You get up and pull on some boxers. With some curiosity, you notice that your underwear drawer has filled itself with several bras. Your shirt drawer has changed similarly - mostly oversized shirts and sweaters to hide your cleavage, and plenty of wifebeaters too. Noting the changes to your wardrobe, you head to the bathroom to have a quick shower and think. Steam fills the room and water beads on your body. You scour your brain for ideas. You need to become a real freak for Yosef, but where can you find other strange people to swap with? You play with your tits absentmindedly, letting warm water rinse the sweaty crevices beneath them. When you tire of that, your log-like arms lather soap into your amber fur. Finally, as the last suds wash away, you are struck with a brilliant idea. Of course, you think, there IS a place where freaks gather... the sideshow! You towel yourself dry and grab the ring from the bathroom counter, sliding it eagerly onto your finger.
The rest of the morning is productive. You find a promising looking freak show only an hour's drive out of your city. Using a vehicle-sharing app, you have a car delivered to your building and prepare for your trip. You make sure to bring a change of clothes and a pocket pussy you found in one of your drawers -- you're sure you will need some relief today. Just thinking of Yosef, his hypnotic dark eyes and wandering hands... it's hard to contain yourself. Although, you remind yourself proudly, you stayed on track this morning and barely even played with your tender body. As you prepare to leave, you notice that something inside you is desperate to stay. Desperate to take the ring off. Perhaps you're just nervous to drive, you reason, you've been taking transit for the last couple years. You ignore the thought and leave.
---
An hour later you exit your rental in a baggy sweater. Maybe 'baggy' is not totally accurate -- the fabric is snug, tight even, on your biceps and triceps. Your outfit is completed by a bra, elastic-waisted lycra shorts, and a much-needed jockstrap. Your tool is already maddeningly hard, thanks to the constant stimulation your nipples absorb as you walk. You squint in the intense sunlight, and your bald scalp feels hot. A handcrafted sign outside a grouping of tents reads 'EZRA McGILLICUDDY'S BAND OF THE BIZARRE - WONDROUS SIGHTS FOR JUST $5'. You pay the admission to a tired-looking man on a milk crate. He accepts it silently. The man is in his 50s, sickly thin, and smoking a cigarette. Tapping ash from his smoke with one forefinger, the other hand gestures inside dismissively. Although the ticket clerk's sagging gray body interests you, you remind yourself that you have bigger prizes within.
You twist your body through the small doorway to squeeze your massive arms past and step into a cramped courtyard. Several tents with simple signs sit before you, each announcing the attractions within. 'SCRUFFY, THE DOG-FACED BOY', 'TATTOOED TATIANA OF THE AMAZON', 'TWELVE-TON CHARLIE', 'THE HUMAN IGUANA', and some others. You feel sick to your stomach. Right, you think. You should get inside, this sun is probably what is making you feel queasy. Now you just have to decide which tent to see...