We have an agreement [https://i.imgur.com/yEQYowO.jpg]

Part 1 - Agreement (cont.)

She left with a contented smile. Only once the door sealed shut did Greg amble out of his office to pout at me. "How pathetic was I?"

"Pfft. Not pathetic. If she was choking, you would've saved her life."

Half a groan rumbled deeply in his throat. "What even...was I doing? I can't remember. I almost blacked out. Well, not blacked out but like...like I was giving you a pat and not...not Babs."

Clutching my hands behind my head, I offered, "Well, you think of her as a really good friend. No awkwardness."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Uhhh...no awkwardness?"

"Okay, all the awkwardness but also all of you giving her your kind of hug."

He stretched his hands out. "And that's what I leave things with for a whole week! A baseball player smacking another for a good job!"

Twisting my mouth, I offered, "A baseball player would definitely smack another on the rear though."

Greg didn't respond to that other than to flop down in the spare seat while clutching his forehead. After a few sighs, he reiterated, "A week. Just on that."

"Eh. It's nothing. Now my thing with your cousin. That was...that was bad." Bringing it up was tempting fate though...

Greg frowned and asked, "What was the deal with you and Lina? You never really told me, and she just said you bailed on dinner."

Deep breath. "My fault. I screwed up. But you, you didn't screw up. Besides, Babs has probably already forgotten about it. And so should you. Have a good weekend and next week. And look forward to her return without stressing out."

Greg gave me one of his looks but, like he always did in college, he left it alone without prying. "I dunno. I just feel like getting drunk for a few hours to forget about it. Let's go to the pub up the road."

Pressing my hand to the side of my head, I inquired, "What? No 'You doing anything tonight?' I could have epic, crazy plans for this evening. My roommate from college could've asked me to test drive a new sex toy with her."

Stretching his shoulders, Greg asked, "How is Colleen lately?"

"Living in the Bahamas with a sugar daddy according to recent...postings. My point is I could have plans. I don't but I could."

The levity usually inherent in Greg's demeanor faded. He clutched his palms together and asked me flatly, "It would mean a lot to me to just have a night like we used to. Just chill, have a little fun. Come on..."

I cast a wary look at Greg and held my tongue for a bit before slapping my knees and saying, "Alright. You wore me down. It's a date. But I won't be drinking."

No way I wasn't drinking. 

The pub was just a block up the avenue. Pretty much any pub was within walking distance. This one was named The Cherry Lass, of course. Not that the names mattered. They were all owned by the same company. Some guy decades ago parlayed a particularly clever bet into an American pub empire which replaced several fast-food chains.

It was still early enough when we arrived that there were mostly kids and families in the garden area with a small soft rock band playing. According to the chalkboard in front, poetry-reading and a standup comedian were later with karaoke finishing off the night.

Slim, fancy mahogany stools lined the bar area with long, snaking pipes above the row of taps. Oak paneling covered everything. To the right, the garden area filled with a cascade of cheers. To the left, chairs and the occasional small table flanked a long, quiet stretch of plush booths. Hanging tiffany glass lamps provided the mood lighting.

We picked a table about halfway down the row. A small but friendly group skirted us. Greg immediately took note of the redhead with her arm on the bar and her eyes, beneath gray-rimmed glasses, wandering the room. Her hair was braided and more orange than Babs', as it lay across her peach hoodie.

"I'll get first", Greg announced, hopping up from the chair to slip over to the bar.

I turned my hands up and muttered weakly, "Yeah. Sure. Get me...whatever." Greg gave a quick smile and a nod before looking towards the lone redhead.

While he waited there, I got up and used the restrooms in the back labeled "lads" and "lasses". A fair-haired woman in snug pants blurred past me to the appropriate door. I rushed to mine.

After the urinal, I stood in front of the mirror and dabbed a little water on my face. What was I doing? I rubbed at the edges of my shadowed, hazel eyes. I combed back my dark but ginger-tinted, frizzy hair. I always looked like I used chili powder as a conditioner. Babs even asked me the first week where I got it dyed. No dye, just a genetic quirk or some forgotten ancestor.

The rest was no jackpot either. 'Twiggy' was being kind. Lean, slim, and soft everywhere, save the blotches of dark stubble on my cheeks and ancient acne scars by my eyebrows. I gave Lucy so many of the wrong ideas when I was clean-shaven. I adjusted and loosened the belt of my dark, cotton twill slacks, untucked my sky-blue button-up top, and stretched my feet. Much better.

Returning, I saw Greg had a plate of breaded mushrooms, a ragged golden field of nachos, and a heady pair of Irish red ales called "Erik the Red" arranged for us. I resisted my natural compulsion to sigh and joined him. 

The ale was sweeter than I expected, more like tea than beer though still strong enough to feel going all the way down. After eyeballing the mushrooms and the spicy ranch sauce, I looked around for the redhead from before. She was seated next to and smiling at a man with a full, sleek silver beard.

I raised my glass and offered, "To friendships through the years."

Greg swirled his ale and clinked my glass. "Yeah, man. I'll drink to that."

On the second glass (my round), with a bit of fish and chips on the side, little stories about the quirkiest screw-ups at the office became richer comedy than whatever bit was planned later in the garden. Our efforts at the pub trivia games were always futile, even with a clear head.

After discussion of the third round and maybe some meat pie, Greg noticed a new redhead in a slinky, blue dress with feathered ruffles along the hemline. Her hair had a 90s Gillian Anderson thing going on, only much longer. She might as well have hung a hypnosis spiral on her head when it came to Greg. 

I fanned my hand in front of him a few times before he noticed. I remarked, "You sure have a type."

Greg pouted before gazing off again. "But it's amazing. Soo bright. Like...magic fire."

I tapped him on the shoulder and took a necessary restroom break. Since things were getting busier, there was an uncomfortably-long line for "lasses". 

Heading back to the table, Greg had his eyes on me all the way and pronounced, "You have a type too. Those girls by the restroom." 

A prickly, encroaching clamminess sunk into me. I forced a smile on my face and Greg reflected it with an easy laugh. 

Looking at the remains of his drink, Greg calmly eased back and said, "You know what? We oughta do a bet. It's been forever. Come on...for fun."

[https://i.imgur.com/q6gP2oN.png]

I searched for some posted pub rule against betting but there was nothing I could see. The B-word drew the eyes of a few curious people within earshot. 

With a shrug, I pointed out, "Aren't we... having fun?"

"Yeah, man. And this'll be fun too. Just gotta get a good one. Umm...Oh!"

Steadying himself, Greg first pitched he wouldn't even look at a redhead, "as a challenge". But we both knew it would be unwinnable. So, he worked it into physically indulging those desires. As for me, it was always gonna be pee. 

He claimed it was "sorta for my benefit" but "don't tell the bet bookie". I countered that it might not be healthy, a weak argument considering anyone could easily overcome physical limits with the right bet. We couldn't decide on a win/loss reward/penalty so invoking resulting consequences meant the unseen, mystical force that presided over official bets would choose for us. Lovely...

Soon after that, handshake, silent audience of nearby pub-goers, a pair of purple eyes, and screwed.

I pushed my ale to the side. With a teasing smirk, Greg nudged it back. I'd been tempted to spill everything Lucy had learned all those years ago, but I couldn't.

I couldn't tell him I was irrationally turned-on by needing to pee. My kink. My secret. My shame. 

It was incredibly hard to talk about and that wasn't just being euphemistic, especially with the situation I was in. I sweated thinking about all the stuff through college on my computer. Girls with crossed legs. Girls on the floor, uncomfortable. Girls rushing along. Bad to reflect upon.

Actually going, whether in the right place or not, did nothing for me. Questionable liquids did nothing for me. I was drawn to that frozen moment of straining. Like a subdued weightlifter trying to push back gravity for as long as possible before it finally won. I pulled closer to the table and slid down my chair to hide. At least this would stop the dam.

I tried to lead Greg's eyes to the girl like Scully with Miracle Grow. But he countered by sloshing what was left in his glass before downing it. I avoided trouble from that but a lady rushing past with a hand to the hem of her dress was too much for me.

"Gonna go check out the...garden. Stand-up comedy, I think." I said it a little too loud for the situation. Our bet watchers had dwindled but an older man in the corner still had his eyes on us.

My legs tickled and nearly trickled with a hot but chilly cling of sweat as I crouched when standing. Greg held up my cup and quipped, "Hope there are a flood of jokes."

I snagged it from him, held it near my hip, and staggered as casually as I could manage towards the garden area. The frost-laden mug helped in some ways but also dripped condensation.

No problems for a few steps. The tension lessened as blood flow returned to its regular paths. Then, my mind had to wander. A flash in my head. A video from long ago, real or imagined, of a girl locked out of a gas station restroom, her hands fussing with her snug jeans. My bastard brain.

I pranced my way to the garden until the visual noise of plants and the auditory noise of giggles pummeled my brain into submission. And that was when I had the realization the air was moving differently over my face.

The garden had open stretches and the evening breeze was wandering through but that wasn't the point. My face was cold and clear, naked in heightened ways that not even raw, meticulous shaves provided. I had a vivid awareness of what was happening, but my conscious mind told me it was just a numbing chill from the outdoors. Besides, I needed to scowl at the trickling water fountain.

I nearly took a sip from my mug, but I didn't need to buckle my bladder further. Instead, I set it aside on a bare counter and wandered to put the running water noises out of mind. The air still felt intimate against my skin. My collar felt damp and no fanning of it helped. That just puffed the air on tender spots.

I caught the edge of a woman grasping her purse and striding back the way I came. Her perfume lingered along with a flash of bright hair. My slacks crumpled against my skin as I turned. The material scuffed me like butcher paper. I'd used Nair once for reasons best left at "Lucy". The countless, screaming ingrown hairs were not worth it. 

Logically, I knew there was no way anyone had used that on my legs because the hairs had been there just a minute or so before. But now they weren't. In the same moment, I had a fluttering vision of my legs, soft and smooth like a girl's, entwined for relief.

I was sinking fast and into a pool of sweat. On the nearest wall was one of those metal decorations, the label and sigil of some fancy, antiquated brand of beer. It had a clearer reflection than some mirrors. The face that stared into it was not the one I'd seen in the bathroom.

My stubble was cleared away, leaving fair, soft skin. My hair was deflating, the frizz and plumes flattening like they'd been steamed down. Locks drifted towards my eyes. It was hard to tell through a metal wall ornament, but the rosy tint looked brighter.

Oh shit. The bet-keeper was playing dirty. I turned away from the reflection and tried to keep it out of mind. No thoughts of a girl with a face like that being pushed to the edge. Please no thoughts.

So, the surest way to get the thoughts you don't want is to tell yourself not to have them. They came as a clammy, slick sweat that reiterated my smoother legs, my softened face, and my lustrous hair. 

But the tidal wave didn't hit until I noticed the turgid, sensitive area at my nipples. I could reach for cold air explanations again but flattening my shirt against my hips revealed a faint mound around the obvious points.

To that moment, I suspected that the bet-holder was just teasing my weakness. But seeing and feeling all that together, along with a random quip by the comedian about ladies and restrooms, made it click that this was going full Colleen for me.

I would soon be a girl who really needed to use the restroom. It was like metaphorically losing my belt to hold up my pants, except my pants were feeling quite snug.

I crept along the far edge of the bar. Greg was distracted by another long-haired redhead as he downed his glass. A cascade of my own bright hair went thankfully unnoticed by him. Each step jiggled ever more from behind and in front. 

There was a line for the restroom. Both ladies in front of me had their focus on their phones. With heels, they had a few inches on me for height.

I melted ever more into a trickling, sweaty abyss. Pressing my legs together was a vital action for parts I hoped I was steadying correctly. My only respite was the lack of a mirror. When the door opened up, I hustled in and locked it behind me. Turning, I saw...my reflection pause in the mirror above the sink. My familiar face, flush with stress and an oncoming flood. 

Only by peeling my snug jeans to my ankles and seizing the toilet, did I finally have some damn relief.

Ohhhh, that felt fucking better. Ran right through me.

Good value. The Cherry Lass didn't water down, and I got half-price for my locks. But maybe enough for one night.

Why had I come around here? Well, I didn't need to set out till tomorrow at the earliest. I could only stand some family in limited doses. And, besides, Greg sometimes stopped here for a few drinks. I wanted to thank him. In so many ways.

I wanted to do more than simply thank him, but he couldn't take a hint. Nearly brushing him. Always being around. Asking for beefy, muscular help. Finding opportunities to talk. I wanted him wrapped around me, warm and strong. 

Fuck me, I wanted him.