Manties in a Twist

by J. A. Rock

  But I nodded. Smiled. “No problem. I know Ryan really wants to meet him, though.”

  Thing was, I didn’t even know if that was true. This was so weird. My friends were awesome. Ryan was awesome. So why the hell weren’t they gelling? How could I care so much about all of them and still not know how to make this work?

  “Oh, certainly,” Miles said. “I’m really looking forward to Ryan meeting the whole family.”

  Whole family. We were a family. Ryan was part of that family. My friends loved me. I loved them. Except I couldn’t pretend anymore that this Ryan-versus-my-friends thing didn’t exist. Dave thought Ryan was blunt, and Gould thought he was insensitive, and Miles didn’t want him to meet Zac yet, and all of them thought I’d rushed into this relationship without giving it any thought.

  I didn’t. I’m not stupid. I’m just not afraid of what I want.

  I mean, how long had Miles spent being all, Oh, I’m not good enough for Drix, or Oh, he has some miniscule flaw, so maybe I should break up with him?

  And that had been a waste of time, right? Because now his kid and Drix were BFF and Drix basically lived at Miles’s house, and they were in love as shit.

  So I don’t waste time trying to talk myself out of good things. That kinda makes me the smartest guy in this group.

  And if I wasn’t afraid of what I wanted, then I’d find a way to work through this. Because I wanted my friends and Ryan to get along. They’d liked each other before, and I was confident they could fall in love all over again if I just helped each party see the awesomeness of the other.

  So that was what was gonna happen.

  Even if I had to Parent Trap this shit.

  Friday, the clothes arrived while Ryan was at work. I tried really hard to ignore the packages. I wanted us to open them together.

  It was my day off, so I picked up my guitar and worked on my music. Stopped to text Ryan that I loved him more than the eleven-dimension multiverse. My plan was to gross my friends out less with my lovey-dovey shit, which meant I deserved to be extra nauseating when it was just me and Ryan.

  God, even my dad yesterday, when he and Ryan and I were having lunch, was like, “Didn’t waste any time, did you?” when we told him about moving in together.

  And Ryan was great, just like, “Why would I want to waste a single moment I could spend with Kamen?” Then he and my dad had started talking about lawn mower parts, and everything was cool. When Dad had left for the airport yesterday, he’d said, “You hang on to him.” Dad hadn’t told me anything about how his talk with Mom went.

  Ryan texted back: I LOVE YOU MORE THAN THAT. ALSO ERICA IS LISTENING TO NICKELBACK. O_o

  I grinned and messed around on the guitar some more.

  But it was like those boxes were fucking taunting me.

  It wouldn’t hurt to try the stuff on, would it? Just make sure it looked okay?

  I put the guitar aside and went over to the boxes, which I’d left by the door. Poked them with my toe.

  I picked up the first one and ripped it open. I pulled out a plastic-wrapped floral dress. Stared at it for a moment, then tore off the plastic and held up the dress, letting the folded skirt fall.

  It looked kinda, I don’t know, big in the boob area.

  I checked the invoice. Floral Swing Dress, 16.

  A swing dress. I didn’t know what made a swing dress a swing dress, but I was glad as fuck to have one because it was beautiful as a friggin’ spring day. The fabric was a little stiff, and it had some wrinkles where it had been folded. The waist had a bow on it, and the skirt was froofy, and the whole thing smelled like cardboard box.

  I set it down and opened the next package.

  Holy shit.

  It was like looking in a goddamn treasure chest. Four pairs of lace panties in various colors. A red lace bra. The garter belt was bright, like, teal—I guess?—with a tiny satin bow at the front. Satin ribbons dangled from it, little silver clips attached to the ends. The stockings were, according to the packing slip, sheer thigh highs with lace stay-up silicone tops. Whatever that meant. I stretched one over my hand. Then I made it be a puppet for a minute. It talked to the well-dressed hare in a high-pitched voice, and I stopped to make a note on my phone that Stockie & Hare could be a children’s crime-fighting duo.

  Then I went to my room and got naked.

  I tried on the garter belt in front of the mirror. It looked really nice. I mean, you could see my pubes all around the sides, and also through the lace, plus, like, my dick and balls were making it bulge. But I liked that. I put on the stockings, but I ripped the first one because I kinda fell over while I was standing on one leg trying to stuff my foot in. So that one was pretty bedraggled once it was on. But the second one I got the idea to scrunch it up first and then put my foot in, and that worked a lot better. Except my big toe poked a hole in the end of it.

  It took me a solid twenty minutes to hook all the little dangle-ribbons to the stockings, but once I did, I looked in the mirror again and started getting pretty turned on. Like, who invented this shit? Who was like, You know what’s gonna make people want to get nasty? Some lacy underwear attached with ribbons to what are basically tall flimsy socks?

  I would shake that fucker’s hand.

  Swing dress next. It fit a little weird, since there was a ton of space for boobs and I didn’t have boobs. But it looked amazing at the waist. Maybe I should have put the bra on. I turned to the side, rocking my hips back and forth to watch the skirt sway. Then I started twisting from side to side to make it billow. I tried to make it fly up enough to get a glimpse of the garter belt, but then I got dizzy, so I stopped.

  I needed heels. Did they make heels big enough for me? They had to, because drag queens. And I still wasn’t sure about makeup, because I for shizzballs did not have the face for it. Dave? Yes. Ricky? He’d look like a goddess. Me? It might be the stuff of nightmares, on account of I could shave and have basically a full beard fifteen minutes later. But it was worth a try.

  And a wig? I studied my reflection. Eh. There was something kind of exciting about my short hair and stubble and the gun show you couldn’t even get tickets to because that shit was sold out—and then a floral swing dress and stockings.

  I unzipped the dress and pulled the top part down. Put the bra straps over my shoulders, then reached around to the back to hook the bra.

  It did not go well. Finally, it occurred to me I could leave the straps off my shoulders, hook the bra at my chest, then slide it around so the boobs part was up front. Then put the straps on.

  The bra actually looked fucking fantastic, because it was padded, so it wasn’t, like, sagging empty cups. And I had enough definition between my pecs that it almost looked like cleavage.

  “I’m fucking hot,” I said to the mirror. I pulled the top of the dress back up and zipped it. Way better in the chest area. I grabbed my fake boobs and honked them a little. Awesome.

  I walked out to the living room. Walking in the dress was amazing because of how the skirt swished. And how I felt, like, weirdly naked between my legs. And the stockings were great too, because each step I took pulled on the belt, and the lace rubbed my dick, and all was pretty much right with the world.

  I wasn’t sure what to do now. Ryan wouldn’t be home for another two hours, but I really wanted him to see this. I could text him pics, but he needed to see it in person. I was definitely working my way up to a boner, and I tried reaching under my dress to feel myself up, which was awesome, except that I needed Ryan to be the first one to make me come in this outfit.

  I looked around the room. Lifted my skirt and flashed the well-dressed hare. Then I picked up my guitar.

  I took a deep breath. “Pretend I’m an actress. In, like, the 1930s. And I’m auditioning for you.”

  I was standing in the living room, shifting giddily. Ryan was sitting on the couch, just staring at me, chewing a nail. His pupils were gigantoid, and he kept kind of ducking his head like he was trying to see under my skirt.
I wished I had heels.

  I slung my guitar over my shoulder. “Got it?”

  “I’m a director?”

  “Yeah. And I really want this part. And you, like, call me doll and stuff. Don’t call me dirty things. Not at first.”

  He nodded, looking stunned and a little nervous. I’d basically accosted him when he’d gotten home from work. I’d tried a lot of different positions before he’d arrived—draped on the couch with my legs open, sitting on the arm of the couch with my legs crossed. Posing in the doorway with an arm over my head. I couldn’t find anything that felt sexy enough, so I’d been standing all deer-in-the-headlights in the middle of the room when he’d come in.

  He scooted back slightly. “Whatever’s about to happen, I’m looking forward to it.”

  My heart pounded. “Me too. First we need to do some dialogue. So pretend I just came into your audition room.” I backed up to the doorway and entered the room, trying to swing my hips.

  “What do I say?”

  “Whatever. Director stuff.”

  I turned and walked back to the door, then entered again.

  He cleared his throat into his fist. Crossed his legs. “Hey there, uh . . . doll.”

  “Hello!” My voice was so high-pitched it sounded ridiculous. “Wait, wait,” I said in my normal tone. “That voice is stupid. Let me try again.”

  “Okay. Hey there, doll.”

  “Hello.” I said it in my own voice, but a little softer.

  “What’s your name?”

  I hadn’t even thought about that. “Um . . . Tracy?”

  He grinned. “You don’t sound too sure, babe.”

  The “babe” was good.

  I looked at my feet in their ripped stockings and sighed exaggeratedly. “My real name’s Kate. I just thought Tracy might be a good stage name.”

  “It’s gorgeous. Just like you.”

  I actually fucking blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler.”

  “You been onstage before, Tracy?”

  “Once. I was a backup dancer. In a Broadway show.”

  “Oh yeah? Which show?”

  “Uh . . . Wicked?”

  He laughed. “This is 1936.”

  I made a face at him and switched to my normal voice. “I don’t know any Broadway shows from 1936.”

  “Okay, okay, Tracy. You’ve got an impressive résumé. And you look like a star. Now I just need to see what you can do.”

  “Thank you.” My hands were sweating so bad I didn’t even know if I could play the guitar. Why was a fake audition for my boyfriend making me so nervous?

  Ryan clasped his knee. “What’ve you got for me today?”

  I shifted, the lace of my garter belt rubbing my balls, straining as my dick hardened. “I’m gonna sing. And dance.”

  He was checking out my skirt again. Pervert. “Okay.”

  I smiled. “I think you’re really gonna like it.”

  I cocked my hips and started strumming. Hit one bad chord, but hey, I’d only written this song like two hours ago. I went back and gave it another go. Nodded, satisfied, when I got it right. I looked straight into Ryan’s eyes and started singing.

  “I . . . want . . . this part.

  “I want this part.” I looked at his crotch.

  “I need this part,

  “Need it real bad, honey.

  “Don’t care about the fame

  “Or the fans or the money,

  “I just want a chance

  “To show off for you.

  “This is the part

  “I was born to do.”

  I walked up to him, swinging my hips and banging out the chords pretty aggressively now. He was trying real hard not to laugh. I hiked one leg up onto the couch.

  “So put your part in my mouth.

  “Yeah put your part up my ass.

  “I dunno how to act,

  “Need a ma-aster class.

  “No other part’s gonna do,

  “I need to get this from you.

  “Let me sit on your part,

  “Yeah let me sit on your paaart . . .”

  I stopped. “Quick, flip the lights on and off real fast!”

  “What?”

  “Please, just do it for a minute. It’s important.”

  He got up, went to the light switch, and flipped it up and down rapidly.

  I strummed furiously.

  “You put a guitar solo in a striptease?”

  I nodded. “Keep flipping the lights.”

  I fucked up the end of the solo a little, but whatever. He went back to the couch.

  “Key change!” I shouted, and shifted up a half step.

  “So rub your part on my face,

  “Put your part up my butt,

  “I’m your sweet little girl,

  “I’m your big sexy slut.

  “Stick your part down my throat,

  “Yeah, I’m ready for you,

  “Now give me this part that

  “I was boooo-oooorn to do!”

  I tossed the guitar aside and straddled his lap. My bra strap slid down my shoulders and my skirt rucked up around my hips. He grabbed my waist and kissed me, and I scooted back so his knee was all jammed against my lace-covered dick and balls.

  “I am so gonna give you this part,” he whispered, still kissing me.

  I laughed and yanked his hand under my skirt. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to grope someone in a skirt. Like, why the fuck did dudes not wear dresses? If I had a dime for every time some guy tried to grab my crotch and ended up with just a handful of jeans, I could probably buy another freaking juicer.

  He unclipped one of the garters, and I forgot how to breathe for a sec. He slapped the other side of my thigh, then undid another clip, then another. The stockings strained at the last connected points. I wanted to stay right fucking there. In that moment where my stockings were only connected by one ribbon each, and I could feel the pull on the fabric and the heat in my groin and his hand against my leg.

  He undid the last clip on one side, and the stocking slipped down to my knee. He left the other one connected, and he stuck his hand down the back of my garter belt, his warm palm sliding in circles over my ass.

  I started rocking against his hand, my dick straining the lace. He smiled at me, and I laughed, grinding harder on his hand. “We should get the clappy lights so I can clap them on and off when I need strobes.”

  “You think we should get clap lights just so you can do your stripper routine?” He traced a light line with his fingertip down one ass cheek.

  “It’s an audition.” I kicked at his leg with my stockinged foot. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “Really? What kind of girl are you?”

  I laughed. “Mmm.”

  “What kind?” He played with the last clip.

  I closed my eyes with a soft gasp as he moved his hand back to my balls. “Your kind.”

  “Then why don’t you get on all fours so we can finish your audition?”

  I groaned, still trying to rub against his hand, but he let me go.

  “Come on.”

  I slid off his lap and got on my hands and knees on the couch.

  “Stay right there.” He stood and went to the bedroom. Came back a moment later and jumped on the couch behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder at him and grinned. “I thought I already had the part.”

  He stroked my ass through the skirt. “I need to make sure you’re right for it.”

  I faced forward and bowed my head as he ran his palms up the backs of my thighs, teasing the skirt higher. I shivered. He let it fall and leaned farther down to kiss the back of my bare thigh. My breathing roughened as he trailed his tongue upward, his head pushing my skirt up again. His stubble scratched the base of my ass cheek, and I got goose bumps all over. I arched my shoulders and dipped my head lower, my mouth falling open.

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say or do. I hardly even felt like we were playing anymore. I got
my nose as close as I could to the front of the dress and inhaled. Got the cardboard smell, plus a hint of sweat and deodorant and balls.

  He kissed the edge of the garter belt. Bit it and tugged with his teeth. I tucked my hips under me, then released, pushing my ass up and out. He licked under the belt. Let go.

  Next thing I knew, his fingers were sliding along the waistband, pulling the belt slowly down. When he finally let it drop to my knees, one stocking stayed up, stuck around my thigh by sweat or me having huge thighs or something. He had to roll it down, and swear to God, I almost came from that.

  My dick and balls were just hanging there under my skirt, and I would have given him pretty much a million dollars to touch them, but he came up with better stuff. He reached around and grabbed handfuls of the front of the dress and the padded bra cups and squeezed, pulling me back against him so I could feel his boner through my skirt. I jerked my head up and gasped, and had this sudden vision of myself with soft, curly blond hair and a feminine face, and makeup. Breasts nearly spilling out of my bra, shaved legs. Another second and the image was gone. He ran his hands down the front of the dress. Slowly raised the bra strap that had slid down my left shoulder, and put it back in its place. Then he lifted my skirt and tossed it up over my shoulders.

  I was seriously convinced dresses were magic. How could a piece of clothing feel so beautiful and classy and dirty at the same time? Like it was fucking made for . . . access?

  He kissed my hip. Made a trail of kisses down to my thigh and across the underside of my cheek, and then started lapping the skin behind my balls. Over and over, pushing at it with his tongue, making circles, sliding up almost to my hole. Just that area, until it started to lose sensitivity, until I was going wild wanting him to touch me somewhere else. Then he stopped and straightened. I listened to him open the condom, then the lube. It took a minute, but he got his dick stuffed all up in dat ass. I was in some sort of haze, my head drooping, my breath harsh and backed by these little high-pitched moans.