Johnny woke up one day with breasts. He wasn't happy about this because he didn't want to be a she-male. Out in the forest, naked androgynes danced and gambolled through the trees, like violet-clad fairies in a modern dance piece I once saw.
      Johnny was a butch boy, you see. His idea of a good time was watching Sunday afternoon football on a rainy day. He had no intention of going to Reitman's and buying a black lace brassiere. In fact, he phoned up many doctors to see what they could do to remove his breasts. While outside, androgynes pranced through the meadow.
     "Am I being punished? Am I really only dreaming?"
     "Hey man, don't you realize that we're all both masculine and feminine?! What is the big deal?," his feminine side asked him, inside his head.
     Little did he know, but every other male in his city had also woken up with breasts. Androgynes had landed in a space-ship whilst everyone was sleeping. With magic powers and fairy dust, they worked their alchemy on the sleeping yo-yos. Tough athletes and frightening drug dealers all woke up with firm, taut breasts in the morning. Even night workers who hadn't been to bed yet sprouted fat, saggy titties when they weren't looking.
     Eventually, one brave male soul, (namely Johnny), ventured out of the house. He had to buy fags, you see. Yes, yes, he was afraid how people would react to the sight of his boobs. In his head, he thought up excuses to tell people, especially in the showers at the gym. He didn't want muscular hunkorettes to get a boner when they saw his Marilyn Monroe jugs.
     "Hey faggot, how long you been taking hormones?," he imagined they would say.
     "Come closer, and I'll suck your boobies," was what he distinctly did not want to hear.
     Johnny timidly moved up to the Milk Store counter. He held a huge blue and white gym bag in front of his chest. Behind the counter stood platinum blonde Letitia, the six foot drag queen stripper from the gay bar Traxx. Which was bigger, her bouffant poofy hairdo or her $5000 tittie implants?
     "Hi, sailor. What can I do for you today, big boy?"
     Letitia was very bold. She didn't worry about being punched out because she was trained in self-defence.
     "Give me some smokes. Large. Any brand will do," said Johnny with a quavering crack in his basso-profundo voice.
     "Is that a bar-bell in your gym-bag or are you just happy to see me?," lisped Letitia. He/she brushed away a curl from her eyes while blood rushed to his/her groin. "Momma sure likes what she sees," he/she cooed.
     Normally, Johnny would have punched out a queer who came on to him. But, because of the strangeness of the situation, he was all flustered. Down went the gym-bag crashing to the floor. Letitia's eyes bugged out of her head.
     "Goodness, girl! Did Dr. Smith do your boobs too?! They're fabulous! Can I feel them?"
     Before Johnny could slam his fist into that dip-shit's face, Letitia had her paws all over Johnny's perky new hooters.
     "Get your hands off me, you fucking old queer."
     And now he got to say his pre-rehearsed line. "These aren't tits. I've just been doing too many bench-presses at the gym."

Letitia: "Sure, Pinocchio. But why is your nose growing?"

Johnny: "Give me the fags, you fag, and shut your fucking mouth."
     Suddenly, in through the front door, flew an adult-size androgyne wearing a diaphanous rose-coloured fairy costume.

Androgyne: "Johnny, Johnny! Simmer down. Homophobia is so uncool. We gave you breasts to teach you a lesson."
     One, two, three, four, all the way up to ten, there appeared a whole herd of androgynes, their breasts and phalluses flapping in the breeze singing, "There's No Business Like Show Business". Since this was Letitia's favourite song, he/she applauded to beat the band.
     "There's nothing like a bunch of queers at a party," Letitia laughed. "What do you do for an encore?"
     But the androgynes ignored Letitia, concentrating instead on tearing off Johnny's clothes plus their own. Bertha, the oldest of the lot, stood there with her breasts sagging down to meet his/her erect penis. Thick red veins lined the engorged member.
     Johnny's wee-wee hung down to his knees. Fifi, the skinny one, fondled Johnny's firm buttocks and whispered, "Seems we're all alike. We all have do-do's and real titties. We've come down to Earth to teach humanity a lesson."
     In a flash, the androgynes were gone and Johnny stood there dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, once again. Emblazoned across his breasts, on the shirt, were the words "KILL FAGS. VOTE REPUBLICAN." (Johnny was born in the American South, you see.)

Letitia: Holy shit! I must have had an acid flashback."
 But Johnny was in no mood to discuss the matter.

Johnny: "Give me my change and shut the fuck up."
     He pulled Letitia closer by the scruff of the neck and belched his nicotine breath in his/her face. "You're lucky you're still alive," Johnny spat out.
     By this time, it was 8 a.m. and Johnny didn't want to be late for work. He rushed to the front door of his apartment building. Charging up the street to catch the bus were scores of men in suits and boys in jeans, all holding gym-bags in front of their chests. Some were looking around furtively whilst others discreetly brushed away crocodile tears.
     In the trees in front of his building, Johnny saw misty shapes dancing around. They were not quite like ghosts but more like shadowy films of smoke. Falsetto voices rang out all around. A high C almost burst his eardrums. "Androgynes are lots of fun. Queers are all the rage," the chorus trilled.
     Johnny jumped into a fighting pose and shadow boxed with the ether around him. The only response he got was munchkin-like tittering.
     Inside his apartment, Johnny frantically looked around the bedroom for his girlfriend's bra. He remembered she had called a few days ago, saying she had left it behind when they last made love. Since macho men like Johnny only get off on big-breasted women, he wasn't sure the sexy pink bra would fit him. The cat had chewed up his measuring tape so he couldn't be sure of his new measurements.
     After his morning shower ritual, he sat down on the bed in front of the mirror and looked at his new body. Big-lug mitts fondled the soft breast tissue.
     "It never felt like this when Marsha licks my nipples," he said to no one in particular. Hormones charged through his blood stream. Johnny could no longer control his hand. Semen erupted and spewed all over his belly.
     As he got up to take another shower, he saw androgynes circling in the air above his bed, laughing and giggling like tiny cherubs.
     "Oh, Johnny, shame, shame, shame!," they clicked and hiccuped.
     What Johnny didn't know was that he had company. As the Earth turned, men were waking with breasts in China and Africa and Sweden and everywhere else. Wives were stretching and yawning beside husbands with breasts bigger than their own. Phone lines were buzzing all through the planet. Embarrassed heterosexuals were calling in sick in Iceland and Bulgaria. Transsexuals were cancelling unnecessary appointments with their plastic surgeons. She-males were finding their breasts were softer and more life-like. Truck drivers were looking through the Yellow Pages and ringing up psychiatrists. Female-to-male TSs were finding they were back to square one after expensive mastectomies. Some men with breasts were even jumping off viaducts and causing twelve car pile-ups.
     Earth had changed irrevocably. Everywhere you turned, men were shopping for brassieres. A new style of butch-looking leather bras were designed for beer drinking masculine men.
    Consciousness-raising sessions were springing up so men could deal with this new dilemma. She-male hookers went out of business because the competition was now too fierce. Effeminate gay-boys with horrendous hooters got mistaken for real women. Homophobia, as a concept, became too confusing. Straight men everywhere started experimenting with performing fellatio and the majority found that they enjoyed it. Drag queens dated movie stars and got their pictures in the paper.
     In the War Room at the Pentagon, Generals with 44D cups got into arguments about lingerie and forgot all about clandestine military operations in South America. Some newspapers went out of business because there was no more bad news to print.
     The spaceship of androgynes was secretly hiding on the roof of Johnny's building. As peace and harmony settled over the whole planet, Johnny and his girlfriend, Marsha, engaged in 69 on his bed.

Marsha: "Darling, I've decided I love the taste of your breasts so much, that I want to have an affair with a woman."
     Johnny hadn't cried since his mother died ten years ago.
     Off to the Pleaides to work some more magic, the spaceship full of androgynes lifted off quickly from the roof. The whirring of the saucer drowned out the sound of Johnny's weeping.

Marsha: "Dearest, what's come over you? I've never seen you this way."
     "You don't love me anymore," he sobbed. "Give me back the eyeshadow I lent you."
     The androgynes twittered and danced a lilting ballet inside the ship, as Earth soon became a round, bumpy bowling ball far off in the distance. "Mission accomplished," they sang out in four-part harmony.