Foole s Ambition Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground Chapter 2
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Copyright Transfemme 2000, 2002. Permission granted
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CYNOSURE
1
Tessa unbuttoned her cotton blouse, her face flushed with a heady
cocktail of embarrassment and excitement. The dressing room was
literally bustling with movement. Neon-lipped models stepped gracefully
through clouds of make-up and perfume, assistants rushed costumes from
rack to shoulder, while the floor manager waded through the chaos
barking orders like a drill-sergeant. Tessa smiled to herself,
breathing in the rich scent of Red Door and adrenalin.
Narrowly avoiding a gaggle of dressmakers making for the door, Tessa
walked across the room blouse in hand, looking around for the clothing
rack. The rest of the cast had already been zipped into their outfits -
mainly miniskirts, camisoles and designer jeans - ready for the first
take. Filming was about to begin; she had to get into costume as well
although this would involve dressing down rather than dressing up.
They were making a television commercial for Carmine Nights Lipstick, a
relatively upmarket cosmetic with a racy girlfest image. CNL had pulled
out all the stops with this advertisement, aiming at a young
professional female demographic. Glancing through the doorway, Tessa
could see the technical crew running last minute checks over the video
equipment. The set was a fluorescent retro seventies mock-up, soft
edges and liquid day-glo colours contrived to suggest a large group
house in the burbs. Seemingly imbued with a life of its own, it buzzed
with a glaring neon radiance.
She hung the blouse over a nearby chair, almost delirious with
anticipation. Very soon, she'd be called out to present herself to the
camera in her underwear; a girl of barely seventeen with flowing
platinum blond hair and liquid blue eyes so deep you could drown in
them. Undoing her tiny black mini, she slid the skirt over her slender,
tanned thighs, then let it drop to the floor, forming a lycra pool at
her feet.
Her high-cut lace panties were so sheer that they seemed to have been
airbrushed onto her body; the tender hues of her flawless, ivory flesh
were plainly visible through the gossamer fabric. She suppressed an
urge to place a slim hand over her cleavage. This was her first time
before the camera, the dressing room was full of strangers, and she
felt agonizingly self-conscious.
Still, she had no reason to complain. A new life was opening for her.
She was going to be a model. Maybe not a star like Elle or Claudia or
Naomi (lets face it; Chamberlain Studios were hardly the Pret a
Porter), but the thought of being on TV was thrilling nonetheless.
Besides, even if she never froze the traffic at Times Square, she would
live out a fantasy she'd had since she d been a little girl. She was
utterly breathless, thinking on it now. Small local advertising
companies notwithstanding, the commercial would be broadcast via ECN;
the East Coast Communications Network.
The thought was virtually intoxicating. When she stepped in front of
the video cameras, she'd be parading her underwear throughout the
entire northeastern region. Which meant that literally millions of
people were going to see her in absolutely nothing but her bra and
panties.
Stepping through the human tide in her flimsy pink undies, Tessa
glanced in the mirror, checking her Alpine blond hair and adjusting an
errant lock spiralling over her left cheek. She nodded, smiling faintly
to herself: the illusion was perfect.
So perfect, in fact, that it was no longer an illusion.
2
How long had she been a girl? All her life, how long had she lived as a
girl? Six years; since her eleventh birthday in fact, she'd always had
a rather feminine appearance with a softness and a fluid grace which
simply couldn't be hidden or disguised, regardless of what or society
or genetics had to say on the matter.
Of course, image was nothing, as the soda commercials had told an
entire generation of teenagers back in the nineties. Image alone hadn't
made her a woman, nor had the gradual reshaping of her adolescent
physique during more than half a decade of endocrine therapy. In the
final analysis, such factors were largely irrelevant.
Tessa Greenhart had entered the world biologically male, an
insignificant Y-chromosome carelessly tacked onto the end of her DNA,
but events since that moment had confirmed that biology did not equal
destiny; at least not for her. Tessa's body had been a template, a
blank page on which sex and gender could be written. The essential
truth had been inscribed on her flesh in chemical signifiers, (albeit a
posteri):
Quite simply, Tess had always been a girl.
3
The commercial was based on the universal belief that pretty young
girls fall inevitably out of their clothes as soon as they're left
alone together. Tessa had loved the idea as soon as her agent had
described it to her: five beautiful girls sharing a house in the
suburbs, preparing for an evening out on the town. Running from shower
to bedroom, borrowing hairdryers and stockings, swapping dresses hand
to hand and making up in the mirror; the myriad little things women do
before the big night out.
Towards the end, the girls are shown in their bedrooms, glossing their
lips with Carmine Nights, while the stereo blares out the GirlPower
jingle written especially for the advert. It was the only mention of
the product; the rest of the commercial was made up of pretty girls
decked out in stilettos and lycra slip-dresses as they hurried about
brushing their hair and ransacking each others wardrobes.
Tessa had been snared instantly: the treatment was fun, the soundtrack
boppy. It was exactly the kind of shoot she'd wanted to do since she
started modeling and (best of all) the script required that she appear
in her bra and pants. This had been the major drawing card, as far as
Tessa had been concerned. She had to run through the house flaunting
her dainties while the gyro-cam followed her from the bathroom to the
stairway, and thence to her bedroom, where she'd be shown doing girly-
things: blow drying her hair, dancing in the mirror and making up her
lovely face - exactly what she did at home when she was planning a long
evening's nightclubbing.
It was completely gratuitous, of course: there was absolutely no reason
why she had to film the advertisement in her bare essentials; it was a
lipstick commercial, not a lingerie parade. She could just as easily be
shown glazing her lips fully clothed. Not every women makes up in her
underwear, regardless of what the majority of men would like to
believe. But the undisguised naughtiness of the idea appealed to Tessa.
It was as if the part had been written just for her.
4
It all had to do with DDT.
Her mother had explained it to her on several occasions during her
frantically careening adolescence: she was the product of a global
interaction of nature and science. Her immaculate femininity was a
fragile arch spanning human biology and industrial technology, a bridge
constructed before she was even born.
Her physical development had been influenced in-uteri by artificial
hormones, synthetic estrogens, the scientific journals had called them.
Mainly insecticides, their chemistry mimicked the effects of natural
female hormones when assimilated into the human reproductive system.
The United States (along with most of Europe and the Asia) had been
literally inundated with these complex molecules since the middle of
the twentieth century; researchers only noted their impact on the
biosphere in the nineties, when ecologists began to notice declining
male populations amongst certain environmentally sensitive species -
mainly frogs and salamanders.
Of course, no one was too concerned over the disappearance of a few
creepy crawlies at the bottom of the pond, and the effects of the
synthetics had been largely ignored. At least until the fertility
levels of the West had taken a sudden, and quite significant down turn.
Then everybody had become concerned for the well-being of all kinds of
creepy crawlies.
To say nothing of the rising numbers of sexually ambiguous children
being born throughout the industrialised nations.
Of which Tessa had been one.
5
Walking to the doorway, Tessa looked out to the set once more. Lights
were being dimmed and brightened, remotes tested for white-noise. CNL
had spent a small fortune on this production; no expense had been
spared in terms of design, personnel, and hardware. They were even
shooting a portion of the commercial on film, so as to capture the
cinema crowd.
Things look as busy out there as they do in here, she thought, watching
a tekkie running a white balance on one of the steadycams.
Feeling a light tap on her forearm, she turned and found herself eye to
eye with the director's assistant. She was a small, bright-faced woman
in a blue pants suit, carrying a clipboard full of names and publicity
stills. Her nametag read 'Lois'.
'You're ... Tessa?' she asked offhand, consulting the clipboard. Her
voice was brisk but otherwise pleasant.
'Yes, Tessa Greenhart, Chamberlain Studios'.
'And - that's what you're wearing for the shoot?' the woman inquired,
indicating Tessa's flimsy lace scanties.
'Yes, it is', she replied, putting a hand to her mouth to hide her
smile. She could feel a giggle fluttering around the top of her throat,
trying to escape. 'My agent told me to wear my prettiest undies today'.
'Nice choice,' Lois remarked, indulging her with an admiring glance,
then snapped back to her more business-like protocol, 'We're ready to
start filming. You ready?'
Tessa took a deep breath. The others were already filing towards the
door, gossiping like schoolgirls out on the town. Tall and leggy and
beautiful, they had nothing to feel nervous about; they got to keep
their clothes on.
'I wish,' Tessa replied, and the giggle finally escaped.
6
Conceived in an environment literally swimming in synthetic estrogens,
Tessa had been unique, even amongst the thousands of children born into
the twilight light zone between male and female at the end of the
twentieth century. The reason had been deceptively simple: by the time
she'd turned six, Tess had voiced her desire to be a girl. In effect,
she wanted the right to choose her own gender. While Tessa's story
hadn't made the front page of Time, it had caused a small hurricane of
controversy amongst the pediatric specialists handling her case.
They'd wanted to flood her system with steroids before she entered
puberty, adamant that this was the most logical course of treatment: he
was a boy, he'd been born with a male organ (tiny though it was),
biology dictated that he had follow his chromosomatic destiny. Tessa's
wishes were, of course, completely irrelevant, he was a child and he
had no idea what he wanted, and certainly, no concept of what was in
his best interests.
This was precisely how they'd talked; emphasis on the masculine
pronouns. They'd rambled on in this manner for some time, employing the
authoritative, slightly patronising tones that medical professionals
retained for the ignorant: yes, his reproductive organs were completely
atrophied: they'd never secrete the androgens he'd need to achieve
manhood. But while he was incapable of producing his own testosterone,
small daily dosages of the male hormone would ensure that he'd progress
as God and nature intended.
He had to become a man.
Tessa's mother, Eva Greenhart, was a sole parent and liberal feminist
from way back; she'd been thoroughly UNconvinced by these arguments.
She'd read enough constructionist theory to know that a child's gender
was not automatically determined by her sex. Gender was simply the
product of culture and socialisation, not an immutable law of physics
dictated by anatomy and chromosomes.
Besides, why was masculinity considered the only option in this (or any
other) case? Was femininity so undesirable? If they could change Tess
into a man by boosting h/ir testosterone levels, couldn't they just as
simply employ estrogen to transform her into a woman?
The endocrinal team had found the suggestion laughable (if not down
right criminal) in its naivety: synthetic estrogens were the cause of
Tessa's condition; by what stretch of the imagination did she conclude
that the female hormone could be used to treat the boy's pathology?
It's time you faced reality, Ms Greenhart, your son is suffering from
an illness, his development has been arrested by foreign agents, his
DNA damaged by toxic chemicals. From a medical perspective, he's no
different from a victim of heavy metal poisoning.
Basking in the pompous, lilac glow of utter contempt, Eva listened in
patient, nodding silence as they dictated her child's future,
dismissing her (Tessa's) childish aspirations as totally unimportant.
One of them had actually said that in his 'sexually unresolved' state,
Tessa was no better than a neutered dog. Putting him on estrogens would
produce a sexual anomaly, a mutant neither male nor female, shunted to
the periphery of 'normal' human society. Is that how you want your son
to go through life? Are those the only choices you're willing to offer
him:
Eunuch or freak?
And it had been this one statement, delivered in the offhand tones of
complete insensitivity, which had made up Eva Greenhart's mind
regarding Tessa's 'treatment'.
7
Ten minutes later Tessa was standing on the set with her face flushed
the colour of a ripe strawberry. The only girl in the cast to be
stripped to her bra and panties, she felt wonderfully vulnerable - her
tiny lace remnants covered so little that she felt almost completely
naked. The other girls milled around in their minis and high heels,
listening to the director's opening spiel.
Exhibiting a subtle pink flush from ankle to hairline, she crossed her
hands over her pink satin 'Wonderbra' in a vain attempt to hide her
deep cleavage. It was an impulse she was totally incapable of
resisting: the director, the floor manager and most of the technical
crew were men. Worse still, the set didn't appear to be closed; people
seemed to be wandering in all the time, and she had immediately become
the focus of all the attention of the masculine quarter.
She was almost swooning with pleasure. It was strange: she had dreamed
of this moment for years; since early high school in fact, but now that
she was actually facing a battery of video cameras with her underwear
on full display, her embarrassment was almost as vast as her delight.
She'd never imagined how much she could actually enjoy being a public
spectacle.
Anticipation washed over her in a warm, pulsing cascade. Her tummy was
tingling with suspense; anytime now, the cameras would start rolling
(or blinking or whatever it was that videocams do) and she'd be told
to take her position for the first take. She was being overwhelmed with
feelings and sensations, almost all of them drawn directly from
childhood experience. This was hardly surprising in itself; she'd been
only twelve years old when she had discovered that delicious blend of
joy and humiliation, which accompanies public exposure.
It had taken place during her first year of junior high school; she'd
been living as a girl for about twelve months. Tessa and her older
sister Zenia been conscripted as flowergirls at their cousin's wedding,
and her mother had taken them into Chamberlain for the fitting. They'd
gone to a bridal store called Something Blue, where the attendants had
made an enormous fuss over her, utterly captivated by her long blond
curls and huge cloud-blue eyes.
Being only twelve (and looking about ten) they hadn't bothered taking
her into the fitting room; opting simply to undress her in the showroom
right down to her underthings. She'd been too surprised to even protest
her disrobing; within seconds, she had climbed out of her jeans and t-
shirt and was being led by the hand to the middle of the floor with her
white cotton underpants on full display.
Tessa had been completely embarrassed: they were treating her like a
little girl; standing her on a leather-bound footstool in her bare
panties while they took her measurements. She was in high school now,
almost a teenager; she didn't walk around in her undies like a six year
old. Worse still, her sister wasn't made to bear her panties in public;
Zenia got to have her fitting in private!
Strangely, she had experienced another feeling, hot and bright and
skin-tight, a sense of pleasurable vulnerability she'd never known
before. It was an emotion for which she had no word, something
trembling and deep, poised halfway between bliss and ecstasy. She'd
felt utterly and incomparably beautiful, like the princess in the fairy
tale.
8
The same feelings of exaltation and arousal coursed through Tessa's
thighs and belly while she waited patiently for the filming to begin.
She was having difficulty keeping still; she had no idea where to put
her hands. Hiding her cleavage left her panties exposed; so much of her
body was on exhibition.
She'd been standing on the set for nearly twenty minutes while the
director held a confab with the assistant and the FM; her embarrassment
and sense of dishabille increasing to an intolerable degree. She would
have given virtually anything for a brief robe to cover her modesty,
but her pleasure at being forced to wait in her BRA and PANTIES was
undeniable. Her breasts were straining at their tight satin restraints,
throbbing gently at their pert pinkish tips.
She looked over to the directors committee. The creativity conference
seemed to be going on forever! How long were they going to make her
stand here like this, the only girl in the studio stripped to her
knickers? It was so unfair!! Did they actually think she had nothing
better to do than show off her underwear to a hundred perfect
strangers?
She had never enjoyed herself so much.
Tessa thought about the script (such as it was), trying to distract
herself from her semi-nudity. She'd seen the storyboard that morning,
so she had a good idea what she was expected to do. Her first scene is
an extreme close-up of her face as she opens the bathroom door, her
platinum blond hair moist and gleaming.
Grinning a naughty little-girl smile, she looks both ways to make sure
no one is watching, then scampers along the passage way, tossing aside
her towel to reveal her brassier and briefs. The camera then follows
her on a hundred yard flash through the household.
Darting into the living room where one of her roomies is ironing a
blouse, she pauses to glance at herself in the mirror over the
mantelpiece, before flitting out to the central hallway waving to her
friend as she goes. Glancing at Tessa's panty-clad figure, the girl
laughs and shakes her head.
Heading for the staircase, Tessa passes another one of her flatmates,
this one holding an animated discussion on her cell phone, who gives
her a friendly slap on the tushie as she rushes up the stairs, damp
hair flying. Still grinning wide - but eager to hide her undies from
public scrutiny - she turns right at the top, dashing through her door
with a silvery laugh.
Her second scene, which appears later in the commercial, takes place in
her bedroom. Dancing before her full-length mirror - brush in one hand,
blow drier in the other - she allows the camera a generous view of her
nubile young body: her lean, slender legs and shapely round bottom; her
curvaceous hips; tiny, waspish waist and perfectly sculpted breasts.
Tessa imagined it would be the best scene of the commercial: a pretty
teenaged girl bouncing around in a tight satin bra and pink, gossamer
panties, her hair flailing around her broadly smiling face. The
sequence ends with Tessa colouring her lips cadmium red with a stick of
Carmine Nights, winking cheekily at the camera: I knew you were there
all along!!
'Tessa?'
It was Lois, the director's assistant. Evidently, the creativity
conference was finally over.
'Are you OK? You're looking a little flushed.'
'Just a touch of backstage nerves', Tessa smiled, 'this is my first
time before a TV camera.'
Lois patted her hand sympathetically.
'You'll be fine. Come on, the shoot's underway, and you're up first'.
Butterflies began dancing in Tessa's tummy as she felt herself led by
the hand across the set in her lingerie. Her cheeks flared like a pair
of valentine roses, and her heart slammed into overdrive. The time had
come, the lights overhead flooded the set with brilliance, cameras were
trained and focused.
It's happening, Tessa thought breathlessly.
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