This choice: A podcaster gets his just deserts • Go Back...Chapter #2Humble Pie by: BeeJay   It doesn't bother me anymore when people look at me. After all, they have to look at something. And there I am: platinum blonde hair, DD breasts, and an hourglass figure. It's a body that practically begs to be looked at.
But the stares are a bit annoying. Mainly, it's the guys doing the staring. And the worst part about the staring is, nine times out of ten, it doesn't stop there.
Yeah, the comments are the worst. Guys feel like they just have to say the first thing on their minds; and it's always the same thing. Just remarks about my body, and the things they'd like to do with it. Honestly, guys, get some new material: It just might get you somewhere with the woman you're trying to impress.
But the worst thing about the comments? The absolute worst thing? I can remember when I used to be on the other side of it. That's right, the smoking hot babe used to be a man.
This is my story.
******************************
Back then, my name was Frank Chapman. My occupation was podcasting. I called it Man's World. Yep, I wasn't just a guy, I was that guy. For one hour a week, every week, I expounded on my opinions about society. My most frequently expressed opinion was that men ought to run everything, and women ought to be content with cooking, cleaning, sex, and having and raising children.
Sure, I got plenty of hate emails from women. But did I care? Not as long as I thought that women should leave the thinking to those of us with dicks, I didn't. And sure, it cost me more than a few advertisers; but there were always plenty more where they came from, so I didn't see a problem.
It never dawned on me that there were some out there who could do more than write angry emails.
******************************
One day, the day before I was to record my latest podcast, I received a package. I couldn't read the return address, because it was obscured by where the sender had planted a lipstick-covered kiss on the package. I checked it out thoroughly: It wasn't ticking or anything, and it smelled like... blueberries.
Opening it up, I saw that it was a small blueberry pie. And I had always loved blueberry pie. Grabbing a fork, I dug in, not stopping until I had eaten the whole thing.
I had just finished putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher when the phone rang. I checked, but there wasn't a number on the other end. Curious, I answered it. "Hello?"
"Hello, Frank," said the voice on the other end.
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage."
"I've recently been listening to your show. Did you enjoy the pie I sent you?"
"Oh, that was you? Yeah, that was good. I love a woman who knows her way around the kitchen."
"And doesn't bother knowing anything else?"
I chuckled. "You have been listening. That pie was really yours, huh?"
"I learned how to do it from my mother; she learned from her mother, and so on. We call it humble pie."
"Tasted like blueberry to me."
"What makes it humble pie isn't the ingredients: It's the spell."
"Spell?"
"That's right, Frank Chapman, the spell. I'm not an admirer; I'm a witch."
I laughed. "So what's your pie supposed to do? Turn me into a frog?"
"No, being a frog would teach you nothing."
"So, what, then?"
"It's a very simple spell, Frank Chapman: Beginning tomorrow, you're going to find out what it's like to be on the receiving end of your misogyny. Beginning tomorrow, each and every chauvinistic comment will turn you more and more into a woman. Enjoy the rest of your life, Frank Chapman. Or whatever you choose to call yourself when the spell is complete." With that, she hung up.
I shook my head. "The stuff that women come up with." And I went about my day.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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