John smiled, looking at himself as if through a mirror, the sunshine accentuating the morning stubble. He ran his hand down his cheek and along his chin. Instead of the familiar feel of hairs vibrating over the ridges of his fingers, like the needle of a phonograph over the vinyl grooves on a record, producing a sound he could both feel and hear, his hand glided over satin skin; a different sensation. Sensual. Almost erotic.

He glanced at the dark crystal resting on the table, bought on a whim in a bazaar on a nameless street in a village found on no map. He hadn’t believed the wizened, turbaned man but he had been up for a lark, what could it hurt? His wife too had been game, had looked at it as a sex toy. But it was no toy. He knew that now.

Outside the trees glimmered in the sun, a deep shade of purple.

He rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee. The steam hung over the surface rising lazily into the room, a strange aroma, not what he remembered. He took a sip and pulled back. It tasted different as well. Not like coffee at all.

John smiled in understanding. So all the sensations were different: colours, taste and smell. He hadn’t expected that. He reached for the dark crystal. It pulsated in front of him. Across the table, his hand did the same.

His wife spoke and his voice sounded different. He answered and hers too was changed.
Sound, sight taste and smell, all different, unique to each, a personal experience. Without the crystal how could one know? How could one guess? One person’s green was another’s purple, one’s coffee another’s ginger. Without a common frame of reference no one could know.

He wondered how long it would last, when they’d switch back, and wished he’d paid more attention.


Their eyes met and they both smiled.

Touch. How could he forget? That too was different. The nipples under his nightgown stiffened in anticipation and he rose to follow his wife into the bedroom; perhaps they’d have time for once more.
Sex as a woman was a totally different experience…