The Suit and the Slip: My Berlin Business Trips
- Feb 13
- 4 min read
By The Auditor
I'm forty-five years old. I work in finance. High-stakes stuff. Mergers. Acquisitions. Numbers that could buy a small island.
I live in the suburbs. Nice house. Good schools. My wife makes killer lasagna. My kids think I'm some kind of superhero because I wear a suit and fly to Europe for work.
They're not wrong about the flying part.
Four times a year, my firm sends me to Berlin. Quarterly reviews. Strategy sessions. The usual corporate theater. My family thinks it's all spreadsheets and schnitzel.
They have no idea.
The Hotel Door
The moment I check into my hotel in Mitte, something shifts.
I set my briefcase down. I loosen my tie. I look at myself in the mirror.
Forty-five. Graying at the temples. Wedding ring catching the light.
Then I lock the door.
This is the part no one sees. The part that needs Berlin like air.
The suit comes off first. Jacket. Trousers. The white shirt that cost more than most people's weekly groceries. I fold them carefully. Force of habit.
This isn’t rebellion. It’s permission.
Then comes the ritual.
I shave everything. And I mean everything. It takes an hour. Hot water. Good razor. Precision.
I treat it like I treat a balance sheet—methodical, careful, no room for error.
The first time I did this, my hands shook. Now they don’t.
Because I know what this is.
It’s the one time I don’t have to be the man. The father. The boss.
I get to be her.
The Weight of Silk
There's a small leather bag in my suitcase. It's always at the bottom. Under the laptop. Under the extra shirts. Under the life everyone knows.
Inside: a black slip. Silk. Real silk, not that polyester garbage. A floral dress. Heels. Makeup. A wig.
The slip goes on first.
People who've never done this don't understand the weight of silk. It's not heavy. But it weighs something. It settles on your skin like a truth you’ve been starving.
Elena is the female part of me. She exists everywhere, technically. But she doesn’t get oxygen everywhere.
In Berlin, she does.
The dress next. The heels. They make me six-foot-two. I'm already six feet. With the heels, I tower. I like that.
The makeup takes practice. I've watched enough YouTube tutorials to earn a degree. Foundation. Contour. A subtle eye. Nothing drag-queen. Nothing theatrical.
Just a woman. Elegant. Put-together.
Her name is Elena.
What It Feels Like
Here's what people get wrong: they think it's sexual.
It's not.
I mean, sure, there’s something charged about it. But the point isn’t getting off. The point is relief.
It’s a pressure valve.
I spend fifty weeks a year being The Provider. The Husband. The Father. The Guy Who Knows. The Man With The Plan.
In Berlin, for three nights, I don’t have to perform that role.
This is the privileged release. The rare pass.
I get to be her.
Elena doesn’t carry my deadlines. Or my kid’s orthodontist schedule. Or the constant low-grade demand to be solid, stable, certain.
She just gets to breathe.
And in Berlin, she finally gets oxygen.
The Walk
During the day, I’m still him.
Suit on. Laptop open. Meetings. Lunch with colleagues. Small talk. Metrics. Espresso. More meetings.
The Auditor doesn’t stop just because I’m in Berlin.
Night is different.
Once the colleagues go back to their hotels. Or the airport. Or their real lives.
I go back to my room.
Then I get to be her.
I leave the hotel around 10 PM.
Berlin at night is a different animal. Mitte is all cobblestones and shadows and people who've seen weirder shit than a tall woman in heels.
No one looks twice.
That's the thing about Berlin. You can be anything here. The city doesn't care. It's seen punks and poets and perverts and politicians. One more stranger in a dress doesn't even register.
Tonight I head to Roses on Oranienstraße.
Pink fur on the walls. Pure kitsch. A room that looks like it was built from a dare.
And it’s safe. Not in a fluffy way. In a real way.
The crowd holds you. The light does the rest.
I’m just another face in the pink glow.
I order a drink. I stand. I blend in.
I’m not here to be brave.
I’m here because I get to be her.
The Duality
At 6 PM Berlin time, my phone rings.
FaceTime. My daughter. She wants to show me a drawing she made at school.
I'm in the hotel bathroom. Full makeup. Dress half-zipped.
I wipe off the lipstick. I angle the camera so she only sees my face. I smile. I tell her it's beautiful. I tell her I love her.
She believes me because it's true.
Four hours later, I'm Elena, walking through Kreuzberg with a cocktail in my hand.
The math doesn't add up. But somehow, it works.
The Return
Sunday morning comes fast.
I wake up as Elena. There's smudged eyeliner on the pillow. The dress is draped over a chair like evidence.
I shower. Long. Hot. I wash off the week.
Then I pack.
The slip goes back in the leather bag. The dress. The heels. The wig. Everything that makes me feel like a whole person gets folded small and buried under business shirts.
I put the suit back on.
I check out. I smile at the front desk. I am once again a forty-five-year-old finance guy who just spent the weekend in meetings.
The flight home is two hours. I sleep most of it.
When I land, my wife picks me up. She kisses me. She asks how the trip was.
"Productive," I say.
She has no idea how true that is.
Who Knows?
No one.
Not my wife. Not my kids. Not my colleagues. Not my friends.
Just me. And now, I guess, you.
I don't know what this makes me. I've read the articles. Gender fluid. Non-binary. Trans-adjacent. Crossdresser.
Labels feel too big for what this is.
It's simpler than that.
Four times a year, I stop being The Auditor.
I get to be her.
And for three nights, Elena breathes.
