Spider Man
By Missy Crystal

Some people are born men and others have being a man thrust upon them. Petula Barker was an ordinary research assistant until she accidentally injected herself with spider venom. Three days later, she woke up as Peter Barker. After he is caught dressed in her clothes and carrying her purse, he is arrested and has to convince the police that he is really she or vice versa. A female to male transformation story for the often neglected side of our transgendered community.

I wasn't happy about being a research assistant. As a little girl, I dreamed of being a model. I would put on my pink and white taffeta party dress with the built in nylon net crinoline that puffed out the skirt and the big bow in back, well, actually it was my cousin Molly's hand me down dress which was two sizes too big for me, and my, well hers too, black patent leather mary janes, that didn't fit either, and sashay back and forth in my room. I asked my mom for modeling lessons, but she just looked at me and said it would be a waste of money. Thanks mom. And so it went all though high school. Boys aren't attracted to tall, skinny girls with little boobies. When I was using the bathroom, I would hear the other girls joking about giving their boyfriends birthday blowjobs. I would have done that for my boyfriend, if I had one. I would have done it for their boyfriends, but no luck. Mini skirts, stuffing Kleenex in my bra, fancy makeup, perfume guaranteed to win a man's heart, nothing helped. I was the ugly duckling that grew up to be a turkey.

College was no better. I was a biochemistry major. Not too many hot guys were in my classes. Actually, none. Only nerds. I probably could have seduced one. If animals can do it, I suppose eventually they would have figured out what goes where too, but I had my sights set higher. My aim was great, but I was lacking the ammunition. Then I went for my Masters. There'd be lots of hot guys there, right? Wrong. My classes were mostly women and the jury was out on the rest. At least they never responded to my provocative looks and seductive outfits. After I graduated, still a virgin through no fault of my own, I was recruited by a big pharmaceutical company to work in their drug research laboratory. The pay was good and there had to be some hot guys in a big company, right? Wrong. Most of the men I worked with were old enough to be my father and those few who were around my age were all weird with a capital "W". What's a girl to do?

Every day I would get up, wash, get dressed in whatever I felt like throwing on, it didn't matter, since I wore a white lab coat over it, sometimes I thought it would be funny if I just wore my bra and panties, and catch the 8:25 bus to the lab. Actually, from a scientific standpoint, my work was pretty interesting. Our group was analyzing the venom from a newly discovered South American spider. According to our protocol briefing, this particular spider was the only one that was known to be social, more like bees than its eight-legged relatives. The spiders spun huge communal webs, each one with a queen nested in the center. It was her venom that was of interest, because, if she was unique among spiders, maybe her venom was unique too and could cure cancer or genital warts or whatever.

After I got my station set up, I went to the Research Director's office to get a venom sample. The spiders were found in a remote area of the rain forest and, since there was just one queen to a web, only a few could be taken for their venom without affecting the spider's ecology. That meant there was very little to work with and the small amount we had was closely monitored. I signed the necessary requisition forms and received a syringe into which a small amount of the venom had been drawn from a vial. The Director handed the syringe to me and I carefully carried it to my lab bench. I removed the protective plastic cap from the needle and was about to place a drop on a glass slide for testing, when I felt like I was going to sneeze. I was afraid that I would drop the syringe, so I quickly put it down on the bench. I did sneeze, blew my nose on some tissues, which I threw in the wastebasket under my bench, and then reached for the syringe. It must have rolled, because I had put it down with the needle facing away from me, but I felt a prick in my finger and, when I looked, I saw a little spot of blood. Damn, I thought, just my luck.

Good lab procedure is to report any accidents, but I was worried that I would be reprimanded, maybe even fired, because of my carelessness in handling the venom. There probably wasn't any remaining in the needle anyway, I reassured myself, at least not enough to hurt me. After all, it's a little tiny spider that preys on other little tiny insects, so it shouldn’t hurt a great big human, I rationalized. Since I had plenty of the venom sample left to work with, I decided to keep my mouth shut about the accident and go on with my work. All day long I was very sensitive to how I felt, but I didn't notice anything. I cleaned up my station and caught the 5:15 bus back to my apartment. As far as I could tell, I still had no symptoms. However, I was a little tired and I decided to rest for a few minutes, before I opened up a can of ravioli for my dinner. I went over to my bed, it was a studio apartment, stripped down to my panties and put on my nightgown.

I woke up a few hours later and looked at the alarm clock. It was eleven o'clock, but something was strange. I looked closer and saw that the pm light was out, which meant that it was morning. I turned my head to look at the window and, holy cow, it was daylight. I had overslept. I started to sit up and then felt really funny, bulkier, for some reason. My nightgown had ridden up while I slept and my panties were showing. There was a funny bulge in them. I put my hand down and felt it press against something. I quickly hooked my thumbs in the waistband to pull them down. I gasped when I saw what looked like a sausage, long, round and meaty. What had that spider bite done to me? Were these growths all over my body I worried, not grasping the nature of what I was looking at.

I jumped out of bed, stumbling because my panties were down around my thighs, stepped out of them, pulled my nightgown over my head and went to the door mirror. Instead of me, there was a guy looking back at me. A handsome face, killer body, with well developed pecs, muscular arms and legs and a six pack stomach. I spun around and so did he, showing off a really nice tight set of buns. He was everything I every dreamt about in a man, except that the man was me. What the hell was happening? Then it hit me. The spider venom must be some kind of hallucinogen. Maybe that's how it worked. The prey became delusional and the spider could then capture it and keep it fresh until it needed to feed. But why would the Queen have that kind of venom? From what they told us about these spiders, she stayed in the web and the other spiders brought her food. I shrugged. Maybe it has a different effect on the spiders. Maybe it turns the male spiders into studs when she needs them to service her, but, whatever it did for the spiders, I might as well enjoy my hallucination before the effect wore off.

As a science major, I had taken enough biology courses to know the fundamentals of penises. Reaching down to examine it, mmmm, that felt nice, it was quite a respectable specimen, about five inches long and two inches thick I estimated, with a flap of skin over the tip. Reaching underneath I felt a pouch with two big balls dangling between my legs. Rubbing them felt nice too. I had heard about jerking off. What the heck, I thought. I gentle circled the shaft with my right hand while continuing to fondle my balls with my left. Stroking up and down, I discovered that gentle pressure from a ring formed by my thumb and first finger gave me the most stimulation, going all the way to the top, pulling back the skin and rubbing my thumb over the exposed tip. After about a minute, I noticed some clear liquid begin to leak out of the opening, which added lubrication. By now, my cock - hah, my cock - was sticking out, hard as a rock, and, after about two more minutes of attention, I felt a spasm and big gobs of white goo spurted out onto the mirror. Holy cow, that was sperm, the stuff that makes babies. I watched as it slowly dribbled down the glass. I had played with my clit off an on, well, more on than off, and had an assortment of toys in my nightstand drawer, for when I got really horny, but I never got off like that. Damn, guys have all the fun. It was really going to be disappointing when I finally woke up and went back to having a pussy with a bloody mess every month.

Okay, Pet, I said to myself. That's my nickname. My full name is Petula. I know. As a little girl, my mother was infatuated with some Brit pop singer. She had a collection of her records and by the time I was four, I knew the words to "Downtown" and "I Know a Place" the same way normal kids could recite nursery rhymes. Way to go mom. Anyway, Pet, I said to myself, this is too good to waste sitting in your apartment. You’re a chick magnet. Why not go out and show the girls a good time, in your dreams at least. Huh? Did I want to have sex with women? Then again, if you got it, might as well use it. I hoped that my imagination had provided me with a wardrobe as well.

I checked my bureau, but there were only panties, very sexy, but too skimpy to contain my manhood. Then I remembered I had a pair of men's boxers that I bought to wear as a beach cover-up. I rummaged around in my bathing suit drawer and found them. I stepped in and pulled them up to my waist. They seemed to fit, but I couldn't figure out how you supported yourself. Did guys wear jockstraps with these things? As far as I knew, they were only for sports. Besides they were not a basic item in my feminine wardrobe, so it didn't matter. Finally, I just let everything dangle. Kind of breezy, but a lot more comfortable than pantyhose. God forbid you showed a panty line. And no bra either. Not that I needed one, except for enhancement, but it was still a royal pain to have something strapped around your chest all day, just so you could have a couple of size bigger boobs. Guys don't appreciate how good they have it. I was hoping that my delusion had at least put some designer men's clothes in my closet, but no. It was full of my women's clothes and shoes. I tried on a pair of jeans, but they were much too tailored for my new physique. So were my blouses and stretchy tops. I finally found a baggy warm-up suit that I could get on, except it was in pastel pink and the pant legs and jacket sleeves were way short. Not only did I dream myself a killer body, but I made myself taller too. At least I concentrated my hallucination on things that mattered. My feet were too big for my shoes, not that my macho image would have been enhanced by mincing around in pumps, but I managed to cram them into a pair of open backed sneakers.

Before heading out, I decided to check myself out in the mirror. The first thing I noticed was my hair. Since I had given up on dating, I cut my hair in a short pageboy for easy care. I may have dreamed up a great body, but I left my own hair. Looking back at me was Prince Valiant with a stubbly beard. It looked kind of cool, but I wondered what it would be like to shave my face. From the time I was a teenager, I had spent hours bleaching my mustache, because I had been warned that shaving would make it grow back darker. Now I didn't have to worry. Guys don't know how good they have it. I got my pink Princess razor and gel, lathered my face and began to shave. As I rinsed off the razor, I could see the whiskers in the sink. Neat. When I was done, I washed off my face, toweled it dry and admired my smooth skin. Too bad I don't have some of that aftershave stuff they advertise, Aqua something. You really suck at imagining how to be a man, I reprimanded myself. Next time you hallucinate, you have to pay more attention to the details, although you did an impressive job with the dick, thinking back to the fun I had jerking off.

Now that I was ready, I picked up my purse and headed out the door. Since I had no place in particular to go, I decided to find a men's store and get myself some proper clothes. Walking down the street, people stopped to stare. On the one hand, a stud with a pageboy haircut, pink warm-up suit and carrying a purse is not something you see every day. On the other hand, they were all figments of my imagination, so what did I care. There was a department store a few blocks away. I went to the Men's Department. I had never really paid much attention to it before, having no need to shop there. My father divorced my mother when I was very young, so I never had to buy him ties, belts and handkerchiefs as gifts. I was surprised by how small it was, compared to the women's section of the store. Clothes, shoes, underwear, everything was in one place. How convenient not to have to go from the lingerie department to the women's department to the cosmetic department to the shoe department. Men really did have it easy.

A sales associate came up to me and gave me a suspicious look, obviously thinking I was some kind of weirdo. Careful, I thought, or I will imagine you into a toad, although that would not have been very practical, since I need his assistance to pick out clothes.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked me.

"Yes, please. I umm, I'm visiting my, umm, my sister. Our mother's in the hospital," I lied, not that I had to explain anything to someone I dreamed up, but I decided to pretend the fantasy was real. "I'm from out of state, yes, out of state, and the airline lost my suitcase. I spilled coffee all over my only clothes this morning, yes, right, coffee all over me, quite a mess, so I, umm, had to borrow these from her. I need to get some new clothes to wear until my suitcase gets here."

"Yes, well, what in particular are you looking for?" the sales associate asked skeptically.

"Everything really," I replied, "some pants, shirts, underwear and shoes."

"What sizes?" he wanted to know.

"Size five," I told him.

"Size five what?" he asked.

I realized that I had given him my women's size.

"Umm, actually, I'm not sure," I told him, which was true. "I've been dieting and working out, so maybe you should measure me, just to be on the safe side."

"Very well," he conceded.

He went to the sales desk and got a tape measure.

"Waist 33, inseam, 32, chest, 38, arm, 34, neck 15. Does that sound correct?"

"Yes, right on," I agreed.

"Do you have a preference in style or color?"

"No, please just select whatever you think would coordinate."

"How many of each?"

"Oh, I think just one for now. Hopefully, my suitcases will arrive soon."

The sales associate looked though the racks and picked out a pair of charcoal grey slacks in a wool and polyester blend and a light grey long sleeved cotton sport shirt with tan and black vertical stripes. He draped the slacks over his arm and held the shirt against them.

"Is this satisfactory?" he asked.

"Yes, that will do nicely. I need underwear too."

"Briefs or boxers?"

"Umm, briefs please."

He went over to a display rack."

"White or colored?"

"White, please."

He took a package from one of the shelves, then went to another display rack and took a package of black socks.

"Would you like to try them on?"

"Yes, please."

He directed me to the dressing rooms and handed me the clothes. I was hoping he would give me the underwear too, but he put them on the sales counter. The dressing room was very different than in the ladies department. Much smaller and there wasn't an attendant counting what you brought in and returned, to make sure you didn't hide anything under your clothes. I stripped and put on the slacks. They fit perfectly. So did the shirt. I picked up the clothes I had taken off and went out. The sales associate was waiting for me at the sales desk. He nodded approvingly.

"Are you going to wear those out?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Will that be check or charge?"

"Charge, please."

I opened my purse and took out my wallet. I handed him my credit card. He looked at it and shook his head.

"This isn't your card," he challenged me.

"No," I agreed. "It's my, umm, sister's. I told you the airline lost my suitcase."

"How did you get on the plane without your wallet for identification," he asked skeptically.

"Umm, I had my license separate."

"May I see it?"

"I, umm, I left it in my shirt pocket when I changed clothes."

"I see," the sales associate said, giving me a very dirty look.

"How about me going to the ATM and getting cash? I'll be right back."

I started to leave and heard the sales associate call out, "sir!" It took me a few seconds to realize he was referring to me. "Sir," he said again more emphatically. I stopped.

"Really, you cannot leave the store without paying for the clothes."

I returned to the dressing room and changed back into my jogging suit."

"How much do I owe?" I asked him when I came out.

"All together, $235.00, plus $12.75 tax. The total is $247.75."

"I'll be right back," I told him.

Luckily, there was a bank branch with an ATM nearby. I went to the machine, put in my cash card, entered my pin and withdrew $300.00, just to be on the safe side. I put the money in my purse and returned to the department store. When I got back, the sales associate was waiting with two security officers.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of the guards addressed me, "but there is some question about your using someone else's credit card. May I see some identification, please?

"I already told the sales associate, I left my driver's license at my sister's apartment."

"Whose pocket book is that, sir?" the second security guard demanded."

"It's my sister's."

"What is your name, sir?"

This hallucination was getting out of hand. I needed to put a stop to it, before it turned into a nightmare. I concentrated, trying to wake myself up, but nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. Maybe if I tried to imagine a different scene, these people would go away. I closed my eyes and thought of myself on the beach, in a bikini, sipping a marguerite. I opened my eyes, but nothing had changed. Damn. Whatever was in that spider venom was really potent.

"Sir, I must have your name" the security officer insisted, looking at me menacingly.

"It's, umm, it's Pet, umm, Petu …, umm, Peter.

"Last name?"

"Barker. Peter Barker."

"Your sister, what's her name?" the other security guard asked.

"Petula, really, Petula Barker. See it's on her credit card."

"Yes, I see," he agreed. "How is it that you have her pocket book with her wallet and credit cards?"

"She gave it to me," I told him.

"Doesn't she need it?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"I'm afraid I will have to ask you to accompany us to the security office, Mr. Barker. We can call you sister and sort this out. Let's go."

Each of the security officers took one of my arms and began to escort me out of the men's department towards the escalator. Funny, well, ironic, that I was fantasizing about using my new body to screw someone and it was I who was screwed. Damn. Maybe being a man wasn't such a good thing after all.

The security office was on the third floor. One of officers used his free hand to enter a code on the keypad on the wall beside the door, there was a click and the door opened. Inside was a small room with no windows and no pictures or decorations, just a grey metal desk, a filing cabinet and some chairs. There was nothing on the desk, except a telephone. Once we were inside, the guards released my arms. One of them went over to the desk and the other remained standing in front of the door, obviously to prevent me from escaping.

"Sit down," the security guard at the desk directed me.

I sat down and looked around for something to read while I waited, but there were no magazines or a table to put them on. The chairs had one piece metal frames with plastic seats and they were attached together, so you couldn't pick them up. This was not a room for social chats.

"What is your sister's telephone number?" the officer at the desk asked.

Not thinking that obviously I wouldn't be home, if I was here, I gave it to him. He dialed the number and waited.

"There's no answer," he told me, hanging up the phone.

"Where does you sister work?" he questioned me.

"I gave him the name of the pharmaceutical company."

"Is she at work now?"

"Yes," I lied, hoping that would satisfy the officer as to why she wasn't home.

"What is her telephone number at work?"

Crap. Caught again.

"Umm, I don't know, I never call her when she's at work," I lied some more.

"Never mind," the guard said, "I can call information."

He dialed, gave the company's name and wrote down the number.

"Hello, this is Sergeant Webb of store security. Could you connect me with Ms. Petula Barker, please."

A minute went by.

"Yes, this is Sergeant Jack Webb of store security. I'm trying to reach Ms. Petula Barker. I see. Three days. No. I don't. No, I can't say. Thank you."

He hung up the phone.

"According to Ms. Barker's supervisor, she hasn't shown up at work for three days and he assumed she quit. Mr. Barker, if that is your real name, you are in serious trouble. Is there anything you want to tell us?"

"No."

"Very well Mr. Barker or whoever you are. I am going to turn this over to the police."

He picked up the phone and dialed. The other officer stared at me, anticipating that I would do something violent, but I just sat there. I figured once the police arrived, I could explain the situation. Then I thought, what the hell do I care anyway? This is all imaginary. At some point I'm going to wake up. In the meantime, I had to pee really, really bad.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I said.

"I'm not falling for that old gag," the officer at the door said gruffly.

"If you don't let me go to the bathroom, I'm going to pee all over your chair," I threatened." Did men say pee? "It'll be your fault and you can clean up the mess."

The two officers looked at each other.

"Okay," said the one at the desk, who appeared to be more senior, since he got to sit down. "Stand up, but no funny business or you'll be sorry."

I stood up and he came around to one side of me, taking hold of my arm. The other officer opened the door and took my other arm. They guided me down the corridor to a pair of doors, one marked "Women" and the other marked "Men."

I expected them to let go of me, but they kept their grip on my arms.

"Are you coming into the ladies room with me?"

"Don't get smart with us," the officer on my right said.

The other officer opened the door to the men's room. I hesitated.

"Do you want to go or not?"

"Oh, right, sorry," I apologized. "With all that's happened, I got confused," which was an understatement.

"Go ahead."

Inside the men's room, I turned to use one of the stalls, but the officers held me back.

"You said you had to take a leak." Ah, I would have to remember that was how men said it. "Use the urinal where we can keep an eye on you."

I looked over to the opposite wall and there were three white porcelain bowls with handles on top. I walked over and stood in front of the one in the center. Apparently the guards were going to watch me, because one of them kept hold of my arm while the other blocked the door. I mean, women go to the ladies room together to put on makeup and gossip, but we allow each other privacy when relieving ourselves. My first lesson in male bathroom etiquette was that it is a spectator sport. Since I was wearing a woman's warm-up suit, it didn't have a zipper.

"I need both my hands," I told the officer, "unless one of you wants to pull down my pants for me."

The officer let go. Apparently pulling down another man's pants was not part of male bathroom etiquette. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pulled them down low enough to expose my underpants. Luckily, I had on the boxers or I really would have gotten strange looks. Now all I had to do was to figure out how to use the equipment. I assumed it worked the same way for both sexes, men just had a better aiming system. I put my hand down the front of my shorts, like I would if I was putting in a pad, and got hold of myself, but couldn't figure out how to get it through the fly."

"C'mon, will ya," the officer on my left said with annoyance. "Stop screwing around."

It was obvious I was going about it in the wrong way. I pulled my hand free and reached in through the fly, successfully retrieving my organ. Extending it towards the bowl, I relaxed my bladder muscles and let go a very impressive stream. A minute latter I was drained and looked around for some toilet paper to wipe myself. Not seeing any, I assumed that men did not indulge in that particular form of personal hygiene and, after checking to make sure there were no drips, tucked it back in and pulled up my pants. The officer immediately took hold of my arm and started taking me towards the door.

"Hold it, I need to wash my hands."

That was my third lesson in male bathroom etiquette. Men don't wash their hands after handling themselves. Definitely a guy thing and I made a note not to eat those little mints at the reception desk of restaurants that guys stick their hands in.

The officer who had been holding my arm moved to the door with his partner. When I had finished, they both came over and took my arms, guiding me out of the bathroom and down the corridor, back to the security office. Once inside, they brought me back to the chairs and took up their positions, one at the desk and one at the door. I don't know how long I sat there. There was no clock. The officer at the desk unlocked the top drawer, took out a pad of paper and started writing with a pen from his pocket. I assumed it was a report about me. He was still writing when there was a knock on the door.

"Police," a gruff voiced announced.

The officer at the door opened it and I could see a man in tan raincoat, although I don't recall it raining. Behind him there was a uniformed police officer. They entered the room and spoke to the officer at the desk.

"I'm Detective Tracy," he introduced himself, flashing a badge. "Is this him?"

"Yes," the officer replied. "The credit card he was trying to use is in there," he said, pointing to my pocketbook on the desk.

The Detective turned to me.

"What's you name?" he asked.

"Pet, umm, Peter Barker," I answered.

"Do you have an ID, Mr. Barker?"

"No."

"He said he left his license at his sister's apartment," the officer at the desk volunteered. "The name on the credit card he was trying to use is Petula Barker."

"Okay," said the Detective. "We'll take it from here. Good job, guys."

He turned to me with a scowl.

"You are under arrest for suspicion of credit card fraud."

He took out a card and began to read me my rights. "You have the right to remain silent and anything you say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and, if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you." He put the card away. "Stand up and walk over to the desk, put your hands on the top, step back and spread your legs."

I did as he directed.

He walked over and used his foot to push my feet back, so I had my weight on my hands. He frisked me, roughly running his hands from my shoulders, around my sides, over my back and chest an all the way down to my ankles. After he finished, he moved me forward and order me to put my hands behind my head. He took my left hand, pulled it behind my back and I could feel metal and then a click as he locked the handcuff. He did the same with my other hand. He picked up my pocket book, nodded to the uniformed officer, who put his hand under my left arm and escorted me out of the room. We went down a back elevator and I was put into the back seat of a police car.

It was about a ten minute ride to the police station. Everything seemed so real, I kept wondering to myself how I knew all this stuff about being arrested. Too many cop shows on TV, I thought. You need to get a life, Pet, I told myself. I was taken to a desk where they booked me and then was taken to an interrogation room. It was bare, except for a metal table and two chairs. They seated me in the one on the opposite side of the table from the door. I sat there by myself for a long time. Finally, the door opened and Detective Tracy came in.

"We've gone to Ms. Barker's apartment. There are no men's clothes there and there's no license with your name on it. None of the neighbors remember seeing the woman who lives there in the last few days, but one of them did see a man leaving her apartment around noon today. Do you want to tell me why you are dressed in a ladies warm-up suit that doesn't fit you and carrying Ms. Barker's purse?"

I laughed to myself. I don't think my neighbors even knew what I looked like, but a man, him they remember. Figures. I thought about asking for a lawyer, but then this was all a hallucination, so why not play it out. Eventually I would have to wake up. At least I hoped I would wake up and everything would be back to normal. Then I thought of that movie, "The Matrix," where the people were all dreaming and didn't know it, but their dream was better than the reality. Just like them, my real life sucked, so either way it didn't matter.

"Well, what's it going to be?" the Detective asked impatiently. "If you've got nothing to hide, then help us find the girl and you can go," he offered.

"Detective, the truth is that I'm Petula Barker. I was working on this research project and accidentally injected myself with some spider venom. When I woke up this morning, I had turned into a man. Now can I go?"

The Detective glared at me.

"If you're trying to set up an insanity defense, it won't work. Just because you’re cross-dressed and carrying a pocketbook doesn't mean you can get away with murder; but, if you cooperate and help us find the woman's body, you may be able to cop a plea."

I shook my head.

"Look, Detective, I told you where her body is. It's here. I'm Petula Barker. That's why I'm wearing her clothes and carrying her pocketbook, I mean my clothes and my pocketbook. Why don't you call Novalox Pharmaceuticals and talk to Dr. Jameson. He's the Director of the research lab. He'll confirm my story."

The Detective sighed.

"Have it your way."

He knocked on the door. It opened and he left. When he came back, he looked very angry.

"Okay, you've screwed around enough," he shouted. "I spoke to Dr. Jameson. There's no spiders in his lab. He said that Ms. Barker was working on a hemorrhoid ointment and that she hasn't been there for three days. Now, do you want to tell me what really happened to her?"

I should have known Jameson wouldn't disclose anything about the spider research. Well, it didn't matter anyway. I closed my eyes and again tried to put an end to the hallucination, but when I opened them, I was still in the interrogation room."

"I told you the truth, Detective Tracy," I insisted. "I can't help it if Dr. Jameson is covering up to protect his research. You can search for Petula Barker until the cows come home, but you won't find her, because she's here." I pointed to myself. Then the solution to my imaginary situation hit me. "I'm no lawyer, but I recall something about not being able to convict someone of murder if you don't have any evidence that they're dead. Isn't that right?"

The Detective scowled.

"Maybe, maybe not, but we still have you on breaking and entering, you were seen leaving Ms. Barker's apartment, on larceny, you were caught with her pocket book, and for credit card fraud, you tried to use her card to buy clothes. That's enough to put you away for a very long time and, in the meantime, her body will turn up. They always do."

"Not in this case," I assured him.

He turned, knocked on the door and it opened. He said something to the uniformed officer stationed outside. The officer came in, told me to get up, handcuffed me and escorted me to another room where another officer was waiting.

"Strip," the officer in the room ordered me.

I stepped out of my sneakers and took off my warm-up suit.

"The shorts too."

I drop my shorts and stepped out of them. I started to bend over to pick them up, but he stopped me.

"Leave them where they are."

The officer pulled two rubber gloves out of a box and put them on. He picked up a small flashlight, a tongue depressor and walked over to me.

"Open."

He searched my mouth.

"Arms up."

He searched my armpits.

"Bend over and spread your legs."

I hesitated.

"You might as well get used to it," he advised me. "When you're in prison and somebody's bitch, this will be routine, except it will be something bigger than my finger. Now bend over."

The other officer tapped his nightstick against his hand menacingly.

Great, I thought to myself. Way to hallucinate Pet. Well, at least I'll finally get to be somebody's girlfriend. I guess that's a step up from dating myself and I'll save a bundle on batteries too. With the officer scowling at me, I complied and got the male equivalent of a gynecological exam. Then again I thought, as I felt him probing, having one opening to inspect is better than having two.

"He's clean," the examining officer announced and they both snickered. Obviously, a standard joke for this type of activity.

The officer went over to a cabinet, rummaged around and came back with a pile of clothes. He handed me a pair of white cotton briefs that were on top.

"Put these on."

Then he gave me a bright orange jump suit that zipped up the front, from the crotch to the neck and a pair of canvas slip-ons. The jump suit was baggy and the slip on were too big. Apparently, one-size fits all. Next they put a chain around my waist with two wrist cuffs attached, which they put on me, and a pair of cuffs with a foot long chain went on my ankles.

"Okay, let's go."

Each officer took an arm and I shuffled out the door to a waiting van. I was put in back and the officer got in after me. There were no windows, so I couldn't tell where we were going. Finally, the van stopped and the officer opened the door. We were parked in front of a metal door. The officer buzzed, the door unlocked and we went in, down a long corridor with cinderblock walls, to another door. We were buzzed through that door, I noticed a security camera on the wall, and came to a desk. There was another officer who took some paperwork from the first officer. He got up from the desk and took me into a small room.

It wasn't like any jail cell I'd seen on TV or in the movies. It had a regular door with a window which must have been one-way glass, because it was dark on the inside, and the walls were covered with some type of rubber material, like the stuff they make exercise mats out of. There were no windows. Against one wall was a stainless steel box with an opening and a button set in the wall next to it, like the toilets on airplanes, except it didn't have a seat, and attached to the opposite wall was a metal bench covered with the same rubber material. The officer closed the door behind us. I noticed that there was no handle on the inside. He unlocked the restraints and pointed to the bed. I walked over and when I was seated, he went and stood by the door. There must have been a second officer watching through the glass, because the door unlocked and he left. Then I looked up and saw a back bubble in the ceiling. So much for privacy.

I decided to lie down and try to concentrate on controlling my thoughts. I had the right concept, being a guy was great, just the wrong context. I thought of myself in a fancy bar, like one of those Las Vegas hotel night clubs, surrounded by exotic show girls with big boobs, long legs and sexy figures, the kind of woman I dreamt about being, when I was a woman. I had on a cream colored white silk shirt, open at the neck, with lots of gold chains, tight tan slacks with pleats and dark green alligator Italian loafers, sort of a combination of Sylvester Stallone and John Travolta. The girls just couldn't keep their eyes or their hands off of me. I picked out the hottest number, she must have been a double D at least, most of it hanging out of her dress, and was going to take her for a spin on the dance floor, when I heard a voice.

"Sit up and stay on the bed."

Damn. It didn't work. I was stuck in my hallucination. I did as the voice directed me, looking around until I saw a grill in the wall next to the door, like an intercom speaker, except there was no button. As soon as I was sitting up, the door opened and two men came in. They wore white coats, pants and shoes, instead of police uniforms.

"Where am I and what's going on?" I asked.

"This is the Marvelle City Hospital. You're here for a psychiatric evaluation and we're taking you to see Dr. Stanley," one of the men told me.

"This is a locked ward and you can't escape, so don't try anything," the other man warned me. "All that will happen is that you'll get yourself an armful of lala juice. It's your choice. Now let's go, Dr. Stanley is waiting."

I was taken down a corridor, through two more sets of doors which opened with a keypad and into an elevator, which also required the use of a keypad, before the floor buttons worked. We went up to the fourth floor and out into a corridor, through two more sets of doors with keypads, obviously a secure floor, and stopped in front of a shatterproof glass door, the kind that has wire mesh in it. Inside I could see a man sitting at a wood desk with two armless chairs in front of it. There were diplomas on the walls, a set of bookshelves behind the desk and filing cabinets against the right wall. The left wall had two large windows that looked out over the city. It was the first time that I had seen daylight since I was arrested and it appeared to by late afternoon. When the man behind the desk saw us through the door, he buzzed it open and we went in. He stood up and pointed to one of the chairs. I sat down.

"Thank you, you can leave us. Mr., umm, Barker, yes, Barker, is not going to cause any trouble, are you Mr., umm Barker?"

"No," I agreed.

"Very well then."

He nodded to the men and they returned to the door. I saw Dr. Stanley push a button on the desk and the door unlocked. The door closed behind them and they took seats across from the door, so that they could observe what was happening in the office.

"Good afternoon, I am Dr. Stanley," he introduced himself formally. "We are simply going to have a chat. It appears that the District Attorney's Office has some concerns about your mental health before they prosecute you. Something about you claiming to be a woman?" he said in a questioning tone. "Let me just look at your commitment papers. "Ah, yes," he began to read, " no identification, delusional, claims to be a missing woman who was turned into a man by a spider, hmmm, works in a drug research lab, no spiders, hmmm. Mr., umm, Barker, I must warn you, whatever we discuss will be reported. You don't have to talk, but keeping silent may result in your remaining here indefinitely, if I conclude you are a danger to yourself or society. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Doctor, quite clear. I want to cooperate. It's just that nobody will believe me when I tell the truth."

The doctor gave me a patronizing look.

"Mr. Barker, please go over to the window."

I got up and walked over.

"What do you see?"

"The city?"

"No, look at your reflection. What do you see?"

It was getting dark and I could see myself in the glass.

"Well?"

"I don't understand."

"Do you see a man or a woman?"

"A man."

"May I assume that you have the appropriate genitals to compliment your appearance?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell. I haven't had a chance to fully test them."

"Are you telling me you're a virgin?

"Yes, regardless of gender," I quipped.

"Let's stick with your being a man. That's what you claim you are, right?"

"No. I'm a woman. Somehow the spider venom turned me into a man."

"So you are a woman trapped in a man's body, is that it?"

"Well, not trapped exactly, but yes."

"In other words, you're transgendered."

"I don't know what that means, Dr. Stanley."

"It means that you want to be the opposite of your birth sex. In your case, you are a man who feels like he should have been born a woman."

"No, the opposite. I'm a woman who has become a man. Is there a term for that?"

"Are you saying that you’re a transsexual?"

"I don't know what that means either."

"It means that you've had a sex change operation.

"Not an operation, Doctor Stanley," I said excitedly, "a spider bite. Now, you understand how it happened, don't you."

"Mr. Barker, what you are claiming is a medical impossibility. A sex change may create the superficial appearance of being male, but it doesn't make your female reproductive system disappear. A woman may have her breasts removed and an artificial penis and a sac with what appear to be testicles constructed, but they are not functional. The penis cannot have a natural erection and the faux testes, if you will, cannot produce sperm. Can yours?"

"Yes," I conceded, at least as far as I could tell this morning."

Dr. Stanley gave me a curious look.

"I, umm, experimented with my new toys."

"You masturbated?"

"Yes."

"You got an erection?"

"Yes."

"And you ejaculated?"

"Yes."

"Well then, Mr. Barker," Dr. Stanley rationalized, "if you have a fully functional male reproductive system, then you cannot be a woman, can you?"

"Yes, Doctor Stanley, I mean no, Doctor Stanely, I mean, I don't know what I mean. I'm not a woman now. I used to be a woman. Well, no, I mean I am still a woman, I mean I'm still Petula Barker, I just have a man's body. I didn't want to become a man, it just happened."

"Now I'm the one who's confused, Mr. Barker. Are you claiming that you have Petula Barker's personality in someone else's body? Whose body would that be, Mr. Barker. Where did it come from, if it isn't yours?"

I sighed.

"Look, Dr. Stanley. I am Petula Barker and this is my body. A few days ago, I accidentally injected myself with some spider venom. I didn't notice any immediate effect, but when I got home, I felt tired. I changed into my nightgown and lay down to rest. I thought I had just dozed off, but, when I woke up, it was three days later and, instead of being a woman, I was a man. I don't understand how it happened, except that it has something to do with the spider venom."

"Assuming, for the sake of our discussion, what you told me is true, do you want to go back to being a woman?"

"Honestly, I don't know, Dr. Stanley. I wasn't very good at being female. Being male seems to have a lot of advantages. Besides, I don't know if the process is reversible, if there is an antidote. Why would you ask me such a question, anyway? What does that have to do with who I am?"

"Just curious."

Then it struck me that I was having an argument over changing my gender with myself. This was only a hallucination. Did I really have some repressed desire to be a man? Was that my problem or was it just society's emphasis on female perfection that frustrated me? Was I transgendered? Had I heard that term before? I didn't think so, but maybe subliminally I had picked it up from somewhere. I had no idea why my imagination was running wild, but I had an idea how to put a stop to it.

"Look, Dr. Stanley, I can prove that I am Petula Barker. Call my mother. She lives here in town. She can confirm that I know things only her daughter would know. That should convince you I'm telling the truth."

"Perhaps, Mr. Barker, but it is a well known psychological fact that people who are obsessive can learn a tremendous amount of information about the personality they adopt. There are institutionalized Napoleons that know more about his life from their historical research than Napoleon himself probably remembered."

"Perhaps, Doctor Stanley, but there are no biographies about Petula Barker and she's only been absent from work for two days," I argued. "Today is the third day and I was arrested this morning, so I would not have had time to memorize the details of her childhood, even if I had thought that I might be questioned about it, which would be a pretty far fetched thing to do while I was doing whatever it is I am supposed to have done to her, don't you think? How about it, will you please call her?"

"Mr. Barker, when it comes to the capacity of the human mind nothing would surprise me, but I will make a deal with you. I will call this woman you say is your mother; but, if you cannot convince her that you are her daughter, then you will give up this pretense that you are a woman. Do you promise?"

"Yes. Her name is Kate Barker."

Dr. Stanley dialed her number as I gave it to him.

"Hello, is this Mrs. Kathrine Barker?"

I winced, because mom never went by Katherine.

"Kate Barker, yes, sorry. Do you have a daughter named Petula?"

"No, this is not a sales call Mrs. Barker."

There was a pause.

"No, I'm sorry. Really. Ms. Barker. This is Doctor Stanley at Marvelle City Hospital. Something has happened to your daughter and we would like you to come down to the hospital and identify her," he explained cryptically.

"No, Mrs., sorry," he apologized, "yes, I understand, your divorced and its Ms. Barker. No, I can't tell you the details over the telephone. I really need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible."

Another pause.

"No, Ms. Barker, she's not dead. Well, we're not sure, actually."

Another pause.

"No, I don't know if she had a life insurance policy. You’re her only living relative and she has no brother's or sisters," he repeated. "Yes, I understand, but this isn't about that. I just need you to come down here right away."

A long pause.

"Yes, I appreciate today is your mahjong day. Ms. Barker, really, this is much more important than a game. What? For money? Even so, this is more important. Can't you give it up for today, please? You always win? No, I can't pay you for your time. Please, just come down here and help us identify your daughter. You do want to help her, don't you? Ms. Barker? Don't you want to help your daughter? No, it can't wait until the weekend. You need to come down right now."

I should have known. Even when I hallucinate my mother is a pain in the ass.

"Look, Ms. Barker, Kate, I am going to send a police car to pick you up and bring you here. They should arrive in about ten or fifteen minutes. Please be ready. No, I don't know what you should wear. It doesn't matter. Well, yes, I know it matters to you, but nobody is going to see you. This isn't a social affair. You are coming directly to my office."

Another long pause.

"No, Mrs. Barker, I can't order them to use the siren. It's not an emergency. Well, you can ask them. Maybe they'll let you ride in front. It's up to them. Just be ready when they get there, okay? Thank you."

He looked relieved when he hung up the telephone.

"Well, I believe that she will be here shortly. In the meantime, I'm going to return you to your room, so that I can start on your report. I'll send for you when she arrives."

Dr. Stanley motioned for the two attendants to come in and pushed the button on his desk. They took me back to my room. Since there was nothing else for me to do, I decided to lie down and try to redirect my thoughts one more time.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself back in the nightclub with my busty companion. We were on the dance floor and her breasts we squashed against my chest. I felt jealous. I should be the one who was turning me on. No, Pet, you're supposed to be the man, the one that the woman dresses herself up in uncomfortable clothes and shoes, spends hours doing her hair and makeup and pumps herself full of silicone, collagen and botox to please. Why do we do that? Focus! That's what men want. You're a man and that's what you want, a pretty plastic plaything. Isn't it? But when you wake up, you will be a woman. If this was for real, and Dr. Jameson offered to let you be a test subject, would you volunteer to be turned into a man permanently? If there really was a safe and painless way for a woman to become a man, why wouldn't you want to do it? After all, it is a man's world. Why wouldn't any woman want to do it? Is that what Dr. Stanley was getting at when he asked if you wanted to go back to being a woman? So, your answer to his question should have been no. Does that make you transgendered? Why are you even having these thoughts? Shouldn't you be concentrating on controlling your imagination?

My unresolved debate with myself ended with the speaker directing me to sit up. I was brought to Dr. Stanley's office. He was alone.

"I am informed that Mrs, umm, Ms. Barker will be here shortly. I wanted you here when she arrived, so that you would not suspect that somehow I had influenced her questioning; because, if she does not recognize you as her daughter, then you agreed to abandon you claim that you are a woman and tell me what really happened. That is our deal and I've kept my end of it. I expect you to keep yours."

I nodded my agreement, expecting that there would be no problem with my convincing my mother that I was her daughter, since that was who I was, or at least used to be, no still was, even though I didn't look like me.

I sat quietly while Dr. Stanley continued writing on a piece of white lined paper in a manilla folder. I turned my head when he looked up and saw my mother being escorted by a uniformed police officer. When the door unlocked, he brought her in. Dr. Stanley thanked the officer and told him he could go back to his duties. As the officer was leaving, he pointed to the other chair and politely asked my mother to be seated. She sat down, crossed her legs, adjusted her dress and put her giant pocketbook on the floor next to her. When she was done, she looked at the Doctor and smiled and then turned her head and smiled at the good looking guy sitting next to her, not realizing that it was me.

"Thank you for coming, Ms. Barker," Dr. Stanley greeted her, remembering the designation she preferred. "This gentleman," he pointed to me, "claims to be your daughter and would like you to confirm his identity."

My mother gave me a cursory look.

"He's not my daughter. Can I go now? I can probably get back in time for those delicious cucumber and tomato sandwiches Mrs. Goldstein makes, if the cop will step on it. You know she uses fresh white bread and cuts off the crusts, with just a tiny bit of herb mayonnaise."

"Ms. Barker, please cooperate. This is an official investigation and there are penalties for obstructing justice," Dr. Stanley cautioned her.

"Mom, please," I interrupted. "This is important. I am you daughter. I just look different. Don't you remember when I was a little girl, I had a pink security blanket that I called my boppy and a favorite teddy bear named 'roy. His actual name was Corduroy, from a storybook, but I couldn't pronounce his full name, so I just called him 'roy. Isn't that right Mom?" I asked hopefully.

My mother looked at Dr. Stanley.

"I don't know what this man is talking about," she told him. "Can you get the police officer to drop me off at Mrs. Goldstein's?"

"Mom, you can't have forgotten!" I exclaimed. "You must still have my baby stuff stored somewhere. You do have it don't you? Mom! You didn't throw my boppy and 'roy out did you?"

She looked at me blankly.

"For crying out loud, Mom, you didn't throw them out did you? You did, didn't you!"

In my excitement, I started to get up.

"Sit down and behave," Dr. Stanely warned me with his finger poised over the door button.

I sank back down.

"Just to prove that I am giving you every opportunity, I am going to have Mrs. Barker ask you a question about your childhood. Go ahead, Mrs. Barker. Ask this gentleman something that you think only Petula would know."

Mom thought for a minute.

"What was the name of Petula's first boyfriend?" she challenged me.

"Mom, what are you talking about? Its me, Mom. I never had a social life and I never had a boyfriend."

"See, he doesn't know. Can I go now? It's probably too late. Maybe if the cop uses the siren, there'll be some sandwiches left."

She started to get up.

"Sit down, Mrs. Barker. I'll tell you when you can go," Dr. Stanley admonished her.

He looked at me.

"Well, answer her question, if you can."

"Okay, hold on, let me try to figure out what her nutso mind is thinking."

"Please, no insults. Can you or can't you answer the question?"

"Is it that snot nosed kid in the first grade that kept offering me his chocolate pudding at lunch? Was that him?"

"No," Mom replied.

"Then was it that kid, I can't remember his name, Billy, Bobby, Barry, Barney, something with a b and a y, the one with the world's worst case of acne, that wanted to take me to the junior prom?"

"No."

"I give up, Dr. Stanley. She's impossible. Just out of curiosity, I'd like to know who it is she thinks I dated."

"Well," Mrs. Barker?" Dr. Stanley inquired.

"Craig," she answered.

"Craig? I never dated a boy named Craig . I never even knew a boy named Craig."

"My daughter is very popular, like her mother. Craig was a very handsome doctor who was in love with her, but she preferred his roommate, Hugh. Personally, I think she made a big mistake."

"Oh for crying out loud, Mom, that's not me! That's some episode of one of your soap operas."

"Well, it's obvious this woman cannot identify you," Dr. Stanley concluded. "I've kept my part of the bargain, now it's up to you. Tell me what happened to Petula."

"You want to know what happened to Petula. I'll tell you," I said spitefully, glaring at my mother, who let me down, just as she always had when I was growing up. No wonder I was an emotional mess. "I tied her up with a pair of Donna Karan nude ultra-sheer sandal foot pantyhose and then strangled her with the petal pink gel cup Wonderbra she was wearing. She died very fashionably. Then I cut her up into little pieces and mailed them to all of your relatives, Mom. Bernie and Phyl in Houston, Thelma and Donni, the lesbians lovers, in San Franciso, and Uncle Frank in the penitentiary in Kansas. How about that!"

"Thelma and Donni are not lesbians. They're just very good friends who happen to live together and my brother is not in jail," Mom protested, ignoring the more serious issue of her daughter having been murdered and diced. "He's in Hawaii surfing," she claimed.

I looked at Dr. Stanley and he was staring at us in shocked disbelief.

"Hah, Mom. Uncle Frank is fifty-three, he hates the beach and he wouldn't know a surf board from an emery board. He's been a criminal all of his life and I see the letters you get from him postmarked Leavenworth, Kansas. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out he's in prison."

"Is that true, Ms. Barker. Is your brother in prison?

"No."

"Ms. Barker, I am warning you one last time. I can check with the federal authorities."

"He was framed."

"Mrs. Barker, it is a yes or no question and I'm not going to ask it again."

"Yes," Mom conceded, "but he wouldn't be if he had a decent lawyer."

"Thank you, Ms. Barker," Dr. Stanley said with relief, "You are free to go."

He motioned towards the door.

"Isn't the officer going to take me home?"

"No, I'm afraid he has police work to do. There's a bus stop in front of the hospital."

Obviously, Dr. Stanley was not pleased with Mom's cooperation and saw no reason to accommodate her.

"At least can I have bus fare?" she bargained.

"No! Good day Ms. Barker," Dr. Stanley dismissed her.

After she left, I smiled at him, forgetting that it was not a manly thing to do. Old habits die hard.

"You see, Dr. Stanley. I was telling you the truth. I am Petula Barker. Now will you release me?"

Dr. Stanley shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barker. I assume that is the appropriate designation under the circumstances. You are only here for psychiatric evaluation. I have no say in whether you are released or prosecuted. That decision is up to the District Attorney's Office. At best, I can report that you are not mentally ill." Dr. Stanley shook his head and added, "but without confirmation that you were even working with spiders, let alone that their venom causes gender reversal, I cannot verify your identity."

I contemplated my situation. Twice I had tried to end the hallucination unsuccessfully. However, I did have some control over it. My suggestion that Dr. Stanley interview my mother, as frustrating as it was for both of us, convinced him that I was sane. If I could offer him a way to get the scientific proof to support my story, I might be able to enjoy my imaginary manhood. Then, I thought, what if? What if this wasn't a hallucination? Dreams usually have some bizarre element, at least my dreams usually did, like going to school naked, I hated when I had that one, or doing impossible things, like flying, or having DD boobs, I loved that one. This hallucination seemed rational in comparison. The people, places and actions all corresponded to my real life, assuming you accepted the basic premise that a spider's bite could turn a woman into a man. Since I didn't care for alcohol and I had never tried drugs, I had no frame of reference as to whether chemically induced hallucinations were different from regular dreams; but, if this was really happening, then there was even more reason to prove I was Petula Barker."

"Mr. Barker?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Stanley, I was trying to come up with a way to get Dr. Jameson to tell the truth," which really would have been my next issue for consideration, if he hadn't interrupted me. "The problem, well his problem, which is my problem too," I thought out loud, "is that any publicity would compromise his research project. A naturally occurring drug, such as the venom, is not patentable, so the only way to profit from it is to isolate the biologically active component before the other drug companies learn about it and figure out how to create their own version. Whoever is first to complete the FDA protocols and get to market hits the jackpot. In fact, Dr. Jameson has a double whammy, because if word gets out, all of the other drug companies will want their own supply of the venom. The spiders have a very fragile ecology. There are not many of the webs to begin with, there is only one Queen to a web and the colony cannot survive without her. High demand would probably lead to the spiders extinction and that would mean an end to the supply of venom before the research could be completed."

Then it hit me. Dr. Jameson's aversion to publicity and that problem it would cause, if word got out, could work to my advantage.

"Dr. Stanley, I do have a plan."

Once I had gone over the details, Dr. Jameson agreed to help.

"I will contact Dr. Jameson. From what you have told me, I can persuade him to meet with me. However, once he's here, you're on your own."

"I understand, Dr. Stanley, and thank you for believing my story."

"I don't believe you or disbelieve you, Mr. Barker" Dr. Stanley cautioned me. "The first rule of counseling is to allow the patient to work through the issues on his or her own. The therapist is simply a referee in their emotional conflict. Whatever the outcome in your case, it will be of your doing, not mine, and the consequences will be yours as well."

I nodded my acceptance of his neutrality.

"Since I have concluded that you are not dangerous to yourself or others, there is no need to keep you in seclusion. I will order your transfer to a regular hospital room. Even so, this is a locked ward. You want me to cooperate with you, but cooperation is reciprocal. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I assured him.

"Good. I will notify you when Dr. Jameson arrives tomorrow," he paused, "if he comes."

He pushed the button to open the door and the attendants entered.

"Wait," he directed them as he wrote a note.

"Mr. Barker may remain on the floor. See that he is assigned a room. Here is an order for his transfer."

"Oh, Dr. Stanley, I'm sorry, but would it be possible for me to have some dinner? I just realized I haven't eaten anything all day, what with waking up a man, getting arrested and being brought here."

Dr. Stanley added something to the order and handed it to one of the attendants, who put it in his pocket. They escorted me out of Dr. Stanley's office and through two sets of locked doors, which they opened by entering a code on the keypad next to them. We arrived at a counter with a sliding glass window. It was the same shatterproof glass as the door to Dr. Stanley's office. One of the attendants rapped on the glass to get the attention of the white coated people inside. A man came over, undid a lock and slid the window up an inch. The attendant slid him Dr. Stanley's order. The person inside went to a clipboard, looked something up and then returned."

"Fourteen West," he told the attendant through a grill set in the glass, then slid the window closed and locked it again.

We set off down the corridor, took a right and then a left, and ended up in front of a door with a glass observation window, similar to the one on the room I had been kept in, and opened with a keypad, like the others. The attendants waited for me to enter and then the door closed and I heard it lock. Looking around, I was relieved to see that it looked like a standard hospital room. There was an adjustable bed with a pillow, sheets and a white cotton blanket, a night stand next to it and, best of all, a TV mounted on the wall. There was also a doorway, which I hoped lead to a bathroom, because it had been a long time since I peed, or took a leak, as us guys say, and my bladder was about to explode. Hurrying in, I found a sink, toilet and tub with a shower.

I unzipped my jumpsuit, shrugged out of the top and bunched it below my knees, pulled down my panties, oops, guys don't call them panties, underpants, lifted the lid, turned around and sat down, assuming that the seat in a hospital must be sanitary. I noticed that my dick dangled, which was convenient for making sure that I did not miss the bowl and pee on my pants, and began to relieve myself. Than it dawned on me that sitting down was not how men went to the bathroom. I stopped myself in mid stream, stood up, waddled around with my pants around my ankles, flipped up the seat, took hold of myself for accuracy and let fly. I wondered if dads taught their sons to stand up and go, the same as moms taught their daughters to squat over the seat when using public restrooms. What did single moms do with their sons? Did they all become gay, because the women didn't know any better, so they were taught to pee like girls? Probably they figured it out for themselves eventually, just the way I figured out sex, since my mother was useless in that department. Anyway, having mastered the basics of urinating as a man, I washed up and went back into the room.

While I was in the bathroom getting the hang, so to speak, of my new equipment, someone had come into the room and left my meal on the bed table. There was a Styrofoam compartmented tray which held some brownish meat with creamy gravy, mashed potatoes, a couple of gold foil wrapped squares of butter, a slice of white bread, a pile of peas and a cellophane package with plastic utensils, a napkin and little packets of salt and pepper in it. There was also a Saran wrap covered Styrofoam cup with milk and a plastic container of red Jello for desert. Not exactly gourmet dining, but then beggars, or in this case prisoners, can't be choosers.

I rolled the bed table over to the armchair, adjusted the height and sat down. I cut up the meat and took small bites, wiping my lips with the napkin. About half way through the meal, I remembered sitting in the company cafeteria watching the men, loosely speaking, shoveling in their food. I decided to give it a try. I speared three pieces of meat, taxing the capacity of the little plastic fork, slopped it around in the gravy and slobbered it into my mouth, the gravy coating my lips and dribbling down my chin. Yuch. I couldn't see why being male meant being a slob. Was neatness so unmanly that it had to be avoided at the expense of constantly washing food stains out of your clothing? When I was a woman, would it have made any difference to me if my date, if I ever had one, didn't have the tble manners of a gorilla? I shrugged mentally. Maybe it's a guy thing and I will just have to deal with it as a girl thing until I get used to having a guy thing instead of a girl thing.

After eating everything on the tray but the Styrofoam, apparently sex changes make you really hungry, I decided to take a shower. If my imaginary transformation took three days, then I was pretty imaginary dirty. Whatever my imagination had in store for me tomorrow, there's no reason not to be clean. I pushed the table away, stood up and went over to the bed. There were two white with blue polka dots hospital gowns on it. Blue johnnys for boys, I thought. How thoughtful of them to notice, I joked to myself. From my visits to the gynecologist, I understood that one of the gowns went on with the opening in the back and the other was worn in reverse, like a robe, to cover your southern exposure. I picked them up and took them into the bathroom. After turning on the shower, I slipped out of my shoes, jumpsuit and briefs, stepped into the tub and drew the curtain. The imaginary hot water felt really good on my imaginary male body.

The morning I woke up and discovered that I was a man, my curiosity was directed to those private parts which, as a woman, despite my most provocative outfits and come-ons, I was unable to get my hands on. Dildo's, regardless of their size and how realistically they looked, were a poor substitute. Now I had a chance to inspect my new body as I soaped up. Starting with my neck, it was thick, with broad shoulders to which were attached muscular arms. I flexed my biceps, which, when I was a woman would have done nothing, and produced an impressive bulge. Not as pronounced as the body building contestants on the TV who I had drooled over, but by no means a wimp. What's more, instead of the almost invisible peach fuzz on my female arm, there was real dark, curly hair. Moving down to washing my legs, which previously I had shaved every Friday night since I entered puberty, in preparation for the dates I never went on, they were hairy too. Similarly, my armpits and pubes, also neatly groomed each week, sprouted an impressive crop. I wasn't sure that I liked being this fuzzy, but that's what you got when you replaced estrogen with testosterone, my biochemistry training told me, and apparently my imaginary male hormonal system had been pumping it out like a stallion while I was unconscious.

Finishing both my shower and my anatomical tour, including inadvertently giving myself a hard-on when I washed my dick and balls, was there a way guys did this without turning themselves on I wondered, I shut off the water and stepped out of the tub. I found a towel hanging on a bar and began to pat myself dry. After a few minutes, it became clear that being hairy required a more vigorous use of the towel. After I was dry, I wanted to brush my teeth, but I couldn't find a toothbrush in the bathroom. I recalled that there was an intercom next to the bed, went over and pushed the button.

"Yeah," a gruff voice answered.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could get a toothbrush and a little toothpaste?" I replied meekly.

"This is a hospital, not a hotel," the voice observed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just thought, well, maybe, oh, never mind, thanks anyway," I apologized.

"Look in the drawer," the voice conceded.

"What drawer?" I asked.

"Damn! Are you stupid? How many drawers are there? The nightstand drawer," came the exasperated answer.

"Thank you," I said politely.

Sure enough, in the drawer of the nightstand there was a white half-moon shaped plastic bowl with one of those travel toothbrushes that have built in toothpaste in a cellophane wrapper. I took it out and brought it into the bathroom. After scrubbing my teeth, I returned to my room. Suddenly, I felt really tired, so I pulled down the covers, took off the second gown and got into the bed. The sheets felt cool and crisp and the loose johnny was like a nightgown, except I wasn't used to having something flopping around between my legs when I moved. Maybe I should put on the briefs , I thought, but I was too tired to get up.

The TV remote was clipped to the bed and I decided to see if there was any mention of a missing woman on the news. Flipping through the channels, I found a local station and was surprised to see that it was almost 11:30PM by the clock on the wall behind the anchor's desk. After listening to a recap of the days top headlines, none of which were about me, I turned off the TV and lay down. As I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, I wondered whether you dream in your dreams. Whatever the answer, I didn't.

I woke up to one of the attendants shaking me. I rolled over and smiled at him. Maybe he was my lover I thought, still half asleep. I used to have lots of imaginary lovers. Once I even fantasized about dating the high school track team. Don't ask me why the track team. Maybe because they didn't have cheerleaders for track, so I didn't have any competition? Then I saw someone in a white jacket and pants, not traditional athletic gear, looked around and realized that I was still stuck in the same hallucination. Whatever, I thought, real or imagined, I might as well get up.

"Dr. Stanley wants to see you in half an hour," he told me. "Your breakfast is over there," he added, pointing to the bed table, which was still over by the arm chair.

"Thanks," I said politely, sitting up, throwing back the covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Then I realized that my nightgown, well, johnny, had ridden up and my dick and balls were hanging out. I tugged on the hem of the gown, the way I would pull down a skirt, so as not to flash my panties. The attendant gave me a funny look, I assume because we were all guys, as far as he knew, and it wasn't something he hadn't seen before.

"Gotta take a leak," I announced huskily, to make up for my unmanly behavior, and headed for the bathroom.

Since I didn't bother to put on the other gown as a robe and the one I had on was open in the back, the attendant got a good shot of my backside. Hah, I thought. Take a good look at my butt. That will show you I'm one of the guys. Glancing over my shoulder, rather than being impressed, I could see him turn to his partner and shake his head. Apparently, male culture is not as simple as scratching your crotch and spitting, as it is portrayed on TV. It's okay for us to expose our manhood, but not our buttocks? Perhaps guys are used to seeing each others dicks, because peeing is done publicly, but exposing your ass suggested gay sex, like the officer said would happen to me when I went to prison. Somebody definitely needs to write a book about men for women who have sex changes.

After relieving myself in proper male fashion, washing up and brushing my teeth, I came back out. The attendants had left. I sat down in the armchair and ate my breakfast. The same set up as before, Styrofoam and plastic everything, except this time there were scrambled eggs, a bowl of some type of pasty hot cereal, a slice of whole wheat toast, a little tub of grape jelly, and two Saran wrap cover cups, one milk and the other grapefruit juice. I ate it all and quickly got dressed. Pulling on the briefs, stepping into the jumpsuit and slipping into the shoes took a lot less time than the complicated feminine morning routine necessary to make ourselves, oops, themselves, attractive, although I did miss the lipstick. I always thought I had a pretty mouth I mean, a girl's got to have at least one good feature, right, and I liked to accent it with a sexy color. Then again, as kissable as I made myself, I never provoked enough passion for anyone to take advantage of the opportunity, not that I wasn't willing. Well, those days are over, I reminded myself. Now you're the kisser instead of the kissee.

While I waited, I turned on the TV, to see if there was any news about me, but there wasn't. All sorts of calamities were described, except for one about Petula Barker, who a pervert, dressed in her clothes and carrying her handbag, claims he used to be, before he underwent a sex change as the result of being injected with spider venom. Small wonder nobody released that story or they'd join me here in the psychiatric ward. It was the same station as last night and the clock behind the anchor desk showed 10:30AM, so I had a good long sleep. Apparently changing sexes is both famishinge and exhausting.

Eventually, the attendants returned and I was taken to Dr. Stanley's office. He was seated behind his desk, as he was yesterday, and I took the chair I sat in yesterday. He greeted me and asked me about my night, whether I got fed and if there was anything I needed. I told him that everything was okay, but that I was anxious to get out. He laughed, which annoyed me, because I was being serious, but I kept my composure. He told me that he had a conversation with Dr. Jameson and that he was on his way. It took some convincing, Dr. Stanley went on, but my threat to reveal the details of his spider research as my defense got him to come. I thanked Dr. Stanley for his help. He reiterated that it was up to me to convince him that what he believed was a medical impossibility could, in fact, happen. I nodded my understanding.

While we waited, Dr. Stanley made some notes and reviewed some papers. I sat quietly, rehearsing my examination of Dr. Jameson to prove that I was Petula Barker. Finally, I heard the door unlock and, turning around, saw Dr. Jameson entering. He was a tall, thin man with wire rimmed glasses and a bushy head of white hair, the classic image of a scientist, complete with a white lab coat and the traditional pocket protector holding an assortment of pens. He walked confidently up to Dr. Stanley's desk. Dr. Stanley extended his hand, colleague to colleague, which Dr. Jameson rudely ignored.

"I'm a busy man, Dr. Stanley," Dr. Jameson said with annoyance, ignoring my presence. "You have dragged me down here with some insane story about spiders, not surprising considering this is a mental ward," he muttered under his breath, "and I want to put an end to this right here and now. I told you when we spoke before and I am telling you again, we are not doing any spider research. There are no spiders in our lab," he shook his finger at Dr. Stanley for emphasis. Ms. Barker was working on an antifungal powder for athlete's foot," he ranted on, "and she hasn't shown up at the lab for days. She quit. Now, unless you have something more than a story made up by some delusional patient of yours, I demand that you cease this nonsense and let me get back to my work."

"Are you quite finished, Dr. Jameson?" Dr. Stanley asked patiently. "If so, then this gentleman would like to speak with you. And please do sit down." He motioned towards the seat next to me. "This is my office, not your laboratory. I am quite used to dealing with tirades and I am not intimidated by your rudeness. Our meeting will be over when I say it is over and you will leave when I give you permission. Now sit down," he ordered.

I had never seen a look on Dr. Jameson's face like the one he had now. He was the absolute dictator of a world class, multi-million dollar research facility. His employees were terrified of him, as he held the power of professional life or death, and nobody challenged him. His face went red, the veins bulged out, he sputtered, then turned to leave and realized the door was locked and he wasn't going anywhere. He turned back to Dr. Stanley, and demanded to be let out.

"This is false imprisonment," he contended.

"Dr. Jameson, you came here of your own free will and you knew this was a locked ward when you entered. You are not a prisoner. You are simply subject to the same restricted movement as everyone else. Now really,” Dr. Stanley admonished him like a petulant child, "the sooner you stop making a fuss and let us get on with our business, the sooner you can leave and get on with yours. Now please do sit down."

Having no choice, Dr. Jameson begrudgingly sat down in the designated chair.

"There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" Dr. Stanley said patronizingly. Dr. Jameson gave him a nasty look, which he ignored. Turning to me, he continued, "Mr. Barker, please tell Dr. Jameson whatever it is you have to say to him."

"Dr. Jameson, I am Petula Barker, or at last I used to be, no I still am, but now I'm a man." I babbled. Taking a breath and regaining my composure, I warned him, "if you don't want me to tell the world about your spider research, then you had better tell Dr. Stanley the truth."

Dr. Jameson looked blankly at me and then turned to face Dr. Stanley.

"I have no idea what this man is going on about. "I told you, we don't use spiders in our research," he reiterated.

"You also told me yesterday on the phone that Ms. Barker was working on a hemorrhoid preparation. Just now you said it was athlete's foot powder," Dr. Stanley challenged Dr. Jameson.

"Hemorrhoids, athletes foot, who cares what some junior lab assistant was doing before she quit. I can't keep track of everything. Whatever it was, she wasn't working with spiders." Turning back to me, Dr. Jameson went on, "I have no idea who this person is, but he is obviously not a woman and I have had enough of this charade. You are wasting my time."

Dr. Jameson stood up, made it all the way to the door this time and tried to open it. As he was doing so, Dr. Stanley stood up, which the two attendants waiting for me outside took to mean that we were done and for them to come in. Seeing two big men in white coats approaching the door and not knowing it was me they were after, Dr. Jameson backed off. Dr. Stanley waved the attendants away and motioned for Dr. Jameson to return to his seat, which again he did begrudgingly.

"Dr. Jameson, please let Mr. Barker finish. Another five minutes is not going to interfere with your work, I'm sure. After that, you have my assurance you can leave, if you want to do so. Go ahead, Mr. Barker," he directed me.

"Look, Dr. Jameson," I said more forcefully, "if you don't care about an innocent woman, man, me, going to prison, think of the consequences for you, if my story gets out. I read the protocols and I have a good memory. The spiders come from a remote part of the Manu rain forest in Peru and their scientific name is phoneutria apidae. You found them and so can one of the other big drug companies, if they have a reason. There's not enough of them to go around, so that's the end of the spiders and that's the end of your research. Instead of the biomedical discovery of the century and a Nobel Prize," I appealed to his vanity, "you get nothing."

Dr. Jameson didn't look as worried as I thought he would.

"Ms. Barker signed a confidentiality agreement. Even if what you say is true, and it isn't of course," he insisted, turning to Dr. Stanley and then back to me, "she can't reveal any information about her work in my laboratory," he said confidently.

Holy cow, was I screwed here? Was my plan to blackmail Dr. Jameson into revealing the truth doomed by a stupid form I signed years ago? I gave Dr. Stanley an imploring look, well it would have been imploring if I was a woman, hoping that he would put aside his neutrality and help me out. To my relief, he got the message and nodded.

"Dr. Jameson, I have done medical research and I had to sign those forms. NDA's they were called, non-disclosure agreements," he explained for my benefit. They all have an exception for legal proceedings and, even if they didn't, I work in the criminal justice system. No judge is going to prevent a defendant from testifying in his own defense. Also, the only way that Ms. Barker would be revealing confidential information is if her story was true, which you persistently dispute. What's more," he concluded, "Petula Barker may have signed the form, but Peter Barker didn't. The only way you could enforce it against him would be to convince a judge that he and she were the same person, which is exactly the identity you deny. So, what will it be, Dr. Jameson? Have Mr. Barker tell his story it to the world or for you to tell the truth to me. You are the one in a hurry to leave, so decide quickly."

I could see from Dr. Jameson's expression that did not like being challenged. Finally, he made up his mind and answered. I was on the edge of my chair, waiting to see if between us we had convinced him to tell the truth. I was about to wet my pants, I was so nervous. Do guys do that?

"Yes," Dr. Jameson conceded.

"Yes, what?" Dr. Stanley asked.

"Yes, Ms. Barker was working with spiders."

"You see, Dr. Stanley," I interrupted excitedly, "I was telling you the truth. This is all the result of the spider venom. That proves I'm Petula Barker. You have to release me."

"Mr. Barker, I told you before, I have no say in whether you are held or released. Moreover, the fact that Ms. Barker was working with spiders may have been something she revealed to you. It is a creative explanation for her disappearance, but one which, also as I told you before, has no medical basis."

"Dr. Jameson, can check it out," I replied. "All he has to do is inject some of the venom into a female lab animal and it will be transformed into a male. I'm sure of it. Well, pretty sure of it. Some of the lab animals do not make good human models. A primate would be a better test subject. I am sure it will have the same effect as it did on me. Please, Dr. Jameson, please do the study," I pleaded.

"We did and it does" he said succinctly.

"You've known all along and you denied it," Dr. Stanley said angrily.

"No. When we got a call yesterday from the police detective about a man in custody claming to be a missing woman who had her sex changed by the spider venom she was working with in our lab, we decided to see if it could have such an effect. Three female chimps received the venom yesterday and all became genetically male in about 18 hours. I believe that the speed of the cellular conversion depends on the body mass of the subject. An adult human would take significantly longer, as did Ms. Barker. The chromosomal analysis was completed only this morning and I got the results just before I left for this meeting."

"Genetically male, Dr. Jameson?" Dr. Stanley asked incredulously.

"That is the result of our chromosomal analysis, yes," Dr. Jameson confirmed.

"That is not biologically possible," Dr. Stanley challenged him.

"It is biologically possible, Dr. Stanley," Dr. Jameson disagreed. "The X chromosome can produce male characteristics, as is observed in hermaphroditic organisms that are XX. Moreover, it has been theorized that in higher animals with separate sexes, the Y chromosome is actually a mutated X chromosome that has lost the female segment of its genetic code. Our hypothesis is that the spider venom somehow duplicates this mutation by uncoupling a portion of one of the X chromosomes, turning it into a Y chromosome, and the body's cells then reproduce as if they were male, causing the morphogensis that Ms. Barker underwent. We believe that for the spiders, it assures the Queen will have a supply of males by allowing her to create them on demand from her female attendants."

"Is the conversion reversible?" I interjected.

"No. Giving the venom to a male results in his single X chromosome becoming a Y chromosome and the resulting YY combination is fatal. Your sex change is permanent, Ms. Barker."

"Well, I suppose there are worse things than being a man," I observed, turning from Dr. Stanley to Dr. Jameson, but neither seemed amused by my concession. Since you now believe that I am Petula Barker, you have to let me go, don't you?"

"As I've told you, I can't do it on my own, Ms. Barker," Dr. Stanley said, showing his acceptance by calling me by my own name, "but I will explain the situation to the District Attorney."

"What about my research?" Dr. Jameson asked self-servingly. "You said you would keep the information confidential."

"No, Dr. Jameson," Dr. Stanley corrected him, "I only told you that you had a choice between Ms. Barker's story being made public or being kept private. As for me, I have neither the supporting research data nor the professional right to publish it. As to the DA, although I cannot speak for him, I would expect that his political ambitions would not be furthered by his becoming involved with a controversial sex-change case. As to Ms. Barker, for the reasons I discussed previously, I believe you will have to make your own arrangements to secure her cooperation."

"Thank you, Dr. Stanley," Dr. Jameson said in his first expression of courtesy since he arrived. "Ms. Barker, will you be returning to work?" he asked me as though I had been home with a cold. "It would be very helpful if we could examine you."

"Dr. Jameson, I am now a man. My apartment, my car, my credit card, my bank account, my driver's license, all of them are in the name of a woman. I have no clothes and no way to access my money to buy myself any. Or pay my rent. Or buy food. The problem I have now is because I tried to use Petula Barker's identity and I have no interest in repeating it. Nor do I have any incentive to be a human guinea pig. That was not part of my job description as a research assistant."

"Yes, well, Ms. Barker, I appreciate your dilemma. I am sure we can come to a satisfactory financial arrangement."

I looked over to Dr. Stanley and he was smiling. My feminine instincts must still be working, even though they no longer matched my body, because I couldn't help wondering if he was married. I didn't see a ring on his finger. Damn. Just when I finally meet the man of my dreams, I was the man of my dreams. Maybe you could dream that he's gay. Maybe you're not dreaming after all. If this is real, you had better stop fantasizing and get on with your life as a man. Saying that I was confused about my gender would be the understatement of the year, no the millennium.

Dr. Stanley did arranged for my parole until the charges could be dropped and the drug company provided me with a really cool apartment, fully furnished with a giant plasma TV and a concierge service that does the shopping, a company credit card in the name of Peter Barker, which I used to buy myself a very expensive wardrobe, and a chauffered limo, until I get a new driver's license and ID's, which their lawyers are working on. Life is really good. As far as the girls are concerned, I'm a really hot guy and I've got more dates than you can shake a stick, or a dick, at. Whoever said that it was better to give than to receive sure knew what he was talking about when it comes to sex, except, of course, for blowjobs, which are the other way around. With testicles comes great satisfaction.

Copyright 2007 by Missy Crystal. All rights reserved. Not to be reprinted or reproduced without the author's permission.