Chapter 36: Absent SoulsThe night of my st date with Harry came quickly.

  The anticipation of never wearing panties again made the sed half of my stay at the Asklepios iearly unbearable. Totally focused on that approag day, I found it almost intolerable to tinue prang and practig and pretending to be dy. After all, what was the point? Disc Larry the Stalker had put my paranoia to rest--obviously Scooter and K were right and the Asklepios ic was a safe haven from the long, psychotic arm of Jeremiah Steele. Soorail would grow cold, and I’d be reied as a new man, and everything I’d learned about being dy would bee a surreal memory.

  It was only my tinuing ‘dates’ every sed night with Harry Longman that gave me any iive whatsoever to not only tihe dy charade, but to tinuously improve the role. I wao be the best, god-damn-girliest dy I could for the guy.

  Listen, I know how gay that sounds. Why the hell would any guy want to put himself through this kind of bullshit? The thing is, I wasn’t just pying the star-struck fan . . . Harry really was my hero, ever since I first picked up a guitar back when I was fourteen. The man was a friggin’ guitar god, know what I mean? And he wasn’t some strutting guitar-wanking egomaniac either. It wasn’t just those cool-as-shit solos he effortlessly ripped through when he could be bothered; the man was an eveer writer. He saw me through some tough teenage angst, Harry did. And he supplied the only goddamn thing that Persephone and I ever agreed on: a song. The dude gave Sephy and me ‘our song’, and the memories I attach to that musid those lyrics are more precious than he could possibly imagine. He’d never fully realize how much I owe him.

  I also khe kind of guy Harry was. In some ways we were quite simir, him and I; women liked us, areated them like shit. The differenbsp; Harry was suave and rid an artist. When he crapped all over people, they pped it up like honey.

  And finally, I uood on some instinctive level that Harry needed my panionship as much as I needed his. The guy was seriously fucked up--almost as much as I was. He needed me and I owed him; but for me to hang out with him I had to be pretty and vivacious, a high-heeled blonde, a cute piece of ass. Yeah, pying the part was seriously fug with my head but I’ll say this: I was amazed at how easy it was getting to be. The ease with which I shifted into dy was really starting to scare me.

  Another week and a handful of i get-togethers slid by, and then it was the night before my scheduled surgery. Harry met dy for o date.

  They met at the Bacchus Bar as the suled behind the forested hills and the ic fell into quiet darkness. The older man and his young panion sat in a secluded booth far in the back, watg as the bar slowly grew busy. Gsses ked and voices raised in versation joiogether in the oldest symphony of all, a familiar backdrop for a final date.

  dy, feeling more than a little drunk, giggled as the rock star awkwardly reached around her, an arm rubbing up against her breast.

  “You’re just trying to cop a feel, you pervert!”

  “Show respect for teacher, girl,” Harry growled.

  “Yes sir!”

  “It’s like this,” he said, pressing down on her fingers. “Then here, and here,” he added, his fingers guiding hers across the frets.

  “Like this?” dy asked. Her tongue peeked out from between glossy lips as she trated on the guitar. She repeated the positions with only a little awkwardness.

  “Yeah, not bad.”

  She tried again, faster. “Cool! I’ve never been able to get that bit.”

  “You learn fast.”

  “Thanks!”

  “You might want to trim those nails before trying it for real, though. They’ll mess up your chords.”

  dy stuck her to at him. “But they’re so pretty,” she said, gng aside at him before turning back to the instrument. “Don’t you like them?” She focused for another moment on the guitar, and thely id it aside. Her hands fell limply in her p. “Um, Harry?” dy sounded nervous. “Your . . . arms?”

  Harry started as if poked awake. His arms still encircled her. His touch drifted to her waist, fingers lightly grasping just beh the swell of each breasts. His breath was momentarily hot on her neck as his touch slid up her side before ing to rest on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  dy scooted a small distance away down the booth. Her eyes dropped shyly away. “No, it’s . . . okay,” she murmured. She looked momentarily apprehensive, and then licked her lips and gave a small smile. She darted forward and nded a quick, light kiss on his cheek. His skin was rough and up close, he smelled slightly of old leather and shaving cream; it was a fatherly st. Her cheek hovered o his, hesitantly, before she pulled away. Their faces were close and Harry’s eyes glittered darkly, expetly.

  dy smiled demurely. “I have to go tinkle,” she whispered, and giggled, and slipped away from the booth.

  A mier dy stood ihroom of the Bacchus Bar, hands gripping the edges of the smooth por sink tightly. Her knuckles whitened; I gritted my teeth and stared into the mirrhast. My head was beginning tain, the pain pierg through my pleasant drunkenness. Why was this so hard? It shouldn’t be so hard. I’d been through this before--with that guy in the elevator, for young Tim, hell, I’d even pranced around in lingerie for that creepy Agent Fuy. But tonight was--different.

  Of course it was! What the hell had I expected? When a rich, good-looking guy takes a cute young thing out to a bar, he’s got expectations, yeah? Up until tonight Harry had been a real gentleman. In his pce I would’ve made third base with dy by now, iven up on that bitbsp; But Harry had css. A handful of dates and he’d settled falnt lips brushing my hand, a few intimate hugs, a chaste kiss to the cheek.

  But tonight . . . tonight, a much heavier expecy hovered between us, and there art of me that felt pelled to reward him for his efforts. I’m a man; I knew what Harry wanted.

  Dark eyes the colour of fallen leaves iumn twinkled with amusement in my mind, turned green and I saw myself in the mirror: the painted fad blonde hair and bright eyes wide with surprise and fright. My hands tightened in frustration as I took in: breasts and vagina, bra and panties, stogs and heels, nail extensions and polish, tight gy clothes and pierced ears, perfume, lipstick, God, so much, and all the invisible gestures and acts that defined dy as a girl, that made dy--not me.

  This wasn’t what I wanted. Hanging with this guy was a dream e true--but I wao do it as David, as a man, not as some flustered female groupie. How could I py the girl in a date . . . how could I be the fug girlfriend? What I wanted was to pound back pints of bitter instead of sipping wine; I should be shooting pool, grinding out power chords and hitting on chicks with Harry--not fttering his ego and toying with my hair and giggling at his goddamn jokes.

  My hand smmed against the side of the sink, palm ft, with power that belied my delicate disguise. What I wanted was to smash that mirror with my fist and splihat reflected image into a thousand pieces. The dull pain in my hand seemed to distract from and relieve the pressure in my temple. No. I couldn’t do this, indulge in this pathetic dispy of machismo; not now. For one final night I had to accept that David couldn’t be here.

  What was the alternative--walking out on Harry? Because I sure as hell didn’t want to; I was having too much fun, even wearing a skirt. I had to admit a very real thrill at cradling one of Longman’s famous guitars in my arms. The one he’d been teag me with, he pyed way ba his legendary “Absent Souls” tour way ba ’28. I’d watched the video—like, tless times. That right there almost made the whole bullshit dy-sario worthwhile.

  I shook my head, golden tresses falling like a curtain ay fabsp; With a timid gesture I brushed my hair back behind my eyes, suddenly demure and quiet once again. Looking through the thick veil of my shes I smiled tentatively at the pretty girl I saw in the gss. David couldn’t be here--but dy was.

  A quick dab of lipgloss, a little mascara and a touch of colour to my cheeks and I felt ready to face the world once again. I went to the bar and bought another round, a nice Shiraz for me and a cider for Harry, and ughed as some boy made an ambitious but clumsy pass at me. I was, like, just so out of his league.

  Drunk, happy, surrounded by the vibrant bustle of the pub, I threaded my way through the thiing crowd back to the table. Harry was waiting for my return with his arms thrown wide across the benbsp; He waggled his eyebrows at me and I ughed and sat o him. Without hesitation he dropped his arm around my shoulder, and whatever disfort I felt at the weight of man’s arm around me was easily ignored as I sunk bato my pleasant drunken haze. With a practiced stroke of my hand, I pulled the shih of my hair forward so that it wouldn’t get pinned a fall with a silken whisper over my left shoulder. I smoothed it down, fasated by how real it felt, the slight tug at my scalp, its rich shine and golden hue a soft backdrop to the glitter of those silver bangles and shiny rings. Pg my wine gss oable--almost knog it over, resetting it with a soft giggle--I settled bato the crook of Harry’s arm.

  “Feeling okay?” he asked.

  “I do now,” I answered.

  Author's Notes:

  If you're impatient to read on, you find ter chapters at FM S. You also find everything avaible on Patreon: patreon./fakeminsk, as well as fanart and a few side projects.

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