No choice but to get used to it now... ladies, I'm one of you.
That's a freaky thought. I've had a week to get used to it, but it still doesn't make sense to me. I wake up and I think I'm still me for a split second, then my hand reaches over and pats my breast and... woop. There it is.
I was the last one to open up a suitcase. Anthony was first, showing what a good sport he is. Also he needed to find a pair of glasses because I guess his girl-body has vision problems. Shaun and Lisa followed suit because even though they're in strangers' bodies, they're not all that different. I just laid in bed all day overheating in my sleepwear trying to pretend it was all some sick dream.
Before I even read the letter I was not a fan of this chick. She did not pack any jeans or slacks or what I would call "sensible" underwear. I guess it's too much to ask that a girl wear boxers, but all I'm left with are these little triangles of fabric. I looked at these things thinking "these things are gonna choke me to death down there" but no, they slipped on nice and snug. There was nothing really "guyish" to wear, it was all summer dresses, light, billowy, flauncy things with girly patterns on them. Anthony convinced me to put one one just to see how it felt. I felt like a guy in a dress. He said I looked fine but I felt ridiculous. I'm not used to showing a lot of skin, so these wee thin straps over my shoulders, and the way it just barely comes up over my chest... I look down and I can see right down between my... my thingies.
I don't want to have them.
I love them, I do, on women. They're great to look at and I can't deny the longer I have a set of my own the more I cup them and rub them and smoosh them, but then a feeling goes through my body and I remember these are ATTACHED to me and that's not right. They feel inconvenient to jam into these stupid bras and dresses, even though they're not that big. They're just these little bobbles of flesh that bounce a bit when I move too quickly.
So let's talk about this woman. Clara, 24... a model from California. And I would think "Hey if I have to live someone's life, it seems really easy to be someone who's just hot for a living." But it sounds like a lot of stress, because half her letter to me was intricately describing her lifestyle, workout routines, diet, beauty regiments, blah, blah... as my eyes scrolled down this lengthy list of directions on hos to be this girl, I just felt sick. Like I wasn't in charge of anything anymore. Claustrophobic. She's in control of me. There's nothing I can do.
We're going to California tomorrow and I'm taking a break from writing out my own letter to let you know about me.
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