Chapter Two
“Fuckin’ hate this job,” I mutter to myself as I get undressed before hopping in the shower.
“ Hate these stupid fuckin’ shorts. I strongly dislike having the cat-calling older lady, Beatrice—who I’m quite certain has the hots for a particular Door Dasher too—come out in her robe to collect her packages, all while making googly eyes at me like I’m a piece of meat. And I loathe stepping in dog shit.”
My nose reflexively scrunches at the memory of my second delivery of the day.
I swear the stench is simply burned into my nostrils now because I pulled that fuckin’ truck over at the nearest boat launch and thoroughly scrubbed my boots off in the ocean.
Why don’t they ever teach you about that shit—literal shit—when you’re in “parcel delivery bootcamp?”
I make a mental note that I am out of body wash and lather up with Lo’s cucumber melon scented stuff instead.
Do I mind smelling like a nineties era Bath and Body Works scent tester?
Nope. Will she have a conniption about me dipping into her cosmetics and toiletries again?
Probably. But that’s a choice she made when she agreed on this complex relationship we have.
At least I’m not stealing all her clothes anymore.
Couldn’t even if I wanted to anyway. She and I haven’t been able to fit into the same size in quite some time—like right around when I traded working out for spending time with my family.
I now have a stash of my own skirts and dresses that I enjoy wearing in my private time, such as tonight.
Since Lauren reminded me that Brody had a sleepover to go to, I’ve been practically humming with excitement to come home, change out of that damn turd emoji outfit, and rock out in my newest acquisition.
It’s a satiny, thigh-hugging, above-the-knee skirt with pleats, and, above all else… it’s purple.
It went right into my online shopping cart just as soon as I saw that it was in stock, in my size, and on sale. The golden trifecta, right there.
So, here’s the thing: I just love the way a nice skirt feels when I’m wearing one.
Truly, I do. I hate the confinement of pants and shorts.
But with skirts, I enjoy the movements they make, the way they swish and sway.
I love the way they make me feel when I am wearing them—like suddenly I have all this confidence that I don’t normally have in my day-to-day life.
I know, it makes no sense. Me—a big, beefy dude who literally hates taking his shirt off at the beach—instantly goes into slay mode when besotted with the prospect of donning lace, tulle, and silk.
I have a maxi dress in my closet that I absolutely love the look and feel of when it’s on, though, and oftentimes have fantasized about how great it would have been if I had mustered up the courage to wear something like it to prom back in high school.
Granted, I wouldn’t ever dare wear one outside of these four walls, nor would I allow my son to catch me in one—because he’s ten, and that would be something he’d blab about to his friends.
Then, before you know it, everyone in Ternbay knows Marcus Antonucci enjoys crossdressing and then everyone’s got the impression that I sexually fetishize the act or something, which is totally not the case at all.
No, what I enjoy about it is the renewed conviction I get towards taking gender stereotypes and stomping all over them.
I’d like to think that maybe someday I’d be brave enough to go out in public in whatever I’d truly feel comfortable in, but in a town like this, I don’t see that happening right off.
Evan Waters, a well-known former Ternbayan, came out as a gay a couple of years ago, and that was hella news back then—I can’t imagine rocking the boat with news that not only am I gay, but I also dress androgynously.
I step out of the shower, towel off, and then pad into our bedroom to get re-dressed.
I toss on a plain white t-shirt, not really giving a shit about pairing it with something that matches on top tonight, and then tear into the packaging the skirt is in.
I briefly hold it up, admiring the color, before stepping into it and zipping up the back.
I do run into a little trouble there because—as Lo graciously pointed out earlier—genetics dictated I inherited a generous slice of cake back there.
Thanks a bunch, biology. Got my distinctively Italian looks from my father and was gifted an ass you could practically track from space from my mother.
Not sure which parent my mop of curls on the top of my head came from, but I don't cut them off because Lo loves them, and I love when she runs her fingers through them.
Once the skirt is on, I smooth out the wrinkles with my palms and then do a little spin in front of the mirror.
The fabric has a nice swirl to it. I feel comfortable, finally, and even more than that?
I feel eye-catching. Seems almost wasteful to not be able to show it off to anyone but Lauren, really.
Oh well. Such is life. I’m used to hiding my truest self away from everyone by now. Well, besides her anyway.
Given when she texted me last, she should be home any minute, so I head into the kitchen next to start ladling us both some supper from the crockpot.
I don’t care if it was hot as balls out there today, hoofing it door-to-door in the hot June sun, Lo’s crockpot lasagna always hits the spot—something I’d never dare say in front of my nonna.
I rifle around in the pantry, hoping our growing boy didn’t scarf up the garlic knots as an after-school snack already.
Good news: Brody either didn’t want them, or he didn’t find them. My bet is on the latter. He may not be my biological son, but he sure does have a carb-tooth like mine.
Just then, the front door swings open. Lo sweeps in, setting her bag and keys down in the entryway. Her gaze settles below my waist, upon stepping into the kitchen. “Oooh, I like that one! Works well with your olive skin tone too.”
I shimmy a little, letting the fabric sway on my thighs. “You think so?”
She steps into my side, giving me a gentle squeeze. “I do! You look great in it, babe.”
I give her a lop-sided grin. “Thank you. Anywho,” I hum, changing topics and swatting her ass playfully. “Go get out of your fancy work clothes. I’ll dish you up some supper. We can eat, and you can tell me how your day went.”
She fixes me with a snarky grin. “You got fancied up tonight, why can’t I be?”
“Do whatever you want, but don’t come crying to me when I can’t get sauce stains out of your blouse. I may be the laundry wizard in this house, but my magic only goes so far.”
She pops a shoulder. “Alright, fair point there.”
“That’s what I thought. Go get changed.”
As she walks off, she continues talking. “So, we’ve got the house to ourselves,” she notes. Then, because she is who she is, she—just as casually as if she were talking about the weather—adds, “Wanna sit on my dick tonight?”
Her strap-on. She’s referring to her giant, purple strapless strap-on. She—not me, mind you—named it Eggplant Earl, and yes, she thoroughly enjoys pegging me with it.
“I mean, I guess…” I respond.
She pops her head out of the bedroom, her hair now up in a loose messy bun, and narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not twisting your arm, Marcus. I’m going to go to town with my toys either way. The question is, do you want to get off too?”
It has been a few months since my side-guy, Micah, and I broke off our arrangement, so yeah, I guess I do.
But I know Lo, and she wants more certainty from me than my nonchalance.
Enthusiastic consent, for obvious reasons, is huge in our house—in all facets of our lives.
“Yes. I would love to sit on your dick tonight.”
She steps out of the room wearing nothing but one of my old band shirts, which she practically could swim in.
Though she’s roughly eight inches shorter than my six-foot-four—still, fairly tall for a woman—she’s built a lot more modestly than I am.
Where I’m all bulk (and probably a few too many pastries), she’s slightly curvy with an hourglass figure.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s taken some self-defense classes at the gym, so she’s got quite a bit of musculature as well, but she’s—I dunno—shaped like a woman, for lack of a better description.
Duh, Marcus. She is one, for crying out loud.
One who used to absolutely radiate confidence and body-positivity for herself until she was preyed upon and had that self-assurance ripped away by someone unconscionably vile.
Seeing her bury herself in the baggiest, most unflattering clothing after that—hiding her stunning self away—made me both sad and angry for her at the same time.
It was years before she was comfortable enough in her skin to start wearing more form-fitting clothing again, let alone to seek out intimacy.
Getting Lauren past her touch aversion was painful to go through—watching her struggle to ask for and receive physical affection—but she insisted that we keep plugging away at it.
We’re now at a place where she initiates it on her own, and I am constantly in awe of the work she puts in to better herself.
Eventually, she did break down and state that she was ready for sex again, not just self-care with her toys, but she only felt comfortable with doing it with me. And she only wanted to do it if she could top me, likely so she could feel in control of the situation. Understandably so.