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

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

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