Stripped Away
{{#ifeq: | | {{#ifeq: Bad Guru | |
{{#ifeq: Bad Guru | ||
Author: Bad Guru
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{{#ifeq: Bad Guru | |
Author: Bad Guru |
Author: Bad Guru
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{{#ifeq: Bad Guru | |
{{#ifeq: Bad Guru | | Authors: ' |
Authors: Bad Guru
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{{#ifeq: Bad Guru | |
Authors: Bad Guru |
Author: Bad Guru
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}} {{#if:| — see also [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}
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.