[RO] All Woman-like

I liked being a woman for a day. I liked being a female friend to my female friend. As men, we miss out on something profound by not being women—and that is being a female friend to a female friend.

She begged me for a long time to do cosplay in which I would dress as a woman for an upcoming anime convention. I finally agreed because I had just started watching Nana at her suggestion, and I felt a deep tenderness for the bonds between female friendships: all the closeness of a romantic relationship, but with the purity of friendship; fragility without fear; honesty without worry; satisfaction without desire; love without lust. An experience that is nearly impossible for most men.

I wanted to experience that, and it was as if Marabella, by recommending Nana, was saying, “Come, it’s beautiful here.”

Today I realize how calculated her actions were.

It’s not like I had given her any signs that I’d be interested in something like that, but as I later found out, she had no doubt I would agree. She confessed it to me in a mysterious way that I still don’t fully understand: “So what if you’re not effeminate? All of you is woman-like.”

She knew very well how much I liked women and how I had never shown the slightest interest in men. I was completely indifferent to the growing trend of attraction toward feminine men that all the young girls seemed to be into. I never showed any interest in makeup, clothes, or traditionally feminine activities either.

The only thing that might’ve led her to think I’d agree to such a random proposal was that we were good friends who did everything together: we played video games, went out to eat, watched movies, binge-watched TV shows at her place—and sometimes I’d sleep over because I couldn’t stand my house, full of shouting and bitterness.

We were close, and she knew I was very open-minded. She knew that because I had been the only guy she had ever met who wasn’t afraid to be her friend, who would go out with her without any insecurity—and even held her hand in public. Until then, no man had ever held her hand in public. “You’re like me in that you just are—and that’s why I like you.”

She also convinced me, in part, by telling me I already had a very feminine face and not-so-broad shoulders. She’d say, “Don’t I always tell you how much you look like your sisters? It’s like your mom conceived you without a father. If I could do it, you have even more reason to. Your only problem is you’re taller than the Bacatá Tower.”

Our dresses were very similar; both were from female characters in a dark fantasy video game. They were inspired by Victorian-era fashion, but not the kind worn in aristocratic courts—more like something worn by the daughters of upper-middle-class families. The fabric was dark and heavy. Since I don’t know anything about fabrics or fashion, I can only describe it as a mix between a maid’s, a nun’s, and a sorceress’s dress.

We helped each other put on all the layers because there was no way one person could put on that kind of dress alone—for a moment, I even thought the only reason she invited me was so I could help her into a dress she couldn’t wear by herself—but without a doubt, the hardest part was putting on the corset. Once it was on, though, it was just a matter of not moving too much or bending over, so it wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.

Marabella underwent a curious transformation that day. Gradually, garment by garment, stroke by stroke of makeup, she became sweeter, more affectionate, warmer, and her tone towards me grew softer. The way she treated me at the beginning versus the end of the day was like the shift from treating someone as a friend to treating them like a little sister. There was no doubt in her eyes that this was exactly what was happening. After all, I was 19, and she was 24.

Once we were fully dressed, wigs and bonnets in place, she looked at me for a moment with shining eyes and a wide smile, then gave me a hug like she never had before. “You look so beautiful!”

My first reaction was to think she was teasing me, because, as I said, she had never spoken to me or treated me that way before. But at the same time, the way she looked at me and spoke to me—combined with what I saw in the mirror, and the fact that I was receiving the most affectionate hug I had ever had—made me instantly slip into character. Or rather, it awakened a part of me that Marabella knew how to bring to life. I no longer felt the urge to resist anything. I wanted to depend on Marabella, to place my life in the hands of my older sister, to have her always there to make me feel better with a hug.

Until that day, we had only been two people who spent time together enjoying shared activities. But this felt different. I didn’t feel any kind of arousment, just pure comfort. This time, it wasn’t about doing something together—it was about simply existing, experiencing each other, and nothing more. We laid there, silently hugging in bed, for who-knows-how-long, until it was time to leave for the convention.

It was impossible not to stand out, even though I spent the whole event hiding behind Marabella. How could a two-meter-tall, slender, pale girl in a high-quality dress handmade by Marabella not attract attention? Multiple men were stopping us every few minutes to ask for photos.

Turns out Marabella was wrong—tall girls aren’t a problem for guys, as long as there’s no doubt about their femininity. Either way, I wasn’t interested in guys at all—if anything, it was just flattering that they found me pretty. I appreciated the compliments from the few girls who stopped us much more.

But the true joy and the reason these memories are so dear to me was the opportunity to be close to Marabella during the photos. Since I was taller, she would sit on my lap, and I’d rest my head between her chest and chin. Or when we took breaks and she’d fix my dress or touch up my makeup.

I wish I hadn’t deleted the photos of that day afterward.

Throughout the entire event, I didn’t speak a single word—I was too afraid someone would find out I was a man, or worse, that it was me. Marabella spoke for me. And that gave her the mischievous opportunity to accept, without my consent, the suggestion that we take a photo of us kissing.

She slowly leaned her face toward mine while I shook my head. She whispered, “Relax, my love, it’ll look cute, don’t you think? Just a little peck.”

Then she kissed me—a kiss that lasted who-knows-how-long, but it was definitely not just a peck. After the flash, I felt my face burning. I smiled at her, then turned my face away.

If I could recover just one photo from that entire day, it would be that one.

The event was ending, and Marabella and I decided we deserved some photos of our own. We went to a nearby lobby with a giant mirror and took around fifty pictures. The poses ranged from simply standing side by side to reenacting the ones we had done with our “fans,” just to make fun of them.

As we were finishing the last few, Marabella suggested, “We’re only missing that one.” I knew exactly which one she meant, but still, I asked—letting out my first words of the day: “Which one?”

“You know which one, dummy. Don’t play dumb.”

Immediately my face grew serious. Hearing my voice for the first time that day reminded me of who I was—and who Marabella was. I felt ridiculous. Why the hell did I even feel that way? Since when do I give a damn about seeming gay or looking ridiculous? So then… why?

I told her we shouldn’t—that we were just friends.

“So what? We already did it once. Friends kiss too,” she said, with a tone that was both sad and slightly persuasive. I asked her to promise that everything would stay the same afterward if we did it. She said yes, and immediately sat me down on the couch and climbed onto my lap, just like in the photo pose. She brought her serious face closer to mine slowly and kissed me while I remained completely still, like a distressed statue. This kiss didn’t last as long as the previous one, and Marabella’s reaction afterward was also different. Her expression had changed—now she looked worried, like someone who’s anxious about the future, unsure of what’s to come. When she turned her face away from me, I could see myself in the lobby mirror, and the feeling of ridicule returned even stronger. I told her I had to go, and she didn't protest. I called a taxi outside, alone—I didn't care about the taxi driver's puzzled looks upon hearing my voice—and returned home.

Thank God I was on vacation because I spent weeks thinking about this day. I thought about what it means that I agreed to dress as a woman, what it means to feel good about compliments, what it means that I wanted to be protected, what it means that I miss her after not seeing her in weeks. The answer seemed obvious, but it wasn't, because I knew I wasn't in love with Marabella. It was more like wanting to be in love with Marabella. She's my best friend, and knowing that she loved me in that way makes me not want to deny her that love, but I knew it wasn't possible. She deserves something real. Besides, her friendship means everything to me, it's even better than having a partner. This is where I realized that in all the time we were friends, I didn't feel the need for a girlfriend or sex. I already had the best love there is, the purest. Evidence of its purest quality is that since we kissed, everything has become more difficult. I say, without fear of sinning before God for being a liar, that I would rather have Marabella's friendship for life than get married. Even more so if every day were like that afternoon in the hotel before going to the convention.

I never saw her again. She moved to heaven. After all, it's impossible for God to send someone to hell after already giving that person such equivocation in life. I simply won't accept it. Even less so when that equivocation was the motivation for her suicide. I felt bad for being pleased that at least it wasn't only me who caused her death. God was as guilty as I was for giving her that life, and if God fails, I shouldn't be ashamed. Or maybe God should be ashamed.

It was something I expected; that destiny was painted all over her soul. Her rosy, sweet soul. It wasn't the first time she tried, and it was a topic of conversation more than once between us. Although her jokes about it gave me hope that maybe she would avoid that fate.

Now I lie here in my bed with children and a wife I love tremendously. I can't imagine a better future for myself... yet I'm always sad... how could I not, when I had a taste of the purest love? My wife is very good, but our relationship isn't pure. I don't want to separate from her, but if I did, I'd face a ton of moral, financial, and legal obstacles. I can't get that out of my mind, and I can't help but compare it to the freedom I had with Marabella. The freedom that gives love its reality. The worst part is that at the same time, I understand that you can't have a love like that forever. That's why people get married because they don't trust (rightfully so) their own ability to love purely and freely.

I had a dream last night. Of course, about that day. I woke up with intense pain in my chest and tears in my eyes.