by Tanith Lee
“I can’t.”
I turned quickly and ran off into the wood. I crashed through the undergrowth blindly, not daring to look back. Soon I was deep in the trees and all I could think was, ‘keep going, keep going ‘til you get to the other side.’ But the branches started to stretch and close around me; they were blocking my path, forming gnarled fences and I had no choice but to twist and turn.
“Why don’t you want to go home? What are you so afraid of?”
I was spinning, mentally and physically; all I could see were the swaying trees, bending and making a cage around me.
“I’m not afraid, I just don’t want to go home yet, I whispered.
“You are afraid. And you should’ve gone home hours ago.”
The voice was coming from below; I looked to my feet and there was a box. I was compelled to touch it; smooth, cool and solid, the box was wooden. I tried to prise open the lid but there wasn’t one; it was seamless. A strange blankness overcame me and I stroked the silky object. Then the box began to grow. I tried to back away and remove my palm but couldn’t; my hand was stuck. I yanked hard but the skin of my palm was glued to it, as if the box was a block of ice.
“Let me go!” I screamed, still trying to free my hand, but the skin was ripping. “Let go!”
I struck the casket with my free hand; I hit it again and again. My fist was damp and I knew it was blood but I continued to punch and punch.
“Let go! Let go!” I shouted with every smash of my fist. The wood was splintering.
“You’ll never be forgiven, you should’ve gone home.”
My fist was punching something soft and wet and the blood wasn’t mine. I pulled my hand away and with it, hair. I recoiled in fright; the hair was long, and it kept coming. I staggered backwards, gagging.
“And I thought you liked her.”
“Who?” I asked.
The man with the tweed neck scarf crouched down at the head of the pummelled girl.
“Still beautiful, I heard him say.
Transfixed, I could just make out the man piece together her face and then he began to reel in the hair.
“Why didn’t you come with me? This would never have happened if you’d come home.”
He was pulling me in and sighing.
“Poor girl, poor, little stray girl…well, at least she’s home now.”
The hair knotted around my fingers and he continued to reel it in. Frantically, I tore at the strands, stumbling backwards and panicking when the hair seemed to get tighter. I was getting closer to him; I could smell the rotting vegetation of his breath and I whimpered.
“Oh dear, you seem agitated,” he said, heaving me to his chest, “Why?”
His cold body pressed against my own; I felt sick and couldn’t answer.
“Is it this? Her hair?” The man delicately picked at the strands around my fingers until I was free. “There, it’s gone.”
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“Because I know what’s going to happen,” he replied, twisting the length of hair into a rope. “You’re going to run and I’m going to let you go.”
“What?”
“Run away.”
“You’re letting me go?” I couldn’t believe it.
“I said, run away. Run, run, run; run away as fast as your legs can carry you.”
I was static; was it a trick?
“You’re still here. I told you to run.” He twitched. “Well, it’s time I went.”
And the man with the tweed neck scarf turned and walked further into the trees. I watched him disappear and only then did I move.
How long I ran for I didn’t know but eventually I could see the trees thinning out and the world seemed lighter.
Dragging my tired body on, I was out of the wood; the sky was turning grey and mist hung softly over the field. I saw the hedgerow and knew the stream wasn’t far away; I urged my limbs to make one final effort to reach familiarity.
I could hear the gurgling of water as I walked hurriedly alongside the hedge.
The grey sky was becoming yellow as the sun crept up from the horizon.
I stopped when I saw the bridge and smiled; it was as perfect as I knew it should be; the happy stream, the chorus of birdsong and the green fields that stretched on beyond.
“Thank God,” I sighed, and walked to the bridge. I enjoyed the sound of my footsteps on the wood; the solitary sound of one person, and I gave myself a minute of solitude before moving on.
I leaned on the handrail and stared at the water tumbling over rocks. Moths flitted to and fro and a Kingfisher darted out of the low hanging trees, vanishing on the other side. I smiled again and then felt myself frowning.
‘Why did he do that? Why did he let me go?’ I was puzzled and couldn’t figure out what I’d done to ensure my freedom. ‘And I wonder where ‘home’ is.’
I shook my head and tried to dislodge those thoughts; it was time to go.
Taking one more look at the scenery, I turned and went back across the bridge.
“Pretty as a picture in’t it?” The man looped his arm through mine, threading the length of rope and tying it round my wrist, “We can look at this view all day.”
Valerie
Maura McHugh
Peter knew nothing about her was real from the first moment he spotted her hurried steps approach him in patent black stilettoes. He sat upright in his seat at reception and checked his watch: 4.18am. Slap bang in the middle of the coma hours: when the occupants of the hotel were dead to the world and the only sound was the ventilator wheeze of the lobby vending machine.
He realised the lush platinum blond tresses were a wig, her pretty features were a silicon mask, and the hourglass figure under the scarlet wrap-around dress was likely due to a girdle and padding, yet when she stood before him, laid her warm hand upon his, and in a breathy, shaken voice said, “Please, can you help me?” he knew he would do whatever she asked.
“Oh yeah, the circus is coming to town, Petey boy,” Ron drawled as he slammed into the seat beside Peter at the weekly staff meeting. Ron had pitched his voice just loud enough so Mr Aldridge could hear him, and Peter noticed the crease of annoyance on his boss’ face. Ron nodded a defiant hello at Aldridge, and chewed his gum loudly.
“Are we all here?” Aldridge asked, scanning the room. The staff members idling by the coffee machine shifted reluctantly, cups in hand, and slid into their seats.
Ron winked at Peter, and lowered his voice a fraction, “Ten bucks it’s a freak show. Otherwise he’d leave it to Lucy to give us the skinny.”
Peter nodded politely, but wished Ron would quit acting like they were buddies. If there was anyone on the staff he wished he could see less of it was Ron, yet they were always assigned shifts together.
Aldridge cleared his throat. “Before I hand over to Lucy to go over this week’s schedule, I want to add a few words about a special group staying with us this weekend. The Aldridge Arms has always welcomed guests who represent alternative lifestyles. We’ve built a reputation for offering folks a space where they can mix with others of their mindset without condemnation or judgement. They’re customers, just like any other, except they... ah... express themselves differently.”
Ron sorted derisively. Peter edged away from him a little to avoid the full wattage of Aldridge’s disapproval.
“This weekend we’re hosting the...” Aldridge looked under his glasses at a sheet in his hands, “... Carnivdoll, the mid-West’s largest celebration of rubber dolls and their fetishists.” Aldridge paused. “I understand this is going to be a new concept to many of you, but to sum up, these folks like to dress up in full latex bodysuits, including masks.”
Ron sat up in his seat, and murmured, “What the fuck?”
“We’ve had BDSM groups stay here before, so we’ve all seen some outlandish costumes over the years. This is no different. Remember, respect and good manners are the bedrock of our business. As long as they abide by our rules and regulations, ev
ery single one of them will be met by courtesy and kindness from each member of staff.” He skewered Ron with a direct stare, “Understand?”
Ron smirked at Aldridge while everyone else responded with a chirpy assent.
“Now, Lucy is going to fill you in on the exact schedule of events. Plus, she’ll explain some of their lingo and terminology, and hand out written information. Please pay attention, because it’ll cut down on misunderstandings. Give them a nice Aldridge Arms welcome and we’ll have no problems.”
Throughout the rest of the meeting Ron fidgeted as if he had a bad itch, and on the way out of the room he let loose his invective on Peter. “Aldridge has gone too far this time. Does he even consider himself a Christian?”
“Doesn’t the bible say we shouldn’t judge –”
“It doesn’t fucking say ‘Thou shalt dress up in rubber doll suits’!”
Peter recoiled slightly at the language. He hadn’t been brought up to talk like that. Maybe in the bar, after a couple of beers... but not at work in the middle of the afternoon. But Ron was from the East Coast and didn’t believe in withholding his opinions.
Ron’s cheeks reddened, “I mean... That’s some fucked up shit. What kind of pervert needs to do that?”
Peter shrugged and glanced away, hoping his face wouldn’t reveal anything Ron could seize on.
“Christ! And Aldridge’s preaching at us like he’s so almighty perfect. If those gimps weren’t paying top dollar Aldridge wouldn’t give them the steam from his piss!”
Peter zoned out the ensuing complaints, but over the next week the event was all that Ron could talk about. During one night shift together he showed Peter links to online videos.
“They call themselves maskers,” Ron said, as he dawdled by the hotel desk during the coma hours. Ron was the Night Duty Manager, so Peter had to humour him. Usually Ron goofed off, smoked cigarettes outside, or watched TV in the duty manager’s office. Peter preferred it that way. It was better to be stuck with all the work than to endure Ron’s constant patter. Peter was pretty sure Ron did some other substances occasionally, as he sometimes burst out of his office, revved up and strangely antagonistic. Yet, at will, Ron could switch on a sleazy charm and be as nice as pie to a customer. Peter had seen people fall for it again and again, and later Ron would laugh at them.
“Here, this one explains how the dudes get into their femsuits...” Ron said, elbowing Peter. “Look, they have a pouch to tuck away their dicks!”
Peter winced as he glanced at the silent video of a lean man demonstrating how to squeeze into a silicon bodysuit to transform himself into a rubber doll woman. Then Ron flicked onto a gallery of images and scrolled through them with his thumb, commenting on the exaggerated features of the doll faces and figures.
The invective went on like this for days, until Thursday night when Peter got fed up with it.
“Don’t you think you’re a little... obsessed with this stuff, Ron?” he ventured, after another ten minutes’ lecture on the costumes and habits of the fetishists.
Ron’s face flushed. “What’re you implying?”
“I don’t know, maybe you should call in sick this weekend if these people offend you so much.”
“And miss the show?” Ron grinned wide. “No sir. I’m expecting to be entertained every night. I’m gonna charm the tips offa these pervs.”
He barked a laugh, and leaned in close as if he was offering Peter conspiratorial advice. “Weirdoes love it when you treat them like normal people. These guys lay out thousands for their rubber suits, so I reckon they’ll be inclined to tip a sympathetic manager.” Ron put on an expression of fake sensitivity that made Peter’s stomach roil.
Ron tapped his cheek. “Yeah, I got my mask too.”
He drummed both hands on the counter in anticipation. “I’m gonna have fun this weekend! I plan to take plenty of pictures on my phone. Maybe I’ll post them online afterwards. I wonder what their wives and kids’ll say when it comes out they dress up like sissies.”
Peter suppressed a surge of fear, and said, “Well you better not let Aldridge find out, or you’ll lose your job.”
Ron waved Peter’s warning off. “I’m not worried. I’m the master of the anonymous account.”
Peter pinched back his disapproval, hating himself. A few minutes later Ron finally retired to his office, and the welcome comfort of the night shift quiet settled over the lobby. The glass doors and bright lights barred the enveloping darkness. In these rare moments of peace Peter relished the solitude and imagined being the captain of a dreaming ship forging through the night.
He leaned forward in his chair to tap the desk monitor, and the fabric of his trousers rubbed against the French silk knickers he wore underneath.
A blush rose in his cheeks, and he inadvertently looked over his shoulder to check that Ron was still in the office. As if he could see or guess what Peter wore underneath his clothes.
Peter loved the sensation of silk against his skin. More than that he adored wearing women’s lingerie, stockings, and shoes. No one knew about this. Especially not his two football-obsessed brothers, or his friends from college. It was a secret he had guarded with diligent care, always assured of the shame it would bring should he be discovered.
One time when he was four he had dressed up in his mother’s frilly babydoll nightdress, and staggered about in her pumps, feeling pretty and incredibly happy. When his mom discovered him she burst out laughing, and hugged him to her chest. The warmth and happiness drained away at the sound of his father’s footsteps. All Peter remembered was shouting, the roughness of his father’s touch when he pulled the clothing off Peter, and the stern warning to “Never do that again!”
His parents didn’t mention the incident after that, he wasn’t even certain they remembered it, but for Peter this had been a thunderbolt moment. His love of dressing up in women’s clothing never waned, but from then on it existed inside a cocoon of fear and shame.
He knew there were other men like him, cross-dressers, but he could not imagine going outside wearing women’s clothing. It prompted overwhelming anxiety. The most he could do was lock his doors, draw the blinds, and dig out the special trunk of items he kept, padlocked, under his bed. Then he could have his own fashion show, and experiment with makeup.
When he felt brave he wore one of his favourite pieces underneath his work clothes, and savoured the delicious terror of having his true self so close to the surface. Ron’s stream of jokes about the rubber doll fetishists had promoted him to wear lingerie under his clothes every day that week.
Peter did not feel any draw to wearing a femsuit. He’d wondered if discovering this underground scene would unearth any buried fantasies, but he discovered no attraction to rubber or latex, which seemed cold and unyielding to him. He preferred the direct contact of clothing on his skin. He wanted to be a man yet have the freedom to dress as a woman.
But he envied the people who would be attending Carnivdoll – their courage to do what made them happy, no matter how it veered off the straight track everyone else seemed forced to travel on.
Peter yearned to be courageous enough to go to one of the clubs or bars in St. Paul where he would be accepted, or even put up a profile on a cross dressing dating site. Yet every scenario he imagined ended with him running into someone from his hometown, which inevitably resulted in the loss of respect from his dad, brothers, and possibly his mother. And what would his co-workers say? His chest constricted just thinking about it.
Peter stood up suddenly to interrupt his thoughts. It was foolish speculation. He had accepted his life the way it was now: guarded, but safe.
One day, he might break his self-imposed restraints, but this weekend he would admire the free from the sidelines.
Peter looked at the face of the woman in front of him, feeling the warmth of her hand on his. Her eyes were large, and a startling blue. They summoned the image of a spring river under a thin veneer of ice. He could almost hear the rush and bubbl
e of water cascading over rocks, swollen from melting spring snow. Her mask was glued expertly around the eyes. It was seamless, far better than anything he’d seen that weekend. Everything about her seemed real, except she was clearly wearing a silicon mask.
“Your name, miss?” His training kicked in. First off establish if she was a guest, and her room number.
“Valerie,” she said. Her accent was light, perhaps southern. “I’m in the Brigitte Suite.”
That was the most expensive room in the hotel, which meant Peter had to give her the most discrete and professional service. He tapped the screen with his left hand and saw her full name: Valerie Palmer. She was booked in for five nights, and had paid in full.
“I’m Peter Witt. How can I help you, Miss Palmer?”
Her grip on his hand tightened a little, and he looked back into her expressive eyes.
“Please, it’s Valerie... Miss Palmer sounds so formal.”
On impulse he placed his free hand over hers as a reassuring gesture.
“Valerie, how may I help?”
She paused, the urgency knocked out of her like sails collapsing from a change of wind, and glanced down at their hands. He took it to signal embarrassment - he’d seen this scenario before.
“Is there someone else..?”
She nodded, her luxurious curls bouncing. “In my room.”
He wondered which pronoun to use. “Is the person ill?” It was not unusual for an older guest to die, especially early in the morning. And once or twice they had been in the arms of a beau.
“He’s unconscious.”
Peter tried to move his right hand to reach for the phone. “I have to call an ambulance.”
“No!”
Her distress was acute, so much so that it squeezed Peter’s heart. He almost gasped.
“He’s not hurt, but passed out. I need to move him back to his room before anyone notices. I don’t want to embarrass him.”
Or yourself, Peter thought.
“I can go to your room and assess the situation. If I need to call for an ambulance, I must.”
She nodded, withdrawing her hand - he felt a pang. “Of course, whatever you think is best. I just hoped to avoid any... upset.”