Costumed

by Tym Greene

Two buddies get one of those two-man costumes for a party, and find themselves growing…closer.

“Derrick, I don’t think they’re open dude.”

“Maybe we’re early?” Derrick said with his usual dopey grin, ever-hopeful. Both men checked their phones: sure enough, there were still several minutes until the posted opening time of 9:32.

Joe just sighed and leaned against the side of the building, scrolling through his Instagram feed as he grumbled: “What kind of business opens at such a dumb time, anyways. This better be worth it, bro, or you owe me.”

“I already said I’m paying for the costume, okay? And we still have until tomorrow…we’ll find something. You don’t have to lord it over me just because you got invited and I didn’t—” he was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked.

A cheerful old man held it open for his first two customers of the day. “Good morning! Anything I can help you boys find, you seem to already know what you want.”

“We need a two-man costume, something not too expensive,” Derrick said.

“Yeah, but not cheap-looking, either. I don’t want to be the laughing-stock of the party, especially not if I’m doing this as a favor to my buddy here.” Joe added with a none-too-gentle punch at Derrick’s shoulder.

“Well, you boys are in luck,” the proprietor smiled and started leading them through the store, which seemed to be three times too deep for the dinky strip mall unit it occupied. “Today’s the last day of my ‘one-for-two’ sale,” he chuckled at his own wordplay, then—suddenly businesslike—gestured at a wide doorway on one side of the shop: “half-off of the lowest marked price on all two-man costumes, which are in there.”

The shop door tinkled as other customers came in, pulling the shopkeeper away. “Give a holler if you need help.”

“Thanks,” Derrick said as he turned toward the indicated room, dragging Joe behind him.

“Aw man!” Joe exclaimed, thrusting his phone in the other man’s face. “Look at the costume Clarence got,” he said with derision as Derrick looked at social media photograph of the football team’s quarterback, decked out in the kilt, sandals, and bare chest (rippling muscles gleaming with oil) of an Ancient Egyptian. But in place of the red-headed athlete’s face was a falcon’s steely gaze. “Wow,” Derrick agreed, “that is a really good Horus costume.”

“More like whore-us, right?” Joe grumbled sophomorically.

“Jeez, dude, envy much? It’s a good costume, but we’ll find a good one too.”

“Whatever.”

Joe’s gloom only deepened at first, seeing the racks filled with limp, cheap, dingylooking faux fur cut to look like the sort of pantomime horses he’d seen in his dad’s old Monty Python videos. Then there were the “witty” costumes, obviously for couples: male and female electrical plugs, salt and pepper shakers, giant slices of foam bread with peanut butter paint on one and jelly paint on the other; in other words, exactly what he didn’t want.

Just as he was about to comment that the whole idea was “gay” and he was just going to the party by himself, they reached the end of the aisle and turned the corner.

“Oh wow!” They both whispered in unison, staring slack-jawed at the high-end costumes displayed on mannequins above racks containing duplicates in different sizes. The very first one was sorely tempting: a green dragon whose scales seemed to shimmer as they moved around it.

“Look, you can hardly see where the two people are in that thing!” Joe exclaimed, unironically enthused.

“And there’s a note that says the eyes light up and it even breathes smoke. Oh, look at this one!”

So the two of them bounced from one display to another, admiring realistic bulls, warhorses (with elaborate medieval armor), even mechanical things like cars and ATAT walkers. But the one that kept drawing their attention was back with other mythological beings, between the dragon and a unicorn (that had a note saying it had a matching one-man version in another part of the shop): a centaur.

There were several different styles hanging beneath the display model, which itself had a chestnut hide and a tan human portion, ranging from midnight black ears-tohooves to an almost-albino white, with almost a dozen variations. With an apparent unity of thought that they’d never shown before, Joe and Derrick quickly agreed on one costume and rushed to the changing room to try it on.

They kicked off their shoes and slid on the horsey legs of the costume, stepping into the padded hoof boots that seemed to be way too big. Derrick helped Joe pull on the upper torso’s bodysock—with its airbrushed muscles and sewn-on mane—before rolling the lower torso’s tube of faux horsehide along his own body. As Joe put on the partial face mask that would give him a short snout, tall ears, and mane that should blend with the one running down his back, Derrick bent forward and found the snaps that held his half of the costume to Joe’s.

“Okay, man, take a few pictures, I want to see how we look…you know, it’s actually not that uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the hoof boot things, do you think they make it so your posture is easier—”

But Joe was already unfastening the costume, stuffing the various bits back into the bag and grumbling curses.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Derrick asked as he began shucking his half of the costume.

“It’s stupid. I don’t know why I thought it would work. We look like a ren-fair reject.” He thrust out his phone, showing a photo of a dark-brown centaur with white dapples on his hindquarters, a muscular torso only a few shades lighter than his hide, and a blaze down his short muzzle. Or, rather, a pair of guys in a very cheap costume of that centaur.

Derrick examined the picture. He could clearly see where the pieces of the costume joined up (there was even a gap through which some of his own face showed), and Joe’s pale skin clashed with the dusky mask. Even the shape of the material seemed less realistic and more to be just tubes of fabric sewn together. “Jeez, you’re not kidding.”

“Hi boys, how’re you doing in there?” The voice from outside the changing room door made them both jump.

Joe opened the door and began complaining to the shop keeper, while Derrick slumped on the changing room’s little seat as he put his shoes back on. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t fit. Maybe they’d just picked the wrong size? He was about to ask when the old man spoke up.

“I think I see the problem. Didn’t you boys read the instructions? You’re not supposed to wear clothes under the costumes. That’s why the fit is so bad, the clothes pull the fabric all out of shape.” He gestured at the image on Joe’s phone, pointing out tension points they couldn’t be sure were actually there on second glance.

“Dude, naked? That’s hella gay.” Joe had never been very politically correct.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be naked. I know some folks are picky about that kind of thing. Be back in a jiffy.” And indeed, the old man was back almost as soon as he’d gone. In each hand he held a little bundle of fabric, which he handed to his customers. “They’re basically Speedos, but they’re designed to work without interfering with the costume’s design.”

Derrick unfolded his jet-black one, and glanced over at the flesh-colored one Joe was holding. “One size fits all?”

“Oh no, these should be just your size, each of you. I’ve been in this business for long enough, I can tell a waist measurement by sight.”

“It’s still pretty gay,” Joe mumbled.

“Dude,” Derrick judged him with an elbow, “just pretend you’re back in water polo. That wasn’t gay at all, right?”

“Fine. It’s only because we’ll have a kickass costume.” He turned back to the old man, “So, we’ve got the right size and everything? It was just our clothes that were making it suck?”

“Yup-a-roonie!”

Derrick raised his hand as though he were back in class: “What about his face and hands? They’re the wrong color for that bodysuit…don’t we need makeup or gloves or something?”

The merchant glanced at the costume’s arm, which was hanging limply from the bag where Joe had stuffed it, and then at Joe himself. “You boys decided you want this costume, though, right?” They nodded. “Well, then, that settles it. You shouldn’t need makeup, but if you want it to be really realistic, I’ve got just the thing.” He pulled a small tin of dark greasepaint from his pocket, as though he’d been expecting this moment, and handed it to Joe. “Smear this liberally around your eyes, your neck, and all over your hands, let it dry for about 30 seconds, and then put the costume on. And don’t worry, it’s high-tech stuff, guaranteed not to smudge or smear or stain. Clean-up’s pretty easy too, just soap and water.”

His enthusiasm was rubbing off on them, and the two college kids were once again hyped up for just how cool their costume was going to look. They didn’t even think about trying it on again as they stuffed everything into the bag and carried it towards the front register with the shop keeper. They passed several more displays of impressive costumes—including one of Ancient Egyptian deities (which seemed to be missing a falcon head)—but their minds were focused solely on the nascent centaur bundled up in the clear plastic bag.

—-

They emerged from bedroom and bathroom some time later, stepping into the open living room of Derrick’s apartment wearing nothing but the speedos the shop keeper had given them. Derrick seemed pleased with the way the glossy grey-black material seemed to highlight his junk, and he kept shifting and adjusting it.

Joe, on the other hand, was trying his best to ignore the flat Ken-doll crotch his speedo pulled him into. Instead he was focused on the makeup, adding a few more dabs to his neck and around his eyes. Derrick couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of his friend turned into a crotchless human raccoon, but he had the courtesy to mask it in a cough.

“I don’t see what’s so funny about all this,” Joe groused. “Let’s just get the dang thing on and make sure it actually does fit better. This is so gay,” he added under his breath.

After wiping his hands on a paper towel to confirm that the paint had indeed dried—it came away clean—the two began donning their costume halves just as they’d done in the shop. This time, however, they acted with what appeared to be a practiced ease, as though through long habit. There was no stumbling as they stepped into their hoof boots, no fumbling with the snaps that held them together, no confusion about how the mask went on.

In a matter of minutes, they’d donned the whole kit, and stood in the living room as a costume centaur. “I wish I had a mirror in here,” Derrick’s voice came from Joe’s hips, muffled by the layers of fabric. Joe felt his ears twitch: the costume had been so well-designed that he didn’t even notice the other man’s arms around his bare torso…though, now that he thought about it, he could feel the hairs on Derrick’s forearms brushing the hairs on his own abs, since there wasn’t any fabric separating them. He shook his head, nickering unconsciously—there must be some fume coming off the face paint that was making him a little loopy.

“Yeah,” he said aloud, then stopped. Speaking of loopy, he couldn’t be imagining it: his voice was deeper, making him sound like a young Barry White, as though it came from a cavernous space. He resisted the temptation to do a Darth Vader impression, and instead answered Derrick’s question. “Well, don’t you have a mirror in the bathroom?”

“Yeah, but it stops at the sink. We won’t be able to see the whole costume. Oh, I know! Grab my phone from the kitchen counter—the lock code is 8287—and prop it up on the couch. That way we can take pictures so you can show me too. I wanna try different poses.”

It took them a bit to figure out how to walk over to the counter, until Joe figured out that he could call out “A, B, A, B” like in a potato-sack race where A means that he’d move his left leg and Derrick would move his right, and B, naturally, would be the opposite. It was tricky, but soon they didn’t even need the calls, probably because Derrick could tell what step Joe was taking just by feeling the movement of his hips.

And when he finally got to the phone, it took him a while to get it to work as well. “The makeup on my hands won’t let the screen read my touch,” he said, then paused, “Oh, wait, if I rock my finger all the way back, it gets it. It’s like my nail is super thick. Weird.”

Finally the camera was set up, the timer was running, and they sprinted to the far wall of the living room to strike a pose, then another, then another. At first they were simply standing there, Joe’s hanging arms limp at his sides, Derrick’s legs straight, side view, front view, three-quarters…but as they progressed, they got bolder. They tried one where their “foreleg” was lifted and Joe twisted his torso around as though looking behind their combined bodies, another where they seemed mid-gallop, balanced on alternating front and hind leg while Joe held his arms up like a jogger. Finally, emboldened, they reared up, front hooves pawing at the air, Joe’s fist thrust up in victory, mouth open in a silent cheer.

Satisfied, they trotted back to the couch so Joe could go through the photos. What he saw not what he expected. The final photo—which was of course the first one the phone showed—looked like an airbrushed or photoshopped album cover. Shaking his head, ears tucked back in alarm, he pawed through the photos they’d taken, each one showing a centaur that was becoming less realistic, until he reached the first shot: a side view of what was clearly two guys in an ill-fitting costume with the wrong color makeup and cheap fabric.

He stamped his fore hoof and scrolled back through the images, watching as the fabric tightened, took on the qualities of horsehide, began to reveal the play of muscle and bone underneath; the hooves went from rubber to plastic to keratin, glossy and well cared for, as did the mane and tail; even the bodyglove that was wrapped around his torso shifted, the airbrushed abs and pecs taking on a dimensional realness, with a dusting of hair on the dusky skin that feathered down to the horse hide at his waist. And then there was the other aspect of realism that the costume had initially lacked.

“Dude, are you getting off on this?” He asked, punching down at his hips. He’d expected to hit Derrick’s arm, but only managed to bruise himself, feeling the girdle of strong muscles that formed the equine chest. “Ow. Damnit,” Joe cursed under his breath. It seemed like he could feel everything that was happening to the…well, he couldn’t call it a costume any more. Just as he thought this, there was a slapping across the broad barrel belly between their four legs, accompanied with a very pleasurable sensation.

It was just as Joe had suspected, just as he’d seen in that last photo: jutting out between the hind legs of the rearing centaur they’d become was a glossy jet black shaft, as though in counterpoint to the white splotches dapple get their rump. And what an ass it is, I’d do me, Joe found himself thinking as he looked back at himself, then shook his head, snorting exactly in the manner of a flustered horse. “Dude, whatever you’re doing back there, quit it!” There was an element of pleading to his voice that he hadn’t intended. “Come on, D, answer me!”

Thump-thump went the cock, causing the balls to tense up and the unseen black donut to quiver beneath their tail. The four legs squirmed on the broad couch, and Joe found himself growing short of breath, his tongue lolling out longer than it should have as he painted. “D-dude…fuck.”

And just like that, they shared their first orgasm, spraying the living room carpet with what felt to Joe like gallons (but was probably only about a cup or so) of mythical sperm. As the last spurts dribbled onto the couch cushions beneath them and the shaft began to retreat into its velvety sheath, Joe finally heard Derrick’s voice: “Sorry dude, I couldn’t help myself.”

“D-Derrick? Where are you?” Joe was dazed and confused, for the voice hadn’t seemed to come from anywhere in particular. Ears twitching, he scanned the room wild-eyed.

A soothing feeling came over him, as though someone were stroking his mane. “I’m still right here,” Derrick’s voice said with a laugh. “I think I’m talking to you mentally…not like I have a head anymore, unless you count—” and here the deflating cock gave a half-hearted twitch for emphasis.

“That…nnngh…that was amazing!”

“I know, right? Can you blame me for giving in? Just getting out of my own head, being in the moment…I should write a book: Zen and the Art of Being a Dick.”

Joe brayed with laughter, his new deep voice making it sound like the Ghost of

Christmas Present, “I hope you can find a keyboard big enough for your hooves!” Suddenly serious, he paused and looked their shared body over. “Shit. How do we take it off? There’s no seams any more, and…shit, my hands.” He looked at his changed appendages, seeing for the first time the thick hoof-like nails, the lack of a pinkie, the dark skin that flowed up his muscular arms and powerlifter body. “No wonder I was having trouble with the phone.”

“Maybe it’s a time thing?” Derrick mused via their shared thoughts. “Perhaps if we sleep it off, the costume will undo this and we can get back to our lives.” It was hard to tell by telepathy, but he didn’t to certain of that.

“Yeah, it’s worth a try. And after that cum cannon, I’m pretty wiped out…shit, we made a mess of your apartment, didn’t we? It smells like a barn in here.”

“Hey, it’s cool, I’ve been meaning to get the carpet shampooed, so this is as good an excuse as any. Why don’t we stay here for the night? I remember your place is on the fourth floor, right? And I don’t think we can do stairs like this…let alone go outside. I’m pretty sure my bed is enough—and strong enough—to hold a fully-grown centaur.”

“Thanks. Sorry I was kindof a dick,” Joe said with a yawn as they slid off the couch and plodded through the apartment.

The costume’s effects hadn’t worn off the next morning, nor it would seem had Derrick’s enthusiasm for being the back end. As they stood in the shower, feeling the water coursing through shared horsehide (and emptying a full bladder, since neither of them thought the toilet would have handled their new size), Derrick offered up an idea.

“Look, let’s assume it’s not coming off today. We’ve got the party tonight and then…however long we’re stuck like this. So why not make the best of it? Oh that feels good.”

Joe had found a long-handled scrub brush and was using it to scratch their flanks and rump, working up a lather with Derrick’s vanilla-scented body wash. “I know…oh man, I could do this all day.” He paused as he felt their cock, already unfurled in the steamy air, beginning to stiffen from the pleasure.

Soon the rhythmic slap of taut skin on twitching hide echoed through the small bathroom, punctuating the constant susurrus of the shower and the occasional clop of a hoof repositioning on wet tiles. Deep-throated moans were added to the ensemble and—all too soon—a grunting whinny, followed by a sound not unlike handfuls of pudding being thrown at a wall.

“Well,” Derrick said hazily through their shared thoughts, “at least clean up’s easier in here. Hurry up, though, the water’s getting cold.”

It took a while for Joe to towel them off, even with the new-found flexibility of his torso and the length of his arms, and their hocks were still damp when they eventually trotted back out into the living room.

“I was thinking,” Derrick thought, “It won’t do for everyone to call us ‘Joe-andDerrick’—”

“That’s assuming they don’t run away in terror.”

“Somehow, I don’t think they will…so, as I was saying how about Jodrick?”

“For what, our name? I guess so. It does sound like something you DnD nerds would pick—”

It was Joe’s turn to be interrupted, this time by a flash of light emanating from the bag that had once held their costume’s parts. From the bulbous look of the thing, it wasn’t quite empty. The centaur trotted over tentatively and stuck his hand in, pulling out a limp piece of fabric cut in an odd shape.

“It’s a western-style saddle,” Joe proclaimed, uncertain why he had that knowledge even as he said it. “Or, a fake-y printed piece fabric that’s supposed to look like one.”

“Well, didn’t the rest of this,” and a shudder ran through the shared centaur body by way of emphasis, “look like a fake costume until we started wearing it? I bet if you were to put it on, it’d start looking like a real saddle.”

“You know, I was just thinking that,” Joe said, finding his thoughts a bit muddled. So, as though he weren’t quite in control of his arms, he twisted back and draped the fabric across his barrel, cinching the cheap plastic buckle tight underneath. Sure enough, even as he watched, the flat cloth started ballooning out, taking on the gloss of polished leather, acquiring stitching, tooled embellishments, and even wear patterns in the appropriate spots. They could feel the weight increasing by the second. Within moments, it had indeed become a western saddle with saddlebags—there were, he noted with a bit of relief, no reins.

“I think there’s something in that saddlebag,” Derrick thought at him. Joe felt his lips move with the words, but obediently reached out and flipped open the pouch. Tucked into an inner pocket was a leather wallet and within that wallet…he tried to keep his fingers from unfolding it, as though he knew what he would find and what that would mean, but with hardly a quiver of hesitation the thumbs parted, revealing the window of clear and flexible plastic within the wallet that itself hadn’t existed moments ago.

Printed on the standard California photo identification card (which differed from a driver’s license only in the words at the top denoting it as such) was the awkwardly smiling photo of a brown equid face, the blaze down his snout washed out by the DMV’s flash. There was also a smaller side photo showing the whole centaur, wearing nothing but a purple polo shirt that hugged the torso’s physique.

Joe stared unbelieving at the name displayed between the two photos:
   LN Blackbuck
   FN Jodrick

And the address was Derrick’s apartment, in which they were currently standing, still dripping on the carpet. He tried to say something, but found himself unable to move his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Instead, something else did it for him.

“Well, this is interesting,” Said the voice from their shared throat. Even though it was the same Mufasa-esque resonance, there was a certain quality about it that made it feel…different. Perhaps it was the cadence, perhaps the pronunciation, but to Joe it almost sounded like Derrick was talking. “I didn’t expect this, but I can’t say I’m complaining. It’s nice to be in charge of my own body again…well, our body.”

The hands ran up and down the muscles of the torso, which twisted back and forth as the head examined the hindquarters. “Man, we look good.” It was Derrick, Joe was sure of it now, but oddly he didn’t mind. Let the nerd take the driver’s seat.

“I can feel your thoughts, Joe,” Derrick said aloud with a deep chuckle, “but it feels less like I’m in ‘the driver’s seat’ and more like we’re becoming less…separate. I mean, look at our ID, that means we are Jodrick! Always have been…which means there won’t be any freaking out when we go outside.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Derrick…Jodrick said aloud, as though responding to a thought, “it also means we still need a costume.” The centaur turned to look in the saddlebag dangling on the other side of his lower rib cage, and smirked.

That evening, the door of the Tau Phi frat house opened. A falcon’s head poked out, then kreeled a raucous laugh: “Jodrick, you made it! Great costume!”

The centaur doffed his wide white cowboy hat and held it low as he bowed. “Why, thank’e kindly, Horemheb,” he said with a thick western drawl. Re-donning the hat (which had holes cut for his ears), he buffed up the sheriff’s badge on his the wornlooking pinstriped vest—the only thing he wore apart from the saddle and hat. “Your costume is great too,” he added. The falcon-headed man was wearing a traditional Egyptian kilt, and had even drawn black mascara around his eyes to make him look more like his ancient forbears.

Pleasantries over, Horemheb waved Jodrick in, jerked a yellow-scaled thumb at the snacks table, and returned to the conversation he was having with several other halfhumans kitted out in similar white-and-gold getups. They were probably planning on doing a group photo later on.

Humming “Walk like an Egyptian” under his breath, the centaur trotted over to see what was worth grazing on. Had he not been changed himself, he would have marveled at the staggeringly-high proportion of non-human’s gathered at the party. It’s as though every guest had been to the same costume shop, and had been affected in the same way. But, since he had been affected like all the others, he didn’t think it at all strange that there was a dragon toasting marshmallows in the kitchen, or a panther and a satyr were making out in the corner. Well, they’re getting a head start on the evening, was all he thought, feeling his shaft perk up a little at their display of easy affection.

He reached the food and was pouring himself some punch that smelled suspiciously of rum when something hard poked his side, nearly causing him to drop his cup in the bowl. Side-stepping, he turned and saw the culprit: a quiver of arrows with heart-shaped tips was slung haphazardly over a shaggy white shoulder. Beneath the pink quiver was a bare back and a lean waist, clad only in a pair of heart-spotted boxer shorts.

“Hey, Cupid, watch where you point those things,” Jodrick joked, causing the skinny figure to turn around: it was a unicorn, pearly white from horn to hoof, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on his long muzzle.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I knock anything over? I should have dressed up as Simple Simon instead…”

“No harm done, and I think you make quite a dashing Eros. My name’s Jodrick.” He stuck out the hand that wasn’t holding the red plastic cup.

The unicorn grasped the hoofy digits in his own. “Xavier. I usually don’t come to parties like this, but I figured why not live a little, right?”

The centaur noticed a twitching behind the printed hearts and felt a stirring of his own. Draping an arm across the white-furred shoulder, he said conspiratorially: “My thoughts exactly. I hear there’s a big back yard here, with some benches behind the shrubbery.” Jerking a thumb at the cat and half-goat still sucking face, he added, “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind a quieter milieu…just to sit and chat.”

Xavier found himself leaning against the centaur sheriff. “You know, that would be nice.” They both filled paper plates with crudités and, drinks in hand, made their way through the frat house. Neither noticed that one of the arrows had poked through the stitching of the quiver and was sticking out a few inches, a single strand each of white and of brown horsehair stuck to its tip.

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