Transplanted Life
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Strangely, not ashamed
I mean, you are what you are and you do what you do, right? But let me back up.

I got home last night, ate some supper, and had no plans. I watched the first three minute "episode" of the Clone Wars cartoon and then realized it was 8:05pm on Friday night and I had no plans. None. My two best friends since this all started are probably out with their boyfriends, Kurt has probably met Denise at South Station and is doing something with her, Wei and Jim are probably doing some of the millions of things recently-engaged people have to do... Heck, even the big Russian guy from work is probably doing things with his 17-year-old girlfriend I'd really rather not imagine. Frustrated, I picked up a magazine to flip through, spotted a liquor ad, and though, I can do that.

No, not drink myself blind and unconscious. But the ad had a bunch of young and sexy girls ordering something at a club, and I figured, heck, why not go out, let some guys buy me some drinks, listen to some music, and dance a little? Just make sure I don't get totally wasted like last weekend, and only do the stuff where I legitimately had fun.

First, though, I had to get dressed - neither office wear or lounging around the house stuff was going to do it. And Supergirl won't show up again until next Halloween (assuming I'm still in this body then). So, I walked over to the dresser, and tugged the bottom drawer open.

Back in July, I went through all the drawers and closets, sorting Michelle's clothes. Work stuff here, casual but non-gender-specific stuff like jeans and T-shirts there, grudging necessities over there. And then the fourth pile - the blatantly female stuff. The things where on the one hand I was so certain I'd never feel acclimated enough to this body to consider, but on the other hand was terrified I might feel right at home in. I'd crammed it into the back of the bottom drawer, hoping it wouldn't bother me if I couldn't see it. Fortunately, it was mostly synthetic fabrics, so it wasn't too badly wrinkled.

I stripped down to my underwear and more or less chose some stuff at random. A red top with a big V-neck that showed pretty much all my cleavage (and my bra strap, but so what? I wasn't looking to impress anyone), some boot-cut pants that didn't quite come all the way up to the bottom of the blouse, and a pair of three-inch heels I occasionally wear to work. I had to dig out Michelle's one pair of G-string panties (since I had never worn them before, they missed being destroyed in the washing-machine incident) to go with the pants. Not comfortable, but they looked less stupid than the regular ones. I put on some lipstick, brushed my hair back, and checked myself out in the mirror. I wouldn't be the hottest girl in the room - I still really don't know what to do with makeup - but I doubted I'd have to pay for my own drinks. I worried a bit what I bent over to pick the lipstick I'd dropped up, but just reminded myself that what was once "ass crack" was now "butt cleavage". I tossed my keys in my purse, threw on a coat, and set out.

It doesn't matter which Landsdowne Street club I eventually went to. It wasn't quite nine yet, so the lines weren't too bad. I was kind of disappointed at having to wait in line - before, it always seemed to me that girls never had to, but then again, it's not like Michelle is famous or rich or wearing particularly upscale clothing (Natalya doesn't wait in line, I'll bet); an impressive rack will only get you so far. But I wasn't in line for too long.

Dancing is easier for women - not so much in the physical sense, since you've got to do it in heels and can be bumped around easier, but in the not-looking-stupid sense. Just raise your arms (optional) and shake your butt. Since a lot of outfits leave your shoulders bare, you can move them around in time to the music without looking like you're having an epileptic fit. And besides, everyone's looking at your boobs anyway.

After about twenty minutes I wound up dancing with this college kid, who quite frankly looked as silly as I used to trying to dance. When he asked if I wanted to grab a table, I said yes if only to spare him the embarassment. He ordered us a couple of drinks and we started shouting at each other over the music. He goes to BU, rows, and started talking very keenly on the "Rock The Vote" rally he'd attended earlier in the week, despite my lack of interest in politics. After a while, the music changed, I said "I love this song!" about something I'd never heard before, jumped onto the floor, and that was the end of him.

This happened two or three times more, though not in exactly the same way. One guy said something racist about the couple who sat at the table next to ours and I left in real disgust; another spotted friends and I wasn't around when he came back with them. It was kind of fun doing the things girls had done to lose me in bars, and I didn't sit down with people who expected the club to be anything more than a big Brownian Motion simulator where people sort of randomly collide on their paths. I paid for one drink out of five and didn't think about anything but having fun for a few hours.

The last guy I danced with wasn't the best-looking, but he wasn't bad. We didn't talk about a damn thing, just moved to the music. I had my back to him, sort of moving my bottom in a circular motion while he had his hand on my stomach, when he leaned over and asked if I'd like to go to his place.

I looked him over. Clean-shaven, maybe quarter-Korean, about Michelle's age, a healthy specimin but not physically intimidating. "Let me get my coat."

I was buzzed, but not really drunk. I was walking steady on my heels on the way to the cab. I was a little nervous sitting next to him as he gave an address in Jamaica Plain, but I figured it was nothing I hadn't done before. Sure, I hadn't just picked up a gril in five years, but he and Michelle are the age I was five years ago, and I kind of figured, if I didn't, it was making Kurt more special than he deserved. It didn't have to be this guy, but he seemed more than acceptable.

His place was a two-bedroom in one of JP's more gentrified sectioins. There was a note taped to the front door from one roommate to another. I tried to look and sound nothing but idly curious and said "Mike or Steve?"

"Steve. You?"

"Mich..." I suddenly had to cough; there was cigar smoke coming from one of the other appartments. "Missy."

"Well, come on in, Miss Missy."

We kissed. We unbottoned each other. I kicked my shoes off, while he opened the door to a bedroom. I jumped on the bed, bouncing once. "Condom?"

"No problem."

And then we got down to it. It must have lasted an hour; he made me sweat and I returned the favor. I know what a guy likes and had had enough practice on Kurt not to mess it up. By the time we came, we were both exhausted.

He was in the shower when I woke up. I got my clothes on, made sure everything was in the purse, and wrote "Thanks for a great night - Missy" on a scrap of paper to leave on his bed. I paused in the doorway, wondering if maybe I should stick around, but decided against it.

The strange thing is, I don't feel bad about it at all. I blushed a little on the subway, where the only other people in the car were two little old ladies and I must have looked a sight with my hair mussed, bags under my eyes, and my coat initially open to show way more skin than was wise on that cold morning (I buckled it up pretty quick).

But, really, I felt good. The sex had been fantastic, and the idea that this Steve guy was better than Kurt at it, by a lot, was terribly satisfying. We'd both gotten something we wanted, scratched an itch, and I didn't have to worry about being in a relationship where my not volunteering that I was a 29-year-old heterosexual man plopped inside a 24-year-old heterosexual woman's body would feel like lying. Maybe he's reading this and puking his guts up now, by I don't care.

I didn't particularly worry that he was a man, either. What's agonizing about that stuff going to get me, aside from home alone on a Friday night? A good chunk of a person's sex drive seems to be supplied by the body as opposed to the mind, and I figured if I could get used to penetration this quick after almost fifteen years of being on the other side of it, then I shouldn't have any trouble switching back if I was only in this body a few months.

But overall, after this past week or so, it was just good to feel good.

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