The Perfect S

Dave Pollard's environmental philosophy, creative works, business papers and essays.

The Perfect S

tonica_Pretty_Girl Jorg couldn't take his eyes off her. Shopgirl, mid-20s, shoulder-length light brown hair, mischievous smile. His sister and her newlywed daughter were doing some Boxing Week shopping and had an armload of sale items that the shopgirl was ringing up, removing the hangers and the anti-theft devices and scanning each item. She was joking with an associate working the cash register beside her and also chatting with Jorg's sister. Jorg had driven Laura and Kerstin to the mall as a favour -- he had some computer supplies to pick up, and his sister promised to buy him lunch if he drove her and his niece -- and now he was waiting patiently for his reward. As he wandered over towards the door to get out of the way of the other shoppers he discovered that the checkout counter was open on the side, and he could now see the shopgirl's whole ensemble and profile.

He almost gasped. She was much shorter than he had realized from the other side of the counter, a pixie, and she moved with enormous grace and confidence. He realized that it was that same confidence, that strength and self-assurance, almost cockiness, that had him transfixed, stealing glances every few seconds and trying not to be obvious about it. Her body struck him as athletic, neither thin nor fat but solid, muscular, agile, even feline. A tiny perfect bundle of molecules, he thought to himself. Since the checkout counter was near the door, and a cold damp January wind blew in whenever a shopper entered or left the outlet centre store, the shopgirl was wearing a turtleneck sweater under a short cream-coloured wool jacket. Her brown corduroy pants were slung low over her hips and tucked into low-heeled boots. As he gazed at her again his eyes were drawn to the little curve just above the round of her butt; she appeared to be slightly sway-backed. That delicious inward curved following the outward swell of her bottom made a perfect S. He thought for a moment that she was doing it for him, exaggerating it slightly after catching him out of the corner of her eye, but decided that was foolish -- she was too young for him.

As he watched her, surreptitiously he thought, but so entranced he was pretty much past caring, he was overwhelmed by the way her short little body and her self-assured expression exuded power, as if she were controlling everything that was happening in the store. Laura called over to him to ask him if he had his cell phone, and now he knew the shopgirl knew his name. He listened, and watched the lips of the other cashier, to see if he could catch the shopgirl's name, but a moment later Laura whisked him out the door, her arms full of shopping bags. He cast a last glance at the self-possessed face and the breathtaking curve and could swear he could hear his heart beating. When Kerstin's packages set off the alarm he was sure it was his heart that had done it.

The next day, at the same time, Jorg returned to the shopgirl's store. He couldn't help himself. He even bought a cell phone/camera so that he could take a picture of her, so he wouldn't forget the face or the curve that were now haunting him. Just let me get a picture, he thought, and I won't bother her any more. She's perfect for my novel. She wasn't at the cash register, so he wandered over to the sale aisle and started picking through a pile of turtlenecks, looking at the sizes.

"No wife and daughter in tow today?"

It was her, and as he turned he realized that she wasn't even five feet tall. Today she was dressed all in blue. He melted.

"Uh, sister and niece, that was, yesterday. I'm surprised you remembered me."

"Oh, sorry about that. Here to buy something for the wife to make up for leaving her at home yesterday?" The disarming grin, and an eye twitch that passed for a wink.

"Mm, no wife, or anything like that. Tried it once, didn't work for me, or for her."

"Well in that case you'll want a size Large in the women's turtleneck." That confident smile, and the strong, slightly gurgle-y voice. He wasn't sure if she was flirting with him or was just this audacious with everyone.

She continued: "I know because my brother is about your size and he buys all his stuff here. Not just the employee discount either -- this store has good stuff, and on guys like you with skinny waists the women's stuff looks pretty sharp. You want to try it on I'll guard the changeroom door for you."

"Actually I do like turtlenecks, and I like the fact these zip up right to the neck, so the turtleneck doesn't get stretched out of shape when you put it on."

He tried on the sweater and she was right about the size. She handed the sweater to the cashier, and turned to shake Jorg's hand.

"Thanks for coming in, and if you want any more help with sizes next time you come in, ask for me. I'm Xenia."

As she turned to walk towards the back of the store Jorg looked crestfallen. He'd learned her name, but had forgotten all about trying to get the secret camera shot. His misery was obvious despite his attempt to be cool about it. Xenia giggled.

"You're a bit obvious, Jorg, but that's kind of charming. And you're really too old for me, you know. But you're so googley-eyed I should at least give you a chance. You have a nice ass. I go on break in 15 minutes. We can have a coffee at Starbucks if you're interested. Dutch."

Jorg felt weak at the knees. She'd remembered his name! He smiled sheepishly.

"That would be great. I'll drop back in 15 minutes."

"Meet me at Starbucks in 20 instead. Don't want to start any rumours." She smiled. He knew he would do anything for this girl.

"I'm a snowboarding nut", she told him, wiping the cappuccino foam from her lip. "I've won three SBX -- snowboardcross -- events and I've been told I might qualify to compete in the provincial championships in March in Collingwood, though I'd be a real outsider. It's just for fun, though -- I'm taking veterinary sciences at Guelph, graduating I hope in June. I like to look after little animals," she said cheerfully, drawing one in the air with her hands but looking at him, sidelong and sarcastic, as if, perhaps, she was referring to him.

Jorg talked about his writing career, and his success with three songs that had been recorded by singers she had vaguely heard of. He explained that the hardest part of writing fiction to him was the dialogue, and especially the dialogue of his female characters.

"I have to confess I really don't understand how women think, and I think that hurts my writing", he said. "A friend of mine plays these virtual reality role-playing games like Second Life, and his persona in the game is female, so he has the chance to have deep conversations with women in the guise of another woman, and says this has taught him things about women's thinking and attitudes that he'd never have learned in a million years from talking with them face-to-face. I'm no good at those games, but I envy Jeff that knowledge. I once thought about trying to disguise myself as a woman, just to have the chance to listen to other women's conversations, except I could never pull it off, especially the voice. Although I do have a nice woman's turtleneck", he said, turning to Xenia with a grin.

She had her mischievous facial expression again, the one that drove him crazy, and her eyes were turned up as she thought to herself. Finally, after a pause, she said:

"Hmm. If you'd really like to do that, I think I can help you pull it off. It'll be fun. Come back to the store just before it closes at 9. You're going to love the feel of nylon on your legs. And wait 'til you see what goes on in women's restrooms!" And then she rose, said "I've got to get back to work. See you later", and raced out the door.

When he'd arrived back at the store at ten to nine that evening, Xenia had a package ready for him. She had already rung it up and asked him for his credit card. When he signed, she tucked the package under the counter and sent him away, without even letting him see what she'd bought on his card. She gave him her address and told him to be at her house that Friday by 4, because she "had a lot of work to do." Now it was Friday afternoon and she pulled him inside her apartment, giving him a little kiss and leading him into the bathroom, where a bubblebath was waiting.

She ordered him to strip and she unselfconsciously did likewise. As they sat facing each other in the bubble-filled tub drinking Cabernet she laid out the plan for the evening. They were going to a jazz club recommended by a friend of hers, a place frequented apparently mostly by professional women. Jorg would be introduced as Xenia's cousin, Kerstin (his niece's name, so he wouldn't forget it), a recent victim of a concussion in an auto accident that had stolen Jorg's language skills, rendering 'her' mute and also breaking 'her' hip so 'she' walked a bit awkwardly. The story would be that the doctor had recommend 'Kerstin' be exposed to a lot of conversations in the hope it would help 'her' language skills return.

"So all you have to do is stand there and look pretty", she said, without irony. "And my job in the next few hours is to make you look pretty".

She told him to stand in the tub, and began slathering him with a shaving gel. She worked with the razor with the same confidence she worked in the store, quickly, attentively, and in less than an hour his slim body was hairless from the nose down. He did not fail to notice that Xenia was, too, and when he blushed and protested when the razor was applied between his legs she just shushed him, told him to practice being mute from then on, and said he would thank her later.

For another hour she worked painstakingly on his face, using a lot of makeup to conceal the masculine features, rationalizing out loud that the excess makeup could also be explained as a means of covering the scars from the auto accident. Then, to his astonishment, she pulled out a roll of duct tape and gently but firmly taped his male parts "up into place", cut his toenails, painted his fingernails, and dressed him in the burgundy woman's turtleneck he'd bought earlier in the week, over a padded bra, along with a short black skirt, thigh-high stay-up nylons and 'flats' -- no underpants of either gender.

"If you want to understand how women feel, you need to feel a bit vulnerable", she said when he looked at her dubiously. A long, expensive brown wig, which Xenia had obviously spent a lot of time styling, completed the ensemble.

Xenia, who had spent the last two hours nude without a trace of embarrassment, then began to dress herself, selecting a short, wispy cream silk dress and, perhaps to make Jorg more comfortable, also forgoing any underwear. Jorg just stared at himself in Xenia's full-length mirror. He had done some theatre work when he was younger, and knew the transformational power of make-up, but this was a work of art. He was another person. He was Kerstin. And as Xenia grabbed her purse, slipped her arm around his, and whispered "Ready, sweetie?" in his ear, he could not get over how her artistry had made him look voluptuous, feline and confident, and her look delicate, almost fragile.

The wine took the edge of his nerves, and the subway ride to the club, which was the 'dress rehearsal', went smoothly. Jorg practiced a slightly injured limp, which gave him plenty of excuse to hold Xenia's hand and put his nail-polished hand on her hip, and on that delicious curve at the bottom of her spine, memorizing it with his fingertips.

The music at the club was delightful, and Jorg had trouble concentrating on the female conversations that Xenia struck up. To his surprise he had no trouble at all keeping his mouth shut. The conversations were inane, boring, and while the women engaged in them were much more animated than men talking about, say, sports, the subject matter seemed no more profound, no more revealing. Xenia explained to him later that "conversation between women is mostly about giving attention and appreciation" that women rarely get when they talk with ("or to put it more accurately, listen to") men. Jorg was skeptical: Surely women's conversations were more personal, more honest? Xenia told him that women don't get that personal until they are either very close friends or very drunk. Jorg couldn't believe that all this talk was just about shallow reassurances, self-esteem boosting. "Nothing shallow about it", said Xenia.

When the two women Xenia was talking with excused themselves for a cigarette break, Xenia grabbed Jorg's hand and pulled him along behind her.

"Time to go to the ladies' room, Kerstin", she said. She pushed him gently in ahead of her and he was almost afraid to look. But there was just one woman inside that he could see, and she was fixing her make-up. Xenia beamed when she saw the floor-to-ceiling enclosed stalls, and when the lone woman departed she dragged Jorg into the stall furthest from the door and locked it. Motioning him to be silent, she whispered:

"I am sooooo turned on. I've always wanted to do this. You know those Japanese comic books with the very tiny feminine looking hermaphrodites who have tiny yonis and monster lingams? That's been my sex fantasy since my teens, and you are soooo close to being it. Stand up on the toilet seat lid." When Jorg complied, Xenia pulled up his skirt and gently pulled off the duct tape, before taking him into her mouth. For the next ten minutes she teased him, slowly, expertly, hardly moving her head. Is there anything this woman isn't proficient at, he wondered. When she was finished she pulled him off the seat, said simply "Now do me", and climbed up on the toilet seat lid, pulling up her short dress to give him access. She kept him at it for half an hour, guiding him with her hands and short, whispered instructions: "Not so hard". "There, a little faster". "Yes, now again".

When she had retaped him (now he knew the reason for the shaving -- pulling the tape off of his hair would have been torture) they finally returned to the main room. When she couldn't convince Jorg to dance with her, they had a last drink and, a little tipsy now, made their way back to Xenia's apartment. Inside she kissed him, a real kiss for the first time, and led him to the bedroom. "Lie down", she ordered him, after pulling back the duvet. When he complied she produced the duct tape roll again, this time using the tape to tie him spreadeagled to the bed.

"You're staying the weekend, and you are not to take off those nylons even once", she said, pulling off her dress and climbing on top of him, smothering his face with her tiny, lithe body. As she rode him she told him what she had in mind next. "Tomorrow night I'm going to try to find a gay bar for us to go to. I want to see if you look good enough to other women to pick up". And next Saturday I'm invited to a masquerade party at the ski club, where everyone keeps their masks on until midnight. Boy, when they see you, are they going to be surprised. Now, let me tell you what I'm going to do to you as soon as I get tired of this, if that ever happens..."

As it turned out, Jorg learned a lot more about women's conversations, and how women thought, from Xenia than from his adventures in disguise. When she asked him to move in with her he was genuinely surprised. Why would an active, young woman want him when she could have someone handsome, athletic, her own age? She explained that it was all about ego. Young men, even the good-looking ones, were intimidated by her, and saw succumbing to her dominance as a sign of weakness, as a challenge to their still-forming masculinity. "You don't have any problems in the ego department", she said, "despite the shy and sheepish act. When I tell you what to do it doesn't threaten you the way it does most guys. We don't have to fight for control."

As his novel developed, Xenia corrected the dialogue, female and male, and then started editing the whole book. When she started writing whole passages herself, Jorg told her that if it was published it would be under both their names. "Never happen," she said. "Name me one book co-written by a man and a woman. Hmmm... I guess we could always use your alter-ego's name Kerstin, and publish it as a book by two women. But then whose name would go first?" she said, with a laugh that caused her to arch that naked, intoxicating lower back into the perfect S.

Image: Pretty Girl, by Tonica, at DeviantArt, one of the Web's most remarkable little-known sites.