Am I Man or A Girl?

Chapter 14 – Shimmer

The answer was as obvious as the question was silly: whatever I want. I made the first series of photos of myself with the nervous intent to get validation for things I was terrified to face anyway. And then the second set was just hiding my worst qualities so they would fit into something that I hoped the random Internet might find pleasing.

This time, what sprung to mind wasn’t so much how to boost, diminish, or validate qualities of myself but rather the possibilities of what not treating the camera as an obstacle might unleash. Using a simple rubber band and a variety of boxes, I managed to create a stand for my phone at different angles. My only nervousness was in positioning the phone outside on the porch bench and wondering if I might pick up an insect visitor in my bed later.

That photo idea included using my little sprig of bamboo to suggest more than six inches of greenery as a companion to me stretching out languidly. The results were nowhere near perfect. They had a flash to one side and a little flare and the focus could’ve been better but a few minutes of correction brought it right where I wanted it.

That one immediately went online in the first Reddit that felt appropriate to it with a handful of more adventurous crossposts. For a split second, I considered posting it to a cross-dressing Reddit. I was cross-dressing after all, in a lovely blue blouse and a dangling skirt. Sort of. Physical sex between the legs with gender as a quagmire between the ears. But I was also making cute photos. So please don’t give myself another problem, myself.

The second photo I tried was evocative of something I made back in high school. My family acquired a camcorder which recorded to a massive VHS tape popped into the center. One of those old things that appeared a lot in 90s comedy films. We had a trip across the country and I was to be in charge of documenting it as absentmindedly as possible. I missed most of the Midwest and captured a surprising amount of West Texas.

I was achingly on my best behavior though when it came to my aunt. I still remembered it vividly when mom battered my soul at age six because I stupidly asked my aunt and uncle if they had a going-away present for me. Mom shrieked at me for several states that I might never see them again and my last words to them were such cruelty and selfishness. Never mind the fact that we routinely talked on the phone with weekend minutes, I had destroyed a family relationship. No amount of tears could change anything, she said, I had laid the grave. Whether they were alive the next time we came to visit, was a matter for God and His mercy.

That stuck with me, even though my mom had totally fucking forgotten it just days later and was bewildered when I told her I made sure to do better this time around. I was humble with every encounter, nervous to accept the stuffed-crust pizza my aunt ordered for me as a treat since I rarely experimented with pizza. But more than anything, I held that camcorder steady and focused on every word from my aunt and uncle, even when my uncle nodded off. I preserved everything and I did everything in my soul to be the best guest I could possibly be.

God, my next photos were going to be streaked with tears. Forgive myself forgive myself forgive myself…

It’s okay. But that camcorder, which crossed the country, and became a brick when its battery stopped working, was also the tool of some stupid home movies. One of the most infamous, to me, was a no-budget idea about a scientist trapped in an ice cave because of a weather project gone horribly wrong. The ice cave was represented by a stiff, pale blue blanket. It actually looked really good. My own version of that Ryan Reynolds movie a decade later.

I made the mistake of sharing it in the middle of lunch with my Mormon math teacher, via projector, when it had multiple profanities and prolific bad acting from myself. And I was going to re-create that scene for the Internet.

It was an even harder shoot, because I needed to find a place where I could prop up the interior of my “ice cave“ with unseen sticks and have the phone positioned so the walls were blurry enough to convincingly look like some sort of ice. I even went into the freezer for a few, perishable props to use. And soon discovered why it’s not a good idea to use real ice for a shot. Styrofoam was better.

Somehow, despite all that, I managed to get a shot that I didn’t hate, with me holding an orange ice pick from the car, wearing a knit cap, and trying to breathe inside those layers.

For the last, the phone found me with a thinker pose, through a positioned forest of books, with a silken flash of leg traveling up my modest figure to a playful, toothy grin.

After I lobed these creative endeavors into the abyss, I siphoned off the residual courage to text Camille and Calliope. For Camille, I encouraged her in whatever she was up to and teased that I had some wild news to share. And… asked her what kind of look might be nice for the waterpark. Only I typed while fighting with myself. And I sent it off before I could regret it enough.

For Calliope, what could I say to her? How dem titties doing? Need a back rub? Have you ‘perked’ up this afternoon? Oh God no.

At the same time, I imagined that flippant goofiness might help defuse some anxiety she could be feeling. As well though, I only talked with her for less than half an hour total. Maybe she might worry something changed my personality. Or the message could arrive at exactly the wrong moment.

Kindness, first and foremost.

Hi there, lunch buddy! I just got done with my classes and I hope this message finds you well. Feel free to chat about whatever is bothering you, if anything.

Took me ten damn minutes to write that. I wanted to include a quip but I couldn’t find any place for it. Why was I even trying to quip? Calliope didn't need that. Why am I overthinking such a simple thing? People text and talk normally and even playfully at random all the time and I’m acting like it’s life or death that I need to bless her with the most perfect words I could imagine. Why? She’s not an infant, even though she just came into this kind of life today. 

I felt responsible for her. I made her this way, right? At least, I imagined her like this and the world abided by my stray thought as gospel. Like a sun shower of immersive neutrinos bombarding reality with casual thoughts of transformation. How many pass through without doing any harm and how many break things? I took a long, slow breath for as many seconds as I could hold it. And then let go with the intention that all my tension and crazy, unnecessary anxiety would be released with it. At least, that was the plan.

Then, jump cut to the ominous title card of a mystery show with too many mysteries and a mess of characters. Would I ever get answers either?

Calm down. Actually take a breath, instead of just going through the motions of taking one. Breathe, bitch, breathe! Life has mysteries. Sometimes they never get answered, despite the best efforts of a lot of people. And those are just the rational ones. A Bengal tiger appears and then disappears from the middle of a Mexican jungle. Five hundred-ton boulders take a vacation to a mountain top over a course of a single season in Africa. And Bozo the Clown and JFK might very well be the same person.

Yeah, mysteries.

That tangible response of action eluded me as I gazed at the electric cottage cheese surface of the ceiling, as though it were an old painting with a hidden three-dimensional image containing secrets. Sleep might help, but I didn't feel tired. Eating would occupy my mind. Texting something else would just compound my uncertainty with ramped-up rambling.

Fortunately, Calliope soon texted me back.

"Hiiiii Lunchie Lady! Glad 2 hear! Im okay! My nips are super weird tho. If thats not 2 weird to say. Im fine but I had an question. Could you give me a super quik lift? I feel bad to ask but someone who was gonna give me a ride cant. No worres if not. TTYL."

The first thing I did was mentally correct her spelling and grammar. I'd seen worse, especially in classes. Did Brian text this way or was it something she received as Calliope? Did I text differently?

Without delay, I assured her that I would be happy to pick her up from the bookstore and take her pretty much anywhere else in Brookville Valley. Maybe even to San Fernando. She soon wrote back that it was only on the west end of North Langers and included the address. It was just on the other side of the freeway, past the Costco. Ninety minutes after store closing. That left me plenty of time. Too much time.

I could write. This week provided me with an insane depth of material to draw from. It would be easy to dramatize my experiences at Target. Just remove the messy details. But those were the parts that made for the most interesting writing. Messy, dirty, painful details. Untempered by social expectations, good sense, and preservation from shame. Attentively, I stared at the basic, free writing app and curled my mouth in anticipation of the words I needed to form for the AI. A keyboard was better and more accurate, but I didn't feel like returning to my laptop.

The problem was still between my ears. If driven, if pressed by the weight of the words within me, I could scrawl the remains of beautiful scraps. But does that a story make? A pitiful boy wakes up with a form and dream half-realized. She/he/they join with the waters of their first shower and are moved, merged, and released. They then get back to doing exactly the same thing they did any other day of their life...That part should be left out. But then their parents are resurrected! Yeah, that works...I guess. How realistic should it be? What if someone takes offense to the way I fictionalize them? What if it's embarrassing? Okay, the parent part should be themed around something like redemption and second chances. That would be some good shit for any future literary criticism to fellate itself over.

As though such a half-imagined, concern-fraught twinkle of a fictionalized autobiography would ever meet that level. What might dignified professors say, with a contemplative tone, as students feverishly take notes on what dear Maggie "means" by busting a nut in a Target bathroom over some simple clothes? What does her use and choice of certain colors reveal about her personality, psychology, and legacy?

What was I talking about? It's a dramatization. It's a story. It's not actually me. I can do whatever the Hell I want with the idea of the character. Then why was I so rough on them? It would be easy to just shuffle off the responsibility of trying to distill a few more words by popping back in the shower again. Instead, I grit my teeth, set my gaze to a single-minded focus (was that too masculine to be focused on a single task?), and wrote one word. 

Awoke.

The word sounded like idle trash on my tongue. Dear Maggie awakens to find a semi-female body with her remaining male parts delicately danced around for details. Okay. What does her hair look like? Red...red...red. Like the sunrise gliding...no. It's summer. Sunrise is launching a blood strike on the day with the very first ember of morning. Most blood analogies would suck. Brilliant, bright fields of spun crimson are for farmers who have a mysterious hard-on for getting up early. A red light only implies it's a stop sign rather than something new and fun starting up. Crimson, ruby, scarlet, or blush. Like all the suppressed emotions of a beating bright feeling that have been torn out and stretched over her head like the most embarrassing injury. Sounds more like I was tortured by becoming like this. 

Maybe. Why else would the Forces of Screwing With Me dangle a lady, like who I might've been, in my path? One who responds to me in ways I was scarcely prepared for after decades of physically being a man. What am I emotionally? Do I want to plant my stump in the ditch dug deep in her? Would it matter? That's just sensations. What are my feelings?

I'm happy. I am. Happy for the first time in the longest stretch. Happy to walk through a bookstore in a skirt despite the fear someone might catch me looking or sounding unusual.

Happy to just talk to people without being muffled in so many tangible and intangible ways. Happy to smile and share with someone who wants to spend time with me even though I am deathly nervous about being so exposed. I had a routine. I hated it, and I was just burning time. But, it's easy. 

Easier still was hopping in the shower for a splash of indulgence while I set my clothes somewhere cool. Did I have the aroma of a man? If Calliope or Camille held one of my shirts would they sense something I was otherwise blind to? What sort of pheromones did I leave behind? I didn't react to Brian except to push him off his manly platform with a thought. Dad was dad. The filthy hobo was nasty. Maybe I just haven't met a man who this halfway form might find appealing? Did I want that? 

Before, I just assumed if I somehow found my way to being a girl or it found me, then obviously I would feel something new. But what if I didn't? Could I even really be considered a dozen different, awkward labels I scarcely understood with exacting definitions? This state could be the rest of my life. Camille wanted to find out together, but what did that mean?

I didn't understand it and we could just ask each other questions for an eternity without making any progress. Okay, I'm a lesbian. I want to be with women. But I don't have breasts or any of the integral female parts. Sure, a lesbian could have a radical hysterectomy and double mastectomy. Or be born blasted with a mess of hormones. But I didn't start there. I started out as a mess of a guy. Everyone sees me about the same as a girl, but do I count? Does it matter? No, not a lesbian.

I looked just like a girl. I maybe sounded slightly like one. But I did not have the internal biology. No breasts either. I'm one of those anime guys who dress up and have countless confused fans. That's where I'm at. I could've gotten here with a little genetic luck and fuck. Looking in the mirror after my shower was done, I lavished attention on my reflection. Pretty boy with some bonuses. 

That wasn't a bad hand to be dealt, as I'd told myself several times. But I felt a tidal wave of "what if" standing there. To simply be like Calliope or Camille? It would be a trip, but I could parse myself according to well-established lines. I wouldn't even need to cry that much. I could face it bravely and securely...like a man. Being around my mom could help that as well as being around other girls as a peer. But I was something different, apart, broken by comparison. No baseline. 

Was estrogen even flowing through my body as I nakedly fretted? Surely the remnants still made the old hormones, even though the effects felt muted. But if something could transfigure Brian in a day then what rational rules could it possibly follow? I slumped against the doorframe and felt the presence of tears weighing on me even though I couldn't summon them to appear and slake my vision.

I was tired without feeling sleepy. Food would be good, before I went to go pick up Calliope after work. I gently warmed up the tacos in full and prepared a small helping of the other leftovers on a plate. No more writing for now. No philosophical churning. Not even skimming social media for a trace of humanity. Just...silly videos. For a few minutes. 

It was enough time for a few stray thoughts, otherwise invisible to my consciousness. Before long, I wandered towards videos about girlish tones of speaking. The instructor on a notable series, left no doubt to her presentation. She was absurdly high while sounding natural. I attentively listened as I flexed my mouth one way and the other, hunting for the inscrutable physical and mental location of the muscles and passages she was playing like a honed musical instrument. Frequencies, tones, depth, and other qualities flew past my head like a new science. And I had no clue how it worked in the same way my students just couldn't see how a verb conjugated from one instance to the next and what represented citation or paraphrasing. I only seriously tried a few minutes before it felt like everything hurt.

But it ate up enough time before I had the distraction and duty of making sure Calliope got home from work. Evening had settled in even though the sun still loomed and threatened at the edge of disappearing. I dressed in a skirt that clung and yet fluttered with enough air to dispel the evening heat. The blouse was ill-advised, but I still wore it. The gear shift stuck as I pressed my foot on the brake. Mashing it down did nothing to free it. I cursed nervously to myself. It was one thing to be stuck at home without a car but, to have troubles when I promised to help, it twisted bitter fires in my belly. 

No amount of slamming or yelling helped. I rested my foot in annoyed resignation and it just slipped loose. Testing it a few more times earned a resigned sigh from me. As I resisted pulling out before I turned, I checked that my phone had a full battery as backup, and waited. A pair of cars screamed through the neighborhood right behind me, appearing from a blind spot on each side. I didn't flinch. Only when I checked and waited several more seconds did I finally, slowly pull out. A police siren echoed from far away. This time, I took a direct right then a left. The distance I covered on foot felt so insignificant in the shelter of a vehicle.

I arrived at the plaza and pulled in a little to the left, almost to the game store. The sign glimmered in my tired vision. After texting Calliope to let her know I was here, I successfully tested the gears again and carefully slipped out of the door. Casually, I opened the entrance to the game store and looked inside.  

It looked suspiciously normal, at first. The only oddity was a vague ripple in the air like someone was using a heater or a flame, but that didn't make any sense. My next thought was "gas", from a dozen scenes in films and shows right before a single spark turns everything into a fireball the heroes need to outrun and dive to escape from. But no one inside looked scared or about to pass out. It had to be me. 

A doctor once prescribed me an inhaler and I could not take it regularly because it would feel like everything around me was flickering and twitching, like the program of reality was reaching its limit. In actuality, I had eye spasms. Now, I could only guess and hope it was the same thing. Perhaps I was just really tired? 

The young Richard Garriott-looking guy, who I earlier judged to be the owner, tipped his head up from the counter and smiled at me. His mustache appeared oddly blurry or I needed glasses.

A blink later, I couldn't see it anymore. His thick mullet of dark hair unfurled across his shoulders like a swarm of undead Tribbles. This should've alarmed him. It alarmed me, but I kept watching as his face softened while retaining its fundamental presence. His lips broadened into a serene pout. His widow's peak softened into a broad oval as his locks gained intentional, twisting layers. Firm, thick arms stretched through narrow sleeves, like bare, clenched sausages. I couldn't remember if he had forest or scrub when it came to arm hair but now they seemed cleared away, though not perfectly smooth. They looked tough but clearly feminine, ending on stubby but cute weather-beaten hands. His nails were plain.

Lingering on any one detail meant others slipped by me. I had no clue when his clothes changed from a jacket and jeans to the top evocative of a fashionable, minimalist trench coat with double-buttoned pockets. Nor could I tell you when he passed a male threshold and eased into a female one. It could be the subtle presence of her breasts or the sweep of her hips. But, as inexorably as breathing air from one moment to the next, he became a woman who had many of his qualities but passed through the filter of a different life.

"Shit!" Was all I was able to say, as though flailing for words, fighting for something I had lost. She wasn't the only man in the store to be affected by whatever this was.

The broccoli-hair, stringy guy I remembered from last time didn't say anything to me as the field or force or aura that made the air wiggle and wave passed to him next. He had some cards out and quickly stretched from hunched over to reclining as much as the cheap, fold-out chair would allow. His faded, unkempt shag curls spilled like brass fire in twisty shapes of pasta with a name I'd long forgotten. It didn't stop until it encompassed his chest.

Instead of stalwart flannel, his shoulders were shrouded in snug black, knit polyester that swept across his lean neck while clinging to his softening, stretched arms. Curvy, khaki denim rose towards his exposed mid rift and fell to his soft sandals. A white, lean smile crossed her face as she noticed my sudden swear to the ether.

When will this stop? Will it stop? Will it include me? I should get in its way before it took another life away. Broccoli-hair, now brass-pasta head appeared strikingly happy though. So did trench coat Miss Garriott. They appeared more concerned about me than what had passed through them. To my right, I couldn't tell if it was the same dome hair guy from last time. This one had a look like a long-forgotten 90s heartthrob, especially when it came to his preppy top with so many ivory-toned ruffles. Like he just got off his own personal yacht. It didn't bother me as much to see him start to transform as well, although I immediately felt guilty.

The first thing that happened was invisible hands twisting, stretching, and contorting his dark hair into a fair bulb. His stony features tightened back along with it, pulling a grin from his lips. The wide, almost-excessive coverage of his top narrowed to a simple, gray tank top more suited to the season. And then, they started growing.

It was like watching a shiver-inducing, hypnotic presence that you couldn't look away from, no matter how you felt. Amazement twisted with horror and curiosity swam through the rivers of my soul as her developing breasts solidified her cleavage and deepened their presence past the point of all deniability.

Why her? The others so far definitely had breasts, but this one pushed past reason and maybe even past where Calliope had been set. They were bigger than her head, with a delicate necklace sitting atop their divide. By comparison, her arms were slender sticks and the rest of her tank creased to follow the lean curve of her waist. Dark denim enclosed her full hips and slim legs. From simply preppy to jug her...stop. This wasn't funny, this wasn't cute. This was horrifying.

As I helplessly watched, three young men had been transfigured by whatever was going on. And that wasn't all. Still more remained around the table, innocent customers caught in the storm that was me.

I easily recognized the twins. They had to be regulars. Both had hair between bright flaxen and dishwater blond in a swirling, frozen helmet shape. One appeared more tussled than the other while the other draped a thin hoodie over their shoulders like a pretend cloak. When one dipped the other shifted in expectation. Brothers. Siblings. I never knew the bond or animosity. Please don't hurt them...

Radiance flowed across their heads like lights in a synchronized dance. The muddied toned washed away as straight currents decorated their shoulders. More honeyed than Gwen Stacy but they had a silvery hairband. Matching earrings adorned one lobe on each girl. As their noses twisted into a mature length, they shared a simultaneous smile. While neither was as physically adorned as the last, new girl, you could tell their development beneath their slight, cream-toned, matching jackets and spidery silver tops banded with fashionable spokes and stony flecks. Their tabletop adventure continued without a moment of interruption despite my sudden exclamation.

The soon-to-be-former man across from them already had massive, bright pouty lips despite a close crew cut and rugged clothes that looked like they were meant to cross a military training ground.

When the shimmer reached him, it smoothed away the freckles and ruddy-toned accents of his skin, leaving a fair, royal ivory. What should've taken months or more from a new set of hormones reshaped his softened features and drew his weighty lips into a natural, mysterious smirk. His polished nose joined cat-like, black-accented, icy eyes. She sat upon a rounded bottom bound in navy-blue flannel pants more suited for bed and barely contained by the tiny chair.

Her camo top become a grayish-brown outfit with narrow, girlish sleeves just past her shoulders and a foreboding, deep window of cleavage waiting to be expressed. A black, understated choker decorated her neck like a ribbon on a naughty gift. It didn't take long for her pointy, flush ears to be buried beneath a curtain of dark, nearly-black hair with full bangs tickling her broad eyebrows. That such a definite man could be made, in little more than a breath, into a soft doll of a girl, quickened my already racing heart.

Would no one be spared? Three men remained amidst this new flanking of femininity and they weren't even the most masculine examples. Sunglasses dude, with his hair up like someone rubbed a balloon over his head, actually scowled at me. Maybe he knew. His dirty scruff was the first to go, followed by the ruffled, open collar of his preppy, white polo. No matter the changes that piled on, his sunglasses remained rooted to his face. That constant persisted despite the weighty wig-like addition that settled to the open cleavage of her new, green top. A thin, fashionable blue sweater swaddled her threadbare, faded jeans. Oddly, he had more delicate hands whereas his female digits reminded me of silky, delicate caveman claws or a shaven sloth. She retained all of his slacker presence despite changing so much.

All that was left were the pair of pretty boys. Any stiff desert breeze probably could've knocked out their masculinity. The blond filling out her character sheet honestly seemed like she was already finished and I missed it. She had more presence up top than I could manifest with a load of artificial assistance. If anything, it seemed like she lost some softness in the process. Her top went from a slim, black outfit to a showy, white number bearing an adventurous neckline.

The finale with the brunette next to her felt like a delicate artist's editing brush tinting her fair skin to a pinkish hue while stretching his long locks just a few more inches. His immense lips slimmed while plumping and his rainbow-decked, black tracksuit turned into soft denim straddling a flowery blouse. And it was finished.

Once the last bosom had been drawn out and the final manly line erased, the strange shimmer vanished as though the flow to a Bunsen burner had been switched off. The air cleared and everyone glanced my way, if only for a second. The owner's frown of concern lingered as she unfurled a Southern drawl I didn't remember her having as a man.

"You alr'ght, hon?"

No. Not at all. Maybe not ever again. At the very least I was tripping balls. Or tripping other things. No...

This was me. This was all me. From a stupid fucking daydream about changing all of them that became reality. This was all on me. On my caving shoulders. Down down to the ground.

Just fall and stay there. Just drop. Just stop. Please, just stop. Take away what I have now and give me whatever is deemed right. I'm done. I'm tired. I'm lost. Please...if it's me, just let it stop. I don't want to hurt anyone...