R. Hernández - An Innocent Fashion

Sabrina’s eyes flickered between us. “Ethan—”

I raised my head toward her stern face.

“Show poor Dorian how to take calls,” she said, before returning to her desk.

Poor Dorian ? No two words had ever been so laughably ill-matched. It wasn’t my fault “poor Dorian” had never answered a phone, but I choked back the words and ran downstairs to let Edmund into the building.

When I returned without Edmund — he had gotten fed up, and left to smoke a cigarette — Dorian was utterly wrong to confide in me, with a smirk, “You have to admit, that was pretty funny. I’ve known Edmund since I was little, and he’s the most ridiculous, washed-out—”

I snapped, “Edmund is our boss — not to mention a genius ,” even though I had come a long way from thinking Edmund was any kind of genius at all.

A messenger had just dumped a pile of Dolce & Gabbana garment bags on the carpet, where they waited to be checked in.

“Here, take that camera,” I instructed. The camera was closer to me, but I pointed and made him reach for it. My seat was also closer to the garment bags, but I made him reach for those too.

I sat back in my chair and watched him, like a Beverley Hills housewife observing her Adonic pool boy. Despite everything, Dorian was what I would most choose to look at in the world — more so, I hated to admit, than any painting by Klimt, or Monet, or anyone. His back faced me as he dragged the garment bags over, and even though there was nothing extraordinary about this, somehow every movement of Dorian’s body was a new fold in a complicated origami.

When he finally looked up, it gave me strange satisfaction to watch the shadows on his face shift like sand dunes, and when he cocked his head, awaiting further instruction, it gave me stranger satisfaction still to say, “Garment bags will now be your responsibility. From now on, any time you see a garment bag enter the closet. ”

TWO YEARS AGO, DORIAN BOUGHT ME A PAIR OF TWELVE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR women’s shoes just to make me laugh and agree to join him at some ridiculous cross-dressing party. Harboring deep reservations over attending events at frat houses, I had joked I would only go with him and Blake to Delta Kappa’s annual so-called Drag Ball if I could wear designer high heels — but alas! I had no money! And so I would have to skip the event. Dorian held me at my word and two days later handed me a lavender Bergdorf Goodman bag containing a box of rhinestone-covered Louboutins and a note: No excuses now!

Per Blake’s instructions, we arrived early on Fraternity Row to “get ready.” It was six o’clock on Saturday — an hour marked by the smuggling of cheap liquor into the dorm rooms of underage co-eds intent on exceeding the debauched precedent set the weekend prior. Blake greeted us at the Greek-lettered door in thigh-baring metallic shorts and a pink lace bra, tossing his hairy, muscular arms in the air with a guiltless splash of Pabst Blue Ribbon onto the front steps.

I hugged him and got tangled in his long black synthetic wig. “ Mary Magdalene! ” I cried out with a laugh. The wig was a relic from the previous Halloween, when Blake and I had floated around campus in bedsheet robes informing people that we were “ the two Marys, the Virgin and the Prostitute — but you have to guess which is which .” In attempting once more to look like a female, he had again succeeded in resembling an overgrown cactus, his muscles bulging under his prickly body hair.

As we entered, the half-caved-in door dragged over the floor and we were promptly greeted by a cloud of Bob Marley and marijuana smoke. Johnny Russell waved from a withering leather loveseat, wearing only a gold bodysuit as he sat with his thick thighs spread in casual confirmation of the many whispered speculations about the size of his endowment. I smiled back, then forced myself to look away while Stephen, the Yale football quarterback, sat similarly wide-legged nearby having lipstick applied to his bearded face by Stan, the defensive linebacker. I only knew this because Blake said, “That’s Stephen, the quarterback, and Stan, the defensive linebacker.” The sight of it was almost quaint, the linebacker holding his friend’s jaw with a blokeish hand, concentrating with furrowed intensity on coloring inside the lines.

It was my first time at a frat house, although that night it was revealed I was inexplicably one of the best among them at beer pong, and thereafter I became a semiregular visitor. Every surface of the place looked sunken in, like the brothers had made a ritual out of smashing everything up. Squashed beer cans poured out of a crumpling trash can in the living room. A littered hallway led to a fridge plastered with magnets from various Yale sports teams, mixed with cheerful alphabet letters spelling, BLESSED BE IMMANUEL KUNT.

Johnny reached up from the loveseat to pass me a bong stained with pink and red lipstick, and after Dorian and I took a hit we left for the bathroom, to get dressed. Coughing, Dorian rattled out a duffel bag full of women’s things: stockings and bras and fake nails and a tube of velvet red Chanel lipstick, among various other essentials he had pilfered from Madeline.

Madeline would have murdered Dorian if she’d learned that he had poured her belongings onto a surface crusted with decades of hangover vomit. She would never join us for Drag Ball herself, maintaining as I had that the whole affair was too “boorish”—although really she was probably just afraid to confirm that her boyfriend looked better in stilettos than she did. She was content to let Drag Ball be the one thing we did without her (“ Just you boys ,” she’d said, with a nose wrinkle and a dismissive flicker of her hand) while she made an attempt to inspire jealousy by gushing about her dinner plans at Union League Café with “sophisticated” Chelsea Macintosh, whose father was in the Senate but was herself as boring as a piece of paper.

“What great taste in shoes,” I exclaimed as I tried on the ostentatious high heels Dorian had gifted me. “You have a knack for women’s footwear.”

He shoved me from his perch on the edge of the bathtub, and I slid down the door while I laughed at my legs splayed out before me on the blackened bathroom tile. The hilarity of my embellished feet was rivaled only by the straggly brown hairs on my knobby, pale legs — a testament to my Latino origins that I now compared to Dorian’s own comparatively hairless skin. The year before I had gotten the idea to wax my legs, hoping to achieve the appearance of smoothness that was Dorian’s physical birthright; the attempt had involved a single “Fun & Easy” at-home body wax strip and an anguished yowl heard across the block, resulting in my reluctant acceptance of my body’s hirsute condition and a solemn oath to avoid all grooming products involving temperatures above 125 degrees Fahrenheit.

Now I braced myself against the shag-carpeted toilet and rose slowly up, marching back and forth past the splintered mirror. “I don’t know what Madeline complains about. I could practically run a marathon in these.”

“You can’t even run a marathon in sneakers,” grunted Dorian, as he tangled himself up in a pair of fishnet tights.

I raised my fists, boxer-style, to my face and pretended to kick him. My ankle wobbled, and Dorian, still sitting, caught me in his arms.

“Would you ever want to be a woman?” he asked suddenly.

He cradled me like a long and lanky child. “It depends. Would you break up with Madeline, and fall madly in love with me?”

Dorian ignored me and gazed at the faint trace of a Yale football logo on the vinyl shower curtain, bleakly overpowered by a crisscross of un-scrubbed splatters. “I think life would be easier as a woman,” he mused. “If a woman can’t decide on what to do with herself in life, then she just has kids, and everybody thinks she’s accomplished enough.”