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Black Like Vee By Cassandra Morgan My father had death eyes. Hard eyes. Cold eyes. I was certain if he concentrated hard enough, he could shoot laser beams out of them, and I would vaporize with a puff of smoke. Dolphin eyes, we called them, because they were undefeatable. He could silence you with one glare, and leave you stammering with another. Medusa had eyes like those, eyes that would turn his business rivals to stone, that would end any conversation, that would make you nod and agree with whatever he was saying. Cyclops, in the comic books, had eyes like his, eyes that shot deadly beams from their skulls. And now, I was in his home office, and he was shooting me with those death eyes. "Let me get this straight," he said, looking up from his notebook pad. "You want Jada's old job? Does that sum it up? I twisted in my chair. "Y...Yes, sir," I stammered. "I think I could do a good job." "Vic," he said calmly. "Jada is the fucking maid. She scrubs toilets for a living." I looked at the floor. "I...I know, sir. If you remember, I spent all last summer working with her. I was...I was good at it, I think. So when Jada announced she was going back to the Dominican, I thought I should apply for the vacancy." Again, I felt the heat from his glower. "So you don't want to work in the firm in a nice office, huh? You want to do laundry and mince around the kitchen in those little dresses. Jesus. What kind of queen are you?" 'Dad, I said. You need a good maid as often as you have parties. I could keep this place clean. I'd care." "...While wearing a dress." "While wearing a uniform," I said. "Same as Jada." He looked. He frowned. There was an anger in his eyes, a slice of something hard. "What do you think, Amy?" I looked at my mother. She shrugged and sipped some of the amber liquid in her glass. "Good help is hard to find, Henry," she said. "If Vic can do a job, let him. Family always works harder than an outsider." "I have business partners who come to the house," he said. "I don't want them to see that my son is a Tinker Bell. This isn't the fucking Pride Parade." "Oh, Henry," my mother said. "No one pays attention to the domestics these days. They're barely human. I say you let Vic get this out of his system. It'll teach him a lesson about hard work and responsibility that he wouldn't get in your office." "What kind of sacrifices are you willing to make to get this job?" my father turned to me and asked. "Anything," I said. "I want the job." "You want to wear high heels?" he snarled. "You want to paint your lips and have men paw at your ass." "No, sir," I said. "I mean, yes, I'd enjoy working as a girl. I admit that. But this is a good job, and it has benefits. You know I like to clean." "Yeah, where do you get that shit from? Your mother wouldn't put out a fire on the stove if it was burning." "Henry. Stop it!" He laughed. He looked at me, analytically this time. "You do have a girl's face," he finally said. "Big lips. I could see you bringing me a drink at the end of the day." "Whatever you want, father," I said. "I'd be just like Jada. You'll see." "Jada was a black Hispanic woman who worked hard and kept her mouth shut. You could be like her? And what I say goes? You'll know your place?" "Absolutely," I said. "Well, we'll see," he said, waving me away as if he was too busy for me to waste his time. He returned to the stack of paper on his desk. My interview was complete. * * The next morning, my mother entered my room. She opened the blinds to let the sunlight in. I covered my head. "Come on, Vic," she said. "You have to get up now." I moaned. "Look, you can't sleep like this. Not if you think you're going to be our maid." I sat up. "Did Dad say anything?" "We talked some last night," Mom said. She was drinking from a Mimosa. "He isn't convinced you should want this job. He can't wrap his head around having a son who wants to be a maid. Your father isn't exactly down with the rainbow." "And you?" She sighed. "You've never been much of boy, have you, Vic? The dolls. The dresses. The boyfriends. I've cried because you were such a sissy. In my eyes, you've always been more of a girl than a boy. So I don't mind if you take a job as a maid for a while. It's what sissies do. You'll learn your place." "Mom, I don't like the word 'Sissy.' " "Jesus, Vic. Who gives a shit what you like? You want to wear a dress, but you don't want anyone to call you a sissy? Well, you are a sissy. Get used to it." I looked at her and shook my head. This was the parent who was on my side? My mother had a streak of mean in her. She carried the air of privilege, and she barely tolerated the help. Still, she had a point. You can't wear panties and a bra and be offended if someone calls you a sissy. Besides, what was the damage if someone did call me that? It was a nice word, like air leaking out of a balloon. I stood. Put on jeans and a t-shirt. I affixed my earrings in my ears. I pulled my longish hair into a high ponytail. I looked into the mirror. Was there anything girlish there?" Well, yes. Yes, there was. * * On Wednesday, my father, the guy with the laser eyes, pulled me into his office. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Tell me again why you want this job," he asked. "I just think I'd be good at it," I said. "I like to clean. I like the uniforms. I like to wait on you and Mom." He shook his head. "It's my fault you're gay. I never threw a baseball with you." "Dad. It's no one's fault ... " "Vic, you took a boy to your senior prom. You wore a corsage. You wore lipstick." "That was a hoot, Dad," I said. "A lot of us wore dresses to the prom as a goof." "As I recall, you practiced for two weeks. And you kissed your date on the mouth." "I was...experimenting," I said. He shook his head. Clearly, he did not approve of me. He would have preferred his son be a linebacker or a hunter who killed Bambi or a thug who got into fights at the pool hall. A grease-monkey, maybe. Now his son wanted to work as a maid and wear dresses. I understood the gender wars were hard on him. "I'm going to give you this job, Vic. It's against my better judgment, but your mom thinks it will be good for you. We'll have to make some adjustments, but we'll make it work. The other day, you said you'd do anything I wanted. Right?" I nodded. "You won't regret this," I said. And I thought "adjustments? He must mean the schedule. The chores. Maybe the dresses. I stood. I left. I wanted to jump into the air and cheer. I was going to be a girl. What could go wrong? * * Five days later, someone finally turned the lights on. I was lying in a narrow bed, and I hurt all over. My face. My chest. Everything. "Was there...was there an accident?" I said. "No, baby," my mother's voice came from one of the blurred shapes in the room. I could smell rubbing alcohol. I glanced at her glass. I could smell the other kind, too. It felt like a hospital room with the machines and the antiseptic. "Why am I here?" I rasped. "You're healing," she said. "Just let the medicine work. You'll feel better." "What happened to me? Was I in a car wreck?" "No, sweetie," Mom said. "These are those adjustments you talked to your dad about. We had the doctor do them." "Doctor?" "Yes, sugar. The surgeon did some work on you. You remember. You agreed to it." Oh, no. "What exactly did I agree to?" "Well, honey. Let's see: They did a little female facial reconstruction," my mother explained. "They shot some collagen into your lips. They did some work around your eyes. They plumped up your breasts. Oh, and they dyed your skin." "They ... what?" "Sweetie, they dyed your skin. To make it darker . To make it black. That way, none of your father's businessmen will see you and think you're his son. You'll just be the maid from the Islands. Vivian. Or Vee, we've decided." I touched my groin. "Silly girl," my mother said. "That little thing is still there. We talked about reshaping it into a vagina, but we decided that could wait. Maybe by Christmas. We'll see." "Mirror," I croaked. She shrugged. "I guess you can see. It's your body." She handed me a small mirror. I looked, and a very young, very black woman looked back at me. The skin was the color of chocolate, and her face was framed with a modest Afro. Even the shape of the eyes had been slightly altered to an almond look. I blinked my eyes, and the girl in the mirror blinked. I ran my tongue over my pronounced lips, and I saw her lick her lips. I looked at my hand, and it was dark. I touched my arm, and it was dark. Oh my God. I was black. Totally black. All over black. "You remember that book from the late 50s?" my mother said. "Black Like Me, I think it was called. Well, for the next year and a half or so, you're black like Vee. That book gave your father the idea. He talked with the chemists from his company, and they are up with a new version of melanin. Trust me, no one is going to link what you were to a black maid. Just remember, dear. They don't call you people 'Negroes' anymore." She smiled. I was stunned. I ran my dark hand over my dark face. I wasn't light-skinned like Halle Berry. I was black like Serena Williams. What did I know about being black in this generation? Or a woman, for that matter. I had lived a life of comfort. Sure, I had black friends, but we didn't talk about rap or sports or the works of Alice Walker. The racial divide of our country was still pronounced. We had our culture; black people had theirs. Now, I was one of them. A stranger in a strange land. An Othello in a world of Hamlets. A Cam Newton in the world of Tom Bradys. An Aretha Franklin in a world of Frank Sinatras. Later, after my mother had gone home, I was alone in my hospital room. I cried. I went into the restroom. Quietly, I disrobed. I stood there, looking at my blackness. My breasts were small but perky. The nipples were darker than the rest of the breasts. I ran my hand over my stomach. I turned and looked at my butt in profile. I turned my face and looked out the corner of my eye. I looked at my legs. I was pretty, I decided. I was trans, of course, and my penis was small. But the rest of me was cute. Was that somehow worse? So many slurs bounced through my head! The n-word, obviously. I couldn't even say it. I was a jungle bunny. A porch monkey. A mammy. There were so many insults, because there was so much hatred. I thought of my father, and how all this would make him laugh. The bastard. He had fixed me. * * I was Vee. I had papers from the Dominican, saying I was a 24-year-old domestic, here on a work visa to clean. But my cover story was that I had grown up as an illegal immigrant in Miami, which explained my American accent. My father got me a new driver's license. He got me a run-down apartment in a building he owned (yes, he charged me rent). He bought me six maid's dresses so I would have one per shift, plus an extra one as a spare. My hours were 7-6, five days a week, but Mother -- Mrs. Thomas, to me -- had the right to alter my schedule for special events. My neighbors were all black. The shopkeepers in my part of town were all black. The men who jammed into the nightclubs were all black. It was as if I had been dropped into a different world, a world where policemen couldn't be trusted and the rules were for the white people. Which didn't include me. As I moved around the grocery stores of my neighborhood, talking casually to my new neighbors, I found that I had some catching up to do. Someone asked me about the new Tyler Perry movie. I hadn't seen it. Someone else asked me about Drake's newest CD. I hadn't heard it. They asked me if I had seen Queen Sugar on TV. I hadn't. I walked home. An older guy who sat on the bench waiting for a bus said something to me. I tried to ignore him. I had been born a rich white male. Now I was a poor black female. And I was struggling to bridge the gap. There was a small beauty salon on the corner, Ruby's. I took to stopping in to get my hair done. It was a friendly place, where the women would gather and talk about the men. The women all talked loudly, and they laughed boisterously. I seemed to be accepted -- I was black, after all -- as just another woman working just another job and struggling paycheck to paycheck. I paid to have my hair straightened. At the shop owner'S recommendation, I had a blonde streak put in it. I liked it. Every morning I took the bus to a stop two blocks from my father's house. I would walk those last two blocks as police cars slowed to make sure I wasn't stealing the damn silverware. If I went into a white store, the workers would watch me to make sure I wasn't shoplifting. Daily indignities. The best time of the day was when I was working. I didn't have to worry about slipping up and exposing myself as a white person, or as a man. I was simply the cleaning lady, the help in the Grau uniform. No one asked my opinion. No one wanted my advice. I just cleaned the toilets. Each day, I would start with the bed, stripping it and putting on fresh linens. Then I would load the washer. Once that was going, I could do the breakfast dishes. I would scrub the bathrooms after that. I would make lunch for Mrs. Thomas, and if he was home, Mr. Thomas. I would shop for groceries in the afternoons, then fold and hang the laundry from that morning. There was a rhythm to the job, a way of staying organized. "Vee, I can't tell you how happy we are with your work," Mrs. Thomas said to me one morning. "You people sure do work hard." You people? I was her fucking child. Now I'm one of "you people." But that was the way it was. Every day, I got a little blacker. Every day, I became less a part of their family. I didn't sleep with them. I didn't eat with them. I rarely talked to them. What was worse? My face? My gender? My job? I had maneuvered myself onto one of society's lowest rungs. One morning, Mrs. Thomas -- she insisted I call her that -- was talking to me about a stain in her white blouse. She looked at me and sipped from her morning drink. "Vee, what do you think of Chaz?" she said Chaz was their chauffeur. I was certain that Mrs. Thomas, whose racial attitudes were out of the 1930s, had brought him up only because he, too, was black. "He a fine looking man," I said, breaking my English up intentionally. Mrs. Thomas didn't seem to notice. "Yes, he is. A working girl like you could do worse than Chaz," she said. "You right," I said. "Some of dem men, they beat they women." Again, she didn't notice my ad-lib ebonics. I was laughing my ass off inside, and she was deaf to my dialect. Hell, I had been to a fine prep school in Worthingham. I could speak. But my mother prattled on. "Mizzus Thomas," I said. "Watchu think about Dolph, the gardner?" Dolph was white. He had large muscles and long blond hair. "Oh, I wouldn't bother with Dolph if I was you," she said. "You should stick to your own kind." My own kind? What? White boys who have turned into black women who clean up after parents who are ashamed of them? That kind? * * As it turned out, my next love interest wasn't Chaz or Dolph. My next suitor was Warren Martin. He was a business partner of my father. He was older than dirt. And white. He was at my father's house on a Wednesday afternoon, and my father send out for fruit punch. I delivered it, and Mr. Martin's eyes never left my legs. As I moved around the room, dusting, I could hear the two of them talking. "Damn, Henry," he said. "She's fine. She looks like one of those Supremes. You know I like the black girls. Where you been keeping your maid?" "Oh, we've employed her for a few months now. Vee is her name. I think she's dating our chauffeur. " "Well, I think she has great eyes. Is she hirable? Can I steal her?" "I think my wife is very attached to her," my father said. "But if you want some dark meat, go ahead. Take a shot." I inhaled. That bastard. A few minutes later, I was wiping down the countertops in the kitchen. Mr. Martin slipped behind me and put his hands on my hips. "I like black girls," he whispered to me. "You folks have the best asses." Huh? As far as I knew, nothing had been done to my rear. It was as flat as ever. He spun me. Then he was kissing me, and pushing his tongue into my mouth. He put his hand on my right breast. I struggled against him. "Mister Martin, please," I said. "You don't have to say please," he said, continuing to kiss me. His mustache tickled. "Please stop," I said, pushing him back. I straightened my blouse. He laughed. "Vee, you are so damned cute. You got a little white in you?" What? Could he tell. "No, sir," I said. "You want one?" he leered. "Mister Martin, you're a married man," I said. "Oh, everything still works," he said. "Don't worry about that." "Mister Martin," I said. "I'm not that kind of girl." "Ain't but one kind of girl," he said. "Tell you what. Give me a blow job, and we'll call it a start." Now, I had given a few blowjobs, I admit it. But I didn't want an antique organ. I didn't want Warren Martin, either. * * "You what?" Mrs. Thomas was angry. I stood in front of her, my eyes on the floor, as she vented. "You wouldn't even give one of Mr. Thomas's business partners a blow job? Are you such a high-falootin' maid that you can turn white men down?' I stared at her. "Mother..." I said. Her eyes flashed. "Don't you dare call me mother," she screamed. "Not ever. You wanted to be a colored girl from the Dominican. You wished for it. Well, now you have it. You're no child of mine." Tears welled in my eyes. I had never asked for this. "Moth...Mrs. Martin. That man wanted to rape me. He wanted to put his dick inside of me." "So? You've had dicks inside of you before. As I remember, you liked it, sissy boy." "Yeah, but not someone old enough to be my grandfather." I glanced down. My mother had a drink in her hand. Somehow, it seemed she always had a drink in her hand. "Mr. Martin is a fine man," she said. "You'd be lucky to have sex with him. He might even give you a job. God knows, I ought to fire you. Is that what you want? You want an unemployment check, you lazy ass." Fire me? I hadn't considered that. Being unemployed would complete the circle, wouldn't it? "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. "Damn, I ought to spank you. Or beat you with a tree limb. You deserve it." "Yes, ma'am." "Let me tell you one thing, Vee," she said. "There are going to be some changes around here. I will not have an uppity maid." I bit my tongue. I looked at the floor. She stared at me, waiting for me to say anything. When I didn't, she spun and left. I didn't know it until later, but my mother had Chaz take her to a sex shop -- Flesh and Fantasies -- near the airport. She told him what she wanted, and he left. As she instructed, he bought a chastity belt, a butt plug and a penis gag. He would have bought leg shackles, but they didn't have any in stock he liked. She had him drive her home. She presented me with her presents. The cage, because obviously I was out of control, she said. This would tame me. The plug, because black women always wanted sex, she said, and this would satisfy me while I worked. And the gag, because I talked too damn much. I looked at her. There was no feeling at all in her eyes. She looked at me, and I could feel her disdain. All she seemed to see was my color. There wasn't a magic pill I could take and return to normal. I lived in a roach-infested apartment one level above a crack house. I cleaned bathrooms. I bought my clothes at a used-clothing shop. This was my life, and I was trapped inside of it. I had no place to go. I had no one to be. * * * I had begun to hang out of Smokey's, a bar down the street from my apartment, across from the out-of-business gas station. The music was good -- some jazz, some old Motown -- and they served a good cheeseburger. I wore a red dress. My hair was in dreads. I had silver-dangling earrings and a silver bracelet. I was fine. Jewel, who worked in Ruby's salon, sat down with me one night. Keisha, her best friend, And like every time three women get together, we talked about men. We talked about handsome black men, Denzel and Wesley and the Rock. We talked about white men, Brad Pitt and Mark Wahlberg and Ben Affleck. We decided that the black men were worth marrying, and the white men were worth taking to bed. We talked about hard men who had done time, and gentle men who treated women well. Funny men. Driven men. Available men. There had been a news story the previous day about employers who discriminated against people, refusing to hire them if their hairstyles were "too black." California was introducing legislation to protect black women. We talked about that for a while. We talked about how the U.S. had more than five times the black people of any other country, and still, the laws were slanted the wrong way. We talked about how 23 percent of young black women identified as bisexual. As she talked about that, Keisha took Jewel's hand. They both laughed. Then we talked about relationships. "Would you seriously date a white guy," Keisha asked. "Take him home to momma and everything?" "I have," I said. Of course, I was a white guy at the time. "Not me," Jewel said. "I don't like getting stared at. A white guy doesn't have anything I need." "Well, he'd have to be sweet," Keisha said. "All ties would go to staying with black men. But there aren't that enough college graduated black men. The system beats them down." "Still," Jewel said. "I like black men." I smiled. I did, too. We talked late into the evening, drinking daiquiris and laughing too loud. About 10, a man named DeSean stopped by to talk to Keisha. After a while, he sat down next to me, and he turned on the charm. I could feel his presence in my soul. DeSean was a journalist for the Tribune. He was funny and smart and had a great smile. I liked him. He covered my hand with his, supposedly to look at my fingernail polish. But he left the hand there, and I decided it felt good. His hand was rougher than mine, darker than mine. It looked right. We danced a couple of times. I still moved kind of stiffly compared to Keisha and Jewel, but no one seemed to notice. DeSean's breath was on my neck, and it felt nice. But I had to work the next morning, so I reluctantly called it a night. Still, he leaned over and cupped my chin. He kissed me, and damn, it was nice. I could have made a meal out of that tongue. Could I marry a black person? Would DeSean be angry when he found out I was trans? How long would I have to be black before I wasn't white anymore? Truthfully, I was growing more and more comfortable with my new race. Mrs. Thomas rarely spoke to me these days -- I was just another domestic to her. So I kept my eyes to the floor, and I went about my chores. I took no satisfaction from them. They wanted just a maid; fine, that's what I'd be to them. One day, when I was mopping the kitchen, Mr. Martin came into the room. He stared at me as I went about my work. "See?" he said. "Vee, can I talk to you a minute?" I stopped. "Yes, sir?" "Vee, I owe you an apology. I was drinking during our last encounter. I got carried away." "Yes, sir. I've forgotten about it. Don't let it bother you." "I mean, I do you find you attractive. And I'd like to hire you. But we don't have to have sex. Not yet, anyway." "I'll be sure to keep my distance," I said. "My wife will like you," he said. "I've talked to Mr. Thomas about using you two days a week. Tuesday and Thursday mornings. That way, you can still work here later in the day. Does that sound okay?" "Yes, sir," I said, nothing thinking it was okay at all. He moved closer to me. "We'll get along just great, Vee," he said. "My wife understands my needs. Just think of me as Thomas Jefferson." I shuddered. I was a target again. * * Mrs. Thomas told me I was serving at one of her dinner parties on Saturday night. I was apprehensive, but I nodded. I wore my pink maid's uniform and a small hat. I waited as all of my father's friends gathered. I knew most of them, but none of them seemed to seemed to recognize me. I was just the maid. Until someone needed more iced-tea, or more dinner rolls, I was ignored. Not even Mr. Martin had anything to say to me. My mother was drinking again, and my father was trying to ignore her. She was flirting with Jim Carver, another of her husband's co-workers. She kept touching his arm and laughing at jokes that weren't funny. I was embarrassed for her, but by now, I knew my place. I didn't say a word. She walked up to me. "Vee? Vee, Jim is going to stay over. Could you prepare the master bedroom for us." I bit my lip. "Yes, ma'am," I said. "Should I get Mr. Thomas' pajamas ready?" "Mr. Thomas? Mr. Thomas will be sleeping in the spare room, if you must know. Mr. Carver and I will be in the master. Is that a problem, Vee?" "No, ma'am. I'm just the maid." "You got that right, Vee," she snarled. "I get my dick where I want, and you get yours where you want. You're the one with the Jungle Fever." "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. "I was just asking." "Well, my maid doesn't ask. She just does. Come to think, Vee, I think you should join us. Maybe you can get Jim ready for me. Those big lips of yours have to be good for something." "Mistress, I would prefer not to." "Do you think I give a shit what my servant prefers? Do you think I ask Chaz if I want to buy a new car? Do you think I ask Dolph if I want to plant a rose bush? Your the hired help. Nothing more." "But, ma'am. It's late. I need to call a cab to get home." She waved my words aside. "Chaz can take you home, Vee. But your fluff skills are needed. I need a dick-kisser. Now get your black ass upstairs now." I trudged upstairs. She was whoring me out now? What was the checklist? Black. Sissy. Domestic. Unloved. Poor. Whore. How much more to complete the set. Upon reaching her bedroom, I pulled the comforter back at the corner. I pulled out a black nightgown and slippers for Mrs. Thomas. I pulled out a foot pillow and knelt upon it, waiting. I would not cry, dammit. I would not. "Ah, Vee," Mr. Carver said, entering the room. "This is a very nice moment for us all, Vee. You know, in the old South, black maids used to service their masters all the time. Would you take off my shoes, Vee? Now unbuckle my belt. There Hercules is. I suppose you've seen a lot of blacks that are bigger, but I like it." "It's very nice, sir," I said. "Well, don't just stand there. Give it a kiss. Damn, it makes me feel superior when a black whore kisses my dick. What do you think, Amy? Were those lips made to suck dick?" Mrs. Thomas -- my mother -- smirked. "Yes. She certainly has blow-job skills, Jim. She's better than Jada used to be, isn't she?" I froze. If Jada used to do this for Mr. Carver, then my mother had lived this lifestyle for a long time. Which meant she knew what I was volunteering for. I leaned forward and licked the sides of his dick. I enveloped it with my mouth and bobbed up a couple of times. I sucked it deep into my mouth then. It was the first time I had performed oral sex as a black woman, and it felt different. More submissive, if you want to know the truth. The teenage sex I'd had had been all my idea. This wasn't. He was bucking now, and moaning. Finally, Mrs. Thomas pulled my head off of him and replaced it with her own. She gripped his penis and began to pump with her hand. He mounted her, and they thrust at each other like desperate animals. I watched my mother have sex with a man who wasn't her husband, and it didn't seem to bother her. I was just another maid, doing just another chore. When she came, and he with her, she rolled over. She had me clean Mr. Carver, but not her. At some level, even bigots didn't want incest. She did, however, want a Scotch. He wanted a beer. I scurried downstairs to get their drinks. "You can go now, girl," Mrs. Thomas said as she sipped her drink. "Not a word to anyone, okay?" "No, ma'am," I said. "Chaz is waiting. He'll drive you home because it's late. Wipe your chin, Vee. I think you've got sperm on it." "Yes, ma'am," I said, rubbing my face. * * During my months as an employee, I had been driven home exactly twice. One was the first day I moved into the apartment. The second was Christmas. This was the third. All three times, I sat in the back seat, signifying my place. "You doing okay, baby?" Chaz asked. "I'm fine," I said, staring out the window. "Them white folks get it on?" he asked. That's right. Chaz didn't know I was her son. "I guess," I said. "It's what people do." "These white folks are crazy," he said. "They are," I said. "You happy here?" "The work is hard, but I like it," I said. "I guess I'm happy enough." "The neighborhood is pretty white, though," he said. "That's what white folks pay for," I said. "They want to be around other white folks. Makes them feel safe." He laughed. "Where did you grow up?" "Miami," I said, "but I'm from the DR." "Well, you're a pretty girl," he said. "Don't you have a girlfriend?" I asked. "Not anymore. But I was dating a girl all last month." "White girl?" I asked.. "White as mayonaise. White as The Beach Boys. You got no secrets?" "I didn't say that," I said. He looked back in the rear view. "Yeah? Tell me one." "One what?" "One secret. Tell me one." I grinned. "Your head would explode," I said. "Don't be like that, Vee." "I'm serious. You aren't ready for my secrets." "Bet I am." "You'd lose your bet." "Okay, just one. Did you fuck that old man that hangs around the mansion?" "I didn't." "Oh, okay. You fuck Mr. Thomas?" "Lord, no. And you said just one." "Come on." I looked at him. Fuck it, I thought. "I'm not really a girl, okay?" I said. "I'm trans." "Really? God, that is hot. You've got a dick?" "Yeah, you can see it from a certain angle." "Damn. Will you show me?" "Shit no," I said, laughing. "It's private. My privates are private." He laughed. "Damn. I never could have told. That gets me...excited." "I would have thought you be disgusted." "God no. I think it's amazing." "Want to know something else? I'm white." He stared at me. "Bullshit," he said. I shrugged. "And Mr. and Mrs. Thomas are my parents." "Fuck me," he said. "Are you lying to me?" "Don't tell anyone," I said. "Holy hell. My boss's white son is their black maid.. That's the damnedest thing I've ever heard. Are you gay?" I smiled. "A little bit," I said. He started laughing. "Are you from outer space, too?" I laughed. "Neptune," I said. He pulled into my apartment building. Fox Lakes, the sign said. Only there were no foxes and no lakes. It should be called Roaches in a Leaky Sink. He got out of the car as I did. "I can make it from here," I said. "Mrs. Thomas wouldn't like it if I left you unescorted," he said. "Mrs. Thomas wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire," I said. "Still, I'm going to walk with you." "Suit yourself," I said. We walked up the stairs to the third floor. He followed me into the apartment. "Can I get you some coffee," I asked. "Doesn't 'Can I get you coffee?' mean 'I want to fuck you' in white people speak?" he said, chuckling. "Then can I get you a beer?" He grinned. He came close to me. He put his hand on my arm. "What are you doing, Chaz?" "I'm getting close enough to do this," he said. He kissed me softly and touched my breast. "Those real?" he asked. I nodded. "No secrets," he said, kissing me harder. He took my hand and put it on his cock. I grasped his package and shifted it. "No secrets," I said. "Now take your clothes off." He had other girls. I was counterfeit. But there in the living room, we had sweet, romantic sex. I sucked him, and it was nice to get Carver's taste out of my mouth. He lifted my legs and entered me from the front. He was nice-sized, not stereotypical but nice. I found that he has a spot near his collarbone that's tender amid his muscles. He rolled over. "Will you kiss my ass?" he asked. I smiled. I did, rimming him with my tongue, probing him with my fingers. "I don't know if I can get hard enough to peg you," I said. But I did. All in all, it was a good night. Chaz asked me to see him again. I nodded. I kissed his dick, then his lips. Maybe I should have gone in opposite order. * * * It was a week later that Mrs. Thomas approached me as I was arranging the refrigerator. I had my head down, working on a lower shelf, so I didn't pay attention as she approached. "Girl," she said. "Do you have a minute? We have something we have to discuss." I stood. "Yes, ma'am." I said. "What can I do for you?" She poured herself a drink and looked at me. "Vee, I'm missing a gold necklace. Have you seen it?" "No, ma'am," I said. "I haven't." "Did you take it?" she asked. "Of course not. I wouldn't do that." She frowned. "Well, that's not what I want to talk to you about. I need you." "Ma'am?" "Okay, see if you can follow me. You know Warren Martin likes you, right? I mean, he likes you a lot." I scowled. "Yes, ma'am." "Well, I have a secret mission for you. You know, like spies have. You'd be 00-Maid.." "Ma'am?" "Well, Warren is trying a hostile takeover of our business. You know I can't allow that to happen. You're smart enough to figure that out, right?" "Yes, ma'am." "So we're going to play a trick on poor old Warren. It involves a bedroom and a shitload of cocaine. We're going to bring home some pictures -- you know, of you sucking his dick and him butt-fucking you while your dick dangles. Juicy stuff. Then we're going to threaten to show the pictures to his wife. That should give him pause." "Ma'am...Mr. Martin told me his wife didn't care." "Ah, but there is not caring, and there is having the world know you don't care. Betsy will care, all right, once the board gets wind of these pictures." I stood up. "Ma'am. That's not something I'd be interested in." She started at me. "You will, because we say you will, Vee. We own you. You're our property. Our slave. And we need you to do this for us. We'll give you a $200 bonus." "Ma'am, that's prostitution. I won't do that." "What? Are you a virgin or something?" "No, ma'am. I'm not. But I'm not a hooker, either." "Damn you, Vee. Do I have to beat you? Do I have to ship your ass back to Africa?" "You mean the Dominican?" I said. "I've never been there either." "Whereever. We'll ship your ass to Mississippi or the Congo. Look, it's one sex act," she said. "In and out." I looked at her. "Are you going to make me do this?" "I am," she said. "Don't worry. You'll like it. All of you people like to fuck." * * The next day, I met DeSean for lunch at Smokey's. We sat in a corner booth, and we had the barbecue, and we talked a lot about each other. And I told him my story. I kept the names of the principles out it, but I basically told him my story. I was male. I was white. I was gay. I was a maid. My mother was a bigot and an alcoholic. My father was a well-known businessman. I was a victim of human trafficking and prostitution. "You're a guy?" he said when I finished my story. "Yes," I said. "I'm sorry I fooled you." "You're white?" he said. "I used to be," I said. So we talked about my options, We talked about his trustworthiness. We talked about a way I could get out of the trouble I was in. He took me home. He kept looking at me, trying to see the person inside. Isn't that what we all try to do. In my apartment, he walked up me. He began to unbutton my dress. "What are ..." But he shushed me. He stripped me naked. He looked at me, with my breasts and my penis and my makeup. "You're beautiful," he said. "You're like one of those mythological hybrid animals. The Minotaur or a centaur or something. Can I touch you?" I silently nodded. I felt exposed. He touched my breast, then he cupped my penis. He kissed my neck. "Can we go to bed?" He asked. I took his hand and led him to my bed. We made love slowly. He took advantage of my female parts -- my mouth, my ass -- and my male ones -- my dick, my balls. We both came sweetly. I felt appreciated, accepted. I felt I was home. Later that day, I was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, when Mrs. Thomas came into the room. "Have you made a decision, girl?" she said. I looked at her. "Can't you call me Vee? I said. "Or even Victor?" She frowned. "You're our maid now. That's all you're ever going to be. We're going to re-up your skin dye at Christmas, and you're going to mop floors until the 12th of never. Now, are. you going to score Warren or not?" "I'm not," I said. "Fine. You're fucking fired. You can fucking leave. See if there is a job cleaning for another family. I'll make sure you end up on welfare forever." "That might happen," I said. "Or I can think of another possibility." She looked at me. "Go on," she said. "I have a friend who is a reporter," I said. "He'd love a nice story on a local businessman who injected skin dye into his son, who gave him breast implants, and who put him to work as a maid. He beat her, and he made her live in a tiny apartment, and he tried to force her on his business partner. There are a few SEC violations, and some crimes against humanity. He's ready to roll with the story. You think Daddy Dearest was scared of his friends discovering I was a maid? He'll love these headlines." She took a breath. "If you do this, our chemists won't give you a cure for the melanin." I grinned. "I don't want it," I said. "I'm a well-liked black woman now. I'm happy to stay that way." She looked at the floor. "So what do you want?" she said. "I want my inheritance," I said. "I want a house. I want the fuck away from you." "You fucking betrayed me." "Really? You wouldn't even call me by my name. You were all with this 'your people' shit and 'Sissy Boy' shit. You treated me like crap after the color of my skin changed. Jesus, Mom. I had strangers treat me better than you did." She flinched. "Yeah, I said it. Mom. It's the last time I'll ever say it. Because from now on, you'll be identified by a prison number." I turned. I walked away. DeSean was waiting for me. And, even though it was no loss at all, I felt her absence. A tear rolled down my cheek. As I walked, a single thought struck me. I was black. I was proud. (c) Copyright, Cassandra Morgan 2019