Fiction: Passing

I breathe in deeply, one, two, three times, standing straight, my eyes closed, simply feeling my chest expand, and release. Opening my eyes, I graze the bathroom mirror, my half naked body reflecting back at me, and then focus on my cocktail. Picking it up, I take long gulps of the bitter sweet liquor, burning my throat in the process. I put the glass down and shake involuntarily from head to toe, then train my attention on the mirror again, examining the curve of my breasts, the shape of my stomach and torso. It’s time to get down to work.

With intense precision, I measure out pieces of duct tape, ripping them from the roll with my canines. I stick the ends of the pieces to the edge of the sink below me. When I have eight lengths prepared, I pull one off and attach it to my right breast, covering my nipple and its silver ring. Carefully, I press and hold the tape over my nipple while pulling lengthwise and upwards on the strand, across my side and smoothing it against my spine. After making sure the first piece is completely flat, I take a second and place it overlapping the first at its top edge, about an inch further along my chest than the first. I then wrap it, like the first, cutting across my side and chest. The third piece is much like the second, except it crosses along the bottom of the first. I take the fourth piece and overlap the first completely then, smothering the bulge that develops from the second and third.

Pausing to examine my work in the mirror, I breathe in deeply, air coming to me in shuddering gasps from withstanding the pain. My cocktail beckons me again and I chug more of the foul liquid down, knowing it will numb out the agony for the next four or six hours. Then I start the process again, covering the left side of my chest in tape. When that is complete, I take more strands of tape and fit them all around the others, always leaving the middle area of my chest stretched and exposed. The tape connects on my back with itself creating a solid line from, essentially, my right nipple to the left. Once both sides are even to my eye and my tits are in my armpits, I take two short pieces of tape and cover all of the uneven ends on my chest, making them flat and hidden, unable to flare up as my skin begins to sweat.

I turn to the door of the bathroom where a clean, pressed, fitted-dress-shirt is hanging from a hook, and carefully pull it down. After unbuttoning it slowly, I drape it across my shoulders. Turning again, I look in the mirror at my slightly exposed chest, where the dress shirt opens in the middle. I pay pain staking attention as I button it halfway up my torso, and flare up the collar. I now have a man’s chest.

Reaching for a pair of socks I get a sly grin on my face. I take one of the socks and fold it in half as if I were making it shorter, then roll the length of it in on itself, making it skinny. This rolled up version of a sock goes inside the other before I roll the second sock up around it, leaving just the portion of the toe section exposed. After unzipping my pants, I tuck the sock carefully into my boxer briefs. I tuck in my shirt gently, avoiding the bulge of the sock, before redoing my pants. I stand back and look into the mirror, pulling my shirt out a touch and readjusting the sock. Viola! I have a penis.

Turning in front of the mirror, I critique my work, posing a few times. I spread my legs slightly, hitch my thumbs in my jean pockets, and cock my head. My hair is already slicked back on the sides, some still pulled forward to give the illusion of side-burns, and the top is swept down into a curl on my face.
Finally, I am ready to emerge from the bathroom, and face the world like a man.