(She Said) Something About Tulips

by Bright Eyes

 

Hector ran round the first corner, around the next, and he slowed down. The raincoat didn't have buttons all the way down, and when he ran he was fairly sure his suspenders would be visible. Walking quickly, hips swaying, and not looking back, he headed straight for…

Where was Hector going? He realised then that he had nowhere to go. Kate was in his house, and he couldn't go to hers. He couldn't go to the police, looking as he did. Was what she had done illegal? Could he prove anything? He kept on walking.

A couple passed on the other side of the street, staring openly at him. He walked by a man cutting his lawn who stopped pushing the mower to look at him twice, and he knew he had to get out of public sight. Light rain pattered iambically on the parked cars.

Round another corner, head kept down, and onto a track used by dog walkers over waste ground. He passed a tramp who checked out his boobs before staring hard at his face, and came to a halt by some electricity generators or transformers or something, surrounded by big wire fences.

Between generators two and three he paused and looked around. Brief respite. He closed his eyes as his body seemed to shimmy itself, squirming luxuriously in his new black and lacy underwear, like a backing dancer on MTV. It was so nice… It would be so nice to just go back to the house and let Kate dress him up in high heels and lipstick. It would feel so good. Why was he resisting it? He dragged his eyes open and looked around, dragging his hands off his breast forms. Still unseen, but he was only secluded in that there was no-one about in the ground. Should dog walkers or boys on motorbikes come, or children with a football…

Hector took quick stock. The traitorous ifs that had talkest to him afore had lost him his head once already today. Now he had to take action. Back to the house to face Kate? Or on to the disabled toilet in the lobby of the public library just over the car park that adjoined the waste ground? His mind reached out both ways, forwards and back. For a moment he stood, silent upon a peak in Darien, but less like stout Cortez than a willowy Miranda, perfectly made-up eyes slipping unfocused over her brave new world.

Then with a sure step he set off to the library. "Clean myself up," he whispered to himself, in a voice still disturbingly purrish. "Then face Kate. Get more control."

The promised storm was coming. The light rain continued and the skies darkened. Hector pulled up the hood of Kate's posh coat and, cowled in its shadows, navigated the puddles on the path to the car park. Looking down to guide his feet over the last few muddy metres before the tarmac, he realised instantly how silly he looked in a designer coat, expensive stockings and battered trainers. At the car park's edge, before he knew what he was doing, he zipped open the bag, whipped out the black patent leather stiletto heeled court shoes, popped his trainers in a conveniently positioned dog waste bin, and stood four and a half inches taller, breathing deeply and exulting in the thrill of his first high heels.

He set off again, click-clacking his way to the entrance. Stiletto heels on wet pavement, he felt like he was the femme fatale in a French film noir. Hector was worryingly excited by this as he enjoyed his new sexy strut between the occasional parked car. "I am Hector," he reminded himself, "I am Hector, even in my sexy shoes."

The casual observer would have seen nothing more than a woman catwalking through the rain to the library. The casual observer might have noticed that she was finely dressed, in a coat that had not come from the high street, heels high enough for a ball gown or a lap dance – either way would work – and expensive silky stockings. The casual observer would watch as she languidly traced her own curves with her free hand, from her concealed cheek under her hood, down her firm breast and trim tummy, to her thigh as she stepped out, again and again flashing her shapely legs and knees from the long coat.

Click-clacking up the steps between the old Corinthian columns and into the marble-floored atrium, Hector's heart beat a quick-step in his chest. He had nearly made it! Click clack, click clack, people turning at the sound, click clack, nearly there, click clack, young lady at the desk looking, click , to the door, clack, inside.

Lock the door.

Deep breath.

Get these clothes off.

Hector shrugged off the coat and shivered. He had come through the park wearing nothing but lingerie under a raincoat, and the breeze was picking up. Now he knew 'what was more gentle than a wind in summer'!

Get these clothes off.

He looked in the mirror at his face. It was quite pretty, he had to admit, though he could see why the people had stared. With his hair in such a short style, and the way he had heavy makeup but no lipstick, he looked quite odd. Striking?

Get these clothes off.

His hands unconsciously traced the silky material of his stockings as he bent down to look in the bag for his other clothes. A t-shirt and trousers. What shoes would he wear with them? What coat? He couldn't go walking back to the house in trousers and high heels, or a t-shirt and designer coat. What to do?

Get these clothes off.

Or maybe… Leave these clothes on.

Get these clothes off.

Or, still be Hector, but leave the stockings and the basque and the makeup and the breast forms and the high heels on.

Then he could put the other clothes on, the skirt and the top, he would look like a woman, and no-one would notice him walking back home. He could prepare himself mentally as he walked, and, like Miss Smilla sneaking into the museum, he could be reassured that trouble is always easier to face if you're nicely dressed. He could face Kate.

He took the short black pencil skirt out of the bag and gasped as it slid up his smooth legs. He hadn't been prepared for just how good it would feel. As he fastened it at the back, it all seemed so easy. "Why didn't I ever try any of this on before?" he wondered, twisting round to see from all angles in the mirror. He looked hot and felt great. The restriction of his legs, and the breeze he could feel up his skirt. He sat down on the toilet to rummage for the top in the bag, and closed his eyes as his knees pressed together, black and nyloned, shushing quietly as he reached.

A deep jade green satin blouse. As he buttoned it up, the wrong way that seemed right, he arched his back to throw his chest forward. A sly smile spread over his lips.

As he was correctly positioning the wig, there was a gently knock at the door.

"Er, Ma'am," called a female voice, "I'm afraid you'll have to vacate. There's a lady in a wheelchair here who needs to use this facility."

Hector looked at himself in the mirror. There was just one more thing. With a flourish and a sweep, the lipstick was in his hand, and with two sure strokes he was pouting a glossy fire engine red at his reflection. With the taste of the cosmetic creamy and fresh on his lips, and his grace on his brow, he turned like a ballerina and opened the door, ready to face Kate.

The lady from the desk looked unsure, but Hector knew what to do. A dazzling smile and a wink at the chair-bound pensioner, a husky heart-felt "thank you," to the lady from the desk, and he had two life-long fans. The old lady saw nothing less than a film star from her youth walking away. In black and white, a star from the days when things mattered. She blinked but the image remained. Flashing through the lady's eyes were imprints of glamour, of costumes, of possibilities. "What we can be, we must be…" He could feel their gaze tracing him as he slinked out. And he knew he was worth tracing. Hector. Sexy Hector in his lipstick. Sexy new Hector in his stiletto heels. Sexy new Hector.

  

  

  

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