He wakes up and immediately grab his boobs. They’re so round and squishy and soft and fun, so he spends three hours squeezing and pulling and plumping to his hearts delight. He contemplates getting out of bed to start his day, only to spend another thirty minutes playing with his boobs before moving.
Once out of bed he stands in front of the mirror for an additional hour. He sucks in his tummy and stares at his ass and admires how beautiful every curve and dimple and freckle are. He’s captivated by his collar bone and seduced by his thighs and hypnotized by so much naked skin. He silently wonders how he will possibly get anything done, knowing this body is only clothes-deep.
While in the shower he realizes his normal dose of shampoo will not do. With more hair on his head than ever before he awkwardly scrubs and scratches, attempting to form an epic mohawk with no success. He notices a bottle labeled “conditioner” and remembers past girlfriends using said product. Reading the instructions carefully, he empties half into his hands and applies it to the ends of his hair, making sure not to wash it off until the allotted time has passed.
He grabs a razor and begins to shave his armpits. Ouch. Fuck. Ouch. He suddenly wishes he was a woman in France. Looking at his legs, feeling the same trepidation he felt before losing his virginity, he starts to drag the razor up his calf. Ouch. Fuck. Ouch. Goddamn. He leaves the shower to look for bandaids, knowing he will need them momentarily. He also begins to appreciate pants.
He contemplates shaving his vagina, only to realize that staring at it for the amount of time necessary to get the job done will make him resent it. He decides he will call in a professional if a trip to Brazil is, in fact, necessary. While washing his body with a wonderfully fluffy soapy sponge ball of magic, he falls in love with his new form all over again. He washes his boobs for forty five minutes, chalking it up to a very necessary breast exam. You can never be too clean, or careful, he thinks.
While wrapped in a towel and applying the fifth bandaid to his left leg, he remembers he forgot to wash out the conditioner in his hair. He rolls his eyes as he turns the shower back on and sticks his head under the faucet.
He has now been in the bathroom for two hours.
Suddenly, he feels a sharp and steady pain in his lower abdomen. It becomes more and more intense, to the point where calling an ambulance or a doctor or the surgeon general are valid options. He then notices blood running down his thigh. He calls 911 and tells the dispatcher an alien is living in his stomach and trying to escape via a bloody water slide located in his vagina. If Sigourney Weaver is not at his apartment in five minutes, he will surely die. The dispatcher tells him to take two Advil and calm down. Instead, he cries uncontrollably and eats four pounds of previously cooked bacon while in the fetal position.
Two hours of self-pity pass before he decides me must defeat the evil trolls inside his uterus. He finds a box of tampons and pulls one from its wrapper. How in the? He pushes the tampon out of it’s cardboard cylinder and dangles it in front of his face. Great, he thinks. He spreads his legs like a Chinese gymnast and pushes the tampon up towards the alien, making a face Beyonce’s publicist would be in charge of erasing from the internet.
With the bloody dam in place, he turns to his closet and begins to pick out clothes. He finds an itty bitty black thong and see-through bra, thinking back to page 9 of the latest Victoria Secret catalog. With his arms through the bra straps he attempts to latch the back straps together with no luck. He contorts his body and stretches his arms behind him, turning around violently in front of the mirror to see the now allusive yet oh-so important part of his back. Frustrated after fifteen minutes of spider monkey impressions, he throws the bra on the ground. All natural is where it’s at.
He slithers into a pair of pants and squeezes into a form fitting, plunging v-neck. Staring at himself in the mirror, his eyes immediately go to his boobs. He plays with them some more before realizing his stomach doesn’t look as good as it did without any clothes. What the hell? A different shirt, he thinks. That’s the key. Ten shirts later and he realizes he can’t think with an evil alien punching the walls of his stomach.
He’s now spent eight hours working to get ready, so he decides his work is done. He puts on sweats and a sweatshirt, resumes the fetal position, and begs for unconsciousness while holding both of his boobs.
He wakes up the next day, looks down, sees his penis and breathes an overwhelming sigh of relief. He realizes he probably shouldn’t try and decide what women should do with their bodies. Being trapped in one for 24 hours was tough enough.