Written for the Genderfuck challenge at due South flashfiction.
Margaret Thatcher awakens Tuesday morning, yawns, stretches languidly
on her 800-thread Egyptian cotton sheets, and reaches down to discover she
has a penis.
Stella is dreaming that she is fucking Ray. No, really fucking him, her long, thin penis thrusting into the tight hotness of his slick vagina. Beneath her Ray squirms, and moans, thrusts his sweaty body against hers. He seems to struggle a little, and the moans sound a little pained, or at least uncomfortable, but she doesn't slow down; instead, her thrusts speed up and increase in intensity. Ray gives a little sigh, half-distressed, half-euphoric as he bucks into orgasm. With a shudder Stella drains herself into his body.
"Stella?" The soft raspy voice snaps her back to reality.
"Oh," she says, momentarily taken aback. "The strangest thing. For a moment I thought I—" She shakes her head, laughs mockingly at herself.
She stares at him intently, blinks a few times, then peers down at their joined bodies. "I thought I. . .huh. Silly." She runs her hand over the soft fuzz of her husband's scalp, her pale eyes searching the hazel ones beneath her. She sees nothing but affection there, love, too, and the vestiges of spent passion. With a sigh she pulls her dick from his wet depths and sinks onto the bed beside him. "You'll think I'm crazy. For a moment there I thought you were Ray Kowalski."
So Frannie has six babies, right? And they all sorta appeared around the same time, right? And nobody ever saw her with a guy, right?
So where'd they come from? Frannie won't say. But she swears they’re not Turnbull's, or Kowalski's, or sadly, Benton's, or even, God help her, her brother Ray's -- which would be incest, which the Church would definitely frown on, and besides, she doesn't find bald men attractive, thank God. They're not even Lieutenant Welsh's, though some people thought so and the Lieu is really sweet with them.
They're not her ex-husband's (and who the hell knows where he is, anyway?) and they're not Frankie Zuko's, and they're not Mort's, and they're not Huey's -- which you'd probably be able to tell if they were – and no! they're not Dewey's, ewww. They're not her brother-in-law Tony's kid's, as if she'd let him near her, and they're not her doctor's kids and she didn't have artificial insemination.
So everybody wonders…and if they're even checking Diefenbaker to see if he's smiling, well, who can blame them? Because Frannie's not telling who the father is. It's nobody's business but her own, she tells those rude enough to ask.
And that's the truth in the most basic way possible. They wouldn't believe her, anyway.
Because right after Benton and Kowalski left, right after Ray moved to Florida, and right about the time she decided she wanted to be a mother more than she wanted to be a wife, right after she looked at the men around her and found each and every one of them lacking as father material, right when she realized she was stronger, and better and more capable than she'd ever imagined, Frannie went to church and prayed to the Virgin Mary for a miracle.
And…for the first time in her life, Frannie was answered, though she didn't get the answer she expected.
But she got an answer. A lovely eight-inch, virile answer of her very own.
So Frannie, little mother of six, walks around proudly these days, fawning on her brood, confident that she can be both mother and father to them.
Because Frannie always knew she had balls. Now it's really true.