The One With a Gender-Bending Billie Eilish

Date: 11/21/2025

These winding roads are mocking me now — taunting me with yet another bend, yet another déjà vu of sodden hedges and potholes deep enough to store childhood trauma. I swear I’ve been orbiting the same square mile of nowhere-on-tone for hours. I’ve lost my bearings, my patience, and my will to keep pretending I know where I’m going in life or on this godforsaken road. The sky hangs low and swollen, like it’s about to let out a sob so violent it might wash me clean off the map. I’m seconds from pulling into a ditch and accepting my fate as Some Person Who Lives in a Muddy Field Now, when I pass a pair of cast-iron gates rising out of the darkness like the entrance to a Victorian asylum. A sprawling mansion lurks behind them — grand, decaying, and screaming “Fix me!” with the desperation of someone holding a cracked mirror together by will alone. I pull over, rattle the gate, and it flies open like it’s been waiting for me. Great. A haunted welcome. “Can I help you?” a lady calls from the gravel path. “I’m a little lost,” I admit, which may be the understatement of my entire life. “You’d better come in,” she insists. ” A storm’s due any minute. Come, come.” So apparently I’m breaking into mansions with strangers now. Perfect. Just the kind of situation I did not ask to be put in. The driveway is long and stony — the kind of path that would feel majestic if it weren’t doing its best impression of a medieval battlefield. The house towers over us, shivering in its own disrepair. We aren’t alone. A cluster of lads hover on the grounds, vibrating with fanboy excitement. “They’re here to see Billie,” the lady says, smiling like it’s obvious. “Billie?” I ask. “Eilish,” she replies, the way someone might say, “The sky is blue,” or “Do keep up!”. Of course. Billie Eilish. Because where else would she be but a rotting manor one strong gust away from collapse. “Have you seen her!?” one lad asks, eyes bulging. “Can’t say I have,” I reply, bleak and proud of it. Thunder tears the sky in half. Rain follows instantly — biblical, unstoppable, furious. “Come, come!” the lady shrieks, ushering us inside. The interior is somehow worse. Even the walls look embarrassed — peeling, sagging, mouldy, like they’ve given up explaining themselves. “Jesus,” I mutter. Wind whistles through unseen cracks, turning the house into a giant morbid flute. My breath becomes visible. Baltic doesn’t cover it. A plump elderly man appears from the dimness. “Good day to you,” he says, shaking our hands. I can’t bring myself to compliment the house. I simply smile like a hostage. “Billie is performing later,” he beams. The lady snorts. “I don’t think we can afford fine dining, Alfred. Let’s just have drinks. We’ve a bottle of hundred-year-old rouge somewhere.” Alfred looks wounded. Even his stomach protests. We sit on “cushions” — damp, mould-scented lumps scattered between puddles. And then she enters. Billie Eilish. Floaty white gown. Bare feet. Voice like a choir trying its best to save a shipwreck. She starts singing into a mic that may not even be plugged in. The lads are losing their collective shit. I’m less enthralled, mostly thinking about the road home, the one that keeps vanishing every time I chase it. After a glass of wine so dusty it tastes like the attic of an ancient relative, I start to sway with the music. My body loosens. For a moment, I almost let myself sink into it. Then Billie begins undressing. “What the…” Completely naked. In this cold. Nipples like startled doorbells. And then I see it. A penis. An actual penis. “Are you seeing this?” I whisper. “It’s art,” one guy snaps. “Shhh.” “But — she has a dick.” “No she doesn’t,” another argues. She’s a woman.” “More woman than you’ll ever be,”someone snipes. Excuse me? Why am I the only one seeing the literal elephant trunk in the room? “That’s enough bollocks!” Alfred roars, stumbling over and gently shoving Naked Billie offstage. “Put some clothes on, love.” She shrugs, grabs a robe, wraps up. Alfred, now fully marinated in ancient wine, wraps his chunky velvet arms around me. Another man joins. Then Billie. I let it happen — for a second. It’s warm. Heavy. Almost comforting to be wanted, even by strangers in a collapsing mansion. Then the lady rings a tiny bell. “Time for the orgy to begin!” Oh fuck. Limbs cinch around me. A tangle of heat and breath and sweat. Human Jenga. A human trap disguised as affection. I try to wriggle out but I’m wedged in place like a mismatched puzzle piece. “Help me,” I whisper to whatever cosmic landlord is in charge of this mess. And then— CRASH. The roof gives way. A tidal wave of storm water obliterates the cuddle pile. People scream, slip, flail. The house groans like it’s been waiting years for the chance to finally fall apart. Billie sputters, “Jesus fuck!” I look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, water pouring through like divine intervention, and say: “Jesus heard me.” And for the first time all night, everything goes silent. The storm rages. The house continues its slow, inevitable death. And I realise: Sometimes things collapse not because of storms — but because they were never meant to hold all that weight in the first place. At least someone — something — finally listened