It's Easier for Women (Patreon)

Oh, not again… him too. You think I don’t notice you staring at my cleavage? I didn’t even look straight at you — just shifted my eyes to the side and caught your gaze right at the moment you were trying to sneak another look at my neckline.

My name is Ashley. A year ago, exactly, my name was Tom. Yeah, that Tom — the one who kept whining that being a woman is like a bonus level in life. That everything comes easy to us, that guys have to bust their asses while all we need is some mascara and a short skirt. I used to say that a lot. Way too much. Especially during arguments.

The last of those arguments happened with Hannah — a weird girl with the same pizza preferences as me and a sinister little smirk when I dropped my signature line:

— Look, if I were a chick, life would be so much easier. Guys would wanna marry me, I'd get jobs handed to me, and they'd pay for me in restaurants.

Hannah just nodded.

— Uh-huh, alright, Tom. Deal.

Back then, I had no idea what her "deal" meant, and I didn’t ask — figured it was just some dumb joke. But it wasn’t. The next morning, I woke up with these massive weights on my chest that made sleeping on my stomach a pain in the ass and eventually just started to piss me off.

Yeah, I get it — tits are great. And I’ve got a cute face now, too. And considering my sexuality also shifted, those extra perks came in pretty handy. At least, that’s what I thought once I got my shit together and realized that in this version of reality, I had always been a girl. This girl, with this fiery red mane, massive tits, and a fat ass. Ashley. Same last name, same parents. Almost nothing changed — even my job as a business analyst — except now I was “the redhead from fourth,” not “Tom with the headphones.” Same team, same projects, but ever since I walked in with this new body, everything felt just a bit... off.

Now, when I walk into a meeting room, conversations cut off mid-sentence. People smile at me a little wider than they should. Sometimes coworkers — especially Brad — offer to help me with my laptop, even though I can carry it one-handed. And during planning meetings, no matter how professional my tone, their eyes go to my cleavage first — only then to the charts.

At first, it felt flattering. Then it started to piss me off.

Not like I just got used to this life overnight. Hell no. At first, it was all new — more like an experiment, a case study. I was excited that with this body came automatic knowledge — how to do makeup, how to walk in heels, all that stuff. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. Even the evenings I spent with my parents during this time didn’t feel weird — I didn’t clearly remember growing up with them as a girl, but the feelings, the nostalgia — it was all there.

But… yeah. When all that novelty wore off and regular life kicked in, it wasn’t just my coworkers who started getting on my nerves.

It was the whole damn idea of what people expected from me that really started to piss me off.

The way I have to keep smiling all the damn time. Even if I’ve got PMS, even if I slept three hours. The way I have to look — because the moment I show up without makeup, someone asks if I’m sick. The way I’m supposed to be cute, easygoing, but never — too smart, too sharp, too loud.

— You’re so beautiful when you’re angry, — Kevin from marketing said to me once. I almost smacked him across the forehead with my damn mouse. It pissed me off so bad I nearly cried.

I could’ve ignored it, but it was everywhere, all the fucking time. And guys… This one’s no exception. Everything was fine up until that first date. He didn’t send a dick pic right away, he... acted like a gentleman. Mark. We met through an app, talked for a couple of weeks. Smart messages, interest in my analyst work, even jokes about our shared love of pineapple on pizza — all that. We agreed to grab a coffee in this cute garden café.

Now I’m sitting across from him at the table, surrounded by greenery. My dark blue dress sets off the red in my hair and my freckles — I know that. I also know the neckline — deep as hell, damn it — catches sunlight... and more. I shouldn’t have worn this dress. I rested my chin on my hand, trying to keep a soft half-smile, but inside I was boiling. My glass of orange juice was already half-empty. His gaze… it slipped down again.

— So yeah, — Mark took a sip of his latte, trying to get back on track, — you said the integration project got stuck because of the legacy code? We had something similar at our startup...

I nodded, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek, trying to speak steadily, like in a work meeting, all while realizing this date was going south.

— Yeah, classic. The dev team’s digging in, saying rewriting it would take months, and the business side wants the feature done yesterday. — I paused, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to keep his attention at face level. — So I’m stuck finding compromises, outlining risks...

He nodded, but his eyes... they twitched again. Not down this time, but... sort of over my face. At my hair? My tits? Who knows. But that feeling — like you’re being scanned, like they’re sizing up the packaging instead of the contents — I knew it too damn well. A year ago, I probably would've looked the same way. The thought burned.

— I get it, — said Mark, and his hand casually rested on mine on the table. The touch was warm, but... sudden. Uninvited. I subtly pulled my hand back, like I was adjusting a napkin. — Must be tough managing that much work, right? You’re, if I understood... I mean, you’re the lead analyst on the project?

— Yeah, — I replied curtly, feeling the irritation rising in my throat. — Lead analyst. And yeah, it’s a lot. But I’m handling it.

— Of course, of course! — he smiled quickly, too wide. — It’s just... impressive. A girl, such a complex project... and so much volume. You’re such a smart one!

I don’t know what pissed me off more in that moment. Whether it was yet another reminder that I’m a girl and also a “smart one,” because, fuck, I’m doing the same work I did before — but back then I was never “the smart one,” more like “Hey, Tom, deadlines are coming and you’re lagging again.” Or maybe it was the way he said “volume,” when it felt like his eyes were once again flicking to my tits, pretending he was talking about the project.

I felt a shiver crawl down my back — not from fear, but from anger. Like I’d been a neatly wrapped product all this time, and now he was judging not the contents, but the packaging. “Volume” — oh, there's your double meaning. Or was it just in my head? I don’t even know anymore. But that feeling... it came back again.

— Listen, Mark, — I looked at him calmly, almost softly. — Do you say stuff like that often? About “volume” and “smart girls”?

He blinked.

— What?.. I just… I mean, you really are impressive. That’s what I meant.

— Impressive, — I repeated. — Because I do my job. Not because I’ve got D-cup tits?

He flushed red, pressing his lips together.

— I didn’t... Ashley, that’s not true. I really... I think you’re interesting. I genuinely wanted to get to know you.

I smirked, leaning back against the woven chair.

— Get to know me? What have you learned? That I’m a lead analyst? That I like pineapple on pizza? And that I’ve got “volume”?

He tried to object:

— Ashley, no! I just... you’re really attractive, and...

— Attractive? — I cut him off, my voice trembling with restrained fury. — Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious! I’m well aware! I’ve been dragging this “attractive” burden around for a whole year! — I stood up abruptly, the chair groaned behind me. My breasts bounced under the fabric of the dress, and I caught his reflexive glance downward. Again! Goddamn it, again!

I leaned over the table, placing both hands on it, feeling the neckline drop even lower, the heavy tits pulling at my skin in that familiar, unpleasant way.

— Wanna grab them, huh? — my voice was low, almost a whisper, but icy and biting.

Mark choked on his latte. Drops of coffee hit the tablecloth.

— What?! No! I... Ashley, it’s not... — he gasped, his face burning red. His eyes darted — from my face, to my breasts, to the side, like he was trying to escape.

— Don’t lie, — I bit my lip, feeling goosebumps from the mix of rage and that strange humiliation. ‘Why the hell are my nipples hard? This is anger, not...’ — Your eyes were stuck to them. From the very start. “Volume,” “smart girl”... — I mimicked him, straightening sharply. My breasts bounced painfully, and I saw his pupils dilate. Reflex. Animal instinct. — You know what’s the worst part?

He said nothing, clenching his napkin in his fist.

— That I get you. Because a year ago, I would’ve looked the same way. Would’ve thought: “Damn, nice tits! I wanna touch ’em!” — I snorted, grabbing my purse. The silk of the dress slid across my skin, reminding me of every inch of this “bonus.” — And you know what I realized just now? That it’s not a compliment. It’s... degrading. Like my brain, my experience, all of me — is just an add-on to a pair of fat sacks on my chest!

I stepped back, sunlight flashing in my red hair. He was still sitting there, paralyzed, mouth half-open.

— Easy life? — I laughed bitterly, turning toward the exit. — Try waking up with a sore back from these “gifts.” Try running to the office while they’re smacking into your ribs. Try having every other asshole judge your “curves” instead of your words. — I threw one last glance over my shoulder, catching his frozen, still-scanning gaze on my waist, my hips... Yeah, look, look all you want. Like I’m on sale. — Thanks, Mark. You’re... a living reminder. Of the dumbass I used to be. And just how unbearable it is to be the “lucky owner.”

I walked away without looking back. My heels thudded dully against the tiles, and the weight of my tits pulled me forward, making me hunch. Somewhere behind me, I heard his stunned breath and a quiet “crazy bitch” he muttered. It hit like a slap. I almost stopped. Almost.

But instead, I just straightened my back, adjusted the strap of my bag, and kept walking — stone-faced, with bitterness on my tongue.