Constant in All Other Things 2
Chapter Five
by
Fakeminsk ([email protected])

“Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.”
Much Ado About Nothing

Synopsis:
David Sanders, after months of suffering the life-in-disguise forced on him of young, pretty Cindy Bellamy, finally sees a glimmer of hope: a car, waiting to transport him to the Asklepios clinic where he hopes to return to masculinity. But recent past and current travels collapse into each other as he approaches his destination.

What has gone before:
David Sanders saw something he shouldn't have: his boss, pharmaceutical magnate Jeremiah Steele, murdering an underworld rival. Placed in protection, an assassination attempt forces David into the disguise of Cindy, a pretty, young girl. For months he suffers the ignominy of living the life chosen for him, until his real identity is discovered by Julia, a jilted ex-girlfriend. She relished in the revenge exacted on her feminised former lover as David endures in hopes of future release from his humiliating circumstances.

***

The car waited for me as I left for work that morning.

Sleek but understated, slate gray, unmarked with tinted windows, the car gave an attention-drawing beep as I exited the apartment building. The windscreen flashed my name and destination; my phone pinged in confirmation. The door unlocked and opened smoothly at my touch and closed silently after I sat, swung, and slid into the back seat. With a barely audible whir the car set off, a discrete side panel indicating the hours and kilometers remaining for the journey.

Dressed for a workday that was clearly not going to happen, I settled in uncomfortably for the duration of the ride. The car was all but silent as it hummed through the suburban streets, last night’s lurid artificial glows dispelled by harsh morning glare. Driverless, left to my thoughts, I gazed with tired eyes as the buildings and shops, industrial parks and commercial districts scrolled past, thinned out, turned into scattered suburban stretches of detached homes, towering apartment blocks, and cookie-cutter residential strips.

The indicator ticked down, counting me inexorably closer to the Asklepios Clinic.

Could this be it?

God, how I wanted this to be, for this to be the final morning of waking up in Cindy’s shitty little apartment, showering in her dingy, cramped shower, putting on my face in the cracked mirror hanging over the molded plastic sink. No more body-balancing pills with breakfast; no more slipping into panties and bra—complimented this morning by sheer black stockings and suspender belt, Julia’s orders of the day—and tight pencil skirt and blouse. No more heels. No more fucking about with long hair. No more performance: the unending expectations of behaviour and appearance placed on a young and pretty girl in a professional environment, the forced smiles, perky conversations, pleasantness and pleasantries.

No more Julia. And no more Dan.

Could I allow myself the luxury of hope? To give in to the fervent desire that this car trip was a one-way journey with the intent of stripping away this exhausting female disguise? God, how I ached to return to some semblance of my previous life. At this stage I’d take just about anything – fuck it! Leave me short and scrawny, looking like some weedy and weak teenager: I’ll take it! Carve off these tits, filter out these hormones, and just let me be a fucking man again.

Because if this visit wasn’t the end—if the Clinic was just checking up on my health, as the notification that popped up in my calendar this morning suggested—if nothing happened—if I came back in a few days, still Cindy, still living her life…

Groaning out loud, I sank deeper into the seat, deeper into lethargy and despair. Sealed against the outside world, the deep silence of travel soon became oppressive and so, after indulging in a dramatic sigh, I called out to the car. “Hey, how about some music?” A gentle chime confirmed compliance. I’d intended to request some Longman, but instead called out, “Play Sin-DI.” A moment later the opening track began, volume low, a soothing flow of delicate chimes and electronic notes: an impressionist painting of digital keyboards in a Japanese tearoom. Soon, ominous cellos and muted industrial grind began to swell and tear at the comforting aural arrangement, escalating into cacophony that abruptly cut into the first vocal track. I’d been listening to her a lot, and the more I listened the more I liked it. Despite her carefully curated media persona—neo-Goth sensuality, crazy makeup and nails, skin-tight outfits and tits and seductive glares, oozing forbidden passion—the actual music mostly reminded me of Longman’s late experimental stuff.

Hadn’t heard anything about the guy since waking up Cindy. A cursory look online presented all sort of theories from the aging fanbase: away on sabbatical, at a meditative retreat, secretly inspiring troops in a battlefield abroad, working anonymously in the background of the music industry; dead. Last I’d seen him was at the Clinic: moonlight, cool spring air, rustling leaves. Shivering, drawing closer. Embracing. A kiss.

Outside the car, urban remnants gave way to countryside, clusters of browning trees and fields of dried out crops replacing broken, decaying apartment blocks and abandoned shops, the corroded steel and concrete skeletal detritus of another dead town. The window was darkened against the day’s glare and outside curiosity, but I saw myself—saw Cindy—clearly: her made-up face, lipstick and eyeliner and blusher, colours for a young woman’s working day. One finger gently touched her lip and remembered the insistent press, the probing tongue, fingers curling into the flesh of her arm, the stubble that pricked the cheek—the memory of his lips.

Goddammit.

In reflection I then saw myself from a month ago, a reminder of that first morning after Julia’s. Then, too, I’d been dressed for work, a mix of yesterday’s and Julia’s clothes, riding the bus into work and staring blankly over the unfamiliar route. Also tired—yet rejuvenated—mind and body still simmering from the night’s fucking.

A month ago I’d stared into my reflection, searching within exhausted and anxious eyes for a glimpse of myself, for the hint of David, trapped and furious, lurking behind curled, mascara-heavy lashes; and then, as now, found only barely-repressed anger and frustration at the life forced upon him.

***

Waking after a few hours of fitful dozing into Cindy’s daily routine, abbreviated due to hangover: dropping to the floor next to the bed, silently cursing through alternating sets of push-ups and crunches. Shit, shower, shave: armpits and legs, carving tracks through sweet-smelling foam with Julia’s flat-handled razor, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Struggling to remain upright in her expansive shower, fighting fatigue and daily despair, arms braced against the ceramic-tiled wall, hair a heavy hanging cascade as near-scalding water sluiced away the sex and sweat of the night’s passion. Stinging flares as heat discovered bites and bruises across the pert flesh of my tits, especially around puffy nipples still tender from Julia’s abuses.

In the dim light of early morning, within the momentary tranquility and privacy of ablution, I began to doubt yesterday’s choices.

I hadn’t felt this intensely aware of my enforced femininity since the initial awakening several months ago. Not so much Julia’s words and threats as her familiarity with the man I’d been served to highlight how much I’d changed, how much I’d lost and sacrificed. The sense of the profound alienness of my own body had faded over the months—unnervingly so—but now it felt as though everything that had slowly drifted into normality came crashing back as weird and absurd. Under pounding water, I felt those physical differences: the pull of long, wet hair; water coursing over the curves of breasts and hips; plumper thighs and rounded rump; even the droplets that hung suspended in longer lashes and fuller lips. My awareness of these features felt, now, as though I was seeing them from outside myself, imagining how I looked from an external perspective: Julia’s.

These tits, pert and proud, B-cup handfuls of fatty tissue and useless milk ducks topped by coin-sized areola and prominent nipples, a sharp contrast with the hard and sculpted chest of my masculine past. These slim arms, smooth and supple, weak and thin, so easily restrained compared to my previous masculine strength. A decade ago I’d cradled Julia in bed and she’d rested so easily in my embrace, head on chest, loving the power and control implicit in those arms that held her close, protective, vigilant. Those same arms had once dominated her, gripped her by the shoulders and pinned her to the bed as we rutted like animals before collapsing in joyous exhaustion.

And now?

Julia had taken drunken pleasure in highlighting each and every one of my now-diminished features last night, with gentle, stroking touches; coy words and mocking insults, surreptitious licks and kisses and sharp bites; at times with painful yanks and sudden smack.

And it was galling and frustrating and insulting and excruciating and….

I’d fucking loved it.

Our sex was fantastic: Julia’s appetite voracious and vigorous, my own stamina remarkable. I’ve read somewhere that men peak sexually in their late teens, women in their mid-thirties. If so, then perhaps we’d fucked in a way only a psychologically damaged, revenge-fuelled thirty-five-year-old woman could, paired up with an artificially youthened man rocking the body of a twenty-year-old girl: which is to say, passionately, skillfully, repeatedly and exuberantly.

There’d even been fleeting moments during the night, when drunk on wine and sex it felt as I’d reclaimed some lost part of myself, uncovered a precious nugget of masculinity buried these past months under strata of straps and satin and lace. Lucid flashes when I could forget my own jiggling tits and shapely curves and lose myself in snapshots of Julia on her back, moaning in ecstasy, bent double with her legs over my shoulders, me burrowing deep into her, digging deeper, excavating each precious gasp and grunt and earthy demand that I fuck her, fuck her harder, yes, yes, like that, God, oh God, yes….

I came, wearily and I was back under scalding water. Semen and soap swirled down the drain. One hand on my cock, the other massaging water-slick tits. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me? Like, sure, I’d been pretty much jerking off daily since waking up in this body, but the encounter with Julia felt as thought it had awakened a whole new level of sensuality—and pleasure; it felt as though something fundamental had shifted in my relationship with my body… with this body, I mean. I flicked a protuberant nipple and shivered. Until last night, I hadn’t really played with Cindy’s tit—I hadn’t really dared to. Now, I wondered what I’d been missing out on.

Groaning, I savagely twisted the water over to cold. Pushed back but not quite defeated by an barrage of icy spears, arousal and exhaustion and hangover retreated and remained at bay. I endured the assault for as long as possible, delaying the inevitable.

Today was Monday and Cindy had to work.

Trudging back into the bedroom, I balefully observed that Julia hadn’t stirred. The first rays of summer sunshine were creeping over the horizon, flooding the room with a russet glow. There wasn’t time to head home, change and head to work, so I was going to have to make do with what I already had. Yesterday’s stay-ups were a lost cause, stained and crusted as they were. The skirt and top were just about acceptable for work – I could swap the shoes over once I reached the office but despaired at the thought of mincing my way into the office in heels of that height. Sighing, I resigned myself to the fact I’d be strapping myself back into yesterday’s push-up bra and have tits riding underwire in my face all fucking day. But I drew the line at the panties – they were a sodden, stretched mess, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that scrap of silk threading my ass, let alone the need to tape my cock back. I’d have to borrow a pair of Julia’s panties, hopefully a pair of tights to hold back any bulge.

And that’s when it hit me, really: how the fuck had it come to this? Wearing an ex-girlfriend’s panties, silently slipping into a bra in the near-dark, sitting half-naked at her mirror to put on makeup. Exhausted, mentally rebelling against the idea of dragging myself—of dragging Cindy—into work today, knowing how she’d appear to others, the half-smiles, the smirks and knowing glances behind her back.

Six months ago, I’d witnessed one of the most powerful men in the world murder his rival. An hour before that, I’d been fucking his executive secretary hard against the expansive windows looking down on the distant glittering city sprawl. And now, somehow, I was the fucking secretary.

The sense of absolute emasculation was nearly crushing.

I rolled my shoulder. Shifted my boobs in their lacy cups into a more comfortable position. Sighed, and steeled myself and repeated the daily mantra: Fuck it, just get through this, another day. Looking into the mirror—but not too closely, not into the eyes, studiously avoiding my own gaze, avoiding judgment—I reached for makeup.

Moments later, I swore. “Dammit, Julia,” I hissed under my breath. Tiny vanity drawers clapped open and shut as I clawed through her assortment of vials, tubes and jars. “Where d’you keep the fucking mascara?”

“I could watch this all day,” a tired, amused voice called out from behind. From the bed, and with an infuriatingly pleased smile dancing across tired lips, she watched my attempt at reassembling my face from the wreckage of last night.

“It’s… that one,” she said, waving an idle hand, and then wincing as I banged another drawer open. “Chrissake, David, just… chill.”

“Fuck you, miss work-from-home.”

“That’s Miss Director of Progress to you, thank you very much. Rank hath its perks, bitch.” She paused, as if in thought. “What’s your title again? Secretary?”

I paused in my efforts to glare at her over my shoulder. “Administrative assistant.”

She smiled. “So… secretary.”

Flipped her the finger, I turned my back on her and focused on the pallid face in the mirror. Offering up a curt prayer to the god of cosmetics in thanks for concealer, I popped open the tiny bottle. With swift strokes I began erasing the tell-tale signs of the night’s hedonism, wiping out the rash-like redness across my cheeks, blueish patches below the eyes: the evidence of several bottles of wine and hours of pounding each other like beasts in heat. Fucking hell, I looked rough; and I struggled to suppress a momentary smile.

“What were you before?” she called out. In the mirror, Julia began to slide out of bed. “Manager of something or other?”

“Assistant Director,” I muttered. “Global Brand.”

“For Neopharm?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

She gave a little whistle, half-sarcastic, half-real. “Top job.” I watched as she stood, stretched, tossing long ebony hair back, tits flattening in an all-too familiar way as she reached for the ceiling. Tired, humiliated and angry, I nevertheless felt a yearning to reach out to her, to take her back to bed. I might hate the bitch, but she was fucking gorgeous.

“Now look at you,” she continued, padding towards me. “How the mighty have fallen.”

I slammed the tube of concealer down with a bang, resumed my repairs.

“Sitting in panties and bra, putting on your face. Slipping into a cute dress, scurrying to your little desk. Sitting pretty, low-income wage-slave, really drawing on that university education, aren’t you?”

“Back the fuck off, Jules.”

She sauntered closer, grinning. “Or what?”

I opened my mouth, said nothing, closed it.

“Exactly,” she said, reaching past me. “So just shut it, okay?” She crouched to my level, and with one hand gently cupped my chin. “You’re pretty good at this,” she said, and there was something grudgingly admiring in her tone. “You’ve only been doing this for a couple of months?”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“A natural, you mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shh,” she whispered, putting one finger to my lips, then bringing a lip pencil to bear. “Let me.” With luxurious strokes she began to draw in my lips, contouring carefully but confidently. “Something a little more daring for a Monday morning.” And there was something undeniably erotic about the attention, her breath on my cheek, the closeness and care with which she painted my mouth. An echo of last night’s submissiveness, that sensation of preciousness and being cared for, welled up; so did my cock, tenting Julia’s borrowed panties.

She noticed, smiled, tapped the tip with the pencil. “Easy there,” she said, “I like that pair.” Her touch was delicate and caring. “Enjoying this?” she added, knowing I couldn’t answer as she dabbed a touch more colour to my lips. “Surely you can admit some benefits of girlhood.”

I waited till she pulled the pencil back. “No.”

“Shame. You could really enjoy it if you let yourself. Being a girl can be a lot of fun.” She reached for a lipstick, adding, “though I’d prefer you suffer, of course.” She reconsidered, took another. “Crimson Eclipse,” she said, twisting the slender metal bullet. And yeah, if I allowed myself, I’d admit that it did feel good as Julia slowly, sensually slid the slick stuff across my lips. It felt a little creamy, lighter on the lips than the cheap stuff I wore, and if I wasn’t so goddam bone-tired, so sick-to-the-soul exhausted after months of hiding—or rather, living—this disguise, then yeah, maybe, just maybe I could’ve taken some perverse enjoyment out of the whole situation, the dressing up and role play and the deviant pleasure of it all. That is if my goddamned life didn’t depend on playing a part I despised.

A gentle nudge turned me towards the mirror. Her efforts had transformed the face I saw there: a glossy, darker red shimmering like a veil of early night stars glimmering behind the light of a setting sun, a vivid contrast to the paleness of Cindy’s skin.

“Jesus, Jules, everyone’ll be staring at my lips all day.”

“I know,” she giggled. “That’s the point, right?” She tapped me lightly on the nose a final time with the closed lipstick. “Just imagine what the guys’ll be imaging you could do with those lips”

I groaned.

“Let’s get you dressed,” she said.

Which she did, starting with sheer tights with a obvious sheen to help keep Cindy’s secret tucked away—“And don’t you dare tear them,” Julia insisted—but yesterday’s skirt and top; she clearly liked the idea of my heading into work a little rumpled, my appearance hinting at late night indiscretion and debauchery under the veneer of makeup. There was no escaping the heels. Nor Julia’s final effort at embarrassing me: brushing my hair out and setting it into a high ponytail dangling down between my shoulders. The final look was somewhere between sexy secretary and naughty schoolgirl. I hated it; Julia loved it; and she was very good at getting her way.

***

The car hummed with sudden acceleration and looking outside again I saw we were merging onto the highway. Hugging the ramp, the car smoothly joined the rapid flow of traffic. It wasn’t clear where the car was bringing me: away from the city, obviously, but clearly not to the main Asklepios Clinic which was, as far as I knew, halfway across the country. Presumably we were heading to one of the smaller Asklepios campuses or retreats. There were a half-dozen of these dotted around the country: secluded, gated realms of therapy and research where the rich recovered their health and sanity, and hid for as long as they could afford from the real world.

The morning sun outside was only growing stronger, and I felt the heat against the tinted window. The view outside was pretty boring, seemingly endless stretches of agricultural industrialisation glinting in the harsh light, a webwork of towering blocks of concrete and steel clawing the sky, interconnected, automated and layered, growing the fruit and vegetables, fungus and fake meat required to feed the inexorable maw of the urban centres.

Drumming my fingertips against the window brought a series of clicks against the glass, another gift of Julia’s: matching nail extensions in the current style, one of last weekend’s “girls’ day out” activities.

With humiliating predictability, Julia’s influence over my life only grew greater after that first morning. She took not only pleasure, but a strange responsibility, in dressing me after I spent the night. Not that I stayed over at hers every night, of course. In fact, after that initial effort at humiliating me she completely withdrew—ignored my few texts, and I didn’t bump into her at work. I checked in at her office a few floors up and discovered she’d taken a few days holiday. I wondered, briefly, if she’d changed her mind and decided against tormenting me; and couldn’t decide whether I was disappointed or not.

But no: by Thursday morning I’d received her first instruction, and several more followed in the days that followed. Initially, she dictated small details of Cindy’s fashion: a text message in the morning picking a colour of lipstick, or a certain skirt she knew hung in my closet. When I stayed the night, she took particular pleasure in choosing and styling my hair for the day—a long, tight braid one day; once and most embarrassingly, twin pigtails for a Friday.

By the second week, items of clothing began arriving at my home, bought online by Julia and delivered to home or indiscreetly at work: the occasional racy underthing, like the suspender belt and stockings I currently wore, but also smaller gifts: a delicate pair of earrings, or a particularly vivid colour of nail varnish, or a tight, midriff-baring t-shirt, pink and cute, with stylised design of an indolent cat she’d spotted one evening after work.

I was her doll, and Julia delighted in playing with me.

And you know, had she stopped at dressing me up it may have been bearable. It was, in a weird and twisted kind of way, fun spending time with her. Yes, she was a bitch; and half-mad with bitterness and hunger for revenge; and clearly twisted up inside with guilt and remorse over her own vindictiveness; and dominating; and spiteful; and… a hell of a lot of fun, probably because she was such an absolute train-wreck of a human being.

She was also gorgeous—which made being with her so much easier and the more time spent with her, the more I came to appreciate her beauty—and exciting, especially in bed and far more than she’d been a decade ago. She was meticulous and attentive, showing remarkable patience in teaching me all the finer points of female artistry that I really didn’t want to know. Under her tutelage, I’d probably learned more about hair, makeup, nail and fashion in the past month than I’d mastered since the start of this insane charade, despite the fact she didn’t seem all that bothered in applying those same skills to herself.

And she’d gotten surprisingly good—disconcertingly so, especially in such a short time—at manipulating me, at knowing how far to push and when to back down. I may have bristled under her grip, but also found comfort in her careful control, in finally sharing my agonies with another human being. And she, in return, came to understand the precariousness of her own dominance. Push me too far, too hard, and I’d refuse and the illusion that bound us would dissipate. For example, her threat to call the cops or hand me over to—someone, it was always a bit vague—didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Hell, I was probably more likely to give myself away than she was, in drunkenness or anger.

The real threat, a month into this weird and renewed relationship, unsaid but understood, was either of us just walking away. These past few weeks with her had been, in their own way, a hell of a lot better than the earlier months spent entirely alone, every night and weekend, stewing in my own impotent anger and loneliness. There was a strange symbiosis between us: I gained a coach and a confidant, someone to guide me through the intricacies of my role and share my agonies of frustration and anger. We both got to have sex, lots of it.

She gained… what? A sense of satisfaction in revenge? Excitement and passion and a new pet project to occupy her time? Even after a month together it remained unclear to me what exactly Julia expected to get from me—after all, the current situation couldn’t last forever, right?

And so. If she’d stopped at playing dress up, with occasional bouts of humiliation or mockery—yeah, everything would’ve probably been fine. I could’ve played her games and waited out the time until the Clinic gave me back my life.

But she didn’t stop there.

I’m not doing this, I wrote, fingernails clicking and glinting as I tapped at my phone.

You are doing this, she responded, complete with winking smiley face.

I can’t do this.

Of course you can, Julia retorted. You’ve already been out with him.

That wasn’t a fucking date! That was drinks after work.

You kissed him.

He kissed -me-.

You owe him.

“I don’t owe him shit!” I hissed under my breath.

Besides, the jackass was running nearly an hour late. Who keeps a girl a sexy as Cindy waiting for a whole hour?

A month on from that disastrous Friday night out for after-work drinks, and here I was again: in public on a Saturday night, dressed up and on display, a sexy young girl perched at the bar of Chez Lucien, Dan’s choice of venue, Julia’s plotting, the next inevitable step in her efforts to extract revenge from my ongoing humiliation.

Which is how I found myself squeezed and poured into a classic little black dress: sequined, plunging sweetheart neckline, sleeveless and tight, fitted over nipped-in curves to midthigh, finished with sheer seamed stockings. Paired with the tallest heels I could just about navigate for the evening, Cindy cut a fine figure at the bar. She glimmered in the soft romantic lighting—an effect of Julia’s generous application of some kind of shimmery body butter a few hours ago—in a most alluring way.

Consequently, she also cradled her large gin with unbecoming desperation. Glaring into the balloon-shaped glass, the drink’s cherry glow captured the bar’s light in a tumble of ice and tonic. I studiously avoided the surreptitious, appraising glances of passing men, suppressing my own tremulous anxiety fluttering deep in my taut belly. But my own reflection in the glass behind the bar mocked me. Heavy hoop earrings, smoky eyes, dark lipstick, darker thoughts: fuck you, Julia.

No: fuck me, because of -course- that’s what Dan’ll be thinking about all night. He’d be staring at my lips, deep ruby shine that hinted at flushed passion, and imagine them wetly bobbing up and down his engorged cock. He’d wonder what I was wearing under this dress, the sexy under-things Julia’d strapped me into earlier, the lace and straps twining around my lithe form that helped me squeeze into this nothing of a dress, a naughty gift awaiting unwrapping. Or he’d be eying up those padded curves pushing out my front, hands aching to reach out, firm, strong hands kneading, gripping, thumb and finger stroking through lacy cups. Or the smoky shimmer of stocking-clad legs, hand on knee, silky and soft, then thigh, tracing the lacy trim, sliding over suspender tabs and embroidered welt, following straps ever higher, reaching….

I took a deep, desperate gulp of gin to hide the sudden flush blossoming beneath bold makeup. The drink only partially cut through rekindled heat. Eyes closed, shakily breathing, focusing on the sensation of ice and cool glass and the whisper of purified air across my too-bared flesh, I grimaced and fought through the agonising intensity of arousal.

Hooking up with Julia had triggered something unexpected. I’d have thought that the release of months of pent-up sexual frustration would’ve been a blessed release: four months now – over four-fucking-months! living as Cindy, the longest I’d gone without getting laid since escaping the streets. David had enjoyed all-but-weekly one-night stands, the occasional bouts of longer relationships, a constant flow of mostly meaningless sex. Cindy—fortunately—not so much. But now, with Julia, we were fucking at least once, twice a week; but instead of bringing any kind of relief I just found myself hornier than ever, my thoughts constantly ensnared, twisting and writhing within flashes of nearly overwhelming desire.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Worse, arousal brought discomforting sensations where I didn’t want them: in tightening nipples, blooming warmth, timorous tingling flowering in breasts suddenly eager to be held. At times my whole body felt… tight and tense, taut like a guitar string waiting to be plucked; other times, almost tremblingly weak, hot and anxious, as though ready to fall into strong arms. And it took real willpower to push through those moments, deep breathing and focus, even to just keep my own hands under control. It was bad enough at home, where I could indulge my need; out and about was harder, with public eyes burning me under their attentive gaze; at work this was pure torture.

I constantly doubted myself, felt distracted and uncertain. At times, it was like being lost in an agonising haze, and emerging I’d find myself somewhere unexpected; in conversation, I’d zone out, overwhelmed by need and genuinely appear the pretty ditz so many took Cindy to be. Once or twice I’d even had to hide, locking myself into a bathroom stall until the surge of passion passed.

This… couldn’t happen; I couldn’t meet Dan—any man—like this, trembling like gossamer petals in a summer breeze. I opened my eyes and looked at the remainder of my drink and judged I could knock it back in one and get the hell out of here. A pity I’d have to clear my own bill—I hadn’t even checked the prices, counting on Dan to pick up the tab, and judging by appearances Cindy really couldn’t afford this kind of place—but Julia be damned: date night with Dan was a whole level of bullshit too far.

Time to get the hell out of Chez Lucien. I gulped the gin and reached down from the tall stool—frustratingly designed for an average man’s height—to find my footing. Uncertain in fashionably too-tall shoes Julia’d insisted on buying me to wear tonight, I wobbled momentarily, gripping the counter to steady myself—and felt a sudden hand on my shoulder, strong and sure.

“Easy there,” rumbled a masculine voice at my side.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to tell the guy to fuck off, thank you very much, and get his damned hands off of me; saw the speaker; and froze, locking up in momentary fear.

Last time I’d seen this guy was months ago.

He’d been at a distance, as I crouched behind a dumpster in an alley behind a strip joint. I’d lightly cradled a broken beer bottle in my hand. Either he’d been elsewhere these intervening months or—far more likely—had done a better job of keeping himself hidden as he spied on me. Jeff: that was his name. My stalker, some dickhead Steele had stuck on Cindy’s ass to keep an eye on her, in the unlikely event she somehow revealed some link back to David Sanders. I’d nearly killed him back then, eager to twist the jagged edge of the bottle into his neck and watch the blood spurt free.

But I hadn’t and now here he was.

The man grinned, towering over me. At a glance I’d give him an easy 185cm, slender and smartly dressed. I envied the comfort and manoeuverability of his clothes: black trousers and fitted, sharp white shirt, hinting at firm muscles beneath. Dirty blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail, heavy watch, a solitary ring on his right hand, plain and silver. Hazel eyes sparkled with mirth but there was an aura of threat to him, a subtle tension in the way he stood and to his jaw that suggested a quickness to anger and action. A redness to his eyes, the unshaven two-day’s stubble, contrasted with his otherwise crisp appearance.

He had every advantage: height, reach, weight and strength; clothes, stable shoes, no earrings or bracelet or necklaces to catch or tear. Even so: if I acted now, poised as I was and when he didn’t expect it as I gingerly stepped down from the stool, I could take him. Pivot and knee to the groin. Spike heel thrust down into his instep; smash the glass into his face; grab a bottle from the bar and crack his skull, at the temple, and fulfill the promise of blood made months ago by thrusting the shattered edge of glass into his exposed flesh.

No.

Instead, I licked my lips; and Cindy smiled.

“Surely a pretty girl like you,” he said, and with a strong hand helped me back onto the stool, “isn’t sitting alone?”

“I’m not alone,” Cindy chirped, and she tossed long, blonde hair back over the left shoulder, smoothing it down with her free hand.

“Really?” he said. He made a show of looking around, behind the bar, behind him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Cindy giggled. “No, silly.” She tapped her phone. “I’m waiting for someone.”

He sank into the stool next to her, signalled for the bartender. “Friend? Is she as cute as you?”

“Nice try,” she answered. “Boyfriend. He’s running late.”

“You must be kidding.” He ordered a beer. “What kind of guy keep a girl like you waiting?”

“I know, right?” She tapped her glass with one nail, and the hollow sound of the empty glass rang clear. “But he’s a nice guy, so….” She trailed off and shrugged.

“Nice?” The man scoffed. “Girls don’t need someone nice; they need a guy who’s strong.” He grinned. “Like me.”

Cindy made a little moue of disapproval. “Hey, nice is good.”

“Sure,” he answered. “Wanna bet I can guess the name of this ‘nice guy’?”

“Bet?” she said. “Sure. Three chances.”

He grinned. “What’s my prize if I get it?”

Cindy tapped her glass again with a nail. “You can buy me a drink.”

“I like it. And if I lose?”

“You lose all this,” she said, sticking out her chest, rolling her bare shoulders, and tossed her hair. “And you go away, of course.” But she smiled, taking away the possible sting of her words.

The man nodded, suddenly mock serious as he performed deep thinking. He took a sip of beer and stared upwards for a long moment. Then he lowered his gaze, and locked eyes with Cindy.

“David,” he said.

For several seconds—though it felt longer—too long—we stared at each other, the silence heavy between us, his smile twisting into a smirk at the corner his lips. His eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. We were in this moment, alone in the bustling restaurant, and I saw then, clearly, past the charming surface to what lay beneath. What did he find in return, beneath my careful, glossy veneer?

I languorously passed the tip of my tongue over my lips and smiled brightly.

“David?” I said and laughed. “Daves are, like, forty-year old car mechanics. Not my type.”

His expression didn’t change; he maintained a strange look between mirth and mockery; sudden tightness built across his neck and shoulders, and it seemed as though he were about to lash out. I supressed a wince, half-expecting a slap across the face I felt powerless to prevent. But then the tension drained away, and his face relaxed into an easy smile.

“Okay then,” he said, without breaking eye contact. “Thomas.”

I gave a little sigh. “That’s a good name. I had a friend called Thomas, once,” I said, wistfully. “He was cute.” And then, staring back at him: “But no, not really boyfriend material.”

He shrugged. He seemed to hesitate, as if suddenly unsure, and then spoke quickly. “Jeff,” he said.

I supressed my surprise at him using his real name. “Hmm, Jeff.” I rolled it around my mouth, contemplatively. “Jeff,” I said, drawing out the fricatives. “Bearded guy in his thirties doing the weather report.” I wrinkled my nose. “Grows his own vegetables. No thanks.”

He made of show of appearing wounded, holding his hand over his heart. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Your name’s Jeff.”

“You’re better at this than I am.”

“Well, Jeff,” I said. “It’s been fun but…”

“Let me buy you a drink.” He waved at my empty glass on the counter. “Even if I lost. Anything you want. A prize for beating me at my own game.”

“But…”

“My pleasure,” he interrupted, and waved at the bartender. “A drink for the pretty lady.”

“Listen, I don’t think….”

“Then don’t,” he snapped. He held up one finger and shushed me—I flushed with livid outrage and frustration—and then his hand was on my forearm, fingers gently gripping my flesh as the anger drained from him. “Please,” he said, “don’t overthink this. There’s nothing wrong with a drink and chat while you’re waiting, right?”

And I saw in his eyes, then, such yearning, such desperate sadness and loneliness, that my protest caught in my throat. Stifling the instinct to snatch back my arm, I stared back at him in genuine surprise. “Jeff—”

“Sorry, hey, sorry I’m late, I—”

And then Dan was standing there, red-faced and mouth open as he looked at me, at me and Jeff, and surely, he noted the hand resting over my arm. And it occurred to me, suddenly, that I could play both guys off of each other, that I suddenly held a position of bizarre power and that with a coy glance, a soft touch, the right words I could have both these men at each other’s throats. It was an insane, fleeting impulse—Dan wouldn’t stand a chance—and then the situation flipped: if I didn’t act, the situation could so easily devolve into something nasty, with me somehow to blame, especially as Jeff made no move to pull back his hand from where is rested far too casually, staring back evenly at my so-called ‘boyfriend’.

So I acted. I flung myself from the stool into Dan’s arms, releasing a little squeal of joy. “You’re here!” Surprised, he nevertheless caught me—and I kissed him on the mouth, deeply, arms wrapping around his neck. As he stumbled and spun me about, I looked over his shoulders at Jeff, who’s brow darkened and a look of anguish passed across his features. He grabbed his beer and walked away.

At which point, of course, I became aware of Dan’s tongue eagerly exploring my mouth, one hand on my bare shoulder, the other intimately comfortable around my waist. I pulled away, looking down at the floor in a way that I hoped appeared bashful, hiding the shudder of revulsion that tore through me.

He took my hand. “Hey, what was that for?”

“Just happy to see you,” I answered, and he led me to our table.

***

The car woke me from my reveries with a gentle chime. Apparently, we were stopping to recharge its batteries. With a subtle clunk the doors unlocked. Did I want to step out and stretch my legs, grab a snack, take a piss? Yes. But did I also want to avoid human contact, dressed as I was, safe and isolated in the womb of the car? Also yes.

Sighing, I checked myself in the screen and added a dab of lip gloss and opened the door. The heat hit like a wave, as did the full glare of the sun. Goddam Julia for today’s work outfit, suspender belt and stockings, charcoal pencil skirt to the knees, fitted blouse over long-line bra. At least my hair was up off my neck in a high ponytail, but I’d still be drowning in boob sweat and sagging stockings by the time the car finished charging.

I felt distinctly out of place in this rural shithole, the charging station little more than a concrete and asphalt platform with a bank of EV points and a singular petrol pump that probably saw more use around here than all the other eco-alternatives combined. A narrow bank of yellowing trees lined the road, offering some slight shelter from the sun, and away from the road stretched a desiccated field of browning crops withering under rusting spraying towers that probably hadn’t seen a drop of water in the past decade. Other than the hum of cicada and passings cars, it was unnervingly quiet. There was also a small shop and restaurant, with a pair of cars parked at the side.

Sweat beaded along neck and welts and band; makeup wouldn’t survive long out here. The car chimed at me: the rear gently slid open and revealed a small travel bag, and inside a change of clothes. Smiling gratefully, I grabbed the bag and headed for the restaurant and its toilets.

Heels rang out incongruously as I crossed the platform. With each step drawing me closer, I pulled back; Cindy rose to the fore; and I experienced one of those moments again, the strange conflation of sensation and detachment in which I stepped away and observed myself—my Cindy—from without.

The delicate arch of the heels and slight pinch at the toes. A tug with each step, six-taut straps a reminder of that terribly feminine scrap of fabric, the suspender belt and its firm presence at her waist. The heat of the sun on hair, cleavage, flashing of bracelets, dangling earrings and nails. Lithe steps, slight wiggle, toss of hair—growing confidence. Nose wrinkling with the acrid bitumen scent of heat baking asphalt spongy.

Cindy took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

The heat followed her through as the door jingled her arrival to the tired looking waitress rubbing down a chipped counter, both looking as though they belonged in the previous century. A pair of half-depleted racks held bags of nuts and other snacks. Somebody had clearly had the foresight to move the chocolate bars into one of the free- standing cooling units, where they sat in an untidy heap surrounded by cans of energy drink and bottles of flavoured water. There was a small grill behind the counter, a chilled display case holding a few cakes and pieces of pie, and a small desk fan hung from the ceiling in the corner futilely pushing against the oppressive heat.

“Come in, darling,” said the waitress. “Grab a seat,” she added, gesturing towards a stool at the counter, “any seat,” and then towards one of the three tables by the windows. There were two other patrons at a table, a young man and woman hunched over their food, talking quietly and intensely to each other, and a younger man at the counter, maybe a teenager, who made no effort to conceal his close study of the newcomer. Cindy shivered as his gaze swept up her legs, lingered over her boobs and finally settled on the wet shine of her lips. He grinned.

“It’s okay,” the waitress continued, “we don’t bite.”

“I might.” The boy grinned and snapped his teeth at Cindy. “Mmm, tasty.”

The waitress slapped him across the back of the head. “Don’t mind this jackass, he’s harmless. Like a puppy.”

The boy growled.

“C’mon honey, you hungry? You look beat.”

And Cindy thought, not yet; they haven’t beaten me yet. Smiling tiredly, she followed the waitress as she led her to a table.

Following the waiter, Dan led me to the table, one of the nice ones near the tree, an actual living tree at the centre of the restaurant, its graceful limbs unfurling towards the glass dome ceiling and glimmering with coiling fairy lights. The place was busy, an intimate and well-dressed Saturday night crowd, swelling with a gentle murmur of polite conversation, men in dress shirts and women—like me—in fashionably precise femininity: short dresses, tall heels, and makeup, the flash of jewelry and nails accompanying the tinkle of cutlery on plates and glasses chiming in cheer.

And Dan pulled back my chair for me, he’s such a fucking gentleman, and I slid in with a practiced motion, smoothing down my dress and he pushed my chair back. I’m trapped now in this date, this forced evening performance. I could’ve brushed him off, he was an hour late and if it hadn’t been for that goddamn stalker, I’d have escaped and that would’ve probably been it for Dan, I could’ve dumped him by text on the bus ride home.

Instead, I sat there haunted by the final glimpse of Jeff looking almost pathetically forlorn as Dan swept me up in his arms. There’d been such a look of hungry longing that I immediately thought of Julia, and her rapacious need to humiliate me.

Where was Jeff now? Still here, probably, maybe tapped into the restaurant’s security system, assessing and evaluating, watching whether I conformed to his expectations of Cindy-ness. Was he reporting back to his boss that David Sanders remained nowhere in sight?

Time to focus on the date. Truth is, Dan’s an alright guy. A year ago, I would’ve probably had him working on my team, late hours, shown him the ropes, taken him out for a beer. Gotten him drunk, pat on the back, dumped him in a taxi. He’s young, wet behind the ears and full of shit, bit of a dork but yeah… he’s okay. Pretty good shape, too: takes advantage of the company gym, fundraiser marathons, that kind of shit. I respected that.

Doesn’t mean I wanted to date the guy, though, wanted to sit opposite him half-naked in this nothing of a dress Julia chose for me, wrapped in constricting lacy underthings, slathered in makeup. Still, I smiled pleasantly at his bullshit, because that’s what a pretty girl does on a date, right? But something’s a bit off. He’s a little flushed, red in the face and not from running to get here late, and not only from the encounter with Jeff. He’s already had a drink, or three.

And when the waiter arrived to take our drinks, I opened my mouth to order another gin and he put his hand over mine to stop me. “It’s alright, babe, I’ve got this,” he said and ordered a bottle of Moet.

Babe?

And what the fuck’s up with men cutting me off tonight?

He’s never shown this kind of confidence before, bordering on cocky with a dominant streak he’s kept well concealed until now. I’d have applauded him for it – if it weren’t damn well directed at me. Now looking at him closely, I noted the dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and strip of sweat hinting at a tie removed a beer or two ago. There’s a heavy, chunky watch flashing at his wrist, showy and very new. He’s flushed, eyes bright with both eagerness and resentment – and confusion; he doesn’t know what to make of another guy, clearly hitting on me, breakers against which the cresting wave of his excitement just crashed.

I left my hand under his just long enough to show neither offense nor particular interest—hopefully; how the fuck do women evaluate this shit?—before withdrawing to examine the menu. And immediately I’m struck that this place is a hell of a lot more upscale than I’d thought. These prices – there’s no way I could possibly afford this kind of place—I could probably just about manage a starter without flat-lining my credit rating. Eating here I’d literally be in Dan’s debt. Goddammit, but Julia must’ve known that when she pushed me into this date.

“Dan,” I whispered, leaning close. “I can’t afford this!”

He grinned. “Hey, don’t worry, babe. I’ve got it.”

That word again. “But Dan, it’s so expensive ….”

“Hey,” he interrupted, suddenly authoritative. “I’ve got this,” he said, his tone final.

Cindy, slightly abashed, hid her reddening face behind the menu, searching for the cheapest thing she could find. I’m merely bemused by this change in attitude. Two weeks ago, before I’d drunk myself stupid, there’d been something genuinely charming about this guy, in a slightly geeky, trying-too-hard kind of way. This new Dan, splashing cash and taking charge was… unexpected; and annoying, to be honest.

Maybe he picked up on Cindy’s surprise, because he mollified his tone a little. “Hey, honestly,” he continued. “Don’t worry about it. I can afford it. Haven’t you heard?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Heard what?”

“Promotion, babe!” His grin split into a wide, honest smile. “Your boyfriend’s just made Lead Researcher at Volumina International!”

Boyfriend?

I gaped at him, and he burbled on before I could protest: “I knew it was in the works but didn’t expect anything just yet. But then Fatima handed in her notice last week, and the boss was very happy with the Ariel Jeans contract—and…,” he took a breath. “Are you listening?”

“Of course!” I said and smiled. “But… boyfriend?”

He leaned closer across the table. His hand reached for mine; our fingers touched, and he held them gently, my shaped nails a soft shimmer against his darker skin. “Well… yeah,” he said.

Fortunately, the waiter arrived just then with a pair of elegant flutes in one hand, bottle of Champagne in the other. She popped the bottle and poured the fizz. I chewed my lip, anxiously; and picked up the glass by the slender stem, and they rang out their clear tone of celebration as we cheered.

“To promotions,” I announced.

“No,” he said. “To us.”

When the waiter took our order I tried asking for the cheapest main on the menu, some kind of vegan risotto, but again Dan interrupted. “Chateaubriand,” he ordered, “for the lady and me.”

“Dan….” I tried, meekly, but he ignored me as he ordered starters and sides, and a bottle of red: a Pinot, a poor choice to pair with the steak but I suspected he wasn’t interested in hearing my opinion on this.

“Dan,” I tried again after the waited left. My voice began to betray my annoyance.

“You have to admit,” he continued over me as though I hadn’t spoken. “I’m quite the catch, right? Up-and-coming, right?” His hand, once again finding mine, clasped it more firmly this time. “Don’t you think? You could do a lot worse than a guy like me.”

And the thing was, this heady mix of taking-charge and pathetic openness was… well, there was almost something endearing about it, if it hadn’t been quite so rude. Despite the dress and makeup, heels and lingerie, and the apparent differences in our ages, I felt an almost paternal instinct to take him under my wing, as it were, and show him how’s it done, how to win a woman over without falling back on brute rudeness and boasting. His approach was almost hilarious in its ineptness, and I swallowed a gulp of champagne to hide my smile. The bubbles sparked against my tongue as I considered my response.

I couldn’t laugh at him, though I wanted to.

I could tell him to fuck off: an hour late, ordering for me, interrupting and bragging – those were obvious red flags for most women, right?

But what about Cindy? She was young, inexperienced and to be honest, Dan wasn’t wrong: he was a catch for a girl like me, relatively new to town in a low-paying, dead-end job, on her own with few friends. He was good looking, he had a good income, friends, and professionally heading in the right direction… what was there not to like?

Well, the fact we were both guys, obviously. There were implications to a meal like this. A guy didn’t splash out cash like this, spend the night with a girl the day after his promotion, without certain expectations. Expectations Cindy might eagerly promise but which I would never fulfill.

And of course, there was the possibility that Jeff was still watching from the wings….

I gave his hand a little squeeze and pulled away. “Why don’t you tell me about your job?”

He looked momentarily annoyed but, given the invitation, also eager to talk about his promotion. Which he did—at length: “This is such a big step for me,” he started, “you can’t understand, Cindy, I’ll finally be….” And he launched into it, first about all the amazing things he’d done to get noticed, the hard work and long hours, and then moving on to the big step up in responsibility he’d accepted, leading a team, directing the research, managing the presentations and data analysis, qualitative and quantitative collection; and the opportunities, to work with bigger brands, flying abroad, the adventure and excitement. And at no point did he pause long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, and as my attention drifted I began to wonder: did I ever talk at women like this?

No. At least, I didn’t think so. I’d always been good at reading people, at picking up on what the other person wanted. If I’d been sat opposite Cindy, surely I’d be picking up on her boredom, her frustration, her desire to get a fucking word into the conversation without getting cut off or ignored.

Besides, smiling slightly at the memory of the few women I’d gotten to know beyond a one-night stand—I can’t imagine they’d have let me get away with this kind of bullshit.

“Are you listening?” Dan’s voice intruded, one part angry to one part plaintive.

“Of course,” I said, and smiled tiredly. “It’s just a lot to take in.” His eyes betrayed his annoyance, and so I added, “And I can’t really pretend to understand half of what you’re telling me! It all sounds terrible complicated—and exciting!—but a lot of work.”

Somewhat mollified, he sat back and grinned. “Stepping stones, babe! A couple years leading a team, build up some experience, build up some contacts and then….” He made a gesture with his hands, like a rocket ship taking off, complete with whooshing sound.

“You’ll become an astronaut?”

“No!” He sounded annoyed by my attempt at humour. “I’ll jump ship, go independent, be my own boss! Work half the year as a consultant, spend the other half traveling, or just kicking back, you know, and—”

Thank God the starters arrived at that point, steaming hot shitake mushroom stuffed with real cheese and real garlic, and some delicate filo pastries oozing something that smelled amazing. With food in his mouth Dan couldn’t talk, and there was a moment of blessed respite.

I picked tentatively at the food. It looked… amazing, but I found myself without much appetite. Part of it was down to the clothes I wore, the tight constriction of lingerie and the ongoing discomfort of sitting on my tucked away nuts all night. And part of it was residual anxiety: was Jeff still out there, watching this car-crash of a date?

And finally – dear God, how I just wanted to get away from this guy.

Which is why, with his mouth full of mushroom and garlic, I took the opportunity to stand up. “Back in a sec,” I told him, and fled to the ladies’ room.

Cindy stepped out of the restaurant’s grimy little toilet feeling remarkably refreshed. She swapped stifling work-clothes for the contents of the bag: simple white bra and panties, and a sleeveless summer dress, light and loose and short, peach with vertical pinstripes and leaving long legs bare to a pair of open-toed wedge sandals. Still hot but far more comfortable, she smiled easily as she pranced back to her table.

“Look at you,” the waitress said, coming over with Cindy’s order. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. We could use a little more colour around here.”

“Maybe try cleaning the place, then?” called the boy from the counter. He was now engrossed in his phone—Cindy suspected he may have snapped a sneaky photo of her as she took her seat.

The waitress ignored him. “What’s your name, honey?” the waitress asked, sliding food and drink onto the table, a soy chicken sandwich as hearty as the side salad looked sad, and a frothy, pink milkshake.

“Cindy.”

“Name’s Doreen,” she answered.

Cindy smiled pleasantly at her. “Nice to meet you, Doreen.” And she meant it—there was something genuinely heroic about the woman, in all her dowdy glory, tired and grey but somehow upbeat and resilient. Her uniform was drab and worn, the apron stained, but her nails flashed a brilliant teal and her carefully coifed hair and meticulous makeup suggested a valiant battle against middle-aged fade. Like a soldier in dress uniform mired in the mud and filth of a trench, she rose by virtue of effort alone above her squalid surroundings.

“You should try the lemon meringue, it’s divine,” Doreen said.

Cindy gestured at the sandwich. “After all this?”

“You won’t regret it.” The waitress slapped her thigh as though to highlight the difference between them. “Skinny thing like you?”

“You’re too kind,” Cindy answered. “It’s the magic of vertical stripes.”

Doreen snorted as she returned to the counter.

Taking a dainty bite of her sandwich, Cindy glanced around the restaurant. The boy kept glancing furtively her way, and she made a point of catching his eye, leaning languidly forward and pursed her wet lips around the milkshake straw, slowly drawing on the sweet drink. He blushed, suddenly uncomfortable, and turned away.

Hiding a little smile, she took a moment to tap out a quick message to her friends, first Julia and then Dan, informing her that she’d be away for a few days. Then her gaze lazily danced across the room as she continued to eat.

The two other patrons, sitting a table away from Cindy, continued their secretive conversation hunched over some scribbled pages and cups of iced coffee. The man gesticulated often; the woman shushed him; there seemed to be tension between them. He grabbed her wrist; she tried to pull away; her voice rose then went quiet. Noticing Cindy’s attention, the man glared and she quickly looked away.

A screen over the counter drew her attention as it flicked through current affairs, volume off but with subtitles. Images flashed by in their daily deluge of depressing updates: high-altitude video of a rainforest burning thousands of kilometers away, jumping to drone footage of an armed conflict even further abroad, sickly green gas roiling across shattered streets and hollowed-out buildings. Cutting to: a short update on captain Zhao and her team, a crisis a hundred million kilometers out and halfway to Mars, spitting oxygen from a pinprick hole and trailing sparkling diamonds into the infinite dark.

Then back to Earth, an update on the heat wave, the nation painted in varying shades of crimson, a heat map the colour of blood and rust. Comic attempts at escaping overheating: tubs full of ice, a party in a walk-in freezer, cute dogs swimming in a pool. Segue to more serious local news: images of violence, police breaking up a candlelight vigil, zooming in on a middle-aged woman thrown to the ground, heavy knee of authority in her back, and her eyes were wide in terror at her arrest, another futile feminist protest against the latest rollback of rights.

Sighing, suddenly uncomfortable, Cindy started to drift just as the news flipped over to the next story: growing concerns over the next variant, vaccine-resistant and a year overdue, poised to sweep across the country after having already peaked overseas with tens of thousands dead. A Neopharm talking head calmly asserted their researchers had it in hand, then stepped aside and handed over to…

Jeremiah Steele.

Cindy watched, appetite suddenly gone, as the familiar figure took the media briefing. He looked—good, unchanged by the events of the previous six months. He stood—confidently, behind a solid mahogany podium diminished by his nearly two-meter height. Strong hands gripped the stand as he spoke, steely eyes severe as he assured listeners that NeoPharm was ready, that the same corporate drive and genius that saw the world through the previous crisis would lead the way once again. In his tailored suit, shaven scalp gleaming under the media’s glare, unflinching before a barrage of questions, he appeared a man—powerful, dominant, muscular—in charge, the epitome of alpha masculinity.

And the cute girl watching trembled, slender fingers curling into the pleated folds of her pretty dress, manicured and painted nails biting into her soft skin. She looked at the impressive man on the screen and she wished....

This date is over.

I tapped at my phone, manicured nails clicking at the screen. Locked away in the privacy of a stall, I allowed cock and balls to hang free and breathe for a few minutes as I made it clear to Julia that I was done.

Her response came nearly immediately: FFS, what is it now?

He’s been promoted! I typed furiously. This place is expensive!

So?

He’ll be expecting something after.

You don’t know that.

I know men.

Julia replied with a laughing emoji. Fine. So give him what he wants.

Very funny.

I’m being serious.

My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment. What did she expect me to do, exactly? WTF, I typed. I’m not gay.

Neither am I, came the answer. People are talking.

People—what people? Work colleagues—her friends—family? And it occurred to me that we’d been spending a lot of time together, that Cindy and Julia were in each others company often and that, yeah, people might start questioning what exactly was going on between the older woman two floors up and the pretty new girl in the office. And her concern was understandable, I suppose. Tolerance for that kind of thing wasn’t what it’d been a decade or two ago.

I hesitated before answering. I’m not into guys, I tapped.

Is Cindy? Julia answered.

To which I could only reply—

“What the fuck?”

The man in the corner sudden surged out of his seat. Lanky and wiry, in faded jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, thrusting his seat aside as his face flushed red with anger, and Cindy, taken aback, wondered what was wrong. The man held aloft the remains of his burger, gesturing at Doreen behind the counter. “You tryin’ to poison me, bitch?”

His companion, a younger woman barely out of her teens, if even that, reached out placatingly to him. “No, Mal, please,” she said, standing. She was pretty enough, with pixyish hair and vividly bright makeup, but rail thin in fishnet tights under cut-off shorts and a baggy t-shirt from which her limbs jutted awkwardly. She placed one hand on the man’s arm, gently, like one would for an angry child; and her voice was soft and gentle, too.

He brushed off the girl’s hand. He threw the food to the floor. “I ain’t paying for this shit!” He glared at the waitress, daring her to contradict him.

Doreen gazed back at him levelly. She sighed and seemed more tired than frightened by the man. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that food I made you,” she said.

“You calling me a liar?” He took a step towards the counter.

“I’m telling you I’m not paid enough to give a shit what you think,” she said. “But there’s a half-dozen cameras around this joint, and they’ve been watching you since you rolled in.”

Glaring at her, he took another step forward. “I ain’t payin’,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’ll pay,” Cindy said. The words just sort of popped out, and for a moment she seemed wide-eyed and surprised by her intervention. No one answered, so she said it again, louder: “I’ll pay.”

The man glared at her across the room. “Mind your own fucking business, bitch.”

She raised her hands as though to ward off his hostility. “Please,” she said softly, “I’m just trying to help.”

“You think I need your help?” he barked across the room at her. “Huh? Think you’re better than me?”

Cindy shook her head, felt her long hair fall like silent curtains between her and the man, and suddenly felt acutely aware of the difference between them – the appearance of her clothes, the fine cut and quality fabric, her immaculate makeup and the rich glitter of her minimal jewelry.

But now the man’s attention was focused on her, and she squirmed under his appraising gaze. He seemed to like what he saw, and grinned unpleasantly, and Cindy took a nervous step backwards.

“Mal,” the young girl said, reaching out to man. “We should get out of here.”

He ignored her, taking a first step towards Cindy.

“Mal—” the girl tried again, following him.

“Shut up!” And this time he spun and the back of his hand caught the young girl across the chin. Her head snapped back. She twisted and fell across the table. Drinks and plates and cutlery spilled everywhere with a loud clatter, and the table flipped over as she collapsed to the floor.

Doreen shouted something at the boy, and he sat there frozen, and the man screamed obscenities and she reached for her phone and he surged across the restaurant and then suddenly had Doreen by the neck and still the boy wasn’t doing anything. The man hissed threats through clenched teeth. Doreen gurgled and her hands scrabbled futilely at the man’s grip. He reared back; his punch took the waitress in the stomach and her face—already so grey and tired—blanched and her eyes went wide and she sagged and crumpled to the floor.

The door jangled as the boy ran away.

The man called Mal turned and faced Cindy. “Should’ve minded your own business, cunt.” He stalked forward, jabbing a finger her. “Should’ve kept that slut mouth of yours shut.”

And Cindy, wide-eyed with hands held out with fingers spread as though to ward off his approach, whispered, “Please—"

“… please?”

I’d returned to an annoyed ‘boyfriend’ bemoaning the length of time women spend in the toilet and now the starters were cold. He’d drank most of the champagne and was looking a little flushed. We were in that awkward interlude between starter and main, and his inexplicable resentment had stalled the conversation. Taking Dan’s hand and holding it between mine, I smiled, a little pleadingly, and leaned closer. The soft light glimmered enticingly, I hoped, in the gloss of touched-up lips. “Just listen, okay?”

He visibly drooped. “I’ve been a pain tonight, haven’t I? I’m sorry, I am, it’s just…”

“Dan….”

“It’s been a weird week, you know, a stressful one? First Fatima leaving, then the promotion, and—”

“Dan.”

“And I don’t even know if I’m ready for this step up, it’s a lot of responsibility. And I know I was late tonight, and I’m sorry about that, but there’s a reason, see—”

“Dan.”

“And….”

“Shut the fuck up!”

His eyes widened, he opened his mouth to protest—caught the look I was giving him—finally!—and shut it. Dropping Cindy’s sweetness to the side, I gave him a hard glare. “For the love of God, will you just—stop? When a girl wants to talk, let her talk.”

He waited a moment, then nodded.

“Good– just… chill. You’re trying way too hard, man. Like, way, way too hard. I’m here with you, okay? You asked me out and I said yes. You don’t need to impress me with fancy steak and drink. And I don’t need you to take charge, yeah? I like you, you’re a nice guy, but for Chrissake, let a girl get a word in edgewise? Let her order her own food, let her order her own drink.” I gave his hand a gentle squeeze and pulled away, fingernail trailing a path across his palm.

Hiding a sudden grimace behind the flute and sparkle of a final sip of champagne, I resented the need to go so gently with this guy, and the uncomfortable flutter in my belly at the physical contact, the flirtatious tracing of a long fingernail lingering. Dan sat silently for a moment, dark eyes contemplative. Resentment and frustration seemed to war with regret across his features: he drew back his hand, fingers curling into fists, but his face seemed suddenly sad.

“I was going to cancel tonight, you know,” he suddenly said. “It’s why I was late.”

“You probably should have,” I said.

“I’d made other plans,” he said. “Last minute.”

“Sure. You were celebrating your promotion.”

He nodded.

“With friends,” I guessed. “But you’d already booked this place and asked me out last week.”

“Yeah.” His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “Some friends.”

“What happened?”

“They bailed,” he said. “We were a couple of pints in, and Hasan got a call from his fiancée, so off he went; and Derek followed soon after, of course.”

“Just Hasan and Derek? No girls?”

He grimaced, then nodded. Would a real girl have been jealous? Offended? Maybe. Cindy should’ve been hurt but I got where he was coming from: unexpected promotion, cause to celebrate—why spend the night with a girl you barely know, even a pretty one, when already in the company of good friends?

“And were you going to let me know the date was off after the second or third beer?”

He had the good grace to look at least a little ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling those guys were going to bail.” He shrugged. “And well, you’d already said yes and—”

“You wanted to get laid.” I interrupted. “You’d gotten a promotion and the other girls weren’t having it, and you thought, hey, I deserve to celebrate, I worked hard for this thing, right, I deserve a reward, and that Cindy girl, she looks pretty easy and frankly, I’m doing her a favour, a fine catch like me, right?”

He gaped at me for a moment, recovered, frowned. “I never said you look easy.”

“That’s hardly a denial.” I tossed the last of the filo pastries at him. “Jesus Dan, relax; I’m not angry.”

“You’re not?”

“Look at this place,” I said, with a sweeping gesture taking in the restaurant and our table. “And this food’s amazing. What’s not to like? Sitting here with you, champagne, shitake mushrooms, steak? It sure as hell beats sitting alone at home, you know?” I smiled. “Even if the company so far has been a bit shit.”

“Hey!”

“Just—stop trying so hard. Here, let me clear the air a bit. Let me make it easy for you. You are not fucking me tonight.” Maybe the bubbly had gone to my head a bit—it came out a touch louder than I’d intended. “Yeah? I want to be absolutely clear on that point. You’ve got zero chance of getting into my panties tonight, got it?”

He went a little red, but before he could respond the waiter arrived. “Chateaubriand,” she announced, with the good grace to not comment on a conversation she’d clearly overheard. Instead, she slid the steak in between us, a fine slab of real meat, red and juicy and sliced for serving. She dotted small bowls of sides around the table. It all looked amazing; it smelled amazing; putting up with Dan’s crap was totally worth it for a meal like this.

There’s no way Cindy could afford a meal like this on her budget. And sure, Julia had dragged me out for some excellent meals, but she always insisted on controlling what I ate: steak for her, salad for me, that kind of shit. Grudgingly, I had to admit that there were definite advantages to being young, attractive and female. Hell, if I didn’t exploit them, I might never enjoy quality food and drink again.

The wine followed, and we sat in silence as she withdrew the cork and poured out a sample.

“Sir?” she asked, passing the taster to Dan.

With all the finesse of a man out of his depths, he gulped it down and shrugged. She poured out two glasses and left—flashing me a wry smile and quick wink as she passed.

He speared a slice of beef for himself and grabbed some potatoes and greens and silently attacked his meal. Shrugging, I followed suit, and was about to take my first bite when Dan put down his cutlery with a clatter and leaning closer, blurted, “Girls like guys who take charge!”

“Sure,” I answered, fork poised at the edge of my lips, succulent meat impaled on its tines. “Some do.” I waved the morsel at him. “Some people like their steak rare, some blue, some”—I gave an exaggerated shudder—“well done.” Taking the fork into my mouth, I wrapped my lips around the steak and crunched down and moaned at the release of flavours. “Oh, dear God that’s good,” I said, eyes fluttering with pleasure.

I swallowed and speared a potato shiny with butter, spotted with chives. I waved the fork at him again. “And sometime, they don’t even want steak. They want a potato.”

His eyes danced from the steak to the potato, to my eyes, and the hint of a smile curved his lips. “You’ve lost me,” he admitted. “Your metaphor sucks.”

“Sometimes, a girl knows exactly what she wants,” I said, reaching for the wine. “And sometimes, she doesn’t have a fucking clue and wants you to decide. Either way, she knows what she doesn’t want.

“Your job,” I added, raising my glass in mock cheer, “is to figure out what mood she’s in.”

Dan took another bite. “Why not just tell me?”

I gave a little laugh. “Where’s the fun in that?” I answered and took a drink of the wine. It was good and paired better with the steak than I would’ve expected.

“Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“Maybe.” My fingers drummed out a staccato beat on the table as I worked through my response. “Is it fair I get paid less at work?” I swept my hand along face and flank, taking in the efforts of the evening: makeup and hair, earrings and under rigging, the whole agonising and humiliating costume that helped convince the world I was a girl. Could I be blamed if my voice took on a bit of a frustrated edge? “Or that I’m expected to put all this on for you?” My hand swept across the room. “Or that at least one of the women in this room is statistically likely to go home tonight and get the shit kicked out of her by her partner?”

Dan winced. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” I shrugged. “But what the hell does ‘fair’ even mean when we’re playing different games?”

He went to answer, seemed to think better of it, and hid his doubt behind some wine. Mirroring him, I also took another deep drink, and in the brief lull my eyes slid across the room, taking in all the other couples, the murmur of conversation, and the intricate dance of their interactions. Increasingly I found myself paying attention to the women—identifying with them—taking pleasure in their appearance, sure, but also taking note, still learning from their gestures, glances, the small signals they gave their partners and each other. Assessing them, evaluating, studying.

That woman there: tall and slim in an enviably elegant long dress, brilliantly white and backless, slit to the thigh, legs crossed at the knee beneath the drape of fabric, hand delicately held to her slim throat as she laughed, a precise fall of notes like a tinkling chord on a piano; but with eyes that flared like a freshly struck match, and when the man sat opposite turned to call the waiter she grimaced and her fingers curled into a small, tight fist around the chain at her neck.

Or the woman sat in the corner, early thirties, navy skirt suit and fitted blouse, both feminine and serious, subdued makeup but chunky jewelry, hair set in soft waves that offset the sharpness of her attire – sitting with impeccable poise opposite a man in jeans and faded t-shirt, slovenly, belly threatening to overpower his belt, unshaven, laughing, relaxed and happy. His humour seemed forced, quickly cut off as the woman began to shake with silent tears, tiny glimmers rolling down her cheek as she maintained both posture and presence.

Or that girl—Cindy’s age—in bold colours and tight, short clothes—sat opposite a man a decade older—listening intently like a dog to its master as he spoke, dangling earring sparkling like Christmas ornaments as she nodded to the cadence of his emphatic gesticulation… how she rolled her eyes and sighed when he stood to go to the toilet, and she gazed longingly at the exit as she waited for his return.

What did the women here see when they looked at me?

Jesus. I had to get back to being a man, and soon.

“If you weren’t here with me tonight,” Dan intruded on my observation. “Where would you be?”

Fucking Julia, probably. “At home. Alone.” Also possible. “Handwashing underwear and stockings.” Sadly, also true. “Maybe watching something with a glass of wine.” Or a bottle, followed by jerking off. “What about you?”

“A lot more drunk,” he said, gazing into his wine glass.

“Why’d your friends ditch you?”

Exhaling loudly, he hacked at the shared steak and served himself another portion. “Because, Cindy,” he said, and sounded tired, “friendship is constant in all other things, save in affairs of love.”

“In the office,” I corrected him, somewhat to my own surprise. The words just sort of came unbidden.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“You got it wrong,” I said. “Which one is it? Love’s Labour’s Lost? Much Ado? One of those, right? It’s ‘in the office and affairs of love’.”

“You know I did my degree in English Lit, right?” he said. He sounded annoyed. “With a focus on Shakespearian adaptations for my Masters dissertation.”

“And I’m just a silly bimbo with a high school education,” I answered. “Great tits and blonde hair, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I don’t need a fucking degree to know a little Shakespeare,” I snapped. “I’ve got a good memory.”

I’d also dated a professor of Literature, years ago, though Dan didn’t need to know that. Akiko, beautiful, sexy Akiko, who used to prep her lectures naked in bed, reading out samples of text to me where they etched themselves indelibly into memory, forever mixing the poetry of language with the sensual image of her skin, her hot breath whispering in my ear, soft kisses down my hard chest, and her lips ….

“Look it up,” I gasped, and as he reached for his phone I refilled my glass with iced water and gulped it down, hiding my sudden, painful arousal.

A minute later he grunted. “Huh, you’re right.”

“Though she be but little,” I said, huskily. “She is fierce.”

He looked at me then—really looked at me for the first time, it felt, this whole “date”. It was as though the previous hour he’d been imagining being elsewhere, with someone else; but suddenly, I’d become worthy of his attention. He smiled; his eyes sparkled like dew at sunrise and he reached across the table for my hand. Grudgingly, I extended mine in return and his thumb traced gentle circles across the back of my hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and for the first time sounded like he meant it.

“It’s… okay.” His hand, softly stroking mine, brought something unexpected, catalysed by those earlier thoughts of Akiko, of days in bed together indolently making love amidst the prose and poetry of her profession. The memory of her touch mingled with the current reality of Dan’s. Confusion triggered a powerful yearning, an aching arousal that echoed the one I’d felt earlier this evening, reaching even further back to the ghost of another’s touch and the promises of something more.

Trembling at the gentle sensation of his fingers, his touch trailing lines of fire as he caressed my skin, my eyes closed and I imagined myself falling into—his?—somebody’s arms, being held close, and—my lips suddenly felt warm; a hot flush crawled up through my belly, tendrils uncoiling through chest and neck; and I felt—

Angry; suddenly, so fucking angry and resentful, to find myself trembling and timorous as a schoolgirl blushing with guilt and desire she couldn’t acknowledge let alone understand. And I felt—

Scared, by this rising tide threatening not only my self-control but my very sense of self. And I felt—

Disgusted, by this man’s touch and by Cindy’s feverish response. And I—

Wanted to escape; wanted to submit. Wanted… release.

And release came, though not as expected. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep shuddering breath. I struggled against the crash of powerful conflicting emotions, but the struggle was brief: I lost, and sank beneath the waves.

“Hey, hey you okay?”

I shook my head in a silent, desperate ‘no’ as the first, shameful tears began to dribble down my cheeks. I snatched my hand away, hid them beneath the table; clutched at my legs, and dug those long fingernails, Julia’s gift, into the fleshy softness of my thighs, hoping the pain might bring some sense of control.

And then he was kneeling next to me.

“I’m….” A shuddering breath, a struggle to stifle a sob. “Sorry.”

“No, I am, I’ve been a jerk,” he said, his hand was on my bare shoulder, and I gasped at his touch. With his other hand he gently stroked my hair, like one would soothe a pet, then cupped my chin. “I’m sorry.” He wiped away a tear with the back of a finger.

Eyes squeezed shut, I could sense his closeness, feel his heat, red berries and steak, sandlewood and smoke, and the gentlest of prods tilting my head towards him. My lips parted in a sigh, an exhalation of need.

“Please—”

“Please,” she begged,

Trembling with—anticipation?—Cindy backed away, hands still outstretched against the approaching threat. The man, Mal, stalked closer. “Don’t….”

“Excuse me?” The man paused and he trembled too, with barely restrained rage. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” she tried, her mouth dry. “You can just leave, I won’t tell anyone, please….”

The man grabbed a plate and hurled it against the wall where it shattered with a loud crash. “Shut the fuck up!” the man yelled. “I am so fucking tired of bitches like you telling me what to do.” He swept a chair out of the way and stormed towards her and there was suddenly nowhere for Cindy to retreat, the man loomed up in front of her and her voice caught in her throat as she found herself backed up against the wall.

Up close, she saw the stubble and the redness in his eyes, the unhealthy pallor to his skin and she breathed in his stink, foul-breath of bad teeth and unwashed body. What she’d taken for lean toughness at a distance closer resembled emaciation—beneath the stubble his cheekbones stood in sharp relief, and his eyes were sunken. But he had the strength of anger or desperation as he focused his rage on the young girl.

Cindy shook her head in desperation. “I’m not—”

His slap took her across the cheek, a jarring blow that spun her head backwards. And then the man was up against her, his body pressing her up against the wall, his stinking breath hot against her neck. She felt fear—genuine fear and sick rise in her throat—as she felt the man’s erection through his trousers, prodding her, stabbing for her, as his hand reached for her neck and he buried his face into her hair and breathed deeply.

“Fucking cunt,” he grunted, “You want this.”

“No,” she whispered.

But any further words were silenced as he forced himself onto her, as she—

—was guided upwards with a gentle touch to meet his kiss, and our lips met, parted, and I moaned into him, his tongue briefly dancing with mine before he pulled back, and I followed him, wanting, desperate for more, lost in a moment of arousal and confused memory until the euphoric daze passed. I opened my eyes and saw Dan’s face, still so close to mine, now smiling.

And just like that, the emotional maelstrom of a minute ago drained away and left me cold and in control once more. Intellectually, I was left feeling disgusted and shamed; I’d just kissed another guy, willingly; I wasn’t gay; and I couldn’t even be angry with him because situation reversed, I’d have done the same thing, probably.

But I didn’t feel any of it. Mostly, I was left incredibly tired, tired and hollowed out by the ebb and flow of emotions and by the very thought of maintaining the charade of Cindy any longer.

He continued to hold my hand, delicately, as though I might break, the other drifting downwards, brushing cheek, bare shoulder, and lingering at my knee. “Cindy, I’m—"

“If you say you’re sorry one more time,” I stated flatly. “I’ll punch you in the nose.”

Shaking his head, he returned to his seat. He took a sip of wine and hesitated before asking, “Why did you cry?”

And I wanted to tell him, you’re not the only one who’s had a hard week. And I wanted to say, do you have any idea how exhausting it is to not being taken seriously? And I wanted him to somehow understand the humiliation I endured every minute of every day, the shame of a man wrapped in lingerie and hiding in skirts and under makeup, crying and craven, smiling and simpering, afraid and so very, very angry, always angry.

But how could I explain to him the frustration of having people look at me and see nothing but this young girl, this pretty, uneducated girl, and think this is all there is to me: all glossy surface, these clothes, this hair, this makeup. Circumstances forced me to take an excruciating degree of interest in my appearance, and that very interest meant others believed I had nothing interesting to say.

Instead, I sighed and reached for my fork, eying the remainders of a steak for which I no longer felt hunger.

“You want to know why I cried, want to know what’s wrong?” I sighed. “I’m tired, Dan, that’s what’s wrong.” And nearly added: and I’m sick and tired of being dismissed as irrelevant just because I’m pretty, because I’m wearing a skirt or I’ve put on lip gloss. Far more urgently, I wanted to cry out: I’m a man, for fuck’s sake! This isn’t me, this is not who I am!

He nodded. “You said the same thing last time, on Friday.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Sounds a bit like a stock answer to me, to be honest.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I get being tired. I really do. But I’m asking what’s wrong, and… that’s all you’ve got?” He spread his hands wide, as though to show he had nothing to offer. “We’re all tired. I can’t help with that.”

“I didn’t ask for you help.”

“But I’m offering it,” he said. “Is this one of those moments where I’m supposed to take charge?”

“Fine,” I said. “You want to know the truth, Dan? You’ve treated me like shit all night,” I started, ticking each point off on a finger. “You were an hour late because you had ‘better’ people to be with, you order my drink, you order my food, you cut me off and talk over me, you complain like a little bitch when I take a break in the toilet—did you ever think maybe I just needed a little space for five minutes?—and then suddenly because I know a couple lines of fucking Shakespeare, I’m worth your time?”

I shook my head. “Screw you, Dan.”

And then something entirely remarkable and unexpected happened: Dan stayed quiet, watching me contemplatively over steepled fingers. He nodded, once, but didn’t say anything.

Perhaps because of the unexpected silence, perhaps because there was finally a space in which I could be heard, I felt compelled to continue, and it was a relief—a goddamn relief—to get this shit off my shoulders. And yeah, I could share all this with Julia, but she took active pleasure in my misery and what I needed right now, what I really needed, was a sympathetic ear. The fact the ear belonged to a guy—a guy I’d just kissed—and I could still feel the memory of his touch on my lips—well, I forced that to one side.

“Frankly, it’s a goddam miracle I’m still here. You’ve thrown up enough red flags to flatten a half-dozen china shops. But here I am! I’ve stuck it out because, frankly – what choice do I have? Can you imagine what people’ll say if I show up on work on Monday having bailed?”

He nodded. “You think I’ll say something about you.”

“How should I know? Maybe. Guys can be real pricks sometimes, and how am I supposed to know what kind of guy you are? So far, the signs aren’t great. So better to suffer through it, right?

“But you don’t understand, Dan—you can’t understand—how exhausting it is to have something to say, to have something important to add to the conversation, and all the other person does is stare at your tits.” My painted fingernail gleamed in the restaurant’s lights as I pointed at him. “How long did it take you to get ready tonight? Twenty minutes: shit, shower and shave, right? You threw on a shirt, a tie—got rid of the tie after a few drinks—and out the door?

“Any idea how long it took me tonight?”

He shook his head.

“Two hours, Dan. Two fucking hours. Showering and shaving takes a hell of a lot longer when you’re a girl. Moisturiser and body cream. Makeup. Hair – dear God, you have no idea how long it takes to tame all this,” I said, raking fingers through fastidiously straightened hair. “And finally strapping myself into all this”—I swept one hand across my torso—“outer and under, and just having to accept that I’m going to be uncomfortable for the whole night, squeezed and pinched and restricted, just so I can look… acceptable, live up to expectations that also mean I’ll just be ignored because anyone who wastes two hours of their life on their looks must just be a frivolous bit of fluff, right?

“So—you asked. What’s wrong? I’m a girl: that’s what wrong, and I’m tired, and I’m angry and frustrated and it all just boiled over for a moment in tears, okay?”

He nodded again, silently.

“I’m done, Dan,” I instructed. “Please, speak.”

He grinned, ever so slightly. “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice?”

“I’d actually quite like to hear your voice now,” I answered, reaching for my glass of wine. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking,”

“I’m thinking: to thine own self be true.”

“Still with the Shakespeare?” I sighed. “And what is that even supposed to mean?”

“It means….” He hesitated. “I don’t know, actually. Be true to yourself. Live your good life? Something like that. Always seemed like pretty impossible advice to give—like, can we ever really know ourselves? The line seems predicated on an idealised conception of self, a sort of Platonic self by which to align ourselves. But then, in the play the only person who’s probably “true” to himself is Claudius, and he’s the villain, a murderer, a likely adulterer and acknowledge hypocrite, so maybe not the best role model, right? So…” he trailed off, and blushed. “Er, sorry.”

I smiled, and it was maybe the most genuine expression I’d made that night. “No, please,” I said, “Continue.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to bore you.”

“Because I’m blonde?”

“Because everyone gets the same glassy-eyed stare when I start to ramble on about Shakespeare,” he said. “Not just the pretty girls.”

“Well, this pretty girl isn’t bored. Yet. And I’m just about able to follow along, so long as you don’t use too many big words.”

“I didn’t—”

Ammunition was running low but I found a stray slice of citrus-glazed carrot and tossed it him. “Jesus, relax. I’m just kidding,” I said. “And tell me more about being true to myself.”

He took an uncharacteristic moment to think before speaking. “So, it’s not something I’ve really thought through before,” he started. “But first, it’s worth noting the line comes after a bunch of platitudes. Typical, tedious advice from a dad to his son. And the line’s potentially deeply ironic, since the guy saying it is hardly true to himself and so, as he says, it follows he’s false to others.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment, tapping the table with is finger.

“However. Maybe more than any of Willy’s other plays, Hamlet’s a play about acting, right?”

“Willy?”

He shrugged. “I’ve spent so much of my life studying the guy, I feel I’ve earned first-name privileges.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “Go on.”

“So everybody’s playing a part: anointed king, devoted daughter, loving mother. And the men in the play, especially, they each give different perspectives on how you might play the same part: that of duty-bound son, of vengeance-seeker. Laertes, Fortinbras, Hamlet, even Pyrrhus in the actor’s speech—they’ve all lost a father to murder. They’re all seeking revenge. But only one, in doing so, seems “true” to himself: Fortinbras, “strong-in-arm”, who swoops in at the end, gives a tidy little speech and win the play.

“But Hamlet—we see him try to be that guy, to be the dutiful, murdering son avenging his father’s murder. He creates in his head this concept, this image of who he should be, compares himself to idealised models but he just can’t be “true” to that conception of self, because it’s not who he is. And it’s not that he’s procrastinating or timid—he’s pretty quick to blindly stab people through curtains, or board pirate ships—but he’s a privileged aristocratic intellectual, a university student, a moralistic Christian disdainful of medieval ritual and responsibilities.

“And so he attempts to play the part he’s been forced to take on, but it’s never “true”, never really who he’s meant to be.”

I stared into the bottom of my glass. “And doing so gets him killed, doesn’t it?”

He signaled for the waiter. “Well… no, I don’t think so.”

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure Hamlet dies at the end of his tragedy.”

“Yes,” he said. “But maybe it’s because he -was- true to himself, in the end.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s only after his little detour to England, and after he’s seen a thousand good men on the march to die on a worthless hill—that is, when he’s finally confronted the full absurdity of human existence—that he’s finally able to be true to himself. He stops fighting, stops doubting, and simply is.

“If it’s God’s will that his enemy lives: so be it. Equally, if it’s God’s will that he should be the divine tool of judgment… that’s fine, too. All that matters—all that a man can do—is act when the times comes; everything else is without meaning. Thus, “the readiness is all”: and maybe it follows, then, that it’s only by being true to himself that a man can truly be ready when called to act.”

He lapsed into silence as the waiter approached. I barely noticed, unexpectedly struck by his words.

“Hey, you still with me?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t buy it.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. To be honest, I was mostly talking out my ass, there.”

“No, no, that’s not…” I shook my head. “Everything you said, it sounds good, it sounds like something some five hundred year-dead white guy might write; but that’s not how it works. I mean, how can you be true to yourself if your ‘self’ changes? Are you the same person you were ten years ago? Last year? This morning?” I gestured at myself, at hair and boobs, little back dress and tear-wrecked makeup. “What if this, all this, is a lie?”

Dan smiled. “Then I don’t want to know the truth.”

I sighed. “I’m being serious, here.”

“Well, Hamlet would say it’s all falsehood, anyways. ‘God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another,’ with makeup, right?”

“But it’s not fair!” I insisted. “Why should slapping some shit on my face make me less of a ‘true’ person?”

“Hey, the guy’s a misogynist with mommy issues. Besides, it’s just words, just a knavish piece of work?” He spread his hands wide on the table, placatingly. “We that have free souls, it touches us not,’ right?”

I stared at him, frustrated, feeling as though something important, something profound, lay just beyond my grasp—a glimpse of some truth underlying the absurdity of being Cindy sitting here opposite this idiot boy—an idiot boy who, I had to grudgingly admit, was proving a touch more interesting than I’d anticipated, though perhaps polishing off the bottle of wine had helped a little with that.

But what was the point of all this talk if it was just… words, words, words?

Releasing an exasperated puff of breath, I crossed my arms and glared off to the side in a performance of feminine annoyance.

“Are you honest?” he asked.

I turned back to him. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “You’re certainly fair,” he continued. “And there’s definitely a touch of Ophelia to you.”

I frowned; prettily, I hoped. “Crazy?”

His smile widened. “More tragically doomed.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“And loyal.”

“Er, yeah,” I answered. “Not sure I’m as dutiful a daughter as she was to… um… Poldark? Paul? Her dad, what’s his name, I forget.”

“Polonius?” Dan raised his glass in mock salute. “To a wretched, rash, intruding fool.”

“Didn’t he die, too?”

Dan nodded. “True; but he did have some pretty pithy lines: ‘the apparel oft proclaims the man.’” He gestured at me with his largely empty glass. “Or woman.”

I grimaced, drained my drink, and stood slightly unsteadily from behind the table. “So what does this apparel proclaim, then?

He took a long, appreciative look, his eyes slowly scanning up across my body, lingering in the expected places, before settling back in his seat contemplatively. His made an idle gesture with his hand: “turn around,” he commanded. His unexpectedly authoritative tone sparked a little thrill, a troubled pleasure that sent me into a silent, slow twirl, deftly spinning in my heels. Finishing with a mock curtsey, and settling back in my seat, I awaited his judgment.

“Beautiful,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze and the unabashed honesty in his voice made me want to squirm, though whether with delight or disgust I could not tell. “And stunning.”

“You flatter,” I said, fluttering a hand to cool myself. “My makeup’s ruined, my face puffy from crying.”

“No,” he said, looking almost comically serious. “I don’t. You look—gorgeous, Cindy, and I’m sorry—please don’t punch me in the nose!—but I am sorry I didn’t show my appreciation when I arrived, and I was a fool to keep you waiting.”

“Thank you,” I said, and unexpectedly it genuinely felt good hearing him say that. “Apology accepted.”

The waiter approached at that point; he went to order but then hesitated. He turned to me.

“More wine?”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

Maybe so, but I remembered what happened last time. I was far enough into drink to want more, but still sober enough to know it was probably a bad idea to continue. On the other hand—I was finally enjoying myself, unwinding from the stress of the week and free from Julia’s oppressive control.

I mean, sure, if he’d asked thirty minutes ago I would’ve refused, easily, but I was actually beginning to enjoy myself, now that Dan was being less of a prick. His apology meant more to be than it should have. He was an affable enough guy to hang around with, and yeah, there was something quite fun about having someone pick up the tab for the night. While it also made me distinctly uncomfortable, I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed the attention, the appreciation of my looks and the effort I’d put into them. Yes, I resented having to play the part of Cindy, of a girl—of this kind of girl—but I’d always enjoyed the benefits of good looks, and if was stuck being a woman, then why not a sexy one?

Besides, it was a Saturday night, and still early.

“Go on,” I said. “Fuck it. Another bottle.”

“What would you like?”

And smiling, I answered: “you choose.”

I disappeared to the toilet to fix my makeup while he ordered and returned to another bottle of red and some beautifully presented crème brulé. We talked, recapturing the ease of a month ago, and damn if I didn’t enjoy myself. I found myself finally able to relax, for the first time that evening, and just slip under the surface of Cindy. She took over, acting on automatic, listening attentively, nodding along, smiling, reaching out, fleeting little touches leading after another glass of wine to held hands. We fed each other our final spoonful of dessert, and our chairs crept closer together around the table.

And if he dominated the conversation, why should that be a bad thing? He did try, asked a few questions, mostly easily deflected, though I was forced to make up a few details about the past, including playing understudy Katherine in a high school production of Taming of the Shrew.

Which Dan followed by telling me about a production of Romeo and Juliet he played in a few years back—“just Sampson, just minor roles”—his last year of university. “It wasn’t very good,” he conceded. “Totally up its own ass, and so caught up with being ‘subversive’ and ‘controversial’ it forgot to actually be, you know… good.” He grimaced. “They did it in a so-called ‘authentic’ style.” Noticing my blank stare, he continued, “you know, with an all-male cast? Women weren’t allowed on stage in Shakespeare’s day,” he said. “So all the parts were performed by men. All those great lovers from the plays—your Juliets and Cleopatras and Titanias—all squeaking, crossdressing boys.” He gave a little gag. “All those classic, romantic kisses? Two guys.”

I hesitated before replying. “Not a fan of two men kissing?”

“No,” he stated flatly.

“What happened to ‘to thine own self be true?’”

Dan shook his head. “That’s different,” he said. “Homosexuality is…,” he hesitated. “It isn’t an idealised self, it’s a deviance from the norm.” He frowned slightly. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Maybe not the way it used to?” Treading carefully, I tried to articulate inchoate feelings. “I guess my idea of what’s the ‘norm’ has changed since I’ve moved here.”

He laughed. “Yeah, the city can do that, country girl.”

“And you feel the same way about men in women’s clothing?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted. “Like, sure, you be you, right? What do I care what somebody else does? But sumptuary laws existed in Willy’s days for a reason, and the fact we’ve sort of brought them back says something about today. Workplace dress codes and prescribed fashions are back, and polling suggests it’s all very popular, right?

“Besides, I’ll be honest: I don’t get it. Why would a guy want to wear a bra?” He grinned. “Weren’t you complaining how much of a pain all this stuff is?”

“Sure, but it can also be a lot of fun,” I lied. “And a way to express identity and mood. Besides, like you said, ‘gorgeous’ – who doesn’t want to look beautiful?”

“Yeah, but that means something different for you than for me, right?” Even half-drunk, he couldn’t help himself, one finger tapping his chin in contemplation. “Given there’s no objective standard of beauty, I mean, it’s all societally prescribed. If I wore what you’re wearing, I wouldn’t look beautiful, I’d look ridiculous. Even worse, I’d look weak.”

I flushed under my makeup with a flash of anger. “I’m weak?”

“Of course not!” he grinned, reaching out and gently stroking my bared, slender shoulder. “But—you know what I mean! What you’re wearing, it’s designed to emphasise feminine attributes, and…” he waggled his eyebrows lasciviously, “your attributes are most certainly feminine.”

I punched him in the shoulder. “Pervert.”

He puffed out his chest. “But I’m a man! And a man should be….?”

I waited. “Yes?”

He deflated. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

I laughed. “Idiot.”

Grinning sheepishly, he shook his head. “Idiot, maybe. But you know what I’m getting at. It’s not like it was twenty years ago. My parents keep going on about how liberal it all was at the turn of the century, so open, so free… so confused. Messed up pronouns and transgendered celebrities and nobody had a clue what to wear anymore or who they were.” Dan took a drink, stared into his glass for a moment, and shrugged. “I dunno if it’s better these days, but at least people have a clearer idea of what they’re supposed to be.

“Men are men.” He tapped his chest. “Women are women.” His hand, still lingering on my shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “I should be strong, ambitious, and work hard.”

Shifting slightly, I withdrew from beneath his touch. “And what am I supposed to be?”

“Exactly what you are,” he answered.

I hid my blush behind a deep drink of wine.

And so the evening went: we chatted, flirted, laughed and drink wine. We finished off the bottle and I found myself wanting another, warmly fuzzy and happy despite the uncomfortable constriction of undergarments struggling against a belly full of steak and drink.

Fortunately, this time Dan didn’t ask. He paid the bill, and suddenly I found myself outside, unsteady in heels and drunkenness, with his arm around my waist as we walked down the street, past restaurants and cafes and bars, and I kept expecting him to call for a cab but instead we stopped in front of small block of condos after what felt like far too short a walk.

“Here we are,” he said.

I blinked up at the well-appointed building, glittering windows and small balconies overlooking a small leafy park opposite, green and lush despite the heat. “You live here?”

He nodded. “Fancy coming up for a drink?”

“I….”

He rushed to interrupt. “Hey, no pressure. Listen, I heard you before: I’m not getting laid tonight,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I get it. But I’m having a great night. And I hope you’re having one too now that I’m not being such a dick. And, well…,” he blushed, “I guess I just don’t want the night to end, not yet.”

I smiled at him and laid my hand flat on his chest. “That’s really sweet, Dan. But we both know I should go….”

He looked crestfallen. “So that’s it?”

I nodded.

With a twinkle in his eye, and the hint of a grin, he reached up and cupped my cheek. “Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”

Despite dreading what had to come next, I couldn’t suppress a little smile, nor the words that followed. Steeling myself for the inevitable and leaning into his hand, I murmured, “what satisfaction canst thou have to-night?”

His mouth found mine: soft, tentative. Slight rasp of stubble against my cheek. His eyes closed as he leaned in closer, encouraged by my lack of resistance. And this kiss, it was different than those before. Before, I’d been half-blind drunk, drowning in some hormonal haze, or lost in memory. And yeah, sure, I was drunk; still swimming in a sea of feminine influence; and dogged by the past—but I was still in control, still me… whatever that meant tonight.

Everything, tonight: choices, freely made.

One hand slid down my back, cupped my ass, pulled me closer as the other hand found the base of my neck, fingers playing through long hair. Dan was an alright kisser, I had to concede, not one of the greats but better than I’d expected. A little too wet, a little too eager, and there it was, his tongue sliding its way in between my parted lips.

I observed all this coldly, clinically, wishing to detach myself from within the event. Much better to remove myself from the scene and watch from the outside, watch this young man and his pretty girlfriend make out in the pool of light dropping from the lamp above against the backdrop of the night sky.

But I couldn’t subsume myself in Cindy, retreat and play the part, not this time. Trapped in the moment I was forced to experience it all as myself, as a man gamely playing the feminine role in this romance—melting into her partner, soft and compliant—because… because, why?

My eyes fluttered close. His kiss deepened, growing more passionate. Dan pulled me closer. His hands began to roam, along my side, brushing across tits and thigh and shoulder. We twirled as we kissed, slowly and awkwardly in our silly little dance. And it felt so… mechanical, predictable, ridiculous even as I submitted to his touch and tongue and waited for it to end. Opening my eyes, I sought some kind of distraction from this boy’s touch, and saw:

A glimpse of someone standing at the corner of the building opposite, half-hidden in shadows, watching. A man: Jeff’s height and build; I would’ve bet my life on it; in a way I was.

What else could I do?

I gave myself over to the kiss, completely. Drawing closer to Dan, I whimpered into him, fingers gripping his back with toe-curling abandon. I matched his passion and resolved to put on a show convincing enough for that little fucker of a spy to take home to the spank bank.

Until I felt Dan’s cock poking me in the thigh.

Instantly, any sense of detached performance was torn away. Everything became brutally real, and I saw myself then clearly: a man in his thirties trapped in a tiny, tight dress, cowering in makeup and lingerie, pawed at by some younger guy. Weak and shamed. Disgust swelled my throat and I raised my hands to the boy’s chest to push him back and it was all I could do to avoid screaming—

“No!” Cindy shouted, shoving the man with frantic strength.

He stumbled back a step, heel catching on the edge of an overturned chair. Arms pinwheeling, he shouted, “Fucking bitch!” and reached for her. Cindy desperately scrambled away, trying to skirt around a table, keeping it between them.

“What do you want?” Cindy screamed at him.

He stopped, breathing heavily. “For cunts like you to know your place.” Then, with unexpected speed, he grabbed the table and toppled it to the side and jumped forward, grabbing at the young woman. His finger snagged the trailing edge of her billowing dress as she tried to dodge. She found herself suddenly brutally yanked back. With a cry she pulled away, the fabric tore, but pain flared through her scalp as he caught her by the hair.

He hauled her back, slamming her back up against the wall. His hands were suddenly on her, groping breasts, grabbing for her thighs. Cindy screamed. One hand found her throat—controlling, not choking—the other covered her mouth, and he used his full body, pressed up against hers, to trap her against the wall.

“I saw you come in here,” he hissed into her ear as she squirmed beneath his hold. “So fucking classy, like you own the place, think you’re better than us, eh?”

And he punctuated each word by thrusting up against her.

“Slut.”

“Tease.”

His tongue darted out, trailing across her cheek—and she screamed, muffled by his hand; and bit down, hard, into his finger; and he howled in pain, and she twisted free from his hold.

“Bitch!” He caught her arm before she could escape. He hauled her back; grabbed her by the shoulders; shook her once, twice and then threw her forward.

She stumbled, twisting and falling—

Into his arms and he held me close as he came up for air.

His breath was hot on my neck. “Are you sure you don’t want to come up for that drink?” he whispered.

No, I desperately wanted to shout. I don’t! I want—anything but this, because we both know damn well the promise a young woman makes entering a man’s home at night after an expensive date.

And at the same time, I did want that drink, I wanted it intensely, I wanted to drink myself into an oblivion in which shame and disgust, rage and loss simply ceased to be.

I wanted to blink and wake up at some later day without memory of this awful night, without recollection of another man’s touch lingering hotly across my flesh, his lips crushed against mine, his cock—

Most of all, and with such vivid passion that I trembled with the effort of restraint, I wanted to smash Dan’s face in. I wanted to stomp him to the curb and rip him limb from fucking limb and scream into his face: I am a man!

Resting my forehead against his chest, I released a shuddering breath.

“Cindy?”

“One drink,” I murmured.

He took me by the arm—

—and hauled her to her feet, shook and shouted in Cindy’s face, spittle flying.

“On your knees,” he demanded and shoved her away. She staggered, footing unsteady in wedges; pitched forward; her head struck the side of the counter. Pain flared across her temple and dazed, she sank to her knees—

—I sank to my knees—

And I was on my knees with this little black dress unfurled to the waist, tits out bra off, waist cincher and suspenders, hair cascading back, gazing up at the naked man looking down with a grin, with expectation, with lust and craving and his cock was out, thick and dark and swaying in anticipation of my delicate fingers curling around its shaft, my tongue dancing along its length, wet lips, kisses, mouth and throat, wet holes ready to service his needs….

And I was on my knees with this dainty peach sundress in tatters, one tit popped out of its bra, fabric torn to the waist, hair a tangled fall across my eyes as I stared up at the raging man looking down with fury and lust and craving, reaching for his belt buckle as he stalked towards me, grinning in anticipation of wet holes servicing his needs.

My fingers came away from my forehead slick and red with blood where I’d glanced off the counter’s edge. The man stood over me. His face contorted with lust and anger. “You had this coming,” he said. “Bitch,” he spat and reached for me. “You deserve this.”

And I looked up at him and my face split in a wide, fierce grin. “Yes,” I hissed, “I do.” My hand met his at the wrist and grabbed; kicked his legs out from under him; took him down, hard. He hit the ground with a crunch and I was on him before he knew what was happening.

A little later, after I’d had my fun, I made my way over to Doreen, absently wiping my hands clean on my dress, staining it crimson. It was all I could do to keep from whistling a jaunty little turn.

She whimpered at my approach and tried to scramble away. “No, please,” she said.

Smiling pleasantly, I knelt next to her. “Hey, hey, it’s fine,” I insisted. “You okay?”

She shook her head and moaned.

“Listen, earlier, you mentioned security cameras,” I said. “Remember? You told him everything was being recorded. I need to wipe those clean, Doreen.”

“No cameras,” she said, and coughed. “In a shit hole like this?”

I held her gaze. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Doreen?”

She shook her head.

I believed her. “You also said something about pie?”

She stared at me as you would a lunatic.

“Would you mind if I took a slice for the road?”

Back in the car, I examined my hands, and mourned the torn and broken acrylic nails Julia had gifted me; she’d be pissed. They stung something terrible now but I’d barely noticed in the moment—curling and uncurling each finger into a tight fist, I sighed with deep satisfaction. I devoured the lemon meringue—Doreen was right, it really was a slice of heaven—and settled, smiling slightly and comfortably and deeply into the seat.

I dozed. A chime woke me, and the car was silent and immobile and it was growing dark outside. Light poured from an expansive building opposite, and the door slid open.

An attendant was immediately at my side. “Welcome to the Asklepios Clinic, Ms Bellamy.” A young woman, very pretty and precise, and professionally attired, greeted me. “If you would follow me, please?”

I was swept along, through reception and out the back, along the edges of a lush garden heavy with the scent of citrus and lavender, buzzing with evening insect sounds, to a small cottage, a private room in a long row of similar looking accommodations.

“Your room, Ms Bellamy,” the pretty young woman stated.

Touching my hand to the door, it chimed and opened.

“Thanks,” I grunted.

Subdued lights activated at my approach, and I passed through the entrance into the living room beyond. It was all very well appointed; a little bland, maybe, but comfortable enough. I tossed my handbag on the sofa and was about to seek out the kitchen when a voice, a voice I hadn’t heard in quite some time, called me back.

“Mr Sanders.”

Katherine—Agent K—sat straight-backed in a chair in the corner, and leveled that look, stern and sexy, which I’d yearned to see for months.

“We need to talk.”

*** to be continued ***

Author’s Notes:

Phew! Well, that chapter took a lot longer than expected. Coming in at just under 20k words, short-and-frequent doesn’t really seem to be my style. Various real-life crises and interruptions consistently interfered with the happy writing routine I’d established for chapter 4, and it became a real slog to maintain any kind of momentum.

Special thanks to those supporting me on Patreon—I honestly don’t know if I’d have completed this without their help and encouragement. It certainly would’ve taken a lot longer otherwise. If you’ve got currency-of-choice to spare, and fancy taking part in the creative process, by all means join us: https://www.patreon.com/fakeminsk. Any and all support appreciated, and there are opportunities to influence the writing of the story, from introducing a favourite band to appearing as a character.

Also, some changes of note. What was previously chapter 5, part 1 has been collapsed into chapter 4. Structurally, it fit there better and essentially details Julia’s entrance into the story and her role in it; and fronting the chapter with the snapshot of the girl walking alone at night hopefully brought a bit more focus on the theme of David’s alienation and loneliness. It also meant that Chapter 5 could focus entirely on the two strands of his trip to the clinic: the memories of the date with Dan, and the encounter in the café, and how both events mirror and collapse into each other. At least I hope so: my aspirations as a writer often outstrip my actual skill!

I’m currently averaging about 500 words/workday, so 2500 a week. Hopefully back in six weeks with the next installment!

And finally: please review or leave a comment! It can’t be overstated how much it means to know somebody is actually reading this stuff.