Midlife Crisis
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A Midlife Crisis free porn video
A medicine side effect transforms a depressed middle-aged attorney into
(arguably) the most beautiful young woman in the county. His wife is not
amused.
February 12:
To Whom It May Concern:
Allow me to introduce myself - My name is Catherine Covington-Hoft, and I
write to you at wit's end about my husband Ronald Covington-Hoft. I
hardly need introduce you to the name Covington-Hoft, and assume that
unless you have been living under a rock, you are familiar with my
husband. He is the founder of Covington-Hoft, Harrowby, and Swift, which
is by any reasonable measure the most successful firm in the tri-county
area. I write to you of course in the strictest confidence, and if a word
of this letter should be conveyed to anyone outside the doctors at your
clinic, my husband's law firm will be in contact with your lawyers.
To focus now on my concern, he has been in a state of the most extreme
torpor for much of the last year, since April at least, and perhaps
before. He has, I suppose, a sort of a condition of the nerves, a
depression if you will. He has been unable to work, and unable to rise
from bed on the worst of days. He was always a large sort of man, not
obese, mind you, but healthy and robust. Now, he eats little, talks
little, and seems to care for nothing. He lies upon his chaise longue,
and gazes at the cracks in the ceiling. Sometimes the cracks look like
bunnies to him. Other days they look like the fires of hell, and he says
that they will roast and blacken his bones, and he shivers and appears
gaunt. You can sense from this brief history that my beau is unwell.
He has seen seven of the most eminent psychiatrists in the region, who
have experimented with the newest and most expensive medicines, which were
of no benefit. He has even tried barbaric treatments such as shock
therapy and acupuncture.
Nothing has improved his situation. He is far worse than I ever could
have imagined he could be.
But today, imagine my surprise and joy when I opened the pages of the New
York Times, and saw Tuesday's article detailing your futuristic research
and introducing your brilliant doctors, working in a research facility
located just miles from our estate. I beg you, I plead to you, to save my
husband, to bring back the man with whom I fell in love. Money is of
course, no object, and I expect to receive an acceptance letter to your
clinic within the week, no later than Friday.
I await your response with bated breath,
Catherine
February 15:
It is with my utmost gratitude that I received my husband's acceptance
letter to your clinic, gentlemen. I understand that you are to receive
him into your clinic on Friday, which is entirely appropriate and
necessary, but I also see that you are only to keep him in your clinic for
a weekend. A weekend? Do you suppose this is enough time? Perhaps you
don't understand the depth of the man's depression. I have confidence in
you, gentlemen, do not let me down. I am not the sort of person who
tolerates disappointment.
I suppose I must fill out your questionnaire myself, because Ronald
refuses to even discuss the subject of further treatment. I am surprised
at the depth and intensity of your questions. There is one response,
which I suppose I should elaborate on. You asked if Ronald has any
children. Ronald and I share no children. It is oftentimes the
unfortunate lot of a woman most fit to be mother, such as myself, to be
cursed with a barren womb.
However, (and this is obviously something of a tender subject) Ronald does
have a child, a daughter, who is I believe nineteen this year. You may
well calculate the numbers in your head and wonder at how a man to whom I
have been married for 26 years can have a 19- year old daughter, when I am
childless. The gravest error I committed in our marriage was hiring a
young maid named Irina, who constantly laughed and giggled at Ronald's
most banal remarks. She executed her duties, however, and I had no reason
to register any serious complaint until she began one summer to wear
sweatshirts and sweatpants while cleaning the house, and I suggested to
her that she wear appropriate clothing, rather than the slovenly get-up
she had adopted. She behaved like a cornered animal and burst into tears
immediately, and then confessed that she was pregnant with Ronald's child,
and that she loved him more than life itself. It need not be said that I
was the wrong woman to make this confession to, and within the week, she
was on a one-way bus trip to Tijuana with two burly young men on either
side. Ronald has a scar on his left temple where he was struck with a
fine china teapot soon after this discovery was made.
I have often wished that Ronald's illegitimate daughter could somehow have
been raised by me, as it was my fondest wish to have a daughter, but I
suppose seeing her everyday would just remind me of Ronald's infidelity
and the harlot Irina and caused more sorrow than happiness.
In answer to your question about our sexual life, Ronald shows no interest
any more. None. The man who once boasted of his thrice daily appetites
has no interest whatsoever.
Fondest Regards and Greatest Expectations,
Mrs. Catherine Covington-Hoft
February 22
Time is short and there is much to do, so I will proceed to the point
quickly: you are miracle workers. You have performed an honest-to-God
miracle with your medical breakthrough. The vibrant man I had known for
so many years has returned. He positively bounded in the house after
arriving in the taxicab from your clinic. I said, "Ronald?" And he
laughed and said, "Catherine, I'm back!" And then he leapt right over
the canape (if you can imagine), flung the door open, and went for a dash
in the sun. He is barely recognizable as the same man who lay in stupor
one week prior. Last night, we shared a moment of surpassing passion that
we had not topped for probably 20 years.
The thanks you receive will be more than just the gratitude from my heart,
but enough money to pay for a new research building, and I expect that a
Covington-Hoft facility shall rise on your campus soon.
My dearest wishes and regards for your family,
Cathy
March 12
When I said in my previous letter that you are miracle workers, that was a
figure of speech, but now I begin to wonder. Ronald appears not only at
peace with the world, at home in his job, in love with his wife, but he
appears much...younger. I had little notion of how much his aged appearance
was due to the weight of his depression, but in just a week's time he
appears to have lost 15 years and looks much as he did when he was thirty.
Naturally, you recall his silvery hair, but to my shock, his hair has
become dark brown again, with not even a hint of gray, and has grown
quickly around his ears. The deep furrows in his brow, the fine wrinkles
around his eyes, are gone. I am almost of two minds about this - I
cherish the thought of being married to a strong, young, vibrant man, but
it makes me feel almost geriatric when standing beside him. I feel
surprisingly as if I have robbed a cradle when I look at his increasingly
youthful face. I am overjoyed, of course, but at the same time, I am just
a touch uneasy. You did not tell me that you are actually of the divine
persuasion, sirs, and I suspect that this medicine of yours, this nectar
of the gods, shall be quite popular.
Yours,
Catherine.
March 22
I am not pleased, sirs, not pleased at all. You may well marvel and even
scoff at the following letter, because what I am about to convey can
scarcely be believed. You recall that I told you how improved his
appearance was, and you requested his appearance in person at your clinic.
He refuses to return, gentlemen, absolutely refuses, and says he has been
cured and sees no reason for visiting even one more doctor.
He has become so changed, so transformed. He looks yet more youthful than
he did one week ago, and his hair has grown down to his chin. He appears
to be still the picture of health, but he continues to lose weight, and
his arms and legs and body are thinner than I have ever seen, and he seems
to have lost much of his body hair.
There are concerns of a more private nature that I have as well. I
hesitate to even write this, and blush profusely even typing the words,
but his male equipment has, for lack of a better word, shrunk. Ronald was
well-endowed, as you may have witnessed on your exam, but he has become
less well-endowed. Poorly endowed even. And as he lay in bed sleeping
peacefully the other day, he said in a most disgraceful tone, "Hold me,
Brent." Brent? What is this nonsense? Honestly, my husband is now
cavorting with someone named Brent in his dreams? I have always been and
remain to this day unaware of any female named Brent.
There was another incident in which he publicly embarrassed me. We were
sitting at a ball game, when he persisted in staring at the bottom of a
young man who was sitting in front of us. Finally, I told him, "Stop
staring at that man's bottom, Ronald." He denied to me that he was
staring at the man's bottom, and said that he was simply staring forward
at the game, and that the man and his bottom were merely in his field of
view. I said, "You cannot deny to me what I saw with my own two eyes, you
were ogling, Ronald." The owner of the previously mentioned bottom turned
around in astonishment at this conversation going on behind him, but I
quieted the man with a fierce look. "This conversation does not concern
you," I said. "Attend to the ball game." The man with the bottom stood
up and left then, and did not return to his seat. I was humiliated.
Let me quickly run through the first names of my husband's crushes (that I
am aware of) before he met me, the one true love of his life. Let me see
if you can grasp what these people have in common: Jennifer, Carol,
Sheryl, Flavia, Penny, and of course the tramp Irina. Can you find a
common thread that unites these people? What do you suppose all these
individuals have in common? I assume based on the plodding idiocy with
which you have ruined our lives, you will not be able to determine this
on your own, so I will tell you. These are all females. There is no
latent homosexuality within my husband, and if things do not right
themselves soon, your lawyers will receive a formal complaint. I have
surreptitiously taken several pictures of my transformed husband which I
now enclose, so you can witness for yourself.
Immensely disappointed,
Catherine Covington-Hoft
April 8
I am beyond irritated. I am beyond peeved. I am even beyond angry. Fury
is the most accurate word I can find to describe my emotions. My husband
has continued to change, and now his dark, straight hair is down past his
shoulders, and his face continues to appear younger, but sadly not just
younger, but becoming more and more a resemblance to a young woman than
the handsome face which rightfully belongs to him. His luminous dark eyes
remain the same, but everything else seems to be transitioning. His voice
is the voice of a young female, and just the other day, while we were
walking past a construction site, there was a wolf whistle directed, not
to me, but to my husband. And do you know what he did? He just smiled
and giggled. As if that were the most normal, desirable thing in the
world for a construction worker to lust after him. "Better lock up your
daughter, lady, she's trouble!" said one voice from the rabble. I
hustled my husband away, but my embarrassment knows no bounds, and I
refuse to appear in public with him from this point on. My daughter
indeed! The indignity! I asked him how he could behave in such a manner,
but he just giggled and told me he suffered so much inside to appear so
feminine, but his girlish appearance was now the cross he bore. He
misrepresents himself as some sort of transgender Simon of Cyrene, but I
don't buy it. He enjoys it - the man has grown fond of male attention.
To be blunt, sirs, my husband is rapidly being transformed into a flirty
young woman. I suppose there must exist perverse souls somewhere in the
world who take a certain kind of pleasure from the idea of a middle-aged
gentleman being transformed into a beautiful young woman, but rest assured
that I am not one of them.
And do you know the the worst of it? I tried to make love to him just
last night to determine if I could detect a hint of the increasingly
eclipsed masculine energy he once possessed, and I struggled mightily to
even locate his manhood. I grasped for it and asked him, "Is this it?"
and he said no, and then I tried again, and he said no, and then I tried
again, and he said "I think so," but in all honesty what I felt was damp
and empty. He asked me to continue, but I quit in disgust at that point
because while there was every indication he enjoyed the experience, I most
certainly did not. Make no bones about it. That which he possesses is
male no longer, and I don't wish to pretend that it is.
Can you imagine? My husband now has a vagina. Let me ask you as a
hypothetical - if your wife, who for rhetorical purposes I shall call
Polly, came to you tonight, and said, 'Honey, (or Sugar Bear, or whatever
name she calls you intimately) I have grown a penis, is it not marvelous?'
You would surely not be pleased with Polly. You would be even less
pleased if Polly were to ask if she could insert her newly grown penis
into your bottom. I despise crudity immensely, but this is an exact
analogy to the situation I face.
In answer to my letter detailing the charges against you I intend to
pursue, I received a reply from your lawyers that Ronald would have to
make an appearance in person if I wish to sue for damages. You well know
that the embarrassment of public revelation precludes this, and Ronald
himself seems to have no concern for his emasculation, and even seems to
be enjoying him/herself. I will, however, see that justice is served, one
way or another, whether he is in his right mind or not.
Letigiously,
Ms. Catherine Covington-Hoft
April 15
He (and I use this word 'he' in a historical sense only) is completely
transformed. He was sashaying back and forth in front of our house in a
tight shirt, and his chest was rising and falling and bouncing and swaying
in a most unbecoming way. I told him in no uncertain terms that he needed
to get his breasts under control, and offered him the use of a bra, which
he gratefully accepted.
This is what I am reduced to in my interactions with my husband. Bra-
fitting.
He was walking through a local college campus through the day, wearing a
midlength skirt and inappropriately heeled shoes, and fell and twisted his
ankle. He told me that a young man of the campus helped him to his feet,
and then actually carried him to the local bus stop. He said his ankle
was grievously injured at the time, but seems to be walking quite normally
currently, and his finely turned ankle did not appear the least bit
swollen. He described the young man as medium height, strong build, and
with short, spiky blond hair. He then told me that the young man's name
was 'Buck', and that Buck rides wild broncos, apparently as a vocation.
I asked him if he properly introduced himself as Ronald the middle-aged
attorney, and he said, 'no, I said my name was Roni, and then I told him
it was short for Veronica.'
I said, in an attempt to make conversation and not let him fluster me,
which he seems to delight in doing, "Why on earth would he ride a wild
bronco? Is that not a terribly painful and hazardous way to make one's
living?"
Ronald replied, "It's not bad. You only have to ride the bronco for eight
seconds. Course I'd let [Buck] ride me for more than 8 seconds." I was
flustered. He was openly lusting after this young hillbilly. I turned,
appalled.
"How can you say revolting things like that, Ronald? I'm disgusted. The
doctors are horrified and I'm disgusted."
My husband shook his head, and said, "Y'all don't understand me anymore.
Y'all don't know what I'm going through."
It was almost too much to bear. Not only does my Dartmouth-educated
husband now have the outward appearance of a flirty young woman, he is
apparently picking up young men at a community college and openly using
the word 'y'all'. I suppose he will soon be using words such as "yee-haw"
and "skedaddle" as he helps to drive cattle through town.
People talk, of course, as they always will, and Ronald refuses to remain
shut away in the house where he belongs, and the neighbors have asked who
this mysterious and beautiful young woman living in our house is. I tell
them that the young woman is my husband's daughter from a previous
relationship - I can hardly avoid making the connection as people have
remarked that the resemblance between my husband and the young woman is
striking.
Sirs, I hear you are developing an antidote for this monstrosity you have
created, although this will not affect my decision to pursue justice
through the legal system. Perhaps, while you are developing the antidote
for my husband's cowgirl affliction, you can develop an antidote for your
crippling stupidity and criminal devil-may-care attitude toward the well-
being of your patients. I trust you have fired the incompetents
responsible for this colorful mess we find ourselves in.
Ms. Covington-Hoft
April 19
Well, that's it then. It's over. I caught my ex-husband in flagrante
delicto with Buck the bronco rider yesterday, right upon the davenport.
Buck extricated himself from my husband, and skittered off as if I were a
kicking bronco ready to stove his head in, which was not far from the
truth. Ronald lay there, wearing only high heels, desperately attempting
to cover his naked female body, and cowering as if he were preparing to
get struck with a teapot once again, but did I yell or scream or throw
fine china? I did not. I simply exited the room. I sat quietly in the
sunroom, on the fauteuil, and put my head in my hands. This was the ne
plus ultra of his transformation, and I believe, the point of no return.
I dialed the police, but found them completely useless (as usual) when
they refused to arrest my husband for having intimate relations with this
cowboy. They said they had no cause to arrest the cowboy either.
"I'm so sorry, Veronica," I heard Buck whisper loudly. "Your mom is going
to kill us."
"No, it's my fault," said Ronald/Veronica. "I was the one who thought
she'd be gone for the day."
"Oh dear God! Mrs. Covington-Holt!" yelled Buck in my general direction.
"I ain't that kind of guy normally!"
Pathetic fool. "Buck" will soon taste the bitterness of my wrath.
But first I had to have a talk with my husband. I pulled him by his ear
into our bedroom and covered his nudity with one of my gowns, and then had
a frank talk about the birds and the bees, if you will.
"You are grounded, young man, or young lady, or whatever you are now!
Were you using protection? What if you were to get pregnant with this
young man and start having babies?" I said to him.
"I was just a man a month ago, I'm not sure if I can pregnant yet." Then
he got a far-off moony impractical look upon his face, and said, "Oh, but
wouldn't Buck make a wonderful father!"
It is not often I am speechless, but at this point there were just no
words.
Let us suppose that my poor afflicted husband now has the capacity for
pregnancy. I don't know how he and Buck are going to support the 'little
buckaroos', which I have no doubt that the poor children will be called.
I can tell you right now, I will not take care of whatever babies he plans
to make in the future unless he makes them with me. What does one even
call the progeny that emanates from one's husband's womb? Is there a name
for such an unnatural creature in the English language? One could hardly
say that I am the mother. He's already fathered a child out of wedlock
while we were married, and now he apparently plans to mother a child out
of wedlock.
I decided to seek out Buck's family, to interrogate them first and destroy
them later. I certainly had the expectation that in visiting Buck's home,
I would find five or six pitiful, overall-clad urchins, all rooting in the
dirt beside their trailer to find potatoes or turnips or grubs or what
have you for dinner, but I was startled when I drove to a ranch house high
upon a hillside overlooking a plain. It was a more substantial
establishment than my own!
A silver-haired mustachioed man sauntered up on a horse and said, "Howdy,
Ma'am" or something to that effect. I told him I was looking for the
family of Buck the Bronco rider, and he said he was Buck's father
Frederick, and the only family Buck had left, now that his mother had
passed away three months prior. A tear actually rolled down his handsome,
chiseled face when he said that. I had planned to register my displeasure
at the shoddy treatment of my husband, but as soon as I mentioned the name
'Veronica,' he started blathering about how my husband is such a fine
upstanding beautiful girl, and he/she seems to really care for Buck, and
blah blah blah. He regards my husband as a prize heifer, I suppose, as
some Miss Perfect Cowgirl for his loathsome rural son. I would have told
Frederick and his horse to go to hell, but he has such a fine manner, a
sort of regal Lonesome Dove-ish bearing, I resisted. I suppose I'll tell
him when we dine tomorrow night with Ronald and Buck.
I received your letter about the antidote, which is to be manufactured
next week, and cannot be delivered soon enough.
CCH
April 25
Well, I just had the most exhausting and obnoxious conversation with my
neighbor Doreen Bennett! This is how it went - she said, "I met your
daughter Veronica the other day, and she's a lovely girl. Of course, when
I say your daughter, she's not really your daughter, is she? She's from
your husband's little indiscretion with your maid, right? I had forgotten
all about that until she came along!" and laughed. I wanted to do her
physical harm. She continued in this vein. "She looks so much like your
husband it's uncanny! Oh, it's so sad about your husband's mental
illness, isn't it? I just imagine that must be awful for you."
"He's actually in quite good spirits, thanks for caring," I said through
clenched teeth.
"Oh good. I haven't actually seen him in ages - you know, because you're
a friend, I want you to know, there's a rumor going around that he's left
town, but of course I'm not one to spread rumors. Anyway, to change the
subject to something more pleasant, you know my daughter Elsa is entering
the May Queen Contest, and you know it's simply in the bag for her.
There just aren't any girls in this county who have that sort of
sophistication and beauty."
I said, "Well, capital. I'm very pleased for her. Elsa has quite a
striking, unique look. So very, very different from the conventional
standards of beauty." We parted ways, and I had to restrain myself from
screaming. What a dreadful woman.
I told Ronald that night that I had entered him in the a beauty contest,
and expected that he would soon be Miss May Queen. He looked surprised,
and objected strenuously, but I told him that I had already ordered his
dress, and that he was much prettier than that peculiar, stringy-haired
Elsa Bennett. He said he had no particular talent unless you consider
labor negotiations a talent, and he didn't think that particular talent
translated all that well into a beauty pageant setting. I told him he
could sing - anybody can sing with enough practice. "Start practicing," I
said.
"Is this some competition with Doreen again?" he said.
"I suppose," I said.
Buck and his father, and Ronald and I had dinner that night. I hesitate
to admit that if one's husband must be transformed into a beautiful young
woman, and then start dating a young man, one could do worse for his
partner than Buck. Buck is actually quite a respectful, pleasant young
man, and Ronald confided in me that Buck is "gorgeous" and I can hardly
disagree. Buck and Ronald stared into each other's eyes through the
entire meal, and I almost felt a twinge of pride that my husband turned
daughter would find such a fitting young man for his partner. I personally
think Buck's father is quite a remarkable man himself. The man makes
furniture, as a sort of side business, and complimented me on my own
furniture. I always fancied myself as something of an interior decorator,
and now here's an expert who confirms it! I was quite impressed with the
family, I must say, and I'm due to have a dinner with Frederick again next
Wednesday - such a lonely man, suffered so much for the last few months,
and I want to be there to comfort him.
I hear that a reversal drug will be available within days for Ronald. I
would suggest that we wait until after the May Queen contest until we even
consider reversing his feminization.
Respectfully,
CCH
May 2
My daughter Veronica came so very near to becoming the next May Queen, and
she only lost the title through what I can only assume is a bit of
chicanery - she is so much more attractive and classier than Elsa Bennett.
Veronica did a quite respectable rendition of "Coal Miner's Daughter,"
especially coming from a stockbroker's son, and her off-the-shoulder pink
gown was simply to die for, but in the end the judges awarded the trophy
to Elsa, who was just almost hanging out of her ridiculous dress, but I
suppose the male judges vote for that sort of revealing whorish get-up.
Veronica was not pleased afterward, and in fact did a bit of research
through some legal channels still available to her, which revealed that
Miss Elsa Bennett was now in fact Mrs.Elsa Summers, and therefore was not
eligible for this particular contest, and besides that, didn't even live
in our county.
Veronica had the evidence all printed up and ready to be sent to the judge
to disqualify Elsa, and then...tore it all up. I told her if she wanted to
win, she had to expose Elsa, and a Miss Congeniality Award wasn't what she
had labored so hard for. But she told me she had a change of heart, and
didn't want to be the person she used to be. The work-16-hours-a-day,
win-every-contest, have-to-be-the-best-at- everything guy. She just
wanted to relax, and have a normal life (as far as that was possible), and
spend her time with Buck. She said her previous attitude had made her
depressed and crazy, and she refused to repeat history in a girl's body.
She's actually used this whole gender mix-up to grow as a human being, and
I'm quite proud of my daughter, really.
Veronica and I have decided not to pursue the gender restoration drug.
You gentlemen have already caused me to lose my husband, and I refuse to
let you snatch away my daughter as well.
I can spend no more time writing, as I am off to ride the ponies with my
dear Frederick, but remain yours with mixed affections,
Catherine.
Tamera
- 30.07.2021
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