After three days without a shower, my new sensitive nose couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know why I was putting it off—I guess I believed that if I started to take an interest in the care of this body, it would be like some form of acceptance. But just like when I got hungry yesterday, life made another demand on me: If I didn’t want that awful smell to follow me around everywhere, I was going to have to take a shower.
I undressed, pulled out the rubber band that has been holding my hair in a ponytail since yesterday, and surrendered to this body’s need to be clean.
The shower felt really, really good. I could feel the stress drain out of me as the hot water sprayed over me. You would think it would feel all sexy to soap up a woman’s body—but that wasn’t the case for me. If anything did feel pleasurable at all, I pushed those thoughts away. I was all business. Washing the hair took a lot more shampoo than I was used to, I could see where it would be easy to go through a bottle very quickly.
I was just stepping out of the shower as there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Jake, its Art, I’ve got news.”
“Just a second.” I grabbed a towel, hesitated for a second, and then wrapped it around myself in a feminine manor. I couldn’t get the towel to stay in place on its own, so I held it in place with one hand and opened the door.
It’s odd, but I’ve noticed that all the transformed women have turned out kind of hot—and whenever we have dealings with each other, the first thing we do is check each other out. With every conversation there is this awkward pause until we remember that there is a guy somewhere under that attractive exterior. This conversation was no different. What can I say? Art’s new body had an elegant sexy quality about it—and I can’t blame Art either, I’ve seen myself in the mirror. I look like the kind of girl you see on posters in beer stores.
We catch each other gawking and we smile sheepishly at each other. Man does Art have a killer smile. I push that thought away, and focus.
(S)he tells me about how we are not just any women, but apparently we are in the bodies of the last guests of the Inn. That I was living someone else’s life now and my name is Ashlyn. Art added that I needed to look through the luggage that was left for me—that there was probably a note telling me about my new life, and maybe some new clues on what has happened.
I quickly returned to my room, grabbed one of the suitcases that was left for me, and tossed it on the bed. I was still dealing with the towel, and it made opening the suitcase difficult, so I dropped it and slid on a t-shirt that hung on me like a nightshirt. Art had followed me into my room and he probably saw me change, but I didn’t care. I was focused on getting into the bags.
“Um… you need some privacy?” Art asked.
I shook my head no. I had no idea what I was about to find, and I liked having the moral support.
The suitcases were filled with everything you would expect to find in a young woman’s suitcase. I momentarily stopped my search when I ran across a bunch of bras and panties—after having my boobs flop around for the last few days, I was slightly open to the idea of some extra support. Several of the panties were thongs, and I had no interest in those. I set the underwear aside and continued with my search.
No note. I was about to be really upset when Art points out I missed the laptop bag. I open it and there is an older model Mac powerbook with a yellow post it note stuck to it.
The yellow note says “Play the dvd”.
I booted the computer and played the dvd. The video swung around violently for a moment, before settling down, like someone was placing the camera on a tripod as it recorded. The picture showed the room I was staying in, the camera aimed at the bed. A moment later a man in his late twenties/ early thirties steps into the picture and sits on the bed and looks at the camera.
“Hello,” the man said, “Welcome to my life.”
He first gives his *new* name. I don’t know if he would want that information to get out, so I am withholding it for now.
He then tells me my new name is Ashlyn Shelley, and I had just turned 23 a couple of months ago. I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts, “near the Lechmere station”—I have no idea what that means—but I room with people to keep costs down. He talks about the roommates and the family that I have just inherited. Apparently, my mother and father live in Rhode Island. I also learned that Art is now “Elizabeth Lee” and we are friends.
He says I work in “promotions”. Radio stations hire me to show up at their events and pass out things to the crowd. That I also work conventions and car shows, that my job was to attract interest in the booth and to pass out “swag”.
He then tells me that he/she/I have just broken up with a guy named Josh. Josh was apparently a good guy, but was getting too serious. “Be nice to him,” the man on the screen says, “He’s in love with you.” He then breaks down for a moment, crying.
The man eventually collects himself. “One last thing, I received a letter from the guy I turned into—I decided to talk to the camera instead—but in my letter, it stated that if I tried to tell someone about what has happened, they would not believe you--that no amount of proof or persuasion would be enough. It’s a part of the magic or something.
I’ve tested it, and he was right. Goodbye Ashlyn, have a nice life.” The video stops.
After spending the last few days in this body, I had resigned myself to the idea that it might take a while to get my old body back—if ever. I had a small amount of comfort in the idea that I could go to my friends and family, and somehow convince them that I was Jake Mathews. I would then have their support, and I could somehow continue my life as I tried to find a way back to the old me.
Now even that little bit of hope has been taken from me.