Page 84 of The Frog Prince

The leaves are turning yellow and red, and the wind gusts, and leaves blow in rolling circles, little dervishes of crackling red and brown. This is what it would have been like to star in a Cary Grant movie. Beautiful. Elegant. Poignant.

Katie’s on the corner where we agreed to meet. She suggests we fortify ourselves with a quick cocktail before we start shopping, and I agree. We duck into a bar, and even though we’re the only women there, we order cocktails and drink our lemon-drop martinis as if they were just good old-fashioned lemonades.

I haven’t bought new clothes in ages, having pretty much blown my paychecks on rent (nice) and the new computer and printer, which hardly get used, because I live at the office lately instead of my home. When Katie thrusts a pair of leather pants at me in my size, I discover they’re too big when I try them on. I am thinner, I note in the dressing room mirror, and I actually don’t look half bad in black leather, but the guy working in the store pushes aside the red velvet curtain and shakes his head at me as I try to cover up my bra.

“No, no,” he says. “That’s not what you want. You want in-your-face,” he adds, turning away, his own spiked Mohawk black with white tips. He riffles through his rack of clothes and pulls out a black leather bustier and a pair of little matching leather panties. “Something like this.”

I eye the leather bustier and try not to look at Katie, who is about to burst out laughing. “Okay, but what do I wear on the bottom?”

“On the bottom?” Mr. Mohawk frowns. “What do you mean on the bottom? You wear these bottoms on your bottom.” And he shakes the little leather panties.

“That’s underwear.”

“It’s a G-string,” he corrects.

“Right.”

“And you wear these.”

I look at Katie, who is grinning like a fool. I turn away.

I can’t handle her mirth now. “My butt will be hanging out,” I say as carefully and kindly as I can.

Mr. Mohawk sighs with exasperation. “You’re going to the Leather and Lace Ball.”

“Yes. But I’m sitting at my boss’s table, and I can’t very well parade around in front of my boss with my big white…” I nearly say ass, but I substitute “…behind…sticking out.”

“Wear fishnet stockings, then.”

“That’s an idea,” Katie pipes in.

I grind my teeth together. “That’s not an outfit.”

“Well, we’re not finished yet, darling.” Mr. Mohawk spins away and digs through a drawer of accessories, pulling out a couple of different, black leather belts. Only they’resmallleather belts. And they’re not belts but dog collars.

One is studded.

One is spiked.

And one has a leash attached.

“Katie, maybe we should go,” I whisper because there’s no way I’m going to wear one of the collars around my neck. I have fantasies like every other girl. I’ve imagined being tied up, a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, but dog collars? Leashes? In public? Uh-uh. No way.

“Can’t go. This is important.” Katie’s eyes are watering and she’s grinning and she’s about the happiest I’ve ever seen her. “We’re shopping, girl.”

Of course we’re shopping. But she’s not the one covering her personal assets with scraps of leather and studded dog collars. “I can’t wear this stuff.”

“Yes, you can. It’s time you took some risks. Lived a little. Now, try your outfit on.”

*

It’s four o’clockon Saturday afternoon before the long-anticipated Leather & Lace Ball. Katie has come over to my apartment to make sure I dress properly, i.e., wear the Elvira-meets-Dr. Frank N. Furter costume our local Castro sex shop has so thoughtfully assembled.

But good Katie Robinson hasn’t come empty-handed. She’s brought tequila and some orange juice and assorted bottles of mixers and juice.

“Take me to your blender,” she says, heading directly for the kitchen. She’s a confident girl, our Katie. “We’re having margaritas.”

Katie has a reason for her confidence. She’s a whiz at the blender. She doesn’t measure anything, pouring with a liberal hand great gulps of tequila; throws in a handful of ice, glugs of orange juice, a squeeze of lime, and floats of Grand Marnier and pushes “Liquefy.” Seconds later we’ve got slushy-smooth margaritas, and I—crystal-savvy girl that I am—have the right glasses for the occasion. Katie takes the glasses, dips the rims in water and then the salt she’s remembered to bring.