I'd been right about what I said when I was thirteen. By the time I reached eighteen, every girl loved my body. They all wanted it—just not in the way I'd hoped.
In short order, I went from Barefoot Boy to Pretty Boy to Tom Boy to Girl Next Door and straight on through to Bomb Shell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.
Then one day, as happens to everyone, I stopped growing. Goodbye ugly duckling. I had my mom's figure, only my breasts were bigger.
Measured against another man I'm not much to look at. Short at five-foot-two. I weigh a puny one-hundred and thirty pounds.
My shoulders are narrow and stooped. My chest caved in.
I'm a weakling. Even a solitary pull-up or chin-up is out of my reach. Maybe one push-up... on a good day. My legs are plenty strong enough, excepting you can't see any muscles. I'm smooth and soft everywhere.
What hair I have on my face is peach fuzz; blonde and harmless.
"You're beautiful," my mom told me.
And she's right. To everyone, I'm not much of a man—not even much of a boy. But I am every inch a woman.
So why not give me a woman's measurements?
36-26-34.
YOU ARE READING
Io
Short StoryI said, "Gee mom, give me a break. You've got it easy." "Easy?" she says, cocking one well plucked eyebrow. "Well, yeah. All you have to do is look pretty." Then she popped THE QUESTION. "So, you'd like it easy too, I suppose?" I'm Io. And that is...
