okay so sarah made this bet with me at her sorority formal and i’m still not sure how we got here but the short version is i said the bengals were gonna cover and she said if they didn’t i had to do whatever she wanted for a night. the bengals didn’t cover. like not even close. they lost by 14.
sarah runs a sorority house and she’s got what her girls call “main character energy” which basically means she gets bored easy and makes decisions that create stories. so that’s how, at 7:47pm last saturday, i’m standing in the bathroom of her four-bedroom apartment in a full face of makeup and a black wig that cost sixty dollars on amazon that feels like it’s made of spun fiberglass.
the dress is hers. it’s a little black dress, actually sits fine on me, hits right at the knee, has this cute boat neck that she said “frames you the right way” which is something i never in my life thought i’d hear about my body. the heels are four inches and nude and they make me about six-foot-two, which is stupid because i’m already six-foot and now i’m just obscenely tall.
“you look hot,” sarah says. she’s leaning against the bathroom counter with a cider, very pleased with her work. “like you’re someone i’d take home from a bar.”
“i hate this.”
“you look hot though.”
“i hate this.”
“let’s go to mcgillicuddy’s.”
mcgillicuddy’s is not the kind of place you go to be seen. it’s the kind of place you go to have a beer that tastes like broken dreams and listen to a guy named frank who’s been tending bar since 1987. it smells like spilled whiskey and regret. it is absolutely packed on a saturday night and sarah walks me in like we’re the most normal thing that’s happened there in months.
“water,” i tell frank. “sparkling if you have it.”
“we have tap,” frank says. he doesn’t even blink at the wig.
sarah gets a vodka soda. we sit in this corner booth that’s held together by pure spite and i’m trying very hard not to look at anyone but then i make the mistake of looking up and there’s this guy at the bar. i mean. tall. like actually tall. dark hair, broad shoulders, the kind of attractive that makes you do that stupid thing where you pretend you weren’t looking.
“oh no,” sarah says.
“what.”
“he’s looking at you.”
“he is not—”
“he is. oh my god, he’s getting up.”
the guy walks over. he’s like six-foot-five and smells like cologne and bar smell and underneath that just guy, and he says, “can i buy you a drink?” and he’s looking at me. at me. in sarah’s wig and sarah’s dress.
“she’s water,” sarah says immediately, like she’s my handler, which. she basically is.
“i’ll take a beer,” i say, which is dumb because i said i was drinking water but now i’ve committed to being someone who changes her mind and drinks beer, and he smiles like that’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard.
his name is chase. he’s in town visiting his brother, he’s got tattoos on his forearms that say something in a language that’s definitely not english, and he’s absolutely convinced i am a woman. like genuinely completely convinced. he keeps asking about my job (i said i do social media marketing which is close enough to true that i’m not lying) and where i’m from (i said the suburbs which i’m also not lying about) and he keeps touching my arm when he laughs at his own jokes.
sarah is having the time of her life watching this. i can feel her just vibrating across the table.
after three beers that i’m nursing like they’re medicine, chase leans in and says, “i’m gonna go to the bathroom. when i come back, will you come outside with me? i’m parked in the back.” and then he reaches over and runs a thumb across my cheekbone like he’s wiping off my makeup. he’s not. i’m just touching my face and staring at him and he’s still looking at me and i realize, with this sickening lurch of panic and excitement, that he means it. he means come outside. he means what comes next.
i go to the bathroom. i’m looking at myself in this scratched mirror in a dive bar bathroom and i’m wearing a wig and a dress and heels and my cock is hard in my underwear and i’m not playing anymore. i’m not doing this as a bet. i want this. i want him to think i’m a girl. i want to be his girl, for like an hour, for like the time it takes to fuck me in his truck.
the bathroom door opens. it’s chase. he comes in and locks the door behind him.
“i couldn’t wait,” he says, and he’s kissing me against the sink before i can even think about it, one hand in the wig (which stays on, thank god, because i’m not confident enough to remove it), one hand on my waist, and he tastes like beer and he’s this warm wall of guy pressed against me and i’m melting.
he breaks away. “come home with me?”
“not yet,” i say, and then i’m on my knees.
the bathroom at mcgillicuddy’s is disgusting. the floor is wet and sticky and i don’t want to know. i don’t care. i’m pulling his jeans down in a bathroom at mcgillicuddy’s and his cock comes out hard and hot and he’s big, this thick length that’s been pressing against his jeans, and i wrap my hand around the base and lick the head.
“fuck,” he says. “fuck, you’re actually—”
i suck him into my mouth. he’s so big that it’s a reach, my jaw opens up and the head slides past my teeth and he tastes like salt and he smells so fucking good, this warm guy-smell under the cologne, and he has one hand on the back of the wig and one on the sink to hold himself up and he’s looking down at me like he can’t believe i’m real.
“you’re gorgeous,” he says. “god, you’re gorgeous.”
i gag on him. he’s deep in my mouth and my eyes are watering and i don’t care. i take him deeper. he starts to move, slow thrusts, his hand gentle on the wig, asking permission without using words, and i hum around him and he groans.
“okay. no. not here.” he pulls out, his cock shiny and hard. “come on.”
back of the bar. we slip out the bathroom door and through the kitchen (frank doesn’t even look up) and into the parking lot. his truck is a ford, dark blue, and he opens the passenger door but he doesn’t let me get in. he pushes the seat back instead and he’s lifting my dress and he’s pushing my underwear down and i’m sitting in the passenger seat of his truck in a wig and nothing else and he’s kneeling between my legs.
“can i?” he says.
“yeah.”
he eats me like he means it. his mouth on my cock, his tongue working, one hand holding my thigh, and i’m gripping the back of the seat and the wig is slipping and i don’t care. he’s sucking me and his other hand comes up and slides into me without lube without asking and it burns a little and feels incredible and his fingers are curling inside me and his mouth is tight and hot and i’m gonna come.
“wait,” he says. he sits up. “i got you.”
he’s pulling a condom and lube from his glove compartment like he knew. like he planned it. like he heard me come in there in heels and a wig and decided he was gonna fuck me before it happened.
lube on his cock. the condom rolls on. he’s positioned between my legs and he’s pushing in and oh god it’s so much, he’s thick and long and my body is stretching to take him and one hand is on the back of my head and he’s pulling me towards him and he’s kissing me while he fucks into me.
the heels are still on. they’re digging into the dashboard and the truck is shaking and anyone could see and i don’t care. he’s deep inside me in a parking lot behind a dive bar and i’m wearing sarah’s wig and sarah’s dress and sarah’s makeup and i’m the girl and i’m his.
“that’s it,” he says. “fuck, you’re so tight, just like that.”
he’s moving faster. his breath rough against my neck. one hand on my hips pulling me down, the other on the back of the wig, holding me to him, and i’m arching up into every thrust and my cock is hard and leaking between us and he’s hitting something deep that makes my vision blur.
“come,” he says. “come for me.”
i do. right there in his truck, come all over his shirt, and he follows like three strokes later, a deep groan into my shoulder, his whole body tight and shaking.
we sit there. the truck is fogged up. the heels are off somewhere. my hair is a disaster.
my phone buzzes. it’s sarah.
sarah: where the fuck are you???
i text her back:
me: still outside. give me five
i’m lying. i’m gonna give myself ten. maybe fifteen. chase is still inside me and he’s soft now but he’s not pulling out and his head is on my chest and i’m running my fingers over the wig that somehow stayed on and thinking that i never want to take the dress off.
he pulls out eventually. finds my underwear. kisses my temple while i’m putting my makeup back in a truck mirror at 9:47pm on a saturday.
“can i get your number?” he says.
and i almost say yes but then i remember the wig and the dress and i’m gonna take them off tonight and he’s gonna have no idea who i am and it’s gonna feel weird and sad in a way i’m not ready to unpack.
“i’m just in town for tonight,” i lie. then i kiss him once more, quick, before he can argue, and i get out.
sarah is waiting by the front door with her arms crossed and the look of someone who just watched her friend disappear with a stranger and decided it was still hilarious.
“well?” she says.
i don’t answer. i hand her the wig.
she takes one look at my smudged makeup and my wrinkled dress and she starts laughing.
“oh my god. oh my god, you actually—”
“don’t say it.”
“you were into it. you liked him.”
“i liked the dress.”
“you liked the dress,” she says, very seriously, and then she looks down at the wig in her hands like it’s evidence of a crime.
“shut up and drive,” i say.
she drives me home. the dress is still on. the heels are on the floor of her truck and i don’t ask her to retrieve them. i’m thinking about calling him. i’m thinking about the wig. i’m thinking about what it felt like to be someone else, someone he wanted, someone who wore heels and let a stranger fuck her in his truck.
my roommate asks where i’ve been. i tell him i had a date.
i’m still not sure if i’m lying.
