You Might As Well

If it’s not inevitable, it’s at least foreseeable by those who truly love us.

You Might As Well
By Angela Rasch

“I’m so sorry,” Melissa wailed. Her nose crinkled, signaling either impending tears or a viral distaste for something I’d done. “This whole thing has become one titanic screw-up.”

We were celebrating five years as roommates. As a gift, she had bought me a diamond earring. Our agreement had been that she would pierce my left ear, but she’d thought I meant her left, which was my right . . . and I had been just too confused at the critical moment to stop her.

My right ear throbbed and struggled to understand the weight pulling down on my lobe.

“I’m pretty sure no one pays any attention to right or left anymore,” I opined. “Except maybe my dad.” I added in a whisper.

“Your dad can be unbearable,” she said much louder. “Get over it. You’re not gay,” she added firmly. She and I had tried the bedroom more than once; and it had been okay, but just that.

We were best friends and pleased to have found each other, regrettably we hadn’t turned out to be the ideal couple material . . . for each other.

My dates either accepted the fact that I lived with a gorgeous girl, or I didn’t want anything to do with them. Melissa felt the same way about the guys she dated. It was easier for her men to accept me because I’m slight of build and naturally quiet. I’m sure they all assumed me to be as gay as Neil Patrick Harris. Some even said I resembled him, only about a half a foot shorter.

It had all worked out for Melissa and me as “roommates”, the booby prize of relationships.

I looked around the salon she owned with two other women. It was an hour after closing; and she had been putting a hole in my ear gratis. And now she wanted to make it “ears”.

“This really burns me,” she said through clenched teeth. Her determination worked well with her wholesome good looks. Had she been born fifty years earlier a Hollywood producer would have found her and Doris Day never would have had a career. “The whole idea of the earring was to bring out the real you.”

Oh gawd! Melissa has been badgering me about the “real you” for years and it sounds like I’m going to get another frontal attack. I thought.

She patted my cheek gently. “You’re such a beautiful person. It’s such a pity that you work full time at hiding behind some junior high school playground ideal of masculinity.” Even though she had grown out of a bad case of nerves as a kid I still referred to her by her childhood name, Jumpy . . . but only if the two of us were alone.

I laughed. “I don’t hunt or fish. I can’t name six players on any of the local sports franchises. I don’t own a flannel shirt. I prefer wine to beer, if I drink at all. The closest thing to a sport I play is Bocce ball at picnics. And, I drive a Volkswagen Bug.”

“We both see the kids in school today as part of our jobs, right?”

I nodded.

“Kids today are moving at breakneck speed to gender equity. Years ago girls and boys thought the other sex had cooties, today most have at least one good friend of the opposite sex. Young boys just assume they will have an active role in nurturing their children and that their wife will have a career.”

“I agree things have changed a lot during the last few generations. My dad taught me that men are to be brawny, tough, outspoken, dominant, controlling, and stoic. We were to never show our fear or pain. But I rejected most of that by simply observing my mother in action. She showed me that she could be nurturing AND strong.”

“I admire that about you,” Melissa said. Her voice stopped too abruptly.

“But. . .?”

“But . . . you repress your deep, inner self; and I can see how much it hurts you.” Melissa’s face contorted in apparent sympathy for my angst.

I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure I do what I have to do to get through the day. Don’t we all?”

“You’re not in the seventh grade. The bullies can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Melissa . . . I’m fine. Everything’s okay. Life’s okay. Please don’t worry about me.”

“You don’t realize how miserable you are,” she stated. “I study you more than you realize. I know what you want . . . more than you’re even willing to admit to yourself.”

“Let’s talk about something else.” I picked at the lavender linen cape she’d pulled over me to protect my clothing from my blood “if your ear falls off”.

“The earrings came as a set, anyway,” she allowed. “I was going to sell the other earring on eBay, but you can just consider it an early Christmas present.

No way! She would never break up a set of diamond earrings!

I hadn’t been totally convinced by the idea of an earring, and without her coaxing, which I could never resist, I never would have considered it. “Okay, let’s do both ears.”

She smiled and busily punched a hole in my ear while at the same time fixing a diamond stud. “These are fairly permanent. I can take them out, but it ruins the earrings; and I’m told it’s painful as all heck.”

I flinched. Pain is not something I’m good at. I stared in the mirror at the earrings that sparkled on either side of my head. “They look much bigger than what they looked before we started. . . when they were in the box.”

She laughed, apparently having forgiven herself for her supposed error, now that we’d moved on. “That’s just the way this mirror works,” she explained. “It makes things larger so that my clients can examine the cut I’ve given them.”

I nodded.

“It’s agony for my clients with enlarged pores.” She punched my arm. “By the way, I’m kidding about your earrings being permanent. But, Jason, you’d better love those sparklers,” she warned. “I would have been disappointed had I not been able to convince you to wear both of them.”

I raised both hands in defense. “They’re delightful. They’re wonderful. They’re not something I would have bought for myself, but I do love them.” I turned my head from side to side. I’d never had a diamond anything and couldn’t believe how much they caught the light. “You don’t think. . .?” I started.


“Oh, don’t worry about it.” I started to rise out of the chair, but she stood her ground, putting an arm on each of my shoulders to holding me in a sitting position.

“Tell me!” she insisted. Her face had set into that don’t-mess-with-me frown she favored when she made a decision. She had been using that face on me for over two decades.

I knitted my brow. “You don’t think I look a little . . . feminine? Do you?”

“Sweetie,” she said evenly, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You are ‘a little feminine’.”

“How?” I asked petulantly. “What is it about me that makes you say that?”

“Oh, you hide it well enough, but after I lived with you about four months I knew the truth.”

That’s about when we quit being a couple. That figures.

She studied me closely. Her facial features softened. “Now that you’ve drawn my attention to how you look, your hair could stand a little trim.”

“Really?” I like my hair long, but I have to be careful not to let it get away from me.

“Uh huh. As long as you’re in my salon and sitting in my chair, why don’t you break down and allow me the honor of cutting your hair?”

My mane is my pride and joy. I’ve been going to the same barbershop for nearly ten years. I started with a brush cut coming out of college and had gradually let it grow to shoulder-length with a monthly visit to my barber to clean up the loose ends. Lately my barber’s been heavy on the “barb” asking me when I was going to let him give me a “real” haircut. I’d been thinking about finding someone new. The last time I had my hair cut he said my name should be “Jay-daughter” instead of “Ja-son”. “I suppose you could do your magic on my hair, but you have to let me pay you the regular rate!”

Melissa and I had been living paycheck-to-paycheck when we first started rooming together, but my blog had grown into a high six figure annual income and her salon was one of the most successful in town. We had recently moved to a condo in uptown that screamed about our success. I was considering moving out of the office suite I shared with five other small businesses, into a 3,000 square foot office that would allow a conference room and private office space for the four researchers I had on staff.

“This will be fun!” she enthused. “We’ll go out to dinner after I’m done. If you like how you look, you pick up the tab.”

“Okay . . . that’s more than fair. Just make sure you change my hair enough so that the diamonds look right . . . for me. BUT . . . don’t cut off too much hair. Just enough,” I added weakly. She’s one of the best at what she does to peoples’ hair and make-up. I think people trust her opinions because she always looks perfect.

“Don’t you worry,” she smiled. “We’ll start with a shampoo. I’m going to give your hair a deep conditioning.”

“Okay,” I said warily. I trust Melissa. There’s nothing she would ever do to me that wasn’t in my best interest.

“Jason,” she said as she lathered my head, “your hair is the window to your soul. I can take one look at a person’s haircut and tell you more about them than they often know about themselves.”

“Riiiighttt!” I said skeptically.

“No . . . really.” She giggled. “The police should hire me to walk the streets and look at people’s hair. I could stop crime before it happens.”

“Are you saying I look like a criminal?” I teased.

She shook her head. “You look just fine, but when I get done with you you’re going to look perfect. The only crime you’re committing is hiding yourself from the world.”

I tittered. No one would ever accuse Melissa of giving up too easily.

I watched her work, amazed in her professionalism. Melissa prided herself on her “creations”. She elevated a person’s appearance through her skills and was the personal cosmetician and hairdresser for three of the anchorwomen and two male sportscasters for the local network affiliates. She had to carefully schedule them so that none of them knew she worked on their rivals.

“Your hair is pretty amazing already,” she said. “I love its natural curl. I’m just going to do a few little tricks.” She fell silent as she ministered to me.

I relaxed and allowed my mind to drift while she worked. My barber was always so intense, pestering me for my opinion of the conference race in whatever sport was in season. I liked sports and followed the teams enough to be conversational with the guys, but he seemed to know all the players’ blood-types. At least I’m not going to feel inadequate chatting with Melissa.

“What do you think of Paulo?” Melissa asked. Paulo had been dating Melissa for about a month. They hadn’t had a sleepover yet, and by her normal schedule it was time for “the decision”.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly.

“He’s cute . . . don’t ya think?”

“Uhm, he’s sort of handsome, I suppose. He has a lot of muscles,” I offered.

“Yah, I know. I’m not sure I like those muscles either.”

I didn’t say I don’t like them. “I’ve never had a mustache or a beard. His facial hair seems really high-maintenance.”

“I know what you mean. He has a two-day stubble every time I see him, even if it’s on consecutive days.”

“Does it hurt when he kisses you?”

“Close your eyes,” she said quietly. “Imagine you’ve just come home from a romantic evening with Paulo. He’s spent at least four or five hundred dollars on a meal and a night on the town, complete with cut flowers that are in our cerulean vase next to the couch.”

In my mind I can see the flowers on the side table next to our sectional sofa. I love our couch’s rolled arms and turned feet and hadn’t balked at splitting its nearly ten thousand dollar cost. Melissa and I had argued a dozen times whether that vase was cerulean or cyan.

“Keep thinking. Paulo has you in his arms. His freakishly large hands are gently pulling you toward his eager lips.”

Paulo has nice lips. He’s more of a boy/man than he’d like to think.

“There’s not an ounce of fat on him,” she said non-committedly. “You’re surrounded by lumps of muscle.”

I can feel Paulo’s hard bulges contrasting with the soft plush furniture under us.

“He’s placed his lips on yours. You’re liking what you feel and sucking a bit on his tongue. Moving to your bedroom is becoming an option , when . . . yuck, that darned beard. . ..”

Paulo’s beard is scrapping against my soft face; and I know exactly what Melissa means. I shudder and return to the real world where I’m Jason, whose roommate is cutting his hair.

“I’m not kidding, Jason. If I could give all of my men a dozen or so facial treatments of electrolysis, I’d do it for nothing!”

For the next hour Melissa did things to my hair I didn’t understand, but she seemed determined and confident, so I trusted her. Trusting her has been in my fiber for too long to quit now.

She chatted cozily while she worked. We shared a lot of similar interests, but she seemingly only wanted to talk about boys. At times she played that same imagination game with me and mentally dragged me into her bedroom with past boyfriends. I felt their hands on me in ways that I’d never experienced with my girlfriends. Some of it was pleasant and some just plain awful, which explained why a lot of them were never asked back for another night.

Our games also affirmed to me that my preference for a sexual partner would always be a woman, even though men were constantly hitting on me in bars. Some of them were heteros who had Miss-identified me.

She sighed. “I’ve done it again. You look terrific.” She spun the chair so that I could see in the mirrors that made things look bigger.

My eyes grew huge while I stared. “Melissa, have you gone mad? My hair looks like Rebecca Storm’s does on Channel 11.”

“It’s not exactly the same,” she pouted. “I would never do that . . . to either of you. Other than it being similar to Rebecca’s, don’t you love it?”

I don’t want to offend her.
“It does look a lot like a haircut Mick Jagger might have.”

“Mick Jagger? He’s like a hundred and twenty. His hair has never looked as this good.” She fluffed the sides, which were feathered around my ears.

I struggled for a word to describe my hair and could only come up with “flirty”.

Closing my eyes I counted to ten . . . sloooowwly

“I lightened your mousy-brown mop. This color is called ‘wildflower honey’.”

She made me a blonde. “But . . . I now have bangs.”

“Of course you do. I simply couldn’t let you go on constantly pushing hair out of your eyes. You’re going to love this look, once you get used to it.”

I closed my eyes and tried the counting thing, again. . . .Eight. . .Nine. . .TEN! She’s my best friend! She’s my best friend! She’s my best friend!

“Tell you what,” she offered. “Let’s go out to dinner. If you don’t get rave compliments on your hair, I’ll bring you right back here and change you back into old, too-timid-to-try-something-fun Jason.”

I stared at the mirror trying to put the best face on what I saw. “But . . . what will people think?”

“People are too busy to think about you all that much. Your trouble is you imagine the worst and skip out on the best, because of your fear.”

“I do not! Geez, who else do you know who has made as many leaps of faith with their business as I have with mine?”

She punched my chest with her forefinger. “That’s right. And, how’s that working for you?”

I smirked. “You know it’s going good.”

“So, relax and go with the flow in your personal life, for once.”

I peered in the mirror at “the flow” Melissa had created and shuddered, but decided to remain quiet about my misgivings, for once. “The earrings do match this haircut,” I admitted begrudgingly.

“Of course they do,” she stated firmly. “Ohhh, you know what? As long as you’re here I should give you a manicure. Your fingernails are a sight.”

Melissa had coaxed me long ago to file my nails rather than cut them. Unfortunately I had a bad habit of waiting too long to file. Consequently they were much longer that what they should be. Keyboarding my blog didn’t really break many nails.

She took my hands into hers. “You have lovely hands. I’ve always found them to be so pleasingly expressive.” She shaped my fingernail tips into ovals, and then coated them all with a clear coat that she said dried super-fast. “The mistake so many people make is to avoid color. Just a small amount of sugar pink will make your nails look younger and healthier.”

“I don’t know?” What’s she trying to do to me?

“It’s no big deal. I have buckets of nail polish remover, if it doesn’t look great.”

I’ve known Melissa forever – five years living with her. She’s as solid as a rock. She’s my mini-boulder. “Let’s go for it.”

The unmistakable aroma of nail polish saturated the room and sank into my psyche, while she expertly covered my fingers within seconds.

“Now,” she grinned, “sit quietly -- and for gosh sakes -- don’t run your hands through your hair.”

My hair! I’d forgotten what she’s done to me.
“Will I have to cut off much length to reverse what you’ve done?”

“You are a pistol.” She clucked her teeth at me several times, which is her way of damning me for eternity. “Give it some time before you decide what you like and don’t like.”

I glanced at a mirror and cringed. “I look like a fool . . . androgynous.”

“I can name fifteen people who pay me big bucks to make them gorgeous who would double what they pay me if they looked half as good as you.” She smirked. “There’s nothing all that wrong with ‘androgynous’.”

“Nature hates ambivalence,” I corrected her. “We all must be either fish, or fowl.”

“Is that right?”

Here it comes. When she smirks like that I’m about to hear the obvious . . . some lesson I should’ve learned in my pre-school days, when she taught me everything else.

“Can you close your eyes again?”

I did.

“Think of Winnie Thompson.”

Winnie did odd jobs in our community. She stood about six foot tall and weighed maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. She once built a deck for a friend of ours and hauled around six by six by ten upright beams like they were made of plastic, instead of cedar. “Okay. She’s a delightful woman who’s never harmed a soul and is as honest as the day is long.”

“I’m not saying she isn’t a sweet person. Now I’d like you to form a mental picture of Scott Nichols.”

Scott directed the community theater group. If a metrosexual were a seven, he would be a ten on the “gay-dar” scale. “Scott’s not a homosexual. In fact, he’s married with four kids.”

“We’re not discussing sexuality,” Melissa bristled. “You suggested a fish or fowl gender world and I’m saying that’s a myth. Now . . . do you have a mental image of both Scott and Winnie?”

“I do, and I want to go on record saying they both are good friends of mine. I’m proud to call them friends and hope they think the same of me.”

She giggled. “You’re really avoiding the point. Close your eyes and think of your two wonderful friends. Now be honest; and tell me which of them is masculine and which is feminine.”

I shrugged. “You’ve made your point, but how does that apply to me?”

She pointed to a wall of her salon covered with plaques and other awards. “I’ve risen to the top of my profession by bringing out the best in my clients, would you agree?”

I’ve been through her very confidential book of before and after pictures of her clients. She invariably makes the person seem more approachable . . . more honest. “For some reason, after you’ve worked with one of your clients they seem to be someone everyone wants to have as a friend.”

“Uh huh.” She thought for a moment. “Close your eyes again and think about our old neighbor, Carl.” Carl had lived across the hall from us in the first apartment Melissa and I had shared. “Do you have a good picture of Carl in your mind?”

I nodded.

“Good. Look him over for a bit. Think so hard you can see the chip in his left front tooth.” She remained quiet while I thought about Carl. “What is it about Carl that made him so horrible to live next to as a neighbor.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “He was a self-hater.”

Her eyes brightened. “I would agree, but what about him makes you come to that accurate conclusion?”

I bit my lip. “You have to feel sorry for someone like Carl. He was so busy being someone he thought people wanted him to be that you never really got to know the real him.”

“How so?”

I placed my chin in my hand and unsuccessfully fought back a tear that I had to wipe away before I could go on. Carl had been such a foolish mess. “The clothes he wore were far too expensive for someone working as an assistant manager of a convenience store. I went out for drinks with him and he paid with a $100 bill. Later I saw him chase down the waitress and turn in a bunch of small bills to get the $100 bill back, which he used later to pay for another round of drinks, when it was his turn.”

“I know,” she said simply.

“And, what I hate is that the little I did get to know about him, when you pushed through his façade, he was a really awesome guy. He built birdhouses to hang outside the assisted living center, but when I asked him about it he acted like it embarrassed him. You could tell it was his passion, adding to the quality of life for those people.”

“That’s the heart of what I do,” Melissa said quietly. “If Carl was my client I would change the way he presents himself to the world to bring everything in line with his best attributes.”

“I get it. So when you changed Rebecca Storm’s hairstyle you peeled away her old false affectations and allowed the world to get to know her real personality.”

She giggled. “Rebecca had been a college jockette . . . a hard-nosed soccer player. She hadn’t changed the way she looked from a time when she wanted her opponents to think she was ultra-tough. I spent some time with her and found her to be quite ladylike. She’s very much at home serving tea at high society fund-raisers. She’s a real sweetheart.”

“You told me her Nielsen ratings are much higher. . ..”

“. . .because she’s happier with herself,” Melissa finished, “and consequently much nicer to be around, for the viewers, as well.”

Rebecca’s career has taken off since Melissa renovated her.
“Why do you say she’s happier with herself?”

“I stay very close to my clients. Rebecca has jumped in feet first to what I call the ‘success upward spiral’. She feels good about herself and people feed off that and send positive thoughts her way. She uses those positive thoughts to feel even more self-assured, causing people to enjoy watching her more and causing people to Tweet about her, and so on and so on.” Her face glowed.

“Let’s back up,” I suggested. “You cut Rebecca’s hair almost exactly like you just cut mine.”

She nodded.

“And . . . you said you wanted to show the world Rebecca’s feminine side, which you say is her true side.”

“I not only ‘say’ it’s her true side, I ‘know’ it is. The results speak for themselves.”

I lifted my hands and placed them between us with my palms out to ward off her aggressive behavior. “Whoa . . . I’m not doubting you. But . . . why did you style my hair much the same as Rebecca’s?”

The room became silent except for a Celine Dion song playing on a local FM station piped in by the salon’s sound system.

I looked down at my hands. My nails glistened prettily. When I glanced in the mirror, the hair that had looked so odd a few minutes ago, now looked almost . . . natural.

“Do you . . .?” I asked. “You must think I’m feminine.”

She smiled. “Delightfully so.”

“No. . ..” I breathed anxiously. “I’m not,” I argued softly.

“Who do you think are the most feminine female celebrities? Close your eyes again and think for a moment.”

I laughed. “I don’t have to think too much. Pippa would be at the top of my list. Then probably Emma Watson. The three Jennifers: Lawrence, Lopez, and Aniston. Keira Knightly. Katy Perry. Reese Witherspoon. Maybe Jessica Alba, although she can be trampy.”

Melissa nodded slowly. “How many other masculine guys do you know who could put together that list, without even thinking. I concur with your list, by the way, although I would have included Kate, to round out the Middletons.”

“Kate!” I slapped my forehead. “She’s a Vanity Fair Hall of Famer! How could I leave her off my list? Her cover picture on last month’s Marie Claire was to die for. I’m never going to let anything catty cross my lips about Princess Di, but Kate can give her a run for best Royal, ever.””

Melissa took my hands into hers. “There . . . when you act naturally like that, that’s the person I love.”

Love? Melissa isn’t someone who uses that word lightly.
“What do you mean?”

“I love your enthusiasm. It floats around you in iridescent bubbles when you forget about all those million and one things you have to do to hide your true self.”

“Am I understanding you correctly? Do you really think that when I’m being a male I’m trying to fool the world?” I pulled out my driver’s license. “The motor vehicle department thinks I’m male!”

“Because you told them that when you first registered. Maybe you gave them your birth certificate.”

“My birth certificate!” I shouted in triumph. “My birth certificate says I’m male and therefore I am.”

She shook her head. “What do you think Winnie Thompson’s certificate says? And, Scott Nichol’s certificate?”

“They’re both what I would call a ‘character’,” I complained. “Is that what you think I am?”

She shook her head violently. “I think you’re almost perfect. If you’ll allow me to help you . . . just as an experiment . . . you can leave your imperfection behind.”

I studied her for a moment. “When you and I ‘broke up’ it was mutual, right?”

“I couldn’t stand the pain I was watching you go through. When I realized what was causing it, I didn’t know how to tell you, so I took the cowards way out and set the stage for the inevitable.”

I slowly swung my head from side to side. “You made me think like it was my idea.”

My hand sought mine. “Nothing would make me happier than to go back to being lovers.”

Something inside me stirred. Best friends make terrific lovers. We had never stopped being best friends.

“Do you have a plan?” I’m sure she does.

“Let me finish what I started,” she said. “When I’m done we’ll go out to dinner. If, at the end of the evening you decide we should marry I want you to say ‘Yes’.” She produced a small ring box and opened it to display a . . ..

I gasped. “Omigosh. That is so lovely!”

“It was my grandmother’s. It’s 14K white gold with a master-cut two-carat diamond solitaire. I had it sized for you the week before we broke up and never mustered the temerity to ask for your hand.”

“Yes!” I squealed. “Oh YES!” I reached to kiss her, but she backed away.

“Not so fast,” she demanded. “I’m not going to be party to you slowly killing yourself by not accepting your true nature.”

My arms dropped to my side and my head hung. When I looked up tears were streaming down her face. “What if you’re wrong?” I asked.

“I’ve considered that. For the last many years I’ve laid awake hundreds of nights pondering whether or not I could be wrong about you . . . and I’ve decided there’s not even the slightest chance.”

“But . . . I’ve never given it much thought.”

“I’m sure you haven’t. Society is quite schooled at making people conform to what everyone thinks they should be. Blondes are supposed to be empty-headed. Fat people are meant to be jolly. Tall people tend to take charge. It’s all a communal conspiracy based on preconceived notions that fly in the face of logic.”

“What you’re suggesting is pretty severe.”

“What am I suggesting?”

“You want me to change my sex.”

She shook her head. “I want you to be pretty, because I’m absolutely certain that you’re meant to be stunningly beautiful. I want you to be as feminine as one of the Middletons, because that is your birthright.”

The idea isn’t as repulsive as I would have thought less than an hour ago. “Are you sure?”

She held the ring out toward me. “I’m 100% certain. Say the word and I’ll stand by you forever.”

“I would be a fool not to give it a try. What’s next? Do we go out to dinner now and see how many people laugh at me?”

She giggled. “They would laugh at you, if you went out looking like you do at this moment. Let me help you get ready for dinner. . . and hopefully for the rest of your life.”

I nodded and felt two large tears roll down my cheek -- overwhelmed by long-needed relief. “But . . . what will people say?”

She nibbled on her lip. “From an economic standpoint you have nothing to fear. Your blog is about technology, and none of your readers care what gender you are. Your friends and family are collectively going to say, ‘FINALLY!’ Your dad is going to love having a sexy daughter. No one else really matters.”

After everything said and considered for the last hour, I had to agree.

She led me by the hand to a part of the salon where they waxed their clients’ bodies.

“The pain is momentary for how wonderful you’re going to feel,” Melissa promised while she made sure I was hairless from the neck down. She made a similar guarantee when she plucked my eyebrows. My legs, tanned from a leisurely spent summer, looked marvelous, especially after a pedicure.

“I’ve been shopping for tonight for weeks,” Melissa said. “Your panties are selected for firmness -- to hide our friend.” Her fingers stroked my penis in a way that suggested she had truly missed him. “Your first bra is the cutest I could find that would discreetly hold your temporary breasts. I’ve done some research and have much to discuss about doing something to fill your cups that’s more natural.”

I could feel a blush cross my face.

Melissa helped me with my lingerie and I soon stood in front of her dressed only in my panties and bra.

“And this. . ..” She pulled down the zipper on a garment bag. “. . .is your first dress.”

“It’s an exquisite blue!” I sighed.

“It matches your eyes,” she stated. “They call this style a sleeveless ‘fit and flare’.”

I stepped into it without hesitation, and then Melissa zipped me in.

Her hands caressed me through the sleek fabric. “You’re a size 12. I’m a 10 and I think you might be more of a 10 with the right exercise and diet. I’ll share my wardrobe with you, but you’re much more of a female fox than me and your clothes will reflect that.”

I twirled in front of the mirror and the polyester, rayon, and spandex hem tickled my thigh an inch above my knee.

The wedge sandals she gave to me had a cloth belt over my foot that matched my dress perfectly, while the ankle strapping appeared to be done in a leopard design.

She grinned. “Normally I recommend accessorizing, but I’m hoping you’ll accept my grandmother’s ring and wear it tonight, since you’ve got the matching earrings. However . . . you know my conditions.”

I nodded, almost certain what my answer would be.

For the next fifteen minutes she worked on my face, while explaining that it was her goal to make it appear as if I wasn’t wearing any make-up.

During the entire transformation, each time that she allowed me to look in the mirror, it became that much easier to understand that Melissa was right.

I am quite feminine.

“I hope you love the scent I picked.” She sprayed the air around me with something called Cashmere Mist. She also had me rub a scented body lotion into my arms and legs. “I think it’s sexy.” She rubbed against me suggestively.

“That scent is. . .me.” I throbbed in my silken trap. “Do you really find me attractive?”

“I’ve always loved you . . . the real you.”

I reached for the ring box and handed it to her, and then held out my left hand toward her, while spreading my fingers to provide access. “Would you help me finish dressing? Once I’m wearing my ring we can go out to dinner. It looks like I’m buying!”

The End

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