A retelling, with permission and differences, of C.D. Rudd's classic webcomic SailorSun.org.

Billy Jones, a film student and extra, deals with having been exposed —if that's the word— to some sort of special effect.

“I think I’m working,” I said quickly. Chad, over the spicy fried bok choy, had just asked me what I was doing Saturday night. He was asking me for a date and I had been female for less than five hours!

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I squirmed. “They asked me to come in tomorrow for reshoots,” I said. Why did I have to explain myself?

He nodded. “Something’s up,” he said. “You don’t want to go out with me Saturday, but you’re not out-and-out saying no.”

I think my jaw dropped. “Okay,” I nodded. “Really, I’m just not…. Uh, not going on dates…. Right now.” Yike. I was still male enough to know how that last bit sounded, it was an pure invitation to ask again later.

He smiled slowly and the effect it had on me was astonishing and … educational? I felt heat—in places I’d never had places before—but also like my brains were boiling and ready to come out my ears. The Chinese food was just not that spicy.

“Do you want to give me your phone number?” he asked.

I shook my head, not sure I could speak without revealing my boiled brain.

Still smiling, he asked me to take out my cellphone. I did so without thinking about it. Even though I had a nice device, it was just a clamshell with physical buttons. I opened my phone and looked up at him.

“Three-ten,” he began, giving me his number so I could punch it into my contacts list. I marked it as ‘Chad’ and ‘Mobile’ and saved it. I’d done this with a few girls myself. And not one of them had called me back. Ever.

I sighed. Was I going to be stuck as a girl? It seemed more complicated than being a boy. Maybe I could find that antique camera and get it to change me back? How? No clue. Well, one, maybe, the UCLA film museum.

Chad distracted me from thinking about that by grabbing the check when it came. “Hey!” I protested. We had a discussion. I still insisted on paying my share of dinner because of wanting to take the leftovers home. At least, that was the point that finally persuaded Chad to stop arguing about it.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked.

I nodded, rolling my eyes. “I’m a student. We’re surrounded by blocks of student housing.”

“On campus, or off?” he asked.

I shook my head. “If I’m not going to give you my phone number, I’m sure not giving you my address.”

He looked disappointed. “So…. I guess that means I can’t walk you home, either.”

The waiter brought our change back and I used that as an excuse to avoid answering. He actually ended up adding money to the change to make a decent tip and I let him do that without arguing about it.

I started to stand and Chad was instantly on his feet, moving the chair out of my way, though I didn’t really need his help. It was almost funny and I must have been smiling.

Chad smiled back. “No, means no, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Maybe we’ll see each other Tuesday in the History of Theater lecture?” Jeez, I hope not! What had made me say that?

“I’m going to be looking for you,” he promised but he sat back down. “But I won’t watch which way you leave. I’ll stay in here until I know you must be out of sight.”

“I—.” I couldn’t think of anything to say to that so I grabbed my take-home bag and got out of there. I didn’t look back until I was more than a block away when I stopped at a corner to cross the street at the light.

Nobody following me or peering out of the restaurant to see which way I had gone. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I sighed.

Then I realized that windows of the bus stopped for the light were full of men, all staring at me. Or at my chest. “Argh!” I said. Even the bus driver was looking. I glared at them but they didn’t notice so I glared at the three or four men on the sidewalk near me, even though, not having window safety glass between them and me, they were being more polite by not staring so—so shamelessly.

A short, somewhat chubby girl standing next to me, grinned and shook her head. “You’re wearing a tight t-shirt and no bra. A blind man would know you wanted to be stared at, Gigi, even if he had to use Braille.”

The light changed and she started moving before I did.

Gigi? Why would she call me Gigi? And what was that crack about Braille even supposed to mean? I took a step off the curb and the jarring impact of my heel on the pavement sent a jiggling tsunami toward my head. I glanced down, realizing that the two “corners” visible in my roundness were actually my nipples.

Oh. Braille, I got it. Jeez, are women that catty to each other?

Mortified, I crossed the street, leaving the business district of Westwood Village and entering North Village, or The Flats as it is sometimes called because of all the apartment buildings. The campus itself was only a block away on my right while ahead and to my left (west), lay a couple of square miles of more or less affordable student housing.

My spot in this mecca was only four blocks north and one west, a place we residents called Lowering Heights, though that wasn’t its actual name. There I shared an apartment with Jack Willoughby, paying only one-third because I got the small bedroom, so small it didn’t have a closet. Or a balcony which the bigger bedroom did have.

Still, I couldn’t have afforded a place so close to campus without Jack. And yet, I could see problems ahead. Jack’s main reason for attending UCLA was not to get an education; Jack was a—how to put this—a horndog. He was also rich, good-looking and charming in a lowlife, bad-boy sort of way.

I’m a girl now, I thought. What’s more, I’m a busty chick who’s not wearing a bra, just a thin t-shirt. I had a feeling I could predict how Jack would react to the new me. My face must have been redder than a stoplight.

I paused when I reached our apartment building. Jack’s classic, red, 5-liter Mustang convertible was at the curb which meant he was home but probably intending to leave soon since he had a space he paid for in the underground parking. Jack had lucked out— there was never any curb parking available in The Flats.

I dithered, procrastinating about going in. Would Jack recognize me like the people at the studio had? They all thought that they knew the female Billy. Had girl-me been Jack’s roommate for the last several months? That seemed unlikely.

If I waited outside long enough, Jack would come down, get in his car and leave. Then I could go up to our room. To do what? The wheels came off my mental trolley. I had no idea what to do next after I got to my apartment.

Down the street three guys who had obviously been checking me out started my way, about as casual as a hyena pack stalking a gazelle. I glared at them but they didn’t seem to notice. Sighing, I started up the painted white steps of Lowering Heights.