After a few minutes, she is almost totally relaxed. She has established a careful, but teasing walk built around a gentle, sexual rhythm that attracts helpless glances from so many men and women. In the men’s eyes she sees the familiar desire, the animal hunger. At first, she is shocked by the brutal honesty of their gazes, even when they are furtive, snatched in a quick look at this spectacular feminine object. Gazes that express in a cold, even angry way, the male biological imperative. Yet she realises this is what all beautiful women face every day; this animality is normal. And so are most of the gazes she receives from women: also vaguely angry, and most far from desiring. In their eyes she sees envy, some admiration and more than a little aggression (especially from those who are with men).
To be looked at in this way is to experience the truth of physical human being. To be consumed by the desiring and jealous eyes of others is to know that fundamental reality of our waking lives. This is just another jungle, and these are just another collection of hungry beasts.
Her pleasure in her object-ness is intense and, most probably, masochistic. She is being ravished by a thousand eyes and enjoying every second of it.
Over the next hour, she is a beautiful young woman spending a morning shopping. She goes first to a coffee shop. Over a large creamy latte, she idly reads a women’s fashion magazine. She has positioned herself in the centre of the café, her back straight, her long legs tightly crossed, her toes pointed slightly downward. As she adjusts her posture, she feels her delicately hosed thighs rub together and has to fight to withhold a moan of pleasure.
Here, the eyes are as focused and hungry as anywhere else, and her response is the same: careful indifference that hides furious arousal.
She pays a handsome young Italian man for the coffee. He thanks her with a blinding, sensual smile and she blushes helplessly, a feeling of genuine feminine shyness that fills her with joy. There is passion burning in his dark brown eyes, and she resists a dizzying swoon.
Then it is time for the moment she has so deliberately withheld, teasing herself with a dreadfully sexual expectation in this theatre of elegant exposure. Now, finally, she will visit the clothing stores. Here she will take the ultimate test.
She begins with a large department store, walking through its glass doors with a sense of focus and determination. There can be no doubt now: she is beautiful, elegant, sexy Eve.
The women’s section is virtually the whole of the ground floor, a cornucopia of stylish femininity, a paradise of Eve’s most secret and desperate desires. The racks are formed in carefully organised circles, islands of dresses, blouses and skirts around which female shoppers walk, stopping to assess, sometimes to remove an item and take it to the changing rooms. Eve’s eyes glide across the racks and she feels a very familiar and powerful sense of beauty. For as long as she can remember, the sight of female clothing has not only aroused her, but also inspired a sense of aesthetic interest. It is as if she is in an art gallery, appraising not just function, but the principles of design and form. Here the exhibit is an erotic creation, in silk, in nylon, in satin and cotton, fabrics whose essence are used to express identity and desire.
She moves closer to a rack neatly loaded with a variety of silk blouses, all expensive, all rather beautiful. She runs her hands across the fine, electric material and feels a shiver of sexual delight. Silk and skin: a perfectly eternal combination. She takes a blouse from the rack and holds it against her own, carefully manufactured form. It is dark red and terribly sexy. She feels her sex stiffen as she imagines wearing this gorgeous item. She replaces it on the rack with a stunned smile. She is lost in a scented fog of sheer bliss.
She has more than £100 in cash in her handbag, but if she were to buy the blouse she would have less than £20 left. She decides to look for something a little cheaper.
As she turns to view the rack opposite, she collides with another shopper, a tall man. He appears shocked and almost immediately apologises. Eve is briefly stunned and then also apologetic. She mumbles a rather deep and clearly masculine sorry and then freezes in horror. For she finds herself facing Richard, the handsome man from the club, the man whose hand had teased and tormented her so effectively.
At first, Eve considers running from the shop, so great is her sense of panic. Yet a calmer voice is telling her to remain, to continue as if this was just a random encounter with a stranger, that this is perhaps the greatest test for Eve.
Then she is looking directly into his large sky-blue eyes and she feels her nylon-sheathed knees turn to jelly.
‘Eve! I thought it was you! Sorry about the clumsy introduction.’
He has a light, easy and cultured voice. There is a calmness in his tone and in his posture. He is relaxed and confident. Yet, at the same time, she can see his passion . . . for her.
Eve averts her gaze, blushing furiously, unsure what to say or do. She smiles weakly.
‘Sorry . . . is this a bad time?’
She shakes her head and whispers a very nervous ‘No, it’s fine . . . it’s just I wasn’t expecting . . .’
He smiles warmly and nods vigorously. ‘Yes, of course. Now I can see.’
He hesitates. She looks up at him. Even in her heels she is shorter. He must be at least six feet three. His hair is thick, dark blond. He has a long, gentle face, very broad shoulders, an athletic frame. He is, with a doubt, a classic example of masculine beauty.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I thought you’d be OK about this, but I’ve obviously imposed.’
He turns to leave, but then she grabs his arm, a sudden, almost desperate gesture.
‘No, don’t go,’ she whispers. ‘It’s just that I don’t, I haven’t done this . . .’
There is a moment of terrible awkwardness. She is painfully aware of her voice, of Adam’s voice, shattering this elegant, careful visage with its helplessly male tonality. Then Richard smiles gently. There is care and concern in his eyes.
‘It’s your first time out on your own?’
She nods, begging for a bottomless hole to swallow her up.
‘You don’t need to worry, Eve. You’re absolutely gorgeous. Nobody would ever know.’
She looks up at him then, sees the confident power of his desire and feels a violent, dizzying sexual thrill.
‘Look,’ he says, taking her hand, ‘why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee? Somewhere quiet. Where we can talk.’
All she can do is nod helplessly. Then he takes the blouse from her shaking hands.
‘And let me buy you this. It’ll look fantastic on you.’
Her eyes widen with surprise. She begins to shake her head, aware of the cost and also the power she is in some way giving him if she agrees. But then he gently extracts the blouse from her already faltering grasp and whispers ‘please’. All resistance melts and she nods weakly.
He pays for the blouse with a Gold American Express card. The girl at the counter, a pretty teenage blonde, stares at Eve with genuine envy, the look that one woman would reserve for another, a look that fills Eve with a tremendous sense of success and also a very deep arousal.
Then she is carrying the bag with the blouse and being led from the store by Richard, stunned, astonished, elated.
Richard is wearing a tight pair of Levi jeans, brown suede shoes, a pale-blue denim, open-necked shirt and a tan-coloured jacket. He looks casual, yet particularly well groomed. Eve notices other women looking at him with obvious sexual interest, and then at her – with envy.
It is only as they enter the small, quiet café on a side road off the main shopping precinct that Eve begins to feel just a little uncomfortable. This is not what she had planned for today, this is also not what she had ever considered when she applied to the Crème de la Crème. A man! A man who obviously admires and maybe even desires her! Yet, despite her concerns, despite a desperate confirmation of her fundamentally male sexuality, she follows him. Somehow this is the absolute final affirmation of her femininity. And to have this happen – to have a man desire h
er as a woman – is to experience a violent sexual thrill.
They sit in a quiet booth in a corner of the café and are almost immediately served by a pretty, plump brunette in the skimpiest of mini-skirts. Eve notices her long, beautiful legs sheathed in opaque black nylon and feels a twinge of desire. Then a smile crosses her beautiful face. I look at her and feel sexual attraction; I look at him and feel . . .
Richard orders two lattes. Eve places the bags on the floor and then crosses her legs tightly. The mini-skirt rides up her legs to reveal a little more of her grey nylon-sheathed thighs and she is instantly aware of his eyes appraising her ultra-feminine form, an appraisal that causes her to blush with a terrible, aching and deeply disturbing pleasure.
‘How long have you been dressing?’ he asks, his question neutral, but his eyes filled with a dark, erotic interest.
‘Since I was sixteen. About twelve years.’
‘And you’ve only just come out?’
‘Yes. The visit to the club last night was my first time.’
His smile widens and he shakes his head. ‘I find that very hard to believe.’
‘Really? Why?’
There is a false modesty to her question that they both recognise. ‘Because you’re so very beautiful. And you know it.’
She squirms with pleasure and averts his clear, frank gaze.
There is a slightly unpleasant silence then, as his eyes continue to roam over her body. The intensity of his examination, without conversation, is almost too much to endure.
‘How long have you been going to the club?’ she asks, desperate to relieve the pain of this silence.
‘Me? About a year. Ever since they asked me to work for them.’
‘Work?’
‘Yes, I’m a photographer and film maker. I help them with their publicity and do some video work.’
She nods carefully, aware of his hand moving from the table to his side, falling loosely between them and brushing ever so gently against her skirt.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he says suddenly, guilt-edged concern briefly replacing the desire in his beautiful eyes.
‘Sorry? Why?’
‘For the way I acted . . . the way I touched you. It was terribly crass of me. Given I hardly knew you. I was drunk, and you were . . .’
‘I was what?’
He smiles slightly and raises his eyes up towards the café’s long bar, as if searching for the right word.
‘You were perfect, Eve.’
She blushes and shakes her head.
‘No . . . seriously. I mean it. I’ve seen all of them . . . all the Crème de la Crème girls. And none of them come anywhere close to you. Not even Cherry. And Cherry is fucking gorgeous.’
His passion is sudden and shocking. He leans forward and places his hand directly on her warm, nylon-sheathed knee.
‘But my voice,’ she says, aware of the one thing that destroys this image of feminine perfection.
He nods in that strangely sage way and his smile fades. ‘Your perfection isn’t about being a totally convincing female. It’s about something else. It’s about the illusion of femininity.’
A mild anger suddenly fills Eve’s eyes. ‘It’s not an illusion . . . I’m not an illusion.’
Richard smiles slightly, clearly confused by this testy answer.
‘Then what is this?’ he asks, pointing directly at Eve. ‘The smart suit, the sexy, city girl look? The tights and heels. The careful make-up? The wig?’
‘It’s the real me.’
Eve knows this sounds wrong and then attempts to elaborate. ‘It’s the way I express the real me.’
Richard nods again, thoughtful, considerate. ‘OK. That makes sense. But it can only help you go so far. And anyway, what’s the true you? What’s your name?’
‘Eve. I am Eve.’
‘And I’m Richard. And I’m really pleased to meet you, Eve.’
Eve smiles without conviction. ‘Why?’
Richard smiles again, still slightly confused. ‘Why what?’
‘Why are you pleased to meet me?’
His smile widens, he relaxes. He leans further forward, his handsome face a few inches from Eve’s.
‘Because I love TVs.’
She feels his hot, coffee breath against her face and her cock strain inside the shaper. Her heart speeds up. She swallows hard.
‘I can’t help it,’ he continues. ‘I’ve had this thing about transvestites since I was a kid. At first, I thought I was a transvestite. But I’ve never wanted to dress up. It’s . . . well, it’s pretty fucking weird I suppose. Let’s just say I’m an admirer of beautiful cross-dressers. That there is something in the ambiguity they represent that I find . . . arousing.’
‘Am I ambiguous?’
Richard laughs, but his eyes betray the slightest irritation with Eve’s monotone interrogation. ‘Of course. And I find the ambiguity exciting. This strange middle-ground between male and female. This, I don’t know . . . this subversive middle-ground. People like you question us all. The simple definitions of sex and gender begin to fall apart. I like that. The way you fuck up the desperate truths of morality.’
Eve listens politely to the subversion argument. She has heard it a hundred times and never been impressed.
‘Do you like girls?’
There is no hesitation. ‘Yes. But not all the time. I suppose I’m bisexual.’
‘Have you had sex with a transvestite?’
She is surprised by this hard, frank retort.
He nods and then moves his hand on to her thigh. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
Eve feels the room begin to move beneath her. A terrible, desire-framed giddiness similar to the one she had felt at the club the night before. Richard’s hand slips beneath the skirt and presses against the crotch of the body-shaper through the silk panties. She feels an almost unbearable hardness deep in her sex, a hardness she has never felt before; a hardness that threatens to explode into terminal stars.
Richard, noticing her strange reaction, withdraws his hand.
‘Are you OK?’
The room slows. The sickness passes. ‘Yes,’ she says. Then she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. ‘Take me shopping. Then let’s go back to my place.’
4
A New Love
The next few hours are some of the happiest Eve has experienced. In the company of Richard she feels as relaxed and at ease as she has felt with anyone. As they move from shop to shop, as he spends hundreds of pounds on her with utter indifference, she is truly at one with herself; yet she is also aware of her limits. In the shops, their conversations are muted; even when Richard teases the gorgeous she-male, they are both careful not to draw too much attention to Eve’s voice. Yet despite the caution at the heart of their communication, the tone is heavily eroticised, and it is this that draws Eve closer and closer to Richard. He frequently comments on how a certain dress or skirt or blouse will look on Eve, complementing her figure, her legs, her grace; making it all sound so very natural and proper. And poor Eve is lost in a near ecstasy of contentment, her deepest fantasy of acceptance brought to stunning, erotic life. She knows she will take him back to her house and that something will happen. Something she had never imagined possible.
By the early afternoon, both are loaded down with purchases and, after lunch at a small café, Richard suggests they go to the cinema before returning to her house. There is a film he wants her to see. Eve is excited by the suggestion and agrees without a second’s hesitation.
‘We can put the bags in your car,’ he says. ‘I can come and pick mine up in the morning.’
He looks at her with expectation and desire. She nods, knowing what she is agreeing to. She is so terribly aroused.
‘I’ll make you a pasta dinner,’ she says, and his smile becomes a beam of beautiful joy.
To Eve’s surprise, they end up in a small art-house cinema that is showing a trio of French films called the Three Colours Trilogy, one after the other for t
wo weeks. They pay for the showing of the first film, Three Colours: Blue, and are soon sitting in a virtually empty cinema which smells of exotic coffee.
Eve knows very little about foreign cinema, but it is clear that Richard is a well-informed cinephile. He speaks highly of the film’s star, the French actress Juliette Binoche. Eve has heard of Miss Binoche and has actually seen her perform in one or two rather overblown Hollywood movies. She remembers a cool, dark-haired beauty, but what she experiences once the film begins is a pure revelation. In this intimate and secret darkness, a space that is both painfully private and so very clearly public, she is exposed to the narrative precision of true art cinema and the elegance and intelligence of one of the world’s greatest actresses. Photographed in shades of crystal-blue and telling the story of a tragedy and, perhaps, a deception, the film’s style and highly developed narrative are part of a European cultural tradition to which Eve, despite her love of the glamour and flamboyance of American cinema, has never truly been exposed. Then, there is the revelatory beauty of the actress and of her performance. Eve is overwhelmed with admiration and desire. This sophisticated representation of a woman and her life holds a new insight into the possibilities of femininity. Eve finds herself watching movement and dress with a fetishist’s rapt interest and seeing another model for her own being, another icon to frame and hang on her bedroom wall.
Her attention is diverted periodically by the gentle caresses of Richard. Although he appears as smitten by the film as Eve, it is clear he also welcomes the cover provided by the cinematic darkness, for, within seconds of the light dimming, Eve feels a warm hand slipping once again beneath her skirt and seeking out the edge of the body-shaper. Enthralled by the film, aroused by the caress, Eve is almost overwhelmed by sensory stimulation. Richard moves closer, presses his body tightly against her.
The Secret Self Page 8