I never would've thought that shopping for clothes would change my life, but it did. This was back in the early '90s, my first day in St. Petersburg, when I moved to Russia for a new job teaching there. Somewhere between New York and Russia, the airline had lost my bag, so all I had was the clothes I'd worn on the flight, a tee shirt and a pair of loose cotton drawstring pants. I needed something, at least to hold me over until my old stuff arrived.
Nearby the apartment the university had set me up in, I found an outdoor market, and thought, why not live like a Russian? I strolled through the aisles between stalls selling everything imaginable, until I came on one that had men's clothes, and what seemed like surprisingly high quality linen.
As I paused to look it over, a woman sitting on a little stool there with a cup of tea said, "Young man, you won't find better clothes at a better price anywhere in the city."
She stood up, a tall, strong looking woman, maybe 50, but what you might call handsome, with a bold look in her blue eyes and her quick smile. She was a redhead, her hair not gray and not dyed, long down her back. She had a splattering of light freckles across her cheeks and nose, and despite her coloring, there was something almost Asian in the shape of her eyes and her broad lips. She was small-breasted, and moved with grace, with assurance.
She asked me what I was looking for, and when I told her pants and shirts, she smiled broadly.
"A foreigner?" she said.
I told her I was from New York, and she praised my Russian, and then dove into the quality of her clothes, how they were handmade in some region I had never heard of, and she offered me tea.
She seemed to love to talk, questioning me about what I was doing in Peter, as she called it, how long would I stay, on and on. She commented on my long hair, calling it pretty, what a pretty boy I was, as she playfully reached and twirled the ends of my hair in her fingers.
"I know," she said. "You're a grown man, but no, I can see, you are still a boy, a sweet boy. Don't be ashamed of it."
When she found out I was going to teach literature, poetry, she kind of sighed, said, "Ah, poetry," with a faraway look in her eyes, almost a sadness, then she came back, looked me over long, with something in mind. She asked me my name, and I told her, Dean, and she said, "I'm Dasha. Shall we be friends, Dean?"
I felt then how much I liked her, liked talking to her, and said, "I think I'd like that, Dasha."
"Well, then we shall," she said. "But now, let's get you something to wear. What size are you?"
When I told her I didn't know what my measurements would be in Russian, she laughed.
"Of course," she said. "Well, we'll just find out."
She took my arm and brought me into the stall, and then she turned to dig around in a little wooden box she took from under the stool. I couldn't help admiring her fine bottom as she bent over, and when she turned around, it seemed the house dress she wore might have opened just a touch more on her fair chest, showing light freckles that spread there too.
She had a tape measure in her hands and said, "Now, let's see how big you are."
She took a half step back and looked me up and down. "Tall and maybe a little too thin, but healthy." And she laughed.
"Now, come," she said as she spread the tape across my shoulders, then had me turn around and did the same. I heard her murmuring to herself, but she wrote nothing down.
She told me to turn around again, and as she did, I felt her fingers lightly touch my butt, near my hip, as though to turn me herself. Though she was probably 15 years older than me, the feel of her there sent a thrill through me, and as I turned I was aware of my organ hanging a little heavier.
"Now, arms out," she said, putting her fine, strong arms out to show me, and when I did as she said, she came close to pass the measure around my back. I could smell her body then, not perfume but warmth, and I liked it, liked the closeness of her red hair.
She loosened the tape and slid it down my torso to my waist, and tightened it there, then went down to my hips, and as she did, she pulled the waist of my pants down, her fingers on my bare skin. I glanced down quickly, to her hands, feeling the thrill, a shiver, and when I looked back to her face, she was watching me.
"Don't worry," she said, but her hands stayed on my now bare hips. "I just want to see how big you are."
"It's - it's fine," I said, my breath a little tight in my chest, and she laughed, teasing me.
Then she quickly pulled the tape tight, looked at the number there, and gave my pants little tug up to my waist.
"There, now legs," she said briskly.
She knelt in front of me, held one end of the tape against the inside of my ankle, then slowly ran her other up the inside of my leg, letting the tape draw through her fingers. I could feel myself growing, starting to stiffen, as I tried to put my mind off it, to stop it, and then just as she was at my mid thigh she dropped her hand, muttered something and started again.
I looked down at her then for the first time, her face level with my growing cock, and felt now her hand come up against it. She stopped, looked up at me, said softly, "Excuse me," her fingers still on the head of my penis.
"It's - it's OK," I stammered out again, and she smiled.
