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Hecate's curse
OK, so I worked on the cursed H story - the story which has called twenty-six to a halt for several months now - all morning. I wrote a thousand words, started over. I wrote two thousand words ... and then I went to go get food (I hadn't had anything but coffee all day) and by the time I got back there were other things to do. When I looked at the story again it was one a.m. and my suspicions were confirmed: It was, once again, not what I wanted for the H story. In fact, I was very displeased with it.
The deal here is that the protagonist of the H story turns people into, not just sexy things, but weird sexy things. What I had wasn't weird enough or sexy enough, and it spent too long telling a single episode - I need some arrangement where we can see brief glimpses of some of the various transformations she's conducted over the years. But the glimpses must be long enough to be sexy. And it has to be mostly consensual. The people have to be enjoying it, even while being transformed into something odd, because there will be no stories in twenty-six where everyone isn't having fun - we have way too much of that in smut already.
What did I end up writing? Another damned gender swap. I can't judge how weird gender-change tales seem to you, but they're passe to me. I read about thirty new ones a week. And I've already done a detailed study of what life would really be like, what kinds of hoops your mind would jump through, if you woke up one day with a different gender. The study of a young character who gets his wish to be female - and the repercussions of that, to himself and others - is the centerpiece of The Novel Which Dare Not Speak Its Name. Been there, done that - done it well, in fact, it's not the part of The Novel I'm worried about.
Arrrgh. I should have spent the time working on Aedie. I hate wasting creativity.
Here's part of what I wrote today. It stops abruptly; I didn't bother taking it any further. It has nude people exploring each others' bodies and it says some anatomical things, so if you don't care for explicitude, this is your warning to stop reading.
Now I am going to go start yet another H story, using the four introductory paragraphs (not shown here) which were all I salvaged of this one.
One day I will get to I. That's a funny little story of a woman who likes to have sex with men but thinks it's rude to tell them so, and is caught in a series of escalating "hints."
Don't hold your breath waiting for it.
I use my passkey to let myself into 207. He's in the shower and doesn't hear me come in; she's sitting on the edge of the bed, undressing. She makes a high noise when she sees me; it startles me in turn. My hair jolts upright, a wriggling halo at the back of my head.
I sit down beside her on the bed and help her take off her blouse, easing it down over her shoulder. "Who are you - what -" she is still stammering. I unhook her bra. She has lovely breasts; even though she's in her forties, they have not yet begun to sag. I have to rejuvenate mine every quarter-century or so.
I give her a feeling of trust. She won't understand why, but that's not important. Not that it would matter if she tried to call hotel security. My employees are well-trained.
"You didn't have much fun last night," I whisper, my lips on her ear. She shakes her head. In truth this has been a very disappointing tryst for her, but she's a polite woman.
He takes a little too much pride in his appearance. He's well-dressed, but the kind of well-dressed that makes people suspect he likes looking in the mirror more than is good for him. A hundred years ago it still would have been safe to call him a fop. People don't understand that word anymore.
It must be sad to be both mirror-biased and heterosexual. He is the most chaste kisser she's ever met; I'd say he kisses like a maiden aunt, but I've known some maiden aunts who could make the sisters of St. Constantine blush. Last night he came to bed, erect from whatever thoughts he had been thinking to the mirror, and entered her as if afraid to touch her; he pumped up and down for three and a half minutes while she clutched the headboard with both fists, then gasped once, sharply. He pulled loose and rolled away. They slept with their bodies apart. When she heard him begin to snore, she rubbed her clitoris between the index and middle finger of her right hand and made a game of climaxing as quietly as she could.
I lean over, curving my body around her so I can kiss her. My hair fumbles over her shoulders and her breasts, exploring a new torso. She is terrified and fascinated and silent.
I put my hand between her bare legs, cupping it over her labia. She begins to feel the change. "It's all right," I say, kissing her gently again. I take my hand away, put one of hers down there instead. "Feel that? That's your penis. Doesn't that feel nice?" It's the clitoris, swelling bigger and happier than it ever has, lifting its head out of your labia like Mars rising. It's the ultimate erection.
He really does have a pretty face; I don't regret putting it on her. She runs her hand over her cheek, feeling the palm catch on the stubble. Her other hand is on her new toy, but I'm not sure she realizes that.
He has come in from the bathroom, drying his shoulders off on a towel, stunned. "What the hell?" he says.
"I don't know!" she says, her inflection female but an octave deeper.
They have exactly the same body now, down to his crooked front left incisor. "What do you think?" I ask him.
"Who are you? What's going on here?"
"Are you sure you have the right room?" I tease.
"It's me!" she says to him. "Really. She did it."
"Show him," I say to her. I can tell she's figured it out, from the way she smiles. She stands up and takes the few steps over to him, her walk unsteady.
"You don't like it?" she says. She can look him in the eye, press her lips against his, without tilting her head up now.
He pushes her away with both hands, pulls back. "Get away from me! I don't know what this is all about, but -"
I step toward him and put both my arms around his waist, hugging him to me. He's damp from the shower. "You don't think she's cute like that? I know you like the way you look - it's like having a walking mirror."
Now she is suspicious. But I wink at her.
"Get off me," he says, pushing my arms away. "I don't know what -"
"No, you don't, do you?" I reply. I grab him again, turn him to face me, and kiss him firmly - a long, long kiss. His nipples are double the size they once were, moving forward on blossoming breasts. Maidenhood reproduced at high speed, puberty and past in one swift motion. His hips bulge and he staggers a little as his center of gravity shifts, but he doesn't break away from the kiss. His penis retracts, his testicles shrink away. The taste of his mouth changes even as my tongue is exploring it.
"What do you think?" I say to her, turning him around for display purposes. He's still processing the kiss, he has no idea what's happened; he offers no resistance.
Her jaw drops. "He - he's me!" This gets his attention. He looks down at himself, says something unintelligible, and runs into the bathroom.
I can't avoid a giggle. He slams the bathroom door.
I sit down on the bed next to her. "How did you get hair like that?" she asks, twirling a strand of it around her finger and watching it squirm loose.
"I got bored with normal hair one day and changed it."
"I like it. What do people do when they see you walking down the street?" she says.
"I don't leave the hotel very much these days. Do you think he's going to come out of there?"
"I don't care," she says, leaning in to kiss me. Her lips are firmer now, her tongue more aggressive than I'd expected. She mmms under the kiss without knowing it, and pushes me backward to lie on the bed, with her lying almost on top of me. She reaches under the skirt of my dress and discovers I'm not wearing anything underneath. Her fingers are uncertain but -
"I can't believe you did this to me!" he says from the bathroom doorway. The new soprano makes it even more petulant. "Are you just going to leave me like this?"
"I might," I begin, but she cuts me off. "Hey! What's wrong with that body anyway?"
He puts a hand to his mouth. "I didn't mean -"
"What did you mean, then?" she says, standing. "You think women are that horrible? Then why am I even here at all?"
"No, I don't -" But she's not letting him get a word in. She's had it.
"You don't want to kiss me, you don't want to touch me, you don't care whether I'm having any fun or not. Well, to hell with you." She pulls on pants - his pants, from the floor by the bathroom door. "I'm leaving."
"You can't! You're - that's my body, you can't just walk out with it! What am I supposed to do now?"
I should just let her take his identity and leave, but that's not fair. "Stop," I say, and she freezes in place, her hand on the doorknob.
I move over to him, let my hair fondle him randomly from behind. "You, miss, are being very difficult this evening," I said. I push him forward, over to where she's frozen. I move her pliable hand away from the door and turn her to face him. She stares unblinkingly, still unable to move on her own. "Now, that's your penis," I say to him. "It's on someone else's body right now, but you know it well. It was happy until a few moments ago, when you ruined the mood. Now you need to get it to stand up again. You remember how to do that, don't you?"
He stammered, but no real words came out. Finally he placed one hand on her penis reluctantly, ran his fingers along it. Then he took it in his hand, stroked his hand along and around its length. It began to respond. I put one arm around him by the ribs and moved that hand up to play with his nipple; my other hand was fondling his labia, moving between and around them, circling them gently with a fingertip. I noticed that while he was still stroking her penis with the same hand, the other hand was now exploring the hair on her chest, her newly muscular upper arms, her chin.
I unfroze her and stepped away. She blinked several times, caught up with what was going on, and smiled.
© Columbine
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