Going for a drink.
For a brief second, I consider going out as I am. I'm just going down three floors, getting a can from the machine and then popping back up. Surely that short journey isn't too treacherous? Perhaps I have nothing to sweat about.
Like I said, it's only a brief second that I consider that. I know that the fake boobs aren't going to be making the journey. I reach into my bra and pull the custom-mades out, feeling like I've removed a part of me as they settle into platelet-like shapes on the desk. I say 'platelet-like' because obviously one side is convex as opposed to concave. But, semantics.
I grab the money and keys and close my door behind me. I don't even get as far as locking it before I realise that even without my pretend protuberances, the bra itself still gives out that 'he thinks he has boobs' vibe. It's a 34C racerback - retaining it's shape in spite of adversity, or lack of flesh, is part of the charm.
Back in the room, I try and take it off without taking off my shirt and top. The sleeves are too tight, though, and I have to go all the way down to skin, which is... unpleasant. Depilatory cream only lasts a week or so, and my (few) chest hairs are showing now, and my flat chest is distressing also. I pull my tops back on sharpish.
I try to leave again, but look at my shoes on the way out. Black dolly shoes with a pink trim and cute little bows near the toes. The bows are the dealbreaker - I need to change shoes too. I am always terrified of becoming a middle-aged guy in a sequined dress thinking that he's "passing" - the bows on the shoes fall way too close to that line.
Whilst I'm changing into plain black dollys(my other footwear option being high-heeled boots, and I'm not good in them yet) I take the hairband off, too. It's been in almost all day, so my hair looks funny - a hat will have to cover that up. A brown beanie makes an odd accessory to this outfit.
Still, at least I've gotten rid of the most "obvious" stuff. It's saturday night, so most people are out. Still, those that are in are in high spirits, and likely to make jokes or, worse, wait until I'm gone and then make comments. That's the part I hate most, because my control is totally gone.
For some reason, I do a quick 'tuck' before I leave the room for the final time. No one will be looking at that area but I feel like I need to do it. I don't like glancing there and seeing the shape, betraying the dick beneath. Better to tuck.
Even with all these precautions, and my awareness of not wanting to look too odd, I still take advantage of the opportunity to practice rolling my hips as I walk. Not often do I get long, straight areas to practice on, especially with no-one within eye distance. It's risky, anyone could come out of their room at any moment, but I need the practice.
Once I've gotten the 7-ups, I race back up the stairs, desperate to return to the sanctuary of my room. I sashay down the halls again as best I'm able, and my heart pounds more as I get nearer to my door. So close to being a perfect little trip to the venders - no comments, minimum shame. I fumble with the key but make it, just as I hear someone leave their room.
The cans get put down, and my cans get put back into their bra. I brush my hair, put on the hairband, and change back into the bowed dollys. They're more comfortable, honestly.