Paul doesn't know it now, but he's going to be in my band. I was in LA for no really good reason, and for a couple of days I dropped in on him. He commented on how out of control my hair was getting. The last time he'd seen it, it was eight months shorter and bleach-blonde... it had migrated from A Flock of Seagulls well into Sigue Sigue Sputnik territory, dyed a bright red. Paul's fingernails, his most distinctive feature, had gotten even longer, almost to freaky secretary claw length, and today they were a luminous green, drawing the eye.
We went to the mall and had a Cinnabon. Everybody else had one because they wanted to be just like us.
In Hot Topic we found a piece of pseudo-bondage fashion called a 'cyberdress.' Basically it was a black PVC jumper with numerous steel buckles and straps, with a vaguely Egyptian scapular around the throat and shoulders. By Lip Service, fashion for wannabee rock stars (Ashy has several of their pieces). Half-price. I'm not the skirt-wearing type so it didn't call to me, but Paul had his eye on it. It is a dress with only one purpose, to get its wearer laid. It's the kind of dress most appropriately found on the floor of a cheap hotel room at 2 in the morning.
There's a long alley behind Paul's apartment building, at the end of which is a small grocery store. On the way back, we were several yards down the alley when a guy behind us called "Hey, you!" His voice had a desperate edge, as though he would soon vomit upon himself. I sensed that he was speaking to me-- I suppose I'm inclined to think everybody is talking to me --apprehension was replaced by amusement.
"Hey, you in the red! I wanna doooo you!"
He thought we were girls; I guess Paul and I look pretty fine from behind. That or he was too drunk to see clearly. I glanced over my shoulder to see the guy swaying out in front of the grocery store. He was wearing a check shirt and a sleazy mustache.
In a decidedly masculine voice I replied "Be my guest." Paul and I kept walking, chased by the startled silence of the man, until a burst of evil laughter escaped me, echoing off the surrounding walls. Then Paul and I went home and blew each other.
I would have been content to just kiss him for a while, since I really enjoyed kissing, but it always seemed to be forgotten whenever I messed around with someone. I was playing with Paul's long, dark hair and moved in to kiss him... he was flicking his tongue a little too much but I began to coax him out of this, when he took his shirt off. Not wanting to be left out, I took off mine, too. We held each other for a few seconds more, and then he walked past me to his bedroom, undressing. Oh, fine, we'll have sex.
He stepped out of his clothes, I slid out of mine, and we stretched out in opposite directions on the bed. This is the optimal dick-sucking arrangement. Paul said 'Here goes' or something to that effect, and slid his mouth down over me. I stayed hard for a while from the kissing, but soon became 'distracted,' as I like to call it, and softened. I was getting laid on average once every three years and every time I fucked somebody it was like being a virgin again. I distracted myself even more by maneuvering a little and sucking him, too. He's not as long as I am but plenty thick, and as far as I'm concerned that's all that matters when being fucked. You're really only using that last inch or two anyway. This was also the first sixty-nine I've been in, for those keeping score.
With some experimentation and observation, I found a spot just behind his cockhead which made him yelp when I ground my tongue against it. No wonder fundamentalists don't like science... if they gave more head they'd understand its usefulness. It seemed like I'd bring Paul off, but not quite.
Afterward he told me he'd never sucked cock before... I suppose I knew this already but it wasn't foremost in my mind. For somebody who'd never done it he was pretty good, but I suppose everyone's instinctively a skilled cocksucker. Try to imagine everybody you encounter in a typical day as they'd look while giving head. Or don't... that road leads to madness. Along with his actual skill, the enthusiasm he showed excited me; he had this expression of blissful intensity as he slurped me into his mouth, his lips stretched around my fat prick, as though this was exactly where he wanted to be. As always, I like to help.
He concurred with my opinion that dick doesn't taste like dick. There's that vague hand-lotion flavor of the precome, more of a sensation than a taste, but that's not the dick itself. Your opinion may vary. Perhaps we're too hygienic and girly to stink like men.
I wasn't suffused with the respectful awe one should have when being somebody's first time. It's difficult for me to imagine having initiated him into anything when he's clearly so much brighter than I am.
After a couple of hours of cocksucking and kidding around we finally forced ourselves to get dressed and go get food. I've come to believe that the normal order of events in a date-- having dinner and a movie, then maybe sex --is foolish. Better to fuck immediately, then go have dinner, thereby eliminating all the nervousness and tension that ruins an otherwise pleasant outing. I was pleased to discover it had become chilly enough to require a jacket... I loathe hot weather and it was nice to have that of southern California bend to my will while I was there. As we walked up the sidewalk towards Ralph's, talking, we saw this guy in a check shirt coming the other way.
"Is that the same guy?" I asked.
"I think it is," Paul said back.
"So are you two gay?" he said, as though there'd been no interval since our previous exchange. We gave vague, slightly snide replies. He was embarrassed at his earlier mistake and was putting the blame on us... it wasn't that he was drunk, it was that we were queer. We had used our homosexual wiles to confuse him. The fact that we'd just had each other's cock in our mouths was quite irrelevant. "Oh, I get it, you two are a couple."
"Yeah, a couple of something," I said, smirking. He asked us if we wanted to get high. We thanked him but declined, and continued to the supermarket.
Paul eats absolutely nothing but either pizza or macaroni and cheese. Anything else he may ingest is a statistical anomaly. So we got pizza-building materials. Crust, cheese, and some cheese sticks and snack mix for me. I was a little thirsty so I sipped about half of a store-brand coffee drink before putting it back on the shelf. I'd done that with the green Hawaiian Punch a few nights previous, and that had sucked, but the mocha was pretty tasty, I must admit. The checkout lane hosted one of the annoying advertising spigots Paul had warned me about. Every lane has a flat-screen monitor blaring non-stop commercials to a captive audience. Paul has vowed never to buy anything which happens to be advertised on them. He tossed his jacket over ours, which seemed to incense the people around us who were in its thrall.
After pizza we talked about stuff a while more, and I played him a track that Hatch and I had recorded a few nights earlier while I was extremely drunk. On it Hatch was DJing and I was reading selections from a booklet about stainless-steel flatware... Hatch scratched the same sample at me again and again until I threatened to put the mic stand through his head and finally just fell on the floor laughing.
We went to bed. In the dark our conversation crossed several subjects, interrupted periodically by Paul diving under the covers and sucking me. His online persona had a penchant for giving head, and he'd suspected he would enjoy it in real life. I just wished I could get harder for him. Was it because he was a guy and I was more physically attracted to girls? Was I nervous? Or was I just so hooked on my own crude, apocalyptic, nigh-illegal fantasies that a good honest American dick-sucking did little to get me off? I felt like I was letting him down. He teased me enough about it that I mostly snickered and didn't obsess over it much.
Paul and I have decided that the worst possible music to have sex to is German beer-drinking music. We envisioned a bad porn movie called 'Cocktoberfest,' set in a Bavarian biergarten, the dialogue all in German, everybody shirtless and wearing crotchless lederhosen, sprawled on picnic tables among steins of beer and fat, suggestive sausages, with a nude German 'oompah' band playing in the background. Smear the mustard. If any screenwriting agents are reading this, I reserve all rights and will happily float you a precis of the script. Oh, wait, I just did.
I woke up very late the next day, like 3:30 in the afternoon. Paul was at work. After messing around online I showered and got dressed and went out. There was a really good makeup store nearby and I wanted to search it for the elusive bright green and blue lipstick. I found the place stocked things like stage blood and theatrical makeup as well as the usual fashion supplies. Carl's Jr. beckoned to me but I resisted so that Paul and I could dine together.
When he got home, Paul was pleased to inform me that his employers had actually paid him this week, and that this called, under rather specious grounds, for a reward. This was to be in the form of two things: a Wacom tablet for his Mac, and the freaky vinyl dress we'd been admiring the day before. Furthermore, he said, he wanted to wear the dress home from the mall.
Sounds good, I said, shrugging it off, though inwardly I thought this was an incredibly daring move. Neither of us had crossdressed in public before. I had no experience with how people would react, so I assumed the worst. I asked myself if I was embarrassed to be seen with a guy in a dress. No, not at all, but I was worried that in some nebulous fashion we would be assaulted. Still, it was Glendale, not the midwest.
On the way to the mall, Paul pointed to the back of a 'walk/don't walk' signal. An answer tag to the Obey Giant propaganda campaign-- 'Shabaz the Hacker has your AOL Password' --and next to it, an Andre sticker. Paul handed me a 'PRKVXN' sticker and I clambered up the light pole to slap it over the eyes of Shabaz. My stickers came from Sticker Guy, whom Obey had referred me to. Confluence.
It was 8pm and the mall crowd was thin when we slipped in through Mervyn's and went to the Apple Store. There was a big black guy working the counter, and in my nearsightedness I imagined it was Chris, my old boss, that he'd somehow gotten demoted from his job as QA manager and was working here just so he could be near Macintoshes and script agents. Paul bought his Wacom and we slunk away to Hot Topic.
I waited pensively outside the dressing room as Paul put on the dress... I felt like the 'boy' queer and wasn't especially comfortable with the role. I held a couple of PVC catsuits I'd happened upon.
Paul's emergence was a rather anticlimactic moment. Nobody around us seemed to pay the slightest attention. Paul did a little twirl. He looked rather curvy in the dress. At the time I attributed this to its cut. I thought the large looked fine on him, but after a few seconds I peeked my head in and told him to try on the medium. The large wasn't as obscenely tight as it could have been. The medium looked much better, shaping to him but not constricting. I was surprised he could get into the thing. There was a cute look going on with the black cyberdress and his tatty sneakers and ragged-out knee socks, like he was a bad schoolgirl or an off-duty hooker. He changed back, and I wondered if he'd backed out of wearing the dress home... I wouldn't have blamed him if he had, though I'd have been disappointed.
My experience has been that a women's XL barely fits. I started with the smaller of the two catsuits. It was loose on my legs and ass but tight around the chest; it was made for somebody with bigger hips. I took it anyway because it was cheap, and because I wanted to see how it looked with my fake tits.
The girls at the register seemed faintly uneasy. They noticed. After they rang Paul up, I asked him if he was still going to wear it home. I felt cruel, not in a bad way. He was a little apprehensive but meant to go through with it and went back to change. I paid for my stuff, and when Paul came out in his hooker dress and sneakers I escorted him home, holding his jacket like a well-mannered date. By now the mall was shutting down and was nearly empty. Paul said the few people there were staring, but I didn't see this. True, my glasses were off. They could've been looking at my hair.
Once out on the street, I was sure everybody would look our way, but if anything people seemed even more oblivious. The few people who looked our way seemed embarrassed to be caught at it. Instead of following the main street we slipped up one of the side roads. I was pleased that Paul's audacity didn't exceed mine by too much. But I understood why I felt uncomfortable... I was conspicuous as the 'normal' member of the couple, which I most certainly wasn't.
"But of course," I said, "this means I have to go out dressed with you now."
We'd kidded around before about going to Ralph's in drag, or at least I'd thought of it as a joke, because it seemed like such a waste of the effort. But it was probably the right start for a couple of novice crossdressers.
It took me about a half hour to do my makeup properly. When the foundation was on I saw I had way too much of a beard shadow to go with a sane, girly makeup scheme, so I put blotches of blue blush here and there for the just-unearthed zombie look, surrounded my eyes with dark eye shadow and liner, and finished with aquamarine lipstick. My clothes were positively normal, loose pants and a white t-shirt stretched over D-cup prosthetics, since we'd determined that both of us wearing black PVC would be tacky.
Paul wasn't trying to pass as a gender-intermediate thing, like me; he deliberately wanted to be 'boy in a dress.' He arranged his long hair to emphasize its blue-dyed streak, and his only makeup was black lipstick, which soon eroded to reveal a sensuous muted flash of pink between. It offset his poorly-shaven face, sprigs of stubble along his jawline. I lent him my silver New Rocks to emphasize the schoolyard slut look. They had velcro and would be easy to jettison if we were chased.
We took some token snapshots and then were off. We made sure our route took us past the local police station. Much of it was ill-lit; as we crossed a parking lot we encountered a lady who seemed quite unnerved at our approach and diverted her course. If anybody said anything unkind to us, I would have to flip them off. It would have been the only appropriate response.
"What if we run into that guy again?" I said, grinning.
Paul was galumphing a little too much, walking like a guy, but by the time we got near the supermarket he'd just about gotten the hang of it. The key is to not appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere. We shared the observation that women's clothing was generally demeaning and meant to encourage a submissive role... you know, like how it's easy to pull up a skirt and fuck its wearer, how high heels make walking awkward and running impossible, how the cut of women's clothing is generally flaccid and absurd... to say nothing of how women are required to update their wardrobe constantly, so they can either blow all their money on clothes, or blow somebody who'll subsidize them.
Freaks in Ralph's. Paul grabbed a hand basket. A couple of macho guys were having coffee in the little cafe area near the door and we were almost on top of them before they noticed us. It is the rare person who actually stares, I was discovering, but these two were startled. Most people are preoccupied with whatever they're doing and see nothing amiss. This phenomenon is immensely useful for all manner of deviant behavior. And I'm pretty sure that when somebody laughs at me it's because they're afraid.
We walked behind the checkout aisles and did a circuit of the store, picking up a few token items. The checkout line was where the real amusement was. For whatever reason, the guy in front of us moved his cart to the next aisle and abandoned his purchases. The citizens waiting to purchase their groceries could either look at the commercials on the flat-screen monitor, or the pair of crossdressers. The man who pulled in behind us was squarely built and, when I looked over my shoulder at him, seemed a little too stoic, as though he was doing his best not to react. Soon a line of such people was behind us. It's nice to know there's still such a thing as good manners.
I leaned on the counter to intimidate the clerk with my fake breasts and big magenta hair, holding a wad of $20 bills in one clawed hand. "Plastic, please."
"Do you have a Ralph's Club card?" said the lady.
We contemplated the results of our adventure upon the populace as we walked home (passing the same lady who'd scattered on our way out); once there, Paul shed the boots and threw the evening's pizza together.
Paul was feeling sexy in his new dress and he bent over, the thin vinyl pulling tightly over his ass and rubbing audibly over his panties. The effect was rather startling, and I said "You've got to see this!" as I grabbed my camera and snapped a quick picture.
"This is not the ass of a boy," he said to the shot of his big, round girlish ass, wrapped in PVC with a visible panty line.
We went to bed after dinner for more conversation and dick-sucking. It was starting to become an obsession with him; conversation threads terminated with him sliding under the covers and taking me into his mouth, while I hummed the theme to 'Cocktoberfest.' I would like to take credit for creating this monster, but I merely flipped the lever.
Long after midnight we got up to see what Paul looked like with my prosthetics. When he tried on my false melons, we couldn't quite fit them to him the way they worked on me. They wanted to overflow the cups of the bra. With them, the dress was really snug on him. But he doesn't have the penchant for huge, intimidating tits that I do, so that was okay. Then we went back to bed and did nasty things some more.
The next morning I woke easily. Paul and I chatted and had another go at each other's equipment. In the end I pulled the morning wood gambit, which had paid off for me before, so Paul had a nice stiff cock to suck for a few minutes, at least. Hooray for Ashy, the less-than-total-failure. For a moment or two I thought I was gonna cum, until Paul's teeth scraped me and the moment was lost. I suppose more practice will be required.
Nude, Paul checked himself out in the mirror, and decided that yes, he really did seem to have small breasts. His arms and legs are long and slender, as are his fingers, and this is only emphasized by his nails, which are typically painted a candy-like color. The distribution of fat on his body makes him look girlish. His hips and ass and the curve of his belly are all very feminine. Paul described it as being a boy built from parts found in the girl bin. We wonder if maybe he was exposed to heightened estrogen levels in the womb. He's a perfect candidate for sex reassignment. I'm kind of jealous of him. My body is never going to look as feminine as his without surgery, and he has it without enhancement.
At one time we were made to feel as though looking this way was something to be ashamed of.
I tried on his dress, just out of curiosity. It didn't work on me at all. I looked entirely too much like a guy dressed as a girl, or maybe a New Wave pharaoh; my shoulders are too wide compared to my hips. It's fortunate that I don't favor the girly look.
Then it was time for Paul to go to work. I would be departing before he got back home. We squeezed each other tightly, and after retrieving his Palm, he left. Then I masturbated, wasting the week's worth of sperm that had been backing up inside me, held back with the hope that I might empty it into Paul's mouth once we were together. I took care not to get any on his bed.
Later Paul told me that he'd gone out to the bank in his vinyl dress, by himself, braving the possible scorn of his burly, hairy eastern European neighbors. I'd never done that. I guess we know what that means....