As sexually attractive as it made him feel, though, it wouldn’t do much for the “passing” part of his act once he put on the tight girls’ jeans. Luckily, a helpful explanation on how to tuck without the use of tape was a quick phone search away—thanks, Jennifer Ann!—and once the panties were on again, their tight fabric held everything in place. He made a mental note to buy some medical tape next time he was anywhere near a drugstore.
He stroked his newly smooth front absentmindedly for a minute or two, then remembered his fifteen minute limit, now down to nearly ten. The chicken fillet silicone bra inserts came next, and then there was a bit more adjusting in the mirror, trying to get them to sit right inside his bra. After that, the clothes were easy—jeans and shirts were jeans and shirts, boy or girl—and the makeup was easier the second time around as well. Last of all, he clipped in his extensions, cursing the whole time because of course getting the fucking things attached to his hair and lying right and looking okay was about a thousand times harder than the salesgirl had made it look, and fuck, he was already into minute twenty of his fifteen minutes, God fucking dammit.
But suddenly the last section of hair clipped and everything clicked, and Rob was staring at himself in the mirror and seeing Bobby staring back.
And God, she was fucking beautiful.
Of course he started crying after that; pretty girl tears that had mascara streaking down across his perfectly foundation-ed and blush-ed cheeks. Maybe he should have been frustrated by that, ruining his makeup all for a stupid happy-cry, but crying like a girl, right down to the messed makeup, just made him even happier. Because suddenly it was all real. Real, and so much better than he ever could have hoped.
Smiling anew, Bobby rooted through his makeup bag for something to fix his runny mascara.
Funnily enough, Charlie VIP actually was outside when Bobby finally put on his glasses and made it to the front door twenty-five minutes after hanging the Back in 15 Minutes sign.
“Oh, hello, miss,” Charlie said, stepping in while Bobby held the door open. “Back door was locked, so I came around to the front and it was locked, too. Thought you were never gonna open up.”
Bobby half-swallowed his Adam’s apple and spoke. “Sorry, sir. I was just . . .” No point lying. “Fixing my makeup. How do I look?” He batted his sticky eyelashes. Goddamn he sucked at mascara. Maybe tonight he’d look up some tutorials on YouTube.
“Pretty as a geisha,” Charlie replied, pronouncing it gee-shah.
Uh, yikes. Mental note: don’t ask creepers for compliments, because their compliments are just as creepy as the rest of them. “Thanks!” he chirped, fleeing for the counter. “Let me know if you need any help.”
It was more of a formality than anything: Charlie VIP knew what he liked and where to find it. Five or ten minutes from now, he’d come ambling up to the counter with his German fisting fetish DVDs, Bobby would ring him through, and then he’d be on his merry way.
Which was why it surprised Bobby when Charlie followed him to the counter almost immediately. “Yes?” Bobby asked, smiling as sweetly as he could. He hoped he hadn’t opened a door he couldn’t close with the whole fishing-for-a-compliment thing.
Charlie gave him a shifty-eyed look. “You said to let you know if I need any help. Well, I need help.”
“Oh! Um! Okay, sure, what can I help you with?” More nicey-nice smiles.
“Can you suggest a DVD for me?”
“Of course, sir.” Bobby summoned up his knowledge of popular rentals in the various sections of the store. “What were you thinking of?”
“I’d like you to tell me the most erotic film you’ve ever seen.”
What? “Excuse me?”
“I’d like you to tell me the most erotic film you’ve ever seen.”
Jesus. Creeper taking creepy to a whole new level. Just get rid of him. Pick whatever. “Sure!” Bobby stood, flipping a lock of hair over his shoulder. He led Charlie into the Anal section, scanning the shelves until he found the title he wanted, a double-penetration video that had crossed the counter on more than one shift. “How about this?”
“Do you like that?” Charlie asked.
“A lot of people like it. It goes out all the time. I think this actress is really popular.”
Charlie didn’t seem impressed with that answer. “I asked, did you like it.”
Jeez. Awkward. Bobby couldn’t exactly say he didn’t watch porn, but he wasn’t sure if his current passing status would hold up if he admitted to liking gay porn. Also, he didn’t really want to tell Charlie VIP what got him off, period. Just get rid of him. “Oh, yes, sir.”
“What, exactly, did you like about it?”
Oh God ew, is he trying to dirty-talk with me? Charlie hadn’t touched him, but Bobby’s skin still crawled. “It has a pretty great soundtrack.” Which was true, strangely enough. Bobby had been doing some reading up in order to be less useless in the area of customer service, and this director was well known for directing his porn like music videos.
Not surprisingly, Charlie’s whole face curled up in disgust.
“And it has double penetration,” Bobby added.
“Eh, that’s pretty tame for me.” Of course it was. Honestly, at this point Bobby doubted anything short of scat or bestiality could really hope to make its way through Charlie’s porn-desensitized shields. And for now, he seemed completely disheartened as he put the DP video back on the shelf and wandered off to the Fetish section alone, leaving Bobby to skulk back to the counter.
It was an awkward resolution to the whole situation, but at least things went partway back to normal after that. Charlie rented three of his usual DVDs, bid Bobby goodnight, and left. The next customer came in on his heels, a woman looking for a remote control vibrator for her and her girlfriend, and Bobby had a great time showing her the different options and joking about the sleazy packaging and the inherent lack of eroticism involved in strapping an insect to one’s genitals. At last, she chose one that didn’t come with any kind of straps or harnesses, but looked as if it could be held in place with a combination of insertion and wearing it with tight panties so it wouldn’t slip out. By the time she left, Bobby was grinning ear to ear, buoyed by the pure and simple joy of girl talk. Honest-to-God girl talk. Maybe his sister was right about the female friends thing. Too bad Bobby couldn’t accept her frequent invites on Rob’s behalf.
Except for the thing with Charlie, the night passed in a pleasant pattern of harmless flirtation, a lot of which Bobby initiated himself to ease his customers’ nerves. He couldn’t really blame the guys: it must be weird to have to show your taste in porn to a woman you didn’t even know. Luckily, an easy smile and a cute line seemed to work wonders, even on Hollister Cap Guy, who showed up solo midshift and politely signed up for a membership card. Bobby could have done without the meaningful waggle of the eyebrows as the guy slid a stack of Asian fetish DVDs across the counter at him, but the encounter was roughly five thousand times less unpleasant than their last one.
And Bobby couldn’t help feeling a sense of victory when Hollister Cap Guy—real name Adam Fickes—left the store not with an extended middle finger, but a scribbled phone number on his receipt and a sweet, eager “Call me!” Bobby balled up the receipt and tossed it in the trash, of course, but it still felt fucking good.
When things at the store slowed down, Bobby got caught up on his homework, although he spent half of that time fantasizing about how different his classes could be if Bobby were taking them instead of stupid, social-reject Rob. Maybe Bobby could join the cardigan club, or learn to knit, or maybe he could sit at the back of the class with Dylan, flirting and goofing off. After all, Rob had to try hard, had to work hard, had to just keep his head down. Bobby didn’t have to do any of those things. Bobby had fun. Made friends. Seduced boys. Was totally kickass and capable at the same time, but in a completely sexy, effortless way.
The bell over the door chimed, and Bobby, still floating on the cotton candy cloud of
his fantasies, looked up with a smile.
“Holy shit!” Dylan ERASE RACISM shouted.
Bobby squeaked, a deer in fucking headlights with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. Nothing to say. Well, he could shout “I can explain!” but then he’d have to actually follow it up with an explanation, and he sure as hell didn’t have one of those to spare.
“They actually employ girls here?”
What? “What?”
There it was, that squeak again.
“Oh, shit, sorry. There goes my mouth again.” Dylan laughed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel all awkward, it’s just that every time I’ve come in here, it’s been a dude behind the counter. Total sausage fest.”
Was this seriously happening right now? Was Dylan seriously not recognizing him for the ridiculous little cross-dresser he was? Was Dylan seriously buying that he was a real girl and, y’know, not his fucking classmate that he’d seen at least ten times? Maybe it was the glasses. Yeah. Had to be the glasses. And the hair. The hair probably helped.
“Um, yeah. Hi. I’m Bobby.” Real smooth. “And yes, I’m a girl.” Real smoother. “No sausages here.” Real smoothest, and oh, also? A lie.
Dylan chuckled to himself, but it wasn’t a judgmental laugh. “Well, hello to you, Bobby. I’m Dylan.”
Bobby’s face flushed right up to the hairline, like he’d just drunk three bottles of beer. “Hi.”
Dylan cocked an eyebrow, repeating back, “Hi.”
Wow, turned at this three-quarters angle, his round face transformed into a more complicated shape, smooth but for his high, sharp cheekbones. “Hi,” Bobby breathed.
“Hi,” Dylan said again, and grinned.
“Oh. Jesus, I’m sorry, this is like a bad romantic comedy.” Bobby shook his head, tossing his hair. Cleared his throat. “God. Okay, well, I’m going to stop talking now before I embarrass myself. More. Than I have already.”
Dylan laughed, a dry, deep sound that was worldly and kind, nothing like the cruel laugh he sometimes used at school when one of their classmates said something particularly stupid. Damn, it sounded good. “Sure, okay,” he said.
Bobby pinched his knees together, heat creeping through his skin down there, too. “Let me know if you need anything? Or you can just let me crawl under this counter and die.”
“If you die, is my porn free?”
Now it was Bobby’s turn to laugh, a sound that was suitably feminine but nothing like the practiced giggles he’d used on Mike.
“Is that a yes?”
“Oh my God, just go away already, would you?” Bobby covered his red-hot face with his hands, even shaking his head back and forth a little. “Preferably somewhere that there’s a high shelf blocking the view between us.”
“Sure thing, ma’am,” Dylan said with a wry grin, and pointedly walked behind the nearest tall shelf, the rack of blowjob videos, and out of sight. And after a few loooooong minutes, called out, “Bobby, can I come out now? There’s no gay stuff behind here.”
Bobby snorted. “Fine, fine.”
“Sorry, does me being gay ruin your romantic comedy?” Dylan asked as he reappeared from behind the blowjob shelf and made his way to the gay section.
Not as much as you think. “Yeah, but I think I’ll survive.” Bobby rolled his eyes, putting his chin in his hand.
“Ouch. Damn, girl, that was cold.”
“You started it.”
“Hey, who’s Christian?” From his place over at the shelf, Dylan held up a DVD case for Bobby to see, one of the ones with Christian’s cheesy Staff Pick sticker on it. Bobby most certainly hadn’t participated in that little exercise.
“The manager here.”
“He’s into tattoos, huh? Piercings? Twinks?”
“Check, check, and check. And his boyfriend’s got all three.”
“His boyfriend’s got twinks?”
Bobby flapped his hand dismissively. “You know what I mean. Got tattoos and piercings. Is a twink.”
“Uh-huh. And what about you, Miss Bobby? What are you into?” Funny, but even though Charlie VIP had basically asked the same question, it felt completely different coming from Dylan.
And maybe because of that, Bobby didn’t mind replying honestly. “I’m a bit of a chubby chaser, actually.”
“Oh? So you like all this?” Dylan lifted his baggy sweatshirt and grabbed two fistfuls of his bare—but not all that chubby—belly.
“I thought you were gay?” Which wasn’t to say that Bobby didn’t like what Dylan was packing, because yeah, he did. All round and smooth and such a sexy deep brown . . . Not to mention that sparse hint of hair peeking over the tops of his boxers. Mmm, man-hair. Dylan might not have much, but he had it where it counted.
Dylan pulled his shirt back down, ruining Bobby’s view. “What, just ’cause I’m gay, I can’t fish for compliments from a cute girl?”
“You think I’m cute?” Bobby clapped a hand over his mouth. Nope, definitely hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Especially not in an earnest, flattered squeak.
“Definitely,” Dylan said, and sauntered up to the counter with his selection. “And you work at a porn store, which makes you cool. Cool and cute. Deadly combo, even for a homo like me.”
There was that blush again. Bobby snatched Dylan’s DVD case—a Mischievous Pictures title, nice, and Vancouver-based to boot—off the counter and spun to the filing cabinets full of discs, hoping he’d done it fast enough that Dylan hadn’t noticed his expression.
“Aren’t you gonna compliment me back?” he said when Bobby turned around again. He was leaning on his elbows on the counter, smiling a wicked smile, eyelids low. Oh yeah, he’d seen Bobby’s expression all right. At least he wasn’t rubbing Bobby’s face in it.
“Sure!” Bobby replied, feeling a hundred times less shy and awkward now that he knew Dylan wasn’t going to give him a hard time. He smiled, baring teeth, as he put down Dylan’s rental disc. “You have great taste in gay porn.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dylan snorted, and handed over his member card and cash.
I’m secretly a dude. “Velociraptors had feathers,” Bobby said. “This is due back—”
“Thursday. Yeah. See you around, Bobby.”
And oh, the sound of his name in that voice, barely clipped by an accent. “Yeah,” Bobby said, all dreamy. “See ya Monday, Dylan.”
Dylan raised both eyebrows at him. “Thursday, Bobby. It’s due back Thursday.”
Ah, shit. Not crossing the streams was about to get ten thousand times harder.
On Monday morning, those lines blurred further when Rob walked into class, looked right into Dylan’s eyes, and smiled.
Because whoa now, Robert Ng never made eye contact with anybody first, and he especially didn’t act all familiar. After all, it had been Dylan and Bobby who’d flirted back and forth at Rear Entrance Video on Saturday night. Dylan and Robert, on the other hand, had barely traded two words, and none of them in the classroom setting.
Luckily, Dylan just smiled back, even tossed Rob a wave, like it was a totally normal thing for strangers to smile and wave at each other and not weird in the slightest.
Phew.
And then, once Doctor Chastity had arrived and started the day’s lecture, there were more exchanged glances: smiles and shrugs and head tilts and eyebrow raisings and pursings of lips. Every time Rob looked in Dylan’s direction, there was Dylan looking right back at him. Watching him? Watching him closely? Too closely? Did he suspect?
No, you fucking idiot. It’s because you greeted him when you came in, and he doesn’t have anyone else in this class to talk to, just like you.
After all, if he hadn’t made the connection between Rob and Bobby in all that time they’d talked the other night, then he never would. Right?
And if he knew, would he really be smiling at Rob right now?
No way. Frowning, curious, grossed out, maybe.
But definitely not smiling.
OMG, stop looking at
him.
Rob turned away quickly, tucking his chin into his hand and his eyes behind his bangs. On the desk in front of him, his notes were embarrassingly bad: half-finished words, sentences that went nowhere, weird little boxes and stars he didn’t remember drawing. His head felt like it was about to float right off of his shoulders. God, he hoped whatever Doctor Chastity was teaching today wasn’t important.
Oh, who was he kidding, it was Introduction to Art Principles. How important could it be?
“—So you’ll be needing a partner.”
That important, apparently. Yikes.
Bewildered and helpless, Rob took a look over both shoulders, watching the class’s various cliques divide into smaller subgroups, like cells splitting. There was no awkwardness, no deliberation, nothing. Everybody was already sitting near their partners, so there was even a minimum of chair scraping. One second, he’d been lost in his Dylan-related fantasy-slash-anxiety-spiral, and the next, everyone in his class was paired off in their little huddles, chatting excitedly.
Everyone but Rob.
And Dylan.
Who wasn’t getting up, wasn’t making any move to approach Rob, wasn’t even smiling like he’d been doing all through class. Now he was sitting back in his chair, feet up on his desk, pointedly not looking at Rob.
Well, maybe the pairs requirement was more of a guideline. Maybe Rob could just ask to work alone, make up some excuse about social anxiety that hopefully someone like Doctor Chastity would accept as genuine and valid.
Or Rob could take a page from Bobby’s book and just fucking walk up to the guy, sit down next to him, not even ask for permission to be partners, just fucking own it.
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 7