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Aptitude Test By Cassandra Morgan I'm pretty sure that all of the destruction caused by the Huns began with one thing. Junior homeroom. As usual, that morning it was chaos. Wads of paper filled the air, and the girls were chattering about sales and older boys, and the boys were talking about cars and football teams, and the noise sounded as if was coming from a nearby stadium. It was always like this. It was the last vestige of freedom for the students, after all, and Poor Mr. Moore had no real function other than taking attendance. And so we blew off a little steam. The senior boys lied about how much sex they were getting. The nerds talked about Star Trek or some such shit. The girls whispered among themselves, but every now and then, a couple of them would slip off to the restroom to smoke. You'll find a scene such as this one in most high schools across the country. Oh, some teachers try to be hardasses, but there is enough real trouble -- guns, drugs, sex -- to keep them at bay. The rest of us howl at the moon. On this particular morning -- a Wednesday, if I remember right -- Poor Mr. Moore finally raised his head. He was called Poor Mr. Moore because he was so overmatched by the class. He usually just sat at his desk with his head down, trying to endure the explosions. "Class," he began. "Class!" Pretty much, the room ignored him. The topic of conversation was a party to be holdFriday night at Pete Richards' house, and someone had bought liquor but had needed a place to store it. If it was left in Pete's trunk, the bottles might be broken, and we couldn't have that. So we'd each agreed to take a little. "CLASS!" Poor Mr. Moore yelled and dropped a heavy book to the floor. It sounded as if it had broken the sound barrier. We turned to him, eyes wide and mouths open in surprise that Poor Mr. Moore had command in him. We quieted, mostly out of curiosity, as he spoke. "Thank you," he said, his voice small again. "As you know, it's Aptitude Day. We took that barrage of tests recently, and the results are back. Today, you guys and girls get to figure out what job the shrinks say will best suit you in life. Now, this is serious stuff. Scientists have figured this out. So if the tests say you're a banker, well, you probably have a propensity to be a banker. It doesn't mean you have to be, but that's your natural slotting. Please take it seriously." A paper airplane then landed on Poor Mr. Moore's head, and the room erupted in laughter. No one took these tests seriously, did they? I mean, if a kid wanted to be a football coach, and the tests said he should join the Navy, well, he was probably going to be a coach. Right? Still, the consultation was a break from school, so we went along with it. "I'm going to be Professor Plum in the library with a wrench," Scott Dennis said. "I'm going to be Darth Vader," little Lenny Little said. "Only not as lightweight." Poor Mr. Moore ran his hands over his skull trying to rub away his growing headache. Only 21 more years, and he could retire. He was counting the days. * * Morris Denson was going to be a lawyer. Brenda Howard was going to be a dentist. Mary Edwards was going to be a commercial airline pilot. Slowly, as the day went on, we heard what job suggestions were being made by the Committee. The researchers had made us take tests, and do interviews, and answer questions. It was supposed to be scientific. Me? I figured they had one bowl with the students' names, and another one with career choices, and some schmuck would reach in and grab two slips of paper. Steve Haslem was going to be a teacher. Paula Browning was going to be stockbroker. Leon Jennings was going to be a carpenter. Sure, it was silly. What fortune cookie was the Committee using? Maybe they put a Magic 8-Ball on top of a Ouija Board and put it next to a fortune telling machine. Still, the subject had the students' attention for the moment. Jimmy Everest was gong to be a politician. Susan Billings was going to a judge. Mona Beth Taylor was going to be an architect. Larry Williams was going to be a poet. Sammy Miller was going to open a bakery. Julie Himes was going to run a software firm. And on it went. Finally, they called my name -- Barry McNeal. I walked in and sat, looking at the three members of the Committee -- Old Fart and Fat Ass and Lesbo Chick, I mentally nicknamed them -- as they prepared to announce my fate. I thought about it. Most of the students had gotten high-ranking jobs. I guessed I would be a doctor, like my father, or a nurse, like my mother. Maybe an astronaut. Maybe a general. I leaned back in the char as Old Fart started to talk, about how precise the tests were, about all the research that had gone into them. Lesbo Chick picked up an envelope with "Barry McNeal" written on it. She used a small letter opener to unseal it. She cleared her throat as she glanced down at the paper. "Maid," she said. Maid? Me? She had to be kidding, right? This was a schtick they went through for every student, wan't it? A joke to get a laugh, right? "Maid?" I said. Fat Ass shrugged. "It's a noble profession," he said. "A lot of women get their starts as maids." "Yeah, women," I said. "I'm not a woman. Do they mean a male maid?" "No, it says here a sissy maid. It has uniform requirements. A dress and heels. Women's underwear, Barry -- the tests certainly aren't sexist," Lesbo Chuck said. "They don't discriminate." "But why not a senator? Why not CEO? Why not a doctor? My Dad's a doctor." "It's what the test says," Old Fart said. "The tests don't lie." "This is nuts," I said. "Why not a cabbie? Why not a dockworker? Why not an electrician?" "It says 'maid,' " Fat Ass said. "I assume those other jobs were considered. It thinks you should be a maid." "Does it say 'made?' Like a made man for the Mafia?" "It says maid," Lesbo Chick said. "You know. Scrubs the toilets. Wears a pretty dress. That kind of maid." "Well, I won't do it." "Obviously, that's your choice," Old Fart said. "A lot of people go their own way despite the tests." "Of course, they usually end up robbing liquor stores," Fat Ass said. "Or shooting marijuana." I sighed. "You don't shoot marijuana. See, I could be a pharmacist. I know about drugs." "I'm sure you know about a lot of things," Lesbo Chick said. "Maids are very knowledgeable." "Of course, that's usually about cleaning supplies," Fat Ass said. "I hear 'Mr. Clean' is nice," Old Fart said. "And 'Lemon Pledge'." "Jesus!" I said. "Jesus!" "Jesus wasn't a maid," Lesbo Chick said. "But his dad was a carpenter. He didn't go into the family business. He was very good with loaves and fishes. Maybe he should have opened a restaurant." "He could have served wine," Fat Ass said. "And nachos," said Old Fart. "Nachos?" Lesbo Chick asked. "Doesn't the Bible say something about nachos?" Old Fart said. "Yeah. The Wise Men asked for nachos three times. The nachos were so popular, there wasn't room at the Inn." I stood. I felt dizzy. I walked out into the Hall. It was a typical high school hall. There were a couple of books lying on the floor. A stray tennis shoe. A notebook with several pages torn out. I shook my head. Should I clean it? * * "I'm a farmer," Eddie Temple said at lunch. "I'm a math teacher," said Annie Steward. "I have my own delicatessen," said Robbie Nichols. "How about you, Barry?" Eddie said. "I don't believe in this shit," I said. "I don't even want to talk about it." "Oh, come on," Brittany Manning said. "What did it say?" I looked at the floor. "Maid," I said, my voice low. "What?" Brittany said "I didn't hear you." "It said I'm supposed to be a maid." Brittany spewed her drink across the table. "A maid?" I nodded. "A fucking maid. Like a sweep-the-floor maid? Like a wash-the-dishes maid?" "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard," Eddie said. "Barry's a maid. 'Clean the toilet, maid. Do it now, and don't steal the silverware.' " "It's not funny," I said. "It's embarrassing." "Maybe I can hire you," Robbie said. "We'll need a girl to clean up the deli." "It's just a stupid test." "By scientists!" Brittany said. "It's got research and facts and stuff." "It's by the same people who decided that two and two equals four," Annie said. "It's based on facts." "Barry?" Eddie said. "Will you have to wear one of those uniforms?" "Why wouldn't he?" Brittany said. "It's what a maid wears." "I should have been a banker," I said. "Well, you have one thing in common with a banker." Eddie said. "You'll both clean up." * * School couldn't end too quickly for me. The word of my job designation had spread throughout the school, and everyone thought it was a hoot. Jimbo Flanders thought I should iron his shirt. Betty Gamble thought I should clean the room where my English class met. Cindy Borens asked my Spanish teacher what was the Spanish word for "Sissy Maid." My God, this was awful. I rushed home and closed the door. I felt like crying. I could have been a sports agent. I could have been an actor. I could have sung for a rock band. Instead, I was a maid? Me? My parents, Richard and Amanda, were both home. They had aligned their work schedules at the hospital, and this week they were home evenings. I walked in the door and threw my backpack on the couch. "Hi, Mom," I said. "Anything cool at school today?" My mother asked. "Did you get into Harvard? Yale?" "No, Mom." "So what's new, champ?" my father asked. "Did you invent a cure for dandruff?" "Ha," I said. "No, Dad. Nothing like that." "Well, something had to have happened," my mother said. "I can see it on your face." "Well, it kind of did. You remember those aptitude tests we took a few weeks ago? They came back." "Yeah? What did they say? Are you a pro quarterback? A male model? A space pirate?" "No," I said. "This test is bogus, Dad. It said I'm .... I'm a maid." "A maid?" My mother asked. "Yeah," I said, expecting her to rush to my defense. She was, after all, my mother. "So does this mean you finally clean your room?" she said, giggling. "Mom!" I said. "The hell with just his room," my father said. "How about the whole damn kitchen?" "You know, this works out perfectly for me," my mother added. "We're having the Connors over for dinner Saturday night. Barry can help with that. He can serve." "That'll be good. Do you think he could cook?" "Maybe." I looked at the two of them as if they had been dropped onto Earth from Planet Nixai-4. Their entire conversation was foreign to me. "Mom, I'm not a maid," I said. "They made a mistake." "Barry, as I understand it, that test doesn't make mistakes. It has the newest digital technology uploaded by psychiatrists. If it says you're a maid, well, you had better learn to curtsy." "Dad? Can you talk some sense into her?" "Barry, you wouldn't understand. She's a nurse. You're just a maid." "I am not! There are better things out there!" "What?" My mother said. "You want to be a waitress? Maybe a secretary? Shoot for the moon, I always say. A girl can't let the glass ceiling stop her." "I'm not a girl," I said. "Oh, I know what's eating her," my father said. "She doesn't have a uniform. Hell, a maid needs her uniform. Three or four of them, probably. It helps get her mind right." "Sweetie? Barry? Can you finish the ironing? It'll be oodles of help. And I'll run to the uniform store and get your uniforms." "Mom, I'm not going to wear a uniform. That's just silly." "No, what's silly is your name. Who ever heard of a maid named Barry? Brenda maybe. Barbie? Belinda? I know. How about Mary? We'll keep it simple. Maid Mary." "Mom, I'm not Mary." "Well, not yet. Not in those stupid boy clothes. You need panties and a bra. A little makeup maybe. Then you'll be a real maid, and your parents will be proud of you." "Everyone can go into medicine, Lamb Chop," my father said. Lamb Chop? I was Lamb Chop? No one ever had called me Lamb Chop! "You'll have a nice life as a maid. Maybe you can marry the butcher. Old Vern would be a great catch for you, wouldn't he?" "Dad. Please stop. I'm not gay. I'm not a girl." "That's sweet, hon. Mary is fighting it. Just like I did when I started to dress properly when I was a teenager. Before that, sweetie, I just climbed trees and played basketball. But all of us girls have to graduate to dresses sometime." "Damn it, Mom. I'm not a girl." "But you will be, sweetheart. I'll help you. Is that what you want? Do you want Mommy to make you pretty?" "Arrgh," I moaned. "I don't want to be pretty. I don't want to be a maid." Tears were starting to fall from my eyes. "Oh, have yourself a nice cry, Mary. It's a very emotional time. I understand. I know that down deep, you really want this, but you're blocking. I'll tell you what, I'll run errands, and Dad will order pizza for dinner. You won't have to cook." "Thank you," I said. "But that will give you time to mop the floor, won't it?" * * In those precious moments before my parents began their shifts at the hospital, they usually met in the cafeteria for coffee. Tonight was no different except for the mood. "So he's going to be a maid?" Richard said. "He's a maid?" "That's what the tests say. They're usually pretty accurate.' "But a maid? Most kids of doctors become doctors, isn't that right?" "There are exceptions. You know Natalie Dormer, right? She worked on this test. She's a smart cookie. I can't believe she'd foul up." "I guess not. So what do we do?" "Well, since she's Mary, we love Mary. We stay positive. We support our daughter." "You mean our son." "Do I?" "Christ. He's going to be folding laundry and mopping floors. Cleaning ovens and making dinner." "So what? Someone has to do it. Why not Mary?" "Shit. My son is a maid." "Think of the positives. Your shoes will always be shined." "That's not funny Amanda. Your son a sissy. Doesn't that bother you?" "Sissies are people, too. Remember when he was a kid? He had a doll. Maybe he's always been a sissy." "Maybe. He never was a ballplayer." "He never even watched ball games on TV. He was all into this American Idol shit. And Glee." "Shit. That'll make you gay." "You think he's gay, Richard?" "He's a maid, Amanda. Ever meet a maid who attracted the girls? 'Oh, your duster is so sexy, girlie. I love your apron.' " "I guess you're right. We might as well face it. Our son is homosexual." "And he scrubs shit off of toilet bowls." "Christ. I have a daughter." Richard nodded. "You buy the uniforms?" "I did. I bought five in various colors. And some underwear and some shoes and some makeup. Richard, I bought breast forms. Until he can grow his own, he'll wear those?" "Boobs? My son has boobs?" "Not yet. But he will." "Chris. What will he wear to school?" "Well, his hair will be trimmed into a girl's style. So I would guess he'll wear girls' clothes. Maybe not uniforms. But skirts. Dresses." "My God. Is this what it's like when your kid has a sex change?" "He doesn't have to have one of those. Not yet. But if he's going to be a maid, I don't think we should run from it. Embrace the rainbow. Gay is good." "I?m not ready for this." "Neither is Mary. But she will be." * * That night, I heard a soft rap on my door. I opened it. It was my father. "Can we talk?" he said quietly. "Sure, Dad." He entered the room. He sat at my computer desk. I sat on the edge of my bed. "I just want to try to understand why you?re a maid, Mary," he said. "I?m not, Dad. The tests are wrong." He shook his head. "We know that?s not the case. Do you remember that you had a doll when you were young?" "Dad! I was three!" "Development takes hold early. We know that. Didn?t you wear a dress for Halloween once?" "I was five!" "Still..." "Dad, I?m not a transvestite, if that?s what you?re asking. We have two in school. I know what they look like. And I?m not one." "You know, denial is a tough thing. It leads to stress. Why don?t you just admit it." "I"m telling you the truth." "Mary, there is nothing wrong with being trans. Or with being gay, if you turn out to be gay. I know other parents freak out, but I promise you, we?ll accept you." "Look, Dad, that?s nice to hear. But I?m not one. Do you want me to lie and tell you I?m a girl?" "I want you to tell me you?re a girl because it?s who you are." "Dad! This is crazy." He sighed. It was then that I noticed the magazines he was holding. He flipped them to me. "Junior Maid," one said. "Sissy Quarterly" said another. "Brooms and Bois," said a third. They were glossy, well- produced. "I bought these for you." my father said. "Dad, why would I want a magazine of men getting oral sex from sissies?" "You wouldn?t," he said. "See. That?s what I?m telling you." "You would want a magazine with sissies giving oral sex to men. It?s a different perspective." "What? No!" "Lamb Chop, it?s just nature. We all have sex organs. We all have tongues. I?ve accepted that you?re a sissy. I think you should, too." "I can?t accept something that isn?t true." He sighed. "Mary? Do you want big breasts?" "What? No! Why would I want big breasts?" "We can get you small ones," Dad said. "I know a doctor who does that sort of work. It?s very popular, I hear. A quick implant, and you?re lovely. I read that all sissies want boobies." "Dad! I don?t want breasts. Hell, everyone would know, then." "Yes. Wouldn?t it be great? You could be free to to be you." "I?m already free." "Then you?ll think about it? We have an appointment on Thursday." "We what?" "Of course, if you get your breasts, and if you go to the salon with mom, you might as well wear a dress to school. Don?t you think?" "Dad. I am not wearing a dress to school." "A skirt, then. Your choice. But can I tell you something, man to sissy?" "What?" "Don?t forget to lick the balls. Guys love it when you lick their balls." I looked at him. This was so damn frustrating. I couldn?t make him listen. I felt a tear form in my eye. "Aww, that?s my sissy," Dad said. "You just go ahead and cry. All of you girls cry at the drop of a hat. I?ll leave the magazines here for you to flip through. I?m glad we had this talk, Mary." I sat there, stunned, as my father left the room. For several minutes I could not move. Then I picked up one of the magazines, and I began to look. Give it a try? * * * At school. the next day, I showed up for soccer practice. The coach just looked at me and shook his head. "This isn?t a co-ed team, fruit cup," he said. "But, coach. I?ve always played soccer." "You know what you can do instead? You can wash the uniforms. And the towels. We could use an equipment manager. It?ll be right up your alley." As Barry ... as Mary? I turned and walked away. And passed the cheerleaders, who were trying to form a pyramid. "Hey, girl," Sonia Luigi said. "We could use some muscle for the bottom tier. You want to help out?" "I...I can?t," I said, rushing away. "Stuck-up bitch," said Sonia. "And she?s just the maid." "It?s probably her time of the month," June Season said. "That?s how I get. I"m always in a bad mood." Sonia nodded."Aunt Flo kicks the shit out of all of us," she said. The girls giggled, then went back to trying to form their pyramid. I rushed through the halls. This was wrong. This is absurd. I'm not a maid! Why was everyone so ready to believe that I was one? I turned a corner in C wing, and ran smack into Russ Davidson, my old tennis partner. "I?m sorry, Russ," I said. "No problem, girlie," he said. "I?m not a girl," I said. "Maybe not yet," Russ said. "But I heard about the test. It called you a hooker, right?" "No. It called me a maid." "Same thing. Maids spread their cheeks for their Masters." "I...I don?t have a Master." "You need one. I could be your Master, Barry. Or Mary. I hear you're Mary now." "I?m not Mary, Russ. I'm not like that. I?m not gay." "Who said anything about being gay? You can just give me a nice, slow blowjob, and then you can wash the dishes. We?ll both be happy," "Russ...please leave me alone." "Not ready to accept yourself yet, Sweet Pea?" Russell said "You?ll come around. This is science. It?s never wrong." "Russ, scientists used to think the world was flat." "I think it is, too. We never went to the moon, Don?t be stupid enough to believe we did. And Elvis shot JFK. Jim Morrison of the Doors didn?t die. He joined the Nazi party. It was in all the papers." "Russ, are you retarded?" "Maybe. But at least I?m a man. They didn?t cut my dick off like they did yours." "They didn?t cut mine off, either." "That?s not what I hear. Snip-snip." "Russ, I found out about all this shit yesterday. You think I had time to get a vagina?" "Hell, Barry. As far as I know, you?ve had one for a. year. You might have been checking mine out, but I never saw your dick." "Well, it?s still there. Trust me." "Ha. Trust the maid. Who trusts the fucking maid?" "Russ. I?m not a maid." "The hell you aren?t, faggot. The test said so. And the test is like the Pope; it doesn?t lie." * * That afternoon, when I got out of school, none of my friends seemed to be talking to me, so I walked home alone. I entered the house, and could hear my mother humming in the distance. I moved quietly and climbed the stairs to my room. "Maid?s Quarters" a sign on the door said. I sighed, then entered the room. On the bed were various maid?s dresses ? black and light blue, pink and gray. There was underwear beside it. On the bureau, there was a makeup case. Shit. This was a mile past too far. I felt a movement, and turned, and my mother was there, beaming as if she had just won a prize. "You like it, sweetheart?" she said. "It?s....it?s too girly!" "Nonsense. A maid is supposed to be girly. Otherwise, she?d be a butler. Or a valet." "Mom, why? If I was an astronaut, you wouldn?t dress me in a spacesuit when I was a junior in high school. If I was joining the army, you wouldn?t give me a rifle already. So why put me in a maid?s uniform now?" "It isn?t the same thing, Mary, and you know it. There is a lifestyle change going on here. You need to learn to walk in heels. You need to know how a corset feels. Even a butt plug takes getting used to." "A...butt plug?" "Oh, all the maids I know swear by them. It?s a comforting thing while a girl is doing her chores. You won?t even think about mopping if you butt tingles every time you move." "Mom! That?s....awful." "It doesn?t feel awful. You think I?ve never worn a plug? Think your father hasn?t? He just crams that little rocket ship right up his launch pad, and he?s a happy man." "Mom, I don?t want to hear this." "Silly maid. It?s just massaging your prostate. It feels nice. Don?t be such a boy." "I am a boy." "You know what I mean. If you?re going to be a good maid, you need to act like it." "I don?t want to be a good maid," I said. "I?m a guy. I want to be a guy." "After all the money I spent on your clothes? Fat chance. The tests say you?re a maid. I say you?re a maid. So you?re a maid." "When did this stupid test become the 10 Commandments? ?Thou Shalt Wash the Sheets Every Day.? Why does everyone believe a stupid test instead of me?" "Mary, you need to comport yourself like a proper young lady. Now, pick out a uniform, and clean up the kitchen. There are dishes to wash. There is mopping to do." I hung my head. I picked up the gray dress ? the most plain-looking one, I thought. I started to undress. "Uh-uh," my mother said. "First, you have to cut back the forest. Shave, girl. Get smooth." I hung my head. I had never felt lower. I was on the brink of being a girl ? a maid! ? and I couldn?t stop the momentum. I walked to the bathroom, resigned to my fate. "Mary? Don?t forget your panties," my mom said, throwing them at me. They hit me in the face. At the time, it seemed like a perfect metaphor. * * The next day, I was in my room doing my algebra homework. Algebra always kicked my fanny. The doorbell rang, but I knew Mom was home. She would get it. I went back to studying. Then I hear feminine voices fill the house. I peeked downstairs, and I saw them. Annette. Sophia. Brittney. They were joking with my mom, and each of them were holding large bags. "Hi, Mrs. W. We?re here to see Barry. Is he home?" "Well, we refer to her as ?she? now," Mom said. "Mary, I?ll call her." I walked in. "I?m here now. What are you girls up to." "We came to help you!" Sophia said. "We heard you were having trouble turning into a girl, so we thought we?d give you a push." "A push?" I said. "Yeah. We?re going to help you become a girl. Are you ready?" "Ready?" I said. "Come on. We brought stuff. Let?s go to your room." The girls herded me into my bedroom. I looked toward Mom and mouthed "help" but she just grinned and turned away. "Take your clothes off," Annette demanded. "My clothes?" "Can you stop being a parrot?" Brittney said. "Now strip." By rote, I remember my clothes. When I was nude, I put my hand over my penis. "Aw, how cute. Look at how little it is. It?s like a dick, only smaller." "It isn?t that little," I said. "The hell it isn?t," Sophia said. "You hold your hand over it, and you have two fingers to spare." "It looks like a mouse?s dick," Annette said. "We should call you Minnie. You know, for Minnie Mouse." "Or Mini-Dick," said Brittney. "Here. Cover yourself with these." She tossed me a pair of red panties. I thought it had three panties worth of lace on them. Without thinking, I slid the panties up my legs. They were cool and smooth, and the elastic felt nice. My four inches immediately turned into five. "Aww, look at that. She?s excited." "Wait until we put this bra on you. Sissies love bras." She latched it shut. Sophia put breast forms in. After that, I was overwhelmed. The girls put the clothes on faster than I could stop them. A girdle. A dress. Heels. A wig. Sophia began to work on my face. Foundation. Lipstick. Eyeliner. Mascara. "You?ll like this," Sophia said. "Brittney?s boyfriend does." "Nate?" "Natalie," Brittney said. "She?s my bitch. She likes me to peg her." "Peg her?" "Fuck her ass. Where have you been?" Brittney said. "So what do we have here?" a voice from my doorway asked. Mom! I looked up, dressed completely en femme, and my mother was looking at me. "You are so precious," she said. "I guess I?ve always known there was a girl inside you. Embrace it, lady." "Mom," I said, my eyes pleading. "Don?t make me a girl." "I think heaven made you a girl, Mary. We?re all just catching on." "Wait til the guys see you, Mary," Sophia said. "I bet Jesse would like you." "Jesse likes anything that moves," Annette said. "I don?t know if he likes chicks with dicks. Sluts with nuts." "If her ass passes, I?ll bet he climbs on," Brittney said. "I think she looks good," Annette said. "Me, too!" Mom said. "Mary? Why don't you get us some sodas? Maybe a cheese plate. We?re going to talk for a while." "Yes, ma?am." I said. "Now, Brittney. Tell me all about Nate?" * * Everywhere I looked, I was overwhelmed. The world had decided I was a maid, and there seemed to be no arguing with it. My parents. My classmates. My teachers. All of them had decided I?d wear the apron to make my living. But why? More and more, that bothered me. Was it simply a clerical mistake where two answer sheets were exchanged? Or was there something in my past that influenced the Committee?s decision? I had a doll when I was a kid. But hell, don?t a lot of boys play with dolls? I was a princess one Halloween. But I was a boy for the rest of them. I liked to play hopscotch, but I liked to play soccer, too. Physically, I wasn?t big. My hair was a little long, but it?s not like I was Rapunzel. I liked to read more than play video games, but that isn?t gender-specific, either. And yet, the Committee?s computers had crunched the numbers and had decided I should be a girl. Not only that, but a cleaner. Someone who did the laundry. Someone who vacuumed the floors. Someone to serve and scrape and curtsy. Why did this same test send some kids to the Navy and some to Wall Street, while I got a spray bottle with Lysol inside of it? Why did some boys marry, while I became Mary? And what kind of maid would I be? Would I come home and bitch a husband who had too much to drink? Would I grouse about the kids ? hey, we could adopt ? and what they were into? Would I worry that my man was screwing a waitress instead of coming home to me? Could I become like the girls in the magazines who looked at penises like they were dessert? I shuddered. No, the life of a maid wasn?t for me. Still, I found myself slowly relating to women. When I next watched a superhero movie, it was Wonder Woman, not Batman. When I watched a drama, it was a chick flick, and I identified with the chick. When I went to Macy?s, I found myself in the women?s section. Just looking, of course, but damn, some of those dresses were pretty. I actually debated 'Mr. Clean' Multi-Purpose Cleaner and 'Mr. Clean' Magic Eraser. Not because it made me happy; I was just curious. I liked the new Swifters. I liked Dyson over Hoover. I had never had an opinion about maids? utensils before, but now, they intrigued me on some level. It was a subtle change, an inch-by-inch change. I was more of a maid today than yesterday. That frightened the pee out of me. * * * And so it went. Barry went to school, but once I arrived home, Mary took over. She wore a uniform and full makeup. I tried to fight it, but my mother wouldn?t hear of it. Saturday was approaching, the day when I was supposed to serve my dinner party. First, though, Amanda thought Mary needed a dry run to smooth out the edges. She thought Mary wasn?t quite submissive enough to be a proper maid. Not ...delicate enough. And so, on Thursday, Amanda announced she had made a deal for me to cram in some last minute learning. She had retained a Ms. Venessa to instruct me. Ms. Vanessa was a professional dominatrix, complete with a whip, who took on responsibility for adjusting Mary?s attitude. For instance, if Mary forgot her maid?s hat, two whacks with the whip. If I forgot to call her Ms. Vanessa, two more whacks. I didn?t curtsy. Three whacks. My lipstick was smeared. Two whacks. "Damn, Mary. You?ve been here a half-hour, and you?ve already got 10 whacks," she giggled. "Nine, ma?am." "Excuse me. I say it?s 10." "But ma?am. It adds up to nine." "Now it?s 12. Want to keep talking, girly boy?" "No ma?am." "I will say you look very sweet in your uniform. Does it feel nice? Are you excited." "Might I be honest?" "Please." "I don?t like it. My skirt is too short and my bra straps are too tight. My corset won?t let me breathe. The heels are torture." "Okay. That?ll be eight more whacks." "You...you said I could be honest." "Yes. And I?m going to be honest, too. I?m honestly going to give eight more whacks and a valuable lesson." "A lesson, ma?am?" "Yes. Never trust anyone." "Ma?am. I?m not supposed to be a maid. There has been a mistake." "Yes. Most of you Nancy-boys generally make it. You beg for discipline, and you whine when you get it." I looked at Mistress, I'm sure with dead eyes. I'd been beaten. Ms. Vanessa recognized the blank look in my face. I'd comply from now on. She laid me across her lap. She pulled down my panties and started to beat her with her small whip. One...two...three. "What?s my name?" "Ms. Vanessa." "Four ... five ... six. "And who are you?" "I?m your sissy maid, Ms. Vanessa." "Seven...eight...nine. "And what do sissy maids do?" "Whatever Mistress tells them," "10...11...12. "And what if Mrs. Vanessa tells you to blow a policeman on the street corner?" "Then I shall." "13...14...15. "And what if Ms/ Vanessa tells you to make her dildo moist?" "Then I will." "16...17...18. "And if Ms. Vanessa tells you to blow the Pope in Vatican Square?" "I will." "19...20." "And if Ms. Vanessa tells you to flash your kitties to the City Council for 25 cents an eyeful." "I will." Ms. Vanessa grinned. "Good girl, Mary. You?re on your way. You?ll be a good sissy from now on." "Thank you, Ms. Vanessa. I?ll be better." * * The dinner party promised to be fun, Amanda thought. There was a lesbian couple from the nurse?s station, Brenda and D.J. There were two gay doctors from surgery. Mr. Spencer, the principal, was coming with a date. And there were Richard and Amanda. Mary had appetizers out. She had pre-poured glasses of champagne with a bowl of strawberries. She had crab puffs. The guests arrived slowly, and I met them at the door. They all knew about the son who had become a daughter in order to serve as the house domestic. Superficially, everyone was nice. Extra for Mr. Spencer, who had a little too much to drink. I kept moving, kept pouring, kept offering appetizers. I was constantly curtsying, bouncing like a yo-yo. "Damn, girl," Mr. Spencer said. "You?re fine. Isn?t she fine, Marci??" Spencer?s date nodded. "Hard to believe she?s got a dick," "I?ll bet she?s had a lot of dicks," Spencer said, giggling. "They?re all whores, these domestics. It?s because a mop handle is shaped like a dick." "Excuse me," Amanda said. "That?s my daughter you?re talking about." "Then you should know. You?ve rented her out enough." I blushed. "Look, " My mother said. "Domestics have to put up with your attitude, but I don?t. If Mary wants to suck a cock, well, that?s her choice. But she wouldn?t kiss a shriveled up one like the one you sent to me on my I-phone. You know, with the freckle on the end. That is his, isn?t it, Judy." "Spence! You dick! You told me you were going to quit sending those pictures." "Ah," my mother said. "Aren?t you glad they have a zoom lens? That way, it almost looks as big as a baby?s pinky." "Hey, I?m sorry. No offense. Tell you what. Come here, maid. Kiss us a kiss and let?s be friends." "No thank you, sir." "You won?t kiss me?" "Not unless I contract herpes in the next few minutes." "Damn, Amanda. See what an uppity maid you?ve got.She should be happy to kiss my cock. She should pay me." "If she pays anyone, it?ll be to rent a microscope to see it with. I?ll bet sex with you is like getting acupuncture." "Hey! Marci. Get your coat. We?re leaving." "If you want." Marci grabbed her coat. They walked toward the door. "You okay, baby?" she said to Spence. "I will be," he said. "If you?ll pee on my face, it?ll make me feel better." * * * It?s odd the way life can work sometimes. The more feminine I became, the less guff I had to endure. Oh, it wasn?t that the kids became more tolerant. But with Mary looking girlier and girlier, more victims came out. And as they came out, more people left Mary alone. I was yesterday?s victim. My longer hair, my budding breasts, none of it made a real impact. I was the maid. People only paid attention when there was a mess to clean up. And so I transformed. My clothes became more and more feminine. My makeup became more and more obvious. Then one day, I wore a skirt to school...and an earthquake did not ensue. Digger Odoms, the baseball player, started making small jokes for my benefit. Then he sat down one day at lunch. Then he asked me to movies. I couldn?t quite figure out his interest. Then, one day, a girl named Leah Walker grinned at me. "He?s got the hots for you, kiddo." "But he can?t. I don?t have...I mean I have...well, you know what I mean." "I do. And I know what he means to do. The boy?s got it for you, kiddo." "He can?t," I said. "Why not?" "Because I?m not a girl!" "Of course you are, kitten. If you judge by things other than anatomy, you may be the girliest person I know." "But...my butt..." "Is a nice butt." "And my mouth..." "Is a nice mouth." "Damn it. I?m a maid. I?m not a real girl!" Leah started laughing at that. "Speaking of maids, how you ever thought about how clean a blow job is? I mean, there is saliva. And there is scrubbing up and down. It?s next to Godliness." "I?m not going to do that. A good girl doesn?t." "A great girl does. And she swallows." "Leah!" "Say ?aaah.? " "That?s terrible." "You won?t think so when he?s slapping your face with it. It makes cleaning those floors a lot better, I?ll tell you that." "Leah?" "Yeah, Mary?" "I am, aren?t I? A maid, I mean." "The tests said so." "My test said so. I fought it. But I was always meant to end up in the uniform, wringing out a mop, separating whites from colors, shopping for the stuff to make a meal." "That?s what turning on the light is, Mary. It lets us see who we are." "I?m the maid," I said, as if just realizing it. "I have clothes to wash." "Good girl," Leah said. I thought for a minute, then said, "No, by your definition, I?m going to be a great girl." * * * On the other side of surrender, there is acceptance. I wore a dress to school two days later. I kept my eyes downcast. The entire school seemed to think I was their bitch, to scrape and bow whenever they wanted. I seemed to think it, too. I would flounce through the halls, my dress nipping at my thighs, my heels clacking down the hall. I had accepted my fate, and the decision of the tests. One day, Digger tossed me an old jock strap. It smelled to high heavens, and it was still moist from sweat. "I want that cleaned, maid," Digger said. "It?s my good-luck jock. Every time I wear it, we win." "Yes, sir," I said. He grinned, alive in his power over me. "You like me, don?t you, maid?" he said. "Everyone likes you, Master," I said. "Yeah, but not everyone wants to wear my balls on their chin like do. Isn?t that right, maid?" "I?m sure most girls at the school like you, Master Digger," I said. "God. You maids are amazing. You?ll do whatever I tell you to do, won?t you?" "Sir?" "What if I want. you to go to the supply closet and blow me, maid? What if I want you to drag your lips over my joint? Will you do that, maid?" "Sir...I wish you wouldn?t." "Oh, shut the fuck up, maid," he said. "And go to the supply closet." Submissively, I went to the supply closet. He followed behind me. He unbuckled his belt. "You like that, maid? Is it it big?" "Yes sir. It?s the third biggest in the school, I think." "Third? Fuck that. On your knees bitch." I collapsed and looked up at him. He swung his hips so his penis hit me in the right cheek. Then in the left one. "Say aaaah, maid." "Please sir. Not like this. I?ll go to your house today, and I?ll take care of you. I promise." "You?ll do it now. And maybe later, you can come to my house. It?ll be fun. You?ll get to slow dance with my dick." I looked at him. I took a breathe. It was the final surrender, the final acceptance. I licked the tip, then I put it in my mouth. It occurred to me that it was a perfect fit. I could get used to this. * * A week later, I walked in homeroom. I was in girl mode all the time by then, and everyone knew me for who I was. On this day, I was wearing a crisp blue summer dress, with a flared skirt and patterned half-sleeves. It showed off my budding breasts nicely. "You look nice today, Mary," Poor Mr. Moore said. "Don?t let it bother you if people talk." I nodded. "Mary, I need some help cleaning the blackboard. Maybe the erasers?" I curtsied. "If you say so, sir." "Sir?" Paul Jernigan said. "She called Poor Mr. Moore 'Sir'!" That?s hysterical!" "Be quiet, Paul," Sophia said. "That?s our maid. She?s under our protection." "Yeah," Annette added. "She does our homework. And she blows our boyfriends so we don?t have to.." "She...she does?" "She?s a good maid. Ask her. "Mary, tell the class who has the key to your chastity belt, Digger or Jesse?" Sophia asked. "I mean, I knew you blew Digger las weekend. But Jesse pegged you, didn?t he? So who has the key?" "Um, they each have one, Miss. And Poor Mr. Moore has one for the two nights a week I work at his house." "Poor Mr. Moore? Poor Mr. Moore with Mary?" "Who can figure love?" Sophia said. "Who can figure tests?" Annette said. "Who can figure out maids?" Poor Mr. Moore said. "Except when you marry them, and they become Poor Mrs. Moore." I looked at him. I smiled. Though it had been only a silly standardized test, I had learned this. In the end, Iife is but a test. Every day, you face more questions. Every day, you have to try to figure it out. There are right choices and wrong ones. There are attempts to find out what you know and what you can figure out. Silly me. This time, I faced the grandest test of them all. And this time, I think I passed. copyright (c) 2019 Cassandra Morgan