Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]
Post: FFF – August 30, 2013
Theme / Genre: The Perfect Form
Include: –
Words: 1,021
The Wrong Form
Now, I’m not usually one for filling out forms, in fact I
detest them. Actually, it’s not the
forms themselves per se, some are very graphically attractive, it’s their
contents; dumb-arse questions that don’t need asking.
“Do you identify as the gender you were assigned at
birth?” – What? I mean you couldn’t make this up
“For people who are transgender, the gender they were
assigned at birth is not the same as their own sense of their gender.” – hold on a minute, this is a survey for
reducing the speed limit to 20mph, does my gender really play a part? And, if I have changed gender will that
affect my answer?
Yes. No. Prefer not to say.
If I prefer not to say, could that be construed as hiding
something; and I pay my council tax for this!
I take a sip of coffee, its mellow taste turns slightly
bitter as I sip, it cools the heat rising within me. I close my eyes and breathe. I’m stressing again, this bloody council form
in front of me, of all things. Listening
to my breathing, and with help from caffeine I’m sure, the stress slowly falls
away.
My therapist’s breathing technique, Listen to the
individual breathes, as you inhale and exhale. I listen, I concentrate, but it’s not long
before my hearing picks up other café noises, chatter, chinking of cups, rustling
of newspapers. Thoughts are slowly
moving away, I wonder should I buy an almond croissant. Just a few seconds; I convince myself to
focus once more, sounds still linger, however I can still hear and feel my
breathing; stomach control is good. A
few seconds more.
Out of the deep swirling blackness, steps a pair of high
heels, shattering my calmness. This I
can’t miss, I open my eyes.
‘Would you mind if I join you?’
‘N, n, notal,’ I’m stuttering. ‘No, no, not at all.’
A completely curvaceous stereotype has just walked straight
into my breathing techniques, and is now sitting down beside me, not in front
of me, but right next to me. Her leg is touching mine, should I move?
‘So, I see you’ve coffee,’ doh, man what am I saying, it’s a
fucking coffee shop, ‘latté, I mean, coffee latté.’
She’s smiling, is that good?
‘Actually it’s a cappuccino, it’s lighter than a latté, I
have to watch me figure!’
You, me and the whole coffee shop are watching your figure,
lady. Aware the room has fallen silent,
I look up, head’s turn back to their business and small talk begins again.
She is gorgeous, and I mean gorgeous, grafted from the skin
of Aphrodite herself, a perfect clone of form and beauty. Legs are how they’re supposed to be; slender,
and all the way up to her rounded pert butt-cheeks, clad in faded ‘Boyfriend’
jeans. A washboard stomach inevitably
sits behind the loose t-shirt that hangs from her ample chest.
Another sip of coffee passes my lips, all gender questions
dissolved. Now I’m questioning a female
form; why next to me?
‘Is this your local cafe?’ Another lame question bolts forth.
‘No, actually, just passing by,’ she winks.
She winked. I turn to
see what at. There’s nothing. She winked at me. She winked, at me.
‘Just passing through, huh,’ I take another nervous sip of
coffee. Not the most attractive, or
social, of guys, I find myself sitting hip-to-hip with a sex goddess.
‘You’re funny, I like that,’ she says.
She’s smiling, what did I do? Did I tidy the flat? I try to remember, do I have a nice pair of
underpants on? You never know where this
might go.
‘I’m meeting friends later, but need a lunch date, are you
interested?’
‘Lunch?’ Yes, lunch
you muppet, you heard her, don’t need to repeat it. ‘Sure, that would be nice.’ Nice, ahhh.
‘Can you suggest somewhere?’
If I said the municipal dump, I swear she would follow me. I didn’t, we’ve moved a few doors along the
road to a great little sandwich place on the corner. I’ve gone for a Big Hank: roast chicken,
crispy bacon, Swiss cheese and BBQ sauce, my new friend, Stephanie, is having a
Kate Moss: roast chicken, spinach, salad and light mayo.
As I sit, happy and enjoying her conversation, and not
believing my luck, she says the most peculiar thing.
‘I’m a bit aroused, hope you don’t mind me saying, I’ve just
had a Brazilian.’
‘Brazilian coffee?’ I
ask, not having a clue what she means.
‘No, Brazilian, silly,’ she has a wicked laugh, ‘you know,
when you wax-off your pubes.’ And a
strange way of saying things.
‘Oh, right, Brazilian, yes of course. Did it hurt?’
She’s smiling and laughing again, today is my lucky
day. I swig a mouthful of ginger beer.
‘Do you want to see it?’
Beer sprays in her direction, luckily, short of her immaculate
features. ‘What? Here, now?’
‘Well, no not here silly boy.’
I thank the lord, desperate as I am; I can’t imagine some
girl pulling her knickers off in front of me at the table.
‘Let’s sneak off to the loos.’
I’m thinking about it, honestly, I am thinking about it.
‘What, right now?’ I
say.
‘Sure. You do want to
look, don’t you.’
I’m thinking some more.
‘Maybe,’ I lie through my teeth, course I flippin’ do.
‘Come on,’ she stands and saunters off to the toilets.
Following, a few seconds later, I look around uneasily,
someone I know might be looking. They’re
not, I continue.
She has the door ajar, checking that I’m still coming. Can she be more desperate than me? I close the door and lock it behind me, by the
time I have turned round she already has her top off and is unclipping her bra.
I’m speechless. The view is
breathtaking. Next, she slowly unbuttons
her worn jeans, then slowly, provocatively slides them down together with her
underwear.
‘Oh, my god, you’re a he-she, she-he,’ I’m suddenly
transported back to the transgender question, realising that in my desperation
for perfection, I’ve managed to pick up the wrong form.
