Martin looked at the dress again.
“Am I supposed to wear that fantastic rig just to satisfy a whim of yours and Drew’s? I tell you, Deane, the entire situation is repellant to me.”
Again Deane thought in the same odd manner: It isn’t like him to shy away from anything. He knows himself so well—is it that he’s afraid?—she stopped these thoughts. “It only seems repellant, Martin,” she observed. “Drew will make things easy.” She bit her lip. “And Carol and Roberts will be there, too. Why don’t you take it as a joke?” She tried to laugh, but the effect was so hollow and unusual that Martin turned and put his arms around her.
“What is really behind this, Deane?” he asked her gently. “Is Drew attempting a new type of drama, and are you in on it? If it’s a game, I’ll go along with you.”
“It isn’t a game,” said Deane insistently. “There isn’t anything dark or mysterious about it. It’s just a costume party—a stag affair, that’s all.” She avoided his searching gaze.
Martin laughed brutally, the hurt and sickness inside him manifested. Then he sobered, looked at her steadily for a moment, a faint shine in his eyes.
“All right,” he said quietly. “What do I do first?...”
After he had taken a bath, he shaved as closely as possible and rubbed his glowing body with a scent not unpleasant, although he imagined that he detected the impossible effluvium of man-oil as its base. Next he pulled on long stockings of a light sun-tan, his lip curling. But the curious feel of silken underwear and all the intricacies of the garter belt intrigued him, and he laughed aloud as he fastened his stockings to it. The artificial breasts were made of soft rubber fiber, of medium size and cup-shaped in appearance. It was with considerable trouble that he hooked these objects on, the elastic and stays acting contrary. The dress went over his head with difficulty, also; but he twisted and pulled it until it came into place. After he had smoothed out the wrinkles with his hands and set it square with a few quick jerks he felt more comfortable—the gown was even cool and good against his belly. So he sat down with relief and put on the pale yellow satin slippers set aside for him. When he stood up, however, one ankle bent under the strain of the high heel. After that he moved more cautiously, trying to remember the principles of navigation on an icy, rolling deck, and although he lacked a certain naturalness, he soon walked easily enough.
Deane laughed and clapped her hands when she saw him and seemed herself again; but in a moment she returned to the grim abstruseness of her former attitude. She narrowed her eyes, put on an apron, then draped a towel around his neck to keep from spilling the make-up on his shoulders. Martin leaned back, closing his eyes in silent despair; while Deane, testing each shade of lipstick on her hand until she found the right one, realized that she had never tried so hard with herself. She gave his lips, which seemed carved, a brilliant color for the artificial light.
“Damn it,” he said.