“You’ve led kind of a sheltered existence,” she said, “being Jennifer only in relatively safe places at safe times. Most girls are in danger of that kind of thing at least a few times a year, if not every day — it depends on their circumstances. But it’s still worth it, being a girl.”
I didn’t stop having nightmares, but they got a lot less frequent, and some of them didn’t seem to have anything to do with the attack. I didn’t quite write to Linda twice a week, but I did manage once every week and twice several weeks, and she wrote back at least as often.
I finally had a talk with Tim not long after that Thanksgiving break, but it was awkward and, though we didn’t say so or plan on it, that was basically the end of our friendship. He felt too guilty around me, and I was reminded too strongly of what had happened, even though I knew intellectually he wasn’t to blame.
After Christmas, Linda and I told our parents we wanted to leave early for a New Year’s Eve party at Newcomen. We didn’t spend New Year’s Eve at that party, but in a motel about fifteen miles away. We checked in in the early afternoon, and after an hour or two of lovemaking with me as Scott, I steeled my nerves and changed into Jennifer. Linda held my hand while I swallowed the jekyllase and transformed.
And it seemed like the attack had been mere moments ago. I shuddered and hugged Linda hard. “Hold me,” I said shakily. She stroked my hair and back and said soothing things, but I broke down weeping and it was a while before I could say anything coherent.
“I understand,” she said. “I didn’t tell Scott... maybe I should have, but the same sort of thing has happened to me. It happens to a lot of girls. You’re not alone.”
A while later I stopped crying long enough to ask her about it. She told me about a couple of incidents, one in high school and one in her freshman year of college; one time it was a drunk guy pawing her and forcing kisses on her at a party, though she didn’t think he could have raped her with so many other people around. The other was a near miss like mine — they were alone, and she was only saved by someone else walking in on them just in time.
“You’ve led kind of a sheltered existence,” she said, “being Jennifer only in relatively safe places at safe times. Most girls are in danger of that kind of thing at least a few times a year, if not every day — it depends on their circumstances. But it’s still worth it, being a girl. Don’t you think so? Do you never want to go out in public again?”
“Maybe in the daytime,” I said, sniffling. “With you, or maybe somebody I trust almost as much. Not at night to a bar with guys I barely know, ever again.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Do you want to go out right now? Not for long,” she added hastily at my panicked look. “And maybe not right now, but sometime before sunset. We could just run over to the diner down the street and come back well before it gets dark.”
“Let me think about it,” I said. I was irrationally afraid that people would look at me and know what had happened to me.
I was also afraid that if I didn’t overcome my fear, Scott would never want to be me again.
So after another hour of cuddling with Linda, I finally said: “I’m ready, I guess. As I’ll ever be.”
“Then let’s shower and get dressed.”
The shower was too small for us to share, even if we’d been in the mood for sexy times, but I didn’t want to be alone even for the few minutes her shower or mine would take, and I asked her to sit on the toilet lid while I showered and talk to me. Then while I toweled off and got dressed, she showered and kept up a steady stream of talk to remind me I wasn’t alone.
I didn’t put on any makeup or do anything special with my hair. I didn’t want guys looking at me any more than they inevitably would.
We drove to the diner, even though we could have walked, and I realized that being out in public wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. After some initial anxiety when we walked in, I actually felt pretty okay. There weren’t a lot of people in the place just then, after lunch and before dinner, which helped.
We ate, and Linda did a lot more talking than me, but after a while I contributed more to the conversation. And my natural optimism started to make a little headway against the trauma of my near-miss with rape. Not much, not yet, but I could get a faint sense that things would get better and I wouldn’t always be so afraid.
We went back to the motel and cuddled for a while before I said, “I want to feel your hands on my breasts, your mouth on mine. Drive those memories of Dean out of my mind with something better.”
“I can do that,” she said, and kissed me.
We made love again the next morning after I’d changed back to Scott during the night. Again, I wasn’t sure how long the jekyllase had lasted, since we were both asleep when it wore off, but it was definitely longer than the stuff I used to get from Larry Ryman — at least nine hours, and maybe longer.
I returned Linda to her dorm at Newcomen not long after breakfast, and we kissed for a long time out in front of her dorm before I got back on the road for Clouston. I felt better about being Jennifer again, and about going out as her. I thought about what Linda and I had, and what Jennifer and Linda had; they were different, but both good. I needed Jennifer. Even though she was vulnerable in ways that I usually wasn’t, it was still worth it to be her. I’d just need — she would need — to learn the caution that girls learn growing up. Linda was right; Jennifer had had a sheltered upbringing in a way, being hidden inside me until a couple of years ago, and then let out only in limited circumstances. We’d had a harsh awakening to the downsides of being a girl. But I wasn’t going to give her up, for my sake and Linda’s and for Jennifer herself.
==== Epilogue ====
Linda and I got married a couple of years later, after she and I had both graduated. I’ve continued making jekyllase ever since then, though I don’t supply it to other people anymore. I change into Jennifer about twice or three times a month these days. It was a long time before anybody came up with the word “gender-fluid” to describe people like me.
And I’ve been Jennifer about half the time while writing this memoir. It took me a long time, because I wanted to be her as much as possible while writing about the things she did and the things that happened to her, although if I’d stuck to that principle strictly, it would have taken twice as long; I’ve had to write a lot of the scenes from her point of view while I’m Scott. All the names are changed, for obvious reasons, including the schools we went to, and I’ve deliberately fudged some of the travel times and distances to avoid giving too many geographical clues.
I’ve known fifteen people over the years who’ve used jekyllase. Not all of them come into this memoir; some are people I met later, or who didn’t use jekyllase for the first time until later. Of all those, only one had a hyde who could really be considered dangerous. Three of them that I’m still in contact with still use jekyllase from time to time (including “Emily”), and none of them ever overdosed and turned into their hyde permanently. If someone’s first experience with jekyllase is properly supervised, and they’re responsible enough to take a safe amount at safe intervals, there is no more danger from use of jekyllase than from responsible use of alcohol. Like marijuana (and alcohol, for that matter), jekyllase has been demonized and had horror stories told about it, but anecdotes are not data, not the basis for sound drug policy; a person under the influence of jekyllase is far less likely to harm themselves or others than a person under the influence of alcohol. I hope you will consider supporting Proposition 118.
Thanks for reading, and sorry for the chapter delays. I'm doing better, but my health is still worse than it was a couple of months ago. If you've enjoyed this, please consider telling your friends about it.
I have a Halloween horror novelette, "The Floating Girls," in the Secret Trans Writing Lair's Autumn bundle. There are eleven stories (some but not all of them horror) by trans authors totalling around 148k words, three of them novellas.
I don't know when I'll post another story to BigCloset; it's gotten to be more of a hassle, not because BC's interface has gotten worse, but because on Scribblehub I'm used to being able to schedule things ahead of time when I've got the spoons and not have to worry about posting at specific days and times, and because my spoon levels are lower than usual these days. If you enjoy my work, I encourage you to follow me on Scribblehub. I have stories scheduled to come out at one chapter a week from now until March, 2025, and once I finish the final drafts of a couple more, that will push it out until May.
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