I only bought the T-shirt for a laugh. My mates and I were out on a pub crawl of Covent Garden, and we came across this market stall selling dozens of T-shirts. The one that caught our eye was hanging from the awning of the stall. It showed the soles of two pairs of feet, as if their owner were lying down. The large, male, pair were pointing downwards, and outside them the small, female, pair were pointing upwards. Between them were two hillocks, representing the bloke's bum. A couple of wavy lines above that indicated up and down movements. Above this image were the words 'Smile if you fancy a shag'. One of my mates peered closely at it and said, "Oi Chas, that looks like your bum."
That caused a lot of hilarity, with the others asking him how he knew what my bum looked like. I grinned, and replied, "Yeah, it was bloody hard work posing for that picture." Well, after that I had to buy the shirt. It was black, my favourite colour because it contrasts nicely with my looks. I'm Chas Butler, 26, a shade under six feet tall, with dirty-blond hair and a sunbed tan I've carefully nurtured to look natural. I work out at my local gym a couple of times a week, and when I tried the shirt on at home it stretched nicely across my well-toned pecs.
After that it sat undisturbed in a drawer for three weeks. Finally, I thought I'd bought the bloody thing, I had to either wear it or chuck it. So one day when I was going out I pulled it on, feeling like a complete berk. Normally I have no trouble finding female company, but I'd been going through a dry spell for a couple of months and I was a bit low on confidence. To be honest, I half expected women to slap me and blokes to threaten me when they saw the shirt, but generally reaction was surprisingly positive. Most people tended to do a double-take, read it carefully, then look up at me with a big grin. If they were female I normally responded with a return grin and a wink, which would often produce an embarrassed look and a sexy giggle. Of course, I got the odd dirty look or blank stare when people saw the shirt, but for the most part they took it in the right spirit: as a saucy joke intended to give them a brief laugh in their busy day.
Then one day I was caught slightly unawares on a tube journey. An American lady was sitting opposite me. She looked in her early 60s, and quite haughty, dressed in tweeds and sensible shoes, sort of a university professor type. I saw her eyeing the shirt, and when she leaned towards me I was half expecting to be told off. Instead, she asked, "Excuse me, but does 'shag' mean what I think it does?"
I gave her a wolfish grin and said, "Yes gorgeous, it means exactly that."
To my surprise she gave me an even filthier grin and, with a sigh, said, "Damn! If only I didn't have a plane to catch." Not surprisingly we got talking after that. She really was a professor, from Harvard, and she gave me her business card and told me to give her a call if I was ever in the States! That was the closest I came to getting propositioned from wearing the shirt. Until three weeks ago.
I was on the tube again, travelling home from a mate's house. I immediately noticed the girl when she got on. She was a big woman -- not tall, five-three maybe -- but probably double the weight that would be good for her. She was Afro-Caribbean, leaning towards the latter, about 22 I'd say, with skin the colour of caramel. She sat opposite me and started leafing through the newspaper that had been lying on her seat, while I quietly ogled her bare legs. She had sturdy round calves, almost like a dancer's, big dimpled knees, and absolutely massive thighs. They squeezed together, and stretched the material of her black skirt almost to breaking point. The skirt ended well above her knees, and by scrunching down a bit I found a could catch a glimpse of her white panties.
When I glanced up, I realised she'd stopped reading the paper -- and was giving me a huge grin. She had a round, fleshy face, quite pretty, big dark eyes with long lashes, a small nose, a dimpled chin, big red lips and perfect white teeth. Her hair was short and frizzy, cropped to within a couple of inches of her skull. Slightly embarrassed that she seemed to have caught me peeping at her knickers, I dropped my eyes to her statuesque bust, straining the material of an orange T-shirt.
When I looked up again she was still grinning hugely at me. She glanced down at my T-shirt, with its suggestive message, then looked meaningfully at my groin before her eyes returned to my face. Her grin was even wider than before, and she raised her eyebrows at me questioningly. I was stunned -- surely she couldn't be serious? Experimentally I gave her my cheeky grin and a wink. Her smile stretched so wide I thought the top of her head would drop back, as if it was on hinges. She widened her eyes at me, ran her tongue around her lips and shifted down a bit in her seat, causing her skirt to ride even higher up her magnificent thighs.
While I was still getting to grips with the situation the train reached my stop. Reluctantly I started to stand, wondering if she would do the same. She made a little sound and frowned momentarily. When I flopped back into my seat, not only did she start smiling again, she actually made a circle with her thumb and finger, and poked a finger of her other hand in and out of it a couple of times, leaving no possible doubt as to her meaning. To hell with getting off the train I thought, if there was any chance of getting off with that randy little bird. For another two stops our eyes remained locked on each other, and her grin stayed as constant as the Cheshire cat's. I would have liked to sit next to her and try my chat-up lines on her, but neither of us had a spare seat beside us. I noticed at some point that she was wearing what looked suspiciously like an engagement ring, but she didn't seem bothered by it so I didn't see why I should be.
