NothingSpecial: gender-bending transformation stories, comics, and occasional poetry =^_^=
In the end, we didn't do much that was too out-there. Makeup was out, nails were out, skin-care/spa stuff was out, and there was no point in her dragging me to get my ears pierced when the earlobes were only felt to begin with. She did insist on buying a pair of stud earrings set with amethyst (the same color as my eyes) which she had me wear; I didn't feel a thing when she jabbed the pins through, other than mild embarrassment.
She did take me to a hairstylist, though; the two of them debated for a while over what could be done without actually cutting anything. They settled on just doing it up a bit wavy with hairspray and stuff to, I didn't know, add volume or whatever. The result looked more "'90s news anchor" than "fashion plate" to me, but Emma seemed pleased; whether with the look or pushing me out of my comfort zone, I didn't know.
She had her hair done, too; they discussed options for a shorter cut and settled on a similarly wavy updo, a retro look that kept her hair out of the way when she carried herself. I had to admit, it was a clever way to combine form and function. The stylist handled it admirably; she was new to working on disembodied heads,° but she got Emma cozy in a little "nest" of towels that kept her stable on the counter, and didn't let the weirdness get to her.
° (Real, ones, anyway.)
There was still more to go on Emma's list, and she found more things that she insisted I try, but only a pair of stockings that were longer and…sheerer? than the socks I was wearing stuck; they came almost up to my knees, and she loved how this and the skirt emphasized the joints, with a band of exposed "skin" and opposite colors of fabric on either side of the enameled metal. I kinda saw what she was getting at, but it didn't mean as much to me as it did to her.
"Mm, really though, we need to get you in something where opera gloves wouldn't be out of place," she said a little later, holding her head up to take a sip of her latte. "Then we can highlight the elbows and the knees. Yeah, do that with a backless dress, and—"
"I told you it wasn't going to be 'this once,'" I interjected, glowering into my teacup.
We were in an enchanted-forest café in a quiet corner of the mall; I suspected that it'd started as a Rainforest Cafe years ago, and the new owners had recycled a lot of the décor. They'd stopped short of putting fairies in it, but the ring of mushrooms around the fake tree trunk in one corner was near enough. A stuffed fox peeked out from behind a log; goldfish milled around in a pool fed by an artificial waterfall. A medley of soothing New Age-y relaxation music played softly in the background.
"I said I'd stop bugging you about it after this," Emma replied. "But you can't deny a girl her dreams."
"You can dream whatever you want," I said, "as long as I stay out of it."
She smirked. "Y'know, Stu, you haven't exactly spontaneously combusted since you put that outfit on. Just sayin'."
"I already told you," I said; "I don't hate this on its own merits, it's just not me."
"And I still don't get why you tell yourself that," she said. "I mean, did you think you had to be able to fly to put on a cape as a kid? If you don't dislike a thing, why insist that it's not for you?"
I sighed, taking a long sip off my tea and trying to formulate a response; a bell chimed as someone entered the café. "That's different," I said. "A costume isn't the same as clothing; it's what you wear to pretend to be something you're not, not what defines your normal style."
Emma shook her head. "Normal clothing doesn't define you either. It can express you, if you want, or it can disguise you, if you choose. But it doesn't change you; you're not a different person when you put on a tie, for God's sake."
"It defines how people see you," I said, feeling slightly exasperated. "That's not the same thing, but it still matters, unless you can get by without ever interacting with them."
She sighed. "You really do let other people rule your life, don't you?"
"N–no, I don't," I stammered; we both knew it was a lie. "I just don't care that much about this stuff, okay?"
"See, I don't believe that," she said. "I think you didn't care much, before this; which, okay, I don't get, but fine, that's your business. But ever since this happened, I think it's been a way for you to hide from it; you're disguising yourself as the old you and using rejection of 'that stuff' as a reassurance that nothing's changed, so you can pretend you're not different now, in spite of all available evidence."
"I–I'm not…!" I sputtered. I felt tension coiling up in my chest, heated whirring in my head. I didn't want to talk about this, either, but Emma was hardly Ms. Tact, and Tammy wasn't here to keep her in line…
"No?" she said, a devilish half-smile creeping across her face. "Then why put up so much of a fight? If you just didn't care, you could've rolled with it when I found that outfit for you, and it'd make no difference in the grand scheme of things. The way you fought it says you do care – because you're afraid of admitting something to yourself, and you're worried that any little thing might break the illusion."
Something inside me ground hard against something else; it sounded like I needed new brake shoes. "Emma," I said, "I don't want to talk ab—"
"Tell me, Stu," she interrupted, talking over me, "why does it matter whether you're a girl or not?"
An actual braking mechanism squealed, my systems lurching back down into low gear. "I do not want to talk about it," I said coldly, putting as much force into the words as I could muster. "You said yourself that it was none of your business."
"No, I said that I shouldn't have said what I did – which I shouldn'tve." She gave me an apologetic look, but her voice remained firm. "But I'm seriously asking – 'cause I keep seeing you push back on anything that even vaguely resembles acceptance, even for the moment, even if it causes you unnecessary stress. And there doesn't seem to be a reason besides your own preconceptions." She shrugged. "I dunno, maybe I'm missing something; but the way I see it, you're stressing yourself for no good reason – and as your friend, I can't just stand by and watch without saying anything."
I was getting off-kilter; I tried to focus and calm myself. I felt indignant at her lecturing me when she didn't have to deal with anything remotely comparable, but she seemed sincere, and I couldn't get resolutely mad the way I'd been able to as a human. And honestly, part of me wanted to know the answer, too; ever since our argument, it'd been nagging at the back of my mind…
I took a deep breath, out of habit. "I mean, I don't know where to begin with that. It's like the single most basic dividing line in human history, and now I have to deal with people seeing me as suddenly being on the other side. And, sure, it's not as rigid now as it was even twenty years ago, but it's still a thing. Not even, like, prejudice-wise, but just how people perceive and relate to you on a basic, subconscious level. I dunno if it's instinct or cultural, but you can't escape it in any case."
Emma took a madeleine from the packet she'd gotten with her coffee and bit into it. "And is it being perceived as a woman specifically that bothers you, or being put in a group you feel you don't belong in?"
I sighed, staring into my cup. "I already told you, Emma. It's not like there's anything wrong with womanhood, in the abstract – but that doesn't mean I want to upend my whole identity."
"But I'm just not seeing how this is 'your whole identity,'" she said, taking another bite of her teacake. "Or even a major part of it. Like, what do you think defines you, personally, that you couldn't be or do as a girl?"
"It's not about what I can do…" I started, but I trailed off as I tried to formulate an answer. What was it that bothered me about this, specifically? Or, really, what was it that I did think defined me? I knew I was bothered by this, but I could hardly counter that when I couldn't even say for myself what I wanted…
Emma seized on the opening, picking her head up and putting herself face-to-face with me. "Oh? So if it's not because of something you aspire to, and it's not that you have any objections to the concept, then what is it?"
"For starters, a lot of it's this right here," I said, my tempo creeping upwards. "Like, you've been pushing this idea of yours that I should just go along with all this ever since we changed. Sure, you play the neutral arbiter when it suits you, but you're still trying to debate me into a corner here."
"I'm not—!" Emma pulled herself back over her shoulder, looking indignant, then guilty, then sheepish. "…Okay, I'm trying not to," she sighed. "Look, I'll admit that I'm excited – there's all these things I wanna share with you 'cause you're my friend that I couldn't before, y'know?" She lowered herself to the tabletop, looking up at me. "But I know you're going through some serious stuff, and I'm doing my best not to run too wild on you, I really am."
Are you, though? I thought, but said nothing. I didn't believe that Emma had any ill intent, but it was all too easy to see what she thought I should be, and I felt leery about giving her a say in this; I could picture myself ensnared by chains of rationalization, dancing to her whims like a puppet on a string…no, no, that wasn't fair, not really. But it still felt uncomfortable…
"And it's just…you know, it's where I belong," I sighed. "I've always been part of this group, for as long as I can remember. There's nothing wrong with that other group, but I'm a foreigner there. I don't speak the lingo, I don't have the tribal knowledge, and I don't really understand the rituals. I'd never be a native, just a tourist trying too hard to fit in." I grimaced. "Hell, you said yourself that I don't have to cope with—"
"I shouldn'tve, okay?" she said, getting a bit flustered. "Please, don't figure out major personal issues based on what my bitchy side tells you when I'm in a bad mood. Just…really, don't."
"But your 'bitchy side' kinda has a point," I said. "Even if I wanted to redefine myself, there's whole swaths of shared experience that I'm never going to be a part of. Why bother pretending about the rest of it, then?"
Emma put a palm to her forehead, her head tipping out of her other hand; she took a moment to right herself. "Again, I'm not saying you have to forcibly redefine everything about yourself to fit traditionally 'girly' stereotypes. I'm saying you shouldn't hold yourself back from things just because you're convinced they're somehow not for you. It's not 'you have to do this now,' it's 'c'mon, try it, you might like it.'"
She lifted her head off the table, nestling herself back into her own bosom. "And as for the rest, why do you have to check every single box on the list to consider yourself part of a group? I mean, I'll never share Tammy's feelings about her change, and I won't have to worry about running down like you do. And neither of you will ever have to wonder if you're really two people. But we can all bond over what we do share in this whole crazy mess."
"Yeah, but being friends is different than being kin," I said. "You can be friends even if there's major differences between you, but that doesn't change what you—" I stopped, frowning, as I caught something I hadn't at first. "Wait, two people!?"
She shrugged. "Honestly, I dunno. I didn't notice at first, 'cause this was all new and strange, but…this all comes weirdly naturally to me. My body reacts quicker and I have better spatial awareness now – like, there's times I've almost dropped myself, but I've caught me before I even realized; or I'll keep hold of myself like at the lake without really knowing what I'm avoiding. And when I was on my period, I kept doing little things to comfort myself without really thinking about it."
"Really?" I cocked an eyebrow, my tempo picking up a little with my curiosity. I'd wondered ever since the change if her head-gestures were something she was doing on purpose, but maybe they really were subconscious…split-conscious…?
She tipped her head into a nod. "It's not like there's this other-me perched on my shoulder or anything. But I keep wondering if it's some kind of secondary nervous system, or if my body really is aware. And…I don't really know the answer. But heck, I've even had moments of looking at people in a crowd and thinking what are those weird stalk-things keeping their heads tethered to their bodies!? before it all looks normal to me again."
"And that doesn't freak you out?" I stared at her in amazement. I had enough trouble just wrapping my head around looking like a girl now; how could she be so casual about maybe having another self?
"Uh, no…?" she said, ruffling her hair and grinning sheepishly. "I mean, that's my point. It's weird to think about, and nothing I'm at all used to, but…I'm still me, right? I still feel like me, I still think like me; I'm just a different me now. But that's normal, isn't it? Like, you're not the same person you were when you were five, surely."
"No, but I'm not a different kind of…" I pause, considering it. Was I not? Being a man sort of was a difference in kind from being a little boy, in so many ways; was it that much smaller than the gulf between a man and a woman? But then, a boy was the larval form of a man; it was natural to go from one to the other, even if it took time. Surely that was different than—
Emma laughed. "But you could be. 'You' isn't a fixed, immutable thing; changes in what makes up 'you' are part of life. You're a different person now than you were a month ago, and you were different then than five, ten, fifteen years before that. So it's not like your 'self-definition' is something you have to consciously adhere to; it's a reflection of your own natural properties. And it's okay if those change – whether you choose it or not."
For a while, neither of us spoke. The New Age-y music switched from "lush, spacey synthesizer" mode to "quasi-Celtic hobbit folk" mode; the waterfall burbled almost vigorously enough to drown out the hum of the pump. I turned things over in my mind, feeling my brain chatter. Okay, she wasn't wrong that some changes were normal, but nothing about what happened to us was natural. And sure, you could belong in a group without perfectly matching everyone else, but surely there had to be some minimum overlap. And no, I couldn't think of much specifically that I couldn't find fulfillment in as a woman, but…
…But I couldn't stop thinking about the plans people had for me, the ideals for me to live up to, the parts I had to play. I knew that all too well – from the late nights chasing the stress away with tea and music, the constant gnawing tension that stuck in the pit of my stomach anyway, the endless wondering why I even bothered only to realize that there was no way I could just stop… Stress couldn't consume me in this form, but I felt my tempo accelerate anyway. I had expectations to meet, didn't I? Obligations to fulfill? It'd seemed so essential at the time, but now all I could think of was that nightmare-vision: the little figures trapped, endlessly acting out their assigned roles even as the cruel machinery thrashed them to bits…
"Huh, been ages since I had those things…"
I looked up, startled by the unfamiliar voice. Emma was almost as surprised, but she hadn't been all lost in thought. The speaker was an old man, bent and wrinkled, stubbly and wispy-haired; he seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him. He was looking at Emma's cakes, and the non sequitur quality of this was confusing to us both…
Emma looked up at him as directly as she could without turning her head. "Uh, you want one…?"
He shook his head. "Too many memories a' too many hard years in those. Taste always takes me right back…'s like I'm really there…"
I stared at him, wondering what he was talking about, then noted the veterans' cap and remembered – it was the man from the diner, back on that first morning. He seemed more focused; if his expression was still hazy, it was only from reminiscing.
"First had 'em in, ah, Bayeux," he said; his voice was soft and creaky. "Went all the way over there doing welding on a Bayfield-class, and never made it off the damn boat – so when the war ended, I figured I oughta see what I missed. Got 'em to leave me ashore while they were scramblin' to get us home for the holidays and spent a while drinking up what I got from the Navy. Fell for a French girl, got my heart broken 'cause she'd met some RAF guy and liked his stupid mustache. Then at Christmas, I get a cable from back home, says my pal'd been sent back on medical discharge and could I please come at once."
"Was he, uh, okay…?" I asked, wondering if there was a point here, or why he was even talking to us in the first place. Not that elderly people usually need a reason to spill their life's story to random strangers, but I remembered how he'd looked at me…
He paused just long enough for me to wonder if this was merely senile rambling. "He was my best pal," he said at last. "Weren't like brothers, but pretty damn close. Grew up together, fought together at school, enlisted together soon as we could convince 'em we were older'n we were." He shook his head. "And I'd seen the way some of the men came back from the landings; God knows what's happened to him, I thought. So I tore off back home – caught one of the last Clippers 'cross the Atlantic, y'know…"
There was another brief silence as he sorted his thoughts out. "Well, see," he continued, "I hadn't seen him since boot camp. We got our assignments and off we went; promised to write, but never got the chance. Only thing I knew was he got assigned to a destroyer they'd just laid down." He chuckled bitterly. "Just his luck it was the Eldridge."
I'd been about to check out and look for a polite way to make our escape when I heard the name of the ship. The only possible link between myself and this geezer; the very destroyer involved in the incident that sparked the Montauk Project, decades ago. I stared at him, wondering how much he knew, or guessed; was this another thing that some people could just tell? Was that what that funny look had meant, back at the diner…?
He let out a low whistle; I scooched closer out of renewed curiosity, as well as trying to read his expressions toward me. "There I was, back in Parrant Landing, just off the train from New York," he said. "Went to his house and asked his folks, where's Charlie? George, they tell me, go up and have a look in his room. I was dead sure they were sendin' me up to have a look at his body before they sent him to the morgue – but I get up there and lyin' in his bed is a goddamn mermaid!"
The old man shook his head, with another rueful chuckle. "I guess you kids wouldn't know what it was like. 'Course we'd all heard the rumors, and the War Department made us watch their picture, but time was when mermaids were nothin' but an old sailor's tale – and here was one just sittin' there pretty as you please, in the flesh! Felt like I stepped clean outta the world and into a dream – 'til she says 'George, 's that you?'"
"What happened to h—to him?" I asked, genuinely interested now. As infamous as it was, there was little contemporary information on the "Philadelphia experiment." Most of the studies conducted on the Eldridge crew had to do with mermaid physiology, and with the incident classified for decades, they weren't supposed to go talking about it. A couple hundred mermaids don't just appear in a society that considers them a myth without causing a fuss, but it wasn't an opportune time for formal study of the psychological impact of transformation.
"Well, Charlie was a mess, it goes without sayin'," he said. "Turned out it happened almost eight months before, and they'd been sittin' in the Navy hospital in Maryland with doctors pokin' and proddin' them 'til they figured they were done and sent 'em home. 'Course, it was all 'top secret,' and any enlisted man knows that means 'government SNAFU.' But Charlie and me were close – so I swore I wouldn't say a word, and he told me the real story."
He scratched the back of his neck; the background music changed to some melancholy elven ballad. "I think he woulda anyway – after most of a year never seein' anybody but doctors and shipmates, they were all about ready to talk to anyone. Probably why it didn't take long for word to spread about it." He laughed. "The brass never did try to push that stupid VD story after the first couple years, 'cause everyone who wasn't a sap knew by then."
I nodded. They hadn't admitted it until decades later, naturally, and the exact nature of the Montauk experiments had remained shrouded in secrecy, but once the transformees were released back into public life, the rumor mill ground into high gear, and by the start of the '50s the only people who really believed the official story were the types who'd spend the rest of the decade worrying about Communists in the pumpkin patch.°
° (Of course, there were enough of those to make it hard on the changed…)
"But it was rough, 'specially at first," he said. "Charlie kept talkin' about it like it was something that happened to other people; didn't wanna talk about what he thought about it. Could hardly miss it, bein' a sailor-boy nursing a broken heart, but I hadda keep my mouth shut. Didn't take Einstein to see what pressin' the point would do to her."
"How did…how'd you deal with it?" I asked. I sipped my tea and frowned; it'd gotten cold, and I'd been too wrapped up to notice. "How did she deal with it…?"
He shrugged. "Well, for a coupla weeks we just talked. Hadn't seen each other since we shipped out, and it was good to talk to Charlie again and it was good for Charlie to talk to anybody – so I'd just go over to visit every day. It was the damnedest thing – she'd been that way for months, and she'd get around and take care of herself just fine, and never acknowledge that she was a mermaid instead of havin' her legs blown off or something. But I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say nothin'."
"Then one day – I forget what set her off, if it was anything – she just broke down crying. Just sobbin' like her own mother'd died. Didn't know what to do then, either, but I figured she'd take it bad if I comforted her like ya would with a girl – so I gave her a slap on the back, put a hand on her shoulder, and we sat there for an hour, with her bawlin' her eyes out. At the end of it, when she finally calmed down, she asks me, George, d'you think I'm a pansy?" He chuckled. "I told her I figured, any fella that went through this and didn't cry over it hadda be crazy."
"And…what happened?" I asked. I was surprised to be getting invested in a story some old man decided to tell me out of nowhere, but even Emma seemed curious.
The weight of the years showed through in his face. "Hell, it was still hard. I stuck by my pal, but it was a different time – the mucky-mucks couldn't figure how to handle all the girls that went to work while we were shipped out, and they really didn't know what to do with girls that useta be Navy seamen. Charlie got what she could with the G.I. bill, went to a women's college in Poughkeepsie 'cause she couldn't get into the men's. I went to New York and did welding and construction, and I'd visit her on the weekends."
He sighed. "I think it was good for her she went to a girls' school," he said. "Seemed like it helped her feel like she belonged someplace and it wasn't the end of the road for her; lotta the coed state colleges back then, the girls only went for what they called their 'MRS.' But the country didn't have much use for a gal with a degree in marine biology then, veteran or no. And she told me before she graduated, she was afraid t' admit that she wanted men, 'cause they'd either try t' marry her off or figure her for 'one of them…'"
"But if ya mean, was she alright, well, yah," he concluded. "Ended up, she went to Fiji, stayed there for years; lived offshore and worked with folks doin' dive tours. I ended up back here, workin' on lake freighters, but I'd go see her when I could. She moved to Hawaii when they had all that trouble in the '80s – just swam straight across the Pacific, her and her kids. Went back after it settled down; we still write, y'know." He shook his head. "Yeah. Lotta hard years there – but she's alright."
While we sat there, digesting everything he'd told us, the barista, a dusky-skinned young woman in her mid-twenties, made her way over to the table. "Granddad, are you bothering my customers again?" she asked, with a wry smirk.
The old man chuckled and slowly, creakily, rose to his feet. "Just talkin' with an old friend, sweetie," he said, turning to me with a knowing smile. "Well, you ever wanna talk about it, ya know where t' find me." He doffed his cap, nodded adieu, and made his way out of the shop.
"Sorry," his granddaughter said, bemused. "He gets like that sometimes. Hope he wasn't a bother."
I shook my head in a daze; Emma waved it off. "No, no, not a problem."
She smiled and nodded, turning to go back to the bar. I blinked, shook my head, and took another look. She had her hair up; at the base of her skull, behind her ears, I could just make out closed-up gill slits.
Emma didn't say anything more about it, and we'd hit everything she wanted to, so we took the bus back to campus; I was in a fugue the whole way, lost in thought. It was confusing enough to deal with this now, decades down the line when demi-humans were fairly common and even transformees weren't that unusual; to be one of the first changed people in the modern era, having to come to terms with it with no one to support you but your fellow victims for months, trying to cope with prejudices that suddenly applied to you…
Much as I hated to admit it, at least I didn't have to deal with that. Not that it made the real questions any easier, but…well, if the most hassle I got from other people was my roommate over-enthusiastically trying to help me "adjust," then…it could be worse, as they say. Besides, even that paled next to the real challenge that awaited me down the road…
But I kept thinking about Charlie and the difficulties she'd faced – how strange that, after all that, she'd apparently gotten comfortable enough to…to bear children, to be a mother…I shook that thought out of my head as the bus pulled up to our stop and we disembarked and walked back to the women's dorm. That was all well and good for her, I supposed, but for other people…?
Tammy was at her desk, idly browsing Craigslist when we got back. "'Bout time, you two," she said. "I was about ready to just go for dinner myself. Em, you didn't work your pack mule too hard, did y—" She trailed off as she turned and looked us over. "Uh, Stu," she said, cocking an eyebrow, "this, uh…isn't a hostage situation, is it?"
I stared at her, confused, then looked down at myself. "U–uh, oh," I said. I hadn't realized I was still wearing the clothes, hairstyle, and jewelry that Emma picked out for me. "Th–this is, uh, it's, um…" I glanced over at Emma. "Uh, y–you can take these, now…"
Emma laughed, "Not a chance," she said, setting herself and her bags down and hanging up her jacket, "not after the production you made out of buying them yourself! They wouldn't fit me, anyway." She took her things over to our side of the suite and began sorting through the booty.
I groaned; I'd paid how much for clothes that I had no intention of wearing, just because she wanted me to try them out? What was I thinking? While I was fretting over this, Tammy shot Emma a Look. "No, really, Em, what is this?"
Emma cackled. "Well, Br'er Fox was so worried about letting me get one over on him, he threw himself into the briar patch!"