I watch as Charlie walks around the building, stopping at various booths, chatting to people. The leather skirt reaches to mid-thigh. The skirt wraps over her right hip and as she bends to talk to the other venders, many watch that flap, hoping for a glimpse of her bare thigh, maybe even a glimpse of her nicely rounded right buttock. Her top is a bikini top of red, white, and blue leather strips. Each leather strip is one and a half inches wide and is braided to give Charlie's 32DD chest three and a half inches of coverage. The three strips join together around a brass ring that is situated between her perfect globes of flesh and most of the eyes do not make it above that brass ring. They do not see Charlie's long red hair or her beautiful, self-confident smile, her beautiful hazel eyes.
An attractive Asian woman approaches Charlie and points down to Charlie's bright red leather pumps. Charlie lifts one perfectly shaped leg, showing the woman her five inch stiletto heel, then points toward my booth. Several eyes watch the leg; few watch her pointing toward me and my wares.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Kelly heading my way. His buckskin tunic is fringed, with many colorful beads creating an attractive pattern. The distressed blue jeans are quite snug on his muscled legs and he walks like a model on a fashion runway, buckskin moccasins umping, heel to toe, heel to toe.
Behind him, Kelly trails three giggling, gawking teenaged girls. I smirk as the curly headed blond boy leads his parade toward me. He is completely unaware of the effect he has on women; the younger ones want to ravish him and the older ones want to mother him, and then ravish him.
My booth is comprised of some examples of my goods, some samples of the different skins I have, and some photographs of other goods I have made. For example, Charlie's skirt and braided bikini top and shoes are fashioned from leather I have personally hand-died, then fashioned into clothing for her. Kelly's tunic, belt, and moccasins are made from a moose that I killed last year on a hunt in Canada.
Some customers are fascinated by the 'fetish' clothing I can manufacture for them. It is not unusual for a customer to order undergarments in patent leather, or leather adorned with brass studs. Whips, riding crops, thigh high leather boots, restraints; I have photographs of it all, and can usually fashion whatever you describe to me, or sketch out for me.
Some of the potential customers are intrigued by the more exotic skins I offer; python, rattlesnake, elephant, eel. Some are upset to hear that I have personally killed nearly every animal I offer. A few ask if I can procure other skins not displayed, such as kangaroo, rhinoceros, etc.
I even had one man ask if I ever offered human skin. I smirked and said that, unfortunately, I do not. I can think of a few politician's skins I'd love to procure, but I do not offer human skins.
The man then told me an old joke: How many ___ does it take to shingle a roof? Answer: Three. If you slice them thin enough.
(In the blank afforded by the '___' you can just insert whatever ethnicity you hold in low regard.)
Me? I do not dislike any ethnicities. I have found that each and every ethnic group has people of integrity and worth, and people that just aren't worth the paper it takes to wipe their asses.
"Tway," Kelly lisped as he stepped behind the counter. "Um, Becky? She wants to know how much for a top like mine?"
That is one thing that irritates the piss out of me; Kelly's habit of ending every statement as if it is a question. I overlook his habit of replacing 'R' and 'L' with 'W' in his speech. But every time I look at Kelly I cannot help but wonder; millions of sperm cells shot out of his daddy's dick and that? That's the one that managed to knock his momma up?
It's not his homosexuality that irritates me about Kelly. My accountant is gay, and his husband is my lawyer. But, as I often remind Kelly, it is possible to be gay without being annoying.
I spoke to Becca, not Becky, giving her prices for various animal skins. One of Becca's friends could not take her eyes off of Kelly, but the other friend was getting more and more upset as she listened to me and Becca chatting.
"Don't you think it's like, so totally barbaric?" the friend finally shrilled at me. "You're like a murderer!"
"Ma'am?" I said, looking the young woman in the eye. "The Burmese python? Is not indigenous to the Florida Everglades and is threatening the natural wildlife that does call the Everglades their home. The python has no natural predators, reproduces quite rapidly and is a voracious hunter. In two thousand seventeen, Florida has put a bounty on the Burmese python. So, no, it's not barbaric to hunt and kill them. What is barbaric is the people that thought they'd make really cool pets, and then, realizing that they can't or won't take care of them, just dumped them."
"And that moose? Huh?" the girl challenged, pointing to Kelly's outfit.
"In the dead of the winter? Food is scarce in their natural habitat," I patiently explained. "So, no, I didn't have to take my bow and arrow and kill that Bull Moose."
"Ha!" the girl crowed, sure she'd scored a point with me.
"Nope, I could have just waited for him to die a slow, agonizing death from starvation," I said. "Of course, long before I got to him, a pack of wolves would have most likely surrounded him and torn him to shreds while he screamed and thrashed in helpless agony."
"Shut up, Trish," Becca said, actually looking a little green from my graphic description of the realities of our fragile ecosystem.
"So, my way? That animal never knew what happened. He was looking for food on a barren stretch of ice and suddenly? There was no pain, no suffering. Barbaric? Hardly. Humane? More likely," I said.
Becca was upset that she couldn't just grab a moose skin blouse and a python tank top and go. But when she heard that each item of clothing would be tailored specifically for her, she plunked down her father's credit card and paid for the two tops and matching belts. Trish glared in white-hot hatred of me and her friend but that didn't bother me. I'm quite used to women hating me.
Charlie finished her rounds of the building in time to measure Becca for the two tops. Becca did suggest that maybe Kelly could measure her. Charlie whispered in Becca's ear that Kelly is gay.
"There you go, Travaughn," Charlie said, putting Becca Strickland's measurements in front of me.
Charlie is one of the few people that calls me by my name. Most people call me Tray, or in Kelly's case, Tway. Even Vickie, my ex-wife and Achu, her lover call me Tray.
Vickie Lott, and Achu Shamirni are two of the women that hate me. My mother was the first to hate me though. My two older sisters also hate me; my mother's hatred began when I was in the womb. Cassandra don't call me Sandy Lott and Deanna it's pronounced Dee AW nnuh Lott both hated me the moment I was born and born male. Bernice Lott, my younger sister doesn't hate me. She just doesn't think of me at all.
My name, Travaughn Harrison Lott is a combination of the three white men my mother was able to narrow my conception down to. Tracy Finn could probably be eliminated; he was a scrawny red head. Vaughn no last name was ever given might be my sperm donor; he had blond hair and blue eyes. He was also quite tall and muscled. Harrison Kirklegend could also be the sperm donor; he too was tall and muscular.
I'm six four, with whitish blond hair that reaches to my shoulder blades, bright blue eyes and straight white teeth. That one fact alone also brought on more hatred from my biracial sisters. Cassandra and Deanna both endured the indignities of bulky orthodontic braces during their adolescence, but I never needed them.
Evans Lott, my mother's father didn't hate me. He did confess that he did not have a very high opinion of my mother or my two, soon three sisters. Evans is the one that taught me how to hunt. He's the one that taught me how to field dress an animal, then taught me how to clean, tan and die the hide.
He had a son, my uncle, Brodt Evans Lott the third. Everyone called him Trey. Trey had no interest in hunting. He actually threw up when he watched me and my grandfather gutting a deer.
"Oh! That! How much is that?" Becca suddenly squealed.
I looked up and over where she was pointing. Kelly had stepped out of the small cabinet, dressed in a new outfit.
The blue jeans were the same ripped up jeans. Personally, I hate those stupid jeans. In my day, we threw jeans that looked like that into the trash, or made rags out of them to wash the car with.
But he had on a black tee shirt that stretched across his chest, a pair of python boots, and a jacket that was fashioned from the pale underbelly of the python. The ribbed pattern did make an impressive looking jacket.
It had been Vickie's idea, the small cabinet. The cabinet was simply a three sided box with a curtain across the fourth side. Vickie would get in, pull the curtain closed, put on an outfit, then stroll the shows, attracting attention. When people asked about her exotic, sometimes scandalous outfits, she'd point to my booth. It worked a lot better than me just standing there, talking to the one or two people that might wander my way.
That's where she met Achu; at the Las Vegas show. Vickie had on a leather harness, which was just a leather strap around her back that joined in front to two entwined leather hoops that encircled her 34 B breasts. Those two leather hoops had four leather straps each that joined together at a small brass ring directly over Vickie's nipples. Even though it was Las Vegas, Vickie's large areolae were covered by flesh colored pasties.
Vickie's luscious ass cheeks peeked out; she wore a matching leather thong as she paraded around the pavilion. Her tanned legs looked quite beautiful in her four inch leather pumps. Achu followed Vickie back to my booth but did not buy anything. Less than a week after the Las Vegas show, Vickie demanded a divorce. I do not know why they both hate me; I did not put up a fight. I just gave Vickie her divorce. Brian, my accountant and Percy, my lawyer, did make sure my business stayed out of Vickie's hands, though. Maybe that's why they hate me.
I gave Becca the price of the python skin jacket, the price of the boots and watched as her little mind calculated just how much she could put on her father's credit card before he had a coronary. The Asian woman that had admired Charlie's shoes stepped up, and while Becca was doing her mental calculations, Theresa Smith ordered a pair of python boots, a pair of python pumps, and asked what I had in alligator. I showed her what I had and she paid for all three with her American Express.
"I wear a seven, um, sometimes a seven and a half," Theresa said, smiling.
"Oh, no ma'am," I said. "I make a mold of each foot and make your shoes specifically for you. Those shoes are for your feet and your feet alone."
"I'll take the boots," Becca jumped in.
I nodded to let Ms. Strickland know I'd heard her and had Theresa step around the counter. I had the young woman sit in a chair while I prepared the gel for the mold.
I knelt and placed the pan at Theresa's feet and looked up. As my eyes swiveled from concrete floor to Theresa's eyes, they could not help but pause at Theresa's crotch.
Theresa Smith had dressed for a day of shopping; wearing a denim halter top and some loose flannel shorts and a pair of flip flops. The leg of her shorts gaped open and I was looking at a very pronounced pubic mound. Theresa obviously waxed her fat mound bald and her light pink lips peeked out, puffy and moist.
