Take Off Your Robe and Get In

Content notice:

The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and negative self-talk.

I've done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beautiful people come in every size and shape, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.

That said, if you're someone who prefers to avoid such content altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.

The Author

~

TAKE YOUR ROBE OFF AND GET IN

I stand before the doors of the building, snow falling on my shoulders, free pass in my hand, and all I can think is "fucking asshole."

It's a spa, one of the really good ones where the massage and bathing areas are gender segregated and nudity is mandatory. There are coed areas in between for men and women to mingle in matching bathrobes.

I don't know what he was thinking, getting me this for Christmas. This place, of all places. I can't even use a bathroom stall at a Taco Bell without getting hostile looks when I come out and wash my hands.

I promised myself I'd try to have fun.

I go in, check in, visit the women's changing room, take off my clothes. (Midi skirt, striped tights, striped turtleneck shirt, chunky sneakers. Natch.) I get into my bathrobe as quickly as I can manage.

I have a wide, fleshy body that attracts attention in locker rooms. Fortunately, it's also big enough that I can turn my back and hide my front fully from view. Perks of being a fatass. No one sees anything.

He gave me a gift for Christmas that might as well be a ticket to trans bathroom invader jail. Then he had the gall to dump me the next day. "I'm just not feeling it anymore." That's literally what he said.

Fucking asshole. I'll curse your name forever, but you damn well had better forget mine.

I screw up my courage and adjust the front of the robe to flatter my tiny tits. I breeze past the communal showers, bathing pools, any place where there are naked women, and head for the common area.

I feel marginally safer once I see bathrobes. It's a large room, all cis men and cis women, which isn't great. Still, I'll see if there's anything to do, just long enough to tell myself I didn't waste this.

Sadly, the clothed activities seem to be sitting, standing, drinking coconut water, chatting with people. Everything else is in other rooms, and that means disrobing in front of all my feminine peers.

The massage room, where they beat the living shit out of you and leave you partially liquified. Nope. The scrub room, where they remove a full layer of skin, leaving you smooth, slippery, like a seal. No way.

I decide, fuck it. Staying here isn't worth the trouble. I turn around, ready to barrel back in the direction I came, past the massage rooms, saunas, bathing pools, showers, and that's when I notice her.

I feel my blood run cold and my stomach drop into my ankles. There she is. Tall, hawklike, flimsy bathrobe clinging to her thick body, her stick-straight jet black hair spilt like a stain on the beige cloth.

My ex-boyfriend's mother. The woman who seems to have always hated me, who never said an uncritical word to me, who, as far as I can tell, has never smiled in her life, is standing between me and the exit.

She hasn't noticed me yet. She's chatting with two people I've never seen before, a man and a woman around her age--54. I know this because her birthday is one week before Christmas. We all had dinner together.

I decide my best bet is to just breeze on by. Act like I don't notice her, and hope she doesn't notice me. It's not a great plan, but it's a plan. I take one step, then I freeze. She's looking straight at me.

Maybe she didn't see me. Maybe she's just looking in my direction. Maybe it's someone behind me, someone she knows. Except she's looking right at me. And it's been too long for there to be any mistaking it.

She doesn't come over to me. She doesn't beckon me. She returns to her conversation. Even though she saw me and knows I'm here, my situation hasn't changed. I stick with my plan. I decide to make a run for it.

I start working my way through the crowd, which suddenly seems to be much more dense. Bathrobe-clad adult bodies of every shape and size in every direction, rows of them moving back and forth in rolling waves.

I'm almost at the entrance to the communal area when I feel the hand on my shoulder, like metal cords.

I dare to glance out of the corner of my eye. She's there.

"You," she says. "Come with me."

She takes me into one of the rooms with communal baths. The door closes behind us with a mortally terrifying click.

It's one of the tinier bathing rooms. There are a few small tubs ranging from cold to hot. Since there's no one else in here, the employees with their body scrub and tools are busy in other rooms.

Once my brain can do something besides scream, my first thought is that the scrubbing ladies will see that the room is occupied and won't be far behind. They'll chew us out for being in here with clothes on.

As if on cue, I'm treated to a sight I was never curious to see: my ex-boyfriend's mother casually uncinching her bathrobe, taking it off, then turning around to hang it from one of the hooks on the back wall.

I always thought of her as a big woman. Naked, I realize she's just average, but she has a tummy pouch overhanging a thick, full bush. Her tits are big enough to show the weight of age. Her areolas are dark.

She goes to the hottest tub, dips a toe in, then slides gingerly into the water. She slouches, sinking in up to her neck. Her breasts float just beneath the foam. She lets out a long, beleaguered-sounding sigh.

The only other sounds were the jets under the water and my own panicked breathing.

She looks up at me.

"Come on," she says. She pats the surface of the water next to her. Her tone and her body language are not inviting.

Mechanically, I walk over to her, still in my robe. I sit on the ledge and put my feet in. The water is almost too hot, even without going all the way in. I feel like I might suffocate, which would be nice.

"Stop playing around," she says. "Take your robe off and get in."

Now it's my turn to let out a beleaguered sigh.

I fool myself into thinking that I can disrobe and slide in at the same time, smoothly enough that she won't get a good look at my body on its way under the water. It's delusional, but it's all I have left.

The heat overtakes my entire body, one sensitive bit at a time, until it's over my chest, up to my neck. We're naked together in the water. The tub is barely big enough for the two of us to slouch side by side.

I'm taking big breaths, willing my body to acclimate itself to the intense heat. I can feel my skin turning the color of a boiled lobster, which isn't far off. I think I can smell fire and brimstone.

If I die now, at least I'll be free of whatever's about to happen.

At last, I've gotten used to it, at least enough to be aware once again of the world around me. That's the moment when the foam chooses to clear up, and the moment I see her staring at the spot in my lap.

I cross my legs, deeply uncomfortable. I know how I see myself, what I see when I look down there. But I also know what she sees. What most people see in general, really. Just a dick and balls. Boy genitals.

"Don't shave down there," she says. "It makes you look like a fast woman. You're not a fast woman, are you?"

I feel a little embarrassed. But mostly bewildered. I have no idea how to process this.

"Maybe I am," I say, trying to salvage a little self-confidence.

"You're not," she says. "Fast women have better prospects than an idiot like my son."

"Your son dumped me."

"I know. As low-maintenance as you are, he still screwed it up."

Okay. At least I'm offended enough that I'm no longer confused about how she perceives my genitals.

Before I can say anything, she speaks again.

"I assume you're here because he gave you a gift card for Christmas."

"Yeah. So?"

"Me too."

Ah. So that was it.

Suddenly, I'm mad at him all over again. Mad enough that I just barely remember to be terrified of being naked together with my last choice of bathing partner on planet Earth.

"He got us the same gift," I say, almost to myself. "A one-stop shop for all the women in his life. He couldn't be bothered to think of something specific for each of us. That's how little he cared."

She says, "He couldn't be bothered to think of something specific for you. He knows I like coming here. You were the afterthought."

"Great."

It makes sense, actually. He got me something so obviously inappropriate for Christmas because he wasn't even thinking about me.

But I still hate her for saying it.

"A word of advice," she says.

"I think I'd actually rather leave," I say. I reach for the crumpled bathrobe by the edge of the tub.

She stops me, reaching out and grabbing me by the wrist. Her grip is tight. Her tit brushes softly against me. The combination of touches shocks me. She leans in, her face near mine, scent of wood and citrus.

She says, "Think better of yourself. You settled for less than your worth."

"That's not true," I say, hoping she doesn't hear my heart pounding in my chest.

She releases me and settles back in next to me, the water wobbling with her movement. I forget about leaving and wonder instead how long we have before the ladies bust in with their scrub and see me in here.

She's staring between my legs again, which I uncrossed at some point. I cross them again and pretend I didn't notice. I know what she sees.

Her eyebrows go up. "Have you ever been with a woman?"

Yes. Once, in the before time. I felt like I had to. To prove that I wasn't a sissy. That I wasn't broken. That I was normal. That I was...

"No," I lie.

Under the water, she opens her legs, knowing I'll look, and I do.

Mostly, I just see her thick patch of dark pubic hair. Maybe a hint of labia, the same dark coffee color as her nipples. It's hard to tell. Dimly, I'm aware that her thigh is pressed snugly up against mine.

I've always hated this woman.

I hate how her life revolves around building and maintaining power over people. I hate how her domineering personality shaped her son into a weak-willed bastard with an obligatory "nice guy" personality."

I hate her because she's always hated me. And I've tried so hard to stop seeing myself as someone who deserves to be hated.

I decide to keep pretending everything's normal.

"It was nice of him to get you that gift certificate," I say.

Good move. Small talk. Subtle reminder that I'm spoken for, and that she has skin in the game. Be smooth. Play it cool.

"Don't try to change the subject to my son," she says. "He's not a part of your life anymore."

She hasn't taken her eyes off my lap. As thick as my thighs are and as puny as my erections have gotten nowadays, it's impossible to hide it fully. The thumblike tip of it peeks above the horizon of my flesh.

Fuck. It's not like I'm turned on. It's purely involuntary. You're naked with someone, they touch your body, your body is going to respond. She's so... old. Twice as old as I am. And she's so awful.

Time for a different tactic.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" I ask her.

"Plenty," she says.

If I wasn't already red up to my hairline, I am now.

She says, "Don't look so surprised. You college kids always think you're the first generation to invent sexual experimentation."

"I thought it was bad to be a fast woman."

"I earned being a fast woman," she says, even more of an edge in her voice than usual. "My son's father had the balls to leave me with him before he was even born. I tolerated years of bad sex for that man."

"I'm sorry," I say, maybe too quietly to be heard over the jets.

"I don't need you to be sorry for me. I vowed to find partners who wouldn't leave me responsible for my own pleasure, and I'm proud to say I've done well for myself."

There is something I'm curious about. I can't help myself.

I ask, "Have you ever been with a woman like me?"

"What?" she says innocently. "Young?"

"No."

"Fat?"

"No..."

She fixes me with a silent look that makes me shrink away. At least she's not staring at my crotch anymore.

Then she says, "I know what you're asking. And no, I have not."

Under the water, I feel her fingertips on my leg.

She says, "Not before today."

I'm frozen.

"That's presumptuous of you," I manage to say.

"Is it?" she says. "Tell me what you're thinking right now. And be honest."

Her hand moves, higher up and closer to my inner thigh. Whatever the reason, I can't make myself stop her.

"I've never even thought of you like that before," I say.

"Why does that matter? I'm telling you this can happen right now. You have to be at least a little curious."

She's stroking my thigh now. Her wrist is brushing the plump roll of my lower belly. Perversely, I'm grateful that she hasn't tried to grope me in that troublesome place that cis people usually fixate on.

"Why me?" I finally ask.

"I find you pathetic," she says.

Okay. That's certainly true. But still, not a great sales pitch so far.

Her hand pauses. She stares at some undefined point in the water. For the first time, I look at her face and she doesn't look so severe. She's actually kind of pretty, in a stern, haughty sort of way.

She says, "As hard as I tried to raise him otherwise, my son turned out too much like his father. And he started to attract women who were too much like I was. I find you pathetic, because I was pathetic."

Then she turns to face me, her dark eyes blazing.

She says, "My only regret is insisting so hard on the one right person that I ended up with the one worst person. When I could have been taking my pleasures whenever and wherever they presented themselves."

Her boob is on my arm again, her hard nipple poking its soft abundance. Her face is so close to mine that I can smell her breath, the faint scent of coconut water. I find myself uncrossing my legs.

I try, but I can't keep the tremulousness out of my voice.

"You want me, because you don't want me to make the same mistake you did?" I say.

Her mouth, so close to mine.

"I want sex," she says. "And I'm curious about your body."

"I'm not just a box for you to check off."

God. I once said the same thing to her son. Back when he and I were fuckbuddies, before we started dating. To his credit, he said he was into me because I was attractive, and I think he was being honest.

"Don't insult me," she simply says.

I lean in and kiss her. I try not to think about why.

She kisses back, and she's surprisingly sweet and tender. Sure, her hand is rubbing my thigh again in an obvious simulation of stroking something else, and her naked tits are fully pressing up against me.

But her other hand is cradling the back of my head, and her lips play with mine, almost dancing with me, pecking me and pulling at me with the gentlest suction. Damn near chaste. I'm not sure what I expected.

The kiss breaks. For a second, we just breathe. The air smells like her. I find myself savoring it, even as I wonder what the hell we're doing.

"What do you like?" she whispers.

"I don't know."

"Don't be coy. Tell me how to pleasure you. Embarrass yourself if you have to."

No one has ever spoken to me about sex before with such frankness. I hate this woman. When I look at her naked body, I see only the ravages of a lifetime of bitterness. But god, she's so fucking hot right now.

"I don't know," I repeat.

"Bullshit."

It's true, though. I really don't know. In the before time, it was easier. Look at porn, jack off, relieve the pressure, feel depressed afterward. Purely mechanical. Since then, it's been... complicated.

I sigh. "I don't do... you know... that."

"Do what? Orgasm?"

"No. Well, sometimes. I mean."

"Speak your mind. And say the words."

"I don't use it like a man would."

"You mean how a man would fuck my pussy with his cock."

"Yes," I mouth voicelessly, bright red again.

"What do you call it?"

God. There is no bottom to my humiliation.

"My peepee," I admit, meekly.

When I started transitioning, I had a roommate whom I hooked up with off and on. The night I confessed I was no longer comfortable with "dick" or "cock," he wrote "PP" on it in eyeliner. The name stuck.

"Your 'peepee,'" she repeated.

Yeah, I could have gone with something less infantile. Girldick, shenis, hell, even clit.

I force myself to sound insistent. "Yes. My peepee."

"Do you use your peepee at all?"

"Kind of."

"Show me."

"What?"

"I want you to show me what you do when you masturbate."

Again, I'm frozen.

She smiles. It only makes her more terrifying.

"Have you never masturbated in front of someone before?" she says.

"Well... yes, with--"

"Don't finish that sentence."

I obey. I can't blame her. If I were her, I wouldn't want to know about my own son's sexual predilections. Besides, how I play with myself isn't a comfortable subject for me, with her or anyone else.

"It's not going to be how you think," I begin.

"So you'll do it," she says, interrupting me.

I sigh.

I don't feel like explaining that I rarely masturbate. And, when I do, it's rarely in pursuit of orgasm. And, in the off chance that I do have an orgasm, it's not the cum-shooting spectacle she might expect.

In this final moment of hesitation, when she's nearly bullied me into touching myself in front of her, that's when she loses patience.

"Fine," she says, releasing me, then standing up in the tub, splashing me on her way up. I try not to stare into the void of that great dark puff of pubic hair, its water-slicked whorls sparkling and dribbling.

All I can think is, she's leaving. She's going to put her robe on and storm out. The ladies never came in, we never got caught. All that happened was we saw each other naked. It could have been much worse.

She turns, her tiny butt briefly in my face, and gets out. Then she sits on the ledge behind me and dips her feet into the water to either side of me. She isn't touching me, but her body heat is on my neck.

What new torture is this?

"Turn around," she says.

I turn around. There isn't really a better option here. I'm sort of kneeling, sort of squatting on the bench.

She's sitting there with her thighs spread wide, her bush right in front of my face. Her long labia and hooded clit are visible through the curls, like petals of a coffee-colored rosebud. Now I'm staring.

She says, "You'll feel better about it if I do it first."

I've risked getting caught in here for too long already. If my Faustian bargain is to watch her get herself off so she can come to her senses and let me go, so be it. I'll never have to see her again.

"Please do it," I whisper disingenuously, "I want to watch."

For the second time today, and for the second time in my life, I see her smile. Again, it somehow doesn't feel like it's good for me.

I watch her hand slide down her belly, over that pouch of fat that, up close, is faintly stretch-marked and seems incredibly soft. Though her tiny fingers look iron-wrought, they move with impossible gentleness.

Then her hand is on her pubic hair, and her fingers spread the dark brown lips, and what I see in between is pale pink.

"This," she murmurs, "is my pussy. Say it."

"Your pussy," I dutifully repeat.

"Do you like it?"

"I do."

I would have said it whether it was true or not. But it isn't a lie.

I watch avidly as her fingers begin to swirl on her vulva, a smooth, well-practiced motion, periodically stopping to dip down, then up again, gliding over herself on a layer of her own slick fluids.

She looks down at me, the naked girl in the water between her knees, as one sights down the barrel of a gun.