Old Mrs. Pirelli was yelling at me from her backyard, "Joy! Come down from there! Yer gonna break ya neck!"

"Only if I fall. How you doing Mrs. P.?"

"What?!" she hollared, squinting into the harsh sun, "What're ya doin' up on the roof?"

"Cleaning out the rain gutters."

"That's a man's job! Let yer bruthah do that!" she cried.

This was the woman whose Nativity scene had been blown up by my sister and her idiot headbanger friends. She hadn't spoken to Joy since. Now not only was she speaking to me, she seemed inordinantly concerned for my safety. She warbled hysterically, "No Joy, leave that for Teddy to do! You've gonna get hurt!"

"Hey, I can do any job he can! Haven't you heard?" Maybe the sun had gotten to my brain, or maybe I was just irritated at this old busy-body telling me what a girl could and couldn't do, but suddenly I was performing a jerky go-go dance and singing loudly, "The sisterrrrs are doin' it for themselves! Standin' on our own two feet, and ringin' our own bells!"

"For God's sake, STOP THAT!" she shrieked, alarmed at my dancing so close to the roof's edge. That crazy Joy Farranino was being crazy again...

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||| WEDNESDAY OCT 8 ~~~

A day off from visiting Papa. It would have been a good day to go sit in some air conditioned movie theater again, but I decided to tackle a couple of things that I'd noticed needed doing around the house.

Joey was eating a bowl of Shredded Wheat when I came downstairs in my kimono at 7:30. I sat down at the table across from him and poured myself a bowl, dousing it with milk and dusting it with sweetener. "You going out again?"

"Yeah, this place called The Paintball Jungle that Mike Greznowski's been telling me about. Don't worry I won't get your clothes messed up; they give you these jumpsuits, goggles and shit. Our reservation is for nine-thirty, so I'll probably be able to go see Dad again when we get back."

"Cool," I said, managing to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "I'm cleaning the upstairs carpets today. Could you leave your room unlocked so I can do your room?"

"It is pretty yucky, so that'd be great. There's this one spot, I don't know what somebody spilled on there but it's like crunchy ........ And then tomorrow I'll do something around here. The windows maybe."

"Just do your own dishes," I said, nodding toward the crowded sink.

"I'll definitely start with that!" he promised. Come on Joey, surprise me. Mean it for once!

Out in front of the house a car honked its horn. Honked again. He stood up, looked at his bowl and then toward then toward the source of the noise. Started shovelling cereal into his face.

"Just take it with you."

"Oh right," he said, grabbing the bowl and heading toward the front room with it. "Ciao!"

"Ciao. And your room, it's open?"

"Shit," he swore, then spun around and went gallumping up the stairs.

I went out to retrieve today's newspaper off the driveway, in truth being a bit nosy about who my Joey's little friends were.

An old monkey-shit brown van had angled itself into the driveway behind my truck, blocking the sidewalk, indistinct figures laughing and hooting in there, the Red Hot Chili Peppers thundering out through where the side door had been rolled back. I wrapped my kimono more securely around myself and bent down to pick up the paper.

Someone manoeuvred himself into the gap in the van's side, "Hey Joy! Lookin' gooooooood!"

"Oh, hey Mike," I waved, mentally adding, 'Lookin' fat and unwashed and in need of a haircut!'

Then I chided myself for such cattiness. Greznowski was okay. There was no meanness in him, he generally just wanted people to like him, and he'd always treated me decently as Teddy, taking my homosexuality in stride. In fact it was "Teddy" who he was taking to play paintball with this morning. And who was sprinting past me now, leaping into the open hatch as they peeled out and zigzagged off down the block, the Chili Peppers exhorting the whole neighborhood to "Give-it-away-give-it-away-give-it-away now! Give-it-away-give-it-away-"

But still I had to wonder. It was a quarter after eight on a Wednesday morning. Didn't any of these guys have jobs?! Was 31 was the new 13? And if it was how did I get in on such a life of carefree indolence?

Or hell, what did I know? They probably busted ass all night loading up truck trailers down on Industry Parkway, and made more in a year than I did. I went back inside.

At nine I went to the supermarket and rented a rug shampooer, then did the whole upstairs carpet. I decided to begin with Grandma's room, the farthest from the stairs, starting at the back of the room and working my way out. Her closet was the upstairs' terminal point; I wheeled the shampooer to it, opened the door and started cleaning in there...

I imagine I was a surreal sight, dressed as I was and wrestling with that big chrome machine, like some character out of a David Lynch film. Since it was only me in the house and it was getting hot already, I wore just Joy's sandles, a brassier and her Catholic-schoolgirl skirt- which I could filthy up with impunity, since I hadn't even considered incorporating into my October wardrobe. It was odd that I detested the thing so much, it was a normal enough plaid skirt. Perhaps it was its "costume" aspect. A damned silly thing for a grown woman to wear.

'But I'd wear it for Ricky if he wanted me to...' popped into my head. [AND HERE AGAIN THE NEXT 7 OR 8 PARAGRAPHS CONTAIN SOME RATHER SEXUALLY GRAPHIC THOUGHTS OF MINE. FEEL FREE TO SKIP THEM IF THIS SORT OF THING OFFENDS YOU...]

I had been imagining sex with Ricky a lot since I first tried playing with my clitoris early Monday morning. It seemed that I was always the passive partner in these scenarios, or not lying there passively but definitely the fuckee in our fucking, and always being fucked that aperture that I had only recently aquired. Even when I was on hands and knees with him looming over me, taking me from the rear, doggy style (like we had done enough times...) his cock wasn't in my bottom but angled into my pussy; which in these past few days had become the eager center of my sexuality. I could imagine enjoying being penetrated anally or sucking him off, but these seemed more like side dishes than the main course.

And when I thought about fucking him---or anyone for that matter---it seemed oddly unreal. I remembered the sensations associated with that organ well enough, the throbbing heat that permeated it as it grew rigid, the areas of greater or lesser sensitivity up and down its length, but none of this seemed relevant to me. To this me. I had a vagina there now, and she was a horny little thing, craving cock or a suitably shaped substitute, and I imagined she would be amenable to an obliging tongue. Very amenable...

Should I be concerned by all this "fuck my pussy" stuff? Am I becoming some kind of after-the-fact transsexual? Is it time to FREAK THE HELL OUT?!!

No, I was simply getting comfortable with this body. With what it wanted. It wasn't like I hadn't ever wanted to be fucked before this. The fact that where I wanted it had shifted was a simple matter of "because I can". And likewise the sudden absence of any phallic imperative was ........ Well because for the time being I couldn't.

Surely the same acclimation process will happen in reverse after Joey and I swap back, I reasoned with myself. I will greet my less voluptuous physique like an old friend, and resume my practice of being both fuckee and fuck-er, depending on my mood, since I'll be equipped for this. My cock is a horny little bugger and will reassert his wants soon enough. I will grow my beard back, and it will feel right having a furry face, not odd like it has been starting to seem. I will leave the toilet seat up, like God intended (especially if it gets Joey back for that rather rude surprise when I sat down to pee this morning!), and I will NOT go through life with a sense of loss for this body, this pussy and these wonderfully soft and sensitive breasts; or all these other, non-sexual aspects of being a girl that I'm starting to see the appeal of...

Until then things were what they were, and whatever thoughts and feelings came to me I would own. This was my "trip to Japan", and I wouldn't spend it hiding in the American Quarter eating at Denny's. I would enjoy the pleasures this body could bring me without worrying, and these horny daydreams that I seemed to drift into at the weirdest times...

Like Ricky coming into this room, dressed anachronistically in a wide lapelled pinstripe suit for some reason, his hair slicked down á  la Gomez Addams, home from his trip to Brussels or someplace, a long flight on that Lockeed Constellation, dropping the heavy suitcase plastered with old fashioned destination stickers and then without a word yanking my skirt down to where it drops---sliding down to my ankles---pushing me back into this closet, pulling his own pants down only to his thighs and screwing me standing up, we both in the grips of our consuming need after his long absence (Why did he have to travel so darn much?), my back pressed against all these coats and things, this pocket that I am squashed back into, a variety of textures embracing my ass and shoulders---soft cotton, fluffy fur and the cool density of leather---his silk hula girl tie sliding against my breasts and his cock shoved clean into the middle of my pelvis, where it belongs---I an enthusiastic sheath to this glorious fleshy dagger---and these coathangers jangling crazily overhead as he fucks me, fucks me- OH MY GOD YES, DON'T FUCKING STOP!

I could feel a delicious slipperiness between my legs, and I considered shutting off this noisy machine, going in, lying back on my bed, and-

But no. I would finish these chores, and later (In the bathtub? With that AquaMassage thing on a hose that was draped over the shampoo rack?) I would reward myself with this new variation on an old hobby. Replaying "Ricky Fantasy #7" from the beginning and bringing it and myself to a proper climax.

I changed the water in the machine, dumping the bucket of dirty water down the toilet and filling it with fresh from the tap in the tub. Finished Grandma Rosa's room and started on Joey's.

And what if when this was all over the "worst" had happened, and I was hopelessly and forever female in my identity, either within this body or my old one? Would that really be the end of the world? If I officially supported transgendered people and thought they were okay, then wouldn't I be okay if I found out I was one? Well of course. I'd just have to rethink myself somewhat. Who I really I am.

I supposed what was giving me the heebie-jeebies was the not knowing. If what I was going through was common to all body swaps or something exceptional and bizarre. I would bring these concerns up with Grandma tomorrow after the hospital, asking her how she had related to her borrowed flesh during her year-long stint as a male, and how she had felt when she was returned to her own....

The mystery crunchy spot on Joey's carpet presented no problem, cleaning right up like it had never been there. Except for the serious array of locks he had put on his door and the two windows (that hammering I'd heard back in PART 6, if you'd been wondering...), his room seemed normal enough, and---except for this bowl of soggy cereal that he'd lost track of in his haste to leave---was surprisingly tidy. No giant hookahs or charred spoons lying around. And I was quite proud of myself ("Some people have integrity!") when I managed to not go snooping through his stuff.

I shampooed the rest of the upstairs and then the carpet on the stairway, which was as awkward as I had feared, basically holding the big machine half in mid-air. By the time I was done my lower back was aching dully, but the results were worth it. The ugly dull green carpet was now an ugly bright green...

Not wanting to go up on the roof dressed like this, I changed into my jeans and pulled on my blue-green tank top. I dragged the extension ladder out out from its hiding spot and leaned it up against the house. Screwed the pistol attachment onto the hose, cranked the water on all the way and clambered up onto the roof with it.

It had to be at least a hundred. The sun was beating down fiercely on the roof's dark shingles, and on me. I should've worn a hat. But wow, what a view from up here! The art deco cube of the old Con Ed power station four miles away, topped by a long dormant ring of smokestack...

"Joy! JOY!"

Old Mrs. Pirelli was yelling at me from the backyard next door, where she'd been watering her rose bushes, "Joy! Come down from there! Yer gonna break ya neck!"

"Only if I fall off. How you doing Mrs. P.?"

"What?!" she hollared, squinting into the harsh sunlight, "What're ya doin' up on the roof?!"

I fired the spray gun experimentally, twisting the nozzle to get the narrowest, most powerful stream. "Cleaning out the rain gutters."

"What?!" A decade ago she had underwent a pair of operation that restored 90% of her hearing. But by then she'd been deaf for so long that screaming 'What?' every so often seemed to have become a habit. She shook her head sternly, "Oh fer God's sake! That's a man's job! Let yer bruthah do that!"

This was the woman whose front yard nativity scene had been blown up by my sister and her idiot high school friends. Joy had claimed it had only been a couple of cherry bombs, but from the wreckage it had looked like they'd used bricks of plastique. The Baby Jesus had disappeared entirely. Possibly he was in orbit.

It was a grudge that Mrs. P. had nurtured for years, literally turning up her nose whenever she saw Joy (those single digit salutes my sister would give her in response hadn't helped matters, or the time she mooned her from the window of Gordy Johnson's Camaro...), and she wasn't real friendly with the rest of us Farraninos either after that. But now not only was she speaking to me, but she seemed inordinantly concerned for my safety.

"He's busy today. Helping some friends paint an apartment," I fibbed as I started blasting the sediment of leaves and decomposing gunk out of the gutter. "This won't take me long."

"What?! Leave that fer Teodoro to do! Yer gonna get hurt!" she warbled in a tone close to hysteria.

Why would I get hurt doing this and 'Teddy' wouldn't? It made absolutely no sense, and it was kind of insulting. "Hey, I can do any job he can do! I mean hey, haven't you heard?"

Maybe the sun had gotten to my brain, but I started doing a jerky go-go dance and singing, "The sisterrrrrrs are doin' it for themselves! Standin' on our own two feet, and ringin' our o-own bells!"

I was keeping my feet firmly planted on the roof, but my dancing a mere twenty inches from its edge made her shriek,"Fer God's sake! Whatta ya doin'?! STOP THAT!!"

"You know," I told her, sticking my tits out proudly, "The Women's Revolution."

Or maybe it was that after all my intense diplomacy with Papa, Joy's relationship with this woman wasn't a major concern of mine. And it wasn't as if I was being insulting, just kind of loopy. She was fun to goof on...

"Oh, those women! They're all a bunch of-" she used an Italian word I didn't know, which might or might not have been a disparaging term for lesbians, "You don't wanna be like them!"

"Sure I do. People forget what the feminists have done for us. They weren't just a bunch of bra-burning kooks. They were great Americans, doing the most American thing you can do! Where would you and I be without women like Alice Paul, going on that hunger strike until women got the vote, ready to die for our rights, so we'd be regarded as a capable, thinking adults, the equal if any man!"

Or maybe she just pissed me off with her idiotic views on sex roles, telling me what a girl could or couldn't do. I'd had issues with this kind of reactionary sexist crap as Teddy, and now it had become personal. I might be a renter in this body, but I wouldn't want to be a second class citizen for even a month. So while I was joshing around with her I also meant it.

"And what good did it do us? A buncha bums and crooks is who we get to vote for! And this time's the worst!"

"I would've thought you liked John McCain. He sure seems like an improvement on-"

"WHAT?!! With that crazy broad from Canada he's got runnin' with him? The way she talks, it makes my teeth hurt!"

"Alaska you mean, right? She's the governor of Alaska."

"I don't care if she's from the moon!" she yelled, "Bums are bums! I wouldn't waste the car fare to go vote fer bums like them! So Joy, how's yer fathah doin'?"

I filled her in as best I could, and she too assured me that Papa was in God's loving hands and would pull through.

Whatever detritus I hadn't blasted out of the gutter I chased down to where it joined the drain pipe. I squatted down, pulled out and what I could reach, then squirted water down the infarcted pipe until only clear water flowed out of the bottom end. Stood up, "You see? I'm half done and I haven't fallen yet."

"Well ya wouldn't get me up there! I'm scared t' death ah heights!"

"It isn't my favorite place to be either, but someone has to do it. Papa's going to be weak for a while when he gets home, and you wouldn't want me sending Grandma up here, would you?"

"Well God bless ya for helpin' out! It's nice to see you're starting to grow up! But I still don't see why ya couldn'ta waited fer Teddy to do that!"

"Which is what he told me, that he'd get to it tomorrow. But I had the time and figured what the heck. Well I've got to go do the front of the house. I love your roses by the way, they're beautiful!"

She beamed from ear to ear at this. Those rose bushes were her pride and joy. My little offhand compliment had made her day.

The front gutters went easier, there was hardly anything in them. Then I walked down to the Raji's liquor store three blocks away.

Up on the at the front counter was a carousel rack of watches, none with any packaging or instructions, like they might've come from the lost-and-found at the bus station. Most were crap, but there was this beautiful little women's watch mixed with in them, and I needed a watch. Arjuna started at twenty but we settled on $14 (another cheap Christmas present for Joy). I bought one of those oversized cans of FOSTERS, a bag of potato chips and a little saran wrapped square of halvah, my reward for being done with all the projects that I'd assigned myself to do around the place...

Or almost done, I reminded myself as I made my way home with my bag of goodies. There was still that frighteningly ancient fuse box in the service porch that I wanted to replace with a modern breaker panel. But that would go in quick once I actually bought it. And after that...

I was still thinking about Atlantic City. I'd give Grandma's hunch about Papa four or five more visits, and if he hadn't lightened up on me by then I'd take off for a while.

I didn't have that serious of a gambling bug, three nights should be plenty to get this out of my system. The room would be air-conditioned, I could watch HBO, and what I was really looking forward to was finding some place that had a nice pool I could park myself beside, a fruity rum or tequila drink in my hand. I would need to buy a bathing suit. A bikini I supposed, because that's what most of the women there would be wearing. When in Rome, or at least at Caesar's Palace...

And what would sitting down for a poker game be like as a woman? Would I be a better bluffer? Worse? Would I be subtly or overtly condescended to, given the game's overtly macho mystique, the way guys never seemed to feel so much like guys as when they were at a poker table? But there were women poker players, so I should be okay if I presented myself as a serious contestant and not some ditz who might start crying if she got a bad hand.

And how would I even dress for this trip? Some female equivalent of my usual souvenir tourist-wear, or should I go fancier? And if fancier, what kind of fancy? I could imagine about four different directions dressing up could go in, each signifying something different about the wearer...

As I had gleaned from that fashion tutorial I'd been given by the girls at Hutchinson Brownmiller, women never just throw on clothes on the basis of their passing the sniff test; everything they wore was in some way a statement. Men did this too to an extent (gay men perhaps more than straight), but with the exception of your dandies these were mostly statements of the social or economic group you were claiming allegiance to: Anarchist hipster or sober-minded Christian, the union hall or the corridors of power. But unless you were headed for a job interview or out on a date this seemed like far more of an optional thing for men. Suddenly the simple matter of going on vacation had all these weird unknowns...

When I got home there were three roses---pink, yellow, red---in an olive oil bottle on the porch. Three sided and tapered like an obelisk, the heavy bottle made a pretty nice vase, its simple lines probably more to my taste than any of the real vases that Mrs. P. would've deemed too valuable to give away.

I brought it into the kitchen, a centerpiece for the table that we ate at most often. Put my beer in the fridge. The Mets game started in an hour, at 4:00 our time. I had missed a couple of their games but the important thing was that they were still hanging in there, with a clear shot at the series.

Up the stairs to the bathroom, stripping as the tub filled, then I eased myself into the tepid water. Aahhhhhhh, I love the water! I couldn't wait to get to that hotel and jump into the pool, although swimming might be a little different, the way I seemed to be bobbing here...

On an impulse I had retrieved Mrs. Pirelli's gift from the kitchen table and brought it upstairs, setting it on the bathroom counter where I could look at these three perfect roses while I bathed.
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For me Ricky? Thank you, they're beautiful! Oh I am not, you big flatterer! There's lots of girls more ....... What? Well of course you can, I'm sure there's room in this big tub for both of us...
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To be continued . . .

FOR AN ALTERNATE VERSION OF WHAT HAPPENED TO TEDDY ON WEDNESDAY GO TO:
http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/blog/14672/wrong-turn-play-nice

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