Liz May 7, 2026

 (This is part of a series of true stories, slightly altered by largely how they happened)

 

I tell Liz I go both ways on the drive to her house from the club. I figure it is a good way to get into her pants, when I’m just the sound man, and she loves the band. And she wants anyone of them to take her to bed.

She has pictures of David Bowie in every room, and I figured this might give me the edge if I tell her I’d dress up as a girl if she want – when no one else in the band would dare.

I’m more than a little drunk, and maybe don’t know exactly what I’m saying, it just felt right coming out.

And it seems to work. She seems legitimately impressed, claiming she doesn’t find many men like me who are willing to say it outright.

She’s in the van with me, and when we arrive, the rest of the band is there, and other girls from the club, for a party Liz held in our honor.

Over time, guys pair off with girls and wander into rooms elsewhere in the house. Hank falls asleep.

Liz is like a bumble bee going from one man to another, from this room to that, while I wait and hope she’ll finally reach me.

She smiles at me. She points to one of the still vacant rooms, a bedroom, and I stagger in that direction, falling over pieces of furniture I can’t see in the haze.

I don’t turn on the light in the bedroom, I just sit, and wait, and wonder what is taking Liz so long to arrive, and when she sticks her head through the cracked door, she says for me to get dressed.

“I’ve left you stuff on the chair,” she says, pointing to the corner of the room.

I have to squint to make out the skirt, blouse, bra and panties.

“You expect me to put those on?” I ask, horrified.

“You said you would,” she says.

I don’t recall putting it exactly that way, and tell her so.

“Do it for me,” she says. “and hurry.”

I’m too drunk and horny to argue, and do my best to comply, feeling the softness of the clothing she provided, though I struggle to get the bra on, then sit on the bed to wait, thinking how great the sex would be, how much better she would think of me, but I feel like a whore.

When she finally arrives again, she’s brought her brother.

“He’s into Bowie, too,” she says. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just sit in the corner and watch.”

email to Al Sullivan