Comparative assessments, prologue

I keep trying to sit down to smmarize my female experience and give some closeure to the experiment. But every time I try to verbalize the conclusions I've drawn I just reject them and scrap it. When I have something big like this, I'm such an awful procrastinator.

I'll tease you with this, though.... the similarities between men and women are as numerous as the differences, just a lot less obvious. and there's a connection between why things are the same and why things are different. It's complicated...

All I can say is that my experience was what it was because I became, at my own discretion, a female variant of myself, living my own life on my terms. Just a random girl for a week. Things would have been different if I had been forced to start over or pick up where someone else left off in her life. My situation was so much less chaotic, and more organized. That probably helped my experiment in sme ways, and hurt in others, and my heart goes out to those women out there who are still trying to reconcile their ex-lives with their new ones. If the former link is any indication, the gals at the latter link will find their way sooner than later...

I was at work on Boxing day. Sam, a guy in his 50's who is a regular customer asked where I had been, and I combined two alibis by saying I went on vacation and got sick. I had actually seen him, as girl-Alex, and made conversation with him about the new Bob Dylan album, which I liked but he didn't. "The chick who filled in, nice little girl," he said with a dirty little glint in his eye, "But she's got no taste in music."

James (my roommate, who is currently visiting his girlfriend's family, under the guise of a girl) called to wish me a happy boxing day and let me know she was doing okay. I'm not going to lie, it annoyed as much as amused me that she used the medallion to transform into a woman without making me aware first. I could very well have gotten rid of it once I'd changed back, and then where would she be? Getting a much more complete experience than I ever did. So I asked how "Jamie" was doing, and she tells me that aside from the discomfort her breasts are causing her, she was having a blast, going back to her high school Improv comedy days to portray this little deception. I ask about the breast issue, and it seems that he was a bit overzealous in choosing what to use for the transformation (I had only vaguely explained the medallion to him in passing after my own transformation,) and he found himself the owner (renter? Leaser?) of a pair of 36C's. My own were in the neighbourhood of a full B, so they were fairly substantial breasts, but not obtrusive. In high school, I knew a guy who boasted he could eyeball a girl's breast size. Another girl... well endowed at that... at the lunch table balked, and challenged him. He studied her for a moment before declaring "34-C" to her astonishment. Not long after, they started dating, and went out for nearly 3 years. Even having worn bras for a week I'm no expert, but the girl I knew had some unweildly large breasts (for a high school girl at least,) and if James are in that neighbourhood, I could see that causing some... issues.

But apparently, she and her girlfriend are having wild sex since it's all this taboo girl-on-girl stuff that her parents "can't know about or they'd freak." James is blessed to have such an understanding girlfriend. Diana would hardly touch me when I was girl-Alex.

Yes, Diana and I are officially an item, as though her sleeping in my bed didn't confirm that, regardless of gender. We have plans for New Year's, but we're not sure what they are yet.

Speaking of New Years, I might as well admit the "mystery call" I got a while back. It was Declan, calling for Alex. I don't even know how he got my number, which is embarrassing and frustrating. He wanted to know if Alex was free for New Year's. For obvious reasons, I haven't called back. I hope he just thinks he got a wrong number... that's not a conversation I'm looking forward to.

Stupid magical medallions make life too complicated. Stay warm.

-Alex

Christmas Wrapping Up

Hah... puns.
This post courtesy of Bobby Leah on Flickr... I'll admit, I've been raiding Flickr and Wikipedia during this experience for random images to underscore the content of my posts. I thought this was oddly appropriate, even though I switched back over a week before Christmas. Having Christmas dinner with my family made me feel as self-conscious as I did when I first transformed.

I took the taxi down to Mom's on Christmas eve. It was expensive, but a lot safer than riding the train with a garbage bag full of wrapped Christmas presents. I got there just after 8, and when I came through the door, my mom was within eyeline, in the kitchen at the back of the house. She dropped some dishes in the sink and rushed over to me. She threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, saying "I'm so glad to see you!" My mom's no ice queen, but she's rarely been that affectionate. But because the last time I saw her I had shed my penis, perhaps she was relieved I had come out of the experience alive and no worse for wear. In fact, I'd reset the entropy of my body about 7 days, so maybe I'll live a little longer.

The family... Mom, her boyfriend Tom, and my brother Ross, were already there, watching TBS' "24 Hours of a Christmas Story." Tom (whom I didn't see last time I visisted, for reasons unknown and uninteresting) averted his eyes, and Ross stood up, walked over, put his hand on my shoulder, and could barely contain his laughter as he said, "Heya sis, wanna go help mom with the dishes?"

The most annoying part about this is when he and I shared an apartment, I was always the one doing the dishes. I just swatted him away and called him an asshole.

The night proceded without major incident, but there was always that spectre hanging over my head. Mom is probably secretly wondering how much I experienced as a woman, embarrassed for both herself and for me. Ross has this to taunt me with, but I secretly think he admires my guts. Tom, well, I've always been awkward around Tom, so we didn't speak all night anyway. He's a pretty quiet guy anyway. It can be annoying. I went to bed a bit early, in my old room.

The next day was merry christmas. Some new computer software/hardware, some nifty CD's and DVD's, including some Demitri Martin. The rest of the family came over, Grandma, Aunt Rachel and Uncle Al, their kids, Sara and Robby. Some others. And it was over Christmas dinner that all the questions came out. They all knew what I'd been through, and they wanted the dirt. So began the interrogation.

Questions I was, for the most part, tired of going over. Mostly stuff I've addressed on the blog, some matters I can't even remember, and stuff I'd prefer to forget. I tried to brief them on what I experienced, but I was really tired of talking about it and besides, it had been a week and I could barely remember. That's the truth of it. There is what's in this blog, there are other thingsin more detail in my notepads, and some stuff I might never forget, but altogether I was female for one week of my life and my memory can't place most of it that's not written down, because physically, I no longer have frame of reference. I can barely remember what it feels like to have breasts and as time goes on, I'm sure the memory will keep fading. That's just the truth of it.

Hence, my awkwardness over Christmas dinner. When Aunt Rachel (who is only a handful of years older than me,) actually asked me if I thought sex would be better as a woman or a man, I nearly coughed up a lung in the midst of a mouthful of turkey. Read Tiresias, okay Aunt Rachel?

(The truth is, I almost stopped answering altogether and directed them to this blog, but then I remembered my little business with Declan and decided that would only create more stress.)

Finally the chaos settled down, we relaxed over some trifle for dessert, said our last Merry Christmases and started to leave very slowly. Ross was the only one left with mom and Tom. As I gathered up my haul and slid on my jacket, I kissed mom goodbye, and Ross just shook my hand and told me "Y'know buddy, you're some piece of work." He'd had a bit of hard Egg Nog. "But you're all right, no matter who you are."

I laughed, said goodbye, and headed for the train station.

When I got home, there we two messages on my machine. One was Diana, asking if I was up for anything tomorrow (Of course I am!) and the other... well, I'm not really comfortable saying right yet, so I'll leave it until I really have to address it. Let me just say it certainly is relevant.

Goodnight everyone
-Alex M.

Return trip

"Thank god I am male again!" I wrote on Sunday evening. Maybe I sounded too enthusiastic... I don't mean to slight the other half, but one should always feel more comfortable in one's own gender.

That said, I'd like to thank all the women out there for letting me, um, visit their gender for the week. It was an experience that certainly shed some light on the culture women share that is a mystery to men.

But okay. You can't learn everything about a gender by being it for a mere week, but there are things you maybe never would have guessed or thought about that you learn over the course of the first day, and accumulate throughout the experience. but I never got a period, didn't have sex, I didn't have to work a day job or go through the high school system with hormone-driven boys thinking through their pants... lots of other stuff.

Diana and I left the house just a little bit on Sunday, she still wanted to spend an afternoon with me in my feminized state. We didn't go too far from the house, either, just to a little jewellery shop to pick something out for her. I think she had a wedding or something she wanted earrings for. Jewellery, I didn't get into (Trish asked me to get my ears pierced once at the beginning of the week. I just stood up and left the room. The subject didn't come up again.)

We went home and had a little take-out dinner from Swiss Chalet. Then it was time. The transformation happened in reverse. The first thing that happened was my muscles became tighter and thicker. I began getting a lot of my bulk back. My bone structure underwent those subtle changes. My face suffered the unsubtle, unpleasant feeling of being re-molded, like being punched in reverse. Hair shranky back into my head re-sprouted from my chest and legs. And then... the ograsmically awkward and totally painful feeling of having one's genitals resculpted.

I'll admit, having gone from a clean, fresh, even nubile young female body to a more muscly (but not all that much) and hairy male, it doesn't seem so good on paper. But I was never so relieved to have an erection as when I finally saw my little buddy from under my slowly-retracting breasts.

Dressed in a bathrobe, I opened the door to my bedroom when it was done. Diana was waiting for me.

"Enjoying the show?"

She came over to me and lay a finger on my chin. She looked up at me instead of over for the first time since whenever. I blushed.

"Now that it's over," she said, "I'd better get home. There's unpacking to do, and with any luck, i'll be staying in town for the foreseeable future."

I walked her to the subway. She kissed me on the cheek and told me to call her. I'm pretty whipped already, I guess.

So that's the story. Once I gather my final summary, I'll post it, and if there's any medallion news (with James running around his girlfriend's place with a set of breasts of his own, I imagine there will be,) I'll post that too. It's been a weird week, man, but it's not all neatly wrapped up yet.

-Alex

Intermission

I haven't kept up in the blog, which is insane, given its nature. It hasn't got anything to do with my transformation, just the act of blogging itself. and the holidays. I made a pretty self-conscious girl who didn't like shopping any more than she did as a man. so I've been doing all my holiday shopping this week.

As for the blog, I've mostly been culling posts together from hand-written notes I've made, so the delay is that I've already written it so I'm sluggish to record in onto the web. The last post was dated sunday but actually not posted until yesterday, so you can see how behind I am. I've still got a few left before I show how the whole story shakes out.

We eventually did find the medallion (thank GOD!) I was scared and nervous to be stuck without it (more on that later,) but I also really had to pee. I go into the washroom and there it is with a note taped to it.

"Alex--

Ok so I know this is gonna sound queer, but Tia wanted me to come to her parents' place for Christmas, but they don't approve of her bringing a boy home, so... i guess you can guess where this is going. this is pretty fucked up, is all i can say. just don't lose this thing before i get home for new years!

--james"

I recognized his handwriting, although, like I've noticed with mine, it's a little more determined. As a girl, he's probably being careful about how he does things... she does things. moving slowly around rooms, taking pauses when speaking, and writing just a little neater. I know I did the first day. It clears up once you get more comfortable in a new step size.

Finally relaxed, I took a bath. I haven't ha a bath since I was in grade... lord knows when, but I'll bet my body was hairless. Speaking of which, the bath's function was to give me a little time to take care of some of the stubble I'd been left with on my legs. I wasn't male again yet.

By this point, Diana still hasn't left and I'm clean. But I won't be changing back until the exact hour I changed in the first place...

...to be continued...
-Alex

An affair to remember?

I woke up yesterday morning, heading for a brief shift at the record store. There's not much communication between those of us that work there so nobody really asked why this strange girl was taking shifts. Holiday help, perhaps?

Before I got out, there was a very short letter in my inbox. The sender name was ominous. Diana.

I hold my breath and click it in. In the instant I realized I was determined to remain female until at least after our date, i freaked a bit and sent her a manically-typed email explaining very awkwardly my situation and asking about three or five times what we were gonna do and if she was still up for anything and saying I'd understand if she weren't. The letter read virtually as follows...

"Got in this morning.

"Read your e-mail.

"So, wanna meet somewhere first or just go to the movies?

-Diana"

And gave her cell number. It slowly dawned on me that she showed no hint that she was not considering coming. Sensing this, I damn well nearly skipped to work despite considerable stiffness and hung-overness.

But as the day goes by, I'm overcome with nervousness. Okay, so she's "accepting." that's fine, in theory, but are she and I gonna be on the same page? I'd done a lot of thinking since I kissed Declan last night. While I wasn't into it, what if I wasn't into Diana either? what if the pleasure receptors in my brain just shut off after spending so much time as a woman? Okay, I can pleasure myself (not that I've spent more than a session on that...) but what if nobody does it for me? in high school, I knew a girl named anne, and tried to ask her out. She told me this long story aobut how she didn't want to date - not just me, but anybody... she wondered what the term was... and settled on non-sexual (after I told her "asexual" would mean she would reproduce with herself.) We didn't speak much after that.

I'm a woman now (or rather, right now.) The mystery is gone. After all tihs time, I don't think there's anything about boobs and butts that arouses me right now. And I keep thinking down to this hole I'm sitting on and wondering if maybe... god forbid maybe... what i want is someone who can fill it.

I was having a fit all day, hyperventilting and looking for someone to lash out at. after getting home from work I threw all my borrowed clothes on the floor, coming to the brink of tears for the second time since my term as a female.

Then, as luck would have it, in walks Steph. She throws her arms aorund me and asks what's wrong. I try to tell her. She doesn't say anything, jsut holds me, and tell me, "It's okay."

I realize that, but can't get the rational part of my brain to agree. But her saying it out loud helped some. We cleaned me up and she laid me out some clothes while I showered. as much as I don't want this to be a fashion blog, I can't re-iterate enough what a big part of being female that is. Fashion is "girly." It's "not acceptable" for boys to be into fashion. I know I never was. But what a girl wears reflects her state inside; or rather, the idealized state. i can't maybe calm myself down, but I'm thinking what I wear can at least be laid back.

Steph and I agreed it would be best not to confront Diana by girling it up too much. She pulled my hair back in a ponytail and handed me some androgynous-looking blouses (button-up jobs that are not unlike what I wear as a guy,) and some hiphuggers. Are they still called that? I'm sorry, I zoned out when Trish told me specifically what all her clothes were named.

an hour before we were supposed to meet, I called Diana.

"Hello?"

My breath stopped in my lungs as I heard her voice. Out of... embarrassment, maybe... I tried to deepen mine, to cartoonish effect.

"Hey, Diana, it's me... (Alex.)"

"Oh my God, Alex..." she laughed, I guess with astonishment. "You're really not screwing with me, are you? Like, this is you? You sound so..."

"Believe me," I laughed awkwardly, "I look like it, too."

"Well cool, anyway," she seemingly shrugged it off, "I'm at Union station, what stop is closest to you?"

"St. Andrew," I said... it's not really that, but I'm still trying to hide my geographic location from readers here. It's not really ethical journalism, but you understand I hope. "There's a Tim's and a movie theatre nearby..."

"Oh, cool," she said, "I think there's a poetry reading actually, not far from there. I kinda wanted to go. You up for that? I know it maybe sounds kinda girly..."

"Believe me..." I mutter-laughed, "Looking girly is the least of my concerns these days."

We said a goodbye, see you soon, whatever, and hung up the phone. Steph had eavesdropped. Hanging off my slender little shoulders, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said "Sweetie, that's so cute. You've got a little girlfriend!"

"Quit it," I swatted at her.

"Maybe you can borrow her clothes and let me get mine back?" I groaned. Steph's not as funny as she thinks she is.

We met at a Tim Hortons. For those of you reading from outside Canada, Tim Horton was an NHL player who lent his name to a coffee & doughnut place that has dug its claws so far into Canadian culture, they opened one for the troops in Afghanistan because of the demand. The coffee is different from other places like Starbucks or Second Cup (another Canadian place, like our version of Starbucks I guess,) in that it's like halfway between fast food/diner and legit cafe. And the coffee is extremely addictive and comparatively cheap. I'm pretty sure there's nicotine in it, but I've heard it's not enough that they have to say how much. An odd loophole.

sidebar: I didn't used to to drink coffee every day. Only once in a while when I needed a jolt. Thanks to my magically physiologically altered sleeping habit, i'm up to two a day, usually from Tim's.

It took me a little while to recognize her, but I doubt she was going to recognize me. I didn't tower over her anymore but was still nearly a head above her. I tap her on the shoulder.

"...Alex?" she asks, nervously. I blush and not.

"Heya Diana. Good to see you again."

She hugs me. I might never get over the awkwardness of a four-breasted, dickless hug. It's too intimate, but maybe that's what she wanted. I spent much the evening trying to suss out the meanings in what she said and did.

Over double-doubles (that's two cream and sugars,) she told me, briefly, about Montreal. Apparently, she "scrounges up paychecks" for a living, going wherever she hears about opportunities, and was in Montreal doing fill-in work at an office. She says she's never been one to stay in place too long. I believe it.

She hammered me with questions, trying to fill in the blanks about what she read on this site. There's not much else i'd like to say, I told her, in fact in some places I think I said too much. She nearly spits out her coffee and tells me she nearly died laughing when she read I had... "taken care of myself" a few days ago.

"Which is better?" she asks. I don't have much of an answer. It depends entirely on your sensibilities. She corrects herself into asking what the difference is, and again, I can't say... that is, I haven't got a frame of reference to explain it to her. It's night and day... there are some similarities, and many, many fundamental differences. I tell her this, "As a man, it's a really good steak. As a woman, it's the best dessert you ever had."

"I never liked steak," she tells me.

"And I've never been much of a dessert man."

She thinks again, and tells me, "That doesn't make any sense." Well, we're talking aobut sex here; none of it ever seems to make sense when you talk about it.

We go to the poetry reading. I'm not really a poetry guy and went unfazed through much of it. One of the readers, however, Sonnet L'Abbe, really got through to me... not with what she wrote, but how she was writing it... sound poetry, I guess it's called.

Uh
by Sonnet L'Abbe

The shyness, the delay to say
I'm thinking, I'm processing,
the silence before the words
string into coherence I can't leave
unfulfilled, all my ignorence,
the mice scurrying in the maze,
please wait while the images
load, sound saying I'm not
dumb

or the coyness, the delay to say
I'm answering, when I'm processing
the first thought into a string of words
less hurtful, less assessing,
less revealing of the blunt fact
of my unkindness, all my interiority,
the scurry to hide it behind my back
please wait while I remember
your heart, sound the safety on a sharp
tongue

That sort of thing. We walked and talked some more, about less gender-specific things. we were, after all, still getting to know each other. She convinced me to take her to see a movie. The issue of paying came up. She looked at me expectantly. "What are the odds of me getting any tonight?" I asked her.

"A lot better if you pay for my ticket," she notes. I paid. I'm such a sucker. We say The Holiday. Not my type of movie. Not great, not half bad. Made me think some about the way women are depicted in movies. Our shoulders started to lean up against one another about halfway through. up to this point, I'm half in and half out about whether or not this is a date. I like her. It goes beyond physical, I like being around her. She's a lot of fun. She told me she could never beat the pipe maze world of Mario 3, which is adorable. I've noticed her body, but only casually. I find myself, maybe, listening more to waht she says about herself. I don't just want to nail her. I really, really like her.

After the movie, she drops it on me. "My place is a mess."

"My life is a mess," I playfully respond.

"Don't, um, I mean, this doesn't mean anything, like, don't get all 'guyish' on me for saying this, but I was wondering if I could stay at your place tonight?"

Gu-ulp. I thought I was "all guyish?" Never mind. She wants to stay at my place. "I've only got the one bed."

"That's fine." She pauses and adds, "I don't think I have too much to be worried about at this point. No offense."

"None taken," I think about a half second, "Sure, let's go." My heart starts to beat faster. Parts of my body that didn't even respond to the physical touch are really starting to get heated. I don't know what to do with myself and I'm trying just to play it cool. We hit the subway and ride back to my place where I dug out the old SNES and we played Mario All-Stars (I showed her all my tricks, including the third warp whistle. Doesn't anybody know about that?) and had a few beers until nearly 3:00, when we passed out, I in my pyjamas, she in her bra and panties. She went to sleep first. I turned out the light and kissed her on the forehead. She didn't flinch.

I woke up the next morning, however, and she was practically draped on me. The bed's not all that big, so maybe she just needed so sprawl. Still though, I could've done without her interpretation of a mammogram.

She peels off me and stretches out, evidently awaking just as I had. "Morning," she coos. I couldn't help myself. I kissed her.

Full and deeply on the mouth. And?

She kissed back. YES, she kissed back. She even brushed her hand up against my breast a little. But when our lips parted, she just said.

"You're really good. I can't wait until you turn back into a man, because we are not even close to doing that again until you do."

Which, of course, sent me on a rampant rush to find the medallion. I'm getting a little distressed, because I can't seem to find it, but I know it's around somewhere. Should I be worried? My manhood's in that thing, and my future with Diana is hanging in the balance...

Errgh...

Sorry to leave you hanging like that, but until I get back to hanging of my own (yes, that's a penis pun,) that's all I've got.

Alex

A little celebration?

I'm... a little buzzed right now so maybe my spelling won't be great, but I've leanred a long time ago to write while drunk (I once had aspirations of literary succes and like most creative people I feel moreso when drunk,) but you know how these things go when you're ina different body and your tolerance is gone. Or maybe you don't. But I do now... because I had like 3 beers and am gonne...

BUT anyway it;'s the end of the semester and Trish and Steph and some others (some of whom didn't know the truth about me0 wanted to have an end-of-semester party, or at least a... "girl's night out." Maybe it was a "Alex has been a gril for almost a week" party. So I went.

The destination was this sketchy club out in the boonies where we had to pay outrageous amounts for beer, and sit in dim lighting with loud music and annoying guys hitting on them.... us. Us. Guys hitting on us.

Concealed under a long wool coat in the cool december wind was a dress that Jessica Rabbit might've found comfortable. Not glamorous, but fun and kinda skanky. The thing clung to my hips and dropped off like a cliff on the cleavage. I felt so revealed - and as a man masquerading as a woman it's not a great feeling. When I first tried it on - at Steph's insistence - I felt less like a woman than I had since I first woke up Monday morning. Steph, my stylist for the night, painted me up and poofed my hair. It actually too kthe whole afternoon after the early-morning final.

We arrived and were admitted as a quintet of pretty young ladies, the type of clienteles these types of places always seek. I almost paused behind the four of thme but the doorman just held for me. The whole week the frist door held was by a guy who was paid to! Okay I've only done this for a handful of girls in my life but for some reason I'm suddenly disappointed.

We sat around and I tried to play it cool and not attract attention to myself. Trish kept urging me to order something to drink but I didn't even have my purse on me and definitely didn't want to get myself a ttoo loosened up..

Trish and Steph and the others are on the dancefloor with guys they've just met. Some of them are getting handsy and I'm a little repulsed. Maybe jealous. NOT because of the attention, but because I was never the type of guy who could just whisk a woman away. I was always the tame once and now I'm seeing from the other perspective just how badly it was working. The guys, probably losers from day to day with crappy jobs and no real intelligence or wit, managed to get these girls -- all ranging from 8.5-10 on hotness -- rubbing up against them jsut by... hell I didn't even know. Crappy! I've got to ask the girls what they see in that approach.

Then the parade starts. The first guy stops by the table and asks where my boyfriend is. "I don't have one." "Wanna have some fun?" "No that's all right." "oh come on..." "trust me buddy you don't want any fun from me." "Look, just have a drink with me?" out of the question. "I won't go away until you say yes." I et up and walk to the washroom, where giddy 19-year-olds apply makeup and squeal with glee that this is their first night at a real club without a fake ID. I make like I have to pee and sit in the stall to catch my breath. I counted to twenty and then stood up. the auto-flush went off unexpectedly. Hmp.

So back to the floor. noticing I was unattended by any one male for extended time, guys kept hitting on me with lamer and lamer lines. Finally, the first guy returns.

"Listen," I say, seeing that by comparison he's not such a bad guy, "I'll have a drink with you, but... hands off, ok?"

"Hey, I'm not one of those guys who expects to slide home on the first swing."

"How would you feel about grounding out?"

He grins "A girl who can talk baseball. Nice." Well buddy htere's plenty more of that.....

So we get to talking. Declan was his name. He buys me a beer, which I drank at my more usual male rate to his astounding and my regret because when I first stood, I went very diagonal. He laughs. "Maybe you wanna dance?"

I wanted nothing less. As much as I've been trying to pull myself out of my old male idiom, dislike of dancing is a male trait not easily shed. It has to do with the gracelessness of your typical white male and how I'm never been that good on my feet. Stricly put I look like an ass.

When I offer the short version of this explanation, he tells me, "I'm sure you look beautiful when you dance."

More than a bit intoxicated and almost at the point in the week where I value beauty as a personal trait, I blush. I blush!! Jesus man, I can't keep from smiling this guy thinks I'm beautiful. I'm a freaking sucker. Lady Marmalade, the Moulin Rouge versino that was big when I was inching my way out of high school, starts to play. Okay, I think. We'll give this a try.

I think i threw my shoulder out doing a pop-and-lock but I never laughed so hard. And I think he enjoyed it too.

Many more drinks passed (okay even now I can't be sure the shoulder injury was after only one drink... who can count anymore?) and word got around that the club was going to call it a night soon.

"I've gotta get home."

"Listen," he says, drunkenly falling into male-Alex-like shyness, "why not just come to my place? just for a bit?"

I think of Diane.

"Not tonight sweetie." i don't know where "sweetie" came from, but it got out there. He slips me his number. Shit. And then, I know i'm gonna gt made fun of by the girls forever for this...

He steals a kiss. not a peck, neither. Full on them mouth, take a breath in the midst, kiss.

It's been a while since I've kissed anyone substantially, so maybe I let him. Maybe part of me was convincing myself it was all just research or maybe I was depserate. fuck if I know but I let it happen. and in a physical chemical sexual reaction way, I lit up a little bit. But in an emotional way... it's like kissing someone you're not fond of. I had a good time with the guy, but I didn't feel that, which was relieving for me.

I think he felt it too and was more exhausted. Our lips parted, and he sighed, maybe knowing he was defeated. He shook my hand and walked home the opposite way.

I've been called a lot of names over the past week. Fag and dyke are pretty common among the mutterers (don't think I don't hear that shit!) loser and weirdo are more G-rated ones. Hermie from the more clever set. So knowing that I'm not attracted to this man, or as far as I know, any man, should dispell those accusations.

This blog... its about as much about a man being a woman as it is being a woman today. I'm a man. And I can't change what I want, not by choice. if it was hard-wired into my biology then maybe, maybe I would have kissed him and come home with him and who knows? Fucked him?? I don't know! But I didn't. I just didn't.

Maybe who you are is not just your body, and maybe not even just your mind, but something less tangilbe. I'd finish that thought but, fuck, I'm still drunnnk (I'll proofread this tomorrow but who knows if I'll catch all the errors.)

more thoughts tomorrow.... I need water and a mattress.

-Alex

Thinking about sex...

Not that I could ignore it, try though I might. i was just in that mood when I woke up this morning. Of course, coming from being a man, I was never used to not being in that mood. So my lack of interest in either gender was new and strangely refreshing. Not having it on my mind allowed me to get a lot more work done (with leeway for spending time acclimating myself to my new role.)

But yeah, I had some time on my hands this morning and... well, turn that into whatever double entendre you want. And? Hrm. I liked it. It was new, it was fun, and even though the idea of having someone do that to me is repulsive, the genie's out of the bottle by now. And most beneficially, once it was over, I felt like I could go again, unlike my usual experience where my resources are literally depleted.

I don't have to justify this to you. I knew from the start that I was in this to learn. I've learned. And by no means do I have to share any more than I'm comfortable with. I'll say this: would that be part of the sales pitch if genders had to recruit? Hmm... (smiles.)

"The world would be a happier place," says Trish, "If everyone had just one good orgasm per day."

From Wikipedia: "Some can reach orgasm merely by crossing their legs tightly and clenching the muscles in their legs, which creates pressure on the genitals. This can potentially be done in public without observers noticing." I don't think this is something I will be trying...

Wikipedia also summarizes a key part of the myth of Tiresias: "Tiresias was a priest of Zeus. The myth begins in the country, near Mount Kyllene in the Peloponnese, as Tiresias came upon a pair of snakes lustfully intertwined. He hit the copulating couple a smart blow with his stick - presumably striking a blow for animal decency. But Hera was not pleased: as the sensuous seductress of Zeus, she heartily approved of sex - even for the lower creatures. Her punishment was cruel - the worst a man could imagine. He was then transformed into a woman. As a woman, Tiresias became a priestess of Hera, married and had children, including Manto, who also possessed the gift of prophecy. According to some versions of the tale, Lady Tiresias was a prostitute of great renown. After seven years as a woman, Tiresias again found mating snakes; he made sure to leave the snakes alone this time. As a result of his experiences and lesson learnt Tiresias was released from his sentence, and permitted to regain his masculinity. All could then have been well, but Tiresias was drawn into an argument between Hera and her husband Zeus. A common area for marital discussion - who has more pleasure in sex - the man or the woman? Hera was clever enough to let Zeus believe that men were superior in this as in everything else. However Zeus and Hera asked him to settle the question of which sex, male or female, experienced more pleasure during intercourse, as Tiresias had experienced both. Zeus claimed it was women; Hera claimed it was men. As a dastardly man, he revealed woman's greatest secret: on a scale of ten, she gets nine parts of the pleasure to his one. Hera was furious, and instantly struck him blind - Zeus couldn't do anything to stop her - but he did give Tiresias the gift of second sight." I won't speak on this, but I'll say that as a man, I've certainly done my part to risk my own eyesight.

Nah, that's an urban legend.

I was riding home with Trish after a late exam. She mentioned she'd read the blog last night and told me not to worry about Diana (the girl from the record store.) So long as she could get over the magical gender switching I'm engaging in we should be fine. If I'm any good to hang out with (which, she assures me, I probably am,) she won't care, because even though my language is getting a bit more flowery and my attitude is a little less aggressive, I'm still less girly than most girls, so it can be a kind of "chaste date."

"I mean," she says, "it's not like you were going to get laid anyway."

Okay, I groan. I know it's true, but as a man, you've gotta hold out hope. But I laugh it off anyway.

Then, on the 80's and 90's hour on the radio just as we pull onto the QEW, I hear a fiddle strike up. I get a little more quiet. It's "Come On Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners. I just kinda stare out the window while Trish drives. It gets to the middle of the song and I haven't spoken in a while. "Is something wrong?"

I wince and turn toward her. My eyes are puffy and there's a swelling in my throat. The feeling is almost alien, because I've almost completely managed to supress any real emotion ever since I was in grade school. But suddenly I'm reminded of a girl who dumped me in the car while that song was playing, and I don't know. Maybe I was just feeling vulnerable or not bowing to the pressure to be a man and just swallow it, but I actually start to cry a little.

"Shit dude, you're freaking me out," Trish says, "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you should cancel your date."

"Maybe I should," I sniffle a bit, "but I'm not gonna."

With all these clichés about femininity - from fashion to emotions to that whole wife-and-mother image - it's not hard to see why so many girls, especially these days, rebel with their style and attitudes getting a bit more boyish (not even "feminist.") If I had to do this full time... and if there's a God I won't... I'd probably be one of them.

But I only have to spend three more days in this body, so it's a free pass to all the female crap, so I might as well take advantage, while enduring Dave Kiniski's "hey there's goes the queer" remarks. I don't care, Dave should hear the way people talk about him. He's constantly interjecting into girls' conversations and trying to hit on them.

Besides, I'd like to see him try. I bet he's not man enough.

--Alex

Breasts, boobies and tits

I don't use the word "tits" in everyday conversation. My dad said it once years ago not long after he and mom split up, with respect to Britney Spears. Coming from a man of 45-or-so, it sounded irredeemably vulgar and I've just never had it as part of my vocabulary. I've heard a girl use it exactly once, and it didn't come off any better.

In my everyday male life, I have preferred to say "boobies." I guess it's my playful side, or my awkward side, or maybe it's the same side to begin with, trying to deflect the awkwardness of trying to play with these things that, until recently, I had no idea how they worked. Boobies. I wasn't on a first name basis with them. I had to kid around the subject.

Now? Now it's breasts. I've used the words "breasts" however many times on this blog and in conversations throughout the day. I can't draw any attention to them with euphamisms. Got to be formal and mature about them. If I start kidding around about my breasts, God only knows what could happen.

My embarrassment about my mammaries brings to mind the fact about what society expects of men and women, and differently. The expectations for women are complex and loaded with catches and caviats. Men merely have to be presentable when women have to be pretty. Men carry wallets in their pants, but womens' fashions can't afford that convenience. We carry purses, the purses become fashion statements to go with outfits. The culture of "outfits" expands by how many options we have to fit our shapes; pants or skirts? Blouses, camisoles? Hair; up, down, long short? Earrings, necklaces, make-up? A man picks his tie like he picks which $10 he'll pay for his lunch with. A woman might spend twice as much time trying to decide which underwear to put on, and on the average day, nobody else gets to see it. And what's with that little bow?? Never mind. The bow is just irksome to me is all. For no good reason, too.

What I'm driving at, I suppose, is how an entire economy has been built around peer pressure on a global scale. Even as a woman at the moment I think it is weird for a woman not to care about her appearance. But maybe that's because - god willing - I still have a great deal of appreciation for the female form. So with these perpetuated notions of a woman's image being ever-important, women are stuck in this place that men, I suppose, never have to worry about. And then this extends to the way we live our lives. Like I haven't had a good hamburger all week. I'm just saying...

And I think I offended some of my girlfriends when I claimed that the loss of my testicles caused me to lose my "competitive edge." I'm sorry I said that, but I think like a man I'm still mentally trying to tap into my testosterone supply for motivation, and obviously it's not there. That assumes, of course, that subconsciously or otherwise you can mentally pick where your adrenaline comes from. Hrm. This theory doesn't seem to be panning out. But I'm a journalist, not a biologist. So maybe I should go ask someone with some thought.

But then again, I can't think of too many scientists who are interested in the "I was magically transformed into a woman - of my own volition - and I was wondering..." if the magic part doesn't get them laughing, the volition will.

-Alex

Work sucks.

Not that I usually mind, but see, relinquishing your gender isn't exactly a good excuse to call in sick. Besides, I'm the only one who works most weekdays.

I didn't mention this before, but I work at a small record store (well, music store) that is often busy around the holidays. I was utterly exhausted after I got home yesterday, so naturally, I didn't blog. I just went to bed and met my muscles lock themselves into stiffness.

But I bring this up because about a week ago, a girl comes into the store looking for The Coral. I don't know why, but they never seem to have hit it big on this side of the Atlantic, but their output is phenomenal, so I've been a fan since I first heard "Dreaming of You." So I was thrilled when this cute girl with blonde hair and a ripped t-shirt comes in and asks for a band I've been pushing on my friends for years. I start chatting her up, and we make dinner plans. Except she tells me she's leaving town so we have to meet up when she gets back... which I just found out was this weekend. She wants to meet me saturday night, in fact. And I can't exactly tell her "Saturday's no good, my penis won't be outta the shop until Sunday at the earliest." She's in Montréal and doesn't have a phone right at the moment, and her e-mail is sketch. So I have to sit tight until she calls me and says "Hey I'm back in town." I'm just kinda stewing right now.

As far as music goes, I'm noticing the gender slant in the music I like. Take for instance, the album I had on in the store last night, Aerosmith's Pump. So, I love Aerosmith. I think they're the finest rock and roll band America ever produced. Their blues instrumentation is irresistable, their lyrics always smartass and at their best, filthy in a subtle kind of way. But when a song like "Young Lust" opens the album, as a man in a girl's body, lyrics like "Better keep your daughter inside/Or she's gonna get a dose of my pride" aren't totally comforting. And the album basically continues in that vein through "F.I.N.E.," "Love in an Elevator," "My Girl," and "Don't Get Mad, Get Even." Not to mention "What It Takes" becomes a different ordeal when you imagine a guy singing to you about that. Aerosmith has thousands, millions of female fans, I've been to their concerts. I'm assuming that means real women are better at dealing with whatever my hang up is.

I'm comfortable with my physiology. I'm comfortable with my fashion. i'm even comfortable with the slight change in my speech patterns (to everyone I've spoken to in the last three days: I really am sorry for saying "like" so much!) But it would take much more than a week, I think, to be any sort of comfortable with anything to do with sex. And that's time I hope not to have.

But I'm learning about sex, albeit from a very hypothetical point of view. The girls are being pretty sketchy on the details, joking that I should just "try it for myself," but all I'm interested right now is the dynamic - the chase rather than the, erm... act. For years I couldn't escape the notion that, as a man, I wanted sex, and women didn't; so it was my job to convince them.

The dirty little secret has been staring us in the face for years, men. The difference between men and women's attitudes toward sex is only the same as the distinction between their parts. That meaning, different on the outset, but with the same basic function. Women want sex. They do. Traditionally, it's the man, with his penis, will make the aggressive moves toward sex. The woman, with her inwardly-turned biology and psychology, wants to be chased. Wants to be shown the attention. Not convinced, per se, but at least shown she's not an object. And even though a guy like me doesn't think of women like that, words are cheap. Like I said, I can't say for sure, I've only been renting mine for half a week, and I have no intention of finding out beyond whatever I do behind closed doors with myself, if and when I decide the curiosity is killing me too bad.

I...can't type to much more in this vein... must keep focus... it's only by the grace of God and too much homework that I haven't caved already.

On that note, I came across this...

SUBTLE PASSION
(Ruth Weal, pictured)

I would have you show me the subtle passion that I have always known in your arms, I would have you strip away my calm and erode my resolve, beneath your deft fingers I long to dissolve. In promise my whole frame arches for you, in my passion I would have you pass through. Hypnotised by your hunger for me, silently begging for you to release me.

I would have you worship at the altar of my flesh; bringing our bodies together as our souls’ enmesh. I would have you fulfil my every debased secret and want. Let me see the soul that I can free with my words and my touch, I have never wanted anything or anyone ever this much. Yours is a hunger that cannot be assuaged, in my love for you I will never be swayed.

I would have you deliver the poet in me; she worships you and only thee. She was bereft when you were not in my life, in her endless grief she did weep. Broken without you in my arms, bereft of hope when I lost you from my sight, without your presence there was no light. I would own your flesh and deliver your soul, do anything to know your whole.

I would go everywhere you do, just to see your face, to see you smile for me. I would have you let me see that I can cause you more than just passion, guilt and pain. I would know that this road we travel is not in vain. I would have you know the rapture of my flesh enfolded around yours, have you know the passion in me to which you are the cause.

I would have you here this very moment, to lie here by my side, stroking my hair, dispelling my fears and owning my tears. I fear the power you have over me and how I will ever let you leave. Seeing you has changed everything, nothing now will ever be the same.

-Alex

"Haha... I'm gross"

That was the quote that ended my last entry. It's funny, because I can't remember a time since I was 10 or so that I would ever have ended a thought about my appreciation for breasts that way. I guess it's only fair to say my perspective is a little different from the usual. And that's somewhat scary.

Like, I love breasts. As a man, my eyes are immediately drawn to them, I'm a little embarrassed (and elsewise proud) to say. But even yet I've maybe had too much for them and am only embarrassed when I look like a girl looking at other girls, especially because my interest is nominal at best these days. Nobody wants to be outside the norm, least of all me any moreso than I already am.

Then I find a picture like the one here. I didn't catch the photographer (and I am absolutely embarrassed about that, as a journalist,) but I think his (or her) work is gorgeous. It's not pornographic, but I'll admit, it got me a little... aherm.

It was a long exhausting day at school. I wrote my last entry from class. It was then that I realized I had picked about the worst time of year to experiment with my own gender by way or magical medallion, since I'm dealing with school ending this week, and family and Christmas and everything, I've needlessly complicated things. Ugh, what a shmuck I've been.

I came home after 6, heated up some veal, and spent an hour or so slouched in a chair playing video games. It was not a very dainty, ladylike position, with my neck craned upward and my crotch roughly on a level with my chin. I figure I've only got a few more weeks left of playing WWE Smackdown vs. RAW 2006 before I ifnally cave and get 2007. Somehow, however, after parting with my testicles, I seem to have lost that competitive edge. I hate to say this - Jesus I do because I don't think that's the actual cause - but I didn't ge tthe same flow as I did when I was a man. My reactions were sloppy and off and I got my ass kicked by the CPU. CPU! Maybe I was just less interested in playing some dude knocking some other dude around. So I went into Create-A-Superstar and designed my new "Self." She looks pretty bad, and no matter what you do I think she has to have improbably large breasts (just ike all the women on WWE television,) but I gave her my name and clothes and something vaguely resembling my hair.

I went to Wal-Mart after dinner. I don't like Wal-Mart, but it's the only place around here to get digital photos done. Right across from the electronics section was the women's section, more specifically the underwear aisle (now there's a juxtaposition.) The line was long so I kept finding my eye wandering and trying to imagine myself in some of the garments there. Modestly, I couldn't really. I guess in my head I'm still kind of a boxers guy, even if the little bow on the front of my undies suggest differently (what's up with that bow anyway?)

Ahead of me was this teenage girl printing out photos, I guess of her and her boyfriend. She was taking a long while when her mom showed up and asked what the hold up was. Finally, the mom said she wasn't going to wait around like this. The girl tried to stomp her foot to get her way. If a boy had tried that, man, you know it wouldn't work. And it didn't work for her, either.

as for me, I got home in plenty good time to watch WWE Monday Night RAW. Now it's not as though I was suddenly less into the Divas or magically understood what girls see in John Cena. But there was a really good tag team match (both a tag team and six-man tag actually,) and there was nothing that made me feel embarrassed to be a girl (like say, some kind of lame DX skit.) In fact, I think Victoria's doing a terrific job chasing Mickie James for the Women's title, and that's what I've felt since before she and I had something in common.

Wrestling is such a male-oriented form of entertainment but it's not like I've never known women who watch it. Half-naked guys rolling around on the floor? Come on. But it's more of an involving experience, an adrenaline rush when you can put yourself in the wrestler's shoes maybe. Not altogether ineffective, but then again, I'm not much of a mark these days to begin with. I was even talking recently about how the show wasn't as interesting lately as it could be. But I'll say this... when Umaga incapacitated Jeff Hardy, I felt really sorry for Jeff and mad at Umaga.

My god, maybe I am a mark...

It's a good thing RAW didn't come later in the week and that this is as temporary as it is. If this trend was likely to continue, I might find myself buying the John Cena pink camo baby tee

-Alex

"Looking good ace"

I got home and went straight to the computer. But I was tired and hungry, and scarfed down a plate of pizza bagels. Then before bed I felt disgusting. I can't even remember eating so much so quickly when I was a man. I'd better be careful, ladies' clothes apparently don't handle weight gain like men's fashion does. I just don't wanna be a fat chick (with all due respect to the gorgeous plus-sized ladies pictured here.) M wardrobe's on loan.

I didn't wake up with my hand in my panties, although I had a hell of a time getting to sleep. I feel like my breasts have a mind of their own. I think I can understand why women strap them up, although the strain on my shoulders is already, by this point in the evening, leaving marks.

But, dressed in old gradeschool-aged Simpsons pyjamas and a D.A.R.E. t-shirt, I woke up wondering what I had been dreaming about and why I felt so... oh, right. My back was sore and stiff, keeping rigid posture all night, arms barred straight across my lower abdomen. I tossed and turned all night, eventually deciding bras were not meant to be slept in. I don't even know when I actual fell asleep, but it couldn't have been too long before my alarm went off. I sat up and then fell back down, trying to just ignore the radio. Fsst, wasn't going to work. I rolled outta bed and slung the t-shirt away, just letting them hang there in the cool morning air for a second.

It's just... a new sensation in that there is a sensation. New nerves, new receptors, so much more jazz going on here. I don't know.

Not having a lot of time, I wanted to just hop in and out of the shower, but before I hopped in I caught my reflection in the mirror and had to note it.

I'm so slight. I wasn't a bulky, muscley guy by any means, but I had a certain sinew to myself. I flexed my arm and it got virtually no result. My legs are thin, I don't think I could run too fast on them (not that I've run all that much lately.) As for my hips, they're not your stereotypical "hourglass" figure, kind of a gender-neutral. Haha, like a 12-year-old-boy doing a tuck-behind (ew.) The curve is there, just not accentuated in any way.

A few years ago I was at a party where two girls debated their breasts. One, a little on the small side, envied another, more fully-endowed girl. She in turn complained of the hassles she had to endure. At the time, I was lost, but now I'm understanding. Maybe nobody's ever really satisfied with their breasts. And how can they be? I don't know, at this point I've spent less than 24 hours with them.

Also this morning I got debunked for me several of the more... esoteric erotic images men have of women. Yes, a woman in the shower is hot. A woman undressing is attractive. A woman spending an extended amount of time on the toilet... not exactly beauty queen stuff.

My hair grew, I have no idea what that's about. It's longer than it was when I first changed last night. I can't prove it, I didn't measure, but it's nearly to my jaw, so I can tell I've got a few more inches. In fact, Steph pulled it back for me (leaving the front parts to dangle down the sides of my face.) I walked to school, and it took longer than usual. I'm not walking at my same stride as usual, which is something I didn't notice at first.

Disheavelled though I was, Trish told me I was "looking good," called me "ace" (?) and insisted we go do make-up. I declined. She begged. I refused. She demanded....... I got up and left.

First girl's room experience... hrm. I had to get over my long-held male fear of sitting, because I'm guessing women just deal with it and treat their facilities more delicately. That's my experience anyway. And there was a potted plant in there! For obvious reasons, I've never before seen a potted plant in a washroom. That'd be disgusting.

Trish cornered me and gave me an ultimatum: a little make-up today, or she pins me down and slathers it on tomorrow. Defeated, I told her to get it over with.

I don't like it. I've been on stage in high school plays, and I didn't like it much then. I feel like I'm just wearing a mask over my mask now. No make-up tomorrow. Makes my coffee taste nasty.

I got a couple -- not many -- noticable look from strangers, and mostly before the make-up. I wonder if I was so obvious when I would eyeball a girl in the hallway. I'm trying not to be grossed out, because if they're like me, the thoughts are mostly innocuous. I'm just afraid of that one guy who I make stop in his tracks and come after me..........

So I keep my eyes down, occasionally eyeballing a girl myself. I'm under cover. Maybe they won't know. I'm just admiring their top... sure....

Haha, I'm gross.

-Alex

Well, here I am.

Take it or leave it, I'm female. I have absolutely no idea how to elaborate upon it except to just go through the whole damn day.

Before heading out I caught up with my roommate James. Over the course of the week we don't see each other much and don't usually have too much to say to each other. He's a decent guy, but he works much more than I do so we tend not to bump into each other. Anyway, I asked for a moment before he headed out and he asked me what was up. I took a deep breath and explained it to him. I don't remember the words I used precisely, but I tried to put it out there like I did on this blog, careful to note I'm still not gay and this won't impact his life at all.

So once I'm done talking, like a maniac I suppose, he just stares blankly for a second, then lowers his eyes to think, and then just shrugs and says "whatever, I guess. Have fun." He laughs. Don't think he believes me, but he also seemed to be in a hurry.

I got on the 45 minute trainride at about 4:00 (please note the clock on this blog is extremely inaccurate and I've no idea how to fix it. It should be in tune with my own comp but it's not) and arrived at mom's house with a suitcase to the scent of some veal dish (which was fantastic.) We sit down a minute and she asks me what the suitcase is about.

"Mom, before I leave here tonight I'm going to change myself. Um, not just my clothes, per se, but my whole...self. It's for school. This medallion here..." the spiel. Keep in mind at this point I still haven't seen the damn thing work for myself so it's a hard sell no matter whom I'm talking to.

Once I finish, she just looks at me with eyes of ice and subtly shakes her head. He question was barely a whisper "...why?"

I can't impress on her how important it has become to me to finally answer the question of exactly what this can be, what it could do and how it feels. Not just to be a... woman... but to have been both sexes at some point. I don't know. Curiosity. You were the one who suggested I accept Journalism over advertising anyway, Mom. we sit down and eat in near-silence. Once you've told your mom you are going to sit in your old room for twenty minutes and change your sex with a magical artefact, there's not a whole lot left to say. "Cousin Terri is in another art show" seems irrelevant.

We cleared our plates and she looked at me expectantly. "Well there's no time like the present, I guess," I muttered to myself. She nodded, filling the sink with soapy water.

I went into my old room with the suitcase. There's not a whole lot in there. Some posters I didn't want after high school, a bunch of old photos, a bed I didn't like using, and my old dresser. I guess, using that, if I wanted to go back to being awkward, pimply, 16-year-old boy Alex Manson, I probably could be. That seems somehow even more wrong than being female Alex Manson. That would be going back when all I'm really trying for is to go... sideways? hrm.

I looked at the old photos of young Alex. There are things about yourself you always recognize. Eyes, jawline, that scar I got right on the inside crease of my left eye in grade 3... stuff you don't think about I guess, that makes your face what it is. I zipped open the suitcase and began fishing through it for what I needed; underwear and the medallion, still sealed tightly in the plastic bag.

I slipped my t-shirt off and unbuckled my belt. A chill went down my spine - the room wasn't well-heated. I took a breath and finished stripping. I unzipped the bag and pulled the medallion out by the chain, slipping it over my head. I bunched the underwear set in my left hand and held it to the medallion. I held my breath again and... well, nothing. Not at first, anyway.

My guess is that the medallion takes whatever garment is being held to it and makes some kind of magical educated guess (assuming "magic" is the true cause, which I doubt) about the garment in question. It transmits this to the body of the wearer and... unendurably slowly... transforms that person into the hypothetical "wearer" of the medallion. There's a lot of questions raised but I'll get to them some other day. The point is, after about a minute of lying naked and cold on my bed clutching a tin medallion and a pair of girl's underwear, my knees started to knock. Like my muscles had randomly contracted there. The shocks continued to occur in different places. My neck twinged. My back controted. My hands shook as I kept my grip, clenching my teeth.

It was kind of like, when I was a kid and my brother would have me in the Sharpshooter (Bret Hart's finishing move.) It bends your legs and your back and basically, when you're a kid, it's like every muscle in your body is being stretched. I don't know how pro wrestlers do it, really. Anyway I was being stretched to my limit even though I was lying flat on my back. I folded over to my side in the fetal position and just let the changes happen.

While this was happening, two invisible hands seemed to mold my face smoothly. I felt waves eminate from the bridge of my nose down my cheekbokes. The bristles of stubble on my face (left from that morning's shave,) just faded.

The big change was that my body massaged my, erm, privates, into itself. I wasn't watching, and I imagine the sight was utterly disgusting (akin to the video I saw in science class of an open heart surgery, or worse, the liposuction in "Super Size Me,") but involving my genitals. The worst part was the whole process was inadvertantly erotic and I may have ever so slightly orgasmed both as a male and female at once, if that's possible (well, none of this should be, strictly speaking.)

I decided I was done transforming after 23 minutes of lying and shivering. I tossed the undies aside and ripped the medallion off from my neck. I felt claustrophobic. Maybe it was the feeling of being confined in a strange gender.

Whatever. Peering down over my own breasts, I saw no trace of maleness and just sat there, I guess trying to find it (like a magic eye?) I ran my hand down my leg, smoother than usual but not the level typical for an average girl (I imagine.)

I stepped into the panties, letting the elastic slap my waist. The leverage situation is different from the usual. For obvious reasons I don't feel bundled up (like I did when I was a briefs guy) just... somewhat less exposes, I suppose. Then came the Chinese boobie cuff... err, bra. No, haha it wasn't that bad I guess. I mean, I was never one of those guys who could snap a girl's bra off with two fingers over her shirt, but I know the physics. It just took me a minute to remember having seen a girl do it in the front and slip it around back. I don't know if that's a typical thing or if most girls are used to twisting their arms around like stretch armstrong, but I think that, as a guy vacationing in this skin, I can be forgiven for that.

So I'm half-dressed. The suitcase has some girl-jeans in it, which go up to like two inches below my navel, and a camisole that falls just above that level itself. The blouse I buttoned up over it doesn't go much lower. I don't know why women wear (or have marketed toward them?) clothes that leave like an inch and a half of flesh exposed for no good reason. I remember in high school some prudish teachers enforced their dress codes on girls with long upper bodies who couldn't help that a good chunk of their lower-middle torso was revealed. Like it was so scandalous? What's so sexy about belly-button lint?

So, wrestling the top on over my boobs, I finally make my grand exit. Mom was, understandably, sitting by, waiting. In fact, the first thing I heard was a rumbling, "where's that damn camera?"

"Mom, no pictures, please."

"Come on, I know it's around here."

Mom bought a digital camera a few years ago but has never really gotten the hang of it. Plus she keeps feeding it these cheap batteries that die after a few rounds of pictures and she got lazy about replacing them.

"Mom seriously, I'd rather you didn't. Steph and Trish are probably gonna..."

*Flash*

Damnit. I didn't even look at the result. I just went straight to the washroom for the mirror. And...?

Well, the same, I guess. I mean, I definitely still look like me. My twin sister, I guess. I've got that same curl to my lips when I force myself to smile. Same swoosh in my eyebrow. Forehead and jawline have softened up a bit I guess, nose got less angled, but everything is basically how it used to be. especially the teeth. That's a big giveway. Same jagged canines and relatively straight front teeth. But I'm me, with a softer, more... (rolls eyes, groans,) feminine look.

My hair didn't grow much, which I guess I'm somewhat surprised about. It's got a little more body (is that the word?) to it. It curls more. My hair was curly when I was young and it straightened over time. I guess in my female form, that never took effect.

And oddly enough, that's when I suddenly realize, this is real, this is me, I'm standing here, looking into this girl's reflection... my own reflection. Me. Alex Manson. Girl.

"I think I'm ready to go now mom," I step out to give her a hug goodbye. my chin just rests on her shoulder. I must've lost four inches. I was a couple inches below 6', and she hovered just about 5, so now I'm in the middle of that.

"So soon?"

"It takes so long to get home and I've got studying to do tonight," I tell her. I really just want to go home and go to bed, I have no intention of studying (after I write this up, that is.)

"You're right. And it can be dangerous out there late at night."

Well I wasn't worried about that. Then again, at the time, I was still thinking of myself in terms of a guy of average height, weight and strength that wouldn't be an ideal target. A little woman with a suitcase, well... hrm.

So I pack up my shit and throw on my (now uncomfortably big) jacket. The trainride home was an uncomfortable one. I had a christmas playlist on my iPod (which doesn't exclusively contain Xmas songs but whatever) so I was into that, but I kept giving everyone the shift eye to make sure nobody was looking sketchy at me.

The last song as I pulled into Nowheresville Central station was Bruce Springsteen's Santa Claus is Coming to Town. I was nearly unconscious, so the boss' hoarse caroling was the only thing keeping me up.

James must've crashed before I got in, or else he never got home, I never know what's up with his schedule.

Tomorrow it all begins. I'm sitting here in my boy-pyjamas, ready to just fall under the covers. It's been a long day, and I suspect it's gonna be a long night. Long week.

~Alex

Idle hands...

I woke up this morning with my hands on my balls. It's not something that usually happens although it's hardly a startling occurence. sometimes sleep will just put you in that way. I can't even remember what I was dreaming about.

However, I can't help but wonder/fear what my body may do in its transformed state without my knowing. being at the mercy of my physiology and subconscious is a little unsettling.

I think I've figured out a plan for tonight. I'm gonna take the train down to mom's in East Nowheresville, and explain everything to her. assuming this doesn't provoke a heart attack, I'll just get it done there and take the train back home, the disguise in place.

I guess the next time I sit down to write here, I'll be a girl (you have no idea how long I just paused before typing the last word of that sentence.)

wish me luck...
-Alex

Plans change

(Just like everything else, I suppose.)

My mother called me this morning and asked if I'd come over for dinner tomorrow night. I'm not some mama's boy but I haven't seen her since Thanksgiving (which was in October, for you international readers.) This puts a crimp in my plans, because I was hoping to be transformed tomorrow night. It seems a little unfair just to show up at my mom's place and be like "Oh by the way, I'm a girl for now. Don't worry, I can change back, but I won't for a week." Um... right.

And I almost told her that when we spoke, but it doesn't seem appropriate to say over the phone. It sounds like a joke, and not a very funny one. So I guess I should go over and explain it to her...

That's gonna be a pain. I don't know what I was planning to do about my family. I'm out on my own so I was kinda hoping I could just not let them know and keep a low profile until it was over with. Guess that's not possible now.

So I gotta tell my mom. (Groan...) what'll probably end up happening is mom's gonna tell my aunts, my aunts are gonna tell my cousins, my cousins are gonna tell my brother, and maybe somewhere in the line somebody might let my dad know his youngest son is wearing panties.

I don't even know when I'm gonna do it now. I can't drive out to mom's, since I don't technically have a car these days. I wanted to get it over with before bed, but with all the time it takes to get out there.......

Crappy. I'll have to work something out.

mom, you're lucky I love your lasagna.

-Alex

"No I am not going to wear that."

Who has pictures of clothes on their computer anyhow? Steph apparently, using me as a little project, like a paper doll or something. Well here's what I knew about women's clothes before today:

-They wear skirts sometimes
-The buttons are the wrong way around on their shirts for some reason
-They have bras
-Their shoes don't look particularly comfortable.

And now? well I probably didn't retain it, but there was a whole bunch of stuff about fabrics and colours and styles I could potentially be investigating. I guess it's sort of cheating the project if I dress as the über-tomboy. So I have to just sit there and be patient. If Steph dresses me and Trish does my make-up, those are two less things that I have to worry about.

Mary delivered me the item today. I've called it a necklace, but Trish, jewellery aficianado she is, told me it was more of a pendant or a medallion, and not something you'd see someone wear in this day and age. It looks like a cheap piece of tin. costume jewellery. I held it, in a plastic bag, ran my fingers over its edges. Something may have been engraved on it at one point, but it's long worn off. It just has a bunch of scratches and a blurred design. I felt it, and I wondered if I was being taken for a joke, and why I was entrusting my dignity to this shitty (hey look, I swore again) piece of metal.

Mary gave me a rundown on the medallion. When you wear it, it transforms you, apparently sensing nearby items, or people. So to control it, I'll have to isolate myself with items of clothing that have never been worn before in order to initiate the transformation into someone who would be the size of those clothes. If the clothes had already been worn, I'd become the last person who wore them. So I guess we'll be able to "design" my new body around that. I guess I'm supposed to keep it on while I'm being transformed, or I'll stop transforming right then and there. I don't know how my mind could be altered, and I'm not a fan of the notion that it might. Mary says she doesn't know if or how it works, and she brought up the point that for all she knows, the whole thing is an elaborate practical joke. But she seemed convinced, and being a journalist for the last 15 or so years she seems to have a keen sense of skepticism.

The reason it's important that I make sure the transformation is complete is that you can only transform once ever 12 hours or so, because I guess your body just can't handle any more than that. Really that makes sense. It's a lot to ask your body to "magically" (or at least using some unknown science) transform into someone else's, it must be exhausting. So I think I'll do it not long before bed.

And that's that. My curiousity kind of wants me to open the bag right now, but for organization's sake I should probably just wait until Sunday, like I planned.

But damn it's tempting...

-Alex

Doing it for the portfolio...

So Steph and Trish hounded me all day asking why I wanted to be a girl. I told thme I didn't want to be a girl (My mantra for the next week and a half I suppose) but I wanted to get a story nobody else could ever possibly mirror. Okay maybe I won't be dazzling too many people at parties with my tales from behind the ovaries, but a chance like this doesn't come around very often. Why do I keep having to defend myself? Why does this feel so wrong?

Maybe because Trish looked at me and said "I'll bet you'll be like, so hot."

So they start asking me if I want to borrow some clothes or something, and I tell thme I don't even know what size I'll be. They tell me not to sweat it. I've never really thought about borrowing another person's clothes before.

"Hey Bill, sweet jersey. Can I borrow it sometime?" uh... no.

I don't want this whole experience to be about the fashion, but right now that's all I can think about (since I haven't got the equipment set up yet.) So I relented and decided to let them be my style managers for the week.

I felt awkward with all the whispers in the newsroom as I walked past. They all know, and they all think it's because I'm weird. So Mary gets up in front of everyone and delivers a speech.

"You may know by now that (Alex) has undertaken a strange assignment. It's not something he asked for or was very excited about doing, but the fact that he's going along with it shows he has a willingness to go the distance and I'm commending him for that. So I don't want anybody getting weird around Alex whatever happens in the next week or so. He'll still be the same Alex. And no matter what happens, the resultiung story will look great in his portfolio."

Ah... yeah. Red with embarrassment, I sat down to arrange a few interviews. Just because I'm vacationing from my gender doesn't mean I get to vacation from being a journalist.

-Alex

Word travels fast.

no sooner had I announced my intentions than calls flood in from many of my classmates. "Are you serious?" (yes) "What are you, gay?" (no) "how the hell do you expect to do this?" (see below) and so forth. But the one I liked best was "how can I help?"

Trish and Steph (aliases hooray) have been hounding me for the details on my little investigation and wht I intend to do about... well whatever I've gotta do. I tell them I'm not sure, and they get this look.

What have I gotten myself into...?

-Alex

Introductions are in order...

My name is #$%^ @#$%^&. But for the purposes of this blog I've taken the alias of Alex Manson. Let's start at the beginning...

I'm a journalism student at a college in a town that will be called "Nowheresville, Ontario." I'm a pretty average guy to begin with, but maybe you'll learn more and decide after all this writing is done. I'll reveal more details as they become relevant, but for now I'm trying to keep my identity hidden to the world at large, partially out embarrassment, partly because it helps the project. See, I'm about to embark upon what is probably going to be looked at as a landmark of investigative journalism. I, Alex Manson (I've really gotta get into the habit of typing that instead of my name,) am going to spend one week as a woman, and document it here on this blog.

I know what you're thinking. That's bullshit. I saw that stupid episode of "Boy Meets World." If you just want to walk around in a dress for a week, that's fine, but don't pretend it's for the sake of real journalism. No, really. I am physically going to transform into a woman this Sunday night, walk around in the skin of a woman until next sunday (that's teh tenth to the 17th, for the record,) and make notes. I'm nervous and terrified just typing it. When I think about doing it... the fact that I'm going through with it anyway... it makes me want to vomit with fear. But there's a method to my madness.

Part of it was that it was just too good an idea to pass up when it landed on my plate. My editor, Mary, (not real name, like all names here,) was telling me this facinating story that sounded like pure nonsense. At the end of the summer, she'd picked up this little trinket at a garage sale. They were an old couple down her street and they looked like they could use her patronage, so she bought some jazz records and a few small items of jewellery. When she handed this one rusty-looking necklace to the woman, she smiled and said, "Let me tell you about this..." The woman leaves and goes inside to get a piece of paper, and returns with a (somewhat illegible, from what I've seen) list of rules and hypthetical explanations, that outline the magic properties of the necklace.

Um... yeah. Now, as journalists (or in my case, journalism student,) the general rule is that you don't believe in the supernatural. But even as a skeptic, Mary was completely sold on it when she told me what she'd seen the damn thing do. "If only," she said to me with a gleam in her eye, "We could use this power to get some story out of it." Then she smiled and added, "Hint, hint."

Okay, I told her, I'll play along. And we decided who I'd go around being by looking at me and trying to find the most radical transformation that was do-able. Gender was floated early on but I dismissed it out of embarrassment. But a good story is a good story.

I'd had a conversation with Nav, an immigrant friend of mine, earlier that day. He'd observed jokingly how men dress more casually than women, and they must spend a fortune on clothes. He, on the other hand (and come to think of it, I as well) mostly just wears band t-shirts and jeans to class. Girls spend hours on make-up and hair and we just rush out of the shower into our pants. Okay that simplifies it, but still. The difference is an obvious one that bears examination.

So I sat down to outline my project. For one week, while in the form of a woman, I will behave as a woman in today's society. I'll dress as a woman, speak like a woman (whatever that means,) eat like a woman, sleep like a woman, and most importantly, do this in the process of observing women as a from the vantage point of a woman.

So I'm taking on a new identity. I chose Alex Manson after much deliberation as to what I should be called (since most people don't get to decide their own names.) I was originally thinking Amanda, since I love puns and that would be "A man, duh," but on second thought that sounded stupid. Alex is a good gender-neutral na,e that I'm comfortable with. Manson ia a very masculine surname. Man-son. See? I'm already feeling insecure about my gender.

I'll be filling the report on this blog, because as a student I've been assured that blogs are "the medium of the future." Whatever that means, it works for me.

I don't know how I'm going to let this affect my daily life. It's going to throw a lot of shit outta whack.

Oh, should I just have sworn? I mean, this isn't really a "school" site, but it's one my teachers will be looking at, so maybe I shouldn't be.

Fuck it.

-Alex