London Bound

by Amy Daws

  We arrive in front of Club 413. A local meat market nightclub near our house. God, I hate this place. It’s just…too much. It really doesn’t belong in our trendy little neighborhood of Brixton, but it does exceedingly well, so I don’t see it shutting down anytime soon. Tonight, it will definitely serve its purpose.

  Frank ushers me gallantly inside. The club is a transformed factory of some sort and has various steel beams and rods still in place from whatever used to be manufactured here. We sidle up on a couple of open spots at the huge square-shaped bar. I take in the elevated DJ booth and swirling lights. The dance floor is pretty empty—most of the patrons are probably still trying to get liquored up enough to get freaky on the dance floor.

  I blanch as images of Theo and I romping at Shay Nightclub come screaming back into my brain. The memory of his firm muscles beneath my hands…and between my legs…

  Balls, balls, balls! Get over him, Lez. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

  I pull down my scandalously short skirt as Frank orders us both vodka tonics. It’s a warm, cream-colored skirt with white lace overlay. I have been trying to finish sewing this little number for months and this night out was just the motivation I needed. It ended up a bit shorter than I would have liked, but that’s the risk you take when you try to fit clothes to yourself! I paired it with a slate-grey tailored top with an obscure skull embroidered across the front. I love to mix and match styles. Pretty with punky. Edgy with flowery. For a touch of vintage, I threw on my black suede platform pumps that have a big bow across the top. They are fun and flirty and most importantly, cheap! Fifteen pounds from a street vendor in Brighton. Score!

  I take a few large gulps of my V&T, trying to tame my still lingering thoughts of Theo. This cocktail, along with the two I had before we left, should be just the ticket to some libation freedom.

  “Alright, Lezbo, here’s the rules: You can’t tell them about the cleanse, you can’t tell them you’re a lesbian, you can’t ask about their family, and you can’t ask about their job.”

  “Why would I tell them I’m a lesbian?” I ask, incredulously. Frank arches a knowing brow at me. “I’m here Frank, I’ve agreed to this ridiculous cleanse that I’m convinced you made up just for me.” He has the nerve to give me an ‘I would never!’ expression. I roll my eyes. “I mean it, Frank. I want out of my funk.”

  I need to stop thinking about Theo is more like it.

  “So tell me then, what the hell am I to talk about?”

  Frank swivels me outward and places his hands gently on my shoulders. He surveys the room from behind me, his soft breath puffing slightly in my hair.

  “Flirt, Lez. You just have to flirt.” His breath tickles my neck and I giggle, squirming away from him. “God you’re a horny cow. Shape up! Just say come-hither comments, like ‘Oi, your muscles look too large for that shirt!’ Or…‘Oh my, isn’t it warm in here.’ Think daft cow meets Barbie in a meat market full of Prince Charmings. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I nod courageously and quickly suck down the remainder of my drink. Fuck me, I drank that fast! That’s fine, I need all the help I can get!

  “Keep it moving, Lez. If you get stuck on a guy for too long, I will come relieve you. I’ll be watching…every step of the way.”

  “How many do I need to talk to?” I ask, feeling nervous like I’m about to take a final exam.

  “Seven, of course! Seven guys…seven minutes each! This cleanse is a science, Leslie,” Frank states deadpan.

  Seven! Jeez, that seems like a lot. I nod subtly. I already have my sights set on teen wolf across the bar. “Let’s do this thing!”

  Frank promptly pulls out a stopwatch. I eye him curiously. “I stole it from Brody. He’s the only bugger in our house that works out. He fuckin’ times himself when he runs! Can you believe that rubbish?” I giggle and straighten my face into all business again.

  “Off you go!” I hear the beep of the stopwatch and Frank cracks my butt hard with his hand, sending me shooting down the bar and toward victim number one.

  Hello there, Mr. Teen Wolf, my what bushy sideburns you have!

  “Hi,” I say brazenly, approaching the empty side of the bar next to him. He turns to face me and scowls at my hair. I might have hurt feelings if this guy didn’t look like he was transforming into a wolf! “I’m Leslie,” I offer, trying to get a different reaction out of him.

  “Frederick,” he replies.

  Chatty fella, isn’t he?

  “Like the Von Trapp family singers!” I sing excitedly. He sneers at me, his eyes moving languidly down my body. “Not a Sound of Music fan?” I ask. No reply. Nothing. Balls, this is a terrible start. I glance back to Frank who appears to be chatting with some bloke I can’t quite make out. Leave it to bloody Frank to throw me to the wolves as soon as a pretty thing scampers his way.

  “Are you American?” Teen Wolf asks.

  “I am. I’m from the Midwest. Missouri specifically. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.” He faces forward and tips his glass to his mouth, holding it there for an exorbitant amount of time until his beer is completely finished.

  “Are you from here?” I ask, trying to remember if this question is against Frank’s rules. Am I creeping up on my time limit yet?

  “Glasgow,” he grumbles, and looks urgently up and down the bar for the bartender.

  “Nice! I went to Edinburgh once. Never been to Glasgow though.”

  “‘Course you haven’t. You Americans think all that matters in Scotland is Edinburgh.”

  That’s not entirely true! Eh, who am I kidding, it’s probably totally true. I should get my ass to Glasgow sometime. But surely not to see this fellow.

  “I had to go there for…” my mouth stops midsentence because Frank told me I can’t talk about work.

  Shit! Think, Lez. Think!

  “Pleeeeaaasure,” I blurt.

  Oh God Leslie, you idiot. Why did you say it like that?

  Frederick sets his glass down and turns slowly, looking directly into my eyes. I feel my skin heat from embarrassment. I started this, so I may as well own it. “It was very pleasurable,” I pull the word out slowly, thinking I’ll score extra points with Frank’s come-hither advice. I watch Frederick’s Adam’s apple dip and rise as he swallows, gauging me seriously.

  “Right then. So, you are here for the meeting?” His eyes flash with heat and mine feel like they are about to bug out of my head.

  What bloody meeting is he talking about? “Meeting? Um…”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t tell at first. I’m usually quite good at telling.”

  I pucker my lips and nod thoughtfully. What is this guy going on about?

  “So, you’re completely finished then, I take it?”

  “Finished?” I ask, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah, I mean…shite, topnotch job. I hope you plan to share your doctor’s name at the meeting.”

  “My doctor…”

  “I wonder if you’d give me a quick peak before everyone else arrives.” Frederick smiles at me wolfishly and I squirm, still trying to decipher what the fucking hell he’s talking about!

  “Is this real?” he asks, reaching up and tugging my hair.

  “Ow! Yes, it’s bloody real! What are you going on and on about? What meeting? And what doctor? I feel like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone right now!”

  “Your gender reassignment doctor of course!”

  “My what?”

  “You’re not here for the transgender meeting?”

  “You think I’m a dude?”

  “I mean…not anymore. But at birth, yeah, ‘course.”

  “Of course? Of course? Oh my God! This has been very enlightening Frederick, whatever your name is. I’m sorry to tell you, I am a woman. Not a man. Never been a man. Never had a dick. Never had balls, though it sounds like a blast—I’d helicopter all the time I think. But truly, truly thank you for assuming I once had them though…that’s fun!”

  “Time’s up, Lez,”
Frank says, joining us with the stopwatch in hand.

  “Oh, time’s up! Sorry, Teen Wolf…I gotta dash. This has been super awesome though!” Frank gives me a startled expression and begins ushering me away. I swerve back around to finish my thought because now I’m really on a roll. “Maybe I should ask if you’re a human transitioning to wolf? I’m pretty sure you need a trans-species group then, not transgender! Not exactly the same thing!” I say, gesturing to all the hair on his face. There are even sprouts crawling up his back from his shirt collar. He must take some amazingly powerful hormone treatments!

  “Leslie!” Frank bellows at me, but I won’t be distracted.

  “I have to know! Who’s your surgeon? Huh?” Maybe it’s the drink I slammed just before heading over here, but I can’t seem to let it go that this guy thought I was a man—and had the balls, I think, to ask me who my surgeon is!

  “I’m not transitioning at all,” Frederick states disconcertedly.

  “So, what then? Why else would you be at a transgender meeting?” I ask. Frank looks embarrassed by my coarseness but I continue piercing Frederick with my hard green eyes. This guy is going to give me answers. No one calls me a dude and gets to go about their night like it’s a normal Tuesday.

  “I’m…” he pauses, glancing over to Frank, then to me again, “I’m what they call a transgender admirer, or a transfan. I’m attracted to transgender people,” he concedes.

  “Well, that’s very nice for you. I didn’t know that was a thing! I learned something tonight for sure. Maybe you can learn something tonight too, because your pecker picker is in serious need of sharpening! I have had a vagina my whole life and it’s not going anywhere in the foreseeable future. But I truly thank you for the permanent complex you’ve gifted me in our short time together tonight and for calling me a man.”

  “A man with a really great surgeon,” he says, faintly.

  “Leslie, let’s go.” Frank drags me by the hand before I say something I’ll really regret. I glance back and see Fredrick, the transgender admirer, looking me up and down skeptically. He still thinks I’ve had the surgery!

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” Frank asks when we reach our stools, clearly exasperated by my fiery temper getting the best of me again.

  “He thought—and very obviously still thinks—I am transgender, Frank! A dude transitioning into a woman! I mean…shit! I…I…” I want to finish my tirade but Frank’s giggles erupt into a full-on belly laugh.

  “It’s not funny, Frank. You fuck!”

  He laughs even harder now, holding his narrow waist in pure elation at my furious expression. I scowl at him for only three more seconds before smirking back and joining in on the cackles. Oh, fuck me…this is so my life!

  “Why me, Frank?” I whine. “Seriously, do I need to wax my mustache or something?” I ask self-consciously as I wipe laughter-tears from my eyes.

  “Blimey, Leslie. ‘Why you’ is right! How do these things always happen to you?”

  “I don’t know! I could have used a savior, you know! I think that was way over the seven-minute limit! Who the hell were you talking to?” I ask, crossing my arms but still smirking at the whole sorry scene.

  “Liam actually,” Frank replies, calming his cackles down considerably.

  “Finley’s Liam?” I ask and immediately wonder if anyone else was with him.

  “Yeah, haven’t run into him in a while. He seemed good. Says he’s single. I’m really hoping he’s not still hung up on Fin.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” I reply. “Anyone else, uhh…ye know…here with him?” I attempt to sound casual but fail miserably.

  Frank’s eyes squint briefly then straighten back to indifferent. “I think his mate, Ethan. But that’s all.”

  I feel myself sag with relief…or is it disappointment? I can’t tell. Shit! I can’t tell! My mind starts reeling with that little nugget of information.

  “Shall we get crackin’ again? You still have six to go, Lezbo.”

  I shake away my thoughts and jump down off my barstool eagerly, like the good little student I’ve never been.

  “Six more you say? Can only go up from here, right?”

  ***

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wrong.

  Oh for the love of God. So, so wrong.

  “Can only go up from here…HA!” I say and laugh out loud to myself while brushing my teeth vigorously. I groan and stifle my laugher quickly. Oh this crippling hangover sheathed tightly over my whole body is awful waffle. Dammit, how many V&Ts did I drink last night?

  After Frederick, Mr. Teen-Wolf-Transgender-Lover, things definitely didn’t improve. First there was Mr. Married Guy, whose wife showed up while we were chatting. Then there was Mr. Gay Man, who Frank tried to disqualify. Then I met Mr. Duck Face who kept puckering his lips at me and refused to look at my face. Mr. Nice Guy was okay, I guess, but he just did nothing for me. Seriously…crickets in the cooch. There were also a couple other completely forgettable blokes I can’t even picture anymore.

  I better not drink as much for day two of Frank’s cleanse. I’ll never make it. Fucking hell, thinking back to last night’s daters was like a freaking shock to the system. They were just all bad. Bad, bad, bad.

  I wipe the toothpaste off my mouth and eye myself closely in the mirror. There’s no manly stubble anywhere on my face. Sure, my eyes aren’t round and large like Finley’s, but they don’t look manish! Do they? And I’m even one of the lucky redheads with dark eyelashes! Most I know have blonde.

  Well, my hair looks great! Thick and shiny auburn that falls just above my shoulders. How could he think this was a wig? I shove my wayward bangs off to the side, chastising myself briefly about needing to get them cut. If anything, pixie bangs would make my hair look even more like a wig!

  I close the door to eye my body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Sure, it’s nothing super curvy and hourglass, but it’s not boxy and flat like a man. I have breasts! I guess they could be augmented, or stuffed with tissue. I give them a jiggle for good measure. They fit pretty easily in my hand. But still, they are there…and they do NOT look fake. I turn to inspect my rear. Hmm, that could be plumper I suppose.

  I scowl and reach for the knob, swinging the door open while staring at my legs, and suddenly knock straight into something hard and boney. My balance shifts much too quickly and I try desperately to find something to catch myself. But it’s in vein as I tumble backwards and land hard onto my flat boyish ass.

  “Lezbo! Watch it!” Frank cries after his unsuccessful attempt to catch me.

  “Jeez, Frank! I didn’t see you! Why are you lurking outside the bathroom door?”

  “Duh…I have to use the loo! What were you doing in here for so long?” He looks a bit hungover, like me, dressed in a rumpled matching satin PJ set.

  “Nothing,” I mumble and lower my head. I accept Frank’s hand and he hauls me up off the floor. I attempt to shuffle past him to my bedroom, but his tone stops me in my tracks.

  “Leslie,” he scolds, like a father would to his errant teenager.

  I pout, feeling exactly like a petulant child. “Frank, do I look manish?” I whirl back around, propping my small manish hands on my petite, boyish hips.

  “For fuck’s sake, Leslie…NO!”

  “Are you sure my hips aren’t boyish?” I ask, snapping the elastic on my flannel shorts. “I hoped this cleanse would pull me out of my funk, Frank! I just feel worse.”

  “Leslie, you are crackers! You look brilliant. Your body is tight and petite, and just curvy enough. Many men like wee women. They can toss ya around in the sack, ye see! Throw you up against the wall!” Frank winks adoringly at me and I smile. “Stop moping about, Lez. Tonight’s challenge should be a bit more relaxed.”

  I nod, still feeling a bit gloomy. “Go get your sexy redheaded-self ready for work and stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll see you at happy hour at that pub I told you about, yeah?”

  I nod and
head to my room to get myself ready to go.

  ***

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After dressing sharply in a pair of Houndstooth Bermuda shorts, a mustard shelf tank, and tan strappy sandals, I feel like I’ve concealed my hangover enough to face the powers that be at Nikon. And this seems like an outfit fit for happy hour later with Frank. Tonight’s cleanse challenge is being a wing-woman and helping a bloke land another chick. Seems right up my alley. Quite honestly, easy as pie. After last night, I’m excited for this.

  After a quick fifteen-minute Tube ride, I’m outside an old warehouse on the east central side of London. I love it over here. My office at Nikon is located in one of the oldest neighborhoods in London, near Shoreditch—a really groovy part of town. In this neighborhood, if there’s a brick wall, there’s a graffiti mural. I love it. The area is full of old warehouses turned into trendy art studios, cool cafes, or offices like ours.

  “Leslie!” a voice calls from behind me. I turn around and see Vilma smiling brightly at me. “You’re back! We’ve missed you like crazy!” She leans in and gives me a quick peck on the cheek, her round cheeks push back into a large smile. “You’ve got some sun!”

  “Howdy Ho!” I sing as Vilma gives me an obvious onceover. “Didn’t fry too bad, thank goodness. I’m a lucky ginger. How have things been here?”

  “Pretty quiet. The models came back perfect and Roger pushed through all the orders to China. We’ve just been waiting on production since then!” She runs her hand through her long blonde locks and looks at me proudly.

  “Good, yeah, Rog’ emailed me while I was in Mexi’. Thank God it was all okay. I was so nervous there would be issues while I was away!”

  “You did splendid! You always do over there.”

  Vilma is referring to my last trip to China. I frequently head over there to communicate our designs with the factory workers and get everything set up perfectly for them to produce mass quantities. It’s not the most glamorous part of my job, as I’m usually staying by myself in some dank apartment in the bowels of a village in China, but I do enjoy the adventure of it all.