For a Girl - J.T. D'Arelli (audio ebook reader txt) 📗

records for men's track and field. I could tell you the history of who had been the world's fastest miler for the last century. I was nearly as expert on all the other events, too, from the 100-meter dash to the javelin throw. Track was practically a religion for me — I'd been running competitively since I was 11. Just like other kids poured over NFL and NBA stats, I studied the IAAF (International Amateur Athletic Federation) record books. And I dreamed of my own name being written in. But I'd never paid much attention to the women's marks. After all, it had no impact on my career. I would never compete against them, so their records were not a goal for me. But as I got on-line and looked at the side-by-side comparisons, I realized with a sinking heart just how different the men's and women's standards were.

100-meter dash:

Men, Tim Montgomery: 9.78.

Women, Florence Griffith Joyner: 10.49.

It got worse as the distances grew.

400-meter run:

Men, Michael Johnson: 43.03.

Women, Marita Koch: 47.1

And then I came to the mile. I already knew the current men's record, of course — my hero, the god of the mile: Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco and his amazing 3:43. Then I saw the women's time: Svetlana Masterkova of Russia.

4:12.

Jesus Christ. A few days ago, I'd run a 3:59. I was just a high-school boy who had never competed in an international race. And I was already nearly fifteen seconds better than the fastest woman miler ever.

In 1954, Roger Bannister of England did what sports physiologists argued could never be achieved — he broke the 4 minute barrier for the mile. In the five decades since then, some 300 men around the world had followed in his footsteps, lowering the record by a remarkable 17 seconds. I'd just joined that elite club myself earlier this week - which only added to my hunger for more.

But now...

No woman had done it. Not even close. If I became a real girl, then I would never run a sub-four mile again. No matter how hard I trained, how much pain I endured, my body would not achieve such speed. Not as a female.

And just like that, all my dreams were gone.

I know you may have trouble understanding where I'm coming from — but if you have any athletic background of your own, especially as a kid, you've probably indulged in a little fantasy while working out or competing. You know, pretending you are in the NBA finals against Jordan; catching the winning pass in the Super Bowl; hitting a home run off Randy Johnson in the World Series. It helps to intensify the experience, makes it more fun. And for a lucky few of us, our fantasies can become reality.

I'd had many of them during the years of long, grueling workouts. It kept me running — that kind of dreaming. And for track and field athletes, we had our own Super Bowl, every four years.

The Olympics.

That was the one time where track stars could reach the fame of big league athletes — with names like Bruce Jenner, Carl Lewis, and Michael Johnson. And I had dreamed of joining them — racing El Guerrouj to a gold medal and world record in front of an audience of billions. And best of all, there was a chance — just a chance — it might have come true for me.

But now that fantasy was dead. Once I was female, I would be lucky to finish on the same lap as the Olympic men's champion. Even if I ran the mile ten seconds faster than any woman before, I'd still be utterly outclassed by the guys.

I felt an emotional pain that seemed to reach my very soul.

Maybe... maybe this wasn't really happening. Maybe there had been a mistake after all. Still in my room, I took off all my clothes and studied myself carefully. Like any athlete, I knew my body well. And I couldn't avoid what I was seeing.

It had already begun.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

It was subtle, but undeniable. There was a definite curve between my waist and my hips that had not been there before. My legs seemed a bit smoother — and higher up, I realized with dismay, there was a hint of puffiness to my chest that was new. Oh, it was nothing dramatic — the average 10-year old girl probably had more, but the nipples were clearly larger and my 'pecs' (such as they were) appeared rounder. As for my face — once I looked closely, I could see my nose and mouth were slightly different. I can't really describe it — but when added to my thinning eyebrows, I was less masculine, more... androgynous. In fact — I thought to my horror — if I put on a wig, I might just pass as a girl already.

It wasn't that I suddenly resembled Britney Spears. It was just that when I looked at myself with the knowledge of what was happening, I could now see the preliminary effects of GB. For the moment, the world would still see me as a boy, but that was more due to my walk, my clothes, and my haircut. Take those away, and I could be perceived as... feminine.

And the real changes hadn't even kicked in yet!

I felt a sense of dismay that reached even deeper than before. I could not deny the evidence in the mirror. The doctors were right, after all — it would soon be impossible to ignore this harsh reality.

I really was turning into a girl.

I could imagine what was happening inside my body — my chromosomes changing to XX, my body growing smaller, muscles weaker, skin softer. Every breath I took just provided my body with the oxygen it needed to complete the transition — from male to... female.

How could this be happening to me? I'm not supposed to be a girl! I never had any desire to be one. I liked my body, my life, my running, my buddies, my girlfriend, my...

Oh God — Sue!

And now my horror was complete. If... no, when I became a girl, then Sue and I were... finished. I mean — GB doesn't turn girls into boys. That meant Sue and I would be the same sex — we would both be females — and then...

Milford is a small, conservative town. There were no Gay Pride parades and no one at school was out of the closet. Of course, I'm sure we had the same percentages of homosexuals as anyplace else — but here it was definitely 'don't ask, don't tell'. So what would I be once I was a girl? I refused to think about boys that way. Would my feelings for Sue make me a... a... lesbian?

The thought was too absurd to consider. But I was confident of one thing — Sue was not gay. Once GB was done with me, then there was no chance that Sue and I could have a romantic relationship.

And that sent my emotions spiraling down still further. I'd always had great affection and more than a little bit of a crush on her. But since we started dating, my desire for her had increased tremendously. There was the physical part - I mean, I am a teenager — so of course I dwelled in a near perpetual state of elevated hormones. Anything that smacked of femininity was highly erotic for me.

But it was more than that with Sue. My previous dates had seemed like formulaic efforts at a ritual — I made the moves until the girl told me to stop, then I politely took her home — hoping to get a little farther next time. But Sue and I, clichÈd though this may sound, had a connection. With Sue, it wasn't about the potential for sex (Okay, there was some of that!) — rather, it was the easy, delightful 'specialness' of our time together. That was why I never felt any pressure to escalate to third base or beyond. When the time was right, we would both know it. No games, no teasing, no manipulation. That's the kind of girl she was. I loved being with her.

I loved her.

And now, that was lost to me. How could we ever make love if we both had vagi...

I felt tears coming to my eyes.

At that moment, my mother opened the door to my room. I was still undressed, and she turned away quickly. I picked up a robe.

"Don't worry, Mom, nudity won't be an issue for us by Monday." I said harshly.

"I just wanted to see if you were okay." she said.

"Well, let's see. The 5000 miles I've run in training over the last 4 years are wasted. My athletic scholarships are gone. Sports Illustrated will never call me again. I'm going to have to blow my allowance on make-up and nylons. I'm about to become the laughingstock of the school... and, oh yeah — my beautiful girlfriend will be forced to dump me next week. So I'm just fucking peachy!"

She started to walk towards me. I raised my hand to stop her. "I know you mean well, Mom, but I'm not really up for hearing the 'it'll be all right' speech right now. I need some time by myself — please?"

She nodded and said, "You know where to find me." Then she shut the door.

I got into bed and did something I'd never done before: I cried myself to sleep.

That night I had some very unsettling dreams. You've probably had or at least heard of the classic nightmare of appearing in public nude. Freudian theory argues that represents the unconscious fear of having one's privacy or secrets exposed. I'd had the dream myself once or twice before.

These dreams were different, though. Yes, I was in public without any clothes on.

But this time I was a naked girl.

A jumbled set of images ran through my mind — I was in school, or on the track or at a party. But in each scene, two things were common. One, I was nude. And two, I was female. In the dreams, there weren't any physical sensations — just an awareness that I was a girl. Everyone was pointing and laughing at me. I kept getting comments like 'nice rack' or 'cute bush', while I desperately searched for something to wear. Embarrassed, I would frantically look in lockers or my backpack — but all I could find were skirts, dresses and other girl's clothing - which I couldn't bring myself to put on. In one dream sequence, still nude, I managed to locate a pair of boxer shorts and pulled them up, only to watch in dismay as they morphed into a frilly pair of girl's... panties. Pink, no less. Then, topless, trying to cover my breasts, I found myself surrounded by a group of boys who smiled and hooted as they approached me to...

I woke up in a cold sweat, the sheets twisted around me. My dreams had unsettled me further — was this to be my destiny as a girl? To be ashamed and disgraced — someone to be mocked? Telling myself, a la 'Dallas', that it was only a dream wouldn't work — for this nightmare was real.

Shaken, I headed for the shower —