Call Me
Georgette
by George
Sparling
I woke up this
morning changed: a metamorphosis had taken place
over night. I’d been a male, named George,
but today I touched my penis, expecting it to be
there, but found a vagina had taken its place. My
hands wandered upward and I had breasts. I had
George’s memories (yuk), his cerebellum and
ganglia. I now possessed the organs of my ex-girlfriend.
George’s black and white yin/yang tattoo
hadn’t changed. I walked her walk, buttocks
bouncing.
Liberated, I
let my fingers touch my new play toy, my clitoris
and had many orgasms. Cindy never had that many
O’s with that old George. I let the orgasms
tremble through my body, waves of pleasure
quivering, something I formerly delighted in
doing it the old fashioned way. Georgette’s
way proved much better because I enjoyed its
complexity more than George’s two-dimension
ejaculations.
I pissed and
dressed. I put on Cindy’s dress, shirt, sock,
and shoes. Tight fit, those shoes. She had lived
with that anxiety-ridden George, plagued with
slipping into puritanical modes, not wanting sex
with Cindy because he thought it damaged his
intellectual capacities as a community college
English teacher. Cindy was no slouch, either: she
was a part-time assistant to an indie film
producer.
She was a full
figured woman. I felt my inguinal region parted
by the thongs and it was a pleasant sensation
walking to the restaurant having my labia and
clitoris rubbing against the friction of her
thong.
I seated
myself for lunch, a ritual I’d done as
George for over a year, eating my usual toasted
bagel with cream cheese and an espresso. She
failed to recognize me without my stubble. She
stared at me, but said nothing.
Her shift over,
surprised at her trust, I drove her to the
community forest and found a secluded place.
We sucked
absinthe candies.
“Do you
have a brother, Georgette?”
I said:
“You know, in fashionable, regal circles my
name is Cunt.”
She said:
“That’s one word women hate.” She
sucked another absinthe candy.
I said:
“If your demeanor is high style, the C-word
means you’ve got exquisite taste. I read
that on a cultish website.”
She said:
“Your clothes are the same as mine.
Where’d you shop?”
Was she in on
the secret?
I said:
“In our closet.”
She said:
“You stole my clothes. Give them back to me,
pervie.”
“I’d
have to take them off here.” I took my shoe
and sock off.
“What’s
that?” Cindy looked sacred.
“The yin-yang.
Earth and dark; heaven and light. Female-male
forces.” She massaged the tat. “We
could start all over. It won’t be that
difficult.”
“Whose
‘We’?” She looked suspicious. But
her role as a talent scout served her well.
“You left
me, remember.” She started to leave.
“Listen,
I teach English.” I told her where. She
hesitated and said:
“You
should be in our next film.”
I
couldn’t refuse.
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