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Instant Karma I looked at the clock-calendar, and the time was 21 minutes past 8, on Sunday the 7th of February, 2027. I should be 56 years old today, and I should be celebrating it surrounded by family. That was what I thought with part of my mind. The other part was looking at the Clearblue pregnancy tester I piddled on shortly after I got out of bed this morning, not really believing the dark line on it. I called out to my husband Peter, who was in the shower. "Peter, Peter, come and look at this!" He couldn't hear well through the noise of falling water, and his reply was muffled, so I called again, and he heard this time. It all began for me when I was four years old, and my parents took me to the beach. I screamed, non-stop until they gave up, and bundled me into the car then drove off. Once out of sight of the sea, I shut up, and returned to my normal happy self - at least, that's what my mother always maintained when she told me about it later, as I don't remember it at all. After that, all attempts to get me to go to the sea side were met with screams, until I was articulate enough to tell whoever would listen that I was terrified out of my wits, and I proved it once by pissing myself. No surprise for a four year old, you might say, but it was a long time later - I was twelve, and still feel humiliated by the memory of warm pee running down my leg! But jumping from four to twelve misses out a big part of the story. I'm Rosalind Jane Parker, and in every physical respect, I'm a girl - well, woman now. In my head, I also know that I'm a girl/woman. I think like a woman, I dress like a woman, I behave like a woman - because I am one. But I also know that I'm a man, a man who is a lot older than me, a man called Michael Roland Farmer. No, Michael isn't an imaginary friend, he's not a guardian angel (just in case you thought) and he's not a dual personality. He's me, as much as Rosalind is, but he - I - remember that adult male body, and everything, I mean EVERYTHING, about his life. Well, maybe not the last day or so, or how I got to be Rosalind. It's like that full recollection of being Michael, then, after a few hazy recollections of being very young, with an equally clear recollection of being Rosalind - me - sort of spliced on afterwards. And the Rosalind, girl bit, was a mess, because I knew that that I was both Michael AND Rosalind. Sometimes I'm more Michael, and sometimes I'm more Rosalind, and whichever I am most of is rather random, and also the proportions change in the same unfathomable way. But I'm never completely one or the other. But that's how I am. So, apart from the seaside terrors, I found several things odd things about growing up. Firstly, I wasn't very old when I could read and write. I remember being able to read as soon as I could hold a book, and being able to read things on the TV. It took a little longer to show that I could write, because I know now that the motor skills had to develop, but I was little Rosalind, prodigy, to all around me. I simply wasn't going to read kids' books, I was reading adult books. No, I don't mean adult as in porno, but adult in terms of reading age. I also remembered the plots of books and films we never had in the house. Of course, these lay in Michael's experience, when I was just Michael, and there was never any confusion (well, maybe sometimes, and just a little) about this. Along with this literacy, I had a huge and adult vocabulary, and my teachers got over the: "Your parents did this for you," when they read my work done in the classroom, and realised they had a little tigress by the tail. At home, I was learning behaviour too. I learnt, very early on, that standing with my hands behind me, tummy pushed out and chin down, protesting that I wasn't Rosalind at all, I was Michael, caused my mother to become a sort of strangled hysteric. I learned that I shouldn't exclaim from the back of the car that I'd seen something that I recognised when both my mother and father just knew I'd never been there before. And I learned that no matter what virtuosity I displayed at school, I mustn't display it at home. Not that I got punished or anything, just that it made my mother upset and I didn't completely know why. Oh, and we never went for beach holidays, which did upset my mother, who I knew loved to swim, loved to soak up the sun's rays on a sunbed, and pose (she was glamorous) in a bikini. I knew a lot of things, via Michael, and as school progressed, my knowledge showed. "Where the hell does this kid get it from?" one teacher would ask another, most usually outside of my hearing, but occasionally I'd catch it, and understandably, it was couched in different language each time. I tried - I really did - not to let it show too obviously, but I was often bored, and when I was challenged to pay attention, I simply had to show that I was following things, and understood the subject. It made me into an eavesdropper both at school and at home. School was sometimes a bit awkward, because when I was more Michael I found myself wary of the other kids, but when I was more Rosalind I joined in wholeheartedly with whatever game was being played. Of course I was going to pass any selection exam, and when I was 11, I got a scholarship to go to the best senior school in the area. We Brits are a funny bunch: our Public Schools, are in fact, private schools, and the name contrasted with the way the aristocracy previously had their sons educated by tutors at home. This wasn't one of those Public Schools, it was a state school, but one where the students were carefully selected, and my scholarship allowed me to go from outside its catchment area. So, my days began early and finished late, with a journey by train AND bus each way. My uniform was a poor fit initially, but it is the time of life when I was set to grow, and within months I was more comfortable in it. Then, a few months after I started the new school, I began to be aware of changes beginning in my body. I was growing up. My chest, which before was flat as a boy's, began to pucker up into breast buds, my tummy, which was always a tiny bit sticky-out, went flatter, and my butt became more rounded. Then I got a few pubic hairs and I knew what was on the cards: puberty and periods. One evening I was too tired to notice the rusty brown spots in the gusset of my white cotton knickers before I went to bed, and so when I got home the next day and things were really happening - a bit of tummy-ache, a bit of backache - I went for a pee, and discovered that right there in the gusset of today's pants was what looked like a crime scene. No wonder it had been feeling a bit wet on the journey home. I dug out yesterday's knickers from the laundry basket by rummaging amongst some tights and a nightie, plus a blouse, and there where my nou-nou nestled were the tell-tale signs I'd missed. So, I had to tell my mother, who of course shared it with my father, and I got lots of hugs, but I did spend the night with a huge pad of toilet tissue in a pair of knickers to wear under my nightdress, and it all slipped and I bled over the sheets, so the following day I went off to school with the rest of the toilet roll in my knickers, and a certain knowledge that it wouldn't work for long. I got a couple of pairs of replacement pants packed in my school bag too, and I had rather more money than usual in my purse to buy some proper sanitary pads on my final walk to school, the shops round here not opening at the time I had to set off and my mother extremely reluctant to let me have a tampon like she used. Anyway, I had mixed feelings: glad it was happening at last, but I was rather appalled at the red mess. Fortunately, the toilet tissue wad did its job until I was able to call in to the corner shop a few minutes from the school gates. I looked at the various brands on display, informed only by the TV adverts I'd seen and what I liked best in the packaging, made a choice and bought, then scurried off to school to make up the lost time, and having paid a visit to the girls' toilets to rid myself of the toilet tissue wad. The spreading red patch was operating like a chromatograph with concentric rings, the outside ones less red and more like pee. (So, how many 11 year-olds know what a chromatograph is or does? The memory of it was in the Michael memories). I replaced the wad with an 'Always' in my knickers. It was a lot more comfortable, and I felt a certain amount of confidence flood back, such that quite early in the first lesson I'd almost forgotten what was happening downstairs. The following weekend, Mum took me out shopping, and I got fitted up with some white cotton teen bras, and lots of extra pairs of pants. She said that I was bound to leak from time to time, and sometimes they wouldn't wash clean, and so she suggested that I wear dark coloured ones at this time of the month. I could see the sense of that, but part of me was irritated beyond belief that I'd missed the signs. Bloody hell, I'd been waiting for them for years - as Michael - worried that it would be traumatic, when in the event, it turned out to be smelly, messy, sometimes causing me those odd little pains (worse when I got stomach cramps), but above all, proving to be tedious as month by month the whole business repeated itself. I was more embarrassed by it all when I was more Rosalind, and paradoxically less when I was more Michael, as when I'm strongly Michael I am rather more philosophical about life. Before I'd even got fully accustomed to having periods, which I expected, something happened that threw me, so I took myself off to the doctor, who I knew would see me at the drop of a hat: she was, after all, my grandmother! It was something that bothered me whichever personality was dominant. "So what's the matter, Rosalind?" she asked when I presented myself. "Sorry Gran," I told her, "it's some gunk that's come out of my vagina." "Right hop up on here," she said, patting the couch, "and slip your knickers down." She looked intently, and with her blue-gloved hands, picked something off the gusset. "Did you mean this?" she asked, and I saw that it was the same, white, waxy-creamy substance that bothered me. "Yep," I replied. "Yesterday at school I nipped in for a pee, and the loo roll was gone, so I wiped myself with my hand - sorry, I did wash it afterwards - and I picked up a bit of that stuff. Is it an infection?" "No," she said, "it's natural, just that few girls notice it, as you wouldn't have if you'd wiped with tissue." "So what is it?" I asked. "It's the lining of your immature vagina," she explained. "It's loosening because the oestrogen in your system is causing your passage to open, for the cleansing mucus to flow, and improving the elasticity and flexibility. It's getting you ready for sex." "Surely not," I protested, "I'm too young. And anyway, doesn't all that get sorted with periods?" "No, it takes place in stages. If you'd had sex before puberty, it would have damaged you. Your periods are your womb getting ready - you are ovulating. But you don't really have a bust to feed a baby, and if you were pregnant, your pelvis isn't big enough to pass a baby's head. At your age, it could kill you." "Oh," I said. Michael didn't know that, and so it came as a surprise to Rosalind - both me, of course - but at that moment I was more Michael. "And the Age of Consent in a civilised country like ours is there to prevent bad things like that happening." "So why does nature do it so young?" I asked. "Well, when nature was red in tooth and nail," she replied, "girls had babies as young as possible. It was a risk, but then there were other dangers. Like being eaten by a sabre-toothed tiger! Now, it's a bigger risk to have the early pregnancy. Plus, of course, it helps protect young girls from older men - another type of predator!" There were clearly limits to Michael's knowledge of a girl's physiology, but both parts of me knew, and had been warned against, perverts, rapists, rock stars, aging celebrities and just about any male with a nasty habit of interfering with pubescent girls. As I got older and more mature, I was better able to keep the full extent of my abilities somewhat more under wraps, just doing enough to keep me at the top of my class. But, I was discovering that there were limits to my abilities, courtesy of being Michael. I was great in English, terrific in Geography and History, fabulous in Mathematics, OK in Chemistry and more or less OK in Biology, but barely able to hold my own in French. I wasn't much of a linguist as Michael, but because the mastery of the other subjects didn't cause me any bother, I was able to put in the effort where I was weak, and that included Food Technology. Anyway, my mother could help with that, and she did. She also taught me to sew, to embroider, and to knit, which I found, to my surprise, were enjoyable accomplishments. I did have the occasional lapses, and one of them came during a maths lesson. The teacher started to introduce the idea of simultaneous equations, and without thinking I made the suggestion of how to solve the system. He'd written the two equations on the whiteboard, and I remember them now: 12=4x+2y 5=3x-y I was desperate to answer, and tried to get noticed by holding my hand up as high as I could, and calling "Sir, Sir, Sir!" I knew he'd pick me, and pride overcame caution. I was mostly Rosalind that day, but I knew that I'd got it from Michael. "You multiply the top equation by 3, and the bottom equation by 4, then take one of the revised equations from the other, and that gets rid of x. We ..." Mr Harrison, the mathematics teacher, pounced and asked if I thought the procedure could be applied to bigger systems of equations by multiplying and subtracting again and abain. He was setting me up. "Oh yes," I replied, "it always works, it's called Gau..." I was about to say Gaussian Elimination but stopped myself just in time. "Gaussian what?" he asked, completing my embarrassment. I just flushed and pretended, rather unsuccessfully, that it was a fluke. I knew that the teacher was favourably disposed towards me because of my work and such abilities as I displayed, and this was the step that made me one of his favourites - OK, his favourite. It was reciprocated. I realised that I had a crush on the man. It wasn't fair, because he was happily married with a small child, and I sort of knew his wife who had been a teacher at the school. In pursuit of my idol I became a bit of a slut: I wore my skirts shorter, and often my blouse was unbuttoned when I was in his class (so not that much of a slut, but I was trying). There was posing, pouting, posturing. But worst of all for me, it may not have worked on him a single bit, but it worked on my male classmates, who one at a time tried it on with me, all to be rebuffed. If the little bastards weren't spotty, they picked their noses. The worst of them would scratch their bollocks or their arses rather publicly, or wank with their hand in their pocket trying to look nonchalant. I knew, as Michael, that they were only playing with themselves a bit, and were saving up wanking to ejaculation when they were at home. But I knew that they weren't washing their hands, and I didn't want them to even touch me. I wanted to be touched by my Mr Harrison. I dreamed that he'd kiss me, and I fantasised that he'd put his hand in my blouse, slip my bra off my breasts, and fondle them. When I had less control over my fantasies, I imagined his hand sliding up my thigh, and under the elasticated leg of my knickers, where he'd find the wetness that would be soaking into them - soaking for real, because I was well and truly horny for him! So who was the prey, and who the predator? I'd often come round from these fantasies with a jerk, like when you are dozing, dream you are falling and about to hit the ground, but wake up just in time. It often happened when I'd got to the point where I was getting his cock out (in my imagination of course). After the jolt, I knew I was mostly Michael, disgusted not just by my behaviour, but also the thought of handling Mr Harrison's purple-headed, one-eyed, trouser snake, and even worse, that it might spit semen! Well, if the delightful Mr Harrison resisted my come-on, it just made me worse, and if anything, it heightened the dislike that Miss Roberts, who taught Geography, showed towards me. I wasn't her pet: she hated me. And well she might, because if I was a would-be tart, she was a fraud. She was one of those human geographers who wants to teach Marx, and knows very little physical geography. Quite a lot of the terms she mispronounced, and she definitely didn't like to be corrected. Thalweg? Bergschrund? Barchan? J?kulhlaup? Have you guessed? It was one of Michael's pet subjects, and therefore mine! For a while, I thought of her as a competitor for Mr Harrison's affections, but he clearly had better taste. I haven't mentioned my brother, Robert, who came along when I was six, nearly seven. He grew up to be clever, but not like me, and far more sporty. When he was getting ready to move up to senior school, he also took exams for scholarships, but he and I still didn't get to go to the same school. A couple of years later he showed real aptitude in sports and took some more tests, as a result of which he moved again to a highly-regarded sporty school. He stayed there weekdays - we call it a boarding school - but came home at weekends. I realised that this was stretching the family finances a little, and so I got a Saturday job at a tea shop to pay for my own treats. I realised that when I went up to University my mother was going to suffer really badly with 'empty nest' syndrome. I saw her with tears in her eyes as she tidied away some clothes we'd outgrown, and realised that what she really needed was another baby. I eavesdropped on a conversation she had with my father about money, and it came out that not just Robert, but my probable future expenses at University, made it impossible for her to give up her part- time job, and I didn't know what to do about that. She'd have to if she did have another child on the way. The tea shop job required me to wear a straight black skirt, white blouse and an apron, and I soon realised that this outfit on a teenage girl rather stimulated some male customers who were old enough to know better, but still couldn't resist giving my bum a sly feel. I minded less if they gave a good tip! When I was a lot Michael, on the other hand, I was incensed, but still managed to fake a smile. Now and then I got a lot of tips, and I'd buy a lottery ticket on my way home. I was overjoyed when I won ten pounds, and then really got hooked. I was mostly Michael when I formulated the strategy that there was no point in getting more than one line, as only one could be a big winner and any more would always annoy me as a waste of money. It was my last day at the tea shop before taking a break for my exams, when my ticket came up trumps. Maybe not four aces or royal flush trumps, but quite enough to keep Robert at that school, pay my University costs, and provide us with a holiday away from the sea. I received a lecture about gambling from my mother before the full impact of the money went home. I was mostly Michael when I took my father to one side and explained that my mother wanted another baby to keep her occupied with both Robert and I away, and when it penetrated his thick skull what that meant, he went off with a gleam in his eye that wasn't extinguished easily, and for ages afterwards Mum looked happier than I'd seen her! I chose my old University, but I was put off the Geography because of Miss Roberts, and decided on English. There was a rationale to this, as when I was mainly Rosalind my ambition was to be a writer. Mr Harrison was disappointed that I hadn't chosen Mathematics, and took me to one side to try to change my mind. "Look Rosalind," he said, "You're brilliant - and, may I say, you are ..." I knew he was about to make an inappropriate compliment, so I stopped him in his tracks. I was mainly Michael at the time, which made it easier, plus I was growing out of my crush on Mr H. I explained my career choice to him, and he understood. When I got to University, it wasn't entirely as I remembered it, as one rambling building had been demolished and two modern towers were in its place. I chose the Uni that I knew well as Michael. The student halls had been refurbished, and the rooms had tiny en-suite bathrooms - well, shower rooms. They used to have just a wash basin, with the toilets and showers along the corridor. The thought came to me that perhaps it was for the best, as in times of need the old Michael could pee in the washbasin, but Rosalind couldn't! But then, I didn't much like the taste of beer any more, and certainly wasn't intending to drink to excess and end up getting fucked by some pushy tosser, even though that seemed to be the limit to the ambition of many of my female colleagues. Another revelation for Michael, who'd thought that girls needed a lot of cajoling. No they didn't, they just had to be caught in the right frame of mind, and to be persuaded to do what they really wanted to do, which was disgracefully easy once you got the hang of it. If I'd been looking for love in the three years I spent at University, then I was well and truly disappointed, but the time passed productively, and I learned a lot - for once - and I was more challenged than I had been at school. I went back to the tea shop in the Easter and summer holidays, and having realised that not playing up with the odd grope did get you better tips, I made sure that I wore stockings and suspenders so that they showed through my skirt and told the visible lie that I was up for it. Back at Uni, I made friends amongst the other girls. My best friend was Nadia, who was a dyed platinum blonde in the tradition of Marilyn Munroe - same hairstyle, same body. One day she explained to me that female masturbation was empowering, while male masturbators were - well, they were wankers! She said I needed to do it a lot, so that when I finally got a bloke, I could have satisfying sex, even if he couldn't keep it up. And, why the hell didn't I have any bloke I wanted, she asked, as I was gorgeous, well dressed, a top student. Why did I rebuff every advance? And trust me - her that is - masturbating was great, but having cock in you made it much better! She had a lot of knowledge in this field, I knew, and it was probably sound advice, based on extensive and highly practical experience. When I was mainly Michael, I was a bit horrified by some of her remarks, but in a way I fancied her, although when I was mainly Rosalind I was more intrigued. But in neither case did I ever find a guy I was willing to take the chance with. Well, not amongst my fellow students or the staff. I guess that Nadia swung both ways, and I was tempted, especially when I was mostly Michael, and one or two other lesbians tried it on (but equally unsuccessfully) as the news got around that I was never with a guy. I'd taken my finals and submitted my dissertation when Nadia insisted that I go to a lecture given by a charismatic Yank from a publishing house. I was fairly strongly Michael when I agreed to go, after all, my ambitions as a writer demanded a publisher, but I was equally strongly Rosalind when we bowled up to the lecture. I knew, as the man was introduced, that I was getting what I called 'Mr Harrison panties' just looking at him. His voice caressed my innards, reached my soul, and my button was being pushed into the 'on' position as effectively as if I'd spent some time rubbing it. I'd tried Nadia's suggested masturbation, and found that I liked it even if I didn't feel all that empowered by it. Perhaps it needed this man's cock for full effect. Afterwards, Nadia and I joined the small crowd of simpering syncophants and autograph collectors. I didn't say anything as Nadia desperately struggled to make sure he was going to fuck her, but, to my complete astonishment, it didn't impact on him. He had eyes for me, and as I was to discover to my surprise, only for me. We dated. Then, he - Peter - joined my parents and Robert at my Graduation. Robert had been selected as a junior Olympian, and my Aunt was outside, taking care of my new baby sister who would have cried if she was in the auditorium. Things got serious between us very quickly, and I got an irresistible proposal of marriage. I was only halfway into a novel, but I couldn't see that being married would stop me writing. It might make me go to bed earlier! I told Peter that I wanted to go to my wedding night a virgin, and he laughed. Probably, he thought I was spinning him a line, but he went along with it for my sake. We married in a Registry Office as soon as it opened one morning (planned, of course) and flew out to Asia on honeymoon afterwards, taking a flight that afternoon to a destination unknown. It turned out to be Sri Lanka, and that evening, I prepared to lose my virginity. For a short time, I was mainly Michael, trying to damp down the fear and trepidation, but as we readied for bed, I became almost totally Rosalind, excited by his attentions, a little afraid that he'd hurt me, but literally gagging to take him inside me. It was just before Christmas, the day before Christmas Eve, 2026, and in the hotel, there was an exhibition of photographs and paintings of the traumatic day the tsunami had struck the coast before I was even born. I knew about the Boxing Day tsunami, of course. My parents had saved up for a holiday in Phuket, in Thailand. That was before I was more than a gleam in my father's eye. Once, I figured the dates back, and decided that I'd been conceived on that holiday. I'd heard about their coming down late from their room, and guessed that they had made love. They were sitting having coffee before making the decision as to whether to spend the rest of the day on the beach, by the pool, or taking an excursion into a nearby village, when a stranger came into the courtyard screaming that a tsunami was coming, and people should make for the highest point. My parent's room was on the first floor, and he said No, higher than that. He'd pulled my mother off the chair, and manhandled her and my confused father up the stairs and barked at them not to stop until they were on the roof. It saved their lives, but not his, as he rushed around desperate to get people to safety. He was not a survivor. They had a miserable time: the resort was largely destroyed, and they struggled in the wreckage, the corpses, the stink, the lack of food and water, the sheer horribleness of it all, until they got home after the holiday from Hell. Well, Nadia was right, oh was she right. Yep, a little masturbation introduces you to the idea, but being taken by a man like Peter is truly the real thing. I knew from the moment he entered me that I'd been denying myself, saving myself for him. Sure, it hurt a little bit as my hymen broke, and I felt completely stuffed and stretched, but when the deep sensations began, I knew what was coming next, although I hadn't expected its overwhelming intensity. I even enjoyed, as my own orgasm subsided, Peter's hesitation and shudder as he came too, and I felt his heat inside me for the first time. I wasn't sure that night who was the more insatiable, him or me. We made love again, and then again. I was like a madwoman - a madwoman in heat. For once, I was almost totally Rosalind, and comparing what I'd just experienced with what I knew as Michael, there was absolutely no doubt: making love as a woman beats being a man - by about a thousand times. I was up and out of bed for a pee as the early morning light flooded into the room. Seated on the toilet, I started feeling myself for damage, cleaning off the dried semen, and some that was still sticky just inside, and then, wondering if we were going to do it again when I went back to bed, I padded out of the bathroom, naked. A small envelope that had been pushed under the door caught my eye. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a small card, printed with the address of a Buddhist monastery in the hills and enlivened by some unrecognisable tropical flowers as a border. The handwritten message was simple. It said: "Michael, Rosalind. Come." I was confused. No one should know about Michael. This was from some Buddhist medicine man, Abbot at a monastery. How could he know? I lied to Peter. It was only a little lie. I told him that I wanted to go to a famous Buddhist fortune teller. He took me (yes, and that) and went for a walk while I communed with the great man. He was everything I expected, bare-shouldered, orange-clad, shaven-headed, bespectacled, seated in the Lotus position, younger than I imagined, softly spoken and able to converse in perfect educated English. "You came," he said simply. "Your arrival yesterday shook me. I suppose you could call it a perturbation of The Force!" He smiled as he made the analogy. I thought of Yoda, but this man was real, not a rubber puppet. I had no answer to his statements, except perhaps a quizzical look. "I needed to see you. You are," and he paused for a breath, "You are one who remembers a previous life, are you not?" "Yes." It was the only answer possible. "I too, remember. Not just one, but many. Male and female. Good and Bad. But there is still much to learn. Will you come closer, and let me touch you?" I nodded, and sidled closer. He cupped his hands on my head. "Ah, I see. You were Michael, now you are Rosalind. You are blessed to remember. I see that you are happy. I am beyond the need for sexual gratification, but is it not now clear that it is better as a woman? Your man adores you, by the way. You are beautiful, and share his wealth - but then you have always been lucky, I see." I tried to nod again, as I realised his truth, but his grip was firm and he probably felt rather than saw the attempt. "Michael, you gave your life to help others, that terrible day. You saved Rosalind's parents, did you not? You do not need to answer - I see it all." His eyes widened for a moment as he saw something in my mind, and then he said, his voice lowered to a whisper: "Instant Karma!" "Doesn't Instant Karma come as a punishment?" I asked, finding my voice. The Abbot replied: "Sometimes, perhaps, Michael, Rosalind. Sometimes. But not necessarily, and not always. In this case, simply becoming Rosalind, with her parents, having her body, living her life, and the family she will have - in all that it entails and the benefits it brings, is your reward, the Vipaka for your Karma, the payback for your sacrifice."