Grow a Pair!

I could hear the train approaching as I entered the station. Fortunately, I'd already gotten my BART pass, and I was able to make it through the turnstile and up the escalator just in time to squeeze into a crowded car. Every seat was taken! Wait, there was one, an elderly woman was on her way to it...I aced her out and plopped myself down, ignoring the rude stares from the standees in the aisle. The train lurched off, and when I looked down I was mortified to see that my skirt had ridden halfway up to my ass! I tugged it down awkwardly and glanced to my right, getting a sympathetic smile from the woman sitting next to me...a little bond of sisterhood with a fellow female, making our way in a man's world.

I closed my eyes and nodded off, already exhausted from the simple tasks of shaving my legs, putting on my makeup and getting myself dressed. No wonder women hadn't risen as far and fast as men in the business world, they – we – had so much more to cope with. I wondered if I'd ever get used to the thousands of little challenges that came with being a woman? No wonder you never saw them wearing skirts and dresses, let alone stockings, unless they had to.

When I finally opened my eyes, we were just approaching the big transfer station at MacArthur. I caught a good-looking guy staring at me, or at least I thought he was...wishful thinking? Who was I trying to kid! The last thing I needed was to get hit on by a guy. For starters, I wasn't gay, and I'd never been attracted to a man in my life. On the other hand, although I was still attracted to women, there wasn't much I could do about it, and if I stayed the way I was, I was doomed to a sexless life, full of frustration.

And what if I did try to make it with a guy? Once he found out I didn't have female plumbing, he'd kick my ass! Anyway, I must have still been wired as a guy, because I couldn't take my mind off sex. Well, I'd better take my mind off it, since I had an interview for a secretarial position at 9:00. I took my phony resume out of my purse and tried to remember what I'd made up about myself.

It was a masterpiece of creative fiction, starting with my name, date of birth and of course, gender...for education I'd dumbed myself down into a community college dropout, and for work experience I highlighted my fascinating career as a sales associate, fast food server and finally my big break: secretary for a chain of tanning salons. My place of residence was bogus, as were my mythical references, and unless this law firm was totally clueless, there was zero chance that I'd get past the first interview. My objective was to learn as much as I could and figure out some way to get around their security and into their files before they caught on to me.

The stakes were high, and it wasn't just their records on my hedge fund that I was after. Internet rumor had it that the law firm had uncovered volumes of scientific research into the feminization of males by Atrazine, the pesticide which had done me in. If I could get my hands on those records, maybe one of their discoveries could lead to a miracle cure?

I looked up to see that we were pulling into the Embarcadero station, the long run under the Bay behind us. My seatmate got up to leave, and I swiveled my legs into the aisle to let her by, hardly believing that the silken knees peeking out under my skirt were really mine. I'd kicked off my heels, and I searched desperately for them under my seat, drawing smirks from a couple of guys across the aisle. Ignoring them as best I could, I struggled into my shoes and staggered to my feet just in time to get off at Montgomery.

It was cold and raw on Market Street, with a brisk wind that blew my hair into my eyes. My legs were surprisingly warm in my nylons, but my bare forearms were cold! Lowering my head, I trudged ahead, forced by my skirt and the unfamiliar heels to take tentative, painful steps. When I got to Boudin I ducked inside, grateful to be indoors. I'd gone there countless times as a guy for coffee and croissants on my way to work, and something seemed a little different as I took my place in line...of course! I was three inches taller! Amazing how the world looked when you were six feet tall, even if that meant you were in high heels.

I ordered my usual Americano and chocolate croissant, and took them to a table by the window, watching the world go by as I contemplated my fate. Once again I kicked off my heels, and found a bit of heaven flexing my aching toes in my nylons. Funny, the croissant tasted a little different than I remembered...oh, that's my lipstick! At least the coffee tasted the same, and I lingered over it as long as I could, steeling my nerves for the ordeal ahead. I must be crazy, walking into the lion's den dressed like this...what if somebody recognized me? I pulled a compact mirror out of my purse and recoiled at the sight of my windblown hair...it looked like a fright wig!

I washed down the rest of my croissant, grimaced as I squeezed my poor feet back into my heels, and found the ladies room. I didn't dare risk taking the time to figure out how to pee, I might never get myself put back together again! I tediously brushed my hair into place, although I knew it would be a mess the moment I stepped outside again. After freshening my lipstick, I removed a cigarette from my purse and headed back towards Market Street, pausing just long enough to light up before I stepped back into the wind. I huddled in the doorway like the other tobacco addicts up and down the street, indulging myself with this last bit of pleasure before I crushed my cigarette under the toe of my shoe and minced my way towards my destination on Sansome Street.

The address was an imposing granite office building in the heart of the financial distract. I'd been there many times in my former life, although now I had to wait in line and sign in with a girlish hand at the security guardpost. Then it was another line for a crowded elevator, and at first I didn't realize that the men were all waiting for me to get on first...one of the perks of being a woman! The downside was feeling their eyes undress my body in unison, and I stared at the lights above the doors, blinking off the floors, to take my mind off the sensation of being peeled like a banana.

The law firm of Wurm, Roach and Scheister occupied the two top floors. Originally a white shoe firm with a strangle-hold on San Francisco's banking business, it had metastasized into a monster by gobbling up boutique firms specializing in high tech, patent law, and its ever-expanding litigation factory. The haunted eyes and sallow complexions of the drones standing next to me were silent testimony to the sweatshop atmosphere.

I emerged from the elevator into a scene of utter chaos. Instead of the elegant, orderly reception area that I remembered, the lobby was a madhouse of UPS agents hauling in boxes of files, law clerks and paralegals scurrying to and fro, and phones ringing off the hook despite the desperate efforts of a harried receptionist to stay on top of them. When I finally got her attention and mouthed the words "secretary interview" she waved me over to a crowd of women milling around in one of the corners. We stood there, eyeing each other critically, each dressed in our conservative little outfits, heels and stockings, wondering how many positions were open and what it would take to get one of them.

Eventually a foppish little man with a flamboyant bowtie and a bad comb-over approached and asked us to follow him down a flight of stairs connecting the reception area to the boiler room below. More boxes piled up everywhere and frantic associates bumping into each other in their manic pursuit of the billable minute. We were led into a large, windowless conference room, not the type reserved for important clients, rather the kind of place where pizzas were served at midnight to stoke the lawsuit machine. I grabbed a chair, grateful to get off my tender feet, and carefully smoothed my skirt beneath me as I primly sat down and crossed my legs.

Mr. Bowtie tapped the table with a pencil, silencing the babble of female voices. "Ladies, if I may have your attention," he lisped, "thank you for responding to our advertisement. As you can see, there are a lot of you, and lovely and talented as you all undoubtedly are, at the moment we have only three open positions. Of course, all of your resumes will be kept on file...." He pressed on despite the audible groans and sighs. "In addition to the secretarial positions, we do have one immediate opening for a receptionist. Unfortunately, this position pays only minimum wage, but it is a way to get your foot in the door, so to speak." Looking around, I could see that there were no takers: the women in this room were experienced executive assistants, and they'd be better off staying on unemployment than taking a dead-end job like that. I shot up my hand and chirped, "I'll take it."

And so began my career as a receptionist at Wurm, Roach and Scheister. The next morning, I was up at five again for what was to become my weekday routine: shaving my legs in the tub, putting on my makeup, trying to decide what dress or skirt to wear (the dress code for receptionists was even more demanding than for secretaries, since we were "the face of Wurm Roach" as Mr. Bowtie put it), fixing myself a quick breakfast, trudging off to the BART station, dozing off if I could find a seat on the train, and then a quick cigarette on my way to the office.

On the way home after my successful "interview" I'd stopped at a discount shoe store and treated myself to a pair of women's sneakers, so at least my feet weren't already in agony when I showed up for work. I learned how to juggle a shoulder bag along with my purse to carry my heels, and I learned to throw in an extra pair of nylons in case I snagged them on the train on against a filing cabinet or my chair. During my lunch hour one day I scored a pair of stilettos that were almost comfortable, two more skirts and tops to go with them, a matching purse of course, and some necessary lingerie....how did working women afford this crap?

There was a definite hierarchy at the office, and as the lowly receptionist I was definitely the low woman on the totem pole. I amused myself by perfecting my female voice while biding my time. The place was such a zoo, there was a never-ending stream of entertainment, and I filled the occasional lulls by paging through the women's fashion magazines I found in the break room, educating myself about clothes and makeup. Whenever I could, I offered to help the other girls with their filing and correspondence, always on the lookout for information about the case against me. Although I wasn't able to turn up any evidence, I did come across the computer passwords for each of the members of the legal team, which I carefully copied before returning the original.

Unlike the manic hours I was used to working, I clocked out every day at five on the dot, returning to lonely nights alone in my dreary apartment. Until one day when Mr. Bowtie surprised me during my lunch break with an ice cream cake, leading my fellow munchkins in a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday." At first I didn't get it, until I realized that it must be the date of birth I'd randomly chosen for my phony ID!

"What are your plans for your big day?" one of the secretaries asked.

"Yeah, Cissy, got a hot date tonight?" another one chimed in.

I shook my head sadly. "I'll be watching American Idol."

"Aw, c'mon, it's your birthday, girl! We gotta do better than that. Why don't you join us tonight?"

"Yeah, Cissy, we've got room for one more, you'll love it!"

Maybe it was because I was bored out of my mind with the prospect of another night in front of the TV, but eventually I broke down and agreed to join "the girls" for a hot night out on the town. Promptly at five o'clock, the posse formed up in the lobby, and I fell into line as we trooped onto the elevator, wondering if some of the estrogen would rub off on me? I'd left my sneakers under my desk, and my feet were killing me by the time we got to our first stop, the Clock Bar at the St Francis Hotel.

Some of the girls were really hot, and I settled into my seat at our corner booth, content to watch the evening unfold. A couple of middle-aged businessmen from out of town tried to flirt with us, but my cohorts made short work of them, and we giggled over our Cosmos and Chardonnays as the night wore on. When it was almost seven, Shannon, the ring-leader, announced that it was time for us to head for Asia SF.

"What's Asia SF?" I asked the girl next to me.

"You've never heard of it? You'll see," she laughed as she drained her drink. We gathered up our coats and purses and struck off, turning heads along the way as we marched en masse towards the cab stand on Union Square. My feet were in agony and I was having trouble keeping up with them. "Suck it up, girl!" Shannon taunted me.

Squeezing into the back seat of a taxi with three other women in short skirts was beyond bizarre, but after two Cosmos I was feeling pretty loose so I just went with the flow and tried to imagine that I was really one of the girls. A few minutes later, we spilled out of the cab onto 9th Street and I followed the crowd into a nondescript nightclub with a horseshoe shaped bar surrounded by banquettes already jammed with tourists, bachelorette parties and the occasional couple. My eyes were still getting adjusted to the dim light when our waitress, an incredibly hot Asian chick in cutoffs and a belly shirt, arrived to take our orders.

I concentrated on my menu as she made her way around the table. When she came to me, I looked up and did a double take. It couldn't be! "Are you ready?" she asked impatiently.

"Uh, no, I mean yes, I'll have the chicken satay and crab wontons," I stammered. My eyes were glued to her as she moved to the girl beside me, but she didn't seem to recognize me before she left to put in our orders.

"What is this place?" I asked Shannon.

"You haven't figured it out? Dear, sweet, innocent Cissy, this is a drag bar!"

I was way ahead of her, but I played along anyway. "You mean our waitress is really a guy?"

"Either she is, or she was," Shannon said matter-of-factly. "They double as waitresses and the main attraction. Wait till you see them strut their stuff!" Sure enough, shortly after our waitress returned with our orders, the lights dimmed and an emcee announced that the show was about to being. To the booming beat of canned music, the first of the waitresses leaped onto the bar and began gyrating while the audience whooped and hollered.

One after another, they took their turns on the bar, dressed in incredibly hot outfits. I waited on the edge of my seat for our server to take her turn, and when she did, she was spectacular in her hotpants, fishnets and thigh-high boots. Shaking her booty for all she was worth, she brought down the house as she pranced along the bar, teasing the straight guys who were cool enough to let her muss their hair and yank their ties. She ended her routine with a spectacular cheerleader's split, drawing a standing ovation from the packed house.

"Wow," Shannon said. "Can you believe she used to be a guy?"

"No way," I lied. "What's her story?"

"All I know is all of them used to be boys. Why, do you want to meet her?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do."

"Well, she'll be back to collect our check. Why don't you stuff a twenty in her bra?" Shannon teased me.

"All I want is her name and phone number."

The next morning, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the girls about my "crush" on Jade, our waitress. They'd watched me ask her if I could call her, and although she'd brushed me off, I had all the information I needed.

Later that same day, I got another lucky break. The big dog litigator from New York, Leonard "Tiny" Wurm, arrived for an all-hands strategy session about the case against my hedge fund, and it wasn't long before he hit on me. He was a mountain of a man, ruggedly handsome for an older guy, with ruddy cheeks and a full head of silver hair. I myself was looking good despite my late night out on the town, and I flirted with him until he asked me out to dinner. At his hotel! I asked him for his room number, which he gave me before suggesting that we meet first at the hotel restaurant.

Our "date" was for six o'clock. Precisely at five, I ducked out of the office and headed straight for Leonard's hotel, where I got myself the cheapest available room on the same floor as his, for one night only. I didn't even have time to check out my room before dinner, and of course I had on my stilettos, so my sneakers were still stuffed in my shoulder bag. Using the techniques I'd learned from reading all those women's magazines, I amped up my makeup in the ladies room before I rode the escalator up to the second floor for my first ever date with a man.

Leonard was waiting for me at a corner table laden with linens, crystal, silver and a romantic candle. His Manhattan was almost drained, and he ordered another for himself and a Cosmo for me before we turned our attention to the menus. It was beyond strange, sitting there in a dress while a man ordered dinner for me, knowing that his only objective was to get inside my pants as soon as we got up from the table. We made small talk over dinner, and although I tried to draw him out about the case against me, he gave me next to nothing and I didn't press my luck.

After dessert and coffee, he assumed without asking that I'd be thrilled to join him in his suite, and I offered no resistance. He put his arm around me on the way up in the elevator, and I took his hand as he led me down the hall to his suite. As soon as we were inside, I did a quick surveillance to determine the location of his laptop computer. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I stuffed his computer into my shoulder bag before I stretched myself out on the sofa.

Then the hard part began: he sat down next to me, and I let him kiss me and stroke my breasts and legs, playing along while he unzipped my dress and unfastened his own belt and trousers. In my slip and stockings, I felt so vulnerable! I cuddled next to him on the sofa, and when he started groping at the waistband of my pantyhose I seized the initiative and tugged his shorts down to his ankles.

His manhood was soft but willing, and under normal circumstances his lady would have done the necessary to bring him to full arousal. "Do you know what I want?" he moaned between kisses.

"What?" I whispered, nibbling on his ear.

"I want to cum all over your tits and watch you suck it up."

Charming! I had to figure out some way to get out of there before he got into my panties...then an inspiration came to me.

"Now I know how you got your time," I giggled.

"What do you mean, baby?"

"Tiny Wurm. It looks like a penis, only smaller."

"You little bitch!"

"I've taken shits bigger than your cock!"

He stood up in a rage. "Get out!" I scrambled off the couch, gathered up my dress, shoes, shoulder bag and purse, and raced out the door as he slammed it behind me. The next few seconds were critical: half naked, I had to run down the hall to my room and get the door closed behind me before he discovered that his laptop was missing. From the sound of it, I just made it, because I heard him swearing and searching for me a few seconds later. Then hotel security came, and the police, their heavy footsteps and two-way radios echoing outside my door.

That night, I hunkered down in my room, pouring over the case files in Leonard's computer. It was like finding the mother lode: hundreds of documents detailing the toxic effects of Atrazine, including scientific research papers isolating a compound called pheminyze, which triggered the genetic sex change from male to female. I searched all night for anything which might suggest the possibility of a cure, but by dawn it was obvious that my fate was sealed. There was no way to reverse the process.