Storytime

While I work on some more posts, here's another story I wrote back in the day. 

HOLES

I am sitting at the bar with an empty glass staring at my reflection in the mirror that covers the back wall. In the mirror, clouds of smoke drift toward me out of complete darkness. I can hear the loud and indistinguishable noise of everyone else in the club, I can feel their presence, I can even smell them, but I can’t see them. This begins to scare me so I look away. I hear a woman’s voice next to me order an apple martini. I look at her reflection in the mirror. She is looking at me, not knowing that I am watching her do this. She is young, brunette and a total hardbody. Her complexion is great, her face is symmetrical, her teeth are perfectly straight and white, and, oh Jesus, I can’t find a flaw. I quickly look down at her feet and relief washes over me as I realize her second toe is slightly longer than her first. I look up again into the mirror. She is looking down at her feet then she is looking up at me.

“What?” she asks.

Still looking in the mirror at her reflection, I don’t acknowledge her.

“What?” she asks again, this time in a more accusatory tone.

Slowly I turn my head toward her and raise my eyebrows in a questioning way. I am shocked when I discover she is even more beautiful than her reflection. 

“Why were you looking at my feet?” she asks me.

“Did you know that your…” I start to ask, but decide not to finish.

“Did I know what?” she asks, tapping her foot with her hands on her hips.

“That…this mirror isn’t accurate?” I force, confused but pleased with my save.

“Oh,” she says, laughing uneasily.

An awkward silence follows in which I know I am supposed to say something but have no idea what and, thankfully, the bartender interrupts to give her the martini. The bartender lingers, looking at the woman and…waiting for something? She is sipping the martini and staring at me expectantly over the rim of the glass. Oh Christ, just like a woman, I think, as a pull a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and give it to the bartender. 

“Thank you,” she says as she moves her chair closer to me and sits so her leg is touching mine. She picks the toothpick out of her martini and slowly drags the olive off with her teeth, all while looking directly into my eyes. “So, what’s your name?”

“Milo,” I tell her, strangely aroused by the way she has taken control. 

“I’m Stacey,” she says, extending her hand.

“It’s nice to meet you Stacey,” I say, taking her hand. I actually turn in my chair so that I am facing her, leaning on the bar with my left arm.

“What do you do?” she asks, taking a sip of her martini.

“I’m a…doctor,” I tell her, which is the truth.

Her eyes light up instantly. “Ooooh, what kind of doctor?” she asks.

“A plastic surgeon,” I tell her.

Her face is one you’d expect to see on someone who just won the lottery. I’m used to the reaction, though, and am completely incapable of judging her for it.

“What, oh Christ…” I stop disgusted that I am actually going to finish this question. “What do you do?” 

“Actually, I go to school, but I do a little modeling on the side,” she says.

“Why not do modeling full-time?” I ask.

“Because, like, education is soo much more important,” she says. “And I don’t want to be a model for the rest of my life.”

I feel trapped, like this conversation has been written down before hand and I’m just reading my lines. I ask, “So what do you want to do for the rest of your life?”

“Right now I’m thinking sports medicine, but my backup is psychology,” she says.

I pretend to be impressed, but really I’m thinking of the medical joke that the bottom ten percent of the class in medical school is lobotomized and trained in sports medicine. Unfortunately this thought breaks the rhythm of our conversation and I can’t think of a response that doesn’t feel forced and contrived, although the whole conversation up to this point seemed that way. I quickly look at her hair, her eyes, her lips, her dress, looking for something to say, but I fail miserably. I stare at her shocked and in disbelief over the fact that I am trying to continue this conversation. She puts her purse on the bar and starts looking through it.

“That’s a…um…nice purse,” I say.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “You like it? It’s a Prada bag. When I saw it in the store I just had to have it. I liked it so much I bought it in three different colors, black, brown and pink, and they weren’t even on sale!”

“Wow,” I say, mad at myself for bringing up purses in front of a woman. I tell the bartender that I’m going to need a couple of beers. I turn toward Stacey again, and, unbelievably, she is still talking about purses, or maybe shoes, I’m not too sure. 

“…so then I saw these gorgeous open-toes with five-inch heels and two straps. They were so cute I had to buy them, but then I realized I didn’t have any clothes to match them so after hours of shopping I finally found a dress, Versace couture, that matched and a simply adorable scarf by Hermes that didn’t really go with the shoes or the dress, but was too good not to buy…”

I notice the bartender has brought my beers. As I pick one up and bring it to my lips, I imagine myself breaking the bottle on the edge of the bar and hacking her head off with it. Stacey is still talking to me although at this point I have completely tuned her out. As I sit, pretending to listen to her, I start thinking that if this woman was more intelligent and interesting, and less superficial, she would be perfect. She is already physically superior, if only her mind could be the same. I have no idea how to accomplish this, but I am willing to try something, anything.

“Hey,” I interrupt. “Do you want to have a few drinks at my place?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says.

“Great,” I say. “Is it okay if we stop at my office? I need to pick something up.”

“That’s fine,” she says, and then in a strange tone, “I’ve never been in a plastic surgeon’s office before.”

I drive her to my office with no intention of going to my house anytime soon. I give her the tour of the office, the lobby, the washroom and, finally, the surgery room. I am too distracted to notice if she is impressed by any of it. While she is looking at the scalpels and saws I use during operations, I walk over to the anesthesia controls and turn on the gas.

“Hey Stacey,” I say. “Come over hear, I want to show you something.” I am standing by the operating table, holding the mask that the gas comes out of. “Here, I want you to try this,” I say, handing her the mask. “We use it for anesthesia, but in small doses it gives you a relatively harmless high, comparable to getting a buzz from alcohol.” 

“Oh, cool,” she says as she takes the mask from my hands and places it over her mouth and nose.

“Let me go turn it on,” I tell her. I slowly walk over to the controls and turn the knob as high as it will go. I tell her to take a few deep breaths then watch as her body falls to the floor. I lift her onto the table and leave the room to put on some scrubs.

Standing over her, I use a drill to make a small hole on each side of her head, about four inches above each ear. This is an easy procedure and there is little blood. I grab the defibrillator, which I have never used before and is only there because the medical board requires it to be, and pull the wires out of the paddles. I slide the wires into the holes I have drilled through Stacey’s skull until, I assume, they are touching her brain. I turn the machine on and nothing happens. I’m not sure if there is an electric current running through her brain or not, so I just stare at her head for five minutes. I leave to go make some coffee in the break room and when I come back I pull the wires out of her head. To make sure something happens and that this wasn’t a complete waste of time I stick a syringe into each hole repeatedly. Not knowing what else to do I fill the holes with plumber’s caulk and comb her hair over them. With the amount of anesthesia she inhaled, she won’t wake up for a couple of hours so I go in my office and take a nap on the floor. I dream about a beautiful woman falling in love with me after I save her life. In my dream this girl’s love is the only thing I want and when I get it everything else means nothing. And we live happily ever after. After I wake up I move Stacey’s body into the recovery room to remove any suspicion on her part that I did something to her. I am patting her forehead with a damp cloth when she opens her eyes.

“Oh, thank god, your awake,” I say to her.

“W-what happened?” she asks.

“I think you inhaled to much anesthesia. You passed out,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she says. She tries to sit up, winces, and lies back down. “My head hurts.”

“Yeah, you banged it pretty good on the edge of the table in there,” I tell her. “I’ll go get you some aspirin” I come back with a glass of water and two pills, one of which is an anti-inflammatory, the other is a painkiller. I don’t tell her what they are, I just give them to her and she takes them. She grabs my hand and holds it while we sit together in silence. I think about the irony in the fact that although the conversation we just had was fake, on my part, it feels like the most sincere we’ve had all night.

“Do you want me to take you home?” I ask.

“I thought…I thought we were going back to your place,” she says.

“We can, I just thought you wouldn’t be…up to it,” I say.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, getting up and walking around the room.

I take her to my apartment and we have sex and because I feel guilty about drilling holes in her head I let her stay the night.

She leaves the next morning after breakfast and I feel kind of sad. Over the following weeks, I think back to that night and try to figure out why I felt compelled to drill holes in her head. She was perfect looking, why couldn’t I be happy with that? She was perfect looking, but that doesn’t mean anything unless she has a mind to go with it. But the only girls who are intelligent or interesting are the ugly ones, there’s no such thing as a beautiful, intelligent woman. Anyway, what did I want her mind to be like…mine? A man’s? I realized that I do feel more comfortable, more natural, talking to men and that the conversations are always interesting. So what, I thought, am I gay? No, I don’t get hard-ons for guys. I’m attracted to women; it’s just that…men have the better, more attractive minds. Out of all this I come to the conclusion that the perfect woman would be a man’s mind in a woman’s body.

I am sitting in a gay bar determined to discover the accuracy of my conclusions. My plan is to find a man, drug him, take him back to my office and turn him into a woman. I’ve done plenty of sex changes before, so the procedure is nothing new to me, some breast implants, removal of the scrotum and testicles, a little reconstruction to form the vaginal canal, and then laser hair removal. I am confident in my skills as a surgeon and know that I can create a beautiful woman out of a man. I figure that although I can’t create the perfect mind, I can find it. I reasoned out that a non-effeminate gay man would be the perfect specimen, that his mind would fit more naturally into a woman’s body. Imagining a one hundred percent male mind in a woman’s body scared me, and almost stopped me from coming here. Since I am here for a mind, appearance is not important to me, though I do want somebody who maintains himself well. I suffer through countless flaming gay males flirting with me and hitting on me. 

“Hey there handthome,” one of them says to me in a girly voice.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“I’m doin’ fine now,” he says. “You look familiar, are you a model?”

“No, are…you?” I ask, completely confused as to whether I am flirting with him or not. He blushes and is genuinely flattered.

“Oh my god, I could never be a model,” he says, waving a limp wrist at me. “But I did try once and let me tell ya, it was thow embarathing, I thought oh my god I can not do thith, but I did it anyway and the director told me I had abtholutely no talent, but I didn’t really care because there wath thow many hot guys there…”

I roll my eyes and think no, abtholutely not, then realize I am lisping my words and walk away pissed off. I sit down away from the crowd and drink some fruity drink that’s actually pretty good. 

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the club.”

I turn to see a…very pretty man.

“Hi, I’m Michael,” he says.

“Milo,” I say, shaking his hand. I give Michael the once over. He has long, black hair down to his shoulders. His skin is great, with minimal hair. His teeth are extremely white and straight. He has a thin, yet slightly muscular build, almost like a woman’s. He is dressed impeccably and obviously pays attention to his appearance. He reminds me of Stacey, who I haven’t seen since that night six months ago, although I have tried to contact her numerous times. 

He must notice me checking him out because he asks, “Do you like what you see?”

I try to resist and deny my feelings, but I can’t help it; I’m actually attracted to this man. I start feeling light headed, dizzy and very disoriented.

“Are you alright?” he asks me.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just that…” I say.

“It’s just what?” he asks.

“I’ve never been…felt this way before,” I say.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I ask him.

“Your feelings,” he says.

“My feelings about what?” I ask.

“Your attraction to me,” he says, smiling.

I tell Michael that I am not gay and that I have always been attracted to women.  I also tell him that I came to the bar to do some research so I can more easily relate to some of my patients. 

“You’re a plastic surgeon?” he asks.

“Yes, a straight one,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. “Let me ask you something, though. These relationships you have, do they last? Or do you find them meaningless and transient? I bet you have never connected with a woman before, you know, really found one that meant something to you.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Let me tell you my story,” he says. “When I learned that I was gay and how I dealt with it.”

“Alright, I’m listening,” I say.

“I was about twenty-three when I first realized it,” he says. “Up to that point I had been in numerous relationships with girls, but none of them meant anything. I always felt that something was missing from the relationships; that there was more out there for me. I thought it was just because I hadn’t met the right girl. Then, one day, I found her. She was perfect, smart and beautiful, the whole package. I was in love with her, and I thought she loved me. It turned out that she didn’t. The whole time we were together she had been cheating on me, in my house, on my bed. She slept with every guy, any guy, that she could get her hands on. She fucked me over pretty good, but leaving her was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I was depressed for months and thought my life was over. I tried to date other women after that, but none of the relationships lasted more than two weeks, they were as meaningless as ever. I became skeptical of women and didn’t trust any of them. I started to appreciate the honesty I found in men and realized I was attracted to some of them. What was hardest for me was the unnaturalness I felt. Being gay went against everything I knew, but it was useless to deny because it felt so right. Eventually I realized that being gay just affected my sexuality, it didn’t have to affect who I was and so I came to terms with it.” He shrugs and pats my shoulder.

I actually start to feel relaxed and comfortable around Michael, and begin to open up to him. We have a few drinks and talk about our lives and experiences. We laugh and commiserate with each other. A feeling of completeness washes over me and I am happy. I feel like I know Michael and am drawn to his confidence. I can actually be myself around him.

“Hey Michael,” I say. “Do you want to come over to my place for a few drinks?”

“Sure!” he says.

Driving, I decide I don’t want to turn Michael into a woman; I want him exactly as he is. We go straight to my apartment.

Once inside the door we attack each other, kissing passionately and stumbling to the couch. I’m on top of Michael, kissing him hard, and I rip his shirt off and run my hands down his chest to his pants. I undo his belt, unzip his pants and slip my hand inside. His pubic hair is shaved and I move my hand further down to grab is hard erection but instead feel only moisture and heat.

“Oh Milo, I wanted to tell you…” he says.

“No, it’s perfect,” I say, aroused by the fact that Michael has a vagina. I kiss him and roll over so he is on top of me, straddling me, riding me. Michael lowers his head to my chest and I run my fingers through his hair. As my fingers pass over the sides of his head I feel something, two little indentations above his ears, like somebody had drilled a hole there.

“Stacey?!” I ask in disbelief and excitement.

“Oh god, Milo, how did you know!?” Michael asks me, crawling off of me.

“You…there’s…I don’t know,” I finally say.

“Oh god,” Michael says, starting to cry. “I’ve been thinking about this moment since that morning I left. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”

“So then…you’re really…a woman?” I asked, confused.

“No, what I told you was true, I was a man,” he says. “I told you I had a hard time dealing with the unnaturalness I felt, but I didn’t really tell you how I got over that. Getting a sex change was really the only option I had to make me feel natural.”

“But you acted like such a…woman at the bar that night,” I tell him.

“I acted like the type of woman I thought you would like,” he says. “But that night, after I passed out, somehow I realized that that wasn’t the type of woman you were looking for. I knew, I knew, that if had just acted like myself you would have loved me, but it was too late to show you how I really was. When I left that morning I decided that I didn’t want you to see me again until I could come to terms with who I was. I don’t know what happened to me that night, it’s like a light went on inside of my head. Whatever it was, though, it saved me.”

I look at him with a blank face. I don’t know what to say, but I do know that I can never tell Michael what I did to him. I start to laugh, though I don’t know why.

“I’m sorry Milo, I’m sorry,” Michael says. “But there’s nothing I can do about the vagina, it’s irreversible.”

“I know,” I tell him. “It’s great work, though. Who did it?”

“A surgeon in Palm Springs,” he says. “So you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Now I don’t have to be completely gay.”