The Legend of...

Did I tell you? I'm Lacy Fate, and I hate this. I mean I told Shandi, but it won't get me outta here. You know the story. Poor boy marries vulgarly rich girl. She grows possessive, then jealous and has him committed. Handy thing; her name's Pansy... as in Pansy Inc. As in: Pansy Pharmaceuticals, Pansy Financial, Pansy Communications, Pansy Cosmetics and Pansy Prosthetics. Or as in the non-profit charitable Pansy Foundation, which endows things like: Pansy Academy, Pansy Playhouse, Femgnostis, Pansy Park, and Pansy Clinic... not to forget... the world's most discrete gender sanatorium for the nervously neurotic rich... Pansy Pond!

Pansy Pond, the ultra secluded gilded cage, where wealthy commit-ters confine pesky commit-tees. Oh sure, there are actual wackos around this place, along with the few of us who figure we'll be wacky before long. Sooner or later, all of the, um... 'guests', at Pansy Pond wind up a few feathers short of a duck.

Did I tell you? I'm Lacy Fate. And soon I may take on the shape of any man's fantasy. I didn't use to be Lacy Fate. I used to be Tim Mitty. I was a trust banker who handled the details of the Pansy estate - when Shandi Pansy inherited it all. You know I really was in love with her. Really. Yea, I know that she glimmered in the glow of her gold, but jeez... She's a 34c-26-25 bundle of blonde, brown-eyed sex, with a Seven Sisters diploma and a Ph.D. in clinical psych from Rumptin. Yea, THE Oxford Rumptin. Hey, she's bright, articulate, drool-dripping gorgeous, weirdly kinky, twenty-eight, witty and stacked better than Pringles. Plus - worth about a quarter of a billion bucks! And she chairs the board at Pansy Inc. Now tell me you couldn't fall in love with that? Hah!

Seventeen months into our marriage Shandi starts to closely review one of the nuttier things that Pansy Foundation endows... an outfit called Femgnostis. Then - BOOM! Shandi concluded I was cheating. CHEATING! Look at my picture... um, my before picture. That's not the look of a playboy. Babe-herding is not a big talent for short wiry guys with weasel features. Never was really certain what made Shandi fall for me. Anyway, I painstakingly explained my case. Nothing... A zealot's mind suspends rational inspection. Look, logic was useless, it was like playing charades with Stevie Wonder.

So then I may have blurted as how her presence in the room was depriving some village of an idiot and... Well, we had this screeching fight. She cops an attitude, makes us drinks... I pass out. And three weeks later I awake. Here. Completely committed. Somewhat re-constructed. Solidly institutionalized and enrolled into the Pansy Pond Gender Sanatorium. I am to become a wiggling example of a clothes encounter of the weird kind - left holding the wrong side of the tampon. Never dis someone who can't clean and jerk her bank balance.

I am now in the sexual reassignment plan for husbands/ brothers/ fathers/ sons/ enemies of the very rich who are alleged to feel 'trapped' inside of their male bodies. Of course, most of the guys here are so hetero they make Jean-Claude VanDamme seem like an interior designer. Not important, in fact, the more difficult the process of slipping a femmy soul over some guy's struggling objections... the longer that man is here, and out of someone's hair - some very rich head of hair. 'Denial' is the essential proof these people use to determine how much therapy a 'patient' really gets. Basic rule, 'If you object - you are asking for it.'

Anyway, we had that screeching fight. And now Dr. Shandi Pansy sees me every day. She's my lead therapist. The head chef. And I am living a Truman Show. Uh-huh. She told me all about S2P-T, Pansy Pond's exclusive surgical/hormonal, social and pshychological therapies for sexual reconditioning. "You.. you want to make me into a girl?" I was terrified.

"No.. No... This is not gender reassignment," she smirked as I teetered helplessly before her. "We will not make you 'into' a girl... but 'as' a girl. You, screwed me, I will screw your brains out... or I'll arrange to have it done. By now, "she high heeled it around me, her nails tickling the many buckles on my full-body straight-jacketing. "By now you have lived what? Thirty two years of genetic, hormonal and social conditioning into the code of male heterosexuality, right? You wear your gender identity like a pelt of bared nerves. Every woman learns that. We manipulate them constantly Sweetie," the tip of her pink tongue darted across her lips.

"The difference here is. Well, I shall," she brushed a long blond curl from her chestnut eye and reached for a cigarette on her desk. "I shall torment those nerves. Oh yes," she lit a long thin cylinder dragging deeply. "You will find everything we do um... unpleasant... only if we force you to remain a man beneath your..." her face was against mine, "packaging. You shall crave your M/X rush!" Shandi's nails brushed against my male apparatus -I thrashed my long new curls to scatter sour-stinging smoke as I yanked against my jacket's belts.

So, whoever you are who is reading, listening to, or watching this story, at that moment two weeks ago, I decided to invent you. See, I know that my every movement is meticulously bugged. There are mics and hidden cameras everywhere I go here in PansyPond. This isn't neurotic talk… not here.

That's why I'm talking out loud. Restrained, as I frequently am, speaking is the one thing I can do. I'm hoping that this is getting transcribed somewhere, and read by you... whoever you are who eventually sees this transcript. This spoken chronicle is my connection with the rational world. You are my imaginary friend - my link. Hah… I have this fantasy that some noble clerk, nurse or orderly will uncover this transcript and somehow combine it with the pictures I sense they are taking... and... and blow the whistle. Get this out. Let the whole world know what's going on here... Here .. To me... To Tim Mitty as he endures this Lacy Fate at Pansy Pond. It is the only way I keep from joining the wackos. It the only thing I can think to do, to keep them from forever wrenching key buttons from my psychic control panel.

Did I tell you? I'm Lacy Fate. A wriggling, jiggling, giggling, green-eyed brunette with an adventure ahead. Dr. Pansy tells me that I'm on a trip to a place where I will no longer dream of cheating on a wife. See, now I have completed the first part of S2P-T. They have finished much of their surgery. Oh, Dr. Shandi Pansy tells me that I have only 'Beginner Boobs', but the rest of me is much as it will be for the following stages of my trip toward her target.

She says that I'll float there inside a vehicle that is now maid-to-order for me. And today right after my toilette, she smirked and personally tugged me into the skimpy lame' uniform of the Pansy Pond inmate. She told me that eventually... not now... not for quite a while... but eventually I will be made to want all of this. The woman has a bite like Marv Albert. "Oh sure it will be humiliating beyond imagination," she giggled. "Then totally debasing to have Pansy Pond turn you into a simpering airheaded girl-toy with a man's uh, equipment. But that is the punishment for cheating on your dear wife." Eventually though she says I will come to accept my therapy... "Or else..." And it all begins with me telling everyone who will listen... That... Well?

Did I tell you? I'm Lacy Fate. And I hate this. But... let's go back to the beginning...

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