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Nathan gave me the once over, unmistakably undressing me in his mind, having caught the obvious double entendre. I felt even more turned on than I usually did when I knew someone was checking me out, because I knew he was able to see the male me beneath the dress. And also because I knew my body was different because of the drag: I'd shaved. Chest, legs, armpits, all smooth flesh. Soon I'd have stubble all over my body, coarse and prickly, rubbing against the inside of my clothes, rubbing against other flesh. I tried to imagine how it would feel to run a tongue across my stubbly chest and nipples. This decision I'd made--to do drag for Wigstock with my friend--was going to be with me for many weeks. My friend, Miss Flush, was a swimmer, and had even taken a medal at the Gay Games last year. I remembered the stories she'd told me (her makeup was done now and she had her wig on, so her gender had changed over when we talked about her, same as mine had since I was also mostly done except for the nails and wig) about shaving down before the meets, how everyone was checking each other out as they shaved each others' nearly-naked bodies down, how it was all intensely erotic, male flesh everywhere, bulging out of tiny speedos. The scene here was kind of like that, with everything serving to remind you that these bodies were so male underneath the makeup and the wigs, underneath the shaved chests and armpits and legs. I'd never done drag before, except once during my freshman year in high school when I'd had to play Juliette in a skit we performed at a pep rally. As the youngest member of the track team, I was given the most humiliating part, and because I had that lanky young boy runner's frame I looked much more femme than any of the women, who were all rather square-shouldered and thick-calved from running with the team and working out for years. "Sure," Nathan said, and took the bottle of polish from me. The phone rang. George picked it up and said, "Salon." I looked over my shoulder to watch the computer screen for a moment. They were picking strippers, and a not-especially attractive skinhead with a big dick was beating himself off on the black leather couch that Nathan and I were sitting on. I tried to imagine this apartment as the set of a porn shoot. One way to cut costs. "Look at this," Eric was saying, "the leather guy just said he was 25 in the sound byte, but his statistics say he's 29." "Can't we watch the guppie sequence again?" Bernie begged. "Look at how long his nails are," Peter exclaimed, as the action moved in for a close-up of him fisting his meat just before the cum shot. I looked down at my own nails. Nathan was working on my third one, painting with even strokes from the moons towards the tip. I couldn't help glancing down past our cluster of fingers into his crotch, so near at hand, as it were, and looking oh so inviting. "Flo has such lovely long fingers," Nathan said, lifting my hand for a moment to show everyone his handiwork at painting my nails, then replacing my hand on his knee. "I bet they'd feel great wrapped around a cock." He didn't look up as he said this, but continued to paint the next nail. It was the same sort of machismo semi-porn talk we'd all been making all afternoon, so I didn't really think he meant for me to act on it. It was all bravado. But I wanted to take him up on it, so badly, and I wondered what he'd do if I called his bluff. He was flirting with me, I knew, which felt great since I was so unsure how I looked right then. I'm not usually much of an exhibitionist, but then, I wasn't usually wearing a dress; maybe there was something about already being so far out there, in terms of my appearance, that made me bolder than I normally would be. "That can be easily arranged," I said, and with my free hand I unzipped his jeans. My fingers snaked into his fly and worked their way across his underwear, groping along his cock and balls. I could feel him began to stiffen under my touch, through the fabric. He was wearing white briefs of some sort, and I tugged at the elastic waistband to free his cock. I pulled it through the fly of his jeans, as it continued to swell within my hand, and began working my way up and down the shaft. Around us, everyone was going about their business as usual. The phone rang and George answered it, "Futura Bold." Simon declared, "Looks like we've lost two queens before we've even started." But once they'd gotten a look at Nathan's prick they went back to their own preparations. Except for Bernie. Bernie was digging about in the cardboard box of wigs and a moment later came striding over to us with a long blonde braid that was meant as an extension. "I always knew you were a bottle job," Bernie told Nathan, as he wrapped the extension around Nathan's cock and balls, tying it off with a flourish and a bow. "There, now," he said, "crotch wig slash cock ring," and turned on his heels away from us. I was still pumping up and down on Nathan's cock as he painted a second coat on the nails of my left hand. His strokes were no longer as even as they had been, but he was trying.. ------------------------------------------------------------------------
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