Becca/Sam: One of the guys

My early weeks and months as Sam Platter were a complete nightmare. Every day I woke up I felt my stomach eating away at itself with anxiety. Being in a strange body may have carried some amusing novelty under other circumstances, but I'm a simple gal -- all I ever wanted was to live a quiet life. As Sam though, all eyes were on me to be a "hotshot" decision maker, bold and leading edge. I didn't feel like I had any choice -- it was one thing to risk my livelihood, but I had to support a wife and three kids and try to keep things stable until the real Sam could be restored.

I kept it to myself -- such a manly move -- and barely tried to build any trust with Shannon. I barely wanted anything to do with her, I even considered moving into another room to leave her alone. Not out of dislike per se... although it's true, I did feel pretty predisposed against such a pretty, skinny, perky, perfect woman who does Tiktoks with her daughters and everything. I just felt like, we didn't have anything in common and it was weird to try to push myself to be a "husband" to her. I didn't know what that meant or why I should try. I had other important things to do. I didn't, however, change beds, I just kind of kept on the low and focused my energy to the kids.

The kids are great. Obviously "Corinne" was taking up most of my time and energy. She and Sam had taken the trip to Maine as a "bonding" experience and I guess you could say it worked all too well. I took point on her as she headed into her junior year at high school. Being so dedicated to cheer and other activities gave my dad something to focus his newfound energies on. I wouldn't have thought he would take to it, but I think there's something to be said for the influence of one's body: knowing what Corinne-the-body was capable of seemed to stoke Nevin's interest in pursuing it. So we spent August "re-learning" back hand springs and flips and everything, things that people train themselves from childhood to get good at. I covered most of it because I didn't want Shannon to see how far backwards Corinne's development had gone. But 

I asked him about it and he said, in that gruff version of a teenage girl's voice he's got, "When I was Corinne's age, I was taking cars apart to figure out how they worked. I was a star runningback, too. You never saw me then. I was obsessed. When I caught something, I caught it bad. That's how it is today. I can't explain it, but doing all this... it get me going, you know?" Fair enough.

Then there's the two other girls, 12 and 9. They all have their own personalities: the middle-child is a musician and fills the house with the sound of piano practice, and the other is a budding artist. Part of me admires how picture-perfect it all is, and part of me has my stomach turning because life was sure never like this for me and I don't know quite how to process it. So I could only focus on work, and I hated work. My life felt like a nightmare, made worse by the bizarre fact that I felt like my dad was thriving.

(I occasionally thought about what if the situations had been reversed and I had been the young girl and he the dad -- I didn't think I would be any better of a Corinne and I knew he would just mess up as Sam, so I had to comfort myself that this was for the best.)

Being at work every day put me at odds with my body. I was the caretaker of a male anatomy and it was weird. The guys saw me as one of them. It was intoxicating and withering all at once because I felt, deep down inside, like I was a fraud, a fake. And not just because I didn't know what I was doing at work.

Men. I understand men and I'll never understand men. But it's true that so much of who and what they are is filtered through sexuality. It was gross hearing the way some of these guys talk to each other, but I couldn't bring myself to speak up. Maybe I was becoming more sympathetic because my brain was basting in those same hetero-male chemicals, but I couldn't quite spare it with my own sensitivity from years of being a woman. But there was a distance between me and the other guys at work that I yearned to bridge, but I could only do so by plunging further and becoming more of what I appeared to be. I had to be a man. I had to increase my experience.

I had to... sleep with my wife.

Becca/Sam: Tumbling

So where we left off, Nev/dad/Corinne was stumbling in the door, on time but soused. Of course, our deal wasn't that she wouldn't get drunk, only that she would be home on time, and she was, so while I was upset, I couldn't exactly take it out on her. The spirit vs. letter of the deal, you know.

I just worry. I worried about him when he was a grown man (I had to make sure we were geographically very distant for most of my adult life to make sure I didn't have to worry... which is something I do feel guilty about) and I worry about him doubly now that he's in this body. I worry that he's behaving himself, I worry about falling back into old habits, I worry that other people don't do things to harm him or pressure him into things that he's not ready for, or that Corinne shouldn't be ready for. There's no end to the worry. 

I mean I sure remember what it was like to be a teenage girl. You're both a kid and an adult at the same time. The world sees you as an infant to be protected and a sexually mature being to be exploited, and you yourself probably aren't sure what you are... even before factoring in having lived the life of a grown man. You have no responsibilities, but no say and no freedom, but also a lot of pressure. I get it, I'm sympathetic, but in the specific case of Nevin Moran, I think he needs to be watched.

I mean, this is a guy who has been engaged to three different strippers (he only married one.) That should tell you exactly how much he values the female body and for what. There's a certain amount of fox-in-henhouse concern as far as letting a guy like that walk around with the body of a teenage girl. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt... I described to you the way he appeared to have changed and gotten very clear-headed once the transformation hit, but at the same time, on day 3 he spent several minutes doing jumping jacks just to demonstrate how bouncy his breasts are. The man is predictably unpredictable. At least it helped him burn off some of his energy.

So, back to early days: I put in a call to the original Sam to reassure him that his life was in good hands (and his daughter's...) I won't say exactly who they became (unless it becomes relevant to my story) and to be honest he seemed kind of... unconcerned? I mean, you've got a complete stranger bedding up with your wife, I expected a little bit more pushback. That struck me odd but perhaps it does have something to do with who he became, or maybe just what sort of person Sam Platter is.

With Dad adjusting well to his circumstances, I was free to settle in for a long flight back to the Bay Area. To be honest, I had hardly spared myself much of a thought, given how worried I was about my dad's behavior. But a creeping dread was starting to flower in my gut. I was going to start trying to do a job I had never done before. I was going to have to take the role of provider and partner in a family when I have been painfully single for many years and certainly never close to "married with kids." Truth be told, the work part disturbed me more. I thought that as far as family went, I would simply be "me, but in male form." It was a secondary concern. On the flight, I familiarized myself with my new "wife," Shannon, and "our" other two kids.

She seemed like a perfectly ordinary woman from social media. I hate to admit it, but there was a pang of dislike for her from checking her Instagram. Don't take it personally, but when you see a pretty blonde lady with money who looks youthful and fun, who also has three beautiful kids, it tends to stir something up in me, like I'm not stacking up. I tried to rationalize and say, give her a chance, you have to cohabitate with this person and play the role of their spouse. Don't let petty anti-feminist jealousy get the better of you. Don't compare your lives.

So we got home, and for a few days, I kept my distance. The new school year was starting up and we needed to get "Corinne" set up. This was going to be a laugh... Corinne's life was cheerleading and gymnastics. My dad couldn't even get up out of a reclining chair without assistance. I told him he would be forgiven if he wanted to do something else with his time as Corinne, but he was shockingly gung-ho about the idea. I think he was very taken with the possibilities of his newfound co-ordination, energy and athleticism. At least, I hoped so, because the other alternative was because he wanted to get into a room with a bunch of half-naked underage girls.

But, no, it seemed like a sincere effort. Nevin was very impressed with himself when he found out he could do not only a split, but a standing split, as demonstrated on Corinne's Tiktok. Anything he saw her doing he would attempt, although it's not like he was able to emulate her tumbling, which undoubtedly took years of experience.

So we hired a secret coach who wouldn't be able to tip anyone off that the "girl" had 0 gymnastic experience to try to get her up to par, and by the end of summer, she was passable.

Me, I was focusing on work. Every time I put on the suit, I naturally felt like a fraud, like I would go into the office and be shown the door, but Sam did provide me some long distance guidance that helped set me up for success. The feelings of fraud, the impostor syndrome, abated after a while. It was certainly very weird being spoken to as a man -- getting the baseline respect that most people deserve, along with masculine bro-like camaraderie... the gap between wallflower Becca and expected-bro Sam was pretty wide and hard to bridge, and I hoped nobody at work noticed me being a little more soft-spoken and sensitive to others.

Outside of the office, I spent time at the gym. That was sort of my getaway. Like dad, I did come to relish my new physicality -- not that I'm trying to "get muscular" but it's nice to feel like I can occupy this body with activity... do a few minutes at a high pace on the treadmill, lift weights, etc. It had the benefit of keeping me separate from Shannon and any expectations she might have.

I thought, as long as I stay active enough in "the relationship," nobody would have any reason to say boo about what I was doing. Help with the kids, help around the house, whatever I'm needed for, but maintain a respectful distance between myself and her.

But that could only last for so long...

Becca/Sam: When the child becomes the parent

Okay, it's Saturday night. I've got a verbal promise from "Corinne" that "she'll" be home before midnight. Sandi's gone to bed, as have the other kids, only I am awake to stand guard. I've poured myself a coke with just a little bit of rye in it, let's continue our story.

Like anyone, I've been curious over the course of my life what it would be like to be the opposite sex, but I happen to think it's a particularly male form of ego that suggests a woman would want to be a man. I don't covet big biceps or a handsome jawline for myself. I miss my long, tangle-prone hair, I miss my soft, short, curvy body, I miss my clothes. Knowing there's a potential timeline for a return to my old self -- if I play my cards right? -- helps me face the day to day realities of being Samuel Platter and try to make the most of it.

Naturally, looking at what happened to me and my dad, I thought there was some kind of cosmic intelligence at work here, some divine sense of humor. I woke up in the body of a man close to me in age, and he my daughter, a teenage girl. That doesn't seem like a coincidence to me, but investigating the rest of this blog indicates that it's 90% likely that it was just a roll of the dice, with a 10% possibility that some outside force has manipulated us into this situation for reasons beyond my understanding.

In the moment though, it was panic. I had to give the "kid" some of my Ativan to get through the first day (as opposed to letting him/her drink themself into oblivion.) By day two, I had sourced more information and he was more understanding about it.

So we're the Platters -- a tech investor and his cheerleader daughter. Our task: inhabit these peoples' lives as best we can until such time as we can arrange a return trip to the Inn... next year.

Sam is a good-looking guy. Piercing blue eyes and light hair, a confident grin. He looks like James Marsden, but ten years younger. Cheekbones forever. He's fit -- like I said, he's only a little bit younger than me but not having those same aches and pains makes me feel incredible. He fills out a suit well. I don't want to be a man, but if I have to be one, I would very much like to look like Sam Platter.

I'll admit, I was semi-curious about "the equipment" which I could not ignore hanging between my legs. How does it work? When would I know it was... activated? What do I do when it's idle? I have to admit, it was very distracting. After all these months I still feel like we're getting to know each other.

On day 2, dad went from being perturbed to buying into the whole idea. The same way I was coming to accept the perks of being Sam, he had to admit that if one had to be female, it's better to be young, pretty and nubile. To the real Corinne -- I'm so, so sorry about the current occupant of your body.

In my head, I had a kind of trainwreck fascination with the situation. Here's my dad, a man with zero impulse control, old enough to remember Watergate, who could never be anybody but himself, now wedged into the life of a squeaky-clean female member of the TikTok generation. How was this going to work?

While we processed, he asked me to braid his hair "Like Miesha Tate" It was fun, the nicest bonding moment we've had since I was a teenager. We talked a bit, about anything to get our minds off the situation: old times, work, whatever. For the first time in a long while I got the sense he was hearing what I was saying to him, paying attention and absorbing it.

That's something else that happened. This girl -- who I know inside is my dad, but before we left Maine sure wasn't acting like it -- was very lucid and very clear, very even-tempered. I mean, she still had a mouth like a longshoreman, but I've never known him to be quite so sharp and alert. All his senses were coming back, his faculties that were long since abandoned... he was awake and energetic. Youth is the ultimate drug, I suppose. High on life. And a heady cocktail of estrogen and progesterone, among other hormones.

I don't think we fully understand the mind-body connection, because before long it felt like I was not dealing with a "grown man in a child's body" but a child with the mind of a grown man. This was not simply my dad, looking different, this was almost an entirely different person: whereas before he was grouchy and lethargic, he was manic and optimistic. It was like talking to a different person who happened to have all the knowledge and memory of my father. 

Now he was in a body that wasn't permanently piss-drunk and stoned, that hadn't been destroyed by abuse. Part of the reason my dad can't get sober is that he can't stand withdrawal, but here he was with not a drop in his system and feeling fine. I think when he realized that, something switched in him. He went from shock and horror to acceptance and even enthusiasm for the situation in freakishly record time.

His outlook and demeanor had changed. He dug back in his brain for some of the religious platitudes they tell you in meetings about how this is his second chance by the grace of God. By day three, he was fully on board with this scenario: clothes, makeup, body, he was ready to accept it all, ready to devour the life of Corinne Platter.

Which was a little eerie, and certainly not my experience of transformation, but I had to go along with it.

I don't know that this is everybody's experience when they get de-aged or gender-changed through this magic. From reading through this it sounds like it's not, but maybe people are just sheepish about it. But my dad has an addictive personality, obviously, and in the present I could see that taking hold in the form of an addiction to being Corinne. Only I didn't really have time to process it. Having someone who is surprisingly accepting of this situation is infinitely preferable to someone who is going to fight you all the way (which is what I kind of thought would happen.) So my dad became my daughter, and we traveled back to California to meet the rest of the family, and to beg forgiveness for the delay and pretend like we belonged.

I'd like to say this was a "reversal" of our roles, but the truth is, it's just a solidification of the way it's been for years. I've been more mature and ready to handle the world than my dad since I was in high school. This just makes it official.

But does it make it right?

Hold on, I hear the door.

-Becks

Becca/Sam: How did we get here?

Well, I already broke the seal and put myself on this blog, I might as well tell you a bit more about myself.

My name is Becca Moran. I like to describe myself as a mousy redhead, and the fact that I like to describe myself that way should tell you pretty nuch everything you need. Up until last summer I was working in insurance in Boston. I wouldn't say it was my passion, but it was a tidy little living. I had a very ordinary, quiet, perennially-single life. Some good girlfriends and some red wine was as exciting as it ever got for me on a Saturday night.

Then one night, I get a call from my dad. He's in the area. Normally he's down in Clearwater, Florida, where he ended up after years of drifting around with no particular agenda. I love my dad, and I want to believe there's good in him, but the most dependable thing about him is screwing up. He's the kind of guy who would sell the car right before you needed to go buy groceries, you know? Just poor decision-making skills. He was in and out of my life forever, but I go through phases where I forgive him and I try to mend fences, whether he's changed or not, until it becomes all too apparent that he is way too much the same man he always was.

So one night he calls. He's in the area. Actually, he's headed to Maine. Maine is not that close to Boston, but it's closer than Florida, sure. His latest sponsor, Bill -- I've never heard of Bill before, but what I don't know about my dad's life could fill a textbook -- has gotten him a room at this nice little place by the beach. You'd think he gets enough of the beach in Florida, but this is all the way up in Maine away from his usual haunts. Only Bill had to back out at the last moment. How convenient for Bill. So I've got a room waiting for me if I want to spend some time with dad, and sure, I've got a big heart -- I was going to spend my summer vacation weeks vacuuming and binge-watching TLC Reality Shows, so this seemed equally as healthy. Why not.

So, we go, and it's clear that dad is not keeping up on the program. And it's disappointing, but at this point it's not my job to keep him on the straight and narrow, I simply do not have the emotional energy to make that my responsibility. I'll keep him from killing himself in the immediate present if possible, that's all I can manage. Mostly he sleeps during the day, wakes up at 4, goes to the bar, pesters younger women, then comes home to crash. That leaves me plenty of time during the daylight hours to read, work on my tan, and ogle younger men on the beach (darn, I am my father's daughter, except I didn't drink.) Our paths didn't even cross that much in the waking world, except one day when he saw me heading out in my bikini, and he said I was too fat to be wearing a bikini (I'm not -- yeah, my jelly has a little wiggle to it, a bit of a belly and thunder thighs, but I liked my body just fine.) I'm not even bothered by these comments the way I would have been in my teens or 20's or even early 30's. That's just Nevin Moran being Nevin Moran. He can't keep his mouth shut. I happened to think a high-waisted and tastefully-topped bikini did a lot more for me than a one-piece would. Wait, why am I even having this argument with you/him?

So I roll my eyes, I dismiss him, I don't care. Once the week is over, we'll part ways and he'll miss my birthday and I won't spare him a thought. And it'll hurt a little, but everyone has baggage and I've accepted that this is mine.

Nothing too interesting happens on the trip. I see the town, I put my feet in the water, I shop, I sip coffees outside while it's nice. It's not like I'm going to meet anyone while I'm rooming with my father, not that I had expectations of that anyway -- I look pretty good but the phrase "no spring chicken" does come to mind. At night I sleep until dad crashes into the room and then I pretend I'm still asleep because it's easier than acknowledging we're both awake at the same time. You know, healthy family stuff.

And then one morning I awake to screaming. A big loud scream in a high little voice. A stream of expletives the likes of which a should not be issued so confidently from the mouth of such a young girl. I wake up dazed, I don't know what's going on, especially since it sounds like the girl is in our room -- which I desperately hope is not true because I'm not ready to face what that would mean.

But of course it's worse. Well -- it's bad in a different way.

Because I sit up and there's little Corinne, all of 16 years old, my father's faded PJ pants and giveaway Budweiser tee-shirt hanging off of her, her hair a matted, tangled mess, her face an expression of utter distraught, bewildered panic.

"What the f---?!" she says. Among other sailor-like epithets.

I'm confused. And scared. And, I'm realizing, not feeling like myself. My own PJ's are feeling extremely, extremely constrictive. "Who are you?" I murmur. "Where's my--?"

I sit up and... rip.

The back of my top, the back of my pants, torn, like I was the Hulk.

I look down at my hands. Rough, mannish. Hairy arms way outgrown the sleeves

I look up at her. She's staring me, and hyperventilating.

"Becca?" she asks through desperate sobs.

I feel the top of my head. Mane of wild curls, gone. My chin... rough, hard jawline.

My chest, flat. Not too flat, either. This guy works out.

I can barely gulp... I don't even want to say it, to ask if it's true, because to admit that I thought it might be possible would make me feel insane but in that moment I had no other conclusion but to ask... "Dad?"

Becca/Sam: Parenting Advice?

Hey everybody, longtime reader, first time writer. I don't know if anybody's paying attention or has anything to help me with, but I thought I would reach out anyway. You see, I could really use some parenting advice as a first-time parent of a very willful child. Normally, I don't think my parenting philosophy would be quite so strict, but it's fair to say that there are extreme circumstances here.

See, I never expected to be a father. Hell, I never expected to be a man. I was a 38-year-old woman who had long since accepted that she was riding the one-way train to cat ladyhood. Then I took a trip to the Trading Post and wound up as Sam Platter: big shot tech investor.

Tech? I like knitting for crying out loud! If you could see my Tiktok algorithm, it's all stitches, and "Do Gen Z's even know these 90s songs?"

But whatever. I adjusted. And I read this blog as much as I could during my busy days, only I didn't have the nerve to post anything. I guess I didn't feel like my problems were up to par... oh, poor you, all that money, beautiful home, fancy cars, and an admittedly sexy wife, plus three kids. Straight teeth, great hair, people actually take you seriously, wah, wah, wah. But now I think I'm ready to step up and announce myself. I have problems too.

So, back to my kid. That's Corinne. 16 years old, a Junior. Cute girl, popular, cheerleader. But see, she's been acting out lately. Running with the wrong crowd. Staying out late, drinking, partying, I'm worried she might even be having sex, or at least thinking about it. I'm at my wit's end and my "wife" doesn't seem ready to face the problems. Probably because she doesn't know the half of it.

Because my wife was here when I got here. So were two of the kids.

But Corinne?

Corinne is my dad.

My no-good, boozehound, frequently-arrested, thrice-divorced 61-year-old father.

So like... any advice?

How do you convince a guy who's already thrown away one life not to do the same to another?

I'll hang up and listen.

-B/S (it sure is!)

Max: Where it began

You already know a lot about my trip to Maine this past July, and someday I'll work up to explaining what brought me there, because Alia there's a lot those posts don't say about me, both good and bad. But it's almost been a whole month since I promised I'd start writing in here and you haven't heard hardly a peep out of me. It's harder than I thought.

I'll start with the night of the 25th, when I became Max. As you can imagine, I didn't sleep well that whole week. I had switched rooms with Roger, a married man who had stayed behind because he was having problems with his wife and because, I think, he thought he had a shot with me. I want to make it perfectly clear that I never gave him the impression I was willing to let him cheat on his wife with me. After all, we weren't even in the same room that night. How I got him to trade rooms with me, well, that's maybe a different matter.

The point was, this body was meant for him, and who knows what he would have done with it.

Once he gave me his room, there was no turning back. I immediately sought the suitcase. I found a gym bag with a couple of changes of clothes haphazardly tossed in, and no letter or ID around. I dumped out the bad and found Men's jeans and well-worn black t-shirts. I wondered if it was too late. There was no way of knowing who Roger was going to turn into, and I wondered if I had made a mistake, now that I was certain what sort of person I was going to be.

The whole bag was laundered and neatly folded, so it seemed like someone must have taken care of this for Max. It still smelled faintly of detergent. Out of curiosity, I stripped down to my bra and panties and dressed myself in the man's clothes. The jeans came down past my feet and had no hope of staying up without a belt, being very roomy in the crotch. I've worn boyfriends' clothes before, so I could guage how big of a guy Max was from how loose his shirt was on me. My last boyfriend was 6'1 compared to my 5'4 self and modest chest. Max's shirt wasn't as billowy on me.

I spent the night turned on my side, as usual unable to sleep. Around 2:15, I felt my heart starting to beat faster. The hairs on my arms stood up. I can't even describe what it's like to feel hair pull itself into your head, it's like a tingling, like a super-thorough rinse but... inside your scalp.

I was wearing my pajama bottoms and a tank top. I thought the tank would be stretchy enough to survive my metamorphosis, as I only had a vague idea of what my new physique was like. Luckily, Max was a slender guy with slim shoulders. My breasts stiffened and flattened themselves against my torso. It was like losing a limb, to be perfectly honest. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of... being turned inside out.

I didn't see it happen. The whole time I had my eyes clenched shut, mentally chanting "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," my palms resting flat against my chest. It wasn't painful, it wasn't erotic, it just slowly, slowly, emerged from me, this alien device in my pants.

When it was over with, I curled back over on my side, flannel pants tight against my thighs and waist, now not reaching the bottom of my calves and tightened all around me. My feet were bare and my toenails were now protruding and scraping against the comforter. I didn't even know what my face looked like, but my first instinct was to rub it and see how recently-shaved it was; there was just a faint wisp of stubble. I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. I was seized by a deep, sudden feeling of regret for leaving my life behind.

But in the morning, all I could think was "What's done is done." More pressing issues were about to come up.

I was examining my new face when Alia knocked on my door. As Max, I'm thin and taller than I was as Sam, but still under 6 feet. I have a strong jawline, good facial structure... really, he's quite a handsome guy, except he looked and felt at the time like a bit of a dirty lowlife. I was already sweaty and bristling with body hair on my arms, legs, armpits and chest. Not thick, not unappealingly so, just... it was different. It irritates when you're not used to it.

I tested out my expressions, moving the muscles of my face to see what I looked like surprised, angry, happy... how straight my teeth are (not overly) how my nose looked in profile. Whether my Adam's apple stuck out enough. I tried to angle myself in the bathroom mirror to check out my own ass, but I couldn't get a good look.

It's weird, though, it didn't feel like I'd grown, like my hands and feet had gotten bigger, but holding my flats up to my new foot, it was clear I'd gotten some serious bulk. I marveled at how tiny all the clothes I'd packed as Sam now appeared in my hands. How I stood taller in the mirror.

When Alia saw me, she told me I still stood and walked like a woman, but that I would probably re-learn that in time. By now it feels like I have. Looking down at her when she came to my door I was more impressed with how much taller than her I was (head and shoulders) than say, how attractive she is. She's really pretty, but at the time it didn't occur to me that I was a male looking at a female. At that time I still didn't know who I was or who, if anyone I was with.

This was the result of more room-switching before us. In the next room were the bodies of Tanya, Max's girlfriend, and Melanie, her sister. The room I was in had belonged to Melanie, but Max had taken it while Tanya looked after her in their room, because Melanie had over indulged in booze. They'd had the presence of mind to move Max's luggage over, but not his wallet, which was in with Tanya's stuff. So when a short dark-haired girl showed up at my door later that day holding a wallet, I was glad to meet her.

This was just after Alia's somewhat embarrassing attempt at a speech. They'd seen me when I made my brief cameo, and recognized me from the mysterious wallet left in their room. "Tanya" introduced herself and brought me over to her room next door to meet her "sister."

The sisters are just a year or so apart, with Tanya being the younger one. They look similar enough, but Tanya is a bit heavier. I followed her next door where the other girl was sitting on the bed looking shameful, miserable, pensive. Sulking. She was wearing a Men's white button up over a plain tee and cargo shorts, which all obscured her form. I could just barely discern the dark outlines of her nipples, they were poking through a bit. "Tanya" explained, she and Melanie were a couple (I don't really see the use in revealing their names) and it had dawned on them that they were now sisters. Not a pleasant development for them. They showed me their letters, and mine, which basically read, "Max McGill: Good luck." Most of the details of my new life were outlined in Tanya's letter. I asked if they were okay with hanging around here a while. They agreed.

Melanie was quiet the rest of the night while Tanya and I spoke in hushed tones. Not having been gender-changed, she was in a better frame of mind to take control of the situation while Mel sat on the bed with her legs curled up running her fingers through her hair.

"We're not going to Canada," Tanya told me, "[Melanie] has an important job in Washington and we can't let someone else take his life."

I joked, "What are you guys, the Obamas?"

Tanya didn't laugh, but grumbled "No. Not D.C., Washington State. He's an air traffic controller at Sea-Tac. You think the new person in his body is going to know how to do that?"

"No," I sighed, "But do you think they're just going to let that girl walk in and claim that's her job?"

"When he proves he can do it--"

"Look at her!" I said, "She's a wreck. The last thing she needs right now is the safety of thousands of passengers on her mind."

"Stop it!" she said, "Stop calling my boyfriend a she. It's still him in there, isn't it?" I nodded. "Don't you dare tell me what he needs. What we need is to get back to normal, and we can only do that back home."

"This is not a good idea," I told her. "It's not going to work, and you might risk your ability to get back to your own body."

She snapped, "Did you get your own body back? No? Then you don't know what you're talking about, so stay the hell out of our lives."

I wanted to hit her. Wanted to throttle her. I wasn't prone to violence as a woman but that didn't mean I couldn't get frustrated and lost me temper. I stood up and banged my fist on the desk. It hurt but I didn't let on.

"The two of you are making a huge mistake. For the time being, you belong in New Brunswick, and we can figure out a strategy from there. I'll be here for the rest of my reservation if you change your mind."

She looked at me coldly as I left the room. They were gone the next day.

Next time I get around to writing in this, I'll tell you about my trip up to Canada and where things went from there.

Alia: Emily's story

So, Monday.

Exhausted from a very busy morning, and disappointed I hadn't done a good job of dispelling the hysteria, Max -- formerly Sam -- and I took off for some breakfast to re-orient ourselves at a little family restaurant by the shore.

I was feeling hungry enough to eat three breakfasts, so I overdid my order. I had neglected to take into account the fact that while my hunger may be big, my appetite was not the same size as Rob's. Max ended up finishing my meal. I was still slightly irritated at him for manipulating his way into Roger's room, but part of me didn't want to hold it against him.

We walked along and I looked up and asked him, "How do you like manhood so far?"

He smiled a goofy, awkward grin, "Seems simple enough. Walking down the street without anyone shooting me phantom glances is gonna take some adjustment. I'm all hairy and bulky and weird. I don't think I like it so far."

"You get used to it," I assured him. "I guess no matter what body you get, it becomes second-nature after some months." I told him the best was benefiting from the double-standard that he'll be made fun of if he has too little sex, rather than too much. This attempt at levity didn't take.

That reminded me - I stopped into a drug store to get some Febreze, since my room still smelled like a sweaty man. I was planning to stick around for the rest of the week in case anyone needed my help. Maybe it was a misplaced gesture. Some of the transformees, including Roger, seemed to resent my premise. Fletcher and his crew laid low.

In fact, Fletcher/Beatrice, "her" new husband, and "their" daughter Roger/Lily, were packing to leave as early as Tuesday, while everyone was still milling about, some of them remaining in denial.

"What's the hurry?" I asked.

"Hey, you may have time to lounge around on the beach, but some of our bodies have obligations. My husband's got to earn the money."

I rolled my eyes. "Your husband. And how does your daughter feel?"

"Oh, she's not happy about it. You know kids."

"Kids that used to be grown men? I don't have much experience with them."

"Well, we'll buy her a new bike, she'll forget all about her old life."

I stared a dagger at her. She extended her hand for a shake. I told her I hoped we'd never meet again.

She winked at me. "If you're lucky. Of course, in a year or two, you might see me again and not even know it."

And with that, she was gone. Now, I might have considered offering her a membership to the blog, but when, as Fletcher, he surmised my identity when we first met, he expressed the viewpoint that this blog was not a smart endeavor. "Hey, that's your thing, but some of us -- most, from what I can tell -- prefer our anonymity."

I understand that viewpoint... if someone had wanted to mess with me, I suppose it would be easy enough to get means to do so from this blog. But it doesn't look like that's happened, so I don't know what to say.

I shared some contact information with some of the others, but none seemed all that into it. If anyone else wants to contact me about the blog -- if you've tried to get onto this blog, if you've been transformed, please remember that you can contact me at alia.rob[at]hotmail.com -- I'll see what I can do.

Anyway. Wednesday, I was lying in my room reading when I had a knock at the door. I opened it to see a girl about my age. I had recognized her, but we hadn't spoken yet. I welcomed her in and asked her how she was adjusting.

"Well that's just it. I'm like you. I've been here before."

I was both surprised and not. Surprised because I guess I took it for granted that it was just me, Sam/Max and Fletcher -- and his friends -- as veterans.

She told me her name was Emily, and that a woman named Priya had been living her life. I told her I was vaguely aware of the "new" Priya, through the blog: Greg, obviously. At this point I hadn't been made aware of the circumstances of his/her latest transformation. If Emily knew, she didn't care to divulge. She was more interested in talking about herself.

A year ago, she summarized, she'd woken up in a new body. Of course. It was a gangly, pale, male body, a freckled redhead with a beard and a receding hairline. She was far from amused. The guy had been on vacation with two of his guy friends, and amongst them, she was the only who had been female. The other two, in fact, stayed in their new lives.

She went on, getting a bit more emotional as she did. Like anyone else, she found it daunting when she first got to her new life, particularly as this guy had left her a long-term girlfriend. At first she resented the fact that she had to keep this relationship up, and considered breaking it off out of practicality, but once she met her she was so struck that she had to stay.

From the way she described it, this wasn't some slow, subtle process of coming into one's sexuality. It wasn't the long transition into a romantic relationship. "Within a week, I felt like I'd known her for years. You ever meet someone and you just make a connection? Like you wouldn't think it's possible, since I was just pretending to be her boyfriend, but it was like she really understood me, and I really, honestly loved her. Immediately. And that's what kills me. I'll never know whether it was me, or the curse, that made it so. Maybe it was just the leftover feelings of his body, or maybe I just loved her, and now I don't think I can ever go back to guys, or maybe even find anyone else... I feel like I'm ruined, you know? Like that was it. And I gave it up." She sniffed. "I gave it back because somewhere even thought I felt it wasn't true, I knew it wasn't really me she loved."

She explained, "I guess I'm telling you all this because I need to get it out there. I wanted to know if you knew, if I'm just crazy, if I was really in love, or my body was playing tricks on me."

I told her I couldn't say for sure. I've only ever loved one person, and I've known him too long to let him go. but the way I feel about him is what I imagine she felt for her lost love. Did she do the right thing in giving the body back? Maybe. Maybe the story won't have a happy ending -- I'm not really a big believer in "you'll find your special someone eventually" or any typical romantic stuff. But I couldn't say that.

All I could say was that I had felt attracted -- physically attracted, drawn, aroused, whatever you want to say -- to women as a man, in a way I'd never expected. So I know the Inn has some effect. What she was feeling, though, seems too real to just be a side-effect of the Inn. And I feel like, if you felt it once, it's still like you'll feel it again. I mean, that's not romance, that's statistics.

She wasn't heartened by this, but told me at least it felt good to get it out there. She was gone later the next day. The inn is practically empty now, with Max lingering about as long as me. In fact, he's standing in my doorway right now, rubbing his chin stubble. I'll be back in Toronto tomorrow night, if all goes well.

Well we can only hope.

-Alia

Alia: Get Back to Where You Once Belonged

When a car pulled up to the Inn yesterday after dinner, I got a bit of a chill. Out stepped a young man and woman, modestly-packed. Fletcher walked over to greet them, and I was introduced.

"Alia, these are my friends... it's probably better you don't know their names, but they're here to fill in."

"Where are they going to stay? That one guy's still got the rooms booked."

"They'll be in my room," Fletcher said, "It might upend the room-by-room scheme somewhat, but I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. It'll mostly be down by our room, and the room next."

The room next to Fletcher's, of course, was Sam's, which I recalled had no identifying bag. I wondered what that means.

"If Sam's done her part, the mark will still be in his room tonight." The mark, of course, was the guy whose wife up and went to Boston. His name was Roger, in case you were wondering.

I grumbled, "So we're splitting him off from his family."

"Hey man, there was half a chance that was already gonna happen. So his kid gets a new daddy. At least he doesn't have to worry about a new body."

I tried to mentally wipe away the ethical implications of the inn's curse, and trying to meddle with it, but it kept nagging at me all night. It didn't help that I ran into Sam at the bar again -- this time, chatting up Roger. I tried to stay clear, act like I didn't know her.

I shuffled off to bed around 11 and, as I have all week, just lay there not sleeping. This time I was certain it was going to happen. I was feeling some serious skin irritation around midnight. It was maybe 2 AM when I started to feel any real changes.

Subtle stuff at first. My skin began to feel smooth, my nails were growing. My hair took on a finer texture. Excited by the sensation, I turned on the lights and headed to the mirror where I watched as I slowly passed from one gender to the next. It was like I could feel weight being evaporated off me into a cloud of nothingness, draining me away. Not particularly pleasant, but not utterly painful. For a moment the transformation seemed to stall and I was just a short, slender boyish figure with growing hair. Then the last phase kicked in and my legs gave out.

I doubled over on the bathroom floor, numb, shivering in the cold. Hair fell over my face. I gasped, "Yes, please, God, please... yes..." in a creaking voice. I propped myself up against the bathroom wall, sitting on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. My vision blurred and corrected itself -- in my real life, I'm slightly nearsighted and need glasses to read. My breasts slowly grew in fuller and heavier, my stomach flattened and my genitals slipped quietly into my body -- frankly it wasn't as painful as I might've thought, although I certainly wouldn't want to go for another round. I pulled my self up on spaghetti legs and saw her.

My eyes watered up. I had gotten used to seeing hard features, short dark hair, a thick neck and broad shoulders. The girl in the mirror seemed so fragile, but I lived 24 years of my life as her. I suppressed a squeal of delight. I tried to take a few steps with my new old little feet and legs, and found that muscle memory took time to return.... I was tripping all around the room, grabbing the walls for support.

I flopped back on the bed, a layer of sweat clinging to my skin. I was flustered. My mind raced. I tried to figure out my next move. Do I go check on Sam? Sit in my room and wait for pandemonium to erupt? Confer with Fletcher and his brood? I meditated in indecision...

...and proceeded to fall into the deepest sleep I've had in months, if not years.

I awoke to the sound of general chaos outside my door, several hours later. I bolted upright, suddenly realizing that, as one of the handful of people who knew what the eff was going on, I'd be called on to do some explaining.

First, I had to attend to myself. I unzipped my proper Alia-luggage and chose the most practical outfit I could, a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. I pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail and was set to head out when I felt something amiss. I had forgotten to put on a bra.

I laughed to myself for this innocent gaffe. When something drops out of your routine, it can be hard to get back to old reflexes. After a second stab at dressing myself, I wobbled over to the door.

I slowly headed out. To one the left, a man in a loose-fitting shirt and pants was frantically pacing and theorizing about the situation while a small group of onlookers discussed the issue. I made my way the other way down the hall to Sam's room, trying to avoid attracting attention for the time being. Out of a sense of duty maybe, trying to alleviate my conscience for freaking out the day before, I wanted to make sure there was no negativity.

I knocked on the door and waited. For a moment it seemed like anyone could be on the other side of that door. An old man, an infant, a college girl. The wait was interminable, until finally the knob turned and the door crept open.

"Hello?" a little voice whispered.

I said softly, "Sam? Is that you?"

The door opened a little wider. A little girl of Asian descent, maybe 10 or 11 years old, stood there in a men's white t-shirt that went down to her knees. Black hair matted down her face in a messy tangle. Her eyes seemed to burn as she looked up with me.

"No," she said in a deflated whimper. "My name is Roger. Roger Templesmith."

Speechless, I gawked a moment before asking, "Do you know where Sam is? The woman you were talking to-- why are you in her room?"

Walking in slow, measured paces, she went back to the bed and sat on it -- her feet not touching the floor. She talked in a hushed tone as she said, "She said... she asked if we could trade rooms, because she said she didn't like the guy in the next room over, and... was worried he might do something. I tried, I mean... I tried to be a good guy. I wanted to help."

She looked up at me with saddened eyes. This poor guy got into something big, and maybe he was legitimately trying to impress Sam, although how he might've accomplished anything from a different room I don't know.

"So," I reasoned, "Sam was in your room last night?"

She turned away, nodded and sniffled, then looked back at me. "Who are you? What happened last night?"

I said, probably with some feeling of burden in my voice, "I'm someone who knows what's going on. I'll be back."

I headed back toward Roger's original room and knocked on the door.

A guy answered, a young man in his early 20's. He took a look at me and guessed, "Rob? Or Fletcher."

"Rob. Well, Alia, actually."

"So this is the real you? You didn't mention you were a woman."

"Would that have mattered?"

"Well, you sure didn't feel like a woman," he snickered. "I guess the joke's on me now." I went into his room and, on the brink of another outburst or moral judgment, asked what was the deal with Roger switching into her room.

"Well," he explained as he unpacked his new life, "We were talking at the bar last night, he and I. And I mentioned I was a little nervous about Fletcher and his little crew. Nothing desperate, but I was venting. I was drunk, and that's what happen when I drink, I fabricate."

"Uh huh. So what, you tricked him into the room-switch by pretending Fletcher was a threat?"

"Not exactly. I wasn't really thinking about the switch. And I wasn't afraid of Fletcher, I just wanted someone to make me feel safe, and he was happy to oblige by accompanying me to my room. And then..."

"Go on."

"Then he got fresh. Some men, they're only faithful until they have an opportunity. He wanted to stay the night, to keep me safe. I told him it might be wiser if we just switch rooms, in case Fletcher came by, which was my subtle way of reminding him of his marital vows. He was embarrassed, so he agreed. And that was that."

"But why?" I asked, "Why pin it all on Fletcher? Why do anything?"

"If you were a girl--" he said, stopping himself, "I mean, if you were a girl when you met him, you'd have noticed the way he leers, like he's got something dirty on his mind all the time." I must have missed that, and I wonder whether that was due to my maleness. It's not like he didn't come across as creepy at all. Sam continued, "So yeah, I was just a tad nervous around him. But you're right, it wasn't about him. It was about the room. It gave me a bad vibe, Rob--"

"Alia."

"Whatever. The lack of luggage didn't sit well with me. I needed a sure thing. So I got in here, took a gander at this luggage, and thought, Yeah, this'll do."

My face began to get hot. "Was that why you slept with me? To see if you could get my room?"

He stared off into space, taking a long time to formulate his answer.

"To begin with, yeah." Before I could say anything, he interjected, "But when I found out you were trying to get your body back, I gave up. I wanted somebody it wouldn't make a difference to."

"To whom it wouldn't make a difference," I snapped, proving even in anger I'm a stickler for the language.

"So I found someone else."

"And this wasn't about me?"

"Well, it definitely benefited you, didn't it? You got your body back."

"Yeah, well--" I sighed. "What about the sex? What was that about?"

"What about it?" he shrugged. "We both wanted it. It just made sense."

I shook my head and made for the door. As I left, I said, "You might want to check on your friend Roger."

I left him and went to check on our other mutual acquaintance. When I knocked on Fletcher's door, a topless middle-aged Asian woman answered.

"Alia, I presume."

I nodded. "Fletcher? That's an... interesting look."

"Just exploring the terrain. Come on in."

I entered, she closed the door. I stayed next to the door frame because I felt like I might need to make a quick escape. Gathered on the floor was an Asian man and a Caucasian woman who looked older than me.

Fletcher explained, "The three of us are trying to understand it. There are three pieces of luggage in here, one for myself, Mrs. Beatrice Tran, my new husband--" the man waved to identify himself -- you know, in case I couldn't gather -- "And our daughter Lily. But instead, we have this one."

"I think I may have run into your daughter earlier. She's in the next room."

Fletcher's face brightened, "Sam's room? Well that's a relief! I'm glad it's someone I don't have to explain things to."

"Well not so fast," I said, "It's Sam's room, but Sam wasn't there last night. She switched out with Roger."

Fletcher looked slightly irritated. "Well that's a kick. Oh well, we'll make do. Meanwhile, this woman needs to find out what her name was. See how many of the noobs you can round up and we'll get some kind of explanation underway."

I rolled my eyes. "You were a 17-year-old boy in a previous life, weren't you?"

"No........." she said, trailing off. "Just go, okay? We need to make a press conference here."

I went, no longer wishing to be exposed to her nipples.

Most of the patrons were gathered in the common area already. When I appeared, having slightly more certainty in my step than others, I drew attention. Someone immediately surmised I must know what had happened. All eyes were on me.

I started off stammering, "Well... uh, the um, bad news is, this inn has a, uh, well, what people have been calling a curse, um, the inn has a curse."

Silence.

"As you have noticed, um, we're all in the bodies of the people who stayed in the rooms before you. You should have luggage in your room somewhere, you may have noticed it when you checked in, uh, belonging to the person you've uh... become."

Fletcher appeared beside me, now properly dressed. I turned to her for some reassurance, but she just pushed me on.

I continued, "Uh, the news doesn't get much better. The next people who stay here -- their reservations are mostly already made, I think -- are going to be turned into you. You have to live the lives of... well, live as the people you now look like."

I paused to let this sink in. One woman's voice called out, "I want my fucking cock back!"

I went on to explain, you know, how it's possible to get your body back, although when I revealed that I was a successful example of this, people started to suspect me. It shouldn't be surprising for me to say that people don't like getting the news that they have to uproot their entire existence for a year. I didn't have much hope to offer them other than that, so I tried to emphasize it, but I mostly lost it.

I was feeling embarrassed, and I was about to run and hide in my room forever, when Sam poked his head out of his door. I turned back to the grumbling mob and announced, "Hey! Listen, I know it all seems crazy. I know it's hard to absorb. Believe me, when it happened to me-- yeah. But it's not that bad. Most people lead normal lives. You get used to it. Some of you might even learn to enjoy the experience of seeing the inside of another person's life. As shitty as this all sounds, you're getting an experience you never thought possible, and it's just... it's not all bad. So learn to live with it, okay? I'm done."

I went back to my room. There was a knock at the door and Sam poked his head in.

"That was an interesting speech..."

"Well, I got a little frazzled when that one person yelled about her cock. You know? Well, I can understand. Guys get attached to those things."

He blushed. "You'd know all about that, eh?"

"You get used to it. You know how it is."

"I guess so. Hey, I just found out who I am. My name's Max McGill, from Fredericton, New Brunswick. I'm Canadian like you!"

I smiled. "Glad to see you're so excited."

"Could be worse, you know? I used to live in Detroit. New Brunswick might be a nice change of pace."

An African-American man looked into the room holding a Blackberry. "A woman claiming to be my wife just called this phone. What should I say?"

I advised, "Tell her you got delayed on your way out of Maine, and you'll be home soon as you can. There might be some kind of letter with your luggage... I advise you to write one about you life."

"Thanks," he said. "It's going to be okay, isn't it?"

I nodded. "It'll get better."

And that was all before Breakfast.

More to come...
-Alia!

Alia/Rob: Necessary Measures

I'm a nice person. At least, that's the image I have of myself. I don't want to ruffle anyone's feathers in life, don't want to step on anyone to get what I want, don't want to cause a fuss or inconvenience others. I order coffee but get tea, I just drink tea. I wake up one morning as Rob Garcia, I live a year in his life.

But there's something to be said for doing what it takes to get what you need.

Earlier, I mentioned the logistical problem of this dad-guy and his wife and kid, if they happened to head off to Boston before any of us had transformed. I'm guessing somehow the transformation would occur anyway, and for all I know I'd still get out of here with my own body. Or maybe I'd get to the end of my reservation and not transform at all. That's not acceptable, even a marginal chance of it.

The other side of it, though, was the kid -- they had a son about 10. If I was just some random visitor, and I saw a couple with their kid, I wouldn't think anything of it. So when the kid gets transformed, oh, it's just as much a surprise as anything else. But knowing it was going to happen? Something about that didn't sit right with me. Part of me wanted to let them go, and try to find another way to let it happen.

I was discussing this with Fletcher. He said he has a couple of people nearby he might be able to call on -- "travelers" tend to stay in the New England -- but the loss of three bodies at the inn wouldn't be easy to overcome. He suggested it would be smartest to try to convince them to stay another day. I said I wasn't much for manipulating people.

"Leave it to me," he says.

I spent last night tossing and turning, hoping the change would happen, but it still didn't. Afraid of what might happen if this whole thing somehow goes bust, my dreams felt haunted.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a rumbling. It was the unmistakable sound of a lover's quarrel. She was screaming something about broken plans and bad promises. I didn't want to eavesdrop, but they were having at it in the open air, so I heard whatever I heard.

The fight ended with the sound of luggage being carried out to a car. In a worry, I thought, "This is the opposite of what I want to happen!" So I scrambled to find some pants and see what exactly had occurred.

I found the Dad on his own. The wife had driven off with their son, presumably for Boston.

"Sorry you had to hear that," he said, "The wife and I had a difference of opinion."

"What about?"

"This place. I wanted to hang out a bit longer, and she was laying into me because she has a thing about plans."

"I know what you mean," I said, albeit with more sympathy for the wife than I let on. "She just left you here?"

"Eh, I just thought we paid for the room, why not enjoy it? It's a little nicer than your average roadside joint, don't ya think?" Yes. "But she says, oh, we've gotta keep to our schedule, Boston this, blah blah. So I let her go, and I'll take a bus down and meet her there in a couple of days when it's all blown over."

It seemed miraculous how it had all worked out. A little too miraculous. And some of this didn't sit right with me.

I went and found Fletcher. "What did you do?"

"What'd I do?" he snickered, "I didn't do anything, man. I mean sure, some stuff happened, but I don't think it has anything to do with me." He grinned and said, "Come to think of it, what makes a man suddenly gain a fondness for a little Inn in the middle of nowhere?"

I asked him again. "...Fletcher, what did you do?"

He looked me in the eye. "I had a little talk with your ladyfriend Sam. She knows more about what's happened here than I would."

I rushed off to Sam's room and knocked urgently on her door. She answered in pajamas and tousled hair, like I'd just woken her up. "Oh, hey Rob, are we still here?"

I hissed in a quiet tone, in case anyone could hear, "What did you do last night?"

She looked at me, defensively, with a cold, annoyed look that didn't care to be accused at. She pulled me into her room.

"What did that asshole tell you?" she asked.

"Which asshole? The asshole whose wife just left him here, or the asshole who bodyjacks strangers for fun?"

"Either one. What did you hear?"

"I didn't hear anything. But Fletcher strongly implied you were responsible for whatever just happened to that guy."

She sat on the bed and said nothing. Irritated with the lack of explanation, I began to yell, "Did you--" before I realized exactly how loud this body's voice can be. I stopped to compose myself. "Did you fuck him?"

She shot back, "No! God, is that what you think I am? Some kind of whore? That I'd have sexual intercourse with a married man just to, just to what? To help you get your body back faster? No, I didn't sleep with anybody." She looked bitterly at me. "I only sleep with people I like."

"So, what then?" I demanded, trying to brush away the embarrassment of my accusation.

"Well," she said very hesitantly, "I convinced him to say."

"With what, a sandwich platter?"

"Ouch," she said, "No, just a few choice words. I never said anything was going to happen, but I just... had a talk with him. About Maine, and about not missing opportunities for seeing sights, and experiencing things... I may have planted the idea that staying would be a good idea."

After a moment, I said, "So... you led him on, into staying at the inn so he could be transformed?"

"That's one way of looking at it. It's not my fault he may have drawn certain... interpretations."

I fell silent for a moment. She asked whether I was mad.

"I'm not mad," I said, half-truthfully, "I just wonder why any of this had to happen. I could've left well enough alone. Maybe figured out some other way."

After a moment when neither of us could figure out anything to say, Fletcher appeared in the doorway. "Just thought you might like to know," he said, "My friends are on their way, and someone else just pulled up in the parking lot. Might as well get ready for tomorrow."

I don't know if any of this is all right. I feel like maybe I overreacted to Sam's actions. Maybe none of this has anything to do with me. I don't even know if it was necessary. But it happened. Now the rest of us just have to deal with it.

I'm just tired of thinking about it
-Alia

Alia/Rob: Closer and closer

I met up with Fletcher again last night. More people have checked in to the Inn - by his count, a family of three and a young couple.

"None of them look like they've been here before," he said, "They underpacked and they looked, well, genuinely upbeat about being in Maine. You know, there's a beaten-down, antsy look people who return get. Just waiting to get it over with."

"Of course."

"It's the weekend, so I'd expect you to be back in your own skin by Monday morning. We'll probably see our last five friends show up tonight or tomorrow morning. How was your date last night?"

I scowled, "It wasn't a date."

"Hook-up then. Whatever. You banged, didn't you?"

"Keep it down." I felt awkward discussing this.

"Ah, come on. She looks like she like it rough."

"Now you're just being misogynistic. Besides," I admitted, "I had a bit of a stamina problem."

He laughed, "Alia, you dog! I can't believe you fuckin' did it! That's awesome. I'm impressed. Congrats." He put out his hand and I shook it reluctantly. I told him I felt like a hypocrite, after all my lecturing to Tori.

He dismissed this idea. "We're nobody, here. Between identities. There ain't any Alia right now, there ain't even really a Rob. You're just a dude who did what any other guy would've done in the same situation. Lucky guy."

Sam didn't appear again. I considered going by her room before crashing, but ended up just staying in my own. It's been raining again.

In the hallway this morning, I ran into the dad of the family of three Fletcher had mentioned. I asked him if he was enjoying his trip. He said yeah, but they weren't going to be here long, they were going to head down to Boston on Sunday.

A mild panic struck me. 13 people have to be in the inn at once, right? It doesn't just release the new bodies to the 13 closest humans, I mean, if they're not close enough... the particularities of this whole curse still elude me. But it seems clear that if these three bodies aren't at the inn with the rest of us, this whole transformation is going to be messed up.

This morning, another woman showed up. We're that much closer. I've got my fingers crossed.

Alia/Rob: Noble pursuits

I had been trying to mentally prepare myself for this for weeks. Now that I'm here, walking these halls again, I feel like my stomach has sunk down to my knees. This place carries an ominous cloud over it and if I never see so much as a photo of it after this week, I'll be happy. A lot of people come here every year, and none of them leave the same. Some never go back. And some...

I was sitting in the bar last night after dinner. It was about 9 PM and I was dragging my feet on going back to the inn. Not from fear of transforming. The place was still relatively deserted. There was one new car in the parking lot since I'd woken up that morning. It was me, the sunbathing beauty, and one other unknown, no more than five people but maybe just the one as far as I knew.

I was just stalling because I knew that once I got back to the Inn, that'd be it for the night. I'd go back to psychodrama, back to fear and guilt and nervousness. It was inevitable that I had to confront it, but I was putting it off as long as possible. So it was a slight relief when a dude took a seat next to me in the bar and struck up a conversation, albeit not one of the most intellectually stimulating discussions I've had recently.

"Dude, don't look now but that chick is checking you out."

I instinctively twisted my neck to see the woman in question, then realized myself and faced forward. Not that I wanted to seem to care, but I was curious.

The guy was dressed in a black long-sleeve shirt and blue jeans, not ideal clothing for the weather, although he was stylish. I asked, "You know her?"

"I've spoken to her a bit, but I can tell she digs you."

I turned, slowly, to see the same pretty woman I'd seen around the inn.

I turned to my companion, "We're staying at the same inn. She probably recognizes me."

He grinned when I said this. "That wouldn't be the Trading Post Inn, would it? Up the road? Quaint little place, kind of haunted-feeling?"

I got a shiver, sensing where this was going. "That's the one."

He took a swig of his drink before asking, "You've stayed here before."

I bit my cheek a bit. "Mhm."

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Rob Garcia, would it?"

I was feeling just a bit embarrassed, but it seemed pretty obvious he's read the blog. "That's me. And you are?"

"Never mind that. You can call me Fletcher. Must be nice, heading back to your old life."

"That's the plan," I said. "What about you?"

"I go where the wind takes me, my friend. I'm a traveler."

"A traveler?"

"It's a little club. There aren't many of us, but you've got to figure... over a hundred people come to the inn every year. About half of us are return cases. But not all of them are headed back to their own bodies. Some of us just like the thrill of it."

I thought back to George and Jan. I knew that there are people who come back, but those two had managed to make their frequent trips sound... altruistic, I guess, since they lost their own bodies. Fletcher seemed like he was getting a weird thrill out of it.

But he did make me a little sales pitch to explain himself. "Look," he says, "The transformations happen, no matter who's sleeping in those rooms. Not everyone gets to keep their bodies. So a few of us dedicated hobbyists show up whenever our time is up. It helps to have some experienced hands around, you know? My old life is over for me, so why commit? Who says I have to?" He said this with a mischievous gleam in his eye. I assured him I'm not here to judge, but I'm hoping I never have to see this place again.

With a flash of paranoia, and known he's read the blog, I ask, "Do you know anything about that Pygmalion guy? Or people?"

"Well if I did, I'm not sure I'd be allowed to tell you," he said, "But no. I only know what your blog people have said. Whatever their agenda is, I haven't seen it in action. I'm just in it for myself."

"What about her?" I asked.

"Don't know her story," he said. "Looks like a return case, but she doesn't have that obvious look of familiarity in her eyes. Why don't you go chat her up?"

I finished my drink. "If you know my name, you know who I really am underneath this skin."

"Yeah, I know," he smiled evilly, "But it couldn't hurt to talk to her, right?"

Somewhat embarrassed, I walk over to her table. She's wearing short shorts and a white top over her bikini. I ask if I can get her a drink, in a very smooth, uncertain tone of voice.

"I'm fine with the drink I have, but I could use some company."

"Well, if there's anything I can do to help..."

"Have a seat," she said. "That guy you were talking to, Fletcher. He's been here before, right?"

"So it seems. You?"

She nodded. "Looks like we all have that in common. He creeps me out, though, so I just want to talk to you."

"He seems harmless enough. A little sleazy, like he's got something to gain by being here, but... not dangerous to anyone. Do you read the blog?"

"What blog?"

"There's a blog, some of us write in, talking about our experiences."

"Oh," she said. "That sounds very... therapeutic. I'm Sam."

"I'm Aaaaa....Rob."

"Well, Aaaaaa-Rob, I'm about ready for another drink. How about you?" She flagged down the waitress and we each got a beer.

"So, are you getting your own body back?" I asked her.

"Me?" She sipped. "I was the 14-year-old daughter of a millionaire. That was 5 years ago. The current owner is not interested in making a return."

"So you're 19."

"I'm 26," she said, "The whole experience has a way of aging you."

"That must have been tough."

"I couldn't even begin to describe it," she shook her head and got a faraway look in her eyes. "I spent two years in a hospital. Got a lot of reading done. Did some growing up. I've seen some shit, Rob."

"I can only imagine. So why come back after all this time?"

"Because," she said, "The real Sam asked if she could come back. Why now? Who knows. But I wasn't doing much with the body."

"So, what happens to you after we change?"

"No clue," she sighed, "I'm flying blind here."

"Is there anything in your room? A bag, a letter?"

"Nothing. Whoever was in there before me didn't leave me much to go on."

This comment struck me. We talked a bit more before we decided to walk back to the inn together. Fletcher had gone by this point.

"Listen," she said, "I don't know who I'll be in two days. I was wondering if you'd do me a favour."

By this point we had established some trust, so I asked what.

"Keep me company. Just for tonight."

I felt a little heavy. "That's not a good idea. With the whole inn curse, and... I mean, if you're not in your room, then things might get messed up for me."

She gave me a saddened look. "The inn isn't full, Rob. Not even close. I've got an uncertain future in front of me, I'm understandably jumpy. I just want one night of your time, okay?"

Feeling just a bit manipulated, I agreed to bring her to my room. This had a large amount of potential to get way, way out of hand, but I couldn't see my way out of it at the time.

I brought her to my room. She flopped down on the bed.

"You've got a nice room, but mine can see the ocean." I laughed a quick, embarrassed chuckle over how this issue had come to determine Cliff's and my fates.

She slipped her shorts off and let them fall to the floor. My eyes were transfixed as she slipped her tanktop off over her head. She asked, "We're going to be mature about this, aren't we?"

I tried to stammer out a response as she climbed under the covers, continuing, "I mean, you're not going to sleep in your clothes, are you?"

"I may not have a choice," I told her. But it was humid, and I had to strip down to my boxers.

We began back to back, but I couldn't get comfortable. I was on my wrong side. I had to turn over and wrap an arm around her.

"Oh, hello," she whispered.

"Don't get excited," I said, "This is just more comfortable."

"You're telling me..." she said.

I began to drift off into a comfortable sleep, but was awakened by her jostling.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, "But I'm not going to be able to get any sleep until I do this."

Then she kissed me. She was on top of me, topless now, grinding on me through my shorts and her panties. Exhaustion and hormones blocked every instinct I might've had to push her away. I'd come this far. I'd nearly broken the barrier a few times before, every reason not to suddenly faded from view. I just went along with it.

We began to kiss deeply, with hands running all over each other's bodies. I haven't felt a pair of breasts in so long they suddenly had a novelty to them. I can't articulate the male attraction, but I understand it better now that I've felt it. This was followed by the surreptitious removal of the remaining clothing layers.

"Wait," I gasped, "Do you have anything."

She rolled over me and reached into her purse for a prophylactic. "I'm not an idiot, Rob."

After a pause to slip it on, we got back to business. It was... practical. It was sex. I tried to go according to her body, but when I started to speed up, I lost a bit of control and finished probably a fair bit sooner than I'd imagined myself. I thought maybe with a bit of self-control, I could last, but my body had other ideas.

It was awkward, stimulating, and very revealing. When I finished, it felt somehow more significant than any time I had gone by myself. The feeling of having her on top -- then under -- me, moaning, completely at my whims, just felt... indescribable. A shame it couldn't last.

I drifted off to sleep wracked with guilt and the desire to apologize profusely. On top of all the other complexes I already had, this woman was pretty much a stranger. I felt embarrassed and ashamed of how quickly it all got out of hand. My mind swam with paranoid thoughts that Sam was some kind of Pygmalion agent using sex to manipulate me. For her part, she just rolled over and fell asleep. I thought I was supposed to be the guy.

When I woke up I was alone. I ran into her at a cafe up the road, and we had a bit of breakfast, where I explained that I was technically "with someone." She got a disappointed-annoyed look on her face when she asked whether "someone" would care about what I've been up to for the last year. I began to answer in the affirmative, but I stopped.

Todd's been on my case about this practically since I got a penis. At first I thought he was just being gross, but I'm thinking there might be some psychological basis for this, like it affirms what he's done with Hal Adkisson, or with Donna. It puts us on some kind of equal level (well sort of... we'll never really be equal in this respect, at least I hope not.) Maybe it allows him to feel absolved from the situation he was in, which I don't hold against him anyway.

But with all the guilt I've got pent up about our relationship, as well as my resentment at his own transgressions, it's not easy to feel good about what happened last night. Still I think the only one who's going to be mad is me. Still, I told Sam it probably wasn't a good idea that we do it again. She said we'd see. I still intend to practice self-restraint, now that I've been there. That said, once you get a taste...

Ugh, just no.

-Alia