Chapter 9
My finger twists at the end of the wig, perfecting one of the locks. The blonde synthetic hair falls around my shoulders, it goes straight about halfway and ends in delicate curls. The long bangs bounce as the fake lashes hit it when I blink. I choose black glue to put those on so I can save time on eyeliner.
My lips are blood red, no lip liner to define them, yet they still look full, and the light coat of gloss I put on top is hopefully enough to make them irresistible. A couple rushed strokes of the brush against my cheeks provide the necessary blush to give contrast to my white skin, which looks even whiter thanks to the layer of foundation I applied with my bare fingers.
Just when I'm about to exit the room, I rush back to the mirror, finding a brown pencil that I'm not sure if it's for eyes or lips, and push it against my eyebrows, simply to fill in the empty space I know he hates to see.
"Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova." Even when doing his lame attempt to impersonate RuPaul, my full name leaving Brian's lips, in such an accurate pronunciation, makes my heart skip a beat. Because I know he's tried. He's spent minutes, hours, days, asking me to repeat it over and over again, telling me to correct what he's not saying properly, until he got it right. That shows me just how much he cares. "The time has come... for you to lipsync... for - my - pants!"
I laugh hysterically, still hiding behind the opened door of my room. Once I'm able to compose myself I take the phone out of my pocket and find the perfect song for this moment. The slow music fills the room as I brave myself to start one of the most important performances of my life.
One of my hairy legs exits the room first. Oh, how I wish I could at least have used some padding. The challenge was nothing but a wig and minimal make up, though, and I'm one to always comply with the rules of a challenge. That's why I'm now walking to him wearing my shorts and graphic t-shirt, my feet adorned by my oldest pair of loyal sandals, and my mug made up looking like a preschool drawing.
The song starts picking up the pace and I can't help adding some extra swaying to my hips as I reach the center of the living room.
Every Saturday night I get dressed up to ride for you, baby
Cruising down the street on Hollywood and Vine for you, baby
He's still sitting right where I left him;, his legs are crossed one on top of the other, and his back is pushed lazily against the back of the couch. He lets the phone fall from his hands and it lands on the empty cushion next to him. His full attention is concentrated on the slow movements of my body.
One of my hands goes up to play with my hair. I toss it up in the air and let it fall on my face. My mouth is slightly opened, allowing me to taste the plastic as the hair gets stuck on my lipgloss.
I drive fast, wind in my hair, I push you to the limits 'cause I just don't care
I give my back to him, allowing my hands to roam all over my body. Reaching my ass, I squeeze hard before kneading my own flesh. Taking my time, I bend forward, easily touching my toes but, more importantly, making sure the fabric of my shorts presses in a way that highlights my butt When I face him again, I am rewarded with the view of his thighs pressing together, most likely trying to hide his starting erection.
I've got a burning desire for you, baby.
I've got a burning desire.
(Come on, tell me boy)
The few steps separating me from him are sharply taken. My feet meet the carpet in sync with the seductive beat of the song.
Other than the music, and my heavy breathing, everything is silent, including him. As much as I want to make funny whimpering sounds, to elicit at least a sound from him, I allow my body to do all the talking.
Standing right in front of him, I bend my body one more time, getting a hold of his ankles and untangling his legs. He spreads them pretty much unconsciously, his back sliding down a little to find a more comfortable position.
Deliberately slow, I make my way up his legs. My hands travel up, touching every inch of his denim covered skin. My palms stop at his knees, finding support as I sensually let my ass go up and down to the rhythm, either of the song or my beating heart, can't really tell at this point.
Stepping to stand between his open legs, I straighten my back inch by inch, coming face to face with him. His brown eyes are darker than ever, almost black. His hot stare makes the bulge between my own legs grow harder. Thankfully, the music soon offers me some release. Knowing exactly what the lyrics are about to say, I bring my hand to my mouth and give my palm a long lick before putting it inside my shorts.
I drive fast, radio blares, have to touch myself to pretend you're there.
His eyes grow wide open to my bold moves. I take advantage of his shocked state and sit on his lap. Each one of my knees land flanking his thighs. Taking a hold of his shoulders I start moving my hips back and forth, painfully slow at first but then picking up the pace as the chorus starts again.
I've got a burning desire for you, baby.
I can feel his hard member against my thigh and, as I look down, I can see the outline of his erection inside the jeans. I can't help but feel proud of myself. He has said it so, so many times; he's a gay man, through and through. He can't get turned on by a woman. Even the sight of a painted nail kills the mood for him. Yet, here I am, in a rotted wig, a horrible excuse of makeup, worn out boy clothes, and his body is reacting, nonetheless.
From that moment on, I don't even have to think about it. I allow the music to fill my ears as my mind goes blank. My head tilts to the side, whipping my hair away from my face. My neck is fully exposed to him, and that's when he can't take it anymore. Next thing I know, his hot lips are on my skin and his teeth press hard on a sensitive spot.
My head quickly snaps away from his painful treatment, forcing him to find my stare. Our eyes communicate in the only paralingual way we understand. Lana has stopped singing and, by now, only the final notes can be heard. When the song reaches its end, so does my patience and I take his lips in a heated kiss.
