Keeping Up Appearances 2

Mamma would have been impressed.

It took a moment for the glory of it to all settle in, and even when the image had fully processed in her mind, she still questioned it. Because, I mean, who would have thought that what was on the bed was actually on the bed? Not her, that’s for fuck’s sure.

She had always thought that her husband’s ponytail/ manbun was an affectation that nodded to his hipster roots and earned him street cred with the ‘coming-up’ crowd. It was a style she had grown used to, and he had defended to all of his older associates on just that basis. But now that she saw it swinging loosely around his shoulders, she understood that that had—of course—not been the entire reason.

She had also thought that his habit of fully waxing his entire body was due to a deep seated fussiness, or a yielding to the new masculine culture. Personally, she didn’t care for it, preferring a little rough against her skin. He told her it made him more comfortable in his clothes, and that men were now expected to wax, so she went along with it. But now that she saw him tucked up tidily in a La Perla nude lace corset and thong set, she understood that that had—of course—not been the whole case.

But what made her really want to drop her basket was the identical set of Manolo Blanik silver spike stiletto heels that were on his feet, tucked up against the hips of a truly stellar example of masculinity currently riding him thoroughly—and oh dear, thoroughly—from behind.

The fact that she did not, indeed did not, lose her shit was only by virtue of mamma’s deep training and the fact that she had two martinis under her belt. The shock ran so deep and true that she could do nothing more than stare. Which was unfortunate, because that meant that she got a bit more time than she wanted to see that particular pony show playing out across her Egyptian cotton sheets.

Blinking, she gathered what was left of her mind and backed slowly out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Neither of the playmates noticed. She slammed her drink down in one gulp as she fast walked back down the hall to his office, shutting the door behind her.

Just in case she dropped the basket.

Which, of course, was a distinct probability. With shaky breath and shaky hands, she pushed her way into his bathroom and started rifling through all of his drawers. This wasn’t something that just happened today. Not with those shoes on his feet. Shoes that matched the ones he had given her for Christmas. Last year. Her hands flew through the various pots and bottles in his cabinets, normal product for a normal man.

It wasn’t until she hit the bottom drawer that she found the bottles of foundation. The expensive shadows and blush. The face powder and mascara. The styling creams and sprays and fake eyelashes. Oh, dear god, the tubes and tubes of lipstick.

She slammed the drawer shut on a soft cry and spun into his closet. It was organized to the inch with his suits and shirts hanging by colour. The business shoes were stacked neatly in the custom shoe shelves, a tall row of browns and blacks and buffs. He had a safe that matched hers—although she didn’t know the code, and a row of drawers for underwear, ties and pocket squares. Like her closet, he had outfitted the hanging racks with a motorized spinner that allowed the clothing to rotate into a deeper closet space for more room.

Drawing in a deep breath, she hit the button.

The rack began to move, and with it the suits disappeared. Only to be replaced with a full row of dresses. Day dresses. Evening dresses. Suit sets...women’s suit sets. To her surprise, the shoe shelves also rotated to reveal stacks upon stacks of high heeled shoes. Very expensive, designer name, high heeled shoes. With one hand to her mouth she watched them spin back to the back and disappear before hitting the button again to make it all stop.

She dug into the drawers, beneath the layer of ties and pocket squares, unearthing a full compliment of expensive and delicate lingerie. Lacy bra and panty sets. Thongs. Tap shorts. She counted only three pairs of men’s shorts, but days upon days worth of women’s underpants.

Oh, lord, she realized. This was a real thing. This wasn’t an occasional dress-up, or a simply a closet experience. This was her husband living a very extensive part of his life as a trans woman.

Josephine dropped everything and ran from the closet to the office. She needed to get away from the thought, but it followed her. It followed her to his desk, where she sat dazed, holding on to her shit by the merest thread. She booted up his computer and pulled up his email, where, luckily for her, he was still signed in. Her fingers flew through the inbox, finding nothing until she noticed the toggle tab. With a sigh, she clicked to his second email.

Marcia. Oh good god, he had a whole life as Marcia.

Hundreds of emails. Hundreds of emails from dating sites. Porn sites. Gay meetup sites. Hundreds of connections and hook ups and affairs. Her husband was a very gay, very active, very nearly trans woman having what appeared to be a lot of very gay, very active, very nearly trans sex.

Basket.

Dropped.

With a bizarre sense of calm descending over her, that her therapist would later qualify as “disassociation”, she turned off the monitor and stood from the desk. She walked to the bar and poured another, yes another please, triple and dry as dust martini before heading back down the hall to roust the party from her bedroom.

Not that she could ever sleep there again.

Unfortunately, her timing was such that she got to witness the grand finale, and hear sounds come from his—her--mouth that he--she-- had never made while having sex with Josephine. Super good times, that, and thank you disassociation.

Leaning up against the doorframe, she sipped her martini and softly golf-clapped one hand against her wrist until two sets of shocked eyes swung her way.

“Jojo,” Marcus-Marcia stuttered.

She merely held up a hand. “Hello.”

“You’re home early.”

“I am. Boring speaker. You remember the former Governor of New York?”

“I do. You thought he was a potato.”

“I did. So I left early,” she sipped her drink, making no note the absurdity of this casual conversation going on while her husband’s dick hung out of his lingerie. “New friend?”

“Jojo.”

“Marcia.”

His face paled beneath his pancake foundation. Which was beautifully applied, by the way. He was obviously skilled.

“Don’t tell me you can explain,” she said, fighting back the hysterical giggle that was wrestling up her throat. She was trying to swallow it back, but it was big, and deep and steeped in a type of panic that was utterly inexplicable. She was fairly certain that if he tried to “explain” something as fucked up as what she was seeing, that it would rise up over her and she would be consumed. Therefore she had officially lost it, and rule number one was out the window.

So that meant that rule number two was in full effect: she would not demonstrate just how deeply her shit was lost in front of these people. Which meant that she leaned hard into her training, so hard that she felt her mamma come sweeping out of her mouth to save the awkward social situation.

“So nice to meet you?” she said, hand outstretched, to the stranger sitting naked on her bed, covering his balls with his hands. “I’m Josephine. And you are?”

The scene was so bizarre he didn’t know what to do. So he shifted his naked nuts into one hand and shook her hand with the other, pretending that he hadn’t just been rogering her husband in their marital bed. “I’m Simon. I didn’t know you would be here.”

She smiled. It came out sort of twisted. But she smiled as was her social duty to a guest in her home. “You didn’t know I existed, did you dear?”

“I’m so...”

“Do not!” she interrupted, “Do not tell me you are sorry.” Her eyes were beginning to shine and she was working hard to keep it together. For what, she did not know. But she knew if she lost it in front of these men, she would not be able to pick it back up again.

Possibly ever.

He got it. One look in her eyes and he got it all. He shook her hand and answered as if they were standing fully clothed in an elegant restaurant. “No, Josephine. I’m afraid I did not have the gift of that advance knowledge. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, that might be best. I’m going to head down to the guest suite now,” she said calmly, turning to address the individual who she would never again consider her husband. “If you will do me the service of getting the fuck out of my house before I call Vincent Spaziano. You remember Vincent, don’t you Marcia? He owes me a favour for getting his daughter into Oxbridge. I’d hate to waste it on this, but you do know how he loves returning favours. Good night.”

She turned and left the room, whispering down the hallway to find her solitude.

“Jojo!” he called after her.

But she was already gone. Lost in her head and holding on by a thread.

Mamma would have been proud.