Trans

The first time I went out on the street dressed as a woman, my legs were shaking. Ten years later, nothing feels better than being watched.

Under my track pants I wore only fishnets and a lace thong. I wasn’t looking for just any doorway: I was looking for the place where they’d treat me like an object.

The dress hugged my body, the stockings brushed me with every step, and when that man held out his hand to dance, I knew I wouldn’t return home the same.

I thought I’d lost the bag containing my most intimate photos. When the doctor messaged me that night, I knew he’d already seen exactly who I was.

I crossed the living room to get a glass of water, forgetting the curtains were still open. On the other side of the glass, his eyes had already found me.

I looked at myself in the mirror wearing my wig and translucent dress, and knew that night I would let a stranger do everything I’d imagined for weeks.

I saved his number as “S.1.” Two days to regret it, and not once did I want to: I wanted them to use me again, worse than the first time.

I had spent years imagining it: getting dressed up, putting on my stockings, and giving myself to a man for the first time. That afternoon, in a hotel room, I stopped imagining it.

I was ready from four in the afternoon, soaked and aching, when that short man knocked on my door, never imagining I’d force out his nickname.

I have my cheek pressed against the cold tile and I can’t remember his face, only the rhythm of him coming in and out of me while his hands hold my waist.

Two months ago I started dating a girl who truly loves me. And yet, the moment she leaves, I open the contacts site and look for what she can never give me.

“Good night, princess,” my wife whispered in my ear. And something inside me, something she had planted weeks earlier, answered as if it had been waiting for that name all my life.

“Nice ass,” she said behind me. I didn’t turn right away. That voice couldn’t be hers, not after four years of silence.

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.

The young master’s wardrobe held a black uniform with a white cap, and Don Aurelio told her that once she put it on, she would cease to be Marcial forever.

I carried her boxes up, made her coffee, and before I finished it, I already knew that neighbor was going to change every night I spent in that building.

I didn’t go up to that motel thinking I’d be the one ending up on all fours, begging her not to stop. But she knew exactly what I hadn’t dared admit.

That morning I shaved my legs, put on the white platforms, and got out of the car knowing everyone on the street would look at me. And look at me they did.

I’d spent a year staring at that toy in the drawer without daring to use it. That night, in my lace nightgown with the padlock locked, I knew I was finally going to let it open me all the way.

I lit only the red candles, adjusted my babydoll, and waited. When the doorbell rang, I knew that dawn would remind me who I truly was.