Diary Of The Suspicious free porn video

Diary of the Suspicious By Xoop "Start here." "Here?" "Yeah." -- * x * -- AUGUST 26 Finally, everything's moved in! Not that there was all that much -- one of several advantages to having lived in a furnished apartment. The only really major things I brought with me were my computer desk and a couple of bookshelves. Even so, it was a real bitch. God, do I ache. Big thanks (again) to Ian. Couldn't have done it without his pickup. And, of course, he's taking me in as a roommate, which is great. I still can't believe just how much management back at Tidewater Place wanted to raise the rent. The apartments weren't even all that great, furnished or no. Things will be a lot easier with a roomie to share expenses with, and Ian has always been a good friend. I'm sure we'll have no issues living under the same roof. AUGUST 28 I have GOT to get me a new bed. Soon. Ian has a fold-out couch, and it's certainly comfortable enough, but he gets up early to make coffee and breakfast. The noise of dishes and silverware and so forth are just impossible to sleep through. And worse, he does all this in his underwear. Mega nightmares in the making, there. I don't think he even realizes he wakes me up. I'm not going to tell him it does, either. No need to start things off with a confrontation, and I can usually get back to sleep once he's done. Still, it doesn't make for fun mornings, at least on my part. AUGUST 29 As usual, Ian woke me up with his rattling around in the kitchen again. And, as usual, I clenched my eyes shut and tried to ignore it. Maybe if I pretend to sleep hard enough, I'll actually be able to. Besides, then I don't have to look at his ugly ass. Anyway, when he was done he left the kitchen (left the kitchen a mess, by the way, ALSO as usual) and, instead of going back to his bedroom, he came into the living room, where I sleep. My eyes were closed, but I could hear him well enough -- did I mention he's not exactly quiet? -- and he came in and stopped. I waited for him to pick up a magazine or something, whatever he came in there for, but he didn't. The footsteps just stopped. After a minute I couldn't stand it. What in the world was he doing? So I cracked my eyes open like I was just waking up (a skill I've been very good at ever since high school, when I used it to get a few extra precious minutes in my warm bed on cold mornings, against all of Mom's efforts to get me up) and asked groggily, "What's up?" Ian blushed. He actually blushed. "Nothing. I was just watching you sleep. You looked so cute curled up like that." What kind of guy watches another guy sleep like that? Well, maybe a gay guy, but we've been best friends for years. I'm damn certain he's straight. And I look CUTE? What the hell? Then he left, but there was no way I could get to sleep after THAT. I mean, seriously, Ian, what the hell? AUGUST 31 Ian was acting weird towards me again today. Though I suppose he had an excuse for some of it, this time. I was kind of egging him on, after a bit. But he started it. I was walking from my bedroom -- still no bed, but that's where I set up my computer -- to the kitchen to grab a drink. Ian was on the couch, playing a video game, some shooter. The way Ian's place is laid out, you pretty much have to cut through a corner of the living room in order to go from the bedrooms to the kitchen, or of course the reverse. So as I passed by him I asked, "Hey, you want a beer?" "Sure. Thanks." "No prob." As I bent over to grab the bottles from the back of the fridge, I hear a loud wolf whistle from behind me. "Oh, yeah, Gary! Shake that booty!" For a second, I thought he was talking to the game. But no, he meant me! I managed not to bang my head on the top of the refrigerator as I straightened, holding the two beers. As I did I realized that I had been bending over at the waist, rather than crouching. It kind of pushed my butt at Ian, and I guess provoked his comment. Really, I thought it was pretty funny. So I played along. I gave him by best, most seductive smile, the one I used to pick up chicks, and walked over to him, holding a bottle in each hand. I hadn't bent over like that on purpose, but as I went over to him I did deliberately swing my hips as much as I could manage. I felt ridiculous, but heck, it was all in good fun. And it WAS kind of fun, too. Ian's eyes went a little wide as I swayed over, then he grinned back at me. "Damn, girl, I like the wiggle in your walk. You should do that more!" I bent over at the waist again -- on purpose, this time -- as I handed him his beer. I just pretended I was one of the waitresses at the bar. "Here you go! Enjoy!" Then I turned around and headed back to my own bedroom, still swinging my hips as much as I could. I looked back once, just as I was rounding the corner. Ian was still looking at me, a strange expression on his face. I think I'd actually turned him on, some! It was an amusing little interplay, though a little disturbing as well. Especially right at the end. Right as I was leaving he called out, "And you DO have a nice butt!" I laughed over my shoulder, still playing along. I kind of automatically put my hands on my ass in reaction to his comment. To my surprise, my butt did feel bigger than I remembered it. Had I really gained that much weight since I moved in here? It's been less than a week! But, no, as far as I could recall I'd actually been eating LESS. It must be my imagination. But I do think Ian's last comment went a little too far. SEPTEMBER 6 More weirdness today. MAJOR weirdness. And I can't really pin it on Ian at all, this time. We were in the living room, both of us sitting on the couch as we watched horror flicks. We've both loved them for ages, since before we were even teenagers, and the gorier the better. Even when I wasn't his roommate we'd often get together to watch a tape or DVD or two. Or more, sometimes. Anyway, we were into our second movie, "Riding the Nightmare," that obscure 80's classic where breeding experiments improbably result in carnivorous horses. Being set at a riding school means it more than meets our quota for pretty young girls. And for blood, of course. Great film. I just wish it'd done better in the theaters. We were at the climax, where Mike -- the stable boy and hero of the story -- was about to confront the last remaining Nightmare, which of course was the smartest and meanest of them all. She'd actually set a trap for him and was waiting to ambush him when he arrived to rescue one of the girls. Of course, I'd seen "Riding the Nightmare" before. I knew every twist, and I knew Mike won in the end. But the filmmakers were good, and had made the minutes leading up to the confrontation pretty tense. For that matter, the whole movie had been hitting me unusually hard. As Mike slowly opened the stable door I found myself practically curled into a ball, hunched over and my feet beneath me on the cushions. My hands were clutched around Ian's upper arm, and I was leaning towards him, my head nearly resting on his shoulder. Wait, WHAT? As soon as I noticed, of course, I recoiled instantly, getting my feet out from under me and sitting up normally. What in the world was I doing? I'd been leaning on him like some kind of... of anxious girlfriend, or something! Ew, ew, EW! Ian looked away from the screen at my sudden movement. "What's wrong?" I paused. How the hell was I supposed to answer that? "I, uh, realized I was sitting too close. Had to move away a bit." To say the least! "Really? I hadn't noticed." He tried to say it casually, like he really HADN'T noticed. But how can you not be aware of your best friend hanging off your arm? Holding it in a death grip? And there was something in his eyes, the set of his mouth, that I could see before he turned back to the movie. He'd noticed, all right. He just had no problem with it. Or he hadn't wanted to draw my attention to what I was doing. But if that's the case then I can't figure out why not. It makes no sense for him to keep silent like that. SEPTEMBER 10 Ever since I noticed my butt was bigger, I'd been eating less. Even less than I had been, I mean. Eating mostly salads, diet drinks, and small portions on everything made me pretty hungry, at least at first, and for a few days I would have killed for a steak. But I've gotten used to it. By now, it feels normal, and sometimes I even feel like I've been stuffing myself. I may just cut my portions again. And it seems to be working, mostly. I'm already noticeably thinner, especially in the waist but elsewhere also. I feel more energetic, more limber. More ALIVE. I should have tried dieting years ago! The one place I haven't slimmed down is the place I most want to: my ass. It seems just as large as it was before. Maybe more so. Dammit. But that's a minor irritant, really. I'm happy with my newer, thinner self, even if it does still feel like I'm sitting on a pillow. What's truly worrying me is how I'm ACTING, not how I look. When I did that thing with the beer, a week or two back, I walked like a girl. Outrageously so. All on purpose, all in good fun. But over the last week or so I've noticed I'm doing it again. And I can't STOP. Oh, if I try I can walk normally. But it doesn't FEEL normal. I have to... not really concentrate, but definitely think about it. When I was getting Ian's beer, I had to consciously pay attention to my walk to make my butt wiggle like that. Now I have to pay attention so it DOESN'T. If I get distracted, or just decide I have my normal walk back and stop thinking about it, then the next thing I know is that big ass of mine is swinging back and forth again. It's making me kind of reluctant to go outside. And it's getting worse, too. The sway in my stride was only the start. Earlier this week I noticed that whenever I bent over, I bent at the waist with my legs together, like I did getting Ian's beer. Again, I could crouch or lean or kneel and so forth, but only if I thought about it; my natural inclination was to stick my butt out and bend over. Since then, more and more of my mannerisms have been changing, shifting more towards the, well, the feminine. I tend to keep my knees together when sitting, for instance; whenever I spread them I feel dirty, like I'm doing something polite people just don't do. That also makes it feel wrong to cross my legs like I used to, ankle over knee; I now tend to cross them knee over knee. It's more comfortable psychologically even if rather less so physically. When I get in a car I sit sideways and swivel my body until I'm positioned correctly; no more stepping into the footwell and just plopping onto the seat. Sometimes I run my hands under my butt and down my thighs. It took me a good while before I realized what I was doing: I was smoothing an imaginary skirt! Everything I just mentioned, and a few others besides, can all be stopped. And I have been stopping it, let me assure you, as soon as I notice I'm doing it. But it's HARD. I have to actually THINK about changing my behavior, and that ain't easy. And even when I manage it, it feels off, dirty, wrong. It's like changing your handwriting -- or, no, like writing with your off hand. Sure, you can sign with your left hand (or your right, if you're a lefty), but your handwriting is going to suck. It won't look right (or left, ha ha) and if you just grab the pen and sign without thinking about it you'll do it with your normal hand. Somehow, my "normal hand" now is to walk and throw and gesture like a girl. I'm trying to stop, but I keep finding new things. Earlier today I caught myself sitting down to pee. I don't understand this at all. Why am I acting this way? And what's next? SEPTEMBER 14 What was next, it seems, was clothes. As always in a move, some stuff got left behind or lost somehow. I have yet to move without something going missing, and since Tidewater Place was furnished I guess it was even easier to overlook a whole box. This one contained most of my underwear. Though, to be fair, a lot of it was getting pretty ratty, anyway. At any rate, for the last three weeks I've been coping as best I could. But let me tell you, two pairs of underwear and three pairs of socks (well, three and a half) don't really cut it. Especially when they're probably among the worst shape of those I own. Even more so when one starts developing holes in awkward places. So today I headed out to the mall for some replacements. In retrospect, that ought to have been a warning, right there. Why would I go to the mall for underwear? Why not the clothes section of the supermarket, as usual, or one of the big box stores? Any underwear you buy at the mall will be overpriced. But it's not something I thought of at the time. I just went. I didn't go into any of the trendy little stores along the mall's corridors, though. At least I was still thinking THAT much. I went into one of the department stores, found the underwear section, picked out some stuff, and bought it. Easy peasy. I even remembered to pay attention to how I was walking. Well, most of the time; the checkout lady did give me some odd looks. Nobody's perfect. But there were no real problems, either. Until, that is, I got home, and I pulled an enormous collection of lingerie out of my bags. Stockings. Pantyhose. Bras. A slip, or maybe it was a nightgown -- I didn't exactly look closely. Socks, yes, but only ankle-high, or with a lacy fringe at the top, or with hearts or butterflies embroidered into them. And panties, of course, in a variety of styles, some of which were thongs. And all in a variety of colors, too; white, black, pink, baby blue, prints... I think I screamed. I could SWEAR I'd gone to the Men's department when I entered the store. But when I thought back on the day's excursion I could recall turning left, not right, and then browsing for an hour through racks in the Intimate Apparel area. I'm sure I hadn't, but somehow I had! Obviously, there was only one thing to do. I packed it all up and returned it. Then I went and bought new underwear, this time making sure I turned RIGHT. No WAY was I going to just accept this. Except, when I got home again I had pretty much the same thing as before. Different selection, in some cases, but it was still a pile of lingerie. I KNOW I screamed, then. For just a second, I was tempted to try them on. For curiosity's sake, of course. How would it feel to wear a bra? Had this... autopilot of mine even selected the right sizes? I shook THAT idea off pretty quickly. But that I had even considered it, however briefly, was alarming. Still determined to resist whatever was happening, I went back to the mall yet again. The woman behind the counter clearly recognized me, and she was reluctant to take any of it back for a second time. She inspected every piece, handling them gingerly; I think was worried I'd been... uh, using them, shall we say. But of course I hadn't, and she had to take it all back. Then I went and bought new stuff, yet again. Want to guess what I found in my bags when I got home? Go on, guess. Yeah. SEPTEMBER 16 I worked up the nerve today to talk about... well, me. There was, after all, still a chance I was just imagining things. "Hey, Ian," I said as he got home from his office. "Do you think I'm acting a little strange, lately?" I spoke calmly, in the same tone I might have asked, oh, if he'd borrowed my ratchet set. Ian looked confused. "What do you mean?" "I'm not sure," I said, still calm. "Something seems... off. About myself, I mean. Hard to really say. Which is why I'm asking if you noticed anything." I smiled up at him disarmingly. "What? No, I don't think so. You're fine." That was reassuring, I suppose, but I wasn't sure whether to believe him. I mean, obviously I am NOT acting "fine;" two days ago I went out and bought PANTIES. For MYSELF. But it was just barely possible that he genuinely hadn't seen anything amiss. Unlike Ian, after all, I don't make a habit of walking around in my underwear. And I've been avoiding wearing any of that crap, anyway. Even if he noticed my walk and posture and so forth was suddenly rather girly, he probably dismissed it as me having fun at his expense, a private joke for myself. "You're sure?" I asked, one more time. It was mostly by way of wrapping up the conversation; I figured I'd gotten all I was going to get out of it. "I'm acting just like I used to?" Ian nodded. "Yeah. You're acting normally, hon." HON? Did he really just call me HON? Yes. Yes, he did. And he seemed utterly unself-conscious about it as he moved past me and into his room. I just sort of stared at his back as he walked away. SEPTEMBER 21 Well, that tears it. Literally, with "it" being my last remaining pair of real underwear. I guess wearing the one set all week finally did it in. Now I have nothing left but panties. It's either that or go commando. I quickly learned that going commando chafes. Trust me on this. Also, for the last week or two I've been stuffing myself, eating until I felt on the verge of throwing up. Yet my waist has still shrunk way down from when I'd moved in. Any weight I've gained has gone to my butt, instead. And my hips; they jut out like shelves, now, or so it seems. It's making me look like a very flat girl, or maybe a very curvy guy. The new underwear -- the panties, that is, dammit -- rather aids in giving the impression on the former, bulge or no bulge. For that matter, I think that bulge is smaller than it used to be. With only panties left to wear, I said what the heck and tried on one of the bras as well. I am NOT planning on doing that more in the future, mind! This was an EXPERIMENT, to satisfy my curiosity on multiple issues. Really. First off, the damned thing does fit, although naturally I had to stuff the cups. More importantly, and the real reason I put it on, while wearing it I realized my body had an honest-to-God hourglass shape to it. Hips, waist, "breasts," all combined it means I could probably pass as a girl, at least from the neck down. Heck, maybe even from the neck up. There was something about my face that made it look subtly, indefinably girlish. I can't put my finger on it, can't say exactly what it is, but it's there. The lingerie even emphasized it, a little. I immediately took the bra off and put on my usual jeans and tee. With only my regular clothes visible, my face looks more androgynous than feminine, I think, but it's still different than it used to. The changes to my face were not something I'd noticed before, but now that my attention's been drawn to it I can't deny it. I'm really worried. I don't know what to DO about this. I think I'm losing this fight. SEPTEMBER 26 As if changes to my underwear weren't bad enough, now the rest of my clothes have changed. But here's the thing: I didn't buy any new clothes! It's not just my memory, either; I've checked my bank account, and there's no record of me making these purchases. Instead, a few days ago things just started changing on me, or being added. It started with simple things that I could ignore, like my shirts. Who really notices the difference between a men's tee and one made for women? Unless it's pink or something, the difference is minor. Same thing with my jeans; though I did notice the button had switched sides, I just kind of dismissed it. Stupid me. So it might have been going on for longer than a week, really. I only took a close look at them when other things started changing, like when my button-up shirts started turning into blouses, a few at a time. That was when I took a close look at my other stuff -- the clothes that I don't wear as often, or that don't have much difference between men's and women's versions. As of this morning, all of the clothes in my closet have changed over. And other stuff has been added. I never owned more than three pairs of shoes, for instance (sneakers, dress shoes, and hiking boots; who needs more?) but now I have NINE, including heels. I only had a few sets of pants and jeans, too, but now I have plenty more, plus skirts. And dresses -- oh, the dresses! There are no less than twelve dresses of various styles, lengths, and colors (one of which is the mandatory little black dress all women seem to own), plus two of what I can only call gowns. I only had two suits, but now I have FIVE business outfits -- skirt suits, of course. There's nothing left to wear except girly crap! Okay, yeah, I can wear jeans and tees. And I do. But even that isn't a perfect solution, because there simply aren't enough of them. Unless I want to wear the same couple of outfits every day, then I'm going to have to wear something pink, or with a plunging neckline, or whatever. And at SOME point surely I'll be invited to a formal restaurant, or find myself applying for a new job, and jeans and tees just won't work. And what's worse, I'm getting these... feelings, like I'm being a total slob. Like I really need to add some variety to what I'm wearing. I can't STAND wearing a shirt more than once before putting it in the laundry, now, when I used to wear it two or three or sometimes more times before I'd wash it. And doing a load of only a couple of items feels at least as wrong -- all that wasted water! GAH! I never used to care about that sort of thing, at least not THIS much. But as of tomorrow I literally have nothing to wear except blouses and other girly tops. That is to say, no tees. Thank God I still can wear my jeans multiple times! And some of the other pants aren't too bad, either, so I can switch to them when I feel the need to put these in the wash. But still. My own brain seems to be steering me towards eventually putting on one of those skirts, or maybe a dress. It would be so easy to give in. To just stop struggling and ride along as I change bit by bit, body and mind. But I just can't bring myself to do it. This isn't ME, and I refuse to let it be! Either it's like reality's changing around on me, or Ian's sneaking into my room and messing with my closet. I'd call the first one ridiculous -- MAGIC? You gotta be kidding me! -- if it wasn't for how the whole SITUATION is ridiculous. Except it's HAPPENING. To ME. Meanwhile, I honestly don't think Ian could get into my room without me knowing. Yeah, I still sleep on the couch, but I'm not all that heavy a sleeper. And I sure haven't seen him bringing in any clothes when he gets home from work, or caught him going into my room while I'm awake! If I did I could confront him, and damn well would! And he's pretty resourceful, too. I can believe, barely, he's sneaking in to add stuff, but finding an exact copy of my shirt as a blouse? Including the little ketchup stain down near the bottom? I'm at a loss as to how he's doing it. Or if he's doing anything. It might be he's a victim of this, too. If something can make me walk and sit and otherwise act all feminine, surely it can make him think I always have. At which point, his reactions make perfect sense. Speaking of reactions, his was interesting when he came home. Previously I had avoided all the girly clothes, except the jeans which aren't too noticeably different unless you look closely (or are the one wearing them). But today I had little choice. So there I was, on the couch watching TV, wearing tight jeans and a light blue shirt with a unicorn on the front. He came in the door, looked me over and continued on. Granted, it's not like I was wearing the flower-print dress I saw in my closet, but the glitter surrounding the unicorn makes it pretty clear this was meant for a woman. He was so blas? about it that I just had to prod him a little. I need SOME kind of reaction if I'm going to figure out what's going on! I swallowed and gathered my nerve a little, then called out to him before he could retreat into his room. "Hey, Ian." I spread my arms. "What do you think?" He paused and looked at it for a moment. "Of what?" "My outfit!" "Oh." He looked me over a little. "Sorry. I don't really consider jeans and a tee to constitute an 'outfit.' But you do look great in blue. You look good in anything, really," he said, smiling. Ew. That whole response was just... ew. But it wasn't really all that informative. "And the unicorn?" "Pretty nice. Is it a new shirt?" I sighed. "Yeah. New." "I like it." And that was that. He acted like nothing was different, nothing was wrong. Either his mind is being affected too, or he's the world's best actor. I just wish I knew what was going on. I wish I knew who was doing this to me, and why. I wish I knew if it was Ian. At least then I'd know to get the hell out of here! OCTOBER 1 Ian surprised me today. "Let's go to the movies." "What?" I replied, surprised. "It's the middle of the week!" "Yeah. Which means no crowds. Besides, I had a really rough day today. So c'mon." So began my first significant outing wearing women's clothes. I'd been avoiding going out as much as possible up to then, but even I knew I'd have to leave the apartment eventually. So I gulped and nodded. Better to do it with Ian than alone, I figured. HE seems to be taking this well. If people started staring at me for being in drag -- and, let's face it, that's essentially what I was doing, now -- he could take care of things. (I just looked at what I wrote. Is this another mental adjustment? Relying on someone else, a man, to take care of problems for me? I hadn't really noticed it at the time, it felt natural enough. But now that I've written it down it doesn't seem quite right.) Then I had a problem. What to wear? I really don't have anything very masculine, anymore. My clothes could fit into three main categories: normal girl clothes, girly girl clothes, or stylish girl clothes. I wasn't about to try being stylish, because I'd look like a total buffoon. But most of my normal girl clothes had been worn over the last week or so as I just puttered around the apartment. And... it didn't feel RIGHT to wear jeans and a tee going out to the movies. They were getting a bit grungy, and I hadn't thought to do laundry yet. So I wore a skirt for the first time. It wasn't too long, but it was no miniskirt, sort of a nice halfway, a bit below the knees. Not tight, either. It felt... weird. My legs were cooler, that's for sure, which is nice because we're having a little late heat wave right now. But it felt insecure, as well, a little too much like I was wearing nothing at all down there. I also put on a bra. I really, honestly, could not tell you why. It just didn't feel right to wear that blouse without some support beneath it -- even though I have nothing to support. It felt about as wrong as putting on shoes wearing only one sock; doable, but it feels WRONG, and is frankly uncomfortable. This was the same way, somehow. When I came out, Ian nodded. Did he smile a little? I think so, but... it didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe it wasn't because I was dressing more feminine. Maybe he just wanted to see the movie. I kept telling myself that. Speaking of which... "What movie are we gonna see?" I asked once we were on our way. "I was thinking maybe of seeing 'California Horror Patrol,'" he replied. "Hey, awesome. I've been looking forward to that one," I said. Horror film fan, remember? "I heard good things about it, too. Got some good splatter to it!" "Yup!" "You know when the show is?" "Yeah. I bought tickets online while you were changing. We have about 90 minutes before the next one." "An hour and a half?" I exclaimed. "Why are we leaving NOW?" Ian shrugged. "I wanted to get some dinner, first. Woody's sound okay?" Woody's is a pizza place near the theater that uses wood-fired brick ovens and some exotic toppings. A little pricy, for pizza, but absolutely delicious. "Sounds fine to me! How much were the tickets?" "Don't worry about it. It's on me." "What?" I said, shocked. "Really?" "Sure." That was a surprise. Before we were roommates, we'd occasionally cover drinks or other things for each other, but we were pretty scrupulous about paying each other back. I never let him forget it if he owed me five bucks, and Ian was much the same way. I couldn't remember the last time he essentially GAVE me money, which as far as I was concerned was what this amounted to. "Well, thanks." The waiter at Woody's did give me some long looks, which made me acutely nervous, but eventually he decided either I was a girl or just not to make a scene about it. I still don't know which it was. It helped that the place is pretty dim, though, and I didn't see anybody at the other tables take any particular notice of us. This was nerve-wracking as all hell, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Then Ian picked up the check. And covered it. "Hey, you bought the tickets, let me get the food!" I told him. Ian wouldn't hear of it, though. He shook his head and said, "No, no. Tonight's my treat." "But--" "No, really. I have this." "Well, all right." It wasn't, actually, but it was about then that I realized that I didn't have my wallet with me, anyway. This skirt didn't have pockets (I checked when I got home, and none of them do, in fact) and I certainly wasn't going to use a purse, even if one had appeared along with everything else. I'd brought pretty much nothing with me. What makes it worse, I think, is that I hadn't really even thought about my wallet when we left the house. No picking it up and learning about the lack of pockets THEN. It just never occurred to me. "All right, love, let's go," Ian said as he got his card back, making me wince. "We don't want to be late." This was the SECOND time he used some endearment with me. That was when it hit me. As far as I was concerned, this was dinner and a movie. But to Ian, this was a DATE. And everything I'd said, everything I'd done since he got home from work, would feed the notion. I didn't change out of grungy jeans I'd been wearing for a week, I'd "dressed up" for him! It was way too late to back out. He drove, after all. What was I going to do, walk home? I suppose I could have, but it was late, it would be a long walk, and I really did want to see 'California Horror Patrol.' So I grit my teeth and stuck it out. At the theater, Ian bought popcorn, enough for both of us, and sodas. I did my best to drink as little as I could, since I didn't want to have to figure out which restroom I should use, but with the popcorn that wasn't easy. By the end, my back teeth were starting to swim. The worst part, though, was when Ian put his arm around my shoulders and gently squeezed. For a second I was too shocked to do anything. Thoughts whirled through my head. Do I lean away? Slap him? Or maybe I should let him pull me in close. I didn't want to make a scene and draw attention to myself, after all. In the end I lifted his hand away and off my shoulders. He gave me a very disappointed look, and for a second I felt like apologizing and letting him put it back. Only for a second, though. The rest of the night wasn't so bad. I didn't find myself holding onto Ian's arm, like with 'Riding the Nightmare,' but then 'California Horror Patrol' was more gory than tense and scary. It was a good movie, if you like that sort of thing, but a somewhat disturbing night overall. I was glad nobody confronted me over how I was dressed, but a little upset as well. It kind of confirmed that I looked like a girl, at least enough to pass as one. And now I know how girls feel when they're being hit on at the bar when they just want to be left alone! OCTOBER 4 Goddammit. I am so stupid sometimes! It must be at least six months since I got my hair cut, probably more. My hair's way long, at any rate, much more than I like. Especially these days! I got called "ma'am" the other day at the store! Well, that was the last straw, and I made an appointment for today with the stylist. As usual I took my music player and just kind of zoned out on the chair. Mariesse has never let me down before, and I trusted her to do me up right this time. She asked a few questions, but like always I just nodded approval and listened to my tunes. I think I actually fell asleep on the chair, too, or I would have stopped her at some point. She cut my hair, all right, and styled it. And then she PERMED it! Into a very feminine style. It's not much shorter, and there's a wave to it that just wasn't there before, and... and... Hell, I don't even know the terms. Bangs, yes, there's those, but the rest? Just trust me, it's a girl's style. What makes it worse is that I brought it on myself. After that movie, I'd made sure to do some laundry, and I guess I'll be doing it more often now than I used to if I want to keep at least one pair of jeans suitable to wear. But ever since that night I found it really hard to go out without wearing a bra. I don't feel wrong, but I feel... well, slutty is the only word that comes to mind. I feel kind of slutty if I don't wear a bra, now, and this particular time I wore one of those foam underwire ones that practically doesn't NEED to be filled. It wasn't even something I thought about; it was next in line, it matched the blouse I was going to put on over it, and why not? "Why not," indeed! No WONDER she'd styled my hair that way! She actually thought I was a girl! And I have to admit, if I didn't look like one before I sure do NOW. I can't BELIEVE this shit. What a horrible day. Better than just waking up with it a different style, I guess, like with my closet clothes, but Christ. It just shows I can't let my guard down for a minute, or I'll just feminize MYSELF. Oh, and when Ian got home, he glanced my way, blinked, and gave me a longer, more appraising look. Which, frankly, made me feel a little queasy, given the expression on his face. Then he smiled and said, "Love the new hair, Gary. You look good like that." Very casually, like to any other good friend. There was no smirk or chuckle, no hint of, "All is going according to plan." So I STILL don't know if his mind is being changed along with mine, or if he's actually responsible for this. OCTOBER 6 I don't know which is worse. Aiding in my own emasculation, like when I went out for a haircut -- forgetting I was essentially in drag -- and wound up with a perm, or like when I kept buying lingerie instead of briefs and socks. Or just finding things have changed on me for no reason whatsoever, like how my closet became filled with women's clothing over the course of three or four days. Really, it's a tough decision. The latest indignity would be counted among the latter. Soon after Ian left for work I got up for my morning routine. Piss, shower, shave, dress... Of course, I pissed sitting down. I'm usually too groggy when I wake up to make sure I don't. But the shower, good and hot, woke me up plenty. It was when I went to shave that things went askew. I couldn't find my razor. Or shaving cream. I checked everywhere, including every garbage pail in the apartment, but it was just... gone. On the good side, I didn't really have to shave. My face was pretty darned smooth already. On the bad side, my legs were just as smooth. And so was the rest of my body. I couldn't find much hair at all lower than my eyelashes. What was there was very thin and light, barely noticeable at all. The stuff around my junk (which is now definitely smaller than it ought to be) looked trimmed and shaped. And there WAS a razor and a shaving aid, but it was a lady's razor, with strawberry-scented shaving gel. It was about then that I realized that a lot of other things in the bathroom changed. My shampoo -- the one I'd just used -- was different, some floral scent that I only just then noticed suffusing the steam in the room, and there were a few other bottles in the shower caddy that I didn't recognize. There were bottles of skin moisturizer and other lotions on the counter. The glass I stored my toothbrush in had turned into a chipped coffee cup with "Firearms Count as Feminine Protection" emblazoned on the side, with a flowery background. There was even a box of tampons under the sink. YIKES. I didn't use any of it, of course. Except for the toothbrush -- it was pastel blue instead of red, but was otherwise unchanged -- and the shampoo, which I'd already used. But I suspect it's only a matter of time before I learn how hard (or easy, I guess) it is to keep your legs smooth. Probably become a part of my new morning routine. Oh, one last thing. As I was inspecting my body, looking for any significant hair at all, I noticed my nipples. They're not something I usually pay much attention to, so again it might have been this way for a while, but they looked awfully big. For a guy, anyway; they'd look just delicious atop a nice set of tits. On me they just looked weird. I suspect I know what's coming next. I have GOT to get out of here before then! OCTOBER 8 Well, I was wrong about what was coming next. I didn't get a set of tits. Instead, I got essentially a continuation of the last change. Instead of my toiletries being replaced, they were added to. Long story short, I now have a full makeup kit. Most of it's in my bedroom, but there's some in the bathroom, and every now and then I find a lip liner or bottle of nail varnish or something lying around elsewhere. It's like some weird Easter Egg hunt. It's embarrassing, especially when Ian drops something off with a smirk and, "This is yours, I think. Found it in my bedroom." Which he's done TWICE, now. I don't know what half this crap is, at least until I read the label. Certainly none of it is familiar. But if I let myself, I know how to put it all on. (I experimented yesterday, while Ian was away.) No shaky hands, no "raccoon eyes," and I seem to automatically pick shades that work well together, with my complexion. Given the changes to my face, frankly, I look pretty darn, well, PRETTY, when I'm all made up. And that's freaky as hell, let me tell you! What's worse is that the urge is growing to wear it. Yesterday and today, I was halfway through putting on an array of powders and such after my morning shower when I came to my senses. I suspect a light coating of makeup is going to be a part of my morning routine, soon. I already don't really feel presentable without at least a little on there, in much the same way that I feel disgusting if I let the hair on my legs grow out for more than two or three days, now. I think the worst thing of all is that the urge is also growing to wear a particularly good combination that I hit upon in the afternoon, and keep it on long enough for Ian to see it. At first it was another case of wanting to see his reaction, but I beat that down quick. It's unnecessary; I KNOW he's behind all this! But the idea wouldn't go away, and I realized earlier today that I want to do it because I want to look GOOD for him! And ever since I figured that out, it's been getting even worse; it's really hard to restrain myself from prettying myself up for him, right this very minute. OCTOBER 14 Ian woke me up again, as usual, when he noisily made breakfast. (Yes, I STILL need my own bed.) But this time, instead of closing my eyes and feigning sleep until he went away, I lay there, eyes open, watching him. I'm not sure why, but I did. Damn, but I wish I didn't! It wasn't long before I was giving him a close look-over. I thought he looked in pretty good shape. Not overmuscled, but definitely no excess fat. With his square jaw and the night's stubble not yet shaved off, he looked suitably rugged. Standing there in his underwear, he looked like a Calvin Klein commercial as he cracked eggs into a skillet. And he cooks, too, I thought with a little smile. My kind of man! Wait, WHAT? My jaw dropped in shock at what I'd just thought. About then I realized, to my horror, I had one hell of a boner, to boot. Oh, SHIT! I immediately closed my eyes so I'd stop, you know, ADMIRING HIS BODY. But images of Ian played against the blackness like a film. A porno film, to be exact, since he suddenly had on even less in my imagination than he did in the kitchen. My cock throbbed, straining. I had to think of something else, QUICK, before things got... messy. I had this feeling that if I ever let go over this it would be, I don't know, locked in. And so long as I didn't, then I could maybe reverse this somehow. I tried thinking of girls. Obvious choice, right? Try to get aroused by something else, something I SHOULD be turned on by? But it didn't work. My thoughts kept kind of sliding sideways, and after a minute or two I'd be thinking of Ian -- or any man, really -- hold me close, his hands around my waist or on my butt, kissing my neck, my lips... I don't know how I managed not to embarrass myself. Well, mostly; there was some... leakage. I definitely needed to change my panties. But at least I never needed to change the SHEETS. As soon as he left, though, I took a long, cold shower. But it's hard to think or write about Ian anymore. Even now I have a bit of a stiffie. I'm really worried about my reaction when he gets home from work in an hour or so. And yet, at the same time, I'm REALLY looking forward to seeing him again. I made sure to make my face up extra nice this afternoon for him. Oh, God. HELP ME. OCTOBER 17 Yesterday I woke up with a sore throat. Hurt to swallow or talk. I didn't think anything much of it; we are entering flu season, after all. I took some cold and flu meds and took it easy. When I woke up today, my throat felt fine. A short but intense cold, I thought, kind of ignoring the lack of any other symptoms. Silly me. Apparently that sore throat was a side effect of my voice changing. I now have a woman's voice. And no adam's apple, either. On the good side, I now don't have to worry so much when I go out. Ever since I got my hair cut in a feminine style I've avoided going out if at all possible. I'm too worried something else along those lines will happen. Not that there's much left to change, really. I look pretty much entirely like a girl, now, except for my chest and one other area I'm sure you can guess at, and neither is something that you can just shop around for. Besides, well, I still had a male voice. I wasn't particularly EAGER for it to change, but I felt self-conscious enough as it was going out there looking as I do. Whenever I spoke I'd essentially be announcing that I was a man in drag (and, thank GOD, technically I still am). If they didn't smirk at me before, they certainly did afterwards. So, no more of that, I hope. On the bad side, I discovered my new voice when I went out to get them mail and casually greeted another resident. I look like a girl, I sound like a girl... but going, "Hi, there, Mister... uh... what the hell? My voice! Hello? Hello? Ack!" isn't exactly inconspicuous. Look, there was no need to speak in the apartment, where I'm ALONE. People who talk when they're by themselves are generally considered... odd. Needless to say, I got out of there, fast. I didn't look back to see what his expression was. I could envision it all too easily. Back in the apartment, I did a few tests, including recording myself and playing it back. It wasn't my imagination. I really sound like a woman now. And when I try to make my voice deeper, it sounds like a woman making a deep voice. Not a man speaking. I've had to speak a few times, since then, such as when Ian got home. As usual, he had no reaction to the change. It's like I'd always sounded like this. This... is going to take some getting used to. Not that I WANT to, but when have my desires ever mattered in the last two months? OCTOBER 21 I'm still trying to get used to my new voice. It's freaky, hearing some woman's voice whenever I speak and half a second later realizing it's me. I keep stopping after a word or two until I remember. As a result I'm doing my best to avoid talking at all. I haven't quite turned into Silent Bob, communicating solely in expressions and pantomime, but people probably think I'm awfully shy, now. I'm slowly starting to go out again, though. My voice matches what people see, after all, and being a total shut-in kind of sucks. Besides, there's plenty of flat-chested women out there. I still feel like all eyes are on me as soon as I walk outside, and everyone is snickering as soon as I'm out of sight. But it's not as bad as it was, say, last week. Interesting as that may be (and probably isn't), it's not why I'm making another entry. I'm writing this because when I went looking for my wallet after buying a few things online, I couldn't find it. It wasn't on my dresser, where I'd left it. In its place was a pocketbook. Compared to all the other changes of late, this wasn't a big deal. Useful, even; not many of my clothes have pockets anymore, and when they do they're pretty small. I wasn't even too upset at all the contents -- makeup, keys (on a heart-shaped keyring, now, ugh), tissue, a tampon (double ugh), and plenty more. Nothing that special, anymore, and not all of it was even especially feminine, like the little snack pack of Oreos. So I just kind of grit my teeth at this latest indignity and dug around until I found my wallet. Which, I might add, was not the same wallet I'd had yesterday, of course. When I pulled out my card, though, my heart damn near stopped. It had changed. The bank was the same as ever, even the number looked the same (I think; it's not like I have it memorized, but it seemed right), but the name now read "Mary A. Redding." Holy Christ. That was my first thought. My second was, "That 'A' had better not stand for 'Ann!'" I learned it stood for Alice, though, when I found my driver's license. Not my favorite girl's name, by any means, but a reasonable translation of Alan, which is what it really is. Was. Should be. One of those, dammit. For several minutes I just stared at my license, taking in details of this person I've never known. My weight was listed as a full 60 pounds lighter, and Mary was 5 inches shorter than Gary. I'd been losing weight for weeks, now, but had I really gotten shorter at some point and never noticed? Or was this a hint of things to come? I'm frankly afraid to go check. If I find I missed this change, then what else might be different without me even realizing it yet? Perhaps without my EVER realizing it? The picture was me, as I am now. I even recognized the blouse. I had worn it yesterday. And I'd definitely never had my picture taken in it. After a bit, though, another thought came to me, and a frantic search ensued. I soon discovered all my papers referred to Mary Redding. My records, my diploma, checks I hadn't cashed yet, everything; it all referred to Mary. Some of them even had my signature -- I recognized the handwriting. Mary Redding, they said. It's like my past is being rewritten. Gary is being edited out of the world. The notion of some magic spell is looking far more plausible than it used to, as I gaze at these papers. I'm scared. I LIKE being me! OCTOBER 28 I woke up this morning with an odd weight on my chest. Looking down, I discovered what I'd been anticipating for... geez. Three weeks? Yup, I've got breasts. They're pretty big, too, or so they seem to ME. I'm really torn about this. On the good side, I now won't stand out at all when I go outside. I suppose if someone takes a really CLOSE look at my crotch they might notice something wrong, there. And I suppose it's nice to have them appear at last. It felt like a sword of Damocles hanging over me. And... well. Okay, they feel kinda nice when I rub them. On the other hand, I HAVE GODDAMN BREASTS! FUCK. The really weird thing about it -- besides how they grew overnight -- is that I now fit the bras I bought last month. I mean I fit them PERFECTLY. The straps had already fit properly, but now the cups are filled just right. They're exactly the right size! THAT is what's getting me. I didn't pay attention to their sizes, so I don't know if they always fit or if they were replaced with ones that did now that my breasts have arrived. They all LOOK the same, but if reality itself is changing I don't think that means a whole lot. This question has been preying on my mind all day. It's really freaking me out. OCTOBER 29 Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit. Oh, and SHIT. I don't know what to write about first. There's two things that happened this morning, and they both SUCK. I don't know which is worse. I guess I'll just write about them in the order I discovered them. First was Ian waking me up as he got up. Notice I didn't say, "as he went into the kitchen and made breakfast." As he GOT UP. This is because I was in the SAME BED. Yep. I went to bed on the couch. I woke up in Ian's room. How the HELL did that happen? I don't sleepwalk, and I think I've pretty much established by now that I'm a fairly light sleeper. So how did he carry me in there? Was I drugged? I went to bed well after Ian, though, and didn't have anything for a few hours beforehand, so, really, again, what the hell? What's even worse is what I felt. Waking up with someone next to me was... nice. The warmth of the bed covers, the sensuous feel of a real mattress beneath my body, even his scent, it was all very comforting, relaxing. I wanted so badly for him to come back and wrap his arms around me, kiss my neck, maybe do something more. I had to bite my lip to keep myself from calling him back. I realized then that I was incredibly horny, to boot. And I also realized I had no erection. That kind of shocked me out of any warm fuzzy feelings I had. A somewhat desperate search revealed that it had finally happened. My dick was gone. IS gone. I'm a girl. I'm not sure how long I cried for. I managed to stop before Ian came back to get dressed, so I guess it can't have been too long. I almost regret that. I would have liked for him to come back and find me all upset. To put his arm around me and ask what was wrong. To hold me close. Maybe kiss me... I want that so BAD. But I don't WANT to want it. As far as I can tell, there's nothing more to change. Except my mind, and that's changed plenty already, as far as I'm concerned. But I don't see how I can stop it. OCTOBER 30 Well. This explains a lot. Everything, really. I know what's going on, now. Let me explain. Now, it had felt kind of nice to wake up so close to Ian. (Okay... more than just, "kind of.") But I know I feel that way only because of the changes that have happened. I'm not about to let myself fall into that role. Not easily, anyway, as I may not exactly have a choice. At any rate, my point is that I went to sleep on the couch, not in his room. Ian looked a bit disappointed, but he didn't press, thank God. I've always been a fairly light sleeper, but I still don't usually have to get up in the middle of the night. Maybe my bladder shrank along with... the other changes, yesterday, but I woke up in the middle of the night -- I didn't look at the exact time, but it was certainly well past midnight -- and felt like I was going to absolutely burst. So, obviously, I got up to rectify that. Before I got to the bathroom, though, I heard something weird coming from Ian's bedroom. The door was closed all the way, but it was loud enough that I could hear something through it. It was Ian, but he was talking -- well, chanting, really -- in some language I didn't recognize, and I could smell candle wax. I listened for, I don't know, maybe a minute, trying to puzzle out what the hell he was saying. No go. I was starting to get a sneaking suspicion at about this point, so I slowly opened his door (there's no security on the interior doors, here; even the bathrooms don't lock) and peeked in. It was Ian, of course, facing away from the door and reading from a book he propped up on his desk, flanked by burning candles. The thing looked pretty old. Every few seconds he'd wave his arms or gesture. After a bit he picked up a picture I hadn't noticed -- a picture of me! The OLD me, the MALE me! He took it and held it over one of the candles until it caught, holding on as long as he could and turning it this way and that to make sure it burned completely to ash. "Holy shit, it IS magic!" I exclaimed. I was too surprised to even really think about staying silent. Understandably, Ian whirled around, startled at my intrusion. "Uh... I can explain," he said. "Oh, do try." "Uh. Mary. Um." He had to think a moment. "Look, this is for your own good, hon!" "How?" I demanded. "How can turning me into a girl possibly be 'for my own good?'" "You were just kind of... coasting, Mary. Just living day to day, doing nothing at all," he said pleadingly. "You were unemployed, living off savings. You needed something to get you going again." "And you needed a girlfriend." "Well, I wouldn't say NEED..." he said. "But I saw no reason not to kill two birds with one stone, you know?" "Goddamn it, Ian!" I screamed. "What the hell gives you the RIGHT? I've been thinking I'm going nuts, here! Things changing, ME changing, with no warning or reason! I've been going over all this shit in my diary, trying to figure out--" "You have a diary?" Ian asked, startled. "What? Yeah, why?" Ian shook his head. "No wonder you were resisting so well!" he said to himself. "Every time you opened that thing you were reminded of the changes." "You mean I'm supposed to be even GIRLIER?" "Um. Well, you still remember your male life. Obviously." He shrugged. "By this point you probably shouldn't. Your memories should have rewritten themselves to the new reality. That's what I was mostly concentrating on with tonight's casting..." So, thank God for this diary, or I'd really be Mary Redding, mind and body and soul. (Hey, if there's magic, might as well believe in souls, too, I figure.) "God DAMN it Ian. I didn't want to be a girl." "I know. And I'm... I'm sorry. But there's really no going back." I looked at him, stunned. I was STUCK like this? A girl, forever? I could actually feel tears starting to form in my eyes. It took real effort to blink them back. Ian saw. He stepped forward, arm raised a little, then stopped. I think he was going to put his arm around me comfortingly, and realized that would be a bad idea. "Look. Mary. Why don't you get rid of the journal. Burn it or throw it out, but just get rid of it. Never open it again. Let it go. Without it, I'm sure your mind will change like your body did. And, really, at this point, what choice do you have? I can stop now, and you'll remember all these changes and be upset about them. Or you can give in. Be happy. Be a girl." "I... but..." My head was whirling. After all this, just give in? Could I? SHOULD I? Would I ever be happy, now? I couldn't speak. I just left his room, without another word. And then I immediately opened my diary, and made this entry. Probably my last. It's helped. I've made up my mind. There's really only one thing I can do. It's time I did it. -- * x * -- Anthony Warton closed the book with a snap. "So what DID she do?" "Stabbed him thirty times," said the man behind the desk, grimly. "Seven of them in the groin. Police were called by the neighbors, who heard the screaming. They found her sitting in the living room, watching TV." Warton winced, as any man would at news like that. "Dead?" "Very. Body was back in the master bedroom." He grunted. "And I presume you want my professional opinion, then, as a psychiatrist, on an insanity defense, Mr. Modall?" "Yes." "All right." Warton paused for a moment to think it over. "I'd have to interview Miss Redding before I make an official diagnosis, you realize. Yes? Preferably, several times. But preliminarily, I'd say Dissociative Identity Disorder -- what most people still call multiple personalities. Mary had a second personality, this 'Gary,' and for some reason he became dominant for a while. Everything in here," he said, waggling the book in the air for a moment, "is the real personality, Mary, trying to break back out, and Gary resisting." He smiled. "Mary was winning, though. Good for her." The lawyer looked puzzled. "Is that normal? A male personality in a woman?" "More common than the reverse, due to gender roles. Women still generally have less power and social standing than men, and DID can be triggered by emotional trauma, such as rape or systematic abuse. So when a woman develops DID, it's not uncommon for at least one of the new personalities to identify as male. Gives her a better sense of power and control over her own life." "Huh. I see. It's too bad we'll have to put you on the stand if we try this defense. Juries tend to look skeptically at psychiatrists when they testify. Consider it all gobbledegook." "Can't help you, there. I doubt you could do an insanity defense without a psychiatrist's testimony." "No, probably not," Modall agreed. "What about that last entry? When her boyfriend confessed?" "To what? Casting magic spells?" Warton looked across the desk, absolutely radiating disbelief. "Please tell me you're not actually going to try that as a defense." "I doubt it. But as her public defender I do have to explore all the options, even the stupid ones," Modall said. "Sometimes they work, after all. And being committed to an asylum isn't much better than jail." "Worse, actually, in a lot of ways." "Right. So if I can get a self-defense plea..." The psychiatrist shook his head. "No way. Magic DOES. NOT. EXIST. And even if it did -- and, I repeat, it damn well doesn't -- the spell itself is contradictory." "Oh?" The lawyer cocked his head to show special interest. That had been an interesting statement. "How so?" Warton paused. He'd made the statement off the cuff; he had to organize his thoughts before he could actually justify it. "It was supposed to be changing reality, right? Making it so 'Gary' had always been 'Mary.' That's got to be freaking powerful. It not only has to change him, and his memories, it would have to change the memories of everyone associated with him, all his friends and coworkers and family. But that includes things Ian can't possibly know about. I don't care how close they were as friends, Ian isn't going to know the names of every person who know Mary as a kid. I mean, Gary, since we're assuming this is real. All her -- er, his -- old friends, teachers, documents, whatever." He shrugged, feeling his point was made. "But that ought to include this diary. The fact that it even exists, to me, proves it can't possibly be a magic spell that changed reality, because it would have been changed, too." "The change was supposedly done in stages," Modall pointed out. "Maybe it would have changed as one of the last things." "That would explain it, I suppose. Except... why do it in stages? Seems like Ian would be just asking for something to go wrong." "Well, from his point of view, it definitely did," Modall said wryly. "Heh. Can't argue with THAT. Anyway, the easiest explanation is that there was no spell, just a disturbed woman." Warton thought a moment. "I don't suppose they found something Mary pointed to and claimed was the spellbook?" "Mary claims to have torn it up and flushed it down the toilet." "Very convenient. No way to recover it after THAT, or prove it even existed." "No," Modall sighed. "So, basically, you're saying that Gary not only was a male personality, but he saw 'himself' as a male? And as Mary reasserted herself over the Gary personality, bits of her old life, her real self, became... I don't know. Unveiled?" "Pretty much. DID is often associated with altered perceptions. Usually blackouts, as one personality switches off for another, but this sort of thing isn't unheard-of. That's why it was often considered a part of schizophrenia, until pretty recently." "And the confession?" The psychiatrist shook his head. "Never happened. It was all in her head, like the rest of her problems." "I see." Modall paused, thinking. "Well, I'll arrange an interview, probably late next week, or possibly the week after. Thank you for your input." Warton stood up and shook the defender's hand. "You're welcome. I look forward to seeing her. Should be an interesting chat." Opus Modall stared out the window after the psychiatrist left. Poor girl. Heck, poor GUY, he thought with a sympathetic wince of his own. Might not even have known his girlfriend was nuts. Invites her in to live with him, and gets murdered for no real reason. Sighing, he placed the journal into the appropriate file folder and set it aside. The biggest pity about this -- besides the gruesome death of Ian Bicher, of course -- was that poor Mary still thought she was supposed to be a man named Gary. Hopefully, her time in the asylum will help her with that. The lawyer put her out of his mind and picked up the next folder. He had too many cases on his plate to worry over a lost cause for very long. -- * x * -- AFTERWORD Bet you didn't expect this to be a horror story, eh? Heh heh heh. "Diary of the Suspicious" came about when I got to thinking about how someone who did not want to get changed -- really, truly, at all, period -- might react if they found themselves the victim of a slow change like this one. So often in these stories the character just offers token protests, but doesn't do much in the way of actually resisting. But if the change is being done by magic, how DO you resist? There's really only four options in such a scenario. The first would be to find some magic of your own to protect yourself. But if this is set in "the real world" then that's going to be hard to do. Perhaps impossible. Then there's the second option, of running away. If someone is beating on you, you can always flee, after all. But that presumes the subject has somewhere to go, and a means to get there. Unless they want to be homeless, I suppose, but it's safe to say most people don't. And, since this is magic we're talking about, it might not even work. Maybe the transformation would continue, even if he was on the other side of the planet. That leaves only two things they could do. They can give in and accept their fate, or they can fight back -- physically. I can't remember the last time I read a story where the subject physically attacked the person doing this to them in an effort to get it to stop. I might possibly have read such a story, but I couldn't tell you what it's called or who wrote it. But... if reality is changing, then to the authorities such an assault wouldn't be considered self-defense. Especially since magic is either rare or nonexistent (well, believed nonexistent). To the cops, the person being changed is attacking the person casting the spell, and any efforts on the part of the victim of the spell would make them seem crazy. Which, in turn, made me wonder whether they ARE crazy. How do you tell the difference between a spell that changed reality so that a man becomes a woman -- who somehow still remembers being a man -- and a woman who is a little bit unbalanced? When reality itself can be altered, who can say what really happened? "Diary of the Suspected" is therefore my atte