Envy

This story began on the seventh anniversary of the August coup, which shattered the lives of many of our fellow citizens. For me, the seventh anniversary brought either a broken life or a new life; to be honest, I still haven't figured it out. It's an interesting point—it's so hard to write using the masculine gender now; it's been a long, long time since anyone referred to me as "he." Now I am "she." It all started with old newspapers that acquaintances of our family, at whose dacha we were vacationing, asked me to burn. There were many newspapers, but I burned them slowly, sometimes reading articles or amusing myself by looking at the cartoons. Evening was approaching when an article with the headline "In the KGB

they didn't just stitch up cases" caught my eye. I can't remember which newspaper it was; time has erased its name from my memory and hasn't spared the newspaper sheet itself, which now lies next to me. Worn at the folds to an unreadable state with torn edges, it was this very sheet that changed my life so profoundly. The words from that article burned a simple truth into my brain: sex can be changed. At 18, this was a revelation stronger than any other. The very idea of changing sex affected me so deeply that I could no longer dream of anything else. At that age, I started masturbating; you can imagine what things haunted my thoughts. Just the thought of myself as a girl, how I dress, put on makeup, caused strong arousal. What can I say: even when I watched a movie or read a book where a character changed sex, I got aroused and identified with that hero.

Time passed. School days dragged on; I matured slowly, dwelling in my dreams. Then my cousin came to live with us. I would steal her tights when she wasn't home, wear them under my pants when I went out for a walk. It so happened that I tore one pair. And I told her about it right away. Luckily, no one else was home except her and me. Of course, she scolded me, but then dressed me in her clothes, lightly applied makeup, and saying, "You'd make a great chick!" sent me to the bathroom. After that, we never mentioned this episode again.

At school, I got a girlfriend, but we didn't date for long. I withdrew into myself for a while but didn't get depressed about it. My dreams were with me! Towards the end of my studies, I got to play a teacher at school events. Around that time, I grew my hair long. Thick, dark, gathered in a ponytail or loose, it caused envy among some girls in our class.

At 18, I had my first homosexual experience. My school friend (who also happened to be the keeper of props from our celebrations) and I were at home, playing CS against bots, and we made a little bet: the one with fewer frags after 10 rounds would fulfill the winner's wish. Counter-Strike wasn't my strong suit; I played terribly, losing 95-39, so I had to fulfill the wish. He wanted me to dress in one of the women's costumes I wore at the last party. We immediately agreed it meant nothing, just a wish. He wanted to spend a few hours in the company of a girl, even if the girl wasn't real.

I'll say right away, my role was a success. And the costume was beautiful. I wore black tights, about 70 den, black sandals, a black mini dress. My breasts were represented by a bra with cotton-filled pouches inserted.

"It feels like I'm going out somewhere with my girlfriend," he said, zipping up the dress.

"Yes, darling," I replied, getting into the role. "I just need to put on makeup."

I knew a little about doing makeup. It turned out well. Although pink lip gloss didn't look very good with the black dress, that's what he wanted. We had a good evening. He took care of me, poured wine, opened to celebrate my transformation. We went out to the balcony to smoke a cigarette. It was already evening, the sun was setting. He lit a thin cigarette for me.

"You're behaving like a girl, a real one," he said, and a slight excitement was felt in his voice.

"I purposely watched girls' manners to play perfectly on stage," I smiled at him.

"I remember, you told me," he replied.

"I'll get the wine," I nodded to him and stayed on the balcony.

Soon he returned and hugged me around the waist. His hot breath near my ear brought me the words, "You're so cool, Anya." My heart rejoiced. I turned and lightly kissed his lips. I felt how aroused he was when he pressed closer to me.

"What do you want?" I whispered to him, barely audible.

"Touch me somehow."

"A blowjob?" He bit my earlobe.

We stumbled from the balcony into the apartment. I pushed him onto the bed. Pulled down his pants. He was left in just his underwear. He stopped me.

"Listen, should we be doing this?"

"I don't know," I whispered hotly. "But I desperately want it. Don't you?"

I saw his erect penis under his underwear. It was visible how hot and hard it was.

"Take it."

I took off his underwear. His penis, freed from the restraining fabric, straightened out. It was beautiful and straight. I touched the head with my lips.

"Ticklish." I just smiled in response.

The sensation of the velvety head on my tongue was incomparable. Its smooth, velvety flesh filled my mouth completely. I licked, kissed, sucked his penis, tried to take it deeper. Lack of experience had to be compensated by sheer enthusiasm. He was aroused, and so was I. Only one thought was spinning in my head: "I'm like a real girl." It couldn't last long, maybe five minutes at most. My friend came abundantly; taken by surprise, I tried to pull away, but he held me with his hand. I swallowed everything. Then I licked his penis clean and lay down next to him. We decided to end the evening quickly; after finishing the wine, I undressed and went home.

We didn't see each other for a few days, and when we finally met, he simply said:

"We better not talk. Too many memories."

"Yes, you're right," I replied after a moment's thought. "Let's consider it never happened."

We never spoke again.

After finishing school and starting university, something changed in me. I began to treat my dreams as an obsession. I suppressed it by force of will. And I was lucky.

At the beginning of my second year, I was sitting alone on a rain-wet bench in the park, sipping beer, as I often did before classes I found uninteresting. I will remember this day for the rest of my life. A gray autumn morning, bright leaves on the park paths, the taste of warm beer on my lips. And then she sat down next to me. Liza. The most beautiful girl in our year. That kind of unapproachable girl with a slight touch of wealth. She didn't say anything to me, just took the can from my hands. Took a big gulp. Grimaced.

"Warm. How can you drink this?"

"I have to force myself. I have another one, sealed, here in the bag."

"Thanks, I don't need more."

"You're welcome."

We were silent for a little while.

"Tell me, do you have a girlfriend?"

This turn caught me off guard. Not knowing what was best to say, I told the truth.

"No."

"Then you will date me."

Luck fell right into my hands. The girl that every guy in our group, and every guy in all other years and groups, was crazy about, simply said that I would date her. I thought this only happened in movies. But life is the best playwright.

What started then! Our relationship was full of madness. At first, our meetings were bland; we would walk side by side or hold hands in long silences. Many didn't believe it was serious between us; I didn't believe it myself. Later I found out she started dating me to spite her ex-boyfriend. And she succeeded. A couple of times he tried to win her back from me, but with the help of supportive classmates, we avoided problems. As I already wrote, it was like madness. After the bland beginning came a sweet climax. We were always together and had sex like rabbits. If she just looked at me with her languid gaze, I couldn't hold back. In such moments, we quickly found privacy; I would slip my hand under her skirt or over the waistband of her jeans, under her panties (already quite wet), and caress her. How she moaned! When I entered her, slid inside her, I trembled. From her moans, I got more and more aroused; sometimes it seemed like I completely dissolved in her. Several times I almost came inside her. Each time it was accompanied by a minor scandal, which aroused us again. We purposely did it without a condom to feel the risk.

Time flew by completely unnoticed. As in that song: "When I tore myself away from her skin, spring was blooming in Paris." With her, I even forgot to think about my past dreams and fantasies. Naturally, I didn't tell her anything. I felt so light at heart. I thought it was all over for me. Childhood foolishness had passed; now it seemed a new page of my life had begun. But here I should also say this: my relationship with Liza was the strongest sensation of my life. I enjoyed her, every breath of hers, the tender texture of her skin and the golden hairs on it. But I told myself honestly that I didn't love her. There was emotional attachment, a sense of unity, of course, but not love. At first, she didn't love me either, but then I realized her attitude towards me was changing. We spent nine crazy months together, including the summer between academic years.

And at the tail end of the hot summer, my fate made an unimaginable leap to the side.

We lay on the crumpled bed, still warm from recent passion. The sun flooded the room with gold; in a word, it was a pleasant evening. I was stroking her tender belly with my palm, and she was smoking a thin cigarette.

"You know, I need to leave," she said, looking at the ceiling. "Mom was hospitalized in Europe; I have to be with her."

"I understand. But can't anyone else go to her?" I asked a rather stupid question.

"You know my relatives."

"I know," I wouldn't trust them to guard a cesspit; they'd steal everything. "So you'll go."

"Yes. Dad will go with me, but he'll be there for a week. He needs to be at work. The rest of the time I'll be there with Mom."

"With Mom, there?"

"Fool, stop joking."

"Sorry."

She poked me in the ribs with her elbow. I responded in kind. We had sex again. I didn't go to the airport to see her off.

A couple of weeks later, activists from my year approached us at the institute.

"We need volunteers!" a slightly plump girl with glasses said briskly. "We're going to stage a play written by Marina."

A girl stepped forward, also wearing glasses, with pimples slightly covered by foundation.

"The play, as always, is about love," she began. "The action takes place in the Middle Ages, then moves to modern times. The characters are the same. Their love goes through time." She talked about the play for about seven minutes, but it didn't generate much enthusiasm. Some interest and surprise arose when Marina said:

"The main role of the young lady must be played by a young man."

Everyone laughed for a while. My friend, sitting next to me, nudged me with his elbow:

"That role is just for you. You said you have rich experience playing teachers."

"Come on, enough," I said with a smile. "My girlfriend wouldn't understand."

He also smiled, stood up, and loudly said that I was a master at playing female roles. You could say I was appointed to the role by a general approving hum.

"Well, thanks a lot, you jerk," I hissed at my friend.

A few days later, I was invited for a fitting. The costumes were being sewn by girls from a younger year. They were sewing costumes for the main characters first, as there were several costumes.

"You have a good figure," one of the seamstresses said. "The dress will look great on you. It's a pity you're not..."

"Not what?"

"Never mind," she replied and immersed herself in her work.

The time for rehearsals came. My partner was Alexey, a guy seriously into sports and not lacking some acting talent. Rehearsals went well; we had fun wholeheartedly. Sometimes improvising, sometimes taking what was happening on stage to absurdity. The script had moments where we had to show feelings, but those moments were avoided during general rehearsals.

"Boys," Olesya, the director of the production, said to us. "We'll rehearse your scenes separately so you don't get embarrassed. Tomorrow evening is just for you."

We nodded in agreement. Alexey looked a bit beaten after the rehearsal.

"How are we going to play tomorrow? I'm a little embarrassed."

The sight of the huge, embarrassed guy amused me.

"Play as you feel," I patted him on the shoulder. "It's just theater."

He nodded.

The next day, the two of us stood on stage; the director and costume designers sat in the auditorium. This was a rehearsal in costume. My dress was beautiful. White with a full skirt and corset, all in bows and frills. On my head, they created a grand hairstyle from my hair. His costume was masculine. Have you seen the old film "Conan"? You can imagine how he looked. The girls from the production team were drooling just looking at his torso. Here I decided to play as sensually as possible. In moments when we stood close, or he held my hand, or when the scene was in a different time period and he led me in a dance, I surrendered to him like a girl.

After the rehearsal, the girls in the auditorium sat there blushing.

"You're good," the director only said.

"You played well today," I said to Alexey.

He just nodded, said a quick goodbye, and went home.

The time until the premiere flew by unnoticed. It turned out Alexey could sing and play guitar excellently.

Before going on stage on the day of the premiere, we stood next to each other; you could see he was nervous.

I said to him again:

"Play as you feel. It's just theater."

He looked at me; his gaze sent a shiver through me.

"Let's play."

The action on stage followed its course. We changed costumes, eras, situations. Everything went like clockwork. But when, in the scene where Alexey sings a song to the beautiful lady, i.e., me, I looked at him, I saw his eyes. There was fire in them. Passion. He sang, and I saw that right here on stage at this moment, he wasn't acting. There wasn't a gram of theater in his words. Something clicked in my head. My whole life floated before my eyes. Again I saw my dreams, which became as if real; I am a girl, and here a man with the body of Apollo is confessing his love to me through song. I started trembling right on stage. There