Beneath the tiny pair of black stretchy shorts I’m wearing a big pair of my sister’s control knickers. They’re really tight from my waist to my thigh but they do eliminate my boyish bulge. Despite having second thoughts, I know I can’t back out now and the grand opening is only a couple of hours away. When Janet asked if I’d help, it was the fact that the outfit didn’t involve a dress or a skirt, but just some shorts and a top that swayed me. That didn’t sound too bad… but now I can see just how very short my shorts are and just how overtly feminine I look, I think I’d have preferred a dress or a knee length skirt. “We’re podium girls Peter… it’s all about the leg.” Janet said.
“I know… I’m just not used to having so much leg on show.” I frowned. “Everyone’s going to be staring at them.”
“There’s five other pairs of legs for the punters to gorp at.” Janet reminded me. “You won’t be the only one being ogled by blokes.”
“I’ll be the only one who is a bloke.” I nervously chuckled. Janet grinned and told me that the more they’re looking at my legs, the less likely they are to notice my Adams Apple. I bit my lip and raised my fingers to my throat. “I hadn’t thought about that.” I gulped.
“You’ll be fine.” Janet assured. She took my hand in hers. “We’ll be about fifteen feet away from the crowd and to be honest, I don’t expect more than ten or fifteen people… it’s not as if there’s celebrity cutting the ribbon… it’s just the boss.”
“Oscar?”
“He’s not actually called Oscar.”
I don’t know why I thought he was called Oscar since I knew it was just the name of the bar. “I guess that’s what you call a blonde moment?”
“You’re a brunette.” Janet grinned. Her eyes dropped to my hand which she held gently in hers. “Just our nails next.” she said. “Then we’d best get going.”
I took breath and said OK. “Please don’t put those long talons on me.”
“I won’t.” she said.
The false nails she glued to my own were just a couple of millimetres longer than I’m used to. She painted them in a deep rich red shade that almost perfectly matched my lipstick. “Is that what you do?” I asked. “Match your nails to your lippy?”
“Often but not always.” Janet told me as she tended to her own nails. “I’ve been known to match my nails to my earrings to my lipstick, handbag and shoes.” she claimed.
“Must be quite fun… doing all the accessorising and stuff. Us blokes don’t have to worry about any of that.”
“And that’s where I think you guys are missing out.” she replied. “I hate to wear pants and top one day, then different pants and a top the next, then pants and a top the day after that, and the next, then when I’m going out on the town it’s pants and top again and when I’m slobbing out on Sunday, it’s pants and a top.” she rapped. “We’ve got pants and tops, short skirts, long skirts, shorts, culottes, strappy dresses, dungee-dresses, strapless dresses, tight dresses, floaty dresses, play-suits, jumpsuits, leggings…”
“Yeah… I think I’d be overwhelmed with choice.” I supposed. “Does seem a bit unfair though… there’s this whole spectrum of style and us guys are only allowed one tiny bit of it.”
“That’s exactly what I was saying earlier.” Janet replied as she painted her nails in the same shade as mine. “Sometimes when I’m feeling a bit down in the dumps… I’ll choose a really great dress and put on some killer heels, do something different or daring with my hair and make-up and all of a sudden I feel really fucking fantastic… even if I’ve no where to go, getting dressed up is a real pick-me-up.” she excitedly told me.
“I’m finding it really quite nerve racking.” I confessed. “Although it does feel… fucking fantastic …as you put it, too.”
“Good… you look fucking fantastic, and I’m feeling nervous too… I’ve never been a podium girl before either.”