The name's Michael. I'm an Irish boy from nowhere in particular, and the bright-red ponytail I wear is more than enough proof of that. I dress well enough when I need to; my work wardrobe usually consists of black wingtips, tight-fitting black slacks that are a little loose around the knees to allow for bending, and a dark solid button-down. I'm a relatively fit guy; I bike to work every morning and jog in the evenings. I'm not what you'd call "buff" but I get the occasional look from the ladies in my totally unprofessional ragged jeans, faded t-shirt, and worn-comfortable sneakers on my days off. My green eyes probably don't hurt my chances at getting a date, either. I work for a proofreading firm that takes in about fifty thousand documents a day; there are eighty-two of us altogether, including three editors-in-chief and a managing editor.
This story's about the managing editor. My job has always been as a personal assistant to the managing editor, a lovely dame named Collette. She's got sharp, strong features but curves like you wouldn't believe. Her soft, chocolate-brown hair always hangs straight to the sides and curves just under her chin; she's got these gorgeous blue eyes you could just get lost in; and she's a little pale but attractively so. She doesn't wear much make-up, thankfully; she just throws on some violet eye shadow and red lipstick - the kind that doesn't smear, fade, or come off when you kiss your lover - and dons a pair of dolphin or panda earrings. It's always the same with her: dolphins or pandas. Her black button-down is always neatly tucked into her knee-length, wine-colored pencil skirt; she always has black stockings; and she always wears dark-red heels to match her skirt, although they're not the stiletto kind. No woman in her right mind would wear stilettos.
Of course, there's just one little thing that a few people around the office have noticed that's out of the ordinary about Collette. She's a he. See, that's the thing about our company: it's very open to the LGBT community. Collette had her name legally changed a few years ago but she's never had the surgery; I guess she likes it that way. She has had all of the hair on her body (other than her head) professionally removed, though, so the only indication that she's a he is her strong features; she had her Adam's apple removed a while back. She has this cute voice, too; it's a little deep but very feminine. It's natural, oddly enough, whereas a lot of people will have their vocal cords altered if they want a feminine voice.
Oh, and that's the other thing about me: y'know all those ladies I mentioned getting sultry looks from on occasion? Well, I've never dated a woman. That is, I've never dated a biologically accurate woman. See, that wouldn't work for me because I'm gay. The office certainly doesn't mind, and most of the people around here don't ask or tell. It's not that we have a rule about it; it's just that most people don't care. One of the first things you're asked when you're hired is if you have a problem with the LGBT community - not if you're for or against gay marriage or anything like that but just if you're okay working with people that probably don't date people of the opposite sex. It's just to make sure that there aren't a lot of problems in or out of the workplace.
So back to Collette, you're probably wondering how I know so much about her. Well, the answer to that is a long story. I hope you're relaxing because it's a very sensual story, and I'd hate for you to get all tensed up when you're tense enough already - unless that's how you relax. In that case, proceed. Are you relaxing? Good. Then sit back, read on, and enjoy.
When I first became involved with Collette, I had just turned thirty a week before. It had hit me long before my birthday that I was old now. Oh, it wasn't that I was eighty-something and had a multitude of medical problems that I knew were all going to kill me in a short while. It was that I couldn't be considered a kid anymore. I'd always been "the kid" to everybody around the office, in my family, and among my friends. My friends still call me that from time to time but it's all in good fun. Death doesn't scare me; even getting older doesn't scare me. What scares me is getting [i]old[/i], and the prospect of actually dying - as well as what lies on the other side - scares me even more. So I wasn't exactly feeling peachy now that I had leapt the first true hurdle of adulthood.
When I went to work that fateful Monday morning at nine o' clock, things all seemed relatively normal. We'd had an extremely mild winter, which was weird, and it was a little drizzly. It was cold. But other than that, it wasn't a bad-looking day. The sun might even come out later, according to the weather man. I clocked in, headed to my office, and said hello to a couple of people on the way over there. I yawned at least twice, although nine isn't frightfully early. You know how it is, though: you go out with your buddies, you have some drinks, you stay up a little late, and then you go to work a little tired the next morning. Anyway, I also did my usual eyeballing of Collette's beautiful, shapely ass when I walked by her office; it's right next to mine and she NEVER has the door closed. I hung up my coat and hat in my own office, checked my e-mail, and headed next door to begin the day.
It was at around ten-thirty that I started to notice certain things about Collette. First, she didn't seem to be very happy herself. In fact, she seemed a little weary - not tired, mind, but mentally or emotionally weary. We talked for a few minutes; I got her to open up and found out that her sister was getting a tumor removed from her right leg. Apparently, she'd had it for a while but hated doctors; now, she had no choice but to remove it. It was apparently difficult to remove but Collette had referred her to a tumor specialist; he was really good. Collette was still worried, though, because even the best doctors stood a chance of leaving part of it behind. You just couldn't plan for everything. The second thing I noticed was that Collette's ring finger no longer held the sterling silver wedding band she always wore. It turned out that she had just finalized a divorce initiated by her husband of five years; supposedly, he was actually bisexual - not gay, as he had told Collette when they got married - and had been cheating on Collette with some blonde bimbo from the south side of town (a very poor area whose most outstanding feature was its red light district) for about six months. Needless to say, Collette wasn't not a happy boss.
