Suck It Up! free porn video

Suck it Up! © 2010 by Nom de Plume The continuing missadventures of Cissy, a hapless hedge fund scoundrel unmanned by one of his/her own toxic products...can a bad boy make it as a bad girl? The outrageous sequel to "Grow a Pair!" One month after my return to San Francisco, the tinny radio alarm clock on my fiberboard nightstand awakened me from a fitful sleep. Five o'clock in the morning! I threw back the covers and staggered into the bathroom, full of foreboding over the day ahead. The bleary-eyed woman looking sullenly back at me in the mirror still seemed like a stranger, an alien intruder who was slowly but surely taking over my body. Her blossoming breasts pressed proudly against her long cotton nightshirt, and her tousled hair crept down towards her shoulders...my shoulders! With a sigh of resignation, I surveyed the array of creams, lotions, powders and brushes strewn over my cheap formica vanity and tried to figure out where to begin. A few scant months ago, I'd been the master of my destiny, a high-flying hedge fund manager with millions of dollars and all the women I wanted. Since my financial empire collapsed, I'd been living off a seven figure stash which I'd secreted into an offshore bank account. After a few days in a suite at the Fairmount Hotel, it became apparent that I'd have to cut back drastically if my stash was going to last me the rest of my life. My old neighborhood in Russian Hill was out of the question, and after a disheartening week of apartment hunting I'd settled on a furnished studio in Walnut Creek, a white bread bedroom community across the Bay. I soon settled into a life of androgynous obscurity, living in jeans and sweatshirts while I plotted my comeback. With thousands of ruined shareholders, the IRS and the Berkeley police still looking for me, my prospects of working again were nil. My only hope was to eke out a meager existence until I could find some antidote to the terrible calamity which had robbed me of my manhood and was slowly, inexorably turning me into a woman. It was the quest for that antidote which had gotten me up at this ungodly hour... The twinge in my bladder brought me back to the matters at hand. I had to sit down to relieve myself these days: my little nubbin of a penis was almost too tiny to grasp, so I plopped down on the toilet seat and hung my head in misery, contemplating the stubble on my legs. They were my first project this morning! I poured way too much bubble bath into my scarred old tub and submerged myself in the mountains of steaming hot suds, wishing that I could stay there all day. The immediate source of my misery was a byproduct of my scheme to go behind enemy lines: a notorious tort lawyer was assembling a legal dream team to pursue me to the ends of the earth, and hiring administrative staff to run the juggernaut. If I could land a job as a secretary there, maybe I could learn something, anything which would enable me to stay one step ahead of them. After landing an interview, it dawned on me that if I was going to escape detection, I'd have to raise my game as a female. As I tediously shaved my legs, I contemplated everything I'd done to myself over the past few days, in preparation for my debut as Cissy the secretary: an appointment at a hair salon, where my shaggy ponytail was styled into a collar-length bob with perky bangs...a session with a MAC stylist, who gave me a complete makeover and sold me a small fortune in makeup, sponges and brushes...a mercifully quick trip to a Korean manicurist, who filed and polished my hot pink talons...and endless hours shopping for career girl outfits, including skirts, tops, dresses, accessories, and the items I dreaded wearing the most: pantyhose and high heels! Ouch! I nicked myself with my Daisy razor...I hate this! Why did I have to wear nylons anyway? Most women didn't! Why couldn't I just wear pants? I was relying on my Google research into what a girl should wear to a job interview in a professional office: knee length skirt or dress, conservative pumps, and nude or off-black stockings. I spotted some stray hair on my knee, and whisked it off while I thought back to the most humiliating moment of my life: trying on women's shoes with the assistance of a randy sales clerk. He'd forced me to put on little mini-nylons that just covered my feet before he brought me box after box of high heels, waiting patiently while I paraded back and forth until I found a pair that didn't cause complete agony when I walked more than a few paces. At least I'd been wearing jeans so he couldn't see my bits and pieces! Today, I'd be on full display if I forgot myself and sat like a guy...when I'd stalled until the bathwater turned chilly, I finally got out of the tub, dried myself off and glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Shit! Almost six o'clock! I'd have to hustle my bustle to get myself dressed in time to make my train. I switched on the TV to listen to the news while I pulled myself together. Moisturizer was a must, I reminded myself, then it was back to the vanity for my makeup, a towel tugged up over my breasts. Let's see, what did the MAC girl teach me? Foundation sponged on first, then eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara...precision work, so far so good! Next, pressed powder and blusher, brushed and blended just so...looking good, what's missing? Lipstick! Carefully I drew a cupid's bow on my pouting lips, smacked them on a tissue, and stepped back to admire my handiwork. Not bad! My new hairstyle was easy to care for, and I played with my brush until I had it looking the way I wanted. Anything else? Cologne! I spritzed myself behind each ear and once on my cleavage for the hell of it, before returning to the bedroom for the moment I'd been dreading. The TV weathergirl interrupted my thoughts: "No dresses or skirts today, girls, it's going to be windy in San Francisco." Great! Now you tell me, I thought morosely as I surveyed the meager collection of outfits in my closet. I wished I knew what I was doing! All my knowledge about dressing as a woman was based on countless hours of Internet research, mostly websites frequented by crossdressers, who seemed to be more into women's clothes than the real girls. Finally I selected my black pencil skirt, reasoning that it would be least affected by the wind, and the cream colored blouse and half- sleeved sweater that went with it. Hmmm...my pearls and matching earrings ought to work with my twin-set, so I dug them out of my dresser along with a white bra and panties, a camisole to smooth me under my top, and an unopened package of sheer nude pantyhose...I'd never worn nylons before, what if I'd guessed wrong on the size? At least my skirt was lined, so I wouldn't need a slip, although most of the crossdressers on the web seemed to wear them for kicks. Go figure! My head was spinning with conflicting thoughts as I tugged on my panties and reached behind my back to fasten my bra. So far, so good: I'd been wearing a bra since my breasts took off, and panties were no big deal anymore. I hated to even look at what remained of my once proud penis, so I tugged them on quickly. Up to that moment, there was no difference from what I'd been wearing under my jeans and sweatshirts, but the rest would be uncharted territory. Sure, I'd tried on my new clothes before I bought them, only to make sure they fit, but I'd never dressed myself completely as a woman before. The mistresses at the House of Fabulous had turned me into a girl that first day, but since then I'd been living as an androgynous tomboy. All that was about to change forever. Another glance at the clock radio: it was almost six thirty! When I was a guy, I could roll out of bed, shower, shave and be out the door in twenty minutes. Not any more! I grabbed my camisole and realized that the price tags were still on it, as well as on my skirt, top and sweater too, and I lost valuable time searching for a pair of scissors to cut them off. Calm down, Cissy...you can do this! My stomach was churning as I lifted the camisole over my head and dropped it down to my shoulders. My skin actually shivered from the feel of the cool silky fabric, and when I pulled on my top, I found myself staring at my bra and camisole straps in the mirror. I looked, and felt, so vulnerable! My hair was mussed from pulling on my top, and I lost a few minutes brushing it back into place before I resigned myself to the inevitable and tore open the package of pantyhose. I don't know why I felt such resistance to them, I suppose they represented the ultimate submission to my new status in life...with a sigh of surrender, I sat down on the edge of the bed and started easing them up my legs. I was surprised by how sensual it felt to slide them on, and it was almost like an out-of- body experience, watching my legs shimmer under the silky, sheer nylon. When I tugged them up to my waist, I felt a little tingle in my panties, the first time I'd felt anything down there in a long, long time.... After that, stepping into my skirt was almost an anti-climax. I'd never worn a skirt before, and it took me a while to figure out how to zip it up, clasp it, and twist it around so the kick pleat was centered between my legs. I had to lift it up to tug down my camisole and top, and once again I felt totally vulnerable at the sight of myself in the mirror, scantily clad in silk and lace....I tugged down my skirt and padded over to the closet it my stocking feet to search for my shoes. I had to hold my knees together as I stooped down in my tight skirt to pick them up, but I was pleasantly surprised by how easily they slipped onto my feet. Nylons were good for something! What else? My pearl necklace had a little clasp in the back, and it took me forever to figure out how to get it fastened. I'll never make that train! I'd put off getting my ears pierced, although I wished now I hadn't as I fumbled with my clip-ons...might was well, I said to myself ruefully as I surveyed the finished product in the mirror, resistance is futile! The girl looking back at me was gorgeous, and when I turned sideways, I was actually proud of my curves: jutting breasts, tight little waist, cute ass, and sexy legs which looked so long and lean thanks to my heels. I was almost in a trance as I pulled on my sweater, fumbled with the contents of my purse, remembered to put on my new woman's watch and raced out the door. Okay, racing is an exaggeration...how could I, hobbled by my pencil skirt and high heels? My apartment complex was a short walk from the BART station, but my feet were throbbing by the time I'd gotten halfway there. I'll never get used to this! I moaned as I gritted my teeth and toughed it out...I noticed another woman - did I just say another woman? - passing me by, wearing sneakers over her stockings, with a large shoulder bag undoubtedly containing her stilettos. Why didn't I think of that? I could hear the train approaching as I entered the station. Fortunately, I'd already gotten my BART pass, and I was able to make it through the turnstile and up the escalator just in time to squeeze into a crowded car. Every seat was taken! Wait, there was one, an elderly woman was on her way to it...I aced her out and plopped myself down, ignoring the rude stares from the standees in the aisle. The train lurched off, and when I looked down I was mortified to see that my skirt had ridden halfway up to my ass! I tugged it down awkwardly and glanced to my right, getting a sympathetic smile from the woman sitting next to me...a little bond of sisterhood with a fellow female, making our way in a man's world. I closed my eyes and nodded off, already exhausted from the simple tasks of shaving my legs, putting on my makeup and getting myself dressed. No wonder women hadn't risen as far and fast as men in the business world, they - we - had so much more to cope with. I wondered if I'd ever get used to the thousands of little challenges that came with being a woman? No wonder you never saw them wearing skirts and dresses, let alone stockings, unless they had to. When I finally opened my eyes, we were just approaching the big transfer station at MacArthur. I caught a good-looking guy staring at me, or at least I thought he was...wishful thinking? Who was I trying to kid! The last thing I needed was to get hit on by a guy. For starters, I wasn't gay, and I'd never been attracted to a man in my life. On the other hand, although I was still attracted to women, there wasn't much I could do about it, and if I stayed the way I was, I was doomed to a sexless life, full of frustration. And what if I did try to make it with a guy? Once he found out I didn't have female plumbing, he'd kick my ass! Anyway, I must have still been wired as a guy, because I couldn't take my mind off sex. Well, I'd better take my mind off it, since I had an interview for a secretarial position at 9:00. I took my phony resume out of my purse and tried to remember what I'd made up about myself. It was a masterpiece of creative fiction, starting with my name, date of birth and of course, gender...for education I'd dumbed myself down into a community college dropout, and for work experience I highlighted my fascinating career as a sales associate, fast food server and finally my big break: secretary for a chain of tanning salons. My place of residence was bogus, as were my mythical references, and unless this law firm was totally clueless, there was zero chance that I'd get past the first interview. My objective was to learn as much as I could and figure out some way to get around their security and into their files before they caught on to me. The stakes were high, and it wasn't just their records on my hedge fund that I was after. Internet rumor had it that the law firm had uncovered volumes of scientific research into the feminization of males by Atrazine, the pesticide which had done me in. If I could get my hands on those records, maybe one of their discoveries could lead to a miracle cure? I looked up to see that we were pulling into the Embarcadero station, the long run under the Bay behind us. My seatmate got up to leave, and I swiveled my legs into the aisle to let her by, hardly believing that the silken knees peeking out under my skirt were really mine. I'd kicked off my heels, and I searched desperately for them under my seat, drawing smirks from a couple of guys across the aisle. Ignoring them as best I could, I struggled into my shoes and staggered to my feet just in time to get off at Montgomery. It was cold and raw on Market Street, with a brisk wind that blew my hair into my eyes. My legs were surprisingly warm in my nylons, but my bare forearms were cold! Lowering my head, I trudged ahead, forced by my skirt and the unfamiliar heels to take tentative, painful steps. When I got to Boudin I ducked inside, grateful to be indoors. I'd gone there countless times as a guy for coffee and croissants on my way to work, and something seemed a little different as I took my place in line...of course! I was three inches taller! Amazing how the world looked when you were six feet tall, even if that meant you were in high heels. I ordered my usual Americano and chocolate croissant, and took them to a table by the window, watching the world go by as I contemplated my fate. Once again I kicked off my heels, and found a bit of heaven flexing my aching toes in my nylons. Funny, the croissant tasted a little different than I remembered...oh, that's my lipstick! At least the coffee tasted the same, and I lingered over it as long as I could, steeling my nerves for the ordeal ahead. I must be crazy, walking into the lion's den dressed like this...what if somebody recognized me? I pulled a compact mirror out of my purse and recoiled at the sight of my windblown hair...it looked like a fright wig! I washed down the rest of my croissant, grimaced as I squeezed my poor feet back into my heels, and found the ladies room. I didn't dare risk taking the time to figure out how to pee, I might never get myself put back together again! I tediously brushed my hair into place, although I knew it would be a mess the moment I stepped outside again. After freshening my lipstick, I removed a cigarette from my purse and headed back towards Market Street, pausing just long enough to light up before I stepped back into the wind. I huddled in the doorway like the other tobacco addicts up and down the street, indulging myself with this last bit of pleasure before I crushed my cigarette under the toe of my shoe and minced my way towards my destination on Sansome Street. The address was an imposing granite office building in the heart of the financial distract. I'd been there many times in my former life, although now I had to wait in line and sign in with a girlish hand at the security guardpost. Then it was another line for a crowded elevator, and at first I didn't realize that the men were all waiting for me to get on first...one of the perks of being a woman! The downside was feeling their eyes undress my body in unison, and I stared at the lights above the doors, blinking off the floors, to take my mind off the sensation of being peeled like a banana. The law firm of Wurm, Roach and Scheister occupied the two top floors. Originally a white shoe firm with a strangle-hold on San Francisco's banking business, it had metastasized into a monster by gobbling up boutique firms specializing in high tech, patent law, and its ever- expanding litigation factory. The haunted eyes and sallow complexions of the drones standing next to me were silent testimony to the sweatshop atmosphere. I emerged from the elevator into a scene of utter chaos. Instead of the elegant, orderly reception area that I remembered, the lobby was a madhouse of UPS agents hauling in boxes of files, law clerks and paralegals scurrying to and fro, and phones ringing off the hook despite the desperate efforts of a harried receptionist to stay on top of them. When I finally got her attention and mouthed the words "secretary interview" she waved me over to a crowd of women milling around in one of the corners. We stood there, eyeing each other critically, each dressed in our conservative little outfits, heels and stockings, wondering how many positions were open and what it would take to get one of them. Eventually a foppish little man with a flamboyant bowtie and a bad comb- over approached and asked us to follow him down a flight of stairs connecting the reception area to the boiler room below. More boxes piled up everywhere and frantic associates bumping into each other in their manic pursuit of the billable minute. We were led into a large, windowless conference room, not the type reserved for important clients, rather the kind of place where pizzas were served at midnight to stoke the lawsuit machine. I grabbed a chair, grateful to get off my tender feet, and carefully smoothed my skirt beneath me as I primly sat down and crossed my legs. Mr. Bowtie tapped the table with a pencil, silencing the babble of female voices. "Ladies, if I may have your attention," he lisped, "thank you for responding to our advertisement. As you can see, there are a lot of you, and lovely and talented as you all undoubtedly are, at the moment we have only three open positions. Of course, all of your resumes will be kept on file...." He pressed on despite the audible groans and sighs. "In addition to the secretarial positions, we do have one immediate opening for a receptionist. Unfortunately, this position pays only minimum wage, but it is a way to get your foot in the door, so to speak." Looking around, I could see that there were no takers: the women in this room were experienced executive assistants, and they'd be better off staying on unemployment than taking a dead-end job like that. I shot up my hand and chirped, "I'll take it." * * * And so began my career as a receptionist at Wurm, Roach and Scheister. The next morning, I was up at five again for what was to become my weekday routine: shaving my legs in the tub, putting on my makeup, trying to decide what dress or skirt to wear (the dress code for receptionists was even more demanding than for secretaries, since we were "the face of Wurm Roach" as Mr. Bowtie put it), fixing myself a quick breakfast, trudging off to the BART station, dozing off if I could find a seat on the train, and then a quick cigarette on my way to the office. On the way home after my successful "interview" I'd stopped at a discount shoe store and treated myself to a pair of women's sneakers, so at least my feet weren't already in agony when I showed up for work. I learned how to juggle a shoulder bag along with my purse to carry my heels, and I learned to throw in an extra pair of nylons in case I snagged them on the train on against a filing cabinet or my chair. During my lunch hour one day I scored a pair of stilettos that were almost comfortable, two more skirts and tops to go with them, a matching purse of course, and some necessary lingerie....how did working women afford this crap? There was a definite hierarchy at the office, and as the lowly receptionist I was definitely the low woman on the totem pole. I amused myself by perfecting my female voice while biding my time. The place was such a zoo, there was a never-ending stream of entertainment, and I filled the occasional lulls by paging through the women's fashion magazines I found in the break room, educating myself about clothes and makeup. Whenever I could, I offered to help the other girls with their filing and correspondence, always on the lookout for information about the case against me. Although I wasn't able to turn up any evidence, I did come across the computer passwords for each of the members of the legal team, which I carefully copied before returning the original. Unlike the manic hours I was used to working, I clocked out every day at five on the dot, returning to lonely nights alone in my dreary apartment. Until one day when Mr. Bowtie surprised me during my lunch break with an ice cream cake, leading my fellow munchkins in a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday." At first I didn't get it, until I realized that it must be the date of birth I'd randomly chosen for my phony ID! "What are your plans for your big day?" one of the secretaries asked. "Yeah, Cissy, got a hot date tonight?" another one chimed in. I shook my head sadly. "I'll be watching American Idol." "Aw, c'mon, it's your birthday, girl! We gotta do better than that. Why don't you join us tonight?" "Yeah, Cissy, we've got room for one more, you'll love it!" Maybe it was because I was bored out of my mind with the prospect of another night in front of the TV, but eventually I broke down and agreed to join "the girls" for a hot night out on the town. Promptly at five o'clock, the posse formed up in the lobby, and I fell into line as we trooped onto the elevator, wondering if some of the estrogen would rub off on me? I'd left my sneakers under my desk, and my feet were killing me by the time we got to our first stop, the Clock Bar at the St Francis Hotel. Some of the girls were really hot, and I settled into my seat at our corner booth, content to watch the evening unfold. A couple of middle- aged businessmen from out of town tried to flirt with us, but my cohorts made short work of them, and we giggled over our Cosmos and Chardonnays as the night wore on. When it was almost seven, Shannon, the ring- leader, announced that it was time for us to head for Asia SF. "What's Asia SF?" I asked the girl next to me. "You've never heard of it? You'll see," she laughed as she drained her drink. We gathered up our coats and purses and struck off, turning heads along the way as we marched en masse towards the cab stand on Union Square. My feet were in agony and I was having trouble keeping up with them. "Suck it up, girl!" Shannon taunted me. Squeezing into the back seat of a taxi with three other women in short skirts was beyond bizarre, but after two Cosmos I was feeling pretty loose so I just went with the flow and tried to imagine that I was really one of the girls. A few minutes later, we spilled out of the cab onto 9th Street and I followed the crowd into a nondescript nightclub with a horseshoe shaped bar surrounded by banquettes already jammed with tourists, bachelorette parties and the occasional couple. My eyes were still getting adjusted to the dim light when our waitress, an incredibly hot Asian chick in cutoffs and a belly shirt, arrived to take our orders. I concentrated on my menu as she made her way around the table. When she came to me, I looked up and did a double take. It couldn't be! "Are you ready?" she asked impatiently. "Uh, no, I mean yes, I'll have the chicken satay and crab wontons," I stammered. My eyes were glued to her as she moved to the girl beside me, but she didn't seem to recognize me before she left to put in our orders. "What is this place?" I asked Shannon. "You haven't figured it out? Dear, sweet, innocent Cissy, this is a drag bar!" I was way ahead of her, but I played along anyway. "You mean our waitress is really a guy?" "Either she is, or she was," Shannon said matter-of-factly. "They double as waitresses and the main attraction. Wait till you see them strut their stuff!" Sure enough, shortly after our waitress returned with our orders, the lights dimmed and an emcee announced that the show was about to being. To the booming beat of canned music, the first of the waitresses leaped onto the bar and began gyrating while the audience whooped and hollered. One after another, they took their turns on the bar, dressed in incredibly hot outfits. I waited on the edge of my seat for our server to take her turn, and when she did, she was spectacular in her hotpants, fishnets and thigh-high boots. Shaking her booty for all she was worth, she brought down the house as she pranced along the bar, teasing the straight guys who were cool enough to let her muss their hair and yank their ties. She ended her routine with a spectacular cheerleader's split, drawing a standing ovation from the packed house. "Wow," Shannon said. "Can you believe she used to be a guy?" "No way," I lied. "What's her story?" "All I know is all of them used to be boys. Why, do you want to meet her?" "Yeah, as a matter of fact I do." "Well, she'll be back to collect our check. Why don't you stuff a twenty in her bra?" Shannon teased me. "All I want is her name and phone number." * * * The next morning, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the girls about my "crush" on Jade, our waitress. They'd watched me ask her if I could call her, and although she'd brushed me off, I had all the information I needed. Later that same day, I got another lucky break. The big dog litigator from New York, Leonard "Tiny" Wurm, arrived for an all-hands strategy session about the case against my hedge fund, and it wasn't long before he hit on me. He was a mountain of a man, ruggedly handsome for an older guy, with ruddy cheeks and a full head of silver hair. I myself was looking good despite my late night out on the town, and I flirted with him until he asked me out to dinner. At his hotel! I asked him for his room number, which he gave me before suggesting that we meet first at the hotel restaurant. Our "date" was for six o'clock. Precisely at five, I ducked out of the office and headed straight for Leonard's hotel, where I got myself the cheapest available room on the same floor as his, for one night only. I didn't even have time to check out my room before dinner, and of course I had on my stilettos, so my sneakers were still stuffed in my shoulder bag. Using the techniques I'd learned from reading all those women's magazines, I amped up my makeup in the ladies room before I rode the escalator up to the second floor for my first ever date with a man. Leonard was waiting for me at a corner table laden with linens, crystal, silver and a romantic candle. His Manhattan was almost drained, and he ordered another for himself and a Cosmo for me before we turned our attention to the menus. It was beyond strange, sitting there in a dress while a man ordered dinner for me, knowing that his only objective was to get inside my pants as soon as we got up from the table. We made small talk over dinner, and although I tried to draw him out about the case against me, he gave me next to nothing and I didn't press my luck. After dessert and coffee, he assumed without asking that I'd be thrilled to join him in his suite, and I offered no resistance. He put his arm around me on the way up in the elevator, and I took his hand as he led me down the hall to his suite. As soon as we were inside, I did a quick surveillance to determine the location of his laptop computer. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I stuffed his computer into my shoulder bag before I stretched myself out on the sofa. Then the hard part began: he sat down next to me, and I let him kiss me and stroke my breasts and legs, playing along while he unzipped my dress and unfastened his own belt and trousers. In my slip and stockings, I felt so vulnerable! I cuddled next to him on the sofa, and when he started groping at the waistband of my pantyhose I seized the initiative and tugged his shorts down to his ankles. His manhood was soft but willing, and under normal circumstances his lady would have done the necessary to bring him to full arousal. "Do you know what I want?" he moaned between kisses. "What?" I whispered, nibbling on his ear. "I want to cum all over your tits and watch you suck it up." Charming! I had to figure out some way to get out of there before he got into my panties...then an inspiration came to me. "Now I know how you got your time," I giggled. "What do you mean, baby?" "Tiny Wurm. It looks like a penis, only smaller." "You little bitch!" "I've taken shits bigger than your cock!" He stood up in a rage. "Get out!" I scrambled off the couch, gathered up my dress, shoes, shoulder bag and purse, and raced out the door as he slammed it behind me. The next few seconds were critical: half naked, I had to run down the hall to my room and get the door closed behind me before he discovered that his laptop was missing. From the sound of it, I just made it, because I heard him swearing and searching for me a few seconds later. Then hotel security came, and the police, their heavy footsteps and two-way radios echoing outside my door. That night, I hunkered down in my room, pouring over the case files in Leonard's computer. It was like finding the mother lode: hundreds of documents detailing the toxic effects of Atrazine, including scientific research papers isolating a compound called pheminyze, which triggered the genetic sex change from male to female. I searched all night for anything which might suggest the possibility of a cure, but by dawn it was obvious that my fate was sealed. There was no way to reverse the process. Other files and records confirmed that the lawyers' search for me had hit a brick wall, so as long as I continued my life in exile and never resumed my former identity I was safe. Not that I had any choice...I was stuck being a female forever. I slipped out of my room just as the sun was coming up, catching a nearly empty BART train back to Walnut Creek. I stared vacantly out the window, in a deep funk. I could never go back to being a man. Cissy didn't show up for work that morning, or ever again. Thanks to her bogus employment application, she vanished without a trace. * * * That afternoon, back in my cotton dress, leggings and flats from the House of Fabulous, I was once again on a BART train, only on my way to Berkeley this time. My stint as a receptionist, living 24/7 as a woman, had taught me a lot more about myself than just my legal and medical status: I'd learned that I could cope with being female a lot easier than I could cope with being poor. In fact, now that I knew there was no hope of regaining my manhood, it was easier to accept and even enjoy the little upsides to being a woman that helped to compensate for all the hassles. Life was certainly less stressful without all that testosterone driving me to prove myself, and I found myself taking pleasure in simple things, like the way it felt right now to be a pretty girl in a cute dress, strolling once again the beautiful campus, savoring the sights and sounds that in my prior life would have gone unnoticed in my rush to make my next million. If only I could have my cake and eat it too.... The location of the Biology building was seared in my memory. For the third time, I made my way to the laboratory where my life had changed forever. The door was locked, and I milled around in the hallway, reading the notices and advertisements on a cluttered bulletin board until I spied Nomo Hung walking down the hall, striking in black slacks, heels and a flowing silk blouse. I waited until she unlocked her door, before poking my head in with a big smile. "Hi!" I said. "Got a minute?" She gave me a quizzical look. "Do I know you? Oh wait, you're the psych major who interviewed me for your paper, right?" I was wearing the same dress, which helped her make the connection. "Yep. Although we met again last night, remember?" An ashen expression came over her beautiful face. "Oh God!" she gasped. "You saw me..." "You were amazing, Jade." She strode over to the door and closed it behind me. "Please sit down. What do you want?" she asked tersely. "What makes you think I want something?" "Please, whoever you are, don't tell anyone." "Gee, do you think your colleagues on the faculty would be upset? What's a little moonlighting? Maybe if they came to see you, they'd be big tippers." "Please, don't do this to me. What do you want?" she asked again. "I have a business proposition for you." "Blackmail?" "Of course not. A straight business deal. And to prove I'm not trying to take advantage of you, I'll let you in on a little secret. We've met once before." She narrowed her eyes. "Where." "Here. In this laboratory. Only I looked a little different. And so did you." She stared at me with an open mouth. "Oh my God..." "That's right. I'm the maniac who attacked you when you were Dr. Lo." "Who are you?" "Your new best friend." She lowered her head into her hands, shaking with sobs. "Please, what do you want from me?" "Listen, sister, you and I have a lot in common. You have your secrets, and I have mine. And we both lost our balls, thanks to that fucking pesticide. I need your help." "How can I help you now? There's no cure. If there were, do you think I'd still be like this?" "I don't know, you seem to be making it just fine as a chick." "Believe me, it's not by choice. Although once I realized that I could never go back, I decided to try to make the best of it. It hasn't been all bad," she conceded. Incredibly, we found ourselves talking to each other like two women, and a strange bond began to develop between us, impelled by the unique experience which we'd both been through. "Is that why you started dancing? To have a little fun with it?" I asked. "I suppose so. After all the grieving over what I've lost, and the pressures of maintaining my academic standing while trying to deal with the publicity and embarrassment, I have to find ways to escape for a little while...." "Your secret's safe with me. Tell me about pheminyze." "How did you learn about that?" "I'm very resourceful. Is it true that pheminyze is the active ingredient in Atrazine which turns males into females?" "Yes." "Can it be isolated and administered safely?" "I don't know, the question has never occurred to me. Why would anyone want to do that?" "Are you kidding? Across San Francisco Bay there's a ready-made market for it, and that's just scratching the surface...do you have any idea what percentage of the population around the world is transgendered?" "You mean as in thinking they were born into the wrong bodies? I don't know...I've done a lot of research into the phenomenon since I started to change...hundreds of thousands of people, perhaps millions, in the United States alone." "Exactly, and the vast majority of them are men who wish they were women. Do you have any idea how much money we could make?" "I can't be associated with anything like that!" "Don't worry your pretty little head about it! You just have to take care of the science...trust me, if they handed out Nobel Prizes for setting up shell companies with silent partners, I'd have one too." For the first time, she actually smiled. "You are a bad girl," she scolded me. "Better to be a rich bitch than a working stiff," I replied. * * * One year to the day after the Atrazine disaster, I awoke at my customary hour of noon, stretching and yawning in my satin peignoir. How shall I amuse myself today? I pondered as I threw back the luxurious silk sheets. Which of the hot outfits in my room-sized closet shall I wear tonight? After I fired up the espresso machine, I stepped onto the terrace of my Russian Hill penthouse, contemplating my good fortune while I contentedly smoked a cigarette. Looking down at the working girls heading off to lunch on the sidewalk far below, I wondered how many of them were happy customers of pheminyze?