Tom/Kiara: Down the Rabbit Hole

I've had a lot of time in the past day to do research... about the Inn, about Kiara, about being in a body that has recently given birth. In the past ~24 hours I've pumped my breasts four times, including right now as I type this, over the hissing strains of the machine. You see, the milk builds up and causes pain and pressure, until you can't ignore it, hence I have no choice but to submit myself to this. It's very strange to feel myself being milked and then see all this stuff coming out of me, but if I don't, then the body might stop producing, and I'd feel weirdly responsible for that even though I haven't even met this baby.

One thing at a time, though.

(If you don't want to hear about this, sorry, but I don't want to be living it either.)

Kind of a shame that as soon as the milk is out, all I can do is dump it, but if recent experience has taught me anything there's plenty more where it came from. (shudder)

Aside from relieving myself a couple of times, which goes about how you would expect (we're all adults with at least a 9th grade understanding of biology, right? No surprises really for this first-timer) that's what the bulk of my experience as Kiara has been. I wore my own ill-fitting clothes to the laundromat because I didn't know where hers had been. I sorted the clothes into "will reluctantly wear" and "would have to be forced to wear," since teenage girls, even ones who have semi-recently given birth, enjoy showing a lot more skin than I do. I then made a trip to Old Navy up in South Portland because her taste in underwear was not what I would call "beginner friendly." (I wore bikini bottoms under jean shorts for the day.) There, I encountered a very, erm, fun, selection of prints and styles.

I'm now wearing her cloth shorts with "my" Kiara!Underwear, and will don her tank top once I can unplug myself. 

In the last day or so, I've learned a lot -- beyond physical stuff. I've gotten access to Kiara's socials. There's a lot on Instagram from prior to and during her pregnancy. I see a happy young girl with lots of friends and an active life: school, activities, parties. The girl in those pictures looks a little different to how I'm used to seeing Kiara -- obviously she's less disheveled, more presentable, wearing makeup and accessories with her hair taken care of. She's also thinner, for obvious reasons, although I wouldn't say that her/my current figure is "fat," just... up a few sizes after giving birth. A little softer, you know? (Holding her clothes against my own reveals a startling size discrepancy that I can hardly fathom in the abstract.) 

Then further down her timeline, there's pregnancy stuff, and then baby stuff and virtually no friends. If I had to guess, her social life probably took a pretty big nosedive once she gave birth, because as I understand it, once you have a baby, that's kind of all you have going on.

I also saw the father, and he looks like a perfect Gen-Z d-bag and I hope I don't have to deal with him very much -- he disappears sometime during the pregnancy posts. No surprise there. There were a few glimpses of family in there too, but nothing that expands on what basic facts were in the note I received.

Regarding the Inn, I've read up a lot on its history, I know more about how it works and/or how it is believed to work. Thank you Art Milligan/Penny, wherever you are. I'm of two minds continuing to post. On the one hand, since I was clearly the target of some kind of nefarious scheme, it might not be safe for me to talk much here. On the other hand, they didn't exactly need me to have any kind of presence on the blog to target me, so what difference does it make? Maybe I'll keep things close to the vest, but it will probably be good to have an outlet where I can sign my own name.

For the time being, here are my objectives:

1. Finish my story. That's still important to me. It's clearly going to take a backseat, but I have a few opportunities still that I can't let slip through my fingers.
2. Learn what I can about the people who did this to me. They have to have figured, I'm not taking this lying down, as powerless as I am.
3. Find the real Kiara. I don't know how she actually feels about this situation, if she wants to go home and be reunited with her family but it behooves me to try to make that possible. Inversely, I've guessing it will be tough to convince the new Tom, whenever he shows up, to play ball, but I have to try.
4. Be the best Kiara I can be. I may hate this body and life but there's a tyke out there who needs a mama and apparently I'm it.
   

Logically, I should probably make haste back to North Carolina since Kiara's family will be expecting her, but she's already been gone so long, and I have a few days left here, I need to make the most of them.

-Tom/Kiara (going to try to get used to that.)

Tom: Male Journalist, 35, transformed into NC Girl by Cursed Inn

I'm sitting here in my gym shorts (drawstring as tight as it will go) cursing the fact that I got played, but in fairness to me, who could have possibly seen "Tricked into having your body stolen" as a possible outcome of all these events? (Other than people who have already been here, thank you very much.)

I knew that my story was goihg to ruffle some feathers, but it appears someone wabts to go to great lengths to get me out of the way. I may not be the smartest Asian guy you've ever met, but I know basic math. One plus one equals two. Inconvenient journalist plus creepy magic inn that transforms people equals not a coincidence.

I think the sensible thing to do would be to cry and shiver with fear but I'm more angry than anything. Maybe that anger is impotent -- what exactly am I supposed to do? -- but it's valid, and it feels better than sniffling helplessly about what's been done to me.

This after I felt I was on the verge of a breakthrough with my source last night. She brought some paperwork with her to dinner that was fixing to point me in the right direction, but wouldn't let me hang onto it. I figured another night of wining and dining would be all it took. I'm worried now she was in on the plot and just stalling.

I woke up to a lot more commotion outside than usual. I tried to ignore it but it wouldn't subside, so I decided to roll out of bed -- but the floor wasn't exactly where it was supposed to be, and the leg of my sweatpants had slipped under my foot, causing me to trip and and roll my ankle. At this point, I was very confused and the room was spinning, but I was starting to notice what was different, namely that my head was surrounded by what appeared to be a lot of frizzy hair.

I had fallen asleep shirtless (pajamas are sort of a waste to pack, don't you think?) and of course the view was... different. I cupped one of my new breasts to confirm -- yes, this is real, and really part of me, and really very sensitive. As my situation dawned on me (Thought one: "Holy crap, this is real!" Thought two: "If so, then what??") I batted some of the hair out of my eyes so I could hobble to the restroom, pulling my sweats up with one hand as I pushed through the door to see a middle-aged lady looking in the mirror with awe. Annoyingly, the bathrooms at this Inn, at least this room, are shared.

She looked me up and down and surmised, "You too, huh?" What gave it away? I wrapped an arm around my chest and hissed, a little un-neighborly, "Do you mind?" She calmly left through the other door and I locked it behind her.

I turned to the mirror and looked at the face of the girl looking back: doll-like button brown eyes, frizzy, rusty-reddish brown hair, pale skin, breasts that were certainly more than a handful for her little mitts, just barely in frame due to her lack of height. She glared back at me with angry intensity under her bushy eyebrows, her jaw jutting outward ruefully.

I started to let it all compute in my head. The Inn's magic is real, obviously. And it's more than likely I was set up -- it's too much of a coincidence that I would end up here of all places. I felt the weight of everything I was working toward crashing down, because if someone could do this, they must have the resources needed to do much more...

I stopped. A flash of a smile crossed my face. It's not like they killed me. Do they need me alive? Or are thry simply not willing to kill? Was this their big move, their only card to play? I scratched my smooth little chin. Maybe the game's not over. Maybe there's hope for old Tom -- or whatever I was called now -- yet.

I was a little flattered that whatever Im doing warrants such attention.

I unlocked the other door and left the restroom, hobbling back to the bed gingerly on my still-aching ankle, increasingly aware of the "el nada" that was in my oversized sweats, and the slight juggle of my unbound breasts.

I crouched down and reached under the bed and heaved the luggage out -- urk, it was heavy, or more likely, I had a lot less upper body strength than I thought I should. On top was a letter in a manila envelope.

Typed, in almost AI-like bland writing. I suspect this person did not write it herself.

It explained that I was now Kiara Simmons, of [interchangeable small town] North Carolina. It left no indication of who Kiara became or how to contact her, which lent credence to my theory that this was a setup. But it contained a few pieces of information that caused whatever relief I was feeling to dissolve back into anger.

One: Kiara is seventeen. They made me a minor, those bastards.

Two: Kiara has a seven-month-old daughter waiting for her back in N.C.

That tidbit caused me to reel backwards on the bed and pull a pillow over my face, which muffled my scream of anguish and also absorbed the tears that my body was producing without my permission. A 17-year-old babymama? Maybe they should have killed me. 

The last line of the note, once I could finally convince myself to finish it? Almost mockingly: "Don't forget to pump."

No wonder the suitcase was so big. It needed room for the apparatus: a breast pump.

It's been an hour now, and I'm starting to notice these things getting really sore. Time to give that manual a look.

Score one for the bad guys.

-Tom... or "Kiara"

Tom: Downtime

I was playing phone tag with my source yesterday and we couldn't make a meeting happen, so I made a command decision to put work aside for a day and try to enjoy myself in this setting. It's a nice little town, the right mix of rustic and touristy.

I ended up meeting a local girl through an app and she was keen to show me around. She was pretty and blonde, a self-described "chubby cutie" who talked about body positivity on her bio, which I thought was cool and possibly designed to weed out jerks... if they bother reading.

She suggested a lobster place, which I was all for. Ever the interviewer, I asked her about growing up here, etc etc. She talked about how much she loved the water and scenery. It was a cool night -- the weather somewhat dampening the beachy fun I was hoping for -- so we hit another bar and downed a few and played some darts. We found ourselves getting closer and closer, seemingly building up to something, so I shot my shot and asked if she wanted to come back to the Inn. She agreed since she has a light-sleeping roommate, and as soon as we were out the door we were kissing like a couple of teens.

We began to walk, arm in arm in the chilly air, but after a while she realized where we were going and kind of stepped back and said "Oh. There's a lot of superstition around that place, it really creeps people out." I said I could see why but it was really not so bad.

I couldn't change her mind and the mood kind of changed from that point -- she just said she'd message me hopefully before I leave, but her week was looking busy, etc etc, and I said hey, don't worry about it.

Now it's dreary out -- a reminder I'm here for business, not pleasure... but man, wouldn't it be nice to have both?

-Tom

Tom: Changed!!!

Oh no guys! I woke up this morning and I had turned into an absolutely gorgeous blonde with big tits! What will I do now that everyone wants me?

Too on-the-nose? My creative writing teacher always said I was well-suited for journalism, based on how much imagination I have. Harsh... not wrong, but harsh. No, I'm still me, dark hair, brown eyes, pudgier than I was five years ago, but hey, beauty's on the inside.

Thinking back to that prompt from yesterday, I got stuck on "how I got here" which can really be interpreted a number of different ways... what train did you take, how did you hear about the place, what's your business here... what about every decision you have made in your life?

When I was a kid, we were asked to do a presentation on our grandparents for class. That was the first time I heard about Manzanar, about the way my grandparents were treated during World War II. I thought it was fascinating, but I was still a little bit young to understand the dark implications. All I know is that when I told the story in Grampa's own words, it made a room full of (mostly white) people very uncomfortable. That was the beginning of my realizing that the truth and the written word can be powerful things, which ultimately led me from Denver, where I had grown up, to Northwestern for Journalism, to my adult career.

Twenty-some years later, Ojisan and Obachan are no longer with us, but their stories stuck with me, and I understand it a lot better now than I did when I was thirteen. No, I did not become the Japanese Bob Woodward (which, given Bob's work lately, maybe that's a good thing) ... for a long time I was toiling away in trade mags, like most J-School grads, covering the tech beat, until I decided it was time to level up or get out of the grind once and for all. At my lowest, I was doing a lot of "Why you need the iPhone 11 Pro Max" pieces that were basically unofficial marketing. Sometime during the pandemic I decided I wanted to be a real boy journalist again and started seeking bigger assignments.

Which is how I got here. I've turned from someone who was just sort of adrift to something of a workaholic. It's cost me at least one promising relationship (with, yes, a pretty white girl... your boy has a type) but I don't regret it. I finally feel like I've got purpose.

The person I interviewed yesterday was a personal acquaintance of a high-ranking tech exec, someone who is supposed to have some dirt on them and the whole company, which I'm hoping will be the stick to drop this whole game of kerplunk into place. But over dinner she was dodgy, dare I say paranoid, still not wanting to spill her guts. Okay, I can play the game. I know better than to pressure a source. I wanted to make her feel at ease, like she was with a friend. I agreed not to talk about it for the rest of the night. Instead we went to a bar and went dancing. (This job has perks sometimes.)

The source and I parted ways a little after midnight as I walked her back to her hotel. When I got to the Inn, I spent a little bit more time chuckling over some of the stuff that's been posted on this blog. Okay, if you want to do your little fiction game, I won't spoil the fun, there's something so charming about co-opting a half-assed customer service program like this into something insane and elaborate like that. It's fun to watch people come together to make it feel real. I'm only posting here because it helps me blow off steam.

That said... I looked around my room and I did see a suitcase under the bed that does not belong to me. This is where I draw the line. Fun is fun but...

-Tom N. (seriously)

Tom: Chasing Sources

Damn my millennial soul. I see a weathered old piece of paper indicating that there is a blog for guests of this creaky old inn, and my first thought is that I have to participate. Complete with prompts about who I am and what brings me here. It's like one of those old chain emails my friends used to pass around in middle school.

The name's Tom Nishimura, and I have come to this delightfully rustic slice of beachfront -- er, beach-adjacent... er, beach-seriously it's not that far of a walk property on business. I'm a journalist, and I've come up from D.C. to meet with a source. What could someone squatting in some one-horse hamlet in Maine have to say about national politics? Well... I'm trying to decide how much I can get away with telling you. There's a few people out there who probably want this story killed.

And before you ask, no, it's not going to be the story that finally takes down Trump. I try to stay far away from that mess (inasmuch as anybody can these days.) In fact, I don't even normally write about politics. My usual beat is tech. The best I can offer is slightly upsetting some CEOs and shareholders, but that doesn't mean the truth isn't important.

Put it this way: How much do you know about your smartphone: what's inside it and where it came from? Would it surprise you to know that there's some really shady stuff going on in the supply chain for rare Earth minerals? (With a slug like that, who could resist? Luckily, I had an editor who feels that way.)

What was fixing to be a rather tedious story has admittedly become a little bit more interesting due to the difficulty I've had tracking down sources. Luckily, I'm pretty resourceful on that front, and I think I've found someone who will be willing to talk. 

Well, on that tease, I'm going to prep for my interview and then find some way to relax. Who knows, maybe I'll read some of the (eyes pop) nineteen years??! of backlogged posts on this blog.

Why in the hell is this summer getaway's blog so active year-round? And why do all the correspondents have two names? Journalistic curiosity: piqued.

-Tom N.

Ande: Staying put for the summer

I'm pretty sure that there have been moving trucks parked somewhere on my street constantly for the past two weeks.  The profs and TAs make jokes about September 1st being Moving Day because every lease in the Boston area runs from September to August to accommodate the schools, but between all the graduations and folks going from closing dorms to sublets for summer programs, there are a whole lot of folks packing and unpacking right now.

I'm not among them, though - the rent's got to be paid through the summer, and the parents of the guy who left during Christmas break aren't going to be paying his part any more, so I don't have the luxury of working a part-time job with the idea of making spending money this year.  Or necessarily going home, because you don't necessarily make Boston rent money working the same job back there. 

Anyway, to make it a relevant-to-this-blog thing, it kind of got me thinking about how maybe I've left home for good and only realized it afterward in the same way I stopped being a girl for good a few years back but wouldn't really know until a year or so later.  I left home back in the fall thinking I was just going to school, and home would still be home, but it's entirely possible that I've had my last extended period in my own room, and that the house where I grew up was now a place I would just visit as opposed to a place where I lived, barring an extended period of not being able to find a job post-graduation.  It feels like a decision i should have made deliberately.

Mom and Dad think it's good that I didn't, that it would have been another moment that would have made them cry.  Andie thinks I'm being silly, but she's moved back home for the summer and may actually wind up commuting next fall.  Griff and Lindy nodded for a second, not having thought of it that way.

On the other hand, it's kind of nice.  I feel like I've slowly spent the past year and a half making this life mine, after coming east to attend the school Andie chose, and if it's not my original plan, I'm mostly still doing what I want, without looking over my shoulder to see if Andie or my folks approve.  I'm not doing anything weird or dangerous, but it's been months since I wondered if I was doing something out of character, and even if I love my parents and brother-turned-sister, sometimes just having them around makes me ask the question.

That said - it was hot as shit yesterday, and I still don't really have a handle on when a guy can go shirtless in the middle of the city.  Hildy looked way more comfortable in her halter and booty shorts than I did in my t-shirt and cargo shorts!

-Ande

Krystle Marie Kamen Potts, née Jonah Glass

As a teenage boy, I used to roll my eyes at women talking about their weddings being the best days of their lives, but oh my god, they might have been onto something.  I mean, the day my daughter was born is right up there, but that hurt!

Like I said yesterday, I was up early, because if a regular woman has regular wedding day jitters, I was tripling down with how this is a day when people might believe the story of the Inn even without a seemingly-friendly Mackenzie there.  Then I made a coffee because edgy isn't exactly the same thing as energetic, and, oh boy, I was wired when everybody - Momma Kamen, the bridesmaids, Little Moira, the wedding planner - showed up.

Because imagine every joke about waiting for a girl to get ready before a date, and then being thrown into a situation where they're not only real, but they don't go half far enough, because not only is this the date, but you're a gym girl who can do casually sexy but has to take advice from everybody else about "pretty".  So I'm trying to brush the perm I got Thursday back into shape and Karla is like girl, come on, you know you're going to need product for that, and then I'm sitting still so she can put it in and do whatever she does to give it body while Momma Kamen is exfoliating my feet because I'm gonna be barefoot at some point and it wouldn't do to be the slightest bit ashy.  Once that's done, folks are painting my nails white to match my dress, really concentrating so it looks perfect, which makes me feel kind of silly because I'm wearing the camisole and pajama shorts I put on after I showered.

Then the dress.  Did I mention there's a corset?  There's a corset.  Unlike the first dress I tried with one, it's not the torture device guys tend to think it is - it's just a way to get your boobs riding high, and if it hurts it's too tight - but the first time someone tightens those laces it's like, damn, what did I get myself into?  There's garters and stockings and tiny little buttons on the back, and it's all made of lace, so you feel like any sort of movement will tear it.  I'm sure folks who were born ladies will laugh, saying it's tougher than it looks, but it's also pure white, which means you're afraid to touch anything, including the daughter whose namesake decided to give her chocolate when she was saying she was bored and hungry!

Then there's makeup, and I don't know about anyone else, but sitting still while someone fusses about your face or tells you to close your eyes so they can paint the lids blue feels unnatural, especially when it's being done by a "sister" who has issues with her sibling that extend long past the point where you became that sibling.  Somehow, during all this, all my friends and family have changed into their own fancy dresses which are not nearly so complicated.  Jordan puts my four-inch heels on my feet, and I kind of wobble as I stand up, because even though I've gotten to the point where heels don't embarrass me very often, but I'm still pretty wary about a whole day in them. 

I gasp when I finally looked in the mirror.  I looked amazing, the absolute best version of Krystle Kamen, and after the previous night, I didn't feel terribly guilty saying that, and not just because it was an army of women getting me glammed up.  Even the parts that were unmistakably me, the climber's arms and legs that I sometimes feel make me look mannish, just seemed like the way they were supposed to be. 

Moira agreed.  "You look so pretty, mommy!"

Jordan leaned in.  "Kind of defies belief sometimes, doesn't it?"

I nodded, and we got in the limo.  I barely had time to enjoy that I was in a limousine before we got to the church and were ushered into a side room. 

My father was waiting there; with Krystle's out of the picture, Momma Kamen had agreed to let him give me away.  I'd initially kind of bristled at the idea of being "given away", and not just for feminist "I'm not property" or Inn-girl "I'm really a man" reasons. I'd struck out on my own to make a life for myself years ago, and wasn't moving from my father's house to my husband's.  On the other hand, it was a way to involve my dad, whose eyes bugged when he saw me. 

"My God."

"I know!  It's crazy!  But here we are!"

"Here we are."  He stiffly offered an arm, and I pulled my veil down before taking it.

The organ started, and my bridesmaids filled out after Gabriel's little cousins who were serving as ring beater and flower girl.  They paired off with the groomsmen, except for Little Moira, who I gather was a little ham, directing her glance all over the church and waving at everyone she knew.

Then the music changed and it was our turn.  The aisle seemed miles long with everyone looking at us, and I did almost stumble a couple times.  As I mentioned last week, there were a lot more of Gabe's folks in the church than mine, which did maybe make me feel a bit more like I was being "given away".  Eventually, we got to the altar, and my dad presented me to Gabe, saying he couldn't have any idea what "this girl" meant to him, before going back a couple rows to sit with Mom. 

I'd meet the minister a couple days earlier, and he was a nice older man, formally retired a couple years ago but occasionally officiating for folks like Gabe who had attended his church when they were younger but who didn't have any connection to his replacement.  He didn't make me feel diminished or like an interloper, which I would occasionally see happen in our church back home. Our vows were pretty close to the standard (no "obey"); I had made a go at writing my own but as you might imagine, I always felt like I was leaving important pieces out when telling our love story.  Even saying we re-connected during the pandemic when others were coming apart seemed like too big a lie to speak in church, to me. 

At last the "I Do" bit came and I said it with surprisingly little hesitation.  When he slipped the wedding band onto my finger, it felt different from the engagement ring, a tiny handshake that doesn't let go rather than a weight.  I'd wear jewelry more often if it felt like that. 

Then came "You may kiss the bride", and, folks, have you ever been kissed on the mouth in a spot made for everyone to be looking at you?  Not just in public where you don't care if people see you, but where people seeing you is the whole point?  It's pretty heady; I don't think I even heard everyone cheering and stomping their feet until I came up for air! 

There were pictures, then, and then the reception, and I've got to admit, last night is sort of a blur.  Gabe's best man made a really nice speech, and Karla did not feel the need to list all the ways this life had been self-sabotaged before I inherited it, which was nice for Mackenzie, I imagine.  Gabe did wonder who the white girl in Dominic's seat was, and I don't even remember what sort of explanation I gave.  His cousins liked her, though, especially when they discovered the redhead could dance. 

So much dancing!  One of the groomsmen said I had dancers' legs from all my time in the gym, but even those start to get sore after a couple of hours where everyone wants to dance with the bride.  It went on well past my daughter being ready to drop, but apparently the kids being brought up to their rooms and being put to bed is the point where everyone can leave their heels on their seats and bop around in stockings or bare feet. 

Eventually, even Mackenzie and Gabe's best man were ready to give up.  Gabe came to the bridal site with me and waited on the bed while I touched up my makeup and got out of my dress to reveal the lingerie underneath.  I walked out to display myself to him and he gave a big, relaxed smile.  I crawled on top of him and we started undressing each other, kissing and caressing until we were making love. 

I'm pretty sure I haven't had sex without a condom since that first time - immediately getting pregnant while you still think of yourself as a guy makes an impression! - and while it wasn't night and day, it felt a bit different, especially when we came and I could really feel it inside.  It felt so good, and it just generally feels good to feel safe doing it because I trust him to be there for me no matter what.

After that, we slept practically until check-out time, barely having time to dress (in t-shirt, yoga pants, and slip-on sneakers) and pack before heading down for brunch.  That was nice, but chaotic, though it was kind of nice that it was mostly my friends and family, since they were in the hotel and Gabe's folks were all home or at church.  That meant there was some of what Zee might call "Inn-uendo" floating around, but not too much - Mom and Dad really aren't great with being reminded that Jordan was also a guy once upon a time, and Mackenzie flew home without saying goodbye - and it was fun to kind of hold court for a while, saying hi to everyone before they got on their flights and headed home or, like Jordan and Momma Kamen and us, to their next stops.

Indeed, I'm writing this from mid-air, on our way to our honeymoon in Cape Verde!  Gabe's made a plan for being up and on the right time when we arrive that involves sleeping pills and caffeine, and maybe it will work, but Jordan's got more experience with international travel and she says to power through until you are exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as your head hits a pillow at 10pm local time and then wake up refreshed at a reasonable hour the next day.  Momma Kamen will be staying at the house and making sure Moira gets to school for a week, probably spoiling her rotten, but I'm really looking forward to just being with Gabe for that time.

-Krystle Marie Kamen Potts!