Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  Ahh, that feels better.

  I want to look.

  No, I don’t.

  But I have to look.

  My eyes open and I’m instantly drawn to it. Mesmerized by its magnificence. The length. The girth. The veins that ripple down tantalize me in a way I’ve never experienced as a woman. Elation fills my chest. Is it infatuation? No. It must be love.

  Oh my god.

  I really am a man.

  “Ahh!” I cry, jarring myself out of the wiener trance. Is this why men are obsessed with their pricks?

  “I haven’t done anything yet.” Frankie freezes, his face inches from my jimmy. For a second, I wonder if he’s mesmerized by it too.

  “Sorry.” I shake off the warm and fuzzies about the new man in my life.

  Control yourself, Delia!

  Frankie feels around carefully. Surely, any second now, he’ll be holding my testicles and asking me to turn my head and cough.

  Wait. Something feels funny.

  He removes his hands immediately like he’s accidentally activated a bomb.

  Regina barrels over laughing. “You gave Delia a chubby!”

  “He did not!” That’s what that feels like?

  “Look.” She points, but I don’t have to look down to know my main vein is waking up. I can feel it. “Holy shit, are you hot for Frankie?”

  “No!” I scramble to pull my underwear up. “No.”

  Regina can hardly stop laughing long enough to ask, “Then why are you aroused?”

  “I’m not aroused. I don’t know what happened.” Using my hands as dick armor, I feel it relax beneath my fingers. I’m not turned on by Frankie. It was a fluke. A pure mishap. Like the rest of this shitty situation.

  Frankie’s face turns as pink as my panties. “It’s okay. You’ve never had a penis and you’re starting out with a full-grown monster. It’s a lot to handle.”

  “So, what? It has a mind of its own?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes, yeah. Guys usually have it handled by their teens, but you’re going to need a crash course in taming it.”

  “Taming it?” I hold my monster, all lax and bulgy. Girls are lucky. A woman can be hot and horny, on the verge of losing it, and you’d never know it just by looking at her. We don’t have to tame anything. Or is it they don’t have to tame anything? Oh, geez . . .

  “Yes.” He crosses his arms with the same intense look he got when he was studying for his medical boards.

  “I don’t want to tame anything. I just want my body back!”

  “I know, Delia. But right now this is the body you’re in.” He shoots a quick glance below my waist then shakes his head. “How is this my morning?”

  I ball my fists and settle them on my hips. “Oh, I’m sorry, Frankie. Are you having a bad day?”

  “I’m just trying to help,” he says with a glimmer of guilt on his face.

  I release a sigh, knowing that I’m stuck like this. At least for now. I look down at my full-grown beast, all snuggled up in my cotton panties. “Okay, how do I . . . tame it?”

  “Simple. The mind is very powerful.” Frankie taps his temple. “It won’t always seem like it, but your brain can overpower your body. But you have to distract it with something that’s the opposite of sex. So, from now on, any time you feel an erection coming on just think about something serious like ASPCA commercials or golf course silence. Sometimes whistling helps.”

  “So I got to be a fuckin’ snake charmer with this thing?”

  “In a manner of speaking. You’ll find what works for you. Personally, I think about washing dishes because soggy conflei floating in watery old milk grosses me out.”

  Hmm . . . What should I focus on if it happens again? Funerals? Tennis? Toilets? That’s it! I’ll think about scrubbing dried, crusty pee off a toilet seat. My memory flashes to my own morning piss. The toilet’s not the only thing that needs a wipe-down. Being a man might prove harder than I could’ve imagined. Who knew the dick would be the hardest part? No pun intended.

  “Okay, I can’t take it anymore. You have to put these on. Your nuts are peeking out of the sides of your panties.” Regina tosses me a pair of Frankie’s scrub bottoms, and I slip into them. What a relief wearing pants. And these fit perfectly too.

  “So what’s the prognosis, doc?” she asks.

  Frankie clears his throat. “From what I can tell, you’re a perfectly healthy . . . person?”

  “That’s it?” Regina says. “So much for knowing a human biologist.”

  “I’m an ENT.”

  “So you don’t have any idea how I can undo this?” I ask.

  “Yeah, hormones and surgery. That’s pretty much all modern medicine has to offer.”

  “I can google it.” Regina raises a finger. “Frankie, hand me your phone.”

  He scoffs. “What? You think there’s an app for this?”

  “I think it’s worth looking.” She stomps over to his nightstand and snatches his device. As much as I doubt the internet’s ability to solve this issue, I’ll take what I can get. Regina clicks away on the phone, her mouth twisting more and more as she scrolls through. “Yeah, okay. I’m pretty sure this is an isolated case.”

  Isolated is the perfect word to describe how I feel right now.

  “You should come to the hospital so we can run some tests—DNA, hormones, maybe an MRI,” Frankie suggests.

  Regina jumps in front of me with her arms sprawled out. “Uh-uh, no way, Frankie. She’s our friend, not your science experiment!”

  “It’s not like you have a better idea, Miss Truth-or-Dare-Did-This!”

  Their voices rise with every comeback and quickly escalate into loud, passionate Spanglish with wild hand gestures. Regina crosses Frankie’s declared boundaries and he karate-chop blocks her hand when it gets too close to his face. The heat of anger and frustration wrestles inside my chest, but this time there’re no tears threatening.

  “Enough with the bullshit, you two!” I yell. They halt in a way I’ve never seen before. I could get used to commanding attention like this. “Can we please focus for a fucking second? What do I do now?”

  “What can you do? You may be Delia on the inside, but on the outside, you didn’t exist until today. Other than coming to the hospital with me, leaving the apartment could be dangerous.”

  He has a point. Who knows what kind of shenanigans I would find myself in if I went out? What can I really do in this city with no identity anyway?

  “How can you be such a pessimist?” Regina asks Frankie then turns to me. “The fact that you didn’t exist like this before today isn’t a bad thing. It’s an opportunity.” She draws out the word with breathy speech like it’s a brilliant affirmation.

  I rub my temples with the bases of my palms. “An opportunity for what?” If anything, this is an opportunity to hide in the apartment and binge-watch Netflix.

  She looks me square in the eyes and wraps her little hands around my biceps. “Delia, we don’t know how this happened or how to fix it, but here you are. So own it! You can be anyone you want to be. You said yesterday that you wanted to be a man so you could get the job and respect you deserve. You’ve earned that. This is your chance. Go out there and use this body to take back what’s yours!”

  Her words seem to course through my veins, rushing alongside testosterone. I puff up my chest. What can I do in this city with no real identity?

  Anything I fucking want to.

  Regina’s right. This isn’t just an opportunity, it’s the opportunity. I don’t have to be Delia Reese, unemployed investment banker mopping floors. I can start fresh. Be anyone I choose. Do anything I please. Last night I declared that having a dick would solve my problems. Let’s see if I’m right.

  And I know exactly what I’m going to do.

  But first, I need to be positive.
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br />   I nod. “I’m gonna go for it. I’m getting a job today. A job I deserve.”

  “All right!” She squeezes my biceps in excitement then sends me a wink. “Nice arms, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I return the wink.

  Frankie folds his arms. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “Relax, Frankie. I got this.” And for the first time in months, I actually believe it. “But if I’m going to land a job today . . . I’ll need to borrow your best suit.” I march toward the closet. He’s always sporting the latest trends when he’s away from the hospital, allocating a good portion of his budget to fashion. It’s why he has imported dress socks but no curtains for his window.

  “Wait!” Frankie leaps between his beloved wardrobe and me. “My suits are tailored for me. What makes you think they’ll fit you?”

  Regina shifts glances between the two of us. “You’re about the same height and she fits in your scrubs just fine.” We inch closer.

  “Well, hold on! Before you go picking through my closet, let’s consider something.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Like, what’s your plan? You’re just going to roll up to one of those big firms and say, ‘I’m a man. Give me a job’?”

  Regina clicks her tongue. “C’mon, Frankie, growing a dick didn’t make her stupid. Right, Delia?”

  “I sure as hell hope not. But he’s right. What am I going to do when I get there?” I pace back and plop down on the bed. Being able to see around problems is my specialty, or at least it used to be. We live in a post-9/11, post-every-moment-of-life-on-social-media world. I’ve got nothing, except a beast to tame.

  “Just apply for a job,” she says. “See if you get a call back.”

  Frankie glares at her, still guarding his closet. “How is she going to do that if she isn’t even a real person?”

  Regina gasps, balling her fists at her sides. “How can you say that? She is a real person!”

  “That’s not what I mean!”

  Regina gets in his face and it spirals into yet another Spanglish screaming match. I slap my hand over my eyes and drag it down to my stubbled chin.

  “For Christ’s sake, stop fighting!” I roar then suck in a deep breath as they shut it. “I need to think and I can’t do that with you two fussing like children.”

  They lower their heads. “Sorry.”

  “Okay. So I’m not technically a real person, and even if I create an identity, how long will I be able to keep it up? What if this is who I’ll be forever?”

  Frankie snaps his fingers. “Exactly!”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Regina says. “What other choice do you have?”

  It’s true. Survival is a pretty powerful motivator. That’s why I’ve been cleaning toilets. I had no choice then and I have fewer choices now. I’ll have to put on Frankie’s best three-piece suit over my birthday suit and hope for the best. Whatever the hell that is.

  “I’m gonna need a name.” I tap my finger on my mouth. Name, name, what’s my name? “You guys got any ideas?” I look to them, their eyes already scanning the ceiling.

  “How about Cristiano Ronaldo?” Frankie says, batting his eyelashes.

  Regina and I shift disapproving glances to one another. I may not look like Delia, but I definitely don’t look like Cristiano. “I’m not sure I can pull off sexy soccer player, but thanks anyway,” I say.

  “Hmm, what if we name you after someone really cool? Who’s your favorite male singer?” Regina asks.

  “I’m not calling myself Prince.”

  “What about a family name?” Frankie asks.

  I tilt my head. A familiar family name isn’t a half-bad idea. My father and my oldest brother share a name, which was also my great-grandfather’s name. “Richard. Can I pull off Richard?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Regina says as if the name fits like a perfectly tailored suit. “We can even call you Dick!”

  I drop my head in a chuckle. Figures I’d pick a name synonymous with Dick. “You know, I think I’ve got enough of that goin’ on. Let’s just stick with Richard.”

  “You’re the boss. Now what about a last name?”

  Might as well keep it in the family. “How about Allen? Like my other brother.”

  She nods. “Richard Allen. I like it.”

  “Me too,” I say. “What do you think, Frankie?”

  His shoulders drop. “It’s not bad. I like Cristiano better.”

  Regina and I exchange devilish grins and move toward Frankie, the closet guard. She narrows her glare and flips her hand in an attempt to shoo him away. He stretches his arms wide across the sliding doors, a bead of sweat falling from his hairline.

  “Two against one, Frankie. You really gonna stand in front of your suits all day?” I ask, flexing my muscles like Wolverine. After all, Regina says I have nice arms.

  “Fine, but I don’t like this.” Frankie slides the closet door open and pulls out a tasteful, yet stylish gray Michael Kors. “Come pick out a shirt and tie.”

  I thumb through the array of fresh fabrics, looking for any basic-colored shirts or ties. It’s all pink and orange, yellow and purple. There’s hardly any color in my wardrobe. It’s all black and gray, navy and tan. “What do you guys think?”

  Regina pulls a purple shirt from a wooden hanger. “This one.”

  It could work. It’s the most muted of all the shirts.

  Frankie smiles, running his hand along every piece displayed on glossy wood hangers. “I love them all.”

  A particular pink one tucked between two other pastel shirts draws me in. The last time I wore something this bright was at a frat party. But this shirt is less drunk college chick and more Pink Power Ranger.

  “I’ll take that one.” I select it with my finger. “It’s pink, right? I’m not colorblind now, am I?”

  “It’s salmon.” Frankie grabs a matching paisley tie and pocket square. “And you’re not putting this on until you take a shower. I don’t want you stinking up my clothes.”

  “Thanks.” I wrap my arms around him, giving him a tight squeeze.

  He pats my shoulder. “You’re welcome, Delia.”

  I strut my big feet, my little top, and Frankie’s scrub bottoms toward the door. “It’s Richard now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I lock myself in the bathroom and let out a heavy breath of relief. My friends not only believe me, but they’re being supportive. What would I do without them? I stare at my new mug in the mirror, tracing my cheekbones to my ears with my fingertips, then down my jawline. Trippy. As the reality settles in, my wide forehead throbs from my straight brows to the edges of my temples. I press my palms to the sides of my head and shut my eyes tight. Is my brain on the brink of bursting?

  I take in a deep, careful breath and slowly let it go.

  Stay positive, Delia. You’re still alive. You’re not in any immediate danger. And you haven’t changed species.

  The pressure begins to release and I blink my eyes open. Ah, that’s better. Accepting this reality might not be so bad.

  Okay, Delia, you’re in a man’s body now.

  I can do this. I can act like a man. I have two older brothers, years of experience in a male-dominated field. All I have to do is pretend I’m listening when I’m not, act like I know everything except how to properly sort laundry, and give up looking for the mustard in the fridge after two seconds. I should be able to manage that.

  Ugh, if only it were that simple.

  The shower faucet feels so much smaller in my hand. The hollow thud of water pellets hitting the porcelain bathtub fills the room. Peeing with a penis was a pretty confronting moment for me, so lathering it up in the shower will probably be just as solidifying. Hmm, maybe I’ll use Frankie’s Swagger shower gel today.What the hell does swagger smell like, anyway? Such a weird name. I suc
k in another deep breath, a failed attempt to ease my knotted stomach. It’s time. If I’m going to man up, I have to strip down first.

  Undressing is frightening and freeing all at the same time. Not to mention fascinating. Me with these abs, these pecs, this pecker. I place my hands on my hips and nod as if approving the new renovation. Surprisingly, looking at the nude version of my male-self is not nearly as disturbing as I’d feared. It’s still me in this body. Maybe if I think about it like wearing a costume, it won’t be so bad. Even if this getup comes with its own mechanics.

  My clear vision takes in the full reflection. I curl in my fists, raising my arms like Arnold Schwarzenegger circa Mr. Universe. It’s unlike me to admire myself in the mirror but how can I not? Defined muscles curve around my arms and shoulders as I flex. Gritting my teeth and glaring into the mirror, I let a slight growl escape my lips.

  Intimidating.

  I like it.

  I whip around, twisting my neck. “There’s my tattoo.”

  Yep, totally misplaced on my brawny male body. My ass is sitting in the right place, though. I shake it like a hula dancer. Yesterday, my butt would have jiggled up and down, backward and forward. Today it hardly acknowledges that I’m moving. All right, I could get used to this. I smack the tight flesh, playing my buns like bongo drums, and twirl back around, almost tripping on the bathroom rug. Damn, my feet are ginormous. I lift one at a time, checking out the soles. Seriously, what size are they? Everything is bigger. And hairier—knuckles, nose, ears, knees, eyebrows. I feel like the fucking Hulk.

  Steam rises over the clear, pebbled shower curtain. I step inside and let the hot water cascade on my skin. Nice and refreshing. No difference here. It’s weird, though, running my fingers through such short wet hair. But I kind of like it; it feels lighter, and I don’t have to use as much shampoo. Lathering up my loofah using Frankie’s musky body wash, I run the sponge back and forth across my chest and down my arms, getting a feel for my new shape. Not too shabby, unlike my shag-carpeted legs. Ew! I pick up my razor and consider a close shave, but I can practically hear it say, “I don’t think so, bro!”