force him to stumble backward into the front seat of his car, scoot over and slump there slight-
ly, letting me drive.

A simple phone call, an acquies-
cence to meet for dinner would have alleviated all this pressure; a few hours alone with him, each of us engorged in carnal bliss was all I’d been asking for. I wanted my moment with him and since it was not being offered I would have to take it. That wound he sustained now was not life-threatening; it was just messy. He was not going to die. But I didn’t want him to lose so much blood that any hope of an erection later would be out of
the question.

“Come into the bathroom and let me dress that,” I said, drag-
ging him through my front door.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he bellowed. By now, of course, he’d realised that it was just me under a red wig. His hands were full of his own blood. There was an undeniable need to stop it from streaming out of him. Even he was forced to listen to me now.

“Just dinner,” I spat. “Just dinner – that was too much to ask?”

“Fuck you.”

“I know, I know – you will.”

He glared at me in disbelief, the blood still streaming un-
abated because he would not go into the bathroom. I had to push him in.

“You’ve turned a leaf before, you’ll turn it again,” I explained. “I just want a few hours with you – is it going to kill you?”

*     *     *

He was so disagreeable that it almost made me wonder why I loved him.

I had to tie his hands behind him because he would not stop fighting me in the bathroom and his hands were covered in blood, blood that was smearing all over me, and now the smell of it was turning my stomach.

“Stop it,” I said. “Just stop.”

He was weak; deprived of the use of his hands, he became more manageable for me. I opened his shirt and cleaned and dressed the wound, but it was deep; clearly it would need stitches to heal properly. A stint in the women’s jail was likely looming large in my future but it was too late to regret it now.

I pulled off the wig and shook out my hair. My head was

sweaty. “If I untie you,” I asked, “can we put these clothes in the washing machine, or are they ‘dry clean only’?”

“I want to go home.”

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

“I want to go home. Let me out of here. I want to go home.”

I studied his face, those eyes that were so much like mine, and I still saw my soul reflected there. Allowing him to leave now would be such a waste, I decided.

*     *     *

In my black underthings – the boned corset, the garters that held up the black stockings, the crotch-less panties – he looked even more like me. Of course, we were bathed in the flattering glow of candlelight, where it was easier to blur the lines of distinction between us. Plus, I’d made up his face and combed back his hair…

I propped him in front of the mirror in my bedroom, leaning him over slightly against the dresser. I stood behind him, wearing noth-
ing, and I studied us both reflect-
ed there. Our faces were lovely. We were beautiful together: he, in my expensive underwear look-
ing like a more beautiful me, and me, naked. It was worth that vow of chastity, I thought. It engend-

ered something sacred to our union. I could have done without the knowledge of his wife, though, and of those kids; of all that life he’d been living while I had naively waited for him to return my phone calls. But I wasn’t going to get choosy. He was here with me now, alone. We were in our world. And be-
neath the boned corset I’d cinch-
ed around his waist, the band-
ages were holding. He’d stopped bleeding. But he was still weak. An erection was nowhere in sight.

His hands were still tied, too, unfortunately – I couldn’t trust him otherwise. He’d come this far without once joining me in my desires; there was no reason to expect him to change his tune now. The silicone phallus that had his spectre all over it – it was how I had filled myself during those empty nights without him – I turned it on him. I impaled him. He leaned against my dresser and I screamed. I hadn’t wanted it to be this way. It felt useless to do the impaling. The point had been for me to feel full of him, not to fill him with the empty poison of my own longings. Even when he was bearing the burden of being me, I was unlovable. I could see it in the mirror.
It devastated me.