It all started with a letter. Addressed to Ms. Jordyn H. Smith. That's not me, I'm Mr. Jordan H. Smith. I thought of simply tossing it, but it looked official, supposedly it came from some governmental agency. So I opened it, and my life changed into chaos.

"Dear Ms. Smith," it said. "We are extremely sorry about the inconvenience we have caused you for the past 26 years. It must have been very hard on you having to go through life having to pose as a man.

We are happy to inform you that we have corrected the mistake that was made on your birth certificate. We believe the root cause to be your first name, which could be interpreted as both male and female. Your middle name, Hazel, however should have been a clear indication of your true gender.

We have taken the liberty to change your first name into the generally accepted female version, as to prevent any more confusion.

As a token of our apology, please accept enclosed check for $2,600. It will help offset some of the costs you may incur in signing over your accounts and possessions into your true name. We have informed already the most commonly used institutions about your situation, so you should have no problem signing over your assets.

Yours truly," and it was followed by an indecipherable name and signature. I figured it was still a joke, but when I tried to use my phone to deposit the check, it failed with the message that the name on the account did not match the name on the check. And I should visit a branch office as soon as possible to sort this out.

In my mind I cursed my mother, who wanted a daughter so badly, whom she would call Hazel. I was the third and last child, another boy, and so she gave me that girly middle name that I've always tried to hide.

The next day at work I was called into the HR manager's office. "Ms. Smith," he started, "please sit down. We've been made aware of a very unusual situation. We have reason to believe that you have misrepresented your true gender in order to obtain a job for which otherwise you may not have qualified.

Having said that, your performance thus far has been top notch, so we're happy to inform you that you can remain in your current position. However your pay will be reduced by 10 percent as penalty for your misrepresentation, and another 13.6 percent to offset the higher costs for health and life insurance in relation to women.

We expect you to follow the dress code that matches your real gender, which means skirt or pant suits and matching shoes. Only on casual Fridays jeans and sneakers are allowed.

Also, please use the ladies room from now on, any more violations of that rule could lead to immediate termination. Thank you."

And without giving me a chance to explain or protest, he stood up and showed me the door. He said one more thing when I was outside his office. "I suggest you take an early lunch to fix your current attire. I will keep my eye on you."

Back in my car I had to get myself under control. This had gotten out of hand real quickly. Yet I saw no immediate solution. The government letter only had the generic 800-number on it, no direct number for the letter writer. And I could not lose my job, so I better find something to wear that is in line with the dress code.

I went to the mall and found a shop that catered business attire to both men and women. The sales lady was very professional, even after I tried to explain my situation to her. She probably thought I was a freak, but her face showed no sign of dismissal. She suggested a very conservative pant suit with a blouse and matching pumps. When I was in the dressing room she also handed me a bra and matching panties. The oversized fit wasn't too bad, if only the shoes were flat. She suggested I wear the outfit right away and she would bag my old clothes. But when I tried to pay, my credit card was rejected.

She cut the card in two, saying that the screen said a new card had already been prepared. I tried my second card and lost that too. All I had left was my bank card and she pointed at an ATM outside the shop. If I left my wallet and keys with her I could pull some cash from the machine. I was suddenly very aware I was now in public and that I still looked very much like a man in a woman's suit. I needed enough cash to visit a hairdresser as well.

But I never got the cash out, my card was swallowed up and a message appeared that I should visit a branch office. The sales lady was very understanding and she pointed out where a branch of my bank was in the mall. But I had to leave my keys and my old clothes with her and everything else I owned except for my driver's license. If I didn't come back later that day to pay, she could sell my car, and I had to sign a paper giving her the power of attorney in doing so. A friend of her notarized my signature.

The bank manager was very understanding but also unhappy with the way I had apparently "tricked" the system. They could transfer my money into a new account in my now legal name. But he would not accept my identification as my driver's license was still in my old name. So I needed to go to the license bureau for a new license, luckily not too far of a walk from the mall. But the bank manager suggested I get my hair fixed first, or I may still have problems later to use it as an ID. He managed to get me one hundred of my own dollars in advance, just enough for a haircut and a new license, but not enough to pay for the suit.

Apparently I hit the salon at a quiet moment and they could help me right away. I explained that I needed to look good for a new license and that I was low on cash, so it couldn't cost more than sixty dollars. That was a problem with the amount of work my hair and face apparently needed. They finally had a solution, pointing at a sign that showed a makeover program, that costed fifty per session. I had to sign-up for a ten session program and do a photo shoot after each. I had no say in what was to be done to me each session. My before and after pictures would be used in their advertising campaign.

I had to agree, although this was much more than what I had bargained for, and I signed with my new legal name. They explained it was going to take about four hours, with photos throughout the process. I called my boss, telling him that I had some troubles adapting to the new dress code and I needed the day off. "You better look presentable then tomorrow" was all he said.

The ladies went all out on me, with hair extensions, face masks, laser hair removal on my face, arms, legs and chest, a complete manicure and pedicure, and they glued some breast forms on me to fill up my bra. The last thing was semi permanent makeup and I heard them chat about the fully permanent makeup they would use on my last session.

I did not look at all like me anymore. It was nice for their pictures but I wondered if it was too much for my work, with my bright red shiny painted lips, that were somehow much thicker than I remembered. I had hoops dangling from my newly pierced ears and my eyebrows had a perfect arc. And I had no idea how I could ever type on my computer again with the length of my new, matching bright red, nails.

I was wearing a faux leather skirt now, a matching sexy top showing quite some cleavage, and sandals, to show of my smooth legs and my red toe nails, but my heels were now at least two inch. It would make my walk to the license bureau much harder. Not knowing how long it would take I went to the bathroom first and when I got out of the stall I was in, I was arrested.

I had walked into the men's bathroom without thinking and was reported by a man who was there with two little boys. My driver's license was considered fake and it was confiscated. And with exactly fifty dollars on me and my overly sexy look I was booked into jail on prostitution charges.

With the virus still very active I had to go through a medical checkup and my bloodwork showed dangerous levels of testosterone and a lack of estrogen. For a woman. As an inmate you have totally no control over your own health, and I was put on a heavy regime of HRT, to "save my life" as they called it. When my situation was finally sorted out after fourteen days, my male member was smaller than the nail on my pinky and my scrotum was all shriveled up. I had clearly breasts growing under my falsies and I had lost inches off my waist.

So there I stood, at the bus stop, with no idea where to go, in a body that didn't feel like mine, in clothes that got me arrested already, virtually without money and without a job, as my boss had not approved my extra days off. I felt like an outcast.

Trying to think logically there was only one thing I could do. Go back to the mall, get somehow my keys and my car back, get a new license and get my bank account sorted out. That would give me some time to find a new job. It took an hour by bus and I had less than forty dollars left. The lady at the shop where I tried to buy my pant suit didn't recognize me at first. But when she did, she sat me down, gave me some coffee and let me tell my story. I burst out in tears, something I hadn't done since I was a kid.

She believed me, that was the most important. But she also explained that she had sold my car when I didn't return to the shop, two weeks ago. She had taken out the cost of my clothes, plus another hundred for the inconvenience, and handed me fifteen hundred cash. I was shocked, my car had been worth much more than the two thousand she got, but I could not blame her.

She said she had gone to my apartment to take me the leftover money but obviously I wasn't there. She really liked my place though as she had the keys, and since she had the power of attorney, she simply put it in her name. She did the same with all the utilities and she got rid of her old place.

So I had lost my job, my car and my home. And my pride by now as well and I sobbed right in front of her. After a minute or so she thought of a solution. I could move in with her, get the guest room in my own place, and she offered me a job in a second store she owned in the mall, with less formal clothing. I could drive with her every day. She couldn't pay me much, but I would not have to pay rent, as long as I would take care of the domestic duties, like cooking and cleaning.

Not quite how I had planned my career, but I feared having to live on the street so much, that I agreed. She drafted a contract and it would lock me in for three years, with an option for another three during which I would obtain the shop manager position. A weird part was about me having to wear outfits from her other shop, that she would pick out for me every day. But having no idea really how to dress day in day out as a woman, it actually gave me a sense of comfort. I also had to continue my HRT, as she was a proud lesbian with no intention to live with a man. I knew there was no turning back anymore for me, so I signed, being witnessed again by her friend the notary public.

We walked together to check out her other shop, but when we passed the salon I remembered I still had a bag of clothes and a pair of shoes there. Obviously they recognized me immediately, as I was still wearing their clothes. I had defaulted on my contract with them though, as I hadn't shown up the day before for my second makeover. They made me pay ahead for all remaining sessions, plus an extra two fifty to stop the lawsuit against me, since I had caused a delay in their advertising campaign. So I had eight hundred left, plus I was occupied for the next four hours.

They knew my new boss very well and together they decided on my new look for today and all remaining sessions it seemed. I went through more laser hair sessions, this time my whole body. They were happy with how my own breasts were developing so they removed my falsies, but did inject them with something to add an extra size.

By the time they were done and all photos were made I had a mysterious look with long black hair, wearing a gypsy dress with a leather corset over it and open boots with three inch heels. I actually liked my look, as a man I would have loved to go out with me.

Miranda, as I was allowed to call my boss now, couldn't keep her hands off of me. And, finally on our way to her second shop we looked more like lovers than like a boss and her employee. But it was comforting, I felt safe in her hold, and I leaned into her as she pulled me closer.

The shop was a shock. It sold erotic clothing and toys. No men were allowed in the shop and some women were openly trying out lingerie and club wear, not worrying about being seen naked. They sexily flirted with me, with Miranda and with other customers. I had no idea these things even existed. I met my coworker Shareen, while Miranda picked my outfit for the next day. She was beautiful, in a tight leather suit with bunny ears on top of her head. It clicked between us and I started to relax, I could do this for a few years.

I had to run to the license bureau, before they closed, but I managed in my new heels. A driver's license was out of question though, as my original one was perforated when it was assumed that it was falsified. I would have to take a new test though and for that I needed a car. It would have to wait for a while. At least they could get me a state ID and I actually felt quite proud of the picture they took of me.

I managed to get to the bank just in time and my proof of ID, while waiting for the real thing to be mailed to me, was sufficient for them to open my new account. I had to endure a few squeezes in my butt, from the bank manager, but I didn't want to slow down the process, so I sucked it up. I couldn't get a credit card though, as I now had a criminal record for prostitution, and no matter how I tried to explain the situation, I was guilty until proven innocent in front of a judge, and my court case was still months away. The manager actually had the nerve to ask if he would get a discount, if he "pursued my services". I just laughed and said "maybe", just to get out of there.

When Miranda and I finally made it "home" she gave me my house uniform. I was stunned, I had assumed the clothing thing was just for working in her shop, but she made it clear it was 24/7. I wasn't going to pick a fight with her, so thirty minutes later I was dressed in an all latex maid's uniform with four inch spiked heels, like any man's wet dream, and clearly also Miranda's, the way she touched my butt. But I have to say, it was much more pleasurable compared to the bank manager doing it.

We ate the food we had brought from the mall, then I cleaned the dishes and the rest of the house. Miranda pointed at a pile of mail that was addressed to me during the past weeks. One letter jumped out, it was from the same agency that had started my ordeal. The letter was dated the same day that I had received their first letter. It read,

"Dear Ms. Smith,

Once again we have to apologize. Due to a computer error, we identified you yesterday as being of female gender.

Luckily we caught the mistake in less than 24 hours. Because of the fact that you have not experienced the inconvenience of being labeled as the wrong gender for the past 26 years, we put a hold on the check we sent with your letter from yesterday. Please do not attempt to cash that check, as it will be regarded as a felony, which can possibly hold a prison sentence up to 30 months.

To offset the minor inconvenience you may have experienced due to this error, we have enclosed a check for fifty dollars.

Since there is always a slight chance that you agreed with the gender change, we will not correct the error, free of charge to you, unless you sent back the enclosed form within ten (10) business days, in the enclosed prepaid envelope. If we do not receive your reply on or before ", and of course yesterday's date was shown, " we will mark your records, as if no error took place.

Sincerely",

and the same unreadable signature had been used.