Tuning the Guitar Player

[4]

I'm only waiting for my cue to tell Parsley what she needed to do. No getting lost in my thoughts. We waited over by the big stall for it to be free. I felt monumental, staggering, crushing stress. She was depending on me.

The first thing I did was securely latch the door before checking to make sure we had everything. Paper for the seat was especially important since I didn’t know what her immune system was like. The toilet roll on the left was low, but there was a full one buried behind the plastic latch on the right. Morbidly, I noticed a tampon dispenser on the other wall. Parsley looked over at me with wide, concerned eyes as she shifted nervously.

My girl was holding it, but I worried about how well she knew the muscles of her own body when they were static mahogany not so long ago. Doing my best to be loud enough that she could hear me, but we still had our privacy, I said, “Give me your jacket.” She looked at it on her shoulders before looking back at me. I nodded and she carefully slipped it off.

Parsley had been created while wearing this outfit. Were her clothes part of her body or could they just be considered the adornments that were given her original form? The lacquer? Then, why wasn’t it closer to a PVC coat? Look at me, trying to rationalize any aspect of a guitar turning into a girl. I carefully set the jacket on a hook off to the side. It was ever so slightly damp from her perspiration.

I had to hurry up the rest of this. Not wanting to overwhelm her, I urged her next to lower her pants as well as look for a clasp, zipper, or buttons. She whimpered faintly as her hands searched down around her waist. It occurred to me at that moment that I could’ve modeled the behavior I wanted by going first. Not that I was eager to do that, but it probably would’ve made this easier.

The hardest part of the pants was how close the fit was to her skin. I supported her with as much strength as I’d been granted in this body and we finally managed to lower them around her ankles. She had lacy pink panties on underneath. At least one of us was wearing underwear. And she went ahead and pulled those down too without needing to be told.

She stumbled and staggered with everything around her legs as I guided her down to the seat. Another squeak came out as she softly whimpered that it was really cold. At least the hard parts seemed to be done as I made sure she was positioned far enough back that the notch in the front wouldn’t lead to messy spray. Granted, I was drawing from my own experiences and previous anatomy, but you can never be too careful.

Explaining to her what to actually do felt as difficult as trying to firmly grasp Jell-O without ruining it. The further complication was that I again had the wrong point of reference. The first thing babies learn is how to pee. Probably. She didn’t even have that experience. I didn’t feel comfortable staring at her naked crotch, but it was at least clear that she had the capability to pee nestled around those sparse hairs.

“Push. Push the bad feeling inside you out into the water.” That sounded like the best way to put it, even though I felt so embarrassed phrasing it that way. But whatever got through to her.

She shivered and nodded silently as I thought about bringing her jacket back over to cover her shoulders. She strained and pushed and had eventual results with a loud fart. It wasn’t the only one in the vicinity, not that I was keeping any sort of count of the chaos.

She gave a quick smile and a look of hopeful expectation. It didn’t sound like anything else happened on that end, for which I was grateful. It took longer than I was hoping for, but eventually, she seemed to figure it out with a push and a sense of relaxation in her muscles down there. Once she was going, it sounded like heavy rain. Sitting with relief in heavy rain. No no no no, I’m not writing a song about my guitar taking a piss, no matter how allegorical or pretty I could make it.

The next step left both of us in brand new territory as she was done but needed to clean up. Some random bro comedy I was vaguely listening to once said something about it. It was a real late night and Josh had one of his VHS tapes playing. The question came up as a point of comedy. And I couldn’t remember a damn bit of it, except that it was brought up.

Come on, think! You’re a damn college boy. Ish. What makes the most sense? Don’t get anything from the butt hole up around there. That’s what made the most sense to me, although, where were all the holes situated? Why couldn’t any of this stuff be simple?

She wasn’t going to get sick from one time of doing it wrong. I could summon the pitiful battery of my little life support linked phone and Google it but there were so many other people waiting we might as well just finish. I had her grab a little paper, which would’ve been easier if they had the opening in the right spot. But this entire situation felt like that in a nutshell.

Parsley was doing pretty good with so little experience, but then I heard something weird.

It was a strange, faint musical note. A very familiar one. Like someone plucking a guitar. My first thought was that someone had somehow brought their own guitar into the restroom and was playing it. But that made no sense. My next thought was abject terror that the presence of Parsley had somehow summoned and animated another guitar that still had its musical parts left over.

The truth was still rather terrifying. Parsley kept rubbing herself as I instructed and the music, though random notes, continued. I crouch down close to her and sighed as it soon became apparent what was going on. The hair and structure… Her vagina was a mini guitar we could play.

If I wasn’t at a loss for words at that moment, I would’ve broken down in delirious, crazed laughter and the people in the white coats would’ve come along and that would’ve been it. Parsley was delighted to discover she still had her musical capability. I had to wonder what in creation did everyone else think was going on in this stall. Well, we were having a jam session, right between her legs. I was gonna lose it.

We had to get out of here. A little pressure worked to keep the intimate melody from spreading across the room. I made sure the backend didn’t need anything, and fortunately, we were okay there. After that, the vague desire to use this restroom reminded me to take care of myself. I was quick about it. Pulled my pants down and that’s all I needed to do. Free… Free… Not free balling anymore. Whatever.

I really didn’t like the way things had to be done. No matter how I positioned myself, it felt like when I accidentally messed up my stuff and had no control. Moving around a little bit and getting in there got my fingers wet and only helped slightly. Annoying.

The act of poking around there with paper tore me in two directions. In one way, it felt so bizarre that I dissociated it from myself as a part of my body. This wasn’t some flesh on me, this was just some flesh I had to clean up. Easy freaking peasy. At the same time, every internal voice was screaming about the fact I’d been castrated and there was a messy, fleshy wound hole in me and I had to get to the doctor as soon as possible. Despite believing this, my body didn’t flood me with mysterious wound endorphins to make everything feel happy and nice.

But we were done. It was done. At least for a few hours. I gave the tampon dispenser a sideways glance but nothing more than that before we made our way out of the stall.

“Thank you so much for helping me…mahh stir…” I had a sneaking suspicion that was coming. Parsley did at least hesitate when it came to the last part. Moving quickly, I pressed the collar of her leather jacket against her lips to smother that last word. Better than shoving my dirty hands against her mouth. She appeared startled and confused, giving a little cough against the leather. I felt bad about doing it, but the prospect of anyone hearing her say that was worse. Softly rubbing her back and apologizing with a weak explanation that I would explain why I did that when we were outside didn’t do much to help.

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I led her over to the nearest open sink and motioned for her to get some soap from the dispenser. Her first inkling was to draw it toward her mouth like with the water fountain, but I showed her what to do. Her eyes lit up and soon she rinsed her hands just like me. Clearly, she retained some awareness while being a guitar. I must’ve washed up at least once with her able to witness and recall. There was still a little flinch when she approached the water. Still afraid of water damage.

She smiled and beamed radiantly holding her fingers up to her nose before a sudden sneeze made her giggle. The air hand dryer also led to a bit of fun as she put her hands up and then moved them around like plane wings. Behind us, a little girl rushed after her mother. Parsley smiled at the kid, who gave us a look and a little finger wave before going out the door.

Once outside again with that craziness left behind, I took a breath and apologized again as I led Parsley down a side hallway without too many people. Softly, I explained that people don’t really call other people ‘master’ or at least it was very uncomfortable, dated, and wouldn’t fit for us.

Before I could even approach the possibility of letting her have the word ‘mistress’, she chimed in to ask, “Can I call you…mom?”

Oh hell, no…

But she had such wide, innocent eyes. Parsley explained that she overheard some of the little girls using the word “mom” and she liked it because, “The way they said it felt like when I say… the other word for you.”

‘Mistress’ would’ve been preferable, even though it still had a lot of problems. I was too young, although no longer too male, to have a daughter like Parsley. She looked nervously expectant as she softly asked me, “Unless… There’s something wrong with that?”

Somehow, her big, dark eyes got even bigger. I should’ve just told her to call me “Anthony“ or even “Tony”. That second one had some ambiguity as a girl's name. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with… Celestina. The short version would’ve been Tina. Ol’ Blue Eyes, would you sing about me?

She gently squeezed my hand. After several rumbling breaths, I resolved, “When there’s no one else around… at all. Anywhere. You can use whatever word makes you happy. But around here with lots of people, call me by my name…Tony.”

Of course, she had been paying attention when she heard my name as Celestina instead of Anthony. I told her that calling me Tony, even if it wasn’t quite right, would make me happy. And wouldn’t cause trouble. She accepted this and told me that it was okay that I covered her mouth, it was kind of like when I steadied her strings. It just surprised her. Surprising to both of us were the strings down below.

Parsley was delighted to know that she could still make music, but I cautioned her that the area down there was not for public things, that’s why we had to go to that restroom with privacy. She wasn’t quite sure why there were public and private things, but she promised to be careful and not touch her own strings when there were other people. It hit me that to play my guitar, I’d probably have to put my fingers in her crotch… Best not to dwell on that.

As we walked, Parsley hummed fragments of melodies and gently rocked my arm. I appreciated the fact that she was around to take my mind off the current situation, even though she was a big handful and responsibility.

It struck me quite pointedly now that the vast majority of the stores around the mall were geared toward our current condition. Women’s apparel as far as you could see. Really, what I wanted was a crew neck top to cut down on the amount of cleavage I had to look at and display. The problem was everything around had a preppy and posh quality to it which turned me off. Even the store with the supposed rocker fashion focus wasn’t doing it for me.

One key element to consider though. Everything in my possession had been altered by whatever this was. What about my possessions that weren’t in my possession right now? What about the stuff back at the dorm? My identity to others was different. Did that mean my living space was different too? In short, what kind of girl clothes did I have back at the dorm, if any? Did Celestina have a sense of fashion that didn’t annoy me? If she picked out what I was currently wearing, then that was already a few dings against her. The pink purse was a few more, even though it did have a nice amount of space for the songbooks and everything else.

Toward the food court, I spotted a clothing shop displaying a certain edge but also comfort. It took gathering up some courage to go inside, especially since it was an all-girl stuff shop. Not that I was scared of clothes. But all this felt a little intimidating, looking as I did. We made it through the turbulence of the restroom though. I told myself this would be fine. Just get a few items for comfort and maybe something nice for Parsley. Without burning all of the money I have.

Parsley clung close to me as we stepped through the front door. Looking around at everything on the racks was genuinely surreal. One part of my brain was still stuck in a confused uncertainty while the other part kept reminding it that these were clothes I could wear. Pars… That could be a good nickname. I hadn’t really thought about shortening it too much because I usually kept the name to myself. But that could work. She held her hands close to her body and clung even closer to me. It took me surprisingly long to realize what she was doing. I’d warned her not to grab anything. She was following that precisely.

Qualifying, I told her that she could feel and hold this stuff so long as she put it back if we didn’t buy it. Pars widened her eyes and quietly, curiously asked, “This could be for me? Something for me?” Her hand brushed across a silken blouse. That one in particular was about 70 bucks, but I assured her that whatever we decided upon would absolutely be hers. Just please get something that’s not painfully expensive.

It didn’t take long for a polite clerk to find her way over and ask if she could help us with anything. Her demeanor was disconcerting. Not because she was doing anything weird. I got a little sample of it in the restroom when the women around gave me this very relaxed sense. Perhaps there was also some of it on the bus, but there were too many other things to process at the time. If I had to describe the mood, it was simply her greeting another girl. It was subtle, but I could notice it with a certain, contrasting demeanor. I could distinguish it as, before, girls who greeted me were “on“. Not to say that they flirted or smiled more or anything fluffy to my ego. And it wasn’t as though this girl was ”off”. She wasn’t more or less afraid of me either. But it was absolutely a different tone than I was expecting. More something I innately sensed than I could clearly categorize. And doing my best not to dwell on it too much.

My answer probably felt like a confused ball of signs and tones without any clarity or practice. Just call me a weird butch bitch then. I did my best, expressing that I was helping my good, close friend here and she had some issues. Pars giggling about how ticklish one particular dress felt seemed to communicate enough to the clerk. She took a gentle approach to Pars and invited her to try on a few things in the back. That included a pink dress, which contrasted well with her dark hair.

I went for a subtle, blue blouse with a high collar and thick material which didn’t feel especially stifling. And I noted where the underwear was. Opening the drape to a changing room, I took a deep breath but paused. Something was wrong. The air was strikingly cold and yet there was a piercing warmth beyond the stark lights above. Looking around revealed nothing but three walls, a bench, some hangers, and a full-length mirror revealing my trepidatious… face.

What was wrong? I had no idea, although there were plenty of candidates. It was a creepy, sneaky feeling inside. Like being watched…