A queer dresser (tale for the dashing)

by Caroline Bergvall


      Let the good times roll, she said. Oh well who knows, I thought,

pulling up my sock well above the knee. Now, there are times when even

binoculars cannot make me see the light, but a little illumination

might just do the trick - sharp hard bursts to make me lose my stance,

coming and going as she did, insisting on some decisive form, one two

steps to the left, one two to the right and a little pirouette might

well find me falling headlong into the pool of her lap (I thought with

a faint sigh).

Times of fishes in the dark river-flow always inevitably shuffle the

studied effect of my garments. The pride of my presence here: this

layered parade of fine wools and hand-woven silk, the way I move my

hands across these surfaces. Many an hour I spend organising,

reorganising it all to achieve that sense of style, the subtle

finishing touch, that grip of magic that will move me from flat to

flamboyant, from flamboyant to dizzy, from dizzy to voluptuous. If not

suddenly weighed down by one excessive turn, one small but disastrous

lack of judgement, a shiver of the hand which sends lipstick thick

outside the corners of my mouth or glues mascara in clutters at the

tip of each eyelid or the sordid story of those complicated brass

earrings that tore many a lobe and bruised the side of my face. In the

case of this particular encounter however, I must at first have seemed

quite a natural, flaunting a shiny red creation with the casual

elegance of a carp.

Indeed it came to be that having brushed past me frequently enough to

wear out the back of my velvet jacket, her pointed bra breaking the

air as though cutting through butter, she eventually hit a pause

behind me and leaning over my right shoulder said something to the

effect of letting good tongues roll.

I was about to reply in the high-pitched voice I felt would befit my

wear for the evening, when I suddenly noticed the peculiar brooch

fastened to the left corner of her lycra: an enormous gold-plated

brooch in the shape of an eye or a crab, with chains of glittering

pearls glaring through a cluster of nylon feathers. The lot heavy like

a fist, slowly pulling at the thin fabric.

Where do you get it from, I said impressed, pushing back a lock of

hair with a nonchalant gesture, my legs suddenly porous as if about to

crumble. I mean this walk, this peculiar somnambulism, your aquatic

dream-life shifting the fabric of my shapes as you pass?

Darling dear, she said with the wisdom that a sudden adored is always

graced with, the day is wider, much much wider than the widest of

turn-ups.

Ah yes, I said in wonder. And has more flow than the sheen of your

garb, she continued or the spread of your finest of skirts, she

insisted, pushing her tongue in my cheek. Then reached for my jacket,

swiftly grabbed one of the buttons (the nice ones, the ones with the

small plastic-ivory mermaid discs stuck in the middle) and pulled it

off, as some women currently do when displaying a detached sort of

attachment.

The fashions of behaviour are undeniably strange, I thought looking at

the bits of thread sticking from my lapel and gasping at the thought

of the capricious poses we were undoubtedly about to strike (throwing

ourselves at each other's feet, moaning and pleading, pleading and

moaning, splitting the seams of our vests, hard perfumes slowly mingle

with the smell of soft lace and warm underwear, bloodstreams swell and

accumulate under our nails, objects sharpen and change as we reach for

them, candles, bottles, tea-pots, pens and cups and cups break as we

dildoe and electrify, wine soothing as we slip and swallow, letting an

arm hang like poets do down the side of the kitchen-table). Where do

you get it from I insisted, combing my left eyebrow with the fingers

of my left hand in a Dirk-like manner and pointing at the brooch with

the other.

The very idea of provenance, of origins is a constant mystery to many

but not to the likes of us, darling dear (said she with the wisdom

that etc.) and your own elaborate displays are certainly a proof of

that. Your body adorned my sweet adoring is the message and the

message is the nature that we rely on to originate.

How beautifully clear, how harshly magical, I thought from the depths

of my gleaming frock, from the slick of my perfumed neck, from the

well of my satin lingering, from the thick of my rubber straps, from

the lines of my pointed suede shoes and the high heat of my hairdo.

Truly there is nothing in this world but that which meets the eyes:

the first, the second, the third eye. The short-sighted, the

long-sighted, the deep-rooted. The near, the wide, the discerning. The

hungry, the searching, the full.

Baffled by the revelations this conversation was bringing about and in

sudden need to be reassured that this was not only being said but

actually being said to me, I decided to rest awhile in a more familiar

mode: reclining in my chair studiously, I brought the back of my right

hand to rest on my brow.

Now, it is frequently said that one should carry through such a

position by closing one's eyes and give out a quick, short cry, a

pleased "ah" or a languorous "oh", depending on the situation. There,

I thought. Unavoidably, she will be stepping one and two and three,

then one and two and three then one and two and pirouette I thought,

tightening my thighs in expectation of the soft fall of her prepared

body.

(Minutes later and a cramp sets in.)

Fine times amiss, I whispered opening my eyes to find a blank space

where she had been standing. Straightening myself and noticing a

faulty detail, I brushed the feather from my crinkled crinoline, from

my tired finery, from my wet armour. Then got up to leave, pale and

operatic as one would be.

      Could this then serve as an example of the way some

old-fashioned girl's queer sense of dresscoding does not easily slip

down the experienced décolleté of the women of her own plunge? The

difference between Orlando's fine leggings and her fine legs remains

the same as that which takes one from the hyperdressed to the

undressing: it is always hard to know when these end and these begin.

I, for one, always sleep with my best clothes on.