good, and rusty besides."

"Ah, you'll do fine,' she smiled.

Back at work Chris found that most of his duties were easy. The filing system would take some getting used to but most of the other chores and assignments were simple and forthright and the afternoon passed quickly. Just before he left Mary reminded him to pick up his uniforms.

Later, after dinner, they met at the tennis .courts. The courts they use are outdoor grass with good lighting, almost professional caliber. Mary stopped Chris when he started to remove his shirt in the warm evening air. "That wouldn't be a good idea, Chris," she pointed out. "You would appear to obviously masculine."

"Well, ok, but I sweat male odor and wetness," he joked.

Mary grinned but Chris could tell she was serious. And she was good, too. He couldn't even return half of her serves and all he managed was three points in the entire set they played over the next hour.

The next day Chris wore his new white uniform. The fit was a little better than he had experienced in the fitting room, but everything still fastened the wrong way. And the silky material slid strangely across his legs and body. The rest of the women seemed to be less distant and, late in the day, Judy called from the shop to tell him that two more uniforms were ready for pickup. All three sets were identical. Judy also told him that he could turn in his uniforms, along with his other clothes, at a special drop station in his residence (he called it the 'dorm'), so he needn't do his own laundry, which suited Chris just fine. All he had to do was put everything in the bag she gave him with his room number on it. No cooking and no laundry. What a life!

A week passed and Chris had already mastered

his job. He quickly learned his way around the routine pickup and delivery stations and the records each location needed regularly. The cool treatment he got from the nurses and other staff was warming over time, too. The only real irritant was their increasingly common use of 'Chrissy' when addressing him. He was thereby constantly reminded of the low regard, if not outright hate for men that prevailed. Even the people with whom he has good relations (plutonic, of course) refuse to speak to him at the pool when he wore his man's bathing trunks.

Then, one day, a gal at one of Chris's regular stops was wearing a thin silk blouse and no bra. Unfortunately, beneath his over-tight slacks, Chris's arousal was obvious to all, except him. To Chris it was natural and he thought nothing of it, until later.

Back at the office Mary greeted him cooly. "The Director wants to see you," she gruffed. Chris was stunned. "Wow! Why?" "You'll find out when you see her,"

warned.

she

Mrs. Ambrose, the Director, was not a doctor but the island was a family possession and she managed the clinic along with everthing else at Greystone. Chris knew where her plush office was, third floor of Admin, but he had never been near it until now.

Mrs. Ambrose was waiting with the door open when he arrived. Chris was struck by her beauty despite her years as she rose and cordially she bid him enter. "Please come in and have a seat young man," she invited. He settled into an overstuffed leather chair. "How do you like it here Chris?" she asked.

"It's really nice, Mrs. Ambrose, he blushed. "Is it hard for you to live among so many women, Chris? I mean, uh, do you ever feel like a