by Alan Cumyn
“No,” he says, barely.
“Is this a power thing?” you ask him. “Are you one of those CEO types who gets tired of so much responsibility, you really want to give over power to someone else for a while? It feels so wonderful to sublimate, to hand yourself over?”
It’s as if he hasn’t understood; he is still so soaked, so molten.
“I’ll tell you for myself,” you say, because clarity is for sharing. It isn’t, can’t be, all one-sided. “I love this feeling of power. I love it when you give me control like this. But I want you to tell me, I need you to share: is it the sublimation? Or is it risk-taking, is that what stirs you? Breaking taboos?”
He’s sniffing an interview so you run your hands lightly up his silken leg, tickle his spandex middle. “You need to tell me,” you whisper. “I need to understand.” Because it’s a sharing. “Please,” and you kiss his lips, lick lightly, to taste him but not disturb the artwork.
“No,” he says, eyes closed, and you wait. His thoughts are moving at a different speed now, are travelling along new corridors. So you must wait.
“It isn’t power,” he says finally. “It isn’t … risk-taking.” His voice candid, calm, subdued. “It isn’t even that I want to become a woman. It’s more this sense …,” and he searches for the word. You know it already, want to say it for him, but wait. You cannot put the words in his mouth.
“… of transcendence,” he says finally. “That is the most erotic thing for me. To move beyond, completely outside my usual life. To be someone else, in fact, absolutely different. Just for a while.”
And then there are no words. It’s enough, you think. The moment is so full there is no more room for words. You pull out the red leather dress. It’s not so different, in a way, from the red bathing suit of so many years ago. You can feel that, since you are becoming him, he doesn’t have to say it. And he doesn’t need help stepping into it. It’s tight around the hips … but yes, it’s fine. His spirit was already in you when you were shopping, the boundaries had already begun to melt. He smoothes the waist into place, and you help him with the pull-straps in the back. They’re a bit like on the old-fashioned corsets, when ladies would need a maid or a sister to help them tighten the laces. He wants them tight, that’s why you bought it, though you didn’t consciously think of it at the time. His spirit in you recognized what he wanted. So you pull and you pull, you place your foot on his buttocks and you pull harder, and then when he’s perfect you fix the knots so that they won’t slip.
“Oh, my God, you are so lovely,” you say, and out with the camera again. He loves it. This is it, the Mariana moment, it’s going to echo erotically through the rest of his life.
And then, disappointment. There is a smudge in everything, that’s the way of life in this reality. You’ve forgotten the shoes. They were right there in your room by the door. They wouldn’t quite fit in the pack, so you were going to put them in a separate bag. You looked for the bag, and then Ricky needed attention, she was getting brittle. She needed stroking, and time played its tricks, fast-forwarded the hour until you were running out of the residence, praying you wouldn’t miss out completely.
And you left the shoes by the door.
So you say, “I have to go get one more thing. I’m so sorry. I will be back in fifteen minutes. Will you wait? Will you keep the door locked and wait?”
Will he wait? Absolutely. He’ll wait across decades for you. The look on his face says it all.
“I’ll knock three times, and then twice more,” you say. “Don’t open up for anyone else.” And you would kiss him again but you want it all clear, no smudginess, you want everything to stay this exquisite for as long as it can.
You take your pack and the camera, step out and away. The halls are empty. It’s turned into late afternoon already. You’re hungry, suddenly, and so tired, the clarity drains so suddenly, it’s heartbreaking, you can feel it leaving your mind and body as you step away from the professor’s door, like shedding a skin or leaving your coat behind. It’s so cold, you walk faster, but you know it’s no good. Nothing will help. The faster you walk the faster it drains away. Everything’s cold now, your brain is cold, your heart and lungs and legs and toes, cold, cold. There was no transcendence. It was fake, a show, so stupid to take a whole tablet without eating. The inside of your skin feels scratchy, like thin, dried-out paper. Hurry, hurry, but the faster you go the worse it feels. Your stomach is now roiling and the edges of your vision are blurry, the faster you go the muddier it all seems.
28
Bob stood still in his office, tingling from the red dress, from the wig and stockings, poised, listening to the passage of time. He was leaning against his desk, looking at the closed door, waiting for Sienna to return. It was suspended time. It felt like a hiatus. He thought precisely of the definition – a break between two vowels coming together but not in the same syllable – and then more generally of a pause, of being left in suspended animation. He didn’t want to switch his phone back on. He didn’t want to turn on his computer and check his e-mails. He absolutely did not want to look at the Poe story assignment he had foisted on his class. He wanted nothing to take him out of the present fantasy, to remind him of his other, parallel reality.
Besides, he couldn’t sit down. The dress was too tight; he would have had to hold his breath, suck in his gut unbearably.
But this was bearable. Standing in a red leather dress, leaning against his desk, waiting for Sienna to return. She wanted him to remember this afternoon forever. He felt like he couldn’t possibly do anything else, that life had changed course irrevocably, that nothing else would make any mark on him the way this had. And he was still in the moment, in the middle, in hiatus, waiting. He waited while his feet began to grow cold from lack of circulation, so he walked around for just a few minutes, back and forth, being careful not to catch his stockings on the cold floor. He walked until his head began to feel light, probably also from lack of circulation, and then he stopped again and leaned back against the desk and looked at his watch. Six thirty-eight. Was that possible? He didn’t know how long Sienna had been gone, but it probably wasn’t more than twenty minutes. She said she’d be back in fifteen, so there was no sense in panicking. A lady is allowed to be late.
Then someone knocked and he froze. He went silently to the door, waited, hoping. “Bob, are you there?” It was Helen, the departmental secretary. She knocked again, then went away.
Six thirty-nine. Julia would soon be wondering where he was. She might have been the one who called earlier, and perhaps she’d tried Helen after that. She knew he had only the one class on Mondays. Probably he should phone and tell her he was eating out with some of the grad students, trying to plan the work schedule for the next term. He put his hand to the phone but dreaded the task. Julia wasn’t part of this world, this experience. It would spoil things somehow. So he didn’t call.
Six forty-five. Bob stared at his watch. His feet were very cold now. He walked some more, but the tiles made him even colder; he couldn’t bring himself to pull on his old socks, much less his shoes. He was starting to get a cramp in his side from so much shallow breathing, and he felt even more lightheaded, like he would after a long day of wearing his tie too tight. He needed to get out of these clothes. They were wonderful, but now it was time.
How long had Sienna been gone? Perhaps half an hour by now. That really was unusual. Something had happened to her. He didn’t want to rush away, yet he couldn’t wait forever. He just needed her to unstrap him, free him from this red leather dress, which was cutting into his back now. He could feel his muscles cringing in protest.
One thousand, three hundred and six dollars, and twenty-seven cents. That’s how much this outfit had cost him. It really was outrageous; he wasn’t sure how he was going to hide the expense from Julia, since they had a joint account and she examined the monthly statements closely. It was about the only thing she looked at closely these days.
At seven o’clock
Bob looked up Sienna’s number in the directory of students. The phone rang and rang and then Sienna picked up.
“Hello. Hi!” Bob said, breathlessly. “It’s me.”
“Who’s me?” Sienna barked, and it was so rude, so unexpected that Bob didn’t know what to say. He hung up, then looked at the directory again. Probably he’d dialled the wrong number. He tried again. This time the phone was picked up on the first ring and Sienna growled, “It’s you again!”
It wasn’t Sienna. Of course it wasn’t. Bob remembered now, she had a roommate. So Bob said, “May I please speak to Sienna?”
“She’s sick right now,” the roommate said. “Sorry.” And then the line went dead.
Bob put the phone down and considered his position. He didn’t panic. How could she have fallen ill so swiftly? It didn’t make sense. Yet in a way he felt calmer, knowing that Sienna would not be coming back. At least she hadn’t abandoned him; there was an explanation for her tardiness. He hiked the dress up to his waist but it went no further; he was stuck solid. He reached around behind and tried to grasp the knots of the laces, but his flexibility was limited on the best of days; he felt especially wooden now, strapped in so mercilessly. He couldn’t reach anything, could barely touch his sides, and certainly couldn’t extend his fingers behind his shoulders or to the middle of his back. He spun in his office trying to catch the laces like a dog chasing his own tail.
He tried to wrench the dress around his middle so that the laces would be in front of him but it felt welded in place. He lay down on his back, rocking like an upset turtle, then stood and leaned against the wall, writhing and groaning. He rubbed violently up and down against the bookshelves to try to loosen the dress. But nothing worked. It was sturdy leather and the laces were like steel. Sienna had obviously spared no expense, had bought only the finest materials.
By eight o’clock his silk stockings were in runs. He’d taken off his black satin French-lace panties and the wig lay abandoned on the cold floor by his desk. He was sweating like a desperate amateur escape artist. The dress was bunched around his waist and partly off his shoulder, but he was nowhere near free, and he admitted it to himself. He reached for the black-handled aluminum scissors on his desk. It broke his heart, but enough was enough. It’s only money, he thought. He took the hem of the dress, opened the blades. The hem was thick, and the scissors quite dull, they were only made for cutting paper. But he persisted. He worked the handles back and forth, squeezed as hard as he could; then the rivet between the blades gave way and the scissors clattered to the floor in two pieces.
Bob looked at them helplessly, blinked several times, waited, vainly hoping that his eyes were deceiving him. But the scissors really were broken. He picked up one blade and tried sawing through the material, but the blade now felt duller, more useless than a butter knife. He threw it away in disgust, took the seam in his hands and pulled as hard as he could, grunted enormously, swore when his shin shot out and caught the underside of the desk. The seam held. He could feel the dress now like a living opponent, a python squeezing him tighter the more he struggled. The room started to go fuzzy. He wasn’t getting enough air. He tried one last time to rend the seam but it was a joke now, his fingers were feeble, he felt as if he couldn’t even tear the cardboard cover off a notebook.
I’m going to die here, he thought. The dress is strangling me and the janitor is going to open the door in three days and find me cold and blue in these ridiculous clothes.
He pulled open his desk drawer, took out his bottle, drank down three gulps, which helped enormously. He looked at the bottle with interest. Of course! He could smash off the neck, use the jagged glass to cut himself to freedom! But the bottle was still half-full; it would make a terrible mess. He would have to finish it first or else pour the Scotch out the window.
No, he wasn’t that desperate. He put the bottle back in his drawer, closed it, and tried to order his thoughts calmly, clearly. He needed to return home and get a proper pair of German scissors, which he knew to be on his workbench in the basement. Then he’d cut himself out of this unlikely straitjacket. It was evening, the halls were silent; he could put on his regular clothes over the dress and drive home and, if luck was with him, if there was a God, then he would be all right.
At some point he would still have to come up with an explanation for why he had no body hair, but with skill and some luck that could be postponed, perhaps even long enough for his regular hair to grow back. Then he thought of his face: almost mask-hard now with thick make-up. He’d never be able to wipe it off properly in his office. It would take soap and water and reams of paper towels, a mirror to make sure no traces were left. With horror he realized that he’d have to leave his office to go to a washroom to deal with his face.
Much better to have another drink. To finish the bottle, smash it, cut himself out! He opened the drawer and drank down what he could, paused, poured himself another glass. Steadily, carefully. He could imagine the janitor running into the room when he heard the sound of smashing glass. He could imagine Scotch being spilled, running all over the floor, and just try to explain that, Professor Sterling; and by the way, why are you in a red leather dress with black stockings?
This being a female even for a few hours was head-bangingly complex, was beyond him, in fact, he realized it now. How stupid he’d been!
There was only one thing for it – the men’s room was down a flight, so he would have to try the ladies’. The department would be deserted this time of day, except possibly for the janitor or Barbara Law, the young twentieth-century specialist who often worked late, trying to reach tenure. Only the very worst of luck would see either one in the hall or the washroom this particular moment. He straightened out the dress, rearranged his stockings, re-donned the panties and wig, pulled the long black curls over his face as much as he could. He could claim it was a costume party. Of course. A pre-Hallowe’en affair. If worse came to worst there was always an explanation.
But as soon as he put his hand on the doorknob he heard brisk, short, noisy steps in the hall. They passed within a few feet of his door and his heart sounded throughout the building. How could it not be heard? He didn’t know, but the steps didn’t slow down, they hurried past. Bob waited, barely breathing, while the noise subsided. He heard the sound of a heavy door in the distance, opening and closing. He waited.
Then in a fury of sudden will he ripped open the door and fled down the hall. He moved so quickly he actually passed the ladies’ room by two strides, had to slide to a stop in his stockinged feet, turn around, slam open the door and lunge inside. He’d kept his eyes down, wasn’t certain at all whether there had been anyone watching. But the ladies’ room was empty, of course it was. Spinningly empty. He had to wait precious moments while his head cleared, then he searched briefly for a lock on the door, found none, ran to the nearest sink and turned on the water. Suddenly he realized that he’d forgotten to bring his male clothes. He was going to have to clean up and return to his office to become Bob again. He splashed water onto his face wildly, lathered and scrubbed in a panic, grabbed several paper towels and wiped himself off, looked at his reflection just long enough to check that his face was clear. It was still long enough to see that he was hideous: a fat, aging man in a leather dress, a horrible wig, torn stockings. He couldn’t be more ludicrous if he tried.
In seconds, taking no time to think, to listen at the door, to worry or wonder or plan, he finished, then plunged back into the hall and tore back to his room.
He looked up just before reaching the door. He had a sense of being alone in the hall, felt the beginnings of relief. He was a little dizzy but not out of control. He wasn’t going to run right past the target again. He slowed appropriately. It was going to be all right. His hand reached the knob, and then his heart sank. For a moment he felt as if he might expire right there, because in his panic and stupidity he’d locked himself out of his office. He tried the knob again. It didn’t seem possible, and yet he knew at the s
ame time it was absolutely possible, it was practically predictable, in his state, with his luck. If only he hadn’t panicked! If only he’d brought his male clothes with him to the ladies’ room – his office key was in his pocket. If only he hadn’t let Sienna go, if only he hadn’t been such an idiot in the first place, if only, if only …
If only he weren’t dithering in the English-department corridor wearing a red leather dress, torn stockings, and a hideous wig! With a prodigious effort he rattled the door, threw his considerable weight against it, again and again, as if this were a movie and the door made of cardboard meant to look like wood. But it was solid, his shoulder was getting sore. He roared in anguish then, a terrible, unearthly cry that resounded through the wing. As soon as he uttered it he felt washed in regret, in the suffocating certainty that everything he did now was a mistake. He tried to think clearly but it was no use. Panic had brought him this far and he had nothing left with which to combat it. Before he knew what he was doing, he was running, his feet slipping on the cold, institutional tiles like a dog running on ice. He passed Barbara Law’s office and too late realized her door was open. She was sitting at her desk, hunched over a book, classical music playing on a tiny radio, her face lit by the desk light. She looked up to see him. He just had time to see her face go from a warm, expectant smile to a perplexed squint, and then he was past, through the hall doors, flying down the stairs two and three at a time. It was mad, wildly dangerous; he had no footing, could have fallen half a dozen times and cracked his skull. But he couldn’t stop himself. He could barely breathe and yet he ran like a landslide was behind him. He tore outside into the cold, sobering night air, his feet getting pricked on sharp pebbles.
He had no chance, he knew it, and yet he wasn’t done yet, all wasn’t lost. Quite possibly Barbara Law hadn’t recognized him. No one was standing by the doors outside. He didn’t know where he was running, but his body knew to take him to the little-used west entrance, to the dark side of the parking lot. And he was lucky. No one was there. He didn’t even realize until he arrived that he was searching for his car. But then it made sense, and he found it, his beautiful little black Porsche. He grabbed for the nearest door, the passenger side, but it was locked … as he knew it must be, obsessive as he was protecting his Porsche. He felt the earth closing in around him. There was one last, faint hope, the driver’s-side door. It seemed pointless even to try it. Yet, unbelievably, it was unlocked! In his eagerness to get to class, to that class in particular, he’d left his Porsche unsecured. His stupidities were cancelling each other out! He flashed inside, slammed the door shut, very nearly began weeping on the steering wheel in gratitude.
