A Christmiss Story

The only thing that bummed me out was the endless progression of commercials featuring the Coors twins and hot chicks mud-wrestling over whether their beer was less filling or tasted great. I soon found myself becoming profoundly depressed by the grim realization that for the next year of my life, the only panties I would be getting inside were my own.

I was into my third brat and fifth beer when I heard I rap on my door. Who the hell could that be? The only good thing about the Consent Decree which doomed me to living as a woman was a proviso which shielded my new identity from the general public. Crushing out my cigarette into an overloaded ashtray, I weaved across the room and warily opened it a few inches. It was Donna Mae Trix, the Special Mistress appointed to oversee my transformation and adherence to the terms of the Consent Decree.

"Eew," she said as she breezed into my apartment. "It smells like shit in here. Open a window, at least," she said as she slid one of them up, ignoring the raindrops which pelted against the sill.

"What are you doing here?"

"The Consent Decree requires periodic inspections to confirm your compliance with the terms of the settlement." Donna was looking incredibly hot in her tight jeans, turtleneck and leather vest, and even after everything she had done to me, I felt myself getting turned on. She appraised me with a critical eye, then glanced down at the stinking ash tray and the empty beer cans on the floor. "Well, it's a judgment call," she said at length. "On the one hand, you still look like a girl, even without any makeup. Your hair looks cute like that, by the way. On the other hand, this is hardly the way a woman would keep her home. And you'll be lucky to hold onto your dress size if you keep making a pig out of yourself like this. Then again, you wouldn't be the first single girl to blow up out of boredom. Most of us do it with ice cream. What is that horrible stuff you're eating?"