Eclectic Oatmeal

Tuck it in

Posted in short story, transexuality by Bryan on September 22, 2008

Tuck it In

I wake up
The sun is shining
My cats (Baby Jane and Margot) are purring softly by my bed.
Today is the big day.
I would celebrate the occasion by cooking myself fabulous breakfast, but the Doctor told me not to. So its time for make up.
I want to look pretty for my new vagina.
I know that I probably should just go in as is, but today is the christening. I take my lady pills (No longer will I have boxy panties!)
I walk into the waiting room. Chipper. I don’t make any eye contact with the denizens of the room. I just stare at my obtrusive penis. Who ever came up with that name. Vagina is such a fancy name for a sex organ. Like a Mercedes or a houre dourve. I’m lead to a room in which I change into the hospital garbs. Its dangling freely now, lazy son of a bitch. Just…. Dangling….
I woke up from the anesthetic. I feel a light air blowing into the wonderful valley that just was erected. Odd that I used the word erected…
I am able to go home the next day. I cradle my boys (Margot and Baby Jane) whom went through the same as I did, as we watched Thoroughly Modern Milly. Quietly sobbing, with joy?
I never went to my job as a woman. I walk into the building, enter the elevator. I went all today, deciding on wearing a matronly lilac 3 piece dress combo. I look hot for a 40 year old ex-linebacker. My coworker, Tim, eyed me, “Are you new here?”
What should I say? I look around the bland wooden panels. Okay, I made my decision. No more secrets.
“It’s Max.” I say in my sexy baritone voice. Tim looks shocked, confused, sweaty, and adorable. The tan elevator doors open with a ding, “See you later Tim.” I say in a sweetly Aubrey Hepburn voice.
I walk to my desk, all eyes on me. I remove “Max Ruebenmaucher” from my name slot. I grab my piece of paper, tore off a strip of paper; write “Maxine Ruebenmaucher” slide it through the slot. Everyone gives me a confused look when I do this ritual. I give them a snarl like I’m going to tackle them. Scratch that, beat them down with my shoe. The room is dead silent. They aren’t used to this sort of thing in Connecticut. Its potty time, a new conundrum arises. Little girl’s room and little boy’s room. My co-worker Tabitha comes into the break room sees me with a horrific expression. I walk into the men’s room by instinct. Go into the stall, slip down my skirt, and relieve myself.
I forgot that I can’t stand anymore. I wiz all over my new “unmentionables”.
Oh rats
Oh geeze
Aw, fuck
I hastily enter sitting position. Throwing toilet paper into my soiled underwear to absorb the golden fluids. This isn’t going to work. I sling my tighty yellowies into the trash can.
Going commando! Commanderess?
I walk back to my desk, feeling airy. Damn this feels great. I sit down and start doing the blasé tasks they assigned me. One of my more liberal coworkers, Greg, came up and started talking to me like nothing changed, “Watch the game yesterday?”
“Did I ever!” What? I watch more than just musicals!
I got excited and went into a “relaxed” pose. This exposed “Beverly Johnston” to the prying eyes of my coworkers.
Gasps, shock, anger. They stare at my bajingo, for ten minutes… I close my legs in embarrassment and head back to my work. Allowing Greg to flake away. That’s it, I blew it. My first day of being a lady made me an exhibitionist floosie. I type meekly at my computer, my boss comes out.
“Max”
“Maxine….”
“Max.” He said, motioning to his office.
I glare at him, angle my name slot towards his direction. He doesn’t move. “Max…”I walk into the office. “It isn’t Halloween”
“I know.”
“Then Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m dressed like everyone else.” Seriously, Alice is wearing the same thing except in khaki. Bitch? If it’s in a different color should I still be mad?
“Look, this is disruptive behavior to the staff. Go home and change.”
“I’m dressed the way I should be, sir.”
“You’re dressed like a woman!” He massages his brow.
“I’m a woman!”
“You’re a man!”
“No I’m not.”
“YES YOU ARE!”
I show him my evidence
He shows me the security.
I punch my pillow. Then I decide to cry. I’m jobless. I can’t afford the loans I made now. My boys rub their heads against my unshaved bosom. I wished I could click my heels and land back in Mansas. Where I can pee standing up. Keep my job and tackle anyone I choose. I wish Beverly Johnston would go back to Biff Johnston.
I flip through the classifieds section, looking for a new job. So far this whole woman thing isn’t whole being a woman thing isn’t fitting like a glove it should be. Would being a stylist make this easier? That could work. Don’t I need a certificate or something? I look online for a doctorate in hairstyling; I find a “Create your own Diploma!” application and get to work.
I arrive the next week at “Femme Fatale Hair care.” It’s a ghetto hair care store with an interior decorator trapped in the 90’s.
This is perfect for me.
No background checks.
Fuck ye….
How Splendid!
Betty Davis would be proud (Though I can’t help feeling that Payton Manning wouldn’t approve.)
Time to butter up the manager.
“I love your name! What does it mean?”
“O.B.G.Y.N” Obgyn said with spite. I could see years of people smiling and going “Oh…” to that steaming pile of a name. I got the job, I start the next day. Scared shitless, I buy gloves, scissors, mousse, hairspray, whatever utensils I need for the next day’s challenge. I watch another musical. Fuck it, no musical is going to calm me down. I need to keep the adrenaline pumping, so I watch my favorite pastime.
The next day I’m frightened beyond all belief. Obgyn gives me my own hair cubicle, and I get to work.
This job isn’t cut out for me. The estrogen pills didn’t turn my dark, stubby fingers into long spider long twigs.
I fumble with the scissors like a terrible pass. My customer looks in the mirror in horror. The due turned out to be an asymmetrical bob with a possibility of going into work the next day with a shotgun.
“Where is your boss!?”
I try to soothe the woman using whatever hair care solaces I can give her.
Obgyn came out of the backroom with the expression that she was in labor with an elephant.
I use the only excuse I can come up with “Its avant garde.”
Obgyn looked at me like I spoke Swahili. “Here at Femme Fatale hair care we only do five things. Shampoo, waves, dyes, cuts, and nails. We do any of that av-ant guard French shit.” She motioned toward the distraught woman to sit down at her station. This is only a minor setback in my loglist of daytime televisionesque drama issues. It’s my break; I decide to make my specialty flattops and shaves. The rest of the day consists of those two things, with a few dyes.
I come home, exhausted, slump on the couch and fall asleep to ESPN.
This is my new life.