Or, well, that’s what I’d do if my phone wasn’t fucking dead.

I groan again and fumble with the charger by the side of the bed, jamming the USB-C into the port of my phone with all the ungentle roughness of an ugly bastard in a doujin. The cord’s already kinked where it meets the phone and it’s only ten bucks. It can deal. 

I retrieve part of my face from the bedstand as my phone s-l-o-w-l-y boots, and settle oval lenses over my eyes. The new pair have become just the way I look in record time, and their soft curves emphasize the roundness of my cheeks in a way the old square pair never did. It cut down my peripheral vision some, but we all make sacrifices for fashion. 

With my glasses on and my phone in my hand I’m whole again. Euphie kicks over into her main menu screen and I open Heartscape. 

Jubes: Morning, dove ♡ 

My eyes track up from the message I just sent and register that Silvia is literally on a plane to me right now, and the imminent prospect of her touch, her kiss, her body against mine pops into my head all at once. I’ve never felt anyone’s touch in a sexual way before, but I have a vivid imagination, a collection of sex toys, and an internet connection. I’m still sure I’m lacking a lot, but I can picture Silvie naked and kissing me just fine, even if my brain’s a little hazy on the exact details past that point. 

God Fuck it feels like I’ve been waiting for this forever. My LDR is about to get a whole lot more R-rated, and I am so, so here for it. I can feel my heart pump harder and my cock stiffen a little just at the thought of Silvie’s ungentle touch, and I linger on images of her teeth digging into my skin for a good five or ten seconds. 

… Shit, I’ve got to be at the airport to greet her. What time is it?

— seven AM, the gods are just for once. Plenty of time to sort out Silvia. 

I should get up.

If Silvia was here that’d be a snap — order her to order me to get out of bed — but she is incommunicado. Which, in this case, means I’m operating on backup power and the faint urge to be a good girl so she’ll praise me when she comes back. 

C’mon, get up. You can do this. Roll out of bed and onto the floor if you gotta, you know that works. Or sit up. Do it by stages. If you can’t sit up, start by wiggling your toes. You know all the tricks by now, use them, it’s absolutely in a good cause. 

I force myself up to a sitting position and wrap the heavy synthetic comforter around me. I want to be held, want the comforting touch of arms around me. I’ve had hugs from my family but never from someone who desired me carnally. (I hope.) 

Knowing that our long separation will come to an end soon only makes the bite keener. Silvie pressing into me from behind, holding me in her lap, her delicate fingers dipping in between my legs even as she kisses at my shoulder…

I push the images away, and steady myself. 

I can take strength from this. It’s not so far away. 

Vixy: Woke up, getting out of bed for you. 

Vixy: This feels hard&scary but I gotta be there, gotta see you soonaspossible, gotta go go go

I push off the comforter and stand, the ache of sleep easing out of my limbs.

Vixy: Being a good girl and coming to see you

The kitchen is painted with the same celestial bukkake as my bedroom, naturally. Sun doesn’t know what's good for it. My vengeance upon the vile thing will need to wait, though, as my army of tigers does not number one trillion yet. In fact, it doesn’t even number one. Mrs. Anderson’s soft orange mog is my only reservist, and he’s too much of a fat ball of fur to be any use in a fight. He does purr, though, which is its own kind of talent.

Regardless, we suffer what we must and get on with things. Or so my OT says. Would say. If she ever were to acknowledge that I was suffering at any point during the process. Therapists, they’re all the same.

Anyway, corn pops. 

I pour myself a bowl of corn pops (which are just big enough of spheres to not trigger my “I’m eating kibble” instincts) and munch determinedly. At the end of the bowl, I knock back my morning pills with the leftover milk.  

Pills onboard, food eaten, now I just need to get my poop in a group and go. I pick up my lavender purse with its monarch-butterfly spray-on silhouette (god that was nerve wracking, this purse ain’t cheap and I’d never done a cutout applique like that before) and shoulder it. It matches the skirt Silvia sent me perfectly. 

Jubes: Alright I got my shit together. Packing up to come meet you, ETA ~1h 15m. 

That gives me just enough time to shave, pull my hair back, and get to the station and down to the airport. The deadline feels like pressure against my skull, a vice threatening to crack my nut and splash my gooey brainmeats across the floor. Would I crack like a bruised watermelon between a thick girl’s thighs, or burst like a bullet got put through my brain?

I briefly consider the image of a thicc-thighed executioner in their hood, then puff out a laugh and dismiss it.

It’s whatever, all deadlines are like that.

I shave with my dead-battery razor and pull my dirty-blonde hair back in a violet scrunchie. Whenever I do this my parents coo and ahh as if I’ve unlocked Tutankhamun's tomb or something but I hate it. It makes any patchy parts of my shaving job obvious and puts my square jawbones on display and makes me feel painfully, obviously trans. But it’s the best of a bad lot because otherwise the wind will have me spitting hairs out of my mouth all day, and that’s an even worse look. 

I pull my pink earbuds out of my dress pocket and pop them in, then go retrieve my phone. The sweet and funky tones of Flavoured by Pop Up soothe my soul and get me moving. 

All my training won’t be for naught. I won’t let it be. 

Jubes: Going out the door, ETA 1hr 

The odor of lilacs greets me as I plunge into the community garden, floral and overpowering. It’s sickly sweet and turns my stomach, and the nerves aren’t helping. They were just fine the first few weeks, but after three years of living above the damn fucking lilac bush I am so, so sick and tired of living in the scent of flowers. Just goes to show that the people in charge care more for appearances than the actual experience on the ground. 

I walk to the LRT station past trembling aspens and hexagonal government buildings. You’d think they’d at least make the therapy community not look like an institution, but apparently they can’t get the appearances right either. They want the buildings to look Official, probably, and that always seems to be expressed in the blandest, most crowd-sourced death-in-committee designs possible. It’s a wonder they’re even hexagonal. Bees have more sense than bureaucrats: maybe one of them was on the board.