Night-time, 1990

A dark Sydney evening. Alone in my lover's apartment, the night lamp glowing by the bed. She is out; with dark lipstick on her wide lips and shining stilettos on her long legs, she will have combs in, to tame her unruly red hair. Her tall bony frame is not unlike mine.

I have nothing to do. I should undress and sleep. I open her wardrobe and peer inside. Pull out the long, slim dress of shot silk, the colour of deep forest. In it, she looks perfect.

Gingerly, I slide into its sleek sheen and zip it tight, glancing hesitantly at myself in the mirror. I notice how right it would look for me to have small breasts, and hairless legs; how well the fabric and its contours suit me, nevertheless. Even if I cannot shapeshift; even despite my Adam's apple and man's feet. I see that the outfit matches my figure, my demeanour.

I kneel on the bed, still looking at the reflection. Wearing her dress, I desire her all the more. I lift the skirt, green turning black in the shadows, until my hard cock can emerge. Against the watery darkness of the cloth, my penis looks huge, alien yet integral.

I gaze at how the angled light crafts azure glints from silk, and glistens on my stretched skin. I grieve how this close-cut dress can't contain male sexual excitement.

I let the fabric fall down. I stand, and the reflection turns away from me. I unzip the dress, put it back on the hanger, return it to the darkness of the closet and close the door. I do not know what it is I feel, except that it is impossible.

I don’t ever mention this to her.

I shall never be a woman.