FanArt by Fraylim: A Surprise Encounter (Patreon)

I'd already planned for David to have an encounter at the bar at Noir. Initially, I plotted for a man to hit on Cindy. David would reciprocate in a (foolish) attempt to make Julia jealous. However, as a 'thank you' for their art, I asked Fraylim if there was a scene they might like to see. Fraylim wondered if Stacy could make an appearance.

If you know Fraylim's art, then you're probably familiar with Stuart/Stacy--it's their flagship character, and you can see Stacy on Fraylim's Deviant Art page, as well as in CBlack's recent homage, School Daze, on TGComics.

So I wrote up an earlier version of the scene below, and shared it with Fraylim, and they came back with the image attached above.

I'm not entirely pleased with the scene as written, so it's likely to change before being ready to publish, but it was fun tossing in a little easter egg for those in the know, whilst keeping it meaningful for the story. Rather than flirt with a man, having old instinct surface as David hits on Stacy sets up the inevitable conclusion to the evening nicely, I think.

***

            Standing at the bar, I saw myself in the mirror behind the counter, looking for all the world like some kind of teenage tart, all pink and purples and fishnet stockings, sparkling in the dim light with a showiness that just screamed insecurity. I scowled and touched up my makeup while I waited to be served.

            “I.D., please.”

            “Really?” I rolled my eyes and withdrew my fake ID from where it nestled in the bustier.

            The bartender grinned. Every cool bar needed a skilled bartender of ambiguous sexuality, and at Noir, that was Terry. He was a young guy in his mid-twenties with a nose like a hatched buried between two earthen mounds and startling nimble fingers. “No way this is real,” he said, same as every other time, as he plucked the little rectangle of plastic from between my purple talons. Tonight, his russet beard was waxed and tamed into stylish points, and he grinned from beneath a curled mustache that would’ve suited a 19th century gentleman. Elaborate tattoos, a mix of writhing figures and miniscule text, crawled up his forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled-up cuffs of a flouncy white shirt and navy vest, and chunky earrings gleamed at his ears. I’d become somewhat of a regular at Noir since that first night and knew the guy by name, and he knew me, too. I’d flirt-bantered with him often enough.

            “Does it look real?”

            “As real as it did last week.” He gave it back. “I like the choker.”

            A deep flush blossomed across my chest and crawled up my neck, reaching Julia’s final gift for the night: the sparkly purple choker. She affixed it just before we stepped out of her apartment. It matched the hoop earrings and my lipstick. The word “sex” was clearly inscribed in glittery tiny plastic gemstones.

            “Thanks,” I muttered, picking at it.

            “So, what’re you having? Not another of these, I hope?” He indicated my nearly finished ‘Nebula’.

            “Ugh, no.”

            “Good call,” he said. “Those THC flakes’ll fuck you up.”

            “And it’s too sweet,” I said. “Too sparkly. Too… blue.”

            “So long you don’t go painting the stalls with your vomit again.” He laughed. “What, then?”

            I tapped an overly-long purple nail to overly-glossed lips. It was out of character, but fuck it, I needed it, and Julia was paying: “Old-fashioned, please?”

            “Really?” He was already reaching into the freezer beneath the counter. He popped a small sphere of ice out from its rubber mold and set it aside. “You don’t seem the type,” he added.

            “Girls can’t like bourbon?”

            “Girls who need fake ID generally don’t.” He muddled bitters with a sugar cube at the bottom of a thick-bottomed tumbler, then reached for a bottle of Jim Bean from the shelf behind the bar.

            “Put that shit back,” I said and pointed to the higher shelf. “Use the Whistle Pig.”

            The bartender paused. His gaze swept over me, re-assessing at a glance and finding nothing new: “You can’t afford that.”

            “No, but she can.” I jerked my finger in Julia’s direction. “She’s running a tab. Make the fucking drink.”

            “Sure thing, girlboss.” He pulled down the bottle, measured and poured in the bourbon. Then, the thirty second slow stir, smiling with wry amusement at me the whole time. “You want a Cristal chaser with that?” Very gently, he lowered the little ball of ice into the drink.

            “You’re funny for a man dressed as a pirate.”

            “Yar,” he said, handing it over.

            First, a moment to appreciate the amber beauty of the drink, and then a delicate sip, the ice spinning to cool the drink as it hit my tongue. The first taste was soiled by cheap lipstick and gloss, but then the warm alcohol hit, vanilla and molasses unfolding on the tongue. I inhaled deeply and took another sip and my whole body sagged.

            “Good?” the bartender asks.

            “So good,” I sighed.

            I closed my eyes. Maybe it was the aftereffects of those silvery flakes, the alcoholic buzz, the powerful sensate memories of taste; or the need to escape the night’s ultimate destination. The drink carried me away.

            The reality of that busy bar, the ebb-and-flow of conversation, the pinch of the bustier and cool air across my chest withdrew and in that moment—a fleeting, wonderful moment—I was… me. Past-me, standing at the counter of some pretentious, over-priced bar. And I’m happy, God, just ridiculously happy and pleased with myself. I don’t want this moment to end. When this drink is done, I’ll return to Julia and Caleb. Follow them back to her place.

            But not now. Now, in this moment, I’m in the past with the warm taste of whisky and sharp tang of bitters sitting on the tongue and, that’s right, I’m feeling pretty fucking pleased with myself. This bar, these people, the shit I’m speaking, yeah it’s all bullshit, but it’s my bullshit now, young-David’s new world.

            I’m not serving behind the bar. No, I’m on this side of things. The drink cradled in my hand? That drink’s held in a strong, firm hand, and once this drink would’ve cost me a day’s pay but now—fuck it, I can afford this shit. And this shit is good.

            Outside of the moment, the drink unfurled in my belly and coiled its warmth around my core. There is shudder in the bedrock of my soul. Something is dredged up by profound currents and something dislodges: primitive, primal and floating up through those dark, churning depths. It rose through lighter, brighter waters shimmering with colours. This chunk of me reached the surface and brought with it the confidence of the past. An absurd confidence I haven’t felt since the night I fucked Steele’s secretary filled me to the brim. In the moment, I felt myself, wearing an expensive suit. There’s an expensive watch at my wrist, and solid shoes on my feet; short hair, loosened tie wide-legged stance; and I felt this in the present, too.

            When I open my eyes….

            I don’t want to open my eyes.

            Because when I do, I’ll be standing at a bar, yes, but not in a suit. I’m wearing too-tall heels and a too-short miniskirt. Boobs spilling out of a too-tight bustier. Makeup too heavy. Everything’s just too—girly, it threatens the wonderful sense of self I’ve salvaged from the past.

            Someone’s standing next to me. Of course there is. Girl like Cindy never stand alone for very long in a place like this. I licked my lips, pushed out my chest. Opened my eyes.

            The girl standing next to me is drop-dead fucking gorgeous.  She’s a real knock out, this girl. First impression’s one of red: red shoes, red hair and this clingy mini dress, scales shimmering like snake’s skin with each sinuous movement, so short it barely clears her crotch. I’m not normally an ass-man but her ass has me reconsidered the errors of my ways, the way her curves strain against the tightness of her dress. Delicate straps tie the dress behind her neck, and it’s not just her ass that’s testing the dress’s limits. She’s not quite spilling out of her top like I am, but her tits have me wishing she was.

            This girl’s taller than me, especially in towering heels, beautiful sandals with slender ankle straps. Auburn hair fell in a wave over one shoulder, and her lips and nails were dark red, too, the colour of an autumn sunset, or a fresh bruise.

            So, yeah, she’s gorgeous, serpent and fruit of some forbidden garden rolled into one: pure temptation, and my first instinct’s that she’s some rich bitch on the prowl and I liked that, some instinct driving me closer.

            But then I saw how she’s standing there, gripping the bar as though it’s the last surviving plank of wood on a sinking ship. There’s a nervous energy to this chick’s that’s immediately alluring but gave me pause.

            “Hey,” I said, raising my glass in greeting.

            Wet lips smiled hesitantly in response, hazel eyes wide behind incongruously black-rimmed glasses. There’s a real artistry to her eye makeup that draws out the vivid green of her irises. Yeah, she’s throwing off this real sexy, naughty-library vibe, but the look in her eye’s pure fear. This chick’s got the fashion acumen of a fashion model yet comes off as a tomboy cleaned up and squeezed, squirming and struggling, into her first prom dress.

            “Um…. hi.” Her eyes swept across me—legs and ass, breasts, face, an all-too common inspection mirroring my own—and I swear, she also liked what she saw. Her eyes kept dancing to my tits. Meanwhile, I wanted another look at those exquisite hazel eyes. When our gazed met again, I twirled a lock of hair around my finger and grinned.

            Nervous hands that don’t quite seem to know where to settle tugged at the hem of her dress. It’s a futile effort; and she’s clearly uneasy with how much of herself is on display. Now that’s something I could sympathise with, the awful anxiety of being seen whether you want to or not, a glittering bauble in a dimly lit room.

            It wasn’t so long ago I felt a similar constant terrible, gnawing fear at being painted and posed in public. Of course, whatever the reason for her discomfort, it couldn’t be as bad as mine, the awful humiliation of presenting as something you’re not and hiding from an ever-threatening world.

            “I’m Lucinda,” I said, extending my fingers. “But my friends call me Cindy.”

            “Stacy,” she said, taking my hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. Her grip’s almost manly, despite the slender fingers and crimson nails.

            “Nice to meet you, Stacy,” I said, and then it just tumbled out, “Can I buy you a drink?” Truth was, this girl’s keeping those long-dormant instincts alive: I’m hitting on her. I want to do a hell of a lot more than just hot on her, because I know it can’t go anywhere. But the way she looked at me, briefly—and those eyes—and those full, red lips waiting for an answer… fuck me, I felt a powerful stirring below.

            Which is to say, I felt a distinctly female response and squeezed my thighs together, with one hand daintily to one side, and smiled wildly to conceal my desire.

            “A drink?” There’s a delightful demureness to this girl. Her eyes drop to the floor, and glance back bashfully, and I had to supress to the urge to reach out and cup her chin. I’m thinking of what I’d like to do to her, visualising the snake shedding its skin, the pale skin beneath, wondering if those cute freckles across her nose extend further.

            “Maybe an orange juice?” she said. “I’m not really much of a drinker.”

            I wanted to touch her; and realised I could, easily, it’s just us girls, right? I flashed her my biggest, brightest smile and laid my hand over hers. “You’d be doing me a favour,” I said. “Honestly.” I waved my other hand in the direction of my table. “Big sis over there’s with some guy she just met, and I’d rather give them some room. But if I’m standing here alone…”

            “Some guy’s going to hit on you?” The tremor to her voice, disgust and dismay, struck me as odd. Girls like her, dressed as she is, in a place like this—

            I winced: fuck that; I’m a ‘girl like her, dressed like that,’ and I wasn’t about to make the same assumptions others made of me.

            “Exactly.” I took another sip of my drink. “But standing next to a total babe like you? I’d be like—” My eyes crossed with the effort of concentration, tip of my tongue between my teeth. “Like Rosaline next to Juliet at the Capulet party?”

            Very cutely, she blushed, cheeks reddening beneath light makeup but she also relaxes, just a little, at the reference. “I guess that makes him Tybalt. The boys usually keep away,” Stacy said. “They don’t want to mess with my….” She hesitated, eyes dancing towards a nearby table.  There’s a big, beefy guy there, short-cropped blond hair, tall and built like a brick wall sitting with a pitcher of beer. He’s on his phone, some kind of intense conversation that doesn’t stop him from openly ogling passing women. He’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts and clearly put minimum fucking effort into getting ready tonight. “Boyfriend.” This dickhead didn’t deserve this total babe, who’s clearly spent hours putting herself together tonight, and I feel offended on her behalf.

            I gave her hand a little squeeze. “Oh, babe, I’m like so sorry.”

            She smiled, just a little. “Byron’s not so bad,” she said. “Well, he used to be. He was a nightmare but, you know….” She shrugged. “I’ve got him under control.”  She followed my gaze back to this guy and watched him in silence for a long moment, and then I swear I heard her mutter ‘fuck it’ under her breath. “You know what? He’s going to be on that call for ages. Some boring football thing. I’d love that drink. A strong one.”

            Terry’s been keeping an eye on the two pretty young things in front of him, and I can tell he’s thoroughly enjoyed watching me flirt with this girl. “Let me introduce you to Redbeard, the Pirate King.”

            “Most people call me Terry.”

            “An old-fashioned for the lady,” I said, and because he’s a clever barkeep, without needing telling he reaches for the Jim Bean, and adds an extra dash of sugar to the bitters.

            Stacy took a sip. Her eyes widened. “Oh—my, this is good.”

            “Terry’s the best,” I said.

            “Don’t you forget it, Purple Rain.”

            I commented on her dress, how beautiful it was and how well it suited her. She replied, blushing slightly, that her aunt picked it out for her date. Her aunt was a fashion designer and took endless delight in showing her off in in an endless-seeming parade of couture. “Aunt Amanda’s even hinted at me doing some modeling,” Stacy said, biting her lower lip. She did that at lot; it was impossibly cute. “And she keeps trying to get me to ditch the glasses.”

            “Show me,” I insisted.

            Stacy took off her glasses, blinking and gazing into the middle distance.

            “Keep them,” I said. “They’re sexy.”

            She blushed. She seemed really pleased by my comment. Stacy was a student at the university, which is where she met her boyfriend. “It was… difficult, at first,” she admitted, and there’s a whole backstory she’s only hinting at in that weighty pause. “Byron wasn’t very nice to me at first.” He was a quarterback, one with big-time potential. “But I changed, and the way he treated me changed, too.”

            In return, I told her a little about myself, about working at Volumina International and the thrilling, no-holds barred life of glorified secretary-slash-receptionist. She listened with her head cocked slightly to one side, unconsciously passing fingers through auburn hair falling over one shoulder, in a show of intense concentration behind her glasses. There was sympathy, as I complained about the early morning rise and commute; empathy, at the necessity of maintaining appearances; and an almost comical fascination as I hinted at office politics.

            Stacy, for her part, admitted to the stress of balancing two lives. This was something I could appreciate. For her, it was the student, striving to complete her studies in an environment that refused to take her seriously because of her looks; but also, the socialite, where her looks were paramount. In that life, her perfect 4.0 grade seemed utterly irrelevant in contrast to the hours spent perfecting her makeup, hair and nails for an evening soiree with her aunt.

            Yet I envied her life, to a degree: not the ultra-femininity of it, somehow even more extreme than the nightmare from which I already yearned to wake. But I’d only ever known campus life as filtered through my long-ago girlfriend Akiko, and far too many college girl one-night stands. For all the lip-gnawing uncertainty she exuded, there was an inner core of confidence to the girl that slowly revealed itself as she relaxed into her drink.

Something happened in her past to trigger a change, and she clearly found this new way—unnerving, as though she’d made a wrong turn somewhere and found herself lost somewhere unexpectedly beautiful, surprisingly fun yet disturbingly unfamiliar. Often as we spoke, she caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the counter and faltered, as though surprised by the beauty of her own reflection. Then she’d tug at the hem of her dress or flutteringly touch the earrings at her ear.

            Yet despite this clear hesitation, she spoke about her life with a warmth that belied her self-doubt. This was a girl who’d found her best life; she just didn’t know it yet. And I envied her that.

            We finished our drink. We stood close to each. Between the wine at Julia’s, that first drink and now the bourbon, I felt quite drunk—pleasantly so, but at a tipping point. Stacy’s face was also flushed a little red. There was a lot of touching as we talked, and giggles. I felt turned on, and I was having fun. Maybe the subdued eroticism is what made it fun. Nothing could happen, of course. And that added to the pleasure of the conversation, because there wasn’t any motive to it beyond enjoying the moment.

            Well, maybe a little titillating motivation, as out tits squished together and we pouted and leaned in close for a selfie.

            “Shit,” I muttered, as Julia approached, Caleb in tow.

            “Shit,” Stacy echoed, as her boyfriend plodded over.

            Instinct drives me to check my makeup, and the moment I did, Stacy gave a little start and did the same. When we noticed each other primping, we giggleg. “I love that colour,” I said, indicating her dark red lipstick.

            “Ottoman Sunset.” Stacy said. “Here, let me.”

            I leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut. “You have beautiful lips,” she breathed, as I pouted. Carefully, sensuously and with expert strokes, Stacy painted my lips and exhaled and felt deeply turned on and when I opened my eyes, saw she was, too. Her smile faltered slightly, and she squirmed a little as she pulled away.

            “And who’s your friend?” Julia asked, and from the tone of her voice she wasn’t pleased to see me flirting with another woman.

            “Hey, who’s the babe?” Byron asked, and from the tone of his voice it was clear that he was.

            That was the end of it. With a cute little wave, she pranced off, that gorgeous ass a sexy wiggle as she followed her meathead boyfriend back to their seat. She leaned into him, and his arm circled her waist. Silently, I wished Stacy the best possible life.