A Perfect Model

I sashay on the catwalk. My hips sway to the music, with skimpy clothes hugging my fifteen-year-old body. Cameras click, their flashes ignite the stage. Eyes stare at me.

I reach the top of the ramp, gyrate around it, giving the audience the glimpse of my perfect ass. ‘An eight wonder of the world,’ a journalist had called my body. I remember the words, smile. A male voice screams, “Robin!” My name.

My pictures have infested fashion magazines. Many hailing me as a stunning discovery. They talk about my vivid fuller lips, my large blue eyes, my perfect figure. A photographer described me as amazing. I had sex with him.

Returning back, I reached the end of the catwalk. I’ll vanish in the changing room, sip a glass of champagne, change clothes, come out again. My stiletto will go up by two inches, satin silk will shield only my genitals.

I turned around before exiting and looked down to see my parents. My dad’s eyes look at me. Tears are brimming in them. Tears of happiness, but mostly of sorrow.

“That explains your extraordinary growth at such a young age,” a doctor at the hospital said yesterday. I was rushed in, after collapsing from exhaustion. “Also explains why you haven’t suffered menstruation yet.”

True, but I always thought I was a goddess, literally. I had everything while my classmates looked at with envy. At twelve, I was at least two inches taller that all of them, my breasts stood prominent. Guys ogled me in school.

“You don’t have an ovary,” the doctor continued. So, big deal.

“You’ve got testes. You’re a male body gone wrong.”

I was about to slap this doctor. “You’ll never be able to have children.”

Great.

“You’re half male, half female.”

How can that be? I got up form the bed. Strippped. Showed him my breasts, vagina, everything. I was crying. “See for yourself. I’m a woman.”

“Only on the outside. You’re what is called intersex. Don’t worry, this secret will stay at the hospital. The truth won’t come out.”

My mum almost had a heart attack. My dad rushed out of the room, unable to bear her cries. But I’ve got to go on, do what I love doing.