“Man doesn’t want you having sex, but pays a guy to look inside you? I’d be looking for a way out, too.”
Day ? Month ? 2015
GM: Emmett has nothing but time in prison.
Nothing but time and Cécilia’s pencils and notebooks.
He writes his stories.
Stories from his imagination. Stories from his life.
He has so many stories.
The ones from his life come easier. They’re already written.
There was another story he didn’t tell Yvette.
Another story, with another girl. ‘A’ girl. Every great story has ‘a’ girl.
He didn’t tell Yvette to hide it from her. He had no secrets left. It just wasn’t relevant, and would’ve distracted from the narrative. Hell, he wasn’t even the main character.
It’s a good story, though.
It starts, like his first one did, with something he regretted later.
It starts with hating himself.
It even starts with Christina Roberts.
And it goes…
Friday afternoon, 21 November 2008
GM: Em’s second date with Mark doesn’t go as well as the first.
It goes worse.
It’s largely the same verbal and sexual degradation, though he does it in a dress, bra, and wig this time. Mark calls Em fouler names and seems even more turned on.
Or at least aggressive. Visiting his pent-up lusts on a girl (or at least boy who looks more like a girl) seems to embolden the gray-haired man. He cums over Em’s face and tells him to wipe it off, then “lick that up, you crossdressing little faggot. Lick it up with that man-pleaser mouth.”
Em is sore all day afterwards. He bleeds when he poops.
Christina Roberts sends him to a beauty salon before his next “date.” He’s under instructions to get “completely transformed” by the staff there. Clearly it’s what Mark is into.
Em could have gone to a real salon. But he took a quick look at those prices.
A little research, and he found out beauty schools have their own practice salons that offer cheaper treatments. There’s one relatively nearby in Algiers.
He doesn’t need the money, not really, with how much whoring pays.
Going to a cheaper place is just an act of petty, meaningless rebellion no one may even notice.
Like his life.
Support: The uniform at the John Jay Beauty College is black. Black scrubs, black aprons, black dress shoes. Even the headband Celia wears is black, pushing her hair back from her face to keep up with the neat appearance of the students at John Jay’s. She has a slip of paper in her hand as she moves into the waiting room, looking for her next client.
The waiting room itself, even at a school like this, is… comfortable. Shelves with products line the walls and invite perusal. A sofa and chairs dot the area in front of the reception desk. Guests are offered tea and water upon arrival, and if they have neither then Celia is supposed to offer again. She’s often reprimanded for forgetting.
“El… len?” she asks, hesitantly, as she stares down at the handwritten note in her hand. None of the women in the waiting room look up. She clears her throat, tries again. “El? Elliot?”
Emmett: The man who coughs and gets to his feet doesn’t look like he’s definitely gay, though. Well, he doesn’t look not gay, so much as he oozes sexuality that’s utterly indifferent to anybody’s tastes but his own perverse appetites.
At least, he normally does.
When the pretty girl (who does she remind me of?) calls Elliott’s name, it’s like a fresh coat of paint splashed over a wall with water damage. A boyish smile warms impishly handsome features. It’s only when his expression is so transformed that Celia realizes the ‘man’ is no older than her.
You could forget it looking into his eyes, though. There’s something lost and mischievous and dark in there, and it takes most people a long time to wander that far from themselves. The faint bruises on his face, and purpling around one of his eyes, don’t help him look younger.
He’s dressed in a silk button-down and sea-colored slacks, but he allows himself the freedom of an untucked shirt and unbuttoned sleeves.
“Elliott,” he agrees, extending a slender hand with aggressively trimmed nails. “And you are?”
Support: “Elliot.” Her eyes move across his face, and it’s after only a very brief pause that she takes his hand in her own. Her shake is less than firm. “Hi, Elliot. My name is Celia. I’ll be working with you today. We have you scheduled for an oxygen lift and makeup application.” There’s a slight lilt to the end of the sentence that turns it into a question, as if double checking the services.
“If you don’t mind following me, I’ve prepared a treatment room.” The girl at the front desk had already had Elliot fill out the paperwork—mostly a release form in case his technician messes anything up—and an agreement that he wouldn’t use Retinol based products for the next 24 hours. She leads him into the spa side of the school, quieter without the gossiping hairdressers and blow dryers, and into a small room with a flat massage table in the middle. The table is draped in sheets, a pillow on one side for his head and another at the other end that will go beneath his knees. Various bottles of skincare products line the counter near the sink.
“So, the oxygen lift is generally for drier skin. Is that a major concern for you? Or what is it that you know you need to focus on? You can have a seat if you like. In a moment I’ll step out to let you get ready.”
GM: His major concern is that he’s a piece of shit no one loves and everyone callously uses.
But you focus on the little things first, right?
Oxygen lifts. Dry skin.
Emmett: He cares about his appearance, but he’s also been blessed with looks that take care of themselves. It’s all the ugly he keeps inside.
“I honestly don’t know much about what’ll work for me,” he says. “I don’t think I have particularly dry skin. But I’d probably have to defer to you. I mean, you look spectacular, so I assume you know what you’re doing.”
He doesn’t put any particular emphasis or heat on the compliment. It’s one of the things you do automatically as a whore.
Support: Celia smiles at him, cheeks turning a pretty pink beneath the layers of concealer and foundation. The full coverage prevents it from being visible, but it’s there.
“Perfect. In that case, I’m going to step out for a sec, let you get settled. There’s a… they call it a smock but it’s kind of just a wrap. So there’s hooks on the back of the door, you can take your shirt off and put the wrap on and lay back on the table there. I’ll come back in and we can take a look at your skin under the light, and you can tell me more about what you’re looking for with the makeup after this so I can create a good base.”
Celia sees herself out to let him get settled.
Emmett: Meanwhile, the boy formerly known as Elliot whistles to himself as he removes the silk shirt from a chest that, if unmuscled, is at least scrawny and lean.
He wraps himself in the smock, or wrap, or loincloth, whatever, then lays down on the cool table and closes his eyes, waiting like a patient lover.
Or like a kid afraid of his first shot.
Support: Elliot has some time to enjoy the smooth jazz pumped in via the speakers. Nothing he’d recognize. Muzak and all that.
Eventually, though, Celia is back with a knock at the door and smiles at him.
“Tell me about what you’re going for tonight, look-wise.”
She starts the facial while she waits by wetting his skin. Then there’s an orange-scented cleanser that she applies liberally, her fingers gliding across his face the way she was taught. It’s half cleansing, half facial massage. Her touch is light, but thorough.
GM: Christina told him to arrive at the salon fully dressed up. Dress. Wig. Hose. Heels. “You don’t put on clothes after you put on makeup. The girls there won’t care what you look like.”
That’s another way to stick her the finger.
Stick her the finger while getting pounded in his rear.
Emmett: The answer, as with a great many subjects his mind wanders over as of late, is to not think about it.
Once, he might have felt some humiliation at his words, but not now. He didn’t even avoid wearing the dress out of pride. He just doesn’t like how it feels.
“Tonight, I need to be female. Well, feminine. Not too much paint, but enough to make me look different. Can you do that?”
He smiles faintly under her touch. “That feels nice. Do I know you from somewhere, by the way?”
Support: Turn a boy into a girl? Celia can do that. She tells him as much while she pulls a towel out of the warmer. It’s hot against her skin, but by the time she unrolls it and sets it against his face it has cooled enough to be comfortable. She uses it to remove the cleanser, then lets him know she’s starting the first of two masks. This one is for exfoliation. It has glycolic acid, which will break up any sebaceous filaments.
“People usually think those black dots on their nose and chin are blackheads, but they’re just clogged pores. This helps clean it out, and then I can extract them once we get them nice and pliant under the steam. This mask stays on for a few minutes.”
Her hands move from his body for a brief moment while she cleans them off, then they’re back on his shoulders. Her fingers glide across his traps and up his neck with firm pressure. Neck massage while masking. That’s the best part of any facial.
The first mask comes off with a sponge. Time for extractions. She puts a cotton pad over his eyes to protect them from the lamp that she swings across his face, then begins. It’s… well, sometimes it’s painful, but she doesn’t push against anything that isn’t ready to come out.
“Date tonight?” she asks.
Emmett: “That’s what they call it,” he agrees. “Not exactly what I’d say, though. More of an ordeal.” His eyes are still closed.
She didn’t answer that question, which makes him think she does know him. But does he know her? She’s so familiar, but somehow, he can’t think of why.
He doesn’t make any noise at the pains she causes him. They are gentle things next to some of what other women have inflicted on him.
Support: “You don’t sound very happy about it.”
Elliot has good skin. Celia tells him so. The extraction phase doesn’t last long; she gets out what she can, wipes down the contaminated areas with a swab of something similar to alcohol that will prevent infection, and moves on to the oxygen lift.
“This is my favorite mask. You can feel the bubbles foam and pop. But, hey, tell me about your date tonight. Where are you going?”
GM: A hotel room.
There’s never anywhere else.
Not even dinner like with some of his other clients.
Emmett: “It’s sort of an obligatory date,” he hedges, not particularly caring about that secret, but not wanting to scare her off too quickly. “The kind I’m not supposed to say no to. It’s with the guy who gave me these.” He twitches his cheek slightly, emphasizing one of the faint bruises there.
He smiles under the mask she gives him. “Then I guess it’s my favorite now, too.”
Support: Her movements slow. The mask does its thing beneath the steam, and her hands move once more to the massage. The neck and shoulders. She doesn’t dig, not quite, but if she does find an area of tension she lingers and presses a knuckle against it while the mask foams.
“Client-tech confidentiality clause,” she tells him, voice mild. There’s no judgment. “If you need to, you know, talk about it. Otherwise… I have a good concealer for that kind of thing, or if he prefers seeing them then I have a lighter coverage foundation for you. How glam are you going for?”
Emmett: “Is there?” he says, sounding surprised. “They really have confidentiality for everything these days, don’t they? Next bartenders won’t be able to tell you any good stories.”
“Hmm. Why don’t you disappear the bruises for now. I’ll see how he reacts tonight and we’ll see in the future. And any glam will go a long way with this guy. Subtle is always better with rich people. They like to think they’re paying for specialty.”
Support: “It’s literally my job to listen to you, you know,” Celia says with a laugh. “That’s part of the industry. We’re part therapist and part beautician. But sure thing, I’ll keep that in mind.”
The second mask comes off. She follows it up with an anti-aging serum and an eye cream. Then a moisturizer and lip balm. She talks while she works.
Emmett: “You don’t want to hear me talk about it, anyway. Celia, right? How’d you end up painting faces?”
GM: Hey, Celia. That’s his ex’s name, if a couple letters poorer.
Support: “I… just enjoy it. I’ve been into it since I was a kid, really. I go to Tulane, actually, but I’m here part time because this is what I really want to do. My mom helped me get my foot in the door.”
“So I’m at two schools at once. It’s kind of intense. But fun! Very fun.”
Emmett: “That does sound intense,” he agrees, wondering if it’s more or less stressful than working as a whore.
He would ask, but he assumes she’s never had sex for money, and he’s never gone to college. So, really, who’s to say?
Support: Celia asks if he’d like lash extensions for his eyes. Really make them pop, she explains, and tells him the procedure: she’ll put an extension on each one of his normal lashes, a few millimeters longer than his lashes. It’ll give them a nice curl, make them darker, longer, thicker. She can add some volume fans to fill in the gaps.
“The nice thing about extensions,” she tells him, “is that they last for a few weeks, so the first time takes a while to put on but then you come get them filled in every two to three weeks and it doesn’t take as long.”
A while, as it turns out, is two hours. Celia has him stay where he’s at on the table and look up for her so she can tape down his lower lashes, then puts a pair of eye pads beneath either eye to protect his skin. It’s not altogether uncomfortable, but it’s a little weird to feel it for the first time, especially since she showed him the tweezers she was going to use. Sharp. Two of them. Right near his eyes.
The lashes she gives him only go up to 11 millimeters. His own natural lashes are not much shorter, but if she goes too long then the extensions will damage his normal lash, and she doesn’t think that he wants to look like a girl all the time anyway.
“I’m going to follow the natural shape of your eye. Add a little bit longer in the middle, shorter on the ends. It’s what we call a doll-eye look, really opens up your eyes, makes them look a lot bigger. A lot of people like that.”
She explains the fans, too, how she takes three extensions, dips one end in the glue to keep it together, and then puts the fan on one of his lashes. It fills in gaps, makes them look fluffy. Not too many, though, because he’s a boy and only needs them for a special event.
Like the massage, her touch is gentle. He can barely feel it when she starts to work, and rather than pester him with questions about his date and life she lets him sleep. Tells him that a lot of people fall asleep, really, and it’s not a big deal.
All in all, the extensions take about two hours. She mists his face with a tiny bit of water to set the glue, dries him with a hand fan, and gently rubs his shoulder to wake him up when it’s done.
The first two parts are done. Now it’s just makeup. Celia excuses herself from the room and lets him know he can get dressed again, and she’ll meet him right outside the room when he’s ready to apply his face.
Emmett: He joins her outside after throwing his shirt back on.
“Anyways, I know better than anybody that just because something’s your job doesn’t mean it’s what you’d like. There’s too much pretending in this world. I won’t force somebody to listen to me if they’ve got more important things to talk about.” He chuckles. “Like what they’re going to do when they finish… I think it’s called beauty school, but I wouldn’t know lipstick from a glue stick.”
Support: “Beauty school is what they called it in the ’50s,” Celia tells him. She leads him to the vanity, where an array of makeup is waiting. Foundation, concealer, powders, blush, eyeshadow pallets, lipsticks in all sorts of colors. There’s an apron around her waist with a veritable army of brushes ready for use.
“Now it’s called cosmetology school if you’re going for hair, or esthetics if you’re for skincare. That’s what I’m doing. Skin, waxing, makeup. And while you do have a point, it’s kind of like… bartending?” It’s a question. “It’s about the experience.” She starts with a concealer to hide the worst of the bruises. It’s a little more yellow than his skin, but she explains the color will correct the purpling.
“Can I see what you’re wearing tonight? Helps me get a good look for the face.”
Emmett: He still has a selfie on his phone that he sent Christina as reference.
The overall vibe is very… “Goldilocks.”
Support: She nods and gets to work. Foundation, a little more concealer around the bruising to make sure it’s fully hidden, smokes out his eye with neutrals bleeding into dark grays.
“You asked what we do after this?” she says after some time. “I’d like to open my own place. Help people with skincare. I had… less than stellar skin growing up. Acne, all over.”
Hard to see it now behind all the makeup she’s wearing, but it’s possible he remembers her now—Cecilia’s ‘discount’ friend. The one who was teased about having chicken pox the day she didn’t have time to put on concealer before school.
Emmett: “Who among us, right?” he chuckles, though he absolutely had stellar skin growing up.
Support: “Esthi school is less of a time investment than derm school. Look up for me, like you’re rolling your eyes.”
She coats his waterline in white, to make his eyes look bigger.
“What do you do?
Emmett: He blinks at her question, then remembers to look up. “Oh, I thought you realized. I’m a whore, sweetie. Well, I kind of prefer gigolo, more syllables, but a rose by any other name, right?”
He’s kind of getting into this whole ‘spa’ thing. He doesn’t even have to worry about maybe seeming gay anymore. Cloud, silver lining?
Support: She stops what she’s doing. Her eyes blink rapidly, confusion coloring her face. She looks down at the brush in her hand, then back to his cheek.
It seems to click.
“Oh!” She leans in. “Like… for men?”
Emmett: “Like for people who pay me. Tonight, that means a man.” He smiles faintly at her. “You thought I was just a pervert?”
Support: “No. A crossdresser. Close your eyes a sec.” Celia sets what she has done on his face already with powder. She reaches for a blush that’s slightly darker than his skin and explains its contour, to chisel and shape his face. It will narrow his jaw, help bring his chin to a more delicate point.
Makeup is magical like that.
Emmett: He smiles benignly at the correction even as those eyes close indulgently. “That’s real politic of you. That the right word? Not everybody in this city would bother to point out the difference.”
Support: “Trans… vestites?” Celia says the word slowly. “How did you get into that?”
Emmett: His smile persists at her timidity, then sombers at her second question.
“Would you believe I was following my dreams?”
Support: “How does being a, um, a whore,” she lowers her voice, “help you follow your dreams?”
Emmett: “It doesn’t, except by giving me something I thought I wanted once. But when you get what you want, you get what once you wanted. I’ve gotten a lot of what I wanted when I was younger. I’m still less than what I was before.”
Support: Celia seems less sure what to say to that. But highlight follows the contour, then blush. NARS Orgasm, she tells him. Just came out. It has a tiny bit of sparkle, but the color is flattering on pretty much everyone.
Emmett: He laughs when she tells him the name of the brand. “Well, that’s only fitting, I suppose. That’s not going to be the only orgasm on my cheeks tonight.”
Support: “Do you mean he like… finishes on your… face?” She gestures toward her own face, as if she needs to explain further.
Emmett: ‘Elliot’ grins slyly at her. “Well, or my other cheeks. You’ve never talked about stuff like this before, have you?”
He feels like a sixth grader showing a younger kid a dirty picture. It is not an unpleasant feeling, having been on both sides of that exchange in elementary school.
He’s quiet for a moment. “You have family?”
Support: “I, um, no.” She tells him to look down without closing his eyes so she can add the eyeliner.
“Conservative parents. And I only just started seeing someone and he…” she lowers her voice again, “do guys enjoy doing that? Finishing on people’s faces? Is it, like, sticky?”
Emmett: His laugh is heartier now, but not unkind. “Very conservative parents. You remind me of a girl I knew in high school whose father tried to find out where I lived. And some of us do. Others are more, ah, courteous. I’m sure your beau’s one of the good ones. As for stickiness… ain’t any worse than molasses.” He winks, trying to provoke a laugh.
Support: Elliot gets the giggle he’s going for, quickly stifled by a hand over her mouth.
“Why did her dad try to track you down?” she asks, finishing the winged liner. She asks if he’d prefer false lashes or mascara.
Emmett: “It’s a silly story. She wanted to be in a movie I was making—to impress another girl, actually, but that’s a longer story. She and her mom both tried out, and the dad called me. He’s this real guff football fan, angry because he likes to know exactly where his little girl is and what kind of project I’m throwing together. He wanted to see the script, that kind of thing. He really starts breathing down my neck all the way across the line, so I kind of… provoked him.”
Support: “Huh. That does sound like my dad. Why would you provoke him? And what happened when you did?”
GM: Because he hurts less when other people hurt more.
Emmett: “Authority issues, I s’pose,” he says breezily. “What my mom always said, anyways. I was just perfectly polite, but just before I hung up I asked him to give my regards to Diana—and that was his wife’s name,” he smiles shyly. “It’s crazy, I actually found out from his girl later he’s a politician and all. Crazy family.”
Support: Celia’s brow furrows. “Mom never went out for a—”
She pauses. Clears her throat.
Emmett: He blinks, fucking up her work slightly. “Wait, what?”
Support: “You made that up.” But her voice lacks any real heat. It’s almost a question, like he has the answer to the game they’ve been playing.
Emmett: “I’m confused. Are you messing with me?” He’s trying to figure out if she’s kidding. “Um, what’s your dad’s name?”
Emmett: “Um.” He fidgets. “Shit.”
Support: Celia crosses her arms, his lips only half lined.
Emmett: He holds up his hands and says, “Look, this is embarrassing. We can pretend I didn’t say anything.”
But please don’t make me have to find another person to make me up like a girl. That’s a lot to put on a guy.
Support: Celia doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then she leans in to finish lining his lips. It prevents feathering and bleeding, she’d told him earlier. The trick is to use the same color as the lipstick to avoid looking dated. Or like a chola.
“…did you really tell him to give your regards to Diana?” She sounds amused. And impressed.
Emmett: He chuckles despite himself, actually flushing slightly even under all the makeup. “Like I said. Authority issues.”
Support: “Which of the girls came out for the movie? Isabel?”
Lipstick time. Red? She holds up two against his cheek, considering, and finally picks a third. Swipes it on.
Emmett: “Isabel and Diana both tried out, but didn’t know they both wanted a role. The movie never happened, anyways. Things didn’t go as planned.”
Support: “I heard. Blot.” She presses a tissue against his lips. Then a translucent setting powder. Then more lipstick. “Prevents it from smearing,” she explains. As if he’d asked.
“Do you still make movies?”
Emmett: His voice takes on an edge, but not a very sharp one. “What did you hear? And no. I moved onto the bigger and brighter thing that sits before you.”
Support: “There was a girl who…” Celia hesitates. “She had photos of you. Of the two of you.” She raises her brows at him, as if asking if she needs to spell it out.
Emmett: He snorts. “Yeah. I’ve seen the pictures. I missed the actual event.”
The bitterness in his voice is real now.
Support: It takes her a moment. She’s quiet. There isn’t much left to be done with his face. Then she leans in and hugs him, cheek on his shoulder. She’s careful not to mess up his face.
Emmett: He’s surprised by the gesture, a kinder one than he’s shown to anybody in recent memory. She can feel the tension slide out of his shoulders after a moment, and then a light arm on her back, returning the hug.
He’s careful not to say anything, though. He isn’t sure if he’ll break the spell.
Support: She doesn’t say anything, just runs a hand through his hair at the back of his head. When she finally pulls back she finishes his face with a spritz of setting spray.
“I’m not as crazy as the rest of the family. If you want to come back sometime.” Her smile is warm.
Emmett: He can’t say anything. And for a moment he’s terrified. He wasn’t even trying to, but he’s done the thing he always does.
He’s fooled somebody into thinking he’s good.
If she only knew… but she doesn’t, and he could not tell her if he wanted to.
The only right thing to do is to walk out of her life before he poisons it—like he did to Sami’s, and Ron’s, and his own.
So instead he says, “I think I’d like that.”
Friday afternoon, 28 November 2008
GM: Business sends Em back to the salon. His ‘boyfriend’ evidently loves the makeup job, because he calls him a “sissy faggot,” “crossdresser boywhore,” and “my fuckable little bitch” more times than “disgusting cocksucker.” They do oral more than anal that night, so Mark can get a good look at his dolled-up face all throughout. He even cums over Em’s eyes. It stings. Like fucking crazy. Em might wonder if he’s about to lose his sight.
Maybe there’s shit in those makeup chemicals. Maybe there’s shit in his client’s cum.
Or maybe he’ll go blind because Clarice was right and he’s brought it upon himself.
Em goes back to the salon, though. Mark wants his transformation to be “even more complete.” He wants Em to look like a girl in all ways, from his face to his clothes to his body to his mannerisms.
“Get more of that shit from whoever you’re getting it from. God you’re such a fuckable little bitch.”
His eye still stings the next morning.
Emmett: He goes to her again, specifically, not wanting a stranger to deconstruct and reassemble him.
He should probably be asking what to do about the various loads Mark blew on his expensive eyelashes, but he would rather talk about anything else, so he lets Celia do most of the talking for their next appointment. He’s sure she has lots of stories, as the sane one in her family.
Support: The room they end up in is not the same as the first time. Celia has him lie back while she gathers supplies. She bemoans the state of his lashes—you can’t get anything on them, she tells him, or the fans close—and uses tweezers and a cream adhesive remover to begin popping them off.
Stories, though, she has in droves: that time at the insectarium at the zoo, when Isabel wanted to have her birthday party at the butterfly garden but there was a booking issue so they ended up surrounded by spiders instead. Her sister was not happy. Celia doesn’t think she’s ever seen that many children cry before.
All of the performances they went to see for their mom. The ballet. The beautiful dancers in their costumes. Celia talks about what it was like to watch her mom float across the stage, how all of the Flores girls were enrolled in classes but it never came naturally to her, how she had to practice so much harder and longer than everyone else to keep up. Until one day it finally clicked. “It’s like becoming a different person.”
She tells him, too, about the Worst Birthday Ever, though she tells it through rose-tinted glasses.
“So there I was, opening presents, and I kept thinking, none of these look like a pony. Not even a toy pony. And I get to the end and there’s no pony. And I was a kid, right, so I was upset, and I think my parents knew that, so my dad says something about having a tea party with me later, and then there’s a knock on the door. And right there, I kid you not, is a man with a pony. The pony just walks into our house as if it owns the place, has a little tutu and crown on. It was adorable.”
“I couldn’t keep it, of course, they said we didn’t have room for a pony, but then we moved later and… and had room for a pony. And I think maybe that’s when I thought magic might be real.” Her tone is wistful. “But, again, I was eight.”
Emmett: Elliot can relate to the dancing anecdotes. He grouses about having a stutter when he was young, how he was scared to talk in class for most of elementary school. He hated speech therapy, too, but one day his tongue found a way to click, too.
Then nobody could shut him up.
The pony story is wild, and he’s almost not sure he believes it. He can hear his father’s voice bemoaning straddling any creature with such frivolous accessories. But it’s also funny to imagine the gruff Maxen doting over his little girl.
Support: “So. Your lashes came off okay. I think with the, erm, the molasses,” she can’t help but giggle over the word, “we might just try strip lashes. They’re less expensive in the long run and you can remove them at night yourself, then just wash your eyes thoroughly to get rid of any remaining glue. Also don’t tell my instructors I told you this but you can literally buy them anywhere, and I can show you how to put them on if you want. It’s tricky at first, but once you get the hang of it you can do them in a car. Not that I recommend that.”
Emmett: Well, at least it’s not like money is an issue. He’ll pay for whatever needs to be done. He doesn’t even feel like shaking down Christina for the expenses.
He’s grateful for her advice, too. He likes cheaper.
Support: She is quiet for a moment. There wasn’t a full facial this time after the lash removal, but she took the time to wash and moisturize his face to help the makeup go on more smoothly. It’s after she finishes with the eye cream and the lip exfoliant (“to make you extra kissable”) that that she says,
“Can I ask you something? Personal?”
Emmett: He puckers his extra-kissable lips in response to her question. “I’d hope so, seeing as I’m about to ask you to groom my downstairs.” He smiles apologetically with that beautiful smile of her own making.
Support: “Groom your… oh! Of course.” There’s a red tinge to her cheeks as she tells him to go ahead and remove his pants for her, then pulls the wax cart over to get herself ready. Snaps a pair of gloves on.
“I’ll start with the back,” she says, and tells him he can either turn over and put his butt in the air or lift his legs up while he’s on his back.
“So my question,” she says as he figures out what he wants to do, “is if this guy you’re seeing knows you’re a guy, how come he wants you to dress like a lady?”
Emmett: It’s not impossible to retain a certain measure of dignity as he stares at her through his legs, ass in the air, his flaccid dick dangling between them like literal low-hanging fruit.
That’s what he tells himself.
“Well, you’d, uh, have to ask him,” he begins, “but educated guess? Guy is closeted, and pretty ashamed of it, so this is kinda his compromise. Lets him enjoy what he’s craving without feeling like he’s fuckin’ a man.”
“Sorry to be coarse,” he adds. She’s like a doe he doesn’t want to scare into flight.
Support: Celia’s eyes are not on his dick, to be certain. She does, however, examine his ass. She spreads his cheeks apart with her fingertips. There’s a round of cotton in her hand that she had pumped some sort of solution onto to clean and prep the skin. Then she dips what looks like a popsicle stick into the container of wax. She swirls it around, brings it back out, and swipes the wax across his rear following the pattern of hair growth. Just one strip.
“It’s okay,” she says, waving away his apology as she tosses out the stick, “I asked. Ready? Count of three. One, two—”
No time to tense. She yanks the strip of hardened wax from him in the opposite direction of the hair growth, making sure to pull his skin taut, and once the wax and hair is clear of his skin she presses her fingers down against the area to reduce the stinging. Just for a second, then it’s time for another stick with more wax.
“Hard wax,” she tells him, “doesn’t need a strip of linen. It hardens on its own. Better for the skin in sensitive areas, like genitals and face.”
Emmett: It feels… not great, but better than being shot. He does not, however, think it’s as cool as Celia might.
“Fascinating,” he manages nonetheless.
Support: “Do you like him? Doing this for him?”
Emmett: He laughs softly, the bitter expression on his face translating poorly through all of Celia’s hard work.
“It’s not how I’d like to be spending my Friday night, but he pays.”
Support: “Does that… hurt? Doing it, um… the back way?”
GM: It still hurts when he shits, at least. There’s red all over his brown.
Maybe he should eat more fiber.
Emmett: He thinks of all the things he could say, all the ways he could express how getting fucked up the ass feels as good as it sounds, and ends up just saying, “Yes. Especially if the other person doesn’t particularly care about what they’re doing. Don’t do it with your boyfriend without setting some limits first.”
Support: “My roommate said she wants to get a tattoo that says ‘Exit Only’ after her last guy stuck it in the wrong one.” Celia makes a face.
She pulls another strip of hair free. “If they do care, is it…?”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t ask.” Almost done with the backside, though, there’s a plus.
Emmett: Elliot laughs at that, even through the rectal stinging. “You can ask. I’m just bitter about it, is the truth. I’m still pretty new to… this line of work. I agreed to work with men, and now I’m reluctant to walk that back and rock the boat. It’s a problem I made for myself.”
After another moment, he says, “I imagine some people like it. I mean, people do it for fun, so presumably they enjoy it. But I’ve never much enjoyed being on the receiving side. Occupational hazard.”
Support: Celia nods.
“You ever do it to anyone?” She tells him he can put his legs down now, and to put the bottoms of his feet together with his knees pointing out to either side. Spread, as it were.
She reaches for the wax.
Emmett: He obliges, his body used by this point to obeying somebody else’s touch.
“One or two women who wanted it done that way. I never cared for it. The things you have to wash off after…”
Support: Celia makes a noise. Something like an uncomfortable giggle or titter, what might have been a guffaw if she were less ladylike. She claps an arm over her mouth regardless.
“You’re too much,” she tells him, shaking her head. “I hadn’t considered…” She cuts off in another round of giggling. She doesn’t need to say. The hot wax finds its way onto his inner thigh with the stick. She very deliberately uses the back of her hand to keep his testes out of the way. The wax comes out with tiny little hairs attached in one smooth pull.
“My dad told me,” she says as she gets the wax going again, “that I couldn’t have sex until marriage. So I thought the work around would be, y’know, butt stuff.” She yanks the wax strip, presses a hand against his skin to soothe it.
Emmett: He yelps softly as she yanks, swallows as her fingers try to soothe him. Once he would have been aroused by the close contact. Now, he’s just tired.
“What does your dad need to know about what you get up to? Remember, I’ve talked to him, and he wouldn’t know a good time if it tackled him naked on the field. Besides, it’s not like you’re doing him any favors by taking it up the ass—er, to be blunt.”
“And, if I’m not wildly off-base, it’s not as though you or your sister tell him everything anyways. Kind of hard to imagine him knowing you’re working here, frankly, and being alright with it.”
He lets that sit for a moment.
“He doesn’t, does he?”
She waits until the wax is on his scrotum, the skin pulled taut to keep it from hurting, before she tells him.
“No. He doesn’t. I’m enrolled elsewhere, and I do this too. It’s what I’m actually into. And… you’re right we don’t tell him everything, and of course I wouldn’t tell him about sex, but there’s a doctor that… feels up inside to check.”
She pulls the strip of wax free from his balls. It’s painful, even with the skin pulled tight, even with the hand she uses to cup the area after to reduce stinging. It’s obvious, by her very timid touch, that she is not used to handling such packages.
“The hymen,” she clarifies. She puts more wax on him, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. It’s warm, almost hot. It goes along the patch of skin right next to where she just waxed. “You were right about crazy.”
“I’m trying to find a way out.”
Emmett: It’s easier to get people to talk to you when you take your clothes off and let them touch you. Who knew.
“That,” he says, between sucking air in through his teeth at the hot-and-cold contrast of pain and soothing, “is nuts. Man doesn’t want you having sex, but pays a guy to look inside you? I’d be looking for a way out, too.” He closes his eyes. “I mean, I did look for a way out. And my parents were only obnoxious, not crazy.”
Support: “Told you they were crazy.” She doesn’t sound pleased about it. Just matter-of-fact. “Crazier is mom’s solution for me to get knocked up and trap my boyfriend into marriage as a way out. Trust still pays then.” She huffs. Rips more hair out. Almost done now. And she’s gentle despite the dark mood, so that’s something.
“Recommend it, then? Your line?”
Emmett: He looks at her seriously, almost sternly.
Well, as sternly as he can, naked and through his legs.
“Not even a little bit,” he says. “Not in this city. Not with the options you have. It’ll break you.”
He ponders for a moment and says, “But you’re not keen on pushing out a baby, either? Or maybe forcing your boyfriend into becoming your husband?”
Support: “Leaving one master for another?” She shrugs. “I barely know the guy. Could be just as bad as my dad.”
“He was real nice about my first time.” Her smile is almost shy. Hard to imagine why, while she’s standing there with his dick in her hand. “But we use condoms.” She applies a final strip of wax to him, right between the balls.
“Anyway, wanna help me set him up for prison?” she grins.
Emmett: He nods along to her rationales. They’re ones he might make himself.
“Um, your boyfriend or your dad?”
Support: “Dad. Final strip. Hold tight.” She doesn’t give him much time to brace himself, just pulls free the hardened wax and hair and drops it neatly in the trash. Then she’s got some new solution in her hands, something that’s cooling and soothing that she applies liberally, and it’s maybe a little reminiscent of a handjob.
Emmett: Which, admittedly…
He’s not that tired.
He nevertheless does his best to ignore the sensation, “holds tight,” and answer her question.
“I mean, we joke a lot in here. But… is that something you want to do? It’s not the kind of thing you do half-heartedly. You’ll need to risk everything to do it. You might not succeed. And even if you do… remember what I said about getting what you want?”
Support: “Oh, I was kiddin’, silly.” She’s a little breathless. Her hands stop moving; she pulls them away as if they’d been scalded. She doesn’t quite meet his eye, and her smile is perfunctory. “Shouldn’t have joked about that, my apologies.”
Emmett: He’s quiet for a little while, making idle chatter with her until he can put his pants back on.
As he does, he looks at her with that dolled-up face and says, “As somebody who’s made a lot of stupid decisions? Hypothetically, if I was going to try and get out from under your dad… I would want to make sure I’ve got all the cards in my hand I could get.”
He pulls out his phone, asks her her number. When she gives it to him, he texts her ten digits.
“There’s a girl named Miranda on the other end of that number. She’s not real keen on politicians, and she has ways of finding out things. She’s like a wizard with a computer. Hypothetically, if some girl called her saying her abusive daddy was a state senator, and an asshole, and said Emmett sent her…”
He holds her gaze, pretty eyelashes doing their job far too well.
“Then she might be persuaded to help you out by finding some more dirt on him. Hypothetically. And you would have my number, too, in case things went to shit anyways. Okay?”
Support: She’s quieter after that. Finishes her job, but maybe doesn’t look him in the eye as much. She starts to protest when he tells her about Miranda, to repeat the line about how she was only kidding. But she nods instead. Tells him that she’ll reach out to this Miranda. Thanks him with a shy smile, and doesn’t add the wax to his service bill. Small favors.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then hugs him. Maybe she doesn’t know how else to say thanks.
Emmett: She doesn’t need to.
“I’m not. Call me Em.” He hugs her back, and then he leaves.
Small favors, indeed.