Step by Step Feminisation, or How I Accidentally Invented Transness

One of the nice things about taking a week off before returning to school is that you can slowly ease back into a good, socially acceptable sleep schedule. And one of the nice things about having a good, socially acceptable sleep schedule is that you can spend one or two hours in the morning practising make-up before your roommate wakes up.

The alarm that I set yesterday for this precise purpose wakes me up dutifully at seven thirty in the morning, and I jump out of my bed. I suppress a sneer; I could pay a lot of money to see my parents’ reaction to me waking up this early during the holidays. They’d probably bounce with excitement seeing me finally getting my life in order, then immediately crash down on the floor upon learning what I was planning to do with my day. My family, you see, is… you know. One of these. They’re not christian, but they have made clear their view of what a couple should be, multiple times over. A man and a woman. A father and a mother. And I have the distinct suspicion they wouldn’t be super pleased with whatever Ash and I have going on.

The thing is, no matter which prism you choose to view our budding relationship through, it looks super gay. Either you accept that she and I are girls because we say we are, which makes us lesbians. Or you refuse to do that, categorise the both of us as men, and all of a sudden we’re gay men. There’s not even a little bit of wiggle room for the hope of my parents being okay with it to slip in; if she’s a girl, then I’m a girl, and if she’s not, then I’m not either. Therefore, gay.

A weird, unpleasant feeling starts settling in. They would be so disappointed if they knew what I was up to. Me, their son, spending their own money on make-up and skirts. Crossdressing. I know this term from them, actually; it was the topic of conversation at a family dinner a couple of years ago. Men dressing up as women. That day, I did what I had become accustomed to; I shut off my brain and ate without paying much attention to the discourse at hand.

Crossdressing. As much as I now turn the word over and over in my head, it still doesn’t sit right with me. What even makes someone a man in the first place? What if the man in question lives and acts as a woman in every social interaction, takes up a woman’s name, a feminine appearance, and on top of that claims to be a woman? Does that even happen? If so, is this hypothetical person still merely crossdressing? Sure, maybe they’re still a man biologically, it’s not like you can just grow boobs after all, but who cares about that? Isn’t social recognition way more meaningful?

Well, there and then, I decide it is, at least for me. Whether being a woman depends on what I feel like deep down, or on how others see me, I’ll fucking be a woman. Just watch me.

With this feminising pep talk and, apparently, my breakfast, out of the way — wow, was I really so engrossed in my thoughts that I prepared and drank a cup of coffee without even realising it? — I go to the bathroom and start unpacking the cosmetics I bought yesterday. Time to put into practice what Chloe taught me a few days ago.

After yesterday’s little first taste of just how hard applying make-up on my own face could be, I thought I was prepared. What a fool you were, young lady, I can practically hear a narrator say, with a mischievous laugh at the end for effect. I ignore it, carefully attempting to draw a little wing of eyeliner for about the seventh time, extending it out towards the side of my head, all while doing my best to make it symmetrical with the first one. Now, I can finally call it done.

Wow. Okay, I’m getting better at this. Practice makes perfect, or whatever. As I look at the reflection of my face, I can't help but pick up my phone and take one of those mirror selfies that people who like the way they look fill up their phone’s memory with, for some reason. Wait. I’m one of them now, aren’t I? I’m cursed! Whatever shall I do? Oh well, it’s not that bad if I look like a pretty girl, I suppose. What an odd and alien sensation, to like my appearance. I look at the picture I just took. Sure, it’s obviously not a professional’s work like what Chloe did, but it’s honestly better than what I thought I could do on my own. And I also took some liberties.

I have this habit of locking the bathroom door behind me whenever I’m in there, whether I’m decent or not. And I’m pretty grateful for that, because suddenly the handle turns and Ash is physically prevented from barging in by the solid, unmoving door fulfilling its purpose.

“Ow! Joy, is that you?”

Ah, right, that’s my name now. I chose it well, judging by the whirlwind of happy feelings in my tummy. “Yup, sorry! I’ll be out in a second!” I reply through the door, before removing my headband and quickly brushing my hair to shape it the right way. “Close your eyes, I’ve got a surprise for you!”

She giggles. “I swear to god, if I open my eyes and you’re naked…”

“Me? I would never!” I reply in a falsely-offended tone as I open the door. “Alright, you can look now!”

“Also, you’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing being up so early… Oh. Hi. Wow. Holy fucking shit, Joy.”

“Not bad, huh?”

“You know you can tell me if Chloe has been giving you lessons behind my back, right?”

“Nah, I’ve just been at it for like an hour and a half. I wanted to try this kind of style, so I watched some tutorials and went for it. What Chloe did was beautiful, but I’m not sure it’s exactly my vibe. I kinda like this, it’s a bit more… goth?”

She nods. “You look hot as fuck. And you also know how to pick a stunning outfit. Although I can't say I necessarily would have been against seeing you naked,” she says with a smirk.

Yesterday-me would have stammered and blushed, but the make-up gives me confidence. “Well, you’ll just have to settle for seeing me dressed up, for the time being,” I say as I strike a pose, with a little twirl to show off my clothes. I painstakingly shaved my body hair yesterday in the shower, and I’m making the most of it by wearing a plain black skirt, a pair of fishnet tights to go along with it, as well as a slightly cropped graphic tee — not the one with my name on it, that would have been kind of cheesy to wear on a date. They aren’t the most comfortable clothes on my now very sensitive skin, but they make up for it by making me look positively hot. All in all, a great outfit to wear for visiting the Louvre, which is sure to be full of old people who like to judge others based on how they look.

⁂

Museums are one of those places I don’t really know how to act in. So, usually I just kind of walk more or less slowly, looking at the paintings and sculptures that surround me, waiting for something to happen. I don’t really get it, to be honest. Because even when you encounter a piece that’s more famous than the others, it’s like, ‘oh look, The Raft of Medusa!’ Yup, there it is… Just like all the times I saw it online… Except here it’s a little bigger and twenty people are gathered around it, obstructing the view. But enough complaining; the paintings look good (well, most of them do), the place is quiet (for the most part), so it’s (mostly) fine.

To any outsider, we obviously look like a couple. I mean, two young women occasionally holding hands, smiling, giggling in unison at their own terrible jokes. What else could they be? Best friends? Trying to look at ourselves through a stranger’s perspective, I’m suddenly hit by the peculiarity of the situation. We’re girls, this has been ascertained, but despite everything we’re not normal girls. Ugh, of course the concept of normalcy isn’t great for that, but ‘people raised as boys who established themselves to be girls’ is a bit of a mouthful, after all. Maybe I should coin a term for that.

We walk along the museum tour route, and I affectionately watch Ash hop from painting to painting and read the little explanatory plaques next to each one with avid interest. She loves art; she’s one of those people who like drawing from time to time but who insist they’re bad at it and point out every supposed flaw when you try to tell them how beautiful their work is. I’m more of a music person myself; I dabble on the piano when I have the occasion, but I need everyone who keeps saying I’m a great musician to understand that my skills are very much beginner-level, and that I’m not as good as they think I am.

“Where has everyone gone? It felt as if each painting had ten people marvelling at the brush strokes just five minutes ago, and now it’s like we’re alone in the whole building!” I remark.

“We’re starting to get away from the rooms where they display the most prestigious stuff,” Ash explains, “so people just skim through these, or even leave through an earlier exit.”

“Makes sense. I have no idea who painted a single portrait in this room.”

“Oh, because you knew who did when the paintings were actually famous?” she teases me.

“Well yeah, of course! Take the Mona Lisa, that was by Monet. It says it in the name!”

“Ugh, you’re the worst!”

Now with the confirmation that we’re not surrounded by important, famous pictures anymore, I drop any pretence of fake interest I kept up. Most importantly, though, I have another work of art drawing my attention right next to me. Ash has gone for what could only be described as an attempt at a casual look. Because, get this, she’s wearing a green jacket and a fucking matching beret. Before leaving for the capital, I told her this was the second best way to be flagged as a tourist by all the souvenir sellers — the most effective method being, of course, to wear a T-shirt bearing the words ‘I ♥ PARIS’ with a heart symbol in the colours of the French flag, and the Eiffel Tower as the ‘A’ in the name of the city. But she didn’t seem to mind, insisted on dressing the way she did, and I’m thankful for it because she looks absolutely adorable, in an elegant way.

Once we’re done with our museum tour, we head to a local bubble tea shop nearby after looking it up on Google Maps to get some drinks. I go for a mango flavoured one with tapioca pearls, and Ash chooses a brown sugar boba milk tea. Armed with our sweet refreshments — am I becoming a tea person? That’s a bigger surprise than the fact that I’m now a girl, honestly — we walk along the Seine as the sun sets, and after a few hundred metres we somehow find a free bench. We settle on it without a word, facing the river and quietly sipping our drinks while mindlessly listening to various noises coming from the busy streets behind us.

I look at Ash, and she looks at me. So uh, this is the part where we’re supposed to kiss, right? Should I make the first move? Or would that be too pushy? I could ask, but it would be a shame to break this comfortable silence. Oh well, maybe it’s still too early all things considered, this is merely our first date. Sure, we know each other very well, but we’ve only been aware of our mutual feelings for two days. Of course, she’s the most important person in the world to me, but it’s still possible she’s not as attracted to me as I am to her. I don’t know, maybe the fact that she’s slowly getting closer to me doesn’t mean anything? Her holding my hand and stroking my cheek probably isn’t—

Oh.

Alright, maybe I’m still overthinking just a little bit.

Our first kiss is slow, soft, gentle, careful. It’s like a cute little animal leaving its nest step by step for the first time. Ash is close to me, but not too close. She holds the back of my head, leaning over me and making me bend backwards, but not so much as to make it uncomfortable. After a few seconds she pulls away, a grin on her beautiful face. I look at her in a dream haze, our faces centimetres apart.

“Was that okay?” she asks.

My brain tries to put together an answer, but explaining just how okay that was winds up taking too many words to be worth it. “Fuck, you’re so pretty,” I whisper, my mind empty.

“You’re not bad yourself, hot stuff,” she replies. Her breath smells like tea. I like it. And she dives back in.

For the record, I should say our next kisses are, obviously, as chaste and controlled as the first one. The record would be wrong, though. If our opening kiss, so to speak, was slow, the ones that follow get more and more passionate, euphoric; they make up for lost time. As I revel in the taste of her lips, I can’t help but feel somewhat grateful that my first time making out with someone is such a pure, sweet experience. It was worth the wait, I suppose. Even if I didn’t consciously know I was waiting to be a girl to do it, that’s kind of what it feels like I’ve been doing, in retrospect.

I can’t say how long this lasts; we just enjoy the moment. We probably receive more than a few disgruntled looks from passersby, but neither of us cares even a little bit. I really don’t mind being stared at in public anymore. All it took was realising they’re nothing more than just looks, and understanding that the risk of being confronted about my identity by people who don’t know better is worth it, simply for how it feels to like my reflection in the mirror.

“Ash, I just remembered something you said a few days ago.”

We’ve stopped kissing for the time being. “What was it?” she asks, her head leaning on my shoulder.

“You mentioned you talked to your parents about something this summer, and obviously you don’t have to tell me if it’s none of my business. But, well, you’re awfully good at… all this,” I say with vague gestures in her direction. “Even though I’d never seen you as a girl until recently. So you started this summer, right?”

“Oh yeah, exactly! You know, I think I’ve more or less always known I wanted to be a girl, but for some reason it’s been… well, a struggle, to come out and just tell people about it. So the years went by, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep these feelings inside, you know? Until this summer, when it just ended up being too much.

“I started with my parents. I knew for a fact they’d be okay with it, they’ve always been very open-minded about those sorts of things. But even then, simply telling them felt like an impossible task, for no apparent reason. So, I went for the other option; I just started presenting more and more feminine, until they said something. Once they did, we had The Talk, and in the end it was fine, like it was always gonna be.”

As I listen to her story, slowly running my hand through her hair, I’m hit by a realisation. “Hold on. You did the same thing with me! You just went for it without warning or anything!” I say with a smirk.

She blushes. “Yeah… I think I prefer when people find out about it that way, honestly. It just feels weird to open up and tell someone about who I really am out of nowhere. Unrelated, but wanna start heading back home? It’s gonna be dark soon.”

“Sure.”

As we make our way to the train station, Ash continues on with her story. “With some of my closest family members, like my grandparents, I just showed up as a girl, and when they asked about it I explained what it meant. I couldn’t do that with everyone, though; there was a lot of my family I wouldn’t see during the holidays. So, since my parents now knew, I asked them to let other people know about it themselves. It was just better for me not to have to worry about that. And that’s when you come in.”

“Me?”

“Yeah! You were one of the people I couldn’t ask my parents to tell about me, of course. They don’t know you, and despite how funny it would have been for you to receive a call from them, in English, going like ‘Hey, we’re Ash’s parents, and she wanted you to know that she’s a she now!’ it just wasn’t an option. But, remember how simply telling people about it myself feels like an insurmountable feat?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s right, it included you! In fact, it… well…” I look at her, and her face is more or less the colour of a strawberry. “Let’s just say, I’ve liked you for a while. Like, several months kind of while, and I didn’t know if it was mutual! See, I had assumed you were into girls, so I was confident me being a girl would increase my chances. But at some point I realised I had no idea who you liked!”

“Oh…”

“Eventually, shortly before coming back here, I decided it didn’t matter whether or not you liked me back. I’d be a girl either way. And if it turned out you weren’t into girls in general, or me specifically, I would deal with it and suppress my crush.”

“I see… Well, just to clear any lingering doubts, I am into girls in general and you specifically, believe it or not!”

She giggles. “I think I figured that out when you turned into a blushing mess last time, when we were at the Eiffel Tower. Also, the kissing part helped hammer it down. So yeah, the rest is history. I decided to employ the same method I’d used for my parents with you; I was pretty sure you’d be okay with it. When you started to show some discomfort about your own appearance, I thought you might benefit from a little change yourself. You decided the change you needed was to be a girl as well, then it turned out my feelings were mutual, and here we are! Honestly, I don’t know after how much time I’d have worked up the courage to ask you out. As questionable as it was for Chloe to rip the bandaid off like that, it certainly helped.”

“When you say it like that, what a great fucking anecdote,” I chuckle. “I seriously think that the number of people who can tell such an entertaining story about how they met their partner is pretty small!”

“Definitely!” We get on the train, find free seats, and I lean my own head on her shoulder. It’s a bit difficult; she’s shorter than me.

So there I am. I have finally, truly, caught up with Ash. I’ve come to the same realisation. I’m finally comfortable with my own appearance. I know who I want to be. Joy.

It only makes it all the more painful that I won’t be able to be her for much longer.