Chapter 2: Fiery Pride

I was pacing nervously, glancing out the windows from time to time. Seven-thirty was approaching. Friday. As I paced, my hand occasionally stole to my newly shaven upper lip. It was hard to regret the loss of the mustache itself — it had never been much of a mustache — but it had always been there, to prevent me from doing something outrageous. Now it was gone.

I’d gotten a note in my mailbox at school in the middle of the week. I kept telling myself that she’d put it there herself, so it wouldn’t have to go through normal mail, but the intrusion of that carefully sequestered portion of my life into my day-to-day routine made me jumpy. Jumpy, hell, it had thrown me into a tailspin.

“Lee, sweetie, I told you I wouldn’t ask for anything beyond your strength. But I’ve been thinking about Saturday, and I have a hunch that you’re much stronger than you think you are.

“I will pick you up at 7:30 Friday evening. I will wait five minutes. If you’re not ready then, I’ll leave.”

A bit ambiguous, the Observer pointed out clinically. Leave ... forever? Until the next Friday? Until the next phone call, or note? Long enough to drive around the block? the Professional Cynic added. I have enough different points of view inside my head to populate a bad novel, and most of them have names, of sorts. The Intellectual. The Dreamer. The Romantic, the Professor, the Pessimist, the Comedian, the Coward. They held meetings from time to time and shouted at one another, while my mouth stuttered in the background.

“In your stories, the woman always asks the man to ‘say it,’” her note continued. “I won’t do that to you. All you have to do is get in my car. As my ‘sissy.’ The other two conditions also stand (but don’t wear pink ones, wear white ones).”

Why does she have to keep using that damn word? the Codger grumbled. Because it’s appropriate? the Cynic suggested. Perhaps because you use it in those hideous stories, the Professor commented, and she is aware that it is a sort of ‘Word of Power’ for you. “Fuck the stories,” I snarled aloud. She made three conditions, the Observer observed. Panties, perfume, and mustache. Which one did she forget?

“Once you enter my car, we start a new relationship, just as I intended last week with the roses. I will lead, and you will follow. This note is to let you know where. To lay the ground rules, I guess.

“I won’t be the ‘boy,’ but you, in a sense, will be the ‘girl.’ I will make the dates, call you, invite you out, drive the car, and pay the bills. And perhaps buy you flowers, or sexy underwear. You will simply be available (or not available, but in that case you may find yourself waiting by the phone for me to call). To remind you of this, you should be wearing panties and perfume every time we go out. If you don’t, I may simply drop you at your house, and you can wait to see if I call you back.

“At your doorstep, everything changes. You are in charge. I am a guest, if you invite me in. If you want to wear studded leather jockey shorts at your house, that’s your prerogative. It will be my prerogative to accept or decline your invitations, or to leave when I wish.

“At my doorstep, everything changes again. I am in charge, and even more so than you are in your house. You will dress, talk, and act as I tell you to. A hint: you won’t be wearing pants in my house any more. When you arrive, I will lock away the clothes that you arrived in. If I invite you, you can expect that we will sleep together. You are always welcome to come visit, of course, but that places no obligations on me. In my house, I will have the power over you of a mother over her daughter, or a big sister over little. If you wish to spend the night with me, at my house, but don’t have the courage to ask, you may send me a signal by bringing your nightclothes with you.

“If, for some reason, you wish to leave before I give you permission to go, there will always be an option. I have purchased a pair of men’s jeans and a shirt in your size. There will always be a set of unremarkable clothes on the table by the door, and you are free to change into them and leave.” I didn’t catch how cleverly that was worded until a couple months later. It looks like more of a promise than it is. “However, you won’t be welcome in my house until you volunteer to do whatever it is that caused you to leave in the first place.”

“I love you. Nancy.”

Puzzle that one out, the Cynic sneered. Oh, don’t be a damnfool! the Codger grumped. She just wants to make sure you’re not sneaking around doing things behind her back. She wants you to prove you’re not a sissy, is what. So prove it. Is that what she was doing on Saturday? the Doubter asked. The rest of the Committee snarled at him to shut up about Saturday.

It was almost seven-thirty, and I was pacing. I’d spent the week thinking, too. If you can call these debates between personality fragments ‘thinking.’ My powerful repugnance at being reduced to something unmanly warred with the memory of astonishing sex. I’d passed out, ferchrissakes! But if I read that letter properly, it wasn’t going to happen again in my house. It might in hers, but I wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning and do myself up ‘boy.’ She was going to arrive in minutes, and I still hadn’t made up my mind whether I was even going to go out on her terms. Oh, it may have looked as if I’d made up my mind, seeing that I was wearing ‘white ones,’ perfume, and my face was smooth-shaven. In fact, there was a flight bag by the door, with a nighty in it. And my makeup, just in case.

But the shaving had only taken place at seven o’clock. The perfume was barely noticeable, if you leaned in close. And the panties — they were a sort of symbolic protest. I’d gone and bought a pair, which always made my teeth sweat, facing one of those clear-faced female cashiers, but I’d done it. They were cotton. Calvin Klein for her. About as mannish as panties got, until you got to panties-for-men (I had a couple pairs of silk men’s underwear, that were basically flyless bikinis, differing from panties only in that they were solid, subdued sorts of colors, had wide waistbands, lacked decoration altogether ... and cost roughly three times what panties cost. Got ‘em from Vicky’s Secret. They didn’t give me the same thrill that panties did, though.).

I saw her car pull up in front of the house, and almost went to hide under the bed. My brain went into overdrive, and I used up my adrenaline allowance for at least the next six months. I was not breathing very well. I was leaning on the door of my house. Outside. Unsure how I had gotten there. No, I was leaning against the side of the car, staring at the hand that was holding the handle. I shrugged internally, and told it to go ahead, go on with it, but the signals kept going astray. Instead of opening the door, my legs twitched occasionally. My knees felt oddly weak.

I closed my eyes. Click. They popped open. The click wasn’t my eyes, it was the door of the car. Had I opened it? Or had she leaned across to do it? No, I saw, she was sitting there with her hands in her lap, turned slightly to face me, and watching compassionately. I gulped — it must have been the last of my pride I was swallowing; it tasted pretty bitter — and slid in. My eyes fastened on her dashboard clock. It said 7:47.

She didn’t give me time to feel embarrassed that I’d taken seventeen minutes to cross a smallish lawn. She leaned close, kissed me warmly, and said, “Hi, sissy!” The Committee took off to race around the block, gibbering and arguing with one another, and then came and caught up with the car when she stopped at the corner.

“Umm, hi,” I responded. “S-sorry I’m late,” I offered.

She gave me a funny look, then cracked, “That’s the girl’s prerogative.” That was my line. I used to use it whenever she was late because she stopped to make herself pretty, and it used to always be good for an exasperated glare. I couldn’t think of anything to say in response, though, so I reached for a cigarette.

Oops. Must have left them on the table. I let out a breath. A safe topic of conversation. “Umm, I forgot my cigarettes. Could we stop somewhere?”

She looked at me, frowning. “Are you carrying money?” she asked. That struck me a little odd. I did, but even if I hadn’t, she wasn’t going to be driven broke on a pack of cigarettes. I frowned back and nodded. “Don’t, from now on,” she said, turning her attention back to traffic. “Put a dime in your shoe if you’re worried about being left somewhere, but you don’t bring money on a date. Put your wallet in my purse.”

I started to object, then bit my lip, catching sight of how she was watching me in the mirror. We had never worked that way. We’d gone dutch, as often as not. She was testing me. I should have realized that from her comment about the dime; phone calls hadn’t cost a dime since both of us were teenagers. So she must be telling me something her mother told her. It sounded like something I’d heard my mother tell my sister, although as I remembered, my mother had just recommended she keep a dime for the phone in her shoe, not that she not carry money. I pulled out my wallet, and discovered that I was extremely reluctant to part with it. It was a sort of symbol of me, of my masculinity, or something. No, of my independence, I realized, forcing my fingers to release it, and watching it drop in with her things.

We pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, and I started to get out, then paused, puzzled. I looked at Nancy, whose eyes were laughing. “I’ll get them, sweetie,” she said, with a lean and a kiss. “Do you need anything else?” I blushed. No, it wasn’t that suggestive a line, but I’d once tried to make her sit in the car, when it was raining cats and dogs, and ran into a store to get something she said she needed. And when I’d asked that, she’d told me what it was she also needed, which was probably the only thing she needed. I let her get her hair wet, rather than try to by feminine hygiene supplies.

“Uhh, a lighter,” I said.

I relaxed into the seat, a little red-faced, to wait, and reflect. It’s the little things that count in a relationship. One of my friends had told me that in college. He was living with his girlfriend, off-campus, and the reason he told me is because they had just had an enormous screaming fight, based, on the surface, on the fact that she bought the groceries, and liked her peas fresh or frozen, while he preferred the mushy kind out of a can. It was one of those ridiculous little stories that stays with you. He’d been laughing when he finally admitted to it, and then, to my surprise, had gone off to make a compromise, instead of simply giving in. I recalled dates from my past, and times when I had dashed into a store to get something for a girlfriend. Leaving her in the car. I recalled that it had made me feel important, and gallant. Now I wondered how it had made her feel. Taken care of? Or taken in charge? It was kind of pleasant, being waited on. But the waiting wasn’t as pleasant, nor was the feeling of incompetence. Once more the battle between security-in-dependence and fear was on. I began to wonder what caused the fear. Fear of not being taken care of? Or fear of being noticed, dependent on a woman?

She came back, handed me a bag, and started up the car. I turned my head away after I opened the bag. I didn’t want her to see the tears. It was not a nice trick. Virginia Slims, a pink lighter, and some breath mints. We were at the restaurant before I had fought my composure back. I left the bag in the car. She didn’t say anything. Good thing, too, because I was simmering.

Once more, she was in charge, but this time, whenever I started to do something from my usual patterns, she subtly spanked me. Figuratively speaking, of course. She made me feel gawky and a fool, so that dinner was actually a pretty miserable affair. And no cigarette to finish it, not until we got to the car and I smoked one of the foul VS’s. I was acting pretty subdued by that point. What I was was steaming, just smoking mad. You know what kept me from saying anything? The panties. Even cotton ones. Suppose I made a fuss, right? She could just expose me. Well, she could, couldn’t she?

She seemed to be having a nice time, and continued to act quite affectionate, putting her hands on me, teasing me, flirting. But as soon as I started to do the same, she’d pull away sharp. In fact, as we stood in line at the box office, I realized that she had maneuvered me into clinging, in that sort of soft, desperate way that some very shy women have. I actually saw red. I thought that was just a phrase, but I did; my sight went all hazy red, and when I refocussed I was standing stiffly, a couple feet away from her, with my fists clenched. She pretended not to notice. I settled angrily into my seat in the theater, and then she got me all off balance again, with caresses, and popping candies into my mouth, and gently aggressive, affectionate behavior. At the end of the film, my head was on her shoulder, and the Dreamer was in control, with the Romantic as ally.

“Shall we go to my house?” she asked, as we slid into the car again. Whang! and another six-month’s allotment of adrenaline used up. I didn’t have to consider it, but I might have looked like I was for the five seconds before I got my breath.

“Mine,” I said, firmly. She had promised to let me be macho in my house, if I wanted to be. During the movie, which included a love scene, of course, it had occurred to me that one way to stop the weird parts of this relationship was to do unto her as she had done unto me. Drive her crazy with lust, as masterfully as the actor on the screen did. As masterfully as she had done to me the week before. If I could turn her on even in panties, I had an idea that she would just melt if I played her the way she had played me.

She gave me a look that said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, naughty boy!’ And a smile that promised delights. I breathed a sigh of relief. The old Codger was right, and he wasn’t too proud to say ‘I told you so.’ I started running plans through my head. But when we arrived at my apartment, she leaned over to kiss me, warmly but briefly, and said, “I’ll call you, okay?”

“I ... But ... Don’t you...” I took a deep breath. “Would you like to come in?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied, calmly. “I have to get up early.” Wait a minute. She’d asked me to her house. And she’d told me that it meant, well, sex! Something had gone wrong. The Cynic was throwing peanut shells at the Codger in the attics of my mind.

Masterful, Leeling. Be masterful. I gave her a look intended to be both wry and sexy. “Aww, come on. I’ll show you my etchings.”

She smiled, without warmth. “I’d rather see your collection,” she said, and rubbed my hip. Then she frowned. “Aren’t you wearing panties?” she asked.

That was ... deflating. “Cotton,” I gritted. The Observer noted that it was a bit difficult to play suave and deadly when one was wearing feminine undergarments. I hesitated, angry and frustrated, and then climbed stiffly out of the car.

She leaned over and rolled the window down, behind me, as I walked toward the door, fuming. “Lee,” she called, in a clear, amused voice. “I make the rules.” I turned to look at her. She smiled, this time warmly, and continued. “I call the shots, honey. All you can do, if you don’t like the game, is get out of it.” I clenched my jaw, at a loss for an answer. It was what I had agreed to. More or less. “I’ll call you,” she repeated, and drove off.

I’d thought I was miserable before Christmas. I didn’t know what misery was. On Friday night, I’d felt betrayed, angry, and bewildered. I laid in bed for three hours before I cried myself to sleep. Saturday morning, I tried to call Nancy. Answering machine. Four times. Six times on Sunday. Monday, I decided I wasn’t going to humiliate myself any more, and went marching through a day of snarling at the secretaries and my students. I didn’t call. Neither did she. I spent the evening pretending to read, and staring at the phone. Surprised hell out of one of the little darlings by answering the phone on the first ring, with a breathless, “Yes?”

Tuesday I said to hell with pride, and started calling again. At work, one of her female coworkers informed me that she had just stepped out, laughing under her breath. The third time I called, she said, “She doesn’t want to talk to you, okay?” and slammed the phone down. Also the fourth and fifth time. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. When I was a teenager, the idea of this sort of reaction to a call would have been enough to keep me off the phone for a month. I justified it to myself by saying that I just had to prove to her that I was willing to grovel a little, and she’d see me again. She had to see me again. I hadn’t done anything wrong. At four-thirty, as I was gathering my things and getting ready to leave, my office phone rang.

“Hi, sissy!” her voice said, cheerfully. I nearly dropped the phone in alarm.

“Christ, Nancy, what if one of the secretaries had answered?”

“You don’t sound like any of the secretaries, sweetie. Listen, I just realized that I still have your wallet. Do you want me to bring it over?”

I’d forgotten all about the damn thing. I could have used that for an excuse to see her. How had I missed that one? “Uhh, sure, that’d be, uhh, nice. I’ll, uhh, buy you dinner as a reward.”

Silence. I deliberately ignored it. Put this relationship back the way it was supposed to be, right? “How very ... forward of you, Lee,” she said, distantly.

Oh, shit. I hadn’t heard ice like that since the breakup.

“S-sorry! Sorry! I forgot!” I gasped into the phone. I gulped. Where’s your spine, boy? the Codger asked, irascibly. With his heart, the Comedian quipped. Nancy has it.

She chuckled. When had she learned to chuckle? She used to giggle, or snicker. But that was definitely a chuckle. “Maybe I’ll let you cook me a dinner, sometime, sweetie.”

An out! Was that an out? I jumped for it. “T-tonight?” I asked.

Another pause. “My place or yours?”

Ooh, shit. Was that an invitation? I was safe enough, I told myself, if it was an invitation. Get her in bed, and I’ll convince her. I felt a pounding in my head, echoed lower down. Wait, no, if I picked, would she regard that as an invitation? Better be safe. “M-m ... Yours?” I heard myself say, uncertainly.

That chuckle again. It was unnerving. “Are you asking to come to my house, sissy? You haven’t forgotten the rules, have you?” Well, that settled the question of the invitation quite neatly, didn’t it? I’d just invited myself.

Okay, how do I get out of this? Ask her to my place instead? Oh, hell, she settled that already. Maybe she’d change her mind about the invitation. Or about bed, at least. Just go for it, idiot, advised the Romantic. Sexy, male voice, with a pickup line, so she knows you’re still planning on changing the rules. “Hey, babe, I make a killer steak. Give me a place to cook, and I’ll make you a meal fit for a Que...” Ooh, nice turn of phrase, the Cynic applauded, sarcastically. And that quaver in your voice! So manly!

“What a lovely offer!” Nancy exclaimed. “I’d love it, sweetie. Why don’t you come over around seven?”

I went home and paced, occasionally blinded by tears. Tears of rage, tears of fear, tears, perhaps, of weakness. They feel a little different, I guess, but they all taste the same. And when your emotions are roiling so badly that you can’t tell what you’re feeling, it’s difficult to sort out what sort of tears you’re crying. The rage was directed equally at myself, for being a spineless, weepy, pantywaisted wimp, and at Nancy for making me be one. The fear ... that was easier. I was afraid of everything. Of being laughed at, especially. Of being humiliated. Of losing Nancy. Of turning into someone I wouldn’t want to know. The weakness ... well, I guess it’s enough to say that I was pacing in my favorite pair of panties. I’d changed as soon as I got home.

I still had that bag packed, with my stuff in it. But when I left the house, I left it there. I was having second thoughts (are they still second, the thousandth time they race around the inside of your head, sticking their tongues out and jeering?) all the way to Nancy’s house. Parked. Blew my nose and wiped my eyes. I got out of the car.

You know how, when you do something over and over, it becomes second nature, so that you don’t even notice you’ve done it? It falls down into your pre-conscious. Like riding a bicycle, the famous example. Or putting on the turn signal in a car. On the way over, I’d been astonished several times to realize that I had done things legally. My preconscious was driving, the Comittee was running around in the belfry of my mind, screaming and wailing and scaring the bats. And you know how, when you’ve visited someone often enough, you stop even noticing the route between the car, or the bus stop, or whatever, and the door?

This wasn’t one of those times. The panic was infectious, apparently, and my preconscious came down with a bad case and took to its bed. Every step was an effort, every sight was brand new, searing, in living color. Good thing I wasn’t chewing gum. I never would have made it to the door. Once I got there, I just stared at it for a while. It took another effort to remember that the brass thing was for knocking, and the button for ringing. I had to choose one. That required deep thought. Don’t laugh! It could happen to you.

“Hi, darling!” she said, and kissed me. Oh, heaven. Fluttering little angels, playing harps, everything bright and rosy. Rosy ... pink. No, let’s not think pink. I wonder if I knocked or rang? Not important, of course. The kiss was important. The kiss ended. I made an incoherent noise of protest. “Your clothes are in the bedroom,” she said. “You can change and start dinner. I’m starved! Didn’t you bring your makeup? Hmm. I guess we need to get you a purse. You can use mine, this once; it’s in the bathroom. Call me if you need help.”

Hmm. Not only had she learned to chuckle, she’d become a witch. She’d teleported me into the bedroom, and then blinked out. Have you gotten the idea that I was a little over the edge? I was further rocked by the clothes. Yes, the famous pink dress, with all its accessories.

“Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn’t know where to find them. Leave them alone, and they’ll come home, dragging their tails behind them!” I was quite pleased without myself for being sane enough to recite poetry. The Cynic applauded, sarcastically. Some time had passed, and I was sitting in the desk chair, staring at the stuff on the bed. Progress had been made. My shoes had gotten themselves taken off. My shirt had been unbuttoned; likewise my jeans. Which meant that my Calvin Kleins were showing. I barely noticed.