BURNING BRIGHT
                           ==============

                     Copyright C 1999, Daedalus

 This story contains what is known as "transgender material". It
 does *NOT* contain any elements of m/m, s/m, b/d, humiliation,
 pain, or anatomically detailed descriptions of sexual acts. If
 this lack offends you, do yourself a favour and read no further. 
 
 All characters and situations described herein are fictional and
 any resemblance to any real or fictional persons or events is
 purely coincidental. 
 
 The story may be freely copied, archived and distributed, on the
 condition of this header remaining its integral part. 
 
 =================================================================
 
 Mirrors are dangerous things and reflections they show are not
 always those one would expect. 
 
 =================================================================
 
 
 "Of course it was written by a woman! Any idiot can tell that
 from the way she expresses a genuine feminine viewpoint!.."
 
 This was just plain silly. True, Andrew always had the knack of
 coming up with a novel angle on practically anything. That's what
 it takes these days to be a successful media critic. That and a
 certain flair with words, a smart-alec attitude and preferably a
 frustrated ambition to be a writer. 
 
 This though, was clearly one of those occasions when mister
 too-clever-by-half had gone round the twist - and that despite the
 fact that he could pontificate at length about the Anima being
 really masculine in nature, on account of it being a product of
 the masculine rather than the feminine psyche. In his search for
 a novel angle on the current hot best-seller, all this
 psychological sophistication obviously went by the board. Men are
 such linear creatures... 
 
 His idea that the author of _Mirror, Mirror on the Wall_ was a man
 was just stupid, and I made the fact clear in no uncertain terms,
 throwing back at him some of his own erudition. OK... I might as
 well admit that I rather enjoyed delivering my impromptu diatribe:
 it was simply an opportunity too good to miss. He could always
 dominate an intellectual argument and it was rare enough to catch
 him straying into more touchy-feely areas. 
 
 He listened to me without interrupting, almost sliding out of his
 easy chair, his hands linked around a knee stuck up into the air.
 It was the lack of a response that finally brought me up short.
 Always a bad sign when he is not bothering with interruptions. 
 
 "A fair effort," he said when he was quite sure I'd finished.
 "But then, I understand, even parrots can be taught to repeat
 whole phrases, without apparently the slightest idea of their
 meaning. Still, decidedly a fair effort. I concede all your
 psycho-theoretical construction - I could hardly do otherwise
 without contradicting myself. But it just so happens that it
 simply does not apply in this particular case."
 
 The patronising so-and-so! He was either in a mean mood or on a
 losing ground and trying to provoke me into lashing out. So I
 grit my teeth instead. 
 
 "And what makes you so damn sure? No, don't tell me... The
 life-long and so far fruitless ambition has finally born a fruit
 after all. You are the author. Right?!"
 
 He just blinked at me for a while and then said: "An interesting
 idea. Almost, one might say, a good shot. And if I were?..."
 
 "Don't make me laugh..."
 
 "I have no intention to. I only asked a question."
 
 "No you flaming well didn't! *I* asked a question and you have
 avoided answering it. I repeat, what makes you so damn sure!?"
 
 "Let's pursue your fascinating conjecture. Suppose I wrote it."
 
 "Yeah, OK... I see. Your artistic pretensions have finally gone
 to your head. Be honest with yourself - you lack the equipment to
 really appreciate a woman's point of view. No let me re-phrase
 it. You lack the equipment to appreciate ANY point of view!"
 Oops! That didn't come out the way I intended it. Andrew had
 been known to be a touch sensitive to innuendo in the masculinity
 department. "Other than your own, that is..." I added lamely. 
 
 But it was too late. He shot up to his feet. "OK, Miss Smarty
 Pants! Choke on this!" he spat and to my surprise shut his eyes. 
 
 How to describe what happened next? Perhaps it is best to be
 honest. I have no way of describing what happened next, but a
 second later, when he opened his eyes again, locking them against
 my incredulous stare, those eyes were large, blue and belonged to
 a male wet-dream of femininity. She would have been a caricature
 if she weren't so damn near-perfect. Long mane of golden waves
 cascading over her shoulders and back, large blue eyes with
 impossibly long eye-lashes, sculpted face with voluptuous red
 lips, a body with all the right curves in all the right places...
 To top it all, she was dressed in a provocative, cleavage
 showing, floor-trailing, bias-cut dress of deep blue velvet. 
 And I didn't have to see her heels to know they would be inches
 high. 
 
 I took all of it in, more or less in a single glance, which was
 just as well because in the next heartbeat Andrew stood once
 again in her place, quickly averting his eyes.
 
 I picked my jaw off the floor and just sat there, not knowing what
 to say or do. It was Andrew who broke the silence, moving over to
 the drinks cabinet. 
 
 "A glass of something?" he asked with a slight catch in his voice.
 "Gin and tonic? Or something stronger?"
 
 "Thanks," I said finding my voice again. "G&T would do nicely."
 
 He fussed with two glasses for a while. In fact he fussed very
 much longer than it should have taken to pour my drink and
 whatever it was he was going to have for himself. But that was OK
 by me. Seeing one's boyfriend turn into a whorish sex-bomb and
 back again in a space of a few seconds, was not exactly something
 for which my education and life experience had prepared me. I needed
 time to decide whether I'd seen what I thought I'd seen. The jury was 
 still out, but as an expert witness I was inclined to think that 
 I thought I did. Let the members of the jury make what they will
 of it. Do I sound incoherent? That's OK too. I was. 
 
 "Well?" he finally said handing me the glass and settling back in
 his chair, "Aren't you going to ask me 'Where are the mirrors?' or
 something to that effect?"
 
 The stupendous inanity of it helped me to regain my feet. Men can
 be so naive, I thought to myself, as he lifted his slim glass of
 whatever it was. He really thinks I must be impressed. Let's
 face it I was, but if he thought some such visual wizardry -
 however miraculous - had any relevance to our argument... 
 
 "Impressive," I said, "And one day I will ask you about the
 mirrors or holograms or 3D projections or whatever new
 technological wizardry you've managed to get hold of. But I am
 not going to be distracted from pointing out the idiocy of your
 ridiculous assertion. Only a dumb man would think that projecting
 an erotic daydream image has anything to do with experiencing life
 as a woman, so in fact you have simply confirmed my point."
 
 Andrew sighed. To my surprise it sounded like a genuine sigh,
 rather than a theatrically exaggerated polemical device. He
 muttered something which sounded like "What the hell!" and there
 she was again, that hussy, sitting in his place, still holding the
 same glass in her manicured hand. Some part of me couldn't help
 noting that that sort of glass with that sort of drink looked much
 more at home in that sort of hand, but I refused to get distracted
 by that too. 
 
 "No mirrors," she said, and damn her blood-red talons if even the
 voice wasn't the perfect breathy sort that men find so
 inexplicably irresistible. "This is for real." She crossed her
 legs, making quite sure that I wouldn't miss the frock being
 side-slashed to mid-thigh. "All the way, in case you are
 wondering."
 
 "Yeah... And I am the Queen of Sheeba, or more appropriately,
 King Solomon! Andrew, even if it were for real, do you really
 think that taking on the image of a male sexual fantasy is going
 to tell you anything about what it is like to be a real woman?"
 
 She sipped her drink for a little while, looking at me
 thoughtfully, with her head slightly to one side. "The book," she
 said at length, "is about the heartbreak and loneliness of being
 a very desirable woman. What makes you an expert? What do YOU know
 about what it is like to be a desirable woman?"
 
 I didn't even consider my response. Any Zen master would have
 been proud of me! The next second my drink was in her face and
 dripping all over her, spreading in darker stains through that
 ridiculous frock. "Bitch!" I said. "If you take on the looks of a 
 bitch and the manners of a bitch, expect to be treated like a 
 bitch!"
 
 She put her glass down very carefully and stood up wiping her
 creamy bosom with one hand. 
 
 "Out of character," I said nastily. "You were supposed to faint
 or at least burst into tears."
 
 She must have studied with the same Zen master - her open wet hand
 hit me across my left cheek. It was meant to hurt and by golly it
 did. I clutched at my face, looking at her incredulously,
 completely at a loss as to where this absurd situation was going. 
 
 She sat down again, briefly examined the damage to the frock and
 wiped her face on a sleeve. Then looked up at me. 
 
 "Now that we've got that out of our systems," she said pleasantly,
 "Could we resume our discussion in a more civil modality, please?"
 
 As I continued to stare, completely thrown by the mismatch between
 the words - so very Andrew - and the person before me, she added
 "Sorry about the slap. It wasn't exactly unprovoked." She glanced
 down at her dress again. "Would you like a wet towel or something
 for that cheek? Cold compress does help." She grinned ruefully.
 "I should know!..."
 
 "Thanks. Aren't you going to change?" I asked, surprising myself.
 "It can't be very pleasant..."
 
 "Honey," she said, disappearing into the kitchen, "I ain't got a
 female wardrobe to hand." She returned with a wet kitchen towel
 and handed it to me. 
 
 I gingerly patted my still stinging cheek with the towel and then
 pressed it on quite firmly. "Sorry about that drink. It wasn't
 exactly... unprovoked... Could I have another, please?"
 
 She grinned: "Gin and tonic again? Or something stronger?"
 
 "Absolutely stronger. Got any whiskey?"
 
 "Sure.... On the rocks?"
 
 "Stuff the rocks!..."
 
 She raised a perfect eyebrow at me, but without further ado poured
 me a couple of fingers of amber liquid, which I am sorry to confess
 I upended in one gulp - vodka style. 
 
 "Oh, heck...," she said, "It is uncomfortable and you won't be
 convinced otherwise." With these words she got hold of the
 neckline and stretching it out, pulled the frock down and stepped
 out of it. It is hardly necessary to say that what she wore
 underneath, matched the image exactly. Skimpy negligee of
 dark-blue satin included (of course!) a suspender belt, holding in
 place sheerest stockings imaginable. 
 
 She kicked the heap of velvet aside with one of the
 vertiginously-heeled silver pumps and plonked herself on the sofa
 next to me. 
 
 "Come on," she said. "You might as well feel me, or you'll never
 believe it."
 
 I mutely shook my head and just stuck out my hand with the empty
 glass in it. She thought about it, then took the glass, got to
 her feet and went to pour me another drink. It was only a few
 steps, but I watched her undulating posterior in a haze. It
 occurred to me briefly that I must be hallucinating. Too much
 drink, or something. But when she turned back handing me the
 glass with a generous portion of whiskey, I am afraid I simply
 upended it again. Mistake, I know, but that's hind-sight for you.
 
 Things got rather hazy after that, or to put it more precisely, that
 was the last I remember of that day. I woke up next morning in
 Andrew's bed, in Andrea's arms. The first was not unprecedented.
 As for the second, I was feeling too dreadful to be bothered. 
 
 For a few minutes I simply lay there, re-assembling my 
 recollections of the previous day. "Andrew," I croaked after a
 while, "Is it really you in there?"
 
 For some reason that amused her. "You bet!" she purred. "Or did
 you think you unconsciously constructed a novel alibi for
 indulging unsuspected lesbian fantasies? Sorry, honey, I don't do
 multiple personalities. Not even to satisfy your jaded
 appetites."
 
 I wasn't at all up to following the characteristically convoluted
 meaning, but aside from the "honey", that was Andrew all right.
 Reassured, I crawled out of the bed and staggered into the
 bathroom to relieve myself, and to try getting rid of the
 consignment of sewage that somebody unkindly deposited under my 
 tongue. 
 
 By the time I felt able to face the world again, Andrew was busy
 setting out breakfast on the kitchen table. Taking one glance at
 me he put away one of the cereal plates, poured a large mug of
 steaming black coffee and thrust it into my hands. 

 "Thanks..." I mumbled, sagging onto a chair.
 
 "My dear," he said lightly, "Didn't your parents teach you NEVER
 to drink whiskey like that?"
 
 I just shook my head and sat there, wrapped in his towel robe and 
 sipping the coffee. It helped. A bit, anyway. Enough for me to 
 stagger back into the bed afterwards for a proper, and this time 
 refreshing snooze. 
 
 When I woke up, Andrew was gone. On the table in the kitchen was
 a scribbled note saying he wouldn't be back until next day and
 quite unnecessarily reminding me where to look for the spare key. 
 I made myself another mug off coffee, dressed up, locked up,
 pushed the key through the letter box and went home. 
 
                              * * * 
 
 I didn't manage to catch up with Andrew until nearly a week later.
 It's not that he was avoiding me, yet I had a definite impression
 that he was not exactly looking forward to seeing me again. In
 the circumstances I didn't find that entirely surprising. So when
 we did get together for lunch, I didn't press him until after the
 meal, when we got back to his place and settled for a drink in his 
 living room. 
 
 "Cheers!" I said taking a glass from him. "Now then, we seem to
 have some unfinished business, which at the very least requires
 clarification."
 
 "I thought you'd see it that way," he grumbled. "I really don't
 know what'd got into me, after all that time... Look, I can only
 apologise for inflicting my, er..., idiosyncrasies on you. It
 must have come as quite a shock, if I read your reaction aright."
 
 "Andrew, cut the nonsense - I am no wilting flower. You know
 perfectly well that I am dying to ask what you expected me to ask
 straight away. So, come on, Mr Smoke-and-Mirrors, spill the
 beans!"

 "Hm... Which particular bag of beans would you like me to spill?"

 "Should I help you to refresh your memory? Let's see... Your
 uncle Pete left you this chest for your personal use..."
 
 "You forget, my dear - Freudian jokes are rather passe these days.
 But to answer your question, no, not a chest. A mirror, actually.
 And it wasn't my uncle..."
 
 I groaned. "Smoke and mirrors after all... how can you bear such
 a corny story line? And I suppose the mirror allows you to change
 into whatever shape you wish, so of course you chose..."
 
 "No, silly, it wasn't like that at all! It simply reflected...
 Her. Andrea. There didn't seem to be any choice in the matter."
 
 "Am I to infer a secret yearning for womanhood?" The very idea
 seemed absurd. Let psychoanalysts babble what they like, Andrew
 struck me as the last man in the world to be turned on by that
 sort of fantasies. Then again, there was no escaping the fact 
 that we were already far into the surreal territory anyway. 
 
 "No," he said simply. "And it didn't strike me that way, if you
 want to know. She wasn't me. Not then. She was an object of
 desire, shown to me by the magic glass."
 
 "So you tried to fuck her." I grinned at him and promptly wished 
 I didn't. But instead of lashing back, Andrew looked sheepish. 
 "You didn't! Did you?"
 
 "Well, not as such..."
 
 Yes, well, I could well imagine. "Spare me the details!...
 Unless they are germane, of course - are they?"
 
 "No, no... Not at all. In the end, I just wanted to look at her -
 all the time. And eventually she looked back at me from another
 mirror - the one in the bathroom. It didn't immediately struck me
 as significant." He suddenly blushed,
 
 Unfair, I know, but I couldn't resist another shot: "So you got 
 to fuck her, in a way, after all."
 
 "Uh... Let's say it was a most interesting night, OK?"
 
 There was a sudden edge to his voice, warning me not to probe
 further. I heeded the warning and changed the tack: "But, you can 
 control it, obviously."
 
 "Oh yes. Though not when looking into the mirror - that mirror.
 Not any more. Also, the more I looked at that reflection, the
 harder it seemed to be Andrew and the easier to slip into being
 Andrea."
 
 "What is it like, being her?" I asked, genuinely interested. "Do 
 you actually like it?" 
 
 He thought about it. "It's not like that. What is it like being 
 you? Do you like being you? The questions don't really apply. 
 Whichever 'me' I am, it's me."
 
 "Oh come on... I don't believe you just learned to move the way
 she does!"
 
 "Well, no. When I am her, I just do. Just like I do as I do as
 Andrew - by just doing. If I start thinking about either, I have 
 no idea, but let go, step back and... it is all as it should be..."
 
 It was a hard work making sense of it, but there was something
 stirring on the edges of my mind: "Even when walking the streets, 
 as... her?" I am not really sure exactly what made me ask the 
 question - call it intuition - but it clearly scored. 
 
 There was a heavy pause. "How did you know?", he asked eventually.
 
 I am not one to admit easily to a lucky guess: "It's obvious! Let
 a man imagine an ideal woman and he imagines a slut. It takes no
 imagination to work out how Andrea would support herself if she
 had to. She'd be good at it too, I wager."
 
 "She was," mumbled Andrew, rapidly turning crimson red. "But she
 wasn't... isn't... my ideal woman!"
 
 There was no point being cruel, so I changed the subject: "What
 did you do with the mirror, anyway? From what you are saying, it
 is... was?... rather dangerous..."
 
 "Well, I had to put it away, of course."
 
 "Not demolish or sell?"
 
 "Good Lord, no!" - he seemed genuinely taken aback. 
 
 "Good! I want to see it. Just briefly. It sounds like a truly 
 wonderful thing, dangerous or not."
 
 "I really don't think that would be wise," he said weakly - I
 guess he'd known all along we would be coming to this point. 
 
 It took another half an hour. We both knew, of course, that the 
 outcome was never in doubt. 
 
                               * * *
 
 It was in a small dusty room with a single bare electric bulb
 hanging on a wire from the ceiling. Among other junk, there was a
 large oblong shape leaning against a wall, with some old sheets
 draped over it and secured with a piece of string, clearly making
 sure that the cover didn't slip off. 
 
 Andrew fumbled with the string for a while and, finally
 succeeding, pulled off the sheet and stepped away from the mirror
 to stand next to me. 
 
 And it was true. Reflected in it stood Andrea in her velvet frock,
 eyeing us with those provocative eyes of hers. But next to her...
 Next to her... No, it wasn't me. It wasn't even a hyper-male
 stud standing next to her, as I'd half expected. No, standing next
 to her was a huge tiger, looking straight into my eyes. 
 
 There was a slight shimmer of reality by my side and I knew that a
 part of the world conformed to the image, and that if I were to
 look, I'd see a velvet-clad woman standing there. And that
 meant... 
 
 Time literally stood still and I felt different futures peeling
 away from me and spinning off to... elsewhere. I smashed the
 mirror then and there, cutting myself badly and causing Andrew
 to know what it was to live as a woman without an escape clause.
 I tried to smash the mirror, but I should have known better, and
 only hurt myself and then had a flaming row with Andrew and never
 spoke to him again. I was drawn to the mirror by that hypnotic
 gaze of the slit yellow eyes, bespelled, knowing my future, until
 alarmed Andrea pulled me back and... no, let's leave it at that.
 I turned and ran, quit my job, quit the country and settled down
 as a farmer's wife in the depth of rural France. I... did many
 things. Some wise, some foolish, some outrageous; some
 understandable and some surprising. 
 
 And inaction is also an action. I stood there while these
 futures, and their variations and variations on variations, split
 off and spun off, leaving only the here and now. I stood there,
 no longer a crowd, but once again a singular human being, lost in
 a world stranger than anything imagined by philosophers, ancient
 or modern. 
 
 "Enough, enough...", said Andrea's voice gently into my ear. "You
 don't want to look at it for too long, believe you me...". 
 
 With those words, she put her arm around my shoulders and steered
 me out of that room, towards daylight and mundane life of a big 
 city.  She parked me on the sofa and disappeared briefly, I guess
 to cover up that incredible piece of glass, and then busied herself
 with making a coffee and holding my hand and talking to me, about
 trivia, not expecting any response - just to deposit a detritus of
 normality over the terrifying chasm that had opened at my feet. 
 
 I don't recall much from that day. At one point we made love,
 Andrea taking the lead, but keeping it very low-key; no high
 flames of desire, no fireworks, just cleansing pleasure, just
 giving and taking the way I could never do with Andrew and
 never imagined doing with a woman. It was just what I needed. 
 
 And it worked. Normality reasserted itself, as it usually does,
 even if what is normal gets drastically redefined in one's mind's
 eye. Life goes on. We are still good friends with Andrew. We are
 still girlfriends with Andrea. And I still don't know whether
 either of them wrote that wretched book. It doesn't matter. In
 this mortal life, what does one know for sure anyway? Andrew says
 I've become resigned and less driven. Andrea says I've learned to
 be more of myself. They approve, though I am not sure they are
 right. 
 
 We never talk about the mirror. 
 
 But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when I am sleepless and
 alone, at least in my mind, I know one thing with a certainty
 beyond all reason or doubt. And it goes like this... 
 
 There is a room I could enter. And in that room, there is a glass
 covered with an old dust-sheet, which I could lift. And in that
 glass, burning - oh, ever so bright! - there is a magnificent
 tiger. 
 
 Me. 
 
 Waiting. 
 

                            - o O o -