Donna is Donna but John is Joan

I’m an average size guy. Five ten, almost thin, and at thirty years of age, very little facial hair. My beautiful wife was four inches shorter than me, thinner and as she had pointed out many times before, my arms were as skinny as hers. She always talked about me dressing up girly with her because I almost had the body type of a woman anyway. This always seemed like a put down and in the eight years that we had been married, I had never tried it and never wanted to.

After an rare, early Saturday morning fuckfest, we laid next to each other, soaked in sweat. She looked over at me and held out her cigarette toward me in her delicate, tiny hands, which were as tiny and delicate as mine were.

“I still don’t smoke,” I insisted as she rolled her eyes at me.

“Well,” she sighed, smoke shooting out of her nose as she reached down to the floor and flung her bra up at me, “if you won’t smoke with me, at least put this on for me once, satisfy my curiosity Mr girly arms.”

I never had this desire, but I grunted, pulled the thing on over my chest, which was hairy. She was painfully right about the arms, tiny like a girls’ arms, not like the manly, muscular arms that I would sometimes look at in envy.

Sitting up in our bed, I gestured, open armed with her bra over my hairy chest, she scowled as I smiled at her beautiful face, framed by long, blonde hair. She leaned forward, cigarette jammed between her lips, as she fastened it behind me.

“You could at least try to get into it,” she said around the cigarette as she leaned back to look at me. She stood about five foot six, but always wore clogs or heels to look taller, she weighed between one hundred ten and one hundred thirty, depending on the diet.

“Okay honey,” I said in a girly voice, “why don’t you suck my titties?”

“They’re too hairy,” she said, her pretty face scrunched up, “all right,” she grabbed me by the hand pulling me after her, “come on, we’re gonna have some fun today.”