The Conversion Bureau: Time of the Season

Why did I take ponification? Better question is, why didn’t you? I don’t see any reason to stay human now. But yeah, I was one of the earlier ones. Before they ironed out the kinks. Back when they converted twenty-four-seven-three-hundred-sixty-five-and-a-quarter. I hear that now, people flock to the bureaus during the two-week poni-vacation (what a stupid pun) so that they can spend longer living on the bureau’s hospitality before actual conversion. But, when I went, it was just that time of the year. Anyway, the ponies and the bureau folks want me to tell my story to put everyone else at ease, and they said to start with why I took ponification.

Some people went because they were unemployed or in debt. Some went because they were in pain because of disease. And some because they lived in fear. But do you see the thread running through all of those reasons? They all got ponified to make their lives better. I just wanted my life to be different. I had a job, I lived in a secure neighborhood, and I had nothing wrong with me worse than flat feet. That’s not to say I had no problems. But they were all what we called “first-world” problems. The term was a derogatory one, meaning that your problems didn’t matter. I think they were real enough, but if I list them, you might not.

Oh, I had a few practical issues. Specifically that the PER was active close to my town. I didn’t want to be ponified against my will. Ironically, that made me want to get ponified more. Better safe in a bureau than randomly on the street with no anesthetic. I know, if I think that way, the terrorists win. I can’t care anymore.

So I went in. The paperwork was only half as bad as the usual government pile. From what I heard, if nothing went wrong with a ponification, they threw your file away. I don’t know if that’s true. They filed mine with the other active cases and gave me a room. The room was like a suite at a cheap hotel. It was crammed full of a lot of stuff just so they could list amenities. Bed, dresser, lamps, tiny fridge, TV—it was like being back at college. Well, why not? If this is the end of my human life, I’d like it to remind me of the happiest time.

After I was settled, they gave me my first orientation class, about the process itself. They told us that all we have to do is drink the knockout juice and they do the rest. I think the point of the class was to emphasize how bad ponification was outside of a controlled environment so that we would stay and complete the course. After that was dinner, which was my first chance to see ponies in the flesh.

There weren’t as many as I’d hoped. There were ten tables for humans and only one for ponies. They were all different colors and—well, you know what they look like, there’s plenty around today. But they all were being led around by bureau employees in their lab coats. They were mostly there to catch them if they fell or committed a faux pas, and to keep the unconverted from accosting them. But one person did. As a new pony was being led past our table, someone on the other side shouted, “Hey, you still human inside?”

The pony stopped and looked at him. I could tell that he was thinking about the question. “Yeah, man. Nothing’s gone. I’m the same.” But as he walked on he had a satisfied smile on his face. And I thought what everyone else did: how do we know he’s not just on some permanent high that makes him say that? A few seconds later, though, ponies were the last thing on my mind.

A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a Conversion Bureau and I say, “What is this, some kind of joke?” Corny, huh? But I mean, girls have friends and sometimes they have two that they hang out with and sometimes they have the three most popular colors of hair. It happens, OK? Blondie was do-able and Red looked like a party girl, but man, the dark-haired one made me want to thank god I had a dick.

OK, maybe I did have one good reason to re-spin the wheel on a new life as a pony. I was a total loser with women. I wasn’t a virgin; I’d managed to reel in a fish or two. But I’d never had that kind of steady girlfriend who gave great sex all the time with. Probably because I thought of it like reeling in fish. That’s the Zen koan of sex: the only way to win it is to stop thinking of it as a game. But I don’t work that way. I see a hot girl and I think about getting her into bed. Like the dark-haired girl.

Let me start with the amuses-bouche before I get to the main course. Skin: clear (probably lots of makeup, but who cares?) Ass: tight—she worked out. Eyes: Nice. Not a whole lot of ways to describe eyes. She did wear glasses, and some guys think that’s hot. I’m one of them. Legs: spreadable. Now that we’ve got that out of the way. . .

Yeah, I’m a tit man. No apologies. And brother, the funbags on her—well, I could fill this paragraph with synonyms for breasts, but my favorite is still boobs. It’s such a perfect word for them, isn’t it? From the side they look like b’s, and from the front they look like o’s. It’s almost a kind of onomatopoeia as well, right? They bounce and you hear a tympani in your head going, “Boooob. Boooob.” This girl didn’t have breasts or mammaries. She had boobs. The perfect size—just too big. They stuck out the sides and top of the halter she was wearing (Was that a joke? She’s going to turn into a pony so she puts on a halter?). I could just see the top of her cleavage. Her skin was tanned but those boobs were pale white. I love that paleness. It makes them stand out so much more.

I drifted from what I could see to fantasy. How big were her nipples? No, rather, her areolas. Did they puff up like little cupcakes when she was turned on? I hoped so. What I wanted to do to those things. I’d squeeze them with my hands and then trace around the sides with my fingers just to tease her. Then I’d lick the nipple and perk it up and listen to her moan. Then I’d take the whole thing in my mouth. I used to think that boobs were really sensitive and you had to be careful around them like a clit, but then a girlfriend told me to go to town and really suck the whole thing into my mouth. I could never get one of the dark-haired girl’s in, but I’d like to try. And—yes!—she’s sitting at a table across from me. I get to look at her boobs throughout the entire meal!

Discreetly, of course. I have a long history of looking at boobs without being detected. Unfortunately, the vast majority of people who have boobs won’t let you play with them. But looking’s free. I sat there with my mashed potatoes and pork chops and watched her spoon hers. I passed the salt and engaged in conversation with the people next to me, all the time pretending to stare into space. Like I said, real discreet.

Or so I thought. When I brought my empty tray back, she and her girlfriends were in line behind me. I heard one of them say, through the din of conversation, “. . . spent the whole meal staring at your chest.” Great. Well, the other side of the coin is that there’s also no penalty if you’re caught. Let her know I was looking at her boobs. In a few days, she wouldn’t even have them anymore.

That thought gave me pause. I wouldn’t be human anymore in a few days either. I’d live in a world of ponies. No more women. No more boobs. I never thought of changing my mind because of that. As I said, I didn’t expect a better life, just a different one, and that meant some sacrifices. Totally worth it. Still, I had a week. Maybe I could convince her that she’d better get with me while the getting is good.

On the off chance that any ladies read this, let me clue you in to some of the ways that men think. I know it seems that we’re dumb when we’re around you, but the fact of the matter is that our minds are going a mile a minute. We’re planning out our strategy with more intensity than Eisenhower on D-Day, trying to figure out how to woo you. Really, if you would just make things easier on us, we’d be a lot smarter.

I had a three-point plan for approaching her, since I saw three potential meeting spots. The line for a meal was one, the hall going to the bathroom was another. The third was during the one time when we had classes that ended at the same time. The food line was the most public spot, so that couldn’t be where I actually asked her, ergo that had to come first or second. The hall meeting wouldn’t be more than a few seconds, so that shouldn’t be first. That defined the plan. Make sure I’m behind her in line at breakfast, exchange names and backgrounds. Run into her in the hall that night and find something to compliment her on. Then get a hold of her the next day and propose a coupling.

Ridiculous, right? But that’s how males think. Human males, anyway.

In my case, the plan didn’t make it past step one. I was called into the main office the next day. A bureaucrat sat behind the desk.

“We’ve had a complaint registered against you for sexual harassment,” she said.

Ho, boy. I guess I really pissed her off. “OK, what’s the procedure for that? Do I get to defend myself?”

“Do you have any defense?”

“Sexual harassment is unwanted sexual advances, right? But I can’t know if they’re unwanted unless I make them first. I have to at least have one opportunity to get a no before it means no.”

She sighed. “We really don’t want to go through a whole big thing when both the complainer and the subject are only here for a week. And we can’t deny you your right to ponification. But we can make you take it at another bureau if we have to. So do us all a favor and just keep a low profile until you’re a pony. Once that happens, there’s no such thing as sexual harassment.”

I agreed and got out of there. So much for one last thrill before I take the pony plunge. I didn’t go to the common room that night. I just finished dinner and went to the bedroom they gave me. I was reviewing the notes I had taken that day when there was a knock on the door.