male.html

Male From the Neck Up

by Griff

I wake up from hot dreams of hot men in hot leather and sweat. Dreams of fucking a delightful little blond bottom boy, making him pant and moan. Mmm, that's nice. There's a tight, hard almost-pain between my legs. In my sleep-fuddled horny state, the dreams still fading, I think I probably have morning wood. How convenient. That's useful.

I roll over, intending to go back to sleep, my hand drifting into my jockeys, maybe to beat off a bit before dozing again to the dreams of male sweat and leather and cute blond bottom boys. But I can't find my cock, and then I realise it's too wet down there. I pull my hand out of my jockeys and look at it. The fingers are dripping red.

I've been castrated! my confused mind shrieks. What the fuck happened to my dick?

Panic jolts me awake. I jump out of bed, my right hand bloody. No more dreams of sweat and leather now -- I'm awake, and freaking out. I look wildly at my hand, then look down.... and see sagging tits.

Oh. Of course. No, I haven't been castrated. It's just Cognitive Dissonance Week. The panic evaporates into a state of high pissoff.

Cussing, I grab some clothes with my left hand, including a pair of that underwear I hate wearing, and head for the bathroom. I notice that despite the tumors on my chest, I still see a man staring back at me from the mirror. That's encouraging. Cognitive Dissonance Week usually makes me see a girl.

The shower spray is hot. Too hot -- my skin is turning as red as my fingers were. But it feels good. Wash away the dirt, the sweat. Wash away this vile reminder that my body is a mistake. Wash it all away. Thank the gods for hand-held shower attachments.

I'm not looking forward to the next five days. I can't beat off, can't sleep in. Can't wear my jockeys because those damn 'feminine napkins' don't stay put in jockey shorts. And let's not even talk about tampons, okay? Ain't no way I'm going to let *anything* go into a hole that shouldn't even exist in the first place.

It occurs to me while I'm soaping myself down that at least my weight works for me in one way. I can fake my mind out that these tumors are just extra rolls of fat that are shaped a little funny. At least they hang down, instead of looking perky like Anna Nicole Smith's tits do. At least I'm spared some embarrasment there. But I still feel like Elephant Man.

I soap up my hair. Thankfully I look male from the neck up. I know I'll look more so, once I'm on testosterone, and I've already got a decent amount of stubble for a non-hormoned dude. My almost-a-double-chin, which I used to hate, has now become one of my favorite things. I can touch it any time after shaving and feel roughened skin or stubble, or both. My hair's getting shaggy, though, and I should probably head down to that barber's shop today and get it butched short. Yes, a real barber -- no more salon crap for me. My sideburns are getting too full, looking too Elvis-y. And I hate Elvis.

I scrub my face with antibacterial soap. It's probably just a sop to my ego, but I like to think it helps me avoid those pimples that make shaving such a damned chore instead of the pleasure that it should be. Shit, I go through puberty every month. I don't have to wait for testosterone to do it for me.

I rinse off the soap, and then take down the hand-held again and rinse repeatedly between my legs. I can almost feel my phantom cock and balls reacting to the warm water. If only it wasn't for this damn hole that's dripping my life out in bright red reminders, I could almost forget my body is a mistake. Almost. But for the next five days, I'll have to remember it constantly.

I think I got it rinsed enough that I can dry off quickly, before the next wave hits. But I'm very, very glad I have red towels, because the first day is always the one with the fastest flow. I dry off with lightning speed.

I avoid looking at the cotton panties I'll have to wear for the next few days. Or rather, I try to. But there's blood on my finger, and it's gotten on the waistband. A bright red smear jeers at me: Yeah, go ahead, try to pretend you're a boy *now*.

I start cussing again. Stupid feminine napkin into stupid feminine underwear onto stupid female body that I can't get away from no matter what I do.

Blessedly male wife-beater undershirt, hiding the tumors. Black jeans to hide the stupid ugly prissy feminine underwear. Oversized Morro Bay t-shirt over everything. A man looks back at me from the mirror now, with his damp hair still in corkscrews and whorls from the toweling, his chin still stubbled with black fuzz that really, really wants to be a beard when it grows up.

Relief. I shave, I comb my hair. I brush my teeth. I can almost forget, now. I can forget that my brain and my body don't match. I don't have to think about what's below the neck anymore.

At least until the next time Mother Nature reminds me that it's time to take a piss....