I got a chill when last month I found myself sitting across a lunch table with a little girl purporting to be a man/woman/entity known as Q who had been swapped nine times since December, boldly contradicting one very important fact thought to be known about swaps: that you can only be swapped once. Since I made Q's existence public (at his, her or its insistence,) many swapees who have already made the difficult adjustment to a new lifestyle have been on edge.
This is despite the still comparatively low odds of it happening once to begin with. When considering hardly 1 in 10000 Americans has been swapped (and that ratio is even lower in countries like Japan and India, despite increased population density,) knowing it could happen twice has led many to believe it will happen twice. However, to date, it is only known to have happened twice, or rather 10 times, to one person, the nomadic swapee known now as Q.
This is surely more than a coincidence, but even Q seems unsure of his significance in the grand scheme of things. For several months Q seemed to bound around the country, appropriating whatever body he/she/it landed in. With no memory of a prior existence, Q would act the part to its own end before, after less than a month, appearing in a new body elsewhere. Q considers himself to be male, although gender is more or less in the eye of the beholder. I've met Q three times, once as a male and twice as a female.
Q described to me the hazy attachment "he" had to his past; the earliest memories he has are of being in a woman's body, but that it was an uncomfortable and unnatural-feeling experience at the time.
The woman in question was Noreen Daugherty, whose body is currently resided in by Andrew Holloway, a high school student from Omaha, Nebraska. Daugherty, 29, was a fashion retailer from Jacksonville, Florida. Though Q has left a path of sequential swapees, she has never been located.
When I last spoke with Q, he was at the time inhabiting the body of 9-year-old Megan Richardson of Denver, CO. However, he described to me the increasing awareness and ability to anticipate oncoming swaps, "like a sneeze," Q told me in part of the interview not printed. Q expected that before long he would be able to control them outright, and planned to "hide in plain sight."
At the end of the interview, Q was swapped into the body of Taylor Marsten, a management-level employee of New York City's SwapCentre, the multimillion-dollar complex designed to offer private guidance and aid to swapees, headed by millionaire Robert Kleinberg. Two days ago I received a postcard from New York City, with only the words "Getting Closer" printed on it, and Q's signature. By the time it was realized the swap had occurred, Marsten's body was found naked and hysterical, in a New Jersey electrical field, apparently inhabited by an as-yet-unidentified babysitter... from Bethesda, MD, home office the BISA.
I for one doubt these last two swaps have been coincidences, and that Q has, at least partly, gained the ability to guide his swaps. He seems to be playing detective.
Myself, I believe that the key to this is learning the whereabouts of Ms. Daugherty. Once she is located, we will probably learn a lot more about Q, and those individuals, if they're out there, who are pulling the strings.
Showing posts with label Tuesday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tuesday. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Nicki: Answers and questions
I mentioned last week that I had to cut shot my writing because I was getting ready for something. Many people guessed correctly if they thought it was for "a date."
After getting turned down by Cherrie, I had to drown my sorrows. Here I was, this miserable half-girl, just trying to come into her own, and instead getting rejected and more or less out on the street. I had gradually moved more and more of my Nicki stuff into Cherrie's apartment, and now I'm awkwardly back on Traci's couch with whatever I have left. So I needed a drink. Or really, three drinks. To start with.
"Long time no see," as I downed that third pint. Feeling a fuzz around my eyes I figured someone was just mistaking me for Traci (it still happens every now and again.) I turned to enlighten the person, but found I vaguely recognized him.
His name is Chris and he has the distinction of being the first guy to ever actively hit on me since becoming a woman (*let's not get into it, but there had been mix-ups when I was a guy.) Feeling vulnerable and alone that night, I let him walk me home but tried my best not to lead him on. But here I was back at the same bar as that night, throwing them back like nobody's business and with a little bit of tear-smudged make-up. He sat across from me and asked if there was anything wrong. I proceeded to lay it all out, glossing over a few key details, which left him with a few questions.
He attempted to summarize: "You slept with your roommate, a guy, and then tried to go out with your hairdresser, a woman? Wow."
"I guess it makes more sense when you know the whole story," I admitted, laughing a bit to myself. I was getting very good at explaining matters. So I just came out with it. "I was swapped a few months ago, to this body, and I'm finally getting around to not fighting with it."
"With what?" he asked curiously. For a lot of people, the experience of speakingto a swapee is still unknwon.
"With this body! With it's urges and impulses, it's likes and dislikes..." I took a swig of beer, "With its drink preferences! Everything it wants to do and be and for me to do to it, how to eat, how to walk, how to do my hair... I hat eit sometimes, but sometimes..." I cringed imagining my one night with Traci, "Sometimes it feels so god damn right! I used to be a man, Chris. I might as well just let it all out there. I didn't ask for it, but someone made me into it, and I've gotta like it or just sit around hating everything."
With a typical male disbelief, he asked, "So you like being a woman?"
I rolled my head trying to loosed my neck and shoulders, "Man. Woman. If I've learned anything, it's that life's too short to put up a fight, you are who they make you. Whoever they are, I don't know. But somebody's at the switch. It could happen to you, bro. And you know what? Odds are heavy you'd like it after a few months too. And does that make me gay? No sir! It makes me a damn straight woman, or at least bi." Keep in mind this was all drunken rambling. "But I'll tell you a secret. Hope it doesn't weird you out. I kinda like you."
He grinned. "You make a damn smooth woman, Nicki. I'm almost not weirded out."
I smiled at him and leaned back. Then I fondled my tits a bit and told him, "If you wanna take me out some night, I'll let you see."
Given the genuineness of my femininity, I doubted a man could resist. And I was right. A few nights later he called and that night last week, we went out.
In a probably-not-great first date for a man and an ex-male, we saw Knocked up. It made me uncomfortable to see femaleness all out ther eon the screen and know he'd be comparing me, but I tried to put it out of my mind, not hard given how funny it was. At the end of the night, he took me to the door of Traci's building.
I looked at him and read his mind. I told him, "You want to come up."
He admitted, "A little bit. But I don't think we're ready."
I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Just kiss me then." I know that, when I was a man, I'd rather a woman be so straightforward, off-putting as it might be.
So he kissed me. It was nothing special, but not a cold fish either. So we're going out again this weekend. Before long, who knows?
And everytime I think I've got the answers... somebody changes the questions.
After getting turned down by Cherrie, I had to drown my sorrows. Here I was, this miserable half-girl, just trying to come into her own, and instead getting rejected and more or less out on the street. I had gradually moved more and more of my Nicki stuff into Cherrie's apartment, and now I'm awkwardly back on Traci's couch with whatever I have left. So I needed a drink. Or really, three drinks. To start with.
"Long time no see," as I downed that third pint. Feeling a fuzz around my eyes I figured someone was just mistaking me for Traci (it still happens every now and again.) I turned to enlighten the person, but found I vaguely recognized him.
His name is Chris and he has the distinction of being the first guy to ever actively hit on me since becoming a woman (*let's not get into it, but there had been mix-ups when I was a guy.) Feeling vulnerable and alone that night, I let him walk me home but tried my best not to lead him on. But here I was back at the same bar as that night, throwing them back like nobody's business and with a little bit of tear-smudged make-up. He sat across from me and asked if there was anything wrong. I proceeded to lay it all out, glossing over a few key details, which left him with a few questions.
He attempted to summarize: "You slept with your roommate, a guy, and then tried to go out with your hairdresser, a woman? Wow."
"I guess it makes more sense when you know the whole story," I admitted, laughing a bit to myself. I was getting very good at explaining matters. So I just came out with it. "I was swapped a few months ago, to this body, and I'm finally getting around to not fighting with it."
"With what?" he asked curiously. For a lot of people, the experience of speakingto a swapee is still unknwon.
"With this body! With it's urges and impulses, it's likes and dislikes..." I took a swig of beer, "With its drink preferences! Everything it wants to do and be and for me to do to it, how to eat, how to walk, how to do my hair... I hat eit sometimes, but sometimes..." I cringed imagining my one night with Traci, "Sometimes it feels so god damn right! I used to be a man, Chris. I might as well just let it all out there. I didn't ask for it, but someone made me into it, and I've gotta like it or just sit around hating everything."
With a typical male disbelief, he asked, "So you like being a woman?"
I rolled my head trying to loosed my neck and shoulders, "Man. Woman. If I've learned anything, it's that life's too short to put up a fight, you are who they make you. Whoever they are, I don't know. But somebody's at the switch. It could happen to you, bro. And you know what? Odds are heavy you'd like it after a few months too. And does that make me gay? No sir! It makes me a damn straight woman, or at least bi." Keep in mind this was all drunken rambling. "But I'll tell you a secret. Hope it doesn't weird you out. I kinda like you."
He grinned. "You make a damn smooth woman, Nicki. I'm almost not weirded out."
I smiled at him and leaned back. Then I fondled my tits a bit and told him, "If you wanna take me out some night, I'll let you see."
Given the genuineness of my femininity, I doubted a man could resist. And I was right. A few nights later he called and that night last week, we went out.
In a probably-not-great first date for a man and an ex-male, we saw Knocked up. It made me uncomfortable to see femaleness all out ther eon the screen and know he'd be comparing me, but I tried to put it out of my mind, not hard given how funny it was. At the end of the night, he took me to the door of Traci's building.
I looked at him and read his mind. I told him, "You want to come up."
He admitted, "A little bit. But I don't think we're ready."
I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Just kiss me then." I know that, when I was a man, I'd rather a woman be so straightforward, off-putting as it might be.
So he kissed me. It was nothing special, but not a cold fish either. So we're going out again this weekend. Before long, who knows?
And everytime I think I've got the answers... somebody changes the questions.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Nicki: Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes
Hey all. Long time no post. Um, a lot's been going on. For the past several weeks I've been going by Nicki. It was something I toyed with ever since becoming a woman, but I didn't want to give in that way. But things change.
It started one evening while I was sitting in the tub shaving my legs. I cut myself pretty bad and it stung. My eyes started to water, and then I ended up full-on crying. I sobbed for like five minutes and something occurred to me. A few things, actually.
First, I hadn't cried since getting a concussion from an errant softball in the fifth grade. Second, I was sitting in a bathtub shaving my legs. Third, I didn't have a penis. Fourth, all of this seemed okay.
Until recently, I had identified myself, if not biologically then at least mentally, as a man. My identity was all tied to boyhood memories, sports, chasing girls, and most importantly, whether or not I had a penis. Even without one, I thought often "I wish I still had my penis" but as I wiped my eyes I thought "It's okay." I was realizing, maybe it's okay not to be a man.
I've been living as a woman for months now. No matter how I tried to spin it, ever since that chilly spring morning, I've been a woman, dealing with tight underthings, various areas of extreme sensitivity (example: I hear like a bat now and get a ton of headaches,) cycles, leering men I have no interest in touching, and the physical limitations of being shorter, weaker, and more vulnerable. And less and less I resent what I see in the mirror, because more and more it becomes mine. For better or worse. Which brings me to this post.
I'm sitting here half-dressed with crumpled up tissues all around. I should be getting ready to go out, but I needed to make this point. It's about knowing what you want.
Not long after I slept with Traci I had to tell Cherrie about it. I wanted to get her feeling on it. We met in a cafe for lunch.
"Well there it is," she said with a sighing smirk, "Now you know the secret."
I laughed and shrugged, "Well it really just confused me more because I wasn't sure if I liked it."
She nodded, "Well, that makes sense, all things considered."
"I think," I leaned in closer and whispered, "I'm a woman - let's get that out there, I'm a woman - who is interested in women."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe you're just afraid of men because you used to be--"
"That's not it!" I whisper-hissed, "It felt fine. It didn't feel... you know, gay or anything. If that was it, why would I be so comfortable dressing myself like a woman rather than like a man? Why did I do it in the first place?"
She reasoned "Because you wanted to find out if--"
"Exactly." I cut her off. "As a man, I never wanted to find out, because I knew I liked girls. Now I'm a woman and I had to find out, and I know. Cherrie, I know. I like girls."
She squirmed a bit, not knowing what to say, but probably fearing what I was about to say. I put my hand on hers.
"I like you, Cherrie."
A tear trickled down her cheek and she pulled her hand away from me. "Don't..." she whimpered. It was too late. I said it and I meant it.
All she said was, "I'm sorry" as she dug through her purse, put a few bucks on the counter, and left, repeating, "I'm so sorry Nick."
I felt bad. Really heartbroken, like a teenager again. It was the exact same feeling whenever a girl would turn me down in high school, in college, in life. That's how I knew that was what I wanted.
Now I'm sitting here, minus one friend, and I have something I should be dressing for. That's the second part of the story but I really am low on time so I'll tell you how it turns out on Friday.
It started one evening while I was sitting in the tub shaving my legs. I cut myself pretty bad and it stung. My eyes started to water, and then I ended up full-on crying. I sobbed for like five minutes and something occurred to me. A few things, actually.
First, I hadn't cried since getting a concussion from an errant softball in the fifth grade. Second, I was sitting in a bathtub shaving my legs. Third, I didn't have a penis. Fourth, all of this seemed okay.
Until recently, I had identified myself, if not biologically then at least mentally, as a man. My identity was all tied to boyhood memories, sports, chasing girls, and most importantly, whether or not I had a penis. Even without one, I thought often "I wish I still had my penis" but as I wiped my eyes I thought "It's okay." I was realizing, maybe it's okay not to be a man.
I've been living as a woman for months now. No matter how I tried to spin it, ever since that chilly spring morning, I've been a woman, dealing with tight underthings, various areas of extreme sensitivity (example: I hear like a bat now and get a ton of headaches,) cycles, leering men I have no interest in touching, and the physical limitations of being shorter, weaker, and more vulnerable. And less and less I resent what I see in the mirror, because more and more it becomes mine. For better or worse. Which brings me to this post.
I'm sitting here half-dressed with crumpled up tissues all around. I should be getting ready to go out, but I needed to make this point. It's about knowing what you want.
Not long after I slept with Traci I had to tell Cherrie about it. I wanted to get her feeling on it. We met in a cafe for lunch.
"Well there it is," she said with a sighing smirk, "Now you know the secret."
I laughed and shrugged, "Well it really just confused me more because I wasn't sure if I liked it."
She nodded, "Well, that makes sense, all things considered."
"I think," I leaned in closer and whispered, "I'm a woman - let's get that out there, I'm a woman - who is interested in women."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe you're just afraid of men because you used to be--"
"That's not it!" I whisper-hissed, "It felt fine. It didn't feel... you know, gay or anything. If that was it, why would I be so comfortable dressing myself like a woman rather than like a man? Why did I do it in the first place?"
She reasoned "Because you wanted to find out if--"
"Exactly." I cut her off. "As a man, I never wanted to find out, because I knew I liked girls. Now I'm a woman and I had to find out, and I know. Cherrie, I know. I like girls."
She squirmed a bit, not knowing what to say, but probably fearing what I was about to say. I put my hand on hers.
"I like you, Cherrie."
A tear trickled down her cheek and she pulled her hand away from me. "Don't..." she whimpered. It was too late. I said it and I meant it.
All she said was, "I'm sorry" as she dug through her purse, put a few bucks on the counter, and left, repeating, "I'm so sorry Nick."
I felt bad. Really heartbroken, like a teenager again. It was the exact same feeling whenever a girl would turn me down in high school, in college, in life. That's how I knew that was what I wanted.
Now I'm sitting here, minus one friend, and I have something I should be dressing for. That's the second part of the story but I really am low on time so I'll tell you how it turns out on Friday.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Bethesda Swap Conference Spring 2007 Report
I arrived early last tuesday morning at the Bethesda BISA complex, which has grown over the past month to include numerous surrounding buildings as well as new construction. Trolling the grounds were people of all demographics, many of whom swapees, but all seeking answers. The directorial staff of BISA, including Drs. Arthur Gulf and Howard Bergman, would hopefully provide.
When Dr. Arthur Gulf took the podium alongside a small latin girl, I could virtually immediately sense what the first item of discussion would be. The girl stepped up to the podium and spoke.
Earlier this month, she explained, the bodies of Dr. Howard Bergman and 12-year-old Manuella Perez of Mexico City, Mexico, were swapped. At this time, the mind of Dr. Bergman, in the body of Miss Perez, would be fulfilling Bergman's duties at BISA.
The wording seemed odd to me, and they were pressed to explain. "We have reason to believe that the swaps are, in fact, a temporary inversion of psyches. That through some yet-unknown catalyst, one person's identity is temporarily washed onto another's and vice versa, but will very likely become supressed and negated."
This got a generally positive reaction from the crowd, except for a few Church of the Holy Redeemer supporters, who booed audibly.
Questioned as to when this would occur, Bergman explained they had no idea. Their most conservative estimate was that within a year of the first swap, early swapees might be restored. However, a more likely scenario is that it could take many years for all or most of the swaps to be reversed, and that's assuming they reach a "breaking point" after which they slow or stop altogether.
"Much is still not known," Gulf explained, "but we are expanding our knowledge by leaps and bounds each and every day."
Now that the BISA infrastructure is in place on five continents, about 20 major cities with offices established or in development, swaps should be accepted as a very normal part of life, albeit one that brings numerous surprises and inconveniences.
Bergman said she did not know at this time what would become of swapees whose original bodies had died. They may stay as they are, or it is quite possible they will revert, depending on the still-unknown nature of the "de-swap" process. If it involves a maintained connection between the two, then severing that conncetion may prevent de-swapping. If it involves the swapee merely "remembering" his or her original identity, there is not much to worry about.
Beyond that, there were a number of roundtable discussions, panels, workshops for people who had been swapped. Most notably, a group for those who had inherited addictions from their swap-partner, whether to cigarettes or heroin. Many of those people were in bad shape.
The Church was attempting to recruit. There was a preview trailer, met with thunderous applause, for an upcoming film about the swaps featuring numerous actors who have been swapped, including America Ferrera and Matt Damon (who will take on Ferrera's role on ABC's "Ugly Betty" this fall.)
I saw my friend Nick at the conference, and we got a cup of coffee. She has been absent from the blog recently, and told me it was because she was "dealing with stuff, and some of what I'm hearing here is only making me feel worse." She also asked I keep our conversation private and off-the-record, which I am only slightly ignoring.
On the last day, a Volkswagen pulled up to me on the street, driven by a young African-American woman. She got out of the car, leaned against it and told me, "You're a tough guy to track down."
I looked at her and asked her if I knew her (because at these events you never know,) and she said we had met once before, at a support group on Ohio. I thought back and told her I didn't remember her (and my entry seems to confirm this, since I described everyone there and no African-American woman was among them.) She pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes, which I remembered seeing a man there smoke.
"I've been in this body for almost a week and I still can't smoke these sumbitches without coughing," she said as she lit the cigarette in her lips.
She could not be the man I had met there; he'd told me he had already swapped, and I see no reason why he would have lied. There has not been a documented case of a person swapping twice, but this woman carried herself, with the same hunched shoulders, titled head and curled lips of the man I had met in Canton who refused to tell his name.
"Just who are you?" I asked her.
"You want to interview me, right?" she smiled. I told her I was actually on my way to the airport, so she took out a business card (which read "Mary Patton Designs") and scribbled something on the back; a pager number and the letter Q.
"Let me know when you wanna talk, 'kay sugar?"
With that, she flicked her cigarette down and coughed, extinguishing it with her open-toed shoe and got back in to drive away.
On the plane-ride home, I furiously scribbled my notes and about a dozen question I thought this Q person might be able to answer. I have yet to hear back.
When Dr. Arthur Gulf took the podium alongside a small latin girl, I could virtually immediately sense what the first item of discussion would be. The girl stepped up to the podium and spoke.
Earlier this month, she explained, the bodies of Dr. Howard Bergman and 12-year-old Manuella Perez of Mexico City, Mexico, were swapped. At this time, the mind of Dr. Bergman, in the body of Miss Perez, would be fulfilling Bergman's duties at BISA.
The wording seemed odd to me, and they were pressed to explain. "We have reason to believe that the swaps are, in fact, a temporary inversion of psyches. That through some yet-unknown catalyst, one person's identity is temporarily washed onto another's and vice versa, but will very likely become supressed and negated."
This got a generally positive reaction from the crowd, except for a few Church of the Holy Redeemer supporters, who booed audibly.
Questioned as to when this would occur, Bergman explained they had no idea. Their most conservative estimate was that within a year of the first swap, early swapees might be restored. However, a more likely scenario is that it could take many years for all or most of the swaps to be reversed, and that's assuming they reach a "breaking point" after which they slow or stop altogether.
"Much is still not known," Gulf explained, "but we are expanding our knowledge by leaps and bounds each and every day."
Now that the BISA infrastructure is in place on five continents, about 20 major cities with offices established or in development, swaps should be accepted as a very normal part of life, albeit one that brings numerous surprises and inconveniences.
Bergman said she did not know at this time what would become of swapees whose original bodies had died. They may stay as they are, or it is quite possible they will revert, depending on the still-unknown nature of the "de-swap" process. If it involves a maintained connection between the two, then severing that conncetion may prevent de-swapping. If it involves the swapee merely "remembering" his or her original identity, there is not much to worry about.
Beyond that, there were a number of roundtable discussions, panels, workshops for people who had been swapped. Most notably, a group for those who had inherited addictions from their swap-partner, whether to cigarettes or heroin. Many of those people were in bad shape.
The Church was attempting to recruit. There was a preview trailer, met with thunderous applause, for an upcoming film about the swaps featuring numerous actors who have been swapped, including America Ferrera and Matt Damon (who will take on Ferrera's role on ABC's "Ugly Betty" this fall.)
I saw my friend Nick at the conference, and we got a cup of coffee. She has been absent from the blog recently, and told me it was because she was "dealing with stuff, and some of what I'm hearing here is only making me feel worse." She also asked I keep our conversation private and off-the-record, which I am only slightly ignoring.
On the last day, a Volkswagen pulled up to me on the street, driven by a young African-American woman. She got out of the car, leaned against it and told me, "You're a tough guy to track down."
I looked at her and asked her if I knew her (because at these events you never know,) and she said we had met once before, at a support group on Ohio. I thought back and told her I didn't remember her (and my entry seems to confirm this, since I described everyone there and no African-American woman was among them.) She pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes, which I remembered seeing a man there smoke.
"I've been in this body for almost a week and I still can't smoke these sumbitches without coughing," she said as she lit the cigarette in her lips.
She could not be the man I had met there; he'd told me he had already swapped, and I see no reason why he would have lied. There has not been a documented case of a person swapping twice, but this woman carried herself, with the same hunched shoulders, titled head and curled lips of the man I had met in Canton who refused to tell his name.
"Just who are you?" I asked her.
"You want to interview me, right?" she smiled. I told her I was actually on my way to the airport, so she took out a business card (which read "Mary Patton Designs") and scribbled something on the back; a pager number and the letter Q.
"Let me know when you wanna talk, 'kay sugar?"
With that, she flicked her cigarette down and coughed, extinguishing it with her open-toed shoe and got back in to drive away.
On the plane-ride home, I furiously scribbled my notes and about a dozen question I thought this Q person might be able to answer. I have yet to hear back.
Friday, May 18, 2007
No news is good news
There will not be a real update until Tuesday, or maybe next Friday. Nick might send in another blog entry, but she's been kind of a recluse lately. The reason for this is that I'm going on a brief "summer vacation" (although I know it's still spring.) First, down to Bethesda for a conference at BISA, then a little R&R getaway. It's a Canadian long weekend, and I'm making it longer.
Still, there's always something going on. I have a few stories lined up for later once I get back. I'm sure Dr. Gulf and Dr. Bergman will have plenty to tell me. And of course, if you're dying to get in touch, you can leave a comment or e-mail your questions/swap stories to Ken Moorehead (who has very graciously allowed me to drop his personal e-mail on here for weeks now and has gotten very little of the credit he deserves.)
The last thing I wanted to say was that Newsweek recently did a cover story on gender. They actually contacted me and I spoke briefly to their reporter, because of my previous project but nothing I said was too relevant to the angle of the article. One of the unsolved mysteries of the Swap phenomenon is that 70% of them occur across gender lines (a number which has held consistent as the swaps have increased.) Most puzzling, to me especially, has been that the reaction has not been... consistent. And why should it be?
You have the Frickmans, an early swap case, a husband and wife who had the fortune to be swapped when in the throes of passion. Apparently, the lingering effect was that the new Mrs. Frickman took very enthusiastically to her wifely duties. Then of course there is Nick, who has been a woman for about two months now and yet wouldn't consider herself as such if you spoke to her (and remains quite convincing as "gender neutral.") Meanwhile, the person in Nick's body, Traci, has very gradually toughened up and become "male," but it was gradual. So you've got a number of alternative possibilities for when these swaps occur.
If gender is, as the article postulates (and I agree) hardwired into the brain by physiology and environment, I wonder what effect it truly has on the swapees? Do the hormones of the new body overrule the old instincts? And what about everyone looking at you and talking to you differently? You would certainly think, wouldn't you, that the swaps would be creating transgendered individuals - crossdressers, people on the waiting list of surgery, etc - but by and large, people are just getting on with their lives.
Hopefully I'll be able to pick Dr. Bergman's brain about it.
Still, there's always something going on. I have a few stories lined up for later once I get back. I'm sure Dr. Gulf and Dr. Bergman will have plenty to tell me. And of course, if you're dying to get in touch, you can leave a comment or e-mail your questions/swap stories to Ken Moorehead (who has very graciously allowed me to drop his personal e-mail on here for weeks now and has gotten very little of the credit he deserves.)
The last thing I wanted to say was that Newsweek recently did a cover story on gender. They actually contacted me and I spoke briefly to their reporter, because of my previous project but nothing I said was too relevant to the angle of the article. One of the unsolved mysteries of the Swap phenomenon is that 70% of them occur across gender lines (a number which has held consistent as the swaps have increased.) Most puzzling, to me especially, has been that the reaction has not been... consistent. And why should it be?
You have the Frickmans, an early swap case, a husband and wife who had the fortune to be swapped when in the throes of passion. Apparently, the lingering effect was that the new Mrs. Frickman took very enthusiastically to her wifely duties. Then of course there is Nick, who has been a woman for about two months now and yet wouldn't consider herself as such if you spoke to her (and remains quite convincing as "gender neutral.") Meanwhile, the person in Nick's body, Traci, has very gradually toughened up and become "male," but it was gradual. So you've got a number of alternative possibilities for when these swaps occur.
If gender is, as the article postulates (and I agree) hardwired into the brain by physiology and environment, I wonder what effect it truly has on the swapees? Do the hormones of the new body overrule the old instincts? And what about everyone looking at you and talking to you differently? You would certainly think, wouldn't you, that the swaps would be creating transgendered individuals - crossdressers, people on the waiting list of surgery, etc - but by and large, people are just getting on with their lives.
Hopefully I'll be able to pick Dr. Bergman's brain about it.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Swapee wins 2007 Wii Playoff Championship
Kyle Walchuk, 23, won this past weekend's National Wii playoff in Bethesda, MD. Six weeks ago, Detroit native Walchuk was swapped with 17-year-old Maria Cassini, a native of St. Louis, MO but whose parents emigrated from Rome, Italy shortly before her birth.
"After the swap I didn't really want to go out," said Walchuk, whose profession is listed as 'poker player.' "Didn't want the world to see me, so I stayed in and practiced my Wii. [Cassini's] body has pretty good co-ordination, and I was doing even better than I had before."
Walchuk's intense practising helped, as she had already signed up for the Spring Tournament for the Nintendo console. The year before, Walchuk had placed third in the National Guitar Hero tournament after placing second in the Detroit regionals.
In this 3-day tournament, Walchuk's crowning achievement was finishing the Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess in only 64 hours of play, a remarkable achievement given that its own programmers took an average of 70.
"Maybe the swap helped improve my game," laughs Walchuk, "I don't know, but I can tell you that playing non-stop helped me. It reminded me that I can still do all the things I like doing."
The win was a little surprising to Cassini who says that he had "Little to no talent" in video games as a kid, although he modestly admits, "It was something my brothers liked doing and I kind of wished I could get into."
Cassini has also been embarrassed by the media attention received by his former body. "Kyle is a skinny guy, but in my old body I'd been putting on the pounds. [She] looks okay, probably after sitting around, playing and not eating much, but I was up near 160 Lbs before the swap and [she's] still got my gut."
Walchuk doesn't seem to mind, laughing, "I'm not here to be a model or a beauty queen. I'm here to kick ass," also noting that having a shapely figure helps fend off otherwise sex-starved gamers. "I know how those guys can be - I'm one of them!"
"After the swap I didn't really want to go out," said Walchuk, whose profession is listed as 'poker player.' "Didn't want the world to see me, so I stayed in and practiced my Wii. [Cassini's] body has pretty good co-ordination, and I was doing even better than I had before."
Walchuk's intense practising helped, as she had already signed up for the Spring Tournament for the Nintendo console. The year before, Walchuk had placed third in the National Guitar Hero tournament after placing second in the Detroit regionals.
In this 3-day tournament, Walchuk's crowning achievement was finishing the Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess in only 64 hours of play, a remarkable achievement given that its own programmers took an average of 70.
"Maybe the swap helped improve my game," laughs Walchuk, "I don't know, but I can tell you that playing non-stop helped me. It reminded me that I can still do all the things I like doing."
The win was a little surprising to Cassini who says that he had "Little to no talent" in video games as a kid, although he modestly admits, "It was something my brothers liked doing and I kind of wished I could get into."
Cassini has also been embarrassed by the media attention received by his former body. "Kyle is a skinny guy, but in my old body I'd been putting on the pounds. [She] looks okay, probably after sitting around, playing and not eating much, but I was up near 160 Lbs before the swap and [she's] still got my gut."
Walchuk doesn't seem to mind, laughing, "I'm not here to be a model or a beauty queen. I'm here to kick ass," also noting that having a shapely figure helps fend off otherwise sex-starved gamers. "I know how those guys can be - I'm one of them!"
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Nick: Testosterone...
Must be a very powerful thing. Without it, I've been a much more docile person, whereas Terri has been going full-throttle on this whole "man" thing.
On the weekend, we went down to the theatre to see Spider-Man 3. It was sort of a double-date you could say, because I brought Cherie and Traci brought Rose, this girl from his work. It was, in a word, awwwwwwkward.
The story there goes that they knew each other just a little bit when Traci was the receptionist, but weren't on much more than a "Hello, good morning, cute top" basis. Then Traci got my body and moved to the mail room where he sees her more and the conversations increased to what neither of them realized was flirting. Then Traci realized he liked girls and, after screwing around just a little bit, decided to take the big step. Rose decided to enter our weird little world.
So they're holding hands, and Cherrie and I are walking behind them kind of making fun because we're both single. It's mid-afternoon on Saturday and the Bloor area is full of construction workers, because the Ontario Museum has been undergoing renovations, like, forever. And these guys see me and Cherie and start this lame slow clap and a few wolf whistles. I didn't realize the cliche about construction guys was a fact. I guess they get to see a lot of women walk by every day. I'm not even sure I would have condoned this behaviour when I was a man, let alone now that I'm receiving it. Cherie just shrugged it off but I was nauseated and couldn't concentrate on the movie. Still though, I thought they did a decent enough job even if it didn't live up tot he second one. topher Grce needed more screen time, but you know James Franco really had some good scenes (even if the amnesia bit was totally hokey.)
I've been staying with Cherie more and more, as Traci's place becomes less and less girl-friendly. Maybe it's not even that, but it's just not roommate-friendly, as he keeps having Rose over to all hours. Cherie's a bigger place, too, with a comfier sofa.
But I do still live with Traci and the morning after that I sat down and had a serious talk with him.
"So how do you like Rose?" I asked, affecting the tone of a gossipy girl.
"Oh she's great," he beamed, "Smart, funny, and so pretty. God, she's great. She's everything I ever looked for in a person, even though..."
He paused and I finished the thought, "She's a woman."
"Yeah." He looked a little ashamed. "Do you think it's weird that I'm, dating a girl?"
I had to think. "I don't know. Because I know that's my old body and I guess it liked girls that much."
"But I wouldn't be doing it unless I really wanted to do, right?" he seemed really unsure of himself, for perhaps the first time, "I mean, your body isn't controlling me, I just want a different thing, don't I? Do you think?"
"I can't say," I told him, "I mean, I wore at the BISA but I'm not one of their scientists. I'm as clueless as you are."
He changed his tone back to the fond faraway one. "She makes me so happy."
"Then shouldn't that be all that matters?"
He nodded. "It's not just in my pants, either. I don't think so, anyway."
I rolled my eyes. Contrary to some women's beliefs, men are capable of having feelings elsewhere. Traci's learning this firsthand. Still though, the pants are a good place to start.
"So you're really attracted to her," I asked.
"Well yeah, aren't you? I mean... wouldn't you be?"
"I think so. It's hard to remember." I sighed. It was time to ask a really tough question. "When you're a woman... how do you know you're attracted to someone?"
"I guess it's not so obvious," he laughed. "But it's still easy to tell, Nick. You just get this feeling. Like your blood rushing faster. You just like to be near that person. They make you feel good and you think about them a lot. You just... know."
Blood runs faster? Like to be near? Just know?
Oh God... I think I'm in trouble.
On the weekend, we went down to the theatre to see Spider-Man 3. It was sort of a double-date you could say, because I brought Cherie and Traci brought Rose, this girl from his work. It was, in a word, awwwwwwkward.
The story there goes that they knew each other just a little bit when Traci was the receptionist, but weren't on much more than a "Hello, good morning, cute top" basis. Then Traci got my body and moved to the mail room where he sees her more and the conversations increased to what neither of them realized was flirting. Then Traci realized he liked girls and, after screwing around just a little bit, decided to take the big step. Rose decided to enter our weird little world.
So they're holding hands, and Cherrie and I are walking behind them kind of making fun because we're both single. It's mid-afternoon on Saturday and the Bloor area is full of construction workers, because the Ontario Museum has been undergoing renovations, like, forever. And these guys see me and Cherie and start this lame slow clap and a few wolf whistles. I didn't realize the cliche about construction guys was a fact. I guess they get to see a lot of women walk by every day. I'm not even sure I would have condoned this behaviour when I was a man, let alone now that I'm receiving it. Cherie just shrugged it off but I was nauseated and couldn't concentrate on the movie. Still though, I thought they did a decent enough job even if it didn't live up tot he second one. topher Grce needed more screen time, but you know James Franco really had some good scenes (even if the amnesia bit was totally hokey.)
I've been staying with Cherie more and more, as Traci's place becomes less and less girl-friendly. Maybe it's not even that, but it's just not roommate-friendly, as he keeps having Rose over to all hours. Cherie's a bigger place, too, with a comfier sofa.
But I do still live with Traci and the morning after that I sat down and had a serious talk with him.
"So how do you like Rose?" I asked, affecting the tone of a gossipy girl.
"Oh she's great," he beamed, "Smart, funny, and so pretty. God, she's great. She's everything I ever looked for in a person, even though..."
He paused and I finished the thought, "She's a woman."
"Yeah." He looked a little ashamed. "Do you think it's weird that I'm, dating a girl?"
I had to think. "I don't know. Because I know that's my old body and I guess it liked girls that much."
"But I wouldn't be doing it unless I really wanted to do, right?" he seemed really unsure of himself, for perhaps the first time, "I mean, your body isn't controlling me, I just want a different thing, don't I? Do you think?"
"I can't say," I told him, "I mean, I wore at the BISA but I'm not one of their scientists. I'm as clueless as you are."
He changed his tone back to the fond faraway one. "She makes me so happy."
"Then shouldn't that be all that matters?"
He nodded. "It's not just in my pants, either. I don't think so, anyway."
I rolled my eyes. Contrary to some women's beliefs, men are capable of having feelings elsewhere. Traci's learning this firsthand. Still though, the pants are a good place to start.
"So you're really attracted to her," I asked.
"Well yeah, aren't you? I mean... wouldn't you be?"
"I think so. It's hard to remember." I sighed. It was time to ask a really tough question. "When you're a woman... how do you know you're attracted to someone?"
"I guess it's not so obvious," he laughed. "But it's still easy to tell, Nick. You just get this feeling. Like your blood rushing faster. You just like to be near that person. They make you feel good and you think about them a lot. You just... know."
Blood runs faster? Like to be near? Just know?
Oh God... I think I'm in trouble.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Nick: Living in three dimensions
Although I've been living as a woman for over a month and a half now, I'm only aware of it 70% of the time. Most of these occur in the washroom, dressing room, or in serious social situations (such as bars.) The rest of the time, I'm just a guy, hanging out, who just happens to have a pair of breasts.
For what it's worth, the breasts I inherited from Traci aren't that big. A healthy B cup. There are times when I get really into my work or a video game or something and I forget they're there (which, given what I said in my first blog is a little troubling.) And then there are times when I pass guys by and I'll get the glance. I'm not offended, so long as there's no action or commentary toward them, I'm just uncomfortable being reminded what I look like now. given that the sun is starting to appear more and more, and my clothing has to reflect that, it's not going to get any better.
But for now, it's not even the breasts that are troubling me. It's something else. Prior to being a woman, I hadn't ever given much of a good goddamn about my diet. But I had to wonder what was going on when I sat down to lunch at my desk at work with a salad and Coke Zero.
Suddenly, I'm scared that my ass will get fat and I'll have to buy new clothes (which would mean shopping.) It's this indirect impetus for women to diet and keep fit so that they can stay fashionable and comfortable and stuff. It's unfair tht the garment industry is very specific when it comes to sizes. All I can do is shake my head and wonder why I was dragged into this.
So after I drop a piece of salad (complete with lo-cal dressing) on my blouse, a pink number that indicates I have to do the washing soon, I turn to my co-worker Dorothy and mutter, "You're lucky."
She eyeballs me and says, "Honey I could say the same thing about you."
Dorothy, who works at a desk in the same small office with me in a Data Management and Schedule Consulting (whatever THAT is) looks like a very sweet 11-year-old Chinese girl but is in fact well into her 50's. She proceeds to tell me that she was very close to retiring when she was dropped into a brand new, young, vital body to maintain, and had to take this job because nothing in her savings prepares her for the possibility of living another potential 60 years or more (should the swaps never be reversed, which I always hope they can around the 20th of the month.) She had to leave her boyfriend, a 61-year-old Stock executive who didn't want anything to do with such a little girl, even though they were living together. She's more hormonal than she'd been in years or decades and she gets absolutely no respect from people younger than her. She takes the glasses off her face and leans back, musing if it's wrong for her to go scope out the boys at the local middle school.
Most days, I hate being a woman, all the cosmetic and physiological inconviences it brings the male mind. But at least my life wasn't turned upside down like that. Those are some serious problems. I quietly finished eating my salad and continued to type up the weekly press briefing.
I was telling Cherrie, during our semi-daily coffee meeting, that swapees, in general, don't get to spend a lot of time trying to undo what's happened to them or mourn the loss of their old bodies. The more we learn day by day about the nature of swaps, the less we can think "OH what is this thing that's happening to me??" and the more we wonder, "How do I go about my life now?" That, I told her, might explain what Traci has been doing in my body... or rather, who.
He's been seeing a few girls, but not seriously. I hear him on the phone a lot because it makes my stomach turn. Sometimes it's because I wonder where these women were when that was my body. Sometimes, it's because it makes me afraid that I should, should want to, or will eventually, want to get into the scene. I haven't talked to him about how uncomfortable that makes me feel. "Excuse me, Traci, but could you please not have so much sex?" If he really is a guy now, he'll just laugh at me.
Cherrie, for her part, is reminding me that I don't need to compare myself to him. Maybe the male instincts of my old body are more overpowering than the female instincts of hers. That would probably be more terrifying than having to choose - being subject to the whims of foreign impulses. "Think of how scared he must have been the first time he got an erection," she reasons, speculating how confusing it must be to have your body overrule you like that. She's right, too - as near as I can figure, there's nothing about being a woman that grabs you in that way. Yessir, there's nothing quite like an erection.
-Nick
For what it's worth, the breasts I inherited from Traci aren't that big. A healthy B cup. There are times when I get really into my work or a video game or something and I forget they're there (which, given what I said in my first blog is a little troubling.) And then there are times when I pass guys by and I'll get the glance. I'm not offended, so long as there's no action or commentary toward them, I'm just uncomfortable being reminded what I look like now. given that the sun is starting to appear more and more, and my clothing has to reflect that, it's not going to get any better.
But for now, it's not even the breasts that are troubling me. It's something else. Prior to being a woman, I hadn't ever given much of a good goddamn about my diet. But I had to wonder what was going on when I sat down to lunch at my desk at work with a salad and Coke Zero.
Suddenly, I'm scared that my ass will get fat and I'll have to buy new clothes (which would mean shopping.) It's this indirect impetus for women to diet and keep fit so that they can stay fashionable and comfortable and stuff. It's unfair tht the garment industry is very specific when it comes to sizes. All I can do is shake my head and wonder why I was dragged into this.
So after I drop a piece of salad (complete with lo-cal dressing) on my blouse, a pink number that indicates I have to do the washing soon, I turn to my co-worker Dorothy and mutter, "You're lucky."
She eyeballs me and says, "Honey I could say the same thing about you."
Dorothy, who works at a desk in the same small office with me in a Data Management and Schedule Consulting (whatever THAT is) looks like a very sweet 11-year-old Chinese girl but is in fact well into her 50's. She proceeds to tell me that she was very close to retiring when she was dropped into a brand new, young, vital body to maintain, and had to take this job because nothing in her savings prepares her for the possibility of living another potential 60 years or more (should the swaps never be reversed, which I always hope they can around the 20th of the month.) She had to leave her boyfriend, a 61-year-old Stock executive who didn't want anything to do with such a little girl, even though they were living together. She's more hormonal than she'd been in years or decades and she gets absolutely no respect from people younger than her. She takes the glasses off her face and leans back, musing if it's wrong for her to go scope out the boys at the local middle school.
Most days, I hate being a woman, all the cosmetic and physiological inconviences it brings the male mind. But at least my life wasn't turned upside down like that. Those are some serious problems. I quietly finished eating my salad and continued to type up the weekly press briefing.
I was telling Cherrie, during our semi-daily coffee meeting, that swapees, in general, don't get to spend a lot of time trying to undo what's happened to them or mourn the loss of their old bodies. The more we learn day by day about the nature of swaps, the less we can think "OH what is this thing that's happening to me??" and the more we wonder, "How do I go about my life now?" That, I told her, might explain what Traci has been doing in my body... or rather, who.
He's been seeing a few girls, but not seriously. I hear him on the phone a lot because it makes my stomach turn. Sometimes it's because I wonder where these women were when that was my body. Sometimes, it's because it makes me afraid that I should, should want to, or will eventually, want to get into the scene. I haven't talked to him about how uncomfortable that makes me feel. "Excuse me, Traci, but could you please not have so much sex?" If he really is a guy now, he'll just laugh at me.
Cherrie, for her part, is reminding me that I don't need to compare myself to him. Maybe the male instincts of my old body are more overpowering than the female instincts of hers. That would probably be more terrifying than having to choose - being subject to the whims of foreign impulses. "Think of how scared he must have been the first time he got an erection," she reasons, speculating how confusing it must be to have your body overrule you like that. She's right, too - as near as I can figure, there's nothing about being a woman that grabs you in that way. Yessir, there's nothing quite like an erection.
-Nick
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Nick: Getting it on
(Written Sunday night.)
To start off with, it's hard enough getting used to a new city, let alone a new physiology. I've been tossing and turning on the couch most nights. It would be more convenient (and plainly sensible) for Traci and I to just sleep together - not do anything, but sleep in the same bed - because it's hardly like we've got anything to hide from each other.
The other night, I was kept awake, as I often am, by the general city noises that float up and penetrate the window, when I heard a scream. A woman's scream, not a block from my place. Suddenly I can't sleep at all. Suddenly I don't ever even want to leave the apartment, because it dawns on me, that I can't be safe walking by myself anymore, a confidence I had, rightly, taken for granted. Not that men are never victims, just that they rarely consider themselves such. Suddenly, this woman's scream will haunt my every moment, at least at night. Toronto seemed like a nice place, but like any city, it has its dangers.
Traci tried to allay this fear by handing me a can of mase to carry in my purse. It's a sensible tool, yeah, but having it around just reminds me - "You're small and weak now, Nicky-boy. This is all you've got."
Fortunately, I don't go out much anyway.
The good news is - I got the job!
Starting monday, I will be working in the PR department of Toronto's BISA chapter. It looks like it will be a steady gig, which is what I need, since my life hasn't exactly been steady lately. It feels good to finally be getting on track. In fact, it's more on track now than it was when I was a man.... which is just a little sad, to me.
Traci, in a rare showing of appreciation for me living in his body/apartment/life, suggested we hit the town and celebrate. I was leery - read: uncomfortable with the world seeing me attempt to "cut loose" in this body - but his insistence and my hidden desire to enjoy myself won over. I wanted to prove that all those fearsome elements of the city at night were nothing to me.
Traci, for his part, has been taking a very casual approach to the situation. He's turned me (my old body) into some kind of metrosexual icon, a woman's dream project. I guess that's fine - I have'nt given her body the same treatment, because dressing how a man would like to see a woman is a different matter, and hardly appropriate, let alone comfortable.
After changing my outfit about three times (and I may never get used to the idea that I have "outfits," but that's comparatively small I suppose) and going with a regular tee (well, one of those deals with the sleeves that barely pull over the shoulders, and lets the navel area peek out) and a pair of jeans (minus back pockets - I never got that.) He hands me a purse - something I have forgotten at least three times a week when leaving the house - and we head down to this Irish Pub, Monahan's.
It was a saturday night, and so it was fairly hopping. I was hoping to just sink into the corwd, get a nice buzz on, have a laugh, and stumble home. Traci, for his part, had other ideas.
We ordered a few drinks and some bar food. I had a beer, he had a rum and coke. "Dude," I told him in a voice not used to using that word, "Rum's a drink for women and pirates."
He looks at me, smiles, winks, and says "Yarr, matey!"
We drank a toast. "To new beginnings!" he cheered. I clinked his glass and felt uneasy. New beginnings indeed. I saw his eyes dart around the room.
"Looking for someone?" I asked him.
"I guess so, yeah..." he kept looking.
Eventually, he spotted a table of girls and told me that, after "another one of these things," (meaning drinks,) he was going to go talk to them.
"What, you mean talk?"
"To start, yeah," he grinned and a little blush came over my old face.
"You're not serious!" I cried out. "There's no way you are going to do that. I wouldn't even have done that when I was you!" the girls were gorgeous.
"I can't help it," he reasoned, "Ever since, well, I saw the way you looked in my skirt... it's done something uncontrollable to me. I can't stop myself. More importantly, I can't stop your... thingy..."
"Stop right there," I told him, "No need to explain. Just be careful. Those things can do as much bad as good."
"Believe me," he sighed, probably remembering something from his prior life, "I know."
With this sudden revelation shaking me to the core, I didn't drink so fast anymore, and began to nurse my pint of (whatever the local beer is, Molson something.) If Traci was ready to start being a guy, did that mean I should start being a girl? I sunk low and slouched my shoulders. If I was real quiet, maybe nobody would notice me.
Eventually, however, that wasn't the case. I was bored, having been foresaken by my drinking buddy on his chase for bar chicks, and started to roam the place, eventually coming to the billiards table.
"You play?" some guy asked me. If I'm about 5'3, (I don't know for sure,) he looked to be maybe 6'. He had a goatee and an earring, and wore a dress shirt with black jeans.
I didn't acknowledge him at first. He repeated, "Do you want to play a game?"
It was a fairly obvious come-on, but the implication was innocent enough. I like pool, I don't suck at it, I'll give it a go. "Sure," I told him, as I thought, crap, what am I getting myself into?
I kept the game friendly, um, as in platonic. We only made small chit-chat between shots. He asked where I was from, I told him I was new in town. Don't ask why, but I was reluctant to admit I was a swapee. I know the counsellors say to be open, but this didn't seem appropriate. So I played the role of mystery girl, all the while wary that I might fall too far into the roll.
He won the game - pretty handily actually, which in the end didn't surprise me. He asked if he could buy me a drink. I didn't want another one. "I think I'm gonna head home, soon."
"Well, look, let me walk you home," he says. I don't want him to, but I keep thinking about the scream.
"Fine."
I wanted to tell Traci, except I couldn't find him. So I grabbed my coat and purse and let this guy take me to the subway.
"I think I can go from here," I told him.
There's a pause. I'm waiting for him to say goodbye, or, uh, something, when he starts to lean in.
I step back. "Er, no. Sorry. I'm really sorry." (I wasn't, but I felt bad.) "Maybe if you got to know me, you'd decide..." I can't find the words. "You wouldn't want to."
"I doubt that," he shrugs. "Can I at least call you?"
This is probably the worst situation I've ever been in, by this point. Finally I tell him, "Maybe I'll call you." Maybe. Huuuge maybe.
He gives me his number, and as he walks away and I'm getting on the subway, I crumple it up and shove it in the purse.
"But you didn't throw it out?" asked Cherie the next day. I decided I wanted a more professional look for my new job - short. Not boyish, because I don't think that looks good, and while I'd like my masculinity back, not having it makes the whole affair seem pointless. So I want my hair to just go down to my chin. Think Lisa Miller on NewsRadio (does anybody remember that awesome show?) Before it started thinning out, I had my hair about that length in high school (it was, after all, the grunge era.) I just wanted to stop having to pull it back.
"Well, no, I didn't," I told her, my hair dunked, neck resting on the sink. "That would be rude."
"But are you going to call him?" she asked.
"Probably not," I said it more for my own benefit than for hers. "But I'll tell you, if I don't get some soon, I'm gonna explode. I just have to figure out what it is I want!"
"Well," she started to say, in what was probably supposed to be comforting, "Don't tell any guys I said this, but you should know. When they do it right, it feels amazing."
Flatly, I tell her, "That doesn't help."
"So, whatever happened to Traci?"
"Oh, that's the worst part," I tell her, "I wake up this morning and he's got some girl using our shower! I can't believe it. Already. And in my body. My body, which hasn't been with a woman in... frankly, I'd rather not say how long. And he looks all proud and tells me, 'Well, looks like I'm a man, now.' I tell him, 'Great. That makes one of us, I guess.'"
She laughed at that little bit of self-deprecating humour, and then sighed, "Oh honey, don't worry." Women always say that. "It'll all work out."
Hmp. As she starts to dry me off, I muse, "I just can't believe he went through with it."
After she was done - and mde me, quite honestly, gorgeous, we took a lunch and browsed some of her favourite stores. I didn't take an interest. In light of what happened last night, it's never been more obvious to me that I just don't fit in this body, even if Traci seems to be fitting into mine.
-Nick
To start off with, it's hard enough getting used to a new city, let alone a new physiology. I've been tossing and turning on the couch most nights. It would be more convenient (and plainly sensible) for Traci and I to just sleep together - not do anything, but sleep in the same bed - because it's hardly like we've got anything to hide from each other.
The other night, I was kept awake, as I often am, by the general city noises that float up and penetrate the window, when I heard a scream. A woman's scream, not a block from my place. Suddenly I can't sleep at all. Suddenly I don't ever even want to leave the apartment, because it dawns on me, that I can't be safe walking by myself anymore, a confidence I had, rightly, taken for granted. Not that men are never victims, just that they rarely consider themselves such. Suddenly, this woman's scream will haunt my every moment, at least at night. Toronto seemed like a nice place, but like any city, it has its dangers.
Traci tried to allay this fear by handing me a can of mase to carry in my purse. It's a sensible tool, yeah, but having it around just reminds me - "You're small and weak now, Nicky-boy. This is all you've got."
Fortunately, I don't go out much anyway.
The good news is - I got the job!
Starting monday, I will be working in the PR department of Toronto's BISA chapter. It looks like it will be a steady gig, which is what I need, since my life hasn't exactly been steady lately. It feels good to finally be getting on track. In fact, it's more on track now than it was when I was a man.... which is just a little sad, to me.
Traci, in a rare showing of appreciation for me living in his body/apartment/life, suggested we hit the town and celebrate. I was leery - read: uncomfortable with the world seeing me attempt to "cut loose" in this body - but his insistence and my hidden desire to enjoy myself won over. I wanted to prove that all those fearsome elements of the city at night were nothing to me.
Traci, for his part, has been taking a very casual approach to the situation. He's turned me (my old body) into some kind of metrosexual icon, a woman's dream project. I guess that's fine - I have'nt given her body the same treatment, because dressing how a man would like to see a woman is a different matter, and hardly appropriate, let alone comfortable.
After changing my outfit about three times (and I may never get used to the idea that I have "outfits," but that's comparatively small I suppose) and going with a regular tee (well, one of those deals with the sleeves that barely pull over the shoulders, and lets the navel area peek out) and a pair of jeans (minus back pockets - I never got that.) He hands me a purse - something I have forgotten at least three times a week when leaving the house - and we head down to this Irish Pub, Monahan's.
It was a saturday night, and so it was fairly hopping. I was hoping to just sink into the corwd, get a nice buzz on, have a laugh, and stumble home. Traci, for his part, had other ideas.
We ordered a few drinks and some bar food. I had a beer, he had a rum and coke. "Dude," I told him in a voice not used to using that word, "Rum's a drink for women and pirates."
He looks at me, smiles, winks, and says "Yarr, matey!"
We drank a toast. "To new beginnings!" he cheered. I clinked his glass and felt uneasy. New beginnings indeed. I saw his eyes dart around the room.
"Looking for someone?" I asked him.
"I guess so, yeah..." he kept looking.
Eventually, he spotted a table of girls and told me that, after "another one of these things," (meaning drinks,) he was going to go talk to them.
"What, you mean talk?"
"To start, yeah," he grinned and a little blush came over my old face.
"You're not serious!" I cried out. "There's no way you are going to do that. I wouldn't even have done that when I was you!" the girls were gorgeous.
"I can't help it," he reasoned, "Ever since, well, I saw the way you looked in my skirt... it's done something uncontrollable to me. I can't stop myself. More importantly, I can't stop your... thingy..."
"Stop right there," I told him, "No need to explain. Just be careful. Those things can do as much bad as good."
"Believe me," he sighed, probably remembering something from his prior life, "I know."
With this sudden revelation shaking me to the core, I didn't drink so fast anymore, and began to nurse my pint of (whatever the local beer is, Molson something.) If Traci was ready to start being a guy, did that mean I should start being a girl? I sunk low and slouched my shoulders. If I was real quiet, maybe nobody would notice me.
Eventually, however, that wasn't the case. I was bored, having been foresaken by my drinking buddy on his chase for bar chicks, and started to roam the place, eventually coming to the billiards table.
"You play?" some guy asked me. If I'm about 5'3, (I don't know for sure,) he looked to be maybe 6'. He had a goatee and an earring, and wore a dress shirt with black jeans.
I didn't acknowledge him at first. He repeated, "Do you want to play a game?"
It was a fairly obvious come-on, but the implication was innocent enough. I like pool, I don't suck at it, I'll give it a go. "Sure," I told him, as I thought, crap, what am I getting myself into?
I kept the game friendly, um, as in platonic. We only made small chit-chat between shots. He asked where I was from, I told him I was new in town. Don't ask why, but I was reluctant to admit I was a swapee. I know the counsellors say to be open, but this didn't seem appropriate. So I played the role of mystery girl, all the while wary that I might fall too far into the roll.
He won the game - pretty handily actually, which in the end didn't surprise me. He asked if he could buy me a drink. I didn't want another one. "I think I'm gonna head home, soon."
"Well, look, let me walk you home," he says. I don't want him to, but I keep thinking about the scream.
"Fine."
I wanted to tell Traci, except I couldn't find him. So I grabbed my coat and purse and let this guy take me to the subway.
"I think I can go from here," I told him.
There's a pause. I'm waiting for him to say goodbye, or, uh, something, when he starts to lean in.
I step back. "Er, no. Sorry. I'm really sorry." (I wasn't, but I felt bad.) "Maybe if you got to know me, you'd decide..." I can't find the words. "You wouldn't want to."
"I doubt that," he shrugs. "Can I at least call you?"
This is probably the worst situation I've ever been in, by this point. Finally I tell him, "Maybe I'll call you." Maybe. Huuuge maybe.
He gives me his number, and as he walks away and I'm getting on the subway, I crumple it up and shove it in the purse.
"But you didn't throw it out?" asked Cherie the next day. I decided I wanted a more professional look for my new job - short. Not boyish, because I don't think that looks good, and while I'd like my masculinity back, not having it makes the whole affair seem pointless. So I want my hair to just go down to my chin. Think Lisa Miller on NewsRadio (does anybody remember that awesome show?) Before it started thinning out, I had my hair about that length in high school (it was, after all, the grunge era.) I just wanted to stop having to pull it back.
"Well, no, I didn't," I told her, my hair dunked, neck resting on the sink. "That would be rude."
"But are you going to call him?" she asked.
"Probably not," I said it more for my own benefit than for hers. "But I'll tell you, if I don't get some soon, I'm gonna explode. I just have to figure out what it is I want!"
"Well," she started to say, in what was probably supposed to be comforting, "Don't tell any guys I said this, but you should know. When they do it right, it feels amazing."
Flatly, I tell her, "That doesn't help."
"So, whatever happened to Traci?"
"Oh, that's the worst part," I tell her, "I wake up this morning and he's got some girl using our shower! I can't believe it. Already. And in my body. My body, which hasn't been with a woman in... frankly, I'd rather not say how long. And he looks all proud and tells me, 'Well, looks like I'm a man, now.' I tell him, 'Great. That makes one of us, I guess.'"
She laughed at that little bit of self-deprecating humour, and then sighed, "Oh honey, don't worry." Women always say that. "It'll all work out."
Hmp. As she starts to dry me off, I muse, "I just can't believe he went through with it."
After she was done - and mde me, quite honestly, gorgeous, we took a lunch and browsed some of her favourite stores. I didn't take an interest. In light of what happened last night, it's never been more obvious to me that I just don't fit in this body, even if Traci seems to be fitting into mine.
-Nick
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
New Church Sings Swap Gospel
Confusion and fear are among the more prominent after-effects of a swap. Many swapees devoid of direction are turning to an alternative establishment founded by a swapee who goes by the name of Pastor Evelyn Trimble.
Evelyn, a roundish, salt-and-pepper haired lady in her mid-40's was, until earlier this spring, working as a janitor for a chemical company based in Dallas, TX. The man who was born Charles von Erich "Erik" Trimble found himself lying, dressed in rags, outside a church in Mobile, AL.
"I was an alcoholic, a loser, a worthless peon," Trimble explains. "I'd squirrelled away a small fortune for the purpose of gambling, but when I found myself outside of Our Lady of Mercy, I was inspired."
Trimble, who took her swap as a cue to completely reform her life, spent her few thousand dollars on a small chapel outside of Macon, GA where she could gather with fellow swapees.
"I wanted to share with people my revelation," the Pastor explains, "It's about helping people understand what has happened do them, or learn what may happen to those who have not yet been blessed."
The Church of the Holy Redeemer preaches that the swaps are a form of divine intervention. "We are all sinners, and in our ow way, we are all destitute, wanting for a path," Trimble says in one of her sermons. "Whether we understand or not, our holy moment comes to show us a path we ca nfollow, a way we can make ammends."
Trimble says there is not a trace of the old Charles in her. She does not gamble, imbibe alcohol, or "consort with whores" the way Charles von Erich Trimble did. She speaks of him in the third person as though he were a past acquaintence.
"Charles did not know where he belonged," she notes the one picture of her former self in her office. She gave me a tour, dressed in a conservative blue dress-suit, with her hair tightly wrapped in a bun, pale red lipstick on her lips, wearing matching heeled shoes. She is exceedingly matronly in her demeanor, which is surprising compared to the roguish bounder von Erich Trimble's acquaintences describe.
According to one of Trimble's ex-wives, who asked not to be named, when they were married he would often disappear for days at a time. "Sometimes he'd come back after losing a fortune, sometimes he'd try to convince us to all come out for pancakes to celebrate, even though he wouldn't tell us what. I couldn't stand living with the man."
The person who inherited Trimble's body, Faye Reingould, has been living quietly in Mobile, and asked not to be interviewed.
"She's very uplifting," says Donna Frickman, who has attended many sermons with his wife Lew. "We also enjoy the camraderie of our fellow swapees."
The Bureau for International Swap Affairs does not necessarily approve of Trimble's sect. "Though her sermons are often uplifting and healthy, we're very leery of her motives, and the information she spreads is not scientifically-based at all," explains Dr. Arthur Gulf of BISA Maryland.
Sources who knew Trimble explain he often remarked of his desire to start a church, according to one former friend, "Like that L. Ron guy." However, the Pastor insists she has changed her ways.
She tells a congregation of swapees, "The soul is a commodity, like any material in the universe, even like your body. You would recycle a bottle, or a can, or paper, to save these resources, and your souls are no different. The body it was housed in was no good to it, and it had to be recycled. Science cannot explain it, because it is bigger than science. It is redemption within this lifetime of ours, and you must seize this second chance and make it better than your first. Amen."
Thre is no charge to join the church, although donations are welcome. Services are held on Saturday nights and Sunday Mornings.
Evelyn, a roundish, salt-and-pepper haired lady in her mid-40's was, until earlier this spring, working as a janitor for a chemical company based in Dallas, TX. The man who was born Charles von Erich "Erik" Trimble found himself lying, dressed in rags, outside a church in Mobile, AL.
"I was an alcoholic, a loser, a worthless peon," Trimble explains. "I'd squirrelled away a small fortune for the purpose of gambling, but when I found myself outside of Our Lady of Mercy, I was inspired."
Trimble, who took her swap as a cue to completely reform her life, spent her few thousand dollars on a small chapel outside of Macon, GA where she could gather with fellow swapees.
"I wanted to share with people my revelation," the Pastor explains, "It's about helping people understand what has happened do them, or learn what may happen to those who have not yet been blessed."
The Church of the Holy Redeemer preaches that the swaps are a form of divine intervention. "We are all sinners, and in our ow way, we are all destitute, wanting for a path," Trimble says in one of her sermons. "Whether we understand or not, our holy moment comes to show us a path we ca nfollow, a way we can make ammends."
Trimble says there is not a trace of the old Charles in her. She does not gamble, imbibe alcohol, or "consort with whores" the way Charles von Erich Trimble did. She speaks of him in the third person as though he were a past acquaintence.
"Charles did not know where he belonged," she notes the one picture of her former self in her office. She gave me a tour, dressed in a conservative blue dress-suit, with her hair tightly wrapped in a bun, pale red lipstick on her lips, wearing matching heeled shoes. She is exceedingly matronly in her demeanor, which is surprising compared to the roguish bounder von Erich Trimble's acquaintences describe.
According to one of Trimble's ex-wives, who asked not to be named, when they were married he would often disappear for days at a time. "Sometimes he'd come back after losing a fortune, sometimes he'd try to convince us to all come out for pancakes to celebrate, even though he wouldn't tell us what. I couldn't stand living with the man."
The person who inherited Trimble's body, Faye Reingould, has been living quietly in Mobile, and asked not to be interviewed.
"She's very uplifting," says Donna Frickman, who has attended many sermons with his wife Lew. "We also enjoy the camraderie of our fellow swapees."
The Bureau for International Swap Affairs does not necessarily approve of Trimble's sect. "Though her sermons are often uplifting and healthy, we're very leery of her motives, and the information she spreads is not scientifically-based at all," explains Dr. Arthur Gulf of BISA Maryland.
Sources who knew Trimble explain he often remarked of his desire to start a church, according to one former friend, "Like that L. Ron guy." However, the Pastor insists she has changed her ways.
She tells a congregation of swapees, "The soul is a commodity, like any material in the universe, even like your body. You would recycle a bottle, or a can, or paper, to save these resources, and your souls are no different. The body it was housed in was no good to it, and it had to be recycled. Science cannot explain it, because it is bigger than science. It is redemption within this lifetime of ours, and you must seize this second chance and make it better than your first. Amen."
Thre is no charge to join the church, although donations are welcome. Services are held on Saturday nights and Sunday Mornings.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Nick: Trying to find a place
On the day I admitted to Traci's co-workers that I was a swapee, I had accidentally walked into the men's room.
That's not when they figured it out or anything, it was just really embarrassing for me. I'd had Traci's body since two weekends earlier, and nobody had figured it out. Even though she was well-liked at work, nobody knew much about her. I even found out, after the fact, that more than one guy had a crush on her, and was unsure of her situation (she was, in fact, single.) not that I would have accepted.
Like I said, I'd kept up the ruse okay. I was just holding place until we could get Traci in my body up to Canada, not really living her life (or mine, for that matter.) I didn't have much time to be confronted by the fact that I was a man in a woman's body... I was just a plain-looking quiet receptionist who went home every night, kicked the heels off, put on the sweats, had a beer and watched hockey. On this day, I was having a conversation with a male co-worker when I needed to go to the washroom; as did he, so we walked and talked. I pushed through the door and nearly approached the urinal when I realized, "Wait, that doesn't feel right... oh yeah." I blushed bright red and flew out the door like a flash. It was set to become a private joke between him and me. I decided it wouldn't.
"Listen, I might as well get this out there," I said, muttering under my breath, not looking at him, "I was swapped a few weeks ago, I'm not really Traci. I'm Nick."
It was a huge weight off my shoulders, but it hung in the air around him and some of the other co-workers who now wouldn't talk to me unless they had to. After a week, during which I thought I was going to have to resign, he finally broke the tension. The curiosity was overwhelming.
"Is it better? The body?"
I looked at him, kind of in quiet shock that he just smashed through the awkwardness and got that sentence out. I was afraid of what was on his mind. Then of course, I had to answer his question, which took a lot of thought.
"It's not worse," I told him with a shrug.
He kind of laughs. "I know that if I got swapped, and looked like that, I'd really miss it."
I sigh. "I try not to think about it too much. If I spent all my energy worrying about not having a penis, I'd never get anything done. And I kind of need this job, for now." Ironically at the time, I was typing up my resumé.
I wanted to appear strong, like a man who grins and bears it.
Until this point, the only person I'd told outside my immediate point was Cherie, Traci's hairdresser. I kept to myself for the first couple of days after the swap, but Traci demanded I go see Cherie. I didn't see any reason to keep it quiet, so I admitted to her that it might be a very long time before she would see Traci again.
I've been out with Cherie for coffee a few times. She's been my guide to Toronto. It's a little like Chicago, I guess, not that I miss that city (it was never very good to me personally.) She insists on dragging me into clothing stores, but I tell her Traci gave me plenty of clothes, most of which seem too complicated for me to even try (hell I didn't even wear a real bra for almost two weeks.) Plus I'm not making much money at her job, so I don't think a new wardrobe is in order.
"Well you'd look great in this..." she tells me, holding up a black skirt. It's not like, by this point, I haven't worn a skirt (sorry dad) but I'm not comfortable buying that stuff.
Living alone in someone else's apartment, wearing her clothes, seeing her face in the mirror... it's like having your own little escape, like riding the rollercoaster after the park is closed. There are times when I get very excited jsut to play around, and I almost forget what I'm missing.
That all changed one Thursday afternoon when the doorknob turned and in he walked. Unshaven, carrying nearly a half dozen suitcases over his shoulder, grunting like an ape. Until I got a good look at it, I had no idea how much shorter I now was. The top of my head doesn't quite reach my old chin.
I was startled, and not totally dressed, in pajamas. "Nick, right?" He smiles, holding out his (freaking giant) hand. I felt like I was sinking through the floor.
He was walking with confidence, suddenly it felt like he had a much better handle on what was going on than I did. I gave him a limp handshake, stunned into silence. "Hi Traci."
"This is totally awkward, isn't it?" he asked me. "I should've called, but I got the first flight in I could, there wasn't much time. I'm sorry."
I was still speechless.
He started to say, "I didn't expect... I mean..." his words stumbled. "You're... really me."
"I tried not to think about it... I've never seen myself this way, obviously." Suddenly I was shy, folding my arms across my chest, looking down, backing against the couch. He groaned an awkward laugh.
So now I live with the woman who is in my body. Because it's Traci's apartment, I'm on the couch, although he's considering staying with a friend (since I have no place else to go.) The apartment isn't really a two-person setup, unless those two people are.... well, ick.
Living with a stranger in a city I don't know doing a job I don't like and am not particularly good at... missing the one piece of anatomy that defined the first thirty years of my life. Yeah... life's great.
That's not when they figured it out or anything, it was just really embarrassing for me. I'd had Traci's body since two weekends earlier, and nobody had figured it out. Even though she was well-liked at work, nobody knew much about her. I even found out, after the fact, that more than one guy had a crush on her, and was unsure of her situation (she was, in fact, single.) not that I would have accepted.
Like I said, I'd kept up the ruse okay. I was just holding place until we could get Traci in my body up to Canada, not really living her life (or mine, for that matter.) I didn't have much time to be confronted by the fact that I was a man in a woman's body... I was just a plain-looking quiet receptionist who went home every night, kicked the heels off, put on the sweats, had a beer and watched hockey. On this day, I was having a conversation with a male co-worker when I needed to go to the washroom; as did he, so we walked and talked. I pushed through the door and nearly approached the urinal when I realized, "Wait, that doesn't feel right... oh yeah." I blushed bright red and flew out the door like a flash. It was set to become a private joke between him and me. I decided it wouldn't.
"Listen, I might as well get this out there," I said, muttering under my breath, not looking at him, "I was swapped a few weeks ago, I'm not really Traci. I'm Nick."
It was a huge weight off my shoulders, but it hung in the air around him and some of the other co-workers who now wouldn't talk to me unless they had to. After a week, during which I thought I was going to have to resign, he finally broke the tension. The curiosity was overwhelming.
"Is it better? The body?"
I looked at him, kind of in quiet shock that he just smashed through the awkwardness and got that sentence out. I was afraid of what was on his mind. Then of course, I had to answer his question, which took a lot of thought.
"It's not worse," I told him with a shrug.
He kind of laughs. "I know that if I got swapped, and looked like that, I'd really miss it."
I sigh. "I try not to think about it too much. If I spent all my energy worrying about not having a penis, I'd never get anything done. And I kind of need this job, for now." Ironically at the time, I was typing up my resumé.
I wanted to appear strong, like a man who grins and bears it.
Until this point, the only person I'd told outside my immediate point was Cherie, Traci's hairdresser. I kept to myself for the first couple of days after the swap, but Traci demanded I go see Cherie. I didn't see any reason to keep it quiet, so I admitted to her that it might be a very long time before she would see Traci again.
I've been out with Cherie for coffee a few times. She's been my guide to Toronto. It's a little like Chicago, I guess, not that I miss that city (it was never very good to me personally.) She insists on dragging me into clothing stores, but I tell her Traci gave me plenty of clothes, most of which seem too complicated for me to even try (hell I didn't even wear a real bra for almost two weeks.) Plus I'm not making much money at her job, so I don't think a new wardrobe is in order.
"Well you'd look great in this..." she tells me, holding up a black skirt. It's not like, by this point, I haven't worn a skirt (sorry dad) but I'm not comfortable buying that stuff.
Living alone in someone else's apartment, wearing her clothes, seeing her face in the mirror... it's like having your own little escape, like riding the rollercoaster after the park is closed. There are times when I get very excited jsut to play around, and I almost forget what I'm missing.
That all changed one Thursday afternoon when the doorknob turned and in he walked. Unshaven, carrying nearly a half dozen suitcases over his shoulder, grunting like an ape. Until I got a good look at it, I had no idea how much shorter I now was. The top of my head doesn't quite reach my old chin.
I was startled, and not totally dressed, in pajamas. "Nick, right?" He smiles, holding out his (freaking giant) hand. I felt like I was sinking through the floor.
He was walking with confidence, suddenly it felt like he had a much better handle on what was going on than I did. I gave him a limp handshake, stunned into silence. "Hi Traci."
"This is totally awkward, isn't it?" he asked me. "I should've called, but I got the first flight in I could, there wasn't much time. I'm sorry."
I was still speechless.
He started to say, "I didn't expect... I mean..." his words stumbled. "You're... really me."
"I tried not to think about it... I've never seen myself this way, obviously." Suddenly I was shy, folding my arms across my chest, looking down, backing against the couch. He groaned an awkward laugh.
So now I live with the woman who is in my body. Because it's Traci's apartment, I'm on the couch, although he's considering staying with a friend (since I have no place else to go.) The apartment isn't really a two-person setup, unless those two people are.... well, ick.
Living with a stranger in a city I don't know doing a job I don't like and am not particularly good at... missing the one piece of anatomy that defined the first thirty years of my life. Yeah... life's great.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
'Nightmarish' swap may have led to sexual assault
Warning: This article contains mature subject matter.
In what is being called a "nightmare swap come real," a known sexual predator may have been loosed on the City of New York, under the guise of an 11-year-old girl into whose body he has been swapped.
On March 24, 11-year-old Colleen Golightly of Queens went missing and was presumed kidnapped. Only a week later, parents Ryan and Helen were presented with a ghoulish alternative.
"They told us they thought she had been sighted in the city," said a tearful Helen, "A man had been attacked by a young girl at a party. They thought it was our Colleen."
Gerard Toombs, 28, was attending a casual cocktail party in the SoHo loft apartment of a friend's acquaintence.
"I was drinking and feeling drowsy," recalls Toombs, "And I should have known something was wrong then, but someone told me I could go lie down in the bedroom. I must've passed out in the bed."
As Toombs thinks back, he should have realized he'd been drugged; "I hadn't had enough to put a man of my size down." A toxicology report later revealed he had in his system a combination of ketamine (an anaesthetic often used as a date-rape drug) and viagra.
Toombs awoke some time after, restrained to the bed by expertly-tied knots, stripped, gagged with a washcloth, and blindfolded.
"Someone was on top of me," Toombs says, "She was small, I could tell, and from the way she sounded, far too young to have been at the party. Someone must have snuck her in. I could also hear another voice by the door. It was the most disgusting violation I have ever felt, made worse by the treatment that girl's body is getting. It makes me sick."
Toombs' descriptions match the modus operandi of two other recent sexual assaults in the New York area, one in Clinton and the other in Central Park.
Party-goers later admitted to seeing a small girl matching Golightly's description, with a larger bald man, leave the party. no-one questioned could identify either.
Mr. Golightly is outraged, saying "it is unbelievable that a pervert could take my daughter's body and commit those horrible things."
Meanwhile the identity of the assailant remains a mystery as detectives interrogate numerous known offenders.
"Given that the girl has been unable to contact her parents, we are under the impression that the swapee was incarcerated," says NYPD Det. Simoné Gupta, "And given that the perp had an accomplice on the outside and knew the area, we will be checking New York state facilities first. The thought that this poor girl is rotting in a cell with no idea where she is or why she's there is the most disgusting part of this, to me."
As the search continues, swap authorities at the BISA are calling the matter "the worst conceivable nightmare" of the swaps, and have cited it in their request for greater funding for researchers examining potential causes.
"We have to make sure this does not have the opportunity to ever happen again."
In what is being called a "nightmare swap come real," a known sexual predator may have been loosed on the City of New York, under the guise of an 11-year-old girl into whose body he has been swapped.
On March 24, 11-year-old Colleen Golightly of Queens went missing and was presumed kidnapped. Only a week later, parents Ryan and Helen were presented with a ghoulish alternative.
"They told us they thought she had been sighted in the city," said a tearful Helen, "A man had been attacked by a young girl at a party. They thought it was our Colleen."
Gerard Toombs, 28, was attending a casual cocktail party in the SoHo loft apartment of a friend's acquaintence.
"I was drinking and feeling drowsy," recalls Toombs, "And I should have known something was wrong then, but someone told me I could go lie down in the bedroom. I must've passed out in the bed."
As Toombs thinks back, he should have realized he'd been drugged; "I hadn't had enough to put a man of my size down." A toxicology report later revealed he had in his system a combination of ketamine (an anaesthetic often used as a date-rape drug) and viagra.
Toombs awoke some time after, restrained to the bed by expertly-tied knots, stripped, gagged with a washcloth, and blindfolded.
"Someone was on top of me," Toombs says, "She was small, I could tell, and from the way she sounded, far too young to have been at the party. Someone must have snuck her in. I could also hear another voice by the door. It was the most disgusting violation I have ever felt, made worse by the treatment that girl's body is getting. It makes me sick."
Toombs' descriptions match the modus operandi of two other recent sexual assaults in the New York area, one in Clinton and the other in Central Park.
Party-goers later admitted to seeing a small girl matching Golightly's description, with a larger bald man, leave the party. no-one questioned could identify either.
Mr. Golightly is outraged, saying "it is unbelievable that a pervert could take my daughter's body and commit those horrible things."
Meanwhile the identity of the assailant remains a mystery as detectives interrogate numerous known offenders.
"Given that the girl has been unable to contact her parents, we are under the impression that the swapee was incarcerated," says NYPD Det. Simoné Gupta, "And given that the perp had an accomplice on the outside and knew the area, we will be checking New York state facilities first. The thought that this poor girl is rotting in a cell with no idea where she is or why she's there is the most disgusting part of this, to me."
As the search continues, swap authorities at the BISA are calling the matter "the worst conceivable nightmare" of the swaps, and have cited it in their request for greater funding for researchers examining potential causes.
"We have to make sure this does not have the opportunity to ever happen again."
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Briefs: Fashion industry expects swaps to jolt sales
Fashion industry insiders are seeing a grass roots increase in sales they believe is connected with swaps.
"Since so many men seem to become women, many of them buy entirely new wardrobes," said retailer Marta Spector, "Unisex-style clothes are in particular on the rise. These new women want to feel masculine, but remain comfortable and confident."
"In particular," says Spector, "We'll be seeing a focus on bras designed for comfort, even bust-minimization, formal apparel, and certainly footwear. Most men can't handle heels, and we wouldn't force that on them."
Laughs Spector, "They already have enough being forced on them."
"Since so many men seem to become women, many of them buy entirely new wardrobes," said retailer Marta Spector, "Unisex-style clothes are in particular on the rise. These new women want to feel masculine, but remain comfortable and confident."
"In particular," says Spector, "We'll be seeing a focus on bras designed for comfort, even bust-minimization, formal apparel, and certainly footwear. Most men can't handle heels, and we wouldn't force that on them."
Laughs Spector, "They already have enough being forced on them."
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Swap-ee finds new life, glory on college football field at a cost
The 2006 Alamo Bowl champions, the Texas Longhorns, may not have won their game against the Iowa Hawkeyes, which was a 26-24 squeaker, were it not for a fortuitous swap. Despite a short-term benefit, however, the swap has ended the career of one of Texas' hottest young university prospects.
Colt McCoy, a redshirt freshman quarterback, suffered a "vicious, stadium-hushing tackle" in a Nov 24 game against Texas A & M, and when back-up quarterback Jevon Snead announced he would be leaving the team, the Longhorns were left without a starter in their bowl game against Iowa. On Nov 21, McCoy, 20, was cleared to play, but on Dec 29, the eve of the game, McCoy experienced what is now known to have been a swap.
"That night we were all partying pretty hard, and then he just... went cold," said one teammate, "He just got really quiet and maybe a little dizzy, and then he went out like a light." It was doubted whether McCoy would withstand the pressure put on him to perform, even with the Longhorns a favourite by 11.
What could not have been known, and would not have been understood, was that at that moment the real Colt McCoy was many miles away in Norman, Oklahoma, resting in a reclining chair. The man they were with was 73-year-old Alvin Walker, who, in his youth, was a quarterback for the Longhorn's rivals, the Oklahoma Sooners.
Though disoriented at first, Walker "played along" and completed two touchdown passes, "McCoy's" 28th and 29th, tying the freshman record set by Nevada's David Neill in 1998.
"It was like a dream, some wonderful dream in slow motion," Walker told reporters cryptically after accepting the MVP trophy he earned while wearing McCoy's jersey, "I'm not sure what's happened here, but if this is heaven, I'm glad to be here, even if it is Texas."
The story, while inspiring for some, is heartbreaking for others. McCoy, looked at as the finest quarterback of his age, will now sadly see his career cut short as a victim of the mysterious phenomenon, the cause of which is unknown. The McCoy family declined to comment, but Walker says he has made it his priority to honor McCoy.
"Neither of us understands what has happened here," Walker said, "But I certainly wouldn't have wished it on this young man and hope there is some way to go back on it. It must sound crazy, but if this is the price, I'd rather leave youth for the young."
Walker is currently vacationing in Portugal, in his words, to "find some clarity." He and his wife Honeymooned there in 1950, and visited it again shortly before her death in 2005. McCoy is currently in the care of his 23-year-old cousin, a geriatrics worker from Abilene, Texas.
Colt McCoy, a redshirt freshman quarterback, suffered a "vicious, stadium-hushing tackle" in a Nov 24 game against Texas A & M, and when back-up quarterback Jevon Snead announced he would be leaving the team, the Longhorns were left without a starter in their bowl game against Iowa. On Nov 21, McCoy, 20, was cleared to play, but on Dec 29, the eve of the game, McCoy experienced what is now known to have been a swap.
"That night we were all partying pretty hard, and then he just... went cold," said one teammate, "He just got really quiet and maybe a little dizzy, and then he went out like a light." It was doubted whether McCoy would withstand the pressure put on him to perform, even with the Longhorns a favourite by 11.
What could not have been known, and would not have been understood, was that at that moment the real Colt McCoy was many miles away in Norman, Oklahoma, resting in a reclining chair. The man they were with was 73-year-old Alvin Walker, who, in his youth, was a quarterback for the Longhorn's rivals, the Oklahoma Sooners.
Though disoriented at first, Walker "played along" and completed two touchdown passes, "McCoy's" 28th and 29th, tying the freshman record set by Nevada's David Neill in 1998.
"It was like a dream, some wonderful dream in slow motion," Walker told reporters cryptically after accepting the MVP trophy he earned while wearing McCoy's jersey, "I'm not sure what's happened here, but if this is heaven, I'm glad to be here, even if it is Texas."
The story, while inspiring for some, is heartbreaking for others. McCoy, looked at as the finest quarterback of his age, will now sadly see his career cut short as a victim of the mysterious phenomenon, the cause of which is unknown. The McCoy family declined to comment, but Walker says he has made it his priority to honor McCoy.
"Neither of us understands what has happened here," Walker said, "But I certainly wouldn't have wished it on this young man and hope there is some way to go back on it. It must sound crazy, but if this is the price, I'd rather leave youth for the young."
Walker is currently vacationing in Portugal, in his words, to "find some clarity." He and his wife Honeymooned there in 1950, and visited it again shortly before her death in 2005. McCoy is currently in the care of his 23-year-old cousin, a geriatrics worker from Abilene, Texas.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Page A1: NC trucker becomes emblem of new phenomenon
It was the wee hours of the morning on December 26th, and Christopher Barton was driving his 18-Wheeler home to spend a late Christmas with his family. He was only a twenty-minute drive from his Charlotte, North Carolina home when he stopped in at a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a scratch-and-win ticket. He was about to become part of a very different sort of lottery.
"It was about a quarter after four in the morning and I was really lookin' forward to gettin' home and wakin' the kids up," said Barton who, at 6' and almost 230 lbs was a picture-perfect trucker in blue jeans and a plaid shirt. "[Barton's wife] Marjie'd been up all night and I'd just called her on the cell phone sayin' to expect me home soon, and that I had presents."
Barton stood at the counter scratching the ticket. When he found out he hadn't won anything, he was about to leave.
"Then all'a sudden," he goes on to say, "I get this funny feelin', like I'm fallin' or drownin' or somethin', but really it was like when you stand up too fast. I was a bit concerned, but as a trucker I figured it was just tiredness, and it passed, so I made my way back to the truck."
But when Barton got to the truk, he found something was missing.
"I'd laid my keys on the counter and I thought I'd left 'em in there, so I went back in, grabbed 'em, and drove off."
Barton arrived home at nearly 5 AM, and called for his wife. She came from the kitchen to embrace her husband, but instead shreiked with horror when she saw him.
"It wasn't my Christopher at all," Marjie recalls, "I thought I heard him call my name but when I went to see him, some other man was there. I nearly called the police!"
Christopher watched on, mystified, as his very own wife ran screaming through the house in search of a baseball bat she uses to ward off intruders. Little did he know, the intruder was him; he'd become the first victim of what has since been called, "swapping."
As Barton puts it, "I went to the mirror, and what do you know? I see a brown guy staring back!"
Swapping is a recent phenomenon that causes otherwise regular people to be, all at once, transported into the body of another person. Barton had swapped into the body of Rajiv Patel, the clerk at the 7-11 where Barton had stopped. Since this incident they've occurred a number of times and make no regard to age, creed, sex or geographical location.
"Hypothetically," said Dr. Arthur Gulf, who has been studying the swaps, "You could find yourself as a NASCAR driver in the middle of a race, or as a sailor at sea. The unpredictable nature of the swaps makes them very dangeorus. Since the Barton incident, the distance between swaps has, on average, been growing."
The first difficulty the Bartons found was in convincing anybody. "They all thought I's crazy!" laughs Barton, whose voice twangs between Hindi and 'North Cackalackie.' "Then a few weeks go by and more and more these stories start goin' on the news. Suddenly I realize what's happened to me."
As the cause of the swaps is yet unknown, there is know known way to reverse them. As of yet, however, Dr. Gulf has made a few observations.
"Of the few dozen that have occurred," Gulf says, "None have happened during sleep, so nobody seems to be in danger of waking up someplace strange. None of the swaps have occurred between the human and animal kingdom, either."
While researchers scratch their heads in search of the cause, the government is making steps to accommodate the situation. The United Nations is working with world governments to establish a series of International Bureaus to apply a bureaucratic process for swapping.
Said a government official, "Swapping represents a potentially dangeorus x-factor to international diplomacy, not to mention a disruption of their own day-to-day lives. We're looking to have every swapee register and carry a card to indicate who they are and what they can and cannot do." Extreme swaps will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis, as precendent builds up.
"There will be many more to come," cautions the Dr. Gulf, "There are more and more reported swaps every day, and that number certainly doesn't look to be slowing down." The Doctor re-iterates the likelihood of a "life-changing" swap by saying, "7 out of 10 swaps thus far have occurred across gender lines."
As the Bartons try to get on with their lives amidst testing and near-obsessive media coverage, Marjie laments, "Sometimes, I don't feel like he's my husband any more. He looks at me with those eyes of his and I don't see him. But then he'll do or say something and I'll think, 'That's my Christopher.'"
Barton has retained his old job, but noted an unexpected change. "I've been findin' I can't eat the same types of foods no more, I don't take cream in my coffee and I can't keep a burger down, which is hard since I love a good steak," observing the fact that Patel was on a strict Hindu diet. "But at the end of the day, I'm the same guy I always was. I still love my kids, and they still love me. I just hope other people who get dealt this hand get it as good as I do."
"It was about a quarter after four in the morning and I was really lookin' forward to gettin' home and wakin' the kids up," said Barton who, at 6' and almost 230 lbs was a picture-perfect trucker in blue jeans and a plaid shirt. "[Barton's wife] Marjie'd been up all night and I'd just called her on the cell phone sayin' to expect me home soon, and that I had presents."
Barton stood at the counter scratching the ticket. When he found out he hadn't won anything, he was about to leave.
"Then all'a sudden," he goes on to say, "I get this funny feelin', like I'm fallin' or drownin' or somethin', but really it was like when you stand up too fast. I was a bit concerned, but as a trucker I figured it was just tiredness, and it passed, so I made my way back to the truck."
But when Barton got to the truk, he found something was missing.
"I'd laid my keys on the counter and I thought I'd left 'em in there, so I went back in, grabbed 'em, and drove off."
Barton arrived home at nearly 5 AM, and called for his wife. She came from the kitchen to embrace her husband, but instead shreiked with horror when she saw him.
"It wasn't my Christopher at all," Marjie recalls, "I thought I heard him call my name but when I went to see him, some other man was there. I nearly called the police!"
Christopher watched on, mystified, as his very own wife ran screaming through the house in search of a baseball bat she uses to ward off intruders. Little did he know, the intruder was him; he'd become the first victim of what has since been called, "swapping."
As Barton puts it, "I went to the mirror, and what do you know? I see a brown guy staring back!"
Swapping is a recent phenomenon that causes otherwise regular people to be, all at once, transported into the body of another person. Barton had swapped into the body of Rajiv Patel, the clerk at the 7-11 where Barton had stopped. Since this incident they've occurred a number of times and make no regard to age, creed, sex or geographical location.
"Hypothetically," said Dr. Arthur Gulf, who has been studying the swaps, "You could find yourself as a NASCAR driver in the middle of a race, or as a sailor at sea. The unpredictable nature of the swaps makes them very dangeorus. Since the Barton incident, the distance between swaps has, on average, been growing."
The first difficulty the Bartons found was in convincing anybody. "They all thought I's crazy!" laughs Barton, whose voice twangs between Hindi and 'North Cackalackie.' "Then a few weeks go by and more and more these stories start goin' on the news. Suddenly I realize what's happened to me."
As the cause of the swaps is yet unknown, there is know known way to reverse them. As of yet, however, Dr. Gulf has made a few observations.
"Of the few dozen that have occurred," Gulf says, "None have happened during sleep, so nobody seems to be in danger of waking up someplace strange. None of the swaps have occurred between the human and animal kingdom, either."
While researchers scratch their heads in search of the cause, the government is making steps to accommodate the situation. The United Nations is working with world governments to establish a series of International Bureaus to apply a bureaucratic process for swapping.
Said a government official, "Swapping represents a potentially dangeorus x-factor to international diplomacy, not to mention a disruption of their own day-to-day lives. We're looking to have every swapee register and carry a card to indicate who they are and what they can and cannot do." Extreme swaps will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis, as precendent builds up.
"There will be many more to come," cautions the Dr. Gulf, "There are more and more reported swaps every day, and that number certainly doesn't look to be slowing down." The Doctor re-iterates the likelihood of a "life-changing" swap by saying, "7 out of 10 swaps thus far have occurred across gender lines."
As the Bartons try to get on with their lives amidst testing and near-obsessive media coverage, Marjie laments, "Sometimes, I don't feel like he's my husband any more. He looks at me with those eyes of his and I don't see him. But then he'll do or say something and I'll think, 'That's my Christopher.'"
Barton has retained his old job, but noted an unexpected change. "I've been findin' I can't eat the same types of foods no more, I don't take cream in my coffee and I can't keep a burger down, which is hard since I love a good steak," observing the fact that Patel was on a strict Hindu diet. "But at the end of the day, I'm the same guy I always was. I still love my kids, and they still love me. I just hope other people who get dealt this hand get it as good as I do."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)