Emmy
Once again, Nichole is running
late
.
Not just to the IKEA—she was en route with that befuddling bundle of neuroses masquerading as a human being, after all, and thus not expected to arrive at the agreed-upon time—but also in posting her daily selfie to the femme-strats channel. Of all the things I have struggled to drill into that abundantly thick woman, the paramount importance of
regular timing
has been the most difficult to instill. When we first met, she hadn’t even been recording the precise time and day of her hormone injections, believing “when I remember tbh” to be an adequate regimen in lieu of precisely calibrating her hormonal cycles for maximum efficacy!
Truly, it’s a miracle she’s seen any gains
at all
, leave alone the NTBV-bamboozling …
developments
, let’s call it, she’s been endowed with at the mere four-month mark of her exogenous hormone uptake.
Today of all days, her compliance with my prescribed tactics was of the utmost importance. The updated NTBV rankings would drop any day now—Admin, disappointingly, did not meet my standards for temporal precision either—and if I was to establish the efficacy of my models in replicating its arcane and absurd parameters, then it was
vital
that Nichole not compel me to account for noise in a formula tuned to specific measurements
and
intervals.
Katherine
Our delayed arrival is imminent, no thanks to the negligent laxity of our decaying public transport system and its conniving schedule of lies. However, the International Kitchens, Essentials and Appliances now looms large in our field of view. You may rejoice.
Suppressing my natural reaction to this jester’s superfluous sesquipedalian flourishes, I choose to focus on the positives: they are, at least, beginning to update me of their own volition, instead of merrily skipping along while leaving me glaring at the clock.
Isaacahedron
Just call it ‘IKEA’, like
literally everyone else does
. Tell Nichole to make her daily post in #femme-strats.
Katherine reacts with a mollifying thumbs-up, blessing me with a rare instance of brevity. Knowing her, however, I was willing to bet that their arrival was not nearly as imminent as I was being led to believe. I decide to drift away from the sporting goods store and its adjacent gymnasium, settling down by the food court and scrolling through a photo bank to select my own obligatory image to share.
At this juncture, based on how the models responded to my collated datasets of Accord activity, I was
certain
that the NTBV was calculated with a strong behavioral component, as captured by the server. Consequently, to provide a second data point to Nichole’s, I had elected to soften my own presentation considerably, wearing women’s blazers and slacks paired with a light dusting of foundation, a subtle nude lip, and a more thorough treatment of my eyes than I was comfortable with: liner, shadow, mascara. To complete the look, I had also allowed my hair to grow out to shoulder length, styling it ever-so-briefly with a flowery clip.
Once perfected, this configuration formed the bulk of my inquiries and submissions to femme-strats, where I had rather distastefully been dubbed a “futchmoder”. Such indignities must be endured for the sake of data hygiene, however.
Dismayingly, I find that I have run out of banked photographs to offer my catty and exacting channel judges. Contorting my facial muscles in the precise way I had been advised to adopt for taking photos, I snap a new entry and promptly upload it, soliciting feedback with an appropriate level of faux-timidity, intended to evoke reassurances and compliments. The deluge of varied heart-shaped reactions and subthread comments rules this a satisfactory and rewarding endeavor—from a data-analytic perspective, that is. I have no strong feelings on the actual evaluations of my visage, or the effort it took to master decorating it.
An effort I shouldn’t have had to undertake, but the weight of Laura’s absence upon my every waking moment, my every conscious thought, my every constituent part—it would cease soon, I remind myself, not long after midnight tonight, and I ought to stop dwelling on this alleviation of a constant, months-long agony. Anticipation would not render me non-functional, I vowed, and I really ought to curb the degree to which I find myself dependent on that absurd—
Laura, Queen of RCBG
Looking delectable, cute stuff!
Isaacahedron
Omg haha stoppppp :)
Isaacahedron
lol
Isaacahedron
ma’am please
Isaacahedron
You are nowhere near healed enough for what I
know
you’re thinking about.
Laura, Queen of RCBG
Yeah, I figured you’d be harping on about that
still
. So refer to the attached image.
My finger hovers over a blurred, no-doubt-lewd picture she’s just sent me, wondering whether I can get away with viewing it where I’m seated or if I should wait until I have more privacy. The matter is settled for me when my body, more impatient than I am, moves of its own accord and reveals the image of Laura’s shockingly, deliciously, panties-tighteningly pretty pussy.
Isaacahedron
oh I’m gonna need a minute
Isaacahedron
babe
how
Laura, Queen of RCBG
Girl I would not have taken the surgery letters Admin helped me get and flown to a different continent at my own expense if the results weren’t fucking worth the hassle.
Laura, Queen of RCBG
This is state-of-the-art stuff. We’re beyond designer pussy, this is biotechnological cybertech pussy. I’m serious, there were lasers and precise 3-D models involved. Significantly less mess, way fewer complications, sharply abridged healing time.
Laura, Queen of RCBG
Of course, I still have to dilate :) You’re going to help me out with that, right?
Was I fucking ever.
Rupali
“Thanks for agreeing to help me, Rupali! I could never have carried all this card stock and the other supplies we needed by myself.”
Jeffrey is nice. Jeffrey is just genuinely, authentically, really a very nice and by all accounts incredibly conflict-averse individual. I try to keep this fact foremost in my mind while doing my best to withstand just how
grating
his exuberantly cheery demeanor is.
“No problem at all,” I retort, trying and failing to match his energy. “Let’s just stop at the food court to catch our breaths for a moment, though.”
Neither of us is out of breath, and Jeffrey’s rictus growing a millimeter longer indicates that he now knows exactly why I’ve joined him on this IKEA Crafts supply run.
“Sure!”
We find an empty plastic table and settle down, depositing our burdens in the two empty chairs we’re not occupying. Both of us are wearing the org’s current unofficial uniform, which is a black tee with the words “I could be a transgender person” stamped on the front and back, superimposed over the trans flag. Our choice of attire wouldn’t normally be noteworthy, but in the context of the conversation I’m about to have with Jeffrey, the irony is too thick to ignore.
“I need to talk to you about Tahani.”
Jeffrey inhales sharply. “I figured, but I have to say, Rupali, I don’t think there’s much to be done there.”
In that moment, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. My pulse in my ears. The air whistling through Jeffrey’s pearlescent teeth as he breathes in through his flawless smile again. His close-cropped blonde hair, his pale skinny crossed legs. Jeffrey is sitting in a way that is reminiscent of a certain closeness between us, his arms open and inviting, his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly. I recall every moment where we’ve dished about draconian campus law, difficult faculty, non-cooperative administrative offices, and more besides, more
personal
besides. I think of the last time I jokingly gave him “the b-word pass” after listening to him vent about a former friend’s heinous treatment of him.
All that history, all that shared pain and struggle, seems to matter not one whit when it comes to this topic. Jeffrey sounds like his mind cannot be changed.
I have to try anyway.
“I just have to ask why there’s so little
introspection
,” I begin, and we both notice I’m using my Talking To The Department Head voice. “There’s been a lot of chatter about why there’s so few trans women in the org, Jeff, and yet we seem so comfortable seeing one—one of our most active members, at that—exit so unceremoniously.”
“
Active
is … certainly
one
way to characterize her involvement, sure.”
‘Overbearing’ is the word he’s avoiding, I think, just as I’m saying ‘exit’ instead of ‘ejected’.
“How would you describe her, then?”
This is it. I’m not going to let you talk around it, Jeffrey. Say what you mean.
“
Combative
,” Jeffrey selects carefully, as though that’s any less racially-charged than the dozen or so alternatives clearly swirling around in his head. “You have to admit, Rupali, that her approach to disputes is hardly one that encourages compromise and solidarity.”
No, I don’t have to admit
jack shit
. “I didn’t see any attempts at compromise
or
solidarity. I saw a brown girl being shouted down for talking about her own experiences, for the crime of not talking about her own pain calmly enough.”
“Rupali, you
know
that’s an incredibly slanted characterization of … the dispute.” Jeffrey hesitates, seemingly aware that he’s just contradicted me on the topic of race, but plunges ahead regardless. “I understand why your sympathies lie where they do, but the fact remains that religious and spiritual queer people are deeply disprivileged, both due to rejection from their own communities and alienation from queer communities that refuse to make space for them. Tahani may have a lot of legitimate pain she’s trying to communicate, but it can’t come at the expense of other, just as marginalized queer people—that’s not how intersectionality works.”
“Sure. I read the brochure too. What it practically amounts to is that Tahani’s lived experiences matter less than that of hypothetical queer people who
weren’t even in the room
.”
Yes, I’m a straight girl speaking authoritatively on queer topics—as far as I’m concerned, that makes me even with Jeff right now. Especially since I’m sticking up for a non-theoretical queer person.
“That they’re not in the room makes it all the more important for us to speak up for them,” Jeffrey reminds me.
My nostrils flare, but I manage to keep the rest of my face blank. “That’s certainly a convenient mantle to drape yourself in—I guess those theoretically more-oppressed people are really benefiting from a room full of mostly white, mostly
not transfem
members, screaming at the only trans woman of color actually present.”
For a moment, it looks like I’m about to hear more brochure-speak, but Jeffrey blessedly deflates at that final barb.
“Look, I don’t like it either,” he finally admits. “But we
have
to stick to our principles, even when it feels bad!”
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” I demand. “Jeffrey, I don’t understand why we’re trying to reach out to the religiously-affiliated student orgs at all. Can we cut the PR-speak and
admit
it’s a doomed venture? That they’re going to, at best, be polite to our faces and throw our flyers in the trash? To expel Tahani—”
“Nobody expelled her.”
“—to
expel
Tahani over the most milquetoast, performative,
absurd
initiative—”
“It’s not just about the initiative!” bursts out of Jeffrey, who finally seems to be speaking his actual fucking mind. “Did you
hear
the way she
argued
, Rupali? You were there!”
How
did
she argue, Jeffrey? “I
was
there. So?”
“No, just no—I get that there are legitimate criticisms to be made of Christianity and the churches who are deeply anti-queer—
I get that
,
I of all people get that
.”
Jeffrey, stop talking. End the sentence there, Jeffrey. Quit while you’re ahead.
“Regardless, the way Tahani spoke about marginalized faiths was
inexcusable
,” Jeff continues, because he is neither telepathic, nor wise. “Rupali, you
have
to admit it was too aggressive, too belligerent—it was borderline racist, the way she characterized queer-inclusive, gender-expansive faiths from outside the West!”
“Do I?” I’m smiling, but my eyes are too wide by half. “
Do I
have to
, Jeffrey?”
It perhaps occurs to Jeffrey, finally, that he has been voicing some strong opinions about cultures that he has less personal experience with than I do. He falls silent and has the good sense to look chastened.
“Tahani was talking about
things she’s actually experienced
,” I finally manage to spit out. “Who are you—who is
anyone else
, to tell her that narrating
her own trauma
is fucking—‘colonial’? ‘Racist’?!”
That does it.
He’s giving me that look, now. The look they all gave her.
See, Tahani warned me. She told me, flat-out, that even the thin level of grace I’m used to would be eroded to nothing if I dared to speak on her behalf. Once again, as usual, she was fucking right.
“Well,” Jeff allows, and I recognize
his
Talking To The Dean Voice. “I understand that Tahani feels like she couldn’t be heard over others’ legitimate concerns.”
“Our comptroller said her style of argumentation was ‘aggressively masculine-coded’, Jeffrey.
I heard them
.”
“I think that you’re asking for a lot of grace for Tahani’s trauma, while ignoring how she triggered others’.”
Yeah, we’re done here.
I can’t take a deep breath yet, not in front of
him
, so I decide to find the shortest distance to the end of this conversation. “That is, I suppose, a good point.”
Amazingly, somehow, even that piss-weak relinquishing of the rhetorical high ground placates this fool.
“I’m glad you’re seeing sense,” Jeff sighs, visibly relaxing. “I’m sympathetic to Tahani’s pain, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Yet, it doesn’t seem like … she’s a
good fit
, you know? It’s not about her identity. It’s about her communication style.”
Loud and clear.
“Yeah, sometimes it just doesn’t work out.” I slap the table with both palms. “Well, I guess we’d better get a move on—I’ve got a friend to meet.”
“Oh, of course, does that mean you won’t be needing a ride back, then?”
Jeffrey is picking up his armload of supplies while politely asking me whether I need a lift. I’m probably halfway across the food court by the time he turns around and realizes I’ve left him with the rest. Meanwhile,
I’m
too blinded by rage to realize that I’m walking right into my fiance’s other two roommates.
Katherine
“Carbs are not the enemy, Kathy. We’re growing entire body parts
competitively
, that means giving our bodies resources. Nutrition strats.”
I look upon the menu of the International Kitchens, Essentials and Appliances food court yet again, though it is straining at the limits of my willpower to take my eyes away from my companion sitting opposite of me. Her development over the last two months, in its disastrous magnificence, only serves to amplify how urgently I
must
fuck her.
For my scheme, that is! To save her from feminization! Not for any other, selfish, impure reason, to be clear!
Food. I scan through the menu, skipping past the utter disappointments contained within its list of toned-down, pale imitations of Eastern dishes, adjusted to be palatable for an audience to whom oregano is pushing the boundaries of exotic spices. No, sadly I must settle for the staples at which International Kitchens, Essentials and Appliances is at least competent: Pizza, hamburgers, and tacos.
“It is the hamburger, then. With cheese. And bacon. For the sake of optimal nutrient intakes.”
The vitamins of the provided vegetables will synergize ideally with the fats of the burger, our helicopter pseudoparent—who I have learned is not even that much older than either of us—was saying.
“Yeah same,” she says. “I’m craving a Big IKEA Patty.”
Her utter disregard for acknowledging the
strategy
at play here grates on me.
“Your reckless approach here is not justified simply because you are making the same choice as I.” I tailor my barb as per my most recent bouts of research. “The manner in which you
happen
to be fortunate regarding where the excess fat is deposited is merely reflective of an unjust world.”
Mistressful gambit, Katherine. You are expertly deploying the ‘negging’ stratagem recommended by the online masters of the craft of seduction. Admittedly, said masters of the craft were attempting to target, or ‘prey on’, as they said, largely heterosexual
women
—whether their advice applies to the courting of a forcibly-feminized heterosexual male is a gamble I must be willing to make.
There has been talk within the server lately of a type of individual known as an ‘HSTS’, which I believe means “Heterosexual transsexual,” and many are saying that the Princess of Q2-25 is, indeed, an HSTS. My understanding is that many HSTS are approximately equivalent to heterosexual women, and so, should these tactics of predation not apply?
Regardless, having momentarily escaped Emmy’s interference, I must seize the opportunity to maneuver this social interaction in a manner that serves my goals. Isolated prey are, after all, the optimal targets for a sexual—
phrasing,
Katherine
.
“... right.” Nichole cocks an eyebrow at me, indicating a heightened interest in what I have said, thus validating the predatory maneuvers once more. “The estrogen will give you a similar fat distribution too, Kathy, as long as there’s
fat to distribute
. What drink do you want?”
“Beast, strawberry flavour.” I assert.
My energy drink of choice, canned in a pleasing shade of pink. Her jabs at my caloric deficit become less justified by the day; with our present regimen of strictly scheduled meals, I have not neglected a single one in favour of more pressing tasks for weeks.
“Sure thing,” she responds, tapping away at the order on her phone with those delectable fingers of hers. How I long to put them in my—
Sometimes, I feel as if I am genuinely at war with some infernal entity within, and its attempts to undermine my every noble intention. No, you know better than this, Katherine. Displacing blame onto some splinter aspect of yourself is not merely a bad excuse, it is highly insensitive to the struggles of plural systems, and we are
certainly
singular.
No, I must instead recognize and give credit to the great moral integrity of fighting my own inclinations in favor of acting in Nichole’s best interest: by attempting to fuck her covertly, solely for the noble purpose of inducing dysphoria in her (for her own good), as opposed to succumbing to the base desire to fuck her because she is
so incredibly breedable oh my fuck.
I am spared from another embarrassment caused by having once again lost myself in thoughts of ejaculating inside Nichole, as she is busy focusing on finalizing her order. Also, we are interrupted by the arrival of some interloper who, it appears, recognizes us both?
“Oh hey, Rupali!”
Nichole knows who this is?
“Good to see you, how have you been?”
Nichole is on established speaking terms with this person?
“Oh, Nichole, Kathy—well, it’s been a bit hectic at the GSA. Actually, do you mind if I join you?”
This person is on eating terms with both of us? Wait, phrasing, this person is one we know well enough for us to indulge in the consumption of meals with her?
Rupali slips into our booth next to Nichole, and I restrain myself from glaring at this breach of my territory, which is a normal way to think of someone else sitting next to my platonic friend housemate.
“We’re having burgers by the way, I was just about to order.”
Nichole is looking at Rupali, who is looking at her in turn. I cannot help but notice that in competition terms, ignoring for a moment that she is not qualified by default, she would likely have an NTBV that would leave both of us in the dust.
More importantly, this means that I am in
third
place, out of a group of three, as opposed to second place out of two. A tremendous shift in the power dynamic of this grouping. Also, Katherine, stop fixating on this barely-acquainted friend-of-a-friend’s breasts.
“Sounds like a plan, I’ll have that too,” she breasts boobily at Nichole.
Disastrously, my peacocking strategy has been undermined horrendously. Another recommendation of the flirtsmiths of the deep internet, I have adapted their tips for suitability to attracting a gynephilic target by fashioning a clever-yet-subtle augmentation of my presently still-modest assets.
All in vain now, as Rupali defeats me in this battle of cup sizes without even attempting to. This battle which, I remind myself, I am the sole knowing participant of. It is at least a minor comfort that she does not know of her victory.
They are
conversing
? The incident perturbing Rupali was some activist quibble, it appears, and while I am very much intent on offering my wisdom regarding this issue, there is no fitting moment for interjection in this harrowing tale of what must
surely
be the corrupting power of racism wielded against an innocent.
“They said she was doing what?”
Nichole’s expression is one of abject horror, an utter disaster. Of all the topics to subject her soft, malleable mind to when I am attempting to get her “in the mood”, the thinly-veiled bigotry in local activist scenes surely
cannot
work to my advantage.
“It was like a dogwhistle concert,” Rupali sighs—another disaster, as her clear display of wit indicates how difficult she will be to dislodge from Nichole’s attentions. Nichole squeaks in response, adorably, in the precise way I want to make her—
damnation,
focus on the ass at hand.
TASK.
“Wait, didn’t Jeff say anything?” Nichole’s inquiry hits me like a bullet that has missed its intended target and ricocheted onto a bystander, which is the shameful position I have taken in this conversation.
Jeffrey
knows Rupali? The Jeffrey in
our
apartment? The void of personality which sometimes makes himself obstacular to movement with his presence in the living space, and then wastes air on platitudes about his generic support for our endeavours, or whichever misbegotten conception of them dwells in the dilapidated outhouse he has for a mind palace?
Rupali’s head falls into her hands in utter despair. “Oh, he certainly
said something
.”
“Huh?”
“I … don’t think Jeff is someone who can be relied on when it matters.”
“Oh? I mean, he keeps saying he supports me and Kathy.”
Ah, poor naive Nichole. Do you not realize that any such support coming from
Jeffrey
is more hollow than the enemies you slay in those darkbloods games of yours?
“Yeah, he
says
a lot of things, when he doesn’t have to back them up with action.”
I am beginning to somewhat approve of Rupali, if only for the sake of uniting against a common foe, which in this case is a blond femboy on estrogen that I am doomed to share a couch with at times.
“And then, when it
matters
, he’s less than useless. He sort of just… Just…”
The expression on Rupali’s face is somewhere between disheartened and indignant.
“Jeffrey is like a river rock that has been polished smooth by the currents, if said currents were a river that was kind of bigoted in a weird spineless way where it doesn’t even want to admit it’s a river of filth.” Yes. A masterstroke of rhetoric, if somewhat stilted. Well done, Katherine.
And now, for the coup-de-gráce:
“And the filth? Racism with an undertone of misogyny.”
My perfect, indisputably laudable takedown of Jeffrey’s character complete, I lean back and receive my food.
"I'm sorry to say that lines up with my observations," Rupali assents grimly, confirming that my initial assessment of her as a bright spark was spot-on.
"That sucks to hear, we have to live with the guy—shit
, Kyle
has to live with the guy."
Nichole appears mortified. She and Rupali commiserate on the awkwardness of our living situation.
“Yeah, I keep thinking about Kaal living with him. I mean. At least the three of you outnumber him, right?”
The… Three of us. Outnumber Jeffrey. Yes, in the strict sense that he is one person, and we are three separate individuals. She thinks about Kaalappan? Is this complete enigma of a woman somehow connected to
everyone
in my immediate social circle?
“Well, I’m certainly not going to unduly side with him if he tries to start any trouble with Kyle,” Nichole reassures her. “Rest assured, your fiance is in good hands, girl.”
Her
WHAT?!
Wait. Does Nichole realize the nature of the tightrope we now find ourselves walking upon? Does she understand the precarity of this situation, and how dangerous it is for our continued participation in Ranked Competitive Breast Growth?
Firstly, my intel on Kaalappan is clearly insufficient, as I had not even an inkling of his secret engagement, which he has surely kept under the most opaque of wraps. Secondly, we are faced with a potential double-agent, one who has been sent in a desperate scheme by one who realizes that he
lacks
sufficient evidence of our alleged transfeminine nature to bring before a tribunal.
However
, could it also not be the case that she is approaching us in good faith, with no connection to the game? If
I
have missed their engagement, it may well be the case that their relationship is fraught and addled by poor communication, such that the mobilization of his betrothed to betray us in this way is an entirely infeasible scheme on his part.
“Kathy? You’ve gotta eat the burger before it gets cold.”
Yes, thank you Nichole, there are more pressing matters to attend to, resume your complete undermining of our operational security.
In other words
—and I am chewing on this thought at the same moment as I chew on the highly adequate bovine feast as instructed—the two possible situations here demand entirely opposite strategies, one of which is to perform the caricature of trans womanhood that convincingly argues for our—wait, no,
my
false manhood, Nichole’s is tragically real—while the
other
possibility is that the correct play is to
convincingly
perform
standard trans womanhood.
My mind is running on fumes with the overwhelming amount of new information presented so shortly after strenuous exercise has already depleted my reserves of energy. If only I had on hand some convenient package of—
Right. The humble bacon cheeseburger I am presently occupying myself with eating. I must strategically consume the package of fats, proteins, and too-sweetened carbohydrates in my hand so that I may determine the correct stratagem to deploy against this possible double-agent and divine what
her
true strategy is, so that our current strategies are not compromised by Kaalappan’s possible strategies.
I resume my strategic chewing. The fries here are pretty good, to be honest.
That’s it! I know
exactly
what to ask her. To turn the tables around on this potential honeypot, I must put her on the defensive and inform her that Kaalappan has never
once
mentioned her existence to myself, his esteemed and highly valued roommate.
Now why, precisely, would a man of Kaalappan’s perceived integrity hide such a relationship? Well. It is quite simple. If I simply assert a pretense of falsely believing that
she
is a trans woman, and that Kaalappan is hiding their engagement out of shame over her identity, then I will have achieved two simultaneous objectives:
Firstly, by ambushing her with an unexpected transvestigation, I shall throw off her attempt to interrogate the authenticity of
our
transhood, thereby putting her on the gendered defensive.
Secondly, I will be able to sow a seed of doubt in the integrity of their bond with an implicit accusation of hypergamy, thereby probing—
“Thanks so much for talking this over with me, Nichole, I really appreciate the sanity check. I just—I really thought I knew the guy.”
Rupali is already finished with her meal and has stood up to leave.
“It was nice hanging out!” Nichole continues doing the socializing.
“It was, genuinely. Take care, okay? As in, genuinely. We need more trans girls standing up for themselves, and each other.”
She is looking at both of us. What, precisely, does she mean by
this
? Is this her last gasp? Her final volley, putting me at ease, only to elicit an admission of false-or-authentic manhood at the last moment? I must—
“I will! Gosh, we really should make actual plans soon. And give your friend my best, okay? She sounds like she’s having a rough time.”
Kyle
I know this makes me a bad son, but calling my mother is easily the most stressful part of my day.
There is only a set number of times I can hear the phrase “my darling boy” in
any
language before my skin begins to crawl, my mind crushed under the sheer weight of generational expectation. Sometimes, my dad is also there, making it worse—his “You’re going to make us proud, son” is still ringing in my ears today, refusing to be drowned out no matter how loud I crank up my playlist.
At least the flat is blessedly empty, a rare respite from the increasingly sexually-tense atmosphere my three ridiculous cohabitators have cultivated. Jeffrey, of course, with his abysmally-concealed, barely-veiled attraction to me, is the most aggravating by far, though his attempt to learn all the nonsense about South Asian “third genders” was at least amusing for a month or so.
Meanwhile, Katherine remains somewhat amusing to instigate an anxiety spiral in, even if the novelty and efficacy of casually threatening to tribunal her have long worn off. She can’t be compelled to do her chores on time with the implicit ultimatums anymore, but it’s nice to make her catastrophize by implying I have irrefutable evidence of her trans womanhood whenever she’s late, which results in at least an hour of her debating herself on whether I’m bluffing.
Then there’s Nichole.
Fucking hell,
Nichole
.
Any joy I might have felt at finally seeing some real developments was swiftly crushed by noticing that I’m barely keeping up, ten months in, with where Nichole is so
soon
after starting. She seems oblivious, too, maddeningly unaware of the effect she has on others, not noticing the way eyes struggle to tear themselves away from her deepening curves and blossoming voluptuousness. Humiliatingly, Kathy and I have to
fight
to not ogle Nichole whenever she walks into the common room, but unlike Kathy I don’t even have the excuse of Nichole being my fuckpal.
Which really ties up the idea of me having any power over Katherine with a neat little bow, doesn’t it? So what if I’ve finally managed to eliminate the gap between our respective scores with careful dietary management? Katherine has something I never will: the ability to actually touch a woman without plunging into a pit of shame, despair, and disgust at herself.
Why can’t I even
think
of Rupali without wanting to burst into tears?
Don’t cry. I can’t cry. It’s not allowed.
Desperate for something,
anything
to occupy my hands with, I get up and go to the kitchen. The floor needs sweeping. The counters need wiping. There’s always something that needs to be done because I live with three entitled slobs who never do any of it. Get the bucket, soap, warm water, sponge, and just scrub and scrub and scrub until there’s nothing left.
The door to the apartment opens loudly, and I hear the
exact
voice that I
definitely need and want to hear right now
.
“Hi, Kyle! Oh, thank you so much for doing the countertops—I’ve been meaning to get around to it, I swear.”
Jeffrey
The trip home was miserable.
Rupali is upset with me. I wish she could see reason. Tahani is just too angry to work with. Even her voice is a bit scary. She needs to tone it down. It’s hard for people to see you as a woman when you don’t even try to act like one.
Some of us just can’t manage it. Such as me. I was informed about my “male energy” by trans friends. It would be foolish of me to ignore them. I don’t want to endanger them. My perversions aren’t the same thing as their identities.
The card stock took two trips to carry to my car. For the first one, I had to ask a stranger to watch the table for me. I dashed to the parking lot as quickly as I could. I hope Rupali apologizes to me. I’ll understand if she won’t. Nobody ever does.
On the drive home, I cry a little. I wish Rupali hadn’t yelled at me.
I can leave the supplies in the car. I have to bring them to the next meeting anyway. They’re too heavy to carry up by myself. There’s likely nobody home to ask for help.
As it turns out, I am mistaken. Kyle’s home—and he’s scrubbing the countertops, bless him. I should thank him for it.
“Hi, Kyle! Oh, thank you so much for doing the countertops—I’ve been meaning to get around to it, I swear.”
He turns to me, a strange look on his face. Soap dribbles down to the floor as he clenches the hand holding the sponge into a fist. I struggle not to take a step back—he looks
furious
, and I’m desperately wondering what exactly I’ve said now, in a simple expression of appreciation for his labor, that has managed to upset him.
Why can’t I say
anything
to Kyle without pissing him off?
Before I can even attempt to stutter out an apology, Kyle has—heartbreakingly—lobbed the now wrung-out sponge at my head, prompting me to yelp and dodge.
“Well, you didn’t!” Kyle barks.
“Kyle, I’m so so—”
“Sorry for
what
?”
He’s marching up to me now, prompting me to back up against the closed door while he stands uncomfortably close to me, his inflamed face inches from mine. I do my best to maintain eye contact, but it’s so hard to not look away—the sheer
hate
in his eyes is almost impossible to bear.
Of course he hates me. He’ll always hate me. I can’t say or do anything right. Rupali will tell him about our altercation, too, and he’ll take her side over mine and I’ll never even be able to speak a single polite word to him ever again.
“Sorry for
what
?” Softer, but still angry, still insistent. “Do you even
understand
what the problem is, or do you just want me to like you without bothering to actually empathize with me? Do you think if you whimper pathetically enough it’ll fix everything?”
“I’m—I’m trying,” I whimper.
“Trying to
what
?”
“I’m … I’m trying to …”
“Trying to pick up trivia about a country I haven’t been to since I was five?” Kyle sounds exhausted suddenly. “Trying to impress me with your knowledge of racial justice and cultural sensitivity? Trying to get me to clap for what a hecking ally you are, Jeff?”
“... sorry.”
“Why can’t you just be honest?”
“... honest?”
Kyle is still glaring at me, brow furrowed, leaning in even closer now.
“Why can’t you just tell me you like me?” Kyle snaps. “Why do you have to do all this other crap?”
My mind is blank. My body is frozen. I’m staring at him, wide-eyed, rooted to the spot, unable to speak. My mouth can’t form words anymore.
“For
fuck’s
sake!”
Strong hands seize my shoulders and I wince, closing my eyes, bracing for the reparative violence that I so richly deserve for all my racially insensitive transgressions. I cry out when I’m slammed into the door and have the wind nearly knocked out of me, only to have my open mouth muffled by … by …!
Oh my stars and stripes, Kyle is kissing me!!!!
Kyle! Strong, handsome, firm, hard, rugged, dominant, masculine
Kyle
is kissing my brains out right now so hard omgggggggg! He’s like, pressing into me and touching me and pawing at me and groping me with this just desperate,
hungry
,
animalistic
passion, and it’s all I can to not LOSE MY MIND TOTALLY AHHHH!
What am I saying, I
am
losing my mind because Kyle! Is! Kissing!
Me!!!!!
“Take me,” I moan, scrabbling at his waist—I need his pants
off
, I need him inside me, I need to feel him
stiffen
and
harden
and
throb
and
pulse
and
destroy
me,
ravish
me,
soil
me,
ruin
me,
defile
me,
breed
me with his power and virility!
I drop to my knees. I open my mouth. I tear away the last obstacle between me and everything I’ve craved since the moment I first laid eyes on this perfect hunk of a man.
Katherine
I have come to understand what must be done to achieve intercourse with my confused, misguided companion, and her hot ass. It was so obvious, it is shameful in hindsight how I failed to realize before.
She is committed, fully, to victory in Ranked Competitive Breast Growth. With her ascendant assets providing her with an early lead, she will primarily be invested in guarding herself against potential tribunals over inconsistencies in her real life cover. Her expert handling of Rupali’s double-dealing inquiries proved how dedicated she is to the sport.
Furthermore, her ass-ets truly
are
ass-cendant, by all reasonable metrics. I want to hear the sound she’ll make if I bite her nipples so
fucking
bad—NO. Be
strategic,
Katherine!
Nichole is staring at me. What precisely is she thinking, sitting there in her shorts and sports bra, slowly indulging in one of her post-exercise protein chocolate shakes? Does she realize what the sweet nectar of feminization has done to her
smell
?
She at least realizes that the shakes are redundant to her nutritional goals, having stated in plain words that she simply likes the flavour and wants one for that reason. The absolute
lack
of concern for optimal resource allocation continues to baffle me almost as much as the udder medical mystery—
utter
medical mystery of her aggravating voluptuousness.
“Kathy, are you okay? You’re shaking.”
Drat, it is
true
. The exertion has strained me to an extent where my hands are jittery—no, you cannot afford to deny yourself pertinent information here. It is the thought of the act you are about to attempt—which perhaps ought to involve tasting her sweat, wait,
focus
—that thought is causing you to lose control of your fine motor functions.
Am I staring at her? Shit, I’m staring at her.
“This is merely part of my recuperation from our training, and I am set to make a swift recovery. Do not concern your magnificent posterior with such matters, Nichole.”
What, in the searing heat of every possible inferno, did you just
say
, Katherine?!
“My … what?”
Nichole looks surprised, and yet … not displeased? It appears that I can salvage this, yet.
“Your … Magnificent. Posterior. that you have been developing through gluteal hypertrophy.”
Good job, Katherine—obfuscate through verbosity and confound her.
“Right. From the workouts.” Nichole takes another gulp of protein shake and leans back further on the couch, stretching her arm out. “Yeah, I guess it’s doing the job of … holding up my torso, and moving my legs? It’s effective at being an ass, in practical terms. The estrogen and the exercise are working out for me, I guess.”
She glances at my—breasts? Is she just openly looking at my breasts now? Have I successfully mastered the way of the peacock and lured in my pea-hen’s pea-nis?
“How are you holding up with those, by the way?” she suddenly asks. “I mean,
I’m
managing, but it’s only been like four months. You’re about to hit a year, and … I mean.”
Dizzyingly, Nichole is making gestures at my body which, were I not convinced that she is expressing genuine yet misguided concern, would be highly inappropriate.
Must we do this dance of words yet again, Nichole? Have we not paid our dues and settled the matter of how heavily I pretend that gender dysphoria weighs on my chest, as it surely must on yours at this point because
holy shit
? Ahem.
“I am indeed cognizant of the virility I have sacrificed for this competition, but I remain far too powerful to need it.” A play straight from the Impenetrable’s methods, to which she appears receptive. “If there is anyone here to be concerned about, it is you, Nichole. Are you not struggling with how rapidly your body is changing, how
dissonant
from manhood it has already become? Is it not, in any way, upsetting you?”
The play is simple, here: I am forcing her to acknowledge what must surely be a situation she is simply in denial of.
“As a man, how can you possibly be comfortable with looking
this much
like a hot piece of ass—
that is to say
, an attractive young woman?”
Nothing to be done about my unsuccessfully redacted internal slip. I must focus on gauging her immediate reaction to my prompting, which is …
A look of
confus
ion
. Yet more denial, more failure to comprehend what she has brought upon herself. How cruel a fate, to be so blessed and so incapable of enjoying it. I must push through, leave her no escape from the truth.
“Nichole. You cannot run from the dreadful truth that you have not taken on the guise of just any woman, but in fact have begun to possess the
radiant magnificence
of an
utter bombshell,
a
hot piece of ass
, with, if I may be so flippant as to reflect your own words back at you, tits that are
fucking bangin’—
”
I am interrupted by her snapping at me with a clear tinge of frustration. “Katherine, do you even fucking realize that it sounds like you’re hitting on me? Do you
understand
how it sounds?”
Damnation. It is true, but it is merely a necessary component of inciting the dysphoria she
needs
to feel. I must deny it.
“I care not for how it sounds when I speak the
truth
, Nichole. You ought to know I am not courting your affections, I am
merely
informing you of characteristics you appear to have no awareness of, whatsoever!”
“Everyone we know thinks we’re dating. Are you
aware
of that?”
Everyone? No, no, surely this misconception must be contained entirely within our shared mentor, the consort of the Impenetrable, surely—
“Jeff was giving me unsolicited advice about anal douching just last week, because even
he
thinks we’re fucking.”
Jeffrey was giving unsolicited advice about
what
? Is this the prevailing belief about our friendship? Truly? What precisely am I to do with this accursed information?
Wait. Katherine. Remember your overarching goals. Perhaps there is a way to turn this to your advantage. Indeed, could this be the time to strike?
I cannot afford to hesitate. I simply have to spit it out.
“In that case, we must converge in a strategic fornication, such that our knowledge of the act might match expectations.”
Nichole
I can’t believe the audacity on display here.
“What?” I ask, more to confirm whether she actually knew what she’d just said.
“I am saying that we ought to consummate our strategic alliance.”
There it is again.
Strategic
. What the fuck is her problem?
“
What?
” I say again, with some more emphasis, because I think she needs to get that I’m not asking for clarification.
“Nichole, we should have sex.”
Should. Strategically. Because everyone else thinks we’re already doing it.
“No,
I got what the sentence
meant
. That’s not the issue here!”
Katherine looks stunned, for a moment. The issue should be pretty frickin’ obvious, right?
“Do you not see how this is, at present, the correct course of action to secure our continued involvement in the game? Do you have reservations about carnal acts between the two of us, perhaps?”
I just give her a look that says ‘you’re on thin ice here, explain yourself.’ Kathy catches it and launches into one of her signature, meandering rambles.
“As I see it—”
Yep, intent on digging her hole deeper, as always.
“—while it remains true that we are men simply pretending to be trans women, and neither of us is, to my knowledge, of androphilic inclinations—”
No, that’s not the issue here. For one, I don’t give a shit about that, I’m already comfortably bisexual for men who look indistinguishable from trans women.
“—we have in our possession the bodies of not one, but
two
nubile, well-developing trans women, and while I certainly have no interest in
you
, well, your false identity is … I mean, do you not
see
the opportunity we have here?”
Oh my god Katherine,
please.
I’m running out of plausible ways to pretend I don’t realize
perfectly well
that I’m, uh …
Visibly developing in a way that signals good health?
Succeeding at conforming to conventional beauty standards?
Not offensive to the eye, certainly not displeasing in the mirror, on a good day, perhaps?
I’m being an insecure dumbass again. I know. This is stupid. I’m lying to myself because I’m afraid of some kind of
consequence
if I acknowledge it, even to myself. Some kind of backlash for being a confident trans woman, like I’ll be cut down the second I dare to stand out, but …
Okay, fine, I
know
I’m
fucking hot
. I know it. I know that people stare at me because of it. I’m so
aware
of my surroundings now, like some veil was lifted off me when I started estrogen, and now I can be and am constantly gawked at.
What am I doing with all this newfound attention? I’m noticing it and I have
no fucking idea
how to respond to any of it, because I never even considered that I might have to learn how to exist as a hot woman!
Katherine’s attentions are
especially
obvious, and I’ve been hoping she’d just make an actual move, so I could respond to it, but
no.
Instead of being normal, she’s decided to act like she has to convince me to do this for
strategic
reasons, when I already
want
to—yeah, fuck it, I
want to fuck my friend, the dipshit man pretending to be a trans woman in front of me,
even though she’s doing her best to make me
vomit
with this pickup artist bullshit.
“—and, naturally—”
Oh my freshly-formed tits she’s
still
going
.
“—do we not have a
duty
to all our most base adolescent fantasies, our pubescent and post-pubescent dreams of fetishizing lesbians in this manner, now that the opportunity has been thrust upon us under circumstances where it is not just possible, not just permitted by our peers, but actively
expected
of us? Ought we not to have done it, simply for the sake of knowing the act, such that our alibi is secure?”
“Kathy, is fucking me an
obligation
for you?”
I am sick of this bullshit. I have to push back, and she seems surprised at my response.
“It is a necessary strategic move, Nichole. We simply
must
—”
“Do you
want
to have sex with me, Katherine?
Yes or no
.”
I realize I’ve been moving towards her corner of the couch, and she in turn has retreated up against the wall. Also, she’s … blushing?
“I, um, it is merely advantageous if we—”
I cut her off by slamming the palm of my hand into the wall behind her, over her shoulder, jolting her into silence. My mind is racing, trying to come up with a way to wring the truth out of this blithering idiot, just like I plan to wring her—no,
focus
on the task at hand here.
“I
want
to fuck you, Kathy. Not your false trans woman identity, and
not for strategic reasons
. I want to fuck
you
, because
you’re
attractive, Katherine.”
She looks like she’s short-circuiting, and I don’t think I can afford to assume it’s from bad line delivery. I just have to keep going.
“Now, I respect that you’re a guy, and I expect that the same goes for you about me.
I don’t give a shit
. We can both be guys primarily attracted to women, and we can still recognize that we
want
to fuck each other.”
“P-primarily?”
“Don’t change the subject. I
want you
. All I need to hear for this to happen is you admitting that
you
want this.”
Am I laying it on too thick here? Fuck, she’s cute when she’s flustered, but I
can’t
be doing this if she feels it’s an obligation.
“I, well, um, I, ah, the idea is—”
“Katherine. You said yourself that needing excuses for your own desires is cringe. Are you cringe, Kathy?” I put my hand on her cheek. “Or can you give me a clear, honest answer?”
“I want it.” It’s a soft admission, bordering on a whisper, but it’s there.
… Shit, what do I do now?
Acting on instinct, I place my other hand on Kathy’s chest—no, on her
breast
—and squeeze it. I must have done something wrong, however, because instead of producing The Sound, Kathy is just staring at me, as I am in turn staring at her. Dead-eyed and blank-faced, almost expectant, while I merrily use her tit like a stress toy. Should I keep doing that? Should I stop, now that I’ve started? Should I do it slightly differently?
“So that’s not actually …” Kathy begins, then trails off.
I notice, suddenly, what the issue is.
“Kathy,” I give another squeeze, “this is a ball of socks.”
She nods.
“Why am I feeling up your socks, Kathy?”