Love Is Proud Page 17

  “Yes, yes,” Craig says. “I will be right down.”

  Craig grabs his robe from the small table and doesn’t bother to put on anything else other than his pyjama pants. Most of the people in their small building ignore Craig by now. He’s always quiet when he walks in the hallway, usually trying to figure out a thesis statement or a line in a poem for Darren, so he always looks busy to everyone else.

  As Craig steps into the elevator this time around, his mind is clear.

  “Hello, good morning, sir.” The man in a brown UPS uniform smiles. “Sign here.”

  Craig does so in a quick motion. He hides his eyes, hoping the UPS man doesn’t really pay too much attention to the box and where it’s from. The customs paper says something like GARMENT across it, which is so delightfully vague that Craig doesn’t have to worry.

  “Have a good day,” the UPS man says. He buzzes another apartment on the fifth floor. Craig moves back into the elevator again, his brown package held tightly to himself, his blood pumping.

  As soon as Craig’s in the apartment, he moves into the bedroom. The next steps fall in line to form a ritual he’s practiced since he was twelve years old. He sits on the bed and holds the red panties in his hands. He rubs his thumbs around the outside edge, feeling the fabric, then he holds them over his body like a shroud. When he was a kid, he had to work up to the idea of dressing in women’s clothing. He sat in his sister’s closet for months and admired the garments like they were the best TV show until she kicked him out. When he started to wear women’s clothing, he stole them from the lost and found at school, and he had to hold them over his body, over the outfit he currently wore, and imagine himself slowly being transformed. Only then could he get naked and slip on the clothing for himself.

  Today, the garment is a thong, something Craig has not worn yet. He eyes the small triangle at the front of the panties and smirks. He knows it will not hold all of him—but that’s half the battle and half the fun. He will never fit in the clothing he buys, and he likes the discord between his body and the items. He knows he’s not a woman; he went through that crisis when he was sixteen and realized some people could become women, go on hormones, and live their lives in the clothing Craig tried to keep in a closet. He considered transition for a long, long time after that discovery. Craig doesn’t want to transition, not because he’s afraid or ashamed of being trans, but because he likes his body, he likes the clothing, and when put together, the unfamiliar landscape he’s presented with matches what is inside. The dissonance is his identity, more than being a woman or a man entirely is.

  And he’s okay with that. More than okay.

  So why haven’t I told Darren yet?

  Craig pushes the thought away as he moves into the bathroom. He stands naked in front of the mirror and takes a second to admire himself. Cross dressing, or whatever he wants to call it, also isn’t sexual. Sure, as he slips the underwear over his hairy shins, he starts to grow hard. But that’s not from the underwear—it’s from the confidence he gets from the underwear. Craig presses the small fabric into his skin and over his cock. Soon, as he continues to touch and arrange himself, his erection grows to full size. He looks inside the large bathroom mirror, taking a few steps back so he can see all of himself. His sandy coloured hair and his green eyes glow as he eyes his body up and down. He swallows hard, relishing the attention—and loving each and every moment of this.

  When Craig walks out of the bathroom, he is only wearing the underwear.

  The afternoon sun tickles his skin. He wishes, only for a moment, that Darren could see. When Craig decided to stop worrying about transition itself, but still keep his clothing indulgence, he’d met Darren right after. He’d warned all of his other boyfriends up until this point that he was considering transition, but still wasn’t sure, and that idea had sent most of them running. So when Darren ended up in Craig’s hotel room, he’d decided to forgo the talk. He wasn’t transitioning anymore, and only dressing in women’s clothing. And he hadn’t even packed anything suspicious for that trip (women’s jeans were easily written off as an accidental purchase from a thrift store, along with women’s T-shirts), so why bother messing up a good thing?

  As the two of them fell in love, though, it seemed easier to just ignore that missing conversation. Isn’t half the fun of crossing dress it being a secret? Craig tells himself that now, but it falls flat. Secrets are shame. Even Melville knew that. And he was as repressed as they came.

  Craig replays the last six months of their cohabitation, watching the door like a hawk for the mail, so he wouldn’t have to confess any of this. All for what? His dissertation is becoming more about his cross-dressing and less about actual scholarship. I also look so good and Darren won’t ever see. Craig sighs. As much as he likes having his body and his rituals to himself, he also relishes Darren’s attention, care, and everything else about him. Would Darren still hold him the same way? Fuck him in the same way? Craig doesn’t want to be treated like a woman in bed, and yet, even now Darren knows not to treat him quite like a man either. There’s more nuance. Darren’s hands are often rough but guiding, firm but caring, and when the two fuck, there is never any consistency aside from orgasms. Darren’s lovemaking embodies the same dissonance that Craig craves in his body—so why bother ruining that balance with another secret that could make it all go south?

  As Craig walks back into the kitchen, he hums under his breath. For now, this is the best decision he can make. He’s about to get another cup of coffee and maybe write a few thousand words about the historical background of whaling, and why Melville was obsessed with it, when he notices the coffee pot is away from the mix. His mug is also in the sink. It’s then and only then Craig realizes Darren is in the next room, sitting in the chair in front of their TV.

  Craig almost faints. His face turns as red as the lace underwear and he cannot move from his spot. Darren eyes Craig up and down, wordlessly. Just when Craig thinks he’s going to pass out, Darren speaks.

  “Well, well, well. This isn’t something I usually get to see.”

  Craig bites his lip as he tries to cover some of his exposed parts. “Darren—I can—”

  “No need to explain, sweetheart. I think I understand what’s going on.”

  “I’m not—not a woman. I’m not trans. Not like—”

  “I know.” Darren stands up and takes a cautious step into the kitchen. “You’re Craig. And you look good.”

  “I do?”

  “Oh yeah,” Darren says. The low southern drawl makes Craig’s knees quiver. And when Darren smiles, Craig knows everything is going to be okay. It’s the same smile that caused them both to realize this wasn’t a fling, but the start of something much more intense. Something that seems like love more and more each day.

  When Craig places a hand on Darren’s waist, Darren does the same. His rough palm against the soft fabric of the panties makes them both croon.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I just wish you had told me sooner.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you would understand. So many people don’t—”

  “Husha now.” Darren slips his finger over Craig’s mouth. “I know not a lot of people understand. But Craig, it’s me you’re talkin’ about. And you should know, by now, when I get an idea in my head, I sometimes can’t be helped.”

  Craig tilts his head, unsure of Darren’s meaning—until the buzzer sounds for the apartment. Craig spots a different UPS van in the parking lot from their high-up window; his brows knit suspiciously as Darren continues to grin mischievously.

  “Surprise,” Darren says with a wink. “I may have gotten you something I think you’d look good in. I have to say, I believe red’s your color.”

  Craig’s so excited he loses all sense of language. He’s about to run and get the new package, when Darren reaches out his hand.

  “Better let me, sugar. The neighbours are already talkin’ so let’s not give them a show.”

  Craig laughs, almost forgetting tha
t he was near-naked in his thong. Darren presses his lips to Craig in a tight, fierce kiss before he leaves to collect the package. Something brand new—something that Craig is sure he’ll look good in, no matter what.

  Craig waits in the kitchen again for Darren to return, his eyes forever fixed on the door.

  * * * *

  ABOUT FRANCIS GIDEON

  Francis Gideon is a writer of m/m romance, but has also dabbled in mystery, historical, fantasy, sci-fi, and paranormal fiction. For more information, visit francisgideon.wordpress.com.

  It Takes a Cake by Lisa Gray

  “Unicorns! Bunches of unicorns!”

  Constance Cohen, or “Coco” as she’d always been known, mentally winced at the idea of “bunches of unicorns” on a wedding cake. But unusual requests aside, she couldn’t help but smile as she watched the pair of giddy young men beaming at her. She motioned to them to have a seat at the cherry wood writing desk she used for client conferences in her bakery, Coco’s Cakes and Cookies. After tugging the guest chairs closer together, the two men introduced themselves collectively as Chaz and George—they didn’t specify which one was which.

  The blond man chirped, “We’ve got to have unicorns. And roses. Pink ones. And maybe hearts.” He closed his brilliant blue eyes, leaned against his dark-haired partner, and exhaled a deep, dreamy sigh. From his blissful expression, Coco just knew he was envisioning a herd of white unicorns with heart-shaped beads braided in their manes, frolicking in a rose garden.

  “But we want the cake to look masculine. You know, not too frilly,” added the partner.

  Blue-Eyes sat up and elbowed his more serious fiancé’s ribs. “Oh, definitely. I’m the only thing that gets to be frilly at our wedding.”

  Once the giggling quieted and quick kisses were exchanged, they turned to Coco, their faces eager with hope, and said in unison, “Can you help us?” The next minute passed in hugs and laughter again at their unintended duet.

  The serious half of the couple continued, “You see, we need someone who’ll really listen to our ideas for our wedding cake.” Leaning toward Coco, he whispered, “We tried elsewhere, but I don’t think they liked us.”

  Blue-Eyes snorted. “What’s not to like? We’re charming!”

  More kisses.

  Coco had to admit, they were a cute couple. A little bit naive, more than a little annoying, but hard to resist. As she gazed tolerantly at the lovers, a small needle of envy pricked her. Seeing couples so much in love planning their weddings was an unavoidable reminder she had no one for herself. But that had been her choice—she’d committed to making it on her own as a cake designer and baker. And if that meant long hours and nights spent taking art classes and business seminars instead of partying at clubs, well, that was the price to be paid. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  Finally the serious one—she decided he must be George—regained his composure and got to the point. “The problem is, we’re running out of time. We tried too many bakers who just couldn’t understand us.”

  A warning sounded in her head. Crossing her fingers underneath the desk, she asked, “Just how many other bakers have you met with?”

  George squirmed in his chair, and a sheepish look appeared on his face. “Well, you’re the sixth.”

  Oh, that wasn’t a good sign.

  “No one seems able to give us what we want, and it’s so important. Chaz and I are on the city council, you see, so the mayor, the chief of police, and the other big shots are coming to the wedding. It’s turning into a media event to show off just how diverse our city is. Not that we mind being used like that—we’re more than willing to share our joy. But since there’ll be a camera crew there, everything has to be perfect.”

  Coco’s eyes widened. Camera crew? Her cake on the six o’clock news? This could be a break for her. Visions of clients throwing cash like wedding rice danced in her head. But what about the other five bakers who’d failed to come up with a design these guys liked? Were George and Chaz just phenomenally unlucky, or was there something they weren’t saying?

  Before she could pursue the question, George spoke again. “There’s just one problem though—we need the cake Saturday. I know it’s dreadfully short notice, but can you do it?”

  Less than two days! Her shoulders drooped. Design, bake, and deliver a masculine-looking unicorns-and-roses-covered cake by Saturday? It would take a miracle. Drawing in a breath to decline the job, she hesitated as images of unpaid bills, nervous creditors, and, worst of all, that smug I-told-you-so look on her mother’s face paraded through her mind. Damn. This might be her last and best chance to hang on to her bakery. So how hard could a little miracle be? She pasted on what she hoped was a confident, reassuring smile. “Of course I can do it.”

  Her new clients cheered.

  Buoyed by their faith in her, she straightened, pulled two order forms from the drawer, and handed one to each of them. “Here—fill out as much information as you can for me. Especially your theme—if you have one—and color scheme, number of guests, and the best description of what you are imagining the cake will look like. Meanwhile, I have some samples frozen for you to taste so you can pick your favorite flavor.”

  Leaving them to their work, she went to the kitchen and arranged the cake samples on two silver plates to defrost. Suddenly the temerity of what she’d dared promise hit her. Pressing her palms and forehead against the cool, smooth steel of the freezer, she fought not to hyperventilate. What the hell was she thinking taking on a job like this? Failure could mean her bakery was doomed—very publicly doomed on TV.

  The need to call Rose for a rallying dose of sanity gnawed at her. Rose Levy was a rock-solid haven of common sense and business knowledge. But she was only supposed to be Coco’s accountant, no matter how much more Coco might wish her to be. That had been made quite clear a year ago at their first interview—strictly business, no personal involvement. Yet Rose had gone out of her way to shepherd Coco through all the forms, filings, and financial quirks an unwary new entrepreneur had to navigate. Didn’t that suggest they were more friends than business associates? Or was it just a case of taking pity on such an inept novice? Whatever the reason, Coco had been delighted to have her hand held through the whole confusing process. Too bad they hadn’t held hands for real.

  For the last few weeks, reluctantly complying with Rose’s stated wishes, Coco had stopped running to her for personal issues. After all, the woman had a whole list of clients to handle.

  Instead, Coco had contented herself with a few bright minutes of conversation on Rose’s many pilgrimages to purchase cookies. Coco would have gladly given the cookies for free, but the accountant insisted on paying. Part of that “strictly business” rule, no doubt. But since Rose seemed to have quite a sweet tooth, Coco always saved a dozen of her most popular signature pecan caramel cookies just in case she came by.

  Sadly, those brief visits weren’t enough to ease the ache of not being able to confide in Rose. And not sharing the woman’s lively intelligence and biting wit. And not gazing into those beautiful moss-green eyes. Coco sighed. Giving Rose more personal space was harder than designing any damned unicorn cake would ever be.

  She gathered the cake samples, napkins, and a couple bottles of water and went out front to see how the Chaz and George show was doing.

  Chaz looked up from the form he was skimming, and his eyes lit up. “Excellent! Let us eat cake!”

  “Just give me another minute—I’m almost finished.” George quickly scribbled a few more words as Coco arranged the plates and water on the desk. He handed his completed form to her with a flourish. “Done!”

  She set both forms aside for the moment. “These are the flavors you can choose from. With this tight schedule, I’m not going to be able to experiment with anything exotic, but I think you’ll find enough variety here.”

  The next twenty minutes were filled with sighs of contentment and determined disagreements. But finally, they settled on two flavo
rs: Chaz favored cherry chip (pink, of course), and George went with French vanilla (because it wouldn’t clash with the pink).

  Chaz’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display. “Oh, hey, I have to take this. Coco, I have complete confidence in you. By the way, when you deliver the cake, be dressed for dancing. You and your plus one have got to attend—it’ll be fabulous!” He blew her a kiss and went outside to take the call.

  George watched him leave and sighed. “He’s really incredible, you know. Some people think he’s just silly—all surface, no depth. Not true at all.” His eyes darkened. “Things…well, things haven’t been easy for Chaz. His family threw him out when he was thirteen, and he’s been on his own ever since. He’s been attacked by total strangers and treated like dirt just for existing. But he doesn’t let it show. He’s determined to be happy, so he just floats over any obstacle in his way.” He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. “People think I protect him, but really, Chaz is the strong one. I’d be lost without him.” George stood and echoed the invitation. “Please do come to the wedding—we’d really love to have you there.” Smiling, he nodded his goodbye and went outside to join his fiancé.

  Coco watched them walk off, arm in arm. Such nice guys. So well-matched. Feeling guilty for having underestimated them—Chaz especially, she promised herself she’d do her best to make something spectacular for them.

  She picked up the order forms they’d completed and read Chaz’s. No surprise there. Unicorns. And roses. And sculpted pink ribbons cascading down from the top. And glitter. Glitter? Really? Enough fuss and frills to make it look like a little girl’s overdone birthday cake. Hoping George would offer some means of toning down Chaz’s vision, she read his form. Conservative colors. Simple. Dignified. Classic.

  Damn.

  Hadn’t the two of them compared notes? They seemed to share every thought. Couldn’t they have shared their ideas and compromised? That miracle she’d been so cavalier about promising was floating farther and farther out of reach.