The Survival Of Joe Conover: Part 1-3 free porn video

The Survival of Joseph Conover By Norman O. Johnson I had a malignancy, so they gave me chemotherapy. My hair fell out, guaranteeing that I wouldn't die of cancer of the hair. So the doctors cut off a body part, and assured me they'd got it all. But they hadn't, so they cut off another body part, and assured me they'd got it all. Once again, they hadn't got it all, so they cut off another body part. Have I failed to mention which body parts they cut off? It doesn't matter anyway now, because at some point, the malignancy became inoperable, and I died. This is not the story of how I died, but how I survived after I died. Therefore, my story begins at the beginning, on my deathbed. How can I describe how it felt to die of cancer? I won't try, but I will to say that no painkiller was worth a damn as I lay there in my hospital bed waiting for the end, while the carcinomas were gnawing their way through my guts like a feeding scavenger. I drifted in and out of wakefulness, only sometimes aware of the beeping of the heart monitor, only sometimes noticing the intercom in the corridor paging doctors, and only sometimes hearing my daughter Nancy's sobbing and sniffing as she sat in a nearby chair. We had already exchanged our last words. There was nothing more to be said. Why, then, was she still here? Because she couldn't bear to leave. That was a good enough reason. My son Jason had left some time earlier. That was all right, too. He had always been uncomfortable expressing his feelings. I couldn't blame him for being true to himself, especially since I'd been the same way. Suddenly I was very cold. My head spun. My vision blurred. A strange sentence came to my lips. "My name is Michelle," I said, or tried to say. That puzzled me. Why would I say that? My name was not Michelle. I was Joseph Conover. My unfocussed eyes were aware of a shadow hovering over my face. "I'm not Michelle," said the shadow. "I'm Nancy. I'm your daughter, Nancy, Dad! Remember?" I couldn't precisely see her face, but I knew from experience how Nancy's large sensuous mouth twisted when she was upset. This was my last sight of her face, even as a blur. "I remember," I tried to say, but only a croak would come out of my mouth. I had expected my last thoughts to be of God, repentance, and forgiveness, but instead my last thought was, My name is Michelle and I want to die. Part One: By the Back Door That wasn't my last thought after all, only the last thought before I died. I did have other thoughts. My next one was a sentence fragment. What in the---? Something very strange was happening. I was breathing. Didn't I just die? Dead people aren't supposed to breathe. I was lying on my side with my head propped on something very different from the hospital pillow. There were no bedclothes over me and under me no mattress, just a hard floor. I also felt hair on my head. Hadn't I been bald only a little while ago, because of the chemotherapy? I struggled to open my eyes. My eyelids were heavy. Through the cracks I could see daylight. I forced my eyelids completely open. I was not in that hospital room any more. I sat up and took in the dismal sight. There was no furniture in this room. The floor was littered with trash of every description. There was a heap of black ashes and scraps of burnt wood in the middle of the floor, with blackened floor tiles around it. The walls were disfigured with spray-painted graffiti. The window had neither glass nor a screen, and showed a front lawn full of foot-tall grass and weeds, and part of a street. Judging from its size, this room had been the dining room of someone's home once, but that was long ago. Now it was a flophouse. The whole scene reeked of urine, feces, vomit, rotting garbage, dirty clothes, and an unwashed human body, in which I was living. I already knew it was not the body that Joseph Conover had lived in for fifty-one years. What was this new body like? Cancer was not gnawing away relentlessly at my new insides. That was a gain, but I also felt drained and groggy, as if I'd taken an overdose of some sleeping pill. I felt clammy and sticky. My clothes reeked. What was I wearing? I looked down at myself and saw a flannel shirt, too warm for a September day in North Carolina, with the sleeves rolled up; a pair of blue jeans with badly worn knees; and filthy red and white sneakers. I wasn't wearing a belt, but it didn't seem necessary, because my hips were broad enough to hold my pants up without a belt. Straps. I was wearing something under my shirt that had straps going over my shoulders. There was some excess weight in my chest, which I could feel shifting as I moved. I unbuttoned my shirt and opened it. Sure enough, I was wearing a bra. I guessed my cup size as B. I was a woman. I had come back into the world as a homeless woman wearing smelly clothes who slept in an abandoned house. I couldn't have imagined a more uncanny fate for a dying man. Was this a sort of hell, an eternity of homeless misery as a member of the opposite sex? No, I couldn't believe I'd been a bad enough man to warrant eternal damnation. This wasn't an afterlife. It was real life, which I'd reentered from a doorway I hadn't know was there. If I was a woman, then, I must be a woman "down there" as well. I unzipped my pants and pushed them down. I was wearing no panties. Between my legs I saw hair, only hair, a thick triangle of hair. A shudder went through me, a shudder of horror at my vulnerability to the crime that every woman fears. In my new body, I could be raped. To me, that was more terrible than not having a penis. Me, a woman? How absurd. I might as well be a cockroach named Gregor Samsa. I didn't feel like a woman. I felt like a man stuck in a woman's body, a very uncomfortable feeling. But it was the only way I could live at all. I pulled my pants up and began silently to cry, overwrought by conflicting emotions. I was glad to be alive. I was awestruck at this bizarre turn of events. My womanly vulnerability frightened me. I missed my children and longed to be reunited with them. I was afraid for my future. My smelly clothes and filthy body disgusted me. But when all was said and done, I now had a chance to live again, and this body was the only means to do it. I resolved to make it work for me, somehow. How would I live? What name would I use? If I told people I was Joe Conover, I would spend the rest of my new life in a mental hospital. For some reason, the name Michelle came to my lips again. Why had I said, "My name is Michelle" to my daughter? Only then did I notice the thing I'd used for a pillow was an old worn backpack, which might have contained some clue to my bizarre continued existence. I opened it. There was a threadbare blouse, two or three T-shirts, a large baggy sweatshirt, another pair of jeans tightly rolled up, and, among other items, a woman's compact and a wallet. Taking out the wallet, I found a Georgia driver's license issued to Michelle Amanda Toomey, whose birthday was 24 years in the past. It had the picture of a bored-looking young woman with honey colored hair, large brown eyes, high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth. I opened the compact and compared my own face with the picture. A pale emaciated exhausted version of the same face stared back at me. Searching further through the wallet, I found a Social Security card and about 200 dollars in cash. So I at least had a legal identity. The two hundred wouldn't last me long, but with a Social Security number I would be able to get some kind of job. I didn't want to think about where Michelle got that money. Giving blow jobs in back alleys was my best guess at the time, and still is. Now I understood better what had happened. Michelle's and my souls (yes, there is such a thing as a soul) had exchanged bodies. It was a disaster for Michelle, who had certainly died in my old body. For me, it was a new chance at life. But, was starting my life over again as a poor homeless woman a blessing or a bargain with the devil? I searched around in the backpack to see if there was anything else I could use. I came across a little plastic box that contained a syringe and some fresh needles, each one in its plastic sheath. I shuddered again. Did Michelle have to take insulin? No, diabetes is a fat person's disease. Forgetting the other forms of diabetes, I had a frightening thought, and checked my forearms again for scars and bruises. I found them, my needle tracks. I was a heroin addict. If that wasn't bad enough, I might have hepatitis or the AIDS virus, or both. I had traded cancer for this! I threw the needles across the room, and crushed the syringe underfoot. Male or female, rich or poor, the one thing I would never be is a heroin whore! I took a deep breath, and contemplated my next move. I couldn't bear to go to Nancy or Jason in this wretched condition. I would come back into their lives once I was well away from the smack, and had a roof over my head and a job, and wore clean clothes. I couldn't call myself Joe Conover any more, but I had my pride. On the other hand, I wasn't too proud to recognize I needed help. I knew of one other person in the world who would believe my crazy but true story of survival, and would put a roof over my head until I got back on my own feet. Her name was Lillith. She ran a New Age oriented store featuring books, crystals, and various metaphysical knick-knacks. She also did psychic readings. My dear wife Linda, who had died two years before me, was one of her clients. In those days, I hated Lillith. I thought Linda was wasting our hard-earned money on her. I was polite to her face, but when she wasn't around, I called her the Gypsy charlatan. I never believed in her so-called psychic powers. However, because she would believe things that no one else would, I hoped to convince her I was Joe Conover in a new body. I hated having to hand Lillith this victory, but I was also a practical man (woman?), and a practical man does what he has to do whether he likes it or not. I stripped till I was only wearing my bra (the only bra I owned). Opening the knapsack, I put on clean socks and jeans, and pulled the sweatshirt. I hated having to put dirty clothes back in my knapsack with the clean ones, but there was no help for it now. My bladder was getting full, but I couldn't stand the thought of pissing on the floor of this house, after so many had done it before. I would use a gas station bathroom in a few minutes. I walked out of the house. What part of town was I in? Was I even still in North Carolina? I waded through the tall grass to the driveway, and took a look around. Many of the houses were old and dilapidated. Two were abandoned, not counting the one that I had just abandoned. The street had a deserted, weekday morning look. I made it to the sidewalk and started uphill, being careful not to trip over the numerous cracks and gaps in the sidewalk. Someone was shouting in my direction. "Dat's right! Git out! You need to git outa heah! We don't need no drug freaks and crack ho's messin' up our neighborhood!" I looked to my left and saw a black woman standing in the doorway of the house next to the abandoned one. I quickened my pace. "Go own! Go own! Git out!" she shouted. She would get her wish. I would never come back here. I didn't blame her for hating my guts. She had no way of knowing I wasn't the same junkie-whore who had crashed in that empty house sometime yesterday. When I made it to the top of the hill, I read two unfamiliar street names on the sign. In the distance, however, I could see the First Union Bank tower and several other tall buildings. The quaint green dome of the Old State Capitol, now a museum, was also visible. So I was still in Raleigh, North Carolina after all, the city where I had made my fortune, the city where I had died. My cancer had eaten up a piece of that fortune, but my children would have a substantial legacy, including life insurance. I didn't want that money back now. They were adults. They were old enough to make their own mistakes, to be held accountable for their mistakes, and to learn from them. I drew a deep breath and tried to get my bearings. I was on the southeast side of town. Lillith's shop was in an old section of downtown, where some warehouses had been converted into shops, offices, and loft apartments. I could walk all the way down there, but it would be a hike of an hour and a half. So I started walking in the general direction of downtown. As I walked, the feeling of being stuck in a woman's body returned. Living this way would never be easy. I would never marry a man and start a family. I would be a Lesbian, if I had a sex life at all. But at least I could have dignity and be self-supporting. My second life was a gift which, so far as I knew then, no other dying man had ever been given. I would do the best I could with it. What was the alternative? Suicide? I'd always disdained that as a coward's choice. A few minutes later, I ducked into a convenience store to use the bathroom. Sitting to pee was not new to me. About a year earlier, my crotch had become so rotten with cancer that my entire genital set had had to be sacrificed. While wiping myself off, I noticed the autoerotic possibilities of my new sex organ but felt stuck again. However, I had a more immediate worry. My body was a time-bomb set to go off as soon as heroin withdrawal began. There was no telling when that bomb would detonate. I didn't want to face it alone. I continued on my way. Low-income residential housing now gave way to a low-rent retail district: the convenience store, a liquor store, a tattoo parlor, a strip joint. I passed the strip joint with another shudder. That was where young women with no other marketable job skills make a living. I would never work there. No way! I'll admit I'd visited that scene a few times, decades ago before I married Linda, and found the whole scene to be cheesy, chilly and non-erotic. As a businessman, I couldn't see a well-defined career path in it for even the most successful stripper. I quickened my pace. A van pulled to the curb just ahead of me. The words "Silly Monkey" were painted on the side in huge lopsided letters. The rest of the van was festooned with little caricatures of long-tailed monkeys jumping about. Although they were drawn in manga, the style of Japanese comic books, they reminded me of the Curious George books I'd enjoyed as a child, and years later read to my own children. A black-haired girl with Oriental features leaned out the passenger window and called out, "Hey! Need a ride?" I wasn't prepared for such kindness, but it was welcome. I stepped up to the window and said, "Yes, I would. I need a lift downtown." I liked the sound of my new female voice. The side door of the van slid open, and I climbed inside. The inside of the van was taken up mostly with large box-like things that I took to be amplifiers, speakers, and other band equipment. In the shadows I thought I saw a packed up a drum set. Two other girls were sitting on the little remaining floor space. One was asleep with her mouth open. The other lent me a hand and pulled me in. Her arms looked strong. I guessed she was the drummer. "My name's Gina," she said. "We're a band called Silly Monkey." "I'm Amy," said the Oriental girl. She motioned to the driver. "This is Sarah." Sarah looked back. "I'm the lead singer." "I'm the bass guitarist," said Amy. "The worst one in the whole freakin' country, dude," said the girl who'd helped me inside. "By the way, I'm Gina. I'm the drummer, and my girlfriend sleeping here in Lena, the lead guitar. She covers up Amy's mistakes." Gina and Amy exchanged a playful glance, and laughed. "Are you guys a local band?" I asked. "Fuck, no!" said Amy. "We're on tour." Then Sarah told me where they were from. It was a university town somewhere in the Midwest. I'm no longer certain which one. I think she said Manhatten, Kansas, where Kansas State University is, but I won't swear to it. "We had a kick-ass gig in Chapel Hill last night," Amy put in, "and we haven't slept a wink since." That was the great thing about being a kid, I concluded. Having the energy to party all night. They were all very young, only about four or five years younger than my current body was. "Speak for yourself, dude," said Gina. "Lena's ahead of the rest of us." Lena stirred, muttered something unintelligible, and kept on sleeping. "My name is Michelle," I said. "We're just a bunch of bums," Gina joked. "We're a rock and roll band on tour." That sounded like a not-so-subtle gig at my homeless status. Gina didn't trust me as much as the others, I guessed. "We're supposed to be in college," called out Sarah from the driver's seat. "But we figured, if we didn't try this, we'd spend the rest of our lives wondering what might have been." "We're going places, too," said Amy. "We're gonna be the next big thing." "So, do you guys have a gig here in Raleigh?" I asked. "Yeah," said Amy. "But first we want to, like, have breakfast or brunch or whatever you wanna call it. Then we need to find a cheap hotel and crash for a few hours." "Sounds like I'll be the only one having coffee to drink," I said. Gina laughed. "Didja hear that, dudes? Michelle just invited herself to a free breakfast." "Gee-nah!" Amy and Sarah burst out in unison. Then all three of them laughed. "That was so rude, dude," said Amy, not at all offended. For a second I thought Amy was talking to me, and that Amy had figured out I used to be a man, but it was clear from the context she was addressing Gina. "Of course she's invited," said Sarah. "It's our treat. After all, Michelle, you're homeless. You've had enough bad luck." "I just hope you, like, stay away from the booze," said Gina to me, looking like she really meant it. "Alcohol isn't my vice," I said. "I'm a heroin addict." I rolled up my right sleeve and showed Gina my scars and bruises. "Holy shit!" Gina swore. "Girls, she's not kidding! Michelle's on the fuckin' rig. She's got, like, scars on her arms and everything." "Not any more," I said. "I'm quitting, effective today. I'm going to pull myself together, get off the junk, and get me a life." I hoped they believed me. I was assuming an unreformed junkie wouldn't just come right out and admit. "Gina, I think she means it," said Amy. "God bless you, Michelle," said Gina. Gina gave me a brief hug. While we were hugging, I got a whiff of my ear-length hair, and realized how filthy it was. "I'm so glad you girls believe me," I said. "When we finish breakfast, I want y'all to take me to the place where my friend Lillith works. She owns a store. She'll help me get on my feet." "It's a deal," said Sarah. "We want to help you with this." "And y'all don't have to treat me to breakfast," I insisted. "I can pay it. I've got a few bucks left over." "No way!" said Amy and Sarah together. "We're treating you, dude," said Amy unambiguously. "It's the least we can do. You'll have more money to pay for detox later." "Thanks, Amy. I'll never forget you guys." "You're gonna start jonesing pretty soon," Gina warned me. "Vomiting, diarrhea. You won't be able to sleep for days. I've known guys who were on the rig." "Including a certain ex-boyfriend," Amy put in, one eyebrow raised. "Who shall remain nameless," Gina chimed in. "It got ugly, not just for me but for Amy here too." "The asshole's doing hard time now," said Amy with great satisfaction. "Deserves every minute of it, too." "Lillith's an old friend," I explained. "A real friend, not the kind I used to shoot up with. She'll help me through this." The fact was, I barely knew Lillith, and she knew I had never liked her. Not until now, anyway. The truth was far too weird for these kids to believe. "How about McDonald's?" Sarah called out from the driver's seat. "Mickey-Dee's? Blekh! Corporate crap," Amy joked. "Amy's right. Mcdonald's it is," said Gina. "Good! It's decided," said Sarah, as we pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's somewhere in southeast Raleigh. "It's corporate crap, but it's a known quality," said Amy with a shrug. Our eyes met. To me, she seemed no different from lots of other late-teens-early-twenties kids, the kind who are just trying things out, and uncertain what sort of plans to make for their future. But she seemed fascinated with me. Once again, I suspected she knew I used to be a man, but it was a ridiculous thought. Sleepy Lena woke up just enough to tell Gina she wasn't hungry, so we let her go back to her snooze. As the rest of us piled out of the van and into the McDonald's for breakfast, I suddenly realized I was shorter than the tall late-teens Black boy behind the counter. I guessed Amy's height to be a petite five feet four or five inches. Using her as a measuring rod, I calculated my own height at five feet seven or eight inches, roughly the same as the other three girls. Since I'd been six feet tall when I was Joe, I was disappointed at having to raise my chin to look a youth of eighteen in the eye. We ordered breakfasts and staked out a table for four. I sat next to Amy and across from Gina. Sarah sat across from Amy. "I want to thank you girls for buying me breakfast," I said. "It's the least we can do," said Sarah. She had a sweet smile. "But be warned," said Gina, "you might see that breakfast again in an hour or two, when withdrawal hits. Beating heroin takes guts." "I want to go see my friend Lillith," I said. "She'll know what to do." Amy gave me an encouraging look. "You're gonna lick this thing, Michelle. I can tell. You're tough. You're an ass-kicker." "That was a great gig last night," said Gina. "You should have been there, Michelle. The audience loved us." "We were at Chapel Hill," said Amy, "which is this way cool boho college town just up the road there." "She knows that, Amy!" Gina chided. "She's from North Carolina." Amy made a face. What a delightful bunch of kids they were! I had to remind myself they didn't see as a middle-aged person, but as a young woman only four or five years older than they were. As we started eating, I considered my good fortune. I was not just alive again, I was alive and young, but with all the wisdom I'd gained from my fifty-one years as a man named Joe Conover. I was going to kick some ass, too! Once I beat this heroin habit, that is. "We've got a gig tonight with a bunch of other bands over at the NC State campus," Sarah explained. "Moo-U!" said Amy, imitating a cow. "Moo-U!" said all three of them in unison. "So," I said, "all you guys know about North Carolina State is what they told you at Chapel Hill. Yes, it did start out as an agricultural college. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. We're eating agricultural products right now." "She's got a point there," said Sarah, eyeing her egg-ham-cheese biscuit, before taking another bite. "They have a top-rated engineering school too," I continued. "It's a fine school with a broad curriculum. They're not just a bunch of aggies any more." I was a proud alumnus (alumna?) of North Carolina State, but I couldn't bear to tell them that a college graduate had sunk so low as to become a homeless heroin addict. "Looks like your typical college football rivalry," said Amy. "We have them in the Midwest too." "So, what kind of music do you guys play?" I asked. They tried to tell me by mentioning other bands that had influenced them. I knew about the Pretenders, and I'd heard of the Breeders, but didn't know any of the Breeders' songs. Then they mentioned some Japanese girl singer named Mitsuyo, whom I'd never heard of. I'm not even sure I'm spelling that right. Then Amy finally defined their sound in two words, "menstrual rock." The whole table laughed, including me. I finally said, "I like mostly older stuff: The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, Jimi Hendricks." "That's all great stuff, dude," asked Gina, "but aren't you kind of young to be into Classic Rock?" "Maybe." I shrugged again, disguised Baby Boomer that I was. I sipped my McDonald's coffee, and figured out that the teen-speak term "dude" was no longer gender-specific. Amy finished eating first. Picking up her coffee, she announced, "I'll be outside. I'm joe, I mean, I gotta have a cigarette." I knew she was starting to say she was jonesing for a smoke, and I appreciated her last-minute edit job on her words. ### When breakfast was over, I directed the Silly Monkey van to Martin Street in downtown Raleigh, just west of the park. As I said earlier, this was an old section of town where buildings once used as warehouses were starting to fill up with businesses and loft apartments. "Right there on your right, Sarah," I said. "The Metaphysical Store." Sarah pulled the van up the curb, and I got out, thanking the girls profusely all the while. They all got out, too, even yawning Lena, who asked where the hotel was. They all hugged me and wished me luck. I even got a hug from Lena, who called me Shelly, despite Sarah's attempt to introduce us. Amy was the last to get back in the van. "Before I go, Michelle," she said, "I'd like to have some way to get in touch with you later and see how you're doing." "Sure thing." I managed a smile. "You can just write care of the store here. Lillith will get it to me." "That's no bullshit," said Amy. "I will write, 'cause we're all concerned about you. You just get off that fuckin' rig, and you'll be ready to kick some ass." She flashed me a thumbs-up as she got in. I returned the thumbs-up, then waved as they pulled away from the curb. This is one of the strange things about life. You meet people sometimes by chance, and never see them again, but in those few minutes they make an indelible impression, for good or ill. I'll always be grateful to the Silly Monkey girls for the kindness they'd showed to me. It wasn't just the ride and the meal. They had brightened up the very grim first day of my second life. I took a deep breath. It was every middle aged person's dream to be young again, with all the vigor of youth, and your whole life ahead of you to realize your possibilities, but also armed with the experience of fifty years, so you won't make the same mistakes the second time around. And I had been given this unique blessing. It was a truly wonderful thing. The heroin-bomb was still ticking inside me. Defusing it was the most important thing now. Gender issues could wait for another time. Part Two: The Metaphysical Store I turned around and faced The Metaphysical Store. The display window featured several books on subjects that have never interested me (Deepak Chopra and the channeler Lazaris, for instance), and there was a half-off sale on aromatherapy candles. A sign advertised the hours on Sunday afternoon when Lillith would be available for what she called "readings." I was about to share some most peculiar reading matter with her. I walked into the store. It was a Friday morning, perhaps 9 or 10 AM. There was only one customer, a young woman in blue jeans, college-age, carefully studying the bookshelves. A big table in the middle of the room contained the candles that were on sale. Lillith was behind the counter, looking bored. She was about my age; that is, early fifties, the age of my first body, and a bit on the heavy side with ear-length blonde hair. She was wearing a long loose-fitting dress without a well-defined waist. Lillith looked like what she was, a middle-aged hippy. She and I had met once or twice, briefly. I had never thought much of her and she knew it. The phone rang. "Metaphysical Store?" Lillith answered. "No, we do not carry 'The Satanic Bible,' or anything else by LeVey." She looked at me and waved. I guessed she was mistaking me for a regular customer. I stepped up to the counter. "No," she said into the phone, "we don't carry any Satanist items at all." The caller said something. "Because, sir," she said pleasantly, "I have a moral objection to that kind of shit, that's why. Have a nice day, sir." She turned to me like we were old friends. She began the conversation with a whisper, as if she knew how crazy the subject matter would sound to the store's lone customer. "Joe? Joe Conover? Thank the Goddess, you're not dead." I was flabbergasted. She knew who I was and why I was here! I glanced warily at the customer, and replied in a low volume. "Then you know about this?" "Sure. It's my gift. I'm sensing you're glad to be alive, even though you'd rather have come back as a man." "I'm also a sleazy drug addict. I woke up today in a flophouse." "You're a heroin addict." "I know. I found the scars on my arm. I broke my syringe the minute I realized that. I need help, Lillith. I have no place to stay. Nobody's gonna believe I'm Joe Conover, except you. I can't go to my kids, at least, not until I'm over my drug problem and have a job. I've got two hundred bucks in my wallet and the clothes on my back. Then there's the weirdness of coming back as a woman. Lillith, I'm glad to be alive." I started to cry. "But I'm scared. I need help." Lillith stepped around the counter and gave me a hug. Without another word, she led me into the back room and lowered me into the chair in front of her desk. She dried my face. "Just sit tight for a few minutes, Michelle," she said. "I'll phone my roommate Natalie. She has a home office at my house. If she's home, she'll pick you up and take you back there. Later we'll buy you some new clothes. Whew! I suggest you wash your hair today." "Thanks so much, Lillith. I didn't think much of you before now, but I gotta admit, you're the real thing. You even knew I'm going by the name Michelle now." Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "Still think I'm a charlatan?" "Of course not." "I'm not a Gypsy either, Michelle." She snickered. "By the way, nah-nah-nuh-naaa-naaa!" She laughed. She was entitled to a laugh at the expense of my skepticism, so I laughed back. "I just had to get that out of my system," Lillith said. She bent down and kissed me on the forehead. "Now you just hang tight, honey, while I call Natalie. If she's not home, I'll call a taxi for you." "Thanks so much, Lillith." I was feeling very humble at the moment. It was a new feeling. I'd always felt myself to be the equal of every task life had sent my way. Now, however, I was dealing with something absolutely uncanny that had never happened before in the history of mankind. At least, not so far as I then knew. I put my elbows on the desk and buried my face in my hands. I tried to tell myself it was a blessing just to be alive again, but I was starting life over as a homeless, heroin-addicted woman, and the time bomb was still ticking. Lillith's head popped back through the crack in the door. "Good news, Michelle, Natalie was home, and she'll be here in about 30 minutes." "Thanks. In the meantime, can I browse around the store a bit?" "Sure." So I whiled away the next half-hour or so trying to work up some interest in the contents of Lillith's bookshelves. In failed to find any interest in her books on UFO's and alien abduction, or in the endless scavenger hunt for lost Atlantis, or in Tarot, or in astrology. I was looking into a book about angels, and noted with some interest that they had Hebrew names, when I heard the other book-browser step past me. "Loser," she stage-whispered. She was mistaken. I was no loser. I'd just started my next race. My head turned to meet the sound of the door opening. "Michelle, she's here," Lillith called out from her place at the counter. Natalie came into the store, looking bright and cheerful. She had thick wavy hair falling down to her shoulders, dark brown skin and delicate African facial features, with thick cherry-red lips. She was wearing a halter top and low-cut tight blue jeans, showing a slim muscular abdomen. As the kids like to say, Natalie was a hottie. For a moment I felt sadly stuck, once again. Her obvious eagerness to see me brightened my mood at once. She walked rapidly around the aromatherapy table towards me and said, "Ready to go, Michelle?" She hugged me like a sister. It felt good, so I hugged back. She smelled wonderful. I didn't. When we came apart, she made a face, and then showed me her best smile. "Girlfriend, soon as we get you home, you're getting a shampoo." "Don't forget your backpack, Michelle," Lillith called out from behind the counter. She passed it to me across the counter, and we left. In the car on the way home, Natalie and I compared stories. She began with a blunt question. "How old were you when you died?" "Fifty-one. I left two grown kids behind me, and the business I founded with two partners is thriving. Or it was, when I started dying of cancer. Ever heard of ACP Technologies?" "I'm not sure." "My real name is Joe Conover, and the C in ACP stands for me. I was one of the three founding partners. It's one of the fastest growing computer consulting firms in the world. It's still growing, too, despite the famous implosion of the 'dot-com' companies." "I used to be a man named Eric Hopkins. I died when I was nineteen, but the good Lord saw fit to drop me into this body, so now I use 'her' name, Natalie." I gasped. I wasn't the only person this had happened to! "Then you also swapped bodies with someone just at the moment of death?" "Not exactly. God swapped our bodies. The original Natalie was a stripper who spent all her spare time drunk. After I died, I woke up in her body, sharing an apartment with two other strippers who hated me. They liked me even less when I treated them like strangers that morning. I didn't know who they were, and I couldn't understand why I was a woman all of a sudden. I was scared to death." "Me too." "There, see? We have something in common. Now I know I'm not the only one. Fortunately, God made sure you and I got together, so I could introduce you to womanhood." "Then you really do believe God did this to us?" "Not TO us. FOR us, girl." I squirmed a little at hearing myself called "girl." It didn't seem right. This God-talk also made me squirm. For me, G-O-D had replaced S-E-X as the subject a gentleman does not bring up in polite society. Although theoretically a member of a major Protestant denomination, I had seldom attended church, and tended to look upon religion as a convenient way to keep other people from killing each other. God had never seemed real to me. Even when I prayed to God during my last illness, I had no sense that anyone was listening. "Then you're comfortable being a woman?" I asked. "How is that possible?" "That's a long story. I think it's more important right now for us to compare our stories, so we'll both understand why God sent us back into the world as women." "Okay," I said. "How long ago did God swap you?" "Five years. And I tell you what, Michelle, the first year or so was pretty rough, but I'm used to it, now." "Then you turned into somebody else! That's scary, Eric." I used her original male name on purpose. "I'm not Eric any more," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I gasped. I was going to turn into somebody else. Nothing would remain of Joe Conover but a memory. That was very, very wrong. "I know what you're thinking, Michelle. Actually I haven't completely lost Eric. I just started growing in a different direction. Eric's good qualities are still with me." "So tell me Eric's story first." "Okay. When I was a guy, I was what they call a 'playa.' I chased after the ladies and had a long list of sexual conquests, beginning when I was fifteen. But let me clarify one thing. I'm not from the ghetto. My people were middle-class Blacks from upscale Severn County, Maryland. In high school my favorite subject was English. I was an aspiring writer. After high school, I didn't want to go to college right away. I wanted to go out and see something of the world, and get some experience, so I could have something to write about. My dad's brother owned some fast-food franchises, so I came down here to Raleigh and worked in one for a year. I dabbled at writing but I spent most of my time chasing the fillies." "Not realizing you would become one yourself," I put in. She laughed. Her laugh was a brief high-pitched giggle. "Yes, life happens while we make other plans. Anyway, I must have done some girl who had a very jealous boyfriend, 'cause one day three guys grabbed me on the street, threw me into a car, drove me to a dark alley somewhere and beat the shit out of me. Then, when I was lying there helpless and sore, their leader whips out a huge knife and says, 'This is for fuckin' my woman!' Then he rips out my plumbing, the whole works. He got everything, girl, and left me to die there with nothing between my legs but a bloody wound." "That's horrible!" I made a face. "I lost consciousness pretty fast. You know, if you cut a man's penis off, and don't do anything to stop the bleeding, he bleeds to death in a hurry." "Stands to reason. There's a lot of blood vessels in those things." "Now let me get back to my first days as Natalie. I found out from my roommates that I'd just lost my last job for puking on a customer in the middle of a lap dance. Not knowing what to do, I looked up a psychic in the classified ads of one of those weekly papers. I figured a psychic would be the only people who would believe my story. I came up with Lillith's name, and got a reading from her at the store. She agreed to take me in. I moved my stuff out of my ex-roommates' place and into her house. I started working in her store to earn my keep and worked on my writing. My first novel, 'On My Own Case,' was highly autobiographical." "You told your own story as fiction." "Yeah, but instead of becoming a professional writer, the new woman becomes a psychic detective. I had always wanted to write crime fiction, so Melanie Grove solves crimes. Both of my first two novels are about her, and I'm working on the third one now." "Can you actually earn a living at this?" "Not till very recently. Two months ago I sold the film rights to 'On My Own Case' for a hundred thousand dollars." "That's great! When are you gonna get the money?" "I already got it. There's another two hundred thousand coming on 'the first day of principal photography.' That's an industry term." "What if they never make the movie? Will you get that money?" "If they never make the movie, I'll never see the rest of it. That's why, when you sell film rights, what you're actually selling is an 'option' to make a movie. They can still opt not to make it. That's part of the reason I'm still an active writer, instead of a woman of leisure." I was hoping Natalie had a good estate planner and tax accountant. "I think it's wonderful what you've done, Natalie. It's like you just continued working toward the same goal you had when you were a man." "Yeah, but my female characters are a lot more convincing now." She smiled broadly, flashing perfect white teeth. One of her front teeth had a tiny diamond in it. I guessed the original Natalie, the stripper, had it put in. "And I'm sure," I added, "your male characters are better than those of most female authors." "Precisely. Which brings me to the reason why God remade us as women to begin with. He's making good-will ambassadors between men and women. We're better qualified than, say, the guy who wrote those Mars-and-Venus books, because we remember being men and know what men are like more intimately than any born woman." "That's interesting." Like most people, I commonly said, "that's interesting" just to keep the conversation moving, but this time I thought she had a good point. It was a useful purpose for women like Natalie and me. We pulled into the driveway of Lillith's modest two-bedroom house in the North Raleigh suburbs. "Lillith's got an interesting history herself," Natalie added. "You mean Lillith used to be a guy?" "Oh, no." Natalie laughed again as we got out of the car. "I just told you I was the only one I knew about until I met you. Lillith was one of the original hippies from the San Francisco Summer of Love in 1967. She taught me a lot about those times. Oh, but of course you lived through that too, Michelle. I don't have to tell you anything." We started up the walk towards the house. "I'm about her age. I'm an old Baby Boomer too. I wasn't a hippy. I was an activist. There was an important distinction there. A lot of people never figured out the difference." When we got to the front door, Natalie put a sisterly arm on my shoulder and asked, "How are you feeling?" "I'm a bit chilly." She looked at me seriously as she put the key in the lock. "It's August, Michelle. The temperature is in the seventies, and you're wearing a flannel shirt, but you're chilly." "Withdrawal symptoms?" I asked. "Afraid so," she said, opening the door. We stepped inside. "I'm gonna download some information about heroin withdrawal from the Web, so we'll both know what to expect. Be brave, girl. The next few days are going to be rough." Part Three: The Monkey on My Back Natalie took my dirty clothes to the laundry room, while I monopolized the bathroom for the next hour. I took a long, hot shower, shampooing my hair in the process. When I got out of the shower, I felt like I was walking on an iceberg. I was so cold my teeth clattered together and my knees shivered. I wrapped myself in a robe and blow-dried my hair. A few times I opened my robe and massaged my body with hot air in an attempt to keep warm. As I brushed my hair straight, I realized how much I had to learn about female grooming: hair care, makeup, nail polish, matching clothes. how to walk and sit in a short skirt. But, if I was going to be a Lesbian or celibate anyway, how feminine would I need to be? Such were the ideas that were going through my head as I finished drying my hair. Drying my hair didn't take long, because it was barely long enough to cover my ears, with short bangs in the front. It was a low-maintenance style, which I decided to keep. The chills went away as I left the bathroom, still wrapped in Lillith's plus-size robe that overwhelmed my bony frame. My stomach felt tense. I found Natalie in her bedroom, which was also her home office. She was busy at her computer, probably at work on her next novel. She looked up from the screen. "Michelle," she said, "I've got the information now. I don't suppose you have any idea when you last shot up." "No. Michelle Version One was still in this body then." "Version One. That's funny. Hold onto that sense of humor, girlfriend, 'cause you're gonna need it." She spoke gravely, glancing at her monitor screen several times as she explained the symptoms. "You'll be jonesing for a week, maybe longer, depending on how long you used. Your symptoms include drug craving, restlessness, insomnia, cramping, vomiting and diarrhea, cold flashes and kicking with your feet. That's where the expression 'kicking dope' or 'kicking the habit' comes from. Also, you'll have dilated pupils, goose bumps like we've already seen, watery eyes, runny nose, yawning, loss of appetite, tremors, panic attacks, and muscle cramps. Your blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate, and temperature will go up. It'll be most extreme about 48 to 72 hours after your last use." I remembered the day of the week was Friday. "Well, assuming I last shot up yesterday, that means this is gonna be a grim weekend for me." She reached forward and patted me on the shoulder where I was sitting. "We'll help you through this, Michelle." "So you're not going to take me to the hospital?" "I wouldn't expect a homeless junkie to have health insurance." "Good point." I nodded, feeling stubborn. "I can lick this. I know it won't feel the same as dying of cancer, but it can't possibly be worse. Besides, it'll be over in a week." "The longer you've been a user, the longer it's gonna take. You don't know how long the previous owner abused that body you're living in." She took both my hands and looked me in the eyes. "Listen, I'm a recovering alcoholic, so I know what it's like to battle addiction, even though your symptoms are going to be very different. Lillith and I will help you through this." She hugged me. "Lillith and I are on your side for lots of reasons. We'll help you, honey." I could feel the pressure building in my throat. I clapped a hand over my mouth and ran for the bathroom again. Not quite making it, I spewed that half-digested McDonald's breakfast all over Lillith's bathroom floor. ### At breakfast the next morning, I nibbled at my toast and sipped my orange juice in silence for a while. Then Lillith said, "Michelle, honey, you're already seriously underweight, and this heroin withdrawal is going to take a lot of energy. So please, please, eat. Force yourself to eat." I yawned. "Pass the strawberry jam," was all I managed to say. Natalie handed it over. "Get any sleep last night?" "Not a wink." My hands quivered as I spread the jam on my toast. "I knew you didn't sleep," Lillith said. "You didn't touch the bed in the guest room." "Natalie, I want to thank you for being there for me yesterday," I told her. "I really appreciate that." "No trouble at all, girlfriend," said Natalie. "Warm up your coffee?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll want it mostly to warm up my insides." Natalie filled my mug again. "I can see your hands shaking," Lillith observed. "Are the chills just as bad as yesterday?" "No, they're worse. I was shivering all night. Today and tomorrow are going to be my worst days, according to Natalie. Worst for the chills, worst for the shakes, worst for the kicking, worst for everything." I held my mug in shaking hands, and managed to take a sip and put it down again without spilling any. "This is my day to mind the store," said Natalie. "Lillith will be here for you." "That's good. I appreciate that. This is not something I want to face alone." I took a bite of toast and munched it, mulling over my weird situation as I chewed. Joe Conover was now a woman, but deep inside he was still Joe Conover. I was afraid that one day this situation would drive me crazy, but here sitting beside me was Natalie, formerly known as Eric, and she was doing fine. How had she managed to kill the male part of herself? How could I kill mine? Did I have any right to kill it? I was, after all, a father. Unlike Natalie, I had responsibilities to my children even though they were now adults. For Nancy's and Jason's sake, I would have to remain Joe Conover forever, which meant that I would always be stuck in this body. I looked at Lillith over my half-eaten toast, but she spoke first. "I heard the TV on last night. What were you watching?" "I was improving my mind, using the History Channel, the Learning Channel, and various Discover channels. I learned about dinosaurs, ancient Pompeii, the air war in the Pacific in World War Two, and how the Brooklyn Bridge was built." I yawned again. "Are you sleepy, honey?" asked Lillith maternally. "No. The yawning is just a reflex." I was dreading today and tomorrow. ### I spent all day Saturday on the sofa, shivering, my teeth clattering like an old-fashioned telegraph key. Lillith held me while my feet violently kicked the air. I felt panicky a couple of times, and feared I was going to die again. Even when she had lunch, Lillith never left my side. I was shaking too violently to feed myself, so Lillith spooned some vegetable soup down my throat. I was to hold my food now, which was a blessing. The night-times were the most fearful times. Because Lillith and Natalie had to sleep (and had the privilege of being able to do it), I was alone on the sofa while Lillith dozed in the living room's best chair. Something, perhaps her psychic sense, awakened her from time to time to check on me. I tried to get my mind off my misery by watching a marathon of light comedy movies on TV, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. I collapsed into a fitful sleep sometime after 4:00 AM, but woke up shivering two hours later. At Sunday breakfast, I was shaking so bad that Natalie fed me my toast and coffee. Then she got dressed up in her church clothes. "I'll say a prayer for you," she said, using her nicest smile. Lillith watched over me during the morning hours. I was kicking so hard she had to move the coffee table further from the couch. Natalie returned from church, changed into designer jeans, and took the TV remote away from me. "Little bit of Eric is still in there," I joked through my chattering teeth. Laughing, Natalie switched the station to hip-hop videos. In the afternoon, Lillith left to open up the store for her psychic readings. I remained a fixture in the living room, shivering and kicking. Natalie watched videos for a while. Then she went to her room to write, but she checked in on me every fifteen minutes or so. About 3:00 PM the kicking subsided. I still felt chilly, and my arms were covered with goosebumps, but my teeth stopped chattering and my body stopped shaking. I asked Natalie to fix me some lunch. She served me another bowl of vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich, and sat beside me to watch me eat it. "Do you like to read mystery stories?" she asked. "Well," I said diplomatically, "I read a few Sherlock Holmes stories when I was younger." "Because if you can concentrate well enough to read something, I'd like you to try some of my novels." "Okay. Just leave them where I can find them. I just might check them out later this week." So she left two paperbacks sitting on the coffee table for me. In between TV shows, I stared at them and appreciated her entrepreneurial confidence. If she didn't believe in her own stories, who else would? After lunch, I didn't eat that day. Instead, I went to bed at seven o'clock, with an electric blanket turned all the way up. I slept or tried to sleep for the next seventeen hours. I was awakened many times by chills and shivering, by kicking spasms, or by grotesque nightmares that I usually couldn't remember. One that I did remember I had over and over that night: my body (the old male Joe Conover one) was growing cancerous green and purple sprouts shaped like plants or tentacles or clumps of fungi. About noon Monday, I threw on my robe and dragged myself into Natalie's room, where I found her diligently typing away. "When's lunch?" I asked. "Returning appetite," she said, looking up from her monitor. "That's good news. Other than that, how are you feeling?" "Like shit. I can sleep a little bit. I kicked a lot in my bed. I've still got the chills." I sighed. "You know, Natalie, even though I wasn't in this body the last time Michelle Version One shot up, I can understand how hard it is to quit this stuff." I sat down on the corner of her bed. "I have this incredibly intense craving. It's not for food, it's not for water, it's---" "Heroin," she completed. "Your body is begging you for another fix." "Which I won't give it." "God-damn right you won't," said Natalie firmly. "After all, you're the one that stomped on your syringe." "Natalie, what if I've got AIDS or Hepatitis?" "We don't know about that yet. First let's get you through the jones. Then we'll take you in a for a physical and see about the other stuff." "Can Lillith's psychic powers see that stuff in me?" She shook her head. "She can detect symptoms, but she doesn't carry around an electron microscope in her head. She can't see a virus in you." She reached over and patted me on the arm. "Let's get through the withdrawal first, shall we?" "Good idea, Natalie. One problem at a time." She took one of my hands in hers. "You still have the chills," she said, "but at least your hands aren't shaking like they were over the weekend. I'm willing to bet you can make your own sandwich if I show you where everything is." "Yeah, that would be good. I hate to be such a bother." So I made myself a sandwich in the kitchen and ate it. For the afternoon, I turned off the TV for a change and curled up on the sofa with Natalie's first novel, "On My Own Case." It was the story of the man who lay dying, whose life was mysteriously saved when his mind was swapped into a female body. Now known as Melanie Grove, she solved the murder of the man she had once been. I enjoyed reading it. The characterization and details were vivid, and the pacing of the story was smoother. I kept on turning pages mainly to find out how a man who is not a transsexual, not even a casual cross-dresser, adapts himself to the prospect of spending the rest of his life as a woman named Melanie. And midway through, Natalie's novel answered my question. The answer was, don't try to suppress and forget the man you used to be. He'll always be there. Instead, you develop another aspect of your personality, a feminine face you offer to the world. It gets you through the day, and it helps you enjoy being a woman. However, you can still adopt your old masculine attitudes from time to time. In my case, of course, the old me, whose name was Joe, would return when I reunited with my children. I could still be their Dad, even in a female body. But I couldn't go back and see my kids until after I'd gotten my life straightened out, and that would take some time. In the meantime, I would have to learn how to be a woman named Michelle most of the time. At dinnertime, not having much of an appetite, I made myself another sandwich. While I was making myself eat it, I noticed that even though the chills were still there, my kicking spasms were gone. That was real progress. I finished the book Monday evening about 10:00 PM. Once again, I slept only intermittently during the night, but I got up in the morning and started on Natalie's second book. Reading all day and into the evening, I came within a couple of chapters of finishing it, and decided to save some for Wednesday. I finished it Wednesday. In the afternoon, Natalie took a break from her writing to show me some basic grooming techniques: brushing hair, applying lipstick and basic makeup skills. "This weekend, like maybe Sunday after church, we'll go shopping and get you some clothes," she said, very excited. "Oh, you and I are going to be a great pair of girl friends. I just know it!" I spent the rest of the week being chilly and restless and fighting that nameless craving. I spent a lot of time pacing around the house, muttering to myself. Fortunately, I could compose myself enough to do something for perhaps half an hour at a time. I used this time to do household chores, like scrubbing the bathtub and dusting furniture. I also spent some of it writing. I recorded my recollections and feelings of the past few days in an unused notebook that I'd found in the guestroom. These pages are the remote descendants of that little diary. Wednesday evening after dinner, Natalie and I were idly watching the TV news, when I felt like discussing my gender issue with her. "I read your first two books," I said. "Really? Did you like them?" "Yes, the characters were convincing and the plot kept moving." "Oh, thanks! Just wait till you see the third one," she broke in. "I'm going to throw in some truly audacious plot twists." "Excuse me, Natalie, but the main thing that interests me so far is how Melanie learns to accept her womanhood. She realizes she can't get rid of her old identity completely, so she decides to be both. She presents herself to the world as Melanie, but she's got her masculine aspect tucked away in the attic, so to speak, to rely on when she needs it." "When Melanie was a man, his name was Ed," Natalie said. Like any committed author, she always spoke of her fictional characters as if they were real. "I'll try her strategy too," I replied, "but I have to tell you, it feels kind of weird being Joe inside and telling everybody I'm Michelle. That feels weird to me." "You can't tell anybody you're Joe, or it's involuntary commitment for you, girlfriend." "I know, Natalie, but you're not a parent. My kids need me." "How old are they?" "Early twenties. They've both just finished college, but age isn't the whole story, because their mother died only two years before I died of cancer." "That's young to lose both your parents." "I know. I want to be there for them. I don't know how I'm gonna explain it to my son Jason, but I think Nancy will believe me. She's like my wife Linda. She's more open to weird stuff than Jason is. But I still can't go back to them yet, even without the heroin problem." Natalie nodded. "Yes," she said, "it will take some time for you to get used to being a woman." Her face brightened up. "I ought to give you some lessons in how to be girly." She giggled. "We'll have so much fun! If you like, we could start right now." I reached for the remote and switched off the TV. "Okay, Natalie, let's start with something simple, like how to sit down in a dress." "You're on! I have a skirt that I think will fit you." She jumped up from the sofa. "Go to your room and slip out of those jeans. I'll meet you there in a couple of minutes." I went to "my room" (actually the master bedroom which Lillith was sharing with me) and slipped out of my jeans, feeling chilly again. Carrying a skirt on a hanger, Natalie came in and found me naked from the waist down. She laughed. "You didn't have to take your panties off too!" "I don't wear panties under blue jeans. They seem unnecessary somehow." I opened the almost-empty drawer in Lillith's dresser that she had lent to me. I kept a few pairs of panties in it. Some were loaners from Natalie. Lillith's undies were too big for me. "Nothing wrong with that," said Natalie, "but you'll probably want panties during your periods. You're so malnourished, you might miss your next one." "That's okay with me," I said, trying to avoid the unpleasant thought of gooey menstrual blood leaking out of me. I stepped into a pair of panties and pulled them up. I thought of what I now had between my legs, in the place of the organs that had begotten my children. I felt stuck and emasculated, and wondered if this body would ever be truly mine. Bravely telling myself that I had to at least give my new feminine role a try, I pulled on the skirt. Natalie pulled up a wooden chair with an old-fashioned cane bottom. "The number one objective here," Natalie began, "is to avoid flashing your panties to everybody in the room." Her large dark eyes twinkled. She giggled. "Unless, of course, you're seriously trying to get some guy's attention." Natalie and I then began my first lesson in femininity. Walking and sitting in a skirt aren't difficult, really. The main point is to keep your knees together as you sit and stand up. That was easy. Since the age of 13, when I first started looking up skirts, I'd seen many girls do that. But since I like to cross my legs, she had to show me how to do that without flashing. With a little bit of practice, I could neatly lower myself into a seated position and cross my legs at the knee, at the same time using a hand to tuck the hem of the skirt between my knees, so I didn't flash anything. "That was easy, wasn't it, Michelle?" "Yeah." "You're a fast learner. With a makeover and some decent clothes and accessories, you're going to have men breaking their necks as you walk by." I shook my head. "I don't think so, Natalie. I've never been attracted to men. I don't see why that should change now. I'll either be Lesbian or celibate." That amused Natalie. "We'll just have to see how you want to play it. Truth be told, I was attracted to both sexes when I was a guy. I never did anything with men. I was terrified of being queer." She laughed. "I had no idea what was coming up. Now I can have a boyfriend and not feel gay. I'm still attracted to women, but I don't do anything about it. I kind of overdosed on chicks back when I was Eric. I wouldn't want to do anything with one now, anyway, because I would be disloyal to my boyfriend." "You have a boyfriend?" "Lord, yes! He's such a cool guy. He's a librarian. I met him at a book signing. Turns out he was a big fan of my first book. His name is Dewey. Let me show you his picture." She took out her wallet and showed me a picture of herself on a sofa beside a slightly chubby black man with wire-frame glasses and a shaved head. I handed back the picture. "He looks like a nice man, Natalie, but for me the main issue is not whether I'm going to be a Lesbian or a straight woman but whether I can accept being female at all. I didn't ask for this. I'm no transsexual." "You used to work in computers, right?" "Right." "Then you know the difference between hardware and software." "Right." "I learned it when Lillith taught me how to word process. Later I did some reading on brain anatomy and behavior and figured out that brain wiring is the key to the whole process." "Brain wiring?" "Exactly. We have the memories of the men we used to be. That's the software. The old software was deleted and replaced with our files and programs. So I remember being Eric and you remember being Joe. Are you with me so far?" "Yeah." "However, how the brain cells connect with each other is part of the hardware, the brain wiring. We still have women's brains, and they're wired to operate a woman's body. I felt stuck in this body at the beginning, but over time, the feedback my female-wired brain gave me changed my whole orientation, so I feel at home in this body now. I don't miss being a man any more, even though I think it's really cool that I used to be one." "So basically, Natalie, what you're saying is, a human being's personality isn't just memories and thoughts and feelings, it's also partly anatomy. Just like a slow motherboard would make even a very efficiently written program, optimized for speed, run slower." "Precisely." "I don't know whether that'll work with me, Natalie. Here I am sitting here in a skirt, with my knees crossed like a proper young lady, but I feel like a cross-dresser who's had his penis cut off." She looked at me sympathetically. "Michelle, honey, a lot has been taken away from us, but we need to make the best of what we've got. After all, we didn't choose to be men the first time around, did we?" "No." Natalie shook her head. "I'll admit my first year wasn't easy. Then I figured out it wasn't an either-or thing. I didn't have to either become Eric again or totally forget about him." "You're androgynous," I said. "Precisely." "Maybe I ought to change my name to Michelle Josephine Toomey so people can still call me Jo," I said with a grin. Natalie missed the joke. "What's your middle name now?" "Amanda." "That's a nice name, but it's getting overused." ### On Friday morning I awoke feeling very strange, but in a good way. I wasn't kicking. I wasn't shivering. I wasn't restless. I wasn't consumed by an unnamed craving. I was over my jones. I was well. I looked up at the ceiling and whispered, "Thank you, God!" I threw the covers off, pulled on my blue jeans and a tee shirt, and ran to the breakfast table to share the good news. Lillith looked up from putting jam on a bagel and said, "Is the house on fire?" "No!" I said, almost shouting. Natalie put down her coffee mug and beamed her brightest smile at me. She had already guessed the good news. "Natalie, Lillith, I'm not sick any more. I beat it!" They jumped up from the table and surrounded me with the