Arcadia Berger


Taming a Tomboy, Part One: Dancing at the Cobalt

A no-nonsense young pre-med student who hasn't worn a dress since before puberty and has never worn makeup at all, and who absolutely never wears anything pink, finds that the simple act of wearing pink panties because there aren't any others in her drawer, has a startling effect on her life:

Sometimes people looking for “Chris Malone” were surprised to find out she was a woman, but she figured that was their problem. She liked “Chris” better than “Christina”, or “Christy”, or God forbid “Chrissy”. Her grandmother had called her “Chrissy”, and even at age four she had hated it. Somehow the name had followed her into school, even occasionally in high school, but when she enrolled at Plainfield Teachers’ College as a Pre-Medical student, she was determined to be known only as “Chris”.
On the morning of February 24th, Chris was awakened by her alarm clock at 7:00 AM sharp. She rolled out of bed, grateful that she didn’t have a headache this time, peeled off her dorm shirt and opened her dresser.
Her heart sank as she found that she was almost out of underpants, and would have to use the ones she’d been avoiding.
It had been really nice of her roommate Debby to buy some new underwear for her -- Debby was always shopping for clothes, while Chris only bought clothes when she needed something -- but she wished that when Debby had bought those two three-packs, they hadn’t each included a pair which was pink. Chris had always hated pink clothes of any kind, and when she looked at the two pair remaining in the drawer, which she had avoided so far, she seemed to hear the voice of the nasty boy who had tormented her all through the fourth grade saying, “little pink panties”.
Chris shook herself and picked up a pair. It was silly for her to get so worked up about it. It wasn’t as though anyone were going to see them, and even if the waistband happened to peep out somehow, her jeans and flannel shirt and denim jacket would tell everyone what sort of woman she really was.
Even so, as she slipped the panties (underpants, not panties, dammit) over her hips, she felt something creepy and abnormal come over her, as though she had just taken a dose of some strange new drug. She looked at herself in her bedroom mirror, saw a tall, athletic girl (woman) with short brown hair, in a pair of little pink panties (underpants, perfectly ordinary, sensible cotton/poly underpants). Her hand went to cover her crotch, and then cupped over her mound.
I don’t have time to play with myself, she reminded herself sternly, and went on dressing. She pulled a gray sports bra over her head, then a T-shirt declaring her admiration for the Plainfield Pioneers softball team, jeans and her denim jacket, her olive Chuck Taylors and a flat cap of black canvas. She checked her look in the mirror and decided it would do. She pulled her backpack onto her shoulders and went out the door....

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