little t&a

don't want to be alone but i love my girl at home

Normally, Paul could spend hours in clothing stores. Tight jeans, platform boots, designer blouses and ascots. Feathery jackets and animal print coats. He'd dressed as wildly as possible from the time he was twelve or thirteen on, saving up every dime to buy new clothes, always hoping they'd be the ticket to feeling—oh, like they did. Like other people must. Confident and swaggering. Gene had been like that from the very start, even though, when he'd met Gene, Gene had been easily forty pounds overweight and was wearing overalls that only emphasized his gut.

That had been a pretty rude awakening for Paul. He'd realized it wasn't in looking the part. Confidence was something inherent. Offstage, he couldn't ever seem to purchase more than small slivers of it. And he didn't think he could purchase it now (well, on Gene's dime), in a mid-tier boutique, self-consciously shoving his way through racks of bras. Gene hadn't told him to pick one up, but he hadn't had to, either. He'd known he needed one from the start; it kind of hurt to run up stairs without any support, and the nightclub would be fucking awful without a bra, but he'd just kept putting it off. As if this female body would go away if he refused to acknowledge it, like a groupie left to linger in the Coop until morning.

Speaking of groupies, he was still wondering about the one who'd cursed him. He could sort of remember her face as Suzie had described her, but it was puzzling. The S&M bit had been relatively light, no whips or toys, and she hadn't come across like a nut. She'd said he'd had her before. That didn't mean much, either. Especially in certain areas, he'd end up with some of the same groupies again. Sweet Connie, for one—the only girl Paul knew for a fact had fucked every single member of the band, and half its roadies—and there were plenty others. It was almost a wrestling circuit; the girls all knew each other, even if he didn't know them.

But what could he really have done to make that girl that mad? He couldn't remember promising a chick much of anything in several years. Sometimes he'd get a bit sloppy with it, toss the girl some cab fare as he asked her to leave (she'd think he meant it as a tip, and throw it back at him), but he didn't get off on humiliating them like some guys did. They came with the room, that was all. Stress relief. God knew he'd heard of plenty of rockstars and movie stars who'd Quaalude the hell out of whatever girl (or guy) they wanted. But he'd never done something like that. Fuck, his chicks were actually sober.

It really didn't add up. Gene was triple the cad than he was, and he still had his dick. Peter and Ace cheated constantly on their wives, but Lydia and Jeanette hadn't joined forces and sent a sex-changing demon after them. Whatever. He exhaled, taking four bras of slightly different sizes back to the dressing room and trying on each in turn, wishing he'd let the shopgirl help. The clasps were annoying enough that he ended up having to fasten the bras in the front, squashing his chest in the process, then turn the whole thing around just to put it on. The third bra out of the stack seemed to fit the best, a cream-colored underwire one that wasn't too padded or too heavy on the lace and flowers. It looked okay reflected in the dressing room mirror, if a little stupid, paired with the boxers he was still stubbornly clinging to.

After another ten minutes or so, he'd also picked out a few pairs of underwear and a pair of fishnet stockings. Another half an hour and he had a fake leather jacket, graphic tee, cut-off jean shorts, and a pair of boots. He didn't really dig the ensemble in the mirror. More that he didn't dig the unhappy girl in the mirror any more than he dug the unhappy guy he usually saw there. But maybe he'd look punk enough for CBGB. Would he need more clothes than that, though? On the chance that she didn't show, or, worse, didn't reverse the curse? Paul's stomach churned at the thought. He got another dress, two blouses, heels, and a pair of jeans, deciding he'd write Gene a check for everything once this was all over.

By the time he headed to check out, Gene was already waiting for him with his own bag of already-paid-for clothes. Paul tried to get a peek—he didn't think Gene could go believably punk without intense help—but Gene held his two bags closed, pulling out a credit card to cover Paul's purchases.