Everyone was laughing at Steve, not in his face of course, though there had been a rash of double entendres from the moment he walked into the office. After three increasingly frustrating hours someone had the good grace — or spite — to let the cat out of the bag; someone, somehow had found his blog. Pretty damning stuff with just enough incidental information to tie the transvestite posing suggestively in the photographs, back to the slim young man in Accounts. Life was going to be Hell until he found a way of taking down his page, which was impossible from his work PC. He resigned himself to emailing Uncle Bob.

Bob Thornwell was not a relative, but a family friend he had known from childhood. Uncle Bob had been the one who found him his job straight out of school, with the proviso that he would not compromise his position as a senior manager by acting preferentially. It was a mark of Steve’s desperation that he even considered contacting the older man, but his intentions were pre-empted by a phone call from Uncle Bob’s PA summoning him to the eighth floor.

Miss Banford was wearing the same smirk as everyone as she ushered him into Uncle Bob’s office, though she managed to suppress it somewhat in her boss’s presence. She did, however, announce him as Stevie, the thinly diguised femme name he used in his blog, a fact not lost on the young man. Uncle Bob looked up, and motioned for Steve to sit at the chair pulled up to the desk.

“Ah, our new celebrity,” he said wryly, his lips pursed in a thin smile.

“Uncle Bob,” Steve started, “they’re all making fun of me, you’ve got to help me.” Words tumbled from his lips in a panicked stream, the pitch of his voice rising all the time. Bob silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“How do you think this reflects on me eh?” His tone was cold, with no trace of the avuncular warmth he usually used with Steve.

“Sorry, Uncle Bob,” Steve stammered, “no one was ever supposed to find out, honestly, I’m very careful.” Another hand gesture silenced him.

“Well there’s nothing to be done but damage limitation,” Bob said flatly, “Ms Hawker from HR is on her way down; let’s see what what’s to be done for both of us.” As if on cue Ms Banford’s knock was followed by the angular figure of the chief personnel officer.

A conversation began upon her arrival, in which Steve did not take part, although he
was its subject. That is not to say that his position was discussed in any terms other than the effect it might have on the company. After ten minutes he attempted to redress the imbalance.

“Hey, what about me?” Steve interjected, “it has to be discrimination doesn’t it?” Ms Hawker turned her head in his direction with an almost reptilian precision.

“No it isn’t,” she laid her hands in her lap with an air of finality, “all you have experienced is mild ribbing over a sexual peccadillo, nothing more.”

“But...”

“On the other hand, we have already received several requests for clarification from your line managers, and a number of communications from other members of your department resulting from your disclosure that you wear women’s underwear beneath your male clothes in work.”

“Is that true?” Uncle Bob leaned towards him, “are you sitting there now in panties and such, in my office?”

“No Uncle,” the lie brought colour rushing to his cheeks.

“So,” the older man pressed, “if I asked you to lower your trousers rights now, you would have nothing to fear?”

“You have no right to ask me that,” Steve blurted.

“He’s correct Bob, but if I may remind you, Stevie’s six month probationary period is up next week, and her behaviour has already been enough to warrant a negative conclusion.” Ms Hawker’s words were addressed to the manager, but aimed squarely at Steve, or rather Stevie.

“Steve if you want to have any future in this company, undo your trousers and lower them to your knees.”

“OK I am,” Steve said, standing up sharply, “I am wearing women’s underwear!”

“Too late boy, how do I know you’re not lying to me now?” Bob turned to Ms Hawker, “I’m sorry you have to witness this Penny, but the little shit needs taking down a peg or two.” Noticing Steve’s continued hesitation, he added, “Drop ‘em, or just walk out the door right now. I don’t know what I’m going to tell your father, I can’t see him being happy with a pervert for a son.”

Slowly, Steve unfastened his trousers, paused long enough to see Bob’s frown grow deeper, and lowered them. His mother might have been proud that he was at least wearing clean underwear, but would not have been at all happy to see his black panties revealed, or the lace tops of the hold ups he wore. In contrast Ms Hawker could not disguise her amusement, nor could Miss Barwell who was hovering in the doorway, where she had been drawn by her boss’s raised voice.

“Christ Sally, what are we going to do?” Bob rubbed his eyes as if trying to scrub away the image of Steve, who was still standing there with his trousers clutched at mid thigh, “for God’s sake Steve put your trousers back on.”

“There might be a way out,” she answered, doing her best not to laugh at Steve’s fumbled efforts to regain some shred of modesty. “We could put a cap on the gossip, were Stevie’s dressing an expression of a gender identity disorder, rather than a mere fetish.”

“Go on,” Bob had always respected Sally Hawker’s ability to think on her feet.

“If Stevie,” Steve winced as she used his femme name once more, “ were to take this opportunity to be more forthright about her identity, say by adopting a more feminine outward appearance in work, we could consider any salacious gossip as discrimination and act accordingly.”

“You have got to be joking!” Steve was almost shouting.

“Not at all,” Ms Hawker answered, “if you were to wear that black pantsuit from your photographs, with flat shoes, and actually do something with your hair like pull it up into a ponytail; I think you could pull it off.”

“Come into work in full drag?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Not full,” she smiled, pleasure in someone’s discomfort was not a wholly healthy attributed for working in Human Resources but it helped. “Just enough to suggest that you are trying to work out a personal issue. You can go gradually return to your butch self after a few weeks, just as soon as the brouhaha dies down.” Steve still looked unconvinced, nor was the attempt at irony lost on him.

“They’ll slaughter me downstairs; everyone will be laughing behind my back all day.” He had to admit the idea was attractive, he had bought the pantsuit to satisfy his secretarial sartorial urges, but it was one thing to play dress up in the safety of his flat, and another to step out into the full blaze of scorn he was sure his appearance would provoke.

“Take the rest of the day off Stevie,” even Bob was using his femme now, “come in tomorrow in women’s clothes or don’t come in at all.”

“But...” Steve started.

“We’ve seen enough of your butt today thanks,” Bob added, “just be here in my office at seven tomorrow morning, and we’ll take it from there. OK, now go”

Author's note: I've been working on a couple of stories fairly steadily and don't want to post them until they're complete, but really wanted to post something other than another blog entry. So I had a go at writing ex tempore writing, as threatened last month. It's not particularly original, but I can't resist the temptation to have a poke at HR. :)