Skirting the Issure

I glanced at the resin clock on the vanity: 6:55. He was due in five minutes. Lightly, ever so lightly, I tapped my thumbnail with my ring finger to see if my fingernails had hardened. Not dry yet, and I had to zip up my skirt.

In quick puffs, I blew on my fingers then waved my hands in the air with more fury than a hummingbird beats its wing. With forefingers only, I pulled the back of the skirt to the front, gently pulling the zipper closed.

Thankfully I had inserted the belly ring before I realized my polish needed a touch-up.

I hadn't seen Kent since our ten-year class reunion. When he called a month ago to say he would be coming to Long Island for the weekend without his wife, I said, "Of course, you should come."

It had been five years. We had much to talk about.

I hoped not to spend all our time together in conversation. Tonight I banked on my Chanel No. 5 and lace-edged camisole to generate a little...pillow talk.

I took one last look in the full-length mirror. Before I could determine whether the nails had dried, the doorbell sounded. I breathed in and out deeply to still my heart, glided to the door, and threw it open.

"Hello, Kent," I purred.

He stood speechless, motionless, for a long minute, eyeing the silver hoop with the rhinestone charm dangling from my navel.

I swirled around, showing him a hint of thigh high stockings and a black garter belt.

Still he was silent.

"What do you think?"

"My initial impression-," Kent cleared his throat. "Sorry. My initial impression is...you looked better as a man, Mark."

"Markie," I corrected him.

"What?"

"It's Markie now. Like Markie Post from Night Court?"

"The busty babe, right? You got bazooms like her now, too?"

"Not exactly." I took the six-pack from his hands. "So what do you want to watch, Kent? World Series or the Rangers?" I asked, kicking off the Ferragamo heels, popping the top on a Bud Lite.



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