demonstrated exactly what different
wavelengths they were on.

He was seeing Max that evening and got ready around seven, only having
a bite for tea. His mum looked a bit aghast at his tight jeans, spike-
heeled boots and strappy top but didn't say anything. He wore his hair
up in a messy bun, dark lippy and eyeliner.

'Where are you going?' Roger enquired coolly.

'Usual places. Yates', the Pig, maybe the Rat,' Carl replied. 'Oh,
we're thinking of going to Leeds next weekend.'

'Your mother and I want you back by midnight,' Roger said, as if it was
the most natural thing in the world to expect.

Carl looked at him. 'I'm sorry?' he said, almost laughing.

'We want you home by midnight,' Roger said.

'No. I'm spending the night at Max's,' Carl said, reaching for his
jacket.

'You're too young. Too vulnerable,' Roger said. 'This isn't a
discussion, Carl.'

'Charlotte,' Carl said.

'Whatever you want to call yourself. Midnight,' Roger said.

'Car - love, you've only been - you've only been a girl a few weeks,
you shouldn't be rushing into a serious thing like this,' his mother
said. 'How can you know what you really want? Shouldn't you be taking
it more slowly?'

'It's not up to you. Either of you,' Carl said. He slipped his jacket
on, reached for his handbag. 'I'll see you tomorrow night.'

'Will your fancy man be that impressed when the police come knocking on
his door in the small hours?' Roger asked.

Carl stared at him. 'You wouldn't call them. They wouldn't come. You
don't know where we live.'

'He's studying English, mature student, dark hair.' Roger smiled
thinly. 'I gave Toby twenty quid to ask around. Given his,' he wrinkled
his nose, '- appetites, I bet he's got a reputation. Nineteen year old
boy, psychologically unstable, doesn't come home one night, last seen
in his company? I think the police would be interested.'

'You bastard... why do you care? What gives you the right to screw my
life up like this? Mind your own fucking business!'

'You live in my house. The way you behave reflects on me,' Roger said,
it was almost a snarl. 'It's bad enough you're a freak without you
being a deviant slut as well!'

'This is because I live in your house? Well, we can fix that easily
enough,' Carl said, angry, finding himself astonishingly close to
tears. He clawed his keys from his purse, pulled off the one for this
house. He slapped it down on the kitchen table, the bang rolling from
one wall to the other. 'All right, now?'

'Darling...' Suddenly his mum looked genuinely frightened.

'Pick up the key,' Roger said. 'And we'll forget about this.'

Carl met his quiet, amused, almost triumphant gaze. 'No,' he whispered.

'All right,' Roger said, smiling. His big paw of a hand came down over
the key with silent finality. 'Take all your shite with you when you
go. Anything you leave is going for the bins tomorrow.'

'Have it,' Carl said over his shoulder. He went upstairs to pack his
bags.

==Seven==

'Jesus, what a cunt,' Max said drily. They had abandoned their plans
for the pub and were lying on the bed in his flat, smoking the last of
the Accrington Brass. 'You reckon this is terminal?'

'Yeah.' Carl rested his head on Max's shoulder. 'The old bastard's
delighted to be shot of me. I'd have to crawl something chronic to even
have a chance.' He looked at Max seriously. 'He'd insist we stopped
seeing each other, for one thing.'

Max raised his eyebrows. 'I... I'm honoured, I suppose. That you chose
me over home.'

Carl wrinkled his nose. 'Is it equally an honour to put me up for a
bit?' He glanced guiltily at where his bags lay piled by the door.

Max chuckled. 'You mean you want to move in.'

'If you'll have me.' Carl looked seriously at him.

'I've been waiting for that for ages,' Max said, sliding his arms
around Carl and grinning.

'No, really. If it's gonna be a problem, or it's too heavy for you...'

'What kind of a bastard would I be to sling you out? I'd be no better
than jolly Roger,' Max said, stroking Carl's hair out of his face.

'Didn't think that sort of thing mattered to you, Mister Cool,' Carl
murmured.

'Maybe I wish sometimes it did,' Max said. His expression showed he was
miles away.

Carl squeezed him, brought him back into the room. 'Hey. Thanks,
sweetheart. I think I needed to get away from my old life anyway. It's
almost over anyway.'

Max glanced quickly at him. No, Carl told himself, at her. He was a she
now. 'How do you mean?'

'Well,' Charlotte said, wriggling against him, 'I'm not entirely sure,
but it looks like I may have got shot of one old cunt just as I'm about
to gain a brand new one...'

Max's expression was intense but unreadable. She grinned, kissed him
full on the mouth, felt her body respond in a wholly womanly way as he
laid his hands upon her. And then they were beyond language, into
something much deeper and fiercer.

*

Charlotte's suspicions were correct: within a week her APFS had fully
expressed itself, so far as the doctors could tell. She had known
already, of course - known from the way her body behaved, known from
the way Max behaved towards it.

And now it was all over she found herself strangely lost. The
metamorphosis had been the focus of her life for what seemed like
forever. With it complete, she was essentially back to being just
another unemployed young person in a dead end town, albeit one with a
fairly unusual kink in her medical history.

Spring rolled on into summer and her life with Max rolled on with it.
They seemed to have plateaued, or maybe just the first rush of lust and
endorphins had faded. She still felt more comfortable with him than
with any other person in her life. But the demands of his course meant
they had less time together, both socially and intimately. Max
apologised extravagantly but she knew him very well by now. Perhaps
better than he realised.

A Sunday, towards the end of exam season. She was curled up on the bed,
while Max sat in a chair, making notes on Kurt Vonnegut. He was talking
to her idly as he worked, about the summer and early autumn to come.

'Once uni's over I can think about getting a job for the summer. See
what Ayckbourne's cooking up, or maybe a show for Edinburgh...'

Charlotte scratched her nose, sighed. 'I should think about getting a
proper job. My enhanced APFS-related benefit ran out last month, it's
back to the plain old dole for me.'

Max glanced at her. 'That'd help,' he admitted.

'But it'd mean I couldn't come with you if you do go somewhere...' she
said matter-of-factly, watching his response carefully.

'Ah, well,' he said, shrugging. 'Can't be helped, I suppose. A little
break from each other wouldn't do us any harm, would it?'

Charlotte smiled sadly at him, felt something fracture and dissolve
deep inside. 'No, I suppose not,' she said. She got off the bed,
started dressing. This was another best done quickly, without too much
rationalisation.

Max looked at her in surprise. 'What's up?'

'I...' She shrugged. 'I'm leaving you. I'm letting you go, Max. The
nice and easy way.'

'Christ, this is a bit... well, sudden,' Max said. He seemed more
surprised than actually upset.

'No... it isn't , it's... look, I always knew this would happen. I just
want to be in charge of the when and the why.'

'I don't understand what you're saying, love...'

'Max, I'm a woman now. If we stay together for the rest of time that's
all I'm ever going to be from now on,' Charlotte said. 'You want...
other things. Things I can't be for you any more.'

'Maybe this time it'll be different,' Max said. She could tell he
wasn't even convincing himself. 'Maybe... maybe you're the one.'

She tried to fight back laughter, failed. 'I can tell. You're not that
interested any more. You're really trying to hide it but it can't help
but show. There are no secrets between the sheets.'

'I'm sorry,' Max said, looking away from her. 'Every time I tell
myself, this one... this one'll be for keeps. But... I can't help it. I
honestly can't.'

'It's okay. But that's why I've got to go. I want to be the first woman
in my family to walk away from a bad relationship instead of just being
paralysed by the fear of dying alone. And with me off the scene, you
can go looking for another boy who's losing his cock and needs to feel
good about himself.'

Max stood up. 'You know... I had the best of intentions.'

She took his hand, stroked it. 'No, you didn't. You knew exactly how
this would turn out. My good luck was that I did too. Don't worry about
your intentions, Max - remember the road to hell? Maybe bad intentions
can lead you somewhere else, if you're lucky.'

Max smiled. 'I've never been chucked by one of you before. It's a
refreshing change, to be honest.'

Charlotte grinned. 'Max, I do love you. But like I said, we both knew
all along that... you were just my inbetweener. And I'm just one in a
long line of inbetweeners for you.'

'Where will you go?'

She shrugged. 'Shirley'll put me up for a bit till I decide where I'm
going. Maybe I'll go to university myself. I don't know.'

'You sure she'll be okay about it?' Max looked doubtful.

Charlotte smiled. 'For once I have the upper hand - I'm used to having
a sister, and she isn't.' She quietly finished packing her stuff,
collected her bags.

'Seeya, then,' Max said.

'Yeah. Seeya,' Charlotte replied. They smiled awkwardly at each other
and then she went out of the door and down the stairs, not looking
back. At the foot of the stairs she paused, took a deep breath, fought
off the urge to look back. Then she went out of the flat, out into the
street, out into her life.

==Eight==

The street is brightly lit and filled with people, as the social crowd
in the pubs mingles with late-night shoppers. Gaudy illuminations hang
from the streetlamps, while more lights blaze from the shop windows.
There is vitality here, warmth, life, as befits a major city.

The woman is in her mid-thirties, slim, attractive, with long black
hair simply arranged. Her clothes and everything else about her suggest
confidence and poise, not to mention some considerable success and a
certain willingness to challenge those around her. She holds hands as
she walks, with a man of roughly her own age, dressed in a slightly
more conservative style. The gesture is unaffected, apparently a sign
of genuine affection rather than possessiveness.

As her partner pauses to look in the window of a multimedia store, the
woman looks around, an indulgent smile upon her face. People are
emerging from the bar across the road, and one of them suddenly seems
impossibly familiar to her. He is older, perhaps in his late forties,
though he looks older. His face is gaunt and heavily lined, his hair a
mixture of black and grey, thinning on top. His clothes are old and
shabby, but almost artfully so, as if he is making a statement. He is
cheerfully talking to a man half his age, a man whose face and frame
have a delicacy almost never seen in someone truly masculine. He
casually looks across the street, and suddenly their eyes meet.

Each sees their own shock reflected in the other's eyes. Then she
raises her free hand in a tiny wave of greeting. He inclines his head
in response, striving for nonchalance, coming close to it. He nods
pointedly at her companion: her smile broadens dazzlingly and she holds
up her free hand, the left one, emphasising one finger and its
jewellery in particular. Now she looks at his friend. He shrugs
noncommittally, and her smile is warm, indulgent, forgiving of his
flaws. She points downwards: on her feet she wears old and scuffed
high-heeled leather boots. She must have had them since she was a
teenager. Now it is his turn to smile, as if in fond remembrance of a
time long since past.

His young friend has noticed his distraction and tugs his sleeve
impatiently. He nods, mutters something. Her companion has finished
window-shopping and is talking to her, as well. He sets off down the
street, drawing her with him. She has time for another tiny wave to the
man across the street. He raises his own hand in farewell, then she is
gone. He shakes his head as if to clear it, then claps an arm around
his own companion's shoulders, leading him off down the street, until
they too are lost to sight in the crowds.

A Woman Within

2011-01-10T12:39:59Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} __TOC__ ==One== I shouldn't have come here, he thought, music thumping around him, echoing t…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}
__TOC__

==One==

I shouldn't have come here, he thought, music thumping around him,
echoing the thumping behind his eyes. It was only a pub jukebox and not
even turned up that loud but there seemed to be some kind of
sympathetic vibration between it and his grey cells. Bastards, he
thought vaguely, not even sure whom the thought was directed against.

He sighed and sipped at the diet coke he'd bought for himself. Here I
am in a pub full of drinks I dare not partake of, listening to terrible
music I can't dance to, in the company of people whom I hate for no
rational reason and whom I can't risk getting close to. Nice plan,
Einstein. He looked around the pub, taking in the little amorphous
cliquey knots as they assembled and broke apart, the pulse of life, of
society evident within them. Bile churned in his stomach and he fought
it back down, checked the dour mask he presented to the world. He
thought his face was still unreadable. Have you heard? Amongst this
clan, you are called the forgotten man, he thought. Well, there were
worse things to be thought of as, he supposed, and allowed himself a
grim smile. He took off his glasses - part of his chilly mask to keep
the world out - scrubbed at the smeary lenses with his handkerchief.

'Stephen! I'm so glad you could come!' It was the woman of the hour,
Catherine, in whose honour this increasingly raucous shindig was being
held. She smiled a gleamy smile at him and he returned it, surprised to
find it was one of genuine affection. Some part of him still wasn't
getting with the programme. But she had been genuinely and
unnecessarily kind to him when first he had started with the firm, and
somehow the frigid wall he'd erected between himself and the world had
no power to keep her out.

'Oh, tut, drinking coke? I thought I was the only one still sober,'
Catherine said. As so often at these moments her interlaced hands
settled on the bulge of her stomach. 'I don't see what the problem is,
everyone says I usually drink for two anyway.'

Stephen forced down the instant, hot thought that some people didn't
appreciate just how lucky they were, and ignored what she'd said.
'You've settled on a name yet? For the baby?'

She shook her head, the smile on her face becoming shy, yet proud. 'Not
really. We're thinking of something sort of neutral, like Robin or Kim.
You know... just in case...'

'Don't believe the scaremongering. It'll never get that common,'
Stephen said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say.

'How do you know?' She looked genuinely curious at and surprised by the
authoritative tone he'd unconsciously assumed.

Idiot, he thought, why not just tell everyone you're an expert? Then
they'll be able to figure out the truth about you for themselves. 'I
don't know... read it somewhere, I expect,' he said, looking away,
trying to invest his voice with as much wilful vagueness as he could.

'Aha.' Catherine nodded wisely. Before she could speak a swirl of
office girls enfolded her, swept her off on a circuit of the room.
Maybe two of them spared Stephen a single glance each. Good, he
thought, taking a big swallow of cola. Dumbass, this is the reason why
you can't let anyone in, they'll start noticing things and put two and
two together... At least the other girls got the message. Don't bother
talking to Stephen Holmes, it's not worth it, no personality. Who is
he? Oh, you know, the cold grey guy in the corner by himself. He's a
real nowhere man, living in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere
plans for nobody...

Another bloody song lyric. He bought another cola and wondered how soon
he could decently go back to the flat. He doubted anyone would miss him
even if he left now, but this was a half-decent job and Catherine was
well-liked by management. Being seen skipping out of her leaving do
prematurely couldn't help his standing much and it wasn't like he could
rely on popular acclaim to secure his position.

So he stood and watched as the rest of the office got progressively
drunker and more raucous, chatting, backstabbing, playing pool, trying
to hid the ciggy burns they inevitably made on the pool table cloth...
he stood apart and let it swirl around him, amidst it yet apart from
it, discreetly detached from it all. The way he had to live now.

'Stephen, good to see you...' One of the very managers whose favour he
needed to retain. Bob Black, fiftyish, baldish, Scottish. 'Nice to see
you mixing in for a change.'

'Catherine was... kind to me. When I started, I mean,' Stephen said. He
hoped his smile didn't look as insincere as it felt.

'Aye, aye.' Black was clearly regretting speaking to Stephen already,
but soldiered on. Stephen groaned inwardly for both their sakes.
'Popular girl, is Catherine. Good worker too. We'll miss her.'

Stephen shrugged. 'It's only maternity leave, she'll be back soon.
Before you know it.'

Black smiled thinly. 'If she does come back. New babies are the bane of
workforce continuity.'

'We'll see, I suppose.'

'Yes, well. Listen, Stephen, you know Catherine's job pretty well, same
section and all that...'

Stephen liked the job he currently had. His 'Yes,' was cautious.

'Well, her replacement starts on Monday, and I was hoping you'd show
him the ropes. He's just moved up from London, had some time off work
sick, apparently - rather like yourself, eh?'

No, not like me, you stupid Scottish bastard! There's nobody else like
me! 'Well, a bit, perhaps,' Stephen said.

'So I was wondering if you'd show him around, teach him the ropes, and
all that? It'd be appreciated.'

No no no! No-one allowed in! Nowhere man, forgotten man, no friends no-
one nothing allowed! But - a management request was never really just a
request. There were always consequences no matter what the response
might be. And hopefully the new idiot would learn the job fast and make
some other friends even faster.

'Yeah, sure,' said Stephen. 'It'd be a pleasure.'

'Great.' To Stephen's enormous relief Bob buggered off to make more
awkward small-talk with some of the warehouse workers who'd decided to
come along, leaving him alone with the twisting serpent of bile he kept
in his belly. He could feel it, almost like a physical thing,
tormenting him as it coiled in his guts, telling him exactly how stupid
he was being.

I know, I know, he thought, looking around the pub, barely managing to
keep his fury and bitterness in check. A tinny chiming from his wrist
was his watch alarm going off. He'd been expecting it, didn't really
need the alarm any more. But he had to take precautions, the
alternative was too horrible to contemplate. Discreetly he pulled the
dispenser from his jacket pocket, clicked the button on the top. A
white-and-red plastic pill dropped into his hand and he slipped it into
his mouth, between his back teeth. It crunched satisfyingly as he bit
down on it and the sour taste of the drugs was all over his tongue.

Safe again. Disaster held at bay for another twelve hours. Stephen
washed down the drugs with a swig of coke and put the dispenser away.
He already knew exactly how many pills were left in it, exactly when he
needed to refill his prescription. It was written into the operating
system of his life, non-negotiable. Routine. With it dealt with he
could just relax and let himself hate.

Yes, hate. The only genuine emotion that seemed available to him as he
currently was. He looked around again, not just seeing the people but
the thin web of relationships that shrouded them, rippling and
shifting, breaking down and forming new threads. Friends, rivals,
lovers. The smile on the face of the receptionist that made her
availability to the assistant finance manager oh so very obvious.
Friendly piss-taking round the jukebox. Tearful goodbyes to Catherine.
The fabric of society, and him cut off from all of it. Blind hatred and
jealousy seemed somehow rational in the circumstances.

He remembered a book from school, Nineteen Eighty Four, and the three-
minute hate the party prescribed for all good citizens on a regular
basis. Three minutes of hate. He let a smile play around his mouth.
He'd prescribed himself thirty years of hate, simply because the
alternative, an echoey grey numbness, seemed even worse.

'Hello... it's Stephen, isn't it?'

He swung round and saw it was a young woman from HR, shy, looking
nervous. Looking for a friend, someone as socially awkward as her,
perhaps. Strange, he thought, that she should be so hesitant, she was
really quite attractive. But she clearly read from his eyes the
presence of the blast-furnace of rage within him and recoiled, smile
vanishing, looking pale. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I thought you
were... I'm sorry.'

'My mistake. I shouldn't have come,' Stephen said, harsh edges scraping
together in his voice. He finished his drink and left.

***

At home, all was as it should be: no waiting messages on the answer
machine, no personal letters, no email, just the great antiseptic
blankness he had fashioned for himself since his condition had
manifested itself. He felt vaguely gassy and irritable, supposed it due
to the three glasses of diet cola he'd drunk. But beneath that was the
familiar, all-consuming fire of resentment and bitterness.

He sighed and went into his bedroom, took off his shoes, socks, tie and
shirt. Time for a shower. He still wasn't quite comfortable with the
necessity of spending any length of time at all naked. It confronted
him with the fundamental change in his nature, with the real source of
all his anger and despair. But still. Some things were essential. He
dropped his trousers and started to unstrap the rubbery pouch from
where it swung between his legs, closing his eyes as he did so. He
might have caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he wanted to
see himself crying even less.

***

And so the following Monday he fulfilled his agreement with Bob Black,
and started showing Catherine's replacement the fundamentals of the
job.

The replacement's name was Jack Marsh and to Stephen it seemed there
was something strange about him right from the start. He was slightly
shorter than average height, with pale skin and longish jet black hair
held back in a ponytail. He gave the odd impression of being an athlete
slightly gone to seed, as if there was the potential for a muscular
athleticism within him that had never quite been realised.

Marsh seemed very friendly and almost wholly lacking in ego, which was
obviously suspicious given he was a man in his early thirties just
starting a new job. Stephen noted his shoes and suit were both brand
new. Well, maybe his illness had caused him to lose a lot of weight, he
thought. He didn't enquire about the man's past, grimly suspicious that
Marsh would bring it up himself soon enough.

Stephen spent the first couple of hours just giving Marsh an overview
of the company's workings and the exact duties of the logistics
department, where they'd both be working. As usual it was strange to
have to go into the detail of remembering and explaining every tiny
step when half of them he did automatically these days. At eleven they
paused for a coffee.

'Bob Black said you and I had a thing or two in common,' Jack Marsh
said brightly, smiling at Stephen.

'Really?'

'Yeah, he said you were new up here as well, you'd had some time off
work with illness and had made a fresh start,' Marsh said. 'Me too.'

'Yeah, well, I wouldn't read too much into it,' Stephen said. 'I was
never that ill.'

'What was it? If you don't mind me asking...'

'Glandular fever.' It was his routine cover-story.

'Oh. Well, it's nicer up here than London, isn't it? How did your
family like the move?'

'I don't have a family,' Stephen said, fighting to keep the harshness
from his voice. 'I was engaged, but we broke it off when I came up
here. For the best.'

'I'm sorry.' Marsh's embarrassment and sincerity seemed for real. 'I
was married myself. Seven years.'

'It's over now, though,' Stephen surmised.

'Like you say, it was for the best,' Marsh said, but the face he showed
was clearly just a brave construction. He reached into his pocket,
pulled out his wallet, produced a photo. A smiling, round-faced woman
with long dark hair, sitting on a beach somewhere. Two young boys sat
with her, equally rapt with pleasure. 'My sons,' he said wistfully.

Stephen felt barely a stir of compassion. Good, he thought, I'm
learning. 'That your wife - ex-wife?' he corrected himself.

'No.' Marsh's face abruptly turned flinty. 'She's... from my side of
the family.'

'Now you mention it, I can see the resemblance,' Stephen said. He
finished his coffee. 'Do you see them much?'

'Less than I'd like. My... my ex got custody. I see them every other
Saturday. It's not much but I can understand the court's decision.'
Marsh sighed again, then took a deep breath, obviously snapping himself
out of it. 'Okay, back to work, right?'

Stephen was mildly impressed. 'Right,' he agreed.

***

Marsh was an attentive student and, surprisingly in Stephen's
experience, had no qualms when it came to admitting his ignorance and
asking questions about the work. He could sense the amused pity of the
rest of the office, that the new guy - and such an amiable new guy at
that - should be partnered off with the least pleasant person there on
his first day. They made an odd couple for all that Bob Black believed
they had things in common.

But he hoped and believed that Marsh was getting the message, his
attempts at starting casual conversation growing fewer and further
apart. Not that it sank in all at once.

'Do you get out much?' Marsh asked. 'It's just with me being new in
town, I don't know any of the pubs and clubs, I wondered if you wanted
to -'

'No. Sorry. I don't go out much... I lead a quiet life,' Stephen
replied. Because I have no choice, he added silently.

'Oh. Quiet life, that's good. Books, music, that sort of thing, right?
I -'

Stephen cranked a smile onto his face. 'Jack. Don't take this the wrong
way, but... if you want to make a friend, don't talk to me. Other
people here go to the pub, socialise out of the office. I don't. I
prefer it that way, that's all. No offence meant.'

Marsh looked quietly stunned. 'None taken,' he mumbled, turning back to
his screen.

Stephen could feel the eyes of the rest of the office on him. Cold
bastard, that Holmes guy, isn't he, snubbed that new feller Marsh just
like that, he was only trying to be friends - that was what they were
thinking. He didn't care, couldn't afford to care. He just got on with
his job

Thankfully by that point Marsh was able to do his job pretty much
unsupervised by Stephen. This was probably just as well as the next
morning they got a major request for business information from the top
floor and there would've been no-one available to hold Marsh's hand.
The section went to work with the usual grumbling and carping about
unreasonable demands on their time, but the information started slowly
to come together.

Marsh pitched in like a trouper and earned a lot of respect in the
process, Stephen thought. For all that, he seemed like a bit of an odd
fish himself - something about him just didn't ring true. He was almost
trying too hard to be one of the lads, as if he was overacting in a
role he'd been rehearsing for ages. But he was amiable and generous
and, Stephen decided, not unattractive to the ladies of the office.
Although - he'd seen one of the girls, Tracy, talking to Marsh in that
way she had when she was expressing interest in a guy in that, you
know, special way. (He'd only ever seen it second hand, he thought,
with a flash of the old bile.)

Tracy was a good looking girl but Marsh had reddened, gotten all
flustered and nervous, like it had come as a total shock to him.
Strange guy, Stephen thought. But, thankfully, no longer his problem.

***

By Thursday evening the data was collated, ready to go to the board the
next morning. It was past seven when the section leader declared the
job was done, and announced they should all go down the pub to
celebrate and complain about how underappreciated they were.

Stephen heard all this from his cubicle. His absence from the pub would
be taken as read. His perceived aloofness had caused some friction
within the team but his assurances that it was nothing personal, plus
his exemplary work, meant he couldn't really be criticise for it. He
sat at his desk and tidied up the server meticulously, ready for the
next day.

His watch chimed. Time for another pill. Wearily he fished out the
black plastic dispenser and plopped another of the little plastic
capsules into his palm. Soon be time for a refill, he thought absently,
crunching the pill and reaching for a cup of water.

Suddenly he was aware of Jack Marsh standing not two feet away, a
curious expression on his face. He was looking at the dispenser.
Quickly Stephen shoved it back into his pocket and looked sharply at
him. 'I'm on medication, it's nothing illegal,' he said.

'No, of course not.' There was a pensive look on Marsh's face, a
flicker of comprehension, almost. 'I knew someone with a similar
problem once.'

No you didn't, and mind your own business, Stephen thought. 'Well,
perhaps,' he said. 'Was there something?'

'Er, yeah. We're all off down the pub to collapse, I wondered if you
wanted to come,' Marsh said. 'I wanted to buy you a drink as a thank-
you for showing me the ropes.'

'I don't drink, but thanks for the thought,' Stephen said.

'Oh - the drugs. Right.'

Not exactly, but close, Stephen thought. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' he
said.

'Yeah,' Marsh nodded. 'Good night.'

***

The report they'd assembled hit all the right buttons and they had a
lazy Friday generally, compensating for the week of hell. And Stephen
spent a typically quiet weekend: laundry, the monthly shop, a couple of
hours on the rowing machine, and evenings watching DVDs. Hopefully the
office would settle down now, he could slip back into his routine, stop
having to think and feel so much.

No such luck. Marsh was strange towards him all day Monday, sort of
wary yet solicitously friendly and understanding. It set his teeth on
edge. Stop being so bloody nice to me! he thought madly. Nobody else
feels the need to try and understand me as a person!

In the end he resolved to do something about it, and the moment came
late that afternoon, after five, as he was beginning to think about
leaving. Thanks to the wonders of flexi-time most of the office had
already left. Marsh leaned into his cubicle, clearly about to say
something.

'Jack, if this is an invite to the pub or whatever, I'm not
interested,' Stephen said sharply. 'Look, we can work well together
without having to be friends, can't we?'

'Well, yeah,' Marsh said. 'But I thought you could use a friend...
given your condition, and everything.'

'My what?' Ice water suddenly seemed to be running down his spine.

Marsh stepped closer, spoke in a low voice. 'All last week something
about you seemed familiar, your attitude, the way you behaved towards
everyone. But I didn't figure it out until I saw your pillbox. Standard
issue, and I've seen those pills before.'

Blood was roaring in Stephen's ears now. He didn't trust himself to
speak.

'I think you have the Girl Flu,' Marsh said in little more than a
whisper. 'And you're using drugs to keep it under control.'

Stephen managed to swallow. 'If you tell anyone else about this -' he
began, but couldn't find an end to the sentence.

'Bob was right,' Marsh said with a wry smile. 'We do have a lot in
common.'

'Good old Bob,' Stephen whispered coldly. 'Who knows?'

'Just me. Trust me, I'm aware you don't want this spread about.' His
eyes flicked up and down Stephen's seated form, clearly wondering how
the metamorphosis had progressed before its chemical interruption. 'Do
you -'

'No, I don't want to discuss it. It's not - not important,' Stephen
said.

'Really? Oh, all right... look, I'm just trying to help. If you want to
ignore this, that's your choice. But if you do need someone to talk to,
I'm here...'

'I'll bear that in mind. Now good night,' Stephen said.

***

He barely slept that night, mind turning over and over with the
different possibilities, options, potential consequences. So Marsh had
APFS as well. He didn't show it, didn't act like it - except, perhaps,
for the incident with Tracy. He didn't seem to be on pills himself -
maybe he had implants or injected himself. It made no difference to the
fundamental, awful fact, which was this:

Someone Knew.

Nobody had to know. That was the whole reason he'd uprooted himself,
come up here, started over from scratch. The secret was too humiliating
for anyone to know, so no-one could get close to him. And yet he'd been
unlucky enough to betray himself to Marsh within a week of knowing him.
Luckily he was not a superstitious man, or he might begin to believe
himself cursed. The chances of someone else familiar with the condition
starting in the same firm, let alone his own team, must be
astronomically small.

Yet that was the hand he'd been dealt, and he had to live with it. He
proceeded through the week, riding a wave of nausea and nervous tension
whenever he went into the office. Marsh knew. Would he tell anyone
else? Would he be able to figure out exactly what the disease had done
to him?

Stephen couldn't sleep, lost his appetite. His belly churned whenever
he saw Marsh talking to another member of the department, as he
imagined exactly what he might be saying. Worst of all, his work
suffered - he forgot some duties entirely, made stupid, childish errors
in others. His colleagues were clearly amazed at these new-found feet
of clay. But it couldn't go on. He was becoming a nervous wreck, just
sharing an office with someone who knew the barest details about him.
One of them had to go.

He went over to Marsh's workstation that Friday lunchtime. 'We need to
talk,' he said in a low voice. 'About... you know what about.'

Marsh looked startled, then nodded and smiled. 'Okay. Where?'

'The Kingfisher.' It was a quiet pub he didn't think anyone else from
the office frequented. 'Tonight, straight after work.' It couldn't
wait, had to be resolved.

'I'll see you there,' Marsh promised.

==Two==

One week on and his head was pounding again, this time from tension and
lack of sleep. His eye sockets felt like they had a sandpaper lining.
His stomach continued with its endless rinse cycle.

'My round,' Marsh said as they queued at the bar. 'What'll it be?'

Stephen shrugged wearily. 'Blackthorn.'

'Didn't think you could drink, I thought it was cos've the pills,'
Marsh said, waving a fiver at the landlord.

'I'm lucky, no side effects,' Stephen said, careful to keep his voice
down. 'I just can't risk getting drunk. But seeing as I think I need
one, and you already know...'

'Gotcha. Cheers,' Marsh said to the publican, and they sat facing each
other in a quiet booth.

'So,' Stephen said eventually, putting down his drink. It tasted so
good, another pleasure he thought he'd never experience again.

'So,' Marsh said thoughtfully.

'You have it yourself?' Stephen asked. To his surprise Marsh shook his
head.

'Have you ever heard of APMS?' Jack Marsh asked.

'You mean APFS. Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome, the Girl
Flu,' Stephen said, glancing about. Thankfully the pub was nearly empty
this early, with no-one in earshot. A lot of people still thought of it
as an urban legend, with stories of men spontaneously changing their
sex occasionally circulating. That would probably change if the rate of
occurrence continued to increase. It had obviously already preyed on
Catherine's mind when choosing what to call her baby.

'Uh-uh. APMS - Masculinisation, not Feminisation. Boy Flu. It's much,
much rarer, less than two hundred cases worldwide so far,' Marsh said.
He reached into his jacket and fished out the photo of his kids with
the woman on the beach. 'That's me with them. Before I... got it.'

Stephen looked from Marsh to the picture and back. 'My God, it is you,
isn't it... you used to be a woman?'

Marsh stared off into space. 'Happily married for seven years. My name
was Julie Woodbridge,' he said. 'Then I woke up one day with a hairy
chest. We thought it was hormonal, so did the GP. Wrong. Before I knew
it I'd grown an inch, started bulking up, my boobs were shrivelling
away and I'd grown... the meat and two veg.'

It was almost like his own experience in reverse. Stephen took another
big drink almost without thinking. 'What did your husband say?'

'We said the usual stupid things, about how it wouldn't change
anything. Of course it changed things. I couldn't give him what he
wanted from his wife. And I realised I didn't want a husband any more,
either.' Marsh looked levelly at him. 'Then he started sleeping with my
sister. Next best thing, I suppose.'

'Good God...'

'The marriage was annulled. He got custody, obviously, so the kids
would have continuity and a proper environment to grow up in. I didn't
handle the transition enormously well, to be honest, which can't have
helped my chances. I'm only the fourth APMS case in the UK so the
system wasn't really there to help me... I got stuck in the back of
APFS counselling groups.'

Stephen couldn't suppress a shudder. He'd been offered that kind of
help, flatly refused it.

'So I know how people in APFS-denial behave.' Marsh pulled out a
cigarette, lit it. 'Some of them were on suppression drugs as well, the
same as you.'

'So you spotted me,' Stephen said. 'Okay. Now, look, nobody here knows
-'

'Can I ask you a question?'

'What?' Stephen couldn't help his suspicion.

'What changed? How'd you realise you had it? Your skin, hair, build, it
all looks normal. I don't think you're wearing a restrainer to hide
breasts, either. Don't tell me you're one of those guys who got
diagnosed after a blood test, before any actual changes happened...'
Marsh smiled at him.

Stephen felt himself redden. 'There, uh, was a change,' he said
tightly. 'It doesn't show but it's serious. The, ah, worst change there
could've been.'

Marsh stared at him, then his eyeline slowly slid down Stephen's body
to his groin. 'Tough break,' he whispered. 'Full deal? You've got a -'

'Yes,' Stephen said, squirming with embarrassment. He knocked back the
rest of his drink nervously, felt it whirling in his veins. 'It felt
like ordinary flu at first. Then... it happened. Took only a few days.
I wanted to die, I was so ashamed. By the time they calculated my drugs
regime it was too late.'

'I'll get us some more,' Marsh murmured. When he returned with the
round he picked up the conversation at once. 'It doesn't show.'

'I wear a - an appliance. A disguise.' It was almost obscene, but
somehow a relief to be able to finally talk about this with someone.
'No-one can know. No-one can ever know about it.'

'I see your problems,' Marsh said. 'Talk about psychological resonance
and fear of castration...'

'What?'

'I get psycho-babbly when I drink,' Marsh apologised. 'You don't want
anyone to know. I understand. Even though you basically make yourself a
social leper.'

'I have no choice. I can't be around anyone who knows,' Stephen
insisted. 'Not even you -'

Marsh sighed. 'Stephen, we can be friends. We've been through the same
thing, pretty much -'

'No we haven't. You changed. I didn't. I'm not going to.'

'Jesus, I feel sorry for you... having, oh, having one-of-those isn't
so terrible, believe me, I had one for thirty years and it never did me
any harm.'

'You're a woman, it's different.'

'Only women have them. It's sort of in the job description,' Marsh
said.

Stephen felt his flush take on an angry quality. 'You're calling me a
woman?'

'You're not anything. You're a mess. But I'm not moving on. If you
can't stand being around me, you move on. I only wanted to help you.'

Stephen felt himself sag as the tag-team effect of booze and fatigue
hit home. 'Whatever,' he mumbled, taking another mouthful of cider...

And they drank more, avoiding the topic of their shared past and shared
differences, and at some point it turned into evening and they were in
another pub, no, several other pubs, and suddenly he was slammed, not
used to it, Jack Marsh also wobbly, they were in a kebab house, a wine
bar, he was looking out for police as Jack had a crafty piss down an
alleyway (he was stupidly jealous of this ability suddenly), then the
back of a cab, the world around them taking on a brash and senseless
aspect... then an unfamiliar housing complex and finally...

'Nice flat,' Stephen said, looking around the dim lounge. Jack (when
had he become Jack and not Marsh?) had clearly not been there long, but
it looked okay. Friendlier than his home.

Jack nodded his acknowledgement of the compliment and sank carefully
down on the sofa. His hair had come loose and hung messily about his
head and shoulders. He struggled his shoes off, smiled at the
achievement. He was different... the booze seemed to have revived some
dormant part of him, he seemed more playful, almost girlish.

'I haven't done it yet,' he mused, sounding almost wistful.

Stephen frowned at him. 'Done what?'

Jack sniggered. 'Y'know. It.'

'Oh.' He couldn't think of an answer to that, then realised with an
uncomfortable start that Jack was staring at his crotch.

'You look completely normal. Can I see it?' Jack asked drowsily.

'See it? Oh...' He shook his head to clear it, sky high on cheap cider.
Jack already knew, and he was after all a girl, really... Stephen
reached down into his waistband, pulled loose the strapping there,
finally yanked the appliance out. It dangled from his fist like a
mutant jockstrap or some obscene slingshot, moulded rubber clad in
fuzzy cotton, carefully sculpted to give the impression of being both
phallus and scrotum. Stephen looked down at his groin. He was
completely flat there now.

'Cor.' Jack stumbled over, peered at the thing, took it from him. 'Were
you really this size?'

'Ha bloody ha...' Stephen leaned back against the wall.

'Anyway...' Jack tossed the thing onto the sofa. 'That wasn't what I
wanted to see.'

Stephen sniggered. 'No way...'

Jack shuffled up to him. 'Go on. Let's have a look.'

'No...'

'Let's have a feel then,' Jack said with a chuckle, and slapped his
palm against Stephen's crotch. It seemed to come alive, it hadn't been
solidly touched since his initial ob-gyn exam. He yelped in surprise
and shock, shuddered as Jack ground the heel of his hand against his
pubic bone, his fingers tickling and questing down between his legs.
Suddenly he was gasping so he couldn't breathe... at the pleasure of
it.

He grabbed Jack's wrist with his own hand and... guided it? Shove it
away shove him off do it uuurrrgh but no, Jack's other hand was
fumbling at his fly and belt and he was too blissed out, too drunk, to
do anything about it except spectate... and lend a helping hand.

He helped Jack yank his trousers and shorts down around his knees,
pulled his shirt up to reveal... his pussy, with its silky triangle of
hair. He wanted to laugh, to shout, to puke. This couldn't be true,
couldn't be happening. And then Jack's fingers slid delicately into his
sex and the rational world went away.

Both his hands were flung up in a parodic gesture of helpless
surrender, knuckles grazing the wall as he panted, eyes boggling. He
was dimly aware of Jack roughly dropping his own trousers. That's not
right, he's a girl, Stephen thought numbly, as Jack's manhood reared
its rounded and pulsing head. And then thrust at him...

He cracked the back of his head against the wall as his back arched and
he cried out in pain and fear and excitement and, yes, pleasure, he
clung to Jack who was clinging back at him. He was harpooned,
transfixed, beetle in a glass case, a rod of fire in his loins... He
felt his knees give way and the two of them slumped inelegantly to the
floor of the flat.

His pulse returned to normal and his head was really throbbing now. The
churning of his belly combined with the sour taste in his mouth, and
the feeling tangled clothes around his ankles, and the trickle of warm
fluid down his thighs, and the memory... and he knew he was going to be
sick. Olympic Vomiting Final sick.

He found the bathroom just in time, stuffed his head down the bowl and
let 'er rip. Seven pints of cider, three bags of crisps and a kebab
made an unexpected reappearance. Eventually he lay there, wretched, the
taste of acid on his tongue, flecks of God-knew-what running down his
chin, all the time coldly aware his arse was still hanging out.

He clawed himself upright, hitting the flush on the way - more by luck
than design, of course - and pulled his clothes back into some
semblance of order. Couldn't change facts though, and he could still
feel Jack's fluids drying on his skin. He fought back the gag reflex
again.

Jack was waiting out in the passage, clearly sobering up fast himself.
'You all right?' he asked.

'You... bastard,' Stephen muttered. 'You... you practically raped me.'

'Seemed consensual to me,' Jack said, not meeting his gaze. 'Maybe I
got carried away at the start. But you didn't push me off. You enjoyed
it.'

Stephen wasn't ready to even consider the possibility that that was
true. 'Why? I thought you wanted to be friends, why did you...'

'It was a friendly act... sort of. You're crying out for someone to
loosen your screws a bit. Jesus, talk about repressed. And... I wanted
to see what it's like. To give instead of receive, you know.'

'Oh...' He slid down the wall, sat on the floor, head in hands. 'Tracy
would've happily volunteered to help you with that.'

Jack shrugged uneasily. 'I'm not used to having sex with women.
Actually, I've never had sex with a woman. And -'

'And so I seemed like a convenient halfway house for you,' Stephen
said.

Jack sighed and sat down next to him. 'And I thought we could help each
other. You used to be a man. I used to be a woman. We should... I don't
know... pool our resources.'

'I still am a man,' Stephen whispered miserably.

'Sure.' Jack slid a consoling arm around Stephen, let his head rest on
his shoulder. Stephen found himself weeping, but was uncertain of why.
All he could think of was the horrible, unforgettable sensation of Jack
inside of him, and the neural pyrotechnics that had rapidly followed
it. The single most intense moment of his life since... before.
Everything else suddenly seemed so hollow.

==Three==

With hindsight, he should've walked out of Jack's flat as soon as he'd
finished throwing up. Sticking around for the post-coital bonding was a
serious error. Or so he thought, on and off for the next few months.
After that, of course, there wasn't really a 'he' left to think the
thoughts.

He collected his things (including the hated appliance), rang for a
taxi and went home. He wasn't sure where he stood with Jack, but was
virtually certain the evening's events wouldn't be entering the
collective consciousness of office gossip. Jack's past status was as
much a secret as his own present condition.

By Monday he felt virtually himself again, the aching inside his sex
had faded and the moments of nausea and overwhelming shame were
starting to get less frequent. But he was on edge as he went into work.
Would it show in any way? Would he and Jack be able to conceal the
somewhat twisted turn their relationship had taken? He wasn't sure. Did
he even want to talk to Jack any more? He shouldn't. But he couldn't
help remembering the desperate catharsis that being able to talk to
someone had provoked. Jack had tried to be his friend, to help him.
And... what had happened between them... a drunken, silly fumble...
well, many other platonic friends had done the same. He couldn't blame
Jack when he'd done so little to resist him.

You're rationalising, came the inner voice, strident but brittle.
Platonic friends? You're the same gender, remember? Yeah, of course
they were. But underlying it all was the powerful physical memory of
the... the climax Jack had brought him to. His skin still prickled at
the thought of it, if nothing else a reminder of what togetherness
could be like. A painful memory because it would never, could never,
happen again. Could it?

Things were awkward between them. Thankfully his own reputation as the
man with no personality or social skills made it less surprising to
rest of the office. But Jack's obvious discomfort around him did raise
eyebrows. He felt a strange, awful pity for him, which despite his best
efforts he could not ignore. He wanted to tell Jack it was okay, that
he didn't blame him. That in retrospect it didn't seem so bad somehow.
And it didn't, really... But he couldn't risk even raising the topic in
the office, and they didn't see each other outside it.

He found he'd begun to masturbate again. His embarrassment and intense
dislike for his new sex seemed to be fading, and in any case touching
himself down there seemed so trivial given what had happened so
recently. He found himself fantasising wildly and uncontrollably as he
kneaded at his own soft flesh. He wasn't doing the screwing now, he was
being screwed, helpless to resist the... the man doing it. A man whose
face grew more sharply into focus on each occasion, simply because he
could only imagine one man doing that to him.

Weeks dragged by and Stephen fought the acceptance that yes, he had
submitted to Jack simply because of the pleasure it had brought him.
He'd enjoyed it. Enjoyed was a huge understatement, really. Nothing
since his change had come close. Even playing with himself came a very
poor, very distant second to it. The thought that he might never feel
that way again made his daily reality seem even grimmer.

It was on a grey Tuesday afternoon that Jack stopped by his cubicle.
Stephen felt a little colour come to his cheeks, a giddy shudder in the
pit of his stomach at the thought Jack had come just to see him. But he
looked bleak, his smile forced. 'Got a moment?'

'Of course,' Stephen said. 'What's up?'

'Ahh... I'm on a month's probation here, two-way thing. If they don't
like me or I don't like the job, I can walk away or they can fire me,
no questions asked.'

'Your month must nearly be up.' Stephen felt a sudden alarm. 'Are they
letting you go?'

Jack smiled wearily. 'No, they're keen for me to stay. But I think I
should go elsewhere, given... you know.'

'Don't go just because of me, please,' Stephen said urgently. 'I don't
want to feel responsible...'

'Look, it's just... uncomfortable for me. For us both,' Jack said,
careful to keep his voice down. 'Every time I see you I remember...
what happened. I feel bad about it. God knows what you must feel when
you see me...'

'Don't go,' Stephen whispered. 'Please. I... I...' He couldn't frame
words - didn't have words for what he felt. 'I liked it. Or part of me
did.'

'You were sick straight afterward.' Jack's face was confused.

'I couldn't handle enjoying it the way I did. And I was very drunk. I'm
still not very comfortable with the idea of it... but I wouldn't be
sick again, I promise.'

Jack stared at him, clearly incredulous. 'You want to do it again?'

'Oh, God...' Stephen put a hand to his head. Did he? 'Yes. Yes, I think
I do.' He looked miserably up at Jack. 'Does that make me a bad person?
A freak?'

Jack clasped his shoulder reassuringly. 'No. Of course not. But
still...'

Stephen felt his stomach lurch. 'You don't feel the same. You don't
want to...'

A surprisingly gentle smile dawned on Jack's face. 'Actually... yes, I
do. Part of why I wanted to go was... seeing you every day and thinking
you hated me. It was hard.'

'So...?' Stephen stared at him, unsure of where they stood.

'So... what are you doing tonight?'

***

Forty-five minutes drive up the motorway was a Premier Lodge hotel, and
it was there that they went, away from everyone who knew them, neutral
territory. They drove up in their own cars, taking different routes,
arriving at different times. Stephen used his credit card to book a
twin-bedded room over the internet. He was sure no-one would be able to
figure out the truth, for all that his hands were shaking as he made
the reservation. He was insane to be doing this. There was no other
explanation for it.

The need for security made him realise that this was what it must be
like to have an affair. Which they were, in a way, he supposed. More
than that, he was having a dangerous fling with his potential
femininity. Like all people in dangerous affairs, he realised this
couldn't last forever, had no idea how it might end. But the danger and
anticipation sang their siren song and he was lost.

Jack's rover was in the car park when he arrived. He parked, grabbed
his holdall and checked in nervously. Just two businessmen on a trip,
sharing a room to cut costs, he told himself, as the receptionist
handed him his keycard.

He paused out in the corridor, about to go into the room. You're not
drunk, you're not half asleep, you're sober, wide awake, and completely
rational, he told himself. (Well, maybe not the last one.) Is this
really what you want to do? He found himself unlocking the door and
decided that it was no longer in doubt.

Inside, Jack was in his shirtsleeves and was just finishing rearranging
the furniture, having pushed the two single beds together to form an ad
hoc double. 'Hiya. You weren't followed, were you?' Jack asked with a
smile.

Stephen looked at him, appalled. 'Followed? Why? Might I have been?'

Jack grinned, waved a hand apologetically, walked over, close. 'Just
kidding with you. Sorry.' He suddenly kissed him experimentally on the
lips. Stephen felt his stomach flip with distaste. He was a man being
kissed by another man. He was a naturally tolerant man but knew that,
either way, he was hetero. He shook off his unease, dropped his bag and
gripped Jack's arms lightly.

'Mmmm.' Jack stepped back, glanced at the bag. 'What's in there?'

'Oh, nothing. Just for appearance's sake.' Stephen felt a muscle in his
leg start spasming frantically. He needed a drink. No drinks this time,
he told himself, do it sober or get out. 'So...'

'So.' Jack smiled. 'What do you want to do?'

'I... I don't know. Nothing fancy, I... I suppose I want to know it
wasn't a fluke or the booze last time,' Stephen said. 'That I... that
we really did enjoy it.'

'Okay.' Jack shuffled off his shoes, started to take off his tie.
'You'd better get undressed then.'

'Uh... yeah. Right.' Stephen shrugged awkwardly out of his jacket,
kicked off his shoes. He was unable to take his eyes off Jack as he
stripped, casually, dropping socks and shirt on a chair. He was
compactly muscular, chest covered with a light fuzz of dark hair.

Stephen removed his own shirt and tie, watching as Jack unfastened his
trousers, dropped and kicked them off. He looked up, saw Stephen
watching him, smiled knowingly. His navy blue boxers already had a
tentpole in them.

'Come on, hurry up,' Jack said lightly, in mock-irritation. He pulled
back the duvet that was doing double-duty on the shoved-together beds.

'Sorry...' Stephen mumbled. He dropped his trousers and shuffled out of
them. His loins were tingling now and he could feel himself getting
damp. He reached into his shorts and unfastened the stays on his
'disguise', pulled it out and dropped it. Now he was flat and exposed
there again, the pretence of manhood one more laid aside.

Smiling, and in one smooth motion, Jack slipped his shorts off and
stood there naked, erection aimed at Stephen. He had to look, couldn't
bear to look. Found he was smiling nervously. Jack slid easily under
the duvet, looked expectantly up at him. Dizzily Stephen wrenched his
own shorts off and paused a moment, naked, not trying to hide his odd
hybrid status. He slid his glasses off and put them on the side table,
then turned the lights down to a dull glow and wriggled under the duvet
next to Jack.

He felt Jack roll onto his side, facing him, and then his wrist was
lightly taken. He turned to look at Jack, and on impulse reached up to
his hair, pulling it loose from its ponytail. He could feel Jack's
flesh warm against his all down the length of his body.

Jack kissed him and his free hand slid down his chest and belly,
settling on the mound at his crotch. Stephen found himself wriggling
helplessly at the touch and then Jack's tip pressed against his thigh.
He pressed himself against Jack mindlessly, opened his legs and grabbed
Jack's buttock with his own free hand. He shudder-gasped as Jack slid
into him easily, as good as before, maybe even better. He clung to his
lover as he started to pump, wrapped his legs around him, crying out at
each thrust, until finally he came, gasping and squealing with a
delight that couldn't be dismissed.

But as the euphoria faded and they lay there side by side on the rented
mattress, the inescapable fact that they were really just two men in
bed together returned to him. It wasn't the same when he was being
screwed, that was different... almost as if he wasn't really a man
then. The lying together and cuddling just made him feel queasy. If
only you were still a woman, he thought stupidly, looking at Jack. If
only I...

He didn't dare complete the thought.

'So,' Jack said, cheerful and sweaty. 'How was that?'

Stephen couldn't help chuckling. 'You couldn't tell?'

'Yeah, but I thought you might have faked it,' Jack said.

Stephen stroked him as tenderly as he could manage. 'No fake. That was
great.'

Jack nodded, and they lay close there together. Then they did it again,
and this time it was Stephen initiating it, more comfortable with the
intensity of the screw than the quieter intimacy of what followed and
preceded it. The cycle repeated, a couple more times, until Stephen
sensed Jack gently sliding into sleep next to him, one arm still thrown
across him.

He couldn't stay the night. That would mean... it would mean going into
a whole new area, for all that there'd be more sex in the morning.
Gently Stephen extricated himself and went into the bathroom. He took
unalloyed pleasure in the hiss of water against his skin as he
showered, finally able to process what had happened. 'Fun' seemed like
too small a word for it. He felt a sudden rush of affection for Jack,
did his best to shrug it off.

He towelled off, went out into the room, dressed quickly in the near-
darkness. He hefted his bag... and the light came up. Jack looked
quizzically at him, propped up on one elbow. 'Something I said?'

'Sorry - thought you were asleep,' Stephen said. An awkward pause.
'Look - I need to get back, it's not you or anything, I...'

Jack nodded. 'I understand,' he said with a thin smile. 'You can tell
me these things, you know.'

'I'm sorry,' he repeated. 'But... it's been good. I'd, uh... do you
want to do it again some time?'

'Oh, yes...' Jack grinned at him. 'I'll see you at work, then.'

Stephen smiled. 'Yeah. See you.' He let himself out of the room.

==Four==

And so, every couple of weeks, they'd check into a hotel within easy
driving distance and spend three or four hours having sex. They were
careful to leave a good long interval between visits to the same place.
It grew to be part of Stephen's routine, something he looked forward
to. He got the impression it was the same for Jack, for all that they
didn't discuss things like that. They didn't really talk much at all.

That was mostly down to him, Stephen realised. His uneasiness with the
idea of a same-sex relationship had not abated in the slightest. It
felt so wrong to share a bed, to embrace, someone whose build was so
similar to his own. He couldn't get past it for all that he knew it
exasperated his partner. Every evening ended with him creeping out of
the room, leaving Jack to spend the night there alone. Another song
lyric came into his head on one of these occasions - it won't be long,
there's gonna be a time I won't feel inclined to leave before
sunrise...

He wished it were true, doubted it ever would be. But their
relationship was changing him. He was losing the emotional defences
he'd so painstakingly erected. Making other friendships in the office.
People were amazed when he developed a sense of humour. It made life
easier, but also more risky regarding his secret.

And that was another thing. After a month or so of their affair he had
refilled his prescription of drugs as per usual, sat down at home to
reload the dispenser he always carried. It carried twenty-eight pills,
a fortnight's supply. He refilled it every two weeks, just as it ran
empty.

But not this time. This time five of the little multicoloured capsules
were still inside the gadget. He'd unwittingly skipped five treatments.
He felt a sudden alarm. How could he have missed so many? It was an
unbreakable routine, he couldn't have forgotten... Unless he'd been
with Jack at the time, that might explain one or two. And the rest of
the time... he dimly recalled his reminder alarm going off once or
twice while he was doing something else, and his thinking he'd take the
pill when he'd finished...

That wasn't like him at all. The drugs treatment was one of the
cornerstones of his life. Without them he'd... well, change. A sudden
vision of himself, feminised and fragile, filled his thoughts. And he
felt his stomach start to churn again. Feminised and fragile. Just a
bit, he told himself, just enough to rid himself of the conviction that
they were two men together. Not so much that anyone would notice.
Except his lover, of course.

Missing one pill in six had had no discernible effect upon his body, so
he decided to skip one in four over the next fortnight and see what
happened. You're crazy, stupid, he heard his inner voice, the sane
voice, cry out - but it was a faint voice, and the libidinous voice
coming from his loins easily shouted it down.

And so it was done. After a fortnight he looked at his reflection in
the bathroom mirror and could see a faint but definite softening of his
features. His body hair was thinning out and his sandy hair had crept a
fraction closer to blondeness. He was slighter, slimmer, and had lost
over half a stone in weight.

He felt the butterflies in his belly start their dance. He ran a hand
through his hair, realised it was getting long, past the point at which
he usually had it cut. To hell with it, he thought - let it grow. If he
was trying for a new look, why exclude anything?

With that thought in mind he went to an opticians for the first time
since before, and got himself contacts. With those in and his new
longer hair hanging loose, ungelled, he did look quite different.
Almost androgynous. Good enough.

The half-term break meant Jack was away on holiday with his sons, and
so it was some time before their next assignation. Stephen arrived in
the hotel room second, but did so with his hair loose and his contact
lenses in. Jack, who as usual was pushing the beds together, looked up
in surprise, clearly not recognising him straight away. Stephen was a
little disappointed to see he'd had his hair cut short, no more
ponytail. But his disenchantment was short-lived as Jack enfolded him
in his arms and kissed him hard.

Stephen felt a delicious tingle of helplessness, suddenly aware he
couldn't have fought Jack off even if he'd wanted to. Feminised and
fragile, he thought with a wry delight. Jack clearly also sensed the
changes in Stephen's body and looked at him, bemused.

'What's happened to you? You feel...'

Stephen slipped free of Jack's embrace and smiled at him. 'Just
something to make things less awkward between us.' Without further ado
he started to strip, casting his now slightly too big clothing aside
with mischievous abandon. Jack copied him with alacrity and they
tumbled joyfully into bed.

Afterwards Stephen happily lay there, completely exposed, as Jack
looked down at him with a look very close to wonder. 'You're so
different.'

'Not that much,' Stephen said, truthfully. But, he thought, just enough
to make a real difference in the way it felt to lie with Jack, held in
his arms. Jack was the man, and he was... well, he was a woman, when
they were together at least.

'You're off the pills,' Jack said.

'Cut my dose for while, just till this happened,' Stephen said with an
indifferent shrug. 'I should probably go back up to my full
prescription now, stop the change again.'

Jack sighed, lay down next to him. He idly stroked Stephen's chest,
which was just beginning to get sensitive. 'I would. These are
irreversible changes you're making to yourself, you know. You can't go
back to the way you were.'

'I know that. Why would I want to?'

'Well... if I wasn't around, say.'

Stephen felt a jolt of alarm. 'Why'd you say that? Where are you
going?'

'Oh, nowhere, love, it's just... I feel responsible for you doing this
to yourself.'

Stephen felt himself glow inwardly at the 'love', told himself not to
be so silly. 'Don't. I don't feel responsible for your haircut. What
brought that on, anyway?'

'It's not the same thing... and the hair, well,' Jack shrugged. 'Felt
like I should move on. It was like Julia's hair, not my own. Time to
accept who I am now and live with that.'

Stephen squeezed his arm. 'I'm sorry. How were the boys?'

He grinned. 'Fine. Super lads.'

'I wish I could meet them.'

Jack looked at him oddly. 'Why?'

'Oh, you know... I want to know more about you, meet all your family
and friends,' Stephen said lightly.

Jack stroked his hair lightly. 'You know that can't happen the way
things are,' he said gently. 'All we can have is...'

'I know,' Stephen said, then smiled. 'So give it to me.'

***

He should've gone back up to his full dose, he knew that, but he was so
blissed out at the change in his relationship with Jack it just didn't
seem that important. All his queasiness was fading away, leaving only
delight and satisfaction. He found himself staying the night, happy to
drift off in his lover's arms. He had to accept that a part of him,
maybe a big part, lived only for their nights together, loved Jack.

In another week or so his off-duty appearance (contacts, loose hair,
casual clothes) was so different from his office persona that they
stopped using hotels and just spent the night in each others' flats. It
suddenly felt less like an affair, more like a proper, conventional
relationship, something not to be ashamed of.

Lying staring at Jack's ceiling one morning he said, 'We should take a
holiday together.'

'What?' Jack sounded startled.

'I'm serious.' He rolled over, propped himself up on one elbow. 'We're
not spending all that money on hotels any more, we can save up and go
away together somewhere.'

'You and me?' Jack looked unenthusiastic. 'I don't know...'

Stephen frowned, a little hurt. 'Why not?'

'Two guys on holiday, sharing a room? They'd think we were gay.'

'So? Who cares?'

'I care,' Jack said, sitting up. 'It's very important for a man, that
kind of thing.'

Stephen hooted with laughter. 'You've only been a man what, five
months? I was one for thirty years...' He trailed off. He'd been a man?
Did he no longer consider himself to be one?

'Anyway, it's a bit hypocritical isn't it? It's okay to have sex with a
man, as long as no-one knows?'

'I haven't screwed a guy since I was Julia,' Jack said defensively.

'What about me?'

'Do you really still think you're a man? Look at yourself, Stephen.' He
yanked back the duvet, exposed his nude form. It was pale and hairless,
tapering slightly at the waist. Slender limbs ended in delicate hands
and feet. Flushed nipples crowned tiny cones on Stephen's chest. The
slit between his legs settled the matter. 'You should go back up to
your full dose of drugs right now. I'm serious. People at work are
wondering what's wrong with you.'

Stephen looked down at himself unhappily, felt his eyes stinging. 'I
did it for us. For you.'

'Stop blaming it all on me!' Jack caught his breath, spoke more
measuredly. 'I really do have feelings for you, Stephen. But... just
think about it. Think what you're doing, please.'

Stephen nodded. 'Okay,' he said.

***

It was their first fight. Afterwards Stephen went home and slumped on
the sofa. He didn't want to lose Jack. He was helpless in the thrall of
his longing for him. You're acting like a woman. Thinking like a woman,
he thought. And... well, androgyny is the best you can hope for now.

He went and looked at his reflection. Fragile and feminised. Maybe he'd
gone too far. But, no way back, kiddo, he thought. People at work
already wondering. Wondering, but not sure. Jack was clearly very
reluctant to be seen with another man in that kind of context. And he
was at his happiest affecting to be Jack's lady love.

Crunch point. Back on the pills for good, and stay like this. Or off
them for good, and let nature (if that's what APFS really was) run its
course. He'd be a woman. But somehow the prospect of holidays with
Jack, a whole life with him, out in public, in the open, that didn't
seem so bad. Jack was accepting the change in his life. Perhaps it was
time he did too.

Stephen fished the pill dispenser out of his jacket, looked hard at it,
once at the core of his life. He opened the medicine cabinet and put it
at the very back, closed the door and locked it.

==Five==

The change began to accelerate, as Stephen knew it would. That was
scary but also exhilarating, as his chest began to plump up into small
but shapely breasts, his backside filled out and his face softened
still further.

He bought women's clothing: underwear and blouses to begin with, just
for wearing under his male clothes, and around the flat. It felt
strange to be wearing knickers with his fake phallus, but he knew it
wouldn't be for long. Knew he wouldn't be he for long. He wondered how
that would happen, if some switch would suddenly close and he'd be she,
or if it would happen gradually and imperceptibly.

Each morning he dressed for work, realising that his disguise was a
little less convincing every day, that his days of wearing a suit and
tie were numbered. It never failed to bring a little shiver of
anticipation. In quieter moments it occurred to him that the excitement
and pleasure the prospect of his imminent womanhood brought him were
weirdly at odds with the self-disgust and anger he had previously
felt... but he shoved the thought away.

Inevitably, he had to tell his APFS counsellor, who was unsurprisingly
startled by the news. She was used to a surly and uncommunicative
Stephen staying for the minimum period possible every two months, and
the sight of him in mid-metamorphosis, and apparently very happy with
it, was obviously a surprise. Stephen swatted away all her carefully-
phrased enquiries about the cause of his new openness and enthusiasm,
chose not to hear.

But her advice regarding his day-to-day living did sink in, and so
before very long he found himself sitting in the office of a rather
nonplussed-looking Bob Black.

'Well, Stephen,' said Black, rather cautiously. 'I'm glad to see you're
making an effort to settle in, finally. Not that there was anything
wrong -'

'I was a pain, I know,' Stephen said with a wry smile. His voice had
become tremulous and slightly hoarse as it began its slide up the
register. 'But things are different now.'

'Eh, yes. You do seem... different,' Black said, obviously trying to be
diplomatic.

'Ah... yes. The thing is, Bob, I'd like to take a week off,' Stephen
said, smiling.

Bob Black frowned. 'Well, of course, but surely your line manager...?'

'As you can probably tell, I'm undergoing spontaneous gender reversal,'
Stephen pressed on smoothly, using a term coined to cover the whole
spectrum of conditions that included APFS and APMS. 'When I come back
to work I'll be a woman.'

'Oh. I... oh,' Black said, blinking. He looked more closely at Stephen,
who smiled and took his glasses off. Black nodded. 'Of course. How
stupid of me not to see it,' he said. 'Well... it's your decision,
Stephen - will you still be Stephen, after...?'

'No. I'm going to call myself Alison,' Stephen said. The name had no
real significance for him, so far as he could remember, but it sounded
nice. 'I was hoping you would inform everyone, while I was away.
Otherwise it would be... awkward, the last few days. I would feel
uncomfortable calling a meeting and just announcing it...'

'Yes. I expect you would,' Bob said. 'Yes, I'll make sure everyone
knows.' Inwardly Stephen felt a sudden rush of gratitude - employment
laws had been tweaked to make it illegal to discriminate against or
otherwise impede people with APFS, but Bob was under no compulsion to
do him that sort of favour. 'When will you be... taking your week off?'
Bob asked.

'The week after next,' Stephen said with a little flush of excitement.

'I'll sort it all out. Thank you for being so honest with me,' Bob
said, obviously still staggered by the news.

'No,' Stephen said. 'Thank-you.'

***

Six days left at work, then five, four, three, two, one... and he was
free, free of the necktie, the sensible shoes, the tyranny of the suit
and the rubber genitals. Rather mischievously, he thought, he'd decided
not to tell Jack about his impending switchover. Let him hear along
with everyone else at the office - Stephen had told him he was just
taking a week off to use up his outstanding leave for the financial
year, which was partly true. He only regretted not being there to see
Jack's face when he heard the news, and watch him hide his surprise and
delight.

He lay around the house for most of the next week, wrapped in a robe
and his underwear, becoming more and more certain that the change had
fully expressed itself. He was female now. Stephen was no more, and now
she was Alison. It felt as simple and as natural as that.

And so, late one spring Friday afternoon, Alison parked her car around
the corner from Jack's flat. It was the first really fresh and summery
day of the year, a fact which was not lost on her as the breeze pressed
the soft fabric of her dress against her body. She felt naked under it,
which - given the brevity and diaphanousness of the lingerie she'd
finally selected - she very nearly was. She locked the car, slipped her
handbag over her shoulder and strode off down the pavement, enjoying
the caress of the wind on her bare calves.

She felt good, knew she looked good: light, buttoned-up blue dress,
cream cardigan, open-toed shoes. Looking sexy for my man, she thought,
feeling the excitement frothing up in her like bubbles from an over-
shaken drinks can. She twitched the stylish shopping bag hanging from
one hand. What's in there? she imagined Jack asking casually as he
caressed her body. Oh, just a few things, she'd say coyly, for when I
stay the night, or for a weekend. Baby, what a great idea, Jack would
reply... you should start moving in straight away!

She sashayed her way up to Jack's front door, leaned on the bell.

'...hello?' He sounded a bit bemused, bless him.

'It's Alison, darling,' she said. 'Alison Holmes.'

'...oh!' She could almost hear the penny dropping. 'Come on up.'

She went up to his flat on the second floor, found him waiting at the
door. He was clearly nervous and trying to hide it. 'Bob announced it
today,' Jack said, passing a hand over his scalp. He'd had his hair cut
still further, not much more than a buzz-cut. Alison found she liked
how masculine it made him look. 'I wish you'd told me first.'

'Surprise,' Alison said with a smile, walking past him into the flat.
She put her handbag and the carrier down, went into the living room.

Jack followed her in. 'You... you're serious about this, then,' he
said, sounding weirdly edgy, not how she'd expected at all.

'Can't you tell?' Alison slipped off the cardigan, laid it on a chair.
She was as slender as a twig, pale and beautiful, she knew that much.
Gold flashed around her neck and at one ankle.

'We should've talked about this, Ste - Alison,' Jack said.

She smiled, undoing the top few buttons of her dress as she did so.
'Later for talk, darling.'

'Seriously. We need to - '

But she had eased the soft fabric off her shoulders and the dress had
need no more encouragement to pool around her feet. Alison stepped out
of her shoes and advanced coolly on him, certain he would not be able
to resist her. He backed up a step, another, hit the edge of the door,
trying to form a word all the time. She closed in, and he put up a hand
to ward her off. But it met her breast rather than her shoulder, and
that was the end of his resistance for quite some time.

==Six==

And Alison awoke, cradled in his arms, head resting on his shoulder.
Blissful, she thought, and was suddenly aware he was already awake. She
could feel the tension in his arms and chest.

'Relax, darling,' she murmured, stroking his chest. 'It's all okay now.
It's all sorted out.'

'Is it?' The same incomprehensible edginess in his voice.

She sat up, looked at him. 'Of course it is. We can be together now,
man and woman... isn't that what you want?'

He looked away, almost guiltily. 'Well, yes, up to a point...'

'Well then. We can spend the whole weekend together and go into work on
Monday as Jack and Alison.'

'I...' He took a deep breath. 'I'm not really comfortable with that.'

'Why not?' She was unable to keep a hard, wounded edge from her voice.
'You wouldn't be seen with me socially as a man. Are you telling me you
still don't want to be seen with me now I'm a woman?'

'Yes, kind of... but you're intent on going out there and trumpeting
the news that we're some kind of rock-solid couple. It'll look like you
changed sex just to be with me.'

'Well...' She swallowed hard, hating the quaver in her voice as she
spoke. 'Well, I did.'

'Yes, but I never asked you to, we never spoke about... being that kind
of a couple. I was just happy with the sex, I never expected you to...
to go all the way.'

She took a deep breath, pulled a pillow in front of her, suddenly
feeling naked and vulnerable and not in a good way. 'What exactly are
you saying, Jack?'

He sat up, let out a tiny groan. 'I... I don't think we're looking for
the same things out of this relationship. Not any more.'

'Jack, I love you! All I want is to be with you!' She felt a horrid
wetness on her cheeks. Suddenly all her femininity was collapsing in on
her, smothering her. There was a sudden lurch of nausea in her belly.
'What else is there?'

'That... I don't want that kind of commitment,' Jack said, spitting the
words out in a hurry as if eager to be rid of them. 'I never really
thought of this as an exclusive arrangement anyway.'

'Oh, Christ... you've been seeing other women? Screwing around?'
Alison, no, she could feel Alison disintegrating and a familiar
presence taking her place, it was Stephen who stared at him, appalled.

'My marriage - to someone I loved very much - only ended a few months
ago,' Jack said, carefully, almost angrily. What right have you to be
angry? Stephen thought wildly. 'I'm not looking for another serious
relationship yet. You just took it all for granted.'

'But I thought... what with who we were...' Stephen wished he could
stop crying.

'You thought the former man and the former woman would automatically
shack up together?' Jack groaned. 'Real life isn't that neat, Alison.'

'Don't call me that, you bastard!' Stephen slithered off the bed,
stared for a split second in disgusted horror at the women's' clothes
on the floor, then desperately started pulling them on. Anything to be
out of here, away from this man.

'But... oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...' He half-rose, flopped
limply back into the bed.

'Too late. Too late, too bloody late!' Stephen finished pulling on his
underwear, moved quickly out of the room. The dress - his dress, he
thought queasily - was still in the sitting room with his shoes and
cardigan. He pulled them on and headed for the front door.

'Ali - Stephen,' Jack said, appearing in the hallway. 'I'm sorry. We
need to talk. Call me.'

Stephen gave him a two-second flash of the old hate, the kind that
could smelt metal. 'Go to hell, you shit,' he whispered, and slammed
the door behind him as he left the flat for the last time.

***

He made it down to the street corner before his shame and despair
overtook him and he was forced to lean against the wall as his body was
wracked by sobs. Stupid, stupid, stupid man! he thought numbly.
Schoolgirl emotions and you let them destroy everything you had! He
looked down at his body, at the breasts and the hips wrapped in the
light dress, and felt the urge to vomit. Desire had done this to him.
That and getting close to someone. Oh, God, it was all over. He was a
woman now, had announced it at work, had put the paperwork in motion.
On Monday morning he would officially become Alison Holmes, woman.

He couldn't take it all in, felt sick, dizzy. He ran his hands through
his collar-length hair, yet another reminder of the metamorphosis he'd
fooled himself into. He had to go home and think it over. No, he
couldn't, not like this, his hands were shaking like he had palsy, his
nerves were in tatters. He needed a drink. Like that hasn't gotten you
into enough trouble already, he thought, but there was a pub round the
corner from where he'd parked and he desperately needed it now.

It was still early enough to be quiet and he slid onto a stool at the
bar, didn't return the landlord's cheery smile. 'Vodka,' he said, all
too aware of the softness of his voice.

The landlord's expression spoke volumes about his prejudice concerning
young women who drank spirits alone in pubs. This is what you have
given yourself, Stephen thought. You are now a stereotype, slapper or
frigid, bitch or whore, in the eyes of the rest of the world. Why
didn't you see the signs? Why were you so stupid?

It was a moot point. He needed to worry about how he would cope with
the rest of his life. They would all be laughing at him now, that, or
trying to exploit his feelings the way Jack had. Bastards. All of them.
Keep them out. Rebuild the wall. Hate. Yes, that was it. His old friend
and ally, hate.

But a sudden terrible weariness descended upon him as he tried to
recapture the old feelings that had sustained him. He was too tired to
be so angry any more. The furnace inside him had burned itself out,
leaving only ash and clinker in its heart. He sipped his drink
miserably, looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A
beautiful woman, he thought, a bit messed up, but...

He'd had a choice where his hatred was concerned, before now. And he'd
rejected it. The chilly emptiness of his life before Jack nudged its
way back into his memory. It had been terrible. No wonder he'd fallen
so hard the first time a chance to make such a vital and human
connection had come along. The price had seemed so trivial compared to
the rewards. And maybe it still did.

Stephen felt his mind coming back under some sort of control. He sipped
at his drink again. So Jack had turned out to be a useless tosser with
a skipload of baggage and a commitment phobia. He'd got the hang of
being a man remarkably quickly, Stephen thought with a smile. That
didn't mean they all had to be so worthless. He felt a nervous tingle
inside. He had nothing to hide any more. Had already made the only
choice that counted - had chosen to be a woman within the world rather
than a man outside it.

'Wise choice, babe,' he said to himself, feeling Alison resurgent,
battered but not bowed.

'Pardon, miss?' said the barman.

Alison flashed him a smile. 'Nothing. Same again - no,' she corrected
herself. 'Southern comfort, please.' She sat back on the barstool and
considered the events of the last few hours. Just a hiccough, she
thought, best to chalk it up to experience. Certainly she felt more
content even now than she had at any time during her masquerade as
Stephen. Time to chuck out that terrible rubber willy, she thought with
revulsion. Or maybe not - a conversation piece, perhaps?

She raised her glass to her reflection as the landlord departed, and
not surprisingly, the gesture was returned. Here's to us, babe, Alison
thought. A woman within. And with nothing to be ashamed of. Truly
comfortable for the first time in an age, she settled back to enjoy her
drink and listen to the jukebox. The music in her head had calmed down,
but she found she didn't miss it at all.

A Different Kind of Love

2011-01-10T12:34:19Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

==One==

Tony was still feeling indefinably under the weather even as he
returned from the pub gents, which put paid to his theory about it
being down to a dodgy curry or something like that. He slapped his
belly thoughtfully and frowned, but the sight of Lance and Sarah
smiling and chatting together at their table was enough to brighten his
mood.

Now, as will become apparent, Tony Winster lived an unusual life - for
his time. Mostly this was due to circumstances beyond his control, but
credit where it's due – Tony was not a man ever to be troubled by
jealousy, paranoia, or unworthy thoughts regarding his nearest and
dearest. Many young men would be alarmed and suspicious if their best
mates and their girlfriends got on as well as Lance (his former) and
Sarah (his latter) did, but not he.

He took a great deal of pleasure in the way the three of them could go
out together without him having to referee all the time. Admittedly, he
thought, heading back to the table, it would be nice if Lance could
actually go out and get a social life – or, even better, a woman – of
his own, without having to tag along constantly, but Lance had enough
on his plate at the moment.

'So, your old landlord's insisting on keeping the deposit?' Sarah
asked, as Tony settled his considerable bulk into the threadbare pub
seat.

Lance nodded glumly. Short and slight, he was the opposite of Tony, and
even an inch or so shorter than Sarah (who was no Amazon herself). 'I
went down the CAB and showed them the contract, and they said he's
within his rights. Says I should have got him to specify routine wear
and tear before I signed the bloody thing in the first place.'

'Well, it doesn't hurt to get these things checked out,' Tony said,
glancing at Sarah with a conspiratorial smile. She smiled back, white
teeth flashing as she flicked her collar-length auburn hair out of her
face. 'So what are you going to do?'

'Find a cheap bedsit, I spose,' Lance sighed. He hefted the copy of the
local free paper that lay on the table in front of him. 'I'm looking at
a couple of places during my lunch break tomorrow, which'll mean
starting early and working late... oh damn,' he muttered, looking at
his watch. He glanced up at them apologetically. 'Got to go. Early
night and everything.'

'Yeah, okay, mate,' Tony said with a grin, clasping his best friend's
hand. 'Take care, let us know how you get on.'

'Yes, and remember -' Sarah added.

'Don't take the first place you look at just to get it over with. I'll
remember,' Lance said with a weary smile. Sarah gave him a hug and a
peck on the cheek, and with a wave he was gone.

'Poor old Lance,' Sarah said. 'He could've come and stayed with us for
a bit, I wouldn't have minded.'

Tony grinned, fully aware of her compassion and generosity and loving
her for it. 'I know, love, but... come on, he'd never leave, would he?
And much as I feel sorry for him, the three of us living in the same
flat, well, it'd probably be a nightmare, wouldn't it? It'd be like Men
Behaving Badly. You and him get on really well and I don't want to
spoil that.'

'You're probably right,' Sarah admitted, finishing her glass. Suddenly
remembering, she stroked Tony's stomach. 'How are you feeling? Any
better?'

'No, not really,' Tony said. 'Maybe I should see about it.'

'Mmm.' They collected their things and got ready to go home. 'Didn't
you give blood last week?'

'What? Oh, yeah, there was a big drive at work, you know the spiel –
high demand at present cos of the Middle East crisis and so on. Why?'

Sarah shrugged. 'Well, if you really are sick, it might have been in
the blood you donated.'

'Well, don't they screen it all for bugs and stuff?'

She tutted and dug him in the side, exasperated. 'That's what I
meant... You never know, if it is something serious maybe it'll show up
and they'll let you know about it.'

'Oh. Okay.' Tony smiled. 'Listen to us, anyone'd think I had the
flesheating lurgy. It's probably nothing.'

*

Back at the flat they got ready for bed and as usual Sarah couldn't
help smiling ruefully as Tony undressed. He was certainly hirsute, she
thought, running her fingers through the thick hair that covered most
of his skin. She pulled on her nighty and clambered into bed.

'Oh, you magnificent man-beast, you,' she said, deadpan.

Tony mock-growled. 'That sounds like snugglin' talk to me!' He grinned
at her. 'You want to?'

She smiled and he reached for her. Tony was not the most refined of
lovers but his technique had a certain robust directness she had come
to appreciate in the fifteen months they'd been together. She hissed
with pleasure as he hammered his way towards their mutual climax, but
then, abruptly, he faded, losing his hardness and seemingly running out
of energy entirely.

'Sorry, love,' Tony whispered, flopping onto his back next to her and
looking genuinely appalled. 'I dunno what -'

'Ssh,' Sarah said, nestling next to him. 'It's okay, you're not 100%
right now. This is fine.'

'Thanks. I love you.'

'I love you,' she replied. But she could tell he was worried.

*

Lance bounded up the steps leading to Tony and Sarah's third floor
flat, motorcycle helmet in hand. It was an old Victorian building and
the rooms and corridors were correspondingly narrow and high. But it
had character, and his friends had done enough work to it to make it
very inviting. Well, more so than the dank hole he was forced to sleep
in, anyway.

He banged the helmet against the door a few times and considered using
his spare key to let himself in. But that would be a bit rude without
prior arrangement, and anyway, he could hear footsteps coming now. It
was Sarah, still in her office clothes and looking rather wan.

'Hiya,' Lance said, then noticed her expression. 'What's up?'

'Hello, Lance,' she said with a weak smile. 'Come on in. It's Lance,'
she called into the flat proper.

Lance stowed his jacket and helmet by the door. 'What's wrong?' he
asked.

'We've, er, we've had some bad news. Well, Tony has,' she said,
brushing her hair out of her face and preceding him down the hallway.
In the main room, basically a big lounge leading onto the kitchen, Tony
was sitting on the sofa looking positively shell-shocked. His eyes were
red – has he been crying? Lance thought, in utter astonishment.

'Hiya mate,' Tony said. A look passed between him and Sarah. 'Yeah, we
should tell him.'

'Tell me what, exactly?' Lance asked.

'You know how Tony felt ill, flu-ey, last week when we went out?' Sarah
said. 'Well, he gave blood just before and the tests they did on it
showed up -'

'I've got the Girl Flu,' Tony said, voice cracking midway through the
sentence. A tear rolled down his cheek.

'Shit,' Lance said. 'Really?'

Sarah nodded. 'We got a letter telling Tony to come in for more tests
and they confirmed it there and then. His sickness was caused by
poisonous by-products from the change going into his blood.'

'Shit. I've heard of it, but... you never really think it's real. Even
when Jim Carrey got it, I thought it was just a, you know, urban legend
or something.'

Sarah sat down next to Tony. 'It's real. One of the IT guys at my place
got a bad dose.'

Tony looked at her. 'You never mentioned that. What happened to him?'

Sarah winced. 'He's, er, she's working in clubs now. Stripper.'

'Oh, God,' Tony said hollowly.

'I don't think that's compulsory,' Lance said consolingly.

'Shut up, Lance,' Sarah said.

'So – what caused it? Is he... ah... contagious?' Lance said, glancing
nervously at his friend.

'It's not caused by a virus or bacteria, at least, not a detectable
one,' Sarah said. 'There doesn't seem to be a single cause, it's
different every case. Sometimes they can halt it with drugs but...' She
sighed. 'Not in Tony's case.' She put an arm round his shoulders
supportively.

'So... what? You're just going to change into a woman?' Lance couldn't
help looking at his friend more closely, but couldn't see any obvious
differences. 'When?'

'Half past two, the day after tomorrow. We're selling tickets,' Tony
growled harshly.

'Tony,' Sarah said, giving him a reproving squeeze.

He sighed. 'Yeah, sorry. It's a gradual metamorphosis, mate,' Tony went
on. 'I'm still completely male right now, but, they reckon I've got one
of the nastier, faster kinds of it. In about six weeks I'll be... I'll
be a woman, pretty much completely.'

'There's nothing you can do at all?' Lance sat back, aghast for his
friend.

'Nothing at all,' Tony said with a defeated shrug. He and Sarah
exchanged a look filled with such longing and regret and despair that
Lance felt embarrassed to be intruding on them like this.

'What will you do?' he asked.

'I'm quitting my job in the morning. Don't think I'll be able to hack
it as a lady plasterer, somehow. I've got a fair bit saved, enough to
keep us going for ages with Sarah's wage too. Past that... dunno. I
dunno who I'll be in two months time, if I'll even still be me...' Tony
shook his head, clearly unable to deal with what was happening. A
mirthless smile appeared on his face and he looked at Lance. 'But
enough about me. How has your day been?'

'Uhrr,' Lance said, unable to form a coherent word. 'Normal. But for
the last fifteen minutes. I was going to suggest going down the pub,
but...'

'Sorry, mate, oddly enough I'm not in the mood,' Tony said dourly.

'Right,' Lance said. He felt obliged to not just leave it at that.
'Listen, Tone, I know this'll sound weird, but – whatever I can do, to
help either of you, I mean...'

'Yeah. We know,' Sarah said. 'You want a coffee or something?'

Lance shook his head. 'No, I... I think I'll get going.' He stood and
met Tony's gaze. 'For what it's worth, mate, I'm so, so sorry about
this.'

Tony rose and the two clasped hands. 'Me too. Don't be a stranger. We
can still be friends, right?'

Lance was inwardly amazed at such a display of emotional vulnerability
from his big bluff friend, but managed to mask it. ''Course,' he said
with a slightly forced smile.

'Okay, then. Ta-ra.'

'Ta-ra.'

==Two==

Sarah knew that Tony was initially afraid that Lance would flee in
terror and abandon him as the changes really kicked in, but she was
pretty certain that Lance was better than that. And she was right. He
still popped by the flat more evenings than not, and to begin with they
almost returned to their old routine.

Almost. Tony's light-brown hair started to lighten to a dirty shade of
blonde, and she occasionally caught a glimpse of a new delicacy to his
features and physique. They could both see it and it provoked in her
boyfriend a desperate need to assert what was left of his masculinity
at every opportunity. They had sex more often than they had since the
first weeks of their relationship, but it was becoming more and more
obvious that Tony was losing his ability to climax or even sustain an
erection, no matter how desperately he tried. But she indulged him,
only too aware herself of how little time they had left together.

It only got worse as Tony started to complain of aches and pangs in his
shoulders and hip joints: his skeleton was reshaping itself. It was
just as well he was on the verge of finishing work for good. When she
got home on his last day, he was waiting for her hungrily, half-
carrying her to their bedroom and almost tearing her out of her
clothes. It was deeply arousing for her but also a very bittersweet
experience.

They rolled together frantically atop the bedclothes, both naked by
now, but for all the fervour of Tony's kissing and caressing of her he
showed no sign of growing hard. Sarah let out a growl of frustration
and tried rubbing her sex against his crotch, but found it hard to get
the leverage she needed. She grabbed two handfuls of the flesh of his
sides and back and ground herself fiercely against him.

'Aah!' Tony yelped and Sarah found herself flopping back onto the bed,
suddenly losing her grip. Both her clenched fists were full of... she
sat up and stared at her palms, which were full of dark curly hair.

'Shit,' Tony said hollowly, sitting up next to her. Two roughly oval
bald spots had suddenly appeared in the hair covering his side and
back.

Sarah winced. 'Did that hurt?'

'Not... not nearly enough,' Tony said. He grabbed a handful of chest
hair and tugged, not very hard at all. With a noise like someone
ripping up a clump of grass, the hair came cleanly out, revealing pale
soft skin. 'Oh, God...'

'Don't pull any more out,' Sarah said, clutching his shoulder – finding
herself suddenly careful about how and where she touched him.

'Wasn't about to,' he said. 'It's all going to fall out eventually
anyway. I expect I'll probably be quite glad...' His voice had a
detached, dreamy quality that alarmed her.

Well, that was the end of that particular attempt at lovemaking,
anyway. Tony was subdued all evening, and was beginning to complain
that his skin felt dry and itchy. But when they undressed for bed that
evening, she was relieved to see that his body hair was still intact.

But Tony's discomfort, from both his skin and the deep skeletal pangs
that were getting stronger and stronger, was obvious. Sarah almost rang
work, to take the day off and stay home with him, but there was very
little she could do, and there'd be worse times ahead for which she
should probably preserve her leave. But she felt bad about leaving him
in this state.

He was in the lounge when she got on, sitting on the sofa with his
shirt unbuttoned and a determined look on his face. A sheet of
newspaper lay by his feet, with a small heap of curly fuzz on it. He
was methodically plucking all the hair out of his chest, and had nearly
finished.

Sarah felt her heart fracture. Her eyes stung but she knew him well
enough to be sure that histrionics weren't what he would want or need
right now. 'Hello, love,' she said softly.

He looked round and smiled quietly. 'Hello. Couldn't bear it any more,
the itching I mean. Thought I'd stay in control of this thing, as
well.'

She nodded. 'Do you need anything?'

Tony shook his head, pulled out another double handful. 'Don't think
so.' He looked down at his chest, which was now almost totally bare,
sighed, and started to shrug off his shirt. As he did so he paused,
wincing. It happened again and again as he reached for the still-thick
hair on his sides, arms and back.

'Are you okay?' Sarah asked, unable to hide her concern any longer.

'My shoulders and elbows are so bloody stiff,' Tony said, his voice
tense with frustration.

'Lie down then. Let me,' Sarah said. He nodded, lay on his front on the
sofa, and gently Sarah started to remove all the hair from his body, a
long and meticulous task.

'It's a pity we don't have any pillows need stuffing,' she murmured
dryly as the pile of fluff grew. He let out an amused snort. 'Do you –
do you want me to pull all of it out?' she asked, looking at the hair
creeping from round the waistband of his jeans.

He shrugged, rested both forearms on one arm of the sofa, laid his head
atop them. 'May as well,' he said resignedly.

'Well, you'd better take everything else off,' Sarah said, reaching
under him to unbuckle his jeans. 'No, wait. Let me.' She tugged off his
shoes and socks, pulled his jeans and y-fronts down and off. Naked, he
looked almost like a satyr – thickly hairy from the waist down,
completely bare above it. Sadly Sarah continued with her task until the
only hair left on his body was on his scalp, in his armpits, and at his
crotch. She stroked the new pale skin gently, sensing the tension deep
down in the muscle and bone.

'How do you feel?' she asked.

He shifted noncommittally. 'Skin still itches like hell. I still ache.'

'Wait a minute,' Sarah said. From the bedroom she fetched a small
bottle of faintly scented oil and began to rub it into him, all over,
following it up with the closest she could manage to a good firm
massage, driving her fingertips hard down into the muscles, trying to
free up the labouring joints. Tony's breathing deepened and she could
feel him relax, grow more at peace... until the sound of faint,
untroubled snores filled the room.

Sarah straightened up and smiled sadly. He looked so peaceful... but
utterly different from the macho ape she'd fallen for. Her back ached
now, from stooping over him for nearly an hour. She collected up all
the hair Tony had shed and put it in the bin, collecting a thick towel
as she did so and laying it over him. And now, she thought, it's time
for a shower.

*

Lance rapped on the door of their flat, wondering if he looked as
dismal as he felt. It would be just his luck if the pair of them were
out. He slumped against the doorframe wearily, but straightened up as
the door opened.

It was Sarah, clearly fresh from the shower: wrapped in a robe and her
hair swept up and hidden by a towel. 'Oh, hello – did Tony know you
were coming?'

'No,' Lance confessed. 'Is it a bad time?'

She smiled. 'Course not. Tony's in the lounge, but I think he's still
asleep. Go on through, I'll finish drying off and get dressed.'

Lance made his way through to the lounge and was startled to find Tony
asleep, face down on the sofa, under a towel. There was something weird
about his exposed arms and shoulders, something different... it took
many long seconds before he twigged it, noticed the exposed bareness of
his skin. Tony hadn't been so smooth since he was about thirteen.

Fascinated, Lance carefully grasped the edge of the towel and drew back
off his sleeping friend. He hadn't expected Tony to be naked beneath it
and his first impulse was to drop it back into place, but... Tony's
bare, faintly glistening skin had a pale vibrancy and health to it that
was very appealing, matched by the sheen and lustre of his fairer hair.
And his body was losing some of its rugged bulkiness, smoothing out its
corners and edges, plumping and softening, particularly his buttocks.

Despite himself, Lance reached down and touched Tony between the
shoulder blades, feeling the oil that still coated him. Tony twitched
and mumbled something. Lance stroked his friend harder, unsure how to
respond as Tony made contented noises into his pillowing arms.

The sound of Sarah coming down the corridor provoked mild panic and
quickly he pulled the towel back into place and bounded over to look
out of the window. Sarah appeared, in t-shirt and long skirt, and
smiled fondly down at her lover.

'Still asleep,' she said, gently shaking Tony's shoulder. 'Wake up.
Lance is here.'

'Mmmph? What?' Tony struggled awake, tried to sit up, realised he was
nude and quickly wrapped the towel round his waist. 'Oh, hello, mate.
Sorry. Wasn't expecting you.'

'Yeah, sorry.' Lance forced himself to look away as Tony grabbed his
clothes and started to pull them on. 'If it's a bad time...'

'Nah, don't be daft. How's it going?' Tony was clearly unused to the
sensation of fabric on bare skin, and seemed glad to be able to at
least pretend to be normal for a while.

'More landlord problems,' Lance said wearily. 'The heating in the
sitter above mine's shot to hell, sounds like the battle of Tehran
every time it's switched on. And legally, the landlord doesn't have to
do a thing unless the resident in that particular flat actually
complains.'

'So why don't they?'

'Stone deaf. Lovely man, but really totally stone deaf,' Lance sighed.
'I'm barely sleeping. Twice today I nearly came off the bike through
sheer exhaustion.'

'You know how to pick 'em, don't you?' Tony said with a heartless
cackle.

'Yeah. I'm looking for yet another new place, but...' He shook his head
disbelievingly.

Sarah smiled. 'If you want to grab a couple of hours on our spare bed,
Lance, go ahead.'

He breathed a sigh of relief. 'Cheers. Wake me at ten, is that okay?'

'Fine,' Tony said, glancing at Sarah, clearly amused.

*

After Lance eventually went home, Tony and Sarah went to bed
themselves. Sarah felt a creeping discomfort as Tony undressed: this
soft, smooth, pale person just wasn't her man... maybe wasn't even her
type. But he still reached for her and she responded as best she could.

But there was no trace of an erection, and he seemed somehow ill-at-
ease as they rolled and moved together. Sarah felt very little sense of
sexual arousal. Abruptly Tony let out a little hiss of pleasure and
gently took her wrists, guiding her hands across his body.

'There,' he whispered, smiling at her. She found her hands were over
his nipples, and he was encouraging her to knead and stroke them. As
she did so, he wriggled and gasped with pleasure, and deep under her
palms, below each nipple, she could feel a tiny knot of tissue that had
not been there before.

Nausea lurched in her belly and abruptly she withdrew her hands, sat up
and stared at the sheet between her knees.

'What?' Tony asked, sitting up on one elbow, clearly genuinely baffled.
He looked flushed and happy.

'I'm... I'm sorry, Tony,' Sarah said, shutting her eyes. 'I can't do
that for you. We... we can't be together like this any more. Not
properly.'

He stared at her. 'What? Why not?'

'Can't you see? Your... your breasts are starting. That's why you're so
sensitive there,' she said. 'And... I'm not a lesbian. Being with
another woman, it doesn't attract me.'

Tony sat up, stared at the wall, away from her. 'So I'm a woman now?
Already?'

'No, of course not. But – you're going to be. Maybe not so long from
now.' She wiped a tear from her cheek. 'Did you think we would just
carry on, despite everything? You... you may find yourself liking men,
it's not impossible -'

'Oh, stop it,' Tony said with a shudder. 'So this is it. You're
breaking up with me.'

'We're... we're being broken up, put it that way. I don't want this any
more than you do, you must believe me,' she implored him. 'I still love
you. I always will, and I'll always be there for you if you want me to
be. But... I don't want you that way any more. I'm sorry.'

He nodded, didn't speak.

'I'll sleep in the spare room, then,' Sarah said.

'Are you moving out?' he asked neutrally. 'Leaving me?'

'I don't know. Let's see how it goes, eh?'

Sarah grabbed a spare pillow and blankets from the airing cupboard and
lay down to sleep in the tiny spare room. But sleep was a long time
coming, and her tears were not. It was no consolation at all that the
faint sobs drifting through the wall revealed that she was not alone in
her misery.

==Three==

She really did intend to stay in the flat with him until his
metamorphosis was complete, until he was settled in his new form. But
practice proved harder than intention. Every look he gave her
eloquently expressed his sense of betrayal and his longing for her. It
rapidly became unbearable. And, truth to tell, her own resolution that
they could no longer be lovers was not so solid as she might wish to
pretend. For all that he was shorter, his shoulders narrower and
rounder, his hair longer and slightly curlier, his features more
delicate, he still looked quite masculine, still recognisable as Tony –
her Tony.

Evenings in front of the TV became excruciating, not wanting to touch
or even be too close to him in case her resolve weakened. Their good
physical chemistry had underpinned the whole rest of their
relationship, and with that now gone, she knew they were floundering. A
serious, terminal bust-up seemed inevitable, and she knew she couldn't
bear that.

So she packed a few essential things and rang an old college friend
whom she knew was between flatmates. Her friend already knew about
Tony's condition and happily agreed to put her up for a while – Sarah
sensed her friend was quietly surprised it had taken her so long to
decide to move out. Now all she had to do was break the news to Tony.
She made the final arrangements while he was out seeing his APFS
therapist, seated herself on the sofa with her bags around her feet,
and waited for the familiar rattle of his key in the lock.

*

Lance was weaving his way down Croydon High Street, teeth gritted
against the almost gridlocked rush-hour traffic, when he felt the
ticklish buzz of his phone inside his jacket. He let the answering
service get it, but was slightly startled when it juddered into life
again seconds later. And then again. He was the first to admit that his
social life did not bear much comparison to that of the Rainiers of
Monaco, and three calls so close together suggested something urgent.
He peeled off into a side street, halted the bike and pulled off his
helmet and gauntlets.

All three calls had been from Tony, no message left, though. He was
about to ring the flat when the phone zzzzzed again. He took the call.
'Tony, mate? What's wrong?'

The incoherent, howling sobs coming down the line were initially
unrecognisable as his laid-back friend's voice. 'She's gone, mate...
gone... the bitch...'

'What? Do you mean – do you mean Sarah?'

'Yeah... the cow, she's... she's left me. Moved out...!'

'Oh, Jesus,' Lance said, cringing for his friend. What could have made
Sarah do that to him, when he was so vulnerable? But he knew her well
enough to be certain that there would be a good reason. It occurred to
him that Tony's change would be just as hard on her as on Tony himself.

'Look, mate, I'm in Croydon on a job, but as soon as I'm done I'll come
round. Don't do anything... don't do anything daft, okay?'

More breathless sobbing. 'I... okay, mate. Thanks.'

'See you soon,' Lance promised.

*

Inevitably the traffic seemed like the worst in history, just to make
the occasion extra special. But eventually he was parking the bike
outside the familiar old Victorian apartment block and hurrying up to
his friend's door.

Tony opened it in seconds, face ghostly white but for the deep red
rings round his eyes. He wore a t-shirt and jeans. 'Oh, mate!'

Lance accepted his friends' crushing hug with a due mixture of
compassion, surprise and alarm. He could sense Tony's desperate need
for human contact and held him gently, patting and squeezing his back
and shoulders. Tony's face was buried in Lance's shoulder. Lance
couldn't help noting how much slimmer and less muscular his friend
seemed.

Eventually Tony's sobbing dwindled to a series of sniffles. Lance
partly disentangled himself and shut the door behind them. 'Oh, mate,'
Tony said with a feeble smile. Lance could smell whiskey on him. 'Look
at me, crying like a – oh, God!' And of course that set him off again.

Still holding him supportively and whispering encouraging words, Lance
guided Tony through into the lounge, where they sat on the sofa. A
bottle of JD and a glass sat on a low table before it.

'So, what happened, mate?' Lance asked gently.

'First she... first she said we couldn't be lovers any more, because I
was a woman now,' Tony said. His voice grew stronger, yet lost its
emotion as anger superseded grief in his mind. 'Do I look like a woman
to you?'

'Well... no,' Lance said. Slightly effeminate, in an odd, Russian lady
shot-putter way, but still quite mannish.

'And then she just announced she was leaving. Just like that. Said it
was no good us living together, it was just reminding us of things we
had to say goodbye to,' Tony said. 'I came back from hospital and she
was here on this couch, bag packed, taxi booked. Cow. I... I still love
her, Lance! Oh, God...'

'I'm sure she still feels for you, mate,' Lance whispered, as Tony had
another slug of JD. 'But... it can't be easy for her, either.'

'No. I spose not,' Tony said with a sigh. 'But... I don't know... I'd
counted on her being there... being around, at least some of the
time... I won't be able to go out, soon, I'll be in the middle of it...
I don't know if I can cope with being so alone here.' Tears flowed
again.

Lance hugged his friend and let him sob against his shoulder until he
once again seemed spent. Finally Tony shook his head and looked up. His
face was about three inches from Lance's and Lance marvelled at how
soft his jawline looked, how full his lips had become. He was suddenly
extremely aware of how intently Tony was staring back at him. They were
still half-embracing each other. The air between them seemed suddenly
charged.

'Well, well,' Tony whispered. 'Who'd've thunk it?'

'What?' Lance asked nervously. Then Tony's palms slapped against the
sides of his head, holding it in place as he shut his eyes and leaned
in to kiss Lance full on the lips. Lance found himself unable to object
– then, after a moment, unwilling to. The kiss was fierce and urgent
(it smelled quite strongly of spirits, too, but then Lance had had most
of his romantic successes under similar circumstances, and so wasn't
about to complain), and weirdly satisfying. Lance found himself lightly
holding his friend about the waist.

Tony came up for air, sat back and let his hands drop onto Lance's
shoulders. 'Well, mate?' There was a wary defensiveness in his eyes as
he brushed a strand of long hair back behind his ears. 'Too weird for
you? Crossed the line?'

'Well... I... it wasn't what I'd expected for this evening,' Lance
said. 'But... I don't know. I... I don't know.'

'Shouldn't have done that. I should've felt sick at the thought,' Tony
murmured, seemingly half to himself. 'But I just needed to... to touch
someone, and that felt... the right way.' He looked at Lance. 'I'm
going to kiss you again, all right?'

'Uh... okay,' Lance said, not feeling qualified to object. Tony's lips
clamped down over his again, and, no longer quite such a hostage to
surprise, Lance was able to relax and let himself enjoy it. Yeah, he
was enjoying it, in a weird, forbidden-fruit kind of way... Tony
withdrew again.

'No... no complaints,' Lance said. 'You're a, uh, good kisser, mate.'

'Cheers, mate,' Tony said, as they disentangled themselves from each
other. 'Want some Jack Daniels?'

'Uh, yeah,' Lance said, deciding some artificial fortitude wouldn't go
amiss, given the way the evening seemed to be heading. Tony went into
the kitchen area and rummaged around for a glass. Try as he might,
Lance couldn't think of a single thing to say.

'Well, anyway,' Tony said, pouring Lance a slug. 'Chin chin.'

'Indeed,' Lance said, and they clinked their glasses and drank. Idly he
reflected on the somewhat surreal turn that events had taken. 'So,
anyway...'

'Yeah,' Tony said, with a rueful smile. 'Christ, I can't believe I
actually kissed you. I can't believe it actually wasn't that awful.'

'Oh, thanks a bunch,' Lance muttered. He looked seriously at Tony.
'What the hell's going on here?'

Tony shrugged. 'Damned if I know,' he said. 'Both of us wanted to do
it, didn't we?'

'Um. Yeah.'

'Both of us liked it.'

'Um, right again,' Lance said, a little uncomfortably.

'So. Let's not freak out too much worrying about it,' Tony said, a bit
too breezily for Lance to be utterly convinced. 'It's just... just
fooling around. No need to get all serious or worried, eh?'

'No,' Lance said, thinking to himself: you're saying all that to me but
it's really yourself you're trying to convince, isn't it, Tony? He
shouldn't let this go any further. He shouldn't let his best friend
delude himself, should remove the risk that Lance would be tempted to
exploit him – Tony was psychologically fragile enough right now.

'Right then,' said Tony, and turned on the TV. It was international
football night and they spent a pleasant couple of hours watching the
Welsh team get hammered into the ground by the young tigers of
Liechtenstein. Things seemed completely back to normal between them –
which, in its own way, was extremely weird.

Lance checked his watch. 'Damn. Got to get home.'

'Back to Tehran, eh?'

He rolled his eyes and sighed. 'Yeah.' His gaze settled on the bottle
of JD, which they'd managed to empty between them in the course of the
evening. 'I'll need to get a taxi, too. Bollocks.'

Tony stood up and ran his hands through his hair. 'Listen... you're
living in a shithole, I could really use some company around the place.
Come and stay here for a bit. Sarah's gone and...'

Lance looked carefully at him. 'You want me to move in with you.'

'Yeah. Spare room, you divot,' Tony said with a sudden wonky grin. 'I'm
not asking you to... oh, sod it. Look, the offer's there if you want
it. But...'

Lance raised an eyebrow. 'But what?'

'Thirty quid a week rent and you pay half the bills. Plus no clipping
your toenails in the lounge,' Tony said.

Lance couldn't help laughing, despite the undercurrent of vague tension
he felt. 'Okay, okay. I'll get me stuff tomorrow after work.'

'Top man. I'll fish you out some sheets and that kind of crap.'

Lance waited at the spare room door until Tony returned with some
bedding. 'Cheers. Night, then.'

'Night,' Tony said. They looked at each other briefly, and an awkward
moment ended when Tony quickly and casually leant forward and kissed
him on the mouth. 'Night, then,' Tony repeated, before turning and
striding casually into his own room, the door shutting behind him.

Lance shook his head and went into his room. He suspected he wouldn't
be sleeping until the chaos of emotions, thoughts and urges in his mind
had spun itself out, which might well take some time.

==Four==

They both enjoyed it. It was an entirely mutual and consensual
arrangement. Only that old troublemaker, rampaging macho pride, could
have any objection to two male friends getting pleasure from the
sharing the odd playful and casual kiss. Except... it wasn't that
simple, Lance knew. Tony's maleness was a matter of degree and that
degree was dwindling fast, as his hair grew and his body shrank and
softened.

As Lance moved in as Tony's lodger (he was very clear in his own head
about that), it became apparent that the kissing thing was going to be
happening quite a bit between them. It was a secret, of course, Tony
had severed contact with virtually all of his other friends and was
refusing to ring Sarah or answer her phone calls, and Lance just wasn't
sure enough of how all his biker friends would react to the news for
him to feel confident about telling them. But he got a casual smacker
first thing in the morning, another when he got in from work, and every
now and then a slightly more intense session in the evening if there
was nothing on the telly.

Yes, it was nice, but...Tony was acting weird. Especially weird. He
seemed to treat it just as a new recreational activity, an end in and
of itself, rather like playing Jenga for drinky forfeits or hallway
bowling (both of which they also did on occasion). He wasn't letting it
affect their relationship at all, he was plain old blokey Tony, for all
that he'd lost four inches in height and most of his muscle definition.
Lance was used to... well, that kind of activity... being significant
in some way. But Tony was sticking to his insistence that it was just
meaningless fooling about.

Except... well, it wasn't. Tony was transforming into a woman, and most
people would've sagely nodded and pronounced that his new penchant for
slipping the tongue to another man was a clear-cut sign of how this
transformation was going. But Lance didn't feel like he was kissing a
girl, or even close to it. Tony was still acting the guy's part, trying
to force Lance into the submissive, reactive role. When they kissed on
the sofa, it was Lance who felt himself bent backwards, trying to fend
off Tony. His few attempts to initiate this kind of play were
invariably ignored by his friend.

He'd seen Tony like this before, with other girls he'd been less
serious about, before Sarah came on the scene. Being on the receiving
end of such predatory treatment was, to say the least, a bit alarming.
It was as if Tony was acknowledging the new femininity of his libido,
but expressing it in the most alpha-maleish way he could, a declaration
that he was still in some way the guy he'd always been.

It was a weird thing to be involved with, and it got weirder as Tony's
body grew androgynous and slowly slid over the border into the early
stages of femininity. Lance couldn't help but track the changes as he
slowly ran his hands over his friend's shoulders, back, and sides.

Tony had been showing signs of frustration at Lance's response to him
for some time, but even so it was still a shock when he broke off in
mid-kiss, sat back and stared at his lap. 'Come on, mate, put a bit of
passion into it,' he muttered. 'Make me feel something, for God's
sake.'

Lance blinked. 'Er... how?'

'Bloody hell, do I have to show you everything?' With a sigh, Tony
grabbed Lance's left hand and slapped it into place on the right side
of his chest, and placed his left hand in a corresponding position next
to it. Lance had always steered clear of that area, and Tony's loose
shirts and t-shirts had hidden whatever changes had occurred there, but
now Lance could feel a shallow fleshy dome under each hand, through the
thin fabric. Each was about the size and shape of an upturned saucer
and Lance felt his own dick stir as a nipple sprang to life at the
centre of each one.

Tony exhaled slowly and was unable to resist a smile. 'That's more like
it,' he said. 'You know what to do with those, don't you, mate?'

Lance nodded, squeezing softly. Tony kissed him again with sudden fire,
and Lance found for the first time he didn't have to fight to avoid
being physically overpowered by his bigger friend. Tony was no longer
stronger than him. That aroused him even more and he concentrated on
keeping Tony as excited as he clearly was, pushing his alarm to the
back of his mind to be considered later. Much later.

*

'Goodnight, everyone,' Sarah said with a weary smile, pulling on her
coat and leaving the office, the muted chorus of farewells from her
workmates following her down the corridor. Life had been hard this last
couple of weeks, but she was blessed with an understanding boss, and a
good friend in the girl she was staying with. But Tony's rejection of
her, understandable though it was, still stung. She worried about him,
still cared and wanted to help. But he'd hung up on her every time
she'd rung and none of her messages had had any response.

She headed for the local tube station but was surprised to see a
familiar figure leaning against his bike by the exit from the building.
'Lance!' She found herself genuinely pleased to see him, gave him a
warm hug. 'How are you?'

He looked a bit embarrassed. 'Okay. How about you?'

'Oh, well, you know...' She brushed hair out of her face. 'It's not
been as easy as all that, but... should've expected it, I suppose. Have
you seen Tony much recently?'

Lance looked away sheepishly. 'Don't get mad, but... I'm staying at the
flat. As a lodger, I mean.'

'Of course,' Sarah said, finding herself beaming at him. 'That's such
good news.'

'It is?' Lance said, looking startled.

'Yeah, I've been worried about him, I thought he was stuck there on his
own... how's he looking?'

'He's... it's getting obvious,' Lance said with a shrug. 'It's weird,
I've never actually looked at him and suddenly thought, God, you look
different... but he's changed. A lot.' He looked away, almost as if
embarrassed.

Sarah sighed. 'I wish I could see him.'

'Well... that's why I've come to see you,' Lance said with a thin
smile. 'He doesn't actually know I'm here, but he needs... I don't
know, someone to talk to about - oh, crap – girly stuff. Cos quite
frankly things are getting weird.'

Sarah couldn't help smiling. 'Will he see me?' she asked seriously.

Lance shrugged. 'Dunno. Hope so. I think he still cares about you. I
think we should try anyway.'

'It's just... I don't know, before I left he still...' She found
herself blushing now. 'He still wanted me, you know? And if he still
does it'd be so awkward...'

'I honestly haven't a clue what he wants at the moment,' Lance said,
with obviously heartfelt sincerity. 'C'mon, Sarah. Please.'

'Oh... okay. Where's your spare helmet?' Sarah asked.

*

It took an effort of will not to produce her own key – still on the
ring – and open the door of what she still thought of, on some level,
her home. Instead she waited while Lance let them in, and followed him
down the hallway.

'Tony?' Lance called, trying to sound casual and making a fairly Lance-
like hash of it.

'In here.' She recognised his voice, but it was softer, slightly
higher. She swallowed hard.

'Guess who I bumped into in town,' Lance said, going into the main
room.

'What?' There was instant wariness in Tony's voice.

Sarah sighed and followed Lance. 'Hello, Tony.'

'Hello,' he said neutrally, glancing from her to Lance suspiciously.
Lance hadn't lied: even though he was sitting down she could tell he'd
lost a good four or five inches in height and was more-than-
proportionately slimmer and more slightly built. His shoulders were
thinner and rounder, his hips looked wider, and there were hints that
his waist was starting to dwindle away. His loose t-shirt hid what most
of breast development had occurred. His hair was now pale blonde and
reached almost to his shoulders, framing a face with an odd mixture of
delicacy and strength.

'I was worried about you,' she said. 'Lance said I should come round.'

'Oh.'

Lance cleared his throat. 'I'll sort us out some dinner,' he
volunteered.

'Really?' Sarah couldn't help making the jibe.

'Yeah. Tony, where's the phone number for the Chinese chippy?'

'On the fridge,' Tony said. Lance grabbed the number and the phone and
made himself scarce. Sarah sat down opposite Tony.

'How are you?'

Tony shrugged, dragged a hand unconsciously through his mass of fine
curling hair. 'Okay, I suppose. Why've you come back?'

'I was worried about you. I still care, Tony, I want to be your friend
-'

He snorted. 'I've got friends.'

'Lance, yeah, but who else? And – you're going to have to start
adjusting to being a woman soon, change your clothes, your habits -'

'Yes, but why you? Why not someone else?' He looked levelly at her,
outwardly hostile, but she knew him well enough to realise he was
silently begging her to prove him wrong.

'I know you. We – know each other so well. And I do care – Tony,
there's only so many times I can tell you that I still care about you.
If you really don't want me in your life, just say so and I'll go.' She
stood up.

'No. Wait.' Tony looked at her and part of her was surprised to see his
eyes glistening. He stared down at his knees. 'Damn it, stupid soft -'

'Sshhh,' Sarah said, sitting down next to him and putting a consoling
arm around his shoulders. 'It's okay...'

He looked tearfully at her, but he was smiling. 'Guess this proves it,
I really am turning into a big soppy girl.' He dabbed at his eyes with
a tissue.

'Oi, you're not allowed to go around promoting those kinds of naff
stereotypes,' Sarah said in a mock growl, then squeezed his shoulders.
'Are we okay?'

Tony put his arm round her and they hugged, but Sarah was relieved to
feel it was – as far as she could tell – purely platonic. 'We're okay.
Thanks for... well, thanks for -'\

'You'd've done the same,' Sarah said. She let a pause hang in the air.
'How far along are you?'

He laughed quietly. 'Pretty far. Tits are well on the way, nuts and
dick have started to shrink. I'm not looking forward to the end result
of that.'

'Mmm?' She looked sharply at him.

'Well... it's been quite painful, so far, the change, and I expect
that'll be the worst part.' He looked nervously at her, almost as if
wanting reassurance.

She squeezed his hand. 'Anything I can do...'

'I don't need to change my clothes just yet, do I? I mean...' He looked
down at himself.

'Might help you make the mental adjustment. And to be honest, you look
like you're going to be a – oh, well – quite a curvy lady. You might
need a bit of support sooner than you think.'

They couldn't help smiling at that, and fortuitously that was the
moment at which Lance reappeared. 'Everything okay?' he asked, clearly
half-expecting them to be clawing and spitting at each other.

Tony looked at Sarah. 'Everything,' he announced, 'is hunky-dory.'

==Five==

Even so, it was a bit of a surprise the following Saturday when Tony
rang early in the morning. She just about recognised his voice over the
phone. 'Everything okay?' Sarah asked.

'Er – yeah.' He sounded somehow brash, yet brittle. 'You were talking
about clothes and stuff, buying things for... afterwards.'

'Oh!' She twigged. 'You want us to go shopping for, uh, women's
clothes?'

'Er, yeah. If you don't mind. It'd be a disaster if I went with Lance.'

'Oh, God, wouldn't it just... I'm guessing you're thinking in terms of
today?'

'Well, yes. Sorry it's short notice, are you busy?'

'No, nothing important. I'll come round the flat, about half past
nine?'

'Fine.'

'See you then, then.'

*

Tony opened the door to her. His hair was scrunched back messily and he
wore his usual t-shirt and jeans, even though the jeans looked
noticeably tight around his hips. But he looked more like a woman than
a man, even though he'd made no attempt to play up to his femininity.

'All right? Cuppa coffee?' Tony asked as they went into the lounge.

Sarah glanced at her watch. 'Better not. We've got a lot to do, and I
should really get back by early afternoon.'

'Oh. Okay, then.' Tony reached for a baggy jacket.

She shifted uncomfortably. 'Where's Lance?'

'Asleep. He was out till the early hours with his biker mates. Why?'

'Well – I just wanted to say to you, make it clear... to do what we're
going to do, you're going to have to...' she sighed. 'You're going to
have to come out as a woman. If you're going to buy bras and knickers
you'll have to do it as a girl, no messing about.'

Tony smiled ruefully. 'That had occurred to me. Let's go.'

They walked to the high street, and Sarah was aware of Tony's slightly
awkward walk. His hips and behind were really swelling, she realised,
and his waist had definitely shrunk. It was tempting to sort him out
with a pair of jeans in a female cut, or even a skirt, as their first
purchase. But it would be better to approach this more methodically,
she decided: from the skin outward, top to bottom.

*

Two and three quarter hours later Sarah dumped her bags of shopping on
the café floor and sank gratefully into her seat. She stirred her cup
of coffee absently and watched as Tony carefully smoothed down his
skirt and sat opposite her. He seemed to be moving slightly awkwardly
and somehow she didn't think it was down to his new way of dressing.
But he'd not complained about or tried to shy away from any of the
things she'd suggested to him, and that was impressive, creditable.

His old clothes were in one of the bags. As a man Tony's dress sense
had always been fairly mainstream and unremarkable but the clothes he'd
bought and was wearing now hinted at a new and slightly bolder
sensibility: a black sweater over a long, deep purple dress which
buttoned down the front, together with dark tights and knee-length
heeled leather boots. Keeping him warm was a full-length dark denim
coat with fake fur erupting fluffily around the cuffs, collar and hem.
His hair was down and reached past his shoulders. No-one could possibly
have guessed who he'd once been.

'How's it feeling?'

Tony grimaced. 'Weird,' he said. 'The bra's pinching at the sides...'

'You'll get used to it.'

'...and the pants keeping riding up.'

'Bet you're glad it isn't a thong,' Sarah said lightly. 'By the way,
try a bit harder to keep your knees together when you sit down.'

'What? Oh shit.' Tony hurriedly corrected his stance. 'I'm never going
to get used to this.'

'You will. For what it's worth – I think you look really good. You look
like a proper girl, without going berserk with fluffy stuff and tight
pink... whatevers.' Sarah smiled.

'Oh. Thanks,' said Tony, with a shy smile that momentarily changed to a
wince of discomfort.

'Bra pinching again?' Sarah couldn't help a wry smile. 'You'll be
grateful of it in the long run. Those boobs of yours are a bit of a
handful, aren't they?'

'Uh. Yeah,' Tony said, flushing a very vibrant shade of crimson. Sarah
was baffled – there was no reason for him to feel quite so embarrassed
about them, surely? It didn't make sense.

They drank their coffee in silence. 'So, anyway, have you thought about
the future much?' Sarah asked. 'Once everything's, ah, settled down?'

Tony grinned. 'You're going to think this is silly, but... you know I
can get one of those special lifestyle adjustment grants off the
government?'

'Yeah.' It was one of the more popular APFS-related pieces of
legislation.

'Thought I'd put that together with my savings, get a job in a shop
somewhere, and go back to school. University, even.'

'A second chance.'

'Yeah, if you put it like that.' He looked carefully at her. 'What do
you think?'

'Sounds great to me. But...' She looked sadly at him. 'You'll have to
think about a change of name. Unless you're going to go to uni as Toni
or Antonia. You're not planning on striding in and shouting 'Hi,
everyone, I used to be a guy', are you?'

Tony wrinkled his nose. 'Suppose not. Could prove socially awkward.
Can't stand Antonia, and Toni's just... ugh... on a girl.'

'Well, then, what's it going to be, missy? You may as well pick now.'

'I can't pick my own name, that's just... weird. You do it.'

Sarah laughed. 'You're not lumbering me with that responsibility! Hang
on.' She looked around and caught the eye of the nearest waitress,
beckoned her over.

'Yes, miss?'

Sarah smiled, looking at the woman's name badge. 'Can we have some more
sugar, please?'

The waitress stared at her. 'It's on the counter. You can take as much
as you like.'

She smiled sweetly. 'Sorry, my head's all over the place today.' After
the woman had gone, Sarah grinned triumphantly at Tony. 'Joan.'

'What?'

'It's as good a name as any. If it's good enough for her, it's
certainly good enough for -'

Tony grimaced. 'Joan? Can you not try again?'

'No, we'll be at this all day. Can you think of a single name you'd
actually say 'wow, that's perfect' to?'

He sighed. 'No, I spose not. Joan it is. But not yet, though!'

'Whenever,' Sarah sighed.

'Just give us a little while to get used – nnng.' This time Tony's
grimace was involuntary and his hands flew to the pit of his stomach.

'What is it? Tony, what's wrong?'

'Changing,' Tony muttered, breathing hard. 'Last few bits and pieces
twisting into shape, bloody painful it is too... ahhhhhrrrrr!'

'Do you need an ambulance, pills?' Sarah looked around for someone to
assist them.

'No, this is what I was told to expect. Just get me home, I'll sweat it
out.' He managed to smile at her. 'Another day or two and it'll be all
Joan, no Tony left.'

She helped him to his feet, collected up their bags. 'We'll worry about
that later. Come on, let's get you home.'

*

Lance had woken with a dry mouth and a thumping head, with noon just
about in sight. He tried to remember if the night had been good enough
to justify this kind of suffering and found he couldn't remember.
Probably, then. It was weird: he could remember meeting a girl there
last night, someone who'd come with a mutual friend, and she actually
hadn't seemed utterly disinterested in him. Yet he hadn't pursued the
issue, it would have felt... wrong. Dishonest, somehow.

There was a note on the top saying that Tony and Sarah had gone out,
and that they were out of milk. The clear subtext was that the former
was none of his business but that he was definitely expected to fix the
latter problem. So he showered, had a bacon sandwich and some juice,
and staggered off to the corner shop, detouring for a rejuvenatory
toddle round the park on the way.

When he got back Tony's coat was hanging up in the hall. He went into
the lounge-kitchen and found his flatmate sprawled on the sofa,
barefoot, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a loose t-shirt. His face was
contorted with discomfort and slick with painful sweat.

'God, you look awful,' Lance said – sensitively, he thought later.

'Feels worse – like a knife in the gut,' Tony whispered. 'The home
straight, though, mate, after this it's all over.'

Lance wondered what exactly would be 'all over' – did Tony just mean
his change, or the slightly odd elements of their relationship, or
their whole friendship? Did Tony even know himself? 'Can I get you
anything?' he asked.

Tony shook his head. 'Painkillers are out, my system's messed up with
different chemicals as it is. Oh, shit, this hurts.'

'I can imagine.'

Tony glanced at him. 'Can you? It feels like being kicked in the balls
forever.' His face screwed up again.

'Can I do anything at all?'

'Just... just be around,' Tony said.

'Course I will.'

==Six==

All through that afternoon and evening Tony's torment continued. Lance
couldn't believe how helpless he felt, unable to offer anything more
than a comforting word or reassuring squeeze of the arm. Tony
repeatedly assured him that this was what he'd been told to expect, and
that none of his specialist doctors could help much. As the evening
turned into night Tony started helplessly groaning, crying out from the
pain. He could clearly tell how much this was disturbing Lance and
clambered to his feet, wished him a good night and stumbled off to his
room.

Lance felt wretched and considered calling either an ambulance or Sarah
– but doubted Tony would thank him for either. He seemed to be treating
this as a private thing, a personal trial of strength. In the end he
sighed and went off to his own bed.

But even through the wall he could hear the sobs and moans of agony
Tony was letting out: crying freely, helplessly now, all semblance of
strength crumbling away. The pitch of his voice had risen too. Lance
found himself out of his bed and going to the door of Tony's room.

'Tony, are you okay?' he called into the darkness, feeling foolish.

Tony's bedside lamp clicked on. His eyes were red-rimmed, his t-shirt
soaked with cold sweat. His lower lip juddered helplessly. He pulled
back the duvet and shifted painfully over to one side of the double
bed, the invitation obvious.

'Tony...' Lance looked away. 'I...'

'Please. Just get in,' Tony whispered.

And Lance nodded and obeyed. Tony switched off the light and rolled
desperately into his arms. Lance held him, marvelling at how fragile he
suddenly seemed, hugging him through the worst of the night, sharing
the pain, until sleep finally took them both.

*

When Lance woke he was alone in the bed. He remembered the feeling of
Tony lying in his embrace and had to confess it was a good memory. Even
admitting that to himself was a bit scary.

He got up and found Tony on the sofa watching Sunday morning TV. He was
still clearly going through the wringer but it seemed less acutely
painful than the previous night. Lance flopped down next to him.
'Morning.'

'Morning,' said Tom. His voice was definitely softer and higher. He
looked away awkwardly. 'Look, about last night...'

'Yeah,' Lance squirmed himself. 'Sorry, I -'

'I was going to say sorry to you,' Tony said with a weak smile. 'And –
thank-you.'

Lance shrugged. 'I didn't know what else to do.' There was a pause.
'How are you doing?'

'Trust me, you don't want the gory details,' Tony said. 'But... I'm,
ah, shaping up, down there. Next day or so, maybe sooner, and - ' he
sighed. 'I'll be a girl. Properly.'

'Scary,' Lance said without thinking.

'Yeah. As soon as it's over I'm supposed to see my specialist for a
full ob-gyn exam, which scares the shit out of me. I'd rather it wasn't
so, you know, clinical.' He looked around, then back at Lance. 'Do you
think Sarah would, you know, have a butchers for me first? Just say,
yes, it's supposed to look like that?'

Lance blinked. 'Have a butchers at your...'

'Front entrance, yeah.'

'Well, mate, you know her better than I do,' Lance said. 'I mean, if
the situation was reversed I'd say yeah, but...' He shrugged.

'I'll give her a bell,' Tony said. He clambered to his feet, wincing,
and walked over to the phone. Lance did his best to avoid listening to
the gory details of the call and concentrated on the Hollyoaks omnibus
on the telly.

'Well,' Tony said on his return to the sofa, 'she's busy all day today
but she says she'll pop round first thing tomorrow, before work.
Sounded quite concerned.'

'She's all right, she is,' Lance said with a grin.

'Yeah, I don't know how I'd've coped without her,' Tony said with a
sigh.

Tony's pains seemed to diminish to a dull, grinding ache, and he spent
most of the rest of the day on the sofa, sometimes watching telly,
sometimes dozing. Lance found himself watching his friend sleep,
entranced by the slow rise and fall of his stomach, wanting to stroke
his long blonde hair.

Tony eventually slept through from late afternoon until about nine in
the evening. Lance sat on the sofa beside him, watching TV with the
sound off and subtitles on, or reading magazines. Tony's head flopped
onto Lance's shoulder and he didn't bother to move it. Oh, he thought
to himself, you're heading into trouble now, you fool...

And then, with a tiny yawn, Tony awoke and stretched, looked around the
half-lit room. He looked refreshed and comfortable. 'Oooh.' His voice
was higher, softer again. A woman's voice now. 'What time is it?'
'Coming up to nine,' Lance said. 'How do you feel?'

Tony rubbed his thighs thoughtfully. 'I feel... fine. I really do. It's
– done. Finished.' He looked at Lance and smiled, then leant forward
and kissed him hard.

Lance found himself responding despite his misgivings, sliding his arms
round Tony, Tony the woman, now, and hugging him closer. He broke the
kiss and whispered, 'I thought you'd just want to rest –'

Tony wriggled against him. 'I've been asleep for hours. Now I ...' - he
smiled, helplessly - '...now I just want to play. Unless you don't want
to?'

'Play?' Lance asked. 'Is that all it is?'

Tony sighed, hugged him tight. 'Do you really need to ask? Lance,
you're my best friend, I've loved you for years. It's just that now...
it can be a different kind of love. If you want that.'

And Lance kissed him fiercely in reply. Tony giggled and jumped up off
the sofa, switching off the telly and turning the fire up to four full
bars.

'What's that for?' Lance asked, taken a little by surprise.

'It's a bit cold in here for romping around in the nude,' Tony said,
then grinned as Lance gawped at him. He unbuckled his belt and pulled
the hem of his t-shirt free. 'Come on then, get 'em off. It's getting
hot in here, so take off all your - '

'Oh, my,' Lance whispered. He got to his feet and, finding it hard to
believe this was happening, started to unbutton his shirt. Tony beamed
at him, wriggling out of his jeans, tugging off his socks. Lance
realised he'd been wearing black cotton panties all the time and felt
his dick stiffening up. He scrambled to undo his own jeans.

'Don't go off half-cocked on me, mate,' Tony laughed as he casually
stripped off his t-shirt, glanced happily down at his full, rounded
breasts. Lance didn't trust himself to reply, kicking off his shoes,
kicking out of his jeans. Not breaking eye contact with Lance, Tony
slipped his panties off and stood there proudly naked.

'Oh, God, you're gorgeous,' Lance whispered, clawing his boxer shorts
off rather less elegantly.

'Yeah,' Tony said, stroking his – no, that was just not true anymore,
Lance thought – stroking her sides and hips, not even trying to conceal
the silky nest between her thighs. 'And you're looking pretty good to
me right now, mate.' Her gaze rested squarely on the unwavering
erection Lance had pointed in her direction.

He strode forward and took her in his arms, feeling his hardness press
against the cool and slightly yielding flesh of her belly. They kissed,
hard and serious, and he found his lips wandering along her jawline to
her earlobe, the side of her neck.

'Look, mate... I need a favour.' For the first time Tony sounded
uncertain. Lance looked at her warily. 'You can't have me tonight,' she
said sadly. 'It's... I don't know, but it just doesn't feel ready yet,
it's too new, too sensitive.'

'Okay,' Lance said, wondering if this was all a big and very sadistic
windup. It must have shown in his expression, as Tony hugged him to her
desperately.

'But it's going to be you. It was always going to you,' Tony whispered
extravagantly as she planted kisses on his chest. 'Soon, I promise,
mate.'

Lance surrendered to her obvious passion and sincerity, but something
still gnawed at him. 'I... I'd like a favour, too...'

She looked sharply up at him, suddenly seeming very vulnerable and
worried. 'What?'

'Please stop calling me mate. It's too weird...'

Tony laughed, a musical sound. 'Of course... what would you prefer?'
she teased.

Lance swallowed hard. 'Darling. Sweetheart. Lover.' He looked at her,
terrified of laughter or ridicule, but she smiled the most welcome and
beautiful smile he'd ever seen.

'Of course, lover. And now that's sorted, there's some naked romping on
the agenda, isn't there?'

And indeed there was. What grace and experience they lacked was more
than made up for by their energy and excitement, and when carpet burns
threatened to become a real issue Tony took a firm grip on Lance and
led him to their bedroom.

'Move your stuff in here tomorrow,' Tony said, squeezing his hand and
leading him to the bed.

'You're that certain about this?' Lance whispered, crawling under the
duvet next to her.

'Aren't you?' She slid into his arms for the umpteenth time that
evening. For an equally countless time he felt himself come to the very
verge of release and grunted helplessly. Tony looked playfully at him,
then slipped down under the duvet. Moments later he felt her lips on
him and almost cried out at the feel of it. When he came it almost felt
like dying, as if nothing else could ever approach such an intensity of
feeling.

Overwhelmed with love for her he held her again as she reappeared, even
as a happy, hazy cloud settled over him. The scent of her hair was all
he remembered as he fell asleep.

*

And she was still there in the morning, cradled in his arms, already
awake but showing no inclination to move. She smiled at him. 'Morning,
darling.'

'Morning, T - ' He broke off. That name didn't fit this person, what
they'd done together.

She nestled closer, comfortable, happy. 'Call me Joan.'

'Joan,' he said, trying it out. 'Suits you.'

'Thanks.' She kissed him again and he felt her hands on his manhood,
bringing it to life again. 'How do you feel?'

'Fine. No, better than fine. The best ever,' Lance said.

'Good,' Joan said, clambering onto him, straddling him. He felt his
erection growing apace as the soft hair at her crotch ticked his belly.
'Are you up to this?'

'Up to what?' He looked dumbly up at her.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' She giggled. 'The main event. Popping me
cherry.'

He could feel her gently moving into position, his hardness sliding
against her belly and loins. 'Are you sure – you want to?' he asked
nervously, twitching with nervous excitement.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' And she thrust herself down onto it, her back
arching with pleasure as she did so, the fingers of one hand thrust
into her mouth to stifle her cry of exultation. Lance groaned as she
moved down against him, her breathing rising to a crescendo, his too,
until, finally, the moment came. Followed, quite closely, by both of
them.

'Oh, boy.' Joan flopped down next to him, pressed both hands against
her scalp.

He grinned. 'What's up?'

'Just checking the top of my head's still on. Could've sworn it blew
off just then.' She looked affectionately at him. 'Lance by name, lance
by nature, eh?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I'd hoped you'd be the one person who didn't
make that gag.'

She kissed him, gave him a little intimate squeeze... and he was
surprised to find he was ready again. 'Let me make it up to you,
lover,' she whispered, and he happily accepted her apology.

Later there would be time for languidness and lazy sex, but this time
it was as passionate and energetic as their first. Lance felt the blood
roaring in his ears as they moved together, heard the sound of his
heart knocking his ribcage, almost as a separate pounding noise. That
was a first, he thought absently.

*

Sarah rapped on the door one last time and bit her lip with indecision.
No-one seemed to be in, which was weird. Tony had seemed quite worried
about the state of his health, so it was possible he was lying there in
bed unable to move. But what about Lance? Maybe he'd had to make an
early start. She tutted and pulled out her old key to the flat, let
herself in.

'Hello? Tony?' she called. A peculiar squawk came from his room. She
frowned and gently opened the door, stuck her head round.

A clearly nude Tony, looking flushed and sweaty, peeked out at her from
under the duvet. 'Oh. Hello,' he said in a high, sweet voice.

'Hello. How are you doing?' Sarah said. This situation felt
inexplicably weird.

'Er. Fantastic. Well, okay, anyway,' Tony said.

'Where's Lance?'

There was a nervous silence and a second head popped up from the depths
of the bed. Lance looked as red and exercised as Tony did. 'Hello,
Sarah,' he said weakly.

'Oh. My. God.' Sarah felt suddenly weak and sat down on the end of the
bed. There was no mistaking the cheerful post-coital buzz these two
were high on. 'Good God.'

'I guess the old girly bits are in working order after all,' Tony said
with slightly forced breeziness. 'No complaints, Lance?'

'Er. No. No,' Lance said, looking slightly glazed.

'I'm a woman now,' Tony said. 'And I must say I'm enjoying it more than
I expected to.'

'So am I,' Lance added unnecessarily.

Sarah found herself laughing out loud, unable to stop. 'Well, as long
as you're both happy, then that's great. God, why didn't I see this
coming?'
'We didn't,' Tony said. He – she – looked at Lance. 'Did we?'

'Er, no, love, not really,' Lance said. He looked back at Sarah. 'You
really don't mind?'

'Why should I? God knows neither of you is my type – any more, at least
– and you're both good friends of mine. And,' she smiled. 'Bloody hell,
you look good together.'

'Oh. Thanks,' Tony said. The two lovers exchanged pleased looks.

'But I think I'll go and sit in the lounge, cos this being here with
you like this is just freaky,' Sarah said, standing up.

'Give us a minute, I'll get up and make you a cup of tea,' Tony said,
looking around for something to wear.

'I'll go if you like,' Lance volunteered.

'No, I know how she likes it.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Plus, I'm
sitting in the damp patch here and I'd rather not be.'

*

When Tony appeared in the lounge she was wearing a silk Japanese-print
robe that looked suspiciously familiar to Sarah.

'That's one of mine, isn't it? One of the things I left behind.'

Tony busied herself with the tea things. 'Er, yeah. Do you mind? We're
not really the same size -'

'I'll say,' Sarah murmured, surveying Tony's bountiful bust and behind.

' – but it looks okay on me, doesn't it?'

'Yeah, it does,' Sarah admitted. She couldn't help smiling. 'I never
thought things would turn out this way. What...' she giggled,
'...what's Lance like, anyway?'

'Mmm?' Tony frowned at her.

'You know... what's he like in...'

'Ohhh! That,' Tony said with an arch smile. 'Well, let me tell you,
he's the best man I've ever had.'

Sarah rolled her eyes. 'Guess I asked for that one.'

'Yes, you did.' After a moment Tony handed her a cup. 'Seriously. I'm
so glad we can still be – well, friends.'

'Me too.' She smiled. 'We're going to have a lot of fun.'

Tony sat down, smoothed her robe. 'First thing is to find you a new
bloke. He's got an impossible act to follow, obviously, but you'll have
to make allowances.'

'I can find a man for myself, thank you,' Sarah said with a grin.

Tony shrugged with mock-delicacy. 'I don't know,' she said, 'maybe one
of Lance's biker friends...?'

'Ha. You realise you're now officially a biker chick? I can just see
you in your leathers, riding pillion behind him - '

Tony rolled her eyes. 'If Lance thinks that then he's – oh, hello,
lover,' she said as Lance shambled in.

'If Lance thinks what?' he asked dully.

'If you think you can keep your bachelor lifestyle now we're together,'
Tony said primly.

'Oh. Whatever. Budge up, Joanie,' he said, squeezing onto the sofa next
to her and putting an arm round her.

'You're using Joan after all?' Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tony – no, Joan, shrugged. 'I didn't choose it,' she said. 'But then, I
haven't really chosen most of the things that have happened to my life
lately. All the others have worked out for the best, so maybe this will
too.' And she smiled contentedly at them both.

*

It was the perfect end to a surprisingly wonderful day, Joan thought,
leaving the bar and heading back to the table. Sarah and Lance were
talking and laughing together and she couldn't suppress a fond smile.
She didn't know how she'd've coped with her transformation without the
pair of them. Oh, she'd been lucky, so lucky.

'Good news,' she said, slipping into her seat and smoothing down her
skirt. 'He is looking for a new barmaid after all, four nights a week
and a couple of afternoons too. Should pay the bills and give me time
for school as well.'

'You, a barmaid,' Sarah said, shaking her head and smiling. 'I'll
believe it when I see it.'

'I'm going to go for the buxom but scary look,' Joan said cheerfully.
Lance's face at that moment told its own story.

'Remember the last time we were here?' Sarah said, looking suddenly
thoughtful.

'No,' Lance said.

'I do,' Joan replied. 'It was... just before we found out. About the
transformation, I mean.' She looked down at herself, vest, skirt,
tights, boots. 'If you'd told me then how much things would change...'

'Are you sorry?' Lance asked, looking seriously at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. 'Not at all. And... I don't know,
maybe...'

'Maybe thing aren't so different at all?' Sarah completed.

Lance frowned. 'Don't follow you.'

'I'm still doing what I want to do with my life. I still have a damned
fine lover and a great best friend,' Joan said, looking at Lance and
Sarah. 'The jobs have just been switched around, that's all. Do either
of you regret what's happened?'

'No,' they said, speaking almost in unison and smiling at the fact.

'Well, then.' Joan raised her glass. 'To things massively changing, but
still managing to stay exactly the same as well.'

'There's a special name for that,' Sarah said.

'Yeah?'

She smiled. 'It's called life.'

Stripped Away

2011-01-10T12:30:30Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}
__TOC__

==One==

As these things usually do, it came out of nowhere - well, almost.
Certainly, there was no real warning that both of their lives were
going to change so massively and irrevocably. That's not the right
way to put it, though, it gives the impression that Jamie's
experiences were just as traumatic as Tom's (she was called Tom then,
and, obviously, she was a he). Of course they weren't. But things got
pretty intense there for a while.

It was a Saturday morning, late summer, and Jamie was in bed,
half-asleep. He had nothing really planned for the weekend except for
maybe trying to arrange a footie game on the park that afternoon -
Tom kept talking about organising a proper team for the local Sunday
amateur league, but of course talk was all it was. His thoughts were
drifting along quite pleasantly when a scream reverberated around the
flat.

There was no doubt that it was Tom, it had a bass gruffness to it,
and besides Jamie's flatmate was the only other person who was in.
His first thought was one of surprise that Tom was awake that early
in the morning, his second that he must have got really drunk the
previous night and in a drunken haze brought someone really canine
home from the pub, and had just woken up next to them, unsuspecting.
But then he remembered that, very uncharacteristically, Tom had
stayed in last night and gone to bed early, complaining of nausea and
the sweats. That hadn't sounded like a sick man's shout - but still...

So he leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, and went
across the hall to the door of Tom's room. Listening intently he
could just make out the sound of fast, urgent breathing.

'Tom! Are you all right?' he called.

'Don't come in!' His voice sounded fraught.

'What - ?' He'd been about to stick his head round the door. 'Tom,
what's wrong? You screamed.'

'I - uh, I had a nightmare,' he said.

'A nightmare? Jesus, Tom! I thought - I don't know what I thought,'
Jamie complained. He paused. 'If it was only a nightmare, why can't I
come in?'

Silence. 'Errr...'

'You bloody liar, it's more than just a bad dream, isn't it?'

He heard Tom groan. 'Okay, you may as well come in,' he said dismally.

The curtains were still drawn in Tom's bedroom and it took Jamie's
eyes a moment to adjust, but then he could make out his friend
sitting on the bed in a pair of boxers, with his back to him. He
seemed to be holding something to his chest, and his bowed head and
sagging shoulders hinted at a mood of utter despair.

'Tom?'

Tom glanced round, nodded a greeting, then stood up and turned to
face Jamie. Taking a deep breath, he let his hands fall to his sides,
revealing...

'Bloody hell, you've got tits,' Jamie said.

Not man-tits, either, these were the real deal: full, rounded, and
capped with wide fleshy nipples. It was sort of hard to judge how big
they actually were, mainly because Jamie wasn't used to seeing
breasts growing out of his six-foot-four best friend's chest, and
partly because the flesh around them still being quite hairy was a
bit off putting. Tom looked completely normal apart from his chest -
still as big and clumsy and male as ever, coarse dark hair cropped
short, square face looking grim.

'It must be the Girl Flu,' Tom mumbled, staring down at himself.

'Shit. Must be,' Jamie agreed, still mesmerised at the sight.

The Girl Flu was a bit of an urban legend, for all that it was real -
science knew so little about what it was, where it had come from, how
it worked, why it affected some people but not others, that it
retained an almost magical quality in the public imagination. Science
had christened it APFS - Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome -
but that only served to highlight their true ignorance of it.
Everyone else called it Girl Flu, because it had flu-like symptoms to
begin with, and turned men into women so convincingly some
gynaecologists had trouble identifying sufferers.

'What are the odds? Five thousand to one? Ten?' Tom slumped back down
onto the bed.

'Something like that,' Jamie agreed. 'Look, mate, you'd better get
yourself to the doctor. They need to check you over and see how far
advanced it is. They've got drugs and stuff that can, I don't know,
hold it off. Keep you the way you are now, before...' He shrugged.
'Before anything else starts changing.'

'I've already got bloody knockers! How much worse can it get?'

'Tom, which do you want to be - a man with knockers, or a woman?'

That got through. Tom looked up sharply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're
right. Are there any doctors open on a Saturday morning?'

Jamie shrugged. 'Dunno. You might have to go to A&E, they should be
able to help you.'

'Right...' Still clearly ill-at-ease with his new anatomy, Tom reached
for a T-shirt and some jeans - then, clearly having second thoughts,
he crossed over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a tattered old
T-shirt he rarely ever worse. Face set, he started tearing it into
strips.

*

Jamie felt kind of obliged to go to hospital with Tom. His potential
embarrassment, though clearly only miniscule compared with his
friend's, was entirely offset by the success of Tom's ploy as far as
binding up his chest went. Tom was such a big guy anyway that a few
extra curves didn't really show at all. But Tom was clearly
uncomfortable as they waited in the A&E department, and topics of
conversation were not forthcoming.

Finally, after over an hour's wait, Tom was called to the desk. It
had been agreed that he would see the doctor alone. Jamie passed the
time reading and re-reading the waiting area magazines. It was
another hour before Tom reappeared, not looking particularly
reassured.

Jamie waited until they were in the car and heading back to the flat
before speaking. 'Well? What did they say?'

'They won't know for sure until they've run some tests on the samples
I gave - but they think it's only just started to affect me
physically,' Tom said. 'They kind of implied I'd been lucky - a lot
of people have their skin, hair, joints changed first, and don't
recognise it for what it is until they grow breasts or -' He took a
deep breath. 'By which time it's too far advanced to do anything
about. So - if they're right - there's a good chance I can go onto
drugs that'll keep it from progressing. Then I can think about
surgery to take these damn things off.'

'So... it's good news, then?'

Tom made a noncommittal sound. 'Blood tests and so on will take about
a week, so any other changes that happen in that time I'm stuck with.
There shouldn't be any, unless this is one of the really virulent
strains, but still...' He shook his head in dismay.

Jamie waited a moment before asking his next question. 'Did they sign
you off work?'

'No. They advised me to tell my line manager about my condition and
gave me the address of a surgical appliance shop,' Tom said. 'There's
a kind of a... crap, it's a kind of a corset, to hide my boobs. I
suppose anything's better than turning up to the office in a
Wonderbra.' He laughed sourly, and for the first time that morning
actually looked like the man Jamie knew. That was comforting, in its
own way.

*

Tom went to be fitted with his corset alone - it didn't seem fair to
drag Jamie along, and he had to start dealing with his peculiar
circumstances alone sooner or later. Much to his relief, he was
assisted by a pair of matronly women in their fifties, whose approach
was austerely clinical. To his surprise they had a 'restrainer' in
his size in stock. It looked like a quilted white vest, slightly
padded, with a whole variety of straps and stays at various points
about it. Quite soon, Tom looked completely normal with the device
hidden beneath his shirt, but his breasts were beginning to throb at
being crushed in this manner. Well, he had no choice, Tom told
himself - he had work on Monday, and this was his only choice right
now.

The ache across his chest notwithstanding, things were almost back to
normal by Sunday night - he missed the Saturday afternoon footie
kickabout because of his fitting, but everything else was normal.
That was hopeful, maybe soon this would all be just a memory of a
very weird weekend.

Tom's hopes of normalcy were bolstered the next day when he went to
work. He didn't attract a single comment or stare from the rest of
the guys in the department - and, as he worked in IT, discretion and
empathy were hardly their strong suit - and when he reluctantly had a
quiet word with his boss about his altered situation, the man looked
highly sceptical and had to be shown a doctor's note to be convinced.

But his optimism took a blow throughout Tuesday and Wednesday as the
pain in his breasts slowly intensified. The original dull ache slowly
turned into a burning pain and he began to find himself occasionally
short of breath.

He was sprawled in front of the TV on Wednesday night with Jamie -
England were playing a friendly - when it all got too much for him.
He reached under his shirt and started fumbling with the stays on his
restrainer.

'What's up?' Jamie looked concerned.

'This damn thing. Feels like it's getting tighter and tighter...' Tom
groaned in frustration and hauled off his shirt, and started
unfastening the appliance in earnest. With a final sigh of relief he
wriggled it off and sat back, luxuriating in the blissful sensations
coming from his freed breasts.

'I hate to say this...' Jamie stared at them, then up at his face. 'But
I think they're getting bigger. They look larger, and it would
explain why your - your thingy started crushing them.'

Tom stared down at them. On any other person - any other female
person, he corrected himself - they would have been awesome,
magnificent - but on him they just seemed like twin tormentors. Two
days until his test results came back and he could start putting them
behind him. So to speak.

A little adjustment to the restrainer and Tom was able to compromise
between comfort and discretion, although his boobs were bulging
through his shirt and suit more than he was really comfortable with.
God, I'm going to enjoy getting you off my chest, he thought
venomously, on more than one occasion.

*

Tom took Friday afternoon off work to see his consultant up at the
hospital, and didn't get home until after Jamie had come in. 'A hoy
hoy!' he called, slamming the door behind him.

Jamie could tell from his tone that it was good news and breathed a
sigh of relief. 'What did they say?' he called.

Tom came into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa. 'They were
right first time,' he said. 'Virtually nothing else has changed yet,
thank God.' He held up a white plastic bottle that rattled as he
shook it. 'And as long as I take one of these every twelve hours,
nothing else is going to. Christ, parts of this week haven't been a
lot of fun, but it could have been so much worse...'

'What's in the pills?'

Tom shrugged. 'I wasn't really listening, I was so relieved.
Synthetic hormones, vitamins, that kind of thing.'

'And the, er, surgical option?'

'They want me to hang on for a couple of months to make sure there
aren't any side effects from the medication. But after that...' He
mimed a snipping sensation with both hands. 'Maybe I'll get them
stuffed and mounted - the breasts that tried to conquer Tom Barker.
What's on TV?'

*

It was another brilliantly sunny weekend and as usual Tom and Jamie
met up with their friends on the local park for a game of four a side
football. Jamie was quietly still a bit worried about his friend -
while professing to be quite his old self, he'd been a little subdued
all morning and looked pale.

But he threw himself into the game with his usual mad abandon,
hurling his weight about, apparently having forgotten his situation.
He had the restrainer on under his shirt, of course, and Jamie had to
admit he could barely see any sign of it, no matter how hard he
looked. He turned his attention back to the game, took the ball off
the opposition with a well-timed tackle. Now - he booted it down the
field towards Tom, who, as usual, leapt up to take the ball against
his torso preparatory to making his shot on goal. The ball thumped
against the centre of Tom's chest -

- and he collapsed on the ground with a yelp of pain. Jamie swore and
ran over to him. He was in a foetal position and his eyes glittered
with helpless tears. Everyone else was standing around in total
confusion.

'Tom, man, come on,' Jamie whispered. 'Are you okay? Was it the -?'

Tom struggled to his feet, still helplessly clutching his chest. 'I'm
okay,' he managed to say. 'It just caught me in the wrong spot.
Sorry, guys, I think I'll sit the rest of this one out.'

Jamie finished the game as Tom lay sprawled against a tree, clearly
still in some discomfort. Eventually it was over and the group
splintered off as usual. Jamie went over to him. 'Sorry, man. Forgot.'

'So did I,' Tom said sourly. 'They're so bloody sensitive! I doubt
that'll change even after the surgery.'

'Is that all? I wouldn't ask, but... you've seemed a bit off all day.'

'I feel like shit,' Tom said. 'Headache, no appetite, tiredness...
Jesus. It's these pills. Side effects.'

'I'm sorry,' Jamie said. He knew full well that Tom would be on this
medication for the rest of his life, some unforeseeable breakthrough
notwithstanding, and that the side effects might well continue all
that time. Somehow 'sorry' seemed so inadequate.

'Give me a hand up,' Tom muttered. With Jamie's aid he clambered to
his feet. 'Let's go home. I need a lie down.'

*

Six and a half weeks later Tom sat in the saloon bar of a pub near
his office, nursing a coke with lemon and half-listening to his
colleagues banter and laugh with one another. Booze was out of the
question while he was on the medication - any kind of strenuous
physical activity, come to that. Not to mention spicy foods or
getting less than nine hours sleep every single night. Any departure
from this regimen brought splitting headaches, dizziness, nausea and
diarrhea, and a total lack of energy. As it was he felt fairly
listless and there was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He was
losing weight, but from the relentless ache of his confined breasts -
as familiar and unnoticed to him now as his heartbeat or pulse - it
seemed that they at least were as large as ever.

God, what had happened to his life? He couldn't play sports, drink
with the lads, go out for a curry or to a club. He was ... boring. He
bored himself. Jamie had stayed in with him out of solidarity, for
the first few weeks, until he'd chased him out - no sense in both of
them becoming recluses.

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! he thought harshly. This is the
price you're paying for staying a man, so stop whinging and be
grateful for what you've still got. Admittedly, his breast reduction
surgery had not been sanctioned due to his side effect problems, but
he still had... well, his male body, for all that it was rather prone
to illness now. His only other option was to stop taking the pills
and let APFS slowly transform him into a woman. And femininity had no
appeal for him whatsoever.

The pub jukebox abruptly faded and lights came up around the small
stage at the back of the saloon. There was a buzz of conversation as
the barman spoke into his PA system. 'Good afternoon, everyone, and
welcome to our regular Wednesday afternoon entertainment here at the
Green Dragon. And starting us off today is a young lady who's been a
big success here in the past... give a big hand for the lovely
Marianne!'

A girl came on stage in a glitzy floor-length evening gown,
elbow-length silk gloves, and fur wrap, as brassy music blared out of
the speakers. The lunchtime crowd was suddenly energised, moving
forward to surround the stage and get the best possible view. And Tom
found he was... he wasn't sure what he was, actually, but he was moving
forward towards the stage as if under compulsion. Something about the
stripper's utter self-assurance and the total hold she had over the
audience, it was connecting with something deep inside... deep inside a
part of him he'd never realised was there before. He found himself
flushing and starting to sweat as his nipples buzzed with sensation
and his cock twitched excitedly. He'd not felt this way since before
the Flu. And... he was jealous, jealous of the dancer, for being so
composed and graceful and having such a great wardrobe. No reason to
be jealous, he told himself, your breasts are at least as good as
hers... and with the realisation that he was right, came a surge of
pride, quickly followed by a cold chill. He was proud of his breasts
for the first time.

Unable to tear himself away, he stayed to watch the rest of Marianne's
set and those of the other dancers, quietly trying to note what they
did that looked good, what wasn't quite so successful, trying to
assimilate the art of striptease... But why? Why was he doing this? Did
he seriously want to...

Haltingly he rang the office and called in sick for the afternoon -
it was hardly implausible, his colleagues had been saying he looked
ill for over a month. And he went home. In his bedroom he slid off
his jacket and dropped it on the bed, then unfastened his tie and
pulled that off too. His shirt was next, and then the hated
restrainer, clawing at the ties and straps before yanking it off.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his reflection, enjoying
the slope and heaviness of his full, firm breasts, toying with the
nipples... It was just a shame the hairiness of his chest and shoulders
spoilt their setting. He went through into the bathroom and after a
moment picked up the shaving cream.

Fifteen minutes later his chest, stomach, shoulders and arms were
shaved bare. God, his breasts were gorgeous. He imagined himself up
on the stage, every eye on him, proud and graceful, exuding sexual
heat as he... well, he'd have to think about exactly what he was going
to do. The voice of reason from earlier spoke up, quieter and only
half-hearted now: are you serious? This is irreversible. Once you
start, you won't be able to stop...

So I'd better start before I change my mind, Tom thought to himself,
frightened and excited by the thought. He opened the medicine cabinet
and took out his anti-APFS pills, looked in the bottle. Nearly a
month's supply left. Abruptly, almost as if trying to surprise
himself, he turned the bottle over and tipped the lot down the
toilet, then flushed it away.

He turned back to surveying his reflection, thinking; come on out,
striptease queen, I'm waiting for you...

== Two ==

Jamie wasn't sure, but he thought something was up with Tom. Not the
usual side effects trouble, either - it seemed so unfair that his
friend was suffering so much from his condition, but if anything,
lately it seemed as if they weren't troubling him nearly as much.
Jamie's relief at this was countered by... well, his vague sense that
Tom was hiding something from him. He'd started spending a lot of
time in his room, with the door locked, doing only God knew what.
Unmarked packages of various kinds had started arriving for Tom, only
to vanish and never be spoken of again.

And there was his Discman. He had a cordless CD player, where the
headphones weren't physically connected to the actual unit, and Tom
had asked to borrow it one night. He hadn't seen it again for over a
week and when he had found it lying around, the disc in it was called
'Thirty Great Burlesque Tunes'. What the hell was that all about? Tom
had basically given him a non-answer, of course.

Still - in a weird way Tom did seem happier, more at ease with
himself. He looked like he'd started to put back on some of the
weight he'd lost during the worst of the side effects trouble, he
looked rounder in the face and his hair had a healthy glossiness to
it, for all that it was turning into an untidy mop. He seemed more
confident that his condition was a secret, too, because it looked
like he'd relaxed the settings on his restrainer. There were now two
quite visible bulges under his clothing for anyone to notice who
happened to look that way. Tom didn't seem to notice at all. It was
as if he was utterly preoccupied with something else.

*

Am I a man or a woman? Tom silently asked himself, looking at his
naked reflection in the mirror. Force of habit tempted him to say
male, but it was a borderline case, either way. His whole body was
softer and more rounded, to say nothing of his magnificent 36C
breasts. He cupped and stroked them lovingly. His face was still
quite masculine, and he was still easily over six foot in height.
But, since stopping the pills, he'd not had to shave his chest or
arms again and almost all his other body hair had fallen cleanly out.
The hair on his head had started growing much faster recently, and
he'd not needed to shave his jaw or throat for nearly a week.

Okay, he told himself, today was the day. Jamie was away visiting
family for the weekend so the coast was clear. He slid on the black
Lycra briefs, momentarily grimacing at the way the cowed remnants of
his cock and balls bulged between his creamy thighs. Then the
brassiere, the same colour and fabric. God, his cleavage looked
fantastic. It seemed a pity to hide it under the silky pink blouse,
but there was no sense in giving out freebies, he thought with a
smile. The light grey jacket and trousers of one of his business
suits were just about gender-neutral enough to work.

Finishing touches. He opened a drawer and took out lipstick and
eye shadow, and with a skill born of many hours practice applied both.
Now he looked definitely feminine, for all his size. He squirted a
handful of hair gel into one palm and set to slicking back his hair
as severely as he could, gathering the ends into a tight bun at the
back of his head. From under the bed came a pair of smart black
high-heeled shoes - how many miles had he tottered up and down this
room, learning the effortlessly sassy and graceful stride he'd wanted
to acquire? High heels gave him a towering height advantage over most
men, but hell, he thought, Xena's a popular show, why shouldn't it
work for me too?

Looking in the mirror he barely recognised himself. 'Big girl,' Tom
whispered approvingly, picking up a new leather handbag and slinging
it over one shoulder. He nodded, smiled dazzlingly to himself, and
strode out to take on the world, for the first time as a woman.

The stares he drew around the town! Enough to make the nape of his
neck tingle in the most delightful way. Men couldn't take their eyes
off him, they were held captive by a mixture of desire and
intimidation. For a while Tom just sashayed around, loving the new
perspective he'd been gifted with. His breasts were tingling and
aching, but in a good way, somehow.

But he had things to do: a visit to a bodypiercer and tattooist,
then a jeweller's. Ann Summers proved an irresistible lure to the new
Tom. Tom, Tom, he thought to himself, not a very sexy name. He should
be thinking of a new name for his...

...oh, well, his stage persona. He'd been through the logic of his
choice a hundred times, rationalised it a hundred times more. But the
prospect of actually doing it, getting up in front of an audience,
seemed to undercut his newfound self-confidence.

He went into the Green Dragon and ordered a glass of red wine, took
it through into the saloon. The stage was dark and empty, but it was
here he'd seen her, Marianne, the girl who'd inspired him to this.
Could he really be up there some day soon, commanding the crowd,
peeling off garment after garment? The prospect thrilled and
terrified him at the same time. Oh, if it worked, if he was a
success, what a woman he would have become! But he could just as
easily imagine the baying contempt of the audience for this enormous
lump who presumed to think they would find her attractive...

The hand holding the wine glass shook. Tom put it down. He had to
know for sure before he dared to try it in front of a crowd of
strangers. Was he the woman, the performer, he'd hoped he would
become? Or just a deluded fool who'd discarded his own gender like a
badly-fitting pair of shoes? There was only one way to find out, he
realised, stomach prickling, and no real reason to delay...

*

Jamie let himself into the flat, glad to be home at last. Family was
cool, but there was something to be said for distance, too. 'Hellooo?
Tom?' he called. 'I'm back.'

'I'm in here,' Tom's voice came through his bedroom door. It sounded
oddly muffled and slightly nervy. 'How was your weekend?'

'Oh, you know, okay. How have you been?' He put his hand on the doorknob

'Don't come in!' Tom sounded almost horrified. 'Look, I need a big
favour from you. Someone I'd like you to meet, it'd mean a lot to me...'

'Oh - sure, yeah,' Jamie said, mystified. 'When?'

'Well... now. Just go into the lounge and sit down on the sofa and
you'll see what I mean.'

All the furniture in the lounge had been pushed back to the walls,
except the sofa and a folding chair that had been placed a few feet
in front of it, side-on. The lights were low and the stereo's power
supply was on. Jamie looked around in bemusement and sank onto the
sofa.

'Okay then,' he said dubiously.

The stereo sprang into life, a rapid solo drumbeat that was quickly
taken up by other percussion and brass - a big, lush, brazen tune,
the kind of thing he could imagine... but his attention was seized as
someone strode lazily into the room.

He barely recognized Tom at first, for all that he was wearing the
black jacket, trousers and waistcoat of one of his smartest suits.
His face looked different, he wore makeup, lipstick, and his lashes
were almost absurdly full. His hair was slicked back into a bun and
golden hoops swung beneath each earlobe. He didn't appear to be
wearing either shirt or restrainer beneath his waistcoat, but the
shallow V of the garment's neck meant only a few inches of skin were
revealed. His legs looked so long... which was because he was wearing
open-toed high-heeled shoes, and - from the look of things - dark
stockings, too.

'Tom, what the -' he started to say, but Tom put a finger to his lips
and smiled as circled the chair with the same careful, insolent walk.
Something about the way Tom moved to the music, and his own response
to it, was making Jamie uncomfortable. Tom stopped, started to pluck
the buttons of his jacket undone one by one, still smiling. 'Welcome
to the other me,' he said in a breathy, contralto voice.

'Tom... what's all this about?' he inquired helplessly. Tom smiled,
writhed his shoulders, letting the jacket slide off them and down his
bare arms. 'Not Tom, not any more,' he whispered. 'Call me... Cat.' The
suit jacket fell to the floor and was kicked away.

'Cat? What the -' Jamie rose, looked around for the stereo control,
but was effortlessly shoved back into his seat. 'Don't get up on my
account,' Tom said, placing a foot on the folding chair and deftly
unfastening the straps on one shoe. 'Why spoil the show for yourself?'

'Show? I don't know what you're thinking,' Jamie said as his friend
repeated the procedure with the other foot, 'but I... I'm really not
into this...'

'Oh no?' Tom strode over, energetically swinging his hips in time
with the music. Almost delicately he unfastened the belt on his
trousers and unthreaded it, then started to unfasten them. Jamie
swallowed hard: he was noticing the subtle changes in his friend's
body and behaviour. 'Just tell me to stop, then...'

But before Jamie could speak his friend's ample backside was swaying
back and forth before him as the trousers were gradually slid down,
revealing inch after inch of creamy buttock, a new bluebird tattoo
just visible low on the hip. This wasn't a man, couldn't be, Jamie
thought wildly, feeling an erection appear out of nowhere.

The trousers finally fell and the woman who had been Tom stepped out
of them, clad in stockings, a matt black thong and a dark waistcoat.
She went back to the chair, smiled at him. 'You're very quiet... do you
want Cat to stop?'

'N-no,' Jamie spluttered, hating himself for being an accomplice to
this ruination of his friend.

'So what do you say?'

'Please, Cat... carry on,' he whispered.

'My pleasure, darling,' Cat said with a dazzling smile, plucking open
her waistcoat a button at a time, revealing those gorgeous breasts in
a black bra. She wriggled out of the waistcoat and twirled it around
her head before throwing it aside. Jamie didn't trust himself to
speak, breathing hard, unable to grasp what was happening.

Cat crossed her arms in front of her and twitched both bra straps off
her shoulders at once, then slid her arms out of them. Only the clasp
at the back kept the bra in place and her breasts covered. With one
hand she held it there as with the other the clasp was unhooked. The
fabric sagged off her breasts and she quickly used both arms to hold
it against her. Then, using one forearm to cover her nipples, she
whipped it away and held it out at arm's length before letting it
fall.

Finally, she dropped both arms to place her hands on her hips,
exposing her breasts and swaying with the beat of the music. Jamie
swallowed and fought to control the mixture of revulsion and extreme
arousal he felt. The music seemed to go on forever, but eventually
faded away.

'Well?' Cat asked. Her voice was rougher and a little deeper, but
still feminine. She folded her arms and looked at him. Jamie couldn't
meet her gaze.

'Well what?' he muttered, looking away. 'For God's sake... put some
clothes on, will you?'

'Okay. Give me two minutes,' Cat said, collecting up her costume and
striding out of the room.

When she returned, rather more than two minutes later, she was Tom -
that is, Jamie recognised him as something closer to his old self,
chest strapped up, hair the familiar scruffy tangle, no makeup or
jewellery, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. Back on familiar
territory, Jamie felt better able to express himself.

'What the hell was that all about? Are you trying to freak me out or
something? That was... that was sick.' Realisation sank in. 'You're off
your meds, aren't you? You're letting yourself turn into a woman?
Why?'

Tom sighed. 'On the medication... well, you saw me. I had no quality of
life, couldn't do anything I enjoyed. Now I can.'

'And one of the things you enjoy is pretending to be a stripper?'
Jamie said curtly.

'Don't be a knob. Look, I can pass as a man if I want to, even now,
and I don't see why that should have to stop. But I'll admit that...'
he sighed, '...there are parts of me that are female and they need a
release, a kind of safety valve. And Cat's going to be that safety
valve. I'm still going to be me most of the time, masculine... but for
an hour or two a week I'm going to be ultra-feminine Cat, the
stripper.'

'So I can expect this kind of thing twice a week from now on?' Jamie
stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't be daft. I just wanted to be sure I had what it takes before
going in front of a real audience. I knew I had to tell you sooner or
later, and...' he smiled. 'You're my best mate. I wanted your opinion.'

'Jesus. You're going up on stage to take all your clothes off while
blokes howl at you?' Jamie shook his head.

'Well, I'll probably leave the thong on, I'm hoping to work a higher
class of club, you know, stage-work not pole- or lap-dancing... and I
seem to recall we used to go and howl at dancers quite a bit.'

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. 'That was different.'

'Oh, yeah, of course,' Tom said sardonically, and suddenly they were
laughing and the tension was dispelled.

'This is messed up, man. How long do you think you'll be able to keep
this a secret?' Jamie asked.

Tom shrugged. 'As long as I need to. Come on, let's go down the pub.'

*

And so Jamie got used, if that was quite the word, to finding silk
evening gloves and feather boas in the oddest places in the flat, as
Tom invested in proper costumes for his prospective new career. To
Jamie's surprise his friend's Amazonian height and insistence on
old-style burlesque stripping gave him novelty value on the dancing
circuit and within a week or two 'Black Cat Beaumont' had a regular
Wednesday lunchtime slot at the Green Dragon. Jamie decided not to go
along, partly because his one encounter with Cat had been the most
alarming experience of his life, and partly out of a wish not to
distract his friend. The weirdest thing was that Tom's main paycheck
still came from his regular day job. He just took a long lunch on the
Wednesday, left the office in his suit, changed into Cat's civilian
clothes, went to the pub and did her set, changed back, and was back
at his desk by half past two. Jamie privately wondered what this was
doing to his friend psychologically, given that he was often
stripping in front of his own workmates, but decided not to raise it
with him. He certainly gave every impression of knowing his own mind,
and was making a very tidy sum every week from dancing. Life together
in the flat required a few subtle adjustments, though, quite apart
from finding bras, thongs, and evening dresses in the washing basket.

'God, Tom, could you do me a favour?' Jamie said one morning, finding
himself in a particularly grumpy mood. 'Do you mind washing the bath
out after you shave your... shave yourself. There's a ring of... bits all
round the edge.'

Tom didn't look up from the News of the World. 'Okay. Provided you
start remembering to leave the seat down in the toilet.'

'It's a deal... what did you say?' Jamie blinked and stared at him.

'Well, you're the only one who puts the damn thing up, aren't you?'
He looked up at Jamie's shocked expression and sighed. He glanced
meaningfully down at his own crotch. 'I don't have the plumbing for
that any more.'

'Oh. Man.' (Tom raised an eyebrow.) 'I didn't think...' Jamie sat down
at the table. 'You've completely changed? You're a woman now?'

'Far as I can tell.' For the first time Tom looked uncomfortable. 'I
knew it was going to happen, it's no big deal. I'm still me, aren't
I?'

'Most of the time, yeah,' Jamie smiled. But he couldn't help watching
his friend's retreating back in a new light.

*

After about two months of working at the Green Dragon on Wednesdays,
Tom was sure that Cat was one of the best strippers there. Her hair
had grown long enough to be put up in a high, fancy style, and while
this made it slightly more difficult to arrange in a suitably
careless, scruffy, and male ponytail the rest of the time, it was
worth it. Her routines were stylish and varied enough to ensure
healthy repeat business and it amused him that some of his managers
were effectively giving him a hefty bonus each week, albeit through
an unsuspected channel.

Then, on the way out after a set one day, a middle-aged man
approached Cat in the company of the Dragon's landlord. Propositions
of various kinds pretty much went with the striptease territory, but
this guy was different. The man ran one of the best known pub venues
and had heard about Cat's appearance on the scene. He was offering
her two lunchtimes a week on Tuesday and Thursday, plus a Saturday
evening spot. The moneymaking potential, he said, was significantly
better.

But I'm not really doing this for the money, Tom thought absently,
even as he heard Cat agree with alacrity. Hell, he thought, the money
is nice and... I really do enjoy this. She smiled at the man and left
the pub, ready to go back to the office.

'I'm going up in the world,' Tom announced on his return home that
night, stowing Cat's costume in the hall.

'Oh yeah? You get that team supervisor job?' Jamie was watching the TV.

'Er, no. I've been offered two lunchtimes and an evening every week,
dancing at the Flags,' he said proudly.

'And you said yes?' Jamie looked at him oddly.

'Yeah, why not. It's good money and I enjoy the work. I'm good at it,
too,' he smiled.

'Yes, but... what happened to only an hour or two a week, just to give
vent to those female qualities you were unfortunately lumbered with?
You're not actually starting to enjoy being a woman, are you?'

'Look, if I enjoyed it, I'd do it in my spare time. It's only a few
hours a week,' Tom said. 'I was going to suggest we go down the pub
to celebrate, but if you...'

'No, no, I'll come.' Jamie stood up. 'What time are you on stage?'

'Piss off,' Tom grinned. 'No stage, only a pool table.'

*

There was indeed a pool table and luckily for them it was free. Tom
plonked down a huge pile of 50p pieces and Jamie started racking up
the balls. It had been a long time since either of them had played,
but even so Tom was surprised when he badly lost the first three
games. It suddenly came to him that his new physique was affecting
his play - even strapped back, his breasts were keeping him from
getting down on the shots, and the subtle changes in his height and
arm joints were also throwing his shots off.

He missed a particularly easy ball into the centre pocket, and angry
with himself, glanced back over his shoulder, expecting to see a
gleeful smirk on Jamie's face. Jamie wasn't even looking at the game,
he was attentively watching... Tom's backside as he bent over the
table, amply filling the seat of his jeans as it did.

'Oi,' Tom said, rattled somehow and yet feeling a nervous, excited
lurch in the pit of his stomach.

'What? Sorry. Distracted,' Jamie said lightly, and moved to the table.

Of course, after that Tom's game fell to bits even more. He felt
nervous and embarrassed every time he had to get down on a shot and
his hands were trembling very slightly for some reason. He only won
three games all night and two of those were because Jamie fouled when
potting the black. Eventually they gave the table up and sat down at
a table in the corner.

'You were off your game tonight,' Jamie said casually, sipping his lager.

'Yeah,' Tom said, nursing his own drink. It had been a mistake to
stick with Jamie pint for pint, his own capacity was so much less
now. He tutted to himself, annoyed at how tipsy he already felt.

'Is something wrong? We come here to celebrate your... promotion,'
Jamie said carefully, 'but you just seem... I don't know, stressed out.'

Tom sighed. 'I... I don't want to talk about it.'

'Oh. Okay. If it's the game, hell, you're out of practice, that's
all, I wouldn't worry - '

'It's not the bloody game,' Tom whispered hotly. 'All right, if you
really must know... what's stressing me out is that you were checking
out my arse every time I bent over the table.'

'Not every time,' Jamie objected.

'It's not a joke! Christ, I'm here as a man, not as... her.'

Jamie shrugged. 'You both have very similar arses though. The pair of
you are, well, identical, and - '

'I really, really don't like the idea of you thinking of me as a -
oh, God - sex object like that, that's all. Most of the time I'm
still a man, and that's that.'

'Listen, mate,' Jamie said reasonably, 'if you didn't want me to
think of you as a sex object you shouldn't have done that extremely
sexy striptease in front of me with the arse and the tits and all.
That's kind of lodged in my memory now, and certain things refresh my
memory.'

'That wasn't me... it was Cat...'

'Oh, bullshit,' Jamie sighed. 'You're the same person, Tom, you have
the same body and the same mind and all of that. You know what I
think? All that stuff about 'safety valves' and 'giving vent to your
femininity' - it's just excuses. All along, deep down you just wanted
to be a buxom stripper and the Flu gave you an excuse to go through
with it.'

Tom felt his eyes sting. 'That's crap,' he whispered feebly. 'I'm
only her for a few hours a week. I still have Tom's job, I wear Tom's
clothes.'

'Yeah, but Cat's already trebled her time in charge. I think going
from man to woman all at once would just be too big a wrench so
you're slowly making the transition a bit at a time.'

'And... and what do you think about that?' Tom asked hollowly, Jamie's
words resonating in his mind with a horrible truthfulness.

Jamie shrugged. 'Look, I don't care about the gender studies side of
it. You're my best friend, whoever you choose to be, and I want you
to be happy and I'll do what I can to help you, it doesn't matter
whether or not I - ' He broke off. 'Never mind.'

'No, go on. You've been candid enough so far,' Tom said with a wry smile.

'Okay... Whether or not I really fancy Cat. Which I do,' Jamie
admitted. He glanced away, face reddening, then stood up. 'Going for
a slash,' he mumbled and walked away.

He fancies me. Oh my God, Tom thought, feeling his own cheeks start
to burn. He stared at Jamie's retreating back and found his attention
slipping down to Jamie's own moderately athletic backside. Which is
worse - that, or the fact that I can see myself fancying him?

== Three ==

The whole sexual orientation side to APFS was something Tom had
recoiled from at the time of his diagnosis and never really summoned
up the courage to go back to after stopping his medication. Like so
much else about the condition, it seemed completely random - some
kept their usual orientation, becoming effectively lesbians, others
changed orientation along with body and stayed heterosexual. A
significant minority became enthusiastically bi.

It had been stupid of him not to at least think about what might
happen to him in that respect. Oddly enough, even while up on stage
as Cat, he'd never thought of stripping as an explicitly sexual act.
His libido seemed to have been absent ever since the Flu had kicked
in, not that he'd noticed it was gone. But now desire was showing
signs of return, and in a much-changed form.
Nothing overpowering or too unusual, just absent-minded thoughts like
'nice bum' or 'he's got sexy eyes' while at work or elsewhere. Tom
had to admit it: he was beginning to fancy men.

For a while at least he had too much on his plate to worry overmuch
about this, switching over to his new three-times-a-week dancing
schedule. The two long lunches this demanded played havoc with his
hours at his 'proper' job, and he had to sell his manager some story
about his treatment needing special attention. He frankly didn't
really care that this was a very fragile lie: his day job was a
tedious slog now compared to the delight and excitement of being up
on stage as Cat. The extra money was very useful too, for new
costumes and jewellery and other more routine items.

But there remained an odd tension back at home. He and Jamie had
never really discussed what had passed between them that night in the
pub, but it remained a constant presence in their relationship, like
a ticking time bomb. Eventually Tom got tired of it being there.

*

They both habitually knocked off early from work on Friday, thanks to
the joys of the flexi system. Tom's lunchtime commitments tended to
cut into how soon he could get away, though, and Jamie was therefore
quite surprised to arrive home one Friday and find Tom already there,
slouched on the sofa in footie shirt and jeans, watching the TV.

'Oh, hello,' Jamie said. 'You're home early.'

Tom shrugged. 'Sod the flexi deficit, I just had to get out of there.
How was your day?'

'Oh, you know.' Jamie flopped down next to him. 'Watching Countdown?'

'Yeah. Nothing else on. Err... you doing anything tonight?'

'Nothing planned. Why, have you?'

'Thought about a spot of pubbing and clubbing. You up for it?'

'Er, yeah,' Jamie said, a little mystified: Tom had pretty much
abandoned all that since his change had completed.

'One thing though...' Tom stared at his lap then up at Jamie with
desperate eyes. 'I thought you'd want to go out with Cat, not me.'

'What...? You mean... I thought Cat was just -'

'Oh, come on... we've already discussed that. You're right. I am Cat, I
can't deny it, and I want to know what it feels like to be... a woman
in a normal situation, not just up on a stage peeling things off.
Even if only for a little while. You said you'd help -'

Jamie shook his head a little incredulously. 'I also said I really
fancied Cat.'

'Me. You really fancied me,' Tom said.

'Okay. I really fancy you, when you... you're dressed as a woman. Hell,
the rest of the time too, but especially then. And if we go out
together for this kind of evening, it's going to seem like a date - a
weird date, okay, but still a date. Are you okay with that? Cos I'm
not sure I am.'

'To be honest, I'm petrified,' Tom said with a nervous smile. 'But I
can tell you are too, so I don't mind. And... a date was sort of what I
was thinking of, too.'

'Okay then,' Jamie said with a smile.

'But this is just an experiment,' Tom said quickly. 'I'm still going
to be Tom around the house and at work after tonight, I'm not making
the switch -' He broke off, the word 'yet' left unsaid. 'This is just
for this evening.'

'Okay then,' Jamie repeated, still smiling.

*

They booked a taxi for nine and at a quarter to Jamie found himself
waiting on the sofa for his friend to finish getting ready. He really
didn't know what to expect, suddenly realising his previous exposure
to 'Cat' had only lasted a few minutes and had hardly involved a lot
of conversation. What if they didn't get on? Don't be a pillock, he
told himself, she's your best mate. Well, what if he started treating
her the way he treated Tom, all farts and piss-taking and God knew
what. But she was Tom. Oh, this was too weird, a big mistake... He
stood up, ready to call the whole thing off, and she appeared in the
doorway.

Her long dark hair was down, framing her face, which was rather more
subtly made up on this occasion. The hoop earrings looked familiar
though. She wore a black zip-fronted vest that exposed an inch or two
of cleavage, tight black jeans and high heels. A black leather jacket
and handbag completed the outfit. 'Hello,' she said with a nervous
smile. She looked gorgeous.

'Hello,' Jamie said hollowly. 'Wow. You look... great.'

'Thanks. I didn't want to overdo the slap, and...' she smiled, '...most
of my clothes fasten with Velcro, so the wardrobe choice was a bit
restricted. I'm glad you like it.'

The doorbell buzzed. 'That'll be the taxi, he's early,' Jamie said.
'Let's go.' He showed her to the door.

At the first pub they managed to secure a table and he fought his way
to the bar to get a lager and a red wine. He sat down next to her and
sipped his drink. 'Red wine's new for you... if you see what I mean,'
he stumbled.

Cat smiled. 'It seemed a bit more me than bitter. This particular
me.' She rolled her eyes. 'This is weird.'

'I know, I told Tom it would be...'

'I know, I was there, remember?' she said with a smile.

Jamie blushed. 'Oh yeah. Tom... Cat... same person. Hey - tom-cat. Is
that some kind of a pun or something?'

She sighed. 'No, it didn't occur to me until I'd been on stage for
weeks, but I don't think anyone will work it out. Cat was just
supposed to be a stage name anyway, or so I thought... if I'd known I'd
be using it for real, if you see what I mean, I might have chosen a
different one.'

'So what would you like me to call you?' Jamie asked.

She shrugged. 'Oh hell, let's keep it simple - call me Catherine.'

'Catherine. Cool,' Jamie said. 'I'll drink to that.'

*

The plan had been to go clubbing a bit later on but they found they
were enjoying the drinks and conversation in the pub so much they
stayed there all evening. Jamie found talking to Catherine strange
but fascinating - she almost seemed to change and develop as an
individual throughout the course of the evening, as though a new
personality was expanding to fill the gulf between the brazen and
confident stage persona of Cat, and familiar set of attitudes he knew
from the old masculine Tom.

Towards the end of the night one of the pool tables came free and
Catherine suggested they play. Given the result of their last
contest, Jamie was surprised but agreed anyway... only to find himself
hard pressed to compete with her. Catherine seemed much more
confident and familiar with her body than Tom had been, and she
seemed entirely shameless about employing her arse or cleavage to put
him off his game, grinning as she did so.

'You hussy,' he said with a smile as she sank the black, just as the
landlord started calling for everyone to go home. She'd won by two
games.

'What?' she asked, grabbing her jacket.

'Well, all that...' He mimed breasts and hips vaguely. 'You were trying
to put me off.'

'This may be my night off, darling, but I'm still a stripper,'
Catherine smiled. 'Using my body to get what I want is what I do for
a living.'

Jamie smiled, then something she'd said registered with him.
'"Darling"?' he queried.

Catherine shrugged languidly, smiling broadly, but didn't try to
qualify the sentiment. 'So... what now?'

'I don't know. A club?'

She shook her head. 'Don't think so.' She looked down at what she was
wearing. 'Even if we beat the dress code, I'm used to looking
sensational when I dance, and this ain't it. Another time - let's go
back to the flat.'

*

A nervous excitement filled Jamie as Catherine let them in to their
flat. What next, he wondered, letting his eyes race over her body for
the thousandth time that evening. 'Do you want a drink?' he asked,
the equation of coffee, sofa, heavy breathing running in his head.

'No, I - I'm going to go to bed,' Catherine said, almost
apologetically. 'Solo. I've had a really great evening, and I don't
want to spoil it. Just because we share a flat it doesn't change the
fact that this was our first date, and I don't think I'm going to be
that kind of girl. Sorry...'

'No, that's fine,' Jamie said, aware how little of his disappointment
he was hiding.

'But it was still a date, and it went really well,' Catherine said.

'So... can I see you again -'

'You'll see me in the morning.'

'Yes, but as -'

She stepped up close and planted a kiss full on his mouth. The scent
of her filled his nostrils and his hands made to grasp her. But she
slipped back out of his reach, a playful smile on her face. 'Good
night,' she said, opening the door of her room and vanishing into it.
Her head reappeared momentarily. 'The paper tissues are in the
kitchen,' she added with a grin, then the door shut with inarguable
firmness.

Jamie took a deep breath. 'Kitchen. Paper tissues. Check,' he
muttered to himself, and headed slightly awkwardly in that direction.

*

Tom woke up early and with only a slight hangover the next day. He
still woke up thinking of himself as Tom, whatever that meant - but
he knew that things were changing now. Black Cat Beaumont hadn't been
much more than a cardboard cut-out, a means to an end, she'd not
threatened his sense of self at all... but now his feminine side was
turning into a real person, as valid as he was, and he had no idea
where the border between his male and female sides now lay. He
suspected he was ceding territory to Catherine fast. Looking around
the room he could see her clothes lying on the chair.

Her clothes? They're your clothes, he realised, admonishing himself.
He recalled the night before, chatting with Jamie, playing pool, and
his loins tingled at the memory of the kiss. It scared him, because
it had felt right. Maybe he might be that kind of girl after all.

No, no! he told himself. Catherine was... an occasional extravagance,
that's all. Day to day, paying the bills, slouching round the house,
he was still well and truly Tom. He rolled out of bed and looked down
at himself. For all that I am indisputably a woman pretending she's a
man, he thought. There was an oddness to that concept, an
acknowledgement he'd never made before... he pushed the idea away
irritably and grabbed for his boxer shorts.

So he sat on the sofa, hair and breasts tightly under control,
wearing a footie shirt and jeans, watching Saturday morning TV. It
was another couple of hours before Jamie appeared. 'Morning,' Tom
said.

'Morning,' Jamie said cautiously. 'You... you sleep all right?'

'Fine,' Tom said. 'Not regretting last night?'

'Er, how'd you mean?'

Tom could've kicked himself. 'Drinkswise,' he clarified.

'Oh, you know me. What about yourself?'

'I - err - shit, we need some ground rules for this,' Tom murmured.
'I'm not Catherine at the moment... I mean, I can be Catherine or I can
be Tom, but it'd just be too weird for her to talk about football or
him to talk about stripping or k-kissing you... and I want to be Tom at
the moment... probably most of the time... it's not your fault, it's...'

'Yeah. Think I understand. Last night was me and Catherine, now it's
me and Tom, you can't speak about stuff she did. Okay.' Jamie raised
his eyebrows. 'This is going to seriously screw with my head. How can
I tell?'

'Tell what?'

'Who you are. Who you're being. I know the clothes and the hair kind
of give it away, but I just want to be certain.'

'Uhh... I don't know. Earrings. Those hoop earrings of mine. Whenever
you see me wearing those, I'm Catherine, okay?'

'Okay,' Jamie smiled. 'Any plans for the day?'

*

And the new system worked pretty well, although to be honest
Catherine made very few appearances at first - to begin with Tom even
left and returned to the house as himself, only making the subtle
mental switch en route to and from the Flags. Jamie started to think
it might just have been a one-off encounter. But deep down inside the
person that was variously Tom and Catherine - because Tom had to
admit it was often Catherine's voice that was making decisions, even
when he was at his day job in full male disguise - there was an
unashamed acceptance of how much she'd enjoyed her date with Jamie,
and no doubt whatsoever that they would do it again.

So Jamie got home one Tuesday night and on his way to the kitchen
passed Tom emerging from the bathroom in a towelling robe. 'All
right, mate?' he asked absently.

'Ahem.' Something in the voice made him turn back. It took him a
second or two to spot the glint of gold in the tangle of damp hair at
either side of his... her face. It was the first time he'd seen her
without makeup on, but the face was undeniably wholly feminine, even
though it was also Tom's. He marvelled.

'I thought you might like to go for a curry and a movie tonight,'
Catherine said, holding her robe together primly.

'Oh, yes,' Jamie said. 'What time?'

She shrugged. 'Seven?'

'I'll be ready.'

*

The curry was slightly better than expected, the film rather worse,
but for both of them the pleasure of the evening was the company. It
was like their friendship of old, only more playful and with deeper
levels of meaning and subtext. They agreed there and then to go out
clubbing that Friday.

To Jamie's utter delight, Catherine didn't retreat to her room and
Tom-hood as soon as they got in, opting instead for coffee in the
lounge. She folded her long legs under her, smoothed down her skirt,
and listened to him talk with her head on one side. Finally he could
take it no more.

'I'm falling in love with you,' he said flatly.

Catherine grimaced. 'You make it sound like a death sentence,' she said.

'I can't help it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to ruin everything
for us. I mean, you don't want... this,' he was unable to express it
better. 'Things would be much easier if we just kept it friendly...'

'Don't tell me what I do or don't want,' Catherine said sharply. 'And
this isn't an easy world. I would much rather I'd -' She broke off.

'What?'

'I was going to say I would much rather have never caught the Flu.
But I'd be lying because... I'm a woman now, this person is a woman,
and without the Flu I wouldn't even exist.' She looked seriously at
him. 'And here and now, I want to be a woman. Whatever that means.'

For once, he spotted the cue, leant forward and kissed her. She
returned it fiercely and they rolled together on the sofa and the
carpet, tangled, urgent. It was all he hoped for or fantasised, until
she firmly refused his attempts to assist her from her clothing.

'Not now, love,' she whispered in his ear. 'Too early. Soon.'

And with that promise ringing in his ears, they kissed goodnight at
some length, and went to their separate beds.

*

That Thursday Catherine was aware of a flash, hard-faced man sitting
in the front row of the audience for her lunchtime set. There was a
lot of repeat business at the Flags and she knew many of the faces,
but was certain this one was new. His expression didn't have the look
of longing or despair or thinly-disguised lust so many punters wore,
he seemed to be appraising her like a man looking to buy a
thoroughbred racehorse.

So it wasn't a huge surprise when the Flags' manager introduced him
as she was getting ready to go. It was the same story as before, more
or less - he managed Skinscapes, a genuine burlesque club up west,
and he was always looking for new performers of a certain style. He
made her an offer on the spot: four nights a week (Monday, Wednesday,
Friday and Saturday), two shows a night (at ten and midnight), and a
set fee instead of the percentage of the collection plus tips she'd
been making till now. The wage worked out at something like forty
thousand pounds a year, significantly more than Tom's day job brought
in.

It was her dream come true in many ways, but there was no way she
could perform at her best in the evenings and still do a forty-hour
week by day. It would mean packing in Tom's day job. She hated it,
but... it was the underpinning of the continued existence of the Tom
part of her. Without the job, there'd be no reason to be him at all
any more. The reaction that provoked was fear, Tom was still a big
part of her and he didn't want to simply fade away like that...

Catherine told the man she'd think about it, took his number, and
went back to the office, becoming Tom halfway there. He felt deeply
uneasy, as though his death warrant had been drawn up. But inside he
knew Catherine was happy, and she was the strongest part of him now.
He surrendered himself to her judgement.

*

Jamie and Catherine hit the clubs that Friday as planned. She wore a
black leather mini and a halter-top, and went heavy on the mascara and
lipstick. Jamie thought she looked extraordinarily sexy, as usual.
Something seemed to be troubling her, but she deflected all his
enquiries about it and seemed to cheer up as the night went on. She
was, unsurprisingly, a sensational dancer, and he was well aware of
the jealousy of every single man in the club with them. God, he was
in love with her.

'Don't tire yourself out,' she murmured in his ear following a
particularly energetic display on the dance floor.

'Why not?' he asked, stupidly. She whispered the reason why in his
ear and even in the half-lit nightclub could see his eyes widen
excitedly. His heart really wasn't in the dancing after that, much to
her amusement - and neither was hers, somehow. She let him take her
hand and lead her to the nearest taxi rank, almost shivering with
anticipation.

Back at the flat they paused in the hallway, kissing ferociously at
each other, and considered the fundamental issue at hand. 'Your room
or mine?' Jamie asked.

'Mine,' Catherine whispered, happy to have home advantage. They
stumbled into it and Jamie flopped down onto the bed.

'Clothes off and let's get to it, lover boy,' Catherine said with a
smile, kicking off her shoes and pulling her top off over her head.
Jamie needed no further prompting, pulling off his shirt and
scrabbling at his shoes. He paused to watch Catherine undress.

'This isn't a show, I'm not getting paid for this,' she said
reproving, casually shrugging off her bra and unzipping her skirt.
'C'mon, keep up.'

Jamie pretended to tut and wriggled off his trousers and underpants.
He was already hard, she noticed as he slid between the sheets and
held them apart for her. Catherine smiled as she slipped her knickers
off and accepted the invitation. 'Chivalrous of you...' she murmured.

For a moment, as Jamie busied himself with the condom she'd insisted
on, Catherine wondered if she was technically a virgin or not.
Certainly it was her first time on the receiving end of what she
fervently hoped would be a damn good seeing to. Then such whimsical
thoughts were driven from her head as they set to making love with a
passion that surprised them both

*

Tom drifted awake with a vague sense of foreboding. Something warm
and dry and faintly hairy lay under his cheek, while something
similar lay over his shoulder and rested lightly on his arm and
breast. He blinked his eyes open and remembered. He was lying with
his head on Jamie's chest, Jamie's arm around him protectively. It
all came back to him, and nausea and love momentarily vied for the
role of foremost emotion in his mind. Love won out: love, and
acceptance that the night before really had been pretty fantastic.

'All right, you sod, you weren't just bragging all those times,' he
whispered to his sleeping friend. But where did they go from here?
Well, it was pretty clear what Catherine and Jamie would be doing a
lot of from now on, but where did that leave him? You stupid knob, he
thought to himself. You are Catherine.

I am Catherine, he thought. Gently he slid out of Jamie's embrace,
grabbed his robe and put it on. So why do I still think of myself as
Tom? Do I have any choice left as to who I am? He went down the hall
to the bathroom and started the shower running. Giving himself a good
lathering up took his mind off the deeper existential issues of his
life and he was only vaguely aware he was still wearing some of
Catherine's jewellery. In hindsight this was possibly a mistake.

Dried off and refreshed, he went into the kitchen, still barefoot and
wearing only the robe. He loaded the toaster and made himself a cup
of coffee. The offer of what was essentially the stripping big time
floated through his head again. So be it, he thought. Maybe it really
is what I wanted all along.

'Morning,' Jamie said with a smile, coming into the kitchen in just
his shorts. Tom automatically prepared to respond in his affectedly
husky male voice, just to make it clear who he was, but before he
could speak Jamie took him in his arms and kissed him at some length.
Oh damn, I'm still wearing the bloody earrings, Tom thought, but then
undeniable pleasure filled him and he found himself clutching at
Jamie even as his robe was tweaked apart and one of his breasts
caressed.

The last of Tom's mental barricades were stripped away and he
surrendered to the inevitable, slipping out of his robe and yanking
Jamie's shorts down. I am a woman, he thought, I love this man, this
is delight, ecstasy, nirvana... And he willingly let the last of his
masculinity be immolated on the pyre of lust.

*

Afterwards they sat on the sofa in the lounge, nibbling at cold
toast, just about dressed. After a while something occurred to
Catherine and she took out her earrings with an expression of relief.

Jamie looked at her warily. 'Does that mean...?'

'It means my earlobes are getting sore, yes,' Catherine said, tossing
them onto a table.

'What about the ground rules?'

'You mean, how will you know when I'm being me and being Tom?' She
smiled. 'I'm not Tom any more. Can't be, really, there's just not
enough left of him. I think I'll pretend to be him at work until I've
worked out my notice and then... that'll be it. He'll just fade away.
Full time Catherine, you reckon you can handle it?'

'You reckon you can?' he smiled. 'What about... you know, money. I
mean, I think we can just about get by -'

'Don't worry about cash. I've been offered a forty grand a year job
at a club called Skinscapes. Featured dancer.' She looked intently at
him. 'Can you handle it? My being a stripper? It's what I really want
to do - for the time being, anyway.'

'Can I handle having a beautiful stripper girlfriend? You really have
forgotten how a man thinks,' Jamie said with a grin.

*

And so, for the next four weeks or so, Catherine tied back her hair
and breasts and climbed into Tom's old suit, working out his notice
at the old job. She was tempted to dramatically reveal Tom's secret
on her last day in some suitably spectacular fashion, but decided
against it - there'd be no money in it, and she was a professional
now, after all.

The week after that she started at Skinscapes, simultaneously
beginning the process of registering her change in gender using the
procedures the onset of APFS had made necessary. She and Jamie stayed
together for another three years, before parting fairly amicably -
she could see the end of her dancing career in sight, and was
thinking about children, but he wasn't interested in adopting, the
only option APFS had left them with. So in the end the condition
brought them together, and eventually drove them apart. But in
between they were happy for a while, and that's really as much as
anyone can hope for.

Stripped Away

2011-01-10T12:28:32Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

==One==

As these things usually do, it came out of nowhere - well, almost.
Certainly, there was no real warning that both of their lives were
going to change so massively and irrevocably. That's not the right
way to put it, though, it gives the impression that Jamie's
experiences were just as traumatic as Tom's (she was called Tom then,
and, obviously, she was a he). Of course they weren't. But things got
pretty intense there for a while.

It was a Saturday morning, late summer, and Jamie was in bed,
half-asleep. He had nothing really planned for the weekend except for
maybe trying to arrange a footie game on the park that afternoon -
Tom kept talking about organising a proper team for the local Sunday
amateur league, but of course talk was all it was. His thoughts were
drifting along quite pleasantly when a scream reverberated around the
flat.

There was no doubt that it was Tom, it had a bass gruffness to it,
and besides Jamie's flatmate was the only other person who was in.
His first thought was one of surprise that Tom was awake that early
in the morning, his second that he must have got really drunk the
previous night and in a drunken haze brought someone really canine
home from the pub, and had just woken up next to them, unsuspecting.
But then he remembered that, very uncharacteristically, Tom had
stayed in last night and gone to bed early, complaining of nausea and
the sweats. That hadn't sounded like a sick man's shout - but still...

So he leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, and went
across the hall to the door of Tom's room. Listening intently he
could just make out the sound of fast, urgent breathing.

'Tom! Are you all right?' he called.

'Don't come in!' His voice sounded fraught.

'What - ?' He'd been about to stick his head round the door. 'Tom,
what's wrong? You screamed.'

'I - uh, I had a nightmare,' he said.

'A nightmare? Jesus, Tom! I thought - I don't know what I thought,'
Jamie complained. He paused. 'If it was only a nightmare, why can't I
come in?'

Silence. 'Errr...'

'You bloody liar, it's more than just a bad dream, isn't it?'

He heard Tom groan. 'Okay, you may as well come in,' he said dismally.

The curtains were still drawn in Tom's bedroom and it took Jamie's
eyes a moment to adjust, but then he could make out his friend
sitting on the bed in a pair of boxers, with his back to him. He
seemed to be holding something to his chest, and his bowed head and
sagging shoulders hinted at a mood of utter despair.

'Tom?'

Tom glanced round, nodded a greeting, then stood up and turned to
face Jamie. Taking a deep breath, he let his hands fall to his sides,
revealing...

'Bloody hell, you've got tits,' Jamie said.

Not man-tits, either, these were the real deal: full, rounded, and
capped with wide fleshy nipples. It was sort of hard to judge how big
they actually were, mainly because Jamie wasn't used to seeing
breasts growing out of his six-foot-four best friend's chest, and
partly because the flesh around them still being quite hairy was a
bit off putting. Tom looked completely normal apart from his chest -
still as big and clumsy and male as ever, coarse dark hair cropped
short, square face looking grim.

'It must be the Girl Flu,' Tom mumbled, staring down at himself.

'Shit. Must be,' Jamie agreed, still mesmerised at the sight.

The Girl Flu was a bit of an urban legend, for all that it was real -
science knew so little about what it was, where it had come from, how
it worked, why it affected some people but not others, that it
retained an almost magical quality in the public imagination. Science
had christened it APFS - Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome -
but that only served to highlight their true ignorance of it.
Everyone else called it Girl Flu, because it had flu-like symptoms to
begin with, and turned men into women so convincingly some
gynaecologists had trouble identifying sufferers.

'What are the odds? Five thousand to one? Ten?' Tom slumped back down
onto the bed.

'Something like that,' Jamie agreed. 'Look, mate, you'd better get
yourself to the doctor. They need to check you over and see how far
advanced it is. They've got drugs and stuff that can, I don't know,
hold it off. Keep you the way you are now, before...' He shrugged.
'Before anything else starts changing.'

'I've already got bloody knockers! How much worse can it get?'

'Tom, which do you want to be - a man with knockers, or a woman?'

That got through. Tom looked up sharply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're
right. Are there any doctors open on a Saturday morning?'

Jamie shrugged. 'Dunno. You might have to go to A&E, they should be
able to help you.'

'Right...' Still clearly ill-at-ease with his new anatomy, Tom reached
for a T-shirt and some jeans - then, clearly having second thoughts,
he crossed over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a tattered old
T-shirt he rarely ever worse. Face set, he started tearing it into
strips.

*

Jamie felt kind of obliged to go to hospital with Tom. His potential
embarrassment, though clearly only miniscule compared with his
friend's, was entirely offset by the success of Tom's ploy as far as
binding up his chest went. Tom was such a big guy anyway that a few
extra curves didn't really show at all. But Tom was clearly
uncomfortable as they waited in the A&E department, and topics of
conversation were not forthcoming.

Finally, after over an hour's wait, Tom was called to the desk. It
had been agreed that he would see the doctor alone. Jamie passed the
time reading and re-reading the waiting area magazines. It was
another hour before Tom reappeared, not looking particularly
reassured.

Jamie waited until they were in the car and heading back to the flat
before speaking. 'Well? What did they say?'

'They won't know for sure until they've run some tests on the samples
I gave - but they think it's only just started to affect me
physically,' Tom said. 'They kind of implied I'd been lucky - a lot
of people have their skin, hair, joints changed first, and don't
recognise it for what it is until they grow breasts or -' He took a
deep breath. 'By which time it's too far advanced to do anything
about. So - if they're right - there's a good chance I can go onto
drugs that'll keep it from progressing. Then I can think about
surgery to take these damn things off.'

'So... it's good news, then?'

Tom made a noncommittal sound. 'Blood tests and so on will take about
a week, so any other changes that happen in that time I'm stuck with.
There shouldn't be any, unless this is one of the really virulent
strains, but still...' He shook his head in dismay.

Jamie waited a moment before asking his next question. 'Did they sign
you off work?'

'No. They advised me to tell my line manager about my condition and
gave me the address of a surgical appliance shop,' Tom said. 'There's
a kind of a... crap, it's a kind of a corset, to hide my boobs. I
suppose anything's better than turning up to the office in a
Wonderbra.' He laughed sourly, and for the first time that morning
actually looked like the man Jamie knew. That was comforting, in its
own way.

*

Tom went to be fitted with his corset alone - it didn't seem fair to
drag Jamie along, and he had to start dealing with his peculiar
circumstances alone sooner or later. Much to his relief, he was
assisted by a pair of matronly women in their fifties, whose approach
was austerely clinical. To his surprise they had a 'restrainer' in
his size in stock. It looked like a quilted white vest, slightly
padded, with a whole variety of straps and stays at various points
about it. Quite soon, Tom looked completely normal with the device
hidden beneath his shirt, but his breasts were beginning to throb at
being crushed in this manner. Well, he had no choice, Tom told
himself - he had work on Monday, and this was his only choice right
now.

The ache across his chest notwithstanding, things were almost back to
normal by Sunday night - he missed the Saturday afternoon footie
kickabout because of his fitting, but everything else was normal.
That was hopeful, maybe soon this would all be just a memory of a
very weird weekend.

Tom's hopes of normalcy were bolstered the next day when he went to
work. He didn't attract a single comment or stare from the rest of
the guys in the department - and, as he worked in IT, discretion and
empathy were hardly their strong suit - and when he reluctantly had a
quiet word with his boss about his altered situation, the man looked
highly sceptical and had to be shown a doctor's note to be convinced.

But his optimism took a blow throughout Tuesday and Wednesday as the
pain in his breasts slowly intensified. The original dull ache slowly
turned into a burning pain and he began to find himself occasionally
short of breath.

He was sprawled in front of the TV on Wednesday night with Jamie -
England were playing a friendly - when it all got too much for him.
He reached under his shirt and started fumbling with the stays on his
restrainer.

'What's up?' Jamie looked concerned.

'This damn thing. Feels like it's getting tighter and tighter...' Tom
groaned in frustration and hauled off his shirt, and started
unfastening the appliance in earnest. With a final sigh of relief he
wriggled it off and sat back, luxuriating in the blissful sensations
coming from his freed breasts.

'I hate to say this...' Jamie stared at them, then up at his face. 'But
I think they're getting bigger. They look larger, and it would
explain why your - your thingy started crushing them.'

Tom stared down at them. On any other person - any other female
person, he corrected himself - they would have been awesome,
magnificent - but on him they just seemed like twin tormentors. Two
days until his test results came back and he could start putting them
behind him. So to speak.

A little adjustment to the restrainer and Tom was able to compromise
between comfort and discretion, although his boobs were bulging
through his shirt and suit more than he was really comfortable with.
God, I'm going to enjoy getting you off my chest, he thought
venomously, on more than one occasion.

*

Tom took Friday afternoon off work to see his consultant up at the
hospital, and didn't get home until after Jamie had come in. 'A hoy
hoy!' he called, slamming the door behind him.

Jamie could tell from his tone that it was good news and breathed a
sigh of relief. 'What did they say?' he called.

Tom came into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa. 'They were
right first time,' he said. 'Virtually nothing else has changed yet,
thank God.' He held up a white plastic bottle that rattled as he
shook it. 'And as long as I take one of these every twelve hours,
nothing else is going to. Christ, parts of this week haven't been a
lot of fun, but it could have been so much worse...'

'What's in the pills?'

Tom shrugged. 'I wasn't really listening, I was so relieved.
Synthetic hormones, vitamins, that kind of thing.'

'And the, er, surgical option?'

'They want me to hang on for a couple of months to make sure there
aren't any side effects from the medication. But after that...' He
mimed a snipping sensation with both hands. 'Maybe I'll get them
stuffed and mounted - the breasts that tried to conquer Tom Barker.
What's on TV?'

*

It was another brilliantly sunny weekend and as usual Tom and Jamie
met up with their friends on the local park for a game of four a side
football. Jamie was quietly still a bit worried about his friend -
while professing to be quite his old self, he'd been a little subdued
all morning and looked pale.

But he threw himself into the game with his usual mad abandon,
hurling his weight about, apparently having forgotten his situation.
He had the restrainer on under his shirt, of course, and Jamie had to
admit he could barely see any sign of it, no matter how hard he
looked. He turned his attention back to the game, took the ball off
the opposition with a well-timed tackle. Now - he booted it down the
field towards Tom, who, as usual, leapt up to take the ball against
his torso preparatory to making his shot on goal. The ball thumped
against the centre of Tom's chest -

- and he collapsed on the ground with a yelp of pain. Jamie swore and
ran over to him. He was in a foetal position and his eyes glittered
with helpless tears. Everyone else was standing around in total
confusion.

'Tom, man, come on,' Jamie whispered. 'Are you okay? Was it the -?'

Tom struggled to his feet, still helplessly clutching his chest. 'I'm
okay,' he managed to say. 'It just caught me in the wrong spot.
Sorry, guys, I think I'll sit the rest of this one out.'

Jamie finished the game as Tom lay sprawled against a tree, clearly
still in some discomfort. Eventually it was over and the group
splintered off as usual. Jamie went over to him. 'Sorry, man. Forgot.'

'So did I,' Tom said sourly. 'They're so bloody sensitive! I doubt
that'll change even after the surgery.'

'Is that all? I wouldn't ask, but... you've seemed a bit off all day.'

'I feel like shit,' Tom said. 'Headache, no appetite, tiredness...
Jesus. It's these pills. Side effects.'

'I'm sorry,' Jamie said. He knew full well that Tom would be on this
medication for the rest of his life, some unforeseeable breakthrough
notwithstanding, and that the side effects might well continue all
that time. Somehow 'sorry' seemed so inadequate.

'Give me a hand up,' Tom muttered. With Jamie's aid he clambered to
his feet. 'Let's go home. I need a lie down.'

*

Six and a half weeks later Tom sat in the saloon bar of a pub near
his office, nursing a coke with lemon and half-listening to his
colleagues banter and laugh with one another. Booze was out of the
question while he was on the medication - any kind of strenuous
physical activity, come to that. Not to mention spicy foods or
getting less than nine hours sleep every single night. Any departure
from this regimen brought splitting headaches, dizziness, nausea and
diarrhea, and a total lack of energy. As it was he felt fairly
listless and there was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He was
losing weight, but from the relentless ache of his confined breasts -
as familiar and unnoticed to him now as his heartbeat or pulse - it
seemed that they at least were as large as ever.

God, what had happened to his life? He couldn't play sports, drink
with the lads, go out for a curry or to a club. He was ... boring. He
bored himself. Jamie had stayed in with him out of solidarity, for
the first few weeks, until he'd chased him out - no sense in both of
them becoming recluses.

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! he thought harshly. This is the
price you're paying for staying a man, so stop whinging and be
grateful for what you've still got. Admittedly, his breast reduction
surgery had not been sanctioned due to his side effect problems, but
he still had... well, his male body, for all that it was rather prone
to illness now. His only other option was to stop taking the pills
and let APFS slowly transform him into a woman. And femininity had no
appeal for him whatsoever.

The pub jukebox abruptly faded and lights came up around the small
stage at the back of the saloon. There was a buzz of conversation as
the barman spoke into his PA system. 'Good afternoon, everyone, and
welcome to our regular Wednesday afternoon entertainment here at the
Green Dragon. And starting us off today is a young lady who's been a
big success here in the past... give a big hand for the lovely
Marianne!'

A girl came on stage in a glitzy floor-length evening gown,
elbow-length silk gloves, and fur wrap, as brassy music blared out of
the speakers. The lunchtime crowd was suddenly energised, moving
forward to surround the stage and get the best possible view. And Tom
found he was... he wasn't sure what he was, actually, but he was moving
forward towards the stage as if under compulsion. Something about the
stripper's utter self-assurance and the total hold she had over the
audience, it was connecting with something deep inside... deep inside a
part of him he'd never realised was there before. He found himself
flushing and starting to sweat as his nipples buzzed with sensation
and his cock twitched excitedly. He'd not felt this way since before
the Flu. And... he was jealous, jealous of the dancer, for being so
composed and graceful and having such a great wardrobe. No reason to
be jealous, he told himself, your breasts are at least as good as
hers... and with the realisation that he was right, came a surge of
pride, quickly followed by a cold chill. He was proud of his breasts
for the first time.

Unable to tear himself away, he stayed to watch the rest of Marianne's
set and those of the other dancers, quietly trying to note what they
did that looked good, what wasn't quite so successful, trying to
assimilate the art of striptease... But why? Why was he doing this? Did
he seriously want to...

Haltingly he rang the office and called in sick for the afternoon -
it was hardly implausible, his colleagues had been saying he looked
ill for over a month. And he went home. In his bedroom he slid off
his jacket and dropped it on the bed, then unfastened his tie and
pulled that off too. His shirt was next, and then the hated
restrainer, clawing at the ties and straps before yanking it off.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his reflection, enjoying
the slope and heaviness of his full, firm breasts, toying with the
nipples... It was just a shame the hairiness of his chest and shoulders
spoilt their setting. He went through into the bathroom and after a
moment picked up the shaving cream.

Fifteen minutes later his chest, stomach, shoulders and arms were
shaved bare. God, his breasts were gorgeous. He imagined himself up
on the stage, every eye on him, proud and graceful, exuding sexual
heat as he... well, he'd have to think about exactly what he was going
to do. The voice of reason from earlier spoke up, quieter and only
half-hearted now: are you serious? This is irreversible. Once you
start, you won't be able to stop...

So I'd better start before I change my mind, Tom thought to himself,
frightened and excited by the thought. He opened the medicine cabinet
and took out his anti-APFS pills, looked in the bottle. Nearly a
month's supply left. Abruptly, almost as if trying to surprise
himself, he turned the bottle over and tipped the lot down the
toilet, then flushed it away.

He turned back to surveying his reflection, thinking; come on out,
striptease queen, I'm waiting for you...

== Two ==

Jamie wasn't sure, but he thought something was up with Tom. Not the
usual side effects trouble, either - it seemed so unfair that his
friend was suffering so much from his condition, but if anything,
lately it seemed as if they weren't troubling him nearly as much.
Jamie's relief at this was countered by... well, his vague sense that
Tom was hiding something from him. He'd started spending a lot of
time in his room, with the door locked, doing only God knew what.
Unmarked packages of various kinds had started arriving for Tom, only
to vanish and never be spoken of again.

And there was his Discman. He had a cordless CD player, where the
headphones weren't physically connected to the actual unit, and Tom
had asked to borrow it one night. He hadn't seen it again for over a
week and when he had found it lying around, the disc in it was called
'Thirty Great Burlesque Tunes'. What the hell was that all about? Tom
had basically given him a non-answer, of course.

Still - in a weird way Tom did seem happier, more at ease with
himself. He looked like he'd started to put back on some of the
weight he'd lost during the worst of the side effects trouble, he
looked rounder in the face and his hair had a healthy glossiness to
it, for all that it was turning into an untidy mop. He seemed more
confident that his condition was a secret, too, because it looked
like he'd relaxed the settings on his restrainer. There were now two
quite visible bulges under his clothing for anyone to notice who
happened to look that way. Tom didn't seem to notice at all. It was
as if he was utterly preoccupied with something else.

*

Am I a man or a woman? Tom silently asked himself, looking at his
naked reflection in the mirror. Force of habit tempted him to say
male, but it was a borderline case, either way. His whole body was
softer and more rounded, to say nothing of his magnificent 36C
breasts. He cupped and stroked them lovingly. His face was still
quite masculine, and he was still easily over six foot in height.
But, since stopping the pills, he'd not had to shave his chest or
arms again and almost all his other body hair had fallen cleanly out.
The hair on his head had started growing much faster recently, and
he'd not needed to shave his jaw or throat for nearly a week.

Okay, he told himself, today was the day. Jamie was away visiting
family for the weekend so the coast was clear. He slid on the black
Lycra briefs, momentarily grimacing at the way the cowed remnants of
his cock and balls bulged between his creamy thighs. Then the
brassiere, the same colour and fabric. God, his cleavage looked
fantastic. It seemed a pity to hide it under the silky pink blouse,
but there was no sense in giving out freebies, he thought with a
smile. The light grey jacket and trousers of one of his business
suits were just about gender-neutral enough to work.

Finishing touches. He opened a drawer and took out lipstick and
eye shadow, and with a skill born of many hours practice applied both.
Now he looked definitely feminine, for all his size. He squirted a
handful of hair gel into one palm and set to slicking back his hair
as severely as he could, gathering the ends into a tight bun at the
back of his head. From under the bed came a pair of smart black
high-heeled shoes - how many miles had he tottered up and down this
room, learning the effortlessly sassy and graceful stride he'd wanted
to acquire? High heels gave him a towering height advantage over most
men, but hell, he thought, Xena's a popular show, why shouldn't it
work for me too?

Looking in the mirror he barely recognised himself. 'Big girl,' Tom
whispered approvingly, picking up a new leather handbag and slinging
it over one shoulder. He nodded, smiled dazzlingly to himself, and
strode out to take on the world, for the first time as a woman.

The stares he drew around the town! Enough to make the nape of his
neck tingle in the most delightful way. Men couldn't take their eyes
off him, they were held captive by a mixture of desire and
intimidation. For a while Tom just sashayed around, loving the new
perspective he'd been gifted with. His breasts were tingling and
aching, but in a good way, somehow.

But he had things to do: a visit to a bodypiercer and tattooist,
then a jeweller's. Ann Summers proved an irresistible lure to the new
Tom. Tom, Tom, he thought to himself, not a very sexy name. He should
be thinking of a new name for his...

...oh, well, his stage persona. He'd been through the logic of his
choice a hundred times, rationalised it a hundred times more. But the
prospect of actually doing it, getting up in front of an audience,
seemed to undercut his newfound self-confidence.

He went into the Green Dragon and ordered a glass of red wine, took
it through into the saloon. The stage was dark and empty, but it was
here he'd seen her, Marianne, the girl who'd inspired him to this.
Could he really be up there some day soon, commanding the crowd,
peeling off garment after garment? The prospect thrilled and
terrified him at the same time. Oh, if it worked, if he was a
success, what a woman he would have become! But he could just as
easily imagine the baying contempt of the audience for this enormous
lump who presumed to think they would find her attractive...

The hand holding the wine glass shook. Tom put it down. He had to
know for sure before he dared to try it in front of a crowd of
strangers. Was he the woman, the performer, he'd hoped he would
become? Or just a deluded fool who'd discarded his own gender like a
badly-fitting pair of shoes? There was only one way to find out, he
realised, stomach prickling, and no real reason to delay...

*

Jamie let himself into the flat, glad to be home at last. Family was
cool, but there was something to be said for distance, too. 'Hellooo?
Tom?' he called. 'I'm back.'

'I'm in here,' Tom's voice came through his bedroom door. It sounded
oddly muffled and slightly nervy. 'How was your weekend?'

'Oh, you know, okay. How have you been?' He put his hand on the doorknob

'Don't come in!' Tom sounded almost horrified. 'Look, I need a big
favour from you. Someone I'd like you to meet, it'd mean a lot to me...'

'Oh - sure, yeah,' Jamie said, mystified. 'When?'

'Well... now. Just go into the lounge and sit down on the sofa and
you'll see what I mean.'

All the furniture in the lounge had been pushed back to the walls,
except the sofa and a folding chair that had been placed a few feet
in front of it, side-on. The lights were low and the stereo's power
supply was on. Jamie looked around in bemusement and sank onto the
sofa.

'Okay then,' he said dubiously.

The stereo sprang into life, a rapid solo drumbeat that was quickly
taken up by other percussion and brass - a big, lush, brazen tune,
the kind of thing he could imagine... but his attention was seized as
someone strode lazily into the room.

He barely recognized Tom at first, for all that he was wearing the
black jacket, trousers and waistcoat of one of his smartest suits.
His face looked different, he wore makeup, lipstick, and his lashes
were almost absurdly full. His hair was slicked back into a bun and
golden hoops swung beneath each earlobe. He didn't appear to be
wearing either shirt or restrainer beneath his waistcoat, but the
shallow V of the garment's neck meant only a few inches of skin were
revealed. His legs looked so long... which was because he was wearing
open-toed high-heeled shoes, and - from the look of things - dark
stockings, too.

'Tom, what the -' he started to say, but Tom put a finger to his lips
and smiled as circled the chair with the same careful, insolent walk.
Something about the way Tom moved to the music, and his own response
to it, was making Jamie uncomfortable. Tom stopped, started to pluck
the buttons of his jacket undone one by one, still smiling. 'Welcome
to the other me,' he said in a breathy, contralto voice.

'Tom... what's all this about?' he inquired helplessly. Tom smiled,
writhed his shoulders, letting the jacket slide off them and down his
bare arms. 'Not Tom, not any more,' he whispered. 'Call me... Cat.' The
suit jacket fell to the floor and was kicked away.

'Cat? What the -' Jamie rose, looked around for the stereo control,
but was effortlessly shoved back into his seat. 'Don't get up on my
account,' Tom said, placing a foot on the folding chair and deftly
unfastening the straps on one shoe. 'Why spoil the show for yourself?'

'Show? I don't know what you're thinking,' Jamie said as his friend
repeated the procedure with the other foot, 'but I... I'm really not
into this...'

'Oh no?' Tom strode over, energetically swinging his hips in time
with the music. Almost delicately he unfastened the belt on his
trousers and unthreaded it, then started to unfasten them. Jamie
swallowed hard: he was noticing the subtle changes in his friend's
body and behaviour. 'Just tell me to stop, then...'

But before Jamie could speak his friend's ample backside was swaying
back and forth before him as the trousers were gradually slid down,
revealing inch after inch of creamy buttock, a new bluebird tattoo
just visible low on the hip. This wasn't a man, couldn't be, Jamie
thought wildly, feeling an erection appear out of nowhere.

The trousers finally fell and the woman who had been Tom stepped out
of them, clad in stockings, a matt black thong and a dark waistcoat.
She went back to the chair, smiled at him. 'You're very quiet... do you
want Cat to stop?'

'N-no,' Jamie spluttered, hating himself for being an accomplice to
this ruination of his friend.

'So what do you say?'

'Please, Cat... carry on,' he whispered.

'My pleasure, darling,' Cat said with a dazzling smile, plucking open
her waistcoat a button at a time, revealing those gorgeous breasts in
a black bra. She wriggled out of the waistcoat and twirled it around
her head before throwing it aside. Jamie didn't trust himself to
speak, breathing hard, unable to grasp what was happening.

Cat crossed her arms in front of her and twitched both bra straps off
her shoulders at once, then slid her arms out of them. Only the clasp
at the back kept the bra in place and her breasts covered. With one
hand she held it there as with the other the clasp was unhooked. The
fabric sagged off her breasts and she quickly used both arms to hold
it against her. Then, using one forearm to cover her nipples, she
whipped it away and held it out at arm's length before letting it
fall.

Finally, she dropped both arms to place her hands on her hips,
exposing her breasts and swaying with the beat of the music. Jamie
swallowed and fought to control the mixture of revulsion and extreme
arousal he felt. The music seemed to go on forever, but eventually
faded away.

'Well?' Cat asked. Her voice was rougher and a little deeper, but
still feminine. She folded her arms and looked at him. Jamie couldn't
meet her gaze.

'Well what?' he muttered, looking away. 'For God's sake... put some
clothes on, will you?'

'Okay. Give me two minutes,' Cat said, collecting up her costume and
striding out of the room.

When she returned, rather more than two minutes later, she was Tom -
that is, Jamie recognised him as something closer to his old self,
chest strapped up, hair the familiar scruffy tangle, no makeup or
jewellery, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. Back on familiar
territory, Jamie felt better able to express himself.

'What the hell was that all about? Are you trying to freak me out or
something? That was... that was sick.' Realisation sank in. 'You're off
your meds, aren't you? You're letting yourself turn into a woman?
Why?'

Tom sighed. 'On the medication... well, you saw me. I had no quality of
life, couldn't do anything I enjoyed. Now I can.'

'And one of the things you enjoy is pretending to be a stripper?'
Jamie said curtly.

'Don't be a knob. Look, I can pass as a man if I want to, even now,
and I don't see why that should have to stop. But I'll admit that...'
he sighed, '...there are parts of me that are female and they need a
release, a kind of safety valve. And Cat's going to be that safety
valve. I'm still going to be me most of the time, masculine... but for
an hour or two a week I'm going to be ultra-feminine Cat, the
stripper.'

'So I can expect this kind of thing twice a week from now on?' Jamie
stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't be daft. I just wanted to be sure I had what it takes before
going in front of a real audience. I knew I had to tell you sooner or
later, and...' he smiled. 'You're my best mate. I wanted your opinion.'

'Jesus. You're going up on stage to take all your clothes off while
blokes howl at you?' Jamie shook his head.

'Well, I'll probably leave the thong on, I'm hoping to work a higher
class of club, you know, stage-work not pole- or lap-dancing... and I
seem to recall we used to go and howl at dancers quite a bit.'

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. 'That was different.'

'Oh, yeah, of course,' Tom said sardonically, and suddenly they were
laughing and the tension was dispelled.

'This is messed up, man. How long do you think you'll be able to keep
this a secret?' Jamie asked.

Tom shrugged. 'As long as I need to. Come on, let's go down the pub.'

*

And so Jamie got used, if that was quite the word, to finding silk
evening gloves and feather boas in the oddest places in the flat, as
Tom invested in proper costumes for his prospective new career. To
Jamie's surprise his friend's Amazonian height and insistence on
old-style burlesque stripping gave him novelty value on the dancing
circuit and within a week or two 'Black Cat Beaumont' had a regular
Wednesday lunchtime slot at the Green Dragon. Jamie decided not to go
along, partly because his one encounter with Cat had been the most
alarming experience of his life, and partly out of a wish not to
distract his friend. The weirdest thing was that Tom's main paycheck
still came from his regular day job. He just took a long lunch on the
Wednesday, left the office in his suit, changed into Cat's civilian
clothes, went to the pub and did her set, changed back, and was back
at his desk by half past two. Jamie privately wondered what this was
doing to his friend psychologically, given that he was often
stripping in front of his own workmates, but decided not to raise it
with him. He certainly gave every impression of knowing his own mind,
and was making a very tidy sum every week from dancing. Life together
in the flat required a few subtle adjustments, though, quite apart
from finding bras, thongs, and evening dresses in the washing basket.

'God, Tom, could you do me a favour?' Jamie said one morning, finding
himself in a particularly grumpy mood. 'Do you mind washing the bath
out after you shave your... shave yourself. There's a ring of... bits all
round the edge.'

Tom didn't look up from the News of the World. 'Okay. Provided you
start remembering to leave the seat down in the toilet.'

'It's a deal... what did you say?' Jamie blinked and stared at him.

'Well, you're the only one who puts the damn thing up, aren't you?'
He looked up at Jamie's shocked expression and sighed. He glanced
meaningfully down at his own crotch. 'I don't have the plumbing for
that any more.'

'Oh. Man.' (Tom raised an eyebrow.) 'I didn't think...' Jamie sat down
at the table. 'You've completely changed? You're a woman now?'

'Far as I can tell.' For the first time Tom looked uncomfortable. 'I
knew it was going to happen, it's no big deal. I'm still me, aren't
I?'

'Most of the time, yeah,' Jamie smiled. But he couldn't help watching
his friend's retreating back in a new light.

*

After about two months of working at the Green Dragon on Wednesdays,
Tom was sure that Cat was one of the best strippers there. Her hair
had grown long enough to be put up in a high, fancy style, and while
this made it slightly more difficult to arrange in a suitably
careless, scruffy, and male ponytail the rest of the time, it was
worth it. Her routines were stylish and varied enough to ensure
healthy repeat business and it amused him that some of his managers
were effectively giving him a hefty bonus each week, albeit through
an unsuspected channel.

Then, on the way out after a set one day, a middle-aged man
approached Cat in the company of the Dragon's landlord. Propositions
of various kinds pretty much went with the striptease territory, but
this guy was different. The man ran one of the best known pub venues
and had heard about Cat's appearance on the scene. He was offering
her two lunchtimes a week on Tuesday and Thursday, plus a Saturday
evening spot. The moneymaking potential, he said, was significantly
better.

But I'm not really doing this for the money, Tom thought absently,
even as he heard Cat agree with alacrity. Hell, he thought, the money
is nice and... I really do enjoy this. She smiled at the man and left
the pub, ready to go back to the office.

'I'm going up in the world,' Tom announced on his return home that
night, stowing Cat's costume in the hall.

'Oh yeah? You get that team supervisor job?' Jamie was watching the TV.

'Er, no. I've been offered two lunchtimes and an evening every week,
dancing at the Flags,' he said proudly.

'And you said yes?' Jamie looked at him oddly.

'Yeah, why not. It's good money and I enjoy the work. I'm good at it,
too,' he smiled.

'Yes, but... what happened to only an hour or two a week, just to give
vent to those female qualities you were unfortunately lumbered with?
You're not actually starting to enjoy being a woman, are you?'

'Look, if I enjoyed it, I'd do it in my spare time. It's only a few
hours a week,' Tom said. 'I was going to suggest we go down the pub
to celebrate, but if you...'

'No, no, I'll come.' Jamie stood up. 'What time are you on stage?'

'Piss off,' Tom grinned. 'No stage, only a pool table.'

*

There was indeed a pool table and luckily for them it was free. Tom
plonked down a huge pile of 50p pieces and Jamie started racking up
the balls. It had been a long time since either of them had played,
but even so Tom was surprised when he badly lost the first three
games. It suddenly came to him that his new physique was affecting
his play - even strapped back, his breasts were keeping him from
getting down on the shots, and the subtle changes in his height and
arm joints were also throwing his shots off.

He missed a particularly easy ball into the centre pocket, and angry
with himself, glanced back over his shoulder, expecting to see a
gleeful smirk on Jamie's face. Jamie wasn't even looking at the game,
he was attentively watching... Tom's backside as he bent over the
table, amply filling the seat of his jeans as it did.

'Oi,' Tom said, rattled somehow and yet feeling a nervous, excited
lurch in the pit of his stomach.

'What? Sorry. Distracted,' Jamie said lightly, and moved to the table.

Of course, after that Tom's game fell to bits even more. He felt
nervous and embarrassed every time he had to get down on a shot and
his hands were trembling very slightly for some reason. He only won
three games all night and two of those were because Jamie fouled when
potting the black. Eventually they gave the table up and sat down at
a table in the corner.

'You were off your game tonight,' Jamie said casually, sipping his lager.

'Yeah,' Tom said, nursing his own drink. It had been a mistake to
stick with Jamie pint for pint, his own capacity was so much less
now. He tutted to himself, annoyed at how tipsy he already felt.

'Is something wrong? We come here to celebrate your... promotion,'
Jamie said carefully, 'but you just seem... I don't know, stressed out.'

Tom sighed. 'I... I don't want to talk about it.'

'Oh. Okay. If it's the game, hell, you're out of practice, that's
all, I wouldn't worry - '

'It's not the bloody game,' Tom whispered hotly. 'All right, if you
really must know... what's stressing me out is that you were checking
out my arse every time I bent over the table.'

'Not every time,' Jamie objected.

'It's not a joke! Christ, I'm here as a man, not as... her.'

Jamie shrugged. 'You both have very similar arses though. The pair of
you are, well, identical, and - '

'I really, really don't like the idea of you thinking of me as a -
oh, God - sex object like that, that's all. Most of the time I'm
still a man, and that's that.'

'Listen, mate,' Jamie said reasonably, 'if you didn't want me to
think of you as a sex object you shouldn't have done that extremely
sexy striptease in front of me with the arse and the tits and all.
That's kind of lodged in my memory now, and certain things refresh my
memory.'

'That wasn't me... it was Cat...'

'Oh, bullshit,' Jamie sighed. 'You're the same person, Tom, you have
the same body and the same mind and all of that. You know what I
think? All that stuff about 'safety valves' and 'giving vent to your
femininity' - it's just excuses. All along, deep down you just wanted
to be a buxom stripper and the Flu gave you an excuse to go through
with it.'

Tom felt his eyes sting. 'That's crap,' he whispered feebly. 'I'm
only her for a few hours a week. I still have Tom's job, I wear Tom's
clothes.'

'Yeah, but Cat's already trebled her time in charge. I think going
from man to woman all at once would just be too big a wrench so
you're slowly making the transition a bit at a time.'

'And... and what do you think about that?' Tom asked hollowly, Jamie's
words resonating in his mind with a horrible truthfulness.

Jamie shrugged. 'Look, I don't care about the gender studies side of
it. You're my best friend, whoever you choose to be, and I want you
to be happy and I'll do what I can to help you, it doesn't matter
whether or not I - ' He broke off. 'Never mind.'

'No, go on. You've been candid enough so far,' Tom said with a wry smile.

'Okay... Whether or not I really fancy Cat. Which I do,' Jamie
admitted. He glanced away, face reddening, then stood up. 'Going for
a slash,' he mumbled and walked away.

He fancies me. Oh my God, Tom thought, feeling his own cheeks start
to burn. He stared at Jamie's retreating back and found his attention
slipping down to Jamie's own moderately athletic backside. Which is
worse - that, or the fact that I can see myself fancying him?

== Three ==

The whole sexual orientation side to APFS was something Tom had
recoiled from at the time of his diagnosis and never really summoned
up the courage to go back to after stopping his medication. Like so
much else about the condition, it seemed completely random - some
kept their usual orientation, becoming effectively lesbians, others
changed orientation along with body and stayed heterosexual. A
significant minority became enthusiastically bi.

It had been stupid of him not to at least think about what might
happen to him in that respect. Oddly enough, even while up on stage
as Cat, he'd never thought of stripping as an explicitly sexual act.
His libido seemed to have been absent ever since the Flu had kicked
in, not that he'd noticed it was gone. But now desire was showing
signs of return, and in a much-changed form.
Nothing overpowering or too unusual, just absent-minded thoughts like
'nice bum' or 'he's got sexy eyes' while at work or elsewhere. Tom
had to admit it: he was beginning to fancy men.

For a while at least he had too much on his plate to worry overmuch
about this, switching over to his new three-times-a-week dancing
schedule. The two long lunches this demanded played havoc with his
hours at his 'proper' job, and he had to sell his manager some story
about his treatment needing special attention. He frankly didn't
really care that this was a very fragile lie: his day job was a
tedious slog now compared to the delight and excitement of being up
on stage as Cat. The extra money was very useful too, for new
costumes and jewellery and other more routine items.

But there remained an odd tension back at home. He and Jamie had
never really discussed what had passed between them that night in the
pub, but it remained a constant presence in their relationship, like
a ticking time bomb. Eventually Tom got tired of it being there.

*

They both habitually knocked off early from work on Friday, thanks to
the joys of the flexi system. Tom's lunchtime commitments tended to
cut into how soon he could get away, though, and Jamie was therefore
quite surprised to arrive home one Friday and find Tom already there,
slouched on the sofa in footie shirt and jeans, watching the TV.

'Oh, hello,' Jamie said. 'You're home early.'

Tom shrugged. 'Sod the flexi deficit, I just had to get out of there.
How was your day?'

'Oh, you know.' Jamie flopped down next to him. 'Watching Countdown?'

'Yeah. Nothing else on. Err... you doing anything tonight?'

'Nothing planned. Why, have you?'

'Thought about a spot of pubbing and clubbing. You up for it?'

'Er, yeah,' Jamie said, a little mystified: Tom had pretty much
abandoned all that since his change had completed.

'One thing though...' Tom stared at his lap then up at Jamie with
desperate eyes. 'I thought you'd want to go out with Cat, not me.'

'What...? You mean... I thought Cat was just -'

'Oh, come on... we've already discussed that. You're right. I am Cat, I
can't deny it, and I want to know what it feels like to be... a woman
in a normal situation, not just up on a stage peeling things off.
Even if only for a little while. You said you'd help -'

Jamie shook his head a little incredulously. 'I also said I really
fancied Cat.'

'Me. You really fancied me,' Tom said.

'Okay. I really fancy you, when you... you're dressed as a woman. Hell,
the rest of the time too, but especially then. And if we go out
together for this kind of evening, it's going to seem like a date - a
weird date, okay, but still a date. Are you okay with that? Cos I'm
not sure I am.'

'To be honest, I'm petrified,' Tom said with a nervous smile. 'But I
can tell you are too, so I don't mind. And... a date was sort of what I
was thinking of, too.'

'Okay then,' Jamie said with a smile.

'But this is just an experiment,' Tom said quickly. 'I'm still going
to be Tom around the house and at work after tonight, I'm not making
the switch -' He broke off, the word 'yet' left unsaid. 'This is just
for this evening.'

'Okay then,' Jamie repeated, still smiling.

*

They booked a taxi for nine and at a quarter to Jamie found himself
waiting on the sofa for his friend to finish getting ready. He really
didn't know what to expect, suddenly realising his previous exposure
to 'Cat' had only lasted a few minutes and had hardly involved a lot
of conversation. What if they didn't get on? Don't be a pillock, he
told himself, she's your best mate. Well, what if he started treating
her the way he treated Tom, all farts and piss-taking and God knew
what. But she was Tom. Oh, this was too weird, a big mistake... He
stood up, ready to call the whole thing off, and she appeared in the
doorway.

Her long dark hair was down, framing her face, which was rather more
subtly made up on this occasion. The hoop earrings looked familiar
though. She wore a black zip-fronted vest that exposed an inch or two
of cleavage, tight black jeans and high heels. A black leather jacket
and handbag completed the outfit. 'Hello,' she said with a nervous
smile. She looked gorgeous.

'Hello,' Jamie said hollowly. 'Wow. You look... great.'

'Thanks. I didn't want to overdo the slap, and...' she smiled, '...most
of my clothes fasten with Velcro, so the wardrobe choice was a bit
restricted. I'm glad you like it.'

The doorbell buzzed. 'That'll be the taxi, he's early,' Jamie said.
'Let's go.' He showed her to the door.

At the first pub they managed to secure a table and he fought his way
to the bar to get a lager and a red wine. He sat down next to her and
sipped his drink. 'Red wine's new for you... if you see what I mean,'
he stumbled.

Cat smiled. 'It seemed a bit more me than bitter. This particular
me.' She rolled her eyes. 'This is weird.'

'I know, I told Tom it would be...'

'I know, I was there, remember?' she said with a smile.

Jamie blushed. 'Oh yeah. Tom... Cat... same person. Hey - tom-cat. Is
that some kind of a pun or something?'

She sighed. 'No, it didn't occur to me until I'd been on stage for
weeks, but I don't think anyone will work it out. Cat was just
supposed to be a stage name anyway, or so I thought... if I'd known I'd
be using it for real, if you see what I mean, I might have chosen a
different one.'

'So what would you like me to call you?' Jamie asked.

She shrugged. 'Oh hell, let's keep it simple - call me Catherine.'

'Catherine. Cool,' Jamie said. 'I'll drink to that.'

*

The plan had been to go clubbing a bit later on but they found they
were enjoying the drinks and conversation in the pub so much they
stayed there all evening. Jamie found talking to Catherine strange
but fascinating - she almost seemed to change and develop as an
individual throughout the course of the evening, as though a new
personality was expanding to fill the gulf between the brazen and
confident stage persona of Cat, and familiar set of attitudes he knew
from the old masculine Tom.

Towards the end of the night one of the pool tables came free and
Catherine suggested they play. Given the result of their last
contest, Jamie was surprised but agreed anyway... only to find himself
hard pressed to compete with her. Catherine seemed much more
confident and familiar with her body than Tom had been, and she
seemed entirely shameless about employing her arse or cleavage to put
him off his game, grinning as she did so.

'You hussy,' he said with a smile as she sank the black, just as the
landlord started calling for everyone to go home. She'd won by two
games.

'What?' she asked, grabbing her jacket.

'Well, all that...' He mimed breasts and hips vaguely. 'You were trying
to put me off.'

'This may be my night off, darling, but I'm still a stripper,'
Catherine smiled. 'Using my body to get what I want is what I do for
a living.'

Jamie smiled, then something she'd said registered with him.
'"Darling"?' he queried.

Catherine shrugged languidly, smiling broadly, but didn't try to
qualify the sentiment. 'So... what now?'

'I don't know. A club?'

She shook her head. 'Don't think so.' She looked down at what she was
wearing. 'Even if we beat the dress code, I'm used to looking
sensational when I dance, and this ain't it. Another time - let's go
back to the flat.'

*

A nervous excitement filled Jamie as Catherine let them in to their
flat. What next, he wondered, letting his eyes race over her body for
the thousandth time that evening. 'Do you want a drink?' he asked,
the equation of coffee, sofa, heavy breathing running in his head.

'No, I - I'm going to go to bed,' Catherine said, almost
apologetically. 'Solo. I've had a really great evening, and I don't
want to spoil it. Just because we share a flat it doesn't change the
fact that this was our first date, and I don't think I'm going to be
that kind of girl. Sorry...'

'No, that's fine,' Jamie said, aware how little of his disappointment
he was hiding.

'But it was still a date, and it went really well,' Catherine said.

'So... can I see you again -'

'You'll see me in the morning.'

'Yes, but as -'

She stepped up close and planted a kiss full on his mouth. The scent
of her filled his nostrils and his hands made to grasp her. But she
slipped back out of his reach, a playful smile on her face. 'Good
night,' she said, opening the door of her room and vanishing into it.
Her head reappeared momentarily. 'The paper tissues are in the
kitchen,' she added with a grin, then the door shut with inarguable
firmness.

Jamie took a deep breath. 'Kitchen. Paper tissues. Check,' he
muttered to himself, and headed slightly awkwardly in that direction.

*

Tom woke up early and with only a slight hangover the next day. He
still woke up thinking of himself as Tom, whatever that meant - but
he knew that things were changing now. Black Cat Beaumont hadn't been
much more than a cardboard cut-out, a means to an end, she'd not
threatened his sense of self at all... but now his feminine side was
turning into a real person, as valid as he was, and he had no idea
where the border between his male and female sides now lay. He
suspected he was ceding territory to Catherine fast. Looking around
the room he could see her clothes lying on the chair.

Her clothes? They're your clothes, he realised, admonishing himself.
He recalled the night before, chatting with Jamie, playing pool, and
his loins tingled at the memory of the kiss. It scared him, because
it had felt right. Maybe he might be that kind of girl after all.

No, no! he told himself. Catherine was... an occasional extravagance,
that's all. Day to day, paying the bills, slouching round the house,
he was still well and truly Tom. He rolled out of bed and looked down
at himself. For all that I am indisputably a woman pretending she's a
man, he thought. There was an oddness to that concept, an
acknowledgement he'd never made before... he pushed the idea away
irritably and grabbed for his boxer shorts.

So he sat on the sofa, hair and breasts tightly under control,
wearing a footie shirt and jeans, watching Saturday morning TV. It
was another couple of hours before Jamie appeared. 'Morning,' Tom
said.

'Morning,' Jamie said cautiously. 'You... you sleep all right?'

'Fine,' Tom said. 'Not regretting last night?'

'Er, how'd you mean?'

Tom could've kicked himself. 'Drinkswise,' he clarified.

'Oh, you know me. What about yourself?'

'I - err - shit, we need some ground rules for this,' Tom murmured.
'I'm not Catherine at the moment... I mean, I can be Catherine or I can
be Tom, but it'd just be too weird for her to talk about football or
him to talk about stripping or k-kissing you... and I want to be Tom at
the moment... probably most of the time... it's not your fault, it's...'

'Yeah. Think I understand. Last night was me and Catherine, now it's
me and Tom, you can't speak about stuff she did. Okay.' Jamie raised
his eyebrows. 'This is going to seriously screw with my head. How can
I tell?'

'Tell what?'

'Who you are. Who you're being. I know the clothes and the hair kind
of give it away, but I just want to be certain.'

'Uhh... I don't know. Earrings. Those hoop earrings of mine. Whenever
you see me wearing those, I'm Catherine, okay?'

'Okay,' Jamie smiled. 'Any plans for the day?'

*

And the new system worked pretty well, although to be honest
Catherine made very few appearances at first - to begin with Tom even
left and returned to the house as himself, only making the subtle
mental switch en route to and from the Flags. Jamie started to think
it might just have been a one-off encounter. But deep down inside the
person that was variously Tom and Catherine - because Tom had to
admit it was often Catherine's voice that was making decisions, even
when he was at his day job in full male disguise - there was an
unashamed acceptance of how much she'd enjoyed her date with Jamie,
and no doubt whatsoever that they would do it again.

So Jamie got home one Tuesday night and on his way to the kitchen
passed Tom emerging from the bathroom in a towelling robe. 'All
right, mate?' he asked absently.

'Ahem.' Something in the voice made him turn back. It took him a
second or two to spot the glint of gold in the tangle of damp hair at
either side of his... her face. It was the first time he'd seen her
without makeup on, but the face was undeniably wholly feminine, even
though it was also Tom's. He marvelled.

'I thought you might like to go for a curry and a movie tonight,'
Catherine said, holding her robe together primly.

'Oh, yes,' Jamie said. 'What time?'

She shrugged. 'Seven?'

'I'll be ready.'

*

The curry was slightly better than expected, the film rather worse,
but for both of them the pleasure of the evening was the company. It
was like their friendship of old, only more playful and with deeper
levels of meaning and subtext. They agreed there and then to go out
clubbing that Friday.

To Jamie's utter delight, Catherine didn't retreat to her room and
Tom-hood as soon as they got in, opting instead for coffee in the
lounge. She folded her long legs under her, smoothed down her skirt,
and listened to him talk with her head on one side. Finally he could
take it no more.

'I'm falling in love with you,' he said flatly.

Catherine grimaced. 'You make it sound like a death sentence,' she said.

'I can't help it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to ruin everything
for us. I mean, you don't want... this,' he was unable to express it
better. 'Things would be much easier if we just kept it friendly...'

'Don't tell me what I do or don't want,' Catherine said sharply. 'And
this isn't an easy world. I would much rather I'd -' She broke off.

'What?'

'I was going to say I would much rather have never caught the Flu.
But I'd be lying because... I'm a woman now, this person is a woman,
and without the Flu I wouldn't even exist.' She looked seriously at
him. 'And here and now, I want to be a woman. Whatever that means.'

For once, he spotted the cue, leant forward and kissed her. She
returned it fiercely and they rolled together on the sofa and the
carpet, tangled, urgent. It was all he hoped for or fantasised, until
she firmly refused his attempts to assist her from her clothing.

'Not now, love,' she whispered in his ear. 'Too early. Soon.'

And with that promise ringing in his ears, they kissed goodnight at
some length, and went to their separate beds.

*

That Thursday Catherine was aware of a flash, hard-faced man sitting
in the front row of the audience for her lunchtime set. There was a
lot of repeat business at the Flags and she knew many of the faces,
but was certain this one was new. His expression didn't have the look
of longing or despair or thinly-disguised lust so many punters wore,
he seemed to be appraising her like a man looking to buy a
thoroughbred racehorse.

So it wasn't a huge surprise when the Flags' manager introduced him
as she was getting ready to go. It was the same story as before, more
or less - he managed Skinscapes, a genuine burlesque club up west,
and he was always looking for new performers of a certain style. He
made her an offer on the spot: four nights a week (Monday, Wednesday,
Friday and Saturday), two shows a night (at ten and midnight), and a
set fee instead of the percentage of the collection plus tips she'd
been making till now. The wage worked out at something like forty
thousand pounds a year, significantly more than Tom's day job brought
in.

It was her dream come true in many ways, but there was no way she
could perform at her best in the evenings and still do a forty-hour
week by day. It would mean packing in Tom's day job. She hated it,
but... it was the underpinning of the continued existence of the Tom
part of her. Without the job, there'd be no reason to be him at all
any more. The reaction that provoked was fear, Tom was still a big
part of her and he didn't want to simply fade away like that...

Catherine told the man she'd think about it, took his number, and
went back to the office, becoming Tom halfway there. He felt deeply
uneasy, as though his death warrant had been drawn up. But inside he
knew Catherine was happy, and she was the strongest part of him now.
He surrendered himself to her judgement.

*

Jamie and Catherine hit the clubs that Friday as planned. She wore a
black leather mini and a halter-top, and went heavy on the mascara and
lipstick. Jamie thought she looked extraordinarily sexy, as usual.
Something seemed to be troubling her, but she deflected all his
enquiries about it and seemed to cheer up as the night went on. She
was, unsurprisingly, a sensational dancer, and he was well aware of
the jealousy of every single man in the club with them. God, he was
in love with her.

'Don't tire yourself out,' she murmured in his ear following a
particularly energetic display on the dance floor.

'Why not?' he asked, stupidly. She whispered the reason why in his
ear and even in the half-lit nightclub could see his eyes widen
excitedly. His heart really wasn't in the dancing after that, much to
her amusement - and neither was hers, somehow. She let him take her
hand and lead her to the nearest taxi rank, almost shivering with
anticipation.

Back at the flat they paused in the hallway, kissing ferociously at
each other, and considered the fundamental issue at hand. 'Your room
or mine?' Jamie asked.

'Mine,' Catherine whispered, happy to have home advantage. They
stumbled into it and Jamie flopped down onto the bed.

'Clothes off and let's get to it, lover boy,' Catherine said with a
smile, kicking off her shoes and pulling her top off over her head.
Jamie needed no further prompting, pulling off his shirt and
scrabbling at his shoes. He paused to watch Catherine undress.

'This isn't a show, I'm not getting paid for this,' she said
reproving, casually shrugging off her bra and unzipping her skirt.
'C'mon, keep up.'

Jamie pretended to tut and wriggled off his trousers and underpants.
He was already hard, she noticed as he slid between the sheets and
held them apart for her. Catherine smiled as she slipped her knickers
off and accepted the invitation. 'Chivalrous of you...' she murmured.

For a moment, as Jamie busied himself with the condom she'd insisted
on, Catherine wondered if she was technically a virgin or not.
Certainly it was her first time on the receiving end of what she
fervently hoped would be a damn good seeing to. Then such whimsical
thoughts were driven from her head as they set to making love with a
passion that surprised them both

*

Tom drifted awake with a vague sense of foreboding. Something warm
and dry and faintly hairy lay under his cheek, while something
similar lay over his shoulder and rested lightly on his arm and
breast. He blinked his eyes open and remembered. He was lying with
his head on Jamie's chest, Jamie's arm around him protectively. It
all came back to him, and nausea and love momentarily vied for the
role of foremost emotion in his mind. Love won out: love, and
acceptance that the night before really had been pretty fantastic.

'All right, you sod, you weren't just bragging all those times,' he
whispered to his sleeping friend. But where did they go from here?
Well, it was pretty clear what Catherine and Jamie would be doing a
lot of from now on, but where did that leave him? You stupid knob, he
thought to himself. You are Catherine.

I am Catherine, he thought. Gently he slid out of Jamie's embrace,
grabbed his robe and put it on. So why do I still think of myself as
Tom? Do I have any choice left as to who I am? He went down the hall
to the bathroom and started the shower running. Giving himself a good
lathering up took his mind off the deeper existential issues of his
life and he was only vaguely aware he was still wearing some of
Catherine's jewellery. In hindsight this was possibly a mistake.

Dried off and refreshed, he went into the kitchen, still barefoot and
wearing only the robe. He loaded the toaster and made himself a cup
of coffee. The offer of what was essentially the stripping big time
floated through his head again. So be it, he thought. Maybe it really
is what I wanted all along.

'Morning,' Jamie said with a smile, coming into the kitchen in just
his shorts. Tom automatically prepared to respond in his affectedly
husky male voice, just to make it clear who he was, but before he
could speak Jamie took him in his arms and kissed him at some length.
Oh damn, I'm still wearing the bloody earrings, Tom thought, but then
undeniable pleasure filled him and he found himself clutching at
Jamie even as his robe was tweaked apart and one of his breasts
caressed.

The last of Tom's mental barricades were stripped away and he
surrendered to the inevitable, slipping out of his robe and yanking
Jamie's shorts down. I am a woman, he thought, I love this man, this
is delight, ecstasy, nirvana... And he willingly let the last of his
masculinity be immolated on the pyre of lust.

*

Afterwards they sat on the sofa in the lounge, nibbling at cold
toast, just about dressed. After a while something occurred to
Catherine and she took out her earrings with an expression of relief.

Jamie looked at her warily. 'Does that mean...?'

'It means my earlobes are getting sore, yes,' Catherine said, tossing
them onto a table.

'What about the ground rules?'

'You mean, how will you know when I'm being me and being Tom?' She
smiled. 'I'm not Tom any more. Can't be, really, there's just not
enough left of him. I think I'll pretend to be him at work until I've
worked out my notice and then... that'll be it. He'll just fade away.
Full time Catherine, you reckon you can handle it?'

'You reckon you can?' he smiled. 'What about... you know, money. I
mean, I think we can just about get by -'

'Don't worry about cash. I've been offered a forty grand a year job
at a club called Skinscapes. Featured dancer.' She looked intently at
him. 'Can you handle it? My being a stripper? It's what I really want
to do - for the time being, anyway.'

'Can I handle having a beautiful stripper girlfriend? You really have
forgotten how a man thinks,' Jamie said with a grin.

*

And so, for the next four weeks or so, Catherine tied back her hair
and breasts and climbed into Tom's old suit, working out his notice
at the old job. She was tempted to dramatically reveal Tom's secret
on her last day in some suitably spectacular fashion, but decided
against it - there'd be no money in it, and she was a professional
now, after all.

The week after that she started at Skinscapes, simultaneously
beginning the process of registering her change in gender using the
procedures the onset of APFS had made necessary. She and Jamie stayed
together for another three years, before parting fairly amicably -
she could see the end of her dancing career in sight, and was
thinking about children, but he wasn't interested in adopting, the
only option APFS had left them with. So in the end the condition
brought them together, and eventually drove them apart. But in
between they were happy for a while, and that's really as much as
anyone can hope for.

Stripped Away

2011-01-10T12:27:39Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

==One==

As these things usually do, it came out of nowhere - well, almost.
Certainly, there was no real warning that both of their lives were
going to change so massively and irrevocably. That's not the right
way to put it, though, it gives the impression that Jamie's
experiences were just as traumatic as Tom's (she was called Tom then,
and, obviously, she was a he). Of course they weren't. But things got
pretty intense there for a while.

It was a Saturday morning, late summer, and Jamie was in bed,
half-asleep. He had nothing really planned for the weekend except for
maybe trying to arrange a footie game on the park that afternoon -
Tom kept talking about organising a proper team for the local Sunday
amateur league, but of course talk was all it was. His thoughts were
drifting along quite pleasantly when a scream reverberated around the
flat.

There was no doubt that it was Tom, it had a bass gruffness to it,
and besides Jamie's flatmate was the only other person who was in.
His first thought was one of surprise that Tom was awake that early
in the morning, his second that he must have got really drunk the
previous night and in a drunken haze brought someone really canine
home from the pub, and had just woken up next to them, unsuspecting.
But then he remembered that, very uncharacteristically, Tom had
stayed in last night and gone to bed early, complaining of nausea and
the sweats. That hadn't sounded like a sick man's shout - but still...

So he leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, and went
across the hall to the door of Tom's room. Listening intently he
could just make out the sound of fast, urgent breathing.

'Tom! Are you all right?' he called.

'Don't come in!' His voice sounded fraught.

'What - ?' He'd been about to stick his head round the door. 'Tom,
what's wrong? You screamed.'

'I - uh, I had a nightmare,' he said.

'A nightmare? Jesus, Tom! I thought - I don't know what I thought,'
Jamie complained. He paused. 'If it was only a nightmare, why can't I
come in?'

Silence. 'Errr...'

'You bloody liar, it's more than just a bad dream, isn't it?'

He heard Tom groan. 'Okay, you may as well come in,' he said dismally.

The curtains were still drawn in Tom's bedroom and it took Jamie's
eyes a moment to adjust, but then he could make out his friend
sitting on the bed in a pair of boxers, with his back to him. He
seemed to be holding something to his chest, and his bowed head and
sagging shoulders hinted at a mood of utter despair.

'Tom?'

Tom glanced round, nodded a greeting, then stood up and turned to
face Jamie. Taking a deep breath, he let his hands fall to his sides,
revealing...

'Bloody hell, you've got tits,' Jamie said.

Not man-tits, either, these were the real deal: full, rounded, and
capped with wide fleshy nipples. It was sort of hard to judge how big
they actually were, mainly because Jamie wasn't used to seeing
breasts growing out of his six-foot-four best friend's chest, and
partly because the flesh around them still being quite hairy was a
bit off putting. Tom looked completely normal apart from his chest -
still as big and clumsy and male as ever, coarse dark hair cropped
short, square face looking grim.

'It must be the Girl Flu,' Tom mumbled, staring down at himself.

'Shit. Must be,' Jamie agreed, still mesmerised at the sight.

The Girl Flu was a bit of an urban legend, for all that it was real -
science knew so little about what it was, where it had come from, how
it worked, why it affected some people but not others, that it
retained an almost magical quality in the public imagination. Science
had christened it APFS - Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome -
but that only served to highlight their true ignorance of it.
Everyone else called it Girl Flu, because it had flu-like symptoms to
begin with, and turned men into women so convincingly some
gynaecologists had trouble identifying sufferers.

'What are the odds? Five thousand to one? Ten?' Tom slumped back down
onto the bed.

'Something like that,' Jamie agreed. 'Look, mate, you'd better get
yourself to the doctor. They need to check you over and see how far
advanced it is. They've got drugs and stuff that can, I don't know,
hold it off. Keep you the way you are now, before...' He shrugged.
'Before anything else starts changing.'

'I've already got bloody knockers! How much worse can it get?'

'Tom, which do you want to be - a man with knockers, or a woman?'

That got through. Tom looked up sharply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're
right. Are there any doctors open on a Saturday morning?'

Jamie shrugged. 'Dunno. You might have to go to A&E, they should be
able to help you.'

'Right...' Still clearly ill-at-ease with his new anatomy, Tom reached
for a T-shirt and some jeans - then, clearly having second thoughts,
he crossed over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a tattered old
T-shirt he rarely ever worse. Face set, he started tearing it into
strips.

*

Jamie felt kind of obliged to go to hospital with Tom. His potential
embarrassment, though clearly only miniscule compared with his
friend's, was entirely offset by the success of Tom's ploy as far as
binding up his chest went. Tom was such a big guy anyway that a few
extra curves didn't really show at all. But Tom was clearly
uncomfortable as they waited in the A&E department, and topics of
conversation were not forthcoming.

Finally, after over an hour's wait, Tom was called to the desk. It
had been agreed that he would see the doctor alone. Jamie passed the
time reading and re-reading the waiting area magazines. It was
another hour before Tom reappeared, not looking particularly
reassured.

Jamie waited until they were in the car and heading back to the flat
before speaking. 'Well? What did they say?'

'They won't know for sure until they've run some tests on the samples
I gave - but they think it's only just started to affect me
physically,' Tom said. 'They kind of implied I'd been lucky - a lot
of people have their skin, hair, joints changed first, and don't
recognise it for what it is until they grow breasts or -' He took a
deep breath. 'By which time it's too far advanced to do anything
about. So - if they're right - there's a good chance I can go onto
drugs that'll keep it from progressing. Then I can think about
surgery to take these damn things off.'

'So... it's good news, then?'

Tom made a noncommittal sound. 'Blood tests and so on will take about
a week, so any other changes that happen in that time I'm stuck with.
There shouldn't be any, unless this is one of the really virulent
strains, but still...' He shook his head in dismay.

Jamie waited a moment before asking his next question. 'Did they sign
you off work?'

'No. They advised me to tell my line manager about my condition and
gave me the address of a surgical appliance shop,' Tom said. 'There's
a kind of a... crap, it's a kind of a corset, to hide my boobs. I
suppose anything's better than turning up to the office in a
Wonderbra.' He laughed sourly, and for the first time that morning
actually looked like the man Jamie knew. That was comforting, in its
own way.

*

Tom went to be fitted with his corset alone - it didn't seem fair to
drag Jamie along, and he had to start dealing with his peculiar
circumstances alone sooner or later. Much to his relief, he was
assisted by a pair of matronly women in their fifties, whose approach
was austerely clinical. To his surprise they had a 'restrainer' in
his size in stock. It looked like a quilted white vest, slightly
padded, with a whole variety of straps and stays at various points
about it. Quite soon, Tom looked completely normal with the device
hidden beneath his shirt, but his breasts were beginning to throb at
being crushed in this manner. Well, he had no choice, Tom told
himself - he had work on Monday, and this was his only choice right
now.

The ache across his chest notwithstanding, things were almost back to
normal by Sunday night - he missed the Saturday afternoon footie
kickabout because of his fitting, but everything else was normal.
That was hopeful, maybe soon this would all be just a memory of a
very weird weekend.

Tom's hopes of normalcy were bolstered the next day when he went to
work. He didn't attract a single comment or stare from the rest of
the guys in the department - and, as he worked in IT, discretion and
empathy were hardly their strong suit - and when he reluctantly had a
quiet word with his boss about his altered situation, the man looked
highly sceptical and had to be shown a doctor's note to be convinced.

But his optimism took a blow throughout Tuesday and Wednesday as the
pain in his breasts slowly intensified. The original dull ache slowly
turned into a burning pain and he began to find himself occasionally
short of breath.

He was sprawled in front of the TV on Wednesday night with Jamie -
England were playing a friendly - when it all got too much for him.
He reached under his shirt and started fumbling with the stays on his
restrainer.

'What's up?' Jamie looked concerned.

'This damn thing. Feels like it's getting tighter and tighter...' Tom
groaned in frustration and hauled off his shirt, and started
unfastening the appliance in earnest. With a final sigh of relief he
wriggled it off and sat back, luxuriating in the blissful sensations
coming from his freed breasts.

'I hate to say this...' Jamie stared at them, then up at his face. 'But
I think they're getting bigger. They look larger, and it would
explain why your - your thingy started crushing them.'

Tom stared down at them. On any other person - any other female
person, he corrected himself - they would have been awesome,
magnificent - but on him they just seemed like twin tormentors. Two
days until his test results came back and he could start putting them
behind him. So to speak.

A little adjustment to the restrainer and Tom was able to compromise
between comfort and discretion, although his boobs were bulging
through his shirt and suit more than he was really comfortable with.
God, I'm going to enjoy getting you off my chest, he thought
venomously, on more than one occasion.

*

Tom took Friday afternoon off work to see his consultant up at the
hospital, and didn't get home until after Jamie had come in. 'A hoy
hoy!' he called, slamming the door behind him.

Jamie could tell from his tone that it was good news and breathed a
sigh of relief. 'What did they say?' he called.

Tom came into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa. 'They were
right first time,' he said. 'Virtually nothing else has changed yet,
thank God.' He held up a white plastic bottle that rattled as he
shook it. 'And as long as I take one of these every twelve hours,
nothing else is going to. Christ, parts of this week haven't been a
lot of fun, but it could have been so much worse...'

'What's in the pills?'

Tom shrugged. 'I wasn't really listening, I was so relieved.
Synthetic hormones, vitamins, that kind of thing.'

'And the, er, surgical option?'

'They want me to hang on for a couple of months to make sure there
aren't any side effects from the medication. But after that...' He
mimed a snipping sensation with both hands. 'Maybe I'll get them
stuffed and mounted - the breasts that tried to conquer Tom Barker.
What's on TV?'

*

It was another brilliantly sunny weekend and as usual Tom and Jamie
met up with their friends on the local park for a game of four a side
football. Jamie was quietly still a bit worried about his friend -
while professing to be quite his old self, he'd been a little subdued
all morning and looked pale.

But he threw himself into the game with his usual mad abandon,
hurling his weight about, apparently having forgotten his situation.
He had the restrainer on under his shirt, of course, and Jamie had to
admit he could barely see any sign of it, no matter how hard he
looked. He turned his attention back to the game, took the ball off
the opposition with a well-timed tackle. Now - he booted it down the
field towards Tom, who, as usual, leapt up to take the ball against
his torso preparatory to making his shot on goal. The ball thumped
against the centre of Tom's chest -

- and he collapsed on the ground with a yelp of pain. Jamie swore and
ran over to him. He was in a foetal position and his eyes glittered
with helpless tears. Everyone else was standing around in total
confusion.

'Tom, man, come on,' Jamie whispered. 'Are you okay? Was it the -?'

Tom struggled to his feet, still helplessly clutching his chest. 'I'm
okay,' he managed to say. 'It just caught me in the wrong spot.
Sorry, guys, I think I'll sit the rest of this one out.'

Jamie finished the game as Tom lay sprawled against a tree, clearly
still in some discomfort. Eventually it was over and the group
splintered off as usual. Jamie went over to him. 'Sorry, man. Forgot.'

'So did I,' Tom said sourly. 'They're so bloody sensitive! I doubt
that'll change even after the surgery.'

'Is that all? I wouldn't ask, but... you've seemed a bit off all day.'

'I feel like shit,' Tom said. 'Headache, no appetite, tiredness...
Jesus. It's these pills. Side effects.'

'I'm sorry,' Jamie said. He knew full well that Tom would be on this
medication for the rest of his life, some unforeseeable breakthrough
notwithstanding, and that the side effects might well continue all
that time. Somehow 'sorry' seemed so inadequate.

'Give me a hand up,' Tom muttered. With Jamie's aid he clambered to
his feet. 'Let's go home. I need a lie down.'

*

Six and a half weeks later Tom sat in the saloon bar of a pub near
his office, nursing a coke with lemon and half-listening to his
colleagues banter and laugh with one another. Booze was out of the
question while he was on the medication - any kind of strenuous
physical activity, come to that. Not to mention spicy foods or
getting less than nine hours sleep every single night. Any departure
from this regimen brought splitting headaches, dizziness, nausea and
diarrhea, and a total lack of energy. As it was he felt fairly
listless and there was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He was
losing weight, but from the relentless ache of his confined breasts -
as familiar and unnoticed to him now as his heartbeat or pulse - it
seemed that they at least were as large as ever.

God, what had happened to his life? He couldn't play sports, drink
with the lads, go out for a curry or to a club. He was ... boring. He
bored himself. Jamie had stayed in with him out of solidarity, for
the first few weeks, until he'd chased him out - no sense in both of
them becoming recluses.

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! he thought harshly. This is the
price you're paying for staying a man, so stop whinging and be
grateful for what you've still got. Admittedly, his breast reduction
surgery had not been sanctioned due to his side effect problems, but
he still had... well, his male body, for all that it was rather prone
to illness now. His only other option was to stop taking the pills
and let APFS slowly transform him into a woman. And femininity had no
appeal for him whatsoever.

The pub jukebox abruptly faded and lights came up around the small
stage at the back of the saloon. There was a buzz of conversation as
the barman spoke into his PA system. 'Good afternoon, everyone, and
welcome to our regular Wednesday afternoon entertainment here at the
Green Dragon. And starting us off today is a young lady who's been a
big success here in the past... give a big hand for the lovely
Marianne!'

A girl came on stage in a glitzy floor-length evening gown,
elbow-length silk gloves, and fur wrap, as brassy music blared out of
the speakers. The lunchtime crowd was suddenly energised, moving
forward to surround the stage and get the best possible view. And Tom
found he was... he wasn't sure what he was, actually, but he was moving
forward towards the stage as if under compulsion. Something about the
stripper's utter self-assurance and the total hold she had over the
audience, it was connecting with something deep inside... deep inside a
part of him he'd never realised was there before. He found himself
flushing and starting to sweat as his nipples buzzed with sensation
and his cock twitched excitedly. He'd not felt this way since before
the Flu. And... he was jealous, jealous of the dancer, for being so
composed and graceful and having such a great wardrobe. No reason to
be jealous, he told himself, your breasts are at least as good as
hers... and with the realisation that he was right, came a surge of
pride, quickly followed by a cold chill. He was proud of his breasts
for the first time.

Unable to tear himself away, he stayed to watch the rest of Marianne's
set and those of the other dancers, quietly trying to note what they
did that looked good, what wasn't quite so successful, trying to
assimilate the art of striptease... But why? Why was he doing this? Did
he seriously want to...

Haltingly he rang the office and called in sick for the afternoon -
it was hardly implausible, his colleagues had been saying he looked
ill for over a month. And he went home. In his bedroom he slid off
his jacket and dropped it on the bed, then unfastened his tie and
pulled that off too. His shirt was next, and then the hated
restrainer, clawing at the ties and straps before yanking it off.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his reflection, enjoying
the slope and heaviness of his full, firm breasts, toying with the
nipples... It was just a shame the hairiness of his chest and shoulders
spoilt their setting. He went through into the bathroom and after a
moment picked up the shaving cream.

Fifteen minutes later his chest, stomach, shoulders and arms were
shaved bare. God, his breasts were gorgeous. He imagined himself up
on the stage, every eye on him, proud and graceful, exuding sexual
heat as he... well, he'd have to think about exactly what he was going
to do. The voice of reason from earlier spoke up, quieter and only
half-hearted now: are you serious? This is irreversible. Once you
start, you won't be able to stop...

So I'd better start before I change my mind, Tom thought to himself,
frightened and excited by the thought. He opened the medicine cabinet
and took out his anti-APFS pills, looked in the bottle. Nearly a
month's supply left. Abruptly, almost as if trying to surprise
himself, he turned the bottle over and tipped the lot down the
toilet, then flushed it away.

He turned back to surveying his reflection, thinking; come on out,
striptease queen, I'm waiting for you...

== Part Two ==

Jamie wasn't sure, but he thought something was up with Tom. Not the
usual side effects trouble, either - it seemed so unfair that his
friend was suffering so much from his condition, but if anything,
lately it seemed as if they weren't troubling him nearly as much.
Jamie's relief at this was countered by... well, his vague sense that
Tom was hiding something from him. He'd started spending a lot of
time in his room, with the door locked, doing only God knew what.
Unmarked packages of various kinds had started arriving for Tom, only
to vanish and never be spoken of again.

And there was his Discman. He had a cordless CD player, where the
headphones weren't physically connected to the actual unit, and Tom
had asked to borrow it one night. He hadn't seen it again for over a
week and when he had found it lying around, the disc in it was called
'Thirty Great Burlesque Tunes'. What the hell was that all about? Tom
had basically given him a non-answer, of course.

Still - in a weird way Tom did seem happier, more at ease with
himself. He looked like he'd started to put back on some of the
weight he'd lost during the worst of the side effects trouble, he
looked rounder in the face and his hair had a healthy glossiness to
it, for all that it was turning into an untidy mop. He seemed more
confident that his condition was a secret, too, because it looked
like he'd relaxed the settings on his restrainer. There were now two
quite visible bulges under his clothing for anyone to notice who
happened to look that way. Tom didn't seem to notice at all. It was
as if he was utterly preoccupied with something else.

*

Am I a man or a woman? Tom silently asked himself, looking at his
naked reflection in the mirror. Force of habit tempted him to say
male, but it was a borderline case, either way. His whole body was
softer and more rounded, to say nothing of his magnificent 36C
breasts. He cupped and stroked them lovingly. His face was still
quite masculine, and he was still easily over six foot in height.
But, since stopping the pills, he'd not had to shave his chest or
arms again and almost all his other body hair had fallen cleanly out.
The hair on his head had started growing much faster recently, and
he'd not needed to shave his jaw or throat for nearly a week.

Okay, he told himself, today was the day. Jamie was away visiting
family for the weekend so the coast was clear. He slid on the black
Lycra briefs, momentarily grimacing at the way the cowed remnants of
his cock and balls bulged between his creamy thighs. Then the
brassiere, the same colour and fabric. God, his cleavage looked
fantastic. It seemed a pity to hide it under the silky pink blouse,
but there was no sense in giving out freebies, he thought with a
smile. The light grey jacket and trousers of one of his business
suits were just about gender-neutral enough to work.

Finishing touches. He opened a drawer and took out lipstick and
eye shadow, and with a skill born of many hours practice applied both.
Now he looked definitely feminine, for all his size. He squirted a
handful of hair gel into one palm and set to slicking back his hair
as severely as he could, gathering the ends into a tight bun at the
back of his head. From under the bed came a pair of smart black
high-heeled shoes - how many miles had he tottered up and down this
room, learning the effortlessly sassy and graceful stride he'd wanted
to acquire? High heels gave him a towering height advantage over most
men, but hell, he thought, Xena's a popular show, why shouldn't it
work for me too?

Looking in the mirror he barely recognised himself. 'Big girl,' Tom
whispered approvingly, picking up a new leather handbag and slinging
it over one shoulder. He nodded, smiled dazzlingly to himself, and
strode out to take on the world, for the first time as a woman.

The stares he drew around the town! Enough to make the nape of his
neck tingle in the most delightful way. Men couldn't take their eyes
off him, they were held captive by a mixture of desire and
intimidation. For a while Tom just sashayed around, loving the new
perspective he'd been gifted with. His breasts were tingling and
aching, but in a good way, somehow.

But he had things to do: a visit to a bodypiercer and tattooist,
then a jeweller's. Ann Summers proved an irresistible lure to the new
Tom. Tom, Tom, he thought to himself, not a very sexy name. He should
be thinking of a new name for his...

...oh, well, his stage persona. He'd been through the logic of his
choice a hundred times, rationalised it a hundred times more. But the
prospect of actually doing it, getting up in front of an audience,
seemed to undercut his newfound self-confidence.

He went into the Green Dragon and ordered a glass of red wine, took
it through into the saloon. The stage was dark and empty, but it was
here he'd seen her, Marianne, the girl who'd inspired him to this.
Could he really be up there some day soon, commanding the crowd,
peeling off garment after garment? The prospect thrilled and
terrified him at the same time. Oh, if it worked, if he was a
success, what a woman he would have become! But he could just as
easily imagine the baying contempt of the audience for this enormous
lump who presumed to think they would find her attractive...

The hand holding the wine glass shook. Tom put it down. He had to
know for sure before he dared to try it in front of a crowd of
strangers. Was he the woman, the performer, he'd hoped he would
become? Or just a deluded fool who'd discarded his own gender like a
badly-fitting pair of shoes? There was only one way to find out, he
realised, stomach prickling, and no real reason to delay...

*

Jamie let himself into the flat, glad to be home at last. Family was
cool, but there was something to be said for distance, too. 'Hellooo?
Tom?' he called. 'I'm back.'

'I'm in here,' Tom's voice came through his bedroom door. It sounded
oddly muffled and slightly nervy. 'How was your weekend?'

'Oh, you know, okay. How have you been?' He put his hand on the doorknob

'Don't come in!' Tom sounded almost horrified. 'Look, I need a big
favour from you. Someone I'd like you to meet, it'd mean a lot to me...'

'Oh - sure, yeah,' Jamie said, mystified. 'When?'

'Well... now. Just go into the lounge and sit down on the sofa and
you'll see what I mean.'

All the furniture in the lounge had been pushed back to the walls,
except the sofa and a folding chair that had been placed a few feet
in front of it, side-on. The lights were low and the stereo's power
supply was on. Jamie looked around in bemusement and sank onto the
sofa.

'Okay then,' he said dubiously.

The stereo sprang into life, a rapid solo drumbeat that was quickly
taken up by other percussion and brass - a big, lush, brazen tune,
the kind of thing he could imagine... but his attention was seized as
someone strode lazily into the room.

He barely recognized Tom at first, for all that he was wearing the
black jacket, trousers and waistcoat of one of his smartest suits.
His face looked different, he wore makeup, lipstick, and his lashes
were almost absurdly full. His hair was slicked back into a bun and
golden hoops swung beneath each earlobe. He didn't appear to be
wearing either shirt or restrainer beneath his waistcoat, but the
shallow V of the garment's neck meant only a few inches of skin were
revealed. His legs looked so long... which was because he was wearing
open-toed high-heeled shoes, and - from the look of things - dark
stockings, too.

'Tom, what the -' he started to say, but Tom put a finger to his lips
and smiled as circled the chair with the same careful, insolent walk.
Something about the way Tom moved to the music, and his own response
to it, was making Jamie uncomfortable. Tom stopped, started to pluck
the buttons of his jacket undone one by one, still smiling. 'Welcome
to the other me,' he said in a breathy, contralto voice.

'Tom... what's all this about?' he inquired helplessly. Tom smiled,
writhed his shoulders, letting the jacket slide off them and down his
bare arms. 'Not Tom, not any more,' he whispered. 'Call me... Cat.' The
suit jacket fell to the floor and was kicked away.

'Cat? What the -' Jamie rose, looked around for the stereo control,
but was effortlessly shoved back into his seat. 'Don't get up on my
account,' Tom said, placing a foot on the folding chair and deftly
unfastening the straps on one shoe. 'Why spoil the show for yourself?'

'Show? I don't know what you're thinking,' Jamie said as his friend
repeated the procedure with the other foot, 'but I... I'm really not
into this...'

'Oh no?' Tom strode over, energetically swinging his hips in time
with the music. Almost delicately he unfastened the belt on his
trousers and unthreaded it, then started to unfasten them. Jamie
swallowed hard: he was noticing the subtle changes in his friend's
body and behaviour. 'Just tell me to stop, then...'

But before Jamie could speak his friend's ample backside was swaying
back and forth before him as the trousers were gradually slid down,
revealing inch after inch of creamy buttock, a new bluebird tattoo
just visible low on the hip. This wasn't a man, couldn't be, Jamie
thought wildly, feeling an erection appear out of nowhere.

The trousers finally fell and the woman who had been Tom stepped out
of them, clad in stockings, a matt black thong and a dark waistcoat.
She went back to the chair, smiled at him. 'You're very quiet... do you
want Cat to stop?'

'N-no,' Jamie spluttered, hating himself for being an accomplice to
this ruination of his friend.

'So what do you say?'

'Please, Cat... carry on,' he whispered.

'My pleasure, darling,' Cat said with a dazzling smile, plucking open
her waistcoat a button at a time, revealing those gorgeous breasts in
a black bra. She wriggled out of the waistcoat and twirled it around
her head before throwing it aside. Jamie didn't trust himself to
speak, breathing hard, unable to grasp what was happening.

Cat crossed her arms in front of her and twitched both bra straps off
her shoulders at once, then slid her arms out of them. Only the clasp
at the back kept the bra in place and her breasts covered. With one
hand she held it there as with the other the clasp was unhooked. The
fabric sagged off her breasts and she quickly used both arms to hold
it against her. Then, using one forearm to cover her nipples, she
whipped it away and held it out at arm's length before letting it
fall.

Finally, she dropped both arms to place her hands on her hips,
exposing her breasts and swaying with the beat of the music. Jamie
swallowed and fought to control the mixture of revulsion and extreme
arousal he felt. The music seemed to go on forever, but eventually
faded away.

'Well?' Cat asked. Her voice was rougher and a little deeper, but
still feminine. She folded her arms and looked at him. Jamie couldn't
meet her gaze.

'Well what?' he muttered, looking away. 'For God's sake... put some
clothes on, will you?'

'Okay. Give me two minutes,' Cat said, collecting up her costume and
striding out of the room.

When she returned, rather more than two minutes later, she was Tom -
that is, Jamie recognised him as something closer to his old self,
chest strapped up, hair the familiar scruffy tangle, no makeup or
jewellery, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. Back on familiar
territory, Jamie felt better able to express himself.

'What the hell was that all about? Are you trying to freak me out or
something? That was... that was sick.' Realisation sank in. 'You're off
your meds, aren't you? You're letting yourself turn into a woman?
Why?'

Tom sighed. 'On the medication... well, you saw me. I had no quality of
life, couldn't do anything I enjoyed. Now I can.'

'And one of the things you enjoy is pretending to be a stripper?'
Jamie said curtly.

'Don't be a knob. Look, I can pass as a man if I want to, even now,
and I don't see why that should have to stop. But I'll admit that...'
he sighed, '...there are parts of me that are female and they need a
release, a kind of safety valve. And Cat's going to be that safety
valve. I'm still going to be me most of the time, masculine... but for
an hour or two a week I'm going to be ultra-feminine Cat, the
stripper.'

'So I can expect this kind of thing twice a week from now on?' Jamie
stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't be daft. I just wanted to be sure I had what it takes before
going in front of a real audience. I knew I had to tell you sooner or
later, and...' he smiled. 'You're my best mate. I wanted your opinion.'

'Jesus. You're going up on stage to take all your clothes off while
blokes howl at you?' Jamie shook his head.

'Well, I'll probably leave the thong on, I'm hoping to work a higher
class of club, you know, stage-work not pole- or lap-dancing... and I
seem to recall we used to go and howl at dancers quite a bit.'

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. 'That was different.'

'Oh, yeah, of course,' Tom said sardonically, and suddenly they were
laughing and the tension was dispelled.

'This is messed up, man. How long do you think you'll be able to keep
this a secret?' Jamie asked.

Tom shrugged. 'As long as I need to. Come on, let's go down the pub.'

*

And so Jamie got used, if that was quite the word, to finding silk
evening gloves and feather boas in the oddest places in the flat, as
Tom invested in proper costumes for his prospective new career. To
Jamie's surprise his friend's Amazonian height and insistence on
old-style burlesque stripping gave him novelty value on the dancing
circuit and within a week or two 'Black Cat Beaumont' had a regular
Wednesday lunchtime slot at the Green Dragon. Jamie decided not to go
along, partly because his one encounter with Cat had been the most
alarming experience of his life, and partly out of a wish not to
distract his friend. The weirdest thing was that Tom's main paycheck
still came from his regular day job. He just took a long lunch on the
Wednesday, left the office in his suit, changed into Cat's civilian
clothes, went to the pub and did her set, changed back, and was back
at his desk by half past two. Jamie privately wondered what this was
doing to his friend psychologically, given that he was often
stripping in front of his own workmates, but decided not to raise it
with him. He certainly gave every impression of knowing his own mind,
and was making a very tidy sum every week from dancing. Life together
in the flat required a few subtle adjustments, though, quite apart
from finding bras, thongs, and evening dresses in the washing basket.

'God, Tom, could you do me a favour?' Jamie said one morning, finding
himself in a particularly grumpy mood. 'Do you mind washing the bath
out after you shave your... shave yourself. There's a ring of... bits all
round the edge.'

Tom didn't look up from the News of the World. 'Okay. Provided you
start remembering to leave the seat down in the toilet.'

'It's a deal... what did you say?' Jamie blinked and stared at him.

'Well, you're the only one who puts the damn thing up, aren't you?'
He looked up at Jamie's shocked expression and sighed. He glanced
meaningfully down at his own crotch. 'I don't have the plumbing for
that any more.'

'Oh. Man.' (Tom raised an eyebrow.) 'I didn't think...' Jamie sat down
at the table. 'You've completely changed? You're a woman now?'

'Far as I can tell.' For the first time Tom looked uncomfortable. 'I
knew it was going to happen, it's no big deal. I'm still me, aren't
I?'

'Most of the time, yeah,' Jamie smiled. But he couldn't help watching
his friend's retreating back in a new light.

*

After about two months of working at the Green Dragon on Wednesdays,
Tom was sure that Cat was one of the best strippers there. Her hair
had grown long enough to be put up in a high, fancy style, and while
this made it slightly more difficult to arrange in a suitably
careless, scruffy, and male ponytail the rest of the time, it was
worth it. Her routines were stylish and varied enough to ensure
healthy repeat business and it amused him that some of his managers
were effectively giving him a hefty bonus each week, albeit through
an unsuspected channel.

Then, on the way out after a set one day, a middle-aged man
approached Cat in the company of the Dragon's landlord. Propositions
of various kinds pretty much went with the striptease territory, but
this guy was different. The man ran one of the best known pub venues
and had heard about Cat's appearance on the scene. He was offering
her two lunchtimes a week on Tuesday and Thursday, plus a Saturday
evening spot. The moneymaking potential, he said, was significantly
better.

But I'm not really doing this for the money, Tom thought absently,
even as he heard Cat agree with alacrity. Hell, he thought, the money
is nice and... I really do enjoy this. She smiled at the man and left
the pub, ready to go back to the office.

'I'm going up in the world,' Tom announced on his return home that
night, stowing Cat's costume in the hall.

'Oh yeah? You get that team supervisor job?' Jamie was watching the TV.

'Er, no. I've been offered two lunchtimes and an evening every week,
dancing at the Flags,' he said proudly.

'And you said yes?' Jamie looked at him oddly.

'Yeah, why not. It's good money and I enjoy the work. I'm good at it,
too,' he smiled.

'Yes, but... what happened to only an hour or two a week, just to give
vent to those female qualities you were unfortunately lumbered with?
You're not actually starting to enjoy being a woman, are you?'

'Look, if I enjoyed it, I'd do it in my spare time. It's only a few
hours a week,' Tom said. 'I was going to suggest we go down the pub
to celebrate, but if you...'

'No, no, I'll come.' Jamie stood up. 'What time are you on stage?'

'Piss off,' Tom grinned. 'No stage, only a pool table.'

*

There was indeed a pool table and luckily for them it was free. Tom
plonked down a huge pile of 50p pieces and Jamie started racking up
the balls. It had been a long time since either of them had played,
but even so Tom was surprised when he badly lost the first three
games. It suddenly came to him that his new physique was affecting
his play - even strapped back, his breasts were keeping him from
getting down on the shots, and the subtle changes in his height and
arm joints were also throwing his shots off.

He missed a particularly easy ball into the centre pocket, and angry
with himself, glanced back over his shoulder, expecting to see a
gleeful smirk on Jamie's face. Jamie wasn't even looking at the game,
he was attentively watching... Tom's backside as he bent over the
table, amply filling the seat of his jeans as it did.

'Oi,' Tom said, rattled somehow and yet feeling a nervous, excited
lurch in the pit of his stomach.

'What? Sorry. Distracted,' Jamie said lightly, and moved to the table.

Of course, after that Tom's game fell to bits even more. He felt
nervous and embarrassed every time he had to get down on a shot and
his hands were trembling very slightly for some reason. He only won
three games all night and two of those were because Jamie fouled when
potting the black. Eventually they gave the table up and sat down at
a table in the corner.

'You were off your game tonight,' Jamie said casually, sipping his lager.

'Yeah,' Tom said, nursing his own drink. It had been a mistake to
stick with Jamie pint for pint, his own capacity was so much less
now. He tutted to himself, annoyed at how tipsy he already felt.

'Is something wrong? We come here to celebrate your... promotion,'
Jamie said carefully, 'but you just seem... I don't know, stressed out.'

Tom sighed. 'I... I don't want to talk about it.'

'Oh. Okay. If it's the game, hell, you're out of practice, that's
all, I wouldn't worry - '

'It's not the bloody game,' Tom whispered hotly. 'All right, if you
really must know... what's stressing me out is that you were checking
out my arse every time I bent over the table.'

'Not every time,' Jamie objected.

'It's not a joke! Christ, I'm here as a man, not as... her.'

Jamie shrugged. 'You both have very similar arses though. The pair of
you are, well, identical, and - '

'I really, really don't like the idea of you thinking of me as a -
oh, God - sex object like that, that's all. Most of the time I'm
still a man, and that's that.'

'Listen, mate,' Jamie said reasonably, 'if you didn't want me to
think of you as a sex object you shouldn't have done that extremely
sexy striptease in front of me with the arse and the tits and all.
That's kind of lodged in my memory now, and certain things refresh my
memory.'

'That wasn't me... it was Cat...'

'Oh, bullshit,' Jamie sighed. 'You're the same person, Tom, you have
the same body and the same mind and all of that. You know what I
think? All that stuff about 'safety valves' and 'giving vent to your
femininity' - it's just excuses. All along, deep down you just wanted
to be a buxom stripper and the Flu gave you an excuse to go through
with it.'

Tom felt his eyes sting. 'That's crap,' he whispered feebly. 'I'm
only her for a few hours a week. I still have Tom's job, I wear Tom's
clothes.'

'Yeah, but Cat's already trebled her time in charge. I think going
from man to woman all at once would just be too big a wrench so
you're slowly making the transition a bit at a time.'

'And... and what do you think about that?' Tom asked hollowly, Jamie's
words resonating in his mind with a horrible truthfulness.

Jamie shrugged. 'Look, I don't care about the gender studies side of
it. You're my best friend, whoever you choose to be, and I want you
to be happy and I'll do what I can to help you, it doesn't matter
whether or not I - ' He broke off. 'Never mind.'

'No, go on. You've been candid enough so far,' Tom said with a wry smile.

'Okay... Whether or not I really fancy Cat. Which I do,' Jamie
admitted. He glanced away, face reddening, then stood up. 'Going for
a slash,' he mumbled and walked away.

He fancies me. Oh my God, Tom thought, feeling his own cheeks start
to burn. He stared at Jamie's retreating back and found his attention
slipping down to Jamie's own moderately athletic backside. Which is
worse - that, or the fact that I can see myself fancying him?

== Part Three ==

The whole sexual orientation side to APFS was something Tom had
recoiled from at the time of his diagnosis and never really summoned
up the courage to go back to after stopping his medication. Like so
much else about the condition, it seemed completely random - some
kept their usual orientation, becoming effectively lesbians, others
changed orientation along with body and stayed heterosexual. A
significant minority became enthusiastically bi.

It had been stupid of him not to at least think about what might
happen to him in that respect. Oddly enough, even while up on stage
as Cat, he'd never thought of stripping as an explicitly sexual act.
His libido seemed to have been absent ever since the Flu had kicked
in, not that he'd noticed it was gone. But now desire was showing
signs of return, and in a much-changed form.
Nothing overpowering or too unusual, just absent-minded thoughts like
'nice bum' or 'he's got sexy eyes' while at work or elsewhere. Tom
had to admit it: he was beginning to fancy men.

For a while at least he had too much on his plate to worry overmuch
about this, switching over to his new three-times-a-week dancing
schedule. The two long lunches this demanded played havoc with his
hours at his 'proper' job, and he had to sell his manager some story
about his treatment needing special attention. He frankly didn't
really care that this was a very fragile lie: his day job was a
tedious slog now compared to the delight and excitement of being up
on stage as Cat. The extra money was very useful too, for new
costumes and jewellery and other more routine items.

But there remained an odd tension back at home. He and Jamie had
never really discussed what had passed between them that night in the
pub, but it remained a constant presence in their relationship, like
a ticking time bomb. Eventually Tom got tired of it being there.

*

They both habitually knocked off early from work on Friday, thanks to
the joys of the flexi system. Tom's lunchtime commitments tended to
cut into how soon he could get away, though, and Jamie was therefore
quite surprised to arrive home one Friday and find Tom already there,
slouched on the sofa in footie shirt and jeans, watching the TV.

'Oh, hello,' Jamie said. 'You're home early.'

Tom shrugged. 'Sod the flexi deficit, I just had to get out of there.
How was your day?'

'Oh, you know.' Jamie flopped down next to him. 'Watching Countdown?'

'Yeah. Nothing else on. Err... you doing anything tonight?'

'Nothing planned. Why, have you?'

'Thought about a spot of pubbing and clubbing. You up for it?'

'Er, yeah,' Jamie said, a little mystified: Tom had pretty much
abandoned all that since his change had completed.

'One thing though...' Tom stared at his lap then up at Jamie with
desperate eyes. 'I thought you'd want to go out with Cat, not me.'

'What...? You mean... I thought Cat was just -'

'Oh, come on... we've already discussed that. You're right. I am Cat, I
can't deny it, and I want to know what it feels like to be... a woman
in a normal situation, not just up on a stage peeling things off.
Even if only for a little while. You said you'd help -'

Jamie shook his head a little incredulously. 'I also said I really
fancied Cat.'

'Me. You really fancied me,' Tom said.

'Okay. I really fancy you, when you... you're dressed as a woman. Hell,
the rest of the time too, but especially then. And if we go out
together for this kind of evening, it's going to seem like a date - a
weird date, okay, but still a date. Are you okay with that? Cos I'm
not sure I am.'

'To be honest, I'm petrified,' Tom said with a nervous smile. 'But I
can tell you are too, so I don't mind. And... a date was sort of what I
was thinking of, too.'

'Okay then,' Jamie said with a smile.

'But this is just an experiment,' Tom said quickly. 'I'm still going
to be Tom around the house and at work after tonight, I'm not making
the switch -' He broke off, the word 'yet' left unsaid. 'This is just
for this evening.'

'Okay then,' Jamie repeated, still smiling.

*

They booked a taxi for nine and at a quarter to Jamie found himself
waiting on the sofa for his friend to finish getting ready. He really
didn't know what to expect, suddenly realising his previous exposure
to 'Cat' had only lasted a few minutes and had hardly involved a lot
of conversation. What if they didn't get on? Don't be a pillock, he
told himself, she's your best mate. Well, what if he started treating
her the way he treated Tom, all farts and piss-taking and God knew
what. But she was Tom. Oh, this was too weird, a big mistake... He
stood up, ready to call the whole thing off, and she appeared in the
doorway.

Her long dark hair was down, framing her face, which was rather more
subtly made up on this occasion. The hoop earrings looked familiar
though. She wore a black zip-fronted vest that exposed an inch or two
of cleavage, tight black jeans and high heels. A black leather jacket
and handbag completed the outfit. 'Hello,' she said with a nervous
smile. She looked gorgeous.

'Hello,' Jamie said hollowly. 'Wow. You look... great.'

'Thanks. I didn't want to overdo the slap, and...' she smiled, '...most
of my clothes fasten with Velcro, so the wardrobe choice was a bit
restricted. I'm glad you like it.'

The doorbell buzzed. 'That'll be the taxi, he's early,' Jamie said.
'Let's go.' He showed her to the door.

At the first pub they managed to secure a table and he fought his way
to the bar to get a lager and a red wine. He sat down next to her and
sipped his drink. 'Red wine's new for you... if you see what I mean,'
he stumbled.

Cat smiled. 'It seemed a bit more me than bitter. This particular
me.' She rolled her eyes. 'This is weird.'

'I know, I told Tom it would be...'

'I know, I was there, remember?' she said with a smile.

Jamie blushed. 'Oh yeah. Tom... Cat... same person. Hey - tom-cat. Is
that some kind of a pun or something?'

She sighed. 'No, it didn't occur to me until I'd been on stage for
weeks, but I don't think anyone will work it out. Cat was just
supposed to be a stage name anyway, or so I thought... if I'd known I'd
be using it for real, if you see what I mean, I might have chosen a
different one.'

'So what would you like me to call you?' Jamie asked.

She shrugged. 'Oh hell, let's keep it simple - call me Catherine.'

'Catherine. Cool,' Jamie said. 'I'll drink to that.'

*

The plan had been to go clubbing a bit later on but they found they
were enjoying the drinks and conversation in the pub so much they
stayed there all evening. Jamie found talking to Catherine strange
but fascinating - she almost seemed to change and develop as an
individual throughout the course of the evening, as though a new
personality was expanding to fill the gulf between the brazen and
confident stage persona of Cat, and familiar set of attitudes he knew
from the old masculine Tom.

Towards the end of the night one of the pool tables came free and
Catherine suggested they play. Given the result of their last
contest, Jamie was surprised but agreed anyway... only to find himself
hard pressed to compete with her. Catherine seemed much more
confident and familiar with her body than Tom had been, and she
seemed entirely shameless about employing her arse or cleavage to put
him off his game, grinning as she did so.

'You hussy,' he said with a smile as she sank the black, just as the
landlord started calling for everyone to go home. She'd won by two
games.

'What?' she asked, grabbing her jacket.

'Well, all that...' He mimed breasts and hips vaguely. 'You were trying
to put me off.'

'This may be my night off, darling, but I'm still a stripper,'
Catherine smiled. 'Using my body to get what I want is what I do for
a living.'

Jamie smiled, then something she'd said registered with him.
'"Darling"?' he queried.

Catherine shrugged languidly, smiling broadly, but didn't try to
qualify the sentiment. 'So... what now?'

'I don't know. A club?'

She shook her head. 'Don't think so.' She looked down at what she was
wearing. 'Even if we beat the dress code, I'm used to looking
sensational when I dance, and this ain't it. Another time - let's go
back to the flat.'

*

A nervous excitement filled Jamie as Catherine let them in to their
flat. What next, he wondered, letting his eyes race over her body for
the thousandth time that evening. 'Do you want a drink?' he asked,
the equation of coffee, sofa, heavy breathing running in his head.

'No, I - I'm going to go to bed,' Catherine said, almost
apologetically. 'Solo. I've had a really great evening, and I don't
want to spoil it. Just because we share a flat it doesn't change the
fact that this was our first date, and I don't think I'm going to be
that kind of girl. Sorry...'

'No, that's fine,' Jamie said, aware how little of his disappointment
he was hiding.

'But it was still a date, and it went really well,' Catherine said.

'So... can I see you again -'

'You'll see me in the morning.'

'Yes, but as -'

She stepped up close and planted a kiss full on his mouth. The scent
of her filled his nostrils and his hands made to grasp her. But she
slipped back out of his reach, a playful smile on her face. 'Good
night,' she said, opening the door of her room and vanishing into it.
Her head reappeared momentarily. 'The paper tissues are in the
kitchen,' she added with a grin, then the door shut with inarguable
firmness.

Jamie took a deep breath. 'Kitchen. Paper tissues. Check,' he
muttered to himself, and headed slightly awkwardly in that direction.

*

Tom woke up early and with only a slight hangover the next day. He
still woke up thinking of himself as Tom, whatever that meant - but
he knew that things were changing now. Black Cat Beaumont hadn't been
much more than a cardboard cut-out, a means to an end, she'd not
threatened his sense of self at all... but now his feminine side was
turning into a real person, as valid as he was, and he had no idea
where the border between his male and female sides now lay. He
suspected he was ceding territory to Catherine fast. Looking around
the room he could see her clothes lying on the chair.

Her clothes? They're your clothes, he realised, admonishing himself.
He recalled the night before, chatting with Jamie, playing pool, and
his loins tingled at the memory of the kiss. It scared him, because
it had felt right. Maybe he might be that kind of girl after all.

No, no! he told himself. Catherine was... an occasional extravagance,
that's all. Day to day, paying the bills, slouching round the house,
he was still well and truly Tom. He rolled out of bed and looked down
at himself. For all that I am indisputably a woman pretending she's a
man, he thought. There was an oddness to that concept, an
acknowledgement he'd never made before... he pushed the idea away
irritably and grabbed for his boxer shorts.

So he sat on the sofa, hair and breasts tightly under control,
wearing a footie shirt and jeans, watching Saturday morning TV. It
was another couple of hours before Jamie appeared. 'Morning,' Tom
said.

'Morning,' Jamie said cautiously. 'You... you sleep all right?'

'Fine,' Tom said. 'Not regretting last night?'

'Er, how'd you mean?'

Tom could've kicked himself. 'Drinkswise,' he clarified.

'Oh, you know me. What about yourself?'

'I - err - shit, we need some ground rules for this,' Tom murmured.
'I'm not Catherine at the moment... I mean, I can be Catherine or I can
be Tom, but it'd just be too weird for her to talk about football or
him to talk about stripping or k-kissing you... and I want to be Tom at
the moment... probably most of the time... it's not your fault, it's...'

'Yeah. Think I understand. Last night was me and Catherine, now it's
me and Tom, you can't speak about stuff she did. Okay.' Jamie raised
his eyebrows. 'This is going to seriously screw with my head. How can
I tell?'

'Tell what?'

'Who you are. Who you're being. I know the clothes and the hair kind
of give it away, but I just want to be certain.'

'Uhh... I don't know. Earrings. Those hoop earrings of mine. Whenever
you see me wearing those, I'm Catherine, okay?'

'Okay,' Jamie smiled. 'Any plans for the day?'

*

And the new system worked pretty well, although to be honest
Catherine made very few appearances at first - to begin with Tom even
left and returned to the house as himself, only making the subtle
mental switch en route to and from the Flags. Jamie started to think
it might just have been a one-off encounter. But deep down inside the
person that was variously Tom and Catherine - because Tom had to
admit it was often Catherine's voice that was making decisions, even
when he was at his day job in full male disguise - there was an
unashamed acceptance of how much she'd enjoyed her date with Jamie,
and no doubt whatsoever that they would do it again.

So Jamie got home one Tuesday night and on his way to the kitchen
passed Tom emerging from the bathroom in a towelling robe. 'All
right, mate?' he asked absently.

'Ahem.' Something in the voice made him turn back. It took him a
second or two to spot the glint of gold in the tangle of damp hair at
either side of his... her face. It was the first time he'd seen her
without makeup on, but the face was undeniably wholly feminine, even
though it was also Tom's. He marvelled.

'I thought you might like to go for a curry and a movie tonight,'
Catherine said, holding her robe together primly.

'Oh, yes,' Jamie said. 'What time?'

She shrugged. 'Seven?'

'I'll be ready.'

*

The curry was slightly better than expected, the film rather worse,
but for both of them the pleasure of the evening was the company. It
was like their friendship of old, only more playful and with deeper
levels of meaning and subtext. They agreed there and then to go out
clubbing that Friday.

To Jamie's utter delight, Catherine didn't retreat to her room and
Tom-hood as soon as they got in, opting instead for coffee in the
lounge. She folded her long legs under her, smoothed down her skirt,
and listened to him talk with her head on one side. Finally he could
take it no more.

'I'm falling in love with you,' he said flatly.

Catherine grimaced. 'You make it sound like a death sentence,' she said.

'I can't help it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to ruin everything
for us. I mean, you don't want... this,' he was unable to express it
better. 'Things would be much easier if we just kept it friendly...'

'Don't tell me what I do or don't want,' Catherine said sharply. 'And
this isn't an easy world. I would much rather I'd -' She broke off.

'What?'

'I was going to say I would much rather have never caught the Flu.
But I'd be lying because... I'm a woman now, this person is a woman,
and without the Flu I wouldn't even exist.' She looked seriously at
him. 'And here and now, I want to be a woman. Whatever that means.'

For once, he spotted the cue, leant forward and kissed her. She
returned it fiercely and they rolled together on the sofa and the
carpet, tangled, urgent. It was all he hoped for or fantasised, until
she firmly refused his attempts to assist her from her clothing.

'Not now, love,' she whispered in his ear. 'Too early. Soon.'

And with that promise ringing in his ears, they kissed goodnight at
some length, and went to their separate beds.

*

That Thursday Catherine was aware of a flash, hard-faced man sitting
in the front row of the audience for her lunchtime set. There was a
lot of repeat business at the Flags and she knew many of the faces,
but was certain this one was new. His expression didn't have the look
of longing or despair or thinly-disguised lust so many punters wore,
he seemed to be appraising her like a man looking to buy a
thoroughbred racehorse.

So it wasn't a huge surprise when the Flags' manager introduced him
as she was getting ready to go. It was the same story as before, more
or less - he managed Skinscapes, a genuine burlesque club up west,
and he was always looking for new performers of a certain style. He
made her an offer on the spot: four nights a week (Monday, Wednesday,
Friday and Saturday), two shows a night (at ten and midnight), and a
set fee instead of the percentage of the collection plus tips she'd
been making till now. The wage worked out at something like forty
thousand pounds a year, significantly more than Tom's day job brought
in.

It was her dream come true in many ways, but there was no way she
could perform at her best in the evenings and still do a forty-hour
week by day. It would mean packing in Tom's day job. She hated it,
but... it was the underpinning of the continued existence of the Tom
part of her. Without the job, there'd be no reason to be him at all
any more. The reaction that provoked was fear, Tom was still a big
part of her and he didn't want to simply fade away like that...

Catherine told the man she'd think about it, took his number, and
went back to the office, becoming Tom halfway there. He felt deeply
uneasy, as though his death warrant had been drawn up. But inside he
knew Catherine was happy, and she was the strongest part of him now.
He surrendered himself to her judgement.

*

Jamie and Catherine hit the clubs that Friday as planned. She wore a
black leather mini and a halter-top, and went heavy on the mascara and
lipstick. Jamie thought she looked extraordinarily sexy, as usual.
Something seemed to be troubling her, but she deflected all his
enquiries about it and seemed to cheer up as the night went on. She
was, unsurprisingly, a sensational dancer, and he was well aware of
the jealousy of every single man in the club with them. God, he was
in love with her.

'Don't tire yourself out,' she murmured in his ear following a
particularly energetic display on the dance floor.

'Why not?' he asked, stupidly. She whispered the reason why in his
ear and even in the half-lit nightclub could see his eyes widen
excitedly. His heart really wasn't in the dancing after that, much to
her amusement - and neither was hers, somehow. She let him take her
hand and lead her to the nearest taxi rank, almost shivering with
anticipation.

Back at the flat they paused in the hallway, kissing ferociously at
each other, and considered the fundamental issue at hand. 'Your room
or mine?' Jamie asked.

'Mine,' Catherine whispered, happy to have home advantage. They
stumbled into it and Jamie flopped down onto the bed.

'Clothes off and let's get to it, lover boy,' Catherine said with a
smile, kicking off her shoes and pulling her top off over her head.
Jamie needed no further prompting, pulling off his shirt and
scrabbling at his shoes. He paused to watch Catherine undress.

'This isn't a show, I'm not getting paid for this,' she said
reproving, casually shrugging off her bra and unzipping her skirt.
'C'mon, keep up.'

Jamie pretended to tut and wriggled off his trousers and underpants.
He was already hard, she noticed as he slid between the sheets and
held them apart for her. Catherine smiled as she slipped her knickers
off and accepted the invitation. 'Chivalrous of you...' she murmured.

For a moment, as Jamie busied himself with the condom she'd insisted
on, Catherine wondered if she was technically a virgin or not.
Certainly it was her first time on the receiving end of what she
fervently hoped would be a damn good seeing to. Then such whimsical
thoughts were driven from her head as they set to making love with a
passion that surprised them both

*

Tom drifted awake with a vague sense of foreboding. Something warm
and dry and faintly hairy lay under his cheek, while something
similar lay over his shoulder and rested lightly on his arm and
breast. He blinked his eyes open and remembered. He was lying with
his head on Jamie's chest, Jamie's arm around him protectively. It
all came back to him, and nausea and love momentarily vied for the
role of foremost emotion in his mind. Love won out: love, and
acceptance that the night before really had been pretty fantastic.

'All right, you sod, you weren't just bragging all those times,' he
whispered to his sleeping friend. But where did they go from here?
Well, it was pretty clear what Catherine and Jamie would be doing a
lot of from now on, but where did that leave him? You stupid knob, he
thought to himself. You are Catherine.

I am Catherine, he thought. Gently he slid out of Jamie's embrace,
grabbed his robe and put it on. So why do I still think of myself as
Tom? Do I have any choice left as to who I am? He went down the hall
to the bathroom and started the shower running. Giving himself a good
lathering up took his mind off the deeper existential issues of his
life and he was only vaguely aware he was still wearing some of
Catherine's jewellery. In hindsight this was possibly a mistake.

Dried off and refreshed, he went into the kitchen, still barefoot and
wearing only the robe. He loaded the toaster and made himself a cup
of coffee. The offer of what was essentially the stripping big time
floated through his head again. So be it, he thought. Maybe it really
is what I wanted all along.

'Morning,' Jamie said with a smile, coming into the kitchen in just
his shorts. Tom automatically prepared to respond in his affectedly
husky male voice, just to make it clear who he was, but before he
could speak Jamie took him in his arms and kissed him at some length.
Oh damn, I'm still wearing the bloody earrings, Tom thought, but then
undeniable pleasure filled him and he found himself clutching at
Jamie even as his robe was tweaked apart and one of his breasts
caressed.

The last of Tom's mental barricades were stripped away and he
surrendered to the inevitable, slipping out of his robe and yanking
Jamie's shorts down. I am a woman, he thought, I love this man, this
is delight, ecstasy, nirvana... And he willingly let the last of his
masculinity be immolated on the pyre of lust.

*

Afterwards they sat on the sofa in the lounge, nibbling at cold
toast, just about dressed. After a while something occurred to
Catherine and she took out her earrings with an expression of relief.

Jamie looked at her warily. 'Does that mean...?'

'It means my earlobes are getting sore, yes,' Catherine said, tossing
them onto a table.

'What about the ground rules?'

'You mean, how will you know when I'm being me and being Tom?' She
smiled. 'I'm not Tom any more. Can't be, really, there's just not
enough left of him. I think I'll pretend to be him at work until I've
worked out my notice and then... that'll be it. He'll just fade away.
Full time Catherine, you reckon you can handle it?'

'You reckon you can?' he smiled. 'What about... you know, money. I
mean, I think we can just about get by -'

'Don't worry about cash. I've been offered a forty grand a year job
at a club called Skinscapes. Featured dancer.' She looked intently at
him. 'Can you handle it? My being a stripper? It's what I really want
to do - for the time being, anyway.'

'Can I handle having a beautiful stripper girlfriend? You really have
forgotten how a man thinks,' Jamie said with a grin.

*

And so, for the next four weeks or so, Catherine tied back her hair
and breasts and climbed into Tom's old suit, working out his notice
at the old job. She was tempted to dramatically reveal Tom's secret
on her last day in some suitably spectacular fashion, but decided
against it - there'd be no money in it, and she was a professional
now, after all.

The week after that she started at Skinscapes, simultaneously
beginning the process of registering her change in gender using the
procedures the onset of APFS had made necessary. She and Jamie stayed
together for another three years, before parting fairly amicably -
she could see the end of her dancing career in sight, and was
thinking about children, but he wasn't interested in adopting, the
only option APFS had left them with. So in the end the condition
brought them together, and eventually drove them apart. But in
between they were happy for a while, and that's really as much as
anyone can hope for.

User:Bad Guru

2011-01-10T12:24:05Z

Bad Guru:

== The Mitigating Circumstances ==

Hello. I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru.

A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've written TG since 1997 and posted it (rather infrequently, I acknowledge) to FictionMania since 2003. However, I do write other kinds of TF once in a while and this looks like it would be a good place to put all of it.

'''APFS Stories'''

''This is a loosely-linked series of stories set in a near-future version of our world, where gender has become inexplicably and randomly mutable. Very occasionally characters from one story appear briefly or are referred to in another, but the stories are all standalones. They tend to be focussed on character and dialogue, ideally as realistic as I can manage.''

*[[Stripped Away]]
*[[A Different Kind of Love]]
*[[A Woman Within]]
*[[Inbetweener]]
*[[The Realm of Flesh]]
*[[Ordinary Moments]]

'''Other stories'''

''What it says on the tin.''

*[[Descent]] - A non-specific animal TF: humans from a dying Earth are forced to take desperate measures to ensure their survival in an alien environment. About as close to traditional SF as I've written recently.
*[[Monarch of Monsters]] - A TF take on a well-known Japanese cinematic universe. Say no more.
*[[The Cycle of Wisdom]] - TG. An attempt at a pastiche of H.P. Lovecraft's Dreamlands stories, not that anyone's noticed so far. Hey ho.

A Different Kind of Love

2011-01-09T19:08:51Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} Tony was still feeling indefinably under the weather even as he returned from the pub gents,…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

Tony was still feeling indefinably under the weather even as he
returned from the pub gents, which put paid to his theory about it
being down to a dodgy curry or something like that. He slapped his
belly thoughtfully and frowned, but the sight of Lance and Sarah
smiling and chatting together at their table was enough to brighten his
mood.

Now, as will become apparent, Tony Winster lived an unusual life - for
his time. Mostly this was due to circumstances beyond his control, but
credit where it's due – Tony was not a man ever to be troubled by
jealousy, paranoia, or unworthy thoughts regarding his nearest and
dearest. Many young men would be alarmed and suspicious if their best
mates and their girlfriends got on as well as Lance (his former) and
Sarah (his latter) did, but not he.

He took a great deal of pleasure in the way the three of them could go
out together without him having to referee all the time. Admittedly, he
thought, heading back to the table, it would be nice if Lance could
actually go out and get a social life – or, even better, a woman – of
his own, without having to tag along constantly, but Lance had enough
on his plate at the moment.

'So, your old landlord's insisting on keeping the deposit?' Sarah
asked, as Tony settled his considerable bulk into the threadbare pub
seat.

Lance nodded glumly. Short and slight, he was the opposite of Tony, and
even an inch or so shorter than Sarah (who was no Amazon herself). 'I
went down the CAB and showed them the contract, and they said he's
within his rights. Says I should have got him to specify routine wear
and tear before I signed the bloody thing in the first place.'

'Well, it doesn't hurt to get these things checked out,' Tony said,
glancing at Sarah with a conspiratorial smile. She smiled back, white
teeth flashing as she flicked her collar-length auburn hair out of her
face. 'So what are you going to do?'

'Find a cheap bedsit, I spose,' Lance sighed. He hefted the copy of the
local free paper that lay on the table in front of him. 'I'm looking at
a couple of places during my lunch break tomorrow, which'll mean
starting early and working late... oh damn,' he muttered, looking at
his watch. He glanced up at them apologetically. 'Got to go. Early
night and everything.'

'Yeah, okay, mate,' Tony said with a grin, clasping his best friend's
hand. 'Take care, let us know how you get on.'

'Yes, and remember -' Sarah added.

'Don't take the first place you look at just to get it over with. I'll
remember,' Lance said with a weary smile. Sarah gave him a hug and a
peck on the cheek, and with a wave he was gone.

'Poor old Lance,' Sarah said. 'He could've come and stayed with us for
a bit, I wouldn't have minded.'

Tony grinned, fully aware of her compassion and generosity and loving
her for it. 'I know, love, but... come on, he'd never leave, would he?
And much as I feel sorry for him, the three of us living in the same
flat, well, it'd probably be a nightmare, wouldn't it? It'd be like Men
Behaving Badly. You and him get on really well and I don't want to
spoil that.'

'You're probably right,' Sarah admitted, finishing her glass. Suddenly
remembering, she stroked Tony's stomach. 'How are you feeling? Any
better?'

'No, not really,' Tony said. 'Maybe I should see about it.'

'Mmm.' They collected their things and got ready to go home. 'Didn't
you give blood last week?'

'What? Oh, yeah, there was a big drive at work, you know the spiel –
high demand at present cos of the Middle East crisis and so on. Why?'

Sarah shrugged. 'Well, if you really are sick, it might have been in
the blood you donated.'

'Well, don't they screen it all for bugs and stuff?'

She tutted and dug him in the side, exasperated. 'That's what I
meant... You never know, if it is something serious maybe it'll show up
and they'll let you know about it.'

'Oh. Okay.' Tony smiled. 'Listen to us, anyone'd think I had the
flesheating lurgy. It's probably nothing.'

*

Back at the flat they got ready for bed and as usual Sarah couldn't
help smiling ruefully as Tony undressed. He was certainly hirsute, she
thought, running her fingers through the thick hair that covered most
of his skin. She pulled on her nighty and clambered into bed.

'Oh, you magnificent man-beast, you,' she said, deadpan.

Tony mock-growled. 'That sounds like snugglin' talk to me!' He grinned
at her. 'You want to?'

She smiled and he reached for her. Tony was not the most refined of
lovers but his technique had a certain robust directness she had come
to appreciate in the fifteen months they'd been together. She hissed
with pleasure as he hammered his way towards their mutual climax, but
then, abruptly, he faded, losing his hardness and seemingly running out
of energy entirely.

'Sorry, love,' Tony whispered, flopping onto his back next to her and
looking genuinely appalled. 'I dunno what -'

'Ssh,' Sarah said, nestling next to him. 'It's okay, you're not 100%
right now. This is fine.'

'Thanks. I love you.'

'I love you,' she replied. But she could tell he was worried.

*

Lance bounded up the steps leading to Tony and Sarah's third floor
flat, motorcycle helmet in hand. It was an old Victorian building and
the rooms and corridors were correspondingly narrow and high. But it
had character, and his friends had done enough work to it to make it
very inviting. Well, more so than the dank hole he was forced to sleep
in, anyway.

He banged the helmet against the door a few times and considered using
his spare key to let himself in. But that would be a bit rude without
prior arrangement, and anyway, he could hear footsteps coming now. It
was Sarah, still in her office clothes and looking rather wan.

'Hiya,' Lance said, then noticed her expression. 'What's up?'

'Hello, Lance,' she said with a weak smile. 'Come on in. It's Lance,'
she called into the flat proper.

Lance stowed his jacket and helmet by the door. 'What's wrong?' he
asked.

'We've, er, we've had some bad news. Well, Tony has,' she said,
brushing her hair out of her face and preceding him down the hallway.
In the main room, basically a big lounge leading onto the kitchen, Tony
was sitting on the sofa looking positively shell-shocked. His eyes were
red – has he been crying? Lance thought, in utter astonishment.

'Hiya mate,' Tony said. A look passed between him and Sarah. 'Yeah, we
should tell him.'

'Tell me what, exactly?' Lance asked.

'You know how Tony felt ill, flu-ey, last week when we went out?' Sarah
said. 'Well, he gave blood just before and the tests they did on it
showed up -'

'I've got the Girl Flu,' Tony said, voice cracking midway through the
sentence. A tear rolled down his cheek.

'Shit,' Lance said. 'Really?'

Sarah nodded. 'We got a letter telling Tony to come in for more tests
and they confirmed it there and then. His sickness was caused by
poisonous by-products from the change going into his blood.'

'Shit. I've heard of it, but... you never really think it's real. Even
when Jim Carrey got it, I thought it was just a, you know, urban legend
or something.'

Sarah sat down next to Tony. 'It's real. One of the IT guys at my place
got a bad dose.'

Tony looked at her. 'You never mentioned that. What happened to him?'

Sarah winced. 'He's, er, she's working in clubs now. Stripper.'

'Oh, God,' Tony said hollowly.

'I don't think that's compulsory,' Lance said consolingly.

'Shut up, Lance,' Sarah said.

'So – what caused it? Is he... ah... contagious?' Lance said, glancing
nervously at his friend.

'It's not caused by a virus or bacteria, at least, not a detectable
one,' Sarah said. 'There doesn't seem to be a single cause, it's
different every case. Sometimes they can halt it with drugs but...' She
sighed. 'Not in Tony's case.' She put an arm round his shoulders
supportively.

'So... what? You're just going to change into a woman?' Lance couldn't
help looking at his friend more closely, but couldn't see any obvious
differences. 'When?'

'Half past two, the day after tomorrow. We're selling tickets,' Tony
growled harshly.

'Tony,' Sarah said, giving him a reproving squeeze.

He sighed. 'Yeah, sorry. It's a gradual metamorphosis, mate,' Tony went
on. 'I'm still completely male right now, but, they reckon I've got one
of the nastier, faster kinds of it. In about six weeks I'll be... I'll
be a woman, pretty much completely.'

'There's nothing you can do at all?' Lance sat back, aghast for his
friend.

'Nothing at all,' Tony said with a defeated shrug. He and Sarah
exchanged a look filled with such longing and regret and despair that
Lance felt embarrassed to be intruding on them like this.

'What will you do?' he asked.

'I'm quitting my job in the morning. Don't think I'll be able to hack
it as a lady plasterer, somehow. I've got a fair bit saved, enough to
keep us going for ages with Sarah's wage too. Past that... dunno. I
dunno who I'll be in two months time, if I'll even still be me...' Tony
shook his head, clearly unable to deal with what was happening. A
mirthless smile appeared on his face and he looked at Lance. 'But
enough about me. How has your day been?'

'Uhrr,' Lance said, unable to form a coherent word. 'Normal. But for
the last fifteen minutes. I was going to suggest going down the pub,
but...'

'Sorry, mate, oddly enough I'm not in the mood,' Tony said dourly.

'Right,' Lance said. He felt obliged to not just leave it at that.
'Listen, Tone, I know this'll sound weird, but – whatever I can do, to
help either of you, I mean...'

'Yeah. We know,' Sarah said. 'You want a coffee or something?'

Lance shook his head. 'No, I... I think I'll get going.' He stood and
met Tony's gaze. 'For what it's worth, mate, I'm so, so sorry about
this.'

Tony rose and the two clasped hands. 'Me too. Don't be a stranger. We
can still be friends, right?'

Lance was inwardly amazed at such a display of emotional vulnerability
from his big bluff friend, but managed to mask it. ''Course,' he said
with a slightly forced smile.

'Okay, then. Ta-ra.'

'Ta-ra.'

*

Sarah knew that Tony was initially afraid that Lance would flee in
terror and abandon him as the changes really kicked in, but she was
pretty certain that Lance was better than that. And she was right. He
still popped by the flat more evenings than not, and to begin with they
almost returned to their old routine.

Almost. Tony's light-brown hair started to lighten to a dirty shade of
blonde, and she occasionally caught a glimpse of a new delicacy to his
features and physique. They could both see it and it provoked in her
boyfriend a desperate need to assert what was left of his masculinity
at every opportunity. They had sex more often than they had since the
first weeks of their relationship, but it was becoming more and more
obvious that Tony was losing his ability to climax or even sustain an
erection, no matter how desperately he tried. But she indulged him,
only too aware herself of how little time they had left together.

It only got worse as Tony started to complain of aches and pangs in his
shoulders and hip joints: his skeleton was reshaping itself. It was
just as well he was on the verge of finishing work for good. When she
got home on his last day, he was waiting for her hungrily, half-
carrying her to their bedroom and almost tearing her out of her
clothes. It was deeply arousing for her but also a very bittersweet
experience.

They rolled together frantically atop the bedclothes, both naked by
now, but for all the fervour of Tony's kissing and caressing of her he
showed no sign of growing hard. Sarah let out a growl of frustration
and tried rubbing her sex against his crotch, but found it hard to get
the leverage she needed. She grabbed two handfuls of the flesh of his
sides and back and ground herself fiercely against him.

'Aah!' Tony yelped and Sarah found herself flopping back onto the bed,
suddenly losing her grip. Both her clenched fists were full of... she
sat up and stared at her palms, which were full of dark curly hair.

'Shit,' Tony said hollowly, sitting up next to her. Two roughly oval
bald spots had suddenly appeared in the hair covering his side and
back.

Sarah winced. 'Did that hurt?'

'Not... not nearly enough,' Tony said. He grabbed a handful of chest
hair and tugged, not very hard at all. With a noise like someone
ripping up a clump of grass, the hair came cleanly out, revealing pale
soft skin. 'Oh, God...'

'Don't pull any more out,' Sarah said, clutching his shoulder – finding
herself suddenly careful about how and where she touched him.

'Wasn't about to,' he said. 'It's all going to fall out eventually
anyway. I expect I'll probably be quite glad...' His voice had a
detached, dreamy quality that alarmed her.

Well, that was the end of that particular attempt at lovemaking,
anyway. Tony was subdued all evening, and was beginning to complain
that his skin felt dry and itchy. But when they undressed for bed that
evening, she was relieved to see that his body hair was still intact.

But Tony's discomfort, from both his skin and the deep skeletal pangs
that were getting stronger and stronger, was obvious. Sarah almost rang
work, to take the day off and stay home with him, but there was very
little she could do, and there'd be worse times ahead for which she
should probably preserve her leave. But she felt bad about leaving him
in this state.

He was in the lounge when she got on, sitting on the sofa with his
shirt unbuttoned and a determined look on his face. A sheet of
newspaper lay by his feet, with a small heap of curly fuzz on it. He
was methodically plucking all the hair out of his chest, and had nearly
finished.

Sarah felt her heart fracture. Her eyes stung but she knew him well
enough to be sure that histrionics weren't what he would want or need
right now. 'Hello, love,' she said softly.

He looked round and smiled quietly. 'Hello. Couldn't bear it any more,
the itching I mean. Thought I'd stay in control of this thing, as
well.'

She nodded. 'Do you need anything?'

Tony shook his head, pulled out another double handful. 'Don't think
so.' He looked down at his chest, which was now almost totally bare,
sighed, and started to shrug off his shirt. As he did so he paused,
wincing. It happened again and again as he reached for the still-thick
hair on his sides, arms and back.

'Are you okay?' Sarah asked, unable to hide her concern any longer.

'My shoulders and elbows are so bloody stiff,' Tony said, his voice
tense with frustration.

'Lie down then. Let me,' Sarah said. He nodded, lay on his front on the
sofa, and gently Sarah started to remove all the hair from his body, a
long and meticulous task.

'It's a pity we don't have any pillows need stuffing,' she murmured
dryly as the pile of fluff grew. He let out an amused snort. 'Do you –
do you want me to pull all of it out?' she asked, looking at the hair
creeping from round the waistband of his jeans.

He shrugged, rested both forearms on one arm of the sofa, laid his head
atop them. 'May as well,' he said resignedly.

'Well, you'd better take everything else off,' Sarah said, reaching
under him to unbuckle his jeans. 'No, wait. Let me.' She tugged off his
shoes and socks, pulled his jeans and y-fronts down and off. Naked, he
looked almost like a satyr – thickly hairy from the waist down,
completely bare above it. Sadly Sarah continued with her task until the
only hair left on his body was on his scalp, in his armpits, and at his
crotch. She stroked the new pale skin gently, sensing the tension deep
down in the muscle and bone.

'How do you feel?' she asked.

He shifted noncommittally. 'Skin still itches like hell. I still ache.'

'Wait a minute,' Sarah said. From the bedroom she fetched a small
bottle of faintly scented oil and began to rub it into him, all over,
following it up with the closest she could manage to a good firm
massage, driving her fingertips hard down into the muscles, trying to
free up the labouring joints. Tony's breathing deepened and she could
feel him relax, grow more at peace... until the sound of faint,
untroubled snores filled the room.

Sarah straightened up and smiled sadly. He looked so peaceful... but
utterly different from the macho ape she'd fallen for. Her back ached
now, from stooping over him for nearly an hour. She collected up all
the hair Tony had shed and put it in the bin, collecting a thick towel
as she did so and laying it over him. And now, she thought, it's time
for a shower.

*

Lance rapped on the door of their flat, wondering if he looked as
dismal as he felt. It would be just his luck if the pair of them were
out. He slumped against the doorframe wearily, but straightened up as
the door opened.

It was Sarah, clearly fresh from the shower: wrapped in a robe and her
hair swept up and hidden by a towel. 'Oh, hello – did Tony know you
were coming?'

'No,' Lance confessed. 'Is it a bad time?'

She smiled. 'Course not. Tony's in the lounge, but I think he's still
asleep. Go on through, I'll finish drying off and get dressed.'

Lance made his way through to the lounge and was startled to find Tony
asleep, face down on the sofa, under a towel. There was something weird
about his exposed arms and shoulders, something different... it took
many long seconds before he twigged it, noticed the exposed bareness of
his skin. Tony hadn't been so smooth since he was about thirteen.

Fascinated, Lance carefully grasped the edge of the towel and drew back
off his sleeping friend. He hadn't expected Tony to be naked beneath it
and his first impulse was to drop it back into place, but... Tony's
bare, faintly glistening skin had a pale vibrancy and health to it that
was very appealing, matched by the sheen and lustre of his fairer hair.
And his body was losing some of its rugged bulkiness, smoothing out its
corners and edges, plumping and softening, particularly his buttocks.

Despite himself, Lance reached down and touched Tony between the
shoulder blades, feeling the oil that still coated him. Tony twitched
and mumbled something. Lance stroked his friend harder, unsure how to
respond as Tony made contented noises into his pillowing arms.

The sound of Sarah coming down the corridor provoked mild panic and
quickly he pulled the towel back into place and bounded over to look
out of the window. Sarah appeared, in t-shirt and long skirt, and
smiled fondly down at her lover.

'Still asleep,' she said, gently shaking Tony's shoulder. 'Wake up.
Lance is here.'

'Mmmph? What?' Tony struggled awake, tried to sit up, realised he was
nude and quickly wrapped the towel round his waist. 'Oh, hello, mate.
Sorry. Wasn't expecting you.'

'Yeah, sorry.' Lance forced himself to look away as Tony grabbed his
clothes and started to pull them on. 'If it's a bad time...'

'Nah, don't be daft. How's it going?' Tony was clearly unused to the
sensation of fabric on bare skin, and seemed glad to be able to at
least pretend to be normal for a while.

'More landlord problems,' Lance said wearily. 'The heating in the
sitter above mine's shot to hell, sounds like the battle of Tehran
every time it's switched on. And legally, the landlord doesn't have to
do a thing unless the resident in that particular flat actually
complains.'

'So why don't they?'

'Stone deaf. Lovely man, but really totally stone deaf,' Lance sighed.
'I'm barely sleeping. Twice today I nearly came off the bike through
sheer exhaustion.'

'You know how to pick 'em, don't you?' Tony said with a heartless
cackle.

'Yeah. I'm looking for yet another new place, but...' He shook his head
disbelievingly.

Sarah smiled. 'If you want to grab a couple of hours on our spare bed,
Lance, go ahead.'

He breathed a sigh of relief. 'Cheers. Wake me at ten, is that okay?'

'Fine,' Tony said, glancing at Sarah, clearly amused.

*

After Lance eventually went home, Tony and Sarah went to bed
themselves. Sarah felt a creeping discomfort as Tony undressed: this
soft, smooth, pale person just wasn't her man... maybe wasn't even her
type. But he still reached for her and she responded as best she could.

But there was no trace of an erection, and he seemed somehow ill-at-
ease as they rolled and moved together. Sarah felt very little sense of
sexual arousal. Abruptly Tony let out a little hiss of pleasure and
gently took her wrists, guiding her hands across his body.

'There,' he whispered, smiling at her. She found her hands were over
his nipples, and he was encouraging her to knead and stroke them. As
she did so, he wriggled and gasped with pleasure, and deep under her
palms, below each nipple, she could feel a tiny knot of tissue that had
not been there before.

Nausea lurched in her belly and abruptly she withdrew her hands, sat up
and stared at the sheet between her knees.

'What?' Tony asked, sitting up on one elbow, clearly genuinely baffled.
He looked flushed and happy.

'I'm... I'm sorry, Tony,' Sarah said, shutting her eyes. 'I can't do
that for you. We... we can't be together like this any more. Not
properly.'

He stared at her. 'What? Why not?'

'Can't you see? Your... your breasts are starting. That's why you're so
sensitive there,' she said. 'And... I'm not a lesbian. Being with
another woman, it doesn't attract me.'

Tony sat up, stared at the wall, away from her. 'So I'm a woman now?
Already?'

'No, of course not. But – you're going to be. Maybe not so long from
now.' She wiped a tear from her cheek. 'Did you think we would just
carry on, despite everything? You... you may find yourself liking men,
it's not impossible -'

'Oh, stop it,' Tony said with a shudder. 'So this is it. You're
breaking up with me.'

'We're... we're being broken up, put it that way. I don't want this any
more than you do, you must believe me,' she implored him. 'I still love
you. I always will, and I'll always be there for you if you want me to
be. But... I don't want you that way any more. I'm sorry.'

He nodded, didn't speak.

'I'll sleep in the spare room, then,' Sarah said.

'Are you moving out?' he asked neutrally. 'Leaving me?'

'I don't know. Let's see how it goes, eh?'

Sarah grabbed a spare pillow and blankets from the airing cupboard and
lay down to sleep in the tiny spare room. But sleep was a long time
coming, and her tears were not. It was no consolation at all that the
faint sobs drifting through the wall revealed that she was not alone in
her misery.

*

She really did intend to stay in the flat with him until his
metamorphosis was complete, until he was settled in his new form. But
practice proved harder than intention. Every look he gave her
eloquently expressed his sense of betrayal and his longing for her. It
rapidly became unbearable. And, truth to tell, her own resolution that
they could no longer be lovers was not so solid as she might wish to
pretend. For all that he was shorter, his shoulders narrower and
rounder, his hair longer and slightly curlier, his features more
delicate, he still looked quite masculine, still recognisable as Tony –
her Tony.

Evenings in front of the TV became excruciating, not wanting to touch
or even be too close to him in case her resolve weakened. Their good
physical chemistry had underpinned the whole rest of their
relationship, and with that now gone, she knew they were floundering. A
serious, terminal bust-up seemed inevitable, and she knew she couldn't
bear that.

So she packed a few essential things and rang an old college friend
whom she knew was between flatmates. Her friend already knew about
Tony's condition and happily agreed to put her up for a while – Sarah
sensed her friend was quietly surprised it had taken her so long to
decide to move out. Now all she had to do was break the news to Tony.
She made the final arrangements while he was out seeing his APFS
therapist, seated herself on the sofa with her bags around her feet,
and waited for the familiar rattle of his key in the lock.

*

Lance was weaving his way down Croydon High Street, teeth gritted
against the almost gridlocked rush-hour traffic, when he felt the
ticklish buzz of his phone inside his jacket. He let the answering
service get it, but was slightly startled when it juddered into life
again seconds later. And then again. He was the first to admit that his
social life did not bear much comparison to that of the Rainiers of
Monaco, and three calls so close together suggested something urgent.
He peeled off into a side street, halted the bike and pulled off his
helmet and gauntlets.

All three calls had been from Tony, no message left, though. He was
about to ring the flat when the phone zzzzzed again. He took the call.
'Tony, mate? What's wrong?'

The incoherent, howling sobs coming down the line were initially
unrecognisable as his laid-back friend's voice. 'She's gone, mate...
gone... the bitch...'

'What? Do you mean – do you mean Sarah?'

'Yeah... the cow, she's... she's left me. Moved out...!'

'Oh, Jesus,' Lance said, cringing for his friend. What could have made
Sarah do that to him, when he was so vulnerable? But he knew her well
enough to be certain that there would be a good reason. It occurred to
him that Tony's change would be just as hard on her as on Tony himself.

'Look, mate, I'm in Croydon on a job, but as soon as I'm done I'll come
round. Don't do anything... don't do anything daft, okay?'

More breathless sobbing. 'I... okay, mate. Thanks.'

'See you soon,' Lance promised.

*

Inevitably the traffic seemed like the worst in history, just to make
the occasion extra special. But eventually he was parking the bike
outside the familiar old Victorian apartment block and hurrying up to
his friend's door.

Tony opened it in seconds, face ghostly white but for the deep red
rings round his eyes. He wore a t-shirt and jeans. 'Oh, mate!'

Lance accepted his friends' crushing hug with a due mixture of
compassion, surprise and alarm. He could sense Tony's desperate need
for human contact and held him gently, patting and squeezing his back
and shoulders. Tony's face was buried in Lance's shoulder. Lance
couldn't help noting how much slimmer and less muscular his friend
seemed.

Eventually Tony's sobbing dwindled to a series of sniffles. Lance
partly disentangled himself and shut the door behind them. 'Oh, mate,'
Tony said with a feeble smile. Lance could smell whiskey on him. 'Look
at me, crying like a – oh, God!' And of course that set him off again.

Still holding him supportively and whispering encouraging words, Lance
guided Tony through into the lounge, where they sat on the sofa. A
bottle of JD and a glass sat on a low table before it.

'So, what happened, mate?' Lance asked gently.

'First she... first she said we couldn't be lovers any more, because I
was a woman now,' Tony said. His voice grew stronger, yet lost its
emotion as anger superseded grief in his mind. 'Do I look like a woman
to you?'

'Well... no,' Lance said. Slightly effeminate, in an odd, Russian lady
shot-putter way, but still quite mannish.

'And then she just announced she was leaving. Just like that. Said it
was no good us living together, it was just reminding us of things we
had to say goodbye to,' Tony said. 'I came back from hospital and she
was here on this couch, bag packed, taxi booked. Cow. I... I still love
her, Lance! Oh, God...'

'I'm sure she still feels for you, mate,' Lance whispered, as Tony had
another slug of JD. 'But... it can't be easy for her, either.'

'No. I spose not,' Tony said with a sigh. 'But... I don't know... I'd
counted on her being there... being around, at least some of the
time... I won't be able to go out, soon, I'll be in the middle of it...
I don't know if I can cope with being so alone here.' Tears flowed
again.

Lance hugged his friend and let him sob against his shoulder until he
once again seemed spent. Finally Tony shook his head and looked up. His
face was about three inches from Lance's and Lance marvelled at how
soft his jawline looked, how full his lips had become. He was suddenly
extremely aware of how intently Tony was staring back at him. They were
still half-embracing each other. The air between them seemed suddenly
charged.

'Well, well,' Tony whispered. 'Who'd've thunk it?'

'What?' Lance asked nervously. Then Tony's palms slapped against the
sides of his head, holding it in place as he shut his eyes and leaned
in to kiss Lance full on the lips. Lance found himself unable to object
– then, after a moment, unwilling to. The kiss was fierce and urgent
(it smelled quite strongly of spirits, too, but then Lance had had most
of his romantic successes under similar circumstances, and so wasn't
about to complain), and weirdly satisfying. Lance found himself lightly
holding his friend about the waist.

Tony came up for air, sat back and let his hands drop onto Lance's
shoulders. 'Well, mate?' There was a wary defensiveness in his eyes as
he brushed a strand of long hair back behind his ears. 'Too weird for
you? Crossed the line?'

'Well... I... it wasn't what I'd expected for this evening,' Lance
said. 'But... I don't know. I... I don't know.'

'Shouldn't have done that. I should've felt sick at the thought,' Tony
murmured, seemingly half to himself. 'But I just needed to... to touch
someone, and that felt... the right way.' He looked at Lance. 'I'm
going to kiss you again, all right?'

'Uh... okay,' Lance said, not feeling qualified to object. Tony's lips
clamped down over his again, and, no longer quite such a hostage to
surprise, Lance was able to relax and let himself enjoy it. Yeah, he
was enjoying it, in a weird, forbidden-fruit kind of way... Tony
withdrew again.

'No... no complaints,' Lance said. 'You're a, uh, good kisser, mate.'

'Cheers, mate,' Tony said, as they disentangled themselves from each
other. 'Want some Jack Daniels?'

'Uh, yeah,' Lance said, deciding some artificial fortitude wouldn't go
amiss, given the way the evening seemed to be heading. Tony went into
the kitchen area and rummaged around for a glass. Try as he might,
Lance couldn't think of a single thing to say.

'Well, anyway,' Tony said, pouring Lance a slug. 'Chin chin.'

'Indeed,' Lance said, and they clinked their glasses and drank. Idly he
reflected on the somewhat surreal turn that events had taken. 'So,
anyway...'

'Yeah,' Tony said, with a rueful smile. 'Christ, I can't believe I
actually kissed you. I can't believe it actually wasn't that awful.'

'Oh, thanks a bunch,' Lance muttered. He looked seriously at Tony.
'What the hell's going on here?'

Tony shrugged. 'Damned if I know,' he said. 'Both of us wanted to do
it, didn't we?'

'Um. Yeah.'

'Both of us liked it.'

'Um, right again,' Lance said, a little uncomfortably.

'So. Let's not freak out too much worrying about it,' Tony said, a bit
too breezily for Lance to be utterly convinced. 'It's just... just
fooling around. No need to get all serious or worried, eh?'

'No,' Lance said, thinking to himself: you're saying all that to me but
it's really yourself you're trying to convince, isn't it, Tony? He
shouldn't let this go any further. He shouldn't let his best friend
delude himself, should remove the risk that Lance would be tempted to
exploit him – Tony was psychologically fragile enough right now.

'Right then,' said Tony, and turned on the TV. It was international
football night and they spent a pleasant couple of hours watching the
Welsh team get hammered into the ground by the young tigers of
Liechtenstein. Things seemed completely back to normal between them –
which, in its own way, was extremely weird.

Lance checked his watch. 'Damn. Got to get home.'

'Back to Tehran, eh?'

He rolled his eyes and sighed. 'Yeah.' His gaze settled on the bottle
of JD, which they'd managed to empty between them in the course of the
evening. 'I'll need to get a taxi, too. Bollocks.'

Tony stood up and ran his hands through his hair. 'Listen... you're
living in a shithole, I could really use some company around the place.
Come and stay here for a bit. Sarah's gone and...'

Lance looked carefully at him. 'You want me to move in with you.'

'Yeah. Spare room, you divot,' Tony said with a sudden wonky grin. 'I'm
not asking you to... oh, sod it. Look, the offer's there if you want
it. But...'

Lance raised an eyebrow. 'But what?'

'Thirty quid a week rent and you pay half the bills. Plus no clipping
your toenails in the lounge,' Tony said.

Lance couldn't help laughing, despite the undercurrent of vague tension
he felt. 'Okay, okay. I'll get me stuff tomorrow after work.'

'Top man. I'll fish you out some sheets and that kind of crap.'

Lance waited at the spare room door until Tony returned with some
bedding. 'Cheers. Night, then.'

'Night,' Tony said. They looked at each other briefly, and an awkward
moment ended when Tony quickly and casually leant forward and kissed
him on the mouth. 'Night, then,' Tony repeated, before turning and
striding casually into his own room, the door shutting behind him.

Lance shook his head and went into his room. He suspected he wouldn't
be sleeping until the chaos of emotions, thoughts and urges in his mind
had spun itself out, which might well take some time.

*

They both enjoyed it. It was an entirely mutual and consensual
arrangement. Only that old troublemaker, rampaging macho pride, could
have any objection to two male friends getting pleasure from the
sharing the odd playful and casual kiss. Except... it wasn't that
simple, Lance knew. Tony's maleness was a matter of degree and that
degree was dwindling fast, as his hair grew and his body shrank and
softened.

As Lance moved in as Tony's lodger (he was very clear in his own head
about that), it became apparent that the kissing thing was going to be
happening quite a bit between them. It was a secret, of course, Tony
had severed contact with virtually all of his other friends and was
refusing to ring Sarah or answer her phone calls, and Lance just wasn't
sure enough of how all his biker friends would react to the news for
him to feel confident about telling them. But he got a casual smacker
first thing in the morning, another when he got in from work, and every
now and then a slightly more intense session in the evening if there
was nothing on the telly.

Yes, it was nice, but...Tony was acting weird. Especially weird. He
seemed to treat it just as a new recreational activity, an end in and
of itself, rather like playing Jenga for drinky forfeits or hallway
bowling (both of which they also did on occasion). He wasn't letting it
affect their relationship at all, he was plain old blokey Tony, for all
that he'd lost four inches in height and most of his muscle definition.
Lance was used to... well, that kind of activity... being significant
in some way. But Tony was sticking to his insistence that it was just
meaningless fooling about.

Except... well, it wasn't. Tony was transforming into a woman, and most
people would've sagely nodded and pronounced that his new penchant for
slipping the tongue to another man was a clear-cut sign of how this
transformation was going. But Lance didn't feel like he was kissing a
girl, or even close to it. Tony was still acting the guy's part, trying
to force Lance into the submissive, reactive role. When they kissed on
the sofa, it was Lance who felt himself bent backwards, trying to fend
off Tony. His few attempts to initiate this kind of play were
invariably ignored by his friend.

He'd seen Tony like this before, with other girls he'd been less
serious about, before Sarah came on the scene. Being on the receiving
end of such predatory treatment was, to say the least, a bit alarming.
It was as if Tony was acknowledging the new femininity of his libido,
but expressing it in the most alpha-maleish way he could, a declaration
that he was still in some way the guy he'd always been.

It was a weird thing to be involved with, and it got weirder as Tony's
body grew androgynous and slowly slid over the border into the early
stages of femininity. Lance couldn't help but track the changes as he
slowly ran his hands over his friend's shoulders, back, and sides.

Tony had been showing signs of frustration at Lance's response to him
for some time, but even so it was still a shock when he broke off in
mid-kiss, sat back and stared at his lap. 'Come on, mate, put a bit of
passion into it,' he muttered. 'Make me feel something, for God's
sake.'

Lance blinked. 'Er... how?'

'Bloody hell, do I have to show you everything?' With a sigh, Tony
grabbed Lance's left hand and slapped it into place on the right side
of his chest, and placed his left hand in a corresponding position next
to it. Lance had always steered clear of that area, and Tony's loose
shirts and t-shirts had hidden whatever changes had occurred there, but
now Lance could feel a shallow fleshy dome under each hand, through the
thin fabric. Each was about the size and shape of an upturned saucer
and Lance felt his own dick stir as a nipple sprang to life at the
centre of each one.

Tony exhaled slowly and was unable to resist a smile. 'That's more like
it,' he said. 'You know what to do with those, don't you, mate?'

Lance nodded, squeezing softly. Tony kissed him again with sudden fire,
and Lance found for the first time he didn't have to fight to avoid
being physically overpowered by his bigger friend. Tony was no longer
stronger than him. That aroused him even more and he concentrated on
keeping Tony as excited as he clearly was, pushing his alarm to the
back of his mind to be considered later. Much later.

*

'Goodnight, everyone,' Sarah said with a weary smile, pulling on her
coat and leaving the office, the muted chorus of farewells from her
workmates following her down the corridor. Life had been hard this last
couple of weeks, but she was blessed with an understanding boss, and a
good friend in the girl she was staying with. But Tony's rejection of
her, understandable though it was, still stung. She worried about him,
still cared and wanted to help. But he'd hung up on her every time
she'd rung and none of her messages had had any response.

She headed for the local tube station but was surprised to see a
familiar figure leaning against his bike by the exit from the building.
'Lance!' She found herself genuinely pleased to see him, gave him a
warm hug. 'How are you?'

He looked a bit embarrassed. 'Okay. How about you?'

'Oh, well, you know...' She brushed hair out of her face. 'It's not
been as easy as all that, but... should've expected it, I suppose. Have
you seen Tony much recently?'

Lance looked away sheepishly. 'Don't get mad, but... I'm staying at the
flat. As a lodger, I mean.'

'Of course,' Sarah said, finding herself beaming at him. 'That's such
good news.'

'It is?' Lance said, looking startled.

'Yeah, I've been worried about him, I thought he was stuck there on his
own... how's he looking?'

'He's... it's getting obvious,' Lance said with a shrug. 'It's weird,
I've never actually looked at him and suddenly thought, God, you look
different... but he's changed. A lot.' He looked away, almost as if
embarrassed.

Sarah sighed. 'I wish I could see him.'

'Well... that's why I've come to see you,' Lance said with a thin
smile. 'He doesn't actually know I'm here, but he needs... I don't
know, someone to talk to about - oh, crap – girly stuff. Cos quite
frankly things are getting weird.'

Sarah couldn't help smiling. 'Will he see me?' she asked seriously.

Lance shrugged. 'Dunno. Hope so. I think he still cares about you. I
think we should try anyway.'

'It's just... I don't know, before I left he still...' She found
herself blushing now. 'He still wanted me, you know? And if he still
does it'd be so awkward...'

'I honestly haven't a clue what he wants at the moment,' Lance said,
with obviously heartfelt sincerity. 'C'mon, Sarah. Please.'

'Oh... okay. Where's your spare helmet?' Sarah asked.

*

It took an effort of will not to produce her own key – still on the
ring – and open the door of what she still thought of, on some level,
her home. Instead she waited while Lance let them in, and followed him
down the hallway.

'Tony?' Lance called, trying to sound casual and making a fairly Lance-
like hash of it.

'In here.' She recognised his voice, but it was softer, slightly
higher. She swallowed hard.

'Guess who I bumped into in town,' Lance said, going into the main
room.

'What?' There was instant wariness in Tony's voice.

Sarah sighed and followed Lance. 'Hello, Tony.'

'Hello,' he said neutrally, glancing from her to Lance suspiciously.
Lance hadn't lied: even though he was sitting down she could tell he'd
lost a good four or five inches in height and was more-than-
proportionately slimmer and more slightly built. His shoulders were
thinner and rounder, his hips looked wider, and there were hints that
his waist was starting to dwindle away. His loose t-shirt hid what most
of breast development had occurred. His hair was now pale blonde and
reached almost to his shoulders, framing a face with an odd mixture of
delicacy and strength.

'I was worried about you,' she said. 'Lance said I should come round.'

'Oh.'

Lance cleared his throat. 'I'll sort us out some dinner,' he
volunteered.

'Really?' Sarah couldn't help making the jibe.

'Yeah. Tony, where's the phone number for the Chinese chippy?'

'On the fridge,' Tony said. Lance grabbed the number and the phone and
made himself scarce. Sarah sat down opposite Tony.

'How are you?'

Tony shrugged, dragged a hand unconsciously through his mass of fine
curling hair. 'Okay, I suppose. Why've you come back?'

'I was worried about you. I still care, Tony, I want to be your friend
-'

He snorted. 'I've got friends.'

'Lance, yeah, but who else? And – you're going to have to start
adjusting to being a woman soon, change your clothes, your habits -'

'Yes, but why you? Why not someone else?' He looked levelly at her,
outwardly hostile, but she knew him well enough to realise he was
silently begging her to prove him wrong.

'I know you. We – know each other so well. And I do care – Tony,
there's only so many times I can tell you that I still care about you.
If you really don't want me in your life, just say so and I'll go.' She
stood up.

'No. Wait.' Tony looked at her and part of her was surprised to see his
eyes glistening. He stared down at his knees. 'Damn it, stupid soft -'

'Sshhh,' Sarah said, sitting down next to him and putting a consoling
arm around his shoulders. 'It's okay...'

He looked tearfully at her, but he was smiling. 'Guess this proves it,
I really am turning into a big soppy girl.' He dabbed at his eyes with
a tissue.

'Oi, you're not allowed to go around promoting those kinds of naff
stereotypes,' Sarah said in a mock growl, then squeezed his shoulders.
'Are we okay?'

Tony put his arm round her and they hugged, but Sarah was relieved to
feel it was – as far as she could tell – purely platonic. 'We're okay.
Thanks for... well, thanks for -'\

'You'd've done the same,' Sarah said. She let a pause hang in the air.
'How far along are you?'

He laughed quietly. 'Pretty far. Tits are well on the way, nuts and
dick have started to shrink. I'm not looking forward to the end result
of that.'

'Mmm?' She looked sharply at him.

'Well... it's been quite painful, so far, the change, and I expect
that'll be the worst part.' He looked nervously at her, almost as if
wanting reassurance.

She squeezed his hand. 'Anything I can do...'

'I don't need to change my clothes just yet, do I? I mean...' He looked
down at himself.

'Might help you make the mental adjustment. And to be honest, you look
like you're going to be a – oh, well – quite a curvy lady. You might
need a bit of support sooner than you think.'

They couldn't help smiling at that, and fortuitously that was the
moment at which Lance reappeared. 'Everything okay?' he asked, clearly
half-expecting them to be clawing and spitting at each other.

Tony looked at Sarah. 'Everything,' he announced, 'is hunky-dory.'

*

Even so, it was a bit of a surprise the following Saturday when Tony
rang early in the morning. She just about recognised his voice over the
phone. 'Everything okay?' Sarah asked.

'Er – yeah.' He sounded somehow brash, yet brittle. 'You were talking
about clothes and stuff, buying things for... afterwards.'

'Oh!' She twigged. 'You want us to go shopping for, uh, women's
clothes?'

'Er, yeah. If you don't mind. It'd be a disaster if I went with Lance.'

'Oh, God, wouldn't it just... I'm guessing you're thinking in terms of
today?'

'Well, yes. Sorry it's short notice, are you busy?'

'No, nothing important. I'll come round the flat, about half past
nine?'

'Fine.'

'See you then, then.'

*

Tony opened the door to her. His hair was scrunched back messily and he
wore his usual t-shirt and jeans, even though the jeans looked
noticeably tight around his hips. But he looked more like a woman than
a man, even though he'd made no attempt to play up to his femininity.

'All right? Cuppa coffee?' Tony asked as they went into the lounge.

Sarah glanced at her watch. 'Better not. We've got a lot to do, and I
should really get back by early afternoon.'

'Oh. Okay, then.' Tony reached for a baggy jacket.

She shifted uncomfortably. 'Where's Lance?'

'Asleep. He was out till the early hours with his biker mates. Why?'

'Well – I just wanted to say to you, make it clear... to do what we're
going to do, you're going to have to...' she sighed. 'You're going to
have to come out as a woman. If you're going to buy bras and knickers
you'll have to do it as a girl, no messing about.'

Tony smiled ruefully. 'That had occurred to me. Let's go.'

They walked to the high street, and Sarah was aware of Tony's slightly
awkward walk. His hips and behind were really swelling, she realised,
and his waist had definitely shrunk. It was tempting to sort him out
with a pair of jeans in a female cut, or even a skirt, as their first
purchase. But it would be better to approach this more methodically,
she decided: from the skin outward, top to bottom.

*

Two and three quarter hours later Sarah dumped her bags of shopping on
the café floor and sank gratefully into her seat. She stirred her cup
of coffee absently and watched as Tony carefully smoothed down his
skirt and sat opposite her. He seemed to be moving slightly awkwardly
and somehow she didn't think it was down to his new way of dressing.
But he'd not complained about or tried to shy away from any of the
things she'd suggested to him, and that was impressive, creditable.

His old clothes were in one of the bags. As a man Tony's dress sense
had always been fairly mainstream and unremarkable but the clothes he'd
bought and was wearing now hinted at a new and slightly bolder
sensibility: a black sweater over a long, deep purple dress which
buttoned down the front, together with dark tights and knee-length
heeled leather boots. Keeping him warm was a full-length dark denim
coat with fake fur erupting fluffily around the cuffs, collar and hem.
His hair was down and reached past his shoulders. No-one could possibly
have guessed who he'd once been.

'How's it feeling?'

Tony grimaced. 'Weird,' he said. 'The bra's pinching at the sides...'

'You'll get used to it.'

'...and the pants keeping riding up.'

'Bet you're glad it isn't a thong,' Sarah said lightly. 'By the way,
try a bit harder to keep your knees together when you sit down.'

'What? Oh shit.' Tony hurriedly corrected his stance. 'I'm never going
to get used to this.'

'You will. For what it's worth – I think you look really good. You look
like a proper girl, without going berserk with fluffy stuff and tight
pink... whatevers.' Sarah smiled.

'Oh. Thanks,' said Tony, with a shy smile that momentarily changed to a
wince of discomfort.

'Bra pinching again?' Sarah couldn't help a wry smile. 'You'll be
grateful of it in the long run. Those boobs of yours are a bit of a
handful, aren't they?'

'Uh. Yeah,' Tony said, flushing a very vibrant shade of crimson. Sarah
was baffled – there was no reason for him to feel quite so embarrassed
about them, surely? It didn't make sense.

They drank their coffee in silence. 'So, anyway, have you thought about
the future much?' Sarah asked. 'Once everything's, ah, settled down?'

Tony grinned. 'You're going to think this is silly, but... you know I
can get one of those special lifestyle adjustment grants off the
government?'

'Yeah.' It was one of the more popular APFS-related pieces of
legislation.

'Thought I'd put that together with my savings, get a job in a shop
somewhere, and go back to school. University, even.'

'A second chance.'

'Yeah, if you put it like that.' He looked carefully at her. 'What do
you think?'

'Sounds great to me. But...' She looked sadly at him. 'You'll have to
think about a change of name. Unless you're going to go to uni as Toni
or Antonia. You're not planning on striding in and shouting 'Hi,
everyone, I used to be a guy', are you?'

Tony wrinkled his nose. 'Suppose not. Could prove socially awkward.
Can't stand Antonia, and Toni's just... ugh... on a girl.'

'Well, then, what's it going to be, missy? You may as well pick now.'

'I can't pick my own name, that's just... weird. You do it.'

Sarah laughed. 'You're not lumbering me with that responsibility! Hang
on.' She looked around and caught the eye of the nearest waitress,
beckoned her over.

'Yes, miss?'

Sarah smiled, looking at the woman's name badge. 'Can we have some more
sugar, please?'

The waitress stared at her. 'It's on the counter. You can take as much
as you like.'

She smiled sweetly. 'Sorry, my head's all over the place today.' After
the woman had gone, Sarah grinned triumphantly at Tony. 'Joan.'

'What?'

'It's as good a name as any. If it's good enough for her, it's
certainly good enough for -'

Tony grimaced. 'Joan? Can you not try again?'

'No, we'll be at this all day. Can you think of a single name you'd
actually say 'wow, that's perfect' to?'

He sighed. 'No, I spose not. Joan it is. But not yet, though!'

'Whenever,' Sarah sighed.

'Just give us a little while to get used – nnng.' This time Tony's
grimace was involuntary and his hands flew to the pit of his stomach.

'What is it? Tony, what's wrong?'

'Changing,' Tony muttered, breathing hard. 'Last few bits and pieces
twisting into shape, bloody painful it is too... ahhhhhrrrrr!'

'Do you need an ambulance, pills?' Sarah looked around for someone to
assist them.

'No, this is what I was told to expect. Just get me home, I'll sweat it
out.' He managed to smile at her. 'Another day or two and it'll be all
Joan, no Tony left.'

She helped him to his feet, collected up their bags. 'We'll worry about
that later. Come on, let's get you home.'

*

Lance had woken with a dry mouth and a thumping head, with noon just
about in sight. He tried to remember if the night had been good enough
to justify this kind of suffering and found he couldn't remember.
Probably, then. It was weird: he could remember meeting a girl there
last night, someone who'd come with a mutual friend, and she actually
hadn't seemed utterly disinterested in him. Yet he hadn't pursued the
issue, it would have felt... wrong. Dishonest, somehow.

There was a note on the top saying that Tony and Sarah had gone out,
and that they were out of milk. The clear subtext was that the former
was none of his business but that he was definitely expected to fix the
latter problem. So he showered, had a bacon sandwich and some juice,
and staggered off to the corner shop, detouring for a rejuvenatory
toddle round the park on the way.

When he got back Tony's coat was hanging up in the hall. He went into
the lounge-kitchen and found his flatmate sprawled on the sofa,
barefoot, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a loose t-shirt. His face was
contorted with discomfort and slick with painful sweat.

'God, you look awful,' Lance said – sensitively, he thought later.

'Feels worse – like a knife in the gut,' Tony whispered. 'The home
straight, though, mate, after this it's all over.'

Lance wondered what exactly would be 'all over' – did Tony just mean
his change, or the slightly odd elements of their relationship, or
their whole friendship? Did Tony even know himself? 'Can I get you
anything?' he asked.

Tony shook his head. 'Painkillers are out, my system's messed up with
different chemicals as it is. Oh, shit, this hurts.'

'I can imagine.'

Tony glanced at him. 'Can you? It feels like being kicked in the balls
forever.' His face screwed up again.

'Can I do anything at all?'

'Just... just be around,' Tony said.

'Course I will.'

*
All through that afternoon and evening Tony's torment continued. Lance
couldn't believe how helpless he felt, unable to offer anything more
than a comforting word or reassuring squeeze of the arm. Tony
repeatedly assured him that this was what he'd been told to expect, and
that none of his specialist doctors could help much. As the evening
turned into night Tony started helplessly groaning, crying out from the
pain. He could clearly tell how much this was disturbing Lance and
clambered to his feet, wished him a good night and stumbled off to his
room.

Lance felt wretched and considered calling either an ambulance or Sarah
– but doubted Tony would thank him for either. He seemed to be treating
this as a private thing, a personal trial of strength. In the end he
sighed and went off to his own bed.

But even through the wall he could hear the sobs and moans of agony
Tony was letting out: crying freely, helplessly now, all semblance of
strength crumbling away. The pitch of his voice had risen too. Lance
found himself out of his bed and going to the door of Tony's room.

'Tony, are you okay?' he called into the darkness, feeling foolish.

Tony's bedside lamp clicked on. His eyes were red-rimmed, his t-shirt
soaked with cold sweat. His lower lip juddered helplessly. He pulled
back the duvet and shifted painfully over to one side of the double
bed, the invitation obvious.

'Tony...' Lance looked away. 'I...'

'Please. Just get in,' Tony whispered.

And Lance nodded and obeyed. Tony switched off the light and rolled
desperately into his arms. Lance held him, marvelling at how fragile he
suddenly seemed, hugging him through the worst of the night, sharing
the pain, until sleep finally took them both.

*

When Lance woke he was alone in the bed. He remembered the feeling of
Tony lying in his embrace and had to confess it was a good memory. Even
admitting that to himself was a bit scary.

He got up and found Tony on the sofa watching Sunday morning TV. He was
still clearly going through the wringer but it seemed less acutely
painful than the previous night. Lance flopped down next to him.
'Morning.'

'Morning,' said Tom. His voice was definitely softer and higher. He
looked away awkwardly. 'Look, about last night...'

'Yeah,' Lance squirmed himself. 'Sorry, I -'

'I was going to say sorry to you,' Tony said with a weak smile. 'And –
thank-you.'

Lance shrugged. 'I didn't know what else to do.' There was a pause.
'How are you doing?'

'Trust me, you don't want the gory details,' Tony said. 'But... I'm,
ah, shaping up, down there. Next day or so, maybe sooner, and - ' he
sighed. 'I'll be a girl. Properly.'

'Scary,' Lance said without thinking.

'Yeah. As soon as it's over I'm supposed to see my specialist for a
full ob-gyn exam, which scares the shit out of me. I'd rather it wasn't
so, you know, clinical.' He looked around, then back at Lance. 'Do you
think Sarah would, you know, have a butchers for me first? Just say,
yes, it's supposed to look like that?'

Lance blinked. 'Have a butchers at your...'

'Front entrance, yeah.'

'Well, mate, you know her better than I do,' Lance said. 'I mean, if
the situation was reversed I'd say yeah, but...' He shrugged.

'I'll give her a bell,' Tony said. He clambered to his feet, wincing,
and walked over to the phone. Lance did his best to avoid listening to
the gory details of the call and concentrated on the Hollyoaks omnibus
on the telly.

'Well,' Tony said on his return to the sofa, 'she's busy all day today
but she says she'll pop round first thing tomorrow, before work.
Sounded quite concerned.'

'She's all right, she is,' Lance said with a grin.

'Yeah, I don't know how I'd've coped without her,' Tony said with a
sigh.

Tony's pains seemed to diminish to a dull, grinding ache, and he spent
most of the rest of the day on the sofa, sometimes watching telly,
sometimes dozing. Lance found himself watching his friend sleep,
entranced by the slow rise and fall of his stomach, wanting to stroke
his long blonde hair.

Tony eventually slept through from late afternoon until about nine in
the evening. Lance sat on the sofa beside him, watching TV with the
sound off and subtitles on, or reading magazines. Tony's head flopped
onto Lance's shoulder and he didn't bother to move it. Oh, he thought
to himself, you're heading into trouble now, you fool...

And then, with a tiny yawn, Tony awoke and stretched, looked around the
half-lit room. He looked refreshed and comfortable. 'Oooh.' His voice
was higher, softer again. A woman's voice now. 'What time is it?'
'Coming up to nine,' Lance said. 'How do you feel?'

Tony rubbed his thighs thoughtfully. 'I feel... fine. I really do. It's
– done. Finished.' He looked at Lance and smiled, then leant forward
and kissed him hard.

Lance found himself responding despite his misgivings, sliding his arms
round Tony, Tony the woman, now, and hugging him closer. He broke the
kiss and whispered, 'I thought you'd just want to rest –'

Tony wriggled against him. 'I've been asleep for hours. Now I ...' - he
smiled, helplessly - '...now I just want to play. Unless you don't want
to?'

'Play?' Lance asked. 'Is that all it is?'

Tony sighed, hugged him tight. 'Do you really need to ask? Lance,
you're my best friend, I've loved you for years. It's just that now...
it can be a different kind of love. If you want that.'

And Lance kissed him fiercely in reply. Tony giggled and jumped up off
the sofa, switching off the telly and turning the fire up to four full
bars.

'What's that for?' Lance asked, taken a little by surprise.

'It's a bit cold in here for romping around in the nude,' Tony said,
then grinned as Lance gawped at him. He unbuckled his belt and pulled
the hem of his t-shirt free. 'Come on then, get 'em off. It's getting
hot in here, so take off all your - '

'Oh, my,' Lance whispered. He got to his feet and, finding it hard to
believe this was happening, started to unbutton his shirt. Tony beamed
at him, wriggling out of his jeans, tugging off his socks. Lance
realised he'd been wearing black cotton panties all the time and felt
his dick stiffening up. He scrambled to undo his own jeans.

'Don't go off half-cocked on me, mate,' Tony laughed as he casually
stripped off his t-shirt, glanced happily down at his full, rounded
breasts. Lance didn't trust himself to reply, kicking off his shoes,
kicking out of his jeans. Not breaking eye contact with Lance, Tony
slipped his panties off and stood there proudly naked.

'Oh, God, you're gorgeous,' Lance whispered, clawing his boxer shorts
off rather less elegantly.

'Yeah,' Tony said, stroking his – no, that was just not true anymore,
Lance thought – stroking her sides and hips, not even trying to conceal
the silky nest between her thighs. 'And you're looking pretty good to
me right now, mate.' Her gaze rested squarely on the unwavering
erection Lance had pointed in her direction.

He strode forward and took her in his arms, feeling his hardness press
against the cool and slightly yielding flesh of her belly. They kissed,
hard and serious, and he found his lips wandering along her jawline to
her earlobe, the side of her neck.

'Look, mate... I need a favour.' For the first time Tony sounded
uncertain. Lance looked at her warily. 'You can't have me tonight,' she
said sadly. 'It's... I don't know, but it just doesn't feel ready yet,
it's too new, too sensitive.'

'Okay,' Lance said, wondering if this was all a big and very sadistic
windup. It must have shown in his expression, as Tony hugged him to her
desperately.

'But it's going to be you. It was always going to you,' Tony whispered
extravagantly as she planted kisses on his chest. 'Soon, I promise,
mate.'

Lance surrendered to her obvious passion and sincerity, but something
still gnawed at him. 'I... I'd like a favour, too...'

She looked sharply up at him, suddenly seeming very vulnerable and
worried. 'What?'

'Please stop calling me mate. It's too weird...'

Tony laughed, a musical sound. 'Of course... what would you prefer?'
she teased.

Lance swallowed hard. 'Darling. Sweetheart. Lover.' He looked at her,
terrified of laughter or ridicule, but she smiled the most welcome and
beautiful smile he'd ever seen.

'Of course, lover. And now that's sorted, there's some naked romping on
the agenda, isn't there?'

And indeed there was. What grace and experience they lacked was more
than made up for by their energy and excitement, and when carpet burns
threatened to become a real issue Tony took a firm grip on Lance and
led him to their bedroom.

'Move your stuff in here tomorrow,' Tony said, squeezing his hand and
leading him to the bed.

'You're that certain about this?' Lance whispered, crawling under the
duvet next to her.

'Aren't you?' She slid into his arms for the umpteenth time that
evening. For an equally countless time he felt himself come to the very
verge of release and grunted helplessly. Tony looked playfully at him,
then slipped down under the duvet. Moments later he felt her lips on
him and almost cried out at the feel of it. When he came it almost felt
like dying, as if nothing else could ever approach such an intensity of
feeling.

Overwhelmed with love for her he held her again as she reappeared, even
as a happy, hazy cloud settled over him. The scent of her hair was all
he remembered as he fell asleep.

*

And she was still there in the morning, cradled in his arms, already
awake but showing no inclination to move. She smiled at him. 'Morning,
darling.'

'Morning, T - ' He broke off. That name didn't fit this person, what
they'd done together.

She nestled closer, comfortable, happy. 'Call me Joan.'

'Joan,' he said, trying it out. 'Suits you.'

'Thanks.' She kissed him again and he felt her hands on his manhood,
bringing it to life again. 'How do you feel?'

'Fine. No, better than fine. The best ever,' Lance said.

'Good,' Joan said, clambering onto him, straddling him. He felt his
erection growing apace as the soft hair at her crotch ticked his belly.
'Are you up to this?'

'Up to what?' He looked dumbly up at her.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' She giggled. 'The main event. Popping me
cherry.'

He could feel her gently moving into position, his hardness sliding
against her belly and loins. 'Are you sure – you want to?' he asked
nervously, twitching with nervous excitement.

'Oh, for heaven's sake!' And she thrust herself down onto it, her back
arching with pleasure as she did so, the fingers of one hand thrust
into her mouth to stifle her cry of exultation. Lance groaned as she
moved down against him, her breathing rising to a crescendo, his too,
until, finally, the moment came. Followed, quite closely, by both of
them.

'Oh, boy.' Joan flopped down next to him, pressed both hands against
her scalp.

He grinned. 'What's up?'

'Just checking the top of my head's still on. Could've sworn it blew
off just then.' She looked affectionately at him. 'Lance by name, lance
by nature, eh?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I'd hoped you'd be the one person who didn't
make that gag.'

She kissed him, gave him a little intimate squeeze... and he was
surprised to find he was ready again. 'Let me make it up to you,
lover,' she whispered, and he happily accepted her apology.

Later there would be time for languidness and lazy sex, but this time
it was as passionate and energetic as their first. Lance felt the blood
roaring in his ears as they moved together, heard the sound of his
heart knocking his ribcage, almost as a separate pounding noise. That
was a first, he thought absently.

*

Sarah rapped on the door one last time and bit her lip with indecision.
No-one seemed to be in, which was weird. Tony had seemed quite worried
about the state of his health, so it was possible he was lying there in
bed unable to move. But what about Lance? Maybe he'd had to make an
early start. She tutted and pulled out her old key to the flat, let
herself in.

'Hello? Tony?' she called. A peculiar squawk came from his room. She
frowned and gently opened the door, stuck her head round.

A clearly nude Tony, looking flushed and sweaty, peeked out at her from
under the duvet. 'Oh. Hello,' he said in a high, sweet voice.

'Hello. How are you doing?' Sarah said. This situation felt
inexplicably weird.

'Er. Fantastic. Well, okay, anyway,' Tony said.

'Where's Lance?'

There was a nervous silence and a second head popped up from the depths
of the bed. Lance looked as red and exercised as Tony did. 'Hello,
Sarah,' he said weakly.

'Oh. My. God.' Sarah felt suddenly weak and sat down on the end of the
bed. There was no mistaking the cheerful post-coital buzz these two
were high on. 'Good God.'

'I guess the old girly bits are in working order after all,' Tony said
with slightly forced breeziness. 'No complaints, Lance?'

'Er. No. No,' Lance said, looking slightly glazed.

'I'm a woman now,' Tony said. 'And I must say I'm enjoying it more than
I expected to.'

'So am I,' Lance added unnecessarily.

Sarah found herself laughing out loud, unable to stop. 'Well, as long
as you're both happy, then that's great. God, why didn't I see this
coming?'
'We didn't,' Tony said. He – she – looked at Lance. 'Did we?'

'Er, no, love, not really,' Lance said. He looked back at Sarah. 'You
really don't mind?'

'Why should I? God knows neither of you is my type – any more, at least
– and you're both good friends of mine. And,' she smiled. 'Bloody hell,
you look good together.'

'Oh. Thanks,' Tony said. The two lovers exchanged pleased looks.

'But I think I'll go and sit in the lounge, cos this being here with
you like this is just freaky,' Sarah said, standing up.

'Give us a minute, I'll get up and make you a cup of tea,' Tony said,
looking around for something to wear.

'I'll go if you like,' Lance volunteered.

'No, I know how she likes it.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Plus, I'm
sitting in the damp patch here and I'd rather not be.'

*

When Tony appeared in the lounge she was wearing a silk Japanese-print
robe that looked suspiciously familiar to Sarah.

'That's one of mine, isn't it? One of the things I left behind.'

Tony busied herself with the tea things. 'Er, yeah. Do you mind? We're
not really the same size -'

'I'll say,' Sarah murmured, surveying Tony's bountiful bust and behind.

' – but it looks okay on me, doesn't it?'

'Yeah, it does,' Sarah admitted. She couldn't help smiling. 'I never
thought things would turn out this way. What...' she giggled,
'...what's Lance like, anyway?'

'Mmm?' Tony frowned at her.

'You know... what's he like in...'

'Ohhh! That,' Tony said with an arch smile. 'Well, let me tell you,
he's the best man I've ever had.'

Sarah rolled her eyes. 'Guess I asked for that one.'

'Yes, you did.' After a moment Tony handed her a cup. 'Seriously. I'm
so glad we can still be – well, friends.'

'Me too.' She smiled. 'We're going to have a lot of fun.'

Tony sat down, smoothed her robe. 'First thing is to find you a new
bloke. He's got an impossible act to follow, obviously, but you'll have
to make allowances.'

'I can find a man for myself, thank you,' Sarah said with a grin.

Tony shrugged with mock-delicacy. 'I don't know,' she said, 'maybe one
of Lance's biker friends...?'

'Ha. You realise you're now officially a biker chick? I can just see
you in your leathers, riding pillion behind him - '

Tony rolled her eyes. 'If Lance thinks that then he's – oh, hello,
lover,' she said as Lance shambled in.

'If Lance thinks what?' he asked dully.

'If you think you can keep your bachelor lifestyle now we're together,'
Tony said primly.

'Oh. Whatever. Budge up, Joanie,' he said, squeezing onto the sofa next
to her and putting an arm round her.

'You're using Joan after all?' Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tony – no, Joan, shrugged. 'I didn't choose it,' she said. 'But then, I
haven't really chosen most of the things that have happened to my life
lately. All the others have worked out for the best, so maybe this will
too.' And she smiled contentedly at them both.

*

It was the perfect end to a surprisingly wonderful day, Joan thought,
leaving the bar and heading back to the table. Sarah and Lance were
talking and laughing together and she couldn't suppress a fond smile.
She didn't know how she'd've coped with her transformation without the
pair of them. Oh, she'd been lucky, so lucky.

'Good news,' she said, slipping into her seat and smoothing down her
skirt. 'He is looking for a new barmaid after all, four nights a week
and a couple of afternoons too. Should pay the bills and give me time
for school as well.'

'You, a barmaid,' Sarah said, shaking her head and smiling. 'I'll
believe it when I see it.'

'I'm going to go for the buxom but scary look,' Joan said cheerfully.
Lance's face at that moment told its own story.

'Remember the last time we were here?' Sarah said, looking suddenly
thoughtful.

'No,' Lance said.

'I do,' Joan replied. 'It was... just before we found out. About the
transformation, I mean.' She looked down at herself, vest, skirt,
tights, boots. 'If you'd told me then how much things would change...'

'Are you sorry?' Lance asked, looking seriously at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. 'Not at all. And... I don't know,
maybe...'

'Maybe thing aren't so different at all?' Sarah completed.

Lance frowned. 'Don't follow you.'

'I'm still doing what I want to do with my life. I still have a damned
fine lover and a great best friend,' Joan said, looking at Lance and
Sarah. 'The jobs have just been switched around, that's all. Do either
of you regret what's happened?'

'No,' they said, speaking almost in unison and smiling at the fact.

'Well, then.' Joan raised her glass. 'To things massively changing, but
still managing to stay exactly the same as well.'

'There's a special name for that,' Sarah said.

'Yeah?'

She smiled. 'It's called life.'

The Cycle of Wisdom

2011-01-09T18:32:26Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]][[Category:Fantasy]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

Stephen realised too late that he had travelled beyond the limits of
his understanding. But the modern world, the rational world, had never
held much interest for him, and he had looked beyond it as soon as he
became aware that somewhere might even exist. People were surprised
when he of all people spent his life striving to look beyond - to peer
around corners, to question the unquestioned - for it was true that
life appeared to have been very kind to him. He was handsome, healthy,
intelligent and young, and his family was a wealthy one. But in truth,
having all these gifts was in part his spur - for, having them so
easily, he knew how little they were truly worth, and was able to move
on in his quest for deeper things.

He took easily to mysticism when he encountered it, and gradually began
to leave behind the modern world, the rational world. (This is
surprisingly easy to do if you truly wish it.) And yet he made one
error - to assume that to do so was the culmination of wisdom, rather
than an early step along that path.

So it was that he came to the small town in the wasteland, along paths
untrodden by waking minds. Still a sun of some kind beat down upon his
head, and he was glad to arrive at his destination. He found himself
wearing a dusty beige jacket and trousers, a pale blue shirt and a pair
of shoes. There was a bag over his shoulder, though not an oppressively
heavy one.

There was a fountain in the town square and he paused to slake his
thirst. The people were clearly used to the arrival of strangers, even
from lands as exotic and distant as his own. The men and women who
lived here seemed normal enough, though he knew that could be nothing
more than a trick of perception, and that they might see him as
something quite different to his true shape.

He approached one of them, an old man resting in the shade. "Excuse
me."

The man peered up at Stephen. "I hear you."

"I... is there a wise man in your town? A seer, a priest?"

"What do you want from a wise man?"

Stephen couldn't help smiling as he gave his rather hackneyed response.
"Wisdom."

"You must have some yourself, to be here at all. You seek deeper
truths?"

"Whatever I can find."

"I know only one. A man may see only so much of life through a single
window."

"Change my perspective, is that what you mean?" Stephen had hoped for
something more fulfilling. "I have already abandoned the life I was
born into."

"You can do more," the old man said. "Nothing is fixed in this realm.
Change everything you can about yourself and you may yet discover true
wisdom."

"How can I do that?"

"There is a place. Leave this town along the north road. Travel for a
week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

Cliffs of red and yellow stone towered above Stephen on either side,
dwarfing the trees that grew at their base. He made his way carefully
along the path, hoping he had not gone astray. He believed he had not,
had taken what he believed to be good notes of the townsman's
instructions. If this were true, he should reach his destination soon.

As instructed, he had bought two canteens from the town market, and
both now hung over his shoulder. His guide had given no reason for this
- the road and this trail were both well-watered, and one should have
been sufficient. But Stephen was wise enough to at least be obedient in
these matters.

The trail descended, the ground falling away towards the base of the
cliffs. Shadows seemed to close in around Stephen as he walked. At the
base of the cliffs, he had been told, he would find what he sought -
and its keeper.

The base of the cliffs was now in sight. The stone was stained by the
water flowing down its face. There was an overhang just at the bottom,
forming a very tiny waterfall - not much more than a rivulet falling
not much more than the height of a man. The pool beneath was hardly
even that.

Stephen looked around. There was no sign of civilisation and certainly
no keeper. The water must be what he had been sent to find. he
unstoppered one of his canteens and stooped over the pool.

"The water loses its power of change when it touches the ground."

The voice sounded immeasurably old and dry. Stephen looked around and
could see no one - only a large, reddish brown snake lying coiled in
the branches of one of the trees.

"I'm sorry?" Stephen said.

"You must take the water from the air, before it touches the ground, if
you are to gain what you seek." The voice definitely came from the
snake.

"Thank you. Are you the keeper of this place?"

"I am."

"I was told you would have other wisdom for me."

"You seek to change yourself to the uttermost degree?"

"I - I suppose I do," Stephen said, smiling at the beast.

The snake did not smile back, but that was hardly surprising, Stephen
thought. " You must drink of the water three times, each time a week
and a day apart. To drink more than this is death."

"I understand."

"You need not stay here, though. You may carry the water away with
you."

"Where should I go ?"

"Return to the main road and guide your steps towards the temple at
Uldath. Know you of it?"

"I can learn," Stephen said. "Thank you."

"Remember. Only through unmaking yourself entirely can you approach
true wisdom. You may drink of the water now."

The snake slithered away into the shadow of the tree's upper branches.
Stephen turned back to the waterfall, held his cupped hands out into
it. Gradually they filled with cold, clear water, with nothing to
distinguish it from that he'd drunk on his journey. He put all doubts
aside and brought his hands to his mouth.

How to describe the workings of such deep things? He felt things deep
within him subtly alter and shift in their alignment. A deep sense of
satisfaction and contentment settled upon him. He looked down at
himself and saw no real signs of change, but he was confident that they
would come - if not soon, then with his next draught of the water. He
held his second canteen beneath the waterfall until it overflowed, then
capped it.

Then, as the sun was setting and the water seemed to have instilled a
great drowsiness in him, he took off his clothes and slept by the
waterfall.

And in the morning he found that he had indeed changed in his physical
appearance. His clothes felt slightly large upon him, and the hair upon
his chest, arms, and legs had thinned considerably. Most noticeable of
all, his hair - which had previously been respectably cut and a light
shade of brown - was now a dark shade of blonde and fell to his collar,
curling somewhat as it did.

Excited by these changes in him, though not yet fully appreciating what
they meant, Stephen started his journey back to the main north road.
Around his waist he twined a piece of cord, and each day he tied a knot
in it, knowing that when there were eight, it would be time for him to
drink again of the water in his special canteen.

His hair continued to grow, both longer and lighter, and it seemed to
him that his body grew slighter as well - though at a less accelerated
rate. Soon he began to tie his hair back in a pony tail, and had to
stop wearing his shoes, which were now much too big for his feet.
Luckily the trail was not too rough nor too hot to walk barefoot.

After a few days he was back on the north road, and he fell into the
company of a hunter, a grave young man of immense skill with a bow.
Stephen was glad of the company and sensed the hunter was as well - but
he was of a taciturn people who did not like to speak of their
emotions, and were even reluctant to give their names. But he was a
good companion and shared freely of what he had.

After a day or two Stephen could tell the hunter had noticed the odd
changes in his appearance even in just a short period, but his code
prevented him from asking about them directly. As they sat down to eat
that night he decided to volunteer the information.

"I know you have noticed the changes in my hair since we have travelled
together," Stephen began.

"Also in your face and body," the hunter said.

Stephen hadn't been aware of those himself. "Oh. Well, I am on a - a
quest for wisdom, and I hope to find it by - by becoming a different
person. My body is transforming into that of someone new."

"Is your mind also transforming?"

Stephen blinked. "I don't know. Perhaps. I must continue with the
process soon. The changes may become more extreme. If you wish for us
to part company, then I will understand."

The hunter shook his head. "It does not concern me, if you are
comfortable. Tell me - is this why you walk unshod?"

"My shoes grew too big for me," Stephen said. "I had to leave them
behind."

The next morning he found the hunter had fashioned for him a simple
pair of leather moccasins. He had grown accustomed to going barefoot
but he was glad to have them, and touched by the young man's
generosity. But such things were common between travellers in that
realm.

As they travelled north together the land grew drier and the
temperature greater. Stephen took off his jacket and constantly walked
with it folded over his arm.

"It will grow no colder between here and Uldath, Stephen," the hunter
said as they walked. He himself wore only a loincloth, vest, and
sandals. "You will not need that garment before you reach there."

"I - I see," Stephen said. He looked at it. You must unmake yourself
entirely, he thought, abandon all traces of your former life. Clothing
would surely be the least of it. He hung the jacket on a branch of the
next tree they passed and left it behind without looking back.

Eight knots had appeared on the cord he wore around his waist. He felt
a tingle of excitement and anticipation all throughout that day,
knowing the next phase of his transformation was about to begin. Who
would he become? Who would he be the next day?

After they had made their camp and eaten, Stephen carefully unstoppered
the second canteen and lifted it to his mouth. The water tasted as
fresh and delicious as it had a week earlier. Again, he felt strange
forces at work within him - not just within his body but within his
whole reality as a living creature, a living mind. He put the stopper
back into the canteen and took a moment to enjoy the sensations racing
through him. His companion was already asleep and he felt drowsiness
descend upon him again.

In the morning his golden hair now stretched down almost to his waist,
and he could feel a new delicacy in the bones of his face - his hands
too, come to that. Almost all the hair had vanished from his body. His
joints felt subtly altered as well.

"You changed much more than usual last night," the hunter said.

"I know," Stephen said, and blinked. His voice had risen in pitch and
softened. He got to his feet, and found the cuffs of his trousers now
reached down over his feet. They felt loose around the waist as well.
He rolled them up to mid-calf and smiled a little sheepishly at the
hunter.

They continued with their journey. Stephen unknotted the cord he wore
around his waist and started again from scratch. Another eight before
he could complete his transformation. But who would he become?

The passing of time as they travelled through the increasingly barren
landscape was marked not just by the accumulation of knots in the cord,
but a tightening of the cord as his waist began to dwindle. He was
becoming smaller and slighter in every respect. His old shirt, at
least, presented him with few difficulties, but the hassle of simply
keeping his trousers up and not tangling around his feet became
increasingly irritating.

Stephen found himself envying the briefer and more practical clothing
his companion wore, found himself casting envious glances at the
hunter's bare arms, legs, and chest, and the well-defined muscles
there. He found himself stealing glances whenever he thought his
companion would not notice it, and as he did so he found in himself a
little prickle of excitement that he could not explain. He was also
aware that the hunter himself seemed to have developed something of a
fascination with Stephen's altered form. Well, that was natural enough.

And then Stephen began to find his body not just dwindling but starting
to alter in other, more surprising ways. His waist stayed tiny, but his
hips appeared to be widening, and there was a swell and roundness to
his buttocks that seemed to fundamentally alter their shape. That was
odd enough, but he began to be aware of the cloth of his shirt rubbing
against his chest in a way he simply hadn't before.

When they stopped for the first time after he became aware of this,
Stephen took himself aside from the hunter and unbuttoned his shirt. He
found that his nipples had doubled in width, and each now sat atop a
tiny saucer of soft, sensitive flesh. He took a deep breath. So that
was the kind of person he was transforming into. He had been foolish
not to realise it before. It made perfect sense: an almost complete
change.

He refastened his shirt and went back to the camp. The hunter looked up
at him. "Is all well?"

Stephen nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think it is." He looked at the hunter
again, seeing for the first time not just as a travelling companion but
a man, a young and healthy man. There was the flicker of excited
tension again. He exhaled sharply.

"My friend... I think you ought to know that my transformation - it
will be an extreme one," Stephen said. "I am turning into a woman."

"I thought this might be so," said the hunter. "Do you wish that we
separate? Before your change is complete?"

"Oh, no! I mean, no," Stephen said, feeling himself blush.

"It is good," said the hunter, smiling.

From the next morning on the hunter seemed somehow solicitous of him,
an escort more than a travelling companion. Every word they spoke to
one another seemed to have acquired a secret extra meaning, and every
action seemed to have become a move in a game - approach, then retreat.
Feint, then attack. Deflect, then riposte. The game seemed only to
gather importance as his chest, hips and buttocks continued to swell.
Soon even his ill-fitting clothes could not disguise them. At the same
time, he found his anatomy elsewhere becoming less prominent, as if
losing importance as well as size.

"I am not going to Uldath," the hunter said one evening as they
prepared their meal.

Stephen had known that. "I will miss your company."

"And I yours. But I am willing to alter my journey a little and travel
with you longer... a few days more. If you wish it."

That would mean they parted company well after he took his final
draught of the changing water. He was quite sure now what the result of
that would be. "I do not wish you to inconvenience yourself," Stephen
said.

"It will be no inconvenience."

Stephen nodded, got up and turned away, not sure what to make of the
feelings crowding into him. "Thank you. I... I would hate to say my
farewells to you prematurely."

Then the hunter's arm was strong around his waist. He had moved so fast
and so silently... but Stephen found he felt no alarm, no sense of
threat. The hunter's lips were close to his ear.

"Have I made a mistake, Stephen?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling himself trembling. The
hunter's other hand was gently cupping one of his breasts now. He let
out a little sigh and reached behind him, stroked the hunter's thigh.
The hunter was unbuttoning his shirt now, and pulled it gently down off
his shoulders and arms. Stephen turned and stepped into his embrace,
helped him shoulder off his own vest. Within him there was only tumult,
but tinged with anticipation. He let loose his hair and shook it out as
the hunter kissed his mouth, his throat, his shoulder, picked him up
gently and then laid him down by the fire. It was so easy for him to
pull Stephen's trousers down and off, leaving him naked. The hunter
pulled at the cords holding his own loincloth up, and even by the
firelight Stephen could see they were equally enthused.

"Wait," Stephen whispered as the hunter knelt down beside him. "I..
can't satisfy you fully yet. My change is not yet complete. We must
wait."

The hunter nodded. "For everything?"

Stephen smiled, reached out gently for him. "Not for everything."

But in the morning, their journey had to continue, of course. Stephen
slipped his shirt back on, noting how the hem now hung down to the
middle of his thighs. Belted as it was with cord, it made a fine and
modest tunic by itself, as well as allowing whatever cool breeze there
was to reach his legs. He decided from that moment on to leave mannish
clothing behind him. It was only logical, if he was indeed intent on
embracing his altered state.

The hunter said nothing but Stephen sensed his approval. Even the shirt
was a garment from another realm, another life, as alien here as
Stephen was... as he had been. He realised there was truly no return
now to his old life, but the realisation brought him no distress or
shock. He had made his choice.

So as they travelled he did his best to make his garment still more
comfortable, and in the process unrecognisable. With the hunter's sharp
knife he trimmed away first the collar, then the sleeves. Only the
strange material of the buttons and design now marked him out as a
visitor to this world, that and the odd bag he still carried.

It seemed an age until once again eight knots sat upon the cord around
his waist. They both knew what that now meant. That night he sat and
drank the last of the water he had carried this far. The sensation it
produced was becoming familiar to him, and he felt oddly wistful that
he would probably never know it again.

In the morning, the womanliness of his whole aspect seemed somehow
stronger - and, more importantly, the last of his man's flesh had begun
to melt away in earnest. He was not yet ready to consummate his bond
with the hunter - but the moment could not be far away.

He found a carefreeness, almost a wilfulness, growing within him. His
personality was changing. He would happily kiss and caress the hunter
as they walked, whereas once such moments were reserved for their halts
or in the evening. And Stephen found himself thinking, behaving, and
reacting purely as a woman - indeed at these moments he was in truth a
she. These intervals of true womanhood came almost unnoticed at first
and were brief, for as soon as she became aware of them she would snap
back into her male self-image automatically. But as time passed they
grew longer and more frequent, and soon it was the case that she felt
of herself as female more often than male.

They reached a small town only a few days travel from the ancient
temple of Uldath, well-equipped with hostels and markets. They paused
there awhile, for Stephen wanted to rid himself of the last of his old
trappings. He traded his complicated bag of leather and buckles and all
its contents for a sizable pouch of coin, and with this he bought
himself a much simpler cloth bag more suited to this world and her
needs. From another stall he bought a light cotton bodice and a simple
long skirt. As soon as she could, she took the remnants of his old
shirt off for the last time and dressed in her new clothes. In the
looking glasses that dotted the marketplaces she could see no trace of
Stephen. She had become someone almost wholly new.

The hunter had bought her a necklace of many-coloured stones. It was
rare for him to be so openly affectionate and it touched her deeply.
She put it on without a word.

The next day they continued on. Stephen knew deep inside herself that
she was ready, and it was time for her to become a woman in the deepest
sense of the word. If she was quiet all that day as she contemplated
how far she had come, the hunter did not mention it. And that night
after they had eaten she stripped the clothes from both him and herself
and they lay together completely for the first time. And as the
universe seemed to stop and their flesh seemed to vibrate in unison,
she knew that the last of the person she had once been was dispelled
forever.

Afterwards they held each other close and the hunter whispered to her.
"Come with me. Come back to my homeland. You will want for nothing, and
every night can be like this. I will give you everything - rich foods,
fine clothes, children -"

The picture he painted was so tempting that she almost yielded to it,
but she shook her head with deep regret. "I have undertaken a quest for
wisdom. I must go to Uldath and complete it."

The hunter respected such things and did not try to persuade her
otherwise. "Then, if you can, once your quest is over - come to me,
Stephen. Become my woman in truth."

"I will try - but I am no longer Stephen. That name was a man's. I am a
woman. If you are serious in your offer, then you must choose a new
name for me."

This was a serious responsibility and the hunter thought long about it.
"I name you Iphe," he said.

"I accept that name," Iphe said. She smiled at him. "And will you now
tell me your name?"

The hunter smiled and nodded, and whispered it quickly in her ear.

The making of their love was so agreeable that they tarried a day or
two together solely for that purpose. But then necessity grew too great
and Iphe and her lover parted. It was strange for her to be travelling
alone again - indeed, it could be said she had never really been alone
before. But she had all she needed, and, while fond memories of her
time with the hunter sometimes made her wistful, she was sure of her
purpose. Soon the five great pillars of the temple of Uldath rose above
the horizon before her.

Legend said that within the temple lay a place where the universe was
as yet unfinished, the creator having been distracted by the wickedness
and stupidity of man while still about his work. Others said that it
marked the spot where the essence of evil had broken into creation, and
as such it had to be guarded. All Iphe knew was that it was a place of
great power and it would mark the end of her quest.

None came to Uldath lightly, and all who did come were welcomed by one
of the Grey Speakers, the masked and robed guardians of the temple. No-
one knew their origins or true nature, but the metallic rasp of their
voices unsettled many who encountered them.

Iphe had only entered the temple precincts, an obsidian maze of carved
stone, when one of the Speakers glided up to her.

"Why have you come to Uldath?"

She lowered her eyes respectfully. "I seek wisdom, sir."

"By what method?"

"I have come here from another world. I seek to remake myself and live
a second life, and thus discover greater truths."

"Are you committed to this path?"

"When I set out upon it I was a man, and a visitor. Now I am a woman,
and not a virgin. I have a name of this realm, clothing of it too. This
is my home now. I will not return to my realm of origin."

"Is this not remaking enough for wisdom?" The Speaker's voice was flat,
as if this were a catechism of set questions and responses.

"I was told to come here, sir."

"If this is your wish, we are bound to assist you. Follow."

Iphe's heart leapt into her mouth. Was it so easy? She walked after the
Speaker into the temple, down black-lit corridors into the very heart
of the edifice. Occasionally she spied other Speakers with their
charges in the distance, but averted her gaze respectfully.

Finally she was led to the doors of a chamber. The Speaker did not go
in. "The great winds of the infinite can be allowed into this room once
the doors are sealed. They will complete your transformation. Be
certain this is what you want - once you enter, the cycle must play
out."

A moment's foreboding - but soon it would be over, Iphe thought, and
then she could return to her hunter, become his wife. She found that
was what she wanted to do, once she had gained the wisdom she sought.
"I will enter."

"It is required that you give your name," the Speaker said.

"I am Iphe," she said, and as the Speaker inclined its head she strode
into the chamber. The stone door slid shut behind her almost silently.
The room was circular, with a high ceiling. In the centre of both floor
and ceiling was a dark shaft, and suspended at its centre was a
glittering, spinning thread of light. As she stared the shaft began to
thicken and flash, and more mundane winds began to pluck at her bodice
and skirt.

My transformation will be complete, Iphe thought, and wondered for the
first time what that meant. The thread of light was whirling and
rippling now, different colours racing from top to bottom and back
again. It was like a rainbow trapped inside a tornado.

My flesh is new, my personality is new, Iphe thought, stepping back a
little from the thread as it expanded even further. The room seemed
smaller than it first had and her back was almost pressed to the wall.
There is nothing left of the old Stephen, so how else can I be
transformed?

Sparks danced out from the spinning vortex and struck her. Memories
violently appeared in the forefront of her mind - her childhood as a
boy, her time at college... and yet they faded almost at once and she
could not recall any of their details. It came to her in a rush. I
cannot be wholly new if I was once Stephen, she thought. All the wind
would do would be to obliterate her memories of ever having been a
man... ever having remembered being a man.

"No!" But the thread was swelling unstoppably and her back was to the
wall. I should have known better wisdom, Iphe thought, as the burning
light swept into her. The wisdom to know when to abandon a quest. The
wisdom to have gone with a man I loved and who loved me. All she had
known was melting away, leaving her blank and fresh and new. And as the
last of who she had been was whipped away and dissolved, she did see
the truth she had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to reach... but
as the wind died and the thread became a thread once more, new memories
began to fill her head and she quietly forgot it.

The chamber door slid open and the young woman emerged uncertainly. The
Speaker was waiting for her when she did so, and continued to wait
until she spoke.

"I... I don't know who I am. Where - where is this place?"

"Your name is Iphe," the Speaker said. "This is the temple of Uldath."

"What am I doing here? What should I do now?"

"These things are for you to determine."

Iphe nodded and followed the Speaker as it led her away.

It was a small town and none too busy. The old man was frequently
bored, but he kept to his traditional shady spot in the marketplace,
feeling it was expected of him. The day seemed to show signs of
improving as he saw another stranger was in town. She was a slim, pale
woman with long, slightly curly golden hair, dressed in a simple bodice
and skirt, a simple necklace around her throat, with a travelling bag
over her shoulder. She noticed the old man looking at her and smiled
nervously at him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I - I don't know. Do you have a wise man or a mage in this village?"

"Why?"

"I - I don't really know what to do. I feel like there's something
really important I need to find out, but..." She shrugged, rather
becomingly.

"You seek wisdom," the old man said.

"Yes, I think I do. I wish I knew how to find it."

"There is a place," said the old man. "Leave this town along the north
road. Travel for a week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

Stripped Away

2011-01-09T18:32:10Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Category:StoryCategory:Transgender {{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}} As these things usually do, it came out of nowhere - well, almost. Certainly, there was no re…'

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]]
{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

As these things usually do, it came out of nowhere - well, almost.
Certainly, there was no real warning that both of their lives were
going to change so massively and irrevocably. That's not the right
way to put it, though, it gives the impression that Jamie's
experiences were just as traumatic as Tom's (she was called Tom then,
and, obviously, she was a he). Of course they weren't. But things got
pretty intense there for a while.

It was a Saturday morning, late summer, and Jamie was in bed,
half-asleep. He had nothing really planned for the weekend except for
maybe trying to arrange a footie game on the park that afternoon -
Tom kept talking about organising a proper team for the local Sunday
amateur league, but of course talk was all it was. His thoughts were
drifting along quite pleasantly when a scream reverberated around the
flat.

There was no doubt that it was Tom, it had a bass gruffness to it,
and besides Jamie's flatmate was the only other person who was in.
His first thought was one of surprise that Tom was awake that early
in the morning, his second that he must have got really drunk the
previous night and in a drunken haze brought someone really canine
home from the pub, and had just woken up next to them, unsuspecting.
But then he remembered that, very uncharacteristically, Tom had
stayed in last night and gone to bed early, complaining of nausea and
the sweats. That hadn't sounded like a sick man's shout - but still...

So he leapt out of bed, pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms, and went
across the hall to the door of Tom's room. Listening intently he
could just make out the sound of fast, urgent breathing.

'Tom! Are you all right?' he called.

'Don't come in!' His voice sounded fraught.

'What - ?' He'd been about to stick his head round the door. 'Tom,
what's wrong? You screamed.'

'I - uh, I had a nightmare,' he said.

'A nightmare? Jesus, Tom! I thought - I don't know what I thought,'
Jamie complained. He paused. 'If it was only a nightmare, why can't I
come in?'

Silence. 'Errr...'

'You bloody liar, it's more than just a bad dream, isn't it?'

He heard Tom groan. 'Okay, you may as well come in,' he said dismally.

The curtains were still drawn in Tom's bedroom and it took Jamie's
eyes a moment to adjust, but then he could make out his friend
sitting on the bed in a pair of boxers, with his back to him. He
seemed to be holding something to his chest, and his bowed head and
sagging shoulders hinted at a mood of utter despair.

'Tom?'

Tom glanced round, nodded a greeting, then stood up and turned to
face Jamie. Taking a deep breath, he let his hands fall to his sides,
revealing...

'Bloody hell, you've got tits,' Jamie said.

Not man-tits, either, these were the real deal: full, rounded, and
capped with wide fleshy nipples. It was sort of hard to judge how big
they actually were, mainly because Jamie wasn't used to seeing
breasts growing out of his six-foot-four best friend's chest, and
partly because the flesh around them still being quite hairy was a
bit off putting. Tom looked completely normal apart from his chest -
still as big and clumsy and male as ever, coarse dark hair cropped
short, square face looking grim.

'It must be the Girl Flu,' Tom mumbled, staring down at himself.

'Shit. Must be,' Jamie agreed, still mesmerised at the sight.

The Girl Flu was a bit of an urban legend, for all that it was real -
science knew so little about what it was, where it had come from, how
it worked, why it affected some people but not others, that it
retained an almost magical quality in the public imagination. Science
had christened it APFS - Acquired Progressive Feminisation Syndrome -
but that only served to highlight their true ignorance of it.
Everyone else called it Girl Flu, because it had flu-like symptoms to
begin with, and turned men into women so convincingly some
gynaecologists had trouble identifying sufferers.

'What are the odds? Five thousand to one? Ten?' Tom slumped back down
onto the bed.

'Something like that,' Jamie agreed. 'Look, mate, you'd better get
yourself to the doctor. They need to check you over and see how far
advanced it is. They've got drugs and stuff that can, I don't know,
hold it off. Keep you the way you are now, before...' He shrugged.
'Before anything else starts changing.'

'I've already got bloody knockers! How much worse can it get?'

'Tom, which do you want to be - a man with knockers, or a woman?'

That got through. Tom looked up sharply. 'Yeah, I suppose you're
right. Are there any doctors open on a Saturday morning?'

Jamie shrugged. 'Dunno. You might have to go to A&E, they should be
able to help you.'

'Right...' Still clearly ill-at-ease with his new anatomy, Tom reached
for a T-shirt and some jeans - then, clearly having second thoughts,
he crossed over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a tattered old
T-shirt he rarely ever worse. Face set, he started tearing it into
strips.

*

Jamie felt kind of obliged to go to hospital with Tom. His potential
embarrassment, though clearly only miniscule compared with his
friend's, was entirely offset by the success of Tom's ploy as far as
binding up his chest went. Tom was such a big guy anyway that a few
extra curves didn't really show at all. But Tom was clearly
uncomfortable as they waited in the A&E department, and topics of
conversation were not forthcoming.

Finally, after over an hour's wait, Tom was called to the desk. It
had been agreed that he would see the doctor alone. Jamie passed the
time reading and re-reading the waiting area magazines. It was
another hour before Tom reappeared, not looking particularly
reassured.

Jamie waited until they were in the car and heading back to the flat
before speaking. 'Well? What did they say?'

'They won't know for sure until they've run some tests on the samples
I gave - but they think it's only just started to affect me
physically,' Tom said. 'They kind of implied I'd been lucky - a lot
of people have their skin, hair, joints changed first, and don't
recognise it for what it is until they grow breasts or -' He took a
deep breath. 'By which time it's too far advanced to do anything
about. So - if they're right - there's a good chance I can go onto
drugs that'll keep it from progressing. Then I can think about
surgery to take these damn things off.'

'So... it's good news, then?'

Tom made a noncommittal sound. 'Blood tests and so on will take about
a week, so any other changes that happen in that time I'm stuck with.
There shouldn't be any, unless this is one of the really virulent
strains, but still...' He shook his head in dismay.

Jamie waited a moment before asking his next question. 'Did they sign
you off work?'

'No. They advised me to tell my line manager about my condition and
gave me the address of a surgical appliance shop,' Tom said. 'There's
a kind of a... crap, it's a kind of a corset, to hide my boobs. I
suppose anything's better than turning up to the office in a
Wonderbra.' He laughed sourly, and for the first time that morning
actually looked like the man Jamie knew. That was comforting, in its
own way.

*

Tom went to be fitted with his corset alone - it didn't seem fair to
drag Jamie along, and he had to start dealing with his peculiar
circumstances alone sooner or later. Much to his relief, he was
assisted by a pair of matronly women in their fifties, whose approach
was austerely clinical. To his surprise they had a 'restrainer' in
his size in stock. It looked like a quilted white vest, slightly
padded, with a whole variety of straps and stays at various points
about it. Quite soon, Tom looked completely normal with the device
hidden beneath his shirt, but his breasts were beginning to throb at
being crushed in this manner. Well, he had no choice, Tom told
himself - he had work on Monday, and this was his only choice right
now.

The ache across his chest notwithstanding, things were almost back to
normal by Sunday night - he missed the Saturday afternoon footie
kickabout because of his fitting, but everything else was normal.
That was hopeful, maybe soon this would all be just a memory of a
very weird weekend.

Tom's hopes of normalcy were bolstered the next day when he went to
work. He didn't attract a single comment or stare from the rest of
the guys in the department - and, as he worked in IT, discretion and
empathy were hardly their strong suit - and when he reluctantly had a
quiet word with his boss about his altered situation, the man looked
highly sceptical and had to be shown a doctor's note to be convinced.

But his optimism took a blow throughout Tuesday and Wednesday as the
pain in his breasts slowly intensified. The original dull ache slowly
turned into a burning pain and he began to find himself occasionally
short of breath.

He was sprawled in front of the TV on Wednesday night with Jamie -
England were playing a friendly - when it all got too much for him.
He reached under his shirt and started fumbling with the stays on his
restrainer.

'What's up?' Jamie looked concerned.

'This damn thing. Feels like it's getting tighter and tighter...' Tom
groaned in frustration and hauled off his shirt, and started
unfastening the appliance in earnest. With a final sigh of relief he
wriggled it off and sat back, luxuriating in the blissful sensations
coming from his freed breasts.

'I hate to say this...' Jamie stared at them, then up at his face. 'But
I think they're getting bigger. They look larger, and it would
explain why your - your thingy started crushing them.'

Tom stared down at them. On any other person - any other female
person, he corrected himself - they would have been awesome,
magnificent - but on him they just seemed like twin tormentors. Two
days until his test results came back and he could start putting them
behind him. So to speak.

A little adjustment to the restrainer and Tom was able to compromise
between comfort and discretion, although his boobs were bulging
through his shirt and suit more than he was really comfortable with.
God, I'm going to enjoy getting you off my chest, he thought
venomously, on more than one occasion.

*

Tom took Friday afternoon off work to see his consultant up at the
hospital, and didn't get home until after Jamie had come in. 'A hoy
hoy!' he called, slamming the door behind him.

Jamie could tell from his tone that it was good news and breathed a
sigh of relief. 'What did they say?' he called.

Tom came into the lounge and flopped down onto the sofa. 'They were
right first time,' he said. 'Virtually nothing else has changed yet,
thank God.' He held up a white plastic bottle that rattled as he
shook it. 'And as long as I take one of these every twelve hours,
nothing else is going to. Christ, parts of this week haven't been a
lot of fun, but it could have been so much worse...'

'What's in the pills?'

Tom shrugged. 'I wasn't really listening, I was so relieved.
Synthetic hormones, vitamins, that kind of thing.'

'And the, er, surgical option?'

'They want me to hang on for a couple of months to make sure there
aren't any side effects from the medication. But after that...' He
mimed a snipping sensation with both hands. 'Maybe I'll get them
stuffed and mounted - the breasts that tried to conquer Tom Barker.
What's on TV?'

*

It was another brilliantly sunny weekend and as usual Tom and Jamie
met up with their friends on the local park for a game of four a side
football. Jamie was quietly still a bit worried about his friend -
while professing to be quite his old self, he'd been a little subdued
all morning and looked pale.

But he threw himself into the game with his usual mad abandon,
hurling his weight about, apparently having forgotten his situation.
He had the restrainer on under his shirt, of course, and Jamie had to
admit he could barely see any sign of it, no matter how hard he
looked. He turned his attention back to the game, took the ball off
the opposition with a well-timed tackle. Now - he booted it down the
field towards Tom, who, as usual, leapt up to take the ball against
his torso preparatory to making his shot on goal. The ball thumped
against the centre of Tom's chest -

- and he collapsed on the ground with a yelp of pain. Jamie swore and
ran over to him. He was in a foetal position and his eyes glittered
with helpless tears. Everyone else was standing around in total
confusion.

'Tom, man, come on,' Jamie whispered. 'Are you okay? Was it the -?'

Tom struggled to his feet, still helplessly clutching his chest. 'I'm
okay,' he managed to say. 'It just caught me in the wrong spot.
Sorry, guys, I think I'll sit the rest of this one out.'

Jamie finished the game as Tom lay sprawled against a tree, clearly
still in some discomfort. Eventually it was over and the group
splintered off as usual. Jamie went over to him. 'Sorry, man. Forgot.'

'So did I,' Tom said sourly. 'They're so bloody sensitive! I doubt
that'll change even after the surgery.'

'Is that all? I wouldn't ask, but... you've seemed a bit off all day.'

'I feel like shit,' Tom said. 'Headache, no appetite, tiredness...
Jesus. It's these pills. Side effects.'

'I'm sorry,' Jamie said. He knew full well that Tom would be on this
medication for the rest of his life, some unforeseeable breakthrough
notwithstanding, and that the side effects might well continue all
that time. Somehow 'sorry' seemed so inadequate.

'Give me a hand up,' Tom muttered. With Jamie's aid he clambered to
his feet. 'Let's go home. I need a lie down.'

*

Six and a half weeks later Tom sat in the saloon bar of a pub near
his office, nursing a coke with lemon and half-listening to his
colleagues banter and laugh with one another. Booze was out of the
question while he was on the medication - any kind of strenuous
physical activity, come to that. Not to mention spicy foods or
getting less than nine hours sleep every single night. Any departure
from this regimen brought splitting headaches, dizziness, nausea and
diarrhea, and a total lack of energy. As it was he felt fairly
listless and there was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. He was
losing weight, but from the relentless ache of his confined breasts -
as familiar and unnoticed to him now as his heartbeat or pulse - it
seemed that they at least were as large as ever.

God, what had happened to his life? He couldn't play sports, drink
with the lads, go out for a curry or to a club. He was ... boring. He
bored himself. Jamie had stayed in with him out of solidarity, for
the first few weeks, until he'd chased him out - no sense in both of
them becoming recluses.

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! he thought harshly. This is the
price you're paying for staying a man, so stop whinging and be
grateful for what you've still got. Admittedly, his breast reduction
surgery had not been sanctioned due to his side effect problems, but
he still had... well, his male body, for all that it was rather prone
to illness now. His only other option was to stop taking the pills
and let APFS slowly transform him into a woman. And femininity had no
appeal for him whatsoever.

The pub jukebox abruptly faded and lights came up around the small
stage at the back of the saloon. There was a buzz of conversation as
the barman spoke into his PA system. 'Good afternoon, everyone, and
welcome to our regular Wednesday afternoon entertainment here at the
Green Dragon. And starting us off today is a young lady who's been a
big success here in the past... give a big hand for the lovely
Marianne!'

A girl came on stage in a glitzy floor-length evening gown,
elbow-length silk gloves, and fur wrap, as brassy music blared out of
the speakers. The lunchtime crowd was suddenly energised, moving
forward to surround the stage and get the best possible view. And Tom
found he was... he wasn't sure what he was, actually, but he was moving
forward towards the stage as if under compulsion. Something about the
stripper's utter self-assurance and the total hold she had over the
audience, it was connecting with something deep inside... deep inside a
part of him he'd never realised was there before. He found himself
flushing and starting to sweat as his nipples buzzed with sensation
and his cock twitched excitedly. He'd not felt this way since before
the Flu. And... he was jealous, jealous of the dancer, for being so
composed and graceful and having such a great wardrobe. No reason to
be jealous, he told himself, your breasts are at least as good as
hers... and with the realisation that he was right, came a surge of
pride, quickly followed by a cold chill. He was proud of his breasts
for the first time.

Unable to tear himself away, he stayed to watch the rest of Marianne's
set and those of the other dancers, quietly trying to note what they
did that looked good, what wasn't quite so successful, trying to
assimilate the art of striptease... But why? Why was he doing this? Did
he seriously want to...

Haltingly he rang the office and called in sick for the afternoon -
it was hardly implausible, his colleagues had been saying he looked
ill for over a month. And he went home. In his bedroom he slid off
his jacket and dropped it on the bed, then unfastened his tie and
pulled that off too. His shirt was next, and then the hated
restrainer, clawing at the ties and straps before yanking it off.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his reflection, enjoying
the slope and heaviness of his full, firm breasts, toying with the
nipples... It was just a shame the hairiness of his chest and shoulders
spoilt their setting. He went through into the bathroom and after a
moment picked up the shaving cream.

Fifteen minutes later his chest, stomach, shoulders and arms were
shaved bare. God, his breasts were gorgeous. He imagined himself up
on the stage, every eye on him, proud and graceful, exuding sexual
heat as he... well, he'd have to think about exactly what he was going
to do. The voice of reason from earlier spoke up, quieter and only
half-hearted now: are you serious? This is irreversible. Once you
start, you won't be able to stop...

So I'd better start before I change my mind, Tom thought to himself,
frightened and excited by the thought. He opened the medicine cabinet
and took out his anti-APFS pills, looked in the bottle. Nearly a
month's supply left. Abruptly, almost as if trying to surprise
himself, he turned the bottle over and tipped the lot down the
toilet, then flushed it away.

He turned back to surveying his reflection, thinking; come on out,
striptease queen, I'm waiting for you...

*

Jamie wasn't sure, but he thought something was up with Tom. Not the
usual side effects trouble, either - it seemed so unfair that his
friend was suffering so much from his condition, but if anything,
lately it seemed as if they weren't troubling him nearly as much.
Jamie's relief at this was countered by... well, his vague sense that
Tom was hiding something from him. He'd started spending a lot of
time in his room, with the door locked, doing only God knew what.
Unmarked packages of various kinds had started arriving for Tom, only
to vanish and never be spoken of again.

And there was his Discman. He had a cordless CD player, where the
headphones weren't physically connected to the actual unit, and Tom
had asked to borrow it one night. He hadn't seen it again for over a
week and when he had found it lying around, the disc in it was called
'Thirty Great Burlesque Tunes'. What the hell was that all about? Tom
had basically given him a non-answer, of course.

Still - in a weird way Tom did seem happier, more at ease with
himself. He looked like he'd started to put back on some of the
weight he'd lost during the worst of the side effects trouble, he
looked rounder in the face and his hair had a healthy glossiness to
it, for all that it was turning into an untidy mop. He seemed more
confident that his condition was a secret, too, because it looked
like he'd relaxed the settings on his restrainer. There were now two
quite visible bulges under his clothing for anyone to notice who
happened to look that way. Tom didn't seem to notice at all. It was
as if he was utterly preoccupied with something else.

*

Am I a man or a woman? Tom silently asked himself, looking at his
naked reflection in the mirror. Force of habit tempted him to say
male, but it was a borderline case, either way. His whole body was
softer and more rounded, to say nothing of his magnificent 36C
breasts. He cupped and stroked them lovingly. His face was still
quite masculine, and he was still easily over six foot in height.
But, since stopping the pills, he'd not had to shave his chest or
arms again and almost all his other body hair had fallen cleanly out.
The hair on his head had started growing much faster recently, and
he'd not needed to shave his jaw or throat for nearly a week.

Okay, he told himself, today was the day. Jamie was away visiting
family for the weekend so the coast was clear. He slid on the black
Lycra briefs, momentarily grimacing at the way the cowed remnants of
his cock and balls bulged between his creamy thighs. Then the
brassiere, the same colour and fabric. God, his cleavage looked
fantastic. It seemed a pity to hide it under the silky pink blouse,
but there was no sense in giving out freebies, he thought with a
smile. The light grey jacket and trousers of one of his business
suits were just about gender-neutral enough to work.

Finishing touches. He opened a drawer and took out lipstick and
eye shadow, and with a skill born of many hours practice applied both.
Now he looked definitely feminine, for all his size. He squirted a
handful of hair gel into one palm and set to slicking back his hair
as severely as he could, gathering the ends into a tight bun at the
back of his head. From under the bed came a pair of smart black
high-heeled shoes - how many miles had he tottered up and down this
room, learning the effortlessly sassy and graceful stride he'd wanted
to acquire? High heels gave him a towering height advantage over most
men, but hell, he thought, Xena's a popular show, why shouldn't it
work for me too?

Looking in the mirror he barely recognised himself. 'Big girl,' Tom
whispered approvingly, picking up a new leather handbag and slinging
it over one shoulder. He nodded, smiled dazzlingly to himself, and
strode out to take on the world, for the first time as a woman.

The stares he drew around the town! Enough to make the nape of his
neck tingle in the most delightful way. Men couldn't take their eyes
off him, they were held captive by a mixture of desire and
intimidation. For a while Tom just sashayed around, loving the new
perspective he'd been gifted with. His breasts were tingling and
aching, but in a good way, somehow.

But he had things to do: a visit to a bodypiercer and tattooist,
then a jeweller's. Ann Summers proved an irresistible lure to the new
Tom. Tom, Tom, he thought to himself, not a very sexy name. He should
be thinking of a new name for his...

...oh, well, his stage persona. He'd been through the logic of his
choice a hundred times, rationalised it a hundred times more. But the
prospect of actually doing it, getting up in front of an audience,
seemed to undercut his newfound self-confidence.

He went into the Green Dragon and ordered a glass of red wine, took
it through into the saloon. The stage was dark and empty, but it was
here he'd seen her, Marianne, the girl who'd inspired him to this.
Could he really be up there some day soon, commanding the crowd,
peeling off garment after garment? The prospect thrilled and
terrified him at the same time. Oh, if it worked, if he was a
success, what a woman he would have become! But he could just as
easily imagine the baying contempt of the audience for this enormous
lump who presumed to think they would find her attractive...

The hand holding the wine glass shook. Tom put it down. He had to
know for sure before he dared to try it in front of a crowd of
strangers. Was he the woman, the performer, he'd hoped he would
become? Or just a deluded fool who'd discarded his own gender like a
badly-fitting pair of shoes? There was only one way to find out, he
realised, stomach prickling, and no real reason to delay...

*

Jamie let himself into the flat, glad to be home at last. Family was
cool, but there was something to be said for distance, too. 'Hellooo?
Tom?' he called. 'I'm back.'

'I'm in here,' Tom's voice came through his bedroom door. It sounded
oddly muffled and slightly nervy. 'How was your weekend?'

'Oh, you know, okay. How have you been?' He put his hand on the doorknob

'Don't come in!' Tom sounded almost horrified. 'Look, I need a big
favour from you. Someone I'd like you to meet, it'd mean a lot to me...'

'Oh - sure, yeah,' Jamie said, mystified. 'When?'

'Well... now. Just go into the lounge and sit down on the sofa and
you'll see what I mean.'

All the furniture in the lounge had been pushed back to the walls,
except the sofa and a folding chair that had been placed a few feet
in front of it, side-on. The lights were low and the stereo's power
supply was on. Jamie looked around in bemusement and sank onto the
sofa.

'Okay then,' he said dubiously.

The stereo sprang into life, a rapid solo drumbeat that was quickly
taken up by other percussion and brass - a big, lush, brazen tune,
the kind of thing he could imagine... but his attention was seized as
someone strode lazily into the room.

He barely recognized Tom at first, for all that he was wearing the
black jacket, trousers and waistcoat of one of his smartest suits.
His face looked different, he wore makeup, lipstick, and his lashes
were almost absurdly full. His hair was slicked back into a bun and
golden hoops swung beneath each earlobe. He didn't appear to be
wearing either shirt or restrainer beneath his waistcoat, but the
shallow V of the garment's neck meant only a few inches of skin were
revealed. His legs looked so long... which was because he was wearing
open-toed high-heeled shoes, and - from the look of things - dark
stockings, too.

'Tom, what the -' he started to say, but Tom put a finger to his lips
and smiled as circled the chair with the same careful, insolent walk.
Something about the way Tom moved to the music, and his own response
to it, was making Jamie uncomfortable. Tom stopped, started to pluck
the buttons of his jacket undone one by one, still smiling. 'Welcome
to the other me,' he said in a breathy, contralto voice.

'Tom... what's all this about?' he inquired helplessly. Tom smiled,
writhed his shoulders, letting the jacket slide off them and down his
bare arms. 'Not Tom, not any more,' he whispered. 'Call me... Cat.' The
suit jacket fell to the floor and was kicked away.

'Cat? What the -' Jamie rose, looked around for the stereo control,
but was effortlessly shoved back into his seat. 'Don't get up on my
account,' Tom said, placing a foot on the folding chair and deftly
unfastening the straps on one shoe. 'Why spoil the show for yourself?'

'Show? I don't know what you're thinking,' Jamie said as his friend
repeated the procedure with the other foot, 'but I... I'm really not
into this...'

'Oh no?' Tom strode over, energetically swinging his hips in time
with the music. Almost delicately he unfastened the belt on his
trousers and unthreaded it, then started to unfasten them. Jamie
swallowed hard: he was noticing the subtle changes in his friend's
body and behaviour. 'Just tell me to stop, then...'

But before Jamie could speak his friend's ample backside was swaying
back and forth before him as the trousers were gradually slid down,
revealing inch after inch of creamy buttock, a new bluebird tattoo
just visible low on the hip. This wasn't a man, couldn't be, Jamie
thought wildly, feeling an erection appear out of nowhere.

The trousers finally fell and the woman who had been Tom stepped out
of them, clad in stockings, a matt black thong and a dark waistcoat.
She went back to the chair, smiled at him. 'You're very quiet... do you
want Cat to stop?'

'N-no,' Jamie spluttered, hating himself for being an accomplice to
this ruination of his friend.

'So what do you say?'

'Please, Cat... carry on,' he whispered.

'My pleasure, darling,' Cat said with a dazzling smile, plucking open
her waistcoat a button at a time, revealing those gorgeous breasts in
a black bra. She wriggled out of the waistcoat and twirled it around
her head before throwing it aside. Jamie didn't trust himself to
speak, breathing hard, unable to grasp what was happening.

Cat crossed her arms in front of her and twitched both bra straps off
her shoulders at once, then slid her arms out of them. Only the clasp
at the back kept the bra in place and her breasts covered. With one
hand she held it there as with the other the clasp was unhooked. The
fabric sagged off her breasts and she quickly used both arms to hold
it against her. Then, using one forearm to cover her nipples, she
whipped it away and held it out at arm's length before letting it
fall.

Finally, she dropped both arms to place her hands on her hips,
exposing her breasts and swaying with the beat of the music. Jamie
swallowed and fought to control the mixture of revulsion and extreme
arousal he felt. The music seemed to go on forever, but eventually
faded away.

'Well?' Cat asked. Her voice was rougher and a little deeper, but
still feminine. She folded her arms and looked at him. Jamie couldn't
meet her gaze.

'Well what?' he muttered, looking away. 'For God's sake... put some
clothes on, will you?'

'Okay. Give me two minutes,' Cat said, collecting up her costume and
striding out of the room.

When she returned, rather more than two minutes later, she was Tom -
that is, Jamie recognised him as something closer to his old self,
chest strapped up, hair the familiar scruffy tangle, no makeup or
jewellery, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. Back on familiar
territory, Jamie felt better able to express himself.

'What the hell was that all about? Are you trying to freak me out or
something? That was... that was sick.' Realisation sank in. 'You're off
your meds, aren't you? You're letting yourself turn into a woman?
Why?'

Tom sighed. 'On the medication... well, you saw me. I had no quality of
life, couldn't do anything I enjoyed. Now I can.'

'And one of the things you enjoy is pretending to be a stripper?'
Jamie said curtly.

'Don't be a knob. Look, I can pass as a man if I want to, even now,
and I don't see why that should have to stop. But I'll admit that...'
he sighed, '...there are parts of me that are female and they need a
release, a kind of safety valve. And Cat's going to be that safety
valve. I'm still going to be me most of the time, masculine... but for
an hour or two a week I'm going to be ultra-feminine Cat, the
stripper.'

'So I can expect this kind of thing twice a week from now on?' Jamie
stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't be daft. I just wanted to be sure I had what it takes before
going in front of a real audience. I knew I had to tell you sooner or
later, and...' he smiled. 'You're my best mate. I wanted your opinion.'

'Jesus. You're going up on stage to take all your clothes off while
blokes howl at you?' Jamie shook his head.

'Well, I'll probably leave the thong on, I'm hoping to work a higher
class of club, you know, stage-work not pole- or lap-dancing... and I
seem to recall we used to go and howl at dancers quite a bit.'

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. 'That was different.'

'Oh, yeah, of course,' Tom said sardonically, and suddenly they were
laughing and the tension was dispelled.

'This is messed up, man. How long do you think you'll be able to keep
this a secret?' Jamie asked.

Tom shrugged. 'As long as I need to. Come on, let's go down the pub.'

*

And so Jamie got used, if that was quite the word, to finding silk
evening gloves and feather boas in the oddest places in the flat, as
Tom invested in proper costumes for his prospective new career. To
Jamie's surprise his friend's Amazonian height and insistence on
old-style burlesque stripping gave him novelty value on the dancing
circuit and within a week or two 'Black Cat Beaumont' had a regular
Wednesday lunchtime slot at the Green Dragon. Jamie decided not to go
along, partly because his one encounter with Cat had been the most
alarming experience of his life, and partly out of a wish not to
distract his friend. The weirdest thing was that Tom's main paycheck
still came from his regular day job. He just took a long lunch on the
Wednesday, left the office in his suit, changed into Cat's civilian
clothes, went to the pub and did her set, changed back, and was back
at his desk by half past two. Jamie privately wondered what this was
doing to his friend psychologically, given that he was often
stripping in front of his own workmates, but decided not to raise it
with him. He certainly gave every impression of knowing his own mind,
and was making a very tidy sum every week from dancing. Life together
in the flat required a few subtle adjustments, though, quite apart
from finding bras, thongs, and evening dresses in the washing basket.

'God, Tom, could you do me a favour?' Jamie said one morning, finding
himself in a particularly grumpy mood. 'Do you mind washing the bath
out after you shave your... shave yourself. There's a ring of... bits all
round the edge.'

Tom didn't look up from the News of the World. 'Okay. Provided you
start remembering to leave the seat down in the toilet.'

'It's a deal... what did you say?' Jamie blinked and stared at him.

'Well, you're the only one who puts the damn thing up, aren't you?'
He looked up at Jamie's shocked expression and sighed. He glanced
meaningfully down at his own crotch. 'I don't have the plumbing for
that any more.'

'Oh. Man.' (Tom raised an eyebrow.) 'I didn't think...' Jamie sat down
at the table. 'You've completely changed? You're a woman now?'

'Far as I can tell.' For the first time Tom looked uncomfortable. 'I
knew it was going to happen, it's no big deal. I'm still me, aren't
I?'

'Most of the time, yeah,' Jamie smiled. But he couldn't help watching
his friend's retreating back in a new light.

*

After about two months of working at the Green Dragon on Wednesdays,
Tom was sure that Cat was one of the best strippers there. Her hair
had grown long enough to be put up in a high, fancy style, and while
this made it slightly more difficult to arrange in a suitably
careless, scruffy, and male ponytail the rest of the time, it was
worth it. Her routines were stylish and varied enough to ensure
healthy repeat business and it amused him that some of his managers
were effectively giving him a hefty bonus each week, albeit through
an unsuspected channel.

Then, on the way out after a set one day, a middle-aged man
approached Cat in the company of the Dragon's landlord. Propositions
of various kinds pretty much went with the striptease territory, but
this guy was different. The man ran one of the best known pub venues
and had heard about Cat's appearance on the scene. He was offering
her two lunchtimes a week on Tuesday and Thursday, plus a Saturday
evening spot. The moneymaking potential, he said, was significantly
better.

But I'm not really doing this for the money, Tom thought absently,
even as he heard Cat agree with alacrity. Hell, he thought, the money
is nice and... I really do enjoy this. She smiled at the man and left
the pub, ready to go back to the office.

'I'm going up in the world,' Tom announced on his return home that
night, stowing Cat's costume in the hall.

'Oh yeah? You get that team supervisor job?' Jamie was watching the TV.

'Er, no. I've been offered two lunchtimes and an evening every week,
dancing at the Flags,' he said proudly.

'And you said yes?' Jamie looked at him oddly.

'Yeah, why not. It's good money and I enjoy the work. I'm good at it,
too,' he smiled.

'Yes, but... what happened to only an hour or two a week, just to give
vent to those female qualities you were unfortunately lumbered with?
You're not actually starting to enjoy being a woman, are you?'

'Look, if I enjoyed it, I'd do it in my spare time. It's only a few
hours a week,' Tom said. 'I was going to suggest we go down the pub
to celebrate, but if you...'

'No, no, I'll come.' Jamie stood up. 'What time are you on stage?'

'Piss off,' Tom grinned. 'No stage, only a pool table.'

*

There was indeed a pool table and luckily for them it was free. Tom
plonked down a huge pile of 50p pieces and Jamie started racking up
the balls. It had been a long time since either of them had played,
but even so Tom was surprised when he badly lost the first three
games. It suddenly came to him that his new physique was affecting
his play - even strapped back, his breasts were keeping him from
getting down on the shots, and the subtle changes in his height and
arm joints were also throwing his shots off.

He missed a particularly easy ball into the centre pocket, and angry
with himself, glanced back over his shoulder, expecting to see a
gleeful smirk on Jamie's face. Jamie wasn't even looking at the game,
he was attentively watching... Tom's backside as he bent over the
table, amply filling the seat of his jeans as it did.

'Oi,' Tom said, rattled somehow and yet feeling a nervous, excited
lurch in the pit of his stomach.

'What? Sorry. Distracted,' Jamie said lightly, and moved to the table.

Of course, after that Tom's game fell to bits even more. He felt
nervous and embarrassed every time he had to get down on a shot and
his hands were trembling very slightly for some reason. He only won
three games all night and two of those were because Jamie fouled when
potting the black. Eventually they gave the table up and sat down at
a table in the corner.

'You were off your game tonight,' Jamie said casually, sipping his lager.

'Yeah,' Tom said, nursing his own drink. It had been a mistake to
stick with Jamie pint for pint, his own capacity was so much less
now. He tutted to himself, annoyed at how tipsy he already felt.

'Is something wrong? We come here to celebrate your... promotion,'
Jamie said carefully, 'but you just seem... I don't know, stressed out.'

Tom sighed. 'I... I don't want to talk about it.'

'Oh. Okay. If it's the game, hell, you're out of practice, that's
all, I wouldn't worry - '

'It's not the bloody game,' Tom whispered hotly. 'All right, if you
really must know... what's stressing me out is that you were checking
out my arse every time I bent over the table.'

'Not every time,' Jamie objected.

'It's not a joke! Christ, I'm here as a man, not as... her.'

Jamie shrugged. 'You both have very similar arses though. The pair of
you are, well, identical, and - '

'I really, really don't like the idea of you thinking of me as a -
oh, God - sex object like that, that's all. Most of the time I'm
still a man, and that's that.'

'Listen, mate,' Jamie said reasonably, 'if you didn't want me to
think of you as a sex object you shouldn't have done that extremely
sexy striptease in front of me with the arse and the tits and all.
That's kind of lodged in my memory now, and certain things refresh my
memory.'

'That wasn't me... it was Cat...'

'Oh, bullshit,' Jamie sighed. 'You're the same person, Tom, you have
the same body and the same mind and all of that. You know what I
think? All that stuff about 'safety valves' and 'giving vent to your
femininity' - it's just excuses. All along, deep down you just wanted
to be a buxom stripper and the Flu gave you an excuse to go through
with it.'

Tom felt his eyes sting. 'That's crap,' he whispered feebly. 'I'm
only her for a few hours a week. I still have Tom's job, I wear Tom's
clothes.'

'Yeah, but Cat's already trebled her time in charge. I think going
from man to woman all at once would just be too big a wrench so
you're slowly making the transition a bit at a time.'

'And... and what do you think about that?' Tom asked hollowly, Jamie's
words resonating in his mind with a horrible truthfulness.

Jamie shrugged. 'Look, I don't care about the gender studies side of
it. You're my best friend, whoever you choose to be, and I want you
to be happy and I'll do what I can to help you, it doesn't matter
whether or not I - ' He broke off. 'Never mind.'

'No, go on. You've been candid enough so far,' Tom said with a wry smile.

'Okay... Whether or not I really fancy Cat. Which I do,' Jamie
admitted. He glanced away, face reddening, then stood up. 'Going for
a slash,' he mumbled and walked away.

He fancies me. Oh my God, Tom thought, feeling his own cheeks start
to burn. He stared at Jamie's retreating back and found his attention
slipping down to Jamie's own moderately athletic backside. Which is
worse - that, or the fact that I can see myself fancying him?

*

The whole sexual orientation side to APFS was something Tom had
recoiled from at the time of his diagnosis and never really summoned
up the courage to go back to after stopping his medication. Like so
much else about the condition, it seemed completely random - some
kept their usual orientation, becoming effectively lesbians, others
changed orientation along with body and stayed heterosexual. A
significant minority became enthusiastically bi.

It had been stupid of him not to at least think about what might
happen to him in that respect. Oddly enough, even while up on stage
as Cat, he'd never thought of stripping as an explicitly sexual act.
His libido seemed to have been absent ever since the Flu had kicked
in, not that he'd noticed it was gone. But now desire was showing
signs of return, and in a much-changed form.
Nothing overpowering or too unusual, just absent-minded thoughts like
'nice bum' or 'he's got sexy eyes' while at work or elsewhere. Tom
had to admit it: he was beginning to fancy men.

For a while at least he had too much on his plate to worry overmuch
about this, switching over to his new three-times-a-week dancing
schedule. The two long lunches this demanded played havoc with his
hours at his 'proper' job, and he had to sell his manager some story
about his treatment needing special attention. He frankly didn't
really care that this was a very fragile lie: his day job was a
tedious slog now compared to the delight and excitement of being up
on stage as Cat. The extra money was very useful too, for new
costumes and jewellery and other more routine items.

But there remained an odd tension back at home. He and Jamie had
never really discussed what had passed between them that night in the
pub, but it remained a constant presence in their relationship, like
a ticking time bomb. Eventually Tom got tired of it being there.

*

They both habitually knocked off early from work on Friday, thanks to
the joys of the flexi system. Tom's lunchtime commitments tended to
cut into how soon he could get away, though, and Jamie was therefore
quite surprised to arrive home one Friday and find Tom already there,
slouched on the sofa in footie shirt and jeans, watching the TV.

'Oh, hello,' Jamie said. 'You're home early.'

Tom shrugged. 'Sod the flexi deficit, I just had to get out of there.
How was your day?'

'Oh, you know.' Jamie flopped down next to him. 'Watching Countdown?'

'Yeah. Nothing else on. Err... you doing anything tonight?'

'Nothing planned. Why, have you?'

'Thought about a spot of pubbing and clubbing. You up for it?'

'Er, yeah,' Jamie said, a little mystified: Tom had pretty much
abandoned all that since his change had completed.

'One thing though...' Tom stared at his lap then up at Jamie with
desperate eyes. 'I thought you'd want to go out with Cat, not me.'

'What...? You mean... I thought Cat was just -'

'Oh, come on... we've already discussed that. You're right. I am Cat, I
can't deny it, and I want to know what it feels like to be... a woman
in a normal situation, not just up on a stage peeling things off.
Even if only for a little while. You said you'd help -'

Jamie shook his head a little incredulously. 'I also said I really
fancied Cat.'

'Me. You really fancied me,' Tom said.

'Okay. I really fancy you, when you... you're dressed as a woman. Hell,
the rest of the time too, but especially then. And if we go out
together for this kind of evening, it's going to seem like a date - a
weird date, okay, but still a date. Are you okay with that? Cos I'm
not sure I am.'

'To be honest, I'm petrified,' Tom said with a nervous smile. 'But I
can tell you are too, so I don't mind. And... a date was sort of what I
was thinking of, too.'

'Okay then,' Jamie said with a smile.

'But this is just an experiment,' Tom said quickly. 'I'm still going
to be Tom around the house and at work after tonight, I'm not making
the switch -' He broke off, the word 'yet' left unsaid. 'This is just
for this evening.'

'Okay then,' Jamie repeated, still smiling.

*

They booked a taxi for nine and at a quarter to Jamie found himself
waiting on the sofa for his friend to finish getting ready. He really
didn't know what to expect, suddenly realising his previous exposure
to 'Cat' had only lasted a few minutes and had hardly involved a lot
of conversation. What if they didn't get on? Don't be a pillock, he
told himself, she's your best mate. Well, what if he started treating
her the way he treated Tom, all farts and piss-taking and God knew
what. But she was Tom. Oh, this was too weird, a big mistake... He
stood up, ready to call the whole thing off, and she appeared in the
doorway.

Her long dark hair was down, framing her face, which was rather more
subtly made up on this occasion. The hoop earrings looked familiar
though. She wore a black zip-fronted vest that exposed an inch or two
of cleavage, tight black jeans and high heels. A black leather jacket
and handbag completed the outfit. 'Hello,' she said with a nervous
smile. She looked gorgeous.

'Hello,' Jamie said hollowly. 'Wow. You look... great.'

'Thanks. I didn't want to overdo the slap, and...' she smiled, '...most
of my clothes fasten with Velcro, so the wardrobe choice was a bit
restricted. I'm glad you like it.'

The doorbell buzzed. 'That'll be the taxi, he's early,' Jamie said.
'Let's go.' He showed her to the door.

At the first pub they managed to secure a table and he fought his way
to the bar to get a lager and a red wine. He sat down next to her and
sipped his drink. 'Red wine's new for you... if you see what I mean,'
he stumbled.

Cat smiled. 'It seemed a bit more me than bitter. This particular
me.' She rolled her eyes. 'This is weird.'

'I know, I told Tom it would be...'

'I know, I was there, remember?' she said with a smile.

Jamie blushed. 'Oh yeah. Tom... Cat... same person. Hey - tom-cat. Is
that some kind of a pun or something?'

She sighed. 'No, it didn't occur to me until I'd been on stage for
weeks, but I don't think anyone will work it out. Cat was just
supposed to be a stage name anyway, or so I thought... if I'd known I'd
be using it for real, if you see what I mean, I might have chosen a
different one.'

'So what would you like me to call you?' Jamie asked.

She shrugged. 'Oh hell, let's keep it simple - call me Catherine.'

'Catherine. Cool,' Jamie said. 'I'll drink to that.'

*

The plan had been to go clubbing a bit later on but they found they
were enjoying the drinks and conversation in the pub so much they
stayed there all evening. Jamie found talking to Catherine strange
but fascinating - she almost seemed to change and develop as an
individual throughout the course of the evening, as though a new
personality was expanding to fill the gulf between the brazen and
confident stage persona of Cat, and familiar set of attitudes he knew
from the old masculine Tom.

Towards the end of the night one of the pool tables came free and
Catherine suggested they play. Given the result of their last
contest, Jamie was surprised but agreed anyway... only to find himself
hard pressed to compete with her. Catherine seemed much more
confident and familiar with her body than Tom had been, and she
seemed entirely shameless about employing her arse or cleavage to put
him off his game, grinning as she did so.

'You hussy,' he said with a smile as she sank the black, just as the
landlord started calling for everyone to go home. She'd won by two
games.

'What?' she asked, grabbing her jacket.

'Well, all that...' He mimed breasts and hips vaguely. 'You were trying
to put me off.'

'This may be my night off, darling, but I'm still a stripper,'
Catherine smiled. 'Using my body to get what I want is what I do for
a living.'

Jamie smiled, then something she'd said registered with him.
'"Darling"?' he queried.

Catherine shrugged languidly, smiling broadly, but didn't try to
qualify the sentiment. 'So... what now?'

'I don't know. A club?'

She shook her head. 'Don't think so.' She looked down at what she was
wearing. 'Even if we beat the dress code, I'm used to looking
sensational when I dance, and this ain't it. Another time - let's go
back to the flat.'

*

A nervous excitement filled Jamie as Catherine let them in to their
flat. What next, he wondered, letting his eyes race over her body for
the thousandth time that evening. 'Do you want a drink?' he asked,
the equation of coffee, sofa, heavy breathing running in his head.

'No, I - I'm going to go to bed,' Catherine said, almost
apologetically. 'Solo. I've had a really great evening, and I don't
want to spoil it. Just because we share a flat it doesn't change the
fact that this was our first date, and I don't think I'm going to be
that kind of girl. Sorry...'

'No, that's fine,' Jamie said, aware how little of his disappointment
he was hiding.

'But it was still a date, and it went really well,' Catherine said.

'So... can I see you again -'

'You'll see me in the morning.'

'Yes, but as -'

She stepped up close and planted a kiss full on his mouth. The scent
of her filled his nostrils and his hands made to grasp her. But she
slipped back out of his reach, a playful smile on her face. 'Good
night,' she said, opening the door of her room and vanishing into it.
Her head reappeared momentarily. 'The paper tissues are in the
kitchen,' she added with a grin, then the door shut with inarguable
firmness.

Jamie took a deep breath. 'Kitchen. Paper tissues. Check,' he
muttered to himself, and headed slightly awkwardly in that direction.

*

Tom woke up early and with only a slight hangover the next day. He
still woke up thinking of himself as Tom, whatever that meant - but
he knew that things were changing now. Black Cat Beaumont hadn't been
much more than a cardboard cut-out, a means to an end, she'd not
threatened his sense of self at all... but now his feminine side was
turning into a real person, as valid as he was, and he had no idea
where the border between his male and female sides now lay. He
suspected he was ceding territory to Catherine fast. Looking around
the room he could see her clothes lying on the chair.

Her clothes? They're your clothes, he realised, admonishing himself.
He recalled the night before, chatting with Jamie, playing pool, and
his loins tingled at the memory of the kiss. It scared him, because
it had felt right. Maybe he might be that kind of girl after all.

No, no! he told himself. Catherine was... an occasional extravagance,
that's all. Day to day, paying the bills, slouching round the house,
he was still well and truly Tom. He rolled out of bed and looked down
at himself. For all that I am indisputably a woman pretending she's a
man, he thought. There was an oddness to that concept, an
acknowledgement he'd never made before... he pushed the idea away
irritably and grabbed for his boxer shorts.

So he sat on the sofa, hair and breasts tightly under control,
wearing a footie shirt and jeans, watching Saturday morning TV. It
was another couple of hours before Jamie appeared. 'Morning,' Tom
said.

'Morning,' Jamie said cautiously. 'You... you sleep all right?'

'Fine,' Tom said. 'Not regretting last night?'

'Er, how'd you mean?'

Tom could've kicked himself. 'Drinkswise,' he clarified.

'Oh, you know me. What about yourself?'

'I - err - shit, we need some ground rules for this,' Tom murmured.
'I'm not Catherine at the moment... I mean, I can be Catherine or I can
be Tom, but it'd just be too weird for her to talk about football or
him to talk about stripping or k-kissing you... and I want to be Tom at
the moment... probably most of the time... it's not your fault, it's...'

'Yeah. Think I understand. Last night was me and Catherine, now it's
me and Tom, you can't speak about stuff she did. Okay.' Jamie raised
his eyebrows. 'This is going to seriously screw with my head. How can
I tell?'

'Tell what?'

'Who you are. Who you're being. I know the clothes and the hair kind
of give it away, but I just want to be certain.'

'Uhh... I don't know. Earrings. Those hoop earrings of mine. Whenever
you see me wearing those, I'm Catherine, okay?'

'Okay,' Jamie smiled. 'Any plans for the day?'

*

And the new system worked pretty well, although to be honest
Catherine made very few appearances at first - to begin with Tom even
left and returned to the house as himself, only making the subtle
mental switch en route to and from the Flags. Jamie started to think
it might just have been a one-off encounter. But deep down inside the
person that was variously Tom and Catherine - because Tom had to
admit it was often Catherine's voice that was making decisions, even
when he was at his day job in full male disguise - there was an
unashamed acceptance of how much she'd enjoyed her date with Jamie,
and no doubt whatsoever that they would do it again.

So Jamie got home one Tuesday night and on his way to the kitchen
passed Tom emerging from the bathroom in a towelling robe. 'All
right, mate?' he asked absently.

'Ahem.' Something in the voice made him turn back. It took him a
second or two to spot the glint of gold in the tangle of damp hair at
either side of his... her face. It was the first time he'd seen her
without makeup on, but the face was undeniably wholly feminine, even
though it was also Tom's. He marvelled.

'I thought you might like to go for a curry and a movie tonight,'
Catherine said, holding her robe together primly.

'Oh, yes,' Jamie said. 'What time?'

She shrugged. 'Seven?'

'I'll be ready.'

*

The curry was slightly better than expected, the film rather worse,
but for both of them the pleasure of the evening was the company. It
was like their friendship of old, only more playful and with deeper
levels of meaning and subtext. They agreed there and then to go out
clubbing that Friday.

To Jamie's utter delight, Catherine didn't retreat to her room and
Tom-hood as soon as they got in, opting instead for coffee in the
lounge. She folded her long legs under her, smoothed down her skirt,
and listened to him talk with her head on one side. Finally he could
take it no more.

'I'm falling in love with you,' he said flatly.

Catherine grimaced. 'You make it sound like a death sentence,' she said.

'I can't help it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to ruin everything
for us. I mean, you don't want... this,' he was unable to express it
better. 'Things would be much easier if we just kept it friendly...'

'Don't tell me what I do or don't want,' Catherine said sharply. 'And
this isn't an easy world. I would much rather I'd -' She broke off.

'What?'

'I was going to say I would much rather have never caught the Flu.
But I'd be lying because... I'm a woman now, this person is a woman,
and without the Flu I wouldn't even exist.' She looked seriously at
him. 'And here and now, I want to be a woman. Whatever that means.'

For once, he spotted the cue, leant forward and kissed her. She
returned it fiercely and they rolled together on the sofa and the
carpet, tangled, urgent. It was all he hoped for or fantasised, until
she firmly refused his attempts to assist her from her clothing.

'Not now, love,' she whispered in his ear. 'Too early. Soon.'

And with that promise ringing in his ears, they kissed goodnight at
some length, and went to their separate beds.

*

That Thursday Catherine was aware of a flash, hard-faced man sitting
in the front row of the audience for her lunchtime set. There was a
lot of repeat business at the Flags and she knew many of the faces,
but was certain this one was new. His expression didn't have the look
of longing or despair or thinly-disguised lust so many punters wore,
he seemed to be appraising her like a man looking to buy a
thoroughbred racehorse.

So it wasn't a huge surprise when the Flags' manager introduced him
as she was getting ready to go. It was the same story as before, more
or less - he managed Skinscapes, a genuine burlesque club up west,
and he was always looking for new performers of a certain style. He
made her an offer on the spot: four nights a week (Monday, Wednesday,
Friday and Saturday), two shows a night (at ten and midnight), and a
set fee instead of the percentage of the collection plus tips she'd
been making till now. The wage worked out at something like forty
thousand pounds a year, significantly more than Tom's day job brought
in.

It was her dream come true in many ways, but there was no way she
could perform at her best in the evenings and still do a forty-hour
week by day. It would mean packing in Tom's day job. She hated it,
but... it was the underpinning of the continued existence of the Tom
part of her. Without the job, there'd be no reason to be him at all
any more. The reaction that provoked was fear, Tom was still a big
part of her and he didn't want to simply fade away like that...

Catherine told the man she'd think about it, took his number, and
went back to the office, becoming Tom halfway there. He felt deeply
uneasy, as though his death warrant had been drawn up. But inside he
knew Catherine was happy, and she was the strongest part of him now.
He surrendered himself to her judgement.

*

Jamie and Catherine hit the clubs that Friday as planned. She wore a
black leather mini and a halter-top, and went heavy on the mascara and
lipstick. Jamie thought she looked extraordinarily sexy, as usual.
Something seemed to be troubling her, but she deflected all his
enquiries about it and seemed to cheer up as the night went on. She
was, unsurprisingly, a sensational dancer, and he was well aware of
the jealousy of every single man in the club with them. God, he was
in love with her.

'Don't tire yourself out,' she murmured in his ear following a
particularly energetic display on the dance floor.

'Why not?' he asked, stupidly. She whispered the reason why in his
ear and even in the half-lit nightclub could see his eyes widen
excitedly. His heart really wasn't in the dancing after that, much to
her amusement - and neither was hers, somehow. She let him take her
hand and lead her to the nearest taxi rank, almost shivering with
anticipation.

Back at the flat they paused in the hallway, kissing ferociously at
each other, and considered the fundamental issue at hand. 'Your room
or mine?' Jamie asked.

'Mine,' Catherine whispered, happy to have home advantage. They
stumbled into it and Jamie flopped down onto the bed.

'Clothes off and let's get to it, lover boy,' Catherine said with a
smile, kicking off her shoes and pulling her top off over her head.
Jamie needed no further prompting, pulling off his shirt and
scrabbling at his shoes. He paused to watch Catherine undress.

'This isn't a show, I'm not getting paid for this,' she said
reproving, casually shrugging off her bra and unzipping her skirt.
'C'mon, keep up.'

Jamie pretended to tut and wriggled off his trousers and underpants.
He was already hard, she noticed as he slid between the sheets and
held them apart for her. Catherine smiled as she slipped her knickers
off and accepted the invitation. 'Chivalrous of you...' she murmured.

For a moment, as Jamie busied himself with the condom she'd insisted
on, Catherine wondered if she was technically a virgin or not.
Certainly it was her first time on the receiving end of what she
fervently hoped would be a damn good seeing to. Then such whimsical
thoughts were driven from her head as they set to making love with a
passion that surprised them both

*

Tom drifted awake with a vague sense of foreboding. Something warm
and dry and faintly hairy lay under his cheek, while something
similar lay over his shoulder and rested lightly on his arm and
breast. He blinked his eyes open and remembered. He was lying with
his head on Jamie's chest, Jamie's arm around him protectively. It
all came back to him, and nausea and love momentarily vied for the
role of foremost emotion in his mind. Love won out: love, and
acceptance that the night before really had been pretty fantastic.

'All right, you sod, you weren't just bragging all those times,' he
whispered to his sleeping friend. But where did they go from here?
Well, it was pretty clear what Catherine and Jamie would be doing a
lot of from now on, but where did that leave him? You stupid knob, he
thought to himself. You are Catherine.

I am Catherine, he thought. Gently he slid out of Jamie's embrace,
grabbed his robe and put it on. So why do I still think of myself as
Tom? Do I have any choice left as to who I am? He went down the hall
to the bathroom and started the shower running. Giving himself a good
lathering up took his mind off the deeper existential issues of his
life and he was only vaguely aware he was still wearing some of
Catherine's jewellery. In hindsight this was possibly a mistake.

Dried off and refreshed, he went into the kitchen, still barefoot and
wearing only the robe. He loaded the toaster and made himself a cup
of coffee. The offer of what was essentially the stripping big time
floated through his head again. So be it, he thought. Maybe it really
is what I wanted all along.

'Morning,' Jamie said with a smile, coming into the kitchen in just
his shorts. Tom automatically prepared to respond in his affectedly
husky male voice, just to make it clear who he was, but before he
could speak Jamie took him in his arms and kissed him at some length.
Oh damn, I'm still wearing the bloody earrings, Tom thought, but then
undeniable pleasure filled him and he found himself clutching at
Jamie even as his robe was tweaked apart and one of his breasts
caressed.

The last of Tom's mental barricades were stripped away and he
surrendered to the inevitable, slipping out of his robe and yanking
Jamie's shorts down. I am a woman, he thought, I love this man, this
is delight, ecstasy, nirvana... And he willingly let the last of his
masculinity be immolated on the pyre of lust.

*

Afterwards they sat on the sofa in the lounge, nibbling at cold
toast, just about dressed. After a while something occurred to
Catherine and she took out her earrings with an expression of relief.

Jamie looked at her warily. 'Does that mean...?'

'It means my earlobes are getting sore, yes,' Catherine said, tossing
them onto a table.

'What about the ground rules?'

'You mean, how will you know when I'm being me and being Tom?' She
smiled. 'I'm not Tom any more. Can't be, really, there's just not
enough left of him. I think I'll pretend to be him at work until I've
worked out my notice and then... that'll be it. He'll just fade away.
Full time Catherine, you reckon you can handle it?'

'You reckon you can?' he smiled. 'What about... you know, money. I
mean, I think we can just about get by -'

'Don't worry about cash. I've been offered a forty grand a year job
at a club called Skinscapes. Featured dancer.' She looked intently at
him. 'Can you handle it? My being a stripper? It's what I really want
to do - for the time being, anyway.'

'Can I handle having a beautiful stripper girlfriend? You really have
forgotten how a man thinks,' Jamie said with a grin.

*

And so, for the next four weeks or so, Catherine tied back her hair
and breasts and climbed into Tom's old suit, working out his notice
at the old job. She was tempted to dramatically reveal Tom's secret
on her last day in some suitably spectacular fashion, but decided
against it - there'd be no money in it, and she was a professional
now, after all.

The week after that she started at Skinscapes, simultaneously
beginning the process of registering her change in gender using the
procedures the onset of APFS had made necessary. She and Jamie stayed
together for another three years, before parting fairly amicably -
she could see the end of her dancing career in sight, and was
thinking about children, but he wasn't interested in adopting, the
only option APFS had left them with. So in the end the condition
brought them together, and eventually drove them apart. But in
between they were happy for a while, and that's really as much as
anyone can hope for.

The Cycle of Wisdom

2011-01-09T18:27:14Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]][[Category:Fantasy]]

{{byline|author=Bad Guru|user=Bad Guru}}

Stephen realised too late that he had travelled beyond the limits of
his understanding. But the modern world, the rational world, had never
held much interest for him, and he had looked beyond it as soon as he
became aware that somewhere might even exist. People were surprised
when he of all people spent his life striving to look beyond - to peer
around corners, to question the unquestioned - for it was true that
life appeared to have been very kind to him. He was handsome, healthy,
intelligent and young, and his family was a wealthy one. But in truth,
having all these gifts was in part his spur - for, having them so
easily, he knew how little they were truly worth, and was able to move
on in his quest for deeper things.

He took easily to mysticism when he encountered it, and gradually began
to leave behind the modern world, the rational world. (This is
surprisingly easy to do if you truly wish it.) And yet he made one
error - to assume that to do so was the culmination of wisdom, rather
than an early step along that path.

So it was that he came to the small town in the wasteland, along paths
untrodden by waking minds. Still a sun of some kind beat down upon his
head, and he was glad to arrive at his destination. He found himself
wearing a dusty beige jacket and trousers, a pale blue shirt and a pair
of shoes. There was a bag over his shoulder, though not an oppressively
heavy one.

There was a fountain in the town square and he paused to slake his
thirst. The people were clearly used to the arrival of strangers, even
from lands as exotic and distant as his own. The men and women who
lived here seemed normal enough, though he knew that could be nothing
more than a trick of perception, and that they might see him as
something quite different to his true shape.

He approached one of them, an old man resting in the shade. "Excuse
me."

The man peered up at Stephen. "I hear you."

"I... is there a wise man in your town? A seer, a priest?"

"What do you want from a wise man?"

Stephen couldn't help smiling as he gave his rather hackneyed response.
"Wisdom."

"You must have some yourself, to be here at all. You seek deeper
truths?"

"Whatever I can find."

"I know only one. A man may see only so much of life through a single
window."

"Change my perspective, is that what you mean?" Stephen had hoped for
something more fulfilling. "I have already abandoned the life I was
born into."

"You can do more," the old man said. "Nothing is fixed in this realm.
Change everything you can about yourself and you may yet discover true
wisdom."

"How can I do that?"

"There is a place. Leave this town along the north road. Travel for a
week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

Cliffs of red and yellow stone towered above Stephen on either side,
dwarfing the trees that grew at their base. He made his way carefully
along the path, hoping he had not gone astray. He believed he had not,
had taken what he believed to be good notes of the townsman's
instructions. If this were true, he should reach his destination soon.

As instructed, he had bought two canteens from the town market, and
both now hung over his shoulder. His guide had given no reason for this
- the road and this trail were both well-watered, and one should have
been sufficient. But Stephen was wise enough to at least be obedient in
these matters.

The trail descended, the ground falling away towards the base of the
cliffs. Shadows seemed to close in around Stephen as he walked. At the
base of the cliffs, he had been told, he would find what he sought -
and its keeper.

The base of the cliffs was now in sight. The stone was stained by the
water flowing down its face. There was an overhang just at the bottom,
forming a very tiny waterfall - not much more than a rivulet falling
not much more than the height of a man. The pool beneath was hardly
even that.

Stephen looked around. There was no sign of civilisation and certainly
no keeper. The water must be what he had been sent to find. he
unstoppered one of his canteens and stooped over the pool.

"The water loses its power of change when it touches the ground."

The voice sounded immeasurably old and dry. Stephen looked around and
could see no one - only a large, reddish brown snake lying coiled in
the branches of one of the trees.

"I'm sorry?" Stephen said.

"You must take the water from the air, before it touches the ground, if
you are to gain what you seek." The voice definitely came from the
snake.

"Thank you. Are you the keeper of this place?"

"I am."

"I was told you would have other wisdom for me."

"You seek to change yourself to the uttermost degree?"

"I - I suppose I do," Stephen said, smiling at the beast.

The snake did not smile back, but that was hardly surprising, Stephen
thought. " You must drink of the water three times, each time a week
and a day apart. To drink more than this is death."

"I understand."

"You need not stay here, though. You may carry the water away with
you."

"Where should I go ?"

"Return to the main road and guide your steps towards the temple at
Uldath. Know you of it?"

"I can learn," Stephen said. "Thank you."

"Remember. Only through unmaking yourself entirely can you approach
true wisdom. You may drink of the water now."

The snake slithered away into the shadow of the tree's upper branches.
Stephen turned back to the waterfall, held his cupped hands out into
it. Gradually they filled with cold, clear water, with nothing to
distinguish it from that he'd drunk on his journey. He put all doubts
aside and brought his hands to his mouth.

How to describe the workings of such deep things? He felt things deep
within him subtly alter and shift in their alignment. A deep sense of
satisfaction and contentment settled upon him. He looked down at
himself and saw no real signs of change, but he was confident that they
would come - if not soon, then with his next draught of the water. He
held his second canteen beneath the waterfall until it overflowed, then
capped it.

Then, as the sun was setting and the water seemed to have instilled a
great drowsiness in him, he took off his clothes and slept by the
waterfall.

And in the morning he found that he had indeed changed in his physical
appearance. His clothes felt slightly large upon him, and the hair upon
his chest, arms, and legs had thinned considerably. Most noticeable of
all, his hair - which had previously been respectably cut and a light
shade of brown - was now a dark shade of blonde and fell to his collar,
curling somewhat as it did.

Excited by these changes in him, though not yet fully appreciating what
they meant, Stephen started his journey back to the main north road.
Around his waist he twined a piece of cord, and each day he tied a knot
in it, knowing that when there were eight, it would be time for him to
drink again of the water in his special canteen.

His hair continued to grow, both longer and lighter, and it seemed to
him that his body grew slighter as well - though at a less accelerated
rate. Soon he began to tie his hair back in a pony tail, and had to
stop wearing his shoes, which were now much too big for his feet.
Luckily the trail was not too rough nor too hot to walk barefoot.

After a few days he was back on the north road, and he fell into the
company of a hunter, a grave young man of immense skill with a bow.
Stephen was glad of the company and sensed the hunter was as well - but
he was of a taciturn people who did not like to speak of their
emotions, and were even reluctant to give their names. But he was a
good companion and shared freely of what he had.

After a day or two Stephen could tell the hunter had noticed the odd
changes in his appearance even in just a short period, but his code
prevented him from asking about them directly. As they sat down to eat
that night he decided to volunteer the information.

"I know you have noticed the changes in my hair since we have travelled
together," Stephen began.

"Also in your face and body," the hunter said.

Stephen hadn't been aware of those himself. "Oh. Well, I am on a - a
quest for wisdom, and I hope to find it by - by becoming a different
person. My body is transforming into that of someone new."

"Is your mind also transforming?"

Stephen blinked. "I don't know. Perhaps. I must continue with the
process soon. The changes may become more extreme. If you wish for us
to part company, then I will understand."

The hunter shook his head. "It does not concern me, if you are
comfortable. Tell me - is this why you walk unshod?"

"My shoes grew too big for me," Stephen said. "I had to leave them
behind."

The next morning he found the hunter had fashioned for him a simple
pair of leather moccasins. He had grown accustomed to going barefoot
but he was glad to have them, and touched by the young man's
generosity. But such things were common between travellers in that
realm.

As they travelled north together the land grew drier and the
temperature greater. Stephen took off his jacket and constantly walked
with it folded over his arm.

"It will grow no colder between here and Uldath, Stephen," the hunter
said as they walked. He himself wore only a loincloth, vest, and
sandals. "You will not need that garment before you reach there."

"I - I see," Stephen said. He looked at it. You must unmake yourself
entirely, he thought, abandon all traces of your former life. Clothing
would surely be the least of it. He hung the jacket on a branch of the
next tree they passed and left it behind without looking back.

Eight knots had appeared on the cord he wore around his waist. He felt
a tingle of excitement and anticipation all throughout that day,
knowing the next phase of his transformation was about to begin. Who
would he become? Who would he be the next day?

After they had made their camp and eaten, Stephen carefully unstoppered
the second canteen and lifted it to his mouth. The water tasted as
fresh and delicious as it had a week earlier. Again, he felt strange
forces at work within him - not just within his body but within his
whole reality as a living creature, a living mind. He put the stopper
back into the canteen and took a moment to enjoy the sensations racing
through him. His companion was already asleep and he felt drowsiness
descend upon him again.

In the morning his golden hair now stretched down almost to his waist,
and he could feel a new delicacy in the bones of his face - his hands
too, come to that. Almost all the hair had vanished from his body. His
joints felt subtly altered as well.

"You changed much more than usual last night," the hunter said.

"I know," Stephen said, and blinked. His voice had risen in pitch and
softened. He got to his feet, and found the cuffs of his trousers now
reached down over his feet. They felt loose around the waist as well.
He rolled them up to mid-calf and smiled a little sheepishly at the
hunter.

They continued with their journey. Stephen unknotted the cord he wore
around his waist and started again from scratch. Another eight before
he could complete his transformation. But who would he become?

The passing of time as they travelled through the increasingly barren
landscape was marked not just by the accumulation of knots in the cord,
but a tightening of the cord as his waist began to dwindle. He was
becoming smaller and slighter in every respect. His old shirt, at
least, presented him with few difficulties, but the hassle of simply
keeping his trousers up and not tangling around his feet became
increasingly irritating.

Stephen found himself envying the briefer and more practical clothing
his companion wore, found himself casting envious glances at the
hunter's bare arms, legs, and chest, and the well-defined muscles
there. He found himself stealing glances whenever he thought his
companion would not notice it, and as he did so he found in himself a
little prickle of excitement that he could not explain. He was also
aware that the hunter himself seemed to have developed something of a
fascination with Stephen's altered form. Well, that was natural enough.

And then Stephen began to find his body not just dwindling but starting
to alter in other, more surprising ways. His waist stayed tiny, but his
hips appeared to be widening, and there was a swell and roundness to
his buttocks that seemed to fundamentally alter their shape. That was
odd enough, but he began to be aware of the cloth of his shirt rubbing
against his chest in a way he simply hadn't before.

When they stopped for the first time after he became aware of this,
Stephen took himself aside from the hunter and unbuttoned his shirt. He
found that his nipples had doubled in width, and each now sat atop a
tiny saucer of soft, sensitive flesh. He took a deep breath. So that
was the kind of person he was transforming into. He had been foolish
not to realise it before. It made perfect sense: an almost complete
change.

He refastened his shirt and went back to the camp. The hunter looked up
at him. "Is all well?"

Stephen nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think it is." He looked at the hunter
again, seeing for the first time not just as a travelling companion but
a man, a young and healthy man. There was the flicker of excited
tension again. He exhaled sharply.

"My friend... I think you ought to know that my transformation - it
will be an extreme one," Stephen said. "I am turning into a woman."

"I thought this might be so," said the hunter. "Do you wish that we
separate? Before your change is complete?"

"Oh, no! I mean, no," Stephen said, feeling himself blush.

"It is good," said the hunter, smiling.

From the next morning on the hunter seemed somehow solicitous of him,
an escort more than a travelling companion. Every word they spoke to
one another seemed to have acquired a secret extra meaning, and every
action seemed to have become a move in a game - approach, then retreat.
Feint, then attack. Deflect, then riposte. The game seemed only to
gather importance as his chest, hips and buttocks continued to swell.
Soon even his ill-fitting clothes could not disguise them. At the same
time, he found his anatomy elsewhere becoming less prominent, as if
losing importance as well as size.

"I am not going to Uldath," the hunter said one evening as they
prepared their meal.

Stephen had known that. "I will miss your company."

"And I yours. But I am willing to alter my journey a little and travel
with you longer... a few days more. If you wish it."

That would mean they parted company well after he took his final
draught of the changing water. He was quite sure now what the result of
that would be. "I do not wish you to inconvenience yourself," Stephen
said.

"It will be no inconvenience."

Stephen nodded, got up and turned away, not sure what to make of the
feelings crowding into him. "Thank you. I... I would hate to say my
farewells to you prematurely."

Then the hunter's arm was strong around his waist. He had moved so fast
and so silently... but Stephen found he felt no alarm, no sense of
threat. The hunter's lips were close to his ear.

"Have I made a mistake, Stephen?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling himself trembling. The
hunter's other hand was gently cupping one of his breasts now. He let
out a little sigh and reached behind him, stroked the hunter's thigh.
The hunter was unbuttoning his shirt now, and pulled it gently down off
his shoulders and arms. Stephen turned and stepped into his embrace,
helped him shoulder off his own vest. Within him there was only tumult,
but tinged with anticipation. He let loose his hair and shook it out as
the hunter kissed his mouth, his throat, his shoulder, picked him up
gently and then laid him down by the fire. It was so easy for him to
pull Stephen's trousers down and off, leaving him naked. The hunter
pulled at the cords holding his own loincloth up, and even by the
firelight Stephen could see they were equally enthused.

"Wait," Stephen whispered as the hunter knelt down beside him. "I..
can't satisfy you fully yet. My change is not yet complete. We must
wait."

The hunter nodded. "For everything?"

Stephen smiled, reached out gently for him. "Not for everything."

But in the morning, their journey had to continue, of course. Stephen
slipped his shirt back on, noting how the hem now hung down to the
middle of his thighs. Belted as it was with cord, it made a fine and
modest tunic by itself, as well as allowing whatever cool breeze there
was to reach his legs. He decided from that moment on to leave mannish
clothing behind him. It was only logical, if he was indeed intent on
embracing his altered state.

The hunter said nothing but Stephen sensed his approval. Even the shirt
was a garment from another realm, another life, as alien here as
Stephen was... as he had been. He realised there was truly no return
now to his old life, but the realisation brought him no distress or
shock. He had made his choice.

So as they travelled he did his best to make his garment still more
comfortable, and in the process unrecognisable. With the hunter's sharp
knife he trimmed away first the collar, then the sleeves. Only the
strange material of the buttons and design now marked him out as a
visitor to this world, that and the odd bag he still carried.

It seemed an age until once again eight knots sat upon the cord around
his waist. They both knew what that now meant. That night he sat and
drank the last of the water he had carried this far. The sensation it
produced was becoming familiar to him, and he felt oddly wistful that
he would probably never know it again.

In the morning, the womanliness of his whole aspect seemed somehow
stronger - and, more importantly, the last of his man's flesh had begun
to melt away in earnest. He was not yet ready to consummate his bond
with the hunter - but the moment could not be far away.

He found a carefreeness, almost a wilfulness, growing within him. His
personality was changing. He would happily kiss and caress the hunter
as they walked, whereas once such moments were reserved for their halts
or in the evening. And Stephen found himself thinking, behaving, and
reacting purely as a woman - indeed at these moments he was in truth a
she. These intervals of true womanhood came almost unnoticed at first
and were brief, for as soon as she became aware of them she would snap
back into her male self-image automatically. But as time passed they
grew longer and more frequent, and soon it was the case that she felt
of herself as female more often than male.

They reached a small town only a few days travel from the ancient
temple of Uldath, well-equipped with hostels and markets. They paused
there awhile, for Stephen wanted to rid himself of the last of his old
trappings. He traded his complicated bag of leather and buckles and all
its contents for a sizable pouch of coin, and with this he bought
himself a much simpler cloth bag more suited to this world and her
needs. From another stall he bought a light cotton bodice and a simple
long skirt. As soon as she could, she took the remnants of his old
shirt off for the last time and dressed in her new clothes. In the
looking glasses that dotted the marketplaces she could see no trace of
Stephen. She had become someone almost wholly new.

The hunter had bought her a necklace of many-coloured stones. It was
rare for him to be so openly affectionate and it touched her deeply.
She put it on without a word.

The next day they continued on. Stephen knew deep inside herself that
she was ready, and it was time for her to become a woman in the deepest
sense of the word. If she was quiet all that day as she contemplated
how far she had come, the hunter did not mention it. And that night
after they had eaten she stripped the clothes from both him and herself
and they lay together completely for the first time. And as the
universe seemed to stop and their flesh seemed to vibrate in unison,
she knew that the last of the person she had once been was dispelled
forever.

Afterwards they held each other close and the hunter whispered to her.
"Come with me. Come back to my homeland. You will want for nothing, and
every night can be like this. I will give you everything - rich foods,
fine clothes, children -"

The picture he painted was so tempting that she almost yielded to it,
but she shook her head with deep regret. "I have undertaken a quest for
wisdom. I must go to Uldath and complete it."

The hunter respected such things and did not try to persuade her
otherwise. "Then, if you can, once your quest is over - come to me,
Stephen. Become my woman in truth."

"I will try - but I am no longer Stephen. That name was a man's. I am a
woman. If you are serious in your offer, then you must choose a new
name for me."

This was a serious responsibility and the hunter thought long about it.
"I name you Iphe," he said.

"I accept that name," Iphe said. She smiled at him. "And will you now
tell me your name?"

The hunter smiled and nodded, and whispered it quickly in her ear.

The making of their love was so agreeable that they tarried a day or
two together solely for that purpose. But then necessity grew too great
and Iphe and her lover parted. It was strange for her to be travelling
alone again - indeed, it could be said she had never really been alone
before. But she had all she needed, and, while fond memories of her
time with the hunter sometimes made her wistful, she was sure of her
purpose. Soon the five great pillars of the temple of Uldath rose above
the horizon before her.

Legend said that within the temple lay a place where the universe was
as yet unfinished, the creator having been distracted by the wickedness
and stupidity of man while still about his work. Others said that it
marked the spot where the essence of evil had broken into creation, and
as such it had to be guarded. All Iphe knew was that it was a place of
great power and it would mark the end of her quest.

None came to Uldath lightly, and all who did come were welcomed by one
of the Grey Speakers, the masked and robed guardians of the temple. No-
one knew their origins or true nature, but the metallic rasp of their
voices unsettled many who encountered them.

Iphe had only entered the temple precincts, an obsidian maze of carved
stone, when one of the Speakers glided up to her.

"Why have you come to Uldath?"

She lowered her eyes respectfully. "I seek wisdom, sir."

"By what method?"

"I have come here from another world. I seek to remake myself and live
a second life, and thus discover greater truths."

"Are you committed to this path?"

"When I set out upon it I was a man, and a visitor. Now I am a woman,
and not a virgin. I have a name of this realm, clothing of it too. This
is my home now. I will not return to my realm of origin."

"Is this not remaking enough for wisdom?" The Speaker's voice was flat,
as if this were a catechism of set questions and responses.

"I was told to come here, sir."

"If this is your wish, we are bound to assist you. Follow."

Iphe's heart leapt into her mouth. Was it so easy? She walked after the
Speaker into the temple, down black-lit corridors into the very heart
of the edifice. Occasionally she spied other Speakers with their
charges in the distance, but averted her gaze respectfully.

Finally she was led to the doors of a chamber. The Speaker did not go
in. "The great winds of the infinite can be allowed into this room once
the doors are sealed. They will complete your transformation. Be
certain this is what you want - once you enter, the cycle must play
out."

A moment's foreboding - but soon it would be over, Iphe thought, and
then she could return to her hunter, become his wife. She found that
was what she wanted to do, once she had gained the wisdom she sought.
"I will enter."

"It is required that you give your name," the Speaker said.

"I am Iphe," she said, and as the Speaker inclined its head she strode
into the chamber. The stone door slid shut behind her almost silently.
The room was circular, with a high ceiling. In the centre of both floor
and ceiling was a dark shaft, and suspended at its centre was a
glittering, spinning thread of light. As she stared the shaft began to
thicken and flash, and more mundane winds began to pluck at her bodice
and skirt.

My transformation will be complete, Iphe thought, and wondered for the
first time what that meant. The thread of light was whirling and
rippling now, different colours racing from top to bottom and back
again. It was like a rainbow trapped inside a tornado.

My flesh is new, my personality is new, Iphe thought, stepping back a
little from the thread as it expanded even further. The room seemed
smaller than it first had and her back was almost pressed to the wall.
There is nothing left of the old Stephen, so how else can I be
transformed?

Sparks danced out from the spinning vortex and struck her. Memories
violently appeared in the forefront of her mind - her childhood as a
boy, her time at college... and yet they faded almost at once and she
could not recall any of their details. It came to her in a rush. I
cannot be wholly new if I was once Stephen, she thought. All the wind
would do would be to obliterate her memories of ever having been a
man... ever having remembered being a man.

"No!" But the thread was swelling unstoppably and her back was to the
wall. I should have known better wisdom, Iphe thought, as the burning
light swept into her. The wisdom to know when to abandon a quest. The
wisdom to have gone with a man I loved and who loved me. All she had
known was melting away, leaving her blank and fresh and new. And as the
last of who she had been was whipped away and dissolved, she did see
the truth she had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to reach... but
as the wind died and the thread became a thread once more, new memories
began to fill her head and she quietly forgot it.

The chamber door slid open and the young woman emerged uncertainly. The
Speaker was waiting for her when she did so, and continued to wait
until she spoke.

"I... I don't know who I am. Where - where is this place?"

"Your name is Iphe," the Speaker said. "This is the temple of Uldath."

"What am I doing here? What should I do now?"

"These things are for you to determine."

Iphe nodded and followed the Speaker as it led her away.

It was a small town and none too busy. The old man was frequently
bored, but he kept to his traditional shady spot in the marketplace,
feeling it was expected of him. The day seemed to show signs of
improving as he saw another stranger was in town. She was a slim, pale
woman with long, slightly curly golden hair, dressed in a simple bodice
and skirt, a simple necklace around her throat, with a travelling bag
over her shoulder. She noticed the old man looking at her and smiled
nervously at him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I - I don't know. Do you have a wise man or a mage in this village?"

"Why?"

"I - I don't really know what to do. I feel like there's something
really important I need to find out, but..." She shrugged, rather
becomingly.

"You seek wisdom," the old man said.

"Yes, I think I do. I wish I knew how to find it."

"There is a place," said the old man. "Leave this town along the north
road. Travel for a week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

The Cycle of Wisdom

2011-01-09T18:21:31Z

Bad Guru:

[[Category:Story]][[Category:Transgender]][[Category:Fantasy]]

Stephen realised too late that he had travelled beyond the limits of
his understanding. But the modern world, the rational world, had never
held much interest for him, and he had looked beyond it as soon as he
became aware that somewhere might even exist. People were surprised
when he of all people spent his life striving to look beyond - to peer
around corners, to question the unquestioned - for it was true that
life appeared to have been very kind to him. He was handsome, healthy,
intelligent and young, and his family was a wealthy one. But in truth,
having all these gifts was in part his spur - for, having them so
easily, he knew how little they were truly worth, and was able to move
on in his quest for deeper things.

He took easily to mysticism when he encountered it, and gradually began
to leave behind the modern world, the rational world. (This is
surprisingly easy to do if you truly wish it.) And yet he made one
error - to assume that to do so was the culmination of wisdom, rather
than an early step along that path.

So it was that he came to the small town in the wasteland, along paths
untrodden by waking minds. Still a sun of some kind beat down upon his
head, and he was glad to arrive at his destination. He found himself
wearing a dusty beige jacket and trousers, a pale blue shirt and a pair
of shoes. There was a bag over his shoulder, though not an oppressively
heavy one.

There was a fountain in the town square and he paused to slake his
thirst. The people were clearly used to the arrival of strangers, even
from lands as exotic and distant as his own. The men and women who
lived here seemed normal enough, though he knew that could be nothing
more than a trick of perception, and that they might see him as
something quite different to his true shape.

He approached one of them, an old man resting in the shade. "Excuse
me."

The man peered up at Stephen. "I hear you."

"I... is there a wise man in your town? A seer, a priest?"

"What do you want from a wise man?"

Stephen couldn't help smiling as he gave his rather hackneyed response.
"Wisdom."

"You must have some yourself, to be here at all. You seek deeper
truths?"

"Whatever I can find."

"I know only one. A man may see only so much of life through a single
window."

"Change my perspective, is that what you mean?" Stephen had hoped for
something more fulfilling. "I have already abandoned the life I was
born into."

"You can do more," the old man said. "Nothing is fixed in this realm.
Change everything you can about yourself and you may yet discover true
wisdom."

"How can I do that?"

"There is a place. Leave this town along the north road. Travel for a
week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

Cliffs of red and yellow stone towered above Stephen on either side,
dwarfing the trees that grew at their base. He made his way carefully
along the path, hoping he had not gone astray. He believed he had not,
had taken what he believed to be good notes of the townsman's
instructions. If this were true, he should reach his destination soon.

As instructed, he had bought two canteens from the town market, and
both now hung over his shoulder. His guide had given no reason for this
- the road and this trail were both well-watered, and one should have
been sufficient. But Stephen was wise enough to at least be obedient in
these matters.

The trail descended, the ground falling away towards the base of the
cliffs. Shadows seemed to close in around Stephen as he walked. At the
base of the cliffs, he had been told, he would find what he sought -
and its keeper.

The base of the cliffs was now in sight. The stone was stained by the
water flowing down its face. There was an overhang just at the bottom,
forming a very tiny waterfall - not much more than a rivulet falling
not much more than the height of a man. The pool beneath was hardly
even that.

Stephen looked around. There was no sign of civilisation and certainly
no keeper. The water must be what he had been sent to find. he
unstoppered one of his canteens and stooped over the pool.

"The water loses its power of change when it touches the ground."

The voice sounded immeasurably old and dry. Stephen looked around and
could see no one - only a large, reddish brown snake lying coiled in
the branches of one of the trees.

"I'm sorry?" Stephen said.

"You must take the water from the air, before it touches the ground, if
you are to gain what you seek." The voice definitely came from the
snake.

"Thank you. Are you the keeper of this place?"

"I am."

"I was told you would have other wisdom for me."

"You seek to change yourself to the uttermost degree?"

"I - I suppose I do," Stephen said, smiling at the beast.

The snake did not smile back, but that was hardly surprising, Stephen
thought. " You must drink of the water three times, each time a week
and a day apart. To drink more than this is death."

"I understand."

"You need not stay here, though. You may carry the water away with
you."

"Where should I go ?"

"Return to the main road and guide your steps towards the temple at
Uldath. Know you of it?"

"I can learn," Stephen said. "Thank you."

"Remember. Only through unmaking yourself entirely can you approach
true wisdom. You may drink of the water now."

The snake slithered away into the shadow of the tree's upper branches.
Stephen turned back to the waterfall, held his cupped hands out into
it. Gradually they filled with cold, clear water, with nothing to
distinguish it from that he'd drunk on his journey. He put all doubts
aside and brought his hands to his mouth.

How to describe the workings of such deep things? He felt things deep
within him subtly alter and shift in their alignment. A deep sense of
satisfaction and contentment settled upon him. He looked down at
himself and saw no real signs of change, but he was confident that they
would come - if not soon, then with his next draught of the water. He
held his second canteen beneath the waterfall until it overflowed, then
capped it.

Then, as the sun was setting and the water seemed to have instilled a
great drowsiness in him, he took off his clothes and slept by the
waterfall.

And in the morning he found that he had indeed changed in his physical
appearance. His clothes felt slightly large upon him, and the hair upon
his chest, arms, and legs had thinned considerably. Most noticeable of
all, his hair - which had previously been respectably cut and a light
shade of brown - was now a dark shade of blonde and fell to his collar,
curling somewhat as it did.

Excited by these changes in him, though not yet fully appreciating what
they meant, Stephen started his journey back to the main north road.
Around his waist he twined a piece of cord, and each day he tied a knot
in it, knowing that when there were eight, it would be time for him to
drink again of the water in his special canteen.

His hair continued to grow, both longer and lighter, and it seemed to
him that his body grew slighter as well - though at a less accelerated
rate. Soon he began to tie his hair back in a pony tail, and had to
stop wearing his shoes, which were now much too big for his feet.
Luckily the trail was not too rough nor too hot to walk barefoot.

After a few days he was back on the north road, and he fell into the
company of a hunter, a grave young man of immense skill with a bow.
Stephen was glad of the company and sensed the hunter was as well - but
he was of a taciturn people who did not like to speak of their
emotions, and were even reluctant to give their names. But he was a
good companion and shared freely of what he had.

After a day or two Stephen could tell the hunter had noticed the odd
changes in his appearance even in just a short period, but his code
prevented him from asking about them directly. As they sat down to eat
that night he decided to volunteer the information.

"I know you have noticed the changes in my hair since we have travelled
together," Stephen began.

"Also in your face and body," the hunter said.

Stephen hadn't been aware of those himself. "Oh. Well, I am on a - a
quest for wisdom, and I hope to find it by - by becoming a different
person. My body is transforming into that of someone new."

"Is your mind also transforming?"

Stephen blinked. "I don't know. Perhaps. I must continue with the
process soon. The changes may become more extreme. If you wish for us
to part company, then I will understand."

The hunter shook his head. "It does not concern me, if you are
comfortable. Tell me - is this why you walk unshod?"

"My shoes grew too big for me," Stephen said. "I had to leave them
behind."

The next morning he found the hunter had fashioned for him a simple
pair of leather moccasins. He had grown accustomed to going barefoot
but he was glad to have them, and touched by the young man's
generosity. But such things were common between travellers in that
realm.

As they travelled north together the land grew drier and the
temperature greater. Stephen took off his jacket and constantly walked
with it folded over his arm.

"It will grow no colder between here and Uldath, Stephen," the hunter
said as they walked. He himself wore only a loincloth, vest, and
sandals. "You will not need that garment before you reach there."

"I - I see," Stephen said. He looked at it. You must unmake yourself
entirely, he thought, abandon all traces of your former life. Clothing
would surely be the least of it. He hung the jacket on a branch of the
next tree they passed and left it behind without looking back.

Eight knots had appeared on the cord he wore around his waist. He felt
a tingle of excitement and anticipation all throughout that day,
knowing the next phase of his transformation was about to begin. Who
would he become? Who would he be the next day?

After they had made their camp and eaten, Stephen carefully unstoppered
the second canteen and lifted it to his mouth. The water tasted as
fresh and delicious as it had a week earlier. Again, he felt strange
forces at work within him - not just within his body but within his
whole reality as a living creature, a living mind. He put the stopper
back into the canteen and took a moment to enjoy the sensations racing
through him. His companion was already asleep and he felt drowsiness
descend upon him again.

In the morning his golden hair now stretched down almost to his waist,
and he could feel a new delicacy in the bones of his face - his hands
too, come to that. Almost all the hair had vanished from his body. His
joints felt subtly altered as well.

"You changed much more than usual last night," the hunter said.

"I know," Stephen said, and blinked. His voice had risen in pitch and
softened. He got to his feet, and found the cuffs of his trousers now
reached down over his feet. They felt loose around the waist as well.
He rolled them up to mid-calf and smiled a little sheepishly at the
hunter.

They continued with their journey. Stephen unknotted the cord he wore
around his waist and started again from scratch. Another eight before
he could complete his transformation. But who would he become?

The passing of time as they travelled through the increasingly barren
landscape was marked not just by the accumulation of knots in the cord,
but a tightening of the cord as his waist began to dwindle. He was
becoming smaller and slighter in every respect. His old shirt, at
least, presented him with few difficulties, but the hassle of simply
keeping his trousers up and not tangling around his feet became
increasingly irritating.

Stephen found himself envying the briefer and more practical clothing
his companion wore, found himself casting envious glances at the
hunter's bare arms, legs, and chest, and the well-defined muscles
there. He found himself stealing glances whenever he thought his
companion would not notice it, and as he did so he found in himself a
little prickle of excitement that he could not explain. He was also
aware that the hunter himself seemed to have developed something of a
fascination with Stephen's altered form. Well, that was natural enough.

And then Stephen began to find his body not just dwindling but starting
to alter in other, more surprising ways. His waist stayed tiny, but his
hips appeared to be widening, and there was a swell and roundness to
his buttocks that seemed to fundamentally alter their shape. That was
odd enough, but he began to be aware of the cloth of his shirt rubbing
against his chest in a way he simply hadn't before.

When they stopped for the first time after he became aware of this,
Stephen took himself aside from the hunter and unbuttoned his shirt. He
found that his nipples had doubled in width, and each now sat atop a
tiny saucer of soft, sensitive flesh. He took a deep breath. So that
was the kind of person he was transforming into. He had been foolish
not to realise it before. It made perfect sense: an almost complete
change.

He refastened his shirt and went back to the camp. The hunter looked up
at him. "Is all well?"

Stephen nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think it is." He looked at the hunter
again, seeing for the first time not just as a travelling companion but
a man, a young and healthy man. There was the flicker of excited
tension again. He exhaled sharply.

"My friend... I think you ought to know that my transformation - it
will be an extreme one," Stephen said. "I am turning into a woman."

"I thought this might be so," said the hunter. "Do you wish that we
separate? Before your change is complete?"

"Oh, no! I mean, no," Stephen said, feeling himself blush.

"It is good," said the hunter, smiling.

From the next morning on the hunter seemed somehow solicitous of him,
an escort more than a travelling companion. Every word they spoke to
one another seemed to have acquired a secret extra meaning, and every
action seemed to have become a move in a game - approach, then retreat.
Feint, then attack. Deflect, then riposte. The game seemed only to
gather importance as his chest, hips and buttocks continued to swell.
Soon even his ill-fitting clothes could not disguise them. At the same
time, he found his anatomy elsewhere becoming less prominent, as if
losing importance as well as size.

"I am not going to Uldath," the hunter said one evening as they
prepared their meal.

Stephen had known that. "I will miss your company."

"And I yours. But I am willing to alter my journey a little and travel
with you longer... a few days more. If you wish it."

That would mean they parted company well after he took his final
draught of the changing water. He was quite sure now what the result of
that would be. "I do not wish you to inconvenience yourself," Stephen
said.

"It will be no inconvenience."

Stephen nodded, got up and turned away, not sure what to make of the
feelings crowding into him. "Thank you. I... I would hate to say my
farewells to you prematurely."

Then the hunter's arm was strong around his waist. He had moved so fast
and so silently... but Stephen found he felt no alarm, no sense of
threat. The hunter's lips were close to his ear.

"Have I made a mistake, Stephen?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling himself trembling. The
hunter's other hand was gently cupping one of his breasts now. He let
out a little sigh and reached behind him, stroked the hunter's thigh.
The hunter was unbuttoning his shirt now, and pulled it gently down off
his shoulders and arms. Stephen turned and stepped into his embrace,
helped him shoulder off his own vest. Within him there was only tumult,
but tinged with anticipation. He let loose his hair and shook it out as
the hunter kissed his mouth, his throat, his shoulder, picked him up
gently and then laid him down by the fire. It was so easy for him to
pull Stephen's trousers down and off, leaving him naked. The hunter
pulled at the cords holding his own loincloth up, and even by the
firelight Stephen could see they were equally enthused.

"Wait," Stephen whispered as the hunter knelt down beside him. "I..
can't satisfy you fully yet. My change is not yet complete. We must
wait."

The hunter nodded. "For everything?"

Stephen smiled, reached out gently for him. "Not for everything."

But in the morning, their journey had to continue, of course. Stephen
slipped his shirt back on, noting how the hem now hung down to the
middle of his thighs. Belted as it was with cord, it made a fine and
modest tunic by itself, as well as allowing whatever cool breeze there
was to reach his legs. He decided from that moment on to leave mannish
clothing behind him. It was only logical, if he was indeed intent on
embracing his altered state.

The hunter said nothing but Stephen sensed his approval. Even the shirt
was a garment from another realm, another life, as alien here as
Stephen was... as he had been. He realised there was truly no return
now to his old life, but the realisation brought him no distress or
shock. He had made his choice.

So as they travelled he did his best to make his garment still more
comfortable, and in the process unrecognisable. With the hunter's sharp
knife he trimmed away first the collar, then the sleeves. Only the
strange material of the buttons and design now marked him out as a
visitor to this world, that and the odd bag he still carried.

It seemed an age until once again eight knots sat upon the cord around
his waist. They both knew what that now meant. That night he sat and
drank the last of the water he had carried this far. The sensation it
produced was becoming familiar to him, and he felt oddly wistful that
he would probably never know it again.

In the morning, the womanliness of his whole aspect seemed somehow
stronger - and, more importantly, the last of his man's flesh had begun
to melt away in earnest. He was not yet ready to consummate his bond
with the hunter - but the moment could not be far away.

He found a carefreeness, almost a wilfulness, growing within him. His
personality was changing. He would happily kiss and caress the hunter
as they walked, whereas once such moments were reserved for their halts
or in the evening. And Stephen found himself thinking, behaving, and
reacting purely as a woman - indeed at these moments he was in truth a
she. These intervals of true womanhood came almost unnoticed at first
and were brief, for as soon as she became aware of them she would snap
back into her male self-image automatically. But as time passed they
grew longer and more frequent, and soon it was the case that she felt
of herself as female more often than male.

They reached a small town only a few days travel from the ancient
temple of Uldath, well-equipped with hostels and markets. They paused
there awhile, for Stephen wanted to rid himself of the last of his old
trappings. He traded his complicated bag of leather and buckles and all
its contents for a sizable pouch of coin, and with this he bought
himself a much simpler cloth bag more suited to this world and her
needs. From another stall he bought a light cotton bodice and a simple
long skirt. As soon as she could, she took the remnants of his old
shirt off for the last time and dressed in her new clothes. In the
looking glasses that dotted the marketplaces she could see no trace of
Stephen. She had become someone almost wholly new.

The hunter had bought her a necklace of many-coloured stones. It was
rare for him to be so openly affectionate and it touched her deeply.
She put it on without a word.

The next day they continued on. Stephen knew deep inside herself that
she was ready, and it was time for her to become a woman in the deepest
sense of the word. If she was quiet all that day as she contemplated
how far she had come, the hunter did not mention it. And that night
after they had eaten she stripped the clothes from both him and herself
and they lay together completely for the first time. And as the
universe seemed to stop and their flesh seemed to vibrate in unison,
she knew that the last of the person she had once been was dispelled
forever.

Afterwards they held each other close and the hunter whispered to her.
"Come with me. Come back to my homeland. You will want for nothing, and
every night can be like this. I will give you everything - rich foods,
fine clothes, children -"

The picture he painted was so tempting that she almost yielded to it,
but she shook her head with deep regret. "I have undertaken a quest for
wisdom. I must go to Uldath and complete it."

The hunter respected such things and did not try to persuade her
otherwise. "Then, if you can, once your quest is over - come to me,
Stephen. Become my woman in truth."

"I will try - but I am no longer Stephen. That name was a man's. I am a
woman. If you are serious in your offer, then you must choose a new
name for me."

This was a serious responsibility and the hunter thought long about it.
"I name you Iphe," he said.

"I accept that name," Iphe said. She smiled at him. "And will you now
tell me your name?"

The hunter smiled and nodded, and whispered it quickly in her ear.

The making of their love was so agreeable that they tarried a day or
two together solely for that purpose. But then necessity grew too great
and Iphe and her lover parted. It was strange for her to be travelling
alone again - indeed, it could be said she had never really been alone
before. But she had all she needed, and, while fond memories of her
time with the hunter sometimes made her wistful, she was sure of her
purpose. Soon the five great pillars of the temple of Uldath rose above
the horizon before her.

Legend said that within the temple lay a place where the universe was
as yet unfinished, the creator having been distracted by the wickedness
and stupidity of man while still about his work. Others said that it
marked the spot where the essence of evil had broken into creation, and
as such it had to be guarded. All Iphe knew was that it was a place of
great power and it would mark the end of her quest.

None came to Uldath lightly, and all who did come were welcomed by one
of the Grey Speakers, the masked and robed guardians of the temple. No-
one knew their origins or true nature, but the metallic rasp of their
voices unsettled many who encountered them.

Iphe had only entered the temple precincts, an obsidian maze of carved
stone, when one of the Speakers glided up to her.

"Why have you come to Uldath?"

She lowered her eyes respectfully. "I seek wisdom, sir."

"By what method?"

"I have come here from another world. I seek to remake myself and live
a second life, and thus discover greater truths."

"Are you committed to this path?"

"When I set out upon it I was a man, and a visitor. Now I am a woman,
and not a virgin. I have a name of this realm, clothing of it too. This
is my home now. I will not return to my realm of origin."

"Is this not remaking enough for wisdom?" The Speaker's voice was flat,
as if this were a catechism of set questions and responses.

"I was told to come here, sir."

"If this is your wish, we are bound to assist you. Follow."

Iphe's heart leapt into her mouth. Was it so easy? She walked after the
Speaker into the temple, down black-lit corridors into the very heart
of the edifice. Occasionally she spied other Speakers with their
charges in the distance, but averted her gaze respectfully.

Finally she was led to the doors of a chamber. The Speaker did not go
in. "The great winds of the infinite can be allowed into this room once
the doors are sealed. They will complete your transformation. Be
certain this is what you want - once you enter, the cycle must play
out."

A moment's foreboding - but soon it would be over, Iphe thought, and
then she could return to her hunter, become his wife. She found that
was what she wanted to do, once she had gained the wisdom she sought.
"I will enter."

"It is required that you give your name," the Speaker said.

"I am Iphe," she said, and as the Speaker inclined its head she strode
into the chamber. The stone door slid shut behind her almost silently.
The room was circular, with a high ceiling. In the centre of both floor
and ceiling was a dark shaft, and suspended at its centre was a
glittering, spinning thread of light. As she stared the shaft began to
thicken and flash, and more mundane winds began to pluck at her bodice
and skirt.

My transformation will be complete, Iphe thought, and wondered for the
first time what that meant. The thread of light was whirling and
rippling now, different colours racing from top to bottom and back
again. It was like a rainbow trapped inside a tornado.

My flesh is new, my personality is new, Iphe thought, stepping back a
little from the thread as it expanded even further. The room seemed
smaller than it first had and her back was almost pressed to the wall.
There is nothing left of the old Stephen, so how else can I be
transformed?

Sparks danced out from the spinning vortex and struck her. Memories
violently appeared in the forefront of her mind - her childhood as a
boy, her time at college... and yet they faded almost at once and she
could not recall any of their details. It came to her in a rush. I
cannot be wholly new if I was once Stephen, she thought. All the wind
would do would be to obliterate her memories of ever having been a
man... ever having remembered being a man.

"No!" But the thread was swelling unstoppably and her back was to the
wall. I should have known better wisdom, Iphe thought, as the burning
light swept into her. The wisdom to know when to abandon a quest. The
wisdom to have gone with a man I loved and who loved me. All she had
known was melting away, leaving her blank and fresh and new. And as the
last of who she had been was whipped away and dissolved, she did see
the truth she had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to reach... but
as the wind died and the thread became a thread once more, new memories
began to fill her head and she quietly forgot it.

The chamber door slid open and the young woman emerged uncertainly. The
Speaker was waiting for her when she did so, and continued to wait
until she spoke.

"I... I don't know who I am. Where - where is this place?"

"Your name is Iphe," the Speaker said. "This is the temple of Uldath."

"What am I doing here? What should I do now?"

"These things are for you to determine."

Iphe nodded and followed the Speaker as it led her away.

It was a small town and none too busy. The old man was frequently
bored, but he kept to his traditional shady spot in the marketplace,
feeling it was expected of him. The day seemed to show signs of
improving as he saw another stranger was in town. She was a slim, pale
woman with long, slightly curly golden hair, dressed in a simple bodice
and skirt, a simple necklace around her throat, with a travelling bag
over her shoulder. She noticed the old man looking at her and smiled
nervously at him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I - I don't know. Do you have a wise man or a mage in this village?"

"Why?"

"I - I don't really know what to do. I feel like there's something
really important I need to find out, but..." She shrugged, rather
becomingly.

"You seek wisdom," the old man said.

"Yes, I think I do. I wish I knew how to find it."

"There is a place," said the old man. "Leave this town along the north
road. Travel for a week and then strike west towards the mountains..."

The Cycle of Wisdom

2011-01-09T18:08:48Z

Bad Guru: Created page with 'Stephen realised too late that he had travelled beyond the limits of his understanding. But the modern world, the rational world, had never held much interest for him, and he had…'

Stephen realised too late that he had travelled beyond the limits of his understanding. But the modern world, the rational world, had never held much interest for him, and he had looked beyond it as soon as he became aware that somewhere might even exist. People were surprised when he of all people spent his life striving to look beyond - to peer around corners, to question the unquestioned - for it was true that life appeared to have been very kind to him. He was handsome, healthy, intelligent and young, and his family was a wealthy one. But in truth, having all these gifts was in part his spur - for, having them so easily, he knew how little they were truly worth, and was able to move on in his quest for deeper things.
He took easily to mysticism when he encountered it, and gradually began to leave behind the modern world, the rational world. (This is surprisingly easy to do if you truly wish it.) And yet he made one error - to assume that to do so was the culmination of wisdom, rather than an early step along that path.
So it was that he came to the small town in the wasteland, along paths untrodden by waking minds. Still a sun of some kind beat down upon his head, and he was glad to arrive at his destination. He found himself wearing a dusty beige jacket and trousers, a pale blue shirt and a pair of shoes. There was a bag over his shoulder, though not an oppressively heavy one.
There was a fountain in the town square and he paused to slake his thirst. The people were clearly used to the arrival of strangers, even from lands as exotic and distant as his own. The men and women who lived here seemed normal enough, though he knew that could be nothing more than a trick of perception, and that they might see him as something quite different to his true shape.
He approached one of them, an old man resting in the shade. 'Excuse me.'
The man peered up at Stephen. 'I hear you.'
'I... is there a wise man in your town? A seer, a priest?'
'What do you want from a wise man?'
Stephen couldn't help smiling as he gave his rather hackneyed response. 'Wisdom.'
'You must have some yourself, to be here at all. You seek deeper truths?'
'Whatever I can find.'
'I know only one. A man may see only so much of life through a single window.'
'Change my perspective, is that what you mean?' Stephen had hoped for something more fulfilling. 'I have already abandoned the life I was born into.'
'You can do more,' the old man said. 'Nothing is fixed in this realm. Change everything you can about yourself and you may yet discover true wisdom.'
'How can I do that?'
'There is a place. Leave this town along the north road. Travel for a week and then strike west towards the mountains...'

Cliffs of red and yellow stone towered above Stephen on either side, dwarfing the trees that grew at their base. He made his way carefully along the path, hoping he had not gone astray. He believed he had not, had taken what he believed to be good notes of the townsman's instructions. If this were true, he should reach his destination soon.
As instructed, he had bought two canteens from the town market, and both now hung over his shoulder. His guide had given no reason for this - the road and this trail were both well-watered, and one should have been sufficient. But Stephen was wise enough to at least be obedient in these matters.
The trail descended, the ground falling away towards the base of the cliffs. Shadows seemed to close in around Stephen as he walked. At the base of the cliffs, he had been told, he would find what he sought - and its keeper.
The base of the cliffs was now in sight. The stone was stained by the water flowing down its face. There was an overhang just at the bottom, forming a very tiny waterfall - not much more than a rivulet falling not much more than the height of a man. The pool beneath was hardly even that.
Stephen looked around. There was no sign of civilisation and certainly no keeper. The water must be what he had been sent to find. he unstoppered one of his canteens and stooped over the pool.
'The water loses its power of change when it touches the ground.'
The voice sounded immeasurably old and dry. Stephen looked around and could see no one - only a large, reddish brown snake lying coiled in the branches of one of the trees.
'I'm sorry?' Stephen said.
'You must take the water from the air, before it touches the ground, if you are to gain what you seek.' The voice definitely came from the snake.
'Thank you. Are you the keeper of this place?'
'I am.'
'I was told you would have other wisdom for me.'
'You seek to change yourself to the uttermost degree?'
'I - I suppose I do,' Stephen said, smiling at the beast.
The snake did not smile back, but that was hardly surprising, Stephen thought. ' You must drink of the water three times, each time a week and a day apart. To drink more than this is death.'
'I understand.'
'You need not stay here, though. You may carry the water away with you.'
'Where should I go ?'
'Return to the main road and guide your steps towards the temple at Uldath. Know you of it?'
'I can learn,' Stephen said. 'Thank you.'
'Remember. Only through unmaking yourself entirely can you approach true wisdom. You may drink of the water now.'
The snake slithered away into the shadow of the tree's upper branches. Stephen turned back to the waterfall, held his cupped hands out into it. Gradually they filled with cold, clear water, with nothing to distinguish it from that he'd drunk on his journey. He put all doubts aside and brought his hands to his mouth.
How to describe the workings of such deep things? He felt things deep within him subtly alter and shift in their alignment. A deep sense of satisfaction and contentment settled upon him. He looked down at himself and saw no real signs of change, but he was confident that they would come - if not soon, then with his next draught of the water. He held his second canteen beneath the waterfall until it overflowed, then capped it.
Then, as the sun was setting and the water seemed to have instilled a great drowsiness in him, he took off his clothes and slept by the waterfall.

And in the morning he found that he had indeed changed in his physical appearance. His clothes felt slightly large upon him, and the hair upon his chest, arms, and legs had thinned considerably. Most noticeable of all, his hair - which had previously been respectably cut and a light shade of brown - was now a dark shade of blonde and fell to his collar, curling somewhat as it did.
Excited by these changes in him, though not yet fully appreciating what they meant, Stephen started his journey back to the main north road. Around his waist he twined a piece of cord, and each day he tied a knot in it, knowing that when there were eight, it would be time for him to drink again of the water in his special canteen.
His hair continued to grow, both longer and lighter, and it seemed to him that his body grew slighter as well - though at a less accelerated rate. Soon he began to tie his hair back in a pony tail, and had to stop wearing his shoes, which were now much too big for his feet. Luckily the trail was not too rough nor too hot to walk barefoot.
After a few days he was back on the north road, and he fell into the company of a hunter, a grave young man of immense skill with a bow. Stephen was glad of the company and sensed the hunter was as well - but he was of a taciturn people who did not like to speak of their emotions, and were even reluctant to give their names. But he was a good companion and shared freely of what he had.
After a day or two Stephen could tell the hunter had noticed the odd changes in his appearance even in just a short period, but his code prevented him from asking about them directly. As they sat down to eat that night he decided to volunteer the information.
'I know you have noticed the changes in my hair since we have travelled together,' Stephen began.
'Also in your face and body,' the hunter said.
Stephen hadn't been aware of those himself. 'Oh. Well, I am on a - a quest for wisdom, and I hope to find it by - by becoming a different person. My body is transforming into that of someone new.'
'Is your mind also transforming?'
Stephen blinked. 'I don't know. Perhaps. I must continue with the process soon. The changes may become more extreme. If you wish for us to part company, then I will understand.'
The hunter shook his head. 'It does not concern me, if you are comfortable. Tell me - is this why you walk unshod?'
'My shoes grew too big for me,' Stephen said. 'I had to leave them behind.'
The next morning he found the hunter had fashioned for him a simple pair of leather moccasins. He had grown accustomed to going barefoot but he was glad to have them, and touched by the young man's generosity. But such things were common between travellers in that realm.
As they travelled north together the land grew drier and the temperature greater. Stephen took off his jacket and constantly walked with it folded over his arm.
'It will grow no colder between here and Uldath, Stephen,' the hunter said as they walked. He himself wore only a loincloth, vest, and sandals. 'You will not need that garment before you reach there.'
'I - I see,' Stephen said. He looked at it. You must unmake yourself entirely, he thought, abandon all traces of your former life. Clothing would surely be the least of it. He hung the jacket on a branch of the next tree they passed and left it behind without looking back.

Eight knots had appeared on the cord he wore around his waist. He felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation all throughout that day, knowing the next phase of his transformation was about to begin. Who would he become? Who would he be the next day?
After they had made their camp and eaten, Stephen carefully unstoppered the second canteen and lifted it to his mouth. The water tasted as fresh and delicious as it had a week earlier. Again, he felt strange forces at work within him - not just within his body but within his whole reality as a living creature, a living mind. He put the stopper back into the canteen and took a moment to enjoy the sensations racing through him. His companion was already asleep and he felt drowsiness descend upon him again.
In the morning his golden hair now stretched down almost to his waist, and he could feel a new delicacy in the bones of his face - his hands too, come to that. Almost all the hair had vanished from his body. His joints felt subtly altered as well.
'You changed much more than usual last night,' the hunter said.
'I know,' Stephen said, and blinked. His voice had risen in pitch and softened. He got to his feet, and found the cuffs of his trousers now reached down over his feet. They felt loose around the waist as well. He rolled them up to mid-calf and smiled a little sheepishly at the hunter.
They continued with their journey. Stephen unknotted the cord he wore around his waist and started again from scratch. Another eight before he could complete his transformation. But who would he become?
The passing of time as they travelled through the increasingly barren landscape was marked not just by the accumulation of knots in the cord, but a tightening of the cord as his waist began to dwindle. He was becoming smaller and slighter in every respect. His old shirt, at least, presented him with few difficulties, but the hassle of simply keeping his trousers up and not tangling around his feet became increasingly irritating.
Stephen found himself envying the briefer and more practical clothing his companion wore, found himself casting envious glances at the hunter's bare arms, legs, and chest, and the well-defined muscles there. He found himself stealing glances whenever he thought his companion would not notice it, and as he did so he found in himself a little prickle of excitement that he could not explain. He was also aware that the hunter himself seemed to have developed something of a fascination with Stephen's altered form. Well, that was natural enough.
And then Stephen began to find his body not just dwindling but starting to alter in other, more surprising ways. His waist stayed tiny, but his hips appeared to be widening, and there was a swell and roundness to his buttocks that seemed to fundamentally alter their shape. That was odd enough, but he began to be aware of the cloth of his shirt rubbing against his chest in a way he simply hadn't before.
When they stopped for the first time after he became aware of this, Stephen took himself aside from the hunter and unbuttoned his shirt. He found that his nipples had doubled in width, and each now sat atop a tiny saucer of soft, sensitive flesh. He took a deep breath. So that was the kind of person he was transforming into. He had been foolish not to realise it before. It made perfect sense: an almost complete change.
He refastened his shirt and went back to the camp. The hunter looked up at him. 'Is all well?'
Stephen nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I think it is.' He looked at the hunter again, seeing for the first time not just as a travelling companion but a man, a young and healthy man. There was the flicker of excited tension again. He exhaled sharply.
'My friend... I think you ought to know that my transformation - it will be an extreme one,' Stephen said. 'I am turning into a woman.'
'I thought this might be so,' said the hunter. 'Do you wish that we separate? Before your change is complete?'
'Oh, no! I mean, no,' Stephen said, feeling himself blush.
'It is good,' said the hunter, smiling.
From the next morning on the hunter seemed somehow solicitous of him, an escort more than a travelling companion. Every word they spoke to one another seemed to have acquired a secret extra meaning, and every action seemed to have become a move in a game - approach, then retreat. Feint, then attack. Deflect, then riposte. The game seemed only to gather importance as his chest, hips and buttocks continued to swell. Soon even his ill-fitting clothes could not disguise them. At the same time, he found his anatomy elsewhere becoming less prominent, as if losing importance as well as size.
'I am not going to Uldath,' the hunter said one evening as they prepared their meal.
Stephen had known that. 'I will miss your company.'
'And I yours. But I am willing to alter my journey a little and travel with you longer... a few days more. If you wish it.'
That would mean they parted company well after he took his final draught of the changing water. He was quite sure now what the result of that would be. 'I do not wish you to inconvenience yourself,' Stephen said.
'It will be no inconvenience.'
Stephen nodded, got up and turned away, not sure what to make of the feelings crowding into him. 'Thank you. I... I would hate to say my farewells to you prematurely.'
Then the hunter's arm was strong around his waist. He had moved so fast and so silently... but Stephen found he felt no alarm, no sense of threat. The hunter's lips were close to his ear.
'Have I made a mistake, Stephen?'
He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling himself trembling. The hunter's other hand was gently cupping one of his breasts now. He let out a little sigh and reached behind him, stroked the hunter's thigh. The hunter was unbuttoning his shirt now, and pulled it gently down off his shoulders and arms. Stephen turned and stepped into his embrace, helped him shoulder off his own vest. Within him there was only tumult, but tinged with anticipation. He let loose his hair and shook it out as the hunter kissed his mouth, his throat, his shoulder, picked him up gently and then laid him down by the fire. It was so easy for him to pull Stephen's trousers down and off, leaving him naked. The hunter pulled at the cords holding his own loincloth up, and even by the firelight Stephen could see they were equally enthused.
'Wait,' Stephen whispered as the hunter knelt down beside him. 'I.. can't satisfy you fully yet. My change is not yet complete. We must wait.'
The hunter nodded. 'For everything?'
Stephen smiled, reached out gently for him. 'Not for everything.'

But in the morning, their journey had to continue, of course. Stephen slipped his shirt back on, noting how the hem now hung down to the middle of his thighs. Belted as it was with cord, it made a fine and modest tunic by itself, as well as allowing whatever cool breeze there was to reach his legs. He decided from that moment on to leave mannish clothing behind him. It was only logical, if he was indeed intent on embracing his altered state.
The hunter said nothing but Stephen sensed his approval. Even the shirt was a garment from another realm, another life, as alien here as Stephen was... as he had been. He realised there was truly no return now to his old life, but the realisation brought him no distress or shock. He had made his choice.
So as they travelled he did his best to make his garment still more comfortable, and in the process unrecognisable. With the hunter's sharp knife he trimmed away first the collar, then the sleeves. Only the strange material of the buttons and design now marked him out as a visitor to this world, that and the odd bag he still carried.
It seemed an age until once again eight knots sat upon the cord around his waist. They both knew what that now meant. That night he sat and drank the last of the water he had carried this far. The sensation it produced was becoming familiar to him, and he felt oddly wistful that he would probably never know it again.

In the morning, the womanliness of his whole aspect seemed somehow stronger - and, more importantly, the last of his man's flesh had begun to melt away in earnest. He was not yet ready to consummate his bond with the hunter - but the moment could not be far away.
He found a carefreeness, almost a wilfulness, growing within him. His personality was changing. He would happily kiss and caress the hunter as they walked, whereas once such moments were reserved for their halts or in the evening. And Stephen found himself thinking, behaving, and reacting purely as a woman - indeed at these moments he was in truth a she. These intervals of true womanhood came almost unnoticed at first and were brief, for as soon as she became aware of them she would snap back into her male self-image automatically. But as time passed they grew longer and more frequent, and soon it was the case that she felt of herself as female more often than male.
They reached a small town only a few days travel from the ancient temple of Uldath, well-equipped with hostels and markets. They paused there awhile, for Stephen wanted to rid himself of the last of his old trappings. He traded his complicated bag of leather and buckles and all its contents for a sizable pouch of coin, and with this he bought himself a much simpler cloth bag more suited to this world and her needs. From another stall he bought a light cotton bodice and a simple long skirt. As soon as she could, she took the remnants of his old shirt off for the last time and dressed in her new clothes. In the looking glasses that dotted the marketplaces she could see no trace of Stephen. She had become someone almost wholly new.
The hunter had bought her a necklace of many-coloured stones. It was rare for him to be so openly affectionate and it touched her deeply. She put it on without a word.
The next day they continued on. Stephen knew deep inside herself that she was ready, and it was time for her to become a woman in the deepest sense of the word. If she was quiet all that day as she contemplated how far she had come, the hunter did not mention it. And that night after they had eaten she stripped the clothes from both him and herself and they lay together completely for the first time. And as the universe seemed to stop and their flesh seemed to vibrate in unison, she knew that the last of the person she had once been was dispelled forever.
Afterwards they held each other close and the hunter whispered to her. 'Come with me. Come back to my homeland. You will want for nothing, and every night can be like this. I will give you everything - rich foods, fine clothes, children -'
The picture he painted was so tempting that she almost yielded to it, but she shook her head with deep regret. 'I have undertaken a quest for wisdom. I must go to Uldath and complete it.'
The hunter respected such things and did not try to persuade her otherwise. 'Then, if you can, once your quest is over - come to me, Stephen. Become my woman in truth.'
'I will try - but I am no longer Stephen. That name was a man's. I am a woman. If you are serious in your offer, then you must choose a new name for me.'
This was a serious responsibility and the hunter thought long about it. 'I name you Iphe,' he said.
'I accept that name,' Iphe said. She smiled at him. 'And will you now tell me your name?'
The hunter smiled and nodded, and whispered it quickly in her ear.

The making of their love was so agreeable that they tarried a day or two together solely for that purpose. But then necessity grew too great and Iphe and her lover parted. It was strange for her to be travelling alone again - indeed, it could be said she had never really been alone before. But she had all she needed, and, while fond memories of her time with the hunter sometimes made her wistful, she was sure of her purpose. Soon the five great pillars of the temple of Uldath rose above the horizon before her.
Legend said that within the temple lay a place where the universe was as yet unfinished, the creator having been distracted by the wickedness and stupidity of man while still about his work. Others said that it marked the spot where the essence of evil had broken into creation, and as such it had to be guarded. All Iphe knew was that it was a place of great power and it would mark the end of her quest.
None came to Uldath lightly, and all who did come were welcomed by one of the Grey Speakers, the masked and robed guardians of the temple. No-one knew their origins or true nature, but the metallic rasp of their voices unsettled many who encountered them.
Iphe had only entered the temple precincts, an obsidian maze of carved stone, when one of the Speakers glided up to her.
'Why have you come to Uldath?'
She lowered her eyes respectfully. 'I seek wisdom, sir.'
'By what method?'
'I have come here from another world. I seek to remake myself and live a second life, and thus discover greater truths.'
'Are you committed to this path?'
'When I set out upon it I was a man, and a visitor. Now I am a woman, and not a virgin. I have a name of this realm, clothing of it too. This is my home now. I will not return to my realm of origin.'
'Is this not remaking enough for wisdom?' The Speaker's voice was flat, as if this were a catechism of set questions and responses.
'I was told to come here, sir.'
'If this is your wish, we are bound to assist you. Follow.'
Iphe's heart leapt into her mouth. Was it so easy? She walked after the Speaker into the temple, down black-lit corridors into the very heart of the edifice. Occasionally she spied other Speakers with their charges in the distance, but averted her gaze respectfully.
Finally she was led to the doors of a chamber. The Speaker did not go in. 'The great winds of the infinite can be allowed into this room once the doors are sealed. They will complete your transformation. Be certain this is what you want - once you enter, the cycle must play out.'
A moment's foreboding - but soon it would be over, Iphe thought, and then she could return to her hunter, become his wife. She found that was what she wanted to do, once she had gained the wisdom she sought. 'I will enter.'
'It is required that you give your name,' the Speaker said.
'I am Iphe,' she said, and as the Speaker inclined its head she strode into the chamber. The stone door slid shut behind her almost silently. The room was circular, with a high ceiling. In the centre of both floor and ceiling was a dark shaft, and suspended at its centre was a glittering, spinning thread of light. As she stared the shaft began to thicken and flash, and more mundane winds began to pluck at her bodice and skirt.
My transformation will be complete, Iphe thought, and wondered for the first time what that meant. The thread of light was whirling and rippling now, different colours racing from top to bottom and back again. It was like a rainbow trapped inside a tornado.
My flesh is new, my personality is new, Iphe thought, stepping back a little from the thread as it expanded even further. The room seemed smaller than it first had and her back was almost pressed to the wall. There is nothing left of the old Stephen, so how else can I be transformed?
Sparks danced out from the spinning vortex and struck her. Memories violently appeared in the forefront of her mind - her childhood as a boy, her time at college... and yet they faded almost at once and she could not recall any of their details. It came to her in a rush. I cannot be wholly new if I was once Stephen, she thought. All the wind would do would be to obliterate her memories of ever having been a man... ever having remembered being a man.
'No!' But the thread was swelling unstoppably and her back was to the wall. I should have known better wisdom, Iphe thought, as the burning light swept into her. The wisdom to know when to abandon a quest. The wisdom to have gone with a man I loved and who loved me. All she had known was melting away, leaving her blank and fresh and new. And as the last of who she had been was whipped away and dissolved, she did see the truth she had worked so hard and sacrificed so much to reach... but as the wind died and the thread became a thread once more, new memories began to fill her head and she quietly forgot it.

The chamber door slid open and the young woman emerged uncertainly. The Speaker was waiting for her when she did so, and continued to wait until she spoke.
'I... I don't know who I am. Where - where is this place?'
'Your name is Iphe,' the Speaker said. 'This is the temple of Uldath.'
'What am I doing here? What should I do now?'
'These things are for you to determine.'
Iphe nodded and followed the Speaker as it led her away.

It was a small town and none too busy. The old man was frequently bored, but he kept to his traditional shady spot in the marketplace, feeling it was expected of him. The day seemed to show signs of improving as he saw another stranger was in town. She was a slim, pale woman with long, slightly curly golden hair, dressed in a simple bodice and skirt, a simple necklace around her throat, with a travelling bag over her shoulder. She noticed the old man looking at her and smiled nervously at him.
'Can I help you?' he asked.
'I - I don't know. Do you have a wise man or a mage in this village?'
'Why?'
'I - I don't really know what to do. I feel like there's something really important I need to find out, but...' She shrugged, rather becomingly.
'You seek wisdom,' the old man said.
'Yes, I think I do. I wish I knew how to find it.'
'There is a place,' said the old man. 'Leave this town along the north road. Travel for a week and then strike west towards the mountains...'

User:Bad Guru

2011-01-09T18:05:52Z

Bad Guru:

Hello. I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru.

A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've written TG since 1997 and posted it (rather infrequently, I acknowledge) to FictionMania since 2003. However, I do write other kinds of TF once in a while and this looks like it would be a good place to put all of it.

'''APFS Stories'''

''This is a loosely-linked series of stories set in a near-future version of our world, where gender has become inexplicably and randomly mutable. Very occasionally characters from one story appear briefly or are referred to in another, but the stories are all standalones. They tend to be focussed on character and dialogue, ideally as realistic as I can manage.''

*[[Stripped Away]]
*[[A Different Kind of Love]]
*[[A Woman Within]]
*[[Inbetweener]]
*[[The Realm of Flesh]]
*[[Ordinary Moments]]

'''Other stories'''

''What it says on the tin.''

*[[Descent]] - A non-specific animal TF: humans from a dying Earth are forced to take desperate measures to ensure their survival in an alien environment. About as close to traditional SF as I've written recently.
*[[Monarch of Monsters]] - A TF take on a well-known Japanese cinematic universe. Say no more.
*[[The Cycle of Wisdom]] - TG. An attempt at a pastiche of H.P. Lovecraft's Dreamlands stories, not that anyone's noticed so far. Hey ho.

User:Bad Guru

2011-01-09T18:01:14Z

Bad Guru:

Hello. I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru.

A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've written TG since 1997 and posted it (rather infrequently, I acknowledge) to FictionMania since 2003. However, I do write other kinds of TF once in a while and this looks like it would be a good place to put all of it.

''APFS Stories''

'''This is a loosely-linked series of stories set in a near-future version of our world, where gender has become inexplicably and randomly mutable. Very occasionally characters from one story appear briefly or are referred to in another, but the stories are all standalones. They tend to be focussed on character and dialogue, ideally as realistic as I can manage.'''

[[Stripped Away]]
[[A Different Kind of Love]]
[[A Woman Within]]
[[Inbetweener]]
[[The Realm of Flesh]]
[[Ordinary Moments]]

''Other stories''

'''What the heading may lead you to suspect.'''

[[Descent]] - A non-specific animal TF: humans from a dying Earth are forced to take desperate measures to ensure their survival in an alien environment. About as close to proper hard SF as I've written recently.
[[Monarch of Monsters]] - A TF take on a well-known Japanese cinematic universe. Say no more.
[[The Cycle of Wisdom]] - TG. An attempt at a pastiche of H.P. Lovecraft's Dreamlands stories, not that anyone's noticed so far. Hey ho.

Talk:Going soft

2011-01-09T12:51:53Z

Bad Guru: /* Hee hee hee */

== Hee hee hee ==

That story of your feedback letters is awesome. Or awful. Or awfully awesome. Or awesomely awful. ROFL!!

You've pretty much put your finger on one of the reasons why I find the [[Paradise (Setting)|Paradise]] setting so interesting. TG'd characters ''don't'' masturbate, or rush out to have sex, etc. With very few exceptions, they have a good deal of trouble getting used to their new bodies, and even after they are used to them don't rush into things—and those who do (Brooke in "After Hours") end up regretting it. (Perhaps it's not the setting I appreciate so much as it is the writers in it. :) —[[User:Robotech Master|Robotech Master]] 23:32, 8 June 2009 (UTC)

== The nature of the beast ==

I wasn't deluged by positive feedback when I started posting TG on the internet but I rapidly realised that, assuming you actually try to incorporate things like plot and character development and realistic dialogue, whatever feedback you get is likely to be glowingly positive, quite simply because most TG fiction is... let's just say concerned with other things.

In my experience it exists on a spectrum with people attempting to write something of genuine merit down one end and others just turning out fapping material at the other - transcribing their fantasies, in other words. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it just isn't terribly satisfying on any other level. I've no idea if other people find any sort of erotic charge in my stuff, but most of the ones who feed back to me seem to find the stories involving enough. - [[User:Bad Guru|Bad Guru]] 12:51, 9 January 2011 (UTC)

User:Bad Guru

2011-01-09T12:36:49Z

Bad Guru: Created page with ' Hello, I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru. A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've wr…'

Hello, I am a writer, and often when I write I go by the name of Bad Guru.

A significant bit of my brain isn't happy unless I write TF fiction of some variety or other. I've written TG since 1997 and posted it (rather infrequently, I acknowledge) to FictionMania since 2003. However, I do write other kinds of TF once in a while and this looks like it would be a good place to put all of it.

(Stories to come soon.)