Detention

It wasn't taking Daniel's pants off that bothered Craig. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Craig hated that he was taking Daniel's pants off of him, kneeling in front of his boss, undoing his fly like he had intent other than emergency wardrobe repair.

It wasn't even the fact that he'd somehow known exactly how to repair them. That part had been absurd enough. One minute he'd been standing beside his desk holding a pair of expensive dress pants. The next, knowledge had simply appeared in his head. Different stitches. Different fabrics. Thread strengths. Seam reinforcement techniques. An hour earlier he'd barely known how to sew a button. The repair had taken less than ten minutes. The seam looked perfect. Invisible. Better than new.

The thing that really bothered Craig was when the job was done. Pants in hand, Craig had returned triumphantly to Daniel's office expecting the ordeal to finally be over. Instead, Daniel had glanced down, pointed toward his bare legs and exposed boxer shorts, and continued delivering his presentation without missing a beat. The message had been obvious.

Dress me.

Craig had stood there, mouth agape, for three full seconds.

Then, without challenging the request, without pushing back, he'd done it. Craig got down on his knees, at the feet of his boss, and slid the pants up his legs, staring up at his face as if hoping for approval. Craig had been the one to pull the zipper up, to fasten the button, then secure the belt. He'd even given his boss a little tap on the thigh to let him know that the job was done.

Daniel had continued discussing quarterly projections while Craig performed a task that in no way qualified as management. The memory alone made Craig want to throw himself into traffic.

Now he sat in the changing room at Velvet Vertigo Pole & Fitness staring at a metal locker while the humiliation replayed itself for what felt like the hundredth time.

Why hadn't he quit? Honestly. Why?

The question kept circling back around. He could've tossed the repaired pants onto Daniel's desk. Could've told him to dress himself. Could've walked straight out of the building in his heels and skirt and never come back. The fantasy was satisfying right up until reality arrived.

Then what?

No job. No paycheque. No company car. No apartment. No future.

Worst of all, quitting wouldn't actually solve any of the problems that mattered. Eros would still be Eros. Craig would still wake up surrounded by makeup and perfume. His closet would still be filled with dresses. His feet would still refuse to tolerate flat shoes. The strange urges would still be there. The shaving. The perfume. The satisfaction he felt whenever somebody complimented him.

Unemployment wouldn't fix any of that. It would just make him broke. And Craig knew exactly what being broke felt like.

His stomach tightened at the memory.

There had been a time, years ago, when everything had nearly fallen apart. Rent overdue. Bank account empty. Job applications going nowhere. The only reason he'd survived that stretch of his life was Frank. Frank who'd let him move in. Frank who'd quietly covered groceries. Frank who'd accepted late rent without making him feel guilty. Frank who'd taken care of him when things got bad.

Back then they hadn't just been roommates. They'd been a team. A partnership. A constant.

Now Frank lived across the hall. Still a friend. Still bowling on Thursdays. Still answering texts. But somehow farther away than ever.

Craig sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

"So I make sandwiches," he muttered to himself. "So I dress my boss. Maybe they'll give me a raise."

The words sounded ridiculous even to him. Life had become completely insane.

With another sigh, he stood and pulled open the locker. His brain immediately stalled.

What.

The.

Fuck.

The pink-and-black workout outfit was gone. No ruffled shorts. No sports bra. No towering platform heels.

Instead, folded neatly on the shelf sat a plaid pleated skirt. A tiny white blouse. White thigh-high stockings. And beside everything rested a pair of glossy black platform Mary Janes.

"Melody!" he called.

His voice echoed through the locker room. A moment later came the instructor's cheerful reply.

"What is it, Craig?"

"There's been a mix-up."

"No, there hasn't."

"My outfit's missing."

A pause.

Then:

"Nope."

Craig squeezed his eyes shut.

"Then where is it?"

"You're looking at it."

His jaw dropped.

A second later Melody appeared in the doorway, smiling as though she'd just delivered wonderful news.

"All part of your development plan, Mister Future Vice President."

Craig pointed accusingly into the locker.

"The development plan?!"

"Still trying to get you out of your head."

She stepped into the room and leaned casually against the doorframe.

"Yesterday showed me something important. You're actually pretty good when you stop overthinking everything."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm terrible."

"You accidentally danced for ten straight minutes."

Craig groaned. Melody ignored him.

"So today we're trying something new."

"I don't think I like where this is going."

"We're doing character work."

"Character work."

"Role playing."

Craig stared.

Melody smiled.

"Sometimes people get trapped by ideas about who they're supposed to be. How they're supposed to move. How adults are supposed to act."

She pointed toward the outfit.

"So tonight we're pretending."

Craig looked at the skirt. Then the blouse. Then the stockings. Then back to Melody.

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"I'll look ridiculous."

"You'll look committed."

"I'll look like a stripper."

Melody laughed. A loud, completely unhelpful laugh.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. This is run-of-the-mill management training. Pretty standard stuff."

Craig groaned again. Unfortunately, the more he looked at the outfit, the worse it got. The skirt was short. The blouse was tiny. The entire thing looked less like something someone would wear to school and more like something purchased by somebody who had only learned what schools were like from porn movies.

"Don't take too long," Melody said. "We've got a lot of ground to cover."

Craig rubbed his eyes.

"Ground to cover?"

"We're behind schedule."

"Behind schedule for what?"

Melody blinked.

"The recital, obviously."

Craig froze.

"The what?"

"The recital."

His voice emerged several octaves higher than normal.

"Recital?!"

"Next Friday."

Craig stared. Melody stared back. Neither spoke. Finally she frowned.

"They didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"The executives are coming."

Craig felt his stomach drop.

"The executives?"

"All of them."

The drop continued.

"Some clients too."

It somehow got worse.

"A few important ones are flying in."

Craig thought he might actually faint.

"They want to see what you've learned."

Silence. Complete silence.

"Craig?"

He swallowed.

"You mean..."

"Yes."

"They're coming..."

"Yes."

"...to watch me dance?"

"Of course."

The room tilted slightly. A recital. For executives. And clients. A performance. An actual performance. His life had somehow transformed into a nightmare assembled entirely from things he would've laughed at two weeks ago.

Melody, meanwhile, seemed delighted.

"Anybody you want to invite?"

Craig stared at her.

"Invite... people?"

"Sure."

"To watch me?"

"Obviously."

"Pole dance."

"Now you're getting it."

Craig briefly considered throwing himself into a locker. Melody checked the time on her phone.

"Anyway, get dressed."

"I don't think I can."

"You can."

"I really can't."

"You really can."

Craig pointed helplessly at the outfit. Melody grinned.

"Or do I need to give you detention?"

Then she laughed so hard she had to hold onto the doorway. Craig's heart sank lower with every second.

What fresh circle of hell was this?

Still chuckling, Melody disappeared back into the studio. The changing room door swung shut. Silence returned.

Craig looked at the outfit. The outfit looked back. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached for the blouse. As the fabric slipped through his fingers, only one thought remained.

How deep does this rabbit hole go?