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She grasps my hand. I am infatuated by my reflection and she must tug firmly.
“Come. Let’s talk, Renee. We have much to cover. Tomorrow you have an appointment with a woman who will be taking you shopping and teaching you deportment. And I think you will enjoy yourself. Your skin is becoming tender as I am sure you can feel. You’ll need silk and satin. There are not many girls who get to go shopping on a wealthy benefactress...”
Lying on the couch I spy a dildo. I am to play with it, to simulate masturbation.
But am I to simulate masturbating myself... or another male?
“Picture that boy on the park bench...”
I do. And I find my hand to be disturbingly tender and dainty.
***
It’s Saturday. I have an appointment. I shower, my soapy hands gliding about my shorn pubes, spurring both remorse and a degree of distant joy. I gently pull on my penis and feel a twinge of pleasure... and disappointment, having stroked away the prior night on a sizable faux phallus to seemingly amuse my counselor.
I dry. I dress. For some reason I spend extra time before the mirror, care taken to assure my hair is properly combed and set as Molly showed me. The blond locks stun... unnaturally golden... but attractive.
Almost out the door, I remember to grab the hand bag my counselor gave me.
‘You’ll carry this at all times,’ she instructed, making me leave behind my brief bag.
No loss. The brief bag was not much more than an attempt to project importance. I really never carried anything in it other than the morning paper and a sandwich.
Stepping to the elevator I assess the fine over the shoulder bag offered in its place. Smooth and shiny black leather, not effeminate, not masculine; I realize it will further serve to obfuscate my gender as I walk the streets. The brief bag, I suppose, has been deemed too conclusively masculine.
Herald Square is my destination. I am to meet a woman named ‘Miss Aliquot’ at Sixth Avenue and 33rd Street. I have no idea how she will find me, but then my reflection comes to mind.
How many prepubescent looking blonds will be standing there at 10:00 a.m. with a black leather bag over their shoulders?
I arrive and of course must wait. I always seem to be waiting... in my counselor’s reception area, in the doctor’s changing room, even in the back room of the beauty salon.
Finally, after twenty minutes, a woman approaches. From a near distance, she smiles and offers a modest hand signal. I nod.
“You must be Renee,” an arm reaches, fingers smooth over my newly styled locks.
It is a matronly gesture, a mother adoringly grooming her child. As I begin to speak her hand glides to my cheek and pinches, causing me to stutter the intended words ‘I am Mr. Warren’.
My attempt to establish masculinity, utilizing my surname, fails. The woman interrupts, her strong fingers continuing to pinch with surprising zeal.
“Today, with me, you are Renee, my little one. I am Miss Lalique,” the words accented in French
At five foot two I am ‘little one’ to just about all. I am accustomed to looking up into the faces of most men and half the women I greet. But Miss Lalique is a truly large woman, not only compared to my limited stature, but to all.
“We have much to do. We will talk as we walk.”
We do. Miss Lalique explains our day as we stroll to a clothing store.
“There is to be more acclimatization. Your benefactress has provided an almost unlimited budget, Renee. We need to change some things. It will help the way you think. You will be very happy with the result.”
The clothing store proves to be rather small and upscale, not one of the busy Herald Square general department stores. When we enter a woman spies Miss Lalique and immediately approaches.
“Welcome again, Miss Lalique. Another protégé?”
Miss Lalique nods.
“We will need to use the fourth floor. Can you send up two of your girls?”
“Of course. I assume otherwise you’ll want privacy?”
