The Werewoman Chronicles 1: Life's A Bitch
by: Deane Christopher
edited by: Steve Zink

 

Transcription of WW TAPE 1, SIDE A (Recorded 10/30/2000):

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You want to know something, Doc? Life’s a bitch.

Wait a second. I’m sorry. I do believe that I went and misspoke myself just now. So, tell you what. Let me rescind that last remark of mine.

You see, Doc, it’s not that life’s a bitch, it’s that I’m a bitch, on a purely periodic, part-time bases.

In other words, Doc, I’m a werewoman.

And, that’s werewoman. Not werewolf.

To the best of my knowledge, there’s no such thing as werewolves. And, believe me, I’ve done quite a bit of research to back that theory of mine up.

Unfortunately, there are werewomen and, though I can’t prove this, I have a sneaky suspicion that werewomen bear the chief responsibility for propagating the numerous legends surrounding the werewolf business to begin with.

But, that’s another story altogether, dealing with something that I have come to call the Hirsute Anomaly. And, if we have the time later this evening, I might get into it. But, for right now, I think it would behoove me to cover the basics with you first.

Okay. Once again, for the record, Doc, I’m a werewoman.

That’s to say that I’m a man who becomes a woman on a periodic, and at times, sporadic part-time basis.

Oh! And, I really should point out the fact that I use the term ‘woman’ loosely. Technically speaking, I guess you could say that what I really am is a werefemale.

You see, Doc, when I change into an anatomically correct member of the opposite sex, I become something less than human. That’s to say that as a female, I operate more on the level of a very cunning and intelligent animal than anything that even comes close to being human.

In other words, Doc, when female, I function on a sub-human level that’s pretty much mandated by some real heavy weight compulsions.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, Doc. Besides thinking that I’m off my rocker about this werewoman business and that I’m in desperate need of some psychiatric help, you’re thinking that I’m behaving myself very much as any normal, level-headed woman might.

And, guess what, Doc? You’re right. Right now, I am.

And, do you know why I am?

It’s because I’m pregnant.

You see, Doc, when a werewoman becomes pregnant, she gets a temporary reprieve from all those ignominious compulsions that normally hold sway over our lives.

However, after I have this baby of mine and stop nursing, I’ll be right back on the old identity sexual roller coaster; changing my sexual affiliation on a regular, ongoing basis and dealing with all those nasty compulsions that turn my life into a living hell.

Truth is, as crazy as this might sound, now that I’ve had a chance to find out how the other half lives, I’d have to say that I really wouldn’t mind being a girl on a purely elective, periodic part-time basis if it weren’t for all those damnable and debasing compulsions that I’m saddled with when female.

I mean, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m pregnant, I wouldn’t be able to tell you or, for that matter, anyone else about me and my being a werewoman.

You see, Doc, under normal circumstances, there’s this what I have come to think of as an instinctual and pretty much all encompassing gag order imposed on us werewomen. And, that gag order makes it damn near impossible for me and my fellow werewomen to say almost anything to anybody about our miserable lot in life.

I mean, we werewomen are so damn paranoid about somebody finding out about us that the only time one werewoman can discuss anything revolving around the subject of our sexual lycanthrophy with another werewoman is when we’re both in our female, or, what I’ve have come to term Advancement Phase. During a male or Regressive Phase, even when I know I’m talking directly to a fellow werewoman, I find that I’m so damn paranoid that I can’t find the wherewithal within myself to even broach the subject.

Would you believe that when I’m male, I’m so paranoid over the fact that I’m a werewoman that, to this very day, I can’t even talk to my wife about it? And, by the same token, during an Advancement, when I’m femmed out to the max, even though I know that she is well aware of the fact that I am what I am, I still find that I have a hell of a hard time dealing with conversations that even allude to the fact that I’m a sexual lycanthropod.

I mean to tell you, it took me well over six months just to cover the basics with my wife.

And, let tell you something, Doc. She was as patient as all get out.

That’s to say that she didn’t put any pressure on me whatsoever. Had she... had she started asking a lot of probing questions, it’s a pretty safe bet that I would have clammed right up and stubbornly refused to tell her anything else for the duration of that particular Advancement. Eventually, I would have gotten up the gumption to try to once again explain what was going on with me and my ongoing sexual reassignments. But I can assure you, given the inordinate amount of paranoia I normally have to deal with, I think I can safely say that it would have had to wait for another Advancement or two before I screwed up enough courage to give it another shot.

Oh! Let me just interject something here. If you want to verify anything I’ve been telling you, please, feel free to talk to her.

Right now, she’s out doing the weekly grocery shopping. But, she should be back in about an hour or so to pick me up. So, when she gets here, you have my permission to ask her anything you wish. All right?

Hey, Doc! Don’t look so surprised. Look! I know you’re not going to believe this, but my wife is actually one of your patients.

The truth of the matter is, she’s the one that set up this after hours appointment for me when she came in to see you last week. You know, so that you and I could have this little chit-chat this evening.

Fact is, Doc, though you are unaware of this, you and I know each other. Truth be told, over the last six months or so, I’ve been in this very office of yours on several occasions.

Now, as you can well imagine, the reason you don’t recognize me is, I was in a Regressive Phase at the time. In other words, Doc, I was a man. You see, though my present appearance tends to belie the fact, I’m Stacey Jordan’s husband, Mark.

Ironic, isn’t it? Just think. A month from now, I’m going to become the proud father of a bouncing baby boy. And, roughly seven and a half months after that blessed event, lucky me gets the dubious honor of becoming a mother as well.

Okay, Doc. Look. I told you before that what I’d like to do tonight is give you a broad brush overview of what this werewoman business is all about. Then, if you’re up to taking me on as one of your patients and I can prevail upon you to document this rather tawdry tale of mine, I’d be happy to get into specifics and go into greater detail every time I come in for a checkup.

Oh! Before I forget, let me just say that I have a whole bunch of evidence to back up these admittedly farfetched assertions of mine. For instance, Doc, I’ve got several video tapes of me changing from a man into a woman and a few others that show me going the other way around. I also can give you an affidavit which is signed by a noted fingerprint expert who Stacey, without my knowledge or consent, commissioned to compared my male fingerprints against my female fingerprints. Basically, once you interpret all the technical gobbledygook, the affidavit states that the two sets of fingerprints would be an exact match were it not for the fact that one set was unquestionable made by a man’s hands, while the other set was definitely made by the considerable smaller hands of a female.

In other words, Doc, what it comes down to is this - my fingerprints pretty much stumped the experts. And, by the same token, the same could be said for the genetic work-up that Stacey had run on both my blood and tissue samples.

But, don’t worry, Doc. Since I’m not dealing with all that damnable and debilitating paranoia right now, as long as I can do so anonymously, I’ll be happy to let you run pretty much any sort of test you want to run on me. You know, if that’s what it’ll take to convince you that I am what I say I am.

Hey, Doc. Look. I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but can we take a short break here? You see, I’ve really got to hit the head.

Sorry! It appears that my maleness is showing. I guess I should have said that I really need to go to the ladies room instead of saying that I need to go to the head.

So, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be back in a jiff.

Oh! I guess I ought to stop the tape before I go.

 

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Sorry about that, Doc. As a woman, I seem to have a been saddled with a bad case of Small Bladder Disease. That’s to say that even though I’ve been ridding the sexual seesaw since the summer of Seventy-Six, I’m nowhere near as adept at controlling the female hold-it-in muscles as your normal, run of the mill women are.

I mean, you’d think after all this time, I would be. But, the truth of the matter is, I’m not. And, let me tell you. Sometimes holding it in, it can be a real pain in the ass.

Okay! So, considering what I just told you, Doc, you can pretty much summarize that I haven’t been a werewoman all my life. However, I guess you could say that I was born predisposed to becoming one.

You see, Doc, though the scientific community has yet to take note of this little fact, Y-chromosomes have as part of their composition something that I have come to refer to as the Hermaphroditic Membrane. Like the appendix, in most instances, this almost undetectable Hermaphroditic Membrane and its corresponding activation nodule exist in an atrophied state.

In other words, Doc, it just sits there - fat, dumb and happy! - doing absolute nothing.

However, in an extremely small percentage of the male population worldwide, this so called Hermaphroditic Membrane exists in, shall we say, a semi-mutated state that, to varying degrees, predisposes the individual to the ignominious possibility of becoming a real live, walking, talking, nymphed-out, perpetually horny and extremely narcissistic werewoman.

In other words, Doc, there are only a few men out there who are born genetically predisposed to becoming a sexual lycanthropod. Trouble is, I was one of them.

Okay! So, that leads us to the obvious question - just how does a predisposed individual become a full-fledged werewoman?

Basically, the poor sap catches a virus that serves as a catalyst which targets the Hermaphroditic Membranes of his Y-chromosomes and causes them to further mutate over an incubation period of about three months.

And, just how does a predisposed individual contract this rather unique viral strain, you might well ask?

Well, Doc, since you’re being such a nice guy about all of this, I’m going to tell you.

You get this virus, a virus that I have rather sarcastically come to refer to as the Lycanthropedic Virus, by having sex with a werewoman when that werewoman is in his - or, should that be her? - Advancement Phase.

Sorry about that, Doc! You see, I tend to get a little tongue-tied whenever I’m discussing this werewoman business. Truth is, I’m never really sure exactly which pronoun I should use when referring to a fellow werewoman in his Advancement Phase.

Okay. So, all things considered, I’d guess you’d have to say that the Lycanthropedic Virus has to be classified as a venereal disease. No doubt the rarest form of venereal disease, but a venereal disease nonetheless.

Ironic, isn’t it. The only time I have ever cheated on a woman with whom I was engaged in an exclusive, one-on-one relationship, and I end up having a one night stand with a (expletive deleted) werewoman.

But, I’ve got to tell you, Doc. It wasn’t really my fault. Truth to tell, I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.

Now, I warn you, this gets a little complicated, but I’ll try to explain it as best I can.

Basically, a heterosexual man who becomes a werewoman ends up as a very narcissistic, homosexual woman during their normal Advancement Phases.

Or, to put that another way, from everything I’ve been able to glean about this, it pretty much goes without saying that a heterosexual guy who, through no fault of his own, ends up doing stints as an anatomically correct member of the opposite sex, would never so much as entertain the despicable thought of having sex with another guy, much less allow themselves to be a willing participant in such a repugnant act.

In other words, Doc, it’s pretty much goes without saying that the largest percentage of us werewomen are avowed lesbians during our regular, run of the mill Advancements.

However, thanks to Mr. Darwin and that pesky Survival of the Species Theory of his, twice a year, we werewoman are subjected to the insidious compulsions of an animalistic like estrus cycle. That’s to say that, twice a year, we werewoman are saddled with a bad case of the despicable man-happy-fuckimes. And, there’s not a damn thing that I, or any other werewoman can do about it.

And, when we werewoman do go into heat and come down with a demeaning and thoroughly detestable case of the man-happy-fuckimes, in order to facilitate what has become our damn near insatiable need for our semiannual infusion of spermmie-wornmies, we begin to secrete a unique brand of endorphins, endorphins that specifically target a predisposed individual.

Now, though I haven’t as yet been able to actually prove this supposition of mine, it appears that the more mutated the Hermaphroditic Membranes of the predisposed individual are, the more affected they appear to be by the endorphins secreted by a werewoman invested with a bad case of the man-happy-fuckimes.

Basically, I guess you could say that these endorphins of which I speak create a damn near irresistible rutting urge in a predisposed male.

Speaking from personal experience, I can assure you that the sexual attraction that these endorphins engender in a predisposed male is so compelling that there’s no way you can muster the moral fortitude to resist it. That’s to say that if you were one of the poor unfortunate souls who was born genetically predisposed to contracting the Lycanthropedic Virus and I was in the midst of a bad case of the man-happy-fuckimes right now, you’d be all over me. And, as crass as this is going to sound, were that the situation, I’d be so eager to have you up inside me - pumping away to beat the band! - that I’d be doing everything in my power to entice you.

Let tell you, Doc. When I get hit with a bad case of the man-happy-fuckimes, it’s Katie-bar-the-door-time. I mean, I become one nymphed-out, horny-assed seductress if ever there was one. And, it only gets worse when I’m in the presence of a predisposed male.

Rest assured, Doc. If it wasn’t for the man-happy-fuckimes, I wouldn’t be pregnant right now. And, if I wasn’t pregnant, it pretty much goes without saying that I would be sitting here in your office, telling you everything I’ve been telling you.

Oh! Though I don’t intend to get into a blow by blow description of how I ended up contracting the Lycanthropedic Virus that turned me into a fully functional werewoman this evening, would you believe that it was all due to the happenstance of a one night stand with my second cousin?

I mean to tell you, Doc. For my money, Mr. Murphy and that damnable law of his is for the birds. I mean, I’m a prime example that if anything can go wrong, it sure as hell did.

You see, Doc, as fate would have it, my second cousin was born as genetically predisposed to becoming a werewoman as I was.

Okay. So he joins the Marines and eventually ends up assigned to an embassy over in Europe.

Well, though we’re quickly catching up here in America, it seems that Europe has a slightly larger population of werewomen per capita than we do.

So, anyway, my cousin ends up hopelessly besotted with this absolutely gorgeous young woman one night in a Brussels night spot, beds her and, three months after that, starts in doing stints as a part time woman himself. Six months after that, he’s got an honorable discharge and, upon returning home, informs me that he’s got a job with the State Department as some sort of low-echelon diplomatic courier.

But, to be perfectly honestly with you, Doc, while I’m sure my cousin was telling the truth when he told me he works for the government, I don’t buy the State Department malarkey for a minute. You see, though he has never come right out and told me, I have a sneaky suspicion that he’s an employee of that covert agency that, like the Pentagon, is located across the Potomac from Washington.

But, that’s neither here nor there, now is it? You know, as it really isn’t pertinent to this werewoman business, save to say that I truly believe that there are people in the government that know all about this werewomen business and, in instances like my cousin, have even gone so far as to employ a few of us for covert assignments overseas.

I mean, though he never came out and asked me, once my cousin found out that I had become a werewoman also, he alluded to the fact in a very roundabout way that if I ever needed a job, he might be able to help me out.

Can you imagine, me - a spy?

I know I sure can’t.

But, I must say that while I have no intentions of ever taking him up on the offer, it’s kind of nice to know that I have something to fall back on should the need arise.

Look, Doc, before I go and get myself sidetracked, let me get back to giving you a quick run-down on how I contracted the Lycanthropedic Virus and ended up doing stints as a part time woman.

Basically, I guess you could say that I’m a werewoman now due to a real comedy of errors. You see, Doc, after work one day in the early spring of Nineteen Seventy-Six, I was supposed to meet up with my cousin at the health club that we both belonged to at the time and there, play a couples games of handball with him. But, he was a no-show. So, since my fiancee at the time was taking a class over at the community college on that fateful evening, I decided that I might as well just stop by the local watering-hole; grab a sandwich and a brewski and hopefully link up with some of my old neighborhood cronies.

So, I’m playing a game of shuffleboard with a couple of friends of mine a little later that evening when in walks this drop-dead gorgeous redhead. Well, she does a quick scan of the place and, to my surprise, starts heading in my direction. And the next thing I know, the two of us are at the bar and I’m buying her a beer.

Now, I’m not really sure exactly who made the suggestion, but the next thing I know is: she and I are out into the pub’s parking lot; stretched out in the back of my VW Camper and going at it hot and heavy.

And that, Doc, is the sad and awful tale of how I nailed my cousin and unwittingly ended up infected with the Lycanthropedic Virus.

And, I didn’t even find out until almost a year later.

But, that’s another story altogether and, since I’ve got some other things I want to cover with you this evening, I think it best if we leave the telling of it for another time. All right?

Okay. So, I guess that brings us to what happens after a predisposed male contracts the Lycanthropedic Virus.

Well, succinctly put, the poor sap’s Hermaphroditic Membranes begin to slowly mutate into a fully active state.

In other words, Doc, this is the gestation period in which a predisposed male goes from being a potential werewoman to becoming a fully functional werewoman.

Generally, having canvassed about a hundred or so of my fellow werewomen over the years in order to get some kind of insight into what’s going on, I can pretty much tell you that this gestation period runs anywhere from three to four months.

Now, let me see if I can guess what your next question would be, Doc.

What you want to know is, how does an infected individual’s fully mutated Hermaphroditic Membranes bring about a comprehensive and, I might add, rather rapid sexual reassignment?

Well, I’m a going to tell you, Doc.

Simply put, when activated, fully mutated Hermaphroditic Membranes cause the Y-chromosomes to emulate, or, you could say, mimic X-chromosomes. And, when that happens, you end up with a female’s XX chromosome pairing instead of a male’s XY pairing. And, though I haven’t as yet begun to figure out all the mechanics and maturatuions involved, once the XX chromosome pairing is established on a cellular level, the infected individual’s body ends up undergoing a massive restructuring in order to reflect the genetic re-programming that has just occurred on a cellular level.

Okay. Next question. What activates the mutated Hermaphroditic Membranes that, in turn, cause the Y-chromosomes to mimic X-chromosomes?

Well, Doc, here’s where fact meets fiction. Or, to put that another way, this is where I believe that the werewoman business gives rise to werewolf legend.

You see, Doc, twice a month, on the days which coincide with the advent of both new and full moons, prior to my getting pregnant, like clockwork, I ended up doing stints as a nymphed-out, animalistic like, narcissistic female, who wanted nothing more than to get her rocks off on a damn near perpetual basis.

Sorry, Doc. I don’t mean to be crude here. But, the truth is the truth. And, though I wish it were otherwise, that’s the way we werewomen are. You know, as in we’re all just a bunch of self-contained sexpots with time on our hands, a clitoris and a very healthy male libido that tends to go ape-shit whenever we catch sight of ourselves femmed out to the max like we are.

Oh! I guess I should make mention of the fact that, to a man, we werewomen end up the epitome of what a sexy, well endowed female is all about. That’s to say that it’s got to be in the genes. You know, as in I have yet to meet a werewoman who isn’t one of your drop-dead gorgeous, built like your proverbial brick shithouse variety, Doc.

And, I guess here again we have Charles Darwin and that pesky old theory of his to thank for our looks!

But, I’m not complaining, Doc.

I mean, if a guy’s got to be a girl, he might just as well go first class. Right?

Yeah. You bet your ass I’m right, Doc.

After all, I just think of these terrific looks and youthful appearance of mine as compensation for all the hassles that I incur just being a werewoman.

But, getting back on topic, when it comes to these Periodic Advancements of mine, on average, I spend about eight and a half days out of each and every twenty-eight day lunar cycle as a vulpes delecti. And that’s vulpes delecti as in: delectable fox.

Sometimes it’s less. Sometimes it’s more. But, all in all, it has consistently averaged out to eight and a half days, give or take the odd hour or so.

Now, just so you know, that’s not eight and a half consecutive days. Rather, it’s cumulative days.

That’s to say that in any given lunar cycle, I might spend three days femmed out to the max one time and then, somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven days later or thereabouts, I could end up doing a five and a half or even six day stint as the brazen, self-contained hussy that I end up becoming. Or, vice versa.

Like I said, Doc, it all averages out.

What I can tell you is, I’ve never spent less that two days or more than nine as a sex crazed vulpes delecti when it comes to these pesky Periodic Advancements of mine.

Oh! And, I should mention the fact that I don’t get a hell of a lot of sleep during these periodic, multi-day Advancements of mine. Occasionally, I manage to get in a short catnap. But, that’s about it, Doc.

Basically, due to the narcissism and all those compulsions with which I’m saddled, I’m riding a very perverse, perverted and thorough self-indulgent sexual seesaw.

That’s to say that as a vulpes delecti, I’m either in the process of getting horny, getting off on myself or recuperating from getting off on myself.

So, given the fact that I don’t get a lot of sleep during these multi-day Advancement of mine, I guess it pretty much goes without saying that I’m pretty much done-in by the time it’s time for me to turn back into a man again.

Oh! I almost forgot to mention...

 

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Okay. Tape’s rolling. So, it looks like we’re back in business, Doc.

Now, where was I?

Oh! I remember.

I was about to tell you about the mini-periods I have to endure once an Advancement goes beyond the four hour benchmark.

You see, Doc, before I can change into a woman, my body has to void itself of all the sperm I’ve managed to store up. Likewise, before I can undergo a Regression and change back into a man again, since we werewomen ovulate after an eight hour stint as a fully functional female, I have to divest myself of the ovum that’s nestled up inside this handy dandy little womb of mine.

In other words, we werewomen menstruate just like every other woman does.

And, let me tell you, Doc. It’s a real pain in the ass.

Well... maybe it’s not so much a pain in the ass as it is a pain elsewhere, but you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Doc?

On second thought, you couldn’t even begin to know what I’m talking about. After all, you’re a man and, since men don’t have periods, you really haven’t got a clue.

I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Doc, but until you experience one for yourself, you have no idea what women have to go through. Succinctly put, periods are the pits.

But, as they say, that’s neither here nor there, is it?

Okay. So, getting back to what I was saying, if an Advancement goes beyond eight hours, we werewomen have to endure an intense, though admittedly brief, menstruation before we can revert to being a man again.

And, let me tell you. The cramps are awful and the discharge is as messy as all get out.

Needless to say, given the lack of sleep and the mini-period bullcrap, I’m usually dead to the world when I undergo Regression.

That’s to say that save for the extremely rare occasion, when it comes to my Periodic Advancements, I’m usually sound asleep when I undergo a Regression, and once again revert to being the man I was born to be.

And, the reason I’m pointing all this out, Doc, is because on all the video tapes that I’m going to give you once my wife gets here, I’m going to be sound asleep on all the segments which show me going from girl to guy.

Also, let me apologize up front for the crass stuff you’re going to see me doing when I undergo an Advancement.

I mean to tell you, those segments which show me turning into a girl are about as pornographic as pornographic can be.

So, be warned. It tends to get pretty hard core.

Remember what I told you about having to divest myself of all the sperm that I normally have stored up in my epididymes?

Well, even though ejaculation is going to occur whether I want it to or not, I get so <expletive deleted> horny that I general just jump in and lend a hand. If you know what I mean, Doc? You know, as in I’m so overwhelmed by how horny I’m feeling that I end up masturbating my ass off in order to move things along.

Then, as I start acquiring a whole bunch of these nifty female erogenous zones all over the <expletive deleted> place, I guess you could say that I sort of just go with the flow and where before I was whacking myself off, you’ll see me rubbing myself off on the videos.

Well, so much for the disclaimer, Doc. Just remember, you’ve been warned. And, it’s like they say. Forewarned is forearmed. I just don’t want you to get offended and hold what you’re going to see against me. All right?

I mean, the last thing I want to do is alienate you, Doc. You know, because if I’m going to make it through this baby birthing business, I’m definitely going to need you on my side.

I mean, I know that I’m belaboring the point, but I just hope you’re going to be okay with it, Doc.

All right? Now, we’re about to enter into an area of this werewoman business that’s based purely on conjecture.

However, Stacey has been running some tests at the research lab where she works and, guess what, Doc? As it stands now, these theories of mine seem to be right on target.

Way back when, when I first climbed aboard the old sexual seesaw and started in logging time as a card carrying part-time member of the fairer sex, I began to keep track of both the frequency and longevity of my multi-day, or, if you will, Periodic Advancements. So anyhow, I’d been doing the sexual switcheroo thing for about two months when I finally got up the gumption to run over to the mall for the first time en femme.

I mean to tell you, Doc. I had such a bad case of cabin fever it wasn’t funny. And, I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, I’d end up going stark raving bonkers.

As you can imagine, I wasn’t looking forward to going out in public as a woman. But, it reached the point where it was either that or go crazy.

And, as fate would have it, crazy wasn’t an option.

You see, Doc, if you go crazy, they put you in an institution. And, if you’re in an institution, there’s absolutely no way the powers that be aren’t going to find out about you and your being a werewoman. And, there’s one thing that we werewomen don’t want, and that is for somebody to find out about our sexual duality and these extremely debasing proclivities of ours.

So technically speaking, I really didn’t have a choice in the matter. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to get out of the house before I started to climb the walls and howl at the moon.

Okay. So, I did. And, though I was as paranoid as paranoid could be the whole time I was out of the house, I did it. I actually did it. I actually managed to pass myself off as a real live, walking, talking woman. And, nobody caught on to the fact that I wasn’t born a real woman. Nobody suspected that I was a werewoman trying to pass myself off as a real, straight from the womb, woman. To my surprise and ever living shock, everybody took me to be the attractive young lady that I appeared to be.

So anyhow, having spent about an hour and a half walking around the mall, I figured that I shouldn’t push my luck and came to the conclusion that it might be advantageous for me to quit while I was ahead, call it a night and haul ass for home. Okay. So, shortly thereafter, I was making my way across the parking lot when, for some reason or another, I looked up and saw the moon.

And, guess what kind of a moon it was, Doc?

If you’re thinking that it was a full moon, then I’ve got to tell you, you’re right. That’s exactly the kind of moon that it was. Hence, the tie-ins with the werewolf legends.

Okay. So, I get home and, after I play a crass game of stink-finger and get off on myself, I do some quick checking and what do you think I find?

I find that every other one of my multi-day, Periodic Advancements coincided with a full moon. That’s to say that every other one of my Periodic Advancements bracketed a full moon, in that they start a day or so before a full moon and carry on a day or so past them. Likewise, I did a little more checking and found that the same could be said for the days surrounding a new moon.

Well, that got me to thinking, and I came up with a theory to explain why that might be so.

And, do you know how I did it? I simply asked myself if the same two phases of the moon affected anything else.

And, guess what, Doc? They do. They have a marked influence on the tides. In fact, they exert so much influence, these tides I’m referring to even have a name. They’re called Spring Tides. And, Spring Tides are the tides that have the greatest rise and fall and they occur when the Sun, Moon and Earth are in approximate alignment.

Basically, it all has to do with gravitational pull. When the Sun, Moon and Earth are in alignment with one another, they create a cumulative effect which causes the Earth’s waters to bulge out on the side of planet that is closest to the Moon, and you get a higher than normal high tide, while the side of Earth which is facing away from the Moon experiences a lower than average low tide.

Well, though this is pure conjecture on my part, I tend to believe that the celestial alignment of the Sun, Moon and Earth also triggers a sort of cellular tide which releases certain enzymes, which in turn, activates the Hermaphroditic Membranes. And, when the Hermaphroditic Membranes become activated, the Y-chromosomes on which they reside begin to mimic X-chromosomes and, correspondingly, the scales are tipped and we poor unfortunate werewomen get a heavy handed dose of femininity shoved up our asses.

Excuse me. Damn if I don’t keep forgetting. Men have asses. Women have tushes. Or, if you will, I could be nice and say that women have derrieres.

So, I guess what I should have said was, when our Hermaphroditic Membranes cause our Y-chromosomes to emulate X-chromosomes, me and my fellow werewomen get a heavy handed dose of femininity shoved up our derrieres.

Likewise, once the Moon passes out of alignment, the cellular tide slackens to a point where the enzymes can no longer sustain the Hermaphroditic Membranes in an active state and Regression ensues and - Lucky me! - gets to be a man again.

But, there’s a catch, Doc. A catch that, to my way of thinking, is just as perverse and perverted as Joseph Heller’s infamous Catch 22.

But, then again, isn’t there always a catch?

You see, Doc, other conditions come into play, compounding on that celestial alignment theory of mine, and turn my life into a living hell. Heightened sunspot activity and extended periods of low pressure are just two of the contributing factors that seem to extend the duration of my, and for that matter, every other werewomen’s Periodic Advancements.

But, they also do something else. These pesky contributing factors cause short term Sporadic Advancements.

Remember, way back when, when I first made mention of fact that I was a werewoman, I made that sarcastic crack about how I’m a bitch on a purely, periodic, part-time basis? Well, though you probably don’t remember this, a minute or so after I made that remark, I amended that statement of mine by pointing out the fact that, every now and again, I also undergo, what I have come to refer to as, Sporadic Advancements.

And, let me tell you, these Sporadic Advancements of which I speak are a real bitch.

You see, Doc, when it comes to Periodic Advancements, you have a pretty good idea when they’re going to occur. I mean, all you need is a calendar that shows the phases of the Moon, and you have a pretty good idea as to when you should expect to log some girllie-whirllie time. Plus, hours before you undergo a Periodic Advancement, you start getting horny. And, the horniness just builds and builds and builds until Advancement is upon you.

Sporadic Advancements, on the other hand, give you little or no warning at all. One minute you’re fine. The next, you’re as horny as all get out. Ten minutes after that, you’re a girl, a girl who is so consumed with getting off on herself it isn’t funny.

And, the real kicker is, they can happen anytime. Anywhere. You just never know.

And that, Doc, more than anything else, makes this werewoman crappolla for the birds.

Lucky for me, they don’t happen often. I mean, months can go by before I get hit with one. However, be that as it may be, I can and have experienced multiple Sporadic Advancements occurring within the same twenty-four hour period more times than I’d like to mention.

You see, Doc, Sporadic Advancements are short term Advancements, lasting anywhere from one hour to a full twenty-four. Generally speaking, on average they usually last around four hours or thereabouts.

And, that’s good.

And, do you know why that’s good?

Well, I’m a gonna tell you, Doc.

That’s good because if they last longer then eight hours, lucky me has got to get rid of the ovum that good old Mother Nature has seen fit to deposit in my womb before I can undergo Regression and change back into a guy again.

Basically, you could say that Sporadic Advancements are much like those damnable compulsions, in that they are the bane of us werewomen.

And, let me let you in on a little secret, Doc. I hate it when August and the first two weeks of September roll around each year.

And, do you want to know why?

Well, I’m going to tell you.

They lie at the heart of Hurricane Season. And, what’s a hurricane but a great big low pressure system that’s on the move. And, if they move up the coast, guess who ends up riding the old and ignominious sexual identity roller coaster?

Me! That’s who! Me and all the other werewomen who have the misfortune of living in the hurricane’s path.

And, take it form me, Doc. It ain’t no fun. Not in the least little bit.

Would you believe that Sporadic Advancements are the chief reason why I won’t fly anywhere anymore? The lower cabin pressure and a line of severe thunderstorms over southeastern Georgia went and did a number on me.

Let me tell you, as things worked out, I was really lucky. You see, the plane wasn’t crowded and I was prepared with a change of women’s clothing stashed away in my carry-on luggage.

It was also fortunate that nobody took note of the fact that I entered the restroom as a man only to exit it several minutes later as a woman.

Oh, and I should point out the fact that Sporadic Advancements are the reason I don’t scuba dive much below thirty feet any more.

And, that’s a bummer, Doc, because as much as I like diving reefs, the thing I really love is wreck diving.

Trouble is, most wrecks are a hell of a lot deeper than thirty feet.

You see, Doc, the way I figure it, it has something to do with the pressure. Or, more correctly the lessening of pressure during the ascent phase of the dive. That’s to say I’m fine until it comes time for me to head for the surface at the end of a deep dive.

The first time it happened was when me and my werewoman cousin were diving the Duane, one of the two Treasury Class Coast Guard Cutters that they sank as artificial reefs off the southern tip of Key Largo. Well, after swimming through a lot of the Duane’s gutted super-structure, the two of us made our way back to the stern and began our ascent up the down-line. Well, we hit fifty feet when all of a sudden I realized that I had a big problem. I came to the stark realization that I was about to undergo a Sporadic Advancement. So, thinking fast, I signaled my cousin to inform him that I was about to become a girl, only to realize that he was on the verge of becoming one himself.

Lucky for us we had plenty of air left in our systems.

I mean, there’s no way either he or I wanted to climb back on the boat while we were still in the process of changing.

So anyhow, in order to keep what could otherwise be an extremely long story short, it suffices to say that my cousin and I were extremely fortunate in that we had enough air in our cylinders to allow us the time to hang on the down line at fifteen feet long enough to facilitate our complete makeovers.

All I can say is, thank God for lycra dive suits and a fairly crowded boatload of divers.

I mean, if it weren’t for those two things, our gooses would have been cooked. You know, as in we were very lucky that nobody picked up on the discrepancy. Everybody was too busy getting their gear ready for the next dive to take note of the fact that two of the guys who had ridden out on the boat with them, were nowhere to be found. And, that two girls - both knockouts in their own right, by the way - were making the return trip with them.

As for the crew, they took the mandatory head count. Then, when they were satisfied they had the same number of divers that they had started off with, the captain directed the divemaster to cast off the mooring buoy and we hauled ass for the next dive site.

And, here’s what’s really funny about all of this, Doc. We got to the next dive site, which if my memory serves me right was French Reef, and fifteen minutes after we’re in the water, my cousin signals me that he has begun to change back. Five minutes after he starts to regain his masculinity, I start my Regression.

And, would you believe that not one person on the boat picked up on what had happened?

Well... that’s not exactly true.

You see, when we got back to the dock at Slate’s Atlantis Dive Center and started off-loading our gear, this other diver who was on our boat came over and asked me if I knew where those two gorgeous girls that had been on our boat had gotten to.

And, guess how I handled it, Doc?

I lied. I simply told him that I thought I had seen the two of them go into the dive shop.

Oh! I should tell you that what happened out on the Duane wasn’t a freak occurrence.

You see, Doc, a few weeks later, my cousin and I were diving a local quarry, and damn if it didn’t happen to us again.

So, over the course of the next six months or so, whenever we had the opportunity, the two of us experimented and found that more times than not, ascents from dives that approached the depth of a hundred feet resulted in our undergoing a Sporadic Advancement.

Just so you know, Doc, my cousin and I still dive. However, our diving is extremely limited due to this werewoman business. That’s to say that while my cousin still flys, I won’t. And, that severely limits where we can go.

True, there’s always the Keys. And, generally my cousin and I drive down there a couple of times a year towing a boat that he and I went in on together in order to avoid a similar situation to the one that happened that time when the two of us were out on one of Captain Slate’s cattle boats, diving the Duane.

Oh, lest I forget, several years ago we hooked up with a live-aboard dive-charter business based out of Fort Lauderdale that allows us the opportunity to dive the Bahamas. You see, Doc, the boat is owned by three werewoman who went into business together and, once a year, these guys close down normal operations and run a two week trip with nothing but werewomen divers on board.

And, let tell you, Doc. It’s a blast. Four. Five. Sometimes six dives a day. And, we’re diving pristine reefs that shore based dive operations rarely if ever dive.

My only complaint is, Stacey, who loves to dive as much as I do, can’t go. The trip is strictly for werewomen. There’s no non-werewomen allowed.

But, I have to say that my wife’s a good sport about it, in that she’s been letting me go every year since my cousin first found out about it.

Now, Doc, since it’s starting to get late, I’ve got one more aspect of this werewoman business that I’d like to cover with you before we call it a night.

So, let me ask you something. How old do you think I am? Mid-twenties?

Well, guess what, Doc. As incredible as this might sound, I will actually be fifty-four next week.

That’s to say, I was born in November of Forty-Six.

Crazy, isn’t it?

And, do you know what else is crazy? Before I started doing stints as a part-time girl, I used to be six feet tall. Now, I’m only five foot eight. I lost a whole four inches and a whole lot of pounds for no other reason than my just becoming a werewoman.

You see, Doc, the way I’ve got it figured, even after you start undergoing Advancements, the Lycanthropedic Virus must still be doing a number on your system; creating if you will, a sort of shadow genetic signature that is one hundred and ten percent female.

Remember what I said about how every werewoman I had a chance to meet is absolutely gorgeous?

Well, I don’t for one minute think that it’s an accident.

I actually think it was planned to be that way from the get-go. Just like I truly believe that the Lycanthropedic Virus started off as a man-made virus.

You see, Doc, from everything I’ve been able to uncover in my research, I am thoroughly convinced that we werewomen aren’t some sort of freak of nature. I really think we are the results of some terrible and tragic miscalculations.

But anyhow, since I don’t want to get into all of that at present, let’s get back to the business about my age and height.

It is my belief that werewomen were, by design, intended to be the epitome, or, if you will, the embodiment of everything feminine.

In other words, Doc, whoever the guys were who came up with the Lycanthropedic Virus to begin with, weren’t out to create a bunch of amazonishly proportioned women. That’s to say that they wanted the women they created to be of average height. And, it’s my guess that they incorporated something in this virus of theirs that would achieve the desired results.

And that, Doc, is why I believe that I’m four inches shorter than I used to be.

By the same token, it stands to reason that they wanted these new women of theirs to be young, beautiful and extremely healthy.

It’s quite possible that these ancient Dr. Mengeles of which I speak were trying to create a bunch of human brood mares. Maybe, they were hoping that they could expand their empire by conquering countries; turning the vanquished male populations into women and then, have their armies breed with them.

Now, I might be wrong, but I really don’t think that was initially the case. However, there is some rather elusive evidence that when their experiments went wrong and created something they hadn’t anticipated, some of their number did begin to ponder other applications for this home grown virus of theirs.

But anyhow, getting back to the issue at hand, it appears that what these ancient alchemist guys were hoping to achieve was a man, who could, at times, become a woman, a woman who possessed an ageless beauty and massive amounts of pure, unadulterated sex appeal.

And, I have to admit, that while they failed miserably with some of the crucial aspects of what they were trying to achieve, they certainly seemed to have excelled at others.

I mean, I’m living proof that they pretty much nailed the ageless beauty and sex appeal business.

Look, Doc, I know I’ve sounded pretty vain just now. But, ego be damned. The truth is the truth and there’s no getting around the fact that I’m a knockout who looks a hell of a lot younger than my actual age.

Remember, Doc, while my body is as feminine as feminine can be right now, my mind’s still that of a man. That’s to say that I still have a very healthy, if not somewhat perverted male libido.

In other words, I think I have a pretty good idea as to just what kind of girl turns guys on.

And, guess what, Doc? As much as I hate to say this, as it stands right now, I just happen to be occupying the body of one of those girls.

But, on the up side of this ageless beauty business, I have to tell you that there’s a kind of nifty spill-over effect.

I mean, you’ve seen me as a man, Doc. And, you’ve got to admit that I don’t look anywhere even close to my actual age. Truth is, as a guy, I look to be somewhere in my mid to late thirties, instead of my mid-fifties.

And, that’s perfectly fine with me.

Oh! Lest I forget. I should point out something about this age and size business before you end up getting the wrong impression.

It didn’t happen overnight.

Well, that’s not exactly true...

I mean, the age business kicked in right from the get-go. That’s to say that I was a thirty year old guy who turned into a twenty year old girl starting right off with my first Advancement.

So, I guess you could say that the Lycanthropedic Virus seems to have considerably retarded the normal aging process.

However, the twenty year old woman that I initially turned into was, to say the least, rather statuesque. In other words, Doc, I was a real amazon if ever there was one. You know, as in I was a big, big girl.

And, for my money, that was a good thing.

And, do you know why it was a good thing, Doc?

It was good because I was so big that I do believe I was rather intimidating.

In other words, Doc, I do believe that I was so big at the time that I intimidated guys from hitting on me.

And that, Doc, was a godsend.

You see, way back when, when I first climbed abroad this sexual roller coaster that I’m forced to ride as a werewoman, I was scared shitless with just the thought of guys trying to pick me up.

So, I guess you could say that the intimidation factor provided me with what you might call a buffer or, better yet, a safety cushion. It allowed me the time necessary to somewhat acclimate myself to living the life of an extremely attractive young woman before I had to actually deal with all the ego-affronting hassles involved whenever guys come on to me.

And, just so you know, that happens a lot. And, make no never mind about it. It’s a real pain in the ass when it does. But, since it does happen a lot, I’ve gotten pretty good at handling the situation.

Okay. So anyhow, I guess I had been a werewoman for about three months when I first began to take note that something unusual was happening to me. I started to become aware of the fact that my clothes were starting to hang on me. They were all getting really baggy and my pants were becoming just a wee bit too long. Then, a week or so after I first noticed that, I came to the realization that none of my shoes fit me any more. I was down a half a size.

So, I bought a couple pairs of shoes and some new clothes, and guess what? A month after I did, damn if they all weren’t too big for me as well.

Well, it kept on happening. About every two months, I had to go out shopping for a whole new wardrobe.

Problem was, Doc, I wasn’t just buying one set of clothes. Oh, no! Lucky me had to purchase two sets. You see, I had to pick up one set for the male me and the other, for my feminine alter ego.

I mean to tell you, Doc. It got so bad there for a while, I was starting to max out my credit cards just to keep myself in clothes.

But eventually, round about the time I was coming up on my first anniversary as a werewoman, things stabilized. That’s to say that my downsizing more or less bottomed out. And, would you believe, I’ve been the very same size since it did.

And, I don’t even have to diet to keep this fantastic figure of mine.

You could say, it’s more or less self-regulating. And, that’s pretty keen, if I do say so myself.

Oh! I should also point out the fact that I haven’t been sick since I’ve become a werewoman. Not a cold. Not a virus. Not a flu.

You could say, that since becoming a werewoman, I’ve been the picture of health.

And, that’s saying something, Doc.

Oh, yeah! And here’s something else to throw into the mix.

About ten years ago, I broke my leg skiing.

And, guess what? It healed in less than half the time it should have normally taken.

Truth is, when the doctor I was seeing at the time sent me to get another x-ray after he took the cast off, he had a hard time identifying just where the break had actually been.

You see, Doc, to my way of thinking, the Lycanthropedic Virus is a super virus. It must beef up the immune system and somehow accelerate the healing process.

I mean, I rarely if ever bruise. And, if I get a scratch, more times than not, it’s gone before you know it.

In other words, Doc, to a man, we werewomen are the healthiest people on Earth.

Again, I just think of it as recompense. After all, given what we werewomen have to endure, I kind of think we warrant a few bennies, don’t you?

Yeah... I kind of think we do. Don’t you?

Hey, Doc! Are my ears playing tricks on me, or did I just hear somebody enter your waiting room?

It’s probably Stacey.

So, since I’ve pretty much covered everything I had wanted to cover with you this evening, Doc, why don’t I just stop the tape here. And, if it’s okay with you, why don’t we ask my wife to join us. Then, you can ask her to verify everything I’ve been telling you.

 

<click- off>

 

End of WW TAPE 1, Side B (Recorded 10/30/2000)

 

 

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© 2001 by Deane Christopher. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.