Strapped in

As soon as Craig stepped into his room after a quick shower, the regret hit him like a brick. A night out? Really? What had he been thinking? His feet felt like they'd been pounded on all day. A few hours of bar hopping wasn't exactly what his body needed. No, what he wanted was to sink into a tub full of hot water and soak away the ache. Or just throw himself onto his bed, rub down his calves, and pretend the world didn't exist for a while. But instead, he had agreed to go out. Why?

Because, well, Frank was a good guy. He'd been the one to push for this night out, a celebration for Craig's 'promotion,' which would be great if it happened, but was very much in the speculative column for now. And free drinks? Hell, he wasn't about to say no to that. His wallet was thinner than he'd like to admit, so any chance to cut loose, even just for a few hours, was rare. But the truth? It didn't matter how much he wanted to stay home and curl up in comfort, the offer of free booze and a chance to feel like he belonged for a night was enough to convince him.

He just wished he could do it in flat shoes.

But no. The moment he thought of his battered, sore feet, reality hit. He wasn't even going to be able to get away with wearing his wedged sneakers. Not when Frank was the kind of guy who went for those upscale bars. No, Craig had to look the part. And looking the part meant fancy heels. Ugh.

With a sigh, he pulled a pair of panties from the top of the drawer, a black and pink lace set. It was already becoming second nature to reach in and put on whatever he first grabbed. One feminine undergarment was as good as the next, and not putting much effort into the selection made it feel less like he was a person purposefully wearing them and more like a person being ****. A small distinction, but a meaningful one.

Sliding into them, he grimaced.

He hated how they felt on his body. No, that wasn't true. At least not entirely true. What he hated was that he didn't hate them. He didn't hate the way they held his ass. He didn't hate the way the slipped between his cheeks. He especially didn't hate the feel of the soft material against his penis.

And he hated that it was getting harder and harder to ignore it.

Shaking off his disgust, he turned his gaze turned to the last piece of masculine clothing for his ensemble: his jeans. Not the baggy pair he'd worn to work, but a sleeker, tighter pair. Pre-distressed, they were stylish enough to get him into whatever bar Frank was planning on getting them into that evening.

And then it was time for a shirt. The closet doors creaked as he opened them. Should've been easier to pick something for a night out, but the options seemed... wrong. He frowned as his fingers skimmed over the shirts. Knowing how hot bars got at this time of year, a green, patterned sleeveless crop top caught his eye. Buttons up the front. Polo-ish collar. That'd do. It was short, exposing his stomach just enough that he'd feel self-conscious. He didn't want to show off, but his options were limited, and it wasn't as if any of the other options were particularly masculine.

Then, of course, the shoes.

He could already hear the bouncer's voice from the time he'd been turned away. "You're not getting in here wearing that." He'd been wearing a brand new pair of Chucks, something Craig had considered fancy, but the bouncer had higher standards. Casual footwear wasn't the vibe. Not there.

Heels were already a given. Everything he owned had heels. But which ones would pass the muster? Closing his eyes, Craig pictured his closet from before his shoes had been transformed. An image based on a memory came forward. Opening his eyes, he looked down and made his selection. Strappy stilettos. Sitting right where his leather dress shoes had once been. They looked like **** devices, an afterthought from some hellish dream. But they were what would get him in the door, so Craig grabbed them, sighing in defeat.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he slipped his feet into the straps. The moment he stood, a sharp twinge ran through his lower back. He winced. Yeah, maybe when he lit the candle on the shrine, he could get Eros to show a little mercy. Maybe the god would hear him out and grant him his wish: forget about this soulmate thing and let him have his clothes back.

A hopeful thought.

The sound of his shoes announced his arrival as he crossed the apartment to meet his roommate at the entry door. Frank was already there, dressed in a crisp button-up shirt and dress pants. Damn, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine, looking every bit the lady-killer he was. Craig, on the other hand, still felt like he was wearing someone else's body.

"Looking good, bud," Frank said with a grin, scanning Craig's outfit with approval. "Now let's get out there and see if we can't introduce you to a nice young lady."

Craig's stomach did a flip at the comment. The self-consciousness that had been gnawing at him all evening flared up again, but he swallowed it down. He'd deal with that later. For now, he'd put on the same damn smile and pretend that the pain in his feet wasn't turning his night into a long list of regrets.

"Yeah, let's go," Craig muttered, forcing a smile to match Frank's.

At least for tonight, maybe he could forget about the fact that his entire life seemed to be slipping sideways. Maybe.