You decide to go into the tent marked 'SCRUFFY, THE DOG FACED BOY'. You quiet the uneasy feeling inside you until it is barely a whisper. Collecting yourself, a smile begins to form and excitement washes over you instead. If Yosef could see you, he would be so proud. You pull back the canvas flap and enter. The tent is dimly lit, and it takes a second for your eyes to adjust. When you can see, your gaze rests on a figure sitting in the middle of the room.
There is a man seated in a comfortable looking chair, resting his arms on a card table. He is reading something, and when you enter, his eyes dart upwards. He folds his newspaper closed, and you appraise each other in silence. The first thing you notice is that the man is very hairy. Although many people would say the same of your new body, this is on a different level. The man's face is completely covered in short black hairs, leaving only his chocolate brown eyes, mouth, ears, and ridge of his nose bare. You had seen this before, on daytime television and in books, it's some kind of medical condition. Scruffy (if that is truly his name) is probably in his early 30s, although you can't make out any telling wrinkles or callouses through the forest of hair. You think he might be Latin or Middle-Eastern from the color of the latte-colored skin on his fingers. He is dressed in plain but neat clothing, a maroon dress shirt and pleated khakis. He looks to be moderately built, the sleeves and front of his shirt suggesting muscle tone. "Hola, hello," he says, his voice a mild, even pitch. He has a bit of an accent, too. You walk over to him, trying to hide your nervous excitement. "Hey there."
You shake his hand, observing that Scruffy's neck and collarbone are very hairy too. It occurs to you to ask for the man's name, his real one. "I'm [name]. What should I call you?" The man rolls his eyes upward. "The pendejo who runs this place put that out there... pinche culero. It was his mother who fuck the dog, not mine." He releases your hand. "I am Ernesto. Good handshake, muy fuerte." Your host gestures to a chair in the corner of the room, and you drag it to the card table with some effort. You can't help but let out a breathy yelp as your hard nipples rub against the sheer fabric of your bra. God, you feel hot. The ring calls to you. "Okay there?" You nod. "Sorry, I... ehm... sprained my ankle today. Don't mind me." You place the chair down and sit carefully to avoid further outbursts. You're not sure what to say, but Ernesto starts for you.
"You come from far away?" You shake your head no. "Just from the city, an hour away. I'm not sure why. A whim, I guess," you lie. Ernesto docks his wooly chin in his palm. "No, you know why you came. Es obvio, [name]. You want to stare at us freaks," he says. Your dick twitches a little when he says the word 'freaks'. You shake your head in protest, blushing. You need to go, need to use your ring NOW. You try to restrain yourself, instead changing the subject. "How do you like things here?" Ernesto frowns a little and speaks harshly. "No one likes it here, estúpido. Just what we have to do to make a living." "Sorry," you start, "dumb question. I wasn't expecting this to be one on one. What do you call that anyways?" You tap your own face in pantomime. "They call it Hypertrichosis," Ernesto says, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "But I call it fucking annoying." He sounds well-rehearsed, like he is reading from a script. "I was born with it. For some people it goes away when they get older, for me, no." You surprise yourself when you respond. "Do you wish it would go away? Like magic?" Ernesto's face tenses. "Of course, it's not an easy thing to look like me. Don't be an asshole." You smile. "I can make that happen," you say. "In fact, I want to look like you." Ernesto's face sours, and he points at the door with a hairy finger. "You better go, hombre. I don't need this shit."
Before he can move, you decide to go ahead and swap right here. You've already lost control of the situation, anyways. You close your eyes and kiss the ring, thinking of Ernesto's condition. When you open your eyes...