#nonbinary transformation

While we waited at the entrance of the restaurant ‒ as I instructed my friends who aren’t part French ‒ I could see the bartenders whispering in our general direction with waiters who were definitively free enough to sit us. Even Tommy, who had never made the trip out to the other side of the Atlantic before, was starting to ask Sage and I whether this was normal. I told him that they might be a little busy, before adding in French, loud enough to be heard even by the bartenders :

"Je me demande pourquoi ils prennent tant de temps à servir leurs clients. (I wonder why they’re taking so much time to serve their clients.)"

I always stood up against unequal treatment back in San Francisco, I don’t know why I shouldn’t do that in France too.

And, lo and behold, a waitress decided to approach us. She started motioning towards a table far enough from any window for us not to give this restaurant any "bad press" ‒ or so I assumed ‒ making me even angrier. So, before she could tell us to follow her, I gave her instruction in the fakest cheery voice I could muster :

"Bonjour ! Excusez-moi, mes amis et moi préfèrerions une place à l’extérieur, pour voir la Tour Eiffel. (Hello ! Excuse me, my friends and I would prefer a seat outside, so that we can see the Eiffel Tower.)"

I looked to my friends, who duly nodded, only having understood "Bonjour" and "Tour Eiffel" from my intervention. The waiter could barely contain her sigh, and motioned us to a nice seat outside, next to flower pots. She handed us the menu, and we took a seat, me satisfied.

"Girl, what was that all about ?" Tommy asked me, his tone flamboyant as always. "I think I missed a beat, because all of a sudden you were speaking French for no reason ? ‒ They don’t want us here. I guess they think queers are outside of their clientele, and I couldn’t exactly stay quiet, you know me… ‒ Be careful, one day it’ll bite you in the back." Sage pinched in, their voice high and a bit nasally. "If the waiters don’t like us, they’ll make sure we have a miserable experience ! ‒ Yeah, they’re right. Girl, you said it yourself that employees in France can be very rude if you’re rude to them ! ‒ I wasn’t rude, I was sarcastic, girl. Big difference." I let my wrist go limp, showcasing my nail job. "Besides I’m right, they can’t refuse us service for being queer ! ‒ You don’t understand, you don’t get away from consequences by being right !"

I continued arguing with Tommy for a little while until Sage finally broke us up and forced us to choose something from the menu before the waitress comes back for our meal ‒ having the one outcome of making us all growl at how expensive this restaurant actually was. I should have chosen a more affordable restaurant to be angry at... Sage had always been the level-headed one of us three, even though they had the most complicated experience of us three. Being a chubby enby in today’s America, especially one who’s broadly transfem, is hard, especially when you not only find no support from family, but they send you to actual torture. But they persevered, and they’re now in a good place with us, with their iconic undercut, beard and makeup combo.

Tommy on the other hand is a lot more similar to me. A very effeminate man, his only major difference from me is the fact that he is quite the muscular guy, which he always shows off with his tank top, and he has a beautiful mop of curly hair he dyes in fantastical colors ‒ pink, as of late. On the other hand, I’m a twinky motherfucker with a short brown ivy league quiff… which I guess is quite similar to other twinks, I’m not that original... I think this is why we always end up arguing. We’re both sarcastic and engaged, we’ve both watched every season of RuPaul’s Drag Race, we both spend our week-ends in bars… People who are too much like one another will end up stepping on each other’s toes !

"Avez-vous fini de choisir ? (Have you finished choosing ?)" Suddenly interrupted the waitress, from behind me. I took a glance at the others, who had already closed their menu. ‒ Oui, c’est bon. (Yes, we did.) ‒ Prendrez-vous un apéritif ? (Will you take an appetizer ?)"

I quickly asked the others if they want one, and both say no. Tommy has been complaining for an hour straight that he needs some protein in his system or he’ll die.

"Non merci. (No, thanks.) ‒ Très bien. Je suis prête à recevoir votre commande. (Very well. I’m ready to write down your order.) ‒ Alors… pour ma part, je vous prendrai des tomates avec du pistou et de la burrata crémeuse, s’il vous plaît. (So… for my part, I’ll take tomatoes with pistou and creamy burrata, please.)" I gave a look to Sage. ‒ Er… Je veux… Dos de Cabillaud Poêlé… s’il vous plaît. (I want… cod fish filet… please.)" They said with a heavy English accent, pointing to the item on the menu ‒ which did seem to appease the waitress somewhat. ‒ I want the… Filet de bœuf, sauce béarnaise & belles frites… er… merci ? (Beef filet, bearnese sauce and fries… er… thanks ?)" Tommy tried, not disproving the stereotype of Americans not being able to speak any other language than English. ‒ Vous voulez une boisson avec ? (You want a drink with that ?) ‒ Excusez-moi, je vais leur demander. (Excuse me, I’ll ask them.) Do you want any drinks ?" I translated. ‒ Oh, I’d want some cocktail if they have one !" Tommy lit up. ‒ Yeah, but they don’t have that." Sage pointed to the drinks part of the menu. "They do have tons of wine, though. ‒ Girl, they’re so expensive…" I complained. ‒ Yeah, but we did say that we wanted to treat ourselves to real French cuisine, right ? Avoiding wine seems like a misstep, and the last time I came here I was too young to try it. ‒ I guess Rosé, then ? I don’t know much about wines, but I’ve already drunk some in my parent’s stash. ‒ Girl, you got to tell me that story." I couldn’t help but get curious. "But which one do we take ? ‒ ‘Rosé du moment’ ?" Tried Sage. "I guess it’s the safest ? ‒ Yeah, I agree. ‒ Okay, I’ll order that. Euh, nous vous prendrons un verre de rosé du moment chacun, s’il vous plaît. (Er, we will take one cup of today’s rosé each, please.) ‒ Très bien, je vous apporte ça ! (Very well, I’ll bring that to you !)" The waitress announced, weirdly chipper all of a sudden.

But I paid no mind to that, as we listened Tommy’s wild stories of sneaking behind the back of his hyper-religious parents. He tasted all the different alcohols inside their secret alcohol stash while still underage, but at the end of the tasting session, though, he was so drunk that he slept in the whole morning afterwards. Thankfully, it was a Saturday and both his parents were too busy to pay attention to him. At that point, the waitress came back with three wine glasses, and immediately started serving us. I was so engrossed by Tommy’s story that I did not pay attention at how that bottle did not open with its distinctive pop sound, nor that it was label-less.

"Bonne dégustation, messieurs. (Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen.)" She said before leaving, insisting on the male referent.

How disgusting is the homophobia on display, here ‒ and I guess transphobia, too, considering Sage. I had almost forgotten how much we were not desired here, with how much fun we were having at that table, until then. I sighed, but decided against translating that. Sage and Tommy are right, I should avoid stirring unnecessary problems, else I’ll put my friends and I in danger. I noticed Sage’s cunning look, and decided to raise my glass.

"What do you say we toast ? For our vacations in Paris ? ‒ Yeah, girl !" Tommy almost shouted, raising his glass so fast a few drops almost fell. ‒ Be careful, Tommy, it’s expensive…" Sage also raised their glass.

And so we all toasted, and took a sip.

"Oh, it’s strong !" I couldn’t help but exclaim, feeling a weird tingle over my body. ‒ Yup, I agree…" Said Tommy with a weird face. "Not bad but… unexepected. ‒ Yeah-"

Suddenly, Sage found themselves taken by a coughing fit. I was about to ask whether they were okay, but when it stopped, they said it was okay with a small but strangely deep voice.

We did not pick up on that detail, though, and Tommy and I just continued talking, sipping our wine. It was weirdly addictive, I must admit, and clearly Sage agreed as they were concentrating on sipping theirs while listening to us. As a result, the discussion naturally shifted to types of alcohol, and I found myself being weirdly passionate on this topic, even though I barely drink any. But I was much more intrigued by Tommy’s hair, as something felt… off about it. Was it the color ? I couldn’t quite place my words on it, so I didn’t raise it to his attention ‒ though I still kept an eye on it.

By the time our meals started arriving, we had drunk quite a few sips of our wines ‒ Sage naturally more than any of us, as they didn’t say a word over the whole discussion.

"Bon appétit, messieurs. (Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.)" The waitress said, once again insisting on ‘sirs’, her voice sounding even more delighted than before. ‒ Merci beaucoup ! (Thank you very much !)" Answered… Tommy ??

Sage and I both looked at Tommy, who had not only suddenly spouted French, but also had a decent accent ?

"Wait, what ? Tomm- … Tom," Why did saying ‘Tommy’ suddenly feel weird ? "when did you learn French ?! ‒ Er…" He ran his hand into his hair, which seemed to be flowing rather fluidly through his fingers. "I… don’t actually know ? Like, it… made sense ?" ‒ What do you mean it made sense ! Girl it doesn’t make any sense ! ‒ Exactly !" He took a sip of his wine, almost automatically. "I don’t understand ! ‒ Tom." Suddenly asserted an unknown deep, booming voice. "I remember you telling me that French couldn’t penetrate that thick head of yours, and suddenly you can speak it ? Something must have happened between those two points."

Tom and I looked at the origin of this voice, finding... Sage ? It wasn’t right, it didn’t fit them, they usually have a rather androgynous voice ! And… their beard also seemed kinda spotty…

"Sage !" Tom interrupted as they were going to continue. "Enough about me, have you stopped voice practice ?!"

Tom had known Sage for a lot longer than me, they actually met before they started transitioning. I… guess it didn’t occur to me that their usual high voice was the result of training…

"No, I haven’t !" They continued, their voice still deep. "… I guess I’m just tired, I don’t know. And it’s not that bad, isn’t it ? It’s such a hassle, sometimes…"

In shock, I took my hand up to my necklace, but instead got a hold of my collar. It felt weirdly prominent, for a t-shirt… but I decided against focusing on it too much for the moment.

"Dude !" Why did I say ‘dude’ instead of ‘girl’ ? "What do you mean a hassle, we’re talking about your gender identity ! ‒ Yeah, well I’m kinda getting annoyed at how everybody’s walking on eggs around me ! The moment I’m anything but cis, everybody’s acting as if I’m a performative they, like I’ll die if even one person misgenders me ! Gender’s so fuckin’ complicated, and it’d be easier if you just used he/him !"

Tom and I were both stunned. I remember them… well I guess him being so happy when th- he overheard me talking about him with they/them pronouns. And he suddenly wanted to throw that all away ?

"I’msorry, Sa- Sedge." I apologized to him. "I didn’t think that you were so upset by this, dude. If that’s what you feel fits best to your gender identity, then I’ll use he/him, bro. ‒ It’s not‒" Sedge sighed, and took a sip of his wine, interrupting his flow for some reason. "It’s just that… I’m assigned male at birth, right ? I’m not really hurt when others think of me as a man, so why forgo the privilege ?" Another sigh, another sip. "And why are we even talking about that when you’ve been spouting ‘bro’ and ‘dude’ like you’re a frat bro !"

I choked on the wine I was mindlessly sipping, making me cough on my… white t-shirt with long sleeves ? I was wearing short sleeves coming in, under that heat ! I put my glass of wine down, but before I could investigate, Sedge pressed on.

"Have you suddenly decided to switch girls with men or what ? I remember you using ‘girl’ all the time ! ‒ That’s not true, bro, I’m not doing that !"

Sedge made me a face, wordlessly telling me that I did the exact thing I was telling I wasn’t. I remember him doing that to me many a time, though I remembered his face having a beard rather than the mere stubble he was wearing.

"Are you sure ? I… don’t even notice it… I guess it’s so natural that it just doesn’t register, man… ‒ How the fuck does it not register ! You just started using it a minute ago ! You don’t just do that ! ‒ Well, dude, you don’t just decide that you’ve always wanted to be called he/him after years of telling me that you wished people would just ask for pronouns, bro ! ‒ How is that even comparable ! Well, if you’re just going to go for ad hominem, then when did you plan to tell us that you were growing your hair ! ‒ Hah ? Well when did you plan to tell us you were shaving your stubble ! And taking a regime, ‘cause you’re looking quite slim, bro ! ‒ Stop inventing stuff ! You‒ ‒ Stop ! Arrêtez ! (Stop !)" Suddenly moderates Tom. "It’s going too far ! We are friends, not enemies ! So calm down ! Besides, we have a meal to eat !"

We both sighed and took a sip of our wine to decompress, before we fully realized what just happened.

Tom had a French accent.

"Tom… what happened… why do you sound French ? ‒ I agree with him, why do you suddenly have a French accent, bro ? En plus j’suis à moitié Français, donc j’ai plus d’autorité sur ça que lui. (Plus I’m half French, so I have more authority on that than him.) ‒ Hey, I heard that !" Complained Sedge… ???? ‒ J’sais pas, ça vient juste naturellement ! (I dunno, it’s just coming naturally !) It’s like when you say ‘bro’, ‘dude’ or ‘man’, your mind just decides to do it and you don’t know why ! ‒ Yeah, bro. I can feel that…" I let a bit of silence, before I had to add a bit of a bad taste joke. "Mais ton accent en anglais est franchement hilarant, tu devrais t’entendre.. (But your accent in English is honestly hilarious, you should listen to yourself...) ‒ Arrête, on n’est pas tous comme toi à être à moitié Américain… (Stop, we’re not all half American like you…)"

Silence then befell our table, and we all took a sip of our wine ‒ not really daring touching our food, and maybe a bit too addicted to our tasty beverage.

I passed my hand through my blonde locks behind my head. Had it been that long since I last went to the barber’s ? And where did my nail polish go ? Fuck, Sedge was right…

"Guys… I think that, somehow, we’re all changing. ‒ J’l’avais pas vu venir, Sherlock. (No shit, Sherlock.) ‒ Welcome to the club, dumb-ass."

I rolled my eyes at their reactions.

"Okay, it wouldn’t have cost you extra to be a bit nicer, bro. ‒ Meh, didn’t feel like it. ‒ You asshole. ‒ OK les gars, vous pouvez parler comme des humains normaux ? (Okay, guys, can you talk like normal human beings ?) ‒ Dit celui qui ne parle qu’en français à une table d’américains… (Says the one that only speaks French at a table full of Americans." I couldn’t help but snark. But looking at their serious faces, I understood that this wasn’t the right move. "Sorry, dude… … Well, what are we doing about all that ? ‒ On pourrait chercher qu’est-ce qui cause les changements ? (We could search for what causes all the changes ?) ‒ Or we could start by listing what has changed." Decided Sedge, still the most astute of us three. "To agree on what everybody has gone through to see when a new thing changes.

We all agreed on that, and started looking at one another for details on others that we might have missed. On Tom, I noticed that his hair had fully become straight, and was coiffed into a simple blonde middle part. He also had lost some muscle mass, getting a leaner build. I noticed that, similarly, Sedge’s hair had morphed into a style slicked to the side, with mass on the side and back making his hair no longer an undercut. I also noticed that his facial features were a lot more masculine, while Tom made us realize that he now had a smooth face, as if it never had any hair.

As for me, Sedge took a picture of my face, and I saw how my hair had become a long blonde middle-part ‒ a far cry from the short ivy league quiff I used to have. Tom on the other hand made me notice that I was bigger, and I was wearing a dress shirt... which seemed obvious yet I didn’t think of it ? In fact, everything about that had that feeling. Like there were some obvious changes that had happened, yet we only noticed them when pointed to us. Like every shift had always been there, as if an alternative reality was superposing on ours.

Makes you wonder if we would even notice a change that happens to us three at the same time. What a scary thought.

"Donc, maintenant on cherche ce qui nous transforme ? J’veux pas dire mais moi, tout ça, ça m’effraie. (So, now we go look for what’s transforming us ? I must admit, all that is scaring me.)" Tom took another sip of his wine, tilting the glass quite a bit. "Merde, il fait trop chaud, aujourd’hui… (Shit, it’s too hot, today…)" He commented, pulling on… his collar ?

Tank tops don’t usually have collars, right ? And he was still wearing a tank top just then, right ?

"C’est le vin. (It’s the wine.)" I declared, before taking a sip myself. ‒ Ouais, je suis d’accord. (Yeah, I agree.)" Added Sedge in an unaccented French, himself sipping his wine. ‒ Alors pourquoi vous continuez à en prendre ? (So why do you continue taking it ?)" Asked Tom, also taking a sip. ‒ Je… ne peux pas m’en empêcher. (I… can’t stop myself.)" Sedge opened up the center of his hoodie, showing off an athletic build. Looking at his smug face, I could tell that it was intentional. "C’est tellement bon, le laisser là serait criminel. (It’s so good, not touching it would be criminal.) ‒ Même si ça nous transforme ? (Even if it transforms us ?)" I asked, rhetorically, as if I wasn’t myself addicted to its taste. ‒ C’est pas une si mauvaise chose, en somme. (It’s not such a bad thing, actually.)"

I noticed how Tom… No, Thomas’s glass was almost empty. He was now fully decked out in a striped dress shirt covering his athletic build, but not as ripped as before. He looked like a completely different man, with his neat straight blonde hair and conservative yet classy clothes, instead of the curly pink mop and pink gym clothes he came with. Someone who clearly fits this establishment’s… tastes a lot better.

Yet, this didn’t bother me. Before, I would have thrown a fuss about how homophobic the direction was, but now that I was wearing this classical style, with my white dress shirt, slacks and neat blonde middle part, I was actually happy to… look normal.

"Les gars, vous voulez qu’on prenne la dernière gorgée tous ensemble ? (Guys, do you want to take the last sip together ?)" Suddenly asked Sedge. "Je ne sais pas ce que ça fera, mais bon, c’est pas comme si on arriverait à s’empêcher de le terminer, de toute façon. (I don’t know what it will do, but honestly, it’s not as if we would even manage to stop ourselves from finishing it.) ‒ Ouais, faisons ça, Sed-… Je veux dire Serge. (Yeah, let’s do that, Sed-… I mean, Serge.) ‒ Ouais mec ! Mais avant ça, dis-moi… (Yeah dude ! But before that, tell me…)" I couldn’t help myself from asking, curious as to how much Serge changed. "Pourquoi t’as ouvert ta chemise ? Gros, j’croyais que t’étais dysphorique avec ton torse ! (Why did you open your shirt ? Bro, I thought you were dysphoric about your torso !)"

Serge smirked, and adjusted the collar of his shirt out, letting more skin show, as well as a checkered pattern inside his collar.

"Pour montrer mes atouts masculins, évidemment. (To show off my masculine assets, of course…)" Serge’s voice was ever so slightly deeper and sultrier, embracing his masculinity even more. ‒ Daaamn bro, you’re looking hot as fuck !" I couldn’t help but catcall. ‒ Well, if you want anything, I’m your man !" Serge’s accent had morphed to a definitely French one. ‒ Dude, you’re gonna be my suave Parisian sweetheart or what ?" I laugh. I’m having too much fun. ‒ Eh les gars, on est en France, ici ! Tout le monde n’est pas à moitié américain comme toi, (Hey, guys, we’re in France, here ! Not everybody’s half American like you,)" Thomas looked at me, interrupting our fake-flirting, before turning to Serge. "ou super doué en anglais comme toi ! Je veux aussi jouer à la drague ! (or is great in English like you ! I also want to play flirting !)" He pouts. ‒ Pardon, j’suis désolé ! (Sorry, I’m sorry !)" Serge punched Thomas’s shoulder, definitely patronizing him. "Bon, c’est pas tout, mais il nous reste qu’une gorgée de rosé ! (Well, then, we all have only one sip of rosé remaining !)"

We all smiled, and made a toast, before gulping the rest of the wine down, ready and happy to accept any and all consequences.

The rest of the lunch went smoothly. We all rediscovered our meals ‒ which had gone cold, we had to ask the restaurant to reheat it, which they were all so happy to do ‒ and then bitched for fifteen minutes about which wine would go best with our respective meals. We ended up ordering a full bottle of white wine ‒ Serge was so ecstatic when he saw that they had his favorite vintage of Champagne ‒ much to the frustration of Thomas who complained that it wouldn’t fit well with meat. However, considering the restaurant didn’t have any red that satisfied his needy tastes, that was a sacrifice worth making.

By the time we ended eating desert, I looked at my Rolex ‒ it’s getting old, I should probably buy myself a new one ‒ and saw that it was already 1:30 PM.

"Les gars, on a encore une demi-heure devant nous avant de repartir au taf. Vous voulez y aller ou pas ? (Guys, we still have 30 minutes until we go back to work. You want to leave or not ?) ‒ Tu parles, moi, même si j’arrive en retard d’une heure rien se passera. Ma mère me donne carte blanche tant que j’me mets pas à la drogue ! (What a joke, on my side if I arrive one hour late nothing will happen. My mom lets me do anything as long as I don’t do drugs !)" Serge laughed. ‒ Tu crois que les poppers ça compte comme de la drogue ? (You think that poppers can be classified as drugs ?)" Asked Thomas, sticking his tongue out. ‒ J’espère pas, mec, sinon j’suis foutu… (I hope not, dude, else I’m cooked…) ‒ Heh, problème de passifs ! (Heh, bottom problems !)" Snarked Serge. "En plus, si je dois vraiment pas en approcher, y’a toujours plein de filles au boulot à ma mère qui voudraient bien de mes couilles ! (Plus, if I have to avoid it, there’s still tons of girls at my mom’s workplace who’d like to experience my dick ! ‒ T’es dégeu, gros… pas comme ça au resto ! Tu vas donner une mauvais impression ! (You’re disgusting, bro… don’t do that at the restaurant ! You’ll give a bad impression !)"

As if I had called it, the waitress came back to us to take away our desert plates. Thankfully she wasn’t there when we let our mask slip !

"Votre déjeuné s’est bien passé ? Voudriez-vous un café ? (Your lunch went well ? Do you want some coffee ?) ‒ Oui, volontiers. (Yes, gladly.)" I answer, somehow still in charge for our table. "Je pense qu’on en veut tous un ici, hein ? (I think we all want one here, huh ?)"

Everybody agreed, so she took our order, and quickly went back with three cups of coffee. By then, our discussion had morphed into talking about economics ‒ after all, as future CEOs and investors, we have to pay attention to that. A much more acceptable subject of discussion at a table of an expensive restaurant with bigoted owners !

Because no matter how much they changed us with their spiked wine, they only applied a coat of paint over our real selves. Made us appear more normal, but did not make us become more normal. Even Serge, who is definitively gloating in his newfound appreciation of masculinity, has later confessed to me still being uncomfortable with being labeled as a man ‒ whence why he now hates his beard.

After our by all means pleasant lunch, we all said goodbye ‘till the evening and went out in our own direction, putting on the classy sunshades we bought when we last went to America to protect against the strong summer sun. Serge went to smoke near his motorbike, Thomas called up a taxi, while I walked towards the Champ de Mars ‒ the company I work being very close by.

As I walked, I decided to call up my best friend, Maria, a childhood friend from when I lived in America who has since taken a strong interest in witchcraft. What happened here would likely be very interesting to her. But as I was explaining how I had been transformed, and how it happened, I made an off-hand comment about us getting some Champagne afterwards, making her immediately react :

"Wait, Champagne ? When did you get filthy rich !"

My name is Killian Ndiaye, and I’m intimately acquainted with its bad side. My father died while I was young, leaving me to be raised along with my younger sisters by only my ma. We weren’t rich by any means, so it meant that my ma made ridiculous hours at her job, and that us, when old enough, had to pitch in with part-time jobs. Thankfully, I was quite an intelligent kid, and still managed to have quite good grades. However, that didn’t mean that school life was easier, as I was always labeled as the “poor nerd” in class, wearing the few simple clothes I owned and sporting the buzzcut my ma cut for me. As she always said, others just cared more about looks than about life.

However, this was not the last of my struggles, quite the countrary as it turned out that I wasn’t the cis straight man I was supposed to become. High school was formative in that sense, as it’s in there that I noticed that I wasn’t into girls like the other guys my age were, and like ma expected me to be. I… had a very hard time admitting that I was gay. Ma always told me that those “queers” didn’t know what life was like, and that they were just living carelessly, wasting their parent’s efforts… I didn’t want to wast my ma’s efforts, as I love her, yet I couldn’t hide from the truth. I’m gay, and that’s just it.

I vainly thought that I just needed not to be like “those gays”, those who live in the hairdresser’s, the clothing store and the clubs, looking all like fairies, and that everything was going to be alright. How shameful it was when, at 17, I started questioning my gender, so disconnected I feel to masculinity and other men’s experiences, and so uncomfortable I am with the facial hair that just won’t stop growing… I thought that if I just suppressed it, if I was just the most “normal” I could be, then everything was going to be alright. That perhaps, I just needed to alleviate a bit my dysphoria, and everything was going to be alright.

However, my ma is a very observant person. As I was approaching majority, she started to make comments about a girlfriend, and about me stubbornly shaving my face. I just dismissed those questions, still foolishly hoping that everything would end well.

When I was 18, she asked me whether I was gay. I couldn’t lie to my ma.

And we arrive to now, a few years later. My ma “didn’t want a fairy in her house”, so I stayed with a few friends. But when they went to college and I couldn’t, I was left to fend for myself alone. Now, I live in the streets, and spend my time alternating between finding part-time work and begging in the city. I do it whenever I need to go somewhere, and though I don’t do anything illegal – I even spend some of my meager funds on a transports card – it absolutely does not mean that I’m suddenly well-liked.

Few are those who spare any money. And on top of that, because I’m a black man, I hear plenty of racist comments. As if they thought I didn’t hear them asking me to “return to my country”, even though I’m already there… And the most depressing fact of this all is, because I can’t really shave anymore, my dysphoria is going through the roof. My life is hell, but I keep at it in the vain hope that I’ll be able to climb back to a respectable life.

However, today was especially terrible. I had found an interesting job of installing the equipment for a big concert, and actually ventured quite far from the center of the city to go to the big theater. When I arrived there, they told me that they weren’t looking for anyone, they had all the help they needed. Dejected, I left, but as I was leaving, another young guy entered. I hang out a bit to hear what was going on, and I heard that he was hired for the temporary job. I guess they thought I would steal from them or something… It’s so unfair ! I love music, and at school always wanted to do something that had a link to it ! I was so hyped to work in this job ! I thought that if I worked hard enough, people would even notice me and my good knowledge of the equipment, and would consider me as a good partner for further work ! But, as ever, all those dreams were, once again, cut short…

On the way back, I started begging, but as I reached the back of the first bus, I saw what looked like a man in a dress, wearing makeup and nail polish, being harassed by an older-looking woman.

“(…) and any sensible person ! How do you expect me to do nothing while a pervert is preparing to go to women’s bathrooms and assault girls ? You should be ashamed of endangering others ! - Miss... please stop… I swear I won’t do anything bad…” The person in a dress said, clearly on the brink of tears. - And how can I trust you ? I know you snakes, you’re just saying this to then go and continue your business unharmed !”

As she was about to continue harassing that person, I decided I needed to step in. I want there to be justice at least somewhere, even if it can’t be in my life. I step between her and the person in a dress, and ask calmly :

“Miss, please stop. They are clearly really hurt by your comments, and everybody around us is uncomfortable with this display.” I say, as I watch everyone else looking away, as if nothing’s happening. Courage shines ever so hard… - Oh, now a beggar is coming ? You should go back to your country or find a goddamn job rather than profiting off of our hard work !” She said, clutching her designer bag, as if I was going to steal it. - Miss, these comments are really racist. Please stop.” I stay, choosing to remain calm and composed. - What, can’t I say what things are ? That’s really all the wokist’s fault, nowadays we can’t say anything, we have to walk on eggshells at all times ! I’m not racist, but if you want racism to stop, you have to stop overreacting at everything !”

She looks at me with a smug look, as I’m about to lose it. I can’t answer anything, because, unfortunately, one can’t argue out of nonsense ! Especially someone like me who’s not trained in rhetoric – I had part-time jobs at the time ! … at least, I can shield that person with a dress from further harassment. I look behind, and see them smiling to me, thankful for my help. If I can help at least one person, I’ll be happy.

Suddenly, the sound of thunder rings in my ears.

No one seems to be bothered by it, save for the old woman who seems to be just as uncomfortable as I am. I turn to see the person I was protecting, however their eyes glow an unnatural color… What’s- Before I can even try and understand what’s happening, a headache strikes, and I instinctively put my hand on my face. Fuck, I hope I haven’t gotten a cold or something, medication is hard to come by…

As I’m holding my face, a few fingers make their way in my beard (ugh). But suddenly, I feel it shifting. Intrigued, I touch my beard more thoroughly, and feel the hairs receding, growing smaller and smaller, until they finally come back under my skin. How did that happen ? I mean, I like not having a beard, but still, it’s not normal… I look in front of me and it seems that the woman is losing wrinkles. What’s happening !

The bus stops. Quite a few people leave. Why was I here ? … yes, I had to do something with the people on it… was it work ? I don’t quite remember… However, as I look around me, I suddenly notice that the people who looked away previously looked a little bigger. As if they were… bulking up ? As I notice that, I feel pain on my body. When I look down, it seems that my undernourished body looks more healthy… No, not just healthy, it looks… muscular ? I’m… inflating, somehow ?

The bus starts again, yet this time, its course seems smoother… I look in front of me and notice that the old – now young – woman’s hair is now tied up in a bun. Almost instinctively, I take my hand to my hair, and feel it moving. What was a short messy afro is growing, however, something even weirder happens. As it grows, I feel strands joining, growing into large spirals. It’s no longer a sponge-like mass, it’s more like… coils ? My hand presses less and less. I need to be careful about my hair, I don’t want to have to go to the hairdresser again !

I stop myself at my thoughts. Hairdresser ? They’re a waste of time ! Only those who don’t care about life – or don’t have to care about life – go to those and try to look good. Yet… it feels good. No, actually, it feels... right… Like, it’s right to want to look good ? I mean, look at me, I have muscles, I have good hair, I look good ! Suddenly, I feel my t-shirt straightening and softening. I look down as its color drains, and it splits in the middle. I smirk, and as the collar hardens and folds, I open it the shirt up to the middle of my chest, right as buttons materialize.

The woman in front of me, now sporting a much more formal costume, sighs and gives me a black jacket. I take it and put it on expertly on top of my dress shirt, fitting it right down to the belt holding my dark jeans. She then sits on one of the seats, more in the front of the bus. She really looks stylish, as one should… after all, fashion is the be-all and end-all ! One of the other passengers comes to me, quite a muscular guy dressed in a black suit, and starts putting makeup on me. I close my eyes as foundation, concealer, mascara, and tattoos are put on my face and body. I can do it all myself, but having a professional do it is always better. That’s why I always go around accompanied.

I suddenly open my eyes. What the hell is happening ! I don’t have a tattoo ! I don’t do makeup ! Hair and clothes suffice ! ... I scratch my shaved sides, until I reach my earrings. Yeah, it suffices… good hair, good clothes, good makeup and good accessories… it suffices…

“Are you good, Mx. Ndiaye ?” The makeup artist asks me. - Yes, don’t worry, I’m good.” I say, with a deep yet feminine voice. It seems wrong somehow… - Do you want to see the results ? - Of fucking course !”

The makeup artist grabs a pocket mirror and holds it to me.

Oh yeah, I’m so fucking gender ! Plus my necklaces oozes fanciness. Like, it makes me look so fucking rich ! I look around me. The vehicle somehow seems more… cramped, even though at the same time it seems more spacious, with its large seats. My head hurts, it really feels like something is wrong…

Suddenly, the limousine stops. Annoyed, I shout to the chauffeur :

“Magdalena ! Why the hell are you stopping ? We’re not at the villa yet !”

The chauffeur looks back. Wasn’t she an old grumpy woman just now ? She looks so young and has such fancy clothes, even though it’s quite clear that she isn’t from high society.

Ugh, my head really hurts...

“I’m sorry, Mx. Ndiaye, we have new guests to pick up at your request.”

I look around and see that person with a dress leaving. Suddenly, it all comes back as a flash of light. I’m not supposed to be an ultra-rich person, I don’t need all of these fancy clothes and accessories ! … I’M SUPPOSED TO BE ON THE STREETS !

That person, as if they were reading in my mind, answers in a rich and deep yet slightly unsettling feminine voice :

“You have the gratitude of the calamities, Mx. Ndiaye. Accept this… gift.” They say, smiling as they get out, followed by the makeup artist and one of my two personal guards – the other staying at the front of the vehicle.

Suddenly, it’s as if a fog descends on my mind. Like, what was I thinking about ? Oh, yeah, I was thinking about my next song that I’ll film in the villa ! Ugh, it’s so annoying that my agent asks me to pump out banger after banger like, I have all the money in the world… but I guess it’s alright to work a little. This way, I get famous and get laid, and that’s the only thing that really matters. As I’m about to shout on the chauffeur to ask why she’s not turning the limousine back on, two guys, a cute twink and hot hunk, climb aboard. I lick my lips. It’s gonna be a great night.

“So, guys,” I say, letting them take place in my arms at my right and my left. “have you heard of my new song that’s gonna come out ? If you’re good enough, I might even let you in in the filming for the clip…”

And the limousine sets off.

The sun comes to my eyes, and I wake up in a giant luxurious queen bed, with my two conquests sleeping tight at my left and my right.

I smile as I get up, naked. Yesterday’s clothes were flung in all directions, and as I approach them, I see they’re all crumpled. I chuckle. We had a ton of fun last night… Besides, Magdalena’s gonna be the one to pick that all up. I take from the closet a nice pair of white pants and a white shirt, and put them on quickly. I go to the balcony, and look at the view.

Life is really unjust.

I get to live the perfect life, while others are left to pick up the remaining pieces.

But when you’re on its good side,