The Magical Money Clip: A Love Story
October 3, 2004
I was a woman once. Well, more correctly, there was a period of time during which
I occupied the body of a woman. Actually, more specifically, there was a point in
my life that I was able to occupy the body of any woman of my choosing. It's true! Well,
not that I literally occupied their actual bodies. There was no
Exorcist style possession going on, nor was there any sort of Freaky Friday
brand body swapping -- although, in retrospect, it would have been pretty hot to swap
bodies with Lindsay Lohan. But no...the women whose bodies I inhabited were still
very much present in their supple, delicious flesh vessels the entire time. I suppose
an entirely accurate and factual description of the situation would go more like this:
I once owned a magical money clip that allowed me to shape-shift, taking the form of
any woman I desired. These shape-shifts were temporary, of course, but I could do
so at will, and I did so often.
I came into possession of the magical money clip while rifling through the pants
pockets of one of my many carnal conquests. I'd picked her up earlier that night at a
joint AA/Midget Love support group meeting. She apparently had an unhealthy obsession with
Jack Purvis and was seeking help.
I was there because, as everyone knows, aside from
Hooters, the best place
to meet vulnerable, desperate and impressionable women is at an AA meeting. This pretty
young thing was a dead ringer for a young Sophia Loren, just as ripe as you like. A
few pleasantries, two hours and fourteen whiskey sours later, she was bagged, tagged
and passed out across a Motor-Inn bed. My man fluids spent and the musky scent
of victory thick on my breath, I decided that it was time for me to go.
So, like I said, I was rifling through her pants when I discovered my magical money
clip. Well, I suppose it was technically her magical money clip at the time, but why
split hairs? Of course, at this point I didn't know that it was magical. I was more
interested in the $27 it held than the clip itself. I did find it odd that such a fine
looking woman had been wearing men's Wrangler jeans, and even stranger that
her driver's license said her name was Frank Jackson and had a picture of a portly
black man on it. Then I remembered my last visit to the DMV and the toothless and apathetic
retard gallery behind the counter and things made more sense. I snatched the money clip,
the $27, a pack of Juicy Fruit and a half smoked pack of Kools from her
pants and made my exit.
As I mentioned, at the time I had no idea that my newfound treasure was anything other
than an ordinary dime store money clip. I didn't come to understand the powers it
possessed until some time later. Even without knowledge of its unique nature, the
money clip and I became inseparable over the course of the next few months. It wasn't
much to look at, just plain brushed metal, silver in color, with no distinguishing engravings
or decoration, but I came to look at it as a good luck charm of sorts. I'm not entirely
sure why, however, as my luck didn't really improve after I found it. My plantar wart
didn't disappear, the Detroit Police didn't burn my bench warrant for that little
"misunderstanding" at the Greektown Casino and I still dreamt about my teeth
falling out of my head at least twice a week. Regardless, that money clip never left my person.
The night I discovered the magic contained in my good luck money clip began like any
other. I was naked, at home sharing an intimate evening alone with my VCR. A buxom
blonde was sharing my television screen with fourteen or fifteen of her closest, most
well-hung friends. They all looked to be having an absolutely lube-tastic time when
the most wonderful thought occurred to me -- a thought that would change my life forever.
If only I had breasts like that tow-headed little starlet, I would be able to skip $3.99
rental fees for the rest of my days. The savings would be enormous! In no time at all
I would be able to afford to have my wart frozen off!
I absently rubbed my lucky money clip between the fingers on my free hand as lightning
cracked, a flock of white doves exploded into the night sky over the gothic church cathedral
next door and somewhere Doug Henning spoke the magic words "ill-LOO-jun" when ... nothing
happened. It wasn't until approximately an hour later when a hot little Italian number
was displaying her mamo-riffic talents that I again dreamed of having milk sacks of my
own and my good luck charm revealed its true nature to me.
Oh, did I forget to mention that the money clip would only turn its possessor into
Italian women? Sorry, my bad. The money clip would only turn its possessor into
Italian women, which is exactly what it did to me on that fateful evening.
Although it looked rather painful, I've always thought the scene from
An American Werewolf in London was très cool and the way that transmogrifications
should be done. I wish I could say that my own transformation was something like
that, or even the least bit dramatic. But if I did I would be lying. It was rather
forgettable, truth told. I wished for boobs one moment, looked down and had them the
next. Boobs, hips, long dark hair, the entire package. All of a sudden I looked just
like that hot little Italian number in my rented video. That was it. No special
effects wizardry or howls of pain necessary. They were really nice boobs, though --
large, pert, round and full of silicone. None of that "safety-first" saline crap. No
sir, this girl was all class.
My first sessions with the money clip were of the predictable sort. I saved a lot
of money on video rentals in the coming weeks and spent a lot of time in front of the
mirror. It was a time of private elation and experimentation as I learned how to
harness the power of the magical money clip. What I learned was that the possibilities
for pleasure were almost limitless! If I was feeling classy, I could become young
versions of Gina Lollobrigida or Claudia Cardinale. When my taste ran a little spicier
Ornella Muti in her full Flash Gordon Princess Aura getup was just a wish away.
I learned fairly early on that the money clip did not like half breeds, however, a
fact that dismayed me slightly. This ruled most Italian Americans out of my pantheon
of pleasure. It's not that it was incapable of transforming me into these women; it
just didn't seem to enjoy doing so. This and the fact that the clip had a wicked
sense of humor were made crystal clear to me when any such transformation was imbued
with a strange disfigurement. For example, Liv Tyler had 11 toes, Sophia Coppola had
tufts of dark hair growing out of her nipples and Drea de Matteo was constantly
menstruating. These were mild, however, when compared to Madonna, for whom the clip
seemed to have a particular loathing. The Material Girl was always endowed with a
ten-inch penis, a fact I would later turn into substantial financial gain in the seedier
parts of the city, especially when Danny Bonaduce or Eddie Murphy was in town.
Despite the money clip's inherent racism, it actually taught me quite a bit about life
as the fairer sex. Take, for example, the time I went to watch Eve Ensler perform
The Vagina Monologues. This was some time after my initial shape-shifting
endeavors at home, and I was considerably bolder and more comfortable in my new
skins. I had since learned to leverage some of the perks afforded to the world's
most beautiful Italian women -- especially the celebrities. Nothing was forbidden to
me when in the skin of porn-star cum (ha!) politician Cicciolina or the always delectable
Isabella Rossellini. From the hottest clubs to the snootiest of wine and cheese
parties, the world was my oyster, replete with VIP treatment. It was a burden turning
away the inevitable advances of my hoards of would-be paramours, but we've all got
our crosses to bear.
On this particular evening I had chosen the visage of fiery vixen Asia Argento, always
a crowd pleaser. Of course, I received front row center seats at no cost -- it's absolutely
amazing what flashing a little celebrity areola to the security staff accomplishes. The
show was mildly interesting, although definitely aimed at a crowd with fewer Y chromosomes
than I was born with. I was actually beginning to nod off when Ms. Ensler (Did you know
that her stepson is Dylan McDermott? It's true!) said something that caught my attention
and sent my imagination into overdrive...while reciting some "Vagina Facts," she informed
the crowd in no uncertain terms that the clitoris has twice as many nerve endings as
the penis. Twice as many!
It was then and there that I made the informed decision to have sex with a lesbian as
soon as possible.
I watched the rest of the show in a trance, juggling Ms. Ensler's every word over and
over again in my head, hoping for further insight that I should bring to my virgin
lesbian expedition. The moment her monologue ended, I sprinted for the door and headed
for The Lexington, a well-known lesbian drinking hole. I quickly realized that,
while stunningly beautiful, the skin of Asia Argento was too quickly recognizable
and would likely draw a crowd. Not exactly the type of atmosphere conducive to seduction.
I opted instead to look like porn-star Aria Giovanni, an absolutely scrumptious and
curvaceous brunette with a reputation for liking both the pole and the hole.
As Jerri Blank would have put it, she's the type who'll "make your pinky all stinky."
Ms. Giovanni was one of those rare half breeds that the clip seemed to not mind so
much. She was not spared disfigurement entirely, however, as the clip burdened her
with a superfluous nipple on her right thigh. The truth be known, I rather enjoyed
the way it felt when I walked, especially when I was feeling pretty in silk or satin.
Anyway, I walked into The Lexington in the guise of Ms. Giovanni and cased the
joint carefully. I'd plenty of experience in the realm of female hunting, but this
was new ground for me. It was a given that, not only had most of the women here heard
my lines before, but most of them had probably used them at one point or another.
I needed to be at my best, despite the advantages afforded by my heaving bosom and
rhythmic, child bearing hips. It became apparent quite quickly that I would need
to apply a flannel filter to my vision if I was to come away with anything bearing
less body hair than my God given frame. I may be a sensitive, enlightened "90's" man,
but the idea of diving into a bush thicker than the wilds of Borneo puts me on edge.
I like to see what I eat, dig? As the Saturday morning cartoons of my youth put it:
Don't drown your food
In mayo or ketchup or goo (yuck!)
It's no fun to eat what you can't even SEE!
So don't drown your food!
Not fully understanding the way of the locals, I figured my best bet was to watch the
jukebox. Music is always a great ice breaker, and it was a given that the first lesbian
that didn't play Ani Difranco would be sure to appreciate my encyclopedic knowledge
of classic rock. If my years on this planet have taught me anything, it's that chicks
dig Geddy Lee.
My wait was not fruitless, as soon a Jordache clad blonde pressed E7 and L9.
More Than a Feeling by Boston was followed by
You Shook Me All Night Long, and I was in love. She was a little thick, sure,
but something about those American thighs had me coming back for more. I made my move.
The pick up was easier than I would have anticipated, probably because I was so absolutely
and devastatingly beautiful. No matter the cause, I supplied a few lines and had her
ready to join me in my private suite at the Motor-Inn three PBR's later.
Now, don't ever let it be said that men are the only ones lacking in foreplay etiquette.
This woman had me naked and prone within five words of the hotel room door locking
behind us. She took total and complete control of the situation, and soon had my
head stationed between her thighs (tellin' me no lies) and was demanding more.
Well, long story short, this G.I. Jane worked me so hard that, by the time my turn
came around, I was so exhausted that all I could do was sleep. Maybe it was the PBR's
I'd downed, but the nerve endings between my legs would just have to wait until the cramp
in my tongue loosened up. I rolled onto my back and fell into a deep sleep.
That night I dreamt of not only my teeth falling out of my head, but of driving backwards
through a dark tunnel, pursued by a cadre of tadpole shaped police drones. I wasn't
really sure what it all meant but I awoke the next morning to find my wallet, my hip
bracelet and my money clip gone. Robbed by a lesbian! Before I could even double my
pleasure with double the nerve endings!
Needless to say, I was angry.
I visited The Lexington many times after that, hoping to catch a glimpse of
my thief so that I might pummel her for perpetrating such a horrific crime...but she
never appeared again. I did find the number of Madonna sightings thereafter odd,
but I chalked it up to coincidence seeing as lesbians hate penis and all.