Skirting the Subject

Morning arrived with a soft, gentle light stretching across the room, as if the day was reaching for Craig's resting body. He lay very still beneath the sheets, eyes open, staring at nothing in particular, watching the sun's arrival. Despite it being the weekend, it wasn't a morning that filled him with the optimism that usually accompanied waking up on a Saturday morning. The results of his overnight visit with Eros had taken care of that.

Cotton wrapped around his shoulders. Linen twisted around his legs.

And beneath all of it: red lace.

He could feel it without looking. The thin straps crossing his torso. The barely-there fabric at his hips. A reminder pressed against his skin before he'd even fully gathered his thoughts.

No hint of a hangover was drilling into his skull. That was the first truly strange thing. After the amount he'd drunk, he should have been wrecked. Head pounding. Stomach roiling. Mouth dry as paper. Instead, his head felt clear. Not just clear. Sharp. Focused. Body steady. No nausea. No dizziness. No ache behind the eyes.

A small mercy from Eros, he supposed.

His gaze drifted toward the dresser.

The shrine sat exactly where he'd left it, but the candle had burned itself down to nothing. Wax had overflowed the dish and spilled over the edge, hardened rivulets trailing down the front of the wood like frozen tears. The roses had begun to wilt. Fruit still gleamed in the bowl, absurdly wholesome.

The candle wax was the least of his worries.

Awareness crept downward.

His feet were not resting flat beneath the sheets. Even relaxed, they remained extended: toes pointed, arches lifted. The position felt natural in the same way breathing felt natural. Effortless. Default.

A slow grimace pulled at his mouth. Flat shoes were no longer an option. Flat walking wasn't even an option.

He tried to imagine what his life would be from that point on, these bizarre changes brought on by a god out of antiquity. A picture rose uninvited: himself on a beach, sun bright overhead, sand shifting beneath permanently pointed toes. A tiny white bikini clinging to a body that still carried a masculine body beneath it. Was that what he had to look forward to?

Thanks, Eros.

Carefully, he disentangled himself from the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, keeping his weight forward so his heels wouldn't touch the floor. The red marabou slippers waited exactly where they had been in the night.

Waiting felt like the right word.

Sliding into them brought immediate relief, not relief from pain, but relief from wrongness. Standing in heels felt aligned now. Balanced. Strong.

And that was the part he hated most.

Because it felt incredible. His posture straightened automatically. Core engaged. Balance centred. There was a strange buoyancy to his body, like gravity had shifted in his favour. In heels, he felt capable. Agile. Fast. As though he could sprint down the hallway without missing a step.

Eros had been thorough.

What he needed was a shower. The bar's heat still lingered faintly in his memory. It's distinct mixture of scents having worked their way into his nose, Craig felt that he could almost taste the night's sensory experience of sweat, bodies, and stale beer. Despite the absence of a hangover, he felt spent. Physically spent. Emotionally spent.

It was pure habit that guided him to the dresser. He could have stayed in bed, wallowed in his misery, but Craig's body wanted to move, and so he moved.

Drawer open. A pair of panties came out first, pink this time. Soft lace. An automatic selection, not made with any particular effort.

From the closet, a red halter top that tied behind the neck.

Then he needed some pants.

The drawer slid open.

Silence.

Skirts.

Only skirts.

Pleated. Leather. Tartan. Denim. Short enough to be alarming. Longer ones, too, but nothing that could remotely pass for trousers.

"No," he muttered.

The chair by the wall held what he'd tossed there the night before, except it wasn't his work jeans anymore. A short denim miniskirt draped casually over the back, like it had always belonged there.

Closet doors opened wider. Longer skirts hung neatly. And beside them, new additions.

Dresses.

Full-length. Midi. Cocktail. Casual cotton. Patterns and solids. Hangers crowded closer than they had yesterday.

"Damnit, Eros."

Coverage. That was the goal. Craig didn't need to overcomplicate an already complicated situation. He just needed to grab something.

A long white skirt came off its hanger. It brushed the floor, promising modesty. Promising safety.

After a pause, and a flare of resentment at his inability to argue his case to his tormentor, he reached for a pair of strappy stilettos. Slippers wouldn't cut it outside the bedroom, and standing flat-footed wasn't survivable.

The shower brought a fresh wave of nerves. Wet tile. Soap. Balance. But stepping under the spray revealed yet another adjustment. Subtle metal bars had appeared along the tiled walls. Discreet. Functional.

But even beyond that, Craig's toes gripped naturally against the surface. Calves engaged without strain. Not as effortless as heels, but stable. Secure.

Eros had accounted for that too.

Water streamed down his shoulders. Steam filled the room. Standing high on the balls of his feet felt almost… elegant. A little tiring, yes. Muscles working in unfamiliar ways. But there was no slipping. No panic.

Afterward, a towel wrapped around his torso. He dried carefully, studying the body that refused to change in some ways and transformed mercilessly in others. Outside of how he was standing, he was exactly the same as he had been a week earlier. Standing in the steamy bathroom, Craig could almost imagine that his life hadn't changed, that when he left the room and rejoined the rest of the world, everything would be back to normal.

But it wasn't.

He slid the pink lace up his legs first. The halter top next, fabric snug against his chest, tying at the back of his neck. Then the skirt. It slid over his hips easily. Once settled, the reality revealed itself: a long slit up one side. Not subtle. Not modest. One full leg exposed with every shift of weight.

Then, crouching down, he strapped himself into the heels that had felt like **** devices the night before but now felt like relief.

A long exhale escaped him.

Of course.

Teeth brushed. Hair combed. Eyes avoided in the mirror for longer than usual. If he didn't look too hard, maybe it wouldn't feel so real.

Dirty clothes gathered and returned to the bedroom. The hamper, once a collection of denim and cotton and neutral colours, now overflowed with lace and satin and delicate fabrics that didn't belong to the version of himself he still pictured internally.

The kitchen light felt harsher, shining down on him with judgement.

Eggs cracked into a pan. Butter sizzled. Toast browned. A tomato sliced neatly, bright red against the cutting board.

Heels clicked softly against tile as he moved.

Sitting at the table, phone in hand, he scrolled without thinking. Then curiosity, or dread, nudged him.

His own profile.

Scroll. Every photo. Every single one.

Dad’s birthday last month: black dress, short and fitted, smiling beside a cake.

Golfing with the guys: white pleated skirt, cropped collared tee, heels sinking into green turf.

A work selfie: denim miniskirt, tube top, grin aimed at the camera like nothing about it was unusual.

"No. No, no."

Photos app.

New Year’s resolution gym phase: pink yoga shorts, sports bra, high-heeled sneakers.

A dinner selfie: blue and white polka-dot dress, low neckline, apron tied at the waist, wooden spoon in hand.

Even the past had been rewritten.

Fork scraped against plate as he resumed eating, appetite dulled but functional. Depression crept in quietly.

Why couldn't he just have his old life back? Eros' voice echoed from memory: You are buried. Distracted.

He didn't want that to be true. A contented, uncomplicated life was what he craved. But buried? Distracted? Yes, there had been sadness. Restlessness. Nights filled with noise, games, television, drinks anything loud enough to drown out quieter thoughts.

He finished his meal and carried dishes to the sink. Dishwasher door opened. Plates stacked. Water ran.

The skirt swished against his legs as he moved.

He noticed it.

He tried not to.

Saturday stretched ahead of him, empty and wide. Normally he would find something to do; meet someone, wander downtown, kill time somewhere public and loud.

Today, the idea of stepping outside felt unbearable.

Staying home. Hiding. Avoiding the world. That sounded safer.

At least until Eros decided to intervene again.