Title: Uniforming (Made to Seem) (3/5)

[hannah]

Part two.

Rita wasn’t technically a native to Seattle: she’d grown up just North in Lake Forest Park, which apparently fought tooth and nail to not be just another suburban area, which she explained over a slow lunch at Bacco in the Market that Saturday.

“Maybe you could take me sometime.”

“We could make a day out of it.”

“Pack a lunch, show me the woods.”

“Put it on the list.”

Even if she wasn’t native to the city, she’d lived in it full-time since college, and knew the in and outs of it the way House knew how to hide in closets and exam rooms. Their third date was supposed to be movie and dinner at an Duwamish restaurant with modernized dishes, but after Rita heard Cameron hadn’t been to the Museum of Flight yet, even after she’d worked down a checklist, she changed the reservation and called Cameron right back, telling her not to worry about the rebooking.

She did her best to take it in stride, to not get annoyed or angry about any of this, but she’d always been the one to go forward and make the plans, and to have so little input on it this time around took some getting used to. This wasn’t the time to make a fuss about how people usually dated. Still, no matter what she did, she couldn’t deny how much fun it was to get shown the sights by someone who knew what she was supposed to see.

Rita was waiting for her at the museum, and when she arrived, did a double-take.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing, I just…I haven’t seen you in anything like this.”

She’d gotten some new long-sleeved t-shirts and jeans after she realized she’d need casual clothes, but still wouldn’t go to work in anything less than a jacket and tie. It felt weird to go out in so little, but she was still covered. She smiled and shrugged, “I like to dress nicely for work,” and left it at that.

“Ahhh.”

“I got in the habit a while back. I like the – I think it’s a good thing to do, to present myself, should we go inside?”

“Sure.” Once they were in, Rita couldn’t slow down, the museum wouldn’t let her, and Cameron didn’t mind: it wasn’t the biggest, most elaborate museum she’d ever been to, but her enjoyment was infectious, and it really was a fascinating subject. There were model hot-air balloons and early airplanes, and cockpits she could climb into, and a temporary exhibit on modern European aircraft.

“Wow.” Rita stepped under the wing, tapping on the side of the plane. “Thirty-six people can sit in here.”

“And that’s not counting the pilot.” According to the placards, it was the latest in German engineering, designed as a joint project with English and Australian companies, and the world’s first stab at commercial air travel. “Thirty-six people, Cairnes to Perth.”

“London to Paris?”

“That too.”

“Have you ever been in one?”

“No. I’d love to, though – it’s always sounded so amazing.”

“I can’t even imagine what it’s like. I got to ride in a hot air balloon once, but yeah, I’ve never been in an airplane either.” She paused long enough for Cameron to look at her and her to look back. “You haven’t been to Seafair, have you?”

“No.”

“It starts next week and they’ve got an airshow. You can’t ride any of the planes, but you get to see some in action.”

“Oh, no. Hold on. It’s time I asked you on a date, it’s only fair.” She smiled. “Would you like to come to Seafair with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. So what is it, besides an airshow?”

Rita giggled, and eight days later Cameron learned Seafair was a month-long extravaganza that took over the whole city and was never the same two years in a row. It had races, marathons, a carnival, unhealthy food on plates and sticks and in wrappers and cups, a couple of parades, pirate ships, all sorts of street musicians and artists, and the chance to lose yourself and your date in the crowd. Fire jugglers weren’t as romantic as Ferris wheels, but more exciting to watch when the lines got long.

“The air show’s at the end of the month, over there.” Rita pointed when they stopped at the top of the wheel’s circuit. “You can get tickets for it all over the city, but you have to get there the day of for a good view.”

“What about from one of the hotels?”

“Even if you had a room, you’d miss out on all the sounds. It’s an essential part of the experience.”

“I guess I’ll find out.” The wheel hitched and started to move again, and they began heading down. They went over to get some ice cream and ate it slowly while they walked around, talking and pointing out the sights as they noticed them, just having fun, the whole time Cameron feeling more like herself than she had in a long time. It felt like going out to a carnival with her sister, or strolling through shops with friends in college – casual and good, and friendly, and at ease with the person she was with, not having to hide herself.

They had sex that night. It wasn’t nearly as fast as it’d been with Nancy, but that made sense: this wasn’t a fuck, this wasn’t screwing, this was sex, which was something completely different.

They’d just gotten inside Rita’s apartment, the door locked and the jackets hung up, and Cameron put her hand on Rita’s shoulder. She turned around to look up at her, and she looked down – still so strange to do that, even now – and just like in the movies, she tilted her chin up, leaned in, and gently kissed her. Soft, quiet, dry, just lips on lips to let her know. She pulled back, let Rita choose the next move – and that was moving up, kissing Cameron, kissing her hard and grabbing her hair and pulling her down and in and gasping when Cameron grabbed her hair too, which made her groan: she’d missed this texture, long shampooed hair between her fingers, she hadn’t felt it in ages. She groaned again, and kissed Rita deeper, just feeling what she had to give, before Rita let go of her hair to move down to her shirt, grabbing the bottom and tugging it off. Cameron took the message, stepping away to pull it off.

They both took off their shoes, then started undressing and heading to the bedroom at the same time. Rita took longer – shirt, petticoats, garters and hose and underwear – and by the time Cameron was in her underwear Rita was only unhooking her bra to stand there in nothing but her skirt.

She scrambled to think of something a man would say in this. ‘Brings out your tits’ wouldn’t do it, ‘you look great’ wouldn’t either, ‘I’m happy to be here’ – she grinned as hard as she could and said “You are fabulous.”

Rita giggled, blushed, and pulled out her bun, letting her hair tumble down and wave around as she shook her head. She unzipped and stepped out of her skirt. Cameron reciprocated and pulled off her underpants, let Rita push her back onto the bed and go back to kissing, running her hands up and down Rita’s back as her hands went to Cameron’s hair. Over the long curve of her back down to her rump, her ass, skimming over it to run back up into her hair, wide open-mouth kisses with the whole of her body against her own and so much and she missed being this close so much she couldn’t even remember. She whimpered and turned it into a groan and reached down between her legs.

“Here,” Rita whispered, “Let me,” and moved down to grab Cameron’s penis, still soft and not ready yet, and Cameron couldn’t hide her gasp as anything else. Her hand was so much smaller than what she knew but she knew what she was doing from the outside and she’d never been touched like this by anyone else and she was getting hard faster than she thought she could. She wanted to grab Rita’s hands and squeeze them tight around her penis and keep them there and let her touch her all night but she wouldn’t get to do what she’d come here for, and did grab Rita’s hand and it was so small in her own and held it still and asked, “Do you have any condoms?”

Rita let go and flopped on Cameron’s stomach to reach over to a drawer and in some way that felt better than the masturbation, the way the kissing felt so good. She was back up in a moment, grinning at her handiwork, “Looks like he’s ready to play.”

“Oh, please,” Cameron squeezed her eyes closed, “please don’t separate it, I’m ready to play.”

She ripped the condom open, flicked the tip to test. “On top?”

“Nuh – no, no.” She smiled to make it genuine – she liked being on the bottom, looking up at someone into their face not because it was more intimate but because that’s how she’d learned to have sex and she liked it was used to it. Rita rolled the condom down and she gasped and arched again, and she whispered close in her ear that they had all night she didn’t need to come yet. And she kissed her again, holding her head in place her tiny hands on her cheeks and straddling over her chest.

She’d whispered, “You don’t need to come yet,” and kissed her and Cameron kissed her back and held on so gently like she might hurt her, she’d never tried holding anyone and she didn’t know what to do but it didn’t matter because Rita was grabbing her penis again and holding it right and she was inside of her and all she could do was pant and hold herself still. Rita went slow, and Cameron stayed still, and she wanted to thrust up but didn’t want to move because Rita had her hands over Cameron’s chest and this all felt so good – and suddenly she did, she didn’t know why, but she grabbed Rita’s hips and cried out and thrust right up and she heard Rita cry out too but didn’t care, it was warm and soft and all around right where it hurt to feel so good.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, “oh fuck, oh fuck.” She looked up at Rita: eyes open, big smile, ready and proud of herself and Cameron couldn’t blame her, not when she knew she could make her feel this way.

Rita began to move, soft little small movements back and forth rocking, and Cameron ground her heels into the bed and tried to follow her, moving with her wanting more of that of this of how close she was all inside. She did something, tightening herself, and Cameron jerked her head back, thrusting up harder than she had before, and Rita laughed again, a good laugh, and she did it again. She looked Cameron right in the eye and took her hand and moved it to her breast – and that – that was more of a distraction than anything. It felt like a breast. Cameron took it in her hand, feeling the weight and shape of it, not feeling anything for it in particular.

She caught her mistake, reaching up for Rita’s face and pulling her down into another kiss, holding her in close as she thrust up hard, hard, deep in that in her – moving to kiss her neck, take in the smell of long clean hair, wrap her arms around her and push her hips as hard as she could again and again and practically scream when the tight pressure outside herself shot through and all she could do was hold on to Rita as she came.

She slumped back against the bed, trying to get back to breathing normally. Rita was still around her, but now she didn’t want to move, she just wanted to be in her for a while longer, nothing else. But she knew Rita wanted something, so she nuzzled Rita’s face and moved down to that little spot she missed so much some days, rubbed it gently and nicely, and when Rita came she felt more jolts, more shots, lying so close on top of each other for a little while longer before Rita sat up, moved off, and grabbed and threw the condom away. She was back next to her a moment later, kissing again, running her hands over her chest, murmuring things she couldn’t quite hear. She was too tired.

“Come on.” That was spoken, that she could hear. “Let’s go to sleep.” Rita rolled over, tugged on her arm; Cameron took the cue and lay her arm over Rita’s side, pulled her in close. Too tired to care about anything but having someone this close, she felt herself drift off, still smiling.

-

The next morning, Cameron woke up on the other side of the bed with Rita still snoring quietly and an arm wedged under a pillow. She got up and showered as quietly as she could, put on the same clothes from yesterday, and got a ride back to her place after a very slow, very early lunch at a local sandwich place.

“Do you think they get a lot of people coming in here in – our situation?” Rita asked.

“This has probably happened a million times here. They’re open at nine on a Sunday.”

She already knew not working in the same department went a long way to keeping any weirdness out of the relationship, such as it was – this was, by all practical measures, her first real relationship in a long time. It was a relationship with morning-after sandwiches, with shared lunches outside of the hospital and afternoons on local walking trails in the parks with holding hands. She’d kiss Rita good-morning and good-bye, because that’s what a good boyfriend did; she waited for her with little gifts, tiny plants with painted frogs to put on desks and windowsills, because that was what good boyfriends did, too.

The reward was more than worth it. Not even the sex – yes, sex with a penis was fantastic, and she loved it to tears, literally tears the second time Rita planted her on the bed and held her there and rode her up and down. But at the same time, what she liked more than the orgasms was the before and after, the kissing and holding.

She couldn’t tell if it was the hormones her brain dumped out, something to do with the giddiness of being with someone for the first time in ages, or something else she’d somehow overlooked. It wasn’t something she tried to think about except when there was a problem. It was getting more frequent. A new relationship meant sex, and Rita liked it quite a bit, so that meant quite a bit of sex, but for Cameron, it was becoming harder and harder – well, not to fake it, but to keep it up.

The third time they’d had sex it was fucking, over at her place for a change, Rita on top as she always was and as fantastic as it was Cameron suddenly realized, thumbing Rita’s nipples, she didn’t want to be doing this. She didn’t know what it was she didn’t want to be doing except this whole thing, and it was so full a feeling she stopped for a moment, freezing in place, not sure what to do next or where to go. Rita kept going, not noticing or hoping her moving would help, and Cameron got back into the groove a moment later, but didn’t get to sleep fast that night even though it was her bed this time.

The fourth time was the next morning, and even though Cameron couldn’t do much, claiming a headache, she made sure Rita enjoyed herself, a point of pride for herself. They had to rush to beat the morning traffic – and what a bitch it was that laughing over the disc jockey in the car was better than sticking her fingers up her cunny.

Five didn’t happen. They’d kissed and ground against each other just like normal, they’d fallen onto bed just like normal, and Cameron had reached down to jack herself just like normal – but what wasn’t normal was nothing happening. She groaned against Rita’s tits, their softness strange to her cheeks, trying to think how good it’d be to be buried up to her balls and shoot out inside her, but nothing, no response, just a limp cock she was holding almost as an afterthought that she didn’t even like to touch when she used it to piss.

“Oh, honey,” Rita murmured, reaching down to help, but even someone else’s hand on her didn’t do it, didn’t do anything, not even a buzz just an itch that wouldn’t get scratched. “Hmm,” she tried again, shifting her grip, tugging down and pulling up, and nothing was working. “Is something –”

Cameron burst into tears. Rita let go. She’d wanted that, even though she wasn’t supposed to, and she started to cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to get out.

“Al, look, it’s okay, I know it doesn’t always work. We can still have fun.”

“It’s not that.” She threw her arm over her face.

“Look, you’re tired, you’ve got a headache, you’re not ready, it doesn’t matter, you don’t – please stop crying.” Her hands were on her arm and she flinched away from them.

“It’s not that!”

“Is, what, is something wrong? Is there something I need to do?”

“No! It’s not, it’s not you, it’s not that, it’s, it’s me I’m sorry I’m sorry.” She hadn’t ever wanted this, it wasn’t anything like what she’d ever – this was wrong, this was what she’d been afraid of.

“What? What are you sorry for?”

She took a deep breath, and another, and ran her hands down her face but couldn’t stop crying. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Al, what –”

“It’s not Al. It’s Allison.”

“A – I’m sorry?”

“It’s Allison.” She took another deep breath, gulping in air, trying to get stable enough to talk. “Allison.” She looked up at Rita, knowing she was a fright – she’d hate her fucking guts but she needed to say it. “I’m – I’m not, I wasn’t born –”

“You’re an andro?” Rita tilted her head to the side, as though that’d help her see Cameron better. She nodded, mute. Rita nodded back, and Cameron didn’t know what that face meant, was afraid it meant something bad – and Rita just looked at her quietly, and then lay down next to her, gently, not touching. Cameron didn’t look at her and rolled on her side, and she felt Rita’s arm lie down over her chest.

“So your name’s Allison?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“It’s a good name.” From her tone, Cameron could tell she was picking her words carefully. “I’d like to use it, but if you want me to keep using Al, I understand.” They lay there for a while, and then she said, “Do you just want to lie here for a while?”

“Yeah,” still quiet.

“Okay. I’ll stay a bit, and then I’ll go put the water on, and I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to come out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She felt the bed shift when Rita finally got up, and heard the kettle whistle and cut off sharply. When she finally shuffled into the kitchen after grabbing her pants and shirt, Rita had two mugs on the table, and she pushed one to Cameron, who took it as soon as she sat down. The tea was dark, smoky, and about room temperature.

Cameron took a sip more for courtesy than thirst. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” She said it with more force this time. “You fucked me when you didn’t know I’m an andro. You should be mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because – because that’s what people do. They get mad if you don’t tell them and they’re angry you didn’t before.”

“Have you told other people?”

“No! Why would I?”

“I’m mad you didn’t tell me, but I don’t understand why you wouldn’t before.”

“Because of how we’re having this conversation. Because I know you’re going to look at me differently now that you know about me.”

“Why wouldn’t you just tell me?”

“Because!” She could feel herself crying again and didn’t try to stop it. “Because I hoped I wouldn’t have to, or need to.” She wiped her face and kept crying. “I’d hoped I could just go through and not need to tell anyone.”

“But wouldn’t it have been better for me to know?”

“No,” she shook her head, “Maybe. I just, I just thought I could be normal and not tell anyone.”

They sat there for a while, tea getting colder. Finally Rita said, “When did it happen?”

“Almost two years ago. More like eighteen months.” She couldn’t count down the precise number of days and weeks without stopping to add all the months, but she remembered the afternoon when she’d self-diagnosed something which wasn’t general hunger and strain from exercise and realized what was actually happening to her. If she stopped to think, she could pull back the exact sense of loss and horror and fear over what was happening to her. Puberty hadn’t come close. And she knew that Rita would go ahead and say something about how of course this was why she acted so weird sometimes, and why everything she did was wrong, and why she didn’t walk right or use the right tone of voice or any of a million things she just didn’t know, and took a large gulp of tea.

Rita stayed quiet, and finally said, “Why did you go out with me? Why try dating me?”

“Because dating women is what men do. I wanted to fit in.”

“So I was just a way for you to be normal?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I like you, I like being with you, even if I wasn’t a guy I’d still want to hang out with you. But now that I’m…”

“Now that you’re a man you want to have sex with me.”

“Well, no.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I like having sex, I just don’t really like it with…I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“Yeah, I can’t really believe it either.”

“So what do we do now?”

“It’s nearly one, so I think we go back to bed. But I can take the couch.”

“Shouldn’t I get the couch?”

“You’re a guest. I’ll take the couch.”

It was too early in the relationship for pajamas and toothbrushes at each other’s place, so Cameron just slept in her underwear. She got up before Rita again, and showered as hard and hot as she could stand, scrubbing everywhere and everything twice over and then stood in the blast for a while after she was washed down. She tiptoed past Rita to the kitchen to wash out the forgotten mugs, started some oatmeal on the stove, and sat and waited for her to get up.

It didn’t take too long after that, Rita shuffling in with a bathrobe on once Cameron was halfway done with her bowl. She didn’t get a chance to say anything, Cameron cutting in, “I understand if you don’t want to speak to me again.”

“What?”

“I – you don’t?”

“Allison,” hearing her name didn’t feel weird, and on some level she wondered if that was weird, “It’s a lot to process. And I like you, but –”

“If you don’t want to fuck me, I understand.”

She nodded, cocking her hips and pointing a finger, “That, yeah. I’d rather not see the guy I’m about to sleep with start crying because he can’t get it up.”

Cameron smiled. “I think that’s just me.”

“I’ve had other guys get embarrassed, but nobody’s cried.” She made her way over to the oatmeal, lifted up the cover and sniffed.

“Were you able to guess anything?”

“No.” Cameron knew if they were looking at each other, they couldn’t have this conversation. Rita went on, spooning oatmeal into a bowl, “I mean, you’re a bit talkative for a guy, but you did a really good job.”

“Really?” She couldn’t stop her smile. “Thanks. I was trying to act the way men should act.”

Rita turned around, “You were doing a good job of pulling it off, but there were…just, these little moments.”

“Like what?”

“You were…I mean,” Her free hand spun like she was trying to spin the words out of the air. “You were acting like a man should act, but you weren’t acting like a man would act.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

She sat down with the oatmeal. “Do you know any guys you could talk to? Maybe it’d help.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really hung out with any other men.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

-

It wasn’t so strange to find ways to get to know the few other men in the hospital: consults were a fact of life, she knew most of the nurses from rounds, and sitting down with someone eating alone in the cafeteria wasn’t too unusual. The problem was that she’d been working here long enough that she knew it’d look a little weird for her to start making conversation now – that, and integrating herself into already well-established social circles took time.

She’d thought she’d learned how to talk to other men by talking to patients, but after three minutes of trying to talk to Conte about the weather, she realized she’d learned to talk to patients as a male doctor, not as a fellow member of the gender. She’d adapted most of her old doctor-patient and doctor-doctor speech patterns for those situations and none of them worked in something with someone on the same level. Here, now, it wouldn’t work for back-and-forth about the recent rainstorms, and neither would talking like a woman, so she took the coward’s way out and moved to another table to eat alone.

Telling someone she needed a tutor or asking for advice would be an admission, and she wanted that even less than she wanted the help, but there had to be some sort of compromise between coming out at work and staying hidden in her office.

She settled on calling Wilson. After the ‘it’s great to hear from you’ and ‘how are you doing’ small talk portions of the conversation, she explained why she was calling. He sat back in his chair and nodded. “It’s really not as complicated as you think it is. And no, there isn’t some secret guy club where you need to know the handshake – but there are some mannerisms you should look out for.”

“Like what?”

“In general, there’s a lot more emotion going on. It’s okay for someone to admit he’s unhappy about something to a group without having to be coy, and it’s very rude to interrupt. Men don’t speak over each other the way women do. Are you taking notes?”

“I am now.”

“Good. Also, I know it’s the hard part, but don’t try to ‘act casual.’ Everyone can tell, it doesn’t fool anybody, and it won’t do you any favors.”

“So what should I do instead?”

“Accept you’re going to screw up a conversation every now and then and move on with your life.” He gave a little snort of laughter. “Treat it like a diagnostics session and learn from your mistakes.”

“Analyze the situation within an inch of its life as cynically as I possibly can?”

“If it helps – how has work been, by the way?”

“Pretty good, actually. I just got a patient with Sjögren’s Syndrome.”

“Really?”

“Kanin didn’t believe me until she got the test results.”

“I don’t think House has gotten that one yet.”

“Should I call him to gloat?”

“I think an e-mail would be plenty.”

That turned out to be the case: four days later, she got a reply that consisted entirely of ‘Congratulations. Now don’t bother me unless you’re naming something after me,’ and she wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Wilson’s advice was spot-on, too. She knew all eleven men employed on her floor and a handful of the others scattered around the hospital. Talking to them turned out to be an easy matter of keeping her head up, walking slowly in the hallway, and giving a friendly, open, male smile as a greeting. After that, eating lunch with them in the cafeteria wasn’t so awkward, and she knew she could move on from there to friendly drinks after work, and maybe, if she did it right, some sort of outing. Building it up deliberately, a step at a time, might not be the way most people did things, but it didn’t come so naturally anymore, so it was all she could do.

Of course, just because she was doing something right didn’t mean other people recognized that. George Pressler’s blood work had just come back positive and she was five minutes away from a shouting match with Chalke.

“I’m not saying that,” she said for the third time. “Look, I’m not saying we should go in there with a ticker-tape parade and a dancing chorus line but we have an obligation –”

“No, we don’t. Not about what you think we do.” She came up to Cameron’s chin and didn’t think anything of having to look up to make eye contact or be less than six inches away to do it or put a finger in her face to make a literal point. “I don’t know where you’re coming from with this tripe on informed consent, coming in here with it, but we’re not here for his wife or the kids they’re going to have someday, we’re here for him. He doesn’t want us to tell her, we won’t tell her, he wants to tell her himself we’ll let him. You got that?”

There’d been too many times when telling other people got her a little bit of information that turned out to be the right bit to help cure them – or find the source of the African Sleeping Sickness – but she knew from how Chalke was looking at her, and how she knew she should act now, that if she said anything it wouldn’t end well.

“I said you got that?”

“I got it.”

That got her to move away, back off, look down at the file and update it with two taps. “Why did I even bother?”

Cameron knew the answer was because she was one of the best damn doctors in the hospital and her consult had helped find what was wrong with him, but there was no way she could talk back without enforcing the overwrought male stereotype she hated being pegged into. She didn’t cry in her office, but let herself wallow in the fact that there wasn’t anything she could do to make people look at her like she was herself.

Almost all. There were two short paragraphs near the end of her Little Blue Planet guide about the sort of people her mother sometimes euphemistically referred to as ‘the outdoors type’ and where someone should travel if they happened to fit into that group. Cameron supposed, by a very odd and bent look at things, she might well qualify as a member now.

The guide didn’t have any specific information on where to go, or what to see, but rather listed a couple of other guides and websites discreetly; she didn’t visit them at work, instead waiting to get home to check out the bar and hangout listings. There weren’t any within walking distance of her apartment, but there turned out to be a few clustered fairly close together a short bus ride away. They were also near some reasonably interesting shops, so she had some pretense to walk by and look at them from across the street in their off-hours, and come back when they were busy the next evening.

Even without going in, even just sitting across the street and knowing what went on in there – it didn’t matter if nobody knew about her going in. The admission of the implications, even to herself, was almost too big to deal with.

Two nights after that she managed to drag herself inside. On some level, she’d known she wouldn’t find debauchery dripping from the walls, but at the same time, the whole place was a very low-key affair, with men hanging out and drinking and talking quietly. She tugged her shirt down on reflex.

Oh, hell. Nobody here knew her, and she probably wouldn’t come back. She made her way over to the bar and ordered a stout. The bartender raised an eyebrow, but pulled a bottle out anyway. As she drank, grimacing over how cold it was, she looked around at the men in pairs and alone, noticing the way some of them kept just enough distance and some of them leaned in close to each other the way men usually did with women.

She didn’t know if any of her usual patterns of interaction applied in this type of situation. At this point, she’d already paid for her beer and could leave at any time. Knowing that helped, and she took another drink, tilting it correctly, and looked around again. There was someone else alone, looking at her, and when he caught her eye she smiled. He smiled back, got up, and moved to sit down next to her.

“Well, hello.”

“Hi.”

“I’m Miles.”

“Al.”

“Are you new here?”

“I’ve never been in here before, no.” She glanced at what looked like his Brandy Alexander. “Why?”

“You don’t look comfortable enough for it to be anything but your first time.” He smiled. “Is it everything you expected?”

She held her hand up flat, tilted it from side to side. “I was thinking it’d be something…um…”

“More burly? More outdoorsy?” She nodded, embarrassed. “We can’t all live up to Uncle Walt.”

She tried to get a handle on what he was getting on, tried to think of a way to smooth out the situation. “I’m not trying to. I’m just still not sure how…” she trailed off deliberately, looking down at her beer and then back at Miles, whose expression was now a lot more generous. He wasn’t a woman, and he didn’t think she was, and in any case the ways to pick up women wouldn’t work in this case. It’d been a long time since she’d tried to pick up a man and couldn’t remember everything, and didn’t want to risk doing something wrong. She might as well go for broke. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh.” He nodded.

“Am I that bad?”

He smiled. Good; she’d wanted to be funny. “Not that bad, but there’s plenty of room for improvement.”

She ordered both of them another drink and a basket of pretzels, which they ate slowly as they kept talking, joking, moving closer together until their thighs were pressed against each other on the long bench. It didn’t take long until he leaned in close to her ear and said, “I’ll be at the corner. Come out in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“The paddywagons don’t usually come around on Fridays, but it’s better to play it safe. It looks different if we don’t leave together.”

“Oh.”

He gulped down the last of his drink. “Ten minutes. Corner.” She watched him leave and waited twelve. True to his word, he was under the streetlamp, looking just like a character from a movie. They didn’t say anything when they walked to his car, got on, and drove off to his apartment, her sitting and looking out the passenger seat’s window at the streetlights flicking past. She didn’t look right at him until they finally got to his living room, when she stood right next to him and looked him in the eye and brought her hands up to his face and kissed him. He kissed her back, his own face tickling hers in the way she’d known for so many years of kissing men, but it felt different now, her own face must be tickling his too, her own face so wide and ragged in the mirror. If she let the alcohol work and let herself stand behind it she felt more like a woman than she had in ages being wanted by a man.

He held her head in his hands like she was holding his, and he kissed her so different from the women she’d kissed, different the way she liked not soft not letting her take charge but them being in charge together. She wrapped her arms around him and kept on kissing and she whimpered just a bit as he pulled away. She was getting hard between her legs, just a little bit but still plenty, and she wanted to leave it alone for more of the rest because she didn’t want it over so fast.

“Come on,” he panted. He let go, and so did she, following his lead and taking off clothes and shoes and making their way to his bedroom. She peeled off her shirt in the hallway and he looked at her like she was the most delicious thing he could imagine. And it didn’t make her want to hide, being looked at like that. He grinned, “Wouldn’t kill you to show that off.”

She grinned back, moved in close, pulled off her pants and stood naked for a moment, enjoying how he looked at her all the way up and down. He tossed his shirt aside and he was naked too, now, and she knew she was looking at him in the same way: she hadn’t seen a naked man outside of the shower in way too long and she loved how they looked and she wanted that right away. She felt just like herself in a good way, in the way she felt high in her chest whenever anyone looked at her like that no matter who they were and she pinned him down on the bed and licked her lips as she looked at his hard-on inches away. He made a sound as she wrapped her lips around it, swallowing the bits of liquid leaking out. Nobody talked much about this but it was something she took a lot of fun in, that she liked being able to do well. She knew it counted as sex just as much to someone ramming their cock into her cunny, and made sure to do it right.

It’d been a long time since she’d done this but she still remembered how to measure how much teeth by the way he grunted, how to use her tongue to slide around and use just the tip to tease around the head, work her throat down and pull her cheeks in –

“Whoa, wait, wait,” Miles grabbed her shoulder. She kept his cock in her mouth and looked up at him, but he pushed back and she moved away. “You’re – you’re good at that. I mean really good – I thought that was your first time today.”

“It was.” She smirked. “My first time in that bar, not my first time with a man.”

“Oh.”

“So can I get back to that?” She licked her lips for effect, to try to get him to say yes.

“I’d love to,” he moved to stroke her hair, “but I’m not seventeen, and if you keep doing that you won’t get any fun.”

“What – this is fun.”

“Fun for me, not fun for you. You know what I mean.”

She didn’t. She just looked at him and he smiled. “If you don’t want to, we could – ”

“No, let’s do it.” She didn’t want this over yet, didn’t want him to stop looking at her like this. “What, what did…”

He pulled her up, kissed her deep, “Fun for both of us.”

She relaxed into it, running her fingers over his broad shoulders, “Okay.”

“Good.” His hands were on her back, running up and down her spine, going down to cup her ass, going down to – to –

“Fuck!”

“That’s the idea,” he drawled, circling around, rubbing lightly.

“I – I didn’t, I don’t.”

He stopped kissing, looked her right in the eyes. “If you don’t want to, just say no and I’ll stop.”

She did and didn’t, she wanted to keep going with him stay in bed and hold each other she couldn’t do what he wanted she had to if she wanted to stay, “No. I mean, yes, let’s do it.”

“You sure? I mean, you –”

“Would you just fuck me?”

He blinked, shook his head sharply, “Okay.”

She wasn’t feeling drunk at all now, nothing fuzzy or soft around the edges, but she let herself sit back and let him take charge, kissing him hard. “This I haven’t done before.”

“You’ll be fine.” He moved out from under her and she watched him get a small tube of something out from the bedside table’s drawer, rubbing it between his hands, “Lie down and put your knees up.” She did, resting her forehead on her elbows, feeling a bit silly which was so out of place she almost didn’t know what to do about it except sit back in her head and try not to do anything.

His hands were on her and that was good until they got in her, the tip inside and she jerked away and he whispered, “It’s okay” and kissed her on the small of her back and he meant it but it wasn’t okay she didn’t have her cunny and he wasn’t going to go inside her that way and it wasn’t right for her this way. But she wanted his hands on her and she couldn’t say no now she knew that so she stayed quiet and still as he pressed his fingers inside.

It didn’t feel like anyone fingering her, and when she felt the bed shift and his hands on her that was almost good, almost with his weight on her back that she liked – and then he started to press inside her and she jerked again and hissed and it didn’t feel the way it should with something pressing inside. It didn’t it didn’t it shouldn’t she wanted to go but this wasn’t how it should go with her and a man, it wasn’t correct or right she should have his cock in her cunny where she was soft and open and ached for touch not where it hurt to press not a place she didn’t want something to be not like this at all.

But he was pressing down on her and whispering how good it felt, and she hissed, and that sounded like she liked it. She stayed as quiet as she could as he moved, thrusting in and out, his hips slapping against hers as he went faster and faster and it felt wrong and she felt so dirty and didn’t want to be here and when it was over and he’d stopped he lay on top of her and kissed her ear and whispered how good she was. He pulled out of her and that felt terrible too, and he pulled her so they were spooning, him up all close to her, and he held her close and kept whispering. She didn’t listen. She lay there for a while before she knew he was asleep, his arms around her.

She stayed like that, him holding her, for a while longer. Then she got up, gathered her clothes, went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower as hot as she could stand. She used his soap and scrubbed her face, her hands, her legs, between her legs, everywhere she could think of. After she got dressed and left a note on the fridge saying she had a good time, she let herself out. It wasn’t at all polite, but she didn’t want to be in there any more.

The cab driver tried chatting with her, but she kept staring out the window at the lights flicking past, and he stopped trying after a couple of blocks. When she got back to her apartment it was barely morning, with a couple of hours to go until dawn; she didn’t want to sleep, so she turned the TV on and started to work her way through another one of Farkas’ discs. As soon as it was light out, she threw on her sweats, laced up her shoes, and started running.

She wasn’t angry, she didn’t think she should be angry, this wasn’t something she did to be angry over – this was something she did wrong, something she thought she’d know but didn’t and that she should’ve seen coming. Her feet beat against the pavement, harder and faster, her whole body aching in ways she didn’t want to think about but reminded her of when she’d shifted with how much everything just hurt.

Rounding a corner, going down another block – she should’ve known better than to think it’d be good or it’d be right when nothing was right anymore, when nothing worked the way it should, of course it wouldn’t have been any different. It’d been good but it wouldn’t have stayed good and she should’ve known that because what she was now meant it couldn’t be good the way it was supposed to be good, all it could be was bad and wrong.

She got back home sweaty and aching, breathing hard. The next week, she did her best to stay as in-character as she could: she still accepted consultations and greeted everyone, but if she didn’t have to leave her office she stayed put, door closed. She wasn’t angry with herself or Miles – she knew she should have known better than to think it’d have been the same, or at least, she should’ve known to think things through, or she should’ve known to stop him and just ask for mutual blowjobs. Even a handjob. Even claiming some sort of disorder where she couldn’t get a hard-on without chemical assistance and all she wanted to do was give him a blowjob and cuddle. She’d known a couple of guys who would’ve been perfectly happy with that arrangement.

The worst part was that, aside from knowing she hadn’t been able to think through the situation as it’d happened, she really missed how Miles had looked at her, and she wanted to go right back before she’d gone down on him. That, and wanting Miles – anyone else with a penis – was just so incorrect. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it, except wait and hope it would go away. It’d be a long time before she felt up to dating, though, she knew that much.

At least being social was something she could still do, and she went ahead and accepted Farkas’ invitation for lunch in the cafeteria and dinner that Sunday at her neighborhood barbeque. It was apparently the season for them, and it didn’t surprise her that Rita hadn’t made her an offer.

“Don’t they have those where you grew up?”

Cameron shook her head, swallowed the last of her sandwich. “Sort of. We call them block parties.”

She shrugged. “Different names for the same thing.”

“I’ll find out when I get there.”

Maria was almost right: the running kids were the same, the small clusters of people were the same, the way the food was served was the same. The details of the thing were what made it different: Cameron hadn’t had fresh-grilled scallops at a casual end-of-summer get-together before and she had to admit the lime really made them pop, and she was used to these sorts of things in front yards and streets, not just inside large churchyards.

She got her plate piled it up with stuff fresh off the grill and from-home contributions and made her way over to the back fence to eat by herself. The shit thing was she could go ahead and weep openly at work because that’s what people expected her to do, but couldn’t because it wasn’t proper workplace behavior, so even though she had the freedom to go ahead and indulge her emotions, she knew that’d be such a bad career move it wasn’t worth anything but the fantasy.

Eventually, Maria tried to ask her how she was doing. Cameron told her she was doing pretty good, and managed to divert the conversation over to the food, letting a native to the coast marvel at someone’s fascination over fresh shellfish. She smiled in all the right places, let Maria do most of the talking, and drove home feeling full and empty at the same time.

-

Part four.