I Was a Man, But Now...
The alarm clock next to me is blaring. I force my eyes closed again and roll over, ignoring the noise. My legs brush together and my shorts ride up which I try to sleepily work back down. I brush my hand over my soft tank top which is now twisted halfway around my body. I roughly tug it down.
I roll back over onto my back and slam my hand down onto my alarm clock, silencing it. My long blonde hair attaches to my dry, chapped lips and I tug it off. I lick my lips and open my eyes. The ceiling comes into focus as I yawn and stretch. My short legs don't even reach the end of the bed.
Something feels wrong. I reach down again and brush my hand against the soft skin of my leg. That is not how my skin felt last night. My hands find the short, cloth shorts that are finally back where they belong. This is not what I went to sleep in last night. I reach up to run my fingers through my long hair. This is not how long my hair was last night.
I run my fingers over the rest of my body, examining what all is different. My skin is soft everywhere. I have no hair anywhere other than my head. My stomach is so flat and not at all muscular as usual. My hands land on my chest. I have large, not-completely-covered-by-this-tank-top breasts. These were so not here last night.
Last night, I partied at a local club with a few friends. I danced with a couple of different girls and drank way too much. I stumbled through the door of my apartment at midnight. I kicked off my boots and jeans then face planted in the bed.
Last night, I was a man.
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