Chapter 35: Lure Fluttering Through Shallow WaterGetting ready to meet Harry that first time? Yeah, it bloody well took some doing. I mean, first I had to get myself half-unscious with booze before I could even start getting ready. Even if it was Harry, I was getting ready for a date--with a guy! How fucked up was that? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t really a date, that I was just meeting up with some guy for a coffee or a few pints. Yeah, ‘some’ guy my cute ass! I mean, it’s not like I could pass up the opportunity, you know? It’s was Harry fug Longman!

  Yeah, that Harry. A little over a year ago the media had been abuzz with specution as to the poet-ssh-rock star’s whereabouts--there were rumours of a cult, of a pilgrimage, of joining a Buddhist monastery; but no one really knew. Turns out, he’d apparently retreated to the Asklepios ic . . . and now dy was about to date the single most iial celebrity of David Sander’s young life.

  Damn, but Harry Longman was the one and only media-figure I’d ever imagined meeting. I just never imagined I’d be wearing a dress, you know?

  The first step iing ready was getting drunk. After a few shots of Tequi and with a stiff Scot hand, I felt boozy and fuzzy enough to front the crisis.

  What the hell was I going to wear? This wasn’t like getting decked out before meeting up with Tom and hitting the bars on the weekend, you know? I mean, sure, I paid attention to what I put on, how I looked. If a guy wants to get id, he’s got to show that he’s willing to put in at least a little effort. But there’s no parison. There really isn’t. Thirty miops to get ready, and that’s including a shower, shave, and a nice, leisurely shit spent leafing through a perpetually unfinished novel.

  dy, oher hand, almost suffered a panic attack staring into her closet before her date. What underwear should I wear? Do I go with bnd but sturdy body-shaping stuff? Casual and fortable panties and bra? Something that left me feeling a bit . . . naughty? What kind of shoes? Did they go with that skirt? Was I baring too much cleavage? Hair, makeup--fuck, what a nightmare! And the colours, the textures, prints, the way this fabric g or that one fell, could this and that work together . . . it was too much, too fusing. I couldn’t decide between an unsubtle and young groupie-slut outfit, or something a bit more enigmatid intellectual; more importantly, I didn’t have a clue how to achieve either look.

  I gave up. I could’ve used the smart features of my room, get the AI to gee some outfits for me and cast them onto the wardrobe mirror, but I he human touch. Instead, I called up Scooter’s army of professionals; bless their hearts, they sorted everything out for me. By the time they finished I felt breathless and strained by the clothes I wore: the cher that squeezed my midriff and the heels that hobbled my step; the makeup and hair that required stant attention; the thin straps that seemed to run all ay body, encirg ankles and shoulders, thigh and waist. From head to toe I glittered and glistened, like a fishing lure fluttering through shallow water.

  Harry and I met at the Bacchus Bar. He looked almost painfully cool in some beat-up but stylish jeans, rexed t-shirt and his signature leather jacket, and the casual fort of his clothes left me almost angrily jealous. Harry, unhindered by his clothes, was liberated to take charge of the a ie, whereas I was stantly forced to fuss over my appearanbsp; Dating as a woman roving to be a real pain in the ass.

  The date went well. I struggled to keep the star-struck bimbo thing to a minimum but still sat there, flustered and gushing, for most of the night. Harry was charming and patient. The guy had some seriously smooth moves; in the bay mind I took notes: once back to being a guy I’d definitely put his chat-up teiques to work. Eventually I got over the fact that I was sitting there all dressed like some tart, flushed beh my makeup, and rexed. Inane chatting eased into real versation and his entire demeanradually ged, from celebrity character to . . . well, a real person.

  By the end of that night the ued had happened: I’d made a new friend. We ehe date by pig up a bottle of Rioja aired outside for some drinking on one of the benches. We parted happy and quite drunk. He gave me a galnt kiss on my hand--it sent an unnerving quiver through my belly--and ns to get together again. After he left I stayed there for awhile, trying to sort through some very fused and flicted thoughts.

  I’d had a good night. It was the most fun I’d had in ages. Harry was a fun guy, cool and easy to rex around . . . although of course I could never really rex, stantly reminded by the clothes I wore of the role I ying. That’s what bothered me the most, I think: that even dressed like some teen tease I still had such a good night.

  Something rustled from the bushes.

  Booze and distras be damned; I snapped immediately to attention. My outside posture remained rexed and feminine. I stayed where I was, reag out with my senses. Nothing. Had I imagihe noise? Focused on Harry for the st few days, I’d almost been able tet about my paranoid instincts.

  After five minutes of forcefully rexed waiting I went for a walk. My heels clicked against cobblestoh each step. I felt acutely aware of every sway of my ass beh my tight skirt, the jiggle of my exposed tits, the swish of my hair. I wasn’t particurly frightened or worried. It was just that the idea that I was being watched forced me once again to front the reality of what I was doing and of how I was dressed. More than anything else I felt acute embarrassment. I mean, shit, the image I preseeenage rape-bait, drunk and alone, ming along at night though a quiet park.

  Pushing aside those irrelevaions I focused on my surroundings. Not for the first time I wondered if my paranoia stemmed from the simple fact that, as a girl, I’d lost the anonymity that is a fual reality of being male. I mean, fuck, I’m a good-looking guy and yeah, I do get checked out by passing chicks. (I’d definitely get checked out more if I was a half-foot taller.) But in general, when David Saunders walks down a street nobody gives a shit. dy? With her pert little ass and jiggling D-cups tits? Her height’s perfect, especially in cute prang heels, and every little motion draws the eyes: critical evaluation from the girls, and the guys? Yeah, they like what they see.

  dy’s not anonymous. Even in this hospital there’s a lot more attention directed my way than I’m used to. It’s the kind of thing to really feed your paranoia, especially if, you know, you’re not actually a girl and more than just a little embarrassed at the thought that somebody might spot you for what you really are. The ic was, just as K and Scooter assured me, pletely safe. But for some reason, my gut refused to accept what my brain was telling me.

  There was nobody there. There couldn’t be anybody there. It robably my own neurosis pying with my hearing.

  Yeah, that’s why after aen minutes of walking, I took a narrow side-path between a ste shed and a closed shop, and silently disappeared into a deep thicket.

  Kneeling behind some bushes, heels sinking awkwardly into the soft earth and the greenery scratg at my arms, I couldn’t help but question once again what the hell was wrong with me. I crouched and waited. A bug buzzed near, nded on my cleavage and started a casual walk across the vast expanse of my right breast. The night remained quiet, other than the faint hum of light at the edge of the building. From far away I heard the faint roar of a car pulling up to the ic, the headlights momentarily cutting a swath across the sky. I tio wait, unmoving, ign the growing cramp in my legs. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched from the shadows, hidden irees. It was the first time I’d do in heels and a skirt.

  A shadow detached itself from behind the ste shed. Quietly--though irely so--it crept forward, mostly avoiding the faint pool of light from behind. The darkness was enough to ceal its features, though the general shape suggested male. His movements were surprisingly amateurish for a hit man. I remaiill, until the figure’s furtive movements brought him close.

  I leapt from the foliage. Feminine clothes worn for dating are ill-suited for subterfuge: the shoes threw off my movement and I made more han I should have as I closed the distanbsp; The man twisted, raising his arm. I didn’t give him the bsp; My right hand jammed him at the shoulder, slid in and pulled him off banbsp; One foot forward; unsubtle but effective, I threw my weight into him a him sprawling over my leg. He smmed into the side of the building face first. I followed close. Snagged a filing arm and twisted it behind his babsp; Threw him up against the wall again. Way, way too easy.

  “Why are you following me?” I demanded, keeping my voice low. I tried for a harsh and threatening growl and barely managed a husky purr. I was really going to have to y off that damn spray.

  The man didn’t respond. He sagged in my grip. A faint st reached my nose: slightly spicy, unusual but not unpleasant. I released his arm and spun the man around.

  “Larry?”

  The boy stared into some empty space that floated a few feet behind and to the left of my shoulder. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from a cut on his forehead. I momentarily toyed with the idea that he’d been somehow tacted by Steele but dismissed the thought. dy’s inane versations over the st week had picked up some juicy gossip about some of the more lon-term residents of the ibsp; Larry’d been here fes. The guy wasn’t dangerous, just unsual. He was the son of rid promi parents who didn’t he embarrassment of a deeply weird son with obsessive tendencies.

  The boy’s eyes eventually found me and he smiled ay, meical smile, as if he’d been taught that a smile was the proper respo a time like this. “Hello dy,” he said.

  I sighed, stepping back from the boy.

  “Hi Larry.”

  “How are you today, dy?”

  I gnced about, hoping that nobody had noticed me beating up a patient. “Yeah, just great.” I quickly looked him over. “You okay, kid?”

  “That hurt,” he said, still smiling. He eyes remained glued to my fabsp; “I like you, dy.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I answered, and then smiled myself. An unscious tension ay shoulders slowly bled away. Wow. My very first stalker. I’d take that over a professional hit-man any day. My paranoia hadn’t been unfounded, just a bit . . . exaggerated. I gave Larry a soft pat on the shoulder and slipped bato dy mode. “, Larry? You want to go home? Let’s get you home, okay?”

  I walked the lunatie, carrying on a stilted but strangely iing prattle the whole way. He walked quickly, unaware that his long stride forced me to trot to keep up. A week ago there’s no way I could’ve ma, but the stant practice aying off. After dropping him off at his residence I gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and made him promise to stop following me from the shadows. “ime you want to talk,” I told him, “just e and say ‘hi’, okay?”

  He nodded and looked grave. “Be careful dy. This is a not a good pce.”

  Apparently I wasn’t the only paranoid at Asklepios. I promised to be careful and walked home at a leisurely pabsp; At the threshold to Cos 403 I stopped and leaned heavily against the door. With one finger pressed gently against my soft lips, as if in remembrance of a long ago kiss, I reflected on the night. This existence was crazy. It was emasg and embarrassing. These clothes: straining. These shoes: awkward. And the role I pyed? Flirty and demure, all the soft touches and veiled gnces and glossy smiles? Pathetibsp; But for all that--God, between Harry aing up on Larry I’d had more fun tonight than in ages. After nearly two weeks of pretending, I was amazed at how . . . fortable, I’d bee in the role.

  My head erupted with sudden and pierg pain. With a soft gasp I almost colpsed to the floor. Wing, I steadied myself against the wall. Through bleary eyes I saw my hand against the soft beige, those delicate fingers spread for support, the carefully shaped nails, red vibrant as blood . . . pounding in my head and ears, a sound like p sand, deafening. What the hell? What the . . . hell was I doing, shit, I’m a fug guy! What the hell was I doing, getting all prettied up and ming about like some goddamn. . . ?

  With a deep, shuddering breath I settled myself. The throbbing ay temples quickly subsided. These silly headaches were being a real pain. With a quick pat I smoothed down my blouse and straightehe skirt. Another breath. Another. I shouldered my purse. A good night’s sleep would sort everything out. A week and a half down; there couldn’t be much longer left. Shaking my head at the bizarre situation I found myself in, I touched my hand to the door and stepped into my apartment.

  “Hello dy,” said K, waiting for me in the lounge. “We o talk.”

  “Auntie!” I squealed when I saw her. She met me in the middle of the room in a properly matriarchal hug.

  A few mier we were rexing in the lounge. I poured her a gss of wine and took one for myself atled down to talk. We spent a half-hour sparring bad forth across the room, she pying my aunt to the hilt, her questions probing and expertly expl dy’s week and a half at the ic; I tered with the best niece impression I’d ever managed. Her soccer-mom disguise erfed strangely sexy to me. She tried to hide it but I caught the grudging respect, the muted surprise as her eyes drank in the feminine creature sitting opposite her. With K as my foil dy was better than ever. K referenced my past and I reposted with a high-semories garnered from the depth of dy’s profile folder. She delicately asked about my treatment here and I took a deep breath, swallowed the sadness and reassured her I felt good, allowing my lower lip to quiver for a moment. Then my voice cracked as the spray wore off, and she smiled despite herself.

  “Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “You have outdone yourself, Mr Saunders.”

  I smiled, surprisingly pleased by her validation, and by the sound of her voice. The way she called me ‘Mr Saunders’ also made me happy. “Thank you,” I answered, and uo restrain myself, “I think.”

  “Has the disguise been hard to maintain?”

  “You’re joking, right?” I answered. “Of course it’s been hard. Scooter’s been a big . . . help, whether I wa or not.” I smoothed a stray bang back behind my ear, perfectly aware of how femihe gesture was and how it made my hoop earring dand catch the light. Hell, under K’s scrutiny I even sat with my back a little straighter, pushing those soft breasts out further and allowing my skirt to hike up a bit more. Yeah, she loved that, even though she tried to hide it. God, I was really surprised by how much I’d missed her. And what the hell was I trying to do, flirt with her?

  “Jonathoiohat the ic has dos best to help you fit in.” The er of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “I believe he mentioned something about waxing?”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled. “I still owe the bastard for that.”

  “And what is this I hear about dy beginning to date?”

  “What? No!” I flushed a hot, fiery red from the exposed top of my breasts to the tip of my pierced ears. “It’s not what you think!”

  “Jonathan tells me that one of his high-profile ts has found himself a new girlfriend. A Mr Longman?”

  “I’m not his girlfriend!”

  “Does he know this?” God, she was such a bitch.

  “Listen, I’m just helping the guy, yeah?”

  “Helping him how?” K smirked openly.

  “The guy’s lonely! And I’m bored--like you wouldn’t believe, K. We’re just hanging out and if this is the only way I do it then, yeah . . . I’ll py the dy he expects!”

  “And when it is time for her to leave?”

  I bit back a retort. “What do you mean?”

  “It may be about time to be rid of dy,” K said, and I’m not sure whether the quiet sadness in her voice yful enuine.

  I leaned forward eagerly. “You mean . . . you’ve found somewhere I relocate?”

  She gave a small nod. “Yes, Mr Saunders. The new identity we have established for you is tentative but promising.”

  “Male?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Unless dating has revealed to you the joys of feminine life?”

  “Yeah, it’s a real thrill,” I answered dryly. “Panties and lipstick, hurray!” I gave my tits a grope. “They’re fun but I’m not going to miss them.” I gave her a little wink. “Are you?”

  “I will do my best to hold back the tears,” she answered. “I have already spoken with Scooter and he has approved and scheduled the surgery for the end of week.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Uh . . . surgery?”

  She nodded. “A new life, Mr Saunders. A new face.”

  “But--”

  “It’s the only way,” she said. Her voice left no room fument.  “Without some ges to your appearance,” she expined, “returning to a mase existence would be a death sentenbsp; One brief appearan a security camera, a quick s by reition software, a fg raised with Steele’s seeker AIs and . . . well, Mr Saunders, your life would suddenly be worth less than those lovely heels you current wear. I’ve told you before: I have no iion of allowing you to kill yourself.

  “It’s either etic surgery, David, some minor alterations and a new male identity in a small town . . . or you choose to remain dy for the rest of you life.” She didn’t even say it with a wry smile. Was it paranoia again or did I hear a faint undercurrent of hope in her voice?

  We spent another half-hour talking, and she quickly sketched out some of the tentative details of my new life, before she had to rush off once again. When it came time to sign the sent form, my hand did not hesitate even momentarily before signing dy to oblivion.

  Author's Notes:

  If you're impatient to read on, you find ter chapters at FM S. You also find everything avaible on Patreon: patreon./fakeminsk, as well as fanart and a few side projects.

  And of course, ents and feedback are always appreciated!