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CATCH HER
by l.satori aka Laurie S.
This tale has a few minor similarities to J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in
the Rye. To tell you the truth, Salinger's novel is absolutely terrific,
way better than the story I made up. So maybe you might want to read
Salinger's book because Holden Caulfield is an extremely funny character.
If you think tampering with The Catcher in the Rye is sacrilegious, please
take a pill.
1
If you really want to know the truth about all the sissy stuff that
happened to me last semester, I guess it's kinda difficult to know where to
begin, what to include, and who to exclude. I mean, when famous
celebrities write all those sensational kiss and tell memoirs, most of
their former lovers have already been laid to rest. It's goddam difficult
for the dead to speak ill of the living. But, my friends aren't lying tits
up just yet and some of them might go ballistic when they find out I've
been blabbing on and on about stuff they'd rather not have aired on the
net. Consequently, I have had to change some of the details so that I can
go on living, although these really aren't The Satanic Verses.
I wouldn't tell you my whole story anyway 'cause I don't feel up to
writing a long and boring autobiography. For Chrissake, rich and famous
luminaries have to hire ghostwriters to do that. And so far, I haven't
even had my 15 minutes of fame.
Where I want to start telling is Halloween at Queen's University.
It's this snobby institution in Kingston, Ontario. It's supposed to be the
Oxford or Harvard of Canada. Everyone in the dominion has heard of it.
They advertise in newspapers, magazines, on the radio, and they always try
and make it sound like a degree from Queen's will get you some fabulous
career. The other major institution in Kingston is the Penitentiary. Some
Queen's grads have been known to work at the Pen, and some have even been
guests of that ritzy 5 star establishment.
Anyway, it was the Saturday of the football game with our arch rivals,
the McGill Redmen. For Chrissake, this was not just another football game.
Reputations and bragging rights were at stake. And if Queen's didn't win,
you had to show how much you cared about your school's honor and glory.
You were supposed to fall on your sword or do some serious body piercing to
yourself. You know, like put a ring through your nipple or something
painful like that. McGill is the other snobby school in Canada, at least
until Quebec separates.
I was standing in the last row of the Richardson Stadium bleachers,
and you could sense that the two teams really hated each other. The heavy
hitting sent shock waves reverberating through the shaky stands. A running
back would plough into the line, be met head on and then you'd see a helmet
roll away from the pile of bruised bodies. Almost like clockwork, every 10
minutes or so, the action would be delayed while another carcass was carted
away on a stretcher.
The game symbolized, in a way, a wrestling match between two vastly
different education systems too. Did you know that all the people who grew
up in the province of Ontario were retarded? I swear that's the gods'
honest truth. To go to university, you had to graduate from grade 13.
Does any other province or state in North America have a grade 13? No.
But the government honchos finally figured out they could reduce education
spending by phasing it out. Hasta la vista! Sayonara! Bye bye! But, the
way I see it, grade 13 just delayed growing up by one year. I don't think
mental retardation was such a bad thing after all, 'cause I'm in first year
university and I still don't know what the hell I want to do when I grow
up.
Although the crowd was pretty decent, there were not many girls in
attendance that day, it being the end of October and the usual cold breezy
weather you can expect at the mistake by the lake. I prefer to be where
you can see the odd girl around, whether they're just standing around
looking pretty or cheering or blowing snot out of their noses or something.
I spotted old reliable Thelma Montgomery, the dean's daughter. She showed
up at the games quite often, but she wasn't exactly a supermodel waiting to
be discovered. She was a genuinely nice girl. I sat down beside her one
time at a pub night when some hick copycat band came to town. Shania Twin
or something. Unfortunately, Thelma suffered from what appeared to be
terminal acne and had a unibrow thing going on above her sweet blue eyes.
Also, she had this well padded bra on that a lot of girls seemed to wear to
enhance their self-esteem. You could see she was unnaturally top heavy
even through her thick, colorful, Hudson Bay winter coat. But, you felt
somewhat sorry for her plight. The physical blight wasn't entirely her
fault. What I liked about her was she didn't give you any crap about how
cultured she was. So many girls put on phony airs about some play or
ballet they saw and how wonderful it all was. They tried to impress you
with their vast knowledge of the performing arts. There's not much ballet
or theater locally. Kingston isn't the center of the universe like
Toronto.
In any case, I had to leave the game early because I had to help my
friend Paul Campbell. Everyone called him PC, or Laptop, 'cause he was
kind of too small to be a desktop PC and he always carried an old obsolete
Dell Latitude to class that he got as a hand me down from his father, some
big time exec with the goddam Royal Bank. He wanted some volunteer help
with the decorations and the food and that sort of stuff. The party was to
be held in the cafeteria of our student residence. That was nothing
unusual. The celebrations were always held in Leonard Cafeteria. It was
the only room large enough and was pretty much damage proof. You didn't
have to worry about spilling beer on the carpets or knocking over flower
vases or burning cigarette holes in the imitation leather sofa because the
cafeteria didn't have any carpeting or flower vases or couches. There were
ceramic floor tiles, plain Formica tables and plastic-on-metal chairs. The
furnishings didn't create much ambience, but in the dark with some candles
and decorations and costumes and music and alcohol and munchies, who was
going to notice.
I walked out of Richardson Stadium at half time. Being October, it
was cold as a witch's teat. I had on my army surplus parka and Kodiak
boots and long underwear and snowmobile mitts; everybody in Canada wears
that kind of crap in the chilly weather. Did you know that the number one
cause of death in snowmobile accidents was decapitation? I guess that
happens when you run into clotheslines or tree branches in the dark at high
speeds. And I think the number two way of ending tits up must be falling
through the ice on a half-frozen lake. And then, of course, there's the
alcohol factor. But I was still shivering in spite of my heavy winter
clothing and high powered internal heating system. The wineskin under the
parka was standard equipment at all Queen's games. I usually filled it
with Rye Whisky.
I absolutely hate cold weather. Some foreigners think all Canadians
live in igloos, speak Inuktitut, have a hundred different words to describe
snow, that we rub our noses together when we have sex, and that we are
genetically acclimatized to sub-zero temperatures. But, I've got a serious
problem in coping with frigid air. The warmest, lightest winter clothing
to wear is down, as in feathers from geese. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to
duck or geese down. I sneeze a lot when I'm around feathers of any type.
Consequently, I shiver a lot as I dash from place to place. Rainy days and
Mondays and winters always get me down. Did you know that complaining
about the weather is Canada's national pastime? We even have a 24 hour
weather channel on cable television to feed the devotees of fine
meteorological conversation.
Anyway, the brisk damp wind off Lake Ontario could freeze the balls
off a brass monkey. So I hurried over the dormant lawns of the sprawling
Queen's campus toward the yellow brick walls of the student residence.
Three five-story buildings, built in the late 50s and early 60s, consisting
of Leonard Hall, Brockington House and Gordon House, were joined together
to form one huge complex. As places go, the buildings lacked the ivy and
tradition and architectural style of an Oxford or a Cambridge University.
Alternatively, you kinda hoped that the dorms were like the frat and
sorority houses of National Lampoon's Animal House or The Revenge of the
Nerds. But that's not a very realistic view of life at Queen's. We have
too many serious students who don't want to lose their goddam precious
scholarships.
My given name is William, but everyone calls me Hold'em, and for good
reason. One night, my buddies and me are playing poker in PC's room.
Being 3 in the morning, it's the last hand, so there's a pot as big as a
witches' cauldron and just as hot. Anyway, just by coincidence, the old
Kenny Rogers song, the Gambler, comes on the radio. I don't know whether
to shit or get off the pot. I'm holding a natural full house, but deuces
are wild, so it's not necessarily the best hand. With five players in the
game, someone is bound to have four of a kind or a straight flush. Anyway,
after the first round of 'through the stratosphere' betting, when it comes
time to draw cards, I stand pat, hoping to bluff out a few of the
contenders and then I raise like crazy. Nobody drops out. Since it's the
last hand, the four other players match all the raises and stay in. Just
like the song says, 'You've got to know when to hold'em, know when to
fold'em . . . ' So I hold with queens over eights . . . You know what? I
had the fifth best hand. Ever since then I've been known as William
Hold'em or simply Hold'em.
To compound matters, I've always taken a ribbing about my last name
too. Copperfield is such an easy target. I've had a Dickens of a time
with jokes about the magician David. I don't want to talk about it.
You remember what I said about helping PC decorate the Leonard
Cafeteria? It was a lot of fun if you're an artistic guy and you like that
artsy fartsy crap, but I'm not gifted that way. So mostly I tried to
follow the directions of the less aesthetically challenged Rembrandts. The
easy stuff was placing candles and lanterns around the caf. Also, I helped
string up some rolls of the orange and black crepe paper; it being All
Hallow's Eve and all. I had to admit it was hard to overcome my usual
impression of the Leonard Cafeteria. For one thing, the food there was
revolting. Mostly, the cuisine had a 'je ne sais quoi' quality, as in a 'I
don't know what I just ate' type of blandness. Like the fish served on
Fridays, for example, wasn't halibut or cod or sole or salmon, it was just
fish, usually served with no name fries and no name Cole Slaw. On account
of that, fine diners invented labels to spice up the menu, like
'Penitentiary' fish or 'Royal Military College' fries or 'Thousand Island'
Cole Slaw. There's even Macdonald hamburgers, named in honor of Canada's
first Prime Minister. Not to be confused with the burgers from that fine
Scottish bistro McDonald's. And another thing we had to overcome was the
furniture and appearance of the dining hall. It had an 'institutional
anyplace' functional aspect. So I gave a hand in rolling a large hickory
rain barrel down some stairs into the dining hall for the apple-bobbing
contest. At least, that's what they told me the barrel was for. If you
want to know the inside dope, I suspected that PC was going to take it back
to his home town of St. Catharines near Niagara and go over the Falls in
it. Or use it as a diving bell in search of the wreck of the Titanic, even
though it's already been discovered. Or for some other dumb death defying
stunt like that. Extreme sports are in! Everybody goes white water
rafting or skydiving or canyoning in the summer. Thrill seekers want those
scrotum-shrinking adventures 'cause it's more fun than staying home and
squeezing your zits.
Yeah I know when I tell a story, I tend to ramble on and on. I don't
stick to the point like all good writers should. I drive my SUV off the
road, but it's because I like digressions. I really do. It's like taking
the path less traveled. It hurts my grades on essays and reports, but I
can't help it. Precision and dullness are a tough combination to master.
Helping set up the costumed mannequins and all was actually kind of
enjoyable. It was easy to get hold of a chainsaw and a goalie's mask, this
being Southern Ontario, halfway between Toronto and Montreal, a long way
from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and wherever the hell Friday the
Thirteenth took place. But, we didn't use real department store dummies.
We 'borrowed' some of the scarecrows from the bayonet practice range at the
Royal Military College and for the witches' costumes, we used some of the
inflatable love dolls some of the guys and girls secretly had in their
rooms. It's interesting what you find when you re-enact the Viking raids,
you know the ones where they plundered the settlements of medieval England
and other northern European countries. At least, that's what the History
majors claimed we were doing. We pillaged the dorm rooms for fun, but for
some inexplicable reason, stopped short of raping the other guys.
After the crew had put up most of the decorations up and consumed
about one third of the munchies and drinks, I had to go over to Allison
Simon's dorm room. She was Studlater's girlfriend, a real sweetie, a Drama
major. If you want to know the truth, I really liked her and if she hadn't
been going with my poker-playing friend since the beginning of school, I
might have fancied a roll in the hay with her. Yeah, like I would ever get
that lucky. I knew she liked me too because she always showed me her best
smile and it was one of those toothpaste commercial type smiles for Colgate
or Crest or whatever. She must have wore those barb wire braces when she
was a kid 'cause every tooth was perfect porcelain, no extra tooth stuck
out of the gums like a third eye and she didn't have any of those metallic
fillings with that dementia causing mercury crap. And her breath was
better than a Binaca blast or which ever breath mint people used. I kinda
wondered what her mouth tasted like 'cause I had never gone beyond a
sisterly smooch with Allison. Her skin was that real soft glowing
complexion that you've seen pictured on a box of Ivory Snow or maybe
radiating off some X-rated video cover. For Chrissake, I don't know how
Studlater ever got so lucky, but he was the real jealous type and he kept
Allison on a tight leash. She was the last person in the world you'd ever
call a dog or a bitch though.
Why was I going to Allison's room? Apparently, Allison was going to
help me get into a Halloween costume. I'm not called Hold'em for nothing.
In another poker game the week before, I lost again. This time we were
using chips instead of money, 'cause a lot of the dumb suckers had already
been cleaned out of their dough. So the losers were going to have to
suffer consequences, but I saw the game as being a chance to really
humiliate my so-called poker friends, and revenge can be a thing of beauty.
Anyhow, to make a short story shorter, in the climactic hand for all the
buffalo chips, I had the third best hand.
PC and Studlater decided on the consequence. They got to pick out my
Halloween costume, although they wouldn't tell me what it was. They didn't
even want any of the other guys in the male section of the dorm to see my
get up until the appropriate time. Since Kingston isn't a very big town,
there aren't very many costumes available, even at Halloween. I mean you
can go down to the K-Mart, Zeller's or Walmart and pick up a flimsy
kiddie's outfit, but there's not much in the way of quality masquerade
apparel for adult size children. There's lots of military stuff or convict
wear since historic Fort Henry, the Royal Military College and the Kingston
Penitentiary are what Kingston is known for. Ottawa, the nation's capital,
isn't too far away. But, Jean Chretien masks aren't as popular as even the
dead presidents of the United States 'cause nobody wants to talk out of the
side of their mouth all evening. I swear to you, many of the students,
excluding the ones in Political Science, think Bill Clinton is Canada's
President.
This university town is also known as the gateway to the world famous
Thousand Islands, but I couldn't see Studlater and PC forcing me to come to
the party as Thousand Island Dressing. Nah . . . lettuce, tomatoes,
cucumbers, croutons and bacon bit condiments would be too messy, not to
mention the dressing itself. It would be as innovative as Pizza the Hut in
the film Spaceballs, but not practical enough for even a short appearance
at the party.
You know, probably the best part of the torture for Laptop and
Studlater was simply keeping me guessing for a whole week about what my
costume would be. I mean my imagination could dream up far worse
consequences than Studlater or Laptop ever could. Those guys made a
thousand suggestions, but they wouldn't tell me which of the thousand
guises it would be. It drove me bonkers.
2
Allison Simon was a lovely, sweet dream. When I knocked on her door,
she greeted me with a warm hug and kisses on both cheeks.
"Hi Hold'em! Come on in!"
"Allie! You look wonderful tonight!" And she did. She had that
fresh beauty without any makeup that every girl would kill for, yet she
never let on that she knew she was gorgeous. I had a hard time deciding
what exactly was her best feature. Perhaps it was the large, dark brown,
almost black eyes. If eyes were the windows to the soul, I yearned to
explore the depths of Allie's existence, for the inner person I was certain
possessed great tenderness and compassion. As well, her clear milky white
skin glowed. It was as if a golden aura surrounded her. But, I suppose
these were the perceptions of an infatuated fool. She was dressed casually
in blue Gap crap jeans, moccasins and a Queen's Golden Gaels sweatshirt.
She was about a half-foot shorter than my six feet. I imagined that if I
ever kissed her for real, I'd have to lift her 115 pounds off the ground
and hold her in my arms to make out standing up. It's funny how guys can
let their imaginations run rampant after innocent incidental contact like a
hug and a brother-sister type peck on the cheek.
"It's just you and me kid," she responded when I looked around, half
expecting Studlater to emerge from the bathroom at any moment.
Her dorm room was the same size as mine. But she had a large full
length mirror on the closet door and some Snoopy and Garfield dolls, photos
of family and friends, and souvenirs from her travels as decorations,
giving her space a cozy atmosphere that contrasted with the Spartan feel of
my hellish room.
"So where's Studlater or Laptop? Aren't they going to join us? Don't
they want to orchestrate my humiliation?"
"No. Actually, they both said they'd have plenty of opportunity to
enjoy it later. Transforming you is going to take awhile. Besides,
knowing them, they probably are scrambling around trying to dig up costumes
for themselves."
"So, don't keep me in suspenders. What's my punishment?"
"All I'm going to tell you for now is that you are going to dress up
as a girl."
"Oh, is that all? I guess that's not too bad. I think I can survive
that."
"Are you sure? We'll see . . . There's a can of shaving gel and some
brand new razors in the bathroom. First, shave off all the body hair and
. . . "
"What? You can't be serious. You want me to shave my legs? What
kinda pervert do you think I am?"
"Just the normal run-of-the-mill kind that you see on Jerry Springer
every night. Shaving your legs isn't going to damage you like the
heartbreak of psoriasis. It will grow back in no time. Who's going to see
your bare legs during the winter anyway? Don't make it sound like a big
deal . . . Actually, that probably is the least of your concerns."
That sounded ominous. "I suppose it's not as embarrassing as getting
a buzz cut like some army stiff at the Royal Military College."
"After you've shaved your legs . . . you don't have much chest hair do
you?"
"No, not even peach fuzz."
"Once you've done the legs, then you can enjoy a scented bubble bath.
It'll give your whole body a nice light fragrance. There are strawberry,
raspberry or apple bubble bath flavors available. Take your choice."
"Will you come in and scrub my back?"
"I don't think so, not unless you want Eric to beat you up?"
I never called Studlater by his proper name of Eric Stradlater because
he never called me William or Bill. It was always Hold'em, so he was
always Studlater.
"Actually, a beating just might be worth the pleasure of your
company."
"You are such a flirt . . . and you'll have plenty of opportunity to
use your charms tonight. So many guys, so little time. You'll have to
beat them back with a stick."
If I had been in a guy's dressing room, a crass jock would've said,
'Stick this!' with a gesture of his favored masturbating hand on his
crotch, but I knew Allison was a real lady and didn't care for dirty
language. It's one of the reasons I still hoped she might break up with
the truly rude and crude Studlater. He could swear like a sailor, but I
never saw him do it in front of girls. Eric's romancing technique was kind
of a thing of beauty though. I had gone on a double date with him once
during Orientation week. We went to a drive-in movie 'cause it was cheaper
than a regular Cineplex. He and this pretty girl were in the back seat of
my old broken down Toyauto. My date sat in the front with me. At the
beginning of the evening, he snowed his date in this very quiet, sincere
voice like he wasn't just a handsome stud, but this sensitive millenium
kind of guy who really listened and was kind and considerate and not
egotistical. I damn near puked, listening to his phony crap. The girl
kept saying, 'Don't, please don't.' This would be repeated every few
minutes. After a while, there was this long silence in the back seat.
Then some smooching and sucking sounds and rhythmic panting and grunting.
That damned 'Studlater' was making out with her. I didn't care to witness
it. Meanwhile, I felt as useless as a third tit on Jabba the Hut's
disgusting carcass 'cause I behaved like a gentleman with my date.
The white tile bathroom was just like mine, except Allison had
brushes, cosmetics, Tampax pads, fashion magazines and other girly stuff on
the counter around the sink.
I decided to take the green apple bubble bath first, figuring it would
help soften the legs before shaving. The warm soft foam really was quite
relaxing and sensual, but I sincerely wished Allison would come in and
scrub my back. I mean, with all the suds and stuff, she wouldn't even be
able to see Mister Wiggly. I hadn't had a bubble bath since I was a little
kid. Immersion in foam was kinda boring though without any rubber duckies
or toys to play with.
"Hey Allison, come on in here! See! It floats!"
She didn't dignify my crude remark with a response.
After draining the antique original equipment bathtub and drying
myself off with the dorm's standard white towels, I spread the shaving gel
on my long thin legs. I used to take a ribbing back in high school about
having a girl's gams, but that kind of bull crap never bothered me a bit.
So I got called 'fag' occasionally. I loved girls; I didn't want to be
one. I gave the gel a minute or two to be absorbed by the hair, and then I
carefully stroked my limbs with a triple-edged razor. I want you to know
I'm really a wimp beneath my gruff pseudo-macho exterior. It took a few
minutes, but I managed it without a nick of any kind. I got back into the
bathtub and turned on the shower to clear off the gel film. The spray of
water felt a little different on my hairless limbs. After toweling down
again, I ran my fingers over my legs. I never would have believed my gams
could feel so smooth and sensuous. And I hate to admit it, but I actually
liked the goddam perverted way they felt.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. I quickly covered up
Mr. Wiggly with the towel.
"Yes," I called out.
"Are you decent?" yelled Allison on the other side of the door.
"I'm better than decent. I'm a goddam sex goddess," I replied with my
usual bombast as I considered letting the towel drop accidentally if
Allison entered. But, I remembered David Niven's famous line at the Oscars
when some glory hog streaked across the stage in his birthday suit. And
the ever cool Niven, after a dismissive glance, quipped something like,
"Why anyone would want to display his shortcomings is beyond me."
When she opened the door, Allison was wearing a Cruella De Ville
costume, you know, the one from Disney's 101 Dalmatians. But she didn't
have any makeup on yet and her dark hair didn't yet resemble the wild half
black-half white coiffure that characterized Cruella. The dark pinstripe
suit suggested that villainous dognapping character. It had a very wide
'over the top' lapel and collar with broad shoulder pads. The pinstripe
skirt was slit down the sides. Dark nylons and high heels completed the
venomous Glenn Close vamp look. Talk about going against type.
"Wow! Where did you dig up that outfit?"
"In the theatrical arts, wardrobe is a skill. I sewed the pinstripe
suit myself. Do you like it?"
"It's perfect! You are quite a talent."
She looked me over and whistled. "Oh, sexy legs!"
I twirled around to give her the full view, although I decided not to
drop the white towel skirt yet.
Allison began singing for some strange reason. I thought it was her
way of teasing me.
"Holly came from Miami F.L.A.
Hitch-hiked her way across the U.S.A.
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs then he was a she"
I sang the Walk on the Wildside chorus along with Allie.
"She says, hey babe, take a walk on the wild side
Said, hey honey, take a walk on the wild side
And the colored girls go
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo . . . "
It was a real laugh!
Allie had a crazy creative side to her that I thought was really cute.
What else would you expect from a Drama major? And she sounded a lot
better than Lou Reed's 'talking in tune' voice, but my 'colored girl'
singing voice needed a little work.
"Not bad, Hold'em. When you try to talk like a woman, think about how
you can sing in a higher register than your normal speaking voice. A
woman's voice has a kind of musicality to it. But don't use a falsetto.
It's too high. Stay in the vocal range you just used, and you might make a
passable woman . . . However, you still need to shave your face. Your
blond peach fuzz would show right through the base makeup," said Allison as
she felt my 'beard' with her smooth, manicured hand.
With that, she turned around and wiggled her sexy butt back to her
bedroom, and let me continue. But shaving my face was something I could do
in the dark with a crummy rusty old razor and no shaving cream, although I
wouldn't really do that. But, as I stared into the mirror, I kinda
wondered what type of goddam woman would I make? Sometimes, when I was
much younger, people would comment on my girlish face, even complete
strangers. I don't have a big nose, a heavy-set jaw or other butch
features, but I am six feet tall, a definite drawback unless you're a
supermodel. Would I be pretty, or would I look like Dustin Hoffman in
Tootsie?
After I emerged from the bathroom, Allison sat me down on a wooden
chair. She didn't want me to look at my face while she worked her makeup
magic, so I faced the bed and the curtained windows rather than full-length
mirror on the closet door. I felt rather uncomfortable with my bare skinny
body, covered only by boxer shorts, being so exposed while in the
charismatic presence of such a wonderful girl, but I just hoped Mr. Wiggly
would behave himself.
Being a Drama student, Allie knew so much about makeup application.
She took off her Cruella De Ville jacket and put a protective light blue
smock over her blouse and skirt before beginning. After hanging up the
jacket in her closet, Allie wandered over to her desk and popped the Very
Best of the Eagles CD into her Sony mini system. A moment later, the
Eagles' soulful song, Desperado, started up. It helped to ease the fears
of my threatened male persona. 'Desperado, why don't you come to your
senses . . . ' I can't remember every makeup item or all the different
brand names Allie had in her arsenal, but there were a lot of creams,
sponges, brushes, pencils, eyelashes, tweezers, eye shadows, concealors, an
eyelash curler, foundation makeup, lip gloss, lipstick, and whatever the
hell else was needed. She even pulled out some green contact lenses from
her dresser drawer. Wow! It made me feel extra special. Privileged to
observe life through the eyes of another; kinda like walking a mile in her
shoes so to speak. Some of the brands I can remember seeing were Cover
Girl, Maybelline, and Mac.
Allie didn't believe in doing anything in a half-assed kind of way.
"First, I'm going to cover your face with a protective moisturizer,"
said Allison, as she spread some kind of whisper light cream onto my face.
"Then, I'll put a foundation makeup on that will essentially smooth out
your complexion, giving us a kind of blank canvas to start with. I'll
tweeze a few of your unruly eyebrow hairs and . . . "
"Stop right there! I'm not going to allow you to tweeze away my
goddam eyebrows. That's going too far. I don't have to look like Miss
Canada."
"Hold'em, you wimp, you don't look tough enough. Didn't a recent Miss
Canada get into some barroom brawl with another girl?"
"I think you're right . . . Weren't charges laid too? I remember
seeing some Canucklehead babe on the cover of some men's magazine. She was
wearing boxing gloves."
"Hold'em, did you ever box?"
"Yeah, I boxed professionally in the paperweight division when I
worked at the A&P." I can be really sarcastic when I want to be.
"Well, macho man, I'll pluck just a few stray hairs. Luckily, you
don't have thick eyebrows. And, if I need to, I can use some spirit gum,
theatrical putty and a thick makeup to thin the eyebrows."
"Sounds like a lot of work," I mumbled. To tell you the truth, I
wasn't feeling all that comfortable about this weird sex change crap,
although I kinda liked spending time with Allie. But, I mean, when I was a
kid, I never really cared for the old ever-ready 'fag' putdown used by all
the bullying jocks and rednecks since before Creation.
"You've got nice, high cheekbones Hold'em. We'll bring that out a
little more, use some dark makeup to diminish your jaw-line and to give the
cheeks that hollow, sunken look favored by fashion models . . . Then, I can
work on your eyes. The green contact lenses will change you dramatically
. . . After that, we'll make your tempting lips irresistible . . . Add a
gorgeous red wig . . . And we can't forget your fingernails."
Somehow, I began to feel like a Barbie doll being manipulated by a
young girl who loved playing house or whatever it was that girls did with
their goddam Barbie dolls, with their impossibly thin long necks, tiny
waists, and physically impossible proportions. Everyone knows Barbie's not
anatomically correct. She's the leading cause of the 'living dead' eating
disorders in North America, you know, a 'n b, anorexia nervosa and
bullimia. Now, I want to tell you that this procedure she described so
quickly wasn't gonna be no instantaneous transformation. For example, fake
fingernails aren't as simple as they sound. I know I would have been all
thumbs trying to file those phony plastic nails to the proper fit and then
putting that adhesive and polish on. Hell, it took several minutes to
shape each nail using a crummy file, maybe ten minutes or so to apply the
polish and seemingly forever or longer for the stinky red gook to dry.
Allie wasn't kidding when she said Laptop and Studlater would probably get
two hemorrhoids apiece waiting for this transformation to be completed.
Allie picked up the telephone from the night table beside her bed and
pushed the speed dial button.
"Hi Eric . . . Yes, I'm working on Hold'em, but it's going to be
awhile yet. This is taking so much longer than I ever thought it would.
But, he's going to be absolutely fabulous! Well worth the wait . . . No.
Let's change the plan a little. Please, do not come over. I want our
costumes to be a total surprise to you guys . . . No, don't tell me what
you're going as. Oh, and you can tell PC too . . . Thanks . . . I'll find
you downstairs . . . Okay, we'll see you later."
When Allison put down the phone, for a moment, she seemed lost in
thought.
"Allison, how did you get involved in this anyway?"
She looked at me with a mischievous smile. "When Eric told me he
needed to find you a really humiliating costume, I volunteered."
"Thanks."
"Hold'em, I also wanted to spend this time to get to know you a little
better."
"Well, I'm afraid you're getting to see a side of me that's never been
seen before."
She laughed. "I see potential in you Hold'em. Underneath that tough,
wisecracking exterior . . . I see a real wimp." Then she giggled
mirthfully.
"Gee, and I thought we were going to share an intimate Kodak moment
there. Instead, Cruella De Ville just whizzed all over me."
"I'm sorry, Hold'em. I couldn't resist. But, you know, if I wasn't
going with Eric . . . "
"Yeah right, but you're a one man woman. Please spare me the Paul
Anka sentimental mush. So whose idea was this costume anyway, Allie?"
"Oh, PC and Eric made some suggestions, like Catwoman or Elvira or
just some sexy lingerie. They said they'd be happy as long as it would be
really embarrassing for you."
I put the thumb, index and middle fingers of my right hand together.
I held it up to my forehead, then dropped it down to my stomach, over to my
left armpit, across to my right tit, and whispered, "Please forgive her
Father for what she is about to do. She will fall victim to the Devil's
temptation on All Hallow's Eve. She knows not what the true consequences
of her evil actions are."
"Pretty feeble, Hold'em," Allie clucked, as she shook her head.
"You're not even Catholic, are you? But, you'll be thanking me later once
you see how good you'll look."
"Uh huh . . . So, I know Kingston doesn't have a lot of costume shops.
Where'd you come up with the masquerade outfit?"
"Well, I went over to the Drama Department's storage room. They had
oodles and oodles of costumes to choose from. But, I also had to find
something that would fit. The fact that you're so thin helped. Although
you are tall for a girl, luckily, most of your height comes from your long
legs. So, the key was just finding something that would fit."
"I must admit I've been taking a ribbing about those 'daddy long legs'
since I was in kindergarten."
"You've got fabulous, shapely, sexy legs! Although with your size 11
feet, I had to go shopping for the high heels at Boats 'R Us."
"You are such a kidder. But I'm just dying to see the costume."
"I've got it in a garment bag. Just be patient. You can try it on
right after your makeup is done . . . Those guys are going to laugh so hard
when they see you all dressed up."
Now I was getting a little apprehensive and frustrated. For
Chrissake, I hate not knowing and I hate being put on hold. "You enjoy
torturing guys, don't you?"
"Guys? Just you Hold'em. You're such an easy mark," she giggled. So
Hold'em, if you could be a woman, which famous female would you want to
look like?"
"I don't know. I never really thought about it." I wondered if I
should describe Allie's beautiful features. Hey! A little flattery might
get me somewhere. You never know 'cause some people enjoy being flattered.
And some are really gullible. But she was a really intelligent girl. She
could see right through me. I didn't think I could snow her.
"With your height, long legs and thin frame, maybe we could make you
into some kind of supermodel," said Allie encouragingly.
"You mean like Rupaul?"
"No silly. How about Claudia Schiffer? It would be a natural for a
guy with the last name of Copperfield."
"Did you know that magician David Copperfield paid Claudia Schiffer to
make appearances with him?"
"Are you saying Claudia Schiffer is a whore?"
"I don't know, but sometimes escorts call themselves models. "
"In the final analysis, I suppose we all sell our services. We
prostitute ourselves."
"Wait, I've got it. Make me look like supermodel Linda Evangelista.
I wonder if she is still around. Anyway, she's originally from Laptop's
hometown of St. Catharines. If you could get me an accordion, I'd serenade
PC with a Schmenge Polka tune just the way Linda would."
"Oh Hold'em, you're nuts," Allie said with a playful shove.
"So . . . what's your point?"
3
When Allison pushed me out of her dorm room and told me to go down to
the Leonard Cafeteria by myself, I felt like going back to my own room and
taking all the girl crap off. She said she would join me in a few minutes
at the party, after she finished her own makeup. Besides, she said, if we
showed up together, Laptop, Studlater and my other card-playing cronies
would immediately know who we were. And Allison said, if it weren't for my
height, they'd have never recognized me, which kinda intrigued me.
The difficult part of the stroll from Allison's second story room down
to the basement cafeteria was managing the high heels on the stairs.
Although, I have to admit, it wasn't the first time I'd worn high heels,
but that's another story. And I don't feel like going into that. I really
don't.
Probably the only thing that kept up my courage to carry on was the
fact that Allison provided me with a mid-length black cape that covered up
a portion of my rather revealing costume. And you know, after walking down
two flights of stairs in high heels, that walk through the hallway was a
real cinch.
Anyway, when I strutted into the festive dining hall all by myself, I
felt so completely naked, like I had been hit with a spotlight and the
three hundred or so people in the cafeteria were all staring at me. You
never saw so many gawkers in your life. I mean, you'd think at least some
of these people had seen a Las Vegas showgirl before, or at least a guy
wearing a goddam embarrassing costume.
I must admit, when Allison first allowed me to look at myself in the
mirror, I was amazed at my reflection. I mean if the Miss Canada Pageant
would allow it, I might have entered right away. Imagine a skimpy shiny
silver bathing suit type of outfit, low cut, without any straps. I mean,
when I looked down at my bosoms, I kinda got turned on myself. The tape,
padding, padded bra and contour makeup gave me magnificent tits where there
were none before. Long sensuous legs encased in sheer nylons tottering on
black stiletto heels were probably the best of my feminine features. The
long legs that I had been teased about all my life seemed to be a better
proportional fit on a girl's body than a boy's. Allison had given me some
foam padding to enhance my fabulous butt and flaring hips. Underneath the
silvery suit, my hanging gardens were all scrunched together under a very
tight elasticized thong. I couldn't see any hint of Mr. Wiggly, but I must
confess, it did hurt, a kinda omnipresent ache that I just knew would be
with me for a few more ultra-sensitive days. Long black velvet evening
gloves sensuously hugged my thin, underdeveloped, non-muscular arms. A
fake diamond necklace and matching earrings added the glitz and glitter of
Vegas!
But, I have to admit Allison's makeup magic was astounding! I had a
nice oval shape to my face, a smooth healthy complexion, and high prominent
cheekbones. Thin arched eyebrows, mesmerizing large eyes with smoky eye
shadow, long seductive eyelashes, and yearning glossy red luscious lips
looked back at me in the mirror. I loved the curly ringlets of my fiery
auburn tresses, which were topped by a futuristic silvery Vegas
headdress/crown that must have stretched me to an intimidating height of
seven feet. I gotta admit, the Vegas showgirl kinda turned me on. Maybe,
if there were a contest tonight, I'd have a real shot at best costume!
And when Allison reached up to give me a congratulatory kiss for
looking so delectable, it was the first time I ever tasted her tongue as we
French kissed. What a reward!
I always called Allison's boyfriend 'Studlater', but I wished she'd
tell him, 'See you later.'
As I glided over to the refreshment stand, one confident body builder
type dressed in a Zorro costume approached me.
"Hey there sexy senorita! Como esta usted?"
It kinda caught me by surprise. I looked around for a moment to see
if he might have been talking to someone else. With a shrug, I said in my
best, breathy singsong voice, "I am well, Senor Zorro."
"That's an amazing costume! That headdress reminds me of Queen
Amidala in The Phantom Menace, only much nicer."
"Thank you. Aren't you a dashing figure? I like your outfit. The
boots, whip and sword, they are nice touches"
"And you are absolutely stunning!"
I smiled. "It seems that the last time I saw you, you were sweeping
Catherine Zeta- Jones off her feet."
"Yes, but that was a long, long time ago. And her beauty pales by
comparison."
"Aren't you are laying it on rather thick?"
"Laying with you would be a dream come true."
"You are rather forward. But I think a lady would prefer to be
romanced rather than propositioned."
"I wouldn't call it a proposition. More like a heartfelt dream." He
paused for a moment to consider his next move. "Then, would you please
share a drink with me?"
"Yes, I think I'd enjoy that."
"What would you like?"
"A Blue Light, please."
"Good. Your wish is my command."
Zorro smiled, then with a flourish of his dark cape, did a dramatic
turn and walked over to the drink counter to order refreshments from a
pretty French maid, although he'd have to wait, as there were a few others
already ahead of him. I'm not sure who Zorro was. I was trying to figure
out if he looked more like the Antonio Banderas version or George
Hamilton's Zorro: the Gay Blade. With the mask, phony mustache and
distinctive hat, all Zorros looked pretty much alike. Unfortunately, in my
spiked heels and futuristic headdress/crown, I towered over him.
So far, I didn't think Zorro had any clue that I was a guy. His
flattering comments about my appearance were a really big boost to my
confidence. Even my voice didn't suck as bad as I thought it would.
I looked around the crowded dance floor. The Cher song Believe was
just starting up. It was like a signal for everyone in the whole place to
get up and boogie.
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder from behind. When I turned to face
the guy, I almost gasped. It was Studlater, dressed in a Dracula outfit.
The white makeup, the slicked-back hair, the wax fangs, dark clothing and
long cape gave him a passing resemblance to that film Dracula. What was
his name? Gary Oldman? Studlater was an impressive vampire. He could
look me straight in the eye, being six foot three, and he had these
hypnotic eyes. The bloodsucker was a handsome guy and he knew it. But, he
could drive me batty with his horsing around all the time. I guess he had
come over to torture me.
"A beautiful outfit! You make all the other girls here look less than
ordinary!"
Surprised by the compliment, it took me a moment to recover. "Why
thank you, Count Dracula." I had some difficulty finding the right vocal
intonation.
"Actually, in the daytime, my name is Eric. And yours?"
Could it be he didn't recognize me? "Linda," I said in the best
feminine voice I could muster. "Pleased to meet you."
He gracefully caught my hand, bowed and kissed the back of it in the
European style, just like the real fictional Dracula would.
"Count Eric at your service . . . Would you please do me the honor of
this dance?" he asked as he gave me the once over from head to toe, pausing
momentarily at my gravity defying cleavage.
I glanced over to Zorro who was still waiting in line for the drink.
I wanted to tell Studlater to 'bite me'. Instead, I said, "Yes, it would
be a pleasure.
Studlater spun me onto the dance floor. The others parted like the
Red Sea before Moses. Instead of dancing apart in a free style like most
of the costumed celebrants out there, he put his right hand in the small of
my back and held up his left hand. Naturally, I responded in kind,
although the positioning was the reverse of what I was accustomed to.
Count Dracula was an accomplished dancer. He confidently led me
through what can best be described as a disco jive. First, he led me
through some simple steps to get me accustomed to the basics. Then, he
introduced a variation off of the basic moves. His light directive touches
with his hands and deft quick foot movements had me whirling about the
dance floor like I was some kind of goddam ballroom professional. The
cuddles, turns, spins, and dips flowed effortlessly. For Chrissake, I had
to admire Studlater's skill! It also shocked me that I could follow so
easily, given the high heels, and lack of experience as a girl.
As Cher's Believe faded away, Studlater thanked me and drew me into a
tight embrace and gave me a deep kiss flush on the mouth. He stuck his
tongue through my lips and I could sense the taste of beer.
I broke off the kiss. "Please don't."
"Dancing with you is such a pleasure, Linda."
While jammed close together in his tight embrace, I could feel
Studlater's aroused member poke me across the crotch area. Now I was
really convinced he didn't recognize me. I gave him a gentle push away
from me.
The next song I'd never heard before. It might have been by that
Cuban group, the Buena Vista Social Club. I wanted to sit this one out,
but then it struck me. Maybe I could have some fun with this. It was a
dirty trick, but maybe I could toy with Studlater a little. So we stayed
on the dance floor. I watched the other girls and tried to copy their arm
and leg movements as they responded to the rhythm of the flamenco inspired
Latin music. Some chicks had those glowing green light sticks and they put
on quite a baton show with their tosses, flips and twirls. So, I got a
little bolder with my movements. When I pirouetted, my black cape swirled
in the breeze. It made me feel like some classy chorus dancer on the stage
of the Folies Bergere. At other times, I simply raised my arms and used
the cape to form airy wings. Studlater smiled approvingly at my antics.
He danced smoothly, easily and confidently. Looking to create some other
innovative moves, I reached up to my cape and undid the tie. Next, I used
the cape like a bullfighter teasing an angry animal into a mad charge.
Studlater playfully joined the mock bullfight and charged. Then I
gracefully sidestepped the raging bull. I turned, and Studlater lowered
his head and charged again. I don't know what the others on the dance
floor thought of our 'caper', but what the heck. It was fun!
When the song ended, I didn't want to give Studlater a chance to
embrace me again for Chrissake. I headed off to the refreshment stand in
search of Zorro. But when I got over by the drink counter, the lineup had
evaporated, and I was disappointed to find that Zorro was no longer there,
but I couldn't really blame him, could I?
Studlater, however, had followed me.
"Good idea, getting a drink," he said, trying to minimize my abrupt
departure.
However, talking with Studlater was going to be a test of my skills of
deception. "What would you like to drink? I croaked, struggling to find
the right pitch.
"I'll have whatever you're having."
I got the bartender's attention. "Hi, could we have two spiked
lemonades, please?" I changed the drink selection from my usual
preferences just in case it would jog Studlater's memory.
"Coming right up," replied the French maid.
"A good choice, just what I would have ordered" added Studlater like
he really meant it, but I knew he always drank Molson Canadian. "Linda,
you're a really cool dancer." Studlater was trying to snow me with his
usual sincerity routine.
"You are too. Where'd you learn to dance like that?"
"Oh, I used to take lessons with one of my old girlfriends in high
school."
"I had some dance lessons in Phys. Ed. class at our old high school."
"So, where are you from?"
"Ottawa." I'm the world's biggest liar. I really am. I couldn't
very well tell him the truth, or he might have figured out who I really
was. "And you? Like I didn't already know.
"Montreal."
I turned back to the pretty blond French maid for a moment. "Thank
you." I reached for a pocket in my cape to pay for the drinks.
But Studlater was already prepared and forked over a twenty. "Keep
the change."
"Thanks," replied Frenchie with a big smile.
Studlater was a naturally generous guy. He'd give you the coat off
his mother's back if you really wanted it. He came from a wealthy family
in Montreal's Westmount. But he didn't want to go to McGill University
'cause he wanted to leave the nest and spread his wings. Handsome, smart,
and wealthy, he was lucky at cards and love as well. Some guys had it all.
The least he could do was buy a girl a drink. Considering Studlater was
probably paying the French maid with money he had won from me in poker, for
Chrissake, it didn't feel like this was a freebie for me. I earned it by
getting into this fabulous costume and all.
I put a straw in my glass and took a sip. I didn't want to smear my
lipstick. Allie had cautioned me about that. "Thank you for buying the
lemonade."
"You're welcome, although I'm accustomed to having drinks with a
little more bite. Like a Bloody Caesar or just straight blood . . . I
don't believe I've ever seen you around campus before," remarked Studlater.
I paused to push some of the curly red ringlets of my wig away from my
eyes. "Oh, I'm in my first year here."
"So am I."
"Your tie is crooked. Here, let me adjust it for you." I reached up
to straighten his tie with my gloved hands, making sure to caress his chest
gently. "There, that's better."
"Thank you," he replied with a smile. "I'm trying to figure out why
I've never seen you before."
"Who knows? Perhaps you have."
"No, you I would have remembered." Studlater knew how to make a girl
feel special.
"Well, I'm in English, with a Drama minor."
"Ah, that explains it. Business and Commerce for me . . . Drama eh.
Do you by chance happen to know Allison Simon?"
"I've met a girl named Allison, but I'm not sure of her last name.
Why? Is she your girlfriend?" I wanted to put him on the spot.
"Oh, I have lots of friends. I just thought you might know her 'cause
she's in Drama too."
The slimeball! He sidestepped the question. What a smoothie!
I looked over to the entrance of the cafeteria, straining to spot the
familiar Cruella De Ville outfit. Allison should have been here by now.
In the dark lantern lit dining hall, I thought I might have spotted her in
the crowd of revelers some distance away on the dance floor. There were
all struttin' their stuff to the sounds of Alanis Morissette. But,
goddamit, I'll tell you whom I did see out among the dancers. Paul
Campbell. He was wearing two gray painted cardboard panels. One of the
panels displayed a large keyboard that had been painted on with a shiny
acrylic. The other side was an attempt to show a Microsoft Windows image
on a flat panel notebook screen. PC Laptop was true to his name. He kills
me, he really does.
"There are some really innovative costumes out there," I yelled above
the sound of the music.
"Yeah, but I think my vote for best costume would have to go to
you. You're ssssmoking!"
"Thank you Count Dracula," I said as I gave his hand a squeeze.
"I am possessed by the hunger," roared Studlater, as he playfully
showed his wax fangs.
"What is this hunger?" Wasn't there a vampire film with that title?
"An insatiable lust for blood."
"I thought modern vampires just went down to the local blood bank to
get topped up."
"There are times when our urges are stirred up and we must have it."
"You mean like a drug addict's craving for a hit."
"Exactly. Haven't you ever had 'the hunger'?
"Occasionally, but I can't puff on a fag in here." It was hard to
yell above the din of the music and maintain a semblance of a feminine
tone.
Studlater's face lit up. "Then why don't we go to the smoking area
and get some air?"
Count Dracula just wanted to be alone with me so that he could make
his move. I knew the scumbag's routine. "I'd love to. Please, lead the
way."
We left our half-finished drinks on the counter.
Studlater wrapped his arm around my waist and led me through the
throng of party- goers, into the empty, quiet hallway, then down the
corridor a short distance toward a staircase.
The hunk of a vampire assisted me up the stairs, with his arm still
wrapped around my silvery costume-clad waist. In the stairwell on the main
floor we paused. "You know Linda, you look really hot tonight. You are as
beautiful a girl as I've ever met. You can really fill out a showgirl's
outfit. And you have such gorgeous, sparkling green eyes."
Allie's contact lenses worked their magic. "Well, thank you."
Studlater was giving me those smooth, flattering lines like he did with all
the girls, and I wanted to encourage him. So, I smiled and batted my false
eyelashes.
Then Count Dracula game me a peck on the cheek. When I accepted it
without a hint of reluctance, he gathered me in both arms, wrapping me in
his cape, and planted his eager lips firmly on mine. It was a deep,
passionate kiss! Charged with electricity!
"You know Linda, it's likely to be extremely cold out in the smoking
area and really crowded. Why don't we find somewhere else to go?" he said
with gentle pressure around my waist.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, we could go back to my room. As long as we open the windows a
crack, it's unlikely we'll get caught smoking. Besides, I know security
won't be around now."
"Is it close by?"
"Just up one more floor, on the right."
"Okay lover." I kissed him lightly on the cheek. This was going to
be dangerous fun. I hadn't felt like this since I was twelve years old
when I stole a jacket from Eaton's. So nervous and excited! So afraid of
getting caught! Studlater was never going to live this down when he found
out that he was being turned on by one of his goddam male poker companions.
Up another flight of stairs, down the corridor, past ten or so doors,
then Studlater fumbled with the door handle and led me into the room.
He didn't even turn on the light. Studlater just enveloped me in a
strong bold embrace and kissed me long and hard and deep. He practically
Hoovered me. Then he snaked his tongue in and out of my mouth. His hands
groped around my backside, squeezing my ass cheeks like Mr. Whipple
squeezing rolls of Charmin. I clung to him, wrapping my hands around the
back of his neck and head, playfully mussing up his hair a little. We must
have been standing there for several eternities doing the tongue in cheek
thing. Then, he backed me up toward the bed, our tongues still
intertwined, and we fell onto the bed together.
Our descent into sin was cushioned by a plump, airy down duvet. Oh
no! My allergies! I'd go into sneezing fits when exposed to feathers. So
I rolled over on top of Studlater, still maintaining the lip lock. He
seemed to like the position reversal. There was a 'stake' sticking out of
the vampire that threatened to impale me. Maybe I could tolerate the
feather-filled comforter for a few minutes more, or perhaps I could
nonchalantly push the duvet off the bed. A sneezing fit could prove to be
my undoing 'cause Studlater knew Hold'em Copperfield was allergic to
feathers.
Count Dracula began nibbling on my neck. Maybe I shoulda wore a
garlic necklace instead of the phony diamonds, but at least the glitzy
accessory kept him from giving me a hickey.
I gently caressed his smooth, handsome face with my black velvet
gloved hands. As I nuzzled and licked and blew on his ears, I was
absolutely convinced he had no idea that I was a girl with something extra.
His wandering hands squeezed my padded breasts. And I'm the one
nicknamed Hold'em?
Shit! I was getting real nervous. This was going much too far too
fast! I was getting scared! He didn't have a clue! He'd be madder than
hell when he found out!
I needed some of that Copperfield magic right now to help me
disappear.
"Don't, please don't," I cried.
That had no effect. Studlater wrapped his thick, muscular legs around
my sheer nylon clad limbs. He fumbled for the zipper on the back of my
sexy silver suit.
Studlater was a stud now!
"Ah, ah . . . achooooo!" Unable to hold it, I sneezed. "Pardon me."
"Bless you."
Then, suddenly, the door opened and the light flicked on, and we were
no longer alone in the dark. My eyes squinted involuntarily, trying to
adjust to the brightness. Standing at the door was Allison!
"You cheating scumbag!" exclaimed an incensed Cruella De Ville. A
look of incredulity! Her hands went up to her cheeks. Horror! She turned
and ran away, tears already streaming from her mascara smudged eyes.
For Chrissake! It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Studlater pushed me aside and ran out the door after her.
"Wait Allison! I can explain! Please Allison . . . "
4
A half-hour later, I was walking down a corridor, trying to figure
what had just happened. This embarrassing mess needed to be resolved. I
stumbled along in stunned amazement! What had been intended as a big joke,
a cruel trick on Studlater, seemed to have ended in disaster. The last
thing in the world I wanted was to see Allison hurt in any way.
I hobbled down the empty hallway in the elegant high heels. They were
beginning to hurt in the toes. Damn it! Why did I have to look like such
a sexy fox! A showgirl monster! Created by Allison herself!
She had to have recognized me! She must have thought Studlater and I
were gay! That's why she must have been upset!
I needed to talk to her. I figured by now, Studlater and Allison had
to have cleared the air.
I knocked on her door. I wondered who'd be there. Would it be
Allison by herself, or Studlater and Allison together?
I could sense some movement behind the door. Somebody looked through
the peephole. Then the door opened.
"Allison! I'm so sorry Allie!"
"Really? It seems that the last time I saw you, 'Linda' was doing the
horizontal Tango with my boyfriend!"
"Oh Allison, let me explain. I never should have tried to play such a
dirty trick, even if it was on Studlater."
There was an awkward pause. Allie had been crying and the mascara had
run, giving her the trademark raccoon look. And the Cruella De Ville wig
had been removed so she wore that 'bad hair day' do.
"Please let me come in," I said. "I don't want to broadcast this to
the whole lousy dorm."
She shrugged. I stepped in and closed the door.
"Look Allie, I was just trying to play a big joke on Studlater."
"Do you mean to say Eric didn't know it was you?"
"I really think I had him fooled. I mean, at no time did he ever let
on that he knew it was really me . . . and I played along. I tried my best
to keep up the deception. I really don't think he knew it was me."
"Actually, from where I'm standing, I don't find that too hard to
believe," she said as she gave me a long admiring look. "Although your
makeup could use a touch up."
"So what did Studlater have to say?"
"I don't know. I refused to talk to him. As far as I'm concerned,
Eric and I are through."
I didn't know what to say next. So I improvised with the truth.
"I'm sorry Allie. I thought I'd get a measure of revenge on
Studlater. For Chrissake, I mean he's been teasing me all week about what
embarrassing thing I'd be wearing for Halloween, and when he didn't seem to
recognize me, I was really surprised. So we danced and I led him on a
little. I was just horsing around with him. He bought me a drink. We
chatted. But, as I gained a little more confidence, one thing led to
another. Then, Studlater put on his best moves. Things just got a little
out of control. In fact, if you hadn't turned on the lights at that
moment, I think Studlater was about to get the shock of his life."
A smile came to Allie's face for the first time.
"So Eric was going to cheat on me with what he thought was a beautiful
girl."
"Yeah, he's called Studlater for good reason."
"And Hold'em, are you gay? Not that I have anything against
homosexuals."
"I like girls; I don't really want to be a girl. And except for
tonight, I haven't experienced contact of any sort with a guy."
"Have you ever had sex with a girl?"
"Uh . . . Look, remember when you sent me into the bathroom to shave
my legs and take a bubble bath, I asked if you would scrub my back. Well,
I really would have enjoyed sharing a bubble bath with you. I think you
are a beautiful girl. Not only are you physically magnificent, you are so
kind and considerate and smart and fun loving. You've got a compassionate
heart. I think you deserve a lot better than that philanderer Studlater."
Allie snuggled up to me. We hugged forgivingly. Before we knew it,
Cruella De Ville and a very tall Las Vegas showgirl were wrapped in a hot
embrace, kissing like lemmings in heat or whatever the hell those animals
are that reproduce faster than rabbits. At first, I had to stoop down to
kiss Allison. But I want to tell you, when we sat down on the bed
together, we were a good fit physically. Allie was so sensual, so gentle,
so loving, so caring! We were very happy together that night.
But, that's all I can tell you, 'cause I promised Allie I wouldn't go
blabbing on and on, especially about affairs of the heart. 'You've got to
know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em . . . Every gambler knows the
secret to survive is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep.'
Goddammit! I have to stop! Allie would kill me, she really would.
THE END