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This is a companion story to Living in a Changed World. It explores the change in women described in that story and know generally as simply “the change”. Unlike that previous work, which takes place a couple of years after the change in women happened, this work explores the time that the change happened.
I remember the last night I slept for more than four hours.
It was a Saturday night in early March.
I had the wildest dreams — mostly about sex with all kinds of guys I know — my boyfriend, his best friend, his best friend’s brother, a guy in my calculus class, the guy in my calculus class’s dad, the teacher of my calculus class, my neighbor, my neighbor’s wife, my neighbor’s wife’s brother, and the list went on and on. I woke up drenched in sweat — like my body had been running in overdrive the whole night. Despite that, I wasn’t tired when I woke up. I was hungry though. I got out of bed, stretched. Found a red sports bra and some black spandex shorts and went looking for food.
I should probably introduce myself My name’s Midge. Well, actually it’s Mary Margaret Callahan Ryan, but everyone calls me Midge. In fact, I don’t think anyone’s called me Mary Margaret since my mom died. I was nine. She had some kind of cancer. It took her pretty quickly. One day we were getting ice cream and Mom and Dad told me Mom was sick. It was serious, but she was going to do everything she could to get better. It seemed like the next day, she was gone. I miss her a lot — especially going through a lot of “women things” growing up. Dad got a lot of help from Mom’s relatives — my cousin Nadia especially.
I feel like I’m getting off track. That happens with me a lot.
Anyway, that Sunday morning I was senior in high school and just turned 18 the week before. I was pretty good student. I hated calculus, but Dad said I had to take it. I could get by, but Sir Isaac Newton I was not. I was a pretty good athlete — being tall helped. I was, and am still, an even six feet tall. I had been since I was 13. That was fun — being two heads taller than every boy in school in the seventh grade. I was super awkward and clumsy for a year or two. In high school, things leveled out and I also got boobs — fabulous boobs. That helped with the boys — even if most of them were still right at eye level with my twins.
I remember catching a look at myself in the hallway mirror on my way to the kitchen. I really had changed a lot from when I was thirteen. I’d added a lot of weight — most of it in the right places. My legs were long and muscular. My hips were a little rounded, but my butt was high and firm. I had a nice six pack of abs thanks to a lot of sports. My new friends on my chest were a solid 34C and, objectively were perky AF. My skin had cleared up in the last year. I had nice eyes too, at least everyone said so. They were brown. Just brown eyes — in my opinion nothing special. I just changed my auburn hair from a longer look to a cool pixie cut that I thought made me look older (my dad hated, so it probably did).
I pulled on a pair of tight black running shorts — not too short, but still pretty short. I picked up a red sports bra off the floor, gave it a sniff, decided it was passable, and crawled into it. Sports bras were a challenge with my girls. Fortunately, well worth it as they looked great trying to reign in those monsters which, fortunately, didn’t need a lot of extra support — even when running. It was a cool morning, so I also donned a stretchy shiny royal blue zip-up running top. It was a snug, but, again, looked great. With that I was out of my bedroom and headed to find food.
I was so hungry when I hit the kitchen. Fortunately, it was Sunday. Dad loved to make huge breakfasts on Sunday. I expected to find more food than the three of us could eat (it was just me, my sister, and Dad). There wasn’t. Dad was frying bacon and mixing up some scrambled eggs. I thought maybe he’d just got up late. That wasn’t it. “I’m whipping up some more now, Midge,” he explained, “Millie came through here and cleaned me out.” He flipped some of the bacon, and added, “I swear, even for a tween, that girl can eat. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. She wiped out two pounds of bacon and half a dozen scrambled eggs.” He flipped some more bacon, “I didn’t even think she liked eggs.”
I really didn’t hear him. I was so hungry. I went to the fridge. There was about half a gallon of milk left. I grabbed that and a deli pack of American cheese. I ended up chugging the milk — all of it and ate all the cheese. By then, Dad was coming up with more bacon and eggs. I scooped up most of what he put out. Think I ate as much as he said Millie had. I should have been stuffed to the point of being sick. I felt about sated, but just barely.
I had planned on a run and felt like I really needed it. I realized I’d lent Anadolu Yakası Escort Millie my earbuds. My little sister Millie was twelve. She was tiny. She took after my dad’s side of the family he said. Mom’s family — the women especially — tended to be tall and built like me. Dad’s side was a bunch of skinny shorties. Mom was just a couple inches taller than Dad. I had him by a solid four. Mille was slightly built and of average height. She always wanted to be tall like me. I tried to explain — being able to dunk a basketball is cool, but she didn’t want to go through middle school as “Millie the Monster” or whatever else scared little boys could come up with.
I knocked on her door, but there was no answer. I could hear her inside. I opened the door. Millie was face down on the bed grinding furiously on her hand. She didn’t even notice me. I saw my earbuds, grabbed them, and left. I remember thinking, she was coming along fast. I think I was 15 the first time I, uh, “double clicked my mouse”. I made a mental note to talk with her later. We didn’t have a mom, but we had each other.
I put on my running shoes and was out of the house. It was two miles to the entrance to the state park with a couple of moderate hills. It was my normal run — two miles out, two miles back. I took off feeling like I had a lot of energy to burn off. I decided to go at it hard and clear up my head. I wasn’t much of a runner, though the track coach had wanted me to go out for the team. Volleyball and basketball were my sports. I also played lacrosse in the Spring but would have rather played baseball like I did in little league. I ran mostly to support those other sports and it gave me time to think.
My first thought was about having a talk with Millie. That was really something seeing her going at herself like that. I, mean, she was only twelve. When I did myself, I usually thought of Brad Pitt or maybe Bruno Mars. Who was she fantasizing about — Teletubbies? Maybe Ken — she was just playing with Barbies for crying out loud.
Speaking of doing myself, I had to admit, I was feeling really, uh, “antsy”. I mean, I was already thinking of getting in the shower with the handheld sprayer when I got home. And I was also thinking about calling Brad, my boyfriend. We hadn’t been dating long and hadn’t gone all the way. I’m given him a few hand jobs and I sucked him off at a party a couple of weeks ago. I also let him feel me up. I did let him finger me once — he was not super great at that. He must have told me a dozen times that his parents were going to be out of town tonight.
I had been lost in thought and didn’t realize I was coming up on the park entrance. I thought I must have been really distracted as those two miles went faster than it should have. I looked at my smart watch. I must have screwed something up in my head — It had been just about 9 minutes from when I stepped off my porch. There’s no way, I thought. That would be some kind of world record. I realized my smart watch must be screwed up because it was also reading my heartrate at 60 beats per minute.
I really needed to get this energy out, and I wasn’t even really breathing hard. I decided to run down the valley into the park. I figured it was another two miles down to the river and two miles back up. That would double my run and give me a big hill. The wind picked up as I ran down the hill; I reached the river in another ten minutes. My watch still read 60 beats per minute, and I wasn’t even breathing hard. I turned and ran back up the hill.
As I got the top of the hill my heartrate finally went to 70, but I still wasn’t breathing very hard. I had just turned up the road to head towards home when I heard the crash. A tree — a pretty big tree had fallen in the wind. I turned a corner and saw three men by the fallen tree, they were trying to lift it. As I got closer, I realized why. It had fallen on a kid.
The little boy was about nine and he was screaming. The men a had strained but couldn’t move the big tree. I offered to help, but they said it was no use. The ranger and the fire department were on the way. The father was trying to calm the boy down. I thought I would see if I could budge the tree and lessen the crush on the kid. I put my arms under the trunk and lifted to test it. To my amazement and everyone else’s shock, the tree came right up. It was a strain, but it lifted. “Get him out!” I yelled. The father pulled the kid clear, and I dropped the tree.
The three men and he boy looked at me. I just shrugged. “I guess I just got it in a good spot,”
I said. I thought maybe it was just some trick of leverage or something.
By the time I finished my run at the house, my heartrate finally broke 80 beats per minute. I still didn’t feel winded at all. I checked my pulse on my wrist and it matched what my smart watch said. This was very weird for me. I mean, I did a lot Bostancı Escort of sports and was in good shape, but I wasn’t any sort of endurance athlete.
And then there was lifting that tree. There are lots of stories of mothers lifting cars of their kids, I guess, but those are mostly urban legend. I was worked up — with the screaming kid and all, but, surely, the father and the other two men were just as affected. The three of them together couldn’t move that tree, but I did — alone. The only thing I could think of was that they were so panicked that they didn’t actually try to move it together. Still, even if only one of them was actually trying at a time, no one of them could move it either. Yet I still did. I was strong, for a girl — a pretty big girl at six feet and 140 pounds, but not as strong as a grown man.
I was already sweaty — though I really wasn’t that sweaty for having run eight miles, so I decided to try something. Dad had an old weight bench in the basement. He didn’t use it much anymore, but it was still set up. I went down there to see what I could lift — maybe I was stronger than I thought.
I got to the weight bench. Oddly, all the weights we had were already on the bar — about 200lbs. The bench, as I said, wasn’t used very often., but I recalled walking by the other day, and only about 80lbs was on it. I guess Dad had been using it after all. I took off about half, figuring 100bs it probably a safe max bench press for me. I got on the bench, put my hands on the bar, took a deep breath and lifted.
The bar came easily off the rack.
It felt like almost nothing. I did a few easy reps and put it back on the rack. That’s crazy, I thought. Two thirds of body weight is a respectable bench press for a girl, and it felt like nothing. I put more weight on — 150lbs this time and tried again. The bar again moved easily. This time I did ten reps without much fatigue. A body weight bench press, I thought, is a respectable bench press for a man. And I just did it for reps. I just easily did it for reps. I decided to try putting all the weight on the bar – 200lbs. I could at least feel the weight this time, but it wasn’t a strain. I did ten reps and held it. Then I did ten more and held the bar up. I did ten more before I started to feel any tiring in my arms. I put the weight back.
I was lost. None of this made sense. I needed to think.
I was also really hungry.
And I also still had a, uh, “hunger”, that I didn’t think food would help with.
Went upstairs to the kitchen. Millie was walking out with three bananas, and a box of that high-protein cereal my dad eats. I’d never known Mills to eat anything but junk food. Still, I could identify. I was craving something with protein. Dad had hard boiled some eggs, I took those, ate them. And found a bag of baking walnuts — a pound at least. I ate those too. I felt like I could use more, but what I’d eaten so far today was embarrassing as it stood.
My protein fix secured, my next priority was getting the grime of my night sweats and my workout off of my body. Conveniently, this would also let me take care of that other hunger I was feeling.
I didn’t think of myself as a really sexually voracious person. I mean, girls aren’t or weren’t then expected to be the aggressor in sex that boys are — or were. I mean, I like fooling around, and I wasn’t a virgin. When I was 15 and got the twins, I got into a party at a nearby college — a friend’s older brother invited us. I was six feet tall and has a brand-new set of boobs. I was also made up like a total whore — not the cheap kind — more like ones that politicians or athletes frequent.
Anyway, I met this guy, and, in his defense, I looked like I went there and let him believe that I did. Like, he would ask, “What’s your major?” And I would say, “I’m undecided” (which is true). The he would ask, “Do you live on campus?” And I would say, “I share a house in town with a guy (my dad) and another girl (my sister).” My point is he seemed like a really nice guy and wasn’t looking to commit statutory rape. As far as he knew I was a girl who was his age who he’d never seen around campus and never would see again around campus.
He took me back to his dorm — even put a tie on the door and everything. And, well, we banged. A few times. It was “interesting”. I didn’t get off — I’d only just figured out how myself and wasn’t really able to show him how things worked down there. I sort of thought, being older, he would know. It was patently evident that he didn’t. I did make him wear a condom and I got my cousin Nadia to take me to get an IUD right after that. I’m pretty sure she told my dad, which is fine. I don’t like having secrets from him, so it just made things easier. Not that I really needed it. I’ve fooled around with some guys and one girl — on a dare — since then but haven’t gone all the way with one since.
I was headed Ümraniye Escort then to meet my most reliable sex partner — the hand-held shower sprayer.
Millie and I shared a bathroom that had doors from both our rooms. I went in, peeked in the door to her room She was furiously typing on her computer and eating cereal. “I’m going to use the shower,” I announced. She just sort of waved. I closed the door and ran the shower.
As the bathroom steamed up, I got out of my workout clothes and looked at myself I the mirror. I’m as insecure about my body as any girl when I compare it other girls’ or women’s bodies. Objectively, though, I knew I was hot. I had a pair of pert boobies that stretched every top I owned. My ass was round and firm. My legs were long and shapely. When I wore heels, they looked even better. Then there were my lady bits. I kept my friend down there hairless. When I first got pubes, the hair came in dark and thick. It came on fast too. One minute I was a bare little girl, the next it was like a jungle down there. I was a little embarrassed by it. I asked Nadia about it, and she told me how to shave and care for that way. I didn’t have to, she said and told me I should think of my womanhood as beautiful no matter how I kept it. I chose bare — it was a little more work, but seemed, I don’t know, “tidier”. I looked myself over the mirror one more time. It would be legs, pits, and pussy today, I thought. I grabbed some shaving gel and a fresh razor and got I the shower.
Business first. I soaped and rinsed everything. I washed and rinsed my hair. Then I lathered up the needed areas with shaving gel and went to work. Everything was nice a smooth when I was done. So smooth, it turned me on — not that I needed much activation. I fingered myself a little, then pulled the hand-held wand off its mount. I set it for a light massage and positioned it over my swelling clit. Oh my god it felt good. The warm water danced across my opening. Every warm pulse brought another wave. I thought about my boyfriend Brad and how I wished he would touch me. I moved the shower head between my legs and let it pulse from that direction. In a minute or two I was cumming. My legs spasmed and clenched the shower head between them I would have screamed, but I t my hand over mouth, then made a fist and bit it as the pleasure rolled over me.
Eventually, my orgasm faded. I went to put the showerhead back on its mount. I was shocked to find the metal device dented and bent. Holy mother of God, I thought. Did I do that?
I got out of the shower, dried off, and wrapped myself in a towel.
“I need answers,” I said to no one. I did need answers, so I went where a girl goes when she need answers these days — the interwebs.
I sat at my desktop and pulled up Instagram. There were a lot of the usual late Sunday morning brunch shots and videos of last night that are always there. There was also something else. There were videos of a few girls I follow doing things I hadn’t seen them do before. One was girl about my age, probably a head shorter and 30lbs lighter standing over her older brother as he struggled with bench pressing a barbell. It had at least as much weight on it as the one in my basement. Her brother struggles to the top of his lift and the girl takes the bar — and started curling it. The comments were all laughing emojis or about how fake it looked.
Another video was a woman — old -like, 30. She had what she said was a steel bar at least an inch thick. She held it up and bent it. Again the responses were laughing emojis and more comments about it being a nice fake.
A third had a girl, maybe college age – talking about how she’d gone to bed wasted and got up feeling realty good. She wanted to know if anyone saw what she was drinking so she could just drink that from now on to avoid hangovers.
The next one was a girl taking off her clothes. She held up a sign. It has an address on it. And the words, “Come fuck me”. That one only had shocked emoji comments.
The last one I watched was a girl I know from school. It was shot from picnic area near a local park. She was arm wrestling these guys — I knew some of them — they shoot hoops there every Saturday. These weren’t boys either. These were grown men. Some of them very athletic. She beat them one at a time. Then two — one on each arm. Then she let them use both arms. Then two guys using both arms. She beat them all every time. Again there were the laughing emojis and claims of it being “obviously faked.”
That was when it hit me.
All the people in these videos are women — normal women — or girls. I’d never seen them doing anything like this. The girl I knew wasn’t even an athlete or anything — she was more of a theatre nerd. That wasn’t the thing that I thought was most alarming.
It was the comments. Not so much what they said. All of the comments were about how funny the videos were or how the videos were either well or badly faked depending on the commenter’s opinion of fake video. No, all that stuff seemed right. What bothered me was, all the people who thought these videos were jokes or fakes — they were all men. No women thought they were funny or faked.
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