The Risk It Takes to Bloom by Raquel Willis

Author:Raquel Willis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

13

The Labyrinth of Desire

Damon’s invitation made me feel special, at least for the night. When he pinged over his address, our days of inconsistent flirtation moved from the hypothetical to real. I hopped up to get ready as danger and excitement swirled in my body. I ripped off my work attire, swapping my sensible black slacks for a miniskirt of the same color. And I grazed my hand across my legs searching for any stray hairs. We’re good, I thought. So I smoothed on some cocoa butter lotion, paying extra attention to childhood scars. I might not have had flawless skin like the models in Skintimate commercials, but I thanked the estrogen goddesses anyway. Hormone replacement therapy had softened my muscle tone, carving divots into my waistline. I’d admire them whenever I caught a glimpse of my figure, marveling at how unmistakable my womanhood appeared to me now. “This will have to do,” I said to myself. I felt beautiful, sexy even, but after years of hormones, I certainly wasn’t like any of the women I saw on TV. In fact, I didn’t know what kind of woman I was, what kind of woman men saw me as. The Internet had been my only source of regular media featuring trans women, and the options seemed limited for us. There were those who strived to be top-tier actresses, those who were living out their editorial fashion dreams, and even the dolls who racked up social media engagement and moonlighted as escorts. Almost all of them fit a particular beauty standard: thin or toned, curvaceous, and utterly imperceptible. What if I wasn’t those things? Was that OK? Would Damon think I was OK?

I forced a smile as I looked in the mirror, then slammed my favorite crop top over my head. It had this multicolored galaxy print. Out of this world, hunny! I touched up my makeup, refusing to put on a whole new beat for some random boy. I’d learned to wear less cosmetics during my stealth days at the Chronicle. If it was good enough to help me fly under the radar in my professional life, it’d work now. Plus, I didn’t want to risk overdoing it, jeopardizing the realness factor. This was when it really mattered. I hurriedly spritzed the ends of my hair with a heat protector, then ran the flat iron over them. The little sizzle on the strands was gratifying whether it was a signal of heat damage or not. I made sure to part my hair in such a way that my slicked-down undercut was hidden. It was a haircut that felt necessary when I was dating Nati, like assurance that I hadn’t fully turned my back on my queerness. Now, it didn’t serve me as I vied for the interest of cishet men.

Loneliness had brought me to meeting random guys on dating, or rather hook-up, apps. Each one was different. There was one man, a tall, slender thing, who fancied himself a poet. He kept me up all night with philosophical musings as we popped molly and indulged in each other.

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