Culture Shock by Ginger Simpson Page A

and it wasn't even eight a.m.
    Cynthia rubbed her thigh. "I've slept in these same clothes for two days now, and I'll bet if I check, I have a bruise from sleeping on your stupid keys. It sucks to be you." Unshaven, and grizzled, she sauntered toward the door.
    Frustrated by the faulty door lock, she mumbled inaudibly under her breath. As she walked out, she looked over her shoulder. "I'll be baaack," she declared in a great Arnold Swartzenegger impression.
    Despite the stress, Alex chuckled as he went back into the bedroom and scanned his clothing options for the day. Flipping through the hangers, he grimaced. Didn't the woman own anything but dresses?
    Finally, he found some slacks, but feared the dress code didn't allow them. He pulled out a little black number with a white collar. All he had to do was stand it for eight hours. Wearing women’s clothing couldn't be worse than an overnight stake-out. He draped the dress on the bed, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While he waited for the water to warm, he glanced in the mirror. "Cripes, what a mess. And I don't have the first idea how to fix this hair. She'll have to show me."
    In the shower, Alex wanted to languish in the warmth and explore his new body, but unfortunately his knowledge of the hot water supply precluded it. Letting his hands slip slowly over her firm breasts and down her abdomen, he gently lathered every inch and crevice of her delicate skin. Somehow, it just wasn't the same. His actions were way too perverted and did nothing for him. He doubted it did much for her either.
    After showering, Alex wrapped a towel around his waist. A glance at the mirror showed a problem. Although alone, he caved to the need for unexplained modesty and re-adjusted the wrap over his chest. Then opening the medicine cabinet, he was confronted with all types of face creams, lotions, and perfumes. He shut the door, refusing to imagine what all that crap was for.
    Back in the bedroom, he dropped his towel and left it where it fell. The black sheath proved to be harder to put on then it looked, as he awkwardly wriggled his body until it fell down past his hips.
    He opened the closet and surveyed his shoe options. Tennis shoes? No, that wouldn't fly with business attire. He gaped at the row of high heels. "No fuckin' way," he mumbled.
    Believing he wouldn't fall and break his neck in something less elevated, he opted for a pair of sandals with a short, block heel. He glanced at the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. The dress didn't look quite right. What had he overlooked? He caught sight of the brassiere slung across the dresser. "Shit, now I have to start over!"
    He tugged the dress up and over his head and tossed it on the bed. Looking at the bra, he tried to figure the best way to hook it. He'd always had a knack for undoing them, but he had no idea how in the hell to put one on. After several tries he succeeded. He shimmied into the dress a second time, then, turning from side to side, checked the mirror again. This time, he looked just fine, but he understood the gravity issue women worried about. Cynthia definitely had nice breasts, but the uplift from the bra made a difference in the fit. God, what was wrong with him, thinking about how her tits looked in a dress? He might be inhabiting her body, but somewhere inside lurked her thoughts.
    No sooner had Alex finished, Cynthia appeared in the doorway. "Well, I'm ready…I think."
    She was a mess. Pieces of tissue dotted numerous razor cuts on her cheeks and she had combed his hair all wrong. "Gees, Cyn, take it easy on my face. Should I call 911 and ask for a transfusion?"
    "Very funny, Alex. I've been shaving my legs for years, but this was a lot tougher than I expected."
    "Come here and let me show you how to comb my hair. That looks ridiculous."
    "Can I help it if you have unmanageable hair? I'm not used to dealing with waves."
    Her gaze rested on him. "And, what do you plan on doing with