I'm biking near Woodside, California, past fields and racehorse-paddocks. Cars behind me honk, wanting me to go their speed. They can go around. Only one car dawdles: a cop car ahead of me I fear to pass. I finally do, reluctantly.

Come to curves with gravel and sand on the road. I slip too much, slow and pull onto the shoulder. There's a bike path up a hill to the left, should I take it? Goes further from the lake, but I do.

Below, on the road, a car has stalled. Two teenage girls yell "HELP!" Yeah, sure, like I can carry them in my bike basket? Their yells sound a bit theatrical and I feel suspicious of them, though the younger one, about 14, is cute. I don't want to backtrack and try to help them.

Then I see Jeff my hippie gardener friend, jogging by on the road; I go on, confident he'll help if they're not faking.

Soon arrive at a mansion that's a UC Santa Cruz dorm inside. Jeff G catches up, says the road-screamers were legit and he plans to house them overnight in my family's home, a few miles away in San Mateo, while their car's being fixed. I don't care; I don't live there any more. They can have it.

My old dorm room has three women living in it now. They all call themselves Broads. The word's been reinvented recently: it was a mildly rude word for women, in old movies... but now it means a short stocky butch lesbian or bisexual woman, and no one else.

Four of us in a room made for one? A bit crowded, to put it mildly. I say warily "It's a surprise to find you here." Two of the three say they must leave soon--good.

The third looks like my gay friend Rose, but way bigger: near as tall as me, and twice my weight. She doesn't care that there's only one bed. "Let's share it," she says. "I want to fuck you anyway." Oh.

I'm reluctant, though my only real objection is that I recall, in the dream, that I came just before falling asleep, and might be sore having sex again RIGHT away. Still, I'd be willing to fuck that girl who yelled for help. Jeff invited her in, she's running around the mansion. But she's way under age--who am I, Roman Polanski? No... I better settle for what I can get.

So I go with the flow and fuck Rose the Broad. My penis seems much longer than normal; but when I measure it, its apparent size shrinks from around 50 cm to a mere 36 cm, which is average. (Cocks are now all metric. 36 cm = 14" or so! And I think in the dream that's average! Though I can sooner believe in an epidemic of giant cocks than America going metric...)

The physical change is less weird than my crude, casual attitude about sex--in waking life I'm quite shy and particular. I wasn't my waking self; I didn't even recall that self.

Later, a bully threatens me--a bit shorter than me, but much Broader, much tougher. I fear to fight him... till I discover THE MIRRORS. All of us wear big metal mirrorlike belt-buckles, concave one way. They're like funhouse mirrors. Only the distortion doesn't show up in your reflection: these buckles distort your real body! The bully's buckle makes him look stockier and shorter than he really is.

Mine, however, is even trickier: it makes me look BOTH shorter and thinner when turned horizontally, and I've had it there my whole life, unaware! I thought this was the real me. But now, I twist the buckle to vertical, wondering if I too will suddenly find myself short but strong, able to fight this muscular lump.

No. Instantly, I'm BOTH taller and beefier--nearly a giant. I gained in ALL dimensions--no trade-off at all! From his look of shock it's obvious he's never seen a change like this either.

But without the curved mirror-distortions, they're barely recognizable. The Broad I fucked is much less Broad; others are more. They're all so different I'll have to relearn names, faces, bodies, relationships...

I can't even recognize me. WHICH me? Is either me me? What if I take my mirror off--who will I be? And after a lifetime shrunken, all my instincts distorted to fit... I may not be able to fill my own true body.

On the other hand, would I have even asked such questions till I grew? I seemed to live in the moment then. Freed of buckle-distortion, maybe more than my body has grown.

And you? What happens to you when you turn your buckle? If you ever do.

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