by Zoe X Rider
“Man, I’m tall. This is nice.” I was also not moving, just looking at myself in the mirror. Part of my head was cut off, thanks to the extra inches. I’d probably gotten an upgrade from 5'7" to nearly 5'10". But my legs! I shuffled around so I could look at the side view. Jesus, look at that. I had cans. I kicked a heel back, wobbling a little on the heel still planted on the ground. Jeff caught my arm.
Laughing, I set my foot back down.
“It looks good,” he said.
I looked at him, grinning. I could really pull this off.
He said, “You look good.”
Lydia cleared her throat. “You want something to drink, Charlie?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Go see if you can dig up a straw in the kitchen drawers,” she said to Jeff. “Get him a Diet Coke.”
“‘Her,’” I said, smiling all over again.
“Her,” Jeff said, heading for the door.
I could really pull this fucking thing off—as long as I kept my mouth shut, at least. I turned toward the mirror and smiled, all red lips and glittering diamond.
As soon as Jeff was gone, Lydia started fussing with my hair again. The wig was a little hot, a little itchy.
“You have to be careful,” she said, and I thought she was giving me advice about the wig.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. You never know what guys are gonna do.”
“To a guy?”
“To a pretty guy in a dress. Some of them like that kind of thing.”
“Jeff’ll be there,” I said. We’d be surrounded by friends. What was to worry about?
“He’s a guy too, C.”
I laughed. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye on him too.”
She didn’t smile. Stepping back, she looked down the length of me, stopping at my feet. I wiggled my toes in the pumps, or made an attempt to. When she lifted her head, she swept her hair back with the side of her hand and started to say something, but turned her attention to the door instead, her mouth still open.
Jeff came through with a cold Diet Coke, a bent-neck straw floating in the can hole.
“Thanks.” I took a few good gulps.
Lydia took my other hand, so my fingers draped over her palm. “You look good till we get to the guy hands. We can probably help this a little.” She let go. “Go have a seat at the kitchen table.”
I turned and took a step in the torture shoes. My ankle wobbled. Jeff grabbed my arm. The Diet Coke sloshed through the opening in the can, dribbling over my fingers.
“Small steps,” he said.
“Got it.”
I felt completely graceful—as long as I wasn’t fucking moving. Then I felt like a cow on stilts.
“Don’t walk on your toes,” he said as he came behind me. I put a hand against the doorframe as I passed through. Thought about holding onto the wall down the hallway.
“Heel, toe,” he said. “You know, like you normally walk?”
“Uh-huh.” I felt like I was going to snap the heels off, doing it that way. Surely they couldn’t take my weight. But going the other way, I clomped like a Clydesdale.
“You’ll get it,” he said. “You’ll get plenty of practice walking over there.”
“Great.”
He pulled a chair out for me, and I was never so glad to drop into a mismatched Goodwill castoff in my life. “Women wear those every day?” I asked.
“Some of them.” He grabbed a seat of his own.
“No wonder they hate us.”
He smiled. I sipped off my straw.
Lydia came down the hall with a hair dryer and a fistful of stuff. “Manicure time.”
“Is this going to hurt?”
“Probably not. Much.” She set some bottles down, along with files and a small wooden stick. From her back pocket she drew a pack of press-on nails. “I hope these fit,” she said. “If not, we’ll just make do with your actual nails.”
When she sat down, she didn’t open the nail pack like I expected. She took one of my hands in hers, picked up a file, and started smoothing the ends with efficient, one-directional strokes. It tickled a little. I’d take it over tweezing.
I took another sip from the straw before saying, “What about if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“You know women do that, right?” She moved on to my index finger. A fine dust fell on the table’s surface.
“I just don’t know how they do it. I mean, I know how, but how do they deal with the clothes? Do I take the dress off?”
“Are you going to be peeing out of your tits?”
Jeff sniggered. Heat swept up my jaw.
“Just hike the skirt and slip up,” Lydia said. “Pull the hose and panties down. Lucky for you, you still get to go standing up, regardless of what you’re wearing. Also.” She moved to the next finger, the file a blur as she worked. “When you pull everything back up, make sure you don’t catch the back of your skirt in your waistband. You don’t want to be showing everyone your ass.”
“Noted,” I said, a little horrified at the thought of walking out of the bathroom with my dress tucked in my pantyhose. “Have you ever done that?”
“I might have been drunk this one time.”
“Ouch.”
“It was at a bar.” She switched fingers.
“So people saw?”
“I was glad I’d worn black tights. Black tights, black skirt, dim bar. Only a few people noticed.”
“You hope,” Jeff said.
She pushed her hair back. “Other hand.”
To Jeff I said, “You’re in charge of making sure I don’t look like an idiot.”
“Thanks,” Lydia said. “Thanks for that.” She made a quick glance toward Jeff. “Is that how you’re going dressed?” He had a T-shirt on, jeans.
“Nah. I’m changing back at our place before we head over.”
When we got back to our place, I shoved open Jeff’s passenger door and wondered how someone in a dress was supposed to gracefully emerge from a car. I set a high-heeled foot on the driveway, thinking of A-list stars emerging from the backs of limos. I didn’t feel like an A-list star, and the Grand Am was no limo. Before I could get the other foot out, Jeff was there, arm outstretched. I clasped his hand and let him pull me up. I was struck again by how tall I was with the shoes. Eye to eye with Jeff for a change. I set my other foot on solid ground, and we kind of just stood there for a second, his fingers holding mine.
What were the neighbors thinking—was it “Why’s Charlie in drag?” or “Who’s that big girl with Jeff?” I laughed a little, sliding my hand free. “The neighborhood’s getting an eyeful.”
“ Fuck ’em.” He closed the door behind me.
I grasped the little clutch Lydia’d let me borrow in both hands, then looked down to check my nails again. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was going to royally fuck them up. When Lydia’d screwed the cap on the bottle of clear topcoat, my nails had looked like something out of a magazine. “How to Get Perfect Nails in Just Twenty Minutes.” Where was the article on how to keep them looking that way?
“I have to pee,” I said as we started toward the back porch. “I shouldn’t have had that Diet Coke.”
He smiled, opening the storm door. As he pushed open our back door, he said, “Don’t mind the mess. A couple of guys live here.”
He’d started this as we’d left Lydia’s, acting like he’d come to pick me up for our date. It was cute. It was also helpful, making me feel more like Charli and less like awkward-Charlie-in-a-dress. “That explains the smell,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen, looking around like I’d never seen the place before. Like I was in a museum: This Is How Men Live. Dishes in the sink, a wrench on the counter. The place could use a sweeping: there was sand by the door, crumbs against the cabinet bases, and dried drops of whatever’d been spilled over by the fridge.
“It’s down the hall,” he said. “First door. I’m just gonna go change.”
“Okay.”
I shut myself in our bathroom. My towel was still on the floor by the shower. Stubs of facial hair—black and light brown—littered the sink. A glob of toothpaste had dried to the porcelain. “Charli” toed the towel carefully aside so she could stand in front of the toilet and figure out how she was going to work this.
I thought of Jeff tapping the side of his head. It’s all mental. Fine. Sitting it was. It was the safer bet anyway; the last thing I needed was to topple over in these shoes with my dick in my hand.
I set the little purse on the edge of the tub before pulling the dress and slip around my waist and working the hose and panties down to my thighs. The waistband of the hose hugged my legs, hard.
I should have asked Lydia how women kept from dropping their skirt in the toilet water. With the layers pulled tight against my lower back and all the excess held in my fist, I sat down.
Fighting against the hose, I got my penis tucked between my legs.
Then I waited.
I’m not used to taking a leak while holding a fistful of dress.
Or with my feet strapped into three-inch heels.
Noises from Jeff’s room made their way down the hall: his closet door shutting, change jingling, the familiar creak of his bedframe as he sat on its side to put on shoes.
I stared at a crack in the tiles and tried to feel like a girl. Eventually I peed.
Then came the trick of getting up without dripping in my panty hose. I used my free hand to tear some tissue paper free and wiped up as best I could. Hey, I’m a girl, right?
My first attempt to stand landed me right back on the toilet. I used the sink to hoist myself up again, then hobbled a little ways away before letting go of my dress.
Then I just had to wrestle the hose back up, make sure nothing was caught in its waistband, and I was ready to go.
When I came out, Jeff was bent over a kitchen chair, buffing his shoe with a rag. He had on dark trousers, a button-up shirt, a gray tie. Graphite, my mother might call it, or slate. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this.
“You look nice,” I said. He did, all cleaned up like that.
“First time I’ve dressed up for a party since I was six. I’m almost ready.” He walked by me, his shirt just brushing my bare arm. I watched him disappear through the bathroom doorway. As dates go, I didn’t do too badly.
Not knowing how long he’d be, I took the seat he’d just used, my knees together, hands smoothing my skirt. The bra made me aware of my posture. I glanced down again at my cleavage, surprised to have it, and the glittering little teardrop between those slopes. I turned the pendant between my fingers. We hadn’t talked about jewelry in the run-up to the costume, so this was his own touch. Which was probably a good thing: I’d have picked something gaudy that just screamed “whore.” There was something sweet about the little diamond chip.
When he emerged, he had my clutch in his hand. Shoot. I got less-than-gracefully to my feet and accepted it back.
He smelled like aftershave now. Comb marks tracked through his hair. “You look good,” I said again. My date for the evening. This should be…weird.
“Ready?” He bent an elbow. I curled my hand around his arm. His shirt was a little scratchy, maybe a little starchy, and underneath it his bicep shifted as we walked to the door.
On the porch, while he locked up, I clutched the little purse with both hands. This, I thought, is probably why they called it a clutch. It was just big enough—barely—for my ID, some cash, my phone, and my keys.
Jeff put a hand on my back and walked me down the wooden steps.
His hand alone wasn’t enough. I grasped the railing, unsteady, and was glad to put both feet on the ground when we got to the bottom. Never have four stairs felt so precarious.
The party was being put on by friends from high school who’d stayed in town for college. They had half a duplex a few blocks from here. We’d know people there, but not everyone. I didn’t know which worried me more: the people we knew seeing me or the people we didn’t.
Walking was hell. I shortened my steps, then shortened them some more. Jeff had to slow to a lazy stroll to keep from leaving me behind. My ankles jarred with every step.
“You could try pretending you’re on a catwalk,” he said.
My mind immediately went to those walkways up in the ceilings, like where the serial killer hides in horror movies that take place in theaters?
He had his hands in his pockets, walking alongside me, saying, “I watched Lydia and her friends acting like they were putting on a fashion show once. To do the walk, they pretended they were walking along a straight line.”
I glanced toward him. But hey, if it might make things easier…. I gave it a try, imagining I was walking the balance beam back in gym class.
Jeff laughed. “Put your arms down. It’s not a drunk test.”
Part of the problem was I had no idea what to do with my arms, even when I wasn’t trying to be a runway model. The clutch purse grew sweaty in my hand. I took a deep breath before walking another ten tentative feet, one foot in front of the other.
“Use your hips. You look like you’re trying to Hitler walk.”
“Next year, you can be the girl, and I’ll have a good time at your expense.”
He took my elbow, bringing me to a halt. “Watch.” He walked to the corner with a loose swaying of his hips, something that might have looked sexy on a chick. He turned and cat-walked back until he was standing in front of me.
“Easy for you. You’re not strapped into torture shoes.”
“You can do it.” He came around behind me. Holding my hips lightly, he said, “Go on.” And as I took a step, he guided my hips. Another step, another. By the time I reached the corner, I was feeling the rhythm of it, the little bit of roll.
He took my hand, and we walked across the street.
I was probably a spectacle: heels clacking, hips convulsing, but in my head I held onto a picture of Charli strolling along seductively enough to stop traffic.
“Better?” he asked as we stepped onto the curb.
“A little more fun.”
He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze.
Holding hands was not a normal part of our friendship. Slouching on the couch in front of the TV, nudging each other with our knees when something happened on screen was more like it. But dressed like Charli, with him in trousers and a tie, it felt like an okay thing to do. We weren’t ourselves, but we were comfortable enough with each other to be not-ourselves together.
If I hadn’t already known where the party was, I could have guessed as we approached. On-street parking was thickest in front of John and Kurt’s place, and their driveway was so full some of the cars had their tires on the grass. Jeff unhooked the gate at the front of their yard and held it open for me. I stopped just inside, clutching the purse in two hands, waiting for him to latch it back up.
This was it. We were going to be in front of people. His hand touched my back, and I started moving forward, taking a deep breath.
On the porch, a giant panda sat on a rickety chair with his knees splayed, one paw on his thigh, the other clutching a red plastic Solo cup.
“’Sup?” he said as we climbed up.
“How do you drink in that?” I asked.
His panda head did a double take, and then he laughed and pulled the mask off. “Jesus, Charlie.”
“That’s Charlie-with-an-i to you,” I said to Kurt.
“So what’d you come as?” he asked Jeff. “A Mormon?”
“Shoot.” He patted his pockets. “And I’m all out of pamphlets.”
“He’s my boyfriend tonight,” I said, taking his arm. “And I’m thirsty, so if you don’t mind.”
“Keg’s in the kitchen.” He lifted his cup to us.
As we entered their half of the house, the temperature went up five degrees, and I leaned over to Jeff and said, “Do you think everyone’s going to be wondering if we’re gay after this?”
“They don’t already?”
I elbowed him, and he pretended to oof.
“If you want to sit down,” he said, “I’ll go get us some drinks.”
I scanned the living room. There were places to sit—people were mostly standing around—but I didn’t know most of these people, or if I did know them, I didn’t recognize them in their Scream and Obama and zombie masks. I leaned toward Jeff’s shoulder and said, “I’ll just come with you,” my fingers intertwining with his. He led the way through the crowd, and I tried not to brush against anyone, more out of fear of my breasts popping free than propriety. A few people looked at me, then took a second look. Either I looked way better than I thought, or way worse. I squeezed Jeff’s hand and tried to ignore them.
The crowd got thicker in the kitchen. I stood off to the side, smoothing my skirt—afraid the back was going to come up and expose where the pantyhose changed color—while Jeff pulled a couple fives from his wallet and handed them to Tom, who was in charge of passing out the Solo cups.
I chewed my lip while Jeff bent to fill our cups at the keg. The ankle straps dug into my tendons. My bra straps dug into my shoulders. I scratched an itch between my shoulder blades. Now that felt good. I wondered if I could keep one or two nails after this was over, just for scratching itches.
“Here,” Jeff said, handing me a cup.
“Thanks.” I took three large gulps, the beer going down cold and bright.
A zombie shuffled up and dropped a hand on Jeff’s shoulder, groaning. When Jeff turned, I got to see who it was: John, which explained why the zombie look was so effective. He’d probably weighed 120 pounds when I’d met him in sixth grade, and he probably weighed 122 now. Make-up shaded his cheeks so they looked more hollow than usual, and his cornsilk hair heightened the effect of the purplish-green pallor.
Jeff said, “Hey,” and John said, “Oh sorry. I was looking for brains. You seen any?”
“Here? Fuck no.”
“Who’s your date?”
“Oh.” Jeff put an arm around my shoulders. “I’d like you to meet Charli. With an ‘i.’”
Not wanting my voice to give me away again, I just smiled.
“Charl— Oh, hey, shit. Charlie. Nice getup. I was going to try to sneak you upstairs and get with you once Jeffish got drunk enough.”