Confused by Design

Confused by Design

By

B. Tanner Fogle

Copyright 2013 B. Tanner Fogle

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

The Prologue of Doom

Chapter One: The Character, Setting and Dialogue Parts

Chapter Two: Fraught with Peril

Chapter Three: T-Minus Three

Chapter Four: T-Minus Two

Chapter Five: T-Minus One

Chapter Six: T-Minus Zero

Chapter Seven: The Dragon and the Demon

Chapter Eight: The Big Bounce Theory

Chapter Nine: The Girl Who Smokes

Chapter Ten: Social Collider

Chapter Eleven: Fear the Red Queen

Chapter Twelve: Life Taker

Chapter Thirteen: It’s Like a Pterodactyl

Chapter Fourteen: Dark Matter

Chapter Fifteen: The Sink

Chapter Sixteen: The Mirror

Chapter Seventeen: Oh, My Lorelei!

Chapter Eighteen: Sexy Sex and the Sexual Sexiness

Chapter Nineteen: Charlotte Psychology

Chapter Twenty: Patty Explains It All

Chapter Twenty-one: Logical Event Equation

Chapter Twenty-two: Matthew’s Unholy Alliance

Chapter Twenty-three: The Cave

Chapter Twenty-four: Meet Me Where the Fairytale Ends

Epilogue: The Final Edit

The Prologue of Doom

This is perhaps a true statement: if you have never considered what it might be like to have a vagina, then chances are you already have one, or you have never confronted the real possibility of losing your dick. Such is my dilemma; I face the possibility of not simply losing all of the distinguishing elements of my manhood but sacrificing them for true love.

I realize that the prospect of such a sacrifice may cause you to ask Why, for the love God, would you do such a thing? and if you happened to be male you would be asking this question while clutching your balls and grimacing at the thought. I understand, I did the same when I arrived at this conclusion, but like all stupid questions this one has an obvious answer I love her, and she is a lesbian. Maybe it’s not so obvious.

So, here I sit, in the waiting room of a very expensive gender reassignment surgeon’s office with a bundle of lawn mowing wages and grocery bagging tips, patiently waiting to be emasculated. You might ask, sitting next to me, waiting to have that birthmark that looks like a dog humping a lamppost removed How did this happen? You seem like a sober kind of guy, why pursue someone who is not even attracted to your gender? That’s a reasonable question that requires some resounding philosophical heft to answer; and any answer dealing with philosophy is usually a question. Why should it matter what gender you are if love is possible? And of course there’s the truth; she didn’t know I was male.

Here, I won’t go into the character, setting and dialogue parts of the story just yet, but I’ll give you the gist of it. It was fall semester, my first in college. There I met, or rather observed, a girl who was more or less a woman compared to my own maturity. I knew about her sexuality almost from the beginning but it never altered my fascination. We shared a school interests, activities, clubs that sort of thing. Never said a word to her, but she stood out in that special way that someone who you might see happiness in does. Just for the record, I didn’t really stand out, at least not yet.

Sexuality was of course a problem. We were both attracted to girls. The solution seemed obvious, become a girl. No, I didn’t rush right over here to have my junk mutilated. Give me some credit. I’m afraid that I did employ a course of some deception that allowed a relationship to be possible. That is, I dressed as a women, and convincingly so I might add. What I didn’t realize is that this deception would alter me in ways that extended beyond my appearance. My life (and my penis) would be irrevocably altered. I feel I have perpetrated a horrible lie. The solution may strike you as excessive but, the consequences of a broken heart far outweigh a maimed sex organ.

That was the short version, the Spark Notes if you will. Every book should have a captivating opening. Hopefully this statement from the protagonist was sufficiently intriguing. It touches the main emphasis of my story but certainly not its entirety, and definitely not the ending. If you are the impatient type the ending starts on page 315. Feel free to skip ahead but, I highly suggest reading the bulk of my story as it covers the full scope of my dilemma. Why is it that man’s greatest dilemma usually involves his true emotional awareness of love? Love is supposed to be good for you, like fiber, and like fiber, both create a lot of Shit for people. Also, Please forgive the harsh language, it’s a habit of my generation to over indulge in descriptive profanity. I guess when I see her again I will be a new man, so to speak. Can’t wait to see how it turns out.

Chapter One: The Character, Setting and Dialogue Parts

B. Tristan Flynn’s room was an assault of horrible colors. They (the colors) clung to the walls like dried resin and had a similar waxy glamor. The cause of this eyesore was a series of meticulously arranged collages, made of beauty magazine photos that were framed and hung on the walls. The whole effect gave the room a Technicolor Gone with the Wind sunset feel. Neither the room nor the beauty magazines were his. They were on loan from his Aunt who, in an act of philanthropy, provided Tristan with shelter and organic vegan meals.

Tristan slept drooling on a pink fringed, floral pattern pillow. He was dreaming of a not too distant future where zombies walked the earth with an appetite for lower, middle class white meat. He would spasm in his George A. Romero nightmare until the clock radio went off. The cheap door prize clock made a sound that combined the usual metallic warbling with a nationally syndicated conservative talk show. The experience of waking up was alien and invasively annoying. Today was the first day of fall semester, his first at Raven’s Wood Community College. Tristan was unusually spry this morning, he all but cartwheeled out of bed. He looked enthusiastically into the ether above him and addressed the air. I thought this book was going to be in the first person, he said.

Third person omniscient is a far more acceptable format. You can’t have a total understanding of this story without an unbiased perspective. Plus, it sounds better with a narrator, said the Narrator.

Yeah, well what kind of narrator uses contractions?

I never said I was a perfect narrator.

But it’s my story, a diary format would be more appropriate. The narrator did not respond. Tristan rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Plus, starting with the protagonist waking up is an overused devise, he said. You have to start in middle of the action. Tristan was opening and closing drawers not finding what he was looking for.

You don’t do anything, said the Narrator. You want me to start the story while you’re looking for socks?

How much did you tell them?

I told them about your room, said the Narrator.

The beauty magazines aren’t mine.

I made that clear.

Did you tell them why this is an important day? Tristan asked.

More or less, may I continue?

Might as well, you’ve come this far and it’s less that I have to do later. Tristan found what he was looking for and it was not socks.

Thank you. The Narrator cleared his throat.

Despite his unusual enthusiasm Tristan was still, by nature, compulsively lazy. He was quick to rise only to sit back down to light his morning cigarette. He had found the ashtray that he stashed in his sock drawer to keep his habit discreet. Tristan had taken up smoking last year and could still easily quit if he so chose.

Enough with the ‘public service announcement,’ Tristan said. Skip to the background. Forward the plot a little. Who is the protagonist and so forth? Establish character.

Brooke Tristan Flynn, a 22-year-old white (bordering on pasty) male born in the comfy hamlet of Raven’s Wood Maryland to parents Jenny Myles and Stuart Flynn (divorced 21 years but this was in no way the fault of the infant Tristan). Incidentally, for reasons that seem obvious, Tristan likes to be called Tristan and not Brooke. Growing up, Tristan was an average student. He was home schooled through most of his formative years. His mother entered the military at age 28 and became a spy for our side for ten years (no, really!) The constant moving around that has become associated with being a military brat created in Tristan an awkward Mendel like highbred of shyness and dry humor. A co-product of his isolation was a vivid imagination. Tristan had his father’s blue eyes, his mother’s dark hair and his grandfather’s chemical imbalance for depression.

Tristan Flynn had a unique problem; he was absolutely adequate at everything. He was not especially brilliant or arrested in any one subject or activity. He was a straight B student at life. Well, he was satisfactory in all subjects but one---love. He failed miserably at that. Tristan did everything well enough to get by because he had no passion whatsoever for anything.

Wow that seems a little harsh, Tristan said. I’m good at stuff!

Please do not interrupt me during my exposition.

Tristan had put out his cigarette and placed the ashtray back in the sock drawer. He was now getting dressed. Sorry, he said. Tristan had one leg in his pants.

Still interrupting, said the Narrator.

Sorry. The second leg was in place.

Tristan was also a profound dork who took interest in anything that might distract him from his own life. However, even these pursuits did not occupy him for more than a few years. At age thirteen he took up the gateway geek pastime of comic book collecting, becoming fascinated with men and women in tight clothing taking turns dominating one another.

Must you make it sound so dirty? Tristan was pulling his favorite red sweater over his head.

He was so enthralled with these transitory pursuits that his life up until present could be cataloged by his hobbies. Just for fun let’s correlate Tristan’s nerd life with his many failures at love.

I don’t see the fun in that at all, said Tristan. He walked across the room and sat down in front of the vanity mirror. It had an acrylic frame decorated with cherub like fairies.

That’s because I am holding up an unvarnished mirror to your life, said the Narrator. Tristan was combing his hair in front of the vanity mirror. He grimaced at himself.

Last names have been omitted for the protection of the innocent. In kindergarten Tristan met Lorelei. They played husband and wife once during a recess period, fostering the first real feelings of love in the young boy. In fact, she pretty much forced him into marriage after a game of kickball, setting him up for a lifetime of deferring to women for approval. Lorelei even gave him his first kiss…on the cheek. At the time Tristan was entranced by the Star Wars movies (the good ones) in fact he wore a Darth Vader t-shirt that day. His first taste of married life lasted only a year until he moved a few towns over when his mother remarried. This small instance of premature coupling would be the purest and most satisfying form of love that Tristan would experience to date.

In First grade, Tristan got stung by a bee and was escorted to the nurse by Robin, an adorable redhead with freckles. Tristan fell in love but was more enamored with the Transformers toy line. The toys were a bit complicated for the young boy so he often deferred to his mom to figure them out for him. While his mother was developing migraines determining how to reconfigure a Martini Porsche 935 Turbo into a robot, Tristan was learning to isolate and ignore his feelings.

In second grade Tristan overcame the budding shyness within him and called a girl on the phone. Terra was dressed like a porcelain doll and had the features to match. They talked for fifteen minutes and then never again. Tristan watched cartoons incessantly during this period feeling more comfortable with celluloid than the living and breathing. His favorites were Voltron and G.I.Joe.

Is it really necessary for them to know this information? said Tristan checking for nose hairs.

Knowing is half the battle, said the Narrator.

Ugh!

Third grade was Lisa, but Instead of pursuing a prepubescent romance Tristan buried his emotions in the melodrama of the Japanese inspired TV show Robotech. Fourth grade was Karra, the distraction was the Saga Genesis. Fifth grade was Dianna and the rise of comic book collecting. After that came home schooling and the big freeze or the great infatuation blackout. During this extended alone time geek obsessions evolved; comics to manga, manga to anime, anime to video games and so on until his distractions had become his principle reference to life. From an early age Tristan had always been sensitive to love and never pursued it to his satisfaction, until he was isolated from it completely but, College was just a few hours away.

How was that for plot advancement and character profiling? asked the Narrator.

Very good, said Tristan, you have set it up quite nicely for me to fall in love and be humiliated in the forthcoming pages.

Tristan had completed dressing and took a long look in the mirror. He was fairly tall, fairly slender and terminally average. He sighed to himself.

Tristan was briefly tangled up in the hanging strings of purple beads that separated his room from a small hallway. The hallway connected his room, a storage room on the opposite side and a center staircase to the lower floor. He flailed his arms creating a small tornado of purple plastic beads. After a few mumbled curses he opened the first floor door and entered the kitchen. It wasn’t until that moment that he was exposed to the full force of daylight. He physically winced with all of the repulsion of a vampire then sat down at the kitchen table where his breakfast was prepared. His Aunt Alice had already left for the day but she was kind enough to have laid out one of her homemade colon buster muffins and a pot of organically farmed coffee for her nephew’s nutritional benefit. The muffin had a certainty of defecation index of t-minus 120 minutes, 119, 118, 117… Tristan finished his socially responsible however, flavorfully repugnant, breakfast, grabbed his school crap, and was out the door. His enthusiasm survived breakfast.

He backed his gold 2004 Chrysler PT Cruiser out of the garage, a car that his friend’s affectionately called his old man car because of its popularity among retirees. Yes, Tristan had friends. You’ll meet one in a second. The garage door was closing when Tristan slammed on the gas. At forty miles an hour in reverse the car exited Tristan’s driveway, crossed Bradbury Street and entered the driveway on the opposite side. Because the second driveway was covered in gravel the cruiser kicked up a wake of stones that showered the front yard. The car came to an abrupt stop. Outside the passenger door Patty was seething with anger. She opened the door.

You know my parents hate it when you do that, you asshole! Patty took a seat then slammed the passenger door with all the strength she could muster.

Then maybe your parents should get your car fixed so I don’t have to drive your ass everywhere, Tristan said.

Maybe you should get your face fixed.

What’s wrong with my face? He sincerely wanted to know.

It’s too round.

Patty was looking very Patty like today. Her mid-shoulder length brown hair was brushed but not too brushed. She was wearing jeans and a bright red t-shirt. The t-shirt had in bold yellow print the hammer and sickle icon of the defunct United Soviet Socialist Republic. Under the symbol was the phrase Bourgeois Poo. Tristan didn’t know what the hell the phrase meant. In fact, he suspected that Patty made her own nonsense t-shirts for the express purpose of making other people feel stupid for not getting it. He has not, as of yet, found the devises and materials necessary to prove his theory.

Drive on chauffer. Patty waved with the back of her hand like an angry Pope, gesturing to the road ahead.

I love it when you speak French, Tristan said.

I love it when you shut the hell up and drive.

Patty, Patty, Patty. Patty was the smartest person Tristan knew, and Patty agreed with him. She was also his oldest friend, since they were eight. Before his grandparents moved to Florida, leaving the house to his aunt, Tristan would visit periodically. Since Patty was the only person of comparable age within a three mile radius they quickly became friends. Like Tristan she was an only child, the daughter of psychotherapist and a pediatrician. The professions of her parents respectably insured that both her childhood and her adolescence were scrutinized to the point of supreme anxiety. Most of this anxiety was taken out on her friends but, especially Tristan who, more often than not, proved he could take a higher level of abuse. Give it too.

You’re in a pissy mood, said Tristan. Has the menstrual wizard cast his monthly spell on your girl parts? Patty didn’t answer but her pinched, red face suggested that she was preparing for an onslaught. Tristan thought it best to start driving. She was less likely to hit him if it meant endangering her own life in a car accident.

The cruiser pulled out of the driveway and descended the hill of Bradbury Street. Tristan and Patty lived on the outskirts of Raven’s Wood. A place affectionately called the Raven’s Nest because of its abundance of straw and corn fields. There were rural and suburban populations here and there amongst the fields. Driving down Bradbury they passed two-story Christmas card houses, all white aluminum siding and pitched roofs. The houses were surrounded by large lawns, the kind of lawns that required riding mowers to keep up appearances. Tristan knew about lawns, it was one of his part-time jobs to mow them. For him Raven’s Wood was a nice place to periodically grow up during visits. To Patty it was bumpkin hell.

Why are you so damn quiet? Patty’s voice erupted from pure silence.

I just saw you like eight hours ago. What’s to talk about? The only thing that’s happened since then is me sleeping and getting dressed. You want to have a conversation about getting dressed? I prefer the one leg at a time method of putting on pants, how about you Patty?

I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm this morning, she said.

I’m not in the mood for your face this morning, said Tristan.

You are so entirely hopeless it defies scientific principles. Your hopelessness could reverse gravity.

What the hell is wrong with you all of the sudden? he asked.

You are too damn quiet.

I thought we settled this.

That’s not what I’m talking about, Patty said.

Then for the love of all that’s good and holy, what are you talking about?

The cruiser turned onto state road 66. The large lawns turned into larger fields of corn and yellow-green flat grass. Houses became brick objects and chrome metal silos in the distance. Sixty-six would take them to Raven’s Wood proper and the college.

You want to know what’s wrong? Patty was frustrated. Tristan could tell and relished in it.

Yes. Please. I would love to know. Enlighten me.

Patty turned full in her seat to address him directly. You are what’s wrong.

Your face is what’s wrong.

Okay, the face thing is done! Moving on. I am concerned for your wellbeing.

My wellbeing is…well. Tristan was alternating his attention between the road and his friend.

You’re in denial, Patty said.

What does my wellbeing have to do with anything?

You’re timid.

What?

You heard me.

I’m timid? he asked.

Yes.

Tristan shrugged. Is that it or should I surmise the rest?

Patty softened her posture and tone, an attempt at sympathy. You know I love you?

Are you dying?

We’re all dying.

Are you dying soon?

She returned to being frustrated but, this time it was the calm sort, like the moment just before low and high pressure systems collide to form hurricanes. No. Listen to me. You know how you are now?

Like, right now or the existential now?

Now now.

I’m aware of myself now, he said.

Okay, The ‘you’ that is now, is not the ‘you’ that will be later.

I thought we weren’t talking about the existential?

We’re not, Patty said. This is what I’m trying to say. You…suck…at being a person.

F#*@ you! You’re paying for gas!

Tristan turned his head to Patty for second. There was a trench on either side of the road for snow to pile up. The car was veering for the one on the right. The car tilted 30 degrees running on the lip of the embankment. Patty braced for impact by planting her feet on the glove compartment. Tristan jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. The cruiser heaved back on to the road with a jolt and screeched violently back into its lane.

Jesus, you take criticism hard, said Patty.

It’s not every day I’m told that I suck by my best friend, Tristan said. Did you scuff my glove compartment?

Patty took a deep breath. Yep, she was still alive. Tristan reclined in his seat. They were both becoming at ease again.

I don’t mean that you suck, said Patty, but, you have a tendency to suck.

Yeah, that sounded better. Tristan tried to unclench his hands from the steering wheel. He found it difficult.

Listen, when you are with me or, your scant other friends, or your family, you can be funny, quick and interesting. These are all of the things that a complete person of low attractiveness needs to be. But, when you are around strangers you clam right the hell up. You say absolutely nothing, like you’re completely paralyzed.

I’m shy around other people. What is wrong with that? Tristan managed to peel his left hand off the wheel. His fingerprints were now permanently stamped in the vinyl.

College is about being around ‘other people,’ Patty said. You will be completely outside of your comfort zone and I don’t want you to freak out.

I haven’t had a panic attack in years, Tristan said.

But the last one you had was in school. You need to be comfortable talking or the first time you are called upon to answer a question you’ll start quivering and stuttering like a palsy victim. You’ll be embarrassed and discouraged and I don’t want that for you.

Tristan smiled. There would be a hug in Patty’s future. Unless of course she scuffed his glove compartment, then she would die horribly.

I don’t have to answer the question, Tristan said.

It’s bound to happen eventually. Sooner or later you will have to participate.

Where is that written?

In the F@#%ing syllabus! God, you are so…innocent!

Your face is innocent.

In Raven’s Wood the transition from rural spaciousness to civilization was not gradual. One moment you could be staring blankly at the ongoing expanse of corn fields, accented by the occasional piece of farm equipment, and the next moment be overwhelmed by the number of Starbucks franchises. Today Tristan was paying attention. He alternated his vision from the road to the dense forest that surrounded the town. This was the Wood in Raven’s Wood. September was an odd month, he thought. There is moment in mid-September where summer had not completely ended and fall had not entirely begun. Weather was warm in the day and chilly at night. Flowers still bloomed and single orange leaves spotted the heads of maple trees. It looks like transition was the word of the day.

The following conversation will seem to have no purpose, but in realty cements the relationship between Tristan and Patty.

How is your Aunt, Patty said?

Didn’t see her this morning, Tristan said. She must have gone over to John’s."

God. Your Aunt gets laid more than you do.

Well, she had a head start, she’s like forty, said Tristan.

I wasn’t talking about total accumulated porking. I meant since you’ve been here, said Patty.

I just got here.

You’ve been here like three months.

The only girl I know here is you.

You need to put that right out of your head.

It never really entered it, Tristan said.

Mine neither and that’s the problem, Patty said.

Why is that a problem?

Because I have really low standards. You’ll probably die alone.

Patty and Tristan kissed once when they were fourteen. It was wrong, so very wrong. Tristan described the sensation as kissing a little sister. Patty described the sensation as kissing her pet Cocker Spaniel. Tristan was offended. Patty was fine with that. They will never speak of it again.

They had driven into town. Raven’s Wood was what some refer to as a historical district. This phrase is usually in reference to that town in the middle of other towns with an abundance of antique stores. It did have that appearance, but the word town really doesn’t serve. Raven’s Wood was a small city with all of the conveniences that a city provides. Its historical appearance of red brick and mortar buildings, marque shop fronts and cobblestone sidewalks exemplify the small town that Norman Rockwell envisioned in his paintings.

Historical was an accurate adjective. If you believed the people who lived there, every building had, at one time, been shot at during the Civil War. From the stories the residents tell you would think that musket balls and cannon shot were the only things keeping the buildings erect. Looking at some of them you might believe it. Often buildings were paint chipped, suffered from wood rot or grown over with ivy. Modern steel and glass monoliths could be found towards the center of the town but had enough accumulated grime and weather damage to blend in with the quaint aesthetic. All in all, the town looked old, felt old, and like its human counterpart, just didn’t give a S@#% anymore. It was what it was; kind of homey.

It took thirty minutes to park. It took twenty to reach the college because some F#$%ing genius thought it would be good idea to build the parking structure mile away. There was a logical reason. The structure was built in the 1970s to accommodate the growing population of the town and there was a premium of sights on which to build. Neither Tristan nor Patty cared about the historical perspective.

The college was old as dirt. The buildings looked like Hitchcock had cast them as background for a psychological thriller. There were four buildings in total, each with three stories a piece. Three of the buildings were mostly white with some indeterminate vine that crept up the sides. In spots the vine had uplifted the wood paneling and dislodged windows. The only modern building was the library. It had large viewing windows, fresh paint and automatic doors. On top of the library was a flashy green glass dome. In the morning the dome bathed the quad in a blanket of spectral green light. The quad was a simple grass field with a single maple tree at its center. This is where Tristan and Patty stopped before parting company.

Now is as good a time as any for a cigarette, Tristan said.

You and your stupid smoking. Patty was rifling through her backpack.

Tristan lit his cigarette and breathed in deep. In that moment he was utterly content with the world. Patty pulled out her printed schedule and perused it quickly. She turned to her friend.

Okay, I got Spanish two in fifteen, she said. One more thing before I throw you to the lions.

Tristan blew the smoke from his lungs in aggravation. The affect was not unlike a steam whistle blowing. Jesus, what now, he said?

Listen, I don’t want you to make a big deal out of today, Patty said. Your expectations are too high. You are too quick to make college out to be a romantic life changing occurrence. For God’s sake it’s community college! It’s just an extension of high school.

I didn’t go to high school.

Well, you’ve seen enough movies to know it sucks. Don’t think that your whole life is going to change on the first day or even the first year.

How do you know what I expect from college? he asked.

Because I know you. You’re a sap! You think you’ll have this great epiphany that will alter your perceptions, that you will discover meaning in the universe, or that you will fall in L@#$.

Why does love look that way when you say it? he said.

Look like what? What are you talking about? she asked.

Never mind. Look, I have no illusions about college so be comforted.

Lying to Patty was like lying to your mother, she knew it was