I groaned.
"That's embarrassing, but it seems a bit much to fire someone over that."
"That's what I said, but the station manager was adamant. Anyway, I looked over your tape, and you definitely know your stuff. You're also very entertaining. I think you'd be a good fit for this station, but there's one problem. We only hire weathergirls."
"Couldn't you make an exception, just this once?"
"It's not my rule, it's the station manager's. But I don't think it should be a problem. I think you'd make a lovely girl."
"Very funny."
"I'm not joking. I'd be willing to help you with your make-up, and pick out some pretty dresses for you."
I stood up.
"Look, if you don't want to give me the job, fine, but you don't have to insult me."
"Oh, so calling you a lovely girl is an insult, is it? I like that. Anyway, here's my card. Let me know if you change your mind."
I looked at the card she'd placed in my hand.
"So, you're actually talking about doing this? You're serious?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"No one's ever going to believe I'm a woman. Anyway, I couldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"You really think I'd have so little respect for myself as a man to dress like a woman just to get a job?"
"Fine. I hope you can pay your rent with your self-respect. Call me if you change your mind."
I left. I had a few more job interviews that day.
After a few weeks, my savings were running out and I still didn't have a job. I couldn't go back to living with my parents. I needed a job. I would watch the news on the Van Nuys station, and the weather was being done by one bimbo after another, each more hopeless than the last. Most of them only lasted the one night. So I was pretty sure the job was still open.
I called the number. I couldn't believe I was about to do this.
"Great!" she said. "So, I suppose you don't want anyone else at the station to know you're not an actual genuine woman?"
I sighed.
"No. I don't."
"Well, then we'll have to be very clandestine. Be at the station Sunday at midnight. I'll meet you there. We'll work on your look. Your walk and your talk. I'll lend you some of my dresses, to start. I think we're probably the same dress size. Better shave your legs and arms. And chest. And armpits."
I groaned.
I met her at the appointed hour. She had her arms full of various things. Make-up, lingerie, a dress, a wig, shoes, pantyhose. I couldn't believe I about to wear this stuff. I helped her carry it all in.
We went to the green screen, where I would be doing the weather report. In a dress. She gave me some privacy to take off my clothes and put on some panties. When she saw me in nothing but a pair of pink satin panties, she giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. Let me help you with your pantyhose."
She showed me how to put them on, and then I had to stuff myself into a girdle. She giggled again, and apologized. She showed me how to put on a bra, and stuffed the breast forms in it. When I put on the slip she laughed again, and didn't even bother to apologize.
When I saw the tiny dress she wanted me to wear, I couldn't believe it. It looked like it belonged to a puppet.
"I can't wear that!"
"Why not? You don't seriously think they'll let our weathergirl wear pants, do you?"
"It's too short!"
"Have you never seen a weathergirl in Southern California? Busty Latina babes spilling out of their tops, wearing skirts about the size of a napkin. You're getting off easy."
"You'd never wear this dress to work, would you?"
"No, but I'm not the weathergirl. You are. So put on the dress, unless you'd rather do the job in your lingerie."
I somehow got into the dress, and she showed me how to do my make-up.
"Pay attention. You'll have to do this yourself, you know."
She got the wig on me, and I stepped into the black high heels, and practiced walking. Then I practiced speaking. She helped me find my female voice.
She told me to improvise a sample weather report in front of the green screen. She gave me a pointer to use. I hadn't seen a weathergirl use a pointer in a long time.
When I finished, she said, "That was very professional, and it would be fine if you were a weatherman, but you're not. You're a weathergirl. You've got to sell it! You've got to flirt with the camera; you've got to seduce the men tuning in at home. Imagine they're taping your weather broadcast and watching it later, and pleasuring themselves. Because believe me, they will."
"I can't do that!" I exclaimed.