Oh Man!

I reach down and scratch my balls. An entirely normal morning except I don't have balls. Or at least I didn't until now.

The grogginess spikes to alarm and I move my hand up to find, well what else? A penis. A penis!?

It's nothing to get all stirred up about and even I'm disappointed at the size of it even with the morning giving it an advantage. Still, by now, I'm reaching everywhere. For the boobs that are smashed into pecs and the hair that seems buzzed to a shave. I rub my hands over the softness of the hair to try to get my bearings.

Last night, I went to bed a woman. A plump, little vixen with double D's and a little muffin top. Today, man parts flop like dead appendages in places where a bra can't support.

Sitting up, I can see my room is the same. The floral bedspread still warms my new body that lies atop a pink sheet. My bra glares at me from besides the bed in a crumpled heap. Bedazzled picture frames sparkle feminity from my nightstand.

Yet, there's no feminity on me besides my nightgown.

There are so many questions that are plaguing me as my alarm sounds off to signal it's Monday morning as usual and I've got to get ready for work. How can I go to work like this? What will I do? What will I wear? Why am I so damn horny?

The lacy green nightgown I'm wearing pitches a tent and I'm surprised I'm still thinking of men. One man in particular: Bryce. And now I'm wondering if this means I'm gay. I know for sure Bryce isn't. My family sure isn't a fan of gays either.

But none of this matters because who is going to believe that I woke up a man?

I stand up and find that having a penis is like a tail in front. I push it down to try and make it less noticible and it flips back up. I twist from side to side to see the effect of it still atached to my body. I bounce up and down and become irritated at the jostling of skin between my thighs. These balls are just useless!

I've got to see all this and I step into the bathroom in what feels like three steps because I'm suddenly much taller than normal. My thighs are like tryannasaurus legs and I stomp into the bathroom in front of my mirror still plastered with positive notes like: you are beautiful and strong, sassy, independent.

I am not a sight to behold but I am a sight. Still with some chunk but more muscle than before, I resemble a Jonas brother who has not been working out for two years. I'm softer than where they would be firm but I'd have to say that I'd sleep with me. The thought arouses me even more and my new friend replies by standing up taller.

"Oh, dear lord," I mutter, trying to push it down again. It seems that touching it is not the thing to do as it only encourages it. I'm not quite sure if I'm ready to use my lady skills on my new appendage, so I try to ignore it and move in closer to see the stubble on my face.

The sink is abruptly stabbed with my new member and I jump back in surprise. This thing keeps getting in the way! No wonder men can't think with this damn thing sticking out. I almost feel sorry for them.

Work crosses my mind and I try to distract myself more. The concern softens it like butter and now the urge to urinate strikes up out of my curiousity.

How hard can it be to aim?

Apparently, extremely.

I brace myself, legs wide apart, for a firehose stream to emanate from me with such force that I prepare to lean in. What comes out is a drizzle with too small of an arc to reach the bown and I feel the sprinkle on my feet as it pitters of the edge of the bowl and down the side.

"Dammit," I yell in a voice much deeper than usual. I add force and the parabola stretches further out until my stream is hitting directly in the center. Then the flow wanes and I'm striking the edge of the seat.

Irritated, I grab some toilet paper to wipe the edge and the smell reminds me of a bar restroom. At least I cleaned up after myself.