Then I noticed he was staring at me with a lowered brow. I looked away quickly, my heart pounding. I couldn’t figure out why I was staring at him in the first place—and I really couldn’t figure out why my heart was pounding. After a minute, I didn’t think much of it. Then another strange thing happened.
A pretty woman took a seat at a table next to me. She was a few years older than me and way out of my league, but she still looked up at me and smiled. I returned the smile, even though I usually darted my eyes away from any woman who looked my way. Then, as she looked down at the book in her hands, my gaze wandered down to her feet. She was wearing a pair of black open-toed heels. Her toenails were painted red and looked super cute. But it was the heels that had me strangely mesmerized. I was taking note of their shape, how they framed her foot. They made her legs look somehow longer and smoother. I loved the way they kept her toes pointed, as if she was a foot model. But the heel part seemed so thin—how did it not snap underneath her weight? She was only one hundred and ten pounds at most, but I couldn’t image that thin heel holding more than thirty pounds.
She was looking at me again. This time I darted my gaze away, my heart stuttering. I felt like I’d been caught staring down her top, even though I’d only been staring at her feet. Since when did I care about women’s shoes? Why did I find those feet so mesmerizing?
I didn’t think much of it. I hadn’t slept much that night, so I figured I was just seeing the symptoms of lack of sleep. I’d probably just zoned out, and my gaze just happened to be on that man and subsequently those heels as I zoned out. It wasn’t something to think too hard about.
When I got home, Aunt Fey was gone, along with her car. There was a note on the little kitchen table. “I’ll be out until late. There’s dinner in the fridge—you just need to heat it up.” I looked in the fridge and saw the impressive casserole. But it wasn’t dinnertime yet. I still had a few hours to kill, and then I would have a few hours to kill once dinner was over. So once again, I found myself with nothing to do. So I got undressed and I fetched that book from Aunt Fey’s nightstand.
I flipped through the pages until I found a page that made my heart stutter. And that page surprised me. It was the ‘wraparound handjob’ page, with a picture of the naked man’s front and the woman standing behind him, with his big cock in her hand. I don’t know why I found the image so arousing—there was hardly even a girl in the picture, unless you count the sliver of her face over his shoulder, or her hand. But the image got me hard. I stared at that massive cock while I jerked myself off. I imagined those pretty fingers sliding up and down, covered in shining lubricant. I imagined the tip of his cock getting redder and redder until it finally erupted cum into the air. Then my own cock erupted cum into the air.
And a cold tingling washed over me. Did I just jerk off to a picture of a dude? Was I thinking about the guy as I stroked cum out the tip of my penis? What was wrong with me? Can lack of sleep make a person temporarily gay? I took a long shower and tried to forget about what I’d done. I worked hard to convince myself that I had really gotten off to the image of the girl lingering over the man’s shoulder. She did have an especially sexy expression in that shot—so maybe it was true. Maybe I wasn’t suddenly turning gay.
I heated up some dinner and then went straight to bed, hoping my female lust would return to me in the morning. I was already looking to my first steaming cup of Aunt Fey’s delicious coffee.
CHAPTER IV
I had a few strange moments throughout the next couple of weeks, finding myself zoned out while staring at men, women’s shoes, women’s clothes, and even a little bottle of white nail polish on a drug store shelf—I was shocked when I got home that evening and found that little bottle of nail polish in my pocket. I remembered grabbing it and slipping it into my pocket—but I thought that was just a daydream and not reality. What was I going to do with a bottle of white nail polish?
It occurred to me one afternoon, while I sat in my usual café corner drinking from the thermos I snuck in under my coat, that these strange mental symptoms I was suffering were likely due to the death of my parents. I still hadn’t gone through a real grieving stage. Maybe I was still in denial. Maybe my brain was having some strange overload while trying to cope with the trauma of losing both of my parents in the same day. But did that really explain my sudden fixation with high heels?
Aunt Fey had lots of high heels—a whole closet full. Her little house wouldn’t have been so small if it wasn’t filled with closets. All of those closets could have easily combined to make a couple of bedrooms—or at least a sizeable second bathroom. Aunt Fey designed the house herself, and that was no surprise. It was completely non-functional and it would be impossible to sell. It catered only to her own needs, and apparently her only need was the need to store lots of dresses, shoes, and lingerie. Even her single bathroom was mostly just cupboards and drawers filled with makeup. She had a wardrobe like Paris Hilton. If she wanted to be a socialite so badly, why did she live so far from the city? Surely that was a pain in the ass, driving all the way to town every time she wanted to show off her expensive wardrobe…
Though I never saw her getting dolled up. She only ever wore a little bit of makeup, and after living with her for six weeks, I never saw her put on one of her hundred dresses even once. So what was the point? Was she just a hoarder of fancy clothes?
I was jerking off in the bathroom with that same book of sex positions when I heard gravel crunching under heavy tires. I quickly closed the book and pulled up my pants. I peeked out the bathroom window and saw an unfamiliar red SUV. I hid the book under the sink and carefully approached the door. Aunt Fey didn’t have a peephole on her door, probably because she never had any guests. There wasn’t even a window facing out at the doorstep, so I couldn’t see who was coming up to the door.
There was a knock. My cock was still half-erect, bulging out from my pants. I reached down and stuffed it up into my waistband, tugging down my shirt to make sure it covered my reddened tip. Then I took a deep breath and managed to answer the door before the second knock.
I recognized the man on the doorstep, but it took me a moment to realize how I recognized him. He was the gym teacher at the local high school—the one I was supposed to be attending. “Kenny,” he said without even a friendly smile.
“What’s up?” I said.
“You’ve missed twenty straight gym classes. Half of your gym grade is based on attendance. I don’t want to have to fail you so tell me: what’s going on?”
“I’ve been sick,” I said. I faked a cough. “The doctors still don’t know what’s wrong with me. I might even be contagious.” I coughed again.
“Cut it out,” he said. “Have you been going to school at all?”
I felt a cold breeze. The cold breezes on the Island felt especially cold because of the humidity from the ocean. I still wasn’t used to that piercing dampness, even though it was technically much warmer than the weather in Toronto. “Sometimes,” I said.
“Sometimes? Like when?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“If you’re thinking of dropping out, I can tell you right now: that’s a bad idea. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life. If you think school’s bad, just wait until you have to flip burgers for forty years, with some eighteen year old manager screaming in your ear that you aren’t doing it fast enough.”
I looked down and saw that he was still wearing his little gym shorts, which were so tight that the bulge of his package was apparent. It seemed highly inappropriate, seeing as he taught mostly children. I looked away quickly. “I don’t fit in there. I’ll retake the courses online. It’s not a big deal,” I said.
He laughed and shook his head. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your GED online? You’ve got six courses—that could cost you thousands of dollars and take you years, assuming you’re capable of teaching yourself all the material. There’s a reason we have schools with teachers who spend years in
college. It’s not meant to be something you can just figure out on the Internet.”
“Whatever. I can do what I want,” I said, feeling like I was being attacked. I wanted him to go away. I didn’t want to be reminded that I was going to fail. He was looking at me as if I didn’t know how horrible flipping burgers was—he had no idea that I’d already done it for months. I knew how awful it was. I knew what it was like to have some pimply-faced manager screaming in my ear. I hated it. I was glad to be away from it.
And maybe he had a point. Maybe I didn’t want to do that for the rest of my life. Maybe it would be nice to have some other options. But what could I do? I couldn’t just show up for school and have everyone mocking me.
He was staring into my eyes, as if he was trying to figure out my hand in a game of poker. “What’s wrong, son?” he said. “The kids pick on you?”
My heart fluttered. “So what if they do?” I said.
“I was picked on in high school too. It sucked. But look—I’m going to give you a secret—a little trick that will make you immune for the rest of the school year. It might not win you any friends, but it will keep the bullies far, far away from you. Come back to school and go to the receptionist in the office. Tell her that you’re coming out as gay, or bi, or trans, or whatever the kids are doing these days. The school has a zero tolerance policy on homophobia. If someone even looks at you the wrong way, even outside of school, they could face expulsion. It’s an immunity I wish I had back in high school.”
“You’re gay?” I asked.
He shook his head quickly. “No, of course not. I’m married with kids. But I would have lied for the immunity. Just come back to school and finish your courses. You’ll be glad that you did.” He turned around and started heading for his car, leaving me standing in the doorway with a fluttering heart.
It wasn’t a bad idea. I didn’t know anyone in the school and I didn’t care if they gossiped about me behind my back because they would never see me again or even hear from me once I was back in Toronto—which would hopefully be in just a few months. Maybe I would go back to flipping burgers, but at least with my diploma I could quickly be promoted to manager. At least it wouldn’t seem like I was at a dead-end, even if I didn’t know what I wanted to do.
I didn’t go back to school the next day, but I thought about it. I found myself toying with the idea of going back. Maybe I could come up with a new name. I wondered if anyone would remember me from the short period of time that I was there almost two months before. If I told the receptionist that I was gay, I could also tell her that I was going by Kyle now, or Roger—anything but Kenny, so that my name wouldn’t be forever tied to the new gay kid at the school.
But I wasn’t gay. The thought of coming out as gay made my heart ache. I didn’t want people thinking I was gay, even though I knew they couldn’t make fun of me to my face. Though maybe people would just be nicer to me if they thought I was gay. Those girls invited me to eat lunch with them strictly because they thought that I was a homosexual. I could put on a pair of fake glasses and wear a baseball cap to school every day. I could sit in the far back corner and get by with the minimum amount of work. I didn’t exist to anyone in that school now, and I would cease to exist in a few months, after graduation. So what did I have to lose? I could do anything—be anyone.
I felt a warmth glowing in my chest. I could be anyone. Why was that thought so appealing? Why did that get me so excited? For the next few months, I could live without social repercussions. I was essentially leasing a temporary identity that I could do anything with—like a rental car that wasn’t rented under my own name. I could crash it as much as I wanted, as long as I didn’t hurt myself too badly.
I was sitting in the café, sipping from my thermos, trying to think of a name, when a woman walked in. She was wearing a short white dress, with little frilly cuffs that sat gracefully on her upper arms. She had beautiful curly hair and bright, stunning eyes. I loved the way she had her makeup done, with long flicks of eyeliner and a bit of pink blush on her cheekbones. And her shoes were to die for: white, to match her dress, with little gold buckles on the many little straps. The woman was exactly what I wished I could be. Right down to the small details, she was dressed how I would have dressed if I were a woman.
A cold dread suddenly filled my gut. I looked away and shook my head. What the hell kind of thoughts were running through my mind? Why was I admiring a woman’s wardrobe and wishing I were her? Since when did I want to be a woman? Since when did I have deranged thoughts like that?
I took my thermos and started my long hike home. Now I needed the fresh air, and I needed to be far, far away from that pretty woman. I didn’t like what she was doing to my brain. I didn’t like that I was slowly losing control over my own thoughts.
CHAPTER V
It was that same afternoon when I noticed my breasts for the first time.
I was getting undressed to get into the shower when I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw that my flat boyish chest was no longer flat. I had two subtle lumps, which jiggled slightly when I hopped up and down. At first I assumed they were man-boobs—from Aunt Fey’s butter-rich cooking—but I didn’t have fat anywhere else on my body. And my nipples seemed to be larger and perkier. I cupped my subtle lumps. They were soft. I’d never felt a woman’s breasts before, but I imagined they felt something like this.
A nausea began to swirl in my gut. I let go and shook my head quickly. “They’re just man-boobs,” I said to myself. And that’s probably all they were.
Though when I got out of the shower and went to put on a pair of shorts instead of the jeans I’d been wearing all week, I noticed something different: my hips were suddenly wider. I could hardly squeeze into my shorts, and once I had them on my body, they looked strange: stretched out at the hips, making them look baggy around my thighs. They were unflattering, even though they’d been my go-to shorts for two years.
I took them off and then stood in front of the mirror, completely naked. I couldn’t help but notice that my ball sack was smaller, and my cock was a bit smaller as well. I reached down and cupped my whole package. It fit neatly into the palm of a single hand. Had I always been able to do that? Was my body going through changes? For years I’d been expecting a growth spurt, but this was the opposite of what I thought that I would get. I thought I would get taller. I thought my cock would grow an extra inch or two. I thought my shoulders would get wider—not my hips!
My heart was suddenly racing. What if there was something wrong? What if my body was producing the wrong hormones? What if I was actually born with both girl and boy parts, and my parents never told me? I saw that on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy—some girl finds out that she was actually a boy. Apparently it’s a real thing and happens all the time. Maybe that would explain some of the strange things I’d been noticing lately. Maybe that would explain the smaller frame I’d always had.
I didn’t go to school the next day. Instead, I walked to town, sipping my coffee from my thermos, and then I walked back to the house. I didn’t even go into the café. It was a long, pointless walk, and I only made the walk because I was hoping that the fresh air would force some of the strange thoughts and urges out from my head. But the thoughts and urges were still there when I got back to the house. Aunt Fey was gone, out for the day as she usually was. So I decided to try on some of her clothes.
But before getting dressed up, I got into the shower and shaved my legs and crotch and armpits. I knew I would look stupid in all of those skirts and dresses if I had hair all over my legs and armpits. As for the crotch—I was just curious to see how I would look clean-shaven. I kind of liked the look.
I started my dress up session with a pink satin dress. It was soft and light and I could hardly feel it on my body. I liked the way it made my bum look, especially once I had my feet stuffed into a pair of black strappy heels. The heels fit surprisingly well. Apparently Aunt Fey and I had roughly the same sized feet.
I did
a few walks around the house, feeling the light dress dancing on my skin. I could even feel my soft chest lumps bouncing up and down with each heeled step. When I was getting changed into my second dress, I took a moment to check the lumps out in the mirror. Maybe I was going crazy, but they looked even bigger today, as if they’d grown a few ounces overnight. Is that even possible?
The second dress was a blue floral dress. It extended down to my calves in the back but only my thighs in the front. I loved the way it swayed when I spun from side to side. And I really loved the way the deep cut down the chest made it look like I had real cleavage. The fabric was so soft that my nipples were obvious bulges. I ran my fingers through my hair, wishing my hair were long, so I could curl it and feel it cascading down my shoulders.
With the blue dress, I wore a pair of brown heels, which were a bit beachy, with braided straps. They were comfortable and easy to walk in. I set up my phone on a table to take a few pictures as I made a few poses. Then, as I admired the photos of myself, my stomach turned. I was looking at pictures of myself wearing women’s clothing and women’s high heels. My legs were shining, hairless—and worst of all: I actually kind of looked like a chick in the pictures, even with my short hair and makeup-free face.
I quickly deleted the pictures and got undressed. “What the hell are you doing?” I said aloud many times as I got Aunt Fey’s room back to the way I found it. I looked at the time and realized I’d been playing dress up for nearly three hours already. Maybe I really was losing my mind. But even if I was losing my mind, that didn’t explain the wide hips and the sudden existence of breasts on my chest—if that was what they were.
I was a man—I’d always been a man, even if I’d never been good at manly things like sports or cars or construction. I was still a guy. I couldn’t let this sissy crap take over my life.
Womanized Page 17
