| General Fiction posted September 26, 2019 |
  |
The lady lumberjack finds love. (2,121 words)
Very Nice Vice-Versa
by LisaMay
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
“I’m playing tonight, Jessica, then there’s a debrief session afterwards. I’ll be putting a lot in. Don’t wait up for me.”
It disappoints me that David is hardly ever home. I admire his dedication, but surely his coaching duties with the younger players at the club can’t keep him that busy? I trust him though, because he promised never to lie to me.
David is a top-grade competitive squash player, spending many hours at it. He mentioned he’s also on the Sports Club committee for debriefing meetings. He often comes home late from these activities, exhausted. He’s unavailable to go to plays or musicals with me, so I go by myself or with a group of my friends. Because they all have partners I’m always the odd-one-out.
Portrayed as ships in the night, he’d be the fully-rigged galleon on a mission of conquest, and I’d be the attractively painted canal barge, slightly quirky, wanting to go places and have some fun.
“You won’t mind if I move these, will you,” David stated, while pulling three of my favourite paintings off the lounge-room wall and shoving them behind the couch. He doesn’t like the art I like. His idea of art is a huge TV screen dominating a wall. He’s decided to buy an even bigger screen to watch the Rugby World Cup, Wimbledon, the PGA Championships, Super Bowl, the Olympic Games, Grand Prix, and God-knows-what-else-tournaments. He’s turning into a Grand Prick himself.
A while ago, I tried to join in the excitement for the NFL final, but he didn’t like it when I dressed up as a cheerleader and started shaking my pom-poms – he said my boobs weren’t big enough. I just can’t win with him these days.
* * *
It was the Vice-Versa Party at the Sports Club that brought me into my own. The invitation said to attend the social event dressed as a man if you are female, and a woman if you are male.
“Don’t come if you don’t want to,” said David. “You’ll know hardly anyone there – they’ll mostly be my friends.”
I did want to go. The opportunity to use some imagination in a theatrical way by dressing up differently was appealing. I thought perhaps it’d add some spice to my routine life with David, and we’d see each other in a new light – actually have some fun together.
I’m not good at sports; David told me I was clumsy and uncoordinated. I prefer dancing, or yoga. David said that’s for softies and it doesn’t count. His opinion is that yoga’s far too static to be of any use in training for fitness. But I know he’s wrong.
Anyway, I was prepared to put all that behind me, and embraced the idea of the Vice-Versa Party at the Sports Club. I helped David get ready. He’s a tall, athletically-built man with a full beard. The facial hair was a disadvantage to appearing feminine, so he borrowed one of my close-fitting tops and tucked a couple of tennis balls in the front. He’s a boob-man, so squash balls would’ve been too small. Then he added my wrap-around exotic skirt and some flashy bling, and when I embellished him with some eye make-up and lipstick, there he was – the Bearded Lady from the circus.
I dressed as a Lumberjack, in mannish shorts, a plaid flannel shirt, and heavy work boots. I tucked my hair up beneath a cap with a picture of a moose on it, then artistically painted on some sideburns and a moustache to adorn my face. I stopped short of taking a log, an axe, or a chainsaw to the party, but dammit, I sure looked the real deal.
So much so, that when I stood beside David at the door upon arrival at the Sports Club, and people were checking each other out, laughing at their reverse role outfits, well, it was weird – I was standing right beside him, ok? – and Robbie (who was dressed like Cleopatra, but I knew it was him) said, “Hi, David! You look great. Where’s Jessica? Didn’t she want to dress up?”
Then Carol commented, with me standing right there, “I bet she’s gone to some arty-farty exhibition opening.”
She was dressed as Vincent van Gogh! Carol had noticeably sticky-out ears, so it was rather clever of her to get one of them under control and flattened against her head with a bandage. Although I did notice she had the wrong side bandaged, according to Vincent’s self portrait painting of 1889 – but I was too polite to point out her error. David would have, had he not been an art philistine and ignorant of who Vincent was.
I was perplexed. People gazed straight past me. Am I invisible? Hey, this is ME here! Right here! Yes – this attractive hunk of a lumberjack!
I’d tried hard, but I was still a misfit. Why is it so hard to fit in and feel normal? I slunk away and got a glass of wine, pretending I was at an exhibition opening. Yeah right, a lumberjack at an art show! Well, why not? I’d talk to him if I met one there.
Some time later, when I looked around to see where David was, I saw him strutting his stuff in a very sexy manner – something that had been lacking in our marriage for a while. The last I saw of him he was getting up close and personal with Letitia, who was dressed as a male trapeze artist. She had an avocado or a banana or something stuffed down her lower leotards, but that didn’t fool David – I could tell it was her perky nippled melons he was ogling.
I’d heard a rumour that Le-Titty had the hots for David. She was one of the group of younger F-grade players who needed all that interminable coaching and all those debriefing meetings. I momentarily wondered what the ‘F’ stood for.
The music was good and I felt like dancing, but after a couple of drinks and another half-hour or so of mostly getting ignored and becoming increasingly bored, I thought, bugger it, I’m off out of here. I couldn’t find David to tell him. Mind you, I didn’t look for him that thoroughly – I was probably scared of what I might find, with the ensuing drama. Actually, at that stage, the Bearded Lady and the Trapeze Artist could ride their own Wall of Death for all I cared. I was in the market for a new Ringmaster, not a clown or a circus performing dog.
I needed some fresh air and a change of scene. A gay bar had opened recently, not far away, so I walked there. Those work boots were very comfortable, and I felt confident in them, stepping out in the street at night. It’s not like I was wobbling along on my usual stilettos, feeling like a potential victim. Being a guy has advantages. I strode along powerfully. I could get used to this feeling.
I was hoping for some entertainment and a bit of a giggle. I’d never been in a gay bar before, but dressed the way I was, I figured I’d blend in just fine. I assumed they’d all be dressed like the Village People from the 1970s disco days. Wrong! Wrong! Unfortunately, as we know, two wrongs don’t make it right.
Dressed like a lumberjack, I stood out like a pork chop in a synagogue. Except this was no synagogue and I sure wasn’t a pork chop – just a naive meathead. The name of the gay bar gave me a laugh, though – it was called The Pork Sword.
So there I was, having stumbled into the lights on the dance floor, giggling nervously – the only female lumberjack with a smeared, fake moustache in a forest of beautifully groomed, stylishly dressed gay guys. A misfit yet again.
Oh, what the hell, I thought. I came to dance, so I will.
Throwing embarrassment and my heavy boots aside, I twirled and twerked to the beat. My moose cap fell off and my long auburn hair whirled around me, ablaze in the spotlight as I danced with my eyes closed, enjoying the rhythm, lost in the music and the movement of my yoga-toned body.
That’s when I bumped into Jeremy. Literally. After he picked himself up, he rescued me from my solo spot when he swept in with a murmur of greeting. Firm hands grasped mine, pulled me close, and spun me in another direction.
“You’re so hot, you’re on fire!” His voice was warm honey.
It was kind of him to compliment my dancing and tell me I looked sexy. He clearly knew how to treat a woman. At last I was in the masterful arms of a man who appreciated me. Mmmm... he smelled nice. I opened my eyes reluctantly, not wanting to break the spell of his mellifluous voice. He started smacking my bottom to the beat. I didn’t want him to stop. Then I smelled smoke.
Apparently, I’d brushed past a candle-lit dining table upon which a sizzle platter had just been served. I narrowly avoided being burnt at the steak. There was a gleam in Jeremy’s gentle brown eyes. He suggested a closer inspection might be necessary, to see if my hot bottom needed further attention. He offered to kiss it better. I went weak at the knees – he fancied me! And oh, how I fancied him! He had the dark good looks I’d always secretly lusted after, while trying to convince myself that David’s blonde features were handsome.
We settled into a back booth and shared a plate of dips, flat bread, and Kalamata olives. Meeting Jeremy was no calamity. Our union must’ve been destined – foreseen by the Oracle of Delphi. We chattered away like we’d known each other in another life. We were holding hands, then Jeremy leaned in for a kiss at the same time as I did. As flesh met flesh, I didn’t just see stars, I saw several constellations! Our foreheads had smacked together, not our lips.
When we recovered, after the most sensuous kiss I had ever experienced, Jeremy said with a mischievous smile, “Hey Jessica, now you’re a Lumber Jill – I kissed your moustache goodbye. Do you think we should go lie down someplace quiet, in case we’ve got concussion?”
He told me how irresistible I was to him as a lumberjack&jill, and that he had some wood to show me. So we decided to go to his place for a therapeutic lie-down and some ‘log rolling’.
My first thrill was noticing the many interesting paintings arranged on the walls of his apartment. “I don’t see a TV screen anywhere,” I said. “Is it in your bedroom?” What a lame thing to say.
Jeremy gave me a funny look. “If it is, we won’t be watching it!”
He told me he was far too busy being an artist or writing poetry or going to shows and plays and exhibitions to sit around watching stuff on TV at home, so he didn’t have one.
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord and all the Saints!” I blurted with relief and delight.
Then he told me he was Jewish. I nearly wet myself, laughing at the idiocy of a Jew at The Pork Sword. He wasn’t even gay or bisexual – he’d been there for the dance music. It was getting better and better. One thing led to another, and before I could howl like a wolf three times, he was chasing me around the shag-pile flokati rug – naked – pretending to be a grizzly bear while singing Hava Nagila!
I did wet myself then, with bliss. What a man! I knew I had found my soulmate.
* * *
Now we’re together, we have such uninhibited fun playing dress-up imaginary games. Jeremy does a wonderfully amusing impersonation of Queen Victoria, and when he is Mae West I crack up in hysterics if he tries to fall on his face, because he bounces right back up again off those big busty balloons!
Speaking of big balloons, you should see the fun we have when we put on our Sumo wrestler suits. And – best part – I get to be whoever the phuck I feel like, knowing that Jeremy loves ME, which is so liberating after David’s passive neglect.
This week, I’m Attila the Hun. Jeremy has a request for next week: “How about you be Donald Trump?”
My reply was quick: “I’ll be drawing the line at that. A lady has to have some standards. I don’t like playing golf.”
Soulmate contest entry
“I’m playing tonight, Jessica, then there’s a debrief session afterwards. I’ll be putting a lot in. Don’t wait up for me.”
It disappoints me that David is hardly ever home. I admire his dedication, but surely his coaching duties with the younger players at the club can’t keep him that busy? I trust him though, because he promised never to lie to me.
David is a top-grade competitive squash player, spending many hours at it. He mentioned he’s also on the Sports Club committee for debriefing meetings. He often comes home late from these activities, exhausted. He’s unavailable to go to plays or musicals with me, so I go by myself or with a group of my friends. Because they all have partners I’m always the odd-one-out.
Portrayed as ships in the night, he’d be the fully-rigged galleon on a mission of conquest, and I’d be the attractively painted canal barge, slightly quirky, wanting to go places and have some fun.
“You won’t mind if I move these, will you,” David stated, while pulling three of my favourite paintings off the lounge-room wall and shoving them behind the couch. He doesn’t like the art I like. His idea of art is a huge TV screen dominating a wall. He’s decided to buy an even bigger screen to watch the Rugby World Cup, Wimbledon, the PGA Championships, Super Bowl, the Olympic Games, Grand Prix, and God-knows-what-else-tournaments. He’s turning into a Grand Prick himself.
A while ago, I tried to join in the excitement for the NFL final, but he didn’t like it when I dressed up as a cheerleader and started shaking my pom-poms – he said my boobs weren’t big enough. I just can’t win with him these days.
* * *
It was the Vice-Versa Party at the Sports Club that brought me into my own. The invitation said to attend the social event dressed as a man if you are female, and a woman if you are male. “Don’t come if you don’t want to,” said David. “You’ll know hardly anyone there – they’ll mostly be my friends.”
I did want to go. The opportunity to use some imagination in a theatrical way by dressing up differently was appealing. I thought perhaps it’d add some spice to my routine life with David, and we’d see each other in a new light – actually have some fun together.
I’m not good at sports; David told me I was clumsy and uncoordinated. I prefer dancing, or yoga. David said that’s for softies and it doesn’t count. His opinion is that yoga’s far too static to be of any use in training for fitness. But I know he’s wrong.
Anyway, I was prepared to put all that behind me, and embraced the idea of the Vice-Versa Party at the Sports Club. I helped David get ready. He’s a tall, athletically-built man with a full beard. The facial hair was a disadvantage to appearing feminine, so he borrowed one of my close-fitting tops and tucked a couple of tennis balls in the front. He’s a boob-man, so squash balls would’ve been too small. Then he added my wrap-around exotic skirt and some flashy bling, and when I embellished him with some eye make-up and lipstick, there he was – the Bearded Lady from the circus.
I dressed as a Lumberjack, in mannish shorts, a plaid flannel shirt, and heavy work boots. I tucked my hair up beneath a cap with a picture of a moose on it, then artistically painted on some sideburns and a moustache to adorn my face. I stopped short of taking a log, an axe, or a chainsaw to the party, but dammit, I sure looked the real deal.
So much so, that when I stood beside David at the door upon arrival at the Sports Club, and people were checking each other out, laughing at their reverse role outfits, well, it was weird – I was standing right beside him, ok? – and Robbie (who was dressed like Cleopatra, but I knew it was him) said, “Hi, David! You look great. Where’s Jessica? Didn’t she want to dress up?”
Then Carol commented, with me standing right there, “I bet she’s gone to some arty-farty exhibition opening.”
She was dressed as Vincent van Gogh! Carol had noticeably sticky-out ears, so it was rather clever of her to get one of them under control and flattened against her head with a bandage. Although I did notice she had the wrong side bandaged, according to Vincent’s self portrait painting of 1889 – but I was too polite to point out her error. David would have, had he not been an art philistine and ignorant of who Vincent was.
I was perplexed. People gazed straight past me. Am I invisible? Hey, this is ME here! Right here! Yes – this attractive hunk of a lumberjack!
I’d tried hard, but I was still a misfit. Why is it so hard to fit in and feel normal? I slunk away and got a glass of wine, pretending I was at an exhibition opening. Yeah right, a lumberjack at an art show! Well, why not? I’d talk to him if I met one there.
Some time later, when I looked around to see where David was, I saw him strutting his stuff in a very sexy manner – something that had been lacking in our marriage for a while. The last I saw of him he was getting up close and personal with Letitia, who was dressed as a male trapeze artist. She had an avocado or a banana or something stuffed down her lower leotards, but that didn’t fool David – I could tell it was her perky nippled melons he was ogling.
I’d heard a rumour that Le-Titty had the hots for David. She was one of the group of younger F-grade players who needed all that interminable coaching and all those debriefing meetings. I momentarily wondered what the ‘F’ stood for.
The music was good and I felt like dancing, but after a couple of drinks and another half-hour or so of mostly getting ignored and becoming increasingly bored, I thought, bugger it, I’m off out of here. I couldn’t find David to tell him. Mind you, I didn’t look for him that thoroughly – I was probably scared of what I might find, with the ensuing drama. Actually, at that stage, the Bearded Lady and the Trapeze Artist could ride their own Wall of Death for all I cared. I was in the market for a new Ringmaster, not a clown or a circus performing dog.
I needed some fresh air and a change of scene. A gay bar had opened recently, not far away, so I walked there. Those work boots were very comfortable, and I felt confident in them, stepping out in the street at night. It’s not like I was wobbling along on my usual stilettos, feeling like a potential victim. Being a guy has advantages. I strode along powerfully. I could get used to this feeling.
I was hoping for some entertainment and a bit of a giggle. I’d never been in a gay bar before, but dressed the way I was, I figured I’d blend in just fine. I assumed they’d all be dressed like the Village People from the 1970s disco days. Wrong! Wrong! Unfortunately, as we know, two wrongs don’t make it right.
Dressed like a lumberjack, I stood out like a pork chop in a synagogue. Except this was no synagogue and I sure wasn’t a pork chop – just a naive meathead. The name of the gay bar gave me a laugh, though – it was called The Pork Sword.
So there I was, having stumbled into the lights on the dance floor, giggling nervously – the only female lumberjack with a smeared, fake moustache in a forest of beautifully groomed, stylishly dressed gay guys. A misfit yet again.
Oh, what the hell, I thought. I came to dance, so I will.
Throwing embarrassment and my heavy boots aside, I twirled and twerked to the beat. My moose cap fell off and my long auburn hair whirled around me, ablaze in the spotlight as I danced with my eyes closed, enjoying the rhythm, lost in the music and the movement of my yoga-toned body.
That’s when I bumped into Jeremy. Literally. After he picked himself up, he rescued me from my solo spot when he swept in with a murmur of greeting. Firm hands grasped mine, pulled me close, and spun me in another direction.
“You’re so hot, you’re on fire!” His voice was warm honey.
It was kind of him to compliment my dancing and tell me I looked sexy. He clearly knew how to treat a woman. At last I was in the masterful arms of a man who appreciated me. Mmmm... he smelled nice. I opened my eyes reluctantly, not wanting to break the spell of his mellifluous voice. He started smacking my bottom to the beat. I didn’t want him to stop. Then I smelled smoke.
Apparently, I’d brushed past a candle-lit dining table upon which a sizzle platter had just been served. I narrowly avoided being burnt at the steak. There was a gleam in Jeremy’s gentle brown eyes. He suggested a closer inspection might be necessary, to see if my hot bottom needed further attention. He offered to kiss it better. I went weak at the knees – he fancied me! And oh, how I fancied him! He had the dark good looks I’d always secretly lusted after, while trying to convince myself that David’s blonde features were handsome.
We settled into a back booth and shared a plate of dips, flat bread, and Kalamata olives. Meeting Jeremy was no calamity. Our union must’ve been destined – foreseen by the Oracle of Delphi. We chattered away like we’d known each other in another life. We were holding hands, then Jeremy leaned in for a kiss at the same time as I did. As flesh met flesh, I didn’t just see stars, I saw several constellations! Our foreheads had smacked together, not our lips.
When we recovered, after the most sensuous kiss I had ever experienced, Jeremy said with a mischievous smile, “Hey Jessica, now you’re a Lumber Jill – I kissed your moustache goodbye. Do you think we should go lie down someplace quiet, in case we’ve got concussion?”
He told me how irresistible I was to him as a lumberjack&jill, and that he had some wood to show me. So we decided to go to his place for a therapeutic lie-down and some ‘log rolling’.
My first thrill was noticing the many interesting paintings arranged on the walls of his apartment. “I don’t see a TV screen anywhere,” I said. “Is it in your bedroom?” What a lame thing to say.
Jeremy gave me a funny look. “If it is, we won’t be watching it!”
He told me he was far too busy being an artist or writing poetry or going to shows and plays and exhibitions to sit around watching stuff on TV at home, so he didn’t have one.
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord and all the Saints!” I blurted with relief and delight.
Then he told me he was Jewish. I nearly wet myself, laughing at the idiocy of a Jew at The Pork Sword. He wasn’t even gay or bisexual – he’d been there for the dance music. It was getting better and better. One thing led to another, and before I could howl like a wolf three times, he was chasing me around the shag-pile flokati rug – naked – pretending to be a grizzly bear while singing Hava Nagila!
I did wet myself then, with bliss. What a man! I knew I had found my soulmate.
* * *
Now we’re together, we have such uninhibited fun playing dress-up imaginary games. Jeremy does a wonderfully amusing impersonation of Queen Victoria, and when he is Mae West I crack up in hysterics if he tries to fall on his face, because he bounces right back up again off those big busty balloons!Speaking of big balloons, you should see the fun we have when we put on our Sumo wrestler suits. And – best part – I get to be whoever the phuck I feel like, knowing that Jeremy loves ME, which is so liberating after David’s passive neglect.
This week, I’m Attila the Hun. Jeremy has a request for next week: “How about you be Donald Trump?”
My reply was quick: “I’ll be drawing the line at that. A lady has to have some standards. I don’t like playing golf.”
Author's Note:
Usually, a 'debrief' is a feedback session, enabling a team to self-correct, gel as a team, and enhance their performance. During debriefs, team members reflect upon a recent experience, discuss what went well, and identify opportunities for improvement.
However, in the context of this story, David was counting on Jessica trusting him. He wasn't lying, but his 'debriefing' meetings obviously involved removal of clothing, and associated up-to-no-good behaviour.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Usually, a 'debrief' is a feedback session, enabling a team to self-correct, gel as a team, and enhance their performance. During debriefs, team members reflect upon a recent experience, discuss what went well, and identify opportunities for improvement.
However, in the context of this story, David was counting on Jessica trusting him. He wasn't lying, but his 'debriefing' meetings obviously involved removal of clothing, and associated up-to-no-good behaviour.
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