The music from the club washes through me. I sit there swaying to it, letting it flow through my head, my chest, my hips. The day's events have left me thoroughly washed out and I just want to cease being for a moment or two. The pounding beat draws me out onto the dance floor, and I let it dictate my moves.

It isn't enough to get me to accept this latest rejection, however. I can hear her voice as she tells me that she would love to be my friend. Friend zoned, once again. I try and get angry at that, but I can't. The moves don't feel right when I'm angry, and I just want to dance the way the music drives me.

Pretty soon, I notice that I've fallen into an impromptu choreography with some girls on the dance floor. The smile on my face turns into a grin as I realize that they've noticed it as well. This club always has a live DJ in on Tuesday and Thursday nights, which is a good part of the reason that I come in here so often the T days. Tonight shows why. The DJ begins to work with us to create something ephemeral and beautiful in a pulse pounding sort of way.

The five of us are simply parts of one organic whole and the floor clears a bit to give us room. For a moment, a very brief one, I wish that I had longer hair. In my mind's eye I can see it flowing out behind me, a comet's tail to my body's motion. A couple of the girls with me have long, unbound hair, and with three of us it would balance the two with their hair tight up on their heads, or so the artist in me claims.

I regularly drag my artist into the street and shoot him. He's the reason that I took so long to actually go to school and receive a degree that was only now starting to earn me more than a starvation wage.

All too soon the eternity of movement comes to an end. The girls glisten a bit with exertion and they are truly lovely in the lights of the club. They squeal a bit and pull me into a group hug. If they glisten, I'm sure I'm sweating like a pig. They don't seem to notice. My drab clothing stands out next to their club wear, and I begin to look for somewhere dark to escape to.

"Ladies, you've been upgraded to the VIP section for the evening."

This club has a strange VIP policy, another reason I like it. When you are noticed to have a good time, especially on the dance floor, you can get upgraded to the VIP section. On the T days, that means you can meet the DJ, or Band when they have one of those instead. You also get to hang with the club owner.

He's a cool guy, but I always got a slightly off vibe about him whenever I was in the VIP section. It's not that he ever leered at me, and he really seemed to like women more than men, it's just…as if he always looked at me in an appreciative way. Part of the reason I was wearing what I was tonight. I really didn't want to be noticed.

Well, the girls I'd been with had been noticed and I was happy for them, so I move to make my way off the dance floor, but two of them grab my arms and drag me with them.

"They said we were upgraded to VIP, girl. Come on, you'll like it."

I'm too shocked to protest. Nothing about me should speak to my greatest shame, something I try hard to bury. I'm wearing a loose button shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt is even unbuttoned a bit showing my flat, albeit hairless, chest. Before you ask, no I don't wax. Bad genetics. I even left the shirt un-tucked to de-emphasize everything.

There should be no question that I'm a guy. I have the right build at least: Shoulders broader than hips, with the whole being a sort of inverted triangle.

My protest dies on my lips as they drag me through the velvet rope. I look up in time to see the owner staring at me again. I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, and I try to hide in the crowd.

One of the girls notices my actions, and looks in the same direction that I am.

"Collette! Looks like our girl here has been holding out on us. James is looking in our direction like our new friend here is his one last drink of water in the desert."

I shake my head, but the damage is already done.

"No, I'm not…he doesn't…" I whisper furiously. I can't seem to get anything to come out properly tonight. Isn't it enough that my latest hope of a girlfriend dumped me tonight without all of this happening.

"Well, Jane, looks like she can get us an introduction. I've always wanted a chance to sit at his table and guy watch for a couple of hours."

James' table has the best view of the main floor of the club.

They drag me along with them and stand me in front of them with James looking at me appraisingly. I don't want him to look at me like that. It feels too good for me to actually enjoy it. I'm not gay, I say to myself over and over. Even so, no one has ever looked at me like that. My blush deepens.

"So, you finally decided to join me at my table did you?"

My voice is lost somewhere in the butterflies in my stomach. This is a bad idea on so many levels, but the girls don't give me the opportunity to slip away.

"Our girl here seems to be a bit shy off the dance floor, so we thought we'd drag her over here for you."

"Well, let's see if we can drag her out of her shell a little bit, shall we," James replies to the tall blonde who spoke. He says it to me though, and simply gives me a heart-melting smile.

Oh my god, I'm gay. My heart melts in that smile and my knees go weak. Where before they were holding me so I didn't escape, now they are holding me up. There are sounds of concern around me, but I don't really hear them. All I can see, all I can feel, is that single moment, that single smile, and I know I'm lost.

I feel like crying.

"So, who are we all tonight?"

"The same we are every night," I say a bit bleakly with a weak smile on my face. The girls laugh at my poor attempt at humor. I don't dare look at James' face again.

The tall blonde answers first, "I'm Melanie, the cute brunette next to me is Colette. Jane is in the fuck-me heels…"

"Mel!" Jane says, shocked.

"Well, they are kind of fuck-me heels," I say. They have an almost six inch heel and a two inch platform under the toes.

The others giggle and Jane bats me on the arm. If only she were flirting with me, then this might be easier.

"The last of our normal group is Angie, she of the no-skin-showing dress."

"What's wrong with being modest," Angie asks. She is wearing a long sleeved dress that goes to her knees. Her boots disappear above the hem line.

"I think Angie just proves that modest and sexy can share the same bed." I'm on a roll tonight. Angie smiles a friendly smile at me.

James turns the power of his brown eyes at me. I'm pinned to my seat and it's hard to breathe.

"And her name?" he asks. It almost feels like a caress the way he says it.

"We just met her tonight."

"My name is David."

The girls look at me with varying levels of shock.

"What kind of a girl's name is David? What's your real name?" James persists.

It's too much for me. I knew he liked girls, and for some reason he thinks I am one. I could die right there of embarrassment. The tears that were hiding inside me all day break forth and I rush from my seat before anyone can stop me.

I hear someone say, "Stop her," but I don't turn to see who it is. For one moment I saw myself with James, that one glorious moment when I realized I was attracted to him, but that all came crashing down on me the moment that he asked me for something I couldn't give: a name different than my own.

I slip out the fire entrance to the club and sink down against the wall. I'm sure that my silk shirt is ruined, but I don't care at the moment. I just hug my knees and cry.

"There you are, hon. Why'd you run?"

Melanie sits down beside me and pulls me into a hug. She's larger than I am…taller mostly, but with some nice curves that for a moment I envy before pushing the taboo thought down.

"Because I like him, and he'd never want me."

"Sure, you're a little flat on top, but I doubt he cares. Why'd you say your name was David, anyway?"

"Because it is David." I unbutton my shirt the rest of the way and take it off. "I'm a guy, Melanie."

She's speechless for a minute or two, and I figure she'll leave soon. She's looking at me with the strangest expression I've ever seen. She looks away for a moment. She looks back, and blushes.

"Could you put your shirt back on? It's freaking me out."

"I'm sorry that my body looks so horrible to you."

"It's not that. Everything about you is at odds with what my eyes tell me is true. It's like...like looking at a topless photo of a pretty actress, only she has a guy's chest."

I blush at her comment and put my peach colored shirt back on.

"You probably could have picked a more manly color, you know?"

"What's wrong with peach?"

"In the light of the club it looked a little pink."

"It's not like I'm trying to look like a girl. Short hair, no makeup, a shirt and pants. This is definitely not girl clubwear."

"And yet here you are, a girl."

"Huh?"

"Really. Everyone tonight saw it but you, apparently."

"How? I have no hips, no breasts, no real waist to speak of, and I have fairly broad shoulders."

"I have broader shoulders than you have. Hence the clothing choices I make. For someone who claims to be a guy, you did a great job of creating a sexy look."

I blush at turn my face away from her. "What are you talking about?" I mumble.

"You made your shoulders look smaller and your hips look bigger. That and the lines tend to drawn the eye downwards."

My mouth drops open, because I know exactly what she's talking about. Not really how it applies to my clothing, no, but if I were a work of art…

Then it hits me. The open neck of my shirt is an arrow pointing to my navel. Other ways in which I've altered what people look at when they see me come to my artist's mind. Subtly, I've been drawing attention away from my chest and hips focusing them either on my face or my feet.

I sob as the realization hits me. How did I never see this before? I always purchase masculine clothing, avoiding anything even remotely androgynous…and yet…

"It's okay," Melanie says to me.

"How can it be okay? I'm not a girl, and yet apparently everyone thinks I am. Maybe I even think I am somewhere inside, because I dressed myself this way."

She just holds me while I cry. There's nothing pretty about the way I cry. Men are allowed to cry, at least I think so. I'm almost screaming in my agony. Great wracking sobs take me and I hold onto her arm like it's a life preserver from the Titanic.

It's hours in minutes later when I finally calm myself enough that I am simply sniffling a little. Even I can tell my eyes are puffy, and I'm sure I look a mess.

"Come on. Let's get your face fixed up."

"I'm not wearing makeup."

"I know, that's what I want to fix."

Numb from the crying I let her lead me back into the club. I don't even protest when she leads me over to the women's lounge. It's not quite a bathroom, but there are sinks and mirrors in here. She sits me down on one of the round couches and sits down opposite me.

"In the future you're going to have to get your own makeup."

"Wha..?"

"Sharing makeup is unsanitary. I'm doing it this time because you need it. It will help you feel beautiful after that little breakdown of yours."

"I don't want to feel beautiful."

She gives me a look that says she's not buying what I'm selling and sets to work. It feels greasy and a bit cold as she works on my face, at least at first. As she continues to work, however, and the makeup on my face warms to my body temperature, the feeling fades.

I smile a bit as I imagine her paining on my face as if it were one of my own whitewashed canvases. I can see the face slowly come out of my mind and fill up the frame. In my mind, at least, the woman in the picture is a Mona Lisa. Her enigmatic smile hides a depth of character only hinted at in the captured look.

I realize that Melanie has stopped and I look at her with a question in my eyes. Melanie is just looking at me, shocked.

"You sure you're not a girl?" she asks me quietly.

I turn to look in the mirror and what I see amazes me. I see the image from my mind's eye, only the image is me. For years, this girl appeared in my paintings, and I thought her an archetype, a perfect woman, a signature to all of my pieces.

I now realize how wrong I've been. The woman in my paintings is me.

"I'm a woman," I say in a bit of shock. I realize only after I say it how true the statement is. A part of me resonates with the idea.

"I'm a woman," I say with a lot more confidence.

"Hear you roar," Melanie says from her place beside me.

We head back to the VIP area, and sit down next to James, and the other girls, and talk well into the next day. I can feel my attraction for him growing, but I know that after tonight things will go back to the way they were.

The club is closing and James pulls me aside to have a word in private.

At least I thought he wanted a word. He kisses me and light explodes behind my eyelids. I open my mouth to him and feel the force with which he presses me to the wall. I melt into his arms as his kisses become more insistent. I can feel myself becoming aroused, and with what it poking me in the side, I know he is as well. I try not to think of him feeling my own little erection as it embarrasses me for some reason.

"Would you like to come over to my place after we close?" he whispers in my ear.

Oh god, yes. I want to be taken right here and now by this man, but I know who he is too well to let him know that.

"No."

"What? No? But…that kiss, and I know you are into it."

"I'm not looking for a hookup, James, and that's the type of man you are. You would, right now, promise me anything in the world to get into my pants, but it would all evaporate in the morning."

"I'm willing to go gay for you."

I chuckle harshly at him. "That's just it, I'm not gay. My body may have some male characteristics, but I'm a woman. You helped me realize that tonight. I'll always be grateful to you for that, but I'm not going to sleep with you."

I turn to walk away but he grabs me by the arm. "I'd change for you," he says, and his pleading look almost melts me.

"You might mean what you say. You might even change for a time. The problem is that you would likely change back if this is nothing more than your need to get off."

He looks a bit shocked at my crass statement. I smile at him and pat him on the cheek. My hand rests there, like it was made to touch him. I sadly let my hand drop and turn to walk away.

"At least tell me the name of this woman you're becoming," he calls out after me.

As I reach the girls, who waited for me while I had my kiss with the too-handsome man, I call out over my shoulder, "My name is David."

He sputters something so I laugh and link arms with the girls. For once, I don't mind being in the friend zone. I laugh at something Jane says. These girls are my friends. No, we're girls, and we're friends.

"My name is David," I whisper to myself as we finally leave the club, "and I'm a woman."