In Bed with Jocasta by Richard Glover Read Free Book Online Page A

cop her rather rash proposal. But something must have clicked right with her: maybe the way I was standing, maybe the shape of my bum in the pair of Levi’s 501s.
    ‘You could buy that pair,’ she said, ‘but we’ve got exactly the same thing for about $60 less.’
    ‘Exactly the same?’
    ‘Well, exactly the same except they are
girls’
jeans.’
    Instantly, I felt myself flush: I’d spent a lifetime trying to get into girls’ pants. The girls’ Levi’s were $33; the boys’ $99. I was presented with a stark choice between my identity as a man — the whole history of male achievement on this planet — and saving $66. Naturally, I went for the dollars.
    There are times in every man’s life when he’s tempted to wear women’s clothing, and this was mine. I went into the changing room and slipped on the pants; they were cut a little differently, but who would notice? And they were a
lot
cheaper.
    I walked out and modelled the pants. Both shop assistants approved.
    ‘Actually, I think they look better on you than the men’s,’ said the younger one, with what I felt was unnecessary enthusiasm.
    ‘Yes,’ said the other,
‘some
men just suit the girls’ cut.’
    I knew exactly what sort of men she meant. Those with child-bearing hips.
    I met Jocasta and the kids back at the car, and, still a little embarrassed, still a little hesitant, whispered all about it into my beloved’s ear, all about the money, and the cut, and what they said about the pants’ suiting me.
    And, of course, Jocasta reacted with her usual demure sensitivity. ‘Hah!’ she yahooed to the kids, slapping her thigh. ‘Look at your father, he’s wearing girls’ pants!’
    I wonder whether you happen to have a pre-teen boy in your family. Because only then might you understand exactly how funny such a child might find the idea of his father wearing girls’ pants. And the answer is very, very, very funny indeed.
    So there we were in the car. Me sitting in my cheap girls’ jeans; Jocasta trying so hard not to laugh that she’s spluttering over the windscreen; and Batboy paralytic in the back seat, red in the face, panting to get the air in, chanting: ‘Girls’ pants, girls’ pants.’
    But Batboy is a comedian, and he knows there’s nothing like good timing. So he calms down and waits; waits for that moment back at home when we pass in the corridor, and he looks up and delivers his cheery greeting: ‘Hello, girl.’
    By now it’s clear: I should have stopped experimenting with wearing women’s clothing when I was sixteen, like all my mates. Whatever the saving, the jeans are cursed. On Sunday I wear them to a barbecue. Within minutes Jocasta has told everyone, and all the women demand to know what size I take in women’s jeans. So I tell them the size, and no longer am I taunted for wearing ‘girls’ jeans’; I’m taunted for wearing
‘fat
girls’ jeans’.
    On Monday, I wear them to work — knowing I have to take The Space Cadet to school on the bus, and so jeans will be good. But can I shake off the Curse Of The Plump Girls’ Jeans?
    We’re on the bus for ten minutes, when The Space Cadet works loose the top of his drink bottle. Gracefully, he pours the juice onto my crotch. No longer do I look like a plump girl riding on the bus; now I look like a plump girl with a bladder-control problem riding on the bus.
    The stain looks shocking, a big dark patch spreading from my beltline to halfway down my thighs, and yet, at the school gate, no-one takes any notice. The other parents have seen Juice-Bottle Lap before, just as they have seen Vegemite Collar, Peanut-Butter Shoulders and Weet-Bix Bum.
    But at work, people are staring. First up, I have a message to see the boss, so I’m standing in his office in my girls’ jeans, holding a copy of
The Bulletin
over my crotch, and we are discussing my responsibilities. And I can see he’s eyeing my soaking crotch, thinking: ‘Who’d let him control anything, when he can’t