Monday morning before the sun rose, Cordy and Willow dropped
me off at the
bus station. Cordy was supportive but bewildered. Once she had
gotten over
the initial shock of our body swap, Cordelia had rebounded with
her usual
bluntness and aplomb.
Cordelia could not understand why we were going through with
this charade
when, obviously, "Messes like this just don't get fixed. You
two are
dreaming." Still, she hugged me goodbye with enough moisture
in her eyes
that my heartstrings tugged.
Willow's goodbye was quiet. Her mood had been subdued over the
weekend and
I was worried about her. I hugged Willow next. "Are you gonna
be OK?" I
asked, stepping back. I am starting to get used to the differences
in our
sizes.
"Sure," Willow replied. "I'm great!" Her lower lip quivered bravely
and
her forced smile could not have convinced a country boob.
I wanted to console her again but my bus was leaving. I could
not delay any
long. "Be brave," I directed, stepping up into the bus. I spoke
to Willow
but my words were meant for both of them. Cordy has already
lost one good
friend recently. We both have. I am not sure that she was ready
for my
departure, however temporary.
I took a seat in the back of the bus, one that let me see my
friends as the
Greyhound pulled out. I waved goodbye for as long as they were
in sight,
and they waved back. Once I could not longer see them, I curled
up on the
seat and tried not to cry.
I was numb, alone, and afraid. None of those feelings are strangers
to me.
I have felt them many times in the last two and a half centuries.
This
time, though, everything has changed. My sense of identity is
shattered. I
no longer know who I am. Even my body is no longer my own; it
is a loaner.
And so, off I go to begin my new life as Willow Anne Rosenberg.
Oh, what a
shining, bold adventure!
#
Before I had left LA, I had packed a few antiques in case of
an emergency.
Cordelia complains that she does not understand how anyone my
age can be
dirt poor. Having seen more than one economy rise and fall,
more than one
currency devaluate overnight, I actually prefer to keep my assets
tied up in
antiques and objects d'art.
I have not told her my real value because I am scared she would
spend it.
Guilt over my deception has cost me the price of a gourmet coffee
maker and
new--previously mentioned--hardwood floors.
My first real emergency manifested itself in the way of Willow's
wardrobe.
I had not the heart to tell her that I found her taste in clothes
wanting.
I had agreed to live her life, but I refused to dress like her.
It is a
vanity but one I can live with.
I pawned a couple Seth Thomas Sonora chime clocks to a less than
reputable
dealer near the bus depot. I got only a thousand, half of what
the two
timepieces were worth, but enough to meet my needs.
Then, I called my "mom". The phone to her office rang twice.
"Hello?" Mrs.
Rosenberg greeted.
"Mom?" I squeaked. It was not intentional but I ran over a mental
mom-stumble. Ironically, I came out sounding just like Willow.
"Willow, honey! How was your tour of the UCLA campus?"
A campus tour was Willow's--my--cover story. "Great!" I replied
and cut to
the chase before she could grill me for details. "Mom, I'm down
at the bus
terminal. I need a ride. Could you pick me up?"
I must get a driver's license and a car, ASAP.
Willow's mother exhaled. I sensed annoyance and detachment. "I'm
sorry,
dear, but you *know* that I'm in conferences all morning long.
Why don't
you use your ATM card to take out some cash and catch a taxi
home?"
"OK," I agreed readily enough. I would have done anything to
delay my first
mother/daughter 'conference' as long as possible. I patted myself
down and
located the bankcard. It had a VISA/MasterCard logo on it and
barely looked
used. "What's my PIN?"
She spat out the number and scolded me for being absent-minded.
I
apologized and quickly memorized the number. One more test,
I decided. "Is
it OK if I buy a car?"
No hesitation. "Yes, dear, but make sure you keep your withdrawal
to under
ten thousand. And make sure it has solid tires."
I attentively promised to kick them hard and hung up. Willow
had warned me
that her mother would never have time for me and would never
hear anything I
said. I had thought she was exaggerating until now.
I caught a taxi to the mall.
#
To be a woman, I had to think like a woman.
Think Pink.
No matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to do it.
From the
looks of Willow's bright and myriad colored clothing, she had
already
thought pink, along with every other loud and noisy primary
under the sun.
Screw Pink.
This was not working for me, so I reinvented my thinking. To
be a woman, I
had to dress like a woman, act like a woman, and think like
a woman. Women
do not wear pink, girls do.
Think She.
New mantra in mind, I methodically inventoried what I would need
for a
complete wardrobe and set out to buy one like a man, quickly
and
efficiently. I started with underwear and Victoria's Secret.
What should have taken ten minutes took an hour. Bras are the
twisted
invention of a tortured mind. Those that fit comfortably are
uglier than
sin and the real cock-teasers hurt like a bitch. I settled for
maximum sex
appeal per square inch possible. Screw comfort. No pain; no
gain.
I cannot blame the whole time delay on the bras. To my delight,
I
discovered that women's dressing rooms are sided with mirrors
on all sides.
And I reflected!
My tongue was practically hanging out of my mouth as I pealed
off Willow's
clothing to reveal pale, beautiful flesh. Bare naked flesh that
reflected!
Suffice it to say that there had not been any mirrors at my
place so this
was the first good look I had gotten at myself undressed.
Way distracting to a sex-starved vampire. As previously stated,
Willow has
great tits. I paused more than once to admire them in the mirror
in between
bras. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I had decided
to
examine them more carefully.
Her left breast is microscopically smaller than the right but
that is quite
common. They are as soft as feather down, pert and perky in
personality,
and her nipples are pink, almost coral colored. Fabulous.
They felt as wonderful as they looked.
I was soaked through to my panties by the time my hands were
done wandering.
Willow would have slapped me silly if she could have seen. My
only regret
was that I could not reach them with my mouth.
Luckily, women have a much easier time concealing arousal than
men do. I
was a walking orgasm in women's underwear when I left the store
and set out
for a clothing boutique.
I dressed myself with a critical eye. My detachment from Willow's
body
allowed me to assess her strengths and weaknesses with an unbiased
eye.
Overall, she has a killer body. I was amazed what she managed
to hide under
baggy, obnoxiously bright clothes. She downplays her assets.
Willow's hair is by far her best feature. I have always liked
the bold
color, and her new, shorter cut is chic enough to satisfy even
my demanding
tastes. I am pleased to report that I could locate no evidence
of dying.
Everything appears natural.
My style choices involved clean, classy lines and darker, dramatic
colors
that invoked a touch of mystery. As I experimented with trying
stuff on, I
found that I liked short and revealing for skirts, sheer and
revealing for
blouses.
I especially liked revealing.
Willow looks fabulous in jade, burgundy, brown, and black. The
less
material the better is a tried and true formula when it comes
to playing up
a woman's assets, and it was one I stuck to.
Shoes came next. High heels, boots, high heeled boots...you get
the
picture. I have no idea how to walk in heels but Buffy and Faith
manage to
fight in them. I can learn.
Accessories, makeup... I went through over seven hundred dollars
within
three hours and I only bought the basics of a new wardrobe.
It is a good
thing that stores deliver because I never could have carried
all of the
packages by myself. It would have been nice to have my body
along to carry
stuff.
I stopped at a knife store also and purchased a couple fighting
knives with
six-inch blades. They were honed to razor-sharpness, easily
concealed even
under scant clothing, and perfectly balanced for throwing.
I mastered knife fighting in France during the Revolution. It
was a hobby,
one that amused me at the time, but I have had little use for
since.
Considering Willow's lack of physical prowess, it was a compromise
in
self-defense until I could train her body into shape.
Laden down with packages, I headed for a phone to call another
cab when I
walked by a leather store. The heavenly smell of fresh leather
was too
much. It led me in by my nose.