Painted Faces

by L.H. Cosway

  I'm lying on his bed, and it's the one I imagined he had when I thought of him and the Italian woman Dorotea having sex, draped in midnight black silk sheets. I don't know why I subconsciously think that silk sheets are sexy, because in reality they'd probably be really uncomfortable, sticking to all the wrong places.

  I'm only wearing my underwear; the purple bra I had on the first time I met Nicholas and matching pants. He steps up to the bed and leans one knee on the mattress. I crawl over to him and trace my fingers over one of his bra straps, sensuously lowering it over his shoulder. His scorching blue eyes burn a trail along my cleavage and he smiles as I raise my hand and lower the other strap. His hand reaches to one of my breasts and lightly squeezes. Then everything goes slightly hazy.

  I wake up and there's a little puddle of drool on my pillow. I glance at the clock to see I'd been napping for a couple of hours. My cheeks flame with embarrassment when I remember the contents of my dream. I never considered myself to be kinky, but the idea of Nicholas in a bra is oddly appealing. Perhaps I have a slight touch of lesbianism in me that I never noticed before. Nora better watch out.

  I quickly throw on a long black gypsy skirt and a light grey t-shirt, run a brush through my hair and dab on a bit of make-up. I don't have time for dinner, but my stomach is full of butterflies for my first night as Nicholas' assistant so I don't have much of an appetite anyway. It's just gone five past eight when I knock on his door. He answers immediately, looking flustered.

  “There you are,” he says. “I need your help. I just can't decide which outfit to wear tonight.”

  I step into his apartment. “What time do you go on stage?”

  “Around ten or so,” he replies, leading me into his bedroom where there are several dresses strewn across the bed. I'd been completely wrong when I'd visualised it. It's made from light pine wood and the sheets are grey cotton. A lot more practical than black silk, I imagine.

  “Well do you need particular outfits for particular songs?” I ask. “Like when you put on the Barbara get up last night for “Don't rain on my parade.” Or have we got free reign to pick out what we like?”

  Nicholas runs a hand through his hair. “Free reign, I guess. I wanted to pull out all the stops for my first performance last night, but really the outfits don't have to match the songs. Very few people are sober enough to notice anyway.” He seems a little sad over that.

  “Well I definitely noticed. You were smokin',” I reply to try and cheer him up. I admit I haven't known him for long, but I haven't yet seen him like he is now, all worried and anxious.

  He gives me a smile that lights up his entire face. “Of course you noticed,” he says. “That's why you're my new best friend.”

  I squeeze his arm and begin looking through the assortment of outfits.

  “How about this one?” I ask, holding up a slinky red cocktail dress.

  “Too eighties,” Nicholas replies, shaking his head. He's pacing back and forth, slightly manic. Perhaps he's one of those crazy geniuses. Before going on stage he has a breakdown, but once he steps out in front of the audience he becomes Vivica Blue: androgynous boy-girl with a voice capable of singing like a legend.

  “Okay, so what decade are you thinking? Please don't say nineties,” I joke, imagining some of the awful dresses women wore back then. The grunge style is probably the only one I admire from that period.

  “Something classy, let's say....” he drifts off and rushes out of the room. I can hear him rifling through an unpacked box out in the living area. He comes back in wielding a wonderful dress consisting of black satin with silver and gold beading.

  “Twenties,” he says, completing his unfinished sentence.

  “Oh I like it, do you have any bobbed wigs? That would totally complete the look.”

  Nicholas' eyes shine with excitement. “I most certainly do.” He leaves the room yet again, before returning with a short blond wig. “I'll look just like Jane Horrocks when she played Sally Bowles in Cabaret on Broadway,” he declares. “Fred you're a genius. I knew I wouldn't regret hiring you.”

  “Hey, I hardly did a thing,” I say, raising my hands in the air. “It was all you. You really don't need an assistant, you know.”

  He stops fussing over the wig for a minute to look at me. “Getting ready for a performance is no fun when you haven't got someone to share it with, and I want to share it with you, Freda.”

  I like the sound of my full name on his tongue. “Well, I'm not complaining. This is a dream job. I feel like one of those pretentious stylists you see on television makeover shows, who get paid thousands to tell some woman how to match her blouse with her skirt.”

  Nicholas laughs as he carefully places the dress and the wig inside a plastic zip cover. He hands it to me as he grabs what he needs before we leave for the club. He has one of those big silver boxy make-up sets. You know the ones that look like treasure chests, and you open them up to reveal layers upon layers of eye shadows and blushers.

  Out on the street Nicholas hails a cab and within minutes we're hurrying in the back entrance of The Glamour Patch, past the Saturday crowd who are queuing up to get inside. He quickly greets the manager, who turns out to be the guy from last night who introduced Nicholas' performance, the one with the bleached hair and purple shirt.

  “Phil, this is my assistant Fred. She'll be helping me get ready for my gig,” he says.

  I shake Phil's hand as he smiles at me warmly. “Fabulous hair Fred, it's a pleasure to meet you,” then he rushes off to his office.

  “Saturdays are busy, busy, busy,” Nicholas sings as we step inside a small dark room. He flicks the light switch to reveal a dressing table shoved up against one wall, with a massive mirror, two chairs and various free standing hangers. I pop Nicholas' outfit onto one of the hangers and put his make-up box down on the table.

  “So, where do we start?” I ask, hands on hips.

  Nicholas has a navy backpack with him, which he drops down onto the floor.

  “Hmm, how about a drink first? I'm a little more nervy than usual. I think I need something to settle me down.”

  “Do you normally get nervous before a show?” I ask.

  “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Perhaps it's because you're here. I want to impress you.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “Really? But I was here last night and you were fine.”

  He smirks. “You didn't see me before the show.”

  “You really don't have to be worried about what I think; I love your whole act. You can't do much wrong in my eyes,” I try to reassure him. In the back of my mind I'm truly flattered that he wants to impress me. I must have made quite the impact on him. It's strange because I thought I'd been acting like a fool half the time.

  A second later Sean, the drummer from The Wilting Willows and snogging partner of Harry, ducks his head in the door.

  “Hey Nick, you all set for tonight's gig?” he asks, with a big grin on his face, a clear sign that he got some decent action last night. I'll be giving Harry a call tomorrow to get all the details. I'm always strangely intrigued to hear about what two men do together in bed. Needless to say, I'm quite an avid follower of Harry's love life.

  Nicholas is leaning against the wall, arms casually folded across his chest. “I sure am, be a dear and grab myself and Fred here a drink from the bar, would you?” he glances at me wickedly before bringing his eyes back to Sean. “Two mojitos, if you don't mind.”

  I'm suddenly struck with the memory of him taking a sip of my mojito last night, saying he wanted to put his lips where my lips had been. A little shiver runs through me and my stomach clenches.

  Sean gives a salute and a wink before heading off on his errand. I sit down on one of the chairs. It's the swivel kind, and like a child I can't help myself but to swing back and forth on it.

  “You're going to make yourself dizzy,” Nicholas comments, watching me from his spot by the wall. His voice is warm. It makes me feel weird and sweaty.

&
nbsp; “I used to love doing this when I was a kid, spinning around until I couldn't balance and fell onto the floor.” I tell him. “I think I might have given myself a concussion once.”

  Nicholas laughs gently, before stepping over to the table to open up his make-up case.

  I stop swinging to peer at myself in the mirror. My hair looks wild, as usual, the soft twisty curls falling over my shoulders. My eyes are alight with excitement. I hope Nicholas doesn't realise how pathetically delighted I am to be here right now. I feel sort of unworthy of being involved in such an exhilarating profession.

  Most people want to be performers at some point when they're young, whether it's being a singer, a dancer or an actor. I never did. I just always knew I wanted to work with food. I'd play games where I was running my own imaginary restaurant, with all my dolls and Barbies acting as patrons. I was an eccentric little git.

  That dream never came true in the way I wanted it to, but at least I'm doing something with food. Although aside from making colourful little cupcakes, I haven't got a creative bone in my body. I'm happy to sit back and enjoy the creativity of others. Luckily, as Nicholas' assistant I have a front row seat.

  Nicholas takes the chair beside mine and I scoot over closer to him to have a look at all the eye shadows, so shiny and colourful like a rainbow. Nicholas begins retrieving lipsticks, concealers and blushers, and all variety of things that I have no clue about and probably should since I'm supposed to be the girl in this situation.

  “I'll take the lead tonight,” he says. “Once you get used to my routine you'll be doing all of this yourself.” He sets a pair of black false eyelashes down on the table, the final item.

  “Okay, so do you normally dress first and then put on your make-up, or vice versa?”

  Nicholas gives me a little grin and tuts. “Make-up first, my clothes are expensive. Some are one of a kind. I can't risk ruining them.” He hands me a bottle of red nail varnish. “Would you paint my nails for me Fred?”

  “I'd love to Viv,” I reply with relish, taking the bottle from him and turning in my seat so that I'm facing him. I take his hand into mine, his fingers aren't too soft, but they aren't rough either. His nails are clipped short and are very clean.

  I put his palm resting flat on my lap, fingers spread out. I momentarily regret it, because having his hand so close to my lady parts makes me a little breathless. I push back the desire to swoon and focus on the task. Nicholas seems to lean forward ever so slightly, watching my movements intently as I paint his nails a glaring shade of fire engine red.

  I get lost in the painting, and when I glance up I almost knock the bottle over. He's way too close, his eyes eating me up, his lips parted.

  “What?” I ask. “Did I make a mistake?”

  I know I didn't make a mistake. I just need to distract him from whatever thoughts are running through his mind right now. He looks like he wants to rip my knickers off.

  “No,” he answers simply. “I have to admit, for some reason I find you incredibly sexy, Fred.”

  His words cause my breath to gush out in something close to a gasp. Distract, distract, distract, chimes my embarrassed brain. “You might need to pop in to Specsavers for an eye test Viv,” I try to make it sound like a joke, but my nerves make the sentence come out all shaky.

  His smile is half evil sexy, half tender. “I've got perfect twenty-twenty vision, I'll have you know. How about I lock the door so that we can have a quicky? If we're going to work together I need to get this urge out of my system to fuck your brains out.”

  “Ah, I have a true romantic on my hands,” I mutter half heartedly. No, my underwear is not distinctly more...damp. No siree. Jesus, he has a blunt way of putting things that causes my brain to go a bit loopy.

  “I never claimed to offer romance Fred, but I'm fairly confident I can provide you with the perfect sexual release. It has been three and a half years, after all.” He's smirking at me now.

  “Best friends don't do that sort of thing,” I say, putting on a fake haughty voice. “It wouldn't be proper.”

  Thankfully I'm saved from this tension filled conversation when Sean returns with our drinks. He plops them onto the table and then runs off, mumbling something about finding a missing lucky drumstick.

  I take a sip of the cool drink, hoping the alcohol might settle my nerves. The dressing room didn't seem very big to begin with, but now it feels positively minuscule. Nicholas sips on his drink too, his eyes never leaving me. I glance at the clock on the wall.

  “It's past nine, Viv. We'd better get your make-up started if you don't want to be late, late for a very important date,” I ramble, quoting the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland for absolutely no reason at all, other than the fact that he turns me into a nervous wreck.

  He sets his drink down on the table and clasps his hands together. “All right then, have your way with me,” he says, pouting his lips.

  “I thought you said you were going to take the lead and I'd just watch for my first night?”

  Nicholas shrugs as he shoves his dark hair into one of those tight cap things you wear under a wig. “Might as well throw you in the deep end. Do your worst.”

  I furrow my brow. “Okay, um, I'll start with foundation.” I pick up the tube of pale concealer. It's almost a perfect match for his clear skin tone. I squirt some onto a little applicator sponge and begin smoothing it over his cheeks and forehead.

  “I find it better if you use your fingers instead of the sponge. It gives a more natural finish,” he suggests.

  I swallow hard and put down the applicator, before squeezing foundation onto my fingertips this time. I always use my hands when I'm doing my own make-up, but I thought that was just me being too lazy to go out and buy the proper bits and pieces.

  His skin feels gorgeous. His face is clean shaven; the stubble he had this morning is gone completely. I find myself getting a bit of a crick in my neck as I stand over him, trying to apply the make-up. In a bold move I perch myself lightly on one of his thighs. God help him I'm no Kate Moss. I hope I'm not too heavy and give him a dead leg. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell he's intrigued by my actions.

  “My neck was hurting bending over,” I explain.

  “Mmm hmm,” he mumbles, his gaze locked on my breasts, which are currently right at his eye level.

  I move on to powder and then blusher, dusting it lightly over his cheeks.

  “Thank God for thinly padded bras,” Nicholas comments, just before he flattens one hand out on the small of my back to pull me closer and pinches me right on the nipple through the fabric of my t-shirt with the other. You'd probably expect me to jump right off his lap in surprise. Only I don't. I sit there, trying my hardest not to piss my pants at how scarily erotic the moment is. He's still doing it, and my eyes are captured within the blue prisons of his irises.

  I let out a long breath. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  “Giving you a thrill,” he answers darkly.

  “Very kind of you Viv, you can let go now.”

  “Say please,” he throws back.

  I grit my teeth. “Please.”

  He grins happily and releases his hold. I almost miss the pinch of his fingers. I should probably head down the road and purchase myself a vibrator to relieve the way Nicholas makes me feel, all hot and needy. Capel Street is sex shop central, after all. A little tip for you there, if you ever find yourself in Dublin with a bit of free time on your hands. Ahem.

  I've always wondered what lies beyond all those blacked out windows, but have never had the nerve to venture inside. The front displays have all these manikins decked out in tacky fetish wear. When passing by I tend to ponder the fact that nobody I've ever seen go into those shops has the kind of body you'd want to see in a black leather bikini with furry red trim.

  I silently stick on Nicholas' fake eyelashes and he stands up to go and get changed. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and begins unbuckling his belt. When it comes to his physique, ch
iselled is the only word I can think of. I quickly avert my eyes as I hear his trousers fall to the floor with a billowing thump.

  He begins laughing, but I'm still not looking. “You're going to have to get used to the sight of me sans clothing, Fred. It's part and parcel of the job.”

  I drag my eyes up to him. Good God, he has nothing on but his boxer shorts now. And then he doesn't even have those on, as he whips them off and pulls a pair of dark red satin knickers out of his bag. I am looking anywhere but at his nether regions. Anywhere! Don't get me wrong, I'm curious, but I think if I took a peek the image would be branded into my brain and every time we had a conversation I'd just be visualising his man bits.

  “So you go the whole hog then, with women's underwear and everything?” I ask, eyeing the slinky satin pants. He pulls out a pair of tight men's briefs as well, probably to wear underneath and keep everything – in place.

  He nods. “I might not be as flashy as traditional drag queens, but I do like to think of myself as being authentic. Although I don't stuff my bra or put on a lady voice. I also don't tuck my dick. I'm not trying to fool people into believing I'm an actual woman in that sense. I think being somewhere in between male and female is just as intriguing.”

  He slips on the briefs and then the knickers, blessedly covering himself up. Unfortunately, they don't hide much, and it doesn't take a very wide stretch of the imagination for me to picture him without them. Sometimes I can't seem to control my filthy mind and where it wants to wander. This job is going to give me a heart attack at twenty-five, and it's only my first night.

  He slips on a matching bra, which is kind of pointless, since he has no tits to speak of. It makes me wonder if he gets his jollies out of wearing it. I mean, it's not providing any lift or aesthetic function. Nobody's going to see it beneath the dress, nor will they see the knickers.