Cutting Room Floor: Book 1, Chapter 8 (Patreon)

As part of revising and editing the first book of Constant, I came across a selection of what I'd titled "failed chapters". These were the original chapters 8, 9 and 10, which I edited, cut back and collapsed into two streamlined chapters during the original run of the story. I can vaguely remember some criticism that the original chapters were confusing, as they did that thing I tend to do of jumping back and forth in narrative time. In this case, the premise was David and Harry sitting in the Clinic pub, sharing a drink on their last night together, and David telling the older man the story of the past two weeks.

I thought people might enjoy a glimpse at that older version. You can see which bits survived, but also read the framework that got discarded. In the original, Harry knew Cindy was really a disguised man; I think the final version, in which Harry doesn't know (or at least it's ambiguous) works better. I'm still somewhat embarrassed by "Larry"--no idea what I was thinking with that.

Enjoy! No sneak peek this week, I'm afraid--all my efforts since last writing update have been on cleaning up Book 1 for publishing on TGStorytime (and reposting on FM)--there hasn't been much (any?) time to work on Chapter 6, though I'm hoping to return to that today/tomorrow.

At just over 10k words, the below "failed chapter" is a touch on the long side, but may you enjoy it anyway! (Or skim / ignore / delete - your call.)

***

The bed was warm and comfortable, the room dark and still.  Heavy blinds cut off the daylight completely.  A wonderful lethargy crept through my body.  For an indeterminate period I felt no sense of time or space; just the presence of the duvet as an almost nurturing weight pressing down on my side.  Rolling onto my back there was a dull throb in my side, easily ignored; those pain-killers Scooter gave me were strong stuff.  But as I reluctantly shifted into full wakefulness my mind was bombarded by a deluge of new and bewildering sensations.

            This was my second time waking up in bed as Cindy, and my first proper night’s sleep in  . . . God, I had no idea.  For a moment I felt utterly confused: where the hell was I?  What the fuck was I wearing?  It seemed absurd, impossible that I was dressed--in lingerie--with these things--and shaved legs; how had this happened?  The uncertainty quickly faded.  I remembered K and Fosters and Jeremiah bleedin’ Steele.

            That brief moment of waking clarity shattered beneath the onslaught of foreign and feminine sensations.  The weight of breasts on my chest and their soft jiggling presence beneath the duvet; the silky slipperiness of the nightgown that twisted like a whisper between me and the sheets; even the taste of last night’s cleanser and moisturiser, now a faint echo on my lips: all these were strange and new to me.

            But nothing--nothing!--was fucking stranger than the insistent itch between my legs.  Goddamn, but I was actually wet down there, and that more than anything snapped me fully awake.

            I dunno.  Was it because I’d finally had a good night’s sleep?  Or maybe just some kick-ass wet dream.  Whatever.  Obviously I’d woken up with a fine case of the morning glories, a proud and achingly stiff hard-on just begging for attention.  At least that’s what it felt like for a brief, wonderful moment.  And then--God, it’s like my brain threw a switch and suddenly I was wet. 

            A simple hard-on I could’ve ignored until it went away, or just damn well dealt with.  But this thing . . . like when K was, how did she put it--“testing its efficiency”--yeah, who was she kidding?--shit, it just felt so strange, so different--like now--I squirmed within the silken confines of the peignoir--the chiffon rubbing against those nipples suddenly felt less rough--it felt . . . nice--the duvet heavy, nearly sweltering!--Cindy’s thighs squeezed down on that slickness--and . . . .

            With a stifled cry I threw off the covers.  Jesus Christ!  Bloody lines in the sand; I didn’t want to touch that goddamn thing!  But for a moment there it would’ve felt so good, so nice just to let Cindy reach down and slip one finger into. . . .

            Cold water slammed into me.  I gasped through the shock as the shower carried away with it the overwhelming distraction of that over-stimulated prosthetic.  I sagged against the wall and released a shuddering breath.  Shit.  Shit, three more weeks of this?  I turned over, pressing my forehead against the smooth expanse of tiles.  The water continued to pound and shatter against my back and neck, the icy chill penetrating to my very core.  I tried to disconnect myself from my body, from the physical presence of those nipples tightening into hard nubs, the weight hanging from my chest, the absence between my legs as the water coursed between my thighs. . . .

            “Shit,” I muttered.  Water ran in cold rivulets down my cheek and along my jaw, dripped from the tip of my nose.  My fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist at my side.  I wanted to pound that wall.  Shatter those tiles.  I raised my fist.  Clenched and unclenched it.  With something akin to a groan I uncurled my hand and firmly pressed my palm flat against the smooth tiling and slowly slid to the floor.

            Staring up into that bitter cascade, for a moment each droplet seemed suspended, catching both the soft light and the emerald of the tiles in a kaleidoscope of green and grey.  My breathing slowed, relaxed.  Tension eased.  Eventually I clambered to my feet.  By this time I was shivering from the cold.  A little hot water made the shower much more comfortable.  I reached for the shower gel and started to wash up.  Some things have do be endured.  Thoughts cleared and became less jumbled, anxious, angry.

            I’ve always gotten a lot done in the bathroom, you know?  I do some of my best reading on the crapper.  And thinking?  There’s nothing better than a long shower for a good spot of deep thinking.  I can lose a half-hour easy in there easy, especially when life’s feeling a bit stressful.

            Ha.  Yeah, no shit.  I stood under that spray for much longer than thirty minutes, as the warmth chased away the earlier chill and my mind struggled to process what had just happened.  Waking up to a stiffy that turns out to be your fake vagina longing for attention is--well, disconcerting at best.  Add in all those other sensations: the clothes, the smells and the weight of breasts and yeah, it’s a bit much to absorb first thing in the morning.  Sure, it’d been a few days since I started this whole Cindy thing but I still wasn’t used to it, still didn’t want to do it . . . wouldn’t ever like it, you know?

            If it had just been the physical, though, I think I could’ve dealt with that.  Well, maybe.  That goddamn pussy was pretty hard to ignore.  I can deal with discomfort and pain.  (And what I felt down there was something more than discomfort, something less than pain.)  But the mental doubts and stress--yeah, that’s what threw me over the edge this morning.  I hope.

            Ghulam Khalid.  Doctor Scooter mentioned him last night.  A scientist, a man who worked on the design of these very breasts I now sported.  Something to do with the ‘response patterning’ that allows these nipples to relax as warmth penetrated back into my body.  Stunning, Scooter thought.  Yeah, no shit.  I hefted the weight in my hand and let it drop down before starting to soap both tits up.  Abso-fucking-lutely stunning.

            As for Ghulam Khalid?  Goddamn, but I knew the man.  I’d met the man and been to his house about, oh . . . nine years ago?  Nice guy.  A bit absent-minded.  Tall and thin with this totally crazy beard.  He smelled of peppermint.  I’m not sure why I remember that.

            Maybe I should say that I knew a Ghulam Khalid.  Not that it’s all that common a name or anything.  I think.  Thing is, the one I’d met was also a scientist.  Muna’s father.  The whole reason I’d fought over the girl?  Why I beat up her asshole boyfriend and threw away my virginity?  All so I could get into that guy’s house.

            It had to be a coincidence.  What were the odds that the man I’d stolen from was the one who’d designed the prosthetic currently hanging off my chest?  And even if it was the same guy--so what?  A fluke, nothing more.  Didn’t have to mean anything.  I’d learnt a long time ago to separate conspiracy from coincidence, paranoia from reality.

            Yeah, sure.

            I didn’t like it.  But then, there was a lot of shit I didn’t like right now.  Like this clinic, with its hidden underground facilities.  Yeah, my reluctantly panty-wearing ass it wasn’t illegal.  These prosthetics and the goddamn clothes designed to cover and support, lift and display them--didn’t like those, not one bit.  Acting like a girl and shaving my whole body and smelling like some sissy?  Nope, didn’t like that either.

            I fucking hated Jeremiah-bloody-Steele, for doing this to me.

            I didn’t like that K was gone.

            And I didn’t like Cindy.  Nah, that’s wasn’t true.  With a sigh I grudgingly admitted that Cindy wasn’t a bad person.  There was a lot about her to deride . . . but considering that she didn’t actually, you know, exist, she had her good points.  She was a nice girl, I guess.  Nicer than David Sanders, anyway.

            So I took all that anger and frustration and doubt and rolled it up into a tight little ball and swallowed it down.  Here in the shower I could allow all those distraction to rise to the surface.  I could work them through and then . . . let them wash away, as I lathered and rinsed and shaved and finally stepped, smooth, soft and scented, out of the stall.

            Cindy, her skin glowing from the warmth, released a happy sigh and started the first of what would be a sixteen day stay at the Asklepios Clinic.

***

“Jee-zus Christ!” Harry Longman said, slamming his pint glass down.  “What, all that on your first day?”

            I chuckled.  “First day?  Harry, that was the first hour!”  I held up my hand, fingers flared, and watched the light shimmer and dance across the surface of my finely manicured hands.  The nail extended a half-inch past the tip of my fingers.  It took me ages to get used to these things.  They sure were pretty, though.  “The rest of the day was much harder.”

            The man sank back into his chair, shaking his head.  “Bloody hell, mate,” he said, and then smiled wryly.  “Mate.  Ha!  Sounds strange.”

            “Why?  What would you rather call me?”

            “I don’t know!  That’s the thing.  From over here I’m feelin’ damn lucky to have a fit bird like you sitting across the table.  In this light?” he said, waving his arm to take in the bar.  “After a few pints?  I’d hit on you if I didn’t know better.”

            “Harry, you’re over twice my age!”

            “So?  You think that’s stopped me before?”  He laughed, the sound lost in the general background murmur of the Bacchus Bar.  “I was bedding girls younger than you less than a month ago.”

            “No one ‘beds’ girls anymore, Harry.  You’re dating yourself,” I said, but still shook my head in grudging admiration.  “You’re an old pervert, you know that?”

            “Hell yeah!  And damn proud of it, girl!”  He paused.  “I can’t believe I just called you girl.”

            “Buddy, from this end of the table it’s pretty hard to believe as well.”

            “It’s just that--you know.  You look good.”

            “I certainly hope so.  I worked hard to look this hot.”

            “Yeah, but I know what you really are, Dave.”  He winced.  “Shit.  Cindy.”  He looked warily around.  “Uh, yeah.  Cindy.”

            This time it was my turn to laugh--or giggle, rather.  “No worries.  It’s not like anyone’s listening.”  That’s what I liked about the Bacchus Bar.  Privacy.  Harry and I shared one of the cosy little booths near the back of the bar.  Not that there were that many people to overhear us.  Still--we sat with a wall at our side and with a clear view of the whole joint; no reason to be stupid, after all.  Drinking wasn’t a popular weeknight pastime for most residents of the Asklepios Clinic.  Well, except for the clinic staff, but they had their own drinking spot.  I’d been there once.  It was a hell of a lot fancier than this hole, but for all that it enjoyed half the character.

            “But yeah,” I said, and turned up the Cindy a notch.  “You probably should call me Cindy, you know?  Just in case?”

            “Man, I still don’t get you.  If I didn’t know better. . . .”

            I forced a little pout.  I tilted my head and looked at him with wide eyes.  “Yeah, how did you know, Harry?  What gave me away?”

            His weathered face split in a wide grin.  “I’ve been around for a bit, Cindy.  You think you’re the first man to hit on me?  Hell, you’re not even the first guy-dressed-as-a-girl who’s hit on me.  You get a feel for this kind of thing, living the life I’ve led.”  He thought for a second.  “Though I’ve got to say you’re definitely the . . . second prettiest.”

            “What do you mean, ‘second’?”  I shook an angry fist at him, sending the wiry silver bangles at my wrist to chattering.  “And I did not hit on you!” I insisted in mock outrage.  I couldn’t stop a brief blush from lighting up my face, though.

            “If you say so.”

            “That kiss was just to wish you . . . good luck.  You know?  For tomorrow.”

            “For tomorrow,” he repeated, and solemnly raised his pint.

            We clinked glasses.  “Tomorrow,” I said, and took a sip of white wine.  My thumb absently rubbed at the red imprint of my lip at the rim as I thought about the coming day.  Tomorrow Harry was supposed to go in to surgery.  He probably wasn’t coming out.  Tomorrow Cindy went into surgery as well.  She definitely wasn’t coming out.

            Harry gave his head a shake.  “Seriously bad vibes.  C’mon,” he said, waving for me to continue.  “That first day was the worst, you say?  Go on, tell me why.”

            “Not the worst,” I said.  “But bad enough.”

***

For the first time in ages I was left with absolutely no idea what to do.

            I’m a creature of routines.  I don’t know why.  It’s probably a reaction to the randomness of my childhood.  As a working adult I took to the Monday-to-Friday, nine-to-five routine like . . . well, like Cindy to lip gloss at the age of twelve.  (I filed that fake memory way for reference.)  Wake at six, work out, shit-shower-shave, eat and then the ride to work.  Same stop, same time, same route, every morning.

            It’s not like I’m the only one doing this or anything.  After a while I got to recognize the people on my route, the other ‘regulars’: that guy in the natty suit with the pricey briefcase but a gay-looking ponytail and one really long nail on his pinkie; I watched that dude eat a Macintosh apple every single morning for three goddamn years, nibbling his way around the core before tossing it as he stepped off the bus.  There was the mousy little girl with startling blue eyes behind wide-rimmed black glasses; she had a different novel in her hand every second day and every one of them was some kind of murder mystery.  (And yeah, I eventually solved her mystery and fucked her just before everything went crazy.)  Same people, same route, same bloody routine, every day for years.  Some people might find that kind of sad.  Those people are idiots.

            I loved the routine.  Sure, it’s comforting and all, but there’s much more to it than that.  So much becomes possible through familiarity.  There’s confidence to be found in routine.  Even more importantly, there’s the possibility for change--for real change, meaningful change.  Day after day, through the repeated actions I had developed for the new adult life I’d been thrust into, I was making myself over into--well, into David Sanders.  Someone very different from person I’d been before.

            That’s probably why I’m not a huge fan of change.  Whenever one of the people on my route disappeared and never came back, I felt--sad.  Seriously.  Felt almost like a personal affront, you know?

            Therefore, left in my room and unable to go out on account of my voice, I tried to slip back into some kind of routine.  Some of the usual routines had to be changed, of course.  These weren’t changes I wanted to make, mind you.  They were . . .  girly routines.  Yeah, doing the same thing again and again can lead to a change of who you are, but this wasn’t something I particularly wanted to become.  When I stepped out of the shower I patted dry and powdered and moisturised, and knew that I’d be doing the same damn thing every single morning for the rest of my time as Cindy.

            Done with the bathroom, I popped one of Scooter’s painkillers and slipped back into that goddamn corset.  There was a sharp stab of pain in my side as I slowly zipped up the front.  The satin pulled tight against my bruise, but the ache quickly faded and the added tension did seem to keep the area secure.  With each closing tooth of the zipper I felt the corset create my contours and draw in like a second skin around my torso.  I adjusted the breasts more comfortably in their cups and took a tentative, shallow breath.  The damn thing was annoying, but to be honest it really wasn’t that uncomfortable.  I could breathe, albeit a little more shallowly than normal, and it forced me to move in such a way that minimized the chance of drawing pain from my side.

            And it did keep those tits from wobbling all over the fucking place as I dropped to the floor for my morning workout.  Push-ups, Sit-ups, tricep-presses and dips, whatever I could do working with what I had in the room.  Each move was done with excruciating care to minimize the chance of aggravating my cracked ribs.  It was a short routine, under an hour once I got through all the other stuff, but I was sweating and red in the face by the time I finished.  It wasn’t that I was out of shape: bloody hell, but I couldn’t breathe properly with that corset wrapped around me!  Another reason to make it part of my morning routine, I thought.  If someone attacks me while I’m wearing the goddamn thing, I have to be able to defend myself . . . or at the very least, run away.

             Finally I couldn’t put off what I’d been dreading most.  I faced a new and bewildering dilemma: the challenge of the wardrobe.  I stared into the closet for at least ten minutes, at the range of colours and lengths and fabrics and styles spread out before me, and felt nothing but fear and confusion.  I had to close the door and walk away.  Without K to pick out the day’s outfit I was lost.

            I was about to turn to one of the teen girl magazines K had left behind when salvation came from an unexpected source.  I thought maybe I could mix and match something similar to what one of those glossy bimbos were wearing, but the phone rang before I could embarrass myself.

            First I had to find the damn thing, and then I stared down at it, unsure whether I should answer or not.  What the hell, I thought.  K assured me that the place was safe.  I picked up the receiver.  “Cindy,” I said, in a low, breathy voice, barely above a whisper.  “Um . . . hello?”  Without that spray I didn’t sound much like her.

            “Not bad, girlie,” said the voice on the other end.  “But you better learn to do better.”

            “Hey, Scooter?  Bite me.  I’ve had a rough morning.”

            There was an annoyed silence.  “That’s ‘Doctor Bridges’ to you.”

            “Sure,” I said.  “What’s up, doc?”

            He sighed over the line, but when he spoke his voice sounded cheerful.  “Just some good news.  You’ll absolutely love this, Cindy.  Your type always do.”

            I didn’t like the sound of that.  “Oh yeah?  What’s that?”

            “Well, I did promise Katherine that we’d take proper care of you, girlie.  And from what I saw last night, you’re looking a little rough.  Seriously.  Don’t be talking to anyone under bright lights, because with a face like yours?  You’ve got a jaw Dick Tracy would be proud of.”

            “I like my chin just fine, thank you.  So is this an insult call?  Or do you have something to say?”

            The doctor chuckled evilly.  “I’ve called to let you know I’ve arranged for a team of the Asklepios Clinic’s very best to, ah . . . take care of you today.”

            “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

            “You’ll see.  They’ll be there in a few minutes.  Slip on a bathrobe and just try to relax.  Girls love this stuff.”

            “This stuff?  Hey--”

            “Don’t worry.  They’re professional.  They’ve dealt with all kinds of patients in the past.  They’re very discreet.  Oh, and they know you can’t talk so don’t worry.  They’ll take care of everything.”  The bastard really sounded overjoyed.  “Hope you enjoy, Cindy!”

***

“So what was it?”  Harry asked.

            “You see these?”  I said, waving my fingers before him.  French-tipped nails glimmered in scarlet hues before him.  “And these?”  I flicked the two-inch dangly earrings threaded through my earlobes.  It’d been over a week since I’d upgraded from little studs to full-on dangly things, and the way they tickled my cheek and danced across my shoulders still drove me up the wall.  “Even this.”  I swept one hand along the silky length of golden hair before tossing it back over my shoulder.  “They’re all thanks to Scooter and his team of ‘experts’.”

            Harry chuckled.  “You must’ve loved it.”

            I shook me head.  The earrings glinted and fluttered against my skin.  “You know how long that first day took?  Hours!  I was just, like, so bored? And they totally gave me the full treatment, you know?”

            “Cindy,” Harry answered, “I’m sixty-two years old, I’ve never been married and you’re speaking a different language.  No, I don’t know.”

            “Hair Extensions.  Nail Extensions and manicure,” I said, ticking each one off the tip of a finger made delicate-looking.  “Pedicure.  Facial.  Massage.  Waxing.  Polishing.”

            He smiled.  “You sound like a car.”

            “Yes, and I’m geared for hotness, thank you very much.”  I grinned, the tip of my tongue peaking between brilliant white teeth.  “It wasn’t all bad, I guess.  I mean, it’s not like they did it all at once.  Every couple of days, on my ‘stay-in’ days, that doctor had a different specialist in my room.  If they weren’t ripping hair from my body, they were teaching me to style my hair or how to do my darned makeup.” 

            “Darned?”

            “I’m trying to swear less.  Vocal coach.”

            “Well, you sound lovely to me, my dear.”

            I fanned myself with one hand, wrist limp and fingers spread wide.  “Oh my!  Such a charmer.”

            “You sure you don’t like all this girly stuff?”

            I laughed.  “Trust me.  I’ll be glad to leave it behind.”

            “Soon?”

            I gave a delicate shrug.  “I sure hope so.”

***

That first morning and afternoon was spent buried in the warm folds of a heavy terrycloth robe, sat deep in a chair as a small army of beauty professionals hovered about.  They poked and prodded and otherwise pampered me nearly to the point of insanity.

            “You just sit back and relax, honey,” said the team leader.  She was slightly plump but immaculately made-up.  “Just let Sheila take care of everything.”  Then she handed me a small whiteboard and marker.  “I’ve heard about your throat, you poor thing.  Well, if you need anything just let us know.”

            Of course, once those damned gel extensions had set I was left ‘mute’--at that stage there was no way I could hold a damn pen with those half-inch claws.  Left unable to protest, the girls were free to go to town on me.  I don’t know if they knew or even suspected that I wasn’t the twenty year old princess they were turning me into.  The way they chatted and fussed, I doubt they would’ve cared.

            I mean, my robe did fall open at times and they must’ve had a good look at my generous curves.  Hell, they probably had a few accidental glimpses of that pussy as well.  The contrast between that and my otherwise masculine features must’ve confused them at least a little--yeah?  I mean, my hands and feet aren’t huge or anything, but they’re not exactly delicate either.  I’m fairly proud of my manly jaw and strong nose.  I’m a good-looking guy.  K thought some of those looks were androgynous; I’m not so sure.  Maybe my eyes were a bit effeminate, and the makeup did something strange to my cheekbones, but I definitely wasn’t naturally ‘girly’.  No fucking way.

            God, was it ever a painful shock when I finally saw the end product that first day.  It was a real blow-to-the-ego moment, believe me.  I’d spent most of that day in a daze, lying half-asleep in a chair with my limbs splayed out, fingers dangling into little bowls of liquid, women fluttering about my feet, and someone slowly working through my scalp.  I definitely woke up when they started stabbing holes in my ears, but the pain faded quickly once they popped the studs in.   Then I woke up again once they started tearing my eyebrows off with little waxy strips.  Those damn bitches took far too much pleasure inflicting pain on me, let me tell you!

            Once the nails were set I was free to idly flip through a magazine, one girl or another occasionally swooping in to comment on the article before me.

            “Oh, that’d look so cute on you!” she’d say, and I’d give a mute nod.

            “God, look at him?” added Kim, the manicurist.  “He’s just so buff.”

            I smiled weakly.

            “What a cow,” another girl said, looking over my shoulder at the starlet in the magazine.  She paused in her efforts to work more of the mono-filament extensions into my hair.  “She’s such an inveterate Hobbesian; what a morally utilitarian bitch!  How dare she comment on neo-Libertarian initiatives seeking to reconcile hyper-capitalistic secular economics with the needs and demands of a fundamentalist religious state?”  She leaned in for a closer look at the photo.  “Especially in those shoes!  With that skirt?  Ugh.”  She shuddered and returned to her work.

            “Don’t mind Pam,” Sheila said, floating by and catching my wide-eyed stare.  “She’s just cranky because she has her doctoral dissertation defence on Friday.”

            “You worry too much,” Kim reassured her co-worker.  “Mine was a breeze, and you’re just so much smarter than I am!”

            “Thanks girls,” Pam answered, and giggled.  “You’re the best.”

            When they moved on to the facial I laid back with headphones on, listening to some chilled ambient tunes.  They stroked and massaged my face and rubbed lotions into my skin, as others returned their attention to my hands.  Listen, I’ll be honest: there was something kind of nice about all the attention, the massages and everything.  Especially after the last few hectic weeks, it felt nice to just totally relax.  It’s just . . . well hell, it took ages, yeah?  And I felt like such a sissy the whole time, my stomach churning with low-level self-loathing.  Still, I drifted off and eventually came back to the feeling of a tiny brush lightly stroking my lips.

            “We’re almost done, hun,” Sheila said.  She approached my face with the intensity of a master craftsman, taking almost random, final strokes at the canvas that my skin had become.  Pam made final touched to my hair.  They didn’t let me see what I looked like at that point.  Oh no.  First they bundled me into the outfit their fashion expert selected from my wardrobe.  Bra, panties and pantyhose.  Waist-cincher and low-heeled boots.  A short denim skirt, tight across my ass and thighs, and a slightly-pink, short-sleeved blouse with a wide, flared collar, left unbuttoned low enough to display an ungodly depth of cleavage.  And finally they assaulted me with accessories: a thin leather belt, bangles, necklace, rings . . . they threw so much shit at me so quickly that I was left befuddled, and just numbly went through the process of getting dressed without protest.   They helped me with the buttons and zippers.  With those new nails I was completely useless.  There was a final spritz of perfume that left me in a disorientating, cloying floral mist.

            They trundled me before the mirror and watched me with expectant, cheerful possessiveness.

            “What do you think?” Sheila asked.

            My immediate reaction was to feel underwhelmed.  Honestly.  It’s not that these girls weren’t good at their job--they definitely knew their craft.  But I’d already been through this before, right?  The first time is always the worst.  Well, almost.  That’s true for just about everything.  Three days ago K stuck breasts onto me and dressed me up in tight jeans, and then unveiled Cindy to my virgin eyes.  After that--other than finding myself sporting a sudden vagina--any further adventures in cross-dressing were bound to feel a little anti-climatic.  That first encounter with Cindy had been profoundly unsettling.  The realization that I could be made to look like a chick--like an attractive one--had freaked me out.  With all the racing around and hiding and shit, I don’t think I’d quite had time to fully understand just how deeply and profoundly the whole experience had shook me.

            Which is why, as I slowly drank in this latest incarnation of Cindy, I began to feel . . . ill.  That subtle discontent in my stomach blossomed into full-blown sickness; I felt like vomiting.  All the wrongness of the last three days, seething and bubbling just beneath the surface but otherwise ignored, came rushing to the fore.  Maybe K’s presence had been enough to keep it a bay, but left on my own . . . God, I suddenly realized I was on the verge of losing it, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do to myself . . . or anyone around me.  First this morning and now . . . these chicks hovering about, eyes bright and eager, turning me into, fuck, into one of them.

            I just stood there staring at Cindy in the mirror, nearly trembling with the effort of restraining my violent disgust.  The girls were getting anxious.  I watched them in the mirror exchange glances.  They needed some kind of response.  With one hand I reached up to my new, luxurious mane of hair.  It hung impossibly straight down to the small of my back, and shimmered brightly.  It reminded me of golden wheat swaying in the wind at dawn in the summer--fuck, what a thing to remember at a time like this.  Glossy pink nails combed through and I couldn’t tell the difference from the real thing.  My hand fell limply at my side.

            Sheila’s hand fell softly on my shoulder.  “Cindy?”

            My smile was wan and sickly but the best I could manage.  I hid it with a quick nod of my head, painfully aware of the added weight to the gesture, of the hair that fell across my shoulder and stroked my neck, of the glittering dance of the studs now adorning each earlobe.

            The relief that passed through my worried audience was nearly palpable.

            “You look wonderful, girl!” Kim said.

            I did.  I mean, I really did.  In fact, the longer I stared at myself in the mirror, the more discomfited I became, the more overwhelmed I felt.  True, the shock wasn’t anything as drastic as the first time I saw myself all done up as a chick.  Thing is, as good as Agent K was at the whole makeup-and-disguise thing, she wasn’t an expert.  It wasn’t her profession, not like it was for these girls.

            Looking at myself in the mirror after K was done with me, yeah, sure, I looked like a chick but if I looked closely the flaws in the illusion were pretty damn clear.  But now, as my eyes danced across my reflection, desperately seeking those same easy flaws as before--I couldn’t find them.

            That wig had done loads to feminize my features but never looked quite natural on me--this sleek new cascade was all girl, and somehow very, very Cindy.  Cindy wouldn’t wear clip-on earrings, and so now she didn’t: two little studs, glinting in the light, framed her face.  That face: sure, she had a square chin--already softened by Sheila’s skill--but who’d notice confronted with those delicately highlighted cheekbones, those soft, wet lips?  And those eyes, wide and so very, very green, vividly brought out by the masterwork of blended colours that shimmered across her lids.  Certainly the feminine mask revealed to me felt heavy and strange, but the skin I saw was flawless and beautiful.

            Those nails transformed her whole hand, somehow, made them delicate, the illusion of length made each finger that much more slender.  It was more than that: the very way she carried herself was modified, every movement softened by the changes wreaked upon her by the beauticians.  Soft skin, new colours, new weight, lingering scents: this was the same Cindy I met three days ago, only made feminine to a degree I hadn’t dared consider.

            I barely noticed as the girls said farewell, packed up and left.  My hand drifted tentatively across Cindy’s body, poking at each new change.

            God, I felt like such a fucking pansy.  It made me sick.  It really did.

***

Harry sang, strumming his guitar:

            “Pansy’s not just a flower any more, / This girl, this pretty girl, was very fond / Of secrets and she shook me to the core: / Frog falling into a shimmering pond.”

            I stared at him aghast, stilling the absent motion of my fingers across the strings.  “Harry, that’s . . . terrible!”

            He smiled wickedly at me.  “You don’t like being compared to a frog?”

            Wide-eyed, I shook me head.

            “What then?”

            “You’re, like, this rock-poet legend!  You’re my teenage hero!  How can you write such . . . such . . . .”

            “Doggerel?”

            “Yeah!  What the hell was that, friggin’ haiku poetry corner?”

            The aging musician shrugged.  “Hey baby, I just got started, okay?  Normally I find my music, and the lyrics come after.  That was for your benefit.”

            “Did you just call me baby?”

            He looked a little surprised himself.  “I think I did, yeah.”  He eyed me appraisingly.  “Sorry?”

            We were still sitting in our booth far in the back of the Bacchus Bar.  We’d moved through the afternoon drinking into some serious evening libations.  I was feeling just a little drunk, pleasantly so.  As the sun settled behind the forested hills and the clinic fell into quiet darkness, the place became a little busier.  No one seemed to mind us tinkering with music, though.  I had to admit a very real thrill to be cradling one of Longman’s famous guitars in my arms.  He’d played this one on tour way back in ’99.  I’d seen the video.  Seriously, being here right now almost made the whole bullshit Cindy-scenario worth it.

            God, I hadn’t picked up a guitar in years, not since high school.  Harry reminded me of just how much I loved playing the thing.  It just wasn’t the same with tits, though: the damn things kept getting in the way.

            “Nah, it’s okay,” I said, smiling.  “I’m just not used to it, I guess.  But hey, if I’m gonna get played by some guy at a bar, I might as well make it memorable, yeah?”

            Harry’s eyes glittered over the frothy rim of his glass.  “What makes you think I’m ‘playing’ you?”

            “Harry, you’re buying me drinks?  Playing the celebrity?  Writing lyrics?  I mean, what’s next . . . a carpe diem sonnet?”

            He grinned.  “You know me too well.”

            “Not really, but I know guys, yeah?  I know what men want when they buy a girl a drink.”  I gave an indelicate snort.  “Good luck getting me drunk, though.  I’ll damn well drink you under the table.”

            “I’m sure you could.”  He shook his head disbelievingly.  “It’s just hard to believe sometimes.  The way you act, it’s very . . . female.  Convincing.  Natural.”

            “Yeah well, believe me, it’s anything but normal.  It didn’t come easy,” I said.  “Not at all.  That first day, after those chicks left?  I puked all over the toilet.”

            Harry strummed his guitar.  “But Pansy, she puked her guts out and . . . .”

            I gave him a withering glare.  “Stop that.”

            “Sorry.”  He carefully put his guitar aside.  “Obviously you got over it, right?  If you’re feeling sick to your stomach right now, you’re doing a great job of hiding it.”  He eyes scanned over me searchingly.  “Uh . . . I’m not making you sick, I hope?”

            I giggled behind my hand.  “Not at all, Harry.”

            “Good.”

            “See, once I got it out of my system that first day, I felt a lot better.  You play the hand you’re dealt, right?  So I had to be Cindy for a few weeks . . . what was I supposed to do, cry about it?”  I shrugged.  “So I dealt and moved on.”

***

My second day at the clinic started much like the first: with a wet spot between my legs.  The physical presence of that insistent itch between my thighs was almost as bad as yesterday.  Hell, in some ways it was almost worse.  I mean, honestly, how long did K bloody well expect me to go without cracking one off?

            I’d be damned if I was going to let that fucking appliance beat me, though.  Instead of flailing out of bed and rushing to the bathroom for a cold shower, I remained where I was.  Fingers snatched at the bed sheets and toes curled beneath the duvet, but I refused to flinch away.  With slow, steady breaths I focused on my present situation.  Yeah, I’d just woken up and yet another welcome morning erection had been twisted into a warm, moist throb at my crotch--so what?  This thing was obviously going to annoy me as long as it remained attached, so I knew that I’d better learn to deal with it.  No way that pussy--fuck it, my pussy--was going to be in charge, yeah?

            But God, it sure as hell wasn’t easy.  I’d had the sudden thought that maybe, you know, I should just feel the damn thing, maybe lay one hand across the slit, contain the warmth, relieve some of the pressure . . . my hand was crawling over the curve of one hip and hesitantly reaching for the prosthetic . . .when I snapped it back to my side.  Yeah, sure.  I knew full well where that kind of thinking led.  Next thing I’d be pumping one finger in and out of that wet hole and massaging one tit and pinching a nipple and moaning like some bitch in heat. . . .

            Shit.  That kind of thinking wasn’t helping, either.

            I lost track of how long I lay in bed, fully awake and nearly sweating with the effort--or the eroticism--of overcoming my morning horniness.  It sounds ridiculous.  I felt ridiculous.  The thing is, eventually the tightness in my tits and the warmth in my pussy abated.  Next thing I knew, my mind had started to wander to other things--my coming workout, whether that mark on the wall was a nail or a snail, how Tom was doing, when K would return--and I was free from that terrible urge to scratch that itch down below.

***

“Hey, you okay?” I asked, pausing in my storytelling for a moment.

            Harry, sitting across from me in the booth, looked a little flushed.  “You’re joking, right?”

            I surreptitiously adjusted my bra strap as I answered.  “No . . . you just look a little, you know, uncomfortable.”  At over two weeks old, my prosthetic tits had lost their initial . . . vitality.  Without a top and some kind of support, the way they now sat on my chest looked far less like the real thing and more like a badly done boob job.  The fake skin felt slightly plastic and the flesh beneath unnaturally firm.  They weren’t nearly as responsive anymore, either.  Fortunately, neither was my pussy.

            “Cindy,” he said, leaning closer and speaking softly.  “Listen, I know you’re really a guy, okay?”  He voice jumped up a notch.  “But I mean, c’mon!  You look damn fine--”

            “Aw, thank you!” I interjected.

            “--and you sit there and talk about fingering yourself.  I’m old and I’m half-dead . . . but I’m not that old, I’m not entirely dead!  Think about it.”

            I blushed.  “Oh.  Oopsy.  Sorry?  I’ll leave out the dodgy bits, okay?”

            “I certainly hope not!”  Harry smiled.  “They’re my favourite parts.  Another drink?”

***

Maybe having exerted my manly will over that feminine prosthetic left me in a good mood, because I approached my second day at the Clinic in far greater spirits than was warranted.  On the one hand, I was anxious to escape my new home and stretch my legs.  On the other . . . well shit, I’d be heading into public again, and the legs I’d be stretching would be clean-shaven, sleek and sexy in heels.

            The thing is, after those chicks had taken off yesterday and I’d recovered from puking and my small mental breakdown . . . well, I’d been left bored and listless.  I couldn’t leave room Cos 402 on account of my throat and doctor’s orders.  Left in the apartment, though, there was precious little to do.  The TV received only a few channels and no news from the outside world--I couldn’t even check up on fucking Steele’s trial.  I hate television anyway; it’s just a huge waste of time.  Some game consol or another was stashed away and I thought I could pass an hour or two on mindless entertainment . . . but the fifth time I got my ass kicked on Dead or Alive because I missed the goddamn kick-button because of those new nails, I gave up.

            Holy shit, but who would’ve thought such a small change could wreak such massive difficulties?  Seriously--we’re talking a couple inches of UV-set acrylic gel layered over my natural nails.  These extensions couldn’t have weighed more than a few grams, yeah?  But they messed up everything.  First time I absently swept an errant bang from my face I almost poked out a goddamn eyeball.  Picking slim and slender things up became a conscious chore, relying on the balls of my fingers instead of the tips.

            But hell--I can’t deny their effectiveness.  It’s not just that the damn things looked feminine and damn sexy.  It’s like I spotted on that first glance in the mirror: they forced an effeminate refining of every motion.  The way I held my hands and spread my fingers, the way I picked things up and used them suddenly looked far more natural . . . for a girl, that is, which for the next two or three weeks I had to grudgingly accept I’d become.

            And ultimately, that’s how I ended up spending my first day spent solo at the Asklepios Clinic: perfecting the whole feminine act.  Hell, I had no choice.  I was bored beyond belief and there was nothing else to do.  I was even dressed up all crazy-sexy but had nowhere to go.  So I read the teen magazines and fashion books K had left behind, and very consciously tried to do so in as girly a way as possible.  I even started that awful ‘Shopaholic’ book, pausing partway through to peruse K’s letter once again.  Eventually I drifted into the bathroom and practiced my makeup skills and all that other shit, then reluctantly slipped into some heels and pranced back and forth for a bit.  I kept them on for the rest of the night--I was almost surprised at how quickly the night came, once I got serious about my training--and finally settled in for food and a movie.

            I whipped up a quick meal with what I found in the kitchen, and finally kicked back on the sofa with a glass of white wine.  I watched the most palatable thing I found in the media selection, some cynical romance by Woody Allen.  The whole time I felt acutely aware of the image I must have presented: young blonde with sleek legs curled up beneath her, absently fidgeting with her hair or bra and she lost herself in the movie.

            Finally, though, movie over and more than a little drunk off the bottle of Chablis, I turned to the last item on the agenda for today: the folder labelled ‘Cindy’ that K had left for me to study.  For some reason I’d been avoiding it all day.  I’m not sure why.  I picked it up and for some time just stared at the blank manila cover.  With a sigh and some trepidation, I flipped it open and started reading through the contents.

            Birth certificate.  Cindy Long, age 20.  Attended Fairview High School, never graduated, didn’t make it to higher education.  Average student, higher grades in languages and arts, not so good at the maths.  Spent a year as a cheerleader; I chuckled at that.  Of course she’d been a cheerleader.

            Otherwise, though, the details were scarcer than expected and I felt almost disappointed at what I read--until I found Cindy’s application for the Asklepios Clinic.

            Poor girl, I thought.

            Without realizing it turned one AM, I was yawning, and I’d survived my first day alone as Cindy.  Tossing the folder aside, I lifted myself from the sofa and returned to my bedroom.  I went through the nightly routine again, cleaning up and slipping back into the corset and brushing my new long hair.  Thinking back over my day, I realized that it hadn’t been all that bad.  Yeah, a bit freaky at the beginning, and the middle part was kind of emasculating . . . but hell, it beat hiding out in some shithole waiting for someone to pop a bullet into the back of my head.  That’s probably when I started to relax--to really relax, for the first time in far too long.  After fiddling with the media controls set into the headboard of the bed--setting an alarm and putting some chilled tunes on a timer--I pulled on that same babydoll I wore my first night as Cindy and slipped into bed.  Within a few minutes of hitting bed I was asleep, warm and comfortable and surrounded by music.

            And then it was the second day and time to prepare Cindy for her first trip into the Clinic.

***

“Okay, okay--that’s enough,” Harry interrupted.

            “What is?”  I took advantage of the pause to take a delicate sip of my Cranberry-tini.

            “You’re not going to go through the whole three weeks, day by day, hour by hour, are you?”

            I smiled at him.  “Why not?  You said you wanted the whole story.”

            “Yeah, sure,” he said.  “Like, why you’re dressed like that.  What you’re doing here--that kind of thing.  I don’t really care what you wore every day.”  He paused.  “Unless it was really sexy, of course, and you felt naughty.”  He smiled.  “That you can feel free to share.”

            “Pervert.”  I smiled back at him, holding eye contact for a moment longer than was necessary before demurely dropping my gaze down to my drink.  The ruby swirl of my glass seemed captured in the deep crimson of my glossy nails.  I marvelled at how easily I now held the narrow stem of the glass, the feminine click of my nails as I cradled the drink in my palm.  I glanced up again through the thick veil of my eyelashes, and blushed lightly.  I’d recently discovered just how sexily mascara could transform my every look.  “There’s not much left to say, believe it or not.  Once I settled into a routine things were actually kind of boring.  Well, relatively.”

            “Boring?”  Harry sounded a little hurt.  “As I recall, we spent quite a few evenings together.  I certainly hope I didn’t bore you.”

            “Of course not,” I insisted, fluttering a hand dismissively.  “You know what I mean.  You’ve been here--how long?  Months?  It quickly starts to blur together, doesn’t it, the different days.”

            He nodded slowly.  “Yeah, tell me about it,” he said, and smiled wanly.  His eyes seemed to drift away, staring at something far off.  “Cindy, believe me . . . you were a very welcome flash of colour and joy in this place.”  His eyes snapped back to me, dark and sublime.  “A cool wind bearing the scent of forgotten childhood memories, stirring an old man awake in the final act of his life.”

            His words and the timbre of his voice caused a tightening in my belly, an uncomfortable sadness.  “Harry. . . .”

            “No, Cindy,” he said, looking away.  “I mean it.”

            “Isn’t that from ‘Seven Women for Seven Ages’?  You wrote that back in ’85.”

            He had the decency to look guilty.  “I . . . ah, still meant it, though.”

            I giggled.  “Of course you did.  Maybe I should keep going with the story?”

            “Yeah,” he said.  “But enough of this ‘oh woe is me, which panties should I wear?’ bullshit, okay?”

            “Well, it’s funny you should mention that. . . .”

***

I stared at the panties in my wardrobe and wondered which I should wear.

            (I hate you, Harry groaned.)

            Yesterday I’d sidestepped the problem of what to put on through the help of Scooter’s professionals.  Today there was no getting around what had to be done.  I couldn’t exactly go wandering around the Clinic naked and therefore--clothes.  The choices a girl makes getting dressed begins with the very first article: her panties.

            I mean, seriously, as a guy?  Underwear’s a non-factor.  I had my favourites in rotation, and the passing on of a favoured pair of boxers, turned almost transparently-thin and tattered through wear, was always an occasion for sorrow.  If I thought a girl was going to get my trousers off I made sure to wear something decent beneath, but otherwise the first conscious decision I made getting dressed in the morning was which shirt to wear--and hell, even that was random most mornings.

            Now I held one of the few white, utilitarian cotton panties Cindy owned in one hand, and a delicate silky pink thing in the other.  Not once in my life had I worn anything quite like it; the thought of jamming dental floss up my ass wasn’t exactly appealing, let alone the fact it’d be almost as tight across my pussy.

            Not that the basic pair was masculine, but hell, at least it wouldn’t be reminding me with every bloody step of what I was stuck pretending to be.  I’d almost be able to pretend I was just wearing one of the few ‘sexy’ pairs of briefs I owned as David.  That was the problem, of course.  It was pretty bloody obvious which pair Cindy would choose.  After my little hissy fits of yesterday, I knew I had to get right in there and be the best, most goddamn girly Cindy I could be.  Two steps forward for every step back--it’s the only way to get somewhere.

            You know when you go swimming in the lake as a kid?  Well, I never waded in. No cringing at the cold for me, slowly going deeper in as I got used to the chill.  Screw that.  I leapt off that motherfucking dock and landed as far and as deep in as I could get.  Shrieking in joy at the icy shock, and loving it every time.

            And so, yeah, I picked the lacy thong.  Then I stared at it with trepidation.  Sure, I’d made my choice but actually going through with it was another matter.  Normally I’m not the hesitating type, not once I’ve made a decision, but this--well, it felt like crossing one of those lines in the sand again.  Seriously.  Sure, I’d been wearing panties (and worse) for a couple of days now, but this . . . well, this was the first time I’d made the voluntary decision to step into a pair on my own.

            Up to now there’d always been some outside agent--ha, like K--to force them onto me.  There’d always been a need to hurry, pressure, danger or an audience watching and an illusion to maintain.

            But not today.  Today, I suddenly felt acutely aware that if I wanted to I could easily walk out of this room, discard the disguise and walk away from this Clinic.  I could reclaim my male life this very minute.  In a few weeks these prosthetics would fall off and I’d be back to normal.  If I lived that long, that is.  But it was a choice.  A possibility.  As much as stepping into this lacy string contraption was.

            Sighing, I pulled the panties up and felt the unusual and awkward sensation of that thin pink string settling tautly between my ass cheeks.  The panties rode high on my hips, tickling my skin with its delicate lacy edge, and plunged down between my legs, the semi-transparent fabric tight against my pussy, the short, curly fake hairs below bunching beneath.  With every move I felt the thong, its whispering touch on my thigh, its distraction presence splitting my ass like some goddamn locker room wedgie.

            (But I’m quite used to it now.  It’s actually quite comfy.)

            Having made that first step, the rest came easy.  Determined to overcome the nausea and painful reluctance I still felt dressing as a girl, I pulled the most feminine clothes I could find from the closet.  We’re talking about shit like this cute little garter belt and lovely, barely-there sheer stocking with just a hint of white.  Yeah, that’s right: cute and lovely.  If I was going to be Cindy I knew I had to start using the kind of fucking words that she would use.

            I accidentally tore the first pair of stockings to shreds with my new nails, but with great care managed to roll the second up my legs.  Attaching them to the garter clips took about ten minutes of sitting at the edge of my bed, fumbling with the clasp.  When I stood they pulled taut but uneven; five minutes later I had them more-or-less an even length.

            Damn, but what a pain in the ass all this girly stuff was!  However, I couldn’t deny that Cindy looked mighty fine from the waist down.  Her legs were long and slender and smooth in hosiery and the thong and garters beautifully framed her lovely ass.  I switched to the waist-cincher and struggled into a pink, lacy demi-bra that barely concealed my full nipples.  Finally I slipped a flirty little slip sundress over my head.  That led to another ten minutes of straining and groping with the bright buttons in the back.  It was tight around the darted waist but fell comfortably down to just above my knee, and displayed a remarkable swath of cleavage and collarbone.  It was a very peculiar feeling: fully-clothed yet I felt half-naked.  With each move the hem shivered against my thigh, sending a tiny frisson up my spine--and through my pussy.  I had to wear a delicate cotton sweater, once of those tiny ones with sleeves that fall to the elbow and button at the breast, but don’t extend to the midriff.

            I suspected I was making some kind of fashion error but I thought it’d be a good idea to keep my bulky shoulders covered.  Cindy couldn’t quite convincingly manage tube-tops and spaghetti straps an their own, you know?  Besides, it was still a bit chilly outside.

            The studs weren’t quite ready to come out but looked nicely subtle in my ears.  A brightly-coloured belt and chunky armlet; a few casual loops around my neck with glittering baubles hanging near my boobs; and a playful pair of wedge-heel pumps completed the ensemble.  Another fifteen minutes in the washroom with a few of those chick magazines, and I had my face done up--nothing ambitious, nothing like what those girls yesterday achieved, but I managed a cute, casual look . . . I hoped.  The crowning touch was a spray of that damnable stuff down my throat.

            I twirled before the mirror, managing the heels well, the skirt flaring out before settling comfortably around my legs.  I checked the clock: holy shit.  An entire hour gone.  Then I shrugged; Cindy smiled.

            So what? she thought.  It’s a beautiful day.  I feel great.  I look pretty.

            Let’s have some fun.

***

Cindy giggled as the rock star awkwardly reached around her, an arm rubbing up against her breast.

            “You’re just trying to cop a feel, you pervert!”

            “Show respect for teacher, girl,” Harry growled.

            “Yes sir!”

            “It’s like this,” he said, pressing down on her fingers.  “Then here, and here,” he added, his fingers guiding hers across the frets.

            “Like this?” Cindy asked.  Her tongue peeked out from between glossy lips as she concentrated on the guitar.  She repeated the positions with only a little awkwardness.

            “Yeah, not bad.”

            She tried again, faster.  “Cool!  I’ve never been able to get that bit.”

            “You learn fast.”

            “Thanks!”

            “You might want to trim those nails before trying it for real, though.”

            Cindy stuck her tongue out at him.  “But they’re so pretty,” she said, glancing aside at him before turning back to the instrument.  She focused for another moment on the guitar, and then gently laid it aside.  Her hands fell limply in her lap.  “Um, Harry?”  Cindy sounded nervous.  “Your . . . arms?”

            Harry started as if poked awake.  His arms still encircled her.  His touch drifted to her waist, fingers lightly grasping just beneath the swell of each breasts.  His breath was momentarily hot on her neck as his touch slid up her side before coming to rest on her shoulders.  “Damn.  I’m sorry.”

            Cindy scooted a small distance away down the booth.  Her eyes dropped shyly away.  “No, it’s . . . okay,” she murmured softly.  She looked momentarily apprehensive, and then licked her lips and gave a small smile.  She darted forward and landed a quick, light kiss on his cheek.  His skin was rough and up close, he smelled slightly of old leather and shaving cream; it was a fatherly scent, she thought.  Cindy didn’t pull away.  Her cheek hovered next to his.

            “Cindy, I. . . .”

            “Gotcha,” she whispered, and giggled.

            Harry looked at her aghast.  He pulled away and almost stumbled out of the booth.  “I’ve got to go to the loo,” he mumbled.

            I watched as the aging rocker walked off.  Every second step was just a wee bit awkward.  Cindy must’ve given him a stiffy--something I didn’t want to think about too closely, yeah?  What a funny old guy Harry was.  I probably would’ve gone crazy over the last three weeks without his company.  You can bet that it was really weird for me to be playing the girly twenty-year old for him, the cute little groupie . . . especially since he knew I was really a guy.  Apparently he’d sussed it out from the very first time we met.  Of course, I was a much more convincing Cindy now than I’d been three weeks ago.  Even K thought so.

            Thing is, I wasn’t just playing the star-struck fan . . . Harry really was my hero, ever since I first picked up a guitar back when I was fourteen.  The man was a fucking guitar god, know what I mean?  And he wasn’t some strutting guitar-wanking egomaniac about it, either.  It wasn’t just those cool-as-shit solos he seemed to effortlessly rip through when he could be bothered; the man was an even better writer than guitarist.  He saw me through some tough teenage angst, Harry did.  And he supplied the only goddamn thing that Kate and I ever agreed on: a song.  The dude gave Kate and I ‘our song’, and the memories I attach to that music and those lyrics are more precious than he could possibly imagine.  He’d never fully realize how much I owe him.

            There was just enough time to touch up my makeup, just a dab of shiny, gooey gloss on my lips and a quick powdering, before Harry slid back into the booth.  I briefly envied him the speed: I’d been sitting down to piss for over two weeks now and was getting really bored of the whole thing.  Instead of settling in next to me again he took the seat opposite.  He looked angry, though only a little.

            “How the hell do you do that?” he demanded.

            I arched one delicate eyebrow.  “What do you mean?”

            “That!”  He hesitated.  “No, not that.  Before . . . what you did before.”

            I tilted my head to one side and looked at him with wide eyes.  “Harry, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

            He stared at me intently.  “Stop that!  It’s not that.  Right now you’re talking to me and you look like a girl, you’re acting like a girl--but it’s just that, an act . . . I can see the man behind it.  I know I’m talking to David.”

            “That’s who I am, Harry,” I answered softly.

            He shook his head.  “I know, I know, but . . . earlier.  When I was teaching you those chords.  I lost track of David.  You tricked me somehow.  I know you’re really a guy.  I know this.  But just then--it’s like there was only Cindy.  Your voice, the way you talk . . . I’m very sensitive to the, well, music of a person’s voice, I guess you could say, to the rhythm of their body language.  Right now there’s a girl sitting across from me, a very pretty girl in very sexy clothes, but there’s something--discordant--in everything she does.”

            I tapped one finger against my lip.  “There is?”

            He nodded emphatically.  “Yes, there is.  Oh, you’re very good, but I picked up on it the first day we met and it’s easy to spot now.  For me.  Honestly, if we were meeting for the first time tonight, I might’ve even missed it.”  His face split in a grin.  “Actually, it’s been quite fun watching you sink deeper and deeper into this disguise of yours.  You’ve really gotten better.  You’re a hell of a lot more feminine than when we first met.”

            I blushed.  “It hasn’t been easy, believe me.”  It’s the kind of thing you hear with mixed feelings, yeah?  When I set my mind to something--I do it well.  Always.  That doesn’t mean I like it, though, and hearing confirmed just how damn girly I’d become since settling in at Asklepios still left me a little sick to my tummy.

            “I’m sure,” he said, but then leaned forward eagerly.  “But just then, when I was teaching you, it was . . . different.  Those false notes you rang, they just . . . disappeared.  Everything about you was all girl: language, tone, body language.  Goddamn, but I know girls, okay?  And for a moment there?  I really thought I was sitting with a girl called Cindy.”

            “And so you hit on her?”

            This time it was his turn to blush.  “Well shit . . . yeah.”  He looked at me funny.  “Why did you kiss me?”

            “Because you backed away when I tried earlier tonight,” I answered, and shrugged.  “And because you deserved it.  Cindy thought it was the only way she could repay you.”

            Harry sat back heavily.  “Cindy thought?” he asked, and eyed me warily.  “Um . . . you’re not about to go psycho on me or anything, are you?”

            I chuckled.  “No, I’m not.”

            “So you’re a schizophrenic then?  I just knew it, you’re some kinda mentalist or something.  Shit, you’re not trying to seduce me so you can carve me up to make a Harry hat to sell on E-Bay, are you?”

            “Get real,” I snorted.  “You’re hardly stylish.”

            “Multiple personalities?”

            “No, no,” I insisted, shaking my head.

            “Then who the hell is Cindy?”

            “Ah well now, that . . . that’s a good question.”  I rested my chin over steepled fingers and looked at him inquisitively.  “How about I continue my story?  It might just make it all clear.”

            “Yeah, sure.  One thing, though: who’s telling this story?  David?  Or Cindy?”

            I smiled sweetly at him.  “Maybe it’s both of us,” I answered.