TGIF

Craig woke before the alarm. Not just a few minutes before it, either. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an ugly red 4:47 a.m. into the dim pink bedroom, a time so offensively early that even back when he worked at the warehouse he would've still been asleep for another hour.

And yet he felt fantastic.

Not groggy. Not stiff. Not exhausted from dancing half the previous afternoon in platform heels while an aggressively enthusiastic pole instructor praised his "natural movement quality."

Rested.

Deeply rested.

Like he'd slept for twelve uninterrupted hours wrapped in clouds and warm blankets instead of six-and-a-half in lingerie.

Craig sat upright slowly beneath the pink comforter, blinking at the room around him. Everything remained exactly where it'd been the night before. The vanity crowded with cosmetics. The shelves lined with dolls. The increasingly ridiculous collection of heels arranged with near showroom precision beside the closet.

And there, sitting quietly beside the perfume bottles and makeup palettes, was the little makeshift shrine to Eros.

His jaw tightened immediately. The candle remained unlit. He could try again. Light it. Focus. Speak to the god directly and plead his case like some exhausted mortal trapped in a Greek myth. Only the last attempt had gone catastrophically wrong.

Craig's gaze drifted downward automatically toward his feet beneath the blankets. One conversation with Eros and suddenly walking flat-footed felt like medieval ****. That had apparently been the love god's idea of compromise.

What would happen next time? Lose the ability to wear men's clothing entirely? Wake up craving lipstick? Start enjoying the pole dancing?

"No thanks," he muttered. Best not to gamble with divine stupidity before sunrise.

The thought settled things enough for him to finally throw back the blankets and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Instinct guided his feet neatly into the stilettos waiting beside the mattress. Pink today. Four-inch heel. They went with the room. And what he was wearing.

They fit perfectly.

Craig stood, smoothing absentmindedly at the soft pink babydoll draped over his body. Faux fur trimmed the neckline and hem, ridiculous and feminine and somehow incredibly comfortable against his skin. Matching panties hugged him snugly beneath the sheer material.

Another thing that bothered him more than he wanted to admit: the lingerie wasn't merely becoming tolerable anymore. Last night he'd chosen it. Not reluctantly. Not because he lacked alternatives. He'd stood in front of the drawer, run his fingers through lace and satin and mesh, and intentionally selected the pink babydoll because he'd liked it best. Liked how it looked. Liked how it felt.

The memory made something twist uneasily in his stomach.

At the time he'd immediately shaken the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. Craig was still Craig. Clothing didn't change that. Lingerie didn't rewrite who he was. Even if Eros seemed determined to blur every line he could find.

The apartment greeted him with silence as he stepped into the hallway, heels clicking crisply against hardwood. At least there was one advantage to Frank no longer living there. No awkward encounters while wandering around dressed like a Valentine's Day catalogue.

Not that Frank ever reacted like anything was strange anyway. Nobody did. That part unnerved him more than the clothes themselves.

The bathroom lights flicked on. Craig grabbed his toothbrush, then froze slightly as his eyes swept across the counters. The products had multiplied again. Not dramatically. Just... subtly. Enough that the room looked fuller than yesterday.

A curling iron rested beside the sink now. Three new perfume bottles crowded the shelf. There were makeup brushes arranged neatly in a ceramic cup, each one immediately recognizable somehow. Foundation brush. Blending brush. Fan brush. Angled contour brush.

His brain supplied the information effortlessly.

The perfume in the pink bottle carried floral top notes with vanilla undertones and worked best for evenings or colder weather. The gold-capped one paired well with darker outfits and came across more mature. A volumizing mousse sat beside the mirror that would apparently help add body before heat styling.

Craig stared at the products in horror. He knew what all of it was. Worse, he knew how to use it.

"Absolutely not."

Toothpaste foam dribbled into the sink as he spat aggressively and rinsed his mouth. Then came the shower. Hot water poured over him in steady waves while he balanced naturally on his toes beneath the spray. The feminine bodywash foamed richly across his skin, lavender and coconut filling the steam-heavy air.

Then his hand brushed over his shin. Stubble. The reaction hit instantly. Revulsion twisted through him so sharply it made his stomach lurch.

"Oh, God..."

His skin crawled. The sensation of roughness along his legs suddenly felt unbearable. Dirty somehow. Wrong. Without even thinking about it, Craig reached immediately for the razor sitting on the shower shelf.

Pink.

Shaving cream spread smoothly across one calf before the blade glided downward in slow careful strokes. Pale skin emerged smooth and flawless beneath the foam while water rinsed away the evidence. Upward along the ankle. Across the knee. Higher along the thigh.

Methodical.

Efficient.

Comforting.

Armpits next.

Then lower.

His groin.

Craig worked automatically, balancing effortlessly on impossibly elevated feet while steam curled around him. By the time he finally reached up and rubbed his jawline, he discovered that his face remained perfectly smooth. No stubble at all there. No need to shave.

Weird.

The razor clicked softly back onto the shower shelf. And just like that, the revulsion vanished.

Craig froze.

"...What the hell did I just do?"

Smooth legs gleamed beneath the water. Clean-shaven skin everywhere. A long sigh escaped him. Too late now.

"TGIF," he muttered weakly.

The thought hit him immediately afterward though. How long before this stopped feeling strange entirely? Yesterday he'd shaved absentmindedly while distracted. Today his body had practically lunged for the razor on instinct. Last night he'd enjoyed choosing lingerie. What happened when the resistance disappeared completely?

The question lingered unpleasantly while he toweled off and padded back toward his bedroom naked except for the stilettos. At least there was time to get ready properly.

Black panties first. Then the matching bra. Dark pantyhose rolled carefully up his freshly shaved legs without snagging. A fitted black skirt followed, professional but short enough to show off plenty of leg, paired with a sleeveless peach knit top that hugged his torso comfortably.

The outfit looked good laid out together. Really good. Craig actually smiled while looking at it. The expression disappeared immediately.

"Knock it off," he muttered at himself.

Still, the satisfaction lingered while he finished dressing. Coordinated colours. Balanced textures. Clean silhouette. His brain catalogued the outfit automatically like he'd spent years doing it.

And waiting patiently on the vanity sat the makeup. The perfume. Calling to him.

Not literally, thankfully, but the urge remained there beneath his skin. A persistent craving to sit down, open the palettes, and improve what he saw in the mirror. He hated wanting it.

Coffee helped.

Sort of.

Craig carried the mug and a bowl of cereal to the kitchen table and sat quietly in the empty apartment. The silence felt heavier in the mornings somehow. Even back when he and Frank rarely crossed paths before work, there'd still been comfort in knowing somebody else existed down the hall.

Now there was only emptiness.

Maybe tonight he'd ask Frank to hang out. Watch a movie. Order pizza. Something normal. The idea cheered him slightly. Until another feeling crept in to replace it.

An itch.

Not physical exactly. More like pressure building somewhere in the back of his thoughts. A strange restless sensation he couldn't identify.

Craig finished the cereal. Drank the coffee. Still there.

By the time he cleaned the bowl and stood at the sink, the feeling had intensified into genuine discomfort. Did he forget something? Need something? His eyes drifted down the hallway automatically.

Bedroom? No.

Purse? Already by the door.

Keys? Inside the purse.

Then why...

Craig wandered slowly down the hallway anyway, heels tapping softly against the hardwood. Past his bedroom. Past the bathroom.

Toward Frank's old room.

The door opened. There it was. The pole. Spotlights flicked on as Craig reached blindly for the switch. Somewhere overhead, a disco ball began rotating lazily, scattering little flecks of light across the walls. That was new. That definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

Craig stepped inside slowly.

The room felt inviting. Warm. Safe.

His hand reached for the pole almost immediately. The second his fingers wrapped around the smooth brass, the itch vanished.

Completely.

Relief flooded through him so intensely his shoulders sagged.

"Oh..."

Craig slid his hand slowly upward along the pole's polished surface. Cool metal beneath his palm. Solid. Steady. Peaceful.

His second hand joined the first. Better. A smile crept onto his face before he even realized it was happening. Then movement came naturally.

One small step outward. A gentle swing. His body rotated smoothly around the pole while both hands held tight. Effortless. Perfect.

"Yeah..." he whispered softly.

That was what he'd needed. Another spin followed, slower this time. This time he let go with one hand, and wedged the pole between his legs, feeling his skirt hike higher and higher as he spun. The movement felt incredible. Fluid. Right.

Craig closed his eyes briefly and simply enjoyed it.

Then, after a full rotation, his eyes cracked open and he noticed something new.

A camera.

His smile vanished instantly.

Ring light. Laptop. Tripod. An entire streaming setup arranged neatly near the wall.

Craig let go of the pole so abruptly that his balance disappeared with it. He crashed backward onto the hardwood with a painful yelp, skirt riding up awkwardly as his elbows smacked the floor.

"What the fuck?!"

Heart hammering now, he scrambled upright and stared at the equipment. The camera light was off. Thank God. Still, why was it there? What had Eros intended? Was Craig supposed to stream his dancing? Put it online for the world to see?

"Nope. Nope nope nope."

Craig hurried from the room immediately, pulse racing. No chance. No universe where this ended well. The apartment suddenly felt dangerous. He snatched up his purse by the front door, ready to flee to work two hours early if necessary.

Then paused.

One perfume bottle sat beside the purse.

Before he could stop himself, Craig grabbed it, sprayed once lightly against his throat, and froze.

Warm vanilla.

Soft jasmine.

Pleasant.

"...Dammit."

Then he fled the apartment before he could do anything else insane.