June 13, 2014

Mitch:

I strip my freezing, dripping swim trunks off and turn on the shower, my skin sprouting goosebumps as the air conditioning comes on again. For as much as this hotel room costs per night, you would think the water heater would actually have hot water stored. I stretch my arms behind my head, watching the skin on my chest move in the mirror, looking for anything that might look suspicious. This is the first time I've gone shirtless in front of the other guys from the Pack for more than five minutes, and it didn't look like anyone noticed the small, light pink dots right around the outside edges of my nipples, the only reminder of my top surgery. It's been about six months now and no one can tell unless they know to look for it. It's both a physical and mental weight off my chest. Now Preston is the only guy who has boobs, and he doesn't seem to give a single fuck what anyone thinks about his mancakes.

I look up and notice in the bright, unflattering light that my face isn't as round as it was just a few weeks ago, the baby fat slowly shifting and getting burned away now that I'm on a higher dose of T to match my metabolism and I can work out again. It's been a long time since I came out to my family and so much has changed, but it's far from over and far from perfect. I just hope I'll feel better about it when everything is finished; I'm tired of feeling like a stranger in my own body.

The mirror finally starts fogging over and I step into the shower to wash the stench of chlorine and sweat off, going as fast as I can so the others won't bitch that I'm taking too long. We'll probably spend twenty more minutes waiting on Lachlan to do his Johnny Bravo hair, but let's just forget about that and bitch at Mitch. I quickly rinse the soap off, trying to ignore the sting of the powerful stream on my dick. I don't have time to deal with that right now. The suddenly increased sensitivity is slowly driving me insane – I can't even wear jeans without having to constantly check to see if my pants are wet from the friction of the heavy fabric. Swim trunks it is, boys. It looks like switching back to cypionate might have been a bad idea.

Even though I avoid hitting it as much as possible, I'm still harder than a steel pole when I get out of the shower. Which completely defeats the purpose of changing clothes because now my shorts are going to get soaked from the movement against it when I walk. I groan in annoyance and grab a towel to dry off with, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. I hate how my bottom half looks. A big clit isn't the same thing as a small dick, no matter how horny I get. I walk out of the bathroom with the towel tied around my waist, checking to see if Jerome or anyone else is hanging out in the room. I dig through my Unpackable Suitcase of Ultimate Destiny that I've been living out of for almost a year and find a clean set of clothes. I throw the wet towel on the floor and start getting dressed just in time for the lock to click and the door to swing open to reveal a once-grinning, wide-eyed Preston. I straighten up and hold my still folded boxers in front of my crotch, trying not to turn red and hoping he didn't see anything.

"Nope! Nope! Not in here! Nope!" he squeaks and he starts backing away from the door as fast as he came in.

"What the fuck, dood?"

"Sorry! Thought you were in the shower!" The door immediately slams shut, but I'm frozen in place. What did he see? Did he see enough that he knows about me not being a bioguy? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Wait... Did he have his phone in his other hand? He didn't, right? I'm not really sure, but if he did, he might have it on camera. Preston isn't a bad guy and I highly doubt he'd post something like that online, but he might pass it around or someone else might see it on his phone. Even if he didn't see anything directly, it would be hard to deny it if he had photo evidence to prove I don't have a dick. Or balls. I quickly slip my boxers on and push that thought to the back of my mind, hoping I'm just being paranoid. I barely have my trunks on when Jerome runs in through the door, panting like Coco in the summertime.

"What the fuck did he do?" He slams the door behind him and stands awkwardly on the other side of the bed, looking around the room like he expected the room to be trashed from a brawl. Even after all this time, he still thinks I'm vulnerable and defenseless.

"What?" He lowers his voice before he speaks again, like he suddenly realized it's not something the others should be able to hear.

"Preston. I heard him telling Rob how he walked in on you. What the fuck did he do?" He looks like he's on a whole new level beyond pissed, like he might stride down the hall and beat the living crap out of Preston. I don't doubt he would, if I asked him to.

"He was probably coming in to get something for Lachlan and he just had bad timing. No big deal. It's not really his fault, but... What was he saying?" I slip my shirt on and quickly grab my wallet, phone, and keys while I slide my sandals on, wishing he would have stayed with the others to see what Preston was telling everyone. Him running in here probably just made them more suspicious.

"What'd he walk in on?"

"I was just getting dressed. What did you think I was doing? Fisting myself?"

"Well, there's always the remote. Knowing you..." I glare at him and he trails off, putting his hands up and backing towards the door. I take one step forward and he takes two steps back, and when I step forward again he grabs for the doorknob to make a run for it. He should know by now that he can't outrun me. The door flies open and I run after him and jump on his back, almost sending both of us flying forward on his face. The room door slams shut behind us and Vik and Rob turn to look at us as I force Jerome to carry me down the hallway. I didn't realize how bad of an idea this was until it was too late: if I thought the shower stream hurt, now it feels like I'm grinding against a flaming post in the Nether. This shit is straight out of Silent Hill. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to make a face and groan. This would be one of the very rare moments when I'm glad I don't have a six inch dick – at least this way, no one can see the omnipresent Space Needle.

"That'll be five dollars, Rob. And I don't mean Monopoly money, either," Vik says grimly as he holds his palm out toward the taller man sitting next to him. Rob scrunches his lips together in a trolly half-smile, half-scowl as he fishes his wallet out of his pocket.

"It isn't Monopoly money, bro. I just forgot to exchange the currency last year. Do I look like a criminal to you?"

"Yes," Vik says deadpan as Jerome finally drops me back on my feet at their end of the hall. Rob laughs and searches through the meager bills in his dark blue wallet, trying to find any kind of U.S. currency. Where does all of his cash go when we aren't looking? He just went to the bank yesterday, and now all of it's gone. I try not to grimace as I take a test step forward, and I duck behind Jerome's ass to pull my damp boxers out of my crotch where they won't see. These guys say that accidentally sitting on your own balls is the most uncomfortable feeling in the world; try constantly fishing your dripping wet underwear out of your p-

"Is Lachlan back yet or... Hi, Mitch." Preston's grin immediately fades as he sheepishly shuts the lobby bathroom door behind him and his face still looks flushed. If he's this worked up about it, he's either scared of Jerome beating his head in or he saw something he shouldn't have seen.

"Hey, dood. Are you looking for fish now, too?" He turns his head to the side and looks down at the floor as he runs the back of his hand under his nose, one of his nervous habits. It probably would have been better to do this without Vik and Rob around to listen in and banter about.

"I'm not lookin' for nothin'. I didn't choose the peep life. The peep life chose me."

"Well, ya better watch where you're peepin', Lava P. You walk in on me, you won't be walkin' back out," Jerome mutters and he locks eyes with Preston for a few seconds before the shorter man turns away and looks back down the hall, pretending to look for Lachlan.

"Why's it such a big deal? Rob walks in on me all the time."

"Preston, that isn't helping," Rob snaps as he runs his hand over his short brown hair, making an awkward face as he tries to keep himself from turning bright red. Preston briefly glances over at him and turns an ugly shade of pink before pulling out his phone to try to shift the conversation away from himself.

"Poofless is real, boys," Vik snickers and Rob pretends to reach over and slap him, earning himself an indignant smack on the hand. Jerome and I exchange a knowing look while Vik and Rob get into a minor skirmish on the creaky hotel lobby couch, to the chagrin of the security guard behind the desk. The Bac and I both know that it would be too easy to get dirt on Poofless's snail-paced progress if Preston tries to publicize anything from his little stunt earlier. The past is in the past but with Jerome lurking around every corner, the future is always full of thinly veiled threats.

"Whaddit I miss?" Lachlan pants as he finally jogs down the hallway from the now communal Pooflesstar room. Rob glances up with a look of defeat on his face and swats the giggling Vik a good one in the side of the head before he leans over and digs his wallet out again.

"Making fat stacks today, boys. We should do meet-ups more often."

-----

June 14, 2014

Jerome:

You ever have that moment where you can't decide if you wanna fuck with someone or just sit and watch 'em sleep? That ripe ass banana is just sitting here in the bowl on top of the overpriced mini fridge next to our bed and it's about time for wakey-wakey, eggs and bacc-y. It's calling me to smash it all over Mitch's face and grind it into his hair real good. It couldn't hurt to make him wash some of that hair gel out, anyway. But he looks so peaceful and innocent. And I really don't wanna somehow trigger an all-versus-all prank war when we hafta share a room with Lachlan and Vik can pick his pockets and get his room key to get in here and screw with us. Guy's too fucking smart for his own good.

It's kinda adorable, the way he still sleeps on his stomach or with his arms crossed in front of his chest even after he's had surgery. Must be a big relief, not having to try to hide the bulges and binder straps from the guys now that we're living in close quarters for a couple days, maybe longer in a few months. I wonder how it felt for him to just start walking around with no shirt on one day. I know the fans liked it because of the velociraptor screeches in the livestream chat the first time he took his shirt off on camera and I'll be honest, I don't mind it too much, either. When he said he was gonna start working out again, he really meant it. It looks like instead of taking out chunks of fat and draining out blood and extra water they injected a shit ton of silicone and pumped steroids into him. He looks like something outta Twilight but without fangs and sparkles and a monotone.

The door slams down the hall and I bet twenty bucks it's Rob going out to get more food. What's up with Canadians and oodles of crap food at all hours of the day and night? And how the hell are they so skinny after all that? With a little snort Mitch uncrosses his arms and turns over on his stomach with his arms under his pillow. He must've finally got cold. I didn't think that was possible. He gives a long sigh and goes right back to sleep, his eyelashes fluttering as his eyes move while he dreams.

It's times like these when I wonder what things'd be like if he hadn't transitioned. If he'd somehow stayed a girl. Not that he ever really looked or acted like one. Him coming out wasn't exactly the most shocking thing in the world. His face looks pretty much the same but his cheeks and jaw are sharper and more angular than a girl's. And he has little dark dots along the side of his face and on his chin where a pitiful amount of light brown stubble is growing in. At the rate it's not growing, I'd be surprised if he could ever grow a beard. Hell, his dad can't even pull that off and he's almost fifty. His hairline's moved back a little bit by the temples so it's squared off, but not as far as mine. He'll moan and groan about it now but he'll brag about not going bald later on, watch and see. There's a pretty decent trail of light brown hair running up and down his arms to match the leg hair his sisters used to tease him about. As weird as it sounds, I've never seen anyone this enthusiastic about body hair, except that one nasty ass wrestler who wears all that eye makeup. Most guys just take it for granted and don't even think about it unless they hafta shave it off. Pretty much everyone takes their body for granted, don't they? The shit he makes me think of, I swear.

There's a lot that hasn't changed, though. He still has that sarcastic grin that can tempt you to do all kinds of stupid shit you'd never think of on your own and the eyes that say everything if you know how to look past all the walls. The bridge of his nose is still sprinkled with a patch of freckles that grows exponentially the less time he spends in front of a computer monitor. And surprisingly, he still has his fake diamond earrings after all these years, but they've grown a couple Walmart karats so now they're clearly-plastic instead of maybe-plastic. His hands still look small and girlish with bony, angular fingers that have gotten rougher with calluses but still look rounded on the edges. Overall, he still somehow looks small, even though he's an inch or two taller than me and can lift twice as much as I can. And he could probably crush my skull if he kicked me in the head with his rancid soccer clubfeet. His shoulders look kinda narrow even with the extra muscle he's been putting on and he still has a little bit of curve around his hips even though he lost the water weight he put on after his surgery.

And last but not least, he still has the little silver chain around his neck that's connected to the blank dog tags I bought him, what, two years ago now? The fact that they say nothing and he still wears 'em every single day and put 'em on his Minecraft skin tells you all you need to know about our little 'bromance,' as Pressy would call it. Outta the whole bunch, it looks like me and Rob are the only ones who aren't in denial about the whole bromance thing. It's fucking pathetic. I know there's probably no use in hoping but maybe someday he'll come around. Out of everything, this's the thing I want to change the most.

Of course he probably already knows about these changes (or lack thereof) and I wouldn't be the one to bring 'em up if he didn't. But he doesn't appreciate these things like I do. He doesn't enjoy the mix of the slow and steady changes and the familiar sameness like I do. He doesn't see that he doesn't hafta be a model to pass and he's got the whole attractive charmer bit down to a T, even when the camera's off. If he can't see this by now, I don't think he'll ever see it. He's the worst kind of stubborn – you can't change it but you can't help but love it, either. He doesn't take anyone's shit even if it makes him look like shit and he's cocky to a fault like he's trying to prove something, but I wouldn't have him any other way.

I love him but I hate how much it hurts. And I love to see him hurt after Ash left him. I hate myself for that and I can't let him see how happy it makes me to not see her name in his phone anymore. I'm a really piss poor friend, sittin' here cheering while he tries to get over his first-ever break-up. Not that they were ever that close to begin with – Mitch never lets anyone get close to him.

I troll through the tweets and tags on Preston's Twitter feed to see if he posted anything incriminating overnight until Mitch rolls over on his side again like the fucking blanket conveyor belt he is. His hands are tucked primly under the side of his face like he's some kind of pillow model with his arms crossed in front of his chest, as always. My mind's made up. I hafta do this, now or never.

I carefully reach over to the crappy little fridge and grab the banana and lean over and tuck it gently into the front of his swim trunks so it looks like he has a big, pointy torture dildo hanging out of his underwear, then I throw the blankets over him for the tenth time today. I don't know what'd be funnier: Lachlan waking up and seeing the Eiffel Tower pointing up through the bedspread for a morning salute, or Mitch waking up all confused after he grinds it into the sheets. Lucky for me, he's easy to fuck with because he sleeps like a goddamn dog turd. But he knows I do it out of love.