Okay, I'm bad

Thanks for the "please update" comments at the last post. I left the blog unfinished at New Year's, it's been nearly two months. A lot has happened, and yet not as much as you might think.

I had to wrangle around some Google-Blogger stuff, and in the process, lost my account. How lame is that? I've been surfing the web and having various accounts since I was a teenager, and I forgot a single username/password combination (which is not even that different from my standard.)

So here's what you're dying to know: the first order of business was to get James back to manhood. He made for a belligerent woman (read: bitchy) but was quite a looker. I think the medallion had some magic that gave near model-quality looks to its users, but I don't remember getting all that many double takes as a femme (also, my boobs weren't bigger than my head.)

But New Year's morning, James was far from vibrant. Sombrely she approached me and pled, "Please, can you change me back now?"

I had a mouthful of oatmeal, but I muffled "Sure."

"Finally," she nearly whimpered. "Tia and I had a fight last night." I stayed silent.

"And then I let a guy do some very weird and wrong things to me."

I nearly choked.

He proceeds to tell me the story, even though the drunkeness makes his recall shoddy, so the story is kind of twisted in chronology.

"Everything was going fine, and then," she sighed, "I wondered if I could stay this way and just be, I don't know, this being of pure... sex? And I thought, was I a girl so long, that guys were, like, starting to look good? Maybe, like, I was getting tired of the girl on girl thing with Tia?"

I tried to lighten the mood by saying "How could that ever get old?" But she wasn't in the mood.

"So I went behind her back a bit. And I felt terrible. I felt incredible, but it was getting so good that I felt terrible because of what I knew I was doing to Tia. And I never, never, ever, wanted to hurt her, you know?"

It bothered me to know that James had actually considered staying that way, because I was getting rid of that Medallion as soon as everyone I knew was back to normal.

"I never, like, felt emotions like that before. Ever. I can't remember crying ever, it was such a weird sensation." The girl was a mess -- and I'm kinda paraphrasing here because it was so long ago -- "His hands were all over me and I felt so alive, I don't think you have any idea how good it felt. Not real. I mean, it felt too good to be real, but it didn't feel real at all, in, like, the other way. Like, fake." James was hardly a poet, but he was sincere. "So I was crying and he asks me what's wrong and I just pulled up my panties and ran. I ran home."

She ran home (or, to the subway) in what was basically a blizzard at 3 AM on New Year's, partly undressed, hysterical and horny.

"I came home and started beating off -- or whatever girls do, and I passed out, and now I'm up and you're home and I just want my penis back. I want my life back." She's almost in tears again at this point. It was touching. Wordlessly, I went to my jacket and pulled it out of the inside pocket (sealed inside its original Ziploc.)

So I gave him some privacy to transform back. Once he was done, he tore up his girl clothes and passed out in his bed.

Diana, who'd stuck by me this entire time, said she had no idea it could have that kind of effect. I confessed I didn't either. As if on cue, Trish came through the door and, quoting one of my favourite shows, tells me, "I've made a huge mistake."

So she begins her story, telling me that eventually, she told Declan that she wasn't "What she looked like," that a magical medallion had given her that face. Naturally, he was confused and weirded out by her "playful sense of humour." She tried to find me, desperately, to prove her story.

"Wait," I tell her, "You didn't tell him it was me, did you??"

"No, no," she assures me, "But that might have helped, because he started getting weird and distant... I don't think he's going to call me again."

"You mean me?"

"Um, yeah. Can we just..."

So, then she transforms back.

A week later, we're back at school. I'm talking with Trish, Steph and Mary (whom, you might recall, was our editor, who pitched this insane idea in the first place) about our adventures. She seemed most impressed by how badly it screwed up James, who still hadn't heard from Tia by then.

"I guess we should have seen that sort of thing coming," she muses, "Thank you (Alex) for going through this insane situation. It will make a very fine piece of 'fiction,' because absolutely nobody outside this room is going to believe it really happened." (Although I point out that the folks who commented here were rather supportive.)

She nods, then eyes Trish and Steph and, thanking them for their part in helping me, mentions, "You know, in all this, we haven't seen a girl go... you know."

Steph and Trish blush bright red, and say "Thanks but no thanks." Mary hands me the medallion and says that I should probably get rid of it. I couldn't agree more.

So I took a walk down to a pawnbroker. He takes it in his chubby mitt, eyes it, sneers, and humours me by giving me a buck fifty for it. I tell him it's worth every penny.

Flash forward a few months and tonnes of identity drama between Declan and Trish and Tia and James still haven't talked. It's the eve of Valentine's day, and Diana and I decide to do something nice.

I called Declan, who had added me as a friend on Facebook after New Year's in a transparent attempt to keep tabs on my "cousin." I told him Alex wanted to see him. Except "Alex doesn't exist."

"So what's her name?"

"It's more complicated than that," I tell him, "What did you like best about her?"

He opens up, "She was just so great to talk to. I don't know, I guess she was nervous the first night, she didn't even seem to know how pretty she was." My stomach heaves, "But when I saw her again, she was so open, so alive, she really came out of her shell. Then she makes up this story, and ditches me. I don't think I can be with a girl like that."

"Would it bother you if she was a little shorter, had a different hair colour, and a very different face? Better, I'd say?"

Silence.

"And her name's Trish, and she's not my cousin?"

Silence.

"And yet she's the exact same girl you spoke to on New Year's."

Silence, followed by, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Call it an identity crisis. Do you want to have dinner with her or not?"

He groans, the obvious groan of a man who is still infatuated, and finally relents "Tell her to meet me at my restaurant, whoever she is."

The dude's a chef? I had no idea.

After seeing me play matchmaker, James decided to be a bit romantic by calling Tia up. They had a long talk. Long. Like, I left the house when he called her, spent a few hours with Diana doing errands, and came back to hear the last 20 minutes of their conversation long.

But it ended with "I love you."

He hangs up and tells me he's got a date tomorrow.

So, happy ending, right? For now, anyway. I have no idea how long Trish and Declan are going to last, but Tia and James are on the mend and Diana and I are happy.

But there's something else... something that has nothing to do with any of this, but looks like it's going to be my next blog, at some new URL... something that's somehow even harder to believe than magic medallion romance... if it's true.

And if it's true, you'll be hearing about it from me.

That's it. I'm done.

-The Artist Formerly Known as Alex Manson.

"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

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