Of Being Yours[another way 2] Read Online Free

“Otherwise you won’t be able to pull your panties up.”
    “Thanks for that mental image,” I groaned.
    I was absorbed with the task of painting my toenails—blood red, of course. Laura had already decorated my eyes with heavy lines and shadows, the color reaching up to my eyebrows and almost to my hairline on either side of my face. My lipstick was a color described on the tube as “Hooker Red,” which filled me with nothing but gut-churning confidence.
    When we were finally fixed up after several hours of work, we stood in the kitchen, heels and wigs and dresses in place, squirming and shuffling to try and get comfortable. Laura took one look at us and cracked up laughing.
    “Okay, I need to get a look at this,” Will said, pushing past her and out into the hall, where we had an almost full-length mirror. “Oh dear Lord.”
    I was halfway out of the kitchen, watching my boyfriend try to pluck his underwear from his ass crack using his false nails, when I caught sight of myself.
    “Oh dear Lord.” It was worse than I thought. And I had assumed it was pretty bad. So that was saying something.
    When we reached the club that was the location of the benefit, the music was already pumping and the line of men dressed in street wear was long.
    “I didn’t know we had the option of not dressing up,” I hissed to Will as I attempted to negotiate getting out of a cab without flashing my underwear.
    He just laughed. “Yes, you did. But queens get to skip the line and a free glass of champagne at the door.”
    “Whoop-de-do,” I said sarcastically.
    We were treated to whistles and catcalls, which were slightly expected, and the flashes of cameras, which definitely wasn’t.
    Will rolled his eyes and grabbed my hand. “It’s for a good cause, baby. Now smile.”
    He groped my ass and I yelped, then tossed my head in a huff and showed the photographers some leg. I was possibly the least-convincing woman of all time; I couldn’t get the hang of walking in heels, and my underwear was so fucking tight, I felt like my balls were in danger of crawling back inside my body.
    I took my complimentary champagne and tossed it back, draining the glass in one gulp and then slamming it back on the tray. The waiters were from a company called “Butlers in the Buff,” which was also sponsoring the event. They were young, toned, tanned, clearly gay, and very, very naked. Champagne Guy was wearing a bow tie, starched white cuffs at his wrists, and socks with suspenders holding them up. And some very shiny shoes that reflected what was directly above them.
    I couldn’t help but pinch his ass as I headed for the bar, something he was clearly used to, as he barely flinched. Now if that wasn’t evidence of my new confidence in my sexuality, I don’t know what else could be.
    Will joined me at the bar and followed my lead in throwing back a shot of tequila. Then another.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, shouting over the noise of The Weather Girls.
    “Yeah,” I yelled back. “I need to drink.”
    “Would you like a Blow Job?” another Buff Butler behind the bar asked.
    “A what?” I asked.
    “A Blow Job. It’s a cocktail.”
    “A cocktail,” I murmured as Will giggled next to me. “Two.”
    We sipped the vile concoctions as we mingled, shaking the hands of prominent businessmen and friends who appreciated my little extra touch of a hand pistol tucked into my garter belt (which was unfortunately sliding down my smooth, hair-free legs and fucking difficult to hitch back up again due to the fake nails.)
    A large picture of Marcus “Ms. Fabulous” Marconi, dressed in all his finest queen glamor and pulling it off a hell of a lot better than I was, dominated the back wall of the club. The reason why we were putting ourselves through this hit me like a punch to the gut; Marcus would probably be in the hospital for a few more months while he recovered.
    “Come on,” I said to Will, taking his hand. “Dance with me.”
    There