This story might be a little odd and slow to start, but I hope you like it! I would love to get feedback from women regarding the accuracy of my descriptions of life from their point of view.
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The first time it happened I was sitting at my desk, lost in thought. The beige and grey of the cubicle walls faded and were replaced by a vision of a clear blue sky. In front of me was a dusty street flanked by rows and rows of colorful tents of various shapes and sizes. A deep thumping noise echoed in my head.
The vision was fading when I noticed that this was not an image I was seeing, but a sight. There was the slight wobble that comes when walking. I was seeing this image through someone's eyes.
The vision faded and I was back in my cubicle. Did I just fall asleep? Was that a dream? It felt so real, so present. I looked around me, anxious that I had made some noise, or said something in this half-conscious state. But the office was still, with only the printer in the corner buzzing away for some unknown reason. The hum of the fluorescent fixtures seemed incredibly loud.
The commute home was uncomfortable. I sat behind the wheel, staring at the car inching along ahead of me, unable to shake the feeling that I did not have a dream, but a vision. Something real. But of what? That image made no sense.
At home, finally alone, I sat on the couch and just closed my eyes, trying to recapture the image in my mind. But it remained a memory, without the intense sense of presence that the original vision had.
I ate my dinner while watching TV, but the routine of my evening had been shattered. The idiot box was blaring some silly show, and the microwave dinner was just a plate of tasteless mush. Nothing in my life was as bright as that sky. That was the slap in the face. Having seen the intense blue, the colorful tents, I suddenly became aware of the grey-beige tones that dominated my world, my wardrobe, my apartment, my office, my life.
I laid in bed, awake, staring at the dull beige ceiling. I turned the light off, turning it black. The darkness invited light, and suddenly I had another vision.
A woman, blonde, smiling, dressed in some extravagant manner; a gold-colored bra, thin gold chains draped across her chest, a cotton scarf around her neck, feathers in her her hair. She was beautiful and covered in a thin layer of dust. She didn't seem to care, her smile was broad and her eyes bright with laughter. Behind her was a sea of tents, some large, some small, all colorful and decorated. I saw cars, too, and trucks, familiar shapes. A sound was booming around us, just like before.
I noticed that this sight was from an elevated position. I looked around and noticed that we were on top of an open-topped bus that was slowly making it's way through the tents. I then noticed that I was indeed looking around. I had eyes. I was not a disembodied witness. I looked down.
I was a woman. I saw bare breasts and below them a smooth belly. My arms were thin and graceful, holding on to the railing. I had some sort of leather harness on that criss-crossed my chest and back, but left my breasts bare and exposed. My breasts. They seemed...of medium size? I had never seen breasts from this angle. But I could feel them, the slight tug forward on my shoulders to hold them up. The warm breeze on my nipples, so sensitive, so much more sensitive than my own masculine ones.
The vision suddenly burst. The feeling of being in that woman's body had been intense, overwhelming. That had not been a dream, just as I was fully awake now, in the darkened bedroom. I tried to reconnect to that vision but once again it escaped me. I laid awake for a while, staring into the darkness. Finally sleep took me.
The following evening, after another boring day at work, I poured myself a glass of whiskey. I was determined to somehow trigger these visions I was having. I figured that I saw what I had seen when my guard was down, when I was half-asleep or half-comatose with boredom. When my mind was blank, my consciousness lessened.
So I drank the whiskey and sat on the couch. Nothing. I drank another shot of whiskey and closed my eyes.
The camp site was tiny, just three tents squeezed between two cars and a shade structure. On the other side of this private circle were other tents, tents as far as the eye could see. The sky above was clear and blue. I was carrying a small plastic tub in one hand and a towel in the other.
Behind one of the car a small structure had been erected from tall poles and old sheets. An outdoor shower. I knew all this. I was not in control, just a passenger in this body as it went about its day, and yet I also had access to some memories, some knowledge of the situation. I was at Burning Man. I was about to take my morning bath.
Surrounded on all sides by the hanging sheets of the outdoor shower, I peeled of my shorts. I could feel a doubled set of emotions. This body, this woman, was calm and serene, maybe a little hung over. The other me, the one sitting on the couch, had a lump in his throat, catching glimpses of a small patch of curly hair at the base of her (my?) belly. Standing naked, I splashed water over me, using very little water, using instead a wash rag to wipe the thin layer of dust that covered my skin.
There was a momentary thrill went that rag brushed against the soft skin of my breast, grazing a nipple hardened by the cool water. The water ran down my chest, pooling briefly in my belly button before slipping down to be lost in the small patch of pubic hair. There was a quick brush with the rag between the legs, a disturbing sense of absence where my cock should have been.
I wanted to touch more, to explore this body, but I was not in control. All I could do was witness this process. Legs and feet were wiped and cleaned, the tub of now brown and soapy water dumped on a plastic tarp to be evaporated. I wrapped the towel around my waist and stepped out.
There was a strange disconnect with the world around me. A small kitchen area had been set up under the shade structure, just a folding table and a few coolers, some boxes of dry food tucked under. A few folding chairs were huddled in the shade. As I glanced over the kitchen, I could feel the weight of all these objects. Indeed, the world around me felt heavier, harder to move. The boxes that I knew, as a man, I could lift easily were now obstacles to be wrestled with.
Standing in the sun dressed only in a towel, I felt fragile in a heavy world, delicate in a space full of sharp corners. I knew that the leather straps I had worn during the first vision was a form of armor, a way to claim a power that I did not always have.
I blinked on my couch. That sense of fragility hit too close. I was a man, I could lift heavy boxes, but I was just as powerless in moving my own life forward. In a way it was worse, because I was supposed to be powerful, strong, tough. Instead I was beige, powerless, and at the mercy of my boss. I drank the rest of the whiskey but had no more visions that night.
Laying in bed that night, laying awake in the dark, I wondered about these visions. They were not just a glimpse into a different place, they were a glimpse into a different self. There was no way of explaining it, but that body had been mine, those emotions, memories and thoughts had been familiar and intimate. That was me, as a woman, in a different life, in a different place.
A self from a parallel dimension? Was this connection made because she was me, because we were actually the same? I ached to reconnect with her, me, that me that felt good, happy, fragile but serene, hung over because last night had been fun instead of miserable. I needed to reconnect.
The next day at work was a blur. All I could think of was that other me in the other place. I researched Burning Man, that wild art and music festival in the Nevada desert. I looked at pictures and it felt strangely familiar. I also felt happier, as if some of her emotions had stayed with me, or, maybe, I was feeling what she was feeling even wide awake. The grey world around me felt less real, too dull to be true.
I poured myself another glass of whiskey. I had lit a single lamp, keeping the apartment in an artificial dusk. Instead of the couch, I laid down on the carpeted floor of the living room. Naked, I closed my eyes and reached out, guided by my feelings of hope.
The sun was setting and I was getting dressed in my evening wear. A soft shawl was thrown over my shoulders, the fabric delicious against the bare skin of my back. I was sorting through a pile of brightly colored tights, trying to pick one, standing in front of the open trunk of my car where I kept bags of clothing. My breasts were a sensual presence in front of me, swaying pleasantly as I moved, making me feel soft and feminine.
On my back in my dark living room, I pushed, trying to force my way into this body, to control it. Instead, the world went sideways. Images flashed in front of my eyes as time flew forward. The sun travelled and set in the blink of an eye. I was clothed, eating, drinking, ready to go. My friend, the blonde woman from before, had placed a tab on my tongue. In a freeze-frame of attention I felt the tab dissolve on my tongue. The world slipped again. My other self had let go, the drugs had dampened her consciousness.
I was in.
This time when I looked around, I could feel my head turn to face the direction I wanted to look in. I raised my hand in front of my face. My hands. My friend, Lizbeth I remembered, was turned away from me, looking for something in her bag. I walked over to the full length mirror that had been propped up against a pole of the shade structure. There, in it, my reflection, myself.
I was a slim woman, not skinny but feminine, with curvy hips and full breasts. I had short brown hair cut in a pixie bob, framing a strong face, pretty if a bit tomboy-ish. I was wearing a bowler hat with some weird steampunk goggles strapped to it. A black bandana was wrapped around my neck. Across my chest, the same black leather straps that framed my naked breasts. Breasts that were full, round, tipped with thick brown nipples.
