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 column. Show all posts
Showing posts with label column. 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.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Nick: Small Steps
In his last column, Alex alluded to seeing me at the Bethesda Conference and seeming to have a chip on my shoulder. Well, wouldn't you? It's been two months and I still don't have a handle on my life.
I lashed out at him a little bit, which afterward made me feel like a bit of a bitch. I guess I felt he didn't understand anything about what I was going through since he hasn't been swapped (yet) and in my opinion has a limited understanding of what we go through, even he's spend all these months talking to every swapee he can possibly get in touch with. There's nothing like first-hand experience.
And then Dr. Bergman drops this bomb, casting doubt on my identity. I wonder if she really believes that she's just a little Mexican girl with a scientist's brain. If she doesn't miss the touch of his wife or being able to lift his kids up. And if he really, really thinks it's temporary, if he's really not worried about spending years of his life growing into a young girl's body. Because I know I am.
I didn't want to be anything. For the longest time, my biggest ambition as a swapee was to keep my head down, make a living, stay independant and just coast. But months go by and make it seem impossible. Every morning I wake up on the couch, wait for a body that's rightfully mine to get out of the shower, change into a fresh pair of panties, and feel so damn lonely. Even my new best friend doesn't understand, and for a long time, I didn't think Traci was willing to listen.
I was feeling crappy already when I finally sat down to have a talk about it with Traci. I didn't know who to turn to. I thought about Cherrie, but she was occupied and I didn't want to lay the trip on her (plus, it'd open up other issues I'd rather keep bottled for now.) All my old friends are in Chicago, and they're men so I don't even think they think about me the same way they used to. I needed someone I could trust. So I called Traci over to the table on Tuesday before the conference and just bared my soul. At first I didn't even think he was listening. Then he starts breaking down and for the first time in my life, I see my grown male (former) body crying.
"I'm sorry," he sobs, "Oh God, I'm a mess." He wipes his eyes and tells me that he and Rose had split up, that he had become the kind of man he hated, who was concerned mostly with sex and a good time and didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. That he'd pushed away a woman who was a good friend and patient girlfriend because of his newfound male stupidity. I thought it was a cop-out to blame the body, but I guess that without being raised that way it doesn't come with training wheels.
And there we were, two lonely swapped people commiserating in the night, sharing tears and stories when something unexpected happened... he kissed me, or I kissed him, or somebody kissed the other anyway. And it was seriously the first intimate contact I'd had in all my time as a woman and, despite the nagging guilt at the back of my mind, I didn't want it to let up.
And that's the story of how I lost my female virginity.
Trust me, I felt awful afterward, and he did too - especially because from his perspective he was committing the very crime he'd just confessed. But I admitted that, at the time, I wanted it, and even felt better for having had it, but didn't think we should continue that. It was just, a big step. I don't know, maybe now I'll be less afraid of intimacy, of opening up and being a person again, not just an employee and citizen.
Which is why I took Bergman's revelation badly. Because I'm not her, I'm not Traci at all, and I don't want things to change, because I want to believe that I, Nick Blanchard, am growing as a person, as a woman.
But, having told that story, there is still one very important chapter to write...
-Nick
I lashed out at him a little bit, which afterward made me feel like a bit of a bitch. I guess I felt he didn't understand anything about what I was going through since he hasn't been swapped (yet) and in my opinion has a limited understanding of what we go through, even he's spend all these months talking to every swapee he can possibly get in touch with. There's nothing like first-hand experience.
And then Dr. Bergman drops this bomb, casting doubt on my identity. I wonder if she really believes that she's just a little Mexican girl with a scientist's brain. If she doesn't miss the touch of his wife or being able to lift his kids up. And if he really, really thinks it's temporary, if he's really not worried about spending years of his life growing into a young girl's body. Because I know I am.
I didn't want to be anything. For the longest time, my biggest ambition as a swapee was to keep my head down, make a living, stay independant and just coast. But months go by and make it seem impossible. Every morning I wake up on the couch, wait for a body that's rightfully mine to get out of the shower, change into a fresh pair of panties, and feel so damn lonely. Even my new best friend doesn't understand, and for a long time, I didn't think Traci was willing to listen.
I was feeling crappy already when I finally sat down to have a talk about it with Traci. I didn't know who to turn to. I thought about Cherrie, but she was occupied and I didn't want to lay the trip on her (plus, it'd open up other issues I'd rather keep bottled for now.) All my old friends are in Chicago, and they're men so I don't even think they think about me the same way they used to. I needed someone I could trust. So I called Traci over to the table on Tuesday before the conference and just bared my soul. At first I didn't even think he was listening. Then he starts breaking down and for the first time in my life, I see my grown male (former) body crying.
"I'm sorry," he sobs, "Oh God, I'm a mess." He wipes his eyes and tells me that he and Rose had split up, that he had become the kind of man he hated, who was concerned mostly with sex and a good time and didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. That he'd pushed away a woman who was a good friend and patient girlfriend because of his newfound male stupidity. I thought it was a cop-out to blame the body, but I guess that without being raised that way it doesn't come with training wheels.
And there we were, two lonely swapped people commiserating in the night, sharing tears and stories when something unexpected happened... he kissed me, or I kissed him, or somebody kissed the other anyway. And it was seriously the first intimate contact I'd had in all my time as a woman and, despite the nagging guilt at the back of my mind, I didn't want it to let up.
And that's the story of how I lost my female virginity.
Trust me, I felt awful afterward, and he did too - especially because from his perspective he was committing the very crime he'd just confessed. But I admitted that, at the time, I wanted it, and even felt better for having had it, but didn't think we should continue that. It was just, a big step. I don't know, maybe now I'll be less afraid of intimacy, of opening up and being a person again, not just an employee and citizen.
Which is why I took Bergman's revelation badly. Because I'm not her, I'm not Traci at all, and I don't want things to change, because I want to believe that I, Nick Blanchard, am growing as a person, as a woman.
But, having told that story, there is still one very important chapter to write...
-Nick
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 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
Friday, April 27, 2007
Support groups offer swapees forum, advice without pressure
Nick Blanchard and I were recently invited to a Swap Support Group in Canton, Ohio. It has been running since prior to the advent of the BISA or the Church run by Evelyn Trimble, and offers swapees a less formal medium to vent their frustrations at adjusting their entire lives. Small groups like these have cropped up all over the nation, loosely-associated and subtly but not expressly supported by BISA. They meet in church basements, community centres, rec halls, auditoriums, wherever they can rent out. Nick and I enter and are greeted quite heartily.
"Well hello," one young man, Cassandra Davis, a 14-year-old Ohio girl in the body of a 10-year-old boy, greets us, shaking Nick's hand first and telling her, "Wow, you're very lucky," he turns to me and says, "You were so pretty."
Nick blushes and explains that she and I are not connected in that way, the original occupant of her body just opted not to take the road trip (as Nick had yet to start her new job but Traci was getting used to his.)
There are ten people present apart from us. They encourage people to come with their swap-partners, but this isn't always possible. Shaun Speedman and Marie DiManno, two University Students, sit across from each other. Victoria Worth, a St. Paul, MN single mother who was swapped into the body of a Vancouver teen, came alone, as did William Trenton, originally from Oklahoma. Also present are Lew and Donna Frickman.
Darren Chau and Brad Eidelman, from San Diego, CA and Canton, OH respectively, set the pace of the meeting. They were swapped in December. Chau, a fireman, and Eidelman, a Kindergarten teacher, agreed to start running support meetings after discussing Chau's unfortunate inability to face fires the way he previously had, owing strangely to a recurring dream Eidelman had as a child.
"There will always be pressure, be it from your family, co-workers, even the BISA, for you to adopt the identity of the body you have been given," begins Eidelman, "But you can't forget it is you who dictates your identity. Not society, not a piece of paper, not the face you wear. What's under it."
There are rumblings of agreement as the floor is opened. Trenton stands first. Originally a high school student, he was swapped into the body of Melissa Belleville-Adams, a 29-year-old French/American widowed teacher just a week before his seventeenth birthday in March. After it happened, she tearfully explained, her mother, Noelle Trenton, was in dire need of gallbladder surgery, a procedure the lower-middle class family could ill afford. At her darkest moment, the younger Trenton nearly accepted a role in a pornographic film series, "New Confessions of a Window Washer" to pay for the procedure.
Belleville-Adams was a onetime contender for the title of Miss France before moving to the United States with her husband (a native of Louisiana,) and giving up modelling to become a teacher. Trenton was very afraid for her mother's life, but was disgusted at the proposition, saying her mother would never forgive her if she even knew the offer had been considered.
I watched Nick's face through that story. Having had some personal, physical and romantic adjustments to make for herself, it appeared to affect her. William Trenton never said whether she actually performed in the adult film, but sobbingly informed us that they did indeed raise the money needed for the procedure.
There was a bald older man with a goatee sitting in the corner playing with a cigarette throughout the story. He never introduced himself, and before I could ask him, he left the building. The meeting continued.
Cassandra Davis attempts to express his frustration at being a prepubescent male, but words appear to fail him and he doesn't seem to find the words he is looking for. So he re-takes his seat. Nick indulges in a few lighthearted anecdotes about living with his former body.
The meeting becomes more of a debate as the Frickmans expound the virtues of the Church of the Holy Redeemer, as they'd recently joined. Having thought enough about the Church that week, I stepped out, where the mystery man was waiting.
"Need a light?" he says, emerging from the shadows lit only by the orange bead of light from his Camel cigarette.
"No, I'm not here to smoke, I just needed some... air," I told him.
He chuckled and went back to the shadows.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
He asked me in return, "you're the news guy, right? From the website?"
"Yeah."
Again, he chuckled. "I think you'll find out soon enough."
"But... you've been swapped, right?"
He nods.
More than a little perplexed, I return to the meeting.
Speedman and DiManno are arguing, which often seems to happen. They share a common ground: DiManno, a studious girl, was a star on the University of Sydney Women's Basketball Team, and Speedman, originally an African-American, was attending the University of Alabama on a basketball scholarship. however, as University of Alabama does not have a women's basketball team, Speedman has met difficulty and may not return to the school next year. There is, you might imagine, some hostility between the two.
Speedman, who in DiManno's body dresses like the gangsta she once was, looks somewhat ridiclous in the baggy jeans and chains. Having grown frustrated with her current life, Speedman, in contrast to many swapees, has become aggressively sexual toward both genders. DiManno, meanwhile, dresses like a proper gentlemen and retains an Aussie accent, and seriously disapproves of Speedman's actions.
Chau and Eidleman break the argument off as best they can, telling people that an hour is about up and they can check the website if they want to come to another meeting. Speedman leaves in a huff, DiManno exits the other way. I get contact information for as many people as possible.
I remain most curious, however, about the smoking man. He told me I'd find out soon enough. I don't think I can wait that long.
"Well hello," one young man, Cassandra Davis, a 14-year-old Ohio girl in the body of a 10-year-old boy, greets us, shaking Nick's hand first and telling her, "Wow, you're very lucky," he turns to me and says, "You were so pretty."
Nick blushes and explains that she and I are not connected in that way, the original occupant of her body just opted not to take the road trip (as Nick had yet to start her new job but Traci was getting used to his.)
There are ten people present apart from us. They encourage people to come with their swap-partners, but this isn't always possible. Shaun Speedman and Marie DiManno, two University Students, sit across from each other. Victoria Worth, a St. Paul, MN single mother who was swapped into the body of a Vancouver teen, came alone, as did William Trenton, originally from Oklahoma. Also present are Lew and Donna Frickman.
Darren Chau and Brad Eidelman, from San Diego, CA and Canton, OH respectively, set the pace of the meeting. They were swapped in December. Chau, a fireman, and Eidelman, a Kindergarten teacher, agreed to start running support meetings after discussing Chau's unfortunate inability to face fires the way he previously had, owing strangely to a recurring dream Eidelman had as a child.
"There will always be pressure, be it from your family, co-workers, even the BISA, for you to adopt the identity of the body you have been given," begins Eidelman, "But you can't forget it is you who dictates your identity. Not society, not a piece of paper, not the face you wear. What's under it."
There are rumblings of agreement as the floor is opened. Trenton stands first. Originally a high school student, he was swapped into the body of Melissa Belleville-Adams, a 29-year-old French/American widowed teacher just a week before his seventeenth birthday in March. After it happened, she tearfully explained, her mother, Noelle Trenton, was in dire need of gallbladder surgery, a procedure the lower-middle class family could ill afford. At her darkest moment, the younger Trenton nearly accepted a role in a pornographic film series, "New Confessions of a Window Washer" to pay for the procedure.
Belleville-Adams was a onetime contender for the title of Miss France before moving to the United States with her husband (a native of Louisiana,) and giving up modelling to become a teacher. Trenton was very afraid for her mother's life, but was disgusted at the proposition, saying her mother would never forgive her if she even knew the offer had been considered.
I watched Nick's face through that story. Having had some personal, physical and romantic adjustments to make for herself, it appeared to affect her. William Trenton never said whether she actually performed in the adult film, but sobbingly informed us that they did indeed raise the money needed for the procedure.
There was a bald older man with a goatee sitting in the corner playing with a cigarette throughout the story. He never introduced himself, and before I could ask him, he left the building. The meeting continued.
Cassandra Davis attempts to express his frustration at being a prepubescent male, but words appear to fail him and he doesn't seem to find the words he is looking for. So he re-takes his seat. Nick indulges in a few lighthearted anecdotes about living with his former body.
The meeting becomes more of a debate as the Frickmans expound the virtues of the Church of the Holy Redeemer, as they'd recently joined. Having thought enough about the Church that week, I stepped out, where the mystery man was waiting.
"Need a light?" he says, emerging from the shadows lit only by the orange bead of light from his Camel cigarette.
"No, I'm not here to smoke, I just needed some... air," I told him.
He chuckled and went back to the shadows.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
He asked me in return, "you're the news guy, right? From the website?"
"Yeah."
Again, he chuckled. "I think you'll find out soon enough."
"But... you've been swapped, right?"
He nods.
More than a little perplexed, I return to the meeting.
Speedman and DiManno are arguing, which often seems to happen. They share a common ground: DiManno, a studious girl, was a star on the University of Sydney Women's Basketball Team, and Speedman, originally an African-American, was attending the University of Alabama on a basketball scholarship. however, as University of Alabama does not have a women's basketball team, Speedman has met difficulty and may not return to the school next year. There is, you might imagine, some hostility between the two.
Speedman, who in DiManno's body dresses like the gangsta she once was, looks somewhat ridiclous in the baggy jeans and chains. Having grown frustrated with her current life, Speedman, in contrast to many swapees, has become aggressively sexual toward both genders. DiManno, meanwhile, dresses like a proper gentlemen and retains an Aussie accent, and seriously disapproves of Speedman's actions.
Chau and Eidleman break the argument off as best they can, telling people that an hour is about up and they can check the website if they want to come to another meeting. Speedman leaves in a huff, DiManno exits the other way. I get contact information for as many people as possible.
I remain most curious, however, about the smoking man. He told me I'd find out soon enough. I don't think I can wait that long.
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
Friday, April 20, 2007
Nick: Foreseen problems
Let me just say that I firmly believe that, whatever gender you belong to, sex is supposed to feel good. But, for the first time since I was 12, I don't want any.
The reason should be obvious. Mentally, I'm still a guy, even though the tampax under the bathroom sink suggests otherwise. I don't know what sex feels like for a woman, I don't know when I'll find out, if ever. It's not even that I have a problem with the notion of some force invading my female parts. The problem lies in determining when, under what circumstances, and most importantly with whom.
As a man, I would have given Traci a good look walking down the streets. A lot of other guys feel the same way, and that's something I've noticed as time goes on and is bothering me more and more. At first I shrugged it off, but it's getting really irksome because it reminds me what I present to the world now. Simply put... I hate guys.
I've had exactly one sexual experience since being in this body, and it was a minor one. I wasn't even sure what it was until days later. It was during my first appointment with Cherie, the hairdresser Traci sent me to. She had my neck bent over the sink, soaking my hair, and her breast brushed up against me.
I havn't been with a woman in a very long time, and I'm talking about before I became one. Since that incident, I've had plenty of contact with breasts, not all of it sexual. The female body is becoming commonplace for me, I'm falling in to a sort of non-sexuality. I can't date guys, I can't screw girls.
I hadn't even thought about my romantic predicament because I'd been so busy working, trying to get my personal life in order. I had an interview for a PR position today, and I wanted to look nice. Traci seemed to think I accomplished it.
"Whoo, are those my legs?" he cheers before seeing my leave this morning, wearing a knee-length skirt, my first time in one. It's really warm today and my thinking is, it'll breathe well, plus make me appear professional. My hair's done up in some kind of ponytail with strands falling down the side of my face. I even got the make-up kit out.
My appointment was with the BISA Toronto, who were looking for swapees to staff the centre. It's not great pay, but I at least have a leg up. Ever since I told Traci's co-workers about what happened, I've been really eager to get out of there.
Traci, meanwhile, has been working in the mailroom of the office, so we commute together. We don't see one another during the day, though, so it's not that awkward. After all, we have to hang out at night, and it's already incredibly, incredibly awkward. I'm not going to lie, he's taking the swap way more easily than I have. I guess that's just some peoples' lot.
-Nick
The reason should be obvious. Mentally, I'm still a guy, even though the tampax under the bathroom sink suggests otherwise. I don't know what sex feels like for a woman, I don't know when I'll find out, if ever. It's not even that I have a problem with the notion of some force invading my female parts. The problem lies in determining when, under what circumstances, and most importantly with whom.
As a man, I would have given Traci a good look walking down the streets. A lot of other guys feel the same way, and that's something I've noticed as time goes on and is bothering me more and more. At first I shrugged it off, but it's getting really irksome because it reminds me what I present to the world now. Simply put... I hate guys.
I've had exactly one sexual experience since being in this body, and it was a minor one. I wasn't even sure what it was until days later. It was during my first appointment with Cherie, the hairdresser Traci sent me to. She had my neck bent over the sink, soaking my hair, and her breast brushed up against me.
I havn't been with a woman in a very long time, and I'm talking about before I became one. Since that incident, I've had plenty of contact with breasts, not all of it sexual. The female body is becoming commonplace for me, I'm falling in to a sort of non-sexuality. I can't date guys, I can't screw girls.
I hadn't even thought about my romantic predicament because I'd been so busy working, trying to get my personal life in order. I had an interview for a PR position today, and I wanted to look nice. Traci seemed to think I accomplished it.
"Whoo, are those my legs?" he cheers before seeing my leave this morning, wearing a knee-length skirt, my first time in one. It's really warm today and my thinking is, it'll breathe well, plus make me appear professional. My hair's done up in some kind of ponytail with strands falling down the side of my face. I even got the make-up kit out.
My appointment was with the BISA Toronto, who were looking for swapees to staff the centre. It's not great pay, but I at least have a leg up. Ever since I told Traci's co-workers about what happened, I've been really eager to get out of there.
Traci, meanwhile, has been working in the mailroom of the office, so we commute together. We don't see one another during the day, though, so it's not that awkward. After all, we have to hang out at night, and it's already incredibly, incredibly awkward. I'm not going to lie, he's taking the swap way more easily than I have. I guess that's just some peoples' lot.
-Nick
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
Nick: Inside a swapped mind
My name's Nick Blanchard. That much I know. Until one day in March, I was a 32-year-old man living in Chicago under the same roof as his parents. Then one morning... well, you've read the interview.
What's uncomfortable to me is how comfortable I actually am. Anytime I settle down and just be, I suddenly get a chill up my spine; I think "Oh God, what's happening?" If it ever becomes not weird to be a woman, that would be weird.
It sucks not being yourself, that's something we can all agree about, no matter what body you get swapped into. I read on this site and in some of Alex's other files (stories he's been working on) where physically fit people become overweight or unhealthy, people lose decades off their lives, lose their livelihoods, or get life-threatening diseases. So I've considered it a comfort to simply have found myself walking down the street for the last few weeks in the sensible shoes of a physically average woman in her mid-20's, knowing the potential alternatives.
As we, the swapped, grow in numbers, we rely on our segment's growth for support. The idea that this has not merely happened to me, but is happening all the time, has kept me sane. So I'm coping. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't intend on getting my body back. I can't accept that this is the rest of my life.
I don't intend on being a woman. I've been dressing in the most tomboyish clothes available, keeping my hair modest and not using make-up. But I walk with confindence as best I can, because hey, I know I can't hide.
The real Traci Moore is packing up as many of my things as possible at this very moment, ready to move back here to Toronto from my parents' house in Chicago. I've already told her (I haven't had to look her in the eyes - my eyes - yet, so she's still a her to me,) I'm not moving back to Chicago. I had nothing going on there and wanted the means to move. I guess the swap gave me that.
She didn't like the idea of us living together, but with one of us out of work, we don't have much of a choice. I've applied through the provisional Toronto BISA (operating without a HQ) for a work visa.
I had really hit the skids (was being a 32-year-old man living with his parents not clue enough?) after losing my job (PR flack) and not finding new employment. The job market was crud in Chicago; maybe I'll have better luck here. While I handle Traci's secretarial job, I've got resumés out to a few different firms and organizations. I mention in my cover letter that, as a recent swapee, there's no danger in a future incident (I'm assured evidence suggests swaps only happen once to a person. Here's hoping.) The danger is that maybe they'll read that sentence and be afraid that I'll weird everyone out. Well, I worked for 2 and a half weeks as a secretary without anyone even noticing I was different. Maleness out of sight, out of mind.
It's not a well-hidden fact that PR is an industry that skews female anyway; my replacement in Chicago was a woman, as were most of my office-mates (I had a short fling with one before leaving, spurring a bit of drama in the office.) People would just rather be represented by a woman's face and voice, and I understand that. It made me feel like crap (when I was male,) but I couldn't disagree.
The thing I regret most about the swap - more than the new body, the discomfort of the clothes, the more-than-occasional glances on the street - is letting it throw my life into general disarray. But I'm taking a hold. I'm being me.
As my counsellor said during a short chat on the phone last wednesday... swaps teach people not to take things at face value.
Ha ha ha.
-Nick
Nick Blanchard graduated from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign with a Bachelors degree in Communications. After spending the last month as a secretary, she is glad to have it. She e-mails her blog entries to Alex on an irregular basis.
What's uncomfortable to me is how comfortable I actually am. Anytime I settle down and just be, I suddenly get a chill up my spine; I think "Oh God, what's happening?" If it ever becomes not weird to be a woman, that would be weird.
It sucks not being yourself, that's something we can all agree about, no matter what body you get swapped into. I read on this site and in some of Alex's other files (stories he's been working on) where physically fit people become overweight or unhealthy, people lose decades off their lives, lose their livelihoods, or get life-threatening diseases. So I've considered it a comfort to simply have found myself walking down the street for the last few weeks in the sensible shoes of a physically average woman in her mid-20's, knowing the potential alternatives.
As we, the swapped, grow in numbers, we rely on our segment's growth for support. The idea that this has not merely happened to me, but is happening all the time, has kept me sane. So I'm coping. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't intend on getting my body back. I can't accept that this is the rest of my life.
I don't intend on being a woman. I've been dressing in the most tomboyish clothes available, keeping my hair modest and not using make-up. But I walk with confindence as best I can, because hey, I know I can't hide.
The real Traci Moore is packing up as many of my things as possible at this very moment, ready to move back here to Toronto from my parents' house in Chicago. I've already told her (I haven't had to look her in the eyes - my eyes - yet, so she's still a her to me,) I'm not moving back to Chicago. I had nothing going on there and wanted the means to move. I guess the swap gave me that.
She didn't like the idea of us living together, but with one of us out of work, we don't have much of a choice. I've applied through the provisional Toronto BISA (operating without a HQ) for a work visa.
I had really hit the skids (was being a 32-year-old man living with his parents not clue enough?) after losing my job (PR flack) and not finding new employment. The job market was crud in Chicago; maybe I'll have better luck here. While I handle Traci's secretarial job, I've got resumés out to a few different firms and organizations. I mention in my cover letter that, as a recent swapee, there's no danger in a future incident (I'm assured evidence suggests swaps only happen once to a person. Here's hoping.) The danger is that maybe they'll read that sentence and be afraid that I'll weird everyone out. Well, I worked for 2 and a half weeks as a secretary without anyone even noticing I was different. Maleness out of sight, out of mind.
It's not a well-hidden fact that PR is an industry that skews female anyway; my replacement in Chicago was a woman, as were most of my office-mates (I had a short fling with one before leaving, spurring a bit of drama in the office.) People would just rather be represented by a woman's face and voice, and I understand that. It made me feel like crap (when I was male,) but I couldn't disagree.
The thing I regret most about the swap - more than the new body, the discomfort of the clothes, the more-than-occasional glances on the street - is letting it throw my life into general disarray. But I'm taking a hold. I'm being me.
As my counsellor said during a short chat on the phone last wednesday... swaps teach people not to take things at face value.
Ha ha ha.
-Nick
Nick Blanchard graduated from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign with a Bachelors degree in Communications. After spending the last month as a secretary, she is glad to have it. She e-mails her blog entries to Alex on an irregular basis.
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