A Work In Progress

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Moving

What I was finding, as time kept rolling was a distinct change in my sexual apatite. Before this change, I did not go a week without sex. I had never been without it for even a month. Even in that, I still masturbated everyday. I had even made deal at home with my dick in my hand. I never went without thinking about sex. What I was finding now, was not that sex was not that unappealing or even unwanted, it just was not the focus of every free moment. I could get so much done not thinking about where my next lay would come from. The fact was that since Kaitlyn had left my apartment, I had not had sex. That had been nearly three months ago. I found, in thinking back on it, that I could not recall a daily burning need to orgasm.

I was also finding myself with more time to accomplish things, and develop a relationship with my mother. She had recalled, at first, that she had an only son, but as time wore on it seemed I was the only one who had any memory of my having been male at all.

Tonight, I was going on a date and I was looking forward to it. I had discovered that having a period was not at all how it was portrayed in commercials and that, despite what men thought, having breasts the size I did was a pain, mostly in the back and a constant one at that.

The problem with menstruation, I was finding, was that men just did not have an understanding of exactly what was going on. It was easy to sit on the non-menses side of the table and refer to any disagreeableness as PMS. It was an oversimplification and offensive, I was discovering. Anytime I refused to allow myself to be treated like a door mat, or that I stood up and defended myself, I could count on the men around to whisper about "that time of the month" or the "cotton pony" or some other belittling of something I had as much control over as they did over the hair that sprung out of their ears.

It was a natural thing, and it was not pleasant. After a few days, wearing a pad was a little like walking around with a brillow pad between my legs. I ached to be able to get out of wearing it. Sure I could take take pills that staved it off, but there were possible side effects that I was just not comfortable with. So I felt like I had to just ignore the comments when I should have been able to tell those jerks to blow it out of their ass. What did they know about the cramps that went before a period? Did they ever feel like their guts were being twisted around a fork every twenty-eight days? I should have kicked each one in his soft unmentionables each time that mouthed "P.M.S." to each and shared that knowing bullshit smile. I should have been able to kick them there good and square and tell them that now they had an idea of just what real P.M.S. was like to have. Instead, like every other woman before me in the last few generations, I acted like I did not notice and fume utterly to myself.

I checked myself in the mirror.

I was not going to be a supermodel at any point in my future, but I was learning to be comfortable. I was short, which was more than a bit of a disadvantage when trying to be assertive (or bitchy), and I was not a tiny creature by any stretch. Still, I had a waist and that accentuated my hips and I did like the look of the curves on me. I had once thought if I had breasts I would play with them all the time, but having them proved different. They were not all men thought they were, except to men. I had slowly discovered that men could be almost instantly hypnotized with a little show of cleavage.

The fabulous thing was there was really no equalizing body part that men had. Bare chests could be nice. I tight pair of buns packed into an equally tight pair of jeans was nice to look at it, but it did not drive out all other thoughts from my mind. Looking at it from this side, I had spent a long number of years laboring under an illusion that women had allowed me to believe. Now it was amusing how easily I had been used, thinking I was the one doing the using. Oh sure, I had broken hearts along the way, but as often as not, women had gotten what they wanted from me. They got great gifts and sometimes outright cash, and gave their bodies over to me, but those women had not cried because they loved me and I was not going to see them anymore. It was because they were going to have to find some other sap with pockets deep enough to keep them around.

I had always assumed I had been that great of a lover and that much of a catch, but now I knew this was not quite the case. I was going out with a man that I was not highly attracted to, but he was nice and made me laugh and it would fun to see a show and have some dinner. My legs looked nice in the hose I wore and the skirt went down to my knees so it was not scandalous, even if the neck line plunged a little more than that. I had a right to dress like I wanted and feel good. I was approaching too heavy to wear clothes to tight without looking silly, but this little black dress was a fine fine garment.

The intercom buzzed.

It was Ralph telling me my date was here.





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