Autumn 2016

Photo by GRAS GRÜN on Unsplash

Suggested Reader age: 18+ for swearing, cannabis use, and sensuality.

*All names changed for privacy

*This piece was first published by Indecent Magazine.

“So, are you dating anyone?” Dean* asked between puffs, seemingly unaware of my eyes on his upper thighs — his legs were as long as mine and bare, save the lacy hem of my slip.

Acoustic folk rock and my neighbors’ muffled laughter filled the room while I chose my words. “Dating” wasn’t the right term for what Liam and I were doing, at least not anymore, but “fucking” felt too impersonal, considering our history. 

“I’m seeing her brother,” I replied, gesturing toward Allison and the yellow wing back chair she’d curled up in. My words hung in the air like the haze slowly filling my living room; we moved on to another subject I can no longer recall. 

“He was like, ‘I could really see myself with her!’” Allison told me later. I didn’t tell her I could picture it too.  

“Why don’t you bring him over here?” I’d suggested when Allison invited me to witness Dean’s first time in lingerie. It was something he’d been wanting to experiment with for a while, she’d told me, but he’d been too nervous to try until now.

His hesitancy made sense — southeast Missouri is hardly known as a safe haven for queer exploration, just one of many reasons I’d tried to make a home in Brooklyn the year before.

“Your tits are huge; my lingerie will probably fit him better.” 

The remnants of my once-impressive lingerie collection lay on my bed when they arrived. All that remained after my whirlwind move to and from Brooklyn were a couple of bralettes, one bright-red kimono, and a black and white slip covered in polka dots that I’d owned for nearly a decade. I’d mailed a box full of lingerie — lacy teddies, sheer baby doll sets, fishnet stockings, corsets — to Brooklyn just weeks before my move back to southeast Missouri, but the box never arrived and I lost the tracking number almost immediately. Sometimes I picture that box sitting unopened in a USPS warehouse; sometimes I picture strangers playing with its contents. 

“Thank you so much,” I said, grinning, when Dean pulled four joints out of his jacket — two for me and two for Allison.

“Thank you.” 

We smoked and chatted in my kitchen — first about little things, then about the election — while I heated up milk and cocoa.

“I’m voting for Hillary,” I remember sharing, my cheeks warming like they always do when I talk politics with someone new. I can’t remember exactly how Allison and Dean replied, but I do remember Dean didn’t seem to support a Hillary Clinton presidency. I wonder how he feels about Hillary now. 

“You know, my suits would probably fit you,” Dean said a little later, smiling as he studied my body.

Between the three of us, we’d just finished one joint and three mugs of hot chocolate; now we were standing in my bedroom staring at my lingerie. Dean shed his shirt and played with the bralettes for a while, enlisting my and Allison’s help with the trickier hook-and-eye closures before moving on to the pieces he’d wear most of the night: my slip and kimono. 

I forget what Allison and I discussed when we returned to the living room — though I’m fairly certain we sparked another joint. But what I’ll never forget is this: when Dean joined us — wrapped in the same nylon and polyester that was usually wrapped around me — his femininity was mesmerizing. I thought about slipping into all that softness later, after he’d gone, knowing he’d felt exactly what I was feeling. I thought about me in his suits; I thought about him in my bed. I thought about Liam. 

“Well, we better get going,” Allison finally said. 

“Alright,” I answered. I could have kept smoking and gazing all night; but it was late, and we all had plans the next day. 

“I’ll go get dressed,” Dean said, walking upstairs to my bedroom as he spoke. 

We took turns hugging; I waved goodbye from my porch before locking the front door behind me. My neighbors were quiet — no more muffled laughter seeping through shared walls — as I walked upstairs to my room. Still stoned, Pandora still playing, I checked my phone for the first time in hours. 

“Do you have eyes on your slip?” a text from Allison read.

I searched my bed; I scanned the floor; I checked the nail where it usually hung. 

“Nope.”