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Smooth white legs stretch across the sheets, knees rouged like a flapper girl. One of the sheer stockings has already slipped down to his ankle. He doesn’t bother pulling it back up.
He can’t, actually. His body won’t move.
Courtney’s hands grope his skinny waist, his barely-there hips where the panties sit snug, his bony chest, the black lace push-up bra with hardly anything inside of it besides its own padding. She thinks it’s hot to see him squirm. Maybe she thinks she’s dragged him down beneath her by doing this. He doesn’t know.
He does feel small. But not really in the way either of them probably expected.
And there’s sort of a girl in the mirror. Tired and pale, vampiric, but she’s got an angular beauty to her, he’ll admit, with her rosy cheeks and pouting lips and long wet lashes– even her hair’s long enough that she doesn’t need a wig. He doesn’t know if he wants to fuck her. He doesn’t really think so. Maybe he just wants to hold her, feel how cold she is, corpse-girl, songstress, choir-girl, let her tell him it’s fine, it’s fine.
With effort, he drags his eyes all the way over to her, and she does just the same. Hazel. Glimmering with faint tears. His eyes, and no one else’s. Her lips are parted slightly like she wants to say something, but she can’t.
He won’t, either. His voice is too boyish for the girl in the mirror, Courtney’s perfect little porcelain doll, ready to be humiliated just like she’s always wanted, no matter what he really has to say about it- though maybe he does want it, maybe he does, he doesn’t know. Go on, pretty girl, she’ll make you a beautiful stranger. Go on, pretty girl, she’ll make you her dog. Crawl for her, pretty girl. Come for her, pretty girl.
Fucking faggot, a little voice says inside him. Maybe it’s right, but he tries not to think about it.
Look at that. Look at what she’s done. Her girl, hers and only hers, the girl she can break just as easily as she’s ever wanted to, but it’s alright, it’s fine, ‘cause you’re not really a woman and so she’s not really a dyke. That’s it, that’s what she’s done: the makeup’s good, but it isn’t how he’d normally do it himself. Burgundy lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner, foundation, the whole nine yards. It all feels heavy on his face. Maybe it’s for the best he doesn’t have a lick of stubble on him. He doesn’t want to think about how nasty that would make him feel.
Courtney likes the look in his eyes, that sad, lost-puppy look, hazy with just a little bit of booze. He knows she does. It must make her feel powerful, doesn’t it, when she thinks she’s brought you to the bottom. She leers, crawling on him like he’s prey, messy mass of hair dangling over him, the strong scent of her perfume and all that fucking cigarette smoke burgeoning upon his nostrils. God. She’s too much. He hates her. He needs more of her. So much more of her.
She’s the only one who will give this to him.
“Y’know,” she says, grinning nastily, drawing the syllables out in breathy intervals like she knows he’s been waiting to hear this, “if I squint, you really do look like a girl.”
And he shudders, he does, just like she knew he would. And it’s exactly like she’s always wanted.
But you know you wanna be me
so put on your makeup, boy.