Ms. Smith strode down a street near where she worked. It was full of unemployed young men, and she had learned that snubbing their calls of "hey pretty lady" and "nice ass" usually netted three or four "fuck yous" in a few minutes.
It was a good thing that standards were low here, because Ms. Smith was not the attractive woman she had been before the interview with Kelly. She was several inches taller, narrow-hipped, and her hands and feet hand grown perceptibly. On her own, she had opted for a buzz-cut and androgynous, increasingly male dress--including male underwear.
Ah, there it was--a man in his twenties she had passed while ignoring his plaintive cry of "hey mamacita" had responded with "fuck you, dyke." Ms. Smith had come to love the uncertainty of how each curse affected her. Sometimes a lot of things changed slightly, sometimes there was one big change, as when she had acquired an Adam's apple.
This one at first didn't seem to have an effect. Then she felt something squirming in her briefs. Ms. Smith grinned. She hardly wait to get to the office and examine herself in privacy.