Hostess with the Mostest Ch. 01

Author's note: This ten-part story stands on its own but introduces characters from my previous story 'Transvixen'. It is not imperative to read Transvixen first but it will provide better context for those who like continuity. There is plenty of sex for those who like sticky fingers but also a decent plot and character development in my humble opinion. I will post the installments a few days apart so there is no need to wait too long between chapters as I know this frustrates some readers. Please enjoy and tell me what you think by either leaving a comment or sending me message; I reply to all messages, with candid pics of me if you ask. Anyway enjoy...

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Chapter One - It's Just Not Fair!

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Christopher Nyland threw the letter on the desk.

"It's just not fair!" he lamented.

The piece of paper he has tossed on the desk was a letter of rejection from Goldwing Airways to whom he had applied for job as a flight steward.

The letter joined five other letters of rejection from the other major airlines.

Chris wanted to be an airline steward more than anything else in the world. He was currently employed as a head waiter at one of London's leading restaurants 'Bocca di Lupo'. He had worked there for five years, starting in service at seventeen years old, working his way to the top.

People thought that being in service was an unskilled trade but that was not the case. Chris had understudied some of the best people in the service industry and was a master at place settings and table decor, an expert in describing every dish on the menu and which wine to pair with which dish. He knew how to greet very important people, seat them, make them comfortable, and take care of their every desire whilst remaining discreet and tactful. It was an art. He had also undertaken several external studies to improve his knowledge.

But what he really wanted was to be an airline steward.

Born in the 1953 to parents who were affluent professionals, he had flown with them countless times as he grew up. In the sixties flying was for the middle and upper classes. People dressed for the occasion and air travel was considered something special.

His parents normally flew First Class where there was usually one male head steward or Chief Purser as they were known then, the name steward being adapted from the maritime industry. Of course now they are called flight attendants or cabin crew.

Chris loved the romance of flying and he envied the elegant men dressed in three-piece suits who directed the rest of the cabin staff and only waited on the most important VIPs.

His parents joked with him that such a job was beneath him and that he should study hard and if anything, become a pilot and sit at the front of the plane not become a 'flying waiter'. Wanting to be an airline steward was for girls they joshed him.

But Chris was adamant that he wanted to be an airline steward and had taken a job in a very respectable restaurant in order to prepare himself and hopefully make himself competitive.

But there were so many obstacles. He scoured in-flight magazines and job sites looking for announcements from the airlines advertising positions for stewards. When he found them they usually read something like this:

'Ladies; if are you a good conversationalist no younger than 20 no older than 27, no shorter than five feet two and no taller than five feet nine, slender, well proportioned, no more than 10 stone and unmarried, we have an exciting job for you. A job that involves travel, glamour, and responsibility. A career to see you through to your mid thirties. Goldwing Airlines is accepting applications for flight stewardesses now. Apply in writing and attach your CV. Males may be considered for some positions.'

In the nineteen seventies only ten percent of stewards were male. And he had it on good authority they were mostly gay males. It was almost impossible to get a job as a male steward. Only five out every one hundred applicants were accepted for training as a flight steward and as ninety percent of the accepted applicants were female the odds were definitely not in his favour.

Chris decided to go down the pub and drown his sorrows with a few pints with his friends from the restaurant.

Of course he began to lament about his latest rejection and they had all heard the same story before and were a bit fazed by it.

"I'll never make it as a flight steward!" he whined after his third pint.

"Well maybe you should just dress in drag and apply as a stewardess," one of his friends joked.

And that was how this story started.

Chris tossed and turned that night. He felt bereft. He had tried his best. He had not only lodged applications to the airlines he had pestered them on the phone and written numerous letters to them espousing his virtues as a professional service provider. He had included many references and recommendations but the stock answer had been:

'Sorry sir, all our positions for male flight stewards are filled and we are only accepting applications from potential hostesses.'

He arose early. His little flat was warm, at least the heating worked well, and he padded around naked making himself tea and toast. He sat at his little desk and flicked through his collection of in-flight magazines.

There were very few pictures of male stewards and those he had clipped out were of distinguished looking men in suits, some wearing aprons, serving satisfied looking genteel types in the first class cabin. Most of the pictures of cabin staff were of long-legged, short-skirted, slim, attractive young women leaning over seated male customers serving meals or drinks.

The pictures were deliberately aimed at the male dominated passenger market.

America's National Airlines had their ad: 'I'm Cheryl - Fly Me' on posters near every airport and in every travel agency and he had read the book 'Coffee Tea or Me?'

It was so unfair that the market was so sexist. The seventies was a decade where the glass ceiling remained firmly in place and it was ironic that males were disadvantaged in this one industry.

Chris had a full-length mirror that he used to make sure that every aspect of his dress and bearing were correct before he ventured out to work. He stood naked in front of it and looked at himself.

At five feet six inches he was not a tall man. He was very slender with a tiny waist. He had not excelled at sports at school but could have been a competition ballroom dancer, he was lithe and graceful on the dancefloor, but he didn't have the height. He was shorter than some of his dance partners. His alabaster skin was smooth and unblemished, and except for a little tuft of pubic hair and a few strands under his arms, his body was hairless.

Chris had shoulder-length light-brown hair which he wore long and straight but was expertly cut. It was the fashion for men to have long hair, but his industry had no time for scruffs and he was always elegantly coiffured. The female staff at Bocca di Lupo joked that he spent more money caring for his hair than they did. He wore a simple gold sleeper in each earlobe, very avant-garde.

He jokingly tucked his scrotum and penis between his legs. He struck a coquettish pose standing on tiptoe and turned one knee inwards, he put one hand behind his neck and crooked the other arm so that his hand rested on his waist. He lifted his chin and turned his face side on. His handsome face was androgynous with well defined cheekbones and full lips.

"I'm Christopher - fly me," he said jokingly to the sparse empty flat.

"No; that's not right is it?"

"I'm Candace - fly me!"

He laughed at his own joke. Then he stopped laughing.

He struck a series of poses, adjusting the posture of his slim supple body to mimic those of the stances of the fashion models he had seen in magazines.

"Jesus!" he whispered.

"No I couldn't...could I?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Don't be stupid!" he berated himself.

But his brain was ticking over. He was twenty two and if he didn't break into the world of flight stewards soon it would be too late. He would be too old.

"Forget it!" he admonished himself and went to the bathroom to prepare for a busy day.

At Bocca di Lupo Chris found it hard to concentrate and the Maitre D' scolded him.

"Christopher! What is wrong with you today? It's like you are not here!"

During his allotted break between the lunch and dinner service he did what he usually did, he strolled past the downtown travel centre. A full sized cardboard cutout of an airline hostess in her smart sexy uniform proclaiming 'Fly me to New York' took pride of place in the window.

"Fuck! What chance have I got competing against that!" Christopher cursed under his breath.

He moved past the travel centre, today he found it depressing, and looked into the other store windows not really concentrating on what he was looking at until his attention was drawn to a mannequin on display in an Op Shop window. The mannequin was dressed in a sixties era airline hostess uniform.

It consisted of a dark blue skirt and a jacket with silver buttons. There was a silver winged badge on the left breast.

Chris stared at the uniform for what seemed like ages. It wasn't the double-breasted, three-piece suit that he wanted to wear as a male flight steward but he had to admit it looked smart.

"Don't be stupid!" he uttered to himself and went back to work.

But he couldn't help thinking of the possibility. The absolutely ridiculous possibility. The absolutely outrageous possibility that he could pass as an airline hostess. In the early hours of the morning after his shift, and after most of a bottle of scotch he made a decision.

"Fuck it! I'll apply for a stewardess position and if I get it I'll prove to them that their discriminatory policy is bollocks! That I'm just as capable as any woman at being a flight steward," he said, downing his last drink.

The next day was his rostered day off and while he was still a little intoxicated, which gave him fortitude, he went down to the Op Shop arriving as soon as it opened. He figured there would be very few, if any, customers that time of day.

The shop smelled of mothballs and was poorly lit. There were racks and racks of cheap second hand clothing on hangers divided into men's, ladies, boys and girls sections.

There was one portly but attractive middle-aged lady behind the counter folding clothes. She eyed her solitary customer suspiciously, or so Chris thought, as he made his way through the ladies section to the window where the mannequin stood in the window. He waited until there was no passing traffic outside and spun the price tag around.

"Five quid. Not bad," he mused.

He got a closer look at the uniform and he could see it was well worn but clean. No stains that he could see. All the buttons were there.

"But will it fit me?" he whispered to himself, lost in thought.

"Well why don't we find out," the shop assistant whispered back.

Chris jumped in the air he was so startled. He hadn't noticed the lady creep up on him.

"It's ok. We get your type in here all the time. Crossdressers are some of our best customers," she smiled at him.

Chris was about to profoundly claim innocence of being any sort of crossdresser; he was no such thing!

But then wasn't that exactly what he intended to do?

The lady seemed nice enough; she was smiling sweetly at him so why not take up her offer?

"Well I'm a little nervous, this is my first time," he stammered.

"Oh yes I'm sure it is," the lady replied sceptically.

"Anyway I'm Doris and I'm here to help you dear."

"I'll go and close the shop so that no one comes in and you can try it on in the fitting room. I don't get many customers this time of day anyway and none that are willing to part with five pounds," she tottered off to the entrance and closed and locked the door.

She flipped the open/closed sign to closed.

"You go over to the fitting room and strip down to your skimpies and I'll pass you the uniform ok?"

Chris was about to object. He was uncomfortable getting down to his underwear with only this lady in the store but he realised he was being stupid. How lucky was he to find a lady like this who had no objection to helping him try on ladies clothing?

The 'fitting room' was just a hardboard cubicle with a ratty curtain across it but it would do. What else did you expect to find in an Op Shop?

He took off his shoes and his flared jeans and his bodyshirt. He didn't wear a vest under his bodyshirt, nobody did; bodyshirts were designed to be worn next to the skin. He hung his clothes from the single hook provided.

The lady passed the skirt and tunic through the curtain and Chris took them from her. This was so strange it was surreal. He hung the jacket on the hook with his pants and shirt and stepped into the skirt.

It felt weird pulling it on but it was lined with some sort of silky material that felt nice and cool against his skin. He buttoned the waist and did up the zip on the side. It sat very snug, low on his hips and the hem rested just above his knees. It felt like it might be too small for him. Anyway he pulled on the jacket which was also lined with the satiny material and after figuring it out that it buttoned on the opposite side to what he was used to, he buttoned it up. It too was snug.

"Well lets see then," Doris was just outside the curtain.

"It's ok missus; I think it's too small for me," Chris blushed.

"Bollocks! I can size anyone just by looking at them and that should fit you to a tee," Doris swished the curtain open and Chris flushed a deep red.

"Well there's your problem right there," she said and stepped forward and hitched up the waistband of the skirt so that it sat on Chris's waist instead of his hips.

Doris adjusted the hem and straightened it, then rearranged the tunic. She fussed around him for few seconds tugging and pulling on the garments.

"There! How's that?" she beamed.

Chris looked in the spotted mirror at the back of the cubicle. The uniform did fit him. Perfectly.

"Ahem. The skirt's a bit short," he looked down at his lily-white legs still clad in his purple socks.

"That's how they wear them sweetie. Those hosties like showing a bit of leg," she teased.

"Put on a nice pair of sheer tights, pantyhose the Yanks call them, a nice pair of heels and you'll be a knockout," Doris grinned.

"What about a blouse?" she asked.

Chris was still mesmerised; looking at himself in the mirror.

"You'll need a blouse to go under the jacket. Hang on a bit I've got just the thing," Doris seemed to enjoy dressing Chris up.

Chris just stood there bemused and let her take charge.

She came back with a cream satin blouse and helped him out of the jacket and into the blouse which befuddled Chris with the backwards way of buttoning so he left it to Doris to button him up. She showed him how to unbutton the waist of the skirt and unzip it so he could tuck the blouse in then she zipped up the skirt again.

"Here; I'll show you a trick you can use," she beamed at him.

Doris shot her hands under the skirt, grabbed the tail and the front of the blouse and pulled them down. It happened so fast that Chris didn't have a chance to become embarrassed or say anything.

Anyway it worked. The blouse was nice and snug except for the chest area.

"When you put your falsies in your bra that'll fill it out and it'll look great," she smiled.

Now Chris really was bewildered.

"What?"

"Your false tits dear! Surely you have a pair don't you?" Doris smirked knowingly at him.

Chris decided not to answer.

"Anyway, a nice B cup will suit you. Most of your type go double Ds and try to look like Jayne Mansfield for some reason; but a nice B would suit you," Doris said.

Chris had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"We don't sell underwear dear. Not allowed to. Try Debenhams on the High Street, they have nice stuff and they're cheap," Doris sniffed.

"I'm betting you have some lingerie already but if you need to buy some I'd say you're a size thirty four bra and size ten knickers," She quipped.

'Knickers and bras! I hadn't even thought about underwear,' Chris postulated.

"I can give you the blouse for a quid and I think that's you done," Doris was obviously ready to reopen.

Chris took one last look at himself. The clothes fitted him nicely but he still looked like a bloke in a dress.

"Shit! Shoes!" Chris looked down at his feet.

"No profanity please. What size are you luv?" she asked.

"I'm an eight in a man's," he replied.

"Let me go and look. Sit on the stool there so no one can see you though the window," Doris directed him and came back in less than a minute with three pairs of ladies shoes.

They were all black high-heels and after she took off his socks she managed to fit him into a size ten at the second attempt. Chris stood up and promptly fell flat on his arse.

Doris laughed and her whole body shook.

"Need a bit of practice dear?" she helped him up.

With her assistance Chris was able to walk down one aisle and back and by then he'd had enough.

Doris put his purchases into two large plain brown paper shopping bags.

"Five quid for the uniform, a quid for the blouse and a quid for the shoes, that's seven quid," Doris held out her hand for the money.

Doris rung up Chris's purchases on an old clunky till and then saw him to the door.

"Come again any time love. We love your sort here, you always spend big," she laughed and showed him outside.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Chris said to himself as he made his way home.

When he got home he laid out his purchases on the bed and looked at them.

"Fuck it! Nothing ventured nothing gained," he sighed.

Chris set his resolve and went back out and caught a bus across the city until he found a Debenhams that was no where near where he lived or worked. He did not want to be seen by anyone he knew making his next purchases.

"Right! This shouldn't be too hard. Just remember you're buying them for your girlfriend," Chris reassured himself and went straight to the lingerie section.

There were rows and rows of panties and brassieres, all different sizes, colours and fabrics. Luckily they were grouped together by make and design and he'd already decided on basic black. He didn't know anything about women's fashion but it made sense to him that black would work with the dark blue uniform.

He mooched around, luckily undisturbed by pesky shop assistants, and found a pair of full cut satin panties on a small hanger with a 10 in a coloured circle which obviously indicated the size. Above the rows of panties hung the matching bras and after a bit of fiddling around, the sizes seemed mixed up, he located a couple of size 34s and remembered Doris' advice and found a B cup.

Chris dropped them in the shopping basket he was carrying and placed a newspaper he had bought earlier over them. He didn't want anyone seeing his purchases.

The next aisle over was hosiery and if he thought the lingerie section was boggling this looked worse. But it turned out easier than it looked. He picked up a package of pantyhose and examined it and found there was a convenient size chart on the back.

Being five foot six and of slender build he needed a size small. He saw a rack of Pretty Polly tights, although he preferred the word pantyhose, tights to him were the thick woollen leggings women wore in winter. He was a leg man and loved the sight of a well turned ankle or shapely thigh clad in sheer hosiery.

He selected one pair of black and one pair of nutmeg brown ten-denier Pretty Polly tights and put them in his basket.

"Right! That was easier than I thought. Let's see how we go now," he was feeling confident.

Until he came to cosmetics section which was a series of brightly lit counters behind which were pretty young women only too willing to help.