One More Circuit

You start cautiously.

Nothing dramatic enough to make the whole idea ridiculous before you even reach the front door.

First, the stockings.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you gather one carefully between your hands and ease it over your foot, then slowly up your calf. The fabric feels cool at first, tightening as you smooth it over your knee and thigh.

The sensation catches you off guard.

Almost indecent, how quickly your body remembers.

You pull on the second stocking and stand. Your legs look different. Not transformed exactly, just reframed, and when you turn slightly in front of the mirror you become aware of yourself in a way you haven't been all day.

Next come the briefs: black, soft, a little lace at the edges. Nothing theatrical. Their ordinariness makes them somehow worse. They sit close against you, an intimate little secret nobody could possibly know unless you chose to tell them.

You won't.

That's rather the point.

The bra takes longer. You fasten it clumsily, adjust the straps and pull on the fitted black top. The slight pressure around your chest is immediately distracting; every movement reminds you that it is there.

You look at yourself.

Then away.

Then back again.

This is absurd.

You are a grown man standing in his bedroom wearing stockings and women's underwear on a wet weekday evening.

You should probably make tea.

Instead, you step into the skirt.

Dark, knee-length, modest. Almost respectable. You zip it at the side and smooth both palms down over your hips.

The gesture unsettles you.

You do it again.

The raincoat comes next, then black ankle boots rather than heels. Sensible. Almost disappointingly sensible.

At the dressing table you work slowly: foundation, concealer, mascara, a little colour around the eyes, lipstick that looks much darker in the tube than it does after you've blotted it.

With each step the face in the mirror becomes fractionally less familiar.

Then you put on the wig.

And everything changes.

Shoulder-length, dark brown, slightly tousled. You adjust the fringe, tilt your head and stare.

You don't look young.

Good.

You don't look glamorous.

Even better.

From a forgiving distance, in poor light, you look like an entirely ordinary middle-aged woman getting ready to take the dog out in miserable weather.

Something turns over inside you.

Not arousal exactly.

Not yet.

Possibility.

The dog nearly jumps out of her skin when you pick up the lead.

"All right."

Your voice sounds ridiculous.

You laugh.

"Come on then."

Umbrella, keys, phone.

You walk into the hallway.

And everything changes again.

Your bedroom was fantasy.

The hallway has a front door.

Through its frosted glass you can see headlights moving along the road. Rain ticks steadily against the porch roof.

You stop.

Your coat conceals most of the skirt. The boots are ordinary enough. The makeup isn't excessive.

The wig is perhaps the problem.

Your heart beats much harder than the situation deserves.

You could go upstairs, take everything off and pour yourself a whisky. In twenty minutes you could be sitting in front of the television wondering what possessed you.

The dog scratches impatiently at the door.

You put your hand on the latch.

A car moves slowly past and, without thinking, you step back.

That tiny retreat decides it.

Because suddenly you understand why you've come this far.

Not because nobody will see you.

Because somebody might.

You open the door.

The dog surges forward and pulls you over the threshold.

Your boot lands on the paving.

Click.

Far too loud.

She pulls again.

Click.

You close the door behind you and lock it.

For a moment you simply stand there.

Outside.

Actually outside.

The cold feels sharper against your legs than you expected. You open the umbrella and start walking.

Click. Click. Click.

Every step sounds feminine.

Nobody else would notice.

It makes absolutely no difference.

For the first hundred yards you expect every curtain to move, every passing car to slow. Every dark shape behind a window becomes someone looking.

Nothing happens.

Of course nothing happens.

The dog sniffs a hedge. Rain trickles from the edge of your umbrella. Somebody's television flickers blue behind drawn curtains.

Your coat shifts against the skirt as you walk. The stockings brush softly at your thighs. The bra straps move faintly against your shoulders.

At the end of the road you stop.

Left is quiet.

Left is what you planned.

Right leads towards the main road.

Streetlights. Cars. Bus stops.

People.

The dog looks back at you.

"Oh, don't."

She stares.

A car passes through the junction.

You turn right.

The rush is immediate.

You've chosen the brighter road.

A bus appears in the distance.

"For God's sake."

You're approaching the stop at precisely the wrong moment. Someone stands beneath the shelter.

You consider crossing the road.

Too obvious.

Stopping would be worse.

So you keep walking.

As the bus approaches, you become aware of everything at once: the skirt moving under the coat, the stockings against your thighs, the unfamiliar pressure around your chest, lipstick on your mouth, hair brushing your cheek.

The person at the stop looks up.

Your stomach contracts.

They're looking at the bus.

Idiot.

It pulls in beside you and the doors hiss open. For several seconds you walk alongside brightly lit windows full of faces.

Somebody glances vaguely towards you.

Then looks away.

Nobody laughs.

Nobody stares.

Nobody cares.

And the indifference is intoxicating.

At the crossing the red figure forces you to stop beneath a streetlight.

Standing still is worse.

A car rolls up. Then another.

You want to turn your face away, but that would draw attention. You stand there with the umbrella in one hand and the lead in the other.

A middle-aged woman walking her dog.

Except you know.

The thought produces a small, hot jolt low in your stomach.

The lights change.

Halfway across, you catch your reflection in a car window.

Coat. Hair. Umbrella. Boots.

A woman's silhouette passing through the rain.

You almost miss a step.

By the time you reach the open ground, the panic has settled into something else.

Pleasure.

Not simply sexual, though there is unquestionably some of that now.

Permission.

For an hour you aren't answering emails, paying bills, tidying the kitchen or fixing something somebody has been meaning to fix for weeks. Nobody wants anything from you.

Nobody even knows who you are.

You bend to unclip the dog's lead. Your coat falls open and cold air slips suddenly beneath the skirt and across your thighs.

"Oh."

You straighten and pull the coat together, laughing at yourself.

Nothing was visible.

You know that.

Your body reacts as though you have.

The dog races off.

A figure approaches along the path and your pulse immediately jumps.

Another dog walker.

You check yourself automatically: coat, skirt, hair.

"Evening."

You nearly forget to answer.

"Evening."

They pass.

That's it.

Yet your face is hot afterwards.

They looked at you.

They saw you.

Perhaps not you, exactly.

But this version of you.

And whatever they saw required no comment.

Then you notice the man coming towards you.

Roughly your age. Hands in his coat pockets. Walking slowly.

You tell yourself not to watch him.

Naturally you notice everything.

He looks up. His gaze catches yours, then moves briefly down over you.

Not rudely.

Not even obviously.

But enough.

Your stomach tightens.

He knows.

The conviction is immediate.

Perhaps it's your shoulders. Perhaps the wig. Perhaps you've become so conscious of walking naturally that you've started walking like someone pretending to walk naturally.

He smiles.

"Evening."

"Evening."

Your voice gives you away slightly.

Something in his smile changes.

Not mockery.

Interest.

The dog chooses that moment to bound over to him, tail wagging furiously.

"Friendly?" he asks, crouching to fuss her.

"Embarrassingly."

He laughs.

When he stands again, he's closer.

His eyes linger on your face for perhaps half a second longer than they should.

"Well. Enjoy your walk."

"You too."

He moves away.

You remain where you are.

Your pulse hammers.

Don't be ridiculous.

You know this park. You've heard the stories: men meeting men after dark, quiet arrangements between strangers.

You've never had reason to think about it.

Certainly not tonight.

Tonight you're merely walking your dog.

In stockings.

And a skirt.

And makeup.

And a wig.

You laugh aloud.

"Oh, for God's sake."

Home.

Definitely home.

You call the dog.

And then, somehow, instead of turning towards the road, you continue around the perimeter.

One more circuit.

The dog could use another circuit.

Perfectly reasonable.

You glance back.

The man has stopped beside a bench and is looking at his phone.

Your heart kicks.

You keep walking.

When you reach the bench again, he looks up.

"Hello again."

You laugh nervously.

"Hello."

"She's keeping you busy."

"Apparently."

He glances at the dog, then back at you. There's a pause.

You should keep walking.

You don't.

He slips the phone into his pocket.

"Everything all right?"

"Yes."

Your mouth is dry.

"Just... having a walk."

"Fair enough."

He doesn't move closer.

Doesn't suggest anything.

He waits.

You look towards the lights of the main road.

Then back at him.

"I've never..."

The words escape before you can stop them.

His eyebrow rises.

"Never what?"

A horrified little laugh comes out of you.

"Nothing. Sorry."

He studies you for a moment, and then his expression changes.

Understanding.

"First time?"

Heat floods your face.

You nod.

He doesn't laugh.

"Are you interested?"

For a second you can't process the question.

Rain ticking on leaves.

Traffic beyond the trees.

Your dog investigating something disgusting near a bin.

You could walk away.

You could be home in ten minutes. Wig off. Makeup washed away. Hot shower, whisky, television.

The entire evening reduced to something you nearly did.

Instead you hear yourself say:

"I think so."

He gestures towards the darker path.

You understand.

Neither of you moves immediately.

Then he says, quietly, "Only if you're sure."

That almost makes it worse.

Because now the decision is completely yours.

You follow him.

Only a short way, far enough for the trees and darkness to give you some privacy.

When he turns towards you, you feel suddenly and shockingly shy.

For the first time all evening, the clothes stop feeling like camouflage.

They feel intimate.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.

"Sure?"

You swallow.

"Yes."

He steps closer and places a hand against your waist through the raincoat.

Your whole body tightens.

He feels it and stops.

You nod.

His mouth meets yours.

The first shock is almost funny.

Stubble.

Warmth.

Rain on his face.

The faint waxy taste of your own lipstick between you.

For one wild moment your mind divides in two. One half is entirely inside the sensation.

The other is standing somewhere nearby shouting:

What the fuck are you doing?

You kiss him again.

Apparently that answers the question.

His hand moves around your waist and beneath the open edge of your coat, settling against the fabric of the skirt. Your breath catches.

There it is again: the startling collision between something completely unfamiliar and all those familiar sensations you've been carrying around all evening. Stockings. Skirt. Bra. Hair against your cheek.

Except now someone else is touching you while you're wearing them.

Someone who knows.

It is so absurd that you nearly laugh into his mouth.

He pulls away slightly.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

You're breathing too quickly.

"Yes."

His hand slides down your side and for an instant beneath the edge of the coat, over the outside of your thigh. The skirt shifts under his fingers.

A jolt runs through you.

You reach for him almost without deciding to.

Through his trousers first.

Then, after another glance between you and another quiet "okay?", skin.

The evening becomes real in an entirely different way.

A man's penis in your hand.

You expected it somehow to feel alien.

It doesn't.

That's almost more disturbing.

Warm skin. Familiar shape. Familiar movement.

Your hand knows what to do.

For a little while you hardly think at all.

There is the rain, the shelter of the trees, his breathing close beside your face and your own hand moving with an almost automatic confidence that seems completely disconnected from the fact that none of this has ever happened before.

Your dog is twenty feet away sniffing a tree.

Your boots are sinking slightly into wet earth.

The ridiculous normality of those details makes everything else feel even more impossible.

He touches your waist again.

You kiss him.

And somewhere during all of it you realise that you're aroused not despite the absurdity of the situation but partly because of it.

That thought nearly brings you back to yourself.

Almost.

Then his breathing changes.

A few seconds later there is sudden warmth across your fingers.

You stop.

Look down.

And the spell breaks.

Now there is physical evidence of what you've done.

You stare at your hand.

"Oh."

He gives a short, slightly embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry."

"No. It's--"

You have no idea what it's supposed to be.

You start laughing too.

Quietly.

Nervously.

The intimacy collapses into two middle-aged men under wet trees, trying not to make things more awkward.

He straightens his clothes. You wipe your hand with a tissue from your coat pocket, absurdly grateful that you have one.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then he looks at you.

"You all right?"

You nod.

"Yes."

And because that feels inadequate:

"I think so."

He smiles.

"Good."

The dog trots back over as though summoned by the return of normality. He bends and gives her one last fuss.

"Take care."

"You too."

Then he walks away.

No names.

No numbers.

No promises.

He doesn't look back.

You stand beneath the trees.

Your whole body hums.

You look at the hand holding the lead.

The same ordinary hand that locked your front door, pressed the crossing button and picked up dog mess twenty minutes ago.

Now it feels implicated in something.

You flex your fingers.

"Oh, fucking hell."

You actually did that.

Footsteps approach along the path.

Your stomach drops.

Another man walks past. His gaze flicks towards you and then briefly in the direction the other man disappeared.

Christ.

Did he see?

Does he know?

"Evening."

You almost choke.

"Evening."

He continues walking.

You call the dog and try to fasten the lead, but your fingers tremble so badly you miss the clasp twice.

This time there is no debate.

You want home.

Your boots strike the pavement.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Earlier the sound thrilled you.

Now it seems accusatory.

At the crossing the red figure appears.

Of course it does.

A car stops, then another, leaving you stranded beneath the streetlight.

You're convinced everything must be visible: the clothes, your face, what you've done.

Surely there must be some physical change.

The nearest driver glances towards you.

He knows.

Except he doesn't.

Of course he doesn't.

He's simply looking at someone waiting to cross.

The light changes.

At the bus stop three people are waiting. A woman looks up as you approach.

You concentrate on walking normally.

Twenty minutes ago you had your hand around a stranger's penis beneath dripping trees.

You start smiling.

You can't help it.

Then comes a silent laugh.

Then embarrassment.

Then disbelief.

And finally something darker.

What were you thinking?

A stranger.

In a park.

You don't even know his name.

The uncomfortable part is that this doesn't erase the other truth.

You enjoyed it.

Not all of it, perhaps.

You're not even certain which parts.

But enough.

You remember the moment beside the bench.

You could have gone home.

You didn't.

By the time you reach your road, every house seems awake and every curtain capable of moving.

The porch light comes on.

Far too bright.

You reach for your keys.

Wrong pocket.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

You drop them.

Of course you do.

When you bend, the skirt shifts against your thighs and even now your body responds faintly to the sensation.

Home.

You lean against the door and suddenly discover that your knees aren't entirely reliable.

You slide down until you're sitting on the hallway floor, still wearing the raincoat, still holding the umbrella, wig slightly crooked, makeup probably smudged, skirt damp around the hem.

For several seconds you do nothing.

Then you laugh.

Quietly at first.

Then helplessly.

"Oh, Christ."

You sit there for another moment.

Then, very quietly:

"What the fuck have I just done?"

The obvious answer comes first.

I'm never doing that again.

You cling to it for perhaps five seconds.

Then another thought arrives.

Smaller.

Much less welcome.

Would I?

And that, more than anything else that happened tonight, frightens you.