Who Made the Lamb, part 1

At long last, a new short story! Been ages since I tried my hand at some short fiction. This is part one of an anticipated three or four. Let me know what you think, very keen for feedback. Otherwise, enjoy!

Who Made the Lamb

There’s this photograph of his father. He found it a few days after the funeral, sitting at the top of the rubbish bin. It’s a polaroid, turning sepia with time. Morgan ’98, Winch. Arms, Taunton scribbled in felt tip across the back. Twenty-four and about to meet for the first the woman who’ll become his wife, if the stories are true. He looks happy, in a way he never did in life: doesn’t know about the two kids he’ll father, though the first’s only a year away; doesn’t know he’ll die young, at forty-nine. Left arm severed by the photo’s edge, the right sits comfortably around the waist of a girl in a floral print dress who isn’t his mum. There’s a table covered in pints, anonymous hands flourishing fag ends flaring bright white spots in the faded image. His father grins, dressed in jeans, white shirt with the top two buttons undone, eyes caught by someone out of frame.

                And fuck, wouldn’t you just be so proud of your son? Alex thinks, to see him now. He tries to slide the photo into his pocket, then remembers he doesn’t have any, not dressed like this, stupid girl trousers. Instead, he slips it into his handbag, then retrieves the lipstick pencil his sister packed for him. So fucking proud. He touches up his lips. It’s one of the few things he can manage with any degree of confidence, and without his sister’s help.

                This whole charade’s her idea.

***

“Fuck!” He slammed the door behind him. “Fucking misandrist lesbian bitch!”

                The interview, he explained to his sister, did not go well. The woman took one look at him and made up her mind. One glance, and she frowned, and looked down at the open folder on her desk and what he assumed was his CV and job application. Truth was, he didn’t remember even sending the application. He’d sent so many over the past three months, he couldn’t keep track. This was the first hit he’d had in weeks, an actual invitation to interview for a real job.

                “Alex?” the woman asked. She didn’t even introduce herself. He nodded. Her frown intensified. “It says here, Alexandra.”

                “Alexander,” he corrected. He’d seen the typo on the invite and assumed it was a computer glitch.

                She levelled a look at him generally reserved for the street scum you scrape off your shoe. “I would’ve had a job for an Alexandra,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. “After due consideration,” she continued, louder, “I’m afraid you’re not suitable for the role.” He tried to protest, and she cut him off. “Don’t waste my fucking time, okay? The job listing was clearly for a woman. Think you’re the first guy to come in here and try and take the job, spouting shit about diversity discrimination? Fuck!” She sat back in her chair, glaring at him. “I’ve got a job to fill, and I don’t have time for this bullshit. If I don’t fill this slot today, I lose my budget.” She swept his CV into a waiting bin. “Tits and a pulse, that’s what I’m looking for at this point. Tell you what, Alex. You got any female friends? I’ve got an open interview slot this afternoon at four. Send her in, she’s got a job.”

                It’s not fucking fair, he told his sister. Fucking diversity and inclusion bullshit.

                Yeah, Sophie agreed. It was nearly eleven am, and she sat at the breakfast table in her morning kimono over coffee and morning bagel. White guys being totally underrepresented in the workplace.

                He rolled his eyes. You know what I mean, he said.

                I know you’re sounding like a MAGA dickhead, she said. Again.

                Whatever. He stalked back and forth, tugging his tie loose. It’s not fair, he said. The best person should get the job.

                Sophie laughed. And that’s you?

                I’ve got a pulse! he said. And a 2-1 from Bristol. I’m just missing the tits.

                The bagel paused halfway to her mouth. What if you had them?

                Her idea was simple and stupid. Dress as a girl, she explained, grinning. Show for that four o’clock interview, give her the tits and pulse she’s looking for. Alex sat at the table with her, laughed at her joke. Can you imagine? he said. Yeah, I can, she said. He frowned. I don’t look like a girl, he said. You made a damned convincing Juliet, she said. That was a school play five years ago, he said. And there was that Halloween party last year, she said, smiling, what were you again? I lost a bet, he said, Elvira from Scarface, nobody got it. Yeah, but you looked great, she said, you rocked that blue dress. Whatever, this is stupid, he said, stood up and walked away.

                Five minutes later, Alex stalked back and thrust a finger in her face. And if I got the job, what then, did you think of that? I don’t want to work as a fucking secretary, or whatever the job is, not as a girl. Sophie shrugged: expose their unfair hiring policy for the bullshit you think it is, force them to keep you on. At the very least, I bet you could get an article out of it, get it published in the Spectator.

                Or The Guardian, he mused. I can see it going either way.

                See? You’re always complaining you’ve got nothing to write about.

                He shook his head, scratched at his beard. Started soon after Halloween, he’d had ten months to grow it out. I like my beard, he said.

                She rolled her eyes. 2015 called, Alex. Give it up.

                I can’t pass for a real girl, he said.

                You did at Halloween.

                Yeah, at a house party at night with a bunch of drunks. I just had to stare into the middle distance and act detached. This is different. This is stupid. Why are we even talking about this?

                Because you need a job.

                Not like this, I don’t.

                Yes, like this, she said.

                These past few weeks, Sophie had increasingly dropped hints that she wanted him out. Never anything direct, but clear comments about the impact having him around all the time was having on her lifestyle. He felt guilty. He felt angry. Alex wanted out, too. He came to London expecting to find a job quickly, settle into his own flat share, make friends, get out, get laid. Instead, the summer had come and gone, and he’d only gotten laid twice, one of those times with Jenny, his ex from back home.

                There’s no way you can make me look convincing, Alex said.

                I’ll take that bet, she said.

                An hour later, Alex grudgingly admitted his sister was right. First, she had him shower and shave off his beard and moustache. Truth be told, he wasn’t that sad to see it go. Legs too, she said. Nope, he said, no fucking skirts, no fucking dresses. Sophie didn’t push him. By the time he finished showering and shaving, Sophie had several outfits laid out on his bed in the guest room. It was the happiest he’d seen her in weeks. This is fun, she said. For you, he said. This is fucking embarrassing, I can’t believe I’m even considering this.

                She held up a skirt, a brown check mini from John Lewis. You sure about the skirt thing? This would look great on you, with this—she held up a ribbed white long-sleeved top—and a belt, some sheer tights.

                No skirts, he insisted. No dresses.

                Eventually, they settled on a pair of tapered beige trousers from M&S and a tight black top from Next, long-sleeved and paired with a slender gold belt. A blazer, too—keep attention away from those shoulders, Sophie said. A pair of clip-on fake pearl earrings and a slim watch finished the look. Beneath it all, one of Sophie’s bras, too tight around the chest and Alex wasn’t too pleased to discover she was a C-cup. She filled a pair of stockings with rice, tied them off and stuffed the bra. The makeshift breasts sat heavily against his chest, the knots pushing out like nipples.

                How’d you know to do that? he asked.                She laughed. Before you moved in, I rented that room out to all sorts, she explained. Had a drag queen living there for a few months, Madame Bouffante, big burly lad from up north but wow, what a performer, she was awesome. Fucking awful mess to clean up after though, let me tell you, makeup everywhere, and half their stuff left behind. But I learned a few things. Found this at the back of the closet, she added, and passed it to him. What the fuck is this? he asked, holding it at arm’s length. This turned out to be a high-waisted girdle for padding out hips and bum. I’m not wearing this, he said flatly.

                You are, she said, or the trousers won’t sit right. And he did, before slipping into the trousers and pulling the top down over his recently acquired boobs. Then she tackled his makeup, taking her time, wiping him clean and restarting a few times. Finally, she settled a wig on his head, a shoulder-length brown-haired bob. Ten minutes later, she stood him in front of the mirror. Ta da! she said.

                He looked at himself in the mirror and said, I feel like a fucking pansy.

                She rolled her eyes. Homophobe much?

                I’m not a fucking homophobe.

                Dickhead, then.

                He ignored her, poked at his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, and lightly tugged at an earring. He swept his hands down his sides, felt the shapewear beneath that created convincing curves. And I’m not some sissy cross-dresser, either. This is stupid, Sophie. I’m not doing this.

                You don’t think you look good? she asked.

                I look good, he said. Truth was, he was a little taken aback at how good he looked. Five years ago, the school play freaked him out a little, at how convincing a Juliet he made. Single-sex private school, the teacher gave him the part and he more than pulled it off, teenage boyish good looks making for surprisingly alluring girlish good looks, too. There’d been a lot of good-natured ribbing, and some uglier ‘banter’ that bordered on bullying, and a few genuine questions by sensitive classmates.

                St Oswald’s wasn’t a school to skip on details, and Alex’s experienced the full Juliet: corset and stockings, flouncy dresses and flowers woven into hair extensions. After the final production, his best friend, Luca, convinced him to go out still dressed like a girl. It’ll be a laugh, he said. And it was. He borrowed a skirt and top from Luca’s sister Bethany, low-heeled shoes and wore them over the Juliet corset. He’d always fancied her and went along with everything she suggested and sat quietly as she did his makeup in a vibrant teenage style. The three of them tried the ‘Spoon in town. They got in, the two of them anyway, but not Luca. Alex looked older, as a girl, almost like a sixth former and he liked that, felt mature, felt powerful. He chatted with Bethany, held her hand and had his first underage drink. Then a creepy older man bought him a drink. That was less fun. Afterwards, he made out with Bethany, his first kiss with a girl. When he got home, his father was waiting for him. He’d been to the show to watch the finale of his son prancing around on stage in a dress. It was the only time Alex could remember his father attending anything he’s done. That night, his father stood and stared in silence at his son in a skirt, lipstick smeared across his face.

                Faggot, his father said and didn’t speak to him for a week.

                I’m not doing this, Alex said to his sister, pulling an earring from his ear.

                You’re doing this, she said.

                You’ve had your fun, Soph. Ha ha. But I’m not doing this.

                Fine. Then grab your stuff and get the fuck out my flat.

                Excuse me?

                Three months, Alex. I’ve had it up to here with you. Three months I’ve put up with your shit. You’re my brother and I love you, but I’ve had enough. You don’t pay rent, you eat my food, you bitch nonstop, and you’re a sexist asshole to boot. If I have to listen to you mansplain another Jordan fucking Peterson video again, I’ll scream. And how many job interviews have you had, hm? You turned down that first offer when you first got here, you fucking idiot, thought you deserved better, holding out for Slaughter and May or some shit like that. And since then—what, one? Maybe two. Are you even looking anymore? Far as I can tell, you just lounge around my flat all day watching Youtube or playing Switch.

                That’s not fair, he said. The job market’s—

                Shit. Yeah, I know, whatever, she said. I don’t care. You think the market was great when I got here? Tail end of a pandemic, you think anyone was hiring? But I got a job, anything I could find. You need a serious reality check, Alex. Stack shelves at Tesco, pull pints down the pub. I don’t give a crap about your fucking degree, nobody does. Get over yourself, and just get yourself some work.

                You’re jealous, he said. You’ve always been jealous. That I went to uni and you didn’t.

                Silence, and he immediately regretted his words.

                You’re going to this interview, she said. I need to know you’re still trying. If you don’t, you’re out of here. I’ll give you until the end of the week to get your shit out of my flat. I’ll even buy you a bus ticket, you can go back to Mum.

                And the thought of going back to that almost empty house, the weight of failure and the hollowness the thought of home brought to his belly, it felt even worse than the fear he felt at the idea of stepping outside in his borrowed sister’s clothing.

                He turned back to the mirror. You really think I can pass this off, Soph?

                She completed his look—clear varnish to nails, handbag, shoes—and gave some cursory instructions on moving like a girl. Just don’t overdo it, she said. Can you do a girl voice? He thought back to Halloween, back to Romeo and Juliet and the YouTube and Tiktok videos he watched. I’m ready for my close up, Mr Demille, he said, finding his voice. Sophie laughed and said, good, not bad, keep practicing. Finally, she filled his handbag: three tampons, a condom, a little makeup bag, slim girl wallet, hairband, Ibuprofen.

                Alex prodded the makeup bag. What am I supposed to do with this? I don’t know how to use this stuff. No shit, Sherlock, Sophie said, but it’ll help keep you in character. Just—don’t touch your face, okay? It’s long lasting, should get you through the interview at least without needing a touch up. Maybe just your lips. Here, let me show you how.

                Swipe and wipe, ten minutes of practice, and he just about felt like he could manage. It was just a pencil, after all: fill in between the lines, try not to slip.

                Still, he felt faint leaving the flat, nearly collapsed to the ground for hyperventilating. Shaking her head, Sophie took his hand. At the door to their block of flats, he couldn’t let go of the door jamb. I can’t do this, he said.

                Yes, you can. You’ve got this, Sophie said.

                I don’t even know how to walk like a girl, he said.

                Try walking like a human, start with that. Stand up straight with your shoulders back, Sophie told him. Isn’t that what that asshole you like bangs on about?

                Not so you can stick your tits out!

                Just be confident. Walk tall.

                In heels? he asked.

                She laughed. You think you’re ready for heels?

                She escorted him to the station. Nobody paid attention to two young women on their walk to Angel station. They took the tow path along the Regents’ Canal; a cyclist nearly ran them down, shouted ‘cunts!’ as he flew past. Otherwise, no one took notice, not even when they passed close to other pedestrians. Good luck, she said, standing outside the station. I’ll meet you in town after the interview, at the All Bar One on Cannon Street.

                Knees knocking, stomach churning, he tapped his phone and passed through the gates on his own. He felt sick riding the escalator down at Angel, but by the end of the long descent, he felt better. This was London, after all. Two o’clock in the afternoon and a steady trickle of people heading down, heading up, and nobody spared him more than a passing glance. Nobody gave a shit.

                On the Tube, his skin prickled and it felt as though everyone stared. Soon, he realised everyone stared at their phones, not him, or into the middle distance. Maybe one or two flashed a look his way, but were they the curious looks of someone catching out a secret cross-dresser? No; rather and perhaps worse, he suspected they were the appreciative gaze of men checking him out.

                He got off at Bank, joining the crowds flowing up to the surface, and still no one cared, noticed, cried out or showed him anything greater than passing indifference. Gradually, he started to feel a little better. The sun overhead was bright, the air warm and the clothes he wore gradually felt less alien. Not comfortable; that wasn’t possible, with his cock shoved back between his legs, waist gripped tightly by shapewear. The earrings pinched his ears, and the makeup felt heavy and foreign on his face. He hated the watch and kept spinning it around his wrist. But—it was bearable. Better, Alex thought, than heading home.

***

Now, standing in a private toilet waiting for his interview to start, handbag perched on the sink, he touches up his lipstick, and thinks, you’ve got this, Alex. Or rather, Blake, his surname, an easy substitute for a female name he wouldn’t forget under stress.

                His lips are bright coral once more. It takes a conscious effort to not immediately lick them and ruin his effort. The interview is in ten minutes, and he’s already gone for a piss three times. It’s a lot more work than normal, he can’t just whip it out as usual and reminds himself to sit down when he goes. There’s the effort to tuck everything back and tug those uncomfortable pants into place and make sure the padding sits right. It all feels very wrong, he looks at himself in the mirror and think, Christ, I look like a fucking fairy, this is so fucking gay. But he knows that’s not true, because the girl in the mirror is shockingly convincing and in some ways that’s even worse.

                His stomach twists and he breaths deeply to calm himself. Get yourself under control, he thinks. How did that quote go? ’Men have to toughen up,’ something like that, get his shit under voluntary control, accept the terrible responsibility of life. That’s what men do: take control, take responsibility. Well, he was trying and it fucking felt terrible. Looking in the mirror, he certainly didn’t feel tough. Not dressed like this, with lips painted coral, moist and smooth, and eyelashes heavy with mascara.

                “A rose by any other name,” he intones, practicing his voice. “Would smell as sweet.”

                You’ve got this, he repeats and leaves the safety of the loo.

                Black hard-soled pumps announce his approach to the reception desk. His handbag bounces at his hip, and in his hand a manila folder with his CV. A few quick edits made the necessary changes: Alexander to Blake, Blake to Morgan, M to F and now he’s Blake Morgan, 21 and female with a 2-1 from Bristol.

                He walks with tunnel vision, struggles to keep calm. A blonde with long hair and a bright smile looks up at him. He’d love to ask her out. There’s a pub around the corner. She’s very pretty and gives no indication of seeing the young man beneath the makeup.

                “I’m here—” and it comes out like a croak, betrays his nervousness. He tries again, pitching it a little higher, a little breathier, as he practiced. “Sorry—for an interview?”

                The blonde looks confused for a second, then her eyes fix on a yellow stickit note stuck to her monitor. She smiles. “Oh yes, Ms. Howards said there might be somebody coming by. Please, follow me.”

                He forces himself not to stare as she leads him to the interview room. Her ass wiggles enticingly beneath a tight pencil skirt, long hair swaying at her waist. She brings him to a line of chairs by a nondescript door, all empty. “Just you this afternoon,” the girl says.

                “Thanks.” He hesitates, then adds, “Um—any hints?”

                The girl laughs. “Hey, you’ll do fine. Ms. Howards is great, her bark is definitely worse than her bite.” She gives Alex a once over and smiled. “You look great. Love that lipstick, what is it?”

                Alex scrambles to think of an answer. “Uh—” it suddenly comes to him, a name written across the pencil reflected in the mirror, “Nars. Powermatte? Coral pink.”

                She leaves him there, after giving her name: Eva, and wished him good luck. He sits for five minutes, fidgeting, fighting the urge to check his phone. People walk by, cast a curious eye his way. There’s a few appraising looks, and his skin crawls as one portly, older man openly leers; but otherwise, the passing flow of people ignore him.

                At first, he sits knees apart and then realising he’s manspreading, tries sitting legs crossed, knee to knee. This pinches painfully, so he sits knee to ankle and then thinks it looks unfeminine. Finally, he sits with his back, tits forward, thighs together. Flustered, he pulls the photograph from his handbag and takes another look at it. Morgan ’98. He sweeps his fingertip across his dad’s face. Missing you, Dad, he thinks. God, if you could see me now.

                “Come in!” a voice calls from inside the room. Alex tucks the photo away, stands and brushes himself down. He keenly feels the unfamiliar texture of women’s trousers, the clingy fabric of his top and the unnatural feel of artificial curves. His sister’s bra feels too tight, the fake tits heavy and obvious. He’s a man, wearing women’s clothing, a drag queen’s underwear. Under his makeup, he flushes red and hot with embarrassment. What the fuck is he doing? This is insane!

                He can still run away. His heat pounds in his throat. His fingers curl and uncurl into fists, his palm sweaty, and his nails gleam in the light.

                I can’t do this, he thinks.

                His phone buzzes. He checks the text. Good luck! Sophie writes, followed by a bunch of emojis, happy face, trumpet and confetti, kissy face. You’ve got this.

                I’ve got this, he tells himself.