This was written a number of years ago, early in my journey of self-discovery. It's an insight into both the joy of expressing one's true self, and the pain of falling down the well of gender dysphoria.
-B
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The razor slides up my thigh, leaving smooth, pink skin in its wake. Behind the razor, my free hand follows, making sure there is no straggling stubble remaining on my leg. The sensation of my fingers gliding along the silky skin is exquisite, one i've denied myself for my entire adult life. Men don't do this...
Pulling the file away, i blow the dust off my thumbnail. The tip is filed straight across, as are the tips of every other finger. A soft cloth wipes them all clean, and i open the bottle of glossy topcoat. the aroma of nail polish fills the room, the scent like perfume to my senses... the only times i've ever smelled it before are when the women i've known in my life were doing their nails. Men don't do this...
Gossamer cloth slips up my calves as first one foot, then the next, step into the leg holes of the panties. My fingertips caress the thin row of lace along the waistband as i wiggle my hips and draw the panties all the way up my now hairless thighs. My eyes close, and a tear forms along the tight lid of my left eye. Men don't do this...
The pencil draws a burgundy line along the edge of my upper lip, and again, my nostrils twitch when touched with yet another forbidden aroma. The lipstick fills in the rest, and i pout - glossy, slippery, slightly sticky, and not quite tasteless, my imagination wanders... how would it feel to have other, naked lips kiss them? Men don't do this...
I don't think about it, just exist in the moment, a sense of calm infuses my soul, a sigh escapes my lips, and i smile... but...
Men don't do this. They don't. I'm a man. What's wrong with me? My body shakes as my brain assaults me with shame, scorn, and humiliation. Tears cascade down my cheeks as i wipe off the lipstick, but the taste remains on my lips... i can't hide from what i've done... i'm not supposed to do this, not supposed to feel like this, he says in my head. He tells me i'm sick, twisted, pathetic, and i believe him, curled up in a ball, crying on the bathroom floor.
Please... make him stop... make him...
"Stop baby, it's okay. He's just angry and afraid," her voice tells me. "He thinks you want to cut him out of you. He doesn't understand. It's okay... I'm here. Imagine i'm holding your hand, squeezing it. I'm not going to leave you... you're not alone."
My breath slows, the tears slowly stop. With a tissue, i wipe my face clean. The girl inside....always with me, even when she is hidden from view. Her voice - one i've never heard, except in my head, bringing me down off the ledge, saving me yet again.
All there is left is an empty, aching sadness... Why can't he just let me be?
