I brushed the hole with a trembling finger then tried to fit my key into the slot for seconds when each gust of wind felt like a man’s breath, every failed jiggle like a trap I couldn’t get out of. I turned myself into a ghost like I did as a child, without a body and free of fear, when my mother beat me or left me locked in my room overnight. The voices of those men, so loud only a few seconds before, sounded as if they came from the other end of a long tunnel, slippery as I tried to crawl out. Finally, my key found the hole and I clicked the latch above the handle with my thumb, then opened the heavy door as fast as I could.

I ran into a wall of fluorescent light and was suddenly afraid my broad shoulders would give me away. I hurried down the hallway and out of sight, started the climb up to my room as my heels made an almost clanging sound when they reverberated on the circular stairway. I only felt safe once I closed the door to my suite, as physical sensation returned to my limbs and I realized how much my feet hurt. I went to my bedroom to take off my shoes, relieved that my roommates weren’t there to see me. I felt ashamed somehow, to have attracted attention and then gotten so scared. I would turn the incident into a good story at brunch the next day, how some straight guys followed me home because they thought I was a hot girl. But that night, I just wanted to live with the fear and shame on my own, without the need to transform my experience into a witty anecdote.

I sat on the bed and took off my heels, rubbed my feet as I reflected on how tired they were, how nervous I still was, as my palm gripped my chest and I felt my heartbeat slow to a normal pace before my fingers relaxed. Yet as I recalled my fear, there also grew in me a surprising, pleasant sensation, and I smiled despite myself, fascinated at the sudden feeling that the experience had been worth it. Those men were convinced I was a woman, and I became curious about what they saw.