Jonah/Krystle: Went and Made That Weird

Man, I wonder what the folks commenting on Andi's post think of me and all the times I've decided to stay Krystle even though the original really wanted her life back!  Think they'd say she should have been able to insist I have an abortion?

I kind of wish one of Andi or Andy had applied to and gotten accepted at Tulane or some other local school just so that I had a friend to talk to about stuff who wasn't in another time zone.  Sure, Ashlyn is only one hour off, but they run a bar/restaurant so they're on a schedule that's nearly as different as Jordan's sometimes.  And Jordan is literally on the other side of the planet; I send her a text and forget all about it until she responds the next day.

Of course, this latest situation is one I can probably ask regular girlfriends about, although they'll likely just say "shouldn't have done that".  Basically, I met a guy, Leroy Watkins, the day I moved in, he was obviously interested because I showed up in a sports bra and yoga shorts and was willing to flirt a little if it got guys I've never met to help me unload a truck, and he's been cool but obviously interested ever since.  On and off, of course - he's had a couple girlfriends in that time, I've never not been busy, and I sometimes feel like I bounce between "I want a man I can count on in my life" and "dating guys is never not going to be weird" depending on what hormones are going through my brain on a given week.  He pretty quickly took up residence in what Moira's namesake calls "boy-slash-friend" territory.

So it was kind of weird when he came to me last week, saying that his cousin was getting married and he'd figured he'd have a plus-one but his last girlfriend got back with her ex a couple weeks ago, and I'd really be doing him a favor.  It turned out that I had the day off and one of Moira's friends was having a birthday party/sleepover, so I could, and why not?

Like a lot of these things, it started out feeling weird; I've gotten good at dressing up but do it seldom enough that I still feel like I'm doing something I kind of shouldn't, and this is the first wedding I've been to since I was a little kid, when it didn't really register for me that you kind of dress for the reception but start out in a church.  I'm not unfamiliar with dressing to impress a bit for church - it's more a thing people did at the mostly-Black church that the Kamens attend than the mostly-Caucasian one my folks went to in New Hampshire, but I've been doing it for a while - but it was kind of weird sitting in the same pews where I normally have my head bowed on Sundays with my legs crossed because I'm in a minidress and wondering if maybe I should have worn a scarf or something to cover my cleavage.

It's a nice wedding, though - the bride is beautiful, their vows were sweet, and the flower girls and ringbearers were adorably serious about their jobs.  And then the reception was fun, although if I ever get married and am wearing a pristine white dress, I don't think I'll have the guts to have it catered with barbecue.  Leroy's friends and family are curious about me, naturally, but he's assured me that it's not going to be some goofy rom-com plot where we're pretending to be dating or anything.  We joke about it - whenever someone asks how long we've been seeing each other, it's "around the neighborhood? since she moved in a year ago", and if they ask how long we've been dating, it's "well, if things go well, then it will retroactively be around four hours".  He's funny.

And he's a good dancer!  We have a good time on the floor, although we're not glued to each other or anything.  I do keep drifting back his way because he's the guy I know and even if folks are hitting on me once they know we're not dating, nobody's really making me think I should get right on feeling that out.  Still, I've gotten a bit more willing to be kind of touchy as the evening goes on, until the DJ picks something kind a little bit slower and more sensual.  His arms come around me, and I step back a little bit so that I'm right up against him, grinding a little...

... and then I look up and see Leroy come up short as he's moving toward me on the floor, leading me to look up and see that it's his brother Larry putting his hands on my breasts and poking at my butt.

I'm kind of horrified, and thankfully he doesn't resist when I pull his hands off me and get out, but now Leroy is mad and runs off.  I follow him until we're outside the venue, actually telling to hold up because he's got the wrong idea.  He turns around and asks what kind of wrong idea he's got, that I know Larry is kind of a dog and that he's liked me since we first met.  I honestly blurt out that "I thought he was you", realizing just what a can of worms I've opened just as the words are out of my mouth.

"So you're saying you wanted to do that with me?"

"At that moment, yeah!"

"And now?"

"Now you're yelling at me and it's not sexy at all!"

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't recognize the exact right moment to grab your tits!"

Then he storms back in, and just sort of does this little "don't follow me" wave when I start trying to follow him.  Not having a lot of better options - I don't know anybody there but Larry and hell no - I call an Uber and go home.

So, obviously, I see him again on Monday, and we both just kind of shuffle past each other on the sidewalk, probably both hoping the other one is the one to apologize.  I kind of want to, but it kind of feels like I can't without acknowledging that he's got some sort of claim on me, and that will make him think that I owe him a date or something and I don't want to go out with someone who thinks I owe it to him.  But are we going to be friends again if I don't, or is that just going to make it worse.

Ugh.  I know regular girls go through this too, but I hate all this and sometimes I really wish my body didn't decide it liked guys when I changed.

-Jonah/Krystle

Jonah/Krystle: You've got a boyfriend when...

... your 2-year-old daughter knows maybe a dozen people's names and "Calvin" is one of them.

This whole dating thing has been surprisingly easy so far, to the point where I sometimes find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop.  There's a part of me that wonders if Calvin has been to the Trading Post and knows I have, because he accepts me being weird so easily and doesn't push where it would freak me out, but what are the odds on that?

Like, back in October, he practically had a twinkle in his eye talking about second-date plans, and I'm like, dude, you don't know me and aren't that clever.  But I kind of enjoy that, waiting to see what he thinks I'd like.  A few days later, he texts asking if I'm free mid-week; I say yes, he says to bring workout clothes.  Interesting.

We meet at a subway station in Cambridge, and he leads me a couple blocks down the street to a rock-climbing gym.  "That's...  A choice.  You saying I'm fat or something?"

"My sister said you'd say that, and also said not to say I wanted to see you in spandex."

"You should listen to her more."

"She says that a lot.  But, honest, I just picked up on you liking sports but not really being into running.  You ever do this before?"

"Just, like, ropes in gym class."

"Trust me, you'll love it."

I don't, at first, as I go into the locker room and change.  I don't think about my butt much, especially after a couple of years - obnoxious guys tend to and grab it at work and on the subway, sure, but they to do that to everyone, and I've got more tempting targets up top - but put me in a pair of yoga pants in a room with other people, and, yeah, there's no denying that I've got a genuine black girl bottom.  It's nothing to be ashamed of, but I went to high-school with a bunch of white guys and serve a lot more in Ashlyn's, and they can get weird, like it's either gross or something exotic.  It's just my butt.

Still, getting into that and a sports bra, I couldn't help but think that this was a lot more skin than I was counting on for a second date.   I try to tell myself I'd be cool with it if I were still the guy, and you might as well rip the Band-Aid off rather than get ghosted because he finally sees your shape after a couple months, but I'm new at this and kind of nervous as I leave the locker room.

He smiles when he sees me without being creepy, though, and we go to one of the beginner walls, a trainer showing me how to work with the harnesses and all, which would probably be nothing if I'd just decided to do this on my own, but is also way more "guys I don't know touching me" than I expected on a date.

On the other hand, climbing is awesome.

I liked sports in school, but I just never got the hang of running since becoming Krystle, especially since getting pregnant.  I'll do it if Little Moira is about to get into something, but when you're as busy as I am and maybe don't have the right bra for it, it's something to be avoided.  It's probably worse if you became this top-heavy all at once, but who knows.  Yoga isn't a bad way to stay in shape in that case - it's actually really good for learning balance and stuff if the Inn changes you that much - but it's really boring.  "Hold that pose" is harder than it looks, but it's not like you're competing with the girl next to you or feeling like you're accomplishing anything.  Considering that I didn't really care if guys thought I was attractive and everything else kept me busy, I was ready to fall out of the habit.

This, though, was just fun - a lot of the stretching and feeling the burn as you balanced your weight and stretched like yoga, but you're getting closer to a goal, you can trash-talk or give your partner encouragement.  It's fun and it doesn't hurt in the wrong way, and I enjoyed it so much we wound up staying until closing.

After that, we started doing more conventional dates.  Movies, sports (I'm still not sold on hockey), skating (I am way better at that then he thought a working-class black girl would be).  I'm not sure when kissing became a thing that we just did rather than something I have into when circumstances had our lips close, or when it felt like it might hurt his feelings not to, but it did.  I admit, I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time there was tongue and the first time he touched my breasts while watching a movie, but I told myself I'd done that, and was more appreciative the next time.

Meeting each other's people was a big deal, too.  Momma Kamen has seen a lot of the original Krystle's questionable taste in men, and I had no idea if Calvin was going to fit into some pattern that had nothing to do with me from her point of view.  Plus, if my daughter didn't like him, it was game over, which admittedly wasn't really that scary - aside from the part of my brain still rebelling against dating a guy, there's one that feels like every evening I go out and leave Moira with her grandmother, on top of the ones where I'm working, is me being a bad mother.  She says I'm not nearly at the point where we have to worry about it.

I don't really think she trusts him, and I don't necessarily blame her for that; the least-involved of Karla's baby-daddies is the white guy with some money.  She grilled him pretty good, but he got out of it alive.  It was a little embarrassing, both because he's a good guy and because she doesn't really know who she's doing it for.  But I try to imagine my own parents trying to suss out his intentions and I just can't.

Little Moira likes him, though; he's a good tickler and she likes it when he lifts her up to the ceiling so she can put star stickers up.  He is also very easy to persuade that it's never too cold for ice cream, and what more does a two-year-old need?

I didn't meet many of his friends until New Year's Eve; it was our first party, I guess, and by then Momma Kamen had at least gotten to the point of accepting that Calvin was going to be a party of my life for a while, because she raised an eyebrow at me in my jeans, sweater, and Nikes.  "That's how you ring in the New Year now?"

I was trying to figure out how to say "uh, yeah" without sounding disrespectful, but then wondered about the other girls at the party - would they be dressing down?  I quickly texted Calvin, and he said not to worry about what anyone else was wearing.  I may not have been born a girl, but Moira the Elder had grumbled about something like this a few weeks earlier - "don't worry about the other girls" means "at least some of the other girls will be making an effort".

So I went to my closet, pushed my church dresses aside, and looked square at the ones I'd worn on two of the most miserable days of my life:  The day I let someone with my face have their way with me on the left, the day Joseph finished Lamont's jail term and I tried to give him a treat only to fight and find out I was pregnant on the right.  The second one looked less trashy, so I went with that and the heels and push-up bra that went with it.  Plus some black pantyhose, because it gets cold.

Then some makeup, because I look good in the mirror and it wouldn't seem right to not go that extra little way.  I don't dress up much and I've gotten used to myself naked, so it takes me a little by surprise every time I get reminded that people used to stick money in the original Krystle's panties for being hot.  I kind of feel ashamed most of the time, both because I know that me being like this is unnatural and because I took that hotness from its owner, but this time, I'm also thinking that Calvin is in for a treat.

Momma Kamen must see that I'm thinking that, too, because she says "there's my sexy little girl" and that she hasn't seen me wanting to make this effort in a while.  I blush, realizing that I do want to look nice for my boyfriend.

He appreciates it, and it doesn't suck that his friends all seem impressed with the "cute, responsible single mom" he's been telling them about.   I smile and laugh, say that when you've got a toddler, you save the time to get fancy for special occasions, and then kind of sick around Calvin for most of the night, trying not to feel too jealous of everyone talking about their recent college or had school experiences.  Could have been me, but I've got an awesome little girl, so that's not a bad trade.

I'm not really that good in heels, especially when there's a lot of dancing, so I wound up leaning on Calvin some, especially with the beer and champagne and all in my system.  There were a few times I could feel how much he was enjoying my touch, but he didn't press it when the night came to its close.

That was kind of neat, all told, although my legs felt it afterward!  Very glad that Little Moira's second birthday party could be an informal affair, and not the last bit alarmed that Calvin is trying to get in good with my daughter by spoiling her at all.

-Jonah/Krystle

Daryl/Elaine: Kind of My Own Plus One

At least, in a sense - when Elaine had J.T. RSVP for Marisa Chen's wedding, they probably figured I'd be going as the date.  I would have been Whitney's date in actually, though, and thinking of that makes me shiver a bit; Elaine's sister has a boyfriend, but I can't help but think this wouldn't stop her from getting me into bed after the reception.  She is pretty relentless in trying to mess with her sister's life using the Inn, so who knows? 

Instead, I went as Elaine, telling everybody who asked where my date was that he was unavailable, which was true enough; there was nobody who looked like the real me at the time (there is now, although we've just emailed so far).  They said that was too bad, asked if I wanted another drink, and about ten of them mentioned that Kenyon just got dumped by his girlfriend.

I don't think I did much to particularly embarrass the real Elaine; she gave me notes, seating that if something else goes wrong, she's going to build an app, put it on her phone, and be done with it.  I timed things so that I could arrive just in time, say a passing hello to anybody who recognized me in the church, and smile through the ceremony, trying not to feel too exposed.  The dress Elaine had suggested didn't actually show any cleavage and even went down far enough that I didn't have to cross my legs, butt it left my shoulders bare and the church had the AC on blast. 

I was going to make a quick am entry and exit from the reception as possible, but the happy couple sort of sets that schedule, and taking pictures took forever.  The flower girl, I'm told, had a meltdown that required a lot of her mother's attention, and since mommy was the maid of honor, well, you can guess how that went.  In the meantime, old Daryl-slash-Elaine is getting a super-concentrated version of the post-Trading Post experience, with rapid-fire introductions to a lot of Elaine's old friends who want updates on just what she's been doing and how she's been.  I try to fill in the blanks with what little I know, make my way to the bar, and try to pace myself because I know I'm smaller now but still probably overdo it a bit.  When the bride and groom do arrive, I'm probably a little Rossiter than I should be, but everybody just chalks that up to Daryl letting me down. 

So just bail as soon as dinner is done - except that I always want to dance when you get a few drinks in me, a few is even fewer than before, and Elaine's friend Marisa chose a heck of a playlist.  Based on what I found in "my" email the next morning, I must have demanded she send me a copy.  Anyway, once that kicks in, it takes a while for me to feel confident enough to get on the floor, but once I'm there, I don't really stop.  I wind up paired with this Kenyon guy a lot, and it could be worse; he picks up on how I jump the first time he touches me and saves that for when I'm about to fall over the rest of the night.  At some point, the bride ditches her heels and that means it's okay for the rest of us, and I move a little more. 

The next morning, I can't find one of the blue heels that goes with the dress anywhere, and I've fallen asleep with an underwire on (don't do that!), but my panties are where I left them! I'm alone in the room, and there are no phone numbers written anywhere, so I guess it's not a total disaster.  Nobody is shooting damn, boy/girl, you done messed up!  I fly home to Chicago, relieved.

And then, at the airport, I realize that I can't go home.  If been staying at my own apartment since returning from Maine, just popping into Elaine's quick enough to grab the dress before heading to the wedding, but now somebody else might be there, and I don't want to show up and have him think we're going to act like boyfriend and girlfriend.  So I call an Uber, give it Elaine's address, and go there.  I hit the buzzer for just long enough to remember I don't have to do that before going up. 

I take a shower, a little intimidated by how many products are still on the various shelves despite nearly two years of male occupancy, make myself some food, and try to fall asleep to some Netflix.  The next morning I wake up, and in some ways waking up alone in Elaine's apartment was just as weird as waking up in her body.  I felt like she should be there with me, but she wasn't, not in the right way.  I kind of tried pretending she was - putting on some of her sexiest underwear, feeling myself up in front of the mirror while making sexy talk - but even before I tried slipping a hand into my panties, I felt kind of pathetic. 

I killed the next few days without really meaning to, seeing the new Star Wars twice, finding a two-year-old puzzle magazine and finishing the kakuro, that sort of thing.  I went to a poetry slam thing with Elaine's friend Dorrie last night, and she asked me where "the cute nerd" was.  It felt kind of good to hear that, but I said I didn't think it was going to work, or if it did, we'd have to start all over, because, well, I can't explain.  She said that was too bad, "I" really seemed to like "him", and vice versa. 

Somehow, that was what I seemed to need to hear to realize that I didn't miss Elaine, and the unanswered voice mails meant I kind of didn't miss "me".  I decided to test a theory, went to Netflix, and searched on J.T.'s name.  The first couple of things were dumb kid stuff, but soon I found some weird low-budget sci-fi thing from three or four years back, start watching it, and, holy shit, I can see "Elaine" in his character.  I'm doubting it at first, but once I realize that I've slipped my hand into my underwear and not sure what to do next, I know what I've got to do.  Well, not exactly right them, but tonight. 

So, I'm writing this at the airport, waiting for my flight to New York, Ray to give the guy who dumped me a piece of my mind. 

-Daryl

Ashlyn--Redhead appreciation day

Sorry, wrong number

I’m pretty comfortable being Ashlyn now—I like the way I look, and with the way I’m showered with attention, I think I’m becoming an attention junkie.

But even though I enjoy some aspects of being a busty redhead—I still want my old life back. I know I had decided to move forward living as Ashlyn--but seeing myself on TV made me wonder if I hadn't tried hard enough to get my life back.

So I called “Jake” again. I felt a need to try one more time to convince him to do the right thing and give me my old life back. I had forgotten that he is a complete asshole. On the phone he sarcastically pretended to not know who I was and what I was talking about. He threatened to get a restraining order and said if I ever showed up at his home or office he would see to it I was arrested for trespassing.

Bastard!

In an odd way, I feel better. It was just a phone call, but at least I tried to do something.

Breakfast of Champions

I jumped up Saturday morning and slipped on green underwear, my green t-shirt with “Irish Princess” written across the front, and jeans. When I stepped out of my bedroom my roommate Billie was already up, sitting on the couch, eating cold cereal and watching cartoons.

“Top of the morning to ya!” She yells at me, butchering a fake Irish accent. “Happy St. Patrick’s day!”

I don’t mention Billie in this blog nearly enough. She’s the funniest person I know. When I mentioned I was dating Matt—a firefighter—she gets a big grin on her face and asks me “Does he let you play with his hose?” She then went into a giggling fit for the five minutes. Today she was wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Want to see my shamrocks?’ and green striped pants.

“I got us a special St. Patrick’s Day breakfast—Lucky Charms.” She tells me, a big grin on her face.

When you live with four roommates, the cereal collection is large and diverse. We have everything from granola to Fruity Pebbles. I’m a ‘Special K’ girl myself, because I tend to worry about gaining weight—but it was a holiday and Billie is infectious. I grabbed a bowl of Lucky Charms and joined her on the couch. BTW, it might be nostalgia, but Saturday morning cartoons have really gone downhill. ‘Teen Titans’ was okay, but nowhere as good as the ‘Superfriends’ with the wonder twins.

I had a busy weekend planned. I was working two shifts at the lounge, working some promotional gigs for the radio station and meeting Jessica. Matt wants to do a little holiday celebrating as well, but I told him I was awfully busy. He pouted, and after basically throwing him out when we were watching basketball, I felt I owed him; so I told him I would try—underline try—to spend some time with him at some point over the weekend.

Things started well. I knocked out a brunch shift at the lounge. Business had been slow because we had another round of ice and snow the night before and I think people were slow to dig out. At the end of my shift I made my way to the ladies room and change into my outfit for my radio promotion gig.

How can I describe the outfit? How about “Catholic schoolgirl meets St. Patrick's Day”. Tiny green plaid skirt, low cut top that also showed off my middle, and thigh high stockings.

“Very stripperesque.” I say looking myself over in the mirror.

Our restaurant has two managers, and one of the two, a likable woman named Maddie, picked that moment to walk into the ladies room. She gives me a surprised look.

“Ashlyn? What’s with the outfit?” She asks.

I slide on the long overcoat I had brought to wear over the outfit until I got to the location of the radio promotion.

“I occasionally take promotion work.” I say to her. “I’m doing some St. Patrick’s day stuff.”

“Oh.”

Something in her tone, or how she was looking at me, gave me the impression she didn’t approve of what I was wearing. It made me uncomfortable. I buttoned up my coat and started to head out.

“I could never wear something like that.” She says to me—she had a snotty tone.
Those were her words, but I could tell what she was really saying was “I would never demean myself to wear something like that, you little slut.” It slightly upset me—in the past Maddie and I had gotten along very well.

Of course she probably weighs around 180 pounds, so she couldn’t wear the outfit anyway, I tell myself.

Great. Now I’m getting bitchy.

Girls just wanna have fun

I call what I do for the radio station “promotional work” that makes it sound like I am doing something justifiable to earn a paycheck. Really what I am doing is being a hot babe in a skimpy outfit forced to make pleasant conversation with anyone who wants to talk to me. I’m a captive audience. I also will pose for a picture—and if you are really nice and polite, I’ll let you put your arm around me in the picture so you can show your friends, proving that you are a babe magnet.

I hang out for a living. Crazy isn’t it?

What’s even crazier is how effective it is. Guys come out of everywhere to chat me (and the other girls) up. When all the girls are busy getting their picture taken, they end up participating in whatever the promotion the radio station has cooking.

You would think that ‘hanging out’ would be an easy job—and it mostly is—but after several hours standing in heels your feet and legs are killing you. Also try smiling for several hours; it’s tougher than it sounds.

At the end of the gig, we girls get paid—in cash—and the first thing we girls want to do is take off our heels and find somewhere to sit and drink. Usually we change out of whatever outfit we are wearing, but it was a holiday and lots of people were dressed up, so we didn’t bother.

I didn’t intend to stay long. I had to work the St. Patrick’s Day parade the next morning. I was supposed to work the lunch shift at the lounge that day as well, but Maddie had called as said they were overbooked with wait staff and not to come in. After her reaction to the outfit I was wearing, this really bothered me—I had never been told to NOT come into work before.

Every time I hang out with the other girls who do promo work, I tell myself I’m not going to do that next time. Next time I’m going to do the gig and go home. Only I never do. There’s something fun/ wild/ sexy about hanging out with the other girls and I get caught up in it.
We ended up at an Irish pub with about 10,000 other people. Funny, we didn’t have any trouble getting in or getting a table.

Art was right—most nights I don’t have any trouble getting free drinks. That night, however, the drinks were coming so fast and so frequently I had to start turning them away.
At some point the street outside the pub got blocked off and fiddle began to play. People formed a line in a circle and began to dance in traditional Irish styles.

“Would you care to dance?” The man spoke with a slight Irish accent. I hadn’t seen him walk up; I was distracted by watching the dancers. He was tallish with light brown hair and blue eyes.

“Ah no. It looks like fun, but I have no idea how to do any of that.” I gestured to what was going on outside.

“Then that is a great injustice. The most beautiful Irish lass I have ever met and she doesn’t know how to Céilí dance.”

“Céilí? That’s what it is called?” I ask.

He shook his head in mock exasperation. “Did your folks not teach you anything? Céilí refers to many dances, but the one they are doing right now is called ‘Shoe the donkey’.” He holds his hand out to me.

“It’s really time you learned. I would love to teach you. My name’s Hoyt.”

My legs were still tired, and I was slightly drunk—but what the hell, my heritage was calling out to me.

I took his hand. “Nice to meet you Hoyt. My name is Ashlyn.”

He leads us outside and we join the circle—it was so hot in the bar I forgot how cold it was outside, and I wasn’t wearing all that much. Fortunately, for the most part, the dancing kept me warm. Hoyt was a good teacher and I was a fast learner. I had an amazingly good time.
Eventually I succumbed to the cold and my legs were exhausted, I had to tell Hoyt I had to call it a night.

He got us a taxi. “A gentleman sees a lady to her door.” He says to me.

I’m thinking he was still hoping he was going to get lucky—I knew he wasn’t. I could barely stand I was so tired.

In the cab I gave him my phone number. He gives me his number “In case you want some more dancing lessons.”

The cab arrives and he walks me to my door. There is an awkward pause when I expected he would reach in for a kiss but didn’t.

“Good night Ashlyn. I hope to see you again.” He turns and begins to walk off, returning to the cab.

“Hey!” I say to him. “What, no good night kiss?”

He gives me a smile. “The lass wants a kiss?”

“Yeah, the lass wants a kiss.”

He walks back to me. He wraps one arm around me, placing his palm in the small of my back, pulls me close, and kisses me. It was a great kiss.

I'll try to post more tomorrow. I've got to write about Jessica--But right now I've got to get ready for work.

--Ashlyn