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One Fantastic Day
Part 2

By Hebe Dotson


Subscribers can read One Fantastic Day - Part 1


Chapter 3

"That's impossible!" I said. Logic was on my side. Men-even men who wear dresses-just don't have babies. "I can't be pregnant. Your lab must have made a mistake."

"Well, of course they did," the medical technician replied. "I already told you that. They ran the wrong test on you-but you're definitely pregnant. I can tell that just by looking at you. My sister's had five kids, and I could always tell when she was pregnant-I usually knew before she did."

"I can't be pregnant!" I said again.

"You're in denial, hon; that happens sometimes, until you get used to the idea. First baby?"

"No-I mean yes. I mean-"

"I thought so. Well, sorry about the mix-up. We'll get it right this time. I sure hope you're not using anything, hon-it would be real bad for the baby." With exaggerated care, she put my specimen in her utility bag and departed.

I went back to my desk and sank into my chair. That medtech had to be a lunatic-but she seemed so sure of herself. I desperately wanted three or four stiff drinks, but I had work to do, and besides, they'd be bad for the baby.

Emily wandered over to my desk. "Is something wrong, Jeri?" she asked. "You look like you've had bad news."

"It's that stupid random drug test," I said. "No; I didn't fail it-the lab ran the wrong test, and now they're trying to tell me I'm pregnant."

"That's wonderful!" Emily said. She looked at my face. "Uh-I mean, that's too bad." I told her I was going to get a second opinion, and she gave me her gynecologist's phone number. I called and arranged to stop by on my way home from work and leave a urine sample for what I hoped would be a more professional analysis. Doctor Mason's receptionist took my specimen, told me to come back in two days ("Doctor never gives out test results over the phone"), and made an afternoon appointment for me.

By the time I arrived for my appointment, I had convinced myself that the earlier lab test was wrong and the new test would verify my nonpregnancy. It was physically and biologically impossible for me to be pregnant. "Well, Ms. Frasier," Dr. Mason said, "you are indeed pregnant. When did you have your last period?"

"Never," I said. "I've never had a period."

The doctor looked slightly surprised. "Interesting," he said.

I got up from my chair, pulled down my pantyhose, and lifted my skirt.

"Very interesting," the doctor said. "It's going to be a rather difficult birth, you know. More like an extrusion. I'm afraid we'll have to give you a C-section." I stared at him. "This is a funny town," he went on. "I get three or four men in here every month, claiming to be pregnant. They have their reasons, I suppose. That's all right; they pay my fees and I do my tests and send them on their way."

"But I am pregnant," I pointed out, somewhat surprised to find myself making this argument. "You ran the test; you gave me the results."

"True."

"And I'm a man. Physically."

"Yes, I suppose you are-though I'd personally define someone able to conceive and bear children as a woman. You've conceived, all right, but I'm not sure about the rest. Do you want to, ah, terminate this pregnancy?"

Of course I did, but Miriam and I had wanted so much to have children. We'd tried and tried-the fun is in the journey, I'd reminded her from time to time-and I couldn't opt out. "No," I said.

"That's good-I don't have any idea how I'd do it." He told me to come back and see him in a month.

I had another low-sleep night as I tried to figure out how this unexpected thing could have happened to me. I thought back to the last time Miriam and I had made love, early in the morning after our last night together. She'd nudged me awake at five o'clock. "Let's get pregnant!" she'd said with a big happy smile. This was the right time; she was sure of that, and she was even more certain when she hurried away to catch her flight to Chicago. "We're pregnant this time-I know we are!" she'd assured me, and it seemed that she was right. I wondered if we were both pregnant, or was it only me?

When I saw Dr. Mason again, I was just beginning to show. He concluded that I must be about four months pregnant-which seemed likely to me, since it dated back to my last time with Miriam. I wondered if my body had even then begun its strange if temporary metamorphosis to female. My breasts seemed to be developing again-not instantaneously, as they had before, but slowly. The doctor assured me that this was normal-my body had become a rampaging female hormone factory-but he rather doubted that Dolly Parton would ever be looking back over her shoulder at me.

The weeks went by, as weeks will do, and my waistline expanded slowly but inexorably. It really didn't seem fair. I'd had such a short time to enjoy my new female existence, and just as I'd begun to find my way along the potholed road of feminine life, some joker had rewritten all the traffic signs in Klingon. I had just begun to think that yes, I could be attractive and seductive, and yes, I could get away with letting a guy take me out to dinner or a show. I had even decided who would have the honor of being my first boy friend and was about to start sending him signals when impending maternity changed everything.

At my third monthly checkup, when I was about six months pregnant, Dr. Mason gave me a sonogram. He needed to see what was in there, he told me, so he could figure out a strategy for delivering the baby. He was pleased with the results. "You seem to be perfectly normal on the inside," he said.

"Normal what?"

"Normal woman, of course. The baby looks fine. Do you ever feel it moving around?"

"Sometimes I think I do, but I'm not sure."

"Did you feel that, just now?" I nodded. "That was the baby. Would you like to see it?"

"Can I?"

"Sure; I'll turn the screen." He did, and I saw this grainy little thing with miniature arms and legs. That was when it finally hit me-I really was pregnant; I was carrying this tiny little life around inside me. I felt oddly happy, unusually pleased with myself. When I went to work the next day, Emily and Maria both told me that my pregnancy must be agreeing with me, because I looked radiant, the stereotypical picture of young motherhood-to-be.

About two weeks later, I had a phone call out of the blue from Miriam's black-sheep brother George. I'd heard a lot about him but I'd never seen him. He'd gone to Alaska to live in the bush before I'd met Miriam, and he'd never returned to the lower 48-until now. He had just moved to San Francisco, for unstated reasons, and Miriam had asked him to look me up, just to make sure I'd received the divorce papers. I had an urge to see what this long-lost character looked like, and we agreed to meet for a drink at a nice little place I'd found before I'd dropped alcohol from my life.

He was sitting at the bar when I arrived. I picked him out on sight. He had a faint but noticeable family resemblance to Miriam, but he was a bit taller and had a cute little mustache. I introduced myself to him. He didn't seem unduly surprised that his brother-in-law was dressed as a woman, which confirmed my suspicion that Miriam had filled him in on all my bad habits.

It was a delightful evening. There was an immediate chemistry between us. We had a leisurely dinner and then strolled slowly back to my apartment. He told me all about his adventures in the Alaskan bush-it sounded like a hard life, something out of an old Jack London novel, except for getting around by airplane instead of by dog sled. I told him everything that had ever happened to me, especially during the last six months. He was surprised but unfazed by my pregnancy, demonstrating that some of Miriam's traits didn't run in the family-she would have been off the wall. He came up for a nightcap, and we kept on talking until two in the morning. He asked if he could see me again (yes) and he kissed me goodnight when he left (yes!) and I stood at the window, as breathless and excited as a schoolgirl, watching him until he disappeared around a corner.

George and I spent most of our free time together during the next two months, as the baby progressed and my belly grew ever larger. We fell in love. How could I not love a man who could accept me in my present unglamorous state? I had developed a truly seductive waddle, thanks to the additional fifteen pounds I was carrying below and ahead of my normal center of gravity. I waddled around the office, trying to get my work done; I waddled to more frequent appointments with Dr. Mason (mother and baby doing fine); I waddled into George's arms when he came to see me each evening. We were in love, but we kept it pretty platonic-I told George that sex was out of the question until I'd had the baby and then had sex reassignment surgery. I was going to be a woman, and I was going to have sexual relations as a woman or not at all. He respected that, he assured me.

When I was 270 days pregnant (as best we could estimate), Dr. Mason scheduled me for a cesarean delivery one week later. At 274 days, however, I began to experience sporadic labor pains at roughly ten-minute intervals. I called Dr. Mason, who told me it could be false labor and instructed me to call him again when and if the pains came down to four-minute intervals. I alerted George, who came over to spend the night on my sofa. I had a restless night; every time my eyes closed in exhaustion, another contraction jolted me awake.

At six in the morning, the pains were coming every four minutes. I woke George up and called Dr. Mason, who told me to go to the hospital. George rounded up a taxi while I shaved and dressed. The pains were severe now, and I wondered if the kid was coming equipped with mining tools.

I huddled in a corner of the cab, with George squeezing my hand. The contractions were about two and a half minutes apart. The cabbie's radio was blaring cheerfully. "It's gonna be one fantastic day, folks!" the DJ was burbling. "Plenty of sunshine, high around 75, low humidity! Time to get up and get out and enjoy it!"

Chapter 4

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked.

Terrible, I thought. "Okay, I guess," I said. "I've never had a baby before."

"Not to worry. I've had hundreds of them," he said.

"Where's Dr. Mason?"

"Dr. Mason woke up this morning with a very bad cold. I'm Dr. Corrigan. Dr. Mason and I take each other's cases when we have to. You'll be just fine."

"He didn't tell me when I called him."

"He didn't want you to get worried and upset. Everything will be fine."

I groaned as a vicious contraction hit me. "You're about ready to deliver," the doctor said. "It won't be long now. We're going to take you into the delivery room in about five minutes. The anesthesiologist will give you a local then."

"Okay."

"Will your husband want to be in the delivery room?" George, who was still clutching my hand, said yes before I could say I didn't have a husband. "That's good," Dr. Corrigan said. "Feel free to yell at him as much as you want to-after all, he got you into this." He went off to scrub his hands.

I was glad to have George with me. "If anything goes wrong," I said, "tell Miriam that I still loved her. And I love you, George, more than I can say."

"You'll be fine," George said. "I talked to Miriam a couple of nights ago, and she said to give you her love-and I love you, Jeri, with all my heart."

Within five minutes, George had been outfitted with a surgical gown, mask, and slippers, and a nurse had pushed my gurney into the delivery room. The anesthesiologist timed my contractions and administered a shot of something somewhere down there. Dr. Corrigan came bustling in and smiled at me. "Dr. Mason's notes call for a cesarian section," he said, "but everything looks fine to me. I think you can have a normal delivery."

Between the tension, the pain, and the anesthetic, I felt terribly groggy. Something seemed vaguely wrong, but... "Whatever you think," I said. He smiled and pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose.

I remember pain, but only dimly now. I remember hearing the wail of a newborn child, and I remember hearing Dr. Corrigan say, "You have a lovely, healthy daughter, Mrs. Frasier." I remember bursting into tears of relief and happiness. After that, I must have passed out, because my next memory is of awakening late in the afternoon in a sunny hospital room.

I looked around. I had a roommate, a young woman smiling contentedly at the blue-blanketed baby in her arms. "Hi," I said. "I'm Jeri. What a beautiful baby-a boy?"

"Yes. I'm Naomi. The nurse said I should buzz her when you woke up." She pushed a button. Almost immediately, a nurse bustled in with a squalling little pink bundle in her arms.

"Mrs. Frasier," she said, "I've got a very hungry little girl here. Would you like to nurse her?"

"Yes, but-"

"Don't be shy-we're all friends here." She pulled back my robe and plunked the baby down on my abdomen. The wailing sound changed to frantic slurping and then to contented sucking. I looked down at the baby's beautiful, fuzzy little head and saw that I had breasts, bountiful breasts brimming with milk. And despite the pain in my groin, I felt the most sensual pleasure I've ever experienced as I fed my tiny daughter.

As I finished nursing little Miriam (what else could I name her?), an immense bouquet of spring flowers came into the room, closely followed by George. He sized up the situation immediately. "You've changed again," he said. I glanced over at Naomi, but she was napping.

"Yes," I said.

"I wondered when the doctor said you wouldn't need surgery."

"I did, too, but I was too far out of it to say anything," I said.

"I wonder if it will last this time."

"So do I. I hope so, darling-for us."

The change lasted through my hospital stay and into my return home. George moved in to help me; I would have been at my wit's end without him. He prepared meals, changed diapers, did laundry, and kept me sane. I began to recover, and I felt pretty good when I went to see Dr. Mason for a postnatal checkup. He told me I was doing well and could expect to be back to normal in another month. "Though I'm still not sure what normal means, in your case," he added.

Now that I was a woman again (for however long) and my pregnancy had ended, I began to take a renewed interest in the world around me and the possibilities it presented. George was a leading possibility-I realized it would be difficult to find another man with so many good qualities. We should get married, I thought, but George showed no inclination to go in that direction. We cuddled and kissed a lot and professed love for each other, but that was it. I went so far as to suggest that my double bed was much more comfortable than the sofa. It was more practical, too, since my bed took up so much of the bedroom that we'd had to put the baby's crib in the so-called living room with the sofa and TV, but George refused to take the bait. He must have earned a couple of dozen merit badges in chastity and self-control, I thought.

One night when Miriam was about a month old, I had just gone to bed when she began to cry. I recognized it as a hunger cry, which didn't surprise me because she hadn't taken as much as usual at her last feeding. "I'll bring her in to you," George called. I bared a breast, partly for Miriam's benefit and partly for George's. He walked in with the baby, blushed and averted his eyes, and kissed the top of her head as he handed her to me. I put her head to my breast and she went right to work-we'd become experts at this, Miriam and I. I closed my eyes and drifted happily into a short nap.

A few minutes later, when the sucking sounds ended in a peaceful little gurgle and a tiny snore, I woke up and looked contentedly at my daughter-and began to laugh uncontrollably.

"What's so funny?" George called.

"Come see the baby."

He hurried in, and I pointed to the top of Miriam's little fuzzy-haired head. There, looking quite jaunty, was a cute little mustache-and George's upper lip was hairless.

"Two Miriams," I said happily.

I should have realized it earlier, of course. I'd thought that George had only a faint family resemblance to Miriam, forgetting that Jerry had only a faint resemblance to Jeri, forgetting the near-magic transformational powers of makeup and clothing.

George said nothing. He returned Miriam to her crib and then came back to the bedroom and slid into bed beside me. We shared a long, hungry kiss, and my wife told me all. Despite her anger at me when she found me cross-dressed all those months ago, she'd continued to love me. She'd wanted to stay married to me, but felt that she couldn't. In great turmoil, she'd sought counseling and had been referred to a gender dysphoria therapist. This counselor (bless her) had helped Miriam work through her hostility to the extent that she'd found herself willing to read up on the various forms of transgenderism. This had led her (not without fear) to experiment with female-to-male cross-dressing-and she'd discovered she liked it. She had always wanted to be male, she realized, and her anger at me was because I'd had what she wanted-and I, fool that I was, wanted what she had. And now I was a woman.

"We can be lesbian lovers," I suggested.

"I suppose we could," Miriam said, "but I don't think that's what you really want."

"No," I admitted, "and it's not what you want, either."

We went to sleep in each other's arms, with major problems unresolved. One possibility: George could undergo sex reassignment surgery. One clarification: the real George was still somewhere in the Alaskan bush. One revelation: Miriam had not pursued the divorce-we were still married. And one accomplishment: George moved permanently from the sofa to my bed.

A few mornings later, little Miriam had had her early feeding and was sleeping peacefully. I was wandering around in the nude, trying to decide what to wear and looking for something to stuff in my shoes (my most recent transformation had reduced my foot size again without providing new footwear). The radio was on in the background. "It's gonna be one fantastic day, folks!" the DJ was burbling. "Plenty of sunshine, high around 75, low humidity! Time to get up and get out and enjoy it!" I murmured a little prayer that it would be fantastic for other people and just a plain old ordinary day for me.

I went into the bedroom, still seeking something to put in my shoes, surprising George, who was just coming out of the shower. He looked bigger in the early light, broad-shouldered, flat-chested, larger hands and feet, and somewhat in need of a shave. He also looked confused and pleased. "Look!" he said excitedly, pointing down.

I looked fearfully down, and that's when I found my penis again. I'd have recognized it anywhere.

But I didn't have it.

George did.


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