The Loop
"No cursing," Bill's wife Chrissy said from a bar stool, a magazine and vodka martini in front of her.
As Rikki made her way forward, from guest bathroom to livingroom, "she" found it a little odd that Chrissy objected to her husband's swearing but not to his sharing their home with a fellow crossdresser.
"Give me a hug!" Bill further exclaimed, meeting Rikki halfway.
"You two couldn't find a dress?"
Bill, dressed like Rikki in wig, makeup, bra, panties, stockings and shoes (heels in Bill's shorter case, Rikki in strappy flats), ignored his wife as they first hugged then kissed on the lips.
"No kissing in front of me," Chrissy said, her back to them, eyes in the back of her head apparently.
"It was just a peck," Bill protested.
"OK but no making out," Chrissy cautioned. "Not while I'm in the room."
Bill looked at Rikki with revolving eyes; they were both thinking the same thing it seemed: Well why don't you leave then? It was as if the two men, one in his late forties (Bill), the other in his early fifties, were a couple of teenagers in the presence of a strict, overbearing chaperone.
"Let's sit on the couch, hon," Bill suggested. That way at least, their mostly bare backs would be to his eagle-eye wife. The TV was on but muted. Some sort of street demonstration somewhere. "Would you like a drink?" Bill latently asked.
"Love one!" Rikki's nervous reply.
"What's your poison?"
"He brought that bottle of wine," Chrissy reminded her wigged husband. She pointed vaguely: "I put it in the refrigerator door."
"Oh." And after blinking down at a seated Rikki, looking so cute in her blonde page-boy wig, and at her matching bra and panty, and at those slender thighs Rikki had just crossed...said, "I'll open it."
"Rikki," Chrissy unexpectedly said, twisting around to her right in her husband's absence, "you could start a whole new thing with those pantyhose of yours."
Thing?
"A new fad," Chrissy explained. "Men in pantyhose. And with those cute little bikini panties underneath? Very cute. Where'd you get them?"
Which? Rikki wondered. "Well, No Nonsense..."
"Do we have any wine glasses anywhere?" Bill asked, bottle in hand, by the neck.
"Look in the cabinet to your right, Bill. No, one over. Don't be so helpless..." Then, turning back to Rikki: "No, the panties. Very cute," she repeated. "Very...colorful."
"Thanks. Um...they're Jockey brand. They—"
"And they fit you so well. What size are you?"
"I still don't see any wine glasses."
"Just pour it in a glass, Bill. What difference does it make?"
"Well it would be nice if—"
"I didn't catch that, hon," turning back once again.
"Seven," Rikki replied for what was, in fact, the first time.
"You're so nice and slender, Rikki. Bill's a nine. He's a fatty."
"I'm not fat. I'm just...Fuck!"
"Bill!"
"The cork broke. In the bottle."
"Here," Chrissy said, after a tongue cluck, rushing plumply to the scene. "Let me do it. You're so useless..."
"It broke! I couldn't help it!"
"Here! Let me. Go sit with your girlfriend. I'll find the wine glasses"—sigh—"and bring it over to you."
"Fine!" Bill declared, sounding very unfeminine as he staggered away on his rocky heels. He landed a transformative smile on Rikki, however, as his pantied bulk hit the middle cushion. His right hand also landed—on Rikki's crossed right thigh, which he gave a quick, surreptitious stroke. "I've been wanting to do that," Bill softly purred. While loudly, coming up from behind, cheap wine glass in each hand:
"Keep your hands to yourself, Bill."
"What!" hand rocketing away as if from a hot stove. "We can't even touch?" he asked in disbelief.
"This is a meet and greet," Chrissy said, while delivering the Chardonnay. "You don't go around squeezing a girl's thigh on the first date."
"We're adults, Chrissy!" her husband protested.
"And you certainly don't do it in front of your wife," finishing the thought.
"Well...," a terrified Rikki thinking her new friend was at last going to do it. Say it. Be a man, so to speak: Well why don't you go in the bedroom and watch TV for a while?
Or, I thought you were going to the mall, Chrissy. Or—
"No kissing, no touching. You know what that leads to. And...," looking back on her way to the bar, "it's not like it wouldn't be in plain view in that skimpy underwear you're wearing..."
Adding, as she worked her wide bottom onto stool's cushion, "I didn't find you a crossdressing friend so you could have sex with him. Her. Whatever..."
"A little touching is hardly sex, Chrissy."
"Why don't you two drink your wine and get to know each other. Rikki," she interjected, "is that your regular grocery store? Where I ran into you?"
"Yes."
"Funny. I'm in there all the time and I don't remember seeing you before."
Rikki had no answer for this. Maybe it was because his street clothes usually hid his "real self"?
"Bill," Chrissy smiled. "I told you how we met, right?"
"You have," Bill reminded his wife, while giving Rikki another eye roll.
"He's ahead of me in the express lane," laughter bubbling to Chrissy's lips, "this lady ahead of him drops a quarter, he bends to pick it up and..."
"You saw his pantyhose," Bill finished.
"I saw he was wearing pantyhose. Then I caught up with him in the parking lot," a story she was relating for the second or third time, "and...here he is! She."
"Yes. Quite a coincidence," a bored-sounding Bill admitted.
"I know. Lucky you! A new friend! Who shares the same...hobby."
"I wouldn't call it a hobby exactly," Bill countered, while once again giving Rikki's thigh a surreptitious caress.
"Well you know what I mean. What's your therapist call it? A fetish?"
"A—"
"An...underwear fetish? Are you in therapy, Rikki?" a revolving Chrissy causing her husband's hand to hastily retract.
Rikki looked at Bill, painted lips parted. Bill looked over couch's back at his wife. "Chrissy, that's hardly..."
"Just curious," Chrissy explained. "It's not like there's anything WRONG with it. Bill's been in therapy off and on for years," the wife told her husband's crossdressing friend. "Haven't you, honey?"
"Jesus, Chrissy..."
"Don't blaspheme!"
"I—"
"I'm obviously quite liberal," Chrissy said in a softening tone, presumably to Rikki. "But I'm also a devout Catholic. I don't see a contradiction in that, do you?"
Rikki's mouth once again hung open as he looked at his fem friend. Seeking, it seemed, advice. HELP.
"Otherwise you wouldn't be here," Chrissy added, presumably not referring to the devout Catholic part. "Are you married, Rikki? I forgot to ask."
"No."
"Were you ever?"
"Yes, twice."
"Did they know about your crossdressing, hon?"
"Chrissy...," her husband interrupted. "Enough with the fifth degree, OK?"
"I'm just curious."
"No," Rikki replied. "That came later."
"You never used to dress in your women's panties, like Bill did?"
"Chrissy..."
"No. The urge came...later."
"Urge. I like that word. It was an urge, then it became a fetish. Right? Women's under things?"
"I...guess."
"The fifth degree...," Bill muttered.
"I find that fascinating," Bill's wife declared. "And I'm not even a psychologist. I never even took a course in college!"
"Chrissy...," Bill at last manned up to say. "Maybe it would be best, honey, if Rikki and I had some...alone time together."
"Not if you're gonna get all hot and bothered..."
"No. Just...like you say. Talk. Get to know each other better."
"You want me to leave?" Chrissy's back stiffening on the stool. "If it wasn't for me he—she—wouldn't even be here."
"I recognize that. But—"
"Talk away. I won't interfere. Pretend I'm not here..."
"But, darling," Bill's thickish stockinged thighs twisting into a pretzel, "that's all you've been doing for the past...fifteen minutes."
"My lips are...," drawing an imaginary zipper across her mouth, "...sealed. Go ahead. Talk. I won't listen. I'm reading my magazine. Kiss for all I care. Just...no petting."
"Petting?" Bill's amused tone implying he hadn't heard that word in decades.
"You know what I mean. The heavy stuff. Rikki? What brought on the urge? Initially? I'd be interested in knowing..."
Rikki once again looked at Bill for guidance. But received in return only a kissy smile, and a thigh caress.
"I'd...rather not say."
"No? That bad?" Chrissy smiling as well.
"No, it's not that..."
"Leave the man alone, Chrissy," Bill said of his womanly couch companion.
"I'd hardly call him a man..."
"You know what I mean. And I thought you were gonna—"
"I can tell you what set Bill off," Chrissy again addressing her—their—house guest. "First time I used my dildo on him."
"Chrissy!"
"Next thing I know he's going through my underwear drawers..."
"Chrissy, that's not true at all!"
"Dressing up in my stuff, stretching it out...I finally had to say to him—"
"Chrissy! Enough, OK?"
"—Stop it. We'll buy you your own. The rest, as they say, is history. Except..."
"Don't even go there."
"For Valentine's that year I think it was...he bought me a strap-on. That's when things really took off. What? What's the matter? Rikki had a right to know."
Bill, in his brunette wig, bra and panties and thigh-highs (he'd kicked off his heels), was standing now, his face just a few shades lighter than his crimson lipstick. His right arm was raised, pointing, his thickish middle-aged body fairly well quivering...
"Chrissy? Go away! Leave us...alone! This is our time together and you're...I appreciate everything you've done, but...," Bill's tone already softening like a toasted, dripping marshmallow. "Please, dear!" the womanly man pleaded. "Give us some time together. Please!"
Chrissy, magazine in hand, had already sighed. Had already slid her wide bottom on the stool. She was, however, standing still.
"Fine. I know when I'm not wanted. Fine," she repeated. "I'll go in my room. Bill and I don't sleep together anymore, Rikki," Chrissy informed their guest in a near shout. "Is that the way it was with your wives? At the end? As I've said to Bill many times...if you want to be a woman get the operation. Don't do it halfway. Do you like women, Rikki?"
Rikki glanced upward at Bill, whose eyes now resembled two glowing coals. The non sequitur had floored him, sunk him deeper into the couch cushion. All he managed, meekly, was, "I..."
"Because if you do...," Chrissy smiled, slyly, "you could go back to my room with me and we could pull those pantyhose down..."
Adding, "Bet I could make you hard, Rikki."
"Chrissy, this is—"
"What do you say, hon? You could still be Rikki. Tell you what. I'll kiss you in those pantyhose, suck you. Then when you're good and hard you can put it in me. I haven't been with a man, a real man"—glance at Bill—"in, like, ages. Think of it as Lesbian sex if you want, I don't care. But I can see that hard-on in your little panties...you're about to bust...and I want it. You want me, hon?"
Rikki looked wide-eyed from Chrissy to Bill, who, surprisingly, shrugged.
"You don't think I picked you up in the parking lot just for the sake of my dipshit husband, do you? Excuse my language."
"Real nice, Chrissy...," Bill muttered. He removed his wig. Though dark-brown in color, it was as if it were a white flag. "Real considerate of you..."
"This way," Chrissy directed Rikki, curling an index finger. "I'll make you glad you came. In more ways than one," the wife added with a laugh.
Poor Rikki, a hard-on slanting in his skimpy, colorful panty, transparent through that thin nude layer of nylon, once again looked to Bill for guidance. Support. None came, his fellow (sister) crossdresser now bereft of wig, middle-aged, balding, a rather forlorn-looking figure. While a woman, a real one, beckoned.
"Come, Rikki. He doesn't care. I've had lots of men here. Not like you," she hastened to add. "Not in women's underwear, but...
"I'll pour you another glass of wine," Chrissy offered as further incentive. "So nice of you to bring it. Most men are..." She didn't finish the thought.
Cheap.
"Give me your hand," Chrissy said, as Rikki moved toward her robotically, seemingly hypnotized. As if lost in a wilderness. "No, I'd rather have this," after grabbing his pantied crotch, giving his erection a feel. She grasped it—through two layers.
"Nice. I like it. I want it...," Rikki following Chrissy to the hallway, then down it, being pulled along into the relative darkness.
Bill, meanwhile, wigless and following a familiar sigh, settled his bulk onto the couch again. Middle cushion. His wife was, well...she was a piece of work! Bill had a cat once, a male, who would sometimes sleep with him. If any other cats joined in he would position himself on Bill's chest, as close to his chin as possible, sometimes even placing his furry back against Bill's throat. It was an act of exclusion, of jealousy. No other cat could possibly get closer.
Cats are fickle, however, whereas humans are...devious. Predictable. Pathological. Sometimes.
Bill, imagining what those two were doing in there, his stolen crossdressing "friend" and Chrissy, pulled his panties down below his balls and began to stroke himself. It would be over soon.
On the TV, still muted, they were showing footage of what had evolved into a riot. Looting. They showed it over and over. And over.
It was a loop.
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