The situation I’m in, observed externally without context, would probably look pretty nice. There’s a man and a woman on a bed, and the woman’s just spelled things out incredibly clearly by putting the man’s hand on her chest.

  Unfortunately, the context is that I’m the girl, stuck looking like a man, with my hand on the chest of a man on estrogen who’s pretending to be a trans woman because he thinks it’s easier to expin than the reality, and honestly? Yeah, it fucking is.

  Baffled by the horrendously bizarre shit that’s been happening for all of today, I forget to actually react.

  “Nick? You good, man?” he’s looking at me, concerned, still not taking my hand off his boob. “If you’re wondering whether it’s okay to squeeze or what, I don’t really give a shit.”

  “Okay.” I squeeze. Why not. Never mind how a guy would act in this situation, I have no idea how anyone would act in this situation, so I’m just going with the option handed to me.

  There’s literally zero risk of this getting any weirder at this point, anyway.

  It gets weirder immediately, as Daniel makes a sound I have never heard in real life before.

  “You good, man?” Judging by his face, neither of us was expecting The Sound.

  “I uh. Um.”

  “Yeah?”

  Daniel looks like he’s thinking really heavily for a second. I like to imagine that inside his head it’s just a buzzing noise or whatever. He’s furrowing his brow a little, but finally opens his mouth.

  “I am going to jerk off. Get out.”

  “What?” What.

  “Bro. Can’t a man have some privacy? I told you. I need to crank my hog.”

  I’m so baffled I barely remember to filter myself asking for crification. My eyes momentarily glide down to Daniel’s groin. No visible bulge. I regret both acquiring and considering this information.

  Before I get to respond, he eborates unprompted: “Not cause I’m horny or anything I’m just bored as shit with this conversation and need a change of pace. Chop chop, get going.”

  The door sms behind me and I am not entirely sure when I moved. What the fuck just happened?

  No, no, no, no, NO. What in the infinite depths of all nether realms, Katherine? What madness possessed you to think that was the correct move? WHY would you imitate a man in denial about experiencing unexpected arousal at such an incompetent fondling, if it is even worthy of being referred to as such? Nichos’ buffoonish hands were robotic in their motions, his vacant gaze the precise opposite of arousing to anyone, let alone someone who, it bears repeating, has no interest in men.

  With this shameful degree of incompetence, perhaps once I have progressed further on my path to self-realization I will have to give this buffoon hands-on instructions in handling women, purely as an act of solidarity with my androphilic kin. It would be a great act of self-sacrifice to spare some unfortunate maiden the utter disappointment I just went through.

  No, not a disappointment, my expectations were thoroughly met, as a matter of fact. He has entered my inner sanctum and provided me with nothing of value in return, wait, no you’re thinking in euphemisms again, stop, you are a follower of Sappho, you do not have such thoughts about a man, which is what he is. Unfortunately.

  Argh. Begone, horrendous thoughts of his malnourished embrace. Yet more reason why he cannot be allowed to participate. My respect for his stated identity can only go so far to restrain my reactions if the treatment begins to supplement whatever bizarre appeal it is that keeps undermining my composure in his presence. I absolutely cannot afford to be mistaken for a hetero around him.

  As I stew in the mortifying horror of the vast, overwhelming cringe I have visited upon the both of us, a realization dawns.

  I cannot afford to be mistaken for a hetero.

  However.

  I burst through the door to follow Nichos. Jeffrey is there. “Hey dude, did you see the-” he says, whatever. I have no time for his bthering questions about The Game Last Friday, or whichever day it is The Games are. His is a mind polished so smooth by the norms of our culture, it could be emuted to perfection by a cardboard cutout. I have tuned out all his nonsense about rankings and competition for the st month, it was simply unbearable.

  I kick open Nichos’ door, and then upon tactically recalling which way it opens, I yank it open instead. “Nick!” I interrupt his session of some werewolf hunting game he is obsessed with. “I’m sorry, dude!”

  As his blood-soaked huntress with the absurd saw weapon perishes on the screen, he turns to face me. “Bro. Did you finish that quick? If you’re telling me about it at least shower after, I mean-”

  “I didn’t do it, man. I couldn’t. I’m.” I have to py my cards perfectly now. There is precisely one path for me to take which results in the reestablishment of our trust, and the further possibility that I might succeed in dissuading Nichos from the path he is on.

  “I’ve been in a bit of a crisis about my sexuality, Nick.” I tell him. But wait. Would Daniel truly be this honest and insightful? Will he not suspect something is amiss, if at this juncture I suddenly reveal my awareness of these issues?

  I push through the uncertainty, words chosen with precision to weave the perfect narrative of an incredibly dense, possibly homosexual, alternatively bisexual, fucker of mothers. “I think the estrogen is making me gay.”

  Nichos is stunned into silence by this overwhelming revetion of emotional vulnerability.

  “Hey, good for you man, maybe now you two can start figuring out-” holy shit Jeffrey this is not the time. Do you not see that Nichos and I are having a private conversation in the doorway between the common area and his bedroom? Is there not something more important you could be doing according to your nauseating directives, you flesh automaton?

  “Bullshit,” Nichos interjects, the relief of his significantly more pleasant contributions to discussions somewhat undermined by his evident disapproval of my words.

  “Hormones don’t make you gay, Dan. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Foundation: Fwless. Concealer: Applied with perfection, not a single one of Isaac’s fine lines showing a hint of caking. My dude’s eyelids are optimally specced for eyeshadow, and let’s be clear, if this was ranked competitive eyeshadow I’d be winning. The bronzer’s the wrong shade for his pasty complexion, I’ll have to pick up a better shade at the cosmetics vendor next time I’m on a supply run, but whatever. The real meta is in the eyeliner, and years of winning the best painted army at wargame tournaments are proudly on dispy right there, on my runner-up’s eyelids. Now, all that remains is mascara.

  As I lean over to my pinned rival for the finishing move, my phone vibrates. Important business. Shit. I dropped the mascara on his face.

  “Dude what the fuck”

  “I’ve got more important shit to do than show you that femme strats are superior in mid-to-tegame, nerd.” And it’s true. “It’s tribunal business.”

  The legitimacy of my championship depends on the integrity of ranked competitive breast growth, and maintaining that integrity is essential. Isaac and I have a gentleman’s agreement about setting precedent protecting strats that are more optimized from whiny newbies who think being counterpyed by expansive gender expression means their opponent should get knocked out, sure. But that’s exactly why I’ve got to be at the tribunals.

  Especially an identity dispute over a week before kickoff, god damn.

  “Shit Laura, are you seeing this?” Isaac is glued to his phone, while I’ve been busy picking up the mascara and getting off him before doing so. A cssic blunder, but he’s reminded me of something essential. We’re making a habit of using names and pronouns in-character for the RLC, to minimize the whiff rate during poaceal contact replenishment farm runs.

  I reply to her question making sure to flex my superior adoption of the cover name: “Gimme a second, Emmy.” I put the mascara back in my purse and get on with what really matters: Getting involved with a disagreement between strangers in an online community I’m invested in.

  It’s a spicy one. The accused is one of the Q2-25 participants, and the accuser… Holy shit, it’s Boymoder Sephiroth.

  “Well, at least this’ll be fun to arbitrate.”

  After the most aggravating Accord conversation I have ever been forced to take part in, I decide I’m done dealing with Daniel’s bullshit for a while.

  What an absolutely unhinged trial. The accusation is that a cis man would be afraid of estrogen making him gay, while I said bullshit. The tribunal went for two hours debating that nonsense without even arriving at a proper conclusion, until I got off on some technicality.

  The outcome? The tribunal finds that Daniel was making the accusation in bad faith and imposes a sanction of one week without hormones. Good for him, maybe he’ll feel better off them and realize what he’s doing to himself. The server moves on, with a new pinned post in the rules:

  Jugs of Justice

  This has been a recurring compint regarding tribunals for a while now, so we are writing it down as official server policy: Prosecutors using “bro,” “dude,” “man,” and simirly masculine forms of address against competitors accused of a female gender identity will be ruled against, as a matter of principle.

  While the court recognizes that these terms see widespread usage of gender-neutral intent, identity dispute tribunals are to be understood as a highly gender-charged context. Prosecutors are expected to argue based on a sincere belief regarding the identity of the accused, and we find it utterly absurd to have to remind you not to dispute someone’s manhood while calling him a man.

  This decision is final.

  I can’t for the life of me figure out how this server’s culture works.

  The time before kickoff is hectic. Bancing studies with all those medical tests is a fucking mess, and I barely have time to deliberately avoid Daniel between the blood tests, EKGs, MRIs, wait, these aren’t normal tests for getting on hormones, are they? Body fat percentage? Detailed measurements with a tailor??

  I keep an eye on the Accord chat. Some of the entries are more vocal about the inconveniences in the tests. Four decide to call it quits, citing “bullshit medical hazing” and “weird, creepy server vibes.” They’re right, but I mean, free HRT?

  The package arrives before I really have time to notice that it’s been a week of this. Sent to a pickup locker in the middle of nowhere. Winded and sort of jittery, I end my ascent of the block’s too many stairs just in time to bump into Daniel.

  “Hey.” I say out of habit, forgetting that I’m giving him the silent treatment.

  “Hey.” He looks… reduced. Like seriously miserable. “I’m not going to try to pull any shit like that on you again, man. I’m sorry.”

  Well, he looks sorry. “Cool,” I respond. The package is a bit unwieldy for a long conversation, and I try to indicate as much with body nguage. He steps aside, but keeps talking.

  “Look. I’ll own up to it. I was trying to get you out of the competition, because I thought you couldn’t handle it. I was doubting you, Nick.”

  Having some ongoing trouble with carrying the crate in, I guess I’ll set it down on the common room table.

  “It’s the, you know, goods.”

  Daniel’s face lights up. “Oh shit dude that reminds me, I can do my injection today! The sanction’s up!” He sprints into his room like a child in a candy store or something, and returns with needles, syringes, everything. He sterilizes a spot on his thigh while talking, casually. “You can still turn back, dude. If you don’t, this is the shit you’ve gotta learn to do yourself, weekly or even every five days.” He measures out the injection and gets right to it.

  “Oh hey you two! Gd to see you’re on speaking terms again!”

  Ah, shit. It’s Jeff. I gnce at Daniel. He looks me straight in the eyes, then looks at the syringe in his leg, then back at me, then mouths “what the fuck do we say”

  “Oh, uh, hey Jeff,” I start. “Ooh, big package, is it, you know, for gaming?” asks Jeff, like gaming is some special word in need of emphasis. But sure.

  “Yeah it’s uh. It’s for gaming. It’s a new…” I try to come up with something pusible-sounding, “GPU… fan… lubricant.”

  Daniel still has an entire syringe poking into him, and goes with my cover story. “Yeah he’s been having some issues with the fan performance. The frames per second got uh. Creaky.”

  “Huh! Neat use for estradiol injections,” he says, with a huge grin on his face. “I thought they were just for like, medical uses.”

  I look at Daniel. He looks at me. He withdraws the needle.

  “I uh, well, it’s,” I start.

  “Okay, so, the thing is,” he continues.

  Wait. The real life cover.

  “Surprise, Jeff, I’m transgender!” I say.

  “And I’m. Also transgender!” says Daniel. “You can call me Katherine!” he says. Wow, he had a name ready? Shit, figure something out. Quick.

  “I’m Nichole!” fuck. That’s just Nichos for girls. What am I, some plot twist in a tv drama?

  “Aw, that’s nice,” he says, “but you don’t have to keep the charade up with me, guys!”

  Huh.

  “I’m heading out to pick up my package right now, you know.”

  “Your… what?”

  “My package? For ranked competitive breast growth?”

  Judging by the look on her face, this is news to Katherine too. Huh. That’s intuitive. Suits her. I mean him. Really well?

  Jeff is looking confused.

  “Guys, the game’s the only thing we’ve been talking about all week.”