*"Many individuals suddenly became rich. A golden bait hung temptingly out before the people, and, one after the other, they rushed to the tulip marts, like flies around a honey-pot.* *...The more prudent began to see that [investing in tulips] could not last for ever. (...) It was seen that somebody must lose fearfully in the end. As this conviction spread, prices fell, and never rose again. Confidence was destroyed, and a universal panic seized upon the dealers* *...Many who, for a brief season, had emerged from the humbler walks of life, were cast back into their original obscurity. Substantial merchants were reduced almost to beggary, and many a representative of a noble line saw the fortunes of his house ruined beyond redemption.”* **-"Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds", George McKay, 1841** "Okay, so now that I have it, what do I do with it?" The commodities trader who walked down the New York sidewalk loosened his tie. It was a warm, early-fall afternoon, and it had been a long day in the office. "Yeah," he said. "...Yeah, those are cars. I'm-I'm outside." "...Because I want some coffee, that's why." It probably said something about Jerry that he thought of coffee as "stress relief". "No. Nuh-uh. That lobby stuff is crap. Tastes like dirt. No, I've had dirt. Dirt tasted better." He turned left at a green bronze statue of a headless woman, ignored the food cart at the corner of W 53rd and 6th Avenue with a line stretching halfway down the block, and walked into the coffee shop. "...Lost a bet in coll-hey, stop trying to distract me! What does an NFT do anyway?" The shop was roughly the size and shape of a shoebox. Even the world's leading international coffee franchise couldn't do much against the Manhattan real estate market. "...Of course I did research! Even asked a couple of the other guys on the floor." The bell on the door jingled. "And you know what the guys said? They weren't sure either." He joined the line. Yawned a little. "Google wasn't sure. Wikpedia wasn't sure. *Bing* wasn't sure. What did you talk me into buying, Marty?" He shifted his feet. One of the seated customers looked up, and frowned. She was *sure* that guy had been wearing sensible black business shoes when he walked in. But he was clearly wearing white and grey canvas sneakers. And- The customer looked at the guy's dress shirt, with the top button undone. *-where did his tie go?* So, expensive business suit with sneakers and no tie. Lightbulb moment. *Ah. Aging tech bro.* And with that, the customer nodded to herself, and returned to her phone, her chai tea, and her ciabatta sandwich. For his part, Jerry listened patiently for a whole fourteen seconds before he said "Stop. Marty, stop. I don't understand. Give me the elevator pitch. For someone who has laryngitis, you sure like to talk." He listened again. "Hold up." To the barista: "The usual. Jerry." "Yes, sir." Jerry spoke into his phone again. "Now, explain. Tiny words. Imagine you're explaining to a small child, or a venture capitalist, or a congressman. Use the word 'blockchain' and I'm going to reach through this phone and strangle you." There was an inoffensively charming chair nearby. Jerry sat down, crossed his legs, and completely failed to notice how his suit pants were riding up. And tightening. "What does NFT even stand for, anyway?" He listened for a second. "Speak up, man! Stop *whispering*! Funko-Pop? Fungible? What's 'fungible'? Sounds like something I should get a prescription for!" He listened to the explanation, with cocked head. Presently, he sighed, leaned back in the seat, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "So, bitcoin. It's just bitcoin. It's just crypto again. You remember crypto, right? Remember how many people nearly lost their shirts?" He plucked at his own pinstripe button-up. "Hol' up, I think they're calling my name." ---- The barista focused on Jerry. "Are *you* Cherry?" Jerry blinked, waved his hand up and down his body. "Do I *look* like a 'Cherry'?" "Might be your last name." "It's not." "Why'd you get up?" "Thought you were saying 'Jerry'." "Uh, no. It was 'Cherry'. Don't suppose you ordered-" The guy in the green apron looked at the cup. "-uh, a venti mocha with soy milk?" Jerry shook his head. "Caffè Americano." "Oh." "Yeah." "Sorry." Jerry rolled his eyes, and sat back down. "Where were we?" Jerry listened to Marty's answer. "Seriously what is this? What good does it do me? Does it file my taxes and grab my dry-cleaning? Is this for someone trying to launder their their blue-sky bucks? Because I gotta say, I'm not looking forward to a chat with the SEC. Again." A few people stared at him. "Hang on." He put his hand over the mike. "It's a *joke*, folks. A joke!" He uncovered the phone. "Midtown hipsters. No sense of humor, am I right?" He listened to his friend, and laughed. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I'm dumping it." More words from the phone. "I'm gonna- no, listen to me. I'm gonna do it. Right now. In fact, let me switch to-" Jerry reached into his coat, pulled out his earbud. Waited for the connection. "Can you hear me now? Good. I'm gonna do it. Hang on." He bought the phone down from his ear, opened the browser, opened the marketplace, and stopped. Stared at his hands. "*What the-*" He had never worn nail polish in his life. Not once. Not ever. So he was pretty sure he hadn't put on any this morning. He was also pretty sure no beautician-ninjas had snuck into his office lately. And-yep. Those weren't fake nails. His nails had had a growth spurt. And turned pink and glossy. And- When did he get a *tan*? He looked at his right hand. Polish and tan. At his left. Just the polish. At his right. Polish and tan. At his left- Was...was it a little darker? "Marti? I'm...I'm gonna hafta call you back." *Boop.* Jerry put the phone down on the table, and leaned forward. Stared down at his hands. Through the odd, numb feeling, he thought *Okay, I still have my watch.* And then he noticed his shoes. Or, rather, *the* shoes. He owned athletic shoes, sure. But none of them were pink, with white trim. He was also pretty sure his shoes weren't that *small*. And what was squeezing his junk? He looked down farther. What...what happened to his *pants*? His suit was *expensive*! And now he wore- He lifted a knee, ran a hand over it. -some kind of tight workout crap- *Am I going nuts?* He grabbed his phone, stood up, and looked around in a wild surmise. *There!* Jerry shoved his way into the little non-specific gender customers' room, just as his tight cotton shirt rode up from the bottom, to expose his stomach. Behind him, the barista went "Cherry? Venti mocha chai with soy milk for Cherry?" No one answered. The bathroom door swung shut. ---- If the store was a shoebox, the bathroom was the shoebox's broom closet. If the broom had just gotten lipo. It had one stall, one sink, one mirror. *Someone* had managed to squeeze in a bottle of soap, and when they left they took the shoehorn and Crisco with them. When Jerry stood in front of the mirror, he gaped for a while. Then he used language one would expect out of a bus station bathroom in the Lower East side, albeit scrawled on the walls. He leaned in. *Is that...**mascara**?* He blinked. Yep. Definitely mascara. And his lips were all...*thick*. They felt wrong. They felt right. He muttered more bathroom-stall language, and straightened up. And his chest was- He angled himself away from the mirror, so he could get a profile. *That's new.* And it wasn't *just* the chest. He was pretty sure he put on an actual button-up that morning. A real shirt, not this- He reached for the lower hem with trembling hands. -workout number. He wasn't even sure he *owned* any workout shirts. He passed a hand over his belly. Well, where his belly *had* been. It was taut. It was flat. It was *not* his stomach. His belly hadn't been that flat since his second year at Columbia, when that cheap pizza place opened up down the block. Where he met Marty. When they- He blinked at the stranger in the mirror. No. No, that wasn't right. He met Marty at the *firm*. Sure, he *dated* in college, but he didn't meet Marty until later. His hands curled into fists on the counter, and he let his head fall. Squeezed his hands into fists, squeezed his eyes shut. Half-whispered a single syllable. And looked up. The stranger in the mirror was now wearing eyeshadow. Something churned in his gut. And it wasn't just fear. As he watched, as he stared right at his reflection, his waist cinched in, like someone pulling the strings of an invisible corset. His breathing quickened, his pulse raced, his mass slipped down to his hips, and he *felt* his center of gravity drop to- -to- He half turned. Blinked. Turned even farther. Reached down, back. Gripped himself with both hands. Okay, that *was* a fantastic a- *What are you **doing**?* What *was* he doing? He let go of himself like a kid with a hand caught in the cookie jar. Except it had been more like cake. He could still feel it. The way it gave under his hand, the texture, even though the athletic pants- *What is **happening** to me?* He backed away, staring at his reflection, until he hit the stall pillar. Then, he slipped into the stall, closed the door behind him, and sat down hard on the seat. *It was Marti's idea! That stupid NFT is doing it to me! I don't know how, I don't know why-* She pumped the mental brakes, and backed up his train of thought. *Why did I...?* He cleared his mental throat. Marti. Why was the I there? *Marti.* Full name. *Martine.* Something cold crept up his back. *Martin Short. Martin Lawrence. Marty frickin' **Robbins**.* Okay, so whatever it was, whatever was happening to him, it was messing with his mind. He could think "Martin" and "Marty" just fine, except when it came to his best friend, who got- The broker blinked. -a girl's name. Why did Marti get a *girl's* name? What *did* that to a person? Dementia? Schizophrenia? That one fungus that went after ants? No. No. None of those could change clothes. Give someone a tan and *nail polish*. Unless, of course, it wasn't real. Unless he was going insane. His shoulders slumped, and a smile stole onto his face. And that was the *good* option. The other one was- *Say it.* -was- ***Say it!*** "Magic," he said, out loud, and nearly stabbed himself in the throat. It wasn't his fault. He'd never worn nails before. And also, his voice hadn't been nearly this high-pitched, yet- Throaty? Was throaty the word? "Throaty," he said, throatily. Oh. He...he sounded *good*. Like *phone sex* operator good. Hot. He stopped rubbing. Partially because the spot where the nails nearly gave him an amateur tracheotomy didn't feel any better. Second, because of what he heard from his left hand. Or, rather, what he didn't hear. He didn't hear a rattle. Because he wasn't wearing a watch that rattled. He lifted his arm, and stared at the smart watch, at the swirling pink-red holographic pattern on the band. When Jerry's grandfather had died, Gramps gave Jerry a Patek Philippe in the will. It was a nice watch. He hadn't won it until he got his first job, and he wore it every day since. (Except for repairs, of course.) And he was pretty certain that he hadn't taken it off in the past 5 minutes. He shook his wrist. The watch did not jangle. The bracelet just past it did. Gold, jewels, looked expensive. The words "sugar daddy" floated through his head. Followed by an image of an older man. Average-looking, but expensively dressed. "No, don't-" Boring. The sugar daddy was *boring*. Jerry squeezed the sides of his head like he could push the thought out with main force. The image thickened with muscle. The haircut improved. He got a tan. A beard. Little smile lines around his eyes. An acceptable amount of grey. Like *The Most Interesting Man in the World*. Hot enough for Jerry's tastes, even before his mind took a trip upstate. *But what if-?* An older woman. Had some work done to hold off aging, but still fairly attractive. Martini glass in hand, large shades on her eyes, lounging on the side of a sun-dappled pool. Jerry swallowed. He'd never been interested in *older* women before, but- In his head, he looks down, past a large chest, clad in black and white, to a tray. The sugar momma reaches up, and plucks a canape off. "Thank you, dear." In reality, Jerry whispered "I'm a *top*." And there was that treacherous little voice that whispered *Top? Bottom? Sideways? Just **labels**.* His forehead was damp. He rubbed it with the back of his hand. Felt wrong. He wasn't wearing a suit jacket. It was some kind of brightly-colored activewear shell. It ended somewhere around his- Around his- He stared at his chest, and tried not to think *I'm stacked!* Wait. He inhaled sharply. The only thing *left* was- He yanked down the front of his athleisure pants, followed by his silk boxe- his little black lacy things with little black ribbons tied in little black bows - Bells went off in his ear. He jerked so hard he nearly slammed his head into the wall, somehow managed to hit his earbud with his shoulder, and growled "Not...*now*!" "Jerry?" said Marti. Jerry froze. *No no no no...* "You, ah, you sound different." He looked down. Good, his dick was still there. "So do you," said the woman on the other end of the line. Said. Not whispered. Ice crawled up Jerry's spine. "Did...did you know what this would happen to me?" Was...was something different about his cock? "Yeah. Kinda did." "This, buddy, I gotta tell ya, this is a lot worse than the Bilsson thing." "Really? I was thinking it was-" Marti's voice turned to a breathy almost-moan "-*better*." And Jerry tingled, all over. He gritted his teeth. *Definitely* a phone-sex voice. "Okay, pal, just...just tell me how to reverse this." "Reverse it?" "To go back to normal. Sell back this non-fungus whatever." Silence on the line. Jerry's dick shrunk in his hand. He swallowed. "Marti?" Jerry could *feel* it shrinking now. He squeezed it, tried to hold it up, but that just made it worse. Felt good, but made it worse. It was like the hornier he got, the faster it shrank. "Sorry, Jer, I lied earlier." Marti didn't sound sorry at all. "This particular NFT isn't a Non-Fungible Token." His balls were - yep, those were going too. And getting smoother. Like- Jerry's voice dropped to a whisper. "What is it, then?" The last nub vanished under his fingers. No dick, now. Nothing but two familiar flaps of skin, though he'd never touched them from the driver's seat. It *couldn't* be. Marty purred "It means Naughty-" Jerry hesitated. *What if-?* "-Female-" Jerry's fingers plunged into his depths, like he could find what he had lost. "*-Transformation.*" Jerry's finger stroked a certain spot- And then Jerry went away for a while. There was a lot of moaning involved. And then she just sat there. Sweating, shaking, smiling, with her massive chest heaving up and down. Eventually, the woman in the cell managed to make her body work again. She put her palms on her knees, and stared at- Heat rose up her neck. She muttered "I hope this isn't permanant." "Do you want it to be?" Marti said. Jerry's teeth ground, and his hand snapped to his ear- "So," Marti said. "Now that you've gotten *hands-on experience*...what will you do next?" *Boop.* Call terminated. Jerry stared at the floor for a few more seconds, clenched her fist, and let it fall, and then sat there for a while. And when she looked up, she was smiling. ---- The woman with the chai tea paused with her cup almost to her mouth. That...that was certainly a midriff, coming out of the bathroom. And that was certainly a piercing in that belly button. And that was certainly not the tech bro who had- Chai Tea blinked. *-who left. He got his coffee and left, and I must not have noticed this girl-* She blinked again. *-this **woman** on her way to yoga class or whatever.* Chai Tea looked up. And the woman looked right back, a smile on her face. An awkward moment passed. And the ab woman winked. And Chai Tea's face got really hot. As calmly as she could manage, she tried to sip her tea. *What is wrong with me? I don't even **like** girls! Okay, I like girls, but I don't **like** girls, like girls. I...must be embarrassed.* *To get caught staring.* *Or maybe it's just jealousy. Of those abs.* She snuck a peek. Ab woman was walking up to the counter. ***That's** not bad either.* Her cup of chai was empty. *Maybe I should start doing crunches?* She set the cup down on the table, and frowned at the remains of her sandwich. *And also squats.* At the counter, the guy went "Venti mocha chai lattechino with soy milk for Cherry? Cherry? Is there a Cherry here?" He looked at the woman. "Ma'am, are *you* Cherry?" The woman smiled at him. "Yes," she said, in a voice that made him *very glad* he was standing behind a counter. She reached for the coffee. "Yes I am." **MEANWHILE, IN THE MULTIVERSE:** Jerry said "This, buddy, I gotta tell ya, this is a lot worse than the Bilsson thing." "Really? I was thinking it was-" Marti's voice turned to a breathy almost-moan "-*better*." And Jerry tingled, all over. He gritted his teeth. *Definitely* a phone-sex voice. "Okay, pal, just...just tell me how to reverse this." "Reverse it?" "To go back to normal. Sell back this non-fungus whatever." Silence on the line. "Sorry, Jer, I lied earlier." Marti didn't sound sorry at all. "This particularly NFT isn't a Non-Fungible Token." Jerry's voice dropped to a whisper. "What is it, then?" His dick wasn't going anywhere. Marty purred "It means Naughty-" His dick *wasn't* changing like the rest of him. Why? "-Futa-" Jerry's fingers curled around it. Just in case it tried to escape or something. "*-Transformation.*" Jerry blinked. "I don't know what that is." "What?" "A 'futa', what's a 'futa'? Is this some kinda British thing?" "Why would it be-" "Y'know, Footer? *Manchester United* and *Come on if you think you're hard enough!*, eating, I dunno, eating weird pies?" "Is that your British accent-" "I mean, it's not like I *practiced* it-" "Because it sounds like-" "-with the new voice and all-" "-Australian. You sound Australian." "It's the A's, isn't it? Too nasally?" "It's the everyth - look, we're getting off-topic." Marti took a deep breath, and even that sounded sexy. "You're about to learn what a futa is. You're becoming one." Jerry closed his eyes for a second. "Change me back." "Sorry. Non-refundable. Haven't you been paying attention to NFT news?" "So you're saying I dropped a few c-notes on this crap and I can't get it back? Can't complain to the bank? They just take the money and run?" "Like I said; NFT news." "So what am I supposed to do, huh? I can't go back to work like this, and I don't think I can call in sick because of magic." "Oh, I'm sure you have some idea. I bet you're sitting there. Someplace private. With your dick-" Jerry looked down. "-in your hand. Probably didn't even realize you were doing it." Jerry blushed. *I didn't pump!* Marti's tone shifted to playful, teasing. "Enjoying yourself. Enjoying the idea of being...*different*." *That's not-* Jerry bit his lip, and stopped. He made himself stop. Somehow. Marti said "Do you want to know how I know that?" "No." Marti's silence screamed *Liar.* Jerry managed to resist for a whole thirty seconds before she choked out "H-how?" Marti waited a few moments, for dramatic effect, then she whispered in his ear. "*Because that's **exactly** what I did*." *Oh.* Jerry stared at the dull grey door of the bathroom stall, his right hand quite still. *That's...interesting.* And then - quite involuntarily, a total accident - he squeezed. And then the door wasn't exactly grey any more. ---- Chai Tea had finished her sandwich and her drink when the other woman came waltzing out of the bathroom. The seated woman glanced over, looked back at her phone, and did a double take. The woman looked good. Soft flowing hair, tight clothes - except for the little jacket - and those *lips*. There was also a noticeable bulge. And Chai Tea certainly noticed it. She blinked. She hadn't seen anything like that before. Well, except for that one bachelorette party in the Village. And *those* ladies had been a lot more...flamboyant. Though she had to admit, the whole Insta-influencer athleisure look had a certain charm of its o- *I'm staring!* Chai Tea looked away. But first she made the mistake of looking at the other woman's face, and caught a glimpse of a smile and a wink and then nothing but the top of her cup, pressed to her lips as fast as possible. *She **saw** me!* When Chai Tea risked a peek, the strange hot woman was approaching the counter. As corporate mandated, the barista had been systematically drained of every desire except, perhaps, for the sweet release of death. So he was utterly immune to the woman's charms. "Venti mochachino chai latte with soy milk for Cherry? Cherry? Is there a Cherry here?" He looked at the woman. "Ma'am, are *you* Cherry?" The woman smiled at him. "Yes," she said, and reached for the coffee. "Yes I am." ---- ##"Tulips" (NFT Bimbo TFTG) 2022 Nequ CC By-SA-NC Fanart and Fan stories welcome. ---- "Hey, Nequ, isn't Dutch Tulip-mania kind of a highbrow subject to name your bimbo TFTG story after?" I named stories "Metronome" and "Ouroboros". This isn't much more pretentious. Maybe people will read it just to see what Tulips have to do with NFTs and bimbos. Aside from the commodities trader who became a commodity, I mean. "Uh, huh. And what about the historical consensus that says McKay blew Tulip-mania all out of proportion?" In other words, it's still a perfectly good analogy for NFTs. I think the kids call that "meta-irony" these days.