Big Easy Bonanza

asleep.

The Funeral
1
    THIS NEW EYE shadow had to be applied with a tiny wet brush and then smoothed out with a slightly bigger dry one. It went on as a bruised shade of aubergine, but—ah—now it was smoothing out. Sort of a raspberry. Nice.
    Now a lipstick to match, blusher, eyeliner, and lots of thick sable mascara. Henry was particularly fond of applying mascara. He opened his eyes as wide as he could and stroked—his eyelashes with one hand, his penis with the other, through the black dress he’d put on in honor of his father’s funeral, a little taffeta number he’d bought at a thrift shop. It wasn’t really meant for daytime, and certainly not for a funeral, but, oh, please, dahling, details! It wasn’t meant to be worn by a man, either.
    Under it he wore a black garter belt to hold up his black silk stockings, but no panties, as that would defeat the purpose of the exercise. He also had on a bra stuffed with baggies full of cornstarch, which did for the dress what Henry’s chest couldn’t, but that wasn’t its main purpose. The bra was what got him hard. Something about that confined feeling, that uncomfortable wrapped-up-ness, did it every time.
    He had tried to analyze it. He quite enjoyed bondage as well, and thought the two things were connected. A bra was a kind of harness that made you want to twitch your shoulders to get comfortable, but if you did, it not only ruined the effect, it didn’t help. So you didn’t. You endured the confined feeling so you would be more beautiful for your lover, or possibly in the quiet knowledge that your lover would soon be taking it off—he wasn’t sure where the excitement came from. In his case, only rarely would a lover be taking it off, as he didn’t go in much for two-person sex anymore, and anyway had developed his whole drag routine as an amusing method of autoeroticism in the first place. Amusing and effective. A ritual that built, becoming more and more exciting like a great play, until it reached the same delicious point, the satisfying climax. A catharsis—after a morning in this getup, he’d be so balanced he could go through half a dozen relatives’ funerals.
    He crossed his index fingers and held the hex sign up to the mirror, warding off his own reflection, as if it were the one thinking appalling thoughts. Hmmm—a beauty spot would look good. And a short black wig—he’d be Liza Minnelli. He’d need pearls, of course, with the basic black. He rooted through a drawer, found an opera-length rope, and draped them around his neck. Stepping into the specially made spike-heeled shoes that had to be mail-ordered in men’s sizes, he stood in front of his full-length mirror. Good. The dress had a full enough skirt that his now nearly bursting penis didn’t ruin its lines.
    Now for the finale. He was about to get the wig when the metallic buzzing of the doorbell sounded. Jesus, loud! Like the hornet that ate Cleveland, he thought, feeling the lovely hard-on starting to disappear.
    Shit! What if it were Tolliver? He lived in fear that Tolliver was going to find out about his penchant for drag. But seeing Tolliver would be almost as good as concluding the ritual. He could say he was just out of the shower and then take a minute to change and get the makeup off. If it were anyone else, he could simply say he was busy.
    He spoke into the intercom. “Yes?”
    “Henry? It’s Skip Langdon. Can I talk to you for a minute.”
    Fuck! For this he’d lost his hard-on? “I’m busy now.”
    “It’ll only take a minute.”
    Actually, he could see having some fun with this situation. Tubs Langdon, post-deb cop, probably wouldn’t be the least bit amused at his outfit. Her idea of mean streets was probably those with frozen yogurt stands instead of ice cream stores. He could play it very Noel Coward—perhaps a cigarette holder… On the other hand, she was interrupting his ritual.
    “It’s about LaBelle.”
    Oh, shit. That settled it. He remembered to say, “Who?” while pushing the buzz-in button.
    Should he replace the dress with a robe for a gender-fuck effect? (A smoking jacket would be ideal, but he didn’t have one.) No. This way would be more fun. He flung open the door. “Good morning, officer.”
    She was wearing the hopeless gray suit again, though she’d added a blue silk blouse. “Nice blouse,” he said, and fingered the collar like a housewife in a fabric store.
    Her expression changed as she took in his outfit—from