Knowing Yourself: A Challenge by: Lilith Langtree I let my hands drop by my side and gave him my most lethal scowl. "I'm not out of the closet. I was never in the closet. I'm only doing this because Emerson's our client today and I was drenched by the storm this morning."

When It Rains
After checking myself over in the bathroom mirror I released the grimace I held. Still too dainty, but nothing I had tried over the last few years made any difference. Working out, running, protein shakes, you name it, not even a hint of masculinity arose from the effort. I was half tempted to try anabolic steroids save two reasons: I had no idea what would happen to my body, considering my condition, and the more important reason, I couldn't afford to buy them. That's why I went out and found a job.

Being seventeen, and officially out from under my father's thumb seemed like a dream come true for any teenager, more so for me considering I wasn't the son that my dad always wanted. I didn't play football and could care less about watching Sportcenter or drinking beer while sitting in front of the television. My body took care of that for me. At five foot-ten inches tall I topped the scales at a measly one hundred and thirty pounds, and that was after gorging myself during dinner when the human body was supposed to weigh its most.

I tended to wear loose clothing to make my body look bulkier, but that was problematic at times. Depending on my color coordination it made me look even skinnier.

Double checking my backpack for a change of clothes, a book, and a sack lunch, I set it by the door so I wouldn't forget to bring it to work. Generic Wal-mart brand pop-tarts was my breakfast afterward, that and water.

With only two hundred and sixteen dollars to my name I took the first job that presented itself to me: a gofer. My job consisted of running errands for my employer, a fashion photographer; whatever he wanted, I was supposed to make happen. It paid my bills and left me enough money to save for my operation so I would bear through the humiliation, whatever it was.

A glance at the microwave clock let me know I was running on time, but considering the look of the weather I wanted to get there a little early. Always making a good impression was my only chance to get ahead since college fell through. Dad wasn't going to fork up the money for me to go, and my grades in high school weren't good enough to get a scholarship, so I was out of luck there.

When I opened the front door to the apartment I noticed the dark clouds overhead and gave a silent prayer for the rain to hold off long enough for me to get to work. Considering I was riding a bicycle, this was a really important prayer. I locked up and made sure my backpack was secure before pedaling my butt off down the street.

I really should have saved the prayer on something else. Within five minutes I had entered a torrential downpour. An additional five minutes later I had been splashed no less than three times by passing cars. Needless to say I was a complete mess by the time I made it to work.

I received looks of sympathy from the two guys that were leaving the restroom as I pulled a boatload of paper towels from the dispenser and darted into an empty stall. Stripping out of my shirt I wrung the rainwater out into the toilet and hung it up on the broken hook on the back of the door. Patting myself dry was almost a work of futility, but I was less wet than I started out.

My next surprise was what was waiting for me inside my backpack. I unzipped the pack and was stunned to see the hole at the top that had worked its way open baring the contents to the elements. My brown sack lunch was soggy, my book was swollen and sodden, and my spare set of clothes had soaked up all the remaining water that had made its way inside. I was well and truly screwed.

Biting my lower lip seemed to be the only way I could keep myself from just sitting down and breaking into tears.

I shrugged my soaked button-down back on and dried my hair as best as I could with the hand blower mounted on the wall. Without my brush I knew it was going to be frizzed all over the place as a result. It was long, my hair. Cutting it short only led to my head looking tiny. Leaving it long at least let me pull it back, adding a little body along the way giving the illusion that I wasn't a pea head. I didn't have enough time to dry it all the way, so it looked curled up and damp by the time I decided it was enough. Leaving it out of my normal low ponytail was my only choice if I wanted it to dry by lunch time.

With a final frown in the mirror at my even more feminine appearance I grabbed my dripping back pack and made my way to the elevator.

"Hey Tanner, I'm here."

My boss, Tanner Hamersley was setting up the lighting for the morning shoot when I walked in. He threw up a single hand in greeting without even turning around. Counting my blessings I took the chance to ask him about my last chance of saving my modesty for the day. "I got drenched on the way in. Mind if I raid the wardrobe?"

I cringed when he turned around. A smirk rose on his face. "You look like a drowned rat."

"Yeah, thanks," I snarked back. "Do you mind?" I thumbed toward the adjoining room.

"Go ahead. Pick out something nice today, would ya? Emerson's coming by. I want to make a good impression."

Carter Emerson's firm supplied most of the high end models for the majority of the city's photographers, so having him impressed with our shoot was a pretty big deal. "Got it."

I disappeared into the wardrobe room and started going through the clothes. I had only done this once before, a year ago, when I'd slipped and landed in shrubbery planter outside in the smoking area. I'd only had to borrow a shirt then and it wound up being from the young teen collection. Most of the models had their pick of whatever clothes they wanted after a shoot, but a lot was left behind and there was always a need to have extra clothes. I was one case in point. Another would be accessories that were forgotten by the models or costumers. We always had what was needed. It was one of the reasons Tanner was becoming well known. Having a reputation of always being prepared for any contingency tended to make you look good.

I flipped through the kids section with a frown. Most of it was girls clothes, which was out of the question, and the boys clothes were geared toward shorts and sporting outfits. There wasn't really anything I could use that might be considered appropriate wear for impressing a client. I knew it was pointless, but I gave a cursory glance at the men's clothes. I didn't have a male model's build. Any pants I chose were way too long for me, and I already knew that they wouldn't fit over my girlish hips without looking totally ridiculous being bunched up with a belt at my overly trim waist.

"Any luck?" Tanner asked.

I turned to him at the doorway and shook my head. "Nothing."

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. I watched as his eyes moved to the women's clothes and that made my stomach roll. "You know it's your only option." At the look on my face he edged his idea along. "Mac, it's not like you couldn't pull it off."

Tanner pushed away from the wall and walked over to flip through the blouses. My face heated in embarrassment. Yes, I knew I could pass for looking like a girl. It's not like I hadn't been mistaken for one for most of my life. However, having him throw it in my face like that wasn't doing my ego any good. "Nothing revealing," I insisted.

He shook his head. "I'm looking for professional, Mac. Don't worry."

In the end he set aside a white button down cotton blouse and a loose black calf-length skirt. Even I had to admit that it was the most conservative outfit in the bunch. "Try these on and let me see." After a brief pause he asked, "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Five and a half." Even my tiny feet mocked my masculinity. I took a hold of the hangers and watched as he chose a pair of black two inch pumps which he handed to me as I glared at him.

"Sandals wouldn't match and you know it." He said it with no humor, so I didn't snap any nasty retorts back at him. "Check the bin for underwear."

Sure, make my overture into women's clothing complete with lingerie. Biting back a smart remark I sifted through opened set packages of unused panties until I found something that didn't scream Victoria's Secret: a black pair of boy shorts. Bras I was already familiar with. I was well versed in my band and cup size as I suffered from gynaecomastia, meaning I had my own set of breasts to tend to. At work I kept them bound, but at home I normally wore a comfortable bra. My life sucked so incredibly hard it was pathetic.

A privacy screen was my changing area where I said goodbye to the now freezing wet male clothes and a grumbling hello to a fluffy towel that Tanner tossed over the top of the screen.

"I don't know why you insist on trying to live like a guy, Mac. You could have such a cush life as a girl."

I pulled of the binding and dropped it to the floor before toweling my breasts off. "Being intersexed does not automatically make me a girl, Tanner." He's known about my sexual ambiguity since a week after I started my job as his assistant. "My chromosomes say I'm X,Y. That means male."

I almost felt warm again by the time I dropped the towel to the floor and slid my legs through the boy shorts.

"Well there's not a lot of guys that I know that are hotter than most of the chicks I know. And considering I photograph models for a living I think I'm on the inside track as to differences between the sexes."

I really hate it when he did that; comparing me to the models was one of the things I didn't like about my boss. "Cut it out with the hot chicks talk. I'm not hot. I'm a guy!" I said as I donned my white satin bra to support my B-cup breasts.

"What ever you say, ma'am."

Bastard. I'd toss the skirt and heels at him if we didn't need the Emerson contract so bad. Bagging Emerson meant more jobs with big name models, which meant more money for the firm, which meant more money for me. This in turn meant that I could finally afford the male hormones to make my body do what I want it to for a change. It also meant I could get breast reduction surgery and have that little opening underneath my penis closed up and sealed forever. I could be a real guy.

With the blouse buttoned up to the collar I slipped my legs into the skirt and pulled it up to my hips where it obviously wasn't meant to be. A tug high, and still higher it finally fit just under my ribs accentuating my twenty three inch waist. Wonderful. This looks ridiculous. "Tanner, I need a belt."

He was waiting for that one… again, Bastard.

A very wide black belt slipped over the top of the screen. I took it with a snap and slipped it around my waist, buckling the gigantic brass colored buckle. My last indignity were the heels, which of course, fit perfectly and added two more inches to my lanky looking frame. I took a minute to acclimate myself to the additional height and the odd feeling of standing with arched heels before revealing myself.

A smile graced Tanner's face before he beckoned for me. "Come here."

The clicking of the heels on the hard wood floor was a new experience for me. Well, the whole thing was new to me. The slight stretching of my calves, the breezy feel of open air between my bare legs, standing in front of Tanner while I was wearing a bra, which by the way lifted my breasts to new dimensions.

He grabbed my sleeve and gave it two fashionable rolls upward, above my elbow, before doing it to the other as well. A quick glance at my legs and an approving nod later he backed away. "It is so weird that you don't shave your legs and they look so good."

Before I could tell him for the fifth time about my messed up hormones pretty much deleting body hair from my genetic make up, I heard the front office door open and the sound of our make up artist arriving. "Everyone relax… I'm here!"

"Idiot," I commented.

"We're in the wardrobe, Irina," Tanner called out.

He was forty, his name was Irina -- Robert really, but he insisted being called Irina — and he was so fearsomely gay it was pathetic. He embodied the flaming homosexual stereotype to a tee. Loud colored clothing, flamboyant hand gestures, and a exaggerated sway in his walk brought him through the door and to a jarring stop when he saw me.

"Finally!" He sashayed quickly to my side and took my hands in his so that he could see the full effect. "You've come out of the closet and have been replaced by Marlene Dietrich. The look is totally yours, schatzi." He twirled his finger in the air. "Spin for me, butter-muffin. Let Irina get the full show."

I let my hands drop by my side and gave him my most lethal scowl. "I'm not out of the closet. I was never in the closet. I'm only doing this because Emerson's our client today and I was drenched by the storm this morning."

Irina's perfectly tweezed eyebrow arched with doubt clearly etched on his face. "What storm?"

I actually heard my teeth grind. Spinning in my heels I turned around and disappeared behind the privacy screen for a moment. I almost wound up on my butt as I bent over and temporarily lost my balance. Correcting, and squatting with my knees and picked up my sodden clothes. "The storm that did this to me!"

Irina's eyes widened in exaggerated shock. "Oh kitten! There isn't a cloud in the sky out there."

God hates me. It's the only thing I can think of.

I fetched the Art Director his flute of champagne and made sure there was a fresh pot of coffee for Tanner who was still looking at me with a bit of annoyance because I wouldn't let Irina slap a coat of her make up slop on me. I looked fine. I didn't need any make up and the natural look was still in, so it didn't matter anyway. With a glance at the clock above the door I saw that the model was already five minutes late and Tanner was starting on a slow boil. Nothing ticks off a photographer more than people being late; it throws his schedule completely off.

The jasmine scented incense that the model insisted on having lit exactly fifteen minutes before her arrival was starting to get on my nerves. I have nothing against jasmine in specific. I just hate things burning without me watching them. You won't find a single candle in my apartment. Plus the weird things famous people make us do just gets on my nerves. Take Bianca for example: Her pre-shoot list requires the following items: 3 quarts-sparkling water (sealed), 1-hot dog (with French's brown mustard), 1-4.5oz package of peanut M&M's with the blue ones removed (boxed, not bagged), 1-family sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos (not sealed, but fresh), 1- half cut seedless watermelon (w/rind cut away and cubed in half inch chunks in a covered bowl accompanied with a plastic recyclable spork). I shit you not.

The messed up part? She winds up bringing her own drink, usually a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, and she doesn't touch a single item on the list. However if we mess up any one item then she walks back out the door and we have to pay for the day's shoot as per contract. It's the price you pay for shooting the popular models.

My attention was brought back to the present by the entrance door opening and admitting our client, Carter Emerson. Being in his mid-forties did nothing to take away the air of power he emitted. He was casually dressed, meaning he was sans his normal two hundred dollar tie. His lips pressed together with irritation. My guess was that he was pissed because there was a shoot with no model present. Before I even had a chance to greet him, he produced a cell phone and started in on a call. I took this time out to pour his Earl Grey tea, one Sugar in the Raw only.

I gave him some space to have his call in semi-private while I stood there holding his cup and saucer giving him the once over. His black hair had recently started to salt a little and his face was barely showing tell-tale lines of age, but it wasn't a bad look on him. Men aged gracefully; it was the trade off of the sexes. By the time I met his eyes I noticed he was staring at me, or more to the point, my body.

The clap of his cell phone closing timed with his brown eyes meeting my green. "Bianca is in the elevator."

I nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Emerson. I'll let Tanner know." Holding out the cup and saucer I added, "Earl Grey, one Sugar in the Raw."

He accepted the tea with a slight tilt of his head. I didn't waste any time turning and heading to update Tanner. However for some reason my butt started burning like someone was staring a hole through my skirt. I threw a look over my shoulder and sure enough it was Emerson. Great, I sighed to myself. He had a reputation for acquiring his models through extensive couch interviews. In short, he was a womanizer. Hell, he could afford to be. I had no desire to be one of his interviews not to mention one of his models, so I planned to stay well out of his line of sight unless absolutely necessary. I didn't need this job that bad. Well, maybe I did, but there was no way I was going to play sex bunny for a horny rich guy.

Before I could get the words, 'Bianca's in the elevator,' out of my mouth the door burst open and three giggling girls stumbled inside, one of which fell flat on her face. Bianca wasn't the faceplant. Emerson's fists clinched and then released with a slow breath. Four steps closer to the tardy model and he leaned into her. Sharp words were exchanged five of which I could make out. It was good because those were the most important ones of the bunch. 'You're released from your contract.'

"What!" Bianca screeched. "You can't fire me!" She threw her head back along with her frizzy hair. Looks like I wasn't the only one caught out in the rain. "I made this agency!"

Security was called shortly thereafter. It's not pretty when a stoned model loses it. I'm not usually one to judge, but I never really understood why people take illegal drugs, and by illegal I mean anything more than weed. Bianca was coked up so much that she didn't bother to wipe it off her nose. That's what got her fired. There were rumors a year past that she got in trouble and disappeared for about two months. Rehab I assumed. It looked like the rumors were right on the nose. Pun thoroughly intended.

Making myself relatively comfortable while Tanner and Emerson sorted through the aftermath was boring to say the least. I zoned out, thinking about our lost chance with the agency. So much for a raise, exotic location shoots, traveling overseas, a bigger apartment, a car.

Then a flash went off and I blinked away the sudden brightness.

Tanner stood back up from a squat, smiling at me. I looked over at Emerson sitting on a stool in front of the computer where I knew captured images were instantly displayed.

"Hey. What the hell?" I stage whispered at Tanner so the client couldn't overhear.

He just shrugged playfully at me and went over to Emerson. "Can't help the shadows. Bad lighting in the area."

Emerson's eyes were glued to the laptop in front of him for a few moments and then flickered up to me, again sweeping in my entire body.

Oh no.

"Give me a working port in two days. If she's as good as I think she's going to be then you've got the contract for St. Petersburg."

Oh nononono!

I sat up, noticing for the first time that the top couple of button on my blouse had worked themselves loose. Emerson's eyes locked on the exposed skin and then he made his way out the door.

"What did you do!" I accused Tanner.

He totally ignored my question and instead held his hands up in a placating gesture. "How would you like to earn five thousand dollars for three days work in St. Petersburg?"

Author's Note: Well there you go. All set up. The challenge? What does Mackenzie do: Accept and become a fabulous fashion model? Decline and lose the account? Struggle through acceptance? Take the job, but only for a single shoot? Fall in love with the photographer, the client, the makeup artist? Your choice. Anyone has my permission to continue this story, long or short. Just give credit.

Photo Credit to Irina Sheik