Home Again

"Some packages came for you," Tim's dad Terry said. Tim had just returned home after an eventful date with Nancy to find his dad on the front stoop, still in the dress from before, rubbing his left foot, a pair of flats sitting next to him , "I did the receiving paperwork, but you'll need to sign them later."

"Sure thing dad," Tim said, passing him, "Thanks. Remind me later if I forget."

"Of course," Tim's dad said, quickly, stumbling at the end. Had he almost said something else at the end? It almost sounded like a 'sir'.

Despite the changes to reality, Tim still didn't want to have a relationship with his father. Too many bad memories, no interest in fixing the relationship. Besides, the man sitting outside in a dress rubbing his foot may have looked like Tim's dad, but he really wasn't. He was someone, something else. But what he was most of all was somebody else's problem.

Inside was different. Tabby and his mother were just finishing up their dinner. There were three plates at the table, one with a half-eaten salad and part of a buttered bun. The other two, the two in front of the women, had the remnants of roast chicken, potatoes, and steamed veggies. His mother was laughing uproariously at something Tabby had said, but when they saw him walk in, they both stopped.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," his mother said, "Don't you look lovely!"

"Thanks, mom," Tim said, "Any leftovers?"

"Oh there's plenty in the kitchen," she said, "We had your father clean up a bit. He was just picking at his food and being sulky for some reason, so we made him clean up then go outside to cool off a bit."

"Sulky?" Tim asked, "What happened?"

"I made him dance for us while we ate," Tabby confessed, giggling, "I guess I was getting a bit carried away."

"He'll be fine in a bit," Tim's mom said, "No need to worry about him."

"I won't," Tim said, meaning it, "I'll grab a plate and eat in my room. Thanks."

The chicken food was cold, but there was enough for a heaping plate. After a few seconds in the microwave, Tim headed upstairs to eat alone. He had a lot to think about.

Like, for example, how he'd been jonesing in the Uber ride to pull out his compact to check if his makeup was perfect. He knew it was, he'd spent long enough fixing it after making out with Nancy in her room. His hands were like the hands of a master painter, a teasing the beauty out of a blank canvas. Not that he thought he looked beautiful. He looked like a dude in makeup. And so while his mind knew that he didn't need to touch up his makeup, his hands were beginning to shake in anticipation of opening his purse.

Yet he resisted. He reminded himself that he looked great, that no more makeup was needed. It put him in a sour mood.

But then the strangest thing happened. As soon as Tim crossed the threshold to his house, the craving stopped. Not just stopped, disappeared. Tim was free of it! He was just about to be excited when he remembered Nancy's words.

I know you don’t leave your house without makeup, but you already looked beautiful.

He'd lost his ability to be outside his house without makeup. He wasn't free, he was just home.

Having to clear a space on his desk to make space for his food (primer, concealer, highlighter, setting spray, he knew them all now, each by name, each by use), Tim finally sat down to eat, but not before reaching down and taking off the wedge heels that had held his feet captive for so long. If feet could make noise, his would have moaned in pleasure in that moment, sitting flat on the floor, aching arches finally relaxing. Maybe he'd take a bath later to ease the muscle pain.

Then he ate. It was amazing. His mother's cooking had never been this good, nor had his sisters! Did the trade cause his dad to become the cook of the family? If so, how had he gotten so talented?! Tim couldn't remember his dad making anything more complicated than pre-packaged pasta before. The chicken was not only roasted to perfection, but seasoned to perfection as well. As he devoured his meal, Tim decided that he'd do something he'd never done before. Later that evening he would compliment his dad. It felt weird to think about, but to food was just that good.

Once he was done eating, Tim stood up and headed to the washroom. It was time to take off his makeup. After taking a couple glorious barefoot steps, unhindered by a heeled shoe, knowledge of a complicated and involved removal routine flooded into the front of Tim's memories, as if he had done it a thousand times before. He knew things about how long to hold soaked cotton pads against his eyes to take off mascara, or how to use a toothbrush to exfoliate his lips. Hell, he knew what exfoliate meant! Everything was new, and yet everything was familiar. He took his time, making sure to not skip any steps at all. Tim wanted to be free of the face paint, wanted to feel as close to his old self as possible. By the time he was done, twenty minutes had passed, and his face looked incredibly clean. It also looked male, once again. He knew that as soon as he was to go outside, though, the makeup would go back on, but for now he had a reprieve.

Back in his room there were two boxes sitting on his bed. Probably new clothes, he realized. Grabbing a pen knife from his night stand drawer, Tim cut the tape on both boxes. In the first, the smaller of the two by far, was a single pink bikini. It was embarrassingly small, the fabric practically not there. The top would barely cover his nipples, the bottom had a small pouch for his penis, but the rest was string. He dropped it on his bed and went to the second box.

Reaching inside, Tim pulled out a long, white, ornate wedding dress. It was elegant. It was beautiful. Had it been for a woman, Tim would have loved to see it. As it was, he hated it. He hated the plunging neckline. He hated the floral patterns in the lace. He hated the soft feel of its fabric in his hands. He hated the way he felt as he thought about what his own wedding might look like one day, both the bride and groom in wedding gowns, both having spent the day in the salon.

Alone in his room, far from the benefits that he'd gained from the trades, Tim once again began to resent them. He knew he'd feel better once he was with Nancy, but then and there, Tim felt what he had lost more than he what he had gained. He picked up his new deliveries and carried them into his ridiculous closet to put away. Cleaning up was better than dwelling in the past. There was nothing he could do about the trades that had happened. Maybe, if he was smart, he'd be able to avoid any further trades, and be able to preserve what was left of his masculinity.

Maybe.