I love being a woman. I chose well. But if there is ONE salient regret I have, transitioning from male to female, it’s when I run my hands down my slowly transforming bod, cradling myself at the denim-lacquered hips, up and over onto the thighs and into my… wait, what? Ladies, where are the rest of our pockets!? Seriously, am I supposed to send off a coupon?
It’s lucky then, since my change, that I haven’t owned a pair of jeans long enough to worry ‘em. Thanks to my ever-inlating “oestro-booty”, the gooch tears within weeks of their maiden voyage. I tell myself my style is functional, but there’s hardly anything functional about my “girl-pearls” dangling in the wind, now is there?