Slippery Slope

CHAPTER I

Twitter isn't a typical place people go to make money, but I was desperate. My rent was overdue and my roommates were already conspiring to kick me out--I heard them meet up in the middle of the night, in the basement of the house. They were whispering, but I guess they didn't know they were right under a vent that connected to my bedroom. "If he doesn't pay by Friday, he's gone. I'm sick of him missing rent."

So it wasn't the first time I'd missed rent. The first couple of times, my roommates had my back. They all pitched in and covered my chunk. It was only a couple hundred bucks--split three ways, less than a hundred bucks per person. "He's going through a tough time after his breakup," said Jolie, the girl who technically owned the house, who lived in the big bedroom upstairs. But she wasn't there to defend me when it happened for the fourth time.

"Can he not find a job? Why is he so useless?" I heard one of them whisper during their secret meeting.

It sucks when people talk shit about you behind your back, but I couldn't blame them. I hadn't been looking too hard for a job, thinking things would just 'work out'. I wasn't sure what 'work out' even meant, but for some reason, I had a feeling luck was coming my way.

But now, I had four days to pay for my rent: not enough time to find a job, become employed, and receive a paycheque. I was doomed, about to be homeless, so I scoured the Internet for quick one-off jobs that I could do: lawn-mowing, window cleaning, picking up dog poop--anything. I found nothing. So after a long search, I found myself on Twitter, making an embarrassment out of my Twitter account, replying and retweeting every single post that I could find that said, "One random retweeter will get a thousand dollars!" Most--if not all--of the posts were scams, of course; I knew that. But a little glimmer of hope inside of me kept me going, praying that one would be real and I would be given money for nothing. I must have replied to two hundred Twitter scams with no luck.

I kept refreshing my search of 'giveaway', sorting by new instead of top, to make sure I was the first one entered in whatever I could get. I was even entering myself into book giveaways, hoping I could sell a signed copy of some unknown author's book to some old lady who didn't know the difference between Margaret Atwood and Margot Ashley. Like I said, I was desperate.

All I won after twenty hours of tedious clicking was a free eBook of some new author's short story. It was unsellable, though the story wasn't bad--I read it that night. I left a review, and then I went back to thinking about how my life would be living on the streets.

And then I refreshed that search again and I found one last giveaway. 'Enter the WEEKLY TRAP CONTEST! Post a picture of yourself dolled up. The first twenty entrants will get a $10 Amazon gift card. The winner will get $500 CASH!' I clicked on the profile and scrolled through their posts. They ran the contest every week, posting the call for entries and then posting the winner the next day. The winners were pretty girls: big eyes, nice asses, smooth bodies. Some of the pictures were slutty, some were just cute--but they were all girls, so the contest was pointless for me.

But I was particularly taken aback by one of the contest winners: a pretty brunette with glowing eyes. I clicked on her profile and then found myself in a state of confusion. I was on a guy's profile. Did I click the wrong link? I went back and tried again, but the link brought me to the guy. I assumed it was a mistake, so I tried clicking on another contestant's profile--and I got the same thing: another guy. "What the hell?" I muttered to myself.

And that's when it dawned on me: the contest was for men who could pass as women--otherwise known as 'traps'. Now I felt my face turning red. I'd admired many of the pictures. I'd fallen for the 'trap'. I bit down on my tongue and suddenly felt stupid. I tried to convince myself that I could tell that they were all guys now, but even knowing, some of the contestants were still impressive. I couldn't help but wonder if they were getting their girlfriends to pose for them, and lying by saying the pictures were of them.

The page's newest post already had three entries: low effort posts by men who just wanted those gift cards. Some of them were still hairy, not even bothering to shave. Some were naked, covering their dicks with their hands, not even bothering to put on women's clothing. Or maybe they were just delusional.

I thought for a minute about the Amazon gift card. Maybe it was worth entering just for that. Maybe I could just do some sissy pose and claim the card, and use the card to buy something for Jolie, so she would have to think twice about kicking me out. It was better than the non-existent other ideas that I had. So I got undressed and then I walked over to my closet mirror. I did a few poses with my hand between my legs. I snapped a few photos with my phone. I looked silly, but it didn't matter--I just needed to enter before fifteen others entered.

But then it occurred to me that those low-effort posts might not be enough to win those gift cards. Maybe the person who ran the contest expected more, and skimmed over those ones for people who actually put in a dab of effort--otherwise they would inundated with lousy posts, giving money away to people who were abusing their game. I needed more than just pictures of me looking somewhat gay in the mirror.

So I slipped into the bathroom and used my face razor to shave my legs and my chest and my armpits. It was the middle of winter, so I didn't have to worry about anyone seeing my smooth body. Krystal, who lived in the room across the hall from me, was away on a family vacation, so I snuck into her room and grabbed a few items: panties, stockings, skirt, and a blouse. My heart was pounding--not with excitement or any sort of taboo thrill, but because I was worried I was going to miss my chance at winning that $10 gift card. I was getting no pleasure out of pulling Krystal's clothes onto my body. I felt a bit like an idiot, but in the moment I couldn't care less.

I looked in Krystal's mirror, now wearing her clothes with my smooth body. I checked the post on my phone. Now there were eighteen entries--maybe half were real attempts at looking feminine.

Krystal had a long white wig from her Halloween costume that year. I put it on my head, and then I sat down at her desk where her makeup was scattered. "C'mon--hurry up," I said. I wondered if this was the same feeling drug addicts feel when they're doing anything for a fix: stealing, resorting to prostitution, manipulating people. I was completely invading Krystal's space, but I wasn't even phased. I couldn't care less about Krystal--maybe because I'd heard her the night before talking about how she wanted my room when I was gone.

I rolled her mascara on my eyelashes and then I brushed some eye shadow around my eyes. I used a bit of her lip-gloss: pink and very glossy. Then I brushed some blush onto my cheekbones. I had a pretty good idea of what I was doing, because my ex-girlfriend did her makeup next to me every morning while I watched the morning news. Sometimes I would look over curiously and watch as she drew on her eyeliner, wondering if all the eye poking hurt. Now, I tried applying a tiny bit of eyeliner. It didn't hurt, though it was a weird feeling.

And then I quickly jumped to my feet and snapped a few photos in the mirror, posing the way the winners of previous contests posed.

CHAPTER II

I got no pleasure out of it. I didn't even feel embarrassed about the dolled up photo shoot that I did wearing my roommates clothes and wig and makeup. I just saw it as a necessary step in order to survive--until I was finished and it was time to submit the photo. I had the most convincing file uploaded and ready to be sent, and then a teaser of humiliation crept into my body. I found myself staring at the screen, feeling awfully stupid as I was about to send the photo.

The picture wasn't bad. I actually looked like a girl, thanks to lots of makeup, hair covering part of my face, and a camera angle that did wonders to hide my shoulders and jawline. But my Twitter account was tied to my name. I had friends who followed me--and I had family members who followed me. I couldn't just upload the photo and assume they wouldn't see it. I didn't want to be hearing from my mother, getting an earful and being accused of being a homosexual. So I created a new account. I made up a fake name--Stevie K--and then I submitted the photo. I was the twenty-sixth reply, so I had no idea if I even qualified for the ten dollar gift card, but I'd already gone through the hassle, so there was no sense in backing down now.

And then I waited. I stared at the screen, refreshing every minute, waiting for a message to pop up in my private inbox, letting me know that I'd won ten bucks. But the message didn't come. I refreshed the page for the next hour, feeling stupider and stupider--especially because I was still dolled up in Krystal's clothes and makeup. I decided to turn off my computer, and then I saw my reflection in my black screen.

I really didn't look half bad. I was surprised by what I'd accomplished in one frantic hour. I really assumed that I would just end up looking ridiculous, like so many of the people who entered the dumb Twitter contest. But I didn't look ridiculous. Especially when I tilted my head down slightly, to mask my Adam's apple with my chin, I kind of looked like a girl. My eyes were bigger than I'd ever noticed before: and greener.

I caught myself smirking. I turned my computer back on and looked at the photo I submitted. Then I looked at the other submissions. Maybe I was just exhausted and on the verge of a mental breakdown after many long hours worrying about becoming homeless... But I was fairly certain that my sissy photo was the most convincing of all the photos submitted to the contest.

I laughed, shaking my head. Surely I was exhausted. And now it was late. I needed to wash off the makeup and put Krystal's clothes back where I found them.

While I was putting her clothes back, I found a box of jewellery. Some of the items looked valuable. I picked up a pearl necklace and felt the pearls between my fingertips. How much was it worth? Would it buy me a month of rent? Maybe two months? Would Krystal notice it missing? Would she figure out that I took it?

I put the necklace back and went to bed with one question on my mind: could I sink to that low in order to stay off the streets? It was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn't going to be winning any prizes on Twitter--not even a ten-dollar gift card--so I was going to need another source of quick income.

Krystal was rich. Her parents were wealthy oil and gas moguls. She had a new car every year--always the newest model. She got a whole new wardrobe every season: thousands and thousands of dollars worth of clothes every year. Her closet was teeming with brand name items. And did she deserve any of it? She didn't work, so was it really fair that I had to work?

I squirmed in my bed. I hated where my mind was going. I hated the justifications my brain was formulating. I didn't want to become a crook. I didn't want to entertain the idea of communism because it was convenient in my situation. Lots of places were hiring: coffee shops, burger joints, the waste management facility on the other end of town--I was just being too picky. So I wasn't blessed with a rich family--that didn't give me the right to steal from people who were.

But damn: it would have been convenient, and I don't think she would have ever noticed the missing jewellery.

I woke up the next morning with a sickness in my stomach. It was a cold day: the coldest of the year. The Internet said that the weather was only going to get colder and colder over the next two months. There was a news story about a homeless man dying overnight: freezing to death because he couldn't get into the shelter, which was full. I read another story saying that he actually couldn't get into the shelter because he kept grabbing the tits of homeless women--but the story was still frightening nonetheless. Both articles posted pictures of the local shelter, and I could practically smell the foul odour oozing off the photo. Is that where I was about to end up?

I went to the kitchen. My roommates were still sleeping, so I helped myself to a bowl of cereal that didn't belong to me, seeing as I had no food of my own. I made sure to grab a box that had been sitting in the cupboard for a long time, so I was less likely to be caught. And then I quietly washed my bowl and snuck back into my bedroom, feeling like some sort of unwanted pest, having to creep around the house in the early morning hours just to eat stale cereal with questionable milk.

I started my day on Craigslist, looking through the job postings, trying to decide which ones would potentially hire me on the spot, and then offer me an advance of at least two weeks of work. None of the postings sounded too hopeful, especially with my almost blank resume. I scrolled further and further down until I found a post that seemed hopeful:

WANTED: Live model for drawing session. TONIGHT. Two hours. Must be able to sit still. $200, paid in cash.

It wasn't quite enough to pay my rent, but I figured it would be enough to buy me at least a week while I tried to scrounge up the rest of the month--and then what I still owed for previous months. I clicked on the ad and then my hope fluttered away as I read the finer details: 'must be female. Please submit full body photo to be considered.' I rolled my eyes, and then I found myself looking through my photos from the previous night, wondering if I could pass as female for a couple of hours. I sure looked girly in the photos--even more girly than I thought the night before, after I took the photos.

Now, with a rested mind, I was even more impressed by my face, and by my figure. I had curves. The socks I stuffed into the top helped, but my hips were all mine. And all I really had to do was convince the employer over e-mail. I could show up for the session in Krystal's clothes, and they could realize that I wasn't actually a chick, but it wouldn't matter because it would be too late to replace me. And I could just say that I identified as female. People did that all the time--right? I'd just read a story about some UFC fighter who identified as female before beating the crap out of tons of chicks. She got away with it, so why couldn't I get away with it?

I submitted my best full-body photo and then waited for a reply. Then I checked my Twitter and saw a little red circle next to my messages. So I read my messages and was shocked to see the word 'CONGRATULATIONS'. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't misreading the message. 'You have been selected to be this week's winner of the WEEKLY TRAP CONTEST! We had one hundred and eighty entrants, but yours was voted as the best.' The message went on to ask for my payment info, which I sent immediately. My heart was suddenly pounding, though I was still a bit apprehensive, worried I was falling for a scam. That worry lingered in me for an hour, and then it went away suddenly when five hundred dollars was transferred into my PayPal account.

"Holy shit," I muttered under my breath. Just like that, I could pay my rent: two full months of rent. Now, I was only a single month behind.

I deposited the money straight into my bank account, and then I got dressed and went off to the bank to take the cash out, to give to Jolie. Her face was priceless as I handed her the money, just a few days before being evicted. She stared at it for a long moment and then she looked up at me with narrowed eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I made it," I said.

She was silent for another long moment. "Doing what?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "What difference does it make?"

"If I deposit this into my bank account, am I going to end up being audited? These aren't marked bills, are they?" She seemed to think I robbed a bank.

I laughed and shook my head. Then I showed her the bank receipt. "It's all legal. That should cover this month and last month. I'm working on the remaining month now."

She nodded her head slowly, still with her eyes narrowed. "Okay," she said apprehensively.

I walked away with a big grin. For the first time in many months, I felt good. I didn't feel like a complete loser. I didn't feel like a leech, using other people for my own benefit. Soon, I wouldn't owe anyone anything. Soon, there wouldn't be secret meetings about me in the basement, in the middle of the night.

And when I got back to my room, I had a response from the art studio. "Thanks for submitting! Could you please come by the studio at 7:00 PM tonight? The session begins at 7:15 PM."

"Okay. Sounds good," I replied. And just like that, things were turning around for me. I took a deep breath and then I fell down onto my bed. I was afraid of closing my eyes--worried that closing my eyes would bring an end to this dream, and then I would be back to where I was the day before, desperate for money with no idea of how I was going to survive.

CHAPTER III

It was around 4:00 PM when some of the euphoric excitement began to wear off and the reality of my situation came rushing in. I had to get dressed up. I had to face a room full of people dressed like a girl, and all I could do was hope that they didn't chase me out without pay--or worse: go to the media with my pictures and make sure that my face ended up on the cover of every local paper, next to the words BEWARE: SCAM ARTIST.

Everyone was downstairs, watching some new episode of some big budget TV show. I snuck across the hallway, slipping into Krystal's bedroom. She was still out of town, but she was close with Jolie. Jolie occasionally borrowed her clothes, and I knew Jolie was planning on going out later. So I gathered what I needed quickly: makeup supplies, the wig, and a few different outfit options. I took the haul back to my bedroom and then locked my door before getting myself dolled up. Though I had no idea how I was going to get out of the house with everyone in the living room. Unless I wanted to crawl out my window and scale the wall into the garden, I was going to have to cross the living room, where everyone was sitting. Maybe scaling the wall wasn't such a bad idea.

I was able to get my makeup done much faster than the night before. Now, I knew how the eyeliner went on, and I knew how to brush on the eye shadow. There was still some trial and error; I had to wipe everything off twice to start over again. And then it was time to pick an outfit, which turned out to be harder than expected. The dress was a little bit tight on me, making my shoulders look too broad, making me look like an ogre. Then there was the sweater and jeans, which looked too boyish. That only left me with two options: going back into Krystal's bedroom and risking being caught again, or putting on the tight black leotard and short black skirt.

The outfit was tight and very revealing. Even with the skirt over the leotard, my butt was still partially exposed, along with my recently shaved thighs. Being so exposed made my skin crawl and my stomach turn, but looking in the mirror, I quickly realized it was probably for the best. My legs were feminine, so pulling attention to them was probably a good idea, as long as I could keep my cock from falling out of the tight panties I had on under the skirt and leotard. And the tight leotard helped to show off my hips, which were possibly my most feminine feature (a feature I didn't know I had until twenty-four hours earlier).

I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like a girl. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I wasn't sure--but I knew it was a thing that would put another two hundred bucks into my bank account, so I wasn't complaining. I looked at the clock. I was running late, so I grabbed my coat and wrapped it around my body. Then I opened my window to my bedroom and carefully scaled the wall, down to the garden. If any of the neighbours were looking, they certainly thought that I'd lost my mind: in a short skirt, a winter coat, scaling a wall like a prison escapee.