The coffee maker spluttered and popped as it struggled to fill the cup. Its filter was newly replaced, so that wasn't the issue. Maybe the reservoir had some gunk in it - in which case, he would need to buy another bottle of that cleaning fluid. "Terrific."
In all honesty, he wouldn't need this cup - his second of the morning - if he'd had a decent night's sleep. But he'd had that dream again, for the second or third time this month.
If you kept a diary, you'd know instead of just guessing.
No good reason not to. He hadn't lived with his pathologically snooping parents in years, and it wasn't like he had a nosy partner to worry about.
Or any partner.
"Tell me something I don't know." Taking a sip of watery coffee, he reflected on how much had changed in a few months. The little voice of uncertainty, the metaphorical devil on his shoulder - what his friend Angie called the Anxiety Gremlin - had taken up a more prominent place in his day-to-day life. Not surprisingly, since he lived alone and conducted most of his work on the computer, he'd started talking back to it as a way to keep his vocal cords from wasting away.
He rubbed his face in another attempt to force himself awake, and thought about the dream he'd had. Hell, it was basically just 'The Dream' at this point, he'd had it so often. It always started the same way...
He walks into a sex shop, one he's often driven past on the way to work, but never been inside. A young punk with bright green hair greets him, helpful but not pushy. The shop smells like all kinds of rubber - appropriately, as a third of its floor space is given over to latex, silicone, and vinyl outfits of various kinds. Dresses, corsets, bikinis, even a few stiletto boots; but mostly bodysuits, with or without attached hands and feet.And in the middle, a mannequin wearing a shiny suit, seamless but for the laces crisscrossing up the back. Head-to-toe rubber... except for the face, which was a gas mask with a large bubble-shaped visor. The kind with enough room inside to wear a pair of glasses.
His eyes locked on the visor, he asks the clerk a question. "Do you have any of this one I could try on?"
The green-haired punk looks up from their book. "Think that's the last one, but I can take it down for you."
Before he knows it, the suit and its mask are draped over his arm, and the clerk is showing him to the fitting room. "You'll have to leave your underwear on, but once you get suited up I'll be happy to help you lace it up in the back." And then it's on, and the clerk is indeed pulling the laces tight, cinching the suit around his waist like a latex corset.
The view in the mirror is... surprising. It doesn't just cling to his body - it reshapes it. His hips and ass are curvier than ever, accentuated by the ever so slight pinching of his waist. His flat chest is framed and supported, giving the impression of a nice, tight little handful. Even his shoulders seem narrower, his hands more graceful, his feet less ungainly.
The clerk grins at him, nodding their approval. "Suits you, sir..."
Then the alarm clock does off, and he abruptly snaps back to reality. Every time. Two or three times a month.
"No wonder I haven't been sleeping well." He checked the clock on the microwave. 8:51 AM. Joylessly sucking down the last dregs of his coffee, he slouched over towards the computer. At least working from home saved him the trouble of tying those ugly dress shoes with the too-short laces.
You'd rather be tying the laces on a catsuit, wouldn't you?
"Shut up." It was too early to start that again.
Thankfully there were tasks that needed doing, enough that he could give all his attention to the day's work. It stayed that way for a few hours, until lunchtime rolled around. Felt a bit silly to clock out for a half-hour of sitting in his computer chair and snacking on pumpkin seeds - he'd been doing that already while on the clock - but the poor guy from Human Resources had been very emphatic about the need for a documented break.
The only real difference was that now, instead of typing out instructions on how to use the videoconferencing software that kept school and work almost functioning, he had time to lazily scroll through his social media feeds. The much-hated algorithm knew what he spent the most time looking at, and took pains to ensure he was shown more of the same.
In this case, that meant women - and lots of 'em. Women in dresses, in casual clothes, in lingerie. Thin women, fat women, all sizes in between. Tall women, short women - but mostly tall ones. And all of them with one thing in common: a flag icon in their display name or profile, colored pink, white and blue.
The algorithm knows you're a pervert.
"No, shut up. It isn't like that." Truth be told, it mostly wasn't. He'd never had a very strong libido, and most of the accounts he followed didn't post anything too spicy. Hell, most of them were regular feeds, showing off outfits, chatting about their day, congratulating each other on little milestones.
You're a creep, and you know it.
"It's not even porn, you little shit." He got up to brew another cup of watery, scalding-hot coffee. The machine rumbled to somewhat lethargic life. "Nothing wrong with being interested in women."
Just because they're fully clothed doesn't mean you aren't getting off to it.
Now that was a laugh. He hadn't gotten off to anything since lockdown started, despite having much time and little to do. "It's normal for a guy my age to be attracted to women."
Amazing - every single thing you just said was wrong. You're not attracted to them the way 'other guys' are. Pretty sure you're not even -
"Stop it." He massaged his temples, trying to shut off the voice again. The coffee machine sputtered at last, the splashes of steaming water on the countertop serving as his signal that the wait was over. Busying himself with making a cold sandwich, he was able to keep his mind off of things until his shift resumed. From there, work took over until five o'clock.
The minute his shift ended, his fingers tapped the buttons of the TV remote. A documentary started playing, and he let himself be immersed in the art and language of the Holy Roman Empire. After around two hours of digital panning and zooming around late Medieval manuscripts, he decided to reward himself with a bit of space opera. Soon, the Galaxy Quest theme trilled bombastically from the TV speakers; and another 45 minutes bit the dust.
When he stood up to start cooking dinner - grilled chicken with a side of stuffed grape leaves - that voice was waiting.
It's not lust, is it?
"I don't know what you're talking about."
You're not attracted to those women. You're jealous of them.
"I admire them. It takes guts to do what they do, just by existing every day."
Guts that you don't have.
"Shut up." He stirred up a smallish bowl of olive oil and vinegar, mixing it thoroughly with only a fork. A year ago, he could barely boil water; now, though, he knew the only way to get decent food on his budget was to cook it himself.
It's not normal, and you know it. Normal, cis-het guys don't spend hours pining over transwomen just living their lives. So either you're a pervert, or -
"Fucking stop!" Even in the empty apartment, the whole room seemed to stop cold. The wave of frustration passes after a minute, and he ate his dinner in stubborn silence. Then he swallowed an allergy tablet and stumbled to bed.
That night, he had The Dream again.
The clerk grins at him, nodding their approval. "Suits you, sir..."