Chapter 1: The Intervention
The spring in the old couch had given up the ghost years ago, and now it dug into Jack’s thigh with a familiar, dull persistence. The blue light of his phone cast a sickly glow on his face as his thumb scrolled, scroll, tap, scroll, tap. Another rejection email for the pile. He was beginning to think his degree in business management was just a very expensive, framed piece of paper designed to make him feel simultaneously overqualified and utterly useless.
The front door flew open with a bang that shook the small framed photo of a generic beach on the wall.
Jeannette stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and glassy. She wasn’t just upset; she was unraveling.
“What on earth is all the fuss?” Marie Abernathy emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a checkered dish towel, her brow furrowed in maternal concern.
Jeannette didn’t seem to hear her. She stared at the phone clutched in her white-knuckled hand as if it had bitten her. “Lydia,” she choked out. “She… her mum’s taken a bad turn. She has to go back. To Manchester. Today.”
“Oh, honey,” Marie said, stepping forward, her voice soft.
“The wedding,” Jeannette wailed, the word dissolving into a sob. “She can’t… she says she can’t afford the flight back at the end of the year. She can’t be my maid of honor.”
The title hung in the air, heavy and tragic. Jack lowered his phone, the job search forgotten for a moment. He felt a pang of genuine sympathy for his sister. He knew she and Lydia had been planning the bridesmaid dresses for months.
Marie guided a weeping Jeannette to the defeated couch, the springs groaning in protest under the new weight. She sat between her children, one arm around her daughter, the other patting Jack’s knee absently. “It’s awful, sweetheart. Just awful. But we’ll figure it out. The important thing is that Lydia’s mother is cared for.”
“I know, I know that,” Jeannette sniffled, leaning into their mom. “But it’s my wedding. And now there’s a… a maid-of-honor-shaped hole in it.”
The back door slid open and shut, and Aunt Carol breezed in, a reusable grocery bag hanging from the crook of her arm. “What’s all the gloom? I could feel the vibes from the driveway.” She stopped, taking in the scene: the tear-streaked bride, the comforting mother, the bewildered brother. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, narrowed. “Oh dear. Trouble in paradise?”
“Lydia’s gone back to the UK. For good,” Marie summarized quietly.
Carol’s face shifted from curiosity to calculated sympathy. “Oh, my poor girl.” She dropped the bag and came over, kneeling in front of Jeannette. “What a blow.”
“What am I going to do?” Jeannette whispered.
A silence settled over the room, thick and full of unspoken thoughts. Jack watched the exchange, feeling like an audience member at a play he hadn’t bought a ticket for. Then he saw it. The look. His mother and his aunt exchanged a glance that lasted a fraction of a second too long. A knowing, almost electric flicker of eye contact.
Carol’s gaze slowly pivoted from Jeannette to Jack. Her head tilted. A small, strange smile touched her lips.
“What?” Jack said, his guard going up.
“Jack,” Carol said, her voice dripping with sudden, inspired warmth.
“No,” he said immediately.
“You didn’t even hear the idea,” Jeannette said, lifting her head from their mother’s shoulder. A spark of her usual self cutting through the tears.
“I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. It’s the same way she looked at that vintage vase before she ‘shabby-chic’d’ it with chalk paint.”
“Jack,” Marie said, her tone shifting from comfort to negotiation. “Just listen.”
Carol placed a hand on his knee. “Think about it. You’re at a loose end. You’re family. You love your sister. Who better to stand by her side?”
The meaning of her words crashed into him a full three seconds after she’d finished speaking. “Stand by her… you cannot be serious. You want me to be the maid of honor?”
Jeannette’s voice gaining strength, latching onto the lifeline her aunt had thrown. “It’s a thing now. It’s very modern.”
Jack stared at them, his brain short-circuiting. “I’m not modern. I’m unemployed. There’s a difference.”
“It would mean the world to me, Jack,” Jeannette said, her eyes welling up again on command. Or maybe it was genuine. With her, it was always hard to tell. “You’d be saving my wedding.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “And what about the dress? You expect me to wear some… some lavender taffeta nightmare?”
"Well its not lavender. It'll be a maroon color. And yes. Its already paid for, we just need to probably have it fitted to your size. Which honestly is about the same as Lydia. Minus the chest and hips. But there's padding for that" Jeannette mentioned.
Jack stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. The sheer practicality of it was insane. "Padding," he repeated flatly. "You've already thought about the padding."
"It's not just about the dress, Jack," Marie cut in, her voice taking on that soothing, logical tone she used when trying to talk him into a dentist appointment. "Think of what it would mean to your sister. On her big day. Having her big brother right there beside her. It's a beautiful gesture."
"A beautiful gesture that involves me in a maroon dress and heels," he shot back, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Mom, come on. Be real for one second."
"Who's more real than family?" Carol chimed in, not missing a beat. She stood up and moved toward the kitchen. "This is about loyalty. About being there when you're needed, not when it's convenient." She began clattering mugs, the sound sharp and domestic. "Tea, anyone? I'm making tea."
Jack felt the walls of the argument closing in. The emotional plea was a soft, suffocating blanket.
"Jeannette, I'd do anything for you, you know that," he said, turning to his sister, trying to appeal to her directly. "But this? There's gotta be someone else. What about… what about Chloe from your work?"
"Chloe?" Jeannette's tears had vanished, replaced by a look of pure theatrical offense. "Jack, she uses a different vocal fry every week and once told me my color scheme was 'derivative'. I am not handing her a microphone at my rehearsal dinner. I need you. I need someone I can trust."
The trust card. He felt it land, a direct hit.
Carol returned from the kitchen, carrying two mugs. She handed one to Marie and then placed the other, steaming and dark, on the coffee table in front of Jack. "Here. Chamomile. Settle your nerves." She gave him a significant look. "It's not just about feelings, Jack. There's a practical side. The maid of honor gets a plus-one. A really nice one. We're talking a guaranteed seat at the table with all of Jeannette's single friends from college."
He glanced at the tea, then back at her. "So now you're bribing me with blind dates?"
"I'm illustrating the perks," Carol corrected smoothly. "And let's talk about the financial aspect. The role comes with a… let's call it a stipend. For the bachelorette party planning, of course."
Jack’s interest, against his will, was piqued. His bank account was a ghost town. "A stipend?"
"Five hundred dollars," Jeannette said quickly, leaning forward. "Cash. For all the… logistical stuff."
Five hundred dollars was three weeks of groceries. It was his car insurance payment. It was a buffer against the terrifying silence of his empty inbox. He could feel the principles he was clinging to starting to feel a lot like luxuries he could no longer afford.
He picked up the mug, the heat seeping into his hands. He took a sip. The tea was sweeter than he expected, with a faint, almost floral undertone that wasn't quite chamomile. He drank it anyway.
"And what about Dad?" Jack asked, a last, desperate attempt to find an ally. "What's he going to say when he sees his son walking down the aisle in a dress?"
A heavy silence fell. Marie looked down at her lap. Jeannette bit her lip.
"Your father," Marie said quietly, "will understand that we do unconventional things for the people we love."
It was the gentlest guilt trip he had ever experienced, and somehow that made it worse. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact, and his potential refusal would be the thing that broke the narrative. He'd be the one who didn't understand. The one who wasn't willing to be unconventional for love.
He looked at their faces—his mother's hopeful anxiety, his sister's manic desperation, his aunt's calm, unshakeable certainty. The three of them, a united front. The tea felt warm in his stomach, a false sense of calm spreading through him.
He set the empty mug down with a definitive click.
"Fine," he said, the word tasting like defeat and that strange, floral honey. "Fine. I'll do it."
Jeannette launched herself at him, wrapping him in a tight, perfumed hug. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You won't regret it, I promise!"
Over her shoulder, Jack saw Aunt Carol smile, a slow, satisfied smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She picked up his empty mug. "I'll just go wash this out," she said, her voice light. "We have so much to plan."
Jack just sat there, trapped in his sister's embrace, the unfamiliar warmth in his gut already beginning to feel like a cage.
The celebration of his surrender was immediate and practical. Jeannette released him, pulling out her phone with a frenetic energy, her tears a distant memory. "Okay. Okay. First things first. We need to get you sized. Like, properly sized. For everything."
Aunt Carol nodded, pulling a small notebook and pen from her purse as if she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. "The foundation garments are the most important part. It’s all about the silhouette. We’ll hit the specialty shops tomorrow. Breast forms, first and foremost. We’ll need a good B-cup, I think. Something natural."
"Definitely a B," Marie agreed, her voice taking on a considering tone. "A C might be too much for the dress's neckline. We don't want to look tacky."
Jack blinked, the warm feeling in his stomach curdling slightly. "Breast forms?"
"And hip pads," Carol continued, scribbling. "To give you that curve. The dress is cut for a woman's hips, not a boy's straight lines. And a butt pad, just a little one, for lift and shape."
"Oh but Lydia had a big ass, and hips though. We might want to keep a similar size to reduce resizing." Jeannette added.
The list was growing in his mind, a bizarre shopping list for a body that wasn't his. "Hip and butt pads?"
"And of course, the gaff," Carol said, not looking up from her notes.
Marie leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Or perhaps one of those more modern, all-in-one panty systems with the built-in… you know. The fake vagina. To smooth everything out. For the lingerie fittings, especially. You’ll need something seamless."
The room seemed to tilt. The floral aftertaste from the tea rose in the back of his throat. He stared at his mother, then his aunt, their faces utterly serious, two generals planning a campaign. "A fake vagina?" The words felt foreign and ridiculous in his mouth. "Why do I need all of that? And why do I need it now? I'm only wearing it on the wedding day. Aren't I?"
Two pairs of eyes snapped to him, identical expressions of patronizing amusement on their faces. It was his mother who spoke first, her voice dripping with a gentle, condescending logic that brooked no argument.
"Oh, honey," she said, shaking her head slightly.
Aunt Carol finished the thought, their tandem act seamless. "There's the practice walks. You need to learn to move in the heels and the shapewear. Then the dress fitting—the first of several. Then the multiple get-togethers with the entire bridesmaids squad. You have to meet them, bond with them. As one of the girls."
Jeannette chimed in, counting on her fingers. "There's the actual rehearsal, the bachelorette party—which you're planning, remember—and several lingerie fittings for the trousseau. We have to make sure everything lays perfectly under the dress. This isn't a one-day costume, Jack. This is a role. You have to live it for the next few months to be convincing."
Months.
The word landed like a physical blow. The warm, sedative feeling in his stomach was now a hot, trapped panic. It wasn't a dress for a day. It was a new skin for a season. He looked at their eager, determined faces, a trinity of expectation, and felt the walls of his old life crumbling away, replaced by the outline of a maroon dress and the phantom weight of breast forms he hadn't even tried on yet. The cage, he realized, wasn't just in the room. It was the entire foreseeable future.
It was the entire foreseeable future.
"I think you're right, Jeannette. Lydia did have more junk in the trunk. We're gonna need to find thicker padding with the fake vagina," their mother said as she was flipping the notebook with all of their sizing numbers.
Their aunt then leaned in to look at the notebook too, and mentioned, "Lydia also has C-cups, so should we actually stay with that, Jeannette? I know we said B-cups. But the resizing is a pain."
"True," Jeannette mused, tapping her chin. "The dress is already cut for a C. It might be simpler. Jack? What do you think? B or C?"
The question hung in the air, absurd and terrifying. They were asking him to choose his new cup size with the same casual consideration they'd give to choosing a brand of paper towels. The floral tea in his stomach churned, a warm, insistent tide. He could feel a faint, unfamiliar tightness in his chest, a subtle ache that hadn't been there before.
"Uh," was all he managed. His voice sounded thin.
"Let's go with the C," Carol decided, making a firm note in the book. "Better to match the original architecture of the garment. We can always use a minimizer bra if it's too much."
The architecture of the garment. He was being retrofitted.
"Okay, great!" Jeannette clapped her hands, a conductor satisfied with the orchestra's tuning. "So, C-cup breast forms, substantial hip and butt padding, and the deluxe gaff with the integrated... you know. For a seamless silhouette." She didn't even blush.
Jack felt a bead of sweat trace a path down his temple. The single lamp in the room seemed to be getting brighter, its glow pressing in on him. The faint, musty scent of the old books on the shelf behind him was suddenly overpowering, mixed with the cloying sweetness of Jeannette's perfume and the sharp, clean smell of Carol's hand sanitizer. It was too much. The details were too specific, too clinical. They were building a woman out of spare parts, and he was the mannequin.
"Mom," he whispered, but his voice was lost under the rustle of Carol's notebook pages.
"And we'll need to start on the etiquette immediately," Carol continued, not looking up. "The walk. The posture. How you sit in a tight dress. You can't just sprawl, Jack. It's undignified."
"How I sit?" he repeated, the words a dry croak.
"Yes, dear. Knees together, angled to the side. It's graceful. We'll practice after we get the shapewear."
The walls were definitely closer. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was a hammer striking an anvil inside his skull. Tick. How you sit. Tock. Fake vagina. Tick. C-cup. Tock. Five hundred dollars.
The warmth in his gut spread, a strange, liquid heat that seemed to soften everything it touched. His shoulders felt less tense, but it was a false relaxation, a chemical surrender. The panic was still there, screaming, but it was muffled, like a radio playing in another room. He looked at his hands in his lap. They seemed… pliant.
"Jack? You're being very quiet." His mother's voice was laced with a concern that felt a million miles away.
He opened his mouth to protest, to call the whole thing off, to run from the room and the hip pads and the deluxe gaff. But what came out was a soft, "Okay."
The word was wrong. It was too high. It had a breathy quality that wasn't his.
Jeannette beamed. "See? He's coming around! He's getting into the spirit!"
Carol finally looked up from her notes, her eyes sharp and appraising. She studied him—the slight slump of his shoulders, the distant look in his eyes, the unnatural placidity of his expression. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"He is," she said, her voice a purr of satisfaction. "He really is."
The planning session dissolved into a whirlwind of measurements and online shopping. Jeannette produced a fabric tape measure from her purse with a magician’s flourish, and before Jack could protest, Carol was wrapping it around his chest, his waist, the bony jut of his hips.
“Breathe out,” Carol instructed, her fingers cold against his t-shirt. He exhaled, and the tape tightened. “Thirty-eight inches. See? A perfect 38C foundation. It’s meant to be.”
The number echoed in his head. It was just a number, but it felt like a verdict.
His mom returned from the kitchen with a fresh mug, this one filled with strong, sweet coffee. “For the energy,” she said, pressing it into his hands. “It’s going to be a long night.”
He drank it without thinking, the bitterness cut by a familiar, floral sweetness he was too distracted to place. The warm liquid seemed to amplify the strange, floaty feeling, muting the sharp edges of his panic into a dull, manageable hum.
“Okay, stand up straight,” Jeannette commanded, her phone now in camera mode. “I need a ‘before’ picture for the stylist.”
“No,” Jack said, the word lacking force. He felt heavy, pliable.
“Jack, don’t be difficult. It’s for reference.” The flash went off, blinding him momentarily. “Now, walk for me. Just to the fireplace and back. I need to see your natural gait.”
He took a few steps, feeling suddenly clumsy and enormous in the cozy living room. His shoulders hunched instinctively.
“No, no, no,” Carol tutted, stepping in front of him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing them down and back. “Posture. Think of a string pulling the crown of your head toward the ceiling. Shoulders back, down. Chest… well, soon to be chest, forward.”
He tried to adjust, his body resisting the unfamiliar alignment. The ache in his pectorals seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
“And the walk,” Jeannette added, critiquing from the couch. “You’re lumbering. It’s all in the hips. You need to place one foot in front of the other, more in a line. Feel the sway.”
“I don’t want to sway,” he mumbled, but he tried, his movements stiff and unnatural, like a marionette with tangled strings.
"It’ll come,” Carol said, her voice confident. “Muscle memory. We’ll practice every day.”
The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of soft invasions and subtle corrections. The initial shock wore off, replaced by a grinding, tedious reality. Jack felt like a project, a lump of clay being relentlessly sculpted.
Aunt Carol’s notebook was a terror. She measured everything. The circumference of his head (“for the veil,” she murmured). The length of his forearm from elbow to wrist. The distance between his nipples. He stood there, arms outstretched, while she called out numbers to Jeannette, who recorded them on her phone with the intensity of a lab technician.
“Okay, inner leg length. Shoes off, Jack,” Carol instructed.
He kicked off his sneakers, feeling the worn carpet rough against his socks.
“No, honey, the shoes stay on for this one,” Marie corrected gently from her armchair. “You need to know the inseam with the heels. It changes the entire line of the dress.”
Jeannette hurried over with a pair of her own pumps, a conservative black pair with a three-inch heel. “Try these. We’re probably the same shoe size.”
Jack squeezed his feet into them, the leather uncomfortably tight across the top. Standing was a precarious act. The world tilted forward.
“Good. Now stand straight,” Carol said, dropping to her knees with the tape measure. The cool metal end brushed against his ankle and traveled up the inside of his leg. He flinched. “Relax, Jack. It’s just measuring.” Her voice was flat, professional. The intimacy of the act was utterly clinical.
After the measurements came the etiquette. It started with sitting.
“Not like that,” Jeannette said sharply as he collapsed onto the couch. “You’ll ruin the line of the dress. And you’ll show… everything.”
Carol demonstrated, perching on the edge of the armchair. She smoothed her skirt under her with one hand, a fluid, practiced motion. Then she lowered herself, back straight, keeping her knees tightly together before swinging them gracefully to the side. Her ankles crossed. She looked poised, contained.
“Your turn,” she said.
Jack tried. He felt like a robot with rusty joints. He sat too hard, his knees splayed apart. The heels made balance a nightmare.
“Again,” Carol said, her voice losing its warmth.
He stood up, the shoes pinching. Smoothed his jeans, which felt ridiculous. Lowered himself. Knees together. Swing to the side. He almost toppled over.
“You have to engage your core,” Marie offered helpfully from the kitchen, where she was starting dinner. “It’s all about the core muscles.”
His core muscles were currently dedicated to not falling off the couch. He tried again. And again. The simple act of sitting became a complex gymnastics routine. Each failure was met with a sigh from Jeannette or a quiet correction from Carol.
Then, walking. The ‘practice walks’ were a special kind of humiliation. From the front door to the fireplace. Ten paces.
“Heels first, then toe,” Carol instructed, walking alongside him. “Not flat-footed. Think light. Graceful.”
His strides were too long, his body a forward-plunging weight. He stomped in the borrowed pumps.
“Shorter steps! And for God’s sake, Jack, swing your hips. Don’t just lumber. It’s a sway, not a shuffle.”
“I don’t know how to swing my hips,” he muttered, his face hot.
“Yes, you do. Everyone’s hips move when they walk. You just have to exaggerate it. Think of a metronome.” She placed her hands on his hips, her grip firm, and physically moved them for him in a shallow, side-to-side rhythm. “Feel that? Now, walk.”
Carol’s command was firm, but her eyes were calculating as she scrutinized his movements. His feet stumbled once again, the borrowed heels feeling like stilts.
“And there’s the problem,” their mother said, stepping back into the room with a tape measure in her hand. She didn’t look surprised but rather resigned, her face reflecting the weight of their collective project. “Ladies, looks like we have a problem,” she said, holding up the tape measure. “He’s either going to need a steel-boned corset, or we starve him to get him to lose weight.”
Jeannette looked confused, her eyes darting between her brother and the tape measure. “Mom, what do you mean?”
Marie sighed, shaking her head. “His waist measurement is the same as his chest."
"And im very proud of that. Thank you. I've been doing a lot of work outs" Jack said with pride.
"I lift weights twice a week, and I run every other day. It's not like I'm out of shape."
His mother nodded, her expression a mix of sympathy and determination. "Oh, honey, you're in great shape for a guy. But this isn't about being in shape; it's about fitting the dress. The dress is made for a woman's proportions, and you're built... differently." Her eyes flicked over him, assessing. "You're too broad in the shoulders and waist for the alterations to be minimal. We'll have to take in at least three inches, possibly four, to get it to fit right."
There was a heavy silence as the words sank in. Jack looked down at his own body, as if seeing it for the first time. He felt a sudden, crushing sense of inadequacy.
He’d never been thin, had always been on the stocky side, but he’d never felt like a problem to be solved before. He was a fixer-upper, a project in need of a total overhaul. The reality of it settled over him like a shroud.
"So, what do we do?" Jeannette asked, her voice apologetic, as if she couldn't believe she was asking it.
"We diet," Carol said, her voice brisk. "We exercise. We cut back on carbs and up your water intake. And we start today."
“But I eat healthily, Aunt Carol,” Jack protested, his voice hoarse.
"Im aware of the darling. But we need to get that shape down. Were gonna have to design a feminine workout, and stretch routine, as well as an allotted food to eat. Might as well learn to split too. Splits usually help wide hips a bit. It might help" Carol gestured to Jeannette who nodded in agreement. "I'll find a good meal plan and workout routine for you. We will go shopping tomorrow morning for the gaff, the breast forms, and some other items"
Jack felt a wave of dizziness. "Tomorrow? But… I have a job interview."
Carol waved a hand dismissively. "You can reschedule."
"I can't just reschedule a job interview, Aunt Carol. It's not that simple."
Carol's smile thinned. "It is when you're part of the team, Jack. We need you to be fully committed to this. Here... let me. She said as she made her way to his unlocked laptop, where he input his info for the interview. She doesn't reschedule, she flat out canceled it.
"Now. Time for some food. But we'll give Jack a reduced amount to start him off. Then you'll want to get some sleep. We'll order the cloths online, but we'll still need breast forms, a hip, but and vagina set, a corset, and lingerie. Theres a crossdressing store in the midtown area. We'll head there in the am first thing." Carol turned to her niece, "You'll come with me. We need to get something for the rehearsal dinner. Plus, I want to show Jack the full range of options. We're going to need a few outfits for the different events.” She looked at her watch. “Goodness, it’s getting late. Let’s have an early night. We have a big day tomorrow.”
Jeannette nodded, looking as worn out as Jack felt. His mind was a whirlwind of information, his body aching from the awkward poses and the endless measurements.
Marie walked over and gave him a hug. “You’ll do great, honey." Handing him a half piece of chicken breast, half scoop of corn and green beens.
"This is your dinner. You'll get the rest after the shopping tomorrow. We need to get you started on the diet. It will be hard at first, but you’ll see progress soon. Believe me, I’ve helped many ladies get into shape."
Jack looked down at the plate, his stomach growling in protest. He’d been looking forward to dinner all day, had been hanging on to it as a reward for the job rejection emails. Now it was a punishment.
"This isn't enough to fill a mouse," he grumbled, but he took it, his hands wrapping around the edges of the plate.
The room was quiet, the ticking of the clock the only sound. The smell of dinner wafted through the air, and Jack’s stomach growled again, louder this time.
“You said it yourself, Jack,” Carol replied, not looking up from her notebook. “You need to lose some weight. We can’t have you busting out of a size ten dress. And trust me, it’s much easier to take a dress in than to let it out. This is all about precision, Jack. You’re getting fitted for a very expensive, very special gown.
And you’re going to look amazing in it. We’ll make sure of that.”
Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping. He took a seat on the couch, the half-plate of food balanced precariously on his knees. He picked at the chicken with his fork, his appetite waning with each passing moment. The low, warm light of the single lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder, each tick a mocking reminder of the slow passage of time.
His mother sat down beside him, her hand resting lightly on his back. “You’ll do great, Jack. I know you can do this."
They ate dinner, and Jack was allowed to head to his room.
His mother followed him, and instead of his normal basketball shorts and no shirt style of pajamas, she tossed him one of her sets. Its a pink and purple set. A pink top, and pink and purple booty style shorts. "Might as well get started Jack. dont even think about those basketball shorts. And underwear is fine. Just for tonight. We'll get you some proper panties at that crossdressing store." She handed him the pajamas and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Jack stared at the pink and purple set in his hands. It was soft, the fabric smooth and comfortable. He looked down at his own body, the same body that had been measured, weighed, and found wanting. He felt an unfamiliar chill, a sudden, stark awareness of his own skin.
He changed quickly, the pajamas fitting surprisingly well. The shorts were a little tight across his hips, but they were comfortable. He slid under the covers, the bed cool against his skin. He missed his basketball shorts, missed the familiar feeling of his own clothes.