Page 6 of Make Believe

As I drive along the interstate, I smile ruefully to myself in the dark. My apartment has an additional perk in the form of Erika, my friend and now housemate. She’s the reason I dragged my sorry ass out of bed, found some clothes and makeup, and eventually hauled myself on the road in the direction of this party.

Erika is a pretty dyke a couple of years older than me who I met on the scene a little while ago. Our mutual disdain for bullshit drew us together, and when her former housemate moved out, she offered me the room first. I jumped at thechance, knowing it would be much easier to live with someone who was already well aware of the side of myself I keep hidden even from my friends.

She’s recently become a Dommy to a newly divorced woman in her late thirties who’s trying out being a little—not to mention a relationship with a woman—for the first time. It’s all incredibly adorable, but much like with my other friends, nothing I want to play third wheel to. I mentioned this party to Erika sometime last week, so she knew full well what she was doing when she announced that they were having a playdate at the apartment tonight and that I needed to make myself scarce.

Stupid friend making me leave my stupid home for my stupid mental health.

Yeah, okay. Maybe there have been a few days since The Incident when I didn’t feel like showering. And maybe I’ve been late to work most days, but I was stillthere,so I’m not sure what the big deal is. And, okay, maybe living off ramen noodles and cherry cola was making my tummy hurt.

Maybe…justmaybe…I needed some help to snap myself out of that shit.

But it’s as if Logan and Tara found my Achilles heel and not only slashed it, but they laid my mangled body out for everyone to laugh at. Every time I think about all those people seeing me crying and shaking, it’s like I’m back in that moment all over again, belly exposed and begging for mercy that doesn’t come.

It still doesn’t make sense to me. I feel like I’ve had bigger traumatic events than that in my life. But something about Logan’s words, in particular, has just left me feeling so completely out of control that I figuratively curled up into a fetal position and haven’t left it since.

Until now.

Knowing I had no choice but to leave the apartment and having this party dangled in front of me, it forced me into theshower where the pettiness grew as if fueled by the hot water blasting against my skin. Why should I be the one cowering? I am phenomenal. I am independent. I am going to this kink event and have any man I want wrapped around my finger.

As I had all day to get ready, I luxuriated in pampering every inch of my body. Luckily, I’m up to date with all my waxing, but I had a proper shave of my face complete with a hot towel treatment first thing in the morning to give my pores time to recover. I then took the time to scrub and moisturize my skin until it glowed before styling my permed curls to perfection. Sometimes I think about growing my hair long enough that I could play with extensions when I feel like it. But I like the juxtaposition of my shorter cut with my hyper feminine doll looks. It makes me feel powerful.

That’s what I need tonight.

My manicure is still fine from my last appointment, so I spend the evening focusing on my makeup. Contrary to what a lot of men might assume, just because it’s not a drag look doesn’t mean I don’t take just as long to appear this naturally flawless. When I’m being fucked senseless later, I don’t want a single smudge on this beat mug.

The best thing about house parties is that I can drive right up to the front door, so there’s almost no worry about getting exposed in public with what I’m wearing. It’s not that I’m ever ashamed or think that I don’t look stunning. It’s more that other people are ignorant jackasses, and I have no interest in getting a beating.

Pain isn’t my kink.

So I might have sensible shoes on right now to make managing the pedals easier, and I’m also wrapped up in a long coat. But underneath is pure sin, and once I get through that front door, nothing is going to hold me back.

I deserve this. I’m a good person. Okay, I’m not abadperson, not really. I’m owed a little fun for the shit sandwich the universe dealt me last week. Once I’ve got my head screwed back on, I can stop moping around, and my friends will no longer be calling me every hour to make sure I haven’t done anything drastic.

As soon as I’m myself again, I can start working on how I’m going to make Logan McKenna feel as horrendous as I did. The universe will then be back in balance, and I can get on with the rest of my life.

And that all starts tonight.

I am going to go to this party and be so unapologetically myself that it rattles me back to my senses. I can’t let some fuck boi strip me of my identity, especially one I’m not even fucking anymore. It was only ever a casual thing between us, and if Logan couldn’t cope with me ending it, that’s his deal. Perhaps if he came out of the closet, he might be a bit less tense all the damn time.

I am fully aware that I’m a walking contradiction. It was supposed to be casual and no strings attached, but him ignoring me—or worse, sneering at me—was dehumanizing. I didn’t want him to put a ring on it, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking for a little respect. I only wanted to be dehumanized onmyterms.

Laughing ruefully, I take the turn my app tells me to. My friend Jessie is a kitten, and I can understand that mentality quite well. I’m like a cat that wants to be let outside only to immediately turn around and complain that it’s too cold and I want back in.

That’s just who I am. I doubt I’ll ever find anyone to put up with my contrariness long term, as Stanley so cruelly pointed out to me. But it’s not like I’m even looking for that. Especially not tonight. No. Tonight, I just want to escape my own head and have some hot guy fuck my brains out. Is that too much to ask?

I’ve been to parties at this place before. I like the couple that both run the events and own the mansion that I’m pulling up to. They’re in their fifties and don’t take part in the sex themselves. I think they get off on watching their guests a lot, but there’s also a sweet side to them that tells me that they genuinely enjoy facilitating people getting together.

I find a space to park where I hopefully won’t be blocked in later when I want to leave, then kill the ignition and take a deep breath. Still inside my car and away from the house, it’s nice and quiet. I’m not sure I could ever live in the countryside, but I do appreciate the tranquility of a place like this.

Not to mention it makes having big orgies a lot easier when there aren’t any nosy neighbors around.

As I exit my car, the late spring air has a slight chill to it, but not enough to deter me from changing out here so I can make a proper grand entrance at the front door. I don’t want to be holding a coat and looking for a cloakroom. I want to sweep in there like the belle of the ball that I am.

So I swap my sensible woolen outer layer for a gauzy black robe with a feathered collar and cuffs and kick off my sneakers to trade for a pair of satin pumps. On my body I’m wearing baby doll lingerie, specifically designed with a flat bralette for people who don’t have boobs. The skirt skims my thighs, and the black gauze has colorful flowers embroidered all over it. My lacy jockstrap hugs my cock and leaves very little to the imagination, not to mention gives extremely easy access to my hole.

People could accuse me of being many things, but subtle isn’t one of them.

As I walk confidently toward the house, gliding over the gravel like a pro in my heels, a small, fluffy black purse swings from my wrist. It contains my car keys, lube, condoms, lipstick, and gloss.

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