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This may be archived/posted anywhere: Just give credit where credit is due, thanks! Bodywear by Pretzelgirl "Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes." -- Henry David Thoreau * * * "Hi Bodywear!" Inanimate objects do not talk, strictly speaking. But this is Big Brenda's Boutique, a place so welcoming, so accepting, and so open to the unconventional that if you take the time to just shut up, you really can hear articles of clothing speak. Or maybe it's just me. Perhaps I'm so detached from the norm, so clinically aberrant, that I now hallucinate their sweet voices. Doubtful. I'm a weirdo -- but I'm not that weird. I don't understand it, and though I don't believe in magic I've seen (and been) enough strange things that I no longer question the insane little quirks of reality. From my perspective, it's the cosmos that deserves to be locked up in a padded cell, not me (or my friends!) Over the course of the many years I've spent here, some of these clothes have become very close to me. They are dearer friends than my so-called peers back home could ever have been. These clothes gave me my name, after all. "Bodywear." It's more than just a description. It's become who I am. I've become who I am. I return to the closet, and pastel fabrics swing and sway on the long titano-chrome display rack, rippling and rustling together in a charming, chiming musical greeting just for me. Long, tall taffetas flutter in a delicious arabesque that I can't help but admiring -- the stretch and flow of the fabric, the crinkled swishing sounds in the air! All so touching, so beautiful. The short, flat wools flap enthusiastically, bodily swinging themselves back and forth in rhythmic applause that gently jars their neighbors into a slowly, swelling wave. From the back of the closet, a thin swash of silk quivers a ladylike smile my way. Her delicate shimmy strikes me as dignified but soft. The genuine article, she knows the depth of her precious, rare status this far into deep space. Yet she still has time to give a replicant like me a friendly hello. Wish I were so classy. "Now, now," Big Brenda orders gingerly. "Ladies, let's settle down please." Brenda hears the clothing speak as well. But she's like me. Or maybe I'm like her. Zipping breezily past us, the six-foot tall woman eyes an askew skirt on a mannequin and tenderly adjusts it. As she does so, a pair of eager Earthling tourists enter. I spot them easily by their wide eyed, everything-is-a-novelty expressions. Earthlings have always been my favorite. I love their clothes the best: a simple bipedal paradigm, but so much variation in color, pattern, cut, style, and trim. I secretly hope they'll pick me. The dresses, still full of girlish spirit, echo my sentiment. But they're smart enough to reduce their rocking and begin the day's rest. Maybe I'm crazy and simply imagine their voices. Still ... I have to confess that real or not, their welcoming reception warms my heart. Before I realize it, one of my straps has melted off into a hot droplet of black goo that spatters softly on the floor. I curse myself for being so sloppy. We Southern Aldebaranians liquefy too easily from strong emotions. I know a northern cousin who wouldn't melt from the glow of even the most radiant orgasm. He's something! Don't get me wrong, I respect a man of resolute self-control. And though I've tried hard over the years to acquire such discipline, I've still somehow always managed to wear my heart on my sleeve. Even when I'm being sleeveless. A moment's concentration, and the ebony puddle on the floor leaps back into me. With an amorphous shiver, I become a black, lace slip of a dress again. My spaghetti straps gingerly embrace the hanger. I begin the day's rest. Big Brenda grins knowingly and shakes her head. She's witnessed my loss of self-control before. My lack of discipline gives me charm, but I really ought to know better while a potential sale might stand pending before us. Fortunately, the Earthlings didn't notice. Brenda busies herself distracting them with cheap, waxy plastics in shimmery iridescent colors. Her hairy, thick fingers nimbly roll through the fabrics as she displays her wares. Like a magician performing some sort of illusion, she transforms plain cloth into the stuff of dreams with nothing more than a simple flourish and an impish smile. The tourists have come here just for this. They want the complete experience of Big Brenda's Boutique. Their hostess with her brawny shoulders and hairy, muscle-bound thighs looks too much like the gossip they've heard. I know the truth, of course. But I'd never betray Brenda. And for all I know, she's the one who started the rumors in the first place! After all, the exotic appeal of man-become-woman entices customers through the door. Then the satisfaction of goods like myself sends them away with a satisfied smile! I recognize the tourists as a mixed pair -- a male and a female. I listen and hear the obligatory excuses: "Oh, it's just this once!" ... "We thought it'd be wild!"... "I don't normally do this sort of thing!" ... "Well, when in Rome!" Big Brenda smiles knowingly and helps the couple pick out a tasteful, emerald green evening gown. The male tries it on. I'm chagrined they didn't choose me. But I'm pleased the male gets the dress. It really is a lovely gown, too. A deep verdant with just a hint of metallic sheen to it. There's a very subtle lace pattern hidden in it. The Earthlings won't notice though. You'd need to see in the ultraviolet spectrum to catch it. Still, a marvelous choice. My pride isn't wounded too deeply. I decide I like these two. "We just wanted the full experience while on vacation," giggle the pair. "After all, you can't visit Ireland and not kiss the Blarney Stone!" They all say some variation on that. Deep space gets pretty cold, and denial can keep you warm during those endless nights. I know firsthand. * * * I recall my first time in Big Brenda's, "just passing through." Our ship had a layover here, ostensibly for refueling, but now I know the Port Captain bribes liner agents to stop at this station. Ship stops here. Curiosity hits passengers. Passengers become tourists. Tourists hit Red Light District. Money flows to shopkeepers. Shopkeepers toss kickbacks to Port Captain. Beautiful system. Beautiful boutique. It was just one of many storefronts that fill the "naughty" district on the station, but it caught my eye at once as I slithered along the metal deck plates. The fashionable, the frilly, the feminine has always fascinated me. I inevitably swam into the shop. Just for a look. Just this once. I tasted the flooring -- genuine linoleum! Tart but clean. A sweet two- tone pattern of pink and a light, dusty gray. I devoured that alluring aroma. The pulsating thumping of the "music" proved different. I've never adjusted to it and don't know how Brenda puts up with it. Earthlings force their atonal cacophony of mixed wavelengths and simplistic rhythms upon anyone within "earshot." Aldebaranian music possesses a subdued sophistication that escapes notice by fans of Earth's clashings and clangings. But I hadn't come here for the sounds. I quivered with eager anticipation eying Brenda's goods. She stocked everything imaginable: skirts, dresses, gowns, lingerie. Every chic style in existence, every fashionable flair, every color and cut, all present and accounted for. Something for every species could be found here. Even Aldebaranians. Especially Aldebaranians. In spite of myself, I pooled motionless for a moment with embarrassed delight. No doubt I turned milky white! Big Brenda approached. Tall and humanlike (but decidedly not an Earthling!), she wore the same magenta wig back then that she still sports today. I recall she dressed in a dark violet blouse and a long black skirt with tassels. Her shiny black boots ended with two inch high spiked heels. Silver bracelets on both wrists chimed together musically. Amethyst earrings dangled from her lobes. She radiated calm and security. You could tell her anything. She is a enormous mountain of confidence and certitude. "Can I help you find something today?" she beamed while bending low to the floor. An unnecessary gesture. She should know better! Aldebaranians don't get offended by height. But I know some species take offense at random things -- someone being too tall, too fat, too loud. Brenda's thoughtfulness helped cinch up my own courage. Maybe she does know better. "I'd like a wear." "Something to wear?" she asked politely. "Or to be worn?" "To be worn," I answered. I never studied languages. I worked as an electrical engineer, and interspecies communication has always frustrated me. Thankfully, Brenda understands. Of course she understands! This drives customers to her doors. Somehow, she always understands what we want. Blessed Brenda. From nowhere, she pulls out an enormous, full-color catalog and immediately begins showing me the styles, the fashions, the wish lists of beings who wear clothes. I ought to be embarrassed. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Aldebaranians don't wear clothes. Such freakish fashions belong to the stunted solid races that can't endure their own environments. Too much hot, too much cold, too much vacuum, too much radiation ... too much modesty. You'll rarely catch an Aldebaranian wearing clothes! Not even creepy weirdos, like me. Only ... well ... I'm getting ahead of myself. But being clothes ... well ... that's my secret raison d'?tre and why I'm writing this down in the first place. Being clothes is ... my confession, my secret, my hidden dark deep passion ... and nowadays, my profession. The most pleasurable taboos in any species rarely make sense logically in terms of the biological needs to consume, to survive, and to procreate. In other words: to feed, to flourish, and to fuck. Clothes neither help nor hinder, regardless of whether you're the wearer or the wearee. But we still love them so! Oh yes, we do! Oh yes, we must! I selected a brilliant yellow faux rubber jumpsuit from the catalog. The slick, almost wet texture proved too alluring for me to resist. That happy canary coloring, that slippery smooth feeling, that delicate stretch as I imagined myself tightly enveloping someone's entire being ... it all seduced me in a heartbeat. I had to be it! A few hours later (Brenda is fast) I found myself purchased by a large reptilian with a lumpy snout of jagged teeth and glowing coals for eyes. Big Brenda assured him of our discretion. She emphasized how this suit will stretch to fit even those bulging, raggedy, scale-covered muscles of his. She told of how this article of clothing will bring enormous pleasure, a touch no ordinary fabric could ever come close to. A special garment -- only lasts a day! But worth every credit for the unique joy and intense gratification it brings. He bought it. The reptilian male wanted to wear the garb of female cr?che tenders on his home world. He wanted to dress like a nanny, squeezing that spiked tail of his into a jumpsuit designed for females too young, too immature to sport such an enormous appendage. He wanted an illusion. So did I. I wanted to be that flashy yellow jumpsuit. I wanted to be the uniform of a girlish watcher of hatchlings. Shiny, stretchy, and spreading out a vast future replete with all the infinite possibilities of youth -- I desired to be the symbol of all that. Young, feminine, beautiful, and innocent. The symbols for these things differ from culture to culture, from species to species. But the absolute concepts never fail to lure, draw, satisfy, and fulfill. Being worn is a radically different experience than merely getting dressed-up. Though the utter loss of control always frightens me at first, being worn grants an intense, powerfully emotional connection from wearer to wearee. It also intertwines deeply into the whole illusion game. We assume roles, agree on the ground rules of our game ... and then the transformation wraps me up and sucks me in ... as someone slides me on! I pretend to be him while he pretends to be someone else. I always tremble with trepidation as we approach that moment when I really do lose control completely ... and then shudder, shatter, and explode into inner radiance. Devastating Bliss. That's when ... the universe opens wide. My consciousness embraces, encompasses something larger than myself. I soak into the wearer. I seeped into the reptilian. He felt me tightly constricting his body, rubbing old scales together. I felt an itch in his feet. Some type of fungus between the toes. Our bones ached slightly, all these centrons later ... long after that duel with Rrakash! A quiet fire settled in our belly, the afterglow of all that Fish Wine we'd drunk, just to muster courage enough to set foot in this froufrou place. We felt renewed strength. Who'd have thought it? Gorneesh, three-time Marshal of the Moon-Hunt, now mincing about in this alien place dressed like a mere eggtender. We shivered, delighted with the clearly delineated contrast: Male and Female, Dark and Light, Tall and Short, Hulking and Waiflike, Gladiator and Nurturer... Shapeshifter and Solid. Where opposites meet, magic dwells! It took but a brief timespan, an Earthling half-hour perhaps, before Gorneesh came. By that time, I'd already gotten mine several dozen times over. Sometimes, after we're done, they want to keep me, as a souvenir, a fetish, a trophy. I'm only "sold" for 24 Earthling hours. A rental really. Sometimes I have to pool myself and slither away from them, crawl back to Big Brenda on my belly. Gorneesh didn't want me, though. He seemed almost too eager to distance himself from the discarded lump of misshapen yellow fabric he'd tossed on the floor. He almost seemed to look upon me with disgust as he hurried away. Brenda taught me not to take it personally. Even the ones who try to keep me wouldn't, couldn't do so forever. She told me that among Earthling transvestites, the practice of periodically purging all these trophies happens as inevitably as neutron beta decay. Their fetishes slowly eat away at them. Eventually they all shed their second-skins, repulsed by their secret desires, and seek out a clean new life uncluttered by the objects of their attraction. They throw us all away and start fresh! It never works. * * * After that first time, I wallowed. I indulged in a deep bout of petulant, juvenile, self-pity and guilt. An Aldebaranian oughtn't care about clothes, fashions, and the like. An Aldebaranian oughtn't desire to be "worn" by a stranger. Post-coitus, the thrill became cheap. The urges became dirty. The whole practice became an unnatural abomination. But Big Brenda understood. She let me pool into a ceramic bowl and set me on a radiator in a dark, quiet storage closet. Wallowing in the doubting darkness, I missed my ship. They clearly didn't miss me. No one called on Brenda inquiring as to the whereabouts of a missing Electrical Engineer's Mate, Fourth Class. All those years of schooling, testing, training ... and I'd thrown it all away for a half-hour of perverse pleasure. I was no Electrical Engineer's Mate, Fourth Class. I was a creep. A pervert. A deviant. I withdrew long and deep. I wallowed. I slept. And Brenda let me. * * * After what seemed a month, I pulled myself together. Oh, the things you tell yourself! It's only a single youthful indiscretion. You'd only been experimenting! It really hadn't been all that satisfying anyhow. You'd maybe been undergoing some unrelated tough times. It's really not who you are. Pull yourself together. It's not too late to reassemble your life. If you just apply yourself, you can still make Electrical Engineer's Mate, Third Class. I thanked Big Brenda profusely for her hospitality. I prepared myself to apologize to some skipper and beg my way onto the next starship headed my way. Naturally I missed it. Oh, the things you tell yourself! As long as I'm stuck here waiting, why not try again? Why waste the opportunity? Why not find out if you really enjoyed it ... or if last time was just a fluke? Don't shy away from a dare! Why pass up a challenge? Yeah. That's all it was. A challenge. The challenge, in this instance, was to separate myself. Sure, any shapeshifter worth his sodium chloride can spatter into a couple different puddles -- temporarily. It hurts a little, but it causes no permanent damage and just takes a bit of dedicated concentration. The challenge here was to separate into the many components of an "outfit," specifically, the complete uniform of a juvenescent academy girl. A grizzled old Earthling man wanted to wear these (again the universal symbols of gentle youth and beautiful innocence!) Oh, the things you do to yourself! I scissored myself in twain. Then in twain again. Then one more time. It hurt the way strenuous exercise tears at the muscles of beings unfortunate enough to possess such tissues. But I was curious enough to push through the pain and master myself for this. I was eight different places at once and I became eight separate pieces of one complete fantasy. 1) Plain White Blouse 2) Pleated, Plaid Skirt (with the most delicious pattern of blue, green, and black) 3) Cable-knit, Navy Blue Knee Sock (right foot) 4) Cable-knit, Navy Blue Knee Sock (left foot!) 5) Patent Leather, Black Mary Jane Shoe (right foot, with a silver buckle) 6) Patent Leather, Black Mary Jane Shoe (left foot, with same lovely buckle) 7) White Brassiere with Tiny Lace Trim and a Decorative Pink Bow at Front-and-Center 8) And Flower-Print Cotton Panties (white, adorned with pinks and greens) I must've really excelled. The old Earthling kept me the full 24 hours! A man of decidedly strong self-control, he savored me, building up sexual tension throughout the day as he boldly wore me out in public going through the day-to-day routine of his business. Fantasy was reality for us. After all these decades of us pretending to be something we're not -- act like a man now! -- finally, we were free on this strange space station. No one knew us here. No one back in Ontario would ever hear about this! We could saunter, sashay, roam the promenade as a schoolgirl! Hell, half the patrons here weren't even human and wouldn't take notice of our cross-dressing anyhow. Like they know what human men are supposed to wear! Life is too short. Stretch it out, make this day last forever! Only at the 23rd hour did we return to Big Brenda's, retire briefly to a private "changing room," and release our pent-up orgasmic energy in an all-too-brief yet blindingly intense wave of autoerotic delight. After all that, the Earthling even gently folded my eight components into a neat stack he handed to Big Brenda. After all that, I was hooked. Soon as he'd left, Brenda told me the star liner Magdalene had hit port that morning and would be leaving in sixteen hours, headed towards Aldebaran. If I wished to leave, now would be a good time to go crawling before the ship's master and work out some deal for passage. But I now felt like that was wrong. My identity belonged as ... well ... as a quadrillion possibilities that encompassed everything BUT "Electrical Engineer's Mate, Fourth Class." I didn't know for certain who I was; I just wasn't ready to crawl away from all this yet. Big Brenda laughed warmly at me. I hadn't even noticed, but I had melted into a single sheet of blue plaid, cable-knit, silver-buckled fabric with tiny lace trim. It felt so good! * * * Not all my rentals proved so warm and fulfilling. Although Brenda caters to cross-dressers, "special garments" (like me) can and do provide a thrill for species of any gender. You don't have to be a pretender to get a kick out of being wrapped up by another living, sapient being. It's a subtle transformation most folk don't consciously notice, but nearly everyone enjoys it at the level of primal, visceral pleasure. Brenda cautioned me against being worn by a genetic girl. But naturally I chose to ignore her advice. And naturally Brenda chose to be typically laissez-faire. She knew better (of course she did), but allowed me the freedom to make my own mistakes. It took awhile, several Earthling days by my count, before the opportunity arose. She was Juranan. Humanoid, but a good head taller than an Earthling female. Her skin was a brilliant cyan, her hair and eyes flaming orange. I'm told Juranans have some extra joints in their arms, some extra digits on their hands and feet, and a radically different biochemistry than Earthlings. But to me, humanoids all look the same. The similarities are too striking to dismiss. I imagine they feel the same way about shapeshifters like myself. She was a blue and orange humanoid. She was pretty and feminine. She was young and cold. Her name was Kr?nn. She sauntered into Brenda's with a fluid, imperial grace. A Princess- Daimya of the Fourth House of Ayjill, she carried herself with stately dignity and the icy, majestic honor characteristic of a member of any aristocracy. A hoverdrone the size of a small insect followed her in, silently scanning the room for threats ... or perhaps just taking pictures to document this event in some future scrapbook. She ignored it and immediately started chatting up Brenda. She was beautiful. She was slumming. She was pleasure-seeking, touring the stars and flirting with every hedonistic joy imaginable -- rubbing elbows with gutter species, vagabonds, and runaways just for the experience. Just to be able to say she'd been there, or seen that, or done this. Just to validate her own superiority. I wanted desperately to wrap myself up on her icy blue skin. I wanted to know how it tasted ... to ... to be all that. Carefully hidden in a closet, I listened intently on their conversation. Based on all I heard, I shifted from garment to garment, hoping to read Kr?nn's mind and become a dress that proved irresistible to a Juranan Princess. It was then that I first heard the voices. Very soft. Muted. Quiet. Shy. They could only be coming from ... the other clothes here in the closet with me. "Not white," they whispered. "Diamond pattern," they suggested. "Slimmer," they hinted. "More room for a pronounced derri?re," they urged. I listened and I obeyed. I became a floor-length golden gown with a subtle iridescent diamond pattern crisscrossing my smooth, silken fabric. Impossibly thin spaghetti straps delved into the deepest v-cut imaginable. I would enhance her four-breasted physique, lifting and separating her luscious array of alien mammaries. I was slit deeply up the thigh so she could decide of her own volition to display or hide the skin of those long, azure legs. I was perfect. Brenda sensed the moment was right and opened the closet. "This'll do," Kr?nn smirked. With those two words, I suddenly felt two inches tall. But I still had a job to do. She rented me for the day. She stripped naked and slid me on right there and then, in front of Brenda, and the hoverdrone, and the voices I'd just heard from the closet. Juranans lack the modesty most humanoids prize so proudly. I wrapped myself tightly around her unblemished blue skin. Her body was cool to the touch, at least compared with what I had expected. I smoothed myself around her amply rounded rear end. I delicately fingered her breasts, raising, exalting and magnifying both sets. I glorified Kr?nn. This was my purpose. She smiled coolly in the mirror. "This'll do," she said again. We sauntered haughtily out of Brenda's Boutique, our tiny, blue button nose held high, our long, graceful arms swimming easily through the air, our smooth, slender legs lithely dancing along the metal deck plates. We are graceful. We are beautiful. We are a goddess. We return to our quarters, supremely confident in ourselves. The ridiculous she-male at the store clearly cheated us. This gaudy gown may put a bit of a spring in our step, but it wasn't worth the cost. We'd have been just as drop-dead gorgeous without it. And certainly we don't need the so-called euphoria it supposedly provides -- our love of self is a more than sufficient source of personal happiness. We primp and we preen a bit in front of a dim mirror. The ghastly humans on this hunk of junk station insist on such bright artificial lighting everywhere, to compensate for their beady little eyes. Nasty, blind creatures! We apply a bit of phthalocyanine powder to our cheek -- to bring out the color. We fluff our hair until it stands spiky and erect, an auroral mane of burning fire -- a crimson halo to glorify our lovely face. Glancing down at our cleavage we pause. Perhaps this rag we wear is not so deficient after all. Our two sets of breasts have never looked so proud ... rounded, smooth, gleaming orbs that any green-blooded male would lust mightily after. This dress does accent our assets quite well. Perhaps this evening's experience will not be so dismal after all. We must now attend an evening ball for the honored upper crust guests on this station. We sit at the Port Captain's table. He is a dull, fat man who mistakenly believes his pearl white dress uniform renders him handsome. He resembles an overweight bell boy. He is attended by a tiresome staff utterly lacking in the social graces. A military career has never been an upwardly mobile path, and this gaggle of dreary lackeys proves why. Midway through the second course, we abruptly excuse ourselves and relocate to a different table. A handsome young Spican sits here with his frumpy lump of a wife. We have heard before she was a widow, coming from a lineage of great wealth and power on Spica-XII. He is a simple gold digger ... but a strapping, young, robust one! And we have never had a Spican before. Are the stories about their legendary size true? We easily pry the stud away from his dumpy fishwife, and soon we find ourselves in a supply closet, our limbs entangled and our hands adventurously exploring one another's alien yet arousing bodies. We gasp with glee as the lusty, firm stud violently mounts us. With bestial passion, he bites into us and tears off our clothes with his great fangs. I lay in a shredded pile on the closet floor and play the role of shameful voyeur. She comes twice before he comes once. She giggles at him and says, "Nice. But I thought Spicans were supposedly bigger than that." He is silent. Immodestly, she saunters out of the closet nude. He quickly dresses and follows. I lay there on the floor, in pieces, hating myself for several hours after. * * * And of course, Brenda took me in. That time, and every time since. Brenda was always there for me when I crawled back. And my friends in the closet have always been there as well. Though it took a bit longer before I learned to more consistently hear their sweet, melodic voices. After Kr?nn, you might wonder why I bothered continuing with it. She used me. And she used the Spican, too. But we all use others. It's only hurtful if you don't let yourself get used, too. And maybe "used" is the wrong word. I've never really studied languages. Maybe I just mean to say: you have to share some of yourself with others when they share themselves with you? And that's not a bad thing, is it? I mean, as long as both sides get something? Anyhow, Kr?nn wasn't the be-all end-all of my rental experiences. I still wanted more. I wasn't about to let one sour ice princess destroy the dreams I finally decided to live for. And over the years, I've had better, and I've had worse. I've endured painful abuses both physical and emotional. I've undergone sexual experiences perverse, pleasurable, solitary, paired, congregated, even before live studio audiences. And every experience brings something new. Even the bad ones really aren't so bad. Not in the long run. Not when you have time to think, time to reflect and compare, time to learn from what's happened ... time to talk with your friends in the closet and compare notes with your fellow garments. No two requests are ever the same. They couldn't possibly be. No two people are identical. No two pieces of clothing are equal. Being someone's fantasy clothes is ... well, it's more than just a life. It's multiple lives. Everyone you become, everything you become adds a little piece to you. It makes you grow, but it also shapes your growth. You start to see the world through countless eyes not originally your own. It expands your horizons. Around the fifth or sixth rental, I started hearing the voices more clearly. They spoke louder and with more certitude, more confidence. I started listening more carefully. I started believing more strongly. Hearing voices is never supposed to be a good sign. And yet the voices have never hurt or threatened me. They've never urged me to hurt or threaten others. For me, hearing voices has been a blessing, a sign of my expanded consciousness. They share with me --their experiences, their advice, their friendship. I've come to love and appreciate their company. Maybe everything in the universe has a wavelength, a vibration of intelligence and understanding ... if we can only tune our ears to be able to hear it. Of course, I've only ever heard clothing talk. Nothing else. So what do I know? But oh, the wondrous things clothing has told me and taught me. After all, articles of clothing touch the lives of people in such intimate, personal, and private ways. Think what your own underpants could reveal about you! Imagine what your socks, your shoes, your pants might say if only you could hear their voices. Apparel teaches that EVERY being is a shapeshifter at heart. Sometimes they wear formal garb, sometimes casual, sometimes playful, sometimes naughty. Even Earthlings wear a thousand different masks depending on their surroundings. Uniforms for work, for school, for weddings, for funerals, for swimming, for carousing ... and for sexual playing. It's pretty obvious if you think about it. Cross-dressing is just different for shapeshifters like me. It's not the norm for Earthlings, Juranans, Aldebaranians, or anyone else. But for some reason it's how some of us think ... how we act ... how we live, love, and behave. And maybe in my case it is a self-destructive preoccupation that's supplanted Who I Should Be. But I've gained so many possibilities by surrendering the Someone I Could've Been. Back on the southern continent of Aldebaran-V, I would've lived a long, quiet, empty life of hollow yearning and self-doubting. Quiet lonely fantasies. Safe. Normal. Conventional. Secure. Average. Alone. Lost. Vacant. Forsaken. Barren. All thinking beings know denial. Likewise, all life-forms recognize that burning yen to ... well ... find a home. Not a dwelling, not a home world, not any particular place. Just a sensation of acceptance from within. No external validation! Just a feeling that you're where you belong, doing what you should, being who you are. No other person, no group, no society, nobody can give you that. It has to come from acknowledging yourself. Knowing yourself. And accepting yourself. The clothes on my neighboring shelves and racks smile at me. They've each got their own stories, their own abuses, their own scars, their own victories. We've won our battles separately and earned the right to approve one another's paths only by first validating our own. They call me Bodywear. More than just a description, it's supplanted the Aldebaranian name that never really fit me in the first place. That's another rarity. It's scandalous for an Aldebaranian to change names, to drop the silly pretense of being what Other People think we should be. If your body is always in flux, you long for some consistency in your identity. As shapeshifters, we cling to our birth names like rocks of stability in churning seas of constant chaos. It's practically unheard of for an Aldebaranian to uproot himself and declare a new name. Practically unheard of. But it happens. I know of only one other who did it. A Northern Aldebaranian cousin who now calls himself Big Brenda. - The End - If you liked this or hated this, please leave a comment. If you enjoyed this, please read and comment on my other stories. Thanks!