John steadily keyed the letters and symbols into his laptop, the desk lamp burning his eyes, a can of Mountain Dew by his side. Programming appealed to him, mostly because of the innate logic in it. By following the rules, refining his ideas, and creatively putting together the allowed signs, he could program nearly anything he wanted. If only life were as simple.

His fingers clicked over the keys. He tried not to do it. At first he'd managed to limit himself to Halloween and the odd dress-up party. But the feeling of being himself, of wearing those clothes, was too good. It wasn't a thrill—it was a feeling of completeness and one he was finding more and more difficult to do without.

He paused for a second to look something up in one of the books in the pile at his side, then nodded and continued stroking the keys. It was almost time, and he wanted to get this assignment finished before he went.

Maybe it was stress. College was so much harder than high school, and now that he'd found what he enjoyed, he wanted to be good at it. Wanted to be the best he could be. He'd discovered what he could do and knew computers were going to be his living. However, coupling his extensive programming classes with his other class requirements, with his job, with the pressures of being social, and add the heavy weight of keeping his secret, and sometimes things simply fell apart.

He knew Aureus worried about him during those times. He worried about himself, if he were honest. Those caused the dark days when he couldn't open his door to the world. They seemed to be happening more often now. There was only one solution, one thing making everything all right again. It made the pressure a little easier to take and the secret easier to keep.

With a sigh, he hit Save, then pushed his chair back and stretched. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost two in the morning. Quickly he gathered everything he needed, which was already stuffed into plastic bags, and checked his pockets for his keys and phone. Okay, he was ready.

The first few times, he'd got ready in the dorm bathroom, but it was too risky. Someone could walk in at any time, and everyone on his hall knew him, would recognize him. These days he had a better plan, one he'd worked for a few months now. He skipped down the dorm stairs, pushed open the front door, and went out into the soft night, the air still warm from the heat of the day.

He followed the brick pathway through the quad, enjoying the silence and the fresh smell of the cut grass. The windows of the tall library were lit in the distance, and as he got closer he could feel the weight in his stomach growing lighter already.

He wished he didn't have to do this, but he honestly couldn't find another way to take away the anxiety, the blackness that overtook him. He'd done his research, found that plenty of men lived double lives, lived their whole lives dressing in secret and having a family, and no one ever found out. The knowledge gave him a glimmer of hope, though he still believed once the stresses of college were over, he would be able to give up this strange addiction.

The small antechamber by the library entrance was still air conditioned, and he felt a chill as he walked through and pushed the metal gate open. The library was open twenty-four hours a day, was huge, and between finals or midterms was mostly deserted during the night. A sleepy librarian was reading at the front desk. John ignored her.

He made his way up in the elevator, choosing a random floor number. When the doors slid open, he turned to the right and found the women's toilet. The first time, he'd used the men's but later found the women's offered more privacy, a larger space, and he looked less suspicious coming out.

Once he was inside, with the stall door safely closed and locked, he took a deep breath and began his ritual.

He had to get completely naked first. There was to be no mixing of clothes between his real self and his pretend public self. Only when it was done could he open the bag he'd brought and begin making his selection for the night.

He no longer depended on chance to get his clothes. Now he bought them. He'd begun with thrift stores; there were plenty around campus, and no one looked twice at anything he bought. Clothes were bought by weight, anyway, so all he had to do was hide the garment he wanted in a pile of men's shirts, and he wouldn't be noticed. If the cashier noticed, she was generally another college student who merely assumed he was going to a party.

John had quickly developed an eye for what would both fit and suit him. Sure, there'd been a few mistakes at first. At the back of his closet was a small bag crammed with dresses not fitting properly or designs too gaudy. He couldn't bring himself to throw them away, but he never wore them. Now, though, he could spot the perfect dress from across the store and found he preferred bold colors to complement his dark hair. The dress he chose tonight was blue and matched his eyes well.

Underwear was a different issue. It was tougher and wasn't exactly the sort of thing you could buy from the thrift store. Panties he generally got in multipacks from Wal-Mart or Target, stores where he could buy multiple items and hopefully confuse the cashier into thinking he was buying stuff for someone else.

Only once had he made the mistake of going into a real women's clothing store. He'd been at the mall with the sole goal of buying a bra to fit him. This was long before he'd thought of using Target, and he'd wandered around and around the mall trying to find the courage to go into the store he wanted.

Finally, he'd forced himself to step through the door, mentally rehearsing his story in his head.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" a middle-aged woman had asked, almost before he was inside.

He cleared his throat. "I'm looking for something, er, something for my girlfriend. A present." He stumbled a little over the word "girlfriend."

"I see, sir," said the woman, her eyes a little cold. "Well, we have some nice sets here." She pointed at something looking so complicated that John wasn't even sure what it was.

"No, no," he stuttered. "I need a bra. I mean, I, she needs a bra."

The woman looked him up and down. "Does the gentleman know what size his girlfriend needs?" she asked.

She stressed the word "girlfriend," and John felt his color rise. He shook his head, afraid to speak now.

"Well, maybe the gentleman should come back when he knows?" the woman said.

He nodded, grateful for the chance to escape, and fled from the store, from the mall.

After a while, he'd discovered online shopping, things shipped in anonymous packages to his dorm. It was the way he preferred to shop now. His budget was small, but by keeping an eye out for bargains, he could get away with a few gifts to himself. He was careful not to let his collection get too large, both for financial and storage purposes, but he had a choice of clothes now. Smiling to himself, he pulled out the black bra he'd bought the week before.

With underwear on, he pulled the dress over his head, feeling the soft, silky texture on his skin and shivering a little. He sat on the closed toilet to delicately maneuver pantyhose up his shaven legs. He shaved regularly now and never, ever wore shorts. Shoes came next, and he was almost ready. Squatting next to the toilet, he placed a small mirror on the toilet lid and pulled out his makeup. Carefully chosen in muted grays for the eyes and mid-pinks for the lips—he was extremely picky about his cosmetics. He had no intention of looking like an over-made-up drag queen. He wanted to look as natural as possible.

Done, he smiled into the mirror. His hair was longer now, androgynous looking. He'd prefer to be able to have a more feminine-looking cut, something to better frame his face. For now, this would do.

He packed all of his things away into his bag, careful to keep his public clothes separate from his special clothes before opening the stall door to see himself in the large restroom mirror. He smiled at his real self. She smiled back. He was careful not to get too close to the mirror—he didn't want to see the flaws. The lump in his throat, the marks on his skin where the hair sprouted, the curves not quite right. Overall, he was satisfied. Now he had to go. He allowed himself only thirty minutes, so he needed to make the most of them.

Outside of the library, he turned towards the middle of campus. He took his normal route, the heels of his shoes clicking on the bricks. Dressing wasn't enough by itself. He needed to be in public, to have those few precious minutes where he was himself in the real world. It was those minutes that gave him the strength to go on hiding—like food or water, he needed them.

The path took him through the central quad and past the campus Y. He saw one person, a huddled figure tramping home with a pack on his back. He was far enough away not to give John any cause for concern. Even had he been closer, John would have done nothing more than adjust his speed so he wasn't in the beam of a streetlight when their eyes met. He knew he could pass and most people wouldn't give him a second glance.

He strolled by the art building, rounding the corner to circle the block. The anonymous woman's pictures were long gone, replaced by something newer, then replaced again. He still had the photos he'd secretly taken with his phone, stored deep in his computer and pored over late at night. He had other pictures, too, women he admired both clothed and naked. Sometimes he set himself the task of deciding which girls had the best features and then trying to combine those features into one ideal woman he would be if he could be born again, if he could have the chance to start over in a new body, a new life. The few minutes of elation this gave him was rarely worth the cloud of depression that descended when he was finished. Thus, he tried not to engage in the exercise too often.

The nylon of his pantyhose whispered as his legs moved. He felt the skirt of his dress touch his body as his hips delicately swayed. Female mannerisms came easily to him. He hadn't needed to learn them; it was the way his body moved. And being able to walk without consciously telling each muscle to behave itself, reminding himself to swing his arms, keep his hips still, slouch more, was freeing.

He turned another corner, and the art building came back into sight. His time was nearly over. The night was his friend. He felt safe, comfortable, and more alive out here right now than he ever did during the day. He rubbed his lips together, the sticky lipstick smoothing itself. This was him, who he was. It made everything okay again.

He kept his eyes down as he walked back into the library, knowing the bright fluorescent lights would make his flaws more noticeable. Again, he took the elevator, choosing a different floor this time. He looked at his watch; he'd been fast tonight. There was another five minutes of his time left. So when he got out of the elevator, he allowed himself the small luxury of walking around the stacks on the floor, pausing now and again to take a book from a shelf. He was playing with fire—he could see some of the study carrels were occupied by late-night workers, but he couldn't deny himself those last few minutes.

It was only when the second hand began to count down the last few moments of his time that he slipped back into the toilet, the men's this time. The last thing he needed was to be caught as a boy coming out of the women's restroom.

Locking himself in the stall, he reversed the process he'd completed only a half hour before. Makeup removal pads smeared his cosmetics over his face. The shoes came off, then the pantyhose. Next, the dress was lifted gently over his head. The underwear was removed last. He reverently folded his outfit, making sure it wouldn't be creased, and put it away. The panties he separated into another bag, to be thrown away as he left. Laundering his outfits wasn't an option, and while he was careful not to get anything dirty, he wore clean, new panties each time he dressed.

When all was packed away, he took out his public clothes again, throwing them on without care, not noticing if he buttoned his shirt slightly wrong or whether there was a growing hole in the knee of his jeans.

Dressed again, he opened the stall door, averting his eyes from the mirror. He splashed water over his face to remove the last vestiges of makeup, hiked his bag over his shoulder, and walked out.

He was back in his dorm room before four, bag safely stowed at the rear of the closet. He felt the familiar loss he always experienced after dressing. At least now he'd be able to handle the next couple of weeks without having a black day. Maybe longer, if he was lucky. He slept almost immediately, his mind calm.

*****