Adventures in Dating...in Heels Read online

  “Certainly distinctive.” I felt his fabulousness wash over me like a wave on a beach. At that moment, I knew we’d be friends, very soon.

  “You’ve gotta have courage in your convictions. I was getting shouted at anyway for the way I talk, the way I walk, so I thought in for a penny, in for a pound. I might as well do it properly, have the look I really wanted, so I did. I knew if I held my nerve, they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

  A customer walked up to us and asked whether they had a certain shirt in a large, with the dragon motifs down the back, not the front.

  Tony nodded, described the shirt, and walked the customer to where it was, buried among the others. The grinning customer shook his hand and walked to the till.

  Tony reappeared next to me. “What was I saying?”

  A large-framed man appeared with a pile of T-shirts and polo shirts, complaining that he couldn’t fit any of them, not even the large ones.

  Tony turned to me and whispered, “Watch and learn, sweetie, watch and learn.” He pulled himself to his full five foot six, adjusted his necklaces so they lay neatly around the ruffles of his shirt, and took the pile of clothes off the man.

  “Now, sir, what seems to be the problem?”

  He repeated what he’d said. “I’ve got a works do and nothing fits me.”

  Tony took out a tape measure and, in three swift movements, took the man’s chest, arm, and neck details, writing them on his hand. He looked the man up and down. “What’s your favourite colour?”

  A bit confused, the man said, “Red. I wear it all the time. Liverpool football club all the way.”

  “Just as I suspected. Wait there. I’ll be back.” And he was gone.

  I smiled at the man. “If you’d like to take a seat.” I gestured behind him to a plastic seat leaning against the wall by the entrance of the changing room.

  He sat.

  We waited.

  After a few moments, Tony appeared with an armful of light blue, green, and white shirts with varying degrees of vertical stripes. He handed the customer the shirt at the top and told him to change, walking him to an empty cubicle at the back of the room.

  “He’s a bit mardy, isn’t he?” I said to Tony, out of earshot of the customer.

  “Sssh. He’s paying your wages. Watch and learn.”

  The man appeared at the door of the changing room, wearing a light-blue shirt with feint white vertical stripes. It fitted him perfectly, including around the neck and even when tucked into his seen-better-days jeans, and made him look about three sizes smaller. With the shirt covering up a multitude of sins, as Mum would say, he wasn’t far off Rocky from The Rocky Horror Picture Show’s physique. With the shirt on, obviously.

  “I look like I’ve lost a stone. And my face, it’s younger. How’s that work?”

  “Sorry to break it to you, sir, but red just isn’t your colour. You’ve got quite a red complexion, so red makes that look worse. This balances it out. And the stripes are slimming as well as the fitted cut of the shirt. No point wearing something that looks like a marquee is there, sir?”

  He walked back to the cubicle and shouted that he was going to try on the others just to see.

  Tony looked at me. “They’ll all have the same effect. But it’s best the customer finds out for himself.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  We showed more customers through, handing them the right-coloured plastic disc for how many items they had.

  Eventually, the large man came out, holding the pile of shirts.

  Tony took the plastic disc from him. “None of them any good, sir? I can get you another selection if you’d like.”

  “They were all perfect. I’ve never felt so good in a shirt before. Thank you. What’s your name?”

  “Tony Collins.”

  The man left.

  “And that’s why they pay me the big bucks!” Tony said with a smile. “Well, actually, they don’t. But that is why they let me wear pretty much what I want.”

  “Collins. As in Jackie?”

  “Frilly, glitzy, and fabulous.”

  And with that, I knew I’d found my people, well, my person, that he was on the same page as me and we’d get on very well indeed, thank you very much, and fuck off to what everyone else thought of us.

  “Can I leave you here on your own? I’ve got to sort out a women’s shoe-based crisis. And don’t worry; you’re on women’s wear after lunch. I know you’ve had your eyes on some of that for ages.”

  How did he know that? I’d not said anything.

  But he was gone, so I continued with the men’s changing room, gradually falling into my own Tony-inspired groove, giving advice to sartorially challenged men, and trying to flirt with the others who might just have been on my team. Not that I’d ever so much as had a sniff of any male-male action, but I’d known what I liked since about thirteen.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, after a bit of Tony supervision, I put the women’s changing room rejects back onto the right rails, allowing myself to linger each time on some of the clothes that I liked.

  “How you getting on?” Tony stood beside me with a smile.

  “Yeah. I’m not slacking, I just want to make sure they’re back in the right place.”

  “I’m locking up. If you want to stay behind, you can get a better look at some of the clothes if you want. And don’t forget it’s thirty-per cent staff discount.” He winked and then was gone.

  I continued shuttling the never-diminishing pile of rejected women’s clothes back to their rightful place all afternoon, only stopping briefly for a ten-minute tea break. I sat on an itchy fabric chair in the small white staff room, one high-up window looking out to the industrial bins round the back of the shop. I hoped I’d be joined by someone else, but no, it was just me and my tea for the whole break. How had Tony picked up on my wide interest in clothing? What clues had I given him to lead him to that conclusion? I looked down at my uniform, very plain and boring, no little flourishes or adornments. Maybe it was like this gaydar I’d heard about since going to Out! Maybe someone with a bit of a sartorial eye could spot someone else who was similarly inclined. Maybe. Oh well. My visions of Tony and me dancing through the streets arm in arm, joined in our shared fabulousness, faded to nothing. Worst that could happen was I’d not be friends with him, or I could leave and get another job. Mum had picked up a few application packs from other shops when she was in town last time.

  TONY STOOD BY the wall near the entrance of the shop, hand poised by a button. All customers were well gone, tills cashed up—that was something he’d show me next week—changing rooms tidy and all stock back where it belonged on shelves and hangers, and the final staff member gone from the shop. Tony pressed the button and a metal-and-plastic gate appeared from the ceiling and unfurled across the shop entrance.

  When it reached the ground, Tony let go of the button, dusted off his hands. “Where do you want to start?” He walked towards women’s wear and I followed. He picked out a simply cut little black-sequinned dress. “I believe you’ve been fingering this all afternoon.” He gestured to the men’s changing room. “Go on.”

  I looked around for cameras and nervously took the dress from him.

  “Come on. As long as you don’t nick it, I don’t care, and I’m the only one here except you. So go on.”

  I held the dress in both hands, clamped across my stomach. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you coming in here with your mum—I assume that woman with the pinafore dress is your mum.”

  I nodded.

  “When she leaves you here, you always go straight from the men’s wear to the women’s wear. What other men do that?”

  “I don’t think I got it from Mum; she’s not fussed about clothes anymore. More into food. She’ll be buried in that pinafore dress. I got her another one, so now she has a best and normal one.”

  “Covering all eventualities. I like that.”

  We both smiled at each other.

&nb
sp; He waved me towards the changing rooms. “Come on. We’ve not got all night.”

  I started to walk, then turned, still clutching the dress to myself. “You’re not gonna tell everyone, are you?”

  “Honey, as long as you turn up on time and do your job, no one here gives a shit what you do in your own time. Especially if you’re good at your job. Look what I get away with.” He rattled his necklaces at me. “Go on, go.”

  I reappeared in the dress, again realising I’d come home, knowing anything that felt so right couldn’t possibly be wrong. I smoothed it down around my hips, and felt self-conscious about the drooping neckline.

  “It’s a bit baggy.”

  “That’s on account of you not having any tits. I know we sell it, but honestly, I think it makes you look a bit cheap. There’s loads nicer ones than that. Can I?” He flicked through the rails and rails of dresses, the rings on his fingers shining in the bright shop lights. He handed me a pile and ordered me to try them on.

  At the end of the night, I had five dresses, which Tony said he’d take out of my first month’s wages, and he found himself a few shirts. “They could do with a bit of work, but they’ll do as a basis. I can cut and sew bits into them.”

  We sneaked out the back of the shop, through the door next to the staff room.

  As he locked the door, he said, “You’d better come back tomorrow, or I’ve just given you a load of stock without paying for it.”

  I nodded, and then panicked. How was I going to get the pile of dresses past Mum and Dad’s beady eyes? “Can I give you some and I’ll take them home one at a time over the next week? If I turn up with a big TK Maxx bag, they’re gonna want to see what I bought on my first day.”

  Tony took all but one. “I’ll store them at mine. My parents couldn’t give a monkey’s. As long as I work and carry on at school, they don’t care.” He shrugged. “That’s liberal hippies for you.”

  “Which school?” I couldn’t believe we hadn’t covered this. I just assumed he was full-time at the shop, since he was so great at it.

  “The grammar school.” Said without any pride at passing his eleven plus.

  “They let you dress like that?”

  “I tone it down a bit, only one ring per hand, simpler shirts, that sort of thing. But I’ve not got long until I’m leaving for college. Same arguments, human rights, like a religion, etc. etc.” He shrugged. “Am I taking these or what?”

  “Yes. Taking them. All please.”

  “See you tomorrow. We’re both on a late. Midday to close. If you wanna come round and try these on, the olds won’t care either. I’m guessing your parents wouldn’t be too thrilled.”

  I shook my head, a tear forming in one eye. Had I really just met this person? Was this really happening?

  Tony hugged me. “No need for all that malarkey. Let’s save that for when one of us is really upset, when we’ve been dumped by a man, or something. Not for now, eh?”

  And that was that. That was Tony. He welcomed me into his life without a query or scratched head about anything about me. No need for explanations. It was part of me, and he liked me. End of.

  He helped me refine my taste in women’s clothes. At first, he stored most of them in his bedroom. We used to have fashion parade shows, trying on our latest purchases together, laughing in the living room. He even told me when not to buy anymore. He never told anyone at work about our little fashion shows. He just kept it as our little secret. Not that I was ashamed of it. I just didn’t want to stir things up with my parents until I’d got my head straight about exactly why I did it.

  Chapter Four

  SOON TONY HAD helped me acquire quite a comprehensive wardrobe of women’s clothes. By now, I’d realised the Mama Cass look wasn’t for me, so bought clothes that basically fitted me, albeit I lacked lumps and bumps in the right womanly places. At first, I’d kept my additional collection of clothes at Tony’s place—his parents were so right on I could have turned up in full drag juggling swords on a unicycle, and they’d not have batted an eyelid. But soon, I’d run out of space there, so had to take my new purchases home. I hid them at the back of my wardrobe, right behind all my normal everyday clothes.

  One day, I came home from school to all these clothes piled on the kitchen table, with Mum sat covering her mouth with her hand.

  Oh shit. Bang goes my quiet little evening of dressing up in my room that I’d been looking forward to.

  “What are they?” Mum asked quietly.

  “They’re mine?” I said with a questioning tone so even I didn’t believe it.

  “Yours? To wear for yourself?”

  Harsh but true. I shrugged. “How did you find them?”

  “I was doing through properly and came across them.”

  “In the back of my wardrobe, under all my other clothes, you came across them?”

  “Spring cleaning. I’m very thorough.” She looked away, unable to meet my eyes for the massive whopper she’d just told.

  Teenager snooping, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “I know what you are, but I don’t think he’ll be able to cope. Not yet anyway. And let’s not tell him. About the dresses.”

  Without thinking, I nodded, because it seemed easier. But by the time he came home, I’d decided that since I’d been caught red-handed I might as well use this as an opportunity to tell Dad the truth. A novel concept for a teenager and his parents, but I thought I’d give it a go nevertheless. What was the worst thing that could happen? After all, Mum had always been so accepting.

  After fetching the rest from under my bed, Dad held a silver-sequinned boob tube in one hand and a bright-red shift dress in the other. “Whose are they? Have you been stealing?”

  I took a deep breath and looked Dad straight in the eyes. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is I haven’t stolen them. They’re all paid for and above board. The bad news is you’re unlikely to ever have grandchildren. Because the other bit of good news is that I’m gay and I also like a bit of cross-dressing. I’m not going to have the op. I’m happy with what I was born with, thank you very much. But I do like to dress how I feel sometimes. Hence—” I gestured to the pile of clothes on the table I’d brought down when he’d arrived home, and smiled. “So, all things considered, not too bad, eh?”

  Unfortunately, Dad didn’t see the funny side or the good news within any of that. He threw the dresses on the floor and said, “You’re a what? A fucking poof. A bloody queer. And not just a normal ordinary queer, one of these ones that wears women’s clothes because you can’t make your mind up if you’re Arthur or Martha.”

  “It’s not quite that simple. I am Arthur. I don’t want to be Martha. I just like to wear—”

  “I don’t wanna hear it.” He turned me to face the back door and bustled me out the house. “I don’t want you anywhere near this house until you’ve sorted yourself out. You’re sick and I’m not having that around me or your mum.” He slammed the door in my face.

  I banged on the door and shouted for Mum.

  Nobody came. There was only Dad’s voice telling Mum to leave me be.

  Chapter Five

  I FELT IN my pocket, and luckily, I had my wallet. I didn’t have a mobile phone then, so I walked to a payphone and called Bruce from the gay youth group, Out! I’d been attending for a year or so. On the back of his business card, he’d scrawled his mobile number for emergencies. Reflecting on what had just happened, I thought this counted as an emergency.

  “Hello?” came Bruce’s reply.

  “It’s Kev, Kev Harrison from the group, Out! You said I could call this number if I had an emergency.”

  After explaining I’d been thrown out of the house, Bruce collected me from the street corner near the phone box. He drove us to the familiar housing estate where Out! took place in a Portakabin tucked away in the corner.

  He unlocked the door and showed me to the planned activity room. “Cuppa tea?”

  “I think we’re a bit
past that, don’t you?” I shouted from the seat against the wall, staring at some of the posters flapping as I’d sat down.

  “Good for shock. Hot and sweet. Then you can tell me all about it.”

  I stared at the walls, reading posters about safe sex, and other youth groups across Wiltshire and Hampshire, each with their own name and slogan. There were marks where other posters had been removed, leaving a Blu-Tack stain behind. Amid mug and teaspoon clattering, Bruce spoke on his mobile phone.

  He appeared with two steaming mugs of tea, sat next to me, and asked me what had happened.

  He knew about Tony’s and my clothing collection. We’d already told him that. He knew about playing in Mum’s dresses and makeup in the bathroom—these were things I’d first told him when he’d interviewed me before going to the group for the first time. I sipped my hot sweet tea, which did seem to calm me, and told him from the pile of clothes on the kitchen table.

  “Did you try to go back?”

  I nodded, explaining I hadn’t brought my keys and the reaction my door knocking had led to.

  “I’ve tried to get you an emergency hostel place, but they’re all full tonight and tomorrow. I even tried to pull a few strings—I know John who manages the one out in Churchfields industrial estate.”

  “The one full of druggies and winos.”

  “Yes, that one. But it’s full too. Has anyone told you the expression ‘beggars can’t be choosers’?”

  “Can I stay at yours?” I looked at him, doing my best big-eyed cartoon baby look.

  “Not if I want to keep my job. If anyone found out, I’d be struck off, put on some register. Nasty.”

  “So am I on the streets, taking my chances with the rent boys and druggies?” If cute didn’t work, I thought I’d try with a bit of drama.

  He looked around. “Welcome to Casa Kev for the next two nights. Just until you’re sorted with a hostel place.”

  I looked around, only this time with a different set of values. Was there a bed? What about a sink or shower? “And that’s not a sackable offence then?”