Some people live for years with a "look" that seems natural to them. Then they alter it: maybe for reasons even they don't understand, and everything changes.

She stood there with her hands on her hips looking at me, chewing gum and popping it. She had a mop of black-strawy hair that stuck out in a punk fashion, a short black leather jacket that was open to reveal a tight black tube top underneath, and a pair of super tight black leather pants. There was about an acre of blood red lipstick on her big lips, which suddenly spread in an enormous, unmistakable smile.

"What the...Phoebe?"

Her gum popped like a gun going off.

"The very same."

"But..."

"That's right, Marie, I just discovered leather."

What was this latter day hippy doing in leather? And I don't even mean down-home honest country and western hay-bailing cowgirl leather; I mean punk bitch fuck-me-if-you-can urban leather.

It was a side to her I had never seen before.

I wanted to see more of it.

This was to be, indeed, Phoebe's "leather period." Before long she had several leather skirts of different shapes and styles, a leather dress or two, another pair of leather pants, and even the odd leather accessory. It certainly was quite a transformation, including as it did a very sudden and bold use of makeup, not to mention the wild black wig. What may have been a by-product of this sudden upsurge of leather was the fact that she soon acquired a boyfriend, or, as I jokingly referred to him, a "gentleman caller"―for Phoebe was careful about committing herself in this regard and she and Steven, as she informed me, had not yet advanced beyond "courting" in the most innocent and un-copulative sense of the word.

Other than this, things went on pretty much as they did before. Phoebe and I would have breakfast together in the morning, whereupon she would dash off to the university and I would stay at home a little while longer, preferring to do as much of my work as possible at home. The "leather" period seemed to be no inconvenience at all, for unlike the "Van Gogh" and the "candle-making" periods, it did not involve the taking up of valuable flat space.

No inconvenience that is, except for one thing: my leather obsession. The fact was I had never seen fit somehow to mention it to Phoebe in all the time of our friendship, despite our woman to woman intimacy.

If only I had mentioned that before! Probably Phoebe, out of respect for my frustrations, and fear of tempting me to see a dear friend as a sex object, would have nipped the leather period in the bud. But Phoebe and I had seldom found occasion to talk about sex. Probably the only times we talked of sex at length was when she got onto one of her rare but (I found) amusing little tirades about anal intercourse. There was no element of homophobia here, for she had no problem with anyone other than herself doing it, but the whole idea, for some reason, of anyone wanting to put something up her ass verily repulsed her, and the mere suggestion of it from a boyfriend had been the demise of more than one of her relationships.

Methought the lady did protest too much.

But to get back to my new quandary, of course I could not tell Phoebe about my fondness for leather now. What could I say to my friend? "Phoebe? Could you please stop wearing leather? It's driving me crazy." Besides, to admit now that Phoebe did after all have the capacity to sexually arouse me would make it seem I had been dishonest before when I had sworn she was not attractive to me. I had not thought to fantasize about a friend of mine in leather, and leather had seemed just about the last thing in the world the country girl with the hippy aesthetic would have thought of wearing. There was no recourse but to suffer in silence, and to make sure I had plenty of batteries for the vibrator.

The leather phase went on for a week―then two weeks. Phoebe did not wear leather all the time, but she did so often, and I found myself trying to keep tabs on when she would and would not be home so I could arrange to work in the library or somewhere, whenever she might be at home lounging around in what I came to think of secretly as "the forbidden garments."

You might ask at this point whether I was tempted to take that dangerous plunge from friend to lover, to attempt a seduction, or make a clean break of the situation and tell Phoebe I was in love. But the fact of the matter was I was not in love, I was in brute animal lust; and powerful as that lust was, it could never seriously tempt me to lie about my feelings and feign a romantic attachment. The other obvious objection, of course, is that country girl was hopelessly straight.

So I could grin and bear it, as I was doing so far, or I could, if I dared, maybe just ask my friend to wear her forbidden garments elsewhere. If she then thought my original claims of sexual indifference to her were false, I could simply explain myself and hope she would understand. But I did not want to expose either of us to this awkwardness, did not want her to know I had been lusting after her like a wild beast for weeks...

My work began to deteriorate. There were days when I would sleep in, listening to Phoebe get ready for work in the next room, then run clumpety-clump down the stairs in her big black leather platform boots and slam the front door. As the engine of her motorcycle roared into action (yes, she had bought a motorcycle! What leather goddess should be without one?), the motor of my vibrator whirred into motion and I would let all manner of disloyal unplatonic thoughts fill my filthy head.