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From: nostrumo@nienor.IN-Berlin.DE (Nostrumo)
Subject: New TG: The New Secretary   by Amy Brett  (01/11)
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Hi.

  This nifty submission is not included yet, but it will be in next
one during the upcoming weekend. This story is a refelction of the
current jobmarket and conclusions which may occur under strange and
rare situations. So folks be happy if you had a job.

  As usual I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim on it. If
you have some usefull hints or some good coments, your mail is then
welcome. Flames, you know, they will be piped to /dev/null.

  If you are an author and wish to remain anonymouns or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands for
story postings and for nothing else.

Enjoy the story.

Ciao
	Nostrumo

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<


The New Secretary


                                                               by Amy Brett


1. Chapter


The rumors had been flying for weeks and everybody was walking on eggshells
around the office.  I'd always done my job as a high paid clerk in the
payroll and records department to the best of my ability, got good
performance evaluations, and seemed to have everyone on my side.

But Friday, it suddenly didn't matter.

Fearfully, I watched a progression of guys go into Mrs.  Conklin, the
department head's, office, come out looking shaken, glum, or mad before they
started throwing their things into boxes and, after swift good-byes to their
friends, leaving early.  Of course, I knew what it was.

Tiny, the blustery 300 pound guy who ran the mail room and was an occasional
drinking buddy, came out looking pale and stopped by my desk.

"Fuckin' place," he sputtered in his typical vernacular.  "Downsizing my
ass.  She told me they're getting rid of a bunch of guys.  Just can't be
helped.  Well, fuck 'em." He stormed off.

Later, Paul Wickam, a records clerk who I thought did a marginally good job,
went in to her office and came back looking like he was going to break into
tears any minute.  When I went by to give him my condolences, he nodded with
real sadness, still fighting tears, and told me the same story essentially.

"She says their hiring practices have been so screwy for the last five years
that they have to reorganize," he said.  "They've got to get rid of a couple
dozen guys, redistribute the work here, and hire some females for several of
the departments.

"I guess they've been hiring guys and excluding women on a regular basis so
their equal opportunity numbers are all fucked up."

As a guy and as one of the male members of this department, I was worried.
I had a right to be.

My number came up about 2 o'clock that afternoon.

"Hi Andy.  Sit down," Mrs.  Conklin said.  "I suppose you've heard the
news."

"Yeah.  It's pretty hard to miss.  The place is starting to look like
there's a fire drill out there."

To her credit, she looked like she was enjoying this about as much as
getting a root canal.

"This is really a bitch, Andy.  I want to tell you.  This is very hard for
me.  I don't like laying people off." I'd always thought that was sort of a
cop-out.  They weren't really laying people off.  They were firing people.
There was no intention to ever give them their jobs back.

My personal situation struck me hard then.

I had the normal number of bills, nothing spectacular, and I lived pretty
simply.  But losing my job would change the equation completely.  Even if
they were offering some sort of severance pay, I could keep my apartment
about two weeks (until my rent was due) and I'd be on the streets.  My car,
even though it wasn't new, was still financed and might last another month
or two before they repossessed it, depending on how fast they figured out I
wasn't working.

I knew the prospects for another job in this town perfectly.  Zilch.

"What's a real bitch is that after I get done letting all you guys, who know
your jobs, go, I've got to scramble to find somebody competent to do them.
And there's about as much chance of that as nothing."

I'd heard that the job market for women was tremendous right now for some
reason.  We'd had a secretary in the department quit because she got
pregnant and had looked for weeks before we found somebody.  And I wasn't
impressed with her at all.  I'd had to spend a bunch of time teaching her
what I thought she should have known to get the job in the first place.

"I hope you know how truly sorry I am, Andy.  But you need to clean out your
desk.  That's the order.  Checks will be ready Monday."

"Is there any severance or anything?"

"We're required to give two weeks notice, as you know.  You'll get paid off
for the two weeks and any vacation time you've saved up.  But that's it.
I'm sorry.  I know that doesn't give you much time to find something else."

"There isn't anything else," I pointed out.  She nodded.  She knew the job
market better than I.

"There are some of these slugs that I don't mind getting rid of at all,
Andy," she said softly.  "But there are several of you I'd give anything to
keep.  And the other departments are the same way."

"Wish I was a girl," I said.

"Oh God!  I'd give anything.  If you could change, I'd hire you with a 10
percent increase on the spot.  It'd be worth it and then some."

I looked up at her, trying to share a little bit of a smile even though I
felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach.

What was funny was that the thought crossed my mind that what I'd said would
solve all the problems.  Mine and hers.  Maybe it showed on my face somehow.
She answered my smile naturally and, when my thoughts and, I'm sure, my face
changed, so did hers.

First she seemed to look at me critically.  Then she looked kind of
surprised.  And finally, she shook her head as if to clear it and the slight
smile returned.

"But, unfortunately, that's impossible," she said.  But for some reason, I
heard a question mark at the end of her sentence.  I thought about it and,
only after a long stretch of silence, dismissed it.

                                * * *

Monday morning, I registered with the Job Service and three different
private job search places with the same results.  "Don't hold your breath."

One had a job in a city 120 miles away that the lady said would be an "easy"
commute.  She obviously hadn't added two to three hours on the front and
back of her job before, just as I hadn't.  But I wasn't about to start
either.  Besides, the job didn't sound that great and paid less than what
I'd had.

Monday afternoon, I went in and picked up my check.  In a vague hope that
Mrs.  Conklin had changed her mind, I went to her office.

"Hi," I said to the top of her bent head.

"Oh, hi, Andy," she said with a smile.  "You don't know how I wish I had you
guys back here.  The place is falling apart and there's just nobody out
there to take your places."

I commiserated but quickly learned that there was no way she could hire me
back.  I went to leave more depressed than when I'd walked in and that was
pretty bad since I'd been on the edge of tears when I came in.  She stopped
me with a statement as I reached for the doorknob.

"Andy, if you decide to have that sex change, just yell," she said.

"Are you serious?" I said, really wondering.  What was strange about the
exchange was that it took about ten beats before she finally shook her head
and smiled rather strangely and said no.

"Of course not." But she didn't sound believable for some reason.



2. Chapter


Okay.  So I know that booze is never the answer to a problem.  In fact,
going to a bar is the worst answer to financial problems because you not
only don't find the answer in the bottom of a glass but you spend what
little money you have much faster than if you bought a six pack and took it
home.

But I needed a little noise.  Companionship.  Festivity.  I couldn't stand
my own depression that just seemed to feed on itself.  Fear.  Frustration.
Thoughts of revenge on the world.  All that.  All I needed was to sit in my
quiet apartment (that might not be mine at the end of the month) and let it
feed off itself.

I'd already thought of the possibility of shooting some EEOC type and gotten
one of my few smiles during the day.  Of course, imagining the satisfaction
and knowing the reality were two entirely different things.

At any rate, I ended up leaving my old office and going to the bar a block
away where a lot of us gathered when there was a birthday or birth or
promotion to celebrate.  Or, of course, sometimes when we just had "attitude
adjustment" meetings.  That's what we called an extended happy hour on the
occasional Friday afternoon after work.

Being Monday, the place was fairly quiet.  I say fairly because Tiny was
there with a couple of his red necked buddies (none weighing in at under two
fifty) being far louder and more obnoxious than usual.  Usually, he was a
noisy and slightly obnoxious drunk about 10 when he gave it up and staggered
home.  Noisy but fairly funny in a macho sort of way.

That night, he was already drunk at five, as noisy as ever, and not even a
little bit funny.  He was talking loudly and seriously about "kicking some
butt" in that "faggy, girly joint" he'd been fired from, starting with that
"faggot cocksucker Miller" (the CEO) and ranging through the entire male
staff.

He didn't speak to me and I certainly didn't speak to him in the mood he was
in.  I figured he could decide I was a member of the "faggot" society that
had pitched him out of his job as easy as not.  He was well beyond noticing
that I'd gotten fired as well or listening to me tell him that tidbit.

Paul was already sitting at the bar nursing a mixed drink as I pulled up a
stool and ordered a beer.  I asked him how he was doing and learned the
extent of his efforts.  Almost a carbon copy of mine.  The gal at the job
placement place had even offered him the same three hour commute and I found
myself getting a little miffed that she'd been so loose with "my" job offer.

A guy I'd seen at work a few times but who worked at the other end of the
building in the executive offices came over after a while, I think to get a
drink from the bar.

"You're Andy Brett, right?" he said.

"Yeah.  Mike, right?"

"Reardon.  Right.  I've seen you around.  Were you one of the people got
riffed Friday?" I nodded.

"Yeah.  And this is Paul Wickam.  Him, too," I noted.  Paul said hello.

"Me, too.  I guess it was pretty much across the board.  I sat there at the
boss's door all day wondering when it would be my turn.  There aren't that
many male executive secretaries." Mike was a little guy, like Paul and I,
with a spray of thin brown hair he tried to comb over a bald spot in spite
of only being in his mid-20's.

"Man, they really cleaned house, didn't they?" I noted unnecessarily.

"You guys have any luck with the hunt?"

"Nope.  We both got the same offer for the job in Hemsley."

"What?  You don't want to commute five hours a day?" he said with a laugh.
"I got that offer, too.  It must be a real shit job for them to look so far
astray for somebody."

"Depends a lot on how hungry we all get," I said.

"Yeah.  We might all be fighting over it in a couple weeks," Paul said.

There was another outburst from Tiny across the room.  Something else about
the CEO.

"Hey, you know, hope you guys don't feel the same way about Mr.  Miller.  I
was there when the EEOC guys came and told Bill he had to get rid of us and
get some girls in there.  'Or else,' was what they said.

"Bill told me later that if he didn't comply they'd threatened him with a $3
million fine that would shut down the business altogether."

"Yeah, I know," Paul said.

"I don't know how they got so out of kilter.  Maybe there's just not many
qualified women in town," I said.

"That's what Bill told them.  He said it wasn't that he actively
discriminated against women.  Just that the only people he could find to do
the jobs were guys."

About that time, Tiny tried for a behind the back pool shot and fell off the
pool table on his ass.  His friends had more than a little trouble getting
him back on his feet and launched into an extended argument about whether it
was time for him to go home and sleep it off or not.  When the bartender
decided to help decide the matter, Tiny took a drunken swing at him and got
escorted to the door.

The place was much quieter.

Paul had finished another scotch and water, Mike had just ordered his second
with us and had had at least one before he came over, and I was on my third
beer and a good little buzz.  We were all at the break point where we could
still talk rationally and would remember what we were saying but far enough
along that talk was much more fluid than normal.  It crossed my mind several
times that this would be a good time to quit, find something for dinner, get
a good night's sleep, and continue with the job search the next day.  But
like all good intentions, this one went by the boards as Mike ordered
another for each of us.

It was after six when Mrs.  Conklin came through the door, sat down at the
bar a few chairs away from me, and ordered a gin and tonic, thanking the
bartender profusely.

"Tough day, Mrs.  Conklin?" I asked, trying to be friendly.  She looked over
and smiled at me.

"Miserable, Andy.  The second worst day of my life.  Friday was the worst
but today came close."

"Still having trouble with the hiring?" Paul asked over my shoulder.

"You just couldn't believe what they've been sending me, guys," she said,
shaking her head.  "Air heads.  Wives who want to work for a month but need
to quit when the baby is due.  Old gals who've never seen a computer and
tell me they think they can do it better on a typewriter.  Two, no three
high school girls complete with bubble gum and no skills whatsoever.

"It's terrible!" she summarized.  She finished her drink in a gulp and
signaled for another.

"I know some guys who'd be willing to fill in," Paul said.

"Damn!  Don't I wish," she said, shaking her head.  She got her drink and
looked around for a softer place to sit.  I knew from experience that women,
in general, don't like sitting at the bar.  Particularly when they're alone.

She picked up her drink and headed for an open booth.

"I feel like suck a hog taking up a whole booth by myself.  Would you guys
join me?" We agreed and all went to sit at the big booth.

"Are any of you having any luck with work?" she asked and, of course, got
all the negative head shakes.  I introduced Mike but she already knew him
from her more frequent contact with the CEO's office.

"We all got offered the same job in Hemsley," I noted.

"Hemsley!  My God!  That's three hours away!"

"Don't we know it," Mike said.  "Otherwise we'd probably be fighting over
it."

"You poor guys," she said.

"Poor Mrs.  Conklin," I said.

"I'll drink to that," she said and did exactly that.

We filled in some details of our days while she filled in more of hers and
we all commiserated for a while.  Among other things, she told us about the
emergency meeting the human resources department had held for all the
department heads in the morning and how they really didn't have any ideas
for them.

"The only good idea I've heard since this started was Andy's," she said and
I wondered what she was talking about.  "You remember, don't you?"

I'm sure I looked blank.  I certainly didn't remember any idea I'd had.

"Andy suggested you just become girls.  Then all of our problems would be
over," she said.  We all laughed loudly.

Mike picked up a napkin and pulled it over his bald head, pursed his lips,
and said, "Oh, Andy, you silly silly boy!" in a falsetto.  I tried it, too,
and about choked responding to him.

We talked for a while more about how we wished we could do it since it would
solve our problems.

Paul took us all by surprise.  "You know, if we were serious, we could."

I looked at him, trying to figure out what he was saying.  "We could what?
Be girls?" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Sure.  Didn't you ever wear something of your mom's or your sister's or
something when you were a kid?" Of course I had.  My girl cousins had
dressed me head to toe in their clothes once.  But I sure as hell wasn't
going to say it.  It was probably lucky that I thought before I opened my
mouth because it gave Mike a chance to speak first.

"My parents left me at home overnight once when I was in high school and I
had a chance to try on a bunch of my mom's clothes," he said with a blush.

"How did you look?" Mrs.  Conklin asked.

"Why beautiful, of course," he said, returning to the napkin trick.

"I tried it too a couple of times," Paul said.  "I even went to a Halloween
party once dressed as Scarlet O'Hara and won the prize for best costume."

"No kidding?" I asked.  "I can't quite see you with red hair." We all
laughed.

"I think you'd all be surprised.  I know a lot of women who look more
masculine than any of you," she started.

"Well, you take that back, ma'am, or I'll just have to plug ya," Mike said
in a good John Wayne impression.  She snickered.  "Not demeaning your
masculinity.  It's just that these women are really pretty manly and if they
didn't wear makeup and the right clothes, I'm sure you wouldn't know for
sure."

"I've seen some people that I wondered whether they were guys or girls," I
noted and I had.

"Well, you'd be surprised at what some very pretty women look like when they
don't have their makeup on.  And if clothes make the man, like they say,
they really make the woman.  Half the women in the world would be confused
for guys if they had their breasts bound and weren't wearing a skirt."

We got another round of drinks, all thinking.  I don't know what Mike and
Paul were thinking, but I sure as hell knew what I was thinking.  Wondering
would be more like it, I guess.

"You know," Mrs.  Conklin said into the silence that had descended over the
table.  "The human resources people are trying to find people who can do the
work.  Women, of course.  There's nothing in the job description about being
pretty women.

"You'd be amazed at how much I'd be willing to overlook to find some women
to replace you guys."

We thought for some more.

"Of course, there are a lot of people still working with us who know you
guys and, well, we don't want any more trouble with the EEOC. But, well, how
often did you get down to my shop when you were working for Bill, Mike?"

He laughed.  "Never."

"And you guys?  How often did you go to the CEO's office?" We just smiled.
She knew we never did.

We finished our drinks and Mrs.  Conklin decided it was time to leave.

"If there's anything I can do to help any of you in your job search, you
know," she added as a smiling afterthought, "just let me know."

She left us, each thinking about the same thing, I think, but no one sharing
their thoughts.

I worked hard and tried everything I could think of from talking to the
grocery store owner to city government, looking for a job.  In the process,
I got sincere shakes of the head, many "sorry"'s, and a couple of horse
laughs when I tried for a job on a loading dock.  But not even a possible
distant chance of a job.

Friday, I went shopping.



3. Chapter


A stop at a drugstore supplied a small stock of makeup supplies and a can of
hair spray.  A stop at a department store supplied a black skirt, a cheap
white brassiere, a pair of pantyhose, and a blouse in a woman's style and
silky material but a man's cut with collar, button front, and long sleeves
"for my girlfriend."

A nervous few minutes in a self serve shoe store gained a pair of plain
white flat women's shoes that I tried on quickly as I stood in the aisle.

A discount store supplied a few pieces of costume jewelry that were probably
the hardest thing to think of an explanation for.  Why, after all, would a
man buy his girlfriend a handful of cheap plastic bracelets, necklaces, and
clip-on earrings or a watch almost guaranteed to stop working within a few
weeks just by its $15 price tag.  Rather than trying, I decided to just
ignore the salesgirl's questioning looks in favor of a thorough inspection
of a TV Guide.

That set up an afternoon of experimentation and little failures.

It took thirty seconds in front of the mirror to realize the mascara I'd
bought was much too dark and that I hadn't gotten an eyebrow pencil at all.
I washed my face thoroughly, tossed the mascara, and went to a nearby
pharmacy and watched what I was doing more carefully.  I added something
called a makeup base.

Having only gotten as far as a thorough shave on the last take, I did better
this time except for the makeup base.  Simply, it looked like I'd put the
goop on with a spoon and my entire face was exactly the same color.  I
looked dead.  I washed my face again and tossed the makeup base.  I just
hoped I didn't need it because it was a deal breaker.

The eyebrow pencil was easy enough to apply.  Like painting with a crayon.
But when I was done coloring in every hair, I looked like a blond Brooke
Shields with enough eyebrow to take over my entire face.

I decided I might as well try the mascara since I didn't expect any better
luck with it.  In the process of putting the stuff on my eyelashes, I also
put it on my eyelids and cheeks and nose.

Maybe eye shadow would cover it and I'd be able to carefully wash it off
cheeks and nose.

That was one of a few good laughs I had during the day.  Sparkling silver
eye shadow was not for me.  I looked worse than Tammy Fay.

Do it all, I decided, and put on the lipstick.  At least I had some idea of
how to put it on from watching my mother when I was a kid.  She'd done it as
if it were nothing, a dozen times a day.

I stayed in the lines, didn't put too much on, and didn't end up with
alternating red teeth.  But that's about all I could say for it.

Standing back from the mirror, my first thought was strictly a fear
reaction.  This was only slightly enhanced by baring my teeth in a snarl and
holding my hands in a Bela Lugosi bat threat.

I'd done best with the lipstick but it was far too dark for my light
complexion and blond hair.

I tried brushing my hair loosely and even spraying it with the sticky hair
spray.  It looked like I just got out of bed when I was finished and made
the fright mask complete.  I did theatrical routines from movies for myself
for a while.  Betty Davis.  "I'm ready for my scene ..." More Bela Lugosi.
A little Peter Lorre.  None of them were very good theater but they were
better theater than I was a girl.

This time I washed my entire head and, even with my hair recently dried and
sticking up all over, thought it a tremendous improvement.  "Where have you
been?  Those others didn't ...  bite you, did they?" I asked myself in the
mirror.

Okay.  So I was almost convinced.

Stripping down to shorts, I wrestled with the bra for a while, stuffing a
pair of socks in each C cup.  They were lumpy but impressive.  I posed for
myself.

I sat down on the bed and put on the pantyhose (backward first, of course).
I got them to my knees before putting my finger through the strange, sheer
material.  Although the blond hair on my legs is virtually invisible, the
pantyhose seemed to be bristling with it.

The skirt was okay and the shoes fit.  Little successes.

The blouse was the right size but unfortunately followed the contours of the
lumpy bra perfectly and didn't want to stay tucked in the back of the skirt
when I sat down.

The costume jewelry looked like the junk it is.  Little girl toys hanging,
dangling, or interfering.  Even with a good rap, the Swatch Watch didn't
work straight out of the box and just added to the "little girl playing with
mommy's things" look.

That was the second laugh of the day.  When I looked in the full length
mirror on the bathroom door.

I thought I'd seen this girl once in junior high waiting at one side of a
gymnasium during one of those enforced "dances" they made us go to.  She's
the one some guy finally had to take onto the gym floor who looked over the
top of his head as they shuffled around trying not to step on each other too
hard.

If I had to take this nightmare out in public, I thought, I'd have to kill
myself in preference to facing anyone I knew again.  The kidding would be
impossible.

"Where'd you find her, Andy?  The city pound or the pig farm?  Har har har!"

Mrs.  Conklin had said a girl didn't have to be pretty.  But she didn't say
she could be totally repulsive either.

So any chance I had at this desperate last ditch attempt looked destined for
failure.

I was glad I wasn't wearing mascara when my eyes filled with unbeckoned
tears.

It took half the time to get out of the "ensemble", into pants and a shirt,
and out the door on the way to the bar.  This "effort" definitely deserved a
couple of beers.

                                * * *

I had just ordered my second beer when Paul sat down on the stool next to
me, looking as depressed as I felt.

"Hi Andy," he said and sounded as bad as he looked.  "Any luck?"

"Naw," I said.  "You?"

"There's not a single damned job in this entire town.  I don't think anybody
retires or dies or anything."

"If there is, I don't know where it is."

He looked around as if trying to see if we were being overheard.

"Did you try the other thing?"

"You mean dressing ..."

"Yeah, yeah." He didn't want me to go too far.

"That's what I did with my day today.  It was a miserable failure."

"I did, too.  Night before last.  There's no way.  I was too afraid to even
buy clothes let alone wear them in public."

"I did okay with that.  No problems.  They just looked like shit on me and
the makeup was a disaster."

"Yeah.  I did that part.  Got stuff all over my face but it didn't look
realistic at all."

We drank our beers.

"Tiny got a job.  I saw him out at the Roadside last night." The Roadside
was a rough bar out on the road out of town.  "He's a bouncer."

I'd been there exactly once and saw two fights while I finished one beer.

"What were you doing there?"

"I decided I had to try everything possible before I pack up and try to
figure out which direction to move."

"Sorry to hear that.  That you're thinking about moving, I mean."

"It's obvious there isn't anything at all here.  I couldn't even talk to the
manager at the Roadside.  He laughed when he saw me.  Said I'd make the
patrons laugh too hard if I was tending bar."

"You could get killed out there.  I almost did in about fifteen minutes the
only time I ever went out there."

"Scary place." He finished his beer and ordered another for each of us.

We were so far into our miseries, Mrs.  Conklin took us by surprise when she
put her hands on our shoulders.

"Hi guys.  How are you doing?" Paul shook his head while I answered.

"Been better."

"Order me a gin and tonic and a scotch and water then come over to join us,"
she said.  She walked toward the booth we'd sat at before where, I noticed,
she slid into it beside another woman I could see only from the knee down.
That, I thought, looked interesting.

In a few minutes, we gained the two drinks and each picked up one with our
own and walked to the booth.  Paul slid into the booth first before I sat
down.  I looked at the second woman with interest.  She was, well, quite
interesting.

Before she said anything or looked up from the drink Paul had sat in front
of her, I scanned what I could see.  Nicely done brunette hair at shoulder
length with a little inward wave, parted in the middle.  Pretty, full lips.
An unremarkable white blouse over a lacy looking white bra that I roughly
estimated at about a B cup.  I'd seen the hem of a gray skirt at that knee
I'd seen before and simple gray pumps at the end of that well turned calf.

She looked up at me and blinked unremarkable brown eyes surrounded by a
minimum of mascara that I now recognized as a good, sensible treatment.  I
thought her little nose was cute.  Then she smiled at my inspection and I
felt that little flutter inside that said a pretty girl had just smiled at
you.

"Michelle, this is Paul and Andy," Mrs.  Conklin said, pointing in our
general directions.  The girl held out her hand in a loose, feminine way
that I never knew how to respond to handshake or gentler finger shake.  She
took my hand in a soft handshake that was both feminine and businesslike.  I
liked that.  We both said hi and she responded in a slightly throaty, low
voice that I liked.

"Michelle started working for me yesterday," Mrs.  Conklin said.  "And she's
already invaluable, taking a little of the load you guys left for me."

I frowned to myself.  It wasn't her fault that she'd found somebody halfway
decent to replace us.  In fact, I had to be happy for her.

"It sounded like you guys aren't having much luck."

"To say the least," I said and Paul seconded the thought.

"You know there isn't a dog catcher in this town?" Paul asked.  "And if they
did, I couldn't get hired."

"All the ditch digger jobs are filled, too," I added.

"Oooo.  You two do sound down."

"With good reason," I pointed out.

"Have you thought any more about my proposal?"

Paul choked on a sip of beer and I fought a glob of stomach that had just
leaped behind my Adam's Apple.

"We even tried that with such disastrous results we both ended up here
independently with the same thoughts."

"Involving drowning sorrows," Paul added.

"Tell me about it," she said.  I looked from her open face to the girl's.
She smiled again and sipped her drink.  That was the first I'd noticed the
long, red fingernails.

"Just say it wouldn't work," I noted for the record.  I wasn't going to get
into particulars in front of the girl.

"Was it the mascara or the hair?" the girl said in a sultry voice, her mouth
breaking into a self- satisfied smile.  A smirk, I thought.  A knowing
smile.  She had me stopped cold.  I couldn't, wouldn't, and didn't know how
to respond or even to clear my clenched throat.

I looked at Mrs.  Conklin with the question on my lips.  Why did you tell
her?  I felt like I'd been betrayed.

"Hey, Andy.  Did you fucking try it or not?" It had come from the girl but
with none of the demure sweetness.  This had sounded like like Mike.

Suddenly the pretty, smiling face seemed to swim in my vision and reform
under a small spray of brown hair across a shining bald pate.  I choked on a
sip of beer I hadn't started to take yet.

Paul, not under that dazzling glare of attention from the girl, said it.

"Mike?" She looked at him.  "You...you look great!"

Her smile spread and I thought she was one of the most gorgeous women I'd
ever seen.



4. Chapter


I'd stopped at my apartment, gotten my stuff, and arrived at Mrs.  Conklin's
in ten minutes flat.  So quickly, in fact, that they'd only just arrived
when I did and hadn't gotten the key out of the front door lock.

"Do you have anything to do this weekend?" Mrs.  Conklin had said in the bar
after Paul and I tumbled to Mike.

Paul's answer had been, "Well, are we ready to go?" His eyes glowed with
excitement as he looked from one to the other of us.

"Where do we start?" I asked with equal exuberance when Mike, Mrs.  Conklin,
and I were safely inside her house.

"Well, you start by taking a bath.  Not a shower.  With some bath oil and
the soap that's in the tray.  After you've soaked for a while, soap a leg
really well and use the safety razor next to the tub to shave.  When you're
done, there shouldn't be a hair I can see from your neck to your toes."

I looked at Mike, who was sitting with "her" legs crossed, on the couch.  I
thought if I could look just a tenth as good, I'd be a shoo-in for a job at
the office.  I was in the bathtub before I realized I hadn't brought any of
the clothes with me but I dismissed it and settled into the rapidly rising
hot water, the smell of the scented oil heavy in the steamy air.

I'd been there for a while when I heard the doorbell ring and Paul being
greeted.  From what I could hear, he'd stopped at a liquor store for a case
of beer and bottles of scotch and gin.

I couldn't believe that getting my fine blond fuzz off my legs was as
difficult as it was.  Every little scrape clogged the twin blades again and
required clearing.  It didn't take long before I established a regular
pattern of long stroke, shake in the water, brush off the remainder, and on
and on.  When I thought I was done, I rubbed my pink streaked leg and felt
the considerable leftovers and started over with the soap.

Thank goodness, I thought, I didn't have any chest hair.  Certainly doing my
underarms was tough enough and took almost as long as my legs.

I was on the last armpit when Mike the beautiful girl came into the room and
giggled when I ducked for cover under a washrag, blushing all over.  I
watched her with great interest as she collected my clothes and sat a pair
of lacy panties on the edge of the sink.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Ah, almost done.  Where are you going with my pants?"

"You won't need them for a while.  Come out when you're ready." She left.

I checked everywhere for hairs before giving up, getting out of the slippery
water, and drying thoroughly.  It took a little longer to dry my hair.  But
then I knew I was procrastinating.

I had to look at the panties for quite a while to figure out which way was
front.  For one thing, the label was over a leg instead of in the back.

I purposely hadn't bought panties so I knew these weren't mine.  If I had, I
would have bought something with a little more to them than this.  Resigned,
I stepped into them and pulled them into place.



                                  1

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