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Tolerance By Cassandra Morgan I liked her. As it turned out, she hated me. From the moment she was introduced to the room, she was the vision of a woman who had it all together. Her hair, her skirt-and-jacket, her makeup were all flawless. You'd never imagine she used to be a guy named Oliver. She was Olivia now, and she was the poster child for a successful transition.It was surprising she would deem to talk to a small support group such as ours. But that was part of the charm. Olivia had never forgotten the indignities of her youth. She wanted her message to be heard. I looked at her, subconsciously trying to see the guy inside. It's a weakness all of us have. No matter how well a trans woman passes, we're looking for flaws to reassure us that we aren't so bad off, either. The size of her hands. The shape of her jaw. The way she walks across the room. But Olivia was perfect. Maybe it's one of the reasons she had become such a visible trans activist. She looked like a female. She sounded like a female. She smelled like a female. And no matter what they say at their parties, she was a female. She was Olivia Hunter, pre-op Goddess. And she was a babe. Me? I was just one of a couple of hundred women looking on. I'm Abby Jennings, and I have my own battles to face. I'm divorced, and I'm not as amazing as Olivia. I sat on the back row with my sister, Lauren. I was wearing a pink party dress with lots of ruffles in it. You could have put me into Barbie's Dream House, and no one would have blinked. I had the blond hair, with pink highlights, flowing over my shoulders. I was a sissy, and everyone knew it by looking at me. This was the meeting of the Greater Cincinnati Trans Alliance, our annual year-ender when we tried to hire a big-name celebrity to speak to our group. This year, it was Olivia. She moved to the front of the room gracefully. There was no exaggeration in her walk, unlike mine. There wasn't a lipstick smear, unlike mine. She was the image of grace and beauty, and girls like me couldn't look on without wishing we were her. She stopped and spoke to our president, Nan Prichard. They exchanged polite laughter. And then she was at the microphone, and we were hypnotized by her words. "I want to talk to you today about luck," Olivia was saying. "Pure, dumb luck. The luck where you find a $5 bill on the sidewalk. The kind of luck where there is a station on the corner as you run out gas. The kind of luck where the waiter loses your check and the restaurant comps the meal. The kind of luck... that never happens to you." There was a small rippling of applause. She smiled. Her teeth were perfect. Of course they were. "I consider myself to be the luckiest woman in the country," she continued. "I've never looked at being trans-sexed as a bad thing. I was lucky that my mother accepted me ... eventually. I think I just wore her down. I was lucky that my father, who never really understood, continued to love me when he would come home and find me in my sister's dress. I consider myself lucky to have my sister, Gemma, who thought it was perfectly natural to have a brother who wanted to be a sister. "I consider myself lucky that the bullies at my school, frankly, weren't that tough. I was lucky that the girls protected me from the ones who were. I was lucky enough to be nominated to my high school's Homecoming Court. I didn't win, but man, it was fun to wear a gown. "I was lucky enough to have the best doctors. My counselor, Dr. Jamie Richards. Dr. Lawton, who gave me breasts. I was lucky enough to go to a college where no one gave a crap about what gender you believed you were. I was lucky enough to find a good job. I was lucky enough to become an activist. Today, I've been quoted in 52 newspapers and magazines. I'm no longer that lonely girl finding her way though the dark. It amazes me, and it amuses me, that I'm thought of as the voice of reason. "Today, I thank heaven for every taunt, for every bully, for every job I lost along the way. All of it made me stronger. It affirmed who I am. I wasn't a weird little boy playing dress-up. I was a girl, and damn it, I would be a girl. "All of you...you're lucky too. Don't think of this as a cruel twist of fate. Forget about the bullies and the lost friendships and the denied bathrooms. I'm sure in our history, we have Founding Fathers who wanted to be Founding Mothers. We had cowboys who wanted to be cowgirls. We had princes who wanted to be princesses. Because transgender is for all time and all places. There are men in Japan who want to be Geishas. There are men in India who yearn to wear saris. Ballet dancers in Russia who want to be ballerinas. Businessmen in Africa who want to be their secretaries. "I'll be honest. I don't have it all together. There are mornings my hair won't play nice, and I ladder my hose, or I break a heel. And it feels like the worst thing in the world. But it isn't. I'm lucky that I know that. And I'm lucky that I know all of you." The applause was spontaneous, and it didn't feel as if it would ever end. I don't remember rising, but suddenly I was on my feet, clapping with everyone else. I had never seen a person take over a room the way she had. There is a magnetism that the great entertainers have. You cannot take your eyes off of them. It's called the "it" factor, and Olivia had it. There were wind-chimes in her voice. There were sparklers in eyes. Again, she had spoken to far greater crowds that ours. So Olivia moved around the room, shaking hands, embracing comrades. Then she got to me. And ... nothing. When she shook my hand, I might as well have been embracing a dead fish. Her fingers brushed mine, and she turned and walked to the next person. Then, she was friendly. I was baffled. Had I done something to offend her? I looked at Lauren, who shrugged. "Just forget her," Lauren said. "She must have you mistaken for someone else." "I'm going to ask," I said. "Your choice." So I stepped quickly, my heels clacking on the floor, until I caught up with her. "Miss Hunter?" I said. "Miss Hunter?" She turned, smiling. Then she stopped smiling. "Might I help you?" she said. "I enjoyed your speech," I said. "But your greeting puzzled me. Have I offended you somehow?" She shook her head. "I'm sure you're a very nice...person," she said. "But I'm afraid I don't care much for sissies. Please don't take it personally. All of us have small biases, don't we?" "I'm....sorry?" I said. "You don't like sissies?" She exhaled. "This isn't the time to get into it," she said. "But I think you're all cartoons. All that maid shit, all that mopping and scrubbing and bowing. It's hard for a serious trans woman to take you seriously." "I'm serious," I said, feebly. "And you well may be," she said. "I shouldn't judge the whole lot of you as one. But a trans woman is a woman, and she wants nothing more than to be a woman. Of correcting nature's mistake. It isn't about submission or frilly clothes. I'm a trans because of me. You're a sissy because of, what, a boyfriend?" "She's a sissy because it makes her happy," Lauren said, interjecting. "She's been in dresses since she was little. She's as much a trans woman as any chick in this place." Olivia held her hands up. "I'm sorry, lady. I shouldn't have said anything. But certain kind of women don't help us with recognition or acceptance. Anyone ever take a drag queen seriously? It's the same with a sissy. It's more role-play than transsexualism. It's like wearing a skirt for a play and thinking it's the same as a man transitioning." "You know," Lauren seethed. "I expect that from a vanilla. But not from you. Not from someone who has lived with the dirty looks and smart-ass comments. So with you, it isn't about a guy wearing a dress. It's about what kind of dress he wears. You're a snob, an elitist. You don't accept anyone with a slightly different approach than you have. How is that different from the fucking Republicans?" "Hey, trans woman have enough problems being accepted by the LGBT crowd. We don't need Barbie dolls weighing us down. They're not like us." Lauren glared at her like a knife blade. "Everyone knows there are degrees of transgenderism. From cross-dressers to post-ops, every woman has to find her own path. Your own bigotry is weighing you down. Good night, Miss Hunter. And good luck to you and the half-dozen women who are exactly like you." Lauren turned and walked away. In my heels, I struggled to keep up. There were others looking at us, judging which side they wanted to be on: the sissy or the trans. The women who had it all together or the sissy girl walking away from them. I was crushed. Here I was, trying to tell a personal hero that I admired her, and she had turned on me. I wasn't like her, she had said. I was weighing her down, she had said. My eyes filled up, but I didn't want to cry. I wasn't that big a sissy. Well, maybe I was. I wept. * * "She was mean to you," Lauren said. "Forget about it." "Sissies aren't built to forget insults," I said. "We wear them." "You've put up with as much shit as she has," Lauren said. "I wonder if she was married to a stone bitch like Polly? That would teach her." "Leave Polly alone. I deserved to get left." "Yeah, right. And the fact that Polly liked Anthony's penis just happened to work out. Come on, Abby. I know you're a sissy. But you don't have be without a spine." "Occupational hazard," I said. The Moonglow Diner on 34th Street was an institution for those of us with alternative lifestyles. Hookers ate here. Gay men and lesbians and sissies and trans and cops and drug dealers met here. Here, the world worked. No one hassled each other. The coffee was good, and they served a nice slab of bacon (is there such as thing as a bad one?). "Well, you're going to get another shot if you want it. Olivia and her lackeys just came into the diner. No, don't look." I slumped into my seat, not daring to look. But I didn't have to. Olivia had entered the diner with a half-dozen of her supporters. She looked and recognized us. She excused herself from her party and walked over to us. I looked away. Lauren glared up at her. "Hi," she said. "I was hoping to run into you two again. I owe you an apology. I was far too opinionated to live" "You were rude," Lauren said. "And mean." "I'm sorry," Olivia said. "There is no excuse. We all should be tolerant toward each other." "Yeah," Lauren said. "Whatever." "Hey, can I sit for a minute?" Olivia said. "Let me buy your meal." "We've already paid," Lauren said. "Then some pie," Olivia said. "There is always room for pie." "Some cherry pie would be nice," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Good," Olivia said, sliding into the booth next to Lauren. "Three cherry pies. With ice cream," she told the waitress. She looked at me. "One more time, I'm really sorry," she said. "I was insensitive and cruel." "I've heard worse," I said. "I just didn't expect it from one of our leaders." "I'm no leader," Olivia said. "I'm just a girl with a big mouth. So... have you been a sissy forever?" I shrugged. "No, ma'am," I said. "I was just a normal boy who wanted to wear girls' clothes until I got married. But Polly pushed me toward this. She thought it was a game." "Polly?" "Ex-wife," I said. "She started me on this lifestyle. She loved having someone clean for her. She loved having cart blanche to sleep around on me while her boyfriends made fun of me. It was all a power trip for her. The lower my status, the more she liked it." "I've heard of that," Olivia said. "Power is hard to control when you lord over someone." I nodded. "I started as a husband playing a sexy game. I turned into her domestic. Her cuckold. Her maid." "I'm sorry," Olivia said. "She...she would take me places. While I was in uniform. She said I wanted to be humiliated. But not like that. She would take money to send me home with men. She had me clean other houses. I was just ... a servant. Then she met Greg, and things changed. She became his girlfriend. I was just...furniture. It wasn't sexy anymore. It was slavery." "Oppression is never good," Olivia said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." I shrugged. "I'm sure you have stories, too. We all do." "I've been pretty lucky," she said. "No Mistresses. No Masters. An old girlfriend who wanted us to be friends more than lovers. An old boyfriend who wanted to tie me up. The normal shit." "I just made bad choices," I said. "I always have." "So, do you have someone?" she asked. "A partner?" "Speaking of bad choices...," Lauren said. I ignored her. "I have a boyfriend," I said. "Who is an ass," Lauren said. "You don't know him like I do." "Thank God." Olivia grinned. "Do you clean his apartment?" "No," I said. "His wife does." "Oooh," Olivia said. "Yeah," I said. "But I clean other apartments. I'm the cliche you talked about. I even have a maid's uniform. Two of them." "I told you I was sorry about that," Olivia said. "But what led you to that lifestyle?" "I told you," I said. "I had a wife who thought it was a hoot that I had dressed up as a kid. So we started playing around. Then, one day, she bought me a maid's dress. Then another one. It was a kink at first, a game. But she took it more seriously than I did. Before long, I was sleeping in a different room and calling her mistress and watching her fuck the delivery boy. Then she was watching the delivery boy fuck me. Some game, huh? She won." I dropped my head. Lauren touched my shoulder. Olivia grabbed my hand. Maybe it was at that moment we decided to be friends. Later, Olivia would tell me that it was my innocence, my sweetness, that convinced her that we had more in common than not. That was when she rethought her bias against sissies. We weren't role-playing. We were a minority of our own, struggling to get through ever day. We were softer than most, and we leaned toward the ultra-feminine. But our hearts were pure. "Abby? Can we be friends?" I smiled. "I'm not from your social level," I said. "Fuck social level. You eat pizza, right? You watch movies. You talk about current events. That's all I'm saying. We can all use someone to hang out with. I'd like to be that with you. And with you, Lauren. I've been a fool. Let me make it up to you." "You buy the pizza?" "Deal." And that's how I met Olivia, the lady would would rescue me from the depression that had enveloped my life. She had some rough edges, sure, but I would come to find out that she was loyal and warm-hearted. All in all, it was a fine piece of pie. * * * One day, we had coffee. Another, we had lunch. We went to see a rerun of "Boy Meets Girl." It was a weird friendship. Olivia was cultured, refined. I was a domestic, cleaning neighbors' apartments to pay the rent. She went to museum openings. I made beds. But friendship isn't about who you know or what you do. It's about loyalty and caring. We both liked to laugh. We both shopped. We both liked beauty salons. One night, however, we had a late dinner, and when I came home, Luther, who had a key, was waiting for me in my living room. "Where you been, bitch," he said. "And hello to you, too," I said. "I've been at dinner with Olivia. At O'Hara's. " "I was hungry," he said. "I wanted you to make some dinner for me." I nodded. "What would you like?" "Fuck it. I ordered a pizza from Angelo's. I put it on your tab." "I hope you enjoyed it," I said. "Your wife didn't feed you?" "Shit. I'd have to talk to her if I ate with her," he said. "I'd rather have a pizza." "Do you want a drink?" I said. "I want a blowjob," he said. "Shit. You're drunk. Let me make you some coffee." "Fuck coffee," he said. "I just want to fool around and go home and sleep." I sighed. I knelt down in front of his chair. "Not like that," he said. "On second thought, I'd like your ass." "Not tonight, Luther," I said. "I'm tired." I never saw his fist coming. But it exploded on the side of my head, knocking me to the floor in a flood of tears and pain. "You don't tell me no," he said. "Now lean over that couch before I chain your ass to it." Still crying, I did. He tugged my panties down to my knees, Without any lube, he began to rub his cock against my ass. He reached around and grabbed my breasts and squeezed. "Beg for it," he said. I closed my eyes. "Please, Daddy," I said. "Give it to me." And he did. He impaled me with his large penis, pulling my hips into him. He ground into me, breathing heavy, calling me names as he fucked me. "Bitch," he said. "Whore. Fag. Slut. Tranny. Tinker Belle." I kept my eyes shut, waiting for it to end. Finally, he came and pulled out. He reached down, and very loudly slapped me on my butt. I didn't feel sexy. I felt like a piece of livestock. It was completely degrading. Luther had just used me for sexual release, and damned if it mattered how I felt. Shit. Why did I pick my partners so well? Polly was the queen bitch of the world, and Luther was the king bastard who lived down the block. Who was next? Manson? Luther zipped up his pants. He looked at me and smirked. "Did you like that, sissy?" he said. "I bet you did. You homos are all alike. I'm going to go now. Maybe find me a real woman. Maybe you can find yourself more cock." I slumped to the floor. My ass hurt. My face hurt. I was completely humiliated. And still, part of me hated to see him go. * * My phone rang all morning. I didn't answer it. I just lay in bed, the covers over my head, the tears soaking my pillow. There are good moments in the life of a sissy. There really are. But this wasn't one of them. A man who is supposed to love me had taken me forcibly. Was it rape? Maybe. It was certainly domination. It was almost noon when a knock came to my door. I ignored it. Then I could hear Olivia's voice. "Abby? Are you there Abby?" "Please go away." "Abby, we were supposed to meet at Starbucks this morning. Where have you been?" "I'm ... sick. I'm sorry." "Please open up. Let me take care of you, Abby." "I...I can't." "Please?" And so I opened the door, just a crack. "I need to be by myself today, Olivia. I'm sorry." Olivia pushed the door open. I retreated a couple of steps, then turned away. "What...what is that?" Olivia said. "Let me see your face. My God, what happened to you." "I ran into a door," I said. "The hell you did. Someone hit you. Was it it Luther? Did he hit you?" "It's okay. I mouthed off. I shouldn't have." "Fuck that, Abby. I'm calling the cops." "No. Please don't. He'll break up with me." "Big fucking deal. A man who slaps his woman around is a pussy who ought to see the inside of a cell." "Luther's no pussy," I said. "He's just ... too much man. I asked for it." "I doubt that, Abby," Olivia said. "I think you need to grow a little spine, girly. Get some dignity. Raise your standards. If the world is going to push you around, you have to push back." "Olivia...I'm a sissy. We don't push back." "Well, you don't have to be a floor mat, either. Look, it's hard being a woman. We're naturally smaller and weaker than the testosterone filled beasts that roam the city. But there are laws. There is protection. Now where is this bastard. Ill beat him with a bag of nickels." "He'll be nice today. He's always nice the day after." "He's a dick who should have his balls removed. I'm calling the cops, and we're getting a restraining order." "Can you get me a bag of ice instead," I said. "Why do you do it?" Olivia asked. "Why do you put up with this shit?" I shrugged. "I'm a submissive," I said. "If I was man enough to stand up to him, I wouldn't be in a dress." "Did this start with Polly?" "Some of it. She used to slap me a lot. She would paddle me. It just felt like part of my role, you know?" "What else?" "What else is there? She bought me all the cages and plugs and dildos a sissy needs. She would lend me out to her friends -- men and women alike. She would take me to public places so I would be outed." "Bitch." "Yeah. She enjoyed herself." "Christ, Abby. Why do you let people treat you like shit? You're a bright, pretty woman. Stand up for yourself sometime." "That's easy to say," I said. "Look. Get in the shower. I'll make a couple of phone calls. Then we'll go get coffee. You can stay at my house." "What if he finds me?" "Vanessa will make sure he doesn't." "Who is Vanessa?" "She's a trans woman I work with . She used to be a Navy Seal. She's the prettiest woman who will ever kick Luther's ass if he happens to come around." "A trans woman can kick Luther's ass? Luther's pretty tough," "Not as tough as Vanessa. She'll pound him into next week." I smiled. "Can I watch?" Olivia grinned. "Abso-damn-lutely," she said. * * At first glance, you wouldn't exactly be afraid when you first saw Vanessa. Perhaps you should be. She was about 5-8, blond and pretty. But there was a presence to her that suggested you shouldn't mess with her. There was something about her stare, something about her bearing. There was a hint of danger there, even if she was a woman. And she was. Vanessa had had her operation the previous January. Unlike Olivia, unlike me, she was a woman. We were having coffee at Olivia's house -- Lauren was there, and me -- when Vanessa walked into the room. She poured herself coffee and glanced at Olivia. "Mission accomplished?" Olivia said. "Yes," Vanessa said. "He won't be bothering Abby anymore." "No?" "No. He has a dislocated elbow. I think he fell." Olivia smiled. "Sounds like a shame." "Yeah. It's a shame he gave up so fast. I would have liked to have taken his teeth." I looked up. "Luther had done time," I said. "He's a bad ass." "No," Vanessa said. "He isn't." "How can I thank you," Lauren said. Vanessa smiled at her. "There is no thanks necessary. But I'd like dinner." "Done," Lauren said. "I'll be glad to buy your dinner." "And I'd be glad to order out. What do you think, Abby?" "I think I can make something real quick if you'd like. No sense in paying extra money." "Okay. You make dinner. I'l buy the beer, and we'll just watch movies tonight. Have you seen 'The Danish Girl'?" "Twice," I said. "They played with the facts." "Still," she said. "It was a nice movie. You up for it?" "That would be nice. I can make popcorn." "Good. Sure you guys don't want to hang out? Vanessa? Lauren?" "No, I think I want seafood pasta. Can you afford that, Lauren?" "I'll even buy appetizers," she said. She smiled at Vanessa. I didn't notice it at the time, but Vanessa smiled back. * * * At Olivia's house, I felt safe, protected. It was a stately home, as you might imagine, bright and roomy. Olivia was ... around. I could feel her presence. But she pretty much left me alone to heal. That was good. I had a lot to consider about my own submissiveness. I had been there about three days when I got up and showered. I put on a robe, and I loped around the house. Olivia had a cat, a long-haired breed who liked to be petted. I walked into the kitchen, and there was a load of dishes in the sink. Without thinking, I washed them. I went to her bathroom, and I found dirty laundry. I sorted it and put in the washing machine. I felt better to be doing something, anything. I began to putter around, washing and scrubbing. I sorted the scattered magazines in her living room. I dusted the furniture. It was mindless work, but it was comforting. This was a maid's work at its best. Just doing something. Turning disarray into order. It was early afternoon when Olivia walked into her home. She looked at me and smiled. "You don't have to work," she said. "You're my friend." "I do have to work," I said. "I have to be busy." She nodded. "Abby, you will never be a maid under instruction here," she said. "If something inside you says you have to clean, well, go ahead. But it's for you, not for me. I'm happy with you being my friend." "Yes ma'am," I said. She smiled at me. I went back to work. I vacuumed. I straightened the pantry. It felt ... natural. This was the order of things. "Miss Hunter?" I said. "Olivia," she responded. "Miss Olivia. Do you supposed we could retrieve my uniforms?" "I'll ask Vanessa if she'll stop by and get them," "Thank you," I said. She sat on the sofa and regarded me. "Abby, how did this start? Did Polly just put you in a dress one day?" "Not quite," I said. "She knew I had dressed when I was young. So she started small. Panties. Hose. A bra. Makeup." "And you were okay with this?" "Miss Olivia, it was terribly exciting. I used to parade around in front of mirrors. I know there is some role-play involved. It's like transvestism dialed up to 11. It wasn't enough to be in a dress. I had to be in a uniform. I had to have neighbors see me. I had to have my parents over for dinner." "Was it horrible?" "It was wonderful. I mean, it was embarrassing. It was emasculating. But it was terrific when someone would leave our home after seeing me for the first time. It was why Polly put me in a cage. I was erect all the time." She grinned "Too much information?" "Probably. I'm sorry. You make me want to explain myself. I know you hate sissies." "Not anymore," she said. "Not since we became friends. Not since I began to understand. I once called you a cartoon. That was so unfair. You're the best person I know." "I'm a pussy." "Well, yeah," she said, giggling. "That's true." I tossed a sofa pillow at her. "Bitch," I said. "That's Miss Bitch to you," she said, laughing. * * It was the middle of the week. We were in Skittles, a rough trade bar near the train station. If you needed to get mbifed, this was the place. "Charming," said Olivia. "Polly used to take me here," I said. "It's kind of rough." "I have never seen so many misspelled tattoos," she said. "Did you know 'mother' had a 'u' in it?" I grinned. I asked for a Rusty Nail. Olivia had a Cosmo. We were getting our drinks. The bartender looked us over. "The factory lets out at nine," he said. I nodded. Olivia shrugged. Then another voice spoke. "Hey, I know you. You're 'three for 50.'" "I don't think we know each other," I said. "Sure we do. I'm Lucky. You were here with that tall lady. She was your pimp." I glanced at Olivia. Great. More of my rotten past. She scowled. "Please leave me alone." "You gave Ray Bob a blowjob in the managers office. Danny, too. I got to fuck your ass because it was my birthday." "It wasn't me." "The hell you say. You have that flower tattoo on your hip. I remember it. Best fuck I ever had. You couldn't get enough. You were fucked up on some kind of drugs." "It was a night I'd rather forget." I'll never forget it. First time I had a tranny. Not the last though. You ruined me for pussy." "Olivia, an we go. This was a mistake." "Ray Bob pissed on you. You've got to remember that. We had an audience by then. Hell, you want to make another 50?" "No...no thank you." "You sure?" "You heard the lady," Olivia said. "She said no." "Well, How about you, Tits? We could go as high as $60." "You could wake up with your testicles in your mouth." Suddenly, Vanessa was there, playing with a knife. "Back down, numb nuts," she said. Lucky was real smart, but even morons can sense danger. He backed away. Olivia looked at me sadly. "You've had a tough time," she said. "It's life," I said. "My life." * * On Friday night, Olivia had a dinner party for some of her supporters. Naturally, most of them were trans women. Oh, there was some eye-candy there, some very tall, very handsome men. but they all seemed to be with the trans women. It was a beautiful sight, a glimpse into how our world is meant to work. I looked up, and my sister Lauren was moving across the living room. She and Olivia had become friends, too, so it wasn't surprising. But she wasn't looking for me. She had a yellow drink in her hand, and she was moving through the couples. She came up to Vanessa, who stood in the corner. And she kissed her. Oh, my god. Lauren was gay now? I looked at Vanessa. She was wearing a silver gown. She grasped Lauren's hand in her own. There was a warmth there, a glow. "How nice, Lauren and Vanessa!" Olivia said, coming up behind me. "They're together?" I asked. "I think so. Vanessa is fucking Wonder Woman. If this place breaks into a riot, I'm going to fight anyone but her." "She doesn't look that tough tonight." "Trust me. She is." "Is she...seeing Lauren?" "Lauren liked how she tamed Luther. They hit it off. Is it cool?" "Lauren's a grown woman. She can date who she wants." "I'm glad you think so. Look, Abby. I have to make my rounds. Are you okay? Can I get you a drink?" "I have something," I said. "You go. Be Miss Big Shot." "You're funny. I'll see you later?" She left me then, and I was standing there alone. I was in a black dress, and my hair was up. I thought I looked nice, which is why it surprised me when a woman I didn't know walked up to me. "Girl," she said. "Girl! I need you to bring out more shrimp. And collect the empty glasses in the room." "Excuse me?" "Well, aren't you the maid. Clean this stye up." "Oh...okay," I said. I began to move, picking up, bring trays of appetizers. I supposed the woman had seen me clean over the last couple of weeks. Whatever, she saw the subservience in me. I was just a domestic. The more I did, the more others identified me that way, too. Suddenly, I wasn't at a party. I was working the party, fetching and curtsying and fawning over the guests. A male guest grabbed my ass. A female guest kissed my neck. It seemed there was no escaping this social level. Even in a nice dress, with my hair made up, I was the maid. There was no getting away from it. As the party went on, I became more and more invisible. I was the wench who brought the drinks, who emptied the ashtrays, who collected the empty beer bottles. My face was lifeless as I went about my chores. I emptied out my soul, and I concentrated on my work. And then Olivia was in front of me. "What are you doing?" she said. "I ..." "There you are," the woman who had ordered me to do this to start with was talking. "I'm sorry, Miss Hunter. I told her to get her ass in gear earlier. You just can't get good help anymore." "Nan, she's not the help," Olivia said. "She's a guest here, just like you." "Oh, my God. I'm sorry." "It's okay, Miss Olivia," I said. "I guess she knows a sissy when she sees one. It's my place." "Jesus, Nan. What made you assume she was a maid?" "She...she looked like maid. I'm sorry," she said. I twirled. "I need to get back to work." I walked away. "Abby!" Olivia said. "You don't have to..." Her voice faded as I walked away. I knew my station. I knew my job. It was just the way it was. * * * "Abby, I am so sorry," Olivia said. It was the next morning. I had put on my gray maid's outfit, the functional one, and was serving breakfast. "It's what I am, Miss Olivia," I said. "I shouldn't have acted otherwise." "Damn it, Abby. No one wants you to be a maid." "Life wants it," I said. "Every time I think I'm something more, it pushes me back into this." "A woman made a stupid assumption. It wasn't fate." "Maybe this is best, Miss Olivia. Maybe I should be your maid. I work for four other couples. I could just add you to the list. I want to do it." "Damn it, you're my friend. You're not my domestic." "Women like you don't hang out with women like me," I said. "I'll clean. I'll cook. And I'll stay in my place." "You're impossible!" she said. "Life is impossible," I said. She spun and stormed out of the room. Just as well, I thought. We weren't equals. She was a refined woman. No one would doubt it. I was a fucking sissy maid, trying to overcome my self-loathing. I picked up my cell phone. Luther was a speed dial 8. But I couldn't bring myself to call him. Vanessa had fucked him up, and it was my fault. Maybe I should go to Lace, the nightclub I had frequented when I first got divorced? Maybe I would meet someone. Maybe I should call Polly and ask her if she needed her house cleaned. No, those were both bad ideas. I was trying to rise out of that existence. I went to the bathroom and sank to my knees. There was nothing that reminded me of my life more than cleaning bathrooms. I began to wash the toilet. I glanced down, and I saw my tears fall into the bowl. * * Lace was crowded that night. It was a friendly place. Gay men, lesbians, fetishists -- they were all here. There were sissies. There were bondage babies. There were unicorns. I squeezed onto a stool and asked for a Crown Royal and Coke. The bartender brought it to me, and smiled as he served it. I slid a dollar toward him. The music was a little loud, and the room was a little dark. But you find comfort when you can. I watched two men kiss each other. I saw a woman lay back into the lap of her girlfriend. I saw a man who didn't pass very well flirt with a police officer. I smiled and sipped my drink. Here, I didn't feel like a lesser being. Not like I was out in the world. I was just a sissy in the jungle. Sooner or later, someone would claim me. They had before, back when Polly would bring me and watch potential lovers approach me. Usually, those were men. There were more men on the prowl for girls like me than women. I was tempted to drag one into the men's room and suck him off before I said hello. It all made it a little surprising when a brunette woman slid onto the stood next to me. "How you doing, girlie," she said. "I'm good," I said. "I'm Britney," she said. "And you are..." "Abby." "Nice to meet you, Abby. You're a very pretty girl." "Thank you." "My husband thinks so, too. That's him in the blue sports coat over in that booth." "He seems nice," I said. "He's a sexual beast," she said. "And he wants you to suck his dick." "Oh," I said. "Don't be embarrassed. We all suck dicks. Dicks are fun. Tell me: Have you ever gone home with a couple before? You could suck John-Boy's dick while I pegged you with my strap-on. It'll be great." "It's a nice offer, Brit. And last week, I probably would have taken you up on it. I'm sure John-Boy has a nice dick, and I'm sure you're good with your strap-on. But I have a friend who keeps telling me I have to find a little dignity. As much as it surprises me, I'm going to start now." "You sure, Abby?" "No, I'm not sure of anything. And I'm sure I'll regret it when you two find your sissy and take her home. But I'm going to say no." "You can lick me," Britney said. "You can lick John-Boy's sperm out of me. I'll bet you'd like that." I smiled sweetly. "Britney, you're a gorgeous woman. But no thank you. I have to grow something. I have to learn to like me." "Your loss," she said, sliding off the stool. She walked to the other end of the bar. She sat next to a beautiful black woman and said something. A few minutes later, they got up together and left, hand-in-hand. John-Boy followed behind. I exhaled. This dignity shit was tough. "You said no?" I looked up, and Olivia was there. "Why are you here?" I said. "I'm here because my friend is hurting. I figured you'd go home with that nice couple." "Too much self-respect," I said. "Ain't that a bitch?" She chuckled. "Will you go home with me?" Olivia said. "To make the beds?" I said. "To mess them up," she said. * * When we entered her apartment, Olivia spun me and kissed me sweetly on the lips. I fell to my knees, preparing to suck her. "Stand up, Abby," she said. So I stood, and she took my hand and led me to the bedroom. She flipped me a silver nightgown. She pulled a burgundy one over her head. I embraced her, and I felt our breasts mash together. I ran my hand down her side, feeling the curve of her hip. She placed her hand on my cage. "Get the fucking key," she said. I nodded. I went to my purse and dug out the key. She unlocked me, then touched me through my panties. "Damn, it's little," she said. "Fuck you," I said. She laughed. She rubbed me through my nightgown. I grabbed her, and yes, she was bigger. But she wasn't exactly a porn star, either. We slowly stroked each other. She messed with my breasts, sucking each nipple. "You've got nice boobs," she said. "Yours are bigger," I said. "Yours are sweeter," she said. The thing about sex is that we hurry through it. But with Olivia, we were in control of the clock. For an hour, we lay there, stroking and fondling and kissing. Her body was so beautiful, the wonderful breasts and the flowing hair and the protruding erection. Her lips were soft, and her eyes contained fireflies, and her butt had a glorious swell to it. "I'll be your maid," I whispered. "You'll be my lady," she said. She kissed me again, and she shinned up to my shoulders. She lifted my head until I could reach her dick with my mouth. I had never tasted a dick like it, so hard and so soft and so sweet and so tart. Her shaft was hard, and her balls were soft, and her ass was a perfect place to store my fingers. She came, and it was heaven. It wasn't facial rape. It was sharing. I loved sex. I loved her. Hell, I even loved me. And I never went home. Copyright (c) 2019, Cassandra Morgan