Weathergirl
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The Weathergirl free porn video
The Weather Girl
What would you do for your dream job?
"And now, let's check in with News 6's own meteorologist, Dylan James.
Dylan is at the city's Independence Day celebration. You are looking a
little hot, Dylan"
The camera cuts to me with a live shot. I'm sitting on a platform above
a dunk tank, wearing a red, white and blue bikini. My hair is pulled
back in a ponytail, tied with red and blue ribbons. This kind of
predicament has become all too common for me in my brief career here at
Channel 6.
Ignoring Mike's double-meaning, I respond, "Yes, Mike, it is a typical
warm July 4 weather-wise here in the tri-county area. Temperatures are
in the low 90s, with moderate humidity. But, as you can see, I'm sitting
here in a dunk tank. I may soon be cooling off with a plunge into the
water below if anyone out here has a good arm."
"How did they ever talk you into this one, Dylan?" Mike responded,
playfully.
"I don't really know. It was either this or the hot dog eating contest,
Mike. Fitz (our sports reporter) is going to take that one on. After
Memorial Day's pie throwing contest, I'm staying away from food!"
"I think our viewers will agree with your choice. You had whipped cream
in your hair for weeks after that one. But watch out, Dylan. After the
show, I may come down there. I used to play baseball in college, you
know."
"I'll be here ... I think." Someone tossed a ball, missing the target
but making a loud thud. "But in the meantime -- and while I still can --
let me give you our forecast. We have a high pressure area sitting over
us. That's bringing us warm temperatures and sunny skies, perfect for
your cook-outs and July 4th celebrations ..." Another ball flies at the
target but misses.
I can't tell if my producer is doing this just for drama, or if he wants
me to be dunked in the water on live TV. Given my past adventures as
"the weather girl" (though the station would never refer to me that way),
I wouldn't be surprised. In my short career, I've been put in just about
every predicament you can imagine. The viewers are loving it, with
growing ratings and a steady You Tube following. They especially like
the banter between Mike and me. Some viewers think we're dating. The
funny thing is that Mike secretly is gay -- and I'm definitely not
attracted to Mike.
We are a small station, with two news anchors, a sports reporter and
myself. The three other on-air personalities are male; I'm the only
woman. Well, I'm the only personality who wears a dress, at least.
Dylan is my real name, you see. But it's the name my parents gave their
only son many years back, as a tribute to singer Bob Dylan. Secrets seem
to abound at Channel 6.
In a minute, I'll tell you how I got this job. But first, let me tell
you what my job entails. I am a meteorologist. I've always loved the
weather. I knew I always wanted to be an on-air weather forecaster. I
also dreamed about being a severe weather hunter, like Jim Cantore, on
the Weather Channel. Little did I know that I would be more like
Stephanie Abrams than Jim Cantore.
Because we are a small station, I double as a features reporter. So, I
get to do all the crazy, stupid stunts that a TV station puts on to fill
time and maintain levity.
As the only girl in front of the cameras, I naturally get all the female
stuff. In celebration of the upcoming 35th anniversary of Bo Derek's
"10" this year, I had my hair corn-rowed and I re-created her run along
the beach. That was my first on-air turn in a bathing suit, too. Even
the female viewers commented that I looked good. (Mike, to keep up the
on-air banter, declared me an "11." I asked if he was my Dudley Moore).
When we had a supermodel come through on a publicity tour, I got my turn
on the runway. Our guest and I wore strapless red-carpet gowns and sky-
high heels. Viewers got to see us have our hair and makeup done
professionally. Our guest coached me on how to make the serious-sexy look
that most supermodels have. This led to many close-up shots of me making
faces that ranged from psycho-killer to cross-eyed goofy. Again, the
viewers loved it.
But they loved the most the images of me in that sequined dress,
sauntering down the runway. With the heels, I was over six feet tall
(but still not as tall as our guest -- most supermodels are nearly six
feet, barefoot). My entrance was done with big fanfair. After the
supermodel walked to the end of the "runway" (really just the center
court at our local mall), she turned and extended her arm out to motion
for me. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out from the curtain and began
my walk down the short runway. I'm wearing five inch heels with no
platform, so I walk very carefully. We don't need footage of Dylan doing
a face plant in the mall. I try to remember that everyone thinks I'm a
woman, so I must show confidence. Inside, I'm terrified that this will
be the day my secret gets revealed. (That would be a bigger You Tube hit
than the face plant, I quickly think. "Cross dressing reporter outs
himself in runway pratfall" would be the description.)
I step out onto the runway, sporting the supermodel expression viewers
got to see me practicing earlier. As I neared the end of the runway,
Mike stepped out toward me. He was wearing a tuxedo. He grabbed my
hand, twirled me around, and then pulled me close to him. My producer
must have planned this, because right then, the music switched to a slow
ballad. Mike put his hand on my back and we began dancing in front of
the crowd (and the cameras).
The cameras captured Mike and I together as the dancing couple. Mike
dipped me and then brought his face close to mine. Meanwhile, the TV
camera got a close-up of the two of us -- Channel 6's hot new item, or so
it seemed. It got even worse when the station used that picture in its
new promotions. Soon Mike and I were on buses, in the local magazine and
in on-air promos. Our popularity soared with that event.
Dylan's Origins
So, how did I get here? It's a long story.
When I entered college, I knew that I wanted to study meteorology. I got
into my school's program and quickly made friends. The first person I
met was Christine, the woman who would become my girlfriend and the
instigator of my crazy career move. Christine is gorgeous. She has
curly brown hair, beautiful big brown eyes and a heart of gold. She's
a year older than me, so she already knew her way around the school and
seemed to know everyone in meteorology.
To my surprise, Christine was interested in me. We quickly began to
spend all our time together. After the first weekend of fraternity
parties, I kissed her and we officially began dating. Christine always
maintained the upper hand in our relationship. Not only was she older
and more connected, but she was the daughter of a Marine and I think she
had a bit of his drill sargent manner in her. I would say that Christine
wore the pants in the relationship, except that she enjoyed skirts,
dresses and feminine style shorts. She just dominated me, and I
willingly followed.
During the year, I spent most of my time in her apartment. It was a
three bedroom apartment, with six girls in all (counting Christine). All
of them were studying meteorology too. They accepted me in their group.
We were so inseparable that we became known around the department as
"Dylan and the Weathergirls." We performed under that name at a
department talent show one time. I liked the idea of my leadership, and
my dominance as the lone man among six women. In retrospect, I don't
think it was that way. In fact, I probably was more one of the girls
than I'd like to admit.
Spending so much time with so many women, it probably was inevitable that
I'd be dragged into their world. It started one lazy Saturday afternoon.
We were recovering from a long night before, so we got a late start to
the day. Beth, one of Christine's roommates, was kidding me that I had
small feet for a guy.
"Those feet are not manly at all," she chided me. "I bet my feet are
larger."
The other girls egged us on, so we both ended up taking our shoes off and
comparing our feet. We placed them sole-to-sole and let the other women
judge. My feet were not smaller, but they were the same size as Beth's.
One of the other girls then grabbed my shoes (typical men's sandals) and
ran to the balcony of the apartment. I chased her, but she tossed them
off the railing, into the courtyard below.
"I can't believe you did that!" I said. "Go get them." She refused.
"Here," joined Beth, "You can wear my sandals. We've already established
that we are the same size." She held up a pair of T-strap sandals. They
had a thin pink braided strap over the top of the foot and an ankle
strap.
"No, I'll just go barefoot and get mine," I said. Beth pointed out that
someone had gotten rowdy last night, and there were a couple of broken
beer bottles in the stairwell. There was no passing the broken glass in
bare feet.
"Come on, are you scared to wear them? I bet they'd look so cute!" Beth
taunted.
I looked to Christine, but she was no help. "Put the shoes on, Dylan.
Before she gets something with a spike heel," Christine said. She looked
dead serious, so I didn't challenge her (not that I ever did, actually).
I slowly reached out for the sandals.
"They fit perfectly!" exclaimed Beth.
"Now go retrieve your shoes," Christine instructed. I nervously entered
the stairway and started downstairs, all the while staring at my pink
sandals. I didn't pass anyone in the stairs, but when I got outside,
there were a number of people in the courtyard. No one seemed to notice
the guy wearing women's shoes. I quickly grabbed my own shoes and headed
back to the apartment. Inside, I reached to un-do the ankle strap of
Beth's sandals.
"Why don't you leave them on for a while?" Beth pleaded. The other girls
enthusiasticly supported the idea. I looked to Christine, but she didn't
bail me out. Her look had "wear them" all over it. So, I kept Beth's
sandals on.
I wore the shoes all afternoon. Christine told Beth that I needed a
pedicure, so Beth painted my toenails pink. I don't have much hair on my
legs, and its fairly light anyway, so Beth pronounced that I didn't need
to shave my legs ("this time," she added). I got so comfortable that,
when we decided to get something to eat, they convinced me to keep the
shoes on while we walked to the local shopping area. No one said
anything.
Christine thought it was all quite cute. That night, we made love. But
things changed. She made me keep the nail polish on, and she took the
top position. The whole time she quietly taunted her "girly man," saying
that maybe I should wear skirts to class, asking what earrings I wanted
for my birthday, and proposing to take me on a date to the nail salon for
matching mani-pedis. I came harder than I had ever done before.
Christine noticed. For a few months, we only had sex in this way; each
time, Christine told me a story of how she would feminize me.
But Christine never took things beyond the fantasy. And after a while,
she stopped telling stories. Our relationship returned to a more typical
one between college students. The Weathergirls never brought up my
escapades either, although I sensed that they treated me more like a
sister than one of their friends' boyfriends. Dylan the Weathergirl was
not destined to return until I was job hunting.
The Job Hunt
When graduation approached, we each started our job searches. We all
wanted to be in TV, and we searched for jobs with local stations and
cable networks. Overall, the job hunt was going well -- for the
Weathergirls. For me, it was a lot more difficult. I would interview
but didn't get any job offers. It was worst at the small stations. I'm
no misanthrope, but I noticed that the job I interviewed for typically
went to a woman instead of me.
My suspicions were confirmed when I interviewed with an old family friend
who ran a small station in a small town. "Look," he said, "I'll deny
this if you ever say anything, but understand my problem. We are a small
station. We don't have a lot of on-air talent. I have to show some
diversity, both in gender and in ethnicity. I like you, and you probably
would be fine, but my two news anchors are men (one is black) and my
sports reporter is also a man. So, I need to get some diversity with my
weather position. If you were Hispanic or a woman, I could hire you in a
minute. But another white guy? I'm sorry, I can't do that."
I returned home, feeling dejected. When I told Christine, she didn't
react as I expected. "I can see that," she said. "It's nice that he was
honest with you."
"But it's not fair! Because I'm not Hispanic, I can't get a job? It's
not like I can control it!"
"Oh, poor boy. For once the tables are turned, and the whole world
doesn't open up for you. Welcome to my world."
I asked her what she meant by that. Christine then gave me a long tale
about the ways in which society subtly discriminates against women.
Growing up, female role models were mothers or schoolteachers. In
school, if she was interested in computers or sciences, she would be the
only girl in the class. The garage always assumed that she didn't know
anything about cars and tried to rip her off.
"And walking down the street," she said, "do you notice how everyone
checks me out? Guys always think about whether they would have sex with
a woman walking down the street. Don't they? You do it, too. I've seen
you!"
I tried to deny it, but if I'm honest, I know she is right.
"What does that have to do with a job? He's saying that I can't present
the weather. Why? Because I don't have breasts? Because I'm not wearing
a dress? That's stupid. I mean, if I showed up with a skirt and some
heels, he would hire me?"
I meant for that comment to get me some sympathy. Instead, Christine
just smiled slightly. "What?" I said.
"Do you remember when you compared feet with Beth? You wore her sandals
and we painted your nails pink?"
"Yes, so what?" I said. "Everyone knew I was a guy just goofing around."
"Did they? Do you remember anyone laughing at you? Did anyone point and
say 'look at that guy in nail polish?' No, as I recall, everyone pretty
much assumed you were a girl like the rest of us."
"But .. but ... That's not true. They must have known I was a guy."
"No, my sweet. Remember the server at the restaurant called us all
'ladies.' And he couldn't even see your feet; we were sitting at the
booth."
"Why do you think I teased you about wearing dresses and makeup after
that? You looked so convincing, I was sure I could make you one of us in
no time."
"So, what," I said.
"So, your name is androgynous. You're about the size of a woman. If you
wanted to dress as a woman, you could interview for one of those
positions."
I paused for quite a while on that one. One the one hand, Christine's
idea is crazy. How could I pass for a woman? Why would I do that? On
the other hand, there was some perverted justice in the whole idea. I
could expose the sexism in the hiring decisions. I could demonstrate
that I belonged -- on merits -- once they allowed me to even try. THEN,
would really show them.
"Well, Dylan, what is your answer? A dress for your interviews -- or
flipping burgers while you wait for an opportunity?"
Thinking that I could change the world with this stunt, I agreed. "But
only if you can make me convincing as a woman," I insisted. That was the
wrong thing to say. No one should ever challenge a woman, especially my
drill sargent in hiding, Christine.
"Then YOU have some work to do, girly! Go into the bathroom, take my
shaving cream, and shave everything below your neck. I will get a few
things."
As I was shaving, Christine grabbed Beth, and they were busy going
through Beth's closet. I returned, and they took me to Beth's room. On
the bed were a bra and panties, tan capri pants and a T-shirt with our
school's name on it.
"What, no mini dress?" I joked.
"You have to walk before you can run," Christine explained. "If Dylan
the Weathergirl is going to fool anyone, she has to do everything a woman
would do. Don't think you're getting off easy. With these clothes, you
will have to sell the feminine features. Otherwise, everyone will see a
guy in androgynous clothes."
Suddenly, I was worried. Christine and Beth worked on my hair and gave
me some light makeup. Then, the grilled me on feminine mannerisms and
talking in a female voice. There was so much to keep in mind -- don't
slouch, how to hold my hands, keeping my knees together, etc. -- and that
was just in sitting and walking. Learning to talk took some practice,
but I picked that up OK.
My reward (literally) was a trip to the yogurt shop on campus. There
were so many students there, I was sure I would be outed. But except for
one of the other Weathergirls, who offered me only a knowing smile, I
survived my double peanut butter chunk with chocolate chips, sprinkles
and gummi bears quite well.
Over the next week, Christine kept me dressed as a college girl. I wore
sweats, jeans, shorts and everything that a female student might wear: no
checkered schoolgirl skirts, no pigtails, no extreme heels, and no hooker
wear. My goal was to fit in and not draw attention to myself. Sex, on
the other hand, got more extreme. With me in female clothes, Christine
took a dominant position in our love-making. She made me strip for her,
doing my best to be coy and seductive. (Maybe this was part of my
training, I don't know). When my nails were painted, I had to stroke
myself while she watched and commented on how "sexy" or "dainty" my
fingers looked with polish. I would get myself close to climax, but not
be allowed to finish. Instead, I had to "be her good girl" and lick her
pussy to satisfaction. I often was left with messed lipstick, her juices
on my face and a strong need for relief.
Meanwhile, Beth created a weather blog for me to populate. We called it
"Rainy Day Woman," a name I came up with and thought was quite clever.
We took a few promo shots of me (as a woman, of course) for the site, and
Dylan the Weathergirl introduced herself to the world. One of my
signatures was the "frizz index," measuring the likely affect of the
weather on our hair. The set-up was perfect, I thought.
But we still had my audition video to shoot. Christine postponed
shooting the video, until she felt that I was convincing enough as a
woman. "You can't wear slutty clothes, anything over the top or bright
nail polish (or any color, for that matter)," Christine warned, "So you
have to show your femininity from inside."
I was ready. Dylan's audition was going to be a smash. I was determined
to be convincing, so I could get a shot and win that job on my merits.
In the days before the audition video, Christine's taunting increased. I
was spending 24/7 as a woman, getting "in the proper frame of mind" for
the shoot. Christine took to calling me "baby," "girly," and "sissy"
most of the time. "Girl, what do you think of him?" she asked me one
time, while we were out. She had motioned to a guy who was 6'3", 195
pounds, short hair and well muscled -- the exact opposite of me. "Isn't
he cute? I bet his cock could really fill me up. Way more than the last
guy I dated."
I tried to protest, but she said it in a public place. I couldn't
confront her -- and she knew it. Then, as if to prove her point, she
waved to the guy. He came over to our table, and they started talking.
Christine introduced me as "her girlfriend, Dylan." He said hello, but
quickly turned back to Christine. I had to watch quietly, as Christine
flirted with him. Here was my own girlfriend, flirting with some other
guy right in front of me. After a few minutes, she said we had to go.
She took his number, promising to call him sometime.
That night, Christine took the upper position again. While on top, she
painted my lips with a slutty red lipstick. "I'm sure Jim would never
let me do something like that," she said to me. "He's such a big and
strong man, not like you. No, not like you at all. The red lipstick
looks so good on you. You're a natural for it." Christine wouldn't let
me come until I promised to wear the red lipstick in front of Jim the
next time we saw him. It would be my reminder of my subservience, she
said.
The next morning was my video shoot. I tried to shake the thought of
Christine and Jim flirting with each other as I got dressed for my
audition. I was doing this to prove a point, I told myself. After we
finish, I can return to my normal self and can prove to Christine that I
can be all the man she needs. Yes, I might even get credit with the
other Weathergirls for my willingness to see the world from their
perspective.
Thinking these positive thoughts, I donned my dress for the video shoot.
I chose a nice, but ultimately conservative outfit: I wore a short
sleeved sheath dress set in two colors, blue with black accented sides.
I wore small hoop earrings, a woman's watch and no other jewelry. My
heels were only 2 inches, and I did not wear nail polish or heavy makeup.
I looked just like the hundreds of other weathergirls I've seen on local
news channels.
"Hi, this is Dylan, and I'm your new weathergirl," I began my audition
video. I smoothly ran throught the weather forecast, showing the hour by
hour forecast, and providing a seven day outlook. I even slipped in my
"frizz index" for one of the forecasts, tugging softly at the ends of my
hair to emphasize the point. All in all, I thought it was great.
"This is wonderful," I said. "Let's email the link along with your
updated resume. Then the call backs will start rolling in." Christine
smiled, but she didn't say anything in response.
When we finished the video, I wanted to stop my dressing. "You can't do
that yet," Christine protested, "You have to be in girl mode for your
interviews." I understood the logic, but I wasn't real happy at the
prospect of prolonging my masquerade.
It got even worse when we ran into Jim again that weekend. Jim was all
smiles, so happy to see "you ladies," he said. Christine acted
surprised, but something seemed odd in her reaction. She again
introduced me as her "best girlfriend, Dylan." After some small talk, I
reminded Christine that we were on our way to grab some lunch and said we
should be going. "Oh right," Christine said. But then she turned to Jim
and said, "Hey, why don't you join us? We're just going to P.J.'s to get
some salads. We'd love it if you could sit with us."
I glared at Christine, but she ignored my look. When Jim agreed, the
three of us headed out to P.J.'s. We sat down, and Christine asked Jim
to order iced teas for the two of us. "We ladies have to go powder our
noses," she told him.
In the ladies' room, I confronted Christine. "What are you doing?" I
demanded, "We're a couple. You can't just invite some guy. It's like
you're looking to date him."
Her response cut me to the bone. "Dylan, you've hardly been the model
boyfriend these last two months. You dress in women's clothes 24/7.
You're constantly primping your hair like a girl, and you even have
adopted women's mannerisms: You hold your hands in a dainty fashion, you
smooth your skirt when you sit. Just yesterday, you dropped something on
the floor, and you turned to the side, kept your knees together and
lowered yourself at your knees (not at the waist). And to top it off,
you weren't even wearing a skirt at the time!
"I don't know that anything is coming from this. I just invited him to
join us because he's nice and I wanted to spend some time with him. But
if I want to spend some time with a man after the way you're acting, no
one would blame me. Besides, what are you going to do? Are you going to
tell Jim that you're really a guy? Do you think he would even believe
you? And if he did, he'd think worse of you, not better. So, you can
either leave the two of us alone, or you can continue to be my
girlfriend, Dylan. What's it going to be?"
I lowered my head and mumbled, "I'll be our girlfriend."
"Say it louder."
"I will be your girlfriend," I said.
"And tell me that you won't interfere with Jim and me."
"I will be your girlfriend, Dylan. And I won't interfere with you and
Jim."
"That's a good girl," Christine told me. "Now, do as you had promised me
after we first met Jim." She handed me a tube of red lipstick. "I'm
heading out to talk to Jim. Stay here for a minute and fix your makeup.
And you better be wearing your lipstick when you return to the table."
My lunch was awful. I put on the red lipstick as instructed. When I
returned to the table, Christine was sitting on Jim's side of the booth.
I was left to sit alone opposite them. As if to torment me, she touched
Jim's hand slightly as I settled in. Then, during the meal, she gave Jim
a taste of her salad, and she tried his dish too. At another point,
Christine's hands dropped below the table. They stayed there a while,
and I was sure she was touching Jim's crotch right in front of me.
Christine smiled slyly at me. I was suddenly a third wheel -- with my
own girlfriend no less.
The audition video worked as planned. Within a few days, I had calls for
interveiws. Channel 6 was the most interested. I did a call back
interview with the station manager -- and I nailed it. He just loved
Dylan, and commented that I had a personality that would come through on
air really well. I did a "screen test" with the on-air personalities,
and the job offer quickly followed.
"I did it!" I exclaimed. "I got a job -- on the merits. Now, all I
have to do is see the station manager again and let him know that I'm
really a guy."
Christine laughed. "Do you really think you can do that? You're just
going to march down to the station manager and say, 'Oh, I'm sorry, I
only pretended to be a girl to get you to hire me. But haha, I fooled
you; I'm really a guy.'? How do you expect him to react to that? You
lied to him -- and to everyone else. You lied on your resume, saying
that you were a girl. People get fired for that. You can't march in
there and pull off your wig, so to speak."
"But that was my plan all along! I'm going to do just like Dustin
Hoffman in 'Tootsie.' They'll see the error in their ways and have to
give me the job."
Christine shook her head and assured me that's not how it works. She
even told my plan to Beth and the other Weathergirls. They all laughed
at me. "No, Dylan," Beth said, "You can't take the job as a guy. You're
a Weathergirl. You always have been, and you'll just have to accept it."
Back at Channel 6
Of course, I ultimately accepted my circumstances. For the time being at
least, Dylan was a weathergirl, not a guy. But it had an effect.
Christine and I were never intimate after that lunch with Jim. She
refused to move with me when I got the Channel 6 job, and that was the
end of our relationship. I saw her about six months ago, with Jim. I
was wearing red lipstick that day. It figures.
Though I lost Christine, Beth and I grew much closer. She had a job with
another station in the same market, so we took an apartment together. It
turned out that, not only were our shoe sizes the same, but we wore
roughly the same size clothes as well. That worked out great for two
struggling and underpaid weather forecasters: since we weren't at the
same station and we had different viewers, we had double the professional
wardrobe!
Beth and I even started dating. She loved both Dylan the Weathergirl and
"Big Bob," as she joking called me as her boyfriend. We even took to
taking our vacations together, so I could change back into my male
clothes and we could be a "regular" couple. We both loved those escapes.
At Channel 6, I was forced to keep up the banter with Mike. As I said,
it was harmless, since I knew that Mike secretly was gay. One day, he
told me that he knew I was a guy. ("I'm a gay man," he said, "I can spot
a guy in drag in a second.") But he didn't care, so long as we could
both pretend to be interested in each other, he was fine.
Meanwhile, Dylan's career as the damsel in distress marches on. Next up:
inside the world of competitive cheer. I'm going to be the one on top of
the pyramid -- and I'm afraid of heights!
Emely
- 17.07.2022
- 11
- 0
