JulieYBM

  February 02, 2018:

  Three hundred eight dolrs and fifty cents for a name change was—categorically—a fucking hatecrime.

  Gray was always the color of the sky in Tacoma this time of the year. The clouds looked more like a water colorist's interpretation of clouds than actual clouds.

  The downtown area remained its usual crowd of high-rise buildings, haphazardly drawn streets, cars that didn’t know what they were doing, and an annoying amount of people who didn’t really care if some dumb schmuck was about to drive into them.

  I'm sure that my elder sister was one such driver, given the few blocks she lived from the courthouse.

  Because I was still registered as living in Pierce County, I made the trek down to Tacoma for my court date to officially change my name to ‘Candace’. I was no fool: I knew that I would be rejected by my parents when they inevitably learned that I was transgender—or if, perhaps, I had the stones to come out to them as their daughter first. It was practically set in stone.

  Perhaps I would be so lucky to absolve myself of those stones, first.

  At the end of the day, it ultimately took no effort at all to write ‘Queen’ for my new st name. The name of ‘Woods’ was only ever a burden, as it was. I would remain strong and proud, even if I were to never again be a son of the illustrious Woods family.

  Submitting my paperwork with the clerk, I kept my breathing under control and took the elevator up to the floor where my court hearing would be held. Outside of the courtroom, I found a crowd of other people waiting for their own hearings, several situated at a table. It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only person getting my name changed at nine in the fucking morning, too.

  Among the hefty number of people getting their name changed was what appeared to be a visibly trans woman, perhaps ten years my senior. As I inched toward the crowd, I averted my eyes, trying to avoid being recognized as trans by the colorfully dressed woman. The general unease—or blessed disinterest—of the other people waiting to be let into the courtroom was more than apparent and the fear of being outed as trans while having to wait with so many other people felt akin to what I imagined a snake slithering up one's spine might feel like.

  The heartbeat that my deadname was called out, I would terrifyingly and appallingly be outed to the twenty or so people joining me in the courtroom, and the thought of the panic sting only a few brief seconds bore very little comfort. Yes, I would be able to quickly pack up and never see any of these people again, thankfully, but my stomach still churned like I had just eaten expired dairy products. Biding my time was the best—only avaible—course of action, though—and all it meant was two or three minutes of embarrassment.

  Just the courtroom, then Social Security to get my information changed there, a trip to the Department of Licensing and wherever the hell I needed to go to get my birth certificate changed and then I would finally be done with this nonsense.

  Just a few more days and I would finally be—legally-speaking—her.

  The first step to accomplishing all of this nonsense was to not attract the attention of this other trans woman and get outed. Easy-peasy.

  Unfortunately, I was not so lucky, “Wow, I love your dress, miss!”

  Ugh, she was doing a shitty girl voice—barely even trying!

  Not that she had been wrong, though. Since I would be appearing before a judge, I figured that it was an excuse to go a little all-out with my outfit, so I dug out a cute pink dress that had a ruffled bottom that caught my waist between it and my chest. Looking to not attract my attention, I smiled softly, gripped my purse as it id over my shoulder, and replied as nonchantly as possible, “Thank you.”

  In retrospect, a pin, gray suit with that cute pencil skirt I had picked up st year would have probably been a better choice for not sticking out, but it was too te to start counting my eggs now that they were hatching.

  The older trans woman looked otherwise unperturbed by the occasional nasty looks she was getting from the others around her. In her gaudy pink skirt and floral top with striped thigh-highs, the bottle-dyed purple haired older woman seemed chipper and seemed almost unaware of the precarious position she was in.

  Perhaps it simply was because I had been basically living as a woman for four years now, but the sight of the woman’s retive blindness to the ways that visibly queer people were treated left me almost nauseous. I had been passing for female for nearly three years now and the idea of being outed as anything but a woman kept a nasty brew of stomach acid bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

  Finally, the bailiff opened the doors to the courtroom from the inside and ushered our little congregation of name changers through the jowls of the double doors into its bowls. Within moments of our merry little gang taking our seats on long, hard, wooden pew-esque benches, the judge entered from his chambers and took his seat.

  The bastard was fifteen minutes te and still showed up looking like he had been out drinking all night. The judge had the sway of one who had a hangover, judging by the strain on his face from his gait. The body nguage of misery with which he shuffled to his seat was unfortunately one I knew all too well.

  “Alright everyone, let’s get this over with quickly, shall we?”

  Yeah, of course the bastard wanted in-and-out as quickly as possible.

  “First up, Dennis Alfred Chambers?”

  The visibly trans woman sauntered up to the front to stand before the judge.

  “The case of Dennis Alfred Chambers, bh, bh, bh,” hardly professional, but I wasn’t about to object to the judge’s callous candor, “You’ll be changing your name to Zelda Alexandria Chambers?”

  Low snickers from among at least two of the other people looking to change their names traveled from behind into my ears, seemingly put there by the universe to drive up my anxiety even more. If the Chambers girl had heard the jeers, she had no reaction to them at all.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Are you doing so to fraud the state?”

  “No, your honor.”

  “Cool. I hereby grant the order, have a wonderful rest of your day.”

  The older woman had a giddiness to her step as she accepted her court order and then exited the courtroom.

  Numerous more names were called before the court finally reached the end of the alphabet. When I was finally called, the breath I had been holding failed to budge, “The case of…Harrison Woods?”

  My heart began to burn—I felt like it had been ripped from my chest and—like the cartoon shoe from that one Zemeckis film that was dipped into The Judge’s special acid—slowly began to disintegrate. It’s a curious feeling, to feel your very mind recreating its best approximation of a heart disintegrating in acid as stomach acid filled it. Two yers of torment overpping, like two audio tracks in a video editing software, both pying at once, burning the sensory nerves. Nevertheless, I preserved and used my shaking legs to struggle to my feet. I did my best to keep my eyes forward the entire time, but I could feel all eyes on me as I stood from the end of the otherwise empty row of wooden pews that I sat on and quickly made my way to the front. My eyes wanted so badly to betray me and check my surroundings.

  Upon reaching the front of the courtroom, an audible gasp from my rear beat with its mallet-sized drum sticks against my eardrum.

  Whereas the judge seemed indifferent to Zelda Alexandria Cambers, with me I could tell that he was unable to hide any surprise at me being—what I’m sure he saw—as a man pying dress up. Clearing his throat, the judge returned to his usual spiel, “The case of Harrison Arthur Woods, changing your name to…Candace Selina Queen?”

  Steady now, voice, “Yes, your honor.”

  “He doesn’t even sound like a man,” a backhanded compliment whispered from behind.

  I nearly shrieked right there, on the spot. I was sure that I could feel the warmth of blood pouring out of my ears, like a can of red paint filled to the point of overflow.

  “Are you changing your name to defraud the state?”

  “No, your honor.”

  Just from body nguage and facial expression alone, I could tell that the judge looked like he was probably thinking, “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be named Harrison Arthur Woods if I looked like you, either.”

  “It is so granted,” the judge finished, stamping the court order and passing it to the bailiff to hand to me. The dismay evident in his voice wrote poems to his psyche, assuaging it of its fears about his own sexuality. If I had to guess, the judge was probably going to jerk off to tranny porn when he got back to his chambers.

  Accepting the paperwork from an equally fraught-looking bailiff, I grew a hesitant smile with my lips. Finally, I held in my hands legal paperwork that finally said my name: Candace Selina Queen. I could apply to jobs without having awkward conversations, without outing myself, and without even needing to think about that boy ever again. God knows I was going to need to work a shit job before I could finish college and find an actual teaching job to focus on.

  Dismissed, I held my chin up high and quickly walked out of the courtroom—the piercing eyes gring at me—and the whispers kayaking straight into my ears—sure to haunt my dreams for years to come.

  Once outside of the courtroom, the trans woman—on the phone with someone—stopped me before I could make my way to the elevator, “Hey, congrats on the name change!”

  God, I hated how she dressed like a teenager, “Sure, same to you.” Reply curt, I sped off before the woman could try to make friends.

  Had she figured it out? At long st, panic seeped through my pores and stretched across my face, necessitating that I turn from the woman—even if she was distracted by her phone call. I quickened my pace toward the elevator.

  Once inside its silver solitude, I breathed a sigh of relief and let the terror finally take over my face for the brief trip down to the ground floor.

  I would not risk anyone finding out what I was. Ever.

  ***

  February 09, 2018:

  Waitressing was no fun—at all. Holding up a wide, unwieldy tray of heavy ptes full of food was murder on the wrist and the embarrassment that came with dropping ptes full of food just feet from my destination—a table full of two parents and four kids of various ages—only made me feel more like an out-of-touch WASP who hadn’t a callus on her callous hands.

  Standing on my feet all day sure as shit wasn’t fun, either.

  “Uh…” the father at the table of six looked conflicted as to whether or not to get upset with me. The core of this conflict—I could tell—y in the fact that he was clearly infatuated with me, unable to keep his eyes off me and no doubt sneaking peeks at my ass when he had the chance.

  His overwhelmed wife—wrangling four children—seemed none the more pleased by his ck of assistance and his clear desire to fuck me.

  “I’ll get those reordered immediately, sir,” I squeaked out, doing my best to not show any annoyance as I sold myself to the man on the marketpce of customer worship. The tile floor was hell on my knees as I tried loading as much as the shattered gss and ceramic back onto the tray.

  I just knew that that bitch Suzanne was going to chew my head off the second I got off of the floor and away from the prying ears of nosy customers.

  Once back in the kitchen, I pced the mess I had made on the counter as a haggard old woman—likely past her fifties—approached me with the kind of scowl that would make a tyrannosaurus turn back and run the other way, “That’s the third time this has happened this week, Cindi.”

  Who didn’t love it when older people kept a tally of all of the mistakes of your youth? “I’m sorry, Suzanne, it won’t happen again. Also, my name’s, uh—” Nerves beginning to fray, I brushed the strand of hair I had foolishly chosen not to tie up out of my face.

  Suzanne did not look impressed, “—You said that the previous two times, too, Cindi.”

  Leaning onto the counter to catch a moment of rest, my right hand accidentally caught a part of the tray—right next to the edge of the counter—and sent the shattered delicates shaking, nearly flying into the air.

  Suzanne looked at me with an unseen level of contempt, “Maybe if you spent less time twirling your hair like a bimbo and more time paying attention to everything you were taught there would be less orders winding up on the floor, Barbie.”

  Again with the weird nickname, “S-sorry,” leaning off of the counter, I deployed the age-old tactic of acting like I was too busy for more lecturing and walked to the window to see if any new orders were ready. No such luck.

  The weathered wench had little trouble keeping on my tail, despite the decades of waitressing having given her obviously fucked up legs, “That st order is gonna hafta come outta yer paycheck, Cindi.”

  The aged smoker's cough that followed her little bitch fit did little more to endear the virtues of endless decades of waitressing to me, but I bit my tongue lest I let on just how much contempt I had for my liver-spotting bitch of a manager. If I had been her, I would have been embarrassed to be seen wearing a white dress shirt beneath a bck apron at a restaurant. It was tacky as hell, especially in comparison to the bck dress shirt I had opted for.

  I deposited an unforgiving mental note for ter to check to see if that business about docking my pay was legal—assuming she could even remember what my actual legal name was to figure out whose paycheck to fuck with. The endeavor was in no way easy, given that the sound of the cutesy, unforced error mangling of my name riding the soundwaves of Suzanne’s voice was like being subjected to the sound of a baby deer being fed through a meat grinder.

  Orders inevitably—and blessedly—began to pile up again, giving me the perfect opportunity to get lost in the hussle-and-bussle of zooming around the restaurant floor and back into the kitchen—thank fuck for dress fts—without having to worry about much more than a stare of disapproval from Suzanne—who had no trouble ignoring the other waitress’ on duty to stare me down like a hawk. The older woman’s decades of busting ass for this shithole did not entitle her to acting like a bigshot simply because she was now a shift manager, and in that regard I elected to maintain a mental superiority over her in my mind.

  Give bitch, get a bitch back.

  Eventually, the poor family subjected to my clumsiness finally got their orders, this time sans any fireworks in the form of me yet again dropping their food. The patriarch of the family—with his cheap dress shirt that looked like it had stained from whatever musty office he worked in—continued his poor job of hiding his eyes’ feeling me up, so I decided to indulge in my own game.

  “Ma’am. I absolutely love your top,” it was a hideous scrub top with copyright infringing characters on it, “Your husband must adore you.”

  The frazzled brunette broke from trying to keep her youngest quiet to look over at her utterly witless husband, before turning to me, “Oh, thank you! I’m sure he—yes, yes he does.”

  I suspected otherwise.

  As I moved on to check with my other tables, I could hear the poor gal rightfully berating her husband for never complimenting her on her appearance, a devious smile pouring like the finest of maple syrup over my face.

  Sometimes, it was the small things in life.

  ***

  March 31, 2018:

  Ugh, I needed to get fucked.

  Three months since the st time I had sex was just long enough for the rot to begin to spread across my brain like a cancer. I knew that it was ill-conceived to carelessly try for a hook-up while pre-op, but the itch was getting to be too much for my toys to scratch.

  Worse, I kind of just missed the touch of another human being.

  There was a particur sense of shame that was borne of sitting alone in a small, rinky-dink diner. It was a shame where you either looked like a loser for eating alone, looked like an asshole for eating alone—the same thing, really—or you looked like a tragic loser for eating alone. I had always thought of people who ate alone in restaurants as being—you guessed it—losers, but now that the shoe was on the other foot, I wished it was Cinderel's gss slipper, and not my roosters coming home to roost.

  A small mom-and-pop pce off of an I-5 exit twenty-five—or so—miles east of Seattle served as my choice of escape for the day, the drive to which had been a perfect opportunity to stare at the gray skies and pavement of the highway until my eyes were ready to fall out of my head. Since blowing my life to smithereens at Christmas, I'd come to the conclusion that I just really didn’t want to be around anywhere I might be recognized. I didn’t want to talk to anyone who knew me.

  Especially if they knew my ex-boyfriend, too.

  Sometimes, I wasn’t even sure why I was so bitter and angry. A single dinner with Megumi just a week after my break-up with my ex had been enough proof that she was just going to keep pestering me to apologize to my ex. It was rgely why I had turned to ignoring most of the texts from the erstwhile woman and calls now. Not unlike now, as I sat in my booth in the cramped, decades-old diner, my phone face up but set to silent.

  The lit screen was the only thing to announce to the world that I had a call—and that I was ignoring that call.

  I preoccupied myself with swishing the melting ice around the water and challenging a half-eaten sad to a staring contest.

  As luck would have it, I was the only customer in the diner. The isotion was much appreciated, allowing me to leave my room in Clive’s apartment without needing to worry too much about being perceived by others. As happy as I was to have yet another free pce to crash until I graduated college, it was still uncomfortable to feel tied to my past. Clive had been doing better about not being, well, Clive, but I needed a clean break.

  I needed to have no reminders of who I was before I was Candace Queen.

  It was an unpleasant reminder, then, of the ck of a reliable parental figure in my life that a copy of a painting simir in style to Norman Rockwell hung on the wall behind the counter, staring at me as I engaged in torturing the quickly melting ice cube in my gss of water. In the painting, a boy holding a rifle was scolded by his father in what appeared to be a 1950s setting. The compassionate look on the father's face was foreign to me.

  My old man sold weapons to imperial states like the United States. If that made him the compassionate—perhaps with a hint of disappointment—father in the painting—his imposing statue looking down on his son—did that make me the boy? Head hung low in shame for the crime of being unable to man-up and fire the rifle as the picture-esque Bambi running off in the painting's background?

  Pfft, yeah. A boy with tits and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.

  A jovial gentleman cd in a woefully chosen—and perhaps, woefully code vioting—white wife beater and white apron combo slipped from behind the door to the kitchen to the front of the diner to mingle with his co-worker—the lone waitress on staff. It was curious how little there had been in the way of traffic within the diner in the ninety minutes since I had first arrived. Saturday afternoons—I assumed—were actually for going out and pying, not dining out.

  Eating alone in diners or restaurants was a regur affair for me, now. No friends left to goof off with and catch up with, after all. I enjoyed the peace and quiet afforded by the freedom of not needing to sync up food allergies with others, too—not that I ever ate much. No expectations, just me and the occasional stares of appreciation for my beauty from the errant eyes of employees seeking to see something beautiful in their brutalist grey, silver and white workpces.

  Just me and my embitterment, at the end of the day.

  The jovial young man who—going by the apron—was the diner’s cook strutted over to my table with a flirt’s strut and a slut’s grin, “Everything good with the sad, ma’am?”

  I retorted with an artfully amused smile, “It’s lovely, hon.”

  Dark of hair, tan of skin and hairy of arm, the thirty-something diner cook had a look about him that screamed ‘fuckboy’, but unfortunately confident in that he didn’t even bother asking if he could join me opposite in my booth. Sliding into the booth, the cook asked with a mispced swagger, “So, come out to Snoqualmie often?”

  “How do you know I’m not a local?”I parried with grace.

  “Oh, I’d know if you were a local.”

  Times like this, I almost wished I was a lesbian, “Is that so?”

  “It’s so so.”

  “Well then,” I dabbed around my lips with my napkin—just to be careful of not smudging my makeup—and looked the fuckboy in the eyes, “I’m just in the area to get away from my studies for a few hours. Maybe see some Twin Peaks locations. The usual.”

  “Oh, a learned woman, are ya?”

  “Not all women who wear pink sweaters are bimbos, dear.”

  The direct call-out did little to reduce his swarm, “Oh, I’m sure. I noticed when you came in, you got a real sophistication to yer walk.”

  Changing my strut from faggot to doll had been a hell of a challenge, but worth it, “I’m sure you say that to all the girls, Mister…?”

  “Rocco, Miss…?”

  It was frustratingly fitting that the guy who looked like an Italian Rock Hudson was named ‘Rocco’, “Candace.”

  “Pleasure to meetcha, Miss Candace.”

  Rocco’s outstretched hand and shit-eating grin elicited a sigh in defiance of my hope to maintain a strong front, “Charmed.”

  Grip strong—with hands rough and virgin to lotion—I gritted my teeth and emotionally prepared myself for what I knew was coming.

  Elbows on the table to prop up his hunched forward posture, “Got any pns for after that sad?” I hated how much I loved the swarm of a masculine man.

  “Like I said: Maybe some sightseeing?”

  “Maybe I could join ya?”

  Steady now, “Don’t you have a kitchen to man?”

  “I’m more of a work-life bance kind of man, personally,” what, they had healthy work ethics out in the middle of bumfuck—with a side of misty mountain tops—nowhere?

  Pulling back for a moment to collect myself, I shifted my gaze to my left to line my sight up with the floor: it looked rarely waxed and even more rarely cleaned. Treating this guy with honesty seemed unwise, but I still wanted to suck a cock, “You got a pce?”

  An amused grin took over Rocco’s face, “It might as well be a pace!”

  ***

  March 31, 2018:

  Rocco’s so-called ‘pace’ was much ado about nothing. ‘Rocco’s Modern Manor’ was one of those trailers that had the foundation not-quite-cleverly obfuscated—with those flimsy white picket fences haphazardly stapled onto the trailer itself—in an attempt to create an illusion of foundational support. The illusion was that the home was much more than a long, not particurly spacious, housing unit popur among the underfed of means.

  That illusion cked local community theater’s earned grace for shoddy production values and settled firmly on the side of being ‘fake as shit’.

  Entering the unit behind Rocco, I was immediately introduced to a cluttered, small ‘living room’—if one could call it that—where a small, 27-inch television monitor was pying a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit rerun featuring that one transphobic plotline. The television set bathed in its light a man wearing little more than a wife beater and gym shorts homesteading in a recliner. The man’s hairline had seen better days, and judging by the burgeoning skullet, he was unreted to Rocco by blood.

  Had I seen his but his sizable gut, I might have confused the two for retives.

  A vast and repetitious collection of the local Minor League baseball team’s paraphernalia made its home on the falls and any table, side table, folding table, and other surface that they could.

  Mid-way to turning the corner of the hallway to our left, Rocco turned, realized I was side-eying the unflinching man and mouthed, “Roommate.”

  Nodding with a nervous smile, I proceeded to follow the man to his bedroom—his roommate none the wiser.

  Once inside, I was entirely unsurprised by the simirly cluttered room. Clearly, the housing arrangement at present had been a st-minute decision.

  That or the guy just didn’t know how to say no to Monster Energy Drink cans and old issues of Maxim.

  Much to his credit, however, the bed—an air mattress situated on the floor—was pristinely made, despite the surrounding warzone.

  Unsure of what to do with my trepidation, I held onto the pink handbag’s simirly pink strap as it rested over my shoulder and watched as Rocco shuffled some of the clutter away from the bed in service of a path.

  “Sorry, not exactly the Hilton. We just moved into this pce, like, nine months ago?” Rocco’s gargle-y voice had what could have qualified for embarrassment, if he hadn’t been shining a shit-eating grin anytime his eyes retook sight of me.

  “Well, we can’t all be fast unpackers, can we?”

  The soft-bellied man’s boisterous ugh was just shy of irritating, “Fancy yourself a fast one, do ya?”

  “I just hope that you’re slow where it counts, you naughty boy.”

  “Ooh, feisty,” Rocco moved in, pcing his massive hands on my arms as he brought me in closer.

  Rocco’s lips connected with mine, giving me just the excuse I needed to melt into his embrace. Wrapping my arms around him and adjusting the angle of my neck just enough to compensate for the inch he had on me, I moaned limply as the heat of his breath poured like sawdust falling into my mouth. His lips felt like a gummy worm dragged across mine: a little dry and a little inarticute.

  No point in giving up without a bite, though. I continued to pour my lips together with the fuckboy cook—my breath carefully supplemented by breath mints I had consumed on the drive to his pce. Reaching down, I grabbed the older man by his bulge and got just the little jolt I was hoping for, “How about you feed this thing to me so I can feed this thing?”

  Pulling his head off of mine, Rocco chuckled with false bravado—still shaken up by my grip—and nodded, “Sure thing, babe.”

  Pulling down his gym shorts and underwear revealed a very rge and very erect penis. While not the rgest I had ever seen, the sight of Rocco’s rock hard cock remained good enough to draw my interest. Throwing caution to the wind, I bent down on my knees, inserted the cock belonging to the fuckboy with the wan grin between my naturally colored lips, and went to work. First slowly, then with a building speed of motion, until Rocco—his hands gripping tightly against the back of my hair—shot his load into my mouth.

  Refusing to get myself dirty, I swallowed the hot jizz before pulling off and falling back onto my ass as Rocco dropped to his mattress with the faintest definition of ‘safely’.

  Judging by the fading strain in my panties, I had gotten off, too.

  A few moments passed before I found my legs strong enough to stand, “Well, that was fun,” I fibbed, “Try not to brag to the boys about the hot blonde who sucked you off too often, yeah dear?” Gathering my things, I headed for the door.

  “Y’sure I can’t convince you to stay the night?” He couldn’t even be bothered to look away from the ceiling, but I could tell that he was already looking to taste some pussy.

  “Sorry, mid-terms soon,” I left Rocco’s pigsty of a room before he could attempt a counteroffer, quickly walked past his dead-to-the-world roommate still ruling the world from his recliner, and then out of the trailer and back into the darkness of night.

  Ugh, I needed a dick in a different hole!

  ***

  April 01, 2018:

  A little after midnight, I returned to Clive’s apartment after my little afternoon excursion. Locking the door behind me, I stepped with caution as a muffled noise squirmed its way into my ears. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I spotted Clive charming his way into getting some poor woman—propping herself with her arms on the kitchen isnd—back into his bed. She was wrapped in a comforter—clearly wearing nothing beneath it—and broadly smiling. It was a hell of a smile.

  “Oh, sorry,” I opened, keeping my voice calm and nonchant. At least I wasn’t walking in on them fucking—that would have been awkward.

  Clive’s facial expression took a moment to reboot from its wry, suave grin as his brain processed my intrusion, “Candace! I’m sorry about this, I didn’t think you were coming home tonight!”

  “Oh, no, it’s fine. I thought I would be out all night, too, but…you know. I’ll leave you two to it!” With a brisk, but casual motion I attempted to turn, but was cut off by the woman’s voice. On a lower-priority track of my mind, I wondered if it was possible to get the part of my brain where this memory was being stored removed.

  “Oh, you’re Candace? I’ve heard so much about you from Clivey here! I’m Kate!” I found the woman’s attempt at rocking a perm with her brunette hair at such a short length mildly offensive to my refined tastes, but the purple highlights threatened to win me over. She was a decidedly fresh approach for Clive to take with his dating habits—appearing to perhaps be some fvor of queer—but when she stuck out her hand for a shake, I found myself repressing my urge to turn around and flee to my room.

  Crossing the room to accept the woman’s handshake, it became immediately apparent that something was missing.

  Normally, if I shook a woman’s hand, that woman’s hand was much smaller than mine. Megumi had been the only woman with a hand big enough to not trigger my hand dysphoria anytime I held it, as friends were wont to do. Shaking hands with Kate elicited that same ck of dysphoria, which meant only one thing.

  Quickly, I shot my dearest cousin a death gre, but he seemed entirely confused by the meaning of the look in my eyes. If looks could kill, god knows I was trying to feed Clive through a meat grinder at that very moment.

  “I’m fttered,” I bullshitted, “Only the good things, I should hope?” And not that I’m a tranny.

  Kate giggled as our hands parted and she returned to holding the comforter up with both hands, “Oh, definitely. He understated your beauty, though.”

  “Oh my gosh, thank you?” A nervous half-ugh burst out of me as I felt the red in my cheeks turning from one kind of embarrassment to another. “You’re very beautiful, yourself!” The way that Kate smiled almost with devious appreciation left me a little flustered, but I pushed on, “How long have you two been…?”

  “Oh, just—well, this is our first time doing, uh…This. Capital ‘t’, if you get my drift,” Kate turned to Clive, who looked like a lost puppy looking for his mother’s teat.

  “Well, don’t let me get between you two—I mean, disturb your conversation. It’s te for me, so I’m just going to go to sleep, actually.” As I turned, I caught in the corner of my right eye Kate’s cheeks going flush as she alternated quickly between me and Clive.

  Returning to my room, I locked the door behind me, kicked off my shoes, and immediately crashed on my bed.

  Ugh, men.

  ***

  July 04, 2018:

  The sounds of the exploding fireworks not only lit the darkness of Clive’s ritzy Seattle apartment, but rang in my ears. I loathed Independence Day more than I had ever in my life as I sat back on my bed, miserable. Recovering from breast augmentation surgery—which came free with a debt augmentation surgery, apparently—had been a nightmare so far, but the added effect of explosions just outside of my apartment—both in the distance and decidedly close to home—was like a lead weight attached to my wrists, refusing to let me to do anything but suffer in the world’s most uncomfortable position.

  God, I hoped that my bottom surgery wasn’t going to be worse than this, whenever the hell that was going to be.

  The dark room invited my eyelids to rest, yet the explosions outside gleefully burned the paper invitation to cinders. My poor fan and humidifier did little to drown out the whistles, crackling, popping and outright BOOMS.

  Wasn’t this shit supposed to be illegal?

  Clive was out, likely fucking some floozy. If not for the fucking World War II movie happening outside of the condo, having the pce to myself would have been nice.

  Sadly, I just couldn’t fucking sleep.

  Unlocking my phone, I let the light blind me as I scrolled to see if I had any new notifications.

  I had gotten a random ‘like’ on a photo from the previous June: It was a selfie of myself and my ex-boyfriend. He had the biggest grin in the world, like he was the luckiest man in the world.

  The bastard shouldn’t have ruined our retionship, then.

  ***

  August 25, 2018:

  The summers of my boyhood hadn’t been nearly as hot nor nearly as long, I could have sworn.

  Today was a particurly cruel day thanks to the sun, burning a blistering 91°F, but it hardly mattered. I had healed up enough from my breast augmentation to enjoy the tail end of beach weather and I was determined to catch as many rays as I could, even if it meant hitting the beach every day for the past week, even if I had work that day—or needed to continue my search for a teaching job.

  Besides, it was my birthday. I deserved a little fun in the sun—even if it meant combatting cunty cleavage sweat.

  There was an irrational embarrassment in wearing a bikini—pink, of course—with a skirt attached to the bottoms to help make sure that nobody spotted anything they weren’t supposed—like a big cock and balls in my pants. It was unavoidable, tee-bee-aych—my skin thirsted for the rays of the sun after nearly a year away from the beach and the pool parties that came expectant with college life. It had taken a nice, golden hue as a result.

  An hour alone, sprawled out atop of a beach towel, reading a second—perhaps third, fourth or even fifth—hand copy of an old Boku no Hero Academia graphic novel was just what I needed to release some stress. The liberal politics of the series were beyond aggravating, but I adored the unsettling Sapphic bond between Uraraka and Toga. At this point, they had more chemistry than Uraraka did with Deku, the lead boy!!

  My stomach growled, but I ignored it like the unruly child it was.

  The shuffle and crunch of feet on sand grew closer, so I put my book down, lowered my sungsses, and turned my head to my left: a pair of young college boys approached me with grins that sang of how lucky they felt on this day.

  Of course they felt lucky, they were about to try to hook up with me.

  It was a quaint enough course to fully digest that—as of two months ago—I was no longer a college student, myself. It bore a strange disconnect. My two amateur suitors were ‘college boys’, while I was an ‘under-employed grown woman’. Weird.

  “Enjoying the sun, cutie?” Asked the boy whose hair had had an unfortunate run-in with a bad trim that left it looking less like ‘stylistically shaggy’ and more like ‘embarrassingly shaggy’. He was a blonde and had the gait of an asshole.

  His friend, a skinny little twink with a far better conditioned mop of dark bck hair, looked jittery as a coconut tree in a typhoon. He read like a follower, not a leader.

  “Can I help you, boys?” I asked, confident enough to speak with an unphased intonation, but cautious enough to inject little—if any—dismissal into my voice.

  The blonde one was typecasting himself as the cocky one, “My friend and I were just wondering if we could accompany a beautiful young dy like yourself for the afternoon?” He talked like the kind of kid who probably got a lot of swirlies in middle school or high school.

  I was tempted to show him a picture of me and my ex, just to throw him off, but it had been a few days since I’d gotten id, “I’m afraid you boys wouldn’t appreciate a fine taste like me.” My st meal had been a ‘extremely straight’ man who was ‘divorced’ and ‘didn’t care for cock’, which is precisely why I could still remember how it felt when he had given me an upsetting reach around while fucking me from behind.

  A little smile, just to tease the adrift boys.

  The one with the jitter grabbed his overly-confident friend by the left sleeve of his embarrassing Hawaiin shirt, “Come on Donnie, she’s not interested.” He was doing a poor job of disguising his fagcent.

  Don Juan and his exposed pathetic excuse for an ab turned back to his beard and reassured him, “It’s all good, Marky!” In an even quieter—but not unhearable—voice, “She’s into it, trust me.”

  A mischievous idea tap danced its way into my mind, and I couldn’t stop myself from considering it. Standing from my towel, I stretched my arms high into the sky, which immediately drew both of the boys’ attention to the globes on my chest. Keeping sure not to show how much I was enjoying the attention, I finished my stretch and turned to the milksop, “Marky, right?”

  “M-Mark is okay, t-too!”

  “I, like, like Marky!” The bimbo voice was such a guilty pleasure of mine. I had used it with with all the boys I fucked, including my ex.

  “Marky’s fine!”

  “Good boy!” Pcing a finger on the tee-shirted boy’s chest, I slowly spun my right index finger around in circles atop his thin, orange tee.

  Marky looked like he’d creamed his pants when I called him a good boy. The strain in his voice was glorious, “C-can I help you?”

  With a winning smile—and a quick gnce out of the corner of my eye to his fbbergasted friend—I cooed in my best honeydew voice, “Well, like, I was wonderin’ if you could, like, show me a good time?”

  Marky turned beet red as the prospect, replying with his cute little fagcent, “S-sure?!”

  As I led the wingman away from his annoying friend, I couldn’t help but wonder if Donnie was at all aware that Marky was down bad for him.

  Oh well, more dick for me.

  ***

  August 25, 2018:

  Happy twenty-fourth birthday to me! Pulling the young man’s cock free of his swim trunks, the ever-reddening rod sprung to life from its encasing like a now-open open secret, now threatening to show how the sausage was made.

  Marky gasped, “Holy shit!”

  I prescribed a slow jacking as a warm up, “First time?”

  “I-I mean—” a little squeeze cut him off, “—oh shit, oh fuck!”

  “Good boy,” the best part of just looking like a girl was that it didn’t feel weird being dominant during sex, “So, Marky? Whatcha studyin’?”

  “A-a-a-accounting!”

  “Ooh, maybe you can, like, gimme help with my checkbook thingy sometime?”

  Did people still even use checkbooks? Whatever, I squeezed again when I said ‘thingy’ and it got the little faggot to squeak, just like I liked hearing from my men.

  “Don’t make any more noises,” I slid my mouth over the milksop’s cock before he could say anything else. His little bottom noises were ever so hard to get upset over, though.

  Slowly but gently, I bobbed my head to-and-fro as I ignored the hard, wet concrete floor of the beach’s bathroom stall. Five years of battle-hardened expertise had made me a verifiable blowjob queen—it almost seemed a waste to waste my talents on a virgin, but at the same time, there was something gratifying about the way the nineteen year old moaned into his own palms, poorly containing his ecstasy.

  The way he quivered as I peeled back the yers of his foreskin with my tongue, just to gently rub the underside of his cock made me want to devour the boy whole.

  My knees were getting pretty fucked up, though.

  Leaving the fg raised and the shot unfired, I unsheathed from Marky’s cock and stood up to stretch. The small glimpse I had gotten at the poor boy’s face as I stood to give my knees a break looked like the face of a man who had seen a dead body.

  “Hey, Marky?” I asked, pressing my chest against his ft, shirted pecs while brushing his dark locks from his eyes, “You like boys, too, right?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “I could tell, y’know—how you feel about Danny—”

  “—Donnie—”

  “—yes, Donnie! I could tell, earlier, you know?”

  “I-I—I’m n-not gay!”

  “Shush, shush, shush, it’s okay, Marky. I know. I’m a big ally to the gay—queer—er, bisexual—community, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout me none, y’hear?”

  The boy before me was so many shades of reds and pinks that I was beginning to forget what shade he had been when we first met, “I—he’s probably not into guys, s-so, umm…”

  I put my right index finger on Marky’s lips, “Hey, it’s okay. I understand. Listen, if I told you something…would you be cool about it? Since I’m, like, cool about your little crush on Danny?”

  “D-Donnie—Uh…I mean…sure?” There was something so cute about a boy with a nervous sweat. It made me want to lick him dry.

  “What iffffffffff,” moment of truth, girly, “I told you…that I used to be a boy, too?”

  Marky went bnk, like a computer monitor after a rainstorm had killed the power in the middle of the night. I double-checked to make sure I could bolt if things were going south. I hoped I could run in sandals—and with giant cantaloupes on my chest.

  “Marky?”

  “Y-yes? Oh! Sorry, umm, are you for r-real?”

  “Uh-huh!” A chipper nod and a little coo were all I needed to make Marky py his hand.

  “I…so then…?”

  “Well, yeah,” I hated admitting it, but I needed a cock in my ass, “So, like…are you…?”

  “O-oh, you want me to…?”

  “Fuck my ass, Marky-poo!”

  That did the trick: Marky’s nods became fastidious as he began pying with himself, just to keep hard. Enough spit and precum remained to keep it a slick affair.

  “Good boy!” Turning around to face the other side of the single-toilet restroom, I carefully lowered my skirt and bikini bottoms and let my tuck come undone, “Remember: no touching my bits, yeah?”

  “Y-yeah!” The luck-stricken boy carefully approached as I pressed my palms against the pster wall and wiggled my painstakingly built ass a little, just to make the invitation official.

  I pulled a condom from my bikini top and tossed it to the hapless boy. He juggled with it for a moment before finally catching it and shakily peeling it open.

  When Marky’s cock entered my ass, I failed to stifle my gasp. It was like picking up a used firework that was still too hot, even after it had screamed and exploded. As Marky began to piston into me—first slowly, then like a train, picking up speed—I found myself wishing I had something to bite on to keep from moaning loudly. If anyone was in the other bathroom stall, they were getting a hell of a radio show.

  “Good boy!” Each heavy thrust was hitting just about right. Marky wasn’t nearly as girthy as my ex, but the length managed to press up against the very back of my rear just right.

  An errant squirt tipped within the condom and made the tap of the tip burn just a little hotter. No matter how many leg days I did not skip, it still felt as if each thrust was like an ax taken to the redwoods. I could feel myself lowering to the wet, concrete floor as the strength drained from my legs.

  The pathetic little twink—okay, he was my height, at least—didn’t have the core strength to keep me up, so he pinned me against the wall with a thud and continued his lightning fast thrusts.

  I was almost afraid of my breast impnts popping from the pressure.

  Climatically, with a low growl, Marky came. Through even the wrap of the condom, I could feel the heat warming my insides.

  Like falling action, Marky lowered us slowly until he was on the—god knows how dirty—vatory floor and I was sitting atop him. After a few moments of rest, I slid off of Marky and caught sight of the college boy for the first time post-sex: he was a frail, hairless thing whose smooth skin at least looked well moisturized. The bangs of his dark hair covered his eyes in just a way that made him look kind of cool. The orange shirt he wore was now soaking with sweat—and whatever other liquids were in the vatory—proudly earned.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he had any abs that I could run my hands—or tongue—over. I wasn’t sure if that was ‘too horny’ for a random beach hookup, but Marky didn't seem like the kind of boy to care. Reaching over, I pulled up the shirt, only for Marky to grab me by the wrist before I could spy anything.

  “Uh, please don't?”

  “Oh,” poo, he must've been self-conscious.

  “S-sorry, just…not a fan of being seen without a ton of clothes, you know?”

  I looked down at just how much massive titty I was showing off and shrugged, “Well, once upon a time, yeah.” I hated how small my chest was, so I made it look like I had cantaloupes bolted into my chest.

  It was doing wonders for my self-confidence.

  “Say, do you want to be friends?”

  “With benefits?”

  “I mean, if you want. I was just, you know, hoping for another—uh—queer friend.”

  “Oh!” Well, shit. I was supposed to be done with the whole queer thing. I didn’t want people knowing that I was transgender.

  But Marky looked so earnest. Ugh.

  ***

  August 25, 2018:

  Money was pretty tight these days—and I was damned if I was going to ask Clive for anything, given I was already living rent-free in his condo—so I had to cut an ‘n’ from ‘dinner’ and peruse a quaint little diner that was lost somewhere on Seattle’s 10th Avenue.

  Which, of course, really just meant that whatever sad I was maybe-half, maybe-quarter eating tasted significantly less fresh, but such was life.

  The wood paneling and bck-and-white checkered floor was charming, at least. I’d always been charmed by the wall mural outside with the burger and fries, even if all it did was remind me of that which I denied myself. It gave the neighborhood character—a character that I’d always wished that I had seen more of back home in Gravelly Lake.

  The busybody homeowners associations—fascists, wrapped in the safety of their white picket bnkets—made sure that any character added by the dead of night never sted more than a day or two, unfortunately.

  I had eaten at the quaint little café plenty of times before, but never with anyone else—let alone a college boy I'd picked up off the beach. If things went south with Marky, I’d be burning one of my few escapes in the city.

  After our little rendezvous on the water’s edge, Marky and I had agreed to meet up a few hours ter for a bite. After arriving back at my apartment, I showered and then slipped into something new—purchased specifically to show off the girls—and headed to meet the lucky guy at the glorified café.

  In my years as a boy, I had almost not even noticed how little effort the other boys had put into their appearances for dates. Now, however? It was kind of annoying. It was always tee-shirts with either jeans or shorts with these boys! Meanwhile, I would dress to the nines.

  Well, not that I regretted making myself up or anything. I did it mostly for me, anyway. If anyone clocked me, I would probably kill myself if they didn't beat me to it.

  Pfft, ‘beat me’.

  Checking my phone to see if Marky had messaged me, I was pleased to catch sight of him as he was turning the corner to enter the diner. Once the dark-haired boy entered my field of view, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he had had the good sense to wear scks and a dress shirt.

  Short-sleeved, though, like a dork, but I liked to think that he appreciated the value of the goods he was trying to purchase. A short little wave drew the young man’s eye and by the time he was seated, I was nearly ready to offer a cursory smile.

  “Nice shirt,” there might have been some snark to that.

  “Oh gosh, thanks!” He hadn’t noticed, “You look amazing. Wow!”

  “Thanks! I bought this dress a few weeks ago. I kind of…grew out of a lot of clothes tely.”

  Marky’s face began to take after the shade of red that one might see on the inside of a watermelon, “Come here often?”

  A wry grin, “Oh, here and there. So! I'm surprised you can walk! I know I barely can!”

  A dry ugh, “Uh…you're welcome?”

  “Good boy,” it was nice to have someone I could toy with again, “So, how’s…accounting going?”

  “Oh, uh, it's, you know, the usual. Numbers. Midterms. Studying. Now, the st days of summer vacation. That sort of thing.”

  “Aah, yeah, those days were fun.”

  “You’re out?”

  “As of two breezy, sunny months ago, yeah. Now I'm looking for work. High school English.”

  “Wow!”

  The earnestness was almost too much, “Pfft, are you surprised?”

  “I figured you were a model or something?”

  I gave the kid a winning smile, “No, no, this is all just for me,” I waved my pink cwed hands up and down in front of me, framing my form, “I want to be a good role model for kids, though. I didn’t have any growing up.”

  “W-wow, that’s, uh, kinda cool?”

  A stretched grin, “Thanks, I try.”

  “What do you do for fun? You know, when you’re not being, I guess, a responsible teacher-type or whatever?”

  Fuck younger and older men, apparently, “Oh, video games are a bit too rich for my blood these days, but I’ve been managing to catch up on television and stuff.” I sold my games to pay for tits, anyway.

  An excited lilt hit the boy’s voice, “Oh? What’re you watching?”

  “Lately, it’s been a Deep Space Nine rewatch,” I needed the morally gray storylines in my life, “But I’m due to catch up on anime pretty soon, too.”

  Cheap streamers were a godsend.

  “Wow, those are pretty—uh, I mean—”

  “What, are girls not allowed to like science fiction and anime?” I asked with curious amusement.

  “N-no, no, I just—sorry, I’m not used to talking to girls in general, and you’re so—”

  It was surreal being seen as a ‘popur’ girl stereotype, “The bimbo cheerleader chic is a recent development, Marky-poo.” The bimbo voice was so much fun to do, especially for boys who were clearly intimidated.

  “O-oh, right, right. I forget, you’re just so—”

  “Hot?”

  “Yeah, exactly!” Marky leaned forward, with a grin as wide as the hangar door to a Starfleet dry dock, “God, like…holy shit. I’m jealous…”

  Oh, goddamn it, “Whatcha mean?” Please don’t be an egg, please don’t be an egg, please don’t be an egg—

  “—I’m, sorry, sorry, I just—god, if I could, I’d be trans, too.”

  He’s a fucking tranny. Ugh.

  ***

  October 31, 2018:

  “Hello, Nurse!”

  The sexy nurse costume—a thin cloth number—was a bad idea, but I couldn’t pass it up when I noticed how well it showed off my cleavage. Or clung to my hard earned hips and ass.

  Valerie didn’t mind, either, judging by how Little Miss First Halloween As a Girl was enjoying herself in her Velma cospy. A signature Sapphic costume idea, at this point.

  I’m just gd that I didn’t let her talk me into cospying as Daphne.

  “Hello to you, too, Val,” I fake smiled, not sure why I was letting myself go along with this shit. Val had been on hormones for all of a month and a half now and she was practically glowing. While she wasn’t out to anyone but me and close friends yet, she was doing a shoddy job of tamping down the faggotry and tranny-isms, both when crossdressing and not. God, she was going to get me outed. Fucking fuck!

  Her wigs were hideous, too. Blonde, brunette, pronoun colored, and any length you could think of was quickly entering her egregious collection. With as much time as I spent hanging out with her these days, it was becoming obvious that she wasn’t going to keep in the closet much longer.

  People were eventually going to start asking about all the smiling and the giggling—no straight man did that shit like she was so fgrantly indulging in now.

  Why the fuck did I let myself get roped into this friendship?

  “Your costume is so cute!” Valerie giggled, hands itching to get handsy with me, “It’s such a shame you’re not into girls!”

  It took awful big girl balls to say that so early in transition, you fish, “Aah, yeah, sorry, hon. Plenty of fish out there for you, though. Do you think you’re ready to tell Donnie?” The odious bitch that I pretended not to be hoped that the annoying baby trans would get rejected in the most humiliating and public way possible.

  Being turned down after inviting a bunch of friends from college over to her parents’ mansion while they were out of town sounded like a great way to do just that.

  Valerie blushed, did that girlish little head drop a lot of bottoms liked to do when talking to women with more self-respect than them, then raised her head back up to respond, that screechy nails on a chalkboard she called her voice pitched just enough to be audible over the bass emitting from the other room, “Oh God, I mean—he is going to be here tonight, but I don’t know if I’m—”

  “—you should do it. You’ve been into him for, like, ever!”

  “But, what if I’m still too—?”

  “That’s what all that makeup I’ve been teaching you is for!” Not to mention all the diet tips I’ve been giving the awkward thing. She was already down ten pounds. It helped that when you just stopped eating anything but leafy greens and wore a hole in a treadmill like the final girl in a ssher flick.

  Valerie slowly nodded her head, like a child being faced with no dessert if she didn’t finish her vegetables. Finally, she looked up, “M-maybe I should. It’s been a month since I came out to you, after all.”

  “Yeah, you got this,” I lied, “I’ll be here, but also just make sure you don’t give him any reason to think that I am the one who talked you into this, yeah?”

  “Right, yeah, yeah,” her voice was quiet, like deli meat left out on the counter for fifteen minutes too long, “Thank you so much for all of your help, Candi…”

  I hated it when they got sentimental on me, “Of course, Val Pal.” I accepted Valerie’s great big messy hug with a reluctantly strong wrap around of my own. It would’ve been too awkward not to commit.

  When the hug finally ended, Valerie did a little sniffle, checked her makeup, and then turned back to me: “Ready?”

  “Isn’t that my line, girly?” I giggled, perhaps a little too sincerely.

  She giggled back, none the wiser.

  The baseline beat thumped throughout the rge home. At least a hundred people filled the grounds, both inside and outside by the pool, which was just enough to help one get lost among the crowd. I appreciated the gnces and indulged in the stares a little more than I should have. I had long forgotten how it felt to be clocked by strangers, and my recent surgical enhancements had only made those worries more and more foreign a concept to me.

  The men wanted to fuck me and the women wanted to be me—or fuck me, too, I suppose. Unlucky them.

  Valerie mingled with her guests—those she recognized, at least—and pyed off her costume idea mostly as a joke. What little I could gleam through the otherwise attention-arresting party around me, it seemed like nobody was threatening the younger girl.

  I wondered how that would sustain should the closet case tell anyone that her choice of costume was not merely a silly little gag.

  Trailing behind the hostess, I kept my distance so as to see how things shook down when Val finally found Donnie. Truth be told, even if she was pretty clocky, she looked hot enough that a loser like Donnie would have probably gone for it—especially with a few drinks in him.

  Finally, Val found her prized boy toy outside on the back porch, chatting it up with some poor coeds who were clearly not into him. Ambient lights lit the pool a bright mixture of blues, pinks and purples. It was fitting mood lighting.

  With a fake-tini in hand, I began chatting up some guy I didn’t bother getting a good enough look at, just to have an excuse to keep an eye on the little fledgling’s first flight. The only trait I bothered to register was that my randomly selected distraction was shorter than me. Ugh.

  Even from a distance, it was clear that Donnie was teasing his longtime pal for the choice of costume. Himself made up like a terrible take on “Tony Stark, but blonde,” Donnie adjusted his fake-ass expensive-looking sungsses—at night, nonetheless—and showed a winning smile.

  Val had clearly not confessed yet, but that woefully skipped abortion of a blonde pyboy was definitely into her. Damn, I’m good.

  Without even turning to look the guy I was fake-flirting with in the eye, I excused myself to move in closer to better overhear their conversation.

  “Wow, I still can’t believe that’s you, Mark!”

  “Oh gosh, thanks, Donnie! I couldn’t have done it without help from Candace, though!”

  Yeah, duh.

  “Not exactly going to get you any girls, though,” a nervous ugh unscored Donnie’s voice as he took a sip from a red Solo cup, “Speaking of which, are you sure you can’t bag that blonde?”

  “Aah, no, no, it’s fine. I’m not her type!”

  She would have been so lucky.

  “Damn man, both of us striking out with that babe? Just our luck,” he sounded fond of his nervous ughter, given how much he was ughing.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ve actually got my eye on someone else, to be honest.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it—

  “Donnie?”

  “Marky?”

  “I’m trans.”

  “Oh, shit. Like Lance?”

  “Like Lance.”

  Who the fuck was Lance?!

  “Well, shit. That’s awesome, Mar—uh…”

  “Valerie—or Val.”

  “Val!”

  “Val,” she was fucking beaming. Giddy, even.

  Why in the fuck was Donnie being cool about this? She was a tranny! She should have been—

  “Hey, can we talk somewhere more…private?”

  “Of course, Val.”

  As the two love birds walked out of my earshot, I turned and left the party.

  This was fucking bullshit.

  ***

  November 01, 2018:

  “I was a bit scared, of course,” Val expined while reaching for the creamer, but a gre from me reminded her about the diet I had her on, “About coming out to him, I mean. Like, I knew Donnie had a trans cousin, but it's still not very common, you know?”

  I watched her hand as the lucky bitch retracted it, sans creamer, “Wow, that sounds really lovely! I'm so gd!!” I was lying. My words were nothing but lies these days.

  “I know, right? It’s been going good. Donnie’s still flubbing with the pronouns a bit—”

  “—Only been a day!”

  “Only been a day! But, like, yeah, st night was pretty magical. We stayed up almost all night talking—it was like getting to know a new person!”

  “I’m sure he felt the same,” my smile was as fake as my tits, “I’m just gd he didn’t, you know, murder you or something.”

  “Oh, Donnie would never. We go way back. Sixth grade!”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “I have to say, I couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you so much, Candi,” the fish reached over the table for a hug and my body repugnantly reached across to meet her half way. She had no idea how much I was pissed at her for having all the luck.

  She had a boyfriend she connected with and a big dick she actually liked more now that she knew she was a woman. Cocksucking whore—she's probably AGP!

  “No problem at all, sweetie,” we broke to rest back into our sides of the booth, “Not enough trans girls get their knights in shining armor, you know?”

  “Omigawsh, girl, I—I don’t even know if Donnie wants to—I mean, he held my hand while we talked and he looked in my eyes with those dreamy blue eyes of his and—oh god, what if he wants to sixty—”

  “—Nein, nein, nein, mein Fr?ulein, we mustn’t jump to conclusions!” With luck, there was still an opportunity for this to blow up in her face, “There is still time for ol’ Donald to man up and take a girl out in a nice, public pce where he’s willing to show that he isn’t looking to make you his closet tranny.”

  “True, yeah—gawd, I hope so.”

  “Keep that chipper attitude to you, girlypop!”

  “Right, right—wait, by a ‘closet tranny’, you mean…?”

  “Well, not a lot of cis boys are willing to publicly date—” in hushed tones “—trans girls, you know? Especially the straight boys. A lot of them will keep a girl in their back pocket, though, for hookups on the down low. Tragic stuff, really. A lot of you girls get treated like this, even the prettiest ones.”

  “‘You girls’...?”

  I gave her The Look.

  “Oh, right, right, we’re in public.”

  Lunch rush, too.

  “But hey! If he’s willing to take you out on a date at a nice, public pce, then you probably don’t have a thing to worry about,” my words poured out of my mouth like a bucket of bleach into a drinking well, “So cheer up, Val!”

  Valerie repaid my encouragement with one of those smiles a girl would reserve for the women she both admired and wanted to be close to. I hated it. The st thing I needed was a baby tranny calling me ‘sis’.

  “What about you, Candi? Hook up with any guys st night?”

  “Eh, not my scene,” I had developed a thing for older men after the st young man I fucked turned out to be a woman.

  “Damn, a shame. Some of those boys are hot as hell.”

  “Eh, they're boys. I need a man.”

  “Yeah, I imagine you can charge a premium for what you're selling.”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “God, I hope I turn out as good as you.”

  “Do what I say and you will.”

  She beamed at that. And why shouldn’t she have? I had created from even the most vile cy the most beautiful body in the world.

  And it would only become more beautiful.

  ***

  December 24, 2018:

  The thing about Christmas is, it’s a hell of time of the year to have no family, but the real hell is just how catchy the music is. A girl could get caught up listening to her favorite age-old Christmas piece from the likes of Burl Ives or whoever else and almost forget all about how she didn’t have family to turn to and comment about it to—before actually turning to make a comment to a mother they did not have and perhaps never truly did.

  Nannies and housekeepers did a lot of the nurturing for my mother. I was never sure one could call what she did ‘nurturing’, as it were. Darcy Woods had taken her socialite status when marrying my father and ran with it. It was what kept her young, she would often say during any foolish trip I had made downstairs to get a drink of water from the kitchen.

  Soda hadn’t been allowed in our house—or mine or Annabeth's bodies. She had said that they had ‘too many calories’. I had learned to start counting mine when I was fifteen.

  Annabeth had started at twelve.

  “Wine is the rain by which we avoid starvation,” I’m not sure that I ever understood what my mother would say to me growing up, but I did now. If I had taken my alcoholism from anyone, it had to have been her. Finding my mother without a wine gss in her hand had been as rare as a shiny Pokemon—perhaps rarer. My mother would have done well to have invested in stealth intravenous therapy technology that could more covertly get that Chardonnay into her bloodstream.

  Aah well, if there was any consotion, at least I could say that I had been sober for a year. I very much doubt one Missus Darcy Woods had known even an hour of sobriety since her early-to-mid-teens.

  Checking my makeup in my rearview mirror one more time, I grabbed my purse and exited my now aging 2012 Mercedes-Benz and walked as steadily as I could across the gravel driveway, through the expansive yard to the back entrance of the Woods family estate. By the time I had reached the door typically reserved for the hired staff, I’d found myself taking a moment to pull my form-fitting keyhole dress, just to make sure my tits looked as amazing as possible in the tight, form-fitting pink piece, before making use of the wide-open door leading into kitchen. It had become required reading since my breast augmentation to always keep an eye on just exactly what kind of gaze was on my person since my decision to bolt giant silicone orbs onto my chest, and that remained no less true among the mix of in-house and additional culinary and wait staff hired for the annual Woods family gathering.

  I was in no mood to make a scene this year, though—especially just three days before my facial feminization surgery. The fewer people that could recognize me as the son of Arthur and Darcy Woods pre-facial feminization surgery, the fewer who would be able to recognize me post.

  It most certainly did not help knowing that Clive wasn’t able to make it this year, nor my dear emo cousin Elliot. After my little blow up st year, I’d cut off all ties with the family—even with Elliot. Clive—in the few passing moments I would see him before either of us was leaving for work—had mentioned something about Elle not being free this year and that had only made the anxiety of it all all the more worse.

  Nevertheless, I had a mission that I could no longer ignore.

  Making my way through the kitchen—just shy of a full hour from when guests typically began to arrive—I slid past a familiar enough face—the head of staff for keeping the grounds in tip-top shape: Mr. Howard.

  “Miss Annabeth? You’re here earlier than expected!”

  Well, this was awkward.

  With a slow turn—one I kept at a pace easy enough that I hoped would end with a more pleasant reaction that a horrified one—I faced Mr. Howard, “Hey, Howie.”

  “Annabeth,” Mr. Howard chuckled, “The only one who calls me that is you brother.”

  I withheld my response, letting the moment percote as we stared one another down.

  It took a full five seconds before the suavely dressed man's face began to melt with realization, “Oh my god, Harri?”

  “Candace will suffice, Howie,” I risked, hoping that if I sounded self-assured enough I wouldn’t get blown up on.

  “My God, I’m—I’m sorry, it’s just, you look so much like—I knew that you looked different st year, but now, you look—have you had a sex change?!”

  “Working on it,” I giggled back, a nervous sweat threatening to break out on my back, “Where are mom and dad?”

  “Y-your parents are—your mother’s floating around the ground floor, preparing for the guests to arrive. I believe your father is in his study,” the weathered old man—hair more gray than its once brilliant bck—sounded aghast at my transformation—emphasis on the ‘trans’. The reminder that I apparently now looked confusable for Annabeth was a cold enough comfort, though.

  “Thank you, dear,” I replied, turning and making my leave before Mr. Howard could muster a reply. The interaction had been awkward enough without him staring at my tits for a further two minutes. The bastard had known me as a little boy, for fuck’s sake.

  It didn’t take long to find my mother, micromanaging the team of contractors rearranging and setting up the dedicated entertaining room. With her back turned to me as I entered, it was impossible not to notice how much her golden locks—kept rich through dyes and trips to the salon—resembled those Annabeth had had all her life and that I now wore, too. In so many ways, I now looked like the second daughter Darcy Woods had never wanted and would never accept.

  Tossing my brief, final moments of peace aside, I spoke up at st: “Hey, Mom.”

  My mother spared a quick gnce to her rear, “Annabeth dear, I’m really quite busy here—oh, you’re here quite a bit early, are you not?”

  Even my own mother thought I was a woman, even if she would never admit it once she knew the truth. There was a sick, twisted irony to it all.

  I wasn’t entirely sure why I cared what she thought, though. As she would have likely done every year, the middle-aged woman did not even ask me—the daughter she confused for another—where her grandson was. It was sickening behavior and made me feel all the more sick for wanting the approval of a woman who would either refuse to babysit her own grandson or even acknowledge him because of her own racism.

  I should have demanded better.

  But that was why I was here now, facing her, was it not? To give her one st chance—one st opportunity to prove herself—

  —to choose me.

  “Can we have the room?” I asked yet again, causing the staff to stop and gnce at me, then my mother.

  Smiling one of those fake smiles that clearly meant that she was peeved, my mother flicked her wrist to signal to the contractors and house staff to leave.

  After a moment, it was just me, my mother and the seven feet of distance between us.

  “What is it, dear?” A few steps forward, “Don’t tell me you won’t be able to stay toni—are you alright, Annabeth?” A few more steps closer, “Your face looks a bit—and your chest, too—oh my god?!”

  That didn’t take long.

  Darcy Woods backed away from me, ceasing her approach, “Harrison, is that—what have you done to yourself?”

  “I transitioned, Mom,” I replied, as calmly as I could. I couldn’t hear—or feel—the beat of my own heart. I was pretty sure my blood had turned to ice in my veins.

  My mother began sobbing at some point, but I hadn’t processed at what point, “Your f-father—you—” Words were foreign to her, “G-get out now, you fucking disgrace!!”

  I couldn’t remember even turning around. I passed through the frame of the double doors that led from the entertainment room and into the crowded hall without even registering the cold metal of the door handle in my palms.

  Everything was a blur. Voices entered my ears from directions I knew not which. Figures both familiar and foreign entered my line of sight. My father—ever the stern fucker—might have slid into my view at one point. I couldn’t remember.

  The world was a ruined watercolor painting, caught in a rainstorm. Symphonies had become horrific strumming of metal strings. I was falling from a pne without a parachute.

  I begged for the collision to end me.

  When time began to move somewhat normally again, I found myself sobbing in my car, my face a smeared painting of makeup, snot and tears.

  My right wrist—bckened from bruising—stung as I wiped clean the face of Harrison Woods one st time.

  ***

  January 01, 2019:

  That once shaggy bck hair of Valerie’s had become something of a mane of dark locks over the four months since first meeting the poor thing. Each time she bent down to hand me something as I id on my back, she'd do that little tucking behind her ear motion every trans girl did when they were first getting used to having long hair.

  Her fingers looked so much more beautiful and slender now, too.

  “How're you hanging in there?”

  “I feel like my face was torn off and my skull shaved down and my face sewed back on.”

  “Okay, dumb question. My bad.”

  “Whatever. Can you gimme a sip?”

  Val brought my tumbler full of water to my mouth for me to sip through the wide straw. It was lukewarm—exactly what I needed while fighting off excruciating pain.

  Well, that is the cost of beauty, after all.

  “I nded a gig doing some coloring and inking work for a comic company.”

  “That should help pay the bills,” I replied ftly.

  “Well, yeah. Just to help with electrolysis and all that, before I graduate, I mean.”

  “Ever think about going into the arts instead of accounting?”

  “My folks wouldn't have it. I'm the only one in the family who's ever made it to college.”

  “Wow, really?”

  “Yeah. I think my older brother might try next, if he can fit it in between work and his family life.”

  “Aah, that'll be tough.”

  “Yeah, but worth it. He's got a wife and three kids to worry about. Triplets.”

  “Triplets?! Jesus Christ?!”

  “You'd think, with the way his wife's bor went.”

  A sore spot. I elected to grit my teeth and bear it—goodness knows I was already in enough pain.

  “Drawing comic books would’ve been a dream come true, though,” a wan look birthed over Valerie’s face, “Doing a few covers in my spare time might be possible, someday.”

  I had only a soft look for her and a dead silence. After a beat, “Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be a writer?”

  “A writer?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to write fantasy and science fiction and all that. Even wrote a few stories growing up, but they were banal and I eventually just stuck to reading,” and jerking off to hentai and erotica.

  “Have you ever thought about getting back to writing again? Maybe you can write better now?” Val adjusted her bra strap—gawd, her shoulders were beautiful tely—through the cute top fishnet top she had elected to wear. The netting was purple, rather than bck.

  It matched her hair and eyes.

  “Occasionally,” I admitted, “Writing was an escape from a body and a life that I loathed. I'm in no such position anymore.”

  “Still, you might find yourself enjoying it for different reasons now. I know that I still enjoy drawing and coming up with ideas for comics.”

  “Perhaps. I'll give it a think over after I'm done with…all—” I weakly waved my limp right wrist in front of my face “—this.”

  “Right, yeah. Makes sense.”

  “What’re you working on?”

  “The artist for Count Canine #59 needs someone to do his inks for the issue, so the editor—who I'm friends with—rang me up and asked if I could rush job it. They've never missed a deadline before and neither of them wants to start now.”

  “Sounds like hell.”

  “Well, you're passed out most of the day, so I won't have much of a problem with that.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Speaking of which, the fireworks tonight are awful,” Val stimmed, peeling the paint from the waning base of her fingernails. She had painted them a gaudy orange two weeks ago. They were awful, but Val.

  “It’s like this every year, sadly.”

  “Damn, really?”

  “Really.”

  “Ugh.”

  “It’s Seattle, not much that can be done about it, unfortunately.”

  “Yeah, fuck. It's still shitty.”

  “You got that right.”

  Silence crept in for a moment, breaking the flow of the conversation.

  “I think I'm going to try to sleep now, though.”

  “Alright, Candi. Try to get some rest,” I hated how warm her smile was.

  It had only become warmer as the months had passed, each new day a new foray into the womanhood she had so desired to embody. Val’s look was settling somewhere between a cross between punk and Goth and I wasn’t sure how to process that. She wore her queerness on her sleeve.

  But I didn’t. I was straight. A straight woman. I didn’t want anyone to ever know who I had once been. Being friends with Val made hiding that harder and harder.

  Why the fuck did I have to fuck an egg? I was a straight woman! I didn’t like fucking women! It’s why all of my retionships with girls were failures!

  Closing my eyes, I could hear Valerie heading for the door to the guest room I was staying in, “Hey, Val?”

  “Yeah, Candi?”

  The walls of Clive’s guest room might as well have been painted bck, yet with that clocky voice of hers, I could still hear the smile in Valerie’s voice. The goofy little way she would bite her beautiful, pouty bottom lip while grinning at me, like she was flirting with a girl she had a crush on. It reminded me so much of Ash. In a lot of ways, Val wasn’t all that different from Ash—always pushing my buttons, always trying to coax me out of my shell.

  It was aggravating as all hell.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, Candi,” her little giggle and that beautiful, goofy voice that didn’t even bother trying to pass half the time were like a symphony. Donnie was a lucky, lucky man.

  When I finally heard the door to my room click, I felt the blood rushing to my face as I fought back tears.

  It rained that night.

  ***

  March 30, 2019:

  If before facial feminization surgery I had occasionally been mistaken for Annabeth, after facial feminization surgery, I would have undoubtedly been seen as her significantly taller—and bustier—twin sister, should we ever be in the same room together ever again.

  It was surreal to see a woman staring back at me in the mirror. The woman in the mirror was a woman who seemed to have just caught her reflection in a mirror set up at a hastily constructed booth for customers buying hats from a dealer to check how they looked. I could tell from her face that she was stunned to see herself.

  It was as if Annabeth was stunned to see herself.

  Surgery had taken my dysphoria and repced it with a fwless reminder of the woman I would never be—and the woman that I still detested.

  Valerie and I were entering our third hour of browsing the dealer's hall of the lively Washington State Convention Center. I hadn't been to a convention in a year, thanks to how tight money was—god knows, I didn’t need more debt—and had only attended because Valerie insisted and bought my pass for the weekend. It was the st hurrah before I started my new gig in September.

  A teaching job at my old high school. Back home.

  My life was either a tragedy or a sitcom. Probably the former.

  Val had elected to grace the world with her blossoming body in a more vintage cospy, Sam from Danny Phantom. To be fair, it was hardly a change from her usual look, but it nevertheless did its job of attracting praise from blushing girls.

  Her new septum piercing certainly didn’t hurt.

  Anime conventions—well, cons in general—were basically off-season Pride events these days. If you weren't cospying, you were dressing gay. If you weren't giggling with the other queers, you were pying DDR or a cabinet of some sort.

  If you weren't fuckin’ in a hotel room somewhere near the convention center, you were practicing your wotagei.

  I had no earthly idea why I was even here. This wasn't for me. I stuck out like a sore thumb—the straight, cis-passing blonde white girl packed tightly into a pink dress that her big, fake tits were spilling out of, stuck in a building packed full of 25,000 queers and weebs all living their best lives.

  That wasn't me anymore.

  With her winning smile, Val picked up a copy of a print she had just bought to show me: “She’s so sexy!”

  Val had tipped her slender fingers with alternating bck and purple polish. A proud little wiggle popped out from her hips as her checkered skirt swayed with the motion of her body, with just inches of skin showing between her seductively brief skirt and the death grips her thigh-highs had on her thickening thighs.

  It was like she was daring me to get between her down there and—

  —Blood running cold, I turned and ran as fast as I could in my tennis shoes, dress and short-shorts, Val calling my name in the growing distance.

  God, why the fuck had I worn short-shorts? Surely my big, dumb, stupid fucking cock was showing—goddamn it—

  —I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t get clocked again. I couldn’t get confused for some woman's boyfriend—especially not Valerie’s boyfriend.

  I sifted through the dense crowds of brightly dressed nerds until I reached the stairs, sped down them, and continued running until I was outside.

  I climbed into the nearest bus, ran to the back of the bus, sat down, and began sobbing.

  ***

  April 08, 2019:

  Valerie was texting me again. I knew that I should just look at her texts, but I couldn’t bring myself to.

  The ceiling of Clive's guestroom still looked so foreign to me. I would be saying farewell to it soon, though. I had just about enough cash for the deposit on my new pce in Gravelly Lake. I had even lined up enough substitute teaching jobs to get me by before I started the year full-time at my old high school.

  Being back home, with all of those memories, was a terrifying proposition to consider. What was I even doing now? I had set myself down this path because I wanted to be somebody that could be loved—

  —by others—

  —and by…me?

  Could I ever even love myself? The mere hope that this path of giving to the future would pay dividends was what lied at the end of all of this misery I had subjected myself to.

  It was too te to go back.

  I had burned too many bridges—hurt too many people.

  It would be easy enough to avoid the Woods family, even if I lived in the same small town as them. Arthur Woods had never gone to my school and Darcy Woods was such an extraordinary drunk that I could never foresee her remembering what I even looked like.

  Especially now that I had had facial feminization surgery—surgery that made me look almost like a carbon copy of her daughter.

  The universe was cruel.

  Yet again, a short jingle from Yoake no Michi pinged from my phone. Val had sent another text.

  Slowly, I let my fingers tap on the screen until Valerie was blocked.

  Freedom, at st.

  I dropped my phone safely on my heavy, round chest: it jiggled.

  As I listened to the rain outside, I reached down into my pants and stroked myself as if I had a clit—anything to make the burning silence in my mind go away. Each stroke reminded me only of the one person I did not ever want to think of again.

  I had created the most beautiful body in the world.

  Now, if only it had someone to hold it close in bed at night.

  TO BE CONTINUED…