Someone in one of the groups once asked if any of the writers, all male, had ever thought about the possibility of a man being (made) invisible along with the female characters we write about. Chaz Hill, a member of some of the invisible-girl groups at Yahoo, took the opportunity to share with us a vignette based on that very idea:
Q: Okay, here’s another question for everyone. Do you ever imagine that you are also invisible with the woman?
Chaz: Seldom; the point is to emphasize the differences between us rather than the similarities. Although I did once play with the concept thusly:
“I’m not sure if I envy you or not,” I finally said. “I mean, yes, there are some aspects of it I’d probably find appealing.”
She laughed. “Basically, you’d just like to run
around naked without anyone knowing it.”
“Well, there is that,” I admitted. “But the sheer, well, permanence of it is kind of scary, and anyway you told me that the machine was destroyed.”
“So there’s no way I’d get a chance to try it myself anyway.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she said, and I was certain she’d had a wicked grin on her face, had she a face.
Saturday turned out to be a hot one, and I wondered why she’d wanted me to come by at high noon, a time when, as she always said, “civilized people are just barely rolling out of bed.” The door opened. “Good, you’re on time for once. See that bucket behind me?”
“How could I not?” I said.
“Come in, pick it up, take it into the back yard, and take your clothes off. I’ll be out there in a few minutes.”
It was a fairly ordinary bucket with an off-brand laundry-detergent label on it, but this wasn’t like any detergent I’d ever seen: it was brown, brackish stuff, a solution of barbecue-grill scrapings in, judging by the smell of it, ammonia. And it weighed a ton, or at least a lot more than the equivalent volume of Tide. I hefted the pail onto the patio and stripped to my shorts.
About three minutes later, out she came, a pair of rubber gloves suspended in the summer air. “The machine,” she said, “was used only to fuse the reagent.”
“Meaning we’re going to cover you with the same stuff, and see if there’s enough energy in the sun to bake it onto you temporarily.”
I whistled. “You mean someone dipped you in this crap?”
“I had to *swim* in it,” she grumbled. “Be grateful you’re not getting the whole ball of wax.”
One glove reached into the murky mixture, and the process of painting me out of visibility began. I rather imagined I looked like Sasquatch on a day pass, if Sasquatch had bothered to wear BVDs.
At the half-hour point, she announced, “This might actually work.”
“You think so?”
“Look down,” she said, and instead of the canonical ten toes, I seemed to have about three and a half.
“Now why would *those* go first?”
“You’re standing on the concrete. More heat.”
Time passed. I continued to look down, and for the moment imagined that I was being dissolved by acid. I certainly felt like it. “And for God’s sake, lose the shorts. You look ridiculous.”
The gloves made short work of what was left, until finally nothing remained but genitalia hanging in the air. “I ought to leave you like that,” she teased, then swiped at the forlorn organ with the gunk, and eventually it, too, faded.
“How long does this last?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t asked before.
“About three hours, or until your next shower, whichever comes first.”
“So what are we gonna do?”
The gloves came off. “I say we walk over to the mall and terrorize people.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“But don’t go walking through any sprinklers on the way.”