'My First Time' - A Long-Listed Short Story

Is only imagination required to remake a man?

A short story I wrote in January was recently longlisted in a Writers’ & Artists’ competition. It was one of only 14 stories picked from 725 entries. The first person to read the draft shed a tear at the end. (Note to self: don’t fist-pump in the same room as your reader if they cry.)

The sad news for me is that my entry didn’t win or make the shortlist (but my hearty congratulations to those who did). But the good news is that you can now read it below!

The competition’s prompt was ‘risk’ and I think I took one in writing my story. It’s a far cry from my usual genre, experience and knowledge, yet it still appealed to a queer Scottish horror writer. Job done, perhaps. Words stimulate our brains in powerful, emotional ways - wield them wisely, not timidly!

In the shower before writing this, it occurred to me I’ve often written my best pieces when impersonating others:

At eight-years-old I won the School English Prize with a short story written in an “English Composition” exam (remember those?). It was about robbing a jewellery shop and I was the (infant) getaway driver. There were screeching tyres and smashing glass. A half-century later I still remember the thrill of the chase as I scribbled it down. But, as a portend of my errant literary ways, I chose a glossy astronomy book as my prize. Oh, dear.

Aged thirteen I created, as part of an English scholarship exam, a story about being a child with Down’s Syndrome. I’ve no idea where I plucked it from, but it helped me gain a decent education. A school award for good grades led to my picking a weighty tome on “How Things Work”. Oh, dear - again. Only recently did I understand the air of despair from my classics teaching headmaster on handing this over. I hope my Etruscans essay later cheered him up – he thought the Romans were vastly over-rated.

And now, after a four-decade hiatus in the rich hinterlands of STEM-land, I’ve conjured up the story below. So maybe we’re always at our best when adopting other personalities, using one of the social masks we carry around, for variously coping with whatever situations we choose to walk (or be thrown) into. Some of us might even wear one on a permanent basis…

“There are serious risks attached to writers not taking risks.” Me (2024)

Back to the story: I don’t know why I wrote the ~1,400 words below. Perhaps it was a subconscious urge to overcome intrinsic assumptions of social duty and conformity; to abandon stale reason for rhythmic passion – ‘YOLO’, as the youth once said (and I give myself permission to mimic). But perhaps the story’s internal narrator has said it best:

Is Only Imagination Required to Remake a Man?

“I’d remained ignorant of the answer until deep into adulthood. Society’s insistence on duty before pleasure had meant resisting introspection, despite my hidden passions. To gain such self-knowledge is fraught with risk, not least from the perils of premature discovery or unmasked deception. I cannot erase the years of anguish from succumbing to stereotype. I cannot soothe my heart’s suffering from long impatience with my treasonous, acquiescent mind. But the strength I’ve uncovered deep within me is not a product of transient, mistaken urges. It has dispelled the remnants of my misjudged shame. The empty sorrow of deceit to myself and others might remain, but to be this strong cannot be wrong. For when did weakness pave the path to liberation?”

George Huxley (1987)¹

Alright, George and I have teased you enough.

On with the show!

---

Squeeze yourself into a high note, why not.

My First Time

A sigh of relief escapes me as I snip the thread on the last sewn sequin. My dress is ready. I hold a hundred hours of devotion up to the bedroom light and shake the strapless red gown with a thrill of emotion. Satin sparks dance on the wall like a frenetic disco ball. I glide my hand down and around its lycra-backed curves, fingering the edges of the thigh-high slit; imagining the tension around my hips and my bust’s deserving lift. I ache to slip inside it, but my family are downstairs. The completion of my painstaking task shouldn’t be a potential stake in their hearts. I can wait until tomorrow, once I’m alone. But the temptation to mime my practised act still tugs at me, an insistent urge to creep into the spare room once they’re asleep. I only have to ignore my body being wrapped in vivid imagination instead of this secret, gorgeous creation.

My wife calls up, “Can you put the children to bed, darling? I’ve been dying to see this episode all week.” A thunder of feet on the stairs startles me into wrapping my handiwork in the clinging plastic from last week’s dry-cleaning. It’s rehung in my half of the wardrobe before two blonde heads appear, hiding its glittering potential within a drab array of office-grey boredom. For now. Matching shoes peep out from below; glossy and red, enticing me to slip them on again and parade before the mirror. Mail order had meant guessing their width. They still pinch my toes and blister my heels, but it won’t do to totter like an amateur, even if Saturday’s stage was only metres from the shabby dressing room. I crave more privacy to create what I aspire to be, yet I want to be seen in public with an urgency that tightens my stomach and lifts my heart. But not my family. Not yet. Not until I was sure. And brave.

Two days to go. Four sets of cutlery clink on plates as I flex my toes under the kitchen table, tendons aching from teetering too much on the brink of possibility. The crumbed fish and potato wedges remain untouched on my plate as I pick at my peas. The tension in my head has taken a toll on my appetite, gnawing at my guts far more than my hunger.

“Daddy, pass the ketchup.”

“What do we say?”

“Pleeease.”

As my hand reaches out, my wife asks, “Have you been painting Daddy’s nails again, Ellie?”

She nods, her eyes on me. “Daddy said he didn’t mind. I promise we didn’t make a mess, Mummy.”

“She’s getting quite good,” I add.

“I’m sure she is. I’ll need to stock up at this rate.”

“We can buy a cheap bottle. In a different colour if you—”

“And the glitter?”

“What?”

“You’ve got a sparkly hairline, George.”

As I place the sauce bottle between the children, Ellie’s frown turns my gnawing tension into a bite of fear. She hadn’t used glitter. But I had, after she’d returned to her bedroom. ‘Practice makes perfect’ I’d told her, later whispering the same to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’d scrubbed in a rush when called downstairs to lay the table. Too much preening and insufficient cleaning. The act of an amateur, George.

“Tom!” Ellie shouts. A disjointed trail of red gloop links the three-year-old’s plate to the fridge, adorning the table and floor in between. My bloody stab of panic has been stitched up by a loose lid. My wife leaps for the kitchen roll as I dive for the dishcloth, wiping glitter and sweat clean before attending to the bloody mess. Excellent timing, my boy.

Is being ignored worse than being abhorred?

The big burlesque night has arrived. My first—and likely last—time on Saturday’s stage. I glimpse a slice of tonight’s crowd through the faded curtain folds. I’d been amongst them for months, ignoring the heckles for the worst acts whilst inhaling their adulation for the best; daring to think the latter might one day greet my own performance. For years I’d failed to nurture my misunderstood dreams or sought similar affirmation. I’d fallen instead for the safety of staid middle-class life, unburdened by its mediocre expectations. Then, a few months ago, daring my self-taught all, I’d entered this hidden world to lurk in its showtime shadows, watching and wondering. An enticing mixture of fear and excitement had continued to grip me as my confidence bloomed with familiarity; of the acts, the raucous audience, and my inner feelings. I’d dived from the low-ceiling dark into a throng of nylon and rayon, of muscles and mascara; letting the milling dancers and brusque chancers brush past, inviting the chance of a glass or an over-perfumed grip of my padded arse. I searched for those with stories like mine, loving fathers who covered their tracks with rehearsed lies to girlfriends or wives. How did they conquer self-doubt and mistrust to find freedom in the same space I’d yearned for every day for countless years?

The compère’s voice rings out: “And now, my princes and princesses, please welcome tonight’s wholesome virgin onto our esteemed stage. With the voice of an angel on twenty a day and a dress slit to his armpit, please give it up for the one… the only… Gorgeous Jessica George!”

The lights hide my peers audience, but not my nervousness. I give my teeth a final lick and tug on the zip threatening to reveal more than my back. To a smattering of applause I shimmy towards centre stage, sequins alight as I grip the microphone in a velvet-gloved fist. A pause for the obligatory catcalls and then the music starts, the cue to fill my lungs with air and my audience with anticipation. Time to forget about everyone and everything except what I’ve rehearsed alone a hundred times in my home. Time to ignore the critical mirror I’d held up to my body, my voice, and a welter of doubts and fears.

I wake from a music-induced daze as the final note from my baritone throat dwindles to silence and my hips cease their sway. A heart-stopping pause is followed by rapturous applause. I think my smile could illuminate a thousand disco balls. The house lights come up to reveal a frenzy of clapping hands above wigs and war paint, the whole room alive back to the graffitied ticket door. I accept the offer of a hairy lace-encased hand to descend to the floor, wobbling on a squeezed foot at every step. As the room resounds to the deafening cheers of a new prima donna’s devotees, I dispense kisses and waves of gratitude to them all. Then, on the last step, I stumble. She’s there, plain as a hen amongst my fellow peacocks: my wife.

Through a fear-caught breath and a gripped gut turning like a vise, I rise in hope of a frown, or, at best, pursed lips. But there are no eyes or cheeks glistening with betrayal. Instead, her arms are aloft, fists punching the air. Releasing a raucous ‘woo-hoo’, she pushes through the crowd towards me. With a flood of relief, my heart restarts its singing. Then she’s in front of me. Her eyes dart over my dress, my face, my hair, taking all of me in. The stage lights illuminate her gorgeous smile, fuelling rare hope.

“When did you know?” I shout, my voice giddy with untapped adrenaline and uncertainty.

“A few weeks ago,” she shouts back. “But I needed to be sure. I wanted you to be sure. That all this”—her hands wave from my blonde wig to my painted toes—“is what you really wanted.”

“And are you?” I ask, desperate for no condemnation to overcome my elation. “You must understand. It’s… it’s so much more than this.”

“After seeing you up there? Of course I’m sure. You must have longed for this so much. And you did it, George. Just listen to them. I’m so proud of you, my darling.”

I hug her to my chest, squeezing her face into the outrageous cleft of my bosom, as the compère’s voice booms out the next act’s introduction. She looks up, eyes alight, and I’ve never wanted her more; all doubts I ever would again vanquished. Even before we grew less indulgent, before our marriage became a perfunctory bedtime kiss, something had always been missing. If she understands nothing else, she should know what her words mean to me.

We spill our tears together as I embrace my new world, one built to set me free, holding onto my reward for risking all on being the real me.

1. If you haven’t already guessed, this quote is not only relevant but also entirely fictional.