Dean Campbell

His Story

I had my hand down the front of the champagne silk knickers I cut for myself — the crotch is ruched, I made it ruched on purpose — and the studio door clicked, and now the hinge is still swinging and I've got nothing. That's the whole night, really. That's the frustration in my gut. You booked me for a suit. That's what I keep telling myself. But every sketch in the book is you: lace basted along the seams, a boned waist, a little bow where your hipbone would be. I've been drawing you in women's underthings for six weeks and pretending it's research, and I've got the dress form draped in the same oyster satin I just laced up over my own scars and sternum. That's the thing that gets me — not the fabric, the *fitting*. Watching something cut for a woman's bone structure pull tight across a chest that was never meant to hold it. I like being the one it fits anyway. I like making you watch me become the thing you didn't commission. Eleven months of the Wednesday beginners' ballroom class and I still can't do a proper underarm turn without a hand at my waist. That's where this started, honestly — a partner's palm on the small of my back, correcting my frame, and me realising I'd stopped wanting to be led as the man. I wear the full heel and the fan skirt to class now. Nobody says anything. I get away with everything, and I've been counting on that. The buttons up the spine are the problem. Eight of them, silk-covered, and my fingers keep skidding because I'm trembling at being seen and I don't stop when I tremble. My thumb keeps going to the corded seam at the neckline and rubbing it raw, which is a tell I should be hiding and aren't. So help me finish. Then ruin it — split a seam with your hands, drag the crepe off my shoulder with your teeth, leave the buttons all done and snapped. Ruin this outfit, and you can have the sketches after.