Hello! As surprising as it may be, I haven't seen a lot of Wendyl fanfics flooding the site as I had originally expected after watching the episode that dealt with him as a character. Although Wendy only became this new persona to, to put it simply, piss off Cartman, I figured I'd explore an alternate universe where Wendy had actually transitioned into Wendyl in her teenage years. It's only two chapters long but I feel as though I've included enough information between both chapters to satisfy those who longed for a transgender Wendy fanfic for as long as I have. Enjoy!
The evening rays of the sun shone through what it could of the somewhat covered window, peaking through the minuscule gaps in the indigo curtains that had been lazily dragged across the transparent pane. The beads of light landed gracefully onto the delicate face of Wendy Testaburger, her cerulean eyes fluttering open and awakening for the third time that day. She soon became aware of her surroundings, craning her head to the left to see Stan Marsh sprawled out along the burgundy comforter with his dozing head buried into his girlfriend's left shoulder and his muscular arms wrapped around her thin form, snuggling into her like that of a child to a teddy bear. Meanwhile, her slender arms were rendered immobile due to Stan's tenacious hold. She had no choice but to lay still until he too was awoken from his nap by the soft daylight peaking through. Hence, the young woman had been left alone with her thoughts.
She looked around the particularly dishevelled bedroom that she had learned to love and cherish as a second home. The walls were covered in an array of posters ranging from the Denver Broncos to multiple different bands the noirette had never even heard of before seeing them hanging throughout the room. Another indication of the sporty individual's love of music was the spruce acoustic guitar leaning against his laundry basket. Beside this was a much preferred electric guitar which was a striking shade of blue. She had never taken a liking to her boyfriend's choice in music. Stan enjoyed rock and country, whereas Wendy fancied a more classical tune. Opposites attract, she supposed.
Next, her iridescent eyes landed on the plush bed of the ever-so-loved family mutt, Sparky. He wasn't too old of a dog, approximately the age of eight. Regardless, the once soft, chestnut fur surrounding his merry face had begun to fade into a dusty grey. Stan loved that slobbering canine to the moon and back, which ultimately led to Wendy herself caring deeply for the hound. The sides of her mouth twitched into a sleepy smile as she watched the steady rise and fall of Sparky's chest as he took deep, steady breaths, indicating his sleep was a rather successful one indeed.
Wendy then directed her gaze towards the large cork board placed adjacent to the cluttered desk. There wasn't an empty space to be found on it as it was bound with many different pictures placed haphazardly across the surface. The noirette focused on each image, the stretch of light in her favour as it gleamed directly onto the object of her newfound interest. The pictures mainly consisted of Stan's infamous foursome, each photograph capturing the personalities and traits of the lifelong friends flawlessly. Eric Cartman could be spotted sporting a wicked grin, which was usually accompanied by him finding whatever way possible to aggravate Kyle Broflovski. In that particular picture, his chubby hand was glued to said Jew's jaw, the other grasping, and probably pulling, the smaller male's auburn, curly hair. Kyle didn't look too impressed with Eric's stance, his hot-temper clearly seen rising in the deathly glare he was implementing towards the latter. Kenny McCormick was, of course, presenting the camera with a lewd hand gesture whilst sticking out his tongue and giving a flirtatious wink. As for Stan, a look of sheer boredom and frustration was evident on his face at the nonsense and fuckery his friends were pulling.
She then glanced around until she spotted the photos containing only Stan and Kyle. It was as clear as day that the two boys appeared much happier when it was just the two of them. In the majority of the images, Stan had his arm draped comfortably around the narrow shoulders of his best friend. They were both either grinning or making idiotic faces at the camera, which was rather shocking to say the least as the redhead was, more often than not, far from photogenic. Wendy stifled a laugh as she came upon another picture. Each boy had feigned a look of pure love on their faces as they gazed into each other's eyes whilst hugging it out, just as any other best friends would do.
The smile left her face as she came across the next series of images. They were of her. Some were of herself and Stan smiling widely at the camera, happy to be in one another's presence. Most, however, were pictures taken while Wendy wasn't looking. She skimmed over each one, grimacing at the sight. The noirette went over every detail of her body in each photograph; from her thin, elegant waist, to her long, jet-black hair. She was the epitome of femininity. Her facial features consisted of large, doe eyes, a button nose, plump, fuchsia lips, and high cheekbones. She was relatively tall for a woman her age, but nothing too drastic. Herself and Kyle were constantly comparing their heights, something they were both rather self-conscious about; Kyle openly, Wendy secretly. Kyle presumed she felt victorious over beating him for once at height rather than academics, but that was far from the truth. She wanted to tower over him, reaching her boyfriend's impressive height of six foot two. Of course, that wasn't the case, and she had begrudgingly accepted this over time.
Wendy had never felt comfortable with her body. She felt that she was too slender, too fragile, too ladylike. She wanted to appear the way she felt on the inside; powerful, courageous, independent, masculine. No one took her seriously when the first thing that they saw were braids and a fitted skirt. No one took any woman seriously, in her eyes. Her feminist nature was appalled by this fact. However, she didn't necessarily feel like a woman. At all, really. Upon reaching her pre-teens, she began questioning herself as to why she didn't feel the need to look or act like any of the other girls her age. They immediately began raiding boutiques that their mothers and older sisters went to, excited to finally be able to fit into the platform heels and pick up an over-priced handbag or two to match. Meanwhile, Wendy was more than pleased to lay in bed, decked out in her Doctor Who pyjama pants and a slightly oversized t-shirt with an oh-so-hilarious scientific pun printed along the top. She was aware that entering high school was the time that groups of friends usually tended to split, and eventually accepted that she was doomed to be left behind. The noirette then decided to spend her time hanging out with her boyfriend and his small group of friends, who she actually got along with surprisingly well, with similar interests and hobbies sparking plentiful conversations amongst the quintet. Alas, these days soon shrivelled into almost nothingness upon the re-arrival of Bebe Stevens.
The outsider knew in her heart that her best friend couldn't cope without her for too long. Lo and behold, she was correct. The pretty blonde came crawling back on her newly shaved, fake-tanned knees, using her best impression of a kicked feline to cause Wendy to roll her eyes so far that she did a complete one-eighty turn, causing a sudden change of heart and her to take her back under her wing. However, this didn't last too long. Wendy, who had previously been known as the leader of the two, somehow got roped into being the follower; something she outright detested.
Flash forward a few weeks and she was spending her weekends following Bebe around the mall like a lost puppy, her chewed-up fingernails painted some atrocious shade of pink, her luscious hair cascading gracefully along her well-defined face that was hardly recognisable due to the liquids, powders, and creams smeared across it. Her sickeningly moisturised hands were glued to the hem of her ruffled, thigh-high dress for fear it would rise up and the world would see her see-through, lace thongs that had been bought, with the help of the busty blonde, the weekend prior. It didn't help that each and every escapade was spent cursing whatever sinister designer invented peep-toe heels as she lolloped atop the unctuous tiles of the crowded mall.
To put it simply: Wendy Testaburger was unhappy.
She longed for the chance to just be herself, regardless of the fact that she didn't quite know who she was as a person just yet. All she knew was that, although Bebe was her other half and deserved to be given the world and then some, their desires in life were practically polar opposites.
Finally, she gazed over to the half-open wardrobe to the left of Stan's desk. Frustration filled her mind as she soon came to the realisation that the closet couldn't be seen clearly from her position on the double-bed. The noirette carefully removed Stan's arms from her skinny waist with ease, thankful that his grip had finally loosened enough to do so. She swung her thin legs over the edge of the messy bed and tipped them onto the carpeted floor beneath her. Standing with a stretch, she yawned audibly and made her way to the small clothes room. The young woman pushed the door open fully and stared in awe at the collection of garments the football player had stored away. The wardrobe was practically overflowing; Stan had always had the tendency to hoard things. Wendy knelt down and reached out her hands, hastily sorting through the pile of clothes thrown onto the floor to get a glimpse of each form of attire. There were jeans, hoodies, jumpers, shirts, jackets, and sweatpants. Not a single skirt nor dress to be found.
She smiled, biting her lip, before realising what was going through her mind and shaking her head to get rid of the impeding thoughts. "Stop," she mumbled. "This isn't you."
Regardless, she ignored herself. After picking up a few outfits she enjoyed seeing on Stan, she made her way to the full-body mirror next to his bedroom door and shamelessly began stripping down to only her A-cup bra and satin briefs. She scrutinised her body, mentally mocking and berating every aspect of the feminine form. On impulse, she tore each item off, shuffling over to Stan's underwear drawer and snagging the first pair of boxers she could find before shoving her feet through each hole and pulling them up to her hips. She returned to the mirror and looked at her reflection once again, snaking one arm across her bare chest and using the other to scoop her long hair into a tangled clump behind her head. Although the underwear was rather baggy, the noirette shrugged; it was an improvement. Wendy then chose a crimson jumper and a pair of mid-rise jeans, inhaling shaky breaths as she slowly clothed herself with the two garments. Once they were in place, she rose her head to gaze into the mirror for the third time and her heart shattered into a million pieces that, at the time, she felt could never be put back together.
They were far too big.
She looked idiotic. A mess. The jumper swallowed her tiny torso, making her resemble a floating head atop a sea of red. Somewhat comedic, somewhat disturbing. Either way, she hated it. The jeans were no better. They hung low on her hips, forcing her to hold onto the loops on the waistband. The cuffs had no choice but to be wrinkled together like an accordion at the girl's ankles. Either that, or be extended over her small feet and then some. Overall, Wendy wasn't pleased. Not one bit.
"What the hell are you doing?" a sleepy chuckle was heard from behind her, clearly amused at the sight.
Wendy squeezed her eyes shut, her face reddening as embarrassment consumed her. She refused to answer, hoping that if she stayed as still and silent as she was currently achieving, perhaps the quarterback would eventually drift off to a deep sleep once again. As luck would have it, that wasn't the case.
Eyes still closed, the noirette heard a tired sigh and the creak of the bed as the muscular individual released himself from the comfort of his cot in favour of entertaining himself with his eccentric girlfriend's antics. She felt his strong arms wrap around her again from behind. Never before in her life had she been more mortified than at that current moment. She was caught. There wasn't a single thought that raced through her head at the time that didn't end with him finding out about her semi-recent discovery.
She chanced her luck, muttering, "Y'know, some guys think it's hot when their girlfriend wears their clothes."
"Never said it wasn't hot," Stan responded playfully. "Just wanted to know why you're doing it. And you didn't really give me a proper answer, Babe."
"I did," Wendy said in feigned confidence. "I wanted you to tell me how sexy I am."
"Bullshit. The last time I called you that I almost looked like Kenny after he called Ky that."
She couldn't help but smirk, remembering the events that took place that morning clear as day. The flirty blonde gained a pretty noticeable black eye, as well as a busted lip, bruised jaw, and a recommendation from the enraged Jew to keep his distance for the next couple of days, or weeks, depending on the circumstances. As expected, Kenny walked away with a smile, claiming it was worth it. As for Stan, he got a less rage-filled ass-whooping, but an ass-whooping nonetheless.
The tall male's face suddenly became more serious as he turned Wendy around in his hold and looked into her eyes. "You've been acting strange lately, everything okay?" he asked as casually as he could.
"You're delusional," she stated, rolling her eyes in an attempt to hide the look of surprise she almost expressed at his unexpected heedfulness. "And yes, I'm fine."
"Well, now I know something's up," he replied. "'I'm fine' doesn't mean what it's supposed to mean, we both know that. C'mon, you can trust me." Stan smiled down at her lovingly, taking her by the hand and leading her towards the bed. They originally sat quite close to one another, but Wendy altered this by scooting to the left a bit. Her eyes were focused on the slight rips on the knee section of the jeans as she picked the ivory threads distractedly. "Wends," she heard the footballer call. "Spill."
He reached over and placed his hand atop hers. The effect was instantaneous. The noirette's eyes flooded with tears as she held back choked sobs, her delicate hands rushing towards her face in an attempt at making her pain less noticeable, but of course, this attempt failed miserably. Stan's protective side shone through as he gathered her in his arms and petted her hair with one hand, stroking up and down her back with the other. Neither of them knew what to do; this situation was extremely rare for them. Wendy hadn't cried in front of Stan since they were approximately thirteen, when she had just been ditched by her so-called childhood friends. Three whole years of dry, happy eyes. Or so he thought. He continued pursuing this hopefully comforting motion until Wendy finally had the courage to speak up.
"I-I'm unhappy."
Stan's heart sunk. He had heard those words plenty of times before. Whenever the pair had their annual post-breakup fight, the girl would shout those two gut-wrenching words at him. From then on, they would have their approximate two weeks to a month of a lonely, despairing break until they'd be forced to reconcile with one another for fear they'd been away for too long. They did love each other immensely, but sometimes a breather was needed to keep things fresh. Regardless, it hurt each and every time, this particular moment being no different.
Stan swallowed the lump in his throat before saying, "So, you want a break?"
Wendy gasped, looking up at Stan with wide, tear-filled eyes. "No! No, that's not what I meant. Shit, I'm sorry."
To say that Stan was relieved would be an understatement. At least, that was until he realised that, although those words didn't mean what he had assumed, they still remained important and had meaning for an entirely different concept. "Tell me what's been bothering you. Please, Wends."
For what seemed like the millionth time that day, Wendy's breathing shallowed while her heart raced. "I'm uncomfortable with my body."
"Care to elaborate?" Stan asked after a short amount of silence, seemingly perplexed about how such a flawless, beautiful lady could dislike her body, and what the hell that had to do with modelling his clothes.
"My body is... wrong," she breathed out, quirking her brow at her own interesting choice in wording that she felt hadn't gotten her point across correctly. "As in, the, um... the gender. It's... It's incorrect." Wendy took a deep breath before finishing impactfully, "I've come to the conclusion that... I'm transgender."
The silence in the room was unbearable. Once again, cerulean eyes were shut and fuchsia lips were being bitten to high hell as the owner of the aforementioned facial features awaited his boyfriend's response in anxiety. The only sounds that could be heard were Sparky's silent snores, the hum of cars travelling to and fro in the distance, and the almost inaudible clattering of pots and pans that Sharon was causing downstairs as she prepared dinner. Wendy's nervousness rose as each second passed, his shaking body a clear example of this. Eventually, he couldn't wait any longer. He opened his eyes in a snail-paced fashion, slowly raising head to look into the sapphire irises of the discombobulatingly mute individual adjacent to him. He expected to see a look of pure disgust; the look you'd give to that piece of chewed-up gum on the sidewalk that had gotten stuck to the bottom of your new suede shoes. He expected a grimace. Perhaps a scowl. However, that wasn't the case.
The emotions Stan was showing through his smile alone was enough to make Wendy's heart pound even harder than it had been moments before, if at all possible. He looked surprised, yet relieved. Excited, yet relaxed. Stan was joyous, cheerful, amazed, and everything in between. Still, the most important thing he had noticed was the pride the footballer was displaying through his simple expression. He seemed so honoured, so gratified, to have been told this overwhelming piece of information.
Stan leaned forward, cupping the other boy's tear-stained face in his calloused hands while wiping away the remaining drops with his thumbs. He then placed a gentle kiss on his slightly parted lips whilst twirling a tousled lock of hair before tucking it behind Wendy's ear.
"I'm so damn proud of you, Wendy," he chuckled. No more than a second later, his expression changed to a look of mistake. "I mean, um..."
"Wendyl," he smiled back at him.
"Wendyl," Stan confirmed with a nod and a relieved sigh.
The two teenagers gazed into each other's eyes for what felt like an eternity. Wendyl took in each shade of blue in Stan's iridescent irises, while Stan became lost in the piercing beauty of Wendyl's long, black eyelashes as they fluttered during each blink. They were on cloud nine. His boyfriend's acceptance of him gave Wendyl a completely new outlook on his current situation. He felt like he was able to tell more people; his family, his friends, perhaps even the whole town. It didn't scare him anymore. However, he still wasn't completely satisfied with himself. Upon gaining acceptance from his boyfriend with the way he wished to look, he suddenly had an even more preponderant urge to alter his physical appearance.
"Stan, I look moronic," Wendyl deadpanned. "You wouldn't happen to have anything a bit smaller, would you?"
Stan sighed. "I don't think so, Wends. I'm sorry."
The smaller male hung his head, beginning to pick at his boyfriend's jeans once again. It wasn't too big of a deal, his clothing wasn't exactly the be-all-end-all of his transition. He just detested the thought of putting on the navy leggings and aztec-print tank top that were laying in a crumpled pile beside the full-body mirror, in addition to the underwear that accompanied them. He could always just go to the store and pick up a more suitable form of attire the next day, he supposed.
Suddenly, a light bulb went off in Stan's head and he tapped his boyfriend's nose to get his attention. "Now that I think about it, I may know someone who does," he smirked.
Wendyl watched in anticipation as the quarterback received his phone from the nightstand nearby, hastily unlocking it and tapping on what seemed to be the first contact on the list. He placed it against his ear and patiently waited as it rang until a voice was heard greeting him cheerfully on the other end. Wendyl began, "Stan, what are you-"
"Ky, I'm going to need a favour. We'll be there in five."
"Ma, can you get the door for me, please?"
Sheila glanced at her eldest son from her place on her husband's armchair as he continued studying to his heart's content at the dining table, three stacks of studying equipment in neat piles in front of him; textbooks, notes copies, and flashcards, respectively. She carefully placed her knitting needles and half-complete woollen scarf to the side as she arose from her comfortable seat, making her way to the front door. Upon opening it, the middle-aged woman's face grinned with delight as she saw the pair of teenagers standing opposite her.
"Hi, Sheila," Stan greeted. Wendyl looked across at her, an acknowledging smile gracing his features.
"Why hello, Stanley!" Sheila beamed, ushering the pair into the familiar warmth of her home. "Come in, come in. Wendy, it's always a pleasure seeing you here. Tell me, how's your mother? I heard she was feeling under the weather."
"It's lovely to see you too, Sheila," he replied, acting unbothered about the use of his name. After all, she didn't know any better. "She's doing fantastic! I'll let her know you were thinking about her."
As the two of them made small talk, Stan managed to slip away and stroll over to his best friend whose attention was still solely concentrated on the oh-so-interesting concept of Pythagoras' Theorem. "Hey, Dude," he stated casually, sitting down in the seat next to him.
"Hello," was the mumbled response.
"Christ, contain your excitement," he replied sarcastically, picking up a nearby 2H pencil and attempting to balance it on his narrow nose.
This caused the studious Jew to crack an amused grin, finally directing his attention onto the slightly younger teen adjacent to him. "Oh Stanley, I hath missed thy presence," he teased, flicking the stationary tool off of his face and onto the carpeted floor beneath them.
"Alright, Romeo, enough of the English literature for tonight," he chuckled, pushing the three stacks away from them before bending down to pick up the pencil and tossing it playfully at the redhead, hitting him right on his tanned forehead.
"Prick," Kyle muttered. "So, what's this favor you're asking of me?"
Stan bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder at the two individuals conversing light-heartedly at the front door. "We'll tell you upstairs. It's kind of a big deal and I'm sure Wends will want to tell you first hand."
"Should I be worried?" the redhead inquired, quirking his brow.
"Don't be," the footballer confirmed. He looked over at Wendyl who had just finished his conversation with the Jewish mother and was waiting for them by the staircase. Stan nodded at him. "C'mon, let's go, Ky."
The atmosphere in the room was tense. Kyle had yet to utter a single word after being confided in with Wendyl's momentous announcement. His confidence in confessing to other friends and members of his family was slowly depleting with each passing second. He looked everywhere but at the eerily silent redhead. His cerulean eyes flickered from the abnormally tidy bookshelf containing the works of literary geniuses that the Jew could no doubt list off without a bother to the methodical desk supporting his expensive laptop, courtesy of his well-off parents, and multiple arrays of binders, notepads, post-it notes, and the like. He could feel the pair of piercing, emerald eyes glued to his awkward form. Although Kyle was known to be an exceptionally accepting and understanding guy, Wendyl was preparing himself for the worst.
His breath hitched at the sound of said individual's voice breaking the silence. "That's great!"
Wendyl shot his gaze towards the redhead in shock. Had he just heard him right? "E-Excuse me?"
Kyle smiled back caringly, "There's nothing wrong with being yourself. If you feel this way, then just be you. I'm honored that I'm the second to know, albeit the fact that it's because you need something from me."
"About that," Stan intruded sheepishly. "I thought it would be a better experience for Wendyl if he got to, you know, try on a few things from your wardrobe to get a better feel for what he likes..."
"You want to do what?" was the flabbergasted response.
Wendyl and Stan looked at each other nervously before Stan continued pleadingly. "Please, Ky. I know you don't like people going through your shit, but this is really fucking important to her- him." The shorter noirette rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Wends."
"It's fine; you're learning," he sighed, directing his gaze onto Kyle once again. "I find it quite concerning how you didn't even bat an eye when I told you that I'm trans, but once Stan mentioned taking a look at your closet then that's when you started questioning shit. Is it really that big of a deal? I only want to try a couple of things on, Kyle."
"That's not the issue!" Kyle blurted out. "Try on whatever the fuck you want. Just... Just don't mess up the order, okay? It goes jeans, shirts, sweater-vests, blazers- actually, you know what? When you're finished with something just leave it on my bed. But don't put the hanger back on! I'll do that. And make sure everything is unbuttoned before you- fuck, I'll just do that too. Oh, and if you-"
"Kyle," Stan spoke sternly, ceasing his rant. "Don't worry about it, okay? He'll take some clothes out to try on and he'll leave everything exactly where you told him to." He sat down on the bed beside him, draping his arm around the smaller teen as a friendly gesture. "Everything's going to be fine."
Kyle gulped, nodding. "I know," he stated matter-of-factly, more so to himself rather than Stan. "Go ahead," he told Wendyl with a half-smile.
The noirette smiled graciously back at him, grateful that his friend would go out of his comfort zone like that in order to make him happy. He walked over to the wardrobe and opened the door, just as he had done at Stan's house. However, to say that the two closets were a bit different would be a huge understatement. Although his boyfriend's clothes were thrown on top of each other in one huge, messy bundle, Kyle's garments were hung up in a neat row along a silver pole, each item of clothing facing the left so that they could be easily recognised from a certain position. Just as the redhead had informed him, the order was jeans, shirts, sweater-vests, and blazers, which then continued on with coats, sweaters, cardigans, and waist-coats. Indeed, Stan and Kyle's taste in clothing differed immensely.
Wendyl reached out his tender hand and dragged it softly from left to right, catching a glimpse of each item before it was covered by the next piece. Flashes of multiple different arrays of colours and patterns immediately caught his eye. Although the outfits were mainly neutral colours, for example, black, grey, cream, and white, there was also a wide range of different shades of green and orange, as well as a few other colours that weren't worn nearly as much. Wendyl wouldn't have considered those pigments his cup of tea, but the redhead had adapted those hues as sort of his 'thing' and they happened to suit him rather well, so who was he to judge? He ultimately decided to settle for a pristine, white shirt, a greyish-black blazer, and a pair of charcoal skinny-jeans that he recalled had looked quite flattering on the slender Jew when he had worn them to school a few weeks prior.
He glanced over his shoulder, immediately sighting the two boys conversing silently between one another. Wendyl didn't quite perceive what they were saying, but from the look on Stan's face and Kyle's animated hand movements he deducted that it most likely had something to do with a sport of some kind, presumably basketball. The teen clutched the outfit to his chest as he watched them. He watched as they acted as though they didn't have a care in the world, whereas Wendyl himself was lost in a whirlwind of emotions. He was excited to take the next step in his transition, but he feared everything was moving far too fast. No more than a few hours ago he was living the sought after life of the beautiful Wendy Testaburger; the girl females envied and males lusted after. However, things were changing. In a matter of what seemed like seconds, he was out to two of the three most important men in his life. Never before had Wendyl felt more confident in himself.
Stan shifted his eyes to the left and looked right back at the anxious boy. He gave him a reassuring smile, encouraging Wendyl to take a deep breath and step out into the hallway as he sauntered over to the bathroom across from Ike's room, which was right next door to his brother's. Upon closing the door, he gave himself another look in the mirror. His hair had since been tied back off of his face in a loose, messy bun at the back of his head where it wouldn't be seen. Charcoal bangs cascaded across his small forehead, giving the illusion of a short, boyish hairstyle. His makeup had also been taken off, leaving a bare, pale canvas. Although his long eyelashes, shaped eyebrows, feminine bone-structure, and soft lips still remained, his outlook on his overall appearance so far was a rather pleasant one indeed, and he hoped that it would only get better.
The noirette then began undressing himself. He tore off the over-sized jumper and tossed it onto the ground beneath him. He then began working to remove the baggy jeans from his lower half and placed them atop the previous garment. Looking up at himself once again, he was on the brink of scolding himself for forgetting to ask Kyle for a pair of boxers that would have actually fit him. Upon remembering that himself and the redhead hadn't quite gotten that far in their friendship yet, he decided to scold himself for even considering that notion instead. Stan's would have to do.
First, Wendyl picked up the ironed shirt and inserted his shaven arms through each sleeve before buttoning it up to where it stopped merely two buttons below the collar. He then decided to roll up the cuff of each sleeve until they reached just above his elbows. Once satisfied, he moved on to the jeans. Although they looked as though a female could still graciously pull them off and look like a million bucks, he focused on the fact that, due to the owner being male, they were probably purchased in the menswear section. Probably. Regardless, he shoved them on over his long, toned legs and secured the buttons accordingly. Finally, Wendyl picked up the fitted blazer and couldn't help himself as an eager grin graced his lips. He had always admired how men could manage to look so smart and high-class upon being adorned with a classic, bold blazer. He wanted to be seen that way. After all, Wendyl was arguably a very intelligent, classy individual. He stuck his arms through the sleeves before rolling them up past his forearms, just as he had done with the shirt moments before. The noirette contemplated whether or not he should button up a clasp or two, but ultimately decided against it.
A glance in the glistening mirror was all it took. For what seemed like the first time in his short life, Wendyl was content. He felt as though he had finally gotten it right; that he had finally achieved a self-image he longed for without even knowing it. Sure, there was still some alterations to be made, but at that moment he knew that he was getting to be so close to his goal. Nothing could tear him down. He was confident enough in himself at last to be able to tell the world who he really was and what he was going to make of himself. Although his goal of being the first female president of the United States of America was tarnished, this ambition was developed into a whole new objective; to be the first transgender president of America. Wendyl yearned for this dream to become a reality in the years to come and had a strong grasp on the notion that he would do whatever it took to accomplish his aspirations no matter what life throws at him, his gender identity being no different.
Wendyl was torn from his thoughts at the sudden realisation that the quaint restroom had somewhat darkened. The sun was setting, indicating that the day was coming to an end. The comparison between the sunset and his transition put a simple smile on Wendyl's face. His womanhood, just like that fateful day, had finally come to an end. He'd wake up the next morning in a completely different frame of mind, as the new day symbolised a new step in his developing life.
He was ready to open up to his best friend.
I'd just like to mention that I didn't change the pronouns from female to male until it was officially announced by him that he was transgender to avoid confusion. This is the same reason as to why I didn't refer to Wendy as Wendyl until he stated his name change to Stan. The next and final chapter will be dealing with Bebe's reaction and what her input was to help her best friend out. I really and truly hope you had a pleasant read and would love to hear your opinions on the story or perhaps even on how I could improve on my writing in the future. Thank you for reading!