《Tiresias Woke》


 TIRESIAS WOKE — A Peculiar Love Story

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    TIRESIAS WOKE: A Peculiar Love Story


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    a novel byThe author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Leo E. Walsh


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    Cover image credit: Woman in Satin Dress Holding Mirror from the George Eastman Museum. The photo is circa 1915 and is in the public domain. Available here:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/george_eastman_house/2677422353/</a>


    Copyright 2020 by the author. All rights reserved.

 Epigraph

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    ¡°Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.¡±


    ¨D Virginia Woolf, OrlandoThis content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


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    <hr>


    <blockquote>


    ¡°If you want to find a Granfalloon, remove the skin from a toy balloon.¡±


    ¨D Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Cat''s Cradle


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    <hr>

 I. "What the Heck?" - Part 1

    CHAPTER I: What the Heck?


    <hr>


    Part 1.


    I''d zoned-out, but not for long. Because when I woke, water still hissed, filling the toilet. And old-school hip-hop, Outkast''s dope-ass "back of the bus" tune, thumped from downstairs. And I still stood, holding the Scope that Omega house kept in the second-floor bathroom to help the brothers freshen their breath after vomiting. Though in my case, I needed to purge the taste of clove cigarettes.


    Disgusting.


    How that hot emo chick Circe I''d just banged could smoke such nasty crap beat me, but no matter. She was sexy in a skeevy art-chick way: tats, pink hair, and vintage store gear. Too bad she didn''t live up to expectations. I was thinking "freaky-deaky," but she wouldn''t even let me bump nasties. Instead, it was just a ho-hum hummer.


    Oh well, a subpar blow job is still a blow job.


    Someone knocked on the door.


    "Giving birth in there?"


    I laughed, recognizing the voice. "Give me a sec, Squee, need to gargle."


    "Who is that? I know you?"


    I filled an empty beer-cup with Scope.


    "Course you do, ass-munch. Ulysses Garrity, Fenton''s older brother. I was rush chairman when you pledged."


    "Ah, a legacy, an old man. Prostate problems?"


    I laughed. Squee''s always been a card.


    The cool mint tingled on my tongue, and I counted sixty, spat, and exited. Squee had cornered a hot platinum blonde in a tight, form-fitting State jersey, uniform number sixty-nine. Easy meat perhaps, but tenderloin.


    I missed college. Sure, I like the challenging workaday world where what you do has real consequences. Worlds apart from school, pretending Othello matters. But compared to teenaged shorties, booze and blow? No contest. Especially today, when the State U Bucks, my alma mater, steamrolled our rivals, the North Wolverines.


    My heart expanded, ecstatic with collegiate nostalgia, and I patted Squee on the back. "All yours, bro."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    In my experience, Squee, a fifth-year senior and a fixture haunting the Omega Theta Pi house since my day, would cut me up. But instead of a witty comment, he stopped dead in his tracks, confused and delighted. Like you could hear Eminem scratching the vinyl in his brain.


    But he regained his composure in a beat. "Thought you were someone else." Squee raised his beer, his freckled face round with apology. "You know, too much of this..."


    "Amen." I nodded. "Take care, gonna grab a brew and find my bro."


    What remained unsaid is that I needed my younger brother Fenton because he had the blow, and I needed a bump. But as I stepped off, I noticed sixty-nine giving me a vicious side-eye. But I grinned at her, shook my head, and drifted kegward: down the stairs, through the raging partiers. The DJ, a pro the fraternity had imported from Cincinnati, spun some wicked beats through his amazing sound system. The house smelled like a house party: pheromones, sweat, beer, tobacco, and the skunky yet sweet scent of weed as I eased into the keg line, which seemed to run to Cleveland.


    But luck was on my side.


    Because the DJ shifted from R&B to the State fight-song, and almost everyone in the queue dashed from the line to the backyard dancefloor, high-fiving, and hollering. "Fight, fight, down the field." I had no complaints because I soon grabbed two brews: one to chug, one to hug.


    My thirst quenched, I scanned the crowd, expecting to see Fenton high-fiving his Omega bros, but he wasn''t there. However, I spotted Fenton''s buddy from our country club, a current Omega plebe named PJ, weaving free of the crowd. I bopped his way.


    "Yo, PJ, you seen my brah?"


    PJ was straight-up dude: muscular, short but barrel-chested sporting a tight State tank-top for the ladies. Guy must''ve been ripped because his forehead furled as the question penetrated his thick skull. "Brother?"


    I scoffed, what a dumbass.


    He had to remember me from the country club. Worse, Fenton had made PJ and some other pledge pay for our Uber Black fare to the tailgate. They rode with us, and Fenton made both chug a bottle of MD/2020 on the way. Heavy drinking at sunup may have fried PJ''s memory, but him forgetting me kinda burned.


    I mean, I''m an Omega legacy, his fraternity brother, and have known him since we were kids. And yet, he forgets me?


    But I let it go. I was here to PAR-TAY, and besides, I needed a bump.


    So I said, "Fenton Garrity."


    "Fenton''s upstairs..." PJ trailed off, screwing his face, "with an... uhm... a lady."


    "Cum sock, or a hottie?" I asked.


    PJ''s eyes opened in shock, and he grinned. "Wow: unexpectedly cool. Anyway, a straight-up hottie."


    Pleased, I leaned forward. "Look, I''m running out of steam, so I need a bump. Can you help a brother out?"


    "Sorry, no nose-candy here."


    My shoulders deflated, the upset souring me, but there is a God because Squee popped from nowhere, placing a hand on our shoulders. "Did someone say ''nose candy?''"


    PJ smirked, pointing my way, and I smiled a face-full of cheese, asking, "You got?"


    Squee nodded, a devilish grin creeping over his face. "Follow me, girls."

 I. Part 2.

    Part 2.


    Sad to say, being called a girl annoyed me ¡ª I''m a legacy, not a plebe like PJ ¡ª but I needed the coke. Besides, Squee was just messing, so I followed them through the dancing and drinking mob and up three flights of stairs to the deserted senior floor. Squee opened his door, motioning us in with goofy formality.


    We entered. Squee shut and locked the door, before prying up a floorboard and removing a small lock-box. "Now bitches, let''s get lit."


    "Hell yeah," I said, plopping into a chair on his desk, closing and moving a heavy textbook out of the way before setting down my beer.


    Squee took out a mirror and, with well-practiced precision, began chopping lines for us. He looked up at me, and said, "You say your brother''s Fenton?"


    I nodded.


    "Decent guy," he said.


    "He has his moments, like all bratty little brothers."


    And then, without me knowing why, I snapped around and PJ was behind me, smiling a Cheshire Cat smile. Creepy as fuck, so I grabbed my beer and stood. Hell, I''d been hazed and done the hazing in this house, so I know when something''s up. But Squee moved to his little fridge and came out with three dark bottles of Great Lakes Barleywine, a kick-ass regional microbrew, opening one for each of us and handing them around.


    PJ began chugging the bottle.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Whoa!" Squee shot to his feet. "Hold on there, cowboy. This is quality stuff. You don''t drink it like a cheap-ass can of Bud. This, you savor." He stood, chugging the beer he''d bought from downstairs and wiping out the inside of the red plastic cup with a napkin, then pouring the microbrew into it. "And use your cup."


    PJ looked my way, and we shrugged and followed Squee''s lead, shooting the rest of our beers and wiping clean the cups. I must have been drunker than I thought, because as I poured my microbrew I grew woozie, plopping back into the chair. Squee resumed chopping two lines with the razor blade, grinning at me.


    "Damn, you okay?"


    I put my hand to my head, growing super-weary super-fast. "I dunnoooo, drunker ''aaaan I thhhhought" I said, my tongue sticking like taffy to the roof of my mouth. "Just neeeed thaaaat bump, braaaah. To. Waaaake. Uuuuuup."


    "We got your bump," PJ said.


    And they laughed.


    My head slipped down and my eyes closed, and I struggled to stay awake. Through the cotton-fuzz my mind had become, I heard Squee: "He get back to you?"


    I shook opened my eyes and struggled to my feet as PJ pulled out his phone. "Yeah. Doesn''t have a sister. Reckons she''s a clinger stalking him."


    I asked, "Whoooz thaaa?''


    They looked at me, then rolled their eyes at each other, chuckling.


    "Neeed. Aaaaiiiirrrrrrr," I said, weaving towards the window, my legs shaky and head flopping. But PJ grabbed my arm, steering me to a seat. Soft. So soft.


    He left me go. "I got the window for you, girl."


    I flopped back, no control over myself, realizing I was on the bed. Unable to keep my eyes open, I wanted to scream "Girl? I''m a dude, fucker."


    But I couldn''t. My mouth and tongue felt like molasses, and all I could manage was an inarticulate mumble.


    Reality went black, though my mouth still tasted of cloves.

 I. Part 3.

    Part 3


    Hands shook me, firm but gentle, stirring me from the goopy fog that my mind had become. And then I heard a female voice, commanding, firm, and precise yet warm and calming. Through my mental fog, I could make out nothing save her tone.


    Again, the hands shook me. I coughed, moved onto my elbow, and sat. The voice solidified."You okay?"


    "Huh, what, okay?" My eyes popped open, the goop more-or-less gone. I lay near the curb on Greek Row. It was still dark, but the sky in the east was growing lighter, so it was way late, after four. And I was eyeball to eyeball with a lanky female cop with blonde hair, angular cheekbones, and thin lips who squatted in front of me. I tried to stand, but she placed her hand on my shoulder to keep me down.


    "Were you hit, or did you fall down? Broken bones or anything?"


    "Don''t think so...." I ran through a mental checklist, micro-rotating my neck and arms and torso. No pain, but my chest felt odd and my crotch sticky. "Think I''m okay."


    "Can you stand?"


    "I''ll try," I said.


    My brain throbbed. My throat was sandpaper and eyeballs flypaper. Too much beer and blow, and I''m old, can''t keep up with the young bucks. But I stirred, fighting a massive headache. I''ve been hungover, so I knew I''d survive, but man, this was wicked.


    I pulled my knees to my chest.


    Electricity bolted through me, and I was awake, bounding to my feet, freaked.


    Because I had tits.


    "The fuck happened?" I asked, padding my hips and chest and crotch to confirm. And sure enough, my Kibbles and Bits were missing, and I had a c-cup.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Anonymous safety pickup call," she said, answering the question she assumed I asked, her head tilted and confusion in her eyes at me swiping at my privates, unaware of my predicament, being a dude with a vagina.


    And then I groaned. "Crap, am I going to jail, public intox?" I deflated, my shoulders slumping. "Stellar end to a crappy day."


    But the cop shook her head, explaining. The previous year, campus police cut a deal with the Greek houses. They reported drunk guests and dumped them on the curb. The police took them to a specially appointed dorm wing to sober-up. No questions, no charges.


    "Cool," I said, relieved. But without warning, I began zoning again: legs shakey, brain woozy, with me almost nodding off on my feet.


    She grabbed me, supporting, her face filled with concern. "Sure you''re okay?"


    "Yeah," I said, weaving as she steered me towards the roadside cop car, "just drunk as fuck."


    The officer stopped, pointing to a pair of boxer-briefs that had been balled under me. "Yours?"


    Curious, I leaned over. Joe Boxers, State logo, with ''USG.'' written on the band in black Sharpie.


    USG: Ulysses S. Garrity. My name. My underwear.


    I reached to pick them up, but a realization stopped me.


    Me a girl. Missing underwear. Being drunk, but not "pass-out" drunk, and yet passing out black-out hard. In Squee''s room, alone with two guys, the door locked behind us.


    I turned to the officer, at once mad and creeped and vulnerable as a child. "I think... I may have been roofied. I''m not positive, but..." I trailed off, feeling confused, and all alone.


    She escorted me to the car, sitting me in the rear seat. I put my hands between my thighs to warm, feeling no cock, no balls, but a mound instead. I felt like crying.


    But I didn''t.


    Because a cold rage shifted my focus from my transformation to my predicament. I sniffed like a raging bull.


    Fuck PJ, fuck Squee, rapist shits. Using MY body, shooting THEIR filth into me, and then curbing me. Fuck them.


    The officer slid behind the wheel, looking back at me, mic in hand. "Do you want to press charges?"


    I snorted. "I want them bastards to rot in jail."

 I. Part 4.

    Part 4.


    There was no clock in the hospital room where they examined me, so the rape-kit seemed to take forever. And it was hella uncomfortable, me wide awake, the doctors poking and prodding, police over their shoulder, asking questions of both doctor and me. It was as enjoyable as the dentist''s, but like a kajillion times more creepy, uncomfortable, and invasive, the pain both emotional and physical.


    Then came the police interrogation.


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    Detective Holtzclaw was young, stocky with a bull''s neck and a buzzcut, his face pale and doughy. He seemed perplexed.


    "So you claim to be, " he looked down at his notes, "Ulysses S. Garrity. And were a man... er, uhm... a biological male I guess you''d call it until about midnight?"


    "Yeah, and still am. Ulysses S. Garrity, I mean. Not so sure about being a dude, considering my twig and berries are gone," I said, trying to diffuse my discomfort with humor.


    He didn''t even grin, but fiddled with his collar, clearing his throat. "Hmm. So you''re, what, a transexual?"


    "Well... no. I mean, I guess... technically... But I''ve always been a dude and been happy as a dude. I''m no Bruce Jenner."


    Holtzclaw jotted something down on his notebook and looked at me.


    "And you were a member of Omega Theta Pi?"


    "Yeah, technically still am. I graduated in 2014, but I''m what they call a legacy."


    "And you returned here for the North game?"


    "Yes. My brother''s a junior so I crashed in his room."


    He shuffled, consulting his notes. "How were you dressed?"


    "Jeans and a State jersey, how they found me."


    "Did you flirt with them? Or Dance provocatively? Or make out with either?"


    "Hell no! I''m straight... And what''s this bullshit gotta do with what happened? I mean, they raped me...." I trailed off, distraught, wondering if I hadn''t somehow led PJ and Squee on by being over-chummy or coming off as slutty or whatnot.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    And then I remembered those no-game low-lives had raped me and set my jaw.


    Fuck that.


    Holtzclaw peered to the side, deep in thought, and then turned his gaze towards me. "Well, you were a dude, so you may understand this. But often when women dress in provocative ways, it entices men."


    I scoffed, leaned back, and crossed my arms." Come on, man, look at me. If I were a girl I was dressed like a tomboy, and nothing I did..."


    Again, I trailed off as misplaced guilt I could not control slid like a cloud across my mind, silencing me.


    "But you followed Ezekiel... er... Squee Harrington and PJ Bryce into a bedroom?"


    "Yeah. To get some coke."


    "And they had some."


    I nodded.


    "And you chugged your beer before passing out?"


    I confirmed.


    Holtzclaw scratched his chin. "You know that was risky, right?"


    "Jesus. No. I thought I was a dude. They were my bros."


    He consulted his notes. "Do you know how tall Ulysses Garrity is?"


    I stopped, annoyed. "Six foot one."


    "And do you know how tall you are, miss?"


    I shrugged. "Six one, I suppose..."


    He shook his head, looking up. "Five six and a half."


    "But... I''ve been six one for ages..." I trailed off.


    "How do you explain that?"


    I couldn''t, and I slunk back into my chair, feeling as if I''d done something wrong when I was the one who got raped. Part of me wanted to slug this pompous prick, but a larger part of me wanted to retreat, to remain unseen.


    <hr>


    The police verified my identity by matching my fingerprints with those I filed when getting my broker''s license.


    My interrogation done, I called Fenton from the police station at around noon. He packed my suitcase and drove my car to the parking lot. He looked hung-over, his eyes red and hightop fade mussed. We had an awkward brunch at a nearby cafe. We tried talking football, but those conversations all ended up back at the Omega house, with both of us trying to avoid discussing PJ and Squee, as I was sure that word had gotten around. And things grew outright weird when I talked about my inexplicable gender-swap.


    But even though it weirded him, Fenton tried, bless his heart.


    Because that''s what real brothers do.

 I. Part 5.

    Part 5.


    On Monday, I called my boss''s boss, Erasmus Sterling III, whom we called ''Trey.'' Trey was the founding partner''s eldest son and the managing director of Sterling, Whitehead & Phillips Investments, LLC.


    I was apprehensive contacting Trey at first, me being but a level-two money manager, albeit among the company''s top performers, and a young buck to boot. I mean, calling the managing partner, the big cheese, the guy who would be CEO were we structured as a corporation? And I wanted to avoid my boss''s ire, the sense that I''d gone "over his head" in some sort of power-play.


    But I was contacting the big cheese on a high-powered Wall Street attorney''s advice. Which I''d garnered from an exclusive forum Omega Theta Pi hosted for legacies to aid each other in the real-world. Though, in truth, I fudged the posting details, changing the sexual assault to a "fisticuffs," saying a group of guys jumped and beat me. In order, I suppose, to save face. Because who could respect a dude who was dumb and weak enough to let himself be raped, even a brother Omega? Plus, I was itching to put some of my fraternity bros behind bars which would not have "played well" with anyone on the Omega message boards, so I kept that to myself.


    Like I said, we stick together.


    Anyways, it turned out that the lawyer was right. I told Trey, with as little detail as I could manage, about the upcoming trial and the sexual violation, which made me queasy since I sounded like the aforementioned dude both dumb and weak enough to get raped. And I hinted at my physical transformation. He seemed concerned, so he gave me the week off, on the company. And he wanted our Human Resources "looped in," so he set up a meeting for me on Thursday.


    Good guy, Trey.


    <hr>


    I had expected to meet with Toby, my division''s dough-faced, low-energy putz of an HR manager. But when I hit the Sterling, Whitehead & Phillips lobby three days later, the receptionist escorted me to Aziz Ansari''s office, the VP of Human Resources. I was amazed. Despite being a junior partner, Aziz was a decent guy: posh British accent, hailing as he did from London, and he was always smiling and approachable. You get the feeling he just had your back, you know the type? Odd thing was, he was corporate-level and not used to dealing with the day-in, day-out muck, so I guess Trey deemed me and my case important since he referred me to Aziz.


    Score.


    Things went swimmingly as I sat in the leather guest chair, Aziz''s heavy black eyebrows wagging with interest as I spoke. We discussed my situation, the endless examinations at the State University Medical Center, and the researchers I had seen who were baffled by my condition. Which made me laugh because those poor nerds would probably get famous at my expense if they solved the riddle of me. Heck, it could lead to a Nobel Prize in medicine, helping trannies to become female without the uncomfortable snip-snip operation or their fake-ass, artificial hormone treatments.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Because I had fully-functioning lady bits.


    On hearing this, Aziz leaned forward, his deep-olive brow wrinkled with concentration. "So... you mean, you have tubes, eggs, and everything?"


    I nodded. "Guess my testes became ovaries."


    Aziz''s face went round with surprise. "Amazing."


    And, while I didn''t mention it, they''d said my cock had become a clit, a thought which made me giggle like Bevis and Butthead, and had me wishing I could share the hijinks with him. But he was corporate-level, and if I wanted to make partner, no hanky-panky. I wasn''t a dumb college kid anymore.


    So I thought I''d get home and dial one of my Omega brothers, and laugh about it when I realized I couldn''t. None of them would speak with me since I had no doubt the news was percolating through the Omega grapevine. Even calling Fenton to laugh about this seemed off, because I knew he''d already be perched on the hot-seat living in Omega House with me hanging over his head. I had to go about this in private, alone, in my own headspace. And for all my success in school and work, I wasn''t used to being on my own, without structures to prop me up.


    My heart fell like it was made from lead. I spent several beats looking out Aziz''s window on the Cleveland skyline with Lake Erie, calm and clear, in the near distance. Then I turned to him.


    "They''re flummoxed. They''ve never seen anything close to this."


    Aziz nodded, his expression pensive. "I imagine it is a rarity. But they''re professionals. I''m sure they''ll figure something out."


    "Hopefully, so I can get my... my, ahum, my..." I smiled, a blush burning my cheeks as I laughed, saying, "My man-parts back."


    The corner of his eyes crinkled into faint crow''s feet, his mouth quirking. "Wow, that''s just gotta be something else. And, you know, we can offer you protection as a transgender employee."


    A bolt shot up my spine.


    I was pissed.


    Not wanting to lose my cool around a big-cheese like Aziz, I breathed deep, counting to ten as my heart pounded in my ears. But even then, I could hear the irritation in my voice when I said, "No. I''m NOT a tranny. I was a dude. And then, Poof, I''m a girl. I''m no dude pretending to be something I''m not, like a typical trannie. Know what I mean?"


    "Sorry, I don''t..." He sat, stone-faced and trailing off, but I could tell he was snowflaking, harboring some high-and-mighty judgment. So I''m like thinking, fuck you. And sure enough, he brings out the PC bazooka and fires: "From what I understand, its not a choice."


    I scoffed. "Look, it''s like this. I''m a WASP from the burbs. I can identify as a black NBA or rap star, but that doesn''t make me street, does it? It just makes me crazy."


    A misty sadness drifted across Aziz''s face, though I sensed anger just beneath his calm surface. He leaned on his elbow, stroking his chin, his brow furled, figuring the best way to phrase something, I imagine.


    "I don''t think its as simple as that," he said, parroting that hippie-dippie, PC sensitivity training crap. And I was in no mood for that noise any time soon.

 I. Part 6.

    Part 6.


    The firm was generous, Aziz offering me four weeks off with pay to deal with the trauma, though as part of the package I was supposed to attend counseling. Now, I wasn''t much for that one-on-one therapist crap, which I think is Oprah goop for the soft-minded, so I chose group therapy for trauma survivors. Where I sat, listening to these sad-sacks tell about their crappy lives, not sharing and biding my time.


    When I wasn''t in therapy, I didn''t mope. Instead, I took matters into my own hands. Because after Old Man Sterling stepped down, leaving his son Trey in charge, the firm had grown more contemporary. More like a hedge fund, earning our investors fatter returns than our traditional "buy IBM or this balanced mutual fund, and hold it for thirty years" approach.


    Problem was, I didn''t understand the new products much, which made it harder to sell clients. And while I took finance classes in undergrad, it was mostly staid, traditional stuff. Like you owned a firm and ACTUALLY wanted to make the best widgets in the world. And you had to figure the future benefit versus the cost of an investment in a new widget machine


    As if.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Me, I wanted to create money from air, like they did on Wall Street. And fast. We''re talking the high-octane, high-stakes world of futures and derivatives trading, and the secrets of modern financial engineering.


    Widgets? Making stuff in... factories? Right. Just show me the cheddar!


    This was the world Trey was pushing the firm towards. So, to advance my career, and maybe earn enough to open my own firm one day, I took an online course from the New York Institute of Finance on using best-in-class tools to build a resilient portfolio. Though heavy on the math, at its core it was a hands-on, no BS course outlining advanced trading strategies, like straddles and arbitrage and all that. Brilliant stuff.


    I could smell the cheddar in my future.


    <hr>


    Through it all, the Capital City Police kept me in the loop. After the rape kit came back, they arrested Squee, PJ, and three other brothers based on DNA evidence. Which made me even more disgusted. Five dudes raped me. Five.


    And it turned out Squee had loads of GBH in his room, stashed under a loose floorboard, next to a half-once of coke. And since word of the arrest had gotten around campus, several other girls have stepped forward claiming to have been roofied.


    What the fuck was the matter with my Omega brothers?

 I. Part 7.

    Part 7.


    On the next evening, I met my fiance Kelsey for dinner at, of all places. TGI Friday''s.


    I know, I know, Friday''s is gauche, right? And us in an urban center surrounded by high-quality, privately owned restaurants with unique, creative menus. And like most people, I prefer real food prepared in real kitchens by real chefs. But Kelsey loved the TGI Fridays in Western Reserve, the suburb where she grew up. It gave her the "warm fuzzies," or whatever her deal was. Typical goopy girl nonsense.


    Anyway, I had told Kelsey about my gender-swap on the phone. Even though on the phone I could hide my condition by lowering my voice, now an octave higher, I didn''t. Because I didn''t want to lie.


    Though I had been truthful, based on her nonchalant acceptance, I half-suspected that she half-suspected it was a lark, and with good reason, since I''ve always been high on the shenanigans. And since Kelsey gets emotional about EVERYTHING, I found her serene acceptance suspect.


    I mean, girls don''t often discover that the guy they agreed to marry lost his penis, do they?


    <hr>


    I rolled into Friday''s parking lot ten-minutes early and sent Kelsey a text before stepping into the chilly November rain. Hey hun. Here. U?


    I locked my BMW, and pulling my coat tight, walked to the entrance.


    Now, you''ve gotta feel me. First off, I''m a dude with no proper fashion sense. I mean, how tough is it to pull off tan khakis and a golf shirt? Or a pair of navy or charcoal dress slacks with a nice button-up broadcloth shirt, and maybe a tie? And a suit? As long as it''s tailored and pressed, easy-peasy. So even though I''d picked up some clothes for my now much smaller frame, I didn''t exactly "dress to kill." Worse, I''d forgotten some details, inevitable I suppose. Like getting a new raincoat.


    So as I opened Friday''s front door, I grimaced at my reflection in the glass. I looked like a waif, my slender frame swimming in a men''s Burberry short trench coat, its too-long sleeves rolled up. My khakis were wrinkled, and the golf shirt with the State logo on the breast looked like haute couture... were I a thirteen-year-old boy. Worse, my rain-damp, mop-top fade clashed with my now softer, more rounded face.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I groaned, breathing deep as my ribcage imploded.


    I was a mess.


    I looked like Kaki King modeling a new-fangled, gender-bending hairdo while sporting KD Lang''s 90s-style shabby chic getup.


    My phone buzzed, rousing me from self-pity as I entered the inner lobby. Kelsey.


    yay! just got sat a second ago. booth behind the bar. we''re a step ahead of the wait!!!


    I shook my head, annoyed as usual at Kelsey''s excessive exclamation points, which always struck me as so middle-school-girly. But I bit back my annoyance and texted a quick reply.


    Just got inside, drying off. Damn rain.


    I slipped off my ill-fitting trench coat, tossing it across my arm and ran my fingers through my hair. Semi-together, I pushed through from the inner lobby to the always busy restaurant, a bright dining room filled with families, the clank of china and silverware, and the roar of conversation.  I breathed deep, the smell of beef, onions, and green peppers wafting past as a waitress delivered a fajita, making my belly grumble.


    The hostess, a chipper high schooler with lime green hair approached the door and greeted me. She placed her hand on a stack of menus, asking, "How many?"


    I smiled, waving her off and scanning the crowd. "Just looking for my fiance... and there she is." Kelsey, all blonde, high cheek-bones, and sexily attired in a business skirt and sexy, strappy heels, waved from behind a cheesy display of rusty old bicycles and fire fighting equipment.


    I turned to the hostess. "Thanks."


    "You''re welcome. And it''s cool you guys can now."


    I began walking, but stopped, turning back to her, facing a half-dozen people entering and lining up at the hostess stand. "Can now, what?"


    "Be engaged, get married."


    "I''m not, we''re not..." My shoulders slumped, and I stood still, my jaw open, speechless. She was trying to be cool, and succeeding, but I wanted to defend myself, saying I wasn''t gay. And that Kelsey wasn''t a dyke. However, at that moment I realized that I had no clue as to what I was.


    So I turned, sunning her with a smile. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

 I. Part 8.

    Part 8.


    Kelsey looked engaged and concerned as I spun my tales, which impressed me. Because even though me being a she had to shock her silly, she was still my friend. She''s a good girl.


    The rape mortified her, as it should, even though I remembered no details. She was less than surprised when I told her about Squee and his stash of GBH. They''d had an incident involving Squee and her Kappa Kappa Delta sister who passed out at an Omega party the year after I''d graduated.


    "You remember Sophia, right?"


    I squinted, straining my memory, beer washing down my Jack Daniels steak. "Think so. Long black hair, black eyes, Hollywood whites, pre-med? Super sweet Muslim chick from... I dunno, maybe Syria or Lebanon?"


    She scoffed, patting my arm. "Yes, that''s her, and she''s Syrian, but she''s some super-strict Christian thingy. That''s why her folks moved here."


    I bit my lip. "Oops. Sorry. Go on."


    "Anyway, like I said, she''s a super-strict Christian, so I''ve neeeeever seen her drink more than a beer, or maybe two at tops in the four years I''ve known her. So we''re at an Omega party. Another sister Emma, who''s on the senior floor boffing her boyfriend Carlton takes a wrong turn looking for the bathroom and opens Squee''s door on accident. Sophia''s passed out on his bed. Emma tries waking her but cannot, Sophia''s dead to the world, so Emma hollers for help. Together, we drag her to Starbucks, and it takes, like, two hours to sober her up. And I''d known her since freshman year, and I know that girl never, ever got drunk like that. Now, I''m pretty sure nothing happened, that Emma saved her. But I''m almost positive Squee roofied her."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Pensive and shocked, I jabbed a bit of steak with my fork before realizing I was full. "Huh... really? I''d never have guessed."


    Kelsey sipped her wine, rubbing my arm, her blue eyes sparkling and warm. "Guys never do, the good ones, at least. You don''t get it."


    I shrugged, leaning back, pushing my plate away. "Maybe it''s because we CAN get it... laid, I mean, while jackholes like Squee ain''t got game?"


    She smiled. "Something like. But the thing is, he''s not even that bad looking, just a jerk."


    As I pondered this, my iPhone began blowing up, my notification alarm ''dinging'' as texts, emails Facebook, and Twitter notifications flooded in. By the time I''d pulled out my phone and entered the passcode, I had more than two hundred new messages.


    "The fuck is this?," I asked no one in particular, opening one of my hundreds of texts at random.


    God hates tranny fags. So die, tranny! Die, fag!


    "Holy crap," I said, scrolling through the messages which continued flooding my accounts. Vile crap, incel assholes calling me a fag, or accusing me of lying to set PJ and Squee up to make some sort of asinine LGBTQ statement. Creepier fucks threatening to rape me with their improbably long penises before killing me. "Christians" condemning me to hell, etc.


    As I read, my eyes narrowed, ever tighter, and I ground my teeth. My heart pounding I snarled. "Who the fuck are these assholes... and what the...? I''m the victim. The cops told me my identity would be..."


    My phone ''buzzed'' away, flooding my inbox with waves of toxic hate from cowards, complete strangers hiding behind emails with fake names and texts from accounts using fake Google Phone numbers.


    Kelsey stood, swung around the table, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"


    I handed her my phone, and she scrolled through the messages, her jaw sliding open with shock. "This is... awful."


    I nodded. "Some pin-prick doxxed me." Pissed and wanting some heads on a spike, I fished out my wallet and dialed Detective Holzclaw''s number.

 I. Part 9.

    Part 9.


    I was pissed, fresh off THE week from hell, and we were at a restaurant bar on a weekend. So after I hung up with Holtzclaw, I found another cold, frothy beer before me, Kelsey grinning.


    "Drink up," she said. "I''ll play designated driver tonight. YOU need it."


    A few drinks later, she wanted to hit the bars proper. Thing was, I didn''t want to go to a nightclub looking like a bull-dyke. So after we bid a fond farewell to my now-favorite green-haired hostess in the world, we split Friday''s and headed for Malarkey''s, a low-key Irish pub that featured cool microbrews, great booze and local mainstream rock, folk or blues artists performing low-volume, sophisticated yet upbeat tunage.


    And I downed beer after beer, with an occasional shot mixed in. All on Kelsey''s dime while she sipped cola, hearing me out, not judging or giving me advice. Like I said before, she''s da bomb diddy.


    Problem was, I drank like Ulysses of old but weighed about seventy pounds less, so soon I was ripped and raging at Squee and his creepy band of pinheads. And some Omega brothers had to know but looked the other way which drove me livid. And I raged at my thick-skulled self for not catching on earlier. Then I lit into the trolls, whose vile comments continued flooding my inbox so fast and furious that I turned off my phone''s notifications. Kelsey cut me off at ten, ordered me a slice before the kitchen closed, and then dragged me home.


    The food didn''t help much.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Drunker than I''d been since my freshman year at college, she poured me into her passenger-side door. She drove me home, and I sloshed about as if boneless during the drive. When we pulled into the driveway of the duplex I rented, I emerged into the damp cold, still so shaky on my legs that I needed support. Kelsey offered her shoulder, I slung my arm around it, and she walked me to my apartment and poured me onto my couch. Once I settled, she turned on the TV and the electric teakettle, saying tea would do me good. So we sipped Earl Grey and watched Jimmy Fallon, me stretched out and alternately dozing off and snapping awake.


    <hr>


    I''m not sure how long I''d been out, but I must have been out cold because when I roused next, the TV was off and Kelsey was covering me with a sheet and a blanket she''d fished out of the linen closet. I stirred, stretching. "Thanks."


    "You''re welcome," she said, reaching into her purse and jangling her keys. "I''ll pop by noonish tomorrow to pick up your car, I figure after tonight, you owe me a lunch."


    I smiled. "I do at that." Still buzzed, but now in control, I reached for her hand. "Why not spend the night?"


    I felt her tense and jerk away.


    "I... I don''t know, Ulysses. I mean, I''m not gay. I tried kissing a girl once in college, and it just, I don''t know, just didn''t work for me. I mean, I still love you as a person, but I''m just not sure...."


    Her eyes pleaded.


    I dropped her hand, my heart thudding. "My bad, I''m sorry, I forgot, I understand. Strange new world."


    "Indeed," she said, her smile faint and eyes unfocused and pensive.


    I swung my feet to the ground. "Friends?"


    She shouldered her purse, slipping on her shoes. "Definitely. For anything else, I''ll need to adjust. A lot."


    I nodded, faced again with the unfathomable.

 I. Part 10.

    Part 10.


    On Monday, I played guinea pig for the University Medical Center research team. Another crappy appointment. Me in the stirrups with the docs poking and prodding, fifteen blood draws, and an invasive pelvic ultrasound. The researcher''s accompanied my torture with scientific mumbo-jumbo, treating me like a lab specimen, as if I could neither hear nor understand.


    On the upside, though, I pumped a fist in the air, ecstatic with relief when my pregnancy test came back negative. Because ovaries aside, I''m NOT the mothering type. And despite having spent my formative years hearing Reverend Wallace inveigh against abortion, I was unsure if I''d want to carry a child to term.


    But through the mumbo-jumbo, I gleaned an interesting fact: my cells were still genetically male, carrying both X and Y chromosomes, the ''Y'' suppressed by ''epigenetic markers'' and "methylation.'' But laying their nerdy five-dollar-words aside, the doctors were clueless.


    They ended up grossing me out near the end of the session. Excited and anticipating my first period, they longed to see if my eggs and hormone levels would act like those of a normal, fertile woman of twenty-five. So they gave me, I kid you not, special feminine napkins I was to use, store in specimen jars, and return to them.


    Ew.


    But unlike the nerd-herd, I was not looking forward to seeing Aunt Flo. I''d seen Kelsey go through those visits from hell dozens of times, and it seemed awful. Worse, I don''t think Aunt Flo liked me much since I''d often raise Kelsey''s ire during her visits. My crime, it seems, was having a Y chromosome.


    <hr>


    After leaving the clinic, I shot across campus to the Women''s Center in Aeaea Hall. More poking and prodding, truth be told, albeit the invasions were psychic and not physical. Though, as I said before, I''d been keeping to myself, attending only because of work. Heck, I needed my job and, even though my father''s a lawyer and brings home serious cheddar, he''s no Charles Koch and I didn''t want to burden him.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    But I shocked myself because, for the first time, I spoke.


    I owe this to Kelsey. Because after we grabbed lunch on Saturday, she took me shopping and picked out clothes that made me feel, I dunno, feminine? Or at least competent as a dresser. It''s odd that, for all my drooling over the female form since puberty, I hadn''t paid attention to the finer details of what made ladies look stunning. I''d always assumed it was natural, but Kelsey revealed that it took work. And I was just beginning to learn.


    Wax on, Ulysses-son. Wax off.


    She even selected a limited supply of simple makeup, like foundation, a subtle rouge, and lip-gloss, which she delivered with admonitions and careful instruction. She didn''t want me making the mistakes a typical 15-year-old girl does when first making themselves up, piling it on until they looked like harlots.


    Since the only time I''d ever applied makeup was playing a zombie or vampire on Halloween, doing the job for real scared me, but I followed her advice. I gotta hand it to her, I looked good: a marked improvement.


    Kelsey''s da bomb.


    Looking decent gave me the swag I''d lost, so I spoke like a spitfire seeking vengeance, telling the gathered crowd that I wanted to mount the heads of the internet trolls who doxxed me on spikes. This brought sniggers and cheers, people piling on about how pissed they were at their own abusers.


    The therapist encouraged me but tried to shift my focus to some soft-minded Oprah crap about me using rage to mask my feelings of vulnerability. You know, drippy hippie nonsense. I was like, "whatever, girl." Because the other women in the group encouraged me, and left the room as the session closed fired-up, psyched big-time.


    This is war, I thought. No time for navel-gazing.


    "So all aboard, ladies... and we aren''t going fishing.


    "Just praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition."

 I. Part 11

    Part 11.


    The Capitol City police looped in the FBI. I suspect Kelsey''s father, who golfed with his college buddy, Ohio Senator Rob Portman, several times a year, had called in a favor. Regardless, within hours the feds'' tech gurus removed my personal information from every social media post they could find. Now, they didn''t catch the guilty party, but by tracing IPs and phone numbers, they blocked most of the trolls.


    They soon found "ground zero," the original dox from Friday on the [anti]social-media cesspool 7-Chan. The author was ''Alph@$chl0ng69.'' And I''m like, ''Alpha Schlong Sixty-Nine?'' If you have a screen name like that, you''re either thirteen or a loser who is, shall we say, poorly endowed? And my guess is that Alpha Schlong''s NEVER sixty-nined a shorty because he''s got no game.


    And as to being an "alpha"... bwahaha.


    The problem was, though the FBI forced the site to remove my personal info, the site''s lawyers fought attempts to unmask Alpha Schlong''s real identity. Nor would 7-Chan''s webmaster block him from posting, or help the FBI track my info. Instead, the webmaster and the lawyers whined about "free speech" and "refusing to aid in censorship," saying that "information wants to be free." As if I were a plot-point in a crap Ayn Rand novel and not a person whose life and safety they were putting at risk.


    Fuck, I hate these Silicon Valley millionaire a-holes.


    My info percolated from the original 7-Chan post to the nastier parts of the web. The feds found and removed posts from Read-it, 3-Chan, Collide-a-skope, and eGab. Lucky for me, none of the real powerful influencers, like Mick Cernovik, caught on and hyped it before the cyber sleuths quashed it.


    At least I thought they''d quashed the trolls. Until another tsunami of ignorant filth flooded my inbox. So instead of taking the career-advancing finance classes which I had paid for, I spent the day changing my phone number but keeping the old one for free because of the FBI. Next, I spent hours working with tech support to forward calls and texts to the old number BUT from my contact list to the new number, ignoring anyone else. And then opening a new email account. And then contacting everyone I knew with my new info, fielding emails, and texts from them while ignoring their phone calls lest I had to explain my higher voice and still embarrassing sex-change. And then banning almost ninety misogynistic jackholes from posting to my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram profiles... on EACH site, so I ended up ignoring like 250 people in an afternoon. One-by-one. Tedious as all ''get-out.''


    What a day.


    Productive work completed: none.


    Time spent dealing with the fallout caused by idiots offended by me being a female pressing rape charges: twelve-plus.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Fuck, I hate incels.


    #


    I visited Holtzclaw before Wednesday''s therapy session at his precinct, a blocky, run-down building of brown brick, yellowed linoleum tiles, and cheap chrome and plastic furniture. We met at his desk, it''s top clear save a laptop, a neat stack of files and squared-off papers at his right elbow, and a ''WORLD''S OKAYEST DAD'' coffee mug filled with burnt-smelling cheap coffee.


    He motioned me to sit across from him, where he handed me a folder containing a small stack of pages of Alpha Schlong''s 7-Chan ''greatest hits.'' Vile stuff, page upon page of middle school-level insults hurled at women: the crap targeting me, some woman programmers at a video game company or other, and the all-female cast of the Ghost Busters reboot ¡ª a movie I judged pretty funny, about as goofy as the original. But Alpha Schlong''s worst posts, filled with colorful violence, threatened to string female Democratic Senators and impeachment witnesses up by their vaginas, which he''d "turn inside-out like dirty socks."


    I laughed, tapping the page. "This guy''s a jerk."


    Holtzclaw nodded, sipping his coffee, and sighing with visible glee as the caffeine hit his bloodstream. "Yup. Typical cyberbully, a scumbag loser. Wanted you to see this, though, to know that it probably ain''t personal. The guy just likes to... start shit, instigate, post threatening nonsense. Like he''s a comedian or something."


    I nodded, remembering my middle school love affair with the Jerky Boys, a sometimes hilarious New York comedy duo who specialized in prank phone calls, often threatening the people they called for laughs. My friends and I loved the Jerkies and tried to imitate them, taping our own prank calls. We thought they were a riot, and that we were the as-yet-undiscovered comedy duo, the next Jerky Boys.


    The thing was, everyone else told us we sucked.


    Which made us double-down, trying harder... and making ourselves laugh harder. While everyone else continued shrugging us off.


    Oh well. I guess we all think we''re better, funnier, smarter, more brilliant, etc. than we are.


    As this revelation rolled through my noggin, a lightning bolt zipped through my mind. I gulped, my eyes bugging.


    Because I realized that Alpha Schlong sounded like Squee.


    I told Holtzclaw.


    He scowled and scratched his square jaw, jotting it down. Not agreeing, not denying, just jotting down my hunch. He reached to retrieve the Alpha Schlong material. I was gathering the pages back into the folder when his partner distracted him, hollering across the busy room about a meeting. Holtzclaw shot upright, looking at his watch, excusing himself. The duo disappeared into an office, where they spoke, full of animation. with a jowly man behind the desk.


    Deep in thought and distracted by idiots like Squee and Alpha Schlong and moron tech entrepreneurs who earned billions catering to bullies who got their jollies by threatening regular people, I folded the papers, snapped them into my handbag and left. Why not? I figured it was all public record stuff, and that Holtzclaw had a copy. Besides, I wanted to show Kelsey.

 I. Part 12.

    Part 12.


    During my afternoon therapy session, I shared again, fuming about the 7-Chan''s lawyers shielding guilty incel trolls from the FBI. Several group members had been cyber-bullied and chimed in. And every group member, save me, had received dick-pics from some idiot loser or other who was CERTAIN that this pickup method would net them some ladies. And I''m like, "as-if."


    Then again, I had seen Omega brothers taking dick-pics and sending them to whatever slag they were trying to shag, so maybe I was wrong and it worked? Every now and again? Who knows? But based on the reactions here, I''d call it a losing strategy, And some of these shorties weren''t half-bad looking, especially the flat-out foxy Latina with an ass that wouldn''t quit whom I made sure to sit behind. Amazing view.


    While this liturgy of shame and heartless bullying unfurled, I grew irate. Unable to control myself, I shot bolt-upright, snagging the spotlight like Jimmy Stewart in Mister Smith Goes to Washington. "Hey, any of you gals know a reporter? Because I''m tired of little-peckered idiots fucking up our lives. No mas. I want to go public, to get my story, our story, out there. I''m talking ''Me Too'' two-dot-oh. We gotta hold these assholes'' feet to the fire."


    Applause exploded.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    I remembered Holtzclaw''s Alpha Schlong dossier, and reached into my handbag, brandishing the papers. "And I have evidence, Check out this filth." I handed the folder to the woman next to me, and she paged through, her jaw gaping open with shock. She passed it along, and I stood, silent, as the second woman read. She passed along the papers, and I roused.


    "Those are the jackhole''s 7-Chan posts, from the cops. The FBI has him, dead to rights, threatening, bullying, and doxing people. Only the 7-Chan pinheads won''t give him up. They''re protecting a vile dirtbag who posts filth, like turning a woman''s uterus inside-out, like a sock. Assholes like that have to pay. So tell your reporter friends. They''ll have click-bait for days, a career-boosting scoop."


    They cheered. They read the dossier. They jeered, making fun of the incel Alpha Schlong. Because they wanted his head on a spike, pay-back for decades of guys being assholes.


    Then a large African American young lady began chanting and clapping: "Alpha Schlong is going down, Alpha Schlong is going down...."


    Soon, the others took up the chant. And the therapist slumped in her chair, annoyed that all hell had broken loose in her once-peaceful group session. Because these ladies were no longer navel-gazing or whining while sharing bullshit with bullshitters. Instead, they were fighting mad, and ready to march, a mascara army rallying to my battle cry.


    I then understood how MLK felt as people cheered him at the Washington Monument. I mean, fighting for justice is a real kick.

 II. "Cause I Slay" - Part 1.

    Chapter II: ''Cause I Slay


    <hr>


    Part 1


    We stepped out of therapy like a legion, all fired-up, and in formation. After some friendly hugs and high-fives, we scattered to the four winds, back to our separate lives. While fishing my BMW''s keys from the handbag, thinking about grabbing lunch before studying my finance course, a flash of pink hair over a gaudy maroon leopard-skin print skirt, black-and-white striped thigh-high socks, and Doc Martins caught my eye. I stopped and turned, my face lighting up as I hustled, quick as I could in the low-heeled dress shoes which I still wasn''t used to, to intercept the emo chick.


    Some notes in a folder absorbed her attention, so I said in a loud voice, "Hey, Circe."


    She stopped, spinning to see me as she tucked the folder under her arm. With hesitation in her voice, she said, "Hi...?"


    I dangled my keys. "Heading out for lunch, wanna grab a bite, on me?"


    "I can''t, I have, do I know ¡ª" Circe''s sentence crashed to a halt, and I sensed her confusion: her hazel eyes peering up at me, at once registering and not registering, and her pale, freckled face tilting to the side like one of those funny AF chipmunks from that old Bugs Bunny TV show. You know, the ''apple-core, who''s your friend'' ones, who then pelt Daffy Duck in the eyes with an apple core?


    Anyway, Circe studied me for two or three shakes, and then she breathed out with an audible ''pffffffffffffffffffffft,'' her chest deflating with exaggerated exasperation. "I''m, like reeeeeal sorry because you look familiar but I don''t remember your name."


    Crestfallen, I realized I''d forgotten about my transformation, so I said, "Ulysses."


    Her brow furled, and then her eyes popped open as if exploding with excitement. "You mean Fenton''s brother?"


    My face burned, and I shrugged, embarrassed. "Yeah."


    "No way. Did they put you up to this?" Circe''s expression grew mock-serious. "You''ve got to be their sister fucking with me. I mean, you look like him, but...."


    "Well, that''s because I am him, er, uhm, or her? Or, I mean, I''m Ulysses."


    "Really?" She narrowed her eyes, pressed tight her lips, the skepticism dripping off of her. "And you''re not pranking me?"


    "No, I swear."


    "So, you''re the guy I messed around with homecoming weekend at that Omega hell-hole?"


    Exasperated, I threw up my hands. "Yes. It''s me. Honest injun,"


    She snarled. "Hmmm... ''honest injun,'' the casual racism of a typical Greekaszoid... guess you may be him. But, I''m not sure you''re him because you, you look so, so, so...."


    I helped her out, saying, "So female?"The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    A smile sparked her eyes, "No, moron. I was thinking you''re so short, but now that you mention it...."


    "Short?" I let out a sharp, shocked snort.


    Circe laughed a boisterous belly-laugh and, stuffing twenty feet of gusto into her five-foot-nothing frame, punched my arm as if to burn off excess excitement. "Don''t be so gullible. But you''re a woman. That''s weird." She crossed her left arm across her chest, resting her right elbow on it, chin in her hand. "So say I believe you, what the hell happened?"


    "Dunno. Sometime that night, I turned into... this..." I spread my arms, indicating my feminine form.


    Her stance relaxed, and she rocked back on the heels of her combat boots. "Now, say I believe you. You''re telling me no surgery, no hormone replacement therapy, you just woke up a girl?"


    "Yup. I just woke up, and poof, I''m a girl. Like David Freaking Copperfield snapped his fingers."


    "Like magic." Circe arched her eyebrows, her face calming as if thinking. "The whole nine?"


    I crossed my arms in front of me, screwed up my face, and nodded. "Ovaries, vagina, the whole nine."


    "No kidding," she said, biting her lip, serious. Then, I''m pretty sure a scared look shot across her face, but I''m not positive. It could just be a trick of my memory. But I would swear she blew me off by looking down at her teal and purple Swatch watch. "Anyway, I have to go. I have a counseling session."


    "Hope you get what you need. I know it''s working for me."


    She tilted her head, again resembling an inquisitive chipmunk. "Working?"


    "My therapy."


    "Oh." She smiled, throwing up a hand as if pushing me away. "It''s not for me, I''m the therapist. Well, sort of, more like the ''therapist in training,'' who will have my graduate advisor hovering over my shoulder, making sure I don''t fudge up."


    "Ah, that''s right, you''re a psych grad student."


    Circe nodded. "Clinical Ph.D. candidate." She turned to go.


    My eyes popped open, and I leaned back. impressed. "PhD... But, wait, I thought you were only two years older than Fenton."


    She shrugged, her face a wry grin. "I spent my last two years of high school at community college, so came to State a few credits shy of being a junior."


    "Holy shit, I always knew you were smart, but... that''s in-freaking-credible."


    She shook her head. "Nah. My mother was a teacher, and she helped. A lot. And my father''s probably the smartest man I know. Just lucky, I suppose."


    "You say so, but it sounds impressive to me."


    Her expression went wan, and her eyes drew tight. "I do. Say so, I mean. And I REALLY have to go Ulysses."


    I waved as she turned, walking away. "Good luck, shrink some heads."


    She turned back, returning the wave, her expression somber. "Oh, and I have a suggestion. Call Omega house, have them look in the medicine cabinet. I know some guys leave it in there sometimes when they''re distracted. And you were smashed, so maybe it''s there."


    I slumped, perplexed. "The medicine cabinet?"


    She smiled, wide and pixie-like. "You know, your ''Detachable Penis?'' Remember the song from back in the day?"


    My eyes went round as I remembered the song and I laughed, releasing days of tension, her humor poking a hole in my self-absorption. And she bopped away, a flash of pink, maroon, and black. And a tight, smoking little bod, waving behind her back. I felt light, and yet nostalgic since Circe was still cool, and had given me my last blow-job... perhaps the last I''d ever get?


    I didn''t know.


    But regardless, between Circe playing pixie spark-plug and the group prodding me on, I felt ready to attack the world with, or without, my detachable penis.

 II. Part 2.

    Part 2.


    I''d always found Circe refreshing, and today was no exception. That detachable penis bit was funny AF. God, I love her. What a freaking card. As I fired up the Beemer, crawling through campus''s insane stop and go towards Chipotle, I reminisced, remembering when I''d first met that wacko.


    <hr>


    It was Fenton''s freshman year, I was a senior, and she was a Resident Advisor for his dorm, two years older than him. On his second weekend on campus, Fenton asked me to buy a beer ball of Bud, and I obliged, bringing along a killer beer-bong. After sharing a few cold ones with his buddies, I suggested we shoot some brews. The frosh wanted in, so we strung the half-inch tubing from the fourth floor to the ground floor, and let her rip. Between the funnel and tubing, I think the damned thing held four, maybe six beers.


    I became an instant hero gulping down a bong. 100%. No spillage.


    And then became a superhero when, after moshing to a chorus of the Beastie Boys, I bonged a second. Again, 100%. Again, no spillage.


    And they have the nerve to say you learn nothing useful in college?


    Next, the frosh tried. It was hilarious. Amateurs. They would bong about half down, and beer would foam out their noses and shoot out their mouths. Every one of them spit out the tube, sending beer spraying everywhere, dousing both the fools and the stairwells with beer. I''d swear my side was splitting I laughed so hard. A freaking riot. A bunch of rowdy eighteen or nineteen-year-olds whooping it up sopping wet, an inch or two of beer on the floor, and me, the cool older brother, instigating. Classic college hijinks.


    And then some pinhead complained.


    So Circe, Advisor on Duty, showed up harshing the vibe.


    She had electric green hair extensions back then and was wearing flannel My Little Pony pajama bottoms and a black tee that barely concealed her rock-hard nips. I read the shirt, rolling my eyes: ''IF IT INVOLVES CATS, COFFEE, AND CRYSTALS, COUNT ME IN!''


    She was a Wicca, it seems.


    Which I''d decided freshman year was shorthand for awkward, hyper-sensitive emo girls shaped like potatoes who owned tarot cards, burned sage incense,  and loved torturing their evangelical parents by wearing pentagrams. And at first glance, that was Circe. But I don''t know what it was, I couldn''t stop staring. I just liked her.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Come on guys," she said, bobbing her head, her gaze moving from face to face, "knock it off. This ain''t cool. It''s a common area and someone can slip and get hurt."


    We all stood, self-conscious and mischievous. But I mean, it wasn''t but hijinks, right? And Circe made it seem that, though she understood, she wasn''t budging an inch.


    She breathed out, slumping her shoulders. "Now, I''m gonna grab a Shop-Vac and some mop buckets from the janitor closet. Who''s gonna clean?"


    No one volunteered, so Circe''s face clouded. "Who here''s twenty-one, old enough to buy beer?"


    They sniggered, and I gulped. Because that year, the university board changed dorm rules. They threatened to expel anyone caught with booze under age twenty-one. It''s a stupid rule ¡ª I mean, who''s fooling who, because college kids are gonna drink, right? But I didn''t want to send them to disciplinary court for some old-fashioned fun, or worse,  get them booted on my account. So I raised my hand.


    But Circe proved herself cool, capable, and as competent a manipulator as Machiavelli himself when she said, "You''re okay," nodding to me on the fourth floor, "but the rest of you are freshmen. Look, anyone who helps clean doesn''t get reported. I''m not your mama and I don''t want to get you guys in trouble, I just don''t want anyone slipping and hurting themselves. Now come on, who''s gonna help?"


    And I''ll be damned. They all jumped as if touched by magic and volunteered.


    I''d never seen a dorm hall cleaned as fast. And stranger still, they had fun as they cleaned. Almost as much fun as we''d had bonging beers. Circe had us in stitches sharing her own freshman year hijinks, which included many nights worshiping the "porcelain goddess." I can''t remember the content, just my side splitting.


    But I remained on the fourth floor, looking down and sipping my beers, impressed. She beguiled me. I had an evident crush on her. which confused me. Because compared to my classic blond-haired, blue-eyed goddess Kelsey, whom I''d been dating since my sophomore and her freshman year, Circe was a Plain-Jane.


    But there was something about her. She intrigued me.


    Sure, I wanted to bone her. But I also wanted to hang out, to compare playlists, discuss movies, and whatnot. Because, I don''t know, she just seemed cool. Together. Like a cat with a crystal sipping coffee.


    <hr>


    Back in the present, I nodded, content as I eased my car into a parking spot. She still intrigued me, that one. She''s still freaky, still sorta emo, still way less fashion-mag material than Kelsey, but....


    As Circes tee-shirt said back then, "count me in."


    I kicked open the door, thinking hot sauce and the porky goodness of carnitas.

 II. Part 3.

    Part 3.


    A therapy groupie emailed me the contact info for a Western Reserve Times-Leader reporter named Tibor Lorik. I searched his name on Doodle, and he seemed legit, even well-respected, known for old-fashioned, hard-hitting investigative reporting. For instance, back in 2012, he investigated a local strip club, uncovering prostitution, human trafficking, and drug dealing. Next, he traced the owner''s connections to the Russian mob. The scumbag owners landed in prison for drug dealing and tax evasion.


    Impressive.


    So I contacted him.


    When we first met, Tibor seemed spent to me: an overweight, frumpy forty-something guy with bags under his eyes, wearing wrinkled off-brand chinos and a white and blue striped dress shirt dotted with coffee stains. Then again, what do you expect? Journalism''s a low-paying occupation, unless you''re one of the popular ones, like Sean Hannity.


    Then again, that''s why I''d held out the carrot, the scoop of a lifetime. I mean, my story''s one-of-a-kind: a frat bro transforms into a girl and gets raped by his frat bros. Think of the revenue streams.


    You can earn cash from radical #MeToo feminists.


    Then earn cash when the incels creep in, trolling the comment section of the original article, and posting their own articles defending PJ and Squee on their blogs. Or whining about the "feminazi war on men." No worries, though, since all roads would lead back to the articles.


    Those articles would continue earning cash as comment boards light up, pitting incel troll versus #MeToo supporter, the traffic bringing more cash, all the time. And it could serve as a springboard for a career. Perhaps as a minor social media influencer, or Tibor''s articles could really blow up, earning Tibor a Pulitzer Prize.


    Money lurked everywhere if you''re smart enough to ferret it out. I mean, I was handing this talented sad-sack the keys to prosperity. Good deal, right? Plus, he could help me bury PJ and Squee while putting this Alpha Schlong pinhead in his place. Win-win.


    #


    Two days before my first on-the-record interview, I emailed Tibor a scan of the Alpha Schlong dossier, giving him roughly a day and a half to work. And work he did.


    He joined 3-Chan, 7-Chan, and Readit using aliases, where he''d spent twelve hours following Alpha Schlong. He lurked on message boards, ''liking'' Alpha Schlong''s comments before posting comments echoing Alpha Schlong''s ideas. Soon, Tibor sent a friend request, which Alpha Schlong accepted. Once inside, Tibor went silent, lurking in the background, researching. He built a rudimentary psych profile of the asshole, tracing Alpha Schlong''s online haunts and friending the friends that Alpha Schlong most often interacted with.


    Next, Tibor followed posts by Alpha Schlong''s friends and friended several. About half friended him back. Through dogged persistence, Tibor connected two profiles to real-world people based on posts to other, less seedy 7-Chan message boards.


    One of Alpha Schlong''s homies was a State University student taking an upper-division econ class because he bitched about the "dot-head instructor," which turned out to be an associate professor named Mahindra Gujarat. Tibor couldn''t score a list of the enrollees, but he said he was working on it.


    He''d had more success tracing Alpha Schlong''s other 7-Chan bestie, who turned out to be a middle-aged loser, a retired truck driver living in nearby Irish Town who was a rabid poster to all topics alt-right. Tibor said that, while he uncovered the guy''s actual name and address, he''d keep that to himself. I guess it had something to do with journalistic ethics, and I''m down with that.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    This frumpy dude had learned more in an afternoon than Holtzclaw and the feds had done in five days. Like I said before, impressive.


    #


    After updating me, Tibor reached for his Android phone, asking, "May I record this?"


    I consented and started telling my story.


    I won''t bore you, dear reader. You already know the details. But I spoke of my transformation into being female, which interested him though he remained skeptical. So I gave him the names of the doctors at the University Medical Center, with whom he''d follow up.


    I amazed myself with how I shut down when speaking of the rapes to him, embarrassed. By what? I wondered. Sure, it was a violation that still disgusted me. But I''d done nothing. I shared how embarrassed I was. And how I should have known about the date-rapes and roofies when I lived at Omega house. The clues were there, but I didn''t "see." I was too self-absorbed, I supposed.


    As we were wrapping up, he leaned forward, laying out his copy of the dossier, ticking off several text messages the cops had gleaned from my phone, sent by random callers. "One last thing. How''d these texters know you were a male turned female, and not a garden-variety female rape victim?"


    My jaw went slack, and I sat, speechless. After a few seconds of silence, I shrugged, dumbfounded. "Say what?"


    He pointed to some texts. "Now, at this point in time, there''s nothing public on you. No one knows you from Adam. But look at this text: ''God hates, fags, so die you tranny faggot.'' Or this one, calling you a ''castrato,'' and a ''plague on every cisgender white male in America.''"


    I read, shocked. "Wow. You''re right, wonder how... Or maybe they were breaking my balls, you know, goofy stuff?"


    "Too specific seems to me."


    I considered. He was right. There something smelled fishy. It turns out what the say about books, covers, and judging is true. Because this puffy-eyed Pilsbury Dough Boy was sharp as tacks.


    #


    Tibor''s editor published the multi-installment expos¨¦ in the print edition of the Western Reserve Times-Leader. The initial two articles focused on sexual abuse at Greek houses on the State University campus. Besides me, he interviewed at least five other women who had been "curbed" on Greek Row, left on the front lawn for the police to whisk away. Every one had GBH in their system, four others had completed rape-kits, but only I had pressed charges. Near the end of the article, Tibor mentioned that Detective Daniel Holtzclaw had worked these cases. Holtzclaw declined to comment.


    Anyway, as I predicted, when the Times-Leader posted Tibor''s articles, featuring them on their homepage, the buzz grew, like an orchestra of cicadas. First to other Ohio papers, interested by Tibor''s unyielding inquiry into the lurid history of sexual abuse complaints against State University''s Greek system. He soon zeroed in on Omega House, with Fenton and me as his "inside sources."


    Then came my story. Again, I was right. Clickbait gold. I mean, a fraternity brother who''d become a biological female, baffling the medical scientists at State, the best research university in Ohio and fifth-ranked state university in the nation according to USA Today? What''s not to like? It''s shocking shit, and shocking shit scores hundreds of Twiddler, LookBook, or iMediaGram shares and likes galore, which glued thousands of eyeballs on my story.


    Tibor kept my name and occupation out of the media, but the buzz grew. Soon, Fenton told me CNN, ABC, and NBC reporters were crawling all-over campus, trying to uncover my identity. And while they failed at that, the media shined an unflattering spotlight onto PJ, Squee, and their merry band of asshole rapists. Even Fox News, after defending them for a few days as being targeted, piled on. Tibor''s research had been so deep, focused, and his sources so unassailable that only the most pitiful incel in America and a handful of our brother Omega apologists were in PJ and Squees corner.


    I smiled with cold glee, watching their reputations being violated every day in the public''s eye. I hope they felt as powerless and emasculated as I had. Brothers or not, fuck em.


    God, is revenge sweet.

 II. Part 4.

    Part 4.


    I slouched in my seat, ankles crossed on a chair in front of me, saddened by the Latina and her perfect posterior''s absence. The therapist droned about addressing our "feelings of inadequacy," well-meaning but mindless Oprah-shmoprah babble.


    I found myself squirming, the heat in the room rising.


    It took a second to realize that I squirmed for the therapist. I''d never noticed how sexy she was. Pure MILF: late thirties or early forties, well-preserved, fly as fuck in her tight-fitting skirt, conservative in cut but in a warm purple-pink plaid. The neck of a semi-sheer satin blouse stood opened, the hint of cleavage a mammary magnet.


    I gasped, chuckling to myself, biting back laughter. God, was I horny. No wonder, since the last time I''d gotten my rocks off was Homecoming Weekend.


    After reasserting self-control, I listened. She''d soon open the floor, and I wanted to talk about Tibor''s articles. Most of the groupies were raped or abused on campus, so odds were they knew about his articles forcing the administration to face reality, which would provide some measure of payback. Right?


    My doing. Screw the assholes.


    Smug, I smiled and leaned-back, trash-talking silently: "I''m like Beyonc¨¦ and Buffy rolled into one, ''cause I slay, serving cold justice to motherfuckers like PJ and Squee and Alpha Shlong. Don''t fuck with this bitch, bitches."


    I flinched when a notification rang on my phone. Loud AF. Embarrassed, I dug through my handbag, searching for my phone. "Sorry."


    The therapist smiled, her lips full, like rose petals. "Forget about it, happens all the time. Just because you''re in therapy doesn''t mean reality stops being real."


    "Thanks." I searched the bag, feeling like a heel because these groupies needed help. I''d hate to hinder their recoveries.


    A second later, I snagged my iPhone 11 Pro, by far the most on-fleek phone ever manufactured, entered my passcode, and read Kelsey''s message.


    did you see this? how''d they get your name?! and this pic?!?!?! wtf? my lookbook and imediagram are blowing apart!


    Intrigued, I tapped the embedded link, and my heart fell.


    A picture of me taken this summer at our engagement party illustrated an article in The Daily Gawker: ''TRANSEXUAL FORMER FRATERNITY BROTHER ALLEGEDLY RAPED BY HIS FRATERNITY, UNMASKED?''


    I scrolled down, reading the article, dread settling like a dead weight, rooting me in place.


    They had my name, where I attended high school, and where I lived now. And they had the dates I attended State, the Mag Cum honor from the School of Business, and my position as rush chairman and veep of the Omega Theta Pi branch at State.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    They had everything right.


    What the fuck, and how the fuck?


    I growled, anger flaring as I set my brow.


    As if sensing my distress, the therapist stopped. "You okay Ulysses?"


    I breathed slow and deep as I could, considering my reply, my heart thumping strong in my ears. "Personal stuff. About my case. You know, the cops and the press and that crap. May I leave for a sec?"


    "By all means, you''re here of your own accord. But remember this is a safe space for you to forget the outside world and work on you. Your problems will still be there an hour from now, why not hang out? It''s what I''d recommend."


    Frustrated, I stood and snatched my handbag. "Thanks, but this is important. Need to call the cops, and maybe a lawyer to sue the Gawker back into the stone age."


    "To do what to who now?"


    I shrugged. "Nothing, just pissed. Anyway, I''ll be back."


    "Okay," she said, eying me with suspicion as I stomped through the door.


    In the hall, I dialed Tibor, who picked up midway through the second ring. Without ceremony, he jumped to business. "Oh, hey, Ulysses. And yes, I saw the Gawker hit-job. Doodled it at the office, and it looks like it''s gone viral.... Hey, hold on, would you? Traffic''s heavy and I''m driving, looking for an address I''ve never been...." I heard the background hum of traffic, and a few seconds later, Tibor returned. "Anyway, My phone''s been ringing off the hook since they posted it. And we''re talking heavy hitters. Jodi Kantor from The New York Times, The New Yorker, Leslie Stahl''s staffers from 60 Minu¡ª"


    My heart skipped a beat, and I cut him off. "Wait, 60 Minutes? You''re messing with me, right? I mean, I''m just a rando from Cleveland."


    He clicked his tongue. "A rando, you kidding? You''re a star, man. Remember how you wanted to make a splash, to hold those assholes to account? Well, here''s your chance."


    I collapsed onto the stairs, breathing out like a punctured balloon. "Yeah, I said that, didn''t I? But I didn''t want my name, you know, out there. All my friends knowing I''m a... well, I guess like a trannie or some other bullshit." I imagined my coworkers and Omega brothers reading that article, sharing it on LookBook and Twiddler, and making me the laughingstock. "Fuck."


    "Well, Ulysses," Tibor said, his voice at once firm yet approachable, "if it means anything, the source wasn''t me."


    "Figured as much, it''s just..." I sighed, holding my lower lip between my teeth.


    "Not your plan, huh?"


    That caught me off guard, but it hit the mark. "Not by a mile."


    Tibor''s car chimed as he opened the door with the key still in the ignition. In a voice as warm, earthy, and wizened as corduroy, he said, "John Lennon said it best: life''s what happens when you''re planning something else."


    I smiled. "Oh my God, that''s one of my mom''s favorite sayings."


    "She''s got good taste." His car door thumped shut, and an electronic chirp rang-out as his door locked. "Anyway, I gotta go. But remember when I asked how the texters knew you weren''t a garden-variety rape victim?"


    "Yeah."


    "Well, think about that, and hard." I heard voices in the background, "Well, gotta go."


    I smiled. "Your next victim?"


    Tibor laughed a sharp, nervous laugh, and we said our goodbyes. Alone, I shrunk into myself as if my ribcage were imploding, and felt compressed and constricted.


    What now, I wondered, What now

 II. Part 5.

    Part 5.


    I sat on the cold cement stairs, knees pulled into my chest, reading the article over and over and over, snared in a Hellish mind-loop, with shame, anger, and powerlessness competing for supremacy. Until a familiar sultry scent freed me, and I looked up to see Circe''s shocking pink hair.


    "You okay Ulysses?"


    I shrugged. "Sort of. It''s personal."


    She plopped in the stairwell next to me, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she wiggled her hips to make space. "Well, you know, I''m training to be a head shrinker, and personal''s what we do."


    After wavering for a beat or two, I held out my phone, trusting her, and she snagged it. Her hazel eyes went round as she read, narrowing as she scrolled down, the muscles of her jaw tightening as she approached the end. "What the fuck. You were the victim... Did you call the cops? Or a lawyer? I mean, they doxxed you."


    I sighed, taking back my iPhone. "Second time in a week."


    "What? Second time? The Daily Gawker?"


    "No, not the Gawker."


    So, I spun the Alpha Shlong tale and my drunken Friday with my email, text messages, and social media accounts blowing up, though I edited out Kelsey. What the hell, only two weeks ago, I''d banged Circe, so she didn''t need to know. I didn''t want her to feel used. I mean, I didn''t use her, dig? Just good old-fashioned flesh-on-flesh friction, fun for all, a win-win.


    Anyway, the stairs shook, distracting me. Head whipping around, my gaze landed on a herd of people trying to get past us. Classes were letting out, so I leaped to my feet, Circe following suit. With little thought, we drifted towards the exit with the students. It was a fine November day, among the last we''d see until spring: mid-70s, sunny, the colorful autumnal foliage vibrant and imparting a perfume to the air that always reminded me, for no apparent reason, of my grandmother''s maple syrup spice cake.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Liberated into the warmth of the open air, we walked towards a bench and sat. Circe leaned forward, gesturing to the sky. "Gorgeous. And a full moon tonight."


    I nodded, agreeing but wondering what the hell the full moon had to do with anything. We sat in silence, faces turned sunward, watching chipmunks and squirrels squirreling away their winter larders, and I felt content.


    Circe leaned forward. "Damn, I feel like grabbing an easel and painting. It''s been ages."


    "Weren''t you an art major?"


    She nodded. "Yup, was. But didn''t want to teach, especially art. Art teachers are always the first to go. My mom teaches high school music. Every year, she sweats the budget ax. Stressful. And AFTER dealing with hormonal teens? No way Jos¨¦. And I have zero desire to play the romantic starving artist. What a crock. Living with my folks and paying back my loans while making about thirteen dollars an hour as a barista after tips. Never. So I talked to a counselor, we hatched this head shrinker career-path, and here I am, a twenty-something grad turned professional student still haunting campus."


    I spread out my legs and arms, before jerking tight my legs, afraid of creepy-ass voyeurs peeping up my skirt. But I kept my arms stretched, almost touching Circe''s shoulder, so close her hair in the breeze tickled my hand. I smiled and imagined throwing my arm about her and pulling her close, whispering sweet-nasties into her ear.


    But she stirred, her gaze flashing to me, a sly grin sliding across her face. "That lunch offer still open? I''m famished."


    I nodded. "Sure, I''m on paid leave through early December, got nowhere to be. You?"


    She stood, dusting off her skirt, shaking her head. "Nothing for..." she glanced at her hot pink and electric chartreuse Swatch watch,"... two hours seventeen minutes. Then it''s just a student club meeting, but this one''s important one to me, my baby."


    "Holy crap, a campus club." We turned towards High Street, campus''s main drag. "Seems like yesterday, yet forever ago." Nostalgic, I remembered the Friedrich Hayek Free Enterprise Club I belonged to, where we''d hatch evil plots to send granola-munching snowflakes into meltdown.


    Hillarious, and easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Gotta love owning the libs.

 II. Part 6.

    Part 6.


    Circe and I walked to the Lotus Blossom, an off-campus Thai joint popular with alumni and grad students. Great staff, tasty food, reasonable prices, and loads quieter than the places targeting undergrads. After learning that she was vegetarian, I followed suit eating healthy. Why not? I like veggies, though for me they''re a side-dish. Still, when in Rome... and Circe was cool AF.


    She peered over her menu. "No need to eat vegetarian on my account."


    "No worries. Veggies taste good, they''re good for you, and I don''t eat enough. Besides, they''re good for my girlish figure," I said, realizing the instant the joke left my lips that my spanking-new birthing hips made the joke less hilarious than Joe Piscopo'' silly ass Super Bowl Budweiser ad was back in the day.


    We shared a lettuce wrap appetizer, and then I ordered this kick-ass vegetarian red curry that all-but turned me into a fire-breathing dragon. Thank God for iced tea.


    She giggled, dabbing tom yum soup from the sides of her mouth with a napkin, her pupils dilating. "Holy shit is this good. Most fun I''ve had with my clothes on for a while."


    I chortled, tea going up my nose as I tried not to spit.


    After lunch, we sipped iced tea and talked for a long time. Well, mostly she listened as I prattled on about how upset I was with my fraternity brothers. "Not so much Squee, though he''s a fucking rapist. More the guys who knew he was slipping girls mickeys but remained quiet. Or were na?ve, who saw but didn''t ''see,'' like me. I mean, I should have known...."


    She leaned forward. "Are you saying it''s your fault?"


    My voice hitched and my insides lurched like I was walking and stepped on my shoelaces, tripping myself up. "I ¡ª well, not exactly,... but at least kinda."


    "But you just followed him to his room."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Pretty much."


    She nodded, her face at once relaxed and intense, her left ear tilted towards me. "And he slipped you GBH and then five guys raped you?"


    I gulped, nodding.


    "That''s your fault, how?"


    I grew silent, my confused thoughts tumbling over themselves.


    #


    We walked towards campus, me squinting against the sun in silence.


    The world around me seemed hyperreal: cars, people shopping, riding bikes, jogging, and all that boring real-world crap. But that normalcy seemed off-kilter. With my information floating through cyberspace, I felt as if someone would recognize me, call me out, unleashing a mob with pitchforks, leaving me exposed, pinned and wriggling on a specimen board.


    Weird head-space, like a Salvador Dali painting or some shit.


    I suppose it was Circe forcing me back in on myself, to dig deep instead of skimming the surface as I''d been doing. Sure, I still wanted to put my boot on Squee''s throat, but I was for the first time facing the pain, the betrayal, the guilt I''d shoved down my gullet, which gave me the headache from hell. And yet, despite my uneasiness, Circe had carved out a safe slice of space for me. I dug her for that.


    Girl''s got game.


    It took a couple of blocks, but before we hit campus, my head cleared, the sun and breeze performing their magic. And I grinned at the scene on the Quad, a grassy open-air square of sidewalks, grass, and trees crawling with undergrads.


    Campus seemed quaint, almost alien though I''d lived this way until three years ago. Just three years. Hard to fathom. It seemed a lifetime.


    Nerds hustling, pale as corpses, with their books to the libraries. Dozen of other, more social students hanging out, listening to music on their phones, playing Frisbee, or tossing a football. The smoking shorties in yoga pants, and the not-so-smoking ones who should NEVER wear yoga pants. And then came the petitions, the earnest undergrads saving the whales in Tibet or whatnot. Kids, full of boundless optimism and often misguided idealism.


    A young dude with a full beard and tie-dye handed me a Bernie Sanders brochure, and I accepted it, nodding my thank you. The kid told me to vote Bernie. Because of the Green New Deal, and something about paying off my student loans.


    I smiled because tie-dye seemed decent. And super young. Though Bernie was a socialist whom I''d NEVER vote for, but I didn''t want to be a dick to tie-dye, so I nodded and moved on.

 II. Part 7.

    Part 7.


    I''d more-or-less gathered my wits before we entered the Student Center, an open glass and steel cube with six floors of rooms and offices looking onto the ground-level atrium filled with tables and benches scattered amid a forest of container-grown trees. The smell of grease, pepperoni, and burgers wafted from the fast-food stalls as we wove through tables of students towards the stairway.


    "What room?" I asked, breaking the lengthy silence.


    Circe took out her phone, a sad LG Android, and scrolled through several screens. "Second floor, room two-oh-three."


    We mounted the stairs.


    "Thanks for listening to me bitch," I said. "I mean, I wanted to buy you lunch, but I lay all this heavy shit on you, make you work. So I still owe you."


    She smiled. "It''s therapy, what I do. Hell, I better get good, and fast, because I''m done with coursework in two, maybe three semesters depending. And then, it''s licensing and completing my dissertation."


    I halted. "So, you''ll be a doctor, a real shrink?"


    She nodded. "That''s the plan."


    We walked, and I remembered the lunch conversation. "So that was therapy? Just me talking? Interesting. I thought it would be like the Doctor Phil Show. You know, emotional fireworks followed by waterworks and a ''eureka!'' at hour''s end."


    She giggled, punching my arm, sending a jolt through me. "Doctor Phil''s a reality TV star, dumbass."


    I rubbed my arm. "I gotta remember not to provoke you. You have a mean right hook."


    "What can I say, I''m Irish." We stopped at the door, and she waved as several women entered. "Anyway, not saying that Doctor Phil''s bad, but the show is not realistic. No one can shrink those hard-core head-cases in an hour. And I mean, NO ONE. So the show''s more like the media''s illusion of what therapy oughta be." She motioned over her shoulder. "Gotta go."


    I spat in shock as I followed her gesture and read the meeting title written on the dry-erase board outside the room. "What the fuck is the University Pagan club? A joke, like the Church of the SubGenius? One of my Omega brothers joined my senior year, and he dragged me to a meeting. What. A. Gas. Sad to say, I had an internship that semester so couldn''t join."


    She shook her head. "So sad, the road less traveled by. Stilted your spiritual awakening. Tragic."


    I grinned, my heart buoyed by her pixie-like smirk. "Yup, devastating."Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "Anyway, back on Planet Serious, no this isn''t a joke. I''m a Pagan, a witch. Sort of passed from my great-grandmother, to my mom, and from Mom to me."


    A nervous, high-pitched laugh exploded from my diaphragm. "You mean, like a pointy hat and a broomstick and a black cat sort of witch?"


    "Well, in the main, yeah."


    My heart leaped to my throat. "Wait, so... so you, what, worship the Devil?"


    "NO!" Circe said, her palm facing me in the universal gesture for ''stop.'' "Witches do NOT worship Satan. Instead, we worship nature spirits, the Old Gods, and Goddesses. The early Christian patriarchy demonized people like me, mostly peasants tilling fields or fishing, celebrating the God and Goddess and the Wheel of the Year back then...." She checked her Swatch. "Anyway, it''s convoluted and complex, and I''ve no time."


    "Now I really gotta buy you dinner, for you to fill me in."


    She started speaking but snapped shut her mouth as if thinking twice before snickering. "You are a sneaky one, Ulysses. But charming. Anyway, don''t get your hopes up because I''m strictly dickly, and don''t do girls."


    A mischievous grin crept across my face. "Good thing I''m a dude, then. Though I''m trapped in a woman''s body, I''m one-hundred percent, grade-A, all-American male."


    "Sneaky, charming, AND relentless." She sighed, long and heavy, her eyes crinkling as she waved. "Bye, Ulysses."


    "I''ll call you," I said as she entered the room, a swish of magenta and black, her mop of rose-pink extensions shaking in mock-despair.


    After returning the wave, I spun, fishing in my handbag for keys. My heart leaped as I rammed into a dirty-blonde in a flowing brown burlap hippie skirt who groaned as she crumpled, arms flailing for balance.


    I snagged her, steadying. "Sorry."


    She grimaced. "No worries, my bad." Her peaches and cream face relaxed as she tilted her head sideways. "I assumed you were zigging, but you zagged"


    "Do I know you?" I asked. "You look familiar."


    She shrugged. "You too, sorta. You a student?"


    I laughed."Hell no. Graduated three years ago, but maybe you know my brother, Fenton Garrity? Partied at our house in McKinley? I mean, he''s thrown several doozies there, summers when our folks are away."


    She shrugged palms up, her expression a quizzical knot. "Never heard of him. Sorry."


    "What about, you ever party at Omega house, his fraternity? I do, time to time."


    She giggled. "Ah, a frat rat. Not my type... Wait, you said Omega?" Her face went round with shock for a flash before shutting down, expressionless. "I may... never mind, gotta go, the goddess is calling." She whisked past me, shutting the door behind her with firm decisiveness, leaving behind a miasma of cloying perfume.


    I walked away, shaking my head, unable to assign her face a name, or remember where I''d met her but certain I had. The thought rattled in my brain as I hustled towards my car. I gunned the engine, and in a flash, her face and spicy perfume clicked together in my mind like puzzle pieces.


    Cloves. She smelled of cloves.


    That hippie chick was slutty sixty-nine from Omega''s homecoming party. And that night, cloves cloyed at my nostrils. I''d assumed it was Circe smoking those nasty clove cigarettes emo chics seem so fond of, but I''ve never seen her smoke one.


    Instead, it was hippie perfume in my nostrils. "Go figure," I said, popping the car into first-gear and heading home.

 II. Part 8.

    Part 8.


    At home, I hopped on the horn to Holtzclaw, who said that the FBI had investigated the Daily Gawker, but withdrew.


    He cleared his throat, the phlegmy sound a death-rattle that crawled under my skin. "Nothing illegal. The article said ... let''s see here... quote, ''Ulysses Garrity was an active member of his Omega Theta Pi chapter in Capitol City, Ohio. During his senior year, he acted as vice president and rush chairman. But people are saying that Garrity now identifies as female and claims her Omega brothers raped her.'' And they referenced Alpha Schlong''s threads about you. So SOME PEOPLE were saying... yadda, yadda, yadda. First Amendment covers them. Seems you''re on your own."


    "Crap." My shoulders slumped as I puffed my cheeks, swishing air around my mouth before sighing. "You''re sure?"


    "Seems so."


    "Think I can sue them?"


    Holtzclaw laughed, his tone sharp. "What I look like, a lawyer? Way beyond my paygrade."


    I ground my teeth, before bidding Holtzclaw farewell and hanging up, my face pinched sour, an all-too-common reaction for me when dealing with the Capitol City PD. They couldn''t find their asses with both hands. Idiots.


    Okay, so putting the pinheads in prison wouldn''t work, but suing them in civil court would. So I walked to the kitchen, starting my electric kettle and grinding coffee beans for the French press as I fantasized about suing these Silicon Valley gurus, with their "information needs to be free" crap. Bastards, playing loose with people''s lives. I''d sue the Daily Gawker and 7-Chan into bankruptcy, driving their anti-social CEOs into the poorhouse while earning serious cheddar.


    The water boiled, calling me back to earth. I added the water to the grounds and set my kitchen timer for four minutes.


    Hell, Jesse Ventura sued some crappy web magazine out of existence and earned a bit of spending money on the side. Others have succeeded. My turn. I''d find an ambulance-chaser and sue the bastards.


    So after the alarm went off, I poured my coffee and fired up my laptop, navigating to the Omega fraternity website, hoping to find a civil-rights attorney. In the past, I''d just sail onto the site, but today, a dialog box prompted me to login.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I entered my username and password. Again, an error. I tried once more, and a security question with a captcha stopped me. When I answered, and FINALLY entered the captcha right, a pop-up informed me, ''No Such Account.''


    I snarled, cussing, and laughed a laugh more bitter than my coffee, shaking my head in disgust. "When it rains, it pours."


    "The hell..." I found the service number buried several clicks into the Contact Us section. I expected an Omega to answer but got some dot-head tech geek fake-named "Jerry" from India. I described my situation, and I''ve gotta say Jerry was Jerry on the spot. He was super-friendly, asked the right questions, and zipped straight to the answer.


    Two shakes later, he said, "I see the problem here, Mister Garrity. It appears that Omega Theta Pi headquarters froze your account."


    I bit Jerry''s head off, poor guy. "The fuck they did. Does it say who?"


    "I am sorry, Mister Garrity, but I may not tell you. It is against our privacy policy."


    "Christ.... Is your manager there? Let me speak to them. I mean, I''ve been a dues-paying Omega for almost a decade, and you have the nerve to¡ª" I caught my tongue, forcing myself to breathe deep and count to five. "My bad, dude. This isn''t about you, you''re just doing your job. I''m mad at the assholes in my fraternity ¡ª Anyway, forget that manager thing. I know what''s up. I''ll sue them bastards back into the stone age too."


    "Okay, then. Best of luck and have a delightful day. Remember that once you''re an Omega, you''re a brother for life."


    I rolled my eyes, and hung up.


    "A brother for life? My ass."


    I stewed.


    I tried relaxing, but failed. Beer didn''t work. Nor did smoking a bowl of this kick-ass hydro I''ve been scoring from one of Fenton''s high school buddies at the club.


    I tried to take a nap, but my brain raced, teetering on-edge, so I gave up.


    Next, I logged onto that finance course, but the material flew past, none of it sticking.


    After plopping onto my couch, I considered hitting the gym but decided against it. I''d caught some goofy young guys ogling me, and I was in no mood.


    Needing to chillax the fuck out, I headed to GNC.


    <hr>


    Three words that equaled peace that night: Hitachi Magic Wand. A top of the line "massager," on sale at GNC for $54.99.


    The Magic Wand is the only way to fly. And not having flown since homecoming, I flew over and over and over and over and over that night. Thinking of Kelsey. And Circe. And that smoking MILF. And Kelsey doing Circe. And Circe and the therapist tag-teaming Kelsey. And...


    Turns out, there are perks to being a girl. Multiple orgasms are brilliant. [Sighs and smiles.]

 II. Part 9

    The next day I woke early, charged like the freaking Energizer Bunny. After pouring a rich dark roast from the French press into my State U. Bucks mug, I started the finance class at long-last, clicking along, notebook out, and taking notes.


    There was a lot of math: probability distributions, minimax problems, etc, crap that I hadn''t seen since my upper-division finance classes. And while I''d never shied from math, it wasn''t my forte, so I spent half the time googling the maths I''d forgotten, and the maths that slipped my mind were legion.


    No shock there, though. I''m no "quant," the insider''s nickname for the math and finance nerds who performed Wall Street Voodoo, the brainiacs who kept Sterling, Whitehead & Phillips''s clients rolling in the Benjamins. And I had zero desire to work as a quant.


    I preferred to sell, to market, to grow business. And I doubted quants, bright as they were, could sell. So where they had an unconscious facility with Mat-Lab, SQL, and S, I had the gift of the gab.


    Regardless, I loved just understanding the complex hedges, the tearing apart and deciphering balance sheets, and income statements to value a company. That knowledge would DEFINITELY help me sell. Because understanding brings with it power.


    And I wanted power, to sit in that boardroom, to become a full partner like Aziz and Trey.


    Around ten, my phone buzzed, and I paused the class. Tibor. Puzzled, I picked up. "What up, G?"


    "Just checking in. You surviving the exposure?"


    I sighed, my chest collapsing inward. I''d forgotten. But the reckoning was out there, waiting. Work, friends, extended family, anyone who remained ignorant of my situation would soon learn. Sure, last night I''d waved the Magic Wand, and it had relaxed me, but....This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Tibor asked, "You okay?"


    I tensed. "Haven''t been giving it much thought. I was studying, training for work."


    His voice softened but remained firm as always. "Listen, bud, I''ve been a journalist for decades. This ain''t going away. Especially when them slimy web tabloids get involved."


    I suppressed a groan, cursing Tibor for being a buzz-kill. "Guess I was just trying for something... normal after two weeks of weirdness. Reality bites."


    Tibor grunted his assent. "Back-to-back weeks from hell. Wouldn''t wish them on my worst enemy."


    He went silent, and I sensed something unspoken, so I asked, "You want to ask me something?"


    The chair Tibor was sitting on squeaked. "You still want to expose the bastards at the Gawker with me?"


    I perked. "Hells yeah."


    "Good. Anyhow, I was speaking with my editor. She suggested working on a book together. Joint billing, tied to releases on the Western Reserve Press website and Cleveland.com. You know, cash for the paper, more exposure for us, which should increase our book sales. She and her boss want us working together, but me, I''d be okay ghostwriting it."


    I thought about it. It was a classic win-win. Seemed that Tibor was an ace investigator, asking questions and finding crap that escaped the Capitol City Police on his own, in one percent of the time. Imagine what he could do with a book advance, clickbait articles, and time on his side. If there''s anyone who could sort this out, connect IRL faces to Alpha Shlong and his merry band of Incels, well... I cleared my throat, nodding. "Hell, yeah, let''s do it together."


    He grunted, and I heard a smile in his voice. "Excellent. Now, the Press has a new marketing guru corporate just sent us. My boss would like us to meet with you to coordinate our response. He''s a good kid, about your age, and into social media. And he''s impressed by the buzz you and I have generated, with zero intent." With a resigned sigh, the smile that had been in his voice turned melancholy. "He wants to sharpen your message, expand your reach. And monetize your case, sad to say. Freaking corporate douchebags, always about money with them."


    I chortled. "What''s wrong with that? Remember that movie, Jerry Maguire? ''Show me the money,'' and all that shit? I mean, this is America. We''re capitalists, entrepreneurs, and explorers, not Marxists."


    Tibor grunted his assent. And I scheduled lunch with him and their social media guru. Content, I hung up, a predator''s glint in my eye.


    "We''re coming for you, Daily Gawker and Alpha Shlong. Duck and cover, bitches."

 II. Part 10

    Tibor and I met Burdock Global Media''s "Electronics 2.0 Branding and Communications Wizard, Midwest Region" ¡ª and, yes, Burdock had embossed that ridiculous job-title on his business card ¡ª in a loud, old-world deli on East 9th at 1:30. As we entered, a reedy voice hailed Tibor from the back, and we sauntered towards it.


    I''d expected a sloppy tech geek. Instead, a well-groomed hipster sporting skinny jeans, tortoiseshell glasses, and an ironic "I''M A MILLENNIAL SO I DON''T LIKE LABELS" t-shirt extended his hand to Tibor. "Tibor, nice to see you."


    They shook, and he turned to me. "Ulysses?"


    I nodded, shaking his hand.


    "Excellent, the infamous Ulysses Garrity, and face-to-face." He handed me his card, an impish grin on his face. "Joshua Holiday, but EVERYONE calls me Josh."


    "It''s a pleasure, Josh."


    With a mock-serious, theatrical sweep of his arm, he invited us to sit, handing around menus. "On Burdock, gentlemen. Don''t be shy. But seeing as Tibor selected a deli, I suppose the damage won''t sink the company." Which made me grin, since Burdock had a market cap in the hundreds of millions and ran the most lucrative communications empire this side of Disney.


    Lunch was quaint. Josh seemed decent, if a little fruity, but despite the differences, we shared much in common. We''d both graduated from public-Ivies, me from State, him from Berkely. We were both young and ambitious, climbing our respective ladders, me to partner, him to the boardroom. And unlike "just-the-facts-because-truth-matters" Tibor, Josh and I were both shameless marketers.


    After some preliminary chit-chat, like Josh showing me photos of his husband and their adopted infant, he jumped in, feet-first. "So, Tibor says you''re itching to destroy the trolls and rapists in your life. What''s your plan?"


    My heart skipped a beat, and a sly grin crept to my face. This wasn''t Tibor''s "truthiness" tripe. Instead, Josh''s inquiries had legs. Tibor wanted the truth, which is noble, but Josh''s approach screamed "slay the bastards."


    I liked that.


    Intrigued, I leaned forward and steepled my fingers, trying to contain my over-eagerness "First, I want PJ and Squee behind bars. Then I want to sue Gawker Daily, 7-Chan, any big tech company that''s played patty-cake with my info. And truth be told, I''m sort of pissed at my fraternity. Maybe I can sue them. or just the State chapter. Who knows?"


    "Interesting," Josh said, "but slugging it out with the big boys is a hard row to hoe because they have deep pockets."


    I scoffed. "Didn''t that goofy big-time wrestler Jesse Fortuna sue some creepy tabloid out of existence?"


    Josh nodded. "Indeed. But remember, he had mega money behind him, the billionaire Peter Neal, who paid for the legal fees."


    Deflated, I slumped back. "Crap."


    Josh patted my arm. "Chin up. Yours is NO lost cause. Now, I''m no lawyer, so my legal advice may suck, but I can help you drag the assholes into the spotlight. You''ve got a kick-ass story, and folks want more. Let''s market you, make you look good, make them look bad. Get your pound of flesh that way. "


    I grinned. "Put them in the stocks in the public square, so to say."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Josh clapped. "Exactly."


    Intrigued, I asked, "How?"


    "Well, first off, we''ll get you in front of social media influencers, but via the back door. For instance, trolling conservative Christians, like Family Focus. Get them riled. They hate queers... eh, um, or the ''LGBT community'' as the PC police WANT me to say." He smirked, rolling his eyes.


    I groaned. "I feel you, dog. Political correctness sorta sucks."


    "Sort of? It''s positively puritanical. Well-intentioned, but ¡ª Anyway, that''s a different discussion for a different time. We''ll rile up their small-minds. Their grousing will drive people to your story. Online clicks for Burdock, which means ad revenue. The guest-spots and interviews for y''all. The end-game will be book sales.  Money for everyone, me, you, Tibor, Burdock, and thanks to queer-hating Christian a-holes whining."


    I cleared my throat. "Great Idea, but remember I''m not gay. Or trans."


    "That a fact?" Josh sipped iced tea, narrowing his eyes. "You sure about that? You into dudes? Were you born female?"


    "When you put it that way.... Fuck." I glanced away, my eye drifting to the slow, steady slog of East 9th traffic. "I assumed everything would just... I don''t know... like, work itself out, go back to normal, but I guess this is normal." I spread my arms, revealing my form.


    His face grew round and animated. "Don''t worry, honey. We all go through it." He leaned forward, his face thoughtful and eyes expressive. "I mean, I tried acting butch to make my pops happy in high school. I played baseball and basketball. Made the teams, but my heart wasn''t there. Dated a cheerleader for six months, hoping it would get me beyond the crush I had on the leading man in the school play. And I prayed to Jesus to take away my cup..." He clapped, and I snapped to attention. "Know what? None of it worked. And here I am, gay, proud, and out loud."


    I grinned. "It''s just new ground for me. I''ve always been good-old Ulysses, and now¡ª"


    With a scoff, he cut me off. "Yes ma''am, ''good-old Ulysses.'' And that is a problem."


    "Huh?"


    He chuckled. "Not you, the name. Ulysses. It''s a boy''s name, and it clashes with our goals."


    I reared. "Screw you. What''s wrong with it? It''s a family name. My great-great-great-grandfather on my father''s side served as an aide-de-camp for Ulysses S. Grant in the Civil War. While he was president, Grant stood as godfather to his eldest son, whom they named Ulysses in his honor. So it''s tradition, passed down from first-born son to first-born son."


    "Oh my, dearie. I didn''t know, and I can see how it''s important to you, but..." He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes deep pools of compassion, "... it''s still a boy''s name. And if you want to make a splash, get sympathy, you need a girl''s name. Say, Lisa, or Alice, or Yolanda, or¡ª"


    I sighed so loud he stopped mid-sentence, staring at me. I leaned forward, my jaw set. "MY NAME is Ulysses, NOT Lisa. So take your ''Me Too'' bullshit and shove it."


    He tsked, rapping the table with his knuckles. "But you want to make the assholes pay?"


    "Of course."


    "Then just take a girl''s name, like yesterday, and quit acting like a pussy."


    I winced, shocked by his lack of professionalism.


    Josh cut himself off, holding his hands to his cheeks, which burned crimson. "Oh, my, I am such a bitch." He gathered himself for several beats, breathing deep. "I''m sorry for being so direct, but I understand what works. From decades of watching Oprah and Ellen and growing a huge following on social media. People empathize with women easier than they do men, and a girl''s name will help with that."


    My heart thudded as I willed my tongue silent.


    Josh grabbed my arm, reassuring. "I know this is hard, and I''m acting like the queeniest of queens, but it''s necessary. It''s my job to get real and move fast, because our time is short. Just trust me. Please. I know the media, I know marketing, I know how to sell books and magazines and get people like you airtime, and I know millions of people will want to hear your story: abused women, bullied gay guys, feminists appalled by toxic masculinity. They all want you." He paused, leveling his gaze. "And based on my experience and training, it''ll be easier for them to feel sympathy for you if you lose the male name."


    I pondered, long and hard, the throb in my head waning. Josh was right, so I sighed, resigned. "What about Alyssa?"


    "Who?"


    A bashful blush burned my cheeks. "My new name."


    "Oh, Alyssa." Josh thought for a few seconds, his head bopping as he mouthed the name several times. And then, his face lit up as he clapped his hands in a comedic half-clap, wiggling in his seat. "I lllllllove it. It''s perfect!"


    If a second before I''d felt resigned and confused, I was soon basking in his praise and lit up like Times Square. He''d been such a bitch, and yet I loved him then, and still do. The mood lightened. We plotted our media campaign in broad strokes while Tibor looked on, bemused but soaking it up.