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

God, how did this happen to me?

You have to understand, I'd embarked on an uncertain journey towards mental girlhood. With GRS and also with Sue, Becky and my Mom I felt as if I were making progress in accepting who I now was. But in moments like these, when I was alone, doing something new and uniquely female — I backslid a little. The sense of loss, of Jack, of the boy I once was seemed to strike me harder whenever I was confronted with additional proof of my new role as a girl.

My eyes grew moist and I sniffled a bit. I guess I just missed my old life.

I took a second deep breath and headed out the door. I was also dealing with another new hassle — my purse. I wasn't used to carrying the damn thing — I kept leaving it behind and racing back to get it before the next ball rang. Other than my wallet, I didn't even have anything in it. Although (as my recent trip to the restroom had demonstrated) I'd have to stock it up sometime in the next 28 days.

I had another interesting encounter in between classes. Our discus thrower, Big Mark Williams (BMW) — all six-feet six of him — came over to my locker. If he'd seemed large before, he now loomed over me as if he were Andre the Giant. The shadow he cast felt like an eclipse. At best, I came up to his chest. I tilted my head way, way back and met his eyes.

He checked me out from head to toe (in a nice way), smiled kindly and reached one hand (the size of my head) to pat my shoulder. "Looking good, dude." Then he lumbered off.

Now that was cool. No mocking, no leering, just a friendly appreciation for my new appearance. Guys, if you want to make a girl feel at ease (especially if she used to be a boy), that's the way to do it.

That led me to my next challenge — gym class. For me, phys- ed was rather redundant — I got far more exercise during track practice. But it beat sitting around some study hall, so I always went through the routine.

Not so routine today. I squared my shoulders, tried to calm my racing heart and slow my breathing.

Then I walked into the girl's locker room.

Mute-button time again. Complete silence as I made my way to the locker I'd been assigned. The room was laid out just like the boy's side. My locker was painted the same color. The benches were mounted in the usual place.

Yep, just like before. Except for the thirty or so half- naked girls around me. I tried very hard to keep my eyes to myself — despite the astonishing variety of female bodies on display. The last thing I wanted was to find myself ostracized further by causing the other girls to feel as though I was drooling over them.

Which of course, I was. Some of these ladies had been the target of admiring glances since my buddies and I were in the sixth grade. And now I was seeing them in their underwear. It took all my mental discipline to focus my eyes on my locker and the simple task of changing clothes. I slipped slowly out of my skirt and pulled off my top.

A few girls had actually covered themselves when I came in — and were clearly still reluctant to reveal their bodies to me. The whispers started again.

"I can't believe they let him in here."

"Yeah — but isn't that bra and panty set cute?"

"Jesus, do you think they're real?"

"Nah — she stuffs. I'm sure of it."

"Well, she sure doesn't look like a boy."

"I don't care — they should have kicked him out of school. What a pervert — trying to act like he's a real girl."

Fuck that. I'd had enough. My turn.

"All right, everybody, a moment of your time, please!" I had every head facing me instantly. Still standing in my matching pink underwear, I continued, speaking firmly in my soft soprano.

"I know some of you may not want me here. If it's any consolation, I don't want to be here either. Milford has lots of very pretty girls, but it's not like I volunteered for a lifetime of periods just to sneak a peak at you. Y'all are cute — but nobody's that cute. Fact is — we're stuck with this. So we might as well live with it. I promise not to make a pass at anybody in this room. In turn, maybe you can help me figure out what to do if the boys make passes at me. Besides, I don't have anything you don't have."

And with a theatrical flourish, I took off my bra.

This was a bit of dirty pool, for I had a secret weapon. Two of them, to be precise. There was a whooshing sound - dozens of sudden intakes of breath. I knew from the comments I'd received at Girl School that GB females had rather special chests. I'd confirmed that upon seeing Sue and catching brief glimpses of the girls in this room. I'm not trying to be arrogant here, but I knew my breasts were exceptional compared to the average teenager. As a "C" cup, I was large, but not overly endowed (for which I was very grateful). And my breasts were perfectly formed, like wide- rimmed champagne glasses. So between their size, shape and firmness — I knew I had quite a pair.

The other girls stared at my breasts with looks of pure jealousy. And for the first time, I took a little pride in having the damn things. They sure were a conversation stopper! As I reached for my sports bra, I made certain the smugness I felt was not revealed on my face. Standing there in just a very skimpy pair of sheer panties, my female sex could not possibly be denied.

Which was exactly what I'd intended. I would have jumped at a chance to go back, but if I had to be a girl, I didn't want anybody doubting it. As GRS had taught me, sexual ambiguity doesn't play well — particularly in a hick town like Milford. By the end of this day, the thirty girls in my gym class will have reported every detail of my new body to all the other girls in the school. And that would make my transition a lot easier. Of course, the guys will end up getting the same report, but there wasn't a lot I could to do about that.

I pulled on my sports bra, noting how it flattened my chest and seemed to keep me from flopping around as much. The other girls resumed their normal discussions, although I noticed Arleen Larkin, my bus buddy, still casting glances at me. There was a look in her eyes that was vaguely familiar and I began to get a little suspicious.

The class was volleyball. As I played I noticed a little less hot dogging and a little more team spirit amongst the girls than when I was a boy. I was still settling in to my body, so I felt awkward. I kept jumping for blocks I could have made before, but was now too short to reach. The net was so high! Still, I was able to help my side to victory. Between that and my locker room performance earlier, some of the girls started to relax around me. A few were a bit hostile yet, but things were thawing somewhat. I got a lot of curious questions, about whether I liked being a girl better and so forth. I was noncommittal — told them I was still trying to figure it all out.

Which was true, as far as it went. But I was also engaging in some diplomacy. If I projected a morose, bitter, doom and gloom attitude, the other girls might find it insulting. I didn't want to give the impression that I believed being a girl was degrading.

Besides, was it really so bad? Nothing truly terrible had happened to me so far. The whole thing was surreal, yes — but not awful. As we left the court, I saw Coach Bradford — I ran over to him.

"Hello, Stephanie."

"You recognize me, Coach?"

"I'd know that stride anywhere. You sure do..."

I filled in the blank. "I know," I sighed. "I'm cute."

He laughed. "Actually, I was going to say you sure do need a new uniform. We've got our next meet against Oxton tomorrow. I expect you to be there."

"Coach, I'm not sure if I..."

"Remember your promise, Stephanie? You said you'd do one competition under the clock. I'm holding you to that."

I was very nervous about running again. I already knew the verdict — my miler days were finished. Volleyball was a subjective thing — but the stopwatch was not. Once I did the race, the proof of my physical inferiority as a female would be complete.

But I had promised him. "Okay."

"Good. Then let's get you your new outfit."

He led me to a supply closet where the track team uniforms were stored. After a few embarrassing questions about my measurements, he handed me the gold top and blue bottom (Milford's school colors) along with the matching sweats. The fabric was much softer and stretchier than my old uniform. I took the gear from him reluctantly.

"You're all set, Stephanie. I'll see you at practice tonight — then tomorrow, we'll see what you can do as a girl." He still had that glint in his eye. I wondered what was up.

"Oh, and Stephanie?" I turned to him. "You are cute," he smiled at me.

I returned to the locker room and began to change back into my street clothes. I did notice the others changing as well — I was amazed at the variety of underwear. No two girls had on the same style panties. It was a riot of patterns and materials. Clearly, girls chose to express their individuality through their taste in lingerie. I wondered if it was possible to draw any conclusions between what a girl wore on the outside versus what she wore underneath. Was the shy girl in baggy clothes trying to make a personal statement in sporting a sexy bikini set next to her skin? Even though she knew no boy would see it? Especially if she knew no boy would see it?

Freud might have had a field day — if he'd put down the cocaine long enough. Still, he did say the greatest mystery in psychology was trying to figure out 'what do women want?"

Damned if I know, either.

I pulled on my skirt, and finished getting dressed. Contrary to what you may have seen in the movies, most high school girls do not shower after gym class. Underwear and even bare breasts were one thing — full nudity was not. Despite there being no boys anywhere, we washed up at the sinks. Another culture change.

And so my day continued. From time to time, I ran across Sue or Becky, who gave me thumbs up. I was also settling into this body more. And I had to admit something to myself:

I liked having a vagina.

I know, I know! It's so bizarre to say — but it was true. I felt so, so comfortable between my legs — no constant shifting of the manly hydraulics. I could cross my thighs with ease (which was very essential in this skirt) and it seemed more aesthetically pleasing in an odd way. Neater. Nicer. More... attractive. It's difficult to describe. If you're a man reading this, the sense of loss would appear to be the greatest trauma you could face. No more penis? Shades of John Bobbit! I know I felt that way when I first learned of GB.

But the reality of the female crotch was much different. I didn't feel bereft of my manhood as much as before. The smooth, subtle folds of my vulva complemented my new