Michael went to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of Tequilla. He poured himself a large shot and chugged it down. He loved the way the licquor burned as it went into his stomach. His chest felt the warmth from the alcohol, and the bite, was just what he needed to get his night started.
His picture of his mother and father sat next to the computer and Michael stared at it.
"Why do you make me do these things?" He said reaching inside his goody bag.
He pulled out an old, white swimming cap, put it on, and snapped it up. He tucked his dark hair deep inside the cap, making sure not a strand was left out. He looked in the reflection of his computer screen.
The white, hard, plastic mask came next. The get up concealed his entire face, not letting anyone see what any part of his real description may look like, except for maybe the color of his eyes.
"I'll fix that," Michael said. He reached into the goody bag one more time and pulled out two large make up bags. Inside the first make up bag contained his contact lenses. When he put them on his eyes changed from blue to a beautiful glowing green. In the dark he looked almost alien. Michael liked that.
He covered the mask with fresh eyeliner, mascara and green eye shadow. His lip stick, the new one he got at the mall today was a beautiful mauve color that Michael adored. It tasted like bubble gum and that kind of annoyed him, but Michael decided he'd put up with that to get the delicious color.
Michael dumped out the bags from shopping that day on his bed and sorted out the outfits. He decided he liked the color red. It always looked good on her, he thought, and growled. He put a bra on and stuffed it full. He slipped the dress on over the bra and looked in the full-length mirror in the bathroom.
"The spitten image," he shook his head.
He remembered his Aunt Betty. She used to say that about him all the time. "You're the spitten image of your mother," she'd say.
"Now look what you did," Michael grunted.
Michael grabbed the picture of his parents that sat next to his computer. He held it up to his face. Tears ran down his cheeks as he compared himself to his mother.
He had to admit it. He was the spitten image of his mother.
"I do not look like you," he screamed, and threw the picture on the floor. He stomped on it several times, until it was nothing but a pile of broken glass on the floor.
"That's better," he said, wiping the tears of anger off his face.
Memories flashed through his mind. He was six years old when he and his mother sat next to each other for the first time, at her huge vanity in the bedroom. His father was gone at work for the day and she had the whole day planned for them. They'd do their hair and makeup and have a fashion show.
Michael loved the idea.
"Okay, young man, you turn this way and I will help you with your make up." She smiled the warmest smile at him and Michael obeyed.
He never felt closer to anybody.
She gave him tips on how to put on make up and what to do and not to do on dates with girls.
She giggled when she said it.
Michael asked her "Why are you laughing, Mama?"
"I can't help it, Michael. I thought by this time I'd be having this talk with my daughter, not with my son," she smiled at him and kissed his forehead. He saw a tear escape her eyes and slide down her cheek.
"I'm sorry I disappointed you, Mama."
"You didn't disappoint me, Michael, God did."
They didn't hear the car pull up in the driveway. They didn't hear the garage door open and close. Or the loud footsteps that came up the stairs.
Until it was too late.
Daddy was home and he was outraged. He saw Michael sitting next to his mother in front of the vanity. His face covered with make up. His hair curled at the ends and he wore one of his mother's long skirts that flowed to the floor.
"Gina! What the hell are you doing to our son?" He screamed. He came closer and Michael smelled alcohol on his breath.
"We were just playing," his mother said quietly.
"Playing? If you were building with the building blocks I'd call that playing. If you were dressed in space outfits and chasing each other around the house with his fake laser guns I'd call that playing, but putting on make up and sitting in front of your vanity is not playing! This is teaching our son how to be a faggot. This is teaching our son that dressing as a woman is okay. Well, this is not okay in my book. Do you want him to grow up and be a faggot?" He screamed, slapping Mama across the face.
Mama put her head in her hands and cried.
Michael took one look at his father and felt a surge of fear rush through his entire body. He panicked. He wanted to run and hide, but his father blocked his way.
"And, you young man, what are you doing participating in this sort of garbage, anyways? I thought we had a talk last weekend when you were talked into selling cookies for your Mom's Girlscout den. I told you then I won't be accepting this type of behavior. You will stand up for yourself. You will be a man!"
The slap across his face came strong and hard and Michael winced out in pain. Twenty six years later he felt the sting of the first slap and he never forgot it. He never forgot what it was like living with an abusive alcoholic. He never forgot what it was like living with a mother that never wanted him. Now twenty six years later, he was standing up for himself. He was showing the world who he really was and he wouldn't let them ever forget.
Michael sat at his computer. He reached inside his goody bag and pulled out his huge, shiny, metal letter opener he used to open his mail at work. He loved that thing. He used it every day. After touching the edge he decided it needed sharpening. After all, he didn't want a dull letter opener at work did he?
He spent the next ten minutes sharpening his letter opener. He felt the edge of the opener and smiled.
The social site he went to was busy buzzing with chatters, and friends. He checked his status, shared a status, a couple of pictures and videos with friends and then, proceeded with his search.
"What was that name again?" He said out loud to no one at all, "Aw yes, Julie Duhvell?" Hit search.
The name came up three times with three different pictures, but he recognized her immediately. He clicked on her page.
"There she is," he jumped up and down in his chair, clapping and squealing. He inhaled. He could almost, smell the wonderful scent of the perfume she wore that day. His mouth drooled and his heart pitter pattered with delight.
He checked her friend's list. She only had seven friends. He squealed again. She was perfect, just perfect.
What a way to spend a Saturday night.
With Michael's skills and talents on the computer it didn't take him very long to figure out where she lived, who her parents and family were, and what the rest of her family was like. He went to her page and got her phone number. He worked his magic on the internet and in minutes had her address.
Michael kissed it as if it were gold. He could almost taste her sweetness.
"Not until after dinner," the memory of his mother told him as he shut down his computer, grabbed his goody bag and practically raced for the door.