I feel the smooth silk of my dress rub against my skin. The dress is thin and reaches all the way down to my ankles. It has a basic horizontal stripe pattern going down it. It has holes for my slender arms but no sleeves. Wearing it, I feel like a simple farm girl, barefoot, with long black hair and pale freckled skin that is quite susceptible to the sun's kiss. I turn to the full-length mirror in my room and look at myself.
"I'm beautiful," I say out loud in a commanding tone, as if trying to convince a person who isn't really here.
I put my hand to the mirror and observe the details of my own face. My eyes are amber, my nose is small, as is my mouth. The skin on my face seems to have an attraction to the freckles scattered all over my body. It is hard to argue. My face has a feminine look to it, even without the intricate layer of makeup I usually apply.
Is that why I do this? Is it the natural femininity of myself that inspires me to stand before the mirror and try on the many different outfits I own?
The thing about me you need to understand is that as feminine as I appear, I am not a girl. I am a guy. I am not really sure how this whole thing started. No, not this thing. I will call it by what it is. Crossdressing. I am a dirty, disgusting, absolutely unforgivable crossdresser. I have been engaging in this filthy activity for the last few months and have yet to find a way to truly stop myself.
Thinking about all of this only fuels my anger. Anger over every flaw, every little thing that exposes what I truly am.
"I'm a freak!"
With that, I rip off the dress and throw it into the corner of my room. Now, looking at myself in my underwear, I can finally see the truth. I am not a woman. That is fact. That is reality. That is the sad, despicable truth.