I want men's clothing.

You want men's clothing, are you sure?

Asks, the house computer. You can almost hear the mocking, disbelief in its voice.

"Yes," you say, suddenly more unsure of yourself. "I want men's clothing to wear."

What is your name?

Oh, you know the answer to this one: "I am Jennifer."

Shit! You automatically said your female name! "No!" you shout, wanting to take it back. "I--"

But you are interrupted.

Do you have breasts?

"Yes, I have breasts, but--"

Do you want nice big titties?

"I know that's what I said, way back when I entered the house, but I didn't mean it! It was just the password--"

Do you have a vagina?

"Well, sure, it's a fake vagina, but--"

Are you a woman?

"Yes, I am," you say, automatically. "I mean NO. I meant no! I don't know why I said Yes. I meant No, please believe me."

The computer pauses for a long time, so long you start to worry that it might be broken.

I have no male clothes to give you, it says, finally.

Well, fuck. Then why all of the humiliating questions?