[story] every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man
author: usagi anami (pukingtoreador)
email: pukingtoreador [at] hotmail.com
The room stank. A mongrel scent of lavender and lilac oil, dried flowers, silk, and cheap perfume. Fingernail polish hovered just beneath the surface. Air thick with lipstick, kiwi-and-strawberry lip gloss, and makeup pencil shavings drifted to Jiang's nose.
And like the pea under twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds, Jiang's nose detected another scent: rotten fruit and sour milk, and something else, another kind of decay that was harder to place. He could not tell if it came from the house itself or from the woman who opened the door. The offending odor made the back of his throat twitch, and he bit his tongue to keep from gagging as he stepped inside.
He cleared his throat, but the rotten kernel remained firmly wedged in his nose and mouth. His head bonked against top of the doorway.
The woman's hair was long, brunette, and pulled into a tight braid that reached her thigh. She wore a Chinese dress, dark purple embroidered with gold butterflies. Jiang swallowed when he saw the slice of her thigh exposed by the dress cut. She wore heels, strappy sandal things. She was somewhere in her early or mid-thirties, younger than he thought she would be. Her nails were long and lacquered lavender.
"Excuse me, would you care to sit down?" The woman asked, smiling. Her eyes were blue.
"Oh! Sorry. I'm just nervous, you know?"
She nods, still smiling. "Of course. This is your first time?"
"Yeah."
"Please, try to make yourself comfortable." She touched his shoulder. The smile widened, revealing her teeth. "Sweetheart, you can be yourself here. I'm not going to judge you."
While the woman made tea, Jiang shuffled his feet and twisted the gold ring on his finger. He frowned as he looked over himself: thick-knuckled hands, chewed nails, big ape arms, no hips, broad shoulders, pudgy stomach. He buried his face in his hands.
"Something wrong, sweetie?" He heard her put something on the table.
"God, I'm going to look so stupid."
"Of course you won't." She touched his hands and gently pried them away from his face, and lifted his head up. "This is what you're paying me for, after all. By the time I'm done, you'll be beautiful."
He smiled back. She squeezed his hands before she sat down and served the tea. The tea was in pretty little bone cups, and he fumbled trying to get his thick fingers through the handle. After a minute of almost knocking it over he gave up and held the cup like a beer can, handle facing away from him.
"I'm Samantha," she held out her hand and they shook. "But I usually just go by Sam if that's alright with you."
"Yeah, no problems here."
The first room had bras, teddies, pantyhose, garters, stockings, calve-high socks, knee-high socks, corsets, underwear innocent and crotchless. The second room had dresses, skirts, mini-skirts, blouses, tank tops, halter tops, spaghetti straps, and wigs. Sam watched and occasionally helped as Jiang mixed and matched, and between bouts of blushing he marveled that such delicate clothes were made for a man his size.
Finally they settled on a knee-length skirt, black stockings with a zigzag pattern, boots with a zipper running up the side and a grey blouse. Sam assured him his own hair was much too nice to hide under a wig.
"Alright, now," Sam took his trembling hand and lead him into her vanity, "let's put your face on."
"Perfect," Sam paused, frowned, and then dabbed at Jiang's lipstick one more time. "Alright, now it's perfect."
When he looked in the mirror Jiang's stomach fluttered. His lips were glossy and pink, his lashes long and dark, his eyelids a powder blue. He almost reached up to touch his face before he remembered Sam's instructions.
"Well?" Sam asked.
"I'm... I'm pretty."
"Yes. Very, very pretty." Sam beamed, put a hand on his shoulder, and something smooth and cold coiled around his throat.
When he tried to scream the coil tightened, cutting into his windpipe. In the mirror he saw what looked like a red snake choking him, except the snake was coming out of Sam. Three identical snakes slid out of her dress. The coil relaxed, and he shivered as he inhaled. The coil tightened. He felt like he was being strangled with silk.
Two of the snakes who, with their needle-faces, were not snakes at all, wrapped around his wrists and tied him to the chair. The noose around his throat kept him from standing. Then the coil around his throat went slack, but his second scream died as the fourth snake wrapped around his face, sinking into his mouth like a horse's bit. When he bit down a rotten taste flooded his mouth.
"Ow," she laughed. Behind the gag he growled and gargled and gnashed his teeth. "Honestly, it's not like I'm going to eat you."
The snake finished untangling from his throat and stabbed into his shoulder. It stung like a bee or a scorpion, only once it penetrated the skin it kept pushing, wriggling and crawling under his skin, down his back, alongside his spine. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it should. His skin tingled, and he felt blood rushing to his chest. Everything felt fuzzy and warm. Colors swam over his eyes. Somehow he was hard.
Hot liquid trickled under his skin and the snake slid out. His shoulder burned and itched.
She stroked his hair, murmuring, but he did not hear her words. The darkness dropped and his mind went still.
She took in his surface emotions and let them wash over her; his excitement, shame, surprise, terror, arousal, pleasure. Her spine seems to pull away from her body when his fear hit her. She drank in memories in English and Chinese.
His wife's hair, black as India ink. Lip-gloss that would not wipe off. A stray cat sniffing his fingertips, half its whiskers gone. A hundred restaurant conversations. The yellow stain on the bathroom wall and the face that peered out from it. That mixture of sweat, grease, and oil that clung to him like a lover every evening after work. A rainbow halo around the full moon. The smell of sandalwood. His cooking knife buried a quarter inch into his thumb, stinging with every heartbeat. A crumpled poem. Stolen underwear he could only pull up to his thighs. Dirty fingernails at a job interview. A broken condom. Vegetables frying.
As carefully as a tightrope walker with arms full of china, Sam gave his memories back to him, and kept only the last twenty minutes to herself. She wiped his makeup off, undressed and redressed him. By the time she was done the wound on Jiang's shoulder had completely healed, leaving only a pink crescent-shaped scar. To make up for his lost time, she made for him a memory of them talking over tea, while the sunlight drifted through the curtains and played across the floor. She set his mind back in motion.
He blinked.
"Are you alright?" Sam asked, and waved a hand in front of his face.
"I...uh...sorry," he rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "I just...spaced out for a minute there."
"Perfectly alright, dear," she patted his hand, "Happens to the best of us."
After he left Sam slipped out of her dress, humming as the silk slid down her body and piled around her ankles. She pulled her fingers through her hair, undoing her braid and letting her hair spill out, throwing her head back as red skin on her back fleshed out into four tentacles. Each tentacle wriggled, stretched out, and snapped through the air like a whip.
She turned the shower on and cleared off her lipstick, masacara and blush in front of the mirror while she waited for the water to heat up. She grinned in the mirror to check for any lipstick on her teeth, then hopped into the shower. As she worked up a lather with peach body wash she worked out what kind of outfit she should wear for Melissa's little get-together. Halter tops and belly shirts were out of the question, no matter how good she looked in them. She hummed and could not remember what the tune was called.
the end
email: pukingtoreador [at] hotmail.com
The room stank. A mongrel scent of lavender and lilac oil, dried flowers, silk, and cheap perfume. Fingernail polish hovered just beneath the surface. Air thick with lipstick, kiwi-and-strawberry lip gloss, and makeup pencil shavings drifted to Jiang's nose.
And like the pea under twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds, Jiang's nose detected another scent: rotten fruit and sour milk, and something else, another kind of decay that was harder to place. He could not tell if it came from the house itself or from the woman who opened the door. The offending odor made the back of his throat twitch, and he bit his tongue to keep from gagging as he stepped inside.
He cleared his throat, but the rotten kernel remained firmly wedged in his nose and mouth. His head bonked against top of the doorway.
The woman's hair was long, brunette, and pulled into a tight braid that reached her thigh. She wore a Chinese dress, dark purple embroidered with gold butterflies. Jiang swallowed when he saw the slice of her thigh exposed by the dress cut. She wore heels, strappy sandal things. She was somewhere in her early or mid-thirties, younger than he thought she would be. Her nails were long and lacquered lavender.
"Excuse me, would you care to sit down?" The woman asked, smiling. Her eyes were blue.
"Oh! Sorry. I'm just nervous, you know?"
She nods, still smiling. "Of course. This is your first time?"
"Yeah."
"Please, try to make yourself comfortable." She touched his shoulder. The smile widened, revealing her teeth. "Sweetheart, you can be yourself here. I'm not going to judge you."
While the woman made tea, Jiang shuffled his feet and twisted the gold ring on his finger. He frowned as he looked over himself: thick-knuckled hands, chewed nails, big ape arms, no hips, broad shoulders, pudgy stomach. He buried his face in his hands.
"Something wrong, sweetie?" He heard her put something on the table.
"God, I'm going to look so stupid."
"Of course you won't." She touched his hands and gently pried them away from his face, and lifted his head up. "This is what you're paying me for, after all. By the time I'm done, you'll be beautiful."
He smiled back. She squeezed his hands before she sat down and served the tea. The tea was in pretty little bone cups, and he fumbled trying to get his thick fingers through the handle. After a minute of almost knocking it over he gave up and held the cup like a beer can, handle facing away from him.
"I'm Samantha," she held out her hand and they shook. "But I usually just go by Sam if that's alright with you."
"Yeah, no problems here."
The first room had bras, teddies, pantyhose, garters, stockings, calve-high socks, knee-high socks, corsets, underwear innocent and crotchless. The second room had dresses, skirts, mini-skirts, blouses, tank tops, halter tops, spaghetti straps, and wigs. Sam watched and occasionally helped as Jiang mixed and matched, and between bouts of blushing he marveled that such delicate clothes were made for a man his size.
Finally they settled on a knee-length skirt, black stockings with a zigzag pattern, boots with a zipper running up the side and a grey blouse. Sam assured him his own hair was much too nice to hide under a wig.
"Alright, now," Sam took his trembling hand and lead him into her vanity, "let's put your face on."
"Perfect," Sam paused, frowned, and then dabbed at Jiang's lipstick one more time. "Alright, now it's perfect."
When he looked in the mirror Jiang's stomach fluttered. His lips were glossy and pink, his lashes long and dark, his eyelids a powder blue. He almost reached up to touch his face before he remembered Sam's instructions.
"Well?" Sam asked.
"I'm... I'm pretty."
"Yes. Very, very pretty." Sam beamed, put a hand on his shoulder, and something smooth and cold coiled around his throat.
When he tried to scream the coil tightened, cutting into his windpipe. In the mirror he saw what looked like a red snake choking him, except the snake was coming out of Sam. Three identical snakes slid out of her dress. The coil relaxed, and he shivered as he inhaled. The coil tightened. He felt like he was being strangled with silk.
Two of the snakes who, with their needle-faces, were not snakes at all, wrapped around his wrists and tied him to the chair. The noose around his throat kept him from standing. Then the coil around his throat went slack, but his second scream died as the fourth snake wrapped around his face, sinking into his mouth like a horse's bit. When he bit down a rotten taste flooded his mouth.
"Ow," she laughed. Behind the gag he growled and gargled and gnashed his teeth. "Honestly, it's not like I'm going to eat you."
The snake finished untangling from his throat and stabbed into his shoulder. It stung like a bee or a scorpion, only once it penetrated the skin it kept pushing, wriggling and crawling under his skin, down his back, alongside his spine. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it should. His skin tingled, and he felt blood rushing to his chest. Everything felt fuzzy and warm. Colors swam over his eyes. Somehow he was hard.
Hot liquid trickled under his skin and the snake slid out. His shoulder burned and itched.
She stroked his hair, murmuring, but he did not hear her words. The darkness dropped and his mind went still.
She took in his surface emotions and let them wash over her; his excitement, shame, surprise, terror, arousal, pleasure. Her spine seems to pull away from her body when his fear hit her. She drank in memories in English and Chinese.
His wife's hair, black as India ink. Lip-gloss that would not wipe off. A stray cat sniffing his fingertips, half its whiskers gone. A hundred restaurant conversations. The yellow stain on the bathroom wall and the face that peered out from it. That mixture of sweat, grease, and oil that clung to him like a lover every evening after work. A rainbow halo around the full moon. The smell of sandalwood. His cooking knife buried a quarter inch into his thumb, stinging with every heartbeat. A crumpled poem. Stolen underwear he could only pull up to his thighs. Dirty fingernails at a job interview. A broken condom. Vegetables frying.
As carefully as a tightrope walker with arms full of china, Sam gave his memories back to him, and kept only the last twenty minutes to herself. She wiped his makeup off, undressed and redressed him. By the time she was done the wound on Jiang's shoulder had completely healed, leaving only a pink crescent-shaped scar. To make up for his lost time, she made for him a memory of them talking over tea, while the sunlight drifted through the curtains and played across the floor. She set his mind back in motion.
He blinked.
"Are you alright?" Sam asked, and waved a hand in front of his face.
"I...uh...sorry," he rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "I just...spaced out for a minute there."
"Perfectly alright, dear," she patted his hand, "Happens to the best of us."
After he left Sam slipped out of her dress, humming as the silk slid down her body and piled around her ankles. She pulled her fingers through her hair, undoing her braid and letting her hair spill out, throwing her head back as red skin on her back fleshed out into four tentacles. Each tentacle wriggled, stretched out, and snapped through the air like a whip.
She turned the shower on and cleared off her lipstick, masacara and blush in front of the mirror while she waited for the water to heat up. She grinned in the mirror to check for any lipstick on her teeth, then hopped into the shower. As she worked up a lather with peach body wash she worked out what kind of outfit she should wear for Melissa's little get-together. Halter tops and belly shirts were out of the question, no matter how good she looked in them. She hummed and could not remember what the tune was called.
the end