Exchange
Long brown hair cascades down my shoulders, ending near the delicate lace of my red bralette. The cherry fabric is bright against the skin of my freshly shaved torso. My stomach is round and smooth but for the faded stripes of stretch marks. I’m big and heavy. My belly hangs over the band of my matching panties. Staring at myself in the mirror, I think—maybe for the first time ever—“Fuck, I’m hot.”
I close my eyes, run a hand down my chest, and snap a picture. This moment must be preserved.
Then comes the deconstruction. I remove my hair. A cheap wig bought off Amazon from a company whose name I can’t pronounce. The band leaves a crease in my bald head. I saddle the hair onto its blank, beige wig form.
I worm my way out of my bralette. It rolls in on itself, becoming a thick chord of fabric. My meager hint of breasts don’t require much structural support. I watch the fat droop across my chest and wonder if there is any breast tissue in there. I use my biceps to smoosh them together. I smile at the modest cleavage. I’ve been on Estradiol for months and my nipples burn like hell. My right areola has stretched oblong while my left one has remained relatively unchanged. I feel half baked.
My panties slide down my hairless legs. Tree trunks stripped of bark. My cock is not an impressive thing when flaccid. I touch it. Exploratory and asexual. I wonder if I’m the type of girl who needs the “surgery.” I wonder if I’m the type of girl who needs anything at all.
My hand pulls away - glistening despite my intentions. I reach back down. This time I imagine that I’m stroking my cunt. I want to rub my clit, to slide my fingers inside of me.
“Fuck me like a woman.”
It’s a demand. It’s a yearning. It’s a wish.
I’ve told my wife this before. We’re both confused as to what that would even look like…
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