Spaghetti and Strikes

Evening settled over the bus in a wash of amber streetlight and brake-light glow. Engine vibrations hummed up through the floor and into his bones. Craig closed his eyes and tried to relax. Nothing.

No endless marble floors. No warm, perfumed air. No infuriatingly attractive god waiting with knowing eyes.

Damn Eros.

Silence answered the attempt again. Sleep tugged at him, but never deep enough to cross whatever threshold the god required. There had to be a way to reach him, to plead his case. Maybe there were still temples, holy places that Craig could try.

Pulling out his phone and opening a browser, he began to search. There had to be devotees tucked into corners of the internet. Forums. Occult message boards. Academic articles about surviving cult practices. Access points had to exist. It didn't take long for him to find a hit, an active temple, still worshipping the ancient Greek pantheon.

Thessaloniki.

It was a place he'd never heard of, but a quick map search put it in Greece. He didn't know why he would have expected anything else, but he felt his heart sink. There was no way he'd be able to afford a trip to Europe on the chance that he might find a back door to fix his situation. Maybe there was another way.

He searched for practices for worshipping Eros. Perhaps a do-it-yourself approach could work. Fruit, flowers, rabbits, eggs, all symbols of fertility seemed to be standard practice for a home altar. That was a good place to start. He'd set something up tomorrow. There was a shop near work that he could pick up everything he'd need. It had to work. It was the only idea he had.

The bus lurched to a stop. Doors hissed open. Another ride with no divine intervention.

The apartment was peaceful when he walked in. No television noise. No clatter from the kitchen. Frank must still have been at the office, which gave Craig a chance to get cleaned up before dinner. Warehouse work was dirty work, and his clothes were a testament to it. A shower, a shave, and a change were all in order, and getting them done early meant no rushing after he ate. That was fine by him. It would give him a chance to relax before Bowling Night.

Bowling Night had been a tradition for Frank and Craig since high school. Once the week the pair would head to the local alley, toss some balls, drink some beers, and share some laughs. Some years they got organized, joined a league, played for real. These days, though, they'd been taking an easier approach. Two friends, one alley, barely keeping score.

It was a fun time, something both of them looked forward to all week. They'd even gotten to know some of the regulars. That night, however, would be the first night for Craig to show up at the alley wearing articles of women's clothing.

Not wasting time, Craig headed straight for the washroom. The shower came quickly, steam rising thick against tile. Water ran hot over sore shoulders, loosening tight muscle, washing away cardboard dust. Under the steady stream of hot water, anxiety over what was waiting for him in his dresser slipped away. It was only Craig, soap, water, and calm.

When he was done, he turned off the taps and stepped out onto the bathmat. Steam cleared from the mirror in slow patches. A familiar reflection stared back.

Standing naked, he could almost convince himself that nothing in his life had changed. That gods were fiction, that clothing didn't magically transform itself. But he couldn't stay in the washroom forever. Reality was waiting for him.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he made his way to his bedroom. It was time to get dressed.

The act of getting dressed was something he hadn't thought about in years. It was an automatic function, like breathing or sneezing. It just happened. Grab the article of clothing on the top of the pile and you're good to go!

Now things had changed. He slid open his underwear drawer and took a deep breath.

Gone were the few pairs of cotton panties that he'd seen on the first day of Eros' intervention. It was almost as if he were being punished for trying to buy men's underwear the night before. He'd even checked his dirty laundry hamper, and every pair had vanished.

Not wanting to bowl in a thong, he dug around until he found something with a bit more coverage. Green lace-trimmed boyshorts emerged, soft and stretchy. They fit snug, lifting and shaping in ways that felt engineered. It was strange, standing in obviously feminine underwear that had been constructed specifically for his body. His penis didn't feel restrained, instead it felt cradled. His rear end, too, felt like it was being lifted, held in place by the panties in order to give the maximum effect.

An effect he didn't even want to think about.

Denim was replaced with track pants tonight; loose charcoal cotton, forgiving. Clean socks rolled on.

A pause at the T-shirt drawer.

Fabric options stared back: cropped hems, tight sleeves, colours that should have had no business blending into warehouse work, and yet were now his best option. Sure, the shirts here would show off his midriff or tease a glimpse of his pectorals, but they looked like the sturdiest of the choices he'd been given.

And it wasn't as if he was getting negative feedback from wearing them, either. Life had tilted sideways, and yet the world seemed to be carrying on as though nothing had changed. Coworkers had even gone as far as complimenting his shirt. And Frank had commented on his nightie without blinking.

How far could it be pushed?

The thought arrived uninvited.

A quick count of the shirts in the drawer told him that he had enough to get through a work week, but if he was going to change into clean clothes to go out, he was going to have to be open to other possibilities.

So something different tonight.

The closet door slid open. Blouses swayed lightly on their hangers. Pastels. Florals. Soft drapes and delicate straps.

What the hell.

Pink. Spaghetti straps. Light fabric that would move with air currents. Thin enough to feel like almost nothing. The top was small, but in a lot of ways it wouldn't be that different from wearing a tank top.

At least, that's what he told himself.

And if no one reacted, that would be information. Data collection. Testing the boundaries of what was and wasn't acceptable for him to wear in this new twisted reality.

The top slipped over his head. Cool air touched bare shoulders. Fabric skimmed down his torso and settled as though tailored precisely for him. Not loose. Not strained. Exact.

And so, committed to the clothes he had selected, he steadied his breath and stepped out of his bedroom.

Kitchen light spilled across tile when he entered. Frank, who must have arrived home while Craig was getting ready, glanced up from the oven. "Hey, bud. Perfect timing. Pizza's almost ready."

No pause. No double take.

The timer dinged.

A steaming hot pizza slid onto a wooden cutting board. Plates passed back and forth. Casual conversation filled the space: work complaints, a broken pallet jack, traffic on the Deerfoot. Normal. Entirely normal.

All the while, pink straps rested against his shoulders in full view.

They ate, then they headed out. Frank drove. Streetlights streaked across the windshield. Conversation drifted easily, punctuated by familiar music from the radio. Not once did Frank mention the top.

The bowling alley pulsed with noise. League night packed the lanes tight on the far side of the building. Fluorescent lights reflected off polished wood. The smell of beer and fried food hung thick in the air.

Frank and Craig settled in at Lane 14.

Warm greetings were given to the bowlers on the next lane, a married couple that the pair had met a the week prior. They hadn't bowled in years, but after last week's game, they had decided to make it their regular date night.

Craig slipped away to the bar and returned with a pitcher and a handful of plastic cups. "First round's mine."

Cheers answered him. Beer foamed.

No one stared.

No one smirked.

No one asked.

Pink straps. Green lace beneath track pants. Beer in hand.

A ball rolled down the lane with a low thunder. Pins exploded outward in a clean strike. Applause broke out from somewhere two lanes over.

Swallowing cold beer, he waited for discomfort to surface. For laughter. For mockery. Instead, warmth spread slowly through his chest; not humiliation, but something steadier. He was with friends. He was accepted.

Shouldn't this feel worse?

Laughter rose from a nearby lane as someone gutter-balled spectacularly. Frank nudged him with an elbow. "You're up."

Approaching the lane, fingers slid into the familiar drilled holes of his ball. Weight balanced. Steps measured. Pink fabric shifted lightly against his torso as he swung.

Release.

The ball curved cleanly toward the pocket. Pins scattered. Applause from Frank and their new friends in the next lane.

Business as usual.