I’ve been walking for at least twenty minutes. And still, I’m no closer to my door than when I began.
The hallway stretches and stretches and stretches before me like putty drawn taut. I’m just about to give up, when I hear a deep, gravelly voice to my left. “Joanne,” it says. “Are you lost?”
There she is. Draped in black-and-white furs, wide brown eyes haloed by heavy pink blush. Her name lands a beat later. “Sally, right?”
She nods. Until now, we’ve never spoken. I’ve only caught passing glimpses of her in the mess hall. But she’s always seemed sweet, and something about her presence settles me.
“Yes, I think so,” I admit. “I don’t know why, but the door seems to keep getting farther–”
Sally laughs. “Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving a flippant hand. “This place can feel like that, sometimes. It’s super confusing. But you’ll get the hang of it.”
She holds out her elbow for me to take, and I do so gratefully. As we link arms, I’m struck by a sour, sickly odor. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced since getting here. In fact, I’ve grown so used to the hotel’s clean, antiseptic scents, that the new sensation makes my eyes burn from the shock.
Seeing me shudder, Sally smiles apologetically. “Oh, can you smell that?” she says. “I’m sorry. It’s the coat.” And she gestures to the fur draped across her shoulders.
“Skunk fur,” she says, by way of explanation. “I skinned them myself.”
I do my best not to wince. “Oh.” I say. “That’s… creative.”
And she giggles, as if delighted by the compliment.
The door pulls up to our face. Somehow, with Sally’s guidance, we’ve managed to get there in only three strides. “This is it!” she says, in a high, sing-songy voice. “Your first session, right?”
I nod dumbly, reaching for the handle. She gives me a quick squeeze before strutting off. “Good luck, J!”
***
Everything aches afterward. I’m wrecked by cramps I haven’t felt since college, and I worry that menstrual blood might leak through my pants.
At the doctor’s suggestion, I go immediately to dinner. “After losing all that fluid, you need to fuel back up,” she’d said. So, obediently, I head down to the mess hall.
Here, the decor looks nothing like the rest of the hotel. Most of our floors are adorned with spiralling orange carpets and dark emerald wallpaper, creating the sense that we’re moving through a mandarin tree. They radiate elegance and decor; the sort of thing you’d expect from a place like this.
The mess hall, by contrast, feels more like an alien cavern. Here, white pillars stretch up toward a drywall ceiling, which bellows outward in a half-formed dome. Pockets of light stream through gaping holes, creating the impression that this room isn’t quite finished. Its floors are made of an off-white linoleum, increasingly streaked by splotches of dark sauce, and the tables consist of boxy, metal benches.
The room, at this hour, is teeming with women. All high-powered execs, in heels that clack like teeth on the ground, racing to join their little cliques. I linger for a moment, watching them. Their hips, their lashes, their clipped, cruel laughter – it’s intoxicating. There’s comfort in knowing exactly what you’re looking at.
The only catch is, I haven’t made any meaningful connections here. Each clique watches me with narrowed eyes, casting invisible force fields across the hall. I drift between them, repelled at every turn, like a pinball stuttering through its machine. It’s only when I spot Sally, alone at the back of the room, that my chest deflates.
She’s curled up in a corner, a thin book open on her lap. She’s changed since I last saw her – now wearing a thin, sheer dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat, despite being sat firmly in the shade.
“Sally,” I say, as I approach. “Can I join you?”
Her eyes beam up at me. “Joanne!” she says. “Of course you can. Come, come.”
I slide into the seat across from her, grunting as pain flares in my core. Up close, I notice her hair has changed too. What was once brunette is now an inky black, glossy and lacquered, giving her the look of a China doll. She closes her book and glances up at me, her expression unreadable.
“So, how do you feel?” she asks. “Stronger? Bolder? More yourself?”
I ponder this before responding. “Well… yes. I suppose so.” In truth, I only feel achy and sore. My stomach feels as if it’s been scooped out with a ladle, my lungs stirred with metal forks.
She nods. “Some of the women here… they can’t take it,” she whispers. “They’ll be gone before the end of the week.”
But then, leaning back, she looks at me with those large, bright eyes. “You, however, are different. You’ll do fine.”
Something inside me lights up at her praise. “Yeah?”
“Oh, of course,” she says, then pats my hand with her own. No longer coated in skunk fur, she smells instead like freshly baked pie. Almost absentmindedly, she continues: “Q—’s told me all about you. You’re exactly the kind of girl this place adores.”
***
I can’t sleep. Everytime I shift or roll over, it feels like my insides are about to gush out of their seams. Each new position only triggers another wave of cramps.
Not to mention the noise. Coming from inside the room itself, a soft, tinny whine escapes, every so often, from behind the wooden dresser. As soon as I think it’s ended, there it is again – a slow, creaking hiss, like a rusty, rasping lung.
I can’t take it. I bury my head in the pillow, stuff my ears with tissue. I long for the rich, syrupy tones of my wife’s gentle voice, and I do my best to think of only that. Her warmth. The way she says everything with a hard lisp. I miss her. I nearly drift off, lulled by the memory of her breath.
But then there it is again. That horrible creak, raking at the insides of my brain.
Something in me snaps. I throw off the covers and stagger toward the dresser, desperate to shut it up. With all the strength I have left, I shove it to the side – relieved, and slightly surprised, when it slides away like butter.
Then, I see it. Behind the dresser is a long, copper panel, poorly fastened to the wall. Whoever placed it there didn’t do a proper job. The screws jut outward, their metal heads gasping in the air. It takes almost no effort to twist them loose between my fingers. The panel gives way with a soft groan, and I lower it to the floor.
Behind the panel is a circular peephole, punched straight through to the room next door. The metal had meant to obscure it, and now that it’s gone, I can see a thin beam of light darting through.
I freeze. There’s a faint hum – like a fan or a breath – leaking through the opening.
I shouldn’t, I think. I should go back to bed.
But something tugs at me, low and insistent.
Slowly, I lower myself to the floor, knees creaking, hands pressed flat for balance. The peephole is small, just wide enough for a single eye. I hesitate, then press my face to the wall. Through the gap, I see her: a woman, young and lithe, with bright pink hair that cascades like water. Her make-up is extreme – winged eyeliner slashing across her brow, thick pink shadow all the way to her scalp, lips drawn red like ripe fruit.
She’s leaning back against her mattress, legs splayed languidly on the sheets. Then, she laughs at something I cannot hear, and her head tilts backward in a girlish, playful way.
It’s Sally, I realize. New clothes, new hair. When she speaks, her voice is low and soft. Who’s she talking to?
I shift slightly to the right, careful not to make a sound. From this angle, I catch a glimpse of the other figure.
My stomach knots.
It’s a middle-aged man, complete with stubble and liver spots. He sways slightly, like he’s drunk or drugged, grinning too wide, eyes gleaming with want. He looks ravenous. Like he’s ready to devour her.
I feel sick.
I was told – no, promised – that this would be a women-only retreat. No men allowed. But of course, here they are. Worming their way into everything sacred, like rot beneath church floorboards.
It’s the same back home. They’ve invaded women’s bathrooms, women’s sports teams, women’s shelters; as if a couple estrogen shots somehow qualify them for entrance. It’s one, big psychosis, and I can’t escape it, no matter where I go.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not heartless. When Q— died at the hands of an angry John, I was devastated. Of course I was. But part of me had seen it coming. I’d warned ‘her’, hadn’t I? Told ‘her’ to tone things down. To be careful.
I even left the latch unlocked that night. She could’ve come in, if she’d wanted.
And yet, our friends blamed me anyway. Said I didn’t do enough. Called me a bigot; a TERF. Not long later, they made the decision to expel me from our all-lesbian support space.
All because of a man.
The irony still tastes bitter in my mouth.
So, no. I don’t understand why there are men here too. Not even pretending to be not-men. The fact of it makes my skin crawl. I want to march down the hall, pound on her door, and tell him to get out. I even start to rise – but I’m stopped by the sound of a soft, pleading whine.
I drop back down to the floor. I press my face against the wall. Sally’s on the bed now, head tilted back, her face contorted in a look of feral pleasure. It takes me a moment to realize that the unnamed man, obscured from view, is going down on her.
I pause. I’m unable to look away. Sally’s whole body trembles; her back jerks and arches up, like a puppet pulled taut. Her hands clutch desperately at the sheets below her. She moans, loud and unashamed. Heat rises in my chest.
I keep watching.
At some point, I touch myself. I trace my entrance – just once – before shoving three fingers inside, hitting exactly where I need to. A sharp gasp escapes me.
I slap a hand over my mouth, praying she didn’t hear.
But neither of them stop. She writhes harder, hips bucking, muscles coiling. The bed begins to quake – like something sacred is being forced from her.
And then she comes, with a jagged, animal howl. She shoots upward, stiff as a rod, before collapsing onto the bed.
I come with her, muffling my moans into my palm.
I don’t remember much of what happens after that. Having been reduced to softness, I crawl back into bed; drifting into fast, easy rest.
***
This next surgery, the doctor explains, is meant to optimize the body’s endocrine system. She’ll strip out all the parts I don’t need, streamlining my insides for energy circulation. Hot, glowing power, which will fuel me right up, she says, “like an overflowing battery pack.”
It doesn’t totally make sense, but I can’t deny the results. Women who leave this place soar to the top of their fields: CEOs, execs, board presidents. I see them all the time, on the covers of Vogue, Harper’s, or Fortune 500. Posing in their pantsuits and perfect hair. That could be me. If I can land something big within the next two years, it’ll be right in time to make Forbes’ 30-Under-30. The very thought electrifies me.
So I fold myself into the doctor’s chair without hesitation, and gaze into her bright, fluorescent lights. She covers my face with a plastic mask. I think I smell the ocean.
The next thing I know, I’m waking up to her shadow looming over me. “How do you feel, Joanne?”
My stomach feels hollow. I move to touch it, but I find that the whole area’s been covered in scratchy, white gauze. It’s damp against my fingers.
“Good,” I tell her. And it’s true. I feel lighter than I have in years.
As if reading my mind, she nods. “You’re about three pounds lighter now. I bet you could fit into your college jeans!”
I can’t tell whether or not she’s making a joke. But either way, I laugh. I’m giddy at the sound of my own breath.
***
Back in the mess hall, Sally’s changed again.
Her face is coated in milky white cream, like she’s sculpted from silicone, and her hair’s been teased into frizzy, silver curls. A dark, sequined dress hangs loosely on her delicate frame, catching the light as I approach.
“Joanne!” she says, as I reach her table. “You look lovely. Was it your second surgery today?”
I nod, then slide into the seat across from her. She stares at me with those sharp, blue eyes, slicing cleanly through my skin.
“Sally…” I begin, slowly. My mouth is dry. How do I say this without exposing myself?
“Mm-hmm?” she replies, sipping her soda through a long, metal straw. Her lips pucker around its rim. She stares at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. “I, uh, I think our rooms are next to each other.”
Her eyes crinkle at the edges. “Oh, really?” she says. She rests her head on one hand, tapping her cheekbone with four lacquered nails. “How fun!”
“Yes, and… And I think I heard something last night. Through the walls?”
She looks surprised. “Oh?”
“Yes. I don’t mean to pry, but I thought I heard a man’s voice.”
She stays silent, so I continue. “It sounded like you two were… uh, talking. And I’m bringing it up just because– well, I thought–” I swallow, then cut to the chase. “Men aren’t allowed to be here. Right?”
Sally’s eyes go wide. “Oh, Joanne,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“It’s not that,” I assure her. “I just, uh– I wanted to make sure that you’re safe.”
Her eyebrows raise. Then, to my shock, she starts laughing. “Joanne,” she says, and leans over the table, until her breath is hot against my skin. “It’s not them that I’m afraid of.”
***
Night falls, and I know that I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I end up back at the peephole.
Her guest tonight is different. He’s taller, paler, and has a little pouch of a belly that hangs over his shorts. His arms are covered in floral tattoos, and his head is shaved to a buzzcut. He, too, looks ravenous at Sally’s body.
Like last time, I position myself so I can see her – only her – through the peephole. I kneel subserviently, holding my eye against the wall. Then, I fold my hands between my legs, and watch as she unravels.
My whole body throbs with her force. I come quietly and hard. I stain the ground beneath me.
***
My next procedure, the surgeon explains, is designed toward “hormonal placation.”
She talks to me as she readies her tools. “It’ll free you from all those pesky ups-and-downs we women have,” she says. Again, I can’t tell if she’s joking, so I smile politely.
“Well, great,” I say. “Can’t wait.”
Her lights flick on. The mask descends.
I wake to the scent of her sweat.
***
At some point or another, I realize that Sally’s flirting with me. In the dining room, or the hallways; she touches me wherever and whenever she can. My arm, my cheek, the small of my back. Leaning over my shoulder, so close I can feel her breath on my neck. It’s driving me insane.
On our fourth day, I tried to enter her bedroom. But she stopped me at the door, smiling coyly. “Not until you’re ready,” she said. And I protested, telling her that I was ready. That I knew what I was doing.
Still, she only laughed. She was dangling herself before me; close enough to desire, not to grasp.
And at night, atop her men? She’s begun to moan louder, grind harder, as if headlining an X-rated film.
Once, for just a second, I thought she saw me through the gap. I jerked away, out of fear that I’d been caught – but by the time I looked back, her eyes were no longer on me. They’d rolled up toward the ceiling; her face shattered, mid-orgasm.
I have to admit, I’ve grown fond of seeing her like this. Soft and unspooled. Like the slow currents running just below a tsunami.
It marks such a contrast to how she appears in broad daylight, when she carries herself with total precision; molding and remolding her own body like stop-motion clay. One moment, she’s tall and muscular. Then, stout and curvy. Sometimes, she smells like cigarette smoke. Other times, mildew, or freshly cut grass.
I asked her, once, why she always looked so different. “It’s like you’re a million different people, all rolled into one.”
She shot me a look. “Isn’t that what we’re here to do?” she snipped. “Keep changing?”
The chill in her voice threw me off guard. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
For a beat, she said nothing; just toyed with the rim of her glass. Her shoulders turned square and rigid, her lips thin, as she mulled over my words.
Then, with a single breath, her whole body slumped in surrender. “It’s ok,” she decided. “You didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
She twisted around to face me directly, and abruptly changed the subject. “Joanne, have I ever told you about the time I got mauled?”
“What?” I said. I flinched at the turn in conversation. “No. You haven’t.” And, as an afterthought: “I’m so sorry that happened.”
She shrugged. “It happened at the strip mall,” she said. Then, without humor, she laughed. “Hah. Mall-mauled. Funny, right?”
I stayed quiet.
“It was a police officer,” she continued, “who beat me. But it was a woman – a fellow sister – that called him over.” She spat out the word ‘sister’ like it was acid on her tongue.
“A real crunchy, granola type. The kind of hippy that probably went crazy for #FreeTheNipple.” Sally chuckled drily. It was clear she didn’t want to retell the story, but she pressed on regardless. “Anyways, I was tryna use the bathroom. She was in there too, brushing her teeth at this moldy-ass sink – which, like, whatever. A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, right?”
I nodded, though I suspect she didn’t need an answer. “So, I ignore her, and I go into the nearest stall. As one does.”
This is where the story gets interesting. “Something, I don’t know what, compelled this woman to watch my feet as I peed,” Sally said. “Through the gap at the bottom of the stall.”
The woman didn’t like what she saw. Sally’s toes, pointed toward the toilet.
Before Sally knew it, a police officer – “with a cap, a mustache, the whole schtick” – was banging at the stall door, demanding her to open. “And when I did?” she laughed. “Bam! Knocked right over the head with a baton. In the middle of a public bathroom.”
Her story made the air feel heavy. I felt like there was an admission buried deep inside, but I was slow to sift it out.
Still, she stared at me expectantly.
Finally, it clicked. “So you’re…”
“Yep. Does that worry you?”
I squinted at her. “So you have a…?”
I whispered the last part, like it was a dirty word.
“Did,” she corrected me. “Did have a penis. Got it changed. Right here, at this hotel, actually.”
Then, she added, “Not that it’s any of your business.”
She sipped from her straw. The silence stretched, long and thin.
At last, I said, “You pass, though. It’s… different.”
She stared at me flatly. “Right.”
“And,” I added, with a weak attempt at levity, “I’m still attracted to you.”
“Well! Thank God for that.”
***
Following that conversation, something shifted between us. Like an unseen barrier had disintegrated. I grew to adore her. Or, at least, the parts of her I understood.
Every moment I wasn’t under the scalpel, I was with her. We’d smoke reefers in the courtyard, or lounge beneath the library’s arched windows. We’d talk about our lives, our dreams, our secret fears. And we’d argue, sometimes, about small things. Like TV shows, or food, or women’s tennis. I maintained, for instance, that teams should be limited to bio-women only; no testosterone allowed. “It’s nothing personal,” I’d explained. “Just to keep things fair.”
She’d frowned. “But ‘bio-women’ do have testosterone,” she said. “I mean, how would you even regulate that?”
I could see she was upset, so I tried to defuse things with a joke. “Let’s put it this way. Serena Williams wouldn’t be Serena Williams if she had a prostate, right?”
Sally didn’t laugh, but we did eventually make up. As we always did.
She’d fold herself against my side, and I’d breathe in the scent of her hair.
Whenever I asked to enter her room, she’d have some excuse as to why I couldn’t. “It’s too messy today,” or, “there’s a strange smell in there.” Leaving me, inevitably, to rely on the peephole instead. Watching her parade of nameless Johns, cycling in and out of her bed.
I hated how much I wanted her, right up to the very end.
***
My last surgery is over. Tomorrow’s the seventh day, meaning that I’m due to go home in the morning, and I’ll probably never see Sally again. Once I return to my wife, this past week will fade into nothing but a strange, hazy dream.
Now, I pace around my bedroom, packing my suitcase. I gather all the socks and shirts still strewn about, including the lingerie I never got to wear, and chuck them into the open bag. When it’s done, I take one last scan of the suite, checking that I haven’t missed anything.
My heart almost stops in its place.
At the bottom of the wall, where the dresser used to be, a gray eye is watching through the peephole. It squints in glee when I clock it; laughing, before pulling quickly away.
I pause, collecting myself. Then, I creep toward the wall; crawling, on all fours, to its gaping mouth. I kneel, as always, before the fissure.
Through its aperture, I see Sally, sitting on her mattress. Alone.
She’s watching me. I’m trapped. She smiles coquettishly, half-winking. Then, she begins to play with the buttons on her blouse.
My breath catches.
Sally tugs at her sleeves, the way a spider draws out its web. She peels them away, inch by inch, revealing the pale, creamy skin beneath. With mechanical precision, she tears long strips off her bodice in slow, spiraling tendrils, until a soft, tender stretch of stomach is laid bare.
It’s a performance, and it’s all for me.
We lock eyes again, and she smiles warmly, in what’s clearly an invitation to join her. She fiddles with the edge of her skirt, and I realize she’s initiating a moment of mutual self-pleasure.
Eagerly, I tug at my own garments, hoping to reach my aching core before the strip tease ends.
With a satisfying pop!, the pants come off my waist, and fall to a heap on the floor. Black panties come next.
Finally, I press two fingers against my crotch. They skate across its rim, searching for the entrance; looking to curl into my slit.
But I can’t find it. There’s nothing there.
What used to be a warm, needy cunt has disappeared.
I run my hands up and down the space between my legs, hoping to be mistaken. But no. It’s well and truly gone.
Even worse, the skin here feels bumpy. Uneven. Mushy. Like the lips of my pussy have been clumsily sewed together, then cauterized by steel. Where I used to come most alive, there’s only dead nerves; numb and unfeeling.
Panic swells in my chest.
Someone knocks at the door. My wife calls out from the bathroom, asking me to check who it is.
I oblige. In three strides, I clear the living room and reach the entrance. I look through its peephole. My heart sinks.
There, on our porch, stands Q––. She’s drenched from the rain, shivering beneath the flickering light. Mascara streams down her cheeks. Lipstick’s smeared across her chin. Her shirt, soaked through, clings to her frame – sheer enough that I can see the sharp tips of her nipples.
She looks terrified.
I crack open the door, just a sliver. Quietly, so it’s barely audible, I hiss, “You have to leave.”
I can’t risk it. If Eleanor catches her here again, our marriage is over.
Q—’s eyes grow wide. “Joanne–” she heaves. “Joanne, I’m sorry to show up like this – I just, your house was the closest, and –”
“Q–––,” I cut her off. “You can’t be here.”
It was hard to fix things last time. Not just for Eleanor, but for myself. To reassure both her, and me, where my affections truly lie.
Now I’m sure of what I want. And what I want is a real woman. Warm, fleshy, vulnerable; nothing hard or jagged. I want softness and safety. Not that kind of ugly, phallic sex where flesh cleaves into flesh, the way a lance carves out a wound. Not her body – which, no matter what she does, I can’t help but see as a threat.
“Joanne, please,” she begs. “I know– I know things ended badly, but I think J–––’s found me–”
Frustration bubbles in my stomach. I’ve told her – I’ve told her a million times – that there’s only so much I can do. “Call the police then!” I cry.
She looks exasperated. “You know I can’t do that.”
Then, from down the hallway: “J?” Eleanor’s voice, sharp and curious. “Who’s at the door?”
My stomach grows nervous. I call out, too fast, too loud, “Just a delivery!”
Then, to Q—: “I’m sorry. You have to leave.”
I shut the door.
Reality rushes up to my face, and suddenly, I’m back in the hotel – not in my living room, but rather, outside the tall, oaky panel that obscures Sally’s bedroom. Before I can collect myself, it swings open. Sally stands there, waiting for me.
She’s changed into a tight, velvet dress. Her hair falls, long and black, to her ankles. “Wanna come in?”
I do.
Inside, the room looks familiar, but not. The same furniture, the same low lamp – but everything feels… wider, somehow. Deeper. Like the walls have stretched themselves out for my arrival.
“You know,” Sally says dreamily, “I always wondered if we’d sleep together.”
I stare at her, still dazed. “Sally…” I say. “What’s happened to me?”
She bats her eyes coyly. “Exactly what you signed up for,” she coos. “We took out all your gushy bits. Made you strong. Competitive.”
A wave of nausea hits me. “But I don’t feel any stronger,” I mumble. “I just feel… hollow.”
She lets out a thin giggle. “Let’s put it this way. You certainly don’t have the stomach for women’s tennis anymore.”
Then, she studies me with a soft, heady gaze. “How’s the new body feeling?” she asks. “Will your wife still want you? Or is she a girls-only kinda girl.”
My face prickles. “I’m still a woman,” I snap.
She shrugs. “You have no womb, no uterus, no breasts… not even a cunt to play with.”
I clasp my hand to my chest, and I’m shocked to find it flat. I don’t know how I didn’t notice before.
“It doesn’t matter.” I hiss. “I’m still a woman.”
“Not by your own definition,” she says curtly. She comes up to me, loops her arms around my neck. “But it’s okay, J. I still think you’re gorgeous.” And her voice is so earnest, I know she’s telling the truth.
My brain falters.
“Sally…” I say, “What do you even do here?”
As far as I know, everyone’s either a patient or a doctor. But Sally seems like neither. Why have I never wondered this before?
She grins. “You’re cute.” Then, pressing her lips to my ear, she says, “This place doesn’t exist without me. It’s mine. Like a deep, dark throat.”
The room throbs and clenches around us. My body understands before I let myself admit it. “Why me?” I say. “Why’d you choose me?”
Sally nibbles my earlobe. “Your visions of womanhood are so narrow, J. It’s wasted on you.” She runs her tongue across my cheek. “But more than that, Q— was my sister. And you killed her.”
“It’s not my fault–”
“Spare me the act,” she sighs. Suddenly, I see Q—, splayed out before me, on the mattress. I remember the rush of betrayal, horror, fear, and lust, all pulsing through my veins – how I snapped–
I needed her gone.
Sally shoves me to my knees, then swings herself onto the bed. “Now, show me what your new body’s for.”
She opens her hips and pulls up her dress. Between her long, nimble legs, I see eight rows of teeth. They stretch back as far as the eye can see.
Unfathomably, I begin to drool. My brain turns to static. I want nothing but to taste her on my lips.
I press my tongue to her entrance, and she moans.
— Zoë Fuad (she/her) is an Indonesian-American organizer based in Brooklyn, NY. You can find her on Instagram and substack @zoefuad (or at: https://leftistburnout.substack.com/)