James and Diane

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Diane and James

I

James:

They say that tall people have a competitive edge. I can't confirm that, but I do know that short men, such as myself, are at a disadvantage unexplainable by grades or accomplishments. In my last year of law school I got as many interviews as anyone else in the upper 10% of my class, but however smoothly they went, no job offers materialized. Thus, I graduated with no job and no prospect for one.

The usual drill is that when you're hired, the firm pays for a bar exam prep course. (Strange as it seems, all the money spent on law school doesn't prepare you for the bar exam.) Anyway, if your not hired, you have to pay for the prep course yourself or take the exam unprepared. I choose to save my money for such luxuries as food. Predictably, I failed the bar. That didn't increase my employment chances.

I hoped to find a paralegal job, but again, seemly good interviews didn't lead to offers. Other things being equal, impressive knockers seemed the decisive factor. As I searched the net for any job paying more than Burger King, I found an ad for a legal secretary at a local firm. Yes, I know, being a secretary is a women's job, but I was desperate. Maybe I could work my way up once I was in a law firm. Besides, my money was running out.

When I called, a woman answered: Diane Torini, attorney at law. Apparently, this was a one woman firm. She seemed reluctant when I introduced myself – reminding me that being a secretary was usually women's work. I told her that I didn't have gender-role hang ups, I needed a job, and she should judge me by my qualifications, not by my sex. She gave me a time to come in for an interview and test.

Her office was in 1930ish building with small shops at street level. A security camera stared down at me as I climbed the narrow stairs. Her office was at the top, in the back. The door only said “3” and “Private.” I knocked and was buzzed in.

Ms. Torini was about 5' 7” – a little over weight in a pleasant, busty way, but not fat. Straight, dark brown hair trimmed above the neck framed an olive complexion. Her dark eyes commanded attention – attentive, but thoughtful. I was too nervous to notice her clothes. She might have worn a camel skirt suit and white blouse.

We quickly got down it. As a test, she gave me a case file with her notes from a client interview. She asked me to read the file and prepare an affidavit for the client to sign. I was to take enough time to do a thorough job. After an hour and fifteen minutes, I printed the finished affidavit, knocked on her inner office door, and handed it too her. She thanked me, and said she would call in a few days, either way. Though it went well, my expectations were low.

Diane:

It had been a long struggle, but by 35 I had enough of a reputation to open a law office on my terms – providing pro bono representation to those who needed it, bartering with others and charging lucrative fees to those who could afford them. Now, after three months, I was ready to hire some help. As none of the women I'd represented were up to my standards, I ran an ad in the local on-line paper.

The results were disappointing. The flaws varied – unprofessional appearance or demeanor, poor typing or spelling, fear of computers. Two women who were up to my standards wanted substantially more than I could afford. There was one I could afford who was up to my standards. He was a recent law school graduate who'd failed the bar and was desperate for work – a perfect candidate but for one thing: he was a he.

Don't misjudge. I'm not a feminist – well not a radical one – but many of my clients are abused women. The sight of a male in my outer office could easily spook them. I knew. I'd fought off a date rapist in my early 20s and men spooked me – though I hid it in my professional life.

James Carrol was an ideal candidate. He was passionately dedicated to the law as an instrument of justice. The affidavit he'd prepared was flawless and he spoke in a soft, professional voice. I really needed help and he was the only applicant up to my standards and down to my budget. Other than his gender, he was perfect – and desperate for a job.

I'm a perfectionist, not only in my work, but also in my ethics. My conscience rebelled at not hiring Mr. Carrol solely because of his gender. I didn't sleep well. In the twilight of half sleep, I hatched an utterly ludicrous idea that would shift the moral blame for not hiring him from my shoulders. In the morning I phoned some former clients to work out the details. At 10:00 I phoned him.

James:

I was almost speechless when Ms. Torini asked me to come in to discuss an offer. Her voice was a bit strained, but still, an offer! I was ecstatic.

The hours, duties and salary had been outlined in my interview. She apologized for the low salary, but said if I helped the firm prosper I'd share in the increase. The salary was enough to live on and I knew I could help increase revenues, so the prospects seemed bright.

“So far, so good,” she said. “Sadly, the next item might be a deal breaker. When I advertised for a secretary, I expected to hire a woman. Your being male presents a difficulty. Many of my clients are referred by women's shelters. They are often bruised, and not only physically. Frankly, many are scared of men.” She paused. “Seeing a man at the desk in my outer office … Well, it would spook them and … they need to feel safe here.”

“So, I can't have the job because I'm male? Then why did you invite me in today? I'm confused,” and a little angry, though I didn't say that.

“Yes, I can see how you'd be confused. I'm having a hard time coming to the point. I'm a feminist, and won't discriminate on based on sex. So, the job is yours if you want it, but one of the requirements – the one that might be a deal breaker – is that you can't present as a male while working here.”

I could have the job. I took a moment to let my anger dissipate. Then my mind moved on – I “can't present as a male while working here.” What did that mean? What was presenting? Projecting an image?

“You mean that I'd have to look female at work?”

“In a word, yes.”

I thought about arguing that this was discrimination, but I knew it wasn't. I, a male, was being offered the job and the “deal-breaking requirement” had a rational, legally defensible basis.

“You're not just saying this to deny me a job?”

“I'm not denying you a job. I'm offering you one. You're far and a way the best candidate, but presenting as male would be a big problem. You can see that can't you?”

“Yes.” Sadly, I could.

“I know this isn't easy. You may need time to think about it … and discuss it with your partner.”

“I don't have one.”

“Oh … Well, think of it as playing a role, like in a drama.”

“The drama is my life.”

“Yes. I'll give you a few days to decide. FYI, I've called in some favors. If you accept, I have someone to help with your presentation. Also, I'll pay for a small, initial wardrobe – like a first uniform.

“So, is this something you'll consider, or is it so beyond the pale that you want to reject it outright?”

“It is beyond the pale, but I'm desperate. Let me ask: do you think I'd look feminine, or like a man in a dress?”

“I don't want to hurt your pride, but you have fine, feminine features. If I didn't think you could pass, I wouldn't have made the offer. How much time do you want?”

“Let me think a moment.”

“Certainly.”

I'd been looking for a job for almost a year and this was the first offer I had. My money wouldn't last past the end of the month. What choice did I have? Maybe I could negotiate some perks.

“Could I have the title of 'paralegal' so 'secretary' does not appear on my resume?”

“You can have any title you like, but you'll be a secretary – at least to start.”

“If I stay a year, will you pay for a bar exam prep course?”

She thought for a while. “If revenues allow it, and if I have the option of keeping you for the following year.”

“OK. Vacation?”

“Two weeks for now. Three weeks when we get another person in the firm. Anything else?”

“No. Let me lay my cards on the table. It'll be humiliating to 'present' as a woman, but I understand why you're asking. I need a job desperately as I'm almost out of money. So, I accept. When do I start?”

“Here's the card of someone who owes me and will help make you over. Call her this evening. Come back Sunday at 6:00 PM and let me see how you look en femme. You can start Monday if you're passable. You needn't wear a skirt as long as you dress professionally. Slacks and a blouse will do. See you Sunday.”

I left feeling that I'd betrayed my masculinity, but consoled myself with the thought that I wasn't doing anything immoral. Besides, with a prep course, I could pass the bar in a year and find another job. Still … dressing as a woman for a year! I told myself it would only be 9 to 5. The rest of the time I could look, be normal.

When, Phil, my apartment mate, came home I told him I'd found a job at a law office and could pay my share of the rent next month. I was too embarrassed to tell him about the dress code.

How was I going to pull off dressing for work without Phil seeing? He worked in town and left at 7:15 and usually didn't come back until 6:30 -- or later if he had a dinner date. I could dress after he left and change back before he got home. Then I remembered the card Ms. Torini gave me and decided to call the lady.

“Hello, is this Dorothy Burger?”

“Yes?”

“I'm James Carrol. Diane Torini asked me to call you.”

“Good, I was expecting your call …”

Diane:

I was quite shocked that Mr. Carrol had accepted my offer – and so quickly! I'd expected him to see how outlandish it was and refuse. Was he already a transvestite? After all, he had applied for a woman's job. Now I – we both – would have to live with the crazy idea I'd concocted. Well, maybe not. Sunday was a few days away and if he looked like … what did he say? “A man in a dress” … that would be the end of it.

I really didn't want to do this. I try to run a professional office. What would people think if they discovered I had a cross dresser for a secretary? Professional ruin? Still I was trapped by my ethics – hoisted on my own feminist petard. I couldn't discriminate against him even if he was gender confused. I fretted on and off for the rest of the week wondering what miracle Dorothy Burger might work.

James:

Ms. Burger had asked to meet so that she could “assess” me. I said I did not want my apartment mate to know about my, ah, transformation. Also, I had no car. No problem, she'd pick me up in 30 minutes. I told Phil I was meeting someone from my new job.

While I waited I had second thoughts. First, I was increasingly embarrassed at surrendering my masculinity so rapidly. What must Ms. Torini think of me? Second, what would Ms. Burger do to/for me? Would I be buying lingerie at Victoria's Secret? Be worked on at some salon while women whispered about the sissy? Third, what about going to and from work on the bus? Would I be hit on by amorous males or stared at like some freak. By the time the doorbell rang my heart was racing and I was short of breath.

I opened the door to a tall blond in her early forties in a casual summer dress. She was athletic, but feminine – impeccably put together. If she was going to help me, I had a chance of pulling this off.

“James Carrol?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dorothy Burger. You may call me Tee. Shall we go?”

As we walked to her car, she said, “You look very tense. I won't bite. We'll go to my place, where we'll have some privacy.”

I relaxed a bit. When we got to her studio apartment, Tee relaxed me further with a stiff drink.

Looking at me critically she said, “Di was right. With a bit of work you could pass. You have fine features, a light, blond beard and almost no Adam's apple. I've worked with worse.”

“How do you know Ms. Torini?”

“I'm a counselor at a center for transgender youth. She helps with legal issues – usually pro bono. So, I owe her.

“I understand that you applied to be a secretary – that took guts – and you've accepted the need to work en femme – that took more guts. You're a brave person. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I don't think it's bravery, just necessity. I need a job badly.”

“Bravery isn't taking stupid risks, it's doing what's necessary when it isn't easy. You are brave.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Do, it'll make things easier.” She was right, it did, but I still felt like a sissy.

After I finished my drink, Tee had me stand, take off my shirt and took measurements I didn't even know I had. I'd need size 5 panties, 36A bras and a 10 or 12 dress.

“Can't I just wear my jockey shorts?”

“Not unless you want to be clocked.”

“Clocked?”

“Have people figure out you're a guy.”

“Oh. That'd be embarrassing.”

“Yes – and possibly dangerous, depending on the situation.”

“I hadn't thought of that …”

“Well, do. If you're going to do this, you have to be all in, or not in at all. Which will it be?”

“I have to be all in.”

“OK. Let's go shopping.”

“I thought maybe dinner?”

“Later … all in, remember?”

On the way, Tee said that while I could wear a 36 A push up, our goal was to have me look average so I didn't draw special attention. Most women wore a B cup. She thought I should too. When I agreed, she said she'd make an appointment to get me fitted for breast forms.

We went to Target for a “starter kit” so I “could shop for women's things without being embarrassed” – like that would ever happen. In women's wear, an A-cup push up, a pack of 3 cotton panties, a blue knit top, a pair of black slacks and a matching shoulder bag went in our cart. Since I was with Tee, none of that was embarrassing. What was embarrassing was trying on wedge sandals and walking in them to ensure their fit. Tee found a video of To Have or Have Not. I figured it was for her. In cosmetics we added a manicure set, nail polish and remover, cotton balls, a matching lipstick, mascara, an eyebrow pencil, cold cream, lady's razors and moisturizing lotion.

By the time we checked out I was starving. We went to Wendy's and Tee bought me a salad and diet soda. “You're on a diet until you loose 10 pounds.” As I ate, Tee gave me homework. Shave my arms, legs and under arms tonight. Wear my starter kit all day tomorrow to become comfortable in feminine attire -- especially my sandals. Learn to apply my cosmetics without looking like a clown. Finally, imitate Lauren Bacall's low, feminine voice in To Have or Have Not.

Tee dropped me off about 11:00 and she'd pick me up the next day at 5:00. I was to wear my new clothes, including cosmetics. After I shaved and moisturized, I fell into a sleep disturbed by dreams of unending embarrassment.

I had coffee, yogurt and a banana while Phil puttered around getting ready. Once he left, I struggled forever to hook my bra in back. Pushing my flab around, I managed a hint of cleavage. I opened the panties – my panties – and pulled on a yellow pair. The soft cotton felt sensual on my newly shaven legs, giving me an unexpected erection. What kind of perv gets excited wearing lingerie? I wanted to take care of it in the obvious way, but felt that would reinforce whatever this was. I used cold water instead. By the time I'd put on my top, slacks and sandals, a very unladylike tent in my slacks showed the cold water had worn off. This time, my inner Borg told me “resistance is futile” and I succumbed. I was rewarded with a powerful orgasm.

When I came down from my high and cleaned up, I felt guilty -- perverted. I wanted out to get out of women's clothes and throw them away. If I did, I'd be throwing away my only job in prospect. I calmed myself and researched how cross dressers dealt with bulges. Following Internet instructions, I managed a flat front. I'd ask Tee about control panties if I could summon the courage.

I started on make up. I got respectable lips on the third try. For mascara, I watched a couple of videos – one genetic and another with a transwoman. The latter was much less affected and likable. Following their advice, my formerly in invisibly blond lashes popped – there's no other word for it. Light brown eyebrow pencil further enhanced my eyes. I stared at them in amazement – thinking how washed out they used to be. Maybe I could find lighter shades to use when I went back to being male. An internal ratchet had clicked – the old, invisible James would be a creature of the past.

I looked like a lesbian - feminine, but butch, because of my male haircut and minimal bust. I didn't look like a man in women's clothes – a major blow to my ego. Negative thoughts crept into my mind. Maybe I wasn't man enough for a male job and should be a secretary. I was certainly closer to the feminine ideal than I had been to the masculine. I determined to push such thoughts out of my mind.

I took off my sandals and started on my toes. My first try was sloppy and uneven. I removed the polish before it was dry. My second try gave my toes an attention-grabbing red gloss. Another video by the same transwoman showed me how to do a manicure. My nails cleaned up nicely, but I needed to grow them out. I didn't allow enough drying time and smeared an otherwise good job. I watched To Have or Have Not until my second effort dried.

Imitating Bacall's sultry voice dressed as I was was embarrassing, even alone. I wanted a less sexy voice – maybe Dustin Hoffman's Tootsie, but without the southern accent. I found New in Town with Renée Zellweger on Netflix and mimicked her until my lunch of cottage cheese and pineapple.

In the afternoon, I set up my web cam and recorded myself walking and talking. Slowly, I became more convincingly feminine. There were many rough spots, but nothing glaring. I was surprised – panicked – by a knock at the door. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 5:00. Tee was here to pick me up.

“Please come in,” I said in my best Zellweger imitation.

Tee looked me up and down, pausing a millisecond at my flat crotch. “Impressive. Not perfect, but impressive enough not to raise red flags.”

I blushed. “Thanks, Tee. I've been working on it all day.”

“It shows.”

I summoned the courage to ask her about control panties.

“A lot of girls wear them, but if you're willing to go that route, you might think about a high waist padded girdle. You don't have much of a booty, and it would help your waist too. Are you up for that?”

I looked at my rear. It didn't fill out my slacks very well. “If you think it'd help.”

“I think it would. Get your purse dear, we have a lot to do.”

In the car, Tee explained that we had to get my “figure adjusted” before we shopped for clothes. We drove into the city to district with a questionable reputation. Tee turned into an alley and parked behind “The X-Form Boutique.”

“We can find most of what you need here.”

We were greeted by Michelle, the well made-up male proprietor. He and Tee knew each other and exchanged pleasantries before Tee introduced me as Carol and stated my needs.

Forty-five minutes later I had a full, round rear and the nipples of B-cup breast forms dimpled my knit top. When I looked in the mirror, I flushed with a combination of lust and embarrassment. I was as grateful for my girdle. Michelle anticipated my reaction, having placed a pantyliner in my girdle and extras in my purse.

Tee also seemed to understand. “It can be a bit overwhelming at first, but don't be embarrassed. What you're feeling is very normal.”

“Normal for whom?” I said in a voice husky with lust.

“For women like you.”

“I'm not a woman like me!” I didn't know what I was.

Tee and I discussed buying a wig from Michelle, but concluded it would be uncomfortable in July's humidity. Instead, we walked to a salon accustomed to serving “women like me.” There Julia gave me a supposedly unisex hairdo that looked suspiciously like a pixie cut. She finished by unexpectedly piercing my ears. I was unsure what Phil would make of my gold studs and pixie cut, but I had an idea.

We ate at an Indian place on the same block and then headed to Marshall's to fill out a minimal wardrobe. I told Tee that Ms. Torini said I needn't wear skirts, but she repeated her point that I look as average as possible – and your average legal secretary wore skirts. I wound up with a pair of tight embroidered jeans for casual Fridays and 3 skirts to wear the rest of the week.

I was able to talk her into letting me get block heeled loafers instead of pumps. On the other hand, Tee insisted I accessorize my outfits. I wound up with a bag full of inexpensive bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Luckily, Phil was asleep when I returned home.

Diane:

I was editing a brief Sunday afternoon when I saw woman climbing the stairs on the security monitor. By the time she knocked I realized it was James Carrol. I buzzed him/her in.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Torini. I'm here for your inspection/approval,” she said in a voice vaguely reminiscent of Renée Zellweger.

I looked James up and down as he did a little turn. I'd told him that he needn't wear skirts, but apparently he preferred them. Maybe I was right about his tendencies. Whatever his tendencies, the result was more than acceptable. “You look fabulous! And your voice is lovely! I can see you've worked very hard … and please call me Di when we're alone. We can save 'Ms. Torini' for clients and visitors.”

“So, I'm hired? What a relief – you can't imagine how stressed I've been about meeting your approval!”

“Well, you've exceeded my expectations. We have only one detail to settle – what shall we call you? 'James' hardly fits the situation. Maybe 'Jamie'?”

“Well, Tee, Ms. Burger, called me 'Carol.' So, maybe 'Carol James'?”

“Perfect!” The matter was settled, and we would be moving forward. “Do you have someplace you need to be? If not, I'd like to take you to dinner to celebrate – my firm expanding, and your first professional position.”

“Actually, I was wondering how I was going to kill time until 11:00, when my apartment mate will be in bed. He doesn't know about my, ah, presentation.”

“Oh, I see. That must be awkward.”

“It is – especially since he's a bit homophobic.”

“Well, I hope it works out.”

“I'm sure it will one way or the other.”

I walked "Carol" a few blocks to a neighborhood bistro where I'd made reservations.

“Good evening Ms. Torini. Your table is ready. And who is your beautiful guest this evening?”

“This is Carol James, my new secretary. She may be calling in the future to make reservations for me.”

“Certainly. It is enchanting to meet you Ms. James.”

“Thank you.”

We had a lovely dinner. Relaxed by a great Bordeaux, I did most of the talking – rehearsing some of my best “war stories.” Usually male dinner companions are more involved in themselves – only listening enough to be polite. Carol was different – interested in me and genuinely impressed with what I'd accomplished. I had to get quite a bit of wine into her before she relaxed enough to tell me her story.

We stayed until closing, then drove her back to her apartment. The lights were out, so Phil had retired for the night. Instinctively, I went around, opened the car door for her, and walked her to the building entrance. “I think we'll make a great team – not only are you competent, but good company as well.”

“Thank you, Di.”

James:

Avoiding Phil had been relatively easy during the work week, but I knew the weekend would be a challenge – especially Sunday when I'd have to go out fully dressed for Ms. Torini's approval. Friday night I carefully removed every trace of make-up and fingernail polish. There was no point in undoing the work I'd put in on my toes. I'd just have to redo them for Monday.

My face was washed out and lifeless. It was no wonder no one had hired me before now – I was practically invisible. The only thing drawing attention to my face was my gold studs. They cheered me up a bit. I tried removing them, but when I did, my piercings were red enough to be obvious anyway. I decided to go out and face the music.

Phil was in the kitchen cooking bacon, eggs and potatoes. When he caught sight of me, he exclaimed, “Jesus, Jim, you look like a fucking fag! What's up with the studs and lesbo hair?”

“I thought studs would make me look tougher,” I lied.

“Ya? Well they don't. And that hair cut?”

“I needed a haircut to start work, and the girl said this was stylish.”

“Maybe for Ellen Degenerate, but not for a guy. You might as well wear a dress and be done with it!”

Sometimes its best to play into it. I struck a feminine pose and batted my eyelashes. “You think so?” I said in falsetto.

Phil muttered something unintelligible and went back to preparing his heart attack special.

I poured my coffee and ate my usual yogurt, granola and fruit in silence.

When I'd started running low on money, I'd made a deal with Phil that I'd do the all dishes and clean the apartment in exchange for a lower share of the rent. I considered it a great deal, as Phil was such a slob that I couldn't stand living in the place and would have cleaned it free to preserve my sanity. Since then, Phil would sometimes refer to me as “the maid. ” It seemed to make him feel better about himself.

When I was in law school I had classes during the week and gotten into the habit of doing the heavy cleaning on Saturdays. So, after breakfast I did the dishes and started dusting and vacuuming.

Phil came out in his baseball uniform a said, “Jesus! From the back you look just like a girl, Jamie. Maybe I'll order you a French maid outfit. Ha ha.”

My first thought was that in a month or two, I'd have saved enough to rent my own place. Once he was gone, I remembered mincing around in my skirt and wedge sandals the day before and wondered what I'd look like in a French maid's outfit. I didn't really want one, but I couldn't get the image out of my head. Worse, imagining it was giving me an erection. After I finished vacuuming, I took a warm bath and gave myself some relief. Again, I felt guilty, but not as much as before.

After my bath I thought of wearing my push up and panties, but Phil would surely notice my bra, and I'd worn all my panties already. They needed washing. I hand washed them and hung them in my closet to dry.

Three pair wouldn't last the week. I needed more panties – maybe nicer ones. I walked to the local K-Mart. I almost chickened out, but remembered Tee saying I was brave. Somehow, that made me feel brave. A three pack of silky print panties excited me and went in the cart. Satin blouses were on sale. One was the exact shade of my lipstick and nail polish. Well, in for a penny … I started feeling free.

I needed a woman's wallet. Pulling a man's wallet out of my purse would not do. There were so many options. I could see why women spent so much more time shopping than men. I settled on a conservative black one.

I was looking at watches in a locked case when a thirtyish sales lady asked, “Can I help you miss?”

Then it struck me -- with my small stature, hair and studs, Phil was right – I looked more like a woman than a guy. Maybe a flat-chested butch woman, but a woman nonetheless.

I answered in my best Zellweger. “Thank you. I'm starting a new job Monday, and I need something professional looking.” With her help, I settled on a silver-tone analogue with a back strap.

Encouraged by passing in the watch department, I went to cosmetics where I found an older woman restocking the shelves. “Excuse me, I'm starting a new job Monday and want to soften my look a bit – nothing too drastic – I just don't want to come across as too, ah, masculine.”

She seemed genuinely happy to see a Tom boy final realize she was a girl. I came away with concealer, mineral foundation, eyeshadow, clear polish and a book on make up techniques.

I hadn't thought about it until I was almost home, but getting my purchases by Phil could be a problem – especially with my red satin blouse showing though the plastic K-Mart bag. Luckily he and his bud John were so sloshed and absorbed in a Phillies game that they didn't even say hi.

Sunday was the big reveal. Phil had no set Sunday routine, so I was tense about getting out of the apartment unseen for Ms. Torini's approval. I'd get ready early, then hope Phil left or got busy before I had to leave. I was dressed and made up by 3:00, but Phil was parked in the living room watching a game. Luckily Karen – Phil's “friend with benefits” came by and dragged him off – reluctantly it seemed – to his room. The ensuing grunts and moans ensured me that I could leave unnoticed.

I'd missed the bus, so I was forced to call a cab. As the minutes ticked by I got more and more nervous. I was so upset about being late, I forgot to be upset about being outside my building in a skirt, blouse and heels. Just as I was about to despair, the cab arrived. I climbed the stairs to Ms. Torini's office with not a minute to spare.

She was so pleased she took me to a French restaurant to celebrate. After days of fretting about this job, I could relax.

I hadn't been out with a woman in a long time. In fact, I'd never been out with one except in a group. Strangely, I wasn't nervous. This wasn't a date, but a celebration. Once Di, as I was told to call her, got some wine in her, she told the most interesting stories. The more she talked, the more I admired her. Previously, I'd imagined my job as trying to impress her. Now, I felt nothing I could do would compare with what she'd already done. I was just glad to be able to support her.

II

Carol:

My first week was mostly routine legal work: typing case notes, briefs, affidavits, and other documents as I worked through the backlog Di'd accumulated. I could see no reason to be en femme as few people came to the office other than the Fed Ex man, who wanted to flirt. He was always in a rush, so his flirtations seemed harmless. Still, they were embarrassing. My blushes only seemed encouraged him. I also prepared for the notary's exam at home -- which was fine by me as Phil and I had little in common and he hogged the TV.

The office itself had three rooms: a reception area where I worked, a small conference room to one side and Di's private office behind me. Besides my desk and computer, my fiefdom had a supply cabinet, two small sofas, a fridge, microwave and coffee pot. I was often alone there as Di spent much of her time at the courthouse or in meetings with other lawyers.

Friday Di came in from family court about 10:30 with Melodie, a shy girl about 16. I was handed a couple of orders, and asked to open a file, then join them. I was introduced and told Melodie wanted to change her legal name and gender. The court might not approve yet, but we'd try. Di named a similar case and left the details to me.

Melodie could hardly talk. When she reached for the soda I offered her, I saw bandages under her cuff. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She buried her face in my ersatz breasts and started crying.

Eventually she said, “I've stained your blouse.”

“It'll dry and wash easily enough. Don't fret about it. How did you wind up in this fix?”

She told me how her parents kept burning her clothes and forcing her to act male. She'd been taking birth control pills a friend gave her. When her breasts started showing, her father slapped her, took her pills and flushed them down the toilet. Last night she'd cut her wrists and was in the bath waiting to die when her parents broke in. She wind up in the emergency room. A male nurse had called CPS. Now she'd be staying in Tee's shelter until things got sorted out.

I started to understand: the name and gender change filing would move Melodie closer to her goal – giving her hope. Even if the court didn't grant it now, there'd be a fixed date in the future, a birthday, when they would.

“Let's start making you a girl legally. Would you like that?”

“Yes, very much Carol.” She smiled for the first time.

“Do you type? Would you like to help?”

“Yes. Could I?”

I could do it faster alone, but helping empowered Melodie, putting her fate back in her hands. Using the old case as a guide, she and I printed out the filings just after noon. When she saw them she glowed with delight.

“Oh Carol, I want to be just like you when I grow up,” she said hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. I cried too.

When we composed ourselves, I said, “How'd you like to be the legal secretary for this?”

“How?”

“Well, press this intercom button and say. 'Ms. Torini, I've prepared the filings you requested,' then go in and place them on her desk.”

She did. Shortly after, Tee picked up Melodie. I did not see her again.

The whole incident made me feel very maternal. I could have done it all as a male, but was glad I had breasts to comfort Melodie. I understood why she wanted her own.

Diane:

Carol is a jewel. Not only is she efficient, but she also has a natural empathy with clients. She understands my moods -- not disturbing me when I'm thinking a problem through, but bringing me coffee when I'm tired and need a pick me up. The one thing that ruffles my feathers is her frowning on my downing a scotch when things are tough. Just as I'm about to pour a few fingers, she comes in to chat. So I'm drinking less. I can tell because the fifth of Red Label in my desk lasts longer.

Yes, I know, I'm calling James 'Carol' and 'she,' but that's how I think of her – except when I'm in bed at night. Somehow my sex drive has woken up. She pops up in confusing fantasies causing my fingers to drift down under my nitie. I suppose it's common enough. I've represented plenty of wives whose husbands have gotten involved with their secretaries. Still, this is different. Carol and I are the same sex – well not really. She probably has a boyfriend – maybe Phil. No, not Phil. She's scared of Phil discovering her secret. Of course, my fantasies are very unprofessional and need to be forgotten as soon as I get out of bed.

Carol:

Things were going very well. I passed my notary exam and began to understand the need to be en femme when I sat in on interviews with battered wives and girlfriends. Di's confidence in me had grown steadily. I was now researching precedents and preparing filings with minimal supervision. She started billing my time at paralegal rates and our revenues grew noticeably.

On a personal level, we were getting closer. I don't mean romantically, but as good friends who understood each others' moods and needs. Secretly, Di was part of my Walter Mitty life – including my growing addiction to cross dressing.

I'd graduated from the plain cotton panties and bras to satin and lace lingerie that made me feel pretty – and frankly – sexy. Block heel loafers had given way to black pumps and then flirty platforms that made my legs look dynamite.

Starting from a shy, plain Jane, I'd become a hopeless flirt on the bus to and from work – exposing a little fake cleavage or a careless bit of lace below my hem. I wasn't interested in men physically, but I enjoyed the psychological power I had over them.

James had been invisible, but Carol was a beacon. At first it was just being noticed: the passing smile, doors being opened, helpful clerks in the grocery. Then I noticed eyes directed to not my face, but to my pert B-cups. I laughed to myself that a bits of silicon could have such an effect on guys. To draw more attention to “me up here,” I worked on dramatic eye make up and swapped my gold studs for a collection attention grabbing of dangles.

I was no longer one of 'them.' They were 'guys' and I was, well, a little flirt.

Of course, my sex life was going nowhere – not that it ever had. Guys hit on me regularly, but I wanted a girl. One lesbian chatted me up after I deflected a pass by telling the guy I liked girls, but I wouldn't be what she wanted in bed. What sex I had was increasingly centered on my sensuous lingerie. I even slept in baby dolls. I only dressed as a male evenings and on weekends to fool Phil.

Diane:

Carol and I worked very well together -- without a hint of the sexuality spilling over from my nighttime fantasies. She was was now more of a paralegal than a secretary and revenues started soaring. Partly it was because of billing her time, but partly it was because she was a little tyrant - like a nagging wife – about recording my billable time accurately.

Our professional relationship wasn't what I'd imagined it would be. Yes, I was the boss, and she did the work I assigned her. Yet somehow she'd carved out a domain in which I obeyed her. I returned calls more promptly, drank less in the office, kept better track of billing. She admired me, but saw my faults as well, and worked to make me a better person. As time went on, I noticed myself more and more concerned with her approval – as though she were my wife.

Carol:

I suppose it was bound to happen. I came home at 5:30 and there was Phil in his wife-beater and boxers, sloshed on beer and playing with himself while he watched porn. I tried to sneak by behind him as he was thus occupied, but half way to my room he turned and saw me.

“What the fuck?! I knew you were a fucking fag when I saw you with studs in your ears and that sissy haircut. What's with the skirt? – and tits! Get over here you cock sucker and finish me!”

I froze. Phil had 6” and 60-70 pounds on me, and was deadly serious. He struggled out of his lounger and grabbed my wrist. I screamed like a girl and tried to twist free. A slap made me see stars. When my vision cleared, he'd grabbed my hair – pushing me toward his crotch. Meanwhile he backed into his chair. A beer bottle broke. Phil cursed -- letting go of me to grab his bleeding foot. I ran out the door.

He was coming after me. I'm not athletic, and my heels and tight skirt slowed me further. Just then Woody Johnson, a big, black retired marine Sergeant Major came out his door and stopped Phil cold with a punch to the solar plexus.

“You betta run girl!”

That's what I did – leaving Phil retching and cursing behind me. I stopped a block away, panting, crying and shaking. I could taste blood in my mouth. I heard a siren. Maybe Woody called the cops. Not wanting to explain why I was dressed as I was, I walked down a side street.

About half an hour later, I'd calmed down enough to think. I had no idea where I was. I called Di. She was drunk, but sober enough to suggest using my phone's GPS. Eventually, Tee drove up with Di next to her.

I tried saying what happened, but did more sobbing than talking. Di got in the back and held me. I stopped sobbing, but started shaking again. They discussed where to take me – the police, Tee's shelter, Di's house – and settled on Di's. If I were in better shape I would have objected. I was mad that Di was drunk when I needed her.

Di:

I'd had a rotten day in court. My expert witness tripped himself up. As a result, Judge Carter had given custody of a thirteen year old to an abuser. I was about a third through a fifth of Red Label when Carol called. I couldn't make out what happened, but she was in trouble and didn't know where she was. I had her use her phone's GPS to tell me where she was. Being in no shape to drive, I called Tee. We found her with a swollen face, sitting under a street light. Phil, her apartment mate, had sexually assaulted and hit her. I wanted him in jail or worse. We drove her to my place.

I suggested she shower and I wash her things – something I would not have done sober. Tee said that might destroy evidence, and called the police.

Detective Sargent Alice Rice and her male partner arrived to take Carol's statement. I can't say I was impressed by her partner, who barely suppressed a snicker when he found out Carol was male. Sargent Rice, however, was very professional. She noticed a small stain on Carol's blouse and a smear of blood on her shoe, and took them for analysis. Forensics later found Phil's DNA in both -- collaborating Carol's story.

After interviewing Carol, she said that Mr. Johnson had indeed called the police. Phil was in custody and would probably be arraigned in the morning, after which he could be out on bail. The apartment was a crime scene, but Forensics was almost done. If we wanted to pick up Carol's things, we'd best do so early. We agreed on 8:30. She'd have an officer meet us there.

When Sargent Rice left, I suggested a stiff drink all around, but backed off when Carol gave me an icy stare. Tee left. I showed Carol the guest room and we each went to bed.

Carol:

Surprisingly, I slept like a log – utterly exhausted. When I woke, my left cheek was red and purple – twice its normal size. My neck also felt strained. Di took more pictures before she helped me cover it with make up.

My mood was icy. Di's place was a mess. All She had for breakfast was coffee, frosted flakes, whole milk and pasty white bread – no fruit, yogurt or anything in the least bit healthy. She'd have diabetes by forty for sure. Of course, none of that was why I was angry – it just didn't improve my mood.

Finally, she said, “Alright! I'm sorry I was drunk when you needed me – but I had a crappy day. Dr. Freudlich screwed up on the stand and Carter gave partial custody of the Robinson kid to his father.”

“That's truly disgusting, but 'sorry' doesn't cut it. The one time I needed you … and you were as drunk as Phil! I really needed you and you were only half there,” I screamed. “I thought I could count on you!” I wanted to say more, but tears were pouring down and my voice was breaking.

Di came round to my end of the table, squatted down and hugged me. “I want to be there for you, Carol … I … I love you.”

“If you love me, you'll stop drinking,” I whispered.

“I don't know if I can.”

“If you try, I'll help you.”

“I'll try.” Di was crying too.

“I'll help you.” I wanted to say “I love you too,” but I wasn't ready.

We hugged. Passion began welling up – but I wasn't ready for that either. Finally we broke our embrace.

“We better get dressed and go collect your things.” She lent me a top and a pair of sneakers a size and a half too big. I laced them tight. We stopped at Home Depot for some boxes and arrived just as a black and white was pulling up. With the officer's help, we had all my stuff in Di's Hyundai by 9:30.

Before we left I knocked on Sargent Johnson's door. “I want to thank you for yesterday. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't helped me.”

“Always glad to help a lady in distress, Ms. Carrol. I've seen you coming and going to work every day out my front window. I wanted to say how pretty you looked, but I thought maybe I'd embarrass you, or maybe you'd think this old fart was hitting on you.”

“Thank you, Woody.” I kissed him on the cheek. It seemed more natural then shaking hands. “By the way, I'm Carol James now.”

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Comments

Very Nice

littlerocksilver's picture

This has a familiar ring to it. Whatever, this was very enjoyable.

Portia

Thank you. I know the work

Thank you. I know the work idea is not new, but I wanted to see if I could make it plausable.

Love, Andra

Really Good

Thanks for sharing.

Thanks for taking the time to

Thanks for taking the time to comment. It's much appreciated.

Love, Andra

A nice little story. My

A nice little story. My oldest daughter is a Paralegal and is working on her law degree. Her goal to do as Di is doing, working with battered women and family law. She does some of that now as far as she can as a Paralegal, with her two attorney "bosses" helping her do and learn.

sweet!

nice little story!

DogSig.png

Thank you so much!

Thank you so much!

Love, Andra

Thanks Love, Andra

Thanks

Love, Andra

Nice Start...

Looking forward to more.

I wonder if that notary license -- in the name of James Carrol, since he'd need legal ID for it -- is going to come back to haunt him, since the name will be on his rubber stamp and clients will see it imprinted on their documents.

Eric

Except for the ...

Jezzi Stewart's picture

passing so quickly this one is quite realistic, and I enjoyed it. I would really like to see it continued with maybe spin off stories of Di and Carol's clients, too; I would have liked to follow Melody's story.

BE a lady!

Thanks

Thanks

Love, Andra

Nice lovely story

It's a pleasure to read a well-written story.