Poll: Showing Versus Telling, Two Versions (Patreon)

As I move into the final scene of chapter 4, setting up the climax that ultimately results in Julia's departure from the story (sort of), I'm finding myself struggling--as I often do--with the usual dilemma of show vs tell. Basically, I want to get on with the action and push the plot forward. At the same time, I have this unfortunate (?) tendency to--well, show everything, overly describe the action.

In this instance, I thought I might see what the readership thinks.

In this scene, Julia has adapted her "magic mirror" shopping software to specifically target David and rather than suggest clothing options, instead identify moments in his performance of Cindy that are either masculine or feminine. In fact, she trains her AI with her own concept of 'Cindy' and uses it to train David into that model of femininity.

There are two ways this can proceed: in a 'tell' mode, or a 'show' mode. I've included a potential sample of each below. They're not entirely distinct - a lot of scene two would make it into scene one, for instance, as introspection reflecting on the actions of "showing". But it'd all be much longer, and slower.

My non-binding question - or rather poll - is: which do you prefer?

Sample One:

That night I slept deeply, though haunted dreams in which dim and indeterminate figures lurched and lurked. At some late point in the evening—around 3am, when the whole apartment lay in darkness and breathed in silent wait—I jerked awake in a boozy sweat and, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings of Julia’s guest room, felt my heart pound and reached for the nearest object to brandish as a weapon. Then I went for a piss, and returned to bed, where I dozed intermittently, sleep interrupted by both the usual nightmare and incoherent thoughts of what Julia wanted.

            When thin October sunlight finally slipped through the curtains, I groaned and contemplated the armbands at my wrist. I’d slept with them, per Julia’s instructions. Presumably, her test had already started. Her software was already watching as I lay there in bed, waiting, judging.

            A full day as ‘Cindy,’ or rather her idea of Cindy. Even more precisely, her goddamn AI’s concept of this girl I’d become, some weird amalgamation of Julia’s hangups and impulse for revenge and humiliation mixed into a digital cesspool of tropes and stereotypes. Jesus. No wonder I didn’t want to get out of bed.

            Instead, I yawned and stretched and felt a reassuring tingle at my left wrist. Well, I was off to a good start, I guess. Before crawling into bed last night, I’d slipped into a negligee found in one of the guest room drawers. Hopefully, that pleased my autonomous stalker. What did it see, as its cameras tracked across my lithe body? Full tits veiled in pale pink, nipples pushing out against the gauzy garment; long legs and gentle curves, and blonde hair fanned out across the pillows.

            I bit my lower lip in response to another tingle, this one lower down. Fucking morning wood—or dawn dew—Jesus, I had to stop perving over myself. Some mornings, the illusion that some sexy bitch lay in bed with me was just too strong—the feeling of my own tits, soft skin under my touch, or the tickle of underwear, even my own, delicate smell—no wonder I spent my days in a fugue of sexual arousal.

            Then my fingers were sliding beneath panty waistbands, curling into moist folds, and my lips parted in a silent sigh—and the armband tingled again, and the mood vanished.  Touching myself to the silent approval of some digital overseer felt—creepy, and wrong.

            A knock on the door. “Cindy?”

[Training and introspection follows]

Sample Two:

How long could we have kept going, I wonder?

            Week three, and Julia focused on training David out of me. “Childhood, teenage years, all those milestones along the way: first period, some asshole snapping your bra strap, buying a prom dress—a lifetime growing into their female identity. What’ve you had? Nine months?” Julia sought to implant in me two decades of feminine comportment in the course of a couple of nights, and in doing so efface a lifetime of male behaviour.

            Crazy things is, it worked. Midway through that third week, sitting at my desk at work, I felt aware of myself as a girl in a way I hadn’t since this whole insanity started.

            Grudgingly, I had to admit she wasn’t wrong. I’d gotten complacent with my disguise. Looking back, my theory is that waking up with that prosthetic had—understandably—convinced me that the illusion was perfect. That hole between my legs made my feminine cloak impenetrable. It wasn’t until that right armband triggered every five minutes that I realised how I’d started to slip back into male patterns.

            What the AI considered “feminine” was a little over-the-top, but after a couple of sessions with Julia and her software I found myself consciously relaxing into a feminine posture far more easily. It’s difficult to precisely define what changed. It’s not like it was limp-wristed caricature. Rather, it was something—subtle—a tilt of the head, or the way I stood; the way I held my hands, or gestured with them as I spoke. Holding objects different—not just because of longer nails, but with a gentler grip, less controlling, less possessively. More eye contact. More hedging in conversation, more listening; and the light touch, subtle affirmation as someone else spoke.

            Even the things I wore came under scrutiny. Before, I’d slip on a necklace or bracelet because—well, because women wore that kind of shit, but under the AI’s supervision I incorporate these objects into the act—a pantomime of gentle touches, fiddling, confirmatory fidgeting with the accessories of femininity.

            And I wonder, had everything not gone so necessarily, disastrously wrong between us—what would the long term effect of this training been on me? Between the affirmatory pleasant tingle of acting like Cindy, and the warning burn of David-like actions, even in one short week her regime changed the way I acted, even when alone and away from the gaze of judgmental cameras. Another month—or two—and would Julia’s vision for Cindy have seeped into my unconscious sense of self?