January - London - Mark (as Angel)

The weeks blurred into each other like smudged lipstick.

Every morning, Mark got up, put on his gym kit, and ran laps around the canals, lungs burning, legs raw. If you looked past the stares from construction workers and the old women walking their dogs, it almost felt normal. Sweat, pain, the grind. He clung to it—routine was the only thing left that felt like his.

Maud played drill sergeant and the Licorice Elephant’s rehearsal space became his second home. First the pole: walks, pirouettes, hips dips and simple spins; then the more humiliating but still basic “fireman” move, then floorwork and the splits. Maud barked corrections and encouragement. “Chin up, ass out, don’t look like you’re apologizing for existing.”

Mark bit back retorts and did what she said. Once he had done enough repetitions of the basics, Maud stressed moves which would bring the most eyeballs: more advanced splits, hello boys, windmills and the brass monkey; teaching him how to transition from move to move. Still, Mark knew he was an absolute beginner and couldn’t compare with the dancers he saw on Youtube; who he sort of envied despite himself. He would watch the moves on loop in his bedroom at night, rehearse them in his head and plan how he would execute them once he had a pole in front of him. He knew he had the physique for it. It was simply a question of perseverance.

The costumes were a different story. The first time Maud brought in Angel’s full collection, Mark gawked. Six drawers’ worth: bras which lifted, accentuated and enticed; garters with more metal than a punk show; stockings in every conceivable shade. He tried them on, one by one, feeling like a clown in a very expensive circus.

He couldn’t help but notice how the other girls compared—how Ruby’s tits seemed engineered to draw attention, how even the smallest breasts looked perky in the right push-up. Mark found himself inspecting his own, at night in bed, confused by how critical he’d become about their size and symmetry. A new, unwanted kind of body dysmorphia.

“You okay?” Maud asked one morning, catching him staring down his own shirt with a frown.

“Fine,” he said.

“You know, for someone who used to walk in here like they owned the place, you’re acting like a trainee. Are you sure you’re not using again?”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on his chest. “Just tired.”

Maud handed him a mug of peppermint tea, the sort of thing he’d have mocked just 4 weeks ago. Now it felt like a warm hand on his back. “You can talk to me, you know. I won’t rat.”

He almost did, but what could he say? “I woke up one day and wasn’t myself anymore?” That he missed the feeling of control, of taking up space and being the biggest threat in the room? That he hated how every glance felt like it could turn violent?

Instead, he drank the tea and let Maud talk about her own past: the ballet scholarship that got wrecked by a drunk driver; the string of crap jobs; the years in clubs, first as a performer, then as “house mom.” She was unfiltered in a way that made Mark wish he could open up.

“You’re not the only one starting over,” she said, eyes soft. “Some of us get used to it. Some of us fake it.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. And he didn’t know if he could be as strong as Maud.

So he hit the gym with a vengeance. The body—Angel’s body—responded beautifully, getting leaner, more defined. He learned what foods kept the energy up, which pre-workouts actually worked. He found he cared, not for the male gaze but for the way his muscles flexed in the mirror, the way he could almost pass for one of the fitness models he’d followed back in his old life.

The club shifts got easier, too. The routines became second nature. Mark found himself able to banter with clients, throw shade at Ruby, even play along with the DJs. He knew how to walk the fine line between accessible and untouchable, between selling fantasy and keeping a piece of himself for later.

What he didn’t expect was the camaraderie backstage. The girls were brutal, funny, loyal. They called out creeps, looked out for each other, and never hesitated to share makeup or a spare tampon. It was a sisterhood he’d never known existed.

One night, after a rough shift, Maud dragged him to the roof to smoke.

“Tell me what’s really wrong,” she said, offering a cigarette.

Mark took it, inhaled, coughed. “I don’t remember how to be this person.”

Maud’s eyes crinkled. “You don’t have to remember. Just be.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” he admitted.

She flicked ash over the edge. “You think I wanted this?” She gestured at her scarred leg, the city lights. “Life’s not a TED Talk. You get what you get, and then you fight for more. If you’re lucky, you get a friend to watch your back while you do it.”

He looked at her, really looked. Maud was tired, sure, but she was alive in a way that none of his old friends had been.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She slugged his shoulder. “Don’t get sappy on me. Tomorrow we’re doing chair work. Wear something you can sweat in.”

He smiled, a real one this time.

January - London - Mark (as Angel)

Five weeks after the swap, Mark worked the late shift and caught the last train home. The city was empty, save for a few drunk tourists. He liked the stillness of the streets, the way his heels echoed off the sidewalk.

But the peace didn’t last.

Three men followed him out of the tube. He could tell by the way their laughter got closer, by how they spread out to flank him. Back in his old body, he’d have turned and faced them. Now, every instinct screamed run.

He cut down a side street, pace quickening. The men called after him, crude and eager.

“Hey, love! Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Don’t be rude, babe. Come back and talk!”

Mark ignored them, heart racing. The flats felt slick, unstable. The men picked up speed.

He ducked into a corner store, pretending to browse gum and crisps. The men hung outside, watching. Mark lingered, bought a water, and tried not to look scared. The clerk gave him a look, then ducked his head and went back to his own world.

Outside, the men waited.

Mark stepped out, shoulders tense. The men closed in, blocking the path.

“Leaving so soon?” one said, hand hovering near Mark’s waist. He stank of cider and sweat.

Mark put the bottle between them, ready to use it as a weapon. “Fuck off.”

The men laughed, but their eyes were hard.

One reached for him.

And then everything changed.

A motorcycle roared up the curb, scattering the trio like pigeons. The rider dismounted, helmet off in one motion, and strode straight for Mark.

Tom Blackwood.

He was broader than Mark remembered from his Twitter and Facebook profiles, jaw shadowed in dark stubble, eyes hard and bright. He looked at the men, then at Mark. “You alright, Angel?”

Mark nodded, knees weak.

Tom faced the men, calm as granite. “You got a problem, boys?”

One of them, the tallest, tried to talk tough. “Just having a chat, mate. No harm—”

Tom stepped in, fist already moving. The punch was quick and decisive, dropping the man to his knees. The other two backed off, hands up.

Tom didn’t even look back at Mark. “Get on the bike.”

Mark obeyed, helmet still warm from Tom’s head. He clung to Tom’s leather jacket as they sped off, the city a blur of cold air and sodium light.

They stopped in front of Mark’s flat. Tom turned, expression unreadable. “You okay?”

Mark nodded, but the adrenaline left him shaky.

Tom’s gaze softened. “Why’d you stop riding the bike to work?”

Mark looked at him with blank stare. He had a bike?

Tom smiled. “You always were stubborn.”

Mark managed a laugh, breathless. “Still am.”

Tom reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Mark’s face. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent. “You need to be more careful.”

Mark looked away. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not tonight you couldn’t.” Tom’s tone wasn’t judgment, just fact.

They stood like that for a moment, the silence electric.

Then Tom leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, at first. Hesitant, like he was waiting for permission. Then Mark responded, and it grew hungry, desperate. Tom’s hands cupped Mark’s face, steadying him.

When they broke apart, Tom looked at him, eyes raw. “You should get inside.”

Mark nodded, still dazed.

He watched Tom ride off into the night, then walked the rest of the way home.

The flat was quiet. Maud was asleep, but Mark couldn’t. He showered, tried to scrub the night off, then rifled through Angel’s things.

He couldn’t find anything to do with a bike but in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, underneath a mountain of cards, photos, and paperbacks, he found a stack of old notebooks. He opened one and started to read.

The entries were raw, confessional. They told of abuse, poverty, the hard calculus of survival. But they also spoke of hope, of ambition, of nights spent dreaming about a life outside the clubs and the debts.

Tom featured heavily. First as protector, then as lover, then as the one who got away when Angel pushed too hard, too fast. The longing in her words was unmistakable.

Mark read until dawn. When the sun broke over the city, he felt something shift inside. For the first time, he understood not just the body he wore, but the life it came from.

February - London - Mark (as Angel)

By February, Angel—Mark—had almost learned to love the shudder of the club's front door and the blast of cold air that came with every new customer. London was gray, eternal, but inside the Licorice Elephant, every hour was another shot of neon and laughter and glitter. Angel had found a rhythm, a small kingdom of borrowed skin and borrowed joy.

She’d also found the “bike” under a cover near the flat. It was an old Honda CMX500 Rebel presumably gifted by Tom; she knew that Angel couldn’t have afforded it and would have paid the rent before buying something so extravagant. And Mark definitely knew how to ride a bike.

The keys were in the drawers near the front door and her helmet was with Maud. (“You asked me to keep it so don’t ask me,” said Maud exasperated.) She’d also found old photos of Tom and Angel on road trips on his Norton. Angel would now take the Honda to work, sometimes arriving at the Elephant in a tight crop top or a leather bralette to get the clients worked up before she changed to her work clothes. It worked surprisingly well.

And there was Ruby Tuesday.

Ruby was the undisputed queen of the Elephant: sharp as gin, legs for days, and the kind of smile that promised either murder or a very good time. Under Maud’s advisement, she took Angel under her wing, showed her which clients tipped best, which ones to avoid, and how to use double-sided tape for strategic cleavage. Angel grew to like Ruby’s banter, her war stories, her utter refusal to be cowed by men or management.

At first, the other dancers treated Angel like she was contagious. She moved different, talked different, hesitated where Angel used to strut. But Ruby had cachet, and when she started inviting Angel to drinks and after-hours Chinese, the others followed. By Easter, Angel had a seat at every lunch table, a locker crammed with inside jokes and spare lashes.

She’d abandoned any pretense of dignity; her uniform that night was a red mesh bra and G-string, black heels, and a velvet choker that read “ANGEL” in rhinestones. It felt like being gift-wrapped but she didn’t mind that much any more. It was work.

Angel put her bag in a locker and sat back waiting for Ruby to get dressed. “So, I was thinking about the whole ‘naked on stage’ thing. You know, it’s just like a really intense yoga class, right?”

Ruby laughed, putting on her own rhinestone choker. “Yeah, if yoga involved glitter and the occasional creepy guy in the front row. You should’ve seen my last performance—had to dodge a guy who thought he was auditioning for a horror movie.”

Simone popped her head out from behind a mirror, mascara wand in hand. “You mean he didn’t get the memo? This isn’t a haunted house, darling. It’s a strip club!”

Angel laughed, “Right? We’re not here to scare anyone. But let’s be real, though—when I’m up there, I’m basically a superhero. I mean, I’m wearing less than a swimsuit and still somehow managing to look fabulous.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Superhero? More like ‘Naked Avenger.’ Just remember, your superpower is making awkward men feel special while you’re just trying to pay rent.”

“Hey, at least I’m getting paid for this ‘awkwardness,’” Angel shot back, grinning. “I could be stuck in a cubicle, staring at spreadsheets.”

Simone chimed in, “And instead, you’re staring at… well, everything else! Just think of it as a very lucrative form of therapy. ‘For one hour of discomfort, I make what I’d earn in retail for a week!’”

“Exactly!” Angel said, striking a pose. “And I’m reclaiming my body while I do it. It’s empowerment wrapped in rhinestones, ladies!”

Maud was waiting near the lockers, clipboard in hand. “You’re main floor tonight, then bar rotation. Same as last week.” She gave Angel a quick once-over, her gaze lingering on the way she held herself in her work clothes. “Glad to see you’re almost back to normal.”

The girls were great. Vincent Cross was a different story. He watched Angel from the VIP booths, always with a whisky in hand and an unreadable smirk. Sometimes he’d send over drinks, or cash, or—once—a black envelope with nothing inside. Mark (Angel) recognized the move: control, intimidation, the slow boiling of a frog.

Once a week, he would ask for a dance from Angel, usually no more than three songs. Angel didn’t hesitate, he kept his distance and the money was good especially when he asked for her from the VIP area. He would make a grand gesture of giving her a twenty pound tip to see her tits; which he really didn’t need to since Angel was already doing it for her regulars.

Mark (Angel) had gotten over this after talking with some of the other girls and a bit of peer pressure. She was virtually the only girl who didn’t take off her top at one point; though the boss was generally nonchalant about whatever she did as long as she was able to pay her dues. Now, walking around in lingerie or even taking off her top had become more like a performance which she had become really good at. It wasn’t quite like reading company reports and checking out Bloomberg but it was close. More than anything, it was the fastest and most effective way to pay for groceries and the rent.

So Angel played along. But every time Vincent tried to push her toward “private services” or to make her see him outside the club, Angel used the oldest CEO trick in the book: delay, redirect, make it look like you were about to say yes just before you said no. It worked. For now.

The real surprise was Tom.

Tom Blackwood started coming around once a week, always with a different biker in tow. He never booked a dance, never even drank much. Instead, he’d wait at the bar, tipping the servers and shooting the shit with the Elephant’s bouncers. On the odd days when Angel wasn’t riding, he’d walk her home, sometimes silent, sometimes spinning stories about his gang or his grandmother’s cooking. She started to look forward to those walks, even if she pretended not to. So she left her bike home once a week just to make it happen.

One night, after a Friday double, Ruby dragged Angel and Simone out for “celebratory chips” at a greasy spoon near the club. They were halfway through a plate of curry fries when Ruby put down her fork and stared at Angel, hard.

“What’s with you and Tom?” she asked.

Angel shrugged. “He’s a friend.”

“Sure. And I’m the Duchess of Cornwall.” Ruby stabbed a fry. “You like him, don’t you.”

Angel felt the heat crawl up her neck. “He’s nice.”

“Nice? That’s what you call a bloke who once knifed a man in a parking lot?”

“He’s not like that with me,” Angel muttered.

Ruby grinned, slow. “I knew it. You’re gone for him.”

Angel opened her mouth to protest, then closed it.

She was gone for him. It was embarrassing, it was illogical, it was completely fucking real.

Ruby leaned in. “You know, I’ve never seen you so soft. It’s cute, in a weird way.”

Angel made a face, but Ruby just laughed.

“Don’t overthink it,” Ruby said. “Let yourself have something good for once.” Ruby leaned back, her legs crossed. “So, how’s the whole ‘reclaiming objectification’ thing going for you?”

Angel took a sip, grinning. “Well, I’ve learned to embrace it. I mean, if I’m gonna be objectified, I might as well charge for it, right?”

Simone smirked. “And you do it with style! ‘Confidence: Now Available in Rhinestones.’”

Ruby raised her glass. “To the Naked Avengers, fighting off awkwardness one dance at a time!”

“Cheers!” Angel clinked her glass against theirs. “But seriously, it’s all about the mindset. I’m not just taking my clothes off; I’m providing top-tier entertainment!”

“Right, and we’re all just highly trained athletes in glittery outfits,” Ruby added, winking. “Next thing you know, we’ll have sponsorships from yoga pants companies.”

Simone laughed, “Or maybe a reality show: ‘Survivor: The Strip Club Edition.’”

“Only if I get to be the host!” Angel declared, feigning a dramatic flair. “Welcome to the stage, where the nudity is optional, but the sass is mandatory!”

They all burst into laughter, the camaraderie wrapping around them like the warmth of their drinks.

February - London - Mark (as Angel)

It was a few weeks later when Vincent Cross made his move.

Angel was cleaning up after a set, picking glitter out of her hair in the dressing room, when Ruby poked her head in.

“Vincent is asking you in the VIP. Now.”

It was just his weekly. Angel checked her lipstick in the mirror, straightened the “ANGEL” choker, and walked into the lion’s den.

Vincent was alone, sipping bourbon and running his thumb over a scar on his jaw. He gestured to the empty seat.

“Sit,” he said.

Angel sat. She made a point to cross her legs and lean back, all attitude.

Vincent smiled. “You’ve gotten good at this.”

She shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

He regarded her for a moment. “You could be making a lot more, you know. Private work. No pressure, but you’d make in a night what you make here in a week.”

Angel locked eyes with him. “I’ve told you before. Not interested.”

He chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

“I know exactly what you’re offering.” She let the steel back into her voice. “And I said no.”

For a second, the room was dead quiet.

Then Vincent leaned in, voice dropping. “You ever get tired of pretending?”

Angel felt a chill. “I don’t pretend.”

“Everyone pretends. Especially you.” He smiled, but it was all teeth.

She stood. “Do you want a song or are we done here?”

Vincent counted off a few ten pound notes for her time and watched her walk out, eyes cold. “You’ll come around,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

But Angel knew he was wrong.

After her shift, Tom was waiting outside the club, perched on his bike and smoking a cheap cigarette.

“You all right?” he asked.

Angel hesitated, then nodded.

Tom tossed the cigarette and patted the seat behind him. “Let’s get out of here.”

They rode through the city, past the dead offices and kebab shops, over the bridges where the wind cut like a knife. At his place—a cramped flat above a garage—they drank strong tea and watched reruns of old Top Gear, feet propped on the coffee table.

For the first time in months, Angel relaxed.

They talked about nothing: bikes, food, dumb movies. When the laughter died down, Tom turned serious.

“Why do you do it?” he asked. “The dancing.”

Angel considered. “It pays the bills. It’s honest.”

Tom nodded. “But you hate it.”

“Not always,” Angel admitted. “Some nights, it feels like I can control the whole room. Like I’m… seen.”

Tom smiled. “I see you.”

Angel looked away, embarrassed. “I know.”

They sat in silence, the air thick with things unsaid.

Then Tom reached out and brushed Angel’s cheek, rough thumb gentle on her skin. “You’re shaking,” he said.

She hadn’t noticed. “It’s cold,” she lied.

Tom didn’t push. He just scooted closer, arm around her shoulders, and let her rest her head against his chest.

They sat like that for a long time. When Angel finally pulled away, Tom watched her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

She nodded, barely able to speak.

The kiss was slow, careful, but grew hungrier with every second. Tom tasted of tea and cigarettes and something that was entirely him. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her onto his lap, let her guide the pace.

When she straddled him, he didn't rush. He traced the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the inside of her thigh—and a gasp escaped her lips at the unfamiliar electricity of his touch against skin that was becoming increasingly hers over the past few months.

She'd orchestrated this dance countless times from the other side, but now—her body responded in ways that shocked her, blooming with sensations that radiated outward from places she'd never felt before. Her breasts, heavy and sensitive against his chest. The hollow ache between her legs. The maddening smallness of her frame against his.

They made it to the bedroom, half-undressed. Tom laid her down, and she surrendered. His mouth traced patterns that made her arch and whimper, sounds she'd never made before, never known she could make. He was gentle, but not hesitant. When his fingers slid inside her, the invasion was so intimate she had to turn her face away, overwhelmed by the vulnerability of being entered rather than entering.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

The question paralyzed her. She'd always been the one asking, always known exactly what to do. Now she floated in sensation, unable to direct, only receive. "I want you," she whispered. ”I want all of you.” The admission both terrifying and freeing.

Tom kissed her again, and she melted into submission, her body speaking a language her mind was only beginning to translate. When he finally entered her, the fullness was so profound she cried out—not in pain but in recognition of something primal and feminine awakening inside her. She arched, shocked at how her body seemed to pull him deeper, to hold him; how she wanted to be claimed completely.

Her first orgasm caught her by surprise—a sudden rush that radiated outward, nothing like the focused release she'd known as a man. The second built more slowly, deeper, until she was clutching at him, begging incoherently. But Tom didn’t stop thrusting into her. By the third, she was sobbing, laughing, her body not her own but more authentically hers than ever before.

Afterward, Tom held her close, his heartbeat steady against her back. She felt small, protected, cherished—emotions she'd never allowed herself before. As he stroked her hair and whispered sweet nonsense, she drifted into sleep, wondering if she'd ever find her way back to who she was after this night.

The next morning, Angel woke before dawn. Tom was already up, making coffee and humming tunelessly.

She watched him from the bed, sunlight catching in his hair. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes: not broken, not a failure, but something worth loving.

She pulled on one of Tom’s T-shirts and joined him in the kitchen.

Tom handed her a mug. “You okay?”

Angel nodded.

She sipped the coffee, looked out the window at the city waking up, and felt something new: hope.

For the first time since the swap, she felt like herself. Like Angel.

She grinned. The word fit.

Outside, the day was just beginning. There would be challenges—Vincent, the club, the past that never quite went away. But she wasn’t alone anymore. And that made all the difference.