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So, an interesting thing happened this weekend. Well, several interesting things happened, but I am only going to talk about one. That one interesting thing was that I was stuck with breasts for the better part of the weekend (see last post). This was interesting in several ways, including the usual nervous derision from others uncomfortable with genderfuck presentation and the jolly "laughing with you not at you" from friends who are cool with it. It was amusing, to be sure, but more intriguing to me was the visceral feeling of loss when I was able finally early Sunday morning to remove them. (As a side note, it was also interesting to note how many of my friends seemed to miss them as much as I...including several comments to the line of "Andrew no longer has his chin rests...")

Now I have to wonder, if a simple matter of wearing something in close fixation to one's body for a little under forty hours is enough to integrate said device into one's body image to such an extent that one feels ghosts of the removed device, what else could be used in similar fashion? I have read about the various experiments to augment or research the human sensory experience, and, indeed, the human brain is delightfully adept at using unconventional sources of information as completing parts of its generated worldview. I am intrigued to find out whether this rapid integration in my case was a result of the nature of the devices and my natural proclivities thereto or whether it was a genuine representation of the breadth of adaptability of the human brain.

Unfortunately, we rapidly near the end of the school year and thus my ability to reasonably have an excuse for appearing thus is therefore quickly diminishing. To wit, as a college student at school in the second semester, and especially as one who has quite firmly come out positively as "not straight", it is quite easy to come up with excuses for which to have genderfuck presentation about one's body, taken at face value even by one's instructors. However, in the world outside the school's campus, where one is an employee at a small business and thus has certain standards of dress and appearance, not to mention having quite restricted and quiet views on queer subjects out of a sense of discretion, there is very little one can think of to use as even a lame excuse, and thus any experimentation along these lines will have to take place in three and a half months, when one again dons the mantle of college-student-on-campus and neatly packs away that of working-young-adult.

Often a plot point in transgender erotica, the transformed hero frequently finds that his new gender "feels more natural" to him than that of his birth, to the point that, in the rare event he is given a chance to transform back, or is transformed back, he will reject the offer or plead for his newfound nature to be restored upon him. This plot point has been used to the point of cliché and beyond, such that one such story can be used as a drop-in replacement for another, but recent activities seem to have indeed awaken a passion for this that I did not know before. I have made interesting and intricate plans as I fall asleep to give myself an affliction of sorts, to allow myself to present solely as female for an indefinite period, ranging from the fantastic ("I fall into the chemical disposal unit in the ChemSci basement and arise a Venus") to the mundane ("I go to Wal-Mart and buy several casual outfits"). Especially interesting is the current belief that my subconscious seems to have that this newfound hobby can be turned to profitable use, though of course it is quite firmly silent when pressed for details of such a scheme.

However, in all practicality, there would have to be several major components to complete before any such plot were unleashed. First, a more comfortable, more effective form of tucking would have to be purchased or designed. Second, a better adhesive would need to be procured, that allows breathing to the covered skin and prevents undue irritation thereof. Third, and quite possibly the most difficult, I would have to work seriously on feminizing my voice. I did not need to worry too much about that last week, as I was going explicitly as a guy in drag, even on Friday night, and was surrounded by a multitude of people to which it did not matter. No matter how convincing my outward appearance may be, though, my voice will always and invariably give me away if I cannot at least bring it up an octave or two.

The loss of one's voice gives one a chance to reflect on both what one would be saying and what others say, as well as on one's own thoughts. Even through a medium as fast and descriptive as a hand-held whiteboard, one does far less "verbal" communication. Thus, I think, is explained this sudden outpouring of ruminations. However, though I have said on several occasions that I am transcurious but not needful of a conversion, I am not entirely sure that the sentiment backing that still holds. We shall see in the next few days as emotions and thoughts settle after having been kicked up like so much sediment by the keel and wake of the swiftly-moving weekend's sloop.