Some Enchanted Girlfriend -Part 2- Down?

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Some Enchanted Girlfriend

by Donna Lamb

Part 2 - Down

“But you promised to go get me some clothes,” I whimpered. I didn’t have my pouts organized yet, but I think this might have been a number seven.

“Babe,” he rumbled, “it wouldn’t be safe for me to try to drive right now. I need a nap. It’s still early, you know.”

I tried logic. “But if I’m still naked when you wake up, you know what’s gonna happen.”

“Well, eventually,” he rumbled from the floor, “I’m going to have to go into work, Monday morning.”

I tried physical force. I pounced on him, looking for a ticklish spot in the forest. “We are not going to fuck the clock around! You’re going to get up and and go get me some clothes!”

He snickered. “But I like having you around naked. It’s —convenient.”

“You—you—you!” I sputtered.

He wrapped a hand as big as my head around my leg and pulled me off of him. With his magic muscles he could do anything to me and the thought of that made me horny all over again. But he really wasn’t interested in third or fourth helpings of sex just yet.

“That’s it!” he said, retaliating, holding me down and going for my ticklish spots without searching at all. “I’ll bet your parents were like the early Pilgrims and named you for one of the virtues. You know, like Prudence or Chastity. Good thing they didn’t name you one of those, huh?”

“Huh?” I said between squeals and giggles.

“No they named you after the most important virtue for a girlfriend, Convenience,” he said as he blew bubbles in my navel. He showed me a thoughtful leer. “Connie for short.”

“Connie!” I sputtered. “Connie!” I squeaked.

He sat up, scooped me up and stood with hardly any effort, balancing me on his hip like a toddler.

“My name is Connie, isn’t it?” I said. Nothing like being swung around like a bag of groceries to calm you down.

“Uh-huh. Apparently.” He walked toward the bedroom. “I got to thinking, you being here naked was just too convenient.”

“How con-VEEN-ient,” I muttered. I snuggled up against him. Despite the teasing, I trusted him that my name was really Connie, it sounded right. I almost remembered it, almost remembered being called Connie before. Wait—a guy named Connie?

“So I thought,” he said, ducking through the doorway, though he wasn’t really tall enough, quite, to need to. “So, I thought, how could you get here, naked?”

“Um,” I said. “Oh, shit.”

He nodded. “You must live in the building. And when I was going to Starbucks, I stopped to lock the door on the outside and discovered two sets of keys in my grouch bag. One set numbered 517, which is this one. And the other set numbered 415.”

“You rat,” I said. “You knew this when you got back from Starbucks?”

He nodded. “Before I left, actually. I went downstairs to have a looksee. It belongs to Constance Catewood, that’s you, I guess. There was a little pile of mail on the kitchen counter, most addressed to C. Catewood. I didn’t snoop. Much.” He grinned at me.

“Ho, ho,” I said.

“Well, I had to find out what the C stood for, it could have been Cupcake for all I knew.”

“Hee, hee,” I said.

“Anyway, the flat is what they call a studio-plus, like this apartment but smaller with only one room for living room, dining room and bedroom. It’s cute, you’ve got blue-green carpet and a bed with yellow and turquoise curtains around it.”

He kissed me. I kissed back, a bit distracted. “You’re still a rat for not telling me sooner.” It sounded nice and I wanted to see it, but it didn’t actually sound familiar.

He nodded. “I should have told you before I took advantage of you, huh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “At least before I went and licked the frosting?”

I giggled at that, annoyed, but hey, it was funny. He laughed.

“Well, it would have been polite, if you knew,” I said. The more I thought about it, the more annoying it felt that he hadn’t told me.

“I’m sorry, I guess I just enjoyed the situation, a naked girl trapped in my apartment.” He grinned and I pretended to try to bite him.

“So,” he said, standing me on the bed, on my knees. “If you take a bath and let me get a half-hour nap, you can wear a t-shirt upstairs and we can find out if your bed is big enough for both of us.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well.” I wanted to go to my own room right then and see the bed with the curtains. “You’re a meanie.” I pouted again, though mostly for show. Actually, a bath sounded good.

“Honest, babe,” he said, scratching his furry backside, “I really need a nap.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Wimp. Slacker.” I put my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. It felt like a natural thing to do, though only a few hours before I would have been freaking out to even think about it.

My feet still hurt and I took a moment to climb down off the bed without stressing them. Tim crawled into the bed behind me, reaching across to give my ass a pat.

“You’re not going to have the right kind of shampoo and you probably have to use carpet cleaner on that hide of yours. I want a bubble bath. Meanie. Who’s going to scrub my back? Rat.”

He chuckled. “There’s some kind of bath beads under the sink. From when I moved in, I brought a bunch of stuff from Mom’s house and I think I got her box of bubble bath.”

“For reals?” I said. “You’ve got a mother?”

“Ho, ho,” he said sleepily. “Give me half an hour, babe, forty-five minutes, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, okay.” I glanced back at him before going into the bathroom. He looked like a big old teddy bear getting ready to hibernate as I closed the door.

* * *
Constance Catewood. The name did not ring any bells. Connie, on the other hand, did. I looked in the mirror over the wash basin. “Hello, Connie,” I said. The blue-eyed blonde reflection nodded and wrinkled her nose at me. “Too cute to live, too dumb to die,” I decided.

The standard-sized tub in the bathroom looked way too small for Tim the Hairy Giant but little old me would be fine with it.

I looked Tim’s shampoos over and decided they would not be good things to put on my hair if I had my own bathroom nearby. I could wash my hair later. So I started some water running in the tub to get hot and snooped around the medicine cabinet, drawers and doors to see what I could find.

My feet, boobs and back hurt and I really was looking forward to a nice relaxing hot bath. I bet in my apartment, I had an even nicer bath than Tim, maybe a jacuzzi. And lots of bubble bath, girls are supposed to like bubble bath and I seemed to be a girl. “With a capital GRR,” I said aloud and giggled to hear myself.

First thing just inside the door was a walk-in closet nearly as big as the rest of the bathroom. One side held the usual assortment of men’s clothes, including three blue suits and one black, slacks, polo shirts and dress shirts, shorts, warm-up suits and sweaters. Boots and shoes filled a rack on the floor.

Everything in humongous sizes, of course. I checked one of the shirts and it was a size 22! A 22-inch neck on my boyfriend, it made me shiver, my waist probably wasn’t much bigger than that.

Boyfriend? Crap. Crap. Crap. Luckily, I seemed to have the attention span of a kitten on a sugar high and got distracted before I could worry about my mental slip, too much.

At the back of the big closet, a locked cabinet got my curiosity up but the intriguing thing was the completely empty right-hand side.

It had two bars for half of the nearly six-foot length and one bar with shelves above and below for the other half. And nothing hung from any of the bars, nothing sat on the shelves unless on the very top one where I couldn’t see because I’m so fricken short. I tried to jump up but that hurt my feet and my boobs so I gave it up.

The thought occurred to me that Tim had recently had a roommate who had moved out. Hmm.

I checked and the water had got hot enough to close the drain, pour in some of the cheap bath beads from under the sink and adjust the temp with some cool water. I tried to fasten my more-than-shoulder-length hair on top of my head but gave it up as a bad job. Someone who remembered having been a woman all her life probably could have managed it without a clip or rubber band but I had no clue.

The sound of the water running had changed making me think the bath might be nearly full so I went back and turned the tap off.

I grabbed a bath sponge off a shelf above the tub, clambered over the porcelain rim, and sank into the almost too hot suds with little sighs and giggles as the water touched and penetrated places where I didn’t remember having places. I sank down to my chin, just touching the other end with my toes, holding my hair up with one hand.

For awhile, I lay there, soaking, watching my boobies float amid the bubbles. That felt weird, real and unreal at the same time. Like having a name I didn’t remember, “Constance Catewood.” I tried saying it aloud. Had Tim said, Catewood or Gatewood? It didn’t sound right, either way. “Connie,” I said. Now that.... That was different.

Connie was a name I recognized, my own or someone else’s, someone I knew. I tried a variation, “Connie Catewood.” Still not familiar. “Catewood, Gatewood, Kate Wood.” Kate Wood?

Now that sounded familiar, too, did I know someone named Kate Wood? I think I did, but nothing further about names occurred to me and my hangover headache threatened to come back. Maybe the water was too hot after all.

I splashed around a bit and forgot about holding my hair up long enough that I got the ends of it wet, so I sat up to keep it out of the water. I used the sponge on appropriate parts, it did feel good but I didn’t want to linger since to be honest some places felt a bit tender and over-used. Who knew that could happen?

I thought about what had happened and my reactions for a bit. I still had the conviction that in some way, at some time, I had been a guy. But I couldn’t deny that at the moment, I was definitely female. I looked female, I felt female inside and I guess I acted female since Tim didn’t seem at all put off by me.

The idea that I had been male just might be a delusion brought on by drinking too many tequila and sloe gin shooters. Yuck. I rather wished I hadn’t imagined that particular combination.

But why hadn’t my memory problems cleared up? Real amnesia, unlike the disease television characters get, is usually traumatic, limited and temporary. And where did I know that from?

College. I vaguely remembered attending a college, an ivy-covered institution in “one of those eastern cities” like Connecticut. I smiled.

Tim was so cute sometimes. And I felt so attracted to him it scared me. I hadn’t really been surprised that we ended up having sex, it had been pretty obvious that that’s how we’d spent the night, too. And frankly, from the moment I’d looked at him this morning, I’d been thinking about doing it.

A noise from outside the bathroom startled me until I realized it must be Tim snoring. I rolled my eyes and giggled. It amazed me how fond I felt of the man on only a few hours acquaintance and even after he tricked me by not telling that he’d found my apartment.

Or had he? If I used to be a guy, how could I be this Connie Catewood person? And I didn’t just remember being a guy instead of a girl, I remembered being taller, stronger, older. Older? WTF?

Yeah, older. I’d seen myself in the mirror and looked at my body. I might be as young as nineteen or as old as twenty-nine but surely not any older than that. And yet, I remembered what’s-his-name, the guy with the ski-slope nose and the shifty eyes, being president. Or maybe not, what I remembered was him resigning.

I must have been in grade school then. How old would that make me? What year was it? Who was president now?

The black guy? Shit, there’s a black guy president, I must be fucking ancient. When did that happen? I couldn’t remember and then I did. Nine-Eleven, war in the Middle East, charismatic black guy runs against the establishment and gets elected.

Heck, that’s almost as weird as what happened to me. But thinking of Nine-Eleven made me shiver despite the hot water.

Saved by a short attention span again. I decided that I’d better get out of the tub before I got wrinkly, so I stood up and rinsed off with the shower nozzle thing and climbed out. I’d managed to keep more than just the ends of my hair from getting wet so it should dry soon.

I drained the tub then wrapped a gigantic towel around me like girls in the movies are always doing. It took a couple of tries to get it right but my boobs kind of ended up holding it up. Who knew?

Anyway, I sneaked out of the bathroom, checked on Tim, still snoozing, and traipsed into the living room. The bath had relaxed me so much that I could feel how tired I was now. My arms and legs seemed to weigh a ton.

Well, if Tim could do it, I thought, maybe I should too. But if I crawled up into the bed with Tim, I felt certain what would happen when he woke up. Um. And that would delay us going down to see my apartment.

The last thing I remember thinking was that I could climb onto that big old couch where we had been doing the deed and close my eyes for a bit so I could think about it. Scha, right.

* * *
I had to get this paperwork done by four-thirty so I’d have time to change clothes before five o’clock in order to go home. Except, I wasn’t wearing any clothes. Maybe if I closed the door to my office no one would notice. But my office didn’t have a door. And the taller the Tim in my furbox got, the bigger my tits got and the worse my back hurt!

“Mr. Conway,” the boss said from the little cat-shaped paperweight on my desk. “Have you finished those figures yet?”

“Uh, no sir,” I said, picking up the cat and trying to talk first into one end of it and then the other. Both ends smelled like fish.

“Well, hurry up!” he said. “You know, you’re supposed to jump out of the cakewood tonight at the executive bake-off, jake-off, back-off! And how can you do that if you don’t have the right figures, figure, figures — figure, I mean.”

“Oh, is that tonight, sir?” I said. “I’ve got such a Wimpy hamburger and my feet hurt, too. I wanted to just go home and feed my bear — I mean, beartrap — I mean, bear.”

“We had to have that bare put to sleep,” he said. “You know that. He licked off all the frosting on the cupcakes in the employee lounge and went rabbit. Foaming at the moose and chasing tail. We just can’t have that. The company will get you a nice pussy instead.”

“But sir,” I said. “I think I’m allergic to fish.”

“Oh, you,” said his sexretary. She wrinkled her pink little nose and wriggled her pink little ears and jiggled her pink little jugs. “Doesn’t any bunny nohow to smell, tell, fell if your rabbit is?” she asked.

“Conway! Conwa-a-ay!” someone yelled.

“Connie Conway, Connie Conway!” the fat bully who lived in the treehouse by the wooden gate sneered at me.

“My name is Billie. Bill. Will. Willie. Willard Conway, not what you said,” I told him.

“Yeah, but you’re not a willie, you’re a big sissy, pussy-girl, so we’re all going to call you Connie.” And all his big fat bully friends were falling out of the treehouse and yelling “Connie Conway!” at me. “Connie Cunway! Cunnie Cumway! Bunnie Bunway!”

And then I had to ride my bike down a long tunnel with the bullies behind me and my boss riding in the basket in front of me and yelling, “If you don’t get those numb, dumb, rum, plum, gum, hummer, dumber, summer, numbers done, you’ll be pedaling your grass, glass, mass, pass, ass down Eighth Avenue in the virginity of Twenty-First Street. See the Willie. And you know what you’ll be eating?”

“Eat sum broccoli, dear,” said my mother. “You never eat enough, one two three, oh, dearie, times tables when you come over.”

“What did you say, mommie?” I never call her mum, it’s not aloud.

But she had changed to my Aunt Chris from East Virgin Way. “That nice Dr. Fraud visited yestiddy, well, he’s not that nice. He said yore maw was tryna stringle you with her aporn strange. Did you ever hare such a nigglewit? Taste this otter choke cookie, Billie, what does it taste like to you?”

We both nibbled a bit. “I think it tastes like cum,” she said.

My boss was lacing me into a corset and his sexretary was turning the key on my roller skates. “Tight as you can, Splendid, we don’t want his tits to fall off and roll into the crowd,” said my boss.

“It’s not easy having wheels,” I said.

Wendy Splendid did what she did splendidly and wriggled, jiggled and giggled. Then she started putting roller skates on my hands, too. “The more wheels the better,” she said.

“I thought that was the bigger the wheel, the sluttier the sexretary,” I said.

And she said, “Oh, you.” She put a blindfold on me, too, but I could still see. “Jose Canoosie?” she asked.

“Yes, but aren’t the dongs early this spritzen?” I said.

I skated around for awhile on all fours and won sixth prize as a float in the Bummer’s March. They hung the medal on my butt because I skated backwards into the bay. Then they took me to New Jersey and strapped me into the electric chair.

“How does it fit?” asked my boss.

“Like a bunny,” I said. “Like a Welsh rabbit all covered in cheese, I lost my poor meatballs, when somebody squeezed.”

The chair had the biggest wheels of all and Wendy Splendid to push it down the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. “I’d rather have the Scottie dog,” I said.

“Oh, you,” she said. “It’s the thimble, thumble, mumble, crumble for you, y’know. No cakewood because that’s the way the cookie feels, pop goes a measle.”

Aunt Chris passed us going the other way, carrying a bag full of money with two tycoons to carry her butt wrinkles. “I won the blottery, slottery, sluttery, Billie, Willie, Millie. Connie, Bonnie, Bunnie. I got nothing but bread so I’ll have to eat cakewood. Ain’t it grandstand hot dog, mustard runny eggs Benedict Arnold the pig? Hee haw!”

The bookstore wasn’t open so I rolled around the back and found the White Rabbit, all crunched up like a jam sandwich, hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special mojos don’t regret us, all we cash is that you pet us.

Kate Wood opened the back door and complained, “Oh, my aching back, side order of blue cheese sprinkles, crinkles, minkles. Smells like winkles in here.”

We rolled inside and she said, “Take these chains, pains, Janes. Manacles, panicles, vesicles, Checkoff, Horschack, Kolchak, Karnak, Anzac, jumbuk, good luck, let’s fuck.”

But neither of us had a skate key and Joni Mitchell drove a little yellow taxi backwards into the bay, singing bye, bye, Miss America the Splendid, spend it, blend it, bend it but don’t break it off the pigskinless wienerstiltskinful of shit. “You’re so full of shit your eyes are blue, glue, shoe. All God’s chillin’ got to Choos, Jiminy. Bimini, criminy, it’s by Eminee.”

We bought the shoes with the five-inch heels and the fuck-me backsling, sting, sing, swing, then we passed a gatewood going out and the sign said, “You got to have a wienership to get inside, no long-haired dickless willies need apply the pancakes, brakes, jakes, makes no nevermind, Porta-Potty, morbid, Guinevere.”

So I turned around and Wendy Splendid turned into Kate Wood and turned into Connie and turned into me and she said, “You’ve got to wake up and do the right thing, Spike, Mike, Dyke. Otherwise, I’ll have to stay dead, in bed, gimme sum head, and you’ll be stuck, boy, don’t be coy, Roy, you’re just a fucktoy, now. How does your banana, Stan?”

And I said, “There must be thrifty ways to learn to like liver.”

“You’ll find out,” she said. “You’d better, butter, mutter, putter, futter me, fetter me, let it be, feathers are free to fly away.” And she turned into a moth with no shame because there ain’t no one to give you no...scream, dream, moonbeam.

The nightmare shattered into a thousand million pieces like a kaleidoscope map of the galaxy.

I woke up on the long gray limousine, uh, couch, all tangled up in my towel. At least I knew where that was.

The dream began fading away before I could sort out any of the images to see if they made sense as memories. Maybe some of them were memories of me before—before whatever it was that happened to me happened. But some of them seemed to be more likely to be memories of Constance Catewood, who seemed to be me when I looked in a mirror now.

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs away. “Maybe we’re not in Nebraska either, Koko,” I said. Then I looked up just in time to see a small multi-colored cat fall from somewhere onto the balcony outside.

* * *
The cat landed unhurt and my shriek didn’t appear to have awakened Tim. I rushed to the glass door in the window wall and opened it, taking a look up to see where the cat might have come from. Nothing up there but the bottom of someone else’s balcony, at least twelve feet up. The cat, a little calico kitten, immediately started washing its paws.

I felt the towel around me begin to slip and grabbed at the sort-of-knot I had made under my left arm to save it. The cat paused in its washing to look at me sideways and curled its lip as if disgusted at what it saw.

I started laughing while moving back from the window to retie the towel. I didn’t close the door and the kitten followed me in, looking around with the air of a spoiled child slumming in the home of a less fortunate cousin. Typical cat.

I re-adjusted the towel and sat on Tim’s hassock, leaning down to get a better look at the little cat. “Aren’t you a brave one? How did you even get up there? Did you come from the apartment upstairs?” Okay, I admit this was said in a cooing voice like one would talk to a baby. I kind of liked the effect in my new soprano.

    The kitten, with one blue eye and one green looked at me and said, “Don’t be an ass.” It sounded a bit cartoonish but I understood it.

    I sat up straight on the hassock and stared at the animal. “Pardon?” I squeaked. Had the cat’s mouth even moved?

    “Talking to me like that,” said the cat. “No one else’s around, you don’t have to put on an act.”

    No mouth movement. I’m hearing voices in my head. It turns out that I am crazy, I thought. I swear, I looked around the room to be sure we were alone like the cat had said. Then I whispered, “You can talk?”

    The cat rolled its eyes. Her eyes, I seemed to remember from somewhere that calicos are always female. “Of course I can talk. Hell’s Little Fiery Dumplings, what’s wrong with you?” The voice sounded rather cute but the attitude was like that of a waitress in a New York coffee shop. Gimme your order, awready, I got tables.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said to the cat. “I haven’t been myself this morning. I woke up in bed with a strange man, I can’t remember my own name and now a cat is giving me the redass. I feel an attack of the screaming heebie-jeebies coming on.”

“Oh, shit,” said the cat, stepping back. “You’re not Catewood!” Or did she say, Kate Wood? The little thing puffed up like a three-toned dandelion and hissed at me.

“Oh, go fizz yourself,” I said. “Either I’m haloonisating again or there really is a talking cat. And if so, said talking cat can explain herself or go fall off another balcony.” I laid back on the hassock and threw a hand over my eyes in my best Scarlett O’Hara parody. “I’m so confused, all I need is another pussy giving me attitude.”

The cat made a dash toward the still open balcony door. I had to raise up and turn sideways a little to see her but she stopped halfway to look back at me. “You don’t know who you are?” she asked, sounding like she didn’t believe me.

I nodded. “Well, I found out about half an hour ago that my name is Constance Catewood and I live in apartment 415 but other than that, I’m completely lost.” The dream didn’t help, too confusing. “And if you’re my cat, how come you’re up here instead of downstairs? Did I smuggle you in last night in the pocket of clothes I wasn’t wearing?”

The kitten washed a paw. “You’re not making any sense at all.” She looked at the paw and gave it another lick. “You look like Kate Wood, but you don’t talk like her and you don’t know who I am, do you?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never met a talking cat before, I’m sure I would remember that.”

“I’m your familiar,” said the cat. “Or, I was Catewood’s familiar. And....” She stretched her neck out and sniffed of me. “And you’re in her body, but you aren’t her!” At that the kitten put back its head and began to wail, a high-pitched yowling of surprising volume coming from the tiny body.

“Sh, sh, sh!” I said, straightening up and reaching for the little animal. “You’ll wake Tim!”

“I don’t care,” said the cat, dodging. “Is he the one that’s been snogging you?”

“Well, yes, I guess you could say that—except you’re a cat and cat’s don’t talk.” I made another grab for the kitten but she forded when I expected her to dodge.

“Clumsy boob,” she said and bounced out of reach.

“Leave my boobs out of it,” I said.

I tried to change my direction and ended up rolling off the hassock and out of the towel. I lay there on the carpet, naked again and more than a little disconcerted. I realized just how little sense anything that had happened that morning made and wanted to start yowling myself.

The kitten dashed up and whapped me on the cheek with a soft paw. “Oh, shit,” said the cat. “I can’t hurt you! The bond!”

I scooped up the tiny thing in my hands and brought it close to me. “I’m sorry that I’m not who you think I ought to be, but believe me, it’s just as distressing to me as to you.”

The cat sniffed and struggled but she could no more escape my grasp than I could Tim’s. “Go ahead and kill me, then. Get it over with, that magical backlash last night already cost me two of my lives but I’ve got a spare or three.”

I chuckled. “I’m not going to hurt you, little Muffins.”

“My name is Ogen, not Muffins,” hissed the cat. She tried to bite me but it didn’t hurt at all.

“You’re so cute!” I said, cuddling her against my cheek.

“Oh for pity’s sake! Knock it off!” she complained. She began to purr. “Oh, now look what you’ve gone and done. You got my motor started.”

“Too cute!” I said, partly because it seemed to annoy the little fuzzball and she really was that cute and even cuter when complaining.

I didn’t realize what position I had ended up in, kneeling on the carpet, bent over to hold the kitten to my face with my posterior pointed at the bedroom door. I didn’t realize, that is, until I heard Tim say from behind me, “What am I looking at?”

* * *
“Is that a cat?” asked Tim, his voice still thick with sleep.

I looked back over my shoulder. At least he hadn’t asked if that was a pussy, because I’m sure I would have collapsed laughing. Instead I just waggled my butt at him.

That got his attention, he looked at my posterior and smiled, the flirt. But he looked so much like a big old bear standing there scratching the fur around his navel that I almost laughed anyway.

“It’s a kitten,” I said. “Say hello to Tim, Muffins.” I sat up and held the tiny calico cat up toward him.

“My name is Ogen,” said the cat. “And the giant can’t hear me, you stupid, ignorant body thief.” But she didn’t stop purring. Of course, she didn’t need to move her mouth to talk, though sometimes she did. I just heard the voice in my head, I assumed. Yeesh, don’t think about that being crazy. Though it did sound a lot like the tall actress with the deep voice who had that show with the four old ladies living Florida.

Damn. Why couldn’t I remember names from my past without a lot of effort?

Tim distracted me by kneeling next to the hassock. I sat up, putting my eyes at about the level of his navel.

He had pulled on a pair of shorts so there were no tempting cat toys in sight. “Kitten huh? Where’d you get him?” He stuck out a huge finger and rubbed that spot on the top of a cat’s head that acts like a purr volume knob, turning the kitten up to eleven.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell him the truth!” the cat warned me. I almost couldn’t hear her possibly imaginary voice over the loudness of her actual purring. I think the little puffball had a Marshall mini-stack under the fur.

I considered Tim’s question and Muffin’s warning. I hadn’t told Tim that I was originally a boy, or at least thought I was, and he hadn’t told me that he’d found out my name, or the name of my body, right away — so why break such a tradition?

“It’s a little baby girl cat,” I said. “And I found her on the balcony.” I had to giggle because of keeping a secret. Well, would he believe me if I told him that the cat talked but only I could hear her?

“I’m allergic to cats,” said Tim. He pulled back his hand and looked at the end of his finger as if expecting it to have broken out in purple land mines.

“Oh, good! But that’s another thing,” said Muffins. “Last night I was a tomcat but...”

“You too?” I said.

“Yeah, but not kittens for some reason,” said Tim reaching out his bratwurst-sized finger again to tickle the kitten under the chin.

“Hell’s Pilot Light! Nothing ever goes right for me,” complained the kitty.

“Are you allergic to cats too?” asked Tim.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t think so, but someone I know is. At least, I think they are, if it’s who I think it is and maybe if it isn’t. And if I could remember who it is, or isn’t, it might be important but since I can’t, I don’t suppose it is, huh?”

Tim and Muffins looked at each other. Tim said to the cat, “She talks like that all the time, doesn’t she?”

“I know,” said Muffins. “Drives me crazy. Wait.... What’s going on?” She looked sideways at Tim then at me and made an actual cat noise, a confused sounding, “Ma-a-ao?”

“Were you talking to the cat?” I asked Tim, wondering if he actually could hear the cartoony deep voice the cat spoke in.

“Sure,” said Tim. “He looks like an intelligent beast. Do you think he’s hungry? I’ve got some roast beef he might like.”

“She,” I reminded him. “You hungry?” I asked the kitten.

“I suppose so,” said Ogen. “And rub it in, why don’t you?”

I grinned. “I think she is hungry, she’s giving me that sad, little kitten face.”

“That’s not why!” protested the cat. “I’m just pissed off. Hell’s Deodorant Urinal Cakes, you’d be pissed, too, if you had any sense left.”

“Are you sure it’s a girl cat? It can be hard to tell with kittens, sometimes,” said Tim, using his magic muscles to stand up and tower over us.

“It’s a calico,” I said. “Calicos are always females.”

Tim stuck a big paw down to help me up. “Always female?”

“Uh huh, it’s a law of nature or something.” I wrapped my free hand around his thumb and he lifted us up to stand beside him. At that moment, I realized again that I had no clothes on. And my feet hurt. And my back.

I danced around a bit, trying to stretch out my calf and foot muscles. “I’ve got to get some clothes to wear, and shoes,” I said, looking down and noting, not for the first time that I could only see my feet by looking around my boobs. No wonder my back hurt.

“You’re not even wearing jewelry,” said the cat. “You realize that with no protection, when you fucked the giant anyone with nine senses could see you — all over the city? That’s how I found you here, since you didn’t have sense enough to be at home.”

Wow, I thought. I gave a show to the whole city? How many people had nine senses? And what were numbers six through eight if nine was the ability to see people fucking miles away through walls and hills and everything?

I wanted to ask questions but with Tim there I would look like more of an idiot than usual — like an idiot talking to a cat. Especially if I asked some of the hard ones I wanted to ask. So I took my frustration out on the cat. “Is my little fuzzy Muffins hungry?” I cooed. “We’ve got some nice beefies for the kitty-kitty puss-puss.”

“Knock it off!” said the cat. She struggled, trying to get away but it took no effort at all to hold her safely without hurting her. In fact, I used my thumb to rub her tummy and she got overcome by a fit of purring again.

“Hell’s Diaper Pail,” she muttered.

Tim lead the way to the kitchen. From the back, he looked like a pair of legs carrying a pyramid upside down. Wow. Double wow.

“Loud purr for a little cat,” he commented.

“Oh, yes, Muffins is a little purr box, isn’t her?” I cooed, remembering to torture the cat.

“Send me back to Tartaros, I’m too old for this kitten stuff!” said the cat. “And my name is Ogen!”

“Now don’t you worry, little baby pussycat. Old Tim is gonna fix you some nice num-nums.” Okay, I’m terrible.

“Knock it off, Catewood,” warned the kitten. “The Compact keeps me from hurting you even if I want to, but I can always piss in your lingerie and crap in your hair while you’re asleep!”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I wondered what sort of lingerie I owned. Knowing me for only part of a morning, already I suspected that I had a lot of the naughty kind—probably received as gifts. “Just having a little fun.” I grinned at Muffins and chucked her under the chin. She hissed at me. Sheesh, what a grouch.

“What?” said Tim.

“I don’t think the kitty likes babytalk, she wants down.” I bent forward to put the cat down but forgot about my boobs. When they swung forward, they not only changed my balance, they startled me  by appearing in my vision like twin submarines surfacing to throw out depth charges and I sat down on my keister in the middle of the kitchen floor.

A leg cramp right then didn’t help either. Two cramps, one in each, causing me to point my toes like a ballerina.

“Snerk, snerk, snerk,” said the kitten, landing on her feet.

“Are you okay?” asked Tim again.

“Uh huh, I’m just not used to not wearing shoes, I guess.” Heels, I needed some shoes with heels. Well, I’m short so I probably wear them all the time. “I need a bra, too.”

“No comment on that,” said Tim, grinning. He helped me up again and I leaned on him while we tore off pieces of roast beef to put in a bowl for Muffins. Somehow this ended up with lots of touching and stroking and eventually kissing. Between Tim and I, not the cat.

Muffins ate her beefies then sat on the floor and nearly washed herself bald. She kept an eye on us as we progressed from kissing to groping. “Hell’s Prophylactic Ointment for the Prevention of Genital Chafing,” she commented.

* * *
I wore another of Tim’s t-shirts when we went downstairs later, after a suitable interlude. I felt so excited about seeing my apartment that I had to not talk at all for fear of bursting into non-stop giggles.

I carried the kitten and Tim wore his grouch bag but had my keys in his hand.

Muffins ragged on me. “Are you going to keep fucking the giant?” she asked in that mother-in-law voice.

I nodded, smiling like someone who has recently been finger-banged into a daze.

“Hell’s Thimble Keepers. I keep forgetting you’re not Catewood. This is just all messed up,” said the little cat. “And you’ve got to get back in the protection of your Compact before someone nasty sees these bonfires you keep lighting.”

“Huh?” I said.

Tim said, “I didn’t say anything,” just as we reached the lobby at the end of the hallway.

The massive double doors to the stairwell next to the elevator looked like they weighed a ton each, but Tim opened them with casual might; oh, them magic muscles. How the heck a little person like me was supposed to use the doors in an emergency I couldn’t imagine. Maybe adrenalin?

Going down the stairs with my boobies bouncing on every step was not an experience I wanted to repeat. I resolved to always take elevators from now on, if available.

Muffins complained. “Hell’s Bell-Bottom Ladies’ Knickerettes! Quit hitting me with your tits!” So, of course, I took an extra little bounce on the next step and regretted it immediately. That hurt, sheesh.

“Ow,” I said and Muffins made a kitten noise that might have been a snigger.

“Are you going to keep the kitten?” Tim asked as we exited on the right floor.

I nodded and shrugged at the same time, which seemed to distract Tim for a moment. Oh, yeah. Boobs, again.

He shook it off as we arrived at my door. My door! I suppressed a squeal by jiggling. My feet and back hurt but I didn’t care, I had my own door!

“The problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats,” Tim said, handing me the keys while I handed him the little cat.

“Oh, yeah?” said Muffins. “Well, the trouble with giants is... they are so obviously too damn big already! Hell’s Notions and Buttons and All Kinds Sewing Needs!” Regardless, the little beast snuggled into Tim’s palm and began purring again when he stroked her side with his thumb.

“Which key?” I asked him. Both were silvery metal and marked with the same number, 417.

“They’re both alike. You shouldn’t keep the spare with the master, you know.”

I put one of the keys in the lock and tried to turn it, one way, then the other. It wouldn’t turn. I looked up at Tim.

He reached down and turned it easily. Those magic muscles. “Sticks a bit, needs some graphite on it later, huh?” He opened and held the door for me then had to duck a little to come in himself. “Huh?” he said behind me and fiddled with the lock some while I walked in.

I hoped I’d start recognizing things. In a way, I did since it was laid out just like Tim’s apartment one floor up but not as deep or wide. The colors were all different, too.

The one big room had a large bed against one wall, completely curtained off like something in a movie about Victorian times. The other wall had a small dining table against it and an alcove held a desk, a computer and a television, small only compared to the one in Tim’s place. Bookcases covered every other available wall space, though the ones near the TV seemed to hold CD or DVD cases instead.

Right inside the door, the tiny room that in Tim’s place held a stacked set of laundry machines and some storage, instead had a little vehicle like a golf cart for one person parked inside it. The hot pink paint job and mauve leather seats looked cute but what the heck was it doing there and where was I supposed to do my laundry?

Who could I ask all my questions? Muffins? Not with Tim there unless I wanted to convince him I wasn’t just delightfully kooky but an actual nut case. And okay, maybe I was. But the little scooter-thingy bothered me as being just way the heck out of the ordinary. Like waking up with tits, fucking giants, and talking cats was normal.

Tim put the kitten down and she scampered immediately through an open door into the bathroom. I peeked inside, the layout was completely different from Tim’s but had similar fixtures except the tub was truly huge. Nice.

“Well,” said Tim, looking in over my shoulder. “That’s big enough for you to swim in.”

“Big enough for you to use as a tub, you mean, instead of just a shower,” I said. I giggled. “I could scrub your back.”

“We’ll have to try it out,” he said.

“Do you mind?” the kitten complained. “I’m using this room?” Sure enough, she was standing in the small litterbox under the sink glaring at us.

I giggled and turned away. The door to the walk-in closet was also open, just around the corner, and I stepped in, fumbling for a light switch on the wall. Tim reached past me and flipped it.

No half-filled closet space here. I walked in, looking around with my mouth open. Tim didn’t follow but bent his neck to see through the doorway better. The openings here didn’t seem to be as high as the ones in his apartment or he’d grown another four inches since we came down.

“Wow,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of stuff.” An understatement from an overgrown philosopher but he was right.

One wall seemed filled with glittering gowns and dresses and what could only be described as costumes. A rhinestone cowgirl outfit, a mermaid-like costume with fins, a bridal gown. On second glance, the nearer end seemed to contain more normal looking dresses, tops and skirts and the far end held the costumes.

In between the two ends, a dozen or more items that appeared to be very fancy corsets or bustiers hung on funny-looking frames that kept them stretched out into their rather exaggerated female shapes. It looked like a chorus line of nearly two-dimensional strippers.

Under the corsets, or whatever you call them, about two dozen shoes and a few boots spilled a bit haphazardly about with some of them on a couple of shoe trees, some under or on a shelf at the very bottom and a few in boxes. Not one of the visible heels looked any less than four or five inches and some looked impossibly high for my tiny feet.

Another couple of shelves above the clothes held hats, wigs and boxes. Wigs? Long blonde ones, short black Oriental-looking ones, wildy bouffant red ones, even a brown one with the kind of braids that princess wore in that movie about the guy who breathed through an accordion on his chest. Damn names.

The opposite wall of the — calling it a closet seemed wrong, the boudoir? — the dressing room had a long vanity table with lights and mirrors and shelves and cabinets above and below and at each end. Most of these seemed full of cosmetics, half of which I didn’t have the slightest idea of what you used them for. The farther end had a tall cabinet with little drawers, some of which were open and spilled out necklaces, bracelets, bangles and beads.

But the real shocker was the far end of the room where a fine selection of manacles, chains, masks, ropes, scarves and, um, other toys hung from hooks or lay tumbled on shelves. Okay.

I began to wonder just what I did with my life besides owning a talking cat who seemed to think I made magic light shows when I fucked.

Speaking of which, Muffins bounced into the little room, noojing me around the ankles. “Get rid of the giant, we have to talk,” said the cat.

“Hmm?” said Tim, looking around.

I could see that all this stuff might give him the wrong idea about me — or worse, the right one.

* * *