My math may be off by a day, but I think today makes the 37th day since I woke up in the body of Ashlyn Shelley. When this first happened, the optimistic side of my brain kept telling me that we (Art, Jeff and the others) would figure out some way too fix it in a few days, and I would be able to get back to my life. In those first few days, optimism kept me sane.
Then days turned into weeks, and now a month has come and gone—and I am still Ashlyn. These days I don’t worry about going insane, these days I worry about adapting too much to Ashlyn’s life. A month and six days ago I knew nothing about walking in high heels, applying makeup or what it is like to have a period—yeah, it happened to me as well. I applaud Art for being so open about getting his period. When it happened I chickened out about putting it in this blog—I guess that makes Art a bigger man than me. Pun intended.
I had my “visitor” about a week and a half ago. It was messy, smelly and over all unpleasant. My boobs felt swollen and more sensitive, and I had several headaches during the 4 day…period. During the last 37 days I have learned to wear women’s clothing and makeup, worn a thong and kissed a guy a few times—but having a period made me feel like a complete chick. Every time I changed one of those pads I felt a little less like a man.
I had to give up wearing mostly just jeans and t-shirts. My roommates started noticing, and making comments. Also, I went on a lot of job interviews—which meant dressing up, at least more than the jeans than I normally wore.
So I broke out the skirts, dresses, sweaters, pantyhose, and all types of “tops”. I decided to totally give in on the clothing thing—besides, I realized I was fooling myself if I was trying to hang on to some sense of “maleness” by wearing mostly jeans. All of Ashlyn’s jeans were tight and sexy, and I caught tons of guys checking out my ass when I wear them.
So I’ve developed a new problem: If this body I am in is not my original body, is it vain to like what I see in the mirror? Since I started dressing more and more girly, I’ve started working harder on my hair and makeup. The sad thing is I seem to have a talent for applying makeup—I think it has something to do with the fact that I am an artist. I was a traditional artist before I became a digital artist for my job—and makeup just reminds of paints, and my face a canvas.
The hair is a lot of work. Every so often I realize how much time I spend on my hair every morning and I consider cutting it. I just can’t bring myself to do it. In the first place, I might discover a way to switch us all back to the correct bodies--I spend a lot of my free time looking for a solution. From reading, I’ve become a minor expert on the occult, and I keep hoping to find some answers. If I did cut off Ashlyn’s long red hair I think she would be very disappointed when we swapped back. Secondly, and probably the main reason—I like what I see.
My reflection and I have had an unusual relationship this past month. At first I was afraid of my reflection. Then I was angry with it. Now... now I am in love with it.
Don’t get me wrong, I still desperately want my life back—and underneath this sex kitten exterior is the same guy I have always been.
It’s just there is something erotic about dressing myself up and posing in the mirror.
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but last week I opened up my lingerie drawer and gave myself a show. Ashlyn had collected a great deal of lingerie: babydolls, teddies, bustiers, chemises and robes. She also had a vibrator and a few other sex toys in the lingerie drawer. My roommates had all left town for the weekend; Billie, Jordan and Dean had gone to New York to see friends, and Logan was spending the weekend at the firehouse. He always stays at the firehouse when he is “on the job”.
So I felt very comfortable slipping into a lacey bustier, panties, stockings and stilettos-and smiling into the mirror.
I’ve generally been a good girl this last month—no real inappropriate touching. I’ve been pushing any desires like that out of my head. Some twisted part of me is afraid I might enjoy it, and it might weaken my resolve to keep looking for a way back to my old life. But standing in front of the mirror, looking like a lingerie model, I couldn’t resist running my hands over my body.
It felt so good—and it was so sexy to watch the girl in the mirror cup her breasts and play with her nipples.
I started to get really turned on—which was really interesting in itself, because getting turned on as a woman is so different. I was getting wetter and wetter and lost in the fantasy.
“Hello? Anybody home?” It was Logan, yelling from somewhere in the house. I was immediately brought back to the real world. I didn’t want to face him looking like this, so I didn’t answer. I very quietly walked over to my bedroom door and locked it, then listened. I heard giggling. He had a woman with him. Logan called out a few more times, and then I heard him tell his companion that they had the house to themselves, that his roommates were out of town.
Logan has the bedroom next to mine, and I could hear the two of them enter his bedroom—and then I could hear the squeak of a bed as the climbed into it. They started having a very good time, and they were very loud about it—they thought they had the house to themselves.
I felt like I was like some kind of pervert listening to them, so I considered quietly changing clothes and sneaking out of the house.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and started staring at myself again. I could hear the woman in the next room moaning in pleasure, and I ran my hands over myself. I pinched a nipple, and soon I was quietly moaning as well. I lower one hand and start rubbing myself through my panties.
After a few minutes of that, I wanted something more. I could hear the woman in the next room and her moans and gasps seemed to be coming faster—I felt a need to match her pace. I slid my hand into my panties and found my clitoris. It felt so good it nearly brought me to my knees. I didn’t need the mirror anymore, and I lay back my bed, pleasuring myself. I could feel something building up, aching for release—but the feeling was elusive, and my hand was getting tired. Frustrated, I grabbed the vibrator and used it. The pleasure was so intense I gasped and arched my back.
The woman in the next room and I climaxed nearly simultaneously. She was a screamer, which was fortunate for me, because I don’t know how quiet I was at the end.
I laid there in the afterglow for a while, feeling better than I had in a month.