genderFucked.

I. ”you're pretty.“ the words spill from his chapped lips like vomit, as if he had meant it to be an insult, and for a moment you just want to actually vomit, chuck out the fat amongst all the pretties, paint the bathroom porcelain in a new version of the rainbow (green-brown-green-yellow-green-brown-green), get it all out until there's nothing but bones and skin and muscle and man. nothing but a handsome.

III. the first time you fuck him, it's a lot different from what either of you had expected, there's none of the awkward glaring and stupid questions. all that you had wanted was talk (and now that you think back, you don't even remember why) – but all of all sudden, you were on your back, and then there was skin on skin and hands in places and tab a went into slot b. (you went home later that night to puke, to purge out all of the beautifuls, all the baby girls, all the pussys, all those hands in places where they don't belong.)

V. it takes another few weeks until you fuck him again. this time, he's drunk, and the whole process of add bed-subtract clothes-tab a-slot b goes over a lot less awkward than the first time. you wind up falling asleep in his arms, but not before 'officially' declaring him your boyfriend. thinking back now, you kind of wish you had been drunk that night as well; at least, it would have given you an excuse to call it off right away.

VII. sometimes, you would watch yourself dress in the mirror, watch yourself transform from woman to man ever so slowly, and just the thought of seeing the right person staring back at you would make you incredibly happy. (sometimes, he would also watch you dress, and just the thought of him glancing at your half-naked body, the feeling of his eyes tracing every single curve would make you sick; it would all remind you that this was nothing but an elaborate masquerade.)

IX. it's about two years after that fuck when you first start questioning why you're still with him, or perhaps that should be why you haven't left him yet; since there is no “with him”, all there is is he. he and an illusion of the girlfriend you aren't. and you think about the things he says, the ones about pretty girls and cunts and tits and other four letter words, and no matter how much the thought of this hurts, all you can think is how somehow this is much more desirable than the idea of being alone.

XI. the room is dark, but your eyes are closed either way; small groans are leaving his mouth, and you can smell his skin. “does this”, you say, mainly as an excuse to take a deep breath, “does this feel good?” he smiles and pushes you towards him, running a hand across the back of your head. “you look so beautiful like this, baby, you know”, he mumbles and leans back, and with every word the idea of just biting down gets more and more tempting.

XIII. “so.. when did this start? you know, the whole thing?”, he asks, and just by the way he uses his words you can tell that his heart isn't really in it. you think back, back to way before, before him, and the memories are just as vivid as the actual experience, and you can almost feel the blood on your hands and almost smell the smell of vomit and something else you'd rather not think about. you swallow. “i don't remember”, you say, and judged by the look on his face he actually believes you.

XV. your head is spinning when you throw your bags onto the backseat, and you can't tell which part is from excitement and which is from the vodka, but your hands are completely calm when you put them onto the steering wheel, like it was made just for you to hold onto. the streets are dark and wet from the rain underneath the wheels, but you've never felt this comfortable in your life, and the speed goes up up up up up 70 80 90 mph and beyond, far beyond. and as you feel the bright white of the headlights coming closer and closer you can't help but think that you've made the right decision.