It was depressing working in a Victoria's Secret, closing in on Valentine's Day, especially if you were in between,
well
in between, boyfriends. The weeks leading up to Valentine's Day were bad enough, but the few days before, and even the day of, were the worst. Men, often handsome, uninformed men, came prancing into the store seeking advice on what to buy there significant other.
"What would you suggest?" they would, inevitably, ask.
Of course she had to consult. That was their way of selling. Consultative. Ask questions. Delve. Ask more questions. And then, finally, recommend.
"What size is she?" Dull stare. Surprise, surprise. "My size? Bigger? Smaller? Thinner? Shapely?" Shapely was the nice way they had been taught to refer to someone overweight.
"I wish she was your size," many would say.
"What are you looking for exactly? Panties? Bras? Pajamas? Perfume? How old is she? Is it for your wife, sir?"
"I think she'd like some bras."
Again, "What size?" met with a blank stare. "About your size." Just an excuse to glance down at her tits, ogle them for a few seconds before returning to meet her gaze. Then she would show them the higher priced bras because she wasn't some free peep show. Show them the under-wire bras, the push-up bras, the transparent I-can-see-the-nipples bras. "I like that one."
The panties were always a treat. "What kind of panties does she wear? Bikinis? Low cut? Thongs?" Hello.
What did these men do when their wives or girlfriends undressed? Did they even take any notice of what they wore under their clothing? Unless it was some slutty, whore's outfit they, themselves had bought at some adult bookstore or online, did they even care? Why couldn't these men be more attentive like Brandon?
Brandon was the lone male in this sea of women who worked at Victoria's Secret, the lone male because he was gay of course. He had fashion sense when it came to women's lingerie. The men, too macho, or too homophobic, never asked Brandon for help. It was always the ladies that came to him, displaying the lingerie for him. He'd stand there with a hand on his cheek, just like Truman Capote, and talk in that feminine way, that the color was off, or maybe a thong would work instead, especially with pants that showed a panty line. Brandon was like the only one in the store that could overcome that particular objection. And the objection to thongs was always the same thing: "I can't stand the feel of anything riding up my butt crack."
"Honey," Brandon would coo. "It's like anything. You have to get used to it. And once you get used to thongs there's no turning back." Then he would suggest they try a pair, slip their pants back on and then take a good, long gander in the mirror at their smooth, delectable ass. They'd come out of the dressing room just raving about how much better they looked, touching Brandon on his shoulder, telling him, begging him, to come home with them. He'd just laugh it off with a girlish giggle.
"Do you think she would like this?" Mary would hold up a nice, expensive, black under-wire bra that clasped in the middle, sexy as hell, and ask this question. Of course whenever she asked this question, whether she was showing off a bra or, God forbid, panties, she knew there was the stock answer coming: "I'd have to see it on." Like she was some kind of lingerie model for these clueless dickheads. Not only that, but they were there, buying lingerie for their wife or girlfriend nonetheless, and hitting on her in the process.
"Why the long face?" Brandon asked during a slight lull. They were both working on Valentines Day. Brandon had asked to work, she, well, what the hell, right? And it was busy.
"Nothing," she lied.
"No Valentine either?" he asked.
"No," she said. "No Valentine either?"
Brandon, like a woman, hugged her. An I-understand-how-you-feel hug.
There were times, many times when Brandon, six foot two, dirty blonde hair, moustache-a young Robert Redford look alike-had women, nice looking women, sexy women, young women, testing, or wanting to test anyway, his homosexuality. Like they were the ones-and what girl didn't honestly think
they
couldn't turn a gay man straight?-who would open the dressing room door, usually in something transparent, and ask his opinion in a voice seductive enough to make another
woman
think twice. Mary, herself, had witnessed it on more than one occasion.
Like the ultimate in dressing room stories, the tall, dark-haired beauty who had whispered, lured, pulled Brandon into the dressing room, closed the door and proceeded to pull her panties to the side while she brought herself to climax with a vibrator.
Brandon, later on, the back room filled with the remaining staff of girls, like an audience of teenagers hearing, for the first time, a real, honest-to-God sexual experience, recounted the story, laughing and flitting his hands around like a windmill of homosexuality. Telling the girls, totally fascinated at this point with "Oh my Gods!" and "I don't believe her!", describing how ugly and disgusting that woman's pussy was.
"No offense, girls," Brandon said. "But I don't get it. What's the attraction with it? It's so folded and damp and, well, it looks like God just wadded up a piece of paper and placed it there."
Of course this was met with uproarious laughter. Hell, they all knew it was true. They had all looked at themselves in the mirror. A wadded up piece of paper. God, that was so...gay, yet so perfectly described.
Brandon went on to tell them how she had asked if he could take a quick peak at the outfit she had chose, then pulled him in when he got close enough.
"And then what?" someone asked.
The dark-haired woman sat in the corner of the dressing room, propped up one leg, reached down and revealed her already damp and glistening lips. Shaved, no waxed. Not a pubic hair within a half inch of the surface. Again, laughter.
"She was looking at me. Gauging my reaction," Brandon said.
"Then what?" someone else asked.
"Then she slipped a finger over the outside."
"Right in the dressing room?"
"Like she was at home," Brandon said. "Slipped her finger in and out, then started breathing heavy."
"No way!"
"What was she doing with her other hand?"
"She had it inside her bra and was pinching her nipple I believe," Brandon said.
"What were you doing?"
"I was just standing there, like totally paralyzed."
It never ceased to amaze the girls, any of the girls, that such a handsome hunk of a man was gay. Any of them, at one time or another, had secret, or not so secret thoughts, they wouldn't mind a shot at converting Brandon.
"You just stood there?" one of the girls asked, doubtfully.
"I certainly wasn't going to touch that thing, if that's what you mean. All wet and slippery, it looked like a giant slug had crawled between her legs."
Again, giggly laughter.
"And then what?"
"Next thing I knew she had this small vibrator in her hand and she started to look at my crotch, licking her lips like this," Brandon said, showing the girls how the dark-haired woman ran her silky tongue around her lips like she was ready to devour some caviar. "Acting like she was all hot and bothered. As if."
"Did you say anything to her?"
