And it has Addled her Brain

And it has Addled her Brain

© kate7891

Giaan Gallagher's leggy stride spoke of purpose and no nonsense. Tourists and businessmen alike saw her coming a mile away, what with her bright red hair, height and 'get out of my way' attitude. She moved at the pace of a bustling city; she dodged her way around those moseying along Melbourne's busy CBD; she crossed roads before the little green man gave his okay; she barely registered the bumps of bodies as she moved.

That's not to say Giaan was a hard woman. Far from it. Her peaches-and-cream complexion was romantic; her eyes -- a bespectacled misty green that spoke of her Irish ancestry -- expressive. But as a literary agent, she had learned how to downplay the romance of her looks to keep others focused on the bottom line. She could disarm business foes with a warm smile and kind eyes before ruthlessly going for the jugular and an extra ten percent. It was hard not to respect her for it.

Right now, she was weathering Melbourne's dreary winter, making her way to the newly opened Café Book to introduce herself to the owner -- and pitch the launch for her latest client's debut work. Turning down Little Lonsdale Street, she pulled her dark maroon coat tighter. Her heeled ankle boots barely made a sound on the cobblestoned path. The blast of cold wind made Giaan again curse her choice of mini woollen dress. But, she reflected philosophically as the breeze blew tendrils of fire out from her leather cap, the deep forest green paired with black tights reflected her elegant professionalism. And she really wanted to book this spot.

Upon entering the store, Giaan's senses were welcomed by buttery baked goods, caffeine and fantasy inked on faded paper. She closed her eyes and took a deep, appreciative breath as she removed her cap. Wild curls tumbled down past her shoulders; she shook them out and ran a hand through the front in a vain attempt at style. As she peeled gloves from her fingers, her eyes sharpened as they took in the store.

Exposed brick, muted lighting with mis-matched lamps strategically placed near comfort seating, timber bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and a small café tucked in the back. Smart move, Giaan thought. Lure people in with the scent of coffee and cake. She noted the shelf with used and damaged books near the provedore display, and gave extra points to the new owner. Once people had settled in for a break, they'd pick up a book. Stay longer, browse, buy. Smart.

As she moved through the space, she took mental note of customers. Over thirty in store -- not bad for a Monday morning. She imagined that number would inflate during evening trade, and grow again over the weekend. Perfect.

Over frothing milk and coffee creamer, Phillip had watched the redhead's movements through his store. She walked almost as if in a ballet; not a movement wasted, and each effortless in purpose. He smiled -- passed his awaiting customer their latte -- as she took a sketchbook from her tote bag, began scribbling. He eyed his café manager and jerked his chin.

"Danny, you good here?"

Danny -- dark eyes shrewdly calculating the number of customers to handle on his own -- nodded and stepped up to the coffee machine.

"All over it, boss," he said and began going through the printed orders.

Phillip wiped his hands on the dishcloth tucked into his pants in lieu of an apron and approached the striking woman in hunter green.

He was surprised to note his palms were sweaty.

"Not planning a break-in, are you?" he asked upon approaching the woman -- who knew plain soap could smell to alluring? -- and froze as those bottle-green eyes pinned him in place. Then she smiled and that feeling of being examined under a microscope faded.

"No, just taking notes." She tucked the sketchpad under her arm and offered a slender, unadorned hand. "I'm Giaan."

"Phillip." Her grip was firm, brief. Her smile, warm. He responded to the warmth and respected the strength.

"Phillip MacGregor?" she asked, eyes narrowing to take better stock of the man before her. "The owner?"

Tawny eyes -- the colour of her grandfather's prized Irish whisky, she noted -- dirty blonde hair and three-days' growth of scruff defining his jaw. An inch or two shy of six feet, broad, rounded shoulders, tapered waist. Thick thighs. She imagined -- briefly fantasised about -- well-honed muscles beneath the black button-up shirt and faded jeans. A muscle stud. The last thing she had come to expect of the bookshop owners she knew.

"The one and only," he replied, tucking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. "How can I help you, Giaan?"

She cleared her throat and shook her hair back again in an unconscious flirtatious move. "I'm an agent with Independent Publishers. I represent Lloyd Cohens? Synthia Marshall?" She mentally crossed her fingers that this guy wasn't just an owner, but a reader.

Phillip smiled and gently touched Giaan's elbow to lead her toward the Local Authors display. Both authors were featured prominently among other Australian creators: commentators, photographers, children's book authors, writers, poets, essayists, and biographers. Giaan's eyes lit up and she walked to the shelf, fingertips reverently tracing over the titles of her authors. She recalled the blood, sweat and tears that went into each book. The late-night phone calls, talking Synthia off the ledge, reassuring Lloyd of his potential, fighting with both to meet their deadlines.

"Sure, I know them," Phillip said, reading over titles and recalling plot and protagonist. "When it Rains in Springtime was great. Thanks for helping Marshall bring it to life."

"Aww, it was all her. I'm just the details guy."

"Great details," Phillip murmured, eyes roaming over cloth and curve, imagining the body beneath the winter warmth. He felt his sex tighten in response and imagined pouring cold water over his head.

Giaan felt a blush creep to her cheeks and hoped it would pass as a reaction to the store's heating after walking in the morning cold. She cleared her throat and held out her sketch pad. She had drawn the store's layout, but made amendments to open the space in the middle. There, she had sketched seating, seating that faced a small, raised stage at the café's entrance. On the stage stood a stick-figure in front of a microphone.

"I don't normally do pitches like this, but I'm nothing if not flexible. I've just signed my first poet. Wyatt Mitchell. Her words are just..." Giaan closed her eyes and pressed a hand to the base of her throat. "They just need to be heard. So instead of a traditional book launch and signing, I want like, a poetry slam night. An open mike night. A night where she reads, amateur poets read. Maybe Synthia and Lloyd will be willing and able to read an excerpt of their current work. I could book a comedian, a house band. Make it a party. Bougie and exclusive. And," she tapped her sketch. "I want it here."

Phillip wasn't so proud as to deny he was sold on the idea for no other reason than her passionate animation. He could see it so clearly; from her words, her drawing, her gesticulations. And hosting an event like this could cement his place in the industry.

Lips pursed and fingertips stroking his stubble, Phillip nodded, working the idea over in his head.

"When would you want to do this?"

Giaan quietly expelled the breath she had been holding and felt her shoulders relax. "Next month. The collection is released on the twentieth, so the Friday before is best. What's that? Three weeks away? We've already sold fifty advanced copies through Rosie's Facebook page. Gorilla advertising with short clips of her reading have worked wonders. They'll hit over a thousand views by the weekend." As she spoke, Giaan swapped sketchbook for a tanned Filofax bulging with scrap paper notes and a rainbow of Post-its. Licking her finger -- Phillip subconsciously licked his lips in response -- she flipped through the pages, landing on her desired date.

"Please," she tapped the page with her tapered nail. Phillip saw she had already pencilled in Café Book -- followed by three question marks. He shook his head in wonderment.

"Pretty sure of yourself, hey Giaan?"

She looked up and smiled, stealing the bookshop owner's breath. "You betcha. What else do I need to do to convince you to get on board?"

The moment she said that, the double entendre made itself clear and Phillip sucked in a breath while Giaan pressed her thighs together. They stood in an awkward, sexually charged silence a moment longer before Giaan cleared her throat.

"So," she said, voice low. "What'll it be?"

Phillip scratched his chin and ordered his imagination to settle. But the image of her long legs wrapped around his waist while he worked her sex hard wouldn't easily fade.

"I think," Phillip said slowly, "that a Poetry Slam Competition for the local high school would be smarter. Have them here early -- say from five to seven -- and that way you can tie it in with school projects, assessments, whatnot. Your poet Rosalie be up for judging that? Giving them feedback?"

He didn't wait for Giaan to respond beyond an enthusiastic nod.

"And if I can hook some regular young readers as a result, all the better." He turned, swept his arms to the room. "I'd move the stage over here, against this wall. I can have a black curtain or something over the books. I'll want a clear path to the café. That's where I'll make all my money."

Giaan moved over and sat on a small Chesterfield couch, quickly scribbled notes on the sketchpad resting on her knee. She nodded along with Phillip's vision.

"Then, say from eight onwards, have the adults only show. My roommate does stand up -- well, a cabaret stand-up. Went to Edinburgh last year."

Giaan looked up, pen poised. "For real?"

"For real reals. He can warm your crowd up. I have a liquor license. I can sell drinks at cost if that'll make things better for the big boss on your end." He looked over to see Giaan was busy scribbling again. "A couple of self-published writers I have on the shelf here would jump at the chance to read to an audience. You okay with them using your launch as an opportunity to network?"

Giaan closed her notebook, smiled and stood up. "Absolutely. And if I get a whiff of talent, all the better for me."

He could all but see the wheels turning in her brain. She was only half here with him; the rest of her was already three weeks away on launch night. She reached into her Filofax and took out a card, scribbled on the back.

"That's my personal phone number if you can't reach me at the office. I'm great on email; that's probably best. I'll be in touch with an outline for your approval. I assume you already have contacts at St. Arnaud's?" she asked, referencing the local high school.

"Ah, yeah," Phillip said, struggling a little with the swift gear change. She was all business, ready for the next conquest. "My sister."

She beamed. "Great. You talk to her about the competition for students. I'll leave that to you. Pass on my details to your roommate; have him get in touch. I'll deal with the rest." She shook his hand firmly before turning, sliding on gloves, hat and scarf as she moved through the store.

"I bet," Phillip murmured as he watched her leave.

* * *

Cloud cover shadowed the moon and stars, and Phillip arrived home in the pitch of black. It was barely past nine and Phillip's brain and bones felt weary. He'd already received two emails from Giaan regarding the poet's debut; he'd frustrated his sister with the opportunity of a last-minute extracurricular activity for her students; and his café manager Danny was both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of hosting a book launch.

He leaned back against the stainless-steel elevator door, closed his eyes and felt the tension leave his shoulders as he was gently lifted to the eleventh floor of his apartment building. At the soft ding, he opened his eyes and made his way to the end of the long hallway.

Phillip's apartment was unashamedly masculine; the open kitchen and living areas had muted grey walls and glossy white cabinetry; his loungeroom was comforted with two black leather Birke loungers, a dark grey couch, a mounted flat-screen and kick-ass sound system. His bedroom boasted darker grey walls, thick window shades -- he often slept until the early afternoon on those rare and precious days off -- a timber tallboy and matching bedframe.

Seeing the light from the terrace shine through the kitchen window, Phillip made his way outside. The outdoor space was half as large as the loungeroom from which it was adjacent. A luxury for an apartment building in Melbourne's Docklands.

Liam was sitting, dressed in moody black, eyes rimmed with kohl and legs propped up on another chair, lazily smoking a joint. Phillip slapped a hand to his shoulder in hello, took the splif from him and sat, took a lazy drag.

"Home early," he said, passing the joint back to Liam.

"Mondays at the club are a hit and miss in winter," Liam shrugged, sucking smoke deep into his lungs. "You're home late."

Phillip expelled a smoky breath and rested his head back. "An unexpected opportunity presented itself to me today. And I have less than a month to see it come to fruition. Busy hammering out the details."

"Do tell, do tell," Liam said, passing Phillip the joint before pulling his shaggy ginger hair back in a stubby ponytail.

"A book launch of sorts," Phillip said. "For Independent Publishers. Heard of them?"

Liam nodded, took the joint back and finished it off. "They do good stuff. Really look after Victorian creators."

"Exactly," Phillip agreed. "It's the agent's first poet. She's after a poetry slam of sorts. So there I am, caught up in her vision of it all, offering to wring in Lanabelle for a high school competition early evening -- she says hi, by the way -- saying my roommate can do a comedy cabaret act," here he stopped, arched a brow at Liam who gave him a dopey smile and thumbs up.

"Remind me when I'm sober, though," he said as he blew out ringlets of smoke.

"Getting involved in how it should be set up," Phillip continued, "offering drinks at cost..." He blew out a breath, shook his head. "Good opportunity, but man. It's gonna be a tight schedule."

Liam crossed his arms over his chest and studied his roommate. They'd known each other for twelve years. Intimately for the first two.

Before, when Phillip was Phyllis.

Before, when Phyllis was trying to figure out how he fit into the world, and in what body. Before, when Phyllis decided he wasn't a straight woman, however hard he tried to conform to this heteronormative society. Before, when Phyllis was dating women but it still didn't feel right. Before he realised he wasn't a butch lesbian, but a trans man. Had always been a man.

Before he was Phillip.

"There's something else," Liam said after his long study.

Phillip squirmed slightly and gave a sidewards glance before tawny eyes flicked away.

"Come on, man," Liam said. "We've known each other since you were nineteen. And have been through a shit-tonne together. Don't think I don't know when there's something else."

Phillip's lips curved in a poignant smile recalling those early turbulent years. The love and support in the later ones. As unhappy and confused and angry he'd been the first twenty-odd years of his life, Phillip had to admit the last ten had been one hell of a journey. And he was forever thankful Liam was man enough to help navigate it with him.

"The agent organising the event," Phillip sighed. "Giaan."

Liam laughed. "A girl. Of course it's a girl."

Phillip laughed in kind, punched Liam's shoulder. "Fuck off." But then he sobered, face becoming impassive. Distant.

"Hey, mate," Liam said, leaning forward. "I know how things haven't always gone well in the past with the few... let's call them 'inexperienced'... cis women you've been into. How hard initiating and educating is instead of just... enjoying."

Phillip shrugged. "Is what it is."

Liam stood, knowing his friend -- best friend, brother -- needed time alone with his thoughts. He slapped Phillip's shoulder again, squeezed.

"All will be right in the end, bro. Have faith."

* * *

Phillip had sweated out his melancholy mood in the apartment building's basement gym. His muscles were pleasantly fatigued as entered his bedroom. He smiled upon seeing the neatly rolled joint on his bedside table -- thanks, Liam -- and took it to the sliding door that opened out to a small balcony that overlooked the water.

The cold winter night hitting his heated, sweaty skin made Phillip suck in a breath. He watched its foggy exhalation disappear in the night sky as he lit the joint. Sucking in warm smoke, feeling the drug swim in his brain, he relaxed against the sliding door.

And watched as a clear picture of Giaan formed itself on the smoke dancing on the black breeze.

He felt his sex tingle and tighten, a sensation heightened by the drug coursing through his bloodstream.

Flicking the dead end of the blunt over the balcony, Phillip re-entered the warmth of his room, stripping himself free of stale gym gear and moved into the adjoining en suite. He twisted the taps, steam immediately filling the wet room.

As he stepped under the hot spray, in his imagination Phillip saw Giaan blindfolded and spread eagled on his bed, wrists and ankles cuffed -- or better yet, knees cuffed to elbows -- crying out in surprised pleasure, moaning with need, sobbing his name as she came.

And she'd come however he chose for her to come. With his hands, his mouth, his dick or his choice of cocks.

With the water mercilessly hot on his back, Phillip rested one hand on the mossy green tile, the other working his dick fully erect. Years of testosterone injections resulted in his clit being quite large; easily three inches long and almost half as wide when aroused.

Phillip hunched forward as he massaged the base and underside of his cock with his fore- and middle fingers, his thumb applying opposing pressure. He jacked himself off slowly, slowly, with mounting force.

Head swimming with weed and bewitching green eyes, Phillip clenched his muscular thighs and ass cheeks as he thrust into his hand with growing strength and speed.

He pictured Giaan kneeling at his feet, hair copper-eel slick against her skull as she sucked his sex between her lips, tongue thrusting, probing, fingernails digging into the backs of his thighs, holding on for purchase.

On a strangled groan, Phillip tightened, his body quivering, but he didn't want to waste his high on so small -- albeit intense -- an orgasm. He half stepped out of the shower, water dripping, and reached around to grab a square terry cloth and soaked it under the hot spray.

When the cloth was heavy with water, Phillip folded it into thirds before cupping it over his sex. He groaned as his dick came into contact with the sopping wet warmth, as his core tightened with growing need. He imagined the cloth as her cunt. Flooded heat.

Flooded with need.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured fucking Giaan against the tiled wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands scraping down his back, thighs clenching, while he fucked his sex over and into hers. He imagined her begging for release, to fill her with his come until it dripped from her cunt, to keep her body convulsing with pleasure until she passed out from the pain of it.

Phillip's moans of pleasure echoed off the tiled walls, were lost in the showering scream of hot water. His hips and hand continued to work the cloth between his legs. His ass clenched with the effort of his body and his heartrate accelerated so it felt as though it would beat out of his chest.

He rose to his toes, forearm now resting against the wall for support, forehead lowered to his arm. He winced, eyes squeezed tight, mouth strained, as he approached his climax. His entire sex was overwhelmed with infinite pinpricks of fire. He felt that fire spread down to the soles of his feet, up to catch in his throat.