She invites me out!

"OMG I told Feely u wear panties & mascara lol she wants 2 meet u so bad! U shd cm out & dance w us we r havun so mch fun! Im drunk lollll"

I was a little alarmed. She sent another.

"Commmee! Wear ur gayst cloths & a pair of my panties & put mascara on it will be so fun! Mayb cut off a pair u jeans shorter the beter lol"

"What the fuck?" I said aloud. Another:

"U hav 2!"

And another:

"Do ur hair w gel & put some colon on."

"I mn cologn lol!"

She didn't seem to notice she'd misspelled cologne again, but she sent me one more text followed by a picture message before I could think of any replies.

"I wil fuk u so hard <3"

The picture, clearly taken up her skirt, showed her bald-shaven, visibly wet pussy and the undersides of two perfect ass cheeks. I could only hope that she was in the bathroom and that was why her panties were down. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might burst, and my cock was hard as a brick.

She sent back a smileyface, and I dressed up as well as I could to fit the role. First I found a pair of jean shorts from my wife's chubby years and pulled them tightly up over the lacy thong uncomfortably wedging itself up my ass. The shorts were shorter than I'd ever imagine wearing if our home wasn't at stake, and the thong peeked over the top just a little on the sides. I shrugged. I carefully ripped the sleeves off an old pink button-up and put it on with no shirt underneath. I sprayed some cologne and spiked my hair into the most stylish fauxhawk I could muster. I pulled my nicest sneakers on with no socks. I don't know why my mind stereotypes a flambouyantly gay man as not wearing socks, but perhaps I was just developing my character.

I practiced my voice into my phone recorder and played it back. I decided the most convincing and convincingly effeminate voice was similar to my own but a little more drawled and of a slightly higher pitch. I talked to myself in the mirror, practicing "I'm Ricky," calling everyone "girl" and saying things I would never otherwise say, like, "preach sister." Which I think might be mincing stereotypes, but pretending to be a fictitious effeminate "bottom bitch" isn't an exact science.

"Leaving now," I sent Kayla. I got in my car and drove to the bar.

Just as I pulled into the parking lot, I received "omg r u comingg"

This indicated to me that either she was very impatient to see me or had blacked out from **** consumption and now had no recollection of parts of our conversation. I was hoping it was the prior, or things could get dicey out there.

I texted back, "walking in now," as I tried unsuccessfully to adjust my wedgie more comfortably and practiced an effeminite strut up to the bouncer. The muscular, bald black man looked at down at my ID, up at my mascara, and smiled before putting a stamp on my hand. "Thanks sweetie," I said, and he beamed wider.

I was greeted by a short woman in her mid thirties, plump in all the right places, as she squeezed me in a hug. "You must be Ricky!" she said boisterously, biting her little pink tongue between plump red lips and tucking a strand of shoulderlength brown hair behind her ear. "Kayla has told me all about you. I'm Feely."

"Ooh, girl. Kayla didn't tell me what a little hottie you are. Girl, you are smokin," She glowed with the compliment. "Where is Queen Kayla at right now?" I asked.