I’d shut my eyes while getting dressed the first time, not wanting to viote the privacy of the person whose body I was wearing – although I had no clue how accurate to reality anything beneath my clothes was.

  The second time, however, after getting home and shutting myself in the bathroom with a change of clothes, I mechanically undressed myself without thought, and instead of changing back, I just stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  I’m gay… but this is… something.

  I’d always preferred being the ‘woman’ in the retionship, letting the men I dated take the traditionally masculine role in etiquette, and so something about my body being so viscerally feminine was oddly stimuting to me.

  The smoothness of my skin, the way my silhouette swooped inwards at my waist before bowing out at my hips, the pretty face – it all made my heart pound, petrified me even as my mind raced after my pulse, my thoughts spinning and swirling into endless chaos. Then there was the arousal, the tingle across the surface of my skin and the heat pooling in my gut, btantly recognisable even in a completely different nguage.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t do anything with my feelings, at least not in this body – given that I had a functioning conscience. What I could do, however, was invent a new body from scratch to mess around in – one that could satisfy this brief sick fantasy.

  My mind spun, deciding where to start – my own body, as well as the bodies of my sister and my mom, were all turn-offs – meaning I had to choose someone retively random. I decided to stick with the body I already had out of convenience, and quickly began making changes, shifting with my eyes transfixed on the mirror.

  It seemed like no matter what I did, as long as I saw a woman in the mirror, my high didn’t dissipate. My hair could be long and straight or short and boyish, I could be tall or short, chubby or skinny – nothing could slow me down.

  Some things did interest me more than others, however. I stopped my hair at the tops of my shoulders, made it wavy and red – each change delivering little hits of satisfaction. I became short, shorter than my normal body, shorter than Luna, and even shorter than my little sister, Madeline. My hips grew wide, and my bust just big enough to be noticeable under a shirt. My eyes were light blue, almost too pale to be realistic, but I let myself indulge, given that no one else would see me. Lastly, I tweaked bits of fat around my body to perfection, settling on a nice mix of muscle and plumpness in my legs and ass, while most of the rest of my body was on the chubbier side of skinny, with enough fat to be plenty pinchable.

  I stared, my wide eyes tracing up and down my naked form. It wasn’t perfect – even as I was inspecting, I realised I’d forgotten freckles – but it was satisfying and exciting and–

  “Greg, I need to pee!” Luna yelled, knocking her fist on the bathroom door.

  I startled, realising that I’d forgotten about what I was doing and about my roommate. I stifled a yell back, not wanting to confuse her with my voice, and shifted back into my normal body as quickly as I could. My clothes followed on top of my skin, and I rushed out, going straight past Luna and to my desk so I could distract myself.

  What is happening to me?

  —

  For the rest of Sunday evening, I struggled to distract myself, helping Luna as she browsed online stores for cat supplies, going through more job applications, and cooking dinner. None of it took my mind off of what I’d almost done in the bathroom, however.

  My thoughts lingered and swirled, chaotic and unmoving all the same. On one hand, it was strange for me to be so turned on in a situation where there were no men involved. While I could acknowledge that women were attractive in general, the idea of having sex with a woman was unnerving – just thinking about penetrating someone or the way my rough stubble would scratch against her cheek if we kissed was enough to make me shiver.

  On the other hand, I was probably just a sick freak with a fetish. I’d thought about crossdressing before, and I’d even tried on some of my mother’s clothes when I was in elementary school, but even though I’d enjoyed it, as I’d learned more about the world and understood that my proclivities were something to hide, something to feel ashamed of, I’d stopped.

  Every once in a while I would consider if I might enjoy crossdressing during sex, but it always seemed like a hard sell to another gay man. I wasn’t interested in being a femboy; I wanted to be seen as a woman: a convincing, authentic presentation that would chafe against my partner’s sexuality unless I found a particurly understanding bisexual man. And at that point, between the struggles of finding a suitable partner and the technical skill in makeup and fashion to convincingly crossdress, it seemed more trouble than it would be worth.

  Really, it’s just sex, how much could I really enjoy it? I wasn’t going to go through everything trans women do – plus dysphoria, since I’m a man – just for sex.

  That precarious bance changed with my new powers, however, because passing as a woman was effortless for me – other than my dysphoria obviously – which just left finding a suitable partner, someone who could even be a straight man. Something about that made me hesitate, though.

  Wouldn’t it be icky for me to trick a straight man into having sex with me? It’s not like I’m trans, so unless I was upfront about what was going on, it would be wrong for me to present as a woman for the purposes of sex, right?

  What all of that meant was that when Luna left for work on Monday morning, I was left alone with a burning desire to experiment and an empty apartment. I didn’t bother pretending to resist, saying goodbye, locking the front door, and rushing into the bathroom all in one breath – all while Snuffles watched from her brand new cat bed with disappointment.

  The mirror above my sink was the only one I had, and before I’d even turned the lights on, I was naked in front of it, my uncovered, feminine body on dispy. The lights came on, and with it, came a new round of scrutiny. I’d heard that women liked forepy, and given that I was role-pying as a woman at the moment, it seemed like I should indulge, perfecting my body being as good a warmup as any.

  I started with my eyebrows – I hadn’t paid them much attention the previous day, but they were the wrong colour and a little bit off. First I trimmed and neatened them, and then I shaped and coloured them, thinning and arching them to give me a sharp look in the same red as my hair – all with magic of course.

  Next I experimented with freckles, trying them on my shoulders, arms and face, before deciding that I liked them everywhere – it made me feel more feminine. I continued fixing little details, shaping my nails and making my fingers slightly longer, experimenting with how long my legs were, and spending an embarrassing amount of time crafting the cutest belly button possible.

  I marvelled at how pretty I was, how smooth and soft my skin was, and how…

  Why am I not turned on? Wasn’t this supposed to be forepy to my sick perversions?

  Also there was the issue of how much I looked like my family. The hair colour was off – no one in my family had red hair, even if my sister and mother’s was a natural reddish brown – and the eye colour was a bit paler than all of us, but other than those details, I looked like I could be my own non-existent cousin, or perhaps my younger sister’s imaginary older sister. It kind of made sense that I would gravitate towards a body that was familiar, even if I was consciously making it feminine, but still…

  It was strange, and it didn’t turn me on the way I’d expected.

  The girl in the mirror stared at me, her expression fighting between wonder and confusion. Her eyes traced down my body, appreciating the way everything was perfectly tuned to her tastes, but she didn’t feel aroused, she felt satisfied, like she’d been pying dress-up and found just the right arrangement of clothes and makeup to express herself.

  I let the feeling linger for a moment, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, before I let out the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding and tried to move on.

  It must be because I’m not actually a woman, meaning forepy doesn’t do it for me. That’s kind of disappointing but my power has to have limits somewhere… I guess I can’t change who I am fundamentally.

  Despite my disappointment, I still wanted to go through with my pn – and it didn’t take me much to get going. A twirling finger on my chest and an exploring hand on my inner thigh was all it took to get me to lean back into the off-white wall behind me, the pale pster cooling my flushed shoulders as red splotches overtook my pale skin.

  The delicate dance of my digits caused my head to roll back and my eyes to close, and yet I continued, not caring about the image in the mirror as my twirling became groping and my exploring grew more purposeful. The first touch to my pussy was electric, just an accidental brush of my manicured fingernail on my outer lips, but more than enough to make me need more.

  I traced the shape, deft fingers swirling over top of my folds and building an image in my mind. I’d never thought of a vagina as a sexy thing – it had always seemed alien and terrifying to me, like entering one would cause me to lose part of myself – but when it was mine and I had a chance to dawdle and build familiarity, it suddenly became beautiful.

  The comparison to flowers, something that had seemed absurd before, now made sense – I could feel the way my skin folded in on itself, protecting the more sensitive yers. I could imagine my finger as a bumbling bee – more concerned with the nectar hidden inside than with the pollinating it was doing inadvertently. And there was a lot of nectar inside of me, so much that it bled out, lubricating my strokes as I grew more and more comfortable with the idea of fingering a woman and being fingered as a woman.

  My free hand, the one that had been on my chest previously but had lost focus, pressed back into the wall, supporting me where my legs were threatening to give out. My mind wandered, no longer constrained to the movements that were now automatic, the persistent fingers going up and down my slit.

  I wonder if this is how Luna feels when she has sex?

  The thought, shameful and dirty, ratcheted up my pleasure up another notch, my perfectly soft and kissable midriff quivering and unduting as my inevitable release grew nearer.

  I wonder if she would think I was hot – want to be the one that kisses my stomach, be the one to tease me, elicit squeaks and cries from my pretty mouth?

  I’d thus far resisted the urge to touch my clit, the little spot begging and screaming at me to do so – but I finally gave in, one touch enough to make my body jolt. I let myself fall forwards onto the counter, pressing my sweaty chest into the cold tile, and rubbed myself fervently, picturing Luna behind me, pressing me down and fingering me with reckless abandon.

  I thought about her long, straight hair hanging over me, her soft pretty face below her bangs concentrating on me, and her tall, curvy form pressed against mine.

  My climax came quickly, rexing my body – other than my still-active wrist – and coaxing a raspy moan out of my throat dry from panting. Much to my surprise, the pleasure was slow to leave, lingering and buzzing in a way I’d never felt before. I melted, mouth hung open and body unmoving save for the occasional twitch.

  As my euphoria dimmed, however, my shame returned.

  I can’t believe I thought about Luna like that, what is wrong with me?! It’s a huge breach of our friendship, not to mention the fact that she’s a lesbian and I’m a gay man. I can't be attracted to her.

  I peeled myself off the counter, noting that I would need to clean my sweat off of it, and transformed back. As I got dressed again, I berated myself again for having done something so stupid.

  I can’t mess around with this ever again – I don’t trust myself not to think about Luna next time.