If you really want to get back at a man, drag him through a
lingerie department. Any place that sells
women’s flimsies will do, but for best results, pick one of those speciality
shops where the entire store is pink.
Try to find one where the sales clerk looks like his mother.
What is it with men these days? They may be raised on pin-ups and admit to
viewing the odd (VERY odd) clip on the net, but drag them through a female
gauchie department and watch them turn…well…pinker than the ridiculous teddy
set my man bought me recently.
Which is why we were in the Lacy Love store in the first
place. Returning it.
“Darling, “ I say, holding up two pieces of flimsy fuchsia
lace held together by a two inch thread.
“Do these nipple holes serve a purpose, or did you get this at a fire
sale?”
“It looked good on the dummy,” he mutters, looking
remarkably like a twelve year old.
“Dummies don’t move.
They are made of firm molded plastic.
I am not. If I could get away
with wearing something like this, I wouldn’t need it.”
The sales clerk comes over to the desk where we’re
standing. Correction: where I am standing and he is cowering. It’s even better than I hoped. She looks like his grade eight English teacher. All six feet of her.
“May I help you,” she says, beady eyes shifting to the
chiffon thingy on the counter. “Returning
this?” She chokes back a snort, then
turns and yells, “Hey Gladys! Take a
look at this. Somebody actually bought
it. Can you believe it?”
She holds it up for everyone to see. Florescent light shimmers through the nipple
holes, casting two adjacent circles on the far wall. Naturally, the place is packed. Women peek out from behind change-room
curtains.
Gladys, who looks a lot like Maude from Golden Girls, sticks
her head out from behind the bras and hoots like a jackal. “You’re kidding! I thought we’d never get rid of it. Present?”
She looks at me sympathetically.
I nod. The woman next
in line stares at my guy as if he is some sort of sex pervert escapee from
Penetanguishine. She backs away, cautiously.
“It doesn’t fit,” I say stoically. Meanwhile, the ‘original purchaser’ is
apparently engrossed in counting ceiling tiles.
The sales clerk shakes her grey head as she writes up the
credit note. Then she looks up at my man
– who is quietly trying to sneak out of the store - and her eyes turn sharp.
“Wait a minute. Weren’t
you in my English Lit. class in 1982?”
