I write a fun story about a sex change; my depression lifts

My depression is lifting, thank God. I have written a piece that I’m thrilled with, on the subject of someone undergoing an overnight sex change. I have so much fucking fun doing this stuff that I’m starting to understand what writers mean when they say that the joys of publication pale in comparison to the joys of writing itself. When you are working and inspiration descends upon you like the rapture and you channel (from somewhere divine) a cracking line, or image, or simile that just fucking works, well, it’s pure bliss. One good line can make my day.

I wake with vague memories of dreams of alien abductions and strange medical procedures. I stretch and my body feels different, somehow softer. I’m shocked to discover I have two huge squishy growths on my chest. Naturally, I conclude that I’ve had some weird allergic reaction to the three chilli burgers, four El Cabron Cuban cigars and the pint of Dewars that I consumed last night while watching the Grand Prix. I have to get to the doctor.

I leap out of bed, and reach for my boxers. Despite living alone since I divorced my fourth wife – hot as hell but a real ball buster if you know what I mean – I do not like to parade around the house naked like some limp-wristed faggot. So I slide my Playboy Bunny boxers on (a gift from the boys in the poker club) and reach in to adjust my tackle. It’s substantial and I like to hang it on the left. I grope around, but all I can feel is a damp furry hole. “Omigod,” I roar, “Aliens stole my penis!”

Suddenly, I hear a knock on the front door. I look out bedroom the window and see that it’s Celia Morris from next door. I grab my Tuskaloosa Chargers bathrobe from its hook on the bathroom door and wrap it tightly around me. I open the front door just a crack, trying to squeeze my new tits flat under the bathrobe. “Jesus”, I think, “I’m stacked. I must be a 36D. Nice.”

Celia simpers good morning and looks at me with doey admiring eyes. I’m a well-known TV sportscaster, you see, and she’s had hot panties for me for a long time. It seems she wants me to help with her husband Marvin, who has locked himself in the bathroom and is muttering incoherently about castration. Celia’s breathy lament is interrupted by a shriek, followed by a bellowed “What the fuck?” from the Baileys across the road. Then the immigrant house next door erupts in a jabber of Chinese.

Some strange urge possesses me, and before I know what I’d doing I throw open my front door and my bathrobe to reveal all of my feminine glory to Celia. “Dear God” she says as she falls to her knees and raises her eyes heavenwards, “When I begged you last week to please make the men of this street more like women, I didn’t mean this”. Then she faints.

Celia Morris is gone now, and I am alone. My mind is in turmoil. I need to think. I know, a nice bubble bath! I go to the bathroom, turn on the hot water tap and pour a big purple dollop of Lavender Dream – left here by the ball-buster – into the tub. I wonder how WCTR news will react to having a female sports commentator. Would it be legal to fire me, now that I no longer have a penis? I wiggle my toes in the white shag bathmat. Suddenly, a more important question occurs to me: will my toenails look better painted in coral or cherry red? “Hmmm” I think, “Yes, I’ll go with cherry red. Nice”.