Shadow Man (Paragons of Queer Speculative Fiction) by Melissa Scott

order the car and driver for
the full night, with only a nominal surcharge for the late notice. If
everything went really well, he thought, stripping off the last of
his clothes as he headed for the bath, he could maybe get together
with Chauntclere, or Shan Reiss if Clere wasn't ashore, and tour
the harborside clubs with him. It had been a while since he'd been
out.
    He stepped into the
tepid water, sliding down until the ripples touched his chin. He had
shaved two days ago, wouldn't need to do it again for another few
days, but his hair was a mess, matted and sweaty. He ducked his head
under the nearer tap, then shutoff both before he overfilled the
generous tub. Soap stood in a jar beside the bath, and he reached for
it, freed the stopper, and dug his fingers into the soft cream. Its
heavy scent filled the air--sweetmusk mingling with the sharper note
of the witch's-broom--and he was tempted for an instant to rub it
between his legs, over cock and balls and into his cunt, and ride the
drug's bright euphoria into the next morning. But it was easy
enough to lose an encounter with Temelathe, even without the broom's
overconfidence, and he rubbed it into his hair instead, working the
soap into a heady lather. Even so, when he reluctantly hauled himself
out of the now-cold water, he could feel the broom singing in his
blood.
    As he worked a comb
through his tangled hair, he caught a glimpse of himself in the
larger mirror, and stopped for a moment to stare, thinking of 'Aukai.
He was still slim, was if anything going stringy, the old curves
resolving into wiry muscle, breasts too small to sag, but a little
incongruous above the bony rib cage. The boyish penis was just as
incongruous, and he looked back at the smaller mirror, concentrating
on his hair. Whatever 'Aukai had thought, he was certainly too old
now to play trade--though it had never been his looks that worried
her--but not, he thought, too old to run the harborside clubs.
    He went back into the
bedroom and began to pull clothes out of the chest, tossing the
discards onto the piled quilts that made up the bed. He settled at
least for an ivory tunic-and-trousers suit, the slubbed silk cool
against his skin, and rummaged through the smaller box until he found
the vest he wanted. Folhare had made it for him, from the scraps left
over from making the topmost bed quilt: she had liked the colors
against his skin, and said she knew she wouldn't get the chance to
see him displayed against the quilt itself. The closely stitched
fabric glowed like sunset in the narrow room, and he wondered if
Folhare would be at this party. She was a Stane, but of the Black
Watch; this was probably just a White Stane event, he decided, and
emptied his jewel box onto the bed. He sorted through the heap of
bracelets and earrings and chains, metal, glass, and carved wood,
pulling out the pieces that had been forged from the wreck of the
colony ship that had brought his ancestors to Hara. He slid the
bracelets onto his wrists, circles of twisted iron that still carried
the marks of the hammer and the off-world shipbuilder's tools,
fastened his collar with a square of plastic from the engine room.
There was only one earring left--the other sliver of gold-washed
circuit board had descended in a different branch of the mesnie --and
he paired it with a plain, heavy gold hoop. This was a night for
status. He smiled at his reflection, the angular, broad-boned face
not yet too worn by the sun, eyes blacker than ever from the broom,
and was pleased with the result.
    The coupelet was
waiting by the time he'd finished dressing, the driver leaning on
the steering bar with an expression of infinite patience on his
sun-wrinkled face. The destination was already set; as soon as
Warreven closed the door behind him, the driver eased the heavy
vehicle into motion. They turned south, onto the harbor road,
sounding the coupelet's whistle almost constantly as he worked his
way into the slow-moving stream of traffic.