Stocking Stuffers

by Sara James

  The assault on his face ended. While he was still blinking his eyes into focus, he could taste the lipstick on his lips. He knew it from kissing women. The taste was the same, only stronger. The rear view mirror was too small to show his entire face all at once. It was enough. He looked like a cosmetics model in a magazine. His neck had shrunk too. There was no trace of his Adam’s apple. “Shit,” he swore in a clear, sweet, high pitched voice. He gasped a little, then sighed. “Shit,” he repeated, devoid of hope. He reached up and took off the Santa hat, letting his long hair cascade downward to frame his face. Why not? There was no point hiding his long hair any more. There was no part of his body left that resembled his old self. Only his mind remained the same. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

  His own mother.

  It took a minute for that to really sink in. No one he knew would recognize who he was. How could they? His face and body were so transformed from what they had been, it would seem impossible. What could he tell them? A magic elf had changed him into a woman to teach him a lesson about how to treat them with respect? That seemed like a sure way to end up accused of his own murder, or declared a ward of the state for mental health issues. He would be homeless, jobless, penniless, friendless and nameless with no family to fall back on for help.

  How could he go home for Christmas? His own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

  He leaned forward, putting his head on the car’s steering wheel. His long hair shifted to hide his face from the world. Inside that silken barrier, he began to first shed tears, then cry, then sob, then wail. He hugged himself in distress. He didn’t know what else to do.

  Everything was wrong.

  He didn’t know how long he spent in the car crying. When he looked up, everything looked the same. It could have been two minutes later or two hours.

  He checked his reflection. The damn makeup was still pristine. He put the lid on the box rather than check the details of the contents. With so many items, there was no way to know which ones were on his face. Either the makeup he was wearing was waterproof or it had some magic help to remain intact. Knowing which was true seemed pointless.

  Putting the Santa hat back on for warmth, he picked up the box, opened his car door and made his way upstairs. He half expected someone to confront him about the car or the coat belonging to his male self, but no one was around. Whether it was the holiday or dumb luck, he made it to the apartment without anyone running into him to ask difficult questions. He took out his keys, let himself in and closed the door.

  Home sweet home. For now, at least. The future seemed very uncertain.

  He swallowed the urge to cry again, refusing to wallow in self-pity any more than he already had. He dropped the opened package on the kitchen table, hung up his coat and went to the bedroom. Even for a half day, the ace bandages and towels were hot and uncomfortable. He avoided looking at the mirror. He kept his back to it as he undressed. Once he was down to just his briefs, he didn’t even look down, doing his best to ignore the dangle and sway of his chest as he moved. He put on his flannel pants, a fresh t-shirt and a loose sweatshirt for warmth. He cuffed the sleeves to keep them from covering his hands. Unused to having long hair, he had to lift it out of the neck holes of his t-shirt and sweatshirt to free it.

  Going back to the kitchen, he picked up the package of cosmetics and took it into the living room. His intent was to put it under the tree with the other packages. Instead, he just dropped it. It hit the floor with a harsh thump.

  There was another, much larger present waiting for him under the tree. The other presents were all gone.

  “This is never going to end.” He examined the room for some sign of observation or acknowledgment. “Is it?”

  The only answer was silence.

  Max fell to his knees, the strings of his will severed by despair. Even the thought of standing seemed impossible to consider. He crawled forward instead. He ran his hands over the large box’s wrapping paper, assuring himself of its reality. His eyes searched for the presents that had already been opened. He knew that they were gone, but his eyes kept looking for them, feeling like a bridge that led to his past had just been burned with him standing on it. He heard a ripping sound. Looking down, his feminine, long fingered hands had balled into fists, tearing the wrapping paper of the package. With savagery born of commingled fear and anger, he tore the paper from the box. Then he threw aside the lid.

  Inside was a complete outfit. He recognized it. He’d seen it worn at the mall. He’d even dreamed about wearing it, or parts of it. It was the high heels with the bells at the toes, leggings, lacy petticoats, short-skirted dress, wide belt and elf hat the girls at the mall wore. The familiar bra was there too, along with a matching thong panty of white lace that was new.

  There was another card, too. This one showed Santa with a small child - a young girl, little more than a toddler- smiling up at him from his lap. At his side was Holly, looking down at the girl with a knowing smile. The child looked a great deal like a feminized version of Max at that age. The inside of the card read:

  Say “Goodbye,” Mister Naughty.

  Now it’s time for Miss Nice.

  Show the men at the mall

  All your holiday spice.

  If you put on a show,

  I’ll tell Santa you’re good.

  And then you’ll get back

  All the things that you should.

  -Holly Day, Elf

  P.S. - This outfit isn’t magic. You’ll have to put it on yourself.

  Max kept reading the postscript over and over. Holly expected him to put this outfit on. On purpose. Why? The rest of the message seemed to be telling him to go to the mall. That seemed about her speed. Force him to dress like a woman. Go to the mall. Put himself on display so that men could ogle him the way he’d ogled those girls as some sick form of retribution. The card seemed to promise that if he did that, he would get his normal, male body back.

  He checked the clock on the cable box. He’d spent less than an hour in the car. It was still early afternoon. If he went to the mall, if Holly changed him back, he might be able to drive home to be with his family that evening without them finding out anything unusual had happened. They still thought he was getting out of work at five and weren’t expecting him until after dinnertime.

  All he had to do was dress his female body in clothes made for a woman and let himself be seen wearing them in public.

  On the surface, it was a simple decision. It was just clothing. What did it matter if people saw him wearing it? All anyone would see was a woman wearing women’s clothing. There was nothing at all strange or unusual about that. All he would have to do was walk around and let men look at him until Holly was satisfied. To “put on a show.” Knowing men like he did, it would take no more than ten minutes before some guy sized him up and said something crude. Probably less. Wearing this outfit, he might not make it from the parking lot to the inside of the mall before he got leered at or hit on.

  Simple. Direct. Easy. Put on the outfit. Get his life back.

  Only he couldn’t do it. Just the thought of it was terrifying. Impossible, even.

  His eyes kept coming back to that final line. “P.S. - This outfit isn’t magic. You’ll have to put it on yourself.” He’d never put on women’s clothing before in his life. Not once. Never. Not even as a goof or a prank or a dare or out of curiosity. It hadn’t even occurred to him to try. The only thought about it he’d ever had was in high school. Some talk show had on a group of drag queens one day when he was channel surfing. Thinking about the guests as he watched, he’d been flat-out confused about why any man - gay or straight - would want to put on women’s clothing and makeup. That was it. No prejudice or deep moral philosophy. The thought of a man wearing women’s clothing had never seemed relevant to him as an individual.

  It was in there now, though. “You’ll have to put it on yourself.” The words bounced around the inside of his skull. It was bad enough that he had a woman’s
body. But to choose to put those clothes on? That wasn’t something that was being forced on him. He would have to choose to put them on.

  Or he could choose to not put them on and avoid being seen in public. But then he would be stuck as a woman. If that happened, it didn’t matter what clothes he wore, or how much padding he used to disguise his figure. He knew how people would see him with the face and body he had now. Everyone would see him as a woman. Who he was on the inside wouldn’t change the way people related to him because of his appearance.

  He picked up the matching thong and bra. He would have to put them on first. Could he do it?

  Kneeling on the floor, focused on examining the feminine undergarments in his hands, he spent a lot of time thinking about that question. One answer led to dressing up in women’s clothing and putting himself on display in a very public setting for others to see. The other answer led to hiding in his apartment. That choice meant more privacy in the short term, but also guaranteed that he would become isolated and even more deeply humiliated over time. He wanted to be a man again. What he didn’t like was the fact that the only way to do that meant he had to embrace being a woman, even if it was just for the afternoon.

  Holly was examining the lingerie display where she had first run into Max. Focused as she was on her own thoughts and worries, she didn’t notice she had company until they spoke.

  “Keeping tabs on your assignment?”

  It was another of her kind. She was also dressed as a mall elf. They could have passed for human sisters. For Holly it was a disguise to pass among humans without being questioned for her somewhat obvious exceptional appearance. Her charisma, when noticed at all, was attributed as much to youth as the costume she wore. For the other, it was a necessity. She had chosen to take a more proactive course of action with her assignment. That required constant interaction with her assignment in a very public setting. As such, she had taken pains to make herself blend in and seem more mundane, more human.

  “Yes,” she agreed. She turned her physical eyes back to the display window while her mind’s eye returned to Max’s apartment. “He’s reached the critical point. He’ll make his decision soon.”

  The other nodded. She joined Holly in her examination of the display. “Mine has already passed her crisis point for this cycle. She chose her vice.” Her sigh seemed sad but resigned to accept the outcome. “They always do.”

  “Almost always,” Holly reminded her. She still had hope for her assignment.

  “Where did I go wrong?”

  The question was rhetorical, but Holly had a few ideas of her own on that topic. Putting a chronic workaholic into the role of Santa Claus, for example, was not a good start. Letting that person take charge of what was in effect a small business with opportunities for increasing efficiency was another bad idea. The attempt to turn her heart with her children showing up, sitting on her lap, to be so close but not know her for who she was had been a good effort, but by then it was a case of too little too late. Her assignment still thought they were going to get their life back because of how well run Santa’s Village was. The transformed woman’s assumption was that being a “good Santa” meant making a profit. She had no idea yet that her failure to put charity ahead of greed would give her a whole year to ponder her personal failings while trapped in the body of a fat, elderly man with white hair and a beard.

  Max was close to making his choice. He was holding the bra and thong. “Put them on, Max,” she urged him, careful to not push him with her magic. That would result in a summary judgment against him. He didn’t deserve that.

  “Why did you change a man whose vice is lust into an attractive woman?” The other’s face wrinkled up in distaste. “Aren’t you worried his behavior is going to mimic his own fantasies of how that kind of woman would behave?”

  “Of course I am,” Holly agreed, distracted by the flow of Max’s thoughts and emotions. “Lust is a very strong compulsion. If he gives in to it now, I doubt he’ll ever overcome it. But to do that, he would have to abandon his family, at least in the identity that they’ve always known him. I’ve been very careful to time things so that his first hope of returning to normal comes at the same time as his primal choice. He’s going to have to choose between exploring the body I’ve put him in and the love and comfort of his family.”

  The other stepped closer, her attention turning to Max. “I see. He’s aware of how delicate the timing is. If he delays, or chooses to explore his new body, he might not be able to get to the mall before it closes for the holiday. He can’t procrastinate and he knows it.” She looked at Holly, nodding in approval. “Clever.”

  Holly didn’t dare to smile. Not yet. “I made sure he knows he’ll be stuck as a woman for at least a year if he makes the wrong choice. All he wants now is to go home. That’s always a powerful urge, but even more so at Christmas. I hope his need to be with his family tips the balance for him. ”

  The other looked up at the display window, crossing her arms, her lips thinning. “All he has to do is reject lust.” She snorted in amusement. “A man, inside the body of a beautiful woman, choosing to deny himself sexual gratification. I don’t like his chances, love of family or not.”

  “A strange body he never wanted,” Holly reminded her. “One that he’s struggled to reject, each change a reminder of the ones before. A reminder of who he’s supposed to be, but isn’t. Someone he can be again if he allows men to look at him the way he looked at those young women. All it requires is a little humility, with a dash a penitence. He has those qualities. I know he does.” Her eyes focused on the white, lace bra and matching thong worn by the mannequin in the window, identical to the ones Max was holding across town.

  The sound of a jolly laugh filled the air. Heads turned in the direction of Santa’s Village. Smiles widened. People’s pace quickened, lubricated by holiday cheer.

  The other sighed. Her head turned, looking in the direction of her charge. “She’s so lost. I turned her into Santa Claus! The living embodiment of the Christmas spirit! The man that gives away millions of presents every year, asking for nothing in return! What could be more selfless than that? And what does she do? She turns it into a way to make money.” She shook her head. “It would take a real Christmas miracle for her to abandon greed and see the value of charity.”

  Max had made his choice. Holly let herself smile. “Don’t give up on her. We’re angels. Christmas miracles are our business.” Her smile grew sly. “Besides, I have an idea.”

  Max wanted his normal life back more than anything else. All it took was several minutes of deep breathing and near panic to accept the situation for what it was.

  In the end, it was thoughts of his family that tipped the balance. There were only so many Christmases in a lifetime. As his parents aged, he was becoming more and more aware that time with his family was a dwindling resource that would soon be gone forever. Missing even one holiday with them - let alone two or more because of an unwanted, impossible transformation - seemed unbearable. If dressing up like the woman he appeared to be could give him his life and his body back, than that was what he was going to do.

  With his face already made up, it was tempting to begin getting dressed right away. The sooner he got started, the sooner he would be done. He even put the bra and thong back in the box with the other garments and carried it into the bedroom to do just that. What stopped him was his odor. Getting undressed, he caught a strong whiff of himself. It was a strong smell. While almost pleasant, it did remind him that he’d been sweating all morning into the towels he’d used as padding. Glaring at the box on the bed, he knew he would have to take a shower.

  “You just won’t be happy until I accept this, will you?” He wanted to be angry. Instead, the pit of his stomach filled with a sick dread.

  He’d already showered with this body that morning. The day before that, he’d also had female parts. Those showers had been more of a rinse than a full shower to get clean. This one had to be more thorough, but
it also had to be quick if he wanted to get to the mall and satisfy Holly before it closed. Already undressed, he waked to the bathroom.

  He let the water run to warm up while he got out a clean towel. He thought about the sweat in his hair and decided he couldn’t avoid washing it too. Grabbing a second towel for his hair, he went ahead and grabbed a third to stand on while he dried himself off. A deep sigh escaped him as he hung the two larger towels up on the hook by the shower and laid the third one down on the floor in front of the tub. Bending forward to position it made his breasts rub together and dangle almost to his elbows. It also made his bottom feel like it was opening like a flower, presenting itself for penetration.

  Heat burned his neck and cheeks at the thought while his hands moved the towel into place at the tub’s edge. How many times had he seen a woman bend forward and thought about having sex with her? Remembered fantasies of his large hands surrounding a woman’s narrow waist while he penetrated her from behind floated up in him, fuel for the fire of his building embarrassment. All he was doing was bending forward, laying down a towel for use as a bath mat. Nothing in that was sexual. So why was he unable to think of anything else?

  He stood up straight, inner thighs tingling, knees weak and shaking. A thought occurred to him then. Maybe Holly was right. Like Freud himself had said, sometimes a cigar was just a cigar. Not everything women did was about sex. Could she be right? Had he allowed himself to become too used to equating women with physical gratification? As sex objects? Had he stopped seeing them as people?

  The obvious answer was “no,” but it was a slippery slope. Even with women he didn’t equate with sex, he looked at their bodies, enjoying the view. He’d looked at Jenna earlier that day as she took her coat off. He’d admired the shape of her rear end and the fullness of her breasts. And that was a friend, someone he interacted with every day. If she found out what he thought about when he looked at her, he doubted she would like it, no matter how friendly they were.