Samantha's Diary

by Lyssa Fields

  

Dec 31, 20003

New Year's Resolutions

 

1. I will stop wearing women's clothes.

2. I will stop buying women's clothes

3. I will stop wearing women's clothes, buying women's clothes and dreaming about trying them on in the women's dressing room, so I don't go home half the time with the wrong size. (Those black thongs I got at Knickerbox were just ridiculous. Nobody, not even a woman, could have gotten into them. I think.)

4. I will start behaving more like the man I was born to be. This means that I will have to stop being nice to people, and become more aggressive. And work out more at the gym on my biceps, or triceratops, or whatever they are. And stop dreaming about Lycra and Spandex and turquoise and low-cut V-necks. Haven't got anything there anyway. Should be one of the easier ones.

5. I will start eating a more manly diet with more red meat cooked red and fewer vegetables, sprouts and tofu. And no more Diet Coke. I mean, did anyone ever see a man order Diet Coke? I almost embarrass myself. And the waitresses always look at me with a twinkle in their eyes. Do you think maybe they know? Well, of course they know. They're women, aren't they. If only…

6. I will severely limit my intake of Cosmos. I will not give them up entirely, because I like them too much, although when I order them male bartenders give me almost the same look that waitresses give me when I order Diet Cokes. I will try to develop a taste for single malt whiskies, preferably Lagavulin. It is very strong, smoky, tastes of peat and goes well with cigars, so I'm told, though all this sounds incredibly repellent.

7. Will also have to give up Virginia Slims (smoked only in private) and Marlboro lights (public) and start smoking cigars (yuck, yuck and double yuck).

8. I will watch the Superbowl, or the Soccer World Cup, or PGA golf or Formula One or anything instead of saying, "Oh, there's a re-run of Baryshnikov dancing 'The Nutcracker'" on PBS or the BBC or whatever. Dead giveaway. Work on poker face.

9. Speaking of which, will find whoever it is at work who plays poker late at night and see if can get in on it. Will never mention playing "Hearts" ever again.

10. And finally, look for a new job. Have been writing the advice to the lovelorn column for MetroChick magazine for way too long. Got the job by a fluke anyway when the previous columnist ran off with a holiday tour organizer to Faliraki and they had no one else to write it that week. Then the editors found there was something sensitive, insightful and – get this – intuitive about the way I wrote it and made me stick with it. Now get far too many letters from readers of "Charlotte Haynesbury" saying they appreciate the advice that only another woman could give. The editors just smile at me – sweetly, mind you – when I say I want to go back to TV listings. Debbie (the bitch) even has this coo-ing way of saying, "But Sam (and then under her breath – antha) you know you do it sooo well. It's just so, well, you – baby cakes." THIS IS TOTALLY WRONG, TOTALLY THE WRONG DIRECTION AND HAS TO STOP (UNDERSCORE, UNDERSCORE, UNDERSCORE)!!!!!

11. Ah, almost forgot. Will erase from mind the, let's face it, girlish day dream fantasy I have always entertained since I was young enough to think about such things of someday having a husband, a home and kids – my husband, our home and our kids. And of meeting him at the door at the end of a hard working day, his martini in my perfectly manicured hand, the smell of the roast wafting from the kitchen, my boobs almost popping out of my Wonderbra, my black knickers showing under my mini-skirt and he grabbing the martini with one hand, thrusting his other hand up through my panties and, well…I suspect you all know the rest. Or do you?

 

New Year's Eve – Disaster

Should never have gone to Diane's party in Kensington, I knew it, I knew it. But I did. And now I can hardly bear to think about it. I mean, it was all so incredibly embarrassing, even though I went there with the best of intentions and wearing, if it is not the wrong turn of phrase, my most butch gear. I do have that sort of thing in my wardrobe, in this case my black Hugo Boss suit with the thin lapels, and the black Italian pointy-toed loafers I picked up at the market in Firenze last year. I looked a knock out, I thought, and figured it was a sure bet that at least one or two women would talk to me. And maybe that might develop into something… Maybe?

Instead, I was a dyke magnet. From the minute I walked in the door, their eyes locked in on me, from various parts of the room. The one who got to me first was Vicious Victoria from subscription sales, wearing black leather from head to toe. She locked onto me before I'd got my coat off.

"Oooh, Sam, don't you look luscious. You're so cute I could eat you alive.

"Here, have a Cosmo – I know you love them," she said, handing me a wide, deep cocktail glass that contained the equivalent of about two or maybe three of the drinks you'd get in your average bar. I hesitated for just a moment, recalling my resolution, then cast her a wan smile and downed it quickly. The excuse – and this is always the excuse – is that I would need fortification to get me through the evening. The real reason – and this is almost always the real reason – is that I knew I'd lost before I'd begun.

"Sam, I'd like you to meet Lucinda," Victoria continued, reaching out with her left arm and pulling close to her a woman so thin she'd have made Kate Moss look like Brunnhilde. "Lulu, meet Sam, Sam meet Lulu."

"Hi, Sam – is that your full name?" Lucinda said in a voice much deeper than I'd expected. She seemed to have suddenly switched gears in mid-sentence, as if the question popped into her head involuntarily.

I blushed a deep shade of red, redder even than the Cosmo I was holding in my hand, and which was almost all gone.

Victoria laughed.

"Sam is just 'Sam', dear, short for Samuel – nothing else, at least as far as I know," Victoria said with a wicked glint in her eye. "Isn't that right, Sam?"

The nickname I'd been given at MetroChick was an open secret, but I'd be damned if I'd say it.

Victoria giggled. I inwardly writhed and wanted to strangle her, but murder would not look good on my CV which, of course, would be necessary to fulfil resolution 10.

"Sam writes the Agony Aunt column for the hag-mag, and a damn fine job of it…he (here she gave the impression of searching for the right pronoun) does too," Victoria plowed on, burying me deeper with every word.

"Great advice, great insight into the finer points of women's love lives and emotions and the problems women have generally in life, quite impressive for a man to know all that, don't you agree, sweetie?" she continued.

Victoria was rubbing her shoulder in a friendly way against mine and looking up at me as she spoke. I was about six inches taller than her, while Lucinda was almost my height.

"I do my best," I said, trying to sound modest without slighting her unwanted, if flattering, compliment.

"Oooh, I see, that explains it," Lucinda said, mysteriously, in her provocatively deep voice.

"Pardon?" I said, without really wanting to, realizing too late that I was about to get an answer I didn't really want to hear.

Lucinda took a sip of her white wine and moved a step closer to Victoria, who by now had stopped rubbing against my shoulder and instead slipped her free hand up Lucinda's exceedingly short black leather mini-skirt and fondled her fetching derriere. They both smiled at me.

"What Lulu means, Sammy dear, although she's too polite and shy to say it straight out, so I'll have to blurt it for her, is that you come across as extraordinarily feminine even to new acquaintances and she wonders why you haven't made the transition, so to speak."

I began to edge away from the pair of them, realizing this was an avenue of discussion where I definitely did not want to go. In doing so, I backed gently into a tall black man, who was standing with his back to me, almost tipping the drink from his hand.

When I looked to see whom I'd bumped into, he turned and looked at me, but instead of being angry, he flashed me a bright, warm smile.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," he said in a deep baritone, but with a touch of lightheartedness, stretching out a hand.

It struck me that he looked like Cleavon James, the hunky lead singer for the rap group 4Some, but I didn't get a chance to respond, or say another word to him, as Victoria cut him off.

"Excuse us," she said brusquely. "We were just finishing up with Sam here and then you can talk to ah err him." She pulled me back into our little Bermuda triangle of conversation, where all normal reason seemed to have vanished without a trace.

"So if you don't mind, Sam, what Lulu would say, if she were as blunt as I am," Victoria went on, "is why aren't you taking hormones to obliterate your maleness, and let someone like me tame what's left over – which is exactly what Lulu has done?

"I mean, she's happy, she's beautiful, she's a total knockout and you'd never suspect anything, except for her voice, would you?"

"There, snookums, have I told sad Sam-antha the facts of life exactly the way snookums would have done if snookums hadn't become such a dainty, proper and thoughtful lovey dovey but foxy creature that her Victor just loves to death?"

Lulu lowered her eyelids and smiled a wide, lascivious smile with her beautiful, full red lips as she took another small sip of her wine. She tugged gently on Victoria's hand – a signal that there was nothing else to be said, and now she was fully aroused from having her bum caressed, it was time to go.

They sauntered towards the door, deeply entwined, although Lulu looked back over her shoulder and blew me a kiss before they walked out into the unseasonably soft London night.

I stood there, pale as a sheet, barely breathing, hardly moving, with the empty Cosmo glass clutched in my hand. The tall, handsome black man, who was wearing a long cape-like cloak that looked like it had come from "The Matrix", started to walk my way, with an expression of concern on his face, but before he got close enough to speak, someone intervened.

"Sam…uh, Sam, hi, is there anything wrong?"

It was mein hostess and chief editor, Diane von Furstenwurter, dressed as she always did on New Year's Eve, in a flowing pink ballroom gown that would have been more at home in Vienna than Kensington, looking up at me with an expression of real concern on her face.

Her husband Charles, who owned MetroChick, was right behind her, a gin and tonic in his hand and plenty more of them glowing from his cheeks.

"Yes, I mean, hello, Samuel, and Happy New Year and all that but I mean you're not looking at all well. Is there anything we can do? Would you care to lie down for a few minutes?"

"Yes do, dear," Diane said, firmly taking my hand. "You just come with me now and have a little lie down in my boudoir."

I tried to protest, knowing that this was probably the last thing I needed to do and the last place I needed to go, but Diane was having none of it.

She led me down one of the vast hallways of the mansion Charles had been able to afford from the fortune he'd made in real estate and opened the door into a room done entirely in pink, with lace curtains and a four-poster bed.

"Here, let me help you take off your jacket and shirt and pants," she said, manoeuvring me out of my clothes with a practiced hand quicker than I'd have thought humanly possible.

"You just slip into this," she said, holding up a gorgeous pink silk nightgown with lace straps. I started to protest but found I hadn't the strength, or the words to do so.

"It's all there is in this room, you know, girl things, but it should keep you comfy," she went on.

With that, she pulled the nightgown over my shoulders and let it glide its exquisitely cool and gentle way down to my ankles. I immediately got an erection which I couldn't stop and which Diane couldn't fail to notice.

"Oh dear, oh dear, what are we to do with you, Sam?" she said in a surprisingly affectionate tone, not annoyed or embarrassed, as I'd have expected her to be.

She guided me to the mammoth, silk-sheeted bed with lace pillows and gently but again firmly forced me to lie down.

"Now if you need any, ah, pads or pills or anything, sweetheart, the powder room is just over there," she said, pointing to a door on the far side. "I'll look in on you in a little bit to see if you're all right, but if you need anything else you can just pick up that pink telephone and one of the staff will answer.

"And if you're feeling cold or, well, if you feel like you have to put something on, the drawers and closets are full of anything and everything a young heart could desire. Feel free. You're taller and bigger than I am but it doesn't matter, and nobody is going to disturb you…Samantha."

"By the way, Charles and I want you to know we love what you're doing with the Agony Aunt column, just love it. Best thing in MetroChick, Charles always says. So anything, anything, dear, to make you happy."

She gave me a peck on both cheeks and was gone. So too, I realised, were whatever shreds had been left of my manhood.

 

January 1

12 st (80 kg) -- challenging, Cosmos 3 (one before noon, n.g), Virginia Slims 12 (two in public, extremely n.g.), Budweiser 1 (v.g., gd for macho image, even though drunk in private), Trifemalin tablets 1 (not at all good for macho image, but it's Pepsi challenge time)

After the debacle of New Year's Eve I have decided to go for broke. I am going to push myself out, in both directions, and let the best man – or woman – be me.

I made what I would call an uberesolution after managing to escape undetected from Diane and Charles's, slipping out the front door shortly after 6 a.m., past the carnage of the night before. What an incredible mess. Chairs upended, tables turned on their side, bottles and glasses strewn everywhere. A few guests, some with party hats still on their heads, but pointing at impossible angles, were lying comatose on the floor or on sofas amidst the dregs of the night before. Must have been some party.

I, of course, had missed it all. After lying awake in a state of shock in Diana's boudoir, I rallied and realised that there'd never been any disguising who I was, everyone knew it and who the hell did I think I was fooling? Mostly myself, maybe my parents, but I doubt the latter very much.

Which doesn't mean that I have abandoned resolution 4 ("I will start behaving more like a man…") almost before the New Year has begun. But as Oscar Wilde said (not, of course, in these exact words since only he could say things the way he said them), I have never met a temptation I could resist.

With that in mind, I spent most of the early morning hours trying on everything in Diane's closets and wardrobes. She had an amazing polka-dot bra and panty set which fit me like a dream, so I wore it home, since I'm sure that's what she intended.

A lot of things were far too small, which is why I have begun to make a note in my diary of my weight, on a daily basis. Right now I am about average for a 5 ft 11 male, which means I am about 50 to 60 pounds overweight for a woman of my height and age (let's just say "over 30" and leave it at that. Like most people of my…sex?…I am sensitive on this point. And that's without having a built in biological clock. Oh God.)

In any case, I have heard about this diet where you eat only meat and other proteins, which is very much in your macho territory, while you lose weight, which is what my feminine persona is telling me I must do. The game plan is to drop from a size 16, in the dress department, to a 12 within six months, and then slowly work down to a 10, which is certainly ambitious but if achieved, could be a world record.

But wait. It ain't all over for the original equipment. There will also be gym workouts, on a daily basis, plus jogging and swimming, in an effort to build up those pecs and labs and littorals and whatever other muscles there are that should be rippling under my tight T-shirts and wowing the fems, but have singularly failed to do so up til now. If it so happens that these exercise sessions happen to be aerobics, so be it, but at least the sweat will be male.

And I almost forgot. After leaving them sitting in their sealed envelope for the past six months, I am starting an extremely risky, highly un-recommended, self-administered feminine HRT treatment. Got the pills over the Internet, from a mail order in the Balkans, if you can believe. I personally think this is a completely crazy thing to do, but the pills are (perhaps deceptively?) small and I've decided it's time to fish or cut bait. One a day, it says in the instructions which come with the clever, round dispenser, which only lets you take out one at a time anyway.

I'm going to give it a go, come what may. Took the first one when I got home, on the underground from Kensington, at about 8 a.m. Washed it down with my first Cosmo of the day (hey, it's a girl thing). Now waiting to see if my facial hair stops growing or boobs pop out. I think it could be a long wait. But at least I'm doing something. It's time to find out, at long last, how I connect with the world – as an arrow or as a plus sign. The arrow has a three decade (and change) head start, but I wouldn't rule out the plus sign. The kid could be a comer, in more ways than one.

4:30 p.m. – Facial hair still growing (the "Tricky Dick" 5 o'clock shadow effect, something that advertises your virility as you head into the evening, but might be a turnoff with pink lipstick), no progress on boobs, no calls from friends, no contact at all with outside world. This is hell, being in this limbo world, and especially hell to be starting the New Year this way. Taking executive decision, have rung up Todd, the gay stockroom clerk, who knows the war going on in my head and is sympathetic, as all gay guys are, but not at all so inclined. His credo: God gave you a dick and an ass, so go out and use them. Todd not answering, which is as it should be, on New Year's Day, so leave message on his machine. Hoping he might get back in time to order out for pizza and sit down for re-runs of Allie McBeal or Sex and the City, but suspect he has other plans, probably involving his dick and his ass and various other parts of his body as well.

Notice, as I put down the phone, that while I was calling Todd, someone had tried to get in touch with me. The answering machine registers a new message, but there was no signal on the line to alert me to an incoming call. Extremely odd, but since this is London and Britain, the fact that things like the Tube and the phones and the plumbing don't work is taken for granted.

I listen to what was recorded on the tape, but all that's there is the sound of someone – has to be male – taking a deep breath, almost like a sigh, and then hanging up. Worry a bit that this could be heading into your caller-stalker territory, but it could also just be a wrong number and not going to make anything of it unless happens again. Then again, wish it would turn out to be caller-stalker (though perhaps not of the type that makes headlines in the papers). Could use a little drama, excitement and, let's face it, sex in my life, even of the rough kind.

9 p.m. – Todd hasn't called back, nor has the caller-stalker. Had two more Cosmos and drank a Budweiser with my frozen pizza, skipped Allie McBeal and Sex and the City, read a back issue of Cosmo for a bit and went to bed. Is this not a life or what? And it's been 12 hours, still no boobs. Nothing in my life seems to work. But tomorrow's a workday. Can drown myself in my job, as always, like a good…girl. Grrrr!

Midnight – Receive mobile phone picture and text message from Todd. "Wishing u hpy nyr from BOTTOM of my hrt", the text part says. The picture, while a bit blurry and out of focus, shows a naked male bottom and three cocks, fully aroused, ready to enter. Didn't know you could do that, but then again, you learn something every day. At least someone knows I'm alive. Hurray!

 

Thursday, January 2

12 st (80 kg) no change-bad, Cosmos 6 (v.b., but had to go out w work colleagues to start the N.Year, so unavoidable), Virginia Slims, entire packet of 20, half in public (is this the pills starting to take effect, losing inhibitions about displaying tendencies?), macho activities 0 (v.b.), Trifemalin tablets 1 (just like the instructions say—but what do these things really do? Had to shave this morning, still no boobs)

7 a.m. – Alarm went off an hour ago but slept an extra 45 minutes, probably due to the depression of having done nothing at all with anyone on New Year's Day. Missed going to gym where would have started new routine of vigorous exercise to build up muscles and muscle tone but nobody seems to love me, so what's the point?

Made up for lack of human contact, relationships and love life by having two boiled eggs instead of the one specified in new diet, which have clipped from the back issue of Cosmo and will adhere to religiously, very soon. But missed not having the two slices of toast with butter and raspberry jam I accustomed to eating for breakfast, but which completely banned under new, extremely strict regimen. May try to sneak a chocolate bar at work later, since nobody from the diet plan presently on site to monitor. Will start putting calories-per-day in diary soon, but this number so astronomical it would be too scary in black and white and best kept as abstract, therefore flexible, notion in head.

10 a.m. – Arrive at work an hour late after horrendous ride to Canary Wharf on Docklands Light Rail. No sooner leave Tower Hill Station than train comes to gut-wrenching halt, causing half the people in the crowded car to topple over. No injuries, but after aggravating 15 minutes with train standing stock still, all but inaudible voice comes over intercom to announce will be delayed another 15 minutes because there has been a fatality involving a jumper in front of the train ahead of us. This not an unusual occurrence because the DLR trains are driverless and the jumpers in their own fashion are being considerate to the rail staff, not to leave drivers scarred for life. But it's all the same for the passengers, many of us fuming now – literally, since the smokers among us think being delayed for this long is licence to ignore the no smoking ban and have lit up. Fumbling in my bag I find I have only Virginia Slims, but as I pull one out I find I no longer really care if anyone notices.

Ten minutes later we are underway again, but after a few minutes more the train again comes to another gut-wrenching halt, sending half the passengers to the floor. This time someone has jumped in front of our train. Fortunately, we are near enough to a station so police arriving on scene are able to escort passengers to platform allowing us to walk the rest of the way to work.

11 a.m. – Boss Apoplectica (not her real name, which is Gertrude, but that never used, except to her face, by those in the know) on my case about "Charlotte Haynesbury" copy, which must be in by the end of the day, as this is a short work week and MetroChick going to bed tonight. Trouble is, and I think she senses this, which is why she grins at me maliciously from her glassed-in office, is that I am too depressed to be motivated to write up advice for the lovelorn. If my own life and love life is such a mess, what possible advice can I have for anyone else?

This is a rut I have been in before and the best known cure is a large Mars bar from the sweets shop down on the main concourse. Take lift down 10 storeys, purchase bar, consume same while looking at the display of spring fashions in the window of the Next store on the concourse (I always try to give off mental vibes that I am looking for a girlfriend or wife, but I know this is as ridiculous as the line I give salesgirls that I am buying this glossy black, low-cut bra as a Valentine's present for my girlfriend. In March? Ah, well, forgot the date, yet again).

Rebecca Livingstone, the mousy, evangelical Christian girl from accounting who has a crush on me and sometimes insists that I share a sandwich with her for lunch in the park when the weather is nice, passes on the far side of the concourse. I catch a glimpse of her but she pretends not to see me, so that she won't have to ask me what I'm doing. Am sure she is convinced that if only I would let her into my life, everything could work out in the way God surely intended it to be. I personally don't think God gives a hoot what we do down here and anyway, any guy who surrounds himself with so many naked young cherubs is suspect in my book. I resist her, but she keeps coming back.

11:37 a.m. – Back in the saddle and feeling much better, with a sugar high and images of pretty clothes swimming in my head. This is not exactly macho, I realize, but it has put me in the right frame of mind to make a stab at writing the advice column. Let's see, the first letter to pop out of the big, gray Royal Mail bag is from…Ms Sheila Moran of Islington. Let's hear it for Ms. Moran, everyone in our studio audience, she's about to have her deepest anxieties in life answered by someone who at the age of 30 (plus) hasn't yet figured out if he/she is a she or a he. Tee hee. I can't help giggling at the absurdity of the situation.

Jude, who is, in fact, doing the TV listings, looks at me askance, but in a nice way, from the neighbouring desk. She has a point. The male giggle is not a pretty sound. But I can't help giggling and I can't, for the moment, at least, do anything about the low register of my voice. At least it's not as low as Lucinda's. That must be cause for no end of comment, coming from a babe like her, but perhaps when she's in mixed company – that is to say, outside the lesbian circuit she appears to be on now -- maybe she's wise enough never to open her mouth. Would make her seem like a woman of mystery. One helluva mystery, I thought, making myself giggle again.

"Sweetheart, d'ya mind?" Jude says, making the point in a nice way, but underlining the fact that we are all under intense deadline pressure. "Save the yocks for after work and I'll buy you one of your favourite Cosmos."

"Make it a double and you're on," I flipped back, at the same time pulling a far more serious face and sitting up straight in my chair. To work, Sam, time to work, I thought, noticing once again that Apoplectica was staring at me through her glass window, casting her gaze alternately at me and at the clock on the wall in the main part of the office. I got the message. Fingers now to keyboard. Ah one and ah two and ah three…

 

Dear Isolated in Islington (actual name withheld at reader's request),

Women are far more caring, feeling and sensitive to everything, from temperature to chemicals in the environment to phases of the moon, than men. This is why men seem brutish to us and why we have so much difficulty relating to them. In many, perhaps most, ways they are defective, not fully formed, completely lacking apart from physical strength, and even in this category, icons like the Williams sisters show us that women are doing it for themselves. That said, we do need them for the obvious reason that they can be enjoyable, in a physical, if not a mental, way, and while we mostly seek mental stimulation from the greater sorority of the world, men can be better at activating the erogenous zones (provided, of course, we show the lugheads precisely and repeatedly exactly where they are, and how to use them.) In addition, their musky smell is a turn on.

So I have a little sympathy – but only a little – for what you call the state of despair and isolation you say has made you feel cutoff from the rest of the world since your last boyfriend was run over by a bus while making a beer run to the local convenience store. To put it in the vernacular, get a life.

My recommendation is you chuck out every and anything of his left in the flat and buy yourself a couple of way too short minis at H&M (they happen to be having a sale right now, and this is not a plug, that store is hot, babe). Then get on down to the pub or the club or the disco (but honey, do steer clear of King's Cross) and pick up a new one.

It's a lot like him going out for a six-pack, only we know to look both ways before crossing the road, don't we, hon?

Besides, it's easy. They all hunger for it, 24 hours a day, 364 days a year (365 on leap years) and you've got it babe. Then bring it back to the flat, pack it into bed and have a good time. And when eventually it goes out on another beer run, well, just clip this column and keep it near your night table to remind you again what to do.

PS – MetroChick always and invariably recommends safe sex. Be sure he doesn't come before you're damn good and ready, or it will wreck your day. And oh, yes, try to get him to wash before he does it for you. For a lot of them, the only liquid they know is lager.

There, two or three more like that and I'd done it. I looked at Jude and she looked up from her computer and smiled at me, a knowing smile. I could almost taste those Cosmos. And damned if I didn't feel a little tingling in my right nipple.

01:12 a.m. – Jst bk from droingz wz Jood n Tobd aanaaed huh 2 fnd clr=stlkr stile msg on masheen gain. Oy gotd vom now. Byeee.

  

Monday, January 6

11 st, 7 (77 kg) attaboy/girl! Maybe that's what those pills do – slimming. Cosmos 12 (but this was for entire weekend, and still celebrating N.Year), Virginia Slims infinite, and in public too, as no longer care. Trifemalin tablets 3 – one for each day of weekend, plus today. Niggling itchiness of right nipple gone but now seem to have slight swelling of abdomen. Perhaps should read literature that comes with pills, but is in Spanish so would take too much effort. Anyway, still shaving, still no boobs so so what?

7 a.m. – Alarm has gone off but prefer to lie here and reflect on weekend. Started it off in what I thought was very responsible, conscientious way, going to the health club for a workout and a swim at 8 a.m. on Saturday. At least that was the plan, though I didn't actually make it there until sometime after 10:30. Reason being I ran into Karen who went to the same National School I did near my parents' home in Surrey Quays, which is a tough place but was even tougher then. I regularly got beaten up when I acted like a boy, because I couldn't fight, and was beaten up more when I acted fey. No win.

But the girls were always nice to me, which is why I remain friends with many of them, though they seemed singularly indifferent to getting involved with me physically. Instead, they let me take lunch at their table or invited me to their houses for tea or on weekends for small parties. It struck me that I was the only boy ever invited to these intimate gatherings, where the girls would gossip about boyfriends and any girl who wasn't there, or show off clothes or makeup they had bought and ask my opinion. I was flattered and thought it was because I was just better company than the other lads. Huh.

Anyway, Karen is in the midst of yet another of her doomed relationships with a stevedore. I mean, why a nice, perky, cute girl like her with small but pert boobs, a fresh face, good complexion, and excellent if slightly boyish figure, who has a high-paying job as a junior partner in an international law firm on Canary Wharf, should go chasing after big, hulking guys who probably never finished primary school let alone secondary, and have been unloading huge containers full of lead or steel pipes or plumbing fixtures from ships since they were age 10 is beyond me. Genes? Hormones? Nymphomania?

For one, they regularly beat her up or rob her blind, sometimes both. For another, over the years she has contracted all manner of STDs. And in the end, every single one of the bastards has ditched her, sometimes very cruelly.

One of them, an absolute brute from Birmingham called Stevie, who the only time I met him had that look in his eye like he wanted to beat me up, dumped her in a particularly vicious way, pretending to take her down the pub to meet his mates. When they got there, he ordered the most expensive steaks on the menu, with all the trimmings, plus, to show he was a man of culture, a good bottle of red wine, all on Karen's tab.

After everything was served, he reached over and put his arm around a breasty blonde sitting in a stall next to theirs and said, "Karen, this is my mate Charo. Now scram."

Over coffee at Caffe Nero, she told me the latest one had disappeared the previous night, taking all the cash in her purse plus her Porsche Boxster convertible. This explained why I had run into her so early on a Saturday, coming out of Boots pharmacy with 12 kinds of nail polish. She'd had to use a cash machine, and after she got some fresh notes had gone to Boots to be sure they worked.

"Have you told the police?" I asked, incredulous at her seeming lack of concern.

"No, not yet," she said, toying with her cappuccino and filing her nails. Apparently she was coping with the situation by doing her nails.

That was because Karen had a theory that if you did not acknowledge you had been shafted, and acted as if nothing had happened, it would leave no scars, emotional or otherwise.

"I'm perfectly fine," she said, finishing off the coffee and preparing to go. "Besides, the car was two years old and with the insurance I'll be able to get one of those super new Minis."

"Ta ta, sweetie pie. And by the way, I've got to compliment you on your complexion. It's positively glowing, sweetheart, radiating. So something in your life must agree with you."

With that she was gone, leaving me to finish my coffee and sneak glances at myself in the wall-length mirror that made the tiny café look bigger than it was. Was my skin looking better? Were the pills having some effect? I sincerely doubted, but I filed her comment away. At least it made me feel better. That, and the endorfins from the chocolate that came with the coffee. Mmmmm.

Later, at the gym, I could tell from the sniggering of one of the hulky trainers that my turquoise Lycra stretch training pants were probably not the style or colour normally associated with men. Reminded me again of what a particularly cruel handicap my colour blindness it is for someone of my tendencies. An inherited trait that is passed by the mother almost exclusively to male children, or so they say. She nailed me with that one, though, of course, I love her dearly.

But as for the smirking trainer, one of these days he'll get his comeuppance. Under the circumstances, though, I was so embarrassed and afraid of him (he, too, had that I'd like to beat the shit out of you look in his eyes) that I didn't have the courage to ask how to slow down the treadmill. Almost gave me a heart attack.

And speaking of mom, she called almost the minute I walked in the door as I returned from the gym, which must have meant she'd already tried several times.

"Sam, you simply must come for Sunday lunch, I won't hear of you saying no," she said in her sing-song, everything's-right-with-the world-and-if it-isn't, I'll-make-it-so tone of voice.

"But mom, I have things to do…"

"I won't hear of it, darling. Morris is cooking one of his special roasts, including the Yorkshire pudding, with trifle for the pud, but before that we just have to go through your sister's room and see what things of hers you want so I can give the rest away to Oxfam, or that nice charity to save Romanian orphans."

My sister Deirdre, a free spirit if there ever was one, had run away to the circus when she was 16 and died, in a most shocking way, a year ago in a lion-taming accident. My mother had apparently decided the mourning period was over.

"I'm sure some of her things would fit you just fine…

"MOTHER!" I said in horror.

"I didn't mean, well, like intimate things, but some of her nice white blouses or jumpers that you could just about wear to work. I mean, it's not like her wardrobe is completely unfamiliar to you."

My sister had been on the tall side, which had greatly facilitated my cross-dressing experiments when I was a teenager. The occasional rip or popped button had betrayed me, but Deirdre had been good about it and my mother couldn't have cared less. She'd always preferred girls to boys and if her only son was going to be more feminine than male, so much the better.

In the end, I agreed to go, if only to provide moral support to my dad. I knew that my mother had forced him to go through an excruciating renewal of vows recently, in which he'd had to take the bride's part, promising to love and obey. Her argument was that if she'd agreed to do it 30-plus years ago, he could do it now. After that she'd saddled him with all the housework, shopping, laundry, sewing and cleaning while she ran her business, which was a home sex hotline for callers to talk to "lonely, horny housewives" and the like. Since dad had been laid off as a conductor for the city buses, my mom's income was all they had, so she called the shots.

10:17 a.m. – Have finally made it to work, only 47 minutes late, which isn't bad for me. Apoplectica shoots me one of her withering, "bad girl" glances, managing to look simultaneously at the clock and at me in a way only supervisors know how to do. Must be one of the things they teach you at management training school. That and how to make your staff feel insecure and on the brink of being fired at all times, in order to make them more productive. Helpful, useful skills like that. Anyway, that latter bit won't work on me. I'm the golden girl, I'm Charlotte Haynesbury, and without me MetroChick would probably go bust.

I ignore Apoplectica, take the plastic lid off my latte and dig into the huge, gray Royal Mail sack beside the desk. Let's see… here's one with an N1 postcode. Could be from one of our (unfortunately) few black readers. Let's have a look…

* * *

So when I finally made it to my parents' bungalow after the endless bus ride from Holborn (where they live there is no underground service anywhere nearby, which is one of the reasons they could afford to buy there), I am only mildly surprised to find my mother seated on the divan in the parlour, wearing a smart, black-trousered pants suit and smoking a cheroot. She didn't get up when I opened the door with my key, but instead waved and blew me a kiss.

"Sweetheart, how lovely you look," she said, as if Sarah Jessica Parker had just walked in the room. I looked around to see if there was anyone behind me, but of course there was no one there.

"Don't be funny, Sam, I mean you, darling, you. You look great – and your complexion, ravishing, sweetheart, just wonderful."

Hmmm. Second time in two days I've been complimented on my skin. Maybe something is going on.

"Morris, darling, could you bring out the kirs?" she called into the kitchen.

"Coming, Mabel."

I could hear some rummaging of bottles and glasses and, incongruously, the clanking of a pan or two. A minute later, my father appeared. I was shocked at his appearance.

He looked like he'd lost at least three stone, which made him look painfully slight, not at all like his former, happy-go-lucky, boozing and hail-fellow-well-met conductor self.

Although he was wearing his usual Sunday church-going suit, he had a big, white lace apron tied around his midriff, and a white, diner-style waitress's cap on his head.

"That's very nice Morris. Now say hello to Sam and get back to the kitchen to finish cooking the roast."

"Hello, Sam," he said, putting down the drinks (there were only two, for my mother and me, nothing for him}. "You look wonderful, sweetheart," he said, giving me a peck on both cheeks.

An odd fragrance of geranium oil wafted from him, and when I saw his feet I noticed he was wearing the same burgundy-coloured loafers as my mom. My mother, sensing my growing unease, made a stab at what she must have thought was a plausible explanation – in her mind, anyway.

"We just have one undies drawer now, don't we, Morris, to save on buying women's knickers and those frightfully ugly and expensive men's togs that Morris used to wear, don't we, honey?," she chortled.

"And since we both have the same shoe size, I pick out everything at Barratt's and we both wear whatever bargains I can find, isn't that so, Morrie dear?"

"Just so, precious," my father said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"And I wish I'd started wearing pantyhose before. It sure saves time on having to match socks," he added, as if that settled it.

With that, he toddled back to the kitchen where I could hear the pans clanking again, accompanied this time by the sound of ice cubes clinking into a glass.

"He still likes his little nip, your dad does," my mother said, leaning towards me and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "But I think he's much happier now that I've organized his life for him, simplified his choices and given him specific tasks to do everyday.

"You know, he was so lonely and lost when he got laid off by the bus company. But now, honestly, hon, and don't take this amiss, but I think he makes a much better wife than I ever did."

I kept smiling, but I almost spilled my drink. What kind of woman was my mother, anyway?

I could see, even as the thought crossed my mind, she knew what I was thinking.

"Lunch won't be ready for half an hour," she said in a soothing tone, reaching over to stroke my hand. "Why don't we go up now and start going through your sister's room? She's got one or two really nice dolls there, as well, you remember? The ones you and she used for mock tea parties.

"I know what a comfort they can be, during times of life when we're going through, well, changes…"

She smiled at me again, in a way that seemed intended to set me at ease, but also was tinged with a hint of malice.

"Deirdre's gone, darling, and sadly, there's no way to bring her back," she said, standing up and taking my hand to lead me up the stairs. "I guess, to come right to the point, you're the only daughter I've got."

I gasped. Then I smiled too. She had a point. There probably was no reason to fight it.

12:30 p.m. – Feeling a bit peckish, but special diet says I can't indulge in any of my favourites, like jacket potatoes with tonnes of cheese, cheese toasties, bangers and mash or bubble and squeak. Instead, would have to eat piece of beef, preferably cooked rare, with nothing on the side. No chips, even. Think I will have to get a bit hungrier before attempt this.

Meanwhile, have got it into my head that I need to know the identity of the black man I collided with at Diane's party. I'm sure that even if she didn't know everyone who was there that night, since there were literally hundreds, she knew who he was. But asking her might raise some issues in her head, which perhaps I'd rather not raise at this time. Then have smashing idea. The party is going to feature in the society column of MetroChick and Chuck, the staff photographer, was photographing almost everything that moved, all night long.

12:45 p.m. – Bingo! He was Cleavon Little, the rap singer. What a cool dude. I've got all his albums and can't believe I (almost) met him. Chuck also managed to get his business card, which had his private mobile phone number on it. With a wink, he let me write it down. Fat load of good it will do me, but somehow it gave me a thrill to have it on a piece of folded paper in my pocket. Like a good luck charm or talisman. Anyway, it never hurts to dream, does it? Right.

6:30 p.m. – Whoops, gotta go home. Have spent all afternoon pretending to write Charlotte Haynesbury column when in fact have been doing research on Cleavon. He is some cool, dangerous dude. Born and raised in the projects in north London where he had the usual zero opportunities and crap education plus the inevitable scrapes with the law. Did time as a juvenile offender not for stealing wheels, like everyone else, but, get this, a guitar from one of the music shops near Oxford Street. A semi-enlightened judge, discerning that he had something other than your run of the mill hood in his court, made Little serve time but also recommended his sentence be reduced if he took music lessons – at public expense.

The rest is history. Great talent, and great looks too. Admired the shots of him on his homepage, but have to say he even better looking and sexier in person. Too bad Diane intervened at the New Year's Eve party to prevent us talking but…I've got his phone number. And, I've got a train to catch. Byeee.

11:15 p.m. – Calling it a night after trying more than a dozen times to get Cleavon on his mobile – not to actually talk to him, of course, but just to hear his voice, for a thrill. Every time, though, I got a tape saying client unavailable, please leave a message. After several hours of this, I checked his website and found that he's in Los Angeles to shoot a music video. Silly me. Wasted my entire evening (though two Cosmos helped to make it a bit more entertaining). And it was fun to dream about, for a bit. But the real thing would be better. Nighty night.

 

Saturday, January 11

10 st 9 (is this a miracle or what? May come from being so nervous I am all but unable to eat, apart from the occasional Mars bar and, of course, Cosmos), Trifemalin tablets 3 (I know this is cheating, but after what I went through last night, I could use a hormone rush), time at gym 0'00" (but you knew that already, didn't you?), breakfast one grapefruit, two Mars bars (figure had to tip the scale in favour of one or the other. The Mars bars won).

10:30 a.m. – I cannot get up. I think I actually died last night and I am lying here in my sarcophagus. It is very nice, peaceful, calm. Eventually people will file by and say things like "My, doesn't he look wonderful, such a nice complexion, though a little paler than usual" or "Isn't it a pity he could never really make his mind up who he was? But now it doesn't matter anymore, does it? He's with the angels, and they're ambisexual."

Well, I wished I'd died but unfortunately I hadn't. The ceili was at a social club near Swiss Cottage in north London – the kind of place I'd never go except at gunpoint. When I got there I could tell instantly that the atmosphere was, well, in a word, desperate.

Earlier Rebecca and I met at a Pasta House restaurant in the neighbourhood. It's a chain restaurant with a bit of atmosphere but which anyone can afford. All right, really it's only one step above McDonald's, but the food costs more, so it makes you feel like you're in a nicer place.

Rebecca of course insisted on paying. And playing footsie. All through the meal she toyed with her food and with my legs. I wasn't sure what she thought she was doing, but she kept smiling and squinting through her big, black-framed glasses. Every time I felt like I had to leave I ordered another Cosmo. After awhile, I didn't mind her playing with my feet, and even feeling my leg a bit. I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but never mind..

Afterwards we walked hand in hand to the social club where – and I knew this would be the case – several of the men were wearing kilts and most of the crowd was old enough to be "old Labour" – that is to say, almost from Harold Wilson's time. Some of them probably thought it still was their mission in life to defeat Margaret Thatcher.

This state of affairs at long last roused some of my remaining shreds of virility. Some of these people might keel over from heart attacks during the course of the evening, so I figured at the very least I could dance with a little spring in my step, to show I was still alive and kicking.

Then surprise, surprise. Rebecca linked us up with the only group of people in the room under 30, but as it turned out there were more men than women. Rebecca reverted to her girl-guide self.

"It's all right," she said, without so much as a glance towards me. "Sam and I here don't mind dancing the women's roles – that is, if that's all right with everyone. And are there some more volunteers among the males. I mean, what's the difference? Everyone gets to dance but a couple of men will have to curtsy at the end, if they wouldn't mind."

She smiled a smile of victory at me. I was well and truly done for, in her grips for the night, come what may. I tried to muster up something that might pass for a subtle scowl, but I suspect it looked more like a pout. So I was typecast after all.

"I'll be happy to take one of the women's slots," said a thin young man with an improbably deep, booming voice and upper crust accent. A few beers short of a six pack, I figured he was, but probably had inherited the family Aston Martin, as well as the rest of the loot, so he didn't have to worry.

Before long we were off and running. All the "women" were arrayed on the left side of the line of dancers, the men across from them. My partner, as fate would have it, was one of the young men in a kilt. He bowed deeply. I curtsied as best I could. Rebecca kept smiling at me, a knowing smile. Why had she done this, why? I thought she was looking for someone to be the man in her life. But perhaps her game was deeper than I suspected.

In the taxi on the way home she said I'd been a great sport.

"I know it wasn't easy for you, taking the female role in public like that," she said, carrying the thought a bit further than she had to, all the while stroking my thigh in a suggestive way. She snuggled close to me and gave me a peck on the cheek.

"Sam, I've had a really good time," she said. I realised we had pulled up outside my flat. Rebecca was dropping me off, and she apparently wasn't going to make any more serious pass at me.

She read my mind.

"Not now, sweetheart, not tonight. It's too soon. But thanks for the wonderful evening. You are beautiful, darling, absolutely beautiful."

With that she leaned over, opened the door of the cab for me and gave me another kiss – this time on the lips.

"You are an angel, sweetheart," she said. "And you seem to me to be more of an angel every day.

"Nighty night."

I watched from the kerb as the cab pulled away. Life was a lot stranger than fiction.

2:30 p.m. – Have finally managed to get out of bed, make some coffee and wash my hair. It seems thicker and snarlier than usual. I am letting it grow out, so maybe I had better buy a more serious conditioner – something people who have "big hair" use. Is that Pantene? I should know these things, shouldn't I? Time to subscribe – Cosmo, Vogue, Marie Claire. Time to get with it.

Paper has an interesting story about a wealthy, well off former jock-oriented real estate developer who flipped his lid after he broke up with his wife and put himself in the hands of a gender dysphoria (that's identity crisis, if you need a definition) specialist who had a hair trigger on prescribing sex re-assignment surgery. A month after he started seeing the doctor, the fellow was snipped and done for. Boobs, hair, cosmetic surgery, hormones, the works.

And then he realised he didn't want to be a woman. I mean, how confused can you get? A little late in the game, honey, now that your balls are gone. She's living as a man again, dressing in suits and ties. But from the picture, it looks like the feminisation really took hold. Tune in again in a few months time when wedding bells are ringing and the bride steps down the aisle in her gorgeous white gown.

I will not be making any similar mistakes, no thanks. The choice is going to be clear (when I get around to it) and the decision final.

Is it too early for a Cosmo? Wonder what Todd's up to this afternoon. Still no message on my e-mail, or on the answerphone. Life can be lonely, stuck between two poles, and the expedition only part way to either destination. Better take the initiative.

3 a.m. – Had great time with Todd at this incredible gay club, The Presidium, that he goes to in north London. The bouncer is an almost seven-foot guy in drag with the most mammoth boobs you've ever seen. And they're real, too. I got to talking to him and he said he's had implant surgery seven times to get them that big. The size of basketballs, really. I asked him if they didn't hurt and he said at first yes, but he's had bras specially made with two extra straps running from his shoulders down his back, where he buckles them into a wide leather belt pulled tightly around his waist. If it weren't for that, he said, there's no bra in the world that could hold them up and they'd be sagging down to his belly button. As it was, it seemed to me they weren't sitting quite where they should on his chest, but I didn't want to say anything, to hurt his feelings.

After we'd chatted a bit, he asked me if I'd like to meet the man who'd had a dual vagina transplant, one in front and one in back, but I said no, I needed to dance with my friend, and that's what Todd and I and whoever else cut in did for the rest of the evening.

It was great but I had so many Cosmos and designer drugs of unknown derivation that by early in the morning I found myself dancing in one of the cages hanging from the ceiling above the bar, with guys all around hooting and whistling at me and throwing money. I had no idea how I got there or what I'd been doing, but Todd reassured me in the cab on the way home that I'd been great, and had nothing to worry about. Maybe, but how come I'm wearing this black leather mini and a white sleeveless top that's so tight I can't figure out how I got into it? And what is that peeping out like little pippins where my normally flat nipples should be? Oh well, at least they're not basketballs.

Night all.

 

Monday, January 13

10 st 5 – the pounds are dropping off like flies. Must have been the all-night dancing, but maybe it was the extra dose of hormones. Trifemalin tablets 2 (don't want to overdo it). Time spent at gym 0'00" but did some stretch exercises along with an aerobics show on the telly. Tuned in to admire the stretch leotards and great curves, but found myself moving along to the routines and the music anyway. Maybe this is the answer, just go with the flow. Not a bad idea.

1 p.m. – Jude has agreed to meet me for a little shopping expedition during our lunch break. I have been in a state all morning, actually since Sunday morning when I first noticed the "pippins" budding on my chest. This to me is a profound development and I'm of two minds about it. I could stop taking the hormone pills, which are clearly to blame, or I could go out and get a trainer bra. So that's what I'm going to do, but I need some moral support and feminine companionship to do it. I mean, it's one thing buying women's garments as a game or as a lark, it's another thing entirely when you actually need them. So this is an awesome turning point – not to say I can't still go back and work on improving my manly self, but what's happening is kind of fun, kicky, intriguing and exciting. And besides, it's fun to shop.

When Jude turns up at my desk and I tell her why I need her to come along, she gives me this harrumph of a look. Jude is a big, buxom red-head and when she harrumphs it's the kind of look that could stop a Broadway show in its tracks.

"You mean you want me to take you to the pre-teen department at Selfridge's? And you think you're going to find something there that actually fits? C'mon,honey, get real."

I hadn't thought about it before, that perhaps bras made to fit the usual waspy-chested 12 year old pre-adolescent weren't going to sit well on your almost 6-foot male, but I had my heart set on it. Besides, I needed something to contain the little devil pips on my chest. They were itching like mad and I wanted some sort of soft, silky fabric between them and my shirt, which actually was one of my sister's old blouses.

"All right then, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do," Jude relented. She was all heart, Jude, and besides, I think after she'd given it a little thought, she figured this could be entertaining.

So we chatted happily as we walked along the underground mall passageway from the office tower where MetroChick had its offices to Selfridge's, stopping to admire some sexy lingerie in the Ann Summers display window along the way.

"Not for you yet, honey," Jude said. "Maybe never."

I frowned – which again, when I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window mirror, I realised was a pout. Seemed to be becoming a habit.

But all cosy warm thoughts instantly fled when we got to the pre-teen department at Selfridge's. What on earth had gotten into my head when I thought of coming here? Hanging from the racks before us were row after row of dainty, frilly but, more importantly, tiny bras, in all shades of pink and yellow plus mounds of white ones and polka dots. I was aghast.

Jude took one look at me, my jaw hanging open, and could read my mind.

"We're not giving up that easily, hon," she said, placing a hand firmly in the small of my back and propelling me forward.

"We're going to find something here for you, Sam. Something for up top and something for down below," she said, eyeing the stretch pants I as wearing which also had been my sister's.

"It's amazing what they do with stretch fabrics these days. Before you leave, you're going to have the panties and bras that every pube dreams of having."

With that she charged into the display racks and began zipping through them with a trained eye, zooming past a dozen items in a flash, then pausing to cast a more critical eye on something that caught her fancy. I just stood by like a deer caught in the headlights of a car as Jude slowly but surely accumulated a small basketful of undies.

After about 20 minutes she stopped.

"Here," she said, handing the basket to me. "The dressing room is over there. Go try on a few of these and see which ones fit the best."

She had to be kidding. While I'd been watching her pick out items, I'd also watched the young girls, a third my age, two thirds my height and half my weight, traipsing in and out of the dressing room, often with their mommies in tow. If I went anywhere near it, I thought, two huge security guards would appear out of nowhere and clamp on the handcuffs.

Jude picked up on my thoughts instantly.

"Oh, you silly, Sam. Don't worry, I'm coming in the room with you."

She took my hand and walked me into the dressing rooms, smiling at the bemused saleswoman as she did so.

"He's with me," Jude said offhandedly to the woman, as if that explained everything. The woman smiled. She'd seen a lot of strange things in the store over the years, so if someone who should have been shopping in the women's department wanted to be kinky and try on teenie underwear for her boyfriend, who was she to stop her?

"Now, out of your blouse and slacks and into some of these skimpies," Jude said after she'd closed the dressing room door behind us.

Although I'd initiated this, I wasn't sure I should be undressing in front of a female colleague from work, in a public dressing room where someone besides the accommodating saleswoman might have second thoughts about these two odd birds mingling with the pre-teenies and their moms. But Jude was adamant.

"There's not much time and we have to get back to work," she said, sharply.

I slipped out of my clothes and she handed me the first tiny bra and panty set – a pink one, as it turned out. It looked so small that I couldn't see any possible way of getting into it, but Jude told me to try. Sure enough, when I slipped my legs in, the fabric stretched just enough so I could pull the panties almost up to my waist. I struggled with the bra at first, but Jude helped me by adjusting the straps for the maximum length and by fastening the clasps in back. The bra was tiny, but the silky stretchy fabric felt soothing against my raw, itchy nipples. I smiled and relaxed for the first time that day.

"See, fits you perfectly, like it was made for you, Sam," Jude said, also smiling. "And looking at you, with that happy grin on your face, takes me back to the day when I got my first bra. It's a day no girl ever forgets – and I'm sure you won't either."

She was right. I wouldn't. I tried on a few more and we left a half hour later with a half dozen pretty bra and panty sets in a rainbow hue of colours. The saleswoman, who'd figured out what we were doing from our giggling in the dressing room, gave me a warm smile as I paid.

"Come back again anytime, sweetheart," she said fondly. "You have a pretty face and it will be a pleasure to serve you again."

I blushed a deep red. Jude and the saleslady laughed.

We walked back to the office giggling and in high spirits. It was a huge relief to finally have a bra on under my blouse to control and soothe my little but budding "pippins". If I was going to find out what it was like to be a woman, I was going to have to play by the rules of femininity. And wearing women's undies was no longer an option – it was mandatory equipment.

3:10 p.m. – Got back to find a small bouquet of chrysanthemums, poppies and pansies on my desk, plus what looked like an invitation in a damascene envelope. I almost knew without looking at the note attached to the flowers that they were from Rebecca. I didn't know whether to be pleased or angry with her, since it seemed she was going too far, but on balance something inside of me felt more flattered than anything else. And from the subtle looks I got from Jamie, the receptionist, and one or two of the other women in the office, I detected a hint of jealousy. So flowers, on balance, were good, I guess, in the feminine hierarchy of things.

As I was mulling this, I prised open the envelope and when I read the note inside, I almost had a heart attack. It was an invitation to a record launch party from none other than Cleavon Little.

YESSSS! Samantha has scored with the Black Romeo!

 

End of part one.

  

  

  

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