Chapter 3: Know Thyself

I made a hell of a mess in the bathroom, too. Cheap beer. I usually drink imports. This stuff was just supposed to put me under though. It did, but my system had sustained enough shocks that it decided poisoning was going just a bit too far. It was a good thing that the next day was Wednesday. I had one class, an upper-level course, and office hours, but that was it. I called the secretaries and told them I was sick. By midafternoon the hangover was mostly gone, the bathroom was reasonably sanitary, and I’d cleaned the broken glass out of the frame that held Nancy’s picture.

I was sitting in the kitchen, chain-smoking and morosely considering the consequences of using that hypodermic needle that was lying on the table, when the door rang. I thought about ignoring it, but it was probably the damn yard man. He wasn’t worth a damn; he cleaned my yard whenever he needed money, not when the yard needed cleaned. So he’d done the leaves, finally, in January. Brilliant. Now he’d come and expect me to fork over cash, since he at least had the sense not to try cleaning things when I was around to tell him I wouldn’t pay him. Sourly, I started for the door, and remembered that my wallet — my new wallet, genuine latest women’s fashion — was in the car.

I was so sure it was him that I just flung the door open, expecting him to understand I was in a bad mood. It wasn’t him. So, okay, you knew that. I’m a little slow on the uptake. It was her. I had to choke a sob, but I got my composure fast.

“Whadda you want?”

“Isn’t it a little cold for shorts and a tee shirt? I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d drop your clothes off.” I must have flinched or something, because she clarified, “The ones you wore to school yesterday.”

Okay, we were pretending to be polite, were we? Mechanical smile. “I’ve been inside all day, it’s warm enough. I’ve got some of yours, too. Wait here a minute.” I felt a slight thrill of exultation in being able to close the door on her, to make her wait on the steps. Good thing I’d taken off those clothes before I’d gotten sick. I found them, shook them out, and carried them back to the door.

Her face went back to an expression of complete neutrality as soon as I opened the door, and I wasn’t sure what expression it was chasing away. “I was going to bring them by the school, but they told me you’d called in sick.”

“Burns,” I said, feeling a little smug at being able to tell the truth and make her feel guilty about it. I gestured at my leg. I was keeping my arm carefully turned so she couldn’t see the inside of it.

Should have been more careful. Should have put on a long shirt, or something. Two piles of clothes, two arms. My attempts to keep one arm turned in toward me weren’t effective enough. “Lee!” she gasped, dropping the clothes I had just handed her, and grabbing my arm. I almost dropped mine. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing!” I snarled. “I just made sure I won’t be acting ‘sissy’ any more, okay?”

She stared at me. Her face had gone very pale. My emotions got all jumbled up. She was acting almost like she cared. “Lee, dammit, I never meant ... no.” She looked at me, and her face firmed up. She looked incredibly sad, but firm. “You’ll have the right to ask questions once you don’t have to, once you trust me.” She glanced back down at my arm. “But that’s ... you did that to yourself, didn’t you?”

“It works, okay? And it hurts less than being ... whatever.”

“Good God!” she exclaimed softly. It was weird, she acted like she really cared. She stared at my arm in horror, and I more or less put it on display. Badge of pride, so to speak. She glanced at my face. Her face changed. Grew thoughtful. She took a step back, and I started to move inside. But she hadn’t picked up her clothes, and she wasn’t leaving. She dug something out of her purse. I paused, intrigued in spite of myself.

I’d forgotten about the cigarettes I’d abandoned in her car. She dug them out, and found the lighter. She didn’t smoke. My heart started to pound heavily. She wasn’t going to ... She lit a cigarette. Were there tears in her eyes? Looked at me, and pushed up the sleeve of her coat. Almost, I started for her. No, she was grandstanding. “How many times do I have to do this?” she asked, in a shaky voice, and started pressing the fiery tip against the inside of her wrist.

“Stop that!” I shouted, and she winced and bit her lip. Dropped the cigarette. She looked at it, then started fumbling in her purse again.

I threw the clothes behind me, and closed the distance between us in two steps. Grabbed the pack out of her hand, crumpled it, threw it to the ground and stomped on it. Grabbed her wrist — carefully. “Why, Lee, I thought you didn’t care?” she said softly.

Something had snapped the night before. Something else snapped now. “I...” I couldn’t think of anything to say, except the banal three words, which seemed insufficient at the moment, so instead I kissed her. It was a very vigorous kiss. I damn near attacked her mouth, and she responded to that, hungrily, softly, and I felt a sob rack her body, and then she changed it, or tried to. We fought for control, our tongues and lips duelling, me stubbornly determined not to let her take the active side, until I realized what I was doing. Who I was doing it to, I should say. Then it was my turn to stifle a sob, and relax, and let her do the kissing while I responded. I think we sealed some sort of bargain in that kiss, too. Or maybe I just agreed to something. I don’t know.

She broke the kiss, and pulled my arm out where she could see it. “Seven,” she whispered. “Oh, God!”

I felt ashamed of myself. “Y-you don’t understand. I can ... it hurts, sure. But I can, can stop the compulsion. The craving. And then, you know, I almost like myself.”

“You’re not going to do that any more,” she said, in a tone that brooked no demur.

I demurred, clenching my jaw. “Not if I don’t have to. It shouldn’t take much more, I think.” She was staring at me, shocked. “Nancy,” I explained, fiercely, “I hate it! I hate wearing p-p-pa-p...” I clenched my jaw. Damn word. “I hate dressing up. Even when I’m doing it, I hate it! I hate that it makes me horny when I do do it. But it’s, like, an addiction, or something, and even though I hate it, I do it.”

“Ah!” she said, softly, looking tenderly in my eyes. “I didn’t know that. Lee, I have something to prove to you, but you’ll have to come to my house.”

I broke the clinch, and let the suspicion show. “New rules?” I asked. “I told you, I’m not going to wear any of that stuff again. That’s what this is for.”

“Same rules,” she replied steadily. I started to shake my head. “If you don’t agree,” she told me, “I’m going to go down to the Stop’n’Rob, buy a pack of cigarettes, and do six more.” She held out her wrist.

“Why?” I asked, bewildered.

She smiled again, slightly, her eyes still brilliant with tears. “Well, if it hurts you as much as those,” and she nodded toward the burns on my arm, “hurt me, then it should help you out even more. If pain is what you’re after.”

“I ... this is insane!” I exploded.

“I agree completely,” she said fervently. “Are you coming?”

“No! Y-you wouldn’t!” But she had. She just shrugged, and knelt to gather the shirt and pants she’d dropped. I sat down abruptly, feeling the chill, and hugged my knees to my chin. “I don’t understand!” I spat, in exasperated staccato.

“Lee,” she said, softly, urgently, “I want you to come to my house. I want to show you something about yourself that you don’t believe, and that you won’t find pleasant, but that will give you a great deal of peace, once you know it. I promise you ... I promise you that you’ll understand, but I can’t explain it here. You have too many defenses, Lee. We have to go back to the very basics.” I was wavering. Stupid. I’d figured everything out, and now she was just messing up my head again. “I love you, Lee.” Damn it! I nodded. “Go put on some clothes, then, all right? You’ll need something to wear home.”

I sighed. “You may as well come inside, then.” A thought occurred to me. “Oh. I don’t have any p-pa ... any underwear.” I glanced at her, shame-faced. “I, umm, threw everything away.”

“Hmm. I should have guessed. In the dumpster?” I nodded. She gestured me inside, finished picking up clothes, and followed me. Good, then. At least she wouldn’t make me crawl around in the trash and recover them. I started for the bedroom. Heard her breath catch. “Lee. What’s that on the table?”

I gulped. “A needle. Umm, I can ... can I explain later?”

“I read those stories, Lee,” she said, looking at me. Gods, she was furious! “Do you have any more?”

I strangled on admitting, “In the bathroom.” She went that way; I went into the bedroom. I wanted a minute or two alone, anyway. I heard her rummage around in the bathroom, then the sound of plastic breaking. Oh, well. I could probably get more. Then she was out the door, and I let myself think.

Go through with this? That meant the dress, didn’t it? Or was that rule suspended? Hey, wait a minute! This was an invitation! Ka-WHAM went my heart. I jerked to my feet, paced jerkily for a moment. She probably hadn’t thought about that part. But it was an invitation, and if I didn’t trust her some ways, still, I had an idea that when I pointed it out, she’d agree with me. I grabbed clothes. Hmm. Let her do what she liked. In fact, I could probably even appear in public dressed like Little Bo-Peep, once, and claim that it was a joke, or a bet, or something. This time, there was a reward. Yes, ma’am!

She was coming in the front door when I came out of the bedroom. “What’s in there?” she asked, pointing at the bag under the table by the door. I laughed, and she looked at me, startled.

“That’s, umm, stuff ready to bring to your house,” I replied, smiling. “Makeup, perfume, a nightie, stuff like that.” I grinned. “I forgot about it,” I confessed.

“What brought on this remarkable change of mood?” she asked me, picking up the bag to hand to me. “Not that I object,” she added.

I considered waiting, but then decided ... she was fair-minded. “This counts as an invitation, doesn’t it?”

She stared at me, a little blankly. “Is that all it takes to make you happy, Lee?” She shook her head, then laughed herself. “Yes, it’s an invitation. Do you have clothes for tomorrow? And are you bringing your car, or are you getting up earlier than usual so I can drive you somewhere?”

The glitter faded a bit when we got to her house. For one thing, she had a garbage bag in her trunk. When I asked, she grinned impishly, wrinkled her nose at me, and said that someone had thrown all these nice clothes away, so she was going to go through and see if anything was salvageable. I started to object that they were mine, but saw the trap early enough, and grumpily lugged it to her door. They were anybody’s, once they were thrown away, of course. Then, as we approached the door, I began to get cold feet. I stopped just outside her door, looked at her. She looked sympathetic, but firm. “Go easy!” I pleaded, flushing. Then I took a deep breath and stepped inside. One small step for a ... oh, never mind.

“Don’t put the dress on just yet, all right? In fact, if you want, you can leave without doing that part, if you’re not ready for it. Put that bag on the balcony, would you?” She disappeared into the bedroom. I took a steadying breath, moved the bag. Then wondered what to do. Well, the bedroom, probably.

There was some stuff on the bed. My Calvin Kleins, a pair of tights, and a slightly ragged black leotard that she sometimes wore to work out in. She was rummaging through books on the top of her bookshelf, and looked very appealing, stretched out like that. I stood and admired the view until she noticed me.

“Voyeur,” she said fondly. “Go ahead and put that on, all right? It’s pretty vanilla, you know. You could wear it to the local health club and not get an eyebrow raised.” She glanced back at me, giggled. This was more like the woman I remembered. “I’ve got a leotard for you, and much sexier lingerie than those awful things — why’d you buy them anyway? I thought you didn’t like cotton. Anyway, that outfit is about as sexy as a dishrag, and that’s important for what I want to show you.”

“Why can’t I just wear my clothes, then?” I asked her, moving to the bed and beginning, obediently, to disrobe. It was a lot easier this time, I noted. I snuck a glance at her chair, and sure enough, the dress was there, but it didn’t seem so intimidating this time. I thought I could at least put it on without help. Maybe not quickly, but myself.

“Partly because I won’t let you wear men’s clothes in my house. The other reason you’ll find out about soon enough.” She got down a fat book, and a couple of tall, thin ones. I couldn’t see what they were. She caught me trying, and admonished, “No peeking! Come on, I’ll be in the living room.”

I pulled on the clothes she’d laid out. Her leotard was a little small for me. Worse, I’d gotten a little aroused putting it on, and that was very visible. I waited for the swelling to go down, and the padded out into the living room. She was sitting on the couch, next to the table. Looked up, with a smile, as I came in, and patted the couch next to her. I managed to check out the book this time. Mark Twain? Why Mark Twain?

She set it aside as I sat down. “Okay,” she said, digging through the stack, then turning to look at me. “Hmm. Let’s get the fear out in the open first, shall we?” She pulled out a book. Joy of Sex. I rolled my eyes slightly. How-To for Hippies. She turned it so I couldn’t see it, and leafed through it. Then she stopped, and flopped it down on my knees. “What do you think?” she asked, brightly. Woman goes down on man.

I grimaced slightly. That had been a sore point, early on in the relationship. “You know I don’t like it, Nancy. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

She left it there, a smile hovering on her lips. Finally, “I know. Now look at your lap.”

Look at my lap? “It’s still there, I reported.” She grinned, took the book back. Flipped some more. Didn’t find what she wanted. Pulled out another book. Giggled when she found it.

“Here’s another nice picture,” she said. Umm. Rear entry, wrong hole. I looked, and shrugged. “Your lap?”

“What’s with my lap?” I asked. She grinned, took the book back. Dropped How-To for Hippies on my knees again. My favorite picture, as it happens: man kneeling, woman standing. Stir, throb, throb, throb. “Umm, okay, I get it. Was that all?”

She leaned forward, kissed me. “That’s just the start, darling.” Sat back. “I’m glad the idea still turns you on. Can we agree that wearing that particular outfit, we have a fairly obvious barometer to what you like and what you don’t like?”

“Wait a minute!” I protested. “Sexy pictures turn me on. So if you hand me a lingerie catalog, you won’t prove anything. That is, you won’t prove that I like wearing it. I told you, it’s stimulating, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”

Her smile didn’t fade. “Get up, walk around, and come back when you’re flaccid again, all right?”

So I did, and as soon as I sat down, she started reading to me. “Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up, some way.” Huckleberry Finn, Chapters X and XI. You can read it yourself. It’s where Huck dresses up like a girl. She was watching me as she read, and I tried to hold off, but ... well, when she finished, she wrinkled her nose, giggled excitedly, and said, “Sexy story, huh?”

I glared. “Now that I know what you’re looking for, you could probably read me anything and I’d react,” I retorted, angry and ashamed.

“Bet you wouldn’t,” she said, and immediately dropped a book on my lap. Two men. She started reading something out of another magazine, which I guess some people would find pretty hot — it went with the picture — and I cut her off.

“That’s sick!” I said.

She looked at me a little oddly. “No, it isn’t. But it isn’t your cup of tea, is it?” She touched my hip. I glanced down, but I already knew. Instant deflation.

“So what have you proved?” I asked, belligerently.

“Do you really think it’s ‘sick?’” she asked. It was a serious question, I discovered.

I sighed. “No. It’s just ... like you said. Since I always had this compulsion, I was always sorta afraid that that was what it meant, I guess.”

She touched my cheek. “Lee,” she said, still very serious, “if you don’t know who you are, you’ll always be afraid of what you might be, if you dared look. Once you know, you’ll find it’s maybe not such a horrible thing as you thought. That’s what this is about. Know thyself.”

I gulped, nodded, looked away. It made a disturbing amount of sense. “What if ... what if it is as bad as I think?” I asked in a low voice.

“Then you’ll at least have a reason for suicide. Don’t you think it’s a bit cowardly to die rather than face the truth about yourself?” she snapped. That was her top sergeant voice.

I actually sat and thought about that one. And breathed a huge sigh. “Okay. You’re right.”

I won’t bore you with the rest of that demonstration. It went on for a couple of hours. She showed me pictures, read me things. Eventually, she went and got some stuff made of different fabrics, and rubbed them against my skin. Different things to smell, too. She did an uncomfortable bit with compliments, pointing out my physical responses to being called various pleasant masculine and feminine adjectives. It was all a little much to take in. The important part of it was that I was taking it in. She wasn’t particularly surprised by any of my responses. And she didn’t press me on them, either, or at least on most of them. Once more, betrayed by what I wrote. She had a really good idea of what my tastes were before she started.

The end of the conversation was a little embarrassing, though. “Now, Lee, I want you to repeat after me. Sex. Cunnilingus. Lingerie. Breast. Cock. Vagina. Panties.”

“P-p-pa ... P-panties,” I forced out.

“One ‘p,’” she said gently, smiling. “Panties.”

“P-p ... P-pa ... Pa-panties! Damn it!” I was a complete, brilliant red, and I had a throbbing, obvious erection.

She went on. More words. After that, some of them seemed downright silly. I even laughed, at one point, repeating “Peter Piper,” and “She sell seashells.” She picked up her books, and read some sentences. Then, “I like to wear soft, lacy undergarments.”