Altered Fates: Triptych free porn video

Altered Fates: Triptych By BobH (c) 2003 Lucius Duvall checked his reflection and nodded his approval at what he saw. His hair and beard might have long since turned silver grey, giving him an illusion of age and wisdom that, in terms of age at least, was beyond his years, but both were immaculately trimmed, their edges razor-sharp. His suit was tailored to perfection, the trouser creases sharp and straight; his shoes polished to an almost mirror-finish; the carnation in his lapel, full and fresh. It was important to project the right image, he knew particularly when dealing with someone like the visitor who was about to enter his salon. Right on cue, he heard the door open behind him. "Good afternoon," he said. "I've been expecting you." "Since no one knew I was coming," said the newcomer, in a deep, gravelly voice, "I doubt that very much." "I also expected the skepticism," said Duvall, turning to face his visitor. The stranger was tall, powerfully built, had a head of thick, dark hair, cut short and greying at the temples, and the sort of 'cut-from-granite' features sometimes described as 'grizzled'. He wore a long grey coat, pulled closed, collar up, and brown leather gloves. Duvall judged him to be in his early forties. Without waiting to be invited, he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the small circular table in the center of the room. "It's easy to say that stuff," said the stranger, "but it's difficult to prove foreknowledge after the fact." "True, very true," said Duvall, seating himself across the table from the stranger. "So, do you have it?" "Have what?" "The item you traveled all the way to New Orleans to test me with," sighed Duvall. "Really, sir, this would all go a lot more efficiently if you just, ah, 'cut to the chase', I believe the expression is." The stranger regarded Duvall for a second, and then let out a snort. "Fine," he said, reaching into the pocket of his coat and pulling something out, "Here it is." He dropped the item on to the table. It was a medallion, gold in color but clearly not made of that metal. On its face it bore the image of what might have been an angel but could just as easily be a fairy or even some sort of demon. Duvall leaned forward to study the medallion. "Ah, yes," he said, frowning slightly. "Interesting, very interesting." "Aren't you going to pick it up?" asked the stranger, curiosity in voice. "No, I don't think I will," said Duvall, licking his lips. "I think perhaps it's safer if I don't." The stranger looked disappointed. "If you can't tell it's a fake, you're not going to be any use to me," he said. "Oh, I'm perfectly aware it's a fake," said Duvall. "If this were indeed the fabled Medallion of Zulo I'm not sure I could be this close to it without feeling acute nausea. A mystic artifact that powerful can overwhelm the senses of one as sensitive to the energies it channels." "OK, you recognize it," said the stranger, grudgingly, "so why wouldn't you want to touch something you say you knew to be fake?" "There are fakes and there are fakes," said Duvall. "A simple copy of it made by someone working from a picture or a description is one thing, a copy cast from the Medallion of Zulo itself is quite another. Whoever made this replica used the real medallion to do so. They pressed it into wet clay, fired the clay in a kiln to make a mold, and then poured hot metal into that mold to create their copy. In so doing they captured something, created in it a mystic affinity with the real medallion. A fake of this sort has power of its own." "What does that mean?" said the stranger, dubiously. "I've tested this item thoroughly and it has none of the abilities of the real thing." "Of course not," said Duvall, "but in the hands of someone who has been touched by the Medallion of Zulo, that affinity is a tool that can be used. You've been touched by it, I can tell." The stranger nodded, reluctantly. "So," he said, making a steeple of his hands and pursing his lips, "how exactly can it be used?" "Pick it up," said Duvall, "clasp it tightly in your hand, close your eyes, and concentrate all your thoughts on the real medallion." The stranger looked at Duvall for a second, as if weighing him up, then did as Duvall suggested, frowning all the while. After ten seconds or so, his eyes snapped open. "What was that?" he said, wonderingly. "It felt like a...a tugging in my mind." "It was," said Duvall. "Affinity, remember? The replica resonates with that from which it was cast. Which direction did the tugging feel like it was coming from?" "Due north," said the stranger. "Then that's the direction in which the real medallion currently lies. Of course, a considerable part of the country lies in that direction so it's still like looking for a needle in a haystack. Nevertheless, it gives you a starting point." "You think I'm looking for the real medallion?" said the stranger. "Sir, I *know* you are." said Duvall. "So what else can I do with the replica?" "Well, it allows you to identify others touched by the real medallion - affinity, again. If you touch such a person while wearing it and picturing the real medallion in your mind, you will know they've been touched." "Anything else?" "There is one more thing," said Duvall, "though it's not at all easy to do." "What? Tell me, I need to know." "With the aid of a sensitive..." began Duvall. "You mean, like you?" "Yes, like me," he agreed. "With the aid of a sensitive, it's possible to see into the past of most objects. The replica's affinity with the real medallion should allow you to see into its past. You won't be able to choose a specific event, however. You don't choose what to see. It chooses you." "You said 'specifically'," said the stranger. "Does that mean I can choose more generally?" "I believe so, yes," said Duvall. "Good. What I want to know is whether the medallion could be used to seize absolute power." "Then I need to ask you two things in order to help get a 'fix' on you for this to work. Firstly, what is your biggest regret?" "That's an easy one," replied the stranger, eyes looking at something only he could see. "My biggest regret is not having seen my son in decades. If he's still alive, he'd be about fifty now, but he vanished without trace a long time ago. All my efforts to find him proved fruitless." "I see. Then secondly, what is your most prized possession?" "Currently, that would have to be my Kate McGowen swimsuit calendar." "Seriously?" "Yes, seriously. I am not being flippant. Now, if you're through with the questions, can we get started?" "Certainly. You should know, though, that to me this delving into the past of an object at one remove is all theoretical. I learned of the possibility from my late mentor, but it's not something I've ever done myself." "Then this'll be the first time for both of us," said the stranger, grinning wolfishly. "What do we do?" In the middle of the table was something covered by an elaborately embroidered cloth, which Duvall now removed. "A crystal ball?" said the stranger, dismay in his voice. "I thought they were the mark of the charlatan." "No," said Duvall. "Charlatans just have the sense to choose as props items used by genuine practitioners of the craft in order to add verisimilitude to their scams. Now, I need you to take my hand, hold the replica firmly in your other hand, and to concentrate on what it is you wish to know while staring into the crystal. It's acts as an aid to concentration, a focal point if you will." The stranger did as he asked. When Duvall judged the moment to be right, and his own mental state was properly attuned, he touched the fingers of his free hand to the crystal ball. It was like completing a circuit, and sounds and images began to coalesce in the both the stranger's mind and in his own. He was somewhere else; he was someone else.... ******* His wife was already asleep in the other bedroom of their eighth floor suite when he heard the gentle knock on the door. It was a signal he had been waiting for. Taking care not to make enough noise to wake his sleeping spouse, he quietly rose from the chair he had been slumbering in, threw a dressing gown over his pajamas, and opened the door. "We're ready for you now, Mr President," whispered the Secret Service agent. "Good work, Sam," said the President, quietly closing the door behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was wake the First Lady. He followed Sam as the agent led him down the hotel corridor. "So what's she like?" he asked. "Early-20s, brunette, stacked, great legs, Mr. President," said Sam. "Bit-part actress and local model. Hand-picked by the party's local agent." "Can't beat Southern hospitality," chuckled the President, as they stopped outside another room. Sam opened the door, ushered the President inside, and closed it behind him. He then stationed himself outside the door to ensure no one would disturb his boss. "Hello," said the President, running his eyes approvingly over the shapely figure of the young beauty sheathed in a tight scarlet dress, reclining on the bed and languidly smoking a cigarette. "Mr. President!" she gasped, stabbing her cigarette out in a bedside ashtray, swinging her lovely legs over the side of the bed, and getting to her feet. Even on her four-inch stilettos she was a good five inches shorter than him. Not that this worried him as she pressed her taut young body against him. He slid his arms around her waist, resting his hands on her firm, round buttocks, and kissed her painted lips. Being the most powerful man on the planet definitely had its perks. Giggling, she pulled away from him. "Drink?" she said. "Why not?" he replied, stripping off his dressing gown and pajama top and dropping onto the bed. "What's your name, honey?" "Marcie, Mr. President." she replied, handing him the drink she had poured. He slugged it back, and then watched appreciatively as Marcie stripped for him, slowly peeling off that spray-on dress and revealing her underwear. He approved of sexy underwear on a woman, and this was certainly that. Smiling wickedly, she climbed on top of him, slowly gyrating and running her hands down his chest. "Mmmm, that feels nice," he said, yawning. "Feeling tired, Mr. President?" "'S been a long day," he said, letting out another long yawn, "but this is the best stress reliever known to man." He yawned again as his eyes drooped shut. Within another minute he was asleep and snoring softly. As soon as she was sure he was not going to wake up, Marcie reached across to the bedside table and took something out of the drawer. It was the Medallion of Zulo. Dropping it onto the President's chest, she placed her hand over the medallion, feeling the familiar tingle as it touched her flesh. Now it was just a matter of time. The sleeping powder she had concealed in the lining of her purse had escaped detection when she had been searched. Now her substitution for the real President would also have to escape detection. With the long practice she had put in getting his accent and his mannerisms entirely right, she was confident she could pull it off. She enjoyed watching those famous features gradually morph into the face of small-time actress, model, and escort Marcie Worthington, seeing that body shrink and soften as he turned into a woman. But she was even more pleased by her own change. It had been necessary to be Marcie in order to get close enough to the President to switch places with him, but it was going to be good to be a man again. It was going to be even better finally having the power to do something about all that was wrong with America. He would restore the country to greatness. The switch took half an hour. When it was over, the man who was now President of the United States of America pulled on the pajamas and dressing gown his companion had worn, then slowly and carefully dressed her in his discarded clothing. Getting the underwear on her was relatively easy, but the red dress proved a real challenge. It took longer than he had anticipated, far longer. His plan had been for her not to awaken until after Sam had returned her, apparently the worse for drink, to Marcie Worthington's apartment. Her subsequent attempts to convince anyone she was really the President would be dismissed as the ravings of a madwoman, he was sure. Unfortunately, it had taken so long to dress her that she was already coming to, and the last thing he wanted was for her to make a scene here. "Wha..?" she said, woozily, fixing him with a bleary eye. She staggered to her feet, almost stumbling off her heels but steadying herself against the wall. "Where am I? And who are you?" she said, holding up a slender arm and frowning at her long, painted fingernails. "For that matter, who am I?" Her companion grinned in delight. Traumatic amnesia! This was an unexpected, but very welcome bonus. "Marcie," he said, composing his features, "Your name is Marcie Worthington. You've had a bit too much to drink, I'm afraid. I'll get someone to take you home so you can sleep it off." So saying, he opened the door and summoned Sam into the room. "I need you to see this young lady gets home safely," he said. "Certainly, Mr. President, sir" said Sam, placing a hand on Marcie's shoulder, "I'll see to it myself." Then he stopped, scooped up Marcie's purse and the medallion from the bedside table, dropping the medallion into the purse. "Almost missed these," he grinned. "She wouldn't be pleased if we'd forgotten them." "No," said the President, frowning, "I don't suppose she would." He debated claiming the medallion was his and trying to retrieve it, but knew Sam had accompanied the real President to the room and would know he had not brought it with him. Oh well, it had served its purpose. Marcie kept drifting in and out of sleep on the drive to her apartment, despite the pounding in her head. No sooner had Sam seen her safely inside and left, than Marcie rushed to the bathroom and threw up. Pausing only to clean herself off she then staggered into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke the next day, her headache had gone and she was feeling much better. Everything was still totally strange and new, however. After taking a shower, during which she spent a long time running her hands over the unfamiliar contours of her body, puzzled at how odd it felt to her, she explored her apartment, trying in vain to find something, anything, that she recognized. Sighing, she sat at her dressing table and studied her face at length. It was a very pretty face, she decided, and there were undoubtedly a lot worse faces she could have to see in the mirror, but it still didn't feel like hers. "Marcie Worthington," she said, "my name is Marcie Worthington." That was the name on her driver's license, right next to a photo of the same face she was looking at in the mirror now, but it still felt wrong. She would have to see a doctor, she realized, see if there was any way of restoring her memory. If not, well all the details of her life were here and, if necessary, she could begin from scratch, restarting Marcie Worthington's life from this point. Feeling a strong craving and seeing the various ashtrays dotted around the apartment, she went in search of her cigarettes. She found her purse on the kitchen table where Sam had dropped it, opened it, and reached inside for her lighter and her smokes. She found them, but also pulled out something else. The Medallion of Zulo struck her as a singularly ugly piece of jewelry, and she tossed it onto the table in distaste. That's when she saw the newspaper. It was several days old, but that did not matter. On the front page was a photo of the man from last night. Now she knew why his face had seemed so familiar to her. "The President!" she said. "I was with the President last night!" Stunned, she reached over and turned the television on. There, to her surprise, was a still image of his face again. It took a second or two for the words the announcer was speaking to register. "The President is dead," intoned Walter Cronkite, "I repeat, President Kennedy has been declared dead following the shooting today in Dallas." ********** "No way!" said the stranger, jerking his head up and cutting off the vision, "No fucking way!" "Well, that's certainly one all the conspiracy theorists missed," said Duvall, rubbing his temples. "I do wish you hadn't broken the contact that abruptly. It's given me a most unpleasant headache. And there might also have been more we were meant to see." "Sorry," said the stranger. "So what did that all mean? Am I supposed to take from it that any attempt to use the medallion to seize power will result in death?" "I don't know," admitted Duvall. "That most such attempts will be thwarted in some way seems a reasonable inference. The skein of fate can be altered in some ways, but the greater the change to its weft and warp you try to effect the more I think it will resist that change. Changing the fate of most individuals matters little in the larger scheme of things, but changing the fate of nations most certainly does." "So that's it?" said the stranger. "That's all I get to see?" "It's something the writers of many hundreds of books about the assassination would give their eye teeth to have seen but, no, that wasn't necessarily all you get to see. As is often the case in these matters you get, to use the modern idiom, three bites at the cherry. Did you notice, by the way, how our perceptions were affected when we were in the vision?" "What do you mean?" "We're both familiar with JFK, but we didn't know he was the US President in question until Walter Cronkite's announcement." "That's right. What does it mean?" "I'm not certain. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say it's because we wanted to learn something, and whatever power enables us to part the curtains of time determines how that lesson is presented to us. Nice sense of the dramatic, anyway." "Huh," said the stranger. "Well, as long as I learn what I want to, I wouldn't much care if it was delivered to me in a sugar-coated shell and wrapped up with a bow. You said I get two more bites at the cherry?" "You asked about power last time," said Duvall. "You have to ask about something else for it to work again." The stranger considered this for a minute then, looking oddly wistful, he said: "Intent." "Intent?" "Yes, intent. Do your intentions determine your fate when you use the medallion? We've just seen what happened to someone who used it with selfish intent. Do unselfish intentions guarantee you a favorable outcome?" "A good question. Let's find out, shall we?" said Duvall. He held out his hand, the stranger took it, and they remade the contact. Almost at once, they were somewhere else.... ************************ "The guy's a fuckin' menace and you're just too dumb to see it," snarled Eddie Ryan, his face flushed and angry. "He goes way too easy on the Commies. One day, we're all going to wake up to find the Red boot on our throats. You and all your liberal friends are going to be sorry then." Ben Ryan sighed in exasperation. Getting into an argument with his kid brother was always a fruitless exercise, inevitably ending up with Eddie in a state of near apoplexy. He could never figure out where all that anger came from. Their parents had been moderate Republicans, decent people and pillars of their community, but their sons had rebelled against their political views, albeit by heading in opposite directions. With Ben being tall and thin, and Eddie somewhat shorter, wider, and more pugnacious, they didn't even look as if they were related. The only feature they shared was the red hair gifted to them by their father. Oddly, Eddie could be charming and even charismatic if you kept him off the subject of politics, and he had never had any trouble attracting women. "Y'know, this is one of the things I really didn't miss while I was out in L.A.," said Ben. "Just because you fled back to New York with your tail between your legs when your big Hollywood break didn't materialize don't mean I have to stop trying to give you a dose of reality," said Eddie. "That's more than you'll get from those degenerates you hang around with in the Village." "Why do you bother?" said Ben. "You know you're no more going to change my views than I'm going to change yours. All that happens is we both get really pissed and then spend days avoiding each other." Ben wished he could get away from his brother, but neither of them could afford to move out of the family home here in Flushing. Left to them when their parents died, it was the house where both of them had been born and raised. Eddie stared at him now, opening his mouth to reply, when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," said Eddie. He returned from the door with a look of astonishment on his face, unable to speak, then She walked in behind him. She had on a headscarf and large dark glasses, a mink coat, pencil skirt, and four-inch heels, and her face was immaculately made-up. She looked every inch the star she was. "Hello, Ben," she said, in her famous breathy, little-girl voice. "I hope you don't mind. You said I could drop by whenever I was in town." "Not at all, not at all," said Ben, regaining his composure a lot faster than his still-dumbstruck brother. "Let's go to my room so we can talk." He led her to his room, closing the door on Eddie, and taking her coat from her. She sat down on the edge of his bed, removing her headscarf, mink and glasses, while he seated himself on the arm of the old armchair in the corner. He could hardly believe this was happening. Marilyn Monroe, one of the most famous women in the world was here in his room, sitting on his bed. "This is a pleasant surprise," he said. "I never in a million years expected you to take me up on my invitation. How did you get here? Did anyone see you?" "No, I'm sure no one saw me," she said. "My friend Jim drove me here. When I leave, he'll come by and pick me up." "But why are you here now?" said Ben, puzzled. "Don't get me wrong, it's great to see you, but major stars don't usually drop in on houses in Flushing." "I..I needed someone to talk to," she said, smiling sadly, "and you were so nice to me when I was in the hospital last year." When Ben's attempt to break into Hollywood the previous year had not gone to plan, he had ended up taking various low level jobs to feed himself and pay the rent. One of these had been as an orderly at the hospital where Marilyn had spent much of 1961 being treated for various mental and physical ailments. Though the hospital frowned on mere orderlies even having contact with such high profile patients, he had managed to contrive a brief meeting, had both charmed her and made her laugh, and thereafter she had insisted he was assigned to her. The hospital had disapproved, of course, and after Marilyn's discharge he was immediately dismissed, but in the meantime he got to be the friend and confidant of a major Hollywood star, to be a sympathetic ear and just generally help cheer her up. He was ten years her junior, but they had really hit it off. "I saw you sing 'Happy Birthday' to the President at Madison Square Garden on the television last night," he said. "You were wonderful! I was amazed you showed up for it after the studio publicly forbade you to attend." "Mr. Weinstein issued a private memo giving me permission," she said. "I don't understand why they said one thing in private and another in public." "Probably something to do with studio politics," said Ben. "So how did last night go? Did you enjoy it?" "That's why I wanted to see you," said Marilyn. "The studio want me back in L.A. soon, but I had to see you first. You were such a good listener. I always felt like I could tell you anything." "You can," said Ben, "you know you can. Whatever it is, I'm here for you." "Thank you, Ben. That means more to me than you can know. It's Jack - President Kennedy. When I was invited to sing at his birthday party, I thought it meant he wanted to see me again. He's done it before, you know, had me smuggled into a hotel, then come to my room after Jackie fell asleep. But this time I wasn't even asked back to the Carlyle, where they're staying. After the party, I went back to my own apartment. I was up until 4am. Maybe I got my hopes up too high, but now I'm really feeling down. I don't think I'll ever truly understand men. Look at the mess I made of all my marriages." Tears were welling in her eyes. It was a sight Ben Ryan was no more able not to respond to than any other man. He took his hand in hers and said: "Maybe you've just made bad choices," he said. "There are millions of men out there who adore you. The right man must be among them." "Maybe," she sniffled, "but with my track record, I don't know how I'd recognize him. But...I'm being rude. I haven't asked what you've been doing since you came back east." "Oh, I've been keeping busy," said Ben. "Been working on plays with a small company working out of a basement theatre in Greenwich Village. It pays almost nothing, and we play to tiny audiences, but we do good work, and it's really stretching me as an actor. I think it'll improve my craft." "How wonderful!" said Marilyn. "I really envy you. I'd love to be able to do something like that, and take a break from having to be Marilyn Monroe. Unfortunately, I'm just too well known. People would recognize me." Her enthusiasm for the idea sounded completely genuine. Being familiar with her life story, knowing stuff she had revealed to few other people, his heart went out to her. And as he looked into those beautiful eyes an idea formed, a totally crazy idea. "If there was a way for you to do that," he said, "a way that you could 'take a break from having to be Marilyn Monroe' and also get a better understanding of men into the bargain, would you take it?" "In a heartbeat," she replied, staring at him with an intensity he had never seen in her before. "Are you saying you know such a way?" Ben reached into the drawer where he stored his socks and pulled out a small zip-up bag of the type that might hold a man's shaving kit. He unzipped it and pulled out a cheap- looking medallion, carefully holding it by the chain. "It's called the Medallion of Zulo," he said. "I came by it last week and I've been debating what to do with it ever since. It's magic, and has the ability to swap people's bodies." "So you're saying you'd become me, and I'd become you?" said Marilyn. She seemed to have no difficulty accepting the idea of a magic medallion. "Yes," said Ben. "For a while. To give Norma Jeane Baker a break from having to be Marilyn Monroe." "How long would that break be?" she asked. "How long would you want?" "Six months," she replied, without hesitation. "I need a six month break." "I can live with that," he said. "Really?" said Marilyn. "You'd do that for me?" "I'd do anything for you," said Ben, truthfully. "And passing as you will mean giving the performance of my career. What actor could pass up a challenge like that?" "I'm in the middle of shooting a film opposite Dean Martin. Filming starts up again as soon as I get back. Can you handle that?" "I'll hit it out of the ballpark," he said. She regarded him seriously for a moment, and then gave a little nod. "OK, let's do it," she said. Gripping the medallion proper, Ben held it out to her. "We both have to be touching the medallion for the change to occur," he said. Somewhat hesitantly, Marilyn touched the medallion. "Ooh, it tickles!" she said, feeling the same brief tingling Ben did. "Now we wait," he said, watching her for the first sign of any change. It was not long in coming. "You're changing!" said Marilyn, in a voice grown huskier than usual. "You, too!" he said. And she was. She was growing taller as he felt himself growing shorter, those magnificent breasts visibly shrinking as he felt breasts beginning to emerge from his own chest. Her hair gradually shifted from dyed blonde to natural red, as it grew shorter in time to the lengthening hair he could feel tickling his own ears. As if on cue, both climbed out of their clothes as their changing body shapes made these increasingly uncomfortable, with Ben's womanly hips and more ample ass now straining at his trousers. Standing before the mirror, he watched entranced as the face of one of the world's most beautiful women slowly emerged from his own, slender hands touching his growing breasts in wonderment. "Wow!" he said, in a breathy, little girl voice as the changes subsided and stopped. "Oh wow!" It had taken half an hour for the transformation to run its course, but now he was Marilyn Monroe. "We'd better get dressed," said Marilyn in his voice. He turned to see her gathering up his discarded clothing while wiping the make-up from her face. "I...I guess so," he said, reaching for her underwear. Marilyn dressed quickly then helped him into her clothes. He needed help with the bra and the stockings, but managed the rest by himself. She then sat him on the bed and did his make-up. He walked up and down the room a couple of times, managing the heels without too much trouble. Each then listened to the other talk, offering tips until they had the voices right. Fortunately, while in L.A., Ben had taken classes to even out his accent and lose his New York vowels, so their basic accents were close enough for this not to be a problem. It was mainly a question of pitch, with Marilyn having to remember to speak lower and Ben higher. By the time they were satisfied, Marilyn had been there an hour and a half and it was time to go. She dialed Jim's number and handed Ben the phone. "Get him to come over and pick you up. Time for you to leave." Ben did as she asked, then handed Marilyn the medallion. "Whatever you do, keep this safe," he said. "It's the only way there is of restoring us to our proper forms. Also, be careful not to touch clothes worn by someone else to the medallion while you're holding it. That can also trigger a change. And once a change has occurred, it's twelve hours before you can change again." They then went into the parlor to wait for Jim to arrive. When they entered the room, Eddie Ryan leapt to his feet, still looking awestruck. "Miss Monroe..." he begun. "Hello," said Ben, smiling sweetly. "Eddie, isn't it? Ben's told me so much about you." He had to get into character soon, and fooling Eddie seemed to Ben a fun way to start. "Really? Wow! Could I have your autograph?" Ben signed a magazine Eddie produced with a picture of Marilyn's - now his - face on the cover. No sooner had he done so than the doorbell rang. Jim had made it in record time. Later, on the flight back to Los Angeles, Ben reflected on what an odd day this had been. Passing through the airport, every male eye on him and porters falling over themselves to help him with his bags had been a surreal experience. Being famous was going to take some getting used to. For now, however, he had some serious reading to do. On his lap was the script for 'Something's Got To Give', the film Marilyn had been in the middle of shooting for 20th Century Fox. The cast was impressive. As well as Dean Martin, it included Cyd Charisse, Wally Cox, Phil Silvers, Tom Tryon, and Steve Allen, with George Cukor directing. Ben would be playing Ellen Arden, wife of Martin's Nick Arden. Unlike everyone else, his was a double role. It would be Ben Ryan playing Marilyn Monroe playing Ellen Arden, but he relished the challenge. He was determined he was going to ace the part, and knock everyone's socks off. This was his chance to prove he had what it took to be a major movie star. When he landed at Los Angeles, Ben was greeted by a forest of firing flashbulbs as the waiting press descended on him, barraging him with questions about what it had been like singing for the President at Madison Square Garden. He smiled, posed for the cameras, and fended off the questions like a pro. It was the first true test of his performance as Marilyn, and he passed with flying colors. When his driver pulled up at Marilyn's home on Fifth Helena Drive in Brentwood, Ben let out a low whistle. While not Beverly Hills, this was still more luxurious and impressive than anything he had ever known. Inside, her housekeeper took his coat and fixed him a drink. "Thank you, Eunice," he said, taking the drink and heading for the bedroom, "Please see that I'm not disturbed." Once in the bedroom, the door closed behind him, Ben kicked off his shoes and let out an enormous sigh of relief. He may have taken to high heels quickly, but spending so long in them was another matter. Alone at last, Ben stripped naked and stood before a full-length mirror, turning this way and that and admiring his new form. Marilyn had shed 15lb since last year and was in fabulous shape. Running his hands over the famous body that featured in the fantasies of millions of men across the globe soon got Ben aroused. Falling back on the bed, he let his fingers find his pussy, moaning in ecstasy as he kneaded his clitoris and soon orgasmed in an overwhelming multiple climax. Lying there afterwards, idly licking his fingers, he knew he was going to enjoy the next six months. No one on the set of 'Something's Got To Give' noticed anything out of the ordinary when he reported for work, and the production was soon in full swing once more. Eight days after becoming Marilyn Monroe, Ben filmed the movie's famous nude swimming scene, the reason she had shed all that weight. He was no better a swimmer than she was, so utilizing her unusual doggy paddle involved very little acting on his part. Four days later, on June 1st, he celebrated Marilyn's 36th birthday, a very odd feeling for someone yet to reach his own 26th birthday. On June 4th, he fell ill and was bedridden with a temperature over 100 degrees. Four days later, he was fired by Fox and off the movie. Ben was devastated by the news. This had been his big chance to prove he could play in the big leagues, and now it looked like he had blown it. Back in his Brentwood home, in the luxury he had quickly got accustomed to, Ben brooded over his failure, becoming more depressed the more he thought about it. Two days after he was fired, he rang Marilyn.... In the three weeks since becoming Ben Ryan, Marilyn had immersed herself in the work of the experimental theatre group to which he belonged. She put in the hours and the effort, and her performances clearly impressed the other members of the group. This would have surprised those who had her pegged as the dumb blonde she so often portrayed in her movies, but Marilyn had always been serious about her acting and had studied her craft with drama coaches such as Paula Miller and Lee Stasberg. Joshua Logan, who had directed her in 'Bus Stop', rated her highly: "When I tell people Marilyn Monroe may be one of the finest dramatic talents of our time, they laugh in my face. But I believe it. I believe it to such an extent that I would like to direct her in every picture she wants me for, every story she can dig up. Monroe is as near genius as any actress I ever knew... She is the most completely realized actress since Garbo. Watch her work - in any film. How rarely she has to use words. How much she does with her eyes, her lips, with slight, almost accidental gestures... Monroe is pure cinema." When she arrived home in Flushing from the theatre that night, Marilyn was on a total high. The group had been working on a modern day, stripped-down version of 'Hamlet' set in the Bronx and she had been given the lead role due to the quality of her performances and her suggestions when they workshopped the text. No accolade had ever pleased her more. But her mood did not last. On entering the house, her heart sank when she saw Eddie was home. In the past few weeks she had developed an intense dislike for Ben's brother. Being fairly uninterested in politics and finding his rants on the evil that was President Kennedy hard to take, she had mostly avoided getting into political arguments with him. But his behavior around her was sufficiently odd she was beginning to wonder if he suspected all was not as it appeared. The hall telephone rang as she passed so she picked up the receiver. "I think I may have wrecked your career," said Ben, on the other end of the line, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, Marilyn." "Whoa, calm down and tell me what happened," she replied. "I've been fired from the film, and I don't know why. I didn't do anything wrong, so I don't understand why this happened. Maybe I'm just a lousy actor." "No," said Marilyn. "I think they wanted to fire me, anyway. There's been some weird studio politics around this movie from early on. Look just hang in there and try to cheer up. You're Marilyn Monroe now. That name still has marquee value. They'll soon be beating a path to your door, you'll see." "You really think so?", said Ben, hope in that little girl voice. "I know so. Just keep your chin up and persevere." Despite her words to Ben, Marilyn was frowning when she replaced the receiver. Ben had sounded really depressed. They had spoken a few times since the switch, but she resolved to phone him more often. As it happened, things sorted themselves out over the next few weeks, which resulted in Marilyn receiving an excited call from Ben. "I'm back in the movie!" he gushed. "That's great news!" said Marilyn. "What happened?" "The studio picked Lee Remick to take over my role, but Dean Martin vetoed this. He has co-star approval. Listen to this: 'I have the greatest respect for Miss Remick and her talent, and for all the other actresses who were considered for this role, but I signed to do the picture with Marilyn Monroe, and I will do it with no one else.' Isn't that terrific?" "Yes, it is. What happens next?" "I sign-up for the movie again on August 1st, and shooting starts again on September 16th. I can hardly wait!" Marilyn was hugely relieved, and returned to her own endeavors feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The theatre group's version of 'Hamlet' premiered on August 4th. The tiny basement theatre was filled to capacity, and the response to her performance was enthusiastic. She got a standing ovation. Intoxicated by her success, she spent the night celebrating with her fellow actors, not getting home to Flushing until the early hours of the following morning. It was well past 10am when she eventually woke, and the first thing she did was turn on the radio to listen to the day's news while she brushed her teeth. The lead item hit her like a hammer-blow: "The body of actress Marilyn Monroe was discovered at her Brentwood home this morning. Initial indications are that she passed away sometime during the night." ***************** "Oooow!" said Duvall, as the stranger abruptly broke their contact again. "I do wish you'd stop doing that." "It was the same fate as last time," growled the stranger. "Despite his good intentions, he died in place of the person he swapped bodies with. So what lesson am I supposed to take from this? That good intentions count for nothing?" "Perhaps," said Duvall. "That's certainly what objective observation of how the world operates would suggest. 'Bad things happen to good people'. 'Nice guys finish last'. 'No good deed goes unpunished'." "I thought the medallion operated differently. That there was evidence to suggest some measure of justice in the altered fates it leaves in its wake." "There is," said Duvall, "but do you think the Fates view justice in the same way mortals do? There may well be a larger design we're just not able to see." "That's not very comforting," said the stranger. "No, I suppose it isn't," said Duvall. "Then consider this. While the fate of the President of the most powerful nation on Earth clearly has great ramifications, the death of an actress, however famous, does not. Assuming the role of the President may have meant also assuming his fate, but that may not have been what happened with the actress." "What are you suggesting?" "I'm suggesting it may always have been Ben Ryan's fate to die on August 4th, 1962, regardless of the body he was inhabiting. In switching places with Monroe, he didn't escape his fate but he did get to spend his final three months as a famous Hollywood movie star, something that was his heart's desire. In which case, his good intentions were rewarded." "That's just conjecture on your part, right?" "Yes. I'm no more privy to the workings of fate than any other mortal, but it seems plausible to me." "She died from a barbiturate overdose, you know," said the stranger, "Nembutal and chloral hydrate. Took forty pills yet somehow managed to get them down without water. There was no glass in the room and, anyway, the water had been turned off at the mains during remodeling. Funny, that." "So you subscribe to the theory she was murdered?" "It was a long time ago, and I don't know what happened," said the stranger, "but if it was murder, my money's on that bastard Bobby Kennedy. It's a matter of record he and Peter Lawford were at her house around the time she died. I never had much time for the Kennedys, but I had the hots for Marilyn. Not that the original would have been interested in me as I was then. It's actually kind of heartening she might still be alive out there somewhere. I hope her second life was happier than the first." "So do I. Do you know what happened to that film she was working on?" "Production was abandoned, though the script was later dusted off and filmed as 'What A Way To Go' with Shirley Maclaine. The whole project was a remake of the 1940 Cary Grant movie 'My Favorite Wife'. And, yes, I am a film buff." "Have you decided the question you want explored in your final look into the past?" "Whatever I ask, the meaning of the answer I get is ambiguous," said the stranger, "so since I've asked about those who instigate the changes, what about the innocents caught up in events like this, of those whose fates get altered almost in passing?" "An interesting question," said Duvall. "Let's see, shall we...." ****************** "Thanks," said Marcie Worthington, accepting a light for her cigarette and sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. She released it in a long stream, smiling at her date. Her 'date'. It was funny to think of him that way, given what a 'date' usually was to an escort such as herself, but that's what he was, and here they were. "A penny for them?" said her companion, smiling. "Oh, I was just thinking how life never works out the way you imagine it's going to." "How do you mean?" Marcie took a long drag on her cigarette, trying to decide just how much she should tell him. If this was ever to have a chance to develop into something deeper she would have to tell him everything, she realized. And if he had a problem with it...well, at least they could then move on and not waste any more of each other's time. "When I was a child," she said, "the future was all mapped out in front of me and I was happy with how it looked. I would marry my childhood sweetheart, we would have our two point four kids, and we'd live happily ever after. I had a childhood sweetheart, y'know. His name was Matthew Garrison and he was the boy next door. We dated all through high school. He was the team's quarterback and I was a cheerleader. Sounds almost corny, doesn't it? We married right out of school, like everyone expected us to, and he took over his Dad's Buick dealership here in Fort Worth. I thought we were happy together, but I guess I thought wrong. If everything had been OK in our marriage I wouldn't have caught him in bed with someone else, would I?" "No, I suppose not. So you're divorced, now?" "Separated. Haven't seen Matt in a while, though. I was a beauty queen right after school, runner-up for Miss Texas an' all. I managed to parlay that into a career as a local model and sometime actress. I had a small part on 'Route 66' a few weeks back as Martin Milner's love-interest, my biggest role to date. Since Matt and I split up, I've been supplementing my income with a little work on the side as an escort. Unfortunately, some folk think 'escort' is just another word for 'prostitute'. You don't think that, do you, Hal?" "Of course not. Would I be eating with you at this fine restaurant if I thought you were a prostitute?" he said. "Perish the thought." Marcie liked this Hal Jordan. He was all right, for a yankee. She didn't really believe he used to be a test pilot, but that was OK. She had yet to meet a man who wouldn't exaggerate or tell a few big ones in order to impress a girl. "That's good," she said, smiling, "because I've been hired for a job at the Texas Hotel tomorrow night. I'd hate for you to think it involved anything untoward." In actual fact, she was pretty sure that tomorrow night would involve more than just her usual duties as an escort. But given who her client was almost certainly going to be, she would make an exception in his case. After all, how often does a girl get the opportunity to do it with the President of the United States? After their meal, Hal drove them back to his apartment. Marcie hadn't yet decided how far she was going to go with him, but she was happy to go up and have coffee and see how things worked out. Once inside, he turned, took her in his arms, and gave her a kiss that took her breath away. "Wow!" she said, when they came up for air. "That was great, but something under your shirt was sticking into me." "Oh, that was probably just my medallion," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and taking it out. "Wanna see?" It was gold in color with an angel on its face. Not the most attractive piece of jewelry Marcie had ever seen, but she reached out and touched it, feeling an odd tingling sensation as she did so. "Huh. Got a static shock off it," she said, rubbing her fingertips. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll fix us both drinks?" said Hal. "Good idea," she said, reclining at one end of his sofa. Lighting a cigarette, she watched as he poured their drinks, admiring his broad back. With the cut of men's trousers these days it was not easy to tell, but she thought he had a tight little ass, too. Or did he? It was looking wider than she remembered, and those shoulders weren't as impressive as they should be either. Puzzled, she frowned at him when he brought their drinks over, noticing the sharp planes of his face were looking softer, too. "Something wrong?" he asked, in a voice now higher than it had been. "I'm not sure," she said, wondering why her own voice was sounding so odd. Then she looked down at her body, and cried out. Her breasts were shrinking, while at the same time her dress was starting to feel tight across the back. "What's happening to us?" she yelled, fear in her voice. "I don't know," replied Hal, grimly, "but our clothes don't fit anymore. We'd better get out of them if we don't want to damage them." He started stripping and, after a second or two of hesitation, Marcie followed suit, though less from wanting to protect her clothing than a desperate desire to see what was happening to her body. She cried out again at the sight of hair sprouting on her chest and limbs, then stopped and stared at Hal in amazement. Seeing his developing breasts, the narrowing shoulders, widening hips, and loss of height, she suddenly realized what was happening to them. "We're turning into each other," she whispered in amazement. "You're right," he said. "I can see it now. Your face is slowly becoming mine." "And mine is becoming yours. Do you have any mirrors in this place?" He nodded, and they moved to the bedroom to stand before the full-length mirror on the closet door to watch the changes progress. Within thirty minutes or so it was all over and each now had the body of the other. "This is unbelievable," said Marcie, touching her chin and feeling the beginnings of stubble. Much as she wanted to, she could not bring herself to reach down and touch 'it', not while Hal was watching. "How can this have happened?" "It must've been the medallion," said Hal, holding it up and examining it. "We both felt a tingle when we touched it at the same time, then we changed." Marcie grabbed it, hoping to feel the same tingle, but nothing happened. "It's not working," she said. "We may be stuck this way," said Hal, gathering up Marcie's clothes and beginning to put them on, "in which case we have some serious decisions to make." "What do you mean?" said Marcie. "Well, now we have these bodies we can't continue with our own lives, can we? Until we can find a way of switching back, always assuming there is one, we have to live each other's," said Mark, turning so that she could zip up the dress for him, "Oh," said Marcie, pulling the zip up, "I hadn't thought of that. Where did you get that damned medallion, anyway?" "I stopped off in Abilene on my way to Fort Worth. Picked it up at a craft fair," said Hal, slipping on the three- inch pumps and taking a few experimental steps, "but that's not important now. We have other things to worry about. Like for instance, what was it you were telling me earlier? Something about a job at the Texas Hotel tomorrow night?" "Oh God, that's right!" she said, watching him preen and primp in front of the mirror. "Well, if you're serious about this, there's something I really need to tell you...." The following evening, sitting in a car parked in the street outside her apartment, Marcie reflected on the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Hal had taken the revelation of what would be expected of him at the Texas Hotel surprisingly well. While protesting how much he hated faggots and how he wasn't one himself, he had nevertheless agreed to honor the booking. Apparently, now that he was female the whole question of homosexuality did not enter the equation. Marcie had been disappointed by his rant. It wasn't something she expected of the sensitive man she thought she was getting to know. Back at her apartment - his now, for the duration of their switch - she showed him how to do hair and make-up, schooled him in how to move and pose seductively, and generally did everything she could to prepare him for his big night. And now here she was, sitting outside what had been her apartment, waiting to make sure he got off safely. As she watched, a black limousine with tinted windows pulled up outside her apartment complex. A large man in a dark suit and sun glasses got out, presumably the 'Sam' she was told would be coming to pick her up, and entered the complex. A few minutes later he returned with Hal, looking gorgeous in the sexy red dress she had bought especially for tonight. Sam opened the rear door for Hal, got into the driver's seat, then drove off. Marcie watched until the limo disappeared around a corner then sighed and set off back to Hal's old apartment. Marcie was awoken the next day by the insistent ringing of her doorbell. This was only her second morning of waking up as a man and it still surprised her. She glanced at the bedside clock and groaned. It was 12.15pm. Not morning after all. That would teach her to stay up to the early hours, drowning her sorrows with a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Alright, alright, I'm coming," she said, rising to her feet and pulling on a bathrobe as she headed for the door. She did not think she was ever going to get used to waking with an erection every morning and she was acutely aware of it as she opened the door. The man standing there was a stranger to her. Tall and thin, and with the same red hair she now possessed, he gave her a piercing look, as if searching for some sign of recognition on her part. "Hal Jordan?" he said, "Or is it Marcie Worthington?" "You...you know?" said Marcie, stunned. "How could you possibly know?" "Because I've been through the same thing," he said. "May I come in?" Numbly, she ushered him into the apartment and he sat down on the arm of a chair, eyeing her intently. "My name is Ben Ryan," he said, "though it didn't used to be. And the man you know as Hal Jordan is Ben's brother, Eddie." "'Eddie'?" she said, still stupefied by this turn of events. "You're his brother? And you say the medallion was used on you? But how is that possible? He said he found the medallion in Abilene. He didn't know what it was capable of." "He lied, I'm afraid," said Ben, sympathetically. "His brother swapped places with me and, somehow, he found out about it. I wouldn't put it past the creep to have been listening at the door when we did the swap. Anyway, the real Ben died in my body and when I went to where I'd put the medallion it was gone. Eddie disappeared that same day. I soon figured out he must've taken it and I hired a private investigator to find him. It's taken a year of tracking him all over the country, but he was finally traced to here in Fort Worth, under the name 'Hal Jordan', where he was seeing a woman named Marcie Worthington. I hoped I'd get to him before he used the medallion, but I see I got here too late." "Yes, you did. Where did he come up with the name 'Hal Jordan'?" "I have no idea," admitted Ben, "but I need to know why he swapped bodies with you. Given how much he hates those he calls 'degenerates', it definitely wasn't because he wants to be a woman." "Oh my God, the President!" gasped Marcie. "The President?" "Yes, I was due to see the President last night and he took my place." Ben got up, walked over to the television, and turned it on. "The President has a motorcade through Dallas today," he said. "They should be covering it live on local TV." When the valves in the television warmed up, a black and white image slowly formed on the screen. It showed the Presidential motorcade, already on what Marcie recognized as Dealey Plaza, the President and Jackie Kennedy waving to the crowd. As they watched, shots rang out, and the image lurched sideways as the camera was knocked to the ground in the ensuing panic. "Someone has fired on the President!" yelled the announcer, as the President's car shot away. "I repeat, someone has tried to kill President Kennedy!" "Oh my God, my God!" said Marcie, hands to her mouth. "This is Eddie's apartment," said Ben, tears in his eyes. "We have to get to your apartment, and we have to get there now!" The raw edge to his voice pulled Marcie out of her shock and she nodded, quickly gathering up her car keys. On the drive over to her apartment, she shot a sideways glance at her companion. He was obviously deeply distressed and keeping his emotions in check only through force of will. "You were a woman, weren't you?" she said, a suspicion starting to form, "Before the medallion, I mean. Were you anyone I would have heard of?" "Yes, I was a woman," said her companion, "but not now, please not now. We need to get to your apartment." Once at Marcie's apartment, Ben hammered on the door until a dazed looking young woman answered it. Marcie recognized the body immediately as her own, and she had a horrible feeling she knew who was now wearing it. "They just announced it," said the woman. "The President is dead." She spoke with a Boston accent, using the familiar cadence they knew so well. "Jack?" said Ben, grabbing the woman's shoulders, "Is that really you?" "Ow," she said, wincing, "You're hurting me!" "Ease up," said Marcie, prying his hands from the woman's shoulders. "I'm Marcie Worthington," said the woman, rubbing her shoulders. "At least, that's what it says on my driver's license. But I don't remember. I don't remember anything. Do I know you two?" "Yes," said Ben, "you do. And though you might find it hard to believe, that's not your body. Someone used magic on you. You're really a man." "A man?" she said, slowly. "That must be why everything feels so strange. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. Yes, a man. That would explain it." "Look at this," said Marcie. She had gone over to the kitchen table and was holding aloft what she had found. It was the Medallion of Zulo. A look of total relief washed over Ben's face, then he frowned and turned to the woman. "Do you think you could make us all coffees?" she said. "Only my companion and I need to discuss something in private." The woman gave a little nod. When she was out of earshot, Ben turned to Marcie. "We have a problem," she said. "What's that?" "You've figured out who she has to be, right?" Marcie nodded. "For some reason, she has amnesia. I don't know why that is, but it might be best if we leave her in the dark as to who she used to be," said Ben. "Someone killed Jack Kennedy today. If they knew he was still alive, they might go after him again. I know Jack. If he knew who he really was he would have to find out who did this. And he'd get himself killed. That's not all. Whoever killed him might have been responsible for killing the real Ben Ryan when he was in my body, thinking he was me. They say he committed suicide, and given the history of depression and insanity in my family and him having my body at the time, he might have. But I don't think so." "I've just worked it out," said Marcie, staring at him in wonder. "You're Marilyn Monroe, aren't you?" Ben nodded. "So you see why I just want us to have a quiet life, where whoever did this can't find us. Now we have the medallion we can switch Jack back into a male body, which just leaves you and me. The bodies we're in have the only legal identities available to us, and that's two women with only one legal female identity between them. Which is why I want to ask you a huge favor." "Go on," said Marcie, not sure where he was going with this. "I want to swap bodies with Jack so he gets to be Ben Ryan and I get to be a woman again. It's been eighteen months now and I'm desperate to switch back. It was fun when I expected it to be temporary, but I started hating it when I thought it was going to be permanent. What I'm asking is if you'll loan me your body and your identity, at least for a while. I'll leave the medallion with you and whenever you want to switch back I'll do so. What do you say?" Marcie thought about it for a while, and then quickly reached a decision. "Why not?" she shrugged. "As long as I have the medallion I'll always have the means to switch back with you. Who knows, I might even come up with a solution to our problem that lets you stay as Marcie Worthington." Jack returned with the coffees, and they sat down to discuss what they were going to do. "The medallion is what brings about the swaps," said Ben. "Someone used it to switch our bodies. You're really Ben Ryan and I'm really Marcie Worthington. Are you ready to switch back now?" Jack nodded. He wasn't sure why he trusted these two but he did, and that was good enough. They used the medallion, and Marcie watched in total fascination as each changed into the other. The power of the Medallion of Zulo was utterly amazing. "So," said the new Marcie Worthington, after the swap was complete, "how does it feel to be a man again?" "It feels good," said the new Ben Ryan, flexing a bicep, "It feels *right*." "Yes, it does," said the new Marcie, running a finger down his chest," it feels very right." With that she pressed herself against him and gave him a long, lingering kiss. It surprised him, but he responded enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around her. "I guess we were more than just friends, then?" he said. "Oh, yes," she replied. "Much more." The original Marcie remembered this scene when, three days later, she pulled up outside the bar she knew her husband Matt went to on Monday nights. She smiled at the memory. They had flown back to New York that morning, and to the Ryan home in Flushing. She hoped they would be happy together. They deserved to be. It was dark and smoky in the bar, and it took Marcie's eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they did, she spotted Matt, sitting alone at a table near the back, nursing a beer. She walked over to the table. "Mind if I join you?" she asked. "What?" he said, looking up in surprise. "No, no. Please do. Name's Matt Garrison." "Eddie Ryan," said Marcie, shaking his hand, "though you used to know me by another name." "We've met?" said Matt, looking puzzled. "I don't think so. I'm sure I'd remember if we had." "I looked a lot different then," said Marcie. "You used to call me 'pookie'." "What?" said Matt, looking angry, "What is this?" "First grade," said Marcie, "You gave me that name when we met in first grade, and it was your pet name for me from that time on. You used to laugh at me for believing in magic, even after we got married, but look at what magic has done to me. Yes, it really is me, Matt. It's Marcie. I can tell you about that brush we got into with the law on our honeymoon, how we first made love beside Tyler Creek when we were fifteen, how it was you put that snake in Mr. Dawson's car in sixth grade, and how much it hurt coming home and finding you in bed with someone else. Ask me anything you want, anything at all." "Marcie?" he said. "It...it can't be." He then peppered her with questions about things only the two of them could know. After she answered them all he sat back in his chair, looking at her with an odd mixture of chagrin and hope. "I can hardly believe it," he said, "but it is you. So what happens now?" "Does this place get raided often?" she asked, looking around at the men in the bar. "Not too often, no. The owner pays the police to turn a blind eye to what goes on here," he said. "Look, Marcie, I'm sorry I hurt you. I never meant to but I...I couldn't go on living a lie." "I can see that," said Marcie, "but I wish you'd found a better way of breaking it to me than letting me find you having sex with Steve Ewing." "I'd been fighting it since my early teens," said Matt, sadly. "I was our high school's quarterback, for God's sake. I wasn't supposed to be queer. But it got to the point where I just couldn't fight it any longer." Marcie reached across the table and put her hands over his. "I understand," she said. "What you should understand is that I've been in love with you since we were children. And even with all that's happened, our separation and everything, I'm still in love with you." "Where...where are you going with this?" he said, suddenly dry-mouthed. "What I'm saying," she said, looking him straight in the eye, "is that I want to spend the night with you. This is all still new to me, and I'm making no promises, but I want to see if we can make a go of it together like this. Do you want to see if we can?" "Oh, yes," he whispered, "oh God, yes." The following morning, over breakfast in a diner near