Through the waning burr of my last Demerol injection wafts the velvety liltof Jamaican English saying, "Dey call it Pink Gladiolas, child. I look it upin de art book once 'cause so many girls ask me de same question all de time.De American artist Georgia O'Keefe paint' it. Ev'ry room here has a diff'rentone of dose flow'rs. Girls seem to find de paintings relax dem. Now let's seewhere you at."As she speaks, Angela efficiently pulls a sterile latex glove over her righthand. Fingers extended, she holds the hand erect and strangely immobile, likethe limb of a statue, while she brushes my thighs apart with a softlyauthoritative back-and-forth sweep of her ungloved left hand.Her right arm comes alive again; her fingers plunge into me unceremoniously,seeking my cervix. My mind drifts back to how Colin had forgotten to sheathhimself in latex when he plunged into me nearly an eternity ago, and look atme now! What does he know about this incredible pain, now thankfully absentbut sure to return at any moment with the hideous crescendo of anothercontraction?Everyone, it seems, has lied to me about childbirth, at every miserable stepalong the path. An endless string of lies winding back to the dawn of humanexistence, lies to ensure survival of the race, no doubt. Lies proclaimingmaternity as the crowning glory of womanhood. Worth any sacrifice.Transcendent, ennobling, sanctifying, fulfilling.What a crude and callous deception! To endure nausea and sleepless nights,constant back pain, always too-tight clothes, gross bloating discomfort,incessant trips to the toilet. Then sudden kicks from within and bizarrewrithing feelings at any time of day or night. Now swollen, tender breastsleaking colostrum even through the absorbent pads of my nursing bra (soon tobe put to actual use). Hemorrhoids, too, and constant spotting these last twoweeks as if I were a cracked cistern... to endure all this and now to beclobbered with such ridiculous pain.... And even after it's all over, it'sreally just starting: more sleepless nights, chafed nipples, breast pumps,smelly diapers, no help from Colin, and having to do the laundry and shoppingand cooking and cleaning just the same. Indentured servitude for eighteenyears!Angela withdraws her hand and peels off her glove with a snap. "You'reeffaced and near fully dilated, child," she says. "De baby go'n' to be hereby midnight. I go get de gurney now and call de deliv'ry room team."I groan and turn my head again toward Pink Gladiolas. In the respite betweencontractions I try to concentrate on it. I am still panting -- and outraged-- from the last one.Surely some maleficent feminist interior designer has deliberately chosenO'Keefe's paintings for this labor ward. That's it, I muse, it's the ultimatein interior design, isn't it? O'Keefe must have found a model in heat and puther up in stirrups, for the painting resembles nothing so much as a woman'sflagrantly flared penetralia, framed by the suggestive folds of a pudendalwhite curtain. Blossoms of mucosal pink, expectantly engorged and elegantlyfrilled like the vibrant mating ruffles of some exotic tropical lizard, arisefrom a purple vase. The edges of their petals are just a bit toowell-defined, precisely like inner labia aroused.Or could it be a self portrait, perhaps? Now I envision the lean and wiryGeorgia, hair in a tight bun, skimping on modeling fees, supine on her studiotable. Clad only in a heavy black cable-knit sweater and black woolen legwarmers, she is otherwise nude, head propped up on some cushions, legsefficiently parted. Her easel is set up within ready reach. She holds a brushin one hand, mirror in the other: the prototypical feminist artist,unsmilingly intent, unforgiving, remorseless. Did Alfred watch, I wonder, orhold the palette for her? Did she ever have any babies? I somehow doubtit.....Further speculation is abruptly curtailed as my next contraction hits withthe force of a freeway overpass collapsing in an earthquake. With the Demerolgone, first I feel stunned, then drained -- an overture for the ghastlyinrush of pain: a taut bubble wells up in my belly and spreads through mybody like a negative orgasm, fills me without bursting. I scream, Angela,come back, I need you!Never again!I laugh bitterly through a thick red haze of pain, then, in sudden sepulchralsilence, I spiral off above it all, onto a higher plane, from which I canlook down at myself writhing on the labor room bed, bed sheets twisted intofat ropes, my hospital gown hoisted up in a sweaty roll above my breasts,once shapely and smooth but now huge and disfigured by angry purple striae,their dusky red areolas the size of demitasse saucers. My distended belly --also marred by jagged purple streaks -- resembles one of those round heaps ofwheat Solomon is always yammering about in his infernal Song. If Solomon hadonly gone through this, he would have been far the wiser: he would havemelted down all those copper scrolls into something useful, like decentdinnerware or rain-gutters, and stuck to writing out seating plans for palaceparties.Suddenly Angela reappears at my bedside with a tubex of Demerol. Shemechanically rolls me over onto my side (to roll me all the way over is ageometric impossibility), briskly abrades a patch of one buttock with analcohol sponge, and injects me. She goes out and returns with a gurney."Slide over onto it, child," she commands, her voice still like velvet, asshe pulls my bottom sheet with strong chocolate-colored hands. "You go'n' tohave de baby now."I do as commanded. Angela snaps up the sides of the gurney, pushes me out ofthe labor room and down the hallway. I feel the Demerol buzz already comingon, softening (but only slightly) my next contraction. The gurney glidesalong noiselessly, as if suspended in air. We pass another O'Keefe: PinkSweet Peas, as obscene as Pink Gladiolas. We reach the delivery suite; doubledoors swing inward with a pneumatic hiss. I raise my head and see the vacantdelivery table starkly awaiting me like a post-modern torture device -- armboards splayed out like a crucifix, stirrups spread impossibly wide. Itsunbuckled straps dangle in confident anticipation of a victim. I slide offthe gurney and over onto the delivery table, assisted now by two pairs ofhands.My feet are put up into the cold stainless steel stirrups, my wrists andankles are restrained by broad leather straps lined with lambswool: I ampinioned for the Great Sacrifice. I lift my head again to see what's about tobe done to me down there, but I can't see past my mountainous belly. All Ican really move are my fingers, my toes and my head, so I ball up my fistsand thrash my head side to side as yet another contraction hits. Mycontractions are now almost continuous.A dab of cold jelly on my abdomen. The fetal monitor transducer is taped inplace and the delivery room fills with the amplified frantic sounds of mybaby's heartbeat -- racing, slowing, then racing again.* * * * *I haven't always been like this, you know. That is, I haven't always beenpregnant. But, no, that's not quite true, either: I have always beenpregnant, actually....O, sorry, I see I'm confusing you, so let me start over and make myselfperfectly clear: I've been a woman only nine months, which is exactly howlong I've been pregnant, so I suppose I've always been pregnant since I'vebeen a woman, and vice-versa. O, sorry again: I see you're more confused thanever. All right, then, as frightfully embarrassing as it is, I really oughtto begin .... at the very beginning. Then you'll understand how I ended uphere strapped down on this delivery table.* * * * *It all began with chicken feed. That's right, you heard me correctly: chickenfeed....I was once what we scientists call an applied genetics engineer, which meansI did not work for a university, but for private industry at five times thesalary -- manipulating DNA for .... greater profits. My name used to beGeoffrey Rathbun. I'm a Harvard grad with a Ph.D. in recombinant genetics. Ormake that "was," as I have forgotten most of the detailed technical knowledgeI ever learned when my Y-chromosomes translocated, or whatever it was theydid that night. Don't ask me, I don't know a thing about that anymore!I was forty-six years old, married, with two kids. I worked for NutriGen inRaleigh, North Carolina. My job was to develop potent chicken feed additivesthat would put lots of weight on birds fast and at the lowest possible costper ton of feed. Our goal was to bring a fryer from egg to market intwenty-seven days. Chickens are a seven billion dollar-a-year industry in theU.S., you know, so lowering the cost of production by only a few fractions ofa cent per pound can be worth a lot of money to huge chicken conglomerates,like Perdue or Foster Farms.You've probably heard the controversy about how we put estrogen into chickenfeed back in the 80's, and how upset everyone got. A chicken's metabolismcompletely breaks down estrogen, of course, so none ends up in its eggs orits meat, but it was an emotional, not a scientific issue. It put one of ourcompetitors out of business, in fact: GenFowl, Ltd. By tweaking isomers andcarbon bonds, and altering an amino acid sequence or two, NutriGen was ableto market a non-estrogen additive we named NutriBird-32, that, as far aschickens were concerned, was as good as the real McCoy, but could be shown tohave no in vitro activity on human cells, so it could not be classified as anestrogen and was therefore able to garner Department of Agriculture approval.It brought birds from hatchery to market in 32 days, not quite our target,but pretty close.We never tested NutriBird-32 on living people, of course -- we didn't haveto, since it was an animal feed additive, not a pharmaceutical, hence did notfall under FDA jurisdiction. I had my own doubts, based on what it did tomale laboratory rats -- they lost their aggressiveness and libido, put onmore brown fat and yielded food and females to untreated males. But I keptquiet, of course. NutriGen's profit sharing plan was too attractive, my stockoptions worth far too much to raise even the whisper of a doubt.It's nighttime. Colin and I are in Modesto with twelve vials of NutriBird-27,the entire yield from our latest lab run. The only difference fromNutriBird-32 is two extra adenosine molecules at the gamma-118 cross-linkagejunction, but this little change is supposed to increase its potencyseveral-fold. Next morning we have to show up at eight o'clock sharp atFoster Farms Feed Mill Number Two, where they'll blend the NutriBird-27 intothe day's run of feed.Colin is my lab assistant, twenty-eight, blonde, tall, athletic build, notoverly bright but stolid, reliable and with a fine sense of intuition aboutcarrying out my experiments. He started working summers in my lab while hewas at Duke; he did so well and the money was so good that he interruptedcollege for a year after his second summer and never went back. Nine yearslater, he's still in my lab.We're staying at the Modesto Ramada Inn out on West Orangeburg Avenue. Ourconnection was canceled, so we rented a car in Oakland and drove. We get inat nine-thirty. There's a Safflower Oil convention in town, so the place ispacked, but we manage to get, of all rooms, the bridal suite. Can you imagineanyone's starting a honeymoon in Modesto? There's a heart-shaped king-sizebed with pink satin sheets and quilted spread, with a matching quiltedheadboard. Pink moiri satin wallpaper and drapes, thick plush wall-to-wallcarpet in a slightly clashing shade.... In the bathroom (all pink-tiled, tobe sure), an old-style French bidet to keep the bride fresh and dainty. I'mthe boss, so I get the king-size heart. Colin's the assistant, so he gets therollaway.Colin puts the little Styrofoam container with the vials in the fridge, oneof those dwarf ones, where you have to bend down to see in. "Put it on top ofthe ice trays," I tell him. I take a shower, stretch out on my bed in mybathrobe, start surfing channels while Colin takes his. I find a John Fordwestern just starting, so while the credits are running, I go to the fridgefor a Sprite. Damn, they must have just pulled the champagne and re-stockedthe fridge ten minutes before we checked in: the cans are all still warm. SoI slide out an ice tray, twist its spine and dump the undersize cubes into atumbler, pour in the Sprite, carry it back to the bed. The wagon train isjust pulling into Monument Valley, right on schedule, as the director's namefades from the screen.Colin comes in from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his midriff, andplumps down on the bed. We watch the film. I finish two more Sprites, andwhen Henry Fonda kisses Linda Darnell for the last time, I feel sort ofqueasy, feel my guts turn over. Colin's already asleep, so I nudge him withmy elbow and send him off to his rollaway, turn off the TV and the readinglamp and drift off, still feeling an odd churning in my lower abdomen.* * * * *I awaken at seven, my bladder full to bursting, a queer, humid feeling, notwholly unpleasant, between my legs. But no nausea, no more churning.Scratching my head, I stumble off to the bathroom, not bothering to close thedoor. Standing at the toilet, I pull aside the elastic leg band of my jockeyshorts with the automaticity of a lifetime, but my fingers find.... only ablunt mound, a mound softly cleft down its center like a.... like a...No, I am still asleep, that can't possibly be! But it is! I urgently feel itagain: my fingers encounter a warm, moist aperture.I jerk out my fingers as if I have just touched a hot stove. My heart skips abeat. Horrified, I tear off my jockey shorts, look down and gasp to discovera bona fide mons veneris, complete with a sparse wad of fine mousy-brownhair, sparse enough so that the appalling cleft I have just felt is readilyvisible. Of what I formerly possessed, alas! not a trace remains, replaced bythe perforate essence of womanhood....Ignoring my full bladder and now fully awake, I bound back into the bedroomand yank open the fridge, grab the Styrofoam container and return to thebathroom, where there's light. I slice the tape between the two halves withmy fingernail and tear off the top. Two of the twelve little vials sit lowerthan the others. I grasp the tip of one, extract it from its cavity: it issmashed. So is the other. I hold up the container to look at its bottom --each cavity has a tiny drain hole; the Styrofoam is slightly damp around theones where the broken vials are.By now I am soaked with clammy perspiration. I don't need a Ph.D. inrecombinant genetics to figure out that at least some of the vials' contentsmust have leaked onto the ice cubes. And each vial is enough to treat eighttons of feed! Picogram amounts are all that is needed in chickens and I mighthave ingested milligrams, a billion times more!I spin around towards the mirror over the sink, relieved to see my ownreflection unchanged, except for the demure little mound at the base of mybelly with its blunt-rimmed fleshy groove coursing downwards to vanishbetween my thighs. Rapidly assessing the damage just as a solider must dowhen he knows he's been hit, I think, "This could be worse, far worse. I'mstill basically me, I can still pass as a man until this can be fixed." Thewave of nauseating panic recedes, supplanted by a cold, gnawing dreadregarding my immediate future.For some odd reason, I recall Colin plumping down next to me on the bed lastnight after his shower, clad only in a scanty motel towel. But why am Ithinking of Colin? I'm the one with the problem, not he! Then I remember thepressure of my full bladder: mindful of a fundamental change in bodilyplumbing, I lower the toilet seat and sit, straight-backed, hands primlyfolded in my lap as an inducement to calmness. After a few moments'hesitation while I figure out the right muscles to relax, I release my urine,which sprays, undirected, against the porcelain inside the front of the bowlwith a high, girlish fsssssssst!"Aaaah," I sigh in relief. Another long fssssst, and then Colin lurches inthrough the bathroom door, stark naked, just in time to catch the end of thatlong, tell-tale girlish fssssst and the two short terminal fsssts as I expelthe last bit. He freezes, eyes popping, jaws agape. I spread my legs and wipemyself daintily, amazed at my aplomb, then stand and flush. We are facingeach other, eight feet apart, speechless. We've been racquetball partners foryears: Colin knows what I have. I mean, had.* * * * *A masked face pops out of the blind spot between my legs. "Hi! I'm Pam," itcheerily announces, "one of the delivery room nurses. I'm going to prep younow. Then I'll set up the mirror so you can watch baby come out. Only if youwant." I nod feebly. I feel Pam slosh about a pint of cool Betadyne solutionover my lower abdomen, shaved vulva and perineum. The drips plash on theshiny floor. She scrubs me thoroughly with gauze four-by-fours caught up in ahemostat. "The first one is always the hardest," she prattles, pushing oneknee a bit farther outwards to expose an unswabbed crease in my groin, "butit gets a lot easier with the others. I have five." My belly gets rock-hardagain and I think I shall explode with the pain. "Oh, look! You're about tocrown, dear," Pam chirrups, in the universal tone one reserves for smallchildren, invalids and mental defectives. "We'll just have to hurry. Doctorwill be here in a minute."While I suffer my worst contraction yet, Pam drapes my legs and belly withgreen paper sheets. Then she swivels a large ceiling-mounted mirror intoposition and adjusts it, coming up to me and putting her face next to mineseveral times to look up into the mirror from my perspective, and re-adjustsit until I have a clear and unimpaired view. "How's that?" she asks. Sheexpects -- and receives -- no response.* * * * *Colin slaps himself on the cheek, shakes his head briskly. He gives a lowwhistle and points accusingly at Exhibit A, as if a crime has been committed."What the hell's going on, Geoff?" he asks. "You've got a cunt.""If you don't mind," I say, bristling indignantly, "I believe it's officiallycalled a vagina." "OK, whatever," he replies, raising his eyebrows; Colincomes closer and bends forward, hands on his knees, to get a better look. Hisright hand makes a small twitch, as if to reach out and touch it. I recoil astep, but he restrains himself. "Where'd it come from?" he asks,straightening up.I show Colin the Styrofoam container and the broken vials. He nods inunderstanding and finally closes his mouth, but his gaze can't keep fromstealing back to my bush every few seconds. His eyes take on a glint oflascivious interest, then he blushes and self-consciously tears his gazeaway. I think I see his cock stir. Perhaps it's only my imagination, but, asmuch as I want to, I dare not look again, just as he is trying is trying hisbest not to look at my little cleft. We both glance warily downwards anyway-- with unaccustomed interest.I have never looked at a man as I now find myself looking at Colin, nor hasany man ever looked at me the way he is now. I have to admit I'd never reallynoticed just how well-hung he is, but it's a fact: he's well on the northside of large -- huge, even, whereas I am now soft and vulnerably penetrable.I feel a quick thrill between my legs, then a soft surge of moisture whichspreads up through my belly like a rapid stain in absorbent white fabric, astirring, wholly inside me, alien but recognizably sexual. I sense where thisis leading, and swallow hard.We remain facing one another in a grotesque tableau vivant. Then I feel anundulant twinge down there that dissolves in another moist little surge. Myeyes close until it passes; my nostrils dilate momentarily. "I know whatyou're thinking," I say, having just visualized the obvious possibility. Weare standing very close now, looking straight into one another's eyes."You're thinking of fucking me, aren't you?" I ask. Almost imperceptibly,Colin nods affirmatively. "OK," I say, "I'm willing to give it a try. Butonly if you really want to," (I suddenly hope that he does), "and only if yougive me a little time to come to terms with what's happened, OK? I haven'teven had a decent look at it yet." I glance down at Colin again, this time toassess the relative fit of things, and hastily add, "And only if you promiseto stop if I tell you you're hurting me."The glint in Colin's eyes returns, intensifies. Promising nothing, hestammers, "But what about Feed Mill Number Two? We're supposed to be there ateight.""Call them at eight-oh-five and say we're still in Oakland. Tell them ourflight got in late. Tell them anything you like. See if you can reschedulefor the same time tomorrow. And be sure to tell them we have only ten vialsof NutriBird-27, not twelve."I retrieve my jockey shorts from the floor and pull them on in dubiousdeference to feminine modesty, for they are ludicrously baggy at the crotch.Then I go back to the bedroom, followed rather closely by Colin, who seems tobe panting a bit. There's just no accounting for a man's sexual preferences!I pull open the drawer of the writing table and remove a pad of paper, thensit, grab a pen and begin making a list.Three pairs of plain white cotton panties, in different sizes, at least oneof which is bound to fit me. A box of tampons. A box of Kotex and a belt forthem in case I can't get the hang of tampons right off. A box of pantiliners-- any brand. (I am a very fastidious fellow and always take everyprecaution: the very thought of suddenly bleeding from this ... aperture ishorribly repugnant.) A mirror, the kind with a handle. A flashlight. Twoplastic shoehorns, the long kind. A tube of K-Y jelly. And, last, a dozencondoms. Bare Essentials.I hand the list to Colin. "What do you want me to do with this?" he asks,glancing over it."You're going shopping for me. Here's fifty dollars," I say, taking a billfrom my wallet and handing it to him. "There's a Walmart on South 9th. Theyprobably open at seven thirty. Get everything exactly as on the list. And nolittle rosebuds on the panties -- just plain, white cotton ones, OK? Oh yes,the condoms -- you can pick out any kind you want, even ribbed ones. CallFoster Farms from a pay phone. And be back by eight-thirty. We can try it outas soon as you get back, to see if it actually works the way it's supposedto, and then go down for breakfast. I've always wanted to know what a womanfeels while she's getting fucked. This might be my only chance, so don't belate. No telling how long this vagina will last, though right now I have toadmit that it feels kind of....." and my voice quavers a bit, ".....permanent."Colin dresses as fast as a fireman and is out the door, shoes still unlaced.And me? What do you think? The moment he's gone, I head for the bed, pull offmy jockeys again, lie down on my back and begin to explore my newacquisition. What else do you expect me to do?So I prop myself up on pillows, part my legs and tentatively slide my handdown along my belly until I reach my incipient groove, then cup myselffirmly, my mound and points south already beginning to radiate heat.Now the male genitalia are not aesthetically pleasing in the slightest, ifyou're a normal heterosexual man, but at least they are visible, definite,usually dry and rather forthright, especially, of course, when you'reexcited, the fact of which cannot be concealed. A vagina, on the other had,is none of those things, because, except for the outer lips, it's allprotectively tucked up inside you. It's secretive, hidden, dark, damp. Apartfrom the mons veneris -- which is as neat and trim as the downy-soft breastof a thrush -- it's crammed full of folds, membranes, layers and ridges, farmore intricate, say, than a complex piece of origami. It's very hard to seeinto because it's so deep and stays closed most of the time, sort of like alittle Plato's cave, full of sacred mysteries.In fact, it's not easy to make your vagina open without spreading your legsapart or sitting Indian-style, except if you yawn, then it opens only alittle and closes up right away. And even when it gets all turned on andsloshingly wet, it still doesn't "show," though the dark stain on yourpanties might give you away. It's your intimate feminine secret, unless youdecide to let someone in on it by your body language or by telling themoutright, or by letting them shove their fingers, or, even better, their cockinside you. It's actually a rather sensible arrangement, if you ask me.Another intriguing feature of a vagina is how smooth and moist it is inside,like the lining of your cheeks, (but rather more sensitive), and just asbright pink, too, although it has a little pigment in places, faint brownishblotches, which sometimes only show up when you're pregnant.At the moment, however, despite all these erudite considerations, my ownvagina, the more I poke around in it, is getting moister by the second --downright boggy, in fact. It definitely likes having my fingers in it. Andthat brings me to another important point: whether merely moist when it's atrest, or sopping wet when it's aroused, a vagina pretty much always has thispeculiarly vulnerable feeling, not really an emptiness, but a nagging desireto be penetrated, to enfold. It's like a hunger pang, really, a trifleunpleasant unless it thinks it's about to be satisfied right away, in whichcase the hunger actually intensifies and it just can't wait to get take insomething warm, smooth and firm.A vagina's most striking aspect, though, isn't its concealed intricacies orits moistness, but how incredibly soft and sensitive it is, particularly thelips and the clitoris and the first inch or two of the tunnel part, which Ithink is called the vestibule. The outer lips are at least as velvety soft asa butterfly's wing, or a rose petal, if not even softer, especially if youhave meticulously shaved them (which is not all that easy to do). Men haven'tgot the slightest notion of how very delicate your vagina is, no matter howoften you tell them they have to use a light touch. The least little brush ofyour fingertips along your lips, just about half-way down, can set you off,or sometimes merely crossing your legs and shifting them just so. Amotorcycle ride also serves tolerably well, or simply leaning up against awashing machine during the spin cycle, which works miracles in taking theboredom out of doing laundry. Actually, with just a little imagination and afew simple props, a woman can keep herself going all day.And as for the clitoris, well, it's not too good an idea to touch itdirectly, not at first, though when you are really hot, it likes to betouched by the head or the shaft of a cock. It likes that a lot, believe me!But most of the time, your clit much prefers to be very lightly fingeredthrough its little hood of soft skin.Right now I am discovering all this on my own for the very first time, ofcourse, savoring each novel sensation as it comes along. I have always been aquick learner, so after a few minutes I am rhythmically stroking my lips upand down with brief excursions of the third and fourth fingers of one hand,while massaging my clit though its delicate hood, in a circular motion, withthe middle finger of my other hand. I interrupt the rhythm every now andagain by plunging my fingers deep into my wetness to renew their lubrication.I can literally stir myself like a warm pudding.I have had my fingers in vaginas before, to be sure, but never in one that isactually mine, the main difference being that this one is reciprocallyfeeling my fingers inside it, and is busily shooting enervating shafts ofintense pleasure up through my belly, followed by expanding circlets ofglowing liquefaction. It's kind of like a little internal fireworks display:brief, clustered explosions of brilliant white sparks alternating with slowbursts of long colored streamers that fade.Very soon my vagina is so wet that it starts making those funny littlesmacky-kissy sounds each time I reposition my legs or dip in my fingers andstir them around. I can even smell my own musk. When I bring my fingers rightup to my nostrils and sniff them, I suddenly find myself teeteringdeliciously on the knife edge of what can only be the World-Famous FemaleOrgasm that's perpetually featured on the cover of every women's magazine, soI abruptly stop, put my arms at my sides, clench my hands and lie still,savoring the excruciating intensity of the teetering itself. But I can't takethis drawn-out sexual suspense for too long, I must rush over that edge, somy hand steals back, and this time I use my forefinger gently to retract thehood over my clit, and with my middle finger, ever-so-softly roll the glansround and round, like an undersized pea, flicking it one way and then theother beneath my fingertip. I begin to moan. My clit loves the soft pressureand little pop of release when it rolls out from under the pad of my finger.That does it: my legs start jerking by themselves and all my muscles contractspasmodically as if a thousand volts are zapping my body. A sweet wet warmthsurges through me and the world goes magenta. My innards start to undulate inexpanding waves of brilliant ripples."Unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh!" I grunt in time to the ripples. As Islowly relax, it's as if a floodgate has opened, releasing a rush of warm,honeyed milk through my arteries, suffusing every part of my body, even tothe tips of my fingers and toes. I groan as my membranes flutter, thenquiver, then at last settle down. Stunned, I lie on the bed for perhaps fiveminutes, gasping in stark disbelief at what has just happened: theWorld-Famous Female Orgasm is definitely not overrated."O, God," I finally say out loud. "What have I been missing all my life?"* * * * *Through a fog of narcotized pain I gaze up into the mirror to see that mydelicate and sensitive lips -- both pairs -- are stretched and thinned almostto the tearing point, and that my whole shaven and orange-painted bottom isbulging outwards like a cantaloupe melon. My thinned lips are parted in along, narrow vertical ellipse from which a shock of wet black hair -- notmine -- protrudes: the top of my baby's head! I stare in mesmerizedfascination."Where's Doctor Blake?" yells Pam. Someone says, "She's just finishing aC-section. She should be here any minute." Another contraction: I see theellipse abruptly expand, revealing more wet black hair. Pam puts her hand onthe baby's head and pushes against it, to keep it from coming outuncontrolled. "Where's Dr. Blake?" she yells again. The contraction wracksme. I hear myself scream.* * * * *In a burst of sudden resolution, I spring from the bed and dash back to thebathroom for the Styrofoam container. My hands lightly trembling, I removethe ten unbroken vials, snap off their necks one by one and pour the contentsof each into an empty tumbler. I go to the fridge, get another can of Sprite(no ice needed now), fill the glass and eagerly drain it, disregarding thebitterness. Then I get back into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and waitfor Colin to return. Our visit to Foster Farms Feed Mill Number Two is nowdefinitely off -- for good.Within minutes my transmutation is complete, remarkably painless except for afine tearing sensation, like the rending of silk, as my hips broaden. I takeonly a quick peek at myself in the bathroom mirror because I want to be inbed to surprise Colin when he returns, and it is almost eight-thirty. A quickpeek is all I need, though: the only thing that has not changed is the lengthof my hair, which is still closely cropped, but now chestnut brown, withoutany gray. I am smaller, shorter, lighter, two decades younger and a thousandpercent female: I far exceed my own former ideal of a fuckable woman. I findmyself looking forward with lively anticipation to losing the virginity Ihave only just now acquired.I have an attractive face, not overly intelligent looking: fine archedeyebrows above large brown eyes, a small nose slightly turned up, a smallishmouth with full lips lightly parted. Skin glowing like polished marble. Myneck is white and graceful, my shoulders soft and rounded. My breasts arehigh, pert and not pendulous, nicely rounded below, with that enticingconcavity above that slopes down to each nipple like a diminutive ski jump. Ahigh waist as well, fanning out to hips not excessively wide, which frame abroad, white belly, slightly protuberant as if in promise of fecundity. Mylittle cleft mound is the same as I have already described, save that now,set into a thoroughly female framework, it no longer appears freakish. Aucontraire: it looks elegant, adorable. My derriere is womanly without beingobtrusively large; as I turn my head over my shoulder to inspect itsreflection, I am pleased to see I have those delectable twin dimples oneither side of the base of my spine, like the curlicues cut into a 'cello.Long, shapely legs, small feet, a soft, swaying gait dictated by the alteredcamber of my hips.... In short, without boring you further, I see myself asfeminine perfection.I get back into bed to await Colin's return, glad now for the garish satinsheets, which titillate my smooth, hairless skin. My only regret is that Ihad not instructed Colin to buy me some elegant, lacy panties. Boring whitecotton ones no longer suit my mood. Now I want to be stroked throughsomething filmy and sheer.Colin breezes in through the door at precisely eight thirty. I am sitting upin the bed, sheets drawn up to my chin -- and smirking. The door closes. Themoment Colin sees my face, even from across the room, he senses what thebedclothes must conceal. To tease him with a little preview, I let the sheetslide part way down, exposing one breast with its brick-red nipple alreadyerect. For the second time that morning, Colin freezes, his jaw drops againand his eyes seem to start from his head. He drops the Walmart bag on the bedand stares, open-mouthed, at that one lovely breast.His lips contort into a leer, but just for a moment. Then he says, "You drankall the other vials, Geoff, didn't you?""Couldn't help myself, Colin, I had to," I reply, hearing my young woman'ssoprano for the first time. "After you went out, I made myself come. Once Idid that, I couldn't stand the thought of ever losing this vagina, so I drankevery drop. As you can see for yourself, that seems a lot less likely now.Look..."And I let fall the sheet, exposing myself all the way down to the top of mymound. Colin's eyes widen further. His lips are evidently dry; he nervouslylicks them, then, fingers stiffly spread, he starts to run his hands up anddown his sides as if to keep them from doing something else."Let's have that mirror and flashlight," I say, pulling down the sheets allthe way, revealing my nude female self to a man for the very first time. "Iwant to see what I've got before we try it out. Are you game?" I shift mylong legs, sliding one knee up; a faint wet smacking sound issues fromyou-know-where.Colin looks me over hungrily, licks his lips again and stops rubbing hishands up and down. He abruptly reaches for the bag and empties it out ontothe bed. Everything is there, and much more: Colin, using his uncannyinstinct, has bought out half the Walmart lingerie aisle, it seems. Theremust at least two dozen panties in all cuts and fabrics, including threepairs in plain white cotton -- without dainty rosebuds.Staring unblinkingly into my eyes, Colin silently passes me the hand mirror.I lie back, slide my heels up and spread my legs widely. He flicks on theflashlight, aiming the beam right at my slit. I tilt the mirror until I havea good view, then angle it this way and that to see myself from everyperspective the mirror allows. I am amazed by the extent of my slit: fromwhere it begins in my mons clear back to the cleft of my ivory-white hairlessbuttocks must be five or six inches, perhaps longer. I spread my thighs a bitfurther and am rewarded by a glimmer of my vibrant pink penetralia. Colinleans a bit closer. I quickly close myself with the protective instinct of apenetrable creature."Now the shoe horns," I say. "Go wash them off first.""Geoff, are you sure you want to do this?" Colin begins. "Just do it, I say,"so he puts down the flashlight, takes the two plastic shoehorns and heads forthe bathroom, where I hear him washing them off. He returns, sits on the bedbeside me and asks, "How are we going to do this?""First we put the K-Y jelly on the shoehorns," I say. "Then I'll hold themirror and one of the shoehorns. You hold the flashlight and the othershoehorn." "OK," he says, so we slather the shoehorns with the jelly, I openmy legs wide again and we each slide our shoehorn in at either end of myslit, mine above, his below, and try to pull them apart, but they encounterresistance. I relax another unfamiliar muscle or two: my tissues soften andsuccumb. As my vagina gapes, I feel the cooler air of the room against itswalls. It is ridged and furrowed and frighteningly deep, disappearing rightup into my very core. Its moist pinkness glistens in the light."Pull yours further down," I say, as I pull mine further up, and then we seethe end of the tunnel, my gray-pink cervix, like a little dome, or, moreaccurately put, like a miniature doughnut glazed in pink, a tiny hole at itscenter. We stare wordlessly, I into the mirror, and Colin, his face next tothe mirror, into me. After perhaps half a minute I say, "I've seen enoughnow." I slip out my shoehorn and gently push Colin's hand down and away,slipping out his shoehorn, too. I reach over to the bed table, put down themirror and shoehorn, grab a kleenex and gingerly wipe the excess K-Y jellyfrom my lips, restoring as much dignity as my position allows, which is tosay, not very much."Thanks for the show," says Colin. "It looks as if it'll do just fine, so,for God's sake, now are you going to let me fuck you or not? You're juststalling.""Fuck me?" I echo, with feigned innocence. "O, now I remember now. Sure. Justgive me a sec, Colin." I can't suppress a certain perverse pleasure inputting him off, in teasing him a bit, whetting his edge. Twenty-somethingmen are so damned eager, they see a girl and right away all they want to dois fuck her! But I want to get into some sexy panties and have a bit offoreplay. "No vagina should be fucked until it's been properly strokedthrough sheer panties," I tell him, adopting a Serious Professorial Tone."That's always been my motto, Colin, and now that I have one of my own, I amcertainly not going to let you fuck me until you stroke it through a nicesilky pair. So why don't we pick some out."Colin rolls his eyes upwards. "OK, OK! he says impatiently. Have it yourway!" He bends over the soft heap of panties and starts rifling through them,scattering the plainer ones to the far corners of the room. I am on hands andknees watching him. Walmart is not Victoria's Secret, but Colin has managed areasonable selection. I know nothing of women's underwear sizes. "What am I,a six or a seven? Isn't that about a medium?" I ask, grabbing a nice pair ofshimmering, champagne-colored high-cut Lycra briefs before he can toss them.I flick out the size tab. It says M."These should do the trick," I say, so I bite through the plastic tie holdingthe price tag, remove it, stand and step into them and pull them up,snuggling my lips into the miraculously soft gusset, giving a little gasp ofpleasure as I pull them up all the way. They encase my soft curvinessperfectly, like a second skin. I smile beatifically and let go of thescalloped waistband with a crisp little snap. The waistband, no wider than apencil, has a tiny flat satin bow in front, right in the center. I amenchanted. Colin is by now quite red in the face.I whirl away from the bed, pirouette, courtsey and flit. I cup my breasts,twirl and spin. I feel utterly feminine. I am utterly feminine. After thishighly gratifying bit of exhibitionism, I return to the bed, where Colin issitting on his hands and gnawing his lower lip. I stand straight in front ofhim, knuckles on my panty-clad hips, my shapely legs slightly spread, soclose that my breasts are just about brushing his face. I feel his breath onmy nipples. It tingles deliciously."OK, Colin. I'm ready, if you still want to try it out," I say, laughing alittle wickedly.Without a word, Colin stands, picks me up and tosses me, on my back, onto themiddle of the big satin heart. The force of my fall causes my thighs to part.I do not bring them together again; in fact, I spread them even more widely.Colin undresses in haste, and, already erect, lies down next to me andnuzzles my breasts. I search out one of his hands with mine, and draw it downbetween my legs. My other hand finds his cock, and encircles it -- barely."Go softly now," I whisper, and he begins to stroke me through my panties,not expertly (I have to lift his hand away once or twice and reapply it toshow him the right pressure), but adequately enough. After a few deliciousminutes, I feel myself flood and realize I have soaked clear through thegusset.I, On the other hand, know just how to stroke him. He moans in response andbegins nibbling my nipple. He quickly brings me up to that delirious edge,faster than I want to get there. I want him in me for my next come,naturally. "No, no, no, no, no," I say, "not yet!" I disengage his hand,raise up my bottom, peel off my panties, flicking them away with my toes. Toconfirm just how ready I am, I briefly dip into myself: I am frictionlesslymolten.I spread my thighs to the limit my hips will allow, which, I am shocked todiscover, is considerably farther apart than I could ever spread them before."OK, Colin," I say, "now we can try it out." He crouches over me, kneesbetween my legs, and lowers himself. I steer the head of his cock towards meso it slides over my clit, now itself unsheathed and daintily erect indefiant (if risible) mockery of its Brobdingnagian male counterpart. Thesmooth skin of his shaft is so soft against me as he slides his length backand forth. I press his cock down against my clit as he moves: the satinyfriction drives me wild. I think of a violinist moving his rosined bow overthe strings...But now I simply must have him inside me, so on his next backward stroke, Iangle my hips up slightly: when he slides forward again, he must penetrateme. And so he does, dead center, in one long, excruciatingly smooth, glidingplunge that makes the walls of my vagina tighten around him in a reflex Ineither can, nor wish to suppress, drawing him deeper into me. He impales mefully until the tip of his cock is pressing divinely against my cervix. Mylips, distended in a perfect circle, clasp his shaft at its root: I havetaken his entire length inside me. But not true! After a lull, he pushes yetanother inch or two into me. A slight twinge of pain: I emit a sharp squealat my ultimate penetration, then we hold still and I possess him. Whatecstacy, I think, with that small part of my brain that is still rational.Colin begins a slow, rhythmic thrusting, deeper with each stroke, until Ithink he is practically up in my chest. He has the precise tempo of slow'40's swing music; my hips assume the same tempo. My vagina tightens aroundhim each time he thrusts, drawing him in peristaltically, then reluctantlyreleases him each time he pulls back, in a kind of sexual respiration, which,in fact, soon mirrors our breathing.I have no idea how long we continue copulating like this -- one minute, ten,sixty -- for I lose all sense of time. Finally, with near-perfect instinct,he grasps my nipple between his thumb and forefinger while with his otherhand he begins squeezing my knee in the way that usually tickles. Only thistime it doesn't tickle: it's the final straw, I am pushed over the edge. Mybody is thrown into rhythmic spasms more intense than those I felt when Ibrought myself off earlier. My heels, drawn up and almost touching my bottom,now rise into the air. My vagina is milking his cock.That does it for Colin: he comes in a shuddering series of long and almostagonizingly slow spurts, each of which jets against my cervix -- almostimperceptibly, to my surprise (the man thinks this part of the act should bethe woman's ultimate pleasure, but your cervix is actually pretty insensitive-- it's the pulsations of the man's cock inside your vagina that feel sodivine). I hear myself grunting, "Unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh, unhhh!" allover again, only now in tempo with Colin's spurts and in a feminine register.I feel myself brim with warm semen. It leaks out of me and trickles down thecleft of my buttocks, making a warm wet spot on the bedsheet.I have been splendidly fucked.* * * * *I hear the hiss of the delivery room doors and feel Pam pushing harderagainst me. You're just in time, Dr. Blake, says Pam. Dr. Blake, the chiefresident, heaves into view in the mirror, in cap and mask, holding the tipsof her scrubbed fingers together like a steeple. She calmly regards the shockof black hair protruding from my vagina. "We still have time," she says."I'll go gown up. Just keep good pressure on that head, Pam."I hear the rustling of a paper gown being donned. A few moments later, Dr.Blake replaces Pam and a firmer hand presses against me. "Bring over theMayo," Dr. Blake says. "Unwrap the tray, give me a ten cc Luer-lock with aone and a half inch twenty-two needle and pour me out some two percentXylocaine with epi, then go warm up the isolette and call pediatrics. Tellthem it looks pretty routine and there's no need to hurry."Off to my left Pam drops a syringe and needle from their blister packs ontothe Mayo stand. She pours the anesthetic into a stainless steel medicine cup.She wheels the stand out of my sight, but it immediately reappears in themirror. Dr. Blake draws up the solution directly into the syringe, locks onthe needle and, holding the syringe straight up, expels the air until a fewfine droplets spurt from the tip of the needle.* * * * *We stay locked together in one another's arms until the wet spot grows cold.Then Colin rolls off me; as his soft but still swollen cock slithers out ofme like a fish one wants to hold onto but can't, there is a fresh release ofwarm fluid, thinner now and no longer stimulating, but nonetheless welcome,for it tells me I was gloriously overfilled, that his seed is insinuating itsway in through the os of my cervix, up through my womb and up and up into mytubes.Welcome? Gloriously overfilled? Am I insane? I push Colin aside and leap outof bed. With my hand cupping myself to keep the fluids from running down theinside of my thighs, I dash into the bathroom."O Damn, Colin, we forgot the condoms!" I scream, frantically trying tofigure out how to use a bidet. "Jesus!" I think. "I could be knocked up thisvery moment, right out of the box, so to speak!" I fiddle madly with thetaps: a jet of cold water hits me in the face. I finally get the temperatureright, and turn it down, so it's like a little burbling fountain about eightinches high, then I straddle the thing and lower myself over it, splaying mylips apart with one hand until the fountain's inside me and the rim takes myweight. My thighs fit the concavities on either side of the bowl and keep mespread open: now I finally understand why bidets are designed like that. Iperch on this porcelain saddle, trying to flush myself completely clean ofsperm, of which I must take a radically different view from now on, whileColin stands sheepishly in the doorway. "Gee, Geoff, don't be mad at me. Weboth forgot all about a condom," he whines."I know, I know!" I reply from my gurgling throne. "We were too Goddamn eagerto see if it worked. Well, now that we know it does, I hope it doesn't, ifyou know what I mean. I'm not certain I could deal with a baby right off,Colin, with all the other adjustments I'm going to have to make. Deal with ababy? What the hell am I thinking, Conlin? The whole concept's bizarre! Howlong should I sit on this thing?" I ask. "I should be cleaned out by now,don't you think?""How would I know," Colin replies. "I never even saw one of those thingsuntil we checked in here last night. I thought it was a drinking fountain formidgets. But look, Geoff..... Wait a sec..... Can't I please call yousomething else now? How can I keep calling you Geoff, now that you're a womanand especially now that I've fucked you?""How about Genevieve, then? Just call me Gennie," I say. "I've always likedthe name."* * * * *Dr. Blake finally addresses me. "OK, Gennie, listen. It's almost over. In amoment you'll feel a little sting down here, then some burning, and then I'mgoing to make an episiotomy incision so baby's head will come out withouttearing you. Then I'll stitch you up all nice and tight so you'll be good asnew and your husband will never know the difference. OK?"I can't see I exactly have any choice in the matter, so I rapidly nod myhead. I feel the prick of the needle in my tender lips, then the spreadingburn of the Xylocaine. I watch in breathless horror as Dr. Blake inserts oneblade of a long, straight scissors under my lips, to the right, and watch thescissors close down, making a two-inch incision at four-thirty o'clock, rightthrough both sets of lips and deep into my splayed-out vaginal wall. I don'tfeel the actual cut, but I hear the metallic snick of the blades comingtogether and see the incision instantly gape in a wide 'V,' exposing a biggerexpanse of wet black hair inside me, which rapidly becomes reddened withbright arterial blood. I stare in stark and wide-eyed disbelief at what hasjust been done to my tenderest tissues."Now push, Gennie, just as soon as you feel your next contraction coming on,and you'll be over the worst," Dr. Blake says. With my eyes scrunched shutand teeth tightly clenched, I nod assent. "It's coming, it's coming again," Imoan. "Push, Gennie, push hard now!" Dr. Blake commands.So I push with all my might, my eyes now wide open again, my gaze riveted onthe mirror. I see a baby's head smoothly pop out of my vagina, like some sortof grotesque magician's trick. What I see has to be impossible, but there itis, a baby's head, face down, between my legs! It's dark-haired, with duskypink skin and it's covered with blotches of blood and greenish-white vernix.Dr. Blake supports its chin with two fingers.* * * * *It's like I threw a switch, as if changing from Geoffrey to Genevieve finallybrings home to Colin that I really am a woman now, and most likely no longerhis boss, either. As if fucking me hadn't given him a clue. Men can be sodense sometimes, it makes you just want to scream.So the moment I'm Genevieve, Colin gets this alpha male-in-charge look on hisface, takes control, comes over, turns off the taps and pulls me up off thebidet by one arm. "That's enough now, Gennie," he says. "Either I've knockedyou up or I haven't. We'll know in a month, won't we?""I'm not sure exactly, Colin," I say, taking a towel and squatting a bit, soI can dry myself off down there. "I could start my period tomorrow, I guess,then we'd be pretty sure I'm not. And if I am, then one of those drug storehome test kits will tell me in two or three weeks. We can buy one and readthe directions while we're out shopping in San Francisco this afternoon. Ineed more than just panties now.""San Francisco? We can go back to Walmart," he says, "right here in Modesto.""Are you kidding, Colin? I am simply not going to get my first wardrobe atWalmart," I protest indignantly. "OK, I agree it's a good idea to stop thereon the way out of town to buy me a bra, some jeans, a top and some shoes, sothat at least I'll look plausible shopping at Magnin's. Besides, we're notgoing to Foster Farms Feed Mill Number Two tomorrow -- or ever -- so we canget out of Modesto right after breakfast."Colin asks, "What're you going use for money? You can't use your credit cardnow. You don't look like a Geoffrey Rathbun.""Then I'll use my ATM card," I say. "I have plenty of cash in my accounts,enough to outfit me in Parisian fashions if I want and go to Europe for ayear and live like a princess. And that doesn't even touch Elaine's accountor the kids' trust fund."The idea is sinking in, I can see. Colin brightens up. "I could get intothis," he says. "Dressing you from scratch could be fun. Then we can checkinto a really nice hotel and I can fuck your brains out all over again."Colin is a very concrete thinker.I step into fresh panties -- sedate white cotton ones this time -- andstruggle into a pair of soft chinos that are now loose in the waist but tootight in the hips and the bottom. That'd be fine with me, Colin, I say,buttoning my oversized shirt and leaving it untucked to cover the ill-fit ofmy trousers. I put on three pairs of thick socks so my loafers won't falloff, then Colin and I go down to breakfast. I am soothed by the obligatorysway of my hips as we walk towards the coffee shop, and by the pleasantjounce of my breasts swinging free under my shirt. While we are waiting for atable, Colin surreptitiously grabs my ass; it actually feels nice, to begrabbed by a man. I could have my brains fucked out five times a day, everyday, for a year and not get tired of it, I reflect, as we are shown to ourtable. And if I lose a few brains in the process, I'll probably be the betteroff for it. The waitress pours our coffee; my mind races ahead to theafternoon's shopping. I imagine all the lovely things I shall buy. My brainseethes with visions of silky undergarments, of elegant dresses and delicatefootwear, of subdued makeup, expensive perfumes, nailpolish and pearls. Iforget entirely about the prospect of pregnancy.* * * * *A kernel of my former male self, like a fly embalmed in the amber of myfemininity, flickers into momentary consciousness. It sees myself throughhorrified male eyes with cut-crystal clarity, sees myself strapped down on adelivery table, feet in stirrups, sees a baby's head protruding from myvagina -- sees that I have just become a mother, sees utter and eternaldefeat. The feeble consciousness dims, wavers like a guttering candle ....and vanishes. I am Gennie again, now and forever.Dr. Blake runs a finger through the baby's mouth to clear out anyobstruction. She asks for the suction and inserts a thin red catheteter firstinto one nostril, then into the other. Supporting the head with one hand, shesays, "Good girl, Gennie, good girl! That was a great push! Now, on your nextcontraction, push real hard again, we'll get the shoulders out and then it'llbe as good as over."I feel my next contraction begin. I thrash my head and grit my teeth again,but this time the pain is not as intense, so I feel no impulse to scream."Push one more time, Gennie, push!" the doctor commands. So I push as hard asI can and watch, to my amazement, as a complete baby gushes forth from mydistended vagina, like a liquid, in a single, releasing slither.* * * * *After breakfast, everything goes exactly as planned. We stop at Walmart forbasics, then drive to San Francisco. We go shopping in Union Square and checkinto the St. Francis, trailed by three bellhops carrying my purchases, justlike in the movies. Colin fucks my brains out that night, as promised, notonce, but five times. We fall madly in love. In two weeks we are married. Inthree weeks, I discover I'm pregnant.* * * * *So that's how I ended up here on this labor ward, having a baby and lookingat Pink Gladiolas.* * * * *A thin and tentative cry, a sharp intake of breath ... then a squall of ragefills the room. Dr. Blake proclaims, "It's a girl."* * * * *

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