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Please Wake Up, Mary By Chris Dyr Katz Alan awoke in a hospital room. His chest and arms were heavily bandaged, his jaws were wired together, and he was tied to the bed. An attractive female doctor explained that he'd had a serious accident, and he was in recovery. The doctor was friendly and comforting, except that she called him "Mary." Then the doctor calmly explained what Alan's "recovery" would involve. To his horror, Alan understood why she called him "Mary," and the good doctor became much less comforting, and much, much more terrifying. *** "Please wake up, Mary." I could barely hear the woman's voice. My ears and head were stuffed with cotton wool, and her words had just barely made it through the barrier. Once they did, they rattled around in the empty space where my brain used to be. I was somewhere between awake and asleep. I was conscious enough to wonder if this was a dream, but looped enough that I didn't care. All in all, it was not an unpleasant experience. The woman's voice was beautiful: husky and sexy, feminine but not screechy. I wanted to meet her, in my dream if not in reality. Or had I met her last night? I tried backing up to my last memory, but I hit a blank wall. I was sufficiently zonked that none of that bothered me. But I was conscious enough to ask myself who was Mary, and could I work her into my dream as well? I realized this TV show was audio-only, so I opened my eyes. I was rewarded with a dazzling white glare. After a moment the glare faded into fuzzy shapes. The nearest shape was surrounded by a glowing halo. The fuzzy shapes weren't surprising; obviously I was not wearing my coke-bottle-bottom glasses. But a shape with a glowing halo was new. The shape might have been the woman with the sexy voice. Or it might have been a refrigerator. I hoped for the former. "Oh good. You're in a hospital, Mary. You had an accident, but you're going to be okay." Huh? Something did not compute, not even for a dream. I reflexively started to shake my head to clear it. Talk about stupid moves! I thought my first frat party hangover had broken me of that habit. But my head just barely moved. I tried moving my arms. No joy either. I dimly remembered a (former!) girlfriend who spouted new age psychobabble about "near death experiences" and "alien-abduction waking-paralysis dream states." Then my higher brain functions kicked in, and I recalled the words "accident" and "hospital." I realized the glowing figure was probably a nurse or a doctor, and not an angel of death or a rabid ET. I tried to speak, but I choked on something. "Don't talk, dear. You have a breathing tube in your throat. We put your arms in restraints so you won't pull it out. That's standard hospital procedure. Don't be alarmed, Mary; it's for your own protection. You were badly hurt, but you'll make a full recovery. Relax now, dear, we need to prep you for another operation." Then the fuzzy shape reached for something behind my head, and the lights started to dim. My last conscious thought was, "Who is Mary?" *** I woke up suddenly. I recalled a glowing figure with a sexy voice talking about hospitals and accidents, but I didn't know if that was real or a dream. Just in case it was real, I kept my eyes shut, and I slowly moved my arms and legs. No luck. After some experimentation, I concluded that I was lying flat on my back, with my arms at my sides. My wrists, waist, ankles, and forehead were tied in place. I could move them a fraction of an inch, but that was all. I tried swallowing, and I discovered something in my mouth, probably a breathing tube. My mouth was open, but I could not move my lower jar at all. I'd heard about "jaws wired together." This must be what it felt like. So far, everything matched what the dream voice told me. The wrist and waist restraints I could understand; the hospital used those when my mother was on a breathing tube. But they hadn't restrained her head or legs. I decided to risk opening my eyes. I got a white glare, but it quickly faded into an image of a hospital room. My head was elevated, so I could see more than the ceiling. A bed sheet covered me from the waist down, but I saw leg-sized lumps in the right places. My chest and arms were wrapped in thick bandages, and I could see more bandages on my nose and cheeks. That must be the "bad accident" that the dream voice had mentioned. On my left, several drip bags fed a tube that went under the sheet, and, I assumed, to an IV. I saw the end of the breathing tube coming out of my mouth, but it wasn't connected to a ventilator. I felt some tightness in my chest, but otherwise I didn't feel any pain. I wiggled my hands and feet, and the sheet moved as expected. Success! My major body parts were still attached and functional. I faced a large window with a view of a sunlit forest. Under the window, a table held several flower bouquets. Two had helium balloons ordering me to "Get Well!" and "Come Home Soon!" I didn't see another bed, nor did I see the window-wall of an ICU. Thanks to Internet downsizing, I'd lost my programming job two months ago. I knew their health insurance still covered me for the next four months, but I didn't know that they'd pay for a private room. I'd never been a patient before, but I was no stranger to hospitals. My mom died of cancer last year, and my dad died of complications after a triple bypass the year before that. My room was far nicer than theirs. Their windows had overlooked airshafts, and they'd had complaining roommates who were visited by an endless stream of obnoxious relatives. In their rooms, I could hear a steady dim of background hospital noises. By contrast, my room was absolutely quiet. However, I was amazed that my room did not have a TV. Every hospital I'd seen, no matter how low budget, had a TV mounted over every bed. Another difference: when my mother was in restraints, the nurse had taped the call button to her hand. I couldn't feel one. What was I to do in an emergency? I couldn't see a phone either, but maybe it was out of my view. My bladder didn't feel full, and I wondered if they'd stuck a catheter up my dick. I couldn't feel one, but my dad had told me he didn't feel his either. Unfortunately he coded and died an hour later. I hoped that wasn't an omen. Just how long had I been here? A day? A week?? A month??? My last memory before the not-quite-a-dream was trying to pickup a very attractive redhead at a dance club. I remembered drinking with her, dancing with her, leaving with her, and then... nothing. That had been a Thursday in late August. The trees outside the window were still lush and green, so I guessed it had been few days to a week. I also wondered who'd sent the flowers. I'm an only child, my parents are dead, my grandparents died before I was born, and if I have any other relatives, my parents never mentioned them. I've had several girlfriends, but they were the sunny-day kind, not the in-sickness-or- in-health kind. I wasn't close enough to my former co-workers or other acquaintances for any of them to send flowers. I was two years out of Georgia Tech, but I hadn't kept in touch with my fraternity brothers. Besides, those bozos would never send me flowers. Beer in an IV bag, yes. But flowers? No way. Another oddity: I could see clearly even though I wasn't wearing glasses. I'm so nearsighted that anything more than a foot from my nose is a blur. Without my glasses, I shouldn't have been able to recognize the balloons, let alone read them. On top of that, things seemed larger and oddly proportioned. It was like looking at the world through a telephoto lens. I was reminded me of my brief attempt to wear contacts: not bad, but disorienting. Unfortunately, I was allergic to the disinfectant, so I had to go back to my nerd glasses. While I was trying to sort all this out, a woman strode into the room. She was medium height and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun. Her baggy white lab coat couldn't hide her trim figure or her shapely legs. Instead of scrubs, she wore a short-skirted but professional- looking gray suit, a pale blue blouse, shear black stockings and black heels. She looked 45, but she was still attractive, in a motherly sort of way. Not my mother, mind you. I thought of Mrs. Sarah Murphy, the mother of my high school buddy, Ralph. Mrs. Murphy was one foxy older lady, and she inspired many of my teenage fantasies. This woman pulled a stool over to my bed, sat down, opened a metal clipboard, and flashed me a big smile. "Welcome to the Whitestone Institute, my dear! I'm Dr. Alice Pritchard, the director." Yes! That was the same sexy voice I'd heard before. So that wasn't a dream after all. I've read about patients falling in love with their doctors. I'm a 5' 7" computer nerd, not a 6-foot-plus steroid-popping football jock, but I'm in good shape for my size, and I've been told I'm good looking. And I have a life outside of computers. I even know how to dance the traditional stuff: waltz, foxtrot, lindy, rumba, samba and so forth. That was my dad's advice for how to meet girls. It worked in his day, and it worked for me. I frequented several dance clubs, and I never lacked for female companionship. Some of my partners had even suggested that I consider competitive ballroom dancing. I didn't because that would be too much work, I'd have to stick with one partner, and, let's face it, the public stereotype is that competitive male ballroom dancers are gay. From what I'd seen, that stereotype was justified. I wondered if Dr. Alice would consider a younger man. Or would she find that too much of a cliche? "I'm sure you're wondering what's happened to you," she continued. "You can't talk, of course, but I'll answer what I expect are your top questions. To start off, Mary, you've been here a week." Eureka! I'd guessed right. But why was she calling me Mary? "Your next question is why am I calling you Mary, isn't it? Yes, I know you used to be Alan Taylor. But Alan died when you were admitted. From now on, you're Mary Fisher." Say what?? This did not make sense. When Dr. Pritchard first welcomed me, the score changed to "Reality 6, Dreamers 0." But now the Dreamers had possession of the ball, and they were on Reality's one-yard line. "Yes, dear, I know this is confusing," she said as she scooted closer and stroked my hair, "so I'll be brief. You've heard of white slavers, I'm sure. To put it bluntly, I'm a white slaver, and you're my newest slave." The Dreamers scored a touchdown and made the conversion. What the hell was going on here? I stared at her. If my jaws weren't wired together, I would have had the dumbest look in the world on my face. She sighed and frowned. "That's not my only job, of course, and I'm not proud of it. But it is a very profitable sideline, and it keeps the Institute solvent. Yes, I know what you're thinking: white slavers target young women. But I'm specialized. I take straight men, turn them into she-males, and sell them to a select clientele. Oh... you do know what a she-male is, don't you? That's a person who has the outward appearance and secondary sex characteristics of an attractive woman -- large breasts, narrow waist, wide hips, no facial or body hair, etc. -- but who is genetically male and has male sex organs." Oh shit! The Dreamers just won the superbowl. And I didn't even see the cheerleaders shake their booty at halftime. Yes, I knew about she- males. I'd seen them at dance clubs, and, after one embarrassing encounter, I became an expert at spotting them. They didn't bother me; my philosophy is live-and-let-live. A few were pathetic. Imagine a 250- pound body, stuffed into a tight miniskirt and a tighter top, ham-sized legs packed into fishnet stockings, teetering on spike-heeled boots. Then finish off the look with a bad wig, worse make-up, and five o'clock shadow worthy of Homer Simpson. But transvestites like that didn't last long at the clubs. Most knew how to make themselves look attractive enough to pass for women, at least in dim light. The passable ones were accepted, and they found men who would dance with them. I normally didn't, but that's because I regard dancing as a means to an end, and another guy was not the end I had in mind. But I'd dance with an attractive tranny if I didn't have any other prospects. Of course, I'd make sure that he/she/it/whatever (yes, I know most prefer "she," but that set my teeth on edge) knew that dancing cheek-to-cheek was not an option. This had be a dream, didn't it? I wondered what perverted part of my brain was inventing this whacked-out fantasy. My image of Dr. Pritchard morphed from Mrs. Robinson in "The Graduate" into Nurse Ratched from "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest." "That's the bad news," she said. "The good news is that you will retain your penis and testicles. Remember, your new owner wants a she-MALE. Of course, to feminize the rest of your body, we'll administer hormones that will shrink your penis and testicles, but that's no worse than what happens when you go swimming in cold water. But never fear, thanks to Viagra, you will still be able to achieve an erection and have an orgasm. You may even be able to ejaculate. When your new owners permit it, of course." "Enough already! Wake up!" I yelled at myself, but with no luck. I would have pinched myself, but I couldn't move my hands. And then the explanation hit me. My boss at Runnamuka Multimedia had been a giggling twit named Max Oliffant. Yes, he was a brilliant programmer, but he was a rotten manager. He was the type of short, fat, obnoxious geek who gave the rest of us nerds a bad name. He'd gotten into D&D at age 12, and he'd never outgrown it. In high school, the acne monster had scored an excellent hit on his face. Maybe even on the rest of his rotund body, but that was an image I did not want in my head. Max loved the SciFi Channel's "Scare Tactics." He'd waste half of a meeting rehashing the latest episode. He'd go to their web site and try to setup people on his shitlist. He thought up new ideas for the show, he described them to us, he told us how many times he'd submitted them to the producers, and he told us how pissed off he was that they'd ignored his suggestions. In my opinion, the producers were exercising uncharacteristically good judgment. Max must have finally gotten Scare Tactics to set someone up: me! After he laid me off, I was fair game. Did he write this skit as well? It was his sort of perverted idea. I decided to go along with the gag. I did my best to look terrified, and I grunted through my breathing tube as if I were in distress. I wondered where they'd hidden the cameras. Alice stroked my hair again. "Yes, my dear, I know this is a tremendous shock. But your life as Alan is over. Please accept that. You have a new life now, as Mary. It can be a good life, if you let it. Please do, Mary; it will be so much easier if you cooperate with us instead of fighting us." God, she was a good actress! She was the perfect image of a mother comforting her daughter. I did my best to make sobbing-like noises through the tube. She continued to comfort me until I quieted down. Then she gave me a serious look. "Mary, I want to be very clear about this: escape is impossible. Even if you get out of the Institute, you still can't escape." Alice, or whatever her name was, switched to stern-mother-lecturing- child mode as she ticked off the points. Wow, was she good! "First, we've reported Alan Taylor as dead. His funeral was yesterday. It was a lovely funeral, although only a few Institute staffers came. Incidentally, we buried a homeless addict who died of an overdose. The funeral was probably the nicest thing that ever happened to him. "Second, there are no fingerprints or DNA on file for Alan Taylor, except what we've provided. So there's no way you can prove that you used to be Alan. "Third, the Whitestone Institute is a well-known and highly respected medical facility, and I'm a prominent member of the community. No one will believe that we would be involved in white slavery. "Fourth, the Institute now has a complete medical history on Mary Fisher, including your birth records and your DNA and fingerprints. Our records say that you're an intersexual with paranoid delusions." She blinked and switched to professorial-lecture mode. "Oh yes... an intersexual is someone with the characteristics of both sexes, without being exclusively one or the other. It's not as uncommon as you might think: about one person in 2,000 is intersexual. You don't notice them because intersexual people rarely advertise their status. Instead, they pass themselves off as one sex or the other." I was impressed. Someone had put a lot of work into this scenario. Was fat Max this creative? I wanted to laugh so badly that I was afraid I'd bust a gut. Instead I made a whimpering noise and tried to look scared. The fake doctor switched back to stern-mother-lecturing-child mode and continued, "Fifth, we've implanted a control device in your body. Never mind where. It's small, it won't show up on x-rays and it won't trigger a metal detector. If you stray more than a few miles from our transmitter at the Institute, you'll feel dizzy and weak. That's your warning. If you don't return quickly, the device will put you into what seems like a coma. That won't cause any permanent damage; you'll come out of it when someone brings you back within range. Your new owners will get a transmitter, of course. For trips, your owners will carry a portable unit, which will broadcast for a limited time." Good Lord! The detail was astounding! I opened my eyes wide to simulate shock as she continued to tick off points. "And finally, the control unit can administer pain on command. Mary, I hate to do this, but I've learned that there's no substitute for an actual demonstration." With that, she pulled what looked like a TV remote control out of her coat pocket, and pushed a button. I was in agony! It was as if someone squeezed my waist and hips in one vise, crushed my balls in another, and stuck a red-hot poker up my ass, all at the same time. I'd never felt pain like that before in my life! Even with the restraints, my body convulsed up from the bed. I made a gagging noise, and then, mercifully, the lights went out. *** I came to suddenly, gasping and sweating. Dr. Pritchard and a nurse were standing over me. Both looked worried. Dr. Pritchard said, "I'm very sorry, Mary! I forgot it was set on medium instead of mild. But now you know what it can do. I hope you'll be a good girl from now on. Do I have your promise, Mary? I don't want to use this again." I involuntarily cringed as she held out the remote control. God, did that hurt! I nodded as best I could. She smiled, dismissed the nurse, put the remote back in her pocket and sat down again. "That's a good girl, my dear Mary. Now I know we'll get along." I nodded, but I was furious. When this skit was over, I was going to punch her lights out. And then I was going to punch out Max. Or, better yet, I was going to sue her, Max, the SciFi Channel and the Scare Tactics producers for every dime they had! Plus the quack doctor they'd hired to wire me up to that shock device. What the hell did those idiots at Scare Tactics use for brains? A good scare is one thing, but that was way over the top! Then nagging doubts started to gnaw away at my righteous rage. This was too much for a gag. The folks at Scare Tactics weren't idiots; they had to know they'd get sued if they went this far. Then I noticed other inconsistencies. I could believe that they'd bandage me and tie me to a hospital bed, but they'd actually wired my jaws. That was too much for a gag. They'd really put that breathing tube down my throat. I know intubation is a common procedure, but it's still risky, and no ethical doctor would do it for a joke. And the few Scare Tactics episodes I'd seen had been cheesy, low-budget productions with cheap, dimly lit sets. This set was classy and must have cost a bundle. Could Dr. Pritchard actually be a white slaver? Was she hell-bent on turning me into a she-male freak and selling me to some pervert? As I began to acknowledge that this nightmare might be REAL, my vision grayed out at the edges. I heard an alarm beep behind me. That was replaced by a roaring noise, and then I went deaf. The nurse rushed back in as Dr. Pritchard jumped up. I felt very strange. Part of me was standing at the foot of my bed, dispassionately observing the festivities as if they were a TV drama. Another part of me was lying on the bed, just barely conscious. My outside observer part wondered if this was an out-of-body experience. My panic-stricken part didn't give a shit. After a while, my two parts merged, and my hearing returned in time to hear Dr. Pritchard say, "Welcome back, Mary! You had us worried. You must have had a mild panic attack. I know this is strange and frightening, Mary, but please stay with us. We can give you tranquilizers if we must, but those will dull your thinking. I need you to focus on what's happening." She paused for a moment, as if debating what to say next. "Perhaps this will help, Mary. We've been giving you female hormones for a week now. Those hormones are essential to the feminization process, of course. A side effect is that they will make you more emotional. That's natural. Don't be scared of those emotions, my dear. Learn to let them out without being terrified by them. Cry if you feel like it. You're a girl now, Mary; you're allowed to cry." Christ! So now I was going to get PMS? Fuck that shit! Yeah, I was emotional; I was furious. So she claimed that I couldn't escape? Maybe not, but if I couldn't, I resolved to take this loony bitch to hell with me. But for now, I sniffled and pretended to go along with her. I studied the nurse. She was a looker, with rich shoulder-length black hair and a body that wouldn't quit. She was tall and lanky, and she looked strong and capable, but she also looked very feminine and almost elfin. She looked like she could reassure a nervous patient or manhandle an unruly one. She reminded me of another teenage fantasy, Diana Rigg as Mrs. Peel in "The Avengers." Something was out of place, though. Then I realized that she wore a old style nurse's uniform: a knee-length white dress, white stockings, white oxfords, and a stiff white cap pinned to her hair. When I'd visited my parents, all the nurses wore colored scrubs. I'd never seen a nurse in a dress, let alone a cap. But there was nothing traditional about this nurse's uniform. True, it was knee-length, high-necked, and long-sleeved, but a traditional uniform was stiff cotton, and was starched until it could stand up by itself. This uniform was tight spandex, and it showed off her lush figure to perfection. She could certainly restore a male patient's will to live. But I hoped she didn't wear that on the cardiac ward. The geezers would drop like flies, although they'd die happy. Dr. Pritchard smiled and said, "Nurse Smithfield is pleasing on the eyes, isn't she? She'll be your nurse. Many of our patients prefer to see a nurse in a traditional dress and cap. Our other nurses won't wear dresses, but Nurse Smithfield will do it for her patients, won't you, my dear?" Nurse Smithfield looked embarrassed. After a moment she quietly said, "Of course, Doctor. I always do everything you ask. For our patients, of course." She made a nervous movement that was somewhere between a curtsey and a bow. Alas, her voice was a high-pitched squeak. She sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium. Her looks might be a 10, but her voice was a 1. "Emily was one of my first subjects," Dr. Pritchard explained. "Her face and figure turned out perfectly, didn't they? However, I made a mistake when I adjusted her voice, so I've kept her at the Institute instead of selling her. But don't worry, Mary. I've perfected my technique since then." Dr. Pritchard paused and smiled at Emily. Emily nervously glanced from me to Dr. Pritchard. She looked even more embarrassed. Finally Dr. Pritchard said, "That will be all for now, Emily." "Thank you, Doctor." Nurse Smithfield turned to me and softly squeaked, "Welcome to the Institute... Mary. And welcome to our sisterhood." She gave Dr. Pritchard another nervous glance, and then added, "I hope everything works out for you." Then she gave me another half-curtsey and left the room. I was stunned. Had Dr. Pritchard really turned some hapless guy into that feminine creature? I watched Nurse Smithfield wiggle her shapely butt as she walked away. Yes, she was tall, but she looked all-girl. Except for the voice, she was gorgeous. I thought I was good at spotting trannies, but I'd never have figured her for one. Was I going to look like her? Was I going to walk like that? I realized I was thinking of Nurse Smithfield as a "her." That bothered me; I never thought of a tranny as a "her." Would I start thinking of myself as a "her?" Or was Dr. Pritchard just playing head games with me? I had no proof that Nurse Emily Smithfield was anything other than a beautiful woman who could fake a squeaky voice. I tapped back into my anger. Dr. Pritchard sat down again and said, "At this point you're probably wondering, 'Why me?' It's simple. You're the right age and size. You're good looking and you have some of the skills the buyer requested. You're unattached, so no one will raise a fuss about your death. Don't take it personally, my dear. It's just business." I gritted my teeth, or I would have if my jaws weren't wired together. It was annoying to hear her talk like that. So she thought this was "just business?" I resolved to "just business" her. "Your buyers have a number of very specific requirements," Dr. Pritchard continued, "and your sale is contingent on you satisfying them. For that, we will require your full and complete cooperation." She paused and gave me an evil grin worthy of a shark eyeing a swimmer. "If you're as bright as your record shows, right now you're thinking, 'Great! I won't cooperate so she can't sell me. How could she be that stupid!'" I tried to keep my face expressionless, but she'd nailed me. "I'm not that stupid, Mary. For one thing, there's always this." She pulled out the remote pain control, and I shuddered involuntarily. "But I have something that's even more persuasive. It the original buyer won't accept you, we'll treat you as... shall we say... a factory reject. To recover our expenses, we'll sell you to the highest bidder. The most likely buyer is a large mining operation in Africa. They have thousands of workers confined to remote camps for months at a time, and the workers need... distractions. The camp managers find she-males more cost effective than genetic women. She-males usually survive a few months longer." I gulped, and Dr. Pritchard moved in closer to my face before she continued. "They will insist on a few changes, though. We'll have to cut your Achilles tendons, so you can't walk, and sever your vocal cords, so you can't complain. It would be easier to silence you by cutting out your tongue, but you'll need that. I'm sure you know why." She sat back and paused. I was stunned. Outrageous as her story sounded, for the first time since she walked into my room, I accepted what she said as the absolute truth. It scared the shit out of me. Her face softened and she said, "Mary, right now you're probably thinking that I'm an evil bitch. But I'm not. I'm just a businesswoman who's trying to survive. I don't want to sell you to that mining camp. I want to convince you that whatever your buyer has in store for you, it's better than the alternatives, so it's in your best interest to cooperate with me to satisfy your buyer." She sighed. "I know it's too early to expect your agreement, my dear. You've been through a lot today, and you need your beauty sleep. I'll discuss your buyer's requirements tomorrow. But before I leave, I'll explain what we've done since you were admitted. We started with LASIK surgery to correct your vision to 20/20. After all, my dear, guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses. And we certainly want you to be a girl at whom guys will make passes!" She chuckled at her joke. I felt like throwing up. Did she think I'd find that funny? "Next, your face was too angular and masculine. To correct that, we gave you a nose job and cheek implants. Your jaw was too square, so we broke it and reset it into a more rounded shape. That's why your lower jaw is wired in place. When you heal, your face will look softer and more feminine. That also means your old friends will never recognize you, and your old dental x-rays will be useless for identification. "You didn't have body-builder muscles, of course -- otherwise we never would have taken you -- but your arms, shoulders, chest and legs were still too heavily muscled for our purposes. We removed much of that musculature, which explains the bandages on your arms. Muscle reduction surgery is a technique that I've perfected. You've never heard of it because there's very little demand for it, outside of a specialized clinic like this, and, for obvious reasons, we don't publicize it. "150 pounds is fine for a guy, but that's far too much for a girl. You need to lose at least 30 pounds. You've already lost 10, thanks to the muscle reduction surgery. We've been feeding you intravenously, and will continue to do so until you make your target weight. "Your figure needs a lot of work. Your measurements were 38-34-36. That's great for a guy, but terrible for a girl. We want you to be 36- 27-38, so you can fit into a standard size 6 dress." She smiled and paused, as if waiting for me to react. What the hell did she expect? Was I supposed to be happy to learn my new dress size? I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea of "muscle reduction surgery." I'd worked like hell to get those muscles! After a moment, she patted my hand and laughed. "I'm sorry, Mary! I forgot that you wouldn't get that joke. There is no such thing as a 'standard' dress size, my dear! Every designer has his or her own size chart. You'll find that out the first time we take you shopping. But if you're 36-27-38, you can find stylish dresses that fit you properly. Of course, they may be labeled as anything from size 2 to size 10, so you may have to try on a lot of outfits to find ones that fit. Welcome the girl's club, dear. "Sorry for the lecture, Mary, but this is important. Barbie dolls and Pamela Anderson to the contrary, a normally proportioned, medium-sized woman's bust should be an inch or two smaller than her hips, and her waist should be 10 or 11 inches smaller. "That means your hips are actually too small, but that's easily corrected. We've had you on female hormones since you were admitted, and those will encourage your body to deposit fat on your hips. If not, we'll give you hip implants. "We need to shrink your waist by seven inches. Diet, exercise and liposuction should accomplish that. "The muscle reduction took an inch off your chest, and weight loss should get your chest down to 36 inches." She paused. "Unfortunately, Mary, that's not good enough. We want you to have a 36-inch bust. That includes your breasts, dear. Your chest must be at least three inches smaller. If your chest were 36 inches, then any dress that fits you on top would be far too big in the waist and hips, and would hang on you like a sack. That won't do, my dear! You must be able to wear clingy, body-conscious fashions. "The only way to shrink your chest is to modify your bone structure. Therefore we removed a short section from each side of your ribs and joined the ends. We also removed your lower ribs completely. The result is that your ribcage is now at least three inches smaller. I won't kid you, Mary, that was major surgery, and it could have had serious complications. But you pulled through it, and your ribs are healing nicely. You may find it harder to breathe at first, because of your lungs have been compressed, but you'll adapt. You'll never run a marathon, but that won't bother your new owners." Oh my God! They'd restructured my ribcage, and yet she described it as calmly as if she'd trimmed my fingernails? The shear nerve of this woman was appalling. The outside observer part of me wondered how much all this surgery cost, and who in their right mind would be willing to pay that much for me. Unfortunately, the answer was disgustingly obvious: nobody in their right mind would pay that much. These buyers had to be even loonier than Dr. Pritchard. "Finally, we performed a vasectomy, and we burned off all your body hair with a laser. We also started you on female hormones, and implanted your control device, of course. Don't worry about elimination. A catheter is collecting your urine, and you haven't eaten solid food for a week, so you won't have to empty your bowels. "Good night, Mary. I'll see you tomorrow morning. Pleasant dreams." With that, she left. I wanted to scream, "Pleasant dreams my ass, you bitch!" but obviously I couldn't. I just lay there, staring out the window. Everything that happened since I woke up ran through my head over and over again, like a video clip on infinite repeat. Her clinical recitation of what she'd already done to me was horrifying. I didn't want to think about what was coming next, but I had a sickening feeling that a "boob job" was in my future. Much as I hated to admit it, I believed everything she'd said. It was just to weird not to be true. And if she was telling the truth, then, unpleasant though it may be, it was in my best interest to cooperate with her. I couldn't see a clock. It got darker outside the window, but other than that, I don't know how long I lay there stewing. I was sure that was part of Dr. Pritchard's plan to break me down. But knowing that didn't make it easier to take. My outside observer examined my situation logically, and concluded, "Alan, old friend, you can't move or talk, and you're recovering from major surgery. You're stuck for now. Relax. Sleep. Cooperate until you're healed and they let you move around. Then strike. Escape if you can. If you can't, kill yourself, and take some of them with you." Meanwhile my animal brain was screaming, "GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! NOW!!" My outside observer tried to reason with my animal brain. Alas, Vulcan I'm not. My animal brain ignored logic, and it just kept screaming. Some time after nightfall, Nurse Smithfield entered. She sat down next to the bed, pulled the sheet back enough to expose my right hand, and she clasped her hands around mine. Mercifully, my animal brain shut up so I could listen to her. "Alan, I am so sorry that this is happening to you," she said in her soft squeak of a voice. "I know you must think that Dr. Alice is evil incarnate. But she's not, not really. In her mind, she's helping us. She thinks of herself as an animal breeder, and we're her animals. She loves us, in her own strange way. Yes, she'll sell you, but she would like to see you go to a good home." She paused, licked her lips, and tossed her head to make her hair swirl for a moment. I realized that those were typically female gestures. Did Dr. Pritchard teach her those? Would I have to learn those too? While I was recoiling from that thought, a part of me noticed that although her hair moved freely, her white nurse's cap stayed firmly attached to the top of her head. I wondered how she accomplished that piece of female magic, and wondered if I'd have to learn that skill as well. "I've seen Dr. Alice deal with a number of... subjects," she continued. "The ones who cooperated ended up with a better life than they might have otherwise had. Granted, Dr. Alice forced them into a life they would never have picked for themselves, but I think they are better off for her intervention. Certainly that's been true for me." I contemplated that. Okay, my life had been in the crapper lately: I was unemployed, I'd struck out on all my job prospects, I'd blown through my inheritance, I had no close friends, and, unless Dr. Pritchard was lying, no one came to my funeral. On top of that, my parents and grandparents had all died before turning 50, so the odds were against my living to a ripe old age. But shit! That did not give Dr. Pritchard the right to kidnap me, turn me into a freak, and sell me into slavery! Nurse Smithfield stood up and said, "Well, good night, Mary. I have to call you that from now on; it's part of Dr. Pritchard's method. I'll give you a sedative now; I'm sure you're too keyed up to sleep without one." She injected something into my IV and added, "See you in the morning, Mary." Then the lights went out again. *** I woke up recalling one damn weird dream about a hospital. Then I heard a sexy voice say, "Good morning, Mary." I opened my eyes to see Dr. Pritchard sitting by my bed, and everything came flooding back. Before I could stop myself, I made a whimpering-like noise through my breathing tube. "Mary, I know this is tough," she said as she stroked my hand, "but it will get better. And I know you must be hungry. You'll have to get used to that, my dear. Girls are always hungry. It's the price we pay for looking beautiful." I hadn't felt hungry before, but once she mentioned it, I was ravenous. Damn her! At least that snapped me out of my whimpering funk and let me tap back into my anger. "As I promised, this morning I'll read your buyers' requirements. But first you need to learn more about the Whitestone Institute. The Institute is a full hospital -- we have an ER, OR, cardiac unit, obstetrics, pediatrics, psych ward, and so forth -- but the core of the Institute is the Whitestone Gender Identity Clinic. I'm in charge of the GIC. On paper, I'm also the head of the entire Institute, but I've delegated most of those responsibilities to my staff, so I can concentrate on the GIC. "The GIC's mission is to help intersexed persons cope with life. The outside world insists on seeing everyone as exclusively male or female. That won't change in our lifetimes, so most intersexed persons must decide whether they wish to live as a male or as a female. Through counseling, training, medicine and surgery, the GIC helps patients present their chosen gender to the outside world. While the GIC sometimes does 'sex changes,' that's not what most of our patients want or need. Most of our patients don't want to change their plumbing; they just want to change their external appearance so they can pass for male or female in society." She paused. Then she smiled and said, "I'm sorry, my dear. I forgot that you couldn't ask questions. I'm used to lecturing, and that's a hard habit to break. The GIC isn't secret. It's well known within the Institute, and it's known worldwide to doctors who work with intersexed patients. However, for obvious reasons, we don't advertise the GIC to the general public or to the local community. "Financially, the GIC is a small part of the Institute. Insurers don't cover the GIC's services, and few of our patients are wealthy, so the GIC isn't a profit center. Nevertheless, the GIC is the core of the Institute, and the rest of the Institute exists primarily as a cover for the GIC. Because the rest of the Institute exists, patients can come to the Institute without everyone knowing that they are GIC patients. Also, the rest of the Institute subsidizes the GIC. "Again, Mary, I apologize for lecturing you, but this is critically important. Everyone at the Institute knows that the GIC helps patients with ambiguous sexual organs pass as normal males or females. But only a handful of people know about my white slavery sideline. As I said yesterday, I'm not proud of that, but it generates a lot of revenue, and helps keep the GIC afloat. "Soon you'll be meeting Institute staffers. They'll know that your chart says that you are intersexed. It says that you had been living as a man, but you were unhappy and could not function effectively in that role. It says that after counseling, you decided that you could function better as a woman, and as a result we are feminizing you and teaching you how to live as a woman. "Only a few, very loyal staffers know that I'm forcing you to be feminized, or that I'll sell you after you're discharged. Everyone else thinks that you've requested this treatment. "Mary, you must not tell anyone that you're being forced. You must let everyone think you want this. You may appear conflicted and confused at times; that's normal. But you must not tell anyone that I'm supporting the clinic with an illegal white slavery operation." She sat back and paused. I immediately thought, "Holy Escape Pod, Batman! I see light at the end of the tunnel!" She smiled at me and said, "Unless you're a complete idiot, you just thought that you could escape my clutches by telling everyone that I'm an evil bitch who kidnapped you so I can sell you into slavery. Sorry, dear, but I'm not that careless. No one will believe you. Your chart says you have paranoid delusions. Paranoid patients often think their doctor is out to get them. If you scream that I'm a white slaver, you'll just earn yourself a one-way ticket to a rubber room in our psych ward. "I don't want that to happen, because then I'll have to start over with someone else. "So, my dear, are we clear about this? As far as everyone else is concerned, we're feminizing you at your request?" I thought about that for a moment, and then I nodded. I had my suspicions that I might prefer a rubber room to the fate that she had in store for me, but I figured I could always change my mind later. "That's good, dear," Dr. Pritchard said. "I knew you were intelligent. Now we can get to your buyers' requirements. They're fascinating; they're far more detailed than what I usually get. They read like a legal contract. It's clear your buyers have very specific plans for you. They didn't tell me their plans -- buyers rarely do, and generally I don't want to know -- but I think I've deduced their intentions. While I'm reading the requirements, see if you can figure out what they have in mind. We'll compare notes when I'm done. "Your buyers are a couple in their 50's. They look patrician: old money rich, well-bred, pillars of the community, conservative, traditional, used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question, and so on. I assume they're married, but they didn't offer their names and I didn't ask. The woman acts like a society matron. I think the man is a senior partner in a law firm; you'll see why when I read the requirements. I got the impression they are deeply religious, perhaps even fundamentalist Christians. Many of my buyers are, by the way. I think it has something to do with them being sexually repressed for so long." She pulled out reading glasses, opened up a metal clipboard, and started to read aloud. "Section 2. Physical Requirements." She looked up. "Section 1 discussed price, terms and delivery schedule. The buyers want to complete the sale by the end of the year, but they're flexible. They said they'd rather wait for someone who satisfies their requirements perfectly, rather than settle for second best. That's unusual. Most of my buyers want to take delivery immediately, if not sooner. That's good for us; it gives you plenty of time to heal and to learn to function as a woman." She smiled and added, "I'm sure you'd love to know the price, but that's none of your business, my dear. Suffice it to say that they are willing to pay a lot of money for you. A lot of money." She continued reading. "Subject must be a heterosexual male Caucasian, and must have a penis and two descended testicles. Subject must be able to achieve and sustain at least a five-inch erection. It is acceptable, even desirable, if Subject requires medication to achieve an erection. The ability to ejaculate is desired but is not required. If Subject can ejaculate, the sperm must not be viable. Subject must either be able to have an orgasm through genital stimulation, or else be able to give a believable simulation of an orgasm." She looked up again. "From past experience, you'll have no trouble getting an erection or having an orgasm, even with the female hormones, although you will almost certainly need Viagra or its ilk. It's too early to know if you will be able to ejaculate, but we did a vasectomy anyway." She continued reading. "Except for male genitals, Subject must appear to be a female between 22 and 25 years of age. Subject's actual age must be no more than 30. Subject's height must be between 5'4" and 5'8". Subject's weight must be no more than the minimum recommended for a young woman of Subject's height. Subject must be slim, but not anorexic. Subject's figure, proportions and musculature must be within upper-class American societal norms for a small to medium sized young woman who is physically active but still very feminine. Subject must have C-cup breasts; external appliances are not acceptable. When wearing low-cut clothing, Subject must have cleavage consistent with C-cup breasts. Subject's nipples and areola must appear to be those of a female. Subject must become sexually aroused (or must be able to simulate arousal) though breast and nipple stimulation." She smiled at me. "You're age and height are perfect, dear. Your target measurements of 36-27-38 and weight of 120 pounds will satisfy their requirements. 'No external appliances' means 'no falsies.' The female hormones will cause some breast growth, but that alone won't give you C-cup breasts. As I'm sure you've realized, you'll need breast implants. Once you get those, your cleavage will come naturally. As for being 'sexually aroused,' the female hormones will make your breasts more sensitive, but probably not enough. We'll teach you how to fake it. Fortunately, my dear, that's easy. Women have been doing it for centuries. Men are so easy to fool." She looked back down at the clipboard and continued reading. I just lay there numb. Jesus H. Christ! The rubber room was starting to look good. "Subject's facial and body contours must have the appropriate feminine curves; sharp angles, prominent muscles or protruding hip bones are not acceptable. Subject's legs must appear feminine. They must be shapely and attractive, and no more muscular than appropriate for a physically active young woman. Subject's feet must be no larger than a women's size 10, although smaller feet are preferred." "You wear a men's size 8 shoe, so you should fit into a woman's size 9," she said without looking up. "That's perfect. Incidentally, they were smart to include that requirement. Even a small guy could have huge feet, and that would destroy the illusion. Besides, it's hard to find fashionable shoes larger than size 10." She resumed reading the requirements. "Subject's scalp hair must be full, soft, well-groomed, and at least shoulder length. A wig is not acceptable. A receding hairline or pattern baldness is not acceptable. Hair extensions are acceptable, provided that they will last until Subject's natural hair grows to shoulder length. Subject's eyebrows and eyelashes must be appropriate for a young woman. The rest of Subject's body must be completely hairless, including the genitals. Permanent hair removal is preferred. If not practical, periodic removal treatments are acceptable, provided that they are required no more often than once every six months. In this case, Seller must agree to provide such treatments, at no additional charge, for ten years after date of sale." She looked up again. "Fortunately for us, you haven't gotten a haircut for a while, so your hair is almost shoulder-length now. That means you won't need extensions. Even better, before you leave, we can cut your hair into a cute feminine style, and you'll be able to practice setting and styling it yourself. They didn't specify color, oddly enough. Our hair stylist has the final say, but my recommendation is to keep your natural brown, and add some blond streaks. As for your body hair, the laser treatment should last for a year at a time. Mary, you should be delighted by that: you're spared the God awful task of shaving your legs and armpits." Oh wonderful. That just made my day. Dr. Pritchard was right about the requirements, though: they were bizarrely detailed. They seemed to have been written by a demented lawyer. At least the "ten years" clause was encouraging: it implied a future. Dr. Pritchard resumed reading. "Subject must be healthy and disease-free, and must not be missing any digits, limbs, or organs (other than appendix or tonsils). Subject's fingernails must at least 1/4 inch long, and must be manicured in a feminine style. Subject's skin must be soft, feminine, youthful, and must not be excessively tanned. Subject must not have any tattoos, birthmarks, or disfiguring scars. Small surgical scars may be acceptable, but are subject to Buyer's final approval." Without looking up she added, "Now aren't you sorry that you didn't get that tattoo?" I gasped through the breathing tube. How they hell did she know that when I turned 21, I'd gone on a bender with my frat brothers, and when I was smashed, they'd dared me to get my butt tattooed? And I'd come this close to doing it? That was almost four years ago! Nobody else knew about that. How long had this crazy loon been watching me? Dr. Pritchard put her head back and gave a hearty belly laugh. When she recovered, she patted my hand and said, "Mary, you're precious! No, I haven't been stalking you since you were born. I simply guessed that at some point you'd considered getting a tattoo. From your reaction, I must have guessed right. "But I am nervous about their 'no scars' requirement. You will have scars from the rib reduction. The scars should be narrow, but they will be long. I've discussed those scars with the buyers, but they will not give final approval until they can examine the healed scars. But don't worry about that, my dear Mary. If you cooperate and satisfy the rest of their requirements, I won't sell you to the mining camps. If they won't accept those scars, it's my fault, and I won't make you suffer for it. If I can't find a good buyer for you, I'll keep you at the Institute, and you can assist Nurse Smithfield." For a moment, I was distracted by my memory of Nurse Smithfield and her tight white nurse's uniform. I thought that playing nurse with Miss Smithfield might not be the worst thing in the world. Then I remembered that underneath it all, "Miss Smithfield" had the proverbial frank and beans. My fantasy promptly vanished in a puff of smoke, and I heard Dr. Pritchard resume reading the contract from hell. "Subject's facial features must be feminine and pretty even without makeup. With appropriate makeup, Subject must be extremely beautiful and glamorous. To a normal heterosexual man, Subject must be attractive and sexually desirable. "Subject's teeth must be straight and white; dentures are not acceptable. Subject must have two piercings in each ear, both in the lobe. Subject must not have any other piercings. Subject must not wear glasses. Contact lenses are acceptable. Subject's voice timber and speech patterns must be unmistakably female, even on the telephone." She looked up again. "That's straight-forward. With the changes we've made to your face, Mary, you'll look cute and adorable even without makeup. And with the right makeup, guys will drool over you. You'll have to beat them off with a stick, my dear girl." Great. Just the image I wanted in my head. I tried to distance myself from all this, to treat it as a TV show that I was watching, but I couldn't manage it. It was all too horribly real. The rubber room was looking even better. "You're teeth are fine as is. We'll pierce your ears after your face has healed. You're allergic to contacts, hence the LASIK surgery. Your voice is going to take some work, though. We'll raise your pitch a few notes by tightening your vocal cords. I assure you, I've perfected my technique since my tragic mistake with Emily, the poor dear. "But just raising your pitch won't make you sound like a woman. Women speak differently. We use different words, different speech patterns, and different inflections. You will have to learn how to speak like a woman, and that will require your full cooperation. Because if you don't learn that skill, I will sell you to the mining camps. Is that understood, my dear Miss Fisher?" Shit! I nodded, but mentally I crossed my fingers behind my back. Not if I can get out of here first, I thought. "Incidentally," she continued, "whoever wrote these requirements knew what they were doing. Sounding like a woman on the phone is the ultimate test. I should know. My voice is lower than average for a woman, and on the phone, I'm often mistaken for a man, particularly when I say I'm a doctor." She went back to reading. "Section 3. Appearance Requirements. "Subject must present the image of a healthy, wholesome, all-American girl-next-door. Subject must appear to be a polite and charming young lady of good breeding and good character. Subject must always present an attractive and well-groomed appearance, and must always appear to be a 'girly girl.' That is, Subject must be very feminine, even in jeans and a tee shirt, and must give the impression that Subject has been a prom queen, a cheerleader or a beauty pageant contestant. Subject must appear to be the sort of girl that a young man could 'take home to mother.' It is acceptable, even desirable, for Subject to give the impression of having gone through a tom-boy phase when younger, as long as there is no doubt that Subject has outgrown that phase, and is now delighted to be a girl. "When instructed by Buyers, Subject must be able to look sexy and provocative, and must be able to 'turn men on.' However, Subject must never look cheap or sleazy. When instructed to look sexy, Subject should look like a high-class call girl, and not like a common streetwalker." She looked up at me. "If you want role models, consider Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan or Jamie Lee Curtis. They can be extremely sexy, but they've always been classy, even when they've played call girls. You don't want to emulate Courtney Love, Paris Hilton or Kelly Osbourne." Dr. Pritchard went back to reading. "Subject must act like a heterosexual female, that is, Subject must appear to be sexually attracted to men. Subject must appear to desire to get married and have children, although not necessarily right now. When asked, Subject must make it clear that Subject does not believe in pre-marital (or extra-marital) sexual relations. However, Subject must not be a prude; Subject must accept and tolerate other people's pre- marital sexual relations, and sexual orientations, without being judgmental. "Subject must be intelligent, but not condescending or arrogant. However, Subject must be able to act like an 'airhead' or a 'dumb blonde' when appropriate. Subject must be respectful and deferential to Buyers, but Subject must not be slavishly subservient. Subject should have 'spunk,' and should be willing to respectfully argue with Buyers when appropriate, just as a good junior office will respectfully argue with a senior officer when the senior officer permits it." She sighed. "You've never been in the service, so that analogy won't help. Try this: you've caught reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore show, haven't you?" I nodded. What was the point in denying it? I was sure she knew that already. "Mary Richards was smart, and she had spunk. She'd stand up to Mr. Grant when she knew he was wrong. But she also knew he was her boss, and she respected him and didn't challenge him. You're Mary Richards. Treat your new owners like Lou Grant." If I could have talked, I would have politely (yeah, right) told her to listen to what she was reading, and to stop being condescending to me. No, I hadn't been in the service, but I knew about military etiquette and protocol. And I'd worked in an office long enough to learn how to manage my manager. Jeez! What sort of idiot did she take me for? I came out of my self-righteous diatribe as she resumed reading. "Subject must always dress in a feminine manner. There must be no doubt that Subject is a young woman. Subject must be able to wear any and all stylish, contemporary, classic, or retro fashions that would be appropriate for an attractive, modern young woman. Subject must enjoy (or must appear to enjoy) dressing in fashionable clothing, must delight in looking feminine and attractive, and must act pleased when told that Subject is a lovely young lady. Subject must appear to be comfortable when dressed as a young woman, and must act as if that were natural. "In particular, Subject must appear to be at ease when wearing casual dresses (including sleeveless dresses, jumpers, mini-dresses, and sun- back dresses), business suits (including man-tailored pinstripe suits, feminine suits, and suits with pants, shorts, mid-calf skirts, knee- length skirts, or mini-skirts), cocktail attire (including mini- dresses, strapless dresses, body-hugging satin shifts, chiffon floats, halter dresses. and dresses with low-cut or plunge necklines), little black dresses (classic or contemporary, short- or long-skirted, tight or full, sexy or conservative, high-necked or plunging to the navel), dinner suits (including elegant satin or silk suits, brocade suits, fitted jackets, jackets with peplums, and tight skirts), formalwear (including strapless ball gowns, backless or tie-back gowns, skin-tight sheath gowns, flowing full-skirted gowns, two-piece bare-midriff gowns, gowns with thigh-high slits, and female-tailored tuxedos with pants or skirts), club attire (including tight, clingy satin skirts, mini- dresses, jumpsuits, pants, and leotards), blouses (including lacy and transparent blouses), sweaters (tight or bulky, low-cut or turtleneck), camisoles, tank tops, shells, twin sets, halter tops, belly shirts, tee shirts, tube tops, pants (tight or loose, formal or casual), mini- skirts (tight and clingy or full and swingy), shorts (short-shorts as well as walking and city shorts), jeans (tight or baggy, regular length or capri, low-rise or high-rise), bathing suits (including two-piece suits with barely-legal tops), exercise wear (including sports bras, shorts, and leggings), and dance practice attire (including low-cut scoop-top leotards, opaque tights, short wrap skirts, and ballet tutus). "Buyers understand that Subject may have to wear a 'gaff' or similar undergarment. Buyers also understand that this may make it impractical for Subject to wear bathing suits or leotards with extremely high-cut legs, or impractical to wear two-piece bathing suits with minimal or thong bottoms. However, Subject must be able to wear leotards and one piece bathing suits with moderately cut legs, and must be able to wear two-piece bathing suits with conservatively cut bottoms." Dr. Pritchard paused and sipped some water. Great God in heaven! I barely recognized half those terms. What did this crazy couple have in mind for me? And they expected me to ENJOY dressing like a girl? And I was supposed to act pleased when I was told that I was a lovely young lady? Holy shit! "They've mentioned just about everything except muumuus, pajamas and maid's uniforms," Dr. Pritchard said. "They were smart to include pants and jeans. Real women wear pants, and if you can look feminine in those, you can wear anything. By the way, they originally wanted someone who looked feminine in a baggy sweat suit, with no makeup or hair styling. I convinced them that only a freak would look that feminine. "Also, my dear, they're smart enough to know what's possible and what's not. A gaff is a super jockstrap. It will hide your male bulge very effectively, but you must wear a full-cut panty or a conservatively cut bottom to hide the edge of the gaff. With a gaff under a conservative bottom, you'll be able to pass as a girl in a two-piece bathing suit, even on a crowded beach at high noon. But you can't pass in a thong bottom; it won't cover your gaff." She gave me a big grin before she continued. "They didn't mention lingerie. Don't worry, my dear girl, I'm sure they'll want you to wear sexy 'barely there' bras and panties, as well as shear pantyhose. If you're a good girl, they may even let you wear stockings and a garter belt. There's nothing like a lacy garter belt to make you feel like a real girl, my dear, unless it's a muscular hunk sweeping you off your feet and raining kisses down on your sensuous lips." Where the hell did that come from? I could feel my eyes bulging out of my head as I stared at her. She smiled, and then she patted my hand. "Lighten up, Mary! You looked so serious that I couldn't resist teasing you. Of course they'll want you to wear bras and panties and pantyhose, but they won't make you wear stockings and a garter belt." She smiled and added, "Except when they want you to turn on your boyfriend." My BOYFRIEND? I choked and my eyes must have popped even further out of my head. Dr. Pritchard gave a hearty belly laugh, and then said, "You're precious, Mary! But let's make a truce. If you relax, I'll stop teasing you. Is that a deal?" I nodded. Like I had a choice? "That's good, dear. Remember, you must not only dress like a young lady, you must also act as if you enjoy wearing beautiful outfits and looking feminine. That will require your full cooperation. I know that will be rough at first, but over time it will become natural. Just remember the consequences of failing to cooperate. "They didn't mention accessories, jewelry or shoes, but I'm sure they'll want you to carry a purse and wear earrings, necklaces, scarves, high heels, boots, sandals, and so forth. You may even get to wear Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos!" I gave her a blank look. Yes, I watched "Sex And The City", but I wanted to mess with her head for a change. "I'm sorry, Mary. I assumed you knew... oh, it's not worth explaining." Success! When you're strapped to a bed with the World's Weirdest Witch delightfully mapping out your future, and when you're trying to decide if that future really is a fate worse than death, you'll take any victory you can get, no matter how small. The weird witch continued reading what was expected of me. "Subject must be knowledgeable about contemporary fashions, designers, styles and trends. Subject must be able to select clothing whose colors and styles enhance Subject's femininity and beauty. Subject must be skilled at applying makeup and styling hair so as to flatter Subject's feminine appearance. "Whenever Subject is in public, Subject must present a feminine appearance. Subject's hair must always be done in a feminine style; close-cropped or mannish slicked-back styles are not acceptable. Subject must always wear makeup, including foundation, blush, mascara, eyeliner and/or eye shadow, and lipstick. Subject's nails must always be manicured and polished. "Subject should always dress to attract men and to encourage them to assist Subject. While Subject should never appear to be helpless, Subject should choose attire that makes Subject look soft, non- threatening, girlish, and slightly vulnerable. Accordingly, in most situations, Subject should wear traditional female attire (i.e., dresses and skirts). Subject should avoid mannish attire (i.e., pants), unless Subject can make them appear soft and feminine. For example, Subject should avoid sweatshirts and baggy denim blue jeans. Instead, Subject should wear a tight sweater and a denim skirt. If Subject does wear pants, they should be in pink or some other feminine color. If Subject must wear denim blue jeans, they should have feminine decorations such as flowers, ribbons, hearts, animals, etc. "To reinforce Subject's soft and girlish appearance, and to make Subject more attractive to men, Subject should always reveal as much leg as possible. Accordingly, for most events, Subject should wear short dresses or skirts (an inch or two above t