fic: The One Where Foreman Decides He's a Lesbian
title: The One Where Foreman Decides He's a Lesbian
fandom: house
rating: nc17
brenda/foreman, CRACK ATTACK

a/n: Written in the spirit of thedeadparrot's wonderfully twisted genderfuck. Special thanks to simmysim who coaxed me along, even if this is the polar opposite of what she likes to read!


As the genderfuck continues, a very female Foreman embarks on a dubious sexcapade with...Nurse Brenda?! We almost feel sorry for him.



Foreman's mother always said "It's a lot harder being a black woman in this world than a black man." And he'd never doubted it really, just didn't think he'd ever have to find out.

But by week three of the thing, the it, the great Princeton-Plainsboro gender-swap-o-rama, Foreman wanted nothing more than to click his high heels together three times and wish he was home.

Home, as in back old body, not in this new one with breasts and hips, small hands and feet—a body better suited for a beach volleyball player than a previously male professional.

For the whole first week he couldn't stop running his hands along his jaw, marveling at the smoothness of his skin, the complete lack of stubble. It was so disconcerting to look down and see a body that was so clearly his (tattoos and scars, all in the right places) yet so clearly not.

It was a small comfort that everyone else was in the same boat. Basically, anyway. House instantly forgave the bizarre gender disaster, as it gave him a pair of boobs he could fondle anytime, and Chase's adjustment to his new identity was strangely quick as well. Of course Chase, petite and blonde, was absolutely ravishing and having a line of new-men and women ready to worship the ground you walk on had to make the transition a little easier. And Chase did not have to deal with the gentle jabs of his credentials being questioned, being called "nurse" if he appeared in scrubs, or general skepticism from his own patients.

Initially Cameron was Foreman's partner in frustrated discomfort; she cried and he tried to put his fist through an office wall. They'd gone shopping at a local department store after Foreman spent his transitions days in sweats and t-shirt (eliciting eye rolls from clinic-mothers) and Cameron had help him find a few things that weren't too atrocious and he showed her how to tie a tie. But as time went on she had been spending less and less time in the Diagnostics conference room and Foreman when did see her around the hospital, he noticed she had taken to blatantly oggling the new-women.

Great, Foreman thought, watching her grin at a pretty intern, the cheese stands alone.

It wasn't like he hadn't spent the initial few weeks weighing the new breasts in his hands or running fingers between his legs experimentally, and it wasn't like he hadn't fooled around when the opportunity of Chase (or, okay, some other babe) and an empty room presented itself…but enough was enough.

"Am I the only person who still cares that we work in a hospital?" Foreman asked House. "And that we should be—oh, I don't know—healing the sick rather than boinking like bunnies?"

House tilted his head towards the glass office wall and Foreman could see two new-women sucking face in the hallway, pawing at each others' breasts.

House smirked at Foreman's expression. "Yeah. But it's not like anybody's died yet, right? Speaking of which, I think I hear Cuddy calling…"

***


Week three, day two—not that Foreman's keeping track. Chase, who's paging through a Glamour, has a long bare leg propped up on the table and keeps scratching at his ankle in a way that's oddly sexy. Foreman is trying to think of something other than licking it.

"Wanna go out tonight?" Chase asks suddenly.

"What's the point? It'll just be like last time. Every guy in the establishment will be buying you drinks and I'll get some weirdo staring at my ass all night and asking if I do anal."

"Well if you're trying to pick up men, maybe you should wear something that doesn't make you look like my grandmother."

"I'm trying to look professional," Foreman balks, looking immediately down at his beige pantsuit. For women's wear it's virtually androgynous, yes, but even confined to a sports bra those damn breasts (that he'd never get used to) clearly give the game away.

"Well it's kind of boring," says Chase.

"Fuck you"—Foreman tired of being a gentleman by week two and this was Chase anyway—"Maybe you can wear whatever the hell you want but no one takes me seriously unless I'm in a suit and even then…"

Chase's girl-laugh sounds like bubbles. "What, you think this is about race or something?"

"You think it's not?"

Chase flicks his eyes back to his magazine, and Foreman has the urge to rip it out of his hands and give him a smack to the head with it. But just when he thinks Chase is probably lost in the land of lipstick and celebrities, he sets down the Glamour and reaches over to touch Foreman's arm. The gesture is painfully female. Fuck, why does he make such a good girl?

"Come shopping with me after work," Chase says.

"Oh—for the love of…" Foreman jerks his arm away. "I'm not going shopping with you."

"Fine, but I'm still coming over, even if I have to drag you to that bar. You work too much; it'll do you some good."

Foreman rolls his eyes but doesn't say no.

***

Chase has apparently spent the evening maxing out his credit cards, because he shows up at Foreman's door with a Macy's bag overflowing with women's clothes. The next few minutes are spent squabbling over what Foreman will or will not "be caught dead in."

"Just try it on!" Chase whines, holding out what looks to Foreman like about half a shirt.

"Your taste in clothes sucks," Foreman counters, batting it away. "I can't believe you blew your money on this stuff. How do you know it's even gonna fit me?"

"I left the tags on! And since when are sizes rocket science? I'm a four so I figured you're like an eight or a ten, right? "

Foreman isn't sure why he takes offense to this—no one had called him fat in a long time, and this was different anyway—but his first instinct is to glower.

"My tits are bigger than yours," he says.

"And so's your ass," Chase says, "Just put something on and let's go."

It's weirdly cute when Chase gets a little ticked as he's already tarted up in heels and a low cut blouse and when he's got his hands on his hips like that Foreman briefly wonders why they're going out instead of staying in and fucking each other silly on the couch. It's not like they haven't done it before. But the more time Chase spent as a female, the more weird and moody he seemed to get. When Foreman tries to slide a hand up his side he just seems annoyed.

"I want to go out now," says Chase.

Foreman can only hope that moody thing won't happen to him. But because he can't be one hundred percent sure Chase isn't going to cry if he tries to back out now, Foreman just sighs and throws on the least offensive garments.



"Have you uh…slept with a guy yet?" Foreman asks in the elevator.

"Have you?" Chase asks back, and both questions go unanswered.


Within the first hour Chase is already kind of sloshed (he's what, 90 pounds now?) and making eyes at the bartender, whom Foreman would not have pegged as his type, regardless of current gender. But then again, their glasses have been full and their tabs had been low, so he doesn't complain.

Foreman orders another mojito, which seems just girly enough. His head is throbbing lightly and he already wants to leave, but Chase keeps crossing his legs and flashing his panties and Foreman feels vaguely obligated in a big brotherly (sisterly?) sort of way to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

But if Chase really wants to go home with some guy he meets in the bar, is Foreman really going to try and stop him?

The bar is a little too warm and the air is starting to feel thick and claustrophobic. A man with thinning hair pushes his way into the space between Chase and Foreman, and Foreman decides it's time to take a break; he needs some air.

Pushing his way out front through the crowd he felt at least one person grab his ass, possibly two, but it was impossible to tell who to glare at.

He finds a table on the patio and inhales some second hand smoke.


"Is this seat taken?" someone asks, and Foreman does a double take.

"Nurse…Previn?"

Out of all the new men, Brenda seemed the most natural and at ease with her newfound masculinity. She's already chopped her hair short and lost all signs that two weeks ago she was a woman.

"Dr. Foreman," she says irritably, like they're stating the obvious. She walks like a man, talks like a man, and Foreman has to wonder if she's enjoying this.

"What're you doing here?" he asks,

"What's everyone doing here?"

Foreman arcs an eyebrow. "Trying to get laid."

Brenda shrugs a little. She's not a particularly attractive man, Foreman notes, but she's strangely confident. She takes a long swig of beer, straight from the bottle and Foreman watches her Adam's apple bob up and down. She probably hasn't shaved in a few days, Foreman thinks, remembering his hairy legs beneath his jeans.

"I'm here with…a friend," Foreman says, as if to excuse his presence.

"Dr. Chase, right?" Brenda asks. "The large crowd of men was a dead give away."

"Right."

Brenda, he realizes, looks vaguely like Bill Nye the Science Guy (who occasionally graces his television on Saturdays) and that makes her a little more appealing. Foreman doesn't stop to think about why.

"So how's the switch going for you?" It's the new 'what's up?'

"Same old, same old," says Brenda, whatever that means. "How drunk are you?"

Foreman makes a face. "I'm getting there."

"Can I buy you another drink?"

"Are you trying to seduce me?" Foreman tries not to sound too bored with the idea. His night was beginning to look like watching burnt out frat boys try to get a piece of Chase, and things could only go up from there, really.

"Should I be?" Brenda asks calmly.

"What?"

"Pretense is so three weeks ago. Are we going to have sex or not?"

Normally this would be strange enough. Brenda Previn, who he isn't really attracted to and he doesn't even like, is propositioning him. And this Brenda Previn is obviously packing a penis and plans of penetration, which Foreman couldn't say he's particularly comfortable with.

But what the hell, you only live once, right?

"I'll get my bag," says Foreman, and on the pretense of that, returns to the bar for three shots of a tequila. He doesn't have to explain it to Chase, who gives him the thumbs up—either understanding, or missing the point completely. Foreman doesn't bother to find out which; Brenda won't wait forever.

They leave in a taxi.

***

The idea was better in theory, Foreman decides, when he's sitting on Brenda's couch which is covered in cat hair and they're drinking some warm beer Brenda found in her pantry. Foreman tips his bottle back very slowly, very afraid of what will happen when he finishes it. Brenda's already finished hers and she's watching his lips around the bottleneck with impatient interest. The television is mute in the background, tuned to some primetime sitcom.

When the beer is gone, Foreman sets down the bottle, and like that Brenda is kissing him. It's not completely unpleasant, just different, and he has an instant understanding of "beard burn." It doesn't start to freak him out though until she pushes him onto his back, which he knew he should have expected but he feels trapped and claustrophobic against the couch cushions.

"Wait…" Foreman says, twisting his head to free his mouth from the tangle.

Brenda stops. She looks bored.

"I…" He wracks his brain for something. "I want to take a shower first."

Brenda just looks at him. "You're a strange one, Dr. Foreman," she says.

"I didn't shower after work," he lies.

"Look, if you're self conscious—"

"I'm not fucking self conscious! I just want to take a shower."

"Fine," says Brenda, crossing her arms and settling back on her own side of the couch. "The bathroom's down the hall."

Foreman's almost forgotten how drunk he is until he stands up and the room wobbles a little. With one hand against his wall, he makes his way down the hall to the bathroom and flips on the light. The bathroom counter is littered with such a mess of male and female toiletries that he almost laughs—it's like two people are living here. He himself hadn't bothered to buy any lotion or floral shampoo but he could see why Brenda might have wanted to swap out her lavender hand soap for something more masculine.

He was almost distracted from the fact that he'd just been making out with Brenda until he looks in the mirror and sees his lipstick (well, the stuff he'd borrowed from Chase) is smudged. Wholly disgusted with himself for being a part of this madness, he strips off his clothes and starts the water. He runs his hands through his hair—there's just enough to grab—and yanked at it. In the mirror he can see his breasts jiggle and sway with the gesture. He feels vaguely ill. Kissing Brenda hadn't been so bad, he rationalizes. So what's wrong then? Nerves?

He steps under the spray and closes his eyes. Okay. After he gets out, he'll tell Brenda to move it to the bedroom. Then they'll get undressed and they'll go from there. None of this awkward bullshit. He considers setting ground rules for where she can or can't touch, but that feels a little bit silly. Because it isn't like he's not horny, he decides, running his thumbs over his nipples which obediently stand at attention. And he's done all the other stuff in this body already—that's not what he's concerned with. It's just that uh, having a penis inside him seems like such an alien concept. And the notion that he might enjoy it…even more alien.

The shower curtain swings open and Brenda scares the crap out of him. Before he can choke out a what-the-hell he notices she (or he…it's hard not to think 'he' right now) is also naked.

"Mind if I join you?" Brenda asks coolly.

Foreman briefly wonders what he looks like, standing in the shower, naked for the first time as far as Brenda's concerned. There's this weird urge to shrink against the wall or cover himself and he wants to curse his girl-brain from thinking that way. Instead, he leaves his arms at his sides and answers in a tone matching Brenda's, "Yeah, okay."

Brenda's shower is not very big and once they're both inside there's not much unfilled space. Foreman feels her body brush against his back and shivers.

"Have you done this before?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He's pretty sure he can feel her dick pressing against his thigh but he doesn't look. "So you uh…have a handle on how to use that thing?"

"Jesus Christ. Shut up. Are we gonna fuck or not?"

Foreman almost laughs at how crude this is, but she's suddenly leaning against his back and he has to reach out to brace himself against the tiled wall.

"Is that a yes?" she asks.

"That's what I'm here for."

Now Brenda does laugh and pushes him a little harder against the wall. Her hands snake up to his breasts to finger the tight buds of his nipples. She's not particularly gentle and Foreman finds himself squirming away. She eases up a little. Her mouth is on the back of his neck.

Foreman feels like he should say something but he doesn't know what.

"You okay?" Brenda asks, "You're really quiet."

"I guess you're not very good then," Foreman says lightly. She's moved and the shower spray is beating against his back again.

"Turn around," she says. She sounds annoyed, but Foreman can't really fault her that. The whole thing is so surreal and weird that how could he not expect this to be five shades of awkward? He turns and like that she's got him back against the wall and is sinking down to her knees.

"Here's a trick I learned from Barrett in Radiology," she says. Her face is deadpan, but Foreman doesn't have get a chance to contemplate why because said face is between his legs and her tongue is mounting an attack.

"Jesus!" Foreman hisses, grabbing at the walls. He thinks he remembers somewhere how the clitoris has more nerve endings per square inch than the penis has is its most sensitive spots, and in it and he wonders if that was from medical school or the internet. He'll know later, but for now it's hard to think of anything when someone's got their whole mouth on your relatively new clitoris.

It almost hurts when she moves her lips there and sucks (at least that's what he thinks she's doing) and his head rolls back, baring his neck to the hot water streaming from the showerhead. She's not careful or especially tentative compared to the women Foreman's fucked over the past few weeks, which is strange considering she used to be one.

He moves his hand to the top of her head to and her short hair feels strange and spiky beneath his palm—this is kind of like being blown by another guy but yet…completely different.

"How's that?" she asks, pulling away. Foreman tries not to groan.

"Fine." It comes out like a sigh because her mouth is replaced by her fingers and he can feel her—god, will he ever get these pronouns straight?—erection pressing against his stomach. Foreman hazards a look down. "Let's just do it."

"Such a romantic," says Brenda, and Foreman resists telling her to can it and fuck him because it seems to weird to demand it likehthat. Her hands are on his hips and she turns him around again to face the wall which is surprisingly cool against his nipples and he gasps a little.

"Good thing you're not very big," he says.

"Well you know what they say about white guys."

Foreman places his hands against the wall. "No, I mean…" The water is pounding in his ears. "I'm a virgin as far as this is concerned."

"Really? Hot piece of ass like you?" There's no way to tell if she's serious or mocking him. "Relax. I'm grabbing a condom."

When she opens the shower curtain Foreman catches a brief glance of himself in the foggy mirror and he realizes he's assuming a position he would never have expected to find himself in. His nerves flare up again and he can't tell if his palms are sweaty, or just wet.

Then Brenda is back in the shower and, without pretense, the tip of her dick is resting against that sensitive patch of skin where the thigh joins the groin.

"Ready?"

Foreman grits his teeth. "Do your worst."

She must have lubed the condom, because her dick is sliding along rather smoothly until she thrusts upward with an awkward jerk and the sudden flare of pain sends Foreman all but crawling up the wall.

"Jesus FUCK! Wrong hole! Fucking hell! I thought you knew how to use that thing."

"Sorry." Brenda readjusts and Foreman resists the urge to jump out of the shower, get his aching ass back in his pants and call the whole thing off. "Trying again."

This time, at least, her dick is headed for the right place. Foreman shifts his weight to the balls of his feet as she starts pushing into him. Maybe he was wrong about the lube because it's getting a little uncomfortable, kind of like she's just stretching her way in there and Foreman has to not think of any analogies involving a battering ram right now. Part of him wants to ask "Is it in yet?" but from what he's heard that's best avoided.

"Damn, you're tight," Brenda says against his ear, about the same way a mover might say "Damn, this piano is heavy." An observation, not a compliment. Despite the unpleasantness between his legs, Foreman laughs lightly.

He can feel Brenda bracing one hand against his shoulder, the other against the wall. It feels okay when she slides out, then back in again the first few times—slow enough to be considered courteous—but after a few thrusts, there's a weird chaffing feeling going on that Foreman can't say he's crazy about. Once in a while he'll get lucky and she'll push at just the right angle to make something (God knows what anymore) inside him tingle. He presses his cheek against the wall and tries to pretend this is somehow sexier.

It doesn't last all that long, but by the end he's so decidedly turned off that he doesn't care. He can't tell when (if?) Brenda comes, only when she pulls out and leaves the shower, and his knees are shaking so badly he immediately sinks down to his hands and knees. He feels maybe a little adrenaline rush, but mostly sore and hollowed out and Jesus Christ, her dick wasn't even that big. He reaches between his legs, curious if he's bleeding, but he's not. The hot water in the shower is running out and he figures it's time to leave.

"I can't believe I let you fuck me," Foreman says, though he's not even sure Brenda is still in the room.

"I can't believe you're a cold fish," her voice calls back, "I had you pegged for a better lay than that."

"Fuck you," Foreman says, struggling to his feet. "Throw me a towel."


Later, stepping out into the night air he would think, well, that happened. There wasn't much else to say on the subject. It was over, it was done, he gave it a try.

When he gets home, he'll call Chase to say, "I'm a lesbian. Yes, I'm definitely a lesbian."

And Chase, groggy from sleep and alcohol will say, "Uh, okay," before hanging up and wondering what the hell that was about.

A/N: I don't really know what I think of this. The letters WTF come to mind. I hope if you got this far you're not too disturbed, but feel free to tell me that I've ruined Nurse Brenda for you forever :D Or any other feedback you want to offer!