Ashlyn: Is this all my fault?

Damn.

I didn’t think anything would come of it. It seemed so harmless--but I should have known better. I've been dealing with "my secret admirer" - the man/woman/demon, for all I know, that we've taken to calling Pygmalion - for longer than any of the rest. Not always wisely—obviously--but I've seen enough to know better. But I also accepted my new life much earlier than everyone I know in the same situation (except maybe Jessica), and being Ashlyn is something I'm invested in, in all its details.

Art's a sweetie - she called me today, as soon as her interview with the police was over, to warn me. She figured it was a long shot, but if something had happened to one person who's been to the Inn, and another was falsely implicated, she figured it could involve all of us, or at least more than her and Liz.

She didn't know how right she was. It involved at least one more. It involved me.

A year and a half ago, Pygmalion sent me a DVD which was basically a sex tape. It scared the hell out of me at the time, but after a few days, I realized that was silly. So the original Ashlyn had made a sex tape. Big deal. I knew she'd been promiscuous, and it wasn't any big secret from the rest of the world. So what if Matt found out? It was from at least a year and a half earlier.

Of course, I didn't figure the man was anybody important. It turns out he was. Nobody I'd recognize, me being from Texas and the guy not being very well-known outside of Providence. Maybe not even inside Providence, but he's married to money and not interested in his infidelities becoming well known. So that's hanging over my head for a year when I get another letter, asking me to do one little thing: Just get "Penny" and Ray into a social situation every now and again.

What's the harm in that? Art would probably appreciate it, even though she would never do it herself.

If I'd known it was going as far as it did, I would have told Art what I'd done, especially since I'd seen how on edge Liz has been. But nothing seemed to have come of it. I was waiting for another letter, since this bit of manipulation didn't seem to accomplish anything. But...

I'm worried. Pygmalion, as far as we can tell, works by influence, setting things up in ways that are nearly untraceable. Was I the first step in some sort of Rube Goldberg device that ended with Liz killing Ray in a jealous rage?

I hope not. But that's the way it looks.

-Lyn

Arthury/Penny: New Year, New...

I didn't know Lyn very well back in her former life - we were internet buddies, and our conversation didn't stray very far from the topics of the fora where we met - but I suspect that Jake wasn't very much of a party person. Now, Lyn's a total party girl, but give her credit - as much as she likes going out, flirting, and getting wasted, she still has enough of Jake's interest in how things work and maybe a little ambition left, so she has also figured out how to throw a good party.

This is a skill. I know, because I've tried to do it in the past, and no matter what body I was wearing, it was a disaster. I was stressed, the room frequently went dead silent, and it took me days to clean up. Lyn, on the other hand, knows where to find absolutely everything she needs, can set up a five-hour-long playlist ahead of time, knows just when to disappear into the kitchen to bring out some more snacks, and balances the invitation list so that everybody has someone to talk to all night, even if people decline. I strongly suspect she had the apartment cleaned up within an hour of people heading home.

Me, I'm not much of a party girl. Even if I'm a bit more comfortable in my skin now, "party" meant "networking" meant "work" while I was with Rick, and who wants that? Plus, as much as I enjoy being tall and fit and all, it means decent party wear is expensive, and if the party with just the right sort of girl I despise, I get ragged on for basically cycling through the same few outfits. Or they'll find some way to rip into me no matter what I do for footwear - I'll be too tall, or déclassé, or something. Besides, parties happen at the time sports is going on, and I'm busy writing and revising game stories.

I got New Year's Eve off, at least, so I headed to Lyn's. She met me at the door, took my coat, and had just enough time to make sure I had a beer and chat with me for a few minutes before slipping away to handle something, but when she did she made sure I was deposited among some pleasant company.

The big surprise of the night was when Liz and Ray showed up. I'd only seen them once since getting to town as Penny, and they don't know who I am. Lyn tells me that even though Liz had said she'd wanted to talk, she hadn't made a regular thing of it, just dropping back into her old life like nothing had happened, although she did more or less cut off contact with Lyn. Curious, I eventually made my way to that sector of the party, drifting into a conversation about something or other. I was a bit disappointed but not surprised when they didn't remember me from September. Someone else decided I looked familiar, and I mentioned that sometimes Boston Today let me do an opinion column and ran a picture with it - I think the last one had been about the Yankees signing Teixeira - and that was when Ray remembered that we'd met.

I asked how they knew the hosts and got the response about Liz and Ashlyn having been roommates, although they hadn't talked much lately, and Lyn and Ray had just run into each other Christmas shopping a week or so earlier. Of course, having a couple of drinks in me, I didn't immediately recognize that this meant they would toss the question back at me. Fortunately, Lyn is a party savant and appeared beside me out of thin air, telling an embellished version of the time I came to cover the lacrosse all-star game, where I was uncomfortable in Headlights and she helped keep me loose and we met at the bar later, exchanged cards, and I found hers when I wound back up in Boston.

Liz and Ray may not have recognized me, but someone else did. Just walked up and told me he liked my dress, and the paper should let me use a picture that shows off my legs. I blushed a bit, and came back with the very real problem that if they did, then they'd have to do it with everyone else to show there wasn't a double standard, and brother, you do not want to see more than a headshot of some of these guys. He laughed and said that was fair, and we talked sports for a while.

His name was Chance Owsley, he's the right height to be eye-level, and not unpleasant to look at. He seemed funny and smart and not inappropriately touchy at all, which isn't always a given. I wasn't displeased when he called me a couple days later so much as surprise, since I hadn't given him my number.

I dragged Lyn out for coffee on Saturday to get to the bottom of it, and she shrugged it off. "He asked, I supplied. You looked cute together."

"What makes you think I wanted his number? Don't you think I'd have asked for it?"

"You? Ha! Art would never let Penny have a guy's number."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Art-slash-Penny, you know I love you, right? I've been where you are, working for someone and then doing something ambitious on the side, filling up your time too much to have a personal life. The Inn yanked me out of it, and even if the way it happened was shocking, I'm grateful that it did. It just looked to me like you could use a yank, and no-one else was going to do it. Relax, he's an awesome guy - I wouldn't let him near you if he wasn't."

"Maybe I don't want a guy!"

"Why? Have you decided to explore other options without telling me?"

"Maybe I have!"

"Yeah, right. You were with Rick way too long for me to think you don't like guys."

"And that's worked out so well."

"Hey... This is different. It's not someone you're inheriting, or someone who is just convenient. It's someone who is interested in you. Not the person who used to look like you, you. That's wonderful, Art. Even if you've had that as a guy, it's different as a girl. You deserve it."

I don't know that I came away completely convinced, but while trying to find another message on my phone today, I came across his.

What the hell, I don't have any plans for Saturday night.

-Art/Penny

Ashlyn--One year later

If you’ve been reading this blog since it was started, you might have realized that a year has passed since I’ve was first turned into Ashlyn. I think back on those first few days, and I remember being horrified and afraid. I also thought my life was over, I couldn’t imagine living my life as the attractive, busty redhead in the mirror.

God, what a difference a year makes. I been thinking about my life lately because I knew the anniversary of becoming a victim of the Inn had passed and I have come to a shocking conclusion: I more or less like who I am now. Oh sure, I’m not too proud that my work involves wearing a tight tank top and shorts—but for the most part I am happy. I have friends, family, and an ongoing relationship with Matt—all these things make me happy.

The one good thing about being changed into another person? It’s a fresh start. I might have picked up a few bills and my college degree is gone—but this experience has shown me that I had significant gaps in my old life as Jake: I worked all the damn time and my personal life suffered. As Ashlyn I have the opposite problem, but I think with time I can find a better balance.

So a week ago I decided to give Art a call and make note of our one year anniversary. I was a little hesitant because he had recently confronted Jeremy about stealing his life, and I thought a call about the anniversary might prove to be a painful reminder of what he had lost. I finally decided to make the call—if I hadn’t called the anniversary was still going to happen; at least by reaching out I was reminding him that he was not alone.

“Lynn?” Art must have seen my number on the caller ID.

“Hi Art. Did I call at a bad time?” I ask.

“No, this is great. I just finished my workout.”

“Ugh. I haven’t worked out in a couple of days. I need a little gym time myself.”

“So what’s up?” Art asked.

“Well… we haven’t talked in a while. I thought we should catch up.” I didn’t want to jump right into the fact that our anniversary had come up—but Art is too smart.

“Oh? And the fact that we lost our old lives a year ago has nothing to do with it?”

“Well, maybe.” I admitted.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to call you too.” He admitted as well.

“How are you doing?” I didn’t actually say the words ‘how are you doing now that you know you are not getting your old life back’—but Art understood the question.

I could hear Art sighing over the phone. “I’m okay. It was a little rough after I confronted Jeremy.”

“I remember when I talked to Stephen (the guy who is now Jake). It was hard.” I tell him.

“No offense Lynn, but it didn’t seem that difficult for you. You really took to playing the role of Ashlyn.” There was a little bitterness in the way he said it.

I decided to not to let it bother me. “So have you thought about what you are going to do?”
“What do you mean?”

“Do you plan to stay Penny or are you going to take another trip to the Inn?” I persisted.
“I’m staying as Penny—for now. I don’t know if I have a choice; going back to the Inn and getting some random life seems like a really bad idea.”

I could tell he—she?—was upset, so I was careful asking my next question. “So, would you prefer I call you Penny or Art?”

“Let’s stick to Art when it’s just us, okay? It would be nice to hear my real name from time to time. Tell me about you and Matt. How is that going?” He was taking the focus of the conversation off of himself.

“I have big news.” I say—and I tell him a little story:

I don’t take as many gigs from the radio station these days, my work as a Headlight’s girl keeps me busy enough—but ever so often a job sounds like fun. The ‘End of Summer Bash’ was one of those gigs that sounded like it would be more fun than work. The job was pretty much like all the jobs I’ve done for the radio station—be eye candy and talk to people. Only that night, because it was a ‘summer’ theme, I had to do it in a tiny green bikini. Wearing next to nothing in public really isn’t a problem for me—I still suffer from a need to be the center of attention.

I was also able to score some free tickets for Matt and few of his friends. I was a little hesitant about having Matt there—after all, what I was really doing is being paid to flirt—but Matt has been to Headlight’s a few times now, and gets the fact that I have to pretend to flirt.
The bash was a blast. Like every other gig I worked for the radio station, about halfway through the party the guy in charge of the promotion girls told us to ‘go and have fun, enjoy the party’. So I found Matt in the crowd and dragged him to the dance floor.

“You haven’t been bored?” I asked him.

“I’m having a great time.” He grins. He points to a group of guys wearing Red Sox jerseys, which were standing off to one side of the room. “I bet some of those guys I would get lucky with the red head in the green bikini.”

I closed the distance between us, pressing my body into his. I liked being close to him—and he smelled nice. “Oh, you think you are getting lucky, huh?”

“I’m hoping.” He leans down and kisses me.

I wrap my arms around his neck and return the kiss. I put a little something extra into it in case Matt’s new friends were watching.

We dance, we drink, and we hang out with Matt’s friends—by midnight I was slightly drunk and Matt had me laughing so hard I nearly peed myself. He does this thing where he tells dirty jokes in a ‘Donald Duck’ voice and it really gets me giggling—of course being drunk helps.

Eventually, it was time to go. I slipped a t-shirt and shorts over the bikini and Matt and I took a cab home—or at least most of the way home. When we got to the Charles River near MIT, Matt asked the driver to pull over. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk the rest of the way home.”

So we walked along the river.

I wasn’t born a girl; or even like Jessica, I wasn’t raised as a girl—so I don’t think I necessarily react like a real woman would in every situation. For example, I don’t get mushy over flowers. Every so often Matt brings me flowers—I appreciate his thoughtfulness, but that is about it. So I found myself surprised that I was being affected by the romantic setting of walking home by the river. It was a full moon, and there were still boats on the river—it was a beautiful scene. We stopped and watched the river for a while. Matt stood behind me, close, with his arms wrapped around me. He starts kissing me on the neck and then gently spins me around—finding my lips. We stay like that for a while.

He breaks off the kiss but he keeps his face close to mine; his eyes were locked in on my eyes.
“I love you Ash.”

We had been dating for about half a year now. The ‘relationship’ has been fun and lighthearted, and there has been lots of sex—but neither of us had used the L word yet. I was stunned. It was like his words were a physical thing and they hit me with enough force to take my breath away. I felt light headed and dizzy. I just stared at him for a moment. He smiled back.
To be honest, when I said the words I didn’t know how I felt. I was overwhelmed and a little drunk; but when I said “I love you too.” It felt so right. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so happy.

We kiss again, and this time I broke off the kiss. “Take me home. Make love to me.”

We didn’t waste any time getting home. As soon as we stepped in the door Matt pulls the t-shirt off me and hungrily kissed me. I ended up being pressed against the wall, my bikini top finding its way to the floor. He was flicking one of my nipples with his tongue when I decided I wanted to do something special for him.

“Whoa. Slow down.” I say to him. “I want you to take a shower.” I touch his crotch through his pants. “I want you to take special care and wash this thing well.” I give him a look—I hope it looked seductive. “I have something special in mind. Something you’ve been wanting for a while.”

He practically ran to the bathroom.

I took the opportunity to slip off the bikini bottoms. I stay over at Matt’s place fairly often, so I had some clothes there—including some lingerie. I put slipped on a black baby doll top and no panties. I touched up my makeup and redid my hair then climbed on top of the bed a waited—I’m glad I didn’t have to wait long, I might have lost my nerve. Matt appeared in the doorway, still slightly wet from his shower, a towel wrapped around him.

“You look beautiful.” He says to me.

“You look beautiful too.” I still catch myself checking out other women, but in the last year I’ve grown to appreciate the male form—and Matt had a great form. He’s all washboard abs, broad chest and shoulders. I give him a smile. “Lose the towel and come to bed.”

To me, sex is a lot like a couple dancing. It can be passionate and physical like dancing. You are holding someone close, and you are trying to communicate things to your partner with your body. Also like couple dancing, someone leads and someone follows. Generally the woman follows the man’s lead—and I’ve grown to accept that—more than accept—sometimes I like being the submissive one in bed. I don’t think that makes me a weak person. I think it makes me brave that I can trust my lover.

But other times I still like to lead. This was one of those times.

“Lie back on the bed.” I tell him.

I was sitting next to him on the bed, and I leaned over and started kissing his chest.
Slowly, I started moving down.

Matt has been trying to convince me to give him a blowjob for a couple of months now. I hadn’t intended to give into him any time soon—but when he told me he loved me, he made me so incredibly happy—so happy I wanted to do something special for him. I decided if he was freshly showered, maybe—maybe—I could give my lover oral sex.

I ran my tongue down his shaft and he groaned in pleasure.

“Tell me when you are close.” I say to him.

I lean forward, sliding his dick between my lips. I do my best—it was my first blowjob on the giving end. Matt didn’t seem to notice that I was a novice. He was making all sorts of happy sounds. Soon he announced “Oh baby, I’m close.”

I quickly spat him out and physically climbed on top of him—lowering myself on his member. We both gasped as he entered me. I raise and lower myself once or twice—and that’s all it took. He groans in pleasure.

“That was incredible.” He tells me.

I lean down a kiss him. “As soon as you are ready—your girl has needs.”

“I see what I can do.” He says.

We make love again a little later. This time it was me crying out in pleasure.




“The next morning he suggested we move in together.” I tell Art. “I told him I would think about it.”

“Wow.” Art sounded a little stunned by my story.

“Yeah. Moving in together is the first step to a whole sequence of events and decisions. The next logical step is getting engaged. Then there is marriage…and then kids. I have a hard time seeing myself as someone’s wife—or mother. Oh my god! I can’t possibly give birth.”

I think Art sensed I was going off the deep end. “Hey, I think it is great that you and Matt are doing so well; but I think you are jumping the gun on worry about everything else. Take it slow—things will work themselves out.”

“I know—it just this is all new to me.” I say.

There is a moment of awkward silence and I could sense Art was a little uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. I decided to change the subject again.

“So, tell me about this Maxim photo shoot.”

Art groaned, but we talked about it anyway. We talked for the next hour, catching up on everything. It was good to talk.
--Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Hanging out with Art

It’s good to make money again

It’s official. I’m a Headlights girl. I’ve been one for a week and a half now. I’ve done really well money-wise; I have made close to making two hundred a night when baseball games are playing. I’m becoming a bigger and bigger fan of baseball all the time ;)


I still have mixed feelings about working at Headlights, but it is so good to be able to have some sort of plan to be able to pay my bills. I had to borrow some money from Matt to get through this last month, and it seriously depressed me to do it. I was lucky he was able to help me out; otherwise I don’t know what I would have done. Matt really came through for me when I really needed it—I’m lucky to have him in my life.


Wicked awesome fireworks



Matt had to work the Fourth of July—which makes sense, I bet the fourth is a busy day for all firefighters. I ended up hanging out with Heather and her friend Stacy for the holiday. We had gathered a couple of beach umbrellas, a bunch of towels, and coolers full of food and beer--and headed for the Charles River. We specifically setup in the grassy area across from MIT—yeah, that MIT, as in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology where the super smart go to college.


We set up the umbrellas and put our towels on the wet grass--It had been a mostly wet Fourth of July. The rain never really came down hard—mostly it drizzled. We had got to our spot at about 10 that morning and the fireworks were scheduled for nearly 12 hours later. When I pointed that out to Heather she gives me a shrug. “You want a good seat right? You get here later than lunch you can forget about getting a good spot.”


She was right. 250,000 people came to see the fireworks—I was told later that number was way down from the usual half million people. I guess people probably didn’t want to watch fireworks in the rain. I’m glad I did. I had an amazing time hanging out with Heather and Stacy—of course drinking too much might have skewed my memory.


The fireworks ended up being the best I have ever seen, it was like something out of a movie.
“Worth waiting twelve hours for?” Heather asked as we picked up our stuff to head home.


“Hell yeah.” I tell her.

Art’s in town!



The Sheraton Commander Hotel stands out in the Harvard Square area. It is a seven story brick building with an unusual sign—it’s nothing but large bold red letters sitting atop the building, held up by scaffolding. It makes the hotel super easy to find.

I knocked on the door to 512 and Art opened the door. He was dressed in a robe, towel in one hand, cell phone in the other, in the middle on a conversation; he looked like he just got out of the shower. He mouthed “sorry” and waved me into the room.


“--I’ll meet you in front of the John Harvard Statue at 1pm.” He said to the person on the phone. He gently rubbed his wet hair with the towel as he spoke. I’ve got to go, I’ve got company. Yeah. Later.” Art clicked the phone shut with one hand.


I had only met “Penelope Lincoln” for a few minutes as Art was on his way to California. Art’s new body is tall and attractive with long brown hair and matching brown eyes. His new form screams fitness and vitality—he looks like one of those models on exercise machine commercials, the ones where the girl goes “If you want a body like this…” He was also sporting a perfect bronze tan which I was instantly jealous of—my skin is to fair to have a nice tan, one of the penalties of being a redhead.


The Trading Post Inn “voodoo” was in full effect. Even though I knew this was Art, something kept giving me the feeling I was mistaken, that this person was a stranger to me. I ignored the feeling, and gave Art a big hug.


“Has it really only been a month?” I ask. “I missed you.” I stepped back from him and motioned to his new body. “You know, Liz was attractive, but I think you’ve traded up.”


Art laughed. “I definitely like being taller, and being in really good shape doesn’t suck either. I feel like I could run a marathon.”


There was nowhere to sit, so I sat on a corner of the bed. “Hey, I was planning of going running along the river tomorrow morning. You want to come? I could use the company.”


“What about Logan, your workout buddy?”


“You told me once you thought he had a crush on me; you might have been right. Ever since Matt and I have gotten more ‘serious’ Logan seems to find reasons to avoid me.”


"Too bad. Yeah, I’m up for a good run.”

Art then grabbed some clothes and headed to the bathroom to change—I wonder if he was just being modest or still thinks I have a male brain buried under all this red hair? A minute or two later I hear a blow dryer, and a few minutes after that Art steps out, dressed and brushing his long brown hair.


“Hey, you do this trick with lipstick that makes your lips look fuller…could you show me? We’re shooting a Harvard segment and I’m doing my own makeup.” Art asks.


“Sure.” I jump up and look through Art's collection of cosmetics he inherited. I get him to sit in the only chair in the room and get him to look up at me. “The secret is to outline the lips with a pencil.” I take a lipstick pencil and do so and then fill in with lipstick. “If you want ‘pouty’ lips—“ I then add gloss to the center of the top lip. “—you do this. Done.”


Art get up and looks in the mirror and smiles. “Dude! That’s looks great.” He gives me a look. “You have a talent for this stuff.”


I shrug. “Not as much a talent as a learned skill. I hang out with hot women all the time, we trade tips--Also being vain has caused me to look through more than a few women’s magazines.” I change the subject. “Hey, you want to grab some lunch? Walk over to Bartley’s and grab a burger? I’m starved.”




An hour later we are enjoying burgers and diet cokes. Like always, Bartley’s is packed and we ended up sharing a table with a couple of Harvard students. Matt’s been educating me about the “unwritten rules” in baseball, things that are just understood, but not in the rulebooks. Life in Boston has unwritten rules as well. One of them is that if you are stuck in a small place with people you don’t know, you will respect their privacy and not eavesdrop on their conversations. Of course, if our two table mates did listen in on our conversation, they probably thought we were crazy.


“So no new news on getting your old life back? You still haven’t contacted Jeremy?”


Art shook his head no. “I plan to do it soon, it’s just—“ He paused.


“It’s hard. I know. Before I called Stephen I had a gut feeling that I wasn’t getting my life back.

I put off talking to him because I didn’t want to lose what little hope I had.” I say.


“It’s hard to believe one person could do that to another. Jeremy might be worse than Stephen, he sent people to the Inn to become victims.”


“Still no news from Nell?” I ask between bites.


“Nothing. I’m guessing she’s on the run or in a stockade somewhere. If she was in a stockade, you would think she would have called or written.”


“I ran into Liz a few days ago.” I say.


Art stops eating and gives me a look. “Really? How is she doing?”


“Real well. I ran into her at the Starbucks we used to hang out at. It really messed with my head. For a split second I thought it was you. We sat and talked for a while.”


“So, what’s the scoop? How are things between her and Ray?” Art seemed eager to know.


“She and Ray were able to work out their problems and get over the fact she disappeared for a few weeks…and she accepted Ray’s proposal and they are getting married. She actually asked me to be bridesmaid, said it would seem wrong for Ashlyn not to be there.”


“Wow. That’s—that’s great.”


“Yeah, I thought so too. You should feel proud, your goal was to not screw up Liz’s life and I think you actually made her life better.”


Art smiles. “It nice something good came from all this.” He checked his watch. “I have to go over to Harvard. You are working tonight, right?”

"Yes, but I’m free all day tomorrow. We’re starting the day off with a run, right? What time do you want to meet?”

We decide to meet up at seven, hugged, and went our separate ways.


Where everybody knows your shame


Around 11pm that night the Hostess at Headlights called me over the front entrance. Art and several members of the production crew were standing there, waiting for a table. Art gave me a grin and aimed a camera phone at me, taking a picture. “My crew didn’t believe that one of my best friends worked at Headlights. We decided to stop by for dinner.” I wasn’t exactly trilled.

When I work at Headlights I pretend to be the kind of girl you would expect to see at Headlights. Besides Heather, no one I know has seen me at work—Matt hasn’t even dropped by yet—so I was a little self conscious. I tried to shrug it off—Art knows the real me, right? He won’t think badly of me if do my imitation of a Headlights girl, right? So I turned on the Headlight’s charm and gave them a big smile and slipped into my routine.

“If you guys would follow me, I’ll take extra care of you.” I say to the group.


Art and his crew stayed until a little past midnight. I was self conscious the whole time—I guess I was seeing myself through Art’s eyes, and I was afraid of what he thought of me. I was relieved to finally hand them a bill. Someone produced a digital camera and offered to take a picture of Art and me standing together. I ended up taking pictures with everyone at the table. It was something I was used to doing—guests were always waiting to take pictures with a Headlights girl. Finally, they got up to leave. Art gives me a hug and says “See you in about seven hours!” and they were out the door.


I was feeling a little down—until I saw the size of the tip and the note Art wrote on the bill: ‘Lyn, Thanks for entertaining the guys, we had a great time. See you in the morning! --Nell


I only thought I was in good shape

I’ve admitted to being vain. I think I should be given a little leeway since the body I wear isn’t the one I was born with. Is it wrong that I look in the mirror and find the woman in the reflection to be attractive? Of course deep down, I know I have a problem, after all I’ve become highly proficient and doing my hair and makeup—mostly because of what I liked seeing in the mirror.


Working out kind of fits into feeding my vanity as well. Schedule permitting, I work out every day—so, I considered myself one of the healthiest people I know.


So going running with Art was a huge shock to my pride.


Art showed up at my doorstep exactly at seven. I was a little blurry-eyed, not quite awake; Art was totally alert and ready to go. He even looked good in his sleeveless tracksuit and ponytail.


“Nell’s body doesn’t need much sleep.” He says to me. It made me want to kick him.


We walk toward the Charles River, stopping to stretch occasionally. By the time we reached the river we were ready to go. The temperature was perfect and the river beautiful. There were even a handful of sailboats gracefully cruising along the river.
In my defense, I was fine for the first three miles. By mile five I was breathing hard. By mile seven I was dying.


Art looked like he had just begun to sweat. I collapsed onto one of the benches along the path.

“Are you not tired?” I asked between big gasps of breath.


“A little.” He grins at me.


If I could have moved I really would have kicked him.


He goes back into doing stretches. “This is such a rush. I feel great.”


“I’m so happy for you.” I said sarcastically, I was busy trying not to throw up.


I think Art finally realized I was done running and sat down beside me on the bench. We sat there for a while—I didn’t have any choice, I don’t think my legs were working—and watched the sailboats and crew boats go down the river.


Eventually, I caught my breath.


“So things between you and Matt are going well?” Art asked.


“I think so. We have a good time together, he’s a nice guy and the sex is pretty good, considering.”


“Considering?” Art asks.


“Considering I am really a man in a woman’s body.”


“Oh, that.”


“Tomorrow is Matt’s birthday.” I say.


I could hear Art thinking about the significance of that. I have to give him credit; he is finally getting “girl talk” down. “So… “ He said hesitantly. “ You make a decision on the whole oral sex thing?”


“Yes and no. I’ve decided I am not going to be pressured into doing anything I don’t want to do—so that is probably a no to blowjobs. Matt will probably have to learn to deal with disappointment.”


“That sounds like a fairly healthy, well thought out decision.” Art states.


“Yeah, I am as surprised as you.” It was my turn to hesitate. “Speaking of healthy, well thought out decisions, have you thought much about what you are going to do? I mean, if you are not able to convince Jeremy to do the right thing?”


“Some. I’m not going to dwell on it until after I’ve talked with Jeremy.” His tone of voice said he didn’t want to talk about it.


“Okay. I’m there for you if you want to talk about it. I’ve been through it—still going though it.”


“Thanks. I appreciate it. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”


I slowly got off the bench and stood up. I made the “old man noise”—I groaned loudly. “I am so done.”


We walked—slowly—over to the main road and hailed a taxi. “I’m never going running with you again.” I tell Art.


He just laughed.


--Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Couplehood

With all the activity of the blog lately, I’ve felt--I don’t know--boring? There have been new victims of the Inn, we’ve heard from both Drew and Jeff, and Art has been screwed over by the guy living his life and is now living as Nell Lincoln. Me? I’ve been job hunting and spending a lot of time with my boyfriend.

Speaking of Art...

I know he was worried about me being left here “alone” in Boston—but now I’m really worried about him. We’ve talked several times on the phone and he sounds upbeat and positive. Maybe too upbeat and positive. It might be me being overly protective of a friend, but I’m afraid he’s in denial. Sure he and that bastard Jeremy might come to some kind of resolution, and Art can get his life back—but it has got to have crossed his mind that they might not. I’ve been through having your life—for lack of a better term—STOLEN. It’s devastating. I had Art to lean on to get through it. If Jeremy continues to be the Asshole he’s shown himself to be… well I wish I could be there for Art like he was for me.

So back to me and my boring life. ;)

I met Matt back in February. I had just recently decided to push myself into the dating scene and adapt even further into my new life as Ashlyn. I wasn’t interested in anything serious or complicated. Let’s be honest here, at that time I recently had sex with Jean-Michel and was surprised by how much I enjoyed it; I was in the mood to experiment a little. I met Matt and he was good looking and funny and he asked me out at exactly the right time. Fast forward 3 months and I find myself still dating the guy. I’ve moved away from my position of “not interested in anything serious” to “I don’t know where this is going”. I’m both thrilled and terrified at the same time.

It’s amazing to me how easy it has been to slip into the role of someone’s girlfriend. Everything is starting to feel ‘couplish’. Friday night we had gone to a party—A “watch the Redsox/Yankees game on tv” party. I put on a little skirt and a small scoop necked top that really showed of my boobs. It was a hair slutty, but I figured I might give Matt a chance to show off his hot girlfriend to his friends. The people at the party were mostly Matt’s friends, and they are a really tight group. I was a little nervous meeting them at first—some of his friends go back all the way to childhood—but they really made me feel comfortable and not like an outsider.

At some point Matt leaves my side to get us some beers. It wasn’t long until I was cornered by someone curious about me. An attractive redhead woman walked over to me and stuck her hand out for a handshake.

“You must be Matt’s mystery girl.” She says to me. “I’m Rachel.”

“I’m not that mysterious. I’m Ashlyn. “ We warmly shake hands and then I reach over and grab a lock of my hair. “I see we are members of the same club.”

“Yep. I’ve been a redhead all my life. People always ask if I color my hair and I tell them ‘You can buy the color, but you can't buy the attitude’.”

We laugh at that and I instantly take a liking to this woman. “How do you know Matt?” I ask.

She pauses and bites her bottom lip as she thinks about her answer. “I’m Matt’s ex-girlfriend. I thought we should meet since I’m friends with a lot of Matt’s friends.”

“Oh.” I was surprised. I blanked and couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I didn’t come over here to create a scene or anything. Matt and I are still good friends and I’ve got a new guy now. I couldn’t be happier. I just didn’t want us bumping into each other and having this big awkward moment—which I guess I managed to create anyway.”

“No, it’s fine. You just surprised me.” I pause for a moment. “I guess Matt has a thing for Redheads.”

Rachel laughs. “Yeah, he does. Ask him about his high school sweetheart sometime. ‘Missy Dawson’ she was his first redhead, I think he’s been stuck on them ever since.”

I probably should have hated this woman or something. That’s the proper girlfriend response right? But I couldn’t. She was too easy to like.

“Hey, I better get back to my boyfriend, he doesn’t know anyone here and he hates being left alone at parties. I just wanted to meet you.” She shakes my hand again. “It was nice to meet you Ashlyn.”

“Nice to meet you too. Can I ask something personal?”

“Why did we break up?” She asks.

I nodded.

“That’s a long discussion. The short answer? We were getting really serious at some point and we had a discussion on kids. I don’t want kids—he does. My job requires I travel often and I love my job--It’s no way to raise kids. We realized we weren’t on the same page on a lot of things at that point, and we decided to move on.”

Kids! Now there something I hadn’t thought a whole lot about. Do I want kids some day? I pushed the thought aside for later.

At that moment a slightly drunk man walked up and slipped an arm around Rachel. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Your friend Terry has this great wedding disaster story he won’t tell until you come back over.”

Rachel waves at me. “Matt’s a great guy. Let’s get together sometime and do lunch and compare notes—I don’t get to do the girl talk thing nearly often enough.”

“Do you like Starbucks?”

“I love Starbucks. Cut me and I bleed Starbucks.” She jokes.

“Me too. Let’s go sometime.”

“Sounds great.” She waves goodbye and they disappear into the party.

About a minute later Matt returns. “Are you having a good time?” Matt asked as he handed me a Sam Adams.

I give him a big smile, lean in and give him a kiss—then wipe the lipstick off of him. “Your friends are great. I’m having a great time. C’mon—let’s go grab a spot on the couch before they are all taken.”

I ended up basically sitting in his lap. I leaned back into him, sitting on him like a chair. I was a little tricky with the short skirt I was wearing, but we make it work. We get comfortable, ready to watch the game and I whisper “So…tell me about Missy Dawson.”

“How the hell do you know about Missy Dawson?” He asked surprised.

I give him a peck on the cheek. “We redheads have a club. We share info.”

He lets out a sigh. “Great. You’ve met Rachel.”

“We’re going to Starbucks.”

“I am so fucked.”

I’ve mentioned before in this blog that I’m a basketball fan, not a baseball fan. Kind of like I am learning to adapt to my life as a woman, I’m learning to be a Redsox fan. The total of my knowledge about baseball: I know there are nine innings and 3 strikes and you are out. I ask questions about the game as we watch the game and I come off like a total chick—but I guess that okay. Besides, Matt really seems to enjoy explaining the game to me.

The Redsox lost—5 to 9. No one was that upset. “Hey we’re still ahead of them by something like 13 games.” Matt assures me.

Afterwards I go home with him and stay at his place—we had planned it ahead of time because we had decided to drive out to Providence and see my ‘Rents before they went on their trip to New Zealand. I had packed an overnight bag and everything. When we got to his place it was an insane hour so I stripped and slipped into one his t-shirts and crawled into bed.
It was past 3am and he slides into bed next to me, spooning me. It was nice. I like the feeling of having a warm body next to mine. He slides an arm around me and it feels even better. Of course he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He pushes my hair aside and starts kissing my neck, he was trying a little foreplay.

“What are you doing?” I try to not sound annoyed—I was exhausted.

“What?”

“It’s after 3.”

“So? All I wanted was a kiss.” He says innocently.

I roll over and face him. “Yeah, right.” He’s leaning on one arm now looking down on me. I give him a big smile and grab him by the front of the black t-shirt was wearing, pulling him down to me, kissing him. It was a good ten second kiss. I could feel his body responding. I push him gently away and pat him affectionately on the chest.

“You still just want a kiss?” I give him one of my smirks.

“Well not now—“

“Too bad. It’s after 3.” I attempt to give him a seductive look—I’m still trying to master such things. “Baby, I’m tired. But in the morning, I’m all yours-- it will be worth the wait.”
He gives a frustrated sigh and we return back into the spooning position.

“You have no idea how frustrating it is to be a guy.”

He couldn’t understand why I started laughing so hard.

Not totally unemployed…

I’ve hit a brick wall in the job hunting. No one wants to hire me as a waitress, and I don’t have any work history for anything else. If it wasn’t for the promotional stuff I do, I don’t know how I could survive financially. The promotional stuff is decent money but unfortunately the radio station doesn’t need me that often. I’m not making enough to pay all my bills, but at least the financial hole I am in isn’t getting too much deeper. I do have a dilemma of needing to pay my rent and make another payment to the IRS for back taxes in the next few days. I don’t know what I am going to do. Matt knows I am in a tough spot and has offered to loan me the money, but that just feels wrong to me.

After one of the radio station gigs, me and a bunch of the other girls stepped into a bar for cosmos. We were a hit with the crowd there—all the girls who work these promotion gigs are hot, and we were all wearing short shorts and baby t’s. I mentioned my job woes to the other girls and they were actually very supportive. One girl, Kara, said she had a contact with the promotions people who do local car shows.

“It’s actually easier work than these radio station gigs.” She says to me.

“Oh?” I ask interested. “What would I have to do?”

“Wear a bikini and lean up against the cars. Easy but boring.” She says cheerfully.

I was copying down the contact information when one of the other girls approached me. Her name was Heather. I had worked a handful of the radio jobs with her. She was nice.

“You have waitress experience, right?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where I work they are always looking for pretty girls with waitress skills. I could put in a good word for you and I guarantee you would get the job—plus the tips are always good.”
“Really! That would be amazing! Where do you work?” I asked. I was excited, things were looking up.

“Headlights.”

“Headlights?” I think she saw my enthusiasm wane.

“What’s wrong with Headlights?” She was a little defensive.

I didn’t have a real answer besides that I don’t really see myself as a Headlights girl. The outfit I was wearing at that moment—the short shorts and baby t, were very similar to the outfits the girls at headlights wear--so obviously I didn’t have a problem wearing an outfit like that. Maybe it was because I had visited the Dallas headlights on many occasions and had given the waitresses a good look. I had often thought ‘pretty to look at, but nothing upstairs’. Maybe I was afraid of people thinking the same thing about me.

“I don’t know if my boyfriend would like that…” I lamely threw out as an excuse.

“I bet he loves the idea.” She takes out a piece of paper and writes down some contact info. “Talk to the BF and then give this guy a call.”

I took the info and put it in my purse. Maybe I’m being crazy. A job is a job, right?

--Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Art for Art's sake

I stole that line from a clever commenter. ;)

I took the scan of the drawing I gave Art into photoshop and colored it.

Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Here I go again on my own…

Yes, I just quoted the band Whitesnake in the blog. What can I say, I like 80’s music and I have it playing on my iPod as I write this.

Before my parents died and I was sent to live with my uncle Garry, I grew up in a suburb of Dallas. We lived in one of those cookie-cutter housing communities. It was great. There was an empty field nearby to play football, and a community pool to help survive the Texas summers. There were bike trails and parks connected to those trails. There was everything a boy needed growing up.

Including a best friend.

Billy Sanderson—I called him BS to the annoyance of my parents—lived next door. He was there from day one; as we moved into the house he just seemed to appear out of nowhere and started helping move things inside. There were no introductions—he acted like he had known me and my family forever and we became instant friends.

I thought Billy was the coolest guy on the planet. Billy was the instigator of bad behavior and I loved him for it. He had a motto he lived by “If you’re not doing something that might get you grounded, then you are probably not having a good enough time.” We spent large amounts of time debating who was cooler: Batman or Spiderman. We glued firecrackers to my ‘six-million dollar man’ action figure and lit them. “Oh No! Col. Austin’s bionics are going haywire!” We would yell as the doll would bounce around from the small explosions. We also spent countless hours trying to build bigger and higher ramps to jump with our bicycles. Billy’s parents would ask why we were so obsessed with jumping ramps and Billy would say “We’re training to be the next Evel Knievel! Duh”. Yeah, life was fun with Billy.

Being best friends with Billy had one significant downside. Billy lived with his mom and stepdad. Every summer Billy would go away for a month—sometimes two—and spend time with his dad. Those summer months when Billy went away were brutal for me. There I was, out of school for the summer and no best friend to do things with—every spring I would dread the approach of summer.

Worse, Billy would go on these amazing trips with his dad during those times away. Billy would come back and tell me tales of white water rafting, swimming with dolphins and traveling through jungles. Billy embellished all of his stories of course—I didn’t call him BS just because they were his initials—and his stories really captured my imagination. After a while, it wasn’t just being lonely in the summer that was the problem—I started feeling like Billy was going on these incredible adventures, and I was being left behind.

Which brings me to this morning.

I waited until I knew Ray had left for work before walking over to Liz’s place. I knocked on the door and Art opened the door.

“I thought we were meeting up at North Station.” He asked.

“I thought I would check and see if you needed help with anything—besides, it gives me the excuse to hang out with you a little longer. You packed?”

“Mostly. I packed a few thing last night for my—“ He made quote marks with his fingers. “—trip to New York. I waited until Ray left to pack more things for a longer stay at the Inn. I didn’t want him to see my bags and wonder why I packed so much for a short trip.”

“Smart, but if he asked you could have played the girl card.” I tell him.

“Girl card?”

“Yeah. You know: I need to pack all these clothes because I’m a girl.” I smirked.

“Well, not for much longer.”

We headed into the bedroom where there was an open half-filled suitcase lying on the bed. I found an empty spot of the bed a sat down.

“I can’t believe the day is finally here!” Art said while digging through a closet.
I didn’t reply right away. Art was practically bursting with excitement, but I had mixed feelings. I wasn’t as giddy as Art was about his return trip to the Inn. “So, you and Zoe have a good time last night?” I asked.

“Yeah, we did. Sorry about not inviting you along, but you know how Zoe is about you.” The original Ashlyn and Zoe didn’t get along, so I inherited the animosity. She doesn’t seem to care for the way I like to dress as well.

“Yeah I know. It’s okay. It gave me an excuse to go see Matt.”

Art turned away from the closet and gave me a curious look. “Oh? How’s that going?”

I shrugged. “We had a great time. Matt is fun, his friends are fun….”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“Not really. It’s just that sometimes I feel so old around him and his friends. Our tastes in music are different, movies, a lot of things. Sure, physical I’m in my early twenties, but mentally I’m closer to forty. As odd as it sounds, I think we have a generation gap.”

I pause for a moment. “He referred to me as his ‘girlfriend’ last night. I’m somebody’s girlfriend. Is that crazy or what?”

Art rolls his eyes. “Some of us have been dealing with that for months.”

“Yeah, true, but this is someone Ashlyn had never met before. This is a—God, a relationship—with someone who likes me for myself. It’s different.”

Art looked contemplative. “Yeah, I could see how that could be important.”

He tossed a few last items into the suitcase and zipped it up. “Done! And look, gender stereotypes be damned, I didn’t pack that much.”

Art carries his suitcase into the front room and called a cab. He then went to his purse, pulled out an envelope with ‘Ray’ written in big letters, and set it on the kitchen table.

Eventually the cab shows up and honks to let us know it was there. I grab the suitcase and Art gives the place one last look around.

“This was a nice life…it just wasn’t mine.”

We find an empty bench at North Station.

“Lyn, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you, and I’ve been putting it off.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

I give him a blank look. “Sorry for what?”

“It was because of me this all happened to you. If I hadn’t invited you to the beer festival, you would still be Jake.”

“Dude. There was no way you could have known what going to happen. I don’t blame you at all—never did.”

“Still, I felt I should say something. I feel guilty about being able to go back to my life—“

“When I’m stuck here.” I finished for him.

“Well, yeah.”

“Art, I am so happy this is all going to work out for you. I really am. Sure, I’m going to miss you—“ It was at this moment I could feel my throat tighten and tears well up in my eyes.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I don’t want to be one of those girls who cry easily.

I just about had it under control when Art suddenly burst into tears. It put me over the edge. Soon we were holding each other, tears running our faces.

“I’m going to miss you ‘Lyn.”

“Same here.”

We eventually regain our composure and Art looks at his watch. “Time to go.”

I reach for my purse and pull out a drawing of Liz. “It’s just a pencil sketch. I’ve scanned it, but I haven’t colored it yet. I’ll finish it and post it on the blog. I thought you would like the original drawing.”

“Yes! Thank you.” He takes the drawing from me and puts it with his things.

We hug one more time. “Take care of yourself Art. Come visit me sometime.”

“You can count on it.”

He grabbed his things and headed off.

I stood there a while. My best friend had gone away leaving me behind—it was Billy Sanderson all over again.

The Inn is back to its old tricks…

The T is right there at North Station, but I decided to walk home because the weather is incredibly nice right now. I eventually make it home and sit down to write in this blog—but before I got that far I checked my email. I was in for a surprise.
----------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Art/Liz:

Please help me. I just checked out of the Trading Post Inn, but I am not the same person I checked in as. I am trying very hard not to lose control and become hysterical here, but it is like some really bad nightmare.

I still have the laptop computer I checked in with, and theAT&T Data Card which allows me to surf the web. I did a search forthe Trading Posting Inn, which led me to your blog. I read througheach one of the entries, only to realize that this has happened toother people too. So, I am desperately turning to you for helpbefore I lose it.

My real name is Paul Miller. I am an attorney from Philadelphia, Pa., and my specialty is intellectual property litigation. I am, or was, very good at my job. It allows me to stay very cool under very tense situations. Please refer to the blog I was doing before I changed for details. It can be found at http://pxmiller.blogspot.com/

For some reason, it is harder to stay in control in this body.

I am in a different body. At some point between Wednesday Night and Thursday Morning, by body somehow changed from a near 40 year-oldCaucasian man into an African-American women. She . . . I . . . look very young, so I can't tell you how old this body is. I am a lot shorter than I was before. And the body has half-healed bruises all over it.

I went and looked for a suitcase, or anything to tell me who this girl is. She left nothing behind, so the identity of this body is a mystery to me. I had to sneak down to the laundry room of the Trading Post Inn to find something to fit me. I only booked the room through the weekend (it was an impromptu get away to clear my head before a big trial), so I had to check out.

I left my suitcase, clothes, and all of my belongings, including identification in the room. I did take what cash I had, about $425.00 with me, and this laptop. I also took the rental car that I drove all the way up here from Boston.

I don't know what to do. I am turning to you for some advice. I am afraid that if the police find me with my laptop and the rental car, that they will suspect some type of foul play regarding my real identity Paul Miller. I know that the police will be more likely to believe I did something, considering I am nowblack, and I have all of these bruises. I cannot have the police investigate the Inn, or else nobody will be able to get their real body back. I am going to have to ditch the car and laptop somewhere along the road. I will have to wipe everything down with a cloth to take my fingerprints off of it. I just hope that I can get to you in time before you leave.

So, I am going to have to get as close to Boston, as I can, and then find a ride the rest of the way. I have a flight from Logan Airport back to my place in Philly, but I don't think I'll be able to get on the plane without any I.D., especially without any I.D. that looks like my current self.

I had better describe myself, my current self, to you, justin case you find me before I can check in at the internet café. Iwould say my age is between 16 and 21. Very young looking. As Isaid, I am African-American now, and, from the reflection in themirror, extremely beautiful. I am only about 5'2" tall. My hair isstraight and black, and goes about ½ of the way down my back. Iam wearing a pair of jeans that are a little too tight (and the pantlegs are just slightly rolled up), and a white v-neck t-shirt. Ialso have on a pair of sandals (that are a little too big for me).

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In the back of my mind I knew the Inn was open again, so that means more victims. I checked out Paul’s blog: http://pxmiller.blogspot.com/It brought back a lot of memories of my own experience. I emailed him back, so hopefully he’ll contact me again. I don’t have all the answers about his new situation, but I have a few, so maybe that will help.

Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Sex, Sox & Sacked

The Sacked part:

Wednesday, a week ago, I walk into the restaurant I work at and I could instantly tell something was wrong. The people who work there are generally a friendly group; but when I walked in no one said anything to me or even looked in my direction. Before I could corner someone and asked what was going on, Maddie walked into the main dining room and asked me into the office.

I knew what was coming. Maddie and I had been butting heads for a few weeks now, so I knew it was only a matter of time before I got the boot.

“Have a seat.” She motions to a chair opposite her desk.

I’ve never been fired before--mostly because I worked for myself most of my life. As a teen and in my college years I worked for other companies, and I never had any issues. Later in life, as I did freelance graphics, I was always heavily recruited by companies. I was turning potential employers away.

Yet mysteriously, after spending a little more than half a year as Ashlyn, I find I can’t keep a stupid waitressing job. I keep telling myself that—it’s a stupid waitressing job, it’s a stupid waitressing job—but I’m embarrassed anyway, and I actually fought back tears.
I sit down, my face hot with shame, and forced myself to remain calm and unaffected.

“So Ashlyn,” Maddie looked smug. I couldn’t help but imagine she was enjoying this—she was finally putting me in my place. “I’ve had to call you into my office a few times this month, and I think I have gone way beyond were I needed to go to resolve your issues. I’m afraid I am still not satisfied with your work performance. The restaurant has also received some complaints about you, so we have decided to let you go.”

“Complaints?” I was surprised, this was the first I had heard of any complaints. “Who has complaints against me?”

“We received some letters in the mail.” She states coldly.

“Can I see them?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

We talked for a little while, but to be honest, I can’t really remember what was said because I kind of tuned her out. I just sat there feeling like a complete idiot and failure.

Eventually she stood up and asked me to leave, the meeting was over.
And just like that I joined the ranks of the unemployed. She made me leave through the kitchen and out the back door—I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to everyone. Once I got a hundred yards away from the place I burst into tears. If I was still Jake, I wouldn’t had shed a tear over something like losing a job—but as Ashlyn, my emotions sometimes gets the better of me. It’s not that I’m more emotional as Ashlyn; it’s just harder to hide my feelings.

The Sox part 1:

My Secret Admirer has struck again. It’s like he knew I needed a little cheering up. The day after I was “let go” I received a letter. Inside was a simple message:

One of the best things about Boston are the Redsox.

Wrapped in the letter was one ticket to the Saturday Redsox / Yankees game(I’m a week behind in this blog—it was last Saturday’s game). I’m not much of a baseball fan, but I have lived in New England long enough to realize I had something pretty cool in a ticket to the game. People here are nuts for the Sox and absolutely hate the Yankees. I don’t know if I can convey the scope that the Redsox/Yankees series has for the fans—the city basically goes crazy for several days.

My roommates were jealous. “So are you going to the game by yourself? You don’t strike me as a ‘go by myself’ kind of girl.” Logan stated. I think he was subtly trying to get me to give him the ticket.

I give him smirk and shrugged. “I didn’t know, maybe I will. This is a really good seat. Maybe I’ll meet someone at the game.” Standing in front of him, I run the ticket under my nose and take a big whiff like I smell something delicious. “Besides, it’s a Yankees game!” I teased.

Logan stomped off grumbling something about redheads.

I’ve struggled with keeping the gifts from my admirer. Last month, before Jessica went back to New Haven, she gave me a little advice from her previous life as a police detective:
“Your secret admirer isn’t an admirer—he’s a stalker. He is probably watching you. Don’t keep the gifts he sends. When you keep the gifts it means you are playing along with whatever sick little game he’s playing—and it empowers him.”

At the time—I totally agreed with her. “You’re so right. I’ll get rid of everything.” I told her.
Only I didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the iPod with the 80’s music he sent me. Instead I started using it. I started taking it everywhere, it became my constant companion. I listen to it when I work out, when I am on the T, and I sometimes even fall asleep listening to it.

I stuck the ticket in my purse—It would seem like such a waste not to go.


The Sex part:

Jean-Michel arrived in Boston last Friday. He showed up on our doorstep in the afternoon dressed to the nines and sporting a five o’clock shadow. He had that hip and dangerous look about him—or maybe he looked dangerous to me because I know what he does for a living. I’ll admit it—I’ve been looking forward to his visit ever since he called and said he was coming. Our time together in Canada had been extremely—pleasurable--and I was interested in picking up where we left off. I opened the door, stepped out to kiss him hello—at least that’s what I intended to do—Jean-Michel took it a little farther. He pulled me close and gave me a good ten second kiss. I guess he had been looking forward to seeing me too.

We broke from the kiss and there was some awkward silence as we grin at each other. “Come inside.” I say to him. “I’ll introduce you to my roommates.”

He steps into the house and takes a slow look around. “It feels so weird to be back here.”

Billie and J.J. come into the room; I’m guessing they were curious who was at the door. Jean-Michel didn’t miss a beat; he made his way over to them and turned on the charm and his French-Canadian accent. He took Billie’s hand as if he was going to shake it, but instead just held it.

“You must be Billie.” He pretends he doesn’t know her. “You’re as pretty as Ashlyn described.” He turned to J.J. and gave her the same treatment. I thought he was laying it on pretty thick, but my roommates seem to enjoy it. Logan walked in, and the reaction between him and Jean-Michel wasn’t so pleasant. I would say that the two of them had an instant dislike for each other, but Jean-Michel already knew Logan. Jean-Michel wrapped one arm around my waist and stuck out his other hand to Logan. Logan stiffly shook his hand.

“I’m Logan.”

“Jean-Michel.”

It wasn’t that there were hostile words were exchanged—it was just the look on Logan’s face expressed how he was feeling. The conversation got awkward after that, so I took Jean-Michel by the hand and led him away.

“I want to show you my bedroom.” I said for the benefit of my roommates—after all, Jean-Michel knew what my bedroom looked like, it was his not long ago.

“What’s with Logan?” Jean-Michel asked.

“I’m not sure.” I tell him. “I been dating one of the guys at the firehouse on and off for the past couple of months. Maybe he’s watching out for a buddy.”

“Is it serious?” Jean-Michel asks.

“What? The thing with the firefighter? Definitely not. He’s just a kid.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re not that old.” He walks up behind me and gently turns the two of us to face the large mirror that hung on the wall.

“Do you remember the last time we stood together in front of a mirror?” He whispered in my ear.

I did. It lead to the first time I had sex as a woman—it was a pleasant memory. He started kissing my neck and I turned to face him, finding his lips with my own.

Whenever I kiss Matt—the fireman I date from time to time—there is always the thought in the back in my mind that I’m really a man, I shouldn’t be kissing him. But with Jean-Michel it’s different. With him it’s easy to let myself go and forget the past.
I eventually push him away. “I need to change into something to wear to dinner.”

“Don’t let me stop you—I’m starving.”

I hesitated, but went ahead and changed in front of him. I told myself I didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen before—or if the evening went well, he was going to see it all again later.

“How do you feel about packing an overnight bag?” He asked me. “I’m staying at the Hotel Marlowe here in Cambridge. It’s within walking distance, but it’s a beautiful room…”

“I’d love to.” I told him.

He surprised me with his choice of restaurant. I expected to go to something extravagant and expensive; instead we went to a place called “Redbones” in Somerville. It was a barbeque joint.
“I thought you might be missing Texas food. This might be the closest thing in Massachusetts.” He says to me.

I was thrilled and kind of went nuts. I ordered a sweet iced tea, Texas style ribs, macaroni and cheese, and fried okra. It was a ton of food—I ordered like I was still Jake and barely put a dent in it. I felt guilty eating such ‘heavy’ foods in front of Jean-Michel, I didn’t want him to think I mistreated his old body on a regular basis.

“I normally don’t eat like this. I don’t want you to think I’m letting your body go to hell.” I tell him.

He laughed. “Don’t worry about it. You look good! I can tell you keep in shape—if anything you might be in better shape than when I was Ashlyn. I was thin, but I don’t remember my abs looking as good as they do now. You work out?”

“Yeah, nearly every day.”

“Amazing. When I was you I might have worked out once a week.”

I passed on the sweet potato pie for dessert. I wanted it, but there was just no room—and because of the heavy meal I was already computing the extra time on the treadmill I was going to have to spend, and the pie was just going too far.

We went dancing after dinner. I was glad to work to work off the calories. We also started drinking heavily—or at least Jean-Michel did. I had a few, but I was amazed by the amount of alcohol Jean-Michel could consume.

“One of the perks of being a guy.” He says to me. “I’m no longer a lightweight.”

I however, was the lightweight now. I got a little uninhibited and Jean-Michel and I started making out on the dance floor.

“Maybe we should go to the hotel.” He says to me.

We catch a cab to the Marlowe and we continue to make out in the cab and in the elevator up to the room. I was crawling all over him and he basically carried me from the elevator to the room. As soon as we stepped into the room clothes started flying off--at least I hope I waited to remove clothes until I got to the room--I have vague memories of not being fully dressed in the elevator. Once I’m naked he picked me up and tossed me on the bed—I laughed my ass off.

There wasn’t much more foreplay. We were both hungry for each other and we got to the main event quickly. We were in a missionary position when he entered me.

I’m all gasps and small words at this point. “Oh….. oh god. Oh my god.” You get the idea.
We hadn’t been at it long, but I was so turned on I was already close to cumming.
“I’m close. Faster. Harder! Fuck me harder!” I gasp.

He complied. Soon I was crying out in pleasure as we both orgasm.

We lay there together for a while before either one of spoke.

“That was intense.” I said.

“Yeah.” He nods his head in agreement.

“So is this the weirdest sex you’ve ever had?” I motion to myself. “I mean, this used to be you.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it's up there, although that first time with "Marie" comes close.”

I sat up in bed, surprised. “You what? She what? After all she put Art through, she goes and does that—“ I was mad.

“Hey, don't judge her too harshly. There's a scary guy who expects her to put out whenever he comes calling; it's not so bad for her to occasionally want to be with someone who knows who she really is and likes her for that. Besides…”.

“Besides what?” I demanded.

“Well, even though I know what a girl likes, it was good for my first few times to be with someone who knew me for me, too. We helped each other. Of course, then Andre noticed we were spending a little more time with each other than he'd like, so we had to cut it down. What? Are you jealous?”

“No! I’m upset for Art.” I knew I had to tell Art. I wondered how he was going to handle the news.

We have a little tension for a moment, which was cut by my cell phone ringing. It was at the bottom of my purse so I took out several things to get to the phone. Great, it was Art who was calling—I guess his ears were burning. I couldn’t talk to him at that moment—this was a conversation worthy of a trip to Starbucks. I turn the phone off as Jean-Michel reached for the small pile of items I removed from my purse.

“Hey, what’s this?” He said picking up the Redsox/Yankees game ticket.

“Oh, it’s to the game tomorrow night. I have a secret admirer who sends me things from time to time. Unfortuantly he only sent one ticket.”

Jean-Michel jumped up out of bed and pulled something out of his suitcase. It was also a ticket. He looked at both of them for a moment and then handed me both of them.

The seats were next to each other.

“I have a secret admirer too.” He states.

For the second time in the last ten minutes I was surprised. I told Jean-Michel about some of the gifts I received—the flowers, perfume, scooter and the iPod. Especially the iPod because it came installed with music from my old CD collection from my life as Jake. Jean-Michel also had received gifts in the mail.

“I received the car and some cash. In my early days of being Jean-Michel, I don’t think I would have survived without the help from our ‘secret admirer’.

“Damn. I feel slighted. You got a car.” I was kidding. “Why do you think this person is doing this?”

Jean-Michel climbed back in bed and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me to him. I leaned into him, resting my head on his chest.

“I think he’s helping us somehow.” Jean-Michel states. “I think he’s helping us establish our new lives.”

Hmmmm. That sounds nice, but it doesn’t explain why.

Ashlyn--Nobody knows the troubles I've seen...

Yeah, I admit it, I’ve been kind of down lately—so I haven’t been in the mood to write in this blog. Why am I down you ask? Here’s my list:

Taxes…

First of all, I’m not done with my taxes. When I was Jake I had an accountant. I would drop by his office, ask how much I owed, wrote a check, signed a few documents and was out the door. If we didn’t stop to talk about the Mavericks, it took less than fifteen minutes.
The original Ashlyn didn’t take care of her taxes, so her files were a huge mess—what little files that she had. What is really upsetting is the fact that she didn’t make any quarterly payments and didn’t set any money aside. I’m stuck with the bill which I really can’t afford—and if I don’t pay my taxes in full and on time, my monthly payment agreement for all of Ashlyn’s back taxes will be voided.

I am so screwed. I had been saving up to buy a new computer; something that might let me get back into doing graphics professionally again—I guess that money is going to Uncle Sam instead. I guess I’m stuck as a waitress for a little bit longer.

Speaking of work…

Maybe I should have said “I guess I’m stuck as a waitress as long as I don’t get fired.” The restaurant that I work for has two managers. They tend to break up the day in halves—one manager will work the day shift and the other the night. Maddie, one of the two, has had it in for me every since she walked into the ladies room and caught me changing into the skimpy outfit I wore for St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t know why that should have made a difference, but it has. Before that day she was warm and friendly toward me—now I can’t do anything right.
What drives me crazy is I have a strong work ethic, and I put 100% of myself into whatever I am doing. It’s what made me a moderate success in my graphics work—and even though being a waitress isn’t as challenging as some jobs, I try to bring a sense of professionalism to my work. I show up early and always try to have a good outlook.

Maddie called me into her office last week. She told me I needed to improve my attitude, spend more time with all my guests and to not spend so much time flirting with the guys. She also suggested I start dressing more conservatively. “This isn’t Hooter’s” she told me with a self righteous tone.

I wanted to tell her to stuff it—but I needed the job. So I took my scolding--but decided I might start looking for another job.

I have abandonment issues…

Art’s going back to the Inn in less than a month. By June he’ll be back in his own body and back to his life in California.
I’m happy for him. I swear. This isn’t bitterness that he is going to get his old life back and I wasn’t so lucky.

This is about a good friend going away.

I’ve made my peace about being turned into Ashlyn. My existence has gone from “struggling to adapt” to “it gets easier every day” to “it gets to be more enjoyable every day”. Some mornings I get up, look in the mirror, and consider myself damn lucky.

But even though I’ve accepted who I am now, there are times when the girl stuff is just too much. My brain rebels and demands I dwell on guy stuff: Sports. Movies with lots of explosions and special effects. Foods that have nothing to do with watching your weight. You get the idea.

Sure, I’m not pretending anymore—how I act from now on is how Ashlyn is going to be—I just find it’s easier to just be myself whenever Art and I hang out. Our conversations over a Starbuck’s chai are my opportunity to “let my hair down” and just be myself. You should have seen the confused looks some of the girls (from one of my radio station gigs) gave me when I started talking about how much I was looking forward to seeing Spiderman 3.
“I was such a big fan of Spiderman growing up.” I said. “I can’t wait to see how the special effects with Venom (a villain for you who didn’t grow up on comics) turned out.”
I get a lot of blank looks, and then we start talking about Kristen Dunst’s hair.
Art gets Spiderman—and all the other things that make up “guy talk”. Selfishly, I’m going to miss that.

Abandonment issues the sequel…

If it wasn’t bad enough that Art is leaving town, here’s insult to injury. A voicemail from my “mom”:

“Hi Sweetheart! I have amazing news! Your father ‘s work needs for him to go to New Zealand for a while! It’s a special project. He’s going for so long I’ve decided to go with him. We are leaving early June and won’t be back until August! Is that amazing or what! Call me!”

Great. Everyone is leaving me.

One bit of good news. Jean-Michel called. He has business in Boston this week and wanted to know if I wanted to have dinner. I gave him an ethusiastic yes.

Ashlyn

Ashlyn--Jessica

Suddenly I see…

While I was out last Saturday, I received a new gift from my secret admirer. I was too tired to take much of an interest when I got home, but the following morning I carefully opened the package. I briefly considered waiting for when Jessica would be present, but I thought it would be fine as long as I didn’t destroy the packaging. Inside was an iPod. Finally my admirer sent me something I was really excited about.

It was charged and ready to go. I turn it on and scroll through the song list—it’s loaded. What is even more surprising is the fact it was loaded with music I liked. Outward appearances aside, I’m a child of the eighties and like the music. U2, the Cure, Cyndi Lauper, the Police…good stuff. There are older songs I like, and I like some new stuff as well, but the eighties hold a special place in my heart.

Oddly, even though my new toy was jammed with a lot of eighties music, the first song on the list was “Suddenly I see”. It’s a new song by KT Tunstall. I listened to the song and it lyrics make me wonder if my secret admirer had a hidden meaning to his first choice:

(Just a few of the lyrics)
Her face is a map of the world
Is a map of the world
You can see she's a beautiful girl
She's a beautiful girl
And everything around her is a silver pool of light
The people who surround her feel the benefit of it
It makes you calm
She holds you captivated in her palm

Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see)
Why the hell it means so much to me

I gotta say, it’s a good song.
I think I’ve listen to it more than anything else on my iPod.

I love a parade… (I’m on a song kick)

Saturday’s radio promotion was mostly indoor, so wearing the Catholic schoolgirlish costume was okay. Working the St. Patrick’s Day parade required a little more clothing. Fortunately the radio station takes care of its girls—parade attire was warm (and tight) green sweaters, form fitting black pants and silly green top hats. They also let us wear running shoes! Several of the girls actually squealed in delight when they told us we weren’t wearing heels. Our job was to walk along the parade route and pass out t-shirts to the crowds. Again, it’s not exactly brain surgery I do in my promotional work.

Several of the girls wanted to hang out again after the parade. I had other plans. I was meeting up with Art and we were heading over to south station—Jessica was arriving by train. So I had to say no.

“That’s too bad.” Kara says to me. She’s your typical blue-eyed beautiful blonde. “Hey, later this week a few of us are doing a little shopping…you want to come?”

I was slightly surprised. I felt like I had passed some kind of rite of passage. These gorgeous women were accepting me as one of their own.

“Um, yeah. That sounds like fun. Count me in.” We make plans and I give her my number. It was like I was back in high school and I’d been accepted by the cool kids.

I was assuming it was a clothes shopping trip, and I was a little nervous about it—other than my Halloween costume I haven’t bought any clothing for my new body. I’ve been living off of the plentiful closet I inherited. I haven’t had to worry about sizes because everything fit. I don’t really understand women’s sizes—but it can’t be any more difficult than anything else I’ve had to figure out since joining the pink team.

Meeting Jessica

Art and I took the T to south station, but we stepped out and visited the Starbuck’s at the Financial Center. Starbucks has almost become a tradition for me and Art—it seems like every time we hang out together we have to stop by Starbucks first. Coffees in hand (actually that would be a non-fat chai for me) we return to the train station. There is a small food court at south station, and Art and I sat at a table waiting for Jessica’s train to arrive.

“Everything okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.” I ask him.

“It’s Ray. We had a mild fight before I left…He wasn’t really thrilled that I was going out to hang with you.”

“What? Me? What’s wrong with me?”

“Ashlyn has a bad reputation. Ray thinks you are a bad influence.” Art tells me.

“Oh.” I thought Ray was a friend of mine. Then again, I’ve read Ashlyn’s diaries—she probably was a bad influence.

“I think he also imagines that I am not here at all, that I use you as an excuse to go visit Stewart.”

“Ouch. That sucks.” I say.

“Yeah. He’s also been hinting big time that I should quit my job at the theater; of course I can’t do that, but I am finding it hard to explain that to him.”

“So are you still seeing Stewart as well?”

“That’s a yes and no answer…I haven’t slept with him in a few weeks. I haven’t told him it’s actually over or anything either.”

“And that’s actually working?” I ask.

“For the moment.”

“It’s not exactly fair to Stewart; and he may be patient now, but sooner or later he’s going to get tired of waiting for you.”

“It’s a complicated situation. I don’t want mess things up with Ray more than I already have and it doesn't feel right to out-and-out END it when Liz may wind up trying to pick things right back up come the end of May.” Art says.

“I understand. I just don’t think you can put Stewart on hold until May.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

He takes a big sip of his drink. “I envy you sometimes. It must be nice not to be pretending to be someone else anymore.”

“I don’t know if ‘not pretending’ applies. I’m doing things the old Jake would never do.” I say back to him.

“Yes, but that’s your choice. You choose how to live your life now.”

“Yeah well, I envy that you are going back to your old life. Less than a couple of more months of pretending and you’ll be back on the blue team. I bet you are excited.”

Art was taking his time to answer—I think he was trying to protect my feelings.

“Hey, it’s okay.” I tell him. “It’s not your fault things didn’t work out for me. I’m excited for you.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe I’m a little bitter.” I give him a smile to let him know I’m okay.

“Well yeah, as the day gets closer and closer, I’m getting antsy. I am so sick of all this ‘being a girl’ stuff.”

“Hey. I think she’s here.” I point to a teenage girl coming through the automatic glass doors. I wave, and she waves back. As she walks toward us, I say to Art “You know, when you go back, I going to miss these conversations.”

“Hey, we’ll continue to talk. We’ll stay in touch—I promise.” He says to me. His pretty Korean features seemed earnest.

It’s funny. I’ve spoken to Jessica by phone, and I intellectually know without a doubt she too is a victim of the Inn—yet when she was standing in front of me, saying ‘you look just like I imagined you from the blog, you have to be Ashlyn’ my first thought was: This is a joke. There is no way this cute teenage girl could have been a 40 year old cop.

I realized it was the ‘curse’ at work, messing with my head.

I smile and shake her hand. “Yeah, I’m Ashlyn. And you have probably figured out that this is—“ I motioned to Art.

“Arthur Milligan.” She finishes, she shakes Art’s hand as well. “It’s so weird to meet you guys in person. It’s kind of a relief as well, you’re proof I didn’t imagine all this, and I’m just coo-coo for coco puffs.”

Jessica was 5’5, about 120 lbs, had shoulder brown hair, and had the bluest eyes behind a pair of glasses. She wore jeans, and a t-shirt that had ‘Cleverly disguised as an adult’ written on it. She had a whole cute nerd girl thing going for her.

We take a cab back to my place, which turned out to be empty—all my roommates were out enjoying a Sunday afternoon.

We settle in, and I show Jessica the packaging from the latest gift from my secret admirer.
“What was in it?” She asks.

I handed her the iPod.

“Sweet. Nice to have a secret admirer.” She says.
Just like I did, she looked through the song list. “It’s mostly eighties music.” She says. “Are you a fan of the eighties?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you think that a bit convenient?”

“She right.” Art jumps in. “Your secret admirer knows your taste in music.”

“The reeeaaallly interesting question is if whoever put the songs on here was guessing your music tastes because they knew your previous age—or whether they knew exactly what songs to put on here. Ash, when you were Jake, did you own a lot of CDs? Would they match the songs on the playlist?”

“Ohmigod. Yeah.” I start scrolling through the playlist. “This is mostly my old CD collection.”

“That’s really weird. Does that make Stephen the secret admirer? He has access to your old CDs” Art states.

“Something tells me no. Whenever I deal with Stephen he’s very clear he wants nothing to do with me. He threatened to get a restraining order—it doesn’t seem like the actions of a man sending secret gifts.” I answer.

We debate it for a while until Jessica changes the subject.

"I think I may have leads on a couple of the people who were at the inn the same time you were, but stopped contributing to the blog."

She laid a few sheets of paper on the table. "Here's what I've got on Mark Lange, now known as Ginessa Lopez. No listings for her in the NYC phone books, but I found a mention of her in a Village Voice theater review back in December. This year, she shows up in the social pages a few times, often with the same group of people."

She spread some printouts on a table.

Art pointed at a gorgeous blonde who was next to "Ginessa" in one of the pictures. "Am I wrong, or is that who that Peruvian girl turned into?"

"You talked to her more than I did." I said.

Jessica looked at the printout, and it was becoming very easy to believe that she had been a detective in a previous life. "Hmm... Caption says ‘Nicoleta Fidatov’ . Maybe a roommate? Then the phone might be in her name. Could be a lead."

She pushed Mark's pile aside and then another one. "Okay, I found several Kayla Johnsons online. Any of these look familiar?"

I pointed to one. "Okay... Kayla Johnson, 22, grew up in a small town in Wyoming. All I've got on her is this little notice in a community weekly saying that she graduated from University of Wyoming with a degree in Wildlife Management and will be starting with the National Parks Service this... that is, last... fall."

"Well, I guess he's still a Fed..." Says Art.

At that moment Jessica’s cell phone rang and she answered it. “Hi mom! Yes, I got here okay. Yeah, they seem like good people…” She walked away to talk in private.

“She's going to be a real help.” Art says to me.

I couldn’t agree more.

--Ashlyn

Ashlyn--I loved the sweet potato fries

When our little group at the Trading Post Inn was transformed into our current bodies, it was Art who kept us from going nuts. That first night, when I first woke and found I had turned in Ashlyn, I screamed, and Art came running to my rescue even though he woke up to find himself transformed as well. That is the kind of person Art is, the kind of person who looks out for the other guy.

So when I got several phone messages from Art and he sounded as upset as I had ever heard him, I was very concerned—I decided I should go see him, and see if he needed to talk. It’s what he would do for me if our situations were reversed.

I headed right over to Liz’s place once I left Matt’s. The weather had been icy Valentine’s night, and the next morning was a mess. Because of the conditions, it took me forever to get to Liz’s house. I should have called before just showing up on Liz’s doorstep—Art wasn’t home. I decide to not make the same mistake twice and just show up at Liz’s workplace without calling—besides, I don’t seem to be very welcome there.

No answer. I was wearing the clothes from the previous night and I was freezing. What I had worn on my date with Matt wasn’t cutting it out in the cold—and my boots, while sexy as hell, weren’t so good at walking on the ice. I headed home.

Art never called me back, and I ended up pulling a double shift at the restaurant that day—so we didn’t actually get a chance to talk until a couple of days later. We exchanged emails and made plans to meet up at Harvard Square, specifically a Hamburger Joint called “Mr. Bartley’s”. We had eaten there before, months earlier when we were shopping for Halloween costumes. It’s not the kind of place a girl can frequent if she wants to keep her figure—but damn the food is good.

I got to Harvard Square early, so I went into the bookstore next to Bartley’s. Art must have had the same idea, because I found him downstairs in the used and ‘remainders’ books area.

I give Art a hug, which I think surprises him. No pun intended, but I have been ‘embracing’ my feminine side lately, and girls tend to hug each other.

“Uh, hey.” He says awkwardly. “Thanks for meeting me here; I didn’t feel comfortable talking at the house.”

“No problem.”

We shop for a few minutes and then head next door. Calling Bartley’s a hamburger joint might be too simple of a description. The place has a vibe. During peak hours the place is wall to wall people—not only might there be a line out the door, but the place might be so packed it’s difficult to walk between the tables. There are no quiet, private places to sit and talk, and you will probably end up sharing a table with a total stranger because there is simply no wasted space. The walls are filled from floor to ceiling with funny signs, bumper stickers and vintage posters. There is a poster of a young Ronald Reagan selling cigarettes, a “this is your brain on…” poster, as well as plenty of Elvis and Red Sox stuff. The wait staff, all college students, wears t-shirts that say “You can’t beat our meat” and they yell orders back and forth to cooks who rings a little bell every few minutes announcing an order is ready. The place feels like it’s out of a movie.

We get ordering out of the way. The menu is as fun as the rest of the place; all the burgers are named after current events or political figures. I get the “Dick Cheney” burger: a bacon cheeseburger. I also order a milkshake. Here on the east coast they call them “frappes”—I’ve also learned that if you want a thick shake (like what I am used to from Texas) you have to order a “western frappe”. If you don’t, you get something that is more milk than ice cream.

Once we were done ordering, Art and I kind of stare at each other for a moment.

“So—“I say, not sure where to begin, and fall silent.

“Your secret admirer.” Art states, jump starting the conversation. “You never said in the blog what happened. You said in your post ‘he was back in a big way’ but never got back to it.”

“Oh, right. Between going out with Matt and what has been going on with you, I forgot. On Valentine’s Day morning I received a very large gift. It was parked out front with a bow wrapped around it.”

Art sat up, interested. “Parked? You’re kidding. Someone gave you a car?”

I grin. “No… It was cool, but not that cool. A Vespa. One of those little Italian scooters. It’s pink.”

“Wow. Those can’t be cheap.” He says.

“They’re not cheap—they’re not like ‘car’ expensive, but whoever sent it put out some bucks. I called a local dealer to get some info on it.”

“So are you going to keep it?”

“I don’t know. The whole thing is creepy. Whoever this person is knows about the Trading post Inn and the curse. He knows I’m not who I used to be, and he might know I used to be a guy…I really can’t imagine what his motivations might be.”

We theorize for a while, but don’t really come up with anything.

“I’m thinking of contacting Jessica. She was a cop for twenty years before she got zapped by the Inn. I bet she might have some insight into this guy—maybe help me track this guy down; she was able to find me through the blog after all. It would be good to follow up with her anyway.”

“Good idea, but you sure you want to find this guy? What if he’s dangerous?” Art asks.

“I’ll be careful.”

I change the subject. “So, about Ray.” It was really a question.

Art sighs heavily and takes his time to answer. “I fucked things up Jake, and I don’t think it’s fixable.”

“You’re taking this pretty hard.” I say.

“Yeah, maybe. When we found ourselves in this situation, I just worried about two things: Getting my real life back and returning Liz's to her the way she left it. Two things, and the killer is, if I manage the first, then the second becomes even more important."

“You were thrown into an impossible situation. This was Liz’s mess; you did a hell of a job holding it all together as long as you did. You’ve gone way above and beyond what most people would have done in your place.”

“That’s a nice thing to say, but these are people’s lives I’m screwing up. It’s not just Liz’s life, but everyone’s lives that are close to Liz—especially Ray.”

“This situation existed before you got here, you are not responsible.” I say to him.

“But I think I made things worse. I could have done things differently. I knew Ray and Liz were drifting apart; I should have taken that into consideration whenever we were hanging out together. Maybe on New years Eve I should have told Ray I had a ‘headache’.”

We were interrupted by our lunch arriving. We pause the conversation for a moment to dig into the food. I down a few of the sweet potato fries—delicious.

“There was a moment, when I was talking to Ray, right before I admitted to cheating on him—I felt like I could tell him the truth. Emotions were high, and we were in the middle of this ‘big moment’ when I got the feeling the curse was gone—or at least weakened. I sensed I could tell him I wasn’t really Liz and that I was really some guy pretending to be his girlfriend— and he would believe me.” Art says to me.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” He agrees.

“What do you think happened? Do you think there is any credence to Jessica’s theory that people build up immunity?” I ask.

“It didn’t feel like that to me. It’s difficult to put into words. It’s like what was going on was so important for Liz and Ray—that the moment was bigger, stronger, than whatever keeps people from believing.”

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe it takes a big moment in your life, a “turning point” when people are open to their lives changing—maybe in those moments people are more receptive and the ‘truth’ can get through. It has a fairytale simplicity about it.” I add.

“Fairytale? You are turning into such a chick.” Art kids me.

“Screw you. What stopped you from telling him the truth then? Why did you tell him you were sleeping with your boss instead?” I Ask.

“My goal all along has been to return Liz’s life back to her as undamaged as possible. I think telling Ray would have created a bigger mess than getting the affair out in the open.”

“So what are you going to do now?” I ask.

“Well, I’m waiting to hear from Liz before I do anything, but I am thinking I am probably going to move out of Ray’s condo.”

“Wow. Where are you going to go?”

He shrugs. “I guess I might talk to Stewart see if I can move in with him. If not, maybe I can talk you into sharing a place with me.” He grins.

Our waitress appears and asks if we needed anything else. We say no, and she leaves the bill on the table.

“You mentioned Matt. What’s up with him?” Art asks.

At this point, I hadn’t yet written the blog entry about my Valentine’s night exploits.

I fill him in. He shakes his head, and rolls his eyes as I tell him about how Matt took me back to his place after the game and we screw like bunnies.

“Damn Jake, you sure went native fast.” Art says.

“My name is ‘Ashlyn’.” I tell him.

“Sorry, ‘Ashlyn’.” He made quotation marks with his fingers when he said it.

“Hey, you’re having sex with a guy on a regular basis. Why are you giving me a hard time?”

“It’s different. I’m doing it to maintain Liz’s life. Why exactly are you doing it? Are you telling me you are attracted to men now?” He asks.

“I’m…” I found it difficult to say, I must have turned as red as my hair from embarrassment. “I’m exploring my new life—trying new things, and being open-minded. That includes sex.”

“It just seems awfully fast. We’ve only been in these bodies for six months.”

“And I’m going to be in this one for the rest of my life.” I was a little hot. “It is different between you and I—sure, you’re trying to maintain the status quo, but you are also going back to your old life in a few months. I’m not.”

“Look Ashlyn, I’m sorry—“Art began, I hold up my hand, cutting him off.

“It’s okay.” I say. “Besides, I would be lying if I said I didn’t—somewhat-- enjoy the sex.” I pause. “By the way, Stewart still not helping you out with an orgasm?”

It was Art’s turn to blush. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.”

“Hey, it’s girl talk.” I tell him. He’s a little uncomfortable, and I’m having fun with it. “Is Stewart selfish in bed?”

“Oh, look at the time.” Art says, pretending to look at his watch.

I laugh, and let him off the hook. We paid our bill and I made sure we left a good tip—I’m a waitress after all, I hate cheap tippers.

Outside Art surprised me by giving me a goodbye hug. “Thanks for listening.”

“Who is turning into the chick now?” I ask and we head our separate ways.

--Ashlyn