Rerun

Got a job. Hardly any time left to have a slash, much less blog. I'm going to try to give it all I've got on the weekends from now on, but my posting during the week will remain light at least until this case litigates. In the meantime, I'm reposting a few oldies. This one is my Daddy's favorite.

VICTOR'S SECRET

My husband and I were watching Ed Wood on HBO the other night. In case you haven't seen the film, it's the story of a spectacularly unsuccessful cross-dressing 50's B-movie director, and his touching relationship with the smack-addicted and washed up Bela Lugosi. It's an okay film - Tim Burton, you know - but really nothing to write home about. We'd seen it before, so I wasn't so much watching as using the background noise as a distraction from the mundane task of folding laundry.

"God, what a bitch," intoned my sensitive new-age spouse. We'd just hit the scene where Ed reveals his angora fetish to his long-time girlfriend and she rejects him. "You'd think if she loved him, she could put up with a little weirdness," he said.

I glanced at the TV - Sarah Jessica Parker having a horsefaced meltdown over her boyfriend's secret tranny leanings - then turned to face my husband. "Putting up with 'weirdness' is one thing," I said. "Expecting a lady to be able to work up a good wet for a hairy-chested bugger who's wearing her panties is another thing entirely."

My husband gave me that disapproving look, that "my, aren't we intolerant today," glare.

I take crap from his loving, giving, kum-ba-yah ass over shit like this all the time and I was having none of it at the moment. I replied, in a cutting tone, "Well, have you ever tried to bone a dude who was wearing your unmentionables? No - never mind, I don't want to know. It would be a total dealbreaker if you had, and I have no desire to be a single mother. Suffice it to say that I have tried it, and it ain't just a matter of acceptance. It's a visceral thing, man."

Of course, this led to the story, which my husband swore he'd never heard before. I know that I told him about this incident, during the sixteen-hour debriefing I insisted he attend prior to my becoming his wife. (I didn't want any messy comebacks on the merger, so he had a forced "full discovery" session before we even started planning the wedding. Hey, you've read my history - some of the milder events, anyway - can you blame me?)

See, back in the early nineties, your Queenie had a brief brush with this very issue. A bona-fide Rock Star and I ended up posing for a photo-shoot together, landing my "elegant" mug in a fanzine; surprisingly tasteful and non-pornographic black-and-white work. Quite nice, actually. The Rock Star was himself gay as Christmas, but the photographer - a big, strapping Irishman with a twinkle in his eye - caught my fancy, so I took him home with me after the shoot.

We had a lovely evening. Dinner, coffee, chocolate, wine, reefer, and the midnight hour found us locked in a sweaty clench on my down comforter, making out.

"Queenie," he said.

"Mmm," I replied.

"Queenie, I've...got a favor to ask." His tone was deadly serious.

I opened my eyes, I couldn't imagine what would break a man's concentration at a moment like this, so I sat up, brushing my hair out of my eyelashes and wiping my chin with the back of my hand. "This sounds like a big deal, sweetie...what's the matter?" I asked.

He took a deep gulp of air, and came out with it. "I...I like to wear women's underwear when I'm...with a girl. Could I...can I...wear something of yours?"

I must admit, this took me rather aback. Not something you hear every day, that - especially from a muscled-up man's man known to smoke cigars, drink Scotch, and get in fistfights. I just sat there for a minute, a little shocked. What was the etiquette for such a situation? Would a polite hostess offer him her bra, or was his request straining the bounds of traditional hospitality? I didn't know, and I didn't have time to consult Emily Post. But - what the hell. I'd never tried it before, it sounded kinky and so was I, so...what did I have to lose?

In a bound, I was out of bed and over at my chest of drawers. From its recesses I drew out Something Special, a hot pink longline bra that had been encrusted with rhinestones and decked out with a large, gold, faux-gemstone cross hung right between the knocker cups - part of an old Halloween costume. I tossed it at him, watching his eyes light up and his member strain at his boxers as he caught it. "Whoa!" he said. "This is a lot better than anything I expected!"

He took the lingerie to the bathroom, and I got under the covers to consider the situation. I came to no conclusions, and pretty soon, he re-emerged, wearing nothing but my longline bra. He grinned a devilish grin, and pounced me. "Naaa, lassie," he said. "Now you've made old Seamus a happy man."

He kissed me, a deep, lingering, virile kiss...and I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. The sight of his skinny, hairy chest with my 36DD's gaping open over it...what can I say? I am a cunt.

Seamus froze, and drew back. "What's the matter, love?" he asked.

"Nothing. Sorry." I said, stifling another chortle. He smiled, and leaned back in.

A few minutes later, and I had reached my limit. I just couldn't do it. Any vestige of arousal was gone, and I was forcing myself to continue. Not any fun at all. I pulled my mouth away from his, and sat up in bed again.

"Seamus, honey. I...can't get into this. I'm sorry. I really like you, and I think you're handsome and manly and a helluva guy (cough)...I just can't get past (giggle) the underwear thing. It's not that...I'm being judgemental (snicker) or anything...I think whatever, um, turns your crank for you is just fine. I just can't do it. I'm sorry. It's me...not, um...you."

After talking it out like gentlemen, Seamus and I parted on amicable terms - especially amicable since, instead of making the beast with two backs, we went through my closet together. I gave him piles of my old stuff - sweaters, skirts, panties, bras, garter belts, stockings. He left with two full garbage bags of "playclothes", Seamus did, and I gained valuable closet-space. We became good friends in the end, and he did more photographs of me over the years than Carter's has Pills.

I closed the door behind him as he left, and I felt melancholy, but wiser - I really had liked the guy, and it was a shame - but I understood more about myself, gained a deeper insight into my inner motivations. I'd come to an important realization that was to serve me well in later years - hairy Irishmen with boners in women's underwear are a turnoff for Queenie.

Hey, it's a personal tic. Is that so wrong?

Posted by Queenie at May 9, 2005 02:01 AM