The Turkey Wore Satin by J.J. Brass Page B

waiting
for the big show to begin.
    A streak of nerves shot through Marty’s
belly, making his legs quiver. He thought about performing for
Kristin’s family. Oh God! Performing was not his thing. He was the
kind of guy who felt nervous just placing an order at a restaurant.
All eyes on him? It was too much pressure!
    And dressed like this? Cone bra, cone hair,
even a little cone codpiece to put over his white sequined bathing
suit The cross-dressing didn’t bother him, not with every Mayfair
man taking part, but he didn’t want Kristin’s entire family staring
at his winky-dink.
    As Marty wandered down the hallowed halls of
Mayfair Manor, he caught a whiff of something delicious. Turkey
dinner was in the works, and Marty salivated as he imagined the
delicious pies that would follow. Maybe they could skip the drag
show and go straight to dessert?
    Mmm… he could smell apples and cranberries
among the hearty aromas of potatoes and stuffing, and he followed
his nose toward the epicentre of aroma: the kitchen. Grandma Iris’s
cook, Brykia, went all out for the holidays. Marty couldn’t resist
grabbing a bite.
    As he made his way toward the kitchen,
Marty’s thick nylons rubbed together. The soft shushing made him
self-conscious, not just because of the sound but because that
sheer fabric felt surprisingly good against his thighs. Sure he’d
thought this family was kind of nutty when he’d first met them, but
maybe the men were on to something. The drag show was truly
carnivalesque, especially for an upper class bunch like the
Mayfairs.
    Marty slowed as he approached the kitchen.
He felt a little weirded out by the prospect of Brykia seeing him
dressed like Madonna, circa 1989.
    He listened at the swinging saloon doors,
too nervous to step inside.
    He expected to hear pots clanging, but
instead he heard the tippity-tap of high-heeled shoes. That was
strange. Brykia always wore canvas runners. Must be someone else in
the kitchen.
    Suddenly Marty’s fear of being seen and
judged outweighed his hunger, and he rushed down the hall—well, as
much as he could in heels. The guys had all put on pumps first
thing, to get a feel for walking in them.
    Some of the men were old hands with heels.
Marty, not so much.

Chapter Two
     
     
    By the time Marty returned the dressing
room, the argument between Jack and George had died down. The
atmosphere was still seething, though. The clouds of tension didn’t
break until Brykia knocked on the door a few minutes later.
    “ Madame Iris says the men
must be fed,” Brykia said as she wheeled a serving cart into the
room. She laid out a cheese and fruit tray—standard fare at Mayfair
family gatherings—and then handed George his own bowl of fruit,
primarily red grapes. “Because of your lactose intolerance,” she
explained. “These ones never touched any cheese.”
    George grunted something that might have
been a thank you, then tore the plastic wrap from his dish. Marty
couldn’t resist the brie with fig paste, and scarfed it down with
enough bread to absorb the nerves boiling like acid in his
belly.
    For a while, everyone ate quietly. It made
for a nice change. The room stayed pretty much silent until George
let out a loud hissing noise. Marty turned just in time to see him
brushing his arm against his flowing satin dress.
    “ You okay, Uncle
George?”
    George stared at his wrist, saying nothing.
Whatever happened, he’d reacted with enough vigour to attract
everyone’s attention.
    “ What’s wrong?” Jonnie
asked.
    “ Nothing,” George snapped,
still staring at his arm. “Bug bite, maybe.”
    “ I didn’t think the great
Mayfairs attracted pests,” Tyrone teased.
    “ Jonnie attracted you , didn’t he?” George shot back.
    The room fell again into silence, but Marty
felt that barb just as sharply as Tyrone must have. Even in
marriage, guys like Tyrone and Marty would never be on equal
footing with the Mayfair bloodline.
    Jack and George fit in okay. They had