Jordan/"Deirdre " - Can we never talk about my tits again?

It's been hot in the city for the past couple of weeks, and cramming three human beings into my apartment with its shitty air conditioning hasn't been the best, so we've all been a little on edge. I think we've all looked for some sort of excuse to get out of it as much as we could, which is why I was at an afternoon movie a couple days back, only to emerge into a thunderstorm, the sort that doesn't even do anything to get the temperature down. I was able to run to the subway easy enough, but it was still raining and I had a bit of a walk at the other end.

At first, it just ticked me off a little, especially since I haven't gotten a haircut since changing - I inherited a sort of pixie-ish style from Dierdre, but that was almost two months ago, so it's had time to grow out, and nobody tells girls that they're looking kind of shaggy when they don't get a trim every few weeks. I eventually got to my apartment, where Benny and Annette were playing Kinect Sports, although that went off the rails when Benny just started staring at me. I pushed some of that stringy hair out of my face and asked something along the lines of what the fuck are you staring at, perv?

Benny mumbled nothing started playing the game again, but kept looking my direction as I went to get a soda out of the fridge. That's when Annette hit pause, put her controller down, and said "fine, I'll be the one to ask! Jordan, do you even own a bra?"

I looked down, and, okay, my t-shirt was clinging right to my skin, and even if it wasn't particularly stretched, my nipples were making an impression on it. It was just light enough that maybe you could see the dark patch around it, but not really. "For these little things? What's the point?"

Annette started to roll her eyes - his eyes, I guess, because she looks like Ravi - and starts saying that she is not gong to rise to that bait when Benny brings his hands up to his chest, says that he gets it, that I'm used to going without despite having more, but if he could have some support for these "moobs", he would certainly appreciate it.

I threw the soda at him and went to my room. I heard Annette smack the back of Benny head more than saw it, and then a couple of minutes later she knocked on my door. "Hey, can I apologize to your face?" I open, and she steps in.

"I'm sorry for blurting that out. It's just that we all know guys look at any boobs available, and while you may not think you're carrying a lot around up top for one reason or another..." She looked up at some of the comics posters on the wall, and I kind of got the implication. "... you do have enough to get someone's attention. Besides, when mine were that size, I was pretty glad to have a bra on. Heck, as soon as you can wear a training bra, it's kind of nice. I miss mine."

"Bullshit."

"For real! It made me feel grown up, just as much as... Well, you know." Yeah, I knew. "I mean, I'm bigger and have the other thing and need to shave, but part of me and my routine is missing."

I was a bit skeptical, but the weird thing about Annette is that this really annoyingly optimistic kid comes through even using Ravi's face and voice. "Fine," I said, "we'll go bra shopping."

---

I bet you'd like a whole lot of talk about going into Victoria's Secret and changing rooms and stuff like that, but it wasn't that exciting. Annette got a ruler and some string and figured out a rough guess at my size, and then we went to the department store and I tried some on. I will say that "vanity sizing" is a real pain in the butt - I'm apparently right on the border between A and B cups, with the more honest brands calling me an A and others saying I'm a B.

Then there was the whole style thing; Annette mostly talked me out of ones that squeezed everything down, saying that it got pretty uncomfortable after a few hours. Eventually, I found a few that were pretty comfortable. Annette insisted I got at least one that traded a bit of comfort for some lift, which was kind of weird. It wasn't that much more of a pinch, but looking in the mirror in the changing room, it was the first time I really saw myself having cleavage without pushing my breasts together with my hands. I noticed the bra was there a bit more, but it didn't really feel like someone squeezing me.

I tried to say no, and Annette tried to talk me out of it. That's when some of the folks in the store who had been kind of amused by this Hindu guy explaining about bras to his petite Irish-looking girlfriend started giving her disapproving looks, which was weird in its own way. As much as I wanted her to back off, it sucks to have people look at me like I needed protecting from some predatory guy who was pressuring me to look sexy. I think I eventually relented more to piss them and their idea that I was some sort of helpless girl off.

The funny thing is, that one hasn't become my favorite bra or anything - I've only been wearing them for a few days, and I do like the ones that I notice the least the most - but the other one does do a bit to make me look less like a kid. I suppose it'll help with not getting carded in bars or something.

But, man, I hope this is the last time we have this conversation in my apartment. You really have no idea what it's like having someone with your proper face talking about your tits that way.

-Jordo

Cal / Angie: Girly

I never used to think much about what I put on my body. As long as it fit okay, I didn't care much about color or fabric or anything. All I had to do was pull on a pair of boxers in the morning, some jeans or shorts, a t-shirt and some deodorant and that was that. I had one pair of shoes, and I wore socks with em.

Now... oh boy.

At the risk of sounding like a slob, I wore the same pair of underwear for weeks on end as a guy, and now that's just not possible. A couple of days maybe but even then I become so aware of it that I feel like everyone can basically read my panties. So I've gotten very familiar with the laundromat on the corner. In fact, until she got a job, Derek was doing the laundry, and to my surprise, was very good at it, in that I never heard her complain and I'm constantly wondering if I'm doing it right, stressing out (I've ruined a couple of perfectly good bras, and am currently wondering if I should track down exact replacements as a courtesy to Angie.)

So every day begins with the selection of a fresh pair. Sometimes, to save time in the morning, I jump ahead by changing the night before, but if I think I might be on my period this is a waste, so I don't normally bother. Panties. I've written the word a few times in this post already and it still gives me a chill, let alone trying to say it out loud. It sounds so girly and cutesy... which is what they are. I was a plain white or black underwear kind of guy, since it's not like anybody was seeing them except me. They gave me room to let my "guys" breathe but not feel like they were flopping around. Now it's like... all a "piece" down there, packed in tight.

Tight is the word. Women come in all sorts of shapes - mine happens to be very, very slender, so I guess their clothes are designed to conform. I remember my first impression, digging through this girl's underthings, besides feeling like a totally perverted invasion of privacy, was that how could anybody risk cutting off circulation like that? I haven't worn briefs since I hit the fifth grade. But it all works differently for girls. There are a couple of pairs of "girl boxers" in the selection, but I find the breezyness... unsettling. Like I'm more aware that there's nothing down there when the area isn't clamped tightly. It doesn't mean I have to give myself a wedgie, but it means that the whole real estate is different in ways I wouldn't have guessed.

So as to the rest of the selection... there's a lot. Maybe it's average for a girl but it seems excessive to me. Even the "granny panties" seem slinky in their way, barely coming up to my belly button and firmly wrapping around my butt. My favorite ones aren't lacey, silky, satin, or shear, just regular cotton, but they are still petite, because I guess that means they're out of sight/out of mind and can go with everything. Sometimes I have worn those "date night" ones under my regular clothes, because 1) they're there, and 2) I'm probably not going to have a "date night" to wear them to anyway, so they might as well be for me.

Angie does not own any of those complicated lingerie things. Corsets and nylons. I don't know if I would try them on.

Not every pair of panties has a corresponding bra, and vice versa. That's weird to me. I guess stores have panties sales and you just buy them like you would socks, and wear them as you like. My boobs are modest enough that if I wear a couple of layers - two tops and a cardigan I don't intend on taking off - I can go without a bra. But I do find the firmness reassuring. If they're bobbing around, even if I don't think anyone can tell, I still feel exposed. Besides, the more fabric between the world and my nipples, the better.

The chilly fall weather, and rain to boot, has been a blessing on the fashionable front. In that there is a lot of layering to do, so I can wear top over top over top and nobody will think that's weird. And jeans, God yes, jeans. So what if they're low-rise and skin-tight, they're jeans. And I look good in them. I bought more for myself, when I realized that a lot of Angie's disposable income was mine to do as I please. I'm trying to be reasonable.

I haven't fully embraced girlyness... I still wear skater shoes most of the time, but sometimes I opt for slip-ons/moccasins/hippie shoes. I have a few times painted my nails and worn lip gloss, but I won't try eye makeup or too much face stuff. I have toyed with the idea of skin cream, because I like the idea of having soft skin in this body, and it makes me smell nice (in the sense of "I like when girls smell this way, so maybe I should.") The best thing about working in this granola environment is that nobody says anything if I don't wash my hair. So that's good. I'm still one of the least-girly of those of us who got turned this way in Maine.

I'm starting to feel fascinated by this body. How long I can stand in place before I get sore. How much sleep I need (6.5 hours minimum, 10 hours maximum[!]) how long it takes my leg and underarm hair to grow before I need to shave it again... you'd think the hippie environment would support this, but for my own comfort I came into this body with clean-shaven parts and I intend to keep them as best I can. With one exception... I had one really disastrous experience trying to clip my "bikini area" that resulted in the other of all skin irritations. So I'm going to let that be, unless I want to pay some stranger to do it for me (shudder.)

So in the last few weeks I've kind of done a 180 on this... from being afraid to think about it to being totally engrossed. I should probably hit "submit" on this post before I realize how self-conscious I am about it all.

It's like puberty though. First you're scared of it, feeling gross and grimy, and then suddenly you want to know everything you can. I remember staring at myself in the mirror trying to figure out when I'd grow facial hair or if I'd grow pecs. Instead, I got boobs.

And I'm not saying I like it, but... there's a neat feeling, looking yourself in the mirror when you start to like what you see. I don't love being a girl, but after sitting with the situation a while, I no longer think this is the worst thing ever.

Famous last words, I guess.

Todd/Anne-Marie: My First Bra...

There's something about a chilly November afternoon that makes me want to crank the heater and lounge around in my underwear. Don't judge me, it's not like there's anyone else around. And maybe Anne-Marie's body has some, er, wear-and-tear from the kids, but she's still young and in half-decent shape.

Maybe I'm just weird but a lot of the time I'm more comfortable like this than when wearing Anne-Marie's clothes. Maybe because I'm alone and don't have to pretend or feel like I'm being judged on the authenticity of my Anne-Marieness. Maybe because after a while I get tired of the blouses and khakis or mom-jeans or skirts. I do wear the skirts, not often, but sometimes. But I guess I ought to take this opportunity to discuss something that might gain further insight into my perspective on female apparel.

See, that day at the Inn, when I woke up in Anne-Marie's body... it was shocking, it was horrifying, it was impossible to believe even as I felt my own tits. But as I moved through the day and eventually had to dress myself, well... it wasn't the first time I'd ever worn women's clothes. not the first time for a skirt or a camisole or a pair of panties or a bra. No sir. Not Bryan's either.

Back in the day - mostly in high school - one of the bands Bry and I played for was called the Mercy Mamas. I played bass, Bry played lead guitar, Tom Davidson played drums and sometimes we had a guy on keyboards whose name I forget. Bry and I shared vocals. Anyway, we had done a few open mic nights and were going to close the school's talent show when Bry had the idea of dressing in drag. For some reason - probably because I was high - I went along with it, and Bry went out and got all this gear - dresses, skirts, nylons, even bras and panties. He's always been a pretty extreme guy when he gets to something. Looking back I think he maybe just wanted an excuse to play dress-up even though there was nothing unusual about his behaviour while in drag. He didn't affect a character, it wasn't a Rocky Horror or To Wong Foo thing... he was just Bryan in drag, only slightly more outrageous than usual.

Because of the reaction we got - which was an incredible uproar from all the students - the principals banned us from ever doing the talent show again (this was our second-last year) but we continued to rehearse as the Mercy Mamas and eventually started playing gigs in little clubs near the University I went to. We were gaining some popularity when I decided I was tired of dressing like a woman - and playing bass, which I was never very good at anyway - so I left. Bryan, who basically just saw the band as a reason to hang out anyway, called it quits too, leaving us with an inexplicable collection of ladies' underthings sitting unused in our closets.

So if you were to ask me how I know how to put on a bra - or apply makeup, for that matter - there's your answer. It's not that I ever wanted to be a woman, I just always remembered the reaction I got at that high school talent show, and had been chasing it ever since. Now, there's nothing about femininity that looks shocking on me. It's depressing. And now I actually have to use the bra.

Ugh. Now I'm bummed. I think I'm gonna go put on some pants. A chill just ran up my spine and made my leg-stubble stand up.

-Todd/AM