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Colors By Cassandra Morgan Jellybeans. They reminded me of jellybeans, all sweet and pretty. I looked out over the offices, and the secretaries of the building moved around, pretty and inviting in their office clothes. They were beautiful, and smart, and loyal to the company. There was a crisp professionalism about them. Tropical fish. They reminded me of tropical fish, all colorful and free, darting this way and that. It was my lunch period, but I always ate at my desk so I could see them. As I looked out, they laughed and joked. They were talented, and efficient, the backbone of the office. Flowers. They reminded me of flowers, all delicate and alive and sweet- smelling. For most of the day, I kept the blinds to my office closed, to make sure I didn't ogle anyone. But at lunch, I would nibble and look out. They were busy, and stylish, and when they giggled, it sounded like church bells. Hi. I'm Andy Denton, and I work in the offices for Thomas and Thomas, a large paper manufacturing firm in Cincinnati. I'm a salesman, nothing grand, nothing important. but I've been here six years, and they seem to appreciate me. It's a good job, nothing too creative, but you could depend upon it. I mean, no one ever asks me to take a letter, but it's still decent work. I sat at my desk, and I looked out over the office at the superficial relationships that the workplace brings. Someone had brought cake. Someone had brought champagne. There were balloons and a banner I couldn't make out. Someone was celebrating something. The voices were a little loud. The frivolity a little forced. There was a knock at my office door. It was Alicia, my own gorgeous secretary. "Hey, Andy," she said. "Come get some cake. No one turns down free cake." I smiled at her. "What's the occasion?" "Oh, Jenny is leaving," she said. "And Melissa is the new executive secretary. So we're celebrating." I rose and walked out into the general offices. I smiled at Melissa. "Congratulations," I said. "You'll be very good." She smiled back. "I hope so," she said. "Jenny left some big shoes to fill." "Where is Jenny going?" "Her family is moving to Cleveland," she said. "In two weeks. Friday is her last day." "Oh, that's a shame," I said. "I didn't know her well, but ..." She shrugged. "There is always a lot of turnover among the secretaries," she said. "I just hope I can find someone good to replace her." A thought, from faraway, from the land of impossible thoughts, entered my mind. I shook it away, and it was gone. I took a small piece of cake. I listened as Janie talked to Brenda about what was on Netflix, and as Dorothy told Sarah what a hunk the new UPS guy was, and as Melina argued with Ophelia about Trump's latest foot-in-mouth speech. It was a general office, and when people let their hair down, just for a minute, you got every possible opinion about every part of the world. It was one of the things I admired most about secretaries. They were a true cross-section of America. I went back into my office. I stared at the computer screen, but the letters were a blur. Finally, I got up and went to the office of Paul Thomas, the boss. Paul and I were boss-and-employee, but we were friends, too. We talked a lot. "Hey, man," I said. "You got a minute?" "I always have a minute for you," he said. "Sit down." "Good news about Melissa," I said. "Yeah, she deserves it. She's a good soul. She'll be a star." "Shame about Jenny," I said. "Yeah, we'll miss her," he said. "Know anyone who might want a job?" I hesitated. "Oh, there will be someone from the temp pool, I imagine," I said. "Yeah, but I haven't been blown away by any of them lately. They're all...cardboard. Why can't you find good help these days?" "Well, it's because you're so damned hard to work for," I laughed. He laughed along. Actually, Paul was a good guy. People loved working for him. Me, too, I suppose. Bosses are like neighbors. Some you tolerate, some you like. Paul never lorded over anyone. He was just ... Paul. You could joke around with him. "Yeah, I'm a real ball-buster," he said. "So, did you follow the Bengals' draft?" "Who follows the Bengals?" I said. "What's below last place?" He chuckled. "Cleveland is below last place," he said. "Thank God for Cleveland. They keep us out of the cellar. I went to college in Alabama. We used to say 'Thank God for Mississippi, because in everything than counted -- cost of living, education, social programs, Alabama was 49th. But Mississippi was 50th. Go Rebels." We went on for a few minutes. We talked about Springsteen's new album. We talked about the new Avengers movie. We talked about the rising price of hamburgers with all these gourmet joints. We talked about Maureen, Paul's wife. Finally, we came to one those pockets of silence in our conversation. And before I could think, I was talking. "Paul, can I ... I mean...can I ask you something." "Sure," he said. "Go ahead. But don't ask me for a raise. You just got one." "What ... I mean..What are your plans for Jenny's job if you don't hire a temp?" Paul looked at me for a long moment, as if he was trying to figure out why I would care. "Hell, we'll find someone," he finally said. "We always do." "I'm sure you will," I said. "It seems like a good job. I mean...relatively speaking." "It's hard, though." "I imagine," I said. Paul sat back in his chair. "Why do you ask?" he said. "You want the job?" I looked at him, then I quickly looked away. My mouth was dry all of a sudden. There wasn't enough air in the room. "Ha," I said. "Of course not." He nodded. He kept staring at me. "Oh, my God," he finally said. "You do want the job, don't you?" "Don't be silly," I said. "Why would I want to be a secretary?" Paul stood. He went to his office door and closed it. He re-took his seat. "Andy?" "Sir?" "Andy, are you really interested in Jenny's job? Tell me the truth." "Um...well, no...I mean. maybe. I mean...I don't know anything about it." "You know what a secretary's job is, Andy. Taking dictation. Filing. Answering the phone. Passing notes. Making phone calls. Going out for coffee and sandwiches." I didn't say anything. I looked at the floor. He smiled. "What are you telling me here, Andy?" he said. "I mean, I've always admired the secretarial pool," I said. "My mother was a secretary for 25 years. And sometimes...sometimes I imagine myself in that job." He nodded, as if he finally understood. "Andy, there is nothing wrong with being a transvestite," he said. I stared at him. I had never admitted that to anyone, anywhere, any time. It was my deepest, darkest secret. "I know," I finally said. "How long?" Paul asked. "All my life, I guess," I admitted. "I remember putting on my mom's clothes when I was 4 or 5. She was a secretary, too, you know. I've done it from time to time since then But how did you know? He grinned. "Because you're one of those guys with a ratty-ass ponytail," he said. "It screams 'I wear panties.'." I blushed. I touched my ponytail. Paul sat back. He thought for a minute. "Andy, you have a much better job than a secretary," he said. "You get paid three times what they do. You get commissions. So why not just dress up at home? Go to trans bars? Get a weekend job as a maid?" I looked at him. "Sometimes...sometimes it isn't enough, Paul," I said. "Sometimes, I want to be a girl full-time. You know?" He nodded again. "Andy," he said softly. "You know you're valued here. You always have been." "Paul...this is a mistake," I said. "Can you forget I said anything? I don't want anyone to know." He shrugged. "Of course," he said. "Did you say anything?" "Thank you, Paul." I rose to leave. He escorted me out, then he hesitated at the door. "Andy, I think you should think about this, okay?" he said. "I don't know a lot about living as the other gender. I know it's a huge step, but you'll never be in a better position to make it. You have an office that will support you. You have bosses who value you. I'm afraid I can't do anything about the salary differential. It would throw our whole pay scale out of whack. But if you're courageous enough, I can make it happen. Andy, you don't have to be a dancer in a trans bar. You don't have to be a stripper, or a hooker." "I'll think about it, Paul," I said. "And thank you for handling it the way you did. I didn't mean to come out when I came into your office. It just .. happened." He smiled. And I thought about all the transvestites across the country who had to swim upstream every step of the way, who were fired or mocked when they came out, who were abused or thrown away. I felt so grateful for Paul. I hadn't intended to come out to him, but I did, and he had done his best to put me at ease. I went to my office. I closed the door. I closed my eyes and thought about dresses and heels and necklaces. I could not believe I had told Paul. Was I brave enough for this? Was I tough enough? Was I feminine enough? Lord knows, I was confused enough. *** Balloons. As I looked into my wardrobe at home, I thought about balloons, colorful and bright. I thought of their colors, and their freedom. I thought of how they soared when they were untethered. Those were the colors of my spare clothing, the rainbow of fabric that filled my closet. I pulled down a yellow dress and held it against me. The cloth felt soft and inviting, the way it always had. For the moment, it didn't matter that I wasn't in proper underwear or surrounded by friends. It just mattered that I had a dress against my frame. I bit my lip. I breathed deeply. I had always dreamed of working as a woman, and now, I had an opportunity to do so. To live as a girl. To work as a girl. Then I thought of the hardships that would surely come. How could I say yes? And how could I say no? I didn't say anything to Paul on Wednesday. I didn't say anything to him on Thursday. I had no plans to say anything on Friday. But that morning, Paul called me into his office. "Well?" he said. "Well what?" "Have you considered becoming our new secretary?" he said. "I think you'd be very good at it." I looked at him. I blew air out. "It's all I've thought about," he said. "But financially, I would take a bath. Socially, it would be hard. Professionally, it would be dead-end. I just don't know how I could do it." "Because it's what you want," he said. "Part of me," I admitted. "The girly part." He laughed. "Tell me, Andy. How big is that girly part? Are you wearing women's underwear right now?" "Uh, well. Maybe," I said, blushing. "None of my business," he said. "But the point is that you aren't going to be able to turn it off. And next year, and the year after, and the year after that, you're going to wonder what would have happened if you had taken the step. You'll regret it your whole life." "What if Mellissa wouldn't hire me?" I asked. "She's the executive secretary. Isn't it her decision now?" "Melissa and I have had a conversation," he said. "She knows that you want the job. She knows you'll work as a female to get it." "Oh, no. It's going to be everywhere," I said. "Andy, give Melissa some credit. She's a bright woman. She wasn't born 100 years ago. I had to talk to her to see if she would be receptive to this." "And..." "She thinks that a former salesman could really bolster our secretarial pool," he said. "It would widen our contact base. But, Andy. Know this. There would be no going back. This isn't a trial run, okay? This is life. This is from now on. Skirts. Dresses. Underwear. The whole deal." "Does Melissa think I'm gay?" I asked. He smiled. "Probably," he said. "Are you?" I shrugged. "Kinda," I said, blushing. "I guess I'm bi. You know, most of us aren't gay. But yeah, I always have been. But I promise it won't be a problem at work." He grinned. "So a blowjob is out of the question?" he said, obviously joking. "Well, maybe later," I said, laughing along. "I might need a raise." He grinned. "So why don't we bring Melissa into the office and have a real conversation? She'll want to meet the new girl. Is it Andrea?" I shook me head. "It's always been Annie," I said. He nodded. "Nice to meet you, Annie. Welcome aboard. You know you aren't going to turn this down." I swallowed hard. I nodded. And just like that, I changed genders. Paul picked up his phone and dialed Melissa. She came in, and he introduced us formally, even though we had known each other for years. She looked at me as if she was trying to see the girl inside. Finally, she spoke. "Annie," she began. "Paul assures me you will take this job seriously. We don't want anyone mocking the office women. You'll dress like the rest of us, skirts and dresses, but suits aren't mandatory. Nothing cheap or sluttish. Heels and hose are mandatory. As far as casual Fridays, the rest of the office wears jeans. I want you in a dress or a skirt until you're acclimated, though. "It's not hard work, but it's hectic at times. We do fetch coffee for our bosses. I know some secretaries don't, but we're a throw-back in that regard. We take dictation. We transcribe meetings. We help set up the conference rooms. We translate other documents to Excel. But we tolerate no sexism, and anyone who hits on you is gone. Right, Paul?" "Absolutely." "We aren't a meat market, Annie. You'll be assigned to a salesman, John Higgins in your case, but you'll have general office work, too. It might be after-hours sometimes. It might be out of town sometimes. Your starting salary will be $38,000, which I understand is quite the cut for you." "Yes, ma'am," I said. "Well, you could get a small bump in six months if you're good," she said. "Now, some office rules. From now on, you will refer to Paul as Mr. Thomas. I am Melissa unless there are outsiders around. Then I'm Mrs. Jacobs. All visitors will be Mr. and Mrs. Now understand. This is a workplace. You can socialize with whomever you want. We frown on dating your bosses, but unless there is a complaint, we aren't that strict. "We want you to take the rest of today off. Next week, too We want to announce you to our staff, and it would be less awkward if you were away. So go get your hair done. Get a mani-pedi. Treat yourself. Buy a new dress; you'll need new dresses. I imagine this will be the last time I ever see you in pants." I nodded. This was happening so fast. It was a train speeding past, an airplane flying overhead. "Melissa, I wont let you down." "I know you won't. Welcome to our side." I signed papers. I filled out forms, including a name change. I signed a one-year contract. I scheduled a new I.D. photo. I made an appointment at the Social Security office to change the name on my card. I called DMV to schedule a new driver's license. I called an endocrinologist and made an appointment to talk about breasts. (Mine, not his). Melissa showed me to my desk, which was just outside of a salesman's office. No office for me. Not anymore. The desk looked small and bare. Melissa introduced me to Mr. Higgins, a young salesman who smirked at me. Obviously, he was in on my secret, too. Hell, everyone would be soon, wouldn't they? * * Gum balls. The colors were like gum balls in a machine, blues and reds and pinks and yellows. They were lively and sweet. I looked at my heels, and they were as shiny as the gum balls. They looked like fingernail polish, like lipstick. Like the colors in my soul. For most of us who love women's clothes, there is a caution flag: Never do anything permanent. But that was out the window now. I was going 24/7. I could get hair extensions. I could piece my ears. I could shape my eyebrows. I could wear a signboard that said "girl." I went shopping. I picked out three dresses, which was a bit out of my price range, but how many chances does a girl get to make her debut? I bought panties and bras. As I fingered the bra, a sense of reality filled me. This was happening. I was changing my life. It was a cavernous step, bigger than Neil Armstrong's step, bigger than Christopher Columbus'. This wasn't going to the Flamingo on Friday night to dance with friends. This wasn't marching in the Pride parade. This was girl time all-the-time. I had my hair done. I bought new, smaller breast forms. This was an office setting. I wasn't trying to pick up off-duty cops any more. I had a mani-pedi. Ii made an appointment with my endocrinologist to talk about breasts. (Mine, not his.) my utter transformation required a full week of accrued vacation time -- going in and out of salons and parlors, each fixing my femininity more and more in evidence. Toward the end he devoted a full afternoon to a nearby women's bridge club meeting, and toward the end of that afternoon he was invited to join." Then I begins work as Annie . I wasn't at the meeting when Paul told the office I had been hired. I heard about it, though. I heard that Dirk Johnson had referred to me as "the fag," before Paul took control of the room. Amy Adams changed that to "the freak," and Paul let it go. "Folks," Paul finally said. "We have to decide something here. Are we a welcoming office, or are we a cliquish one? Do we embrace diversity, or do you make fun of it? You all know Andy. But it turns out there are some things about Andy we didn't know. Some things that make him ... her unique. Now, you are all individuals, and you're all welcome to feel how you feel about Annie. If you don't want to go to lunch with her, well, it's a free country. But I hope you'll be professional and treat her with human respect. Being transgender is hard. Coming out is hard." "Is she hard?" Denny Latimer asked. "Not for you, needle dick," Betty Carruth snarled. Everyone, including Paul, laughed. But when I heard about the meeting later, it underlined to me that this journey wasn't going to be as easy as Paul had said. A man is alone in his skirt. He's never quite sure who will welcome him or to what degree. It wasn't the first time I felt alone. It wasn't the last, either. * * Jewels. Rubies and emeralds and sapphires, all glittering as if they were in a pirate's treasure chest. Opals and diamonds and topaz, winking in the light as if they were a promise of dreams that have not cashed in. There was gold and silver . There were famous jewels -- the Hope diamond and the Dresden green and the graft pink and the Koh-I- Noor. Pretty and precious, that's what I hoped to be. Treasured and adored. I didn't just want to be a secretary. I wanted to be the best damn secretary in the world. I showed up at work early. I would collate and file. I would make copies of interoffice memos. I could transcribe dictation. I would make coffee and set out bagels. I didn't want to be just another pair of nice legs; I wanted to make myself needed in this office. I exchanged banter; some would call it flirting. I tried to have answers in advance of the question. I was an expert in Microsoft Office. I knew the Xerox machine on a first-name basis. I was pleasant on the phone, friendly. I was Peggy Olson from Mad Men. I was Pam Beesly from The Office. To tell you the truth, it was a fine job. I loved looking pretty. I rotated my outfits -- my blue dress and my black skirt and my red top. I changed up my hair from a shag to an up-do. The morning was halfway over when an attractive, 40-something woman cam bustling through the office. Maureen Thomas. Paul's wife. She looked around the room, and her eyes lit on me. She rushed over toward me. "Oh, sweetie," she said. "You're gorgeous. You're perfect." I smiled and thanked her, a little embarrassed by the commotion. "I never knew you were trans, sweetie," she said. "Annie? Right? My god, you're lovely. You should never have been a boy. God didn't want you to be a boy. Those legs were made to be in heels. And some heels were meant to be between those legs."" "Thank you, Mrs. Thomas," I said, laughing. "Mrs. Thomas is Paul's mom," she said. "I'm Maureen. You know that. Is everyone treating you okay, Annie?" "They're fine, Mrs...Maureen," I said. "Everyone has been nice." "Well, if they aren't, you know who to talk to. We'll order cock cages for the whole damn office." I giggled. "I thought I was the only one who wore one of those." "You do?" her eyes smiled. "Yes, ma'am. For, uh, control." "Annie, you'll find that there are a lot of electronics that can make a women's day," she said. "Paul's job is just to buy the batteries." I laughed and looked at Paul. He was shaking his head at his wife. She was grinning. She reached out and squeezed my hand. "Let's get together, Annie girl," she said. "We should do lunch. We can talk about Paul the whole time." * * * Flags. Imagine the flags of the world as they flutter in the breeze, their colors outlined against the late afternoon sky. To some, those flags represent home. To others, they represent the hope of a better tomorrow. Me? I'm a sucker for flags. The flags of countries, the transgender flag, the gay flag, the flags that yearn for acceptance. On Friday night, I stopped by the Flamingo. I had been there before, even dressed, but this felt different. I was a girl now. I was going to work as a woman. Half of my waking hours would be in an office where everyone knew about my [actual] anatomy. I bought myself a Vodka Tonic. I looked at the girl in the mirror. She looked skittish, as if she were wearing a dress for the first time. I took a sim. This was all overwhelming to me. I looked around. These were my people, all right. There were guys dancing with guys, and girls dancing with girls, and a pair of trans women were necking in the corner booth. I smiled. Travis, a guy I had danced with two weeks before, hoisted his glass toward me. He walked over. "How are you, Annie?" he said. "I'm good," I said. "I'm...I'm full-time now. I'm a secretary." He clinked glass with me. "That's great," he said. "Why don't we have sex and talk about it." I giggled. "You're impossible," I said. "But you're cute." He grinned. "Well, if you won't have sex with me, how about a kiss? For luck." I laughed. I leaned in and kissed him. He needed a shave. "So are you ready for this, Annie?" he said. "I mean, it's a big move. Some girls don't handle it well." "I think I'm ready," I said. "I keep thinking about what I'm going to wear, not what I have to do. Is that stupid?" "It's how a woman thinks," he said. "You're a woman." "Thank you, baby," I said. "Now, come and dance with me. I want everyone to think I'm getting lucky tonight." I laughed. "Aren't you lucky to be dancing with me?" "You're a four-leaf clover, Annie. You're a rabbit's foot. You're the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow." I took his hand. I followed him to the dance floor. And on the way, I snuck a look at his rear end. * Disney. The world is a carousel of color. Wonderful, wonderful color. A blue, rolling stream, a red summer rose, a sunset in the sky. Beauty untold is ours to behold, to dazzle your mind and your eye! When I was a kid, trying to be a little boy without a lot of success, I used to sing that to myself all the time. I would imagine myself as Tinkerbelle. I was the Little Mermaid. I was Snow White. Now, it was my time. For the first time, I was in charge of the colors of my life. I was painting my now rainbow. On Monday morning, for the first time, I walked through the Thomas and Thomas offices in heels. I could hear the clackety-clack as I moved over the tile floor. I could feel the eyes on me. I could hear the office chatter as I moved past the desks. It probably won't surprise you to hear that my first moments as a girl where spend deciding what to wear. How much of a cliche is that? But my favorite dress is pink, but I didn't want to reinforce a stereotype by wearing pink. I put on a yellow dress, but I looked like a Chiquita Banana. Finally, I wore a blue skirt with a light blue blouse and blue heels. It was a conservative look, feminine but crisp. Everything was different. Hell, the underwear was different, and I had been wearing panties for a year. But I paid more attention to my bra because I wanted to look professional. I wore a girdle to keep me smooth. I was careful not to run my hose. I anted to look fine. I wanted to look feminine.My skirt felt tight across my bottom. My heels felt twice their height. I felt awkward, homely, an imposter in a dress. I walked through the office, and several heads turned. "There he is," I heard in the background. There was some soft laughter. I heard the word "fag" a half-dozen times. I tried to keep my chin up. I pursed my red lips. Let them stare. This wasn't a walk of shame; this was a victory march. Another trans woman had made it. Bless us all. I stopped by and started the coffee in case Mr. Higgins wanted any when he arrived. I sat at my desk. I put a ceramic from on it; I would need other nick-knacks to brighten the place up. Maybe a picture of Brad Pitt to get everyone talking. Maybe another one of Angelina Jolie. At 9 a.m., the phones began to ring. I answered each call pleasantly and professionally. If the person on the other end of the phone made a joke, I laughed. At 10, Mr. Higgins called me into his office. I sat it front of him. I crossed my legs. "So how are you, Annie?" he said. "I'm fine, sir," I said. "Might I get you anything?" "Annie, I ... I wanted to talk," he said. "I'm a rough guy. I use awful language, and I'll tell a dirty joke or two. I'd like it if that doesn't become a problem." "No, Mr. HIggins," I said. "If you treat me well, I could care less if you talk about anatomy, men's or women's. We have to be loyal to each other. The way I look at it, it's okay to admire someone's ass as long as you keep your hands off of mine." Higgins laughed abruptly. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Annie," he said. "I mean, if I make a joke that your dick is bigger than mine, I don't want it to be a problem. Right? If I make a comment about your little titties bouncing up and down, it's between us, right?" "Yes, sir," I said, blushing. "I mean, I'm not a fag, Annie," he said. "But we can work together. You can smoke all the dicks you want. Hell, for your birthday, you can suck mine. I'm very giving that way." "Thank you, sir," I said. I wasn't going to start off in trouble on Monday morning. "Okay, scoot, Annie," he said. "I'll need you to set up the meeting room for a 1 o'clock meeting. Sandwiches, coffee, cookies, butt sex. That sort of thing." "Yes, sir, Mr. Higgins," I said. I walked away. Okay, so my immediate supervisor was a pig. How many office workers shared that in common? Most of them, I'd guess. I could deal with it. I climbed the stairs and went to the makeshift women's restroom they had made for me on the fifth floor. I stared in the mirror. I touched up my lipstick. I sighed. And I went back to work. * * Cartoons. Is anything more colorful than cartoons? Forget that they make us laugh, or that they can tell a story as well as movie with actors. The sheer color of them, creative and splashy, was astounding. You had blue mice and orange cats and brown moose. You had super heroes flying through the air, tethered only by an artists' imagination. Every day at 3 p.m., the secretaries took their afternoon break in the meeting room. We had a soft drink, and we gossiped, and we told stories. On Monday, the conversation turned ribald, as conversations will. It started with Alice. "So who has the best eyes of the salesmen," she asked. "Bobby," one girl said. "Raheem," said another. "And who has the best smile?" "Paul." "Jason." "And who is the sweetest?" "Alan." "Danny." "And who do you think has the biggest cock?" Everyone giggled. "I don't know," someone said. "But I bet it's Raheem." "Oh, cliche-city," Alice said. "I bet it's Ricky. I bet he'd bloody your tonsils." "He could bloody mine." "Who's the fastest?" "John." "Alan." And who's the gayest? There was a pause. "Annie," Betty said. And we all fell out laughing. * * Crayons. There were as many colors as crayons. I looked around the office, and the other women were putting on a fashion show. The colors were creative, fashionable. Blue and greens and reds and yellows. It's unbelievable how much money secretaries spend on their clothes. And other things. Now, I had never been much for toys, to tell you the truth. But that didn't keep people from wondering about it. It was mid-afternoon that day when Mr. Higgins called me into his office. It was the middle of the day, but already, he was slurring his words like he had just come back from a 12-martini lunch. "You wear a butt-plug?" he asked me. "Mr. Higgins. That's not a proper thing to ask," I said. "Well, it's a nice butt, if you like big, juicy hams," he said. "I thought you might want a piece of jewelry to jam up there in place of a dick." "Mr. Higgins, please." "Hell, it's a compliment that you have a nice ass. Shit, you could brand that thing. You could house a family of immigrants." I sighed. "Speaking of asses, Mr. Higgins," I said, "please don't be one." "Oh, fuck you," he snarled. "You're just a fucking secretary. You're lucky I don't pop my dick in your mouth. Or is that what you want?" I tried to leave the room, but he grabbed my wrists. Fortunately, most offices have paper-thin walls to their rooms. The commotion could be heard across the room. And then Paul was leaning against the door. I hadn't had much contact with Mr. Thomas since I transitioned. He figured I needed to fight my own battles. But this was different. One of his salesman was drunk and abusing the help. He was fired by the time Mr. Thomas arrived. "It was that fag," Mr. Higgins said. "He led me on." "You're drunk," Mr. Thomas said. "You'd be smart to be quiet right about now." "Fags are homos," he said. "They ain't real men like us, Paulio. They like to to get their knees dirty." "Just go, John," Mr. Thomas said. "Don't even pack up your desk. We'll pack it for you. Now go. You no longer are employed here." "You're firing me because of a fag?" Mr. Higgins said. "I'm firing you because you're a pig," Mr. Thomas said. "Now go, before I personally kick your ass." I wiped a tear. But I would not let them see me cry. And, yeah, if you want to know: I had a butt-plug. But that was none of Mr. Higgins' business. * * The night sky. If you want to talk about color, that's where you went. Rainbows. The Aurora Borealis. Sunsets. Clouds. Comets. The moon. Constellations. There was so much color in the sky. Have you ever seen a flash of lightning at midnight? A shooting star? The lights of a passing airplane. That was the wonder I felt at being a secretary. Frankly, I loved it. The interaction. The gossip. The helping out of each other. Oh, Britney still didn't like me. And Suzanne thought I was a freak. But most of the girls accepted me quickly enough. The guys were a little tougher in their inborn homophobia, but they were coming around, too. Brian had asked me to get coffee with him. Richard asked me to help him decorate his apartment. I declined both. Toward the middle of my second week, my co-worker Betty stopped by my desk to say hi. She complimented me on my skirt -- red -- and picked up my frog. "Nice frog?" she said. "Kermit?" I smiled. "Thanks," I said. "I kind of collect them. I keep waiting for them to turn into toads. But no, that's no Kermit. That's Orville." "Funny," Betty said. "So...you want get lunch?" "I....I guess. If you want. I don't eat lunches out very much. They're expensive." "I heard that," she said. "But every now and then, you have to get away from the office. Too many penises in this place. " Betty realized at once what she had said. She put her hand to her mouth. "Annie...I'm sorry," she said. I laughed. "It's okay," I said. " And so we had lunch. Betty was a 26-year-old woman who lived with her boyfriend, Jake, in the North part of town. She had been with the firm three years, since she and Jake went to Toledo. She wanted to get her Master's so she could teach in college. I told her my story, all of it, about growing up trans, about applying for this job and getting it. She told me that she thought Paul was cute in a daddy-kind-of-way. She thought Mark was gorgeous and she was ready to volunteer to have Brian's baby. "Watch your back, girl," Betty said. "Some people aren't happy you're here. Unhappy people do stupid things." I nodded. I asked her what she had thought about Mr. Higgins. "Typical arrogant man," she said. "Drove a sports car. He might as well have carried a sign that says 'Hey, my penis is short.' " I giggled. She laughed out loud. It was the best hour I had spent since my transition. Betty was funny and smart and earthy. I felt a total comfort with her. Had I made a friend? * * * Kodak. Who has more colors than Kodak? Who else can make the blues pop and the oranges stand out? Who has made a bigger burst since the days of black-and-white movies? Who can give you a picture from outer space, or one of sunset on the desert? Every morning, I looked through my clothes. An orange skirt. A gray blouse. A yellow dress. A Burgundy suit. Red heels. Blue heels.Pink heels. I was getting into a rhythm at work, too. I could type like a mad woman. I never made a mistake taking dictation. I learned all the programs for our computer system. I was at peace. I was happy, and I felt validated. And then Gabe stopped by my desk. He was a tall man with dirty blond hair and a good smile. He was in the office to renew his company's deal with Thomas and Thomas, and he stopped by to make small talk. He asked where he could go to dance, where he could find a good drink, where the ambiance was nice. He asked where I went to relax. And then he asked me to go with him. I wasn't used to being asked out, and so I blushed. And I declined. He asked me to an art gallery showing, and I declined. He asked me to a concert, and I declined. "Is it me?" he asked. "No," I said. "It's me. I'm still new, and I need to concentrate on my job." "Everyone has to kick loose," he said. "Gabe," I said. "You're going to hear this if you keep asking around. But I'm not a normal girl. Have you ever seen the Crying Game?" "I don't think so?" "Boy Meets Girl?" "Sorry." "The Danish Girl?" "I don't see a lot of movies," he said. "Well, in those movies, the girl hasn't always been a girl," I said. "Oh," he said. "Ooooh." "That's me," I said. "Sorry. I figure Mr. Higgins would tell you quickly enough." "So you've got a ..." "I do," I said. "But those..." "They're not real," I said. "I just started taking hormones this week. It'll be a lot of months before I can defy gravity." "Wow," he said. "Well, let me say this. I've been on roughly 1,785 first dates, and I've never had sex on any of them. So why don't we go get a drink and some nachos?" "I shouldn't," I said. "Hey, you're safe. There are Franciscan monks who see more action than I do." I laughed. "Okay," I said. "But I'm a vestal virgin." "Does vestal mean the same as anal?" "Ass," I said, swatting his arm. He laughed. And we walked on, and I was on my first date. For a normal woman, it wasn't much of a date. We decided on onion rings instead of nachos. We had wine. And we talked about alternative lifestyles and finding one's place in the sun. I talked about me. He talked about him. He walked me back to my car. He put his hand on the small of my back, and it felt nice. He leaned over and kissed me sweetly, right on the lips. It was all I could do to push him away. I had to work the next day. Still, my lips tingled for a long time. * * Volkswagens. All going somewhere, all driven by people with their own goals. I looked at colors now as automobiles whizzing past on the interstate. Red and blue and yellow and orange and green. There was a purpose to a car going somewhere, a destination. I thought about my own destinations these days, about a secretary's dreams and hopes. No one looked at me and saw a boy anymore. I was one of the girls, one of the dreamers who hoped to parlay my job into a dream. Gabe was a tender lover. We waited the requisite three dates before I invited him to my bedroom, but sure enough, he got there. And he made me wonder why I had waited. His cock was amazing, bigger than any I had been around. And his soul was playful. "So, Annie," he asked one night. "Why aren't you a sissy?" "I'm sorry?" "It seems to be the new gender," he said. He had read about sissies in the Post, and in the Times. How they cooked and cleaned and served a Mistress or Master. How they wore those cute little maid's dresses. "What?" I said. "You think we're all like that?" "Tell me you don't want a maid's dress," he said. "Well, sure, it would be nice. But I don't want a maid's life. I'm a secretary, not a domestic." "I'd like a maid," he said. "I'd like to give you orders. 'Make me a sandwich.' Or 'shine my shoes." Or "blow my god foursome. Yeah, I'd like that." "Would you now?" I said. "Did Cinderella make you hard." "Of course she did," he said. "Bippity-boppity-boo." "I'd rather be Sleeping Beauty," I said. "I'd love to sleep in tomorrow." "Did Sleepy Beauty sleep with Rip Van Winkle?" he said. "Funny boy." Gabe reached down and toyed with my dick. "Excuse me," I said. "What are you doing?" "Just playing," he said. "So why aren't you caged?" "I wear one to work most days," I said. "I don't want to be making tents." "Why not?" he said. "I think it's cute."' I snorted. "Would you like to kiss it?" "You dare me?" I grinned. "i dare you." Gabe leaned over and kissed me right on the bulb. He looked up and did it again, this time taking the head into his lips. "That's really hot, Gabe," I said. "But I should be doing that to you." 'We're lovers," he said. "It can go both ways." I sighed. "Then blow me, Lancelot," I said. "Suck Guinevere's dick." And he did. * * * M&Ms. Skittles. Reece's pieces. There are a lot of candies that reflect the colors in my soul. Taffy. Lollipops. Gummy bears. Still, they reminded me of the clothing that we secretaries wore. We were eye- candy. We were professional. And we were fun. It was a Friday night, and I was out with Betty and Jake. We had come for Happy Hour, and we stuck around when the dancing started. Good old Betty? She shared. I danced a few numbers with Jake, and he was charming. He was a touchy-feely dancer, but that was fine with me. He had a great body, firm and muscular. There was a slow song, an old Clapton song, and I found myself dancing close to Jake. His shoulders felt like I was dancing with a Greek statue. He began to make small circles with his fingers on my lower back. "I'll give you an hour and a half to stop that," I whispered. He smiled. Then he kissed me, light and quick. I glanced toward Betty, because if felt like a betrayal. But he just laughed and spun me. Then Betty was dancing with me, her tummy against my back as we moved across the floor. Guys were drooling at Betty, and maybe a little at me. I was pretty sure Jake was alert, if you know what I mean. It was a great evening, if you want to know the truth. I knew Jake loved Betty, and vice versa, but they were so accepting of me that I truly felt like a woman. We spilled into their apartment after midnight. Jake leaned down and kissed Betty hard. I smiled at the scene. But then Betty had hold of my hand. She pulled me into their embrace, and she kissed me on the lips. I pulled away, but then Jake was kissing me. "Ever been someone's unicorn?" Betty said. "Excuse me?" "The third member of a three-way. Why don't you stay with us?" Jake's hands were on my breasts. Mine were on Betty's. There were lips and smells and touches and caresses and downright fondling. I had never been in a three-way before. But I found myself naked, and I leaned down to kiss Betty's vagina. At the same time, I could feel Jake poking at my rectum. I whimpered. It was erotic, and it was sweet, and it was wet. I sucked Jake's dick. Betty sucked what bit of a dick I had. I licked Betty. Halfway through the night, Betty got up and went to her bedside table. She pulled out a long strap-on dildo. I smiled and lay back...just as she penetrated Jake with it. He moaned and pushed back against her. I kissed him and rubbed his arms. They were good arms. And, yes, I loved his cock. It wasn't of porn-star size, but it was impressive enough, long and slightly curved to the left. I nibbled at it, and I kissed it a hundred times. I took the bulb in my mouth and bobbed my head. He felt wonderful in my mouth, and when he came, it was a white-water river. Afterward, I just lay there, with his softening dick in my lips, sucking gently like a baby at its mother's breast. We slept in a tangle, of this arm draping that leg and this head in this groin and that fist holding that cock. It was beautiful. Betty was beautiful. Jake was beautiful. Hell, I didn't look bad myself. Can you marry two people at the same time? And who would you ask first? * * Christmas lights. Full of joy and giving, happiness and charity. I still did this. I still woke in the mornings and looked through my closet and marveled at the colors, and at the hope they represented. It was a Tuesday when Paul asked me into his office. I brought a notepad and my tape recorder, in case he needed to give dictation. Instead, he looked as if a mountain had just fallen on him. Paul hadn't slept. His eyes were red, and his voice was raspy. He looked ashen. There were bags under his eyes. "I'm sorry, Annie," he said "But right now, I need a friend. No one's been my friend as long as you have." "Of course, Mr. Thomas," I said. "Screw that," he said. "I'm Paul." "Then what's up, Paul?" "It's Maureen," he said. "I think she's having...she's seeing someone." "Maureen?" I said. "Not Maureen." "Yeah, I'm afraid it's true. Three or four weeks ago, she hinted to me that she had found someone, and it stirred her like in the old days. She says she didn't want to hurt me, but it was something she needed." "Oh, my God. Paul, I'm so sorry." He laughed bitterly. "So I'm a cuckold bastard, it turns out," Paul said. "Do you believe that?" "Should I ask who?" I said. He looked at me through circles around his eyes. He seemed in pain. "She ... she wouldn't say," he said. "She just said -- get this -- that she had met someone. A woman." "Fuck," I blurted out. "Really? Maureen is having an affair with a woman?" He shrugged. "She likes her," he said. "She calls it her late-life attraction. She says that she really likes wearing that strap on." "Do you know who it is?" "This is going to sound crazy. But I think it's Melissa. Someone left a yellow scarf here the other day. I think Melissa has a yellow scarf." "Do you think she wanted you to find it?" "Maybe," he said. "She hasn't been shy about talking about it." I nodded. "We're all different, Paul," I said. "Yeah? Did she ever talk about making you watch her while she and her girlfriend did it? Did she ever talk about making you wear a dress while you watched?" I laughed. "Paul, I was in the dress to begin with. Remember?"" He looked at me. "They call it a sissy cuckold," he said. "It works even when your wife is fucking a woman. It's just a way of exerting her will over me and getting off at the same time. Did I tell you her lover works here? She's fucking one of my employees. I pay the bitch, and the bitch fucks my wife." "She loves you, Paul. You know that." He shook his head. "That's hard to believe when you think of her as a homosexual." I smiled. "Well, I love it," I said. "Fag," he said, and grinned. "Guilty," I said. "What do I do, Annie?" "What's in your heart, Paul? There are hundreds of men who love the cuckold lifestyle. They love seeing someone else make their wife happy. They like the shared intimacy. It's exciting to them. There are hundreds of men who'd love to see their wives with another woman. It's erotic. There are hundreds of men -- including me -- who like wearing women's clothing. They're soft and wonderful. I'd just say this: Don't let what someone else might say influence you. Hell, I'd still be selling paper if not for your support." "I always liked you, Annie." "I've liked you too, Paul. Now go home to your wife. Hold her hand and talk to her. Talk about your needs, and hers. Talk about why she wants to feminize you. Talk about Melissa. Talk about a changing world where a guy can grow up to be a secretary." I smiled. I thought "and where she can fall in love with the cutest couple in Cincinnati." Paul stood. We exchanged that clumsy embrace that friends share. He walked away, into the night. He was a good man. But Maureen was a good woman. This would work out. Didn't everything? Eventually, they would be all right. * * Stained glass. Have you ever seen hand-crafted stained glass? The colors are so vivid. The yellows are like sunlight. The blues are like the sky. You can have masterpieces of art pieced together from that glass. It is vivid, and it is imaginative. In the hands of its creator, it is artistry. It was three nights later, and Paul sat at his kitchen table. His shoulders sagged as he listened to his wife tell him how good life was going to be in a three-way relationship. There would be more love, more communication, more sex. Paul looked at her with wounded eyes. He tried to believe her, but his wedding vows said otherwise. "Let's don't do this, Maureen," he whimpered. "I don't want you to fuck someone else." "Well, it's too late for that, Paulie," she said. "You can't lock the barn after the horse runs off. But I do promise that this will be good for you. We'll try different kinds of sex. We'll play different kinds of games. How many men want to see two women together? All of them, I bet. It's what keeps the porn industry in business." Maureen put her hand on Paul's shoulder. "Baby, this is right. Just trust me, okay. You're going to have two women who love you. Two women who love each other. It's going to work. You'll see." Paul's lips were tight. He gave her a quick nod. "Now, are you ready to meet. your unicorn?" "Do I have any choice." Maureen giggled. "Sure you do. We can go to sleazy hotels and you won't know anything.You'll just sit here alone with your imagination while I have fun. Is that what you want?" "No, Maureen. I guess I should know what you're doing." "Then let's say hi, Paul. Are you ready?" He sighed. "Okay," he said. Maureen opened the kitchen door. And I walked out. She kissed me on the lips. She looked at Paul and smiled. Clearly, she was in charge. "Hi, Paul," I said. "Are we okay?" He didn't answer at first. He stared at the window. "I thought it might be you," he said. A tear rolled down his cheek. Birds. They fly, you know. They are parrots and Mynahs and macaws and lorikeets. They are cardinals and bluebirds and flamingoes and Birds of Paradise. They are peacocks and fairy wrens and robins and finches. Like me, they soar. Every day, they get closer to their nests. Every day, they sing their songs. (c) 2019 by Cassandra Morgan