Saturday, August 23, 2003
I'm feeling lazy today. It's not a female thing or anything like that, it's a me thing. There are just days when I can't get up the motivation to get any further out of my apartment than the mailbox, especially after spending all week taking the B line to work. The very act of going from one place to another has become too closely associated in my mind with work, and besides, what am I going to do, especially with Michelle's paycheck? Not helping was the Red Sox game on TV this afternoon. It was an exciting, nail-biting game, and I don't feel like I wasted my time watching it, but once I started, I couldn't leave, and I suspect Fox has a deal with Major League Baseball to make the between-innings time just a bit longer, so they can insert more commercials, so that by the time the game was finished, the sun was already setting.
(I tried to overlook the fact that when I had been in my own body and gainfully employed, I would have been at this game. In fact, during a brief, beautiful moment during the dot-com boom, I would have been in really good seats)
So, I didn't do much today, either in terms of new being-Michelle experiences or just plain anything. But I still feel the need to write, so I guess I'll answer some reader mail. Our first message comes from "Michellekoo@nguwxgoqppulvfIO.com":
If you want more information on this male enlargement product that has proven to have incredible results feel free to check out the link above this message
If only, Miss Koo... If only...
Our next letter comes from Caleb Jones:
You seem to be adapting well! perhaps too well... I know that if it were me, after three weeks, I'd still be wearing jeans and loose shirts.
As I told Caleb, I've tried some of Michelle's jeans on. Trust me, wearing her jeans didn't make me feel more manly in the least. Indeed, the jumping (with its attendant bouncing), contorting, and pulling necessary to get them over Michelle's butt did focused my attention on the distinctly female portions of her anatomy than any skirt has. The skirt is at least somewhat utilitarian; it's not constantly making you aware of its presence by the way it grabs your body.
More than one reader has written in to ask:
Which gender gets the better orgasm?
I knew, I just knew, that the August 15th entry would inevitably lead to that. After all, who else is going to have an answer to that question?
In baseball statistics, there's a saying called "Voros's Law", which states "anyone can hit anything in sixty at bats". Basically, you need a certain amount of data before you can make quantitative determinations. And even if I have been playing with Michelle's body a little more over the past week, I haven't quite gotten to that level.
And even if I had, I'd only be able to compare the orgasms of one woman and one man - so I might be able to say "Martin Hartle gets more out of an orgasm than Michelle Garber", but that's hardly a definitive statement on "men" and "women".
The other thing is that "The Big O", as Mags liked to call it, is seldom an isolated occurance. Was the relief I felt last Friday night something I can attribute entirely to just the physical sensation of Michelle's body coming, or were there psychological factors, as well? Similarly, if I told you sex was better with Maggie than with other women, then that would be a pretty clear indication that more than one person's body was involved.
Maybe I'll have an opportunity to revisit this question later. Of course, by then, I may well decide that how I feel after sex is none of anyone else's business.
PS: If you don't want any mail you send to me (well, Michelle's address) be used in this column, or just don't want your name used, indicate it in your letter.
PPS: I've got plans for tomorrow, so I know I'll have something more to write about.
Friday, August 22, 2003
Movie (and Shoe) Night: The Secret Lives Of Dentists
A pretty good movie. If my life ever becomes more nuts, to the point where I'm hallucinating a manifestation of my id that says the rude, politically incorrect things that I can't really say, like the lead in this movie, I too would like him to be played by Denis Leary. Although maybe a few years younger - the cigarettes and beer have really done a number on him. He is dangerously close to turning from a sneering-but-insightful wiseass to an obnoxious, bitter old man. I give him five years, tops, until that happens.
(And I would have picked up on that if I was in my own body. It's not an attractiveness thing, like going on about Campbell Scott's goofy mustache would be. It's a "dude, you're not looking well" thing)
I liked it, though. About the only strike the movie really had against it was that it was playing at Copley Place. Loews Copley Place is, for anyone reading not familiar with Boston's movie theaters, quite possibly the worst place to see a movie in the greater Boston area. The prices stink, the screens are small, with the seats in front actually higher than those in the back, in some cases, the lobby can get very crowded. The second-run theaters in Arlington and Somerville offer better movie-going experiences. It mostly plays boutique films now, but that this was, for a while, where popular mainstream films played really goes to show how much seeing movies in Boston could outright suck up until a couple years ago.
But, last night, for me, the worst part was the location. In the middle of a trendy shopping center, absolutely surrounded by expensive shops. And Kate wanted to buy shoes.
We all know the jokes and stereotypes about women buying shoes. Myself, I've seldom spent more than fifteen minutes doing it, since buying shoes has always been a simple process: Walk into shoe store, find shelf where Men's Size 10Â½ Wide are stocked, find pair that looks like old pair, try them on to make sure they fit, pay.
But, then again, nobody ever had a reason to look at my big, hairy feet. Nowadays, though, when I'm riding the T, I'll notice the guy in the seat across from me following the line of Michelle's leg down there. As absolutely silly as it seems, part of the use of clothes is to make a first impression, and the foot is where someone's eyes can linger, especially if you're wearing something that ends in the general knee area.
Or at least, that's my best guess. I chose not to come right out and ask Kate and Jen something like "hey, why do you think us girls like shoes so much?"
Anyway, I don't think I was much help. I could have sworn two pairs were identical until Kate pointed out that the heel was a quarter inch wider on the first. I did vote against anything with little flower shapes, just on principle.
In the last store, though, Jen came up with a pair of boots and told me to try them on. Suckers went all the way up to Michelle's knee, and must have had four or five inches of pencil-thin heel. I could feel Michelles butt and breasts going opposite ways as I tried to walk in them. I thought I was going to fall over, and Kate was saying she wished she had the body to pull that off. Then Jen giggled something about how much she bets Kurt would like it.
Well, that led to more girl talk than I've ever wanted to hear. To a certain extent, it was tricky to just answer questions based on only what he's told "Michelle" - that is, saying that he's a technical writer at some place in Cambridge rather than giving his resumÃ©. Answering "how did you meet?" was especially weird, since I'd been there, and almost told the story from my real perspective.
It was also an up-close education on how, well, frank women can be about matters sexual. As in "does he expect you to give him head? He looks like the kind of guy who expects you to not only give him head, but swallow it." I think I just sat speechless for a few minutes. And I really didn't need to know what Jen's boyfriend has to do for her before she rewards him that way.
Anyway, Kate got her shoes, the movie was good, and we only talked about the movie itself afterward.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Like I said before, I don't often remember my dreams. Last night's were frustrating, because I can only remember bits and pieces.
First, I woke up from what I assume was a pretty steamy dream around half-past two. No big deal, other than the fact that this time I relieved the pent-up arousal manually, so to speak, as opposed to the cold shower. Felt good, and I went back to sleep. I almost wouldn't have given it a second thought if not for the second dream. Because in that second dream, I was in Michelle's body rather than my own.
I'm pretty sure that it's the first time that's happened; if it has before, I certainly don't remember it. When I woke up this morning, I was all "what's that mean?" Does it mean I've started to think of Michelle's body as "home"? Or that at some uncoscious level, I'm okay with being here? Does it mean that I'd been Michelle during some impossible-to-remember dream that had me all but creaming the sheets?
I don't know. I just know the second one was weird.
Kurt and I were walking through some clothing store or mall or some place like that. We were just sort of window-shopping, until we got to this floor display with a leather jacket. Kurt asked me what I thought, and I said it certainly was better than what he had on. He made a signal to the shopkeeper. Now, here's the really strange part - he just discards the jacket, and hands Kurt the mannequin, which Kurt puts on like it was a piece of clothing. I can't even picture it now that I'm awake. After he's done, I realize that the mannequin looked kind of like that guy at the movies last night, but not really. He looks like a lot of other guys, too, from Matt Damon to Taye Diggs to Bruce Campbell, and now that's how Kurt looks. We're actually standing closer together as we keep walking around, and there's touching going on, too. When we get to another display, it's a beach scene, and there's five or six mannequins of both sexes making it up, and I don't remember either of us taking one, but by the time we leave it, Kurt looks like Kurt again and I'm pretty sure I'm still Michelle, but we're still holding hands and joking and stuff. I don't remember much after that.
So, there it is, more dreams. I don't know what it means, other than I'm eventually going to need some serious therapy.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Tonight was just a sort of weird, worlds-colliding situation. As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, Jen had a great time at Allston Cinema Underground's "Weekly Wednesday Ass-Kicking", and asked if I was going tonight. I had kind of forgotten about it, to be honest, and figured it might get shut down, what with only three people showing up that time. Which was silly, because I overheard one of the guys who runs it talking about how he plans to re-run some movies in November, which struck me as insanely confident at the time.
Fortunately, the movie didn't start until eight, which gave me time to get back to the apartment and get changed. Even if Michelle's clothes have certain advantages, they require more attention than I'd like. Remember to cross your legs in this, the only shoes which match that are these and I still don't like to walk any further than I have to with heels that high. Besides, half of 'em have special cleaning instructions, or can be ruined easily (say, by butter-colored popcorn topping, speaking entirely freaking hypothetically). Jen wanted to hit the gym first, anyway. I probably should, but I don't want to go as her guest or pay for a membership. Besides, there's a perfectly good river nearby with nice footpaths for running.
So, I changed into a tank top and shorts and made some supper. I have to wonder why someone who keeps that top in her dresser would want my body - if about a third of her "weekend ware" is to be believed, Michelle didn't harbor any particular dislike for her cleavage. I mean, I've dug through her entire apartment, hoping she might have forgotten something that would lead me on the path to getting my body back, or even something that would give me a hint about her. But there's nothing in here to indicate she disliked her body.
Anyway, I got to the theater at around 7:30, and hung around outside waiting for Jen for a few minutes. There seemed to be a decent crowd tonight, and I got eyed up and down by more than one guy. One even started talking with me, which was kind of fun. I half-wondered if he was Michelle's type - she'd dismissed Kurt pretty quickly, and this guy was different enough: A couple inches taller, buzz-cut with a goatee, more muscular, with skin a shade somewhere between white and black. I felt vaguely jealous of him, since I knew that even in my own body, I probably wouldn't have the discipline to achieve that physique.
Still, it was something of a relief when Jen showed up and he transferred some of his attention to her. A lot of his attention, actually, but it was cool - after he'd sort of shifted to her, she mentioned she had a boyfriend, and he couldn't really go back to working on me. Besides, his friends were waiting.
Jen and I were just buying our tickets when we ran into Kurt and Wei.
Kurt stared. I guess this was the least amount of clothes he'd seen "Michelle" wearing, and I can tell you from experience, he didn't expect to see me here. Even though he's probably figued out that this Michelle girl has something of a tomboyish streak, he's still got her/me filed in his brain as a woman first, and kung-fu movies aren't a terribly feminine thing. Wei's filed in his head as a friend first, of course, so even if they hadn't come together, she probably wouldn't have surprised him.
Anyway, we made our introductions, and sat together as a group. Wei's boyfriend evidently was pulling a double shift at the hospital, so there was just the four of us in our group. We had a good time, but I had to laugh at the scene where Alan Tam had to learn to be a "woman" (or, at least, an effeminate gay), just because I felt pretty sure that what his "coach" was telling him wouldn't do me a damn bit of good. And, it was a pretty funny sequence.
Wei didn't quite grill me, but she had questions. It was somewhat gratifying to see that Kurt had told her about me. I mean, if I'm somehow being graded on "making an effort" with Kurt, it's got to be worth something.
With that in mind, I made a conscious effort to relax when Kurt decided to kiss me while he, Jen, and Wei got on the green line. Of course, with witnesses around, he got shy, which meant no tongue, so I had less reason to freak. Nobody seemed to pick up on any tension from me, so I guess everything is easier the second time around. Heck, he seemed a little more nervous. I'd been kind of dressing conservatively for our "dates", and we'd both been drinking the night we originally met Michelle, so it's possible he might not have realized what a good body this girl really has. He was certainly more eager to set up a next date tonight than he had been before.
And Jen was there for every bit of it. I have a sinking feeling she and Kate will be accusing me of holding out on them during gals' night out tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Just a quick bit: I've gotten some mail - sadly, not from someone wondering where his stolen mind-swapping machine had gone. One person suggested that I got used to wearing girl's clothes awful quickly. The thing is, I actually tried dressing a little more casually one of those days I didn't have internet access; but Mr. Kraft (I can't get up the nerve to call him Franklin, much less Frank) gave me not quite a lecture, but a talk indicating that as the first person someone sees when they walk in the door, I should project professionalism, which is why Michelle's pay evidently includes a clothing stipend of some sort. Since he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tie despite it being eighty and the AC not quite having kicked in yet, I couldn't exactly argue with him. And it's not like better jobs are easy to come by (especially since Michelle never went to college, leaving me without my B.Sci). The tech folks can get away with it, but I'm no longer one of them.
Besides, during a hot, humid summer, you can get used to bare legs and arms. I mean, check this story out - and he doesn't even have Michelle's legs!
-Martin (keepin' cool)
Well, I was hoping I'd wake up in my own body this morning, one-month anniversery and all. No such luck, though. Still Michelle.
I wish I knew how to turn my brain off. Kurt and I were talking about that last night, in relation to movies, before seeing SWAT. I just can't do it. I can't help noticing the little details and things that don't make sense (does a cop really afford that beach house in Southern California?), despite everyone telling me that I'd really movies more if I didn't think about them, like I can just stop thinking. It's like walking into a room with a clock right in front of your face - it takes an act of will to not know what time it is. Thinking's a reflex.
But I'm not really talking about the movie, of course. Kurt kissed me last night.
From a purely physical standpoint, it wasn't much different than being a guy kissing a girl. Kurt's clean-shaven, so it's not like I had a moustache and beard reminding me of what had happened. It was a little strange to have the soft part behind the skin of my lips. But just knowing it was Kurt I was kissing, and not (say) Maggie made me tense. I tried closing my eyes, but I think that sent Kurt some sort of signal, because the next thing I knew his tongue was in Michelle's mouth. The funny thing is, I couldn't help but think a man's tongue feels just like a girl's, and I actually responded a little. Reflex, again. But only for a second.
I think I left it kind of awkward with him. Hell, I know I did. But, I don't know how long I can keep this up if every time I see him, I'm thinking, "what am I doing?"
Monday, August 18, 2003
Wow, the counter stats say someone got here doing a Google search for "Ludivine Sagnier nipples". Bet that guy got more than he bargained for!
Well, actually, he got less, since I'm not posting pictures here. Getting recognized on the street would be all I need.
Gonig on another date with Kurt tonight. Movies again. Don't get me wrong, I love the movies (and having someone else pay for them is pretty neat), but this is a real issue for the men-trapped-in-a-woman's-body-and-pressured-into-dating-their-best-friends-without-saying-who-they-really-are segment of the population: You don't get the variety of activity that you might with a real woman in the relationship. It's not even just that both Kurt and I are men under the skin; it's that we've got the same narrow field of interests, and only movies and ballgames really fall into the "stuff you do on a date" category.
For example, my last girlfriend before Mags was into folk music. Now, going to a folk show was something I was as likely to do as getting my ears pierced - nothing against it, just not my thing. We had fun, though, and there was a sense of discovery about it that I enjoyed. So far, I'm not getting that with Kurt.
Which isn't in itself a bad thing - we're still having fun, and when Michelle takes her body back, he'll have a whole bunch of new things to discover about the real Michelle - just a sort of observation.
I spiffed this page up a little over the weekend, adding a link to a counter and the ability to leave comments. I did it for a bunch of reasons; one was that I could feel my programming skills atrophying - not keeping up on every new tool Microsoft or the like throws your way has given me a lot of spare time, I'm going to be out of date and out of practice when I do get my own life back. This was just a bit of cut and paste, but just looking at HTML code made me feel better.
But I also thought it might get me a little more information. If I'm not the only person who has ever had their body hijacked, then hopefully someone else who has had it happen - or who knows how it's accomplished and how to reverse it - might contact me to help me out. And, if the conspiracy theory is true, then they're probably reading this blog right now to see how their guinea pig is getting on (rot in hell, guys). Maybe, I figured, its records would indicate some sort of weird address that's regularly showing up. So far, though, it looks like if there is someone monitoring this blog, he or she is smart enough to come in via Google or Blogspot or Metamorphose. That last one looks particularly clever - post a link to this blog to a list of links about people turning into other people/things, then check in via that, looking no different than any gender-bender story fan. And if the guy who posted the link is any more than that, he's certainly established a good cover.
But, I have been able to find out that someone was able to find my blog while searching for "sweaty breasts". My mom would be so proud if she knew.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Figures. I start thinking, hey, Michelle's body isn't all bad, and this morning after taking a shower, I noticed some fat on Michelle's butt. Not a whole lot; just enough to jiggle a bit when I jumped up and down. As to why I was jumping up and down in front of Michelle's mirror in just a pair of panties... Um, never mind.
I guess it's not totally unexpected; even though Michelle's body isn't feeling queasy when I have a burger any more, it's still probably more calories than Michelle was taking in. It could be a lot worse; I've always gotten the mid-afternoon munchies, and in all my other jobs, it's been nothing to have a bag of potato chips at my desk at 3:30 every afternoon. Projects a bad image for your receptionist to be doing that, though. The funny thing is, half an hour later, I'm not hungry any more, and wasn't in my own body, either. And once I get home for dinner, I'm eating less anyway - Michelle's stomach fills up qucker than mine, as I learned pretty quick.
I'm not sure what I want to do about it. On the one hand, it would serve Michelle right if she got her body back and it was a porker, but on the other hand, aside from her maybe not wanting it back if it's not in good shape, I've got to live in it until then, and being out of shape's no fun. I hate working out, though - I was lucky enough to grow out of being "the fat kid" at puberty, and going to the gym bores the hell out of me.
Bears some thinking on, I guess. Not too much, though - even if I've got to live a girl's life, I'm not going to spend too much of it worrying about being a pound or two overweight.