Chapter Text
Pleasantville was perfectly pretty, prim, and prosperous. Everybody smiled in Pleasantville— wide, disarming smiles. Anthony wasn’t sure why their smiles stretched to the ends of their cheeks, but it seemed he was the only one who could sustain a frown amidst the mass of grinning faces.
The lawns of every house remained trimmed at a respectable length. Not a single shutter was painted a shade outside the monochrome palette. Window panes gleamed, reflecting back consistently sunny days, washed by housewives who each promoted some particular cleaning product. They chattered at neighbors with all the scripted zeal of walking, talking advertisements.
The world seemed positively perfect in Pleasantville.
So why wasn’t Anthony happy?
“Ya know what I think, Tony,” his sister, Molly, announced one day, while trying to push him from his sulky puddle on the couch. Her hands sat poised on her plumps hips while golden hoops tinkled in her ears with each shake of her head. “I think ya oughta come out with me and the gals today. Let’s go to the ice cream parlor. Getcha back on your feet, ya know? Ya haven’t been yourself lately.”
Her voice trailed off as she tapped her chin with one long, manicured nail. Anthony drew his knees to his chest, half listening and half-fixated on the interior of his newly-acquired home, a pink house with creamy walls like some kind of delicate strawberry cake. Vintage furnishings clashed with his eccentric, modern style, creating a mesh of neon lights, industrial accents, and Art Deco design all crammed into one cohesive… thing.
“Why the fuck did I move out t’ the suburbs… and t’ a small town of all places? Why ain’t I livin’ in… New York City or somethin’? Molls, I don’t fuckin’ belong here,” he complained, trying to muffle the whine in his voice even as his sister dragged him into his vanity and began primping his fluffy blonde hair.
“Because your family’s here, Tony, and Uncle Ricky got ya a good deal on the house,” she said, tongue hanging out one side of her mouth as she pulled a brush through her brother’s tangled locks. “Plus, ya got a job teachin’ housewives how t’ shake their asses in that studio of yours. This is the fuckin’ dream. Stop questionin’ it. Stop overthinkin’. Let yourself be happy fa once.”
“I don’t fit in,” he said, drifting off as Molly dragged a crimson lipstick in a neat bow over his lips. “Red ain’t my color.”
“‘Course it is. Ya look swell, Tony,” she said, rolling her eyes with a warm, hearty laugh. Her fingers curled around pans containing soft colors for his eyes, just the kiss of shadow and mascara to make the bicolored orbs, one blue and the other brown, pop.
He relaxed into the touch. It felt both welcome and familiar. Safe.
When was the last time he’d felt safe?
Dark shadows flitted along the edges of his peripheral, figments of a past life best left forgotten, one composed of addiction, loneliness, and fear. He was here now, for better or for worse. His family was here, and everyone was trying to do better… be better. They’d all bought in to the illusion of a perfect community— a new start constructed in the middle of nowhere, complete with pastel homes, cookie cutter smiles, and white picket fences.
And wasn’t that the American dream?
“It just don’t seem like the place fa a drag queen,” he mumbled. His fingers settled around the lovely sundress Molly handed to him, a pretty little number with red cherries printed on white fabric. “Ya sure this is safe? I mean, I’m pretty sure I can pass fa a dame but… seems risky.”
“It’s different here, Tony.” Molly patted his cheek as she spoke, and then urged him to change while she sorted through a plethora of poorly-labeled boxes to find him a matching pair of heels. “No bigots, I promise. Everyone just wants t’ be happy here. Ain’t that a hoot?”
Anthony thought it sounded creepy, but he wouldn’t say that in front of Molly, who seemed more than eager to encase herself in the protective coating of suburbia. And besides, she’d been here longer than he had. Surely, she knew what she was talking about. Molly didn’t accept shit from anyone. She wouldn’t have enticed him to join the rest of the family in this delicately-decorated town if she found the place anything less than perfect.
Perfect.
The word sounded silly on his tongue. He rolled it around, tasted it, and tested the flavor. Perfect.
They left the house under a cornflower blue sky. The warm breeze tickled his bare calves, rustling but never lifting the fabric of his skirt. Middle aged neighbors waved passively, offering kindly “hellos” and nods of approval at his demure attire, so consistent with the garb of every other dame in this place.
The acceptance, the lack of jeers, felt like a breath of fresh air… kinda.
It appeared the folks around these parts didn’t mind a fella dressing in lady clothes so long as he conformed to the strange, unwritten dress code. But what would happen if they saw him in some of his more… salacious… attire?
He pushed the thought away as he opened the passenger door for Molly, watching her slide into the bubblegum pink jalopy. When he switched on the car radio, the station he found played silky jazz that rolled down his back like a set of sharp fingernails, itching a spot that curled his toes.
“I love this station,” Molly said, and he left it on. They listened to the drone of the saxophone as they drove past carbon copy homes, letting the peaceful harmony of Pleasantville wash over them. “Ma wants t’ see ya. Ya should visit her.”
Ma… he really should visit Ma. It had been too long… and he had so much to tell her.
“Yeah,” he said, studying the road ahead and squinting through the sun in his eyes. “Pa and Niss…”
“We’re all tryin’ t’ move on from the past, Tony. They wanna be a family again. We all do. I promise, no one’s gonna hurt ya.” She fiddled with the hem of her dress in her lap, screwing up her face in deep thought. “Don’t feel like ya need t’ force yourself. We’ve got time. But things… things can be different here. It’s a new beginnin’. They love ya.”
He almost said something scathing, but instead swallowed the poisonous bile in his throat.
They ate ice cream with a few other gals, laughing and chatting the day away. A small parlor called Nifty’s Creamery sat near the center of the town square, with Rosie’s Dress Shoppe, and Husker’s Pub on either side of the quaint establishment. He’d chosen a grape-flavored treat that tasted more like a popsicle than anything, but it sated the need for sweetness despite being an unconventional choice.
As they laughed and chatted, music played on the air, drifting through the town like so many living, breathing notes. If he squinted, he could see their shadows lilting over the brick surfaces in shifting shades of neon.
The town square was made up of cozy buildings, red brick roads, and brassy street lamps. Ladies, Gentlemen, and Otherwise of all colors, shapes, and sizes milled about the square, ducking in and out of nearby establishments with smiles pinned on their lips.
They didn’t glare at him. They didn’t laugh or sneer. They seemed nice enough, pausing to greet him and his friends with courteous nods and kindly compliments.
Time passed quickly. One minute they were eating ice cream and the next he was running his fingers over red silk.
“See, Tony,” Molly said, patting his arm while they were perused Rosie’s Shoppe. He studied each of the modest, well-made dresses with discerning eyes. Maybe he could make some… alterations? It was all so very pretty, but it just wasn’t his style. It was nowhere near his style.
It needed more vavavoom.
Too bad he didn’t have a great pair of honkers.
“See, what?” He mumbled back, only half paying attention.
“Dontcha feel betta’ gettin’ out’a that house?” She smiled at him, a kind and loving smile that made his heart ache with guilt. “I was worried about ya. I know this is a big change, but I want… I’d love… if ya gave this place a chance… a real chance.”
Well, how could he refuse?
-
He liked the gals at his dance studio. They giggled with glee whenever he showed them a new move and did their best to follow his instructions. He liked dancing for a gentle audience. He liked teaching.
But sometimes he missed the idea of becoming MORE than what he was. He kept imagining a world where he was surrounded by crazed, adoring fans, bright lights, and colored smoke. A past life or even… a possible future? He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know. The truth remained this distant nebulous thing, just out of reach. What did he want? What did he need? Who was he waiting for?
Even with all these new neighbors, friends, and clients, he felt lonely. Even as Molly tried to paste their family back together, he felt… bitter.
He wasn’t happy. He couldn’t twist his features into a smile no matter how hard he tried. And the less he smiled, the more the world smiled around him, as if trying to infect him with its joy.
Still, he would try. He promised Molly he would try.
Even if this place was driving him mad.
Lotion. Tissues. Magazines.
Candles. Dim lighting. Locked doors.
He tried to focus on the radio, it’s sweet sultry tones lulling him into a semi conscious state as he settled into bed one afternoon. He hadn’t diddled his fiddle since arriving in this suburban freak show, and what he really needed to soothe his nerves was to bust a load. He hadn’t been able to find a single dirty magazine, courtesy of the weird purity culture to which this place subscribed— just another reason he wanted to hightail it back to New York City.
Breathe. Relax. He’d wack off to Golf Digest. It wouldn’t be easy, but he’d weathered worse sexual droughts.
He slipped a hand down the front of his briefs.
Vrooooooooooooooooom!
Machinery roared outside, practically rattling the surrounding air with its thunderous sound waves. He nearly toppled out of bed and staggered to the window, peaking out behind the blinds only to find the neighbor was using some sort of drill to hammer into the sidewalk. Fucking why?
No. Absolutely not. He was not going to question this bullshit when there was jacking off to be done.
He returned to the bed stiffly and slid back under the covers.
Tight white pants. Bulging crotch.
A big, fat di—
Brrrrrrrriiiiing.
His doorbell sounded.
He grabbed a pillow, covering his face to muffle his screams. He just wanted some goddamn peace and fucking quiet to fuck himself. Was that too much to fucking ask? He ignored the shrill chimes for a couple more minutes, hoping whoever it was would get the hint, but the sound didn’t stop until he’d thrown himself out of bed, stormed to the front door, and swung it open only to find…
No one.
WHAT THE FUCK?
He clutched a sheet tight around his body and looked desperately this way and that, trying to pinpoint the perpetrator of this unwelcome prank.
A group of old ladies power-walking in pastel tracksuits sashayed down the street, waving at him with broad, merry grins.
Boner killed.
Alright, so maybe doing shit during midday when everyone was up and about had been a stupid idea, but perhaps he could find someone at Husker’s Pub. Surely there had to be some desperate fuck willing to pound his rectum just for the experience? Anthony had a fantastic ass, a real delectable dump truck.
He would find some schlub at the bar and let them use him like a pocket pussy.
Unfortunately for Anthony, all of the men attending Husker’s were of the married, middle aged, and — worst of all— uninterested variety. He wore his tightest clothes, moving his hips with a sultry shimmy as he sidled up to men in polo shirts. They seemed to stare past him, smiles unwavering as they kindly declined his offers with a laugh.
The first rejection rolled down his back. The second did just the same. However, by the time he’d reached double digits the realization that no one in this town WANTED him was starting to itch at his brain. He settled on a bar stool and tried to make conversation with the smiling tender, only to find the responses hollow and vapid, as if he were speaking to the shadow of a human being.
His shoulders sagged.
By midnight, after hours of hunting for cock, all that remained were two women quietly bickering in the corner, a few middle aged men who had already rejected him by flashing their wedding rings, and the bartender who looked at him but did not see him.
He didn’t belong here.
“I think… I’m gonna go back t’ New York.” He told the man, whose gray and black sideburns twitched at the statement. Dark eyes studied him, suddenly shrewd.
“Nah. Ya can’t leave, Legs.” The bartender said, shaking his head. His voice was deep and gravely, like a purring growl. His strong, hairy arms crossed over his chest, the long sleeves of his black shirt folded at the elbow. “That’s the deal with this place. You know that. You’re safe here. Don’t you see? You can be happy here. Stop tryin’ t’ get yourself into trouble. There’re no roads. There’s no way out.”
Anthony stared at the bartender who had suddenly sprung a personality. “What da fuck are ya talkin’ about? Ya sound crazy. I’ll fuckin walk if I hafta! If there’s a way in, then there’s a way out.” How had he gotten here in the first place? When? Why?
“Anthony, I’m gonna level with ya… ya can’t leave.” The bartender lowered his voice to a hushed whisper, cocking his head just slightly to one side. His grin widened. “Don’t you know… there’s a cannibal in the woods?”