- Started off as normal hetero bachelor. No girlfriend. Suspicious ex.
- Start going to the gym because ex humiliated me about my body.
- Notice a few little physical things (less body hair, softer build, sensitive nipples)
- Fag fantasies
- Begin to suspect that I’m slowly turning into a girl. At this point I can still reverse the process, if I can figure out what’s causing it.
- I put the pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit
- I think about what I’m becoming. In some ways I’m afraid, but in others I’m excited. I buy a sports bra, ostensibly because I want to hold down my budding titties, but also because I know how cool it looks on girls and I want to look cool too.
- I buy another bra, but this one’s frilly and lacy. I can’t wear the same one every day, can I? To avoid suspicion, I buy matching panties and pretend they’re for a girlfriend.
- Meanwhile, I pretty well figure out what’s happening. I do nothing to stop it. I pretend that I want to stop it.
- I embrace my new femininity.
I know it’s unbelievable, because nobody believes me. I don’t even believe it. The trouble is that it’s a fait accompli. There’s no denying that it happened. This is how I remember it.
I was a normal heterosexual male bachelor. I wasn’t even very promiscuous. I tended to have long-term relationships with women who eventually got sick of me and dumped me. I would settle into long gaps between relationships when I would refuse to have anything to do with women. I preferred to be alone. I only started to notice changes several months after breaking up with A__. We had been dating for about two and a half years.
I was always very slim. I never exercised much, so my physique wasn’t muscular. Don’t get me wrong: I was still pretty masculine. I still have broad shoulders, and big hands and feet. I’m just saying that I was no muscleman. In fact, that was one reason why A__ left me. It stung me so much when she told me that, that I started working out half-heartedly to try to beef up, even though it was already over. I didn’t want that to get in the way of a relationship ever again.
Anyway, I preened myself in the mirror at this time, deluding myself into thinking that I would get big and muscular. It seemed that my exercise had no effect. In fact, I looked even softer than I had before I started. It was very subtle. The only area that seemed to be getting bigger was my pectorals, but they looked soft and roundish, not hard and square like they’re supposed to. I was disappointed by this discovery, but resolved to work even harder to become buff.
At the gym, I kept my eye on the men for tips on what kinds of exercise I should be doing, how many sets, how many repetitions, and so on. Mostly, I checked out the women, watching lecherously as their lithe bodies sweated and strained erotically beneath their form-fitting leotards. At least, that’s the way it was at first. I thought I was becoming envious of my male gym buddies. Or maybe I thought I was becoming awed by them. I became troublingly obsessed with their bodies. Actually, it only became troubling when I started dreaming about them.
Homoerotic dreams are quite commonplace. However, I had never experienced them with as much frequency as I had lately. I tried to convince myself that it was only temporary, that I was confused because of my recent break-up. I tried to concentrate all of my erotic energy towards thoughts of women. My memories of fucking A__ kept me straight, so to speak, even though they were sometimes painful.
Things gradually worsened. I noticed that I needed to shave less often. Even my body hair seemed more sparse. And still, my body would not become muscular. My pecs continued to grow slightly, almost imperceptibly. But they were still soft and round. They did not harden when I flexed. I know because I squeezed each while I flexed to inspect them. I could have sworn then that my nipples looked larger. They were certainly more sensitive.
Soon, people at the gym began asking me why I shave my legs. I had to try to persuade them that I never did, that I didn’t know what they were talking about. And it was true. My legs weren’t hairless, but they were pretty damned close. And I hadn’t done anything to them! Worse, I became self-conscious of my pecs. I thought they looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want any of the men to laugh at me. I blushed whenever I saw them. Frighteningly, my dreams about them became more frequent still, and started catching myself fantasizing about them. I imagined them sucking my sensitive nipples.
The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more evident it became: I was growing tits! And they were becoming more and more noticeable. How could any girl ever find me attractive now? I was devastated. There was no way to escape the truth. I was not hallucinating. I was not dreaming. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.
Clearly, something strange was afoot. First things first, though, I had to do something about my chest. My budding breasts were beginning to bounce when I jogged. I had to do something to keep them down, but without making it too obvious. First, I tried taping them down, but it was getting wasteful. Wearing a tight shirt made them stick out so much that they were actually accentuated. They even turned me on, they looked so feminine (Yes, I still had some heterosexual urges at that point). I had to wear loose shirts to the gym, and had to make sure that no one saw me bare-chested. Even that brought me some pretty strange looks from both men and women.
I had to face the reality of my situation: I needed a bra. I still clung stubbornly to my manhood. I bought the plainest, least sexy sports bra I could find. It wasn’t exactly manly, but at least it wasn’t frilly and lacy or flowery. It was just plain black. I was so embarrassed when I bought it. The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the matching shorts. I felt my face flush. She knew I was buying it for myself. I made a point of not changing at the gym anymore, even though I was so sweaty. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me wearing a bra. And with my tits, it didn’t look like anything else. I posed girlishly a few times, because my chest looked so sexy. I must admit that even then I didn’t entirely dislike them.
So why was I turning into a girl? Physically and psychologically, I was getting more and more feminine. I fantasized about men more than women. I lost my body hair, had tits, and seemed to be getting softer all over. I had to find a way to reverse the process while I still could. How could I face my friends? How could I ever pick up another girl?
I scoured my entire apartment for clues. I found nothing out of the ordinary. Then it occurred to me that my tap water tasted a little funny lately. I checked the outside plumbing and found some kind of extra pipe on my water meter. Was somebody pumping something into my water? I vowed to keep watch over my water meter, to see if anyone ever tampered with it.
Meanwhile, I had to stop going to the gym. My femininity was starting to show far too much. I could barely even hide it under my work clothes. I found myself leering at men. I began to preen to the mirror as a woman. I tucked my dick between my legs and pretended to be female. I stopped shaving my face (or even needing to) and started shaving my legs and my armpits. Finally, I caved in to the temptation and bought myself a prettier bra. Then I realized that it would look much prettier with matching panties. Pretty soon, my underwear drawer overflowed with lingerie. I looked gorgeous in my new underwear. It seemed to fit so much better, and highlight all my feminine parts. At first this was a guilty pleasure, but it soon became routine. Women’s underwear is so cool. I began to look forward to coming home from work, so that I could fondle my sexy undies.
When I finally confronted the water meter man, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to give up being a girl. I asked him meekly if he could look into it, and hoped that he wouldn’t so that I could continue my metamorphosis.