It had been hell since Elsa moved in with us.
*
Don't get me wrong – I didn't do anything to stop it. After all, she seemed nice enough, she was Jen's girlfriend, and so sure, why not? I was surprised Jen had gone for her – she was a lot older, for one. I mean, we were what, twenty-one, twenty-two at the time? And she was thirty-seven. She wasn't exactly a looker, either. Sure, she had big tits and I guess you could see something attractive in her eyes – eyes that when you got to know them became the coldest, brightest shade of blue you could imagine – but she's kinda overweight, she has the weirdest girlish giggle that she uses far too much, her face isn't much to look at if you ask me... well, whatever. She was Jen's girlfriend and we had a spare room. Our housemate Tara had moved out a few weeks earlier, and we needed someone to pay the rent, Elsa needed a place to stay and they'd been together for all of three months, which is apparently good enough for cohabitation these days – well, who cares? That's all long-past now.
Okay, okay. Who are we? I'm Maxi, and that there's Jen; we've been friends since we were eleven, and best friends since we were about fourteen. They say it's weird for a queer guy and a queer girl to be best friends, but it seemed natural to us. What are we like? Jen's dead skinny. Too skinny, if you ask me. I always worry I'm gonna break her when I give her a hug. Not much by way of tits, short hair, more ass than you'd imagine but not as much ass as me – can't really explain why. I can, actually; I got my mother's big Greek ass. I look like my mother in all ways. I'm half-Greek, half-English, but basically all-Greek to look at and all-English to speak to. My dad took me to England when I was four because my mother was batshit crazy. No easy way to say that, but she was. Is. I look like her. I'm about 5'7", only an inch or two taller than Jen, and about the same height as Elsa. Elsa's pale as moonlight, though, and I got the Greek skin in spite of spending most of my summers in fucking England. Beautiful country. No. No, it's not. It's shite. But here I am. I work in a supermarket and Jen's a law clerk. Exciting as fuck, mate. No. No, it's not.
*
So first things first: Elsa turned out to be a mental bitch! It started with the small things. She never did any fucking washing up, she put her washing on in the middle of the night even though our washing machine sounds like a warzone and she barely has any clothes (certainly none I'd bother to wash, I'd just bin the full bag of rags)... she complained about the smell of my cigarettes even though a) she wouldn't even have a damn room if I hadn't agreed to it and b) she agreed when she moved in that it was fine for me to smoke in my room. I don't sleep well, alright? And when I can't sleep, I smoke. And a bit of the smell gets out of my room. Sue me. Or actually, just fuck off.
Then it got properly mental – oh, wait, I should go back a bit here. I haven't covered The Noise yet. See, I've hung around with Jen through what, four different girlfriends and any number of random hook-ups, and don't get me wrong, I don't mind sex noise. I'm plenty noisy myself. But oh my God, it was bizarre, and when they did it in Elsa's room, which was next to mine, it was the worst. Sometimes it sounded like someone dropped the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner into a bathtub, sometimes it sounded like a cat doing an impression of a man doing an impression of a cat. What the actual fuck were they doing?! I'd been on a dry spell lately after getting a herpes scare from an otherwise-pretty-hot grindr hookup, so wasn't exactly in the most accommodating mood for their weird sexual practises. Normally I might've been a bit more sanguine, but nah, fuck that, who wants to hear that shit? Fucking lesbians.
So. We were at the point where it got properly mental. One of Jen's greatest flaws and virtues is her ability to overlook and forgive all the awful, terrible things about the people she loves, and she really fucking loves Elsa, so she wasn't much use as an ally here (and Jen's been an ally through all kinds of dark times). Elsa started stalking me. I'm not kidding: she would come to my shop and look at me and hide when I looked up and later deny she was ever there. Then she started listening at my bedroom door (as I said: nothing to see here). I heard her breathing outside when I took my headphones out one night. It was fucking terrifying, I'll tell you that for free. And then she'd go back to bed, and half an hour later there'd be shlurp smack ohh gasp bullshit going on. And I had work the next day.
*
At this point, I must confess, the story takes a dramatic turn.
*
I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen. I wanted tea. Elsa was there and I had an internal 'oh fuck'. She wasn't passive-aggressive, though, just giggly. She would sometimes make reference to my behaviour as if it was someone else's when I was around, you know, 'I hate people who...' even though there's nothing fucking wrong with my behaviour. Just giggling now, though. Talking as if narrating. 'There he goes, getting his fix.' My fix? I drink three coffees a day and smoke about twenty cigarettes a day, so if a cup of tea was a fix, I... well, I don't know. It was a weird, inane thing to say. I reached up to the cupboard to get the tea. She moved across the room and the bitch grabbed my ass!
So. What. The. Fuck. My ass is, as I've said, a fine and womanly piece of work. It's made a lot of men very happy (I don't get men's butts. They're either unobtrusive walnuts or just flaccid sacks of sag. I was always grateful for my mutant, feminine posterior). But biatch, you look and you don't touch! She properly grabbed it with both hands, too. One on each side. 'Is there something you want, hun?'
'What a handful!' She wasn't even fucking listening. 'Got a proper lush ass, this one.' And she started fucking grinding on me! That bitch started rubbing her grotty fucking vag on my precious posterior and I spun around.
'Elsa, what the fuck do you think you're doing -' but she put her hands right back on my ass and pulled me into her. This is when I noticed quite how terrifying those piercing blue, piggy eyes were.
*
Side note – ever had a thing for someone you find utterly repulsive physically? I'm not talking suddenly finding a woman attractive when all you've ever wanted is cock, y'know, I'm talking general tendencies. See, I'm pretty discerning when it comes to potential long-term prospects, but my one-night stand taste tends to be dreadful – or rather, it's pretty good, but not in terms of looks. I'm good at picking out guys who know how to fuck the shit out of me, but they're not an attractive bunch. The best sex I'd ever had was with a regular at the bar I used to work at, and he was forty-five, balding and had a wart right next to his nose. But man, when he took me home after a shift...
*
Back to reality – I'm looking into her pasty, horrible face and she's got both her hands on my butt. She's talking. 'What you wearing jeans for? You should be wearing tights with an ass like this. Makes it much more satisfying to smack.' She raised a hand and clasped it back to my ass. 'Gives it that lovely wobble.'
My mouth was suddenly dry. You have to understand – I cross-dress. Nobody knows except Jen, and I trust Jen not to tell anyone. I think I do, anyway. I put on my panties, tights, skirt, bra, vest top a couple of times a week. Don't laugh: I stuff my bra with a couple of small, round-ish cuddly toys. I don't even know how to describe what animal they are. I shave my full body religiously, I cannot abide my bodily hair... but now she's talking about my fantasies? This is not happening. This was happening – she looked right at me, and I wasn't moving. Reader, I wasn't moving away. 'Go on,' she said, in that revolting, girlish voice of hers, 'go and put your little tights on, girlie.' She released me. I was redundantly holding an Earl Grey teabag. She took it out of my hand and binned it. I stood there a moment longer and then left the kitchen.
I walked upstairs like a zombie – no, I didn't. I felt braindead but I raced up those stairs. I went straight to my room. I stopped outside. I listened closely because I heard something I knew. I stopped and I listened and I heard Jen's breathing in Elsa's room. I knew the breath; I had breathed the breath. It was the breath of someone who has recently had the crap fucked out of them and doesn't have the energy to do anything but lie there and think of being fucked. I entered my room and my hand was already on my waistband.
Now, what the fuck? All of this was wrong. Firstly: I'm queer. I don't identify as gay because queer is a much better word and I don't feel that gay adequately covers the desire to cross-dress, and I've slept with women anyway, but that was long ago and I was a horny teenager raised in a very straight world – and then things made sense, and I went off women completely, and now what the hell am I doing? My face was hot. My ass felt soft. My hands were tearing at my waistband without thought, pulling off my jeans and boxer shorts. I pulled my t-shirt off, too. I opened the third drawer down on my bedside table and pulled out my black tights. No panties, just the tights... I was half-hard already. I pushed my dick to the side and pulled the tights on. My tights are what I wear when I feel like sex, and I felt like sex – makes sense, right? When you think of it like that, everything makes sense. Nothing has to fit a grand scheme. Consistency is a stupid idea. But no, bullshit, I was horrified by what I was doing. Horrified, fascinated, and insanely turned on.
Then came the knock at the door. That took me by surprise – how had she got up the stairs so quietly? The blood roaring in my ears gave me my answer. Fuck. She giggled outside, her voice muffled. 'Are you going to open up for me, girlie?' Girlie was what she called Jen. It infuriated me that she belittled their relationship, but then it struck me that there were more pressing matters. I didn't say anything. I was standing there in just my tights. I want to say for my own self-esteem at this point: I have a nice stomach. I had absolutely no sag over the tights, just a fairly well-defined six-pack. My chest isn't exactly huge, but it's pretty nice, I think, and I've touched a lot of nice chests. And of course, not a trace of hair. Ugh. Why do we grow hair? It's so pointless. And the doorhandle turned and the door opened and I was wearing nothing but my tights.
