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 bubble 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.”
He looked around quickly. There was no sign of Ron. He’d been absent for hours. Most of the night he’d been ‘supervising’ the colourful dance party in the ballroom. Much to Peter’s irritation Ron, had outdone himself in the charm department and had won over most of the guests. Last Peter had seen of him, Ron had been smooth talking the final stragglers in the bar.
Peter decided not to inflict Ron on Valerie.
He moved around the desk and indicated with his hand. “After you Miss… Valerie.”
She smiled.
Peter blinked. Her lips moved so naturally into an expression of gratitude. The mask must have been custom-built for her (his) face. The latex moved with every nuance underneath.
She moved off and walked before him to the elevators. He marvelled at her easy stride in the heels, and the sway of the material. Her outfit was sexy yet classy, not an easy combination to pull off. Peter had studied many celebrities over the years to ponder how to achieve that effect.
She glanced back to check on him, and for an instant he forgot everything except her vulnerability.
They rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. Valerie’s step quickened as they walked along the south wing until they reached the white marble entrance hall. She swiped her card, and Peter followed her into the living room of the suite. One wall was made entirely of glass, and during the day it offered a spectacular view of the lake. The suite stood on metal stilts, and had a large balcony, its own private driveway, and access from the outside. It was popular with honeymooning couples, and was booked out constantly despite the steep price tag.
Flames flickered in the modern fireplace. Jazzy music played in the background. An empty bottle of red wine stood on the oak coffee table, along with two glasses containing its dregs. A man lay slumped on the right-hand side of the large, white brocade couch, his head titled back. He wore a shiny black latex mask with holes for the eyes, nostrils, and mouth, a white shirt with a tie, and trousers. One of his loafers was kicked off as if he’d been hit by electricity.
Peter moved quickly to the man’s side, rehearsing his first aid training. The man was breathing deeply. Peter checked the pulse: strong and slow. He seemed asleep.
Peter noticed a white residue at the nose, and frowned. He glanced over at Valerie. She stood before the fireplace, and grasped her hands together.
“Is he all right?” Her voice trembled a little.
“From what I can tell. I’ll try to wake him.”
Peter addressed the man in a loud, clear voice, “Sir, you have to go now.”
No response.
“Can you hear me?”
Peter placed his hands upon the man’s shoulders, and lightly shook him. “Sir, please open your eyes.”
A loud snore erupted.
The ridiculous noise inspired a burst of laughter from Peter.
He straightened up and turned to Valerie, still smiling. “He’s stoned and unconscious. It might take a while to wake him. How did this happen?” As soon as the w
ords left his mouth he realised it was an improper question.
“Oh,” she said, “we met tonight. I don’t do this normally…” she trailed off.
Peter stepped towards her with his palms out in a calming gesture. “You don’t have to explain, it’s none of my business –”
She raised her head and looked at him directly. “I don’t get away very often.” She said. “Not like this. A little sip of freedom is a powerful drink for a parched soul.”
That statement was so unusual and profound that it stopped Peter. No one he knew spoke like that.
“It’s intoxicating,” she continued. “You believe you can just be who you really are. And you forget. All the other things that normally stop you behaving this way. You imagine those rules have disappeared.”
She stepped towards him, and shook her head ruefully. “Really, you pretend they don’t exist.” She sighed. “Reality always rushes back in.” Valerie nodded at the man on the couch.
“I just wanted that taste…”
“But, those rules, they were made up by other people.” Peter couldn’t believe he was saying this to her. “Is it wrong to express who you really are?”
She moved closer to the man on the couch, and beside Peter. “If it hurts someone else, then isn’t that a problem?”
“I think this guy’s problem is that he was drinking, and snorting coke. You probably added a little too much excitement to the mix.”
Her laugh was champagne bubbles on the tongue. She touched his arm. He fizzed.
“You’re very kind, Peter.”
His name on her lips was a benediction.
He looked in her luminous eyes, and again heard the gushing of water. Or perhaps it was the blood in his veins.
She raised her hand and touched his cheek. “You have a special insight,” she murmured. “So different from this man.”
It hurt Peter that she even mentioned the man passed out on the couch.
She stepped close to him, and his arm rose up to encircle her small waist. The music seemed louder. They swayed together, her breath warm on his cheek.
“You have depth and complexity inside you, hiding behind your mild features and combed back hair.”
In response he pressed her body against him. There was nothing artificial to her warmth and the kindness in her voice.
They were beside the couch, and as one they sat down. The man behind Peter, snorted loudly, as if he was waking, but settled back again.
Valerie’s fingers stroked his hair, and then tousled it. She smiled, showing an even row of small teeth. “I see you, Peter Witt.”
Something cracked open inside. A burst of rare emotion paralysed him, and she pressed her forehead to his, until there were only her glacier eyes filling up his view.
“Oh yes,” she whispered.
He couldn’t breathe. Air vanished. The rushing became a pounding. But the blinding blue eyes kept him fixed.
And he heard, No, Valerie. Resonant, deep voices.
Peter was sitting, gasping for breath.
Behind Valerie, on the balcony, two white masks with no eyes or mouth hung in the darkness outside the glass.
He could not draw breath to shout.
Only a taste, Valerie pleaded.
The masks moved through the glass. They were figures of smoke, except for their blank white faces.
Valerie stood, facing them. I can’t return.
Enough!
And that sound, if directed, could stop a heart.
Peter shivered, unable to run.
We have indulged your fantasies long enough. You are not one of them.
I can be. After all those centuries of watching, I can now be here among them.
Impossible. We can’t allow it.
One of the figures raised a shadowy arm, and grasped Valerie’s shoulder.
The mask and silicon suit collapsed slowly, as if air was being let out from a balloon.
The wig tumbled finally, onto the puddle of scarlet clothing and fake skin on the floor.
A form, flickering, and unstable, hung beside the other two.
I will find a way, she said.
An exchange passed between the three - electric flashes among distant thunder clouds.
A charged mist swept over Peter’s face and he fell back, unconscious.
*
Rousing from sleep was like crawling through mud. Each step forward sucked him half way back into the murk, but Peter fought to wake up. It was an imperative. His eyelids flickered open.
He lay on the couch.
Valerie’s exterior - the wig and skin - had disappeared.
Groggily, Peter sat up and checked his watch. 4.55am. Only minutes had passed, but it felt like a month.
He stared at the other man, stupidly, trying to remember the progression of events. After a couple of moments memories reassembled and clarity returned.
The image of eerie blank faces floating towards him arose in his mind, and a jab of fear jolted him to his feet. Somehow, he knew he wasn’t supposed to remember anything of what happened.
Peter leaned forward and pulled up the mask over the chin to reveal the face of Valerie’s suitor. Ron. Of course it was. His furore had been a cover for obsession and thwarted desire.
Peter pulled his phone out and took a photo of Ron, passed out, with the mask half-on.
Insurance, he thought.
He slapped Ron lightly on the face.
His colleague’s eyelids popped open, revealing fearful, bloodshot eyes. He bolted upright. “Where is she?” he shouted.
“Who?” Peter said.
“Val…”
Peter watched the pained expression on Ron’s face as he struggled to hold onto the memories slipping away. Then he relaxed, as if he realised it might be better to forget.
“What happened?” he slurred.
“One of the guests on this floor complained about noise. I came to check and found you like this.
Ron grabbed his face and yanked the mask off. “What kind of fucking joke is this?”
“I don’t know, Ron. Perhaps you can explain why you were passed out wearing a gimp mask?”
Ron’s face reddened, then paled.
“It’s nearly 5am. The early birds are going to be up soon. The chef will arrive shortly. We’d better get out of here.”
Ron staggered to his feet. “I don’t know… I don’t remember what happened. I must’ve been drugged!”
“You should wash your face before anyone sees you,” Peter noted.
Ron glanced in a mirror, and wiped the bottom of his nose. He grunted thanks at Peter.
They left the room and returned to the lobby. In the elevator Ron said, “You’re a good guy, Peter.”
*
When Peter walked out of the lobby into the car park a couple of hours later, the world outside seemed shockingly bright. He drove home singing along to all the stupid songs on the radio.
After a long sleep Peter woke up refreshed, and turned on his computer.
‘Cross-dressing friendly clubs St. Paul’ he typed into the search bar, and printed out the list of places, and corresponding maps.
Then he hauled his trunk from under the bed, and hung up the clothes in his closet.
He laid one slinky wrap-around dress over his body and admired himself in the floor-length mirror.
“Valerie,” he murmured, and smiled.
Trysting Antlers
Holly Ice
Mugs tinkled in cheers around the bar: the Square had bought another round. He was muscular, solid, but his suit bunched around his ankles. The mirror-shine shoes did nothing to distract from his height but the antlers sprouting from his stubbled head told a different story. Chipped with hairline fractures, they showed he’d been in his fair share of fights. Judging by the smirk and broad, relaxed shoulders, he’d won a few too.
Marilyn ducked down into her wine, avoiding his eyes as he swept the room. She didn’t want to start something. He wasn’t her type.
&
nbsp; The bubbles bounced to the rim of the glass, a soft pockpock of popping candy as they burst and massaged her throat at every sip.
“Hello, ladies.”
The voice was smoky and slid over the words like oil. He looked much the same: slick, gelled hair, curled antlers and lithe body sidling up to Square’s girl. Marilyn took a big gulp of wine, her eyes opening wide to become blue starbursts as she opened the packet of nuts in front of her: this was going to be good.
“What’s your name, sweetness?”
Eyelashes dipped in plea and heels rocking on the tips, the girl turned to Square.
The greasy man turned too. “He yours?”
A nod as she fiddled with her glass, eyes averted, a ruffle in her pink top.
Grease snorted. “I can take him.”
Square slammed down his mug, sloshing ale over the brim. It puddled on the bar, reflecting the lights as stars, a mini universe in polished wood. Marilyn crunched a nut. Its wrinkled bark tickled her tongue with salt.
“You what, kid?”
“I can take you.”
Square pushed him, forcing him onto his back foot. “Name?”
“Sid.” The kid adjusted his stance, feet beneath his shoulders, weight centred and ready. He had guts, she’d give him that. “You?”
“Ron.” He clapped his callused hands, dry skin catching, barnacles beneath the new suit and blue cuffs. “You done this before?”
“Yes.” Sid stroked a cracked end to an antler. “Couple times.”
“Well, you don’t know how to pick a fight.”
Ron charged, head bowed, and Sid doubled up fast to catch the running points with his own. The crash splintered wood and stools squeaked as folk shuffled back to a safe distance. The dullists’ shoulders bunched and twitched as they threw weight behind their charge.
Sid was silent, smirking into Ron’s face. Ignoring the power play, Ron grunted and pushed, forcing Sid back a step. Their hands were fisted at their waists, veins raised as they worked their shoulders and thighs. It was going to be a long battle.
Marilyn crunched another nut, riveted by the spectacle.
“Hey.”
She didn’t turn her head but spared a quick glance. What she saw made her put the nuts down and swivel in her seat. A quick tug at the hem of her top to improve her cleavage, and she was straight to the point.
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