The change happened last night not long after I arrived and posted. I was about three episodes into Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders Season 2 (will those girls ever get paid what they deserve?) I felt a tingling, irritating sensation, which I've come to know very well, but... nothing was happening.
Of course that's not true. Something was happening. My skin tone was changing. My muscle tone was changing. My hair was changing. A million little features on your body gradually fade from one to another -- it's just that there was no dramatic increase in breast size or hair or... any of that stuff. Short-cropped dark hair becomes slightly longer blond. My clothes "shrank" ever so slightly. My legs began to bristle with body hair.
I stood up and noted, woozily, that I had definitely gained height. I was over 6', probably the tallest I've ever been, after being the 5'8 Ryan. It was also pretty clear I was going from a medium jockeys to a large, so I pushed my shorts down and saw... something that was pretty good, if I'm being honest.
To the bathroom I went to see the face of a chisel-jawed, blue-eyed, All-American boy. Not to be shallow, but this definitely felt like a win. I went from yoga twink to high school quarterback (actually, college lacrosse midfielder, I've since found out.) I flexed for myself and noted the definition, wondering if I was still feeling echoes of Ryan's sexuality or if, you know, this was just a reasonably handsome guy that anyone would appreciate being.
In the closet were two suitcases. I had glanced at them, but given one was navy blue and the other sparkly-pink, I didn't really want to examine either until I found out who I was becoming. This was my introduction to Dustin Howe, a 22-year-old recent grad from (redacted) college, living in (redacted New England town). I grinned at my luck -- twenty-two years old, no particular occupation, living away from home. This was, I think, what everyone secretly hopes for when they go to the Inn. Those are things I would hope for before even considering gender or race.
The pink suitcase, his note told me, belonged to his girlfriend Dakota. In pictures and videos, they seemed like an almost too-perfect couple: she stood about a head and a half shorter than him, petite, sporty, fashionable, perky, equally blonde, energetic and not shy about showing off her tight young body in bikinis. They were like dolls designed to go together. They wound up as, in their words, an "old millennial couple," (a phrasing I took somewhat personally) but had been spared a gender swap. I reasoned the new Dakota was in an adjoining room, but as it was very late at night, I figured I would wait for them to come find me.
It was around daybreak that I heard a knock at the door. I guess my body was expecting a summons, or just coursing with adrenaline, so I was sleeping lightly and sprang to my feet, almost forgetting to put on some shorts before my long stride took me to the knob. I opened the door expecting to find "Dakota," but instead saw someone... different.
She was tall, nearly eye-to-eye with me, with jet black hair, pale skin, and tattoos that I could see covering her arm, neck and chest, at least from the portion visible under the silk robe she was wearing, which clung to her pin-up girl curves. Her earlobes were massively stretched out, as if they were supposed to have numerous piercings that, I would guess, simply disappeared somewhere between transformations.
She looked at me with her doelike brown eyes -- an expression that read to me as suppressed fear and confusion -- and said, "Pardon me, I'm looking for someone called... 'Dustin'?"
I nodded, "I... guess that would be me." I didn't want to seem like too much of a pro at this, but I also wanted to establish that we were all safe and sound.
"I, erm," she stammered, her vocal inflection that of a rather older woman, and shyly pressed a lock of hair behind her ear, "I was told there would be a suitcase in your room belonging to a Dakota Culbert."
"Oh, um, yeah, yeah," I stammered. "It's here. Sorry, who are you, then?" I was curious how this third person had been briefed on Dakota and Dustin.
She paused. "I... I don't know if I should tell you my real name, or..."
"Um, let's... let's not get into real names just yet," I said, trying to take things one at a time. "I was told to expect a Dakota, but I don't know anything about..."
"Well, apparently I'm Cassandra," she said, primly.
"Who's Cassandra?" I asked. I had read the note -- brief as it was -- numerous times already, and seen no mention of such a person.
"Well, as I've been informed, Cassandra, Dustin and Dakota live together. They're best friends, housemates, something like that. It's all in the letter I found with her luggage."
"My letter doesn't mention a Cassandra," I said. I guess Dustin had been a little neglectful and self-centered when writing his piece.
"Well, I guess we'd all better have a talk," 'Cassandra' said with a frustrated sigh and beckoned me over. "Would you like to..." she gestured at my bare chest and undershorts, which were not doing a good job of suppressing "Little Dustin", before correcting herself and blushing, "Sorry."
"It's okay," I felt myself blushing too. I asked her to wait a minute, closed the door, and threw on some loose-fitting sweats I had found, with a Patriots jersey on top.
We wheeled the pink suitcase over to the room next door. 'Cassandra' knocked and opened, calling in, "Are you decent? It's me."
"I'm good," croaked the girl on the bed, whom I saw was wrapped in blankets, presumably naked beneath. "Ugh, thank God you found it. At least I'll have something to wear."
"I would have lent you something," 'Cassandra' said.
"We don't need to add another layer of perversity to this, Mare," 'Dakota' sniped back, the way an old married couple banters. I surmised then that "Dakota" was the husband of "Cassandra," which I was already sensing would make things complicated. She unzipped the hard suitcase and began to comb through it, giving out a very middle-aged "oy-yoy-yoy" at her findings. "How about that," she said obscurely. Not exactly the raving panicked reaction I would expect.
"Well, I guess you'll have questions..." I said slowly, suddenly being thrown off of any potential speech I might have been prepared to make as I began to get a very odd feeling, "It's your first time here?"
"That's right," 'Cassandra' said. I noticed the tension in her posture -- only natural -- with her arms folded tightly under her bosom. "Do you... know about this?"
"A fair bit," I admitted, "I hope you don't mind. This is my... wow, fourth time around. It gets easier, without ever actually getting, you know, easy," I said through an awkward laugh. They were politely unamused.
"My name is, well," I said, trying to compose myself, "Originally it was Marc Green. I was born in 1987 so I guess I'm ah, 38 now, but obviously... er, not. I've been through a few different renditions of this. A bit older than I currently look, I'm just saying."
Dakota looked up from the suitcase. Without hesitation, s/he said, "Well, it's nice to meet you, Marc. I'm John *******, and this is my wife, Mary."
I froze, and I just glared at him/her.
John.
It was impossible, and I think my head absolutely refused to believe it was true -- maybe it was the magic of the inn or maybe it's because it's the most insane thing I could have imagined (short of what happened to poor Jade.) I thought for a second that the names were just a coincidence, because surely this wasn't...
John and freaking Mary.
And he was pretending like he had no clue who I really was, and he'd never been here before. And doing it so effortlessly, too, looking at me with those big crystal blue eyes like he had never seen me. I guess it was easy to pretend since this was a new face.
John. Was here. At the inn.
And he brought his wife.
-Marc
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