Trans Tales
Late Nite Homecoming
"What a mess." She thought, as she doffed both pairs of shorts.
"These are going to be absolutely ruined before long if I keep this up." She said aloud, for the purpose of emphasizing to herself the relative seriousness of the subject. At issue was the second pair of shorts. The self-modified extremely short shorts that had been discreetly concealed beneath the other pair of unremarkable normal mens short pants that were forgotten now after being discarded in a heap on the floor. A wry smile soon evinced itself in her features; evoked by the word 'Santorum' that suddenly occured to her as she peered into the waist opening of the off-white cotton/spandex-blend 'TinselTown Denim Couture' junior misses shorts that she held outstretched in both hands.
"Humph." She audibly grunted, mildly surprised that there was no discernable trace of the 'Santorum'; that she could definately feel on her bare backside due to the cooling effect of the swirling ambient air generated by the box fan across the room, on the impossibly narrow strip of fabric that served as the crotch seam of the garment. Concluding; "There must be something there." as evidensed by the sensations in her nether regions, she carefully folded the shorts and placed them on top of the other shorts that she then folded around and over the 'TinselTown' shorts; once again concealing them, and carefully carried them to the laundry basket where both pairs were unceremoniously deposited.
"Guilt by ascociation. It must have soaked through onto them as well." She thought. And this train of thought continued as she switched on the bathroom light in preperation for the clean-up process. "And both shirts. And my hands. And the steering wheel. And the car seat. THE CAR SEAT! My god! That thing must be a dessicated cesspool; as many times as ive plopped my sullied ass down on that thing after a nite like to-nite. It has to be permanently imbued with awful."
Suddenly, her narcissistic tendencies truncated her reveries as she found herself standing nude before the bathroom mirror. Instinctively she quickly averted her eyes from the eyes in the mirror and began to scan her body. She resisted the almost overwhelming urge to straighten her posture while simultaneously puffing out her chest and sucking in her abdomen. She was a realist. Certainly the images of herself she posted online were culled to present to the target audiance only those aspects of herself that she felt, that she believed, that she instinctively knew would inspire the desired effects on said target audiance. But this was different. It was just her here, quietly and methodically surveying the ineluctable effects of time.
"They never see this." She thought, in regard to the 'target audiance.' "At least not until its to late, and the action has already begun." And with this thought she finally made eye contact with herself as a wry smile crept into her features. But then, the insidious voice of her latent body-dysmorphia slithered to the surface.
"It is not fat!" She proclaimed aloud. So loudly in fact she startled her somewhat inebriated self. In great haste she thrust her upper body through the open door as she firmly gripped the door jam and stood stock still in an awkwardly contorted and tense fashion with her left ear cocked towards the uninsulated interior wall that only just seperated her living space from her agravatingly omni-present housmates. All was quiet. Relieved, she relapsed into her former pursuits.
"Its not fat." She thought resignedly. ''It is flesh that is no longer supple. Un-supple flesh.'' And to demonstrate this fact she performed the very actions she so purposefully rejected only moments before.
"You see? Its gone." She said aloud, but softly. "Its just sagging skin. Nothing more." She continued in concilliatory tones. The insidious serpent sensed weakness, however, and rallied to strike again.
"I have been eating more. Lately. Bread. Occasionally. And. Sweets. Lately. Every night." She thought, ruefully, as she hung her head. For the next moment of so the memories of her last two or three grocery shopping trips, and the oh so few, fleeting instances of wavering resolve in the bread and treats isle flashed through her mind. Soon, anger began to evince itself there. A multi-directional anger. There was the wrath she felt towards herself, for her perceived 'instances of weakness'. But there was also unadulterated exasperation for the very existance of this oft-recurring conflict within herself. Her mind was awash with feelings of guilt and shame and anger and regret and images of herself with the physical attributes she wished she possessed and the perceived attributes she wished she could change. And then, amongst the collage of memories flashing through her mind came one of the innumerable instances when she was weighing herself. It was the instance of more than a year ago when she had finally achieved her long sought after and mythologized and dreamt of 'goal weight'. It was a powerful memory and she lingered in its aura. Suddenly a cataract of memories of joyful moments standing before one of her mirrors in form-fitting articles of clothing of myriad description flooded her mind, and midst the bouyancy of their effects came an epiphany. She snapped her head up and looked herself squarely in the eyes and forcefully exclaimed without inhibition; ''Ah ha!'' Then, as she repeatedly thumped her index finger on the reflection of herself, she thought; ''I just weighed in a few days ago. 162! Take that!''
One hundred sixty five had been the 'goal weight' and she was under that. ''I belive we're done here.'' She said aloud, dismissively. There was a nagging feeling, however, knawing at the back of her mind. There was something different. Something in her mid-section; the area of her body she was hyper-sensitive to. There was more there than there had been in the past. She could feel it. She was sure of it. And this area of her body was one of her greatest attributes she thought. A flat tummy region. Naturally flat, without being sucked in. However, if her weight was basically unchanged, yet this area was undeniably larger, something else must be at work. And again, her thoughts began to spiral down to a place and time she dreaded. A place and time in aging when nothing could be done to stave off decrepidness. ''You better believe I'll do everything in my power.....'' She began to think, with a defiant attitude, when suddenly she remembered something that always lightened her mood. ''Believe. Thats right. Everyone has got to have something to believe. I believe I'll have another drink.'' She thought, as a smile crossed her lips. In conjunction she also remembered she had taken a few hits off the joint the guy had been smoking as they exchanged pleasantrys on the guys front porch after the consumation of the evenings activities. Smoking pot often led to episodes such as this, of overly critical and harshly judgemental self examination. But now the light of reason; or mindfulness of the cause of the negative self-talk at least, had cast the dark thoughts back into the shadows and she was back on track.
''To shower, or not to shower. That is the question.'' She thought, even as she was reaching for the wash-cloth she used earlier in the post douche clean-up which; for all intents and purposes made it a 'fait accompli' not to shower. This was her wont. To first repurpose a previously used wash-cloth on the area of greatest concern, which was, without fail, her posterior, to remove the majority of the offending substances presumed to be present as a preperation for a thorough cleaning with a fresh wash-cloth immediately thereafter. Of course she had cleaned up at her hosts home, in the immediate aftermath of their activities. On occasions when she travelled, however, she always rushed through the clean-up, instinctively feeling; either rightly or wrongly, that she must hurry so as not to impose too much on her hosts hospitality. The same held true on this occasion.
''What a sweetie he was. An open, flamboyant, bear top. Wow! And what was it he said to me? 'You beautiful man.' What a sweetie. What a nite!'' Simultaneously, even as the usual clean-up process progressed and transitioned to the 'fresh wash-cloth' stage, another line of thought co-existed. ''You should shower. You should shower. You know you should shower. It would get everything. There would be no doubt. He had his 'Santorum Hands' all over you.... And wasn't that fun. I's certainly loves me a man thats into the laying on of hands..... Focus! You're never going to get it all this way. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Shower! No! But he had his hands here and there and there. On your breasts. On your arms. On your neck. Under your knees..... Both knees! On your ankles..... Both ankles! Woo hoo! Arrgh! Thats enough. Get that drink.'' And upon forcefully throwing the formerly fresh wash-cloth on the floor into the corner formed by the tub base and the wall, the same place the now twice used first wash-cloth lay, and where there was usually a pile of them, she hurriedly de-camped the small bathroom and strode with a purpose, fully nude, to the kitchen area of the large; fromerly functioning as an attached garage, efficiency appartment.
Satiated and happy and clean and anticipating the complimentary effects of libations she now unconciously and seemlessly transitioned from an active and self-aware inner dialoque to an unusual and intrinsically one-sided conversation-of-sorts with a wholly imagined, ephemeral and formless observer or observers. This was her wont of late, after particularly enjoyable unions; especially when in an altered state of mind. As thoughts and memories of recent events occurred or replayed themselves it was as if she was sharing them with the imagined nameless, faceless and voiceless person or persons. Heedless of the circumstances their judgements always mirrored her own. Always she felt rather than heard their sentiments of affirmation.
''What to wear now?'' She mildly muttered to herself as she sauntered over to the dresser with the already half empty highball in hand. Soon she stood contemplating her meagre wardrobe which was wholly and neatly contained in the two, now open, left and right bottom drawers of the flimsy particle board six drawer dresser.
''The short shorts or the short shorts?'' She thought, with a smile, and sensed the smile of aproval emenating from no particular location. Her newly favorite shorts; the pair she found lying in the middle of the beach road just after dawn on the last day of Pride, presumed to be sullied, now resided in the dirty cloths hamper. Smiles all round. She wasn't in the mood for a bikini bottom and beach wrap or a mini skirt or a lacy nighty or booty shorts or tights. Finally she chose her old favorite shorts, but these were so very thread bare and impossibly short that to wear them comfortably and to manifest at least a modicum of decorem an under garment would be required to hold up and conceal certain atributes that would otherwise ruin the desired look. Thus the search for new favorite panties; also a recent and free acquisition, began in earnest. She wanted them and no other.
''Well where in the hell are they?'' She thought, perplexed, after a thorough inventory of both bottom drawers. She hung her head and closed her eyes and searched her thoughts but could not remember the last time she saw them. She hated looking for things. In disbelief she began to swing her head back and forth. Then, just as she decided to forego a methodical and possibly protracted and agrivating search and opened her eyes, but before she stopped swinging her head, she saw them. There they were on the floor, in the dark, a few feet away from where she now stood just where she had dropped them in haste a few hours ago. The early heady moments immediately following the receipt of an invitation, or the receipt of a confirmation of an invitation she herself had made were always a blur of feverish preperations and unmitigated excitement co-mingled with a certain amount of latent fear and aprehension. She was not at all surprised she had no memory of dropping them there.
''Yay......'' She softly uttered as she brought her hands up before her face and began lightly yet rapidly clapping them together in an affected manner. Her mood, however, had suddenly shifted. As her hands came together one last time she lowered her head until the bridge of her nose touched her fingertips and she sighed deeply. ''Perish the thought.'' She reflected, in reference to what she believed was a useless and anathematical practice her current posture might connote. It was her panties on the floor to her right which concerned her now. ''The alpha and the omega.'' She thought, with a wry little chuckle. She lived for this. When she dropped those panties on the floor hours ago in preperation for the forthcoming rendevous she came alive. And now the cycle had been completed again. ''Alone again, naturally.''
Upon allowing her hands to lifelessly fall to her sides she sighed again, then paused, then seized the drink from the dresser top in front of her and drained it in two gulps and with practised hand banged it back down and said; ''Thank you sir. May i have another? You certainly may. But first things first. Cover yourself son.'' And with that she whirled to her right and quickly retrieved the symbolic under garment. As she was turning them right side out the word 'Smile'; with a smiley face dotting the I in the word, that had been screen-printed in purple on the backside of the pink cotton/spandex blend material became noticeable and she dutifully obeyed. Additionally, as she was pulling the garment on she noticed the tiny and completely superfluous bow that was attached at the front to the purple lace waistband. Then, all at once, as a concept perhaps, but not in individual words, it occurred to her that 'they' or 'he' or 'she' or whomever it was she sometimes imagined was with her, had yet to see this recent acquisition. And as she smiled again, at the unmitigated frivolousness of the little bow she felt their immediate approbation.
THE END
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