The sun was starting to brighten the window when Danny began to feel more like himself. Vaguely conscious of his settling mood, he felt his heartbeat slow to more normal parameters, his fright and anguish receding like the morning tide. His feminine persona withdrew as well, gradually disappearing into the secret galleries of Danny's mind. There was no line of demarcation, no visible boundary between his twin selves. There was, at most, a sense of merging, as two streams unite to form a river. The waters of Danny's soul flowed from a single well-spring, but the source divided much deeper than anyone could have suspected.

If nothing else, Danny Milner was a survivor. It was his one redeeming quality. Loners tend to live on the ragged edge of human existence, plodding resentfully through their minimum income lives. Danny was no different. Years of hurt and disappointment had steeled him to expect failure at every turn. But it had also honed his subsistence skills to a fine degree, allowing him to adapt to his frequently desperate circumstances. Bitter, selfish and staggeringly lazy, Danny had nonetheless developed a pragmatic streak, one which had served him well over the past four years.

He dried his eyes with the hem of the babydoll, stubbornly choking back his tears. No point in crying, as his father had often reminded him (usually with a stunning blow upside the head). He could almost hear Dad's voice rasping contemptuously in his ear: Stop that SNIVELING, you ugly little SHIT! Patience had never been Dad's strong point. Still, the old geezer was right on this occasion. Blubbering in self-pity wouldn't improve his situation. Nothing would. Except maybe tracking down that fortune-teller. The one who'd done this to him.

(don't blame HER, you lousy chickenshit bastard! YOU did this to YOURSELF)

Danny stood up, shaking his head in denial. No, this wasn't his fault. He was the victim of some vicious, malign joke. The Gypsy must have taken advantage of his drunken state, erasing his masculinity out of sheer cruelty. What other explanation was there? He hadn't walked into the antique store asking for a sex-change. What man in his right mind would? Granted, he had residual memories of making some kind of agreement with the Gypsy, something to do with a mirror and a small sum of money, but that didn't make any sense.

Nothing made sense right now. How was any of this possible?

Short answer: it wasn't.

Long answer: it still wasn't, but here he was anyway. And how wasn't particularly important at this stage. If he'd been transformed into a girl, there had to be some way to change back. He had to find the antique store, barter with the Gypsy, get his old life back. No ifs, ands or buts; he couldn't afford to take no for an answer. Whatever it took, he had to walk into the shop a girl and walk out a man.

Where am I? He asked himself, looking around the room more carefully than he had earlier. Whose place was this? Despite the expensive furnishings, it had a blank, anonymous feel, as if anyone could have lived here. Bedsitter? Unit? No... hotel room. A four star hotel room on the upmarket side of Chamberlain. Sort of place he'd never stayed in because he was a shiftless loser with no money, no prospects and no girlfriends. Well, none who were willing to visit a hotel with him, anyway.

(so what am i doing here now?)

He had no memory of arriving here; couldn't even recall if he'd paid for the room. His recollections of the previous night were chaotic, disjointed. Whatever the Gypsy had done to him, it had scrambled his brains like an omelette. What part of the city was he in? No idea. Where was the antique store? Absolutely no idea. Somewhere in the Westside, maybe. He'd found it after he'd left the Blue Rose, out on Pitt Street. How long ago was that? Seemed like days, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. It was early morning now, no later than five thirty.

He walked over to the closet, his hips swaying with an unfamiliar gait. He was a girl now, his balance seemed to have shifted by at least ten degrees. His footsteps were light, almost fragile, the footsteps of a waif. The girl in the mirror had been frail and slight; a child still growing out of her baby fat. Her large breasts were the only indication of her physical maturity. Exactly the sort of girl Danny used to -

(don't go there)

No. Don't even think about that. Stay focused, or you might find yourself trapped in this body forever. There was a subtle temptation to simply accept this paradox, to surrender himself to its seductive influence. His body had changed, taken on the form of his deepest fantasies. Part of him desperately wanted to return to the mirror, slip lithely out of the nightie, explore the terrain of his supple, yielding figure. How often had he wondered...

(DON'T)

Shoving the image to the back of his mind, Danny opened the closet, standing on tip-toe to inspect the interior. As he'd guessed, it wasn't completely empty. Obviously, he hadn't arrived naked, and he couldn't have booked into the hotel wearing nothing but a pink baby doll. He must have been wearing something when he left the Gypsy's shop.

Not much however, by the look of things. There was a short black dress mounted on a hanger, a classic opaque mini barely long enough to touch her thighs. Below that was a pair of red stiletto heels and a black leather shoulder bag. Danny reached down and picked it up, heart accelerating with sudden hope. Maybe his wallet was inside, along with his keys and bank card. He didn't have much in his account; less than three hundred dollars as far as he could recall, but his position wouldn't seem quite so desperate if he could access some money.

Unfortunately, the shoulder bag contained very little. And none of it was even remotely connected to his former life.

Biting his lip in disappointment (a gesture he'd carried with him since early childhood), Danny emptied the carry-all over the dressing table and started sorting through the contents. He scrutinized each item in turn, silently cursing his growing misfortune. A pink compact and two tubes of lipgloss. A stick of eyeliner, a set of ear rings and a packet of hygienic napkins. A black lace bra and a matching pair of satin panties, both sealed in plastic envelopes. A red spandex hairband wrapped around a brush. An empty key ring shaped like one of the Powerpuff Girls (Buttercup, maybe, though he didn't know for sure). Danny shook his head in despair. Could there be anything more useless than an adolescent girl's shoulder bag?

(YEAH: a mooching, parasitic FAG who likes dressing up in WOMEN'S clothes)

"Shut up," Danny whispered, picking up the carry-all and shaking it briskly. There had to be some money in it somewhere, he wouldn't have made it past the front desk otherwise. Sixteen year old girl wanders in at two-thirty in the morning, dressed like a cheap hooker; the night clerk would have taken one look at her and demanded payment up front. This wasn't some backstreet clip joint either; he'd be asking at least seventy dollars a night, breakfast not included.

Hearing the tell-tale jingle of loose change, Danny remembered to breath and quickly located the source. There was a small, zippered compartment set into the side of the bag. Odd that he hadn't noticed it before; scavenging petty cash was one of his very few innate talents. Probably the reason he'd garnered a reputation for being tight-fisted back in high school (a label he'd rarely deserved, in all fairness).

Upending the bag, Danny spilled a tiny handful of coins onto the dressing table, his pretty face falling in distress. A swift count totaled no more than thirteen dollars. A trifling, insignificant amount - wouldn't last him half a day, even if he skipped breakfast and lunch. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into? How much had he spent last night, pickling his liver at the Blue Rose? How much had he gleefully pissed against the wall in his unending crusade to prove his manhood? No recollection: it was all part of that ceaseless grey limbo that descended on him after the sixth drink.

What have I done to myself? Danny thought, his eyes stinging with encroaching tears. He might have emptied his account for all he knew. Two hundred dollars over a single weekend was nothing unusual: at the end of the day, he was a fledgling alcoholic. Even if he found his bank card, there might be nothing left. And what would he do then?

Well, that wasn't hard to imagine. What does any teenaged girl do when she finds herself alone and homeless in the big city? Desolation broke over him in a dark wave, almost driving him to his knees. He leaned on the dresser with both hands, slim shoulders heaving with misery. Was this all his life came to - twelve sixty-five in quarters, nickels and dimes? He must have been worth more than this, surely. Why had this happened? What had he done to warrant this waking nightmare? The storm finally broke. Sobbing in near-hysteria, he wept over the dresser's varnished surface, soaking the meager pile of money.

(stop. stop NOW!!)

Drawing back from the abyss, Danny slowed his pulse by an effort of will. He'd shed enough tears for one day. He had to control himself, stay calm, stay focused. He couldn't afford to give in to his anxieties, no matter how extreme the conditions. His father had been wrong: he wasn't weak, wasn't worthless, wasn't an aimless, simpering drifter. He had to draw on his inner resources, marshal his reserves. He'd been struggling all his life, fighting the blind, cruel misfortune which had plagued his every step. This was simply one more disaster, the latest in a long line of catastrophes he'd endured since the old man kicked him out.

Returning to the closet, Danny started undressing, pulling the transparent nylon baby doll over his head. The morning was rising slowly into day, and the trail was growing cold. The path led back to the Westside; he was absolutely certain of it. Now that he'd managed to suppress his panic, the direction seemed clear. It was time to get moving. Get up. Get dressed. Get out.

Find the Gypsy.

He stood before the closet in his sleek, naked body, ignoring the impulse to look down. Women's genitalia were an undiscovered country for Danny; his entire knowledge of female anatomy came exclusively from porn magazines and videos. He hesitated nonetheless. Despite his overwhelming curiosity, he still had the universal male phobia of emasculation. Much as he wanted to run his fingertips over that soft, dimpled mound, he was terrified of what he might (or rather mightn't) find between his legs. Best to keep his mind on the task ahead, which involved nothing more complex than stepping into a pair of black satin underpants.

The panties were high-cut bikini briefs, cool and liquid smooth to the touch. A dainty red haze encircled the waistband, an elegant lace trim adorned the legs. Danny studied them in breathless awe, his temperature rising to feverish levels. The thought of actually wearing these silken wisps brought a faint crimson hue to his cheeks. How could he possibly walk down the street, knowing what he had on underneath? The mere sight of them made his blood quicken with excitement.

Not that he had much choice in the matter. It was either this or the pink baby doll he'd woken up in, and he sure couldn't go cruising the streets of Chamberlain in that. He could only hope the black mini turned out to be a lot longer than it looked.

Bending low from the hips, Danny slipped on the satin pants, gasping with unexpected pleasure as the shimmering fabric touched his flesh. He was at a loss to explain his reaction; the spiking blood pressure, the loss of breath, the butterflies swarming through his belly. He was almost fainting with desire. True, he'd had a passion for lingerie since grade school (a furtive vice which both shamed and exhilarated him at different times) but he'd never worn women's underwear in his life. Not that he could recall, anyway. There had been the dreams, of course - he'd had them as far back as he could remember - but dreams don't mean a thing.

(don't they?)

No, they don't. Face burning like a storm lantern, Danny picked up the bra and removed the clear plastic wrapper. He paused, stretching the black Lycra garment between his hands, and inspected the elaborate arrangement of hooks, clips and straps. It was unbelievably pretty, a delicate collection flimsy lace remnants. Like the panties, it was embellished with an ornate red frill, the cups edged with sweet floral patterns. So sheer, so skimpy; he doubted it would adequately cover his ample bustline. His stomach began to clench with unreleased tension, a rich, sultry colour suffused his face and neck and shoulders.

What am I doing? Danny asked himself in errant disbelief, what in God's name am I doing? He hadn't a clue how to put on a brassiere. It was some foreign, unfamiliar device he'd rarely seen outside of the Victoria's Secret catalogue. He'd certainly never handled one until today. The knickers had been a relatively simple matter - underpants of either sex having the same basic design - but this was ... well, strange. Alien, exotic, complicated. Maybe he'd better just leave it off, fold it away in the shoulder-bag and forget it ever existed.

No. It was only a bra, for God's sake. There was no eldritch mystery here. We're talking about a brassiere, the same as any pre-teen wears to the skating rink! If a twelve year-old kid could master the intricacies of an adjustable bra, then he could too.

Of course, it was more than that. Much more. Danny wanted to try it on, wanted to feel its gauzy texture against his ivory skin. His breathing had shallowed, he felt delirious, light-headed. Electric fire cascaded through his sensory network, raising gooseflesh along his arms and torso. He ran his tongue over his full, rosebud lips, trembling like a leaf in the rain. What was wrong with him? How could he feel so aroused? He wasn't gay, wasn't effeminate, wasn't the limp-wristed Nancy everyone had labelled him back in high school. And he would swear on his mother's grave that he'd never wanted to be a girl. Never!

Danny fastened the bra around his waist like a belt. His fingertips fumbled with the hook-and-eye attachments for nine seconds, missing the mark several times. Finally popping the clasps into place, he paused to double check his handiwork. The cups were at least two sizes too small. The underwires would probably pinch like an angry lobster (underwires? Where did that come from? Wasn't part of his vocabulary. Must've seen it in a magazine somewhere. He used to read Cosmo back in his teens, kept a small cache hidden under his mattress for years. Yet another covert operation he'd had to conceal from the old man. Dad would have beaten the living crap out of him if he'd caught him reading a women's magazine).

Reversing the bra so that the clasps were at the back, Danny worked the straps over his shoulders, easing his breasts into the cups one at a time. His head spun as the lace slid across his nipples. A burst of exquisite pleasure flared through his nervous system. Exhaling deeply, he shifted the brassiere into the most comfortable position, wavering on the verge of ecstasy. His eyelids fluttered in delight, a chill breeze whipped up and down his spine. What did he look like? How would he appear, squeezed into this gossamer harness?

Biting his lip in an agony of indecision, Danny glanced towards the mirror. The temptation he'd felt earlier was stronger than ever. Overpowering, in fact. He had to know, had to see the girl he'd become. She was the culmination of all his fantasies, all his lonely, frustrated daydreams. He hadn't been willing to admit that before, but there could be no question of it now. She was his holy grail, his muse, his incubus. All he had to do was step in front of the mirror -

But he didn't dare.

He could feel his masculinity dissolving, fading into the darkest corners of his subconscious. His personality was shifting, melting into something else, the way it had the last time he'd looked in the cheval. He'd fainted over a bed and woken up female - in mind as well as body. The image in the mirror had altered his consciousness, his self-perception. If he gazed into it again, he might lose himself for good. He might become a girl in every sense of the word.

Yet how could he resist this urge, this... compulsion? He could already hear the voice of his Otherself whispering at the back of his head. Calling to him, luring him forward. Preparing to take control. Her influence was overwhelming. Much stronger than he would have thought possible. How could she be so powerful? She was only a girl, a sixteen year old child. She should have been his pet, his plaything. His slave. He was a male, she was female; capitulation was out of the question. He had to retain command of this body at all costs. But standing here in his bra and panties, struggling to keep his eyes off the looking glass -

(i want to see her)

One glimpse. That was all he needed. A single peek wouldn't erase his ego; no way. The Girl couldn't harm him; she didn't really exist. She was a glitch, an aberration, the personification of his unfulfilled sexual yearnings. "Danni" was nothing more than a ghost in the system, a psychological mirage he'd created in a moment of infinite stress. He'd been a man for twenty three years now, a mirror couldn't obliterate over two decades of social conditioning.

Or so he hoped.

Bloodstream thundering with anticipation, Danny turned and walked barefoot across the room.

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(page 25)