Live Long and Prosper            by: Brandy Dewinter             © 2000, All rights reserved

 

Chapter 10 - "Hooter Girl"

The Breeze woke me up with a special little wiggle she makes when the waves start whitecapping. At first, I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that something had tripped an internal alarm signal and I had to get moving. I wasn’t really awake for a moment, but by the time I had reached the ladder to the cockpit I realized it wasn’t all that bad. The wiggle was there, and the deck was heeling probably 20 degrees, which is an incredible amount the first time you experience it, but we were used to both by now. The key factor was that the deck was relatively steady, with that wiggle overlaid on an easy oscillation as we climbed one side then surfed down the other side of the rollers.

"Well, Sleeping Beauty finally awakes," Ethan called from the wheel. He was standing, feet well-spread, hair loose and blowing in the wind, a fierce grin on his face as he dared the elements through his lively steed, the Twilight Breeze. God, he looked magnificent.

"Hey, you awake or what?" he called again.

"Huh, oh, yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be right up."

He laughed and looked up at the taut sails, "No hurry, this is fun." Then he looked down at me again and grinned impishly, "Though since you’ve slept most of the day away, you might make us a bite to eat."

"Oh, um, sure, sorry. You should have gotten me us sooner."

"Yeah, me and what army? I ducked down to look at you once, and I don’t think you were even in this time zone."

I shrugged, but nodded. I guess I had needed the sleep. My first order of business was to check the weather, finding that we were probably going to get a few showers, but no real storm. We were lucky, actually, because the front had shifted the trade winds enough to break down any really large seas rather than reinforce them. We’d be fine, though we would need to shorten sail before too long.

We had a little diesel generator to supply some electrical power, but we didn’t often use it. It just didn’t seem right for a sailboat, though all the nav and weather electronics were hardly from the days of wooden ships and iron men either. Still, when we had a real need for more power than we wanted to draw from the batteries, we had the generator as an option. I started it now, then put some soup in our handy swinging kettle, the one that heated electrically and wouldn’t spill as the Breeze swayed. It was about the safest way to get a hot meal when the seas were building.

While the soup was heating, I poked my head out the hatch and looked around. "How has the weather been behaving?"

"Not too bad. Wear a swimsuit when you come on deck, though. We’re getting a bit of spray."

"Is it warm enough, with no sunshine?"

"I’m okay," he said. "But wear a t-shirt if you’d like. Just figure on it getting a bit wet."

He shouldn’t have said that. For some reason, the idea of a wet t-shirt sort of interested me. I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe I was more ‘involved’ in how I looked than I had thought. Part of it, I realized suddenly, was that Ethan was looking so ‘manly’ on deck that I decided I wanted to - I don’t know how to put it - hold up my end of the deal or something. Obviously he wasn’t talking about one of my swimsuits, so when I went back into our cabin I stripped, then scrounged through the cabinets looking for one of Elaine’s. The only two-piece suits she had were bikinis, and I decided I wasn’t quite ready for that. I did find a pair of orange shorts that fit fine, though even as I slid them up my legs I knew that my own waist had become a lot smaller than hers.

Then, instead of putting on the top, I found one of her t-shirts, a white one. It was snug on me. Very snug. I almost put on something else but the timer on the microwave dinged and I had to go turn the sandwiches I was heating.

I had time to change after turning the sandwiches. I have to admit that. Instead, I spent the time I had to spare - the first part of it anyway - standing in front of the mirror. I hadn’t really paid attention to the way Elaine, um, Ethan had done my hair the day before. He had worked twin braids from above my ears back to a sort of knot thing at my collar that was secured by that pink bow Elaine had been wearing. The funny thing was that all the hair leading into the bow was now glossy black, but what hung loose below it, maybe an extra foot, was still gray. It looked like I had stuck a poorly-matched tail on my braided black hair.

"That’s what’s wrong!" I said out loud, surprising myself. But I had just realized what had been bothering me about my eyebrows. They were part gray and part black, though it looked like separate hairs rather than two colors on the same strand. I glanced at the soup and decided I had time, then stepped into the head. First I took the braid out of my hair, since I didn’t like the artificial look the color change created at the bow. Then I found Lainey’s tweezers and started to pluck out the gray hairs in my eyebrows, leaving only the new ones.

I was wrong, of course, about the time it would take. And way wrong on how much it would sting to pluck a few hairs, well, quite a few. Funny thing was, when I took out the gray ones, the black ones that were left seemed to me to be shaped pretty nicely, arched a bit in a natural sort of way that still made my eyes look larger. In any event, it left me much neater, even though they were still ‘earthy’ and not the thin, penciled-in fakes of a silent movie star. I discovered, to no surprise, that it hadn’t hurt the soup to simmer a little longer and I re-nuked the sandwiches. When I finally came on deck, I was braless under my tight t-shirt, wearing those orange shorts, and carrying a tray of food and drinks. And yes, I knew exactly what image that brought to mind.

"Will that be all, sir?" I asked in a bright little chirp.

Ethan didn’t catch on right away. I guess he, that is, Lainey didn’t go to the same restaurants I did when she was out with her friends. But when he did - catch on that is - he laughed so hard I thought he was going to fall overboard. Not to mention wasting a mouthful of the soup.

"Hooters! The chick’s got hooters!"

"Nice of you to notice," I said, taking a deep breath. "Finally."

"Oh, I noticed right away," he claimed. "I just didn’t make the connection with the shorts."

"Sure," I said, sniffing, but he knew I wasn’t really angry. I was hungry, though, and so was Ethan. We sat and ate our simple meal without further teasing, enjoying the lively swoop of the Breeze as she danced in the building seas and wind. Still, by the time we were finished it was clearly time to reduce sail.

"Let’s get the reefs in before we tack," I suggested, standing to go forward.

"Um, Anya, wait just a second," Ethan said. I turned around to look at him and stood with my own legs well-spread as I swayed with the motion of the boat. For a minute, I thought his eyes were going to cross. By the time he looked at ‘me’ again, meaning looked me in the eye, I was perilously close to a giggle.

"Yes?" I said, arching one of my newly-neat brows.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, um, look, Anya, you’re a better sailor than I will ever be, and I still consider you the captain of the Breeze, but I think it might be better if I started doing most of the muscle things, don’t you?"

"Oh. Yeah," I said. All of the sudden, playing at being a girl was no longer a game. But he was right.

I moved back to take the wheel and said, "Bring in the bigger jib first, then I think one reef in both the mizzen and the main."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Ethan said, throwing me a jaunty salute. I tried hard to put a real smile on my face, especially since he was so proud of his own new capabilities. I suppose it was fair; I had certainly been taking advantage of mine to tease him.

Things got a little active for a while. In order to make it easier to work the sails, I’d luff up into the wind periodically. That would set us directly across the swells and we’d get a little more spray and a sharper pitching motion. By the time Ethan was ready to reef the mizzen, I was more than a little damp.

So was my shirt.

"Ethan, take the wheel for a couple of minutes. I have to go change."

His face fell about six inches. Not his eyes. They were oscillating again, but the corners of his mouth showed that he was clearly not in favor of the idea.

I shrugged, which was a mistake, then said, "I’m sorry, but I’m just, um, bouncing too much. I should have worn a bra. It will only take a minute."

"Is it just the, ah, ‘bouncing’ that’s bothering you?" he asked.

"You mean, other than looking naked in this wet t-shirt?"

His disappointment changed to a smirky little leer that made me, I mean, that should have made me mad. Instead, the ideas that were flying behind his eyes caused an entirely different reaction, one that made my wet t-shirt seem even more revealing. Or maybe it was just a bit of colder-than-normal spray.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "What I mean is, I can help you with the jiggling."

"You can?"

"Sure," he confirmed, moving behind me. "I’ve been to Hooter’s too, you know."

Actually, I didn’t know, but I guess it didn’t really matter where he learned the technique. What he did was pull my t-shirt even tighter, then tie a knot in the back, high enough that it provided a bit of lift and control to my, ‘bouncing’. It wasn’t really enough. I mean, I still moved in way too many directions, but when he slipped his arms around me from behind after finishing with the knot, I didn’t feel like arguing.

"Finish with the mizzen," I ordered softly after a scandalously indeterminate time of trying not to notice what his hands were doing to me. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious, and I don’t mean just his actions. I thought my little nubbins were going to poke a hole in that shirt, and part of me - several parts of me - thought that would be a wonderful idea. But . . . I just couldn’t. I just, it just wasn’t . . . right.

He did what he was told, despite a sigh from both of us that said a lot more than mere words could ever hope to convey.

As soon as he had the mizzen reefed, I took refuge in ship’s business to keep from a repeat, um, whatever it was that we had just done. Cuddle, I guess. Anyway, I sent him to the jib sheets and we tacked. Once we were set on the port tack, though, there wasn’t really any excuse for him not to come back into the cockpit.

"Take the wheel, please," I said quietly. I gathered up the remnants of our meal and fled back below decks. The excuse of wiping off the salt spray was pretty weak, since I knew I was going back on deck right away anyway, but I used it to justify taking off the t-shirt and putting on a sports bra. So much for jiggling. I put on a light-weight top and a nylon rain jacket, then grabbed another jacket for Ethan and went back on deck. It wasn’t until I was handing it to him that I realized I had put on Elaine’s jacket and taken Adam’s for him without conscious thought.

"Are you okay?" he asked, showing concern and a bit of guilt.

"I’m fine," I claimed. "It’s just, um, confusing for me right now."

Ethan nodded, pretending to look at the sails and the sea to give me some private space.

"It’s just that," I said, trying to explain, "at times, this seems like it’s happening to someone else, like I’m watching instead of participating. I look at this young brunette in the mirror and can sort of order her to do something, and I choose something I think you’ll enjoy. Then all the sudden it is very, very real. And frightening. Not you, I mean, but the whole deal."

"I know," Ethan said, nodding. "I also know that you’re having a harder time with this than I am. And I respect that. I think if things were reversed, that I’d have more trouble, too. In our culture, a woman can be all sorts of things, but there is an image of being a man that is pretty near mandatory, at least for the traditionally respectable sort of man. For me to take it on is no big deal, but for someone to give it up, to lose it, I can see how that would be difficult."

"It’s not all bad, not even for me," I said, trying to smile and not succeeding very well. "I actually do like the way I look now. I guess I’ve always thought a pretty woman was a lot better looking than even a handsome man, and so looking this good is sort of . . . satisfying. I was thinking about this earlier, and I’m not sure I’d like some of the fashion things that women do, like, oh, high heels or something, but the idea of having a, well, a good body truly pleases me."

Ethan raised his now-shaggy brow and prodded. "And . . ?"

I moved over to lean against him, carefully as the Breeze was still moving about even under the reduced sail, and let him slip his arm around me. "It’s not so much an ‘and’ as a ‘but’. ‘But’ this is not just something of appearance that I can consider in the mirror, and imagine what I would look like in a wet t-shirt. This IS real, and - I guess there is an ‘and’ - this body is . . . very responsive. I don’t think I was so old that I’ve forgotten what it was like when I was younger, and this body gets way more excited than I ever remember before."

As I had spoken, feeling the warmth and strength of Ethan’s arm around me, I had also felt my hidden nipples pop up again, rubbing with delicious torture on the rough material of the bra I now wore. I had sort of expected that, testing the very responsiveness I was trying to understand.

I felt something else, too. Talking of how responsive this body was had an effect on Ethan as well. Been there, felt that (couldn’t not feel it actually), and I was instantly sorry.

"Oh, Ethan, I didn’t mean to . . "

"Don’t worry about it," he said, smiling; a genuine smile, with a flavor of laughing at himself but being comfortable with that. "But the idea of getting close to one of these, that’s not hooked to your own body, is one of the biggest taboos in our culture for a man - most men, anyway."

"Well, yes," I said, nodding, "but . . . it’s not, I mean, it, the idea, doesn’t . . . oh, hell."

I turned to his chest, feeling stupid tears I didn’t need right then forcing themselves from my eyes.

Ethan was as patient and solid as the rock his hard body felt like as I used it for support. The wind whistled through the rigging, the sails popped now and then as an eddy disturbed their taut shape, and I just cried.

I don’t know how long it was. After a while I sort of ran down, and a while after that I finally looked up into Ethan’s warm eyes. I never would have thought that eyes such a deep blue could be so warm. There was a gentle question in his eyes, an offer without strings.

That I decided not to take right then. "I’ll take the wheel for a while," I offered instead. "Why don’t you go below and get some rest? I have a feeling we’re not going to get much tonight."

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked.

"Damned if I know," I said, forcing a smile that became a little more real with the recognition that I actually even could smile. He nodded, took one look around the boat to make sure things were okay, then left me to myself for a while.

I took advantage of the time to yell at myself, but I did it only on the inside. It was so stupid to be so conflicted on this, at least at that time. In another few days we were going to see Tirce again, and we might end up with a lot worse problems than any I faced right now . . . or with no problems at all. Surely I could control myself for just a few days.

Yet, every time he touched me I felt a need to be held. I didn’t want to have any distance between us, not for a few days, not even for a few minutes. I wanted to be close to . . . to my beloved spouse of 34 years and counting. Inside that tall, strong, handsome body was the kind and generous heart of my Lainey.

But every time he touched me, I wanted more, too. I wanted to be loved by him, dear God I wanted to be taken by him, forced to accept the sensuality of this new, young, desperately-healthy body. I knew, part of me ‘knew’ that was wrong, that I shouldn’t feel any attraction for a man, that hard muscles should be a turn-off, not a turn-on, that the thought of touching or . . . even more . . . another man’s . . . That it should make me sick, not make me hot. I KNEW that.

But I knew it wasn’t really true. Not anymore.

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Log of the Twilight Breeze
24 October 2004
Long 142.00 deg. W
Lat 10.51 deg. S

(At sea)

Stupid! Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid. I can’t believe what I just did to her, and right after I so sanctimoniously complimented myself on not ‘forcing’ her to confront the changes in us.

I thought it was going to be a great day. Anya came on deck braless, and wearing a nice, tight t-shirt. God, she has a great body! I don’t know if my nuts are full enough to be fertile yet, but the rest of my new equipment is definitely in working order. I’m going to have to start wearing some of Adam’s ‘tighty-whiteys’, or I’m going to hurt myself.

She’s having a lot of trouble with this transformation, which is very understandable of course. If there is anything that is surprising, it is that I am finding it so . . . satisfying. I never imagined that I would like to be a man. Lord knows I could have come about as close to that as I wanted, plumbing aside, when I was still Elaine. My body never ‘proclaimed’ my gender very loudly and women can wear just about anything.

Actually, that’s not true. The strength I’m feeling is a big part of what is so pleasing about this new body. That’s not something of clothes or styles, it’s inherent in being a man. I suppose a woman could work out hard enough to compensate, but I’d never have thought to do that since I never understood what I was missing. Being strong, really strong, is just . . . ha! The word is empowering, but it is, and it becomes more than just physical. I feel like I could do anything, build bridges, climb mountains, ‘rule the world’.

Not really, of course, not that I’d want the headaches anyway, but I just have this feeling that I could if I wanted to, that I can DO things, and solve problems that seemed impossible when I was Elaine. So of course the first thing I do is screw up with Anya by being too forward. Just shows you that confidence and actual ability are NOT the same thing.

Maybe that’s part of Anya’s problem. If she’s feeling like she can no longer ‘do’ things, no longer solve her own problem, then I imagine she’s feeling terribly helpless. It’s an emotional weakness that feeds on the feeling of physical weakness I know she’s experiencing. I was so pleased to see her accept the way she looks, even build on it a little.

Then I had to go and mess it all up. She was having fun, being pretty and a bit flirty and exuberant and all those things I was thinking old Adam needed to be happy. The fresh breeze brought a nice bright color to her cheeks, and . . . then that t-shirt started to get wet in the spray. I was shortening sail, moving around the Breeze, and ended up . . . close to her. She’s so much shorter now; I think I must be half a foot taller, and despite a very grown-up (and out!) set of ‘hooters’, I felt protective all of the sudden. I just wanted to put my arms around her and hold her close.

She didn’t mind. I could have done that, and it would have been a good thing. The right thing.

But then I had to go and get stupid. Dear God I think the sayings are all true, that a man only really thinks with his little head. Anyway, I found my fingers caressing her breasts through that nearly-transparent t-shirt, and then they were on her nipples, which have grown up to match the rest of her and were just about poking through the shirt. At first, I thought she liked that, too. Lord knows her body molded itself to mine in a way that was not a sign of rejection.

She’s having lots of trouble with her sexuality, but I’m not. That’s blunt, but that’s the way I feel about it. I know where the parts go, and I’d really like to try it. God knows this body wants to try it. When Anya started talking about how responsive her new body is, I got so damn excited I thought I was either going to have to let ‘it’ out or break it off. The only thing that hurt worse was my tongue, where I was chewing on it to keep from saying something very . . . blunt.

But then she backed off. Again. Just like when I kissed her for the first time, the first real time after she was Anya and I was Ethan. It’s like she dips her toe in the water, but as soon as she starts to get hot, she cools off. That’s a lousy analogy, but the point is that she is fighting herself on this one, and I can’t tell which way - for her - is victory, let alone how to help her get there.

She made some excuse - I guess it’s true that I hadn’t really finished with the sails - and sent me away. She wasn’t angry. I think she was scared really, and I feel like I’m the most . . . stupid person God ever made. The first thing I do, when we start being more than ‘just friends’ is scare her, of all things! As soon as the Breeze was shipshape, she ran below decks and put on a much more concealing outfit, including a jacket for God’s sake, though the temperature must be near 80, even if the sea is a bit cooler.

At least, she came to stand with me. She’ll let me hold her, and be close to her. It’s just the sex that really bothers her. And so I had to get as hard as a damn rock. Again. And she felt it, like she could have missed it the way I was squeezing her, and it made her cry. I’m sure she’s feeling guilty right now, and she has absolutely NO reason to feel guilty. I do, for ‘pushing’ myself at her, but not her.

Anyway, I came below and decided I’d write in this logbook a little early today. It’s not dark yet, though that won’t last much longer. Anya is still on deck instead of taking her usual afternoon nap, and I thought I’d give her some space.

I guess I’ll just have to be ‘nice’ and polite and all those things from dating rituals until she makes up her mind. At least I won’t have to worry about meeting her parents.

Just about meeting Tirce again. And keeping myself under control.

End log entry
Ethan Bridger

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(continued in Part 11)

 

 

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Live Long and Prosper © 2000 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.