Hey guys, Tori here once more. Sorr I haven't posted lately. Life has actually been kind of crazy and I will have to update you soon. For now, here's a letter from the Innbox. I hesitated before offering to post this person's story because it concerns people who are also posting here, but they're okay with it as it turns out. Another reason I hesitated to post it because it was Valentine's day recently, and well... you'll see :(
And remember, if you've got a story to share, please don't hesitate to e-mail us at tradingpoststories@outlook.com - include your name and "Trading Post Story" in the subject to make sure it stands out!
-Tori
Dear Trading Post,
It hasn't been easy finding my way through this situation but I'm doing my best. My name is J_____ (name withheld on request). Back in the summer, I visited the Trading Post with my girlfriend, M_____. The reservation was a surprise for our first anniversary, as she had told me that the beaches of Maine were the most beautiful part of the country. I was skeptical but booked the trip because, well, that's the kind of guy I am.
She had a point, it was quite impressive scenery... the ocean air, the hiking, walking along hand in hand on the beach. And even if the Inn had a spooky, cold "mysterious secret" vibe, we were enjoying our trip immensely, especially since we didn't have much to do except go for long walks and spend hours and hours in bed. That spooky vibe actually helped us feel a little naughtier, if you catch my drift.
I also just realized... what is it about that place? From the second you step foot in there, you can feel the hairs standing on the back of your neck, some voice deep inside saying "Get out of here!" but you never do. Is that part of the magic? Does it "need" victims? Or am I just too lazy to book another room someplace else?
Then it happened. The thing that happens to everyone who stays there, the thing you all know about. I woke up one morning and rolled over to find a stranger in bed with me. Instead of my petite, blonde girlfriend there was a rather larger person, just lying there asleep on her side, as if nothing was wrong.
She was naked, too - draped only in the tatters of my girlfriend's sexy lace nightie.
I panicked, and let out a scream - only to find my voice had gone up a register. I covered my mouth in a truly bizarre "did that come outta me???" moment, and began noticing all the other strange things. The long reddish brown hair. The slender fingers. The fact that my t-shirt was now several sizes too big... even if it was tented by a pair of petite, perky breasts.
To make a long story short, we realized we had become two different people than we had gone to sleep as - I had become Erin Hanley, and my girlfriend had become Rosie Montand. You've met them through this blog, but if you were wondering what had happened to their bodies, it was us.
So, if you've been reading this blog long enough, you can fill in the blanks: "What the? Are you? Did we? We can't... but we have to!" Believe me, I don't think anyone considers it an easy transition to make. nobody in our group seemed to have experienced it before, so we figured it out together.
Erin was out of work. Rosie worked for the school board and as on summer break. There was a silver lining there... we had time to adjust, I guessed, to figure out a plan and work through it together. But then reality reared its ugly head.
M. was not happy. Yes, she obviously felt bad for me, but she was also very focussed on herself. She was... let's say proud of her appearance. She was gorgeous. If she was taller she could have modeled. She was skinny, sexy, a knockout. Now, she was huge. Tall, heavy-set, unkempt-looking. I told her "I still love you no matter what." It was true. She was hard to comfort, though.
It felt strange trying to wrap my now-shorter arms around her now-larger frame, and talk to her like she was still the woman I loved, but she was.
On the last night before we had to check out - when the Inn was mostly vacant - M. sat me down. Tears in her eyes. I had a whole speech prepared about being brave and seeing it through together. I was going to be the strong boyfriend even though I was secretly terrified (and embarrassed and emasculated and everything.)
She told me she had to do this, no matter what. That she was already thinking of breaking up with me once our trip was over, that she had been having doubts for a long time, and now was probably the time to just admit it and go our separate ways. She felt she couldn't possibly continue "faking it" in this form, and didn't want to use me just to feel good, because she knew it wouldn't last in the long run.
I was shocked. After all that had happened to shake our lives up that week, and now this? The ground just dropped out beneath me. I asked why, couldn't we work it out? Shouldn't we be there for each other?
She said no, if she had to pretend to be Rosie, she was going to do it "right," on her own, and make a clean slate. There was no saving us.
So. She went to Rosie's place in Maine, and I went to Erin's in Indiana. And I just... sat, and moped, and tried to get on with the business of being Erin with nobody by my side who knew who I was. I tried to forget M. ever existed., and in the process I almost forgot that J. existed too. But now it's a new year and I have my reservation for the Trading Post. I am doing fine, and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I will put things right the best I can.
M. hasn't answered me to confirm if she is going back too, but I can't see why she wouldn't want to. She was so horrified at the thought of being a plus-sized woman that she locked herself in the bathroom to cry for an hour once we knew there was no way back. She's convinced her old body is so perfect that anyone who wound up in it would "steal" it, but even though that's a possibility, I believe what most people want is to put things right.
I don't know. After all she did to me, I feel like I would have a right to say "To hell with her" and not care what happens either way, but I do care, because it involves other people - good people who deserve better than having their body inhabited by a bitter, self-hating, image-obsessed immature woman like my ex.
-J_____.
Showing posts with label Innbox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Innbox. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Innbox: Katie and Jared
Hey guys! Hope you've been having a very good November, and that the weather is good wherever you are. Things have settled down for a bit lately, so I thought I might dip into the Innbox and share a story with you. This one comes to us from "Katie from Jacksonville."
And remember, fellow Inn people, you can always contact me at TradingPostStories@outlook.com and tell your tale!
-Tori
Dear Trading Post,
What a strange life it is for us. I'm sure by comparison to a lot of people, my story isn't all that dramatic, but it's mine, and I feel safe in sharing it with you. About two and a half years ago, I made a fateful visit to the Inn. I was fresh off a breakup and needed cheering up, and my mom, bless her heart, decided what I needed was a getaway. She's always looked out for me, and I guess in the long run it's great that we have had each other's backs through this ordeal.
On the third morning of our weeklong trip, I awake to find myself transformed... I guess you could say the changes were "minor" compared to what a lot of people go through. I went from 29 years old to 27, shrunk by a few inches and went down a couple of dress sizes. My unruly frizzy brown hair also became straight and blonde. I know, nothing shocking at all about any of this, there's almost no reason for me to speak up, but a new life is a strange experience no matter what.
As I was pondering my own strange transformation, I saw that where my 57-year-old mom had been, was now a strikingly handsome, rugged, 30-year-old man, the husband of my body's original owner! I couldn't believe my eyes and ears as this gentleman called me by my mother's pet name for me, recited facts only she could have known, et cetera et cetera. Insane!
Now, in all the confusion, nobody told us about the blog, or any way back to our old selves... we were coaxed into living as this couple, with the assumption that we would be this way for the rest of our lives! I'm sorry to say, the ship of us returning these bodies to their original occupants seems like it has sailed, as well as us getting our own selves back. We felt resigned to acting like "Katie and Jared"
Don't worry, the story doesn't get gross. Although I had to clear out some very unsettling thoughts relating to the fact that the woman who raised me was now an attractive, age-appropriate man, I assure you I had no intention of playing wife to my own mother. We became more like siblings or best friends.
To her credit, manhood was a good look for her. She took to it like a duck to water. I guess after so many years of being a wife and mother, masculinity is as easy as anything. I could also see her new youth revitalizing her.
And then she met Alice.
You would think it could only happen by accident, but Ma was no fool. She knew what she wanted and what she was getting into. She didn't wait for any new feelings to slowly reveal themselves and then fight them, she was ready and she embraced them, much to my shock! I didn't know it at the time, but only a few months into our time here, she had set up an online dating account and started meeting women! You go, girl!
Alice was my mom's first serious relationship in several years - she and my dad are divorced and she had a few boyfriends after, but always seemed better off single. And when I expressed my shock, she explained that she enjoyed having the chance to be the boyfriend, the partner, that a good woman deserved, instead of having to settle for some of the men she had been with. (She didn't specify whether this included my father, with whom I have a good relationship too.)
Alice is a sweet girl, and obviously very in love with my mom, but... I feel bad for her, since she doesn't know the truth, but that's only a small drawback. My mom treats her like a goddess. She's planning on proposing at Christmas. I voiced my on objections: it's so soon, we have this strange secret that Alice can never be privy to, and she has been hurt before, albeit in another life by a different gender.
But what's worse is that Alice absolutely hates me, for reasons beyond my control.
My main problem is this: Following a quickie divorce (not long after my mom and Alice met,) I am now the ex-wife, and it has raised a lot of questions about why I always seem to be around, why "Jared" is so intent on finding time to hang out with me. She hates me without reason, because even though I have explained I have no feelings for "her man," she believes that she can never truly have him as long as I am in the picture. She and I can only say "It's not like that!" so many times, without offering any true explanation.
So my mom has had to cut me out of her life for the most part, and it stinks.
It's led me to think some pretty drastic thoughts. Since I found this blog, and I know what the Inn is capable of, I sometimes think I should just go back. I have a very good life, but I'm not overly attached to it. Someone else might need it. I'm leery of using this body as leverage or a bargaining chip, but perhaps if certain conditions were met. (And before you asked, the original "Katie" has never contacted me, let alone asked for her body back. Like I said I never even knew it was possible until earlier this year!)
Then I wonder... if I were to go back, if it were all within my control, would I want to be a man? To experience life from the other side of the fence? My mom seems very happy with it, but she also had a very different life from me, with motherhood and divorce and everything. If I go "that way," and it might be fore good, it's like saying I'm done experiencing everything womanhood has to offer - passing on childbirth, motherhood, or even just becoming an eccentric cat lady. And for what... male privilege and a chance to rebuild my relationship with my mother? (Well it certainly seems tempting when you put it that way, but I kind of want to be a mommy someday!)
Looks like I've got a few months to think about that.
I guess this is just to say that even people whose lives aren't 100% upended by the Inn face problems too. It maybe doesn't make for such thrilling reading material, but nobody gets out of there unscathed, I'm sure. And if what I'm going through is just a small sample of the dilemmas faced daily by the rest of you, I genuinely wish for the best, you are all powerful men and women (and others!)
Love to everyone
"Katie" (nevermind my real name, it's gone forever.)
Jacksonville, FL
And remember, fellow Inn people, you can always contact me at TradingPostStories@outlook.com and tell your tale!
-Tori
Dear Trading Post,
What a strange life it is for us. I'm sure by comparison to a lot of people, my story isn't all that dramatic, but it's mine, and I feel safe in sharing it with you. About two and a half years ago, I made a fateful visit to the Inn. I was fresh off a breakup and needed cheering up, and my mom, bless her heart, decided what I needed was a getaway. She's always looked out for me, and I guess in the long run it's great that we have had each other's backs through this ordeal.
On the third morning of our weeklong trip, I awake to find myself transformed... I guess you could say the changes were "minor" compared to what a lot of people go through. I went from 29 years old to 27, shrunk by a few inches and went down a couple of dress sizes. My unruly frizzy brown hair also became straight and blonde. I know, nothing shocking at all about any of this, there's almost no reason for me to speak up, but a new life is a strange experience no matter what.
As I was pondering my own strange transformation, I saw that where my 57-year-old mom had been, was now a strikingly handsome, rugged, 30-year-old man, the husband of my body's original owner! I couldn't believe my eyes and ears as this gentleman called me by my mother's pet name for me, recited facts only she could have known, et cetera et cetera. Insane!
Now, in all the confusion, nobody told us about the blog, or any way back to our old selves... we were coaxed into living as this couple, with the assumption that we would be this way for the rest of our lives! I'm sorry to say, the ship of us returning these bodies to their original occupants seems like it has sailed, as well as us getting our own selves back. We felt resigned to acting like "Katie and Jared"
Don't worry, the story doesn't get gross. Although I had to clear out some very unsettling thoughts relating to the fact that the woman who raised me was now an attractive, age-appropriate man, I assure you I had no intention of playing wife to my own mother. We became more like siblings or best friends.
To her credit, manhood was a good look for her. She took to it like a duck to water. I guess after so many years of being a wife and mother, masculinity is as easy as anything. I could also see her new youth revitalizing her.
And then she met Alice.
You would think it could only happen by accident, but Ma was no fool. She knew what she wanted and what she was getting into. She didn't wait for any new feelings to slowly reveal themselves and then fight them, she was ready and she embraced them, much to my shock! I didn't know it at the time, but only a few months into our time here, she had set up an online dating account and started meeting women! You go, girl!
Alice was my mom's first serious relationship in several years - she and my dad are divorced and she had a few boyfriends after, but always seemed better off single. And when I expressed my shock, she explained that she enjoyed having the chance to be the boyfriend, the partner, that a good woman deserved, instead of having to settle for some of the men she had been with. (She didn't specify whether this included my father, with whom I have a good relationship too.)
Alice is a sweet girl, and obviously very in love with my mom, but... I feel bad for her, since she doesn't know the truth, but that's only a small drawback. My mom treats her like a goddess. She's planning on proposing at Christmas. I voiced my on objections: it's so soon, we have this strange secret that Alice can never be privy to, and she has been hurt before, albeit in another life by a different gender.
But what's worse is that Alice absolutely hates me, for reasons beyond my control.
My main problem is this: Following a quickie divorce (not long after my mom and Alice met,) I am now the ex-wife, and it has raised a lot of questions about why I always seem to be around, why "Jared" is so intent on finding time to hang out with me. She hates me without reason, because even though I have explained I have no feelings for "her man," she believes that she can never truly have him as long as I am in the picture. She and I can only say "It's not like that!" so many times, without offering any true explanation.
So my mom has had to cut me out of her life for the most part, and it stinks.
It's led me to think some pretty drastic thoughts. Since I found this blog, and I know what the Inn is capable of, I sometimes think I should just go back. I have a very good life, but I'm not overly attached to it. Someone else might need it. I'm leery of using this body as leverage or a bargaining chip, but perhaps if certain conditions were met. (And before you asked, the original "Katie" has never contacted me, let alone asked for her body back. Like I said I never even knew it was possible until earlier this year!)
Then I wonder... if I were to go back, if it were all within my control, would I want to be a man? To experience life from the other side of the fence? My mom seems very happy with it, but she also had a very different life from me, with motherhood and divorce and everything. If I go "that way," and it might be fore good, it's like saying I'm done experiencing everything womanhood has to offer - passing on childbirth, motherhood, or even just becoming an eccentric cat lady. And for what... male privilege and a chance to rebuild my relationship with my mother? (Well it certainly seems tempting when you put it that way, but I kind of want to be a mommy someday!)
Looks like I've got a few months to think about that.
I guess this is just to say that even people whose lives aren't 100% upended by the Inn face problems too. It maybe doesn't make for such thrilling reading material, but nobody gets out of there unscathed, I'm sure. And if what I'm going through is just a small sample of the dilemmas faced daily by the rest of you, I genuinely wish for the best, you are all powerful men and women (and others!)
Love to everyone
"Katie" (nevermind my real name, it's gone forever.)
Jacksonville, FL
Friday, October 02, 2015
Innbox: The Stevensons
Tori here! I thought I would take a break from updating you on the sordid details of my life to dig into our inbox. Since I set up the new account we've had some correspondences with a few fellow Inn victims, some of whom have agreed to share their stories but don't want to make themselves regular contributors here (not that they wouldn't be welcome.) In fact, our first write-in comes from someone who was at the Inn not long after one of our familiar faces...
Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!
--
Dear Trading Post,
I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.
My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.
I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.
It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.
From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.
It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.
I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."
"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"
I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.
"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.
Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"
I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.
She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.
"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"
I turned my head away, modestly.
She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.
"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.
"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"
"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.
"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"
And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.
I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.
I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.
A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.
"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.
"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."
"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."
Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.
Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.
The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.
I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.
I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.
"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"
"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."
"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."
"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"
"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."
He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."
I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."
I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?
KNOCK KNOCK.
A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.
My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."
I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."
"But she was here?"
I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."
"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."
"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.
Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"
"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.
One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"
"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.
As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.
I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.
I had failed.
When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."
I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.
I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.
I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.
I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."
It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."
I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."
I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.
Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.
-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson
Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.
Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!
--
Dear Trading Post,
I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.
My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.
I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.
It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.
From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.
It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.
I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."
"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"
I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.
"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.
Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"
I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.
She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.
"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"
I turned my head away, modestly.
She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.
"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.
"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"
"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.
"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"
And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.
I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.
I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.
A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.
"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.
"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."
"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."
Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.
Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.
The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.
I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.
I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.
"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"
"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."
"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."
"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"
"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."
He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."
I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."
I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?
KNOCK KNOCK.
A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.
My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."
I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."
"But she was here?"
I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."
"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."
"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.
Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"
"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.
One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"
"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.
As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.
I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.
I had failed.
When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."
I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.
I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.
I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.
I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."
It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."
I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."
I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.
Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.
-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson
Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.
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