D Is for Dress-Up

by Alison Tyler

  “Jesus,” he said. His voice was breathy, like he’d been hit in the gut and was trying to talk. For some reason, that made me feel a little better, like maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea. And then I saw his eyes, the way they were darker than their usual dark, and a shiver went through me. Yes, this was what he’d been asking for.

  Those dark eyes were silent on me so long that my thighs broke out in goose bumps all the way up to my cunt. The combination of nervous and excited had me shivering. I was afraid my teeth would chatter if he waited any longer. I inhaled, swallowed.

  “Well, unwrap me already,” I said, and then had to laugh at the nervous impatience in my voice.

  He didn’t seem to notice, or care. He just came close enough that I could see his cat-whisker wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His hands on my lower back were warm and strong. After he pulled me against him, he ran his hands down around the curves of my ass, saying, “Oops,” the same way he used to fake-yawn and put his arm around me in movie theaters. Hands settled into the curve at the bottom of my ass, he put his mouth to my earlobe, gave it a tug with his teeth.

  “What if I don’t want to unwrap you?” he asked.

  Those goose bumps again, everywhere on my body, like they were inside too. I leaned against him, the warmth of his chest calmed my skin, the press of his already-hard cock lit my skin back on fire. I swallowed, trying to gain some sort of control. I’d forgotten how sexy he could be when he was turned on.

  “Well, if you don’t unwrap me, then you can’t have your present,” I said.

  He just held me away from him, both arms straight out and me on the ends of his hands, like I was a painting he’d just found.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You just look gorgeous. Those boots...”

  He dropped his head and I looked where he was looking, down at the boots rising up my calves, at the contrast between the black leather and the pale skin.

  “You really like them?” I asked.

  In answer, he went down on his knees in front of me. I gave a second of thought to his poor knees on the wood floor, thought about reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he was yesterday, but then he put his mouth right at the edge of the boot, right where the leather met my skin. He licked, half leather, half skin, warm tongue and the slight scrape of teeth around the side of my calf. My goose bumps came back, pepper all the way up my legs, my back. Beneath the thin fabric of the dress, my nipples tightened. The only thing I could say was, “Oh.”

  He ran his hands up one boot, then the other, his palms over each ankle and shin and calf. I’ve never been much of a foot person—I find hips and chests and cocks and smiles sexier than feet—but there’s something about the way he caressed my skin through the leather. I could understand why people found it a turn-on.

  Then he went back to kissing the spots of skin right along the edge of the boots, right in the hollow at the back of my knee. With each kiss, he slid his hand a little farther up my thigh. When he reached my cunt, his fingers slid against it, then in, easy. “You’re so wet,” he said. He put his mouth to my belly, wiggled the ends of his fingers inside me until I shivered. “Thought this was supposed to be my birthday present.”

  “Sorry,” I said. But the way he said it, I knew he didn’t mind that I was enjoying it as much as he was.

  When he came up from his kneel, he slipped his fingers out and his cock inside me. He was fully hard, felt longer than usual, maybe it was the angle, and I moaned in surprise and pleasure as he made his way up. He thrust inside me, kissing my chin, my cheeks, the side of my nose, somewhere new, with each tip of his hips. In my boots, I was almost as tall as he was—I didn’t have to stand on my tiptoes to meet him, it was like he was lifting me up, balancing me on his cock.

  He slid out of me. “Let’s get on the bed,” he said. “I can’t see your boots from here.”

  He undressed fast, a kid with a present in front of him, unable to slow down. Then, he climbed on the bed, lay down on his back with his hands behind his head. I almost laughed—lying that way, he was all cock, the way it stuck up away from his body, that sweet curve toward his belly that I loved.

  I reached down, started to peel the boots down.

  “No, please,” he said. “Leave them on.”

  “What about the bedspread?”

  “Do I look like I care?” he asked.

  And gazing at him, lying there naked, cock up and waiting for me, I realized that I didn’t care either. I climbed onto the bed and straddled him, keeping the boots as close to his hips as I could, so he would feel the leather every time I moved. I found his cock with my hand and squatted over him, my thighs already starting to ache. But I didn’t care, it was worth it to feel him inside me like this.

  I slid myself slowly down over his cock, taking him in, little bit by little bit, loving the way his eyes closed and his mouth opened. He didn’t make much of a sound until I grabbed his shoulders, used the leverage to lift myself up and down on his cock. Then he moaned, his head back a little, and he reached out and grabbed the boots at the ankles. The feel of his hands through the leather made my cunt ache like it was empty even though he was already inside me.

  “Want to switch?” he asked after a few minutes. And I did, but I didn’t. My thighs burned from holding myself over him, but everything else was burning too, in a good way. Then I remembered, this was his birthday. Not mine.

  “Do you?” I asked. He pumped his hips up into me a few times, hard and quick, his eyes closed.

  “Let’s switch,” he said. “I need a condom anyway.”

  While he grabbed one from the dresser, I rolled over on the bed, so that when he turned back around I was all ass and boots. He didn’t even stop to put the condom on—just put his hands around the sides of my ass, slid himself back into me.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re killing me.”

  “Well, you’re old enough now to have an insurance policy, so maybe I am,” I said.

  Instead of responding, he thrust into me harder, which is what I knew he’d do. I leaned back into his thrusts. I love that position, the way his balls slap against me, the way he reaches around, like now, to find my nipples, tweak them.

  “Bitch,” he said, and he dropped his hand off my nipple and put his finger right on my clit.

  “Shit.” My voice was mostly breath and push, the sharp inhale of pleasure.

  After a second, he dropped his finger away and pulled out of me. I moaned, aching from lack. I heard the sound of the condom wrapper and felt him pushing back into me, different now, but just as hard, just as much him.

  And then he wrapped his hands around the ankles of the boots, lifted them up. For a second, it was like a new yoga pose—doggy-style with boots. But then my hips settled in, and I could push back into him. His hands tightened around my ankles with each thrust.

  “You’re going to have to get yourself off,” he said. At first I didn’t understand, but then I realized he meant because his hands were full. I went down on one shoulder, pushing my ass even further in the air, and reached down with one hand. My clit was huge and wet, and as soon as I touched it, it sent shivers through me. I felt kind of bad, because it was his birthday, and I was the one getting myself off.

  But then he said, “Go ahead,” and I realized it was good for him too, feeling me finger myself while he was inside me. I rubbed my clit hard while he fucked me, thought about him behind me, his hands tight around my ankles. I came before he did, but it was okay, because when he came, he came a long time, shuddering into me, dropping the boots and leaning over my back like he couldn’t hold himself up. His heart pounding against my back, matching the pumping of my own heart and clit.

  “Jesus,” he said against my back. “Jesus, Jesus.”

  I laughed, and gave him a bit of a shove so he’d start moving. He did, and I rolled over and pulled off the boots. He watched me from the bed, his cock still wrapped in the condom.

  “I’m not even going to ask where you found those
boots,” he said. I lay down beside him, our bodies only warmth and skin and sweat. “I had to trade my soul for them.”

  He snuggled up to my neck.

  “Hmm,” he said. “It was well worth it.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Happy birthday, baby.”

  When he laughed, I saw the new lines around his mouth too, little smile echoes.

  “Yes, it is.” Then he sighed. “This morning I felt old.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, not so much.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Plus,” he said, putting his hands into my hair, and kissing my chin, “you’re catching up. Next month, you’ll be as old as me. And, I have no idea what you’re going to ask for, but I highly doubt you can top those boots.”

  I rolled over and moved closer to him, so I could feel his heartbeat against my back again. I thought of the girl behind the counter, her short dark hair and playful eyes, the way she’d smiled when she’d wrapped up the boots. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something,” I said.

  LIPSTICK

  WAYNE WAS IN THE KITCHEN making coffee. “Listen,” he called in to me, “come to my place for dinner Saturday. I’ll make my specialty, linguine and clam sauce.”

  “Your specialty?” I called back. “It’s the only dish you know how to make. You should buy stock in Progresso.”

  “Don’t spend my money for me,” he said, laughing.

  “Why not?” I countered. “You know I’ll eat all your linguine.” After he left, I just wanted to stay in bed wrapped in the odors of sex that scented the sheets. I couldn’t believe my luck: a decent, zany, fuck wizard who wrote stories and plays, had a job, and knew how to cook. Also, he liked everything about me, even the way my tits had started to hang low on my chest. He savored them as if they were the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. He said their sexy swing turned him on.

  I had to go teach my writing class, so I forced myself to get up and dress. In the mirror above the bathroom sink I looked happy. I reached for my favorite lipstick in the makeup bowl on the shelf but it wasn’t there. The tube wasn’t beside the faucet on the sink or in the medicine cabinet. I returned to the bedroom and checked the purse I had been carrying the previous night. I looked among my jewelry on the dresser. It wasn’t anywhere, my twenty-dollar tube of Shiseido Strong Red. Rouge Formidable, it said on the label. The lipstick was gone, vanished!

  It was sacrilege for me to go out without lipstick, so I colored my lips with an old tube of Tangerine Tango that made me look like a refugee from a shuffleboard court in Miami, and then I went out the door.

  All week long, I searched for the Rouge Formidable. I was bereft without it. It was the perfect shade of red to bring out the gold in my brown eyes, the tawny olive tint of my skin. I always wore lipstick; I felt naked if I faced the world with none on.

  I can trace my love of lipstick to my mother. It was the only cosmetic she ever wore, and she was so beautiful, inside and out. When I was sixteen, she took me to the Woolworth’s to buy me my first lipstick. After trying on at least ten shades, we finally settled on a vibrant Petunia Pink. My mother bought it for ninety-nine cents. Then she showed me how to put it on, tracing the outline of my lips first and then filling in. She pulled a Kleenex from her purse, saying, “Always blot your lipstick, it locks in the color,” then handing the tissue to me. I followed her instructions. “Look at yourself now,” she said. In the mirror above the lipstick display, I looked stunning. I was no longer a geeky high school girl. I was a babe. I looked like a movie star, a glamorous femme fatale.

  Eventually, I found out there was much more to being a femme fatale than knowing how to paint my lips Petunia Pink. I learned that men like to be told how big and strong they are, and it helps if you can mix a good drink. I learned miraculous tricks with push-up bras and garter belts. Even more important, I discovered that discretion is the better part of fidelity, particularly since I didn’t like to sleep alone.

  I learned how very fundamental it is to know when to say yes and when to say no. This has always been the most difficult for me. I’ve found myself saying yes when I should say no so often, I’m not sure I could ever qualify as a bona fide femme fatale. But since I’ve been with Wayne, I don’t care. I feel safe.

  He never laughs at what I have to say. He loves my chatterbox ways. In bed he can be a combination of Yojimbo and Evel Knievel, yet it doesn’t seem to matter to him whether he isn’t always on top. When I want to take control, he just gives it up and gets into it. Last night, he stripped me in the kitchen, undressed himself, then led me to bed. He spanked my big bottom not all that lightly with my old Ping-Pong paddle from Camp Lokanda until my ass was throbbing and stinging and singing his name. Then, so as not to stress my tender butt, we fucked doggy-style. Afterward, we rested spoon-style—him curled up behind me, his arm over my shoulder, his hand cradling my breast.

  I was still feeling feisty, so I soon put my head between his legs. I washed his family jewels with my tongue and got him all wet and juicy. I started pulling on his fat, purple cock, but he didn’t complain. I slapped it and it reared right up like a bucking bronco so I slapped it again.

  “Hit me some more,” he said, and I did, more than once, but I didn’t want to spoil him, so I stopped. Holding that frisky bronc in my hand, I bent my head again and my tongue found its way to his tender back hole and fucked him there. Soon he was jerking his hips, moaning and calling my name. When I was ready to take him and break him, I pushed him back flat on the bed. I straddled his hips, hovered over his splendid organ, and then, taking him deep into my cunt all the way, I galloped that big horse home.

  By the time Saturday night came along, I still hadn’t found my lipstick. I found a tube of Revolution Ruby that would have to do, but it just wasn’t as bright as Rouge Formidable. I’d have to buy another tube. I set off for Wayne’s place in Williamsburg.

  I liked his apartment. Unlike mine, it was always sparkling clean. The walls were painted a rich gold. Ivy and red-and-white begonias flourished in pots on the windowsills.

  He answered the door so quickly I thought he must have been listening for my step on the stairs.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, and put his arm around me, pulling me inside. I handed him the Chianti I had brought. “Thanks,” he said, “Perfect choice,” then, “I’m still cooking. Let me pour you some of this to drink. “

  He led me into the kitchen. He uncorked the wine and poured some into a juice glass with little oranges on it. When he gave it to me, I kissed his hand “thank you” and went into the other room. I wandered over to his writing table. Through the window above the table I could see the low roofs of factories and industrial buildings topped by an occasional water tower.

  A stack of papers sat next to the computer. The first page was titled Satan’s Sex Change, the new play he was working on. He had told me about it and I was curious, but I didn’t want to look at it without being invited. Maybe he’d read part of it to me later. I sat down on his bed and kicked off my shoes, inadvertently knocking over the little wastebasket beside the bed. When I bent over to right it, the stink of cigarettes slapped me in the face. The only thing I didn’t like about him was that he was a heavy smoker.

  The butts in the basket were ringed with a bright, bright red. What is this? I thought—a visiting friend, a cousin, his mother? Whoever she is, she smokes his brand. I suddenly felt upset, but why shouldn’t he have a woman friend over? Was it any of my business? Still, the very first time he put his hand between my legs he yelled joyously, “Mine, mine, mine.”

  I had answered, “Okay, but it has to be reciprocal.” He assured me that would be fine.

  “Absolutely, no problem,” he said.

  So why were these butts in the wastebasket that was right next to the bed? Why weren’t they in the garbage pail under the sink in the kitchen? Who had smoked them down?

  My hands were suddenly clammy, my head ached. I was feeling crazy. How could he two-time me when it wa
s so good between us? I can’t bear sharing, I thought, but maybe it really was his mother. I’ll never know if I don’t ask.

  I put the glass of Chianti down on the floor beneath the bed and picked up one of the butts with the lipstick tattoo. Then I marched into the kitchen, holding it in front of me like a tiny sword. He was standing, humming “Lay, Lady, Lay” at the sink, rinsing the linguine in a colander.

  “Look,” I said, brandishing the butt in front of him, “there’s lipstick on this. If you’re seeing someone else, tell me straight out. I can’t stand deception, I can’t handle it.”

  He turned to me, and the humming stopped. His face paled, suddenly as white as the linguine in the colander.

  “It’s not that, no... it’s not w-wh—,” he stammered, “what you think.” He turned the water off, put the colander down.

  “So what is it, then?” I asked sharply.

  “I w-w-w-wanted to tell you, I was going to tell you, I knew I h-h-h-had to…” he stuttered.

  He looked so upset that my heart opened to him. I wanted to take him in my arms, but then I remembered how I’m always saying yes when I should be saying no. I made myself step back, but then he reached out and grabbed my wrist roughly. He pulled me with surprising force across the floor to his closet and jerked open the door. He reached into the back of the closet and pulled out an armful of garments—a bunch of dresses. He threw them on the bed. There was a large, long, chartreuse strapless evening dress—very dowdy; a few gaudy, flowered cotton house dresses; a beige silk shirtwaist dress with a full skirt. Then he stooped and gathered up some shoes from the bottom of the closet—big red suede pumps; black stiletto spiked heels; a pair of silver flats. He threw the shoes on top of the dresses.

  “See, see,” he bellowed, “I’m a transvestite! Now you know. I have to tell you, please believe me, I need to tell you I’m not gay, I don’t want to go with men.”

  For once, I was speechless. I had lost my voice in the black abyss yawning at my feet. I found myself thinking that the chartreuse evening dress was made of the cheapest, tackiest rayon and had too many pleats, and the floral patterns on the housedresses were ugly and overworked. As a transvestite, he had lousy taste.