Chapter 4

I found a job at a local tyre fitting shop, but that became untenable a few months later when the huge, beer-gutted foreman started calling me Amanda. Only he and I worked in the workshop, and although the reception area had a manager and receptionist, they were isolated from the work area. It started with Roger calling me names like faggot and queer boy, etc. However, it quickly degenerated when Roger realised I wouldn’t fight back. That wasn’t too bad because I’d received the same kind of abuse my entire life, and I was used to it.

The next escalation was because I preferred to wear women’s hip-hugger jeans and tight-fitting Hivis polos to work. Men’s jeans will not stay on my slender hips. Plus, I had mauve safety boots. I’d seen the ad saying that Steel Blue would donate ten dollars for every pair of pink, blue, or mauve boots bought to a worthy charity. I thought that sounded fair, so I purchased a mauve pair. I didn’t want blue and couldn’t risk pink.

I felt, more than saw, Roger admiring my ass every time I bent over. He even stood close behind me to see if he could spot what type of underwear I wore when my jeans’ waist gaped. I had boxers on, but that didn’t prevent him from asking, “So, are you a boy or a girl? I thought you were a boy when you started, but now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” I asked politely, hoping he’d let it go.

“Well, your jeans and polo are pretty girly. You have soft hair like a girl. Your boots are girl boots, and you have a better ass than the receptionist. I think I’ll start calling you Amanda.”

I laughed it off, but because I didn’t deny it or fight back, Roger’s harassment increased. He went from trying to peer down my jeans to ‘accidentally’ bumping his crotch into my ass whenever I was bent over something. Worse was that he was often erect when he bumped me.

One day, Roger went too far. I was squatted down, tightening lug nuts, when Roger knelt behind me. His greasy paws grabbed my nipples through my polo, and he shoved his rampantly erect cock against my ass. “Hmm, baby,” he cooed. “You look so sexy squatting down like that. Let me take your jeans off and have some of that tight ass of yours.”

My mind exploded in white-hot anger. Unknowing what I was doing, I picked up a tyre iron and clubbed Roger to the ground. “I’m not a fucking fag!” I screamed as I struck him again. “If you want some poofter to take your tiny cock in his ass, I suggest you fuck off to The Beat in the valley!”

I hit him again, hearing his arm break. That shocking sound brought me back from wherever my rage had taken me. Shuddering, I stepped back and turned. Brent Snow, the manager, stared at me warily, wondering if I’d go him next.

When I just stood there breathing heavily, Brent said, “You’re fired. Best you leave right now, although I expect you’ll receive a visit from the police sometime soon.”

Nodding, I dropped the tyre iron and walked from the workshop. The police didn’t turn up at my place, although every time a car went past, I fearfully looked out the window to see if it was them. Brent called that evening to say that Roger wasn’t pressing charges because he was embarrassed that he was beaten up by what he described as ‘an effeminate, cock sucking fag boy’.

I held many low-paying, menial jobs after that. Always being singled out as being effeminate or gay and subjected to verbal and, sometimes worse, abuse. When the abuse got too bad, I’d leave without handing in my notice.

Then came the final straw: Mum got sick, and she died shockingly quickly. I came home from work one day and found her passed out on the lounge. She wouldn’t wake, no matter how loud I yelled or how hard I shook her. I called ‘000’ (Australia’s equivalent of 911), and an ambulance arrived a few minutes later and took her to hospital. Her exam revealed a massive tumour growing in her brain. It was inoperable, and Mum died four days later.