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Call Me Georgette
by George Sparling

I woke up this morning changed: a metamorphosis had taken place over night. I’d been a male, named George, but today I touched my penis, expecting it to be there, but found a vagina had taken its place. My hands wandered upward and I had breasts. I had George’s memories (yuk), his cerebellum and ganglia. I now possessed the organs of my ex-girlfriend. George’s black and white yin/yang tattoo hadn’t changed. I walked her walk, buttocks bouncing.

Liberated, I let my fingers touch my new play toy, my clitoris and had many orgasms. Cindy never had that many O’s with that old George. I let the orgasms tremble through my body, waves of pleasure quivering, something I formerly delighted in doing it the old fashioned way. Georgette’s way proved much better because I enjoyed its complexity more than George’s two-dimension ejaculations.

I pissed and dressed. I put on Cindy’s dress, shirt, sock, and shoes. Tight fit, those shoes. She had lived with that anxiety-ridden George, plagued with slipping into puritanical modes, not wanting sex with Cindy because he thought it damaged his intellectual capacities as a community college English teacher. Cindy was no slouch, either: she was a part-time assistant to an indie film producer.

She was a full figured woman. I felt my inguinal region parted by the thongs and it was a pleasant sensation walking to the restaurant having my labia and clitoris rubbing against the friction of her thong.

I seated myself for lunch, a ritual I’d done as George for over a year, eating my usual toasted bagel with cream cheese and an espresso. She failed to recognize me without my stubble. She stared at me, but said nothing.  

Her shift over, surprised at her trust, I drove her to the community forest and found a secluded place.   

We sucked absinthe candies. 

“Do you have a brother, Georgette?”

I said: “You know, in fashionable, regal circles my name is Cunt.”

She said: “That’s one word women hate.” She sucked another absinthe candy.

I said: “If your demeanor is high style, the C-word means you’ve got exquisite taste. I read that on a cultish website.”

She said: “Your clothes are the same as mine. Where’d you shop?”

Was she in on the secret?

I said: “In our closet.”

She said: “You stole my clothes. Give them back to me, pervie.”

“I’d have to take them off here.” I took my shoe and sock off.

“What’s that?” Cindy looked sacred.

“The yin-yang. Earth and dark; heaven and light. Female-male forces.” She massaged the tat. “We could start all over. It won’t be that difficult.”

“Whose ‘We’?” She looked suspicious. But her role as a talent scout served her well.

“You left me, remember.” She started to leave.

“Listen, I teach English.” I told her where. She hesitated and said:

“You should be in our next film.”

I couldn’t refuse.