Chapter 2: The Shopping Trip
The sporting goods store was a cathedral of implied effort. Rows of protein powder canisters stood like solemn monuments. Racks of shorts and shirts in breathable fabrics whispered promises of transformation. The air was a mix of synthetic carpet and new rubber.
Steph moved with purpose, her small wheeled basket clacking over the linoleum. Alex trailed behind, his shoulders hunched. The list on her phone was a scroll of doom.
“Okay, base layer section,” she announced, stopping before a wall of tightly folded black and navy fabric. She plucked a package from the shelf. “Compression top. Size medium. That’s you.”
He took the plasticky package. The man on the front was all carved obliques and granite shoulders, veins snaking down his arms. Alex felt the ghost of Martha’s finger tracing his own soft arm.
“These,” Steph said, already moving to another display. She held up a pair of cycling shorts. They were black, with a faint sheen. They looked barely larger than her thigh. “The padding is for the bike seat, but Martha said it’ll help with cushioning on some of the floor exercises too.” Her tone was so clinical it made his skin crawl.
He took them, the fabric slippery under his fingers.
“Now, the… special undergarment.” She lowered her voice slightly, though no one was near them. She led him to a sparse rack labeled ‘Dance & Gymnastics.’ A few limp leotards hung there, and small, folded packages. She scanned the labels, then picked one up. “Dance belt. Cup-less. Medium.” She dropped it into the basket atop the shorts. It landed with a soft, final thud.
“Steph,” he whispered. “This is… are you sure—”
“She’s the professional, Alex,” Steph said, not looking at him. She was already walking toward footwear. “You agreed to this. We’re just getting the tools.” The word ‘tools’ felt wrong. These weren’t tools. They were costumes.
At the sock carousel, she spun it slowly. An avalanche of white athletic socks. She bypassed them all, her finger stopping on a lower tier. “Here. Trainer socks.” She pulled a three-pack from its hook. The socks were a thin, nude-colored fabric, the tops barely a rim. They looked like something a ballet dancer might wear under pointe shoes. “See? Non-slip dots on the sole. Low profile. Just what she asked for.”
He stared at the translucent material. To see the ankle bone for form checks.
“Last thing is the skincare, that’s next door at the drugstore.” She checked her phone. “Oh, and she mentioned maybe a weight vest for later phases, but we can hold off.” Her eyes scanned a nearby clearance bin, landing on a simple, sleeveless black vest with small, removable sandbag weights. It looked innocuous. Soft. She shrugged and moved on, but the image of it stuck in his mind.
“Let’s try these on,” Steph said, gesturing with the basket toward the fitting rooms at the back of the store. “Make sure the sizes are right before we commit.”
“Here?” Panic tightened his throat.
“Where else, Alex? The return line is a nightmare.” She was already waving to a bored-looking salesgirl with a shock of purple hair and a lip ring. “Two items, please?”
The girl, whose name tag read ‘Jenna,’ barely glanced at them, handing over a plastic numbered tag. “Room three.”
The fitting room was a closet of horrors. A full-length mirror, framed by scuffed metal, reflected a thousand versions of his anxiety under the relentless fluorescent buzz. A single hook on the wall. The smell of stale deodorant and despair.
Steph followed him in and closed the flimsy door behind them. The space was instantly, unbearably intimate.
“Go on then,” she said, leaning back against the door, arms crossed. Her expression was one of mild, wifely interest.
His hands trembled as he tore open the package for the compression top. The fabric was cool and strangely stiff. He pulled it over his head, wrestling it down his torso. It settled with a compressive sigh. He looked in the mirror.
The shirt was a second skin of unforgiving black. It didn’t hide his softness; it outlined it, encapsulating the gentle curve of his belly, the lack of definition on his chest. It clung to his narrow shoulders, making them look even more slight. He looked streamlined, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. Like a sealed package.
“Hmm,” Steph said, her head tilting. “It fits. A little tight across the middle, but that’s the point, right? To keep everything… in place.” She stepped forward, not touching him, but her eyes scanned him like a scanner at checkout. “Turn around.”
He obeyed, presenting his back to the mirror. He saw her reflection over his shoulder, studying him.
“Okay. The shorts now.”
He fumbled with the cycling shorts package. The material was thinner than he expected, almost sheer. He stepped into them, pulling them up over his boxers. The padded liner was an unfamiliar cushioning against him. He tugged them into place. They reached mid-thigh, gripping every contour of his legs, which looked pale and spindly against the dark fabric. The shorts compressed, flattening his rear, making his lower body look smooth, almost genderless.
“Wow,” Steph said, a strange, airy note in her voice. “They’re… really form-fitting. But you can move, right? Do a squat.”
Feeling like a marionette, he bent his knees slightly into a shallow squat. The fabric stretched. He felt the eyes of the salesgirl, of Martha, of his own wife, on the back of his thighs.
“Yeah, you can move.” She smiled, a tight, perfunctory stretch of her lips. “It’s a good look. Very… streamlined. Professional.”
The word was a dagger. He stared at his reflection. The man in the mirror was being erased. In his place was a slim, neutered figure in skin-tight black, soft and contained. The compression top hemmed him in at the waist. The shorts erased any masculine silhouette. A hot wave of shame flooded his face and neck.
“Now the socks,” Steph said, her voice cheerful. “Let’s see the full effect.”
He sat on the small bench, the vinyl sticking to the back of his thighs. He pulled off his own cotton socks and unrolled one of the nude trainer socks. It was absurdly small, a whisper of fabric. He worked it onto his foot. It disappeared against his skin, the non-slip dots a faint texture on his sole. The top rim vanished under the hem of the cycling shorts. His ankle, his foot, looked naked, strangely delicate.
“Oh, perfect!” Steph clapped her hands softly. “See? You can barely tell you’re wearing any. That’s exactly what she meant. Now stand up.”
He stood. The full picture assembled itself in the mirror. The headless, anonymous athlete on the packaging was a lie. This was the reality: a meek man in a uniform of constraint, his feet looking oddly small and vulnerable in their near-nakedness. He saw every deficiency, every soft inch, highlighted and packaged.
There was a light knock on the door. “How’s it going in there?” It was Jenna, the salesgirl.
Before Alex could speak, Steph called out, “Great! Can you take a look? Just want a second opinion on the fit.”
The door opened a crack, then wider. Jenna leaned in, her purple hair bright against the dull walls. Her eyes, lined with black kohl, swept over Alex from head to toe. A slow grin spread across her face. Not a cruel one, but one of amused recognition. She’d seen this before, maybe. The guy being dressed by his girlfriend.
“Whoa, going full pro, huh?” Jenna said, her gaze lingering on the shorts. “They fit you really well. Super aerodynamic. You into cycling?”
“Training,” Steph answered for him, her voice smooth. “With a very strict coach. It’s all about form.”
“Right on,” Jenna said, her eyes flicking to Alex’s mortified face, then back to the clothes. “Well, the fit is spot on. Nothing baggy to get caught. You look… really streamlined.” She used the same word Steph had. It felt like a conspiracy. “You gonna get the vest too? It’s on clearance. Would kinda complete the look.”
Alex’s eyes darted to where Steph had seen the vest. Soft, black, a tool for adding weight, for bearing down.
“Not today,” Steph said, smiling politely. “But thanks for the help.”
“No problem.” Jenna gave a little wave, her smile lingering as she pulled the door shut. Her laughter, a light, gossamer sound, echoed with a coworker just outside. “...so serious about his little outfit...”
The words, barely caught, hung in the air. Little outfit.
Alex stood, paralyzed, watching the crimson flush spread down his chest under the compression fabric. The reflection no longer showed a man hesitating. It showed a product, assessed and approved. The tools had been acquired. The reshaping had its uniform.
Steph stepped close to him. She didn’t touch him. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, her smile now one of genuine, warm satisfaction. She looked at him like you’d look at a problem finally solved.
“See?” she whispered, her breath clouding the glass near his cheek. “It’s just gear. And it fits perfectly.”
He nodded, unable to speak. The submission in the studio had been a desperate, abstract plea. This, in the blinding light of a public fitting room, was concrete. His old self was folded on the bench next to him, a pile of discarded cotton. What stood now was something newer, softer, waiting for Monday.
“Get changed,” Steph said, turning away, already scrolling on her phone. “We still need to get that exfoliator. Martha says it’s important to start the skincare routine right away.”
He peeled the clothes off, each layer feeling like a shedding of skin. The dance belt, still in its package, waited in the basket. He dressed silently in his old jeans and t-shirt. They felt loose, foreign, like clothes from someone else’s life.
He carried the basket to the checkout. Jenna rang them up, the dance belt beeping last. She didn’t look at him, just shoved everything into a large plastic bag. “Good luck with the training,” she said, her tone now flat, professional, already forgotten.
Outside, the afternoon sun was obscenely bright. Steph linked her arm in his, the bag of his new identity swinging from her other hand. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she said, squeezing his bicep. “You’re on your way.”
He glanced back through the store’s glass front. In the distance, on the clearance rack, the simple black weight vest hung, waiting. It looked soft. It looked like it would hug the body that wore it. He turned away and let Steph lead him toward the drugstore, each step feeling lighter, emptier, as if he were already becoming accustomed to the new, less substantial weight of himself.
The drugstore smelled of artificial cherry and bleach. Steph marched past the pharmacy counter toward the brightly lit aisles labeled ‘Skincare.’ Alex followed, the plastic bag from the sporting goods store rustling like a taunt with every step.
“Here we go,” she said, stopping before a wall of bottles and tubes. She scanned the labels with the focus of a bomb technician. “Gentle exfoliator. Alcohol-free. This one.” She handed him a white bottle with green lettering. “And a moisturizer with SPF 30. Non-comedogenic. That means it won’t clog your pores.”
He took the bottles. They were cool, heavy with potential. They felt more intrusive than the clothing.
“You should start tonight,” she said, turning the exfoliator over to read the instructions. “In the shower. Use it three times a week. The moisturizer is daily, morning and night.” She looked up at him, her head tilted. “It’s just basic maintenance, Alex. Everyone should do it. Your skin will thank you.”
Her logic was a closed loop, inescapable. He nodded, adding the bottles to the bag. The contents now represented a full systemic overhaul: outside, inside, and the layer in between.
The walk home was quiet. The sun dipped behind their apartment building, casting long shadows that seemed to nip at his heels. Inside, Steph immediately unpacked the bag, laying the new items on their bed like surgical instruments. The cycling shorts shimmered under the bedroom light.
“We should wash everything before Monday,” she said, gathering the fabrics. “You want them clean for your first real session.” She left the skincare bottles on his nightstand, a silent command.
Sunday passed in a muted blur. He washed the outfit, the peculiar garments tumbling alone in the dryer. He stood in the shower that night and used the exfoliator. The grit scraped over his skin, smelling sharply of tea tree and mint. It felt less like cleansing and more like a superficial erosion.
He moisturized afterward, as instructed. The lotion was cool and slick, absorbing quickly, leaving his skin feeling oddly soft and vulnerable. He slept fitfully, imagining the mirrors.
When Monday came, Alex went to Martha’s gym early, already dressed in his new workout outfit. The compression top felt tighter than in the store, a constant, subtle pressure on his torso. The cycling shorts whispered against his thighs with every step. The nude trainer socks were invisible on his feet, making his worn trainers feel cavernous and alien.
The studio was empty, silent save for the hum of a refrigerator somewhere. The lights were half-on, casting long shadows from the weight racks. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, his reflection splintered around him, a hundred slender, black-clad figures waiting.
Martha pushed through the door from the back office, a clipboard in hand. She was dressed in loose gray sweats and a tight tank top. Her eyes found him, and for a fraction of a second, her face lit up with a dazzling, unguarded beam of approval. It was the look you’d give a perfect, unwrapped gift.
She caught herself instantly. The warmth vanished, replaced by focused professionalism.
“You’re on time. Good.” She walked a slow circle around him, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. “The fit is correct. You can move. That’s the foundation. Now we see what you’re made of.”
She led him to a wide-open space of marley flooring, away from the heavy weights. “We start with an assessment. Introductory exercises. I need to establish your baselines.”
Alex felt a flicker of hope. Baselines. Benchmarks. These were logical, quantifiable things. He could maybe meet a baseline.
“First, lateral skaters.” She demonstrated, hopping sideways from foot to foot, lightly touching a hand to the floor. “It’s about agility, coordination. Let’s go for thirty seconds. Go.”
He began, his movements clumsy and earthbound next to her light grace. The padding in the shorts felt obscene with each hop. At twenty seconds, he was winded, his calves burning.
“Stop.” Her voice was flat. She made a note. “Low anaerobic capacity. Poor rhythm. Next. Bodyweight glute bridges. Isolate the posterior chain.”
He lay on his back, knees bent, and pushed his hips toward the ceiling. The compression top rode up. The mirrors showed the pale strip of his exposed stomach, the fabric straining.
“Higher. Squeeze. You should feel it in your glutes, not your lower back.” She nudged his knee with her toe. “There’s no engagement. It’s like pushing with wet spaghetti.”
After ten reps, she told him to stop. Another note.
“Now, let’s check hip mobility and core stability. Bird-dogs.” She got on all fours, simultaneously extending her right arm and left leg, her body forming a perfect, steady line. “You try. Keep your spine neutral. Don’t sag.”
Alex got down. The floor was cool through the thin shorts’ padding. He lifted his arm, his leg. He wobbled violently, his core quivering. He couldn’t hold it. He collapsed.
Martha watched, her pen hovering. She didn’t speak.
The next half-hour was a cascade of similar, deceptively simple movements. Pilates-style leg lifts from a side-lying position. Mini-band walks that made his outer thighs scream. A “toning” sequence with three-pound pink dumbbells involving tiny, precise arm circles. His body shook with the effort. Sweat darkened the back of his compression top, making it stick to his skin.
Each exercise felt subtly, undeniably feminine. They weren’t about building raw power. They were about shaping, carving, isolating small muscles. They were the workouts from the sidebar of a women’s magazine. He failed every benchmark she set.
Finally, she tapped her clipboard with the pen. The sound echoed. He was panting, slumped on the floor, a cramp knitting his side.
“Your functional strength is below what I’d expect from a sedentary woman,” she stated, no malice, just data. “Your coordination is poor. Your proprioception—your sense of your body in space—is practically non-existent. You have the mobility of a rusted hinge.”
He stared at the sweaty outline of his knees on the gray floor.
“I design programs for people who want to improve,” she continued, sighing as if burdened by a great weight. “People with a spark. You? You’re not just weak. You’re inert. There’s nothing here to work with. It would be a waste of my time and Steph’s money.”
The words were a physical blow. A waste. He saw Steph’s face, the disappointed tilt of her head when he told her it was over. He saw the silent apartment, the final, absolute withdrawal of the last person who was supposed to care.
“Please.” The word scraped out of him. He was still on the floor, looking up at her formidable silhouette against the lights. “I’ll do anything. I’ll work harder. Just… don’t stop.”
Martha looked down, her expression unreadable. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
She let the silence stretch, the hum of the gym absorbing his desperation. “There is one path. It’s not a strength program. It’s a… recalibration. A strict, foundational regime. It’s designed for complete beginners with poor physiques to create a lean, manageable frame. It focuses on high-repetition, low-weight toning. Isometric holds. Core restructuring. It’s the program I use for women who want to get slim and trim, not bulky. It is meticulous. It is unrelenting.”
Alex’s heart pounded against the compressive fabric. Slim and trim. The language was a barefaced admission. There was no mistaking it now.
“I’ll do it,” he whispered.
“It’s coupled with a specific nutritional plan,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “A plant-based, anti-inflammatory protocol. Low-calorie, high-nutrient. To reduce bulk and promote a lighter, less aggressive physicality. You would follow it without deviation. Every meal. Every snack.”
A vegan diet. He thought of steak, of cheese, of the comforting weight of a real meal. His stomach growled, empty and traitorous.
“Steph has the details. She’s already approved it. She’ll be handling the groceries.” Martha’s message was clear: this was a united front. His wife was the warden of this new, lighter cage. “This is your only option. Do you accept?”
He had knelt in this room days ago. That was theory. This was the practical application. The slow, systematic replacement of everything he was.
“I accept,” he said, his voice hollow.
Martha gave a single, sharp nod. “Your first real session is Wednesday. The same time. I’ll send the workout and the meal plan to Steph now.” She turned and walked back toward her office, her squeaking footsteps fading.
Alex slowly pushed himself up. His body ached in new, deep places. In the mirror, his face was flushed and gleaming with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. The black outfit was darkened in patches, clinging to a form that was now officially deemed worthy only of a woman’s slimming regime.
His phone buzzed in his gym bag. He pulled it out. A text from Steph, just received.
‘Martha says you did great agreeing to the new plan! So proud. I’ve got the diet list. We start dinner tonight. xo’
Attached was a photograph of a typed list. Kale. Spinach. Tofu. Quinoa. Chia Seeds. No dairy. No meat. No eggs. No oil. 1200 calories.
He stared at the screen, at the cheerful words over the brutal list. The momentum of his old life was gone. He was now in the gentle, crushing grip of the new one, propelled forward by their synchronized wills. The path was no longer dark. It was brightly lit, meticulously planned, and it led only toward becoming smaller.