2 comments/ 76907 views/ 5 favorites Third Person Ch. 01 By: Christian Black I saw Amanda for the first time on the patio outside the coffee house, and my first thought was that Phillip would really go for her. My husband and I liked to tease each other about our fantasy "types." I had a thing for the young black men we saw hanging out in the park muscular and shirtless whenever we went into the city. With their fresh white smiles and palpable aura of danger, they were as unlike Phillip as was possible. (Phillip, by his own sheepish admission, was as white as a man could be without actually becoming transparent.) My husband was turned on by girls like this one; earthy young latter-day hippie chicks, as unlike me as my black boys were unlike Phillip. It was just a game we played. We would even point them out to each other. "There's one for you, Heather," Phillip would grin. Or I would say: "Check her out." We never became jealous because the game was based on the principles of pure fantasy and absolute trust. Even when we took it to the next level. "What would you like to do to him, Heather?" I would answer in explicit detail, then we would go home and make love deliciously enhanced by the fantasy. It kept things interesting. That's why the girl caught my attention. She was Phillip's type to the point of cliche. Not as tall as me, dark-complexioned with long unwashed brown hair, wearing a peasant dress which seemed several sizes too large. The skirt swept the ground around her sandaled feet and the whole thing hung off her shapelessly. The spaghetti straps kept sliding off her naked shoulders, making it clear that she was as braless as the day she was born (to borrow Phillip's phrase.) She also seemed to flaunt the hair under her arms, something else which would have greatly impressed my husband. She was pretty, in a boyish way, but not exceptionally so. Her type was very common around here. River City College was a liberal arts and environmental school which attracted idealistic young granola-crunchers from all over the country. I sometimes joked with Phillip that the RC College girls were the real reason he had never left town. I watched the girl flit from table to table, obviously panhandling. She both intrigued and irritated me, and I wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was her manner. She was shameless in her mooching, and totally un-self-conscious about her body. I know I would never have the nerve to approach a stranger for money, or to appear in public with my breasts nearly exposed as hers were. It's always a bit rankling to see someone calmly doing something you would never dare. She approached my table and I made myself ready to refuse her. Instead of asking me for money, though, she sat down across from me. The girl smiled at me with a casual familiarity, as if she were a friend keeping a lunch appointment and not a complete stranger. "Hi," she said. "Hi," I said back. I had to appreciate her gall. She leaned forward. "Listen," she said. "I need to ask you a favor." "I'm not going to give you any money," I said. The girl looked me directly in the eyes. Hers were a very dark brown and contained a curious glimmer of recognition. A question mark formed in my mind. Had I met her before? I was almost positive that I hadn't, yet something about her smacked of deja vu. "I wasn't going to ask you for money," she replied, stung, as if I hadn't just watched her hit up everybody else on the patio. "What then?" "Well . . ." her eyes disengaged from mine and focused on a point somewhere above my left shoulder. "See, I just got kicked out of my apartment a week ago and I've been like living in my van?" Her voice lifted slightly on the last word, turning the statement into a question. "I could really use a shower." That much I believed. The girl was ripe. Sweat mixed with enough patchouli oil to make my eyes water. Phillip would have appreciated that, too. He's big on pheromones. "You want to use my shower? I don't even know you." "I know," she said. "It sounds kind of weird. But believe me, I wouldn't ask unless I was desperate? I could even pay you, sort of." She reached into her little knitted wool purse and pulled out a plastic baggy containing a dark green vegetable substance. It wasn't spinach. "Put that away," I said, looking around to make sure no one had seen. She slipped the bag back into her purse. "But you do smoke, right?" "Why would you just assume that?" "I don't know," the girl shrugged. "I guess, most people do. When they get the chance." The thing was, she was right. It had been a while since I'd indulged, but back in college I did have quite a weakness for the stuff. Not knowing anyone around here into that scene, Phillip and I had been unable to get a hold of anything for years. It was another joke between us, the lengths we would go to for a joint. "The bag's worth twenty bucks," the girl said. "Well, maybe fifteen since I smoked some? Anyway, it's yours. All want is a shower." A dozen warning bells were going off in my head, telling me not to even consider what this girl was proposing. In this day and age, you did not invite strangers into your home. And strangers with drugs? Jesus, you'd have to be crazy. There was still this foggy sense of recognition, though, like I'd once known her very well. Besides, I did want the bag. These conflicting thoughts were only the ones I was conscious of. Beneath them were a host of feelings I wasn't ready to define. But I had already made up my mind. "What's your name?" I asked. The girl smiled. "Amanda." "I'm Heather." Amanda shook my hand firmly and quickly. Her fingers were thin and delicate, her palm cool and a bit moist. "I'm parked around back," I said. We drove to my house with the windows down. Normally, on a hot summer day like this, I would have run the air conditioner with the windows up, but Amanda's rich aroma made that impossible. My new friend made herself perfectly at home in my car. She pushed the seat back as far as it would go so she could stretch out her unshaven legs and turned the radio up to sing without tune or shame along with the Rolling Stones song ("Angie," I think it was) which was playing on the classic rock station Phillip liked. When the song ended, she told me a little bit of her story. Fired from her job at a bakery through a complex set of circumstances I did not follow. Kicked out by her roommate for failure to pay rent. Living on the floors and couches of friends until her favors ran out and she was forced to sleep in her van. Somehow I knew she was lying about most, if not all, of it, but I wasn't sure why she would spin such an elaborate tale for the benefit of a complete stranger. I lived a few miles out of town, on a hill looking down over the grassy valley carved out by the Illinois River. I pulled up the steep driveway through the shrouding trees and waited for the inevitable reaction when Amanda saw the house. "Oh my God," she gasped. "This is where you live?" "This is it," I said. "This is home." Home for me was a sprawling, three-story monstrosity of a house. Pointlessly large for the two of us, cost a fortune to heat and required more in the way of maintenance time and money than we could ever hope to afford. Not to mention the crippling property taxes. The landscape was overgrown and weedy, and the house itself was in need of painting, roofing and countless other minor repairs. Even without the dilapidation, the house would have been a bizarre sight. It had been expanded three times in the century it had stood, with no attention paid to style or continuity. The various sections were ill-fitted and, from the outside, the house looked downright schizophrenic. Inside, it was like a maze. I had never quite warmed up to the place, but Phillip claimed to love it. The house had been in his family for generations, and he had inherited it from his parents when they died. He told me that he couldn't bear the thought of selling it, or even living anywhere else. I led Amanda inside. The east living room was in the part of the house where I had managed to make some kind of impression. Phillip expressed no opinions about decorating and allowed me complete control in that area. I think he understood how the house intimidated me, and knew that I had to make my mark on it before I could feel at home there. Eventually, I hoped to do over the whole house, but it was a daunting project. There was just so much of it. Phillip and I did most of our living in the five rooms I had thus far made my own. "Wow," Amanda said. "This place has really great vibes." Vibes? Oh my. There was no way this girl was for real. Nobody talked like that anymore. Amanda walked across the room, straight to the mantle over the fireplace. She picked up the framed wedding photograph resting there and examined it closely. "You're married," she noted. "Yeah," I said. "That's Phillip." "He's cute," Amanda set the picture down crookedly and smiled up at me. "So, um, the shower?" "Down the hall on the right. There are towels under the sink." "Thanks," Amanda walked down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom. I went to the mantle and straightened the frame she had set askew, wiping with my hand the dust which had settled around it. I looked at the photo, which had become invisible to me in the way of objects seen every day. We were formally posed, Phillip embracing me from behind and looking a bit stiff in his rented tuxedo. He was never a clothes-oriented kind of guy, but looked very handsome regardless. I couldn't help noticing how much thinner I had been back then. Blame it on three years of contented marriage. "Fat and happy," Phillip would joke, slapping his own little pot belly. He swore up and down that he didn't notice I had put on any weight, but of course I did and it bothered me. After lingering over the photo for a minute, I set about compulsively straightening each item on the mantle and blowing away the dust, anxious for no reason that I could put my finger on. The water started up in the bathroom and I sat on the couch to flip through a magazine I had already read. Amanda emerged from the bathroom a little while later, toweling her hair. She must have only given herself a quick once-over with the towel on the rest of her body because the thin material of the dress now clung to her damply. "Thank you so much," Amanda said. She sat down on the couch, close beside me. "That felt so good? I feel like a new person." She smelled like my shampoo now. It was a definite improvement over the B.O. and patchouli, though she did retain a light, spicy scent which might have just been the way she naturally smelled. It wasn't unpleasant. She looked younger, too, now that she was cleaned up. More like a girl. "No problem," I said, scooting away from her a little bit. Amanda smiled cheerfully. She reached into her purse and pulled out the baggy, along with a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers. "You want to smoke a joint now?" she asked. "Sure," I said. She rolled one up quickly and expertly, sealing the paper with a long, slow lick. Her eyes were on me the whole time. I became aware of two things simultaneously. One, that she was flirting with me and two, that it was working. This realization caught me completely off guard. After all, this was Phillip's fantasy, not mine. If my husband wrote pornographic stories, they would all start off like this. Our hero meets a gorgeous little counter-culture butterfly at a coffee house and readily agrees to take her home so she can use the shower. Fucking ensues. I should note here that I did have one previous experience with a woman, back in college. Of course, that's what college is for. My first dorm-mate Sheila and I got hammered one dateless night and indulged our mutual curiosity to the brink of heavy petting. Somewhere between second and third bases, you could say. Afterwards, we couldn't look each other in the face for a week. We agreed that it had been a terrible mistake, and she moved out at the end of the semester. Whenever I looked back on the incident, however, I was glad for the experience and even found the memory stimulating. Sometimes in fantasy, I allowed it to progress further than the reality had. Phillip loved to hear about it, too. Nothing got him going faster than my well-worn college lesbian experimentation story. Now here I was with the girl of my husband's dreams, feeling fluttery in my stomach. Too weird. I laughed out loud, it was so absurd. "What's so funny?" Amanda asked, looking at me sideways as she applied an unnecessarily fellatric finishing touch to the joint. I wondered if we'd be able to light something containing that much saliva. "Nothing," I laughed. "Sorry." "Usually you don't get the giggles until after you smoke it." "How do you know?" Amanda shrugged. "You got a light?" Being basically a non-smoking household, all we had were fireplace matches. I got up to get one and when I sat back down, I deliberately left one full cushion-length between us. Amanda curled her legs up into the space, hitching up her skirt a little and revealing a few precious inches of smooth brown thigh. She handed me the joint. "Go ahead, spark it up." I lit the eight-inch match with a flourish. "That's a big match," Amanda laughed. I touched the flame to the tip of the joint and inhaled. The smoke was flavorful and instantly nostalgic. I shook out the match and handed the joint back to Amanda, willing myself not to cough. She inhaled languorously. We passed the thing back and forth only a few times before it hit me warm and fuzzy all over. I caught Amanda staring at me, but not at my face. I followed her gaze and saw that my nipples were stiff against the fabric of my shirt, visible even through the material of my bra. I crossed my arms to cover myself and Amanda smiled again. "I think it might rain," she said incongruously. "The roof of my van leaks? It sucks." Instead of handing the joint to me, she leaned over and held it to my lips. I tasted her fingers as I drew my smoke. "This stuff's kind of green," she said. "I wish we had a bong." I had no idea what she was saying. Her voice was just music to me now. I leaned back and let my arms go limp, thinking what the hell, let it happen. Amanda took her hit, then leaned in close to exhale into my lips. That was how Phillip had stolen his first kiss, too. As I allowed her to fill my lungs with her exhalation, I smiled at the thought that this girl employed the same schoolboy tricks as my husband. Amanda touched my cheek with the tips of her fingers. "You're so pretty," she said, and then she was really kissing me and, to my surprise, I was kissing her back. Her tongue fluttered against mine and I got this strange electric tingle throughout my entire body. I was breathless. One of us made a sound, a cat-like purring, but with our mouths so pleasantly mashed together, I couldn't tell if it was me or her. Amanda's hand timorously cupped my breast and I leaned into it, increasing the pressure. I wanted her to touch me there. I suddenly despised my clothes for coming between her hand and my breast and wished they would simply dissolve. Her mouth was still moving warm and insistent, yet so softly, against mine. I touched her leg, parting her skirt to trace my fingers along the smooth skin of her thigh. Amanda grabbed my wrist and with sudden force pulled my timid hand into her very center. The naked heat and dampness of her came as a shock to my fingers. I almost pulled away, but she opened her legs to receive me so I traced my fingers along her glistening divide and found her hard little button and felt her moan into my throat. She leaned back, pulling away from my kiss and looked into my eyes with absolute wonder. My head spun with lust and smoke as Amanda helped me out of my clothes with a speed and delicacy it had taken Phillip years to master. She pulled her dress off over her head and we were naked together. Amanda was thin. I could see the lines of her ribs beneath her small but luscious breasts. Her skin was evenly browned all over. Her pubic hair was dense and dark. Amanda pushed me back onto the couch and kneeled before me on the floor. I brazenly opened myself to her and she was on me at once, lapping and nuzzling before I could brace myself for the pleasure. My clitoris buzzed like a cicada. The first orgasm came almost instantly, in a shivering wave that washed over my entire body, building in intensity with each little nibble until I couldn't bear it anymore. I had to push her head away. It was too much. Amanda grinned up at me lustily, her chin dripping with my juices. We hurriedly traded places, her on the couch and me down on my knees. I wanted to badly. I had never tasted another woman, only myself on Phillip. On his hands, on his mouth, on his penis. Amanda's taste was wilder than mine, not as sweet. Her juices were like a dark red wine, but clean and faintly soapy from the shower. I loved it. I loved her bittersweet pussy. I penetrated her with my tongue and she cried out and I came again, in empathy. I was exultant, delirious, lost in a dream. I climbed up on the couch to kiss her. Each of us tasted herself on the other's lips. Our juices mixed together and formed a new taste, more intoxicating than either on its own. I held the girl sweaty and naked in my arms until we caught our breath. She stayed for most of the afternoon. * After Amanda left, I found myself unwilling or unable to get up from the couch. I managed to pull my clothes back on, but then I just laid there dizzy and exhausted, slowly coming back to earth from the pot high and the sexual afterglow. I had offered to drive Amanda back into town, but she had insisted that she preferred to walk and I did have to concede that I was in no shape to drive. So I just waited for Phillip to get home. I must have dozed off, because I dreamed. It was a recurring dream, one which I've had several times since living in this house. Always a little different, but essentially the same. In the dream I am upstairs, exploring the rooms on the third floor. I wander into the attic and there find a staircase I have never seen before. Apprehensively, I climb the stairs, with an unsettling feeling that I'm being watched. I find a second attic above the first, a secret room I somehow know I was not meant to see. The room is dimly lit and filled with antique clutter which I sometimes stop to examine, but more usually I just walk to the back of the long room. There I find a trap door in the ceiling. Despite my fear, I pull myself up through it, into a third attic. This place is empty except for ages of dust and cobwebs, dingy light and stale air. The fear by now has mounted to terror, but I see that across the room is a ladder, leading up to an even higher room. I venture up, unable to stop myself. The dream can stretch out like this indefinitely. Attics above attics without end; stranger and stranger rooms, some filled with bizarre antiques, some empty except for the omnipresent dust. I see long-vacant spider webs and ancient rodent droppings, but I am always the only living creature in these rooms. There is always an atmosphere of oppression, though, as if invisible eyes are upon me. I can sense their silent outrage, as if I'm trespassing, but the compulsion to go higher and higher is undeniable. In that afternoon's version of the dream, the suffocating feeling of being watched was heavier than usual. I was aware that I was dreaming, and was afraid that I would be unable to awake. Afraid that whatever watched me in the attic of my dreams would hold me under the waters of sleep and drown me there. Then Phillip came home, slamming the door behind him as he always did. The sound woke me up and I opened my eyes with relief. "Oh, hey," he said. "Were you taking a nap? I didn't mean to wake you up." Third Person Ch. 02 I spent most of the next morning on the computer. I had neglected work the day before, as you can imagine, and had a backlog of jobs. I worked at home, doing typesetting and layout and design work in Photoshop and Pagemaker. I did this work for the print shops in town, most of which had been around for generations and consequently didn't have anyone on staff who could do computer work. This was my career. Not much money, true, but it was engaging and I was good at it. I could set my own hours and, as I was doing now, work in my bathrobe if I wanted to. Phillip owned a used-book and record store, housed in a building that spanned almost an entire block. He had inherited this, like our house, from his parents. Phillip rented out the extra space to four other businesses, and most of our income was derived from the rent he took in. We weren't wealthy by anyone's standards, but we were comfortable, and the work we did was mainly for ourselves. I didn't have to do the computer work, and Phillip didn't have to run his little shop. We did these things because we liked to. My mind wasn't on the work this morning, though. The events of the day before now seemed like a dream, even more so because I was engaged in something as normal and mundane as editing Pagemaker documents. The memory tingled. I felt awake and alive. Everything; the warmth of my coffee mug, the terrycloth robe against my body, the feel of the keys as I typed, all took on a sensual quality. After half an hour, it got to be overwhelming. I had to go into the bedroom and get myself off. After that, it was a little better. I could halfway concentrate on the work, but my mind still wandered. I began to worry that something might be wrong with me. All I could think about was sex. I was horny as a fourteen-year-old boy. My friend Gloria called at around ten. She wanted to meet for coffee. I was grateful for the distraction. "Yeah," I said. "Where do you want to go?" "Jumpin' Java?" she suggested. That name gave me a chill. It was where I'd met Amanda. "Sure," I said, hesitating slightly. "Be there in half an hour." I thought of Amanda as I got dressed. I wondered if she'd be there. I'm sure she influenced the clothes I chose to wear. A loose skirt that didn't quite meet my knees, and a plain black tank top. Underwear? None. I hadn't gone braless in public in years, and as for stepping out of the house without panties- I don't think I'd ever done that. I felt naughty, daring. The lack of undergarments gave me a constant awareness of my body. Gloria wasn't there yet when I arrived at the coffee house. I got my drink and sat down at the same table I had the day before, scanning the crowd. I wasn't looking for Gloria and was almost disappointed when she showed up. Gloria was my best friend in this town. She was one of Phillip's tenants, renting the space next to his shop. She sold trinkets and knick-knacks, classy-looking, expensive things, catering mainly to the tourist crowd. I liked her a lot. She was easy-going and funny, about ten years older than us, but very young-spirited. "Hello, Heath-ah," she always said my name like that. Gloria kissed me on the cheek then sat down with her coffee. "What's new?" I considered telling her, if only to see how shocked she'd be. "Oh, nothing," I said instead, trying not to smile too much. "How's business?" "Oh, you know. It's a slow time of year. That's how I can afford to close up and come drink coffee with you." It was always a slow time of year for Gloria's shop. She wasn't very concerned, though. She had inherited plenty of money from her husband, who'd died years ago. Like us, she ran the business for her own amusement. "You look great," she said, grabbing my arm. "Did you do something different?" That was an understatement. "No," I said. "Thank you, though." "I'm serious," she said. "You look radiant. You're glowing, Heath-ah. You're not . . ." "Pregnant?" I laughed. "No." Gloria laughed with me, shaking her head. "I didn't think so, but from my experience when a woman glows like that, either she's pregnant, or she's been having some seriously good sex." That was too much for me. I actually blushed. "Well . . ." "I knew it," Gloria said. "That's great. I am so jealous." Gloria was between serious boyfriends at the moment. This situation bothered her about as much as the lack of business in the shop. She had a few male friends around town whom she floated between, but she always liked to grumble about her sex life. "Speaking of that, how's Phillip doing? I haven't seen him in a few days." "He hasn't been in the shop?" This wasn't unusual. He was always going on sales runs to buy books and records. Gloria shrugged and adjusted the brim of her hat. "He wasn't there this morning. He might have been there yesterday, but I didn't get a chance to talk to him." "Phillip is . . . great," I smiled. "You naughty girl," Gloria scolded. "You're as bad as Francine." Francine was Gloria's daughter, who lived in Seattle. The two were as close as sorority sisters, talked daily on the phone, and told each other everything. I'd met Francine once when she was down here visiting, and she seemed more like a younger version of Gloria than an offspring. Gloria began to tell me all the latest dirt on Francine, who was having a fling with a married black man. I could tell that Gloria was thrilled by the fabulous immorality of her daughter's life. I listened to her without really hearing. I was just watching her. She was a very animated speaker, a very alive kind of person. Her face was lined a little with age, but this gave her dignity and perhaps even an exotic quality. She had European features, though she was born in Connecticut and spent most of her life here in Illinois. Before today I had not realized how attractive she was. That was the frame of mind I was in, so aware of my own sensuality that everything I saw seemed to glow with erotic energy. As my good friend talked, I found myself noticing her breasts for the first time ever, and idly wondering what it would be like to kiss them. Crazy crazy crazy. She must have noticed that I wasn't paying attention to her words. "Earth to Heath-ah," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a little out of it this morning." "I guess so," she said. "Is Phillip to blame for that, too?" "Partially," I said, then I saw her. Amanda, making her rounds of the patio tables again. Gloria followed my gaze. "These girls . . ." she said, generalizing with the wave of her hand. "They'd be so pretty if they'd just get cleaned up. Do their hair, wear some make-up, stop shopping at the Salvation Army." Gloria laughed. "Shave their armpits for God's sake." Amanda either hadn't noticed me yet, or was purposely ignoring me. She was wearing the same dress she had worn the day before. I couldn't take my eyes off her, remembering how she looked without it. I wanted her to talk to me. I didn't even care that Gloria was here. "Phillip likes that type," I told Gloria. "Oh, I know," Gloria said. "We've had that talk. These girls come into his shop a lot. Don't worry, Heath-ah, your hubby's as faithful as a German Shepard, but he likes to look." "So do I," I said, tearing my eyes off Amanda with real effort. I looked at Gloria and smiled. "I think it's great that you two can be so open and honest about that sort of thing," Gloria said. "My husband was so jealous . . ." Amanda stood before our table, cutting off Gloria in mid-sentence. She refused to look at me, instead smiling down at Gloria. I felt like a scorned teen-ager, and this feeling made me angry at myself. Such a crazy jumble of emotions. "Excuse me," Amanda said to Gloria. "Do you have a couple dollars I can have?" Gloria flashed me an incredulous look. I managed a weak smile. "Honey," Gloria started. "Do you have a job?" "A job," Amanda said coyly. She winked at me, and this acknowledgment shoveled about two tons off my heart. I still resented her for this unwarranted power I had given her over myself. "What's that?" "That's very funny," Gloria said. "What's your name?" "Amanda." "Well, Amanda," Gloria said. "I'm going to give you the best advice you're going to hear all day. Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, eat a bowl of cereal instead of hitting the bong, then put a bra on and go around town filling out applications. You're bound to get something. That way, you don't have to bother nice people in coffee shops to get your love bead money." The condescending tone in Gloria's voice stung me, and I wasn't even it's target. But Amanda was unfazed. She was smiling sunnily, like this conversation was a game she was enjoying. "I don't have a bra," she said. "But if you give me a couple dollars I could go buy one." Gloria had to laugh at that. "You've got a lot of nerve, don't you?" Amanda shrugged. "Not really. So you can't even spare any change?" "Sorry." "How about a cigarette?" "Don't smoke." Amanda rolled her dark eyes over to me. "How about you?" "Sorry," I said. She licked her lips slowly. I actually twitched at the sight of her tongue. "Thanks anyway," she said, and then she was gone. I watched her walk away. It took effort not to chase after her. "Can you believe that?" Gloria said. "No," I answered. "Most of these hippie kids go to the college," she said. "Their parents are all loaded. There's no reason for them to be out here panhandling." "Mmm-hmm," I agreed absently. Gloria and I sat out there for another twenty minutes and I can not remember one thing we talked about. "Hon, you are not with us this morning," she said at one point. "Are you sure you're OK?" "I'm fine," I said. I was anything but. Gloria finally left, walking back to her shop, which was only a few blocks away from the coffee house. When I went around back to the parking lot, Amanda was leaning on my car, waiting for me. "Hi," she smiled when she saw me. I approached her, heart fluttering. I hadn't been this nervous about seeing someone since junior high school. "Hi," I answered. "Your friend seems pretty cool," she said. I nodded, having nothing to say. Wetness dripped down the inside of my leg. "Can I get in the car?" Amanda asked. I nodded again. We both got in. I sat down behind the steering wheel and took two deep breaths, but could not calm my shaking heart. "I think I lost my bracelet," Amanda babbled. I didn't want her to talk anymore, so I kissed her. She kissed me back, surprised I think at my making the first move. I grasped her breast and held it tight. Amanda slid her hand between my thighs and found my naked cunt. I opened my legs and her fingers plunged in, squishing because I was so wet. I was getting finger-fucked by a girl in a crowded parking lot in broad daylight. I didn't care if anyone saw us. There was nothing in the world that existed except this girl's hand inside me. "Jesus fuck," I swore absurdly when I got off about thirty seconds later. Amanda giggled and pulled out of me with a wet little pop. She traced my lips with a dripping finger. Phillip did that, too. He liked it when I tasted myself. I sucked Amanda's finger greedily, thinking of my husband. "Can we go to your place for a little while?" she asked. "Yeah," I said, kissing her again. I couldn't get enough. "I thought about you a lot last night," Amanda told me as I drove home. "I couldn't think about anything else." "I thought about you, too," I admitted. "Really? Did you tell your husband what happened?" "Yeah." "What'd he say?" "He didn't say anything. He just fucked my brains out." Amanda laughed. "It turned him on?" "Oh yeah," I said. "I'm sure he'd like to meet you. Would you . . . stick around until he gets home?" I didn't have to spell out what I was driving at. Both of them at the same time . . . I didn't know if I could handle it, but I sure as hell wanted to try. "I don't think that would be a very good idea," Amanda said. "Why not?" "Um . . ." Amanda struggled. "It's just that, right now I'm not really into men, you know? Your husband seems like a pretty cool guy, but I just want you." This explanation rang false, but I accepted it. I got Amanda home and we went straight into the bedroom. We made love for most of the afternoon. The sex that day was so relaxed. It wasn't the urgent fucking of strangers, but casual and languishing, like it was with Phillip. Like I'd known her for years. "This is so crazy," I said afterwards, as I held her. She snuggled closer. "Why is it so crazy?" "It's crazy for a lot of reasons," I said. "I don't even know you, I'm married, I'm not gay." "You're getting to know me, your husband doesn't mind, and who cares?" Amanda said, countering my arguments one-by-one. "I feel like I've known you for a long time," I said. "Maybe you have," said Amanda. "What's that supposed to mean?" "I don't know," she rolled over and nuzzled me, playing lazily with my breast. "Do you believe in reincarnation?" "That's not what I mean," I said, a little irritated by this cheap mysticism. "You're really familiar to me and I can't place my finger on why. It's not a past life or anything ridiculous like that. I don't know what it is." "I feel it, too," Amanda said. Her hand drifted down my belly and I felt her finger find my clitoris. I was worn out, spent, dry as a bone. I grabbed her hand and dragged it off me. "Don't," I said. "OK," she said, withdrawing. She sounded hurt. "I'm sorry." "Don't be," I tried to soothe her, but my voice sounded cold. "It's just that . . . people weren't meant to have this much sex in a twenty-four hour period." She laughed at that, but I could sense that the warmth we had generated between us was beginning to cool. I was relieved. It was getting to be too close. Amanda rolled over onto her back again. "I can't do this much longer, Amanda," I said. She didn't say anything for a long time. "Why not?" "I like you a lot, and you're . . . great, but this is turning my life upside-down. My emotions are . . . all out of whack. I'm confused. Can you understand how this all confusing for me?" Amanda nodded. I thought she might be crying, but when I touched her cheek, my finger came back dry. "I'm sorry," I said. "Don't be sorry," she answered. "I know it's confusing. It's confusing for me, too. And it . . . it doesn't have to be. There's a way to make this all clear and normal, but . . . I don't know how to . . ." She trailed off, not making any sense to me. "Do you not want to see me anymore?" she asked a few minutes later. "I don't know," this was the best answer I could give. Right at that moment, I could see very clearly that it was for the best that we didn't continue this, but I knew the reason I was able to see this was because I was quenched. I knew I would want her again. It was unfair to put this girl at the mercy of my desires, but I had to be honest. "OK," Amanda sat up. "I'm going to go now, but it's OK. I know what you're saying and I understand. I do." She got out of bed and began to dress. "Do you want me to drive you back into town?" I offered, although I felt too exhausted to move. "No," she said. "I need to walk. I need to think." She came over to me and stroked my hair. "If you want to see me, I'm sure you can find me. If not . . ." I nodded. Amanda bent over and kissed me. A sweet kiss, full and warm. "I love you," she whispered. Amanda stood up quickly. "Oops," she laughed. "I didn't really mean to say that." Then she was gone. She hurried out of the room and I heard her leave out the front door. Her words still echoed, and I puzzled over a troubling fact. When she'd said that to me, I had almost said that I loved her, too. Automatically, like out of an ingrained habit. I fell asleep after Amanda left. I was even more exhausted than I had been when she'd left me the day before. It was a heavy, sluggish sleep, as only afternoon naps can be. I dreamed of sleeping. Sometimes Amanda was beside me; sometimes Phillip. Time was as thick as molasses and I felt like I might never wake up. I think I did wake up fully at one point, though. I can't be sure because it was so much like my dreams of lying in bed, except that this time I was alone. The afternoon sun was seeping through my blinds, while in the dreams all had been darkness. It was strange enough to be a dream, but without that underwater narcotic feeling. The sound of someone moving around on the third floor was what woke me up. I've heard this before, it was part of the reason why the house unnerved me so much. I had tried to convince myself that it was rats. Big rats. But Phillip had checked it out and had found no evidence of vermin. No droppings or shredded boxes. He joked that it must be ghosts. He himself had never heard anything. I only heard it when I was home alone. Floorboards creaked. Doors opened. I heard footsteps on a staircase, but the sound seemed not to come from the stairs. It came from somewhere else, deep inside the house. Today I felt no fear. My half-awake mind seemed to recognize the footsteps. It was either Phillip or Amanda, I thought, and in the state I was in I didn't consider that Phillip wasn't home and that Amanda had left, and that neither could have gone upstairs without me hearing them come into the front door. I was awake for less than a minute, so this perception melted into my dreams and was indistinguishable from them. In the dreams, my husband and my new lover had been interchangeable. Which was which, who was who, one or the other or both made no difference. I didn't think it strange that he/she/them/whatever should be upstairs. I slipped back into sleep and dreams unconcerned. Phillip came home a few hours later, and I awoke to him standing in the room. He smiled down at me, naked on the bed. "Did you see your friend again?" "Uh-huh," I mumbled sleepily. "Did you fuck her?" I peeled my eyes open and fixed them upon him. His directness, arousing to me the day before, now struck me as crude and annoying. I rolled over, my back to him. Phillip sat down on the bed and slid his hand between my buttocks. His fingers searched for my clitoris. "Stop," I said. The hand withdrew. "What's wrong?" he sounded hurt. "I don't feel like being touched," I said. "Are you OK?" "No." Phillip was silent for a few minutes. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was wearing the stung, confused look he got whenever I was irritated by him. He was like a little kid sometimes, utterly dependant on my approval. This satisfied me. I wanted him to feel like that right now. "Do you want me to leave you alone?" he asked eventually. "I don't care." He didn't move, unsure of what I wanted from him. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "No." I lay there for a while, listening to him breathing. I remembered waking up and hearing the sounds upstairs. "Were you up in the attic this afternoon?" I asked. "No," he said. "I just got home." Silence. It pained him and gratified me. I let it drag. "Why?" he said after a while. "Did you hear your ghost again?" I could hear the smile in his voice. Like everything else, this annoyed me. "My ghost? What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing," he said. Another long quiet minute. "I'm sorry," Phillip said. "You don't even know what you're sorry for," I challenged. "I'm sorry that you're upset," he said. "I know this must be confusing for you." "You don't know anything." "Yes I do," Phillip said, surprisingly firm. "This is a strange situation for me. Stranger than you can know." "Why?" I flipped over and faced him. "You got your favorite fantasy fulfilled. Your wife fucking the girl of your dreams and telling you all about it. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Third Person Ch. 03 The next several weeks were a convalescence. We recovered from the injury inflicted upon our marriage. I was angry, and I couldn't say why. I was the one who had cheated, but Phillip was so pleased by the whole thing. I didn't know what I had expected from him; I knew he wasn't the jealous type. But his obvious satisfaction enraged me. There was another reason, too, but it was so irrational, so paranoid, that I didn't even like to consider it. Part of me, deep down, believed that Phillip had somehow orchestrated the whole thing. Had arranged for me to meet Amanda, had known that she could get me into bed. My husband, the puppetmaster, pulling strings for his own gratification. Crazy, I know, but I wasn't exactly in a rational state of mind. For a solid week, I couldn't stand the sight of my husband. If we spoke more than ten words to each other, I would become annoyed. I made him sleep in the spare bedroom, and we might as well have been room-mates. Room-mates that didn't get along. During this entire time, Phillip moped around like a puppy that had pissed on the rug. This only made me angrier. Him acting guilty helped to convince me of his guilt. He said he was sorry so much that I told him if he apologized one more time, I would divorce him. I meant it, too. If he would have got angry, yelled at me, called me a dyke whore, screamed into my face that I was the one who fucked around, and where the hell did I get off treating him like the criminal; if he would have done any of those things, that would have ended it. I could have forgiven him for my sins. But that wasn't Phillip. Eventually, I just got tired of feeling this way. I let Phillip back in. Things slowly moved towards normal. The first time we made love after the cold spell was a conciliatory gesture, based on peace-making rather than passion. I was happy that we were healing the rift, but I felt nothing. I wondered if I ever would again. I didn't see Amanda at all. I avoided the coffee house, of course, but as I did my business around town, I found myself looking for her. I didn't want to see her again and I did want to. I felt I owed her an explanation, and I knew that would be a mistake. I no longer desired her, I felt like my sexuality had burned out, but thoughts of Amanda brought such conflicting emotions that I avoided them at all costs. I wondered if she had left town. Part of me hoped she had. After about a month, everything was more or less normalized. Phillip and I pretended that nothing had happened. It was a mutually consensual delusion, and it served us both well. We talked, we worked, we made love, just as before. If it weren't for the dreams, I could have easily convinced myself that I had never met Amanda. The same dream, wandering the upper floors, something watching me. Only it had evolved. Now, Amanda was the ghost which haunted the attic. She was trapped, and I was trying to find her, to free her. In the dreams, there was always the implication that Phillip had somehow imprisoned her up there. The dreams were vivid and very disturbing, even though nothing ever happened. It's just me, walking through rooms that do not exist, looking for a lost girl who I never find, feeling invisible eyes and heaviness in my chest. On a morning about six weeks after my affair with Amanda, I found myself home alone, working. The radio was on, tuned to NPR. They were doing a feature story about rescue missions on Mt. Everest. I began to daydream about what it would like to be trapped up there. On top of the world when the snow hits, no oxygen to breathe, knowing that I'm going to die. The top of Everest was like the attic of my dreams. Disconnected; pulsing with death but irresistible. You keep going up and up, no matter if logic tells you otherwise. The difference being, Everest has a peak. The attic in my mind is infinite. I chewed the eraser off a pencil, absorbed in my thoughts. I fantasized that I was a solo climber, lost, snow-blind, hallucinating from the hypoxia. I lose hope and sit down, waiting for the mountain to swallow me. I pictured this very clearly in my mind. The image was compelling. I wondered what the last thoughts to pass through my head would be. The last images my oxygen-starved mind would conjure. Would I see angels? It's funny. I used to fantasize about sex. I gulped down the last of my coffee and regarded the staircase. I knew I was going to go up there, had known it for weeks. It was necessary. My life was in a holding pattern. In order to move on, I would have to confront my fear of whatever was up there. Rationally, I knew that it was nothing but old boxes and dust, but I had not yet gone up there because there was nothing rational about my fear. This morning I was endowed not with boldness, but with fatalism. I had to know. If whatever waited for me in the attic chose to swallow me, then so be it. I stood up, determined. I changed out of my bathrobe into jeans and a sweatshirt. Then I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. The lights worked in the attic, but I knew that if a bulb burned out and I was caught in darkness, I would probably lose my mind with terror. I tested the flashlight to make sure the batteries were good, and then thought about what else I should bring, still thinking of mountain expeditions. Get going, I told myself. Do it now, or you'll never do it. Knowing that was true, I began my ascent. The second floor was relatively innocuous. I thought this as I mounted the second flight of stairs. There were three bedrooms, two of which were devoted to the storage of Phillip's records and books, and a bathroom. Phillip and I sometimes went up there to bathe together in the massive, old-fashioned claw bathtub. Still, I hardly came up even as far as this floor. My dread was of the third floor, but the second was like a border town to purgatory. I forced my feet to move and my thoughts to stop as I climbed. I realized about halfway up the second flight that I was not breathing and had to will myself to start again. Like a fool, I thought of "The Exorcist." The scene where the possessed girl's mother goes up to investigate noises in the attic, and her candle flares up into a huge flame. This image was enough to actually turn me around and send me back down a few stairs before I realized I was being stupid. After all, I was carrying a flashlight. Despite all my efforts to block such thoughts, I kept coming back to horror movies. This was a cherished cliche', wasn't it? Don't go into the attic. Scared woman, home alone, venturing alone into danger. This isn't a horror movie, I told myself testily. This is real life. Stop trying to freak yourself out. The stairs did not go on nearly long enough. I was on the third floor. Half of the third floor was finished, with carpeting and plaster on the walls. These rooms had an ominous quality, like the floors and walls were just a facade. I thought of Edgar Allen Poe stories. But my business was not here. I walked to the back of the house and through the small wooden door. Beyond the door was straight attic. Bare wood floors. Exposed ceiling. The walls were the inside of the house's skin, portions of it patched with pink fiberglass insulation. I pulled the chain on the bare forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling, filling the long room with thin yellow light. It was cold. Seventies outside, but it felt almost cold enough to see my breath in here. Maybe my imagination. Probably my imagination. I tried not to think of "cold spots" in books I've read on haunted houses. I failed. I forced my slippered feet onward, my heart by now thumping loudly in my chest. I felt the dream feeling of being watched, the oppression in the air. I wanted very badly to turn around and go downstairs. But I knew that if I turned around I would run, and if I ran I would never come up here again. I would never be free. I looked around. The walls were lined with boxes and crates, covered with dust. Very little of the clutter was ours. Our Christmas tree and decorations, a few other things. The rest of it was old, stuff that belonged to Phillip's parents, or maybe even his grandparents who had lived here before them. A pair of old, heavy ice skates hung by their laces from a nail in the wall. I wondered what generation of Aster had worn them. I touched the boxes which contained familiar things, for reassurance. I was breathing a little easier. The fear had receded, and I wondered what I had come up here to see. I poked around an ancient trunk, big enough enough to be a coffin. It creaked open, revealing a collection of dusty yellow books. These must have been from his family, otherwise Phillip would have tried to sell these by now. I opened a 'Dick and Jane' school primer and saw the copyright dated from 1935. The antiquity was fascinating, words unread for decades, the dry smell of old books. Beside the trunk was a wooden crate. I swept aside the thick webs which covered the top and found one still occupied. A plump black spider, not happy about having its home destroyed. It scurried up my arm. I screamed as I picked it off and threw it across the room. My scream was raw and panicked in the close confines of the attic walls. I took four running steps towards the door. Again I forced myself to stop, go back, confront whatever it was I had come up here to confront. It wasn't a spider. The crate the spider had protected contained old clothes. I picked through them, skin still crawling so badly I didn't want to touch anything. The clothes were men's pants and a suit jacket, about forty years out of style. I realized that whoever had worn this suit was dead now, and dropped the clothes like they were themselves rotten. I nosed through boxes at random, avoiding the ones covered with spider webs, still not sure what I was looking for. I found a box of really nice china, wrapped in newspapers which referred to President Eisenhower in the present tense. After about fifteen minutes of looking through boxes of old junk, I tried to tell myself that it was time to go downstairs. I was not retreating in fear, there was simply nothing to find. I wasn't satisfied, though. There was something else up here that I was meant to see. I stood up and surveyed the boxes, wondering which one to try next. It's not in the boxes, I thought. Standing there, facing the back of the attic, I noticed something strange. The roof of the house came to a point, but only one of the attic walls was at an angle, the one to my left. The other wall was straight vertical. I realized that this part of the attic, the unfinished part, was only half as wide as the third floor. I thought of the house in three dimensions and realized that there was space under the roof that wasn't accessible from here. Secret rooms. This chilled me. It was so much like my dream. I was excited, too. I grinned even as the fear flushed through my system. Hearing my heart thud in my ears, I felt along the flat wall section by section. Looking for a passage. I was methodical, starting at the front of the attic and working my way back. About three-quarters of the way back, I began to see light through the wall slats. It was dim and yellow, and I wasn't surprised I hadn't noticed it before. The sections of the wall with the light showing through didn't seem to be as solid as the other ones, they gave more when I pressed against them. It felt like I could break through the old, brittle wood if I pushed hard enough. Then I found it. Between the third and the fourth studs from the back wall, a section of wall that moved when I pressed against it. Closer examination revealed hinges and a latch, cleverly camouflaged behind strips of plywood. It was a door. A secret door. I took a deep breath and undid the latch. I swung the door open and climbed inside. I was in a bedroom. Empty, except for an old feather bed which smelled of dust and must and years without fresh air. Ancient rodent droppings littered the floor and all the corners were thick with cobwebs. The light I had seen through the attic walls was coming from a single window above the bed, so dirty that the light coming through it was brown. Laying on the bed was the corpse of Amanda, my illicit lover. I didn't scream. I must have been terrified, but I didn't feel it at the time. I was only conscious of satisfaction that I wasn't crazy. My instincts had been confirmed. I went to Amanda. She was laying on her back on top of the covers, wearing the same dress she had always worn. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't breathing. I touched her throat and felt no pulse. Her flesh was cool but not cold. Soft, not yet stiff. She must have just died. I couldn't make out any wounds. There was no blood, no bruises. She looked like she was sleeping. Across the dimly lit room was a door. I opened it. It led to a staircase, going down towards the back of the house. I shined my flashlight into the darkness and realized that it must lead down to the storage space on the west side of the house. I never went in there, but Phillip dug around in there all the time. That was how he did it, took her up the secret staircase into the secret room, to hide the body. I didn't know if he had killed her here or elsewhere, but I knew that he'd killed her. My husband was a murderer. This knowledge came surprisingly easy to me. It confirmed my darkest fears. I wondered if there had been others, over the years. Others he had killed, then let rot in this room. My mind was cool, my thoughts coming slow and clear. I would go downstairs and call the police. After I showed them the room and the body, after Phillip was arrested, I would leave. I would go back to my mother and never set foot in this house again. It was difficult to leave Amanda, though. Because she looked alive. I wanted to wake her up. I thought of "Sleeping Beauty" and shuddered when I imagined bestowing a kiss on her stiff cold lips. "She's dead," I said aloud and this statement hung so heavy in the antique air that I finally became afraid. So Phillip was the ghost. I had only heard the sounds when I was home alone because it was him, skulking around up here. Suddenly, light filled the dark passage. A door was opened at the bottom. I stepped back, shutting the door in front of me as quietly as I could. I staggered backwards across the room, almost tripping on the edge of the death bed. Footsteps were ascending the stairs, slowly at first, but breaking into a run as whoever was coming up (Phillip, it had to be Phillip) realized that someone had found his secret killing floor. I scrambled into the passage in the wall but did not make it halfway through before the door was flung open. "Heather," Phillip cried behind me. "Heather, wait!" He was going to kill me, too. I knew it. In blind self-defense, I hurled my flashlight at him, my only weapon. It struck him in the nose and he fell backwards as I scurried back into the other room. "Heather, please!" Phillip choked. "She's not dead!" This was perhaps the one thing he could have said that had the power to make me turn around. It was my most illogical hope, that the pulse-less, breathless woman on the bed was still alive. I poked my head back through the sliding panel. "You fucking monster!" I spat. Phillip blinked back at me, stung. He was clutching his nose, which was bleeding profusely. "Ow," he said, tilting his head back. "Heather, come back here, I can explain this." "No goddamn way," I snarled. Phillip went to the bed. He touched Amanda on the shoulder. She opened her eyes. She spoke. "Heather," Amanda said. "Please come in here. We need to talk." I thought at first it was some kind of ventriloquist's trick. I just couldn't figure out how he was making her move. Then Phillip looked at me. The gentle, caring eyes of my husband, whom I loved and trusted. "Please," he said. "I've been trying to tell you this for so long." He took his hand off Amanda and she collapsed again, like she had no life unless he was touching her. "Phillip?" my voice quivered. I had never before been this scared or confused. He motioned for me to come to him. Then he sat on the bed, placing his arm on Amanda. She came to life again and sat up beside him. They put their arms around one another, like teen-age lovers. I felt an irrational spark of jealousy. Was he hiding her up here as his mistress? That didn't make any sense, but then nothing about this did. Phillip and Amanda both watched me crawl through the hole in the wall to join them in the bedroom. Their gaze was eerily synchronized, like their eyes were linked by wires. "What the fuck is going on?" I demanded. Phillip removed his hand from his nose and Amanda inspected the wound. Both nodded gravely. "I don't think it's broken," Amanda stated. "I'm sorry I did that," I said. I wanted to go to Phillip and comfort him, but at the same time I felt way too close already. "I don't blame you," they both said in unison. I gaped at them in horror. "Sorry," Phillip said. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" I didn't like the sound of my own voice, ragged, on the verge of hysterics. "Yes," Phillip said. "I'm just trying to find the best way to do it." "Just say it," I begged. They each bit their lip thoughtfully. "And if you don't stop that twin act or whatever it is, I'm going to lose my fucking mind." Phillip alone sighed. "That's just it," he said. "It's not an act. Heather, we're . . ." "What?" I was sobbing now. "We're the same person, Heather." Phillip said. Amanda just stared forward as if in a trance. "What are you saying?" "We're the same person," Phillip said again. "One mind, two bodies. I can go back and forth from one to the other. I can even work both at the same time, if we're touching, but it's sort of like rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the same time." "Wha . . ." "I know it's hard to swallow, but it's true. I've been able to do this since I was a little girl." "That's . . . bullshit," I said, my mind reeling. "No, Heather," Amanda said. "It's not. I think you see now why I haven't told you this before." Amanda stood. Phillip slumped over on the bed. "That's why I came to you in this body," she said. "I thought that if you could meet me like this first, it would be easier to . . ." I went to Phillip and took him in my arms. He wasn't breathing. "What did you do to my husband?" I demanded. "I am your husband," Amanda said. She went to touch Phillip's cheek, but I slapped her hand away. "Don't touch him!" Amanda slid up Phillip's pant leg and grabbed his ankle. In my arms, Phillip came to life. I could feel the life-force, or whatever it was, fill his body instantly. It was like a switch being flipped. "It's true, Heather," Phillip said. "It's all true." I shook my head and cried. "It's impossible," I said over and over. "Impossible." I buried my face in Phillip's shoulder and wept. "It's time you knew," Phillip said. "I've wanted to tell you for so long. Hiding this from you has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I love you so much, Heather." "I love you, too," I sniffed. Then I felt soft hands on my shoulders, her hands. I shook them off. "If you love me," Phillip said, "then you have to love all of me." "This is part of me," Amanda's voice came from behind me. "I was a woman before I was a man. When you made love to this body, I was so happy. I had never been so happy. I thought you were accepting this other part of me." "Stop," I pleaded. "Let's go downstairs," Phillip said. "It's cold up here, and gloomy. I'll tell you the whole story." Phillip let me go and stood up, Amanda leaning on him the whole time to maintain contact. "This way's faster," they both said, then walked hand-in-hand down the back staircase. Third Person Ch. 04 We reconvened in the living room, Amanda and Phillip sitting close together on the couch, me across from them in the chair. I stared at my husband and this girl. I didn't believe them yet, I don't think. I'm not sure of the moment when I came to accept my husband's unique nature. It was probably later that night, when I realized that the deception was even less probable than the actuality. Why would anyone conspire to pull something like this off? What I was being told was impossible, but it was easier to believe as the truth than as a lie. The three of us, or two of us I suppose, looked at each other for a long time before anyone spoke. "Tell me," I finally demanded. "OK," Amanda began. "It started when I was a little girl. This was my . . ." "I don't want to hear it from you," I snapped. "I want to hear it from him." They fixed me with identical expressions of frustration. "It's me either way," Phillip said. "It doesn't matter." "It matters to me," I said. "You're the one I married." "OK," Phillip said. "Fine. It started when I was a little girl . . ." I let out a little scream. "I was a girl first," Phillip said. "I told you that." "Yeah," I said, holding my head. "Whatever. Go on." "This was my house," Phillip began. "By that, I mean it was Amanda's house. It did belong to my parents, but I was their daughter." "This is so confusing." "Let me tell it this way," Amanda said. "It'll be less awkward." I nodded and closed my eyes. "I lived here," Amanda continued. "Me and my mom and dad. Phillip was our neighbor. He lived in that house across the alleyway. The yellow one." "Wait," I said. "Phillip was . . . somebody else?" "Just listen, Heather," Amanda said. "It'll make sense. Phillip was my best friend. I was five and he was twelve, but he was kind of slow, like retarded, I guess. Even though he was a lot older, we were really about on the same level. He came over and we played every day that I didn't have school. I think my parents were a little worried, you know, this boy was hitting puberty and they were afraid that he'd . . . you know, molest me or something. But all you had to do was talk to him for five minutes and you'd see that he wouldn't hurt anybody. He was the gentlest, sweetest person I've ever known. He cried when he stepped on a bug." "That's why . . ." Amanda gulped. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. "That's why it was so evil what they did to him. His parents, his father, I guess it was, beat him. I mean, severely beat him. Every day he'd come over, he'd have bruises, cuts, burns. They burned him! With cigarettes. The body still has some scars. I know you've seen them." I nodded. There were marks all over Phillip's back and chest, and even a few on his face. When I'd ask about these, he'd always tell me some funny story about Boy Scout camp or something. I motioned for Amanda to continue. "They even broke his arm once. I'd ask him about it, and he always told me what happened. He'd swear me to secrecy, but he told me everything. I was just five, Heather. I didn't really understand. I mean, I understood, but I couldn't grasp how horrible it was. If I did, I would have told my parents and they could have called the police, and Phillip would still be alive." "But . . ." I started to protest. "Heather," Amanda said. She patted Phillip on the shoulder. Phillip was just sitting there, glassy-eyed and vacant. "This isn't Phillip. Phillip is dead. This is me. I just go by the name Phillip when I'm in his body." I shook my head violently, trying to clear it. "I know," Amanda said sympathetically. "This has to be difficult for you. But let me finish, OK?" "OK." "So I kept it a secret. I didn't tell anyone, not even after. See, it was summertime, and we played together every day. Then one day, he didn't come over. He didn't come over the next day, either. Then on the third day . . ." Amanda was crying now. Tears were falling from Phillip's eyes as well. "He came over and he was bleeding real bad. From his head. The side was all bashed in. His dad hit him in the head with a hammer." Phillip leaned forward and parted his hair to show me the scar, a swollen red patch of scalp. I had seen it before and wondered about it, but had never asked Phillip where it had come from. "He said, 'Mandy.' He called me Mandy. 'Mandy, hide me. He wants to kill me.'" "Heather, it was horrible," Amanda sobbed. "I was five. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to tell my mom and dad, but Phillip begged me not to. He was afraid that they'd just make him go back to his father. So I hid him. In the attic." "My grandpa was the one who sealed off those rooms up there. He was a real eccentric guy, he wanted a place to hide out if the government ever came looking for him. He wasn't a gangster or anything, he was just paranoid. My parents had shown me the room, but nobody ever went up there. So I snuck Phillip up the back stairs, and I hid him. For days. I brought him food and water. I found my old training toilet and he went to the bathroom in that and I snuck it back downstairs to clean it out." "Then . . . he died. I went up to check on him and he wasn't breathing. I was old enough to know what that meant. I lay down in bed next to him and I put his arm around me and I cried and cried." "That's the first time it happened. I felt this weird sensation, like I was slipping away out of myself. I thought it was just sadness, so I let it happen. Then I was looking out of his eyes, not my own." "I wasn't scared. I remember that. I was just . . . curious. I was so young, I didn't know that what had happened was strange. It made sense to me, that if someone was dead, you could go inside of them. His body was empty, so I just went in and filled it up." "I looked down at my own body and saw that it was dead. I still wasn't scared, though. I knew I could go back whenever I wanted to. I only stayed in for a couple of minutes, because the head still hurt pretty bad. I remember, I just stood up and went to look out the window, then lay back down and went into my own body again." "I left him up there. This might seem strange, but I forgot all about him. For years. I remember there was a big deal about Phillip being missing. His picture was in the newspaper, his parents were on TV, everyone thought he'd been kidnapped. My parents were worried about me, because he was my friend, but I wasn't upset at all. I forgot that he was in our attic, but part of me still knew, so I wasn't worried." "Phillip's parents eventually moved away and I didn't think about him at all for a long time." "I didn't get my first period until I was eighteen. My parents took me to all kinds of doctors, but none of them could figure out what was wrong with me. I just kind of figured it would never happen, you know? Then one morning, I saw blood on my underwear. I was so relieved that I was normal after all. But, this is the weird part. The blood reminded me of Phillip's blood and the whole thing came flooding back to me all at once. I remembered everything. I didn't know if it was real or not, though. Did you ever have a dream when you were real young that you remembered years later, but you couldn't tell if it was a dream or a memory?" I nodded absently, just wanting Amanda to continue. "Well, it was like that. I didn't know if Phillip being in the attic was a dream I had when I was five, or something that really happened. I wasn't even sure if the secret room was real, or if that was a dream, too. I hardly ever went up into the attic, because I was scared of it. I thought it was haunted. Just like you." "My parents weren't home that day. I went into the bathroom and got one of my mom's maxi pads, and then I went upstairs." "It was scary, and it was weird. Going up there, knowing what I was going to find, but knowing that it was impossible." "I know the feeling," I put in. Amanda smiled at me. "Yeah, it must have been almost the same for you, huh? Anyway, I found the trap door in the attic, right where I knew it would be, and then I went into the room." "I had thought that if he was up there at all, if the memory was real, he'd be just a skeleton by now. But he wasn't. He just looked like he was sleeping, even though he wasn't breathing and didn't have a pulse. He'd aged, though. I guess he would have been about twenty-five. He was still dressed in the same clothes he'd died in, but he'd grown through them. Just burst right out of them. They were rags, hanging off of him." "I inspected the body pretty carefully. I mean, I was at the age where . . . I was curious, you know? I was a virgin; I'd never even had a real boyfriend. And here was a naked man's body that I could just look at as long as I wanted to. All that hair, and his penis . . . it looked so big. It was like a weird alien thing attached to his body. I was fascinated." "Then I remembered how I had gone into the body when he first died. I knew that had to be a dream, but I tried it anyway. I lay down on his chest and the same thing happened. I went into him, and I was him. Just like before, I looked down at my own body, but this time . . ." Amanda laughed. "I lost my virginity that day. To myself. It was . . . amazing. It's like masturbation only instead of your hand, you've got a whole man's body which you control, and you can feel everything that both bodies feel." "When I finally went downstairs, I felt like I was crazy. Not to mention the guilt, the shame, the fear. Jesus, I was a basket case. My mom and dad came home and they could tell how freaked out I was. They put it down to me just being rattled about finally starting my period, but they knew it was more than that. I mean, I could barely talk, I was so freaked." "I went upstairs a lot after that, to fuck my own brains out. It was so good while I was up there, but when I came down it seemed like nothing was real. Up there, in the room, with Phillip, seemed real. But going to school, being with my parents, that seemed like the dream. So, needless to say, I was sort of fucked-up. My grades went south. I started to get into trouble a lot. I stopped talking to my friends. Totally the opposite of how I was before." "My parents put me in therapy, of course. And, of course, I knew I couldn't tell my therapist about going up to the attic. Or, wait, you know actually I did tell her about it. Only I said it was a recurring dream. The therapist, she was convinced that Phillip had molested me when I was younger and that's why I was having these dreams." Amanda laughed. "I wanted to tell her the truth, just to see the look on her face, but I knew she'd probably lock me up." "I think my problem was, I was living in two worlds. Because they were separate, it was like I couldn't believe that they could both be real. So, one day, I tried something I had never done before. I went out into the world as Phillip. I bought some clothes, and then I left my own body up in the attic and went down the back stairs as a man." "I just walked around town, but it was the strangest experience. I was convinced that everyone could see through me, like I was wearing a disguise. I went into a men's room and nobody threw me out. I pissed standing up at a urinal, and I was laughing the whole time at my own audacity." "After that it was better. I knew I wasn't crazy. The two worlds had been reconciled, and they were both real. I started to act a little more normal. There were still occasional problems. Like when my parents wouldn't leave me alone long enough to sneak upstairs. It was so frustrating. It had become like a drug and I needed to fix up at least once a day. Plus, I turned into kind of a slut. Sex with Phillip's body was great, but it made me want to find out what it would be like with another person, you know? Like there was something missing. I was using another body, but I was still essentially touching myself. I wanted to be touched by someone else. But none of the guys I was with in high school did much for me at all. Either they were fumbling and awkward or they were selfish. Either they were too rough or too soft. None of them could do half of what I could do myself with Phillip." "Then, when I was nineteen, my parents died. I already told you about that. They were going to visit my grandparents, my mom's mom and dad, in Chicago. The plane crashed. It was terrible. I was suddenly all alone. I inherited it all. The house, two cars, some property in town, a pretty fair amount of money. Luckily, my parents had put together a will." "I realized then how much freedom I had. I could do anything I wanted to. I was out of high school, I had money, I even had the choice of living as a man or a woman. Or both. So, the first thing I did was to find this guy who made a fake birth certificate and social security card for Phillip. With those, I got him a real driver's license. Now Phillip was a real person. I decided to enroll in college as Phillip, to try living as a man. I took this body with me, of course. I have to be able to switch, otherwise I would lose my mind. But I was first, foremost, predominantly Phillip." "At college, I went a little crazy. I mean, who doesn't? I wanted to try every new experience I could. Sex, drugs, you name it. Only with me, it was doubled, because I had to try everything twice. As Phillip and as Amanda. The sex was the main thing. I had to know. Now that my gender was pretty ambiguous, my sexuality was up for grabs. I had to try being with both men and women, both as a man and as a woman. I told you about my homosexual experimentation as Phillip, didn't I?" I nodded, the question meaningless to me, framed as it was from Amanda. "Yeah, well I found out that I preferred women, no matter which body I was in. Does that mean I would have been a lesbian had things gone more normally? I don't know. It was all pretty screwed up. Anyway, that's when I met you." I shivered as the memory came back to me, inverted now in this new context. We had met at a party. It was winter time, and my car got stuck in the driveway. Phillip helped me get it out. He called me the next day and asked me out. I said no. He ran into me at a bar a couple weeks later and asked me again. That time I said yes. There was something about him, I remember, something below the surface. When he looked at me, it was like he was seeing through me, like he had some understanding of me. Kind of a feminine quality, too. Before he asked me out, I thought he was gay. All these first impressions came back to me now, making new sense. "I knew right away," Amanda said. I tried to tell myself that these were Phillips words, coming from her lips, but I wasn't at the point where this concept came easily to me. Not yet. "I loved you from the first time I saw you. And when I saw that you were falling in love with me . . . I was so torn, Heather. I wanted you completely, but I could only have you with half of myself. That was hard. I wanted to tell you. So bad, Heather. The night I proposed to you . . ." "Wait," I interrupted. "I'm sorry, but you didn't propose to me. He did." Amanda nodded thoughtfully, and then slumped over. Phillip came alive again. "Yeah, I guess I should tell you the rest like this," he said. "What about the night you proposed?" I said, wanting to cry now. This was one of my most precious memories, and I didn't want it to be ruined with this new information. "I almost told you that night. The Amanda body was in the closet. Remember when I went out of the room for so long?" "You told me you were trying to work up the nerve to ask me." "I was," said Phillip. "But I was also trying to work up the nerve to tell you about . . . me. What I am. I couldn't do it then. I knew you'd probably just run screaming." "I probably would have," I said, then regretted it. A look of hurt flashed across Phillip's face. He nodded. "I felt cowardly for not telling you. The night before the wedding, I almost told you again. You remember?" "You said, 'there's something I have to tell you that might make a difference in the way you feel, that you should know before the wedding.'" "I chickened out again," Phillip said. "I just said that I'd had sex with a man and pretended like I was all ashamed of it." "And I said that it didn't matter who you were or what you did before." "Yeah," Phillip said. "But I thought you might think differently if you knew about this." I closed my eyes and asked myself if it would have made a difference. I had no answer for that. "For three years I lived with this secret," Phillip said. "For a long time, I just left my real body upstairs and tried to live only as Phillip. That was hard, but if that was the price I had to pay to be with you, I was willing to do it. I didn't go into my own body for over a year." "I started to forget, Heather. It was like when I was younger, and I forgot all about Phillip. I started to forget my own self, Heather. That body upstairs was me, what I was born into, and every day I was away from it made it seem more and more like a dream. I had memories about growing up as a girl, but I even started to doubt those. I felt like I was losing my mind again." "So I started to go out as Amanda again. You know, all those book-buying trips to Sedona and Flagstaff? I went as Amanda, left Phillip upstairs. Then I would come home and switch bodies, and you never knew the difference. But, Heather, I felt like I was deceiving you. It was like having an affair." "Did you?" I asked. "Did I what?" "Have an affair. As Amanda. Did you ever sleep with anybody when you went out as her?" "No," Phillip insisted. "Just because I wasn't in the body you married, that didn't mean that I could do that to you. You would have no way of knowing, but I would." "Did you ever fuck Amanda when you were Phillip?" Phillip hesitated before answering that one. "Yes." "You . . ." I began, not having any idea what I was feeling, just knowing that it was strong. "It's just like when you caught me jerking off," Phillip said. "That didn't make you mad. You just laughed." "It's different," I said. "You had sex with another woman." "But the woman is me. I am the woman. It's . . . Jesus, this is hard to explain." "OK," I said. "Forget about that. What prompted you to come to me as Amanda?" "I needed to, Heather," he said. "It's like I said. I feel like I'm only giving half myself to you. I wanted you to have the whole thing. I thought it would be easier for you to accept it, if I came to you like that. If you met Amanda and made love to her." He smiled. "That's why it always turned me on so much when you talked about being with other women. Because it meant that I had a chance. Still, it took me forever to work up the nerve. I had no idea if you would go for me or not. Then, when you did . . . I was so happy. I hadn't been then that happy since the day we were married." "I was on the verge of telling you so many times. I just didn't know how to do it. I didn't know if it would be better to tell you as Phillip or as Amanda. I knew it was going to be hard to swallow either way. Then you started acting hurt and confused, which I understand, but I knew that I had this golden moment where you might have accepted it, and I let it pass. I chickened out again, and I might never get an opportunity like that again." "I decided that, for the sake of our marriage, I would just have to live with this secret for the rest of my life. Give up my birth body. Forget about it. Let it die. Just be your husband. That alone is more than most people have, so I was being greedy by wanting more. It was a hard decision, but I was willing to make that sacrifice for you." Phillip looked over at Amanda, her head resting on the arm of the couch. "I still am," he said. "If you want me to give it up, knowing what you know now, I will. I'll do that for you." Third Person Ch. 05 That first night, I was so emotionally drained that I just let myself be held between my husband's bodies. When I awoke the next morning, both were sleeping. I wondered which one contained the essence, the spirit, identity, whatever you called it, of the person I had married. Which one dreamed my husband's dreams? I shook them both and Amanda opened her eyes. She looked up at me and smiled, then touched Phillip and he became active as well. I laid between them; their hands were clasped on the pillow behind my head. They caressed me, or he caressed me with a man's hand and a woman's. I tried to tell myself this was in fact the case, but it was still so fantastic to me. I couldn't help thinking that it was my husband and another woman, when it was only just my husband. One soul in possession of two bodies. I was aroused and afraid at the same time. I recalled the first time Phillip and I had made love, in his little off-campus apartment. How fumbling and awkward and wonderful that night had been. This feeling was much the same. It was new. It was like the first time again. We had so much to learn. I had thought we'd learned it all, but now we had to learn it all over again with her. I didn't want to move. I wanted to be paralyzed. I didn't want to touch them, I wanted them to touch me. I didn't want to speak, either, and I didn't want them to speak. By "them" I meant my husband. Both of him. Phillip and Amanda. The Phillip-body rolled over on his back and the Amanda-body crawled over me to get to him. Phillip had one of his bulging, painful-looking morning erections and Amanda took it into her mouth. I gasped out loud. I tried to tell myself that this was just an auto-fellatric trick, not another woman sucking my husband's penis. Phillip and I had watched each other masturbate, many times, and that was all this was. Still, there was an undeniable flush of outrage which only heightened the breathless feeling in my throat. She was making him harder. Making himself harder. Making himself ready for me. Then she was at me, licking and sucking me down there. Getting me wet and ready for him, or for herself (pronouns fail me) and then Phillip slid into me. I cried out and stretched my arms across the bed, cruciform. Phillip languidly rolled his hips, gliding in and out with the motions of the lazy slow morning love which was so familiar, but so different now because Amanda's hand was down there, too, guiding him in and getting wet with my juices, and then idly stroking my clitoris. Everything was doubled. Phillip made love to me for a long time. I dreamed through most of it and could not say how long, then they traded. Amanda rolled on top, sliding her knee between my thighs as mine raised up between hers. She was sopping wet and feverishly hot, as was I. She leaned into me, her leg bearing down against my pelvis, and commenced a gentle rocking motion which brought her against me, and then me against her, over and over again. Then Amanda rearranged our limbs so our legs scissored and our vaginas kissed, with dripping labial lips and clenching muscles and rough wet hair and our hard little clitorises tracing crazy figure eights all over each other. Her heavy breasts dangled over mine and her sweat rained down upon me. Then they traded again and it was Phillip inside me for a long while. Then again, Amanda. Who can say how many times? His questing knotted penis, her prehensile musk-flower vagina, his thick calloused hand with its hard smooth metallic wedding band, her fluttering mouth with its infantile hunger. Morning became afternoon and they were still at me, in turn. My husband seemed to have better concentration when he was in possession of only one body at a time, so when one was above me, the other lay at my side like a discarded corpse. I vacillated between acute awareness and blissful senselessness; reaching not occasional peaks of orgasm but a constant plateau of ecstacy. It ended hours later when Phillip ejaculated into me like the voluminous bloom of a flowering tree. Amanda drank deep from my well and we three shared a communion kiss dripping with Phillip's plentiful seed. Thus began our second honeymoon, the strangest and sweetest time of my entire life. * Amanda and I were sitting in the living room after breakfast one morning a few days later. We were watching some morning news show on television, but weren't really comprehending what was happening in the rest of the world. We snuggled comfortably together, our bellies filled with omelets, our libidos satiated by the morning's lovemaking. Phillip was in the bedroom, his body unoccupied, a corpse resting on our marriage bed. Every morning, when my husband awoke he had a choice of which body he would wear that day, and for two days now he had chosen Amanda. I wondered if he preferred the woman's body because that was the one he had been born into. Amanda twisted on the couch, rested her head on my lap. She looked up at me and smiled. "Which one do you like better?" she asked. It was scary sometimes, how she could sense what I was thinking. Maybe it was just normal couple telepathy, but it did seem to be more pronounced when she was wearing Amanda's skin. Was my husband more empathetic as a female? Were there psychological differences from one body to the other? So many questions still. "Which what?" I said, stalling. "Which body," she said. "They're different," I hedged. "Of course they're different," Amanda smiled. "Which one do you prefer?" I asked. Amanda stretched out and yawned. "Depends," she said. "On what mood I'm in. Sometimes I want to be a man and sometimes I want to be a woman. I can't imagine not being able to go back and forth." "You might be the only person in the entire world who can." Amanda's eyes sparkled. "I wish you could. If you could just go inside Phillip for a while you'd see . . ." "See what?" "What it's like. For me. Why I can't choose just one. God, Heather, if you could just feel what it's like to have a penis." I laughed at that, uncomfortably. "It's kind of cool," she said. "Having this thing attached to you. It's part of your body, but it's separate, too. I can't even explain it. It's like . . . being inside out." "Inside out?" "Yeah. Everything that's on the inside for a woman is on the outside for a man. And making love to you with a penis, being inside you. There's nothing like it. And coming inside you . . ." Amanda was writhing against her clothes, toying idly with one erect nipple through the cotton fabric of her t-shirt. "I wish you could fuck me with Phillip's cock," she whispered breathlessly. "You can do that to yourself," I looked away from her. "Not the same," she was actually playing with herself now, reaching her hand inside her sweatpants. "I wish you could come inside me." "Jesus," I said. "I don't believe you. We just had sex half an hour ago." "The Phillip body got off," she said. "The Amanda body is still horny." "Well, I only have one body, and it has limits," I tried to say this with a laugh, but Amanda winced. She pulled her hand from her pants and wiped it balefully on her leg. We both pretended to watch the television, even though it was a credit card commercial. "Would you try?" she asked a few minutes later. "Try what?" "Try going into Phillip's body." "That's impossible," I said. "How do you know?" she said. "I can go back and forth hardly even thinking about it." "You've been doing it for a long time." "Right," she said, sitting up. "Maybe it just takes practice." "I don't know," I said. "Would you try, though? If I thought of a way that it might work, would you do it?" "I don't know," I said again. "For me?" Amanda pressed. "Would you just try, for me?" It seemed so fantastic, as if she had asked if I would jump out the window and fly. "Sure," I said, attempting to be dismissive. "You would?" Amanda's eyes gleamed. "Then would you fuck me?" "Yes," I said, pretending to look up at the TV. "Say it." "Come on . . ." "Please say it." I sighed. "I'll fuck you, all right?" "Will you come inside me?" "Jesus," I laughed. "What has gotten in to you?" "Will you come inside my cunt?" Her back was arched and she was doing her breathless little girl voice again. I tickled her belly and kissed her, mainly just so she'd shut up. Amanda grabbed my head and kissed me back with a fevered passion. I pulled away, shaking my head. She smiled up at me. "I'm sorry," she said. "It just gets me really excited to think of that. Do you mind if I . . ." "Go ahead." Her hand slid into her sweat pants again and Amanda stroked herself convulsively, crying out a little. I could both hear and smell how wet she was. I watched banal human interest stories on television as my husband, laying across my lap in a woman's body, brought herself to orgasm with a fantasy about me screwing her with his man's body. This is what my life had become. * My husband's body, the Phillip body, lay naked beside me on the bed. I touched him. He was perfectly still and the muscles were slack. His skin was cool to the touch, but not cold. "Is . . . the body dead?" I asked. "Not dead," Amanda said from behind me. She was standing up, didn't want to touch me or Phillip in case this would interfere with the experiment. "If you watch for a long time, you'll see that he's breathing and his heart is beating. Just really slowly." I stroked my husband's broad chest, running my fingers through the dense hair, searching for any kind of life. There was nothing that I could feel. It had been more than a week since I had learned of my husband's nature, but I had not yet become used to the bodies when they were unoccupied. They still felt like corpses to me. "I think 'empty' is a better word," Amanda said. "Like a vacuum. You know how they say? 'Nature abhors a vacuum?' I think that's how you can fill it up. It wants to be filled. Just imagine yourself as air. Air moving to fill an empty space." That was about the twelfth analogy she had so far provided to explain the process. None of them had made me believe that it could work. This was our third attempt. "Put your head on his chest," Amanda suggested. I did so, listening for the supposed heartbeat. I could hear nothing. "Now you're going to feel a sensation something like falling. Only you're falling out of yourself. Your natural inclination is to fight against this, to hold on. But you have to let go. You have to trust that when you fall, you'll land safely." I laid there for several minutes, feeling a bit foolish. There was no sensation of falling. No sensation of any kind. "Nothing," I said. "Try putting your hand on his stomach." I sighed out loud and did this. Minutes passed and I felt nothing except a slight creepiness at touching what, for all appearances, seemed to be a dead body. "This isn't working," I said. "We can try again later, if you want." "Just . . ." Amanda was frustrated, I could tell. She didn't say so, but I knew she thought that I was somehow not trying hard enough. "Try kissing him." "Kissing him?" The thought of placing my lips against Phillip's, cool and slack, was not very appealing. "Just try it," Amanda said. "Open-mouthed, like you're giving him artificial respiration." "Christ, Amanda." "Please." I crawled up on the bed until I reached Phillip's face. I leaned into him, pulled his unresisting jaw open, placed my lips on his. At first, there was only the revulsion, which I'd anticipated. Then came this overwhelming teetering feeling, almost exactly as Amanda had described it. It was sort of like the feeling of being in a chair that was about to flip over backwards, while you scramble for balance. Only infinitely more pronounced, like the hypothetical chair was on the rim of the Grand Canyon. I pulled away. "I felt it," I said. "Really?" Amanda was excited, and in the moment this made me angry, that she should be so happy when I was terrified. "It scared the hell out of me." "Try it again," she prodded. "Only this time, don't fight it." "Give me a goddamn minute, all right?" "I know it's scary the first time," Amanda said. "But please, you have to trust me. I really want this. I need you to do this for me. Please, Heather." I drew a deep breath. I told myself that I was doing this out of love for my husband. But there was a strange excitement fluttering around in my belly. I wanted it, too. I leaned forward and kissed Phillip again. Again, the deathly vertigo. This time, I surrendered to it, let myself fall. Then came a feeling something like, please forgive an especially crude metaphor, vomiting or diarrhea. An explosive voiding. Only it was me that was being expelled. My identity, my life-force, my soul, whatever you wanted to call it, purged all at once. And it was like one of those magic tricks where a jet of water is propelled across the room to land in a glass without a drop spilled. I filled Phillip's body. I let out a cry with a voice that was not my own and sprang to Phillip's feet. There was a strange, reeling, shock of dislocation. It was like being turned inside out, upside down and backwards. I looked through Phillip's eyes and saw a radically different world. He had been complaining for years that he needed glasses, but the sudden near-sightedness was only a very small part of the overwhelming shift of perception. All the colors were different, for one thing. What I had believed all my life to be reds and blues and yellows were nothing like what Phillip saw. They were colors I had never seen, never even imagined were possible. And the same thing was happening with all five of my senses, all at once. Even more disorienting was the dimensions of the body itself. Phillip was taller, heavier, and I felt the new height and weight upon me suddenly. It was, I imagine, like moving instantly from a low-gravity world to one where the pull of the earth was twice as strong. Only there was more to it than that. I raised a strange hand to a strange face and felt rough stubble and calloused fingers, both the hand on my face and the face under my hand utterly alien to me. My breasts were gone and there was itching hair all over my body. And, between my legs, a feeling like my vagina had fallen out and was dangling by a fleshy string. The thing was throbbing and screaming and I wondered how men could stand the constant vibration. Meat. It was all I could think of. Just a sudden revelation that the human body was nothing but meat. I had traded one pile of meat for another. I looked down and saw myself on the bed, a corpse, and thought Jesus, is that really what I look like? It was like hearing your voice on tape for the first time, only a million times more pronounced. Seeing yourself through another's eyes was nothing like looking in a mirror. Nothing at all. I barely recognized myself. My body looked horrific through these eyes. And then Amanda was looking up at me with utter wonder. Amanda looked so strange, too, like I had never seen her before. She was all breasts and curves and flesh. Was this how men saw women? Again, I thought of meat. She was nothing but meat. "Heather?" She came across to me. "You're really in there. Oh my God, your eyes. I can see you in his eyes." She tried to touch me and I flinched back. I was staggering in revulsion, and she was trying to touch me? "Remember what you promised to do?" she said. Sly, kittenish, utterly animal. I tried to speak but could not make the strange thick throat work. My refusal came out as a grunt. Amanda got on her knees before me. Her eyes rolled up at me and she smiled as she pulled the meaty dangling part of me into her mouth. The feeling was an electric shock, hot and vibrating and painful, a thousand times too intense. Then wet. How can I describe an ejaculation, something I had never before experienced? It was like peeing, but it burned. I felt a draining sensation from a part of the body I had never before possessed. It was awful. It was like dying, again, as I had when I entered Phillip's body. Only now I was entering her mouth and she was consuming me. Amanda gulped and licked her lips. She looked up at me coyly. "That didn't take long," she said. "It wasn't what I had in mind, but . . ." It was too much. I turned Phillip's head and vomited. This elimination was both as abhorrent and as satisfying as the other one I had just performed. Amanda's expression turned instantly to a mixture of hurt and concern. "Are you OK?" I worked Phillip's heavy tongue. "Too much," I gasped. "Gotta go back." With that I fell onto the bed, on top of my own body. I performed the open-mouthed kiss again and for a second nothing happened and I was afraid that I was dead and would have to live in this horrible condition forever. But then the falling sensation, welcome this time, and I was all at once back inside myself with the heavy sack of dead meat that was Phillip laying on top of me, crushing me, stinking of vomit and semen. I pushed him off with a scream. My own body felt strange and alien, just from the few minutes I had spent in the other. I began to sob. Amanda tried to touch me, to comfort me, but I pushed her away. Several hours passed before I once again felt at home in my own skin.