DECEMBER 11, 2024:

 

Rach and I got off the bus at our stop around 5PM and walked a short way to our place of work, Club Y. An ostensibly forgettable-looking location in uptown Seattle, Club Y was an exclusive host club for high-rollers to purchase mostly harmless ‘company’ from good-looking hosts and hostesses. Employees entered through the back entrance, which led directly to the changing room. Rachel and I kept work outfits—purchased on the club credit card—in our lockers so that we wouldn’t need to travel the city in such expensive clothes.

 

Still, I kind of envied anyone that could afford a suit as nice as the one I wore for work just to wear casually. It was a gorgeous all-black ZEGNA suit, although I’d taken to substituting a turtle neck for a white dress shirt underneath. When I first began wearing the suits paid for by the club I had been worried that my breasts would look awkward, but thankfully the suit had been properly tailored and allowed me to play the character I had agreed to play. 

 

In my everyday life I lived my life as a cross between a high-femme woman that had trace remains of a tomboy personality behind a polite veneer. At Club Y, however, I played the role of Jen: a ‘female prince’. That none of the middle-aged women I was expected to charm and delight with my detached, cool persona seemed to notice that I was trans—well, had transitioned—came as a sigh of relief to me. I was, effectively, a 'cis guy pretending to be a gender non conforming cis woman'. It was a hell of a headache to keep straight sometimes.

 

I snickered at the thought. ‘Straight’, yeah. That’s me, right?

 

Having finished dressing, I turned and walked closer to the full-length mirror on the wall to make sure I looked proper. Up through the early months of the year I’d found myself still wishing that I could return to my more masculine presentation, but now that I had an opportunity to present and socialize as anything but a feminine woman, it was becoming increasingly clear to me that wearing suits and de-emphasizing my feminine mannerisms was…distressing.

 

As damned good as I looked, the entire thing felt so…decidedly un-me? Thrust upon me by my circumstances? Well hell, socially transitioning in the first place had been thrust upon me, but at least then I got to choose what kind of girl I’d present myself to the world as, right? Jen was ultimately a person that I got to build.

 

I had wanted to go back. In a way, I could now go back. And yet…it was the feeling of going backwards that was what was so…distressing? 

 

An unfortunately familiar man entered the women's locker room, breaking me from my thoughts, “Alright ladies, game time in two! Rachel, nice work keeping your cut so low tonight, babe!” 

 

“Of course, Mr. Paul, sir!” Rachel chirped, clearly forcing a smile. 

 

Ugh, never enough time to think about this shit. 

 

Rachel, on the other hand, got to play the role of a glam model, pouring rich middle-age men more alcohol and laughing at their awful jokes, all while strategically dodging being felt up too much. It disgusted me as her spouse, but I’d learned to manage the anger. I’d promised myself that I’d kill Paul someday, anyway.

 

Paul was the sleazebag that managed Club Y. I wasn’t entirely sure who owned the club. Beyond being told that the owner was apparently a wealthy coffee importer—as a side gig, apparently—and that he did business with the government I knew very little. Whoever the owner was, he hadn’t visited the club since before Rachel and I had started working there. 

 

Suited up—with Rachel appropriately decked out in a gorgeous sleeveless black turtle dress with a generous boob window—I imitated the role of a man that I’d long since abandoned and guided her out to the club floor by the small of her back. We sat in separate booths across the club floor, waiting for the club to open. 

 

***

 

NOVEMBER 03, 2023:

 

Volunteer Park was situated near a body of water and had been designed by some genius to be on an incline. As a result the surprisingly-still-popular park grass itself was a pain to walk on, so with Rach’s occasional depth-perception issues we made sure to stick to the pavement. Still, the park looked gorgeous, even if the gray clouds signaled rain at some point today. 

 

Rachel was having another bad couple of days, having not spoken for nearly three days this time. She’d woken up screaming from a nightmare at 4:36AM on the first of the month and remained silent since, communicating only with her physicality. Part of me wondered if she was feeling voice dysphoria, too, or if it was just a PTSD response or a neurodivergent thing.

 

I was having a terrific time feeling terribly incapable as a husband and hungry as hell, but I'd found the best way to both distract myself and get any sort of acknowledgement from Rach was to just do all the talking for us. So, I guided her somewhere close by that I thought could qualify as beautiful to look at, sat her down, and just talked. It was a hell of a way to practice my new voice, too.

 

"So, like, uh…remember that one movie you liked back in middle school?"

 

No response.

 

"The one with the girl who woke up a successful 30 year old fashion designer one day? Thinking about it, it sure does make a lot more sense now why you loved it so much. Like, shoot, she had the same sort of insecurities about her breasts you hav—actually, maybe I shouldn't be saying that. Uh…shit, what else? Oh! You're both into fashion! Is that why you got into cosplay in middle school?"

 

Rachel leaned to her left and rested her head on my right shoulder. Good enough for me.

 

"Oh! And I guess you were probably into Mark Ruffalo in that movie, he was pretty cu—I mean, I could certainly see you being into him. After all, you wound up with a dork like me who didn't have any other friends—"

 

Rachel placed her left hand on my right and squeezed, likely her way of telling me not to speak ill of myself. My throat got lumpy, especially as I turned to look at her staring off into the architecture off in the distance, beyond the park.

 

Just watching her, seeing how her face didn't move and her eyes looked so tired, I couldn't help but feel like I wanted to hold her tightly. So, I did. The odd angle meant my sensitive breasts being pressed against her arm, but I stifled the aches and whispered into her ear: "and Jennifer Garner's character had that sort of haphazard, feminine energy you always had. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't pick whatever her character's name was. It would’ve been fit—"

 

Rachel suddenly adjusted her head, then whispered into my ear with a giggle: "Happy first No Nut November, hubby."

 

"God, you are such a bimbo," I muttered back.

 

***

 

DECEMBER 11, 2024:

 

“Like, he really hit his horsey-horse with his croquet mallet? Omigawd, so like, that’s so funny, y’know?”

 

Working the same shifts as Rachel for nine months had mostly led to me overhearing her boisterous fake-laughing at the insipid tales of conquest of the wealthy—and mostly white—men that she played hostess to. I could tell Rach was forcing the laugh—she’d never actually laugh at animal cruelty. 

 

Something that I had always admired, but never quite fully understood, about my wife was her ability to play a role with the utmost dedication. At the tail-end of our high school careers Rachel had been so plagued by a lack of ability to focus, but with her mind and body soaked in estrogen even longer, it seemed as if she was more focused than ever before.

 

Work for me, however, was a tad more…difficult to navigate. I often found myself surrounded by, frankly, wealthy cougars on all sides, always overhearing their gossip, being asked to give my opinion—which really just meant saying something aloof and cool—and then refilling some vapid bitch’s champagne or wine glass while giving them seemingly soulful, direct eye-contact.

 

I’d come to find myself having to think each action through at work, which was always mentally taxing. By the end of each night—come 2AM—I’d always found myself obsessively checking in the locker room mirror to make sure my body language had switched back to high-feminine, just so I wouldn’t be clocked.

 

Miss York—the least vapid of the bunch—was a vibrant young soul of 43 years who sported an unforgettable set of legs and a dark red crown of hair that she typically wore in waves. “You don’t mind if I vape, do you darling?” she’d often asked, vape-in-hand and already mid-way to her mouth. I’d learned early on in the job that Miss York quite often did and spoke as she pleased, so appeasing—perhaps sometimes ‘humoring’—her was more often than not the best course of action.

 

And, to be honest, a slightly high Miss York was still much more comfortable to wine-and-dine with than any of the other girls from whatever hellscape of a country club that they’d met at. The vivacious vixen could at least hold a conversation about politics, so I’d learned to not flinch when she’d cup my cheek or fix my tie and suit jacket.

 

Still, I’d come to realize that the role of a charming ‘female host’—as good as I was at it—was still exceedingly uncomfortable to play.

 

***

 

April 04, 2024:

 

“Girl, I hate this host club shit,” I groaned, sitting on our toilet while she brushed her hair. My new phone read 8AM on the dot, meaning Rachel and I’d only been home from our first day at work for six hours. “God, I’m exhausted. I’m going to have to start running in the morning or something to build my strength back up.”

 

A gleeful look had been plastered on Rachel’s face ever since we’d moved into our apartment the previous week, and this morning was no exception: “Hey, at least you get to wear masculine clothes and act sort of boyish again, right? You’re so sexy when you do that, by the way. It’s kinda like, whatchamacallit…the Takarazuka Revue!”

 

“Are you calling me the otokoyaku of the club?” I asked, slightly annoyed. “Ugh, gosh, now I have to practice speaking Japanese with my new voice.”

 

“You know, it’s, like, a real shame that you aren’t a weeaboo like me. I’m sure all the ladies at cons would love to have a boyfriend who spoke Japanese…and looked like a lesbian,” Rachel said with a tease as she put down her brush and stood on her tippy-toes to stretch. The nimble blonde held onto the top of the bathroom door frame to balance herself. She exaggerated her moan of pleasure, likely to tease me even further.  

 

“Babe—ugh, no—hon, I get the shit kicked out of me enough for plenty of other reasons—one of which has been picking a fight with anyone that’s called my girlfriend a faggot our entire lives—I really don’t need to add ‘Generic Anime Guy’ to my resumé. Besides,” I stood up, set my phone on the sink, then wrapped my arms around the waist of my silly blonde love. “I have you to drag me to Fathom Events screenings, girlie.” Rach turned around just enough for a kiss; she’d already applied strawberry-flavored lip balm that morning.

 

Since beginning to look, well, ‘not like a cis guy’, I’d worked hard not only to maintain a ‘girl voice’ all the time, but also a more…’not cishet guy’ vocabulary, for lack of a better term. Calling Rachel ‘babe’ had felt too much like something I’d have done pre-transition, and now that I was in the thick of clearly not looking or moving like a cishet guy, I feared that not changing my vocabulary would make me more clockable.

 

Besides, I’d had enough men on the streets call me ‘babe’ and ‘sweetcheeks’ to never want to hear or say the word ever again. I was determined to work the word out of my vocabulary as I was to stop feeling like I moved like a gay stereotype, rather than a woman.

 

Getting clocked as ‘a tranny’ and having to hastily pick up our shit and run in the middle of the night was bad enough the few times it had happened, I really didn’t need it continuing to happen now that we’d finally turned a new leaf in our crazy lives. 

 

“Hey, Jenni,” Rach cooed, leading me by hand to the air mattress, “Now that we’ve got some privacy…you wanna…?”

 

Perhaps ill-advisedly, I sighed without thinking, “Jeez girl, we’ve been off the streets for a week and you want to plow my ass already?”

 

“I mean…like, you said it, not me!” she giggled, trying to salvage the discussion with some humor.

 

Following Rach’s guide, I plopped down onto our mattress and laid against her in her embrace. “Do you mind if we just…stay like this?” I whispered, closing my eyes and gently digging my nose into her chest.

 

“Of course, silly,” my wife replied, pulling me in for a snugger hold.

 

I always felt safest when she did that.

 

***

 

DECEMBER 11, 2024: 

 

For the longest time I’ve felt uneasy about seeing Rachel subject herself to working at Club Y. It hurt to see her in the position of having to subject herself to a job like this under the threat of starvation and dying on the streets from the cold, or worse. The happiness she exuded simply being able to take care of her appearance and wear dresses again was the only thing that kept me from burning the whole place. Having to watch from a distance as perverted old men tried to—and successfully—felt up my wife, all while that sleaze Paul refused to protect her as the manager of the club, left me with no shortage of ill-will.

 

But we wouldn’t have survived or come this far if I hadn’t learned—in moments of powerlessness—to just take in my wife. Take in her elegance when turning on the charm, the way she looked in a dress, and the sound of her beautiful voice.

 

If I couldn’t stop this terrible situation then I would enjoy and loathe her torment the most, topped only by Rachel herself. I wouldn’t let those old motherfuckers have any more of her than me.

 

The cut of her cleavage really was to die for tonight, though. I was barely even a B-cup myself, but if I had breasts like hers I’d— 

 

“You’ve seemed quiet tonight, Jen. Do tell me why,” Miss York asked, snapping me from my thoughts. The older woman rested her champagne on the table coaster closest to her on the coffee table in front of the wrap-around booth seating. 

 

Snapped back to the scene I was supposed to be charming, I turned to Miss York and put on a mischievous grin, “Oh yes, do forgive me, Miss York. Just a little distracted, is all.” I supposed telling her that it wasn’t all that weird to glance at my secret wife in such a tight dress was out of the question. 

 

Taking my chin in her hand, Miss York guided my face until our eyes met. Our gazes uncomfortably met for what felt like hours, before she grinned wryly, then turned my face until my eyes were focused on Rachel again. “See something you want?” she whispered into my right ear. 

 

A chill ran up my spine, “Sorry?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

 

A plain—yet knowing—smile crept across Miss York’s face, “Come, Jennifer. Shall we get a…more private room to talk?”

 

Miss York’s wealthy friends broke into a fit of giggles and murmurs as she led me by hand past Paul and towards one of the VIP rooms.

 

VIP rooms cost on average $250 an hour, while hosts and hostesses arranged their own rates separately. Rachel and I had never discussed how much we charged for VIP room services before, but I knew that on at least one occasion she had returned from four hours in a room with over four grand in tow. 

 

I was loath to ask her how she got that much. 

 

Once situated in Room #4 Miss York pressed the lock on the door handle, took her place on an elaborately crafted maroon couch and beckoned me to join her. It was a mechanical affair, but I’d managed to mentally stop myself from walking overtly feminine. It was rare that I let a client see me take more than a few steps, but this was inevitable. I had to remain in character, lest Paul lose his precious ‘female prince’ wind-up toy that he so desperately relied on to keep his clientele’s money flowing. 

 

Reaching the couch, I sat down with my usual bravado, relaxed, back against the packing of the couch, arms riding the top so clients could come in close and feel like they were being wooed by a confident, handsome young suitor. It was all an act, one I should’ve had no problem playing, considering I was a cis man, but the entire situation had never quite felt like a choice I’d made for any reason other than survival and to placate.

 

Having to mentally coach myself to spread my legs had been a hell of an experience the first time I’d begun developing the character I was expected to play. After my orchiectomy I’d thankfully adjusted to being able to hold my thighs together—without having to think about why I had had the orchiectomy—and that had only grown more natural after I began wearing skirts and dresses on my days off from work. The entire experience of ‘partially detransitioning’—not that I was actually trans—or even just ‘butching it up’, was a headfuck I consistently struggled with.

 

I promised myself that I’d hug Rach for at least half an hour after our shift tonight. ‘Tonight’? Shoot, it wasn’t even 8PM yet. I still had six hours of this anxiety-inducing nightmare to survive.

 

“Everything alright, madame,” I asked, turning to give Miss York a devilish grin. Play the part, Jen. That’s how you go home and be…well, whoever the hell you are outside of this hellhole.

 

Miss York took on the look of a woman trying to find something as she looked into my eyes. Taking hold of my chin once more, the wealthy woman grinned, as if she’d gotten an idea, and stood to walk over towards the alcohol cart situated on the wall to our right.

 

I’d attempted to stand, of course, and pour her drink for her as was expected of me, but Miss York shushed me and told me to sit, so I reluctantly complied.

 

“Tell me, Jennifer,” Miss York began, placing an ice cube into her beverage. I think it was a scotch? I’d rarely ever drank anything, for fear of outing myself as a man in a drunken stupor. I’d entertained plenty of people in these rooms over the last nine months, ranging from all genders and closeted sexualities, but I still feared what would become of me in this isolated space were I ever to be found out. “Why do you wear suits?”

 

My shoulders instantly twitched in fear, so I pulled my hands off of the couch’s backing and let my hands rest on the seating itself, “I’m sorry Miss York, what do you mean?”

 

“Call me Victoria, dear,” she corrected, her tone and body language growing more intentional and ‘present’ than I was used to seeing from the woman. She’d always had a way with being the smartest mind in the room, but hiding it until she felt that she actually wanted to use it for her own amusement. It often ate away at the back of my mind that, yes, as casual and forgiving as she could be on most occasions, she was still capable of lording her power over me at any given moment’s notice, “Like I was saying, why is a beautiful young thing like you playing a role she so obviously doesn’t fit?”

 

Unease crawled up and down my skin, like a stray yellowjacket you knew was buzzing around you but you couldn’t lay eyes on had finally landed on your bare leg, “W-well, Victoria,” remember Jen, keep that voice low, but not too low to sound like a man. Fuck, that’s hard to do. I accepted a glass from Miss York, took a small sip, then realized it was thankfully only club soda, “Paul thought I’d appeal to a certain portion of his clientele’s tastes, and I needed the work.” That’s right, sound as smooth and confident as possible, Jen.

 

Miss York gave me a look I could only describe as unconvinced, but took a sip from her glass before replying, “Well, they’re hardly ‘Paul’s clientele’, now are they?” 

 

I chewed on that for a moment as she rejoined me on the couch, but still couldn’t figure out exactly what Miss York meant. Catching onto my confusion, despite how cool I was playing it, she smiled.

 

“Paul is only the club’s manager, is he not?” the wryly grinning woman pointed out, eliciting a nod from me as I wet my drying mouth with more club soba. “Paul’s adequate at his job, of course, but the club is ultimately not his and ultimately exists only to make money, by entertaining wealthy men and women looking to have their egos—and something else, I’m sure—stroked by beautiful-looking people.”

 

I found myself frozen in place, but just barely aware enough to wonder if I was going to pass out from not breathing. Finally, my breathing started up again, and I forced a smile. It must not have been a particularly convincing one, considering what Miss York said next.

 

“Come now, Jennifer,” she couldn’t resist adding a little amusement to her voice, “You and I are well aware that I’m not as insipid as the other girls out there—lovely little souls as they may be. I’m well aware of why I come here, as I’d hope you’d be.”

 

A split second passed and I found myself readjusting myself in my place on the couch, if only to feel like I was trying to regain my cool.    

 

“You needn’t be worried, my dear. I understand you probably aren’t very used to having a client speak so frankly to you, but I’d very much rather we get to the core of the issue here.

 

“W-well, Victoria,” I squeaked, trying to keep my cool and my voice, “What would that be?”

 

Smiling, Miss York stirred her drink until one partially melted ice cube slipped off another and readjusted itself, with the bottom tip now touching the bottom of the glass. After a quick sip, the woman placed her glass on a coaster on the side table to her left, stood, and presented herself in front of me with a model runway-esque spin.

 

It was a beautiful green gown that exposed her shoulders, but coyly keeping her legs hidden behind a long skirt that offered only the briefest of glances through a slit on the left side. Not exactly my style, of course—Rachel had encouraged me to wear shorter skirts to show off the legs and ass all of my running had built up—but I nevertheless admired the vibe Miss York had going for her. 

 

“See anything you like, Jennifer?”

 

“Huh? Oh, I think your dress looks really good on you, Miss Y—Victoria.”

 

The wealthy woman smiled, genuinely, before reinitiating eye-contact with me, “We’re often told who to be as women, aren’t we dear”

 

I hesitated for a moment, trying to parse where exactly she was going with this talk of womanhood.

 

“Whether it’s by society, a parental figure with authority over us,” Miss York retook her place to my left on the couch, “A husband…” she slid her right hand across my left, still propping me up on the couch, “Or even a silly host club manager…”    

  

I think I got where she was going with this now.

 

“Our womanhood is rarely ever ours to claim for our own sakes, isn’t it, Jennifer?”

 

I could feel the back of my dress shirt soaked with sweat now, as the nervous tension I felt being lectured on womanhood by a woman who thought of me as a cis woman. If I laid back now I knew my shirt would adhere to me, so I kept myself on the couch’s edge, hoping that at any second now it would be closing time and I could escape this bizarre scene with my—I don’t even know what—intact. 

 

Displaying that ever-present wry grin, Miss York finished her drink, sat the glass down, grabbed me by the hand and led me towards the entrance of the room, “Come dear, we have much to do tonight.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Before I knew it we were back on the floor, all eyes on us as Miss York hastily dragged me across towards the front entrance of the club. 

 

“I’m borrowing Jennifer for a few hours, Paul. I’ll bring her back in one piece, don’t worry!” 

 

As I passed by Rachel’s booth our eyes locked, our shared anxieties over what Miss York had planned communicated without even a single word. 

 

***

 

SEPTEMBER 10, 2024:

 

Over the summer I had gotten myself into the—perhaps paranoid—habit of checking my makeup regularly to make sure it hadn’t melted in the dreadful Washington heat. HOT TOPIC was hardly my scene—lest I wanted a new band tee shirt for casual wear—so the prolonged reprieve from torturing myself over what jeans or activewear I wanted to add to my fast-growing collection gave me just enough time to scrutinize my face in my compact and do any necessary makeup touch-ups. Much to my bewilderment, I was now stuffing my purse with just as much stuff as my dear pink wife, only mine was significantly less cute and covered in buttons. 

 

Rach had made a point of getting as much Pride merchandise as she could over the summer, where we visited as many of the many Pride events across Washington as possible.

 

My wife proudly displayed no less than five Bisexual Pride pins on her purse, “Just in case you missed the first one, the second one, the third one, and the number four one!!!”

 

“Might as well make it a full 69,” I deadpanned at her methodology.

 

“Don’t be silly, Jenni! I can’t fit that many on my pursey-purse-purse!”

 

I remember just looking at her and smiling, much to her aloofness. Rach cocked her head to the left, but eventually gave up trying to process why I was smiling and returned to espousing the practical applications of cute licensed accessories.

 

I had been worried about us returning to leisurely strolling around at first, but the effects of HRT and the Facial Feminization Surgery paid for by Club Y had given Rachel and I a greater sense of safety than we’d known since a year ago. With our faces and bodies still changing I was beginning to feel relatively sure that we would not be discovered, and with my anxiety quelled, I had begun to find myself having fun in my new life. 

 

Well, except for the prior day. I’d known that it was going to be a rough one, considering that it was the anniversary of the day our parents had been murdered, so I’d made arrangements to make sure that Rachel had the entire day to sit around in pajamas and weep. 

 

Admittedly, I needed the day to cry, too.

 

And then here we were, at the mall the very next day, doing retail therapy. As many cute outfits as I’d managed to purchase, it was nice to just watch my vibrant, eye-catching wife finally be able to return to her routine of regularly gushing over trinkets or poorly-designed anime graphic tees. 

 

“Omigawd Rach, this Broli shirt is so fuckin’ hot! Just, like, look at how the definition of his muscles are drawn!! Ooh, ooh, and his hair, too! It’s all detailed but the linework is so, like, not blocky-block or whatevs!!”

 

Rachel’s little giddy art gush drew as many eyes to her as her explosion-of-pink fashion sense did. In spite of my honed instinct to make us appear invisible, I just stood there, watching Rachel explain to me the artistic merits of stuff I didn’t really care about while other customers stole glances at her.

 

They’d never see as much of her squeal over her hyperfixations as much as I would, and for that I found solace.   

 

Sensing someone behind us, I turned to find a pair of young teen girls waiting to get our attention. After a beat, I’d noticed the buttons on their bag strap and held my breath: they were trans girls.

 

“Umm…hi, excuse me,” the girl with the brown hair asked, arms defensively crossed over her chest, “I j-just w-wanted to say that I really liked your outfit.” She immediately shot her line of sight down to the ground.

 

“O-oh, hi, sorry, my girlfriend’s just r-really shy,” the other one replied, “We, uh, saw your Bi Pride buttons and j-just wanted to say hi!” She made a not-so-subtle gesture to lead our vision to the Bi Pride button beneath her Trans Pride button. It was hard not to smile at the two girls.

 

“Omigawd!” Rachel squealed, bending down to meet the two at eye-level, “You two are so precious! Your outfits are, like, so cutie-cute-cute, too! I wish I’d worn something like th—”

 

I slightly bumped Rach with my right hip, which reminded her of why she wasn’t wearing any Trans Pride merch herself. Rach stopped herself, smiled sadly, then continued with a more measured tone: “I’m so happy to see two bi girlies your age getting to be your true selves together. You’re really awesome, you know?”

 

The first girl spoke up again, still obviously pensive: “W-we are? T-this is my first time—girl-moding, I mean.”

 

“Yeah, you are. It takes so much courage to do what you’re doing, hon. I respect girls like you so much!”

 

The two girls became a fit of giggles and blushing, enough to lean against one another for momentary support. I’d seen a meme before that compliments were the easiest way to make a trans girl short circuit, and it certainly seemed to be true in practice.

 

The first girl, recollecting herself, motioned toward me and asked Rachel: “So, like, is she your…y’know…”   

 

Well, shoot. This was awkward. Taking a slight breath, I answered for Rach, who looked as conflicted as I felt, “Uh…that’s…we’re just friends. Best friends. She’s been there for me since I was, like, five?” I turned to Rach, hoping she’d be able to back me up.

 

Clearly forcing a face smile and bright voice, Rach added: “Jenni’s been there for me all my life. I couldn’t have realized I liked boys without her,” Rach said, before realizing what she’d just said.

 

“Oh, wow,” the second girl said, “You used to think you only liked girls? I think I’ve heard about that before, even for cis girls like you two…”

 

Rachel and I smiled through gritted teeth, silently praying the girls wouldn’t clock us. If an actual trans girl couldn’t tell I was a guy then some pig wouldn’t be able to, either. Hopefully.

 

Still, it was heartwarming to see Rachel interacting with other trans girls, especially girls who were out at an age that she’d never got to be out at. Rachel never really spoke about middle school, or why she’d internalized so many transphobic ideas about herself, but watching her being gushed over by these kids was enough to make so much of the last year of hell seem worth it. Watching Rachel rejoice in the presence of other trans girls—even from stealth—was worth it.

 

I just hoped the day would come when she could choose if she wanted to be stealth or not.

 

Fucking pigs.

 

***

 

DECEMBER 11, 2024: 

 

“Jennifer, be a dear and try this on,” came Miss York’s voice from behind.

 

Accepting whatever was being handed to me, I stared petrified into the full-length body mirror before me, in only my panties and bra, as Miss York went about assembling a ‘wardrobe’ of outfits she approved of. 

 

It had to have been past 9PM at this point. After we’d left Club Y Miss York had called her driver and had him drive us to a high-end fashion boutique. Although I had humored Rachel over the past nine months with window shopping and the like, neither of us had actually purchased anything from a store such as this, and summarily I felt, well, out of place.

 

Exhausted from the anxiety of it all, I hadn’t even noticed my body doing the work of actually trying on the dress. Vision blocked by Miss York as she worked with my hair and makeup, I was unable to tell exactly how I looked, although with my anxiety at being outed being what it was, I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize that I was looking at my own reflection, anyway.

 

“Hmm…you do look lovely, if I do say myself, Jennifer. Still, I think extensions would compliment the look a lot more, don’t you think, Charles?”

 

Charles—the manager of the store—had sounded grouchy when he’d answered the phone call from Miss York on the ride over, but was quite gleeful upon learning just who was asking him to keep the store open late tonight. Smile wide-as-can-be, “Oh, yes, Miss York. I must say, your taste is impeccable, as always.”

 

“Now Charles, what have I told you about being a sycophant?”

 

“Only when your husband is visiting?” Charles broke out into a nervous smile, his shoulders dropping just a little to rest.

 

“Precisely, darling,” Miss York mugged before turning back to me, “How would you feel about that, Jennifer my dear?”

 

After a moment of realizing that I’d been staring blankly at the older woman, I snapped back to reality and said the only thing I could think of: “Hair extensions?”

 

“Of course, dear. Your hair is long enough to attach some, if you’d like. I could have an appointment set up for you first thing in the morning at the finest salon in Seattle, if you like. Or perhaps noon?”

 

The generosity of wealthy, middle-age white women was not something I was accustomed to, “Oh—uh, I mean, you really don—”

 

“Jennifer, my dear, please stop it with that dull, monotone voice,” the woman semi-scolded, something of a half-laugh buried in there somewhere.

 

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stopped using my club voice, “Uh…sorry, Miss York. I, uh, like, do it so I can play—”

 

“—the part that Paul and the clients expect of you, I know, I know,” Miss York said, almost dismissively. “Well, luckily for you, there will be no more of that, my dear.” Miss York stepped aside, allowing me to finally see my reflection with the dress on.

 

A red dress clung just right to my curves. Coming down somewhere halfway above my knees, my eyes followed the dress up as it curved over my still developing hips, around my torso, and then up past my chest before wrapping around my neck like a collar—not too tight, either. The back was largely exposed—hence the practicality of getting hair extensions—but windows for my breasts and navel—diamond shaped, even—also graced the front side.

 

It occurred to me then, that Miss York had likely picked the dress precisely because of how much it resembled the skirt-length and breast window of the dress that I had been staring at Rachel wearing. 

 

Only, Rachel’s dress had more to show off.

 

Placing my hand on my chest, I wondered why I felt so disappointed by that. Why did it feel so wrong to see only B-cup breasts in my reflection? Why did it feel so light to feel only B-cup breasts on my chest? Why did it feel so wrong in my field of vision to only see B-cup breasts any time I looked down?   

 

“Well? What do you think, Jennifer?”

 

Watching the girl in the reflection stand less-and-less stiffly with each passing second, I noticed tears begin to run down her cheeks as she slowly crowed downard, grabbing hold of her nearly. 

 

“Don’t worry, dear,” Miss York whispered into the ear of the girl in the mirror, “I’ll make sure that Paul understands that there is to be no more of that suit business.”

 

Oddly enough, despite the sobbing that she broke into upon hearing that, the girl in the mirror didn’t look sad to me.