The Lady's, Man
He stood in the bathroom naked. His left leg up on the bath rim. He took the tape and placed it down his leg, at the ankle. He took a slug, this bit always hurt. He pulled upward. He grimaced. Yes it hurt. But it would soon be over. As he repeated the manoeuvre over and over again, it got easier, the pain. He stopped and looked at the leg. It was red. Now the right. Again it hurt. Tomorrow they would have settled down and he could get on with life.
****
He woke early, the smoothness of the legs, had made him feel different. The negligee clung to his now perspiring body. He had enjoyed the experience again. The feather boa lay half on, half off the bed. The need to bath and consider what to wear called. That was going to take up most of his time. He had bought a new skirt, not full but A-line, and the elasticised belts so chic these day, would do nicely. No, shower first and have a bath later. Fill the tub with fragrant bubbles and let the hot water, steam and open the pores. That way he could shave better. The stubble would be easier to shave. An open razor, gave the best results. He tried to remember, the eyebrows, mustn't pluck, use Vaseline to smooth and then darken with eyebrow pencil. He had to give his body a pamper. He would need a face pack. He rose and slipped the silk robe over the negligee, put his feet into the gold fluffy mules. He looked at the toenails. The nail varnish needed removing and reapplying. He wondered what would be said if he ever had an accident. He didn't use nail varnish on the fingers. Too easy to spot. No, he used falsers. He had tried with mascara but again he couldn't quite handle. Stella had said try false ones. Once mastered, yes they had looked good. He now wore them. They could be discarded after use. No-one would find. It wasn't that he did it every week No more like when the full moon came round. A touch of lunacy maybe.
He made his way to the kitchen, the remains of a TV dinner for one, lay discarded on the worktop. The champagne flute sticky from the sweet liquor. So much better than what he usually drank. He smiled at the lipstick mark on the glass. It reminded him of all the women he had loved, and married, and the ones that had got away. He took the glass and carefully washed it, ready for the next time.
****
Transvestism and cross dressing, the thin line. He did not do it for sexual gratification. He did it for his feminine side. He had always loved women. They were so……….. creatures to be admired. The clothes were better now. The girdle, now replaced by an all in one with lycra. So much more comfortable and sleek. The padded bra no longer slipped down. How did he get the gear? Through websites, mail order. Address to box numbers. Never delivered to the house. Sometimes, Stella and Layla would take in for him. Occasionally Stella and Layla would arrive and teach him new tips. The latest fashions, styles and colours. Yes there was a lot more to this than just being a man in drag, or a pantomime dame. You needed a sophistication. You couldn't just throw something on. It had to be right, or you looked weird. You had not to act camp or talk funny. It was just being in a skirt. He had mastered the technique of walking, head held high and smaller steps. The walking, with a book on your head. When sitting, cross your legs or your ankles. Over the years he had mastered the movements of a woman.
****
When did it start, he couldn't remember. Maybe it had been when his wife had died. He wanted to be near her, to smell her scent. To feel, no sense, her presence. It had started innocently enough. The night dress, the slippers and had gradually got more elaborate. He had never worn high heels, always stylish courts. Blouses up to the neck, that way no-one could see the hairs on his chest. Stockings, not tights, and they had to be silk. His marriages had never lasted. He couldn't let them know. Once he had almost been caught. Stephanie had found him going through her underwear drawer. Quick excuse, he needed to find out what size she was again. I mean, he already had been married three times and didn't want to get the wrong article. She had shaken her head. It had cost him. Even Jenny had never found out. They had played games once. He had asked her to let him pamper her. Do her nails and different hair styles. They had laughed. Little did she know. The hair. Wigs were so much more natural now. No, he had tried the redhead and it was not for him. Brunette. He would have liked to go blonde, his blue eyes, but his skin was too dark. Sometimes the strawberry blonde, but that made him too tacky. So he had the two wigs now, depending on how he felt. The bob and the shoulder length one, it turned slightly over the shoulders.
****
He laid out the clothes on the bed. He had decided on the new skirt, black. The stockings black and the court shoes. The crème coloured blouse, with the slight ruffle at the neck. A single strand if black beads, rested on his chest. The red elastic belt round his waist, and lastly, the red false nails on his fingers. He patted his wig, clipped the black stud ear-rings to his lobes. Applied the red lipstick. Slung the black Channel style purse over his shoulder. Looking again in the mirror, he called for a cab. The same company, as the company he would soon be in. Not too early, 23.00hrs. At the club? Well they sat drinking, no sipping champagne. There was never much talk. No, they did not exchange recipes, knitting patterns and the like. Just a crowd of lonely men fulfilling an urge to dress as women.
This was the reason why one Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, could never….would never get married again. As he shut and locked the door. He entered the cab.
"Looking good tonight Lee." the driver had said.
"Thank you Stella." he replied, as he shut the door.