I lean in, just a little, letting him get a whiff of the vanilla. “It’s the name my mom gave me,” I lie, smoothly. “You got a problem with it, honey?”
“Hey there, boys,” I say, my voice a soft alto, not a falsetto. That’s the trick. I don’t squeak. I purr. “Sorry for the wait. What can I get started for you? Beers? A round of ‘I-need-to-sit-downs’?”
But tonight, I’m tired of the almost. Tonight, I want to be seen.
The night winds down. My feet ache in the low wedge heels. The smell of beer is baked into my skin. In the back hallway, away from the cameras, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. The hum of the walk-in freezer is my only music. I pull my phone out of my tiny orange shorts pocket. SissyPov - Jackie Femboy Hooters Hottie - POV-
The end of the shift is just the beginning of the dream.
I look in the small, cracked mirror above the mop sink. The mascara is a little smudged. The wig is still perfect. The lipstick is faded from smiling. I look at the person staring back. She is not a parody of femininity. She is not a kink. She is not a joke to be laughed at by drunk frat boys.
Turn on the charm. As if I have an off switch. I lean in, just a little, letting him
I cap the pitcher. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He knows. Or he suspects.
Table 12 is a bachelor party. Six men in various states of drunk, wearing matching “Last Ride” t-shirts. The groom-to-be is a beefy guy with a red face and nervous eyes. When I approach, I don’t walk like a man pretending to be a woman. I walk like a woman who knows exactly what power she holds. Hips sway, tray balanced on my fingertips, a smile that is 70% genuine warmth and 30% pure mischief. That’s the trick
There it is. Not a fetish. Not a trick. A recognition. I let my mask slip, just for a second. I let him see the boy I was—the one who used to stare in the mirror and feel nothing—and the woman I am becoming. The me that exists in the hyphen between genders.
I smile, and this time it’s all warmth. “Good answer. Your whiskey’s on the house.”
Later, at the bar, I’m filling a pitcher of Coors Light. A guy in a polo shirt—corporate, mid-thirties, wedding ring tan line—slides onto the stool next to the service station. He’s been nursing a single whiskey for an hour, watching me.