Controlled Variables

Trevor sat on the edge of his bed, legs slightly apart, arms braced against his knees, staring down at the small pile of clothes he'd "borrowed."

They lay there like cursed artifacts.

A peach camisole. A tight black pencil skirt. A light blue cardigan. The strange vintage shapewear. A lacy pink thong that he had already mentally buried in the "do not engage" category.

The room was quiet, save for the muffled hum of the dishwasher and his heart pounding softly in his ears.

"All right, Tapper," he whispered. "Be a scientist."

He reached for the cardigan first. The lightest of the options.

It slid over his arms like silk. One sleeve. Then the other. He smoothed it over his chest and buttoned just the middle.

Nothing happened for a second. Then—

His feet lifted.

Just a couple inches.

"Whoa—whoa—" he flailed a bit, his balance tipping slightly forward, then back. The room tilted around him, and for a surreal heartbeat, Trevor was weightless.

Not flying. Not soaring through Metropolis like Power Girl on patrol.

But hovering. Gently. Shakily.

It's me, he realized, heart quickening. It's not the blouse. It's not one specific item. It's the clothes. All of them. All women's.

He leaned slightly forward and drifted that direction. He shifted backward and hovered an inch or two back. With effort, he moved sideways, grazing the edge of his desk.

"Controlled propulsion," he murmured. "Directional movement through micro-adjustments in balance. Oh my god. Oh my god."

He floated past his dresser and tried to turn mid-air—then over-rotated and wobbled.

"Okay. Not precise yet. But it's real."

He shrugged the cardigan off, and the instant it slid from his shoulders, he dropped back to the floor with a soft thump.

"That's… repeatable," he breathed. “That's confirmation.”

His hands were shaking slightly as he laid the cardigan aside.

One piece at a time. Observe. Test. Document.

Next: the pencil skirt.

He hesitated.

It looked small. Way too small.

But he was committed now.

Trevor stepped into it and pulled it up with effort, shimmying and tugging until the waistband hugged his hips. The fabric clung tight, compressing his thighs, tapering all the way down to just above his knees.

He took a breath and waited to float.

Nothing.

No lift. No tingling hum. Not even a warm sensation.

"Okay," he said out loud. "Not all items give flight. Good to know."

But something was happening.

He didn’t feel weightless. He felt… grounded. Focused. Like the wires between his brain and body had suddenly been scrubbed clean.

He took a cautious step forward. Then another.

Each one felt poised. Natural. Confident, almost elegant.

Trevor reached for a tennis ball from under his bed, tossed it up, and caught it behind his back. Then he did it again. Higher. Caught it blind.

He blinked.

"Okay. That was new."

On a hunch, he moved into the center of the room, crouched slightly, and attempted a cartwheel.

He had never done a cartwheel in his life.

But he nailed it. Hands flat, legs up, skirt tight, but still landing steady.

Trevor laughed—a breathless, disbelieving noise—as he caught his reflection mid-pose.

His pale torso bare, still shirtless from the earlier shower. His legs encased in the black pencil skirt. His chest rising and falling.

His mom's pencil skirt.

"Jesus, what am I doing?"

He tried to shake it off, but the rush of coordination remained. He lunged forward, spun, caught the ball again in one smooth motion.

It wasn't Olympic-level. But for someone who'd barely passed gym class, it was like being upgraded.

He could move.

Time slipped by unnoticed as he practiced turns, high steps, balance tests—an accidental ballet of discovery.

But then he paused, eyes landing again on the cardigan.

He'd been uncoordinated in it before. Hovering but clumsy. Uncertain.

Now?

Now he had control. Now he was agile.

Slowly, Trevor picked up the cardigan and pulled it back on, careful not to disturb the skirt.

The moment it settled over his shoulders—

He rose.

Only a few inches, but steady. Balanced. He lifted one foot, then the other. No wobble.

He leaned forward and glided smoothly toward the dresser. He hovered backwards, did a slow spin in place.

His arms extended. His legs stayed tight together, skirt clinging like a second skin, and for the first time—he flew.

Not far. Not fast.

But deliberately. Skillfully.

He drifted in a slow circle around the room, adjusting with breath and thought. He even managed to rise a few inches higher, just enough to feel his hair brush the ceiling fan's pull of air.

A strange sound escaped him—a kind of half-laugh, half-sob.

He'd wanted this his whole life.

He just never imagined this would be how it happened.

The waistband of the skirt rubbed against his lower abdomen as he turned. He became uncomfortably aware of the pressure. Of the way his penis pressed against the inside of the tight fabric, outlined faintly, shifting with every step, every movement. Every time he rose or drifted, he felt it brush.

He tried to ignore it, and failed.

He was floating.

But grounded. Embarrassed. Aroused. Confused.

"Okay," he said aloud, voice cracking a little. "That’s… that's enough for now."

He landed gently, removed the cardigan with care, then stepped hurriedly out of the skirt, trying not to think about the friction, or how warm he'd gotten.

"Trevor!" his mom called from the kitchen. "Dinner's on the table!"

He flinched.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

He scrambled to throw on his jeans and hoodie, nearly forgetting the t-shirt underneath.

He reached for it—then paused.

The shapewear lay there. Old. Beige. Faintly intimidating.

He swallowed.

"Two birds. One stone," he muttered.

Trevor slipped it over his head.