Becoming Marilyn

or “I’m Every Woman”

A little story about a man and his wig

by Mongoose750

During the last week of August, or the first week of September, my neighborhood always held a block party. Everyone who had access to a grill, oven, or even a microwave would use this opportunity to grill, cook, or bake numerous bounties of food. Diets were forgotten, and health warnings were cast to the wind on this special day. If most of the neighbors waddled home with bellies ready to burst, the party was considered a success. We even had guests from nearby neighborhoods drop by. Perhaps moochers or freeloaders would be a more appropriate term, but we didn’t care. There was more than enough food for everyone.

This past year, the party was at some guy’s house with a pool. I was standing in the front yard drinking some homemade tea with my friend and coworker Brian Granger, a six foot black guy who I’ve known for years. I am Marty Anderson, a blond-headed, blue-eyed white guy of the same height. Our friend Ray, called his tea “Sweet Thunder,” because he made it sweet enough to make a dentist worry, and brewed it strong enough to raise the dead.

“Red Bull may give you wings, but this will give you rocket thrusters,” he boasted once.

After Brian and I each sipped our tea and realized we won’t be sleeping for a long time, we scanned the crowd, as a couple of single men were apt to do. We saw friends, couples, unexpected guests (here to “sample” the food, of course), and maybe a glimpse of the news van. Sometimes the local news will show a small clip of the party near the end of the program. They do it just about every year.

Suddenly we saw this woman standing around talking with guests. Literally, you couldn’t miss her. She stood about 6'4" or 6'5", and had a muscular build, similar to a bodybuilder. She was black, with light brown skin, and shoulder length hair twisted in dreadlocks. She wore a forest green polo shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and barefoot as she smiled brightly at those she talked to. Very attractive.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“I believe that is Olivia Burroughs, one of our newer neighbors. Outside of that, I don’t know much about her,” Brian replied.

We went ahead and talked about other things; matters work related, the weather, the standard gossip and whatnot. Finally after twenty minutes or so, I said to Brian, “I think I’m going to talk to her.”

Brian, who was in a happy relationship, replied, “Be my guest.”

Some men are intimidated by women who are either taller than they are, or strong women (being possibly stronger than they are). My ego was much healthier than that, so I didn’t consider it a big deal. I introduced myself to her, and we shook hands. We talked about this and that, shared some things in common, and all that.

Finally, Olivia looked at me and said, “Look, Marty, I can see you’re a sweet guy, and I can also see where this is going, but I like girls. I hope that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Not at all,” I replied, and we continued to talk some more until it was time for the pie tasting competition. I rejoined Brian, who was talking to friends of his girlfriend. His girlfriend had a business trip out of town.

“How’d it go?” He asked.

“Real nice, but she bats for the other team.”

“Oh.” We spent about a few seconds of mourning, then went on about our business.

I’ve been turned down before. Some days you win, some days you lose. I’m not the type to have a complex about it. I don’t consider myself a Don Juan, nor am I on a mission to “convert” women who aren’t straight. Truthfully, I thought nothing about it. There was too much food to sample.

***

October came, and with it, warm autumn days with turning leaves, and scenes that no painter could do justice. It was a great time to go to the park and read a book. I grabbed my windbreaker, my mystery novel, and headed out.

I sat on the park bench, about to find out who the murderer was, when I received a loud hello. Jarred from my trance, I whipped my head around to see Olivia staring at me. She wore a red hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and no shoes as she smiled.

“Enjoying your book?” She asked.

“I was about to find out who done it,” I replied, still a little anxious to get back to my book.

“I like those books where you already know who did it, you just want to see how the hero is going to get them, like Vince Flynn,” she explained.

“Flynn? Oh, I like him too. Since we’re talking about late, great action writers, how about Tom Chancy?”

“Yeah, he’s cool. Master of the techno-thriller. Suspenseful stuff. Of course for suspense, you can’t beat David Baldacchi.”

“Oh, so now we’re talking about lawyers turned authors? You can’t mention Baldacchi without mentioning John Gresham.”

Olivia threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, let’s stop here. We’ll end up going through a whole list of writers before long. Who are you reading now?”

“Dana Stabnow.”

“Oh I can go down the roll on that.”

I marked my place in the book and looked at her. “So what brings you here on such a beautiful day?”

“I was taking a walk. I always loved kicking through the fallen leaves. Hey, were you planning to go to that block Halloween party this Friday?” Olivia asked.

“Planning on it. You?”

“Yeah, but I have no idea who I want to be. What about you?”

“I have no idea. I might just borrow one of my nephew’s work shirts, and go as a pizza delivery man.”

Olivia laughed. “Then you’ll have people giving you orders all night. You’ll need to come up with something else.”

“I’ll come up with something.”

“Well I’m off to finish my walk. I’ll see you Friday if not sooner.”

“Bye.”

After she left, I quickly opened my book, and found out who the murderer was. Huh, I didn’t see that one coming. It was the butler after all.

Later that evening, it wasn’t me who came up with the idea, it was Brian. He came over to watch a game with me that evening.

“You want me to come as who?” I asked him, thinking he was half nuts.

“Marilyn Monroe. I know where you can get the appropriate costume for it,” Brian replied. “You’ll be great.”

“Well if that is so cool, why don’t you come to the party as her?”

“Because I think a black Marilyn Monroe would be hard to pull off. Besides, Florence might get jealous.”

I looked at his face. “Yeah, Marilyn Monroe with a mustache would be hard to sell.”

“Of course you will need to shave a little bit.”

“One of the biggest sex symbols in history, and you suggest I should shave a little bit. I think I’m half nuts, but I’ll do it. I can’t think of anything better anyway.”

“All right! Marty, you’re the man!” Brian exclaimed.

“No, I’m the woman,” I reply with a wink.

***

I got the dress, which came in my size, miraculously, and the shoes and the wig. That was the easy part. Brian mentioned that I had to shave a little bit. He was wrong. I had to shave a lot. Luckily I’m not a hairy man, like King Kong, gorillas in the mist type hairy, but the standard man hair. Ladies, let me tell you right now that I understand the long and painful process you go through to look good. Especially the legs.

When Florence, Brian’s girlfriend, asked me how I was going to accomplish this, I just told her I was using my electric razor. She gave me a look that told me I had no clue. I will spare you the smelly, painful details, but under her guidance, I had no body hair left, except my head, and I was afraid I would lose that. She did the makeup, and that was no fun either.

What I wore to the party was a replica of the white dress Marilyn wore in the movie Some Like it Hot, the wig, of course, white pumps which I swore I’d burn when I got home, some little necklace, and tan pantyhose (in the movie, she was barelegged, but it was chilly that night). Florence also taught me how to walk, twirl my little white purse, and to strike a pose and pout. I hope I get some appreciation for all this trouble.

***

At the party, I received many compliments. Even some of the women didn’t recognize me. And yes, I told the men who I was. Some of them almost hit on me!

I walked, no, strolled, no, strutted into a room to get myself refreshments, and I ran into Olivia. She wore a white jumpsuit, or it was a white jumpsuit. The sleeves and legs were torn off, making it looked ragged. Her hair and skin was tinted with green, and even her toes and fingernails were painted green. The jumpsuit was zipped halfway open, tastefully done, of course, and looked a size or two smaller than it should be on a woman her size.

“Let me guess, She Hulk?” I asked.

“Yes. I wasn’t sure how well a black She Hulk would go over, but if at least one person guessed right, I’m happy,” she replied with a smile, which then turned into a quizzical look as she eyed me closely. “Marty?”

“That’s me. It was Brian’s idea, and his girlfriend Florence did the makeover. I think she enjoyed it.”

“Very good job. I wouldn’t be surprised if you won the Best Costume Award. Has any men hit on you yet?”

“Only those who haven’t looked closely, or those who had too much to drink. When I tell them who I am, or speak in a low voice, that stops them. Your costume looks good too.”

“Amazing what you can do with a trip to the thrift store, green food coloring, and green nail polish. Hopefully I’ll be able to get all this green off before work Monday morning.”

“I heard that. I’m going to get a Sprite, and some of that cheese dip I was told about.”

“Oh, I’ll get that for you,” she said, rushing over to the table and fixing my plate. She poured my drink, and handed it to me. Our hands touched briefly, just a few seconds longer than usual. I thought nothing of it then as I left to mingle and playfully flirt with the crowd. We, Florence and I, also worked on imitating Marilyn’s breathless way of speaking too. With all this training I received, maybe I should take this show on the road.

As a matter of fact, I did receive the award for best costume, and received a lot of compliments. A few women smiled and told me they were jealous. I told them I don’t plan on going through all that trouble again, so they didn’t need to worry. I was thankful I was a man; being a woman was too much work.

The only disturbing thing about the party was Olivia. Though she was normally fun to be with, she hovered around me most of the party with a strange gleam in her eye.

“You make a beautiful woman,” she said to me at one point. She was standing very close, and spoke in a husky voice.

I suppose it sounded great if I was a woman of her persuasion. Being a man playing drag for the night, it felt very weird. In fact, I found myself telling her a few times, “You know I’m a guy, right?”

During a moment in which she left to relieve herself, I fled to Brian.

“I have a problem,” I said.

“If it’s using the bathroom, go ahead and use the men’s room. Everyone knows you’re a guy,” Brian joked.

“No, it’s not that. Olivia keeps giving me weird looks.”

“Weird looks? Like what do you mean . . . No. Marty, tonight as a lady, you look good, but not that good. You did remind her you carry the X chromosome, right?”

“Yeah, several times.”

“Has she been drinking?”

“Unless you count sweet thunder as liquor, not a drop.”

Brian thought for a second, and said, “Marilyn, I think you just got a headache.”

“I think so too,” I replied, playing along. “I think I need to say my goodbyes, and head out of here, where I can become Marty again.”

“Yeah.”

I quickly grabbed my prize, and started saying my farewells. I would miss Olivia, but at least she’ll have a chance to come to her senses. I made a beeline to the front door, a step away from freedom. Then Olivia appeared by the doorway. She grasped an arm and said in my ear, “Let’s leave this place, Marilyn.”

As she whisked me off to her car, I asked, “Where are we going?”

“We’re just going to my place to talk, and drink something weaker than that Sweet Thunder I’ve drank all night. I’ll probably won’t be able to sleep all night. You’ll get a chance to relax a bit, Marilyn.”

“I’m Marty, and I’m a boy,” I protest a little.

“Funny, you don’t look like a boy. Especially with that hair. I love blondes.”

“It’s a wig.”

“A very nice one too.”

Shortly we arrived at her place, where she fixed us coffee. We sat on the sofa, Olivia tucking one bare foot under her, and we talked. It sounds peculiar to say this, but she could not keep her hands off me. Olivia either rested her hand on my shoulder, tap my leg with her finger, or lightly stroke my leg with her toes. Her voice, normally musical in conversation, was now low and smooth.

Women the world over probably would’ve picked up on it earlier, but being a man, it finally dawned on me. She was hitting on me! Why didn’t I find that flattering? Probably because I was wearing a wig and a dress.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Marilyn,” Olivia cooed to me.

“Olivia, I’m a guy,” I reply, feeling weird.

“Not tonight you’re not.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and forehead. Before I could resist, she kissed me on the lips. A long, slow, passionate kiss. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been great. But again, that’s under the fact I’m receiving it as a man. But here, I’m in a dress with heels and hose (which Olivia is rubbing her hand on), and a wig, as Marilyn. I’m Marty, dressed like Marilyn.

I try to push her away. I never realized Olivia was so strong. With a mighty effort, I pushed her away and got off the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.

“This, this isn’t right, Olivia,” I sputtered out. Why am I out of breath?

Olivia slowly got up. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well it’s, it’s . . . I’m a man!”

I couldn’t believe I said that.

“I felt the way you moved when I kissed you,” she said, moving close to me. “You liked it.”

Well of course I liked it. If I couldn’t feel a kiss like that, I’d have to be dead, and even then I’d have to wonder if it couldn’t raise someone back to life.

“Yeah, but not in that way. I’m a man-”

I was interrupted as Olivia pushed me against a wall.

“Olivia, you’re hurting me!”

“Now I don’t want to hurt you, Marilyn, but I need you to stop playing games with me. Just let it happen,” she said as she started chewing on my neck.

Her hands were everywhere at once, it seemed. As she was hungrily devouring me, one of her hands unzipped my dress. I felt it falling away, but I thought that may be a good idea. Once she saw I was a man underneath, she’ll stop.

And again, I can’t believe I thought this.

My dress fell to the floor, and Olivia looked me over. She placed both of her hands on my breasts, my man breasts, and rubbed them. I won’t tell you what that did to me. Suddenly, she reached down, picked me up, and carried me to her bedroom. Not what I expected at all.

You know those scenes in the old movies where the man carries the woman to the bedroom, throws her on the bed, then starts to take her clothes off? Well the same thing happened to me, only she didn’t rip my dress completely off. However she did it, it was quick, and without ripping a seam. And this was while I was fighting her off.

So I was down to my bra, panties, and hose (Florence insisted if I was going to pull this off effectively, I needed to go “all the way.” I just think she wanted to get a kick out of seeing me wear a bra and panties. The panties didn’t feel too bad). Olivia had me pinned down on the bed, wearing a lustful grin on her face, while she reached to her bedside drawer, and pulled out . . . one of those things that you put on, or rather a woman would, but on to . . . all right, it was big, black, and long, okay? At this point, I offered minimal resistance, because I figured she would eventually see my goods, come to her senses, and start apologizing profusely while I made my escape.

I should add at this point that sometime, somehow during this struggle, Olivia shed her jumpsuit and everything under it. She Hulk was the perfect costume for her. She had never met a weight she didn’t like, from what I could see. The movement of her green and brown muscles would be enticing if I wasn’t being molested.

“Now Marilyn, I’ll be gentle, but you don’t want to make Hulk mad,” she joked as she strapped her . . . thing on. Like a kid on Christmas morning opening a package, she pulled down my hose, then pulled down my underwear.

“Surprise,” I said softly.

As I suspected, Olivia stopped what she was doing. She looked at herself, then she looked at me, not my face, but at what I had, the real thing versus black plastic, or whatever they make those things out of. She was speechless, and I was expecting her to say she’s sorry, oops, or something. Instead, she unstrapped herself, threw the thing over her shoulder, and continued to pull off my hose and panties.

“Hey!” I cried.

“Now be still, Marilyn; let mama do all the work,” she replied as she climbed on top and grabbed me. And considering where she grabbed and held me, I was not going anywhere.

“But I’m Marty-” I began, before Olivia seized me with another one of those kisses.

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next. Any twelve-year-old who took Biology 101 and had a vivid imagination could figure it out. I’ll say Olivia’s definition of “gentle” was about as intense as the most grueling workouts I ever had.

I woke up an hour or two later, Olivia curled around me, one of her hands underneath my bra cup (it was only partially taken off), caressing my nipple. I slowly moved it.

“Oh Marilyn,” she cooed in her sleep.

I carefully pulled myself loose, then I quickly pulled my clothes back on. Ladies, I agree with you, there is no quick way of pulling hose on, and it was even colder at whatever time it was, I did not look at a clock. Grabbing my cellphone, I texted a cab. When the cab came, he saw, well you can imagine what he saw.

“Don’t ask,” I said, as I gave him the address to where the party was so I could get my car. To finally curb his curiosity, I told him, “Costume party.”

“Oh! You did very good,” he replied.

“Won an award too.”

“I see. Heh, if I had a couple of drinks, I might accidentally hit on you. It’s hard to tell the difference.”

“Well one of the women couldn’t either.”

He looked at me, put it all together, then started laughing as I shut the door.

I got home, stripped everything off, put on a pair of manly boxers, and went to bed.

***

“So you’re saying she took you to her place and took advantage of you? Had her way with you?” Brian said, shocked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Picture a horny She Hulk who won’t take no for an answer, and you got it.”

“But what about your . . . equipment?” He asked, pointing.

“That’s the funny thing. She saw it, then threw away her thing and jumped on me.”

“What thing?”

I described it, and Brian waved his hands for me to stop. “So what will you do?” He asked.

I took a breath and glanced at the other people returning to work. “Other than avoid the park, and lock my doors at night, I don’t know.”

***

The days started getting colder, as October phased into November. Avoiding the park was no problem, since I prefer to be warm when I read a book. That was when I executed Plan B, attending a nice café that served excellent espresso. The place also had an excellent atmosphere, sort of romantic.

Speaking of “romantic,” I would be lying if I said I didn’t give what happened on the night of the Halloween party a second thought. Of course I thought about it. I told Brian about it, but he was the only one I told. I found it hard to believe, and I was there. Besides, how would you explain that you dressed up as Marilyn Monroe at a costume party, won a prize, and was pursued by She Hulk, who eventually got a hold of you, and forced herself on you? Not very easy, is it? Anyway, there may be a time to talk about it, but it’s too cold to go to the park, and besides being taken there, I don’t know how to reach her house, not that I want to. I put all that aside, and read my book, which was really good, so I did not have a problem losing myself in it.

As time went by, I started to get this feeling that someone was around. The café had glass tables, and I had the book on the table, meaning I was looking down. I got said feeling, and I started to look up for a moment. The first thing I saw was a pair of large, light brown feet. I kept looking up, until I saw the face of Olivia, who had an apologetic look on her face. I looked up, then I looked down at her feet again.

“Hello Marty,” she said, then realized where I was looking at on a cold fall day. “Oh, my feet don’t feel the cold. I only wear shoes at work when I have to.” Before I could reply, she quickly sat at my table. “Marty, I want to talk about that night after the party; I may have been a little aggressive.”

I almost said it out loud, but instead, I relayed my reply with my eyes that said, “You think?”

She laughed lightly. “I guess that was a no-brainer, huh? Look, I’m sorry for getting a little carried away that night.” She crossed her legs, unintentionally poking my legs with her toes. I’m reminded of how solid she was built. “My last relationship was with a blond who didn’t look like Marilyn Monroe, but she was beautiful. We had a wonderful relationship, until one day it suddenly fell apart.”

“Was it one of those ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ type of deals?” I asked.

“Now that I think of it, it was not me nor her, it was him. The next day after she broke up with me, she was seeing a very handsome man. I felt a little betrayed.”

Regardless of what side of the street you’re on as far as preference goes, it still was a sad story. Being dropped by your - I hate this term - “significant other,” who starts seeing someone else immediately does not do wonders for your heart. It hasn’t happened to me, thankfully, but I had friends who had it happen to them.

“I imagine that really hurt,” I said, nodding my head.

“It was months ago, but sometimes the wound is still fresh. Anyway, when I saw you in that outfit, I guess I kind of lost it, and I had to have you for myself.”

“Yeah, about that. I know what you like, and when you, uh, pinned me down on the bed and tore my clothes off, you saw my plumbing, but you went ahead anyway. What’s with that?”

“That’s the funny thing, I still pretended you were ‘Marilyn,’ even with your ‘plumbing.’” She paused to laugh for a moment.

“We are in a public place. I prefer to be discrete on such things,” I explained.

“I understand; it’s just the term ‘plumbing,’ I never heard it used that way before. Anyway, still friends?” Olivia extended her hand.

This was a story I was still trying to conceive myself, so it was best to believe it never happened. I shook her hand. “Sure.” Olivia then started to look me over with some sadness. “What?”

“It’s a shame you’re a man,” she said.

Now as a man, I received almost all the pet phrases women give you when they were either breaking up with you, or just not interested. That also included the “but” speeches, as in “You’re a nice guy, but,” and one I call the Fortune Tellers’ Declaration: “You’ll make someone a good boyfriend/husband one day.” I could almost say I heard them all, you may have as well. But no one had ever said what Olivia said to me. I didn’t know what to say.

“Well that’s the way God made me, I guess,” I replied, throwing up my hands in mock surrender.

Olivia smiled and glanced at the menu on the wall. “This is a nice place. I have been here a few times. The food is pretty good, but they don’t make the best lasagna.”

“I don’t think they make lasagna,” I said.

“No, they don’t, but I do. Let me make this up to you with a home-cooked dinner. I love to cook, and I think lasagna would make a great peace treaty. Please?” She flashed a dazzling smile at me.

It was a beautiful smile, but home-cooked lasagna really had my attention. I couldn’t pass that up. “When?”

“This Friday night. With all these block parties in this neighborhood, I haven’t had the chance to dazzle anyone with my cooking. Just bring yourself, this dinner is my peace treaty after all. Since you’ll be driving yourself, I’ll give you my address to plug into your cell phone.” She grabbed a pen and wrote down her address. “I’ll see you then.” She trotted off.

Well as far as awkward encounters go, that wasn’t too bad. I grinned to myself, thinking about the free homemade meal I got out of it, and opened my book to read some more.

***

On the few days before that Friday, two thoughts ran through my mind. The first was accidents do happen, and as freaky as what happened the night of the Halloween party was, sometimes weird things do happen. The second was every man has his price. Even though I can cook somewhat, I am a sucker for a homemade meal. I expected it to be an uneventful, but pleasant evening.

Dressed in regular “man” clothes, jeans, sneakers, a polo shirt, sweater, and jacket, I walked up to the door of her house and rang the doorbell. “Come in,” Olivia said, and I stepped in.

Olivia was putting some last minute items on the dining room table. At the same time, she explained that her trip to the gym took a little longer than usual, running into an old friend and chatting a bit. I said it was no big deal, and asked if I could help. She told me no, and to have a seat in the living room.

Now the way the house was arranged, from the living room, you had a clear view to the dining room. Olivia wore a dark blue tank top dress with white trim around the hem, no shoes. It displayed her arms and legs rather well, and I will tell you this woman was built. I’m not talking about someone you’d see on the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated, I’m talking about a woman who never met a weight she didn’t like, and would be a welcome contender for a bodybuilding competition. At one point, she stretched the toes on her right foot as she reached for something, and I could see the muscles rippling on that leg. I quickly reminded myself that she played on the other team, and that it was a shame. I needed to direct my gaze elsewhere, so I grabbed the remote on the coffee table, and found something interesting enough to look at for a few minutes.

Soon, she was done, and waltzed into the living room. “Please excuse my manners, let me take your jacket,” she said. After she did so, we went into the dining room and had dinner.

Olivia didn’t exaggerate, she is indeed a good cook, and having seconds and thirds of the main course drove that point home. During the meal, we had good conversation like we did that day at the park, and also at her house the first time, without her touching my leg while it was covered with hose. In case you’re wondering, no, we did not talk about that night. It was awkward enough thinking about it, and apologies were already made, so it was best to leave it be.

For desert, she baked a pumpkin pie, and that had me humming as I took every bite. I finally admitted I had enough, and we retired to the living room. She offered to fix us both a cup of tea. She laughed that it may not be as good as Sweet Thunder, but it should do fine. It would take her a few minutes, but it should be no problem. She invited me to watch some TV while she went to work in the kitchen.

I was pondering the horrid thought of Ray making his Sweet Thunder into a hotter version as I flipped through the channels. Suddenly, I saw something on a shelf near the TV. Curious, I got up to look at it. It was a wig, one that would make the wearer a redhead. It looked nice. I pondered absently why Olivia had it out. Maybe she had a date, and wanted to change her appearance, then forgot to put it up. Who knows, I don’t know the reasons behind wearing a wig outside of cancer patients and Halloween parties. I picked it up and took a closer look at it.

Now you might already know what is going to happen at this point. Just keep in mind that I already wore a wig once, so whatever taboo there was I already dealt with, plus I was just curious. Besides, it was going to be quick. There was a wall mirror in the living room, so it was a simple matter of putting it on, looking in the mirror, taking it off, and back to my seat before Olivia notices anything. No problem at all.

I listened to make sure Olivia was still fixing us tea, then I seized the wig, and put it on. I looked in the mirror, smiling at myself. Maybe the next Halloween party, if I was crazy enough to do this again, I could go as some famous redheaded actress. No, I don’t think so. Next year, I’m going to make Brian do it, since it was his idea in the first place. I moved to take it off.

And that was where I had the problem. The wig would not come off, short of scalping myself. A little more panicked now, I was taking both hands and tugging, but it would not come off my head.

“It’s what they call the ‘Weekend Wig,’” Olivia said, leaning against the door frame to the kitchen with a sneaky grin on her face. “It’s a new invention. The glue holds the wig firmly to the scalp for two days, then it dissolves, so it comes off easily.”

“I, I was just curious,” I said, babbling at this point.

“I know, Marty, or for the next two days, we’ll call you Mary. By the way, I’m crazy about redheads too.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t go home looking like this. I looked back at Olivia, who sat down on the sofa, picked up her tea, and sipped it. “You planned this,” I breathed. After her sip, she explained.

“You see, Mary, I thought long and hard about what happened that night of the party, and I found what it was that really turned me on about your costume was the wig. Everything else was great, but that wig, it did something for me. And I must say, you look real hot right now.”

I was still struggling to pull the wig off when she walked over to me, pulled my hands away, and guided me back to the sofa. She handed me my cup of tea, then sat down and crossed her legs.

“Now ‘Mary,’ this is how our relationship is going to work. Every weekend, you may be a blond, redhead, brunette, maybe you’ll have an Afro, it depends on how I’m feeling. Of course we won’t go out, during that time, I imagine you rather do that with your own hair. But we’ll find plenty of things to do here at home, or maybe at your house. And then, after we have our fun, I will take you to the bedroom, and screw your brains out. In fact, that’s what I’ll do after I finished my tea. I find it a little hard to control myself right now,” she said.

“But Olivia, I’m a man, you could see that, well you have seen that for yourself,” I sputtered. I still couldn’t believe I fell for that.

“No, tonight, you are Mary, and after I finish with you, you may not know who you are at all.” She licked her lips. “Finish your tea, it’s getting cold.”

***

And that led to a rather unusual relationship. As to what happened that night, as soon as she finished her tea, she took my cup and saucer, which was only half-finished, and nearly carried me to the bedroom. It all went black after that, or more of a blur. I remember her whispering in my ear phrases like “I want you Mary,” “Feel my muscles, Mary,” and “You belong to me, Mary, no one else.” I think I tried to correct her once, but after the big kiss she planted on my mouth, I gave up.

I work a normal workweek, then on the weekend, it’s like that one hit song some woman sang a long time ago, “I’m Every Woman.” I don’t think that was what the singer had in mind, but that would be the best way to describe it. Sometimes as soon as I came in the door, Olivia would practically slam a wig down on my head, and make out with me before I took my coat off. Sometimes as soon as I answer the door to my place, she appears with a wig, plants it on my head, and I’m trying to keep her from tearing my clothes off. My name, instead of Marty, would be Mary, Margaret, Melissa, or maybe something exotic, as long as it started with an “M.”

During the weekday, she comes by, and we have normal conversations, and even go to a restaurant or movie. Nothing wild goes on during that time, but she has put her hand on my leg a few times. The last time she did that, she reminded me I would be wearing a black wig with bangs, and to come over early so she won’t be compelled to come over and throw me over her shoulder and carry me to her house. That may sound like she’s kidding, except for the fact that she had done it once, and I was very thankful the neighbors weren’t out at that time.

I told Brian about the whole thing, and surprisingly, he took it fine. He only had one joke that he made about it. Question: What does a 6'4" muscular amazon do on a date? Answer: Anything she wants. I think that summed it up.

No, I don’t wear pantyhose or a dress, thankfully. Besides, if I wore either, that would mean I’d have to shave my legs, and I swore never to do that again. Olivia would tear them to pieces to get to me anyway.

Now she’s not always a sex-starved amazon, most of the time, she’s a normal loving woman. But she gets that gleam in her eye, and she says to me in a husky voice, “Put on your wig.”

I tried explaining it to her one more time, I guess you could call it our first fight. I complained about wearing the wig, and Olivia surprised me by standing real close to me, and said in a husky voice, “You may complain about wearing a wig, but about what happens afterwards, you can’t deny it. You like it.”

“Olivia, we’re supposed to have an argument here, don’t touch me like that,” I reply, while trying to fight her off. It was like fighting off an octopus who did weights.

“Put on your wig - Melissa.”

No need to go into details after that. Conflict seems to turn her on, and I was so drained, I slept through the next morning. I hid in the bathroom for an hour in case she was interested in round two.

***

Right now, I am looking at a wig that is a brown Afro. I give Olivia a funny look.

“Don’t give me that look, white women wear this style all the time,” she explained. “They call it a ‘permanent.’ I don’t know why, because for us black folks, that style is ‘permanent,’ unless we do something about it. I considered a blond Afro, but that would not look right on you.”

I hold up the wig. “And this would?”

“Yes, especially when I run my fingers through it later on.”

I wish she would not talk like that. I found it has an effect on me. “Can we go ahead and see this movie you’ve been waiting for?”

“Of course, Mandisa.”

“Mandisa?”

“Yes, it’s an African name that means ‘simply sweet.’ I can’t wait to have desert. You sure you want to go to the movies?”

Her voice was dropping octaves again. “Yes, but I’m not wearing that wig to the movies,” I said.

“That’s fine. I’ll put it on when we get back in the car. Oh, I need to get some wipes for my feet too. Those floors are sticky.”

There are two things I’ve learned not to argue about with Olivia. One is the issue of wearing a wig, of course, and two is the subject of shoes, or lack thereof. I never saw her wear any, nor is she willing to put any on, regardless of the season. She does have a great pedicure though.

“Who’s driving?” Olivia asked.

“You are,” I said. If I drove, I would only have one hand to fight her off, especially if she tries to put the wig on me. This way, she would be too busy driving. From the look in her eyes, I will be in for the time of my life when she slams that wig on my head.

I will say, aside from wearing wigs and being screwed into a coma, it has been a good relationship. Someone, I think my dad, said every relationship has its issues. I guess compared to wearing a pile of hair that’s not my own on my head every weekend, I can’t complain, until my scalp gets sweaty.

Olivia is standing by the door, wearing a black and white striped long-sleeved blouse, black leggings, covered by a gray overcoat, and silver ankle bracelets. I bought the bracelets for her for Christmas. She loved them, and she wears them almost everywhere.

“Come along, Mandisa,” she said.

I step out the door, and I jump in pain, because I’ve been pinched in the butt.

“Hey!” I say.

“There’s more where that came from, Mandisa,” she replied with a wink.

Yup, it’s going to be a busy night.

If you enjoyed this story, perhaps you may want to read other stories from the Barefoot Heroines collection. There are a variety of stories to choose from. They can be found at https://www.thevalkyrie.com/stories/mongoose/index.htm.

For suggestions, comments, or story ideas, email the author at shrewsberry@juno.com.

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