CALL OF THE DAY: dressing up for dinner
Go get your ass cleaned out, honey, I’ll pull the quiche out of the oven and be there in a minute!
He’s in his mid-60s, an “old hippie”, he calls himself, complete with the flowing silver mane that reaches the middle of his back, unless he’s done it up in a tidy chignon to go with his outfit. He cross-dresses, in real life, I think, because his taste in combining colors and styles is exactly what I think an older man who got used to his wife picking out his dress-up clothes would have.
I haven’t talked to him in a while; it was just a few calls that I did with him a couple of years ago, over the span of a couple of months. But I remember him very clearly, which tells you what a distinct impression he left on me. From what I can piece together, his wife was the one who suggested that he start dressing up after he brought her back some particular fancy and complicated piece of lingerie. “If I have to wear this shit,” she said, “it’s only fair that you do, too.” He agreed, put it on, and found that he enjoyed the feeling of satin and ribbons and lace so much that they just kept on going in the same style. Apparently she even suggested pegging—decades before that term was invented—using the same rationale: what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. So bend over, baby: if you want my ass, I’m going to get yours first.
I really enjoyed talking to him, he was so chill and matter-of-fact about this robust fancy-pants gender-switching life that he and his wife shared, way back in the ’70s. Post-Stonewall, yes, but well before the Internet and fetlife and widespread for-pay phone sex and the Internet and GLBT center support groups and THE INTERNET made things a little easier to find your fellow pervs. It was just him and his wife. They lived in upstate New York, far away from the big city. They didn’t have any kink community. They created their whole sexy life from scratch. She passed away more than 10 years ago, and I don’t think he’s added any more pieces to his wardrobe. I don’t think he would want to. Not without her.
And now he’s retired and on a budget, and anyway, I think the sensation is more important to him than the fashion, so when he told me about his pink stilettos and pantyhose and burgundy floor-length dress (one day’s outfit, as an example), I was not going to lodge any fashion criticisms. She had chosen the dress for him; he reminisced about the time they went shopping together for it, and he sneaked into the fitting room to try it on.
He told me, half-jokingly, that he was going for the 1970s housewife experience; while we were talking about my rimming his ass and him coming all over my tits and licking it up, he had a roast beef and a baked potato cooking in the oven, “with a bit of sour cream and green onion.”
Starting with a salad and ending with some coffee and brandy, right?
I could almost hear his pleased smile through the phone.
“Exactly.”
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