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Send to FriendBut of course at the time this was happening, I was excited. It was my twenty-first birthday, after all, and I had just gotten home from a kick-ass party with the guys at a club and had met what seemed to be the girl of my dreams. I hadn't been laid in three months (which is a pretty long time to go without sex...at least for me, anyway), so of course I was pretty excited that it was finally going to happen once more. It was almost as though I were a second virgin, as corny as that might sound. At least that's how it had felt like, though up until that three-month lag, it had seemed I had been having sex nearly every week, and I lost my virginity at the age of fourteen. Of course losing my virginity had been a pleasant experience throughout, whereas in this case, in the end it turned out to be my worst fucking nightmare. Of course I had no idea at the time of how things were going to turn out, and I was just excited.
I don't know why I had buckled down with my studies and work the previous three months, neglecting my social life and my inner party animal. What had gotten into me, I will never know. Perhaps it was a sign that I was finally growing up and becoming a mature and responsible adult (the thought had scared me, perhaps a lot more than it should have). But in any case, on the night of my twenty-first birthday I had loosened up once more. Exams had ended (a stressful time for me, but a little weed had always helped to relax me) so school wouldn't be an issue for me until the fall, and for the time being, summer was in full swing. And so, I got in touch with my buddies once more, and we hit a night club for my twenty-first birthday, and I got totally drunk off my ass, just as any good-old American boy was supposed to do on his twenty-first.
And that's when I met her.
Her name was Roberta Chalmers.
I knew absolutely nothing about her and had never before lain eyes on the woman up until the night of my twenty-first. She had been a few years older than I had been—around twenty-three, as far as she had told me, but I didn't let that bother me. She was still beautiful; I could tell that right away. Or perhaps she was morbidly obese and homely, and it was my drunken stupor that made her appear beautiful in my eyes. Of course at the time that thought hadn't crossed my mind. Like I said, I knew nothing about her. For all I knew, she could have had AIDS or some other venereal disease, but even if that thought had crossed my mind, I probably would have gone for her anyway. I've always been somewhat of a risk-taker, living on edge. I always figured that there was no danger that I couldn't handle, no risk that I wouldn't shy away from. And so I took her to my apartment. Well, I was too drunk, so she drove and I showed her the way. She wouldn't have it any other way and I didn't feel like arguing with her. Perhaps I hadn't been so drunk after all.
"So this is your apartment?" she said as I stood there, trembling, and opened the door.
I nodded, beginning to sober up a little after having rode in the passenger seat for a half hour back to my apartment, but still feeling some effects of the buzz that I had gotten. "That's my place. Not much...only a one-room apartment, but it suits my needs."
It was kind of like a motel room, more than anything else, though I make the analogy only because of the size of my flat, as it isn't anywhere near as luxurious as most motel rooms. The room was fairly small, only around a couple hundred square feet, but still enough for me to live in, with a small kitchen to the left side of my front door, which led into an even smaller bathroom. The main room's floor had been wooden and scratched and cracking in some spots, and had a considerable amount of lint, cigarette ashes, hair, and dust coating the surface. The walls were winter white--or at least had been at one time, before all the cigarette smoke stains had tainted the vertical surfaces from the months I had lived her and all the time I had spent smoking indoors. Over the walls there were a few cracks radiating along the surface, but nothing overtly noticeable. I had a small TV over the surface of my bureau, along with a collection of other things, such as my laptop, my alarm clock, a few paperbacks, and a litter of garbage that I had never gotten around to throwing out. My bed was only big enough for one person to sleep comfortably, but I had had sex with women on it before, so fucking Roberta wouldn't be a problem. My gray quilt lay in a helter-skelter pile beside my pillow, which was by the foot of the bed (I've always been a bit of a slob, I suppose). Next to the bed was a nightstand with my ash tray over the surface by my reading lamp.
I suppose that my room probably reeked of cigarette and marijuana smoke, but Roberta didn't seem to mind at all. As she walked in and I shut the door behind me, then walked across the room to pull down the shades to both windows, she only grinned at me mischievously as she climbed over my bed and pushed the quilt and pillow to the floor, patting the surface of the mattress, beckoning me to join her. "Come on in," she said, batting an eyelash at me. "The water's fine."
"Sure thing," I said excitedly, hoping I didn't sound too excited...or too desperate, as I pulled my shirt off and hurried toward the bed.
She unbuttoned her shirt then pulled it off, and unhooked the straps of her bra, casting it aside to the floor and in the dim light of my reading lamp I could see her breasts swaying back and forth, coinciding with the rising and falling of her chest. My penis had already stiffened before I had pulled my pants and underwear off and nearly leapt onto the mattress, turning off my reading lamp and allowing my eyes to get used to the darkness as I stared ahead, mesmerized by her beauty, the outline of each curve of her perfect figure. I cupped my hand around her supple breast, feeling it vibrate at my touch as her erect nipple poked pleasantly into my palm. Then she drew me closer, her soft hand over the side of my neck, and we kissed, our lips locked together, my tongue zig-zagging along inside her mouth, poking, prodding, and probing against hers. Then I was on top of her, hearing her moan blissfully beneath me as my tongue stroked against her upper lip, and could feel her soft breasts pressing against my chest. Our fingers laced together, our hands locked the way our lips had been, moaning and breathing heavily, our sweat mingling as I melted over her, ready to cry out.
I could feel the denim texture of her jeans rubbing against my leg, and then, what killed the entire mood, was when I felt something hard poking against my thigh. I nearly cried out in revulsion, recoiling from her touch so fast that I had lost my footing and fell, my ass coming down hard against the wooden floor. It was numb for a second or two as I rose hesitantly to my feet, then reluctantly turned the lamp on, afraid of what I would find.
"Is something wrong, hunny?" Roberta asked with an innocent smile on her face as she unbuttoned her jeans, lowered them, and pulled off her underwear as well, which hung around the middle of her thighs as she sat bolt upright on my mattress and looked at me, a devilish grin widening over her face.
And that's when, to my horror and complete revulsion, I saw it, and right away, my erection went flaccid immediately upon laying eyes upon the monstrosity, who had now revealed to me fully what she truly was. In the dim light, between her crotch where a vagina should have been, jutted eight inches of fully erect penis, with a sagging scrotum between the legs. "Oh my God," I said, gasping in disbelief and staring ahead incredulously.
"What's wrong?" she asked me, and the way she looked at me innocently, blinking sweetly, as though she were an angel with a halo shining and hovering above her head....it was as though she could see nothing wrong whatsoever.
"You...you have a penis," I said sickly, unable to utter another side except a few harsh, retching sounds from the back of my throat.
Roberta had been a woman as far as I could tell. She looked like a woman. She had the soft, smooth face of the female, supple breasts. She had been perfect, her beauty radiating even in the dark and smokey night club. Everything about her had been beautiful, everything glamorous, as though she were a supermodel or movie star. Her face was flawless and her body was perfect. I had been looking forward to sex with her, believing her to be the best fuck of my life. Yet she had a penis. And it wasn't until I had been in the midst of intercourse that I had found out about it.
Having sex, particularly this day in age and especially with a complete stranger, involves a certain amount of risk. Those of us who have sex realize and acknowledge such risks. Your partner might, for example, have some sexually transmittable disease, such as AIDS. They might even, in fact, know that they are HIV-positive, yet not have the good graces to tell you. Or you might get the woman pregnant, in which case she'll either have to get an abortion or you'll most likely have to chip in and pay for child support, which might prove to be somewhat difficult if you're not financially well off, which I certainly wasn't, nor were a lot of other people, given the current state of the economy. Regardless, I knew and accepted these risks without hesitation.
But the thought of having sex with a woman I didn't know, who turned out to be a hermaphrodite freak with a penis had never come to mind in the laundry list of risks one takes when having sex. It was the type of thing I might expect to find on some sick porn video on the Internet, but certainly not in my own personal experiences. Even now, I could scarcely believe that something so absurd could possibly be happening here and now, could possibly be happening to me of all people. This isn't the type of thing they covered in sex education or in health class back in high school, I thought as the rage began to build within me.
"I don't believe this, I don't fucking believe this!" I shouted, growing angry as well as sickened.
"What's the problem?" she asked, her face growing dark now, and she looked hurt.
"You!" I screamed. "You're the problem." I paused. In my state of rage and duress, the words I wanted to spew forth had fled from my mind. I stared, flabbergasted, speechless, and feeling totally violated. "You're the fucking freak with a fucking penis, goddamn it! How could you possibly have a fucking penis?"
"I'm sorry," she said, looking down as her hand closed around her member. "I guess I'm just a hermaphrodite. I have a penis, that's all. Its really no big deal, you know." A single teardrop glistened from her eye. "I mean, so I have a penis. Its not like I can control the way I was born."
I screamed again, the vitriol within me heating up, while every word spewed forth from her putrid mouth intensified my rage. "Well, goddamn it, you fucking bitch, don't you think that this is the type of thing you should tell people about before you get in bed with 'em?"
"Well," she said timidly, "its just that...its kinda embarrassing, you know?"
It was then that both the booze and the nausea of this whole situation that had transpired here had finally taken its toll on my stomach. I hunched over slightly as my guts felt as though they were going to burst open and hot bile rose in my throat, then nausea scaling the back of my throat. I coughed and retched, gagging, as I doubled over and vomited over the bed. The vomit was hot, thick, chunky, and piss-yellow, burning my throat and the inside of my mouth as it burst from my lips in an explosion, pouring upon my mattress. Roberta screamed as she shrank away from me, then cringed in disgust as some of the vomit splashed over her flank.
Roberta recoiled from me, throwing her hands out in a warding off gesture as her mouth quivered in fear. She let out another shrill scream before falling backwards and tumbling off the other side of my bed, her hip hitting hard against the wooden floor below. She wanted to run away, but couldn't, and instead sat there, looking up at me through teary, pleading eyes, mouthing a few words, begging me not to hurt her.
I've always had a bit of a problem with my temper and controlling my temper. I don't get violent or anything...not usually, but have been known to be verbally abusive, telling people off. I had even lost it one time and called my boss a fucking asshole, and got myself fired because of it, too. I've even had a few close calls on the road, almost becoming a victim of road rage. My temper had at times put tension over a few of my friendships, some of them particularly close, at times over the years, though we usually seemed to reconcile our differences.
But I had never in my life been as pissed off as I had been at that moment. I was fuming, absolutely furious. My heart was racing twenty miles a minute and my face was boiling, the way my blood sizzled within my veins. "I can see a problem with it, you fucking bitch!" I shouted angrily, venomous spittle shooting from my lips. "I can see a HUGE FUCKING PROBLEM with it, in fact!" Tears were streaming from my eyes, but my voice remained clear, risen to an enraged roar, but still perfectly coherent.
My hand closed blindly around the neck of my lamp and I thrust it into the air above my head, the sudden momentum tearing the prongs from the plug in the wall in a flash of blue sparks as the entire room went dark once more. I stepped over my bed, feeling my hot vomit soaking into my foot, as I stood over Roberta, and in a swift arc, brought the lamp down upon her. My wrists and forearms ached from the sudden impact as the lamp met her skull. Through the loud crash of shattering glass, I could almost hear the snapping sound of her skull fracturing, but wasn't really sure. In any case, Roberta had stopped screaming and fell back, lying on the ground. I stared for a few minutes as my eyes once more got used to the darkness, and once again could see a faint outline of her body through the murky shadows, but she didn't appear to be moving.
All was silent now in the murky darkness and I looked ahead, as if in a trance, while the night's events echoed through my mind. The anger was fading, but the nausea lingered. I was aware of the cooling vomit along the sole of my foot and a few thick chunks squishing like curdled jelly between my toes. I was breathing heavily, my lungs swelling and contracting at too much of a noticeable rate, as I crossed the room and pulled up one of the shades, allowing some of the light from the outside to seep in. I looked up first at the other skyscrapers surrounding my apartment building, then up into the night sky, up at the crescent moon and glistening stars. Then, feeling dizzy, I looked down upon the cars rolling along the street twenty stories below, lit up from up here only by the white glow of their headlights and red glow of their taillights.
For a second I considered pulling the window open and jumping through, splattering my body over the busy streets below and ending it here and now, the humiliation, the feeling of violation, the fear and the revulsion. Suicidal thoughts ran through my mind, then fled just as quickly, and I turned absently away from the window.
She was a woman, but she had a penis, I thought sickly. Christ how is that possible?
I wondered if anyone had heard all the commotion in the room, and if so, would they have called the police on me for domestic abuse. The thought chilled me and I shuddered, growing uneasy. I had never been arrested before, and wasn't looking forward to it either. If she was unconscious, so much the better, but if indeed I had killed her, I was royally fucked. No jury in the world would have taken my motive seriously, and it was way too embarrassing for me anyway, though that should have been the least of my worries.
I crossed the room once more and flipped the light switch, and Roberta was lying motionless and crumpled by the side of my bed amidst the fragments of broken glass. Over her forehead, above her brow, was a bleeding gash where I had hit her with the lamp, with a few long trickles of blood radiating in each direction along her forehead. She didn't appear to be breathing at all. Her chest remained still and I could see a small pile of shit between her legs where she must have let go of her load, the foul stench assailing my nose and exacerbating my nausea. Breathing through my mouth, I reached over and put my finger along the side of her neck, but could feel no pulse at all. Roberta was indeed dead, and in my fit of rage, I had killed her.
Waves of panic hit me almost immediately after the confirmation of her death, and I felt dizzy. The nausea hadn't faded in all of this, but only intensified as my stomach clenched together and I could feel my intestines coiling and tangling tightly and painfully into itself. Once more the bile rose to my throat and I felt as though I would vomit once more, though this time, I didn't. I only got the nauseous feeling one gets when they feel the urge to puke their guts out, but had nothing in his stomach to vomit with. Even so, the sour taste coating my tongue lingered and the clarity of my thoughts began to diminish. My mind shattered just then, and nothing made sense as everything before my field of vision became elongated, the shadows creeping over me, and now it was my turn to scream in fright at what had happened.
Recoiling in terror, I backed away from the Roberta's corpse, my back hitting hard against my front door, and it was then, mercifully, that I had finally lost consciousness and passed out.
When I came to, my head was killing me. I had the worst hangover, but blissfully, at least for a few minutes, I had forgotten the events that had transpired the night before. Sharp rays of sunlight darted to my face, piercing my eyes and forcing them to flutter open quickly, stinging as the bright illumination shone in my face. As I rose to my feet, my brain felt as though it had ruptured open and I cried out in pain, wincing as my eyes began to water. I looked toward my bureau and saw my alarm clock flashing the time. It was now nine-thirty in the morning. I had woken up late and would walk into work late. My shift would have started an hour earlier. If I were to walk into work now, my boss would know doubt flip out at me for coming in late (I had a bad habit of doing that, though had gotten better over the previous few months) and perhaps would even write me up if in he was in a really bad mood. Though somehow this seemed insignificant. I blinked the water out of my eyes, then massaged the palm of my hand over my sour stomach.
And then I saw her lying crumpled on the floor before me. It was Roberta Chalmers, and still she was dead, and the events of last night crashed back into my head like a freight train and I cried out once more in horror for what had happened before vomiting a few thick, ropey yellow chunks from my mouth, which tasted like an ashtray, and continued dry-heaving on my knees.
I almost fucked a hermaphrodite last night, was what ran in my mind.
And at the same time, something else spoke up as well: And you still killed her, too. You're still a murderer. You still got blood on your hands, and if a cop came in here right now, he'd haul your ass to jail so fast you wouldn't even know what happened.
I knew I had to hide or dispose of the body somehow, but had no idea how.
Then I reached over and touched the body. The corpse still felt fresh, still just as soft as it had been last night when I had first killed her. It had been at least ten hours since her death, but the corpse hadn't even begun to harden. The blood over her forehead had vanished now, and the gash had somehow closed itself, healed. It was gone now, but she still lay motionless, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling while her mouth hung agape.
Then Roberta's breath hitched inward and she blinked.
The sudden noise and movement startled me and I flinched out, then looked back at her with disbelief. That didn't happen, I thought incredulously. I never saw that. She never inhaled, and she never blinked because--Damn it, man, get a hold of yourself, dead people don't fucking blink!
Roberta then lifted her arm into the air, slowly, and the limb was trembling--it was as though she were struggling for the movement, but she was still successful. She lifted her arm, then raised her head, and it was almost as though she were waving at me, smiling this sick grin of triumph over her face. She then rose quickly to her feet and turned to me, and was still smiling, her gaze no longer blank, but almost full of joy. Roberta stretched her arms, yawning, then moaned blissfully before wrapping her arms around her stiffened cock.
"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked, giggling. "I know I did."
"I thought I killed you," I said in astonishment. It was all I could think of to say.
And that's when Roberta began to change. Her face morphed first, becoming older, her cheeks sagging, and fading to a sallow pigment. Her thick, silky hair turned gray and thinned, receding from her brow until I could see the pink of her scalp. Her breasts didn't sag like those of an old woman's, but instead pulled inward, as though they were slowly imploding. Her chest was flattening...was becoming a man's chest. Before, Roberta stood straight, but now was hunched over slightly as her spine curved and her smooth flesh began to dry and wrinkle like a prune. Bodily hair was forming throughout her hunched body as facial hair began to appear over her cheeks, chin, and filtrum...not quite a full beard, but thick enough to be noticeable.
Roberta Chalmers went from a twenty-three-year-old "woman" to an eighty-year-old man right before my eyes.
Then I looked down to Roberta's crotch and his/her/its penis was gone, and taking the place was a shaved, dried vagina.
What the hell is thing? I asked myself as fear and bewilderment set in. For a moment, I thought that surely I must be dreaming it, and then I pinched myself and, much to my chagrin, I wouldn't wake up. I pinched myself again just to make sure, but the demon shape-changing hermaphrodite wouldn't vanish, nor would I wake up in my bed as though none of this had happened, relieved that it hadn't happened, for it were all just a nightmare. If only that could be the case, I thought miserably.
"What the hell are you?" I croaked as I felt my guts clenching tightly into one another once more, a sharp pain in my digestive track as the nausea had set in. This was what I had almost had sex with the night before. Not some fucked up hermaphrodite woman freak with a penis, but an eighty-year-old man with a vagina. I was sickened by this revelation, and the feelings of violation returned, as though he had thrust me against the wall and forced his member up my anal cavities, pumping again and again as I cried in pain and he moaned in ecstasy. I had brought Roberta to my apartment willingly. I might have been drunk, but even sober I still would have brought her here to have sex with her, no problem. Yet it still felt as though I had been raped by a dirty old man, the old, long-haired geezer that stood before me now.
"What the hell are you?" I asked again, a little louder this time.
"I can be whatever I want to be," the old man said. He/she/it spoke not in the voice of an old man, but in the same feminine voice of Roberta Chalmers, the same voice of the same woman that had seduced me back at the night club and had driven me home so we could have sex. "Man, woman, or something in between. Whatever I want, whenever I want it, and oh what fun I have!"
Then the old man's vaginal lips flapped open, and testicles connected to thin green vines shot out of the vaginal opening, toward me. I cried out, alarmed, as I backed away and threw out my hands in a warding off gesture. One of the vines wrapped itself tightly around my left wrist, squeezing tightly, making my fingers throb and my hands go numb as the vines cut off my circulation. The right vine coiled itself quickly around my neck, cutting off my air supply, while the testicle connected to the vine pressed tightly into the base of my skull. The room began to darken before my eyes as a feeling of suffocation overcame me.
Roberta pulled me toward her as I shook my head rapidly, clasping my hands along the vines and trying in vain to tear them off my throat. Then the testicle vines lifted me into the air. My back hit the ceiling hard enough to leave cracks radiating along the ceiling as a few chips fell to the ground. Then I was craned onto my bed, placed neither gently nor roughly along the mattress, in the area in which I had puked over the night before, though by now the vomit had hardened, so I felt no cooling moisture over my skin as I remained on my mattress, staring ahead.
For a few minutes, I thought that Roberta was going to choke me to death as my vision began to gray from oxygen deprivation and black dots danced before my eyes. My heart raced and I was afraid for my own mortality, even though a part of me wanted to die so I wouldn't have to live on, after this event, with the shame and humiliation of what had happened. Both options seemed to weigh equal in desirability with me, though if I had to choose, in my terror, I probably would have chosen at that moment to live, but still a part of me wanted to beg that thing to kill me off now to spare me the memory and indignity of what happened.
As if she could read my mind, Roberta said, in her feminine voice: "I'm not gonna kill you. I never kill my victims. Instead, I let them live...longer than they want to, carrying the memory and humiliation of this horrible night for the rest of their miserable lives." She giggled then, and her fit of giggles burst into a sinister cackle that echoed throughout my apartment.
The testicle vine loosened, then released its hold over my neck as the other vine released its hold over my left wrist, and I gasped, coughing and sucking air into my lungs as my eyes began to water. For a few seconds, I was dizzy, and could feel pins and needles shooting into my left hand. Then I looked by the door, and the old man had become a woman again, the younger woman known as Roberta Chalmers that had seduced me in the night club the night before. The testicle vines had vanished, and she was already starting to put her cloths back on as she looked at me and giggled in the same feminine voice she had before.
Roberta put her cloths back on, shot me a sweet smile as I lay on my bed, looking ahead and feeling sick to my stomach, and that's when she walked out the front door, closing it gently behind her.
And thankfully, I haven't seen that bitch since then.
After she left and throughout the night and afterward, I felt violated as I had never been violated in my life, and as much as the hate for the hermaphrodite thing burned within me, I felt a deep shame for myself as well, an inability later to even look at myself in the mirror without cringing in disgust. It was a shame, a dirty feeling within me that, for as many times and as often as I might wash myself, I'd never rinse the dirt away entirely. It would remain over me, clogging every orifice of my body, festering beneath my skin. This would, of course, be the last time I had sex with anybody, especially a stranger, for from that night until now, three months later, every woman I came across, I wondered grimly if she might be a shape-changing, gender-manipulating demon, alien, or whatever the hell Roberta Chalmers happened to be. I might live on the edge and enjoy taking stupid risks, but such a risk as a repeat of this incident is too much even for me, and I shudder at the thought ever having sex with such a creature again.
The End.
July 17, 2003
August 06, 2003