Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Daryl/Magda: Not for Tourists

I was a bit surprised when J.T. suggested we do Times Square on New Year's Eve; I'd kind of expected it to be the sort of thing a longtime New Yorker like him dismisses as being for tourists and newbies, but apparently not.  Rather, it's in the category of things that are too good to be surrendered to the tourists, although folks aren't necessarily combative about it. 

It is, in a lot of ways, one of the most true representations of the life I've fallen into as J.T.'s girlfriend.  There's something kind of fantastic everywhere, especially with regard to music, cameras you learn to ignore, noise, tight quarters, and your own little bubble inside them.  There was some of that in Chicago, but not to the extent there is here.

And in Chicago, he was Elaine and more or less anonymous beyond being generally sexy.

He doesn't exactly attract paparazzi right now, but it was the sort of night where we bumped into strangers, at least to me.  He knows a fair chunk of the people in the entertainment press around here, and a few wanted a quote about what he had planned for the New Year, which was a good chance to plug his play.  He hand-sells it a bit too, when someone recognizes him and asks what he's doing now.  It's not exactly top-tier show business, but it's kind of neat.

The chilly, damp weather kind of had me dressed up in weird layers, though - little black dress for the after party, but also thigh-high boots and black pantyhose because it'll be cold, and then a coat to cover everything up.  By the time the ball drops, I'm really questioning all of this - not only is this my first time being on my feet in heels for such a long stretch, but I felt pretty stupid wearing an underwire all night when the top of my dress was underneath my coat. 

Still, the heels make it easier to kiss to ring in the new year, and when we wind up in one of his co-stars' apartments, it makes for a bit of a ta-da! moment when the girls finally come out.  Not that anybody aside from the other women of a certain age and maybe some of the gay guys really act impressed.  I'm honestly not sure what that's about - maybe they find me kind of campy when I start talking hip-hop and video games or express a strong preference for Android over Apple - but it's kind amusing, especially when someone has talked to me under the assumption that I must own an airline rather than work for one to have a boyfriend so much younger than my apparent age.

That goes away once I'm a couple drinks in - I still notice people looking at me kind of funny, but I care a bit less - and it turned out our hosts had a karaoke machine.  Magda's voice isn't write the instrument I had as myself or Elaine, but I suspect that makes it more fun for everybody.

It was almost 5am by the time we got home and I could take off my shoes before ditching the dress and taking off that bra.  I gave my breasts a bit of a heft after that ("boy, you guys are demanding!"), then stopped and prodded a bit more before walking to the bed where J.T. was already half-asleep.  I climbed up and straddled him.  "Hey, squeeze my tits."

"If you insist."  He reached up and started fondling, until I grabbed one wrist and guided it.

"Not like that.  Like you're trying to find something.  You know how they're supposed to feel better than me."

He gave me a weird look, but gave my right breast a harder, less pleasant squeeze, then shook his head.  "Feels normal to me."  We joked a bit about my breasts feeling normal, which led to a little playing while I was already on top of him.

I had a hard time shaking the feeling, though, poking around every time I changed clothes, getting worried whether I thought I could feel anything or not.  I googled "breast self-examination", tried that, and then after a couple days I made an appointment for a mammogram, which was today.

The radiologist was friendly, actually trying to talk me out of it at first, saying that they actually don't recommend the procedure for women as young as me these days, at least not as a matter of course, and I smirked at how I don't hear that very often.  I still said I wanted to be sure, and she shrugged and led me into a room.

I guess I was lucky to have a woman examining me in teems of it being more comfortable, although maybe a male radiologist would have speed me enough not to go through with it.  Initially, it was just a surreal experience, as I took off my shirt and set my right breast on a shelf.  The doctor lowered another, and I squawked a bit as it started to compress the tissue.  She looked at me and asked if I was okay, because the closer they can get the plates together, the better the image will be.  I said I was just a bit surprised and tried to tough it out, but I wouldn't be surprised if the plates only got a half-inch closer together before I said that was okay.  She nodded, went behind a screen, and hit a button.

Then we repeated it three more times, getting both top-down and side-to-side images for each breast.  It hurt like hell, just another example about how guys can be real wimps about pain (I initially typed "pussies", but that hardly seems right).  I winced a bit putting my bra back on afterward.  It was going to hurt if they were hanging, but I guess I have a bit more to learn about wearing the right underwear for the occasion still.

The doctor was able to show me pictures fairly quickly, and assured me there was nothing out of the ordinary, although there was a fair rate of both false positives and negatives - was I sure I'd felt a lump?

I immediately felt embarrassed.  "I, uh, guess maybe not."

"You sure?  Tests are one thing, but a woman knows her body."

Not necessarily, I thought.  I felt a weird sort of shame with that, like I should know my body better, or should have grilled Magda and Lindsey on this, so that I wouldn't think a bruise from bumping into something while wearing too tight a bra or something like that might be cancer.  I felt like apologizing to this doctor for wasting her time.

J.T. tried to look unconcerned when I got home.  "How'd it go?"

"Healthy boobs.  Sore, but healthy.  Be glad you were to young for this when you weren't yourself."

"True that, though it's not like Elaine's cramps were any picnic."

"Word.  Don't miss that.  But, man, today was something.  It's one thing to laugh off people because they don't know the real you, but this was kind of real, y'know?"

"Yeah.  I'm glad you're up for it."  He kissed me on the forehead, gently.

"Thanks.  The guys who won't get here for a while don't know what they're in for, but I guess that's what happens when you actually become a woman, and not just a guy visiting that sort of life."


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