Womanized Page 2

  I stayed in my apartment for the next five days, eating the scraps I had left in my pantry. I was too afraid to leave. As long as I stayed in my apartment, I could pretend as though I never got that letter. I could lie and say that it was lost in the mail.

  I missed my physical examination date. I had a feeling there was already another letting in my mailbox, but I didn’t go down to check. I paced my apartment and tried to think of some other way out. Maybe I could shoot myself in the foot during training. I would probably end up with a fucked up foot for the rest of my life, but at least I wouldn’t be dead somewhere in China… Or maybe they would still send me to China, and then I would be fighting with a fucked up foot. I needed to think of a better solution.

  I was a clever guy. I always had been. Back in high school, I used to get out of tests all of the time with careful lies, and sometimes with spot-on impressions. I learned to do a perfect impression of my high school principal. I would sneak out to the bathroom and then I would call my teacher’s classroom. “Joe doesn’t have to do the test today,” I would say in that distinct, deep voice.

  “Why not?” the teacher would ask.

  “For his outstanding commitment to community service. Just give him full marks on this one.” Sometimes it didn’t work, because the teachers knew that I could do great impressions. But the military had no idea that I could do great impressions.

  A warmth was suddenly glowing inside of my chest. The military had no idea that I could do impressions. I had an idea.

  I got myself showered and dressed, and then I went down to the recruitment office across the street from my building, where I was supposed to go for my physical. I waited in the long line for almost an hour before I was ushered into the recruiter’s office. Before stepping in, I reached into my pocket and hit the record button on my cellphone’s voice recorder app.

  “What’s your name?” the recruiter asked.

  “Joe Alary, sir. I just got the letter in the mail—I’m afraid I got it late,” I said, putting the letter down on his desk.

  “These letters are hand delivered. You didn’t get the letter late, Alary, you just checked your mail late.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’ve been sick, and I’m only just feeling better now. I’ve been in bed for days. I didn’t even hear the news about the draft.”

  He stared at me for a minute with dark, brooding eyes—the same eyes I could probably expect throughout my whole military career, assuming my plan didn’t work out. “Okay, recruit. Any diagnosed health conditions we need to know about? Maybe something with your thyroid? And before you lie about something, just know that our doctors have to diagnose it as well if you’re going to get out of service.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Though I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use in battle. I’m small and I’ve never really been able to put on any muscle m—”

  He cut me off before I could finish. “—Don’t worry. They’ll make a man out of you in basic training. You’re to report to basic training this afternoon. Here’s all the information you’ll need, including the station where you can catch a bus. The bus is free. Don’t bring anything, unless you’ve got a picture of your kids you really like. Everything else will be confiscated before you’re admitted. Any questions? No? Okay, get out of here—and good luck over there.”

  Before I could say anything, he waved me out. I made sure to get a good look at his nametag before leaving that room: Klein, it read. I had to look up his insignia before tracking down his superior’s phone number. He was apparently a Sergeant First Class—though I didn’t know what that meant. I listened to the recording of his voice over and over, and then I did my best to replicate it. “Hello, this is Sergeant First Class Klein. Hello there, it’s me, Sergeant First Class Klein.” I kept saying it, over and over, but I had no idea if that was how military men introduced themselves. I spent the next two hours perfecting that impression. Usually I would spend at least a few days with an impression before I was comfortable with it, but I didn’t have that kind of time. So I made the call.

  “This is Hendricks. Who’s calling?”

  “Uh, this is Sergeant First Class Klein, sir. I’m calling about recruit, Joe Alary.”

  “Alright, Klein. What about him?”

  I took a deep breath. “I just sent in his file. I meant to mark him down as unfit for combat, but I think I accidentally checked the wrong box. So if you could fetch his file and make that change for me, that would be great, sir.”

  There was silence on the line. “Checked the wrong box? What the hell are you on about, Sergeant?”

  “Um, Joe Alary. He’s unfit for combat, sir. But I filed his form wrong.”

  “What form? What are you talking about? What’s your identification number, Sergeant?”

  In a panic, I hung up the phone. My plan failed. I didn’t do enough research. I didn’t have enough time to do research. And now I was expected at basic training in just a few hours. It was time for me to go—time for me to head out and catch a bus. My free life was over. Soon, I would be standing in a line, being screamed at by a very angry man. I would be pushed to my physical limits before being sent off to die—to be blown up or drowned or eaten by sharks.

  CHAPTER III

  I didn’t end up leaving my apartment. I was too afraid. I didn’t want to fight in that damned war. I still had so much I wanted to do with my life—and nowhere on my bucket list was war.

  I was surprised when no one came knocking on my door that evening. I didn’t even get a phone call. I started to wonder if the call I made did work after all. Maybe Hendricks did go and change the status of my file.

  I was surprised when I woke up the next morning and there still hadn’t been any knocks at my door. I cautiously made my way down to my mailbox. There were no letters inside. I looked out at the streets. They were unusually desolate. It was 9:00 AM. Usually there would be hundreds of men on their way to work—but now there were only a few. Were they the lucky ones who avoided the draft? Did they all have good excuses? Or was their time coming? Maybe they were on their way to the bus stop now, so they could be taken out to basic training.

  I was in the middle of the country. Getting to either the Canadian or Mexican border was out of the question, especially since there were probably check stops along the way, and I’m sure my name was in their system. I couldn’t book a flight without being caught—so what could I do? I went back to my apartment, and then I wondered if I could hide in that apartment until the war was over. Would they find me? Of course they would—they knew my address.

  As I was looking out at the street, a man in full military regalia walked by. I ducked down, worried he would see me and somehow recognize me. Maybe a picture of my face was up in every recruitment office in the country: ‘FIND THIS DRAFT DODGER!’ If I ran away, would they put me in prison when they finally found me? Or would they still send me off to war? The thought of prison was nicer than the thought of battle. Though I don’t think I would survive in prison, especially not with my 130-pound body. From behind, I could easily be made to look like a woman.

  It was the next morning when there was a knock at my door, waking me up. It was a loud knock, as it made by the dull side of a fist. I remained still in my bed, wondering if the noise was real or just a sound at the tail end of a terrible nightmare. Then the knock happened again. I sprung to my feet and ran carefully to the door. I pressed my eye to the peephole. Three military men were standing there with serious faces. “Open up!” one shouted.

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “What’s going on?” I shouted back, using one of my female impressions.

  “We’re here for Joe Alary. Is he in? Please open this door.”

  “Hold on. I just got out of the shower,” I yelled back. And then I found myself scrambling. My heart was pounding. I looked around, desperate for an exit. But that door was the only way out of my apartment, unless I wanted to tumble down four stories to the pavement below. I ran into the bathroom and stripped out fro
m my pyjamas. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my chest. It was just long enough to cover my cock. Then I grabbed another towel and wrapped it around my head. But I still looked like a man. I still had hairy legs and stubble on my chin and cheeks.

  But I had one last idea. Under my sink was a box of facial products that an ex-girlfriend left in my bathroom almost two years before. I grabbed a little tube of ‘Cucumber Face Mask’ and I squirted a bunch into the palm of my hand. I spread it all over my face.

  “If you don’t open this door right now, we’re going to arrest you, ma’am. Please open this door.”

  I didn’t have time to shave his legs, so all I could do was hope that they didn’t notice—and if they did, hopefully they wouldn’t think too much about it. I took a deep breath and then I opened the door. “Sorry, what is this about?” I asked in that female voice, that wasn’t too different from the voice I used on that history-altering recording.

  “Sorry to bother you, miss. But we’re looking for Joe Alary. Is he here?”

  “He’s not. He hasn’t been here for a few days.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m his girlfriend, Jess,” I said. My heart was pounding as I forced a smile. The military officers slipped past me and started to search the apartment. None of them looked back at me as I stood by the door, trying to keep my legs crossed so they wouldn’t see so much hair. I couldn’t believe they’d fallen for my disguise. I couldn’t believe that none of them even stopped to take a closer look at me.

  I didn’t follow them. I just stood by that door, letting them rifle through my home. I watched as they pulled back my couch. One of them even flipped over my bed’s mattress. It was like watching Nazis hunting for hiding Jews. “Did he do something?” I asked casually from the doorway.

  “He missed basic training. And now, because of a phone call we received, we believe he may be trying to dodge the draft. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t seen him in days.”

  “Well if you see him, you need to call us right away. We’ll be back.” And just like that, they were all gone. I closed the door, flicked the lock, and then I fell to the ground, short of breath. My heart ached with throbbing pain. I knew it was only a matter of time before they found me, unless I could get out of that city. Maybe I could go live in the woods—find a survival guide in a bookstore and then live out the war like a mountain man.

  I stepped into the bathroom to wash off my face, and then I stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t actually look half bad. I kind of looked like a chick, especially thanks to my big eyelashes and narrow face. Apparently the military men agreed—none of them seemed to think that I could have been anything but a woman.

  Could I do a female impression for the next couple of months, or years, or however long the war lasted? I could do the voice just fine—maybe I could pull off the look, too. I stared at myself in that mirror for the next forty-five minutes. I wasn’t terribly fond of the idea of being a woman in public for the foreseeable future, but it was a more desirable thought than getting killed or killing people.

  So I took a shower. I picked up my razor while the hot water was streaming down my body, and then I brought it down to my legs. “This is crazy,” I said to myself before clearing off the first strip of hair. It was just body hair—it would grow back eventually. I wasn’t necessarily committing to anything. But if the military men came back, at least I wouldn’t have to worry that my legs were too hairy. It was just a safety shave, and that’s it—I was giving myself options. But I was going to need more than just a shave if I was really going to give myself a strong option.

  CHAPTER IV

  It was late that night when I snuck out from my apartment. I went out the back door, into the alleyway, as soldiers were patrolling the streets. Apparently there had been a string of attacks on American soil: some by Chinese Americans fighting on behalf of China, and some by anti-war ‘terrorists’, as the media called them. I didn’t want to be confused for either, so I stuck to the shadows as I made my way down the block.

  I looked both ways before bolting across the road to the next alleyway.

  I had to use my phone to know which shops I was behind when I finally reached my city’s shopping district. I didn’t know much about women’s clothes, so I didn’t necessarily know where I was going. But I could break into a few places if I needed to.

  I knew I had to be quick, because I had no idea which shops were alarmed. I decided to break into a shop called ‘Femme’ because the back door was locked with a padlock, and I had bolt cutters, and no idea how to pick a lock. It wasn’t easy to snap that lock off that back door. I had to press down with all of the force I had in my arms before I heard that loud snap. I tossed the broken lock aside and then I snuck into the shop.

  I was wearing gloves so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints, and I was wearing a black balaclava in case there were any cameras. Once I was inside, I moved quickly, assuming a silent alarm was going off (though I don’t think the store had any alarms or cameras). I started stuffing bags with everything I thought would fit. I grabbed dresses, shirts, skirts, panties, nylons, stockings, socks, and even a few handfuls of costume jewellery. Then I snagged a couple of wigs off of the storefront mannequins. I grabbed a handful of cash out of my pocket and left it on the counter before running away as fast as I could. I was two blocks away before I stopped to catch my breath.

  But I wasn’t done. I was going to need more than clothes if I was going to pass as a woman. I wandered down the alleyways until I was behind a cosmetics store. The lights inside were on and the door was locked with a proper bolt lock, but I needed the makeup inside. So I used my bolt cutters to cut the thin bars covering the back window, and then I used the bolt cutters to smash the glass. I saw a red light blinking across the room, and I knew for certain it was a silent alarm, so I filled my bag quickly. I had no idea what I was even grabbing—just one item from each shelf. I heard sirens as I was squirming back out that rear window. I could see flashing red and blue as I reached the end of the alleyway. I sprinted as quickly as my skinny legs would let me. I was running in the wrong direction, but at least I was getting away.

  I heard more cop cars buzzing down the streets. I wondered if they were all going to that makeup store.

  I felt bad. I meant to leave a handful of cash on the counter, to pay for what I stole and the window I broke, but I was rushed out too quickly. I would have to find another way to pay them back, some other time.

  I looked in my heavy black bag. I felt like a boy on Halloween night—a very, very nervous boy on Halloween night. As I stood back up to make my long journey back home, that bag suddenly felt heavier, thanks to my sudden lack of adrenaline. By the time I reached my apartment, my shoulders were sore from hauling the heavy load of stolen goods.

  I closed all my blinds and kept all of my lights off. I didn’t want the patrolling soldiers to look up and see that my apartment was glowing at such a strange hour of the night. They were probably keeping an eye on my apartment, knowing that it belonged to a draft dodger.

  I had to wait for the morning sunlight before I could check to see what I got. I had no idea if any of it would fit or even look half decent on my body. I had no idea if I even got all of the pieces necessary to make an outfit.

  I dumped everyone out onto the floor, and then I separated it into piles: makeup in one pile, underwear in another pile, dresses and skirts in another, tops in another, and wigs in a final pile. First, I held up a black pencil skirt. It looked like a nice, conservative skirt, until I slipped it onto my otherwise naked body. It was high waisted, covering my belly button no matter how hard I tugged down on it. It only extended down to my mid-thighs, but at least it fit.

  I looked through my tops to find something nice to complete the outfit. I tried on a white blouse, but it was baggy in the chest where my tits were supposed to be. Thankfully, I had apparently snagged a bra from that Femme store, so I tried that on underneath, stuffing
it with tissue paper to create the illusion of a bust. The tight strap around back and the straps over my shoulders felt a bit scratchy, but I knew I would get used to them. The white blouse was much more flattering with a bust.

  Then it came time to pick a wig. I had a blonde option, a brunette option, and a jet-black option. I tried the black option first, but it didn’t look quite right with my pale skin. The brunette wig felt bulky and wiry on my head, so I settled with the blonde wig, even though I knew I might get more attention as a blonde than I would as a brunette. I didn’t want the attention, but I also didn’t want people looking at me and thinking I was wearing a wig.

  It was a ling wig, reaching all the way down to my bust. The hair was soft as I ran my fingers through it. I went to the bathroom to see how ridiculous I looked, and I was pleasantly surprised when I saw my reflection. I didn’t look bad, though my face still needed some work: a close shave for starters. I put a new blade on my razor and I spent the next twenty minutes getting the closest shave I could. But even with a shave, there was still darkness where my beard should have been. Luckily, one of the products I stole from that makeup store was concealer, which matched my skin tone fairly accurately (I also stole a few concealers that absolutely did not match my skin tone, and were as good as garbage unless I planned on tanning for the next three months straight).

  I spent the rest of that morning watching Internet tutorials, watching beautiful women applying makeup to their own faces. They all made it look so easy. It was not nearly as easy as the online makeup gurus made it look. I tried to do a basic look and it took me five tries before I got it right. My arms were sore from holding them up to my face.

  But I didn’t look bad, especially with my long blonde hair cascading down my shoulders, stealing the attention away from my shoddy makeup job. I knew I would get better—especially if the war went on for years.