I hold the door open for Alex and Ellie as they exit the bar together. Alex raises her eyebrow at me and points at her watch. I sigh and nod my head. I know. It’s almost time. Two more hours of work, a rush home, and I can Change in safety and privacy.

Thankfully, it’s an easy night – no fights, no scumbags to eject, and only a handful of people who need help into a cab or to be convinced not to drive. There are more than a couple young women who I’d love to get to know better, but the growing itching on my arms and legs tells me that this is neither the time nor the place to put myself forward.

When the bar closes, I take off immediately. Everyone knows my situation and know that a couple nights a month they might need to cover closing duties for me. I take care of them in other ways, so they take care of me here. My internal jukebox, on cue, starts filling my head with Semisonic’s “Closing Time”, and as I start humming along, I beg the gods once more for an off switch.

Traffic delays me, and I get home just as my itch, my warning that a Change is coming soon, changes to the pins and needles that signals the start of my Change. I usually prefer to do this in the shower – the water and steam help soothe the physical discomfort – but I’m not going to make it tonight. I’ll have to do this on the couch instead.

My hair changes first. My body hair recedes, becoming finer and shorter on my arms and disappearing entirely on my chest, face, and legs, and the hair on my head shifts from my simple short male haircut to my women’s bobbed style. Thankfully this “strain” of my condition remembers what I’ve done to my body and restores me to that state when I Change – I’ve met werewomen who’ve had to fully wax themselves every month and fellow weremen who have to pretend to be really into swimming and body piercings.

After hair, my Change starts in my gut and moves outward. I feel my internal organs move to make room for my uterus. My penis and scrotum flatten and wither into my widening vaginal cavity as my hips widen. My arms and legs lose both length and width as my torso narrows and shrinks, causing me to lose nearly eight inches in height. I let out a brief gasp as my breasts fill in and my center of balance changes.

For me, facial feminization is last, the subtle shifts in proportion accompanying the minute shrinking of my vocal folds that restore my voice to its “natural” soprano. I hear my voice softly sing a line it’s been wanting to match a pitch of for the last few minutes: “Awooooo!” This would be fine if I didn’t feel compelled to follow it with “Werewolves of London!” This fucking jukebox hates me tonight.

I breathe deeply as my senses adjust. I struggle out of his comically ill-fitting clothes and check my phone for the time to decide which of her clothes I’m putting on. It’s late. Better just go with a nightgown tonight and go out tomorrow.

In bed, I open up the Gendr app and switch my profile to what I think of as “girl mode”. Most weres keep a single profile setting to let prospective dates see “all of them”, but most weres have the benefit of not being straight as a fucking geometrically-correct arrow in both their bodies. Lucky me, belonging to the one community where queerness is expected and straightness makes you less desirable. Most weres are at least bisexual in at least one form (usually when “moonlighting”), swaps and alters usually have enough gender confusion to land at a sort of blended sexuality, and shifters, those lucky bastards, can actually change their sexuality at will if they have enough control of their abilities.

That leaves me. Marti interested in only men, Marty interested in only women, hopelessly searching for the rare partner who’s willing to date someone who’s just not into them for a portion of every month or the rarer partner who can change to match my changing preferences.

I’ve met one of those in my life, I opened the door for her this evening, and by this time, he’s probably giving a relatively recent Swap her first heterosexual encounter as a woman.

I flip through the matches that just populated for my Marti profile; thinking about Alex’s dating success has made me embarrassingly horny, and I’d like to resolve that with someone’s help instead of by myself. Pickings must be slim tonight, though, because even though I indicated a preference for straight, the app is showing me a mixture of everything. Bisexual were, pansexual shifter, homosexual were, heterosexual chaser, asexual swap…

Wait, what was that?

I flip back to the profile for the heterosexual chaser. I don’t usually go for chasers – people outside the “magical TG” community who found the Gendr app through a friend in community or by less-than-acceptable means – but I actually know this guy. I met him, as Marty, at one of Quinn and Celia’s barbecues. He stayed mostly to himself, but he was amazing with their kid. That’s enough to give him a chance, even if he has a shirtless motorcycle photo on his profile.

I tap out a quick message: Hey Chuck, full disclosure: we met briefly at Q&C’s during my “male” time of the month, and you seemed like a pretty good guy then. I’m looking for a good time to help me get over a bad time, and was hoping you’d be up for that. Let me know! -Marti/y

I put down my phone and get some sleep, but not before my brain treats me to Taylor Swift – “Lavender Haze” and “Maroon” despite it being well past midnight.

In the morning, to a mental background of Cat Stevens, I check my phone to see a response from Chuck: Hey Marti! I’d love to meet up and get to know this you better! I’m off the next two days; let me know when you’re available!

I send a quick response: I always take the day after a Change off, so I’m available tonight. Want to meet at a neutral location?

I get out of bed and take the shower I missed last night. I grab a clean bra – easy, because I wash them during the three days a month I don’t need them – and put on a long sleeveless dress that clings to my curves. Dressing high femme the day after I Change gives me a level of gender euphoria I can’t even describe.

I sing along with my mental Abba track as I prepare myself breakfast – it feels good to be able to hit those notes again. My phone pings with Chuck’s response as I sit down to eat, and I pump my fist in the air after I read it, punching “The winner takes it all!” at the top of my lungs as I learn I’ve got a date set for tonight.

The rest of my morning and early afternoon are spent grocery shopping and watching TV. I check in with Doreen and Quinn, who have both known Chuck for a while, and ask if there’s anything I need to watch out for. Doreen’s response is surprisingly negative – apparently Chuck harassed her about her sexuality a few years ago and she hasn’t been able to forgive or forget – but Quinn tells me that he won’t be anything I can’t handle; I just need to watch out for the occasional sexist or objectifying behavior.

I start getting ready for my date early for once, getting myself fully dressed including hair and makeup a full hour before Chuck’s due to pick me up. I text telling him I’m ready now if he is. He’s not, so I get to cool my heels in my heels for a while.

I spend this time, as per usual, worrying about how this is going to go, with the Annie Lennox cut of “Under Pressure” going through my head on repeat. Obviously Chuck knows about our community; he wouldn’t be friends with Quinn otherwise. But knowing about it doesn’t make him without prejudice. And what’s with the sexism? All the eagerness I had last night and this morning gets replaced by dread and anxiety. This was a mistake. Should I cancel? Play nice and then let him down gently at the end? As I consider my options, the buzzer rings.

Chuck’s dressed smartly in a well-pressed casual shirt and slacks. His eyes move up and down my curves, and I can tell he’s interested before he opens his mouth to compliment my appearance, which he does. I smile, accept his compliment, and provide one of my own, and we leave for dinner. My jukebox cuts off in the middle, and ZZ Top starts reminding me how crazy I am about sharp-dressed men.

When we arrive at the restaurant, I move to open my door, but Chuck interrputs me. “Hang on a minute.” He touches my lower arm lightly. “Before we go inside, I want to know how you want this to go.”

I raise my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You said in your message that you were looking for a good time to get over a bad time, and I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Are you looking for one good night with someone on the outside of your community that you can forget after? Are you looking for someone you can call when you need a certain kind of comfort? Something that might go longer?.” I stammer a little, and he continues. “I’m more than happy to be any of those for you if things go well tonight, but I also don’t want either of us to go into this with the wrong impression.”

I pause before answering, and frown at myself. It’s a good question, and one I hadn’t given enough thought to. I’m also surprised it came from Chuck – he didn’t seem this introspective in his profile or at the barbecue. Insight hits me and I smile a little. I think I know what’s going on. “Chuck, are you a bartender?”

He laughs. “Did I make it that obvious?”

I laugh as well. “Only to a fellow tradeswoman who’s also seen enough meets end less than cute due to mismatched expectations. Last night, I wanted a good night. Now, I’m not sure what I want – I think I might figure it out as we go along.” I take a deep breath and get ready for my disclosure. “But I want you to know something as well. I’m straight. Like all the time. Even when I’m… Marty.”

Chuck shrugs. “It’s the day after Change for you, right? So we have three weeks or so until that’s a problem?” I nod, and he goes on. “Sounds like a problem for a future Chuck and future Marti who are better acquainted and less hungry.”

There’s a casual logic to his words – the kind of logic that comes from being able to afford to live in the moment. I’ve heard people say they miss those times, but as a wereman from birth, I’ve always had to plan ahead more than most.

Chuck’s picked an upscale steakhouse for our date. We get seated and place our orders – steak for him, salad for me. We make some small talk as we wait for our order, mainly discussing how we met our mutual friends. My brain starts playing “Five O’Clock Somewhere”, and I suggest we order drinks. I notice some discrepancies between what he understands and what I know – he knew Quinn from before they started Changing and was one of the first people to know about “girl Quinn”, but he doesn’t seem to know about anyone else who was at the barbecue – Alex, Ellie, Teri, or Doreen. It’s especially odd that he doesn’t know about Doreen, since he met her through Quinn back when Quinn was just a man. But, it’s not my story to tell, so I keep Doreen’s secrets to myself. It’s not hard, since I met her and Teri in college, and met the others through them. The details of them being in our community aren’t really important to that.

When our meals arrive, the conversation turns to us – hobbies, family, things like that. I don’t have much to share in the family department – my father left after my first Change at two weeks old, my mother died a few years ago, and I’m the only child of two only children – but Chuck tells me about growing up with a single father and six older brothers, and suddenly I’m understanding a lot more about where the macho behavior Doreen and Quinn warned me about comes from. I keep waiting for the conversation to turn to my TG status, but he never brings it up. The jukebox, which still hates me, keeps me in mind of the elephant in the room with “Pink Elephants on Parade.” I don’t even remember the last time I saw Dumbo.

We order dessert – a massive piece of cheesecake for us to share. Chuck makes a joke about the lack of mostly naked women in the dessert, and I laugh politely even though it’s not really that funny. Honestly, though, that’s been his only sexist misstep tonight – for the most part, he’s been compassionate, an active listener, and has mostly kept his eyes on my face instead of my chest. As we wait for dessert, he looks a little agitated, and slowly asks, “So… we haven’t talked about the… other man in your life. I didn’t want to pry, but if I’m going to be interested in you, I want to be interested in all of you. We can talk about him as much as you want or don’t.”

I smile at him; this is probably the kindest way anyone’s approached the Marty in the room. “I’m at the start of a couple weeks where I’m free from worrying about Marty, so I’d like to leave him out of tonight if we can.” He nods, and I continue, “But given how things are going tonight, I suspect that we’ll find time to talk about him and you’ll get a chance to meet him. But remember, he won’t be into you.” Chuck’s eyes widen as he reads my subtext and he gets a bit of a goofy grin.

After dinner, he asks if I have big plans for the night. I tell him that usually the day after “Marty leaves” – using my in-public subtext – I spend the evening cleaning up after him and getting my apartment back to my own tastes. Then Chuck surprises me by asking if I’d like help with that. I’m too stunned to say no, and it is nice to have someone offer to take care of my needs when my job usually involves taking care of someone else’s, either as a normal bartender or as one looking out for any magical TGs who happen to wander in.

There really isn’t that much “cleanup” to do – mainly laundry and replacing the sheets to get rid of Marty’s sweaty man musk. I’ve tried everything to deodorize, but I just have a certain scent as a man that I can’t stand as a woman. Chuck helps by airing out the bedroom and tidying up in the kitchen. When I finish, I come out to see him inspecting my liquor cabinet. “Can I help you find something there, Chuck?”

“Actually, I was trying to find something for you – get an idea of what you like so I could surprise you with a drink.” Chuck looks thoughtful as he pulls a couple bottles from a shelf to mix. My brain’s soundtrack starts playing “One Tequila”, and I have a hard time not giggling about it.

I roll my eyes and walk over. “If you want to mix that for yourself, you can go right ahead, but it’s not for me.” I reach under a counter and pop open a hidden door. “That cabinet’s liquor for sharing. This cabinet is for me.” I pull out a bottle of 18 year old Glenlivet and pour myself a couple fingers. I hold the glass up in a toast, leaning against my counter in a way that cocks my hip out toward him. It’s a flirty Marti pose that I really miss during my Marty time, and I’m surprised I eased back into it so smoothly after this Change.

He smiles at me, mixes himself a dry martini, and returns the toast. “So, now that we’ve exorcised Marty for the next three weeks, what should we do now?”

I laugh at his joke and lean toward him, the neckline of my dress showing him more of my cleavage than he’s seen so far tonight. “Do you have any suggestions?”

He looks nervous, but rises to the occasion – metaphorically, not literally, I notice. “Well, I think I’d like to try kissing you, if that’s all right with you.”

“Hmm.” I set my drink down and walk over to him. “I have a counterproposal.” I place my hands on the side of his face. “How about I kiss you instead.”

He doesn’t object.

As kisses go, I’d give it a 7 out of 10. He doesn’t push too hard, but he’s a little inexperienced dealing with an eager partner rather than a reluctant one. I signal my intentions to go beyond just a kiss by placing one hand on his chest and the other on his ass. He reads the signal correctly and starts moving his lips below mine onto my chin, then down the side of my neck. Whatever complaints I had about the start of our kiss, I have none about how he’s proceeding. Avril Lavigne starts mentally serenading me with “Bigger Wow.”

I back us up into my bedroom and start unbuttoning his shirt. He helps me get my dress over my head, then moves behind me, starts kissing the back of my neck, and begins to give me a shoulder and back massage. I moan in relief and pleasure, and he correctly interprets this as a request to continue, harder. I’m exposed and at his mercy, but he’s doing his best to make that as comfortable as he can for me.

After a couple minutes, I turn to face him and return some of the favor he’s given me. He stops me. “Hey.” He lifts my chin so he can look directly into my eyes. “I know what you do. For Ellie, for Teri, for everyone.” I blink; I’d gotten information on him from Doreen before the date, but I hadn’t considered that he’d done the same. “You take care of everyone else. You don’t need to worry about taking care of me; let me take care of you.” He gently guides me onto the bed face-up, unhooking my bra in the process. He moves to kiss me again, starting at my breasts, then my nipples, then moving down my body.

His kisses are sweet at first, touching me lightly and lovingly. As he moves toward my legs, he gets more aggressive, asking me if he may each move, and by the time he’s reached the space between my thighs, he’s become all tongue, imitating his earlier search for the right libation in miniature.

My moans and gasps are all I can provide to tell him when he’s cold and – more importantly – when he’s hot in his search. As he finds and probes his target, my body flushes with pleasure. I’ve long known that my favorite sex is post-Change sex, but even then, I’ve never felt anything like this. As I crescendo toward orgasm, I realize that Chuck’s advances don’t resemble those I’m used to, those of a man trying to obtain sexual pleasure from or obtain sexual congress with a woman. They resemble the caring acts of a person who’s used to feeling out the needs of others.

It takes me a minute to notice that my head is clear. Not only has my mental jukebox been unplugged, I’m not even aware of what it’s been playing for the last few minutes.

I’ve been tending bar for fifteen years. Tonight, at the hands (and tongue) of a man I was gently warned about, is the first time I’ve felt what it was like to have my own bar tended.