“Heels, Orlando Reginald? Wigs?” he says, pleading.
I can’t say I’m not relishing his discomfort. “Ven vill you vear vigs?!” I yell at him.
Harry punches me hard in the arm. “You know that Dominic Monaghan interview is my weakness. Fine, okay, whatever, but you gotta help me get in this thing, then.”
I remove the garment from the dummy as Harry strips off.
“You might have to take your undies off,” I tell him. “The waistband is too thick. It’s going to spoil the lines of the dress.”
“I can’t go commando under a dress! What if I fall over? What if someone looks up my skirt?”
“First of all, it goes to the floor, so it’s unlikely that either of those things will happen. Second of all, Scottish guys always hang free under their kilts, and you’re ginger. You’re practically an honorary Scot.”
Once we get the gown on him, however, I realise that wearing no pants under a Lycra bodycon is not the best idea. There seems to be a slight protrusion right in the centre of the dress.
“Damn, this is giving better dick outline than grey sweatpants,” he says, turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirrors in the corridor leading into my closet.
“It’s certainly . . . eye-catching,” I reply.
We hoick the dress up over his waist and pull his original underpants back on, but Harry’s upset with the disruptive chunky lines of the waistband and I feel like this is all my influence. Eventually we find a jockstrap I wore to the community match a few months ago. The elastic isn’t too thick, and although it doesn’t hide Harry’s bulge entirely, it smooths it out a little, and frankly it’s the best we can do without tucking, which he’s very vehemently against.
“They’re size nine, is that okay?” I say, holding out a pair of gorgeous red heeled pumps for Harry’s approval.
He takes them from me with a defeated sigh. I understand this to mean,“Yes, Lando, this is the correct size. Thank you so much for going to all the trouble of hunting down a pair of red shoes that fit me at such short notice. Also, Daisy’s such an A-hole for saying no to this wonderful costume idea.”
“You practise walking in them,” I tell him. “I’m going to get dressed.”
While I pull off my everyday clothes, Harry marches up and down my mirrored corridor. He’s awful at first, truly appalling, and can barely stand upright without rolling his ankles. But after a few attempts, and a few aggressively shouted encouragements from me—“Heel, toe, heel toe. Imagine you’re walking on a tightrope. You’re a model, Harry. Stomp that fucking runway!”—he starts to improve.
“You shaved your legs?” he says, teetering over to me, arms held out either side of him. “You’re wearing trousers. Why have you shaved your legs?”
“Commitment, darling,” I reply.
“I want to shave my legs too.”
A moment ago he didn’t even want to wear the dress. I check my phone. “I’m not sure we have time.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of fashionably late?” His hand is on his hip, and I have to bite my lips to stop myself from dissolving into laughter. “If I’m wearing a gown, I should have smooth legs.”
“I still have to do a full beat of makeup on both of us.” I huff . . . take my shirt and trousers back off. “Fine, get in that shower. I’ll shave you real quick.”
But Harry’s frozen to the spot. He’s stopped breathing and is staring at my crotch. “You’re wearing knickers?”
Black lace knickers, in fact. “I told you. Commitment.” Though any old excuse to buy lingerie for myself.
“Oh god,” he says. “Oh my god. Why is that . . .” He clamps his teeth together and makes an animalistic grunting noise.
His reaction to my undergarments becomes undeniably obvious as the bulge in the front of his red dress grows, extends, and shoots off in the direction of his hip.
“Yeah, don’t do that in front of everyone tonight,” I say.
“Shit. Oh my god. Who would have thought that knickers on a dude would be so hot?” He still can’t take his eyes off me, but now he’s holding his erect cock through the fabric like he’s trying to smuggle a weapon. “I can’t go out like this. What if I think about what you look like inthosewhile we’re in the pub and it happens again? I’m fucking cooked.”
“Can’t you just not think about me in knickers?”
“No, Orlando! It doesn’t work like that, okay? If I try not to think about it, I’ll just end up thinking about it more.”
“Okay . . .” I say, trying to form a resolution plan. “Go and . . . sort it out. If you bash one out now, it’s unlikely to return?” Though I’m not entirely sure what a regular guy’s refractory period is. I’m always long gone before they’verecovered from the first round. “But honestly . . .” I look at my watch. “I don’t think there’s enough time for you to wank and shave, so you’ll just have to choose one.”
