Lashings of Sauce

Dressing Down by Clare London-2

It had been a tricky couple of minutes as I wriggled my way through to the punch bowl and grabbed two glasses. It was just about enough time for every pair of eyes to swivel towards the door and gawp at the pair of us. But then heads turned away again and voices rose in the hubbub of people enjoying themselves, and especially with the luxury of someone else’s drinks. I made my way back out of the kitchen, drinks in hand. Move along, people, nothing to see here.

Chris was stumbling down the hallway towards us, nearly tripping up on the hem of the curtain cloak. His eyes were very wide, his colour high. “Gaz!”

“What?” Gaz said. He was standing beside me by now. He met his host’s shocked gaze, and his voice was as quiet and polite as always, but perfectly clear. “You’re staring, Chris.”

I touched his shoulder and grinned. “Maybe he wants to convert you, Gaz.”

Chris’s gaze ran up and down Gaz’s body. “I don’t see that happening, do you? Not if you can come out in public like…”

“Like?”

“Like…that.” Bren spluttered from behind Chris, hot on his heels. Holding his arm high like he was denouncing unbelievers, he stabbed a finger in Gaz’s direction. “Like that!”

I shrugged. This was an even better effect than Gaz and I had envisioned. “So you want the name of Gaz’s dressmaker. Whatever.” I turned to Gaz. “I hope the punch is okay for you?”

He looked into my face and smiled.

God. His smile still undid me, even after all these months together. The twinkle of desire in his eyes, the dimple of mischief in his left cheek. The cute way his hair never lay flat on the right side of his head and curled around his ear so I could just reach over and tuck it back…

How the hell did I ever think he was shy? That’s what everyone said about Gaz when he first joined our group at the local pub. A nice bloke, good-looking, yes, but unassuming. Apparently clubbing wasn’t really his thing. Easy-going, but kept himself to himself. No, not looking for a quick and easy shag, not much of a drinker, not one to push himself forward, just looking to make new friends.

Yeah, right.

Oh, we started as friends, which of course we still were, but the unassuming thing had passed. Quite quickly, in fact. I liked him from the first time we met, but I went really slowly in case he wasn’t interested, or in case I made a fool of myself. Then I realised he was the only one to laugh at my crappiest jokes, the only one who seemed keen to sit through a marathon Star Wars movie night with me, the only one to stay behind after the gang came around for drinks at my place on a Saturday night, ostensibly to help me clear up…

…When we actually ended up snogging on the couch for an hour, then moving to the bedroom to experience our own disturbance in the Force. Now we were “going steady”—in my mother’s words—and Gaz had already moved a load of his stuff into my flat. We shopped and cooked together, we argued over whose turn it was to do the laundry, we went to Sunday lunches with his grandparents. And we made out whenever we could: his eyes would go dark and he’d chuckle when he reached for me, and his hands were never still on my body, and when he pushed me back down on our bed…

A party guest shrieked in my ear as they passed and my attention was rudely returned to Chris’s house. Gaz was looking at me, his eyes wide. He winked and blushed. Must have seen something in my expression.

Bren was still ranting. “What’s my cousin Ginger going to say? I only just came out to her parents. She nagged and nagged to come to the party, but if she goes telling them what kind of people I know…” He glared at us, particularly at Gaz. “What they wear!”

“Thanks a lot, mate,” I said.

Gaz grasped my hand. “You know he doesn’t mean any harm, Joey.”

“I do?”

Chris hushed Bren. “Hey, it’s okay. Vincenzo’s girlfriend is looking after Ginger.”

Bren sucked in a breath. “Is that meant to reassure me? From what I’ve seen, Lily’s costume takes Tart to a whole new level.”

Chris’s gaze settled on Gaz, and he raised his perfectly formed eyebrows. “No,” he said to Bren, out of the corner of his mouth but loud enough so I could hear. “Lily is so last season, as of now. I’ve seen the future and it’s in stockings and satin skirt. Wearing a silk corset.”

“And it shaves of a morning,” Bren muttered.

I laughed, and Chris was obviously tempted to join in. When Gaz tugged at my arm, I took a slurp of my punch and followed him into the lounge. There were plenty of guests grouped in there already, and the music was loud and heavy. A few people were jigging up and down half-heartedly to the beat. The costume of a cleric seemed to be a distinct inhibition when it came to dancing. Gaz walked over to the table of snacks in the corner of the room, but I paused in the doorway with Chris close beside me. I had a marvellous view, and I didn’t mean of the expensive interior decoration. The way that Gaz’s arse tightened against his costume with every step he took…it made me feel decidedly irreligious.

Chris gave a small whimper in my ear. He was looking in the same direction.

Vincenzo walked up behind us, leaning over Chris’s shoulder, also surveying the room. He was the oldest of our group of friends, and was fond of playing the mature big brother role. Tonight, he was wearing a cardinal’s cassock and a snug silk-covered cap on his well-groomed hair. On Vincenzo, it looked as urbane as his usual designer suit. Absentmindedly, he adjusted the mitre on Chris’s blond head. I suspected it had slipped with the shock.

“Too many Vicars, Chris,” he complained, cheerfully. “Not enough Tarts. As I might have expected from your circle of friends, pretty boy. You did put both on the invitations?”

“I did,” Chris said. “But I know more men than women. And I’d expect them to prefer the clerical option.”

“Guess you should watch your political correctness,” Vincenzo said. “For that’s most definitely a man over there, in that scarlet corset and skirt. Wicked black stockings, too.”

“Well, Vincenzo, that’s…”

But Vincenzo had suddenly realised, with no time for the news to be broken gently. His exclamation was in his native Italian and was also—I’d learned plenty of vocabulary over the years of being his friend—hideously coarse. His eyes, like everyone else’s, widened and stared. “That’s Gaz!”

Chris closed his eyes in a fair impression of a long-suffering religious martyr.

I just smiled.

* * * *

I nodded to the girls as I passed them: Vincenzo’s girlfriend Lily and Bren’s younger cousin Ginger. I glanced at Ginger’s glass and reassured myself it looked like cola. They nodded back but they weren’t remotely interested in me. They were propped up against the wall, their shoulders nudging like good friends, their gaze glued to the snacks table and the man who stood there. They were gossiping, too.

I knew all too well who was in the firing line. Despite the murmur of voices around me, I heard every word as I walked slowly towards Gaz.

“He looks damned good,” Lily muttered. Her hair was worn up high with a complex collection of pins that a more modest person might have thought better employed keeping her shirt fastened across her push-up bra. “Obviously knows when to keep heels below four inches. And let’s face it, ankle straps are so thickening.”

Ginger stared fixedly at Gaz, as if she wanted to memorise every detail. “Do you think they’re really silk stockings? They look like it.”

“Not a single snag in them.” Lily took a too-large swig of her drink and wriggled against the wall. “This leather mini skirt is making me sweaty.”

Ginger blinked hard, but kept her eyes on Gaz. She tugged nervously at the edges of her skimpy baby-doll nightie. “He has really good skin. And look at the muscles across his shoulders.”

“Not an inch of muffin-top fat,” Lily grumbled.

“Did you see the glint of jewellery as he passed? Above the ribbons, just around the…”

“…nipple area?” Lily and Ginger’s eyes met. They were both very flushed.

“Good accessorizing.” Ginger’s voice was wistful now. “Light on the eye shadow, just a touch of lipstick. Matching nail varnish.”

“And the skirt drapes just right, no hitching up between his cheeks. Sarongs are so in at the moment.”

Ginger peered. “That corset could have been made for him. And no visible panty line. Do you think he’s wearing…?”

Just at that moment, I reached Gaz’s side and slid my hand around his waist. My wrist caught one side of his satin skirt and hoisted it up to his hip. He put his arm around my shoulders and turned his back to the rest of the room—and the girls.

“…a thong!” came the barely-hushed female chorus of shocked outrage from behind us.

I rubbed my nose against Gaz’s and grinned. He looked a little tense, but he was grinning, too. I touched my lips to his.

Lily gave a loud cough. Looking around, I saw the two of them move away from the wall. Knowing Lily, I suspected she was in search of more punch. Ginger was staring at Gaz’s upper thigh and arse, still partially uncovered under the skirt. “Do you think he waxes?” came the thin thread of her voice as Lily turned her away and hustled them both out of the room.