Date: Wed, 2 Jun 1999 09:31:10 EDT
From: AnnePhorcy@aol.com
Subject: Cold Hearted (TG story)

	"Hold the elevator, please!"

	You reach out and press your hand against the sensor on the edge of
the door and lean to one side so she can slip past you.  Your reward is a
murmured "Thanks" and a rote little smile that vanishes as soon as she
turns and faces the front of the car.

	Man! She's a real babe, isn't she, Dave?  Just the kind we used to
fantasize about sitting around the old dorm room back in college.

	Curly brown hair worn mid-shoulder length in a loose, casual style.
You prefer long, curly hair if I remember correctly.  Nice features.  Kind
of aristocratic.  Remember that time we were discussing women we'd like to
screw?  When you said "Fergie" it surprised me.  She didn't seem the
physical type that got you "spun up".  I didn't understand until you
defended your choice by musing what a rush it would be to have someone so
regal and famous under you.  Then it made sense.  Fit your character
perfectly.

	Handsome business suit she's wearing.  Well tailored.  Just snug
enough to show off some fairly impressive curves quite nicely.  And the
burgundy shade of the jacket and skirt are a good match for her hair.

	Long skirt, calf-length.  Nice to see a woman wearing something
besides those "no imagination required" mini's, isn't it?  That's another
of your little turn-on's as I recall.  Clothing that hints instead of
flaunts.  And speaking of hinting, while you're admiring as much of those
shapely legs as she's willing to show, you catch just the tiniest glimpse
of lace peeking out of the slit that runs for a few inches up the back of
her skirt.  That was another turn-on, wasn't it?  Women's underwear.  Well,
why not?  All men like lace and satin when it's on the right body.

	Kind of a shame that seamed stockings have gone out of style, isn't
it?  Wouldn't that be hot?  Seams climbing up those luscious legs from
those shiny high heels she's wearing only to disappear beneath the hem of
her skirt. Seams that tease you with the fantasy of getting her alone in
some bedroom so you can slowly slide that skirt up her legs, revealing more
and more shimmering nylon and lace until the tops of her stockings - which
would be about mid-thigh on her - come into view.  And there'd be the
straps and clasps of her garter belt, too.  Garter belt and stockings
instead of pantyhose. That was a fantasy we both shared, wasn't it?
Standing there, admiring those legs, are you wondering if she's wearing
pantyhose?

	Hoping that it's stockings instead?

	I know you well enough to know that you are.  I'm afraid you'll
just have to keep wondering because I'm going to keep the answer to that
little mystery to myself.

	At least for today.

	Out of the corner of your eye you notice that the white-haired,
Chairman-of-the-Board type standing beside you is surreptitiously enjoying
the show too.  Each of you catch the other's notice and both of you share a
subtle little smirk at your mutual admiration for the woman standing with
her back to you.  Oblivious of your lust because "Little Miss Prim and
Proper" is facing the wrong way to catch the two of you mentally undressing
her.

	At least you think she's unaware.  You're so busy ogling her you
haven't noticed that she's watching you two in the shiny metal reflection
of the elevator doors.  Struggling to suppress a sly grin of her own at
just how easy it is for a beautiful woman (who, admittedly, is designed
solely for the purpose) to get the upper hand over lustful, immature little
boys like you, Dave.

	The elevator arrives at "Chairman's" floor and she has to slide to
one side to let him out.  So close to you that the curve of her tight
little ass brushes your thigh.  Just enough of a touch for you to realize
it's happened but not nearly enough for you to get more than an intimation
of what actual contact with that firm, ripe body might be like.

	Then you're alone with her as the doors slide shut.

	You gaze forward. Very polite. Very proper.  Nothing on your mind
is there, Dave?  Oh, no.  Nothing at all.

	She tucks a strand of that chestnut mane behind one ear.  Then she
hugs her arms beneath the swell of breasts mostly concealed beneath her
jacket and stares fixedly at the floor indicator above the door.

	Typical woman.  Those crossed arms are body language, aren't they?
She's nervous about being alone in such a confined space with a strange
male.  Who knows?  You might hit the emergency stop button, slam her into a
corner, rip off her skirt and find out for yourself if she's wearing
stockings and garters like you hope she is.  You might decide to check out
what's under that silk blouse while you're at it. Before you get down to
what men and women are really all about.  And all the while she'll be
sobbing and pleading for you to stop because you're in control and she's
helpless. You're the big, strong male and can do anything you want with
her.

	Is that what you're thinking, Dave?

	Of course it is.

	You like power games.  You like being in control.  You'd like to
have the whole world at your feet begging for mercy.  Wouldn't you?

	Can't do anything to her in reality, though, can you?  You're not
stupid.  It's okay to fantasize about it, but that's as far as it can go.
That's the price we pay for living in a civilized world, isn't it?

	What a pity.

	She's so close in the confines of this little elevator car that it
would be easy.

	So close that you can smell her perfume now.  Nice scent.  I know
you don't know anything about ladies' cologne so you wouldn't know I'm
getting another laugh at you by wearing "My Sin."  Pretty apropos, huh?

	Whoops.  All good things must end, mustn't they, Dave?  Here's your
floor.  The doors open and she presses a little closer to the wall of the
car to let you out without the possibility of another brush against her.
Do you suppose she's been reading your mind?  Funny how women seem to be
able to do that sometimes.  Must be a survival instinct.

	Nice way to start the day, though, wasn't it?  Nothing like a
little sexual fantasy to get the juices flowing.  I bet you're thinking
"It's gonna be a good day" as you stride out of the elevator without a
backward glance and head off to your desk for another round of "conquer and
devour."

	Maybe it will be a good day for you, Dave.  If it is, you'd better
enjoy it.

	If I get my way, you don't have too many good days left.

	I'm glad that the elevator doors have closed and you can't see the
triumphant grin that has replaced your fantasy woman's studiously neutral
expression as she pushes the button to take her back down to the garage
level.

- - - - - - - - - -

	Some time to kill now.  The real game won't start until noon when
you're on your way to lunch, Dave.  This morning was just a reconnaissance.
Just setting the stage for what's going to happen in a few hours.

	Once I reach the garage level I have to pause for a moment and
decide how I want to spend my lazy morning.  Lots of lazy mornings now,
Dave.  No job.  No daily grind.  Just free time to think about things.

	To plan.

	A tiny rumble in my slender stomach reminds me that I was too keyed
up this morning to eat, now that "D-Day" had finally arrived.

	"D" for Deception, Dave.

	So.  How about a nice, lo-cal breakfast to celebrate the opening of
hostilities?  That's one of the down-sides to my whole scheme - my need to
watch my weight.  A girl's always got to keep her mind on her figure if she
wants to trap Mr. Right.  I saunter over to my waiting car. The
nondescript, four-year-old Dodge that you'd never recognize as belonging to
me, would you Dave?  I always had such expensive taste in cars.  The last
time you saw me, my "main ride" (one of the stable of four cars I could
pick and choose from) was that vintage '68 Mustang, Mach III.

	Bank's got it now, Dave.  The bank has quite a few of my old things
now.  I really had to prioritize after you got through with me.  I had to
pick and choose what I wanted to keep and what I was willing to sacrifice
in order to pay for my revenge.  So it was out with the old and in with the
new.

	I wonder how much of that ol' reliable 'Stang went in trade for
these luscious tits snuggled inside my lacy little bra?  (Oops.  "Boobs."
Gotta remember to say "boobs" not "tits."  Women don't refer to their
breasts as tits.  Only men do.)  Cosmetic surgery is awfully pricey, Dave.
Awfully pricey.  Particularly when it's as extensive and as subtle as mine
was.  Extensive and subtle enough for your old college roomie and former
partner to be standing right beside you in an elevator and all you could
think about was how much fun it would be to fuck "her."

	Yep.  Expensive and more than a little painful during some of the
procedures.  But worth it if it helps me get even for what you did to me.

	And in the mean time, though I don't have the thrill of being out
on the freeway doing 90 with the top down in my 'Stang anymore, still - I'd
have to say it was a fair trade off.  It's a shame you aren't invited up to
my apartment on those nights when I'm in the mood to amuse myself.  I put
on a show that makes those lingerie nights down at Patterson's Bar seem
awfully tame.  Remember how you and I always came out of there bitching
about how we never got to see "everything", even though the girls managed
to make what they would show you pretty entertaining.

	No limits on my shows, Dave. The "girl" in my little revue isn't at
all ashamed to get way down and dirty when she's working out in front of
the mirror in her bedroom.  It's pretty much the perfect wet dream - your
old buddy Jack's dirty mind controlling this sizzling bitch body.

	Yeah, Becky can be a real sleazy little slut when she's in the
mood.

	I wonder if she'll ever be in the mood for you?

	Probably not.

	Doesn't fit the character you're gonna be meeting, Dave.  Your
Becky is going to be a little shy, a little vulnerable and very proper.  A
real "Girl Next Door" type.  The kind you just won't be able to resist
trying to conquer - if I know you as well as I'm sure I do.

	Kind of a shame you won't be getting to meet the "real" Becky,
though.  You don't know what you're missing.

	Ah, life can be a real bitch sometimes.  Can't it, my old friend?
	
	Yours soon will be, anyway.

- - - - - - - - - -

	Noon.

	Time for a break from all the wheeling and dealing, huh Dave?

	You look a bit harried when you step off the elevator down here in
the garage level.  Well, cheer up, my friend.  Play your cards right and
the next few minutes might see the start of a really wonderful
relationship.

	At least it'll seem wonderful at first.

	Damn, I wish I'd been able to get a parking space closer to your
car.  Five spaces away - I hope it's not too far for you to hear the
"click" of my solenoid when I try to crank the dead battery in my old
Dodge.

	That would be the dead battery I had a real bitch of a time
exchanging for the good one now sitting in my trunk.  Not a bitch because I
don't know how to change out a battery - the surgeons didn't take my knack
for engines along with the rest of my male "bits."  It was a bitch because
I had to be very careful to keep my outfit clean as I changed it out. And
it was a bitch having to dodge all those offers of assistance from Good
Samaritan males who'd spotted "the poor, mechanically disinclined damsel in
distress" with her hood open.

	You've just about reached your car.  It's now or never.  I admit
it, Dave.  There's a little flutter of anxiety in my gut as I mentally
cross my fingers and turn the key.  Oh, to be sure, if this little ploy
doesn't work I've got lots of back-up plans.  That's something else I made
sure those scalpel jockeys didn't get - my ability to come up with devious
schemes.  I can run a scam just as well I used to, Dave.  As you're about
to find out.

	No, the anxiety comes from what I'll be setting in motion if this
first attempt succeeds.

	"Clickety-click" says the solenoid as I turn the key in the
ignition.

	Pause.  I remember to keep my expression one of helpless
frustration and building anger . . . and maybe just a little pinch of
growing anxiety at the prospect of being stranded down here thrown in for
spice.

	"Clickety-click."

	I can't turn and look in your direction to see if you're falling
for the bait, Dave.  Why would I be looking around at a time like this?
Nope, I've got to stare down at my dashboard and bite my lip and play "the
poor, mechanically disinclined damsel in distress" that all those other
males just couldn't resist trying to rescue.

	Come on!  I'm just about to turn the key again when . . .

	"Hi.  You having trouble?"

	Her head snaps around with surprise.  Shame on you Dave, for
sneaking up on some poor woman all alone down here in this creepy,
dimly-lit garage!  You've scared the living daylights out of her!

	Well, well.  Look who it is.  "Little Miss Prim and Proper" from
the elevator this morning!  What a coincidence.  She doesn't quite frown,
and she doesn't quite smile.  But she does lean just the tiniest bit away
from the open window.  "Strange Male Syndrome" again.

	"Oh.  Umm, yeah.  God, this is so embarrassing.  I guess I left the
headlights on when I went upstairs."

	You nod and smile. Very reassuring.  "Harmless and Helpful"- that's
you, isn't it Dave?  "Yeah, that'll do it every time.  Why don't you pop
the hood, though, just to make sure you haven't slipped a belt or
something.  Okay?"

	That gets you the same rote little smile that you got for holding
an elevator door.  "Okay."  She looks around for a second and then finally
spots the hood release under the dash beside her left knee.  She bends over
and pulls it and the hood pops open.

	You busy yourself for a few minutes trying to look very male and
competent.  What a snort.  I was the mechanical one, remember?  I was the
car buff - the grease monkey.  You could barely check the oil on your rigs.
But it's okay.  Becky doesn't know an engine from a hole in the ground so
you're in no danger of being spotted for the phony you are.

	You straighten up from your examination and wipe the imaginary dust
off your well-manicured hands.  "I don't see anything wrong with the belts
or the alternator so I guess it's a dead battery all right."  You come
around to the window again.  You must have proven that you're "okay"
because this time she doesn't shy away from you.  You fold your arms and
give her a little taste of that boyish charm that you use to such great
effect on all your prospective clients.  "I don't suppose you have a set of
jumper cables?"

	She shakes her head.  (Gee, that long, silky hair moves nicely on
her shoulders, doesn't it, Dave?)  "Nope.  You don't either?"

	Rueful smile to go with a little shrug. "Sorry.  I'd be happy to
give you a jump if . . ."  (Yeah, I just bet you'd be happy to jump Becky.)
" . . . Oh!  Wait! I wonder if Building Security has some?  Let's go
check."

	Her reply is to open the door and bend her left leg sideways so her
high-heeled foot is on the concrete but her right leg is still in the car
as she starts to slide out of her seat.  Oh man!  Look at that!  Oh jeeze!
What would you give to be a fly on the floor down there by the brake pedal,
Dave?  If you were, I bet you could see all the way up her skirt to the hot
white triangle of lace between "Miss Prim and Proper's" legs.  But damn it,
for some reason that skirt doesn't ride up at all -not even an inch -and
you don't get to see a thing as she finishes standing up.

	I bet you're thinking, 'Shit!  How do women do that?  Who teaches
them tricks like that?'  Remind me to tell you sometime, Dave, about the
"finishing school classes" that came along as part of the package-deal sex
change I paid all those big bucks for.

	Now she's standing beside you.  Gazing at you expectantly.  "So
. . . umm . . . where is this Security Office?"

	"It's right off the Main Lobby.  Don't you work here?"

	She shakes her head.  "No.  I was just here for a job interview."

	"Oh.  Okay.  Well, why don' t you come with me?  You really
shouldn't be hanging around down here alone."

	Gee, Dave.  'My Hero!'  I suppose Prince Charming is expecting a
shy blush, batted eyelashes and a coy, virginal smile as his reward for
looking out for Sleeping Beauty.

Sorry.  While this may all be make-believe (at least on my part), it isn't
a fairy tale.  You don't get to be the knight in shining armor quite that
easily.

	What you do get is folded arms, a little frown and a quick glance
around at all the dark corners as she tries to decide if she's safer with
you or taking her chances alone down here till you can bring Security.

	Don't sweat it, Dave.  Your handsome, boyish charm is enough to
carry the day.  She quickly decides that you're probably more or less as
harmless as you appear and turns to let you lead the way to the elevators.

	You have to stand there for a second as you wait for the elevator
to arrive.  An awkward silence descends.

	You offer a handshake.  "I'm Dave, by the way.  Dave Morgan."

	You get a soft, feminine hand to hold onto, very briefly.  "Becky
Generette."

	Want to see my driver's license, Dave?  Right next to a rather
unflattering picture it says "Rebecca Marie Generette, Gender - Female" big
as life.  That's my name now. That's who I am.  All legal and proper.  That
was another 'benny' in my package deal; a new identity to fit my new body.
Of course, I didn't pull my nom de guerre out of thin air.  You don't
suppose that over the last two years I've forgotten what a devious bastard
you are, do you? I know you're not so trusting that you might not do a
little background checking before all this is said and done.  Unlikely - if
I play my role well enough - but still . . .

	So I researched it all very carefully.  (Heaven knows; I had lots
of free time between operations, waiting for something to heal up so they
could cut me open somewhere else.)

	You'll find a complete history for Rebecca Marie Generette if you
know where to look.  She was born in Brownsville, Texas on April 17, 1975.
Went to Brownsville High then two years at the Community College for her
A.A. in Administration.  (That's a polite way to say "Secretary School.")
Both parents dead - Mom years ago and Dad just last winter.  All alone in
the world, she must have headed out here to the Coast to seek her fame and
fortune.

	At least, that's the story she'll tell - and it will all check out
if you look.

	Because it's all true.

	What she won't tell you, and what you won't be able to find out
because I've paid some big bribes to the right people in Port au' Prince to
make the records disappear is: Rebecca Marie Generette died in a car
accident during a whirl-wind budget vacation to Haiti her father got her
for her birthday just a little over a year and a half ago.

	You'd never know it to look at her, would you?

	The elevator arrives and we get a reprise of this morning's show.
It's a brief ride, only one floor, but if you're paying attention, (and you
should be, Dave) you'll notice that she doesn't do the "body language
thing" this time.

	Maybe you're starting to win her confidence?

	"Security" today is a balding, paunchy, ex-policeman in a
rent-a-cop uniform. He does indeed have a set of jumper cables he'll loan
you.  (As soon as he finds out you're one of the office tenants up on
Eleven, Dave.)  Doesn't trust you enough just to hand them over, though.
You might steal them.  So he has to grunt and stand up and waddle along
with the two of you back down to the garage.

	I guess he's not immune to Becky's charms.  He joins right in with
the "rescue the damsel in distress" routine.  He stands there, looking very
officious and in control, waving his hands and guiding your car up as close
as it will come behind mine.  Then you and he exchange commands on hooking
up the jumper cables along with warnings to "Make sure you get the positive
on the positive."

	If playing the woman has it's disadvantages when it comes to
ordering calorie-conscious breakfasts, it balances out because I get to
just stand here, arms folded and watch you "big, strong men" do all the
work.

	Finally the cables are stretched out and hooked up and Rent-A-Cop
nods to me.  "Okay, Miss.  Hop in and let's fire her up."

	Lo and behold, my engine coughs to life on the very first try.

	I climb back out and stand there, watching again, as you two
disconnect the cables.

	We both thank the cop and he trudges off toward the elevators.

	So . . . here we are again.  Just you and me, Dave.

	Let me see.  This is the point in all the romance novels where you
say something wonderfully witty and romantic and I get a little starry-eyed
and the whole relationship thing takes off as I shyly agree to the offer of
a date.  Right?

	How disappointing for you (and fully expected by me) when what
actually happens is; we stand here awkwardly for a second then I say, "So
. . . umm . . . thanks again, Dave."  And you search for something
wonderfully witty and romantic and come up with, "No problem.  Anytime."
After another awkward pause, and because Becky thinks you certainly deserve
some reward for your gallantry, you get another quick little handshake and
another completely unsatisfying glimpse of nothing at all as I climb back
into my car and then wait for you to move your car so I can drive away.

	And that's that . . . right?

	Wrong.

	I'm only getting started, Dave.

	Only getting started.

- - - - - - - - - -
	
	Oh Dave, I hope you never find out how hard the next few days were.

	You've got to understand; I'd been waiting for this - for the
chance to set out on my revenge - for almost two whole years.  Once I'd
made my opening moves, you don't know what an effort of will it was to just
sit back and twiddle my thumbs.

	You can see, of course, that I couldn't just pop up the next day.
Or the next.  Coincidence is one thing.  But if you keep meeting the same
girl over and over, well, that smacks of premeditation doesn't it?

	Still, it was tough to just sit.  The day after our encounter in
the garage was the hardest.  As I've said, I had lots of other schemes for
meeting you if that little trick hadn't worked.  Twice the following day I
had to forcibly restrain myself from putting one of my alternate schemes
into action so as to hurry things along.

	But I'm fairly strong-willed when I want to be, aren't I, old
friend?

	So I just sat around the apartment watching "daytime dramas"
(they're just chock full of helpful pointers on how to play a woman) and
practicing my mannerisms.  Stuff you'll eventually see if everything goes
according to plan.  Stuff like . . . oh . . . instead of sitting sprawled
out on the sofa, my feet up on the coffee table - I curl up with my legs
under me.  Perhaps I'll hug a throw pillow against my bosoms while I'm at
it.  Very feminine and fetching.  (I know.  I used to do a lot of
practicing in the mirror while "Becky" was taking shape.)

	I'll make a guilty little confession to you, Dave.  It feels kind
of good - to have that pillow pressed against my chest.  I don't know why.
Well, okay, I guess it might have something to do with the way my nipples
fleshed out once the hormones kicked in.  But I suspect it's also a
psychological thing.  Ol' Doc Kennedy warned me that there'd be some "bills
to pay" for doing what I was doing - changing myself from one person to
another.  From one gender to another.  Solely for revenge.

	God, I used to piss that old battleaxe off!  She really, really
disapproved of me and my scheme.  But psychological counseling was part of
the package deal and once I'd paid for the program, I was stuck with all
the features.  So once a week she'd sit me down in her office and I'd have
to try and work out all my aggression and anger at you so maybe I wouldn't
go through with this "horrid scheme" after all. Of course, after they did
"The Procedure", it was kind of moot.  "When Cortez reached the New World,
he burned his ships.  This made his men very motivated."  After the
surgeons had "lopped it off" even Kennedy had to acknowledge that I was
pretty committed to my plan.  I guess, after a while, she was content to
just make dire predictions that "there'll come a day . . ."

	I know there probably will.  "Come a day", that is.

	I mean, one of these days I'm going to wake up and look in the
mirror and the beauty will be gone.  All I'll have left is saggy tits
("Boobs" Gotta remember that!), gray hair and wrinkles.  Some day I'll wake
up and realize that I'm a little old lady.

	But that's okay, Dave.  I know it's coming.  I went into this with
my eyes open.

	Besides.  I'm gonna be a very wealthy little old lady, so it'll
even out in the end.

	In the mean time, if my psychological baggage consists of sometimes
feeling all warm and cuddly with my legs curled up beneath me and a pillow
hugged to my chest, well, there are probably worse things in life.

- - - - - - - - -

	Saturday morning finally rolls around and it's grocery shopping
day, isn't it Dave?

	I've been keeping an eye on you, old friend.  I know your schedule.

	You're pushing that cart down the aisles when, out of the corner of
your eye . . .

	Well what do you know?  Is that "Little Miss Prim and Proper"
coming down the aisle toward you, pushing a shopping cart of her own?  By
God, it is!

	"Becky!  Hi!"

	She glances up from her consideration of canned fruit juice and
stares at you with a neutral expression.

	After a second, it's pretty obvious she doesn't remember you.

	"Dave.  From the garage.  The dead battery."

	You get a smile that's perhaps not quite as rote as some of the
ones you've gotten.

	"Oh, sure.  Dave.  Hi."

	"Hi."  Still haven't lost that boyish grin, have you?

	She tucks a fly-away strand that escaped from her loose pony tail
behind her ear.  "Thanks again for that rescue."

	Smile and nod.  Be charming, Dave.  It's what you do best.
"Anytime.  So.  I don't think I've ever seen you shopping here before.  Of
course, I'll be honest and say I wasn't hoping to see you before . . ."

	She's lowered her eyes as she murmurs, "Oh no.  I doubt you've seen
me here before.  I've only been shopping here a couple of times.  I only
moved here a couple of months ago."

	Are you as observant as you used to be Dave?  Are you noticing the
little hints I'm dropping by what's in my shopping cart?  Have you noticed
that most of the things in there are the inexpensive, generic brand?
That's going to be important eventually - the suggestion that I don't have
a lot of money.  (And Lord knows, this part of my act isn't an act at all.
My bank account is getting pretty thin these days.)  Of course, I've made
sure that you can get a glimpse of that box of "Always" panty liners too.
Have to keep reinforcing the fact that "I am Woman." (Okay, that part of
the act is an act.  I don't actually have a period, Dave.  But I don't mind
spending a few bucks for the sake of appearances.)

	Apparently you are picking up on the clues, at least subliminally,
because your next question does relate to finances.

	"So.  How'd you make out on that job interview?"

	A little shrug.  "Still waiting to hear.  I'm trying to tell myself
that the fact it's taking them so long to get back to me is a hopeful sign.
That they're whittling down the list and since they haven't called me to
say 'Thanks anyway', I'm still in the running."

	"Who were you interviewing with?  What job?"

	"Fordyce and Sachs. They had an ad in the paper for a secretary."

	"Secretary, huh?  Well, there's always demand for a good
secretary."

	A small, rueful grin.  "You couldn't tell that from the luck I've
been having.  I've only got one really nice pair of heels. I've been
pounding the pavement so much, pretty soon they're gonna be flats."

	You fold your arms.  Here's an opening.  "I know Jerry Sachs.  We
went to school together.  I'd be happy to put in a good word for you."

	She raises those light blue eyes and gives you a
definitely-not-rote smile this time. (Do you recognize these eyes, Dave?
Did you ever really look at my eyes when I was Jack?  I can't say that I
ever really looked at yours.)  "Oh, gee. Would you?  That'd be great! The
Wolf is gonna be knocking on the door pretty soon if something doesn't
break."  She must have realized she's getting so desperate that she's
accepting offers of help from strangers because that hopeful smile fades as
she suddenly finds a need to check out that selection of canned juices
again.

	"Oh, heck. Happy to do it."

	There's a little pause.  Then you make your move.

	"Say, you know, I'm thinking, and please don't think this is some
kind of cheap pickup, but . . . I've got a couple of tickets for Neil
Diamond next Saturday night.  Would you like to go?"

	Her eyes drop back down to the shopping cart and that neutral
expression is rapidly becoming a frown.  You recover quickly, waving your
hands to clear away the misunderstanding. "Oh, hey.  No pressure or
anything.  Really.  I mean, I'm seriously not trying to trade anything
here.  I'll be happy to talk to Jerry Sachs.  That's a given.  I'm just
thinking - you're new around here.  I'm thinking you haven't had the
opportunity to make a lot of friends yet.  And I do have a spare ticket
. . . Nobody to take with me . . . A real shame to waste the seat . . . We
can take my Firebird.  I just had a new battery put in last month."

	I think I've played coy long enough to make the point.  I'm not
"easy", Dave.  But I'm not "impossible" either.

	The renewal of her shy little smile, both for the joke about the
battery and for your charming approach, is aimed at the box of Rice Chex
sitting atop her cart.  "I like Neil Diamond."

- - - - - - - - - -

	One thing leads to another, as they say.

	The first date - the Neil Diamond Concert - goes pretty well.  She
smiles more. Opens up a bit more.

	You seem to make points when you don't try anything when you get to
the door of her apartment.  You just smile that charming smile and tell her
(honestly) what a good time you had.  When you just stand there, arms at
your side and ask if you can call her, you can tell this is going somewhere
when she immediately answers, "Yes.  Please."

	Date two is dinner and dancing.

	She doesn't seem to object to the chaste little kiss on the cheek
by way of "good night."

	Date three is the celebration of her landing the job with Fordyce
and Sachs.  I wonder how much arm-twisting you had to do to arrange that.
I mean, yeah, you know Jerry Sachs, but it's not like you're good friends
with him.  And let's face it, Dave - I know I took the brunt of the
damage. (You saw to that, didn't you?)  But you didn't come out of that
little securities scandal with your skirts completely clean either.  (Odd
choice of metaphor.)  I'll bet there are still some folks who kind of hold
you at arm's length.  But at least you got to keep your license, your
business, your bank accounts.

	Your life.

	Dates four, five and six are kiss on the cheek, kiss on the lips,
and fairly passionate, lingering, your hands in my hair, my hands on your
shoulder blades, kiss on the lips respectively.  If you're wondering, Dave
- it doesn't bother me a bit to let you kiss me.  I wouldn't like it if it
were some other man.  But you're okay.  I'm getting something out of the
kisses.  There's passion there, there truly is.  Just not the kind of
passion you're thinking it is.

	And then we come to Date Seven.

	Ah . . . "Lucky Seven."

- - - - - - - - - -

	Remember those "finishing school sessions" I mentioned, Dave?

	They were part of the group instruction we used to get.  Oh yeah -
I went through the program with a bunch of other folks.  I guess that was
part of Doc Kennedy's strategy.  She always was so big on "socialization."

	That was the hardest part, at first.

	I mean, it's not like I had a lot in common with the other "girls."

	They wanted to be women because that's what they really thought
they were.  Deep down.  They were trying to fix Nature's mistake and become
what they felt they were supposed to be.

	I, on the other hand, had no illusions what so ever.  Deep down I'm
male and I know it and I'm never going to change.  But, of course, I never
told that to anybody else but Doc Kennedy.  What was I going to say to the
others?  "Oh no.  I'm not all screwed up like you guys.  I'm only in it for
revenge."

So it was a little awkward at first.  I mean, not only did I have to learn
to walk and talk, wear all this feminine gear convincingly and do my makeup
with a bunch of other guys.  I had to pretend to be all gushy and
enthusiastic too.  So eager and hopeful.  I had to sit there and nod in
sympathetic understanding when the other guys poured their hearts out.

And at first that's all we were - a bunch of guys in drag.  Some of us very
obviously so.

I wonder how Jackie and Carol are doing.  I had the advantage of being
slender and small-boned to begin with.  That's part of the reason why
"Becky" turned out so well.  But poor Jackie and Carol . . .

	I hope they've found happiness.

	Oh, I can hear your derisive little snort, Dave.  Don't think I
can't.  "Truckers in Tu-tus" Right?

	Okay.  I admit it.  That was my first impression too.

	But Jackie.  God.  She never gave up.  Never let the implausibility
of it get to her.  She always had an encouraging wise crack or a joke to
get you smiling when things were going wrong.  And she was always there to
take you aside and give you a strong shoulder to lean on when the hormones
had you all screwed up and feeling like it was never going to come true
. . . that this was all just some kind of stupid, painful farce.

	And Quiet Carol.  She was sitting beside my bed when I came out of
the anesthetic after . . .

Holding my hand in that big, workman's paw of hers.

	So fuck you and your derision, Dave.  Who gets the last laugh, do
you think?  The people who wound up perhaps not so beautiful on the outside
but finally happy and at peace on the inside . . .

	Or the beautiful, beautiful woman-on-the-outside from Date Seven?

- - - - - - - - - -
	
	Date Seven.

The day at the beach.

	What a memory.

	If anything could go wrong, it did.

	The sudden cloudburst and the wind that sent our checkered table
cloth flying.  Ants.  (God, how do they do that?  Where the hell do the
little buggers come from and how do they know it's a picnic?)  A cloudy,
dreary day that still somehow managed to give us both a nicely rosy burn on
all that winter-white skin we were both flaunting.

	Sand in places that I've never had sand before.  Oh, there's a
thrill, let me tell you!  (I knew that bikini was probably too skimpy to be
practical, but women's swimsuits and practicality seem to have little in
common, particularly when she's trying to drop a perhaps not so subtle
hint.)

	Finally we packed it in and headed for home.

	You had the brilliant idea of trying to grill hot dogs over the
burner of the stove.  There was another great success.  I spread that
sandy, dirty table cloth on your expensive white living room carpet and we
both sat down and pretended that we were still at the beach as we chewed on
rubbery, charcoal on the outside, cold at the center hotdogs.

	I got to laughing.  You got to laughing.  You spilled that beer all
over the rug when you were reaching for the potato salad and jumped when
you saw that we'd brought a couple of stow-away ants along with us in the
container.

	I don't know.  Maybe it's really not so cliché.  Get a woman
laughing and you get her defenses down.

	The next thing I knew you had me by the shoulders and were crushing
. . . yeah, that's the right word . . . crushing your lips to mine.  My
arms were around your waist, pulling you tighter.  Hungry.  Eager.

	If skimpy little bikinis are impractical, at least they're easy to
get off.  Not a lot of fuss and bother.

	You took me, right there atop that checkered tablecloth atop your
nice white carpet atop your living room floor.

	Can't say I wasn't prepared for it.  Suspecting that this climax to
the evening was a good possibility, I'd made sure to "grease up" during my
last visit to the powder room.

	But hey, it wasn't all pretend.  I can still reach orgasm, did you
know that?  It's kind of a strange sensation.  I haven't yet decided what's
different and what's the same. That tunnel-vision, heart thundering,
"oh-my-god-oh-my-god" intensity is still there.  There's even a sense of
"release."  I don't know, do women feel that too?

	Maybe nothing's different.  Maybe it's just a case of the same old
light bulb being wired to a new switch these days.

	I don't want to give the wrong impression though, Dave.  That night
when Becky finally surrendered to you, gave you her all - I was "faking
it."  You have to understand - all my prior "female" orgasms came from the
incredible fantasies produced by watching Becky work out in front of her
mirror.  Dreaming what it would be like to be the man she's obviously so
desperate for as she fondles and whimpers and shoves one of her favorite
toys deeper and deeper.  The problem with you was; it's kind of hard to
sustain a fantasy like that while some guy is panting in your face and
hammering you into the floor and you have to make sure you're reciprocating
even though you're quickly discovering that it HURTS when you're not
controlling just what's pushing where and how hard.

	So, sorry, no "magic" for me that evening.  But that's another "up"
side to being a woman.  It's always "magical" for girls if they want us to
think it is.  We poor dumb males have no way of knowing, provided she's as
good an actress as I am.

	Yeah, the sex was pretty much a sham that first time.  At least for
me.  But take heart.  As I say, it wasn't all faked.  One of us really and
truly was getting fucked that evening.

	It just wasn't me.

- - - - - - - - - -

	You know, it's funny.  You'd think I'd have expected this as part
of my planning.  Admit it, Dave.  I really thought of everything else when
I'd put this scheme together.  I took into account all your likes and
dislikes. Your personality.  Your need to dominate and control.  I'd ever
so carefully crafted Becky to be "the one" for you.  The woman you'd just
have to have.

	And since it was the whole object of the exercise, I really
shouldn't have been surprised when I realized you were falling in love with
me.

	Oh, I know, I know.  As I say, that was the objective after all.
But I guess I just never thought of "love" in the sense of a deep,
emotional bond. I was always thinking in terms of sex and control. I guess
I never pictured you as a "loving" individual.  Considering our history,
can you blame me?

	It really hit home the night I put the final fake-out into
operation.

	That was the night when, no sooner had you gotten through your door
than the phone started to ring.  And there was tearful, almost incoherent
Becky.  Sobbing about how she'd gotten fired that afternoon. They'd been so
mean to her.  They'd had Security up there watching as she'd taken her few
things out of her desk before escorting her out of the building like some
common criminal. (Not that you can really blame them.  I mean, Becky had to
have been one of the most difficult, untrustworthy, incompetent secretaries
they'd ever hired.  I made sure of that.  It's kind of a wonder I lasted as
long as I did.)

	What was she going to do? The money was almost gone. And she just
couldn't, couldn't face starting the job hunt all over again.

	I'd expected you to do it.  I'd expected you to come rushing over
to console me.  To take me in your arms and hold me whenever the little
hiccuping sobs began again.

	I'd expected you to offer to let me move in with you.  "It's such a
big place.  It's criminal for me to keep it all to myself.  You can take as
long as you need to get yourself back on your feet."

	I'd even expected that after enough cuddling against you, letting
you run your fingers through my long, silken hair . . . after I snuggled
down in the safety of your big, strong arms with my soft breasts pressing
against your chest . . . that there'd be sex.

	But I wasn't expecting it to be so slow and gentle.  Tender and
caring.  I didn't know you had it in you, Dave.

	That night, as we lay beside each other in the darkness, I almost
regretted all the things I'd done to you to get here and was going to do to
you in the future.

	Almost.

- - - - - - - - - -
	
	And so, old buddy, here we are at last.

	Here's the pay off.

	Oh, I suppose I shouldn't count my chickens quite yet.  There's
still a lot of work on the horizon. There are lots of scams and schemes
remaining to pull on you before we're finally done.

	I have to slowly and subtly slide into all the "bad habits" I'm
going to start to develop.  The feminine versions of all the things that
used to drive you nuts when we were room mates.  And I'll probably have to
invent some uniquely annoying female habits as well.

	And I'm still toying with the idea of the baby gambit.  That would
be such a wonderfully dirty little ploy, but dangerous and hard to pull
off.  Oh, not that I couldn't do my part well.  I bet I'd be annoying as
hell. Bugging you more and more about getting me pregnant because "I so
want a baby."  Nagging and pouting and finally accusing you of some kind of
inadequacy when we try and try and nothing happens.  (Like it ever could.)
But eventually there'd have to be a trip to the doctor to find out which of
us was really "malfunctioning."  Of course I'd have to find some way to get
the doctor into the scheme.  That would probably be easy enough.  You
remember how many professional folks lost their shirts when our "stock
empire" crumbled?  I'm sure there's one or two fertility docs who got
burned in that swindle.  I could probably find somebody willing to get a
little revenge of their own by certifying that I was 100 percent prime
breeding stock and you were a limp noodle.  But that would bring somebody
else in on the secret and after all the effort I've gone to in covering my
tracks, that's probably not a good idea.

	Well, we'll see.  Lots of time now to work things out.  I'm in no
hurry.  My ultimate victory is pretty much assured after today.

	Besides, I've got the yen to play "Little Miss Home-maker."  Maybe
it's Doc Kennedy's "baggage" showing up again, but I think it might be fun.

	For a while.

	Until I get bored with it and start getting around to making you
miserable.  Miserable to the point where, if I'm lucky, some night I can
even get you to slap me around a bit so I can call the cops and add more
ammo to my arsenal.

	Oh, no matter what, it's gonna be ugly - our divorce.  I'm gonna
really drag you through the mud, Dave.  That's going to be as much a part
of my revenge as the property settlement and the tortuous alimony I'm going
to make sure you get stuck with.  I've already got my lawyers picked out,
though they don't know it yet.  They're have a very impressive track record
of getting the woman everything she wants.  And even if we do wind up
splitting the sheets fifty/fifty, I'll still make out like a bandit.

	You'll finally make it up to me, Dave.  All the things you cost me
when you threw me to those S.E.C. wolves.

	Cripes, this gown is pain.  All this petticoat and lace nonsense
makes me feels like I'm wading through molasses and the drag of the train
makes me feel like I'm climbing a hill.  Add the veil to it and it's like
wading through molasses up hill in a fog.

	This is what every woman dreams about?

	Small price though.  Just another step in the scheme.

	"Do you, Rebecca, take this man David . . . "

	"I do."  Oh I sure do, Reverend.  I'm gonna take him all right.

	For everything he's got.

	Hold that elevator, Dave.  It's gonna be a long, long ride down.

Copyright 1999 Anne Phorcy.  All rights reserved.