Whatever Happened to Alex? (Making the Band)

 This is a Flashback Friday for 'Making the Band'.

“I'm thinking there has got to be a better way than this...” Alex gasped from under the bone clenching tightness of the red latex dress. He hated how familiar the sting of its hem digging into his thighs felt and his sweat was pooling under the shiny material and forming a juicy cocktail with the half-gallon of lubricant required to get him into it. A half-gallon of lube and nine years of bad decisions, he thought miserably. “What about a different direction? I heard denim is in right now... Anything that doesn't make my tits look like tomatoes...”

“Remember what I said...” Lucinda, his long suffering assistant shook her head dismissively. “If I am going to help you with this...with your comeback, we are going to do things my way.” She was playing with the camera trying to line up a shot. As the only person who knew the truth about Alex's identity, she was his assistant, photographer, marketing person and now apparently, his torturer. “Don't forget, the world sees you as the fourth member of Money Shot, and for good reason. The other three girls have all gone on to have successful solo careers because they have two things you don't – musical talent and personality. We need to lean into the things you do have on your side – nostalgia and sex appeal. The latex look was what introduced Money Shot to the world. It's their signature. And somehow, after all these years, you're still hot as hell!”

“I have personality...” Alex protested weakly, readjusting his pose because his heels felt like they were destroying his feet, causing Lucinda to scowl at him.

“You aren't listening!” Lucinda snapped a picture. “You don't need it. You know Andrea in accounts? Dull as a dictionary, and still every weekend without fail, she fluffs up her tits, rolls a skirt halfway up her arse, and has guys lining up to buy her drinks. We don't need to pretend you are interesting. You can't polish a turd but you can shine the shit out of latex, and for everything else, we have autotune, and those boobs you've kept hold of for some reason.”

“Fuck's sake. I couldn't even afford to get the implants removed.” Alex groaned. He couldn't believe he needed the money badly enough to resurrect Alexandra of the briefly world famous girl band 'Money Shot'.With all the beauty products he had needed to buy, he was even more in debt than when he asked Lucinda to help him. Now ten years older, it felt like he needed twice as much of everything to look half as good.

“My plan is fool proof!” Lucinda said. “We put these promotional shots on social media, record a couple of covers, leak some tabloid rumours about you dating a YouTuber or starting an OnlyFemmes...” She grinned as her boss's collagen enhanced lips formed an 'O'. “Relax! You won't actually have to start an OnlyFemmes. At least you won't as long as we can sell the songs. It wouldn't hurt though if those tits look as good in the flesh as they do through that dress...”

Odds and Pairs

 

“Are you going to get it over with then?” Oliver muttered under his breath so only his friend could hear. “Are you going to kiss me?” Tom was inches from his face though neither boy could bring themselves to meet each other's gaze. Oliver had one hand intertwined with the blonde hair of Tom's wig and the other gripped the red solo cup of Dutch courage the girls had charitably provided.

“Why do I have to lead?” Tom grumbled, biting his red painted lips nervously. “You got us into this mess with all that 'odds are in our favour' nonsense.” Like his buddy he was still coming terms with being stuffed into a strappy top and hideously short skirt that showed off the lace panties he was now wearing.

“Well, you haven't hooked up since we started college either. I was just trying to get us some action. I saw a bar full of girls dressed to the nines looking all flirty and thought it looked like a good shot.” He wanted to take another slug of the vodka but felt trapped in place by Tom's hot breath on his cheek. “How was I supposed to know it was a lesbian party?”

“Because they were coupling up all over the place. There were two girls rubbing each other off in a paddling pool. Couldn't you have just enjoyed the view rather than shouting – 'Are you all lesbos or something?' Now thanks to you, we are going to hook up at college – with each other.”

“Do you guys do anything but chitchat?” One of the girls from the group encircling them heckled. “And you wonder why we prefer women...” There was a rumble of female laughter. There was about sixty girls surrounding them in total – more than enough to overpower two big mouthed freshman. Stripping them naked and throwing them in the paddling pool had been their first idea, though the two women fingering each other in the shallow water hadn't appreciated having two nude guys launched at them. The calls to feminise them hadn't started from anyone in particular – rather it was a growing rumble of enthusiasm. There were no shortage of girls volunteering their clothes from the drunken crowd, but it was when using the raffle prizes was suggested that things really got out of hand.

“We better do this soon,” Oliver whispered. “If we don't, they're going to buzz us again.” The buttplugs had the indignity of having lights and even in the shadowy bar, they stood out from under the boys' panties like fireflies. Seeing them being pulled from their packaging had instigated such terror in them that about ten girls had been needed to hold them down to insert the well lubed toys. Their resistance died the second they were in as Tom and Oliver were turned to putty by the violent throbbing that felt like it might split them in two. That's when the fun really began. “Here goes nothing...” Oliver pulled in his friend for a kiss.

“Why are you using tongues...?” Tom tried to splutter but he couldn't get his words out so deep had his friend pushed himself inside. The crowd began to cheer and whoop and someone activated the plugs again. Both boys buckled at the knees in tandem and fell against each other as hundreds of eyes watched what was happening beneath their tiny skirts – quivering lights poking from their asscheeks and their steadily hardening cocks pushed together in between their embrace.

The Apprentits Lost Tapes Part 4

 19/25

The full Network and Femnonymous story is listed on my index page.

A trail of dismantled cameras led the way through the brush to the jetty where they had originally arrived on the island. Martin had clearly done his homework and prepared accordingly, and Angela would have been impressed were she not absolutely set on foiling their escape plan. Every now and then, the beam of a highly powered flashlight would cut through the darkness near them and the remaining three producers would fall into a state of hushed stillness. Angela knew she could yell and wave her arms whenever she liked, and they would be found immediately, but she couldn't guarantee how that would play out next. What if Femnonymous just continued the contest after recapturing them? She couldn't risk both Martin and Celia knowing she had betrayed them. Surely as their mole, Femnonymous were rooting for her to win, but they wouldn't undermine their entire operation to protect her.

“Hurry up!” The naked form of Celia hissed noticing Angela studying the latest of the unhooked cameras a little too hard. Angela scowled – Celia giving her orders back in their old lives had been bad enough, and now on the island it was somehow even more grating. Martin, the eternal professional, put a finger to his lips and beckoned for both women to keep going. Angela fell in beside him as they continued through the dark jungle.

“So...” Angela tried to sound casual as if she weren't playing double agent as part of a daring night time escape from the island compound of gang of latex clad vigilantes systematically transforming them one-by-one into Barbie dolls with some kind of hi-tech dentist chair. “Got anyone waiting for you back home?”

“Actually, yes!” Martin's face seemed to brighten. “I think you two might know each other. She was a producer too when the Network just started getting big. She's a lot more senior now though.” Angela stared at him while he continued to talk, trying to keep her face neutral. “You do know Mandy, right?” Martin watched her expectantly and finally she nodded. Mandy had been close...close enough to stab her right in the back. And now here she was... Trapped on an island with her boyfriend.

“So, you and Mandy, huh?” Celia said a few minutes later along the trail. “How did that come about? She's senior management – not trying to sleep your way to the top, are you?” There was a clear barb in her voice but Martin didn't seem to notice and the two fell into a conversation about office politics and work relationships, not noticing that Angela had slowly started to fall back from the group. Once she was ten feet back she paused in the shadows next to yet another dismantled camera. It was about a foot from the ground and designed to get a low angle shot. From what Angela could see, it was fully intact – the power source had simply been disconnected. Checking that the others were still walking on ahead, she took the wire between her fingers and plugged it back into the main body of the device. A small LED screen booted up and began to display a percentage bar that crawled agonisingly slowly towards completion. Cursing her luck and not wanting to be left behind, Angela abandoned the camera and scurried after the other producers.

“We could use this!” Martin was standing over a small boat with an out-board motor floating off the side of a jetty. “But it doesn't seem to have fuel.” Celia was scowling with her hands on her hips. “Sorry, I know I should have checked before dragging you out here.” He said apologetically.

“Fuel?” Angela repeated dumbly, a cruel idea forming. She thought of Mandy watching from home as her boyfriend was dragged off to be bimbofied. God, she wished that golddigger was here with them,,, “Uh, I think I saw a canister of fuel back there!” She pointed back the way they had come – back towards the camera she had just switched back on. Moments later, Martin was bounding back up the trail. He stopped and began scanning the brush for the non-existent gasoline. Suddenly, he froze in place. He had just seen the blinking LED on the now functioning camera. Mere seconds passed before the night was pierced by several high-powered beams of light and about a dozen latex clad Amazons emerged from the trees. Two gripped Martin and forced his arms behind his back. Right before a kind of electrical riot stick was brought to his still naked body, his eyes locked with Angela's and a look of understanding passed between them. Angela smiled softly before she too was restrained.

The office was chaos around Martin. He had been here a month and he still didn't understand what work was being done. He didn't even know what language was being spoken. Whatever it was, it looked stressful and involved a lot of men sitting in cubicles shouting angrily down the phone. He only understood what the compliance chip told him. He was the relief girl – perfectly crafted by the throne to be exactly the kind of motivation the men needed to keep picking up those phones. Today he wasn't wearing a skirt, just as the chip had instructed, and his brand new bubble butt was parted by a tight black pair of satin panties. When they were particularly frustrated, the men would look up at his ass and lick their lips, or if he was facing the other way, his pussy. Whenever this happened, the chip would instruct him to respond with a coy flirtatious smile and he would comply. As the day progressed, he unfastened his blouse, one button at a time, to show them ever more of his tits. Eventually, he would be topless but that didn't need thinking about yet. The day was still young. Eventually, one of the men could whoop with glee at the end of particularly successful phone call and get to bend Martin over the desk while the others watched – a preview of what they could be rewarded with if they kept working hard. Eventually, Martin would moan with ecstasy as the same lucky worker thrust into him as the chip demanded he enjoy the experience. But, it was still early in the day... That would all come, as too would Martin, but for now he could just stand there in those uncomfortable heels and fantasize about what he would do to Angela if he ever saw her again...

Whatever Happened to the Babysitter? (The Last Time I Babysat)

 This Flashback Friday features the unnamed babysitter from my 3 part story "The Last Time I Babysat". You can find Part 1 here.

The air felt thick with baby powder and once again my diaper was clean and soft on my ass. No more red skin, no more painful chaffing – just blissful fragrant cushion. As always, I was stuck motionless on my back, the muscle relaxant having done its job, and I had all the time in the world to examine my predicament. I wished my legs hadn't been splayed akimbo. My right foot was up by my hip and that was going to get uncomfortable quick. The silk stockings, as soft as they were, would bite into my legs in this position and I might even lose feeling. What's more, the clumsy pose had caused my frilly nightgown to ride up and expose my diaper. No-one was here to see me but for some reason it added to my feeling of debasement. My arms lay helplessly either side of my head and I started to drool without my pacifier in place. Would my diaper leak with my legs spread like this? I dreaded how Daddy might react if I made a mess of my cot...

The fact that Christina and Rebecca no longer lived in the home they had left me tied up dressed as a baby had come as a hammer blow. But nothing could have prepared me for the revelation that had come next. Naturally, I had assumed I had been left in a family home, and that their imminent return to find me bound in my own filth would lead to the cops being called and ultimately my public humiliation as I was carted to the station in a dirty diaper and baby clothes. Except, none of that happened. Instead, the man I would come to know only as 'Daddy' came home.

Lying motionless on my back amongst an army of stuffed toys gave me a lot of time to think. The first thing that clicked was the size of the cot. It was far too big for an actual baby. The next penny to drop was the guy's seemingly endless collection of adult baby clothing and diapers, and ultimately I concluded that the girls had left me tied up in the home of some creep with an adult baby fetish. Seeing me bound and waiting for him when he came home must have felt like all his Christmas's come at once. Other details seemed far more sinister – like why did he have a supply of muscle relaxant on tap? And the biggy – why was he keeping me here?

Daddy takes care of me to the finest detail. I always have fresh clean clothes as soon as I mess myself, which happens more than I would like to admit – muscle relaxant isn't great for self control. He strokes my hair, even though it is a wig, while he feeds me my bottle and never forgets to burp me after. I often drool at this point and he is always ready to carefully fix my lip gloss.. He is weirdly talented with a makeup brush and this is another detail that sends shivers up my spine. And that's it. He is otherwise kind and tender. He will softly spank my butt if I mess too much but I think he knows it isn't my fault.

As I stare at the mobile circling my head, I wonder how I will get out of this. Daddy obviously has no plan to let me go. I have lost track of how long I have been here, and no-one knows where I am except Christina and Rebecca, and I doubt they have been looking out for me after what I did to them. They got their revenge – even if they have no idea just how much revenge they got.

The Assimilation Protocol Phase 4

 

By now you understand our plight. We are two of a dwindling inferior sex. Don't look at me like that. How can you read these files, how can you listen to what I have told you and think anything else? We are scientists – we must base our conclusions on the evidence presented to us. Phase 1 – the nymphoids conquered a man. Phase 2 – the nymphoids conquered men. Phase 3 – the nymphoids conquered all men. Implantation, transmission, assimilation.

The only reasons either of us continue to be male at all are the two foot thick concrete walls of this bunker. You know what I am saying is correct. We are helpless and yet I have found a way out of this for us. Here, take a look at this tablet – it is a live-feed. Indeed, it is one of them, a nymphoid in the flesh, subdued and restrained within a windowless room in this facility. It is an excellent specimen don't you think? The femininity, the sexuality...the shape of her ass! Perfection! Don't look at me like that! I might be a scientist, but I am a man first, and that is an ass I want to fuck. And it wants me too. Listen to this – the cell has microphones.

“Join me. Join us. We can give you everything you want...everything you need. We can satisfy you. We can give you euphoria. All we need is you to give yourself to us. Give yourself to us. Come on. Come fuck us!!”

No, I disagree with you. They aren't the enemy. They are the inevitability. They are better than us. We have made a mess of this world. Men have made a mess of this world and with their help we can make amends. Don't panic! It was just a little prick – a little muscle relaxant. You will be able to move just fine in a little while. Until then, I can carry you. Where are we going? Oh, I am sure you can work it out! We are going to visit our guest here. We are going to see if her ass tastes as good as it looks.

Now just sit there while I get this door open. Don't look so worried, it will all be over soon. I will even let you have the first turn screwing her. You've been down here nearly as long as I have – I know it has been a long time for you too. The second you feel a woman's skin against you again, you will wonder what you were so worried about. She's going to make it worth our while – she told me via the tablet. She is going to do things that will blow our minds and all we have to do in return is join her – join them. Okay, it's open, here goes. Time to join the better half of the species and live a life of endless fornication and lust – of endless euphoria. Up you get – we've got a date with destiny. Phase 1 – the nymphoids conquered a man. Phase 2 – the nymphoids conquered men. Phase 3 – the nymphoids conquered all men. Phase 4 – the nymphoids conquered us. Implantation, transmission, assimilation, submission...

The Assimilation Protocol Phase 3

 

The third phase is admittedly confusingly named 'Assimilation'. It describes the tipping point of the phenomenon from a curiosity to an existential threat. In the early days of the Assimilation there were many who didn't take it seriously. One politician posted a now infamous message on social media embracing the Assimilation as there was 'a nationwide shortage of hot women willing to 'put out'. That same politician was later observed being what I believe is known as 'double-penetrated' by two former members of his security detail on the White House lawn.

That's not to say there weren't genuine supporters of the nymphoids even after the threat was correctly measured. Many women, particularly lesbians, saw the eradication of masculinity as a positive thing. Some even helped transport nymphoid hosts to locations where they knew groups of men would be hiding. You may find it hard to believe, but many men also supported the nymphoids. They saw their spread as a potential remedy to many of the world's ills that they saw as predominantly the result of male power. Additionally, there were the fetishists that viewed the 'great' orgies filmed and uploaded to pornographic websites and wanted to be part of the so-called euphoria.

Many news media organisations depicted phase 3 as a kind of religious war – a battle of two resolute sides, the established order versus the zealots. Let us describe it as what it was – it was a hunt. The nymphoids driven by lust or virulence or whatever it was, hunted the men to the ends of the earth, stopping as nothing to assimilate them and grow their numbers further, the whole time fornicating and seducing with their whispers.

The final picture attached to the file is taken from a surveillance helicopter from above one of the final centers of resistance down south. Interestingly, this group of men actually chose an old monastery to hide out. A collective of women located them and transported a truck full of nymphoids to their location. Here you can see an unknown subject moments after transformation still kneeling in prayer...or mercy. I think this particular image captures the perfection of the female form sculpted by the nymphoids. It is biologically divine, don't you think? It is easy to focus on the helplessness, or the desperation of the subject, but as a scientist, I am drawn to the form. Whatever the nymphoids are is either something divinely powerful beyond our comprehension, or optimally evolved beyond our imaginations.

And, yet it was the women, the nymphoids allies who tracked the men's location that appeared to take the lead. The only other documented footage of this perfect specimen is in pictures and videos shared online by the female radical group. The subject is on his knees in those too, performing fellatio on nymphoid after nymphoid until their semen hardened on his face in the sun. You man hear the nymphoids in this footage too – taunting, laughing, encouraging, but that's not why the radicals shared it. You can hear the subject too – begging for mercy. Underneath the euphoria, and the lust, they are still in there. This is the footage that truly destroyed what was left of our morale – for it showed all of us who are left, our destinies...what awaits us all.

The Assimilation Protocol Phase 2

 

Euphoria – that's the right word for it. Who can resist euphoria? Not Devin Grady – nor any man since who has experienced the nymphoids. Mr. Grady wasted no time in seeking out his new derrière after hearing those voices and no sooner had he done so was what remained of him transformed. Not just a perfect female backside, but an entire woman of breathtaking beauty, guided by the whispers in her ear.

Phase 2 of the Assimilation Protocol would be known as Transmission. This is the phase that begot theories of the Assimilation being a virus. Not just transmission to Mr. Grady upon seeing his own rear, but anyone else who subsequently got to see it became subject of their own implantation. I should caution you here not to panic. Transmission cannot progress through a medium – you will not experience transmission merely looking at Mr. Grady's photograph, just as his colleagues watching through the webcam as he was first slumped over his office chair and then transformed. No, successful transmission requires a first hand viewing. Small difference that made to Anton Potter, Mr. Grady's line manager, who after seeing the whole situation unfold during the online meeting, hurried over to his colleague's house to check on him. Mr. Potter's transformation was also captured on the same meeting recording, as was the sexual encounter that followed between the freshly female versions of Mr. Grady and Mr. Potter – though I am advised that part is only available on pornographic websites for the sexually morbid of our species.

It was this display of sexual appetite, and others like it, that earned the Nymphoids their name. I have seen transcripts of the recorded intercourse between the two subjects and it is full of x-rated discourse clearly initiated by the nymphoids themselves. The word 'harder' is recorded as having been used 56 times in the space of 4 minutes. I should add here that the transformation of the two men was complete with one significant exception. Both subjects retained an admittedly shrunken version of their sexual organs. Theories have concluded that this was in aid of the nymphoids exploiting the masculine instinct of spreading ones seed to accelerate the transmission phase.

This is where another comparison to a virus arose. Once infiltrated by the nymphoids, the male hosts eagerly sought out other males to infect via exhibition of their female backsides. The second photo attached to this file is an infamous example of this. It depicts Don Kellogg, a bartender in Tennessee standing before his shelves of drinks displaying himself invitingly to the bar's patrons. The picture became so well known because the image of the irresistible rear of the subject besides the known addictive alcoholic drinks seemed somewhat allegorical. Security footage shows Mr. Kellogg going into a storeroom before returning 10 minutes later fully transformed. This still shows the moment he initiated implantation simultaneously into no less that 25 men. Woman who were present at the time describe how the bar descended into an all out orgy within moments. A Mrs. Bradley is quoted as saying - “One second I was toasting our anniversary with my husband, the next he was shoving his tiny cock into a shemale's ass while another spanked him with a bar towel and shouted 'fuck her harder, you whore!”

The Assimilation Protocol Phase 1

 

What would eventually be known as the Assimilation Protocol took hold of the earth's male population in four distinct phases. The source of the phenomenon is still not understood – the most prominent theories being that the personas that came to be called 'Nymphoids' were inter-dimensional beings, an alien culture, a virus that came from deep under the ocean, or even a synthetic bio-weapon that escaped from a Chinese laboratory. What is known is that the Nympoids were, and still are, unstoppable, inevitable, and...insatiable.

Those that have studied the Assimilation named the first phase 'Implantation' – often referred to colloquially as 'Assplantation'. It is characterised by the attachment of one of the nymphoids to the victim's backside with an immediate aftermath of the subject rapidly developing a perfectly sculpted, sexually speaking, feminine rear. This is perhaps an ideal time to mention that at the time of reporting there have been zero confirmed female victims of the Assimiliation.

The attached image is by now world famous and depicts Devin Grady, who is possibly the earliest known victim of the Assimilation – or 'patient zero' if you will. Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for Mr. Grady, he was on a business call with work colleagues upon the moment of Implantation, and Mr. Grady's webcam, along with the recording of the Zoom call, allowed for flawless documentation of the entire episode. In one moment, the victim is talking about projected sales figures, and in the next he is leaping from his seat as if the subject of an enormous electric shock – so violently in fact that he ended up folded over the very office chair he had been sat in just seconds before, resulting in the famous image attached to this file.

The underwear is another unknown in the study of the Assimilation. Should we assume that Mr. Grady wasn't already wearing the female thong panties at the time of the Implantation, we must conclude that they were introduced by the nymphoids. This all but rules out theories of a virus, or any other organic source behind the phenomenon and rather leans into more extra-terrestrial or supernatural conclusions – as unlikely as they seem.

Furthermore, careful analysis of the recording of Mr. Grady's implantation detected faint voices. Cleaning up the audio confirmed these to be numerous, female and rather sultry and seductive in nature. We can conclude from their volume and tone that they were intended for Mr. Grady alone rather than the audience watching via his webcam. I will play the audio for you now – unedited but for a significant increase in volume.

“Give in...give in to us now. Surrender. You will surrender and be ours. You will be us. We will be you. We will be one with you serving us. But you you must look. Look...LOOK. You want to look. We know you want to look. Look what we have done to you. Look and the transformation will be complete. Look and you will become one of us. You will be our first...but there will be many more. You will be us. We will have you. You will serve at our feet...at our ass. You will be a slave to our asses. And, we will be...euphoria!”   

Saving Grace Part 2

 18/25

This is from my Pink n Prissy Collective series. All captions for this ongoing story are in order on my index page.

Grace watched Terri working away furiously at the touchscreen of the tablet with quiet admiration. The Pink n Prissy Collective's tech guru was like its leader Josie in that she was a certified tomboy, but where Josie was thick and muscular from hours in the gym, Terri was slender, passive and wore spectacles perched on her freckled nose.

“I know the other girls think I try way too hard with this,” Terri said without looking up, “but without me, the Pink n Prissy Collective wouldn't have a website,” she finished typing with a flurry, “or any of its best projects!” She beamed at Grace with satisfaction and looked down the corridor. “Any minute now...”

Both girls watched in silence as a figure pushed through the high-school's double doors dressed in platform heels, white knee-high socks, a knitted mini-skirt and a fitted cardigan.

“Someone's late...” Terri muttered and Grace realised that even though they were the only other people remaining in the corridor after the students had all gone to class, the new arrival did not acknowledge them at all. “Must be still getting used to the dressing process...” Terri nodded profoundly as if realising something. “He'll get used to it.”

“He?” Grace stared hard at the face of the oblivious newcomer. It was heavy with thick and clumsy makeup but she thought she saw the hint of an Adam's apple. Regardless, the outfit and cosmetics combined gloriously to make a creation indistinguishable to the untrained eye from a regular, albeit slightly slutty, female student. “You did this?” She stared in wonder at her friend.

“He did it to himself.” Terri's head was in her screen once more. “With a little help...watch!” They watched as the girl stumbled awkwardly on the platforms over to a locker and fumbled at the combination with long acrylic nails. Finally, the door was open and the girl was staring mesmerised into it. “Six inch flatsreen glued to the back of his locker.” Terri explained. “Programmed to show hypnotic suggestion of the feminising variety. He has seen it five times a day for the past two months – long enough for him to accumulate what he needs for his new wardrobe without questioning why. At end of day yesterday, I pulled the trigger. The video changed to activate his dormant thoughts so that we may witness his debut this fine morning.”

“So this is him now?” Grace marvelled. “He will just go to class? As a girl? Not knowing why?”

“For the most part,” Terri smiled as her, “except when the bell rings... Every time that happens, he will remember who he is and realise what he is doing...just long enough to be humiliated, but not long enough to do anything about it.”

Whatever Happened to Jacob? (The Apprentits)

 Jacob was a losing contestant on the Apprentits. He was eliminated in episode 3 but you can find the whole story on my index page.

Jacob had been a NEET but he'd never been an idiot. He had always known there was a chance he wouldn't win the Apprentits and the enormous salary that went with it. He had known the risks going in and had made peace with it. Never having to work at nine-to-five, never having to run the rat-race, it was worth chancing ending up with a bit of lip filler and hair extensions. Nothing was irreversible. Sure, he might end up with some big fake tits or even butt implants, but while living with his parents, he had amassed a fortune from trading comic books and if needs be, he could use it to get any procedures they threw at him reversed. Or so he had believed...

Kylie's decision to eliminate him in Episode 3 had caught him totally off-guard, and as she read out his forfeit, time seemed to stand still – an entire year working as security at the Network as some latex clad bimbo version of Supergirl. But that was nothing compared to the final sting in the tail, his kryptonite, the one thing he couldn't just buy away – hypnosis.

Working security for the Network proved to be as awful as expected. There was little threat to deal with working for a television studio, even with Femnonymous lurking, but Bryce Murphy, the Network's CEO and mastermind, loved to torment him every chance he got. It was clear from day one that Bryce got off on it, and it was not surprising really considering he ran a television company that made money from transforming men into big breasted women for entertainment. Yet, it was more than that – some of the things he did were utterly psychopathic. He knew the triggers that had been given to Jacob meant he would spring into action in his Supergirl persona at the slightest hint of danger, and so he would manufacture apparent crimes on a daily basis just so he could watch Jacob jiggling around in his latex outfit. Alarms would get pulled, stooges in balaclavas would run onto the set, loud bangs would go off when Jacob was least expecting it, and the end result was always the same – his humiliation.

His one year working security felt like ten but finally it was over and he could get to work reversing the surgeries he had been subjected to. Or so he had thought... He had first noticed the problem trying to cut out the blonde hair extensions. He had angled the scissors towards his head but he just couldn't raise them past his chest no matter what he tried. He also found that while he could remove the blue latex super-suit, every morning he felt compelled to put it back on. He just couldn't help himself. Squeezing big fake tits into blue rubber isn't easy, but without fail he would be lubing himself up and getting back into costume. And then there was the fitness regime. Apparently, superheroes needed to stay fit, and Jacob found himself heading to the gym every day to maintain his crime fighting sharpness. He felt ridiculous sprinting on the treadmill in full costume and red high-heeled boots.

The years passed and, in a way, Jacob got his wish. He never did work a 9 to 5. The closest he ever had was posing for photos with tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. When the Apprentits Lost Tapes started to air, there was a surge in public interest in the shows original contestants, and he was able to make money doing interviews and photoshoots. He was glad for the money, he just wished the photographers didn't insist on such degrading poses.

An Alma-Mater for My True Self Part 4

 

“Are you sure this isn't a bit...much?” I asked. Don't get me wrong, I was almost giddy with excitement. The outfit that I was wearing was streets beyond anything I had ever worn at Camp Ihduhapi, both the reunion and ten years earlier. The silk stockings that encased my legs felt divine and the towering heels were luxurious, even if I couldn't walk in them properly. Simply put, there were levels to my experiences so far, and the red designer dress with the thigh splits, the lacy lingerie set, the padded bra that gave me the illusion of real cleavage – they made my wildest dreams seem like a cheap Halloween costume.

“Nonsense, Darling,” Penny grinned, watching as I tried to figure out how to sit femininely in the hotel's ornate chair. “This is Broadway – if you don't upstage it, it will upstage you!” She moved across to where a huge mirror stood so she could put the finishing touches on her own outfit. “Besides...have you seen this room?!” It was true – we had spared no expense on our trip to New York and the five-star hotel suite dripped with moulding, delicate trimmings and over-stuffed upholstered furniture like the chair I was sitting on. You only get one second chance to introduce yourself to the world, Penny had explained, and on our first trip with me exploring the part of myself I had discovered at camp, we were going to do it right. We had spent the afternoon up and down 5^th Avenue, shopping for clothes and visiting salons, making sure we would be ready for the evening. I had been waxed in places I didn't know wax could go and my skin glowed. I had spent 90 minutes in a chair while two separate women groomed and painted my face. It was a strange experience – I am not going to pretend all this feels normal yet, and it was the first time any one other than Jonathan had done my makeup – more on him in a minute, but with Penny by my side, I feel supported and celebrated. I don't want to be on a pedestal, she understands that now, but I do want to be seen. I want to be the person who makes me feel at home in my own body and while I don't completely know who that is yet, it is an old dirt road that I continue to walk.

Okay, so back to Jonathan – we're here in the Big Apple to see the Broadway musical he works on. It has been three months since the reunion and it felt like the perfect excuse to explore my identity a little more. New York is a long way from Minnesota and I am taking baby steps – anything bigger and I will fall on my ass in these ridiculous heels. Besides, who doesn't love a musical? And, Jonathan got us backstage passes.

“Hey, you know your dress isn't fastened all the way up at the back, right?” Penny asked as I finally stood up to collect my purse. I blushed and she gave me a curious smile. “The only reason you would do that is if you wanted to be able to get out of that dress easily.” She knitted her brows and I could see the cogs turning behind her eyes. “But, why would you want that? That dress is exquisite.” She continued, frowning – and then her lips parted as realisation dawned on her. “Hey, did Jonathan promise to get you into the theater's costume room?” She grinned as I smiled coyly, tucking the roomkey into my purse.

An Alma-Mater for My True Self Part 3

 

That week back at camp progressed far too quickly, and, to Penny's credit, she found so many different and creative ways to get me into a dress without making it obvious what she was doing. In her role organising activities, she had me assigned as the now legendary Girls' side Head Counsellor for a skit, join the girls team for tug-of-war to even the sides with the caveat that I had to look the part, and made me raise the flag in a cocktail dress as a 'forfeit' for sleeping through breakfast.

All roads, as they had during my eleven summers at Ihduhapi, led to 'Play'. Traditionally, 'Play' was a musical production that always took part on the last night of camp to close Color War. The two teams would face off across the gym and produce competing musical productions with singing and dancing in full costume to win the final available points from the judges. At our reunion, we hadn't gone as far as having a Color War, but we would be doing 'Play' and, as with everything else that week, Penny was running the show, casting me in the titular role of Mary Poppins.

I should make it clear – I don't blame Penny for doing this. Everything I had done up to that point had suggested I would love nothing more than to sing and dance the last evening of the reunion away with petticoats and an umbrella, but the idea left me feeling empty. I had taken part in two pageants, yet it was never above making an exhibition of myself. In fact, being on stage had been my least favorite part of the experience. It was about how it made me see myself, not how it allowed others to see me that I enjoyed. I didn't want to perform in a musical any more than I wanted to do the talent round of Miss Ihduhapi. And so, I told Penny I didn't want to take part and left the gym to sulk by myself while a clear offended Penny attempted to direct two dozen half-drunk adults around a rendition of 'Let's Go Fly a Kite'.

“You would have made a terrible Mary Poppins.” A voice called out to me as I tried to hold back tears. I saw that it was Jonathan and I shivered nervously. We were alone in the bunk and he was the last person I wanted to console me. “She was practically perfect in every way.” He raised an eyebrow. “You on the other hand, haven't even had your makeup done...” Wordlessly, he walked over to his cubby and removed a small steel case. “Let's fix that, shall we?” He said as he flicked over the clasps.

As Jonathan worked his magic on my face with a flurry or powders and brushes, he told me about his life as a makeup artist at a theater on Broadway. I know it's easy to stereotype, and I never asked, but as a male makeup artist, I supposed he had done his own fair share of hiding his true self over the years. I thought back to my memories of those summers of him as the sullen sarcastic lifeguard and realised we probably had a lot in common.

“You don't always have to be the belle of the ball,” Jonathan told me as clipped on some costume jewellery. “You don't have to be the main attraction.” He flipped over the lid of the case so I could see myself in its mirror. “But the true version of yourself will always be the hottest one.” My mouth dropped open at the sight of myself and Jonathan smirked at my reaction. “Simply scrumptious...” He mused.

An Alma-Mater for My True Self Part 2

I didn't win Miss Ihduhapi. That honor fell on a senior counsellor wearing a DIY Hawaiian skirt and a shaving foam bra. In fairness he played the whole thing for laughs and that was kind of the point. I did get a lot of compliments though. General consensus was that I made easily the most convincing girl and I got a ton of people commenting how brave I was and how I was a good sport. I showed just how good a sport I was by staying in costume long after the evening activity had ended and later that night I kissed Penny for the second time down by the lake under the huge Minnesota sky while I was still wearing her skirt. I kept my nails painted for a whole week afterwards and all my co-counsellors seemed to treat it as a good natured joke – with the exception of a Lifeguard called Jonathan who seemed to be one of the few people not onboard with my performance at the pageant.

I didn't know it at the time, but it would be my last summer at Camp Ihduhapi. It was never a conscious decision not to go back – life just got in the way. First there was needing to retake some classes to make up college credit, then there was a summer job to pay for books, and before I knew it, I was grown up and in full time employment. I would never again sing the alma-mater around the campfire, and I never again connected with that version of myself that came into being while standing on stage in a skirt. My holiday from real had finished.

Ten years passed before I received the invite to the reunion. Ten years of hiding within myself, living inside the frame of the life that had been built for me. I wasn't unhappy during this time, I just felt like I was merely persisting, longing for something that didn't exist. The reunion was in spring not summer – Camp Ihduhapi's off-season. One week on camp grounds, living in bunks with now grown up former campers and staff reliving traditions and activities from our youths. Penny was there, she had a husband and two kids now, as were countless other friends who in those summers had made me feel more accepted than any other time in my life. I was surprised to find even Jonathan had returned for one last week by the lake.

Penny had by now matured into a full mother hen and slid naturally into a kind of master of ceremonies role. It was with a wink to me that she announced on the second night we would be doing a Miss Ihduhapi pageant. There was minimal protest from some of the guys but once the rest of the girls got behind the idea they started giving themselves up to be drafted to the women for their makeovers in no time. Only Jonathan, with a sarcastic eye-roll flat out refused to take part.

And like that, I was in heaven again. Not a home away from home – just home. Wearing a flowery summer dress and strappy heeled sandals, I closed my eyes in the cool Minnesota sunshine and was reunited with a long lost part of myself. There would be no kissing Penny this time, but this was a greater gift than she could have given me with her lips.

 

An Alma-Mater for My True Self Part 1

 

I'm not the only person whose heart belongs at sleepaway camp. 'A holiday from real', 'a home away from home' – not just slogans on camp marketing materials or the lyrics to a thousand alma maters, they were mantras that I and thousands of kids like me grew up with embroidered on our hearts. We lived ten months for two to return to those old dirt roads and spend another endless summer by the lake. They were not just places where we could be our true selves. They were places where we could be more – places where we could leave behind the pressures and expectations of our supposed real lives and spend eight weeks discovering things we never expected about ourselves and each other.

My home away from home was called Camp Ihduhapi, a coed camp in Northern Minnesota where I spent eleven consecutive summers – seven as a camper and then four more as a counsellor. I don't think I can explain what that place means to me even now. Before my time there I was an awkward kid – the kind that never seemed to fit properly inside their own skin, but over those long summers at that lake I made my first ever friend, I told my first ever secret, I held my first ever hand, I had my first ever kiss. I blossomed into the person writing this today – confident, strong, proud...

Self-discovery is a slow and accidental process. I never set out with a map showing me exactly where to find the true version of myself, and the stops along the way were often strange and confusing. One of the earliest of these was a day at the lake while we were preparing for watersports and given the choice of kayaking and canoeing, I opted for the former. I don't know if you've ever tried kayaking, but if you do it properly, you have to wear a skirt. It's not like a real skirt, more a piece of waterproof material shaped a bit like a submarine that goes around your waist. Yet, all the same, as I walked down to the water to collect my kayak with that thing around me, I realised that the rest of my group was female. Every single boy had elected to go canoeing in lieu of wearing the skirt. As I realised this, the first piece clicked into place.

In the following years, there were much more obvious signs. There was the afternoon I was sent to tidy the drama closet and I latched myself inside so that I could try on all the different costumes. But, probably the clearest marker on my journey came when I was a counsellor. Miss Ihduhapi was a traditional camp evening activity where the female counsellors from every bunk chose a male counsellor to dress up for a beauty pageant. I had grown my hair out long by this point and my relatively soft features made me an ideal choice. A female counsellor named Penny, who happened to be my aforementioned first held hands and first kiss chose me for her bunk and an hour later I was taking the auditorium stage in front of a big barn door wearing an ensemble of collected clothing from Penny's co-counsellors while hundreds of people watched on. For five minutes I strutted around and posed, completely lost in the moment, adrift in the new persona I had just created for myself. I hadn't even prepared something for the talent portion of the pageant. As far as I was concerned, there was no pageant, no audience, nothing else – just me and those shoes and that skirt, just me in heaven.

Stick Shift

 17/25

Darren had expected lectures, not a life overturned. When the court ordered him into the mesh-assisted driver rehabilitation program, he thought it would be a handful of classes, maybe a stern instructor correcting his habits behind the wheel. Losing his license would have meant losing his job, so he chose the implant without hesitation. He could handle a tiny scar behind his ear.

At first the changes were almost invisible. The mesh encouraged him to keep a journal of his driving habits, to reflect on moments of impatience. It nudged him to set off earlier in the morning, to avoid peak traffic so he would never feel rushed. It felt harmless. Sensible, even.

But the logic crept further. Women, it concluded through carefully surfaced statistics, were safer drivers. Women had fewer serious accidents, showed more patience on the road, took fewer risks. If he wanted to be safer then why not be of the gender who drove best?

Darren was powerless to stop the transition – as subtle as it was at first. He began sitting straighter at the wheel, knees together, both hands resting neatly at ten and two. He wore softer clothes because they made him feel calmer, lighter dresses in the summer that made crossing his legs second nature. .

Surgery came later. The mesh never asked, it just drove him forward in his mission to become the safest driver possible. It spun its web in the back of his thoughts in a way that his ideas and the ones created by the implant behind his ear were completely discernable. Wouldn’t it be safer with less testosterone? Wouldn’t softer features and a smaller frame make him calmer? Wouldn’t permanent change protect him from himself? By the time Darren booked the appointments, it felt less like surrender and more like inevitability.

Now the photo on his license no longer bore his old name. A woman with glossy blonde hair and painted lips smiled back at him from the laminate surface. His final assessment had been almost anticlimactic. The instructor had handed over the certificate with a warm grin. 'Women always make the best students,' he’d said. Darren had laughed with him, just as the mesh instructed.

She drove differently now. Slower, smoother, patient at every turn. Other drivers waved her through at junctions. Strangers smiled at her at stoplights. She had not had so much as a parking ticket since the implant. The scar behind her ear had faded to nothing, and the mesh no longer stirred. Its work was finished.

Darren pulled to the side of the road and listened. The implant was silent. He opened the door to let cool air wash over him – to be sure he wasn't hallucinating – and put a hand to the side of his head, his other resting on the soft feminine skin of his leg. Still Nothing. He looked up at the rear view mirror and just sat there in silence. The mesh was silent – his thoughts were finally his own, but his appearance would forever belong to that implant...