Costume Gun: A Dish Served Cold free porn video

Costume Gun: A Dish Served Cold By Heather St. Claire I pulled myself to my feet, held on to the chair in front of me for support, swallowed hard and looked around the room. I uttered nine life- changing words: "Hello, my name is Jennifer, and I'm an alcoholic." If you had told me a year ago I would be standing up at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, I would have said you were crazy. If you had said I would be doing it as a woman, I would have said you were stark raving mad. You see, one year ago, I was a non-drinker. I was also a man. How I became Jennifer Washburn is quite a story. It involves a burning desire for revenge against a woman who snubbed and ridiculed me and an amazing device called the costume gun. I had laid out what I thought was the perfect plan to ruin her life and then return to my own life....but you know what they say about the best laid plans. Anyway.....I used to be a man named Alex Webber. I first crossed Jennifer's path nine years ago. We were both freshmen journalism majors at the state university, both on the broadcast track. All I had going for me was a modest talent and a capacity for hard work. All Jennifer had going for her were killer good looks and a rich father who seemed to live to satisfy her every whim. Jennifer was a natural blonde, with shoulder length hair, five feet ten inches tall, willowy, a perfect oval face. She could have been a model, but she had her heart set on becoming a TV anchor. There was no doubt in my mind she would achieve that goal. Me? If I was lucky, I might land a gig somewhere as a writer or producer; when it came to being in front of the television camera, I had a face for radio. I had closely set, beady eyes, a bulbous nose, weak chin, acne-scarred face, and a receding hairline. The seeds of my hatred were planed almost a decade ago, when Jennifer and I were both newcomers at the University. I made the mistake of thinking that because she and I shared a major, we might have something in common. So I approached her one day while she was sitting at a table in the student union, sipping on a latte and talking on her phone. I sat down to wait for her to finish her call. She looked at me as if I was a piece of litter that had blown across her path. I should have taken the hint. She cut the call short and glared at me. "Excuse me? Do I know you?" "Jennifer, I'm Alex Webber. We have a couple of classes together. I was wondering?" "What?" "I was wondering if you might want to get a pizza and see a movie sometime." She laughed. "You're kidding, right?" I felt my cheeks burn. "No, I wasn't kidding." "That's sweet of you?Alan??but I'm dating the news director at Channel 7 right now. I don't mean to be cruel, but I'm just a little bit out of your league." "Uh, no problem....have a nice day," I mumbled as I crept away. Now, any normal, reasonably well-adjusted person would have felt bad about this encounter for an hour or two, maybe a day. Talk about embarrassment. But then a well-adjusted person would have said, 'She's a spoiled little rich bitch. You were stupid to even try,' and gone on with his life. Of course, I wasn't normal or well-adjusted. So I brooded. And I spun out elaborate revenge fantasies in my mind. Of course I didn't have the guts, or to be honest, the desire, to actually act any of them out. So I finished college and went out into the world, resume in hand. But the wound festered. In case you have never looked for a job in broadcast journalism, let me assure you, they are few and far between. Of course, with her looks and family connections, Jennifer landed a field reporting job at a station in a top-fifty market right away. It didn't matter that she had graduated with a "C" average and had about as much grasp of issues as a seven-year old. As they say in the business, the camera loved her. As for me....I had to move back home with my parents while I spent four frustrating months sending out resumes and tapes, traveling to interviews, only to be told again and again, "You aren't quite what we're looking for..." My break finally came when I got wind of a new news department starting up at a UHF station in a small town in Idaho. There had only been one television news operation in town for years, but the station ownership saw the revenue and prestige potential of having their own news department. I was hired as producer and lead writer of the 11 p.m. news. The news director said he sensed I was hungry, and he was right (and no, he wasn't talking about the fifty extra pounds I always carried as a male). I was usually at the station by one in the afternoon and seldom left before 1 in the morning. After catching a few hours of sleep, I was up early, going around town to introduce myself to political and business leaders. Building relationships is still the key to successful journalism. Unless, of course, you can take shortcuts the way Jennifer did. It was an open joke around our informal alumni network that her spread legs had opened multiple doors, as she quickly advanced from field reporter to weekend anchor to weeknight anchor at her first job; then came two moves over the next five years that landed her at the anchor desk of a top ten market. Meanwhile, I had just about wrecked my health and sanity trying to pull Channel 21 news into some kind of parity with Channel 9. It didn't matter that we were consistently putting a better product on the air, night after night. Old viewing habits, and from the station's standpoint, even more important, old airtime buying habits, are hard to change. We had been on the air 18 months when they pulled the plug on us. So there I was, 24 years old, back under my parents' roof, and quietly going nuts. After two months without a nibble for a job in television or radio news, I took a shot at a position in my university's news bureau. It involved writing for the alumni magazine, the university's website, and grinding out news releases. Luckily, I had made some friends in the administration, and I landed the position. It meant regular hours, and much better pay than small market television. Of course, I hated it. There was no challenge, no adrenaline rush, no competition. I thought if I had to do this for the next forty years I would rather shoot myself instead. My personal life was no better than in my undergraduate days. Of course I hadn't had time to even think about dating during my abortive television career; now that I had the time, and the money, to date, I found that my pathetic social skills were worse than ever?rusted from disuse. I saw no way out of the nightmare that passed for a life until I stumbled across a strange ad while surfing the Internet one evening. I clicked on a bookmark for one of my favorite political blogs, but it took me instead to the advertisement for a device called a costume gun. The thing looked like a child's toy, to judge from the picture, but the text claimed it actually had the power to transform anyone struck by its ray into a wearable costume. It sounded so ridiculous. But the price was small, so I decided to order it; it would make an amusing desk ornament if nothing else (I was something of a science fiction geek anyway, so it would fit the d?cor of my cubicle). I didn't expect the thing to actually work....I really didn't even expect it to show up, but sure enough the package arrived just a couple of days later. I examined it carefully. The return address was obscured. My name and address, however, appeared to have been typed on a manual typewriter. How truly strange. The gun had more heft to it than I had expected; I had assumed it would be mostly or completely made of plastic, but it obviously had a lot of metal in it. I read through the detailed instruction book that came with the gun, then put the box back together, and stuck it on the floor of the hall closet in my apartment. I had all but forgotten about the gun a couple of months later when my boss, Tim Warren, asked me if I had any ideas for successful graduates who could be the subject of a profile in the alumni magazine. It was then the pieces came together in my mind. "How about Jennifer Washburn?" I said. "She's making quite a name for herself in TV news. There are rumors that the networks are looking at her now." "Weren't you two in the same class?" "Yes," I said with a smile. "Yes, we were." The idea I was hatching was so grandiose, so cruel, I couldn't believe I had come up with it. But what did Shakespeare say about revenge being a dish best served cold? I booked the interview through the station's publicity department; the great woman herself couldn't be bothered with such details. During that time, I gave notice that I would be vacating my apartment and rented a storage unit. I knew I would be away for some time, and it didn't make any sense to keep paying rent on an empty apartment. My mother had passed away from cancer a few months before; my dad had died of a heart attack a couple of years earlier. My younger brother was my only living relative, and we were not close. So I didn't have to worry about anyone missing me while I was away. I was up early on the big day. I had breakfast, dressed, loaded the last of my things into my car, handed in the keys to my apartment, then began the drive toward the station where Jennifer worked....a drive toward a new future. Before pulling away from the curb, I checked one more time to be sure the costume gun was in a pocket of my overcoat. What if it didn't work? Well, it would be just one more moment of embarrassment to add to a lifetime catalog of embarrassments. And if it worked....well, life would be very interesting, at least for a while. It was about a ninety minute drive from the town where the university was located to the television station where Jennifer worked. I had thought I would be nervous as the moment of truth drew closer, but I found myself to be strangely calm. I was admitted to the station, went through security, and soon found myself being guided to Jennifer's office adjacent to the newsroom floor. As I walked in, I noted that the door was solid, and there were blinds, already closed, covering a window that looked out on the newsroom. Even better, there was a private bathroom attached to the office. It was all perfect. Jennifer rose to greet me. My god, she looked even more perfect that I had remembered her. Five-feet, ten inches tall with perfect blonde hair that cascaded to her shoulders; a lean but still womanly figure; and a slightly oval face that could have been painted by Leonardo, the features were so perfectly proportioned. The sparking blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, graceful nose...no wonder I fell in love with her nine years ago. No wonder she was bound for stardom. She smiled at me as she extended her hand, but there was no warmth in the smile, or her handshake. Somehow she was able to fool the camera, but it didn't work in person?or maybe she was just so disgusted at the sight of someone as nondescript as I was that she couldn't hide it. It was clear that this interview was an ordeal she would just as soon have skipped. I opened the conversation by thanking her for taking the time to talk with me, and reminded her that were in the university's communications department together. "In fact, I even asked you out once. Do you remember?" She looked at me blankly for a moment, then said, "No. I'm sorry, but no, I don't remember that." I forced a slight smile. "Oh, well. That was a long time ago." I went on with asking her about the arc of her career, the awards she had won (I knew that the real credit belonged to the producers behind the scenes, but this was the way the game worked), her community service (mostly photo-ops at children's hospitals and the like), and her goals (a network news job, of course). As we were wrapping things up, I told her that I had something I wanted to show her; it would only take a moment. Before she had a chance to respond, I stood up, walked over to the chair where I had left my overcoat, and pulled the costume gun out of a pocket. I turned to her, said "Have you ever seen one of these, Jennifer?" and fired. I saw a look somewhere between confusion and annoyance cross her face, and then she was transformed into an empty shell that fell to her chair. "Holy hell," I muttered. "It worked. It really worked." I grabbed the costume that had been a living woman until moments earlier and stepped into her private bathroom. Until this moment, I had been acting on autopilot; I had felt an almost eerie sense of calm. But now as I disrobed and prepared to put on the costume, I found my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest. I took several deep breaths and then began the process of fitting my pudgy male body into this sleek female form. Jennifer weighed just 120 pounds, as I later learned, to my 240. Somehow, though, my bulk fit inside of what had been her; I moved as quickly as I could to get myself completely into the costume, finally sealing the "zipper" under the chin to completely encase me in the flesh of another. Then, the moment of disorientation hit. ....Oh God, why did I ever let them talk me into this? And who the hell is this nerd they sent? He is so freakin' creepy, I can't believe it! They want me to speak on campus? Screw them!...... So, I was freakin' creepy? Any traces of guilt I felt over what I was doing disappeared at that instant. I took a few moments to get the feel of my new body. To say it was different from what I had known during my first twenty-seven years would be the grossest of understatements. I wasn't the clumsy, unattractive being I had been; now I was, to put it simply, a beauty. It felt so different...but so nice. I walked back into Jennifer's office?my office now?and took several turns around the room. I felt light, graceful. I don't ever remember wishing to be a woman, but I had to admit I was enjoying this. I wanted to hear what her voice would sound like from inside of her: "Good evening, I'm Jennifer Washburn, Action News," I repeated a couple of times. I was wearing a cream-colored silk shell, a dark brown skirt that fell just above my knees, flesh-colored pantyhose and brown pumps with 3 ? inch heels. I sat down in my chair and instinctively crossed my legs. Then I uncrossed them and opened a desk drawer to extract a yellow legal pad and a pen. I began jotting notes: "Piercings. Tattoos? Boyfriend? STD??? On-air meltdown?" The ideas were flowing rapidly. I would do everything I could to ruin Jennifer's life, personally and professionally, and then walk away from the wreckage. I glanced at my slim wrist and the diamond-encrusted watch I wore. I "remembered" it had been a graduation gift from Jennifer's parents. It had now been almost forty-minutes since Alex's arrival; it was time, probably past time, to set the next step in motion. I picked up the phone and called the station's security office. "Hello? That guy from the university who came to interview me? He left to use the restroom and never came back. He left all his stuff here. No, I didn't let him use my bathroom! Are you kidding?" Soon a security guard came to collect Alex's things, with the exception of a flash drive I had slipped into Jennifer's purse, along with the costume gun. I then logged onto Alex's Gmail account and sent a message to my boss. "Tim: I HATE to do this to you, but I'm leaving as of today. Got a call from my old news director. He's got a new gig and he's been told to clean house. They're fourth in a four-station market. Says he needs me right away. I hope you understand. I can't pass up a chance to get back into the game. I will email you the Washburn piece and a couple of other things I was working on. Alex." I felt bad about leaving Tim in the lurch, he was that rarest of breeds, a decent boss I genuinely liked, but I knew he could get along without me, and there would be plenty of unemployed journalism graduates knocking on his door, eager to take my place. This was all the time I had to give to Alex's life. It was time to focus on my new life, Jennifer's life; first, I would have to learn how to live it before I could take it apart. It was now a little after 3 p.m.; I would be spending the next couple of hours getting ready for the 5 p.m. news. Thanks to being able to access Jennifer's memories (and her Blackberry), I knew I had to be at a 3:30 meeting in my new boss' office for the on-air talent. Brian Donahue, the station's news director, was a wiry, high-strung sort, very typical in the business. I immediately pegged him as a good candidate for early burnout and a future career producing infomercials. This was also my first chance to see one of my idols in person, Hamilton Banks, who had been the lead male anchor at the station for almost twenty years while a parade of pretty young women had come and gone next to him. In person, his presence was as commanding as it was on screen: a full head of wavy hair that was just beginning to turn gray; a strong jaw, broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. I quickly sensed his dislike for Jennifer, and I realized the feeling was mutual. I was able to remember their first conversation, which had gone something like this: "Please to meet you, Mr. Banks. I look forward to learning a lot from you." "I doubt it." "What do you mean by that?" "I doubt that you have the desire or ability to learn anything from me. All I ask is that you not do anything to embarrass me or the station, and I'll do my best not to embarrass you." With a start like that, you might think things couldn't get worse, but they did. I could recall a series of arguments between the two, with terms like "airhead bimbo" and "old fossil:" flying back and forth. They were in a state of true, for the moment, thanks to Brian's efforts to broker a peace. But the uneasiness remained. Brian ran us through the stories that were lined up for the 5 p.m. newscast. I found it difficult to concentrate, as my mind was too focused on the sensations of my new body. I realized that Jennifer's vision was 20-20. I had worn classes since I was six years old. Damn, this girl was blessed with all the luck. And the sweet smells that emanated from her...it wasn't just her jasmine perfume or Olay soap, it was something emanating from within her...me. I liked it. I managed to get the gist of the night's story lineup, and headed for the set to go over my copy. I put on my blazer, made sure my makeup didn't need touching up, and got to work. Banks was watching me with what appeared to be bemused fascination. Finally, I looked up and asked as blandly as I could: "And what are you looking at?" He shook his head slightly. "Nothing. It's just that I've never seen you take an interest in content before." I gave him the most charming smile I could muster and went back to my read-through. Soon we were on the air. I felt the old, familiar adrenaline rush, and it felt good. We had led with coverage of the governor's trade mission to China, followed by a piece on falling achievement scores among local students. Although "if it bleeds, it leads" was the rule in most television newsrooms, Channel Three still believed in solid journalism. Either that, or there hadn't been any good crashes or murders that day. Television journalism is about being nimble on your feet, or in your seat, as the case may be. We had been on the air for nine minutes when I threw it to Marcia Mapes, our city hall reporter. She was a bit green and I was surprised they had entrusted a key beat to someone who, for all intents and purposes, was a rookie. I'm sure the fact that she was the second best-looking woman in the newsroom?after me?had nothing to do with it. Marcia had just begun her live standup about the mayor's announcement of a new youth jobs program when there appeared to be a commotion behind her. The camera swung around to reveal an ambulance pulling up in front of city hall. Several worried-looking people emerged through the front doors. "Marcia, do you have any idea what's going on?" I asked. She looked frozen by the chaos. "Do I see the mayor's chief of staff there? Can you ask him?" All the old instincts were kicking into overdrive. Marcia walked over to Dan Blankenship, the mayor's senior staffer. It was clear that he was upset about something. "The mayor is headed to the hospital. It appears that he may have suffered a stroke. I'm not going to have anything else to say until we get a fix on his condition." Marcia had regained her ability to speak, but not much else. I soon found myself leading her through a status report on the situation, and what might happen next. "Under the city charter, the council president becomes acting mayor whenever the mayor is unable to discharge his duties," I noted. "Of course, we hope this episode turns out to be minor, and we all wish the mayor a speedy recovery, but if he is incapacitated for a lengthy period it could leave the city with a huge, huge leadership void. The mayor was just elected to his third term last fall, and he has really put his stamp on the city during the past eight years, isn't that true Hamilton?" Not only had I concisely summed up the situation, I had tied the package neatly and laid it in the lap of my co-anchor. I could see the look of surprise on his face. But Hamilton didn't miss a beat as he said, "Very true, Jennifer. When the mayor won the job eight years ago, the council had been divided into two warring factions for years, but he quickly changed that...." I had to concentrate very hard not to smile at this point. Big news was happening on our watch, and I was out front in presenting it to the public. As Alex, I knew I didn't have the looks or personality to be in front of the camera. As much as I hated Jennifer, I knew that she had those gifts. Then it hit me, and I said to myself: Oh, shit. The whole point in taking over her body was to tear her life apart, now to suddenly turn her into the second coming of Walter Cronkite. But then I relaxed. Making her look better before I tore her life to shreds would make the fall even more stunning. I had waited almost a decade for this opportunity; I could take my time with this. My cool was momentarily shaken right after we signed off and Banks looked squarely at me and asked: "Who are you and what have you done with Jennifer?" I knew he was kidding, and I laughed, but it was a high, nervous laugh. "Hamilton," I said. "I don't know what you're talking about." I found myself nervously playing with the long strand of pearls around my neck. Banks had just the hint of a grin as he said, "You did good, kiddo. I hope you keep surprising me." "Thanks," I said, giving him the most charming smile I could muster. I was back in my office, realizing I probably should be getting some dinner, when there was a knock at the door. Gail Burton, who was the news department's assignment editor, and Jennifer's best friend, stuck her head in. "Wanna get some dinner, girlfriend?" she asked. We soon found ourselves in line at a sandwich shop across the street. As much as I wanted to order a thick, juicy cheeseburger, I knew I should get what Jennifer would have ordered?a salad and sugar-free iced tea. Gail picked up an egg salad sandwich. Back at my desk, we dug in. That night marked the beginning of an awareness of some of the blessings of womanhood. It was a very gradual thing, but I came to realize that two women can enjoy a level of intimate friendship that is probably beyond most men, who are too focused on sexual conquests, powerful machines of all sorts, and sports scores. Gail proved to be a sounding board, a shoulder to cry on, a source of wise advice?in short, a true friend. We got through the 11 p.m. news without a hitch. The mayor turned out to have suffered slight paralysis on one side of his body, but was expected back at work within a few weeks. I headed out to the parking lot, where I found Jennifer's Porsche awaiting me?another gift from her adoring father. This girl had truly never wanted for anything. Although I had never learned to drive a stick shift as Alex, I found that Jennifer could handle the powerful car with ease. As I drove toward the upscale condo that Jennifer called home, I realized that I would be coming home to an empty house?but this wasn't usually the case. She lived with one of the city's top plastic surgeons. I was relieved to know that I wouldn't have to face sex as a female just yet. For all the planning that had gone into this revenge plot, I realized there was a lot that I hadn't thought through. Dr. Corey Sanders was in San Diego at a medical conference, and wouldn't be home for a couple of more nights. I was able to access the memory of their first meeting: "So, you're a plastic surgeon, Dr. Sanders. What would you fix on me?" "Not a thing. There's no way to improve on perfection." My God, I thought, two totally self-absorbed narcissists. They really do deserve each other. Sanders had moved in shortly after his divorce became final. When I reached the condo, I quickly kicked off my heels and poured myself a glass of wine. As Alex, I was a non-drinker, but I realized Jennifer liked her wine; this could be a key component in executing my plans. I sifted through the mail that had arrived that day, then went into the bedroom, where I disrobed. This was my first opportunity to get a close look at the body I now occupied. I stood naked in front of a full-length mirror. I was a little on the thin side?a 33C-20-30 figure, as I was to later learn?but I understood why. One of the truisms of television since the beginning has been that the camera adds ten pounds?and in the HDTV era, the camera is even less forgiving. But as I said earlier, the camera loved this body. As I accessed Jennifer's memories, I realized she was an avid runner, biker, tennis player and golfer. This would be new territory for me....as Alex, I had been a pretty sedentary guy. I never had a knack for athletics?I was the guy who was always chosen last when the teams were selected in school. I cupped my breasts, one in each hand, and gave a slight squeeze. I would need to explore the wonders of the female body more fully, but that would wait for another day. I spent a few minutes getting to know Jennifer's wardrobe?the quality and variety was amazing. I slipped on a lacy nightgown, then sat down to remove my makeup and brush my hair. As I was repeating the 100 brushstrokes that I realized was part of Jennifer's regimen, I contemplated alternatives to my plan for the first time. The original plan was to ruin Jennifer's life in every way that I could, then go back to being Alex. But it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't have to do that. The costume gun gave me the ability to take over anyone's life. I could always restore Jennifer, leave her behind to pick up the pieces of her life, then become someone else?maybe Banks, although the thought of suddenly being 25 years older didn't appeal to me much. Hell, I could even remain as Jennifer, even though I had never contemplated becoming a woman before. These thoughts reminded me I needed to hide the gun. It was still on the table in the entry hall where I had left it. I retrieved it and hid it at the bottom of my panty drawer. I figured the good doctor wouldn't go looking in there...unless he had desires I didn't know about. With the gun safely hidden, and my hundred brush strokes completed, I was ready for bed. Despite the unfamiliarity of this place and this body, I quickly fell into a deep, restful sleep. When I woke up, several hours later, I was momentarily disoriented, wondering where I was and what had happened to me. Then I remembered. I went into the kitchen, made coffee and a piece of toast, and turned on the television. Next, I checked my Blackberry....I had two public appearances before I had to be at the station at 3. And I realized that it would take a couple of hours to go through Jennifer's full routine of bathing, hair, makeup and dressing. No wonder she never had time for unimportant things like studying the issues of the day. At work, I found myself distracted by thoughts of Dr. Sanders' impending return. There was simply no way I could get out having sex as a female. But the more I accessed Jennifer's memories, the less I wanted to. It was strange. I had never thought of myself as gay, transgender, or anything of the sort, but somehow, the thought of experiencing sex in this manner was gaining a powerful appeal. It might have been the fact that my male sexual experiences had been so limited and awkward; it might have been suppressed desires I hadn't admitted to myself. Whatever the case, it was two nights later when I came home to find Corey's Mercedes parked in the garage. When I walked through the door, he had a glass of wine waiting for me, and we exchanged our first kiss. It was strange, unfamiliar, sexy, comforting all at once. And as soon as I relaxed and let memories and instinct take over, I found our lovemaking to provide a pleasurable release....although I do enjoy a penis inside me in some places more than others...but that's getting ahead of the story. For now, I just want to ask any men reading whether or not you've taken a good look at that hunk of flesh hanging there? It's really an odd and ugly-looking thing, when you get right down to it...and I'm speaking as someone who had a penis for my first twenty-seven years. A few days with Corey confirmed what I had already surmised by accessing Jennifer's memories: their relationship was based on mutual self- interest. The depth of commitment just wasn't there. In a way, that disappointed me, as I had hoped I would be able to wreck a more lasting relationship. But the good doctor would have to do. For my first few weeks as Jennifer, I did nothing out of the ordinary. I anchored the news, went for my daily run, played the occasional round of tennis or game of golf, showed up for photo-ops and made love to Corey. It was beginning to be alluring. I had been drinking more wine than Jennifer usually did. But I was still drinking at home. That would have to change. I found a nice, classy bar just a few blocks from the station. I started stopping there on my way home for a nightcap. I realized that a lot of people recognized me from my on-air work, but this was the kind of clientele too classy to say something...most were probably the types who swore (falsely) that they never even watched television. At first it was just a couple of glasses of wine, but I steadily began to increase my intake. I knew I was playing a dangerous game; I wanted to be caught, but I didn't want to endanger an innocent person. I was driving home one night when opportunity finally presented itself. I saw an officer turn onto the street I was headed down; I immediately crossed over the centerline, then abruptly jerked back into my lane. That was enough to get him to flip on his lights. I had downed five glasses of wine in a little over an hour, so it took only a little bit of playacting to get the effect I wanted. I mussed my hair a bit, opened a couple of buttons on my blouse, and when he approached my window, asked in the sweetest, most innocent voice I could muster, "Is there a problem, officer? I hate to think I've created a bother for a handsome man like you." He ignored the come-on and asked for my license and registration. I made quite a show of searching my purse for my license, finally dumping half of its contents on the floor of the car. As I handed it over, I said, "Really, now, do we have to go to all this trouble? My boyfriend says I give pretty damn good head." I then started to giggle. After a super fast round of field sobriety tests, I found myself handcuffed and on the way to the police station. I called the good doctor, sobbing, and of course he came and bailed me out. I didn't care much for the way he treated me that night, or in the days to come. He was cold and distant and seemed to think of me as a spoiled child. Which, I have to admit, is exactly how I was trying to act. While I slept, things began moving just as I expected. A staffer at the jail alerted a friend to my DUII arrest, who called two more friends, and so on. By the time I woke up it was a story on our competitors' morning newscasts. "Local news anchor Jennifer Washburn was arrested and charged with drunk driving last night....." The local blogosphere delighted in the story, one blogger picking up on the tidbit I had hoped to see out there: "Washburn reportedly offered sexual favors to the arresting officer" while several others noted Jennifer's role as a spokesperson for the local chapter of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. They speculated that relationship would come to a swift end. It did. I was still asleep when Brian Donahue phoned from the newsroom. "Please tell me what I'm hearing and reading isn't true, Jennifer. Please tell me it isn't true." Before I could answer, I heard the call waiting beep; I told Brian I would call him back. It was Rose "Rosie" Davis, Jennifer's agent, who was devoted to the cause of landing Jennifer a network contract. I could see her in my mind's eye. Five feet seven inches tall, 200 pounds of muscle, a man's suit, close cropped hair. No doubt she was furiously pacing around her office. I knew how hard Jennifer had worked to persuade Rose to take her on as a client; pissing her off would be a definite plus in achieving my goal. "ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!?" she screamed into her Bluetooth. "Good morning to you, too, Rosie," I said in the sweetest voice I could summon. "What the HELL are you doing driving drunk??? I thought you understood that image is EVERYTHING in this business." "I know. I just?" "You just what? Never mind. I don't care. I don't care. Look, I've already talked to Tex." "The station manager?" "Of course, the station manager! Are you more of an airhead than I realized? Jesus H. Christ. Look, I've already negotiated the deal. You will serve a one-week suspension and issue a public apology. I've almost finished it. You will apologize to your viewers, your co-workers, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, God, apple pie, and the flag. Have you got that missy?" "Yes, Rosie." She hung up before I could say anything else. About an hour later, I was sitting in the kitchen in my robe, drinking coffee, when I heard a knock at my door. It was Gail. She came in and did what a true girlfriend does. She didn't badger me with questions, she didn't judge me, she didn't try to fix things; she was just there for me. We sat together watching Ellen, then Oprah, when I looked at her and said, "Don't you need to be getting to the station?" She just smiled and said, "I called in sick. I need to be here for you," She took my hand and squeezed it. I started to cry. She held me. Funny thing was, the tears weren't for effect. I felt genuine shame for the effect my actions were having on others. My feelings toward Jennifer's parents?now my parents?were pretty difficult to sort out. I realized things between the three of them were strained. Her mother and father had divorced a decade earlier, and by accessing Jennifer's memories, I came to understand that she had been at the center of a lot of their disputes. I could recall vicious screaming matches in which her mother had accused her father of trying to buy Jennifer's love with a constant stream of expensive gifts. When I dug a little deeper, I found myself remember instances of touching by the father....nothing blatant, but certainly borderline, a hand left too long on a buttock or breast. No wonder neither parent had called. No wonder I didn't feel any real need to call them. I passed my one week suspension by cleaning the condo, going for extra runs and playing a round of golf every day. I could feel the stares of people in the clubhouse. If they were two obvious, I'd just look at them, smile and say, "I'm fine, really. Thanks for your concern." When I returned to the anchor desk, I felt an immediate chill from Banks. "Look, I know I let the station down. I'm going to clean up my act, I promise." I was glad he couldn't see the crossed fingers I was hiding under the desk. I didn't return to the bar I had been frequenting before my arrest. Instead, I headed into the heart of downtown looking for seedier places. Here, no one was so classy they had to pretend not to recognize me. I was greeted with a loud, "Hey, foxy tee vee lady!" from a pimp-like character at the very first nightspot I visited. That set just the tone I wanted. Over the next six weeks, I partied like there was no tomorrow. I danced on tables. I wrapped myself around poles in amateur dance contests. I guzzled beer from beer bongs in alleys. I snorted cocaine a couple of times, but was still enough of a chicken not to do more that dip my toe in those waters. Keeling over from a heart attack would certainly not be good for Jennifer, but it wouldn't do me a hell of a lot of good, either. As I expected, the blog posts and whispers started to heat up. Rosie called me a couple of times, but I assured her that it was gross exaggerations planted by jealous competitors. The good doctor tried to question me a couple of times when I staggered in somewhere around 3 a.m., but I just told him to mind his own goddamn business. Finally, I gathered up the courage to do something I had been contemplating for some time. I found an all-night body art studio and proceeded to get a rose tattooed on my inner thigh. I thought it was so pretty I had the artist (I never did learn his name) create an intricate floral design on my left upper arm. He was a handsome, well-muscled character with a goatee, a shaved head who worked shirtless?no doubt to show off the body art that covered his own torso. I asked him about his skills in body piercing. I let him give me a nose ring, a navel jewel, and the crowning touch, a tongue stud. Oh, was Jennifer going to be angry when I let her resume her life. And the beauty of it was she would never even know what happened. I asked my artist how much I owed him. He named a figure, and I reached into my purse and handed him a wad of bills that was easily twice what he had asked for. I told him that still wasn't enough pay, and I needed to give him a better reward for his labors. By this point, I already had loosened his belt and was unzipping his pants. He didn't resist. "I've heard one of these adds a whole new dimension to oral sex," I cooed, and stuck out my newly-pierced tongue. When I saw the sore, I swallowed hard. But then I closed my eyes and prepared to swallow something else. This would allow me to check off one more piece of the plan. I drove myself home. Luckily the doctor was sound asleep. I would deal with his reaction later. I still felt the adrenaline pumping, and I was in pain; several mimosas later, I was able to fall asleep. I wore a sheath dress with bolero jacket to the office the next day. At the late afternoon meeting, I was disappointed that no one had noticed my new nostril piercing. Of course, I had replaced the ring with a demure diamond stud. Finally, I muttered something about how warm it was, stood up, and removed my jacket, draping it on the back of my chair. I heard Banks mutter, "Oh, my God." "Jennifer!" Brian cried. "What the hell?" I smiled coquettishly at him, then frowned. "You don't like it? I think it's beautiful" I said, and stuck my tongue out at him. When he saw the stud, I thought he was going to faint. "Go home!" he shouted. "Am I suspended again?" "Just go!" "Okay, you don't have to be nasty about it!" I said as I headed to my office to gather my things. I had just stepped through the door when my Blackberry chimed. It was Rosie. My God, did that woman's spies never rest? "Get on Skype! NOW!" she bellowed and clicked off. I sighed, and figured I better get this over with. As soon as we were connected, she commanded: "Stick out your tongue!" "Who are you?" I asked innocently. "My doctor?" "I am about to be your former agent. STICK OUT YOUR TONGUE!" I obeyed the command. "And you probably want to see this," I said, turning my arm toward the camera. "Have you lost your damn mind? We are done. I am tearing up your contract." "Like I give a damn, you smelly diesel dyke," I said, breaking the connection before she had a chance to say anything else. Not only did I want to make sure Jennifer and Rosie were through, I wanted to make sure word got around that she was too much trouble for anyone to take on. When I walked into the condo, Dr. Sanders had just arrived home. "Why are you home?" he asked; then he spotted the tattoo. "Oh hell, what you have done now? Look, it will be no problem to remove that with my laser." "I'm not getting rid of it," I said indignantly. "I like it." "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "Hey, love," I said in the most kittenish voice I could muster. "Our sex life has left a little to be desired lately, don't you think? I will take full responsibility...I've been too consumed by work. But that can change...starting right now, if you like. I think Buster has been too lonely." He smiled. You may be wondering...Buster? Yes, that was his nickname for his manhood. As in bust-her-hymen. I know I don't have as much experience as the average reader on the female side of the fence, but ladies, I would be wary of any man who has a pet name for his penis. In any event, the doctor, and Buster, loved the extra attention. It was exactly a week later when the first sore appeared around my mouth. I covered it with makeup before coming to bed that night. I was particularly generous in my fellatio that night. "Herpes," I thought to myself, "the gift that keeps on giving." It was just six days later when Buster's owner realized what I had done to him. "Crazy bitch!" he shouted at me, along with a few other things I won't repeat. Naturally, he moved out the next day. By then, I was back at work. The station had tried to break my contract, but their own lawyers said they wouldn't prevail in court. Of course, they didn't realize I had no intention of fighting any effort to terminate me. But thanks to their lack of nerve, I soldiered on. My drinking was steadily increasing. I kept a bottle of Kahlua in my bottom desk drawer and kept my coffee spiked throughout the work day. This of course was in addition to my after-work wine consumption. Somehow, though, I managed to keep it together while on the air...at least for a little while longer. I think it all started to come apart the night I came home to discover the front door of my condo open. I had been the victim of a burglary. All of my electronic gear and my jewelry box was gone. Those things didn't matter to me too much; they could be replaced. But when I found the contents of my underwear drawer dumped on the floor, and no sign of the costume gun, I felt like I had been kicked hard in the stomach. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time. I was almost in shock; then I began to cry. I realized with the gun gone, and no way to replace it, my most promising options for the future were gone. I could restore Jennifer and complete my plan, leaving her to pick up the shards of the life I had so efficiently destroyed; but that would mean going back to being Alex Webber. And I realized at that moment I didn't want to be Alex ever again. I thought I would kill myself if I had to look into the mirror and see that face again. As much as I didn't want to admit it to myself, I liked being Jennifer. I liked being a creature of beauty and grace. I liked sex as a woman. I liked being a star in front of the camera. I liked being lusted after by men and envied by women. No, I didn't like it...I loved it, despite the fact that I had never had a conscious wish to be female before all of this transpired. But being a woman has changed me in profound ways. Society still patronizes women, but it also puts them on a pedestal. I liked it up there. Becoming a woman was like visiting a foreign country I had never planned to visit. It was strange at first, but the longer I stayed, the more comfortable I felt there, and the less I wanted to leave. Of course, I realized what I was contemplating was far more monstrous than my original plan. In my initial scenario, Jennifer would have regained her life; wrecked in many aspects to be sure, but she would have lived again; but what I was contemplating would mean she would effectively be dead at my hand. Surprisingly, I found I could live with that. Life had denied me so much, for so long, and it wasn't fair in so many aspects; I told myself I was only giving myself what I deserved. So, that was it. I would remain as Jennifer and try to undo the wreckage I had so carefully created. Only problem was, it wasn't that easy. I found it too difficult to cut back on drinking, let alone think of quitting. I was still maintaining on the air, until one night last week when I had to read a story about a Congressman admitting he had lied about posting a picture of his genitals on his Twitter account. As I stumbled through the story, I started to giggle. And I couldn't stop. When I watched the tape, I heard myself muttering, "So it was Weiner's wiener after all, Oh God, that's too funny..." Banks tried to interrupt, but I just kept babbling. There was an abrupt cut to a commercial, and when the newscast resumed, all the viewers saw was that I had vanished from the set. In reality, Gail had escorted me away. She also drove me home and got me into bed. The next day, when I sobered up, I was called in to the station. I was suspended yet again. But I would have a chance to keep my job if I went into rehab. When I heard that suggestion, I thought of Jennifer's mother?now my mother Amanda. She had been in an out of rehab four times. So it was by no means a sure thing. But it was a chance. I've been here a little over a week now. Today I had to attend my first AA meeting and make my public declaration. In addition to my mother, I've had a couple of other friends join AA. A couple of things were racing through my mind...the phrase "working an honest program" and the step where I will have to make amends to those I have wronged. Of course, if I'm to truly make amends to Jennifer, I have to give her back her life. If I don't do that, I will be living a lie. But somehow I will deal with that. After all, I am Jennifer Washburn, right? I'm young, talented and beautiful, right? I've had the world at my feet before...and I will again. You can count on it.