The Curious Usage of Miss Wolf

Mitzi has started pimping me out to 'solve people's problems'.

"You're like Ms Wolf from that film," she coos over the phone one afternoon in September when the weather can't be arsed being anything at all, and has settled on a humid drab grey like the soul of a hate-filled stockbroker.

I allow one of those pauses that enable me to work out what the hell she's on about. Then I get it.

"From 'Pulp Fiction'?"

"Yes!"

"That's very cultured of you, Mitzi. Have you been unwell?"

"A blemish last Wednesday that laid me up for several hours, otherwise no. As for the reference, Terry mentioned it."

I might have guessed. Terry is Mitzi's neighbour, and as of quite recently a lover to us both. For someone who once said he didn't like tgirls, he has developed quite an appetite.

For those of you who haven't seen 'Pulp Fiction', it's a crime thriller made up of three stories set in LA in the 90s. The third story is about two hitmen accidentally who shoot a passenger and end up covered in the poor chap's blood and brains. It's broad daylight, and the film has a realist aspect that means it doesn't just cut to another scene in which the two hoods are miraculously clean. They hole up in the house of a reluctant associate and call their boss, who sends them Mr Winston Wolf.

There are many interesting things about Mr Wolf. He is at a party (it's about 10am by this point); he makes careful notes about the situation, and when he's done that he says 'That's thirty minutes away. I'll be there in twenty.'

Note his attention to detail, ability to manage upwards, and confidence. These traits make him seem supernatural, even though we can see he isn't. He's also assisted by the film's running theme about wolves as human/animal helpers, which climaxes with this sequence.

Mr Wolf shows up, and through deft management defuses the situation, gets the guys out of trouble and calms the ally, who is terrified his wife will come home and find the house covered in blood. Later, Mr Wolf drops the hitmen off and heads to breakfast with a pretty girl who we genuinely believe is pleased to see him, despite the difference in age (Wolf is played by Harvey Keitel, who was in his fifties then).

I mention this character in detail because he's such a legend he still pops up, played by the same actor in a series of otherwise lamentable insurance ads. It's also not the first time I've been compared to him, although it is the first time post-transition. Once, when being turned for a job, I was told 'You're the guy people turn to to sort things out. Three weeks later you come out of the jungle with the knife between your teeth and everything's sorted. Which is great, but frankly we're after a team player.'

So Mr Wolf means a lot to me, because in my youth I was dismissed as 'impractical' -- for which read unmanly. Being me, I doubled back on this nonsense and became very fucking practical indeed, so that for most of my career I've been a project manager, which combines my twin talents of useful ingenuity and fetish levels of skilled grovelling. And yet...

"Not Ms Wolf, Mitzi."

"No?"

"I dislike 'Ms'. It sounds like someone falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.'

"I'm not calling you 'Mrs'; that would be obscene."

"I'm fine with 'Miss Wolf' for this particular gig, thank you. Is it sexual?"

"A bit, probably, but the main thing is the problem."

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for some piece of challenging puzzle work -- hostage negotiation perhaps, or a piece of cunningly-wrought design like a cantilevered bridge made of peacock feathers, or the branding of some world-changing invention like the bastard teleport I was led to believe would be here by now.

"The client has a printer," Mitzi says. "And it's got a paper jam. He wants it dealt with."

I blink. The day seems to have got even greyer.

"How is that a use of my extraordinary skills, Mitzi?"

"It really is right up your alley."

"Machines hate me, especially computers, the boxy red-eyed fucks."

"You need to wear the pinstripe."

That stops me.

"He asked for that?"

"Oh yes."

"The pinstripe has eldritch powers, Mitzi. Whenever I wear it, I feel like I can take over the world and begin to channel Darth Vader."

"Even I know Darth Vader is a boy."

"No!" I shout. "Darth Vader is one of us. After Obi Wan chops his legs off his knackers are burned away by the lava. And that voice is a massive over-compensation --"

"He is willing to pay you £200, of which I take 15%, plus any additional expenses incurred by performance of the task."

That large sum is both suspicious and intriguing. Mitzi gives me an address and tells me to be there at 7pm. Normally, a 7pm assignation would be a nuisance because of the need for dinner, but I had a full meal at lunchtime as I was working from home.

I shower, shave everything, moisturise and then get into my undies. Everyone expects tgirls to have the full Anne Summers catalogue on at all times, and I do sometimes enjoy that, but I left my last lot at Torture Garden for reasons that now escape me. Anyway, I'm more than happy with my tailored black gaff pants with the frills and hip padding, and a gym bra that looks like it isn't one and holds my breasts just so regardless of what I get up to. Then stockings -- black with a mid-denier that stops me overheating as I run hot at the best of times, because something tells me this printer challenge is going to involve more than just fiddling with a paper tray.

I start on my makeup. If the client wants the pinstripe he is clearly after something corporate, so I go with a concealer base, then an even foundation layer, some contouring but not too much, and basic eye work. I consider false lashes but discard the idea. Lips are always tricky; I don't wear my trademark bright red at work, but feel the need for it tonight so go with a rich pigment light red tone that will stay in place whatever happens.

Then the suit. It is a tailored Armani with a short jacket and a pencil skirt that, at my request, is long enough to be acceptable in the barely-restrained kink-fest that is the corporate world, while simultaneously being a bit shorter than it should be. Even my enemies love my legs, and I'm not hiding them.

I slip on a crisp, fresh blouse that has a little ruffle down the front, and slide into the suit. At once I feel its power soak into me, and stand differently. I choose my practical working woman's boots -- Tu from Sainsbury's; they're comfy, look great and have never let me down. For my hair I go for a shoulder length bob with a slight wave, dark brown with a fringe -- I am not myself without a fringe -- and even a few strands of grey, which bizarrely looks sexier than it does without.

I choose my black handbag, fill it with essential kit (makeup, poppers, contraceptives, phone charger, phone, keys, credit card, tissues for lipstick application, hairbrush, back-up hairbrush, spare panties), strut out of the house and get in my car.

The car is a refurbed Triumph GT6 Mk III, by which I mean it's really a 2.5 litre Audi turbo in the body of a GT6. It's also got a four-wheel drive and a fully electric dashboard. It's red, because of course it fucking is. There's a story about how I came by it, but that's for another time.

Like Mr Wolf, I get to the destination early, but decide to drive around to a bit rather than knocking on the door in case the client is on the loo or something. The place is just outside a suburb in Kent, and is so bland I would have got lost but for the satnav. After ten minutes of identikit tedious architecture and yawningly dull landscaping, I decide to pull up outside the destination and wait there.

The house is on its own, at the end of a long drive. There is a high wall around it, and I can see that the dwelling itself is one of those modernist cubes that look like giant versions of a child's learning toy. Both wall and house are white, and the house windows are dark, darker than windows usually are, even allowing for the twilight. I realise they are one-way mirrors, and get one of those little thrills that might be excitement or might be dread, I don't mind which. The black front door is barely recessed, and looks like the windows; only its position lets me know what it is.

I park near the driveway entrance and get out my phone to do a bit of nattering on tvChix. Hopefully, this paper jam malarkey will be over with in an hour or so, and I can meet up with one of the girls or an admirer for some drinks and another fuck. I always like to get at least two in of an evening.

Come up to the house.

The message comes up on WhatsApp -- Mitzi must have given the client my number. I hesitate, then put my phone in the handbag, gun the engine and send the car slinking up to the front of the house.

When I get out, I see how out of place my car is; it seems garish, even crude in this pristine environment. The garden is more pruned than an ageing twink, but the grass is perfectly coloured. I wonder if it's astroturf, but no, there's that cut-grass smell in the air. There are hedges, each a masterpiece of abstract geometric precision, and flat white stones set in rigid patterns that are as far from Zen as a bomb in a nightclub.

I am a neat person, more than a little touched by OCD, but in this perfect place I feel like a cavewoman. Will the client drag me in by my hair? I've fixed it in place, but he'll be in for a shock if he tries.

The front door clicks open in a way that suggests remote control. I lock my car, suddenly protective of it, and stride up to the house. There is no step up; I simply open the door and walk in.

There is minimal, and there is vacuum, and I am in a space that is far closer to the latter. It is admirable, in the way the interior is nothing but light and white space, but I wouldn't want to live here. It's open-plan, with no furniture. Stairs sweep up to an upper mezzanine, and more to a third level that must be a roof garden. The flooring is not a material I recognise; neither wood, stone or plastic, it is non-slip and hard, but gives a little, muffling my footsteps.

A man comes through a square opening to my left.

He is the perfect occupant for this place. Tall, thin and pale, with round glasses that are a surprise; surely contact lenses would suit his sparse taste more? His hair is dark, the same colour as mine, but carefully slicked down so it shines in the bright lights. He wears a white shirt, white slacks and white shoes.

He wears gloves. These too are white.

"Good evening," he says.

His voice is almost without tone, yet is not bland, as if this entire set-up is meant to eradicate something that is still very much present, seething below the surface. My beloved suit feels shabby here, my hair not done right, my make-up inadequate. The animus powers of Winston Wolf and Darth Vader come to my aid; I lift my chin and stride forward.

"Kelly Random," I say, and extend my hand. "I understand you have a problem."

I expect him to recoil; instead, he extends his arm smoothly and takes my hand in his. The grip is firm, respectful, and gone in a moment. I withdraw my hand and rest it on the strap of my handbag. We regard each other.

"Please," he says, and indicates the room he just came out of.

I follow him back through the opening -- there are no doors -- into a far larger space than I expected. The house is not square; it only looked like that from the front. It is an oblong, and I am in a room that's longer than the office at work. It is empty, apart from a printer on the floor at the very far end.

"Ah," I say, and head towards it.

I am gripped gently but very firmly from behind. Before I can do anything except stop, I am released. I turn back to the man. His expression has not changed.

"The journey to the far end of the room is a long one," the man says.

"I see."

"I am..." he blinks.

He does not want to tell me his name, but lacks the imagination for an alternative.

"Mr White," I say.

His eyes widen slightly. I wonder if I have angered him, but realise this expression is his version of delight.

"The monies have been transferred to your associate," he says. "You may claim any additional costs you see fit. I shall trust you to be accurate."

"Of course."

"I will prepare the coffee."

He turns away but when I go to follow, he turns back, the movement smooth and sudden.

"Please stay here, Kelly."

I hesitate.

"Is there something wrong?" he says.

"I don't like to drink anything I haven't seen prepared," I say.

"Why?"

"Someone drugged me."

As I fail to stop my eye twitching with recollected fury, I expect him to question me about it, or argue. He does neither; instead he nods, raises one of those gloved hands in a way that reassures while also insisting I stay put, and goes back out of the room again.

I just have time to regard the printer at the end of the room -- it's a heavy-duty commercial one rather than a domestic; squat, about a metre square -- when he comes back in with a large can. It's an energy drink: one of those chemical shitstorms in a tin that have you climbing the walls after three sips.

"Drink all of this in ten seconds," Mr White says.

I pop the tab and try not to look at the logo, which makes Munch's 'The Scream' look like Iggle Piggle. It's cool but not cold, tastes of sugared piss filtered through hay, and is not so carbonated that I can't get it down pronto. When I look at Mr White again, he is holding out another can. I drink the contents of that one too, faster this time as the first dose hits my system like the early warning of a heart attack.

"We'd best get to it," I say, my voice beginning to rise with heightened energy.

"Not yet," Mr White says. "I wish to see you rise."

It is a truth not commonly acknowledged that I am often quite happy simply sitting or standing around with other people, or even on my own. I like a good yap as much as the next girl, but I don't feel the need to fill silence unnecessarily. It's possibly from the time when I first transitioned, when it was so wonderful to simply be a woman that any other activity seemed unnecessary. To be a woman in appreciative company was better yet, and if it meant I got a nice filled pussy at the end of it, so much the better, but it wasn't a deal breaker and still isn't.

Mr White points at my bag.

"Do you need anything in that?"

"Are you going to fuck me?"

"Not exactly."

"Do you like poppers?"

"No."

Shit.

"My makeup --"

"Your makeup is perfect, your beauty sublime."

That throws me; I swallow loudly before I think to cover it with a demure cough.

"It will evolve, over the night," Mr White adds.

"The night?"

"Neither of us will be sleeping, Kelly Random."

The energy drink is buzzing in me now.

"We certainly won't," I say.

He nods at my bag and holds out both hands. I take the bag off and give it to him. He turns and presses the nearest wall; a panel opens with the smooth elegance of a machine to reveal a spotless, empty cupboard. Mr White puts my bag inside and closes the panel, which seems to disappear, leaving the wall flawless again.

Power surges through me, and I hear my boots creak when I stand on tiptoe as if to stretch up and earth surplus energy in the ceiling. I hear myself sigh with it, an unconscious sound like the movement onto my toes.

"There," Mr White says. "You have risen. Now, to business."

He opens another panel. I glimpse equipment, some of which I recognise and some I don't. Before I can steady my jittery gaze, he has taken what looks like a slender harness out and shut the panel. When he turns to me, I see that the harness is a broad, double-looped strap in a figure-of-eight. Mr White slips one loop over me, settling it on my hips, and ducks down to come up inside the other. He turns me so I'm facing away from him, then tugs so I walk backwards until I'm almost touching his chest. A touch on my back stops me.

"Now," says Mr White, "sort out that printer will you Kelly?"

I strain forward, but cannot move far. Mr White is taller than me, but I thought I had a greater muscle mass. It turns out I haven't. I strain again, but cannot shift him.

"Would you hurry up please?" Mr White says, his voice betraying the first emotion I've heard in it: impatience.

I strain harder, then spread my legs either side of him so my boot soles are against the wall and use that to lever myself forward. The harness digs into my waist and my hips; I gather my core strength and use everything, everything to get further away down the long room to the printer. It's no good.

Mr White tuts.

I try to pretend it doesn't hurt; that the driver to be perfect in order to accepted is just so much patriarchal dribble, but the sad fact is that it's a lot easier to feel at home when you're very useful, or very pretty, or very funny, or very anything really to make up for the fact you're a fucking freak.

I've never had great upper body strength -- always a girl, really -- but my core and thighs are nigh on bionic. Why, then, can I not shift this bony dingbat?

"We can stop if you like," Mr White says, his placid voice shaded with disappointment like storm clouds reflected from a still pool.

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," I say through gritted teeth.

I don't care about the pain of the harness digging into me, or the increasing ache in my legs, or the banging of my heart. He has powered me up and set me to this task and I am a professional and a strong woman and I will not quit, not now, not ever.

"Er, yes," Mr White says. "It's just that --"

"The ability... hnnnn... to destroy a... unngghh... planet is nothing... hrrrrrgghh... beside the power... grrrrrrr... of my....hnnn... fucking... unnggghhhh... THIGHS!"

There is a crack, and suddenly I'm sprawled on the floor.

I spring to my feet and spin around. Mr White stands against the wall. To his left I can see a white metal hook I'd missed before, mounted on the wall with the harness looped over it. To the man's right, a ragged hole in the plaster shows where another hook had been mounted, before I wrenched it off.

Mr White slipped out of the harness when my back was turned.

"I was fighting a wall?" I say, panting.

"You were beating a wall," Mr White says.

He lifts the harness off me, and regards the spray of rubble on the floor.

"Would you like me to clear that up?" I say.

"Absolutely not," Mr White says.

He looks at the mess with a mixture of longing and fear; his jaw muscles bunch and he swallows, as if fighting nerves. When he looks at me again, he seems uneasy, as if he is no longer in his comfort zone -- a situation I begin to suspect is my true reason for being here.

Mr White gets himself under control, and stands to my right as he looks at me and then the wall. I realise he is calculating the distance I have gone with this first task when he squints, then reaches for me and -- holding my hips -- moves me back slightly so I'm about half a metre from the wall. My energy has plateaued, meaning I am in a state of enervated relaxation, and stand like a robot or a doll, looking down the room towards the printer. Mr White makes a small noise; not a grunt exactly, it's too prim for that, but appreciative.

"I would like you to have some coffee now," he says. "I will not drug you."

"It would be unwise," I say, "because I know where you live."

"Quite. I have some equipment I would like you to use. Kindly inspect it while I make the coffee, but do not put it on until I am back."

"I agree to do as you ask."

It is as though we are evolving our own robot language, in the full knowledge that soon we will wreck it.

A slight click indicates the panel opening, then Mr White hands me two packets and leaves through the square opening.