City Boy, Farm Girl

This was one of the options from the poll. I couldn't get it (or the picture) out of my head! 

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Dear Sir & Madam,

I am writing to you today regarding your son Tyson.

When he first came to work at Willow Creek Pastures, I must admit I didn’t know what to make of him. A lot of city boys come out to the country thinking they want to work on a farm, but they don’t hardly ever last. Usually, pretty soon after they start, they realize it ain’t what they thought and quit to go off to college or some other place where they’ll never have to do hard work ever again. So when Tyson came along, I figured he’d eventually go back to school and become an accountant or some other damn thing. But no! He stayed on and worked hard, and he was the best damn cow-milker we had.

See, we don’t use those big ol’ milking machines you see in the movies. Our cows are special, so we still do it old school, with our hands. And Tyson had the strength in his hands to do the work. But then, one day, he did something foolish. Tyson drank some of the milk. He liked it (it’s delicious), so he drank more and more.

I didn’t know. I need you to understand that before I say anymore. This was his little secret.

A little while later, he says, he started getting sick in the morning. But he kept working, and I was none the wiser. A few weeks later, his body started changing, but he didn’t tell nobody. He said he was scared. Tyson was always skinny, but his ass fattened up, and his nipples got all puffy. This went on for months, but it wasn’t until he really started developing breasts did he tell me. I was shocked, to say the least.

I asked him why in the hell he drank that damn stuff knowing the cows are genetically modified to make female hormones in their milk. He said he didn’t know. I don’t know how he missed that during the orientation. I prayed his condition would improve since he stopped drinking the milk, but it’s only gotten worse. Now his breasts are bigger than my wife’s.

He don’t like it, but I’ve asked him to wear skirts and such. See, I don’t want him to feel like a freak. It’s been hard for him, but we’re calling him Tyana, and my eldest daughter is teaching him how to do his hair and makeup. I don’t think he much likes being treated like a girl, but the alternative is worse, especially out here in the country where folks can be narrow-minded.

I know you’re wondering why I didn’t fire him since he couldn’t do his job no more (that strength I mentioned is long gone). Truth is, he became essential in other ways: Tyana is the best damn seller we ever had! Lately, he’s been selling our melons, and damn if he can’t get most men to buy them by the truckload. 

I’ve enclosed a few pictures. She don’t know I’m writing you, but I figured you’d want to know. I know if my own son showed up out of nowhere looking like she does, I’d probably lose my damn mind.

Sincerely,

Mr. Calhoun

P.S. If you come out, please tell me ahead of time so I can prepare. I’m sure Tyana will be nervous to meet you with how she’s looking these days, but she talk of you often and misses you a lot.