Synaptic Overload
by Brandy Dewinter and Tigger
(Copyright 1999)
Chapter 3 - How Much Are You Willing To Do?
Thorson decided there was a lot that he didn't know about looking
feminine, but lack of knowledge was a familiar problem. He attacked it
with practiced skill, starting with the Net. His first searches
concentrated on sites with fashion or makeup keywords, but those weren't
really that focused on providing a truly feminine appearance. They
seemed more shill sites to sell a particular brand of clothes or
cosmetics.
Then he hit paydirt. At first he couldn't believe what he found.
There were any number of sites that advertised ability to transform men
into the appearance of women! Not just costumes for silly skits, but
actual, passable, even pretty women. Some of the before and after shots
were just not credible. They had to be faked. But some of them, well,
they looked amazing. The salons tended to be located in larger cities,
in fact most larger metropolitan areas seemed to have at least one. The
closest one to the smaller college town where his University was located
was frankly a bit disappointing in their ad. Competent, perhaps, but not
really, well, compelling. That distinction was pretty close to the mark,
actually. There was one site that kept pulling his attention back with
compelling attraction. Surely some of those photos were faked, but still
. . .
The salon that caught his attention was called, "The Inner Truth"
and was located most of an hour's drive away in a larger metropolitan
area centered on the city of Castle Rock. Still, it was close enough
that he could visit and be back in one day. He was sure all he needed
was a little bit of advice. Even Terhune had said he already looked like
he could fake looking like a woman. However, Thorson didn't want to tell
them that he was going to become a superhero with a female alter ego.
He'd tell them it was for a costume party.
The phone number was in the ad so he wasted no more time. His call
was answered with a cheerful, "Inner Truth Salon, this is Janice. How
can we help you?"
*At least it's not some chirpy bimbo receptionist, based on her
voice,* Thorson thought, reflecting on the midrange, slightly hoarse
tone in the woman's voice.
"Um, yes. I saw your ad, on the Net? And I thought I'd see if, uh,
well, you could help me get ready for a costume party."
"A costume party?" the voice, Janice, asked.
"Yes," Thorson answered simply.
"Of course," she said. Was there a slightly amused tone in her
voice? Hard to tell, with that subtle raspiness.
"Do you have a particular costume in mind?" she then asked.
"Uh, not really, or maybe. I'm supposed to be a superhero," he
explained.
"A female superhero?" she confirmed.
"Yes, but not anyone known. Someone new."
"Ah, yes, they do seem to keep cropping up, don't they. Almost as
fast as they get unmasked," Janice said.
"Uh, yeah, well, I guess so," he said, not terribly interested in
current statistics.
"Your request is not all that unusual, actually," she went on.
"We have several costume options already available. I'm sure we can
help you out. When can you come by?"
Thorson replied with a question of his own, "Excuse me, but I have
to ask. How many of your pictures on the website are faked?"
"Not a one!" she declared. "Every photo on our website is a true
record of the appearance of a customer. I assure you, the one thing we
do *not* fake is our advertising photography."
"Really?" he asked again.
"Really," she declared just as adamantly as the first time. Then
she paused, a pause that stretched out while Thorson's thoughts churned.
The woman took a deep breath, obvious even over the phone connection,
and tried to decide if this caller was serious. "So, are we going to be
able to help you?"
"Huh, oh, yes, I think so," he answered. "When can I come in?"
"Have you reviewed the options available in our standard packages?"
asked Janice.
"Yes, but I'm not sure that they seem to meet my needs. I'm not
interested in trying on a lot of dresses, nor in a photo record, and I'm
certainly not interested in a night on the town. I just want to look
credible at the costume party."
"Oh, yes, the costume party," Janice said. "I'm afraid I thought
that was an, um, excuse."
"Excuse?" Now Thorson was puzzled.
"Yes," she admitted. "Some of our customers like to maintain that
they are just transforming for an unusual occasion like a costume party,
yet they are in fact more, um, involved than that."
"I . . . see," Thorson said, though he didn't really.
"I don't know how difficult it will be for you to come by," Janice
said, trying to recover from her wrong assumption, "but there are so many
options in what you have requested that I truly believe it would be best
if we met face-to-face."
"Uh, sure. Okay. Um, how about Saturday? Say, right after lunch?"
"That would be fine," Janice confirmed. "Do you mind giving me a
name?"
"No, not at all. My name is Jonathon . . ." began Thorson, then
interrupted himself. He realized that these people might be able to
deduce what was happening after he started appearing as a female
superhero, and if they had his real name, they might reveal him before
he was ready.
His pause must have seemed like a termination of answer to Janice,
who briskly concluded, "Very well, then, Jonathon. We'll see you this
Saturday."
*********************
The time between his phone call and his Saturday appointment seemed
to take an especially long time to Thorson. The strange nature of
Janice's reaction to his call spurred him to do some more research, and
he found that the salons weren't catering to whimsical masquerades like
the college costume shop. Most of the customers for these transformation
salons were actually transvestites who found dressing as women to be
exciting, even sexually arousing. That had never made much sense to him,
but then, his world of research had never connected terribly well with
that of most non-scientists he knew. He'd had the occasional fling in
college, but once he became an instructor students were off limits and
there weren't many young, single women on the faculty in the science
departments. For that matter, there weren't many young, single women
on the whole faculty.
His college experiences had been enough to let him know he was
comfortably oriented toward women. One of these days, after he became
famous, he'd probably need to work on the problem of finding a wife. In
the meantime, his research was fulfilling enough.
Now, however, it appeared he was going into a world where men wanted
to be women. He almost canceled his appointment (or actually, decided
not to show), but his old research habits kept him looking into the topic
until he found that most cross-dressers were actually heterosexual.
Quite strongly, many of them, in fact so oriented toward women than they
sought to emulate them.
In any event, he didn't cancel. Saturday found him eating a quick
lunch after he reached the neighboring city, then entering the door to the
Inner Truth salon.
The woman who met him at the door was stylish in a comfortable way.
She had brown, shoulder-length hair and wore a soft knit dress and
tasteful jewelry, none of it particularly expensive. Actually, Thorson
himself only noticed that she was quite well-preserved, perhaps near
forty but trim and attractive, an impression reinforced by her wide,
welcoming smile.
"You must be Jonathon," she said. "I'm Janice Hardesty. We spoke
on the phone."
He just nodded, looking around the shop at all the clothes. He
had expected the sort of salon where they had lots of people in chairs
getting haircuts and plastic fingernails. Instead, there were racks
of clothing, some of which looked rather, well, cheap. Or maybe, like
the sort of clothes one would see on rather cheap women. If there was
some sort of beautician station, it wasn't visible from the main showroom.
"I have the feeling that you don't really understand what our typical
customer is like," Janice started to explain.
"Well," Thorson interrupted, "I didn't when I called, but I did some
more research, and I think I have a better idea now."
"Perhaps I should start out, then, by asking if you have any
questions," she offered.
"Um, are we alone?" Thorson asked first.
"Yes. Or actually, my partner and her client are in one of the
makeover rooms, but you probably won't see them. We respect the privacy
of our clients above all other considerations, subject to their own
wishes, of course."
Thorson was still bothered by something, "They won't hear us, will
they?"
"No," she promised, now curious.
"I mean, I don't want to insult anybody but I wanted to know, what
sort of man wants to look like a woman?" he asked.
"Well, you, for one," she answered simply.
"Oh, sure, but I'm different," he claimed.
"I'm sure you are," she said easily, but then went on, "as are all
of our clients. Each has his own reasons, and each has our respect
regardless of those reasons."
Her tone was still light and pleasant, the slight hoarseness seemed
almost normal rather than the result of a cold or something as he had
assumed. It was a bit sultry, actually, as though she were, well,
flirting. Or it had been, but his question, with its implication that
there was something wrong with the people who would patronize her shop,
had caused just a hint of irritation to creep into her tones.
Thorson picked up on it and began to apologize, "I'm sorry. I read
that most of the people who come to these places are, you know, normal.
I mean, straight."
"If you mean they are oriented toward women, yes, that is true," she
confirmed. "We like to think that this is nothing more than an innocent
game, a fantasy played out with our help. It harms no one, though our
clients have often themselves been the subject of undeserved ridicule,
even abuse."
"Ah, yes, well, sorry," Thorson said again.
Janice tried to get things back on a more positive footing. This
was a potential client, after all. "Just what did you have in mind?
You mentioned a superhero costume, a female one, but that leaves a lot
of room."
"Well, there's this party," he started. At her nod, he continued,
making up things that he realized he should have thought about sooner,
and more thoroughly. "And they have a contest for best costume. I don't
particularly care about the prizes, they're usually little things, but,
well, last year I went as a test tube and got laughed at. I'm a
scientist, you see. Anyway, the winner last year was dressed as that
Wyvern guy. I'm not big enough to be a male superhero, but I thought if
I could do a credible job as a female superhero, then people wouldn't
think I'm such a . . . "
"Scientist?" she offered, a twinkle back in her eye.
"Uh, yes, I guess," Thorson said, blushing.
"That's fine, Jonathon," she assured him. "Clearly, we don't
think there's anything wrong with someone being, um, intrigued by the
dressing itself, but your reason is a good one, and certainly not
something to be embarrassed about."
He just nodded, then Janice continued. "I think the real issue
is, just how much are you willing to do to transform yourself?"
Thorson shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don't know. I suppose
that depends on how much effect there would be. I don't want anything,
well, permanent."
"Of course not," she said reassuringly. "How about a goal of being
completely passable in a casual conversation, like we are having here?
"Uh, yeah, that would be fine," he said. "But, well, that doesn't
seem too likely. I mean, a man might look okay in a padded costume, with
a mask and all, but just talking face to face is a bit much to ask for."
"Not really," Janice said. Then she led him over to a counter and
positioned him to stand on one side while she walked to the other.
"Wanna arm wrestle," she said with a grin as she leaned her elbow
on the counter, wrist in the air. Except, it wasn't her that said it.
Or, well, it wasn't her voice.
Thorson's eyes got first very wide, then very narrow as he caught
on to the situation. He studied the, um, proprietor of the shop with
a renewed curiosity. And studied. Now that she, uh, he was standing
behind the counter it seemed obvious that the person was a man. The
voice triggered the recognition, but there was more. He leaned against
the counter with his legs well spread and set for the offered contest.
Other things that Thorson couldn't put his finger on just made it clear
that this was a man, regardless of the dress. Thorson couldn't imagine
why he had been fooled for even a moment.
And then, right before his eyes, the proprietor changed back into
a woman, so undeniably that Thorson felt his impression that she was
a man must have been mistaken. At least, until she, he, whatever, spoke
again.
"Yes, I'm a customer of my own shop," the person called Janice said,
though the tones were comfortably masculine. Now the hoarseness of the
voice seemed completely unremarkable, just what you'd expect. The tone
of the voice had lowered just a bit, but, well, there was more. Thorson
didn't know what else was going on, but the scientist within him was both
observing frantically and gibbering frantically at the impossibility of
what his eyes and ears were reporting.
"My real name is James," the voice said, screamingly incongruous in
that package that Thorson realized he still found attractive.
"My wife and I," and at this James interrupted himself at the
startled look in Thorson's eyes, "yes, I'm happily married to a lovely
woman. She's my partner in this shop. Anyway, we found we liked to
play this game together. It started as just fooling around in the
privacy of our house. Then, we realized that it was working pretty
well. I have a bit of a knack for it, and my wife - Angie - is simply
a genius with cosmetics. We started up this shop as a way to take
advantage of our talents, and it's a lot more fun than the mundane
jobs either of us had before."
"I, uh, can certainly attest to your skill," Thorson said.
"As can many of our clients," James replied. "And not only at
transforming me. We have some quite satisfied customers who can attest
to our ability to teach as well as employ our methods."
"I'm sorry," Thorson apologized again, "but, well, it's really, um,
distracting to see you look like that, and well, sound like, uh, that."
"Oh, sure," James said, then Janice continued, "Is this better?"
Thorson didn't answer, just staring at magic that he didn't
understand. A lifetime of experience said that what he had just
witnessed was impossible. Yet, his scientific training refused to allow
him to reject data without justification. And he, uh, she hadn't even
taken off any clothes. She just talked differently, and moved
differently, and stood differently, somehow.
Janice had apparently seen the same cogitation in other minds before.
With a sure sense of timing, she returned to her question. "You can see,
perhaps, why I asked how much you were willing to do to facilitate your
transformation. We can easily do the costuming things and take some
static pictures. To succeed in a live action masquerade takes a
commitment far beyond that, though I assure you we can make you quite
passable."
"You can?" Thorson asked, for the first time considering the
extension of the effect he had just seen to himself.
"Oh, yes, easily. You're slender, and you have those lovely
cheekbones." Somehow, the compliment didn't make him as uncomfortable
as he would have expected, coming from a man. Of course, he had to
keep reminding himself this was a man. He still found it hard to
believe.
Janice walked easily around the counter, taking Thorson's arm in
a casual gesture and leading him to a small room with couple of chairs
and a table laden with books. "I'm sorry if I shocked you," she said,
"but I find that a bit of shock saves a lot of time. I take it that you
now believe that a transformation is possible?"
"Well, I don't see how I could ever be as believable as you."
"Why, thank you, kind sir," Janice said, flirting cheerfully.
It caused Thorson to stiffen, feeling her hand on his arm in a
new way.
"Made you uncomfortable, didn't I?" Janice asked, but she didn't
wait for an answer. "What was it that I did that made you realize I
was a man?"
"Huh? Oh, well, there was your voice," Thorson answered.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"No, not really. There was something about the way you, well,
looked."
"The clothes, my hairstyle, my jewelry?" she pressed.
"No, of course not. You didn't change any of those."
"Of course not," Janice confirmed. "Those sorts of things are
needed, of course, and they make the masquerade easier to pull off.
People really do see what they expect to see a lot of the time, and
the right signals set up the rest of the impression. But to really
convince someone you are female is as much a matter of posture and
mannerisms as anything derived from cosmetics."
"You certainly convinced me of that," Thorson admitted.
Janice leaned back in her chair, studying him intently. It made
Thorson uncomfortable to be scrutinized like some sort of lab specimen,
but her amazing skill had earned his respect. He was prepared to trust
her on what needed to be done, even if that was just looking at him.
"You're not our typical customer, you know," she said, seemingly
making conversation though there was some sort of undercurrent in her
tone that said she had a point.
"Most college students who want a party outfit just go to a costume
shop. Most of our clients, on the other hand, are trying to fulfill an
unrequited fantasy. They come and get pampered for a day, take their
keepsake photos, and go home. Only a few are even interested in a night
on the town or any sort of outing at all."
Thorson nodded, though what he was agreeing to was unclear, at least
to him.
"It's a shame, really," she said. "Many of them would give more
money than we make in a year, just to have your face for one night. Or
your form. You really have a lot of potential."
Thorson flushed, not quite sure he was being complimented when he
was told he could look like a woman.
"What have you already tried?" Janice asked, sitting back up to the
table.
"I, uh," Thorson stammered, thinking about denying his ludicrous
attempt. Then he realized he wouldn't get her best advice if he lied.
"I got a thing called a unitard, and a mask, and a long wig. It
didn't look very good."
"Did you do anything else?" she prodded gently.
"Well, I put some water in some balloons for, you know . . ."
"Not bad," she said. "Most guys just use some wadded up socks when
they start. Where'd you learn that trick?"
"From the Net," he said.
"Of course," she said. "You found us on the Net, too, didn't you?"
He nodded and she continued, "And the balloons, how did that work?"
Thorson just flushed again, looking quickly down at his hands.
Janice reached out and patted his hand gently. "There's nothing
wrong with what you've done. It's just a little harmless fun, a game."
She leaned back again and said, "I'll bet you had a pretty impressive
set of hooters, didn't you?"
"How did you know?" he asked.
"Because I haven't met anyone yet who didn't get too much water into
them the first time," she laughed. "How'd you hold them in the unitard?
Did you get a bra, too?"
"No," he said sharply. Then he felt his ears redden again as he
remembered what had happened.
"You mean you just stuck them down the front of the thing?" she
asked with a smile. "Which one slipped down the farthest?"
"The left one," he said with a wry grin.
"And so you came to us?" Janice concluded.
Thorson nodded, torn between the knowledge that this "woman" had
great skill and his own building feeling of embarrassment.
"Maybe I should just, um, try something else," he said.
"Oh, I hope not," she said. "I know you don't find this as, um,
what did I say? Intriguing. As my other clients, but this can be fun
for you, too. If you're willing to, shall we say, throw yourself into
the role, we can make it seem like your only costume is the superhero
tights and have everyone wondering who the new babe is. Then, when you
tell your friends that it's you inside the tights, you'll knock their
socks off."
"Really?" Thorson asked, beginning to believe in spite of himself.
"I guarantee it," Janice said, then her smile grew even larger. "In
fact, I'll make that guarantee official. If you don't pass, in costume,
until you choose to reveal yourself, then we won't charge you anything
except for materials, clothes and whatever. Nothing for our time."
"But, you'll have to really commit yourself to the part," she
warned.
"What will that mean, really?"
Janice asked a question of her own, before answering his. "Can you
do some things that will take a bit of time to wear off? Specifically,
things like trimming your eyebrows down a little, and maybe shaving your
body? It won't be so definite that you can't go back to appearing male
when you want, but you might need to wear long pants and sleeves instead
of shorts for a while."
"I could do that, I guess," he agreed.
Janice stood up and began to pace a bit in the small space. It was
almost a relief to Thorson to see her mannerisms begin to degrade a bit
as she concentrated so hard on his problem. Her movements became a bit
sharper, more forceful, less graceful. She still looked like a "she" but
not nearly as feminine as the flirty woman who had held his arm when they
entered the room.
"You have set yourself one particularly difficult challenge," Janice
mused, speaking out loud but mostly to herself. "The female superheroes
are all well-built, athletic women."
Thorson waited for Janice to make her point, but she surprised him
with yet another question. "What is the one thing that makes a woman
most look like a babe?"
"A babe?"
"Yeah, you know. Attractive, particularly a good body."
"Well, um," Thorson stammered, embarrassed again, "big, um, well,
bust, I guess."
"Wrong," she said bluntly, but the smile on her face took away any
element of criticism.
"That's what you did wrong with your water balloons," she explained,
"and it is the single most common mistake cross-dressers make. Oh,
there are some men who focus on big tits to the exclusion of all else,
but if you really look at the women who get famous for their looks,
that's not really the common denominator."
She sat back down and flipped open one of the large books on the
table. One book actually focused on female superheroes, showing news
photos and screen captures, as well as paparazzi shots.
"Look at those and answer that question again," she ordered. While
he was looking at the pictures, Janice opened another book, this one
filled with photos of popular actresses. "And at this one."
Thorson studied the books for a while, but other then realizing
several of the women were indeed not particularly well endowed, he
failed to see anything common. Yet, they were undeniably all very
pretty, with great bodies.
After letting him struggle for a few minutes, Janice answered
her own question. "The single most important sign of a well-built
woman is a trim waist. Everyone one of those actresses has a waist
somewhere between small and tiny. The superheroes are much the same,
not quite as small, usually, but still very trim. The actual dimension
is not the most important issue, by the way. It's the ratio of waist
to hips, as long as the hips are not themselves too large. You won't
have any trouble with slender hips. In fact, we'll need to pad them
up a bit. That's the next most common cross-dresser mistake. They
get the tits too big and the hips too small. On the women in most of
those photos, the two are pretty near equal."
Now that he knew what to look for, it was obvious to Thorson that
what she said was true. The women with larger than average bosoms also
had very feminine hips. Yet, women with trim hips could look good, be
"babes", with relatively small busts if the waist in between were also
trim.
"So here's the problem, Jonathon," Janice said. "If you were just
trying to pass as a woman, we could pad your hips up to get a shape that
would be intuitively convincing to anyone who saw you. But if you really
want to be a superhero of the female variety, we need to take your waist
down instead. You need a corset."
"Uh, sure, okay, if that's what's needed," Thorson agreed, convinced
by the evidence of the photos.
"Oh, my, you *are* a neophyte. You don't know what you're agreeing
to," Janice warned ominously.
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