I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Different

"Bisexuals don't exist; they're just gays in denial. Everyone knows that!" Bradley joked, his voice over-the-top sarcastic to make it obvious. He suddenly had a horrible suspicion some of the medical profession still believed it.

She laughed. "Yeah, you're right. Too true. Anyway, I've now jumped through all the hoops, the main one being I've 'lived as a woman' for two years. Five, more like. Not to mention all the hormones I've taken and the surgery I've had so far. Finished my degree and worked for a couple years. So now they're willing to finish the job."

In reaction to Bradley's confused face, and wanting to see how he'd react, she explained, her voice lowered, conspiratorial. "Make me a vagina!"

"Ah! Right." He tried not to sound too turned on by the idea, concentrating on the biological translations it would involve. "I guess, that'd be nice?"

"I hope so. Exactly how much sensation it has is a bit luck of the draw..."

"Same for most women, I suppose." The clit was the important bit. He knew that!

"But it means this is sorted out." She waved her hand, making the bedspread ripple. "They kinda invert it. I'll spare you the detail! But basically the tip here stays, as a proper clitoris, but the rest is all neatly inside."

Bradley let himself picture Lisa with the standard female configuration between her legs, but it wasn't a hardship to focus on the skin and hair of the real woman lying next to him. "Wow. Sounds like major surgery."

"Yeah." She made an embarrassed noise. "Thing is, once I looked right and started being treated like a woman -- in any situation with my clothes on, anyhow -- the worst of the dysphoria went away. So I've spent a lot of time thinking, over the last few years: do I really need to do this? It's two months recovery time, plus rehab. Plus just knowing that it is, 100%, totally irreversible. Major surgery, just to look better for sexual partners. Isn't that just vanity, rather than a real need?"

"Two months? That's a big deal! I had no idea."

"Yeah. But." She winced. "I've got a kinda love-hate relationship with it. It's all wrong that it's there, but y'know, it's a dick! I've been a teenager..." She screwed up her face, guiltily. "The hormones made it a bit smaller and not so quick to respond, but there's still pleasure as well, you get me? Though clinics really don't like it if you admit that. There's forums online now, telling you what to lie about."

"Surely, it's obvious you still would? I mean, if you have a cock that works, you have a shower... I mean, wouldn't anyone jerk off, just because it feels good?"

"Exactly. I did. I do... But it always felt so wrong... Just proof, that my whole body wasn't right." She let out a deep breath. "I used to pretend it was someone else's, who I was rubbing off... Do you dream of someone else playing with your cock, when you wank? No, you don't have to say! But most men do, yeah. With me, it was the other way round, fantasising that the hand was mine but the cock wasn't..."

Not knowing what to say, Bradley kissed her shoulder.

"I could cope, now, if I had to. But I've got the funds, and thought about it for years -- so I've decided. I'm going to go ahead and sort the whole thing out. For better or worse."

"Taking two months off work? Can you do that?"

"Work are OK with it. Well, 'planned surgery for women's issues' -- I've not given them the details!" Lisa didn't want the entire company knowing.

"So you're doing it soon?"

"Yeah. A few months' time. Spend time lying around the parents' garden in the summer, I suppose. It's kind of nice, getting to know them as me, creating a new functioning relationship."

"Uh-huh. And Oonagh's your little sister?"

"That's right. She was in the same year as Rachel, so Rachel would come visit a lot. Stay for a few days, sometimes. We got on quite well. I guess, in retrospect, we could sort of tell we were both hiding ourselves, just neither of us... We didn't know how to explain it, I suppose?

"Oonagh would try to cheer us both up. She's a sweetheart. Unlike our older brother! Robbie's just your hearty stereotypical lad. Eh, he's a nice enough bloke, now he's grown up, but he never understood me at all." Lisa giggled. "I mean, he still doesn't, but he knows he doesn't understand women! So it works better, now. Gormless git."

Bradley laughed. "That's such a British insult."

"Yeah. I think we've got a lot more variety in our insults, too. I mean, what have you got? 'Jerk'. 'Motherfucker'. 'Sonofabitch'? All a bit harsh! What do you call your mate who's just a bit of an idiot a lot of the time?"

"Goof, doofus, dweeb, dickhead?"

"Dickhead? I thought that was a," -- she aped a Southern drawl, badly -- "real Briddish word!"

"Nah, we got dickheads galore! Morons, too. Nuts. Jackass, bonehead..."

"Oh yeah, 'bonehead' is a word you don't hear here. Not because we don't got any..."

"You can say that, but when I'm in Europe for work or conferences, everyone seems classy as hell. Even now, even though I can tell some differences. Emily told me she's from a working-class upbringing, she's not from a rich family like Rachel is, even though Rachel tries to act like she's not. You, you're wealthy, right? Like Rachel sounds, when she wants to?"

"You could say that." Lisa decided to be honest. It was working, as a policy, tonight. "Yeah. My family's the kind that assume their children will go to public school. Long-established private schools, that is. As opposed to just being able to afford it, like Rach's dad." Not that the next generation could make that assumption. That required parents to die young, nowadays.

"Wow. That's... great. I have nothing against money, mind you, but it's so not my background."

"Your upbringing made you into a thoroughly decent man, young man! Don't you put yourself down."

Bradley considered. It wasn't church he could thank, though regular doses of reminders to treat anyone and everyone as his neighbor couldn't be a bad thing. But his family, just regular folks in middle America, had supported any realistic ambitions. They'd been great examples for treating strangers fairly, never judging anyone as inferior, no matter what.

He couldn't imagine his mom or dad sleeping around at conferences, but if they had done, in their youth, he guessed they'd have done their best to treat people right. One could have worse role models.

He looked at Lisa, and tucked a curl behind her ear. She was looking at him kindly, like he was her friend.

He wanted her as another of his mad English friends. Whether or not he fucked her again, Brad wanted to add Lisa to the list of people he looked forward to seeing when he next made it to this side of the Atlantic. Or tomorrow, even.

"Hey? What are you doing tomorrow night?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "No plans. Why?"

"People have dinner, then go to parties all over. I don't know if Emily will make it back to this room, but if you don't mind potentially crashing on a couch somewhere, you'd be most welcome."

"Are the parties not just for scientists?"

"People bring partners and friends. You're smart, you know things. You'll fit in fine. You know Rachel, even."

"True. Would her girlfriend be there? I'd love to meet her!"

"I don't know. She had to work, back up in north London. Might be too far for a Thursday night."

"Ah, well. I ought to catch up with Rachel anyway. It's nice, seeing her all happy and herself."

Bradley could tell that was of ultimate importance to Lisa. He couldn't imagine what it was like, having to hide being gay. Or being female, but not looking it. Sure, he'd had a few years of hiding his interest in anal sex, but that really didn't compare...

"Let's meet up at six, after the last session. We'll be in the hotel lobby."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd really like that. Thanks," she said.

That evening, when Bradley emerged from an excellent but brain-aching session on nuclear receptors, he was surprised by how delighted he was to see Lisa, making polite conversation with two people he recognised from Dutch labs.

"You understood their poster?"

"Not in the slightest!" Lisa declared. "I admitted to being an accountant -- just to make it totally clear I wasn't chatting them up! We were talking about the amount of financial management labs need to do and the lack of support they have for it, so I asked if there wasn't a role for financial support staff, and they they said it's moving that way, to all sorts of support services, not so much paper-writing or admin, but for microscopy, DNA sequencing, er... and other useful things I didn't know what they were."

"Mm. That's a good point, actually. Some places are realising that it's a waste of time training up everyone in loads of techniques for one result -- and then your expert leaves you, for a new lab. God, the amount of time I'd have saved on my PhD if someone could have just taken one EM photo for me!"

"E.M.?"

"Electron microscopy. When a light microscope can't magnify enough. You need to prepare your samples and slice them so fine, stage them in a vacuum, then focus the thing... All I wanted to know was, are these blobs on this side of the membrane, or that side? I didn't need perfect focused images like you see in magazines! It took six months with everyone I could find helping, before we got a conclusive answer."

"Isn't that a waste of resources? I mean, aren't electron microscopes huge things that take up a room and cost a billion pounds?"

He was impressed she knew that much. Though the Brits did generally do more science, even if they'd quit it aged sixteen, after whatever Harry Potter's OWL exams were called in real life.

"Huge, yeah. Probably only a million bucks, nowadays. But your point stands." He nodded at her, with respect. "If you find anyone at the Crick, I know they're shifting to a service model. And long-term contracts. How it works at the moment is, you finish your PhD -- I've just submitted mine. Then you work a couple postdoctoral positions, say three years each, at least one abroad. Then you try to get your own lab somewhere, manage a team, somewhere in the world, and hope you get some good results. That's the thing throughout, though -- if your results aren't exciting enough to publish, you're screwed. Only one in ten people ever become a PI. Principal Investigator." He added, "I know Rachel's worried she won't get a good second postdoc because she's discovered a million ways how you can't grow certain cells, but no-one cares about that."

"No?"

"Not enough to fund more of it, anyhow. You'd think a big hospital or somewhere would be desperate for a tissue culture expert, but they only want to pay peanuts for someone doing the repetitive basic shit. Excuse me!" Being around the sweary Brits, he'd found himself lapsing into language he tried not to use around a lady. Lisa's poise and quiet confidence made him think of her as a lady -- despite her moaning in a perfect unladylike way the night before, when he'd had his cock in her ass! He stifled a smirk at the thought, then adjusted his pants.

She noticed. And beamed at him.

He took her hand. Then he regretted it, as Richie wandered past, always way too observant. "Oi-oi! Who's this then? You've forgotten your badge, love."

Lisa could give as good as she got. "No, I haven't. I'm just visiting."

Bradley interrupted. "Her name's Lisa. She's an old friend of Rachel's. Lisa, this is Richie, a kind of mentor to me when he's not being an asshole. He's not quite the wanker he pretends." He hoped he'd used the word 'wanker' correctly.

Richie's eyebrows had raised when he'd heard Rachel knew Lisa. "Good taste. But trust me, sweetheart, I'm just as much of an arsehole as people think. I'm heading to the big boys' dinner. Where are you plebs off to?"

"The Dutch team are off for a curry, if you want to follow them," Lisa offered.

Bradley grinned. "My social secretary! Let's go!"

"Table for twenty -- twenty-two -- twenty-four? The waiter was familiar with inundations of conference guests needing food. "Yes. Six on that table, six there, six there, you there. One bill per table, okay? You want I just bring food, okay? No problem. What do you drink?"

In due course, the mildy-tipsy crew, including a buzzed Bradley, were swept back to the hotel, to a party which had started on the fourth floor, and was already encompassing three rooms and a suite. Lisa was holding her own in conversation with many people, listening to people describe their home countries, where they lived now, and, sometimes, their science. Bradley was doing his best to keep an eye out for her, while also making a good impression on every senior scientist he could find.

The suite became even more packed. Bradley noticed Fiona Wilson sidle in, the professor who'd flirted with him the night before, when he'd been returning from Rachel's room and still wearing the leather collar Rachel had playfully put around him. Fiona smiled at him again, but not the predatory cougar act this time; she merely wished him good luck with his viva exam and his new job in Canada.

He definitely hadn't told her he was still completing his PhD. Which meant she'd looked him up! Maybe it was true, that the top tier of scientists treated students as off-limits? That was kind of a relief. In a few years' time, if she made a play for him, he might not say no...

Bradley tried not to look too nervous as he returned the smile.

"Who's that?" Lisa asked. "She's giving some card to Richie, now?"

"Fiona? Only the top scientist in London. Her, her husband, and, like, three others, rule the field over here. What's Rich doing? Oh, God, I hope he isn't offending her! In case you hadn't noticed, Richie can't help offending people even when he tries not to..."

Bradley and Lisa squeezed through the crowds to Richie informing Fiona, "Thank you very much, but another time. I'm busy." To Bradley, as soon as Fiona was gone, Richie muttered, "I need to get out of here."

"Let's go, then. We don't have to stay."

"Want Em to know. Arse. I wanted to speak to Vera and Henrik, too." Richie paced back and forth, like a stressed caged tiger, his long ginger hair adding to the image.

Emily materialised at his side. "You need a break, love? Let's just go down to your suite. Anyone you want to bring, for a chilled chat? Sure. You go get the drinks open, I'll drag them along. Maybe a couple others, but nothing too overwhelming," she soothed him. "Brad, can you go sort his place out so it looks OK, would you?"

Bradley and Lisa nodded.

Once on the staircase down to Richie's suite, Richie calmed down. "The more important you are, the better view you get from your suite. Lots of road noise, here on the lowest level." Richie sighed. "I'll just have to get promoted." He added, meaning Emily, "Life seems so easy when she organises people for me."

Bradley agreed. "Or me, looks like. Open up. Okay, room service did their thing. Where's your booze? Do you have glasses?"

Emily supplied two Dutch researchers plus Rachel for the smaller gathering. Richie stared out of the French window, at the wrought-iron balcony and the black sea. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Henrik's here. And his boss, Wang. Vera's coming along in a minute. You sit down. I'll get you a drink."

Richie nodded, silent.

"Is he OK?" Henrik asked, with a strong German accent.

"Gets a bit much; claustrophobic parties. So, can you tell us more about what you're working on now?"

Emily said the words, but Richie was back in control of himself enough now; he could have initiated the standard science schmoozing conversation himself. He nodded at Henrik, murmuring agreement, eventually asking a question. Wang joined in, creating an enthusiastic debate.

Emily excused herself, joining Bradley, Lisa, Vera and Rachel by the other couch. Vera and Emily discussed techniques, Bradley listening intently, while Rachel and Lisa enjoyed catching up on the last few years.

"Barcelona? Sounds fabulous!" Lisa said.

"The city's great, yeah. The lab does good stuff, but it's very competitive -- you're only rated as good as your last results. I've got a whole bunch of difficult cells to grow in culture, but that's not sexy enough by itself for a good paper." Rachel sighed. "I chatted to an editor of Nature, once. He explained how they pick papers. 'One, is it sexy? Will it be misappropriated by news headlines across the world? Two, is it exciting to those in the field and other scientists? Third, a long way third -- is it true?' No, I don't mean faked, just is it replicable? Can others find the same, not just a fluke? Faking isn't really a problem -- that Wakefield fucker aside..."

"Who? Oh, that MMR bloke."

"Yeah. Papers all officially retracted as faked, but still people jumping to conclusions that vaccines cause autism. Rather than simply geeks getting together and breeding."

"Cool. Maybe labs will start valuing shared services more. You could run a cell culture unit for everyone?" Lisa's suggestion was based on Henrik and Vera's ideas from earlier.

"Sounds amazingly sensible. It'll never happen," Rachel replied, glumly.

"Brad said some places were. Chin up! Anyway, tell me about this girlfriend of yours?"

Lisa noticed Rachel perked up immediately. She tried not to be too envious. Could she, herself, ever have a similar loving relationship? Since she'd lived as Lisa, there hadn't been anyone for whom she'd got anywhere near 'love'. Bradley was already way better than any guy she'd been with. Of course, following Sod's Law, he'd be off in Canada for the next three years.

Vera joined them, a sharp-chinned woman in double-denim with spiky mousy hair. Was she was flirting with both women, or just blunt and Dutch?

After a reassuring hand-squeeze, Lisa made clear she'd be in Bradley's room that night.

Rachel reacted similarly, also liking Vera but not that way. "You want to continue conversation, Vera? Sure, a chat would be nice. But I'm not promising anything else in my room. Not tonight, for sure."

Vera seemed confused. Then she figured out the cross-cultural confusion, tucking her short tufts of hair behind her ears. "Ah. No. Sometimes, a cosy fireside chat is just a cosy fireside chat. Yes? I have not met you enough before to offer more." Relief all round. "Not tonight, not yet," she added, possibly out of politeness. Vera swept her eyes up and down Rachel, who laughed.

"I knew there was a reason I stayed in science," Rachel exclaimed. "Most of the scientists!"

Richie's animated discussion with Wang and Henrik dwindled. Wang had explained he preferred to go by his surname; Bradley wondered what personal name could be even more embarrassing than Wang, but wasn't going to ask. Wang excused himself, citing the need for an early night. He must be in his 50s, and it was around 1am.

Richie stood up. "Right, you lot. Time to piss off. Unless you want to watch me fucking Emily on the balcony. There's other parties, if you want them."

Henrik chuckled, nervously. After polishing off a couple more bottles of wine, and the bottle of rum Richie insisted he wasn't carrying home, it was a safe bet that most of the room would happily accept a naked Emily as entertainment, whether or not they'd appreciate Richie along with it.

Emily, however, well used to Richie, could and did boss him about as needed. "I'll translate. That's time to go, everybody, whether or not you'd want to watch any such thing. Rich, time for you to shut it."

Bradley guessed Henrik was disappointed. Ah well, the bespectacled young PI was a good guy; he could mix back in with the crowds upstairs. He wondered if Henrik's absent wife was as content with dalliances as others seemed to be. Surely not all science marriages were open? Maybe the others didn't last long?