You’re supposed to gather up the legs into loops, then put your toes through, and release the material as you draw the tights up your legs. That’s what someone told me anyway. It sounds easy but I’ve never been able to get the hang of it, so I sort of half do it, but end up pretty much pulling them on as if they were trousers. I’m sure I’m not doing it right anyway. At least when they’re 70 dernier you can get away with it, if you’re careful.

They don’t really fit me, but then nothing does. By the time I’ve pulled everything up as far as it’ll go I’m puffing slightly, and starting to sweat, so I lie on my bed for a little while and stare at the ceiling.

Do I look good for you tonight?
Will you accuse me as I hide?

I bought the skirt in the back of a gift shop just off Oxford Street on a trip to Forbidden Planet. There’s a few racks of imported Indian-print clothes there. I brought them to the counter and paid and got out, breath heaving, into the cold winter air. I’d thought I’d kept calm as the Indian woman ran my card through, but I’m sure my face was red. But I had them.

The skirt is long and patchwork; predominantly black, with sections of a paisley-like print, sections of black velvet, and some that are almost filigree. The waist is elasticated, so I knew I could wear it, and has a drawstring with nice metal ends on it. (I’m sure they have a proper name, but I don’t know it.)

I like the way it moves around my legs as I walk and turn, feeling the weave of the carpet through the soles of my tights. But I go back to the bed and pull off my T-shirt and put on the top I got from the same shop.

The censorship of my skin
Is screaming inside and from within

It’s a little tight across the shoulders, and the sleeves aren’t quite long enough, but it was the biggest size they had. It’s pretty though. I like the embroidery patterns on it, and if I stand really straight and set my shoulders just so, it doesn’t feel that tight. So posture counts for something I suppose.

I’m careful not to look in the mirror. It would only depress me. But the clothes let me feel free for a little while, and if I just catch my reflection in the darkness of the window as I turn, I can almost see a feminine silhouette.

And I wish I had been born a girl
Instead of what I am.

There’s a single bang on the door on the ground floor. That’s Ken, with Dave, come to give me a lift to the game. He only ever does one knock, but it’s a hard one, rattling the door in the frame. I go back to my bedroom and pull the skirt down over my hips and let it drop, and pull my usual black jeans on over my tights, and a thick jumper on over the blouse, because the church hall is cold on winter evenings. I’d already planned to do this, thinking myself quite brave, in a pathetic way, I suppose. I put my trainers on, grab my backpack and clatter downstairs.

There’s no-one at the door, of course. Ken would have knocked and returned immediately to the warmth and shelter of the car. A flash of headlamps tells me where they are as I pull the door locked, and I head over and get in the back, shoving detritus out of the way, my knees crammed into the back of the passenger seat in front. I hurry to get the seatbelt on, struggling to find the latch, because Dave’s driving scares me, and it’s foggy tonight.

“You all right Paul?” Ken tilts around in the passenger seat to ask me. He has a friendly, if unshaven, face, and gorgeous, long red hair.

“Yeah.” I grin back. Ken turns back to face front.

“Now I’m going to drive extra-special carefully tonight ’cause the visibility’s so bad,” Dave informs me as he lurches out into the traffic. I grab the handle over the window.

“Good,” I manage to say, through gritted teeth. He gives me a look in the mirror that’s all mischief, but once out on the main road he settles down and is true to his word.

“You know, you really should close your curtains at night,” Ken adds, twisting around again briefly to make it clear he’s talking to me. “Or people are going to be able to look in from the road.”

It feels like my heart is stopping. In the darkness of the back of the car at least they can’t see my face flushing, as I can feel it is. I should say something. I know I should say something, anything, preferably something witty and disarming; but I feel paralysed, and I can only look out at the houses and streetlamps looming past out of the fog.

“So what are you doing to us tonight?” Dave asked Ken, transparently changing the subject.

“As if I’d tell you!”

Yes I wish I had been born a girl
And not this mess of a man.
And not this mess of a man.

I know what it means of course. I’m not stupid, but I’m increasingly careless, even though I still dare not even step outside the door. Somehow, some stupid part of me wanted to be seen, wanted to force the issue and make me actually, finally do something about it. But as Dave and Ken talk about the hardware upgrades they’re going to need to play some new game that’s coming out for the PC, I know that’s not going to happen today, and I’m relieved. Because I’m not ready.

I’m not ready. And I don’t know that I ever will be. It’s all impossible and stupid anyway.