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What I want

I want to be feminine, to hear the clicking of my heels, as I walked, to feel the swish of my pantyhose as my nylons rubbed together on my smooth thighs, beneath my Niqab, I want heavily-styled hair and heavy earrings brushing my neck, my shoulders feeling the pull of my breasts in my bra, tasting lipstick on my lips and smelling my perfume, make up and hairspray. I want it, more than anything.

I want to be practically indistinguishable from any other scared and timid muslimah woman into this foreign country. I want to be meek, soft, and demure. The kind of girl one would look at and see her eyes downcast, the gentle heaving of her shoulders, the soft barely audible sobs, and the tears, yes, that wonderful trickle of humiliation - so sweet and helpless. Often crying; the tiny rivulets streaming down my cheeks. I want the world to see me not just a bit womanly, but utterly feminine and ask: how could anyone in their right mind consider this creature male - dressed as she is and crying like a girl?