Vicki Versa 2 - Danielle Blank's Story free porn video

Vicki Versa 2 - Danielle Blank's Story By Pamela Blake Based on and continuing Morpheus's story "Vicki Versa." This is the author's first TG story. Thank you, Morpheus, for a great story that inspired me to attempt a continuation. [Revised, updated and expanded, based on helpful feedback given to the first draft of this story.] "Vicki Versa" by Morpheus - Plot Summary (but take the time to read the original story--it's a classic!) [Part 1] David Coltraine is an ordinary and underachieving High School sophomore. He meets a new girl in school, Vicki Versa, and becomes her friend. When mean kids in his school pick on him and Vicki, Vicki shows David her unusual ability: she can switch into other people's bodies, leaving them in the body she switched from. (Using multiple swaps, she can in effect swap two other people with each-other.) She uses this ability to punish a pretty girl who makes an unkind remark about an unattractive girl by switching the pretty girl with the unattractive one. She punishes a bully picking on David by switching the bully with a popular cheerleader. Only when the two mixed-up kids promise not to bother David or Vicki any more (or she'll leave them switched!) does Vicki return them to their original bodies. David takes Vicki to his house where she meets his parents. They start to make out up in his room, but then his parents walk close by and they have to break it off. [Part 2] Next evening Vicki takes David home to her apartment (she lives alone) and they make love (several times). Now David is no longer a virgin. Since David's late getting home that night, he's grounded for a few days (but he doesn't mind!) A few days later, at the end of a school day, Vicki switches David into her body, and she into his body. He's forced to spend the rest of the day as Vicki in her apartment, then overnight, and then has to dress and walk to school the next day as Vicki. Finally during school Vicki switches them back, but David is very angry with her. He refuses to talk to her for most of the school day. Finally he relents and forgives her. They kiss and make up. A week later, after seeing a movie together, they're walking home again to her place when a group of male agents with guns try to capture David and Vicki ("We've finally caught you!" says one of the agents). Just then a young hooker walks onto the scene and propositions the agents. In the resulting confusion, Vicki switches one of the agents with the hooker, then starts shooting agents (while in the body of another agent.) After the gunfire subsides and all the agents seem to be dead or out of action, Vicki switches back into her body, and she and David start leaving the scene of the battle. Just then the agent in the hooker's body gets a gun and prepares to fire it. David sees the danger, and jumps on and knocks over the hooker to protect Vicki. The gun goes off. David lies on top of the hooker, mortally wounded. The agent in the hooker has a look of satisfaction on her face. Then Vicki switches David and the agent, and David's body dies with the agent in it. Vicki cries and apologizes to David, telling him (in the hooker's body) that she didn't mean for it to end this way. They cling and cry together. Vicki and David are starting to head back to her place when more agents attack. Vicki presses money into David's hands, tells him to use her apartment until she gets back, and runs away with the agents in pursuit. David, now in the hooker's body, returns to Vicki's apartment. He's in shock. A week later, he attends his own funeral. He cries and cries during the service, but can't bring himself to go up and talk with his grieving mother and father. After another week, feeling bored and uncomfortable, David enrolls in his old High School as Danielle Blank and starts attending classes. Two months after David was trapped in the body of the hooker, Vicki still hasn't returned. [End of Plot Summary of Morpheus's "Vicki Versa"] Vicki Versa 2 - Danielle Blank's Story By Pamela Blake I would wake up some mornings and break down crying. I couldn't control the tears. I felt sorry for myself. I felt sorry that I had lost my life and my family along with my gender. Though I was getting more used to the feel of my new body, of being a girl, I still felt like a stranger in a strange land. Take tits. As a guy I'd worshipped the darn things. I'd dreamed of touching and fondling them. Now, they aren't a lot more interesting than my knee or my elbow. Touching or fondling them is a bit like kissing my sister (make that kissing my brother.) Now they were part of my body, they'd developed as this body had matured, and now they were part of me. Further, when you think about it, tits really only have one purpose--and it's not titillating guys (pun intended), or causing them to trip and stumble while crossing the street. They're there to nourish a baby; to deliver high-quality nutrition so that the baby can grow and develop. Yet I had them, and guys wanted them. I had the repeated experience of talking to a guy and having him looking down at and talking to my tits while I talked to him. (It didn't help that most of them were talker than me.) I wanted to grab their heads and pull them up so they'd look into my eyes and say, "Hey! I'm up here. My tits won't talk to you." They were nice tits, not too big and not too small. Thank God the hooker hadn't had breast implants. They were still quite big enough for my tastes; even if I grew a little, I'd never be on the cover of Playboy (or inside it, for that matter). Vicki had had bigger tits than me (and nicer ones, I thought), but she had been taller and had a bigger frame. When you get down to it, the perfect-sized tits are the ones that look right on your body. We all have images of ourselves. For sixteen years I was a guy. So my image of myself was of a guy, 5'9", slim, short brown hair, altogether pretty average-looking. Suddenly, after Vicki had swapped me into the hooker, I was four inches shorter, had long black hair, and though not fat I now had broad womanly hips along with my generous tits. For awhile my old self-image clashed with the body I saw every time I woke up and every time I looked in the mirror. Then, gradually, I was no longer so surprised at what I saw. It all started to seem more normal (not ordinary, but at least normal). I'd read in my Psychology class about an experiment done on self-image. When they fitted guys with immersion goggles and gloves, and fed to them the visuals a girl would see, the guys started to think of their bodies as female. We guys in that class laughed about the experiment outcome. All I can say now is, we humans have an amazing ability to adapt. Vicki shoved $10,000 into my hand when she ran away that day. At the time it seemed like a lot of money. Then I discovered shopping. Shopping was really odd. As a guy I'd never thought much about clothes. I'd never been shopping except when my mother grabbed my arm and dragged me to a department store before a new school year to buy me some "school clothes." Even after that I seldom thought about what I was wearing, except to try to wear clean clothes most days. So, the day I went shopping (just three days before I started attending my old High School as Danielle Blank), I felt intimidated. I knew I had to go shopping. The clothes the hooker was wearing on the day Vicki swapped me into her were not suitable for any activity except being a hooker; they were revealing, cheap, and designed to display the merchandise. For the funeral I had borrowed some of Vicki's clothing. Her bras didn't fit right--my tits were covered, but they weren't completely restrained. They kept on threatening to escape from their enclosure. ("Run for it, girls--you're free!") Further, her tops were way too loose. Her panties and skirts fit better (I guess we had similar-sized hips), but she was taller than I was, so I had to wear one of her shorter skirts to make up for it. After I'd cried my way through the funeral, it was very clear that I would have to buy some proper-fitting clothes. I walked over to the mall from Vicki's apartment and into the department store where my Mom had shopped. I went into the woman's clothing section. It was odd seeing all of the woman's clothing on display--bras lined up in rows and stacks, panties folded and stacked, skirts hanging in one area, blouses arrayed in another section. The unclothed mannequins covered only with bras and panties seemed...obscene somehow. It was even odder to realize that I would be wearing this sort of clothing from here on out. I walked up shyly to one of the sales ladies. "Excuse me, M'am, I need to buy some clothes. Can you help me?" I asked. She glanced at the ill-fitting clothes I'd borrowed from Vicki and said, "Oh course, honey. What's your name?" "Danielle, Danielle Blank," I said. "Hi, I'm Mrs. Sutton. What size are you?" she asked. "I'm not sure," I said, "I've always shopped with my Mom, and didn't pay a lot of attention." She smiled and said, "Okay, Danielle, so this is your first shopping spree on your own--let's make it fun. How much do you have to spend?" she asked. "Uh, Mom didn't set a limit, she just said I had to come home with all the outfits I'd need for the while school year, including casual wear," I said. Mrs. Sutton looked very cheerful when I said that. "Great. We'll get you all set up. Come over here and let me take your measurements," she said, pointing to a changing area. In the changing area, I took off my blouse and skirt, and she measured my height, my tits (in several places), my waist, my hips, my butt, my torso, my legs and my arms. I'd never thought girls had so many places to measure, and so many ways to be measured. As I guy I only remember caring about my waist size and my neck size. Once she'd noted all the numbers on a notepad, she asked, "Danielle, do you have a dress code at your school?" I answered, "Yes, I have to dress pretty plainly. No shorts, no skirts above the knees, no sleeveless blouses, no showing cleavage, and no high heels. (As I said this I was idly looking down at my cleavage.) "Okay," she said, "I think I'll be able to work with those restrictions and still find you some good-looking outfits. First I want to call Mrs. Dupree over so that you can get measured and fitted for your new bras and panties. Obviously what you've got now simply isn't up to the job. There's a reason we call bras and panties foundation garments--we need a foundation to work with before we can add other clothing." The panties weren't a big deal--Mrs. Dupree brought several pairs, and they slid on comfortably the first try. But the bra experience was embarrassing. I know I needed them--my tits flopped and jiggled around like the dickens if I wasn't wearing one. Vicki's bras were too loose. The bra the hooker had been wearing was designed to show off her assets; I wanted to cover them up. I never considered how much trouble "nice girls" have to take to select what they wear, what they say and even how they move (if they want to stay nice girls). Now I wanted to be a nice girl, and I had a lot to learn. I stood in the fitting room naked from the waist up in front of a full length mirror. If I'd been myself I would have loved looking at this body. Cute face, pretty long black hair that flowed midway down my back, full tits with wide pale red areolas and pert dark nipples, slim waist, then the sudden swerve down to my broad hips, then a little patch of black pubic hair guarding my vagina (what I could see of it though a pair of new white panties), and my slender shapely legs. Before, when I'd been in Vicki's body for a day, it had become like an exotic but safe vacation. I knew I'd be back in my own body the next day. Now, this cute curvy 5 foot 5 inch girl was me, and it was the only me I'd ever be. Even if Vicki eventually came back, I couldn't ask her to ruin the life of some poor guy by swapping me with him. Then he'd have to go through all things I was experiencing as I tried to accept life as a girl. Mrs. Dupree took my bra measurements. It was odd feeling the tape laid across my back and then across the fullest part of my tits. I discovered that my nipples were a little ticklish. After a few more mysterious measurements, Mrs. Dupree recited some numbers and letters. They meant nothing to me. All I wanted was to cover up my tits and not have to deal with them so much. She came back with some lace-covered boxes filled with bras, and one by one I tried them on. I'll say this for Mrs. Dupree--she knew her stuff. Those bras fit me like a glove, and brought my rebellious tits under control, or as much under control as they were ever going to be. I bought eight new bras for starters in various colors and styles. By this time Mrs. Sutton had gathered what seemed like a mountain of boxes, plus lots of clothing on hangers. It went by like a movie in slow motion. Mrs. Sutton would give me a piece of clothing, I'd put it on, we'd decide if it fit good or not, and then we'd have to discuss how it looked, and whether I liked the color and the fabric and the pattern and the style. Some she'd set aside, others she put in a discards pile to return to the shelf. I remember little fragments of our one-sided conversation. "This blouse emphasizes your bosom. The darts really gather it all in, so that the eye is drawn to one thing only. You might wear it to a dance, but you probably wouldn't wear it to school." "This blouse lengthens and slims your waist. You'll have to wear it with a longer skirt to complete the look." "This fabric picks up your hair. You don't want too dark a color or too much sheen, or it will clash with your hair." "This color goes well with your eyes. It picks up the green. Also the texture of this fabric matches well with the fabric in this skirt." By the end of it, I was overwhelmed. I had no idea there was so much you had to think about with women's clothing. I had to educate myself about fabric, and color schemes, and patterns, and a seemingly endless list of things before making a purchase. I felt like I'd previously been sleepwalking through life--there was a whole new alien world out there that I now had to try to master. Thank God Mrs. Sutton was there to give me a working introduction to it all. When I finally saw the total price for all my purchases, I was shocked! I'd spent over $1,400, and I could still carry everything I'd bought in four big bags in my hands. Women's clothing is a lot more expensive than guy's clothing! And my clothing problems didn't stop with the shopping. Now it seemed like I had to think about clothes (and how I'd look in them) every day. Did this blouse look good today? Did this skirt match it? Did the colors work together? Did the fabrics work together? How about patterns? And even after agonizing over my clothes, some of the damn girls in school would still make fun of my choices, making me want to cry. I tried not to give them the satisfaction, at least not in front of them. Makeup. I'd had my first experience with it on the day I spent as Vicki. Now I had to take it even more seriously. The day after my clothes shopping trip, I went back to the department store and stepped up to the makeup counter. The look I saw on the faces of the various girls at the makeup counter reminded me of the look of a pack of hungry dogs when you have a meaty bone in your hand. The salesgirl who won the race to grab me as a customer took a moment to glance at the other girls with a look of triumph on her face. Then she turned to me, smiled, and said, "Hi, I'm Cindy. What do you need today?" "Hi Cindy, I'm Danielle." I said. "I bought a bunch of clothes here the other day for school and such, and now I have to buy some makeup and learn how to use it. My, uh, my Mom hasn't allowed me to use it much up to now." "Okay, let's get started. Let me tell you how we do this. Every time you come to the makeup counter, we're ready to give you a full facial. You get to feel the product on your face, and see how it looks. You learn how to apply it, and also tricks on how to make it look better for whatever effect you're looking for. Also, a warning--we use the most expensive makeup for the demo, first because we want you to buy it, and second because it's the highest quality. A little goes a long way, they use the best ingredients, and it will look best on you. Now, have a seat and we can begin." I sat where indicated, and said, "Cindy, I am totally ignorant about makeup. I'm putty in your hands." "Good, that's just the way we like it." Cindy giggled, and so did I. "Okay, the purpose of makeup is to warp reality. Reality is that we look the way we look. But with makeup, we can adjust things any way we want. We can look older, younger, thinner, thicker, more attractive, less attractive (though we don't do that as much)" (another giggle), "and so on. Further, we can help you achieve a look you want, even if that look wasn't what you were born with." She put a protective cloth over my clothing. Then she started putting some powder on my cheeks, forehead and neck. "Also, after we've evaluated what nature gave us, we can select different features that we like and emphasize them (for instance--you have very pretty eyes, so we will want to bring them out with the makeup). We can select other features we have that we don't think look as good, and deemphasize those features." Now she started to spread some foundation on my cheeks. "Makeup isn't about lying; it's about telling a story we want to tell by appearing to be what the story says we are. People are very superficial--most will not look beyond the surface level. So if we have a nice surface, they'll generally buy it." Now she had smoothed the foundation, and was putting some blush on top (I learned all these terms later--it was all brand new at the time). "The secret with makeup is to use as little as you possibly can. And if you use it, use it as subtly and unobtrusively as possible. The best makeup job is the one where they have to look twice to try to figure out if you're wearing makeup." She put on the lipstick. I pursed my lips onto a Kleenex, feeling very feminine as I did it. "Now, your eyes. This is the most important area where we apply makeup, the most difficult area to do right, and the most obvious place to see makeup mistakes. When I watch TV I always look at the eyes--people on TV have the best makeup artists in the world. It's one of the ways we ordinary mortals have to learn from the very best." She slid some black stuff onto my eye lashes. "You have nice lashes--no need to do add anything there other than to bring them out." She spread something around me eyes. Then she painted something under my eyelids with careful even strokes. "You have really beautiful green eyes. With eye shadow, we don't simply slap on the same color as the eyes. We might refer to their color, we might emphasize their color, but we're not just painting by numbers." She spun me around in the chair to face the mirror again. I was flabbergasted. I thought I'd been kind of cute before. Now that cuteness looked...more appealing, more sophisticated, more happy, more everything. And I saw what she meant--the only obvious thing about this facial was the lipstick--everything else blended in to create the whole effect. Cindy was a makeup master. I'm lucky I got her as my saleslady. As Cindy started stacking up the makeup I would buy, she said, "Come back tomorrow, and I can tell you everything you'll ever need to know about nails. Also, I know where you can get a really nice mani-pedi for a good price." I wasn't sure that a mani-pedi was, but it sounded like I had to learn what it was and get one. "Also, we need to talk about your hair," said Cindy, "There's a lot you're not doing with it that would help your overall look." I had a feeling that helping my hair was going to cost me dearly, based on the steadily growing total I observed as Cindy rang up my makeup. I walked out of the store loaded down with $350 in really good makeup. In one small bag. Cindy assured me that she would give me further lessons in its use if need be. I could tell that I would be seeing her again--there's no way can you learn to do makeup in one lesson. I could see why girls read fashion magazines--there's so much to learn, and so little time. And I still didn't know the first thing about nails and hair. Cindy gave me my hair lesson the next day, along with advice on getting a manicure/pedicure; "you'll love it--it's one of the ways we girls have of feeling and looking special." She also advised me on nail colors that would work with my eyes, my complexion, and my clothes. It was all very complicated and very precise. Now there was even more I had to learn from fashion magazines. (Cindy told me the best ones to buy for that purpose, too.) Then she delved into the mysteries of hair for me. Sure, it's just dead cells. But with the right product and technique, it can look shiny, or silky, or bouncy, or airy, or invite touches, or any number of other things. I'd never imaged before that you could do so much with the stuff. As a guy my hair was dirty or my hair was clean. Dirty? Wash it. Clean? Wait until tomorrow. But now Cindy taught me about conditioners and shampoos and rinses and treatments. It was another whole new world. And hair took a lot longer to care for, both to shampoo and condition (and to use the treatments or rinses), and it took a lot longer to dry off it afterwards. But I was beginning to see that the effort was worth it. Later that day I had a mani/pedi. The woman who gave it to me didn't speak a word of English. But she went about her work carefully and competently, and at the end of it, when I handed her a tip, she understood my "Thank you." My first day in school as Danielle Blank was frightening (a lot more frightening than when I'd been in Vicki's body. On that day I had just done my best to pretend that I was her. But now I had to pretend to be myself, Danielle. It was like I had to invent who I was as I went along.) I walked to school in one of my new outfits. My nails were new (a subdued color--I didn't want to stand out too much). There was subtle makeup on my face (no lipstick), and my hair was shiny from the shampoo and conditioner Cindy had sold me. Again, as when I'd been Vicki, I could feel male eyes following me. I wanted to disappear. I was afraid that I'd picked the wrong clothes. Too revealing? Too boring? The wrong colors? Finally I got to school and went in. I'd called the office previously to tell them to expect me. Somehow there were no questions raised I couldn't answer. I filled out the information forms (giving a fake address and fake names for my parents), and they didn't ask further. I explained that my parents were salespeople for a world-wide company, and travelled a lot, which was why they couldn't be here now. "No problem, Danielle," said the principal. "I'm sure they can come in presently to sign the papers. In the meantime we don't want you to miss any class time." We went through the classes I'd been in at my "old school." I was slotted into the corresponding ones in my "new school." Each teacher I met with assured me they'd work with me to be sure I caught up with the other students. Each one weighted me down with books and workbooks and makeup assignments. Three of my teachers were teachers I'd had as a guy. I noticed Mr. Smith in particular. As a guy he hadn't paid much attention to me, except when I turned in a paper late. Now he seemed extra nice, and I swore his eyes were grazing along the tops of my tits every chance he got. It was a very odd feeling. I noticed the looks of the other students. The boys were looking at me with obvious interest. Having lately been I guy, I knew what they were thinking. I worried that my blouse showed too much. I looked down to be sure I'd buttoned it to the top. Suddenly the skirt I'd selected seemed too short. My legs were sticking out. Was it bunched up above my knees? I also noticed the appraising glances from the girls--they were sizing me up as potential competition. Finally the day was over. I parked some of my books in my new locker, and headed home with the rest. I was exhausted. One of the boys hurried up and said, "Hi, welcome to our school. Would you like me to help you carry your books home?" I wanted to cut him off dead, but then realized that I hadn't been looking forward to the long walk home with all those books. "Sure," I said. "Thanks. What's your name?" "Danny, Danny Davis," he said, "what's your name?" "Danielle Blank," I said. "Well, Danielle, it's good to meet you," he said, putting out his hand. I hesitated a moment, then said, "Thanks," and shook his hand. He walked me home, then handed me my books like a perfect gentleman. If he glanced at my tits for an extra second or two. I wasn't going to mark him down for it. "Thanks for the help, Danny. Maybe I'll see you again in school sometime." "You're welcome. I hope I do see you again. Bye, Danielle." I felt a little warm inside. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a stupid idea to get to know him. Inside my apartment, I let out a big sigh. I was back in my school, even if I was in an unfamiliar female body dressed in newly bought clothing, with new hair and new makeup and new nails. I threw the stack of books on the kitchen counter and went into my bedroom. I stripped off my clothes, stood naked in front of the mirror for a moment (not bad, I thought), then took a long hot shower and washed off my makeup (but didn't wash my hair.) Afterward, in more comfortable clothes, I sat down and began my homework. A couple of hours later, I realized it was dark out, and that I was very hungry. I'd finished most of my homework, but now got up to get some food. The refrigerator was hardly stocked at all. I made do with some chicken salad and some grape juice. I realized that I would have to go food shopping tomorrow after school. As I continued to attend my old High School as Danielle Blank, I had some bitter realizations. First, I couldn't go home again, both literally and figuratively. I was no longer a part of my family. I could no longer talk to my Dad, or confide in my Mom. I would never again visit my grandparents or my aunt and uncle, or my cousins. And I'm sure that they felt a huge loss in their lives with my death, too. Second, I felt alienated from all the things I used to take for granted. High school is hard enough without having to adjust to a new gender. Guys were hitting on me, and I didn't know how to respond. I felt awkward and strange. They were obviously attracted to me, but it was hard to relate to them. My looks came from the dead hooker; who then was I? Some of the girls were nice, but others were vicious and cruel. They made fun of my hair, or my makeup, or my clothes. I cried myself to sleep some nights, wondering, "Why me?" I needed to understand my situation better. I went to the source of all information (and misinformation), the Internet. I learned that many hookers were abused as girls, and ran away from home to escape the abuse. That was a terrible thought--I hoped that didn't describe me. Others ran away for no good reason (they came from nice home, good parents, etc.) When these young vulnerable girls landed in a big city, they were snatched up by pimps who gave them shelter and food and protection (a few things they hadn't considered they'd need when they ran away.) The pimps got the girls emotionally and physically dependant on them, and would also often get them hooked on drugs so that they could better control them. Thank God I'd felt no addictions gnawing at my body and demanding some needed drug in the past couple of weeks. Perhaps I hadn't been a hooker very long. Hookers also have a high incidence of venereal diseases, and HIV. Suddenly I had a lot to fear. Some sexually transmitted diseases could be cured; others were a lifelong affliction. And HIV required constant expensive drugs regimens (and less exposure to stress, if possible) so that the HIV didn't blossom into full-blown AIDS. I was very afraid for a few days, and finally dragged myself reluctantly after school to a local health clinic to be tested for STDs and HIV. The tests invaded every last vestige of whatever privacy I had left. A male nurse had me disrobe and don a white backless gown while he was out of the examination room. (Having it on was not a lot better than being naked as a jay bird.) Then I put my feet into some stirrups, and he brought some swabs and went to work in my vagina. It felt damned odd, and it was also odd having a man hovering over my private parts doing the swabbing, even if my legs were (mostly) covered with a sheet. (Was he sexually attracted to me?) Finally, he took some of my blood, and I could get dressed again. My hands shook as I reached around to fasten my bra and slipped on my panties and my blouse and skirt. I wasn't out of the woods yet. My time sitting in the waiting room seemed endless. Finally the male nurse came out and ushered me into a private room. He looked at me, and I noticed his glance sliding down to my tits. "Ms. Blank," he said, "I'm pleased to tell you we couldn't find any trace of an STD or of the HIV virus. We also see that you're on the pill. But we strongly recommend that you abstain from frequent sexual activity with different partners, and always use protection, or be sure that he's using protection, if you don't want to end up with an STD. And remember to have your doctor monitor your hormone levels--the pill is very safe, but monitoring keeps it so and keeps it working. Also, we need the name and address of your parents so that we can send them this report." I panicked, then gave him the same name and address for them that I'd given the school. It was good news that I didn't have an STD or the HIV virus. It was also surprising to learn I'd been on the pill (though come to think of it, it made sense for a hooker to do that. Plus that explained why I hadn't had a period yet--but they would come after the effects of the last pill I'd taken wore off, since I didn't have a prescription for more.) I breathed a big sigh of relief, but it was tinged with a little fear. Now I had to consider the consequences if I wanted to have sex with someone. And that someone was going to be a man, not a woman. What a strange thought. Women no longer turned me on. Seeing other girls in the locker room after gym class wasn't a bit exciting. It was surprising instead. Here were tits and vaginas and smooth feminine bodies in various stages of dress and undress--as a guy I would have paid good money to see them, and now they left me cold. I found myself comparing my various features to theirs and seeing how they stacked up, so to speak. (I will say that my tits were one of my outstanding assets.) Once I no longer had to worry about the diseases I might have caught as a hooker, I had to face other hard realities. I was going to spend my life in this female body. And, my identity as Danielle Blank would not withstand any scrutiny. I had realized that at the health clinic. What if one of my teachers wanted to talk to my parents? The last straw happened in school one day. My biology teacher Mr. Justice was handing out test results. For some reason, I was doing a lot better in Biology as Danielle than I ever had as David. In fact, my grades were better in every single one of my classes. Mr. Justice handed me my test, and I was proud to see that I had gotten an "A". Then it hit me--whatever tests I took, whatever grades I got for my classes were meaningless since I didn't really exist. I was fooling myself by attending my High School. I was like a ghost, pretending to be a girl while pretending to go to school. That had to change. If I was ever going to be a real girl, I had to be someone--someone that the society around me recognized and identified. I had to have a driver's license and a birth certificate and a social security number. This led to further worries and further tough decisions. While it might have been possible to buy forged papers with the money Vicki left me, the problem is that they might or might not stand up to scrutiny over the years. I'd need solid IDs to get a job. Vicki's $10,000 was disappearing faster than I'd expected. Nowadays, with homeland security, I couldn't even open a bank account without two or three government-issued IDs. I also felt a lot of sadness for the dead hooker. She hadn't known that coming on to the agents that day would result in the destruction of her world. She had ended up in the body of one of the agents, probably dead on that street in the midst of the gunfire, with nobody to mourn for her or to say goodbye to her. At least my parents and family and friends had had the chance to say goodbye to me. It had been wrenching to see it, but at least they had some closure. Though the hooker hadn't been doing much with her life, she must have had dreams and hopes. They may not have been much deeper than the optimistic fantasy in Pretty Woman, but they'd been real, and they'd all been taken from her on that terrible day, along with any hope of reuniting with her family. So, I had to find out who this body had belonged to. Who was this cute dark-haired girl (looking about 17) who'd become a hooker? What was her name? Where did she come from? Why did she run away and become a hooker? Were her family horrible and abusive, or were they worried sick about her? I owed it to her to find out. I started my research on the Internet. I went to the Web site of the local newspaper, and looked up the story on the shooting where my body had been killed. The story was short on details about the agents, but I sat up straight when I saw one of the paragraphs that read; "One eyewitness reported that her girlfriend was at the scene of the shooting, and is now missing. Please contact the police at 411 if you have any further information on missing people on the date of the shooting." The missing girlfriend was probably me. But how could I discover who I was? The newspaper story didn't have any further details. I finally went to the library, and walked up to the Reference section and the Reference Librarian. I introduced myself as Danielle Blank; she replied that she was Mrs. Soral. I asked her how she'd go about finding the identity of someone mentioned in the newspaper. She looked at the story in question, then was silent for a few moments. Finally she said, "Well, first I'd call the newspaper reporter who wrote the story. Sometimes they have more details than they have space to fit them." "Would you be able to do that for me?" I asked, "I'd really appreciate it." The librarian looked at me, then said, "Sure, honey. I'll be glad to. Sit right there and I'll make the call." She glanced at the clock and said to herself, "It's a morning paper, and it's two o'clock. He shouldn't be on deadline right now." She picked up the phone, consulted a listing on the Internet, and dialed a number. Looking off into space, she said, "Hi, this is Mrs. Soral, the Reference Librarian at the Central City Library. Could I speak to Peter Johnson? Oh, great, thank you." "Hello, Mr. Johnson?" she said a few seconds later, "this is Mrs. Soral. I'm the Reference Librarian at Central City Library. How are you today? Thank you, I'm great. Now, back on (she paused a moment to look at the article) July 7th you wrote a story about the shooting on Central Street near downtown. Yes. I have a follow-up question on that story. You had a quote from a witness that her friend was missing. By any chance did the witness tell you the name of the friend? Yes? What was it? Thank You. What was the name of the witness? Okay. Thank You. Yes, that's all I needed to check on for now. Have a nice day." By this time I was bursting to know. Mrs. Soral turned to me and said, "The missing girl's name was Pamela. The witness didn't give her last name, and also didn't give her own name." Pamela. My name was Pamela. I said my name out loud. I rolled it around in my mind. Then I said, "Mrs. Soral, how would I find out more about this Pamela?" Mrs. Soral said, "Well, it you knew what Pamela did, you could research it that way. Anyone who works most anywhere these days leaves traces--payroll records, hiring and firing, mentions in the newspaper, mentions on the Internet--but we only know her first name, and there are no details on what she did." I knew a lot more--I knew that Pamela had been a hooker. Her girlfriend was probably a fellow hooker. That was why she hadn't given her name to the reporter. Further, I knew that hookers didn't fill out W2 forms or file income tax returns. All their money was collected under the table, and then spent the same way. And there wouldn't be a lot of mentions of Pamela in the newspaper. "Mrs. Soral," I said finally, "Thank you. You've been very helpful." "That's quite all right, Danielle." she said. "Come by anytime if you have further research you need to do." I left and went home to my apartment. I had some facts, but I didn't have all that I needed. I sat down, did all my homework, then, stripping off all my clothes, lay down to sleep between silky sheets. The next morning I woke up and suddenly knew how to find myself. (I poked myself in the belly button and said "Here I am!") No, actually I threw on some clothes and went to Vicki's computer. Since Pamela was a prostitute, and a young one at that, it was extremely likely that she had run away from home. And if she had, there would be a missing persons report on her. I went to Google and searched for "Missing Person Pamela." Up came all kinds of Missing Persons databases from all over the country. I went into to each of them and typed in "Pamela." It took hours. I missed school. Apparently there were a lot of missing people named "Pamela" out there. Late in the afternoon, I was almost ready to give up. There was one final state database to check. Finally, in Indiana, I found myself. There was my picture, looking a year or so younger and wearing a plain outfit, and the following information: Missing: Pamela Blake, 16, daughter of Joan and John Blake of Smartsburg, IN. 5'5", 95 lbs., black hair, green eyes. Pamela went shopping at the Smartsburg Mall on March 9th and never returned. No one saw her disappearance. Her parents and family have offered a reward of $20,000 for information about her whereabouts. Please call 800-555-1212 to talk anonymously to the Smartsburg Police Department if you have any information. So, I was Pamela Blake, and I was a year younger than I had thought. I'd been missing for 6 months. That lined up with my intuition that I had been a fairly new hooker. I'd gained a few pounds since I'd gone missing. I could guess a few places where they might have ended up. The random thought came to me that I was the same age as my old male body. I guess it's true what they say--girls do develop faster than guys. I certainly had a curvy womanly body as compared to my slender guy's body! My choice became real simple now. I had no life where I was. Attending my High School was a charade fraught with danger. I'd never be able to work or achieve anything without a real identity. Also, I finally had to accept that Vicki Versa was not coming back. I hoped she was all right, but I couldn't think of any way to help her. I had enough problems myself. So, if my parents were okay people and it wasn't an abusive situation, I saw no other choice. I would go back to Smartsburg, live with them, be their daughter, pick up in school where she'd left off and begin to live her life. (God, I hoped they weren't Republicans!) The fact that they were offering such a large reward suggested that they were good parents, and that they really did miss their daughter. So I was going home--not to my original home, but to the only home that recognized me now. What had that poet said? "Home is that place, where, when you show up, they have to take you in." It might be tough for awhile, and it would take a lot of adjustments. How would they treat me? Were they strict? Were they kind? What did they do for fun? Would I come to love my new Mom and Dad? Did I have any brothers or sisters? (I'd been an only child when I was a guy.) Finally, would I be able to fully accept life as a girl and then as a woman? Only time would tell how it would all work out. But I now had a home to return to. A large empty gulf inside of me that had been with me since the shootout was about to be filled. I picked up the phone... THE END