Of Sound Mind and Someone Else's Body
by William Quincy Belle Genre: SciFi Romantic Comedy
Alan Maitland is a successful businessman on his way up the corporate ladder. Life is good, but life is also full of the unexpected. A scientific experiment goes awry and Alan’s mind is transferred to the body of Hana Toussaint, a high-class escort. Suddenly, he must not only contend with a new identity, but with the eye-opening experience of living as a female: how to walk in high heels without falling; how to put on a bra without dislocating a shoulder; how to deal with makeup without poking out an eye; and how to get along in a society which in many ways is still male-dominated.
When Alan discovers that Hana has taken over his body, the two of them must work together to find the scientist who can reverse the experiment and give them back their respective lives. Along the way, they must cope with living as each other and learn what it's like to be a member of the opposite sex. And as their adventure goes on, Alan the woman must figure out his growing feelings for Hana the man.
Alan faces the biggest challenge of his life which Hana sums up with one decisive question:
Forty-eight hours. He was close. He was so close.
Alan stood at the balcony railing sipping a Scotch. He surveyed his domain: the buildings of New York City’s core, the lit billboards, and the non-stop bustle of the street below. He was ready for the most critical business deal of his career. If he pulled this off, he would cement his future as a significant player in the company. He was going places. He could taste it.
The vastness of the cityscape washed over him. Years of hard work and calculated moves had come to fruition, and he now lived in an eighth-floor condominium in an exclusive Upper East Side building with twenty-four-hour security, surrounded by designer furniture. He was on top of the world.
With a final gulp, Alan finished his drink and went inside, locking the sliding door. He sauntered across the open-plan living room to the kitchen and put his glass in the dishwasher.
After flicking off the light, he went to bed and gazed at the ceiling in the semi-darkness. As he mulled over his schedule for the next two days, he was more convinced than ever he was on the verge of something extraordinary. He rolled onto his side and drifted off to sleep.
Alan gagged. Something filled his mouth and throat. He couldn’t breathe and thought he might throw up. He brought both hands to his face and fumbled around trying to free himself.
His mouth became clear. He coughed as he gasped for air, then sat on his heels and braced his hands on his thighs. He shuddered.
“What’s the matter?” The male voice sounded concerned. “Are you all right?”
Alan focused and realized he was staring at a man’s legs with the trousers bunched below the knees. Confused, he looked up. There was the naked groin of a man sprouting an erect penis covered with a condom.
His eyes widened. What the hell?
He scanned his surroundings. He was in a hotel room, furnished as if it was one of the major chains. The man grinned at him. Alan gaped at the penis. Had that been in his mouth? A wave of nausea washed over him. This couldn’t be real.
“Take a breath and let’s try again.” The man stepped forward and placed one hand on the back of Alan’s head as he grasped the base of his penis with the other. He aimed his shaft and pulled.
Alan pushed the man’s hips away. “Stop!” he cried out. But it wasn’t his voice; it was a woman’s.
The man leaned back. “I don’t understand. You’ve always been able to take all of me with no difficulty. Throat problem?”
Alan blinked, dazed.
“Okay,” the man said. “We can skip the deep throat. A normal blowjob will do fine.”
Confused, Alan regarded him and said, “I can’t,” again in a female voice.
“I’m not doing that.”
“Don’t get me all worked up for nothing! I’ll have blue balls for a week. I paid you the usual four hundred. Now, how about giving me a go?”
The man shifted forward again, holding out his erection. He grasped Alan’s head and pulled it toward him.
“Jesus!” Alan muttered as he pushed against the man’s hips. The two of them were at a stalemate. Horrified by the erection in front of his face, Alan slammed his fist into the man’s scrotum. The man gasped and released his grip on Alan’s head.
Alan scurried back as the man fell to his knees, both hands holding his groin. He flopped over into a fetal position, moaning. Alan staggered to his feet and stumbled as one of his ankles buckled under him. He looked down and saw he was wearing high-heels and nylon stockings. He gawked for a moment then wobbled over to the wall mirror. His eyes widened. The face reflected at him was not his: It was that of a woman.
He touched his face and saw in the mirror a slender hand move to the smooth skin of the woman’s face. Unfamiliar blue eyes stared at him. His mind reeled, unable to understand how this was possible. He had to be dreaming, but this didn’t feel like a dream. Was he going to wake up at any moment?
He heard a groan behind him. The man on the floor mumbled, “Oh fuck,” but didn’t move.
Alan again gazed into the mirror. He brushed aside shoulder-length blond hair and studied his features, focusing on the thick eye shadow and red lips. He was wearing lipstick. Was he in drag? That wasn’t his face, however. It wasn’t his face at all.
He pulled the blond hair. It wasn’t a wig. There was an odor. He held his hand up to his nose then grabbed his hair and inhaled. He was wearing perfume.
As he stood staring at himself, he glanced down at his chest. What were those? He ran his hands over the two protrusions. They were breasts. He had breasts.
An odd thought came to him. He passed a hand over the front of a short skirt. There was no bulge. He lifted the hem and reached between his legs. No penis, no male genitalia. His face scrunched up in horror. What the hell?
He pulled up the dress to expose a garter belt, stockings, and a pair of panties on top. He pulled the panties down and rubbed a hand between his legs.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Alan muttered. He had a pussy. He was a woman.
Queasiness welled up in him, and he felt light-headed. His stomach heaved, and he coughed up bile. The back of his throat burned. He had to figure out what had taken place and how he could get out of this situation.
There was a purse on the table. He dumped out the contents and sorted through them. The first thing he saw was a black rectangular box labeled Stun Gun. There was a wallet, so he opened it and flipped through the cards until he found a driver’s license. He looked at the photo and looked in the mirror. It was the same woman. The name given was Hana Toussaint with an address of 243 Charlton Street, Apartment 23.
His mind raced as he tried to make sense of this nightmarish situation. Who was this Hana Toussaint? What connection could there be between the two of them? How could he be in her body? How was it possible to end up in someone else’s body?
He froze. Where was his body? If he had taken over the body of this Hana Toussaint, had somebody taken over his? Was it Hana? Had the two of them switched bodies? He had to find Alan Maitland and confront whoever was in that body.
Alan shook his head. This was all too bizarre, and he couldn’t make sense of anything. He had to find the other Alan.
He examined the address on the driver’s license again. Thank goodness. It was in the same city. But he didn’t understand where in the city this hotel was located. He found money inside the billfold and counted out four hundred and fifty-five dollars. The guy on the floor had said he’d paid four hundred bucks for a blowjob.
The door to the room opened with an explosive crash. A slim, tall man in a suit and tie ran in and stopped in the center of the room. “Don’t you move!”
Alan whipped around to stare at this newcomer. The first man now sat in a chair. He had one hand on his groin, but the other rested on a small table beside a cell phone. Alan hadn’t been paying attention, too caught up in his dilemma.
The slim man glanced at Alan. “Are you all right? What happened? What did he do?”
The seated man said, “What did I do? What did she do! Hell, Marvin, she punched me right in the nuts!” He shifted in his seat holding his groin. “I was the one who called the answering service.”
Marvin turned back to Alan astonished. “What’s the matter with you? Mr. Smith is one of your regulars. Why in the hell would you do such a thing?”
Alan cowered against the wall. “Who are you?”
“Who am I? What’s going on? Is this a joke?” The newcomer nodded to the man in the chair. “I apologize, Mr. Smith. I’m sure all of this is explainable. Let me get this straightened out.” Then he walked up to Alan and spoke in a hushed tone. “What’s gotten into you? Did he do something wrong? What’s the problem?”
“I’m confused. I don’t understand,” Alan said, scrutinizing the room.
“What?” Marvin squinted. “Are you okay? Are you stoned or something?”
“I don’t know.”
Marvin took hold of his arm. “May I speak with you out in the hall?”
Alan wrenched his arm away. “What are you doing?”
“We need to have a chat,” Marvin said. He retook Alan’s arm and led him toward the door.
Alan jerked free of Marvin’s grasp and scrambled for the black box. He pushed it against the tall man’s midriff and pressed the switch. There was a crackle of electricity as Marvin’s body spasmed. Alan let go of the button, and Marvin collapsed in a heap.
He stood over the man. How long would he be incapacitated? He shot Mr. Smith a glance. Mr. Smith stared wide-eyed, his gaze shifting between Marvin and Alan.
With little thought, Alan dashed to the table and stuffed Hana’s belongings back in the purse then rushed down the hall to the elevator. Twice he almost lost his balance. Frustrated, he muttered, “Christ, how do women walk in these things?”
William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following, which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness floating around in cyberspace.