The Ritual Pt. 02: The Mirror

This is part two in 'The Ritual,' if you havent read part one, you can do so here. I hope you enjoy this new chapter, and as always let me know what you think in the comments!

Chapter Two: The Mirror

"Mirrors are more than reflective surfaces--" the forum post had read.

The memory hits me with an unannounced slap as I catch my reflection, standing there in front of the apartment door--still in a sweatshirt and pants. Hands pressed against the frame. Anxious. I've been going to the peephole, expecting her to come back, mind racing with every faint noise real or imagined that emanates from the hallway, and the mirror captures me raw and exposed in the act. A nervous wreck. Not cut out for this. "Fuck," I exclaim under my breath to no one in particular.

The small reflection on the wall sits. Square, brass-framed. A mirror that Lena thought would be a nice addition, hanging there, apathetic to me or my self-inflicted plight. A silent observer; indifferent but honest. The forum post from their sex magik obsessed community, compulsively read during one of my late-night trawls continues to flood my memory. Conjured from the wells of my subconscious. I see my face twist in the brass-framed glass as the words enter, streaming in, unwelcome but defiant.

"They once used it for divination--scrying--any reflective surfaced worked in those times, including water or dark stone," the post started. "But a mirror goes beyond divination, it can reveal your inner-most truths. When you stare into your eyes with intent, and take hold of the image within, the answer may be hard to accept at times--but always reveals the truth. The sooner you can accept what the mirror shows you, the quicker you can accept your path forward. The mirror never lies."

I turn away from it, snapping my head back to the peephole, unable to face my own reflection.

The apartment's too quiet now, the kind of silence that hums in your ears after someone leaves. Yet, Lena's energy still vibrates in the space, lingering, there but unconscious to what my plans are for the night. I can feel it. A ghost of guilt haunting me.

"She's gone"--I tell myself, convincing my nerves to settle as I push away from the peephole--but if I'm caught, she'll be gone for good. I swallow. My pulse increasing. Saliva combined with something acidic trailing down my throat, the bitterness landing in my stomach like a brick.

Her floral scented perfume hangs by the door where she stood, suddenly in my nostrils now, remaining to twist the knife of shame in me. I clutch at my abdomen, nursing an invisible wound. Lena's familiar footsteps are a memory in my head, and I'm alone with the weight of what I've done--what I'm about to do. Creeping in, more tactile and real with every second I stand here in her energy.

The potential outcome of my actions tonight are cataclysmic, and yet I'm pushing on despite the risks; why?

This isn't some porn fantasy, no--this is real, with consequences involving actual people, hurting my girlfriend who's been nothing but good to me, who loves me for all my faults.

And what if the ritual is real too? Won't that hurt me as well? Maybe it's not magik with a 'k' as they call it--that would be silly. But what if it's a shift that I don't understand, real in the sense that it's not erotic playacting but something that stirs tangible results. What if it really changes me; the forum said I would be "broken and fragmented"--am I ready for that? What if... What if...

My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark but alive with secrets and possibilities. Lena and Damien are just a message away. One leading me towards ruin and the other a lighthouse bringing me back to safety, away from the storm I'm directing my sails into. Why I'm willing to risk everything still confuses me--or maybe it doesn't--maybe I'm just not brave enough to really face the answer yet. My mask so well worn that I'm clinging on to it for comfort even now, unsure what a life without it looks like.

If I truly loved Lena I wouldn't think of meeting Damien, let alone go through with it. That's the universal truth; you don't hurt the people you claim to love.

"Stop thinking, Alex," I tell myself. Voice breaking the silence in my apartment, snapping me out of the spiral, mind abiding.

Need to move, to start, before the guilt catches up and talks me out of it. Before it unravels my warped logic that brought me to this point in the first place.

I head to the bathroom, flicking on the vanity light as I enter. The bulbs cast a warm orange glow over everything, including the sink and another mirror; larger, harder to avoid. My reflection stares at me, and I know I have to face it despite the reluctance.

Dark brown hair sits on my head, messy from running my hands through it all evening, slight stubble shadowing my jaw, eyes too wide, panicked, restless. The eyes of a cheater. My eyes dart away from the mirror. I bury the thought and strip off my sweatshirt and pants, letting them crumple on the tile, standing there in my boxer briefs, shivering despite the heat from the radiator.

My body's lean but unremarkable. I inspect myself while rubbing the faint muscle on my chest and arms gained from half-hearted gym trips, now turned more pliable without steady maintenance. Past forgotten squats and hip thrusts have made both the back of my thighs and butt bigger, but they're soft now, as I push a fingertip into the glutes, muscle giving in without resistance. I'm brushing dark hair across my chest with the same fingertips next, twirling hair that covers my legs with soft fuzz. It all feels wrong suddenly; too coarse, too male. Damien's voice echoes in my head, slithering in as I look at myself: "Smooth, painted, perfect." I swallow hard, gulping, and listen to the words as if they were a guide--a ritual within a ritual.

Boxers drop to my ankles and I step out of them. It feels comforting when the shower finally comes to temperature and I go inside, like a warm blanket telling me to stay in for the night. I should relax instead of work--"shaving all of this is going to be a lot," I think aloud, watching the body hair turn wet. But I don't listen, ignoring the hesitation to stop and instead I stubbornly reach for the razor on the shelf as the steam bellows.

The first stroke is tentative, a line down my calf, the blade catching on shaving cream and hair, dragging against skin. I rinse it under the shower head, tapping the razor on the bathtub--tap, tap, tap--dark strands swirl clockwise down the drain until they disappear, and I go again. There's a rhythm to it. Scrape, rinse, repeat, and soon my legs are bare, slick with water, shaving cream, and soap. They look alien, pale from the winter sun and vulnerable, like they belong to someone else. A woman's leg more than a man's. But that's the point.

I move to my chest next, the razor trembling as it skims over my sternum, erasing the trail that's marked me since I was a late-teen. My breath hitches--"ugh," I gasp. A pinprick of red blooming just below my collarbone, mixing with the water and turning a lighter shade more pink. It stings, but I keep going, driven by something I can't name.

Promises and threats of what's waiting for me in Bushwick lingers above my head, invisible next to the water shooting out. Am I doing this for the ritual or because of Damien? I think to myself. The question settling as water brushes my neck, forcing me to face my sexuality and desires. It's something I've never given a second thought to. Why would I? I've always loved women, how they look how they move, always perused them, not this. I pause and really think, then tell myself it's for the ritual--it's my curiosity about what it'll do that's driving me--not him.

My phone buzzes on the bathroom sink, brought in with me, sharp and insistent and my brain jumps. It's Lena; she knows. I pause, razor hovering, trembling in my hand. I set it down and lean out, shower curtain sticking to my new smooth skin like a wet shroud. Damien's name lights up the screen--not hers--and my breath settles. Fingers holding above the phone, dripping water onto the screen, droplets landing on the background photo that shows me and Lena, covering my face as if I'm drowning next to her.

"How's Alexis coming along? I want every inch of you soft," his text reads.

Heat floods my face, my groin, and I fumble a reply, "working on it."

His response is instant. "Good girl. Don't rush. I'll know if you cheat or miss a spot." My pulse skips. "Cheat," there's that word again, dirty and wrong--but I look down and my flaccidity is growing rigid, veins becoming more pronounced along the shaft. Head swelling. Trying to grow to my full length of six inches. I'm caught between the thrill of his words and the wrongness of them. "Good girl."

Lena's face flashes in my mind. Her worried smile as she left, the kiss on my cheek still warm against the shower's water--trusting me. What am I doing? I could stop now, while the betrayal is still surface level, still forgivable in some strange way. I should text Damien it's off, crawl into bed half shaved and pretend this never happened. I tell myself this, but my hand still hovers over the screen, and I don't type anything back. I lean back into the shower instead, the curtain closing, metal rings sliding along the ridges of the pole, entombing me.

The stubble on my face, hair under my armpits, arms, ass and crack, testicles, pubes--everything goes, until my skin's a blank slate, pale, raw, and tingling all over. The water runs slick over it, making everything shine glossy white. A canvas for him to work with, prepared for the ritual as he instructed. I turn off the water and the metallic knobs squeal as they shut. The air feels sharper against my skin as water drips steady against the tub. I stand there, naked, every draft a new condemning whisper I'm not used to.

I catch my reflection again on the way out, and it's jarring. The glass steamed, I wipe away to reveal the whole picture, and it's me. It's still me--of course it is--but I'm softer now, the edges blurred. More feminine. Ready for the next step in my transformation. Quickly wrapping a towel around myself, I hurry to the bedroom, feet damp and leaving footprints on the hardwood behind me like tracks in the snow as I scamper. My closet creaks open and I pull out a backpack. Dark gray, unassuming, stashed and hidden at the back earlier this week, filled with secrets.

Two black items fly out, spilling onto the bed as I unzip the bag. The first: black lace panties, the waistline solid the rest a sheer latticed window. The second item: a matching bra. My hand grazes the delicate material of both, slightly scratchy but so feminine. Seductive. Both are absurdly small in my hands and I can't help but think this is something Lena might wear for Valentine's Day or my birthday. "This is for you, Alex" she'd say, whispering in my ear as she parades the lingerie around my room, turning to show her round butt swallowing the lace, nipples hard against the bra. I shake my head and the vision rattles out.

A cruel inversion now, as I step into the panties first, the fabric sliding up my smooth legs, clinging in ways my usual boxer briefs never did. It's tight, foreign, leaving the cheeks of my shaved ass exposed. But there's a jolt of something else--power or shame maybe--as they settle into place, cradling my manhood and balls, high and tight. I turn around and look at myself in the mirror, peering over my shoulder. "Wow," the word comes out unfiltered. My butt looks good--too good--just like a woman's. You'd never know I'm male unless you saw the front I conclude, looking down at my nestled bulge bound in lace.

The bra next and it's trickier. I fumble with the clasp, my mouth dry, hair still damp, breathing heavy, straps slipping off my shoulders until I get it right. How do girls do this? I think to myself. I slide one of the fallen straps back to my shoulder and the elastic snaps against my skin. The cups are empty of course, no breasts to fill them, but the feel of it against my chest shifts something in me. I reach into the bag and pull out a rolled up piece of fabric. Stockings; black and opaque. I roll them up my legs, all the way to the thickest part of my thighs until they settle in place, the feeling odd and new against my skin.

To finish, I pull out a little black dress I got for cheap on Amazon and slip into it. Spaghetti straps holding on for dear life, material of the dress tight and constricting just like everything else I've put on. It's a second skin hugging my body, the hemline ending where the stockings begin on my thighs. Waiting to be hiked up. Waiting for him. My breath catches. "I'm doing this for the ritual", I remind myself.

I leave the bedroom and start heading back to the bathroom but I'm caught. Frozen. There's rustling coming from the hallway--keys jingling--and I expect Lena to burst through the door, seeing me like this; crossdressed, mid-walk, shaved, soup in her hand crashing to the floor. But nothing happens. I wait. Then I sneak over to the door. My eye presses against the peephole; it's the neighbors, a couple we've known since they moved in last year--friendly enough but no idea what their names are. Told once and quickly forgotten. They're coming home from somewhere, laughing about something innocuous. That would've been us tonight, I think to myself, and it hits me again, the floral perfume by the door. Lena. BAM--they slam the door, and the hallway's quiet again. I move away from the peephole--her scent--back to the bathroom. Have to keep moving.

Next, the makeup. I've watched tutorials for this, late at night with the volume low to the point of being almost muted; Lena asleep in Park Slope--as if she could hear what I was watching. A part of me more embarrassed to be potentially caught watching a video on how to apply eyeshadow than porn. One is explainable, the other devastating to my 'normal' boyfriend facade.

Foundation first, cool and slick as I smear it over my face, hiding the nick's of the razor and the faint flush of nerves. The shadow from my stubble gone too. Blush next, to give the skin some warmth again. My hands shake as I line my eyes with black eyeliner, smudging it slightly, then mascara onto lashes that feel too short, too stubborn. Simple eyeshadow, nothing crazy, a solid rose-peach color. I look at my phone to see the hour. Wallpaper still there--Lena staring from the Promenade. Smiling. Time is ticking. I take a breath and keep going.

Lipstick last. Deep red, a shade I picked because it felt bold, seductive. I press it to my lips, tracing the curve, and when I pull back, the mirror shows someone new. Not Alex, not yet Alexis, but a liminal thing caught inbetween, a drag queen half-finished in their dressing room before hitting the stage.

The wig's the final piece, pulled from its hiding place tucked deep in the bag. I could explain the makeup or lingerie if Lena had found them, a lie conjured up when I bought them; "these were gifts for you!" But the wig? There's no explaining that. It's long, dark brunette--almost black--synthetic but silky as I shake it out. I pull it on, adjusting the cap until it sits right, strands falling past my shoulders, tickling the skin like gentle fingers. A thread of hair sticks to my fresh lipstick and I spit it off. Turning my head I watch the synthetic hair sway, and it's surreal, hot on my scalp--not sexually, but physically.

Stepping back, the full picture in the bathroom mirror reveals itself: the dress hugs my waist and hips, stockings silhouette my legs, face painted like a stranger's--amateur and slutty--lingerie hidden beneath it all. I'm Alex buried under hyper-feminine objects like a fucked up Barbie or Bratz doll. Alexis, as designed by Damien stares back at me. "I look like a joke," I mutter under my breath.

My phone buzzes again, and I snatch it up, heart pounding. I expect it's Lena, telling me she's on her way back with medicine, not taking my earlier "no" for an answer. Pausing, I think about how I'm going to get all of this stuff off me in time before she arrives. But it's him again--of course it is, not her texting me.

"Show me how you look," Damien commands. Not a question, an order. I hesitate while holding the phone, palms clammy and slick, foundation smears on the top of my hands. I put it down on the bathroom countertop like it's cursed, avoiding it. But then pick it back up, scrolling to the camera app. Giving in. Obeying the command like his "good girl."

I angle the phone high, playing with the perspective until everything fits into the camera frame. Click. The selfie snaps, shaky and raw, capturing my image forever. Red lips parted, eyes seductive under the liner, bra straps peeking from my shoulders, wig long and framing my face. It's me--but not me. I take a breathe and hit send, before I can overthink it. Heart racing a million miles an hour.

Damien could blackmail me, the thought enters my head, this could all be a ruse to get money from me. Paranoia flooding the moment it's gone, too late to delete. I'm spinning. My mind immediately pulls towards yanking the wig off, removing all the makeup, hiding, doing what I do best. But I'm interrupted before I can act.

Bzzt--my phone vibrates. His reply coming fast, eager, and I open it matching his speed, just as eager, expecting a ransom amount. "Fuck," Damien says to me. "Good girl, Alexis. You're ready for the ritual tonight." I let go of the phone and it clanks against the bathroom countertop. My knees weaken, and I grip the sink, breath fogging the mirror. I'm hard suddenly under the lace, straining against the tight fabric of the panties and the dress, erection begging to be released, yearning to be touched. Am I doing this for the ritual, or is it for Damien?

I feel pulled apart, and I haven't even left the apartment. I picture his hands, undoing what's left of me. In the vision that plays I'm the crossdresser in Rite of the Veil. No longer a silent observer like how I've been with all the other porn--no--I'm an active participant now. I'm drunk on the experience and it hasn't even happened, body responding all over with little tingles dancing on my skin. I'm terrified of what this means, but I hear a voice, vivid as if it's with me in the bathroom. "Text me if you need anything."Lena's--cutting through all the noise, all the bullshit. The voice of reason. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Call it quits here," another voice in my head urges--mine--clawing at my skin, grabbing me, pleading. "Jerk off to the video instead. Let it out, then go back to your normal life. Watch the crossdresser if that's what you want, but don't be her. Don't do this to Lena."

Either I leave now or back out. "Make a decision, Alex," I tell myself, whispering it, looking into my eyeliner framed pupils in the mirror. Everything stops--silence. Water from the shower head drips against the tub, steady like the ticking of a clock--thud... thud... thud...

I watch my reflection, still and frozen in space. I look like the crossdresser from the video, just... like... her..., and the ritual from the video replays in my head again. The vision can be a reality. The promise of change, rebirthing, discovering new parts of yourself. Why not try? She'll never know if you're careful enough.

"I have to know what this ritual is," I tell myself looking into my own feminized face staring back at me. Suddenly not so afraid of the mirror anymore, now hiding behind the mask of Alexis, immune from my own accusations and shame. "You can always back out," I continue, bargaining. "If you leave now, at least you're moving towards something--you don't have to go all the way to Bushwick, just start the journey and decide." The logic twisting absurd into something I'm willing to agree to.

Pacing to the bedroom as the clock ticks, I tug on a thick hoodie and jeans over everything, the denim suddenly rough against my shaved skin now. I glance into the bedroom's full-length mirror, inspecting my disguise for the subway ride to Bushwick ahead of me; It's good, definitely good enough for traveling. No one would know what's beneath all this.

My phone buzzes again, Damien. My photo is still there--me as Alexis--red lips parted, ready for the ritual. His new text pushes it up and out the way. "I didn't see heels on your feet," he writes. "Don't forget them, Alexis."--"Fuck!" I exclaim. Loud. Reverberating in the bedroom. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," How could I forget to buy heels?

The ritual is over, my own forgetfulness sabotaging it. Done before it began. I'm incomplete, and my relationship is saved because of it. But then I remember, something, vague but real, and I scramble to the closet, digging, shifting shoes and fallen baseball caps to the side. A New York Yankees cap jostles out of the way and I find them--my saving grace, and a curse. A pair of sleek black leather stilettos. Lena's. My throat constricts. A pair she left in my apartment months ago after a night out, memory coming back to me, her feet too sore to wear back to Park Slope the next day. Left here to be retrieved some day. Now mine for the night.

I didn't want to wear any of her things for this, the ritual, but I have a choice. I try one on, and it fits--somehow. The heel is high, four or five inches at least. I slip it off; it'll work. I text Damien, fingers tapping in a flurry--"I have them," and keep moving.

White vans slide onto my stocking-covered feet next, and I shove the stilettos into the now emptied backpack. The zip seals the bag with finality and I swing the strap over my shoulder, bag filled with heels landing on my back and hitting me, as if they were stirrups against a horse, urging it on.

My phone buzzes one more time as I swipe my keys from the kitchen counter, fishing it out from the jeans. "Good girl," Damien says, replying to my text about the heels, rewarding me. "Don't be late, princess. The ritual is waiting. Come to me."

Heart beating, I slide the phone back into my pocket along with the keys and take a deep breath--trying to settle my nerves. What the fuck.

My hands are shaking, but I reach out for the apartment's doorknob, steadying them on the brass, slick with my own sweat. I glance to the side and see her in the mirror--Alexis--peering from beneath the hoodie. Twisting the doorknob, I swing it open. The noise loud--or maybe I just perceive it to be--as it announces my betrayal to the world on the fourth floor. It's empty, no more neighbors. "Thank God," I whisper.

Her floral scent from earlier is gone now too, no longer observing me, as I step out into the hallway, locking the door behind me--click--head down, hoodie up. Lena's trust is a ghost at my back. What I'm doing threatens to sink me, I know it does, but like the "good girl" Damien calls me, I obey.

I put one foot forward, and start walking down the hallway, towards the stairs, towards the ritual.

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I hope you've enjoyed the second chapter in 'The Ritual.' As always, I love reading your comments (I read every one!), so feel free to let me know what you think below. I'll be publishing more chapters; be sure to follow if you like the series so far!