I put all the neon stuff on hangers—it stuck out easily, and drew the eye to that section. If Jimmy’s entourage ever came in here for a unicorn-fairy-orgy at the crack of dawn again, they would now have a much easier time finding what they wanted. If only we had a mailing list, I would let them know, but we didn’t, so we would just have to hope that if I built it, they would come.
The lacey pile was next. All of the items there felt a lot more intimate. I loved the way it was kind of see through, but not really; they were truly panties of mystery. The patterns were soft and textured at the same time, and the garters were such a timeless accessory that so many generations identified as something sexy. I could see some grand duchess eagerly awaiting her lover in the soft red stockings I held in my hand, held up by black, scandalous garters. I couldn’t understand the logic behind why I found something so sexy about something whose sole purpose in life was to hold up a long sock, but what I was starting to learn from my experiences here was that my life needed a lot less logic in it and I should get more in tune with my own instincts. Getting rid of all logic was actually the most logical thing to do, at least when you spend your life interacting with more dildos than you do people.
The lacey lingerie thankfully actually had sizes, though the garments were too dainty to be hung up on hangers. I folded and separated all the panties and garters, and began placing them in the plastic storage drawers. In my mind this was a giant step up from the cardboard boxes; the drawers themselves elicited a kind of sexy vibe: come, open these drawers and see what’s inside. I found a somewhat isolated corner in the store for the drawer to go, so people could look through the selection feeling like they are in their own private boudoir, only… made of plastic.
As I rifled through everything, I kept an eye out for pairs of XXXL lacey panties, stockings, and garters. Anytime I found one, I put it in the bottom drawer with Billy in mind. I smiled and folded everything carefully, I even found myself giggling a tiny bit which was usually something I scorned. I was certainly never a fucking giggler. That was an act reserved for an entirely different breed of female than me—or, it was. Turns out helping Billy get in touch with his feminine side was also helping me get in touch with mine.
This tiny revelation of femininity got me thinking: the closest I ever got to wearing lingerie in my life was occasionally wearing a matching bra and underwear. I had always been so self-conscious about putting anything dainty on my body. Dainty wasn’t for feminists with an education degree. But Billy wore them with such ease, and you could see the heightened confidence surrounding him. Maybe I should also give them a try.
I pulled out a pair of purple lace panties. The small size looked right for me. They were shaped like a V in the back, they were a little bit stretchy, and there was a little bow in the front. It was still pouring rain outside, and there were various flood warnings throughout the area so naturally the store was completely dead. I had never put a garter on myself before, and since it didn’t come with any instruction manual, there was a chance it could take a while.
I got creative, and mixed and matched. I pulled out the purple lace panties, a black lace bra that was not part of the same set as the purple lace panties, and a black garter. I contemplated between the nude stockings and the black stockings: what would look better? Which were more fashionably appropriate to wear to walk around an empty store and possibly take a few photos on my phone that I don’t think I will ever post anywhere? It was an important decision to make.
I grabbed my mix-matched set and went into the bathroom. I slipped off my Converse sneakers and dark denim jeggings. One of my legs was smooth and one was covered in dark, prickly black hairs. I have this terrible habit of stepping into the shower, only shaving one leg, and then stepping out. I don’t even realize that I forgot the other leg until much later. I need to hang up some kind of waterproof checklist to remind myself what to do. Fortunately, the stockings could cover up my mishap. My hairy solo leg wouldn’t get in the way of this victorious moment I was trying to have with myself.
I slipped the lace panties on; this was the easy part. I turned my head as far back as it could go and looked in the mirror. I loved the way that V shape back made my butt look. It gave it this apple shape that I never quite saw it have. I shook my butt back and forth. I felt ridiculous. I attempted to do that twerk thing everyone seems to love doing: my ass went up and down, I bent my knees. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. Okay, if I’m doing this I’m gonna go all out and do this. I got my phone and put on a hip hop station on Pandora, and I twerked my tiny Jewish, white ass around the bathroom. I smiled, I shook my ass to the music, I leaned against the sink and used it to push my ass out more as I attempted to go a bit faster. I felt kind of sexy. I mean, I wasn’t going to audition to be in a Lil Wayne music video anytime soon, but maybe next time I actually go to a party I might get up and dance instead of silently judge all the people having fun from the corner of the room.
Next, it was time to put on the bra. All the bras I owned were sports bras or these wireless things you slip on that I believe were called “bralettes.” Both these things came in sizes XS to XL; they didn’t have the typical letters and numbers bra sizes were supposed to have. Several years ago, my mother took me to Victoria’s Secret to get my bra size measured, and they told me I was a 34 B. That was quite some time ago; when my freshman 15 turned into a sophomore 20, and later a senior 30, that added some diameter to my breasts. The size 34 C looked more appropriate to me, one size bigger. And I was right: I fastened it on and it fit perfectly. My breasts were cupped into a perfect shape, and looked incredibly grabbable in the mirror; I wanted nothing more than to hold them in my hands, massage them. I was used to my boobs being smooshed together into one tube-like formation with my unflattering bras. The bra cups were made of a translucent black material, and embroidered with tiny flowers. The lace overlapped on top of the cup of the bra and went onto my skin, like a gate guarding forbidden treasure. The smooth, shiny straps on the side highlighted my shoulders. I never thought of my shoulders as anything sexy, but something about the cleavage and the lace and the way my breasts fell into the cups and looked like two perfect buoyant circles also gave my shoulders some new kind of sex appeal I had never seen before.
My brown hair usually lived tied up into a messy ponytail, but this look demanded a free-flowing frame. I took the hair band out of my hair and let it fall down around my neck and shoulders. It was wavy and damp from the rain outside, but it actually kind of looked like I had intentionally styled it this way. I usually part my hair in the middle but this new skimpy outfit called for a new hair part. I used my fingers and pushed more hair over to one side, so some hair covered the corner of my eye, a seductive look.
I put the 1950s version of “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt on my phone. It was April, but that didn’t matter. This outfit celebrated sexy retro and it seemed appropriate. I sat on the cold porcelain toilet, and slid on the nude nylons. Their sheer magical material covered all the imperfections in my legs; it was like I slipped into a second skin. I had never put on a pair of thigh-highs, only thick tights that covered up my entire crotch area, and I only wore them when it was cold. I stood up and they fell down. Shit. I pulled them back up again, then I stood up and they fell down again, like in a ’50s sitcom comedic scene. A live studio audience would crack up laughing any second now.