[TF protagonist] [WLW character] [TF/F] [2nd storyline] [time jump] [1990s] [corporate setting] [The Office, but make it gayer] [slow burn]
CW: deadname; suggestion of lesbophobic sexual violence; queer as a slur; misogyny; racist microaggressions; sexual harassment; transphobia; mentions of cigarettes, alcohol, the Desiree Washington rape case, Mike Tyson, Donald Trump
(Author’s note: I swear there are lighthearted and tender and sexy moments in this despite the content warning. I am also a ~cis~ woman; I have questioned and continue to question the mystery that is my gender, and this secondary storyline mirrors my own perspective as someone who’s naturally androgynous.
I’d planned to finish this sooner, but I couldn’t stop adding to the story. Warning- the page count in the doc is almost 20. Also, the Olympics have been distracting me…Whoops.)
Chapter 1.2 – The Blue Stain
Joan. No longer a John, but a Joan. My name change has finally seen the light of day- it’s a reality now recognized by the feds.
And I was back in Toledo, Ohio at my old job as a data analyst for Hellhole Tech, Inc.- what I’ve come to start calling it. It’s a small internet company- AOL is probably just ready to pounce and buy them out. Big business, small business- the grind is the same either way. I am glad (and privileged) to have a salary job again, though. Between the time that I’d quit after my gender realization in 1995 and a month ago- it’s currently late August, 1999- I’d been hopping to and from minimum wage jobs while I stayed at my parents’ house down in San Antonio, Texas. They’d continue to support me in that regard as long as I didn’t get “the surgery”, which I had no desire to pursue anyway.
Sometimes there were large gaps in between jobs, during which I’d turn to sex work. Employment opportunities grew slim as my body did the opposite: on top of gaining weight from depression, some of my fat slowly started to redistribute to my hips and chest in response to the hormones. My body hair thinned, but never really disappeared- I still have a patch of hair around my belly button. My voice shifted from a tenor to an alto. My eyebrows- fairly thick with a hard angle- are a constant (aside from when I’d pluck before meeting a client); they’re also my favorite feature.
For so long I was stuck in this in-between: the void that exists outside binary physicality. I’ve only begun to start “passing”- a loaded term that is very much subjective. Passing as what exactly? Who measures the degree to which I conform to palatable femininity, and why such scrutiny to begin with?
I don’t think I ever left the void.
Back when I presented as a cis man and was fairly active (with a cute bit of flab on my stomach that my then-girlfriend Heather liked to poke randomly), I had a tolerable enough experience at the company. By “tolerable” I mean that at least my boss Dan and coworkers were seemingly non-racist, and that’s the best one could hope for as a naturalized Vietnameese American. I couldn’t tell you what entanglement of red tape was harder to get through: the one behind my green card, or my new name and gender marker.
Working there was often a lonely experience. The toxic masculinity in the office was palpable; I did my best to avoid the majority-white guys in the office. Though some, unprovoked, would start talking to me about their sexual conquests and ask who I’d fuck in the office. Just to shut this one guy up, I said the first name that I thought of: Celia- she worked in accounting and was the only (cis) woman of color in the entire office.
“Bro, I think she’s a fucking lesbian. I saw her girlfriend come by for lunch the other day. But if you think you can fuck her straight, Johnny boy…”
Don’t call me that. Also- shut up, homophobe.
I said, “Hey, that’s really not cool.”
“Oh, you a queer then too?”
“No, but you’re something that I’ve never fucked before. Wanna know what that is?”
He asked, “What?”
“An asshole.” I got up to leave, crushing his foot on my way out.
My conversations with the few women in the office were polite albeit short-lived. But I did make a friend- Celia, actually. I was on my way down the stairs (elevator was packed) to pick up the lunch I’d gotten delivered from my go-to Chinese takeout place Jing Chuan, and I found her crying in the stairwell. It was mid-December of 1993, about one week before our winter/holiday break; prior to that we’d only exchanged niceties in the few months that I’d been at the company.
I sat down next to her and asked what happened. She said her girlfriend had broken up with her on her lunch break just then. She asked in exasperation, “Like who fucking does that? And right before Christmas?” I personally didn’t care much for the holiday, but I empathized. She let out another wail- into my chest that time; her short curly hair felt like a cushion against my sternum. I wasn’t sure what to say to soothe her beyond, “Um, I’m sorry.” A bit stiff at first, I brought an arm up and rubbed her back in a slight up-and-down motion. We sat there for a minute in silence, save for the occasional sniffle at my chest and the soft swishes of my hand against her polyester blouse. Celia raised her head and said, “Thank you, John. And I’m sorry you were the one that had to comfort me. Must’ve caught you off guard.”
“It’s no problem, and sure- I wasn’t expecting to walk into this. But you don’t have to apologize.” Then I remembered why I was in the stairwell to begin with. “Shit, so I was actually on my way to get my lunch, I dunno if the delivery person’s still there. Do you mind if I-”
She brought her hands up in a shoo-ing motion. “Yeah yeah, go ahead!”
I stood and bounced my way rapidly down the stairs. I entered the lobby, short of breath, and my eyes darted to a white plastic “Thank You” bag on the front security desk. I walked over to Gary who was working behind the computer and said thanks before grabbing the food.
His only acknowledgment of me was a monotone, “Yep.” His eyes never left the computer screen.
I climbed the stairs back up to Celia.
I paused and then asked her, “Do you wanna go home? I can’t imagine having to go back to work after that. If you want I can cover for you.”
Celia nodded. “Um, yeah. Getting out of here sounds good…I know this is a lot to ask, especially since we don’t really know each other, but could you go with me? Not to my house necessarily. I just can’t-” She added shakily, “be a-alone right now.”
“Yeah, of course,” patting and rubbing a few large circles into her back. I started the mental gymnastics of figuring out an excuse for the both of us. “But can you help me come up with something to tell Dan?”
After a second Celia’s eyes lit up like she’d just remembered something and her wavering voice gradually turned into one of assertion: “He’s not even here- he just left to dine with a client and they’re usually gone for hours. We can just leave and come back to clock out.”
Oh thank god, I thought. My brain was struggling as I felt low growls in the pit of my stomach.
I set the takeout bag down next to her and asked what she needed from her desk.
“There’s a green leather jacket on the chair and my clutch is in the drawer on the bottom right- it’s brown.”
“Green jacket, brown clutch. Got it.”
I went back to grab our things. I got my coat and briefcase and made my way to Celia’s desk by the office printer. There was a sizable rip in the carpet peaking out from below the printer which had been there since before I started. It’s always bugged me to look at it; I shifted the printer an inch or so to completely cover the exposed floorboard underneath. I took a random document and placed it in the scanner so as to not arouse suspicion. Half the office was still on lunch, and the only other person at accounting had his headphones on and was jamming out, eyes closed, to “Breaking the Law” by Judas Priest- those headphones were definitely not noise-cancelling. I must’ve been ten or eleven when that song came out; the only way I could listen to it was at a friend’s house where we’d “happened upon” his dad’s vinyl collection…inside a locked plastic storage container. I didn’t know how that guy could stand to blare his music like that- I almost worried that he might lose his hearing, a different kind of noise cancellation.
The machine whirred while I grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and her clutch from inside the drawer. I subtly tucked the jacket inside my coat and then opened my briefcase to put her purse inside.
The first thing I suggested when we stepped out into the parking lot was, “Wanna go see a movie?”
Celia said that sounded fun, but added that she had no idea what was out. I told her that the only movie I knew for sure was playing was Philadelphia.
“Oh, that’s with Tom Hanks and Denzel, right? Eh, I don’t think I’m in the mood for a drama. Let’s see what our options are when we get there.”
We took my car, a beige-y gray 1983 Honda Civic. Wouldn’t have been my first choice based on the look alone, but it was functional- and all I could afford at the time that I’d bought it. Heather lived an hour and a half away by train, and I could tell that she grew tired of being the only one with a car- I was tired of it too. She didn’t even protest when I’d asked to borrow money for the down payment.
The car ride was mostly silent aside from the radio, which I was tempted to turn off once “The Sign” by Ace of Base came on. As catchy as the melody is, there’s just something about the vocals that felt a bit grating on my ears. “All That She Wants” was a much better earworm- I think it’s written in a lower key as well. Celia started singing along to the chorus. Her voice had a low timbre that reminded me of Suzi Lane, whose Giorgio Moroder-produced record “Harmony” was another interesting find in my friend’s dad’s collection.
The addition of Celia’s harmonics did away with that grating sensation I was feeling. I let her finish the chorus before I told her, “You have a nice voice. Kinda saved the song for me.”
She laughed. “Thanks. I like The Sign, but their last one, though…Oh, what’s it called again?”
“‘All That She Wants’?” I asked.
“Yes! Now that one I can bump to.”
We were less than half a mile down the street from the theater when Celia asked for her purse and I told her it was in my briefcase on the backseat. I kept my eyes on the road until we were stopped at our last light. I looked over to see her using the overhead mirror as she rubbed the runny mascara off her face with a makeup wipe. Once she was stain-free, she pulled out an eyeliner pencil and deftly applied a line across her left upper lash. She was about to add a wing when a honk blared from behind us.
“Light!” I warned her as I pressed my foot to the gas pedal.
“Huh?” The car sprung forward and I just heard, “Oh shit!”
“I…am so sorry,” I said. I snuck a quick glance back at Celia who was bent over in laughter.
I soon pulled into the near-empty parking lot and grabbed a spot near the entrance. Celia had given up on finishing her makeup and turned her torso to face me; a thick streak of eyeliner was drawn from the corner of her eye all the way to her temple.
I said, “Ohhh, yeah that’s my bad.”
Celia was unfazed and told me not to sweat it. She took out another makeup wipe, wrapped it around her forefinger, and wiped away vigorously at the black line that contrasted against her bronze skin.
“Ah fuck it.” She also erased the neat line she’d drawn before the mishap.
Celia, purse in hand, unlocked the door and stepped out. I grabbed our jackets and the takeout. I asked, “You a fan of Mongolian beef?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I gave her back her jacket and used mine to conceal the food. I had my wallet in my pants pocket. I was reminded of the delivery- did Gary give them a tip? Should I have given Gary a tip? I pushed it out of my mind and put my briefcase in the trunk. We made the short walk across to the ticket window and stopped to look up at the marquee, scanning for whatever looked good.
She went, “Oh, the sequel’s already out! You’ve seen the first Sister Act, right?” I said I did. Heather and I had seen it on its way out the theaters to avoid the crowd.
“Alright, it’s decided then.” I started to pull out my wallet, but Celia stopped me.
“Nope, it’s on me.” She flashed me a warm smile, and I could see that she had a slight gap tooth. It was cute. She walked to the window and bought our tickets. We entered the lobby and I took a second to marvel at the loud neon-streaked carpet, sky blue walls, and teal accents. Celia linked her arm in mine and we made a beeline for the concessions stand. Celia asked for two medium sodas and a packet of my favorite candy: peanut M&Ms. She asked me what candy I wanted and I said, “I’ll have the same.”
“Copycat,” she teased me.
At the register, I rushed to slam my card on the counter before she could and said, “Aha!” when I succeeded. The cashier, unamused, took my card and asked, “Is that all?” She’d seen this obnoxious move before.
Celia said, “Oh, a small popcorn!” She turned to ask if I liked butter and I said, “Duh.”
The cashier returned with a small, buttered popcorn and rang us up. As she handed me back my card and receipt she eyed my coat and its hidden contents with suspicion, but chose to ignore it.
Life re-entered the cashier’s eyes as she said in a latently perky tone, “Enjoy your movie!”
Two hours later- decently full and emotionally refreshed- we were back in the parking lot, readjusting our eyes to the light of the outside world.
“That was so good! Thank you again, I needed this.” She extended her arms and as I stepped forward she pulled me into a tight hug. I rested my chin on her shoulder and hugged her back softly, but internally had the same eager enthusiasm.
Over the course of my two years at Hellhole, I’d made small internal discoveries about my gender presentation. I recall one night in particular; Heather was out of town visiting an old friend up in Michigan for the weekend. Valentine’s Day fell on Monday, so we’d celebrated the weekend prior. Before she left on Friday I’d let her know that I was gonna stay the night at Celia’s for a movie marathon- just the two of us. Celia and I had been hanging out about once a week for the last two months, but this would be my first time at her place. Celia shared the place with a couple who’d be gone for the weekend- they chose to celebrate after the holiday.
“Oh, have fun. She’s gay, right?” I sensed her recalling what I’d said when I first told her about our encounter in the stairwell. I’d clarified that she was broken up with by her- emphasis on- girlfriend. I let her assume the rest. Celia never explicitly said that she was specifically a lesbian, but I’d chosen my words carefully to put Heather’s mind at ease.
Am I at fault? Yes. But I also had my reasons. There was no way I could describe to Heather what my exact relationship was to Celia.
I was excited for my first adult sleepover (not a euphemism). We were at the point in our friendship where we could talk about our goals and frustrations, sex and relationships- whatever we wanted to say that we felt we couldn’t say express or translate to anybody else. Many of our intimate moments doubled as plot points in the trajectory of my gender evolution. Celia’s presence felt like nutrition for my soul- one by one she pulled out my inner truths from the depths of my being. And I hers.
On our walk over to the Blockbuster near her house I asked her, “Hey, Celia?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to bring this up, but about the way Nicole ended things…How do you think you would’ve felt if she’d waited until after Christmas to break it off?”
“I’ve actually been thinking about that lately. And I think she did me a favor by leaving the week before rather than the week after.”
I asked, “Wouldn’t you rather live in the illusion for a little while so you could fully enjoy the holidays? You know, and not have to stress?”
“Yeahhh, I thought I wanted to be granted that courtesy at first. But that would’ve been a disservice to the both of us.” She saw the confusion on my face and elaborated, “If I found out that she’d waited until after Christmas to tell me, I’d still end up stressed, and hurt that she had to keep up a facade about her happiness in the relationship. Heartbroken for her that she wasn’t comfortable enough to tell me about it upfront.”
I thought about how Heather would come back from Michigan and check in with me to ask how my sleepover was with Celia. And how I’d continue to keep quiet about conversations like this one.
Back at Celia’s place, we changed into our respective sleepwear: Celia wore a matching set of forest green nylon PJs, while I was dressed in a loose white T-shirt and light blue pajama pants; I did have the matching shirt but the full set resembled hospital scrubs. Celia prepared for us a couple of Malibu mojitos while I used the stove to cook a package of Jiffy Pop for the first time- seeing the aluminum covering swell as the kernels popped was somehow both delightful and mildly terrifying. We started the marathon with her pick: Home Alone 2, since she’d missed it in theaters. The minty drinks were a welcome refresher from the salty popcorn. We were fully engrossed in the movie until Donald Trump appeared. Celia groaned, “Ugh, fucking rape apologist.”
It was around this time last year when Trump tried to defend Mike Tyson and suggested that his casino host a boxing fundraiser as a way for Tyson to not go to prison. He said that some of the funds would go victims of rape and abuse in Indiana, just one state over from us. Not to mention that Trump also said that the girl Desiree Washington had ‘deserved it.’ The whole thing reeked of bullshit. It took us a minute to get back to enjoying the movie.
We ended the night on Dead Alive (Braindead)- I’d chosen it for the shock factor of the cover art: a blue-eyed tiny skull staring from the inside of a horrified woman’s outstretched mouth. And boy was that a choice. On top of the racism, the gore was just overwhelming and ridiculous. We were all at once horrified and impressed but mostly disgusted by the SFX.
After it was finally over, I said, “That was easily the grossest movie I’ve ever seen.”
“No kidding. But that one part in Home Alone- two, obviously- when they’re all sticky and covered in bird feed, and then the pigeons just swarm at them? Nuh uh, no thanks. Thinking about all those feathers made me wanna throw up.” For a second Celia looked as if she actually was about to gag, but she reached for her glass instead and downed the last gulp. Celia stood up off the couch, stretched her arms up and let out a long yawn. “It’s time for bed, I think. I’ll take the couch.”
I’d learn to stop protesting her kind favors after hearing her say countless times, “John! John? Please, I insist.”
Already changed for bed, step one of the night routine was done. I took a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and face wash out of my bag and followed Celia to her bedroom. Once inside, she asked me, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom first? I really gotta pee.” I shook my head no and said, “Go for it.”
“Sweet.” She went to her dresser to pick up her black satin hair cap before spinning right back around to rush past me back out to the hallway. I took a seat on her bed and my body sunk down lower than I’d anticipated- I was used to a much firmer mattress. Several minutes passed before she returned, face aglow and her little afro tucked inside her cap. She said, “It’s all yours.”
I was curious as to who was behind the bathroom decor. It felt, in a word: warm. Not thermally, per se, though it was much cozier than my fluorescently lit bathroom that somehow felt chilly all the time. “Cozier” was an understatement. The walls were painted a lovely sunset orange, and there were pops of cobalt blue throughout the room: a glass toothbrush holder; a picture frame encasing an array of dried and pressed indigo-colored flowers that I didn’t know the name of; the tiles on the wall behind the white shower curtain, which had orange stylized wave lines at the bottom. After taking in the entirety of this gorgeous room, I finally picked up my toothbrush and went on about my bare routine.
I’d just lathered my face with soap when I heard a knock on the door. “Yeah?” I ask.
“Hey, I was just checking in. Just felt like you’ve been in there a while.”
“Oh, I was just admiring the decor.”
I opened the door and was met with giggles when she saw my face covered in foam. She asked, ‘Wait, can I see something?” She reached up and pushed the suds over my upper lip, forming a mustache I realized as I looked into the mirror. I grabbed my comb and used the handle’s straight edge to “shave” the sudsy mustache and the rest of my bubble stubble. I did have a bit of real stubble. And intentionally so. Heather preferred my clean-shaven face while Celia liked the stubble; Celia said she was lucky that she could just look at it and not have to kiss it. I’d grow out my facial hair during the work week, then I’d shave before Heather and I would meet up on Friday, our typical date night.
I rinsed my face and asked, “Is it alright if I use this?” pointing to a face towel. Seemingly tickled at what I’d just done with the comb, she grinned and said, “Yeah, of course.”
I dried my face, and then rinsed my comb under the faucet; I took the wet comb to my shaggy mess of hair. I’d kept putting off a haircut and let it run a little wild. The water helped to slick back my flyaways, except for one especially thick strand that refused to stay down. Celia said, “Hold on, I can pluck it for you.” She opened her cabinet and pulled out a pair of tweezers. “Okay, look at me and bend your head down a bit.” I made a slight bow towards her; she placed her left hand on the right side of my middle part then used the tweezers to grab hold of the strand. I felt a slight tug at the root followed by a slight sting that dissipated quickly enough. I peered back at my reflection. My hair was nice and neat- the ends that fell at my shoulders curved up slightly.
Celia said, “I think you need a proper brush for that mane, John.”
I laughed, “Yeah, I still don’t know what I wanna do with it. I like the length, but I get so many flyaways especially when it’s humid. It wasn’t really something I had to worry about with short hair.”
“Ooh, actually.” She picked up a metallic orange spray bottle and said, “So this is an anti-frizz spray. Don’t mind the missing bottle cap- that disappeared into oblivion months ago. Anyway, you just give your hair a few spritzes and then brush it out to distribute the serum.”
I took the bottle from her offering hand and pointed it to the right side of my hair. I pressed the pump underestimating its tension; my finger collapsed awkwardly and I nearly sprayed my eyes.
Celia grabbed the face towel for me. “My bad! I haven’t used this spray in a while. The pump must be a little stiff from what’s dried. Could I see that real quick?”
I handed it back and wiped my face while she gave the bottle a rinse in the sink. She gave a couple of little test sprays on the back of my hair, the pump working with less resistance now. She took it upon herself to spray the rest of my hair. She took the brush and used it to stroke at the ends of my hair, detangling a couple of knots that I’d missed with the comb. I watched our reflection as she moved onto brushing down from the top of my head in sections, slowly and gently. I could feel the bristles’ rounded plastic tips glide down and massage my scalp. I felt a tear start to well in the corner of my eye when she finished.
Unsure of what was happening, I cleared my throat to stop myself from crying. “Thanks, Celia.” She smiled at me in the mirror.
“Oh, before I forget, I wanted to ask-” I turned and pointed to the dried flowers in the blue frame. “What are these called?”
She looked up at the wall. “Cornflowers. Aren’t they beautiful?” she said as she glanced back at me, her eyes lingering on mine for just a few milliseconds before I averted my gaze. “Nicole and I actually made this together. It fits the color palette in here too well, so I obviously couldn’t not keep it.”
“Whose idea was the color palette?” I asked.
“Mine.” Of course it was.
I turned back and gathered my things, and Celia said to keep the paddle brush. We said goodnight in the hall and parted ways. I lay curled up in a fetal position on her bed and let myself weep.
—-End of Part 1—-
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ougf6o/if_these_thin_walls_could_talk_the_blue_stain_12