Maybe You'll Like It: A Gradual Feminization Novel

Chapter One

I usually don't dread lunches with my sister. In fact, I typically look forward to them. Mostly. But today, unfortunately, is one of those 'dread' days.

My sister, Grace, is an enigma. She's difficult to read, extremely dry, and on top everything, a rebel. Well, maybe not a rebel-rebel, but she lives life on her own terms. She's brash and abrasive when necessary and unapologetically stands by her decisions, for better or for worse.

Honestly, her past explains a lot, and it's hard to blame her. Grace came out as gay at the ripe age of 16 — far earlier than most other girls in her grade at Kankakee South High School. Maybe in the more progressive areas of the country, particularly today, 16 isn't that young. But 12 years ago? Trust me, it was rough for her. And if you lived with our mother and went to our school, it was even rougher.

Nowadays, Grace is killing it. She's got a great gig as a middle school teacher, her own apartment, and the beginnings of a wonderful little life. It turns out the trauma from bullying and the trials of self-actualization were actually building toward something nice. Grace went through a sea of shit and came out clean on the other side.

As for me? I wish things were that simple.

It was a chilly November afternoon driving to Red Robin for lunch in dreary Kankakee, Illinois. Chicago's winter weather is known for its never-ending dreariness. The first week of November should still feel like fall, but with each passing year it seems like winter steals yet another week.

I found the parking lot to be shockingly full for a Monday afternoon and struggled to find a spot for my rusty, red pick-up beater before finally settling for a tight-squeeze spot next to an equally shitty truck.

I must've done a miserable parking job because when I squeezed out, I was getting glared at by a woman and her child. Though with both of their faces bundled up and obscured by scarves, maybe I'm just projecting.

Not that I'm out and about that often, but I feel like I get looked at and visually dissected more often than most. Unfortunately, I know why.

Quickly shuffling into the restaurant and through double doors, I found myself in the middle of what was clearly a crowded work party. Based on the signs, name tags, and drab business attire, it couldn't be anything else. After a few seconds of conversation with the hostess,I spotted my sister poking her head through the crowd from the back of the restaurant.

"Thanks, I see her," I said before sliding around her and through the mess of business-casual diners.

"This was literally the last open table," Grace began as I sat down and struggled to strip my coat off in the tight booth. "You didn't call ahead?"

"Who calls ahead for Red Robin? And lunch."

Grace shrugged, conceding the point. She scanned one of the two menus on the table, but quickly put it down and reached her arm across toward my face.

"Hey! What're you doing?" I barked, not welcoming a hand in my face.

"It's your hair, stupid. It's like, all frizzed up from your hat." I sat there, reluctant and motionless as I allowed Grace to finger-comb my hair back to its normal state.

See, that's what I'm talking about. That's why everyone looks at me everywhere I go.

Not too many dudes have hair the length of mine. Nor do many girls for that matter. A full 26 inches from the top of my head to the tip. Yes, I've measured. And despite people jeering and teasing ever since I started growing it out in high school, I kept growing it. 'Tarzan' was what kids started calling me. At high school graduation, our principal even included that fun little nickname as I walked across the stage.