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Question: Story: Write me a story the way I write about a random 6 year old boy with a description of where he's from, what he's doing, what he sounds like, what he looks like and what he's wearing as he goes to bed. Have him wake up in the body of a random woman in the 1950s-1960s era who is very girly and dressed feminine and have him wake up in a bed with a description of where he ends up, her hair in a 50s-60s hairstyle, include a pair of heels, how revealing the dress is, jewelry, a wedding ring that the boy doesn't know is a wedding ring, lipstick, makeup and nail polish on the woman's fingernails and toenails and have the boy not know anything about where he is, what's going on, what he's wearing and have him not know how to walk in heels trying to remove the heels but being unable to with the feminine long painted nails getting in the way and have him try to remove the wedding ring but as he goes to have his hands suddenly adjust the ring before he unwillingly sticks the ring in the light admiring it and smiling as he unwillingly adjusts the dress and tightens the heels around his womanly feet and have him unwillingly grab a file filing his nails before unwillingly checking his hair ensuring it stays in the style it is. Please have the boy sit down in a random chair unwillingly crossing his legs and unwillingly grabbing some lipstick applying to the woman's lips with tears in his female eyes as he sadly waits for his mom not knowing she wasn't born yet and he was stuck as the woman permanently as he stayed innocent and clueless the whole time. Have him try to say something innocent calling for his mommy but have him say something different in a mature womanly trans-atlantic 50s-60s style voice, tone and vocabulary scaring him.
Once upon a time, there was a six-year-old boy named Max. The simplicity of a small town in Kansas was his world, with fields of sunflowers gracing his sight every day. Max, shoulder-length blonde hair disheveled by adventure and blue eyes brimming with curiosity, spent his days exploring the local creeks and tinkering with his treasured hot wheels. Having traded his usual denim overalls for cozy car-print pajamas, Max whispered familiar lullabies to himself--a melodious symphony of country twang and boyish enthusiasm--before he drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Little did he know that when he would wake, he would be catapulted far from his world of innocent charms. Max awoke to the unfamiliar feminine rustling of satin sheets on posh Queen Anne furniture and the unsolicited sunlight beaming through the laced curtains of a penthouse. His reflection in the mirrored ceiling startled him--a woman, appearing no younger than 30, stared back at him. Max found himself adorned in an emerald green dress, cut tastefully low at the bosom and cinched at the waist. Each of his fingers adorned an extravagant jewel, the wedding band being the most notable, though its significance escaped him. The blends of red, pink, and blue painted elegantly on his manicured fingernails contrasted sharply with his masculine childhood memories. Dangling from his ears were chandelier earrings, swaying with each movement of his head. Around his neck hung a necklace of pearls that disappeared into the neckline of the dress. Try as he might, Max struggled to unfasten the jeweled clasp. Annoyed, he tried to take off the matching stiletto heels but his long painted nails hindered him. Before he could make sense of it, he found his hands unknowingly adjusting the ring on his finger, placing it directly under the morning light revealing its true beauty. Smiling against his wishes, he tightened the straps around his newly arched feet. Admiral beauty reflecting in the mirror taunted his confusion. With each passing moment, this body seemed to act on its own. Max didn’t notice that he had grabbed a file and was dutifully maintaining the shape of his enhanced nails. Unwillingly appreciating his poise, he found himself lightly running fingers through his 50s updo while ensuring not a hair was out of place. Uncomfortably unable to halt the actions, Max found himself walking towards the vanity table and picking up a tube of lipstick. Setting himself down on the chair, he watched as his painted nails peeled the shiny bullet and delicately began to apply it on his perfectly shaped lips. His blue eyes now brimmed with fresh tears, a sorrowful youth trapped within a mature guise. “Mommy,” he tried to call out but instead was met with the poetic grit of a mature woman’s voice. It was a glassy timbre that rang out in the sophisticated melody of the trans-Atlantic accent and vocabulary—and words that seemingly carried a weightier knowledge, "Darling, be a dear, fetch me my morning paper." The eerie transformation seemed to complete itself and his words, as if a haunting bygone actress was speaking through him, scared him beyond belief. He sat in the luxurious chair, his legs crossed with an innate elegance, praying for his mother- a woman who wouldn't be born for a couple more decades. Dressed in his unwanted trappings, Max was trapped in a past he didn’t understand and a body he couldn't recognize—all the while trying to stay the innocent child he was before the night trespassed innocence. Stuck in an era where he didn’t belong, he waited, still utterly clueless, for a dimly conceivable salvation.
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