Chapter 38: To Thine Own Self Be True—was guided upwards with a geoueet his kiss, and our lips met, parted, and I moaned into him, tongues briefly dang before he pulled back, and I followed him, wanting, desperate for more, lost in a moment of arousal and fused memory until the euphoric daze passed. I opened my eyes and saw Dan’s face, still so close to mine, now smiling.

  And just like that, the emotional maelstrom of a minute ago drained away a me cold and in trol once more. Intellectually, I felt disgusted and shamed; I’d just kissed anuy, willingly; I wasn’t gay; and I couldn’t even be angry with him because situation reversed, I’d have dohe same thing.

  But I didn’t feel any of it. Mostly, I was left incredibly tired, tired and hollowed out by the ebb and flow of emotions and by the very thought of maintaining the charade of dy any longer.

  He tio hold my hand, delicately, as though I might break, the other drifting downwards, brushing cheek, bare shoulder, toug fnk and thigh before lingering at the knee. “dy, I’m—"

  “If you say you’re sorry one more time,” I stated ftly. “I’ll punch you in the nose.”

  Shaking his head, he returo his seat. He took a sip of wine aated before asking, “Why did you cry?”

  And I wao tell him, you’re not the only one who’s had a hard week. And I wao say, do you have any idea how exhausting it is to not being taken seriously? And I wanted him to somehow uand the humiliation I endured every minute of every day, the shame of a man ed in lingerie and hiding in skirts and under makeup, g and craven, smiling and simpering, afraid and so very, very angry, always angry.

  But how could I expin to him the frustration of having people look at me and see nothing but this girl, this pretty, uneducated girl, this young and inexperienced girl, and think this is all there is to me: all glossy surface, these clothes, this hair, this makeup. Circumstances forced me to take an excruciating degree of i in my appearance, and that very i meant others believed I had nothing iing to say.

  Instead, I sighed and reached for my fork, eying the remainders of a steak for which I no longer felt hunger.

  “You want to know why I cried, want to know what’s wrong?” I speared a pieeat. “I’m tired, Dan, that’s what’s wrong.” And nearly added: and I’m sid tired of being dismissed as irrelevant just because I’m pretty, because I’m wearing a dress or I’ve put on lip gloss. Far more urgently, I wao cry out: I’m a man, for fuck’s sake! This isn’t me. This is not who I am!

  He nodded. “You said the same thing st time, on Friday.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Sounds a bit like a stoswer to me, to be ho.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, I get being tired. I really do. But I’m asking what’s wrong, and… that’s all you’ve got?” He spread his hands wide, as though to show he had nothing to offer. “We’re all tired. That’s life. Life’s fug exhausting. I ’t help with that.”

  “I didn’t ask for you help.”

  “But I’m it,” he said. “Is this one of those moments where I’m supposed to take charge?”

  “Fine,” I said. “You want to know the truth, Dan? You’ve treated me like shit all night,” I started, tig each point off on a finger. “You were an hour te because you had ‘better’ people to be with, you order my drink, you order my food, you cut me off and talk over me, you pin like a little bitch when I take a break ioilet—did you ever think maybe I just needed a little space for five minutes?—and then suddenly because I know a couple lines of fug Shakespeare, I’m worth your time?”

  I shook my head. “Screw you, Dan.”

  And then somethiirely remarkable and ued happened: Dan stayed quiet, watg me ptively over steepled fingers. He nodded, once, but didn’t say anything.

  Perhaps because of the ued silence, perhaps because there was finally a spa which I could be heard, I felt pelled to tinue, and it was a relief—a goddamn relief—to get this shit off my shoulders.

  And yeah, I could share all this with Julia, but she took active pleasure in my misery and what I needed right now, what I really needed, was a sympathetic ear. The fact the ear beloo a guy—a guy I’d just kissed—and I could still feel the memory of his touy lips—well, I forced that to one side.

  “Frankly, it’s a goddam miracle I’m still here. You’ve thrown up enough red fgs to ftten a half-dozen a shops. But here I am! I’ve stuck it out because, frankly – what choice do I have? you imagine eople’ll say if I show up on work on Monday having bailed?”

  He nodded. “You think I’ll say something about you.”

  “How should I know? Maybe. Guys be real pricks sometimes, and how am I supposed to know what kind of guy you are? So far, the signs aren’t great. So better to suffer through it, right?

  “But you don’t uand, Dan—you ’t uand—how exhausting it is to have something to say, to have something important to add to the versation, and all the other person does is stare at your tits.” My painted fingernail gleamed in the restaurant’s lights as I poi him. “How long did it take you to get ready tonight? Twenty minutes: shit, shower and shave, right? You threw on a shirt, a tie—got rid of the tie after a few drinks—and out the door?

  “Any idea how long it took me tonight?”

  He shook his head.

  “Two hours, Dan. Two fug hours. Sh and shaving takes a hell of a lot longer when you’re a girl. Moisturiser and body cream. Makeup. Hair – dear God, you have no idea how long it takes to tame all this,” I said, raking fihrough fastidiously straightened hair. “And finally strapping myself into all this”—I swept one hand ay torso—“you have no idea what I’m wearing under here, but fuck me, strapping into this shit and just having to accept that I’m going to be unfortable for the whole night, squeezed and pinched aricted, just so I look… acceptable, live up to expectations that also mean I’ll just be ignored because anyone who wastes two hours of their life on their looks must just be a frivolous bit of fluff, right?

  “So—you asked. What’s wrong? I’m a girl: that’s what wrong, and I’m tired, and I’m angry and frustrated and it all just boiled over for a moment in tears, okay?”

  He nodded again, silently.

  “I’m done, Dan,” I instructed. “Please, speak.”

  He grinned, ever so slightly. “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice?”

  “I’d actually quite like to hear your voiow,” I answered, reag for my gss of wine. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking,”

  “I’m thinking: to thine own self be true.”

  “Still with the Shakespeare?” I sighed. “And what is that even supposed to mean?”

  “It means….” He hesitated. “I don’t know, actually. Be true to yourself. Live yood life? Something like that. Something about authenticity. Always seemed like pretty impossible advice to give—like, we ever really know ourselves?

  “The line seems predicated on an idealised ception of self, a sort of Ptonic self by which to align ourselves. But then, in the py the only person who’s probably “true” to himself is Cudius, ahe vilin, a murderer, a likely adulterer and aowledge hypocrite, so maybe not the best role model, right? So…” he trailed off, and blushed. “Er, sorry.”

  I smiled, and it was maybe the most genuine expression I’d made that night. “No, please,” I said, “tinue.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Because I’m blonde?”

  “Because everyohe same gssy-eyed stare when I start to ramble on about Shakespeare,” he said. “Not just the pretty girls.”

  “Well, this pretty girl isn’t bored. Yet. And I’m just about able to follow along, so long as you don’t use too many big words.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Ammunition was running low but I found a stray slice of citrus-gzed carrot and threw it at him. “Jesus, rex. I’m joking,” I said. “Tell me more about being true to myself.”

  He took an uncharacteristient to think before speaking. “So, it’s not something I’ve really thought through before,” he started. “But first, it’s worth noting the line es after a bunch of ptitudes. Typical, tedious advice from a dad to his son. And the line’s potentially deeply ironic, sihe guy saying it is hardly true to himself and so, as he says, it follows he’s false to others.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment, tapping the table with is finger.

  “However. Maybe more than any of Willy’s other pys, Hamlet’s a py about ag, right?”

  “Willy?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve spent so muy life studying the guy, I feel I’ve earned first-name privileges.”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “Go on.”

  “So everybody’s pying a part: anointed king, devoted daughter, loving mother. And the men in the py, especially, they each give different perspectives on how you might py the same part: that of duty-bound son, of vengeance-seeker. Laertes, Fortinbras, Hamlet, even Pyrrhus ior’s speech—they’ve all lost a father to murder. They’re all seeking revenge. But only one, in doing so, seems “true” to himself: Fortinbras, “strong-in-arm”, who swoops in at the end, gives a tidy little speed wins the py.

  “But Hamlet—we see him try to be that guy, to be the dutiful, murdering son avenging his father’s murder. He creates in his head this cept, this image of who he should be, pares himself to idealised models but he just ’t be “true” to that ception of self, because it’s not who he is. And it’s not that he’s procrastinating or timid—he’s pretty quick to blindly stab people through curtains, or board pirate ships—but he’s a privileged aristocratitellectual, a uy student, a moralistic Christian disdainful of medieval ritual and responsibilities.

  “And so he attempts to py the part he’s been forced to take on, but it’s rue”, never really who he’s meant to be.”

  I stared into the bottom of my gss. “And doing so gets him killed, doesn’t it?”

  He signaled for the waiter. “Well… no, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure Hamlet dies at the end of his tragedy.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But maybe it’s because he -was- true to himself, in the end.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s only after his little detour to Engnd, and after he’s seen a thousand good men march to die on a worthless hill—that is, when he’s finally frohe full absurdity of humaend Willy clearly thought this was important, since he only added it in the rewrite—that he’s finally able to be true to himself. He stops fighting, stops doubting, and simply is.

  “If it’s God’s will that his enemy lives: so be it. Equally, if it’s God’s will that he should be the diviool of judgment… that’s fioo. All that matters—all that a man do—is act wheimes es; everything else is without meaning. Thus, “the readiness is all”: and maybe it follows, then, that it’s only by being true to himself that a man truly be ready when called to act.”

  He psed into silence as the waiter approached. I barely noticed, uedly struck by his words.

  “Hey, you still with me?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t buy it.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough. To be ho, I’m mostly talking out my ass.”

  “No, no, that’s not…” I shook my head. “Everything you said, it sounds good, it sounds like something some five hundred year-dead white guy might write; but that’s not how it works. I mean, how you be true to yourself if your ‘self’ ges? Are you the same person you were ten years ago? Last year? This m?” I gestured at myself, at hair and boobs, little back dress and tear-wrecked makeup. “What if this, all this, is a lie?”

  Dan smiled. “Then I don’t want to know the truth.”

  I bounced another carrot of his chest. “I’m being serious, here.”

  “Well, Hamlet would say it’s all falsehood, anyways. ‘God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another,’ with makeup, right?”

  “But it’s not fair!” I insisted. “Why should spping some shit on my face make me less of a ‘true’ person?”

  “Hey, Hamlet’s a misogynist with mommy issues. Besides, it’s just words, just a knavish piece of work?” He spread his hands wide oable, pgly. “We that have free souls, it touches us not,’ right?”

  I stared at him, frustrated, feeling as though something important, something profound, y just beyond my grasp—a glimpse of some truth underlying the absurdity of being dy sitting here opposite this idiot boy—an idiot boy who, I had tingly admit, roving a touch more iing than I’d anticipated, though perhaps polishing off the bottle of wine had helped a little with that.

  But what was the point of all this talk if it was just… words, words, words?

  Releasing an exasperated puff of breath, I crossed my arms and gred off to the side in a performance of feminine annoyance.

  “Are you ho?” he asked.

  I turned ba. “Excuse me?”

  He grinned. “You’re certainly fair,” he tinued. “And there’s definitely a touch of Ophelia to you.”

  I frowned; prettily, I hoped. “Crazy?”

  His smile widened. “More tragically doomed.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “And loyal.”

  “Er, yeah,” I answered. “Not sure I’m as dutiful a daughter as she was to… um… Poldark? Paul? Her dad, what’s his name, I fet.”

  “Polonius?” Dan raised his gss in mock salute. “To a wretched, rash, intruding fool.”

  “Didn’t he die, too?”

  Dan nodded. “True; but he did have some pretty pithy lines: ‘the apparel oft procims the man.’” He gestured at me with his rgely empty gss. “Or woman.”

  I grimaced, drained my drink, and stood, wavering unsteadily from drunkenness and too-tall heels. “So, what does this apparel procim, then?

  He took a long, appreciative look, his eyes slowly sing up ay body, lingering in the expected pces, before settling ba his seat ptively. His made an idle gesture with his hand: “turn around,” he anded. His uedly authoritative tone sparked a little thrill, a troubled pleasure that seo a silent, slow twirl, deftly spinning in my heels. Finishing with a mock curtsey, aling ba my seat, I awaited his judgment.

  “Beautiful,” he said, and the iy of his gaze and the unabashed hoy in his voice made me want to squirm, though whether with delight or disgust I could not tell.

  “You ftter,” I said, fluttering a hand to yself. “My makeup’s ruined, my face puffy fr.”

  “No,” he said, looking almost ically serious. “I don’t. You look—geous, dy, and I’m sorry—please don’t punch me in the nose!—but I am sorry I didn’t show my appreciation when I arrived, and I was a fool to keep you waiting. You’ll never be my pn B again, I promise.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and it genuinely felt good hearing him say that. “Apology accepted.”

  The waiter approached at that point and Dao order but theated. He turo me.

  “More wine?”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “The dy doth protest too much.”

  Maybe so, but I remembered what happe time. I was far enough into drink to want more, but still sober enough to know it robably a bad idea to tinue. Oher hand—I was finally enjoying myself, unwinding from the stress of the week and free from Julia’s oppressive trol.

  I mean, sure, if he’d asked thirty minutes ago I would’ve refused, easily, but I was actually beginning to enjoy myself, now that Dan was being less of a pribsp; His apology meant more to be than it should have. He was an affable enough guy to hang around with, and yeah, there was something quite fun about having someone pick up the tab for the night.

  While it also made me distinctly unfortable, I couldn’t deny that I ehe attention, the appreciation of my looks and the effort I’d put into them. Yes, I resented having to py the part of dy, of a girl—of this kind of girl—but I’d always ehe bes of good looks, and if stuck being a woman, why not a sexy one?

  Besides, it was a Saturday night, and still early.

  “Go on,” I said. “Fuck it. Another bottle.”

  “What would you like?”

  And smiling, I answered: “you choose.”

  I disappeared to the toilet to fix my makeup while he ordered auro another bottle of red and some beautifully presented crème brulé. We talked, recapturing the ease of a month ago, and damn if I didn’t enjoy myself. I found myself finally able to rex, for the first time that evening, and just slip uhe surface of dy. She took over, ag on automatic, listening attentively, nodding along, smiling, reag out, fleeting little touches leading after anss of wio held hands. We fed each other our final spoonful of dessert, and our chairs crept clether around the table.

  And if he domihe versation, why should that be a bad thing? He did try, asked a few questions, mostly easily deflected, though I was forced to make up a few details about the past, including pying uudy Katherine in a high school produ of Taming of the Shrew.

  Which Dan followed by telling me about a produ of Romeo and Juliet he pyed in a few years back—“just Sampson, just minor roles”—his st year of uy. “It wasn’t very good,” he ceded. “Totally up its own ass, and so caught up with being ‘subversive’ and ‘troversial’ it fot to actually be, you know… good.” He grimaced. “They did it in a so-called ‘authentic’ style.” Notig my bnk stare, he tinued, “you know, with an all-male cast? Women weren’t allowed on stage in Shakespeare’s day,” he said. “So all the parts were performed by men. All those great lovers from the pys—your Juliets and Cleopatras and Titanias—all squeaking, crossdressing boys.” He gave a little gag. “All those cssiantic kisses? Two guys.”

  I hesitated before replying. “Not a fan of two men kissing?”

  “No,” he stated ftly.

  “What happeo ‘to thine own self be true?’”

  Dan shook his head. “That’s different,” he said. “Homosexuality is…,” he hesitated. “It isn’t an idealised self, it’s a deviance from the norm.” He frowned slightly. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Maybe not the way it used to?” Treading carefully, I tried to articute inchoate feelings. “I guess my idea of what’s the ‘norm’ has ged since I’ve moved here.”

  He ughed. “Yeah, the city do that, try girl.”

  “And you feel the same way about men in women’s clothing?”

  “Kind of, yeah,” he admitted. “Like, sure, you be yht? What do I care what somebody else does? But sumptuary ws existed in Willy’s days for a reason, and the fact we’ve sort ht them back says something about today. Workpce dress codes and prescribed fashions are back, and polling suggests it’s all very popur politically, right?

  “Besides, I’ll be ho: I don’t get it. Why would a guy want to wear a bra?” He grinned. “Weren’t you pining how much of a pain all this stuff is?”

  “Sure, but it also be a lot of fun,” I lied. “And a way to express identity and mood. Besides, like you said, ‘geous’ – who doesn’t want to look beautiful?”

  “Yeah, but that means something different for you than for me, right?” Even half-drunk, he couldn’t help himself, one fiapping his in ption. “Given there’s no objective standard of beauty, I mean, it’s all societally prescribed. If I wore what you’re wearing, I wouldn’t look beautiful, I’d look ridiculous. Even worse, I’d look weak.”

  I flushed under my makeup with a fsh of anger. “I’m weak?”

  “Of course not!” he grinned, reag out aly stroking my bared, slender shoulder. “But—you know what I mean. What you’re wearing, it’s desigo emphasise femiributes, and…” he waggled his eyebrows sciviously, “your attributes are most certainly feminine.”

  I punched him in the shoulder. “Pervert.”

  He puffed out his chest. “But I’m a man! And a man should be….?”

  I waited. “Yes?”

  He defted. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  I ughed. “Idiot.”

  Grinning sheepishly, he shook his head. “Maybe. But you know what I’m getting at. It’s not like it was twenty years ago. My parents keep going on about how liberal it all was at the turn of the tury, so open, so free… so fused. Messed up pronouns and transgendered celebrities and nobody had a clue what to wear anymore or who they were.”

  Dan took a drink, stared into his gss for a moment, and shrugged. “I dunno if it’s better these days, but at least people have a clearer idea of what they’re supposed to be.

  “Men are men.” He tapped his chest. “Women are women.” His hand, still lingering on my shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “I should be strong, ambitious, and work hard.”

  Shifting slightly, I withdrew from beh his touch. “And what am I supposed to be?”

  “Exactly what you are,” he answered.

  I hid my blush behind a deep drink of wine.

  And so the eveni: we chatted, flirted, ughed and drink wine. We finished off the bottle and I found myself wanting another, warmly fuzzy and happy despite the unfortable stri of undergarments struggling against a belly full of steak and drink.

  Fortunately, this time Dan didn’t ask. He paid the bill, and suddenly I found myself outside, unsteady in heels and drunkenness, with his arm around my waist as we walked dowreet, past restaurants and cafes and bars, and I kept expeg him to call for a cab but instead we stopped in front of small block of dos after what felt like far too short a walk.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  I blinked up at the well-appointed building, glittering windows and small balies overlooking a small leafy park opposite, green and lush despite the heat. “You live here?”

  He nodded. “Faning up for a drink?”

  “I….”

  He rushed to interrupt. “Hey, no pressure. Listen, I heard you before: I’m not getting id tonight,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I get it. But I’m having a great night. And I hope you’re having ooo now that I’m not being such a dick. And, well…,” he blushed, “I guess I just don’t want the night to end, not yet.”

  I smiled at him and id my hand ft on his chest. “That’s really sweet, Dan. But we both know I should go….”

  He looked crestfallen. “So that’s it?”

  I nodded.

  With a twinkle in his eye, and the hint of a grin, he reached up and cupped my . “Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”

  Despite dreading what had to e , I couldn’t suppress a little smile, nor the words that followed. Damn him, but it was just too good a lieeling myself for the iable and leaning into his hand, I murmured, “what satisfa st thou have to-night?”

  His mouth found mine: soft, tentative. Slight rasp of stubble against my cheek. His eyes closed as he leaned in closer, enced by my ck of resistanbsp; And this kiss, it was different than those before. Before, I’d been half-blind drunk, drowning in some hormonal haze, or lost in memory. And yeah, sure, I was drunk—really drunk; still swimming in a sea of feminine influence; and dogged by the past—but I was still in trol, still me… whatever that meant tonight.

  Everything, tonight: choices, freely made.

  One hand slid down my back, cupped my ass, pulled me closer as the other hand found the base of my neck, fingers pying through long hair. Dan was an alright kisser, I had to cede, not one of the greats but better than I’d expected. A little too wet, a little too eager, and there it was, his tongue sliding its way iween my parted lips.

  I observed all this coldly, ically, wishing to detach myself from the event. Much better to remove myself from the se and watch from the outside, watch this young man and his pretty girlfriend make out in the pool of light dropping from the mp above against the backdrop of the night sky.

  But I couldn’t subsume myself in dy, retreat and py the part, not this time. Trapped in the moment I was forced to experie all as myself, as a man gamely pying the feminine role in this romance—melting into her partner, soft and pliant—because… because, why?

  My eyes fluttered close. His kiss deepened, growing more passionate. Dan pulled me closer. His hands began to roam, along my side, brushing across tits and thigh and shoulder. We twirled as we kissed, slowly and awkwardly in our silly little danbsp; And it felt so… meical, predictable, ridiculous even as I submitted to his toud tongue and waited for it to end. Opening my eyes, I sought some kind of distra from this boy’s touch, and saw:

  A glimpse of someoanding at the er of the building opposite, half-hidden in shadows, watg. A man: Jeff’s height and build; I would’ve bet my life on it. In a way I guess I was.

  What else could I do?

  I gave myself over to the kiss, pletely. Drawing closer to Dan, I whimpered into him, fingers gripping his back with toe-curling abandon. I matched his passion and resolved to put on a show ving enough for that little fucker, for Steele’s spy to take home to the spank bank.

  Until I felt Dan’s cock poking me ihigh, a rude reminder of our first night weeks ago, me sitting on his p, drunk, fused, and the click of his phone capturing the moment his tongue first invaded my mouth.

  Instantly, any sense of detached performance was torn away. Everything became brutally real, and I saw myself then clearly: a man in his thirties trapped in a tiny, tight dress, c in makeup and lingerie, pawed at by some younger guy. Weak and shamed. Disgust swelled my throat and I raised my hands to the boy’s chest to push him bad it was all I could do to avoid screaming—

  Author's Notes

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