The Clinic

The Clinic

I met her in the clinic. The waiting area. We bonded over a shared distaste for the terrible coffee provided by the impressive-looking and impressively noisy machine perched on the corner of the reception desk. Honestly, the amount these people charge you’d think they’d spring for a decent coffee machine. But then I suppose you don’t have to go out of your way to provide excellent service when you’re the only people in the world who can provide the service at all. Shit coffee it is then, but I’ll take shit coffee if it gives me an excuse to talk to a woman like that one. Small talk mostly, no names, both of us being very careful to avoid the elephant in the room. I cracked before she did;
“So…before or after?” I ask as casually as I can. She laughs; no mere polite waiting room chuckle, she really goes for it. I like the way her shoulders move when she laughs, I wonder if mine do that. I wonder if mine will do that.
“Before,” she says.
“So, consultation or what?”
“Nope,” she says cheerfully, pointing to an overstuffed rucksack tucked under her chair, “today’s the day.”
“Me too. Christ, I’d expect you to be a bit more nervous.”
“You don’t seem nervous either.”
“I’m just pretending to be calm to impress you,” I admit. She laughs again.
“This doesn’t seem to be any time to go around trying to chat up women,” she says.
“Well no but, I suppose I thought, because we’ll both be fairly new at it, sort of understanding…it could be fun anyway.”
“Oh, I see. You think we should team up afterwards,” she says, her voice giving me no hint of what she thinks of the idea. I turn away and stare at a rather sad-looking potted plant for a while.
“Fuck it,” she says at last “why not? It’s not like it’ll be the weirdest thing that’s gonna happen to us today is it? Why don’t you come by later this evening once we’ve both had time to settle in a bit?”
I nod in agreement. She scrawls her address on the corner of a magazine cover and, checking that the receptionist isn’t looking, tears it off and hands it to me.
“Should I bring a bottle or something?” I ask, and instantly regret it. Laughter again from the woman.
“Do what you like mate, no offence but I’m going to be roaring drunk already by the time you show up.”
“Can’t say fairer than that.”
“Miss Samantha Hindes?” the receptionist calls out.
“That’s me,” she says, gathering her things together and getting to her feet. She is nervous, I can see her hands trembling. She turns and gives me a quick wink before the receptionist shepherds her away. I am left alone in the waiting room suddenly realising how godless and scary the place seems, even by waiting room standards. The doors are all unmarked, no nameplates or anything. That bothers me for some reason. Soon enough, from behind the nameless door by which Samantha Hindes just left, the screaming starts.

I could have put more thought into the outfit I suppose, although in my defence I had no opportunity to test it out beforehand. It’s a nice enough dress, a simple flowing dark green effort, but the instant I leave the clinic I realise that it’s not the sort of thing people wear at 4 o’ clock in the afternoon. The shoes were a mistake, that’s for damn sure. Change of plan then, instead of going straight home to regroup, I’m going shopping. I fish around in my wallet (a fucking wallet, you haven’t thought this through at all have you? You don’t even have pockets any more) for the handy little card they gave me before I left the clinic. It features an array of strange numbers, although there’s one I recognise instantly; 34D. I vaguely recall asking for 34C but then they do tell you over and over again that it’s not an exact science. Glancing downwards I find it hard to be too upset about the discrepancy. As for the physical sensation of having the things there, I’m trying to ignore it for the time being. Just focus; clothes now, then fun. And what fun it will be. I step into a shop, realising that as I’m now a woman I am freed from the obligation to look awkward and ashamed whilst clothes shopping. I consult the little card once more, I am a size twelve. I buy some jeans and a white blouse to go with them. My feet are size four. I find a pair of size four shoes. Trainers. Heels are a fucking awful idea. I accept my new purchases from the girl on the till and head back home.

I go home and take my shoes off. I then place the delicate, skeletal black shoes in the bin and spit on them. I scramble out of my dress and run to the full-length mirror that I had the foresight to buy earlier in the week. Not half bad. I reckon they’ve made me more like 25 years old than my real tally of 32. The face, yeah I’m pretty hot alright but these tits, they’re fucking fantastic. I start to feel almost delirious with joy as I stare at the mirror and see them staring back at me. I tell myself I should go out again in case I end up staying in here forever fondling my own breasts. I drag on some underwear I purchased earlier, and slide my new jeans over the top. Once they’re buttoned up they leave little to the imagination, but there’s not much left to imagine so that doesn’t seem to matter. I have completely forgotten to acquire a suitable bra but my tits don’t look like they need one. There’s no room for anything much in my new pockets so I unclip my front door key from the rest of the bundle and slide it into one pocket. I slide a hundred quid in notes into the other. Sod makeup, I bought some earlier but I’ve no idea how to use it and I look good enough as it is. In fact I sort of wish I had my dick back so I could fuck me, however that might work. I tuck my hair back behind my ears and head back out into the world.

Walking is a strange experience alright, not only has the comforting presence of my balls disappeared but my pelvis seems to be entirely the wrong shape for walking. I dread to think how much energy is being wasted on sideways motion when I only need to go forwards. Even more noticeable than the ridiculous bone structure and the lack of balls are the eyes. Not my eyes you understand, the eyes of pretty much everyone else I pass in the street. I can feel my tits bouncing gently in sympathy with my stride, unconstrained by the light fabric that’s just about shielding them from view. I find myself looking at the men passing by as well. I’m not interested in their faces, only what I can make out lower down. Excitement is building alright, but it’s too early to go and see Samantha. I settle for a bar instead, an expensive one by the looks of it. There are lots of shiny black things in this bar; shiny black bar counter, shiny black tables, shiny black door to what must surely be shiny black bogs. There is a mirror behind the bar. My tits look even better than they did when I left the house. I order a gin and tonic. Whether the barman pays for the drink himself or simply forgets to charge me seems to be a moot point. A guy appears next to me at the bar, looking slimy and unpleasant but definitely rich. I allow him to sit down beside me. We talk for a while. He talks anyway, mostly about how important he and his company are but with occasional interludes to tell me how beautiful I am. If this routine has ever worked, ever in the history of the world, then women everywhere ought to be ashamed of themselves. All I can think about is what a total cunt this guy is. I hope he dies of syphilis. This thought brings a smile to my face, and a small snigger with it.
“What’s funny?” he asks, sounding like a parent asking a five-year-old child what’s funny about throwing mud in the house.
“Two things really, firstly you actually think I’m going to fuck you despite the fact that you’re boring me to tears. Secondly there’s the fact that earlier today I was a man. I had a dick and everything, probably a bigger one than yours,” I say, looking down at his crotch with a pitiful half smile. Mister Important looks every bit as upset as I hoped he would, but he throws in some visible nausea to go with it. He runs out, leaving his wallet on the bar counter. I take out the cash, surreptitiously drop the wallet onto the shiny black floor and swivel round on my bar stool. My tits stop moving a good five seconds after the rest of me, much to the amusement of the barman whose face leaves me in no doubt that he’s seen and heard everything that just happened.
“You saw me take that guy’s money didn’t you?” I ask him.
“Depends,” he says, “how do you feel about tipping bar staff?”
“Nothing gives me greater joy,” I tell him, handing him two twenties from Mister Important’s nest egg, “except perhaps a pint of lager if that could be arranged.”
The barman takes the money and pours my drink and another for himself.
“Did you hear the bit about…” I begin.
“Yep.”
“You don’t seen horrified.”
“I’m a barman love, mate, whatever. Unflappable comes with the territory. And to be honest I assumed those things were too good to be true to one way or another.”
“These are real I’ll have you know.”
“How’s that then?” he asks, slurping his pint.
“Fucked if I know. It’s the latest thing, they use genetic reconstruction to totally rebuild you, no implants or surgery or anything like that. Only your brain stays the same, or at least they tell you it does. Whole thing takes about ninety minutes. Hurts like a bastard mind you. I don’t remember much about it, but it fucking hurts.”
“Can they change you back?”
“Yeah, but you hve to choose beforehand whether you want to change back or not. I took the four week deal,” I tell him. I listen to my own voice as I speak, it’s nothing like my old voice. It is strangely familiar though. Not the only thing that’s going to take some getting used to I’m sure.
“You didn’t want to be a woman for good then?”
“Nah, couldn’t resist giving it a try though. To be honest I really want to know what it’s like to get fucked. I’m not gay or anything, I just sort of have to know what it’s like.”
“Not my place to judge mate, but I’m sure lots of blokes wouldn’t mind trying it, provided their mates never found out.”
“Yeah, well my mates think I’m on holiday in Thailand.”
“It’s dead quiet in here at the moment, I could probably sneak out early…”
“Very kind of you to offer, but I’ve got something lined up already. A bird who switched the other way. Maybe that makes it less gay, I dunno.”
“Well if you get a taste for it and you run out of volunteers, you come and find me. It could be Des Lynam in there and I still would, I don’t mind telling you,” he says cheerfully. On that note I decide it’s time to leave.

Still too early to call on Samantha I reckon, and the attention I’m getting is a pretty powerful drug. I move along to another bar to have more drinks bought for me. At one point I see an awkward-looking young guy staring at me helplessly. I walk over to him and offer to buy him a drink, thinking it’s a huge act of kindness, but he just freaks out, thinks I’m taking the piss out of him or something. This upsets me for some reason and I decide it’s time to find Samantha. She lives just around the corner, but it’s still hard work getting there in my drunken state. Her flat is up three flights of stairs which almost cost me my shiny new shin bones on more than one occasion. When I reach Samantha’s door I find it ajar and stumble gleefully inside. It’s a woman’s flat alright; ornaments, mirrors, tidiness. The big naked bloke laid out on the sofa clutching a whisky bottle looks a bit out of place. He’s not exactly a demigod but I’m happy enough with what I see between his legs. The only problem is that Samantha the man is clearly asleep. I’m not in the mood for wasting time by this point, I decide it’ll be quicker to get naked first and worry about waking him up later. I shed my clothes as quickly as a drunk girl can without serious injury and clamber on top of Samantha, digging my knees into his ribcage in the process. Little Sam wakes up before big Sam does, and big Sam doesn’t seem to have any objections when he sees me on top of him. He looks a bit puzzled but that’s understandable in the circumstances. I grab his dick and, third time lucky, get it inside me. It feels good alright, just the presence of it. It feels good to wrap my legs around him and squeeze. It feels good to slide my hips back and forth and feel his cock move inside me. I use the word good because there aren’t words to describe just how fucking good it really does feel. Sam has tipped his head right back over the arm of the sofa and his breathing has become fast and shallow. The muscles in his stomach bulge and tense and writhe as I ride him. I realise that the yelping noises are coming from me. I also realise that I left the door of Samantha’s flat wide open. I don’t really care about either of those things. I definitely don’t care about whether this counts as gay or not. I keep going. It ends pretty quickly for both of us. We don’t have anything to say afterwards. Once we’ve finally got our breath back Sam is ready again. He doesn’t have to ask, he just picks me up and carries me to his bed.

My head hurts like a bitch. My arsehole seems to hurt too. I suppose I could have just gone down that route to start with and saved myself shitloads of money. Morning is pawing aggressively at the curtains of the strange room. My eyes are reluctant to give me any more information than that. I blink a lot. Some of the blobs begin to coalesce into things. There’s a bed, a ceiling, a door, my naked breasts lolling in front of me, and then there’s me standing over me holding a knife. Even my ruined mind knows there’s something wrong about that.
“What the fuck is this?” I scream, waving the knife at me.
“A dream I reckon. Because I’m here, not there.”
“Fuck off,” I scream again, “you’re me!”
“Nah, y’see this is a new body, had it made special. You don’t exist any more, you’re me now,” the me doing the thinking and seeing says. Something begins to register.
“They’ve fucking swapped us!” both of us holler in unison.
“They didn’t make us new bodies at all the bastards. I should have known, I asked for better abs than these,” Samantha-in-my-body moans, clearly not fussed about offending me at this point.
“How did we not notice last night? How fucking drunk was I?” I wonder out loud.
“I can’t believe I did those things to myself!” Samantha wails.
“They weren’t all bad…”
“Fuck off! Get the fuck out of here! Give me my body back and then get the fuck out of here!”
At this point the bedroom door swings open and a black-suited woman strolls into the room. She seems utterly unfazed by the two shouting naked people in front of her.
“Samantha Hindes?” the newcomer asks. Samantha nods my head in reply, unable to summon any more words.
“And you are Douglas Burton?” she asks me. I nod as well.
“My name is Keisha Jones, I work for Genestruct Ltd. It seems you’ve experienced a crossover event. Terrible administrative fuck up, sackings left right and centre already. The two of you should never have been allowed to meet, this sort of thing sheds rather more light on our methods than we can accept.”
“So you don’t rebuild people at all? What, you just scoop out our brains and swap them round?” Samantha cries.
“Yes that’s more or less it. But we have ways of dealing with this sort of eventuality,” Keisha Jones says evenly, before withdrawing a small pistol from her jacket and shooting Samantha in the head. She then turns to me.

So here I am, lying on some stranger’s bed quietly bleeding to death from two bullet wounds in my chest. Before the Jones woman shot me I had time to ask her how she found us. Samantha and I have GPS chips implanted in our skulls apparently, although Sam’s may have stopped working now. I also asked why she waited so long to come and get us. She said that she had arrived last night, shortly after I had, but that she had wanted to let us have our fun. I thought that was nice.