Transplanted Life
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Really, this doesn't suck
In some ways, this whole thing about Kurt seeing Denise on the weekends is good for me. It's a sick, warped thing to say, but I actually feel better about lying to Kurt about who I am, how I know him, and why we started dating in the first place now knowing that he's keeping something from me, too. That's cynical, I know, but it makes us somewhat even.

To a certain extent, the disconnect between our weekdays and weekends is a good reminder that this isn't my real lift, so to speak. It would be awfully easy on some days to just forget I ever was Martin Hartle. Answering to someone else's name, working her job, wearing her clothes, and sleeping in her bed 24/7 does a number on you. I spend so much time being Michelle Garber that it just becomes second nature. I'm even Michelle in my dreams almost every night now. So much of this has become part of my daily routine, that in a way Kurt's double life is a regular reminder of my own.

I guess it also makes our relationship less than heartfelt, but is that such a bad thing? Eventually, if what Michelle said is true, my time in this body will end. I presume, once I'm back in my own body, I'll get used to wanting to screw women again just as quickly as I acclimated to this body's heterosexuality. Then, even if I've told Kurt everything, where does that leave us? Tormented? With a question mark over every relationship we have with anyone in the future? I hate that idea.

Of course, if I accept all that, it means that when Kurt and I do see each other during the week, and go at it like rabbits, then it's happening basically because I like his penis in my vagina. And, put bluntly like that, the concept still strikes me as repugnant. With no hormones or biological imperatives pushing at me, I just look at that sentence and say, yuck, what kind of homo are you? I say that even though I'm typing this in my underwear and Michelle's breasts are right there as I look down at the keyboard, big as life, making it really difficult to think of myself as male. I sit in front of the computer, stone-cold sober and forty-eight hours past the last time I had someone touching me, and I'm still capable of making excuses or trying to rationalize that it wasn't my idea, that I'm just following the script as best I can, improvising because no-one's handed me the last page yet.

But I hate the idea that my life's not my own, even if it is true in a very literal sense. Would I make excuses for playing basketball if Michelle were a seven-foot-tall twenty-two-year-old guy, even though I've never been a big fan of the game? Of course not, so why should I make excuses for using Michelle's innate characteristics now?

::sigh:: Not getting any sleep tonight.

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Note: This blog is a work of fantasy; all characters are either ficticious or used ficticiously. The author may be contacted at