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He slid slowly at first, sliding backward as he looked at the vanishing figures on the rim. His feet pointed toward the darkness at the bottom of the funnel. Gradually, he picked up speed. He turned, shifting his weight from his knees and arms to a sitting position, riding like a child on waterslide. He was sliding toward a rush of liquid coolness on a hot summer's day. He could think clearly now, just like he could after his fantasy orgasms. He could see that his thoughts had built this giant funnel. It was immense, permanent, solid, and real. Each of his fantasies had built a part of this place. Each one had dipped him below the edge for a moment and then returned him to the rim. Within this cone were the individual parts of the integrated woman he longed to be; the physical, mental, and emotional pieces, interlocked like a giant puzzle. Each marble tile on the surface of this bowl was a piece of his female experience.The floor was seamless now, one continuous, smooth, slippery. The thirty-year old cursed at himself as he attempted to rise to his feet and failed miserably. On his second try, he was able to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t let him move.“DAMMIT! Why the Hell did I drink so much last night?” he asked himself as he wobbled his way to the bathroom.As he staggered through the hallway, he caught a whiff of the familiar scent of bacon frying in a pan. This didn’t strike him as odd until he stepped up to the toilet and started relieving himself.“Who the fuck is cooking?” he asked, turning towards the door as if the cook was right next to him. The sound of urine hitting the wall and floor refocused him.After cursing himself for making a mess, and then cursing some more while he cleaned it up, Mike went back to his room to throw on a pair of jeans so he could greet the mystery chef in his kitchen.“HEY! Who the Hell is in my God-damned kitchen? And why the Hell did you let me sleep in and miss work?” he shouted.He was greeted by the sight of a.
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