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Fullin. It's an important day in your life, isn't it?"
"The most important."
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"What kind of mother would she be if she didn't want to see you? Perfectly
understandable... perfectly natural." His voice was getting stronger, more
definite. "This shows quite a positive side to Steck's character."
"You're making excuses for her," I said. "Is she your lover?"
Rashid coughed. "Where I come from, boys don't ask that about their mothers."
"Where I come from, they do. Do you love her?"
"You tell me," he answered. "How doyou feel about her? One minute you're
screaming,'Kill the Neut,' and the next I can see you thinking she's not so
bad."
"One minute she acts hateful, and the next she lets on she might be a human
being."
"That's Steck," Rashid admitted. He started walking again, the plastic soles
of his boots clicking when they touched any pimples of limestone poking up
through the soil.
I fell in behind him. "My father still loves her," I said. "At least I think
he does. Or maybe it just pains him she's lonely."
Rashid murmured, "Sometimes that kind of pain passes for love."
I couldn't argue with him. My mother seemed to have the same effect on a lot
of people.
The village streets had come alive with children and parents. Breakfast was
finished, and everyone wanted to squeeze in some playtime before the gods
arrived at noon. The most popular game had to be Catch: Catch with bright
rubber balls bought down-peninsula, or floppy homemade pouches stuffed with
dried corn kernels. Mothers threw easy lobs straight to their children's
hands, while fathers made the kids run, work for their successes. But all the
parents were watching with keen bright eyes trying to memorize how their boys
and girls used their bodies, because it was all about to change.
I've already mentioned how my female half felt awkward in my male body the
night before. The same thing happened every year at the solstice switchover...
except that it was more confusing when you were only five or six. Your hands
were bigger or smaller, your eyes weren't the same height above the ground,
and it always looked like your feet weren't the right distance away. It was
worse come puberty: the presence or absence of breasts, the difference in how
your weight sat around your hips, and of course, the variations in sheer
muscular strength and stamina not that your male half always had the physical
advantage. Female-Me went into a growth spurt at thirteen, and Male-Me didn't
catch up until sixteen. My two halves had a full head difference during those
years, and that meant embarrassing clumsiness for weeks after each transition.
Parents found that kind of awkwardness amusing and endearing... which is why
they made a point of testing their kids' coordination just before changeover
and would repeat the same games when the children came home again.
The kids checked themselves out just as thoroughly after each change. You
just couldn't help staring at yourself. A whole year had passed since you had
occupied your other self, and even if the body had just been sleeping in Birds
Home, it had still been growing changing while your eyes and brain had been
living elsewhere.
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You heard a different voice echoing in your head.
So you marveled at your arms: they had hair or they didn't, and all the moles
and freckles you'd been used to were now replaced by a different set, ones you
vaguely remembered from a year ago but which seemed darker or bigger... more
noticeable anyway, and you thought all the other kids would gawk at these
strange marks on your skin.
And my oh my, your skin... especially once you hit puberty. You couldn't help
touching your skin. It was skin exactly like the skin you lusted after just
days before. I don't know why my skin had such an effect on me. Of course,
there were also the overtly sexual body parts, and yes, a lot of teenagers
(including yours truly) held solitary Orgasm Derbies every day for a week
after each gender swap; but for me, having different skin was always the most
arousing change. Male in a male body, I might find myself remembering how my
female half had longed to stroke a boy's chest or thighs, to feel muscles
close beneath the skin, the hard warmth... and female in a female body, I
still recalled the pure lust that boiled in my brother self at the sight of a
mere bare shoulder...
You felt sexy. That's the simple truth. You looked at your skin, your legs,
your body, and youknew you were sexy. You knew how the opposite sex burned in
your presence. And for a few weeks, until you got caught up in your own new
burning, you knew you were wonderfully, powerfully desirable.
In those few weeks, lovemaking was always lazily relaxed enthusiastic to be
sure, because you'd slept for a year and were juiced up now with the urge to
take your newly regained equipment for a ride. But for a while, you never
asked, "Does he like me? Does she want me?" You possessed a comfortable
confidence, knowing you had what your bedpartner craved.
Doubt only surfaced later: when the sweat-sheen dried and the whispers in the
dark strayed into topics beyond, "Isn't this great!" When you had to deal with
each other as people instead of bodies. When, "Of course he wants me!" gained
the tag, "But does he want me the right way?" When your sweetheart wanted to
set a definite time to get together and you preferred to play it by ear.
When being who you were stopped being a delicious novelty, and settled back
into a snarled tangle of normal humanity.
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