It wasn’t until the second pregnancy, also a little girl, when Jody began to see the similarities in his desires. When Carrie ended up getting a mild -- but still no less throw-up intense -- case of myasthenia gravis, it meant the bulk of the child care and daily care fell on him. He reduced his hours in the studio and began that shift to be the stay-at-home dad he would eventually become. He took care of Carrie, getting her all she needed while she camped in bed or hugged a waste basket all day, while he also took care of Natalie, who was three.

It was a tough job, a tough summer. Intense and draining -- yet he was lighter at the end of every day. He played dress-up with his little girl; princesses and make believe; and then read her stories of princesses and magical transformations. As he would slip into bed at night, Carrie would often not feel amorous due to the nausea, but she would love him holding her belly as it grew. Her breasts, the same thing. He often fell asleep as her shadow, holding her most tender parts.

And sometimes, he’d dream that they were his own.

Most of the dreams were distant and hazy upon waking. A sensation of having breasts and nursing. A sensation of having a large belly, and there being something living and alive inside of him. Sometimes he was even on stage again in the dreams, performing as a singer, but one of those lady singers -- Janis, Aretha, Gloria, Grace -- that he sang to Natalie when she was first born. He wrote it all off as sharing pregnancy symptoms with his wife, as basic transference from falling asleep like he did every night and residue of being Mr. Mom during the day.

But when Carrie spent the weekend with her mother, taking Natalie with her, before the baby arrived, Jody had the most vivid dream of all. By himself. Alone in bed. He was wearing a dress on stage for one of his last rock shows. He sang into the mic like Joan Jett, his hero, and not one he’d yet shared with his younger daughter. He was in the same leather jacket of that last show, the same tight pants, but he had on bright red lipstick and nails to match. He swaggered his hips -- and in the dream, he knew he still had a dick, still had the potency that gave him children and a wife to love -- and he mastered the stage. He was better as a female singer in that night landscape than he was a guitarist.

He woke with a feeling of orgasm flowing through him -- a wet dream he’d not experienced since his early twenties and dry spells -- but it wasn’t just sexual desire that flowed through him then. It was something more, something beyond the body.

He put on a Joan Jett album and jerked off in the shower to memories of Carrie. To porn during the afternoon, still listening to more female punk rockers. And then he jerked off again to more memories in bed that night, now silent and devoid of music. While the day had been fun, and so much like being a teenager alone for the weekend in his parents’ house, none of these moments compared to the sensation in the dream. None of them compared to the sensation of being a woman, or at least, the dressing up and pretending to be one, like Natalie pretended to be a princess.

And so, after he’d confirmed what time his wife and daughter were coming home on Sunday, he spent the next day in drag. Full drag, complete with shoddily done eyeliner and make up, and nail polish he removed with a wipe within fifteen minutes of them stepping into the door. It was the first time he’d truly donned all the clothing he’d collected over the years that he thought looked and felt gorgeous. He was worried he’d stretch out the arms on some of the tops he longed for, but since most were maternity or oversized for the postpartum period, it didn’t matter. They slipped onto him, over his skinny frame and muscular shoulders, his narrow hips and flat ass, like a glove. And while it was not the most sexy outfit, or even the most punk rock one, the feeling remained the same. The soft fabrics made him shudder. The sensation of the outfit, of the fact that this was designed for a woman and not a man, also gave him a thrill. He dressed half in their walk-in closet -- merely donning a dress and a cardigan, then those jeans from that last show and his leather jacket, paired with an oversized woman’s top. He didn’t have breasts, so he didn’t bother with bras, but one look in the mirror let him know that the tops were built for bras.

He went into the closet, found more oversized ones, and donned them. Stuffed them. He looked into the mirror again, saw the new curves for his body, and shuddered.

“This is ...” He bit his lip. To add the final cliché -- this is me now -- would be too much. To sing Twisted Sister or break out the Against Me! albums again, since the lead singer had just come out as a trans woman, wouldn’t work, either. Jody didn’t think those descriptions were wholly accurate. He turned to the side, surveyed, and then donned another outfit. Nice, cute. He looked at his nails, his makeup, and his short-short hair. “This is ...”

He still struggled to complete the sentence. It wasn’t a transformation entirely, not like the kind his daughter yearned for in fairy tales. It was more of a crowning, an escalation, a sudden rite of passage like a princess becoming a queen. He was still himself -- and after he’d stripped out of the clothing, and went back to his regular duds without nail polish or makeup, he was still checking to see if he liked to be a man, and be called as such -- and yet he was more than himself. When Natalie called him Dad, he loved it. When Carrie called him her husband, he swooned. He loved it when she clutched his cock and sucked it and said he looked cute. And when that one intern in the recording studio, right before he left to be Mr. Mom, had tried to flirt with him -- he’d turned her down, obviously -- but it had felt good. Jody was a he and that was great. Even with a weekend spent in drag.