“. . . a nice figure! Look at those legs. You’ve been holding out on us!”
“You’re just being nice.”
“Shut up and let me put on your makeup.”
I sat down at my desk. Submissive. Coco would’ve killed to have the chance to do this. She and Jack were due back from Vegas the next day in time for a strip class in the evening. I still hadn’t heard from her. Oh, well. They were probably too busy celebrating. She’d be back soon enough. All ready to pack up. She was talking about doing a major purge of her stuff at the same time. But tonight, Tom and I could spend the evening together without any fear of Coco Interruptus.
I didn’t watch in a mirror, just completely handed myself over to Ralph. He dibbled and dabbled, every so often stepping back and peering at me. “I feel like a fairy godmother,” he said. “Not really the part I always wanted, but . . .”
“Cinderella?”
“Of course.”
“Why? The prince had all the power.”
“You’re hopeless.”
I sat quietly while he painted my lips. Maybe I was hopeless. Kingsley had failed to notice my “charms.” Tom would too. He’d see me all done up and laugh hysterically. Finally, Ralph announced that I was done and had me walk, with my eyes closed, to the full-length mirror.
I opened my eyes.
I couldn’t believe it.
“I look like a transvestite!”
“You look like a woman.”
I groaned. “I’m so uncomfortable. I can’t wait to take it all off.”
“When you do, hopefully you’ll be with him.”
I guess I should’ve warned Tom that I was spending the evening as a woman. Because when I opened the door to the apartment he stood there in the hall and gaped at me like I was an alien from outer space. Come to think of it, from a Martian’s point of view, I was an alien from outer space. I certainly felt like one.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Wow. Is that you?”
“Theoretically.”
“You look different.”
I couldn’t help but respond with a tone of dread. “I know.”
He didn’t look thrilled, or not thrilled, just confused. He was wearing olive green khakis, a tan shirt, and a black jacket that did not look expensive, but did look ironed. Not as dressed up as I was, but more dressed up than usual. He didn’t seem as tall as I remembered him—that was my heels, I realized—but his broad shoulders and slim hips were wonderfully reassuring as usual and I craved his embrace.
“You look great,” he said. “I just have to adjust.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not about to do this every day.”
I was somewhat aware that this was not the sort of thing one was supposed to say when one was presenting oneself in a new, supposedly better light.
“I feel honored.”
He was still standing in the hall. Scared to proceed? Or was I barring his way. I stepped back. “Come on in.”
He entered with caution. Looked around. Took in the gold velvet furniture with the tiger-skin throw pillows. I didn’t explain that I lived with my mother. My strategy—well, not strategy—my mindless approach was to completely avoid that subject. Let him think this was my place. Let him think I would buy framed prints of a woman with her underwear falling down.
“Cool. It’s not how I would’ve imagined your apartment.”
“I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” True—just not in the way he thought. “Would you like something to drink? Or shall we go?”
“I’m fine. Let’s get in that line.”
I took my mother’s short, boxy fake-fur black jacket (relieved to cover myself up, if only temporarily) and we departed.
The ticket booth was on a traffic island smack in the heart of Times Square, so there was lots of atmosphere for Tom to take in. Having grown up a few blocks away, I tried to avoid this dense concentration of humanity whenever I could, but I knew it was interesting for him to be there watching the swarms of people, the huge advertising signs, the inevitable preacher guy talking about the impending end of the world. At least the line wasn’t too bad. They said it would just be a half-hour wait, more or less what I expected. I wouldn’t have had any problem with that in sneakers. But heels? After five minutes, it was murder. And the damn thong was really bothering me.
By the time we made it to the front of the line, there weren’t many choices. We quickly settled on 42nd Street, the musical. It seemed like a good touristy thing to do, and I wasn’t in the mood for a serious play. We forked over fifty bucks each and got our tickets. They weren’t too great. Towards the back of the orchestra. That’s what you get for paying half price. I didn’t care at that point; I was just looking forward to sitting down.
The inside of the theater was really pretty. They’d remodeled a few years back in that Times Square makeover. The street used to be a hotbed of porn theaters and peep shows that were more sleazy than even the Classy Lady. Ironically, once they closed everything down and rebuilt, I sort of missed the old seediness. Nostalgia seems to work that way. You feel sad for what’s gone because now, you only have the memory of it, and that memory is a reminder that you’re not going to be around forever either.
In the lobby, we looked at an old photograph from the 1920s of the corner the theater was on. It used to be called the Lyric Theatre. A place where they did vaudeville and burlesque. There was a sign on a storefront: DONUT AND COFFEE FIVE CENTS. At least people could always draw comfort from their sugar, white flour, and caffeine.
The lobby lights flashed. I hobbled into the theater and we found our row. Man, it felt good to sit. I slipped my feet out of the shoes immediately, but I didn’t take off the coat. Not because I was cold. I felt more protected inside of it. Didn’t want my boobs exposed to the world.
“You okay?” Tom asked.
“These shoes are killing me,” I admitted, aware that I was eroding the effect of wearing them by complaining. I really wished I could reach down and pull that damn thong out of my butt.
The lights went down.
The most entertaining thing in the play was the bevy of legs to look at during the tap-dancing scenes. There were some good songs too. I hadn’t realized how many classics were in it. The plot was way too predictable, though. Still, it was fun to sit there next to him and watch all the big production numbers. I really wanted him to hold my hand, but he didn’t.
At intermission, I slipped the shoes back on and hobbled to the lobby with Tom. He got in line for a drink. I decided I should pee and “check my face.” The bathroom was down some stairs.
I had a moment’s relief as I pulled down the thong and emptied my bladder. How do women function dressed like this? I was tempted to pull the thong all the way off, but wasn’t prepared to go around without underwear on. In any case, the point of all this was supposed to be that incredible moment when I disrobed in front of him and he could see me wearing it. I pulled it back up.
I hobbled to the mirror. An attendant dressed in something like a maid’s uniform passed out paper towels. I took one. Felt bad for her. Wondered if she could tell I was a female imposter. The makeup was pretty much intact, so I got my lipstick out and redid that. It was such a feminine action, applying lipstick. I smeared my lips together to even it out. Time to hobble back up. Before leaving, I placed a dollar on the tip plate.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said.
Ma’am?
Tom was standing in the lobby sipping on a large cup of Coke. He’d bought a thing of candy too. Twizzlers. I took one happily. The plasticky cherry candy was so good, I almost drooled.
“The dancing is amazing, isn’t it?” Tom said.
“Their feet must hurt like hell at the end of the evening.”
The lights flashed. I hobbled next to Tom back to our seats.
The second half was worse than the first. Mainly because the tap dancing became repetitive and I wanted the leading lady to sit down and relax, but
whoever had choreographed this seemed to want to really impress us with how many times the dancer could twirl around while making machine-gun noises on those high heels. I guess she did impress the audience, which was mostly made up of catatonic-looking overweight people. There was something odd about paying admission to sit there to watch someone else move so much. The actress was smiling, but of course the most important talent for a dancer is the ability to smile through the pain. At least she did get a lot of applause, and she didn’t have to go into the audience and give lap dances when she was done.
Despite all that, I was sorry when it was over. It had been pleasant sitting there next to Tom passively taking everything in. Now I was anxious. Unsure how the rest of the evening would play out.
“So,” he said, as we exited the theater along with everyone else, “do you want to get a bite to eat?”
“Sure.”
“You lead,” he said. “I have no idea where to go.”
So I took him over to Forty-sixth Street, Restaurant Row. If you’re feeling extremely dreamy and sentimental, it’s possible to imagine there’s something romantic about the street, which has some nicely maintained brownstones with awnings bearing names like LE BEAUJOLAIS and LES SANS CULOTTES. We went into Joe Allen, a popular after-theater restaurant I’d been to once for a birthday party. I knew they had okay food and it was lively. I decided, as we sat down at a table with a blue-and-white checked cloth, that no matter how much I wanted to, I was not going to complain about how uncomfortable I was. And . . . I made myself take off my jacket. Even though I felt like I was sitting there topless. I wasn’t topless. But there was so much breast showing, I felt topless. And I felt like I was embarrassing him too, seeing as he wasn’t used to thinking of me as having breasts. Well, maybe I was just projecting that. We both ordered burgers and then leaned towards each other onto the table as we waited for the food. I was sure my breasts were going to pop all the way out into the bread basket. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. But it did occur to me, with some sense of victory, that there was no way he could think of me now as “one of the guys.”
“So,” he asked, after the waiter had brought us two glasses of Cabernet, “what did you think of the play?”
“The costumes were cute. Did you know it was fashionable for flappers to have small breasts?” I loved flapper fashion. The loose, comfy dresses, low-heeled shoes, cute hats. I once dressed up as one for Halloween.
“By the fifties,” I went on, “you were supposed to have big breasts.” I definitely had breasts on the brain that night. “But then in the sixties, thanks to Twiggy, you were supposed to be flat again.”
“Really.”
“At least in those days you were allowed to have some flesh. Now we’re supposed to be incredibly skinny yet still have double Ds. It’s crazy! In medieval times, believe it or not, large bellies were very in vogue. Something having to do with looking pregnant and the Virgin Birth and all that. There’s always some way women are supposed to look.”
“I don’t think men really care that much.” Tom was now looking around the restaurant. Shoot! I’d managed to alienate him. I knew . . . I knew that I would not seduce a man with a feminist rant, even if I was impersonating a sex object. But I couldn’t get myself to shut up. “You know how they say no two fingerprints are alike? No two faces are alike? No two snowflakes? Well, no two breasts are alike either. Even on the same woman! Yet we’re all supposed to aspire to some impossible ideal. Does anyone ever think they need a more attractive fingerprint?”
He smiled and shook his head and I was definitely getting on his nerves.
The waiter set down our burgers. I asked for a second glass of wine. Not the best idea. As a matter of fact, by the end of the meal, I had the general sense that I’d been talking quite a lot, though I couldn’t remember what the hell I’d been saying.
The world was swaying quite a bit as we walked the few blocks to my apartment. I took his arm and leaned against him, the better not to hobble on the damn heels, and I was not doing a very good job of hiding my tipsiness what with all the giggling I seemed to be doing, and the truth was, I was petrified.
When we got to my building, we slowed down, and we both hesitated. Should I ask him up? Did he just want to go home?
“So . . . uh . . . what do you think? Should I come up?” he asked. “Would you mind?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind.”
Mind?
We climbed the stairs. I feared Coco would be home even though I knew she wasn’t. I unlocked the door. We walked in. I kicked off my shoes. Tom went to the bathroom. I double-checked to make sure she wasn’t lounging around somewhere naked.
She wasn’t.
The toilet flushed. I sat down on the couch. Then got back up again, because I needed to pee too. “I’ll be right back.”
It was such a relief to disengage the thong! As I sat on the toilet seat, I seriously considered the idea of walking out there in my jeans and T-shirt. Maybe he’d be relieved. I certainly would have been. But I fought off the temptation, pulled the thong back up, and went back out. “Would you like something to drink?”
He was on the couch. “Water would be good.”
I filled a glass for him, and one for myself too. We sat next to each other and drank.
Hydrated, we put our glasses down on the coffee table and reclined. Next to each other. He squinched closer to me. His arm came around me.
“So . . .” he said.
I was almost completely frozen. I couldn’t even look at him. The only movement I could manage was to scratch the back of my neck.
“The way you look tonight,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting it. Don’t get me wrong. You look great. But you didn’t have to do it for me.”
“Really?” Because he only wanted to think of me as one of the guys? No, wait. His arm was around me. “What about thongs?”
“What about them?”
“Do they turn you on?”
He shrugged. “Personally? I like cotton briefs.”
“Really?” That almost seemed odd. “And breasts?”
“What about them?”
“Do you think women with implants are more sexy?”
“Like Pamela Anderson? Those women look bizarre. Do you mind,” he said, “if I stretch out? On the couch? I seem to be in a perpetual state of exhaustion.”
“Sure. If I can stretch out next to you.”
We both stretched out on the sofa. But I faced into the room, with my back to him, because it seemed too scary to be face-to-face.
He put his arm around my waist. “Is that okay? It’s more comfortable that way.”
“S’fine.” Fine? “But . . . I do feel like I’m a little too close to the edge.”
“You can move back a little. I don’t mind.”
I snuggled back up against him. Could feel his chin against the back of my head. The length of his body nestled against me. I felt so secure, right up against his soft warmth.
“Would you mind,” he asked, “turning around and facing me?”
I smiled. “Why?”
“I just thought we could . . . oh . . . you know . . . talk or something.”
I sighed, as if I was giving in. “Okay.”
I turned around and faced him. Faced his throat, actually. Sort of hid my face there. He put his arm back around me. And I put my arm around him. It was very nice there, right up against him. Our bodies were still slightly apart, but I swear, there was a magnetic pull radiating between us.
Then he lifted my chin and kissed me.
He was a good kisser. Meaning his approach was gradual. Soft, light, dry kisses at first. Kisses that made me want more. Then firmer kisses eventually turning into wetter (but not too wet) kisses. It was so intimate, it was almost embarrassing . . . to be doing this . . . after having known each other . . . like friends . . .
He paused. Sighed.
“What is it?” Something was wrong.
“You’re pretty amazing.”
“Yeah.” He started kissing me again.
I pulled back. I couldn’t help it. I just had to have that explained. “You think I’m amazing?”
“You’re so cool, and confident. I’ve never known anyone like you.”
I had to exercise extreme self-control not to burst out laughing. “You think I’m confident?”
“Yeah. Don’t you know? It’s intimidating. I’m just a small-town boy,” he said, only half joking. “You’re a big-city girl. Compared to what I’m used to, you’re exotic.”
Exotic. Me. I liked that idea. It made me think how strippers are sometimes called “exotic dancers,” which goes back to when they actually were from faraway places and their moves, and what they wore (and didn’t wear), actually was part of their culture. It meant I could attract him without making any effort—just by being me.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first week of school.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to. I kept inviting myself up to your apartment, and you kept saying no.”
“You only asked twice.”
“And you said no twice. I was afraid to ask tonight. Didn’t want to get turned down again.”
“Still . . .”
“And I admit, I do like to take things slowly.”
We kissed again. His hand was exploring my body, going up my thigh, around my butt, down between my legs. The thong had shifted from the imbedded place it had been, and it felt so annoying, and I wished he would pull it out, give me some relief, but wasn’t about to ask him to do that. If only he could read my mind. Pull it out, pull it out, pull it out. But his hand went back down my leg, proving once and for all that mental telepathy doesn’t work. I was starting to feel quite turned on, though, and the thong pressing up into me was only making it worse (better?). Our lips locked in a nice, wet kiss, and I opened my leg over his hip and found myself rubbing against that friendly bulge there in his pants and felt like I was going to have an orgasm right then and this definitely was better than my Kitty.
He had removed his hands from underneath my dress, and I took that to be a sign of his frustration—the dress was obviously getting in the way. So this was my chance to stop hiding myself—insecurities be damned. There was nothing wrong with my body, and it was about time I face up to it.
The Art of Undressing Page 22