The spring afternoon along the Champs-Elysees in Paris buzzed with tourists and the soft clank of espresso spoons mixing sugar into glasses. My first two weeks in Paris had been a whirlwind of new experiences, and there I was with the two most beautiful girls I had ever met. We sat alongside the enormous boulevard and sipped coffee, talking about the fashion program that we had recently begun. Monica and Amanda were roommates and had decided that today was the day I change from my drab, ill-fitting, outdated computer programming wardrobe, to something befitting somebody in a distinguished fashion design program.
Monica was a former model: tall, thin, flawless caramel colored skin from her mixed Egyptian-British heritage. Her loose white skirt barely covered her essentials, sitting incredibly low on her hips and exposing more than half of her thigh. Her breasts sat high and firm on her chest, not small, but perfectly portioned for her body. Amanda stood several inches shorter than Monica, but turned heads just as easily. I had noticed her from the first day of the program, her large breasts, easy smile, and beautiful golden har attracting my attention immediately. She kept her hair up in a bun and, combined with the soft lines of her face and a flowing summer dress that appeared almost translucent, seemed like an idealized version of a midwest farmer's daughter.
***
Twelve months earlier, I had been on the verge of graduation from a very good computer programming program at a decent university in the middle of the US. I feared settling into a life of working on IT implementation for local banks, and longed to try something else ... anything else. My mom had laughed and suggested that I speak to her sister, who had created, a few years earlier, a fashion design program in Paris. I had rolled my eyes at her, but called Aunt Becky the next day.
"Gary, I think I actually have the perfect role for you. We're trying to make the school a little more advanced technologically. We have been talking about designing a system that tracks trends and inventory ... let me discuss it with the board." A few days later, Aunt Becky sent an email outlining the idea she and the board had come up with. In short, the board was hesitant to have a complete fashion novice with no work experience designing their system. In exchange for maintaining a basic IT system for the next 18 months, they would let me attend the fashion program for free, and consider hiring me for the larger project after graduation.
I was intimidated by the idea of being around the "beautiful people" of the fashion industry and so, after accepting their offer, began going to the university gym. I approached it like a programming exercise, learning the specific lifts I felt would generate the quickest results, and over the course of six months changed from a 6'4" rail-thin, hunched over nerd. It wasn't a complete makeover, but I stood straighter, had a little more width across my shoulders, and felt better about myself.
***
Getting up from the cafe, the two girls playfully hooked their arms through mine and led me into a dimly lit store. Denim in every wash and color was precisely placed on gleaming metal surfaces and stylized mannequins. Electronic music pumped through the speakers just loud enough to drown out the quiet conversations of the other customers.
"Wow," I mumbled, "this is where you shop for jeans? I think my mom usually just goes to Target."
"This is the top store in the city," Amanda said, squeezing my arm. "If you're going to be part of this program, you can't wear these baggy old things." Amanda flicked at the ripped belt loop on the back of my jeans. Like most computer guys, I had never thought of my clothes as much more than cover. Baggy jeans, a few superhero t-shirts, and my gym clothes rounded out my simple wardrobe.
"Gary, you're going to look sexy after we're done with you." Monica had released my arm, and was looking me up and down. Her left hand on her hip, she casually stroked a strand of her flowing brown hair which rested between the tops of her caramel colored-breasts. "It feels like you have a decent body under all this, and I'll be damned if Amanda and I can't find it."
"Gary, what size do you wear?" Amanda asked through her big smile.
"I think I usually get a 32 inch waist," I replied, making inconsistent eye contact with the two beautiful girls. I couldn't believe these two women had taken me under their wing. I had never really talked to girls before, and certainly had never spoken to any like these two.
I found myself watching the two of them roam the store like leopards on the hunt. My initial physical attraction to Amanda had blossomed into a full-blown crush as I'd gotten to know her. Amanda played at being a worldly fashion expert, but she had rarely left her small town before starting this program, and her excitement at the small nuances of French culture was endearing. Unfortunately, Bret was waiting for her back in the US. From all accounts, he was a bit of a jerk, but he was Amanda's first boyfriend, and they had been dating since middle school.
If I was slightly in love with Amanda, I was infatuated with Monica, who had burrowed into the dark recesses of my mind and would not let go. She had a quick tight smile that she would flash at me during class once in a while. The smile and a brief arch of her eyebrow had me convinced that she was having naughty thoughts, and I wanted desperately to be a part of them.
Before long, they had enlisted a clerk to help them carry a pile of jeans to the changing rooms. The door to the back opened into a circular room with a round couch in the center, and half a dozen changing alcoves feeding into the center room.
Over the course of the next hour, I felt like I had tried on every pair of pants in all of Paris. Looking at the final pair of jeans in the pile, I started laughing. "Very funny, girls. I don't think so." I looked at the tag and saw that the jeans were primarily made of some type of elastic material. They looked child-sized. I flipped the jeans over the back of the door, and bent over to pull on my own loose-fitting jeans.
