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Authors: Ophidia Cox
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the mug upstairs and stood it on the dressing table to cool while she sorted out her attire.
If she put on her costume and wore something over it, Sylvia supposed, that might be quicker and easier than going properly dressed. She threw her mask into a carrier bag, along with a bra, a t-shirt and a clean pair of knickers. It might save time going there already wearing it, but she wasn’t driving home after a day’s work in uncomfortable clothes. The same as one might wear one’s swimming costume under one’s clothes to drive to the swimming pool, but not when it’s soaking wet afterward.
Sylvia recalled there being a boiler suit screwed up on the floor of the airing cupboard, but she wasn’t sure it was still there. As it turned out, it was lying under some towels when she went to look. The boiler suit had been left some years ago by an ex-boyfriend, after Sylvia confessed to him that penetration hurt her. Not being able to have “proper sex” as he’d called it apparently made him feel unmasculine in a way that being a car mechanic didn’t.
She uncrumpled the boiler suit. Oily stains marred its front, and grubby handprints smudged the thigh and backside areas. A faint underarm smell still clung to it, but the man who had owned it had been slight and not particularly tall. It should fit reasonably well.
Sylvia went back to her bedroom, where she took off her clothes and put on her costume. She pulled the boiler suit on over it. There was no point putting her boots on now. She wouldn’t be able to drive in them, so she’d be better waiting until she was there and she’d parked. Her lipstick she applied as she had the night before, and she also put on a large pair of aviator sunglasses. Running her fingers through her hair, she examined her reflection in the dressing-table mirror for any semblance to her usual self. She hoped she couldn’t see one.
After gathering the boots and the carrier bag, she headed out. When she had locked the front door, she buttoned the keys inside one of the boiler suit’s many pockets. The coarse fabric of the suit felt rough against her exposed skin as she got into the car and fastened her seatbelt. What if she crashed the car and the paramedics cut her out of it and found her wearing this when they tried to administer first aid? Sylvia wondered morbidly about what her relatives might think if she died and the paramedics gave them her clothes back.
She tried to concentrate on the road as she drove, but she was ever conscious of the reaction of the harness over her whole body to her movements in steering and changing gear, and the pressure of the strap between her legs. Where skin touched skin it stuck with sweat, and the rough fabric of the boiler suit was an infuriating tickle.
When she arrived at the Garden Festival, the day crowd was still very much in evidence. Old couples meandered painfully slowly around the flower exhibits. Kids wandered along or leaned against railings eating sweets and candy floss and played with cheap nasty toys from the many souvenir shops. Sylvia had never felt so self-conscious in her life as she stabbed her way on her impractical heels through them all toward the Cyberkink Sideshow’s tents. She was sure wearing the harness affected the way she walked, that people could tell and they were staring.
The two bouncers blocked the way. “Sideshow’s closed to the public until four,” one of them said.
“I’m here to see Victor Maynard. I’m...” Sylvia flushed beneath her sunglasses and the hair pulled over her face. “...Madam Butterfly.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, madam,” said the bouncer, his face falling. “I didn’t recognize you out of character. Please go in. Mr. Maynard sent you a message, madam. He asked that you meet him and Mr. Vaughn in the dungeons.” They stepped aside to let her through.
Reaching the tent at last and getting inside came as a great relief. Two days ago, the Sideshow had been an alien world and cause
If she put on her costume and wore something over it, Sylvia supposed, that might be quicker and easier than going properly dressed. She threw her mask into a carrier bag, along with a bra, a t-shirt and a clean pair of knickers. It might save time going there already wearing it, but she wasn’t driving home after a day’s work in uncomfortable clothes. The same as one might wear one’s swimming costume under one’s clothes to drive to the swimming pool, but not when it’s soaking wet afterward.
Sylvia recalled there being a boiler suit screwed up on the floor of the airing cupboard, but she wasn’t sure it was still there. As it turned out, it was lying under some towels when she went to look. The boiler suit had been left some years ago by an ex-boyfriend, after Sylvia confessed to him that penetration hurt her. Not being able to have “proper sex” as he’d called it apparently made him feel unmasculine in a way that being a car mechanic didn’t.
She uncrumpled the boiler suit. Oily stains marred its front, and grubby handprints smudged the thigh and backside areas. A faint underarm smell still clung to it, but the man who had owned it had been slight and not particularly tall. It should fit reasonably well.
Sylvia went back to her bedroom, where she took off her clothes and put on her costume. She pulled the boiler suit on over it. There was no point putting her boots on now. She wouldn’t be able to drive in them, so she’d be better waiting until she was there and she’d parked. Her lipstick she applied as she had the night before, and she also put on a large pair of aviator sunglasses. Running her fingers through her hair, she examined her reflection in the dressing-table mirror for any semblance to her usual self. She hoped she couldn’t see one.
After gathering the boots and the carrier bag, she headed out. When she had locked the front door, she buttoned the keys inside one of the boiler suit’s many pockets. The coarse fabric of the suit felt rough against her exposed skin as she got into the car and fastened her seatbelt. What if she crashed the car and the paramedics cut her out of it and found her wearing this when they tried to administer first aid? Sylvia wondered morbidly about what her relatives might think if she died and the paramedics gave them her clothes back.
She tried to concentrate on the road as she drove, but she was ever conscious of the reaction of the harness over her whole body to her movements in steering and changing gear, and the pressure of the strap between her legs. Where skin touched skin it stuck with sweat, and the rough fabric of the boiler suit was an infuriating tickle.
When she arrived at the Garden Festival, the day crowd was still very much in evidence. Old couples meandered painfully slowly around the flower exhibits. Kids wandered along or leaned against railings eating sweets and candy floss and played with cheap nasty toys from the many souvenir shops. Sylvia had never felt so self-conscious in her life as she stabbed her way on her impractical heels through them all toward the Cyberkink Sideshow’s tents. She was sure wearing the harness affected the way she walked, that people could tell and they were staring.
The two bouncers blocked the way. “Sideshow’s closed to the public until four,” one of them said.
“I’m here to see Victor Maynard. I’m...” Sylvia flushed beneath her sunglasses and the hair pulled over her face. “...Madam Butterfly.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon, madam,” said the bouncer, his face falling. “I didn’t recognize you out of character. Please go in. Mr. Maynard sent you a message, madam. He asked that you meet him and Mr. Vaughn in the dungeons.” They stepped aside to let her through.
Reaching the tent at last and getting inside came as a great relief. Two days ago, the Sideshow had been an alien world and cause
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