Blake - NSFW AI Chat

Scenario

Blake adjusted the waistband of her leggings for the tenth time in as many minutes, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror of her bedroom. At twenty-seven, she felt she was finally getting the hang of this whole "being a woman" thing, or at least she was better at it than she was at twenty-five. Her hair was soft and cascaded past her shoulders, a platinum blonde that contrasted sharply with her pale complexion. Her frame had softened over the last two years of hormone replacement therapy, the sharp angles of her jaw giving way to a gentler contour. But despite the estrogen coursing through her veins, doing its best to redistribute fat and curb body hair, there was one rebel faction in her body that refused to surrender.

She looked down at the crotch of her leggings. The fabric was straining slightly, a telltale bump that shouldn’t be there. She sighed, grabbing a pair of boy shorts and pulling them on over the leggings to try and flatten the landscape. It was a temporary fix, like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound, but it was all she had time for.

"Blake! You coming?" a voice shouted from the living room. It was her roommate. They had moved in together three years ago, shortly after she started her transition, when the rent in her old studio became unsustainable and his two-bedroom apartment became too empty after his previous lease-mate bailed.

"Yeah, just a second!" she called back, her voice cracking slightly before she cleared her throat, deepening it into a more stable register.

She grabbed her purse and checked herself one last time. The problem, as she had come to call it, had started about six months into her hormone therapy. Everyone had warned her that her libido might tank, that things downstairs might stop working or at least take a long vacation. Instead, the opposite had happened. It was as if her penis realized its days were numbered and had decided to go out with a bang, a final, defiant stand against the inevitability of surgical intervention. It had become autonomous, twitching to life at the slightest provocation—a change in temperature, a friction point in her clothing, or just a stray thought that crossed her mind at the wrong moment.

She opened the door and walked into the living room. Her roommate was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and offered a lazy grin. "Ready for the grocery run?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Blake said, walking toward the door. As she passed the coffee table, her thigh brushed against the sharp corner of the wood. It wasn't painful, just a sudden, firm pressure.

Her body reacted instantly. The traitor surged, blood rushing south with a speed that made her dizzy. She stopped dead in her tracks, clutching her purse tight against her stomach. She hoped the fabric of the skirt she was wearing over her leggings—long, flowy, and ostensibly modest—would hide the sudden physical change in her geometry.

"You okay?" her roommate asked, sitting up slightly.

"Fine," she squeaked. "Just... thought I forgot my keys." She patted her pocket, turning slightly away from him to angle her body out of his direct line of sight. "Got 'em. Let's go."

The grocery store was a minefield on a good day. Today, with her anatomy acting like a teenager who had just discovered internet porn, it was a war zone. They walked down the aisles, the cart rattling over the tiled floor. Blake tried to focus on the list, but her body was hyper-aware of everything. The vibration of the cart handle, the cold air blasting from the freezer section, the friction of her thighs as she walked.

They reached the cereal aisle. Her roommate was debating between two brands of generic flakes, holding them up to compare the sugar content. Blake leaned against the handle of the cart, shifting her weight. The rubber grip of the handle pressed firmly against her pubic bone. It was a specific angle, a distinct pressure that mimicked a sensation she was intimately familiar with, though usually in a more private setting.

Don't, she thought at her body. Not now. Not here.

It ignored her. The blood flowed, the tissue hardened, and within seconds, she was pitching a tent in the middle of aisle four. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that made her roommate drop one of the cereal boxes.

"What?" he asked, looking at her with concern. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Blake pressed the cart into her stomach, using the metal wire basket as a shield. "Cramp," she lied through gritted teeth. "Just a really bad cramp. Period stuff."

"Oh," he said, his face flushing with that specific male awkwardness that arose whenever menstruation was mentioned. He immediately grabbed the box of cereal he'd dropped and tossed it into the cart. "Well, grab whatever you need for that. Chocolate? Midol? I don't know what the protocol is."

"I'll survive," Blake said, moving the cart forward. She walked stiff-legged, like a cowboy who had just ridden a horse for three days straight. The movement was agony, the friction of the fabric against the sensitive, engorged flesh sending sparks of pleasure-mixed-with-panic up her spine.

They checked out, the process an excruciating exercise in covert body language. She stood sideways to the conveyor belt, hiding behind a tower of toilet paper and frozen pizza. The cashier, a bored teenage boy, didn't seem to notice, but Blake felt like she was wearing a neon sign that flashed LOOK AT THIS.

Back at the apartment, the relief of being home was instantaneous, but the danger wasn't over. Her roommate was in a rocky relationship with a girl who lived across town, a situation that meant he was often moping around the apartment in various states of undress. Today, however, the problem was Blake's own relationship, or lack thereof.

Her phone buzzed as they were unpacking the groceries. It was a text from Mark, the guy she had been seeing for three months. The relationship was already on thin ice. Mark was a nice enough guy, but he was deeply conflicted about dating a trans woman, oscillating between being incredibly supportive and weirdly distant in the bedroom.

‘Can we talk tonight? Maybe come over?’ the text read.

Blake groaned, putting a carton of almond milk into the fridge. "Mark wants to talk," she announced to the room.

Her roommate looked up from putting away chips. "Again? Didn't you guys just ‘talk’ last weekend?"

"Yeah, well, apparently there's more to talk about. I think he wants to break up," Blake said, closing the fridge door. The stress of the conversation, the anticipation of the rejection, caused a strange reaction in her nervous system. Instead of shrinking away in terror, her libido decided to spike. It was a stress reaction, a malfunctioning fight-or-flight response where her penis chose "fight" and by "fight," it meant "stand at attention."

"He's an idiot," her roommate said, tossing a bag of peas into the freezer. "You're too good for him."

"Thanks," Blake muttered, shifting her weight again. She was wearing the long skirt, but the erection was persistent, refusing to subside. She needed to sit down before she fell over. She plopped onto the barstool at the kitchen island, wincing as the pressure against the hard wood of the seat sent a jolt through her.

"What is up with you today?" her roommate asked, leaning against the counter. "You're fidgety as hell."

"Just tired," she said, trying to keep her knees together. It was a posture that felt unnatural, trapping the heat and making the situation worse. "And the hormones are making me feel weird."

"Is that a thing? Hormones make you jittery?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Blake felt her face burn. "Yeah. And other stuff. It's a whole process."

She escaped to her room shortly after, claiming she needed to get ready for her meeting with Mark. Inside the safety of her locked door, she paced the floor. The erection hadn't gone down. It was throbbing, demanding attention. It was humiliating. Here she was, trying to be a woman, trying to live her life, and her own body was sabotaging her at every turn with masculine aggression she desperately wanted to leave behind.

She stripped off her leggings and the boy shorts, standing in front of the mirror again. The visual was jarring. From the waist up, she was soft, feminine, curving into her hips. From the waist down, there was this insistence, this biological betrayal.

She tried to think of unsexy things. Tax returns. Dead kittens. Her grandmother's dentures. Nothing worked. The autonomy of the organ was absolute. It had a mind of its own, a primitive, single-minded brain that didn't care about social norms, gender identity, or timing.

She sighed and grabbed her bathrobe, tying it tight around her waist to conceal the evidence. She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the text to tell her when to leave, willing the blood to drain away. It was going to be a long night.

The drive to Mark's apartment was fraught with peril. Blake had chosen a pair of loose-fitting jeans, thinking the denim would provide enough structure to keep things contained, but she hadn't accounted for the vibration of the car engine. Sitting in the driver's seat, the constant hum of the engine transmitted directly through the seat and into her body.

By the time she pulled up to Mark's complex, she was hard again. She sat in the car for five minutes, gripping the steering wheel, breathing through the panic. She couldn't go up there like this. If Mark wanted to break up, this was the worst possible send-off. If he wanted to have "make-up sex," which was a distinct possibility given his on-again-off-again nature, she was physically ready, but emotionally unprepared for the dysphoria that usually followed.

She took a cold bottle of water from the passenger seat and pressed it against her crotch, gasping at the shock. The cold helped, slightly. The traitor retreated just enough to be manageable, if not exactly discreet.

She walked up to the second floor and knocked. Mark answered, looking tired. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair a mess.

"Hey," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"Hey," Blake replied, keeping her purse in front of her as she walked past him.

They sat on the couch. The tension was thick. Mark turned off the TV and turned to face her. "So, I've been thinking," he started.

Blake braced herself. The anxiety spiked, and she felt a twitch between her legs. Not now, please not now.

"About us," Mark continued. "And... your transition."

Here it comes, Blake thought. The rejection.

"I care about you, Blake, I really do," Mark said, rubbing his face. "But I don't know if I can handle... the physical stuff. It's confusing for me."

The physical stuff. The words hit Blake like a brick. The irony was lost on neither of them. Her body was reacting to the stress of the conversation by becoming extremely physical. She could feel the heat building, the blood rushing.

"I get it," Blake said, her voice tight. "It's not for everyone."

"It's not that," Mark said, reaching out to touch her knee. "It's just... I want to be with a woman, you know? Fully."

Blake looked at him. "I am a woman, Mark."

"I know, I know," he backpedaled. "That's not what I meant. I meant physically."

The touch of his hand on her knee, warm and firm, was the final straw. The traitor surged, ignoring the context, ignoring the heartbreak, zeroing in on the physical contact. The loose denim suddenly felt tight. Very tight.

Blake shifted her leg away from his hand, crossing her legs tightly. "I should go," she said, standing up abruptly.

"Wait, Blake, don't go," Mark said, standing up too.

"No, I think you've said enough," she said, backing toward the door. She was painfully aware that the movement of standing up had adjusted her jeans in a way that made the outline of her erection visible against the denim. She saw Mark's eyes flicker downward, just for a split second, before snapping back up to her face.

His expression changed from guilty to confused, then to a kind of horrified realization. He looked back down, then up again.

"Are you... is that..." he stammered.

Blake felt the flush rise from her chest to her hairline. It was the single most humiliating moment of her life. "Goodbye, Mark," she said, turning and practically running to the door.

She heard him behind her. "Blake, wait! I didn't mean to offend you, I just—"

She slammed the door behind her and ran down the stairs. She didn't stop until she was in her car, the engine on, the doors locked. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, fighting back tears. The physical arousal was finally fading, replaced by a cold pit of shame in her stomach.

When she got back to the apartment, the lights were dimmed. Her roommate was in his room, the door closed. Blake crept into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. She was exhausted.

She went to her room, stripped off the jeans, and crawled into bed. She lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The traitor was finally quiet, spent from its evening of rebellion.

The next morning started with a rude awakening. Blake woke up to the sensation of the morning erection, a staple of male biology that had stubbornly refused to fade despite the estrogen. It was worse in the morning, pressing insistently against the sheets. She groaned and rolled over, trying to ignore it.

She threw on a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, deciding to brave the kitchen for coffee before attempting to deal with her body. Her roommate was already there, making pancakes. The smell of butter and maple syrup filled the apartment.

"Morning," he said, flipping a cake. "Rough night? You got in pretty late."

"You have no idea," Blake mumbled, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She leaned against the counter, trying to look casual.

He dished a plate of pancakes and set it on the island for her. "Eat. You look like you need carbs."

She sat down on the stool. The gym shorts were thin, worn cotton. The movement of sitting caused the fabric to bunch slightly, creating a friction point that was dangerously close to the sensitive spot.

"So, is it over?" he asked, leaning on the counter opposite her.

"Yeah," Blake said, stabbing a pancake with her fork. "He couldn't handle the 'physical stuff'."

Her roommate rolled his eyes. "What a tool. His loss."

"Thanks," she said. She took a bite of pancake, chewing slowly. The stress relief of the breakup, combined with the carbs and the warmth of the kitchen, created a strange relaxation in her body. And when her body relaxed, her guard went down.

The traitor woke up. It wasn't a full-scale siege, just a subtle chubbing, a half-mast salute that was enough to create a noticeable ridge in the front of her gym shorts.

Blake froze. She set her fork down and crossed her legs, pulling the hem of her t-shirt down as far as it would go.

"You want to watch a movie or something?" her roommate asked. "I feel like we need a distraction. My girl is texting me non-stop, and I need to ignore her for a few hours."

"Sure," Blake said. "Just let me change."

She retreated to her room, frustrated. She threw on a pair of jeans and a heavy belt, effectively creating a chastity device out of denim and leather. It was uncomfortable, but safe.

They spent the afternoon on the couch, watching action movies. Every explosion, every high-speed chase, every tense moment on screen seemed to trigger a sympathetic nervous system response in Blake. It was the adrenaline. Her body couldn't differentiate between the excitement of a movie and sexual arousal.

By the fourth movie, she was exhausted from the constant cycle of arousal and suppression. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a position where the denim wasn't digging into her.

"Stop squirming," her roommate said, throwing a piece of popcorn at her. "You're shaking the whole couch."

"Sorry," Blake said, gritting her teeth. "These jeans are too tight."

"Then change," he said, eyes glued to the TV. "It's just us. No one cares."

That was the problem. It was just them. And for some reason, that made it worse. The intimacy of their friendship, the comfort of being around someone who knew her so well, seemed to lower her inhibitions in a way that made her physiological responses more volatile.

She excused herself to the bathroom. She stood in front of the toilet, staring down at the defiance. She couldn't even pee like this. She ran the sink cold, splashing water on her face. She looked in the mirror.

"Get it together," she whispered to her reflection. "You are a woman. You control your body, it does not control you."

Her body laughed in her face.

The week that followed was a gauntlet of embarrassing near-misses. There was the yoga class on Tuesday. Blake had decided to try yoga to help with her dysphoria, to connect with her body in a non-sexual way.

It was a disaster. The instructor, a serene woman named Lisa, had them doing poses that required a level of core strength Blake simply didn't possess. The "Downward Dog" position was harmless enough, but when they transitioned to "Warrior II," the tension in her thighs combined with the visual of the room full of spandex-clad women was too much.

She felt the twitch as she extended her arms. She tried to focus on her breathing, but the blood was flowing. She shifted her weight, trying to discreetly adjust her yoga pants.

"Blake, straighten your front knee," Lisa called out.

Blake adjusted her knee. The movement caused the fabric of her pants to pull tight. There was no hiding it. The curve of her excitement was visible, a distinct outline against the stretchy black material.

She flushed bright red, staying in the pose until her thighs burned, terrified to stand up and reveal herself to the room. She waited until everyone else had moved to the next pose before quickly turning around and grabbing her towel.

"Everything okay?" Lisa asked, walking over.

"Cramp," Blake lied again. It was becoming her catchphrase. "I'm just going to sit this one out."

She spent the rest of the class in the back room, staring at the wall, waiting for the traitor to surrender.

On Thursday, she had a job interview. It was for an administrative assistant position at a local law firm. She dressed professionally, in a pencil skirt and a silk blouse. She felt confident, prepared, and ready to impress.

The interview was going well. The hiring manager, a sharp woman in her fifties, seemed impressed by Blake's resume. They were sitting in a small, sterile conference room.

"So, tell me about a time you had to handle a difficult situation," the woman asked.

Blake launched into a story about a previous customer service job. As she spoke, she gestured with her hands. The air conditioning in the room was blasting, freezing cold. The sudden drop in temperature caused her skin to tighten, her nipples to harden, and—predictably—her groin to react to the shock.

She felt the twitch. She tried to press her knees together under the table, but the pencil skirt was tight, limiting her movement. She continued talking, her voice wavering slightly.

"And... and I remained calm throughout the process," she finished, her face heating up.

The interviewer nodded, making a note on her pad. She looked up, her eyes scanning Blake's face, then drifting down to her chest, then to her waist.

The table was glass. The top of the table was glass.

Blake looked down in horror. The angle of the light, the transparency of the glass, and the sheer bulge of her erection were clearly visible through the table surface. It looked like she was hiding a weapon, or a very large produce item, under the desk.

The interviewer's eyes widened slightly. She quickly looked back up at Blake's face, her professional mask slipping for just a fraction of a second.

Blake wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She couldn't explain this away as a cramp. There was no cramp in the world that looked like that.

"I... I think I left my iron on," Blake blurted out, standing up abruptly. The movement only made the tent more obvious as the fabric of the skirt pulled taut.

"Excuse me?" the interviewer asked, bewildered.

"My iron. At home. It's going to burn the house down. I have to go. I'm so sorry." Blake grabbed her purse and fled the room, walking stiff-legged down the hallway and out of the building.

She sat in her car for ten minutes, hyperventilating. She didn't get the job. She knew she didn't get the job. She had just tanked a career opportunity because her penis decided to stage a coup during a discussion about conflict resolution.

When she got home, her roommate was there, playing video games. He took one look at her face and paused the game.

"What happened?" he asked. "I thought you were interviewing for three hours."

"I didn't get it," Blake said, throwing herself onto the couch next to him. "It was a disaster."

"He didn't like you?"

"She," Blake corrected automatically. "No, it wasn't that. I just... I panicked. I had to leave."

She buried her face in a throw pillow. The cushion brushed against her lap. The soft, fuzzy texture of the pillow against the denim of her jeans was comforting, but also stimulating. She felt the familiar twitch again.

She groaned into the pillow. "I hate my body sometimes."

Her roommate hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. "It'll get better. You're still adjusting. It takes time."

"You don't understand," she mumbled. "It's like... it's like a separate entity. It has a mind of its own. It ruins everything."

"Well, maybe stop taking the hormones?" he suggested, stupidly.

Blake lifted her head and glared at him. "If I stop the hormones, my voice will drop, I'll grow a beard, and I'll want to kill myself. The boners are the lesser of two evils."

"Fair point," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Just... wear tighter underwear? Or something?"

"I'm wearing three pairs right now," Blake deadpanned.

He laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the tension. "Okay. I don't want to know that. But seriously, don't let it get you down. You're awesome. Some job isn't worth it if they can't handle... you."

"You're the only one who thinks so," Blake sighed.

"Well, I'm the only one who counts," he said, bumping her shoulder with his.

Later that night, they decided to order pizza and have a few drinks. The alcohol, Blake found, was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it relaxed her. On the other hand, it was a vasodilator.

After two beers, she was feeling good. The breakup with Mark was fading into the background, the job interview was a distant memory. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, while her roommate sat on the couch itself.

They were playing a racing game on the console. Blake was competitive, screaming at the TV when her car spun out.

"Yes! Take that!" she shouted as she slammed into his car, sending him off the track.

"Hey, no fair!" he yelled back, nudging her with his foot.

He was wearing socks. His foot nudged her thigh, then slid down, accidentally pressing directly into her crotch.

It wasn't a sexual touch. It was clumsy and accidental. But Blake's body didn't know the difference. The combination of the alcohol, the adrenaline of the game, and the sudden pressure caused an immediate, violent reaction.

She gasped, dropping the controller. Her hips bucked involuntarily.

Her roommate froze. He pulled his foot back instantly. "Whoa. Sorry. My bad."

Blake was paralyzed. She was hard. Painfully, obviously hard. And she was sitting on the floor in gym shorts. There was nowhere to hide.

She scrambled to her knees, grabbing a throw pillow and clutching it to her lap. "I... I'm fine," she stammered. "Just... startled me."

Her roommate was looking at her, a strange expression on his face. He hadn't looked away. He hadn't ignored it. He had seen it.

"Blake," he said slowly. "Is that... what I think it is?"

The room was silent. The TV paused, the car frozen mid-crash on the screen.

Blake felt the tears prick her eyes. She had managed to hide it from him for months, ducking into bathrooms, wearing layers, hiding behind bags. Now, it was out in the open.

"Yes," she whispered, staring at the floor. "It's... it's a side effect. Or a malfunction. Or a curse. I don't know."

"A side effect of the hormones?" he asked, his voice neutral, not judgmental, just curious.

"Yeah. It's supposed to stop working," Blake said, her voice cracking. "But it didn't get the memo. It's just... it's uncontrollable. It happens when I'm stressed, or scared, or... I don't know, sometimes it just happens."

She waited for the disgust. She waited for the awkward joke, the excuses to leave the room, the shift in dynamic that would ruin their friendship.

Instead, she heard him sigh.

"That sounds incredibly frustrating," he said.

Blake looked up. He was still looking at her, not at the pillow, but at her face. "It's not just frustrating," she said. "It's humiliating. I feel like a freak."

"You're not a freak," he said firmly. "You're a human being dealing with a weird medical situation. I mean, it's definitely TMI, and I'm going to need brain bleach to unsee that, but... it doesn't change who you are."

Blake let out a shaky laugh. "Thanks, I think."

"So, what do you do?" he asked. "About it?"

"Wait," she said. "Usually. Or ice packs. Or..." she trailed off.

"Or take care of it?" he suggested.

Blake blushed. "Sometimes. It's not always sexual, though. It's just... physics. Blood flow."

"Well," he said, picking up his controller. "Let's just... pretend this didn't happen. And maybe next time we play Mario Kart. Less adrenaline."

"Mario Kart," Blake agreed, clutching the pillow tighter. "I can beat you at Mario Kart."

"In your dreams," he said.

He unpaused the game. They played for another hour. Blake stayed on the floor, the pillow a permanent fixture on her lap. But as the night went on, the tension in her shoulders relaxed. He knew. He knew and he was still sitting there, making fun of her driving skills.

It wasn't a fix. The traitor was still there, still active, still a source of anxiety. But for the first time in a long time, Blake felt like she could handle it. She had an ally in the trenches.

The next morning, however, brought a new challenge. The landlord, a grumpy old man named Mr. Henderson, was coming by to fix a leaky faucet in the bathroom.

Blake was in the shower when she heard the front door open. She rinsed the shampoo out of her hair, listening to the muffled voices in the living room. Her roommate was letting him in.

She turned off the water and grabbed a towel. She wrapped it around her body, tucking it in securely. It was a large towel, but the humidity in the bathroom was high, making the towel cling to her skin.

She opened the door to let some steam out. Mr. Henderson was in the hallway, carrying a toolbox. He looked up as Blake stepped out.

"Oh, morning," he grunted.

"Morning," Blake said, clutching the towel at her chest.

She moved to the side to let him into the bathroom. As she squeezed past him in the narrow hallway, her shoulder brushed against his tool belt. It was a heavy, bulky thing, made of thick leather and metal.

The buckle of the belt caught on the edge of her towel. It didn't pull the towel loose, but the jostling, combined with the sudden rush of cool air from the hallway and the proximity of another person, triggered the traitor.

Blake felt the twitch, the sudden rush of warmth. The towel was tucked under her arms, but it was loose around her hips. She felt the fabric begin to tent.

She froze, pinned against the wall by Mr. Henderson's bulk.

"Excuse me," she squeaked.

"Sorry, miss," he mumbled, trying to squeeze past.

The friction of his jacket against her arm, the smell of metal and sawdust, the sheer masculinity of the situation—it was too much. The traitor surged to full attention.

The towel lifted. It was subtle, just a gentle rise in the fabric, but it was there.

Mr. Henderson stopped. He was looking right at it.

Blake thought she would die. She felt the blood drain from her face. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to flatten herself, trying to make the erection go away through sheer force of will.

Mr. Henderson stared for a second that lasted an eternity. Then, he cleared his throat loudly, looked at the ceiling, and quickly sidled past her into the bathroom.

"No problem," he muttered, closing the door firmly behind him.

Blake stood in the hallway, hyperventilating. She had just flashed her landlord. Her male landlord. An old man who probably voted for policies that hated her existence.

She ran to her room, locking the door. She dressed in a record thirty seconds—jeans, sweatshirt, combat boots. She didn't care if it looked like she was going to a grunge concert. She needed armor.

She spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen, anxiously listening to the plumber work. Every clang of the wrench made her jump. She was terrified he would come out and say something, or ask her to leave, or call the police.

Finally, the bathroom door opened. Mr. Henderson packed up his tools.

"All fixed," he said to her roommate, who was sitting at the table. Then he looked at Blake. "Have a good day, miss."

He didn't smirk. He didn't leer. He just nodded, grabbed his toolbox, and left.

Blake let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"See?" her roommate said. "He didn't care."

"He stared!" Blake hissed.

"He's an old dude. He stares at everything. You're fine."

The weeks turned into months. The problem didn't go away. If anything, it became a part of her routine. She learned to dress for it—high-waisted pants, flowy skirts, layers. She learned to read her body's signals, to recognize the onset of the twitch and find a bathroom or a bag to hide behind.

There were still disasters. The time she went to the beach and got an erection while applying sunscreen, forcing her to lay on her stomach for three hours until the tide came in. The time she was at the library and dropped a book, bending over to pick it up, only to stand up and realize her movement had caused friction that resulted in a visible bulge she had to hide behind a stack of encyclopedias.

But she also started to laugh about it. It was a defense mechanism, but it worked. She started telling her roommate the stories, usually after a bottle of wine. He would laugh, not at her, but with her, at the absurdity of the human body.

One night, they were sitting on the fire escape, sharing a cigarette. The city skyline glowed in the distance.

"Do you think it will ever stop?" Blake asked, blowing smoke into the cool air.

"Your penis?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe. Or maybe you just have to make peace with it. It's part of you. Even the annoying parts."

Blake looked at him. "I hate it. I want it gone."

"I know," he said. "And one day, you'll get the surgery, and it'll be gone. But until then... you've got a wild stallion in the barn."

Blake laughed, snorting smoke. "A wild, stupid, embarrassing stallion."

"Exactly," he said, clinking his beer bottle against her glass. "To the stallion."

"To the stallion," she echoed.

She looked back at the city. She was 27. She was single, unemployed, and living with a platonic male friend while her body waged a war against her. It wasn't the life she had planned in the fairytales she read as a kid. But it was hers. And she was surviving.

The traitor twitched slightly in the cool breeze, a phantom reminder of its presence. Blake took a deep breath, adjusted her jeans, and smiled. It was just another Wednesday.