Lawrence never felt comfortable in his own skin, though he could never quite say why. His body never felt like his. In a way, he envied transsexual people and anorexia patients, who at least knew what they wished to change. Not Lawrence; he just felt his body, his talents, his life were never his own.
So when the gypsy woman rolled through town, selling what she called "Wish Cards," Lawrence felt he had nothing to lose. If his life wasn't his own, neither was the money, right? He paid the asked silver dollar and, that night, closed in his room, pricked his thumb with a needle and let a drop of blood fall on the card. "I wish for a life that feels like my own," he whispered. transgender
Nothing.
Lawrence looked around at his completely unchanged life. Oh, well. At least he tried. He changed into his sweats and went to bed in that strange, bland room that never felt like his.
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He awoke in a room draped in glamour. Framed art prints on the walls, tasteful hardwood furnishings, whites made of glistening satin. It was the same architecture—same door, same closet—but somehow, it all mattered anew. And when Lawrence slid the sheets down, he saw his new self: firm breasts, trim waist, and a supple, sumptuous dancer's body.
He (she?) stood and stretched. The delicious tension running down her spine felt good. The spring in her legs pulsed with energy. The drape of her sleep-rumpled hair tickled gently. She crossed to her closet and looked at her wardrobe. All simple clothes, t-shirts and jeans and pencil skirts, but clean and sleek, pulsing with charm.
All this, this life, it felt like... it felt like her own.
Down the hall, she heard her family talking. Ordinary morning small talk, nothing special. Did they know how life had changed, literally overnight? Well, only one way to find out. crossdress
Lorraine took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and stepped out into her new life.
Lorraine: Envied transsexual people (Crossdresser Fiction)
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