~o~O~o~

Monday morning came, and I had a heap of work on my plate. My new work assignment had more challenges and frustrations. The new service offering idea would also be the company’s first AWS cloud-computing application, and we wanted to build in enhanced analytics that executives could review on a dedicated cellphone app. As ideas for bells and whistles kept getting thrown in from my superiors, a sense of mission creep was setting among the team I was attempting to corral. I was having real difficulty working with some of the software engineers whose input on feasibility and design was critical.

It was bad enough that by Tuesday, I decided I needed to fly up to Ann Arbor to meet with them both in person. While the flight itself takes less than two hours, you need to factor in time to get to the airport, time getting through security, travel time from the airport in Ann Arbor to the company offices . . . and the return trip. A couple hour meeting meant an overnighter.

I was not pleased. I enjoy traveling – usually – but spending two days for a meeting that shouldn’t even be necessary rubbed me the wrong way. The alternative, however, was pulling in my boss to to effectuate an attitude adjustment in the software group, and that did not seem like a good career move.

The Pittsburgh airport always feels like it was designed to carry more traffic than it does, but that improves it from the perspective of a passenger. A bit like Pittsburgh itself, I guess: it has the bones – the infrastructure and amenities – of the more populous city it used to be. But for those of us who live there, there’s a bit of elbow room. I like that. Even though the airport was built after the city’s peak population days, it follows the pattern.

Security gave me little trouble; they seldom do. A quick look at my boarding pass and I.D., a smile and I was off to the gate. Power suit today: Navy blue, conservative tailoring, dark hose, well-polished pumps with a three-inch heel. Every hair in place.

I spent the flight in business class with my laptop open and my look intense. “Coffee please. Black,” I said to the cabin steward. My tone was polite, but I was not smiling.

The older gentleman in the seat next to me got the hint and didn’t bother me.

The reaction of both the cabin steward (“Right away, Ma’am”) and the older gentleman (silence) pleased me. Not because I’m antisocial, but because my “don’t mess with me” vibe was clearly working. I would need it.

Two and a half hours later, I was in a conference room with Terrence Eliot, the Lead Programmer on the Project, and Dave Spencer, the Technical Lead. Terry and Dave, the terrible two. They spent considerable time and effort explaining, in tones that indicated a certain amount of relish, why the project was ill-conceived.

“Look,” Terry said, “I know everyone up the ladder wants to migrate to AWS, but all of our legacy coding is C#/ASP. Just let us stick with Azure, and we can cut down a lot of the time estimates!”

“We’ll have a real problem with latency on AWS because of our legacy code, and the service will flop if pages load too slowly. No one will want it.” Dave was animated.

“But you can clean up the legacy code so it doesn’t have those issues,” I reminded them. Again.

Dave shook his head. “We can, but it’ll take time – more time than corporate is allowing.”

“I told you before, I can get you additional resources for that.” I’d heard this complaint before, too.

“You’re talking offshore resources. Liz, they’re a pain in the ass to manage. You want it done right, you need to let us do it!” Dave’s voice was pretty damned close to a whine.

I listened carefully, but they weren’t saying anything new. We had been over this on the phone, and other engineers at the company had offered suggestions for addressing the problems they had raised. But – while Terry and Dave never said “No” outright – they kept finding a million reasons why every suggestion was flawed.

“I know you don’t have a background in software engineering,” Terry said. “So it’s hard for us to explain why these requirements are driving us crazy, or why the time estimates we’re giving you are so long.”

I thought to myself, How would Cam handle this?

Cam was understanding. He had a knack for listing, for understanding both text and subtext. For getting people to collaborate. People trusted Cam. Somehow, they knew that they could. I wanted to channel that. Wanted it bad.

But I’m not Cam.

“I didn’t come up here to listen to the same crap I’ve been hearing from you two since I was assigned to this project,” I said crisply. “I’m here because everyone else has run out of patience with you. I need you to understand that I’m your last shot.”

“Oh, come on,” said Terry. “Frank likes our work just fine.” Frank Jones was their line supervisor.

Dave chuckled. “And Frank will back us up, if it comes to it. I’m telling you that corporate is way off base here. The timeline you’ve budgeted for this will need to be adjusted – and I mean, substantially adjusted.”

I looked at them levelly. “Mr. Peroni was very explicit. He wants this job pushed, right now. He wants this ready for a third quarter 2020 launch, come hell or high water, and he believes it’ll have a significant impact on our valuation if – but only if – we’re first out of the gate.

“The problems that you’ve flagged are real and I can get you resources to overcome them. As I’ve said before. Repeatedly. But your attitude can’t be fixed with additional resources. He’s already approved your reassignment to the Baton Rouge team working on Project Overhaul. I can convince him to change that reassignment order – but you need to show me why I should.”

“I don’t believe it,” Terry said. “Frank won’t allow it, and besides, we’re already familiar with the project. You want to slow it down, go ahead and change horses!”

I shook my head. “I’ve shared the project requirements with two of the senior software engineers in the Baton Rouge team that I worked with on another project. They think the technical problems are more manageable than you two do, and they’d like to work with me again. That, and they’re pretty bored with Project Overhaul.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Dave.

I smiled. A broad, feral smile, of the sort a tigress might flash upon seeing a lame deer. “You’ve made my day.” I got up and walked briskly to the door.

They sat like lumps. Maybe they expected me to turn back.

I didn’t.

I’d gotten about half way down the hallway towards the elevator bank when I heard the door open behind me.

“Oh, fine,” Terry said. “Come back and tell us what you need.”

I kept walking. I got to the elevator and pressed “down,” while I listened to Terry hustling in my direction. The elevator pinged and the door opened.

“Wait!” Terry stuck his hand in the elevator door to keep it from closing.

“I’d rather not,” I said, stepping into the elevator and turning to face him. I looked pointedly at his hand. “On balance, I’m perfectly content with where we left things.”

Terry looked uncomfortable. “Look, we’re just telling you there are big problems here, that’s all. No one seems to believe us. They just say, ‘push,’ like that’s all it takes. It doesn’t work that way!”

“This isn’t about how ‘it’ works,” I said. “It’s about how you work. The company understands you’re two of the best software engineers we’ve got. They know what you can do – when you put your minds to it. That’s why you're in this office, and why you get first crack at the newest and most innovative projects. But this isn’t an academic exercise. They can’t wait until the two of you decide to pull your heads out of your asses.”

He nodded grudgingly.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to walk back into that conference room, and we’re going to try this again. I want you to go over everything we’ve already discussed. But this time, I don’t just want you to come up with problems. I want to hear ideas for overcoming or working around them.”

“Fine!”

“No, Terry. ‘Fine’ doesn’t cut it. No more foot-dragging. We don’t have time for that. It’s my job to remove obstacles – reasonable ones – and I can be your best ally in getting resources. But the attitude’s got to change.”

“Cut me a break, Liz. I know you want to look good for the boss, but you don’t have to bust my stones.”

“Grow up!” I snapped. “Do I want to look good? Sure. You think the Company doesn’t have the equivalent of Project Overhaul for me to work on? I don’t want to be on that track any more than you do. But I promise you this: you’ll get there first, even if you take me with you.”

For the first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a particularly attractive smile, but it was real. “Okay. I’ll buy that. Come on back. Let’s see if we can’t keep us all in the good graces of our corporate Lords and Masters.”

I’d take it.

My meeting with Terry and Dave stretched to four hours. They suggested flying the offshore leads to Ann Arbor for a week-long conference; I think they expected me to balk at the cost. But it was a good idea, and well within the budget Sal Peroni had approved. Agreeing demonstrated that I was serious about the resources the company was willing to commit.

After the meeting we all went off to Frita Batidos for Cuban food and Mexican beer. They regaled me with war stories – which tended to lean into the theme that corporate had a tendency towards wild and ephemeral ideas that would get lavish attention for a short period, until the next fad caught the attention of the C-Suite crowd.

It was useful information, and I filed it away under the heading, “Life’s not fair.” It isn’t. You deal with it however you need to, and move on. So I was pleasant, and listened, and laughed at their jokes. But not too hard.

I flew back the next morning in a much better mood.

My trip to Ann Arbor was just one of many steps I had to take to get the project on track and keep it there, and Dave and Terry weren’t the only difficult personalities I had to deal with among the System Architects and the Quality Assurance, Database, and Network Leads who were all essential to the project. But I put my head down and powered through the long hours and the long meetings.

Fortunately, I was able to break away on Saturday for an excursion that Tish had planned. While she enjoyed our usual outdoor activities as much as any of the gang, Tish is more of a culture hound. She talked us all into going to the Oakland neighborhood to visit the Carnegie Museum. I managed to lighten it up by insisting that we pay a pilgrimage to “The O” for cheese fries, dogs and Moosehead. The Original Hot Dog Shop used to serve legions of Pirates fans back in the days when the team played in the heart of the city at Forbes Field. Back when Roberto Clemente was on his way to winning twelve golden gloves playing right field and the Bucs were magic.

But it was back to the grind after that. I hadn’t heard anything from Cam – or Candi – so again, it appeared that he – she? – felt no need to clarify the assignment. Given how busy I was, that made my life much easier. But I was intensely curious.

What will she come up with this time?

I woke up early Sunday morning to the sound of birds singing – not something I had heard much in my D.C. apartment! I lay in bed for a bit, enjoying the novelty of the sounds and the peacefulness of the early morning. Not that Al and Javier lived out in the country – their living space was above their salon, and the area was certainly mixed use. But it was Sunday morning, and inner ring suburbs are still suburbs.

Eventually I slid out of bed – it’s hard to do anything else in a sexy nightgown! – put on my dressing robe and slippers, and took a closer look at the garage apartment. The floor was covered in vinyl plank designed to look like weathered wood. The walls had been sheetrocked and painted a very pale yellow and the ceiling, again sheetrocked, was white. The result was that the apartment had a clean, light and airy look, which made the most of what had originally been a very utilitarian space.

The closets that ran along one wall, with the exception of the last one, were empty. I was surprised, since good storage space generally gets used, one way or another. The last of the closets in the bank held a washer-dryer. For the space, the unit was very well appointed.

I wondered whether Al and Javier would consider renting to me. My living situation was not the best, given my current extracurricular activities. If I wandered in looking like Cameron Ross Savin, Esq. and popped out looking like Candi, people would eventually notice. Especially when I was using the communal laundry in the basement of the building.

Someone with a thicker skin would have said, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.” But I didn’t want to have to deal with it. Besides, some anti-trans nut might decide to make trouble for me one way or another. Sarah warned me to blend in. It was good advice.

I decided that I would ask Al and Javi once they were up and about. It was early, the salon was closed on Sundays, and it was their day to sleep in. I needed to spend some time plotting my day. Cam needed several hours for work today, and my laptop was at my apartment. So, I would need to change back into Cam mode. But, I had the strong feeling that Al and Javier were my friends, not Cam’s. I wanted to talk to them looking like me. Which is pretty crazy, I suppose. Bother.

Take a shower? Umm. I would need to prep for my 7:00 session with Liz back at the apartment, and it probably made sense to hold off on the shower until it was time to get ready. Grrr. I hate starting a day without a shower.

I was beginning to lose my good mood, and decided that wouldn’t do.

I put on my downstairs padding and one of my new bra and panty sets, pulled on my stretchy jeans, picked out a top, and tried on my new sneakers. I brushed out my hair, put it in a high “girl next door” ponytail (which somehow looked completely different from Cam’s low-and-tight style), and fixed my face. It was still only 7:00 am, so I made myself another cup of tea – coffee did not appear to be in evidence – and read the online Post.

I was deep into Jen Rubin’s analysis of the latest Democratic presidential primary debate (spoiler alert - she thought moderate Amy Klobuchar outperformed more liberal candidates), when Al knocked on the door to the apartment.

His eyes lit up when I answered the door. “Aren’t you looking awake and alert,” he joked. “I saw your lights were on. Why don’t you pop up for a coffee?”

I agreed gratefully.

Javier was still showering when we came into the apartment above the salon. “I’m the early bird in this household,” Al said, “but Javi’s no sluggard. Even he doesn’t tend to sleep past 8:00. I was going to pull together some berries and yogurt for our breakfast. Would you like some?”

“That sounds perfect,” I responded.

Al busied himself in the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I sipped his excellent coffee, a companionable silence between us. He was setting three bowls out when Javier came out of the bathroom combing his still-damp hair.

“Good morning!” he said, cheerfully and with great energy. Javi is a naturally boisterous soul.

We sat at the table in the kitchen to have breakfast and engaged in some pleasant chit-chat. When we were all finished with the food and were going for seconds on the coffee, I broached the issue of whether they might be willing to let me rent their garage apartment.

They were enthusiastic; apparently they had been thinking about renting it out for a while.

Al explained, “After Tina left, we kind of avoided it for a while, then stuff started migrating out there so that it would be out of the way, either here or in the shop. It got to be kind of messy. Sometimes a friend or family member would stay over, and we would push all the junk into the closets, but then it would just get messy again.”

“We decided to clean everything out last spring so we could rent it out, but things got busy at the shop and we just didn’t get around to it,” Javi said. “I guess we were kind of dreading interviewing potential tenants and everything that goes with being landlords. But we already know you’re our kind of people.” He grinned.

I was touched that they were so sure about me after such a short acquaintance. But the same was true on my end, I suppose. We had only met a week before, but I was really excited at the prospect of being neighbors.

I asked them what they were thinking about for rent, and was pleased to discover that they wanted less than I was paying in Adams Morgan. The total amount of space was about the same, though it was laid out very differently, and for my purposes, better. But I had been paying a premium for being closer to downtown.

I would have a longer commute, but they weren’t far from the College Park Metro station and it was a straight shot to my usual work stop at Gallery Place (Metro Center was closer to the office, but it was seldom worth changing trains to the red line rather than walking). I could generally read on the train into work, though it would be harder to get a seat in the evening.

We talked about logistics. I decided I would give up my current place at the end of the month. I needed to find room for my desk and work chair in the new place, but the rest of my furniture was rented and Al and Javier preferred not to give up the furniture that was already there. A win-win all around.

“You can start moving stuff in any time,” Javier said, adding, “just for instance, we’ve got half of Macy’s in the trunk of our car right now . . . . “

We all laughed, but it was a real relief not to have to worry about hauling all of that loot back into town. I would need some tonight, but the rest could stay here.

With all of that settled, we popped downstairs and unloaded the car. I put my new treasures in the closet and the dresser. They looked right there. I had been a visitor in Cam’s apartment. This place was mine!

But Cam would have to visit. Starting, unfortunately, now. I needed to get back into Cam mode, get back to D.C. and get some work done. I thanked Al and Javi profusely, made them take a rent check for the remainder of this month and next month, and got a key from them. Then I kicked them out so that I could do my reverse transformation.

Having seen me break down over this just a week ago, Javi gave my shoulder a big squeeze before he left. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

I heard them walk over to the external staircase and back to their apartment, but I was frozen in place. I started to shake, and felt tears welling up again. I had such a wonderful time yesterday. I wanted that feeling to last forever. I wanted to be me, in my own place with my own friends . . . .

~o~O~o~

I finally had enough, and got my brain in gear and my body moving. It felt like this transition was getting harder and harder, which was alarming. There were things I needed to do, as Cam, and there was no sense crying about it or wasting time.

I carefully removed Candi’s makeup and nail polish (fortunately she hadn’t bothered with extenders yesterday, though they would be needed tonight), stripped down, and removed both my padded panties and my prosthetic breasts. I put on the clothes I had worn yesterday and pulled my hair back into my low-and-tight ponytail. The loose end of the ponytail still had a fair bit of feminine curl in it, so I clubbed it like a good eighteenth century gentleman. I was no George Washington, but it would do.

I checked my appearance carefully and decided it was okay. I would never look like a manly man, but no one would mistake me for a girl. I put the items I would need for tonight’s show-and tell – the athleisure wear, two pairs of shoes, the new dress, coat, hosiery, accessories, my pads and prosthetics – into two unlabeled bags, and walked off to the Metro.

I was back in my apartment by around 10:30, which was a bit later than I had hoped. I was struck, as I sat down and fired up my computer, by how dark and uninviting this space was compared to Al and Javier’s garage apartment. The new living arrangement would be a big improvement.

I worked straight through until five o’clock, pausing only briefly to have some soup around 1:30. It wasn’t quite as many hours as I had hoped to work over the weekend, but I stayed very focused and was pleased at the progress I made over the six hours and twelve minutes of time I was able to bill.

Around 5:00 I started getting ready for my 7:00 with Liz, starting with a bath, putting on my padding, putting mousse and curlers in my damp hair, doing my nails, listening to some music while they dried, then getting into my first outfit. It was a pleasant and relaxing ritual. By 7:00 I was ready to turn the reins back to Candi – and Candi, of course, handed them directly to Liz.

Candi blew me away, starting with bright pink, high- and broad- waisted yoga pants with a matching sports bra that had a multi-stringed back that showed through her lime-green mesh racerback top. Unlike the preceding week, she had clearly found a way to pad her bottom, thighs and even front to present a more convincing feminine profile. This turned out to be the result of her acquiring a skin-toned, high-waisted padded panty and gaff. With her new acquisition, the front of her yoga pants showed a perfect feminine mound, gently arching from her belly button to her slit. It was as revealing as most yoga pants, and the triangle drew the eye just as it would on an attractive woman.

For clubbing, she chose a deep red slip dress and matching stilettos, which was far more daring than I had expected. She said that the top of the bodice was just high enough to cover the seams of her prosthetics, so – while she appeared to be showing some cleavage – the actual exposed skin was her own.

While she had gone with a high, girlish ponytail for her gym appearance, she selected a sophisticated updo for her eveningwear. I was very surprised to see her effect this transformation, and to change from her everyday makeup to a bolder, darker evening look, all by herself. It was obvious to me that she was getting help, but she was also learning her lessons. Like a good girl.

I gave her a new assignment and we signed off. As before, her submission to my instructions, and the thought, care and imagination that went into the execution of them, made me hot. I felt strong. Powerful. And that feeling of sexual power, of dominance, sent waves of pleasure through me. I needed release . . . and my vibrator was close at hand.

I spoke with Cam later on, and he confirmed that he/Candi was enjoying our play every bit as much as I was. And he reported, once again, having no issues. He wanted to continue.

As I prepared myself for bed later that evening, I thought more about my interaction with Candi. She was clearly eager to show off her new skills, and seemed to be psyched about her next assignment.

But was there more going on? I didn’t really buy Cam’s notion that personality is just a matter of constructs, as he’d described it that morning in Philadelphia. He seemed to think that both “Cam” and “Candi” were just different faces he could present to the world. I know who I am, and I’m no “construct.” There is a “real” person in me. And there’s one in Cam too.

But, is that real person a man? Or a woman?

The session went much like the preceding week. Liz was impressed with the choices, liked the effect that Candi achieved with the new padded panties, and was surprised at the daring slip dress. I think she didn’t believe Candi was doing her own makeup until she watched her switch between outfits.

It was apparent that Liz was enjoying the sessions as much as Candi. She provided a new assignment for the following Sunday’s show and tell, but I – and more importantly Candi – had developed enough confidence in our ability to meet the challenges Liz was providing that Candi could wait until the weekend to shop. Which was good, because I was in for a very busy few weeks.

I got in touch with my building management and my furniture rental store. My rented furniture was going to be picked up first thing on Wednesday the 30th, and the management company would do a walk-through on October 31st, after which I would give them my keys.

Moving sounds stressful, but you have to understand that I hadn’t really had time to acquire a lot of stuff. The plus side of not having a life is that you can pack up and go with little fuss or muss. The only furniture I was bringing to my new place was my computer desk and chair. The bulk of what I had to move was just clothes, and they would transport easily enough.

Other than those arrangements, I spent all day every day from Monday to Saturday hard at work, getting into the office by 7:30 and generally not leaving until 10:00 p.m. We had to exchange lists of trial witnesses (fact and expert) and exhibits with opposing counsel by – natch – November 1.

I was working with two other associates, a paralegal, and a secretary, all under Eileen’s overall direction, to cull the 1,800 or so hot documents down to the 100-200 that we might realistically introduce into evidence at trial (knowing that more would be cut at trial itself). This required fitting each potential piece of evidence into an outline of the elements of proof for the case, as well as determining how we would get each document into evidence.

Our work also required coordination with the junior partner who was finalizing our list of witnesses and drafting proposed jury instructions. Everything took intensive coordination and concentration, and everyone from Eileen down to the secretary was working very long hours. Fortunately we all got along, and there wasn’t any drama or friction. Eileen was very good at running a trial team.

We made a huge amount of progress over the course of the week, and were essentially done with the document selection by Friday. We would need a couple more days to finalize and double-check the lists, but we were confident at that point that we would meet the deadline without any trouble. I still came in and worked on Saturday, but I left the office at 3:00 to go out to Maryland to pick up the car (Al suggested I borrow it for the move) and start packing my stuff.

I took three trips to bring everything. Two for the clothes and sundries, one for the desk and chair. My desk was actually a table that could be set for either standing or sitting. The legs detached, which made it possible to transport in Al’s car with the back seats down. It was about 9:00 when I was done.

Almost nothing was left in my old apartment. I figured I would get my stuff set up in my new place tomorrow morning, then pop back to Adams Morgan to do a cleaning so that I would not have to spend any time on it the following week.

I was standing in the middle of my new apartment, feeling grimy, tired and hungry, trying to decide whether I could just collapse or whether I really truly had to get something to eat before going to bed, when a pizza delivery guy showed up at my door with a piping hot pie, courtesy of Al and Javier. What a godsend those two are!!! They figured out that I would be hungry, and that I wouldn’t be up for company.

I sent them a big “Thank you!!!” by text, but managed only three slices of pizza before I was incapable of doing anything other than closing my eyes. I collapsed and slept ten hours – more sleep than I had managed to get in a long time.

I woke up feeling a bit drunk with sleep and as grungy as I had been when I went to bed. So I took a shower and washed everything, even knowing that I would need to wash my hair again later in the day. That’s why they make baby shampoo. I felt much better after that.

I hemmed and hawed after getting out of the shower, but finally decided I would do my business in D.C. first before unpacking and setting up the new apartment. I put on some old jeans and a worn T-Shirt that I didn’t mind getting dirty, thought about adding a fleece and decided against it since it was likely to hit eighty degrees. Then I jogged over to the Metro Station and got off at Columbia Heights, the nearest Green Line station to Adams Morgan. My apartment was only a ten minute walk from there, tops.

I spent about two and a half hours getting the place completely clean and ready for the walk-through. As a farewell to the neighborhood, which was blessed with many good ethnic eateries, I went out for a falafel sandwich. The metro got me back to my new home by about 11:00 a.m.

I kicked off the clothes I had worn to clean the old place, put them together with the grimy clothes I had stripped off after yesterday’s move, and threw them in the wash (bliss!!! I have a washer-dryer!!) Another quick shower got rid of the grime, and I was able to give Candi the rest of the day.

She did the shopping for the most recent assignment, and then got the apartment properly set up. Candi and I each had a side of the closet. I had half the drawers and she had the other, though I had a sinking feeling that would change over time. Adding the desk required some rearranging of the furniture, but in the end everything fit. We even left plenty of space for the weekly show-and-tell, which again went well.

I had another good call with Liz later in the evening after Candi had retired to the back of my consciousness. Liz and I mostly talked about work, since we were both very busy and wrapped up in new projects.

From the sounds of it, she was having more trouble than I was, but at six years my senior, she was in the position of having to manage a project and coordinate the work of other – sometimes more senior – team members. It’s a very different kettle of fish, and I sympathized with her struggles. Eileen appeared to manage everything almost effortlessly, but after thirty years of practice and an enviable reputation in the trial bar, there weren’t too many people left who underestimated her – and even fewer who tried to give her any shit. I have no doubt that she had to learn in the same hard school Liz was currently pushing through.

~o~O~o~

We had established a pattern of Sunday evening “show and tell” with Candi, then a short call with Cam. And, every week, Candi seemed to improve, to become more believable as a girl, as a woman.

Candi dressed for a beach party (open-backed one-piece with wrap-around patterned skirt), for a baseball game (tight Cardinal red tank-top with snapped bottom, short cut-offs and a Number 4 jersey that came down past her shorts on the back side), for a country fair (belted cotton shirt-dress with three-quarter sleeves), a romantic dinner (silky halter-topped dress with a long skirt, slit up to the thigh,and a gold chain belt), a cocktail party (classic LBD). . . .

Everything I threw at her, she seemed to eat up, getting better and more practiced with each new effort. I was having a harder and harder time finding any fault with her efforts. Truth is, she proved to be a natural at makeup and hairstyling. I was seeing an incredible talent blossom that had never had a moment in the sun before now. I’d like to think I was still better – I had a lifetime of experience, after all. But there is no question that she was becoming very, very good.

It was time to think about our next face-to-face. Our video time was great, but we both wanted to reconnect in person. Our weekend in Philadelphia had been both fun and powerful for both of us, and we wanted to catch some of that magic again.

I also wanted to have a better sense of how Cam was doing. He always said he was good, but I wanted to make sure. Can anyone compartmentalize that completely? Really?

Cam agreed to come over to my house Friday afternoon after Thanksgiving, saying that a day back in St. Louis with his parents was about all he was up for. That worked for me. My parents were hosting most of my siblings and me, but that was just a drive down to Mt. Lebanon, where they currently live. Easy peasy.

I knew that Candi was spending a lot of time getting ready for our weekend sessions. For me, though, I had nothing much to do in advance, and I spent the weeks fully absorbed in work. But, I kept my social life alive, and my work gang managed to get in a hike, a kayaking trip, and dinner at my house. No October baseball in Pittsburgh, of course.

I got a surprise email from Derek, my well-built not-quite one-night stand. On a whim, I reconnected with him on a couple of occasions. Although our initial encounter did not indicate it, he turned out to be more adventurous in the sack than I had thought, making some fun suggestions that sometimes worked (taking me in the shower was HOT) and sometimes didn’t (nailing me to a dining room table was decidedly uncomfortable). Prior to Candi, my own sexual experiences had been fairly tame; I was enjoying the experimentation.

Derek, mercifully, did not take things – or himself – too seriously. We enjoyed what worked and laughed at the ones that didn’t work. We kept it light. This was not love, this was just some fun sex with another person who was game to try new things. No commitments, no strings. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Derek was married, but I made no inquiry. We did not have that kind of relationship.

As usual, I saw my parents from time to time. They knew that I had been dating a guy for a couple of months and that it hadn’t worked out. They hadn’t asked to meet him, I think trusting that I would bring him when and if I thought the time was right.

They were happy that I appeared to be moving on from my failed marriage. Fortunately, my sibs had plenty of offspring (for whom I babysat from time to time), so I got no parental pressure in the breeding department. I think they knew that just wasn’t who I am, anyway. They were proud of my accomplishments, like parents are, and they loved me without reservation. But I don’t think they had any illusions about me.

I didn’t discuss Candi with anyone (except Cam, of course, but for these purposes he doesn’t count). First, I said I wouldn’t. Second, while I was enjoying my dominance games, it’s not a part of me that I’m especially proud of. My friends knew Cam, and when the time was right I hoped we could all get back together again. But Candi remained a secret.

I gave a lot of thought to the Thanksgiving weekend. I had largely played our prior encounter by ear, but this time I planned it out. I was going to push Candi through some more barriers – ones that would give us both some real pleasure. Following our “video game” time on November 10, I recorded another video and sent Candi some materials that would make the weekend more fun.

Then I did some discreet online shopping. Our next encounter was going to involve more toys.

My life was becoming a blur of long days, short nights and too many missed meals. We made our November 1 deadline, but the next step was reviewing Defendants’ witness and exhibit lists and preparing motions in limine to try to exclude proposed exhibits or testimony in whole or in part. This was, once again, done in coordination with David Parr, the younger partner who was working on our objections to the other side’s proposed jury instructions. The deadline for this filing was December first.

I was spending almost all of the time in Cam mode because of work, but I did make sure that I was using Javier’s skin care products and treating my hair better and more gently than I ever had before.

From bedtime on Saturday until after the 7:00 video call on Sunday, Candi had use of the time share we appeared to be operating out of this one body. Candi time usually started with a long, soaking bath on Saturday evening, a chance to sleep in silky nightwear, a morning visit with Al and Javier, some shopping, practicing with hair and makeup, and of course her time with Liz.

The improvements in Candi’s feminine appearance weren’t as dramatic as before, but they were improvements nonetheless. Increasingly, Liz found nothing to criticize. Candi would model her outfits and looks, explain her reasoning for what she had selected, make changes to go to the second outfit and look (explaining as she went along). Then it was time for new instructions.

Candi’s time with Liz was always intense – even when she was just explaining her fashion choices, the feeling of sexual tension was palpable. The rest of Candi time was exciting and fulfilling, filled with a sense of self-discovery and exploration, but also deeply relaxing. It was incredibly restorative, though it was always hard for Candi to let go and let me return to Cam mode for the work-week.

As Candi, it seemed like I was more attuned to the physical world – to sights and smells and tastes, to the way people walked, to the drape of their garments, the subtle variations in color and texture between similar fabrics . . . . As Cam, on the other hand, I was more focused on abstractions, on concepts and principles, logic, and structure. I sometimes thought that between the two of us, we might make a fine human being. But the world is not constructed for my benefit!

In the middle of all of this, I got a call from Mom asking about my plans for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t really given it any thought. Although I had always returned home for Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was in law school, and had done the same last year, things were a bit hectic at the moment. I decided I had better check with Eileen before making any plans.

She assured me that I could take the whole weekend. “Everyone’s been working very hard, and I’m comfortable we’re on track. I’m hoping that everyone will be able to take that weekend off; family’s important. But you’ve earned the four days if anyone has.”

I really liked Eileen, and it was good to know that she was pleased with my work.

With that said, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to go back to St. Louis for four days. My parents, God love them, are dyed-in-the-wool Evangelical Christians and they share the very conservative views of most people in their church. My siblings and I had all departed from both their political and religious orthodoxy. We continued to get along, in no small measure because Fi was working in Boston, Iain was doing the arts scene in New York, and I was being the corporate tool in D.C.

Holidays, however, provided potential friction points. Everyone used to understand and abide by the unwritten rule that discussions of “politics, religion, and the Great Pumpkin” were off-limits. Unfortunately, in recent years every topic was tangled up with politics. Even the weather was just fodder for the culture war. I’ve always been the peacemaker in our family, but keeping the peace – and even holding my tongue – was becoming increasingly difficult.

Sis and the Fi-ancé were splitting the holidays this year, spending Thanksgiving with his folks in Boston and Christmas with my parents in St. Louis. Iain was always a wild card. He might come or not, but probably wouldn’t give a definite yes or no until the day before. At which point he would find a cheap bus and spend a day making the trip.

An odd soul, Iain. I hadn’t seen him in a while and would like to, but there was no question Thanksgiving would be rockier if he were there. Putting Dad and Iain in the same room was a bit like injecting nitrous oxide into your engine.

Of course, if Dad or Mom had the slightest inkling that I was spending my spare time learning to think, dress, and act like a girly girl, Iain’s issues would be the least of their concerns. I couldn’t imagine how incandescent the two of them would be. And hurt, and disappointed. But mostly mad as hell.

They were big on hell.

So I figured I would just go out for the day itself and return to D.C. on Friday. However, in my late-night show-and-tell debrief with Liz on November 10, she asked if I – or more specifically, if Candi – would like to join her in Pittsburgh for the duration of the weekend.

I was more than game, and Candi was positively eager. We agreed to skip our next two Sunday meet-ups.

Liz said, with an evil tone, that she was going to come up with some special instructions for Candi to work on in advance of our meeting. Knowing how devious Liz can be, I was sure they would be something.

I booked an open-jaw flight from D.C. to St. Louis on Wednesday evening, a flight from St. Louis to Pittsburgh at 10:00 pm on Thanksgiving, and a flight from Pittsburgh back to D.C. Sunday at 10:00. I had to scramble since I had left it so late, but I was able to get the flights I needed, albeit at a higher price than I would have liked.

I received Liz’s instructions in a video the next day.

Yup. This was going to be intense.

~o~O~o~

I finished editing the video that I had put together for Candi, then ran it one last time to make sure that it was right. I liked it.

It started with me in my Merry Widow, as usual. “Hello, Candi. You have learned your first lessons well, and it is time for you to face some new hurdles. Now, observe.”

My image was replaced by a video clip of a girl at a cheerleading tryout. She was wearing a skin-tight lycra outfit in patterns of royal blue, white, and black that covered her ass and the very top of the thighs, the midriff, bust, and upper chest, with long sleeves and a back that was open from just short of each shoulder, scooping down to the mid-back. The girl was performing a routine with a variety of elements involving high kicks, spins and jumps – like the herky, toe-touch, the side hurdler and the tuck – arching of the back, tossing of the head . . . standards for the discipline.

The video cut back to me. “Men love cheerleaders, Candi, and why shouldn’t they? Through their performances, Cheerleaders make virginal love to their fans in the stands. I expect Cam drooled over cheerleaders back in high school, didn’t he? But I doubt he had a clue how hard it was to perform their routines.”

The video returned to the cheerleader doing her thing, but my voice continued. “We’re going to correct that little defect in your education, Candi. You are going to put together your own cheer routine and try out for my cheer squad. I’ve uploaded five other cheer tryout videos for you to study. Put together a three-minute program and rehearse it. While you are here, you will put on the very outfit this girl is wearing – I have one – and you will dance, prance, spin, kick, and twirl for me.”

The video cut back to me. “I was the queen bee of cheerleaders once, Candi, and you will have to show me that you have what it takes to be my little bitch for a whole football season. That’s job one.

“Your second task will be less physically demanding, but it might be harder in other ways. I am going to have you do a photoshoot. You will study the following pictures, numbered one through six. You will learn them by number, so that when I call for a pose by that number you will assume it. These are pictures from photoshoots by models. Some you would see in any fashion magazine. Others poses are more overtly erotic.”

The video showed a picture of a young woman in a floral print dress sitting on a low bench. She was leaning back a bit, supported by her left arm, slightly cocked. Her head was turned to the left, and she was looking off camera. Her right hand was raised to loosely cup the right side of her head and neck, further back from the face. Her right leg was set on a riser at an acute angle, while her left leg was only loosely bent and extended past the riser. “Pose one.”

This was followed by the image of a girl who looked like she was walking but wasn’t, right leg extended, left leg behind, feet at an oblique angle. Her left arm was at her side; her right arm was holding a jacket over her right shoulder. Her head was cocked to the left and her hair was blowing out to the left side. She looked like she was about to greet a friend on the street. “Pose two.”

Pose three was a woman standing with her weight on her right leg, her right hip out and left leg extended, both hands gently resting on her out-thrust hip, shoulders cocked but face straight to the camera. Pose four was a young woman leaning slightly against a tree, one hand holding a few strands of her long hair against her cheek, her head slightly bent and a come-hither look on her face.

Pose five was the classic SI Swimsuit look. Pose six was more hard core: a woman reclining on a couch, wearing barely a wisp, fondling a breast with one hand and fingering herself with the other.

I ended the video with instructions to practice the poses and expressions every night, and to bring some of Candi’s prettier things for the photoshoot.

I uploaded my video, as well as the other cheerleading tryout videos, to Candi’s documents, then shut down the computer. I meant to push Candi, and the exercises I had selected would definitely do that. But I had a couple of other surprises for my pliant pupil which I intended to spring on her.

I went down into the basement, where I had a cedar-lined storage closet, to find a bridesmaid dress I had worn to a wedding a couple years back. And, on a shelf in the back of the closet was a cardboard box which contained my wedding dress, theoretically preserved for posterity by some sort of vacuum-sealed plastic. What a complete waste that had been! Well, I finally had some use for it, so I was glad that I had been able to retrieve my things from the house I had shared with Jack after he had agreed to the divorce.

I dropped both dresses off at a dry cleaner.

I had been a cheerleader. A prom queen. A blushing bride. All of the things that supposedly good, healthy, red-blooded American girls would want to be. Other girls had envied me. And yet, in the end, the game just hadn’t been worth the candle. Not for me, anyway. And when it all came crashing down, almost four years ago, I had survived. Not because I was pretty, or knew how to display my physical attributes to good effect, though I was and I did.

I survived because I wasn’t really anything like those stereotypes I had tried so hard to become. I was tough, smart, and no-nonsense. I got shit done and I didn’t bitch and moan about how others didn’t work as hard or accomplish as much.

The world should have space for a woman who is hard-headed and sexually dominant. It should, correspondingly, have room for a guy who is sweet, soft-hearted, submissive and obedient. But in the world where we live, tough women are vilified as man-hating bitches, and submissive men are treated with scathing contempt.

But was I any better? I wanted the world to accept my toughness, but I couldn’t imagine being in a long-term relationship with an effeminate male. Though I hated to admit it, even my continued strong friendship with Cam was based, in part, on his willingness and ability to sublimate his submissive side into a separate, female persona. So who am I to complain?

The world should be a better place, and I should be a better person. But you don’t just get to choose what attracts and repels you. Not me, for sure. Not Cam either. Candi certainly appeared to be enjoying the submissive, feminine role.

Candi might hit a point where that was no longer true, but she wouldn’t be the first girl to discover that a woman’s life isn’t an unending string of romance and pretty dresses. Unlike biological girls, Candi could always go back to being Cameron Savin, a man in a man’s world.

For my part, I needed to make sure my relationship with Cam continued to be based on trust and compassion . . . and that our sex games stayed within those guardrails as well.

So, having made my peace with my arrangements for the Thanksgiving weekend, I dove back into work.

I went to bed thinking about Liz’s videotaped instructions for preparing for our post-Thanksgiving adventure, and set the alarm for a preposterous 4:30 a.m. I had gotten to the point where I could prep for our Sunday video calls on Sunday itself, but these instructions were going to require more. Much more. And Candi would need at least an hour, hour and a half, each morning and evening. I really didn’t know where I could steal the time. Certainly I would eliminate any television news or sports.

I was just going to have to get by with less sleep. Make that even less sleep, while minimizing the adverse consequences of sleep deprivation.

Well, I wanted to be a trial lawyer, and I know that in the middle of trial the lawyers get very little sleep. I would just need to think of this as training. Of a sort.

The next two-and-a-half weeks passed in a blur. From the time I left for work until the time I walked back through my door, I was Cam, fully in lawyer mode. The trial team was working hard on the motions that were due right after Thanksgiving. I was mostly doing online research on Westlaw, finding the best caselaw and feeding it to my colleagues. Our judge had been on the bench for over twenty years, and I was able to find lots of his own decisions that had a bearing on the arguments we wanted to make.

I got to draft some of the pieces as well, and – while my senior colleagues always had very helpful comments, suggestions, and improvements — for the most part they thought my arguments were sound and persuasive.

I was typically in the office by 7:30, leaving about twelve hours later. Meals were hurried; I kept myself going with power bars, mixed nuts, and protein shakes when I didn’t have time for anything else. Whole Foods had some good home-style soups without all the garbage, and they were a mainstay for dinner. Sometimes the team had pizza while we were shopping arguments together, but more often we were in our separate offices, working on our individual pieces, with Eileen coordinating everything.

I met one-on-one with Eileen several times each week, going through my pieces of the puzzle and making sure we continued to be on the same page as our arguments were hammered out and her view of the case developed. I really enjoyed working with her and was learning a lot.

She decided that the case needed my undivided time and worked to shift my other assignments to attorneys on other cases who were less busy than our trial team. That was a huge relief, and dramatically improved my ability to stay focused on the work needed to meet our December 1 deadline.

As soon as I walked through my apartment door at the end of the day, I gratefully stepped back, not to emerge until my shower the next morning. I let the work go, forgot about the case, and gave myself to Candi.

Candi would typically slip her prosthetics into a bra, put on one of her panty gaffs and a tank top and a short skirt. She would have some soup or maybe a pre-made salad, then spend an hour or so working on the poses for the photoshoot. This required careful study of the reference photos – memorizing the precise positions, but also thinking about the image the model and the photographer were trying to project. Sweet or sexy, alluring, aloof . . . how was the look achieved? What combination of pose and expression?

Candi practiced in front of a mirror until she was able to reproduce each look exactly, then change the look by small alterations, especially in how she held her head, the precise line of her mouth, and the expression in her eyes. This proved captivating and it took discipline to be in bed by 11:30.

Each morning she was up at 4:30. Breakfast was generally an egg, a toasted english muffin, some cheese, and a big glass of water. Then she put on her yoga pants and sports bra and got to work on the cheerleading routine. After watching all of the videos and trying as many of the elements as she could manage, she put together a routine, recorded and viewed it, then decided which elements to keep and which to jettison.

Then she focused on practice, practice, practice, beginning and ending with at least ten minutes of stretches. She continued to review the practice videos, tweaking her execution of the elements. By no later than 6:30 she hit the shower, at which point I began to re-emerge and get my brain back into my day job.

I checked in with Eileen around noon the day before Thanksgiving, but I knew we were in good shape. Everything was already finalized, so everyone was taking off for the long weekend.

“Nice work these past weeks, Cam,” she said with a smile, getting up from her desk and sitting with me at her small conference table (which was, as always, covered with neat piles of papers). “How are you feeling?”

“I feel pretty good about where we’re at,” I said. “I definitely think we’re going to win most of these evidentiary issues. I’m confident we should defeat the challenges to the documents we want to introduce. Some of our arguments to keep out some of their documents are a bit more of a stretch, though, as you know.”

“About my assessment,” she agreed. “But my question was more general. How are you liking trial work? For that matter, how are you liking the firm?”

“Well,” I answered, “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do when I got out of law school. I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve done here so far, but being part of this trial team has definitely been the highlight. And I’m really looking forward to getting into court.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Eileen replied. “Trial work isn’t for everyone. It’s not even for most litigators. But I think you’ve got the knack. I’lll make sure we get you some opportunities to present oral arguments on some of the issues and motions you’ve worked on. Judges usually appreciate it when we give younger lawyers a chance to stand up in court, and the client in this case will be good with it.”

“That would be fantastic,” I said with genuine enthusiasm and surprise. We talked for a couple more minutes then I left to go home and pack.

I needed a larger bag that would definitely need to be checked to fit all of Candi’s things; my wardrobe required comparatively little space. My flight was leaving from BWI and I arrived early, anticipating long Thanksgiving lines. I checked my bag and, as expected, spent forever getting through security. I discovered that my flight was delayed when I got to the gate, and the departure time kept getting pushed back. The plane was there, but the crew was coming in from another flight and they were delayed.

As the guy at the terminal helpfully explained to all of the tired and frustrated passengers, it’s against airline policy and FAA regulation to fly without a pilot.

Funny man.

We did get off the ground eventually. Because I had bought my ticket so late, I was in a middle seat. Everyone was tired and grumpy and no-one felt like talking.

Suited me just fine.

We landed at 11:45 pm. I picked up my bag, got an Uber and arrived at my parent’s house around 12:30. I couldn’t remember being more exhausted. The house was dark, but the door was unlocked and I knew which room I was sleeping in. I had texted Mom earlier so she knew I would be late. I parked my suitcase, stripped down to my shorts, and collapsed into bed.

~o~O~o~

It was probably just as well that I had put playtime with Candi on hold for a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, because I had to do some traveling to put out a few fires and meet some outside marketing experts who might be helpful. My boss continued to be very supportive and enthusiastic about the project, but he was also distant, overseeing numerous other projects. It was important that I be able to handle things at the granular level. I made another trip to Ann Arbor and one to Austin.

By the time the end of November rolled around, I was very ready for Thanksgiving break. Per my Mom’s instructions, I picked up a couple nice bottles of wine for the adults and a selection of soft-drinks and juices for her seven grandchildren that would be present.

I showed up early to help out. I’m not that into cooking, but any good little housewife can peel potatoes, clean silver, and put out place settings. It was good to chat, since we hadn’t spent a lot of time together in the prior month or so. Dad was outside making the yard presentable.

I have four siblings; going in order, Diane, Jim (Jr.), Brittany and Thor. (Yeah, Thor. I know, but I think at kid five, my parents just decided to have fun with it. Most of his classmates actually were a bit jealous. It is a cool name, even if it’s a bit tough to live up to the image). I slide in between Jim and Brittany.

Diane has three kids (Shelly, Dot, and Kat) and Brittany and Jim have two each (Eleanor, or “Ellie”, Maura, Jim (III), and Kyle). Thor and his wife Rachel weren’t coming because she had just given birth to their first; little Ingrid was just three weeks old and they were keeping her home for a bit. Rachel had gone through a pretty tough pregnancy and delivery, so she needed some time to rest.

The house was full to bursting. It has a huge finished basement, without which I don’t think it would have been possible. There were tables in the dining room, in the family room and in the basement so that there would be seats for everybody (folding chairs for a lot of them – big families have to make do!). It was wild, chaotic, and noisy. Everyone said that the turkey was the best ever, which they always say, and the ham was fabulous. I had apparently not lost my skill at peeling spuds.

The weather had turned chilly – It was only in the forties for a lot of the day – so any games had to be played in the big room downstairs, and only after the meal was consumed and the clean-up complete. The kids and the older grandkids mostly handled the clean-up while Mom and Dad played with Kat, Ellie, Maura, J3, and Kyle downstairs and away from the crockery. Thanksgiving is a set piece and all of us know where everything goes. The clean-up went quickly, sprinkled with cheerful conversation.

Brittany popped into the kitchen while I was washing wine glasses, holding a vase that must have been a new acquisition. “Hey, Beth, any idea where this goes?”

“I’ll break it over your head, if you don’t call me Liz,” I mock-growled. I wasn’t actually mad at her, but it was still necessary to give reminders, now and then.

She leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “Sorry about that. Old habits. ‘Liz’ suits you, in a way that Beth didn’t really. And I never got the whole ‘BethAnn’ thing.”

Uncomfortable territory. “I was who I thought I needed to be,” I said shortly.

She cocked her head, considering me for a moment, then came over and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Well, I’m glad you don’t think you need that anymore. I missed my crazy big sister!” Before I could think of a suitable response, she slipped out of the room.

There were kid’s games downstairs and football for those who cared to watch it in the family room on the main level. The latter activity drew Dad, Diane, Jim (Jr), Dot, and me, as well as Tom and Drew (Diane and Brittany’s husbands, respectively). We chatted between the fun parts (which take up a surprisingly small portion of a football game, IMO) and caught up a bit.

I haven’t really seen much of my siblings since I moved back to Pittsburgh. Their lives are very much wrapped up in their work and their kids. That’s especially true of Jim, whose wife died in a car accident around the time I was getting my divorce. He’s a devoted father, trying to give the kids everything they could have gotten from two parents. Unsurprisingly, he looked tired and older than Diane.

After the game, we broke out the pies, made coffee for those who wanted some, and started to disperse. When I left, Diane and her crew were still there; the rest had departed earlier. It had been a lovely day. But I’ll confess . . . I was really looking forward to the next two days.

Cam arrived at around 10:00 a.m., so I had plenty of time to get ready. I knew that he would be arriving (rather than she). So like last time I layered my apparel to present a more conventional look when he showed up, with the top layer being a sweater over a pair of khakis and canvas boat shoes.

Cam got dropped off right on time, trailing a much larger suitcase than usual, which made me grin.

But he looked tense, almost grim, and bone tired. On top of which, where he had been lean, he now looked positively slender. He must have lost ten to fifteen pounds since I had seen him last, which was weight he didn’t have to spare. I hadn’t noticed it when video chatting with Candi, probably due in equal measure to the distorting effect of the tech and the way women’s fashions flatter more slender forms.

I asked, somewhat hesitantly, “Cam? You okay?”

He just shook his head. “Yesterday was rough, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

I had him sit down in the living room and brought us both a coffee. “Look, what I’ve got planned for today is pretty involved. If you are not up for it, that’s okay. We can just relax. Remember, I’m your friend . . . first and foremost.”

I said it, and I meant it, although deep down I would have been disappointed if my plans for the weekend were derailed. But Cam was my friend, he was clearly in a bad place, and I wanted to help if I could.

He just gave me his classic half smile. “Thanks, Liz. I really appreciate that. Honestly, though, I think the best thing for me right now is whatever the fuck you’ve got planned. I need my head on a completely different planet. If you can make that happen, you’re a Goddess. I mean, more than you usually are. Arch-Goddess or something.”

This speech was even more surprising, since I almost never heard Cam swear. “You’re sure?”

“Abso-frickin’ lutely,” he said with uncharacteristic savagery.

He was right – he definitely needed to be in a different headspace. So I stood up, looming over him in his chair, pulled off my sweater and dropped my pants. Underneath, I was wearing a black leotard with long sleeves, deeply scooped at the back and neck, with royal blue nylon gym shorts. I had a silver whistle on a chain around my neck. I pulled my hair back severely, put it in a scrunchy, and kicked off my boat shoes.

“Okay, then,” I said, in a voice that would make any coach or drill sergeant proud. “If you think you’re ready, then get off your fucking ass and get ready. Take a shower. You reek. Make yourself pretty. I assume you brought your own makeup. You’d better have. Your tryout uniform is on your bed. You’ll need at least an hour, since you don’t want your nails looking like something you’ve been using to clean out the fucking garbage disposal. I don’t want to see you out here until you are all stretched out and ready to perform. YOU GOT ALL THAT?”

He practically leaped out of his chair, the grim look gone from his face, saying, “YES, MA’AM,” before hauling his bag, his sorry ass, and his coffee down the hall and into the guest bedroom.

I hope this will be the right thing for him right now.

I woke up Thanksgiving morning to the sound of shouting. Not, unfortunately, far-away shouting. It was in the house. Two male voices, enraged.

I thought, Shit. Iain made it home after all. I opened my bag, pulled out fresh underwear, jeans, socks, and a t-shirt, then closed the suitcase and locked it. I threw on my clothes, quickly clubbed my hair and left the bedroom.

The older and younger sea lions were once again at each other’s throats. Mom was looking on and doing nothing. Dad was screaming something about socialists and witch hunts. Iain was laying into him about the Ukraine investigation and how the President was a treasonous scumbag.

I tried to intervene, though I doubted it would help.

It didn’t.

“Don’t you try to defend him,” Dad screamed at me. “He’s been nothing but a fucking sponge for years, then he comes into MY house and lectures ME about politics. I am DONE, you hear me? He can go sponge off his pansy friends from now on!!”

While Dad’s attention was on me, Iain was punching things on his phone. With Dad’s last comment, Iain turned almost white with rage, went right up to Dad and punched his forefinger into Dad’s middle-aged gut. “Pansies, is it?” he growled. “I don’t know one gay guy – not one – who couldn’t take you apart with his bare hands, old fart. Including me!!!”

Dad stepped back, hollering, while Mom staggered and sat down heavily, looking almost comically stricken. “Gay?” she asked, weakly.

Then Dad practically spat, “Get out! Never set foot in this house again! You are no son of mine!!!”

Mom just sat there.

“Do something!” I pleaded with her.

But she just looked at me like I was crazy.

I turned back and tried to intervene. “Dad!” He just shoved me aside, effortlessly.

Iain said, “Buh-bye then, asshole!” He popped into his old room, grabbed the backpack he had evidently brought with him and charged out the front door, which he attempted to slam, not realizing I was following him.

“Iain,” I shouted, and took off down the stairs just as an Uber showed up.

Dad yelled after me, “Don’t you follow him!”

I looked back incredulously, almost falling on the front steps.

“If you go after him, don’t bother coming back,” he threatened.

Iain was getting in the car. I ran over and hopped in before he could stop me.

“Get out, Cam.”

“No.”

“I don’t need your peacemaking, dammit. There is no peace with . . . with . . . THAT.” His voice dripped with disgust as he pointed to the house where we had both grown up.

“Got it,” I said. “But you aren’t leaving here alone today, so deal with it.”

He glared at me, then growled “Oh, fine.” He looked at the driver, who was not enjoying any of this, and said, “You can bring him too.” We drove off, and I saw several neighbors watching the scene and gossiping together.

Now THAT would improve Dad’s mood. Not!

The Uber driver made record time to the Greyhound station, where he gratefully dropped us off and sped away.

“Buy you a coffee?” I asked my older brother.

“Why not,” he said resignedly. “I can’t think what else I’ll need to do to get rid of you.”

So we sat at a tired formica table on equally tired plastic chairs, drinking old coffee from perky styrofoam cups that would outlast both of us, preserved in some landfill. “What happened?” I asked, more to get him talking. I didn’t know every particular, but it was pretty clear what had happened.

He confirmed it. “Dad started on the whole ‘witch hunt’ bullshit last night when I got in. He was pissed that I wouldn’t rise to the bait – I just said I was tired and went off to bed. Which I was – you should try spending a day on a Greyhound.”

He sat for a moment, thinking, then took a pull on the truly execrable coffee. It didn’t seem to faze him. “Mostly,” he continued, “I was just tired of it. Tired of the lectures, and the self-righteousness, and the constant judgments. He is always comparing me to Fi. Even to you. You’re successful. You make money. You’ve got futures. Blah, blah, blah. He’s got money too, and look how he turned out. And I’m sick, tired, and done with hearing him regurgitate Fox News talking points. When he started on me again this morning, I gave him the argument he wanted. With interest!”

“You sure did.” I paused for an awkward moment before working up the courage to ask, “You’re gay?”

He barked a laugh and grinned, pleased with himself. “Nah. I just said that because I knew it would make him lose his shit completely.”

“Well, mission accomplished.”

He gave me an angry look. “Listen, don’t you dare tell him I’m not gay. Don’t. Not him, not Mom. I’m in New York theater. Half my friends are gay, and I’ll be good goddamned if I’ll listen to any more of his insults about them. Besides,” he added more quietly, “it’s not like I didn’t try it. One of my friends was wasted, he made a move, and I decided I would see whether it was my thing.”

“And discovered it wasn’t?” I asked.

“Yup," he replied. "I didn’t think I hit that way, and I don’t. But if I did, I wouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

We sat quietly for a couple of minutes. He drank his coffee.

I didn’t. “What are you going to do, Iain? Do you need a place to stay?”

He chuckled. “No way, Spam,” he said, using the nickname he had bestowed on me at age four. “No way in hell can you convince me to live in a cultural desert like D.C., surrounded by government moles and MAGA goons. Not. Happening.”

I tried to say something, but he cut me off.

“Not. It’s good of you to offer – it really is. But I’ll be fine. I’ll come up with something.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. The fact that Iain was sharing the secrets of his sex life with me did not move me to reciprocate. I love my older brother, but he’s a hothead and can never be trusted with a weaponizable secret. I hadn’t actually offered to put him up, and had been struggling with whether I could manage it while keeping Candi under wraps. His response to my simple question got me off that particular hook. I knew better than to offer him money. At the end of the day, we didn’t have all that much to say to each other.

I watched him get on the bus, then got myself an Uber and returned to my parents’ house. When I got to the front door, my bag was sitting on the stoop, and the door was locked.

This is stupid. I rang the doorbell. I knocked. I pounded. I went around to the back and pelted the windows with pieces of gravel. Nothing. They were home – smoke was coming from the chimney and the TV (tuned to Fox, natch), was loud enough to hear from the door. But they were not going to answer.

I discovered that, like Iain, I had taken enough. The most patient of the three siblings, the peacemaker, the youngest child who always tried to make everything right, was ready to throw in the towel. I was deathly short on sleep, I was emotionally ragged, and I was sick of the whole soap opera. “Screw you all,” I muttered.

I found a room at a hotel near the airport and collapsed. I got up to get dinner brought up, thought about calling Fi and decided it could wait. Let her enjoy her time with her fiancé’s family. Hopefully it was less dysfunctional than ours.

I set an early alarm and rolled into bed. Ironically, given how tired I was, I only slept fitfully. I wanted nothing more than to get on a plane and leave my family and my history behind me.

Fortunately, that’s exactly the weekend Liz had arranged.

I managed, barely, to get on the Pittsburgh flight, get to Liz’s house, and have a short conversation with her without blowing a gasket or collapsing from mental strain. After which, I closed the door to her guest bedroom. Leaned my back against it.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “All yours, Candi. All yours. I just can’t.”

~o~O~o~

Candi practically skipped out of the bedroom around 11:15, completely in cheerleader mode. The uniform was sleek and form-fitting, and the form inside it looked damned good. She had her hair up in a high ponytail that looked very cute while remaining practical. Her makeup screamed “wholesome.” She looked youthful, fresh, and sweet as a friggin’ peach.

“Hi, Ms. Talbott!!” she enthused. “Ready for my tryout!!!”

Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this vision of cheerful just-past-adolescence. Knowing how I had brought this about – how I had transformed that tired, grim man into this delectable girl, was like a shot of wake-me-up to every erogenous zone I had known about and a couple that I hadn’t. Damn! I want to just eat her up!

But I had a job to do. Today I was the Bitch Queen, the one who decided who got to be one of the coolest of the cool, and this girl in front of me was just a supplicant like all the rest. She would be tested. She would be pushed. She would prove herself, or she would not be one of the chosen ones.

I simply growled, “Follow me, then,” and brought her downstairs. I have an all-purpose space in the lower level that I had cleared of other stuff for today’s work, so she had about twelve square feet of space with – unfortunately – a nine-foot ceiling for her routine.

I pointed at the center of the carpet and said, “Start there when the music begins playing.”

She went to the center and stood with her right foot straight forward, the left at a ninety degree angle with the knee bent and toe touching the floor, hands on hips, head turned slightly off-center and a winsome smile on her pink lips. Her shoulders were back and her breasts pushed forward, looking positively perky. Honestly, she is too much!

I hit the music – something generic and synthesized, with a pounding beat – and watched her strut her stuff. Just as I had anticipated during my drive back from Philadelphia, the sight of Candi prancing around as a cheerleader, shaking her tits and her cute little ass at me was driving wave after wave of pleasure through my core.

She did various jumps with scissor kicks. She threw her arms high and wide while arching her back and shimmying her torso. She did a little dance with her right arm extended and her wrist held limp, left hand on hips. She shook her hair and cocked her head. She twirled. She tried high leg kicks. Finally, she finished with a leap that ended with her down on one knee, her arms outstretched, head held high, and a happy, innocent smile on her face. You could practically hear her shouting, “Go team!”

She would not have made the cut. Not my cut, anyway. I would give her high marks for presentation. Her choreography and pacing were fundamentally sound and on top of that, she exuded that nearly impossible mix of earnest innocence and flagrant sexuality that gives a cheerleader such unique appeal. Men supposedly think of women as virgins or whores; cheerleaders can – and almost have to — present as both simultaneously. Not every girl could do it, but Candi, the little minx, had it down.

But the athleticism, and particularly the flexibility, simply weren’t there. It was clear that she had worked at it – I would have been very disappointed if she hadn’t – but even Candi’s extraordinary diligence couldn’t create the flexibility cheerleaders require in a couple of weeks. Her jumps were not crisp, her leg kicks were nowhere near high enough, and she had not even attempted to do the splits.

She was sweet, she was hot as summer in Phoenix, but she would not have been on my cheer squad.

“Huh,” I grunted. “Seen prettier kicks from an arthritic mule,” I said sourly. “Stand up and give me a proper leg-kick.”

She complied.

“Again! Higher! Higher! Try the other leg. Again! Higher!” I continued harassing her.

She kept her presentation smile firmly in place, but she was starting to breathe hard and the effort to hold the smile was starting to show.

“Okay, stop,” I ordered. “Let’s see some stretches. Plant your butt and spread those pretty legs as far as you can, knees locked. Further! You can get them further apart! Now grab the bottom of your foot – The bottom, not your toes!!! Now bend down and touch your knee with your head. No! Don’t bend the knee!!!”

I put her through forty-five minutes of this kind of thing, pushing for more, more, more. By the end of it she was shaking with fatigue, drenched in sweat, and still trying gamely to hold on to her smile. Her will was strong, but it was clear that, for a cheerleader, she was short on stamina as well as flexibility. I blew twice on my whistle and called stop.

She stood quietly, lungs heaving, head down, legs slightly apart to keep her upright.

“Still think you have what it takes to be a cheerleader?” I asked, cattily.

“No, Ms. Talbott,” she said softly, head still bowed. “I don’t.” But then she looked up and, amazingly, hit me with a 200-watt, dazzling smile. “But I’m really glad I had the chance to try out. Thanks, Ms. T!”

I pointed upstairs and growled “shower!” and she managed to make her escape with the ghost of a perky spring still in her step. I watched her little butt bounce up the stairs, still putting on a show.

She got out of the shower a couple minutes later, having thoroughly scrubbed and washed her hair with some baby shampoo she brought with her. I had her set her hair with mousse and her rollers while I popped into the bedroom and laid out some towels on the bed.

When she came out, I had her lie down on her stomach, brought over some sweet-smelling therapeutic oil and began rubbing it vigorously into the muscles of her legs, starting low and working up. I worked on each arm next, starting at the top, working down, and spending time massaging each palm and pulling each finger. I moved to the sensitive spot where her skull met the top of her neck, then worked down her neck and on each shoulder. Mid-back, lower back, and then finally her ass.

She was breathing deeply and easily at this point.

A therapeutic massage hadn’t been part of my program for the day, but it’s something a trainer might do for an athlete after a tough workout, so it wasn’t entirely out of my dominant role. Given what Cam had looked like when he came in, I wanted to do something that might help ease the physical manifestations of tension that the body inevitably produces.

I put my hand gently on the back of Candi’s neck, ran it slowly down her spine, then lightly caressed her ass. I leaned over, planted a soft kiss where her neck met her shoulder, and quietly said, “Roll over, girl.” Obviously, sex is not part of an ethical trainer’s repertoire, but our relationship had a broader scope. Besides, her routine had fired me up and her subsequent docility was keeping me on a slow burn.

She rolled over and lay still as I massaged oil into the fronts of her legs. I then worked on her abs, then lightly massaged her temples and scalp. She lay there with her eyes closed, accepting every touch, resting completely in my care. Her male sex organ, exposed by her nakedness, was not hard at all; it barely detracted from the feminine vibe she was throwing off. This had clearly been pure therapy for Candi, and she needed it.

I looked her over critically as I finished my massage. Her prosthetics aside (they looked less real than usual, since the shower had affected the makeup covering the seams, and I naturally had not bothered to rub the oil that I had applied to her skin to the silicone), she looked . . . well, she actually looked good. For a girl.

The loss of weight had not looked good on Cam; it made him look fragile and too small for his frame. But while lots of girls and women had more muscle tone than Candi currently had – I did myself – most didn’t, so her body looked more feminine than it had at a higher weight. There were things I would need to discuss with Cam when we did our debrief on Monday morning.

But, I couldn’t just let her lie on a damp head of hair indefinitely. So I gave her a bit of a shake, patted her cheek twice, and said, “Break-time’s over, Kitten. Back on your feet.”

For once, her compliance wasn’t instant. But then she shook herself, popped open her eyes, said, “Yes, Ma’am” and practically jumped out of bed and onto her feet.

“Towel yourself off, find a robe, and join me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes. We’ll have a bite and discuss the next assignment.” I went into my own bedroom and changed out my gym shorts for a pair of loose gray pants. I added a collared dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and switched to boat shoes.

I stood upright and gently removed Cam’s clothes, folding them neatly and putting them into a bureau drawer. Once everything of his was put away, I said, “It's okay, Cam. I’ve got this. I’ve got your back.”

I opened my suitcase, unzipped the interior divider, and pulled out my dressing gown, breast forms, toiletries, and cosmetics. I went into the guest bathroom and took a quick shower without washing my hair. The hot water sluicing off of my body seemed to take Cam’s worries down the drain with it. Cam desperately needed a vacation, and we would both be better for it. Though his problems, I well knew, would be waiting on the other side.

Out of the shower, I put on my breast forms, slipped into a panty gaff, and applied morning makeup as instructed. Slipping on my dressing gown, I returned to the bedroom to put on the cheerleading uniform, put my hair in order and do my nails.

While my nail polish was drying, I sat at the top of the bed against a pile of pillows, my eyes closed, my breathing even, preparing myself. I thought about the cheerleaders I had known in high school. Not well, of course. But known. I thought about how they presented themselves, how they held their heads. The personality they showed to the world.

“I want to be a cheerleader,” I told myself. “I want to be the best, the hardest working, the most cheerful cheerleader ever.” I went through a mental checklist. Power! Enthusiasm! Technique! School spirit! Confidence! Leadership! Flexibility! Sexiness!

When my nails were dry, I jumped up, purposefully leaving weariness and worry on the bed behind me. I bounded out of the room to meet the coach.

She took me downstairs and had me perform my routine. I gave it my very best, working hard to get all the elements right and the transitions between them smooth so that the expressive part of the routine would come through.

Watching all of the tryout videos from the other cheerleaders and from my own practice routines, I was surprised to see how different the same element can appear – say, a jump where the girl bends arms, legs, and body sideways into a C-shape – depending on the tilt of the head, the arc of the back, the angle of feet and hands. Above all, the facial expression. Since the goal of cheerleading is, after all, to generate enthusiasm, a cheerleader has to project enthusiasm. A bit ironic in my case, since lawyers often must work to suppress it!

Anyhow, I got through my short program, confident that I had done everything just as I had practiced it. I was, however, well aware of the fundamental shortcomings of my routine, and they would be glaringly apparent to a cheerleading veteran like Liz. My range of motion was significantly less than most girls, most athletes of any gender who engage in sports requiring flexibility, and every single cheerleader ever. My leg kicks were stylish but anemic, and forget about doing the splits – a basic element of any cheerleader’s repertoire.

But I did everything that I could do, just as well as I was able to do it, keeping a smile on my face that came from my heart. For all of my shortcomings, I had found this challenge to be fascinating and exciting. I had discovered a real appreciation for the athleticism and talent that cheerleaders exhibit, an appreciation Cam had lacked when he was compelled to attend pep rallies in high school. And, I could think of few things that made me feel more completely girly, for lack of a better word, than using my entire body to try to convey boundless, joyous, infectious enthusiasm.

I finished my routine on one knee, arms spread wide as if to embrace the whole world, and beamed.

I did not expect Liz to be impressed, and she wasn’t. I wasn’t sure where she would go with that, but I was determined to meet it with a joyful heart and my smile intact. She put that resolve to the test with a grueling workout that stretched every muscle to the breaking point and left me panting for breath.

She blew the whistle to call a halt and asked if I still thought I had what it takes to be a cheerleader, and I answered her truthfully. I didn’t, I knew I didn’t, and that was okay. I had been given an opportunity I had never dreamed of to try out for a cheer squad, about as high prestige as anything in high school. I had given it everything I had, without any illusion that it was enough. I didn’t have to be a star.

So I had fun with it and my failure did not depress me at all. I felt great. The hard workout had given me a surge of adrenaline and gotten me completely into a different headspace. I thanked Liz and kept the rubber in my legs from showing just long enough to bound upstairs and hit the shower.

Liz was waiting when I emerged naked from the shower. She had me prep my hair and then lie face down on towels she had put on the bed.

I didn’t know what was coming next, though I couldn’t imagine it was sex. Nothing could look less alluring than I did with no makeup and a head full of curlers! I was surprised when she started to rub oil into my aching calf muscles – not quite what I expected Liz to do in her power mode – but she was plainly well-practiced at it and it occurred to me that she must have had experience with certified trainers. I was, as always, in her care.

And content to be so.

The massage felt heavenly and I completely surrendered myself to it. Even though she was going deep on knotted, aching muscles, she skillfully started gently and increased the pressure very slowly, easing the knots apart without causing them to spasm into resistance. By the time she was finished with my back I was boneless, resting peacefully without sleeping.

She gave a long, sensual caress down my spine all the way to my ass and had me roll over.

As always, I complied and she started on the other side. Cam, I thought sleepily, you have no idea how good life can be.

I must have dozed off finally, because I was suddenly aware that Liz had patted me on the cheek and given me instructions. My eyes flew open and I jumped up to meet the next task.

– To be continued . . . .

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