For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

her arm. "Yes, you can. You're not alone — there are many people who've been through this before you and we all want to help."

Jerome shrugged off Ms Barlow's arm. She began to cry uncontrollably — and clutched her breasts as if...

As if she were trying to pull them off.

"I'm a cunt!" she wailed.

I just sat there, frozen in place. Ms Barlow quickly summoned one of the doctors, who gave the hysterical girl a sedative. After a few moments, she calmed down enough to be taken to an observation room.

Shaken, I stared at the program director. She looked at me soberly.

"What's going to happen to her?" I asked.

"She's going to need a lot of therapy. This can happen with GB — the shock of transition, of having your identity forcibly changed can unbalance anyone. Jerome is in for a difficult time. There's a lesson for you here, Stephanie. I know you're a strong person. I know you're an outstanding athlete — yes, I read the sports papers, too. But don't make the mistake of thinking you can just 'gut it out'. You're going to need support to get through this — your journey has only begun. Do not, repeat, do NOT try to think like a man — one of the greatest aspects of being a woman is the ability to ask for help when you need it.

"And you're going to need it, Stephanie. Every boy affected by GB does. You will survive this and even prosper — as long as you don't deny what you're feeling. You must face your emotions as a girl, and accept them. Otherwise, you may wake up a week, a month or even a year from now... like Jerome."

I listened very carefully. "I understand... really. I'm not thrilled about any of this — but I won't keep things bottled up. I still want to leave GRS, but I'll do the follow-up work. Deal?"

Ms Barlow studied me carefully. "You don't make deals with me, Stephanie — you make them with yourself. But I do have a good feeling about you, so I'll release you to your mother."

And with that, I began 'outprocessing'. One of the huge advantages of having GRS managed by the state was taking care of all the legal business. There was even a representative from the DMV. In one hour, I had certified name-change documents, a new social security card and a new driver's license. I studied my license carefully.

Name: Stephanie Lind.

Height: 5'7".

Weight: 119 lbs.

Sex: Female.

Good God. Such a simple thing — a little plastic card that proved Jack Lind no longer existed. Even... especially the picture. No one ever takes a good picture for her license, but I came close as I realized I was very photogenic — for a girl. It was such a shock to look at my photo — a cute, almost dainty, teenage female. In a way, it was just as surreal as looking in a mirror — objective proof of my new, albeit unwanted, femininity.

I said goodbye to Tamara and Beth as they headed off for a makeover. We all expressed our worries about Jerome. We also exchanged e-mails and other contact info. They chucked as I wryly commented on how much easier it was for me to get phone numbers from pretty girls — now that I was one myself.

I exchanged hugs with both of them. Beth seemed glowing and even Tamara appeared to be content with her fate. I just wished I could be where they were.

And with that, I left GRS and headed for the parking lot where my mom was waiting.

Ma Ma, Where's My Bra?

I walked right up to her — I could tell she wasn't expecting me — not as I now was. I stopped a few feet away from her as the recognition dawned on her face.

"Ja... Jack?"

"Congratulations, Mrs. Lind. It's a girl!" I said self- mockingly.

"Oh, my God — you're so pretty!" Mom said incredulously. "I just can't believe it!"

"You and me both. Mom, I really don't want to hang around here — can we get on the road?"

Her mind still in a whirl, she got into the driver's seat while I buckled in — noting how the shoulder strap across my chest stretched the fabric of my tank top and made my breasts seem even larger. Speaking of which...

"Here's something I bet you never imagined your son saying — Mom, I need a bra."

She looked at my chest for a full minute before starting the car. Shaken, she said, "I guess you do. We can go to the Milford..."

"Not a chance, Mom. I know I've got to get some new clothes, but I want to do it here in Syracuse. Less likelihood of me running across someone I know."

She nodded agreement as we headed for a local mall.

While she drove, she kept sneaking glances over at me. In a way, I felt I had a bit of an edge here. I'd had a day to get used to my new sex — for my Mom, it was her first sight of her son as a girl. She was clearly off-balance.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not in any pain, at least."

"How does it feel?"

"I can't even begin to describe it yet, Mom. It feels... weird. I've still got two arms, legs, eyes, etc. But the rest... I can't even talk about it."

We fell silent until we arrived at the stores. I got out of the car with some trepidation. This was the first time I would be in public as a female. Nervously, I made my way into the mall with my mother.

And immediately, my education began.

Every single person who passed me looked at me. The women and girls seemed to be almost reproaching, though I saw some expressions of... envy? As for the guys, some did more than look. 'Ogle' would be a better term. Much of the attention was directed at my chest — still bouncing under my thin tank-top, the huge nipples poking through. A few guys were almost drooling. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to have someone 'undress me with his eyes'. I felt almost naked!

This was very strange — and creepy. As a boy, I'd always been pretty much anonymous. Yeah, some of the girls said I was cute, but I was hardly the center of attention when I went out. But now...

I realized I would never blend into a crowd again. General Patton once commented to his troops: "You are always on parade." Now I understood the civilian equivalent — if you're an attractive woman, you will always be on parade. I felt incredibly self-conscious. Maybe I could convert to Islam — the idea of a burkha was now appealing.

I was amazed to see I couldn't wait to get into a bra. Anything to deflect attention from my breasts. We arrived at a JC Penny's and went to the teen clothing section. Just standing under the sign that said 'GIRLS' was unnerving. A saleswoman came up to us.

"I'd like this young lady fitted for a brassiere," my mother said almost proudly.

"Of course," the saleswoman replied. "And what size has she been wearing?"

We were both silent for a moment at the obvious but unexpected question. "I... I really never wore one before," I stammered.

"Oh," the saleswoman said uncertainly. "But with such a well-developed chest, you've never..." Then it hit her. "GB?" she finished.

"Yeah," I said, eyes downcast.

She seemed to brighten. "Actually, we get a fair number of girls from the clinic, since we're one of the closest stores. Let me take you in back, where we can be more... discreet."

She was trying to be nice about it, chatting as we went to the fitting area — telling me how I would love being a girl — and how she had the perfect bra for me to wear. I fell glumly in line behind her. We arrived at the back, where she proceeded to stretch a measuring tape around me in a variety of ways.

"You're a 34C," she reported.

"Why, she's the same size as..." Mom paused. Wonderful. Just what every boy dreams of — for his chest to match his mother's. The saleswoman proceeded to select a variety of bras for me — I picked the plainest one of the lot. The straps and hooks were so... complicated! When the saleswoman offered to help me, I reluctantly accepted — I doubted I could figure it out on my own. We went into one of the dressing rooms, where I slowly removed my top.

The assistant stared at me for a moment. "You're very pretty — and I'd kill for those breasts!"

"I'd give them to you if I could, believe me."

"I'm sorry. It's just that you GB girls all come out with such wonderful bodies. Most women would love to look like you."

"Yeah, but the problem is, most men wouldn't."

"I know," she said sympathetically. "Here, let me help you with that."

And so I put on my first bra. It felt weird of course. But at least the cups were nice. The soft fabric against my sensitive nipples was rather pleasant and I was very glad to have them packaged up. But the straps felt awkward — I kept tugging at them, trying to get more comfortable. The saleswoman assured me the bra fit me properly — which meant I was going to have to get used to the sensation.

I pulled my top back on and was relieved to feel less self- conscious. My chest still jiggled inside the bra — but things were more under control. I selected a half-dozen of the same style — white cotton with a satin lining. Then it was time for panties. I learned I was a size 5. Both women tried to get me into various frilly types, but I was adamant. A couple of packs of 'Jockey for Her' briefs — white cotton as well.

Then I got a pair of sneakers (I was now a size 8 women's) and a very conservative pair of casual flats (novel terminology).

Jeans were next. With my new configuration of waist and hips, I knew I'd have to wear girl's styles. I picked out a couple of the less ornamented kind and headed for the dressing room. While there, another girl had left the door of her booth half-open — she smiled at me as I walked by, completely relaxed in her pretty underwear. She was quite attractive and I had to turn my eyes away before I started to stare. I noticed with some dismay as I took off my pants that the sight of her had firmed my nipples up inside my bra. And the sight of myself in the mirror — a cute teen girl in her tank top and briefs — kept my arousal going. It was very strange. When I looked at my body directly, I felt no stimulation. But when I caught glimpses of my reflection, particularly in a state of undress — I could actually get turned on.

It was as if the boy I'd been had become a voyeur — he was getting hot. But he was now in a girl's body — so his excitement could only manifest itself in a female way. He had no penis