A LONG DAY'S NIGHT

This is the story of a girl named Katy, and of how she got everything she always wanted.  Or maybe she got everything she always didn't want.  Sometimes it can be hard to tell.

Some of Katy's friends, when they were charitable, described her life as sheltered.   She grew up in the suburbs, a place as whitebread as she was, a quiet obedient girl, middle child in a middle class family.  She was studious in her youth, studying, babysitting, earning her way into college.   She didn't party, she didn't run with sluts, wasn't a cheerleader and never the center of attention.  Although, deep down, she was intrigued and curious, found herself wondering what it would be like to do these things, or at least to work up the nerve to do these things.  She graduated near the top of her class, found a job at a bank branch, and through hard work and talent, made it up to regional manager.   She was proud of her success.  Lived a quiet life.  Occasionally dated men as colourless as she felt she was.   Katy's friends, when they weren't charitable, described her life as dull.

And she would have agreed.

But Katy herself was not dull.   Although she never danced, she loved to dance, had taken ballet, and in her high school years on rare occasions, had torn up the dance floor.   At home alone, when no one was looking, she'd put on the music video channel, and as she did her housework would sometimes shimmy into dance moves.  

In college, at a party, she'd met a black man, they'd talked animatedly, kissed their tongues touching.  She'd trembled like a leaf as his hand cupped her breast, and had been more than willing to spread her legs and give this black stranger her virginity.   But then her friend had gotten sick, and she'd had to take her home, and the moment was lost, her virginity saved for a moment when it could be shed to someone dull and sincere.

When she'd been acting manager at her local branch, there'd been a summer girl on hire, an obvious lesbian with a crew cut and a nose ring.  Katy had been fascinated.  When she talked to the girl, every time she caught a glimpse of the tongue stud, she'd feel a little tingle in her clit.  That summer, the girl occupied more than a few exploratory fantasies.  But under Katy's guidance, her clothes became more conservative, her manner more professional, eventually she moved on feeling nothing more than friendship for her mentor.

Sometimes in department stores, she pored over lingerie she never had the recklessness to buy.  She would drive past strip clubs fascinated by the idea of what went on in there, but never went in.  Katy was full of hungers and fantasies, and yet trapped in the confines of her life.  Sometimes, in privacy, she cropped or even shaved her pussy.   Sometimes, she thought about buying a garter belt, but who would she wear it for, who would see it.  It seemed to her pointless to wear such a provocative bit of lingerie, if there was no one else to appreciate it.  Pointless and a little sad.  So she never bought.  Just looked.

But still, deep down, beneath the colourless surface, her life was full of fantasies and thoughts, curiousities, hungers, urges.   Things half conscious, half acknowledged, desires and possibilities and the desire of possibilities.  Of wetness and hardness and carnal splendour.  But never more than that, her life would not allow more.

And in the normal course, that would be how it went.   She'd grow older, marry a man without colour or imagination, she'd spread her legs for dry sex, give birth to pallid children, and over time, grow old, and even content with her lot.  Perhaps that is how it will go for Katy still, who knows.  And if it did, would that be so bad?

It was street construction that changed her life.   One day, on the way from work, the road she took was blocked.  She had to go down some side streets, got a little lost, and ended up driving through the red light district.

That's when she saw her.

The whore.

There were whores all over.  Black, oriental, girls strutting, pimps walking, all about sex and drugs, barbaric splendour, for sale and on display.

But this girl, this one whore, stood there with outthrust breasts and cherry red boots with long fuck me heels, full breasts barely concealed by a tank top, and a half length white leather jacket.   And red hair.   The exact same shade of red as Katy's own.   A glorious, bouyant, sensuous, slutty shade of red, unconstrained, and free.   It was only a glimpse, but Katy was captivated.   This nameless whore seemed to encapsulate, seemed to be a living projection of every deep fantasy.  She was the wanton sex that Katy had daydreamed, made flesh.

So this was the new route.   Every day, Katy would come home from work, driving through the red light zone, stealing glimpses and glances at this wanton theme park of sex and sensuality, endlessly absorbing new details.  A pair of black teenage hookers, a gold toothed pimp, peep shows, cheap hotels.   And more often than not, her red queen, her proud whore in the red hair and red boots.

Sometimes it seemed to Katy that here was an alternate life, another life she might have lived, as if she'd been allowed a glimpse into a whole other world, a whole existence, that might have been hers.

At night, sometimes, laying in bed, she'd close her eyes and imagine she was that whore.  Imagine what it would be like to negotiate a price with a complete stranger, to sell your body, to take a cock  and know that it had no past and no future, just a present of flesh and hardness and wetness of thrusting and orgasm, leaving nothing behind but a residue of money.

Of course, she is sober and sensible enough to realize that while there might be excitement, all too much of it would be ordinary in its own way, that the life of a whore is exhausting and degrading, that its pleasures are colourful but transient, and the path is full of aches and bruising.  Her life might be dull, but it is a better life than that of that woman who stood so proud in her red boots.

Of course, if that other self's life has its hardship and misery... well, at least it isn't dull.

Blame Bridget Jones.   One of Katy's friends, Melanie, is a Bridget Jones fan, and she gets the idea for a theme party, Tarts and Vicars.   A dress up, prostitutes and priests.

Katy is invited of course. 

"Dress like a hooker, Katy."  Melanie says.  "It'll be so fun.  And Brian will be there.  You know, the actuary?  He was interested in you.   We'll have a prize for the best costume."

On the phone, in the privacy of her office, Katy blushes red.   An image of red boots and proud outhrust breasts and that wild red hair, identical in shade to her own, swept through her.   Her clit throbbed in the way it used to do when she'd caught a glimpse of tongue stud.

Dress like a hooker?

Well...   Wasn't there a reason?  It was a party after all.  Why not. 

Why not!

That night, on the way home, she drove slowly through the red light district, drinking in the details, making mental notes, of the girls, the way they walked, the way they moved.  The way they thrust their breasts out and wriggle their asses as cars drive by, the impromptu sexy dances they break into.  She watches them lean into cars.  Watches the smiles.

There's her red goddess.   Katy drives right by her, standing on the curb, for a second their eyes meet, and then the woman dismisses her.  Just a commuter, not a customer.  Her smile is for someone else, someone with money and a hard cock.   Katy's heart is pounding.  She's never been this close, even fleetingly, to the woman she identifies as her altar ego, never seen her in such vivid detail.

Later, at home, Katy stands in front of her full length mirror, in sensible bra and panties, as close as she can arrange to the proud stance, and imagines herself in red boots and white leather half jacket.

The next day, she buys a garter belt.

As she stands in line for the checkout, she finds that this simple act leaves her wet.

The sales girl who rings up her purchase has a tongue stud.  Katy glimpses it as she smiles, and she's wet all over again.  It's like a sign.

That night, she dreams of kissing her altar ego, or perhaps of being her.  In the dream, they're both wearing red boots.

The party is two weeks away.   Katy finds endless reasons to drive through the red light district in afternoons and evenings.   Home from work, out to buy milk, a bit of shopping, just a cruise around.  It's amazing how her course takes her through.   Every time she watches avidly.

Mostly, they ignore her.  Her world is too whitebread and dull to attract their attention.  More likely, they just see her as some housewife passing through, filter her out.   They're all about cocks and money.

But she has money, she thinks.  Aren't there lesbian whores?   Some part of her longs for that mysterious eye contact, that 'fuck me' smile, the breasts thrust out for her.  

Maybe she's a lesbian, she wonders.   Shouldn't she have noticed that before?   Maybe, deep down, she's just a slut, she thinks.   It's satisfying to her to think that.

There are lesbian whores.   Or at least whores who sell themselves for lesbian acts.   But these look at Katy and then they look past her, dismissing.  They know who's a customer and who is not.  Katy's reeks of whitebread.

And she shops.

The Red Boots, astonishingly, are the easiest to find.  A fetish shop has them.   He hands tremble in the store, as she sits to try them on, pulling them up her calves.   The sound of the zipper closing along her thigh, rapping her legs in shimmering red pvc is unspeakably sensuous.  She pays three hundred dollars.

At home, she wears them, walking naked in her apartment, her nipples hard, her clit throbbing.  Wearing the boots she spreads her legs to shave her pussy, glorying in the feel of wet velvet between her legs and comes.

After that, she wears the boots every night, practicing the walks, practicing the shimmies and  impromptu dances, the struts, the poses, the flaunting.

After a couple of nights, she adds stockings, sheltering her calves and thighs from the harsh texture of the boots inside lining.   The garter belt now has a function.   She continues to go topless.    Would men pay to fondle these tits?   She holds them, lifting them up as if to offer to unseen strangers.  What would they pay to suck these nipples?

The hardest part of the wardrobe to find is a purple velvet micro-miniskirt.   It takes forever, and meticulous searching through the trashier sections of used clothing shops.  The biggest surprise find is a push up bra that lifts and shapes her breasts in a surprisingly wanton fashion.  The white leather half-jacket takes some searching, but eventually she finds the perfect item.

The right lipstick is tricky.   Nothing seems right.  Eventually, she goes to a pharmacy near the red light district and asks for "the kind the whores use."   The cosmetologist stares at her, and Katy blushes red with shame.  The moment goes on and on, and just as Katy is about to flee, the cosmetologist finally produces a tube of lipstick.

As she walks up the aisle, the red haired, red booted altar ego walks past, talking animatedly with a latino hooker.  For a second, Katy is rivetted with shock, she stands stock still, smelling the woman's perfume.   It must be the start of her day, Katy thinks, she's stopping in on the way to work.

Katy contrives to walk by them again.  They don't register her presence.  But Katy, meticulously notes the make up.  Dark eyeliner.  A little too much blush.   She can do that.   The perfume fills her nostrils again, a cheap rich brand, and she knows she has to have that.

As she stands in the checkout line with lipstick and perfume, the red whore stands behind her, still talking to her friend.  Katy imagines that they are both buying the same colour of lipstick.  She fantasizes about turning around, saying hello.   Look, we have the same lipstick!  We have the same hair!  What's your name?  Will you kiss me?   Do things to me that I don't even have names for.  But instead, she looks straight again, and when its her turn, she pays cash, using exact change.   She does not even glance back.

The hairstyle is the last thing, and its so easy.   The day of the party, she goes to her hairdresser.  There's a long conversation.   She's already wearing her outfit under a trenchcoat.  She shows it to him, to his gasp of gay pleasure, its so trashy and flamboyant.   They talk some more, and he does her hair perfectly, bouyant and rich, trashy and flamboyant.   It's fuck me hair, to go with her fuck me boots and cock sucking lipstick.

As she gets into the car to go to the party, she feels....  Wanton.   Slutty.   Wild.   She feels uninhibited.   Sexy.  Full of possibilities.

She stops.   She feels....  Alive.

She feels so good, it's really a shame what happens next....