The Skinsuit Society
The Skinsuit Society. What a remarkably old-fashioned name. Had it been lifted from Dead Poets Society? As a social club for people who'd bought the skins, it seemed fitting enough.
I knew what the place was for, but I still had no idea what to say first. I was in the middle of typing out words and deleting them again when another message flew in.
Tried it? Surely they didn't mean... that.
I choked—of all the times to be sipping water while reading. They weren't wrong, but admitting it was another matter entirely. Confessing to complete strangers, Yes, the first thing I did after becoming a woman was masturbate!? I'd sooner bite my tongue and die. No, wait—more than that, wasn't it a little strange for someone's opening line to a total stranger to be Have you masturbated yet?
Before I could even think of a reply, the next message arrived.
...I was so dumbfounded I wanted to die.
From there we chatted about this and that, though most of it was introductions.
The one who'd asked whether I'd masturbated was Iwata Haruka (a pseudonym), twenty-nine, originally male. She'd bought her skin about four years ago and, by her own account, worked nights at a soapland—one of Japan's erotic bathhouses. Part of me wanted to ask, Is that even okay? But she claimed to be an ace of the industry, so I supposed there was no problem.
The one teasing Haruka was Noel Schumacher, thirty-one, originally male—and apparently his real name. Anyone who loved the skins was a friend of his, he declared, telling me to come visit anytime and even handing over his home address (somewhere in Hanover, Germany). It was quite a departure from the stone-faced German I'd always pictured, and it caught me a little off guard. He'd apparently hosted in-person meetups at his place several times, too. Hmm. It did look like fun.
The one who'd kindly walked me through the server, speaking politely the whole while, was Josh (a pseudonym), twenty-seven, originally male. There was something distinctively feminine about his way with words. He ran a cocktail bar in Russia, and his hobby was ballet. A woman's body is more flexible than a man's, apparently—better suited to ballet, or so he said.
CLPXG—my Discord handle, carried straight over from the ID I used in an old game. Handing my real name to strangers felt wrong somehow, so I offered the first pseudonym that came to mind.
I'd never even imagined there might be another Korean besides me, and it felt a little like running into an old friend. I scanned the member list for a Korean-looking name. Let's see... ah, there it was. The name was Lee Sooin. The profile picture: a man.
What should my opening line be? Only logging into Discord now and then probably meant a very busy person—and if so, wouldn't anything I sent just get ignored? After a moment's deliberation, I worked up the courage to send a message anyway.
Because... it would be nice to have a friend in real life I could talk to about the skins. Unburdening this craving I'd buried deep in my heart was something I'd always longed for. Someone to share a secret hobby with—what I wanted was an accomplice.
I sent the simple message and waited a while longer, but no reply came. They didn't use Discord often, so I'd probably have to wait at least a few days—maybe a few weeks.
I'm hungry...
My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten a thing since getting home from school—too busy masturbating. When I checked the clock, it was already past ten at night.
That Haruka person really was high-energy. I turned off my phone and slid down onto the floor, and only when my hair caught against my back did it dawn on me that I was still wearing the skin. The card had said I could take it off whenever I liked... right?
Heart in my throat, I reached behind me and drew the zipper down. The moment I felt it glide all the way, a sigh of relief escaped me. Like a butterfly shedding its chrysalis, I eased myself out of the skin with care—head first, then my arms, my torso, and finally my legs.
Phew...
Thank god. If something had gone wrong and the skin wouldn't come off... the mere thought was horrifying. Living as a woman would surely be a delight, but only so long as I had a way to prove who I was. How would people ever accept a woman with no ID and a zipper running down her back? The thought of friends and family refusing to recognize the me inside raised goosebumps all over.
I got dressed again and threw together a simple late dinner. I debated taking a shower, but amazingly, my real body hadn't shed a single drop of sweat the entire time I'd been wearing the skin. I did wonder—if I got hurt while wearing it, would the body inside be hurt too? The curiosity flickered, but I made no attempt to find out. I'm no masochist.
Under the covers, I ran through tomorrow's schedule. An early lecture in the morning, then my part-time job from afternoon until late at night. Which meant no time to enjoy the skin tomorrow. To play with it slowly and freely, I'd have to wait a few days—the weekend, most likely.
When the weekend came, I wanted to go outside wearing it. What I was curious about, specifically, was how people would look at me. Men who would never in their wildest dreams suspect that the woman in front of them was really a man in a skin—men who would let their eyes roam over every inch of my body, or strike up conversation trying to get my number... just imagining it made my whole body shiver. But for that,
I need clothes.
I owned nothing feminine. I couldn't exactly ask my little sister to lend me some, and going out to buy women's underwear in person was far too conspicuous. Ordering online would take ages to arrive, but with no other options, there was nothing to be done. How was I even supposed to measure myself? My height, weight, and bust were exactly as I'd written in the email, but I had no idea about the rest of my body.
Oh well. I'd just have to buy a measuring tape and take the numbers myself.
And once I had clothes—what else could I do besides go out? I let the pleasant fantasies unspool.
Sneaking out to meet my friends while wearing the skin could be fun. Streaming? Hmm... I'll think that one over a little more.
The pool's out, thanks to the zipper on my back, right? And by the same token, no outfits with an open back.
Or maybe I could try one of those group date things...
A group date. Now that stirred up improper thoughts. What if I went to one wearing the skin, slept with a man, and got pregnant? Was pregnancy even possible to begin with? And if it happened, would the baby inside me vanish the instant I took the skin off? Or would I simply be unable to take it off while pregnant? No amount of worrying produced an answer, of course.
I can worry about that after I've actually had sex, can't I?
Sex as a woman... I was curious, I'll admit. Though throwing myself at a man so boldly still frightened me. It wasn't that I absolutely had to do it—but it wasn't as if I recoiled from the idea, either. When I wore the skin, I became a woman, complete and whole. I didn't feel much aversion. Dating, I couldn't say... but a one-night stand? That didn't seem so bad.
Yaaawn... mm, I'll think about it later. Sleep first.
Oops—it was already past one in the morning. If I stayed like this, I might oversleep and be late for class. Reality mattered just as much as the skin. I forced the thoughts away and buried my face in the pillow.
...That night, I ended up lying awake for over an hour.
The next few days passed uneventfully. Aside from being scolded by a neighbor I ran into in the hallway—"That girlfriend of yours... she's a little loud, you know..."—and offering my apologies, and nearly getting caught masturbating in the school bathroom while wearing the skin, that is. Thank god the neighbor was a man; if it had been a woman, I don't even want to imagine what excuse I would have needed.
The bathroom... when someone knocked and asked if I was all right, I nearly had a heart attack. I hastily rolled the skin down to my neck and managed an I'm fine!—thank god for that. Maybe my moans had slipped out and they'd assumed someone was watching porn in the communal bathroom. But since pointing that out outright would have been awkward, they'd probably fallen back on my health as an excuse instead.
Fortunately, the person didn't know me. Even in the worst case, it would end as nothing more than a rumor along the lines of Did you know somebody watches porn in the school bathroom? Please, let it be exactly that.
Anyway, after all these little episodes, time flowed on and on—and the weekend arrived.