Becoming

Naked,
Standing in front of the mirror
Assessing the work
That must be done,
All my tools lay out before me,
Ready to work towards my
Becoming.

With dexterity, coordination, and control
That tests every piece of my athleticism
In this freeing task;
I slowly begin to unwind each ace bandage
Tightly around my bulging, protruding chest,
Carefully making sure
Every part of each breast
Is equally compressed.
Hooking the clasps firmly on each bandage;
Lacking trust in those mere clasps,
I layer duct-tape
Firmly on top of them
In an impenetrable shield,
Protecting my treasured secret.
I grab my bra
Only a strong sports bra will do,
Tight, it must be tight
Two maybe three sizes too small,
Constricting every possible bulge that remains.
Stretching it over my wide back
A huge “Snap!” resonates in the room
As the bra falls into place.
Smiling, feeling slightly short of breath
From my home-made corset
Specifically created for
Flattening, hiding and deceiving.
Creating the look of a serious bench presser
With pecks of death.
Another benefit:
Amazing posture!
Becoming.

Slipping on my boxers:
Bright blue with yellow lightning bolts.
Filling them with a sock,
Invisible to everyone
So no one knows it’s fake
By looking
Emphasizing the growing illusion.
Pulling my white under shirt
Over my head and flattened breasts,
I add another part to the corset.
My smile grows,
Now the fun begins!
Becoming.

Slowly buttoning my neatly ironed shirt:
Solid black, starched, unwrinkled
To look as sharp as possible.
Emphasizing each button
Making sure it’s done absolutely perfect
Straightening and adjusting the collar
Lining it up just right to
Fit over every muscle without struggle.
One leg at a time pulling up my pants:
Black as night, brightened
By a dim white pinstripe.
Meticulously tucking in my shirt at the same time
Maneuvering, straightening and twisting,
My stiff shirt into my pants
In a violent and messy manner
Coming out with a clean, neat,
Perfectly arranged shirt.
Becoming.

Plopping sticky gooey gel
Into my hands 
Teasing it through my hair
Pulling strands through my fingers
Making sure each wildly arranged
Spike of hair
Stands up straight.
In a clean cut display
Of a messy, crazy, punk look.
Becoming.

Looping, pulling,
Folding, tightening my tie
Into a classic knot
Centering it underneath my collar
Black and white diagonal stripes shine out
Against a black shirt and suit.
Becoming.

Tying my polished shoes,
That shine and glisten.
Slipping on my jacket
That falls just below my hips
Molding an old school look into
Something uniquely mine.
Buttoning up my jacket,
Straightening out the arms
Adjusting my tie
Centering it underneath my jacket.
Becoming.

Standing in front of the mirror, evaluating
This time consuming process.
Successfully completed
With the giddiness of a young child. 
Ecstatically smiling
With an ear to ear grin
Cemented on my face.
I am no longer becoming,
I have become!

~ Student ’06

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