Chapter 1 — A Day in the Life of Misi 1 (1)

I must always seem proper. Especially in front of others, I must be the picture of modesty. Even more so in front of my husband, my grown son, and my nephew. But the instinct of a woman still lives inside me, and suppressing it is exhausting. The stress is right on the verge of exploding—those who know me understand.

Once I've sent everyone off in the morning, I begin to transform into another version of myself. I toss aside my girdle and Maxi panties, crumpling my long skirt into a heap in the corner.

Deep inside my two-tiered closet, hidden among my clothes, lies my secret world.

White. Today, I want to be white. Innocent, foolish white—the kind that pretends to be pure.

I carefully open a small box. Hidden away, collected in secret—my stash of panties. I pull out a Maxi mini with a sissy rock vibe.

I place the tiny garment gently in my palm. Even doubled front to back, the flesh of my hand shows clearly through. A white, sheer Maxi mini—slightly more coverage than a thong, but still enough. For now.

A white T-back beside it catches my eye, but not today. I'd cleaned myself thoroughly just before dawn, so I simply put on a plain white panty.

The fabric clings tightly to my hips, covering only half of each cheek vertically. The front, triangular in shape, is so small that if I hadn't trimmed my pubic hair, it would have exposed everything—tightening like a vice.

I shiver slightly.

I choose a matching bra, same color, same material.

My nipples and the fullness of my breasts show through clearly. A faint breeze from the room makes my nipples tremble and stiffen, betraying themselves.

I pull on sheer Italian stockings, long with a single seam down the back. Starting from my toes, I slowly draw them up, letting them merge with my skin. As they cover my hips, the pressure from the panties intensifies.

Now I pull on a long-sleeved bodysuit. I chose a turtleneck. It's light, designed for a sissy look, so rather than hiding the bra, it emphasizes what's beneath.

What about a skirt? A denim one? It doesn't feel satisfying enough, no matter how much it shows. Definitely spandex cotton. I pick a white one. This one is long—knee-length.

But today, I want something shorter, stronger. I pull on a spandex skirt, fifteen centimeters above the knee. No zipper. Only the tight stretch does the work.

I want to keep accessories and makeup minimal. A single necklace, lipstick, and a light touch of blush—done.

I face the full-length mirror.

My upper body is so exposed it would need a jacket to conceal. My prominent buttocks are unavoidable. They stick out like a duck's, so even a light cotton skirt can't hide the outline of my panties. Not that I want to.

I spritz on a light perfume and drop my car keys and wallet into my bag. But I don't drive. I leave the house, park my car in the lot, and hail a taxi.

The driver doesn't look like someone weighed down by the years.

I sit in the middle of the back seat, pressing my hips against the seat. My legs open slightly—never vulgar, but naturally so.

When I see women in short skirts nervously smoothing and tugging at the hem, worried about what might show, I can't help but feel embarrassed—not for them, but for myself. Why bother wearing it if you're going to hide it?

Where am I going?

What am I going to do?

None of it matters.

I meant to get off at Sinsa Station, just past Apgujeong, but I went all the way to Yeoksam.

It hit me then—how impossible it is to just tell a taxi to go nowhere in particular. And Yeoksam, near here, was on Line 2.

The driver turns his head slightly, glancing blatantly into my skirt.

I'd known all along. The way he angled his gaze, the way he adjusted the rearview mirror downward throughout the ride—I'd expected this when I got out. Still, I felt no hesitation as his burning eyes raked over me.

The shabbiness. It wasn't so different from the life I'm desperate to escape. I'm trying to escape my life.

Leaving the driver wide-eyed behind me, I quickly slip down the stairs into the subway.

A place packed with people—already the air is different. The mingled scents of perfumed soap, body lotion, and personal fragrances blend into a thick haze. But stronger than any of it is the smell of men's sweat.

Maybe it's summer. It feels worse than usual. Worse than just a few weeks ago. And yes, there are more people now—enough to make me frown slightly.

After being shoved by the pushers into a packed subway car, surrounded on all sides, I finally remember to wonder where I'm going—but nothing comes to mind.

Sunyoung, my friend in Bucheon. She divorced early, lives alone now, runs a small bar that sells alcohol.

I remember Sunyoung from high school—how she'd listen to my petty worries as if they were her own, drink angrily when I talked about my husband, close the shop just to drink with me. That Sunyoung comes back to me now.

She might not be home this early, but I know she sometimes sleeps at the bar. I decide to go anyway, aimlessly.

There weren't as many people in the train as I expected, but seats still weren't easy to find. After one stop, a young man in front of me stood up. I felt absurdly grateful.

The train's gentle sway and clatter make my eyes heavy—maybe from lack of sleep.

My legs slowly lose strength. As I spread them slightly, as if to receive something, another pair of legs slips between mine. A man. A salesman, maybe.

Sunyoung once scoffed at my endless affection for humanity, calling it "the idle rich woman's ghost picking sesame seeds." But how tired must he be, to squeeze himself into this tiny space just to breathe?

I quickly close my legs. Did someone see? I tense my thighs, worried. Then I look up at his face.

I feel nothing from him. Only the grime of life, the kind that sticks no matter how hard you scrub.

I want to open my legs wider, to give him warmth.

I imagine him bragging to his coworkers later, proud of what happened today. Suddenly, a playful urge rises. Unlike the taxi driver, I don't mind this. I open my legs a little more, letting my thighs and calves press against his knees and thighs.

The dull weight of his body pressing back. But it stirs nothing—not even pity. I stand and offer him my seat.

Next stop: Sindorim. I need to transfer here to go to Bucheon. But I stay standing, frozen in place.

I press my thigh between his spread legs. I feel him twitch beneath his pants. Smiling faintly, I prepare to get off.

My husband, an obstetrician, stopped seeing me as a woman years ago. To him, I'm just another patient.

He sees dozens of women every day, completely naked, legs spread wide, their vaginas exposed to him. If he feels nothing for them, what does my body—twenty years older—mean to him?

I had to transfer at Sindorim. The clicking of high heels descending the stairs sends a strange tension through me, tightening my muscles, forcing me into the posture of Miss Korea or a supermodel.

Walking with clenched buttocks, chest held high. But stairs always stir something odd when I'm dressed like this. A conflict between the urge to hide and the desire to show—always torn, always awkward. I never quite manage to hold the back of my skirt with an awkward hand. Only when I fear too much exposure do I use my handbag to lightly cover it.

It was barely possible to push through. Sindorim Station is always packed. Thinking it might be the last chance, I let myself be shoved by the pusher into the train car. But more people piled in behind me, pressing us all tightly together—this is Line 1.

I clutch my bag with both hands, pressing it to my chest. I do it to keep distance, but really, I'm more afraid of pickpockets.

Groans of discomfort rise from all around as people are jostled. I feel sorry for them—people forced to endure this daily just to survive.

My phone rings. I barely manage to pull it from my bag. It's my husband.

I don't want to answer. Thanks to my habit of keeping it on vibrate, I shove it back into my bag—and as I bring my hands back to my chest, I feel someone's hand.