Instead of my own image, there was a girl getting dressed. She was about my own age. Similar height. Brown hair like mine only longer and straight down to her shoulders with a lovely sheen. She had brown eyes like mine but with a trace of eye-shadow. Her eyebrows were neatly narrowed. She had a light application of lipstick and some modest make-up which enhanced her flawless complexion. She wore a black bra and matching brief brief panties. Her waist was slender and hips gently curving giving her a classic hour-glass figure with long slender legs.

As I watched, she put on a white long sleeved blouse with a stand up collar. The outline of the black bra clearly visible through the white fabric and emphasised the line of her breasts. She then stepped into a pair of black slacks and I noticed that she did them up with a zip at the side so that they had a completely smooth front. Strappy black sandals with two inch heels were highlighted by red painted toenails and a wide black belt completed the outfit. Her finger nails matched her toes. She added a few accessories — tiny gold clip-on earrings, a thin gold necklace and a gold bangle on her wrist.

Then the picture slowly faded and my own image reappeared. Tousled hair, a five o'clock shadow as I had not yet shaved, flat hairy chest and a manly bulge in my Y fronts.

I knew there and then that I wanted to be that girl! I want to live in her body, to dress in her clothes.

I found it disconcerting as I had never had such a feeling before, but it was to recur time and time again, stronger and stronger. Who was she? I don't have a twin. Was it me, in another gender?
Is there another, female, self? I shall never know. But I can dream. I wish I could be her.

Fiction by Johnny Cumlately.

August 2012.

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