Wo(man) by Abby Hagen

This is not my body.

I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, shaking my head.

This is definitely not my body.

I furiously rub my eyes trying to clear my vision.

Nope, still not my body.

I drown my face in cold water and try again.

THIS IS NOT MY BODY.

The person staring back at me in the mirror is not me. My reflection is supposed to show a 38-year old man in his prime, but all I’m seeing is a nauseating excuse for a woman. Of all things to suddenly wake up as, I’m a woman. How degrading.

This body is horrid. My once 20 inch biceps have been shrunk into 5 inch twigs. My triceps have absolutely no power. My quads are so small that my legs look like toothpicks. I don’t even have my six-pack anymore, just chubby skin providing a protective layer over my stomach. My muscles don’t stand out at all. I’m just a big blob of skin and bones. If the guys at the gym saw me now I’d be ruined.

I stare at myself and pinpoint the less important changes. My five o’clock shadow is gone, but the scar above my left eyebrow is still there. I chuckle, remembering how I received it. My crazy ex-wife bashed me with a hair dryer the night she found me in bed with her sister. That’s her own fault for never fully taking care of my needs. She should’ve just stayed in the kitchen where she belonged and stayed out of my business.

Thankfully, my eyes are still the same piercing, emerald green they’ve always been. At least there’s something good about being turned into a filthy female. My hair is the same deep brown with faded gray roots, but it’s longer. I seem to be a bit shorter as a woman. My intimidating 6’3” has been reduced to about 5’8”.

This is utterly disgusting.

I slam my fist on the counter. I was supposed to get some action tonight. I can’t go out like this, it’s embarrassing. I never want to be seen as a woman. It could ruin my entire reputation.

I glare at myself in the mirror and look down. That’s when I actually notice my bathroom. The entire counter is covered in feminine junk. Every masculine item I had is gone and has been replaced. There are weird paint brushes, containers of who knows what, and hair tools scattered everywhere.

What kind of sick joke is this? Who went through my stuff?

I run out of my bathroom and into my bedroom. I notice there are female clothes thrown everywhere as if a woman actually lived here. I throw open the chestnut doors to my closet and discover disaster. My expensive suits have been replaced with flowing dresses, the undergarments that used to cover my male extremities are now made to cover female ones, and every hanging shirt has some kind of sparkle design that makes me sick.

What am I supposed to do now?

I glance at the alarm clock beside my bed.

6:07 PM.

It’s a reasonable time to be up since I didn’t come home from the bar until around 5:00 AM. Only the Lord knows what I did last night and how many women I had been with.

Who was I with last night?

Images of one single woman flash through my mind. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. That isn’t my type, but I can remember feeling a connection with her that I’ve never felt with anyone else. We talked and laughed all night. Instead of bringing her into the alley, I brought her home.

THAT’S IT!

My eyes dart back to my bed. Both sides of the mattress leave the impression of a body. If she had been here, where is she now?

I begin to run through my apartment, but every room is empty. The woman is gone and has probably been gone for hours. Who was she?

I go over to the side of the bed she must have slept on. Running my hands up and down the mattress, I look for a sign. The scent of cheap perfume is still lingering on the sheets. My fingers make contact a piece of paper underneath the pillow. I pull it out and I’m suddenly left with even more confusion.

The paper reads, “Enjoy, you pig.”

Pig? Who is she calling a pig? She doesn’t even know me.. or does she?

Oh well, I guess it doesn’t matter now.

Standing in my closet, an idea strikes. I look down at myself and back up at the clothes. Maybe I could go out like this. It could be fun. I could tease the men at the local bar and then leave them empty handed. I could use some entertainment tonight.

If I was going to pull this off, I’d better make it believable.

I never realized how long it takes for women to make themselves decent. I shower and pull my hair up because I have no idea how to use that twisty clamp thing. The only makeup I know how to use is lipstick so I just put on a lot of that. I slip into a tight black dress that’s very revealing, even though this body has literally nothing to show off.

I check myself out for the 10th time and agree that I’m probably the hottest woman I’ve seen in awhile, despite my wimpy figure.

The clock says 10:46 PM. I’ve just wasted so much time getting ready.

“The Lounge” is the only bar I go to and it’s conveniently located 2 blocks away from my apartment. The music is always loud, the girls are always hot, and the men are always drooling. It has this dark alley out back where I love to take the women I flirt with.

I grab my keys and leave my apartment. The city is covered in a mist and the air is cool. I wobble as I walk down the sidewalk because of these platform shoe things. Why do women wear these? They’re highly uncomfortable and I can feel my ankles rolling with every step I take. I give up and rip them off, slinging them over my shoulder. The sidewalk is littered in men like me, well who used to be like me. They all stare and shout things at me while whistling as I pass.

“Hey pretty baby. You wanna come over and give papa some sugar?”

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

“I could use me a piece of that!”

Remark after remark just keep coming, it was starting to get annoying. The amount of cat-calling that’s going on is giving me a migraine. Is this how I really acted? These pickup lines aren’t even good. I’m going to need to work on my material whenever I’m a man again.

Finally, I make it to the bar. I can smell the alcohol from outside and my mouth begins to drool. I love to drink more than I love to be with women. It’s my favorite pastime.

I slip inside and strut right up to the counter, swinging my hips to get attention.

“Whiskey on the rocks!” I call to the bartender as I twist my hair around my finger.

I cover my mouth quickly and realize how pitiful my voice sounds. It was not what I was expecting, then again, you don’t expect to go to bed a man and wake up as a woman.

The bartender shoots me a strange look, but pours my drink anyway. As he does, I scan the bar. My eyes stop when I see her. She’s sitting at a table on the other side. I’m sure it’s the woman I took home with me last night. She flashes me a smile and my blood runs cold. Before I have any time to react, the bartender catches my attention by sliding my drink toward me.

As I go to reach for it, it’s taken away. I turn, infuriated, to the man who swiped it. The dim lights make it hard to see who he is.

I quickly try to sneak a look back at the woman, but she’s gone without a trace.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you ordering a man’s drink?” he scoffs, snapping me back into reality. His voice sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it.

“I can order whatever I damn well please!” I yell, keeping my eyes locked on my drink.

He laughs, shakes his head, and swallows the hard liquor without even asking.

“I’ll get you something that’ll suit you better. Bartender, pour this fine lady a cocktail. Make it snappy,” he orders.

I can feel the anger rising. Who does this guy think he is? First he takes my drink and then he orders me some pathetic one. If I was my old self I’d smash his face in. Then he wouldn’t be ordering any drinks for a while.

The bartender doesn’t hand my drink to me. In fact, he doesn’t even make eye contact with me as he gives it to the man. I notice that the man turns his back toward me while holding my drink. As he turns back around, he’s strangely stirring it. Then, instead of just handing me the drink, he holds it up to my mouth and pours.

The liquid flows from the glass and down my throat without giving me a chance to do anything. There’s something odd about the taste of it.

This technique is too familiar.

As I drink, I realize what’s going on. He just spiked my drink, most likely with Ecstasy or Ketamine. I’ve used this trick many times on the girls I take out back. I slip the drug in their drinks and we end the night together under the stars. This man, who I still don’t know the identity of, has just done it to me. My thoughts are fading and I start laughing more. The drug continues to set in and I’ve lost all realization of what’s happening as we head for the back door.

The cold night air sweeps over my body as the man throws me into the alley. We’re both laughing, but mine is not intentional. His face continues to get close to mine and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I can’t function properly. I’m too messed up to fight back as he pushes me to the ground. I could feel shards of glass digging into my skin as panic floods through my body. I still don’t know who he is or why this is happening to me. I’m a woman for one day and this happens.

I gasp for air as he puts all of his weight on me. I turn toward him and stare into his eyes, looking for something to identify him with. A small glow of light shines from the door by the bar, but it was all I needed.

My heart stops.

I recognize those emerald eyes and the faint scar above his eyebrow.

It’s me.