Being a gay man, and some might say a slut, my thoughts immediately turned to how I could make the best use of my new apparatus. I mean, after all, who could say how long this gift (or curse) would last? It could disappear as mysteriously as it had come. And my devilish, lustful mind was already busy cataloging all the possibilities for putting to good use my brand new, virgin front door to love. I giggled and ruefully conceded that the back door could use a rest.

For many gay men, bagging a straight guy is the ultimate conquest. And being an optimist (or is that opportunist?) my thoughts turned to how I could make the very most of my new pussy. If my fingers had felt so delightful, imagine how the whole enchilada might feel…a straight man mounting me, his sports-loving, beer-guzzling, muscles-and-coarse-hair length spread out atop me like a furry, hard blanket, pumping away. But why stop at just one man? I certainly had never before shown such restraint! Never one for not thinking big, I began to entertain thoughts of how I could get my hot dog bun stuffed with platoons, battalions, legions, regiments, soccer teams, fraternities, and fleets of straight guys and their tube steaks. Hey, a girl has to aim high. Mrs. Winslow, in sixth grade, always told us we should always shoot for the moon, because we might at least land among the stars.

Somehow, I don’t think my current situation was quite what the gray-haired old bat had in mind.

But, except for when squatting over a mirror, I still looked like a guy. A rather beefy, furry, and virile male animal. I hadn’t been called a sissy since grade school. Normally, looking hirsute and manly had not been a problem for me (except for those pesky bottoms who could just not accept I was one of them), but suddenly, I kind of wished whatever God or Goddess had wrought this wondrous change on my anatomy had gone the whole hog and given me some titties and a big, J-Lo ass to match my box. Maybe some silky blonde tresses and a cute button nose wouldn’t have hurt, either.

In order to put my newfound love box to ridiculous and wanton use (some might say abuse), there was only one solution and that solution, was ... well, it was a real drag. You know what I mean, ladies! And this had to be convincing drag, not RuPaul-type drag, not performance drag, but the kind that would look realistic. I was thinking more along the lines of Jane Fonda, not Fonda Peters. I didn’t have to be a beautiful woman (after all, my manly face would not necessarily translate to delicate charm, no matter how much it was shaved and waxed), but I had to at least give the illusion of being a bona fide female.

As long as I could get a straight guy to believe I was female, he’d fuck me. No question. Straight men will fuck anything with a pussy ... and Lord knows, reaching once again into the breach, I had that.

I rolled over lazily in my bed and snatched the cordless from the nightstand. When it came to illusion, there was no one better suited than my best friend.