0 comments/ 20640 views/ 12 favorites A Modern Metamorphosis By: Cal Y. Pygia Stephen sipped his morning's second cup of coffee--he was on his coffee break, after all--and scrolled down, reading of Pyramus and Thisbe, a tale he'd begun yesterday, but hadn't finished before it had been time to resume work. He was writing an instruction manual for a bidet, one of his more unusual and, in an odd way, sexier recent assignments as a technical writer. It wasn't every day that someone in his line of work was given the opportunity to write about a lady's unmentionables hovering over a porcelain instrument designed for the express purpose of allowing her to cleanse her nether regions. Still, as always, he was glad to take a break. Instead of joining his coworkers at the water cooler or in the break room, listening to them gossip about anyone else who was absent--quite often, of late, Stephen himself--he preferred to remain at his desk and read. He didn't know why he'd chosen Ovid's poems, other than he'd enjoyed reading them as a college student. The basis, in part, of Shakespeare's tragedy, Romeo and Juliet, the plot was simple and straightforward, but intriguing: Babylonian lovers, beautiful young Thisbe longs to wed handsome Pyramus, but their parents object. The heroine's portrait, by John William Waterhouse, accompanied the text, depicting her as a ravishing, barefoot brunette who, clad in a gown of crimson and gold, presses her ear pressed to the common wall that both separates and joins her parents' house with the abode of her lover's family. The object of her love, whose own portrait, painted by Gregorio Pagani, also appears in the volume, is shown with curly brown locks. Clad in a scarlet cape and a leopard-skin robe, he seems a bit too effeminate for Stephen's taste, but the technical writer attributes his appearance to Pagani's, rather than Ovid's, representation of the character. Having confessed their love to one another, by whispering through a crack in the common wall of their homes, the couple agree to run away together, meeting beneath a mulberry tree near the tomb of Nineveh's founder, the conqueror Ninus. Thisbe reaches their rendezvous point before her lover, where she spies a lion, its mouth bloody from a recent kill. She flees, leaving behind her veil, which the lion, slaking its thirst at the fountain beside the tomb, chances to tear. It was at this point in the story that Stephen had had to quit reading yesterday, and it was at this point that he'd resumed the tale at this morning's coffee break. It had been years since he'd read the story, and he'd forgotten most of its details, although they came flooding back to him as he read--or re-read--the tragic poem, so, on some level, it seemed he hadn't really forgotten the story at all. In any case, it was just as beautiful and wonderful as ever, a true classic of a tale. No wonder Shakespeare had been moved by the catastrophic narrative. Pyramus arrived, late, saw his beloved's veil, and drew the same unfortunate conclusion that Thisbe had reached: the lion had killed and devoured Thisbe! Horrified, he fell upon his sword, his blood splattering the white leaves of the mulberry tree and staining their fruits. Stephanie shook his head. The pathos of the tale was considerable, and he was surprised to find his cheeks damp; he'd actually shed a tear. Through blurred vision, Stephen read on. Returning to the scene, Thisbe discovered Pyramus' body, mourned his death, and then stabbed herself with her fallen lover's sword. Having heard her laments for her dead lover, the gods took pity upon the young woman, commanding that, henceforth, mulberries should forever retain their purple color, mementoes mori honoring the youth's demise. Stephen sniffled, wiping away another tear. A click of his mouse button closed the window, and the document he'd been working on before his break reappeared upon the monitor. He went from looking at the portraits of Pyramus and Thisbe and reading of their sad love affair to gazing, once more, upon the scallop shell-shaped porcelain plumbing fixture, festooned with knobs and hoses, about which he was writing, at present explaining the unlikely, if not altogether unseemly, posture its users were required to adopt in using the convenience. Indeed, the word "bidet" was derived from the Old French "bider," meaning "to trot"; the fixture had originally been thought to resemble a pony, due to its user's need to hover, jockey-like, above the bowl, as if she were Lady Godiva, protesting taxes. As he tried to concentrate upon his work, Stephen was surprised at how strongly the story of Pyramus and Thisbe had affected him. It was an unlikely tale, a melodramatic story, a romance such as might, modernized, appear on the Lifetime Movie Network. Yet, despite its almost embarrassing banality, it had reduced him to tears, just as it had fired the imagination of no less a playwright and poet than Shakespeare himself. He sniffled again, wiping away more tears from his wet cheeks. He glanced from left to right and was glad to see that no one appeared to be hovering about his cubicle. His coworkers seemed either occupied with their own work, inside their own cubicles, or were, perhaps, as he had been doing only moments ago, taking a break. In any case, his sentimental moment seemed to have escaped his colleagues' notice. Except that, curiously, enough, his reaction to the Pyramus and Thisbe story hadn't been a mere "moment." Instead, his grief for the ill-fated lovers remained with him all day, and, when he turned in that night, after picking at the frozen dinner he'd heated in his bachelor's pad, the lovers' tragic fate was still very much on his mind. In fact, he'd cried himself to sleep. He'd never been such a sentimental fool before. It was almost as if there were something magical in Ovid's poetry, he thought. That night, he dreamed of Pyramus and Thisbe. He woke, fleeing the gravesite of the conqueror Ninus, his veil caught and left behind, terrified of the great beast he'd seen there, its mouth bloody with his lover's vital fluid. It wasn't until a few minutes later, heart pounding and pulse racing, that Stephen realized that, in his nightmare, he'd assumed the identity not of the youth, Pyramus, but of the lovely lady, Thisbe! How odd! Why should he have identified with the female, rather than then male, character? It wasn't the effeminate looks of Pagani's Pyramus, obviously, because the beauteous Thisbe was far more feminine than even the girlish Pyramus. Perhaps it was because Pyramus had fallen upon his sword? But, then, Thisbe had also come to a violent death, by her own hand, using the same instrument. There was some other reason, perhaps in the text of the famous poem, perhaps in himself, perhaps in both, that must account for the metamorphosis he'd undergone as he'd reenacted the lovers' fate in his sleep. He was both disturbed by his momentary transformation into a woman, even if only a fictitious one, and captivated by it. The memory of himself as a beautiful young woman, lithe and graceful, clad in a gown of crimson and gold, keeping a secret lovers' rendezvous with the man she loved, repulsed Stephan, just as it, also, on a deeper and more profound level, fascinated him. As he plumped his pillow, and pulled his blankets over him, he looked forward to reading the next story in Book IV of Ovid's astonishing stories of metamorphoses. Meanwhile, tonight, he hoped that he might become, once again, the gorgeous Thisbe, even if doing so should mean that he--or she--must, by story's end, die, a victim of her own impetuosity and, perhaps, the god's love of ironic catastrophes. * * * The next day, as was his custom, Stephen again took his coffee break at his desk and read the next story in Book IV of Ovid's Metamorphoses: How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. So began the next of Ovid's marvelous tales, that of the story of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis. It was one that Stephen remembered much more vividly than he'd recalled the poem concerning Pyramus and Thisbe, for it was a striking narrative, indeed, and its bizarre theme had enchanted him enough, when he'd read it for the first time, as a college student majoring in liberal arts. He'd written a term paper concerning it, during the research for which, he'd learned that the story suggested, to some critics, the idea that men and women were psychologically bisexual, having the personality traits and emotional dispositions that were often designated as either masculine or feminine, but seldom, if ever, as simply human. During his study in relation to the poem, Stephen had learned a good many other interesting tidbits, too. The oldest version of the story originated in Cyprus, where, as Macrobius alleged, there stood a bearded statue of Aphrodite. In Atthis, Aristophanes referred to the figure as Aphroditus. The union of the sexes in such figures as Aphroditus and Hermaphroditus also signified both human perfection and fertility. Indeed, according to Greek myth, Hermaphroditus was born of the union of his father Hermes and his mother Aphrodite. Hermaphroditus may have been based upon actual, albeit rare, babies who were born with ambiguous reproductive organs or with the genitals of both sexes. All these memories flashed back into Stephen's mind as he read Ovid's account of the transformation of the male Hermaphroditus into a creature possessed of both male and female attributes. In art, the hermaphroditic creature was often depicted much as modern-day preoperative male-to-female transsexuals look, equipped with long hair, beautiful facial features, graceful and delicate limbs, sleek skin, rounded buttocks, womanly breasts--and incongruous male sexual organs. However, some portrayals showed Aphroditus and Hermaphroditus to have retained the sexual organs of both the masculine youth and the feminine nymph, with the female sex located either between the testicles or within the perineum. No matter the artist's conception, one point was certain: the hermaphroditic creature was a bizarre, if fascinating, seductress. In Ovid's poem, the fifteen-year-old boy, who had just resisted the naiad Salmacis' charms--and her entreaty that they make love--supposed her to have abandoned the pool in which he'd been about to bathe; now, he removed his clothing and entered the water, naked. However, the nymph had concealed herself nearby: The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. . . . . . . He's mine, he's all my own, the Naiad cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipped, and kissed the struggling boy. So when the wriggling snake is snatched on high In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refused her love. As he continued to read the poem, Stephen felt an overpowering sense that the poem's text was somehow enchanted and was working a spell upon him. The story of Pyramus and Thisbe had made him grieve for the ill-fated lovers all day yesterday, as if they were real and bosom companions, rather than fictional characters and, during his troubled dreams last night, he'd imagined himself to have become Thisbe, rather than Pyramus and that, as such, he'd fallen in love with another man! The imagined experience had both disgusted and excited him. Now, as he read of Salmacis' rape of the youth Hermaphroditus, Stephen found himself identifying with the boy. It seemed to him that, as the nymph pressed herself upon the poem's protagonist, she was likewise pressing herself upon Stephen himself; he could, in fact, feel her arms about him, holding him close, her body hot against his own, as she forced her kisses upon him. He felt, also, the youth's frantic fear, and he shivered, as if struggling to break her grasp. His cheeks burned with the boy's shame. His reluctance only enflamed the nymph, and she prayed to the gods that she and the youth might be forever joined as one, whereupon the deities honored her request: Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever joined! Oh may we never, never part again!" So prayed the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she pressed, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; 'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces joined, As when the stock and grafted twig combined Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. Stephen frowned. Something was amiss. His frame felt smaller, as if he'd shrunk in stature, and his limbs seemed slenderer, his skin sleeker, his hips fuller, his buttocks more nearly round, and his nipples ached and throbbed, standing erect. His hands, he noticed, seemed delicate, and, if his eyes were not deceiving him, his fingernails seemed to have grown half an inch, their ends tapering to slight, rounded points. His hair, too, seemed fuller, almost luxuriant, and longer. It was impossible, of course, and, yet, the feelings persisted, as did the overpowering conviction that he had begun to undergo the very same transformation as the poem's protagonist had undergone, that he, like Hermaphroditus, was becoming neither man nor maid, but both. He clicked the button on his mouse, and the window bearing the text of Ovid's poem vanished, replaced by an image of the bidet about which he had been writing the instructions for its operation prior to taking his usual morning's coffee break and perusing more of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Hastily, he typed a succinct email to his manager: "Dave, not feeling well. Gone home. Stephen." Then, shutting down his computer, he hastened from his cubicle, hurried into the corridor outside the office, and took the elevator down to the parking garage, reclaimed his car, and drove to his bachelor pad, his mind racing all the way home. As soon as he was inside his apartment, he darted into his bathroom and stripped off his clothes. Naked, he studied his image in the full-length mirror, astonished, horrified, and excited, all at the same time, at the sight of the beautiful young woman he'd become--or, rather, was becoming, for his metamorphosis was not yet complete. His hair had grown impossibly quickly; it cascaded over his delicate shoulders, flowing down his back to his slender waist. His wide blue eyes were framed by thick lashes. His nose was slender; his lips luscious, sensuous, and lustrous; his heart-shaped face ended in a well-delineated, triangular chin; his high cheekbones were rosy with youth and excellent health. His tummy was concave, his hips flared, and his creamy thighs and calves were as shapely as if they had been turned upon a lathe. He turned slightly, admiring his tight, firm, but rounded, feminine fanny. His breasts, high, round, and firm, had also attained womanly fullness. He was altogether a beautiful young woman, except for the dainty cock and balls that hung between his thighs, seemingly more decorations than reproductive organs. Although they'd seemed the very essence of delusion, his suspicions had been correct: there was something magical about the online text of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Reading of Pyramus and Thisbe, he had grieved for the star-crossed lovers, identifying with Thisbe rather than Pyramus; in reading about Hermaphroditus and Salmacis, the handsome youth and the lovely nymph whose bodies were fused so that they shared the characteristics of both sexes in one body, Stephen had himself become a creature in whom these characteristics were likewise manifest. He looked every inch a beautiful male-to-female, preoperative transsexual. There was only one--no, two--differences between him and such a hybrid creature. His metamorphosis had occurred instantly, apparently as the result of enchantment, whereas the preoperative male-to-female transsexual's transformation was effected through hormone therapy and surgery and took years to accomplish; moreover, he had was equipped with both sets of genitals--there was a vagina between his testicles! Stephen was glad that he must remain as the gods' enchantments had made him, as a result of his having read Ovid's magical text. He wouldn't have wanted his metamorphosis to end in any other way. He was perfect, complete, beautiful, and sexy as hell--or as Hades, he corrected himself--and that was sexy, indeed! Of course, he would have to quit his job. There was no way he could explain his transformation. A man didn't become a woman overnight, as he had--although, actually, he wasn't a woman: he was a man-woman or a woman-man, a hermaphrodite. In any case, he'd have to acquire a new job, just as he'd have to acquire a new place to live and new clothes to wear. Indeed, he'd need an entirely new identity. He couldn't think about all the ramifications of his metamorphosis just now. He'd already undergone a more complete and extreme change than any other man or woman would or could, unless he or she also perused the same online version of Ovid's poem that he himself had read. Besides, there would be time enough tomorrow to sort such matters out and to begin his life anew. For the moment, the adoption of a new name, he thought, would suffice. Stephanie would make sense for a first name: Stephanie Naso. He smiled. The name had a ring to it, all right. * * * The first order of business, Stephanie thought, was purchasing herself a new wardrobe. Now that she was both a man and a woman, male clothing, as her only possible attire, was ludicrous, especially when, penis and testicles aside, she had a much more feminine than masculine appearance. Were one ignorant of her double sex, he or she could not possibly guess Stephanie's secret, for, to all outward appearances otherwise, she was most definitely not merely a woman, but a gorgeous one, at that. She had only one problem, and, with a sudden stab of panic, she hoped it wouldn't prove an insurmountable difficulty: she had to withdraw funds from the private safety deposit box in which, at last count, she kept over $100,000 in cash, her life savings. As a bachelor, Stephen hadn't dated much, and, now, Stephanie supposed that she knew why. He'd been not merely shy around women, as he'd told himself had been the case; he'd been secretly terrified of them--or not of them themselves per se as much as he'd been of the possibility that they might reject him. As a woman herself--or mostly a woman--Stephanie understood intuitively the intimidating power that beautiful women held over admiring men. However, she felt equally certain that Stephen had had other problems when it came to interacting with the opposite sex. There was a reason, she thought, that he'd been virtually terrified, as a boy, of girls and of young women, as a young man: sure, he'd feared their rejection, but, she suspected, he'd also feared that intimacy--or attempted intimacy--with them would disclose a painful, shameful truth about himself as well. In Stephanie's opinion, Stephen had been a latent homosexual. A relationship with a woman would, sooner or later, lead to sex, and Stephen, she believed, had been terrified that he might not be able to perform with a woman. He'd been insecure in his sexuality--or, at least, in his heterosexuality, and he'd avoided dating in order to avoid this dreaded truth about himself, Without a woman in his life, he could pretend to be a man, even a ladies' man, if he wished. Perhaps that was why he'd referred to his apartment as his "bachelor's pad."