Damn Minnie for planting this in my head and Pa for watering it. The wood floor creaks as I continue down the hall with heavy strides, then suddenly spin right back. Deep breaths fill my lungs as a bombardment of thoughts swirls around my head.
To go in or not to go in.
To go in or not to go in.
To go in or not to go in.
Fuck this. I turn on my heel and hurry to my room. Why I’m even considering this? There is no way I could pass as a woman, even if I’m dressed in women's clothing. I might have a lot of femininity in me, but I’m still a man, anyone can see that. One look at me and they’d know, I’d be fired and shamed, and my chances of ever getting hired by a security agency will be over.
I put down my cocoa and cake on the wooden table, and begin to take off my jeans and then my shirt until all I have on are my jockstraps—they are more comfortable for sitting on a bike all day. I fish out some comfortable clothing from my drawer, a large T-shirt, and boxers. When I turn around, I catch my reflection in the small wall mirror and it stills me. My hair is roundy from last night, my eyeliner is all smudged, and my waist chain is twisted around. I should probably shower first, I'm a mess. A sleepy exhausted mess.
Lowering my hands, I turn fully to the mirror and step closer, examining my body as though it's a foreign object I’ve never seen before. I try to picture myself in complete female clothing, a gown, or a skirt, not that I’d wear any of those often to the job if I’m hired, security agents wear much of the same thing, black suits. But what if I’m on duty when the civilian I’m hired to protect goes to the beach or hiking, something non-work related? I’d have to dress less formally in a gown or skirt.
I bet Pa and Minnie haven't considered all the variables for such a risky decision.
There is no denying my body is a blend of feminine and masculine attributes. In some areas, the lines are smooth and tender like that of a young woman, in others sharp and hard like that of a middle-aged man. Most Incubi are this way, Pa’s features hardened over the years because of the amount of stress he has to endure, nonetheless, if you look closely, beyond the eye bags, large hands, and broad shoulders, you could still see his feminity. It's in our nature. Minnie is a rare exception. Succubi are never that masculine.
I know what I am, there is no question about it, but with every minute, as I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, my brain cannot decide what form appeals to it the most. One second, I’m dressed in pretty girl clothes, the next I’m dressed in hyper-masculine clothes. It's all a bit confusing and somewhat annoying. This idea was ludicrous from the start. Getting the job means spending most of my day trying to convince people I’m someone else just because it's easier than being myself. I won’t be a boy in feminine clothing. I’d be a girl. But I’d also be a girl with a job, a high-paying, secure job with real benefits. Insurance, healthcare, the whole nine yards. My face softens at the reflection in the mirror.
I turn back to my drawer and dig deep in search of the only skirt I own. It’s been in my drawer since high school when I played a girl for the theatre club. A memory I abhor. I was forced and bullied into wearing it because of my appearance, the memory of the laughing faces as they forced the skirt onto me still haunts me. I was too young for such public ridicule and ended up crying for days, refusing to go back to school.
The third day after Pa came to my room with rice, seaweed soup, and smoked fish. He forced me to eat, citing I needed it to grow bigger. I couldn’t look at him, too ashamed, too afraid. The next day when he returned with chicken soup and rice, he wore a long skirt. I watched him set down the food in utter shock. The skirt swept across the floor, a bright yellow beach skirt that kept falling off his waist.
“You see?” Pa said, holding the side of the skirts like a runway model. “It's just a piece of clothing, Luke.” He twirled, making funny faces, and I cracked a smile for the first time in three days.
It was the reason I kept the skirt. A reminder of Pa’s love, not the bullying I endured.
I slip it on easily and it still fits. Most of my clothes from high school still fit like a glove, almost as if I stopped growing after high school. Apprehensively, I turn to the mirror and find my reflection. My brows and chest elevate. It might still fit, but I do not in any way look like the scared boy who once wore this red skirt. It used to hang below my knees, and now it is well above my thigh. High enough to allow me fiddle with the edges without needing to bend over. My hips fill out the fabric, stretching it to annunciate every curve, from my thigh to my waist.
A little smile grows on the side of my lips. There is an indescribable feeling to it. Almost as if it was tailored only for my body. Goosebumps spiral across my body as a warm shiver travels through me. I, in fact, do not hate this.
I walk to the door and peek into the hallway. I can still hear Minnie and Pa chatting away downstairs. Without hesitation, I tiptoe to Pa’s room. I don’t want them to see me like this and get the wrong impression. It’s one thing to try on a skirt and an entirely different thing to take on the identity of a woman. This will be short and quick. In and out. I just want to see what I’d look like in a gown.
Once I am inside my parents’ room, I close the door gently and turn to the wardrobe. Nothing has changed in this room since I was a child. Not the curtains, not the bedsheets, not the arrangements. Pa has kept it exactly the same way Ma designed it. Her cosmetics and hair products are still laid out on the dresser, her shoes are still lined up on the rack, her wigs are neatly folded in the wig bin, and her clothes are still hung up on the wardrobe. If one didn’t know better, they’d think she was still alive and lives here.
This makes it easy for me to know where everything is. I walk straight to her section in the wardrobe and quietly sift through the clothes in search of her red roses printed gown. She loved to wear it on Sundays as we had breakfast and I loved to watch her dance with Pa in it right after. Carefully, I unhang it and hold it up.
“Whoa…” My cheeks warm with a heartfelt smile. It even smells like Ma.
That would be Pa’s fault. He still buys her perfume and sprays it on the old pillowcases. At first, it began because Minnie could only sleep with the smell of Ma after she passed. But now, I know he does it for himself, I just didn’t know he was spraying it on her clothes too. I inhale the sweet floral fragrance and my heart bursts with fervent memories. I can almost taste her cooking again, hear her voice, feel her hug. Maybe that's why Pa still does it. To remember her vividly.
I lay down the dress on the bed and slip out of my red skirt before throwing it on. Another perfect fit, though it’s a bit too long. Turning to the mirror, I almost gasp. It's like I’m me, and someone else more fabulous at the same time. The fabric is soft, caressing my skin gently and I don’t think I have ever seen my body appear more vibrant. I swallow and dart to the wig bin, pulling out a dark long one, then swipe a brush from the table.
I don’t remember how Ma did this, I study the wig’s net for a few minutes and brush out the ends before wearing it. It takes me a few minutes to find the front and I hurry back to the mirror and quickly realize that is actually the side. A bit to the left and I brush it out some more, smoothing the center parting with my palm before pausing to gawk at my astonishing appearance. Till now, I haven’t quite noticed how long my lashes are, or how small my face is. The wig has somehow erased the sharpness of my face and my lips appear softer.
It surprises me a bit to realize my brain doesn't struggle to reconcile the person in the mirror with how I feel on the inside. I still feel very much like the man in baggy jeans twenty minutes ago, but prettier, softer. There’s never been a time I've felt more feminine, though. More sensitive, and even vulnerable. All of this from one dress? I scoff. It's unsettling, yet charming. I know I should take it off now, my trial run is over. But five minutes doesn't feel enough.
The door swings open and I startle, spinning toward it to find Pa’s eyes traveling up and down my body. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My shoulders tense as I squeeze the side of Ma’s gown, a mixture of shame and fear moving through me. I should say something. Pa doesn’t blink, he just stares. Maybe now he has seen me in full female clothing he’s having second thoughts? That is for the best anyway. Cross-dressing for a job was a terrible idea.
I hear Minnie run up the stairs, her footsteps walk down the passage until she’s standing behind Pa. “Luke!” she screams, her mouth full of cake bun. Why does she always have to eat like it’s a competition? “Pa! Pa!” She shakes Pa’s shoulder and points at me like Pa can’t already see what I’m wearing. “Pa look! He looks just like Ma!”
An airy laugh escapes me because Minnie says the most ridiculous things. “You’re always talking nonsense.” I put down the brush on the dresser and turn to remove the wig.
“No,” Pa says. “You look just like your mother.”
I snap my head back to them and find Pa’s eyes to be the softest I have ever seen, with his head tilted to one side. Behind him, a cheerful Minnie says something her full mouth won’t let me hear. Pa's lips stretch into a little coy smile, but there is a pain in his eyes I’m quite familiar with. It’s the same look he gave me the day he told us Ma died. His eyes were filled with love, warmth, and grief.
“Pa…” I start, but say nothing else when I see his eyes glitter.
Comments (2)
See all