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

"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