Feminization

I was alone in my friend’s apartment when I saw her sandals by the sofa. I knew I shouldn’t touch them, but that night I found out what I’d do for a secret I’d never confess.

I’d kept that desire locked away for years. That dawn, drunk and defenseless, I let it slip in front of the one person who could make it real.

I could never tell them apart. One kissed me tenderly; the other tied me up and used me. It took me too long to realize there was never a mistake: they planned everything together.

His first night in cell 118 was enough to teach him he no longer owned his body, only belonged to the man in the lower bunk.

I bought black stockings with my heart in my throat, knowing that once I locked my apartment door I’d become the woman I’d been imagining all day.

After midnight I put on the red heels, opened the gate with the remote, and went out for a walk. I only wanted to feel seen. I didn’t expect someone to stop.

I walked out of that meeting with my blood boiling. That night I didn’t want to play soft: I wanted to destroy the two boys waiting for me on their knees on the mattress.

Every Sunday, when she left, I opened her wardrobe and became someone else in front of the mirror. That afternoon she forgot her keys and came back early.

I drove at night transformed into another woman and no one knew. One slip at a stop was enough for him to discover who I really was.