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Yesterday morning, I woke up with someone else’s head on. It was not painful but very surprising. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at this new face. I had a guy’s mug, a rather mean-looking guy, the kind that doesn’t get on your tits. I put my hand straight down between my legs... Bloody hell! I took my clothes off and gazed at the extent of my new pubic hair. I emitted a sound from my mouth; my voice had changed as well. At that point I thought would pass out, but seeing as I was now a man, I stayed upright.

I wondered what was really going to change in my life, apart from the fact that I would be called Mister. And then I felt a violent rush of testosterone, I felt powerful, invincible, I had balls!
I would never again flutter my eyelashes to get something; I would no longer be able to giggle when I didn’t understand something someone said; I would never again wear a dress; I would no longer be able to pretend to be a fragile little woman when I was cold or sad and no-one would take my hand to cross the road. No, because as a man, I would be a bloody good man, a stereotype all by myself. I would be proud and strong, I would talk with my fists when I had to, and I would protect widows and orphans. I would carry heavy objects - even when there was no need - just so I didn’t forget that I was a guy. And I would fondle women’s backsides at every opportunity.
To finish off, I put on my guy’s jeans, his T-shirt, and I put all my stuff back, telling myself that this was all very strange... Then I went out, full of confidence, convinced that life as a man was so much simpler. I did sweat a bit at the thought of what my partner would say when he got home at night, but I reassured myself by thinking that maybe he had also woken up in the morning with someone else’s head on – I hadn’t thought to look to see if my pair of high heels were still in the hall when I left...
To cut a long story short, there was one problem after the other. I had to find myself a name now, a man’s name, something virile... Pablo, that was it. Hello, I’m Pablo... Quick, a mirror! At least I was a good-looking guy, wasn’t I? And how was my “thing” doing? I congratulated myself. I was already thinking like a man.

I got to work, a little anxious. I was afraid they might take it badly; I had not warned anyone. I prayed that that none of my colleagues had a weak heart. I went for acting normal, and nobody said anything derogatory; everybody smiled at me politely. Except the intern. He said I was wiggling my hips in accounts. But I didn’t let him get away with that: I went up to punch him in the face. I told him it was my first time, he replied that I had a good hook, and we went for a drink together in the bar opposite.
I was in tune with the bar and Marcel the barman, we had just agreed that Bordeaux was the best football team. I never had to touch up my make-up or do my hair; on the other hand I let a pretty girl go in front of me to the toilets and surprised myself by checking out her bottom.
Then, suddenly, I saw the time, and said to myself that my guy was going to make a right scene. Straightaway I recovered; now I could go home later, I didn’t have to make the dinner anymore and I suddenly felt starving.

I walked in, with my heart in my mouth but not too much, because I was no longer a girl. I prayed that he would have changed too... I bit my lip... and I saw him. He looked at me with his big yellow eyes and, stepping gracefully, came towards me and started rubbing against my legs; I heard purring and then meowing. I called “Max?”

He mewed with such a husky way… There was no doubt at all, it was him.

Translated by Wendy Cross


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