The others think I'm taking this unusually well, which is probably the case. So long as they don't think I'm taking it suspiciously well, I guess. I don't know why that is; maybe there's a part me that's glad to put parts of my life behind me, at least for a while; maybe there's another part that likes the idea of collecting new experiences and perspectives to later write about. Either one of those is gone, and I figure I'm a quivering blob of jelly.
That said, when I got into the bathroom this morning at nine-thirty, took off my pajama pants, and saw little red spots on my plain white cotton panties, I screamed like a little girl.
I suppose that's appropriate, right? But that really confirms it. I'd sort of had the idea that we'd only changed on the surface, that even though we looked like women, that we'd just been sort of pushed and pulled into other shapes. After all, when someone has a sex-change operation, they don't actually implant functional ovaries and the like, they just re-shape existing tissue. But if I'm menstruating - menstruating, for crying out loud - then these changes are more than skin deep.
So, guys - if you haven't had a visitor yet, it's coming. We've got the equipment for it.
There's supplies and stuff in the bathroom, of course - Elizabeth lives here, after all, so there's pads and pills in the medicine cabinet. I guess I'd better start taking those, now that I know when Elizabeth's - my - period starts. I'd avoided it, since I remember reading somewhere that birth control pills can cause someone to be feminized, and I don't need to get more like that.
I settled in for a day of feeling sorry for myself, until around two when Raymond calls to say he's got the use of the firm's Red Sox season tickets tonight. Good seats, he says - the home plate pavillion. Am I working tonight?
No, I'm not. And, hey, since I hope to be myself again before spring training, it might be my only chance to see Fenway while I'm out here. Since I'm not really feeling that yucky, I say sure, why not. I rummage through Liz's drawers, find out the only Sox shirt she has is a pink babydoll thing with Manny Ramirez's name on the back. My estimate of her taste drops a bit, but, hey, you cheer for the hand you're dealt.
I meet him in front of the ballpark, and, wow, it's different than going to an A's or even Giants game. Now, understand, I like the Coliseum, but it is out in the middle of nowhere. Pac Bell is downtown, but the area around Fenway Park is just all dedicated to baseball on a game day. I poke around the souvenir stores for something less pink, and eventually Raymond arrives. He's got the tickets, and we head up.
And up, and up. We're almost up in the broadcast booths, and there's a bar and buffet behind us. It's seriously nice, and I almost can't believe this ballpark is almost ninety years old. They deliver dinner right to our seats, and Ray tells me that the seats themselves are much more comfortable than where they usually sit.
The game was close through six innings, and then it just became a complete ass-kicking, with the Devil Rays scoring nine runs in the seventh. The folks around us were getting ugly, but I couldn't really join in whole-heartedly - neither one's my team. It was just a crazy baseball game I could watch without a real rooting interest, though I went along with the rest of the crowd.
Ray was pretty cool - he'd never been in seats this good - in Boston, they cost something like three times what pretty good seats cost even to see the Giants - and I gather Elizabeth isn't nearly as a big a fan as he is, so he was offering helpful information all night. He even offered to leave during the ugliness, but I could tell he was expecting "Big Papi" to do something miraculous, so we stayed.
And then braved the "T" afterward. It's crazy; after every game, roughly twenty thousand people try to squeeze through Kenmore station. By the time we got through and into a car, we were squished together in a manner which, if I were in his shoes, I would not have found altogether unpleasant.
I suppose he didn't have to keep his hands on my butt, or occasionally kiss me, but we were a dating couple sharing the same space on the subway; it's what people do. And I suppose my head might have been a little off from the morning's events and the three seven-dollar beers, so I was just kind of going along. I didn't push him away, but I didn't really encourage him, either. The most I did was pucker my lips when he leaned over to kiss, because otherwise he might have looked like a fool. But I knew, in the back of my head, where this was going.
We got back to the apartment and went to the bedroom; I made some comment about him having to be up early tomorrow, but he said he could handle it. He peeled my shirt off and smiled at what he found, even though I don't have nearly what Jake does up there. He said something about it having been much too long, then started to unzip my pants. It felt weird to have him undress me and not seem to expect me to do much in return - when I bed a girl, there's a little more give-and-take - but maybe this is their thing. He'd gotten my pants down when he saw the little wingy things of the pad protruding from my panties and stopped. "It's that time of month?"
"Looks like", I said.
"I thought that wasn't till next week."
I suppose I shouldn't be creeped out that he knew Liz's cycle; after all, they've been dating and living together a while. Apparently, when I turned into this, I picked up where Elizabeth left off, so her cycle was on hold for three weeks. Or at least, that's my best explanation. I didn't think of that until later, though, and just shrugged. He backed off, looking apolagetic, saying he was sorry, and usually I'm the one who objects...
Whatever, I say. It's kind of gross, and now the moment's gone anyway. He apologizes, and heads to the bathroom as quickly as he can.
Weird end to the day. Who would have thought, thirteen hours earlier, that I'd be glad to be having my period?