Do you hate metafiction? I hate metafiction. The idea of some doofus pausing every so often to chat me up in the midst of some unfolding drama, and worst, to explain said unfolding drama always left me a little queasy. Shoving me along all sorts of intimate back-alleys, every terrible decision that lead them right up to the present predicament, when they could've just shut up and showed me, or trusted me to figure it out on my own? Just pretentious, right?
Yeah.
Maybe that's why this is happening to me. Here, let me stop right here and explain the situation to you.
See, the last time I looked in the mirror, about an hour ago after taking a piss, I took for granted that I was still a man. Casually but with real intent avoiding my face in the reflection. Then I went back out to the couch in the basement of my parent's house and sat down. I picked up the book I was struggling, pathetically albeit heroically, to finish. So close, I was already in the final stretch, twenty or so pages . . .
In all the tossing and turning to find a comfortable position, I felt it. To be precise, I felt them.
I got up and ran back into the bathroom. I needed to see this, it, them, properly, without dislocating my neck from sheer disbelief by simply looking down.
Yep. The sensations I'd felt were not unfounded.
I had grown tits.
In case you didn't read the synopsis, I came roaring into life as a male. For all intents and purposes, that's my sex. All my papers said so, my name and body reflected that as well. And up until very recently, I'd been more or less okay with that. I'd played my part well enough that no one ever had to ask me for any sort of clarification.
But all the same, there they were.
Now, it's not like they were crazy double Ds or anything. But they were rounder, fuller. And goddamn obvious. Seen from the side, they protruded outwards. I scratched at my scruffy face, thinking how it'd look like I was smuggling mandarin oranges under my singlet if I went outside right now. Then I did the standard male thing by pushing them together, and letting go. I ran my finger down the middle slowly, feeling the sternum. They were close set, which is how I would've wanted them to be. Up until last Friday night, it was how I would've wanted them on my ideal woman. Overcoming the initial shock, I realised how sore my entire chest area felt. Like recovery after chest day at the gym.
My nipples were flushed pink and raised in a way I had never experienced them before, the skin around them wider, more circle than oval. Ah, they're called areolas, aren't they? It's funny how you only associate them with women, as if they were exclusive. And . . . they were sensitive. Not just to my touch, but to the temperature of the room. It felt like I'd gained an added sense that operated via the now-erected antennae on my chest.
As sexy as all this sounds, tufts of chest hair were still there. I felt like a circus freak, well, more than I'd already felt before.
I rolled down my singlet and walked back to the couch in a daze. Then it hit me: It was Sunday.
In a couple of hours I had to attend a Zoom class that was part of a series of prerequisite courses for this new job. After almost a year of flitting between freelance gigs and trying to make it on my own as a copywriter and musician, an opportunity in sales presented itself to me. Of course I'd jumped at it, giving no thought to what I was getting myself into. I loathed the idea of just talking to other people, forget about convincing them to buy stuff, but you know that line about beggars.
So I'd anticipated some grinding, and my soul shuddered at the long hours of sacrifice in the hollow pursuit of income, but I was hungry and game to suffer. I wanted to move out of this basement, I needed my own space. And I was ready to do the hard work, whatever that entailed. The stage was set, and I had envisioned myself making the remainder of this year my bitch.
Then I just had to go and grow fun bags. I paced around the small space, thinking of how to cover them up. Nobody could know. Not the class, not my supervisor, not my future clients. I wasn't letting go of this gig. I'm going all the way.
None of my shirts alone would cut it. Jackets, yes, thank god I've got so many, and sales people wear them all the time right? And anyway the weather's been quite chilly recently, and it's always good to accessorise and—
Wait, fool. Hold up.
Was this even permanent?
Now, dear reader, the time has come for me to let you in on the salacious little secret of how I came to grow these beauties. You see, it was all part of a plan. I'll even tell you why.
On Friday night, I had been sequestered right here in this underground loft, participating in my ritual pastime of listening to records, getting shitfaced and trying to complete this goddamned Pynchon book. I was halfway through the bottle of the cheapest wine the 7/11 had when I went over to the desk.
Knackered as I might've been, I can recall this bit almost in HD clarity, because it was a pattern finely honed over many Fridays spent alone. The procedure went as follows:
1. Get high to escape the gaping void.
2. Feel the gaping void even more, ironically.
3. Attempt further escape.
This is where the laptop came in. Or rather, the laptop was the means by which I came and then crawled into bed, all spent, sticky and defeated.
Only this time I didn't follow through on the programming. Some part of me, fuck if knew what or which, had recoiled and sternly said enough.
I pulled up Youtube instead, and started building a playlist that consisted of subliminals. You look like Megan Fox, only prettier. Hyperfeminine facial modification [1x max listen]. Ultimate fawnlike angel subs bundle (WARNING: extremely potent!). I didn't give a shit, I added them all, I wasn't even looking at the bevy of gorgeous women adorning the thumbnails.
I fell asleep listening to them, and when I woke up I sure didn't feel any more feminine, what with the line of drool that crusted a trail from mouth up to cheek, somehow. I dismissed the whole foray as some kind of error on my psyche's part. It had wanted to try something new, that was all, and nothing happened. Some of that sissy feminisation kink, eh?
Right.