Constant 3, Chapter 3-4: Noir, part 1

The next scene from chapter 3, in its nearly-complete form. I don't antcipate any major changes to this section before publication. There's a little Easter Egg here, a thank you to Fraylim for all the fan art, in the form of an appearance of their signature character, Stacy.

As always, enjoy! Comment and feedback most certainly appreciated!

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Four: Noir, part 1

That night, we looked hot. Or rather Julia did, crimson halter top maxi dress, bare back criss-crossed by slender straps, gold chain belt, and those Byzantium earrings and bracelets gifted by a foreign lover. I looked—cheap?—next to her, flashy and younger certainly—as I fidgeted in a sparkly, sequined miniskirt over fishnet thigh highs paired with that bustier. Her makeup was bold, mine was brash; her earrings classy, mine were dangling purple hoops. Julia presented as mature and confident and strong, and I was the over-compensating little sister barely in control of the flirty signals she flashed.

            “This isn’t fair,” I hissed, perched opposite her at our table. We were at Noir, the first bar I’d ever visited as Cindy. She knew that; she also knew it was a popular pick-up haunt for men with money to flash and aspirational girls looking to hook their claws into a success story. Over the months I’d become a semi-regular here, though not so often with the girls. It wasn’t really their kind of place. Willow felt out of place, it made Mel angry, and Emma had bad memories of an awful night here. Me? I kinda loved it.

            “Why?”

            “Why?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Look at me.  I look….” I searched for the word: “indecent.”

            She laughed. “How very classist of you. I didn’t realise Cindy was such a snob.”

            “Fine. Cheap, then.”

            “Like an office assistant on minimum pay?”

            I glared at her. “Very funny, Jules. I’m poor, not cheap. You could’ve let me—”

            “What?”

            “Pick—” a dozen better outfits jumped to mind, and I flushed under my makeup. My foundation was too heavy, bordering on orange and left a carrot-coloured crescent at the nape of my neck, beneath the taut pull of hair drawn up into a high ponytail. My lips felt tacky. Purple plastic bangles the colour of my nails clinked against the table. And that fucking choker she’d fixed at my neck! It was all so embarrassing. “I dunno. A dress. Something pretty.”

            “You want to wear a dress?” Her smile grew. “Do my ears betray me? David Saunders wishes he wore a pretty dress on a night out. What, something slinky? Or flowing? Maybe a nice mini?”

            “What you’re wearing would do fine.”

            “Well, too bad.”         

            “I feel ridiculous,” I grumbled, and fluttered press-on eyelashes. They were too long, heavy with glittery mascara and driving me fucking crazy. It was all I could do to resist peeling them off my lids then and there, though I probably would’ve stabbed my eyes out with those tacky press-on nails.
            “Good,” she stated flatly. “You’re twenty, it’s about fucking time you start dressing and acting like it. No wonder my magic mirror freaked out! You’ve still steeped in the privilege of a thirty-nine-year-old man. You’re not some classy lady on her way to the opera. You’re a goddamn kid! You should be experimenting, pushing boundaries. Following trends and trying to impress. You should be filled with constant anxiety and still figuring out who the hell you are.”

            She stood, leaving me perched on my stool. “I’m going to buy us some drinks. You sit there, and stick those D-cup titties out, and flash a pretty smile at any dreamy men that wander by.” The stubborn petulance she saw in my glare made her pause. “I mean it. I’ll be watching from the bar. Now lick your lips and make eye contact with someone.”
            “Fuck you,” I muttered under my breath after she was gone. “I’m still a C-cup.” Julia’s messed-up, anxiety-fuelled childhood had me living out her memories, and I didn’t like it one bit. Living as a girl was one thing, but… this? I stretched out my fingers, fanning too-long, too bright nails. Then I hooked those too-tall heels into the stool, arched my back, licked my lips and looked around.

            The place wasn’t too busy, not for a Saturday night but then typically it was more of an after-work crowd, this place. The weekend DJ went in a little harder than Tuesday evening ambient chill, but it wasn’t exactly pounding clubland beats. The clientele here might enjoy dancing, but it wasn’t what they’d came for tonight.

            I liked Noir despite the memories of that first night. David preferred a good, dark pub, oak paneling, bottles of Scotch lined up neatly behind the counter, and good beers on tap; but this kind of place came a solid second. It was familiar. It felt good. As David, it would’ve felt comfortable—no, more than that.

            Noir always brought to mind anticipation and arrogance, the cocky strut and cocksure smile, strutting up to the bar, leaning in, flashing a bright smile and flashing an expensive watch at the wrist, tailored suit sleeve, a sharp comment, one half insult to compliment, confidence. And always, in return, the bright-eyed response, the curve of shiny lips, glossy cheeks, and—yes, the inviting gesture, tucking hair behind the ear, swiveling at the hip, the pink tip of tongue caught between bright teeth. I didn’t have to imagine it: I could see it happened in real-time around me.

            Once, I came to places like this to get laid. If Jules had her way, I still would.

            Thing is, even if Julia wanted me to smile at the boys it was still the girls I noticed first, the pretty, trendy or try-hard young women, some clustered in small groups of two or three, one or two floating solo at the bar, most already paired up with some guy. There was a mixed group of eight or ten in the corner booth celebrating the end of a major project, from the looks of it, all young but tired looking. String lights glinted in swirls along the wall, and at each smaller table or booth decorative tealight candles in decorative glass bulbs cast pale sphere of light. Yes, I saw the girls: painted lips, eyes shimmering, and their dresses and skin glimmered in subdued hues; we were all little oases of beauty in the darkness of Noir.

            I say ‘we’, being one of them, now. The man I’d felt myself to be in those earlier days seemed impossibly distant. Months ago, he’d squirmed with shame at sitting in a skirt opposite Dan, makeup on his face, tits upthrust in a push-up bra. He’d flirted. Hated himself for it. But that was—what—three, four blow jobs ago?  And three men ago, fuck, three different men each with their grubby hands on my tits, tongue down my throat, and an arm at my waist.

            Although: no; there’d been nothing ‘grubby’ about Chad.

            Sure, a good guy. But how and when did “good guy” shift from ‘guy I’d share a pint with?’ to ‘guy who’s cock I’d wanted to suck?’

            Fuck. How the fuck did it fucking come to this?  

            And sitting there, growing increasingly flustered, I recalled another time that seemed impossibly distant; a similar time, a bar much like this. Wearing trousers and a shit-eating grin, legs manspreading wide, pint in hand, pointing a finger at the girl opposite.

            “You’ll enjoy it,” I say, laughing as she flushes a deep red. “I know you.”

            “Shhh!” she hisses. “It’s embarrassing.”

            I’m twenty-five; Julia’s twenty-three: we’re both young and stupid and I’m too blinded by this new life of mine to see she’s already fallen in love with me. But it’s not just blindness: the idea somebody could love me—or me, them—is beyond my ability to conceptualise. It’s our third date? Maybe our fourth. And she’s already dropped hints about moving in with me.

            “Why?” I take a long pull at my pint and slam it down. I’m being loud, obnoxious and don’t give a shit. I feel great. Successful. Powerful. The IndigoTech’s buyout’s just completed, and while my slice of the pie is comparatively modest it’s more money than I’ve ever known. We’re being rolled into a subsidiary of NeoPharm and I’ve just earned a sweet promotion.

            I’m feeling good, and I don’t know what to do with this unfamiliar, surging emotion. Part of me hopes someone picks a fight. Another part of me is thinking about fucking Julia in the ass, who’s still wiggling with discomfort. But at the same time, I’m eying some of these chicks prancing past in their tights skirts and the idea for a threesome suddenly jumps to mind. A threesome: that’s something successful guys do, right? And I wonder what my chances of scoring a threesome tonight might be and if not tonight, how to set one up.

            “It’s….” She struggles to find the word, and winces. “Indecent.” She sags a little, saying it, as though embarrassed by her own bourgeois limitation, as though she’s not as cool and liberated as she’d like to be. “And I don’t like it.”

            “Hey, that’s cool,” I say, placing my hand over her. I can see the relief flit across her eyes. “Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. I’m sure I can find someone who is.”

            “David!” She’s suddenly angry, but also afraid at the thought of losing me.

            “I’m joking,” I say. I’m not.

            “Not funny.”

            “Excuse me?” I puff out my chest. “I’m a funny guy.”

            Julia glares at me. “You’re not.”

            “That’s because you think I’m too bossy right? Just because I ordered everyone a round at the bar.”

            She stares at me for a moment, then groans.

            “If I’d been a duck, I could’ve asked them to put it on my bill.”

            “Please,” she says, covering her face in her hands, though a smile tugs at her lips. “Stop.”

            “Sorry,” I say. “It’s a faux Pa, isn’t it? Telling dad jokes when you don’t have any kids.”

            Julia groans even louder. “God, you really do sound like my dad,” she says.

            I took her home that night and with drink and a little charming coercion, talked her around to letting me fuck her in the ass, because it was something I’d never done and it was the kind of thing successful men do, right? Although I hated it, and so she did. In the years that followed I only ever did it if a girl begged for it, was really into it.

            It was only a few weeks later that the threesome I wanted happened, too, with Tom and Julia, and that was the last I saw or even thought of Julia for fourteen years until she found me curled up on the floor of a woman’s bathroom stall, wearing a skirt, wearing heels, lipstick and mascara a smeared mess, face puffy with crying—all in this very same bar.

            The memory coiled it tendrils around me as I shifted my attention to one of the handsome young men walking past and smiled, smiled until it hurt, and made eye contact, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

            By the time Julia returned with a man in tow, I’d already seen off two potential suitors, both promising me a drink, one politely, the other with his eyes fixated on my chest and quite explicit about what he’d like to do to me. She held two drinks, a flute of Champagne for herself, evanescent amber sparking between her fingers; and something horribly blue and sparkly on ice for me. The man, meanwhile, pulled up a stool. He was wearing a suit, and a dusting of grey coloured his temples. His smile to me was perfunctory, as he joined our table. His attention was on Julia.

            “Say hello, Cindy,” she said. “He’s joining us for a drink after so kindly buying us ours.”

            “I’m with that lot over there,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the large group in the corner. His voice is slightly inflected—an English accent, the rounded vowels, precise consonants of old-school received pronunciation. I despised him instantly. “We just finished off a big project. I’m their boss, bought them a round, set up a tab for them.” His smile was easy-going, and he raised his pint glass in salute to his table of minions. He’s drinking something enviably dark and beery. There’s a brief cheer raised in response. “But nobody wants the boss around on a night out, right?”

            Meanwhile, I’ve picked up my drink and stared at it darkly. It’s too blue, with silvery flecks that swirl and sparkle, and the drink smells of candyfloss.

            “A Nebula, that’s what you asked for, right?” Julia said, grinning over her flute. Most of the bespoke cocktails at Noir were night-sky themed. “Panty-stripper, the bartender called it. Popular drink with the young girls. What do we say to Mr…..” She trailed off, laid her hand on his forearm and giggled.  Julia—giggling?  “I never even got your name!”

            “Caleb,” he answered. “Caleb Harrington.”

            She raised her eyebrows at me. “Thank you, Mr Harrington,” I said before taking a drink. Fuck me, it tasted like a distillery fucked a candy shop and had babies. The flakes weren’t just for show: they melted against my tongue, and it went briefly numb. A few of these, and I’d either be passed out drunk, toothless from dental rot, or suffering a saccharine heart-attack.

            “A pleasure,” he intoned, his smile distant, then looked between the two of us. “You’re….?”

            “Sisters,” Julia said.

            “She’s the older one,” I added. “Like, so much older.”
            “And she’s the ditz.” Her eyes flashed a warning at me. “She doesn’t visit often, so I like to show her the big city when she’s around.”

            He nodded. Briefly, his eyes flashed over me, taking in my tits, my tarty makeup and glittery miniskirt, hoop earrings and fishnets; then he shifted his posture slightly towards Julia and excluded me from the conversation.

            It was two adults at the table, and one child. Julia and Caleb talked. They flirted. His hand rested on hers. She licked her lips and played with her hair. Julia’s eyes danced over to mine, once and she smiled with grim happiness at watching me watch her work this older man.

            Once her attention was fully on Caleb, I was left to sit there, sipping my sickly drink. Those silvery flakes continued to spark against my tongue as this unknown man touched Julia—first her forearm but after shifting his seat closer, his hand rested on her naked shoulder, drifted across her back, rested on her thigh. His thumb worked its way inside the high slit of her dress and slid along stocking welts.

            Inside, I seethed, and looked him over, picking out his obvious flaws. The imminent bald patch at the top of his head. His off-the-rack suit. What was he, forty? Older than forty. He wasn’t even that good looking, really, weak chin and that accent—fuck that accent! Julia could do better.  So could I, especially considering Julia’s plan was clearly for us to take this asshole home so I could fellate him.

            “… and I’ll have it on your desk tomorrow!” He finished his story with a self-deprecating chuckle he no doubt thought was charming, and Julia’s laugh tinkled in response.

            “How funny,” she said.

            “Yeah, but was it, though?” I interjected, leaning into the conversation. My chest pressed up against the table, and his eyes widened momentarily at the sight of my cleavage. “Funny?”

            Caleb shrugged. “If you’ve led a team before, maybe,” he said. “You ever lead a team before?”

            I puffed out my cheeks in annoyance. “I used to be a cheerleader. Does that count?”

            “No.”

            I laid my hand on his arm. “Then why don’t you explain it to me?”

            “I’m sorry… Cindy, is it?” He pulled his arm back. “Nothing kills a joke like the explaining of it.”

            Meanwhile, Julia’s caught between a frown and a smile, watching my fumbling attempts at drawing this guy’s attention. “Why don’t you head up to the bar,” she said. “Get yourself another drink. I’ve started a tab.”

            “If I was a duck,” I muttered, hopping down from the stool, “I’d ask them to put it on my bill.”

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing,” I muttered, and dutifully trotted up to the bar. I made a deliberate effort to not look back towards the table. I didn’t want to see them there, leaning in close, hand-in-hand, or hand-on-thigh, or hand-on-back, her gleaming lips, his smoothly arrogant words. My blood roiled with—resentment, and frustration. But most of all, I was jealous.

            What the hell did I have to feel jealous about?

            Was it because some guy was hitting on Julia? Or was it because he was hitting on her—instead of me?

            Fuck this shit. I needed a drink—a real drink.

            Standing at the bar, I saw myself in the mirror behind the counter, looking for all the world like some kind of teenage tart, all pink and purples and fishnet stockings, sparkling in the dim light with a showiness that just screamed try-hard insecurity. I scowled and used the screen on my phone to check and fix my makeup while I waited to be served.

            “I.D., please.”

            “Really?” I rolled my eyes and withdrew my fake ID from where it nestled in the bustier.

            The bartender grinned. Every cool bar needed a skilled bartender of ambiguous sexuality, and at Noir, that was Terry. He was a young guy in his mid-twenties with a nose like a hatched buried between two dirt mounds and blessed with startling nimble fingers.

             “No way this is real,” he said, same as every other time, as he plucked the little rectangle of plastic from between my purple talons. Tonight, his russet beard was waxed and ringed and tamed into stylish points, and he grinned from beneath a curled mustache that would’ve suited a 19th century gentleman. Elaborate tattoos, a mix of writhing figures and miniscule text, crawled up his forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled-up cuffs of a flouncy white shirt and navy vest, and chunky earrings gleamed at his ears. I’d become somewhat of a regular at Noir since that first night and knew the guy by name, and he knew me, too. I’d flirt-bantered with him often enough.

            “Does it look real?”

            “As real as it did last week.” He gave it back. “I like the choker.”

            A deep flush blossomed across my chest and crawled up my neck, reaching Julia’s final gift for the night: the sparkly purple choker. She affixed it just before we stepped out of her apartment. It matched the hoop earrings and my lipstick. The word “sex” was clearly inscribed in glittery tiny plastic gemstones.

            “Thanks,” I muttered, picking at it.

            “So, what’re you having? Not another of these, I hope?” He indicated my nearly finished ‘Nebula’.

            “Ugh, no.”

            “Good call,” he said. “Those THC flakes’ll fuck you up.”

            “And it’s too sweet,” I said. “Too sparkly. Too… blue.”

            “So long you don’t go painting the stalls with your vomit again.” He laughed. “What, then?”

            I tapped an overly-long purple nail to overly-glossed lips. It was out of character, but fuck it, I needed it, and Julia was paying: “Old-fashioned, please?”

            “Really?” He was already reaching into the freezer beneath the counter. He popped a small sphere of ice out from its rubber mold and set it aside. “You don’t seem the type,” he added.

            “Girls can’t like bourbon?”

            “Girls who need fake ID generally don’t.” He muddled bitters with a sugar cube at the bottom of a thick-bottomed tumbler, then reached for a bottle of Jim Bean from the shelf behind the bar.

            “Put that shit back,” I said and pointed to the higher shelf. “Use the Whistle Pig.”

            The bartender paused. His gaze swept over me, re-assessing at a glance and finding nothing new: “You can’t afford that.”

            “No, but she can.” I jerked my finger in Julia’s direction. “She’s running a tab. Make the fucking drink.”

            “Sure thing, girlboss.” He pulled down the bottle, measured and poured in the bourbon. Then, the thirty second slow stir, smiling with wry amusement at me the whole time. “You want a Cristal chaser with that?” Very gently, he lowered the little ball of ice into the drink.

            “You’re funny for a man dressed as a pirate.”

            “Yar,” he said, handing it over.

            First, a moment to appreciate the amber beauty of the drink, and then a delicate sip, the ice spinning to cool the drink as it hit my tongue. The first taste was soiled by cheap lipstick and gloss, but then the warm alcohol hit, vanilla and molasses unfolding on the tongue. I inhaled deeply and took another sip and my whole body sagged.

            “Good?” the bartender asks.

            “So good,” I sighed.

            I closed my eyes. Maybe it was the aftereffects of those silvery flakes, the alcoholic buzz, the powerful sensate memories of taste; or the need to escape the night’s ultimate destination. The drink carried me away.

            The reality of that busy bar, the ebb-and-flow of conversation, the pinch of the bustier and cool air across my chest withdrew and in that moment—a fleeting, wonderful moment—I was… me. Past-me, standing at the counter of some pretentious, over-priced bar. And I’m happy, God, just ridiculously happy and pleased with myself. I don’t want this moment to end.

            Because when this moment is done, and this drink is done, I’ll return to Julia and Caleb and follow them back to her place and do what Julia expects of me. And I don’t want to.

            But not now. That’s a then-problem and now, in this moment, I’m in the past with the warm taste of whisky and sharp tang of bitters sitting on the tongue and, that’s right, I’m feeling pretty fucking pleased with myself. This bar, these people, the shit I’m speaking, yeah it’s all bullshit, but it’s my bullshit now, young-David’s new world.

            I’m not serving behind the bar. No, I’m on this side of things. The drink cradled in my hand? That drink’s held in a strong, firm hand, and once this drink would’ve cost me a day’s pay but now—fuck it, I can afford this shit. And this shit is good.

            Outside of the moment, the drink unfurled in my belly and coiled its warmth around my core. There is shudder in the bedrock of my soul. Something is dredged up by profound currents and something dislodges: primitive, primal and floating up through those dark, churning depths. It rose through lighter, brighter waters shimmering with colours. This chunk of me reached the surface and brought with it the confidence of the past. An absurd confidence I haven’t felt since the night I fucked Steele’s secretary filled me to the brim. In the moment, I felt myself, wearing an expensive suit. There’s an expensive watch at my wrist, and solid shoes on my feet; short hair, loosened tie wide-legged stance; and I felt this in the present, too.

            When I open my eyes….

            I don’t want to open my eyes.

            Because when I do, I’ll be standing at a bar, yes, but not in a suit. I’ll be wearing too-tall heels and a too-short miniskirt. Boobs spilling out of a too-tight bustier. Makeup too heavy. Everything’s just too—girly, it threatens the wonderful sense of self I’ve salvaged from the past.

            Now someone’s standing next to me. Of course there is. Girls like Cindy never stand alone for very long in a place like this. I licked my lips, pushed out my chest. Opened my eyes.

            The girl standing next to me is drop-dead fucking gorgeous.  She’s a real knock out, this girl. First impression’s one of red: red shoes, red hair and this clingy mini dress, sequin scales shimmering like snake’s skin with each sinuous movement, so short it barely clears her crotch. I’m not normally an ass-man but her ass has me reconsidered the errors of my ways, the way her curves strain against the tightness of her dress. Delicate straps tie the dress behind her neck, and it’s not just her ass that’s testing the dress’s limits. She’s not quite spilling out of her top like I am, but her tits have me wishing she was.

            This girl’s taller than me, especially in towering heels, beautiful sandals with slender ankle straps. Auburn hair fell in a wave over one shoulder, and her lips and nails were dark red, too, the colour of an autumn sunset, or a fresh bruise.

            So, yeah, she’s gorgeous, serpent and fruit of some forbidden garden rolled into one: pure temptation, and my first instinct’s that she’s some rich bitch on the prowl and I liked that, some instinct driving me closer.

            But then I saw how she’s standing there, gripping the bar as though it’s the last plank of wood on a sinking ship. There’s a nervous energy to this chick’s that’s immediately alluring but gave me pause.

            “Hey,” I said, raising my glass in greeting.

            Moist lips smiled hesitantly in response, hazel eyes wide behind incongruously black-rimmed glasses. There’s a real artistry to her eye makeup that draws out the vivid green of her irises. Yeah, she’s throwing off this real sexy, naughty-librarian vibe, but the look in her eye’s pure fear. This chick’s got the fashion acumen of a fashion model yet comes off as a tomboy cleaned up and squeezed, squirming and struggling, into her first prom dress.

            “Um…. hi.” Her eyes swept across me—legs and ass, breasts, face, an all-too common inspection mirroring my own—and I swear, this bitch also liked what she saw. Her eyes kept dancing to my tits. Meanwhile, I wanted another look at those exquisite hazel eyes. When our gaze met again, I twirled a lock of hair around my finger and grinned.

            Nervous hands that don’t quite seem to know where to settle tugged at the hem of her dress. It’s a futile effort; and she’s clearly uneasy with how much of herself is on display. Now that’s something I could sympathise with, the awful anxiety of being seen whether you want to or not, a glittering bauble in a dimly lit room.

            It wasn’t so long ago I felt what I see in her eyes: that constant terrible, gnawing fear at being painted and posed in public. Of course, whatever the reason for her discomfort, it couldn’t be as bad as mine, the awful humiliation of presenting as something you’re not and hiding from an ever-threatening world.

            “I’m Lucinda,” I said, extending my fingers. “But my friends call me Cindy.”

            “Stacy,” she said, taking my hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. Her grip’s almost manly, despite the slender fingers and crimson nails.

            “Nice to meet you, Stacy,” I said, and then it just tumbled out, “Can I buy you a drink?” Truth was, this girl’s keeping those long-dormant instincts alive: I’m hitting on her. I want to do a hell of a lot more than just hit on her, but I know this can’t lead to anything. Yet the way she looked at me, just then—and those eyes—and those full, red lips waiting for an answer… fuck me, I felt a powerful stirring below.

            Which is to say, I felt a distinctly female response and squeezed my thighs together, with one hand daintily to one side, the other still raised in cheer, and flashed a wide smile to conceal my desire.

            “A drink?” There’s a delightful demureness to this girl. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and glanced back bashfully, and I had to supress the urge to reach out and cup her chin or stroke her cheek. I’m thinking of what I’d like to do to her, visualising the snake shedding its skin, the pale flesh beneath, wondering if those cute freckles across her nose extend further.

            “Maybe an orange juice?” she said. “I’m not really much of a drinker.”

            I wanted to touch her; and realised I could, easily, it’s just us girls, right? I winked, and flashed a rueful smile and laid my hand over hers. “You’d be doing me a favour,” I said. “Honestly.” I waved my other hand in the direction of my table. “Big sis over there’s with some guy she just met. And he’s like, ugh, forty, you know? Like, just so—o boring. And I’d rather give them some room. But standing here alone…,” and I give a helpless little shrug.

            “Some guy’s going to hit on you?” The tremor to her voice, disgust and dismay, struck me as odd. Girls like her, dressed as she is, in a place like this—

            I winced: fuck that; I’m a ‘girl like her, dressed like that,’ and I wasn’t about to make the same assumptions others made of me.

            “Exactly.” I took another sip of my drink. “But standing next to a total babe like you? I’d be like—” My eyes crossed with the effort of concentration, tip of tongue between my teeth. “Like Rosaline next to Juliet at the Capulet party?”

            Very cutely, she blushed, cheeks reddening beneath her makeup but she also relaxes, just a little, at the reference. “I guess that makes this guy Tybalt,” she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “The boys usually keep away. They don’t want to mess with my….” She hesitated, eyes dancing towards a nearby table.  There’s a big, beefy guy there, short-cropped blond hair, tall and built like a brick wall sitting with a pitcher of beer. He’s on his phone, some kind of intense conversation that doesn’t stop him from openly ogling passing women. He’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts and clearly put minimum fucking effort into getting ready tonight. “Boyfriend.” This dickhead didn’t deserve this total babe, who’s clearly spent hours putting herself together for tonight, and I feel offended on her behalf.

            I gave her hand a little squeeze. “Oh, babe, I’m like so sorry.”

            She smiled, just a little. “Byron’s not so bad,” she said. “Well, he used to be. He was a nightmare but, you know….” She shrugged. “I’ve got him under control.”  She followed my gaze back to this guy and watched him in silence for a long moment, and then I swear I heard her mutter ‘fuck it’ under her breath. “You know what? He’s going to be on that call for ages. Some boring football thing. I’d love that drink. A strong one.”

            Terry’s been keeping an eye on the two pretty young things in front of him, and I can tell he’s thoroughly enjoyed watching me flirt with this girl. “Let me introduce you to Flouncy McFlounce.”

            “Most people call me Terry.”

            “An old-fashioned for the lady,” I said, and because he’s a clever barkeep, without needing telling he reached for the Jim Bean rather than the good stuff and added an extra dash of gum syrup to the bitters.

            Stacy took a sip. Her eyes widened. “Oh—my, this is good.”

            “Terry’s the best,” I said.

            “Don’t you forget it, Purple Rain.”

            I commented on her dress, how beautiful it was and how well it suited her. She replied, cheeks reddening slightly, that her aunt picked it out for her date. Her aunt ran a modelling agency and took endless delight in showing her niece off in an endless-seeming parade of couture, dragging her to fashionable events requiring precisely chosen clothes. “Aunt Amanda’s even hinted at me doing some modeling,” Stacy said, biting her lower lip. She did that at lot; it was impossibly cute. “And she keeps trying to get me to lose the glasses.”

            “Show me.”

            Stacy took off her glasses, blinking and gazing into the middle distance.

            “Keep them,” I said. “They’re just so you. They’re you and they’re sexy. You’re sexy.”

            She blushed. She seemed really pleased by my comment. Stacy was a student at the university, which is where she met her boyfriend. “It was… difficult, at first,” she admitted, and there’s a whole backstory she’s only hinting at in that weighty pause. “Byron wasn’t very nice to me at first.” He was a quarterback, a big man on campus used to getting his way, one with big-time potential. “But I changed, and the way he treated me changed, too.”

            In return, I told her a little about myself, about working at Volumina International and the thrilling, no-holds barred life of glorified secretary-slash-receptionist Cindy Bellamy. Stacy listened with her head cocked slightly to one side, unconsciously passing fingers through auburn hair falling over one shoulder, in a show of intense concentration behind her glasses. There was sympathy, as I complained about the early morning rise and commute; empathy, at the constant effort and necessity of maintaining a feminine appearance; and an almost comical fascination as I described daily office politics.

            Stacy, for her part, admitted to the stress of balancing two lives. This was something I could appreciate. For her, it was the student, striving to complete her studies in an environment that refused to take her seriously because of her looks; but also, the socialite, where her looks were paramount. In that life, her perfect 4.0 grade seemed utterly irrelevant in contrast to the hours spent perfecting her makeup, hair and nails for an evening soiree with her aunt.

            Yet I envied her life, to a degree: not the ultra-femininity of it, somehow even more extreme than the nightmare from which I constantly yearned to wake. Stacy had her studies, and these academic pursuits salvaged meaning from the superficial frivolity of a life spent obsessively maintaining appearances to her aunt’s expectations. That’s what I envied. David had a degree, entirely falsified and I’d only ever known campus life as filtered through my long-ago girlfriend Akiko, and far too many college girl one-night stands.

            As for salvaging meaning from a frivolous life?  I was working on a few things, and it certainly didn’t involve dressing up pretty and sticking my tits in the face of lusty men in swanky bars.

            In any case, for all the lip-gnawing uncertainty Stacy exuded, there remained an inner core of confidence to the girl that slowly revealed itself as she relaxed into her drink. Something happened in her past to trigger a change, and she clearly found this new path unnerving, as though she’d made a wrong turn and found herself lost somewhere unexpectedly beautiful, surprisingly fun yet disturbingly unfamiliar. Often as we spoke, she caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the counter and faltered, as though surprised by the beauty of her own reflection. Then she’d tug at the hem of her dress or flutteringly touch the earrings at her ear.

            Despite this clear hesitation, she spoke about her life with a warmth that belied her self-doubt. This was a girl who’d found her best life; she just didn’t know it yet. And I envied her that.

            We finished our drink. We stood close to each. Between the wine at Julia’s, that fucking Nebula drink and now the bourbon, I felt quite drunk—pleasantly so, but at a tipping point. Stacy’s face was also flushed a little red. There was a lot of touching as we talked, and giggles. I felt turned on, and I was having fun. Maybe the subdued eroticism is what made it fun. Nothing could happen, of course. And that added to the pleasure of the conversation, because there wasn’t any motive to it beyond enjoying the moment.

            Well, maybe a little titillating motivation, as out tits squished together and we pouted and leaned in close for a selfie.

            “Shit,” I muttered, as Julia approached, Caleb in tow.

            “Shit,” Stacy echoed, as her boyfriend plodded over.

            Instinct drove me to check my makeup, and the moment I did, Stacy gave a little start and did the same. When we noticed each other primping, we giggled. “I love that colour,” I said, indicating her dark red lipstick.

            “Ottoman Sunset.” Stacy said. “Here, let me.”

            I leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut. “You have beautiful lips,” she breathed, as I pouted. Carefully, sensuously and with expert strokes, Stacy painted my lips and I exhaled and felt deeply turned on and when I opened my eyes, saw she was, too. Her smile faltered slightly, and she squirmed a little as she pulled away.

            “Who’s your friend?” Julia asked, and from the tone of her voice she wasn’t pleased to see me flirting with another woman.

            “Hey, who’s the babe?” Byron asked, and from the tone of his voice it was clear that he was.

            That was the end of it. With a cute little wave, she pranced off, that gorgeous ass rolling sexily beneath the stretch of her tight dress as she followed her meathead boyfriend back to their seat. She leaned into him, and his arm circled her waist. Silently, I wished Stacy the best possible life. Julia settled the bill—perfunctory, without even noticing the cost—and I followed her back to the table.