I could bore you with a blow-by-blow acccount of the orientation, of my first week at work, of the people I met and the experiences I had. But that’s not what this story is about. If I were writing the saga of how the plucky young college student made his (or her) mark on a big corporation and went on to a lucrative and successful career in electronics marketing, then I would be justified in dwelling on the details.

But it’s not that kind of story. It’s the story of how a man turned into a woman, of the experiences she had that were interesting or surprising or engaging that related to that change. So I’ll just give you the highlights and try to stay on message as much as possible.

The first thing I noticed was that I got interrupted by men, a lot. It wasn’t just my manager or our new coworkers. The male interns did it too, David and Chris in particular. Lamar, to his credit, seemed to realize it and stop himself every so often, but even he was not immune. My annoyance was acute, until I stopped to wonder whether I had done the same thing as a man. I couldn’t remember, which probably meant that I had.

Of course, Veronica didn’t have that problem. It was probably her accent, but everyone stopped to listen to what she had to say. Of course, half the room was staring at her chest while they listened, but at least they shut up long enough to let her talk.

Veronica pissed me off, sure, but at least there I could sympathize. Hers was not the only chest that got stared at. Mine did too, and Chloe’s, and pretty much any woman’s in the place under the age of 55. Some guys were subtle, and some were not, but essentially all of them did it — even Abraham, the project manager, who I know for a fact was gay. At first I tried to wear stuff with a higher neckline, but it didn’t change a thing. The fact was, there was nothing I could wear short of a barrel that would hide the fact that I had breasts. They were right there, all the damn time.

I have it on good authority (Chloe) that men checked out my ass, too. Thankfully, they mostly did that when I couldn’t see them, so I could pretend it wasn’t happening.

My feet hurt pretty much all the time. High heels were not specifically required, but everyone wore them, and if we wanted to make a good impression, so did we. I quickly picked up the habit of wearing sneakers to work, and switching out when I arrived. (Oh, not Veronica! She wouldn’t be caught dead in sneakers.) Thankfully, the mental conditioning had included the skill to wear heels without falling over, but it didn’t make my feet any less tired at the end of the day.

BodyMat had an app, by the way, intended to help new converts to adjust to their bodies. Mine included an entire section customized to my wardrobe, with suggestions on what to put together based on the temperature, level of dressiness, whether I would be outside or inside or both, etc. I relied on it heavily, every morning when I got up and every evening when I changed. I even pulled it up at bedtime at first, although the third time it suggested the same set of pajamas, I got the message.

By the end of the first week, Chloe and I had become truly amazing friends. I had never really understood the way my female friends would pair off and be BFFs, doing everything together and generally living the whole Friendship is Magic thing. Now I got it. Chloe paid attention to me, knew how I was feeling before I did, jumped in to defend me if she thought I was being attacked, and generally just had my back.

And, I had to admit, I was doing the same for her. I immediately knew something was wrong that time in the lunchroom, when Veronica had gotten the slot on the Sydney conference that Chloe really wanted. I interrupted Veronica that same afternoon when she tried to take over the Chicago project too, making sure that Chloe got to do her pitch. We ate every meal in each other’s company, and often stayed up until far too late, me sitting on the end of her bed or her on the end of mine, just talking.

Don’t get me wrong, I had been friends with girls before. In some cases, that friendship was the consolation prize to a romantic relationship that never went anywhere. In others, she was the friend of a friend, someone that I enjoyed hanging out with, but would never have called up to spend time with solo. We inhabited the same friendspace, but were not truly friends with each other.

And here I was, deep in the middle of one of those friendships, putting a lot of time and energy and self into the relationship, without any interest in getting laid whatsoever.

At least, not with Chloe. Lamar, I was starting to discover, might be another matter.

We went out to dinner a few times. Not on our own, but with Chloe and Chris. Once, Veronica joined us, and David came in from time to time, but he had his own friends in the city that he spent more time with.

I don’t know if the pairing happened naturally or through some machination of Chloe’s, but I usually found myself directly across from Lamar, and next to Chloe who faced Chris. We had fun at those dinners. I tried not to drink much, only a glass of wine or two, but I found myself getting giddy and silly, and then reeling myself back in.

One time, I definitely caught Lamar checking out my boobs. I saw him, and he saw me see him, and he blushed as red as the wine I was drinking. I didn’t say anything about it, though. In fact, I think I actually leaned over a bit more than I would normally, just to see if I could get him to do it again, but he kept his eyes pretty much locked onto mine until dinner was over. Chloe noticed, and called me on it that night, but I resolutely denied that I had done anything of the sort. I don’t think she bought it, though.

By Friday, the long work hours, followed by constant socialization, had me exhausted. But it wasn’t time to rest yet. Friday night was the party.

It started out small. The guys were going to cook dinner for the girls at their apartment, and then we’d have drinks and music. Pretty soon, drinks and music became a keg and karaoke, and dinner turned into Indian food delivery, and the six of us grew to include some other people from work that were close to our age, and some of David’s friends from the city. By eight o’clock, their apartment (mirror image of our own) was full to capacity, with every room open and choked with talking, drinking Millennials.

I will admit right now that I drank more than I should have. As a girl, my capacity was lower, thanks to lower body weight and quicker absorption. (I looked it up.) Chris fancied himself a mixologist, and he forever had me and Chloe tasting each creation as they came out. At first I only had a sip of each, but then he hit upon a sort of caramel coffee cream thing, but with nutmeg? Something like that. Whatever it was, it was amazing, and I finished the first and asked for another.

We drifted through the party. Chloe was there sometimes, and sometimes not. I got into a very long, very boring conversation with some guy about co-op farming. He thought it was a conversation, but all I did was listen and say, “Uh huh” at intervals. Chloe rescued me from that, and in return I extracted her from an interaction with a dude who couldn’t shut up about his last ski vacation in Vermont.

Throughout, I kept a careful eye on Lamar. It wasn’t that I was worried about his behavior, exactly, especially since there was nothing between us and no reason he shouldn’t act however he wanted. That didn’t keep me from fuming during the eleven minutes he spent talking to Veronica. He was the one who broke off the conversation, saying something about getting a drink. Once he did so, he came over to me and Chloe.

“Crowded,” he commented.

“Too crowded,” I replied. “It’s fun, but this isn’t really my kind of party.”

“Me neither. Hey, the key will get us up onto the roof. Want to check it out?”

“Sure!” I had already spoken, but then remembered that Chloe was right there too. “Did you want to come?” I asked her.

“I’ll probably stay here for a bit, but I’ll probably come up later to check it out.” The subtext was clear. Go have fun, but she would be up to check on us, just in case. If I had been a bit more sober, I would likely have felt bad that women had to be so careful about every potential social interaction. But my mind was in a pleasant hazy blur. I thanked Chloe, and she gave me a thumbs up and a wink, and off we went.

The building was only six floors, so we only had to climb two to get to the top. The roof was not exactly finished, but it was clear that it was used often. There was a battered, rusty patio table and a few chairs on one side. Lamar made a beeline for the other side, where a chest-high portion of wall separated us from the street below.

There on the east side of Manhattan, we had quite a view. The buildings to the east were too tall to see all the way to the river, but we could see the Empire State Building in front and to the left, as well as some of the taller downtown buildings behind us. It was actually quite lovely.

I won’t bore you with our conversation. Looking back, I think we were just wanting to assure each other that we were there, that we wanted to be there, that we were enjoying each other’s company. I got chilly, which was no surprise in my sleeveless top and flirty little skirt. He legitimately took off his jacket and wrapped it around me, a thing I had never seen done outside of a movie set at prom. I wore it like a shawl and smelled him on it.

When he kissed me, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss him back, so I did. He was quite a bit taller than me, so my head was tilted back, and I went up onto tiptoe to do it properly. As a matter of fact, I think kissing must have been one of those skills I was preprogrammed with, because I adjusted to the role without a fuss.

You might be wondering how a guy, and a heterosexual one at that, could go from a full on chick-loving dude to kissing a guy in only about two weeks. Remember that I was past tipsy at this point, so my rational mind was kind of on hold. But I think there was more to it than that.

I think attraction — the sort of initial, physical attraction — is more about the body than the mind. I was a girl now, and a heterosexual one, it seemed. It was telling me that there was nothing wrong in the world about smooching on this guy, and I was in the mood to listen.

There was also a bit of brinksmanship going on, me daring myself to see how far I was willing to go. Every day for the last two weeks had put me out of my comfort zone in one way or another. I dared myself to put on a bra, to put on a dress, to go out into the world or open mouth or do anything at all while female. At the time, this felt like just one more step.

Then I felt Lamar’s arms wrap around me. He pulled me closer. I sort of leaned into him, kissing harder. That’s when I felt it.

In the back of my mind, all along, I had been feeling a sort of warmth in my midsection. That warmth had become more and more focused on my crotch, and as he wrapped his arms around me, I felt a greater heat, a rush of moisture that soaked my underwear. A sort of electric tingle shot up inside me.

I broke away, pushing him back. Suddenly, the remnants of my male brain took over, and informed me that what I was doing was Wrong.

“I... I have to go,” I told him. I got halfway across the roof and realized I was still wearing his jacket. My face burning, I crossed the roof again and handed it to him. I think I might have mumbled a thank you. Then I crossed to the door and bolted down the stairs.

Chloe, bless her, was on her way up. She took one look at my face and bellowed, “What did he do?”

“No, it’s fine, he didn’t do anything, I promise.” It was clear she did not believe me, and in her place, I would have thought the same. What other conclusion do you make when a woman runs down the stairs from a secret rendezvous with a guy she likes, upset and crying?

Because I was crying. I’ve never been a tearful person, but my emotions just felt so close to the surface, and they had nowhere else to go. Chloe accompanied me into our apartment, saw me to my room, and extracted a promise that I wouldn’t leave until morning.

I changed into my pajamas dully. My wet underwear I threw into the corner, before changing into a clean pair for the night. The room was blurry, whether through tears or booze or some combination, I did not know. The darkness, when I turned out the light, was welcome, and I passed out, or slept, or both.