TBP: Tara's Story free porn video

The Blind Pig is a story universe of the TSA. Tara's Story By Radioactive Loner [email protected] Copyright 1997-1999 CHAPTER ONE: TARA'S STORY My eyes slowly fluttered open, and I instantly knew something was wrong. My body just... *felt* different... wrong. I looked down at the outline of my body underneath the sheets, and realized immediately I had a major problem. My feet were nowhere near as far away as they used to be, and instead of my potbelly curving gently out of the sheets, I saw two large mounds much closer to my head. With a start, I whipped off the sheets and jolted upright, swinging my legs off the side of the bed -- looking in shock down at my body. As I swung my body upright, brown hair cascaded down on my back and shoulders. I felt large weights in my chest pull me down, but yet my entire body felt a great deal lighter than it used to be. My arms were much more slimmer, and had no hair on them. My hands were more thinly-boned and delicate. I slowly got up from the bed, feeling the weight of breasts pulling my torso forward, and I looked in the mirror. A brown-haired beauty looked back at me with a startled expression on her face. She was wearing the T- shirt and sweats that I had worn to bed last night. They both hung loose and baggy on her -- except the T-shirt was taut around her chest, and the sweatpants grew taut around her hips and butt. "Wow," I said to myself, and heard the soft contralto of my voice echo back to me. Looking at myself in the mirror, one word blazed across my mind -- SCABS. =-=-= About one year ago, a coworker at the box office where I was working then came down with the Martian Flu. I don't understand why, but I was the only person who worked there who managed to pick it up from him. And yes, I knew the risks when I contracted the disease -- after all, who couldn't? When the epidemic first hit, Martian Flu and SCABS information was bombarded at people with such a fervor by the government and the health industry that you couldn't help but know most of the details. But as more and more time passed after the last Flu symptoms subsided, I thought I'd be okay. I mean, only one in twelve people contract SCABS from the Martian Flu, and I thought I was one of the lucky eleven. Guess I was wrong. =-=-= I looked at the woman in the mirror. I had shrunk by a good four or five inches. I had certainly lost one hell of a lot of weight. The woman that I was looking at could've posed for lingerie advertisements, frankly. Soft, delicate features: piercing brown doe-like eyes, a patrician nose, full lips all crowned by soft, wavy brown hair -- hair that fell upon narrower shoulders, hair that just about touched two new additions to a torso that tapered off to a much tinier waist. The T-shirt I had worn to bed was baggy around the stomach, but jutted out around my... Damn it, I swore at myself. You've got them now, say it. Fine. I have... breasts. I hooked a finger around the elastic waistband of my sweatpants and peered down into my pants. My underwear had become so ridiculously large compared to my waist size that it would not stay up around my waist, and it had slid down to hang on my hips. Since the men's underwear was hanging so low, a little bit of brown pubic hair was visible outside of the waistband. And suffice it to say that a certain presence that normally would've filled out that underwear was no longer there. I let the elastic of my sweatpants snap back gently, and brought my hand back up. My hand was a lot more... well, dainty might be a sexist word for it, but the bones were definitely smaller and more delicate than they had been before. My arms were smoother, thinner -- what little hair there was... was very fine and sparse. Okay, I said to myself. This woman in the mirror is you. You're a woman. Now let's figure out what we're going to do. And above all means, let's keep calm. It's okay to feel the weirdness of the situation, just don't let your fear control you. Okay. Deep breath. What's the first thing we can do here to control the situation? Let's get dressed, then go to a doctor. Perhaps *not* the best idea to begin with, another part of my mind responded. Getting dressed, yes... although what'll fit? But better make sure you don't run into a doctor prejudiced against SCABS... 'cause, my friend, that's what you are now. Welcome to the group. I grimaced. I had been a white heterosexual man -- and while I had friends whose sexual preference and race were discriminated against, and I had fought with them, I had never experienced discrimination directly. I suppose that was about to change. =-=-= I sat down at my computer and loaded up the Microsoft Internet Research Wizard. "Shakespeare," I addressed it, "find me a doctor nearby that handles SCABS." The computer flicked over to a Web- based business telephone directory and consulted with it for a few seconds, then presented me with a list of doctors in my area. "The following doctors mention treatment of SCABS on their Web pages," came the soft voice of the computer, and three of them were highlighted on the screen. "This doctor," it said, zooming in one particular address, "carries the highest rating by the American Medical Association and is also covered by your medical insurance. Research complete. Would you like me to make an appointment?" =-=-= Later that morning, I found myself taking a deep breath, entering the outside world to try making my way to the doctor's office. Actually walking around in this body made me feel... *totally* out of it. I kept trying to shake myself out of it, reminding myself I could've woken up as a rock... but even trying to imagine that couldn't help me shake off how *different*, how *weird* everything in the world looked and felt. It's like if you woke up and everything in the world was just three degrees a darker color. Even... for instance, my height, just as one of the *minor* differences! Being so much smaller was a big adjustment to get used to. Having to reach farther to press elevator buttons. Instead of being taller than a lot of people, having a *lot* of people taller than me. I had pulled on some of my old jeans and a T-shirt, both now incredibly baggy on me. I had to punch a new hole on the belt, for Christ's sake! I couldn't even think about wearing a brassiere -- not that I even had one -- so I found myself hunching my back so that they... er... didn't quite stick out as much. I walked into the office and quietly said to the secretary (a fiftyish warty-looking old shrew), "My name is Paul Bard, I'm here for my appointment." She looked up at me. "*Paul*, dear?" I looked at her, and began to get frustrated. I didn't know how much longer I could hold onto myself like this. And, oh boy, I had a whole lifetime of this to look forward to! "Yes, *Paul*. Paul Bard. I woke up this morning like this and--" "Ms.--, uh, Mr. Bard--" "Never mind, Ms. Argyle. I'll take it from here," came a bass voice. "Paul?" said a young man in a lab coat coming round the corner. I nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Taylor." As we walked into an examination room, he apologized. "Ms. Argyle's a bit new on the job. I really do apologize." =-=-= "Okay, Paul," Dr. Taylor flipped a chair around backwards and straddled it, taking a look at me. "I'm going to give it to you straight, 'cause something tells me you need it that way at this point." I nodded silently. "You're a woman now. It may appear that I'm stating the obvious, but I'm a little bit worried. In the preliminary psych tests I ran on you, you're beginning to show some signs -- albeit small - - of disassociation, and I don't want you to drift off into vegetable land. This is a huge shock. I know. But you have to stay with us, okay?" I nodded again. "Okay. To confirm the obvious, you did contract SCABS -- nothing else we know of could've induced this sort of a transformation. Your strain was gendermorphism. You contracted the Flu about a year ago, you said?" "Yes." "Well, that's near the outside envelope of the norm, but still within range, so to speak. I ran a full and complete physical on you. The good news is that this is an extremely fit body. You have a fairly high metabolism, no genetic predispositions, and all in all, you are pretty much in excellent health." His expression got a little concerned. "However, I do have some bad news." I tensed myself. "Have you ever heard the term 'morphlock'?" he asked me. I shook my head. "Paul, right now, *you* are 'morphlocked.' Essentially what that means is that you're not able to change out of that shape. You don't seem to be able to go back to the way your body used to be. That's not unusual. A lot of SCAB patients are morphlocked. But medical science is pretty much at a loss to tell you whether that's a permanent condition or not." "A permanent condition? I'm stuck this way, forever?" "Paul, I honestly don't know. This is a *really* varied thing. You might end up being able to switch back and forth between a male and female body. Or, you might be stuck as a woman, but end up able to assume multiple female appearances. Or, you might end up simply stuck in this body. We're not able to tell you, medically, which path you'll take." I didn't like what I was hearing, but what the hell choice did I have? I just kept quiet. This guy's *business* is SCABS. I need to swallow all this emotion and just listen. I have to *survive* this. He can give me the tools. "The next thing, Paul? It will probably make life easier on you to create two personas. Don't let it actually split you down the middle; we've had quite a couple situations where SCABS have almost developed multiple personalities in order to cope with the physical disassociation from their bodies. But when you're like this, you may wish to consider a female name." "Okay," I said softly. "There are certain things, both physical and societal, that you're going to have to get used to now, Paul. Physically, you've got fully functional female plumbing, and that means you're going to have to deal in this form with the change in how you excrete, as well as your monthly menstrual flow. I know the chest and gynecological exams were pretty odd for you. But these are parts of your body now. Societally, there's so much more that you'll have to remember that I couldn't possibly go into it. Keeping your legs crossed when you sit, changes in body language... but you'll pick it up as you go along." "Yeah," I said quietly, "I hope." "Don't worry," said Dr. Taylor. "I have a feeling you will." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Lastly, I want you to visit this place when you feel ready." He scribbled down the name of an address on a piece of paper. I took the paper and turned around towards the door. I looked at the piece of paper and turned around in confusion. "The Blind Pig Gin Mill?" But what awaited me there stopped me even further. A woman in a white lab coat smiled at me. "Yes. It's a bar for people with SCABS. I don't think you'll feel quite as alone there." I'm surprised my jaw didn't hit oil, it dropped so low. She held a finger to her lips. "Don't tell Mrs. Argyle. I'm sure I'll see you there." =-=-= I shook my head in disbelief as I left the office, then grimaced as I felt my longer hair swing with it. Damn it, couldn't *one* gesture still feel the same? Yet another thing I'm going to have to get used to. That's the best attitude to take, I suppose. Not much I can do to pretend that this whole disease is a dream and I'm going to wake up tomorrow like nothing ever happened. Fact One: I'm a SCAB. With all that's inherent to. Fact Two: I'm a woman. With all *that's* inherent too. So, what's the best thing to do? Well, still calling myself "Paul" would get kinda weird, wouldn't it? =-=-= I sat down at a table in the city's library with a 'name your baby' book and turned to the section marked 'It's a girl!'. I looked down at myself, then back at the book. That it is, I thought grimly. I ran my finger down the list of names, until a couple leapt out at me. Crystal. Crystal Bard? I winced. Sounds like a Miss USA contestant. Let's stay away from the glittery names, okay? Ruth? Helen? Nancy? Bleh. Plainsville. Lois? Too old-fashioned. Besides, I'd constantly be tempted to yell, "Save me, Superman!" I couldn't help but chuckle. Good. If I keep laughing, I can keep from crying. Hmmm... Tara? Tara. That's not bad. It's Irish. Okay, I can deal with that. Okay. I'm Tara Bard. It feels strange, but still, somehow it feels like a *good* name. A *right* name. =-=-= Back at the apartment. Time for that wonderful telephone call. "Um, hello, Mom? Yes, I... uh, there's really no easy way to get around this. Mom, it's Paul. No, I didn't get a sex-change op-- Mom, Mom, listen to me, 'kay? You remember when I got the Martian Flu 'couple--Mom, listen. *Mom!* Okay. I contracted SCABS. Yes. SCABS. No, the one that turns people into animals is just one strain. I got another. Yes. I got one that causes what they call 'gendermorphism'. Yeah. I don't know, I *might* be able to change back and forth. I can't yet. Mom. Ma, cut it out. How can I prove it's me? Do you remember when you told me about almost leaving Dad back when he was getting dr--yes, exactly, you never told anyb--okay. Listen, I gotta go. I'll visit you soon, yes, I--I kinda need to be ready first. Yes, okay, by--" [Click.] Well. That was fun. =-=-= The rain was hitting the street pretty hard, and I walked along a side street until I saw a classy wooden sign with "The Blind Pig Gin Mill" engraved on it in a fancy script hanging above a doorway. I walked up to the door and leaned on it. Wow. Yes, this was definitely the bar Dr. Taylor had spoken of. There was what appeared a mule racking up some pool balls in the corner with a gentleman who looked nothing less like a full- fledged werewolf over there in the corner. I walked up to the bar, where there stood a very large animal... no, a *person*, Paul, not an animal... Um, I mean, A person, *Tara*, not an-- Aw, hell. This is gonna be tough. Anyhow, the guy appeared to resemble a rather large bull, almost -- he really didn't look like a bull, but I couldn't quite place what animal he was. He held up a sign that said, "What will you have?" "I'll have a Coca-Cola." He grabbed a cup, held a soda gun above it for a few seconds, and then handed it to me. "That'll be a dollar," a woman said as she came up to me, drying a cup with her apron. "Donnie here can't speak." "That's a shame," I said. "What brings you in here?" she said. "My... um, my doctor recommended the place," I said. She looked sympathetically at me. "How recently did you get SCABS?" "I woke up this morning like this," I said, gesturing. "Welcome to the club," the waitress said, smiling. "I used to be 'Edward.' Now I'm Edwina," she said, extending her hand. Wow. You don't know how incredible it was to find someone who had gone through the same things I had. "Hi," was nearly all I could manage. "Paul. I picked out 'Tara' as a female name -- couldn't stand the idea of the name 'Paula.'" She laughed. "You gotta pick what works. Gee, this *morning*! That's pretty incredible recovery time." "Just kept moving, you know," I said. "Didn't want to give myself time to think." "Understood," she said, getting a serious expression on her face. "Well, hey, don't feel alone. Stephanie and Ranma are both regulars here who happened to get the same strain. I kinda have a different story -- maybe I'll tell you someday if we get to be good enough friends." I gave her a half-smile. "That'd be nice," I said. As I sipped my Coke, I looked around at the motley crowd of the Blind Pig. All around me, I saw *people* who were enjoying each other's presence. And in watching this display of people treating themselves in hearty camaraderie, love, and... blessed *normalcy*... I realized that I could see something else in this crowd. Hope. Okay, I thought. *Maybe* I can handle this. =-=-= CHAPTER TWO: A TEMPEST FOR OPHELIA I walked into the Blind Pig Gin Mill for the second time in my life. It had been a... well, there's really no other way to put it: it had been one *fuck* of a week. And it was only Thursday, for God's sake -- not even over yet, officially. In just one week, I learned all the discrimination that comes with being a SCAB. Granted, I could've tried to pass as a normal woman. But, starting from scratch? That's pretty hard. No I.D. as a woman, no job as a woman, no apartment as a woman. Everyone in my life -- my employment agency, my landlord, all of my friends - - know me as Paul. And besides, there's a little bit of nobility in me, anyway. As an actor, I made a lot of gay friends. [Hey, it's a cliche, but it's a true cliche for the most part.] Naturally, a lot of them were discriminated against, and I fought with and for them -- at least *one* principle I could stand up for. So why hide against SCABS prejudice now? Well, having it directed *directly* against you in almost every facet of your life... Man. I never knew. Practically every part of my life's fallen apart. I sat down at the bar, and the big bullish guy came up to me. He flipped through a couple cards and held up one that said, "You've been in here before, right?" I looked up at him and brushed some hair out of my face. "Yes, I came in about three weeks ago. I'm, um, a gendermorph. A recent one." He flipped through a few more cards, and then held another card up. "What can I get you?" I looked down. I really hated -- I mean, I *loathe* -- having to lean on people. But I felt as if the whole world was closing on me... and the pressure was just... suffocating. Bills. Everything. I began to feel my breathing speed up; my eyes begin to well with tears. "Uh," I began. I looked up. "You gotta help me. I've not received work in two weeks, my rent's due, my groceries are running out, and I don't know how I'm going to do *anything*." I felt a solid presence gently pinning my arm. I looked up. He lifted his hoof from my arm, shook his head back and forth with a very gentle expression in his eyes. He pointed his hoof at me, and then pointed at the stool seat I was sitting on. The meaning seemed clear: stay where I was. I hadn't mean to cry, but my emotions felt very near the surface. It had been one *hell* of a week. I thought back to some of the worse moments. =-=-= Monday. "Franklin Temporary Services," answered the receptionist. "Yes, this is Paul Bard," I said. "I'd like to check in, see if I have any assignments." "Excuse me? You said your name was Paula?" "No, Paul. I... uh, well, recently got over a case of the Martian Flu, and--" "Oh, uh, I see. Um, can you hold for a moment?" "Yes, fi--" Muted strains of some insufferable easy listening pop music artist wafted through the phone for about the next five minutes. Minute. After minute. I knew *exactly* what was going on. Finally, she picked the phone back up. "Uh, Paul, hi. I checked for you, and it doesn't look like we have anything, uh, for you. Our workload's dropped a great deal, so you may wish to check with other temporary agencies as well." "You don't have *anything*?" "No," said the girl with obviously false sympathy. "I'm sorry." "Do you mind if I call back tomorrow?" "Well, you're welcome to, but like I said, we're not getting as many jobs in, so--" "Never mind. Thanks." And with that I dropped the phone back onto the hook. =-=-= Tuesday morning, as I'm heading out of my apartment building, my landlord accosts me. "So, youse got SCABS, huh? You some sorta she-male now?" he asks, glancing up and down my body. Creepy. "No, sir," I said, trying to keep my temper down. "Just totally female. Don't know where it'll go from here, sir." "Well, you know, I cantz be spreadin no disease among my--" "Sir, no offense meant, but the Flu's gone and done with -- I got that six months ago. Nothing's contagious. I can't spread SCABS by touching anybody, sir." "Yeah, but de property valu--" "Sir, I've been a good tenant for four years. All I ask is a little leeway for a week or two while I find a new job." "I'm sorry. Dis Friday or else you're out." =-=-= Wednesday. Still no word from Franklin. Word from, however, my father. "Paul, you realize what this is, don't you? It's God's way of punishing you for perpetuating filth on that stage of yours. Now if you come home and join the church, perhaps we can get you back on the road to righteousness and God's forgiveness." "Dad, I just don't think it's an act of God." "It came from the sky, son. It's right in Revelations: 'and the seven vials shall be opened.' Holy gift of prophecy, Paul -- one of those test vials opened, let out one of those microbes. It's God's curse on the wicked, Paul, and you have to repent. He's taken your gift of manhood away from you until you do." "Dad, listen--" "No, you listen, son--" "I'm hardly your--" "You're my son no matter what ungodly things you do!" "THEY'RE NOT UNGODLY!" Silence. "I'll pray for you, Paul. But until you see the light, we can't be there for you." A dial tone. =-=-= That night, I stared out into nothingness. No money. No job. No family. I heard the waves calling me from below, and the briny scent of the sea lofted along the brisk, cold wind and slapped me in the face until my skin was red with the cold. My soft, delicate skin. My skin that hadn't grown a beard in a week. My long hair. Who would've thought that I would have ever considered this a curse, I thought. A grim smile with absolutely no element of humor came to my face. All I would have to do would be to let myself fall. I'd hit my head along the side of the dock and fall into unconsciousness. That'd be it; I'd drown before I regained consciousness. I wouldn't feel a thing. And throwing one's self into the sea... isn't that a customary death for Shakespeare's maidens? What better way for an actor to exit stage right than by reenacting Ophelia? I looked at the waves as they crashed against the rocks below. =-=-= I felt the light touch of hair against my skin. Drawn out of my reverie, I looked up at a werewolf. At least, that's the way he appeared to me -- I don't know if that's the right term, or what. I had never really bothered to get involved with people with SCABS before. "Hi. They call me Wanderer. Most of the people in this bar go by nicknames they've earned over the years." I sniffed, and as I did I realized by the warmth against my cheeks that some tears had been falling unawares from my eyes. I wiped them off with the cuff of my sleeve. "Hey. I'm Pau--Tara. Tara Bard." I extended my hand, which he encompassed in one furry paw and shook. "I'm an actor too, believe it or not. Donnie figured you could use a little bit of cheering up." "Really. You must've had--I mean, with your--" I stopped, at a loss for how to phrase the words. He smiled, exposing all his teeth. It was a very scary sight, and I recoiled slightly. "Forgive me," he said, "I keep forgetting. I know it's a bit of a startling sight." "No, I'm--" "Well, anyway," he said, slapping his furry thighs in a perfunctory gesture, "Donnie's told me your troubles." "Really?" I said. "I don't mean to be mean, but how?" "Well, although Donnie's quite adept at sign language, I'm afraid the old pen and paper is his tool of choice with me. Never managed to get around to learning it -- although Donnie's certainly given me a reason to try to master the skill. "Anyhow, you've become a bit of a pet project. First, we're going to have a bit of fun with your employment agency. Then, we'll pay off the lovely chap who is your landlord, although I must tell you, there are some more friendly people around. But before all this, I'm going to treat you to dinner, courtesy of the finest cuisine the Blind Pig has to offer. My tab's high enough that Donnie won't mind a few more bucks added to it." "But why?" I said, simply... overwhelmed by his generosity. "My dear," he said, "we of the stage have to stick together." =-=-= I sat at the table, and looked at the phone that Donnie had placed on there. Across the table, Wanderer looked in my eyes and said, "Now do it, just as we practiced it." I picked up the phone, and dialed the number. "Franklin Temporary Services," answered the receptionist. "Hello, this is Janet from corporate, could I speak to Ms. Venkins?" I chirped, choosing a fake name out of nowhere and naming my boss. "Sure, just hold on just a sec," the receptionist said. A soft ringing sound, then a new voice. "Judy Venkins speaking, can I help you?" "Ms. Venkins, hello. This is Tara Bard. You knew me as Paul." "Paul, *hi*! Um, I think a little mix-up--" "No mix-up, Ms. Venkins. This was the only way I could get on the phone with you in person, and I just wanted to give you a little message. I am *just* as good an employee as I was before the change. And frankly, I wouldn't want to have to work for such an ignorant, bigoted bitch such as you anymore, anyway." "Well, I nev--" "Shut up and listen. Unless you want me to file one *hell* of an onslaught of lawsuits against you, you are going to give me *not* only the last couple of paychecks which you've been dragging your feet on, you're going to also issue me the severance pay and paid sick leave that was in my contract." "I certainly d--" Wanderer motioned for me to give him the phone. In a delightfully British accent, he spoke, "Hello, Ms. Venkins, is it? Yes, may I have your Social Security number? Why? Oh, the lawsuit and all. Yes, I'm afraid we'll be naming you pers--oh, who am I? Ms. Bard's barrister. Yes, I'll be doing her w--oh, yes, I've taken the case pro bono. Wonderfully marketable case. Yes, all over the papers. SCAB picketing right outside your doors, and those who hire your--oh, I *am* so glad to hear that. Fine, I'll tell her to expect the check in--oh, no. I think it should be delivered by courier, rather, don't you? This gal has bills to pay, after all. Very good then. Ta-ta!" I gaped at him as he hung up the phone. "You, my friend," I said, "have a talent. Do you mind?" I said as I rose from my chair. He looked at me a bit unsteadily, not sure what I was going to do. "Sure," he said. Walking around to the big guy, I gave him the first hug I had ever given as a woman. He smiled, lips closed around his teeth. "Thanks," he said. "No, thank *you*," I said. "I owe you -- big." "No, you don't owe anybody here anything -- you pay us back by passing it on someday. And," he said, smiling, "we'll be around to make sure you do! I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of you, my dear." "You can count on it." =-=-= CHAPTER THREE: TO SHOW VIRTUE HER OWN FEATURE I looked at the phone. Agonized. It'd be much easier to just gradually lose touch, now that this has happened. But... his friendship means a lot more to me than any self-respect I might have. Paul, I thought to myself, let's be honest. It's not self- respect. It's self-pity. Get a hold of yourself. I picked up the phone and hit a few numbers on the keypad. I began to look and react to how slim my fingers looked -- then I deliberately pushed that train of thought away. "Hello?" Dan answered. "Dan?" "Yes?" "Hi," I said. "I, uh, don't know how to say this, but this is Paul." "Oh, really?" he said with a smirking tone in his voice. "Why, Paul, how high your voice has become." "Dan, cut the crap. Do you remember how I came down with the Martian Flu a few months ago?" "Yes?" he said, a tone of doubt invading the fading smirkness. "Well, surprise. Your best friend's now a woman." "Yeah, r--I don't--uh, hell, my best friend wouldn't be--" I closed my eyes and spoke quietly, my voice conveying how tired of this I was. "Dan, listen. You can believe me or you don't. Frankly, I'm sick of trying to convince other people, and I'm tired of dealing with this whole... *thing*. I'll be at Morrison's at 8--you can meet me there or not, I really don't give a shit." And with that, I hung up the phone. Damn it, I would get through this. Even without any friends, if that's what it took. =-=-= It was Saturday evening, and I had just got back from the shelter. In college, I had volunteered at homeless shelters during my depressive spells, and I found that those random acts of kindness I could do helped not only others, but helped lift me a little out of those bouts of self-pity I found myself in. I figured it wouldn't hurt to do it again. Wrong. The misery I saw, the abuses SCABS seem to have had heaped upon them time over time again... they didn't lift me out of my spirits. They made me realize what kind of a world I lived in nowadays. And what I was in store for. And what... I was stuck with. Paul was dead. I had lost... me. Still, at least I wasn't going to be homeless. Yesterday, I ran into Dr. Taylor at the Blind Pig... Dr. Taylor in her feminine form, that is. His feminine form? Gendermorphism really plays hell with pronouns. A friend of hers showed me how the law had changed to accommodate gendermorphs. He helped me set up an identity as Tara Bard, an identity legally linked to the one I had as Paul Bard. I now had duplicate driver's licenses and Social Security cards, one for 'Paul' (God willing, I'd have a chance to use this again) and one for 'Tara'. That afternoon, I applied for work at another temporary agency, this time introducing myself only as Tara. My typing skills and office knowledge had survived the change intact, thank God, and they said they were pretty confident they'd find work for me. So pay-the-rent work could be taken care of. As for my life's work? I... didn't really want to focus on getting back on stage. Not yet. There are few androgynous roles in the theater, and I wasn't ready to start studying Ophelia, Juliet, Portia... no. I wasn't ready at *all* for that. =-=-= I looked at the body in the mirror in front of me. I really didn't want to focus on this woman in front of me at all. Every time I look at her -- *me*, damn it, *me* -- I feel as if my mind is going to drift totally off. It would've been a big difference if this woman in front of me -- no, Paul, that's a mirror, let's face facts, this woman who *is* you -- hadn't been such a sexpot. I mean, frankly, my psyche was pretty jumped up seeing a good- looking woman in front of me -- but the hormones weren't there, nor were... well, the appropriate male appendages that would express that sentiment. I looked at her -- me, damn it, me -- and wondered whether at some point I would start looking at men and start finding them attractive. After all, the hormones were in my bloodstream... and the biology was there. I sighed and turned away from the mirror. Let's put it this way: if my mind had anything to do about it, a certain netherworld agent would be wearing cold-weather clothing before that happened. Still, it was time to get ready if I was going to meet Dan at the bar and ask for that favor. I slipped on underwear, trying not to think about how the new cloth was softer, or tighter against an area that formerly would've been a bit bulkier. And my femaleness was made *very* apparent by the other requisite underclothes, which I slipped on and then fastened behind me. I avoided using that as long as I can, but those damn... well, things... were way too floppy. A sweatshirt and jeans completed the process. The mere thought of wearing a blouse or skirt or other such girlish things made me feel as if my mind was going to rip out of my skull. Slipping on a denim jacket, I opened the door and left the room. =-=-= Snowflakes flung themselves against me and melted from my body heat into ice-cold dashes of water against my face as I walked down the city streets. As I walked, I shivered mightily. My male form had not been in the best of shape, and I had hated that -- but I didn't realize that fat has a little publicized effect of *insulation*. I was freezing my ba--ha, ha, Paul, very funny, I don't think so, maybe your tits off-- My mind felt as if it was going to fly right off its moorings just from simply thinking the words "my tits." I felt my mind clamp down on itself and throw myself to another subject. The cold. Damn. The sooner I got to Morrison's, the better. =-=-= I walked into Morrison's and took a seat at the bar. I ordered a Kahlua and cream. "May I pay for your drink?" said a tall fellow in a suit that was seated on my left. I looked at him and plastered a smile on my face as my mind began gibbering to itself in denial. "No, thank you." "Aw, come on. Can't a guy show a little chivalry on a night like this?" I froze my smile in place and tried not to sound hostile. The guy towered over me, after all. "Really, I... appreciate the gesture, but no, thank you." "Fine. Let me introduce myself, though. I'm Brian." He extended his hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Dan walk into the bar. Thank God. "Excuse me, but my... "--aaaaaaaaagggghh, I'm not going to say it, yes I am, god *damn* it--"*date* just arrived." Oh, God. I jumped up from the stool, forgetting my drink, and walked over to Dan. "Hi," I said, and gave him a small little wave. It was very strange to see him again. When I was male, I stood about three to four inches taller than him. Now I was at least eight (if not more) inches smaller than he was, and looking up at a rather shocked face. "Paul?" "Yeah," I said. "Ta-da." I half-heartedly gestured with a hand at my body. "Jesus," he said. "I don't know whether to believe you or not." "I know this is pretty tough for you to accept, Dan, but I need friends now. I'm going through one hell of an adjustment period. I mean, what would you do if you woke up one morning with a body like this?" He cast an appraising eye over me. "I'd make her breakfast." Fuck! I *can't* handle this. I reached up, grabbed his T-shirt, and pulled his face down to mine (he being startled, he didn't resist -- otherwise there's no way I could've pulled him down). I said under my breath in a very angry sotto voce, "Listen, you shit, this is your best friend in here, not just some broad. I spent enough nights cleaning you up that you *owe* me one, buddy. Now grab a table, take a seat, and stop ogling my tits." And with that, I released him and pushed him backwards, only rocking him back on his heels a little. Dan's sole reaction to my outburst was to raise an eyebrow and say, "Well, you certainly sound like the Paul I know." This was not an auspicious beginning. =-=-= Dan swigged his beer; I sipped another Kahlua and cream. "Well... Paul... call me convinced, at least for now." "What convinced you?" "Well," he said, "I'm not completely convinced. But your mannerisms are very masculine. No woman would sit like that," he gestured. I looked, and I had my legs somewhat planted apart. I jerked upwards and glared at him. "Cute, Danny boy." "Hey, I wasn't looking." "Right." "*Any*how, if I might go on?" I gestured impatiently. Dan continued. "Well, like I said earlier, you sound a lot like the Paul I know. Not your voice, of course, but the way you phrase your words sounds a lot like him--you. I've got a good sense of... you, at least the way you were. And my gut is just... *telling* me you're Paul. I usually follow my instincts." I smiled. "Thank God." He looked uncomfortable. "Um, Paul?" "Yeah?" "Okay, first -- I believe you for now. Keep in mind I'm going to be a little watchful. I mean, I know SCABS, and a friend of my nephew contracted it, so I'm not saying that this happening to you is totally out of the question, or that I don't believe you. But you gotta admit, the odds are pretty small, and it's gonna take me a while to fully trust you and get acclimated to this. You just *look* so different!" I glanced down at the table. "Fine," I said, a little downcast. "Second -- you gotta understand something, Paulie. You're one hell of a looker now, and I'm... uh, aw, fuck, well, hell, what would *you* do if you saw you in the mirror?" "What are you saying, Dan?" I said, looking at him a little angrily. "I'm sayin' that I'm not gonna consciously come onto you, Paul, 'cause my brain's telling me that you're my best friend and I know Paul Bard would not like to have a guy come onto him. But I'm also tellin' you that guys do a lotta things they don't realize when good-lookin' girls are around them, and you gotta give me a little leeway, 'kay?" I started to retort angrily -- something in mind about keeping certain parts of his anatomy clothed -- but then I stopped, and sighed. What could I do? This is my *LIFE* now! "Fine." "Thank you," he said. "You give me slack and some time to get used to this, and I'll try to trust you." =-=-= I walked into the apartment, and slipped a compact disc into the player. Beautiful, gentle music -- the theme song to 'Cosmos' -- swelled around me. I stared at the ceiling, and wished. Wished that all this would have never happened to me, that I'd wake up the next morning and find myself in my male body and all of this just a pretty fucked- up dream. But that isn't going to happen, I realized. This is my *life* now. And I simply... Can't. Do. This. I took a deep breath. Made a choice, of sorts. I drew pen to paper. I had someone to thank. Then... I won't have to worry about this. Any of this, anymore. And maybe God will give me my old body back. =-=-= CHAPTER FOUR: LIFE'S BUT A WALKING SHADOW Through a veil of darkness, I saw the door burst open and a wolfmorph come running through the door. "Tara! Oh, *crap*!" And then blessed darkness slid down around me. As my last thoughts drifted out to the briny-scented sea, one thought came to the forefront of my fading mind. "Good. He didn't make it in time." =-=-= Unfortunately, he had. My eyes slowly opened. I was in a hospital room. Wanderer was shrouded in darkness in the corner, looking rather haggard and about ready to fall asleep. Looks like he had been keeping vigil all night long... and all day? The sun was setting, and the rays were casting their light on my face. Wanderer rose. "Good," he said. "You're awake." "Yes," I said. I held a wrist to my hand. No restraints... and the cut had been stitched up. Both of them had, evidently. So I suppose Wanderer got me here in time. I have Wanderer to thank for being alive. I looked at him. Had he thought he was doing me a favor? I asked him that question, not without a touch of sullen resentment. "Tara," he said, resting a paw on my arm, "tell me. Did you think about how your death would have affected any of us?" "Why should I have?" He sighed, and then took a seat. "I've been at the Pig a while. It's been the scene of a few suicides itself. Each one of them has affected everybody *deeply*. It's one more person giving up - - one more retreat, one more concession to those who want to make us less than we are." "Less than who I *am*?" I straightened up in anger. "Who I *am*? What I *am* is a man trapped in this bombshell's body! What I *am* is someone whose lost his entire identity!" "No," Wanderer said, keeping his tone quiet. "You haven't lost your whole identity. You're still who you are. That saying 'that which does not kill us makes us stronger' may be a cheesy saying, Paul, but it's got a kernel of truth in it. I like to think that suffering through SCABS doesn't *make* us stronger -- it just shows us strength we never had. I know that's the way it was with me." He got up. "Tara... Paul... whomever you choose to be. I hope you realize the strength *you* already have. You *can* get through this. You may not realize it, but you can. And you've got friends to help you through this. But... even if you didn't, you could still get through it. I think you're a lot stronger than you realize, Bard." He put a paw on my shoulder. "I'll let you get some rest. I have to leave for a couple hours. Ask the nurse to give me a call when you're ready to check out, and I'll take you home." I stared at my wrists, with the tight stitching. I was alive, and I was still here. As Wanderer left the room, I called to him. "How do you know I won't do it again, given the chance?" He turned. "I don't. You have to choose to live, Paul. No one can force you to choose life." His eyes grew compassionate. "But as a friend, I sure hope you do." And with that, he was gone. I looked at my wrists. And I closed my eyes. And I made a choice. =-=-= CHAPTER FIVE: CALM SEAS, AUSPICIOUS GALES "Ms. Bard?" Mmmrph. "Ms. Bard?" Mmmrp--oh. I opened my eyes to see a nurse standing over me. "I'm sorry to wake you, Ms. Bard, but the doctor wanted to see you." Internally, I frowned. Thanks to Wanderer, I had made a choice to at least give life a little longer to convince me to stick around. Unfortunately, I was probably going to have deal with months in shackles and straightjackets in an institution. Maybe even a SCABS institution, where I'm sure they'll give me just the *best* of care. Great. I'm in *serious* trouble. I got up, felt the cool draft up my hindquarters, gathered the hospital robe as best as I could around me [they can put a probe on Mars, but they can't design a hospital robe that doesn't show your bare backside off to the world, I thought with macabre humor], and walked out of my room and down the hallway. =-=-= I walked into the doctor's office. He promptly moved aside three stacks of paper from the front of his desk to the floor so that he could see me. "Thank you, Nurse Gibson, that will be all." I opened my mouth to begin, but the doctor interrupted me and waited until the nurse closed the door behind her. "Ms. Bard, before you say anything, I think it wise to tell you that Mr... uh... Wanderer... informed us of the accident you had with the mirror." I looked at the doctor, and began to wish for good ol' Dr. Taylor. Was this guy trying to be cute? I looked at him and tried to gauge what he was sending across to me. "I'm sorry, I don't quite follow you." His eyes took on the piercing look of a man trying to make sure you followed along with him. "Ahem. You see... Mr. Wanderer told us of how... you slipped on your bathroom floor... and accidentally hit the mirror with your hands as you fell. Do you concur that is what happened to you?" I blinked. Blinked again. And said, "Um, *yes*, just coming out of the shower, slipped, *wham*, just, uh, a really unfortunately coincidence." "That is what Mr. Wanderer made sure the police filed in their report of the situation as well." "I see." I was still in a bit of shock; trying to adjust to the situation that Wanderer had so handily covered my ass. "Ms. Bard?" the doctor said, catching my attention once more. "Yes?" The doctor began speaking, pausing at times as he selected just the right word. "I'm glad that this was... an accident. Between you and I, those with SCABS are not handled well in their segregated wards of mental institutions, which is where you would have gone if this had... not been an accident. I would have strong professional qualms about sending anyone to these places - - so that is why... *I* am... quite glad this was simply an accident. Since I am filing this as a simple accident, I have no method of keeping you here longer. But... I am of a troubled mind to make sure you do not have similar accidents in the future." Bless him. I found a doctor with a conscience. I looked at him, and said, "You can rest assured, doctor, I'm planning to speak with a couns--uh, I'll be speaking with someone who can make sure I don't have similar accidents in the future." "Good. I don't know your financial situation, but there is a SCABS clinic within the city which offers free... safety... counseling." "You can rest assured, sir, I'll take advantage of it." I'll need it, I *still* can't get used to this damned contralto. "And I appreciate your discretion." =-=-= I walked into the hospital lobby after finding my bill had been absorbed by the SCABS free clinic downtown. I wanted to protest their generosity, but I was in no position to *not* accept their generosity. Walking over to the nearest pay telephone, I dialed the Blind Pig and waited to see who would pick up the phone. I could tell that it was a noisy night at the bar by the background noise in the bar. A somewhat flat, canned voice answered the phone. "Blind. Pig. Gin. Mill. Donnie. Speaking. How. Can. I. Help. You." "Hi, Donnie, this is Pa-... Tara." "Tara. Good. To. Hear. From. You. Wanderer. Has. Been. Waiting. For. Your. Call. I'll. Get. Him." I heard a few loud clops on the bar, cutting through the noise, which could've only been Donnie's hoof. The crowd quieted, and soon Wanderer's cocky voice came over the phone. "Monsieur Wanderer, Lover of Ladies, Actor of Actors, the Beloved of Millions speaking." "Hi, Wanderer." "Hey, Bard," he responded, his voice practically casual. "Any chance I could grab that ride you offered?" "Certainly." =-=-= I opened the door and stepped into the vehicle. Wanderer looked over and said simply, "It's good to see you." "Thanks," I said uncomfortably. He pulled out into traffic. "Wanderer," I began, "I... " "Paul -- Tara -- *blast*. What do you want to be called, Bard?" I looked at myself. "While I'm like this, I suppose I should start calling myself Tara." "Tara, I'll be honest with you. Part of me is wonderfully happy that you are alive, that you have chosen to give life another try, that you are still here. I simply can't express how very glad I am you're still around. But the other part of me is furious with you that you would be so *selfish* as to try to commit suicide." "Selfish?" I said, in mild surprise. "Don't you realize how many people care about you, my friend?" Wanderer said sharply. "Did you think of how your death might affect them? Every time we see someone surrender to darkness, we all lose a little bit of hope. And when it's someone we know, the memory of their death stays with us forever." I closed my eyes. "I'm sorry, Wanderer. I wasn't thinking of others. I was just concentrating on what I had lost, on what my life had become, on how much I had lost." Wanderer gently put one paw on my arm. "I understand. Believe me, we've all had our sorts of trials. A lot of the Pig's patrons nowadays order their rum and Coke minus the rum. It's a inner battle we all faced, and sometimes, with a lot of changes, we just... come out the other side." =-=-= I stepped onto the city's mass transit system to take it downtown to the clinic. I was listening to some old showtunes from a musical from way back in the mid-nineties called 'Rent', written by a composer named Jonathan Larson who died of a brain aneurysm a good five years before the Martian Flu even came home to roost. With the double-whammy of first AIDS [the affliction many of the characters in the musical had] and then the Martian Flu, I reflected, it's amazing the human race even survived. As I listened, I realized how the show's message about living with AIDS applied so well to living with SCABS. One of the singers sang out: Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care? Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare? I winced. They *could* be singing about SCABS. And I wasn't in the mood to hear a song of such fear and uncertainty. I skipped ahead to the end of the show. The chorus climaxed in final harmony... Forget regret or life is yours to miss. No other road; no other way. No day but today. I stepped off the mass transit and walked towards the SCABS clinic. "Forget regret... no day but today." Not bad words to keep in mind. =-=-= I walked up to the desk, and favored the receptionist with a smile. "Hi, my name is Tara Bard. I have an appointment to see a counselor." No day but today.