Tuesday, July 22, 2025

Just write

Rather than keep on playing with generative AI tools, I thought I'd take a hint from ChatGPT and just write. Of course, there are robots behind the human appearance who churn out the text, not actual humans burdened with writers' blocks' and endless deliberations on how to execute a story, a scene, a dialogue, a statement. Still, I admire the ease of ChatGPT's writings. It makes it seem so effortless. Couple of lines of dialogue to outline the gist of the story and that's it, move on to the next scene. Maybe that robs the work of the richness of the details, but it does keep the story moving, so that's what I tried in this little piece.

Is it more fun to write the story yourself, rather than feed prompts into the machine and wait excitedly for the output? Is it more rewarding to put in the work yourself, even though the robots could get you five different stories in the same time? I don't know. I guess that's what it felt like at that moment. Maybe that's the future, do for the sake of doing, knowing that the result won't stand a chance competing with the state of art. We still have chess competitions for humans, after all.


Dressed for the Job

by Rosie


What’s this about Mike wearing a skirt?” my mother asked Fiona, as we were getting up to go home from her place.

“Oh nothing,” she replied, “The girls in Mike’s office are just teasing him a little, about how cute he’d look wearing one.”

I blushed, thinking back at the humiliations I felt at their persistent mentions of how I should wear a skirt.

“They’re not wrong, you know,” she said, “You do have nice legs.”

“It’s not funny,” I said, “Now they’re saying that they’re going to have a skirt-only day, and everyone should wear a skirt that day.”

“Well, if you do wear a skirt, I’d sure like to see that,” she replied.

“I don’t want to,” I replied hotly.

“Then don’t.” she said.

“If you change your mind though,” she added, winking at Fiona, “I’ll be more than happy to lend you a couple of mine.”

Both women erupted in laughter as I dashed through the door.


I knew Rachel and Iris could be persistent, but I had never imagined that they would turn the whole office against me. It seemed like everyone had lost their mind, practically yelling at me to change into the orange checkered skirt Iris put on my desk.

Ignoring the situation didn’t help. I was at the verge of tears when I saw Angela walk in, her floral print skirt swishing about her calves.

The office grew quiet immediately.

“What’s all this about?” she asked sternly.

“Mike doesn’t want to wear his skirt,” Iris replied dryly.

“Can I see you for a second?” she said to me.


She closed the door of her office, then patiently listened to me talk.

“You know, this is the first time I’m wearing a skirt to work in more than two years,” she said to me finally, “I don’t like it particularly, but what I like even less is when the whole office stops working because of some petty bullshit. We made a deal about the skirt only day, please wear a skirt or don’t, but stop wasting your and everyone else’s time. You have enough work to do, just like everyone else.”


I had been pleading with FIona the whole morning, but she was unrelenting. Now, I was fighting tears of shame again, as I looked at her pleadingly one last time, then pressed the button of my mother’s doorbell, defeated.

“Oh me oh my,” my mother said as she opened the door.

“You said you wanted to see him wearing his skirt, Edna,” Fiona smiled.

I blushed furiously as my mother inspected me standing at her doorstep, my black shirt tucked neatly into the waistband of the dark orange wool skirt the girls at the office had given me.


“Rachel dropped him off,” Fiona explained, detailing my skirt only day at the office, “They made him keep the skirt on the whole time. They even gave him a pair of thick thighs.”

“That’s considerate,” my mother said, “So he wouldn’t feel cold?”

“That, and to cover the hair on his legs,” Fiona replied.

“Well, if your coworkers could only see you now,” my mother smiled at me, making me blush and desperately tug at the hem of my skirt, even though I knew I could never get it to cover my now smooth and hairless legs, accentuated by Fiona’s tan pantyhose.

“That’s actually one of the reasons we came to see you,” Fiona said.

She waited for a second, then gently nudged me, reminding me of what I had to say.

“Could I still borrow some of your skirts?” I feebly asked my mother.

“Why, of course,” she said, “Grown to like them, have you?”

“We have skirts-only Fridays at the office,” I said under my breath.

“I think we’re going to have skirts-only days at our house, too,” Fiona said, “You were right Edna, he does look good in a skirt.”

“Your house and mine,” my mother mused as she led me to her bedroom.


I was wearing my mother’s pleated navy knee length skirt over a pair of sheer black hose. I would have felt more comfortable in something thicker, but at least I was allowed to wear pants for the commute, and only changed into the skirt once I got to the office, so I couldn’t complain too much.

In the quiet, professional atmosphere, I hadn’t even noticed Ms, Barrow right until she passed by my desk. She nodded friendly to me, I nodded back and I watched walk away in her elegant lime green pantsuit.

“Someone didn’t get the memo,” I murmured to Katy, as she disappeared in Angela’s office.


By the look on Angela’s face, I knew something was amiss the second I closed the doors behind me. Under Ms. Barrow’s gaze, I was now again painfully aware I was wearing a skirt.

Ms. Barrows beckoned me to come closer.

“We can’t have this,” she said to Angela, pointing at me with the palm of her hand.

“You know, I never thought I’d have to deal with such things as a CEO, but there we are,” she said to me, “Basically, office attire should be non-disruptive. Not disruptive to your co-workers, not disruptive to the management, and especially not disruptive to customers or partners.”

I started preparing my defense speech, but with a raised index finger, she let me know she wasn’t done yet.

“Now I understand that you’ve taken steps not to disrupt your coworkers, and I appreciate this, but it looks like I still have to be the one to tell you that the top must match the bottom. Understand?”

I nodded, though I really, I didn’t understand her fully.

“I trust you can make sure that proper standards are kept?” she said to Angela.

“Of course, Martha,” Angela replied.

“Good,” Ms. Barrows replied, “Then next time I’m here, we won’t have to have the same conversation.”

“One last thing,” Ms. Barrows said, as I had already turned to leave the office, “What’s your new name?”

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You probably aren’t going to be called Michael from now on, are you?” she said.

I stared at her dumbfounded.

She turned back to Angela.

“Get this sorted ASAP,” she said, “I’ll alert the HR so there’s no hold ups on our side.”


By late afternoon, it was clear that the emergency family meeting was not going in the direction I hoped it would have. Any hopes of otherwise were finally killed by the excited gushing of Fiona, her mother Stephanie and my own mother, as I confidently crossed her sizable living room on four inch heels, the silk and chiffon layers of my dress brushing seductively against my skin with every step I took.

Of course I could have not been serious about handing in my resignation.

Of course I realized how good, and how important my job was for my career, and for my and FIona’s well-being.

Of course I would give dressing up fully as a woman a go, apparently there was no other way of showing them how insane they were to even consider Ms. Barrow’s request.

But now, with my hair curled and dyed couple of shades lighter, my nails filed to delicate ovals and covered in pink varnish, with my eyebrows plucked into thin arches, with my cheeks reddened, my eyes darkened and lips covered in a shade that matched my nails, I wasn’t so sure of it myself. Any words of protest I had been mounting over the course of the day sounded less and less convincing, the more girlishly I learned to say them.


Despite Stephanie’s pep talk, I was hoping to be able to stay in the background for the duration of the meeting. But Angela had other ideas.

“Since this is mostly your work,” she said, turning to me, “Why don’t you give the presentation, Valerie?”

I cringed inwardly at the mention of the name Stephanie had chosen for me, without questions, without discussion, and kept using it until it had finally caught on, until I ultimately adapted it legally.

“Good idea,” Ms. Barrows said before I could find a word of protest.

Standing up, I cringed inwardly again as I caught a glimpse of the bow of my cream silk blouse, framed neatly by the lapels of my burgundy red blazer that Stephanie insisted I wore today, ignoring my requests that the tailored skirt suit and four inch heels were far too formal for the rather relaxed dress code or our office.

The next moment though, all my thoughts were directed by my training as I consciously directed one foot in front of the other, as my silky legs slithered around each other in the thigh confines of my pencil skirt.

It was not without some satisfaction that I noticed gazes of unmasked admiration, and then the other part of my training kicked in as I started to present my work with perfect poise, voice and professional knowledge.


“How was the meeting,” Stephanie asked me when I, as directed, came to her place after taking the rest of the day off, “Did you volunteer to give the presentation?”

“I didn’t have to,” I replied, shyly, “Angela said I should do it.”

“Lucky you,” Stephanie said, then beckoned for me to come closer to her.

In mincing steps, I walked over to her sofa, feeling myself starting to blush. Ever since agreeing to become Valerie, my mother in law has gotten rather handsy with me.

As soon as I was within her armreach, she took hold of both of my wrists with her right hand and guided me until I sat down on her lap.

Her hand snaked inside my blazer. I could feel the probing touch of her fingers through my silicone breast form.

“Everything alright here?” she said, “Nothing became unstuck?”

I shook my head.

“Everything was fine,” I hastingly replied, though not convincingly enough for Stephanie.

“The sooner you agree to put them under your skin, the better,” she said, keeping her hand where it was.

“Did Ms. Barrows like the suit?” she asked me.

Shyly, I turned away my eyes for a second.

“She didn’t say anything directly,” I said, “But later on, she came by my desk and said something like dress for the job you want to have.”

“See?” she said, nudging my head on her shoulder with her free hand, “All I’m doing with you is making you dress for the job I want you to have. You don’t think I’m wrong about that, do you?”

“No,” I replied quietly.

“Then you’re not going to argue with me about the clothes I want you to wear anymore?” she pressed on.

I stared into her eyes. With one hand around my shoulders, and the other one still keeping a secure hold on my wrists, we both knew my days of disagreeing with her were over.

“Speaking of the job I want you to have,” she said, “There’s another job I want you to do for me.”

“Okay,” I said warily.

“I’ve already bought you the dress for it,” she said, “Have you ever worn a petticoat?”

I shook my head.

“I have a feeling you’ll like it.”


Though I was cringing with embarrassment, like so many times before that day already, I knew better than to let that show as I welcomed Stephanie’s guest, greeting each one with a courtesy, executed swiftly enough to shake the frills of my peach-pink satin maid’s uniform.

Smiling, I kept thinking back on the training for my new job I had received in the past afternoon, and the sound spanking I received as warning should stray away from my training.

Just when I thought my humiliation couldn’t get any worse, I recognized Fiona and my mother among the last groups of visitors.

I was preparing myself for the worst, but it turned out that they, apparently, had known about my new job in advance, or at least adapted to the situation immediately.

My mother discreetly cupped my face with her hand, Fiona gave me a fleeting peck on the cheek, then let me curtsey to both of them and they disappeared into the crowd.

I ran into them a couple of times later that evening, but they were kind enough not to acknowledge my presence and let me go about my work with the least additional humiliation.


Only when the last of the guests left did I finally stop being invisible to them.

“I wasn’t sure about it when you said you had a new job in mind for Valerie,” my mother said to Stephanie, “But seeing her today, I must admit I’m convinced. She looked like a natural.”

“She’s had an intense week at the office,” Stephanie said, “It’s important that she can find something to help her switch off from work and relax.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t seem to be overstressing about work this evening, sweetie,” Fiona said to me.

“I wasn’t.” I admitted, blushing.

“When your career takes off,” she continued, “Work isn’t going to be any less stressful. But luckily, my mother found a way you can truly relax, hasn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said and, after a stern look from Stephanie, curtsied.

“I guess you could relax like this more often,” Fiona went on, “You could relax like that at our house, too.”

I didn’t have to look at Stephanie to know there was only one way to respond to my wife. Demurely, I slid my right foot behind my left and picked the material of my skirts in my lace-gloved hand.

“I will be happy to,” I said.

“Your house and mine,” my mother mused, as I gave the deepest courtesy I had done all day.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

If artificial intelligence is the future (as undoubtedly it is), then your writing continues to be a crucial part of the present. When AI searches to “borrow” from the creativity of the world’s database, it will never find anywhere the type of female conduct that dominates the male of this species that your fertile imagination contributes with your writing (except by also finding Bea’s work at this blog that you help to keep alive). It cannot even be considered “passive” aggressive, as there is nothing passive about the women of your universe. Sapphic aggressive? With never a punch in the nose (but maybe an occasional spanking), women nonetheless bend any man to their femininity. The future would be so much less interesting without your writing. Thank you,
Jnynj