Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Girlmoding!

Chapter 10: Girlmoding!

 

It's been a few months since she made that fateful decision. 

A wonderful, warm, beautiful sunny day. Summer was dancing in the air, hot with the kind sun piercing through her curtain onto her mangled bedsheets. It was the dawn of the second era of her life. Or was it third?

Or...first?

She loved putting on her new real bra in the morning. Even though it was just a cheap one she got online, even though she wasn't sure it even fit right, even though she was just going to be taking it off soon for her shower - to her, it served as a constant reminder that she did, in fact, transition. For real. It wasn't some fantasy stuck in her head, but some material real, stuck on her chest. The normalization of putting on her bra for herself before going out, just like any other young woman as far as she knew, was wrapped up in the appeal - it was even more important than any threads of textile could ever be. She still has some photos of her flat naked chest hidden deep on her hard drive, but to be honest, she can't even remember what that used to even feel like. She can't recall the physical sensation anymore of being a bony flat washboard, desperately trying to model herself for web-cameras to squeeze any kind of appeal out of it. The failure to remember made her smile more than the material breasts themselves. Hopefully she forgets everything about her former life and body. She loved her breasts, but much more than that, she loved the fact that she had breasts. 

She couldn't let herself enjoy it too much, though. She was desperate to see that woman in the mirror again, but hasn't for a while now. Maybe she's been having it too easy, she thought. As long as she just reminds herself of her breasts, she can keep on going.

The soothing hot water rained down on her newly shaped body. It felt sooooooooo good.

She wasn't flat anymore. The water actually had to curve around her body now, real contours and ridges that affected the world, that would even block her sight when she'd look down at her feet, if she leaned her head back enough. They weren't just in her imagination like before. They still ached and pained, so she'd massage them sometimes. It felt nice. Maybe they'd grow even bigger. The fact that they hurt made them feel even more real. The pain was actually satisfying to her.

She was always a bone dry skeleton growing up as an ugly teenager, just on the cusp of being underweight. She'd felt her bones stick out of her body, jutting out like knives at every which angle. Unsexy. Now there was a thin layer of softness hugging her body at all times. It was so comforting. She had thighs now. When she moved her legs, they would jiggle. Extra fat depositing, that she would never be able to get on testosterone. Sometimes she'd jiggle her thighs on purpose, maybe slap 'em a bit in the shower, and just laugh at the reaction. That was so incredible. Her body really was changing right before her eyes. It was like fucking crack to her parched brain receptors. Even the hot water seemed to feel more than before. She'd been on HRT for almost a year now, but it's never felt this immediate to her. Maybe it's because she's finally opened her eyes.

Is this how cis people feel every day? Is this what I've been missing out on? Is this what having a real body feels like? Isn't that unfair? Why was this kept from me? What did I do to deserve that? Who can I blame for this crime? Just myself, over and over again?

But what was she going to wear to work? Suddenly, she had to actually think about wardrobes for the first time in her life, instead of throwing on a giant hoodie to hide herself in like a frightened turtle. 

A sweater? No, it'll get too hot. T-shirt and flannel? Wasn't that wimping out with an andro outfit? She wanted to go full femme, that's why she's girlmoding in the first place! But she knows she couldn't now, she wasn't ready yet, physically or mentally. Flannel it was. Lesbian-moding, baby. It still counts as girlmoding. It still counts as girlmoding. Please don't say otherwise. 

And sneakers. Definitely sneakers. Those kinds that look like Converse but are just Wal-Mart brand for thirty bucks. Trying to find Size 10 Women's Shoes that don't just look like clown props is a tough job. You'd never be classy, but at least you can be cool. Maybe. Sorta. Shoes were the hardest thing to buy as a transwoman. Even if she ever went to a beach, she would never ever show her bare feet, even through flip flops. She'd have to commit a fashion crime of wearing socks with sandals. They're one of the things on your body that testosterone likes to poison the most, as if all the hormones drip down there by gravity, collecting at the bottom of the well. 

Ramona had told her a little trick for finally transitioning out of boymoding to girlmoding - that once you wear your first piece of women's clothing, you're not allowed to wear your men's one again. So, if you start wearing a women's t-shirts, you have to stick with women's shirts whenever you want to wear one. Period. Even if it's unisex, or andro or whatever, that's fine. But never men's t-shirts. Never again. This stops you from relapsing into the familiar safe comfort of the gilded boymode cage.

Jeans? Find some boyfriend type fit - it's a little more boyish, but still definitely a women's jean, and that's that. When you're too afraid to graduate from your men's baggy jeans yet, then that's okay, there's no rush. If you're wearing extra skinny slim Men's jeans, then hell, what are you waiting for? Women's jeans don't feel like sandpaper on your new softer skin, so that should be even more incentive for anyone to switch (even cis men, honestly). Maybe you sport a jean jacket - well, switch it for a women's one, since they usually look exactly the same. Nobody will be able to tell the difference unless they work retail and aren't quite dead inside yet. 

Eventually, every article of clothing has been replaced. What happens to a boymoder who's replaced every article of clothing with a girlmode version, one by one, piece by piece, gradually over months of time? Does the boymoder still exist, or have they transformed? This Ship of Sheseus model of transitioning, Sophia thought, felt eerily similar to some of the stories she'd read online growing up...

'A young man sent to a mysterious boarding school, where his wardrobe seemed to change subtly every day, and before he knows it, his whole room's become a young lady's room...'

One's wardrobe transitions along with one's body. And can cost a fucking boatload, since such boarding schools don't exist in real life to foot the bill. Maybe that's why Ramona wore so much thrift shit.

She had a whole hair routine now, to deal with the bushy bird's nest on her head she's had since she started growing it out for the first time. She never learned how to deal with her hair growing up, so she's always had it cut short. "Parents don't often teach their sons how to deal with long hair", was the excuse she told herself to help her cope with her lack of essential female knowledge on self-grooming. So to pass properly, she had to learn or else she could be outed as a Man. Her hair came out prettier than ever now, and would even get compliments at work. Real compliments! Instead of just saying "Hey Nick", or "[nothing]", they'd go "Hey Sophia, nice hair today!". Oh my god! It was almost like how they treat actual women. She really really liked it. It made her really really happy. Not that she cared about such social things of course - she knew physical dysphoria was all that mattered. It still felt nice, though...

She'd been trying make-up, but still learning. BB Creams...Eyeshadow...it was a bit daunting. And fucking expensive, too. Sometimes she'd rub something into her cheeks and it'd just...disappear? She felt like she was being tricked by cosmetic companies to buy tinted moisturizer. But she was too nervous to ask anyone for help, certainly no girl at work, and definitely not Ramona, who either had zero make-up or went full on goth-moder. Make-up's such a boomer meme, she told herself.

Sophia's still wearing men's briefs too, of course. She's not going to be like one of those fetishists who wear panties. She wasn't a fucking pervert. She wasn't a fucking pervert. She wasn't a fucking pervert ogling a woman's body in the shower. She wasn't a fucking pervert ogling a woman's body in the shower. Her own body. Her own male body. So briefs it will be for her for the foreseeable future. Maybe until she gets sur-...

She'd also picked up a new hobby - drawing. She'd always doodled in her notebooks, but she wanted something to reinvent herself in a new way. Like how some people get really into exercising, but maybe a little easier on her frail little body. She ordered herself a little drawing tablet and a real-life notebook, and some pencils and pens, and started diving into the world of illustration. She loved learning new things, new hobbies, new subcultural worlds, all her life growing up. She had a little encyclopedia in her head of useless knowledge she's never applied to the real world. But this time, things would be different. She was going to become a drawer. That's what they're called, right? Instead of holding everything inside herself behind lock and key, she was going to release them into the world by imprinting them on paper. A little diary of sorts, of her feelings and experiences.

Or rather, a journal - 'diary' was maybe a little too effeminate and embarrassing for someone like her.

Someday, someone might even see her drawings and relate to them, feel a connection to them, and maybe even learn from them. Maybe someday, someone will understand her. So she knows she can't give up on this new undertaking. She was going let her feelings flow out like a river from her pen. Just as long as nobody sees it just yet. Maybe in a few years. Maybe in a decade. Maybe after she's dead. But at least she has a new goal, one of many pushing her forward on her new path in life.

Sophia realized she'd always managed to push herself forward as long as she has a goal. If she's nervous about being in a public place, she repeats to herself over and over like a mantra, "I'm here to purchase something I need, I'm here to work for a paycheck, I'm here to run an errand. I deserve to be here, I need to be here, I can't listen to my fear and run away". As long as she keeps it in the front of her mind, the nagging thoughts kicking at her back door can't take over. Usually. Sometimes. Maybe.

That's how she transitioned, after all - it was the only real decision she's ever made for herself. The only selfish decision. "I need to transition. It's something I need to do. Just like an errand. Or taking medicine. Even if I'm afraid, I have to do it." In a way, it wasn't really a choice at all - it was a necessity. Which meant her anxiety couldn't stop her from doing it, just like it couldn't stop her from eating or sleeping. As long as she reminded herself of this, she knew she could survive. Some day, she will be normal, and live like a normal person, since that's how most normal people lived. It's a necessity, or else she might as well die, since she can't keep living as she had anymore. She was so sick of living with herself that she wanted to gouge her own fucking brains out. Surely, if she tries hard to change herself, she'll be able to finally stand living with herself. Surely. Definitely. Absolutely.

Above everything else, she really owes it to Ramona most of all She really changed everything. Sophia was glad she'd met the only other transwoman in the world who wasn't totally crazy. She didn't even know they existed in real life until a couple of years ago, and now she has a real live one right in front of her, that isn't just some words on a screen. To have people close to her was a novel experience to Sophia, sort of like when you rarely actually get to see the lion pop out of their holes at a Zoo. But if her new friend got too close, she'd realize the truth of what she really is behind the curtain - that she's actually just a weird failure of a man who liked to look at his new breasts grow in the bathroom mirror. A distant like is always safer than a close love.

Ramona still somehow sees something in Sophia that simply doesn't exist - maybe she has a rough life and thinks playing 'Fix-Er-Up' with some stray transgirl she met on the street will help her cope with her own struggles, she figured. People can be so predictable like that, treating their own lives like some storybook, with drama arcs and flashbacks and moral redemptions and plot twists. Sophia knew she was smart enough not to fall for that narcisistic crap.

It was addicting though, having someone think of you, to want better for you, even if you know they're delusional for thinking so. Maybe she could embrace womanhood with Ramona's help, and make up for over two decades of missed socialization. That's why older transwomen acted how they did, how they do, like feral children raised by wolves - after a certain point, they become unsalvageable, untreatable. Dysphoria rots the brain. While it's tragic, you wouldn't choose to live with a feral child if you could help it. You just had to leave them to nature's whims, cross the street if you saw them walking by, pretend you couldn't hear them if they were panhandling for help, and say "I have zero association with them" if someone tries to tie you together.

If Sophia would ever be able to pass, she told herself, she’d never ever tell anyone she was trans. She would go full stealth, under the Iron Curtain. She wouldn't want to have to associate with the likes of them, to be thought of as under the same 'umbrella'. She would be better than them. She'd be the best trans woman the world's ever seen. Or else, what was the point of all this? What was the point to do this if she was just going to end up a freak, ogled at by strangers on the street, treated like some piece of meat? 

"So, you actually like, have them, huh?" Mark said, in reserved shock - disguising the fact that this must've been the 50th time he's said this same line the past few weeks.

"Uh...C'mon, I just took a shower, okay?"

Mark was really, really fascinated by the whole 'breasts' thing. Most people don't know, but estrogen actually causes breast growth. Real, actual breast growth. It's true! Every male already has the genetics built into them. Not just for some fat geezer cancer blobs or pecs, but the real fucking deal. Ramona had taught her a lot about these things the past few months. Ramona knew a lot - maybe too much. Some gibberish about Domperidone, "Powers", what have you. But it was fun hearing her rant anyways, even if she didn't understand half of what came out of her mouth. I guess trans stuff is her autistic hyperfixation. Like breasts for Mark. 

"Whoah, that's fuckin' crazy, bro. You really have tits and shit. You got surgery for 'em when we weren't looking?"

"What?"

"Tit surgery. I know some like, people like you around the city. I know you get 'em from implants, where did you get them?"

People like me, huh...

"Uh, it's just, the medicine, I take. It's female stuff. You just grow them. They're real. I've explained this before, I think..." Having to say the words 'Hormones' or 'Breasts' out loud was a bit too much for her right now. She tried to be vague and use euphemisms to soften the blow to cis people, but most of them were more brazen than she could ever be.

She couldn't get mad at Mark, though. She knew she was doing something ridiculous by transitioning under their roof, by becoming a tranny right under their noses. She felt a little guilty for keeping it a secret for so long in the first place, so she couldn't be too mad. She couldn't let herself be the 'angry crazy tranny' stereotype, so she'll be passive instead and let it all smooth itself over. She had to give them leeway and room to breathe, space to question her, chances to say embarrassing awful offensive thin-

"So, I mean, like, can I, like, see them, though? We're both bros, right? So it's fine."

She froze up a bit. It wasn't the first time Mark had asked this. Obviously, she wasn't going to show them. Of course she wasn't. Right? No way. She'd never. She was a woman, not a bro. Right? Was she a woman? Does she deserve to have some pride or privacy over these things on her chest that she's grown, all by herself? Any AI algorithm would determine her chest was NSFW and censor it now - that was a true test that her chest had changed sex, for realsies. But it's not like she was a real girl who could slap him for asking such a rude request, like in the cartoons. She was just a tranny, after all. It's not like she grew up with sexual abuse like real girls do, while she was just some dude who took pills and gave herself gyno. There's no reason for a male to have to protect his body from others. That was a girl thing. Girls grow up with that, not boys. She was told that all her life. It's stolen victim valor.

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But she'd decided to slot this in the "I'm a woman and I don't do that sort of thing!" pile. Maybe she'd deserved that bit of undue undeserved pride. It's what Ramona would tell her to do, anyways.

Thanks, Ramona.

"Uh, no, bro. No way. Never."

“Awww c'mon man, I was just curious, alright alright.”

To cis people, men and women are different species entirely. Mars and Venus. The concept that hormones alone can completely radically change how a human being looks like is scary to them. Whether as a fetus, as a child, or as an adult, it’ll change you in ways you could never predict or foresee with some shitty Instagram filter algorithm. And that fact is existentially terrifying to the rest of society - almost as terrifying as what a trans person feels when they exist in the real world. The idea that the border between men and women is as thin as a thread could destroy the very foundations of civilization, if anyone were to catch on. But they never will.

That's how Ramona talked sometimes, anyways. She had told her that cis people focus so much on all the surgeries that trans people get, because they can't imagine any other way of someone transforming so radically. Sex to them is an unmovable constant of the fabric of the universe. Only something invasive and foreign can hope to change any part of it, like a bloody knife slicing up their bodies. Unnatural, violent, monstrous, mutilation.

Trankenstein.

Sometimes, thinking about this stuff made her want to cry, but the tears would refuse to flow, as if stopped by a dam. Sophia couldn't remember the last time she cried. Wasn't estrogen supposed to help with that? 

Chad: "hay girl what you up to?"

Sophia: "Oh nothing :) Just getting ready for work...! took hot shower"

C: "Crazy you get to go as a girl these days. the world's really changing huh?"

S: "Yeah :)... And so am I...!"

C: "You are! My little femboys making it in the world!"

And because of this, Sophia had thought a lot about Chad. They kept talking and updating each other about their lives, but still haven't met up again. She had gone on a date with him - her first date ever - but maybe it was better for her, she thought, to pretend it never really happened. It was as a boy, after all. Her real first date as a woman with him will be perfect, and will only happen once she's a perfect woman and finished her transition for the only potential lover in her life. She can't just leave something so important to chance. She can't risk failure, or she'll embarrass herself.

Sophia had to be perfect, or else she knew nobody would ever love her.

Sophia had to be perfect, or else she knew everyone would see she doesn't actually pass.

Sophia had to be perfect, or else all her inescapable flaws will eventually seep through the façade, making everyone see what a bad irritating frustrating person she really is.

Sophia had to be perfect, or else any man she tricks into loving her will inevitably leave her for a cis woman instead, who can at least bear his children.

Sophia had to be perfect to compensate for everything she can never be. She had to be perfect before unleashing herself unto the world, or else she would surely fail. She had to be perfect first before she ever tried something, or else she knew she would fail, because what Sophia is is a failure, and she needed every possible handicap to overcome that inevitability of her self. That's why she boymoded in the first place, after all - to make sure she was passable before ever taking the risk of presenting feminine. She needed that certainty, that safety net. "Boymoder Insurance™ - Don't Leave it To Chance, Live a Long Life with Protection!". It was the only rational way to live, after all - people who jump into situations where there's a chance of risk or danger to themselves aren't truly human, but more like feral beasts, animals. A different breed than her. 

If she failed at something, she needed the assurance that she'd done everything right first to make sure it wasn't her fault, that she could at least blame someone else and save herself the pain. If there's even the slightest chance she hadn't prepared for something, left a flaw exposed to the wind, then she'll have no one to blame but herself if it all comes crashing down. She can't prepare for all the world's impossible inconceivable number of variables that threaten to hurt harm kill her at every waking moment, but she can control for her own variables. She knows herself better than anyone.

And she cannot fail at this transition - she knows she has nothing else in life but this. This is all she has left. She's tried everything else. Failing is simply not an option. She's in too deep to back out without humiliating herself.

So if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. She was going to be perfect. She was going to be the best goddamn woman the world's ever seen. She was going to be the most perfect little transwoman ever. She was going to become perfect before she allows anyone to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her, to fuck her. That way, no one could ever hate her. That way, no one could ever hurt her. That way, no one could ever abandon her. 

And she knew that as long as she had a goal, there's no way she could ever fail.

This must be what 'confidence' feels like!

 

---

 

She just kept crying, and crying, and crying.

Another recess gone by. Wasn't allowed to hide in the library or stay in the classroom. She was such an obedient child that always followed the rules. Didn't the teachers know what happened to her out on the playground? Why didn't they care? They must be evil people. You can't trust adults.

Why did the boys make fun of her? Just getting looked at, or her saying something, was enough to get them to attack her. Even the ones she used to play with started joining in, laughing at her, like animals. You can't trust boys. 

And the girls wouldn’t even look at her. If she got close, they’d swarm away like she was walking garbage. Girls were lost in another universe, somewhere impossible to reach, somewhere she could never be. Didn't they use to play with her a lot? You can't trust girls.

Why couldn't the day just end? Every day was torture. But then tomorrow will be the same. Why couldn't tomorrow end too? Why not every day? Just make it all end right now. Maybe there was a way to make tomorrow not come for her anymore, maybe someone held that secret but wasn't telling her. She just kept on crying. What else was there to do? What was this feeling called? 

It was their fault. She was smarter than all the other kids. She was going to be rich and successful one day. She was special, her mother told her so. Her report card proved that. She was a real gifted child. Those were her true strengths she could rely on to help keep her going. She didn't need anybody else. One of these days, she would show them all that she was better than them. Something must be wrong with them to not accept her. It couldn't all be her fault. That would be too unfair. Too unfair.

She'd run to mommy for help.

"You're such a handsome strong boy. All the teachers say you're so smart."

"You're such a manly young man."

"You're such a handsome young manly boy. All the boys say they want to be friends with you."

"You're such a strong handsome manly man."

"You're such a handsome strong manly handsome boy. All the girls say they like you."

Sophia simply couldn’t understand her words. She sounded like she did when she was praying to God. Sometimes she turned into a different person.

She'd run to her father for help. Her tough father. Her sensible father. He always knew what to do. He always knew what to say. He didn't bend to anyone or anything, even when she was crying. Even when mommy was crying. He was so unlike Sophia. So maybe he knew something she didn't.

"Stop crying, Nick. You’re not a kid anymore. Grow up. You won't make it if you keep pissing yourself crying like that."

He was right. He had to be right. Maybe she had to grow up. She couldn't keep making an embarrassment of herself. That's why everyone rejected her and laughed at her, because she was weak and they were strong, even the girls. That's why she was a loser, because she was too sensitive. That's why everyone was so disgusted with her, even the adults. She needed to be strong. She needed to be mature. She needed to be like the others. She needed to be normal.

The next day, Sophia noticed that she somehow couldn't cry anymore, even when she wanted to.

Maybe this is what adulthood feels like.

 

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