That is Me
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

That is me, holding the vodka tonic in a plastic cup, which is how they serve drinks in that shitty bar. And that is his fat-ass girlfriend striding off in a huff behind me. Because he fell for me, and he could not hide it.

That is me, playing with my hair. It is my hair; it was just that I used to wear it in a greasy brown cue down my back up until that weekend. That weekend I decided that I would visit the other side, just to see whether I could.

That weekend I went to the salon and I had my hair dyed blond and blow waved, I had my eyebrows shaped and my face stripped of whiskers, so I could look like a woman.

That is me, but those breasts are not real. They look real. I even used foundation and painted a small mole on my left breast – can you see it? These breasts from neck to belly can look so real if you take care … right up until you lose the choker hiding the top.

I never even noticed it come off. Clearly his friend did, which is probably why he snapped that photo. He had to be asking - “What is going on here? What is that? Is she wearing something under that flimsy knit wrap dress? Is that latex rubber? Are those tits not real? Is she not real?”

I suppose I was in shock, but I could not understand what was going on. Had I been drinking too much? I always drank beer as a man, so a woman’s drink just seems like a soda. You don’t know the strength of it until you just don’t know.

So that is me. I am looking to him. He wants to dance with me, so that is why he had the fight with his girlfriend. I am just standing there, looking as good as I can, just to tell him that he has made the right choice, even though for me it is just a try-on. I just wanted to see whether I could pass, that was all.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he said, coming up close to me. “Your underwear is showing, that’s all,”

I still did not understand, but he came up close and ran a hand down my smooth jaw – a little too heavy compared to most women I guess, and then that hand slid down to my neck and snapped the neck rubber that had folded slightly, back into place.

I realized that my secret was out. The breasts were fake. But he was looking at me as he had been. He must think that it is only the breasts that are fake?

He got closer still – his nose in my hair as if sniffing it to see whether that might be fake too.

And then I felt his hand in my crotch.

A dress like that calls for good strapping but the fact is that I cannot fully conceal what I have down there. He could feel it, and I could feel him. I gasped. Who wouldn’t? But it was more a gasp of pleasure, or the thought of it, rather than the gasp of a person found out as a cheat.

“If you are going to be my girlfriend I will let you keep this,” he whispered. “But we are going to have to get you a pair of real tits.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2022