He never even tried to respond to my outrage.“Diglett,”he’d replied instead. And proceeded to answer all my questions in the same manner until all I could hear coming from under his mask-hood-bucket thing was giggling.
He’s the most underdressed person in the room, though Mathias Jones, The Cents’ fly-half, is giving him a run for his money in those early noughties low-rise jhorts and nothing else. At one point he was wearing a full silicone werewolf’s mask, but since the body count in the pub had raised the temperatures to threat-to-life levels, he’d abandoned it on the bar. It—he—is distracting, to say the least.
I’m quite fond of labels. Generally speaking, of course, and in everyday life, I enjoy knowing things fit neatly into one category.
I like girls. Mostly. But Gadget in hisTwilightJacob costume is . . . giving me pause for thought.
In the past, whenever I’ve had to fill out one of those diversity monitoring forms, under sexuality I’ve always ticked the “straight” or “heterosexual” box. Only because it feels like the closest fit. I’ve dreamed of checking the “bisexual” box, but it’d feel fraudulent if I did, and there’s never a check box that says“fuck, actually, I just don’t know”or“does it count if I’ve only ever fucked dudes inside my head”or“mostly straight, I guess.”
For all my “mostly straight, I guess,” I’m suddenly noticing a lot of new lines and angles of Gadget’s body that I previously hadn’t thought existed outside of ancient Greek mythology.
Like those pelvic dips. Um . . . how? How does a person even exercise those specific muscles to get definition like that?
I see Gadget naked almost every day in the showers. I’ve seen his dick hundreds of times. So why am I stealing covert glances at those ridges like a peeping Tom?
I place the empties on the bar top, and I’m about to order another drink for myself, and one for Eggo since he seems a little too . . . Eggo right now, when I spot Abs and Orlando. They’re also in full drag with wigs and heels. I run over so we can be three sweaty wig-wearing messes together.
“Oi oi!” Abs yells as I push deeper into the pub.
“How ya going, Abs?” I say, pulling him into a hug. He isdaaaaammpwith sweat. So very, very damp. Very moist. “Love the costume, mate. You’re whatsherface fromDeath Becomes Her?”
Harry’s wearing a long ginger wig that I’m pretty sure is the same shade of red as his normal hair, a floor-length skintight fire-engine-red dress, and red high heels. He has modest fake breasts—unlike mine—and I’m trying not to let my eyes wanderfarther south, because the dress is snug. Extremely snug. Almost as though it was made to fit a woman half his size. It highlights every single curve and bump of his body, including Little Harry, who seems intent on making his presence known.
“And you’re Rumi! Fucking love that movie.” He bursts into the opening lines of “Golden” then says, “We need photos! Before we get too pissed and smudge all our makeup.”
I’m already halfway to that point, but I take Harry’s phone from him—my arms are longer and can therefore fit more of us in the frame—and begin snapping away.
“Girl, please. You’re doing it wrong,” Orlando says, taking the device from my hand and directing us to step back a little.
We strike a series of poses that start off somewhere in the region ofKPop Demon HuntersandDeath Becomes Her, but morph into something closer toCharlie’s Angelscirca Drew Barrymore and Lucy Liu.
“Let’s see them,” Abs says, forcing the phone out of Orlando’s grasp and swiping across at the snaps he’d taken. Okay, fair play, Harry’s not-boyfriend has a good eye for snapping a decent pic—
Abs has swiped through all the photos we’ve just posed for, but has gone even beyond that, sliding straight into the deeper, darker depths of his camera roll.
“Oh, hello!” I say, staring down at the screen, unable to whip my eyes away quickly enough.
There’s no mistaking what we’re looking at. An “artful” shot of a nearly nude Orlando. He’s wearing black lace undies, and it’s simultaneously tasteful and the most indecent thing I’ve ever seen. He’s smiling at the camera, all shy and sweet, practiced, one hand on his stomach, one in his hair, and his soft cock is just there. Tucked along the elastic edge of the fabric.
My best mate simply stares at the photo, as though his eyes have not yet connected to his brain. And then, with sudden crashing clarity, he realises.
“Fuck!” Abs tries to shove his phone into his pocket, but he turns his head to look at his boyfriend-not-boyfriend and drops the device on the floor.
It slides over to me. I pick it up and hand it back, but not before glancing at the screen one last time. I mean, I didn’t deliberately do it. It’s just that . . .
Oh, damn. I might be a pervert.
And now I can’t get this newest image out of my brain. Orlando facing away from the camera and bending forward, like a female panda presenting herself for fertilisation. All I see now is a lace-covered asshole and a lace-covered pair of testicles, and I think it’s burned itself into my retinas.
Harry’s face is as red as his dress, but Orlando seems unperturbed. I should apologise, even though it wasn’t my fault I’ve been scarred for life.
Instead, I go with, “Soooo, you fellas fancy a drink?”
Of course Abs doesn’t answer. I know him well enough to understand he won’t regain capacity for speech for another few minutes at least.
“Sure, thanks, Pi. Harry’ll have a lager and I’ll have a white wine, cheers,” Orlando says.
I leave the pair and head to the bar, change my mind when I see the queue, and sneak outside to stand by the bushes again.
