I briefly wonder if I’ll still be able to switch back after remembering I have an essay to write. Fortunately, I can. I sort of expected some kind of feedback loop centered on how I would fail the class if I didn’t get the essay in on time, and that if I stayed as a cat forever, I wouldn’t have to worry about dumb things like writing essays and getting them handed in on time. Something like that, at least. But this essay, luckily, isn’t worth much. I think it’s 10% of our final grade, with midterms and our final being the heavy hitters at 25% and 50% respectively.
Still, I really need to make sure I don’t fuck it up.
I try not to imagine what might have happened if tomorrow was a midterm instead, because in this class (a 200-level ELA course I don’t need (but decided was one of the easiest for earning credits toward my degree)) specifically, I do not feel prepared in the slightest for our midterm (something about analyzing poetry, which I do not like).
I don’t want my time with Cat to end, but I feel safe knowing that we’ll find some time to get together again soon.
I hop off of where I was just perched on her lap and find a big enough space to allow myself to switch.
P—
…
Poof!
Uh. Umm.
UMM.
That felt weird.
Cat screams. Right, I couldn’t (well, didn’t) give her a warning. Sorry, Cat.
“Hi,” I say as I raise myself up from where I appeared on the floor. On all fours.
“You’re naked!” Cat yelps.
When I look at her directly, I find her blushing up a storm, her eyes scrunched shut. Right. I might not care if people see me naked, but I should still get consent before flashing anyone.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.” It’s all I’ve got. I yoink my clothes off the kitchen island where Cat left them (folded, because she’s far too sweet) and move to pull my underwear back on and—
It is gone.
It’s… gone.
It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s finally fucking gone.
I’ve thought about the things I might do if I ever managed to get bottom surgery. I’ve thought about them a lot… and I have no desire to do anything but focus on my essay. I can check out my new coochie later.
I’m freaking motivated and it’s been so long since I’ve felt this motivated to do anything.
I want to capitalize on it. Coochie can wait. Plus, the feeling of finally fucking having parts to match who I am will totally carry me through the night.
(Oh, and, note to self: figure out if I need to tell Cat that I’m trans.)
Except, can it wait? This has been something I’ve wanted for… forever. Why am I glossing over it? I can still appreciate my new coochie, even if I don’t want to start furiously masturbating with it. Maybe I’m sort of placid about it because it’s not a big deal and is just something that has finally been corrected? Is everything that’s happened to me… is this how I would look if I’d been born right?
(Minus the cat features. Duh.)
Is this a penis inversus-type deal, or is it a magical cis girl coochie? Am I going to start getting periods now?
Do I care?
Fuck, I think I’m just too happy to express it properly.
Fuck, I have a vulva now. A pussy. A cunt. A vagina. I’m… I’m right. I’m finally, finally fucking right.
Fuck you, birth giver and sperm donor. Fuck you, school administration. Fuck you, bullies. Fuck everyone. Fuck them all. None of ‘em would fucking recognize me. No one would give me shit, and it’s because I look like who I am. Being myself in the wrong body, no, that’s horrible and I don’t deserve love or support, but if I look the part, then yeah, absolutely, I get love and support and fuck every single fucking one of them.
I have a vulva now.
I’m… I’m happy.
I’m right.
I’m okay.
I’m me.
…
I’m also still naked.
I finish putting on my clothes and give her the all-clear once I’m decent again. “Sorry again. I forgot ab—hrrk.”
I hack up a hairball. A big hairball. This one’s like twice the size of my regular ones, maybe halfway to however big a basketball is. It’s a blob of saliva and bile and matted black fur.
I pick it up so I can throw it out, and of course Cat gags when I do.
“It’s fine,” I assure her as I toss it into the garbage under the sink. “That happens every time.”
“That was disgusting,” she says, peering at me from her spot on the couch. I want to go sit back down and maybe cuddle some more, but I really need to go start my essay. New chapters come out on g.com first.
I am not looking forward to staying up all night for this shit.
“It’s normal, I promise,” I tell her. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I have an essay due tomorrow and I haven’t started it yet. Thank you for a wonderful night.”
“You—what the hell? You—you swap back, flash me, throw up a friggin’ hairball, and now you’re just gonna go?!” she asks incredulously.
“Well… yeah…? I’ve really gotta get this essay done. I haven’t been this motivated in forever and I know it’s only worth 10% of my grade but… I don’t know… I just wanna do it.”
“Did… did I do something…?”
Oh. Oh.
I can see why she might react like that.
“No, absolutely not,” I tell her, walking over so I can give her a hug. I make it brief, and I make sure not to sit back down just in case I don’t feel like getting up again. “Tonight was amazing. It was perfect. If you’re really that worried that I’m trying to ditch you, I can bring my laptop back here and do my essay here—if you’re fine with me staying up all night to do that. I promise I want to hang out again, I promise you did nothing wrong. The only thing you did that could even be considered slightly wrong tonight is when you were talking about a paper you have due, and all that did was remind me that I’ve gotta get started on my own. And no, that’s not actually wrong in any way. You’re all good, okay? I promise.”
She doesn’t seem completely reassured.
Don’t worry, Cat, I’ve got you.
“I want to hang out again, Cat. With you. You did nothing wrong. You’re perfect. I honestly think I’m just using up whatever energy I didn’t get out when I was zooming around earlier.” Probably. I certainly can’t think of anything else that would explain the sudden bout of motivation. “I have therapy on Wednesday this week and probably won’t wanna do anything then, but I’m free after 4pm on any day besides that. Pick a day that works for you, text me, and maybe we can go to a park or something, okay? Before the weather gets any worse.”
She just nods.
“Cat, c’mon, I promise you’re okay. You can out me as a cat to the whole school if I’m lying.”
I’m surprised to find myself dead serious. I guess I know I’m not lying, but damn, I’ve got some balls now that I no longer have balls—and it works. Cat perks up, looking content and reassured, but then she smells a little uneasy, a little angry.
“I would never do that,” she states, and her words are hard. “I would never fucking do that.”
“I—” I am caught off-guard. “I… appreciate that. A lot.” More than I can ever express to her with words. I’m not sure what may have happened to her in the past for her stance to be so harsh, but I’m sure we’ll talk about it eventually if we keep hanging out.
Hanging out. Not dating.
She nods firmly. “I mean it. Outing someone is—it’s fucked. Fuck, now I have more to say but you should probably go do your essay,” she grumbles, standing to hug me back, and oh joy, I’ve grown even shorter once again.
“Are you—”
“Yeah. I think I’m getting shorter every time.”
“Huh. Cool?”
I shrug. “It’s cool… for now. If I go below 4’10, I’m gonna start breaking things.”
She snickers. I snicker back. We talk a little more before we hug and say goodbye, and I rest my nose against hers before I leave. My emerald eyes meet her own gorgeous hazels, and we hold the eye contact for a time before she comments on how big my pupils are again, which doesn’t make me self-conscious. I also don’t feel awkward about the sustained eye contact. It’s nice. It’s cozy. She accepts me, she thinks I’m beautiful, she wants to spend time with me, and any concerns I had about her wanting to continue to hang out with me because I’m a cat sometimes fade away. She wants to be with me because she likes me for who I am, not what I am.
We reluctantly let go of each other, and I leave after we promise to find a time to hang again before the week is over. I make my way down the hall, across the skywalk, and back to my dorm. It takes me a moment to notice that the lights are off, which I interpret to mean Gwen is asleep. I shut the door behind me gently and don’t make a sound until my bedroom door is closed. Hers is closed as well, but part of me is simply excited at the chance to be sneaky and stealthy, even if it might not be absolutely necessary.
My room… is a mess. It smells awful. Stale sweat, dirty laundry, dank air, whatever the hell the residue is that’s left over in my many pre-cat ramen cups.
I can’t work in these conditions.
Half an hour later, my room is spotless and Gwen is still asleep. I managed to take all my laundry to the laundry room on the second floor, emptied the garbage in the kitchen (and the bathroom, because why not?) after filling it with my trash, and got my room swept and dusted, all while barely making any noise. I decide I can take a break from writing in an hour or so, throw the laundry in the dryer, come back and write some more, break again to grab my clothes, and finish up by… hopefully 5am. I have two classes today, one from 11am ‘til 1pm, and another from 1:30pm ‘til 3pm. I might be able to get some sleep if I finish by 5am.
Plan established, I retrieve an energy drink from the fridge and set it down on my newly-cleaned desk. I don’t think I’ll need it, but… just in case.
Starting the assignment is easy. I’m meant to pick a “classic” book and do… something with it. The book I’m doing, which I will not name, is one I was forced to read in high school. It’s boring. I’m not sure why I can’t just do a paper on Ancillary Justice, or the book by Ryka Aoki with the older lesbians and demons and donuts and a transgirl who loves playing the violin…
…why can’t I remember the name of it?
Bah, whatever.
Three hours later, I’ve just finished my second break (my room smells like fresh linen now) and have 5000 words typed out… of the required 8000.
My energy reserves are fading fast.
Everything I’ve gotten written down so far looks great—it flows well and I can’t find any typos, even after running it through a spelling and grammar checker. Hopefully my insights are insightful or whatever the hell it is the professor wants from us.
Sure, this is an easy class, but fuck, the work is the most boring shit ever.
Are we meant to be developing critical thinking skills or something from this?
I think I’m losing them.
Oh, I’m at 7000 words now. It’s 4am. My energy drink sits, staring at me, warm and neglected.
I’m so close to finishing. If I drink it now, I won’t sleep again until after my classes are done for the day. Unacceptable. I need sleep. I need my naps.
I need to shower and brush my teeth—nope, I need to finish this essay and sleep.
It’s 6am by the time I finish, and the last 2000-ish words are littered with typos that I painstakingly go through to fix. The writing isn’t as good as it was when I first started, but fuck it, good enough. I’m tired and want to sleep.
I download the finished paper onto a USB stick so I can print it off (because of fucking course we have to print them) before I go to class later today. Ah, wonderful, I’m not thinking of today as tomorrow, I’m thinking of today as today. I stayed up way too late for this shit.
I set an alarm for 9:30am on my phone, slip the USB stick into my—Gwen’s—jeans, and pass out on top of my bed, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and fully clothed, unable to give a fuck about anything when I’m this grumpy and tired.
I wake up at 9:35am when my alarm goes off for a second time (I guess I snoozed it the first time? I don’t remember), and I am pissed.
I did not get enough sleep. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
I’m halfway through unwrapping a package of Poptarts when the stench of them hits me, causing me to nearly gag. Right, can’t eat those anymore. Gwen doesn’t eat ‘em either—she’s somewhat conscious of her health, which is fair given her physique—so I just toss them in the garbage. Breakfast for me can be… tuna.
I pull a can of tuna from the cupboards and find myself struggling to operate a can opener. My fingers are going places they shouldn’t, trying to grab parts of the can opener that don’t exist, or that aren’t meant for fingers. Why haven’t I grown claws yet? Those would be useful.
I manage, eventually, to get it open, and I am overcome with hunger and anger by that point. I dig in…
…and Gwen walks in on me a few moments later with my face buried in the can of tuna. I narrow my eyes at her over the rim of the can, trying to gauge if she’s going to say something or if she’ll let me enjoy my meal in peace. She just sighs and starts walking toward the bathroom, which I take as approval to keep feasting, so I do, scooping out any pieces of tuna I can’t reach with my mouth with my fingers. I drink any leftover tuna water and lick the can clean, easily avoiding the sharp edges from my clumsy-as-fuck operation of the can opener. With my tongue being a little more cat-like now, though, I’m not even sure if I can cut myself so easily. Meh. No reason to test it.
Gwen comes out a minute later to find me fiddling with a second can of tuna.
“The can opener isn’t working,” I groan.
“You’re—no, c’mon… Alice?” Gwen says a little worriedly.
“Yeah?” I reply, still trying to get the damned thing positioned correctly.
“This isn’t a bit?”
“What isn’t a bit?” I ask, a little more aggressive than I’d mean to be. Agh, sorry Gwen, I’m just grumpy this morning. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.
“It’s… Alice, you’re—the can opener is closed.”
“Oh.” How did I not notice that? “Thanks.”
I open up the tuna and devour it with the same intensity as I had the previous can. It’s. SO. Fucking. GOOD.
“Did something happen last night?” Gwen asks, hesitant, when I finish licking it clean.
I shake my head. “I stayed up late working on my essay, but the thing with Cat was great. Perfect night. I told her about the cat stuff and we played a little bit, and she didn’t care about sex, and she cooked biryani for me, and she’s so freaking adorable and we touched our noses together and—”
“I’m glad it was good,” Gwen chuckles, meandering over to the fridge to grab a miniature bottle of orange juice. “You seem…” she trails off, gesturing with her hands in some non-specific way.
“Grumpy?” I probably am. I’m fucking tired.
“I was gonna say… feral.”
“Meh, probably,” I say dismissively, remembering I can lick my fingers as well. My scratchy tongue feels a little weird on my smooth skin, but not in a bad way. It’s almost pleasant, actually. “I’m on basically three hours of sleep and have class in about an hour,” I add belatedly, wondering if I should have a third can of tuna.
No, I’m not super hungry anymore, and I should get this assignment printed and stapled.
“Well, just take it slow, yeah?” she yawns out. “Anything else change besides height this time?”
“Ooh! Right!” I say excitedly as I remember what I no longer have. “I’ve got a coochie now instead of the origin of all evil. No, I haven’t played with it yet, and no, I don’t think I’m going to. I’ll tell you more about our night later, but I should really get going.”
“That’s—okay, this is too much shit to process. Fucking congrats on the new puss, though,” she says, giving me a tight hug. Yesss, it feels so good! “But Jesus, girl, you’re manic as hell this morning. Please go easy today. And maybe consider sunglasses—I got a text from a girl in one of my classes. She took a picture of you and Cat at the Booster Juice and was going on and on about your eyes and how there’s no way they can be contacts, but how there’s also no way they can’t be contacts.”
Oh, shit.
That’s… probably fine. If anyone asks me about it, well, it’s my body. No one should be asking me about it unless I’m offering to talk about it first, which I won’t do, because I don’t want to. Anyone who does ask can fuck off and have a near-death experience with a truck as it runs a red light.
Ooh, Cat and I are twinning with us both having had NDEs. Fuck yeah.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “If—”
“No,” she spits, “it is not ‘fine’, Alice! That’s just one person. There are thousands of students here and people are stupid—they do stupid things. You need to be careful, that’s all I’m trying to say.”
“I can literally just turn into a cat if someone tries to mess with me,” I point out.
“You—no you absolutely cannot, you—”
“Why can’t I?” I challenge.
“Do you seriously want me to list out the reasons??? What is with you this morning???”
“I told you,” I growl, and it is a growl growl. That’s new. “I. Am. Tired. And now, I am leaving. We can talk about this later if you want, I’ve just really gotta get going. And I’m sorry for—for growling at you,” I tack on at the end. “I didn’t mean to.”
Gwen sighs. It’s a long and exhausted sigh, like she’s spent the whole night putting kids to bed without getting any sleep for herself.
“Girl… you’re fine, you’re going through it, and I’m not gonna not be here for you. The growling was scary as shit, but you’re fine. Please be careful, and yeah, we should talk about this later. And the can opener thing. And you eating straight out the can with your mouth. And your new pussy, if you’d like.”
“Don’t call it that! No—don’t call her that! She is a coochie, thank you very much. Or vulva, if you must be prim and proper.”
“You can’t use words like ‘prim’ and ‘proper’ and not expect me to talk about your pussy being prim and proper.”
“I can and I do. Thanks again for buying the tuna. It’s delicious.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! Seriously, it’s better than everything else I’ve ever had in my whole life combined and it’s like—”
“…I was being sarcastic. Go on, get out of here,” she cuts in. I blush, give her one last hug, slide my feet into what are now comically large slides, and leave for a (hopefully) uneventful day while checking my phone for any important notifications.