Donna

Donna was wearing a dress. It was a very conservative black number with a pleated front and a bodice that contained her small bosom beautifully. I couldn’t see much of it, hidden by the table as it was, but a flash of bare shin was visible. I had never seen her dressed like this before and I have to admit I was taken aback. Not, you understand, disappointed, rather surprised to see my androgynous lover thus attired.

‘Wotcha, College,’ she said cheerily as she saw me enter the pub which you may recall as the scene of earlier events I have described. We were not living together, at least not most of the time. She’d drop by for an evening meal sometimes and stay for a couple of days. We spent a lot of time together, much of it conjoined in some delicious way but moving in had not seemed appropriate, nor had we discussed it.

‘I note you’re somewhat disconcerted by my vestments.’ I smiled and sat opposite her, my own, rather longer dress smoothed under my bum. ‘I love the way you do that, College, if I try I tend to pull my knickers down. Any how, as I was saying, here you find me in the garb of a woman.’

‘And very lovely it is too.’

‘Your compliment is accepted with grateful thanks. But, I suspect you are wondering what Donna the Dyke is doing in a frock?’

‘It had crossed my mind.’

‘I did not doubt it. I have not worn a skirt since my mum was appearing at the local magistrates for soliciting and her brief reckoned a show of family respectability might do her a bit of good.’

‘How did your sister approach this?’

‘You often see the issue, I must say. My sister, Cassandra (the second ‘a’ is like the aaaaaah in orgasm) is not one to dress in a conservative manner. She has a penchant for that sort of dress which allows one to see what she had for breakfast. She is endowed with a substantial set of bra fillers and she is disinclined to conceal them from their admiring public. She sees them as a sort of advert for the other pleasures she has to offer. However, as Mr Braithwaite, Mum’s solicitor said, ‘Time and place, Cassandra. She told him to go fuck himself and that she hoped the old bag would get life.’

‘Not a woman to mince her words.’

‘Indeed not. However, I digress. I have today been interviewed for a position.’

‘A position?’ I asked, my serious face glued in position. Her language always cracked me up and I had to make every effort not to offend.

‘Indeed, and I am grateful you avoided a cheap innuendo in view of my choice of the word “position.” As you are aware my current employment is somewhat, shall we say, precarious.’ To describe her work, as runner to a virtually unemployable local artist, as precarious was a bit like saying that the Himalayas are somewhat hilly. I nodded, unwilling to open my mouth lest I burst into laughter. ‘In view of my exposure to the artistic world I have sought to develop my career in that sphere of endeavour and I was interviewed for a position I sought in a gallery. Dead posh it is.’

‘How did the interview go?’

‘Well, thank you. I confess it did expose some small gaps in my knowledge of, for example, the Pre-Raphaelites and other schools but, since the job is primarily making tea and cleaning up after the posh bastards have supped their bubbles and bought a few million quids’ worth of oil on canvas, such shortcomings did not seem too important.’

‘When will you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘If your application was successful.’

‘Oh, I already do, it was, subject to one requirement.’

‘Which was?’

‘Not to dress up – it makes the rest of the arty buggers uncomfortable. I decided, however, that rather than dash home and slip back into my normal garb, I might just take the opportunity to gauge the impact of Donnainafrock on my lipstick lesbian friend. Were we to revert to your place after a couple of glasses of this amusing little Pinot, you might care to explore up the unfettered access a frock can afford you.’ This time it was my leg that had insinuated itself between hers. ‘It has not,’ she said with a lovely, lascivious smile, ‘escaped my notice that you are already intruding into my private space.’