Schrödinger's Girl, Ch. 04

In the spare bedroom, I laid a packing cube of underthings into my carry-on.

Liz hugged me from behind without warning. "I miss you already."

It was Sunday evening, the night before the weeklong tech conference I attended every year. I usually flew out Monday evening for the midweek sessions; packing early gave me a day to remember whatever I'd inevitably forget.

Liz surveyed the pants and shirts laid out on the bed, ready to be rolled and tucked into their own cubes.

"I'm glad your slim-fit wardrobe is back in fashion," she said. "Although..."

She swapped one button-down for another from my closet.

"That'll travel better," she said. "No turtlenecks? It's supposed to be chilly up north. And you look good in them."

"I'm going minimalist this trip," I said, rolling the clothes with deliberate care and zipping the cube shut.

In truth, there were turtlenecks I would have loved to take--the one I wore crossdressing at the public market, and another that was really a stretchy, clingy dress.

But convention trips already carried their own tension. Being alone, anonymous, and unobserved had a way of loosening... constraints, without the added temptation of a ready feminine wardrobe.

There was a direct evening flight from my charming, low-fuss local airport to the convention city. The venue was a large airport hotel, a short shuttle from the terminals.

My room had the usual sterility of a corporate hotel suite, with a window overlooking the hotel's massive atrium. From this high up, the people below looked impossibly distant.

I said good night to Liz over a video call. With my clothes hung and carry-on stowed, I puttered around dealing with messages and looking at trailers of movies I didn't want to watch.

Finally, I visited the hotel's fitness center, hoping I could sweat the restlessness out of me.

While showering afterward, I shut off the water, covered myself in lather, and imagined other people running their hands all over my soapy, feminized body.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, my long bob blown out and falling smoothly, it was late enough that the hotel had settled into somnolence--hallways empty, lobby half-asleep.

As I walked toward the window, I caught myself pacing the way I had across the dojang mat after class last week--my thoughts adrift, while my body found its own rhythm.

The atrium lay silent, several floors below. A handful of windows showed only the dim illumination of bedside lamps or the blue flicker of televisions. Somewhere behind each window, someone was awake.

Almost without volition, I made for the closet and rummaged through the clothes I'd packed.

During the first tech conference I ever attended solo, I was unprepared for what the convention's... opportunities would do to my deceptively dormant compulsion.

That first night, during the witching hour, I woke with an irresistible urge to go out crossdressed. Lacking any women's clothing, I improvised a dress from a long shirt I had packed, and wore that impromptu minidress while wandering the hotel's quiet corridors.

The memory came back with startling force and clarity. That same shirt sat in my packing cube of workout clothes; I pulled it out and unrolled it.

I had no idea what kind of garment it originally was, or whether it first belonged to me or Liz. It most resembled a baseball jersey, with three-quarter sleeves, but was made from a thin brown waffle weave, with a raw-edged collar, hem, and cuffs.

I wriggled into the shirt, pulled it down until the unfinished hem of the collar sat midway on my upper arms, and smoothed the rest into place.

I tried to control my breathing as I surveyed my outfit.

I was now wearing what appeared to be a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder minidress. The unfinished hem sat maybe a hand's width below the tops of my thighs; the pliant waffle fabric sheathed me like a second skin, hugging my slender, girlish form.

As a precaution, I tucked my balls into my body and taped everything down.

A hidden compartment in my laptop bag held a tube of neutral lip gloss, which I smoothed on.

I grabbed the empty ice bucket for an en femme run to the ice machine.

I smiled and blew a kiss at the lissome creature reflected in the mirrored closet doors as I traipsed by; I always was a sucker for a barefoot girl in a short dress.

My room was three-quarters of the way down a long corridor, carpeted in patterned blue. I stood outside my door, senses alive, trying to temper the excitement of being en femme in a public space. I gave only the briefest thought to ducking back inside.

I dropped my key card into the ice bucket, which I held demurely in front of me. My bare feet were silent as I walked slowly but purposefully down the corridor--just a girl on a late-night ice run.

The doors were staggered along the hallway, left and right. It seemed like I was passing an endless succession of doors while the corridor kept getting longer, but eventually my destination came into view.

The ice machine was behind a door in a small cubby. I peered through the sidelight to see that the cubby was empty, then glanced toward the elevator lobby, just steps away. Heart pounding, I headed in that direction.

I walked past the bank of elevators and stopped where I could see my reflections in the lobby's wall mirror and its windows at the same time.

"Oh, shit," I breathed in wonder as I slowly turned. There was nothing in the reflections that said I was anything but a pretty, barefoot girl in a filmy minidress. And she was most definitely "hot from behind."

Beyond the elevator lobby lay a catwalk spanning the atrium between two identical wings. One side of the catwalk was open to the atrium, the other to windows with views to the bay beyond.

Most of the atrium's floor was taken by a platform that held seating for a small restaurant, deserted at this late hour. I could see the windows of the interior rooms, nearly all dark now.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the catwalk with the ice bucket held before me. I settled into a leisurely strut, my feminine body finding its own unconscious cadence. I imagined that I was crossing a stage, all eyes upon me. There wasn't a soul in sight, but that somehow made it more thrilling. I was almost shivering with excitement.

Almost too quickly, I reached the other side, breathing as if I'd run across. My nipples bulged against the thin fabric of my dress as my chest rose and fell.

I listened to the witching-hour stillness and was possessed by a sudden, fierce impulse.

I set the empty ice bucket on a nearby side table, grabbed the hem of my dress, and peeled it from my body. I stood, my feminized form revealed, in the elevator lobby of a large hotel. I stepped in front of the nearby mirror and twirled, mesmerized by my lovely nakedness.

I stuffed my dress into the ice bucket, placed it on top of my head, and strolled back across the catwalk like a girl going to market. I found that holding the ice bucket above my head gave my walk a pleasing wiggle.

I paused halfway across to revel in my reflection in the windows, fully revealed on the catwalk's stage.

The walk back to my room, wiggling all the way, seemed endless, and yet not long enough.

The door closed quietly behind me as I collapsed like an unstrung puppet onto the bed. "Oh, Noelle, you wild thing," I said into the quiet.

I went to the window and quietly drew the curtains wide. I could see the entire catwalk that I had recently crossed, wearing not a stitch of clothing.

I couldn't remember deciding to do any of it--only that my girl self knew where she wanted to go before I did.

I put my dress back on, burrowed under the sheets, and, despite everything, fell into a deep sleep.