Who'd be a Boy?

Luke got himself his first job working as a hotel porter for the prestigious Marrion Hotel chain. He arrives in good time on his first day, clean shaven, wearing his brand new trousers and shirt, hoping to make a good first impression. He knows there's a uniform provided as he's already been measured for it. It's just a jacket to wear with his own smart trousers and freshly pressed shirt and even if it's a horrible colour, he knows it could be worse. The Waldorf hotel chain had recently decided to make their room attendants wear traditional chambermaid's uniforms and in recent years some of the big cleaning agencies begun making their staff wear housekeeping dresses... and with that in mind, Luke tried his very best to avoid applying for any cleaning jobs. He practically skipped all the way to the Marrion Hotel on the outskirts of town. It was a secure job, not well paid but not many are for boys and men these days. Luke's under no illusions, he knows it will be boring, just carrying bags for the guests and not much else, but it's not a cleaning job and that's the main thing!

He arrives, as instructed at the small side entrance where he introduces himself to the concierge. “Luke, I've been expecting you. This way.” she says. After filling out shit loads of forms, Luke is given a cellophane parcel. He frowns at the unusual yet familiar colour that's somewhere between bright burgundy and deep purple. It's the same colour that the Marrion Hotel chain use on all their Marrion Hotel signs. “What's this?” he knowingly asked. “My jacket.” he said, trying not to sneer at the colour. Still, it could be worse, he thinks.

“Your tunic.” the concierge tells him.

Tunic, jacket, same thing, Luke thinks before wondering why some people have to be so pedantic. “Shall I put it on now?” he asked.

“Well unless you want to breach your contract before you've even started work!” the concierge sarcastically retorted. Luke didn't reply, but he did pull open the cellophane and wondered why some people have to be so monumentally sarcastically arsey... “You'll have to take your shirt off.” the concierge says, explaining that it's a fitted garment that's not designed to be worn with a shirt. “It's lined.” she added.

“Oh... OK.” Luke replied. He unbuttoned his shirt under the watchful eye of the concierge. Like many women in this day and age, she's the sort who simply cannot look at a male. She's the sort who only ever looks down on them and the sort who can somehow humble them with nothing more than a glance. “Shall I leave my vest on?” he asked.

“If you like.” she said, handing him the jacket... tunic.. whatever!

It's an unusual garment, Luke noted as he prepared to pull it on. The sleeves looked a little short and one side seems bigger than the other and after humping it onto his shoulders... “Oh I see, it's one of those umm... err... side fastening things.” he said as he began to fasten the seven or eight big buttons that run down the left front side if his torso.

“Asymmetric, I think is the word you're looking for.” the concierge patronisingly responded.

The jacket fits perfectly, although it's sleeves stop midway down his forearms. Luke double checks that they're not too short and is told that is the style of the porter's uniform. It fits him closely around the shoulders and waist yet feels a little too snug at the hips. The tailored jacket's longer length means he can't easily slip his hands into his pockets without ruching up its hem a good few inches, and its fitted asymmetrical style doesn't look at all stylish (despite it clearly trying to be very stylish). It could be worse though, Luke thought as he considered the poor guys having to work as room attendants at one of the Waldorf hotels.

Then it did get worse. Luke was told that he had to remove his trousers! “Erm... is there some other trousers to wear?” he asked, looking hopefully at the empty cellophane wrapping. “No.” he's told. “Pants then?” he quizzed. “No.” he's told.

“Surely you don't expect me to wear a jacket and no trousers?!“

“It's a tunic.“ the concierge impatiently reminded him.

With great reluctance, Luke shyly and nervously removed his shoes and trousers. The concierge looks him up and down. “Did you miss the instruction that stated that you must be clean shaven for induction?” she sternly said.

“Erm.... I am clean shaven.” he gulped, running his nervous fingers over his smooth hairless chin.

“Not entirely.” she said, glaring at his legs. “We'll have to do something about all that unsightly hair! Take your tunic off!”

Luke soon finds himself in only his underpants, in an adjoining shower room, smearing his legs with a pungent stingy cream. “You may as well do your arms and the backs of your hands too.” the concierge suggested.

“Really?” Luke asked.

“It's not compulsory but we do recommend it.” she replied. “Armpits too.” she added as he reluctantly began to smear the goo over his forearm.

He's left to stand (and sting) for ten minutes before being hosed down. The cold torrent removes the gooey cream and the gooey cream removed his body hair. The torrent also left his underpants soaking wet and he was told to take them off, leaving him feeling 100% naked and 90% hairless.

He's given some underwear which she refers to as 'under-shorts'. They're snug. Very snug and predictably in the very same unusual colour as his tunic, which Luke reluctantly buttons himself into for a second time. He gulped as he looked down at himself. His legs look so very different without any hair. What was once a pair of fuzzy chunky stumps is now a pair of slender, shapely, smooth, shiny legs. They look long, and exposed... entirely, exposed. “I can't believe we're expected to wear just this?!” he exclaimed. “Surely there's some pants or shorts or... god damn it, a pair of tights even!”

“There's only the shoes.” he's told, before being offered them.

“I can't wear those!” he blurted. “They’ve got heels!”

He did wear them. And as he strode down the hall, every uncomfortable, awkward and ungainly step in the unfamiliar footwear was as noisy as it was humiliating. “Where are we going?” he timidly asked as he awkwardly followed.

“To reception.” he's told.

“Reception?!” he gulped. That could be quite busy, he thought, glancing down at his uncomfortably short tunic. Apart from the colour, which he cannot put a name on (it straddles burgundy and purple), the tunic seemed fine until he had to take his trousers off. What felt like a long-line jacket quickly became a dress and a ridiculously short one at that... and having just had all the hair removed from his legs, Luke's sense of exposure is two-fold. A potentially bustling reception area is the last place he wants to be!

“Yes, reception.” she tells him.“Your job as porter is to escort the guests and you'll be escorting them to and from reception.” she bluntly added, punctuating herself with an impatient sigh.

Eventually they approach a double door. It leads to the reception area and opens automatically. Thankfully it doesn't seem busy at all. At the broad hardwood desk, Luke is introduced to the head receptionist. “You're late.” she said.

“He was on time but he hadn't shaved his legs.” is the reason given.

“I didn't think I had to.” Luke glumly added.

“You'll need this.” the receptionist said, placing a small bag on the reception desk and pushing it toward him.

The bag looked worryingly similar to one his grandmother always carried. As a child he found it odd that she carried a bag with neither strap nor handle. It seemed inconvenient. His grandmother, he recalled, called it a clutch bag. “What's this?” Luke asked.

“It's your bag.” he's bluntly told. The receptionist rolled her eyes. “You'll find everything you need inside.”

Luke peered inside the little bag and instantly recognised one of several items. “Lipstick?!” he gulped. “You do know I'm a guy, don't you?” he somewhat sarcastically asked.

“I'm aware of that fact Luke.” the receptionist dryly replied. She slid a badge over the counter which stated his name written in large clear letters:

“Your pass key is contained in your name badge... any doors you're authorised to go through will open as you approach.” he's told. “It must be worn at all times and must be returned at the end of the day. Under no circumstances must this leave the hotel grounds.” she told him.

“Why?”

“Security reasons.” she stated, before stressing that he mustn't forget to hand his badge in at the end of every shift and not doing so is a breach of contract and company policy, and is also deemed as theft of company property.

“Err... OK.” Luke gulped as he attached the badge to his tunic.

“The porter's washroom is through that door... I suggest you go and make yourself presentable and for the sake of your job, I hope you're quick about it!”

“I don't think I want the job any more.”

“You've already signed your contract. Do you really want to breach it at this early stage?”

Knowing how much it can cost to breach an employment contract, Luke has no choice but to abide by its terms. “Isn't there a settling in period... you know, in which I can decide if the job's for me or not?” he asked, having heard something about that. “A week or so I think.”

“Did you request a settling in period at your interview?”

“Er... no.”

“Did you request one when the job was offered to you?”

Luke shook his head. The receptionist asked his concierge if he mentioned anything about a settling in period prior to signing his contract. “Nope.” the concierge confidently replied.

“Well I'm glad we've cleared that up.“ the smug receptionist said. “There isn't a settling in period, and you're already almost an hour late on your first day, so you really need to hurry yourself.” she said.

He glared inside the bag at the familiar shapes of the compact foundation, lipstick and the tiny bottle of nail varnish. Familiar because his mother and sisters were always touching up their make-up. “I don't know what to do with any of this stuff.” he gulped.

“It's just foundation and lipstick... it should be fairly straightforward, even for a boy!” he's bluntly told, before being informed that 'natural' eye make-up is optional and that he'd have to provide his own.

“I'm not buying make-up!” he growled.

“That is up to you Luke. You are however required to wear a minimal amount of make-up, which is provided.” she said, turning her eyes on his little bag.

“This is ridiculous... making men wear make-up.” he proclaimed, glaring down at himself. “...and heels!”

“We demand the same from our ladies.” she replied. “We are after all, an employer that prides ourselves on our equality policy.”

Luke tutted and turned toward the washroom door. We demand the same from our ladies, he thought.  He can't imagine any woman working in such a menial position as a hotel porter! He pushed open the door. His heels clacked loudly on the tiled washroom floor. It's a tiny room with one WC, one hand dryer and one sink with a mirror behind. He faced his reflection and sighed, then cursed himself for being so naive. He knows that some cleaning agencies have feminine uniforms for male staff, although the phrase 'servile uniform' is the favoured term. The worst Luke expected from a portering job was a 1940s Bell Boy uniform. The last thing he expected was a uniform presumably inspired by 1960s air hostesses! Somewhere in the small print of the contracts he'd signed, it would have stated that a minimal amount of make-up is required and that legs must be shaved. He'd quickly skim read the documents rather than giving each and every page a thorough perusal... and now he's paying the price. “I'd have been better off getting a job as a chambermaid.” he grumbled to himself. At least their dresses are knee length, he thought as he dragged his short tunic down as much as he could.

There's a booming knock on the washroom door. “Do you need any help in there?!” the concierge yelled.

“No.” Luke hollered. “Won't be a minute.” he added.

After the UK broke its shackles with Europe, a great many laws and legislations that initially came from Brussels were no longer applicable. The government called it a clean slate, but one of the consequences meant that many worker's rights were quickly eroded, particularly in the low paid menial jobs. Once upon a time, if you didn't like your job you'd walk away from it and that was that. These days, leaving a job without authorisation is classed as a breach of contract which means your employer can sue and you'll end up having to pay them thousands in compensation. Similarly, deviating from the terms of the contract can also result in what they call a salary sacrifice, which is having your pay docked for the whole financial year. It's just not worth it. All you can do is put up and shut up until your contract is due for renewal and only then, can an employee chose not to renew it.

If they say that Luke has to wear a minimal amount of make up, he really doesn't have a choice. He dips into the rectangular bag and removes the contents. Foundation, lipstick, nail varnish, a small manicure set, a pack of tissues, a comb and a vanity mirror. “Well this should be easy enough.” he grumbled to himself as he removed the lid of the compact foundation. He'd seen his mother and sister apply the stuff plenty of times so it's just a case of using the application pad to smear the milky pink powder all over his face.

THUMP THUMP on the door again. “Can't you hurry up?” the concierge yelled. “You were supposed to be at your post twenty minutes ago!”

“Sorry... won't be a minute.” Luke hollered back. He quickly finished applying the foundation before glaring at his reflection. His face looks pale, bland and blank, like an unpainted canvas.  The foundation takes more away than it gives, he figured as he picked up the lipstick. The colour stated on the base is Fuchsia Fandango. He removes the lid and winds up the stick. It's colour is the exact same shade of purplish-burgundy as his tunic, suede loafers and clutch bag. Having also seen his mother and sister apply their lipstick countless times, Luke does what he thinks he should and carefully applied the stark shade to his top and bottom lips, before rolling the two together.

THUMP THUMP. “Thirty seconds!”

“Coming!” Luke hollered. He knows he's not wearing the nail varnish but he doesn't have time. He shoves everything back inside his little rectangular bag, quickly rinsed his fingers and shoved them under the dryer. He has a quick glance at his reflection before exiting the washroom. His face is even, pale and almost featureless... save for his striking lipstick. He takes a deep breath.

The concierge looks Luke up and down as he exited the washroom. “What took you so long?” she barked, tapping on her wristwatch. “Twenty minutes and you haven't even painted your nails!”

“Sorry I was er...” Luke gulped and timidly looked her in the eye.

She stared back, but he knew she wasn't looking at him, but his thin layer of pale foundation and the thick layer of lipstick. “This way.” she said, leading him from the reception area to the large vestibule. She stops and turns and gestures to either side of the foyer entrance. “This as Andrew and this is Martin.” she says. Luke gulps at the sight of two guys dressed in the same short tunics and suede heeled loafers, and wearing the same vivid lipstick as he is. “Martin has kindly stood in for you.” the concierge told Luke. Their name badges clearly state their name. He offered an apologetic frown to Martin, but otherwise remained silent. Their fully exposed legs are hairless and, for want of a better word, nervous. Both stand to attention. Head up. Back straight. One hand is behind their back, the other in front clutching their make-up bags. They stand with one foot in front of the other, toes pointing in different directions, like a dancer or gymnast might. They don't appear very comfortable on their peculiar stance, hence their legs looking nervous. “This way.” the concierge said, leading Luke through a door in the vestibule.

This room is a small waiting room with two rows of plywood chairs facing a small coffee table and very little else. Three of the chairs are occupied. “Boys this is Luke.” she says, before introducing Luke to Paul, Gavin and James. All three wear the same porter's uniform; short fitted tunic, bare legs and suede shoes.

“Hi.” Luke timidly said.

“For reasons beyond anybody's control...” the concierge began, “...Luke's over an hour late on his first day.” she told them, before turning to Luke. “Now you were assigned to door duty from 10am 'til noon because that's an easy place to start.” she said. “But since Martin's covering for you, you'll have to step into his shoes.”

“OK.” Luke said. “What's that?”

“Portering.” she said as if he should have known. “When a guest books in, one of you will be called to escort them and their bags to their room.” she said. “When a guest books out, one of you will be called to escort them and their bags to their car.” she added. “It's not rocket science.” she sneered.

“Erm... how do we know which room it is... or where their car is?” Luke asked.

The concierge rolled her eyes. “Well it's crystal clear why you could only get a servile job isn't it.” she bluntly stated. “You'll be told which room they're in... I only hope you have the brains to find it!” she told him. “The same goes for the car park.” she dryly added.

“Yes... sorry.” Luke muttered, feeling like he'd been reprimanded for asking stupid questions when he was really trying his best to appear interested.

“Show me your nails.” she said. Luke held his hands flat and splayed out his fingers. “Well I've seen worse... at least you're not a biter.” she said, before asking if he'd manicured or painted his nails before. Luke said he hadn't. “Gavin, would you show Luke what to do.” she asked. Gavin was sat with his little bag on his lap. He stood and straightened his tunic. “Good boy.” the concierge said, before checking James and Paul's fingernails, then telling James to reapply his lipstick because it's not 'immaculate'.

“Well you've not got off to a very good start.” Gavin said once the Concierge had left. “Being on the wrong side of her is the last place you want to be.”

“This whole place is the last place I want to be.” Luke gulped. “These uniforms are ridiculous!” he said, once again trying to drag what little he could over his lap.

“Tell us about it... up until a couple of weeks ago we wore trousers, shirts and waistcoats.” Gavin said.

“...and flat shoes?“ Luke presumed.

“No we wore heels.“ Gavin replied. “Patent court shoes.“ he specified. “These loafers are loads better believe it or not.“ he claimed.

“Our tunics certainly aren't.“ James muttered.

Gavin agreed. “They're not so bad so long as you remember to crouch rather than bend when picking stuff up.“ he said.

“Only you could say they're not so bad Gav!“ James spat. “They're ridiculous! The only reason they make us wear them is to ridicule us!“

“The only reason I applied as a porter rather than a room attendant was to avoid having to wear a dress.” Luke glumly revealed.

“Same here.” Gavin said, before gesturing Luke to sit in the seat next but one to him. His tunic felt shorter than ever as he timidly sat. He dragged it as far over his lap as possible, which wasn't very far at all. Gavin laid his bag on his lap. Luke glanced at Paul and James, both of whom had their bags on their lap (presumably for modesty) and Luke did the same. “Have you got a manicure kit?” Gavin asked.

“Err... yeah.” Luke replied, rummaging in his clutch bag and removing the small zipped case. Inside is a little pair of nail clippers, a small metal nail file, a tiny pair of scissors, a small metal tool presumably for scraping gunk from under the nail, and another similar tool which Gavin singled out. It's a cuticle pusher and is used to push and lift the tiny bits of thin skin where the finger meets the nail, which need cutting off. “Seriously?” Luke gulped. “I have to cut them off?”

“You won't feel anything.” Gavin tells him.

“I know but... would anyone notice either way?” Luke quizzed. It's such a tiny bit of skin that's barely worthy of being called skin. Gavin tells him that the concierge will notice and if she doesn't, the receptionists will and reminds him that he's already on the wrong side of the concierge. Luke sighed and began the push back his cuticles, before snipping the thin slithers of skin away.

A call comes over the waiting room's communication system. “James to reception.” It says. James stands with an apathetic grunt. He grabs and pulls the hem of his short tunic as he faces a large mirror, making sure it hangs straight over his hips. He quickly tidies his already tidy hair, tucks his bag under his arm and confidently strode out into the vestibule, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Is that what we do then... just wait in here until we're called?” Luke mournfully asked. Gavin nodded and told Luke to scrape beneath his nails. “Can't you have any magazines or anything?” Luke asked as he scraped under his already clean fingernails.

“No.” Gavin glumly replied. “Then use the clippers to shape them.” he instructed, showing off his own fingernails. They're short. No longer than the tips of his fingers. They're symmetrical too, and perfectly painted in a satin shade that perfectly matched the tunic, clutch bag, lipstick and footwear.

“So you're stuck in here, all day with no TV, no radio and nothing to read.... just waiting for a guest to book in or check out?” Luke glumly asked.

“We're not supposed to chatter either.” Gavin said, handing Luke his nail file. He glanced toward the big mirror. “We can talk... providing it's work related.” he said. “There's usually someone in the reception office so they'll see if we start chattering.”

At that moment, Luke realised that the large mirror is a two way mirror. “Can they hear us too?” Luke asked.

“Only if we shouted.” Gavin replied, before answering a previous question. “We're either in here waiting or on door duty.” he said. “Where you were supposed to be.”

“Yeah.” Luke guiltily said. “I didn't know that clean shaven meant my legs too.” he confessed, before telling of the stingy cream and freezing cold hose that took all but his pubic hair off, although Luke did spare Gavin that detail.

“It happens to us all at some point.” Gavin said. “If we forget to shave and they think we're a bit too stubbly, that's what we get.”

“Blimey.” Luke said. “Do you shave your legs every day then?“

Gavin nodded. Luke looked at his forearms and asked if he shaved those too. “No I get these waxed every month or so... they're not so strict on arms as they are our legs.“ Gavin replied before asking for the nail varnish. “Have you done this before?” he asked. Luke shook his head. “Right... I'll do it for you 'coz you'll only cock it up.”

Luke felt totally, utterly and completely uneasy as Gavin gently held his hand and carefully applied the varnish. Luke made nervous small talk, asking how long it took to dry and supposing that it's easier doing someone else's that one's own nail varnish. “You'll have to learn... I'm not going to do this everyday.” Gavin bluntly stated.

“Yeah I know... sorry.” Luke defensively replied. Gavin reminded him that they're not really supposed to be talking, Luke apologised again, before silencing himself. “Thanks.” he eventually said when all ten nails had been painted. “How long 'til they're dry?” he asked.

“The first hand will be dry already.” Gavin said, “Give that one a couple of minutes.” he advised as he replaced the top of the tiny glass jar and handed it to Luke.

“Fuchsia Fandango.” Luke muttered, reading the label. “Same as our lippy.“ he sighed.

“Yeah.” Gavin grumbled. “The amount of times a guest will go Hey I love your lipstick, what shade is it?” he mimicked a valley girl accent, then mournfully added, “You've no idea how many times you'll end up saying Fuchsia Fandango.”

“I can't believe I'm actually wearing lipstick.” Luke moaned. “I deliberately avoided getting a cleaning job so I wouldn't have to wear a dress or make-up.“

“You'll get used to it.” Gavin replied. “Just make sure you keep checking it.” he advised, before explaining that guys who aren't used to wearing lipstick don't realise just how often they wipe the corner of their mouth, rub their lips or lightly brush against them when scratching their chin or picking their nose, etc. “...we have to be immaculate.” Gavin stated. “So keep checking.”

With that, Luke removed the vanity mirror from his bag and raised to to his lips.

“It's a vile colour.” Luke grumbled as he looked at his reflection in the tiny mirror. “It wouldn't be so bad if was something natural.” he mused, thinking of the lipsticks his mother and sister wear; pale pink, subtle red or a light autumnal brown.

“Well get used to it... it's the only one we're allowed.” Gavin said. “You've applied it well for a first timer.” he added. “Presuming you are.”

“Thanks, and yeah. I am.” Luke bashfully replied. “I just recalled watching my Mum and sister applying theirs and did what they did.” he explained.

“My mother wouldn't let my sister wear lipstick even if she wanted too.” Gavin said. “She thinks make-up is a symbol of subservience, along with the apron, skirt, frock and heels.” he claimed, glancing at his feet.

“These shoes feel like a symbol of subservience.” Luke moaned. “Surely flats would be safer.”

“Well... because women managed for well over a century in high heels... they reckon we can too.” Gavin replied. “Believe it or not... these [heels] have been deemed safe for work by the County Council's Health & Safety Executive.” he sighed.

“I'll bet that's a woman.”

“It's my mother.” Gavin dryly replied. Luke thought he might be joking and didn't quite believe the claim... but women in such lofty positions have to be somebody's mother, he figured. “What does she think about you working here?” Luke asked. “...err... like this?” he added, glancing at his short tunic and pale hairless legs.

“She was over the moon when the Marrion Hotel had finally put their porters in servile uniforms.” Gavin replied. “She's a full on matriarch.” he added. “What's your mother think?”

“Well she doesn't know about the uniform, yet.” Luke replied. “Neither did I until I got here!” he added. He went on to describe his mother as being a bit traditional, in so much as she sometimes wears make-up and the occasional dress, yet so far as the males filling all the servile jobs whether they want to or not, Luke's mother is all for it. “Every time I complain that my life's isn't fair she'll just remind me that women were servile for pretty much all of human history... and that wasn't fair either.”

The door abruptly opened. “Having a nice chitty-chat boys?!” the concierge said as she shut the door behind her. Gavin instantly apologised. Luke's apology came a couple of seconds later. “Stand.” she said. “Nails.” she said. “Good.” she said. “Sit.” she said. Luke sat, dragging his tiny tunic over what little of his lap it could cover (which isn't much). “If you get bored whilst waiting, comb your hair, check your nails, tidy your lipstick, powder your nose, maybe even check your tunic for specks of dust, bits of fluff or the occasional stray hair.” she listed. “We don't want to see you chatting. We need you to be immaculate and if we want to see you doing anything whilst you're waiting, we want to see you making sure that you're nothing less than immaculate.” she stated.

Luke gulped. “Yes.” he peeped. She left. He glanced at Paul then turned his head to Gavin. both were removing their vanity mirrors. Paul tended his hair. Gavin checked his lipstick. Paul began brushing his tunic with his fingers, using the mirror to check around his neckline and shoulders. Luke began brushing his tunic too. He opened his mirror and used it as Paul had. He never expected a job as a hotel porter to be in any way appealing or engaging. He knew it was just carting bags about. But just carting bags about is one thing... doing it wearing nothing but a tiny tunic that leaves him feeling half naked, trotting about in unfamiliar heels and wearing a bright vibrant lipstick with a pasty foundation which might hopefully hide his blushes.... well it's a different thing altogether.

James returned, breathing deeply. He checked his reflection in the big mirror; straightening his hair and brushing his tunic before sitting. “Cheeky bitch grabbed my arse then slapped my thigh really hard!” he grumbled.

“Does that happen a lot?” Luke asked. James replied with a single tut, before turning away and grumbling to himself. Luke pulled the comb from his make-up bag and began pulling it through his hair. He'd had it cut especially a couple of days previously. Short back and sides, the fringe cut broad and straight, just above the eyebrows from ear to ear where a shallow wedge fades into a shorn nape.

Luke sighs as he faffs with his hair. Its style feels completely at odds with the rest of him. Shyly, he glances at the others as he puts the comb away. Gavin sits with his legs crossed. One shoe hangs loosely from his toes. Luke peers over his hairless knees and looks at his own shoes. He cocks a foot to one side to get a better look at the heel on which his feet are perched. It's got to be four inches, he reckons. Maybe a bit less, he muses. At least they're not those really narrow heels, he figures as he tries to get his head around that fact that he's been put in high heeled shoes. The nearest he's worn to these were some smart Jimmy James sandals (the boys' version of the old fashioned Mary Jane style) when he was a kid. They only had an inch high heel and he only wore those on special occasions such as a wedding or anniversary.

Luke recalled the awkward walk from the changing rooms, down the long corridor to the foyer and reception desk. Instinct told him to compensate for the heel by keeping his knees a little bent. “Straighten your legs!” the concierge barked. “You're not a mannequin, walk normally!” she blasted. “Relax the hip, loosen the knee and tighten the ankle.” she advised. He didn't know where to start. Relax the hip? Loosen the knee? What does that even mean? “That's better.” she announced. “Always presume you're being followed. We want to see confident strides and a nice straight leg on the back step.” she said. Again her instructions baffled him, but he did his best. “Good.” she said. “I'm yet to see a boy who hasn't taken to heels within the hour.” she claimed.

As Luke sits in the waiting room, glaring at his vertiginous heels and wondering if there's anything appealing about a pair of suede loafers with their distinctive toe and broad tiny tongue, in the same garish colour as his tunic, nails and lipstick... he sighed the deepest of sighs. How much time will he have to spend stuck in the waiting room with nothing to do but check his lipstick and comb his hair?

At least with a cleaning job they're reportedly run off their feet; hard work but the time flies. And so far as he's aware, cleaners get to wear a frock that's close to knee length or maybe longer, which would be far better than his embarrassingly short tunic. “Luke to reception!” comes the call over the Tannoy.

“Is that me?” Luke blurted as he fell out of his thoughts.

“There's no one else in here called Luke.” James dryly said, barely even looking up.

Luke darted to the reception desk as quickly as he dare, past Martin and Andrew who flanked the foyer door in their statuesque stance. There's no one in the foyer or at reception. Not a soul. The door to the reception office creaked open. “Well you got here quickly enough but you failed.” the head receptionist informed him.

“Failed?! How?”

He's told that before leaving the waiting room, one should face the mirror, straighten their tunic, tend to their hair, check their make-up and ensure they're nothing short of immaculate from head to toe, then they may leave the waiting room. “It's all about first impressions Luke.” the receptionist told him. “You arrived late. Martin has had to cover you on the door, which he's not happy about. You've failed your first test, which I’m not happy about... which means so far as first impressions go, you suck!” she said.

“Sorry.” Luke meekly replied. She sent him back to the waiting room with his proverbial tail between his legs.

Luke glanced at the others as he sat himself down and groaned. They seemed like they couldn't care less... but maybe they're just being quiet because they know they're probably being watched though the two way mirror. After an uncomfortable moment, Gavin chirped up and said, “I would have said something but you darted out so quick I didn't get the chance.”

“Sorry.” Luke frowned. “The concierge hates me, now the receptionist hates me, and Martin probably hates me too...”

“Just remember to check the mirror and make sure you look immaculate... we're the first impressions, and first impressions count.” Gavin replied.

“You really are married to the job aren't you Gavin.” James dryly muttered.

“I'm just trying to help the guy... he doesn't know what they're like!” Gavin retorted.

“You're a kitten to those bitches!”

“Leave it out Jim.” Paul said. “Luke's new.” he stated before gesturing to the mirror and quietly adding. “You know they can lip read.”

“Can they?!” Luke gasped. Paul snorted.This left Luke feeling uncertain as to whether Paul's claim was a joke or not, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by asking a second time.

Time passes before the Tannoy bursts into life again. “Gavin to reception.” He jumps up, faces the mirror and straightens himself before leaving. Luke took note. Gavin returned five minutes later, huffing and puffing. “Those cases weighed a tonne!” he said as he sat. “God knows what they had in 'em.” he added as he sat, laid his bag on his lap, removed his vanity mirror and checked his reflection.

Luke watched as Gavin tended his hair, applied a little powder and reapplied his lipstick, before checking his fingernails. He glanced at the large mirror, felt he was being watched and hung his head. His nervous fingers thumbed the bag on his lap before gently sweeping over his smooth hairless lap. For need of something to do to help the time pass more swiftly, Luke dips into his bag, removes the mirror and checks his reflection. Hair, neat. Skin, pale. Lips, bursting with colour. He brushes his tunic and put the mirror away. That filled all of two minutes. He sighed.

Half an hour passed, maybe longer. The Tannoy crackled and Luke is called to reception. “Finally!” Luke huffed before standing. He faced the mirror, straightened his tunic, briefly tended his hair, decided that his lipstick was fine and then exited the waiting room. The porters flanking the door didn't acknowledge Luke as he passed. The reception area was empty save for the stern receptionist behind the desk. He presumed another test. “The lady in room 327 is checking out.” she tells him.

“Yes.” Luke replied. Then he gulped. “Shall I er...?”

“Shall you what?” the receptionist asked.

“Err...”

“Shall you go to room 327 and escort the lady and her cases back to reception, then escort her to her car?”

“Umm... yes.”

“Yes you shall.” the receptionist impatiently sighed.

“Erm... OK.”

“Well run along boy. We don't keep our guests waiting!”

Luke trotted on his heels through the door that leads to the lifts and the rooms. He knows the room is on the third floor and frantically pushed the elevator button, but nothing seemed to happen. The receptionist appeared. “Porters use the stairs unless they're accompanying our guests.” she told him.

“Sorry... no one told me.”

“Do you need instruction on how to climb the stairs too boy?” she spat.

“No.” Luke gulped before pulling open the door. His heels echoed loudly in the stairwell as he trotted up the steps as quickly as he dare. What have I got myself into? he thinks. And why isn't anyone telling me what to do? he ponders. He feels like he's being set up to fail as he trots up and up, past the first and second floor doors. By the time he's on the third floor, he's panting. He turns left and follows the hallway through an automatic door that opened as he approached. “Room 327.” he repeatedly reminds himself as he passes door after door; 308, 310, 312... he sighed at the end of the hallway, having not found room 327. He walks back, double checking all the door numbers. A room attendant exits one of the rooms pulling a laundry trolley. “Uh, hi... where can I find 327?“ Luke asked the room attendant.

“In the other wing.“ the room attendant replied. He wears a bright bib apron (the same colour as Luke's tunic) over a pale lilac frock. His boyish hair is adorned with a tiny maid's style headband; lilac with fuchsia ruffles rather than traditional white. Luke thanks the boy before briskly retracing his steps back toward the elevators. He glances back at the room attendant. His apron is tied with an ornate bow at the back. It's tails hang almost as far as his knee length frock. It's odd, Luke thinks... the room attendant didn't appear to be wearing any make-up.

Back Luke trots, past the stairs and elevator and though another automatic door. Room 303, 305, 307... and eventually 323, 325 and finally room 327. He faces the door, takes a deep breath and knocks, only to find the door swinging open on his second knock.

“Ough... About time boy! I thought you'd forgotten about me.” a well-to-do lady said.

“Sorry Ma'am... it's my first day.” Luke politely replied.

“Well that's an original excuse if ever I've heard one!” she spat.

Luke gulped. This is one woman he doesn't want to get on the wrong side of. “Are these your cases?” he asked.

“No... they're part of the furniture!” she sarcastically retorted.

Luke grimaced at her overbearing sense of sarcasm and picked the two cases up. “This way Ma'am.” he said, gesturing toward the door.

She rolled her eyes, glanced around the room and walked. Luke sheepishly followed. The stern silence, save for his heels thumping on the carpet, felt heavy and oppressive. “Have you enjoyed your stay?” he asked.

“It's been adequate.” she bluntly replied.

Clearly she had no interest in small talk. Luke followed to the elevators. She glared at him until he worked out that he's supposed to press the button, despite his hands being full. When the doors opened, he stepped inside, put the cases down and once the lady was inside, he pressed the ground floor button. The elevator is mirrored on three sides whilst the door is a highly polished steel. There's no escaping his reflection. He glares at his long smooth legs; pale bare flesh filling the void between his short tunic and high heeled shoes. He gulped at his pale face and vivid lipstick.

He feels like an extra from some cheesy old science fiction show... a swinging sixties vision of the year two-thousand, a year that came and went some thirty years previously. A year when feminism meant equal opportunities, a decade before the matriarchs took office and declared that no longer shall any woman be servile. Slowly but surely, boys and men found themselves becoming increasingly marginalised; shafted into menial jobs with low pay and few rights.

The elevator landed and its doors parted. Luke picked up the cases and escorted the lady to the reception desk. The cases weren't particularly heavy but he put them down momentarily whilst she checked out. “Forty three J.” the receptionist said. “Enjoy your day Madam.”

Luke followed the lady through the foyer towards the vestibule. Martin and Andrew opened the double doors and held them open. “Enjoy your day.” they said in unison, smiling falsely.

The first thing Luke noticed as he exited the vestibule was the fresh air on his bare legs. He gulped and glanced down. They look paler than ever in the sunlight. “Which one's yours?” he asked as his eyes panned and scanned the vast car park.

“Shouldn't you know?” the lady bluntly asked. “Weren't you told?”

Luke bit his lip and tried to recall what the receptionist said. “Forty three J.” he said, wondering where the fuck that was. He found it relatively quickly although the lady was in a bit of a mood after being taken down the wrong lane twice. His heels clacked loudly on the tarmac as he made his way back to the hotel. Martin and Andrew stood ornately in the vestibule. Luke acknowledged them with a nod before pushing the waiting room door open. He glanced at the big mirror. The wind had gotten the better of his hair. He returned to his seat but his clutch bag wasn't where he'd left it. “The concierge has it.” Gavin told him. “And she's not happy.”

“Where is she?”

“You’d best ask the receptionist.”

Sheepishly, Luke approached the reception desk. “Erm... I left my bag in the waiting room and apparently the concierge has it.” he timidly explained.

“I told you to keep it with you.” the receptionist stated.

“Yes but... I can't carry the guests' bags if I've got that to hold too.”

“The other boys manage.” she stated before inviting him behind the reception desk. I say 'invited'. It was more of an order. “The concierge is in the office.” he's told.

Inside the small office is a large window looking into the waiting room where Gavin, Paul and James sit waiting. One wall is filled with a bank of security monitors that cover the vestibule and foyer, bar and restaurant, the corridors, car park, hallways, elevators, stairwells, everywhere but the hotel rooms themselves. The concierge sits sternly in a big leather chair. Luke's velvet bag lays on the desk beside her. “I'm sorry about the bag.” Luke said.

The concierge sat back and clasped her hands. “Is that all you have to be sorry about?” she asked.

“Erm... I don't know.” Luke gulped. “I did get lost in the car park a couple of times.”

“You did.” she said. “Have you any idea how it looks to a guest when one of our porters fails to do the simplest of things?” she asked. “All you had to do was walk to a car and you can't even get that right!”

“Sorry but it was confusing... and no body told me how the car park's laid out.”

“Didn't it cross your mind to ask?”

Luke gulped and hung his head. It might have crossed his mind to ask if he hadn't felt so belittled when he did ask questions. He felt like he was going to be in the wrong no matter what he did. The concierge handed him the bag. “Thank you.” he meekly said.

“You'd best check it... It's not uncommon for one of the others to steal a lipstick or nail varnish given the opportunity.”

“Why would they do that?” Luke asked.

“Because they're expensive and exclusive.” she replied. “You need to keep your purse with you at all times.” she told him, before asking him to check that everything was there.

Purse is another word that was always associated with a small woman's bag. His grandmother kept one inside her clutch bag. She kept her cash and credit cards in it. These days women have wallets. Luke checked the contents of his bag; lipstick, nail varnish, manicure kit, compact, comb, tissues and his vanity mirror.

“Well that's something to be thankful for.” she said. “The last thing you want is 'losing company property' adding to your list of misdemeanours today.”

“Sorry.“ Luke said. “I know I didn't get off to a good start... I didn't realise I had to shave my legs... I thought the uniform was just a jacket and trousers... not a dress!”

“It's a tunic.” she corrected.

“Then I had to learn to apply my make-up.” he added.

“One hardly has to learn to cover their face in foundation Luke, and lipstick is fairly self explanatory don't you think?”

“Yes but...”

“I'm tired of listening to your lame excuses boy.” the concierge interrupted. “It seems that even a simple portering job is too taxing for you. Heaven forbid you ever find a more complex job that involves cleaning or making beds.” she sighed. “I doubt I could trust you empty a bin properly.”

“Sorry.” he gulped. When Luke returned to the waiting room after having a strip well and truly torn off him, he felt more humble than he's ever felt before. He was so looking forward to working as a porter but now he's wallowing in nothing but regret. Even the simple task of escorting that lady from her room to reception, then out to her car he'd managed to get wrong at seemingly every stage.

Luke sat with his clutch bag on his lap and reviewed his wrongdoings. First, he took too long arriving at the correct room. Next time he'll know that odd numbered rooms are in the north wing and even numbers are in the west. Knocking on the door is a big no-no since the guest is alerted of a porters approach. He should have waited, silently facing the door until it opened. Then, he bent down to grab her cases when he should have crouched, making sure his knees and ankles were together. Fortunately he was facing the guest. Had he had his back to her, she might have seen his under-shorts and underwear is the last thing a guest wants to see. Being a subordinate means he mustn't make small talk with the guests. His role as porter is to 'lead' the guests, not follow them, and similarly, his role of porter is to carry their bags. The concierge had showed Luke the CCTV footage of him escorting the guest. She reprimanded him for putting a bag down when he pressed the elevator button. Again when he put the bags down inside the elevator, and once more when he put the bags down at reception whilst the guest checked out. Apparently, guests' bags must not touch the floor between their room and their transport, but nobody told him that. No one told him anything.

His final mistakes were getting lost in the car park and failing to keep his purse on his person. The best thing that could have happened would be him getting the sack but that's not going to happen. What did happen was twenty percent of his salary has been sacrificed until such time he can prove himself competent and capable.

“It's the same for all of us.“ Gavin told him. “We're only told how to do something right after we've done it wrong, then they can say we're incompetent and sacrifice part of our salary.“ he explained.

James claimed it was nothing more than a cost cutting exorcise. “They wouldn't dare try it with any of the female staff.“ he said. “Just us guys... porters, room attendants, janitors.“

“I saw one of the room attendants.“ Luke said. “He wasn't wearing any make-up.“

“They don't.“ Gavin said. “It's just us 'cause we're front of house.... first impressions and all that.“ he shrugged.

Luke also learned that the room attendants don't have to shave their legs either because they all wear stockings, and their heels are half the height of the porters'. “Blimey... I wish I'd applied for that job instead.“ Luke sighed.

Luke waited almost two hours before he was called to reception again. This time he felt he got everything right; leading the guest, finding the room, crouching down rather than bending over, not putting the cases on the floor, not making small talk... when he returned to reception he expected some feedback, but got none. He was sternly told by the receptionist to stop loitering and return to the waiting room.

~o0o~

At the end of a very long day that stretched from 9am until 7pm, in which he escorted no more than seven or eight guests to or from their rooms, and spent two hours flanking the door with James... Luke finally arrived home. “How did it go love?!” his mother hollered when she heard him return. Luke didn't reply. “Oh.” she gasped when she saw him. Luke has never felt such a deep sense of embarrassment as he did when he faced his mother. “Is that the uniform?” she asked. Luke gulped and nodded. “No trousers?” she asked. Luke shook his head. “I thought you said it was a jacket and trousers.”

“That's what I thought too.” he gulped. “Until I put my tunic on and they told me to take my trousers off.” his sighed. “It's been awful Mum... no one told me what to do and I got everything wrong.” he grumbled. “The concierge hates, me, the receptionist hates me. I was late getting to my post and some other guy had to stand in for me...”

“You were late? How were you late? You set off in good time.” his mother said.

“Yeah but I didn't know that clean shaven meant I had to shave my legs as well as my chin.” he sighed, explaining that he got there in good time but then lost a good half an hour having to remove his body hair. “Then I had to put on make-up, which I’ve never done before...”

“You look very blank.” she told him. “Apart from those lips.” she said, before asking if they supplied the cosmetics. Luke nodded and drew her attention to his bag. “Oh I didn't notice your purse.” she said. Being the exact same colour of his tunic, it didn't stand out. “You've painted your nails too.” she noticed.

“Yeah.” he gulped. “I thought porters were normal... if I'd known I’d be feminised I wouldn't have applied.”

“Ahem!” his mother said. “Feminised?!” she quizzed.

“Sorry... I mean...”

“I think the word you're looking for is 'subordinated'.” his mother said. “I see they've put you in heels.” she noted as she looked him up and down.

Luke nodded. “They made me walk all the way home in them too.” he grumbled. “When I went back to the changing rooms only my keys and debit card were in my locker.” he said. “No shirt, no trousers, no shoes or socks! ...and do you know what they said?” he asked. “They've sent them home by courier!”

“I wondered what the parcel was.” his mother said. “I thought you'd bought something without my permission.”

“It's here already?!” Luke quizzed. His mother showed him the unopened parcel. The box bore a courier's sticker that boasted same day fast track guaranteed. “That's gonna cost a fortune.” he grimaced. “They said the courier costs will be docked from my first pay packet.” he sighed. “And I've already had twenty percent of it sacrificed because they reckon I'm incompetent.”

“How can you be incompetent? All you have to do is carry cases.” his mother asked. “I know you're just a boy but you're not completely dim.” she said.

“Thanks.” Luke dryly replied. “I'd best get changed. This needs laundering and ironing ready for tomorrow.” he said.

“Oh leave it on for bit.” his mother suggested. “I'm not used to seeing you in servile clothes. They suit you.” she smiled. “Why don't you go and show your sister.” she said.

“Oh Mu-um do I have to?” Luke groaned.

“Be a good boy and do as you're told Luke.” his mother said.

Sheepishly, Luke climbed the stairs and his mother watched him take every step. His feet are perched on four inch heels that appear to give him little trouble. His long pale hairless legs appeal her eyes. The short smart fitted tunic suggests a prestigious employer and as he disappears from view, Luke's mother feels nothing but pride.

Luke took a breath before knocking on his sister's bedroom door. “Who's that?” she called.

“It's me... Luke.” he timidly replied.

“What do you want?”

“Mum told me to show you my er... uniform.” he said through the door. It opened. He gulped.

“Wow look at you!” his sister exclaimed. “And your lips!” she exclaimed. “What colour is that?” she asked.

“Er... Fuchsia Fandango.” Luke awkwardly answered.

“It's very vivid!” she said. “Don't you think a little eye make-up wouldn't go amiss?”

“I haven't got any.” Luke replied. “They only provide foundation and lipstick.” he informed her.

His sister lowered her eyes. She appeared to be studying his tunic; every stitch and dart, every button, down, down to its embarrassingly short hem. “Can I feel your legs?” she asked.

“No!” Luke said, but she ran her fingers over his hairless thigh anyway.

“Did you shave them?” she asked. “They're really smooth.”

“It was some cream.” he replied, before moaning about how much it stank and stung.

“Turn around.” she said. Luke sighed and turned. She commented on his footwear. “How are you finding those to walk in?” she asked.

“OK.” he replied. “They were a bit tricky at first but I soon got used to them.”

“Boys do get used to heels quite quickly.” she said. “Apparently it's because they're naturally more suited to servile attire.”

“Nothing about this feels natural.” Luke grumbled. His heels are unnaturally high. The tunic feels unusually short. His exposed hairless legs feel unfamiliar and although he can't see his face, he can feel the foundation clinging to his skin and the slightly tacky paint that coats his lips. “I've never felt so unlike myself.“ he moaned.

“That's because Mum's too lenient.” his sister claimed. “I think all subordinates should wear servile clothing.” she stated. “If I have a boy he'll be in heels as soon as he can walk.”

“You can't put a two year old in heels!” Luke blurted.

“They used to put little girls in heels so there's no reason why little boys shouldn't be.” she replied.

Every time someone says you can't do that to a boy, the stock retort is they used to make girls do it, and that's all the justification needed. “Not all the time though.” Luke claimed. “They'd have only worn heels for special occasions.”

“Were you there?” his sister smugly asked.

“No but...”

“So you don't know then do you?” she spat. “Women spent centuries in heels and corsets, kowtowing to their so-called masters, preening and prettifying themselves, living on their knees, begging for basic human rights...”

“Yeah, spare me the history lesson.” Luke mumbled. He felt a hand strike his face. “Ow!” he whined as his palm reached his smarting cheek.

“Don't talk to me like that boy!” his sister spat. “Who do you think you are?!”

“Sorry... but I've heard it all before.” Luke said. “I know women had it bad but we have it bad too.” he told his sister.

“You don't have it bad at all.” she said. “Boys get all the easy jobs and women have to work for years to get their career.”

“Doing the chores isn't easy... and I've just had a really hard day at work!”

“Well I'm not surprised that you think the housework is too taxing... you are just a boy after all.” she said. “But ask yourself this before you think a task is hard... how many years of study do you need to do before you can do it?” she asked him. This was another thing that was often trotted out to stop the boys moaning about their menial labours.

“They teach domestic science in school.” Luke replied in his defence. “If it was as easy as you make out they wouldn't have to.”

“Only because boys are hard of thinking.” she retorted. “They don't teach it at university do they?”

Luke couldn't be bothered arguing with his sister. But she's right. They don't teach domestic science at university, or college for that matter, and these days, the only chance a boy has of getting into a college or university is if he's cleaning it.

“Was there anything else?” his sister asked. “Or were you just disturbing me to show me how smart you look.” she asked, looking him up and down.

“Err.. yeah.” Luke glumly replied.

“Well you may as well take my laundry down whilst you're here.” she said, opening her bedroom door fully so her brother could enter.

“Don't you have a hamper?” he asked, seeing laundry all over the floor.

“I do but Dad hasn't been putting it in the hamper.” she said.

“It's not exactly hard.” Luke said as he grabbed her empty hamper and began tossing her discarded clothing into it.

“I never said it was hard, I said it was Dad's job.” she sneered. “It's Mum's fault really. She's far too lenient on him.” she claimed.

“Oh you're a good boy Luke.” his mother said as he returned downstairs carrying his sister's laundry. “Did she like your uniform?”

“Erm... I think so.” Luke replied, but couldn't recall her actually saying so. “She said I needed some eye make-up.“

“I was thinking much the same thing.“ his mother replied. “Didn't they give you any?“

“Just lipstick and foundation... they said eye make-up was optional.“ Luke replied. “Good job really because I wouldn't have a clue how to put it on.“

“Well when you get paid you'll have to buy some, then either me or your sister will show you what to do.“

“I doubt she'll show me.“ Luke replied. “She slapped me across the face before!”

“I thought I heard something... what did you do to deserve that?” his mother asked.

“Nothing.” Luke claimed. “She just started lecturing me and all I said was 'spare me the history lesson'.”

“Well you shouldn't speak to people like that Luke.” his mother advised. By 'people' she means 'women' and whenever a woman strikes or otherwise reprimands a male it's always the male who's in the wrong. “Make sure you apologise to her.” his mother advised.

“Why is it me who should apologise?” Luke defensively whined. “She hit me?”

“Because you were talking down to her.”

“She's twelve!”

“And you're sixteen so you should know better.” his mother reminded him.

Luke sighed. “I'll take these to Dad.” he said, before heading through the kitchen to the utility room. “Hi Dad.”

“Hello son... I didn't know you were back. How did it go?” Luke's father enthused.

“I hated every minute of it.” Luke replied as he put his sister's laundry hamper on the side. “From the moment they made me wear this to the moment I got home.” he said.

“They're making porters dress like women now I see.” his father observed.

“Don't let Mum hear you say that.” Luke said, forcing a smile through his frown. He described how no one told him how to do anything but constantly berated him for doing things wrong. He recounted just how tiresomely boring it was, being stuck in the porters' waiting room all day long, waiting for a guest to book in or check out. “We're not allowed to read, there's no TV or radio... we're not supposed to talk so there's nothing to do but tidy our hair, touch up our make up or manicure our nails!” Luke whined before swiftly moving on to door duty. Luke demonstrated how they had to stand; with their feet like this and their hands like that... for two whole hours and the only break they got from their unsteady stance was when they had to open the door for someone. “What a waste of time... all the other doors are automatic apart from those from the vestibule to the foyer.” Luke grumbled.

“Well a job's a job son.” his dad replied. “Unfortunately these days there's no such thing as a good job... not if you're boy anyway.”

“Yeah.” Luke glumly agreed. “I'm beginning to think I should have gone for a cleaning job instead.” he said, describing the room attendant's knee length frock. “They don't have to shave their legs or wear make-up!“ he whined.

“Plenty of them do these days son.“ his dad replied.

“Not at the Marrion they don't.“ Luke said as he looked down at his long hairless legs and stupidly short hemline. “I feel half dressed in this.“

“You are showing an awful lot of leg.” his dad said. “How are you finding those heels?”

“Fine.” Luke honestly replied. “Awkward at first.” he added. “But it is humiliating being perched on high heels, and having to walk all the way home in them! Can you believe that they couriered my own clothes home so I had no choice but to wear this?“ Luke exclaimed. His dad frowned and nodded. “I have to wear it to and from work every day and all I'm allowed is an umbrella if it's raining... no overcoat!“

“A lot of employers won't let their staff cover or conceal the uniform these days.“ his dad said.

“I take by staff you mean us males?“ Luke knowingly asked.

His dad nodded. “Thankfully your mother's spared me the indignity of servile clothing.” he said.

“Doesn't your tabard count?” Luke asked.

“Not really.” his dad replied, glancing down at the domestic garment he wears over his casual clothing (slacks and a shirt). Luke told of his father what his sister had said, about Mum being too lenient. “Oh she's always saying that.” his father replied in a jovial yet edgy tone. “She's going to be one formidable woman when she grows up.” he added. “Think yourself lucky she's only your sister... imagine being her being your wife!”

Luke chuckled. “True.” he said, recalling how she didn't hesitate when reprimanding him with a slap across the face.

“Does that need washing and ironing for tomorrow?” his dad asked, nodding at Luke's tunic.

“Err... yeah.”

“Take it off then.” his father said.

“Have I got any clean laundry down here?” Luke asked. His dad handed him a small bundle, claiming he meant to put it away earlier but hasn't found the time. “That's OK.” Luke said as he found some underwear, some pants and a top to wear. He gave his tunic and the matching under-shorts to his father who perused the laundry tags. Luke pulled on a pair of pants. “Feels weird wearing pants with no leg hair.” he commented.

“Well enjoy 'em while you can son.” his father said. “The way things are going you won't be allowed pants for much longer.”

“Who decided that women's clothes were servile?“ Luke grumbled.

“The same people that decided that men should be subjugated.“ his dad said, before quietly adding “Women!“

Luke left his dad to his housework and returned to the lounge.

“You've changed.” Luke's mother said when he returned from the utility room.

“Dad's washing my uniform.” Luke replied.

“Well he could have done that later... I wanted to get used to seeing you in servile attire.”

“You've got plenty of time for that Mum.” Luke replied. “I signed an eighteen month contract this morning.”

“Don't sound so glum about it... the Marrion Hotel's an excellent place to work.” she told him.

“I'm not so sure... I can't do right for doing wrong and I've already lost 20% of my rate.” he replied. “My wages will barely cover my board now.”

“Only because you failed to apply yourself. You just have to try harder.”

“I tried my best.” he claimed.

“Well it clearly wasn't good enough Luke. I know you're only a boy but even you're capable of carrying luggage for a living.” his mother told him.

“Yeah.” Luke sighed. It was always the same whenever he had something to grumble about. The rules are never wrong, it's just him who fails to follow them. The women are never harsh, it's his fault for getting on the wrong side of them. Nothing's ever unfair, it's just how things are these days. He's only a boy and as such is always in the wrong. He should try harder... and no one expects his best to be very good since he's just a boy after all, but that's no excuse because boys only have to do the easy jobs. No one's asking them to have a career! Who'd be a boy in this day and age?