“Oh, dear,” Sandy said. She put the bag on the floor and walked over to me, embracing me in a tight hug.
“I knew there was something very special about you when I first hired you,” Sandy said.
Ugh. How could I stay mad at her? She’s trying her best.
“You sure about that?” I laughed. “I think you were just happy I was available and willing to work under the table.”
“No, Taryn. I knew. Old ladies like me have good intuition.”
“More punch, anyone?!” she shouted to everyone in the store, and from behind the counter she lifted up a mason jar filled with her magical, clear liquid and held it in the air. She went over to the table and mixed it with fruit punch. Everyone rejoiced and drank punch. Chuck actually passed on the punch and drank the moonshine straight out of the jar.
I picked up the heavy, metal, G-spot stimulator from the ground and saw there was blood on it.
“Does this make you believe me?” I showed it to Amanda. I felt like a real bad-ass. Seriously.
“No! I still don’t believe you. But I’m glad you’re alive.”
We kissed and kissed and kissed, we couldn’t stop kissing. And this kiss was different than our previous kisses. I didn’t feel vulnerable and helpless like I usually do. I felt like an equal. I had courage, and confidence that I never had before.
“I’m going to call you my girlfriend,” I said to her.
“Oh really?” she replied.
“Yes. And you’re going to call me your girlfriend.
“OH? Am I?” she replied.
“I know you live a very exciting life, and you probably know a lot of attractive, smart people with good jobs, but no one loves you as much as I do. And I know I make you laugh, and I know you must like me a little bit, because, you know what? I looked it up. I scoured the internet and I looked everywhere on the American Airlines website. I know that’s the only airline you fly and there were no flights that had emergency landings in Orlando the night you came to see me two weeks ago.”
“You are so psycho. You’re perfect for me,” she said. “Why don’t you come on the road with me? You can visit some stores with me; you can come to my workshops, and I’ll teach you more about this industry. You just saved the store while your boss was passed out in the back. I think you’re entitled to a paid vacation,” Amanda said.
“I would like that!” I said.
We kissed and sat behind the register and watched Tampa’s horniest inhabitants get drunk. Sandy turned the music up and everyone started dancing. Amanda and I held hands, and watched the remainder of our favorite movie Make Me Creamy, as it played on the TV on the wall. My heart was full, my pussy was vibrating, and the sweet sounds of orgasms were blaring behind me. It was the classic American love story, at least, it was for me.
27
Everything looked different to me the next time I came into work. The florescent lighting didn’t seem so dim, and the dust on the floor didn’t seem dirty; it was just part of the store’s charm. I was alone in the store, with several hours to go on my shift, and I wasn’t playing Solitaire on my phone to pass the time. I couldn’t stop smiling, which is quite unlike me.
My brief encounter with Billy was on my mind. I actually had a dream about him the night before. We were both dancing in a birch forest wearing flannel shirts, sheer tights, and panties. He chopped down a tree with his big, manly axe, and built a cozy cabin out of the wood. We started kissing and then… my roommate woke me up to ask me to move my car because it was blocking him in the driveway.
I wanted to know more about Billy. I was intrigued by his duality, and I wanted to know so much more about him. He left fairly early on Saturday (early in this store meant about 1:00 A.M.) because he actually worked a night shift as well, driving throughout the night to make produce deliveries to supermarkets throughout the county. I knew he would be back at some point—who else would help him pick out perfect panties?—but that didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye. Before he left, he asked me if he could keep his lingerie here in the store, saying he wasn’t sure where else he could comfortably wear it. Oh yeah, he’d be back. I put it in a paper bag with his name on it and kept it on a shelf, much like the way they keep your clothing stored away if you were checked into a prison. He pecked my cheek and thanked me for a wonderful time as he headed out the door. I watched from the door as he clambered into his truck and sped away into the night.
I was already daydreaming about his return, to both me and his bag-o’-delicates. Perhaps I could find some kind of locker I could leave behind the register that he could have access to at any time. Would that be more beneficial to him as he explored this new part of himself? Actually, I liked the fact that I had to be here for him to access the clothing. We were in this together.
The thought of his next visit also inspired me to organize the lingerie. It certainly needed to be done; it was a mess! There were literally ripped cardboard boxes with things like SIZE XS - THONG scribbled in magic marker on them. I had seen more glamor in the displays at the Salvation Army.
So Sunday night found me dumping out hundreds of skimpy pieces of negligée onto the floor in front of me, waiting to be organized in some fashion. It was fine work for a weekend shift. Plus, the night had turned cold and rainy, as Florida nights randomly do sometimes. I wasn’t anticipating too many customers, so I decided to make my time alone useful.
There was a good selection here. Bras, panties, garters, G-strings, corsets, thigh-highs, full, high-waist stockings, and even some bikinis. There were “roleplaying” costumes like French maid, cop, schoolgirl, and the generic brightly colored spandex thing with a cape—a mashup of all the comic book characters that ever existed—that was simply called “superhero.” Some of it looked like it belonged on your bedroom floor at the end of the night on Valentine’s Day, some looked like it belonged on a go-go dancer, and some looked like it was taken from a Party City store.
I separated everything into different piles: all the lacey stuff went into a pile together, along with anything that seemed frilly enough to be lace (I couldn’t always tell). The items with shiny patterns and the ones with fur, whether fake or real, went into distinct piles of their own. It seemed like it made sense. From the little amount of time I’d spent here, to realize that there was a very different demographic for each of these genres of skimpy clothing, so they shouldn’t be mixed together. I found empty display cases and plastic drawers in the back room, along with a few mannequins. I pulled everything out and blocked the aisles with a giant mess of shelving and headless bodies.
There was something very exciting about the neon spandex panties with extra-long ties on the end. I actually think they were way too bright for me to wear per se (my complexion didn’t really support clothes that make one look like a highlighter), but I found them to be sexually thrilling, like they weren’t underwear, and I couldn’t see them worn underneath anything, so these were for people who wore underwear as a substitute for pants. Jimmy’s friends would definitely wear these, and they would certainly accentuate any small butt. This style of “panty,” if they could even be called that, only came in one size, a mysterious and generic size on the tag that was just O/S—whatever that meant—and they only came in neon colors so I assumed they were only meant for people of a certain generic small size who spent lots of time in dark rooms with black lights. I slipped a pair of pink ones onto the mannequin bottom that I had found. I thought a pop of color in the store would make things more exciting in here. I had some more digging to do before I found a matching top, so for the time being, this pair would remain on a topless torso, molded into a sexy “come hither” pose on a folding chair.