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

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

"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

"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