Read this first:
This is a revision of a previously posted version of this story. Several of those who left comments said they detested the ending, so I've rewritten that part, as well as a few details along the way that play into the new ending. If any of you come back for a second helping, I hope this one is more to your liking.
Be warned also that this is not a short story. If you're in the mood for a quickie, I recommend you look elsewhere. If, however, you have found—as I have—that "getting there is half the fun," then this one just might be for you. I've done my best to make it worth your time.
Hope you enjoy!
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My college roommate this semester is a jock, on a full-ride scholarship to play basketball. He isn't all that tall, as you would normally expect a basketball player to be, but he is a good ball handler and a hot-handed shooter. He confided that he has weak ankles, though, so he always has them wrapped whenever he is playing, and even sometimes when he's not. He doesn't want to risk a sprain.
As a result of this constant ankle wrapping, he has that stretchy tan ankle wrap all over the room (his side of the room anyway). You can't accuse him of being fastidious in his housekeeping, that's for sure. Quite the opposite. When he takes the wrap off, he just wads it up and throws it. Most ends up in the bottom of his closet or under his bed, whichever happens to be the closer target at the time. Once in a while—usually when he can't stand the pungent pile of sweaty elastic anymore, or I not-so-tactfully remind him of his neglect—he'll gather it all up and throw it in the washer. This starts the throw-it-in-the-closet cycle over again.
I was in our room after class a couple of weeks ago, flopped idly on the bed thinking about ... well, thinking about what every guy my age thinks about frequently: sex. [They say we eventually grow out of that preoccupation in, say, 50 or 60 years. In the meantime, though, a significant portion of my brain's bandwidth is dedicated to it.] My roomie was at practice, I presume. His closet door was open—its usual state—and my eye fell on the growing mound of ankle wrap.
Something I read on a web site a few years ago popped into my mind at that moment, courtesy of the pile (with an assist from my current brain activity). Some guy wrapped up both of his hands, feigning an injury, then visited clothing stores, trying to get cute young female store employees to help him try on pants in the changing room. He asked for their assistance due to his "injury," which prevented him from changing without help. What made it more daring is that he did this sans underwear. Supposedly he had success in getting at least some sympathetic girls to help him, even though he was buck naked from the waist down when they did.
This memory led to my next thought: I could put some of this excess ankle wrap to good use and try this stunt myself. If I played it right, it just might work. Besides, what could it hurt? The worst that could happen is that she (the cute young store associate I could picture in my mind) would simply shake her head and say she couldn't help. No doubt she would at least be polite, if I was. I decided to go for it.
It isn't that I am desperate, necessarily. I have entertained two different girls in my bed this semester—one for an entire weekend when my roommate returned home for some kind of family reunion—and both of them have since hinted they would be happy to provide me with the same type of company again. Maybe I just wanted to try something new and, yes, a bit over the top, right then. This idea qualified. At the very least it would make a good "you know what I did once?" story that I could tell someday.
Preparation always pays, but there is also something to be said for dumb luck. Some circumstances worked in my favor when I arrived at the mall an hour or so later—dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a sleeveless sweatshirt, slip-on sneakers, and nothing else (except for my wrapped-up hands).
It turned out to be a memorable evening.
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The first unplanned circumstance was courtesy of Mother Nature. I suppose the weather watchers knew about it, but I didn't. On my ten-minute drive to the mall it started to snow. That a storm front had arrived quickly became apparent, and it arrived with gusto ... at least for our area of the country. A little snow wouldn't mean much except that this university is in the south where the white stuff is an oddity. This unusual event convinced a lot of would-be shoppers to stay home instead. I'm from upstate New York, so driving in snow seemed normal to me; for that matter, the mall has covered parking, so I wouldn't be affected except for the short drive there and back. It didn't threaten to close the mall down or anything, but it certainly thinned down the crowds.
When I entered the mall I felt a little conspicuous at first. Then I realized most people didn't notice the clubs at the end of my arms, or if they did, it was just a passing glance. I had both hands wrapped from well below my wrist up to just below the first knuckle on my fingers. Only my fingertips stuck out the top and part of my thumb stuck out to the side. In between were multiple layers of the ankle-turned-hand wrap that definitely appeared to be hiding some painful injury. In actuality, though I couldn't touch my index finger to my thumb anymore, the wrap had enough give that I still had a bit of dexterity if I needed it—I could wiggle my fingers and flex my wrist a bit. But if I held my hand rigid on purpose, no one would be able to tell it wasn't the wrap causing that rigidity.
I was soon casing a few smaller stores of the "trendy fashion" variety that I thought might be staffed by the type of girls I was looking for—young, sexy, and eager to please. I browsed through a couple of them, pretending to be looking at the clothes, but they of course weren't the merchandise I was interested in.
At the third store is where the second unforeseen, but fortuitous, circumstance occurred. It took only a few moments to unfold, but describing it takes considerably longer.
I was crouched down by a display of men's dress pants, ostensibly looking for a pair in my size on the lower shelf, but actually appraising a cute, red-haired store associate at the checkout counter not far from me, thinking she might be a worthwhile target for my plans. Suddenly I heard a shriek of surprise just over my shoulder, followed immediately by the impact of something that registered in my peripheral vision as a dark shape with bare legs. Instinctively I tried to catch myself after being knocked off balance, but not having full use of my hands like I usually did, I fell over on my side in a graceless sprawl. From my new vantage point on the floor I realized the bare legs belonged to someone in a short black dress. About the same time I became aware of something warm and wet on my arm, but that part didn't sink too deeply into my consciousness yet.
Above the legs [nice ones, by the way ... I'm a guy, and I notice things like that] and the black dress was a blonde head belonging to another store associate—I knew that because she wore a name tag—who was wide-eyed and clutching a Starbucks cup in one hand. Her other hand was over her mouth in a classic "OMG!" gesture. Before I could react further, her gesture became words.
"Oh my God! Are you okay?!" she blurted. "I am SO sorry! I didn't see you there! Oh, I can't believe I just did that!"
"Uh ..." I responded, in words showing true inspiration. I tried to sit up and succeeded.
"You're not hurt are you?!" she said, dropping the hand that had been over her mouth, and quickly bending down to place it on my upper arm in an expression of feminine concern. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry! Oh, I'm a klutz! I'm just so sorr—"
I held up one of my hands to politely silence her, and responded with a smile. "Ah, no, I'm fine. No harm done. Don't worry." I started to get to my feet. When I looked down at myself, it registered now that the warm wet sensation I felt a few moments earlier was caused by the contents of her Starbucks cup, some (most?) of which had just been deposited on my arm and my sweatshirt. I continued getting to my feet, using the pants display to steady myself.
