No Good Deed free porn video

DISCLAIMER: It's fiction, ladies. That means I made it up in my head. It has no bearing upon and is not drawn from any true events, nor are any of my characters based on actual persons living or dead. COPYRIGHT: I made it. It belongs to me. I'd rather it not be reposted - I wrote it for Fictionmania fans - but if you absolutely must share it, please have the decency to give me proper credit. Thank you! TRIGGER WARNING: Life can be a scary place filled with moments of joy. And sex. And violence. And hurt, angry people. Brace yourself. AND FINALLY: I've posted some love stories, but this is not one of them. No Good Deed © 2021 by Kate Steele I Mick was only on the east side of the city that morning because he needed a part for his old motorcycle, and Beck's was the only place in Central Texas - the only place on the continent, so far as he knew - likely to have what he needed. He was only at that convenience store, two blocks from Beck's shop, because he'd decided he wanted a cup of coffee to sip on as he rummaged through the stacks and piles of old motorcycle parts which made Beck's a sort of Disneyland for guys like Mick: those grease- stained devotees of vintage American iron and hand-built, truly old- school choppers. He was only outside his truck and able to hear the old woman's distressed cry because he'd put his keys in the wrong pocket, and was juggling a coffee and Danish with one hand as he dug for his keys with the other. But his refreshments went sideways when Mick heard her scream, and he instinctively bolted across the parking lot at a run, forgetting his age, his game leg, the rods holding his spine together. The woman was in the crosswalk, in the grassy median halfway across a busy four-lane boulevard, and two hulking young toughs were attempting to steal her handbag. She was resisting mightily, down on the ground still clutching the wide leather straps, and one of her assailants was kicking her in the ribs when Mick charged into the thief with a solid right-left combo that knocked the punk to his knees. It's not that Mick was Joe Frazier - he was just an aging, broke- down biker with a bum leg, living with chronic pain - but he had been in a brawl or three in his day, and seeing an old woman assaulted like that filled him with rage. He punched the thug again - in the back of the neck this time, and hard - driving the boy to the ground. Mick turned to face the other assailant, but that one was ready for him. As Mick closed on him, he felt the blade of a stiletto slip between his ribs, hotter than a branding iron as it sliced through skin and vital organs. Pain clouded his senses, and he suddenly saw himself at the age of twenty, back on a soggy jungle trail near the Cambodian border at Duc Co, desperately trying to save the life of a young PFC from Maine who had tripped a Bouncing Betty. The medic Mick was assisting kept screaming, "The tenth intercostal! The tenth...!" as if an ol' country boy from East Texas knew what a damned "intercostal" was. Now he knew. It hurt worse than getting kneed in the groin by that linebacker when he was sixteen, and Mick felt the contents of his lungs leave his body in a single gasp. Momentum had carried him all the way to the thug's side, but it was Mick's feeble attempt to push himself free of the knife-wielding youth that propelled the boy into the path of an ancient Econoline van. Mick heard the harsh cru-THUMP! of impact - a satisfying sound - but by then he was falling, darkness rising fast. As his head hit the pavement, he saw the punk he had sucker-punched leap to his feet, terrorized by what he had just witnessed, and take off running. Then came a deep ebon silence the scent and flavor of death. I I The next time Mick opened his eyes, his head was cradled in the old woman's lap, but they were no longer in the middle of the street, or even in the city, so near as he could tell. There were trees he couldn't name, a bird chirping in the branches overhead, the sound of a brook burbling and sighing nearby. "Wha...?" His throat hurt, and his voice sounded like gravel and glass going through a shredder. The old woman smoothed his hair with her hand - the palm cool to the touch against Mick's fevered brow - as she cooed, "Easy, now, child. You are safe. You are healing." Child? he thought, Woman, I'm sixty-eight years old! But aloud he just rasped, "Where are we?" "My garden," the woman replied. Mick struggled to look around. "How long have I been out?" he wondered. "Just a minute or two." He turned his head to face her - kind eyes twinkling with an inner light, a seamed face roadmapped with laugh lines and an unruly mop of greying hair - and said, "A minute or two?" Mick scanned his surroundings, confirming they were alone. "What about the cops? And where are those punks?" "I saw no need for you to undergo interrogation by the authorities for an event which was none of your doing, Mick. Those young men got what they deserved. As far as the police know, the one who stabbed you just stepped in front of that truck." The niggling question of how she knew his name was quickly shunted aside by his memory of the van, and the sound of metal impacting a human body. Mick flinched as the sound echoed in his ears - I never meant to kill the kid! - but aloud he mumbled, "I guess..." He paused, and then added, "But the other one got away." She smiled. "Oh, that is what he thinks." More confused than ever, Mick just closed his eyes and tried to remember what happened after the fight, but his mind was a blank. How had she gotten him away from the cops? Why wasn't he dead... or am I dead? The woman laughed aloud. "You are not dead," she assured him. "Did I... did I say that out loud?" She just smiled, and Mick felt a sudden bone-deep chill in his spine. "What's going on?" he whispered. She shrugged. "I could tell you a story, I suppose - obfuscate and dilly-dally and distract - but you may as well know the truth of it; I am... Well, I am gifted, as my people say." "Gifted?" She sighed. "You will learn it soon enough: I am what your people call 'a witch', Mick." In a flattened voice he repeated "A witch." He studied her face, but she offered no sign that she was joking. He waited another moment, and then said, "You're serious." She smiled brightly. "I am. I am most serious, and I should like to reward you for what you did today. You came to the aid of an old woman, and almost died for your troubles..." "Wait! About that: how am I not dead? Why aren't I bleeding?" He patted his side - it was smooth, as if the stabbing had never happened - and said, "No stitches? No surgery?" She made a face. "A little thing like a stab wound is nothing to one with my gifts. Those metal rods in your back take a bit longer, but they should be gone by tomorrow." "Gone? Whad'ya mean?" Her voice was soft with sympathy. "You have been in pain a very long time, Mick. I am taking care of that for you, but I should like to do more, if I may." "Like what?" Mick asked, warily. "Like... tell me your fondest wish." "My fondest wish?" Mick echoed. "Yes, your very fondest wish: the one nearest your heart." "My fondest wish..." "That's right. Tell me what you want: what you really want, and have always wanted; even lain awake at night fantasizing about, but never thought possible." She waved her gnarled hand in the air. "Anything at all, no matter how wild." "Okay, sure, I'll play along." In his mind Mick quickly sorted through several possibilities, but finally said, "Alright! I'll take a new Harley trike." "A 'Harley trike'? You mean a three-wheeled motorcycle?" "Yeah. The new Freewheeler they put out is pretty cool. I'm getting older, and my leg is giving me fits. With a trike I wouldn't have to worry about my bike falling over on top of me while I'm stopped at a red light." "Oh, you need not worry about that, Mick. Your leg will be healed before this day ends." She smiled and added, "But a new motorcycle is not your fondest wish." "Whatd'ya mean? Sure it is!" "No, it is not." "Hey!" The old woman's casual certainty was beginning to annoy him. "You asked me what I wanted, and I told you. Where do you get off, calling me a liar?" "It is not that you are lying, Mick; it is just that you are not telling the whole truth." "How's that different from lying? You asked me what I wanted, and I said..." "Oh, I heard what you said, but there is something you want much, much more than a new motorcycle." Mick felt a tickle of dread, a quiver of fear as the woman tilted her head, the better to peer into Mick's troubled eyes, and said, quietly, "Is that not true, Mykala?" Mick's eyes flew open wide. How does she...? and the old woman chuckled. "I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Mykala. I would not have pried, but I truly wish to reward you for your valor, and to do that I must know the truth: what you really, truly want. I knew that simply asking you the question would bring that true desire to the forefront of your mind, and it did. You wish to be the young woman you know as Mykala." This can't be happening, he thought, desperately, but aloud Mick said, "Oh, no, no... Look, the Mykala thing was... um, y'know, it was just a silly game; like, a phase I went through as a kid!" "You know better than that, Mykala. You knew your true name before you reached your fifth birthday. How many little boys know with that kind of certainty that they should really have a pretty name like Mykala? How many spend their childhoods envying their sister's dolls and pink bicycles, their high heels and miniskirts? In your heart of hearts - every birthday candle, every shooting star - you have been wishing all these years you could be Mykala. 'Phases' don't last sixty-five years, child." "But I... Oh, God." He blushed, mortified, terrified. "I've never told anyone!" he whispered. "I know, Mykala, and I am so sorry for you. All those years of shame - all the fear and pain and anger you suffered in silence - simply for wanting to be who you truly are. What is that word they use nowadays? 'Transgender,' I believe. That is you, is it not?" Mick's hands flew about like nervous wrens as he tried to marshal the arguments needed to silence the old woman and make this excruciating conversation go away. He finally said, "Look, none of that 'trans' stuff was an option when I was a kid. Nobody knew about transgendered people and sex-changes and all that, and by the time I found out such a thing was even possible I was already six feet tall; I had an Adam's apple, a deep voice, hair everywhere..." He was surprised to feel a tear on his cheek, and hurriedly wiped it away - When was the last time I cried about this? he wondered - and forged ahead. "Really, I just wanted..." He looked at the woman and sighed. What's the point of lying? he thought, so he told her, "I just wanted to be a girl, a pretty girl. I did not want to be an ugly six-foot cartoon of a woman, and I wasn't going to spend my life as a punching bag, or the punchline to somebody else's bad joke. I couldn't be a girl - I knew I couldn't be the girl I wanted to be - so I put my head down, kept my mouth shut, and got on with my life." "And now?" He snorted loudly. "Well, it damn sure ain't possible now! I'm a grown man! I'm a biker, for fuck's sake! I can't be a girl" "Girls don't ride motorcycles? How many motorcycles did you customize for women riders when you worked at that motorcycle shop? How many young women did you encourage to take the handlebars for themselves, hmm?" She nodded approvingly. "You've been a feminist all your life, Mykala. Now you'll be feminine, as well." Mick squirmed. The woman was relentless. "Look," he said, "I'm still too tall, still got these big gun-boat feet and a beard and all, and on top of that I'm old, I'm gimped up and beat to hell. What'd be the point?" "But that is the point, Mykala! Your wish is granted." Mick groaned aloud. He couldn't believe he was even having this discussion, but he shook himself, sat up straight and said, as gently as he could, "Look, ma'am, just forget it. I mean, I appreciate the thought and all and I'm sure you mean well, but I'm okay, really. My life's been a good one. Thank you, anyway, but..." The old woman smiled benignly, her eyes still a-twinkle, and said, "Oh, Mykala, sweet child, you were not listening. I told you, 'Your wish is granted.' It is done. You will be Mykala." Mick looked down at his gnarled, battered, still obviously male body and said with a smirk, "Look, I don't know what you're seeing, lady, but..." She waved away his objection. "It takes time." "Really? You're this powerful witch, but you can't wriggle your nose and...?" "It takes time," she repeated, firmly, "and you should not mock the gifted." She wagged a finger in his face and said, sternly, "If I can turn you into the pretty young girl you wish to be, imagine what else I can turn you into!" Mick raised his hands in mock surrender and the old woman laughed, and Mick breathed a sigh of relief. I I I He was stunned to find his pickup parked at the old woman's garden gate, and even more stunned when he discovered the part he'd been hunting wrapped in a clean shop rag on the passenger floorboard. How the hell did she...? but then he thought, Hah! Silly question! Mick examined the carburetor bowl in his hand, amazed. The thing looked brand-new, but he knew for a fact that the last of its kind rolled out the factory door in 1966. Damn, he smiled to himself, the old bat really is a witch! He chuckled as he turned around, intent on thanking her for the part, but the gate was gone. Her entire garden - the trees and brook and singing bird - had somehow morphed back into the gritty cityscape of the east side, and Mick was gaping at his own reflection in the silvered door of a pawnshop five blocks from the scene of the robbery. If he craned his neck, he could see the flashing red and blue lights of police cars, amber lights of a wrecker, and the hulking black silhouette of the coroner's van, and the reality of all that had taken place came rushing back; the sudden spate of brutality, the sound of the thug's body as it collided with the speeding truck, his near-death experience. Oh, God! Oh, sweet Jesus! What the hell just happened? His hand shook violently as Mick tried to fit his key into the locked door of his pickup truck, and it was several long minutes before he was able to start the truck and drive away. I V Mick's wife welcomed him home with a smile and a quick peck on the cheek, but when she asked how his visit to Beck's went - whether he found the part he needed - Mick let out an anguished moan. All she could do was stare bewildered, mouth agape, as he brushed past her and escaped into the cool, close darkness of his garage, his sanctuary. There he squatted on a rollaway mechanic's stool, staring at his beloved, road-weary old motorcycle with unseeing eyes. In desperate silence he tried to untangle the knotted mess this day and that woman had made of his mind. Is it even possible? he wondered. Can she... can she really make me a... a girl? Even as he struggled to deny it, he was running a gnarled, grease-stained hand over the site of his missing knife wound. Oh, my God! He called up the vision of Mykala he had carried with him all those years; a lithe, slender, almost boyish body, long dark hair, green eyes, that cute smile and light laughter... Mykala. Mykala! Mick shook his head. No, no..., she can't! He looked at the brand-new half-century-old carburetor bowl still clutched in his hand, and tried to tell himself, That's nuts! She can't change a broken old man into a damned teenager! It's impossible! He cast a nervous glance at the closed door between he and his wife. And I can't tell Josie! She'll think I've gone crazy! Besides, he thought, miserably, she married a man; not some simpering little fag in a dress! Mick groaned inwardly even as the foul thought crossed his mind. He had never been homophobic, and he knew better than to believe that about himself or use such descriptors about anyone. If only his long- buried memories of "Mykala" weren't so damned embarrassing! First, there was the long pink sleep-shirt his older sister grew out of, which Mick adopted as his "dress". It was cute if just his mother was there, but a source of rage for his father. Then there were his frequent, fervent pronouncements that he, too, was a girl - that he was going to grow up to be just as pretty as Mommy - and his rapt attention to all those womanly things his mother and older sister got to enjoy: the pretty shoes, perfume and lipstick and real dresses. They laughed, but went along with the joke, never understanding that for Mick it was no joke. Even at five years old, Mick knew those things should have been his. Sadly, by the time he turned six Mick had learned he was wrong: wrong for feeling that way, for wanting those things. Wrong most of all for letting anyone but his mother and sister get even a hint of the shameful desire within. His father, a hard man who wanted hard sons, made sure of that. The message could not have been clearer: little boys were not allowed to become little girls. V Mick was still fretting about what to do when Josie called him in for supper, but as he rose to his feet, he noticed the near-constant pain in his bad leg was suddenly absent. He rubbed his upper thigh where sciatica frequently plagued him and thought, No, no, that can't be right! He shook his leg: it felt... normal, and Mick suddenly felt a little dizzy, a wee bit nauseous. This is not possible, he repeated to himself; an unvoiced mantra, a silent hope, an unuttered prayer which proffered no solace. Back inside, Mick slumped in his chair at the kitchen table - a high- backed office chair to accommodate his fused spine - and looked at the meal his wife had prepared. It was one of his favorites - a thick, hearty Irish stew made with Guinness stout and paired with her homemade Irish soda bread - but his appetite had vanished. How could he eat knowing... fearing that this might be his last meal as a man? This is not possible. This is not possible, he reminded himself. Then he looked at his wife. Would she understand? Could she? Should she? It wasn't until later that evening, as the couple sprawled in their respective easy chairs surfing Netflix for a film to watch, that Mick finally cleared his throat and said, "Josie?" Distracted by the plot synopsis for a new movie, Josie just murmured, "Uh-huh?" Mick sat up straight, swallowing the hard, dry knot of fear at the back of his throat. It's now or never, he decided. A deep breath, then, and he said, "Josie, I need to tell you something." She must have heard the tremor in his voice because she set aside the TV remote and pivoted to face him. "What is it, babe? Are you okay?" Mick ran a nervous palm over his face. "No," he muttered at last, "I'm not okay." Josie scooted closer to where Mick sat and said, "Tell me." Mick hesitated, and she said it again, softly. "Tell me, Mick." Mick reached for her hand, took a deep breath, and began to speak. V I When he was done Josie sat very still for what seemed a very long time, gazing at the middle distance between them, even as Mick's mind jackrabbitted through a thousand different, but equally terrifying scenarios. Then she slowly smiled and said, "I never believed her." "Huh?" "When we first started going out you sister told me about you playing dress-up as a kid - she insisted it was this big important thing - but I thought she was exaggerating. I figured that even if it was true, it was just a childhood phase. I mean, look at you; you're this big macho biker. I guess I should have paid closer attention." She looked away, musing, and said, "This explains so much." "Explains what, exactly?" She turned to face him and tenderly took both his hands in hers. "You know I love you, right?" Mick winced. Here it comes! "Stop that! I said, 'I love you' and I meant it. The fact that you wanted to be a girl - the fact that deep inside you might be a girl? - doesn't change that fact. I fell in love with you because you are kind, passionate, strong-willed (or stubborn as a mule)," and here she smiled, "but also because you've never been afraid of your 'feminine side.' You cry at sappy commercials on TV, you talk to me about your feelings, you take me clothes-shopping and actually participate... Do you have any idea how many of my girlfriends are jealous of me for that fact alone? Their husbands won't even go to the women's section of a department store, let alone talk to them about fabric and hemlines and the like. "Of course," she said with a teasing smile, "if I'd known you were really picking outfits for yourself...!" "It wasn't like that!" Mick vowed, blushing heatedly. She gave him a reassuring squeeze. "I know, Mick; really, I do. When you take the time to tell me why this dress is right for me and that one isn't, I feel seen in ways no man has ever seen me. The average schmuck, if he pays attention at all, he's telling his woman what to wear because he wants to control her. He either wants to dress her up and show her off like a trophy or cover her up so other men won't find her attractive. It's never about what the woman wants, or how she feels about what she's wearing and... and..." She held her hands up, palms out, with tears in her eyes. "I never get that from you, Mick. When I hear people talk about 'marrying their best friend' I want to shout out 'That's us!' because that's exactly what it feels like for me: that you are my best friend; that you want me to be my best, look my best, feel my best. With you I have always felt treasured, Mick. "So, it makes sense, in a way." She sighed, running the tip of her tongue over chapped, unpainted lips. "But now what? Do you... are you thinking you want to transition?" "God, no!" he blurted, "Can you imagine this parading around in a skirt and heels?" She giggled. "Exactly! And that's kind of my point. By the time I knew about people like Christine Jorgensen and Ren?e Richards it was too late for me; I was already tall and gawky, with size twelve feet! There was no way I'd ever be presentable as a woman, and I knew what happened to guys who walked around dressing like girls. There was no way I was putting myself through that!" Josie mulled that over a moment before saying, "But you knew about yourself before you heard about Christine Jorgensen and Dr. Richards?" Mick nodded. "And...?" "Well, that's pretty important. It means your feminine persona developed independent of cultural influences in your developmental years..." Mick leered at her. "I love it when you talk nerdy to me!" "Oh, shut up! I only point that out because we see these bigots on TV every day, telling us that trans kids are just brainwashed by the culture, or some secret 'gay agenda' to make everyone queer, but with you there was no secret agenda, no culture to do any brainwashing! You didn't have an internet filled with trans-friendly forums where you could learn about hormones and puberty blockers, or get referrals to supportive doctors..." "Or just find out that I wasn't alone; that other people felt the same way I did. I thought I was a freak for feeling that way." "Exactly! There was no Phil Donahue Show. There were no 'Oprah' episodes on transgender children, or Jazz Jennings talking to what's- her-face on prime-time TV..." She stopped to take a deep breath, and then added, "But if you could have accessed those things - if you were 5'6" instead, or still a teenager - would you?" Mick felt his face turn red, but he tried to bluster through, saying, "Hell, I don't know, Josie! How can anyone know..." "Tell the truth, Mick. You were doing so well." Mick's denial died on his lips, and he hung his head. Slowly, after a long moment's pause, he nodded. Josie nodded back. "I thought as much, but thank you for being honest with me." She clapped her hands together, brusquely, and said, "So, given that those things aren't true, and you're stuck being the big manly guy I married, what do you want to do about it?" "I don't want to do anything about it!" He shook his head. "Look, Josie, I came to terms with that part of my life over sixty years ago, and I think I've made a damned good go of it. I grew up to be a man. I fought in a war, and when I got home, I built a career and a life for myself. I've had a blast riding motorcycles all over hell and gone with my brothers; building choppers and collecting books and such, and then at an age when most folks are shuffling off to the shuffleboard courts, I got the added bonus of meeting you and falling in love..." "Aww...!" She batted her eyes, and then said, "So why bring it up now? I'm not being mean, honey; I'm just curious. Why now?" Mick ran a hand through his tangled grey hair. "It's just that... well, something happened." Josie waited as he gathered his thoughts. "This afternoon I was on my way to Beck's for the carburetor bowl I need, and I stopped at the Circle K on Seventh Street to get a cuppa. As I was leaving the store, I saw these two guys mugging this woman. It was crazy, Josie! I mean, they were out there in broad daylight, right smack in the middle of Seventh Street, traffic everywhere and people standing at the bus stop, and nobody cared! These punks had this old gal down on the ground, trying to take her purse - one guy was kicking her in the ribs, hard! - and I just lost it, Josie. I ran over there and took out the guy who was kicking the old gal, but when I went for the other asshole, he had a knife..." "Oh, Mick! Did he...?" "Yeah, he did. Bastard got me good, too." She reached over tugging at his shirt. "Show me! Are you okay? What did the doctor say?" He stilled her hands, smoothed his t-shirt down and said, "I didn't see a doctor..." "What!" "...because there's nothing to see. When the guy stabbed me, I felt the blade go in, and it hurt like a sum-bitch, and all I could think to do was push him away from me, but when I did, well, I didn't mean to, but I pushed him in front of this old van that was driving by. I heard the impact - I don't reckon I'll ever forget that sound - and then I blacked out." He paused, sipping his now-tepid coffee. "When I opened my eyes again, I was in a garden somewhere, with my head in the old woman's lap..." Josie quirked an eyebrow at him and said, "And just how old was this 'old woman'?" Mick laughed. "Old enough, believe me; ninety if she was a day." Josie made a two-fingered "I'm watching you" gesture, giggling, and then said, "So...?" "So, she... she healed me. There's no sign of the knife wound at all." Josie's skepticism was writ large on her delicate features, but Mick raised his shirt now and let her see the smooth, unbroken skin where the knife had penetrated. She glared at him, an unspoken accusation, and he held up his hands in the all-too-familiar DON'T SHOOT! gesture. "I got no reason to make this up, babe." Josie was rapidly scrolling through her phone now, and within moments said, "Here it is!" She scanned the article on her screen, and then read aloud, "On East Seventh Street near Springdale Road, a man known to police as a career criminal - a violent offender - was struck and killed by..." "A mid-'60s Ford van!" Josie eyed him gravely. "By a 1966 Ford Econoline van driven by... blah-blah-blah... oh, here! Police say a knife was found at the scene, with traces of human blood on it. They believe the deceased was most likely fleeing the scene of a robbery when he ran in front of the van. The van driver and several witnesses say the man just 'appeared out of nowhere,' and police say no charges will be filed. If anyone has any information, call..." She looked up and said, "The police suspect that, since they didn't find this guy's victim anywhere, he was probably robbing some undocumented immigrant. They frequently avoid contact with law enforcement for fear of deportation. A reasonable assumption, I guess, since that was the east side, but you're telling me that if they did a DNA test on that blood, it would match yours?" Mick nodded. "But then I'd have to explain why I have no wounds, so that's out." Josie shook her head. "You've never been a liar, Mick, but you gotta admit; this sounds pretty far-out." He nodded his head grimly. "It gets worse." Josie's eyes grew wide. "Worse than disappearing knife wounds and dead stick-up men?" He nodded again. "The old woman? She said she wanted to 'reward me' for helping her out. Told me she'd grant me my fondest wish." He didn't think it possible, but Josie's eyes got even bigger. "You told her you wanted to be a girl!" "Of course not!" He snorted through his nose. "I told her I wanted one of the new three-wheelers from Harley, but she said she knew what I really wanted, even more than a motorcycle. I started to argue with her, but then she said, 'Isn't that right, Mykala?'" "Mykala?" Thoroughly confused, now, Josie said, "Who the hell is 'Mykala'?" Mick blushed furiously. "When I was little, I told my Mom about me - about how I wasn't really a boy and my name really wasn't Michael - and she said 'Well, who are you then, sweetie?' and I said... I said, 'I'm Mykala, Mommy.'" He paused for a moment, letting the hot rush of shame sweep over him. "I don't have any idea where the name came from. I was in kindergarten, but I don't remember any classmates with a name like that - it wouldn't have been a common name back then, anyway - but I just knew that I was Mykala, a girl, and that everyone who called me 'Michael' or made me stand in line with the boys was wrong. That every toy I got, and every back-to-school outfit - every coat and shirt and swimsuit - was wrong. That the whole world was wrong if it thought I was one of them!" His hands were shaking now but he soldiered on. "And then, about the time I turned six, I found out it was me: that I was the 'wrong' one." He sighed deeply, heavily, and said, "For my sixth birthday, I made the mistake of asking my parents for a doll... Quit laughing, dammit! I did; I asked for a Barbie doll. One of the girls at school brought hers for show-and-tell and I thought it was so cool, so pretty, and so I asked for one, but my Dad? Oh, he went fuckin' ballistic on my ass. 'No son of mine...' and all that. "So, I learned my lesson. I put Mykala in a box and never let her out again. Not intentionally, anyway. But this old woman? She knew me by name, Josie. That's not... that can't be just some random guess, right? There's got to be something there." "But what, exactly?" "Well, she said she wanted to grant my 'fondest wish,' and then she told me exactly what my fondest wish really was." He fidgeted, rubbing his hands together. "What if she was telling the truth?" "But how could she have known, if you didn't tell her?" "Maybe a woman who can heal knife wounds can also read minds? What do I know? Anyway, what if a woman who can read minds and heal knife wounds can also grant wishes?" Josie struggled and failed to hide her smirk. "Um, Mick, honey? I don't know how to tell you this..." He gritted his teeth. "I know that! Don't you think I know that? And that's what I told her, but she just said, 'It takes time. It takes time.'" He shifted in his seat. "What if...?" He caught her eyes and said, "Josie, what if she's telling the truth?" Josie's eyes twinkled with merriment. "Are you telling me you're going to turn into a girl now?" "I'm serious! I'm afraid of what might happen! This woman, she knew me by a name no one has heard from me in over sixty years..." "And about that: are you sure she said 'Mykala'? That she wasn't saying 'Michael'? Maybe you told her your name while you were out of it, or she had an accent or..." "But the garden? The knife wound? The fact that no one saw me push that guy in front of a speeding truck? What about those things? And my leg? What about my leg?" "Your leg?" "My leg - the one that's been giving m fits for years - doesn't hurt anymore. She told me it would be healed by the end of the day, and it is!" "Look, Mick, honey, I agree: it all sounds freaky as fuck, but..." She closed her eyes, took a calming breath, opened her eyes again and said, "Do you want to be Mykala?" "What? No! No, of course not!" "Really?" she replied, skeptically. "You're telling me you would turn down an opportunity to magically become the woman you always should have been: no muss, no fuss, no painful surgeries or hormone tablets? That you'd say 'Oh, gee, thanks, but no thanks. I'll just stay old, crippled, depressed...' That's your story?" "Is that the way you see me?" he demanded. "No," she replied, softly, "no, sweetie; it's the way you see you. That is exactly how you've described yourself since the accident. Now, tell me, after years of wanting to be your dream girl and years of chronic pain in this broken body, would you... could you really pass up an all-expenses-paid trip to Mykala-ville?" Mick squirmed in his seat, and took a long time to answer, but finally said, "Sure, I guess... maybe, if I weren't sixty-eight years old, with a wife and a family, a bunch of good brothers to run with, then yes, maybe... but I'm alright the way I am. I've made it this far." "You mean you survived." Mick hesitated, and then nodded slowly. "Yes, I survived." "You survived being a man, because you had no choice." Again, he nodded, a short sharp jerk of his chin. "But what if none of those things were true?" Her voice was gentle, her smile encouraging, and after a long moment Mick nodded once more. "I suppose, if I could go back in time and actually be Mykala, coming of age as a girl, learning what the other girls learn, then yeah, maybe..." "What 'the other girls' learn?" "You know what I mean!" She laughed brightly. "I think I do! Do you?" Mick cursed under his breath. "Of course, I do!" He took her hands. "But not if it meant losing you!" "Aww...! You wouldn't give me up to become the girl of your dreams?" Mick hesitated, sensing an undertow beneath Josie's apparently calm surface, but he met her gaze and said, flatly, "No. No way." "Hmmm..." "What?" She shrugged lightly. "Oh, nothing!" He stared at her. "What are you not telling me?" She matched his gaze. "I am telling you that you're the person I love." "But if I were a girl?" Josie pulled him into her arms. "Honey, let's get real here. We're probably worrying about something that is never going to happen, but if it did? I dunno..." She smiled and said, "Mick, I like men, but I love you. We'd just have to find a way." Mick flashed a lewd grin. "Hmm, 'a way,' huh? A little girl-on-girl action, maybe?" He wriggled his eyebrows comically. She ignored him, and a shadow passed over her features. She'd never been comfortable with that kind of talk, and Mick cursed himself for going there. Before he could walk it back, or apologize, Josie said, "I'm tired, babe. This is a lot to take in. I'm going to bed. You coming?" He shook his head, distractedly. "No, you go ahead. I'll be up in a bit." V I I The next morning Mick awoke to the smell of eggs and bacon and freshly-ground coffee, and rolled out of bed suddenly famished. A quick scan of his body revealed no changes he could see, so he grabbed a robe off the hook on the bedroom door and shuffled into the kitchen. Josie was standing at the sink rinsing some dishes, but when she heard him enter she turned, smiling brightly, and said "About time, Mykala!" "Don't even joke like that," he replied. "It was cute last night, but I'm nervous enough as it is!" Josie just laughed and said, "Oh, relax, honey! Have some breakfast. It'll make you feel better," but as Mick pulled his chair up to the table she added, with a sly smirk, "unless you're watching your girlish figure." "Dammit, Josie! I trusted you with something... a secret I've carried my whole life; the most personal thing I could ever share with you, and you're treating it like a joke." "But that's kind of the point, isn't it?" She rested a hand on one hip and tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Look, Mykala, you've known about this secret of yours for sixty-eight years. I've known about it for less than twenty-four hours. It's not every day a woman learns her big bad-ass Harley-riding husband would rather be a pretty little girl, so guess what, Mykala? I'm allowed to have a reaction to it!" "I get that, Josie; I really do, but talk to me about it! Don't go around sniping at me with these passive-aggressive 'jokes' that... that..." He looked at the ceiling, a hand cradling the back of his neck, searching for the right word. Without looking at her he said, finally, "They hurt me, babe." Josie shrugged, but said, "You're right, honey; I shouldn't be joking about this. I think maybe I'm a little scared, too, and the digs are just a nervous reaction." "Or you're really pissed that your husband isn't the man you thought he was." He watched her eyes and was not surprised to see them well with tears. "I think...," she began in a soft, tentative voice, "I mean, there might be a little bit of... well, not anger so much as shock, I guess? Or maybe it is anger, but only because it came as such an out-of-the- blue surprise." She hurried to close the distance between them, to rest a comforting hand on his chest before continuing. "Mick, you are sweeter, more sensitive and more supportive than any guy I know - I said last night that you've always been on better terms with your so-called 'feminine side' than most men - but in the twenty-odd years we have been together you've never acted feminine; not in the least, and you never ever mentioned this. "Now I learn that there is this whole other side of you - a side that wishes she could be my wife instead of my husband - and I need time to process that; to accept it and decide how I feel about it. It doesn't change the way I feel about you..." "But it might." She didn't blink. "It might, but..." She paused, and then said, "I don't see that happening, Mick." "How can you be so certain?" "Do I have to go through the whole 'I love you' bit again, or will you just accept that..." and she leaned in, nose to nose, and said, loudly, "...I love you, you jackass!" "Seems to me if you loved me you wouldn't be calling me a jackass," he said, with an exaggerated pout, and Josie bopped him gently on the nose. "You'll survive," she laughed. "No thanks to you!" V I I The following morning, when Mick opened his eyes, he knew something had changed. He ran his hands over his body, and sighed in relief to realize he still had a flat chest, his male bits and flat stomach, but... Wait! Flat stomach? He sat bolt upright in bed, in panic. I haven't had a flat stomach in years! Just then Josie opened the bathroom door and peered into the room with a worried look. "Did you say something, honey?" Then she did a double-take. "Oh, God, Mick...!" "What! Tell me: how bad is it?" She just gestured grimly to the full-length mirror on the closet door and said, "See for yourself." Mick slid to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor, noting as he did that it seemed to take a lot longer than usual. Am I smaller? Sure enough, when he stood upright, he realized he'd lost at least several inches in height. He cringed as he approached the mirror, but even being somewhat braced as he was for what was coming, he still gasped out loud. Nothing could have prepared him for this! Josie was beside him now, resting a hand on his shoulder as he trembled, swearing softly. Yes, he was still "male" after a fashion, but the fey delicate boy in the mirror was a long way from the tall, broad-shouldered bruiser he had been his entire adult life; the brawny man he'd been less than nine hours earlier! To begin with, Mick was shorter; not quite as short as Josie, at 5'2", but at least a half-foot shorter than he was when he went to bed. Then, his thinning grey hair had reverted to the coal black tresses of his long-lost youth and Black Irish heritage, only now they were as full and glossy as a shampoo advert, falling in luxurious waves over his shoulders. And those shoulders! They were porcelain pale and sparrow-boned, sloping to thin hairless arms free of his former wiry musculature, and unstained by the numerous tattoos he had collected over the years. He stared at his naked skin in stunned silence. No club colors with in and out dates neatly etched beneath them, no eagle with upswept wings clutching the ubiquitous Harley bar and shield logo, no flames or wizards... He rolled his arms forward and back. No bare-breasted women on the insides of his forearms, no arcane symbols or phrases in Old English font that only those in the biker world understood. It was all gone; every drop of ink he'd spent thousands of dollars and untold hours of pain getting etched into his skin; gone and replaced by a single tattoo he'd never seen before: a 'tramp stamp' at the base of his spine. This new art was as feminine as his former designs had been masculine: a winged heart, pastel-colored and ringed with delicately tinted flowers; just the sort of thing a girl would choose. A young, teenaged girl with long black hair and emerald-green eyes, just like the girl he called Mykala. Still, Mick had bigger problems than missing artwork, or smaller, to be more exact. His genitalia, while still nominally male, were smaller than he'd ever seen them. How did I miss that? he demanded of himself, but then he noticed that the hands he used to inventory his body that morning were also smaller, with long, delicate fingers now unmarked by liver spots and scar tissue. He stared at those pale alien hands. All the scars he earned in dozens of barroom punch-ups and back-alley brawls; all the cuts and scrapes and split knuckles from collisions with the unyielding edges of Harley-Davidson engines he had serviced in his long years as a mechanic at Beck's shop... even the pale imprint of his wedding ring and the ring itself were absent. At the age of sixty-eight, Mick suddenly found himself with the smooth, unblemished hands of a young debutante. There was more. The burn scar on his inner thigh where he'd gotten trapped beneath the searing exhaust of a borrowed Greeves on his fifteenth birthday was gone. So were the shrapnel scars from that Bouncing Betty in Vietnam. In fact, not a single 'distinguishing mark' which might have served to identify his body as his had survived the transformation. Yes, he had the black hair he'd worn as a younger man, but his once-craggy face now looked more like that of a native Irish colleen on a Bord F?ilte ?ireann poster: heart-shaped, high- cheeked, lightly freckled and porcelain pale as his shoulders, with long delicate lashes framing close-set eyes now gone more green than grey. "It won't take much, will it?" Josie sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I was still hoping it was a bad joke." Mick raised one delicate hand to console his wife, but she shied away like a skittish horse, apologizing immediately and blushing beet-root red even as she spoke. "Oh, God, Mick; I'm sorry! I don't know what got into me, but I... I just couldn't..." She turned to him, folding herself into his arms as she sobbed. It was a familiar gesture made strange by the changes he'd undergone, but Mick did his best to hold her and comfort her, even as he stared at the image in the glass. We're going to look like sisters before we're done. Then a far more frightening thought occurred to him. What if we look more like mother and daughter? V I I I Forty-eight hours later that fear was realized, as Mick - the 4'10" of him remaining - stood in front of the mirror sobbing like... well, like the teenaged girl she'd become. Mykala was alone. For all her assurances, Josie had flown from their bed, their room and their house at first light, in a tornadic burst of activity - the hurried packing of several suitcases and assorted boxes interrupted by frequent crying jags of her own, and those interrupted by the hail of invectives Josie rained down on Mykala as the young girl sat weeping on the edge of the bed. "I can't do this," Josie shouted at one point in her tirade; "I can't be married to someone who looks like a fucking girl! How can I sleep with... hell, how can I live with you, with you looking like this?" "But I didn't do this," Mykala wailed in response; "I didn't ask for any of thi..." "Oh, but you did, you stupid little bitch! You said so yourself: 'every birthday candle, every wishbone, every lucky penny tossed in a fountain...' This? This is exactly what you asked for!" "It was a fantasy!" Mykala replied, tearfully; "A pleasant little fantasy I indulged in because I knew it could never, ever come true. How could I have known, Josie? Seriously, how could I possibly have foreseen that all these years down the road I'd meet a fairy godmother who could actually make my wish come true?" "Well, you did, didn't you?" Josie sneered, "And how's your wish working out for you? Hmm? Feel like singing 'I Enjoy Being a Girl' yet? Or maybe 'Man, I Feel Like a Woman'?" She laughed bitterly, and in a voice dripping with venom added, "Oh, but wait; you're not a woman yet, are you, little girl? No, you haven't gotten to the good parts yet." Her smile was cold, dark and vicious as she added, "You have so much to look forward to!" She began counting on her fingers. "There's man-splaining and guys who talk over you and ignore you when you try to contribute to a discussion. There's pay disparity and the glass ceiling, and domestic violence, and in-cels you don't even know who want to rape and kill you because you turned them down when they asked you out, or didn't smile back at them when they passed you on the street. Was that part of your fantasy? "Or how about sexual harassment, date rape, roofies, stranger rape and... and, oh, oh, and the best part?" Josie roared with laughter. "Periods! Periods, little girl! with blood and mucus, cramps and tampons...! Jesus! I almost wish I were gonna be here to see you the first time you have to stick a tampon up that tight little twat of yours! Oh, God! It's too fucking perfect!" She stood there shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. Mykala had slowed her own crying as her wife raved but now, in the momentary silence that followed, she looked at this woman - this stranger who once professed love for her - and said, as forcefully as her girlish voice would permit, "Yes, I wished for this, Josie, but I told you... the night I came home from Beck's, I told you I would never have wished for this if it meant losing you!" "But guess what, little girl? You are losing me!" "I get that, Josie - you've made that perfectly clear - but you said we'd work it out; that I was the person you loved, no matter what body I was in. Remember?" "Yeah, that was a nice sentiment, wasn't it?" She shot the younger girl an evil leer, adding, "Of course, that was before my husband became a fucking teenybopper! Seriously, Mykala, how is that even supposed to work? Look at you! You can't be older than fifteen, and I'll be fifty-seven next month. I'm old enough to be your fucking grandmother!" She swept tears from her eyes with both hands, leaving mascara striped across her cheeks, and said, "Look, Mykala, I can't be the person who teaches my husband about periods and tampons and boys, or how to stay safe at parties and... and..." She was weeping into her hands now, inhaling gusty, choking sobs as Mykala watched, helpless. And so it went - storms and stillness and sorrow, angry accusations and denials - until the last of Josie's bags had been packed and lugged out to her car. Much to her embarrassment, Mykala realized she no longer had strength enough to lift even the smallest suitcase up over the lip of the trunk; a fact which provoked further bitter laughter from Josie. "I guess you won't be rushing to the aid of any more little old ladies, will you, little girl?" "Stop calling me that!" Mykala shrieked, resisting the urge to stamp her foot, Josie snorted laughter. "Why not? It fits! You're a girl and you're little. And while we're on the topic, you might as well get used to people calling you names you don't like. Men you work with, storekeepers, even total strangers you pass on the street. You'll be baby and doll face and pretty lady when they're hitting on you, and bitch and cunt and dyke when you turn them down. If you become a boss at work, you'll be the ball-buster who must have fucked her way to the top, and if you're not as hard-charging and cutthroat as the men, you'll be the bimbo who's only good for fetching coffee and sucking dick." She giggled maliciously. "You're going to love sucking dick, little girl." Mykala shuddered at the thought - Am I going to want sex with guys now? - but before she could reply Josie said, "And here's an added bonus for your little fantasy, pun intended. Especially with you being as small as you are now, total strangers are gonna feel free to touch you; to pat you on the head, rub on your shoulders, squeeze your boobs and even grab you by the pussy... Don't forget: your ol' pal Donald Trump told the whole world women really love being assaulted that way! "And I know you didn't vote for that asshole, but a lot of those misogynistic pricks you ride with... er, rode with, that is... because girls aren't allowed to ride their own motorcycles, are they? Not in big bad biker world, oh, no! "And those guys you call 'brothers'? A lot of them voted for Trump because they are just like him, and now, just like him, they're gonna look at you and see nothing but a chick, a bitch, a cunt... a fuckable piece of ass... a set of warm holes to stick their dicks in!" She leaned in close, hissing in the young girl's ear, "They're gonna see pussy, little girl! You better brace yourself, because you're gonna be nothing but pussy to them - all those 'bros' of yours - and where does pussy belong?" Before Mykala could respond Josie crowed, "That's right! Pussy goes on the p-pad - on the back of the bike - where you can lean up against the bitch rack and hang on to the big strong man until," and now Josie reached up, rudely thumbing open Mykala's softly swollen, bee-stung lips and lewdly invading her tiny mouth with probing fingers, sneering, "...until he decides to use one of these nice warm holes to stick his dick in." Josie's breath was sour and ragged, her sneer cruel and cold. "Pussy gets fucked, little girl - men fuck pussy, long and hard - and now that you're pussy? well, one way or another you're gonna learn how that feels!" Her eyes were rimmed red, her grimace pained and her voice bitter. "Yeah, you wished you could be a girl, thinking it's all makeup and perfume and party dresses, didn't you? but you have no idea what being a girl is really like. You ever heard the expression 'be careful what you wish for'?" When Mykala nodded, tearfully, Josie pressed her lips to the girl's ears and whispered, triumphantly, "You should have listened, little girl!" Finally, they were standing in the shade of the ancient pecan tree guarding the driveway, mired in the awkward silence of their private pain. Mykala toed the ground with her new Keds, the same way Mick used to do with his big heavy motorcycle boots, wracking her brain for something to say, something that might avert this disaster, or at least slow the train wreck down long enough for them both to catch their breath. Nothing came, so it fell to Josie to give the eulogy for their love, and she did not mince words. "It's not just that you're a girl now, Mykala; it's the fact that you kept this huge secret from me. More than twenty years together, you never said a word about who you really are, and you only said something the other night because you were in danger of being outed if you turned into a girl. "And now you actually are a girl, and I can't get past the idea that you asked for this, over and over, and yeah, I know you never thought it would happen, but you wanted this. You wanted this, you dreamt of it, and now you have it, and I hope you're ha..." She put up a hand. "No, no, that's a lie. I do not hope you're happy. I hope you're fucking miserable, Mykala - as miserable as I'm going to be - because I lost my husband and you killed him. You killed the man I love, and if I can't be happy then you shouldn't get to be, either." She waved her hand at the house behind her and said "This place was yours before we got married, so you can keep it, at least until the authorities figure out a teenaged girl is living here alone. And no, I'm not gonna call them. Consider that my final gift to you." Then with one last sob she was gone, behind the wheel and away with a chirp of tires on asphalt. I X Now Mykala was alone, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. You idiot! Oh, my God! You stupid, selfish, short-sighted little bitch! She cursed aloud - a stream of vulgarity aimed at herself, at Josie, at the witch and God and back to herself; beginning in a flat, moderated tone, rising up through growls and shouts into shrieks and wails keen and mournful enough to tempt a banshee - and wept what must have been her own scant bodyweight in tears, until there was no more left. No energy to speak; no tears to shed. She was spent. Still, she stood for a long time after that with hooded eyes, her mouth a thin grim line as she studied her image in the glass, carefully cataloging each detail, still lost in the sturm und drang of her own fears. You twit! she told herself, You stupid, ignorant fucking cu...! But then it happened. She'd turned her head at an alien sound - a bird landing on one of the patio chairs outside the bedroom door - but as she turned, she caught the soft curtainlike sweep of her long dark hair from the corner of her eye. In that moment she saw herself as she was, now - lithe frame and budding breasts, that dramatic arc between waist and hips which marked her body as unquestionably female, a vivid contrast between black hair, porcelain skin and deep emerald eyes that defined her as pretty - and something inside her lifted and grew light, dancing a happy reel as an inner voice she recognized as her own - as Mykala's true voice, silent all these years - suddenly, happily squealed Oh. My. God! I'm a girl! She smiled then, ecstatic. I'm a girl! I'm a girl! I'm a girl! She knew there was pain still to come - there would be disappointment and hardship and fear - but all that mattered in this moment was the great fact reflected in the mirror. The young woman raised her hand to the glass, tracing the outline of her heart-shaped face with delicate fingers, staring into the verdant sea of her own eyes, trembling with joy, and breathed, "Finally! Finally!" A moment later, the bird outside her bedroom was startled from its perch by a sudden burst of feminine laughter.