Marc/Ryan: Flashbacks

Summer 2020

Marc Green, a man in his mid-thirties who worries about the slight expansion of his waistline and receding of his hairline, has quit his job as a corporate lawyer, over the protests of his wife Laura. He was spending 80 hours per week going over contracts for a heartless conglomerate and felt the soul being sucked out of him. The timing couldn't have been worse given Laura's ambition to start a business of her own, and the lawyer job provided much-needed stability. Then the pandemic hit and all bets were off, and suddenly every little disagreement between these two becomes magnified in the hothouse of social distancing.

We're going out to see some friends for the first time since the lockdown, and there's a disagreement over what dress she should wear. The truth is I am ambivalent -- women's clothes? What do I know about that? -- but when pressed, I make a ruling. She disagrees, and in fact is annoyed that I describe her choice as "a little cleavage-y," because it insinuates something prudish and patriarchal on my part. At a certain point, I think we're just picking fights over any little thing.

On this occasion, we limp through the evening, and even start to rebuild our dynamic and rediscover why we got together in the first place. After a few drinks, all is forgiven, and at the end of the night, after we've parted ways with our friends, we're making out in the car like a couple of teenagers. Sex becomes our only form of expression, which probably helps keep our relationship afloat through the final two very fraught years of our ten year tenure, a stretch marked by visits to three different couples counselors, one of whom, in 2022, will recommend a getaway. We're on a budget though, so we can't go further than... Maine.

Fall 2023

Chantelle Carey, a pretty, curvy-hipped and quite bosomy green-eyed brunette with the most beautiful, kissable round lips you've ever seen (not that many people kissed them) arrives home from work, goes straight to her room, and removes her pencil skirt and blouse. She pulls down the elastic band of her panties and notes the red mark where it has dug into her skin. "Damnit," she hisses, now examining her soft, fleshy body in the mirror. Gained an inch too many. She sits on her bed, half-naked, running her hands through her thick hair in stress.

It isn't that she's worried about staying thin. She's not thin, and she likes her round figure as it is, even when her thighs rub together as she walks. She's certainly made peace with it. She's come to identify with it. But the idea of it getting bigger, or changing in any way, is troubling to her. After all, she owns hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of clothes that are meant to fit this body. The last thing she wants to do is gain weight (or lose it!) and have to build an entirely new wardrobe. She wants things to stay exactly as they have been since she came into this form in the summer of 2022. Helplessness sets in. Not for the first time, she's trapped in a life she didn't ask for and doesn't know what to do next.

That night, I gathered my -- er, Chantelle's -- younger sister Emma, and niece Keisha, who was staying with me for reasons too personal and complicated to explain, and we went over every item in my wardrobe to figure out what still fit. Only a few items had to go to Goodwill, which was a relief.

By now, Laura was well out of my life, having embraced being Damon wholeheartedly, as though she always was him. I developed a conspiracy theory of sorts to try to explain how we wound up in these lives specifically, which I still think is 90% accurate, even if I couldn't quite finish connecting the dots between Laura and Damon. Ultimately, I was given a fairly sizeable cash "incentive" to basically ensure I will go away and never bother "Damon" again and never allow his wife to find out about his affair with Chantelle. The money remains in a secret account I will be able to draw on no matter what life I am living, as long as I have my faculties. The truth is I didn't have any leverage or intent to do damage, nor did I ask for the money, but we both feel a lot better when I sign the paperwork. It's over, our de facto divorce settlement.

A few months later, Keisha is going back to her mother, and Chantelle and I finally come to terms on a plan for her to return to her own body, much later than we had initially hoped. I am prepared to move forward as someone else, having ceded the life of Marc Green to someone else.

Summer 2024

At a gay club in Brooklyn, a handsome young man named Ryan Berardi -- a personal assistant by profession although he's between jobs -- spots the only guy who seems to look more out of place than him. Ryan's only there because "his friends" wouldn't take no for an answer, and, truth be told, he's been craving human interaction for so long he's willing to go anywhere he seems wanted. But he's not gay -- is he? After all, he is aware that he was a "straight woman" not that long ago, who sometimes harbored hopes for a physical reconciliation with "Damon," and who indulged in flirtation with males from time to time. He's a little ashamed to be "told" he is now a gay man, though, and thinks he must somehow find a way around it. You're only gay when you do something gay -- right? Sexually, he was in limbo... until meeting "John."

He couldn't even understand the appeal on a conscious level. John was older, with gray temples, crow's feet, and lines around his mouth, and aloof. But something about his presence was appealing. Something about his words sparked, maybe just because it was the most intelligent conversation Ryan had had in longer than he could remember, even as they shouted over the noise of the club. And maybe it was because John so clearly wanted him, and he wanted to be wanted, something he hadn't felt in... lifetimes.

At which point they started "doing something gay" with each other.

Lying in bed in the arms of a rough, hairy man, "Ryan" can almost see... not a future, but at least a very enjoyable year ahead. That wasn't so bad, in fact it really hit the spot. But an extremely quick social media search reveals John isn't who he says he is. 

Over the last year, I've chalked it up to everything from hormones and libido, to my own chronic loneliness dating back to my original life, to a rationalization that if it weren't me it would be someone else. I stayed in that affair for my own selfish reasons and for him. Something was clearly aching him inside and I didn't think he would find what he was looking for in his life as it was, so... well, you know the rest. It was a complicated entanglement to say the least, even before we went to the Inn. I feel like I recognized something of myself in him and thought I should do for him what I would have wanted someone to do for me -- get me out of a situation that is simply not tenable. I would come to regret that.

Winter 2025

Around 8 PM on a Saturday night, Ed Levesque is having a cup of decaf coffee at a diner with a woman nearly nearly young enough to be his daughter, and nearly old enough to have given birth to Marc Green. She's relating the customer service experience she recently got from her cell phone provider, and the "old man" is riffing along, perhaps surprising her with his up-to-date knowledge. They're making each other laugh far more than one would have expected.  

As much as I wished I could stop my affair with John, I wished I could start one with Christine. 

As with him, it was a very unlikely attraction -- she looked every bit her age and didn't exactly have a lot of effort to devote to disguising it, but in the body of Ed Levesque, I was beyond caring. Like John, she was someone I enjoyed spending time with for her own sake, someone with whom I had a lot of common ground. Unlike John, she didn't seem to have a dark side or be damaging anyone with her presence, other than Ed's daughter, who, not knowing the source of the money I kept handing out, had a lot of problems with me suddenly getting so friendly with a woman young enough to be... well, younger.

Physically, emotionally, practically, the elements just never came together. I think I'll always feel a little sad about that, but if I haven't learned how to move on from these things by now, it would be surprising. 

A few weeks later, John, in the form of "Cayden" will absolve me of the guilt I feel for bringing him to the Inn, telling me the experience has in some way been good for him. I'm still not entirely sure I've forgiven myself, but what's done is done and, more of a relief, has been largely rectified. He's where he's supposed to be, and I'm on the path I'm on, wherever it may lead.

It's hard to believe I've been all these people in my life, and now I'm on my way to becoming another. I wrote all of the above in transit to Old Orchard Beach but didn't hit publish until I got here. A family issue caused me to delay my arrival and now we're at the end of what is supposed to be my two weeks, and I hope it's clear sailing from here.

I know there are a lot of possible bad outcomes, but unlike other people I have to be here. I have to give Ryan back what's his. I'm hoping for that elusive fresh start, for the day I don't feel haunted by all the people I've been, but in the end, if something terrible happens, it should happen to me, a person ho knows what they're getting into, rather than some unsuspecting innocent. 

I just have to keep moving, accumulating all these memories until I just get full up and find a place to stop.

-Marc/Ryan/Everyone

Marc/Chantelle: Down to the last play

Okay, this is almost the last you'll hear from me about softball, now that the season is over.

Our 5-4 record was actually enough to make it to the playoff, which was exciting, even though I had nothing to do with it (and actively harmed the team more than helped.) Word got around and some of the associates and external partners wanted to come watch us play... which included Damon, aka my wife Laura, who I was surprised to see at the diamond.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he brought his wife, meaning there was basically a forcefield around him meaning I couldn't talk to him all night besides a cordial hello, nice to see you here at the beginning of the game (where I did my best to stifle my surprise, disappointment and mild delight at seeing her.)

I was so put off I decided to put my energy elsewhere, focusing on talking to Daisy and, once the game got going, my friend Djuro. I don't know if Djuro is trying to start a "thing" with me, maybe it's in my head and I'm being paranoid but the signs are there. He's always quick to offer me a high five and a congratulations and sit with me on the bench. I, weirdly enough, have kind of encouraged it and probably even crossed a line by offering him a shoulder rub when he said he was tight (he took me up on it and I got about three seconds in before deciding it was weird, but I kept going nonetheless.) We're kind of flirty, and to my own surprise I kind of like being flirty but I don't really know that there's more to it than that.

The game was good, close but a losing effort at 12-10, although I did manage to get on base nearly every at bat, batted a runner in, and didn't completely embarrass myself on the field. After the game, a bunch of the guys went out for drinks, but I went home alone, claiming to be tired but really just unable to cope with the presence of my wife and... her wife.

I got home and put on my PJs and poured myself a glass of wine, and checked my phone to find a string of texts from throughout the night.

From Damon.

"You've got great form."

"Great hit babe."

"Love to watch you run... especially in those shorts" (for the last few games it's been so hot that I've been wearing extremely short and form-fitting red athletic shorts that definitely highlight my posterior and thighs.)

"I'm loving seeing you out there, so confident."

"Chantelle's body looks so good on you."

I felt a rush. This is what I wanted. Attention from Laura. It occurred to me that maybe seeing me having a good time with Djuro from afar fired up her jealousy and made her want to try to win my attention back. We're still in sort of an ambiguous place but it was already seeming like Laura was ready to maybe work on resolving it.

As I was reading and processing all of this, I got another text:

"Janessa wanting to go home early but saying I should stay out with "the gang". Want me to come over?"

My heart skipped a beat. Despite everything, I did want that.

I took a breath and texted... "Sure."

He was there in 40 minutes (which sucked because I was waiting but... beggars can't be choosers I guess.)

I welcomed him in and we did some small talk. I said I enjoyed his texts and he said I enjoyed watching me play, that this all was unlocking a side of me that he liked seeing.

"I feel like, if we were to do something, I would be getting the Marc I love back... and I started to think, how could that be wrong?"

I looked up at him, feeling so small and womanly and vulnerable, my lips trembling as I assured him it couldn't.

We locked eyes, his lips moved toward mine and we kissed.

I...

I had to sort of push myself to realize that kissing a guy isn't that different from kissing a woman, lips are lips, and inside this is the person I love, and I think this body really seems to enjoy (much to my bemusement) Damon's physical presence. It's more startling to kiss as a woman, being small, being held, having his hands search you. I think Laura is really embracing the masculine side of the equation as he started to feel my hips and down my leg and up my arms.

I couldn't let it end. We kissed and kissed and kissed. We kissed on the couch, we kissed on the floor, we kissed with me on top, with him looming over me, side by side. He ran his hands over my hair, I held his bald scalp. There was this element of danger and newness that made me forget all my reservations.

Then I noticed he started unfastening his belt and I put the brakes on.

"Woah-oh" I said abruptly, "I... I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

He kind of looked at me for a while, maybe trying to decide if he should argue his point or let it be, but ultimately he came down on the side of understanding, saying "Sorry, sorry, I was just getting carried away."

"Yeah," I stammered, flustered, "I mean, I could be ready eventually, just... not tonight, you know? Zero to 100..."

"Of course."

I think if he had pressed his case a little harder I may have gone along with it. I could definitely feel my body getting revved up and it was just a snap return to consciousness that made me stop. I think I do want to try it by the time my time here is done, but obviously I have a certain discomfort with that going there. There's the argument that if I want it, and this body is built for it (and I have a partner I can trust) I should go for it, but... would you say that to a 16-year-old? Because that's kind of how I feel as far as my development as a woman. Not quite ready to take control of all that.

I decided to head off some disappointment by offering something else. "If you want I could..." I made a little hand motion.

"You would?" he asked, skeptically.

"Sure," I said, pushing myself to be accommodating. "I mean, I know the territory a bit."

I didn't have to offer twice.

It was... I mean, a little weird doing it from this angle, with a hand that doesn't "match" the equipment, not quite knowing what pressure and speed he would enjoy, but I think I made a good go of it. I felt silly at certain points, but it was nice to de-mystify that part of it, to acquaint myself with "Little Damon." Take some of the fear out of it.

Partway through he asked, politely, if I could go topless.

"Oh," I said blushing, "Curious about what I've got going on here?"

"I'll admit to having a certain admiration for it..." he replied coyly.

I already didn't have a bra on due to being in my pajamas, so I just slipped my top off. I let him feel them a little bit, which was... really nice. Very intimate to let my boobs hang out for him like that. It's nice to have a body that people enjoy touching, that seems so ready for it. They're so jiggly and squishy and just fun, so it's nice to be able to share them with him. 

Anyway, we finished our activity, cleaned up, and rested a moment before I let him get back home.

After he was gone I felt a lot of conflicting feelings... sadness, regret I hadn't gone further, dismay that my wife was still going home to another woman... pride that I had done what I had done, crossed a threshold that I didn't know I was ready to do but also set my limits... hope that this is the beginning of getting back on solid ground between us, and fear that we wouldn't get the opportunity again.

Edit: I've just re-read this and realized at some point I started referring to Laura as "him." So be it... what we did was very physical and she has a "he" body, so... why not. It's not wrong to call me "she," I guess.

Marc/Chantelle: AITA?

I couldn't focus on work yesterday as I was still seething from my interaction with Laura. Frustration and disappointment turned to anger and I felt that I needed to do something, so I spent a lot of time between meetings composing a very long text:

Laura - 

I am 100% NOT OKAY with the way things ended between us on Saturday. Leaving on that note left me confused as to what, if any, is the future direction of this relationship. You say you are trying to be respectful to Damon's marriage, but is that appropriate? Even on the face of it, does what we have have anything to do with them? IMO you should be able to compartmentalize and think of me as your husband first and your FAKE WIFE as secondary to that. I'm not happy about the idea of you sharing a marital bed with a stranger but I understand it as part of the RUSE that you are a man named Damon who is married to this woman. Do what you need to do. But you not even being willing to explore anything with me tells me that you are already ready to close that chapter of our lives together. Where does this leave me? What about what I want for myself and for us? If I'm not married, am I free to explore other options? Don't answer that, only I can say for sure -- IF I don't have a wife who is willing to consider my feelings. I'm not saying I even want to but in this life things get lonely and upsetting when one is used to the comforts of a relationship and I could see myself trying to find that somewhere else, and by turning me down you are tacitly implying you DO NOT CARE. My first priority is to save us, but I can't do that if you're not willing to meet me half way and be with me to the fullest extent our situation allows. I am not ready for this to be done, the same as I was not ready before Maine. I want us to be together in the long run but I also want to make my feelings known.

Some hours later, I received the reply:

I understand your feelings to a degree. I had to go with what I was feeling in the moment, and at that time my thoughts were of Janessa [This is the first time I've heard her name and I don't care for it.] It was a tough decision but I stand by my call, and if we are going to succeed in these lives we have to commit to them and not "cheat" by falling into some twisted version of our old roles just because nobody is looking. People get hurt that way. I know you only think of yourself, but I'm trying to think of everybody -- you, me, Janessa, the real Damon and Chantelle. The fact that Damon and Chantelle were in an actual affair was not yet known to me, so I was playing the Damon character as a faithful husband and if I had gone upstairs with you -- and God knows what would have happened if I had but based on your reaction it could have been something major that neither of us is prepared to deal with -- I would have breached that. And frankly I still AM playing this role that way because I do not want to be a cheater. There's no "compartmentalizing" for me. But that doesn't mean our marriage is over either. I still love you and it is the height of immaturity that you think the only way to express that is by forcing ourselves to have a physical connection when there is so much more at risk than our own feelings. I would think you could at least grasp that there are more important things going on here. If you do love me, if this marriage is real and meant to survive, I would think you would be on my wavelength about this and swallow this bitter pill.

That just pissed me off further so without barely thinking I wrote back:

YOU ALREADY ARE A CHEATER!! You go to bed with a person who is NOT ME every night!

To which she said: 

I'm not going to dignify that with an answer, you have to know that's not how it is.

I was getting frustrated so I laid it out how I saw it:

It sounds like you want it both ways. You want to keep me on the hook but you want to be the "good husband" too. Not fair, not cool.

From there, silence, I'm sure she justified that because she didn't want Janessa to see her phone blowing up.

I was so mad. Her message was so condescending, the way it called me "immature" for wanting to maintain my relationship with my wife, get some confirmation that there's still something there. Is that wrong? I'm lonely, is it so bad I'm craving some touch and there's only one person on the planet I trust with that? And she-or-he doesn't want to provide it.

I just think there's some major double standards at play. Laura may or may not have sex with Janessa, but I'm just supposed to ice myself out for the duration? Does that seem right to anyone? Or am I somehow way off base here?

Marc/Chantelle: Distractions

We had another softball game last night -- our first win, and I even managed to bat in a run with one of my patented grounders. I'm getting a bit of a groove, although my body is disagreeing -- I spend most of the week recovering from these two hours of physical activity. Maybe I should join a gym so that movement isn't quite so alien to me.

I'll admit, one benefit to that would be to get my mind off of........ everything. Presently, I work all day, then come home and flop down in front of the TV and it's all I can do not to think about my situation. Not just being female -- although there's still a ton of concern about that -- but being alone. Aside from the cat, the house is so quiet, and I'm finding myself becoming very restless and sad without Laura around. Being in a relationship is such a funnel for so much time and energy that when it's gone you don't even know how to expand and fill it yourself. Bad TV and junk food is all I've got, and that's no answer.

I have some contact with her, but it's extremely limited because Damon, of course, is a married man, and we wouldn't want to arouse suspicion. Which, I should say, I am finding extremely painful, probably moreso because of what this body is doing to me with hormones.

Today, Laura even stopped by the office. I almost had to look twice to know that it was "Damon" since I have hardly seen him since we got to Albany. I tried to keep my cool but then he stopped by my desk.

"So," he said, hands in the pockets of his slacks while he leaned on the doorframe, "I heard you're becoming quite the softball star."

"Yeah," I huffed, "They're calling me the Rafael Devers of the law office."

"I don't know who that is," Laura shrugged. "Anyway, I know we can't talk much here but... the wife is out of town this weekend, and I was hoping you'd be free for dinner on Saturday."

"The wife," I repeated bitterly, glaring at him under my eyebrows.

"Marc, come on," he said in a hushed voice. "I don't like this situation anymore than you do. We haven't had a chance to talk in a while, and we should."

I sigh. Damn, I was really hoping to go for tacos with Daisy on Saturday. "All right, let's do it."

She flashed me a smile and then dashed off, like nothing happened.

Marc/Chantelle: Getting a little help

"Happy" Friday!

This morning a special delivery came to my house: Always pads, a bottle of Midol, a hot water bottle, chocolate and a few other items.

"This should help a little, but if it's as bad as it sounds you should consider seeing a doctor. - Love, Laura"

I'm a little too proud to go running to a doc over every little thing, although there's a voice in the back of my head saying that I don't really know what's going on with this body and it couldn't hurt to check it out. Being estranged from your own body really is a wild ride because we all take our baseline health and wellbeing for granted and I'm now spinning out about: what do I not know? It's not like Chantelle could have provided me detailed medical records from day one, and so far she has been incommunicado. I feel strangely anxious about reaching out to say "Hey, are your periods always this much of a nightmare??"

It makes me wonder. I don't exactly feel like I have been set up for success in this body, but then again there's something so suspicious about me being a former lawyer and being in the body of a lawyer -- two entirely different facets of law, but still transferrable skills. Things easily could have been worse.

The pills helped, the hot water bottle helped, the chocolate wound up feeling like the best chocolate I had ever had in my life. I texted "Damon" to say thanks and got no reply. My wife is ghosting me. How do you like that. Talk about mixed messages.

I can't believe women walk around feeling like this though.

Marc: Playing the cards we're dealt

The good thing about these days is that when you need to disappear for a little while, everyone understands it. I've had some communication with Chantelle's office and they've been able to put some of her work onto others while I, the person who'll be living her life, get settled in. I did sense some pressure to go in, which I'm feeling like I will have to bow to sooner than later.

We spent a few days at the hotel, conferring with the other transform-ees about their status. Seems like the place has been mostly a couples getaway since that's who people were and what they remained, although we were not the only ones to have their genders remixed (or their partners...) Since there's room for 13 at the Inn I guess there's one solo person but I didn't meet them and I guess it doesn't matter. All through that time we went through periods of quiet reflection on the situation, punctuated by the necessity of eating and flipping through my phone for distraction, ruing the fact that this place has no cable so I had to miss Celtics-Warriors game 1. Laura went out for a walk once or twice to break the boredom, but I couldn't let the world see me like this.

Obviously I was going to have to eventually, but I wasn't up for doing so recreationally. Get me from point A to point B as quickly as possible, please.

When we left Maine, I was wearing a scoop-neck tee shirt and jean shorts without a lot of give to them, basically the most casual travelling outfit I could piece together from Chantelle's luggage, even if it did display a lot of skin. I made a note of how different the temperature of the air felt on my body, and the fabrics... and of course, having no male equipment to get bunched up in the shorts. I had big sunglasses on to obscure my face, and even though very few people are wearing them anymore, a mask. I wasn't initially planning on wearing a bra, but after seeing how my breasts felt and looked without one, I gave in, and partially as a result I now know what it feels like to sweat under your boobs. I borrowed some of Laura's underwear, the idea of wearing this strange woman's panties seemed very wrong to me so if I was going to wear someone else's garments it might as well be my wife's. I won't lie, there was something a little... kinky about that, as by the time we were ready to go my opinion of this body went from "get it out of my sight" to "hm, let's look a little longer, what's the harm?" Laura also put my hair in a bun, explaining to me what she was doing as she did so that I could replicate. 

I have to admit, there was a strange intimacy to her doing this, even though she is not in her own body. It was part discomfort part connection. Knowing that my wife is in that body, and yet she was very close to not being my wife anymore, and that body not being a familiar one or something I find myself physically attracted to, gives the whole deal a weird push-pull that I would rather not deal with, so I tried to subtly keep her at arm's length.

There was something we didn't want to talk about... her being in the body of a married man.

"Marc," she said, trying to put as much feminine sympathy into her voice as would go, "I have to... you know..."

I didn't necessarily want to hear it. I couldn't wrap my brain around it. A two year saga of therapy and hard nights and fights and reconciliations and unanswered questions, and this is what it comes to? The universe reassigns our sexes and splits us up? I'm supposed to let my wife go be with someone else... as a husband?

I know she isn't excited about it or anything, but she feels a sense of responsibility. These are peoples' lives. We can't just toy with them, it's not right. How would we feel if...

I stop her. We've both had the sense for a while that I didn't care what happened in my life.

I say, "It's too heavy, it's too much. We'll talk later." I focused on Chantelle's phone, trying to catch up with her work e-mails and personal texts, of which there are many, especially from "Emma" and "Amanda," who seem to be into telling Chantelle everything about their lives. Their group chat is called "Carey Babes" so I assume they are sisters or relatives. 

I spent a lot of the ride fidgeting in my seat. Between my new underwear riding up, my bra digging in, and certain other unique facets of this body, I was scratching and pulling at myself too much for Laura's liking and got scolded for it. Women have entire lifetimes to get used to these sorts of things, can you please give me a week to be a gross, awkward weirdo before I rejoin society?

(This may be TMI but we're all friends here: Chantelle's pubic hair is seemingly just growing back in after being shaved or waxed, and it is very itchy down there. I recognize that I should probably not address that in public, but we weren't near anyone on the train and it was driving me buggy.)

We took the Downeaster back to Boston, spent some time tidying up the apartment and gathering a few personal things and spent the night there before proceeding to Albany in the morning by rental car, an awkward drive.

I took myself home, although being on my own, in this body, in a strange city -- even just in the back of a cab -- was eerie as hell. Chantelle has an apartment to herself, and an orange tabby that was staying with a neighbor lady. The cat's name is Hardy and it seems to particularly enjoy pressing on my boobs, sometimes with its claws out. Cats are evil.

The place was neat and very much more decor-oriented than any place I lived on my own, very much a woman's apartment. I felt like a guest walking in, with the distinct fear or messing anything up. Having been in a relationship for years, I am pretty well-acquainted with a lot of the trappings of womanhood. If I were a man on his own -- which I guess I am now -- the place would be minimal. Almost nothing on the walls (not since I outgrew the need for band or Spider-Man posters) no vases or trinkets. I don't even know if I would own throw pillows without a woman's influence in my life. I think about whether I'm going to make this life suit me, or I'm going to change myself to suit this life. After all I've had years of not being that "minimalist" guy anymore. Maybe Chantelle's life is closer to what I'm used to.

After a hot day in transit, I decided it was time for a shower. The water and suds felt good on my skin, although it took me a while to figure out exactly what was the right water temperature now since a good "hot shower" may not involve cranking the knob all the way up anymore. I'm trying to embrace scented body wash since that was what was on hand. I'm not going to pretend to be more sheepish than I actually am -- it's my body, I might as well do what I can with it. If that means spending extra time soaping up my breasts on my first day on the loose, who can judge me? I'm a man, I'm curious what things feel like and while I may not have my proper equipment, there's something pleasurable about it all. Facing it and, in a way embracing it, is a good way to process.

I spent a few days in a bathrobe, or not wearing anything but a pair of light shorts and a t-shirt from the band Twenty-One Pilots, slowly coming around to the idea that I have to be this person. I busied myself by cleaning out the fridge and scrubbing the bathroom. I spent long moments gazing at my new face in the mirror, examining her, trying to get to know her and who I am supposed to be as her. I don't really see myself in it, which is a strange feeling. I took a few selfies, trying to get a feel for what people were seeing when they looked at me, what I might look like when I smile, frown, make a joking around exaggerated expression, etc.

At times, I have thought about where this is all going -- facing the reality of being another person -- and I've been seized by hives, itchy red patches on my arms, neck and chest. Physical manifestation of my own nervousness. Great, just what I need, among surely other fun surprises this body has in store for me.

I still have a suitcase full of clothes to put away.

Bras, panties, skirts, dresses, tops, tights, jeans, shorts... four pairs of shoes. Accessories, hair products, skin products, makeup. The buy-in for womanhood is so high, and I know a lot of it's elective but in certain fields it's not. I wake up and my hair is in knots and I have to brush it out. I'm learning things to do with it. I thought about cutting it off, but... I actually don't want to? I've never had long, flowing hair before and I think it goes well with this body, it's just very hot all hanging off my head and seems like it might be the devil to upkeep.

I don't know where to start with makeup. I think I look okay without it?

I do think I will trim these nails, which are very difficult -- in my male opinion -- to type with either on a keyboard or on a phone. It's very strange to me that women wear long nails and work around them instead of doing what's sensible.

In the three-page double-sided letter I received from Chantelle, I was directed to a very specific nighttime skin care routine that I have adhered to. Following this instruction has added some normalcy to my life. Someone, just tell me what to do. Maybe I'll do it, maybe I'll do the opposite, but either way I'll have a direction.

Laura -- or is it Damon now -- and I have texted a little bit since parting at the train station, but I'm keep her/him at arm's length. I wonder if a clean break is best, as gutting as that is to me. It's true that I was, at times, nearly as ready to end the relationship as she was, but not like this. Now I feel like I need her more than ever and yet I feel it is not right for us to have a lot of communication, and maybe it's not wrong for me to go it alone.

This is my pouty face.

Marc:

I've had a few days to process this but it's still got my head spinning. The idea that my world has been "turned upside down" doesn't even begin to cover it... inside out and backwards too.

All weekend we were somehow revitalized. It was like we were kids again, all over each other. Like I said, any problems we've been having, it was like we totally agreed to leave them back home and be our best, most loving selves. We made some truly lovely memories walking along the beach and seeing the town and just getting back to being the versions of ourselves we loved most.

It was Wednesday, right in the middle of our week away. We came home from the bar, tipsy and falling all over each other -- honestly, tearing each other's clothes off.

We got into bed and turned out the lights and started messing around. I was on top of her, doing, well, what I do, when I suddenly felt strange. I thought maybe from the booze, maybe something I ate, I didn't know. But something happened to me that is never a good sign. I kind of... fell out of her.

She asked what was wrong and stammered, "Oh, just a little off rhythm or something, let me..." you know, you get to a certain age, you become a little self-conscious about performance and making sure all the equipment works. Hey, it has happened before. But in my head I'm trying not to freak out, but I know that this is not right. I'm raring to go.

I've gone totally limp... I reach down and realize... it's not even there anymore.

"Babe?" asks a strange voice. My own voice freezes in my throat in response.

The light clicks on and Laura's there, but... she's changing. Her hair was suddenly short-cropped -- it's like it's been sucked into her head. Her facial features were shifting too, her nose and jawline widening, her breasts flattening into her body. Her shoulders are starting to look, comparatively, like a linebacker's pads.

It happened slowly yet quickly. Suddenly long dark hair was flowing down from the top of my head. I realized I didn't have a dick anymore...... and she did.

She -- or is it he now? -- grabs me with a thick paw. My arm is like a noodle.

"Marc," she says, her voice now a low baritone. I'm frozen. I know what's happening before I know what's happening, but I don't believe it because it's not possible. The hair on my chest tingles as it fades away and my pecs -- soft as they are -- begin to sag into a pair of breasts.

"Laura...!" I gasp, my voice clearly not my own. I'm shaking, I don't know what to do.

I collapse into her arms and we just... hold each other until it's done.

It's a few hours of shivering in the dark before I realize I have to pee badly. I try to convince myself it's all just some weird dream but the situation won't let me. I disentangle myself from the person who was Laura and stand. My legs are wobbly. Oh God, I think... I don't really have a dick right now. I try not to think the word "anymore." This could be... temporary... somehow?

Biological needs come first. I relieve myself, very reluctantly obeying my new physiology. With every step across the room I can feel a pair of unfettered breasts bobbing around my chest, reacting to every slight movement. I sit, rest my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, combing through my abundant new hair and try to get a handle on what's just happened.

I go to the mirror and... she's pretty, if not any sort of beauty queen. A young, bright-green-eyed woman with good cheeks. I realize my hips are very wide and my breasts aren't small either, I've got an hourglass shape.

I throw up, just barely making it back to the toilet, with chunks landing in my new hair. Yuck.

Laura sits up in bed and calls out to me. Her new voice is rough and sandpapery and hard to associate with the person I married. She has salt and pepper hair and looks significantly older than I do now.

"I found something," she says.

A woman's luggage and a note written in rather impressive penmanship, from Chantelle Carey, 26-years-old from Albany, NY. Single, no kids...

Fresh out of law school. I gulp.

I'm trying to work out what is worse, being a woman or being a lawyer again. If I'm being totally honest, lawyer wins by a country mile. Unexpected tears fall down my face. I give in, curling up in the fetal position. After everything from these last five years, this... this is too much.

It wasn't until the next day that we ascertained Laura's identity, Damon Schmidt, 46, also from Albany. His luggage was in another room so if they were here together, they weren't trying to make it look like they were.

He's married. I ask Laura if she's okay with that, and she only asks whether I see a choice.

I tell her there's always a choice, a mantra of mine from when I quit my job. She makes a sour, scrunched face, which, on Damon's, looks very weird and not as cute as when she did it.

We've had a few days to wrestle with this.

Tomorrow, we embark.