Being A Drag On Your Future Wife

Being A Drag On Your Future Wife

Why do men do anything? Well, we're actually pretty simple creatures. We'll do just about anything on a dare or bet, and we'll do really weird things to please our girlfriends. We'll jump through just about any hoop to be near, if we really care about them. Where is the line drawn? Usually it is at the point in which we'd wind up in jail. That's not always the case, but in this story jail was not a factor. At least not in this state.

So there I am, at a party of sorts, minding my own business, and looking at Ivey in her sexy clothes. I'm enjoying my Miller Lite in a bottle, thinking about some hot monkey lovin. Someone brings up that it's ladies night at some nightclub in Laurel. What do I care about some club where they'll play that dance remix crap? I'd rather engage in some naked oil wrestling or reading poetry. It didn't matter to me, as I already had alcohol.

Before I know it plans start being made. Outfits were being picked out, and the decision of who would drive which cars in the space of about one minute. Personally I wasn't a creature that liked the bar environment, but I wasn't about to be left behind. How would it look if my sexy girlfriend went out without me? Plus, what if she saw some guy that she liked better than me? Not that I have any doubts. Well, almost no doubts.

"I'll bet you'd look good in my clothes," Ivey says to a chorus of whoops and cat calls. I think it was planned, but who knows?

Being proud of my looks I retort, "Damn right I would!" I realized the mistake of that sentence right away, but it was too late to take it back.

Bay pops up into the conversation, "I dare you. No, I'll bet you don't have the balls to dress in drag, and go to the bar with us!"

What did this overly haired Cro-Magnon know about balls? He only thought they were decorations to be scratched in public every few minutes. I was secure enough in my masculinity, but to be bet and dared in one sentence made me have to prove him and everyone else wrong.

It was just too much for me. A dare, a bet, and the loving look in Ivey's eyes overwhelmed my common sense. The promise of free drinks at ladies night was also a determining factor, but a small one. Also by this point every one was caught up in daring and betting me that I wouldn't do it. What was a guy to do? I could chicken out, and disappoint Ivey. Or I could do it, be a sexy hero to Ivey, and make them all eat their words. Of course this could also be a clever ploy for them to see me in women's clothing. How was I to know?

I put my hand into Ivey's, and off we went to her room. Kat and Oim dashed off for makeup cases, while I picked out suitable attire for a sexy woman. I had already shaved my face, so the only concern was my hairy legs. I wasn't worried about that however. I'd known some drag queens in college, and they had imparted certain secrets to me about making legs appear smooth. Too bad I didn't listen to other aspects of dressing in women's clothing.

Ivey was picking out potential outfits for me while I undressed. There was the skin tight leather pants and elastic halter, the next to see-through full length skirt and lycra long-sleeved top, and the French maid outfit which I think Ivey only wanted to see me in. After each skimpier choice she would laugh maniacally, and leer at me. I was actually turned on by those looks she was giving me. Almost like a wolf waiting to pounce on its prey. I was less interested in the outfits, and more interested in her pouncing.

I modeled several outfits for her, and a decision was reached. We'd chosen a black leather miniskirt, and a low cut black leather halter with a lace back. I had to admit to myself that I did look damned good. Looking at myself, I thought that if the skirt were any higher, the others would get an interesting show indeed.

Socks were chosen to fill my strapless 36-B bra, and the redressing began. Funny, how you have to get dressed, and then undressed to get ready. I was a ritual I've never understood and probably never will. I wonder if guys came up with it just to see women naked several times before actually going out. I know I certainly enjoyed watching Ivey get undressed as often as I could. I was especially fond of watching her look for outfits wearing only hose, high heels, and a bra. That always set my little heart to fluttering, as well as a few other things.

It was now time to implement the ancient secrets shared with me by the sacred order of drag queens. Ivey and the others wanted me to shave my legs. My answer to that was obvious. Hell No! Instead I first put on a pair of nude pantyhose. For those of you who don't know, nude pantyhose are merely flesh toned. (Usually a little darker to give the appearance of nicely tanned legs) Once they were on, which was no easy job, I put on a pair of black fishnet hose over the other pair. Why you ask? Well, the first pair pushes the hair down, and the fishnets are just sexy. The result was no leg hair pushing through the mesh of the fishnets. The biggest obstacle is getting that line down the back of the fishnets to be straight. Another of those not-so-easy jobs women somehow manage.

Next was stuffing the bra and trying to stuff myself into the leather halter top. Again, not an easy job, especially for a man who's never worn such things before. It was more like trying to put on tight jeans right after getting out of the shower. Somehow I felt like a shoehorn in a pair of shoes that were several sizes smaller than the horn.

The skirt was the easy part. It slid right over my hips. I glanced in the mirror and thought, "Damn! I'd chase after me." The hardest parts were yet to come, and would test my resolve to the limits.

It was now time for makeup to be applied and my hair styled. Not a pleasant experience and I imagine women don't much care for the rituals either. The mascara and eyeliner were the biggest hurdles to overcome. My eyes kept tearing up, not to mention the involuntary blinking.

"Stop blinking," they kept saying. "Be still or we'll have to start all over again"

I certainly didn't want to start all over again. I found myself pondering the women who go without makeup, and I fully understood why. I also didn't understand the application of foundation. Women actually put it on, and then more for touchups, and then powder over that. The lipstick was a pain too. How anyone could stand to have thick, colored grease on their lips was beyond me. I think I remembered reading somewhere that lipstick used to be made from lard.

The hair wasn't so bad until the mousse and hairspray came. After they were applied I had trouble breathing for several minutes.  It was yet another thing I would never understand, and I was very happy I didn't do it on a daily basis. They did want to trim my bangs, but I just couldn't allow them to do it. I was only going to do this once, and it just didn't feel right. Why did I need poofy bangs when it had gone out as a style in the 80's?

I was then deemed ready to go into public, but there was one more major problem. I needed shoes. Apparently my steel toed combat boots weren't acceptable. Why, I had no clue. Ivey's shoes were a definite no. No way were my nine and a half feet fitting into her size six heels. Unfortunately for me, the only pair that remotely fit me had five inch heels. At least they weren't too much smaller than my own feet.

For you people that don't know about women's shoes, they don't just "slip" on. It's actually shoving your toes on top of each other, and then wedging them into a small triangle at the front of the shoe. Then you have to get the back up over your heel. Imagine if you will, stuffing your manhood into a steel jockstrap that's five sizes too small. After you get it on, think about having to adjust yourself. Not a pretty picture by anyone's standards.

It was finally time for me to be led downstairs like Scarlet O'Hara for the others to view. I had to hold onto Ivey's arm, and grip the railing because five inch heels just aren't that easy to walk in. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope that only one side was tied up. My ankles were already hurting half way down the stairs, and I won't even mention my poor cramped toes.

I was greeted with a plethora of laughter, whistles, and cat calls. "No problem," I thought to myself. "You've been dared and bet that you wouldn't do this. You only have to go to ladies night to make them eat their words."

I was handed a purse for my wallet, everyone was ready, and so it was time to sally forth. We herded into the three cars we were taking, and I was only worried about my hair. Imagine that?

We arrived in the parking lot of the club. Of course there were only three spots in the whole place. It looked as if everyone in the county headed here for a night of merriment.  It took me a few minutes for me to kill those damned butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. Finally, I stepped out of the car. I was amazed that I could actually walk in the heels, as they the way they are made, makes all your bodyweight push your toes further into the tips. Ivey grabbed my hand and we led the procession to the front door.

Of course I was carded, but the bouncer looked as if he wasn't going to let me in. He glanced at me, and then my license at least a dozen times with a very confused look on his face. Our friends were snickering and generally eating up the scene playing out before them.

After a while, I looked at the bouncer and said in my manliest voice, "Yes, I'm a guy."

He quickly handed my license back and asked for the cover charge. Ladies got in free, and he wasn't about to let his confusion cheat the club of five dollars. He followed us into the bar with his eyes before going back to his business.

Ivey and I led the congregation to a table and we sat in quick order. I sure was thirsty but there wasn't a waitress in sight. "Well damn!" I thought. So I decided to go up to the bar, and took the other "ladies" with me. If I went alone I wouldn't be acting very lady-like now would I? Not to mention I was worried that some guy would hit on me. We ordered our drinks, and I got a weird look when I ordered a bottled beer in my most feminine voice. I even tried to pay, but the bartender waved my hand away. I put the money into the tip jar, and received a warm smile from him. "Okay," I thought. "This isn't so bad."

Back at our table, the other women in our group started telling me what the guys at the bar were saying as I walked back to the table. How they were discussing my ass. Definitely not something I needed or wanted to know, but they took great delight in filling me in on everything they had heard. I didn't believe them of course, so went back up to the bar for another drink. Sure enough their eyes followed my ass, never moving up to my eyes. How typically male. I caught some of their conversations as I walked by.

"Look at the ass on that bitch," one said. "I'd like to get under that dress," said another. "I wonder if she gives fries with that shake, damn!" was yet another one I overheard. I tried to ignore the comments about "DSL's". Were my lips really that sexy? I decided to sit at our table until I'd had several more drinks to loosen up.  

Those few more drinks sure did loosen me up. Before I knew it, I was on the dance floor with Ivey. No one cared to see two beautiful "women" dancing together, so all was well and good. Until we started kissing and slow dancing that is. Women started moving away from us, while men were cheering from the bar. Personally I didn't give a damn what they thought. I wasn't sure how Ivey felt about being labeled as a lesbian, but it sure did feel good running my hands all over her. Crazy how things work out. Let them be jealous. I had what I wanted in my arms.

"Listen to those idiots at the bar," I said to Ivey. "If they had half a brain they'd know I was a guy."

"Don't pay any attention to them," Ivey laughed. "They're just jealous of the sexy bitch I have."  

"Want to go have sex in the women's bathroom?" I asked with a huge grin. "That'll give them all something to talk about."

"But that will mess up your hair and makeup," She said. "Besides, I have to show off my bitch so everyone knows you're mine."

Yes, I was her bitch, but I didn't mind at all. The only worry I had was the rising bulge I was feeling under the pantyhose. I had elected not to wear underwear, so things were moving around a bit. The feeling of our bodies sliding together was definitely making me sweat. I just loved the feeling of our smooth legs sliding together, and I think she was wearing more of my lipstick than I was. I'd have to tough that up when we left the dance floor.

After several dances and a lot of kissing, Ivey and I started hearing someone yelling. We glanced towards the exit, which was a level down from us. Some redneck was standing there, middle finger extended, screaming, "Fuck you, you damned dykes!" He continued screaming for at least five minutes before one of his friends grabbed him and pulled him out of the club. Judging by his appearance, he was just angry that Ivey and I could get "women" that looked like us. We just laughed at him while he was there, and kissed even more passionately.  

We danced and kissed a while longer before everyone decided to call it a night. Leaving was an interesting experience. The guys still at the bar were whistling at us. Apparently they liked the show.

We heard bad lines like, "How about a real man honey?"

Ivey turned to one redneck and said, "But I already have a real man here," waving her hand in my direction. That sent his friends into laughter. They were slapping him on the back, and saying she must be right because they had heard his wife complaining about switching sides.

We drove home to laughing and recounting everything we did and heard, most of it aimed in my direction. I was informed that a few of the guys at the bar wanted to come over and invite us to their place for a private show. They probably couldn't have afforded us, and I doubt they'd want to see me strip down.

When we returned home, several among our party were quite drunk.  Luckily, Ivey intervened on my behalf before one or two of the guys threw a pass at me. The one gay guy in our group thought I was pretty hot in drag, and would have paid Ivey to borrow me for the night. She got them all interested in karaoke, so the issue was forgotten. I kept the clothes on. I was fascinated at the prospect of Ivey having to undress me. I kept going over the scene in my mind as everyone sang. I did worry about the obvious bulge in my skirt standing out, so I stayed seated most of the rest of the evening.

I learned another new thing about rituals later that night. Ivey had one hell of a time removing the hooks, buttons, and zippers of the clothing. I didn't have many problems removing her clothing. After all, I had more experience getting her clothes off. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to get the buttons off on what I was wearing. It took her almost ten minutes to get my bra off. It was actually humorous. Both of us were trying to get the clothes off each other, and I was having more success than she was. Women's clothes are just too damned hard to get on or off. You know it was men who designed them. They make everything more complicated than it has to be.

© Copyright 2006 Barry N Davidson

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