Gentlemen Only -- Ladies Forbidden

Chuck is given a wonderful gift. . .a chance to understand that Male Pattern Belligerence can and should be eradicated.

Gentlemen Only -- Ladies Forbidden
By Angela Rasch

The starter looked up from his animated conversation with a cuter-than-the-law-should-allow young thing; and then gave me “the look”. Shit! It’s taken me a month and half to get Art “Big Bucks” Mather on the course. The last thing I need is someone joining our twosome. I thought. Augusta National had it right . . . and now they’re even allowing two of “them” to join.

The course attendant’s breath smelled of too much coffee and not enough Efferdent. “We’re a little booked up this afternoon,” he apologized. “I’m going to have to ask you to allow another golfer to join your twosome. Club rules, you know.”

“Another golfer wouldn’t be bad,” I said to the starter, “but it looks like we’re being paired with a walking hole-in-one.”

“That’s okay,” Art chirped from the ball washer. “The more, the merrier.”

The more breast peeking out over the top of her blouse, the merrier is what he meant. If I wasn’t so intent on selling Art a huge whole life policy I would be happy to stare at her all day long. But . . . she’s going to slow us down and generally ruin my afternoon.

She pulled her golf cart in behind ours and wiggled across the fifteen yards that separated us.

I’ll bet it just kills her not to be able to wear high heels when she’s golfing. Women just love to dress in things that make them look like they’re defenseless, fucking whores.

“I’m Clara Oddbody,” she shot me a dazzling smile ringed by scarlet lipstick that would look great staining my cock. Her dainty paw disappeared into my mitt; and I tried not to crush her fingers while applying a manly grip.

Art rushed over from where he had been washing his ball, preparing to tee-off.

She could wash my balls any day of the week. I’ll casually work into the conversation that I’m not married and not seeing anyone -- and see where it goes.

“I’m Art. . .” he said. “. . .and that huge lummox who’s got your hand trapped in his is Chuck. You’re not a professional golfer, are you?”

“Not at all,” Clara said with a giggle that seemed perfect for someone selling herself on Dixie Avenue. “I’m an AS2.”

AS2? That must be some sort of handicap number.

“Hey,” Art advised, “the group in front of us is have finished their approach shots. We gotta fly.”

Clara let loose another melodious giggle. “That’s my problem. I can’t fly. I haven’t got my wings. But if I take care of business today, chances are I’ll be a full angel.”

Angel? That’s another handicap term I’ve never heard. And . . . I’m no ladies’ fashion expert, but that outfit she’s wearing looks like something out of the 70’s.
“I’m a scratch . . . so I’ll be playing from the black tees. Art carries a fourteen so he’ll be playing from the whites and. . .?”

“I’ll play from the reds,” Clara said sweetly. “It’s been decades since I last played so I hope I remember how to swing a club.”

“I’ve seen Art play,” I joked. “He should wear a short skirt like yours, so he can start a little close to the pin.” A lot of guys in my business let their clients win. I think it’s important to let them know I’m in charge right from the get go. “This first hole is 490 from the blacks. I’m going to try to make the green in two,” I boasted.

I cracked a driver down the right side of the fairway into the first cut of the rough. “That’s about 250 yards out there,” I noted with pride.

“Nice shot,” Art said with envy.

“Who are the two greatest women golfers of all time?” I whispered to Art. When he didn’t answer immediately I quipped. “That’s right. Trick question. There have never been any great women golfers . . . and never will be!”

“That’s not even remotely true,” Art countered with some incredulity. “Patty Berg, Annika Sorenstam, Babe Zaharias, Nancy Lopez, Julie Inkster. . . .”

I wonder if Art’s interested in Clara? He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the Quad Cities area. Of course, he’s no match for me.

“Is that where I want to hit the ball?” Clara asked, referring to where my ball had come to rest. “Strange! On most courses, isn’t it better to hit the ball in the middle of the fairway?”

Art snorted while we got into our carts and drove the thirty yards to the white tee.

On the way I had a chance to talk without worrying about Clara hearing. “I have to confess. I have a tough time thinking of women as anything but a receptacle for my penis. Good ol’ sex and baby-making. If women stick to those two disciplines they’re okay.”

Art looked at me with amazement.

He’s probably in awe of how well I put that.

He hit a driver about 180 yards, but kept his shot on the manicured surface.

“That was a really nice shot,” Clara enthused.

“He barely got it by the women’s tee,” I grumbled. His drive ended up forty yards behind where my ball was lying, and only 100 yards beyond where Clara would tee off.

We drove our carts the 80 yards to the women’s tees. Clara efficiently hit a driver with a honey-smooth swing. Her ball landed 40 yards closer to the pin than mine and was dead center in the fairway.

“Hi diddle diddle . . . right down the middle,” Art sang out. “Great shot, Clara.”

“I got lucky,” she demurred. “It’s going to take a bit for me to get rid of the rust. I’m pretty sure Johnson was president the last time I played.”

Art hit his second shot about 100 yards short of the green.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be playing with pink balls.” I voiced my criticism of Art’s weak effort loudly enough for Clara to hear.

My second shot was a blast that unfortunately found the sand bunker on the right of the green. I’ll have to play a delicate flop shot to end up close to the pin.

Clara hit another accurate shot that stop thirty yards in front of the green in a perfect position to chip.

After their chips left them forty to fifty foot birdie putts, I blasted out of the bunker all the way across and off the green on the other side.

We’re all sitting three so I’ll have to get up and down if they both two-putt.

I chipped within eight feet of the pin for a makeable par.

Clara’s putt rolled just a foot passed the hole.

“Really nice putt,” Art said. He then stood over his putt too long and left it three feet short of the hole.

“Did your putter get tangled in your skirt?” I asked derisively.

My putt lipped out so I had to settle for a bogie.

Art and Clara both sank their par putts leaving me one down to both of them after the first hole . . . a par five where I had the advantage off the tee.

“I’ll bet you each a hundred bucks right now that I win the round,” I said nastily. I turned to Clara and fixed her in my gaze. “Especially you. Two hundred bucks that I’ll beat you by better then four strokes.”

She laughed. “We don’t use money in heaven.”

Art declined my offer of a bet with a shake of his head.

“Hey Clara,” I asked with superiority. “What are the three most disappointing words a new parent can hear . . . ‘It’s a girl!’ ” I laughed loud enough for the three of us.

As much fun as that put-down had been, that first hole was a precursor of things to come. Even though I crushed the ball off the tee, my short game betrayed me. My ego in shreds -- I took every opportunity to accuse Art of playing like a pussy.

On one hole he left a putt short; and I told him he’d dropped something.

He looked futilely for it and finally asked me, “What was it?”

“Your lipstick,” I cracked.

“My mother was a saint,” Art commented dryly. “She lived a life of compassion and love. In the end it was a used hypodermic needle in the ward for terminal AIDS patients that caught her. . .accidentally pierced her skin. That was back before there was much, if anything, you could do about it. I know all women aren’t like she was . . . but most are.”

I stared at him wondering if it was worth it to put up with his liberal bullshit in order to make a sale.

On the fifteenth hole I hit the ball over three hundred yards, only to end up in a bunker under a lip so my only play was to hit the ball backward out into the fairway. “Ain’t that a bitch,” I muttered. “It’s bad enough I have to play with one, but all of a sudden I’m playing like I lost my balls. Maybe I should be hitting from the cunt tees.”

Clara had been standing close enough to hear and turned red. Instead of letting me have it, she looked toward the skies and spoke to a cloud. “Oh, now wait a minute. That’s an idea now, isn’t it? What do you think . . . ?” After a moment she turned to me. “Ahh all right. Chuck, You’ve got your wish. You can play from the ladies’ tees.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered as I chipped to the fairway. Since we had to wait until the group in front of us cleared the green I stepped into a satellite to answer Nature’s call.

A strong gust of wind shook the satellite; and I heard Clara exclaim, “You don’t need to make all that fuss about it.”

For some reason, I felt compelled to sit to pee.

When I was done urinating, I wiped myself, and then stood to smooth my skirt. I used the liquid disinfectant and made a mental note to talk to the course superintendent about adding mirrors in the satellites so we golfers can check our make-up.

I stepped into the sunlight, noted that the foursome in front of us had moved on. I walked to my cart for a seven iron and saw. . . .Me! “Wha. . .. What’s going on?” My voice sounded weak . . . and feminine.

“I told you.” A voice came out of the body I used to occupy. “I’m an angel.”

“Right, you’re an angel which I assume means you’ve got a good handicap, but what the hell am I doing in a women’s body?” I felt the ground give way under me and found myself fainting into MY arms. As I came around I heard my voice.

“It’s okay, Chuck. I’m Clara. I’ve traded bodies with you. I was sent here because you’ve tested off the charts for Male Pattern Belligerence. MPB is just about the worst thing you can have on your record when you arrive at the Gates of Heaven. In a way I was sent here as your salvation.”

“Am I having a heatstroke,” Art asked from behind us. “I could have sworn I saw Chuck go into that satellite, and then you came out.” His voice was directed toward me, but his eyes were on my breasts.”

Breasts! For the love of Mike, I’ve got breasts!

“They’re not so bad,” Clara said, as if she heard my thoughts. “Wait until you and Art get married and you go to bed together. You won’t believe how it will feel when Art paly with. . ..”

“Married?” Art and I interrupted at the same time.

“Sure,” Clara — in my body — explained, “if you want your body back you have to make Art fall in love with you, marry you, and make you pregnant.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Art said. “None of it. I would never be able to forget that Clara . . . er ‘Chuck’ . . . once was a man. Especially the kind of sexist man Chuck has been. Clara . . . Chuck . . . is cute . . . but, it’s all so confusing and weird.”

“That’s a problem,” Clara said. “You weren’t supposed to see the switch. I keep screwing up like this. That’s why I don’t have my wings.”

“Fix it,” I demanded in my soprano voice. I stamped my foot and fought off the urge to freshen my lipstick. “I have an appointment at a beauty shop in one hour and after three hours in this humidity, I need to go.” I stopped and looked at both of them. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

“Oh,” Clara said, “You now have a complete life as a woman. Everyone, except for Art thinks you were born a woman. You have all the memories of growing up as a woman, in addition to all your male memories.”

“Whatever,” I pushed. My goodness I’m a commercial realtor with a thriving business . . . based on my ability to attract male clients with my looks. “Fix your mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake in my primary function. I was sent here to do remedial work on your Male Pattern Belligerence. My boss doesn’t cut any slack for you MPG radicals. Once you’ve been switched it can’t be undone unless you become . . . preggers.”

“But . . .” I sputtered. “There isn’t a chance in heck that Art is going to want to be seen with me in public -- let along marry me AND. . . .” I felt nauseous at the idea of sex with Art.

“You’re not bad,” Art said indifferently. “With some up-to-date clothing you might be fairly nice-looking.”

“Those are the clothes I died in,” Clara explained. “I was hit in the back of the head by some idiot who teed off too soon to try to hurry along my foursome. It was one of those freak things where I was hit just wrong and bam! . . . I took the big trip.”

I shook my head -- hoping I had been hit by an errant golf ball and was having a nightmare.

“I’ll just kill myself,” I said petulantly.

“That’s no answer,” Art barked immediately. “”Don’t even say that. Don’t you see Clara, you can have a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be just to throw it away?”

I looked at Art and felt a completely new set of feelings. He isn’t bad when you look at him as a potential sexual partner. My body stirred, but my male memories found its desires hideous.

I had never been married and neither had Art. I wasn’t in a relationship as a man -- or a woman. “Art, are you seeing anyone special.”

His face turned beet red. “That’s something you don’t need to know . . . CHUCK!”

“Well. . .,” Clara said in my bass voice. “My work here is done. I’ll just leave now and take your set of clubs, Chuck. Your bag has your name on it . . . Clara.”

Maybe I can change my name to Clarinda? “Are you just going to leave us?”

“Uh huh. I’m pretty sure the guys back at Central aren’t going to like the mess I made, so I better get back and get another assignment right away. Gotta keep trying for those wings.” He smiled using devastating set of teeth I had used so successfully to buffalo the ladies.

He came over to whisper in my ear. “Oh . . . there’s one other things. Clara, you’re going to have an option to nullify the switch back. Should you get Art to marry you, and you consummate and finally have the baby. . .you will be given the option of staying as Clara for all your mortal days.”

“Why would I ever want that to happen?” I can’t wait to switch back. Whatever it takes I’m going to make that Art fall for me. “Clarinda Mather” has a certain ring to it . . . a wedding ring!

“Oh. . . .” He smiled like . . . an angel . . . and whispered again so that Art couldn’t hear. “In every case like this I’ve ever heard of, once the new mom has held her child in her arms, she just can’t bring herself to not go on being a mom.”

The End



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