After a less-than-stellar time at their employer's New Year's party, Courtney returns home with a new drive to prove to the world just how much of a man she -- err, he -- truly is.
If only they can avoid the temptations of cute clothes, cute shoes, cute... boys? And other trials.
###
1. Auld Lang Syne
I took a long swig from the bottle of beer I’d opened and grimaced at the taste.
The truth is, I don’t like beer. I’m much happier with a nice glass of wine or even something like a margarita – you know, something fruity and playful, with brighter notes to it.
What I liked wasn’t what was important, though.
What was important… was masculinity. And, as far as I’m aware, a real man faces his problems with beer, and stubbornness, and….
And?
I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what it was that real men did when they had problems they needed to sort out.
Watch sports, maybe?
I’ll do that tomorrow, I promised myself, feeling a little better about my masculinity immediately, even as another sip of the beer in my hand made me flinch away from the taste.
I left the TV remote where it lay on the coffee table, on top of a stack of bridal magazines and tabloids, and consciously kept my legs splayed as I slumped onto the couch. I considered putting my feet up on the coffee table, just for good measure, but couldn’t bring myself to do it – masculinity be damned, I really liked the lace cover on the coffee table, and if anyone tried to put shoes on it, I’d….
Well, they’d get a stern talking-to over it, that was for certain.
I tried to take another sip of the beer, but like with my feet, I just couldn’t, so instead, I set it on a coaster – one of the ones with a puppy on it, not a kitten, because dogs are more masculine – then leaned back and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath and only recoiling a little at the lingering taste of the alcohol.
What a disaster!
Hamilton Packaging was a great company to work for, in no small part because of how seasonal our business was. It was always a rush to get orders out in the months leading up to the holidays – custom gift boxes, packing materials for fancy “artisanal” internet boutiques, things like that – but outside the occasional rush order, we were almost always slowing down by the start of December, and we were always caught up enough to earn our company-wide three weeks off.
With no need to go anywhere or do anything until the second week of January, I’d done like I always did any time I had vacation available and immediately plunged myself into my femme persona the moment our time off started.
As office manager, I tried my best to keep a professional appearance at work, so it was always a joy to slip out of my (mostly) boring male work clothes and into something more comfortable, doubly so when I knew I had no rush to change back, and I’d been doubling down on my diet and yoga for the two months leading up to our vacay to make sure I could fully enjoy some of the outfits I’d picked up for the occasion.
I’d spent the last two weeks in heaven. No need to try and man up to appease anyone, no need to watch how I spoke or moved or strip off my nail polish or double-check I’d gotten all my makeup off (though I did anyway because a good skin care regimen is important.) No need to keep my hair tied back or make sure my lingerie didn’t show through my clothes or anything of the sort.
Nope. Just two weeks of comfort and relaxation… right up until the thirty-first and needing to get ready for the office New Year’s party.
It had been a rough and stressful day, from the bath with the less flowery soaps to replacing my polish with a clear-coat, then having to psyche myself up to put on my drab work clothes for the party, but I’d done it, and more or less gladly. I liked the people I worked with, after all, and my boss had told me he would be disappointed if his favorite organizer wasn’t there.
It had been a surreal night, from being “ma’am”-ed at the door and when the bartender checked my ID – Courtney isn’t that unusual a name for a guy! -- to chatting amiably with a lady who worked for one of our distribution partners, only for her to mention that she and her wife were looking for a third girl for a special New Year’s celebration, and realizing she thought I could be the girl.
For chrissakes, I was wearing wing-tips!
The boss’s son asking me to dance with him had been the last straw, and I’d quietly excused myself, promising my boss I’d had a good time and just had a busy day planned for the first.
And now here I am, sitting on my couch, another twenty minutes to go ‘til the ball drops, and all I wanna do is change into some of my cute winter jammies, hug my teddy bear, and cry.
I took another deep breath and shook my head.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-four years old. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be….
What should I be doing?
That question was jarring enough I sat up and gave it a good thunk.
It wasn’t like people thinking I was a woman bothered me. If anything, it was very flattering and kind of fulfilling since I worked hard at it.
But I definitely didn’t want them doing so when I was trying to look like a guy.
The problem was that being a guy was hard work, and I really didn’t like having to do it.
Maybe it’s time I tried harder, though.
I thought again about the lady from the distributor and the bedroom eyes she’d been giving me when she mentioned her wife. There was a part of me that had been intrigued by the idea.
Then again, there was a part of me that had felt thrilled when the boss’s son had asked me to dance, too.
The lady from the distributor’s office had been a tall brunette wearing a classy black dress with some very cute kitten heels. I’d loved the dress but thought that her lipstick was wrong for her skin tone combined with the dark hair and dark material – she’d chosen a bright pink when a darker red would have played better with her coloration.
The boss’s son, Tony, had been wearing a well-cut blue suit that hung nicely on his fit frame. With his dark brown hair with hints of red in it and the crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes, he could have talked any girl at the party into a New Year’s kiss.
If I’d been there in my cute baby blue A-line dress – the one with the boat neck and the white beaded details – I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell him no, either.
But I wasn’t there in my cute dress, or a pair of kitten heels, or lipstick that actually worked with my winter coloration. No, I was there in a black pantsuit, with my hair tied back and barely even any foundation to help take some of the shine out of my complexion.
Okay, so I was wearing a cream silk blouse under the suit. None of my men’s shirts had looked nice enough, and with my tie on, nobody could tell the buttons went the other way anyway.
Still, I didn’t think I looked that femme.
Did I?
I left my unwanted beer sweating on its coaster and walked through my neat little apartment and into my bedroom, stopping in front of the tall antique mirror I’d inherited from my grandmother to give myself a thorough look.
I just saw me: Courtney Martin. Twenty-four years old as of October.
Blond hair past my shoulders, getting a bit shaggy now since I’d been growing it out for my vacay plans. Slim frame, with maybe a bit more shape than was normal for a guy, thanks to some careful yoga and toning exercises and a family history of fantastic asses. My nose was a little beaky, and my brows were maybe a little weak since I’d gotten a bit over-enthusiastic with the plucking before the holidays began, and eyebrow pencil could only help so much.
I turned sideways a bit and looked again, pulling my jacket in to highlight my trim waist, the square shoulders of the jacket and the drape of the cut giving me more of a silhouette than I would have without it, but not too much more.
I suppose I look a bit girly, I admitted, frowning just a little at my reflection.
On a whim, I pulled the low, loose scrunchie out of my hair and shook my head, then reached up to finger brush the hair into a bit nicer style, flowing around my shoulders and framing my face. Checking myself out again, I definitely looked even more feminine, but couldn’t help but smile at the image, tilting my head just a bit so the silver studs in my ears could catch some of the light.
Ugh! Don’t smile at it! I reprimanded myself, scowling at the pretty reflection in the mirror instead. Not that it helped much: with my eyebrows and hair, and finally noting how the suit jacket was just a bit too big in a sort of cute tomboy way, I wound up looking more like a pouting Taylor Swift than a defiant Chris Hemsworth.
Not that I’d really want to look like Hemsworth: finding heels in his size would be way too hard.
Not that that mattered.
Because I’m a man.
I huffed at my reflection one last time, then huffed some more as I huffed my way back to the huffing couch, toeing off my shoes on the way and kicking them into the corner where all my other guys’ shoes were since I needed the space on my shoe rack for my heels and boots and sandals and girl tennies.
I plopped back on the couch and crossed my legs, finally picking up the remote and turning on the television. It only took a moment to find the channel showing Ryan Seacrest and his Rockin’ New Year program, and I still had a good five minutes until the ball was set to drop.
I looked down at my toes and admired the bright red polish on them, gleaming even through the material of my stockings.
“Gah!” I exclaimed, flinging myself back into the cushions and sliding down into a slump.
What was it with me and girly things? Why were they so irresistible?
Seacrest’s voice caught my attention, and I found myself watching him as he said something or other, just meaningless drivel as everyone waited for the ball to drop. He gave the camera one of his toothy bright smiles, and I felt my heart skip the tiniest of beats. He wasn’t as handsome now as when I was little, swooning over him while watching American Idol, but he still had his charm, and just the memories were enough to give me a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Gah,” I said again, tearing my eyes away from the screen and wrapping my arms around myself in defense against the girly thoughts.
Nobody understood how hard it was. Nobody. How much effort it took, day in and day out, to try and figure out what I was supposed to do, how I was supposed to act, to be the guy everyone said I was supposed to be.
Sure, you search the internet, and it’s full of folks saying to just be yourself, showcasing their comfort in being a guy who wears makeup or cute clothes, or a girl with a mullet who wears flannel all the time, or all of that stuff, but that’s the internet.
In the real world, people judge you not for who you are but for who they think you’re supposed to be. And when you don’t fit that?
I shuddered, remembering bullies, both child and adult, past.
So, I tried to keep my feminine side limited to home. I tried my hardest to be who people expected me to be, seemed to want me to be, when out in public, at least as much as I could.
If I needed a little time to myself to dance to cheesy pop music while feeling pretty, then who did it hurt?
But it was getting harder and harder to just keep it at home.
I’d known the silk blouse was a mistake, just like the stockings, and not stripping the polish off my toes. I’d promised myself I’d go to the work party in full guy mode, but I’d broken that rule on all of those fronts, and it’d made it that much harder to keep up the charade.
The cute, lacy lingerie set I’d bought myself for New Year’s and worn under the whole ensemble probably hadn’t helped either.
“TEN!” Called the crowd of voices on the television, as the camera settled in to track the ball.
I can’t keep living like this.
“NINE!”
Being one person out there, one person in here….
“EIGHT!”
I can’t change the world. I can’t make it more forgiving.
“SEVEN!”
But can I change myself?
“SIX!”
What choice do I have?
“FIVE!”
I don’t want to be some weirdo, and I don’t want to stand out like those people I see on the internet.
“FOUR!”
All I want is to just be left alone to live my life.
“THREE!”
But all of this just makes it that much harder, doesn’t it?
“TWO!”
I can’t change my biology, so I guess that settles it.
“ONE!”
I need to stop all this nonsense and just accept that.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
I watched the television through the swelling tears in my eyes, watched the people crying out in joy as the new year dawned, bringing with it new hopes, new dreams, and new goals.
New resolutions.
Maybe that’s what I need.
I pulled a tissue out of the box on the end table and dabbed at my eyes, then walked over and grabbed my abandoned beer. Steeling myself, I took a huge swig of it and almost managed not to wince as I forced it down.
“I, Courtney Martin,” I said, raising the now almost half-empty bottle over my head, “do so solemnly swear that my resolution for this year… is to finally start acting like a man.”
As if in approval of my resolution, the crowds on the television cheered again, Auld Lang Syne echoing out through their numbers.
I felt a welling of pride in my chest. With this new conviction, I was sure that I could change things and finally be the man I’d always been told to be.
All I needed was a plan and a good night’s rest.
It wouldn’t hurt to wear one of my flannel nightgowns just one last time, though, right? It’s supposed to get down in the low forties tonight.
I assured myself it wouldn’t, and with a spring in my step, I headed to bed, ready to tackle the next day with a plan to find the new, manly me.
###
2. Stuffed
“Hmmm.”
I turned from side to side a bit, checking myself out in my mirror.
It would have to do.
I’d gotten up a bit later than I’d have preferred for my first day in All Man Mode, at least partially because my blankets and nightgown were so nice and warm, and I hadn’t wanted to brave the chill air of the room just yet. That reticence was doubled by knowing that I’d have to forego my pink bunny slippers when I did get up because – toasty warm as they might be – pink bunny slippers just weren’t manly enough for the new, more masculine me.
When I finally did feel like I could handle it I gave my teddy bear D’Artagnan one last nose kiss and hug, knowing that it would be the last night I could hold him as I slept. He would be okay – he was a tough little bear, after all – but it was still a sad moment and made me glad I’d said goodbye to my other stuffies the night before, packing them safely into a suitcase and promising that I still loved them, I just couldn’t have them out anymore, because guys didn’t have stuffies on their beds.
D’Artagnan was staying only because he was a very manly bear.
Finally up, I’d hit the bathroom for my normal morning routine – teeth, moisturizer, a quick brush of my hair – and congratulated myself on resisting the urge to fix myself up even just a little bit. I considered shaving, just for the effect of it, but there wasn’t much point, thanks to the electrolysis sessions I’d gotten.
Not that there’d been much there to begin with anyway.
Morning ablutions taken care of, I’d headed to my closet to find something manly to wear….
It was harder than I’d expected.
Being a bit of a homebody, I didn’t really have a lot of clothes for going out on the town or anything, leastways not guy clothes, and most casual stuff it was easy enough to find things that I felt I could pass off as gender-neutral that, over time, I’d just sort of replaced most of my guy clothes with women’s equivalents, and that was coming back to bite me in the bud.
I didn’t want to wear one of my work suits again – I only had two of them, and besides that, I only had one men’s dress shirt to wear with them, and it was a horrible eggshell that always made me feel like it was just a little stained. I’d bought a number of nice women’s blouses that didn’t look particularly femme paired with the men’s suits, but I was still feeling burned by the reactions to my clothing at the party and didn’t have it in me to go through that again.
It was too cold for shorts and tees, with a high only expected in the mid-fifties for the day, so I needed pants, and maybe a sweater, and….
Underwear.
“Oh, geez,” I groaned to myself as I opened my lingerie drawer, looking for something masculine.
Boxers? Nope, they’re women’s boxers.
Briefs? Oop, nope, boyshorts.
Bikinis? Why would I buy men’s bikini’s if I was gonna wear bikinis?
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
“Yeegh,” I grimaced, looking at the one pair of men’s underwear I could find, a very beat-up pair of tightie whities that were almost as holy as my lace undies from the day before. “Yeah, no.” Straight into the trash they went.
For a brief moment, I considered going commando, but just thinking about the chafing and the griminess and….
No.
Boy shorts it is, then, I decided, grabbing a plain white pair of cotton ones and setting them aside.
I started to reach for a bra but chided myself because guys don’t wear bras.
Well, most guys don’t wear bras.
Some guys probably should wear bras, I thought, giggling at the mental image of Mr. Liemann from the office putting on a sports bra. He had to be at least a D-cup, I’d wager.
The idea of not wearing anything under my top didn’t appeal to me either, especially with how easily I got cold, so I settled on a plain white yoga top, one of the few I had that didn’t have a built-in shelf bra. It was basically just a tank top, and guys wore tank tops all the time, right?
Plus, it matched the boy shorts, which was always a bonus in my book.
With suitably masculine undergarments sorted, I turned my attention back to the other items in my closet.
A bit of searching found a pair of slouch-y mom jeans I’d bought about a year earlier for work pants while I was redoing the living room and bedroom of my apartment. They still had remnants of paint splatter down them, in pinks and yellows and creams, and should be loose enough to pass as guy pants, at least.
A top would be harder, but I lucked into finding an old hoodie my girlfriend Angie had left behind a few weeks earlier when we’d had a movie night. It was charcoal grey, and I was pretty sure it was her boyfriend’s, since it had some kind of pokey-stabby logo on the front for what I assumed was a rock band, and me and Angie were both Taylor fans. It was more than a little too big, but guys wore clothes too big for them all the time, so it would work, right?
Of course, it would.
Which brings us back to me checking myself out in the mirror, wearing my chosen outfit.
“Hmmm,” I hmmm’d again, not entirely sure about the results.
I definitely looked a bit frumpy, at least, but I wasn’t sure if I really looked manly.
The jeans were baggy enough and wrinkled enough to be properly disheveled-looking, though I wasn’t sure the pastel paint did them any favors in the masculinity department now that I really looked at them, and I’d forgotten about the flower detailing on the back pockets, not that anyone would see them thanks to the hoodie. They were what they were, though.
To my surprise, it was the hoodie that I felt was giving me the most problems.
Angie’s boyfriend, it seemed, was an impressively built guy because the hoodie hung like a tent on my slender 5’5” frame, the sleeves coming down past my hands if I didn’t keep a grip on the cuffs, and the neck broad enough it kept falling off my shoulder, showing off my yoga top – I mean, my tank top – strap in a way that wasn’t particularly boyish.
Is this really the only guy top I have in the house?
I gave my closet another run-through, just to be sure, and decided that it probably was unless I wanted to change my mind about the suit or freeze in a tee shirt that I’d probably gotten in the women’s section anyway.
I really didn’t want to wear a suit.
As a last detail, I grabbed the black scrunchie I’d used to tie my hair back the night before and did so again in the same low and loose ponytail. That helped a bit, especially since I’d taken my earrings out the night before, so I was clean-faced, with no jewelry on, and wearing the most boyish clothes I had.
“I’d like at least a little foundation or something, though,” I admitted, frowning at how washed-out I felt. “And some eyeliner would go good with the color of the hoodie.”
Could I fake a beard shadow with some eye shadow, maybe?
Winning the fight against my urges, I grabbed a pair of plain white socks out of the chest of drawers – women’s socks, but socks are all the same anyway, and nobody but me would see the pink stitching on the toes – and headed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, and to finally make The Plan.
Rather than fixing anything big, I grabbed a fruit bar out of the cabinet and sat down in my little breakfast nook, taking the notepad and pencil I kept on the fridge with me.
Okay, where to start….
Unsure of what else to do, I wrote “Courtney’s Be A Man Plan” at the top of the sheet.
Better than nothing, right?
I underlined it twice, for emphasis.
Still not feeling it, I drew a happy smiley face off to the side.
Definitely better.
I sucked on the pencil’s eraser for a moment as I thought about what I needed to do, then smiled as I began to write.
###
NOTES:
So, here it is, the first 2 chapters (of 6) of my New Year's story that I couldn't submit for the contest due to length! I hope folks have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
If you want to go ahead and catch up on chapters 3 and 4, they're available right now over on the BCTS Patreon! And the last two chapters should be going up some time in the next week or so, as well. The whole story is complete and edited, so you don't have to worry about waiting for anything to get written -- ya just gotta wait for it to go live!
Thanks for taking the time to check my story out, and don't forget: I appreciate all thumbs-ups and comments, and will do my best to respond to them.
After a less-than-stellar time at their employer's New Year's party, Courtney returns home with a new drive to prove to the world just how much of a man she -- err, he -- truly is.
If only they can avoid the temptations of cute clothes, cute shoes, cute... boys? And other trials.
###
3. Extra Mustard
Not for the first time, I reconsidered if I really wanted to go through with what I was doing.
The building was intimidating by design, painted a mixture of blacks, dark greys, and electric blues that gave the techno-futuristic styling a sinister air, made all the more unsettling by the building’s almost perfectly cubic shape.
Taking a deep breath, I checked my list one last time before tucking it into my messenger bag (not a purse – us men don’t carry purses) and determinedly walking up to the large tinted glass doors.
The line was short, and before long I was at the counter.
“Welcome to SmorgasBorg, your taste buds will be assimilated,” said the girl behind the counter, pushing up the robotic headgear she was wearing slightly to see me better. “Can I take your order?”
“Umm,” I responded, looking at the menu over her head in mild confusion. I’d never been in the place before, and given my mission the board’s options were less than helpful. “Aah, you have burgers and fries?” I asked her, hoping I didn’t sound too panicked.
The girl smiled for only the briefest of moments before trying to put on her best neutral expression again. “We have three burger options available. There’s the Riker, which is two patties, with ham, lettuce, tomato, pickle, cheese, and our special Delta Quadrant Delight sauce. We also have the Quark Quarter Pounder, which is a single patty, doesn’t have the ham, but comes with onion straws on it. Lastly, we have the Janeway, that one’s our veggie burger, and the combo comes with coffee instead of a soda.”
I grimaced at the menu as I considered my options, and wished I could just order a Bacon Locutus and Tomato sandwich, but alas, my Man Plan required more.
“I’ll take the, ah….”
“The Janeway?” She asked helpfully.
“Hmm? No. The Quark,” I said, frowning. The Janeway did sound more appealing, but I needed a manly burger. “Why would you think I’d want the Janeway?”
“Ah, no reason,” she said, a little nervously. “Here or to go?”
We finished my order and I took my receipt and a standee for my table. Careful not to squeeze the over-full soda cup and make a mess, I found an out of the way booth and slid in, trying my best to relax as I pulled out the plan and double checked it again.
Step 1: Eat a Manly Meal
Got that under control, I thought, already paranoid about what the grease and salt would do to my complexion. But hey, guys don’t worry about that kind of thing, so I needed to get over it.
Step 2: Get a Manly Haircut
I gulped as I read that one again. I really wasn’t looking forward to it, but my normal stylist had agreed to hop in the shop for a quick ‘do when I’d told him it was an emergency, so as soon as my meal was over that was where I was headed.
Should I get something short but neat? Or go straight for the buzz cut? I wondered, the hitch in my breathing enough warning I rejected the buzz cut idea immediately. Baby steps, Courtney. Baby steps.
I looked at the list again.
Step 3: Do a Manly Activity
That one had been more difficult.
I’d wracked my brain trying to come up with something that seemed distinctly manly to me, but that I thought wouldn’t be too much to tackle on the first day.
Woodworking cost too much, and I’d never been much for all the mess and stuff, so that also put working on a car or fishing off the table.
Not that I’d go fishing anyway – live fish were icky.
The only thing that had come to mind I’d thought was really do-able was to go to a sports game thing, but that had led to another conundrum, and that was figuring out what to go to.
I’d settled on a baseball game, only to be dismayed when I found out that there were no baseball games in January. The only thing that really seemed open was football, and manly-man or not, I’d never been able to make heads of tails of that.
I’d kept looking for something, and finally found that one of the local colleges was holding an exhibition baseball game between some of the guys who were there on scholarships and some of their alumni, so I’d settled for that instead.
I had “Step 4” written on the paper too, but nothing next to it, since I couldn’t think of anything else that seemed like a Manly Thing to Do.
Clothes shopping?
I nixed that idea immediately, since I knew the current sales at every department store in an eight mile radius, and there was no way I was going to risk the temptation of a Kohl’s clearance rack on my first Manly Day.
Shoe shopping came to mind next, but that was also a no-go, even if I had been annoyed when I’d searched my pile of men’s shoes and only found one tennis shoe with no match under all the work shoes and sandals piled on top.
At least the black boots I’d settled on out of my closet had a square toe and a two inch lift, and as everyone knows, being taller is always a Manly Thing.
So long as my jeans hung over them, nobody would be able to see the cute pink rose details around the calf either.
I was still studying the list when someone cleared their throat at my table, causing me to let out a not-entirely-manly bleat of alarm.
“Sorry, sorry!” The guy said, taking a step back. “Order twenty-three?”
“Uh, yeah,” I confirmed, glancing at the standee on the table for confirmation.
“Good, here ya go,” he said, placing a black tray on the table in front of me. “Would you like any sauces to go with your fries?”
“Oh! Umm… sure? Ketchup would be nice,” I agreed.
“Great! Uh.” He looked down at something odd on his wrist. “Just give me a moment.”
“What’s that?!” I asked, cautiously eyeing the technical and dangerous looking contraption.
“Oh, it’s my borg blaster!” He said, lifting his arm and grinning. “Except we have them set up as condiment dispensers, ‘cause of our theme. Y’know, ‘set phasers to mustard,’ that kinda thing.” He laughed at his own joke, but his laughter trailed off when he realized I wasn’t laughing with him. “Ahem. Ah, let me just… I really did have it set to mustard. Just, uh….”
He played around with a couple of dials on the side of the thing for a moment, and I was about ready to tell him not to worry about it when--
SPLORTCH
I bleated again as I was rocked back by the goopy impact of what had to be three ounces of mustard rocketing out of the thing on his wrist, splattering my chest and arms.
“Oh jeez, I’m so sorry!”
“Ack! My hoodie!” I complained, waving my hands about ineffectually, since the last thing I wanted to do was touch the yellow mush that was starting to drip down.
“Here, let me help!” My server said, reaching into the pockets on his circuit-patterned apron and pulling out some napkins. “Maybe we can—”
SPLOOSH
“Aaah!”
“I didn’t even-- I don’t know how it went off again!” He groaned, stepping back and raising his hands, even as I was faced by the added horror of a splatter of ketchup across the top of the already nasty mustard.
It was bad enough I was covered in gunk, and worse that I could feel the dampness trying to seep through the sweater to reach my yoga top and skin beneath, but both of our reactions to things had also drawn the attention of the other patrons, who were now watching us with a mixture of horrified and highly entertained expressions.
He started toward me with napkins again. “Maybe I can—”
“DON’T!” I screamed, hitting a note so high I’d swear I heard glass crack somewhere. “I mean… please, don’t,” I said more softly, noticing the hurt mixed with his obvious embarrassment.
How am I gonna get this off? I know guys get messy when they eat, but this is ridiculous.
“I… I’m gonna go get my manager,” the server said, not waiting for a response from me before heading back toward the counter, unstrapping the malfunctioning nightmare as he went.
I was sitting there, my hands away from my body, and still staring at my hoodie in horror and disgust, when I heard a soft, feminine sounding sigh.
“Oh, dear. Come with me, honey,” said the sigh-er, a dark-haired lady who I’d noticed sitting at one of the other tables. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“But… but my sweater,” I said meekly, letting the lady pull me to my feet.
“I know, but let’s get it off you first, and then see the damage.”
“O-okay?”
I said nothing as the lady led me back to the restrooms, which were unisex anyway, though that didn’t make me feel less awkward about her following me into one of them.
“Okay, hon, I’ll work on keeping your hair out of the way while you try and work your way out of the sweater.”
“But I’m not—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s just us girls,” she said, reaching out and stretching the neck of the sweater wide. “Just pull your arms in, and maybe I can pull it straight up.”
I gave up on arguing with her and did as I was told, immediately wrapping my arms around myself as the hoodie disappeared over my head and straight into the sink.
The lady let out a ‘tsk’ as she took some paper towels from the dispenser and started wiping the gunk off my sweater. “This is such a mess, but I don’t think it’s anything we can’t get cleaned up. With luck, your boyfriend will never know this happened.”
“It’s not my boyfriend’s sweater,” I said inanely, double-checking that the goop hadn’t actually seeped through to my yoga top and feeling relieved to note it hadn’t. “A friend of mine left it at my place.”
“Oh. Borrowed without permission?” She asked, chuckling when she saw my guilty look. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. A cute thing like you, I’m sure you get out of a lot of trouble with a bat of those eyelashes and a little pouting, don’t you?”
“I… I mean, I try not to,” I said lamely, wrapping my arms around myself again, as much to fight off the chill I felt as the embarrassment.
“But sometimes it helps?”
Unbidden, memories of a parking ticket I’d avoided only a few weeks earlier came to mind, and how the officer had told me he’d tear it up if I’d just promise not to cry. I’d almost managed it, too.
The lady wrapped me in a warm, welcome hug. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s just a sweater, and not a very attractive one at that.”
“Yeah, but….”
It’s my only manly sweater, I didn’t say out loud.
In fact, I wasn’t sure what else there was to say.
Thankfully, I was saved from the immediate need by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Gloria, I’m the manager on duty,” said a muffled woman’s voice from the other side of the door. “Can we talk face to face?”
My stall-mate – who I was embarrassed to realize I still didn’t know the name of – let go of me and walked over to the door, opening it to let in a tall strawberry-blonde woman wearing a black polo shirt.
“Thanks, I appreciate you – oh, gosh,” she said, looking at the mess of my hoodie in the sink. “Is it ruined?”
“Nah, it’s just some sauces, a good wash and it should be fine. I’m Sally by the way,” my rescuer said, offering her hand to the new lady.
“Gloria,” the manager repeated, shaking her hand, then looking over at me.
“Courtney,” I said, holding out a hand to her as well. Once we’d shaken hands, I offered it to Sally as well, who smiled warmly at me as she also shook it.
Gloria glanced at my hoodie again. “I’m very sorry about this. Justin’s a good kid, but you know how boys are around pretty girls.”
Sally nodded sagely, and I found myself nodding along too, if just to fit in.
“I can’t do anything about the sweater, but I can refund both of you for your meals,” Gloria said. “And offer you a gift card for your trouble.”
“I….” I started, but trailed off, unable to come up with a good response.
“That’s fine,” Sally said for us, once again wrapping me in a hug. “And I think that I can help with our little wardrobe issue.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Not a word! The entire reason I’m out today is I’m doing some late exchanges on gifts for some of my nieces and nephews. I’ve got a sweater out in my car that will just look so cute on you!”
“Cute?” I asked – maybe squeaked, as both women chuckled at my reaction.
“Absolutely adorable,” Sally assured me. “I’ll go get it now.”
“And I’ll go get your gift cards and refunds run through the system,” Gloria said, opening the door to the now rather cramped restroom. “And a bag for the hoodie,” she added as an afterthought.
“You just wait here ‘til I get back with that sweater,” Sally said, letting me go and following Gloria toward the door. “We’ll call it a late Christmas gift.”
“O-okay?” I tried to say, but the door was already closing behind both women.
I shook my head and shivered.
Not a very manly showing there, Courtney, I admonished myself. Not manly at all.
And I bet the sweater is pink, too.
###
4. Chocolate
The sweater was not, in fact, pink.
Rather, it was a beautiful powder blue, the kind you see at the edge of the softest clouds, and was made of a wonderfully fuzzy material that felt like angora but I was sure couldn’t be, because nobody would be silly enough to give a perfect stranger a gorgeous angora sweater.
It was a Lulu Cardellini, too – the design was last season’s, but it was still an impressive gift.
It was almost as big on me as the hoodie had been.
“My niece is a big girl,” Sally had explained when she’d given me the sweater. “And she thought the color made her look like a fuzzy whale.”
She was smiling when she said it, which was good, because I hadn’t been able to suppress my giggles at the unbidden image of a beluga whale wearing the same sweater.
I tried to offer her some money, but she’d waved it off. “It’s a gift! You don’t pay for gifts. And it looks better on you than that hoodie did anyway.”
I couldn’t argue with her on that. And it was warmer, too.
But it was awfully feminine.
The new sweater hung off my shoulder, just like the hoodie. It went past my fingertips, just like the hoodie. It had a shorter hem, though, that came in tighter, so rather than falling past my hips it caught just a bit on my pants, billowing out a bit but leaving just the hint of the flower pattern on the back pocket of my jeans visible if someone was looking at my ass.
I took the scrunchie out of my hair and shook the strands out, finger brushing them a bit, and the effect was even worse.
There was no getting around it: I looked adorable. Gloria’s own grin when she returned with bags for the hoodie and my meal, and a refund on my food, confirmed it.
I can still get that buzz cut, I assured myself as I walked out of the restaurant and back to my car, my list clutched tightly in my hand. I slid the bag with the hoodie in it into the floorboards on the passenger side, and my tote and food into the passenger seat itself, then looked at the list again.
“Step One: Eat a Manly Meal,” I read aloud, and couldn’t help the groan that slipped out. At least I could still eat the burger and fries later if I wanted, but for the moment my appetite was gone.
“I’m gonna count it anyway,” I decided, reaching into my tote for a pen. Instead, I came up with an eyeliner pencil, and shrugged and used it to mark through the words on my sheet. I hadn’t liked the color anyway.
“Step Two: Get a Manly Haircut.”
I turned on the car and, once it had finished its happy little start-up beeps, checked the time on the dash.
I still had an hour before my appointment at the salon, but it was about a twenty minute drive away, and I would bet money that Jaime would already be prepared for me.
“At least I can get this done,” I assured myself as I dropped the list and the eyeliner pencil back in my bag, clipped my seat belt, and headed out, trying my best not to think about just how nice and soft the sweater felt on me.
I was singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do” as I pulled into the parking lot behind Salón de Flores, being sure to take one of the spaces near the wooden fence and not the chain link one, just in case I still smelled enough like burger to attract the attention of the dog that lived at the garage next door. I grabbed my bag and, after a moment’s thought, my food, and headed toward the back door of the building.
I had barely started up the concrete steps when the door opened, a grinning Jaime giving me a once-over before stepping aside and waving me in.
“Ey, chica, don’t you look cute today! When you called and said it was a hair emergency I was worried you’d gone and done something silly at a party last night and damaged those gorgeous locks of yours, but this? Is it finally happening?”
“Hmm?” I asked intelligently, dropping my food on one of the nearby tables that made up the back area of the salon, and the entry up to Jaime’s apartment on the second floor. “Is what happening?”
“You know!” Jaime said, bouncing a bit and waving at me. “The jeans, the sweater. You going native?”
“Nnnnngh,” I groaned, trying not to pout as I did so. “No! I’m… okay, let’s sit down and I’ll explain.”
“Bien. Come on upstairs, and – do you have fries? -- I’ll eat your fries while you tell me all about it over coffee.”
“...fine.”
Jaime was his normal ebullient and flamboyant self as he led me up to his apartment, telling me all about the cute ballroom dancer he had been watching on MeTube lately.
“...and it’s just so great, guy or girl, he just looks so happy and so graceful and ooh, so tasty!” Jaime said, grabbing the bag of fast food from me and plucking a fry out of it. “Have you seen him?”
“I think maybe?” I admitted, blushing a little. If he was talking about the dancer I thought he was, I had indeed spent a good twenty minutes only a few nights before watching clips of his dancing on repeat, imagining myself being one of the girls he was whipping about the floor. “West coast swing, right? With the glasses?”
“Oh, the glasses! Yes!” Jaime crowed. “You know, I’ve been trying to get Nacho to buy a pair like them, but he just won’t go for it.”
“I didn’t think Nacho wore glasses?” I asked, picturing Jaime’s boyfriend in my mind. Tall, broad, a bit gooby… but nope, no glasses.
“I mean, he doesn’t, but you have to admit, they’d look good on him.”
I shrugged and nodded at the same time. Nacho in a pair of glasses would have a little bit of a Christopher Reeves Clark Kent vibe, minus the suit. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure Nacho could read… but then again, Jaime had always preferred his man-candy on the dimmer side for some reason.
Sweet guy, though.
“Anyway, enough about me for the moment,” Jaime said, hopping up on one of the stools at a little mahogany bar and patting the other one. “What has you out and looking shabby-cute if not finally giving in to your pink side?”
I climbed up on the stool and plopped my elbows on the bar, pushing my hair back from my face as I groaned. “I wasn’t trying to look cute! It just sorta... happened.”
“On accident?”
“By twist of fate.”
“As it does,” Jaime agreed, not sounding entirely genuine in his agreement.
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Jay-jay, you know I’m not… I can’t… you know I’m a guy.”
Jaime rolled his eyes back at me. “Says the girl wearing a Lulu Cardellini sweater and Erica Delgado boots.”
“They’re not Erica Delgados,” I objected, and it was the truth – they were knockoffs I’d gotten for a third the price. “And if it weren’t for getting shot with a mustard gun I wouldn’t be wearing the sweater either.”
“You’ll have to explain that one to me,” Jaime said, snorting around another fry.
So I did. I told him the whole sad story, from being mistaken as a girl at the New Year’s party--
“Even though you were wearing wing-tips?!”
“I know!”
--to making my Be A Man Plan--
“Is that eyeliner pencil?”
“I couldn’t find a regular one in my bag.”
“Uh huh.”
--to the mustard incident at the restaurant.
“And they all thought you were—”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t try to—”
“Nope.”
“And the lady gave you—”
“Yep.”
“...Wow.”
I nodded. “So you see why I needed the emergency hair appointment today.”
“Si. Because a sweater that gorgeous deserves better than those split ends. You shoulda been in two weeks ago.”
“Jay-jay!”
“What?!”
I gave a frustrated growl as I stood up, pulling on my hair. “No! I need it cut off!”
Jaime gasped. “Ohmigod! Why would you do that!”
“Because,” I said, glaring at him, “I need to do it so I can be a guy!”
Jaime’s shocked expression gave way to a confused one. “You think a haircut will make you look like a guy?”
“Of course it… I am a guy!” I said again, stomping my foot and fighting back tears of frustration.
“Okay, okay! You’re a guy!” Jaime agreed, walking over and giving me a much-needed hug. “It’s alright, honey.”
I sniffled a bit, but didn’t dare wipe my nose with the sweater, grabbing a napkin off the bar instead. “I… sniff… I just….”
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Jaime said, leading me away from the bar and over to a big, overstuffed couch on the other side of the room. “If you say you’re a guy, you’re a guy.”
I snorted at that. “I don’t say I’m a guy, I… ugh.” I shook my head, watching Jaime walk back across the room to the bar, then behind it to a little refrigerator. “It’s too early for alcohol, Jay-jay.”
“No alcohol,” he said with a chuckle. “Chocolate milk.”
“Chocolate milk?”
“And brownies.”
“Brownies?”
He was smiling as he came back to the couch and handed me a small class of milk and another napkin, this one with a two-inch square brownie on it. “Best fix in the world for a bad day.”
I looked at the brownie, then down at my sweater. “But what about—”
Even before the words were out of my mouth Jaime had another napkin for me, already spread to cover the sweater.
“Umm… thanks.”
“All part of the job,” Jaime said with an exaggerated wave, as he sat down in a recliner across from me and crossed his legs. “Now, eat your brownie and then we’ll talk.”
I did as I was told, even as I wondered just how a simple haircut could have gotten so off the rails.
The brownie was amazing, with big chunks of gooey fudge and just a little sea salt sprinkled on top, and the chocolate milk was to die for as well. Maybe chocolate really was what I’d been needing, because my eyes were dry by the time I was picking the last of the crumbs out of my napkin, not losing a single morsel to the safety net on my sweater.
“Finished?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling a blush rising in my cheeks. “Sorry.”
Jaime made a noise like a very gay balloon deflating and waved my apology off. “Hey, like I said, all part of the job.”
I smiled at him. “Well, I appreciate it anyway.”
He smiled back. “There’s my Courtney,” he said, rocking happily. “Now… can I ask you some questions?”
“Umm… sure?”
Jaime nodded. “Good. First off… do you really want to chop all your hair off?”
I grimaced, but didn’t answer.
He nodded again. “That’s what I thought.”
“But I need to,” I said, wringing my growing collection of napkins in my hands.
“To look more like a guy.”
“Yes!” I agreed, happy he finally understood.
Jaime sighed. “Sweetie….” He closed his eyes for a moment, then stood up. “Come with me, would you?”
“Hmm?”
“Just… come on. Vamanos.”
I obediently followed him back out the door, down the stairs, and through the back room into the salon proper, letting myself take a moment as we entered to enjoy the smells in the room. I’d answered phones for Jaime before getting the job at Hamilton, and I sure missed the place sometimes.
Once I was re-centered Jaime led me over to one of the big mirrors and turned on the lights, giving me a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before pulling me right up until I was pressed against the counter.
“Tell me, Courtney… what do you see?” He asked me.
We were both looking at my reflection, his eyes staring into my own through the mirror.
“I see us.”
“Yeeeessss,” he agreed, a little irritated. “And?”
I sighed. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”
“Yes you do,” he said, taking my face in his hands and keeping it facing the mirror. “Look at yourself, and tell me… what do you see?”
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment, and really Looked.
“Blond hair,” I said. “A bit past shoulder length. Fair complexion. Blue eyes. A beaky-ass nose, and over-plucked eyebrows.”
“A bit,” he agreed. “Shoulda come here and let me wax them.”
I didn’t say anything to that, but went back to looking. “I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Jaime nodded. “That’s okay. You’ve answered me. Now, can I tell you what I see?”
I nodded, more than a little nervously.
Jamie smiled at me reassuringly. “What I see… is my amiga Courtney. The one who let me spend eight months sleeping on their couch after my parents evicted me when I came out to them.”
“I mean—”
“The one who dragged me to see every one of the Hunger Games movies with them when we were in middle school and junior high, because they thought Katniss was just the coolest.”
“She is!”
“The one who helped me write a love poem for my first boyfriend, because you had a crush on him too.”
“I mean, everyone had a crush on Taylor. He was—”
“Nah!” Jaime said, covering my mouth with his hand. “The one who tried, as hard as they could, to be the man their dad always wanted them to be.”
He didn’t move his hand from my mouth, but I nodded at that.
“The one who cried when they got secret admirer flowers in junior year.”
I nodded again. I still didn’t know who’d sent those to me, but I had one of the roses pressed in my yearbook.
I’d had to sneak the bouquet into the house, and keep it in my closet.
Jaime removed his hand, but I still remained silent as he stared into my eyes in the mirror, intensely.
“If you say you are a guy, then you are a guy,” he said. “But I think I know what you mean when you say ‘guy,’ and I do not think it means what you think it means.”
“Inconceivable,” I tossed back, and we both grinned.
Jaime’s grin slipped as he started playing with my hair. “You said upstairs that you wanted to get all your hair chopped off.”
I gulped.
Jaime nodded. “No. I am not going to do that.”
“Jay-jay….”
“No!” Jaime said forcefully. “And not because I don’t want to. But because that is not really what you want. You feel like you must, but you do not want it.”
I said nothing.
“So, here’s what we are going to do,” he said, still playing with my hair, pulling it back, parting it, and holding it up in various ways. “You are going to take off that sweater, and I am going to trim your dead ends.”
“...Okay?”
“And when you get home you are going to throw away whatever shampoo you used to wash with, because it is de perros.”
I blushed. “I was trying to—”
“I know what you were trying to do,” he said, cutting me off. “And don’t. You like smelling pretty, so smell pretty. You like looking good, so look good.”
“But—”
“No buts! Or I stop styling your hair!”
I gasped at that. I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing my hair.
“Now, go to the back and take off your sweater, and put on a cape, and we can get started.”
“Maybe just a little off—”
“Vamanos!”
I vamanos’d.
###
Notes:
That's 3 and 4! There are only two chapters left of Courtney's story, and if you can't wait to check them out, then they're already available to read on the BCTS Patreon, free to check out!
All comments and kudos are appreciated!
After a less-than-stellar time at their employer's New Year's party, Courtney returns home with a new drive to prove to the world just how much of a man she -- err, he -- truly is.
If only they can avoid the temptations of cute clothes, cute shoes, cute... boys? And other trials.
###
5. Play Ball
I glanced at myself in the rear-view mirror for no more than the seventy-third time since leaving Jaime’s place, not sure whether to feel elated or appalled at the results.
Jaime was a genius when it came to hair, even when all he was doing was a trim and clean-up. He had insisted on doing a bit more than that, of course… but not a lot.
What I left with was a hair trim that kept my style more or less what it had been for the last several years, perhaps a bit long and well-manicured for a guy, but nothing exceedingly feminine either if I didn’t take the time to give it some style.
No, the hair hadn’t done much to change my appearance one way or the other.
The makeup had, though.
It wasn’t a lot – not much more than I ever wore, really. Just a bit of foundation….
And a touch, just a touch, of eyeliner, to help them pop.
And some eyebrow pencil, because he wasn’t any happier with how aggressively I’d plucked than I was.
And of course, it being cold out, he’d insisted we do some kind of gloss to keep my lips safe.
And if we were going to be there hanging out he wanted my opinion on a new nail polish he was thinking about stocking in the shop. Nothing crazy, but they had a blue that matched my sweater almost perfectly….
“Blue is a manly color,” I told myself unconvincingly, even as my shiny pastel blue nails glinted in the California winter sun.
If I were being honest with myself, being more prettied up did have me feeling better, but it also had me feeling nervous.
Was it the first time I’d ever been out of the house fully en femme? No, of course not. Heck, you could argue that’s how I usually left, given the massacre I’d done to my male wardrobe. I’d done plenty of my grocery shopping or clothes shopping girl-ed up, and even gone to a few clubs, with and without some of my girlfriends and guy friends to back me up.
But my manly day wasn’t the day to do that, was it?
I double-checked my GPS, just to make sure I was still on track for my next destination.
Step Two: Get a Manly Haircut had been an even worse failure than my Manly Meal had been, though I couldn’t blame Jaime for that. He was right: I hadn’t really wanted to do it, and I was pretty sure that if we had I’da spent the next two hours crying on his couch rather than trying out different nail polishes and eating Too Many Brownies.
And I did like how I looked. A lot.
But….
“Stay in the right two lanes, and take the next exit,” the GPS told me, and I dutifully obeyed it, since there was no way I’d be able to find my destination otherwise.
Well, the meal and the haircut might not have gone how they were supposed to, but I still had a chance to salvage the last part of my Be A Man Plan: the sports thing. According to my research that morning all I had to do was show up, and the game was free to watch, since they didn’t expect a lot of people to be there. Donations were being taken, but it was mostly just a way for the college’s baseball team and some of the alumni to have a bit of fun in the off-season.
Thankfully I’d eaten half my burger while at Jaime’s, with the cape on to boot, so I didn’t think I’d feel too tempted by any of the concession stand foods. Good thing, too – I didn’t want to risk a second mustard incident in one day.
After a few roundabout turns and one accidental veer down a side street I finally pulled into the parking lot near the college’s baseball field. It was less than a third full, so I felt pretty confident I was correct in my assumption it would be a quiet game, though even from outside the fence I could hear the sound of the bat cracking as it hit a ball, and the muffled rumble of the announcer’s voice.
I checked in at the entrance with no issues, and gave a five dollar donation when asked, just to not feel rude, then headed toward the stands.
The field was nothing fancy, and the audience seating was almost completely empty…
Almost.
“Is that? Hey! Hey, Courtney!”
I winced as I turned, tracking the voice I heard along the seats, back to a smiling elf, waving at me excitedly.
“Courtney! Over here!”
I considered pretending she had the wrong person, but decided against it, and walked over. She patted the bench next to her, and I sat down, making sure I didn’t sit on the edge of my sweater.
“Wow! I didn’t expect to see you here! Oh, you look cute!”
“Ah, hey Darla. Same?” It was true – she was wearing a letterman’s jacket that was about four times too big for her, and a pair of black yoga pants, with her dark hair tied back in a bun. She looked like the perfect Girlfriend At The Game. I laughed a bit nervously. “I, umm… what are you doing here?”
Darla giggled. “I’m here to watch Tony play!”
“Tony?” I blanched. Darla was my boss’s daughter, and Tony was his son… the same son who had asked me to dance the night before. “T-t-tony’s playing in this game?”
“Of course! Dad had business to attend to today or he’d be here, too, playing on the alumni side. You didn’t know?”
“No, no I didn’t,” I said, feeling even more nervous as I thought about what I was wearing. “Umm….”
“That sweater is amazing! Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift?” I said. “I don’t normally dress like this,” I added lamely, not sure where to go with it.
“I know, I’ve seen you at work. Sometimes I’d swear you were trying to look like a guy!”
“Ah, heheh, yeah?”
“Like last night at the New Year’s party, those shoes! I told Tony that you probably wouldn’t dance with him because you must be a lesbian wearing shoes like that – are you?”
“What? I mean, no?” The conversation wasn’t going anywhere like what I thought it would. “You don’t think I look like a guy?”
Darla laughed at that. “Come on. I don’t think you could pass as a guy if you grew a three foot beard and started weight lifting.”
“Eww.”
“Right?” Darla giggled again. “So, if you’re not a lesbian, and you didn’t know Tony would be here, does that mean you’re here to watch your boyfriend play?”
“I-- I mean, I don’t have-- I’m not.” I sighed, and decided to just let it go. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend either,” I said, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation.
“Tony’ll be happy to hear that,” Darla said ominously. “Oh, look, the first inning’s about to start!”
Thankful for the distraction, I turned my attention to the game, watching as the players headed out to the field. Sure enough, I recognized Tony walking toward the base at the back.
“So Tony plays… back base?” I hazarded.
“Second base,” Darla corrected me.
“Oh.”
Once the college kids were in place I watched an older gentleman walk up to the base nearest us, a bat in hand.
“That’s D.W. Walker, he’s one of Dad’s friends. Owns the fig farms out near the highway. Him and Dad took the college all the way to the championships back when they were on the team.”
“That’s nice,” I said, watching the pitcher wind up and toss a ball. It looked like it went right across the plate, but the guy at bat just stood there. “Why didn’t he swing?”
“Too far in,” Darla said, her eyes never leaving the field.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Another throw, and this time a crack as the bat made contact with the ball, sending it flying to the left.
“He hit it! But why isn’t he running?”
“Foul ball. See how it’s outside the lines?” Darla shook her head. “You don’t know much about baseball, do you?”
“Umm… no. Not really.”
Darla giggled again and slid over on the bench. “Here, let me help you.”
I felt lost as Darla started explaining to me what the positions were, and how they worked, and how batters had to judge pitchers, and more.
“So Tony just stands there and waits for someone else to throw the ball to him?”
“Sorta. Tony’s real strength is as a batter, but he’s got a good arm, and a good eye. Not enough to get the ball in from the fence, but good enough for where he’s at.”
I nodded, pretending like I understood what any of that meant.
When the teams changed positions she tried to explain more. “See, Tony comes up fourth in batting. He tends to get big hits, so this way he can clear the bases if there are runners on the field. Home runs.”
“So the best batters don’t go first?”
“It depends on what the team is trying to do. Getting on base is one thing, but getting back to home is a whole other story.”
“Oh. And Tony does that?”
“As often as he can.”
The first batter for the college got what Darla called a grounder, barely making it to the first base before the ball did, and the second batter struck out. The team’s third batter gave Darla a wink before he stepped up to the plate, and pegged the ball out into the green on the left side of the field, giving him time to make it to first, and the guy on the first base to second. Once there, he looked at Darla and gave her a big wave.
“Someone you know?” I asked her, smiling at the blush on her cheeks.
“Yeah, Eddie. He’s a friend of mine and Tony’s.”
“Just a friend?” I asked teasingly.
“Oh, would you look at that? Tony’s coming out. HEY TONY!!” Darla yelled, pointedly ignoring me.
Tony turned to look at us, grinning when he saw Darla… and grinning even wider when he spotted me. Just like Eddie had done, he gave us a wink before stepping up to bat.
“Why is he on the other side of the base?”
“The plate. And Tony’s a lefty, it’s part of what makes him a useful batter.”
We watched as the pitcher shifted positions, sizing Tony up.
He reared back, lifting his front foot, then launched the ball down the line.
Whiff
“Strike one!”
Tony shook his head and stepped back, swinging the bat a couple of times before stepping back into the box next to the base… err, plate.
Once again the pitcher reared back, lifting his foot, before bringing it down and almost touching the ground with his fingertips as he catapulted the ball at the plate.
C-RACK!
I jumped a bit at the volume as the bat made contact with the ball, sending it flying almost right over the pitcher’s head, straight out to the fence.
Tony took off like a rocket, and so did the other guys on base, racing around the bases and in to home, Tony making it right before the ball made it back, sliding in with a plume of dust.
“SAFE!”
Darla grabbed my hand and jumped up, screaming in excitement, and I couldn’t help but join in, glad for her brother and what he had apparently done.
There was a brief discussion on the field, then Tony came over and looked through the fence at us.
“Hey sis. And is that you, Courtney?”
“Sure is!” Darla answered for me. “She’s here all alone, so I’m explaining the game to her.”
“Alone?”
“Yep.”
“Great. I mean, umm.” Tony grinned, just a little goofily. “You look nice.”
I blushed.
“Tony! Back on the bench!”
Tony waved to us before running back over to the bunker, getting a few high-fives from his teammates before sitting down again.
Darla bumped me with her shoulder. “Toldja he’d be happy.”
All I could do was blush even more.
At the end of the inning the score was 4-2, in the college kids’ favor, with Darla assuring me that the only reason the alumni were doing so well was that they had a few minor league-ers on their side.
I half-watched the game and half-chatted with Darla, both of us enjoying the way the sun helped fight the January chill. We’d both go quiet any time Tony or Eddie went to bat, and cheer when they got a hit and pout when they didn’t. I wanted to tease Darla about her obvious (reciprocated) crush… but I also didn’t want to draw any more teasing about her brother than I was already getting.
Was going to a baseball game still manly when one of the players kept flirting with you between innings? I wasn’t sure if it was.
It seemed like the game went on forever before Darla told me it was the last inning, and after one more big hit from Tony the game wrapped with a final score of 16-9, the college kids winning the day. This seemed to be the expected outcome, but everyone in the stands made sure to congratulate all the players, student and alumi alike, as they came off the field.
Once again Darla kept hold of my hand, not letting me disappear like I wanted to.
Not until Tony got to us.
“Hey girls,” he said, wiping dust off his uniform with a towel. “Courtney, was nice to see you up there. I didn’t know you were a baseball fan.”
“Umm, yeah,” I agreed, wincing a bit when Darla squeezed my hand and trying to ignore the sniggers coming from where she stood. “I’ve been to every game this year.”
Tony thought about that for half a second, then chuckled. “Heh. Good one! Well, let me know next time you’re coming, I’ll lend you my jacket so you can stay warmer.”
“The one Darla’s wearing?”
“Hmm? No, that’s Eddie’s,” he said, grinning.
So much for just friends, I thought, not unkindly.
I shook my head. “I couldn’t do that. That’s the kinda thing you do for a girlfriend.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Tony said, cocking his head and grinning at me. “Well?”
“I… I….” I stammered. “I don’t….”
Tony’s grin grew wider. “Not sure about being my girlfriend?”
I tried to say something else, but just shook my head.
“Tell ya what, then. Got anything I can write on?”
“Here ya go,” Darla said, handing him a slip of paper and the eyeliner pencil from my bag.
He was still smiling as he wrote his number on the piece of paper, then tore part of it off. “What’s your number?” He asked me, and I guess I answered, because he started writing something on the other scrap. “A’ight, I’ll call you later tonight, if you don’t call me first, and we can set up a trial date. Sound good?”
“Trial date?”
“Nothing serious, just dinner and a movie or something. You like movies?”
“Yeah?”
“Good.” He pressed the piece of paper with his number on it into my free hand, then gave me an unexpected hug, filling my nose with the scent of his exercise-enfused uniform, then did the same to his sister. “I gotta run, I’d invite you to the after-game festivities but it’s gonna be a bit of a bore.”
“No prob, bro,” Darla said for us, lifting our still-joined hands to wave him off.
I watched Tony’s back as he walked away, trying to figure out just what had happened.
“You’ve got a date!” Darla squealed, answering my unasked question. “Isn’t that great?!”
All I could do was gulp in answer.
###
6. Homebody
“Blegh,” I grumbled as I once again collapsed on my couch.
My man-day be damned, I’d stopped by a supermarket on my way home for a quart of brownie fudge chunk ice cream, and as soon as I’d walked in the door I’d headed to my bedroom to strip out of the jeans, boots, and still absolutely gorgeous sweater, and into a pair of my comfort jammies – flannel, in a lilac with a kitten print on them – and my bunny slippers.
That done, I’d grabbed my ice cream and a big spoon and gotten ready for a good sulk.
So much for getting a head start on being more manly, I moped, using the remote to scan through movies and TV shows on my streaming box. Needing something comforting and not too heavy, I settled on Friendship is Magic and dropped the remote back on the coffee table.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch with my ice cream in my lap, I watched my cartoon, and thought about my Be A Man Plan.
Step 1: Eat a Manly Meal. I’d had half the burger in between painting my nails and getting my makeup done. Not exactly what I’d intended.
Step 2: Get a Manly Haircut. My split ends were gone, but I’d left my scrunchie at Jaime’s, and whatever dry shampoo he’d put in still smelled like strawberries.
Step 3: Do a Manly Activity. I’d gone to a baseball game, only to have my boss’s daughter have to explain what was going on to me, while her brother kept hitting on me.
I glanced down at my hand, still tightly clutching the now very rumpled slip of paper with my plan on it. I turned the paper over, and there was Tony’s number: he’d torn off the blank part of the paper to write mine on.
I harrumphed a bit and ate a giant spoonful of ice cream. Maybe a brain freeze would help to knock some brain cells loose so I could make some sense of the whole situation.
Should I call him?
I shook my head. Of course not. He thinks I’m a girl, and I’m not.
...He is cute, though.
I shook my head again. Cute didn’t matter: I wasn’t a girl.
So… no. No phone call to Tony, no matter how cute he was.
Besides, he’s the bosses son. There’s gotta be something wrong with that too.
Wallowing in my sorrows, I watched my cartoon some more. At least I could always rely on Pinkie Pie to brighten my day.
Maybe I should call him, and let him know I’m a guy?
I didn’t like that idea either.
Work is gonna be so awkward on Monday.
I whimpered a little at that, and took another big spoon of my ice cream.
I was half-way through my third episode – and about two-thirds of the way through my ice cream – when my phone toodled at me, letting me know I had a message.
It was Tony:
“Hey! Was great seeing you at the game today! I told Dad you were there, and he asked if I finally asked you out LOL.”
He what?
My phone blooped again.
“What you doing Saturday? Want to see a movie?”
….
I can’t.
I shouldn’t.
I won’t.
….
“OK,” I typed in, then sent the message before I second guessed it.
Almost immediately there was another bloop.
“Great! Meet @ the factory 4 ish?”
“OK,” I typed again, this time followed by a smiling emoji.
He sent another smiling emoji back.
I sighed, and took another bite of ice cream.
So much for being more manly. Instead of proving I could do it, I’d gotten some amazing new clothes, and a makeover, and scored a date with a hunky college guy.
Could I have screwed the day up any worse?
As if in answer, my phone blooped again. This time, it was a message from my boss:
“Heard from Tony U agreed to date. Be good 2 him. Also, Darla showed me pix of U at game. Nice 2 see U dressed pretty. Wear 2 work Monday? Roy”
Why does he always sign his texts?
I looked at the message.
I looked at my plan.
I looked at the TV.
I looked at my ice cream.
With another sigh I turned my phone off and settled down into cartoons.
Saturday was still five days away.
Still plenty of time to try and put my Be A Man Plan into action before then, right?
I thought about it.
It didn’t work out today, but maybe I just chose the wrong things. And my outfit didn’t help either.
Yes. First thing tomorrow I go shopping for Manly Clothes! That’ll help! I smiled to myself and took another bite of ice cream, this one in victory.
Sicario’s has a big men’s section. And while I’m there I can check out that shoe sale they’ve got going on. So long as I don’t buy any… I mean, it’s not un-manly just to look, is it?
I assured myself it wasn’t, and smiled again, proud of myself for not giving up.
Though maybe I will pick up a new outfit for Saturday. Just in case.
Yeah.
Other than that, nothing but manly things.
And some stockings.
###
NOTES:
Here they are, the last two chapters of "False Start!" I sincerely hope y'all had as much fun reading it as I had writing it!
I don't have anything else currently sitting in the tank, so unless I get off on a big writing kick this might be the last piece y'all see form me for a little bit. But don't fear! There's tons of great stuff to read from other authors, both here on the site and even over on the BCTS Patreon! Right now we have two serials going up regularly, one by SammyC and the other by Melanie Brown, and guess what? They're free to read for anyone who checks it out (though if you *do* want to drop a dime or two on the site, you can.)
Thanks again for sticking with me through this story, and as always, kudos and comments are incredibly appreciated.
Melanie E.