6:03pm Friday - David
"Downstairs? Who meets inside the pool hall? You gather outside so you can be noisy and boisterous and get all that energy out before it becomes quiet!" I wasn't just delaying so I could rally my courage, I was also maybe waiting for a good moment to make my entrance.
Gavin said six pm sharp.
And he's nowhere to be seen.
Unless he's hiding and watching me, waiting till I go in to follow me and steal my thunder again…he can't have known that I was aiming to lose last week. Gotta stop thinking he's some machiavellian schemer.
"Ohh well, once more into the breach." I step onto the escalator and am swept downstairs, the parps and toots of jazz rise up to greet me, their meaning and intent as unclear as ever.
And there's Gavin, chill as a fucking cucumber while I've been sweating it outside…actually maybe they were right…it's so cool and quiet in here, my jittery nerves already feel calmer. Maybe inside is a better spot to meet.
"Ready to rue your choices?" I need to read more sports rivalry stories, they always seem like they have the perfect thing to say at moments like this.
Gavin just nods in acknowledgement. That slick fucker is too chill, he must be a master of pool. This feels like I'm walking into the lion's den. He stands to 80% of his full height (still taller than me despite his slouch) and dangles two opaque plastic bags menacingly from his wrist.
We quietly pay for the an hour of pool…or I do anyway, I don't expect Gavin to pay for anything. Actually when are they going to pay me back for the outfit?
"So do I add this to the debt too or did you not bring your homemade IOUs?"
Gavin just gives me a withering look and says nothing. That was a pointless exercise, why did I just make the person with a plan for my downfall more mad at me? I make great decisions.
I rack up the table and Gavin gives me a look and beckons me over. At his feet are the two bags.
"Your one is the more full one, I took inspiration from you and got assistance picking the specifics. Loser changes into their outfit, winner can stay or change back. If they stay they get to take a photo of the other."
Ohh yeah, I'm fucked. Those rules just scream revenge.
6:10 pm Friday - Gavin
Okay, so David is at least more nervous than I am, so it doesn't really matter how bad I play.
Every shot I've taken this game has been followed by David making a fool of himself and missing everything under the sun. If the house rules printed on the wall didn't specifically re-categorize knocking the cue ball off the table as a penalty rather than a match loss I would have won this game minutes ago.
But here we are, I only need to sink the eight ball and David still has three of the smalls to sink. No need to drag this out, just focus and end it and then gloat. Remember…we gloat after we win and no sooner.
"…Maybe…miss…and I can…if only…"
Ohh yeah, David is really in it deep, muttering to himself. And that fucker can stew for a minute while I work out which corner pocket is a better shot.
"10 o'clock corner pocket." I call my shot and take my stance. It is so much easier beating someone who's a nervous wreck rather than suffering while my older sister wipes the floor with me. She got taught pool by dad and I got schooled by her in turn. She was a terrible teacher, but I can understand the appeal in how she treated me.
"…nooooooooo." David commentates as the eight ball rolls gently into the corner pocket.
He looks entirely haggard. Every moment of this game was like losing a minute of sleep to him, and after a ten minute game he looks like he got no sleep last night. He is a terrible feminist if he thinks dressing like a woman is such a bad thing, I did it last week and aside from the trans joy it was just like trying on clothes in a store. Maybe I should get the blackmail photo and send it to his feminism professor and see if it earns him some bonus marks cause clearly he's not got the right mindset to pass and quizzes for that class.
David is looking at the bag of clothes like it's a bomb…and it essentially is…we put a lot of items in there. David's friend suggested a less-is-more approach, whereas I think more-is-more. Also boobs are important. As are legs. I really need to learn why those areas are actually so feminine coded in fashion, just doing these things blindly will only get me so far.
"So you take that bag into the disabled bathroom and change into EVERYTHING in it. No picking and choosing, this is my design and my game, you play by my rules this time."
"What if someone needs the disabled bathroom while I'm in there?"
"The only way in here is a narrower-than-normal escalator…I don't think anyone with a wheelchair is going to come by." He's already looking for ways to weasel out of the punishment. And here I thought he was honorable.
I re-rack the table and watch David trudge incredibly slowly towards the spotlit toilets sign in the corner of the room. I could probably play a practice game and work some more of my nerves out while I wait…there is a pair of tights in there after all.
6:14pm Friday - David
"A pair of tights?" I never took Gavin as a man of culture…but now I don't know what to think.
The bag exploded when I tried to open it, so I had to dump everything on the baby changing table the toilet has for some reason. But pulling each garment out of the pile and trying to work out what to put on first is a whole new set of challenges.
Like…what do I do when there's two shirts? What order do I put them on in?
Okay…okay…first thing's first: nudity! Before I can try to put anything on I have to get my pre-punishment, non-fetish gear off. I don't know if I will be able to call myself a woman once I put this on…no I probably won't…yeah…just changing the wrapping doesn't change the underlying lie.
I'm really glad this toilet somehow accommodates toddlers but not women, there's no mirror to touch up makeup with (or see my unpleasant brick-shaped body with)…maybe they assumed you'd bring your own…actually I do have my own, I can use the selfie camera on my phone (if I wanted to cause myself incredible emotional damage). Gavin already has me dead to rights, no need to help myself be more dead.
Okay, dude clothes in the sink. Try not to look at ourselves, and pick between…two impossible choices. There's a pair of deep black tights and…a sports bra.
I know how to put on a pair of tights. They're just like pants you have to fight to put on. But where's the clasp on this bra? It just looks like a really cropped shirt. The only reason I'm sure it's a sports bra and not a third shirt is the size label and all the pads jammed in it. I can understand bra sizing, even when most of my experience with them has been taking them off drunk ladies at parties and gazing longingly at them from afar.
I've seen non-fake women wearing overly padded bras before and you can tell (and they never look good). I don't know what Gavin was thinking. There's no skirt included, so was the bra a compromise? Gotta have some kind of female signifier so I read as femme at first glance. I'm now kinda mad I put so much thought and effort into Grace's clothes when she's given me what I can only describe as teen-who-wants-to-look-older vibes.
Just gotta bite the bullet. If I can pull myself together and win the next set I can choose to not change back and get the double whammy of force Gavin to turn into Grace and get blackmail material I didn't even think to get last week.