For some time now Michelle has been involving me in more and more erotic games, a sign that something has changed between us.

She enjoys making me up as a woman. The first time this inspiration came to her, she made me put on her black silk dressing gown and sat me on the bed with my back to the mirror. She put on Shadow of a doubt, squatted down next to me completely naked and began her work. She smiled, I remember, getting more and more satisfied as she saw the result. She didn't want me to look at her, close your eyes or you'll distract me, and I remained with my eyes closed for half an hour, enjoying the caress of her hands as they stroked my face with light touches, stunned by the intoxicating perfume of those cosmetics. Lastly, she put lipstick on my lips, spreading it delicately with a brush. While she was doing this I bit her finger and started to suck it, but she got angry, stop, you're ruining my work. 
Finally she put the brush down and told me to turn around without opening my eyes. I turned blindly, sitting on the bed with my legs spread wide. She had tied my hair with a ribbon so that I could work better: she loosened it up and parted it with a parting on one side, leaving it to fall back in disarray. Then she stood up and told me "Open your eyes". I opened them.

A deadly strike almost knocked me unconscious. Then I began to focus on the details. The contrast between the femininity of my face, the long hair, the broad shoulders, the breastless chest, the muscular legs, the virile sex, took me to the pit of my stomach. As beautiful as a mythological creature can be.

You're a hottie, said Gerti. She wanted to fuck me right away.

I realised that Gerti has a strong lesbian component. She had kept it hidden from me, but that day it came out clearly: I had never seen her so involved.

Since then she has been dressing me up more and more as a woman, putting me in black stockings and stiletto heels, she wants me to be underneath. Once she told me you are a beautiful girl, tell me your name. I chose her name, Michelle: a masterstroke. She smiled. She got up, put on the old Beatles song and went back to bed. She lay on top of me and started caressing me like she'd never done before. It drove me crazy to hear her whisper her name in my ear. Even though I knew it was all an act, that was one of the most unforgettable moments of my life.

Immediately afterwards, she knocked me out with an equally unforgettable heartbeat. She propped herself up on one elbow, stroked my hair, stared at me with her fake eyes and said "Faggot, you're not falling in love with me, are you?" "Not at all", I replied, swallowing a sip of gall, "what are you thinking". "No", she resumed, "because if that's the case we'll end it right now. You'd be in too much pain".

That was her only glimpse of morality towards me.

A few evenings later, while I was putting on Michelle's costume (I was in make-up and half-disguised, wearing a skirt but still bare-chested, my hair pulled back in a ponytail), I saw a guitar lying in a corner. I didn't ask her anything, but she sensed my unexpressed question and told me that  a certain Carlos had forgotten it there. She felt obliged to specify that this guy's role was marginal, as he was a sexually overgifted one that she only used when she needed to get to the point quickly or when someone else (one at random) had left her unsatisfied. I did not show the slightest jealousy and continued dressing up as if nothing was wrong. Then I let my hair down and turned around, aware of the result and the effect it would have on her. I deliberately ignored her involuntary reaction (a small gasp and a smile); displaying indifference, I picked up the guitar and stroked the strings.

- Can you play? - she asked.

- A little bit. I am practising play alongs of not too difficult songs, for example Superball by Helium.

- How sweet. Will you play for me?

I picked up my guitar, sat down on the floor cross-legged, not caring about the white skirt, and rehearsed a few chords.

- You know who you remind me of? - she told me - Thurston Moore in the Dirty Boots era. You have the same teenage eroticism. 

I smiled at that somewhat naive compliment.

- The difference being that he is almost six and a half feet tall and a musical genius. - I replied - Baloney.

- Baloney? Why not trifles, while you're at it?

- It came to me like this.

- Classical high school. However, you have the same way of holding the guitar.

- What way?

- Inguinal. As if he were playing his sex.

- Don't make me laugh, you disconcert me.

- Come on, play.

I attacked Between the bars, a beautiful song that she cannot know, because so far it has only been performed live: this time the strike is mine. She said nothing the whole time: she stared at me with a strange look.

- You sing like an angel. There is nothing more horny than fucking an angel - she concluded, and dragged me onto the bed by the arm.

I have been singing for her more often since then.