I should have listened to my mother. She warned me the army wasn’t for me. But I wanted to impress my father, to prove I could be a hero. Instead, I got drafted into a “morale unit.” That was the polite term. In reality, it meant being remade into something else entirely.
Along with some other skinny, feminine men, They stripped away our uniform and pride. I was waxed smooth, painted in makeup, stuffed into a tight little outfit—crop top, miniskirt, and heels. We were the army’s secret entertainment, dancers, companions, fantasy made flesh for soldiers who needed escape. I was told it was just as honorable as carrying a rifle. “You’re serving your country,” the captain reminded me, “just in a different way.”
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