“Hold still!” Paulie’s sister complained as she leaned in,
trying to get the mascara and eyeliner she applied to him just right.
“Why am I doing this?” Paulie asked me, seeing me in the
mirror, but unable to turn his head.
“The band wants you to look like David Bowie,” I said, half
laughing, but a bit alarmed, too.
“This isn’t looking like David Bowie,” Paulie snapped,
waving his hand at his made up face and at the rest of the attire his sister
had provided for him.
“Hold still,” his sister growled, and then at me, “Stop
provoking him. I’m almost done.”
That was the problem. Paulie didn’t look like David Bowie.
He looked like any number of the girls the band’s two guitarist took out to the
parking lot between sets.
I mumbled something about this to his sister, who seemed to
be enjoying the whole thing way too much, even though she was startled when Paulie
asked her to do this for him.
He did not see the look in her eyes, that odd spark, an odd
thought his request inspired in her.
Paulie had grown up in a household of girls, sisters,
mothers, an occasional aunt, and over the years, his sisters, even his mother
complained about having to live with a boy in the house, telling him he should
have kept life simple for all of them and been born a girl.
“Your worried way too much about this,” his sister assured
him, as she finished up his face, stepping back to admire him as if an artwork.
“You said the others are supposed to dress up like Bowie, too. So, nobody will notice
you too much.”
“I told you, this isn’t Bowie,” Paulie said, his palms
rising to almost cup the fake boobs his sister had installed under the bra
Paulie did not want to wear.
“No one notice,” his sister said, then asked me to reassure
Paulie, when I also had my doubts.
“Why did you make him use the hair remover?” I asked.
“Because his hairy legs would have ruined the pantyhose,”
she said. “And his stubble would have ruined the look for his face.”
“But that’s not all the places you shaved,” Paul grumbled.
“Stop complaining,” his sister said. “I told you it will
grow back. You wouldn’t want anybody to see the hair.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t.”
“In the men’s room they would,” his sister said. “Which is
why I told you you should use the ladies room when you have to go at the club.”
“Oh that would look fine!” Paul said. “The lead singer
everybody knows going into the toilet with the girls.”
“Stop talking. I have to put your lipstick on.”
“Why do I have to wear lipstick and why that awful cherry
red color?”
“To go with our nails, silly,” his sister said.
She had painted his nails first to give them time to dry.
“I don’t like this,” Paulie said.
“You’re the one that asked for it,” his sister said. “Just
be quiet, I’m almost done, although you’re going to have to fix your lips later
at the club, especially after you’ve given some guy a blow jog.”
“What kind of fucking remark is that?” Paul squealed.
“I’m only kidding,” his sister said.
I wasn’t sure she was. She had that same devious look in her
eyes that I’d seen when Paulie first made the request.
‘Stand up,” she told Paulie. “Let me look at you.”
He stood; he wasn’t Paulie. He looked too good, too much
like one of his older sisters, only a lot more slutty.
“Perfect,” his sister announced. “Now you’re better get going
to the club. You wouldn’t want to be late.”
Then, with that same gleam in her eyes, she looked at me, “Don’t
go hitting on him along the way. But if you do, remember what I said about his
needing to fix up his lipstick.”
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