I read somewhere that the ancient Goths used to debate any important question twice, once drunk, and once sober. I had gotten into the habit of doing something like that with jekyllase; I would think something over once as myself and once as Jennifer before coming to a decision.
I read somewhere that the ancient Goths used to debate any important question twice, once drunk, and once sober. I had gotten into the habit of doing something like that with jekyllase; I would think something over once as myself and once as Jennifer before coming to a decision.
Not that I had come to a decision yet, about whether I was transsexual or what Jennifer meant about my inner psyche. But I changed into Jennifer on Monday after my last class and made a phone call to the hospital volunteer office, telling them I’d be there the following Saturday and that I was Scott’s sister, he’d mentioned me, right...?
Being Jennifer for the rest of the evening was a blessed relief from the nicotine withdrawal Scott had been suffering for the last couple of days. I made sure to encourage him to stick with it by showing off what a pair of healthy lungs could do, going for a run around the main part of campus and ending up at the cafeteria to eat supper with Linda.
Coming out and being alive for the first time in weeks, I could see changes in Scott that he hadn’t consciously noticed in himself. I was having an influence on him; he was making himself act more like me, being more outgoing and social — volunteering with children at the library and the hospital, for instance.
Linda called the hospital’s volunteer office as well, and we made a copy of the form the volunteer coordinator had given me at the library, so she could fill one out too. On Saturday, I took jekyllase in the morning and met up with Linda, who did the driving in case we got stopped.
We were split up by the volunteer coordinator on duty that weekend. I was given a library cart again (although they didn’t know I had already done it, and gave me the training again), while Linda and a more experienced volunteer led some games in an event room with some of the more ambulatory patients. As Scott had done, I carefully watched the nurses when they happened to be working on a patient in the ward I was visiting. They set up curtains around the beds for a lot of procedures, but not all.
Did I think we should become a pediatric nurse? Or rather, that Scott should, because I didn’t have any legal ID. I could volunteer in those days; they didn’t have the background checks for volunteers working with children they have now, at least not everywhere. But to get a paying job — no, even if you discount the fact that I could only show up a couple of days a week. I couldn’t make that decision for him, but I thought he would make a good nurse, given training and some experience.
I thought about the changes in Scott I’d noticed when he took jekyllase on Monday afternoon. Maybe I was becoming more like him, too — more thoughtful and slightly more introverted.
But still pretty extroverted. I was still me and he was still him. I kept up a steadier stream of talk with Linda on the way to and from the hospital than Scott would have done, and while making the rounds with my library cart, I kept up the patients' spirits with silly jokes. It was mostly only the kids who laughed at them, but not everyone appreciates great humor.
Scott should let me volunteer at the library, too; I would be great at it.
On the way back to school, Linda and I talked about the prospects for a nursing career for Scott. “I’d miss him if he transferred to another school,” she said. “And you too. But we could still visit each other if he goes to Trelawney College or Clouston University, they’re not that far away and they have good nursing programs. And the world needs more nurses.”
“Despite his filthy drug habit, he’s pretty responsible, so I think he’d make a good nurse,” I said. “I vote yes. Not that I have a vote or anything, but Scott does seem to value my opinion for some strange reason.”
The conversation drifted after a while to other subjects, and then we fell briefly silent. Then Linda asked me: “Have you had a period yet?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know if I will, but it’s not surprising that I haven’t — all the hours I’ve been me so far only add up to a few days.” A safe dose of jekyllase lasted less than eight hours, so if the first time he changed into me, I was at the beginning of my cycle, Scott might have to use it around seventy to seventy-five times before I started getting bleeding and cramps. And it was possible I kept resetting to the start of my cycle every time; I’d never have a period or get pregnant unless Scott changed into me permanently. I’d lost count of how many times I’d been me, but I was pretty sure it was still under a dozen — never more than twice a week, and some weeks not at all.
“Did you ever run across any mention of someone getting pregnant while on jekyllase?”
“No... I wouldn’t be surprised if there have been some, but they’d probably be recreational users who don’t get written about like the psychiatric patients or the healthy people participating in psychological experiments. Both those types tend to be under observation the whole time they’re changed into their hyde, so they wouldn’t have the opportunity to have sex.”
“I don’t know if it would work out okay for women who change into a different woman, like me... not that Virginia would ever let herself get pregnant; even if I were married to somebody, she wouldn’t consider herself married to him. But I bet it would be a disaster for you and Scott. Either he’d be stuck as you for at least nine months, and maybe you’d become the base state and have to take jekyllase to turn back into him, and have to live with no money or home or proof of identity in the meantime — or you’d change back, and he’d have a dying baby in his abdominal cavity, rotting and making him sick, maybe killing him.”
I thought about it. “Yeah, that could happen. I’d better make sure it doesn’t, unless Scott figures out a way around the identity problem and decides he wants to be me full-time. What brought on that question?”
I knew that wouldn’t be a problem if I were involved with a woman, of course, and I was pretty sure I’d prefer that overall even if the risk of pregnancy despite precautions wasn’t an issue. I wondered —
After a few moments, Linda said: “I’m not sure. Back at the restaurant, there was that couple with the little girl and the baby, I’m not sure if it was a boy or a girl — pretty darn cute either way — anyway. Seeing that does things to a girl. Makes her think about whether she wants to have babies, or reminds her that she’s already decided she does, or makes her glad she doesn’t — she can’t ignore it like a guy does. Do you think that way, too, or is there enough Scott in you that it doesn’t affect you?”
“I like kids,” I said. “But I think I’ll let Scott do his share of making the babies; I can be their groovy aunt who comes to visit when he’s out running errands, or whatever. Until they’re old enough to understand who I am.”
“Do you regret not being able to have kids?”
“Not any more than I regret not being able to be me full-time. It’s no use regretting the impossible.”
We didn’t say much for a while after that.
The worst of the nicotine withdrawal had passed, but it was still pretty bad for another week, and intermittently bad for several more weeks. I took jekyllase as often as I safely could, cutting it pretty close sometimes, promising myself I’d let myself be Jennifer in just a couple of days — just a day — just a few hours, if I could manage to stay away from cigarettes that long. A couple of times early on, when I was too headachy, sleep-deprived and irritable to concentrate on a lecture or textbook, I thought about giving up and trying to quit smoking again in the summer, when it wouldn’t interfere with school. But I wouldn’t be able to take breaks as Jennifer, living with my parents. Rooming with Randall, who was still smoking, didn’t make it any easier; but living at home with Dad smoking around me would be just as hard. I took to spending more and more time down in the common room or at the student union, often with Linda.
I volunteered at the library several times as Jennifer, and returned to the hospital as her one Sunday as well.
I’d been able to get tickets to the Grateful Dead concert Cynthia had told me about in East Lansing, which wasn’t too far away. They would be playing in Chicago, too, which was closer, but that show was midweek and we’d have to miss some classes to go to it, which Linda wasn’t willing to do.
One day when Linda and I were snacking at the student union between classes, chatting about our plans for that weekend trip, she said: “Could you bring a dose of jekyllase?”
“Sure,” I said. “You want Jennifer along for part of it? Which part?”
“Maybe Sunday for the drive back? Or, I don’t know, maybe she’d like to enjoy the concert itself, if you don’t mind. Time it so the dose would wear off about the time the show’s over and we get back to our motel.” She rubbed my foot with hers under the table.
I vaguely remembered something Jennifer had thought about briefly. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but if it worked out, it could solve one of our problems neatly.
“I’d want to give it some extra time if I go to the concert as Jennifer,” I said. “In case we get stuck in traffic, getting out of the concert parking, or if the show runs later than we expect. So if things go better than we expect, you’d have an hour or so with Jennifer at the motel before she changes back into me.”
“But there wouldn’t be any danger of you changing back while we’re still at the show, or in the car stuck in traffic on the way to the motel — yeah, that makes sense. Would you rather go to the concert as you or as Jennifer?”
“Jennifer actually gets more enjoyment out of music than I do,” I said. “So if you don’t mind —”
“No, it’s cool, as long as we have some time alone together at the motel.”
“Late Saturday night and Sunday morning both; we don’t have to check out until eleven.”
So the following Saturday, we left in the late morning. In a gas station restroom about halfway to East Lansing, I changed into Jennifer, figuring the dose would last until around midnight. And from there we went on to the motel and checked in — the staff weren’t suspicious of a pair of girls renting a room, as they might have been (but probably wouldn’t, even back then) of a guy and girl with no wedding rings. We rested a few minutes and then went to the venue, the Jenison Field House. It mostly served as a sports arena for Michigan State University, but this weekend it was full of Deadheads and a fair number of more casual fans like Linda and me. We had a great time before the show, chatting with other people waiting in line to get in, and later those sitting near us inside. A few had been following the Dead around the country from show to show, a practice that became more prevalent later on with fans of the Dead and bands like them.
That wasn’t the best venue for dancing to the music that I’ve ever been to, but it was still special, the first concert I’d ever been to as Jennifer. After I started dancing, along with a lot of other people around us, Linda joined in, and we lost ourselves in the music.
Hours later, we returned to the motel, tired but happy. I was nervously excited about my plans, hoping that they’d work out and that I wouldn’t mess things up for Scott. He’d implicitly given me permission to do this by taking the jekyllase when he did. The traffic wasn’t as bad as we’d feared, and we got back to the motel with well over an hour before the jekyllase would wear off.
In the car on the way to the motel, we chatted happily about the concert and the people we’d met. “You dance so well,” she said. “I don’t have that kind of rhythm.”
“You’re not bad,” I said. “You loosened up a lot after the first couple of songs.”
“Thanks.”
“So,” I continued, “you looking forward to me checking out and Scott coming back?”
“Um... no offense, but yeah. We’ve kind of got plans for later.” She giggled. We hadn’t brought any weed into the venue, not knowing whether bags would be searched or not, but other people had, and she’d shared a couple of joints with the people sitting on either side of us. Recently enough to affect Linda’s driving? I don’t think so, but at this date I’m not sure. In any case, we got lucky, and didn’t have an accident.
“Yeah, I know, remember?”
“Oh, right. You know everything he knows.”
“Pretty much. And...” I giggled, too. “I know something you might find interesting.”
“What?”
“In fact, I know some things he doesn’t know,” I hinted coyly, “or I would if he didn’t know everything I know too.”
“What is it?”
“How to make a woman happy.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, 'cause you are a woman. Um. I remember Scott saying he remembers most of what happens to you, and a lot of what you think about... I guess that means he understands women better than other men?”
“Probably,” I said. “And I understand men better than you probably do. At least I understand Scott, if not men in general. But my point is,” I added, dragging myself back on topic, “what Scott learned from being me is a big part of why he’s able to satisfy you so well. He wasn’t that good a lover when he dated Emily last year, or Barbara back in high school.”
“Oh,” she said, and it was hard to be sure in the dark, but I think she was blushing. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. If jekyllase would turn me into a man, and he wasn’t a stuck-up bitch like Virginia, I’d take it more often.”
“You might learn something,” I said, getting turned on at the thought of Linda as a man. Not that I wasn’t already.
She didn’t seem to have quite twigged to what I was getting at, and I didn’t press it any more just then. We got to our motel a few minutes later and hurried inside, then took off our coats, hats and scarves. Linda lighted up a joint and toked.
“So how long until Scott comes back?”
“Probably over an hour,” I said. “Long enough for me to show you what I was talking about earlier... if you’re interested. No problem if you’re not, of course.”
“What?” She blinked and took another drag. Then a light bulb went on. “You mean... like...”
“If you want,” I said, putting my hand on hers.
“Uh... but how?”
“I can show you or I can explain. I know which would be more fun.”
This time I could easily see her blush.
“But... wouldn’t that be cheating on Scott? Because I remember I told you that it would be okay if you dated someone else because you’re a different person, and — and —”
“It’s just a suggestion,” I said. “But Scott’s okay with it. We’ve been planning to ask you for a while, just not sure who should do the asking. It’s why Scott took the jekyllase so late in the day. Not just in case the show ran late or traffic was heavy and I might change back in the car or the Field House, but so we’d have time for this if you liked the idea.”
“Um, maybe. I’ve never — I don’t know how it works.”
“I didn’t know how a few months ago. You can learn. Let me show you a good time first.”
After chewing her lip for a few moments, looking me up and down speculatively, she said: “All right. How do we...?”
“We could start by taking our clothes off. Or each other’s.”
I haven't gotten any comments in several chapters, and not many for the last several chapters before that. Please, leave a comment and let me know what you think of the story. This is reminding me why I mostly post on Scribblehub these days, and making me wonder if I want to keep reposting things here as well.
My other free stories can be found at:
Scribblehub is the best place to follow me these days; most things get posted there first, and when I finish a story, I schedule all its chapters to appear on Scribblehub at weekly intervals, so if something happens to me, updates on BC and TGS will stop but Scribblehub will still continue posting chapters until they're done.
My ebooks, previously for sale, are now free on Smashwords and itch.io, although Amazon would not let me reduce the prices below $0.99. My non-writing income is sufficient for my needs, and if you have the money to buy ebooks, I hope you will support other queer authors who depend primarily or largely on ebook sales, Patreon, etc. for their income.
Comments
I like it, keep up the good work.
I find your stories some of the most interesting and imaginative on BC. I really don't understand why you get few kudos or comments.
I rarely comment at all, feeling that a kudo says as much as most comments, and prefer to message directly if I have anything remotely critical or negative to say.
Thanks
Thank you for your kind words.
It may be technically true that a kudo conveys as much information about a reader's preferences as a vague, nonspecific comment like "Thanks for the chapter," but it doesn't *feel* as viscerally satisfying to an author as the comment (even a vague comment) does. I would suggest you consider commenting more often when you really enjoy a story, even when you're not sure what to say; I've made myself do that over the last few months (not here, as I hardly read anything here, mostly just on Scribblehub) and it gets easier to find things to say about chapters if you make yourself do it regularly.
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