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Dennis has the dress halfway on, so that the skirt fits properly but the top of it, unzipped, hangs limply around his waist. The dress is a clean, white cotton with blue detailing of presumably Greek-inspired shapes. It has a tiered skirt with lace strips between the different segments. He smooths the skirt over one of his thighs, fingers tingling against the texture of the lace.
With its light, summery look and its intricate blue detailing, the dress resembles something a fashion model would wear to walk leisurely around the stony, seaside paths of Greece or Italy. That’s why he bought it. He thought he’d feel like a thin, pretty rich girl on her Mediterranean vacation.
It isn’t quite working. For one, he isn’t in Greece or Italy; he is standing in the middle of their living room, in the stuffy Philadelphia summer heat. For two, he is not a pretty girl. Obviously. A glance at the mirror he had Mac drag out from his bedroom confirms that.
He is, undoubtedly, just a man wearing half a dress. An attractive, five-star man, of course, but a… man nonetheless. His bony knuckles stand out against the soft material of the dress where his hand still rests on his thigh. He tries to look down at just the dress again, but the effect is ruined.
“I look ridiculous,” Dennis says, then clears his throat. His voice sounded much too honest.
Mac stands up from where he’s leaned himself against the kitchen table. Dennis can hear his footsteps scuff against the floor as he walks closer. He says, nicely, “Put the rest of it on, Den.”
Dennis eyes his reflection once more. Should he have shaved his chest? Or styled his hair differently? He should definitely have put on more mascara. His face is dull and bony, his hair too flat. He forces himself, urged on by Mac’s hovering at his shoulder, to pull the bodice of the dress the rest of the way on.
The dress has spaghetti straps, white and blue, stretchy and adjustable. He slips them over his shoulders. Wordlessly, Mac comes up behind him and tightens them for him. Dennis watches the neckline of the dress rise in the mirror. The neckline is flat and simple, just the top of the shirred bodice. The bodice's elastic material hugs his sides and chest tightly. He looks skinny at his waist.
Dennis hasn’t eaten bread in weeks. Breakfast is a thing of the past, no matter even or odd day. He’s hungry all the time, but he’s glad to see it’s working. Well, mostly working. One thing starving himself can’t help is his broad shoulders. They aren’t as wide as Mac’s behind him, but they still stand out against the feminine, sophisticated line of the summer dress.
He feels somewhat like a doll that a small child has been allowed to dress. Or a Frankensteinian monster, if he wants to go the more literary route, which he does, because he’s a damn college graduate.
“You look great, Den!” Mac says, his encouragement like a diagonal ocean current cutting across Dennis’s waves, only succeeding in making the sea stormier. Dennis can hardly take Mac’s words as evidence of anything, because Mac would say nice things to him even if he was wearing a potato sack. Dennis side-steps out from between Mac and the mirror, and takes the few steps to his bedroom. The dress swooshes around his knees. He locks his bedroom door behind himself.
Makeup, he needs more makeup. He swipes Mascara onto his upper and lower lashes. It’s still not right. He adds a soft pink lip gloss to his lips. Something is still off. He plucks a few eyebrow hairs and pushes back his cuticles and moisturizes underneath his eyes. He sprays dry shampoo into his hair to add volume. He tugs the dress slightly up, then slightly down. Nothing makes a difference. Dennis could scream with his frustration.
Mac knocks on his door once timidly, and a second time slightly louder, then he says through the locked door, “Hi, Dennis. Are you almost done? I know that you had decided on a plan for the day, and I just wanted you to know that it’s one o’clock now, so if you want to do the plan, we have to go soon. And I know you’ll be sad if we don’t do the plan. I’m not sure what you’re doing now, but you looked nice in the dress, and —”
Dennis opens the door. He has to cut Mac off or the stupid idiot will just go on and on forever. Mac’s wide eyes greet him. Mac has changed his shirt to a blue one that doesn’t quite match the blue detailing on the dress. If Dennis was in a better mood, he might have found it endearing, assuming Mac did it on purpose.
“I know what time it is,” Dennis says harshly. He shoulders past Mac and out into the living room. “Are you coming?”
Mac, who momentarily remained rooted in front of Dennis’s door, scrambles after him.
Out on the sidewalk, everyone is giving them weird looks. Have they never seen an attractive man wearing a dress before? Dennis glares at everyone that passes. He doesn’t regret wearing the dress. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
Mac starts walking a little slower, even though they still have a few blocks to go. Dennis scowls at his change of pace. They’ll never get where they’re going at this rate. Elderly people are passing them. Dennis glares at an old man until he’s moved fully past and got his back to them. He tugs at the neckline of his dress, throat tight as though the loose neckline could be choking him.
“Uhm, Dennis,” Mac starts, his uncertainty making Dennis’s skin itch. “Are you ok? You look angry.”
Stupid, stupid, dull Mac! Needs everything explained to him! Dennis gestures widely as he says, “Of course I’m angry, Mac! People are acting like it’s wrong for a sexually attractive, five-star man to wear a dress to walk outside. It’s just fabric, people!” Dennis screams the last part towards a woman with a child who are — also! — passing them. The woman clutches the child’s hand tighter.
Mac looks one way and then the other. “No one is acting like that,” he says timidly, like he’s worried Dennis will smack him for suggesting Dennis is the crazy one. Which he could do. He could.
Instead, Dennis scoffs. “Can’t you feel it, Mac? They’re judging me.”
“I don’t think they are, man.”
“They’re staring at me.”
“Maybe they’re appreciating my awesome mass,” Mac says, flexing a bicep. Dennis tries to ignore the bulge of the muscle just below Mac’s shirt sleeve.
“Be serious, Mac,” he says. “Let’s just drop it.”
Mac frowns, but lets them walk a little while in silence. Dennis continues to scowl at passers-by. He crosses his arms over his chest, hoping that will make his shoulders look thinner. He dislikes the thought of the people around looking at his shoulders. He dislikes the idea of them looking at him at all.
Dennis has, historically, enjoyed attention. He likes when girls look at him and think he’s hot. He likes putting on a bit of a show. Today, though, he has the feeling that no one is going to be looking at him for the right reasons. He would rather they don’t notice him, then that they notice him wrong.
He’s not quite sure what that means, or why he feels it.
The ice cream shop they're walking to is a small storefront on a newly-gentrified street near their apartment. Dennis has been only once before. The interior is a cheery yellow color, and they play the radio from a little stereo in the corner. A high counter top is set up for customers to sit at with tall diner seats in a neat row, like they're leaning too hard into the current "retro/vintage" fad.
When Dennis and Mac walk in, there are a few people ahead of them in line. One group is a young couple, the girl with braided fawn-brown hair and the guy with skinny jeans and a ball cap. They’re holding hands, laughing about something. Dennis bristles.
The other person in line is an elderly woman with wispy, white hair and too much blush. Her dress is pink and frumpy. She stands with her hands clasped loosely behind her back. Dennis feels no solidarity with her. He hates her ill-fitted dress and poorly done makeup.
Mac, maybe after also seeing the young couple, reaches for Dennis’s hand. Dennis shakes Mac off and steps subtly away from him. His back still prickles like there are too many sets of eyes on him and his beachy dress.
The cashier is going slowly, chatting with the customers and letting them try multiple samples. Dennis taps his foot agitatedly. There are only so many times he can read over the little labels on the ice creams in the glass display counter before he’ll lose his mind.
The tapping of his foot is loud, even to his own ears. He’s wearing his gray sneakers. Why is he wearing his sneakers? They don’t go with the dress at all. A small boy licking ice cream from a wooden spoon turns from his seat and stares at Dennis. Dennis glares back until the boy turns back around.
“My shoes,” Dennis whispers to Mac, leaning in. Mac’s eyes refocus. The dumbass had probably been in his own head, imagining something stupid like a ten-foot pizza or throwing the perfect karate chop.
“Your shoes?” Mac repeats.
Dennis gestures towards them. He wants Mac to understand, without Dennis having to explain himself, why the shoes suddenly feel wrong. He wants Mac to understand, because Dennis does not.
Mac doesn’t get it. He just frowns, and says, “Do your feet hurt? Do you need new ones?”
Stupid, stupid Mac. Dennis shakes his head and brushes him off. It’s their turn to step up to the counter.
The cashier is a young girl with braces. She smiles wide at them. “Hello, gentlemen. What can I get for you today?”
Her use of ‘gentlemen’ makes Dennis squirm, though he isn’t sure why. Mac orders two scoops of an ice cream that looks sickeningly sweet and is a bright blue color. As he’s ordering, Dennis passes time judging the cashier. He’s trying to see if she’s looking at him weird. He’s trying to tell if she thinks he’s attractive. She doesn’t seem to. Can she tell he and Mac are there as a couple? Does she think it’s strange? Does she think his dress looks strange on him?
Is he not attractive anymore? He used to be able to pick up any chick he wanted. Has he lost that? Is he too old now? Not slender enough? He crosses his arms lower, over his waist. The makeup on his face suddenly feels much too heavy, like he’s caked it on.
He doesn’t order any ice cream. He pointedly doesn’t catch any of Mac’s one-hundred worried looks as Mac pays then stands at the corner to wait for his ice cream cone. When they’re outside, starting the walk back to their apartment, Mac offers Dennis his ice cream.
“I don’t want any. That’s why I didn’t order any,” Dennis says briskly, and continues walking. Mac catches Dennis’s wrist. Dennis lets himself be pulled into the privacy of a sheltered doorway, and reluctantly lets himself be boxed against the wall by Mac.
Mac has his head tilted and his eyes wide: maximum worry. He resembles a sad dog. It really isn’t fair. “Den,” he says, “you’ve been weird ever since you put the dress on. Do you not like it?”
Dennis looks down at the dress. It’s ruffling a little in the breeze, tickling against his legs. The bodice has shifted a bit; he re-adjusts it. No, he likes the dress. Right now, the dress is about the only thing he likes. Dennis shakes his head.
“That’s good, because you know you look super hot in it, right?”
Dennis can feel himself blushing. He coughs, trying to cover it. “Don’t fucking lie, Mac. You’ll go to Hell.”
Mac catches Dennis’s chin and gently pulls it up, forcing Dennis to look at him. Mac has a bit of blue ice cream on his nose. Strangely, it makes the moment more bearable.
“Den, why would I be lying?” Mac says, and damn sometimes he is a good actor because he sounds genuinely confused. Mac takes his hand away from Dennis’s chin, then runs it down Dennis’ side. He pauses to rub his thumb out over Dennis’s oblique, then continues his fingers down to feel the flowy fabric of the skirt. “I love this dress on you. I feel like I’m walking around with a superstar.”
Dennis’s heart skips. “A superstar?” He prompts softly.
“Yeah, you know,” Mac says with a smile. “Like if Mary Minow was still alive. I think she’d dress like this.”
Dennis can’t help but laugh. “Marilyn Monroe,” he corrects. He pictures her curled, blonde bob and feminine body. Some tension, miraculously, releases from his back and shoulders.
“Yeah, her! I feel like I’m out on a date with Marilyn Monroe!” Mac’s grinning. “Do you like that? Do you like it, Den?” He asks.
Dennis takes the skirt of his dress in his hands and sways it idly with the breeze. He says, “Yes, Mac. I like it.” He taps Mac’s ankle with his foot. Mac taps him back, but on Dennis’s shoe. He knows not to touch his grimy boots to the white dress.
Mac offers Dennis the ice cream again. Dennis takes it and tries just a little bit; he can’t over-indulge. He’s watching his figure. It tastes like sugar and sunshine. He can see why Mac likes it.
As they go back to their apartment, Dennis finds himself walking with his shoulders back and a bit more confidence in his step. He almost believes it when Mac casually calls him pretty. He lets Mac hold his hand, even though that will surely get them looks if the dress somehow doesn’t.
They make it home without any slurs hollered at them. Dennis keeps the dress on until it's time to switch into pajamas. Half of him wishes he just stayed home with Mac the whole day. Sometimes he only wants to be seen by Mac’s eyes.