Your Boxers Are Showing

Jason Breitman and Audrey Temple are making starring appearances here after many, many years in the background of some of my other stories. You needn't read any of those to enjoy this one, as it stands alone; I'm entering it in

Lit's annual Summer Lovin' Contest

, which is always a lot of fun. Make sure you read all the entries and vote up your favorites!

* * *

"Wait." Cheryl glared at me across the top of the underwear bins. "What the fuck are you buying over there?"

"These." I held up a pair of boyshorts, blue with a lace frill around the waist. "Why? Something wrong?"

"Uh, yeah?" She shook her head slowly, a professor with a stupid student. "What are you planning on wearing over those? A hoop skirt?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Those are Victorian, Audrey. Buy a thong, wear some leggings, and you're all set."

"I have thongs." This was true, even though I never really wore them. "Boyshorts are what I wear at school."

"Of course you wear boyshorts at school, baby. You dress professionally at school. But it's summer now. So... no. No boyshorts."

"No boyshorts?"

"Thongs," she replied firmly, "with tights." She leaned sideways and made an exaggerated survey of my shape. "Girl. Think about this. You are a woman with an incredible butt, living at a time when it's acceptable for women with incredible butts to show that shit off." Her voice hardened. "You owe it to those of us with shitty bodies, Aud. Offer your cake to the world."

"My cake?"

"Your cake," she snapped. "Stack it, frost it, stick a candle in it, and give it to the people. You're prime rump roast, baby. Time to shine." She reached across and snatched the boyshorts from my numb fingers. "Thongs. They're on sale. Put 'em on, floss your ass, and enjoy the thrill you give everyone else."

"What if I don't want to give a thrill to anyone else, Cheryl?" I hoped it didn't come out bored, even bitter.

"I told you already: it's not your call. You owe it to the universe." She turned sideways and pulled her shirt up. I'd always thought Cheryl was sexy, but I had to admit her butt was pretty flat. "You've got it. Flaunt it." She nodded at the bins. "Buy. The. Thongs."

"Okay!" I'd always been easy to influence, and Cheryl was

very

influential. "Jesus. Shut the fuck up. I'll buy the damn thongs."

"Good." She gazed at me critically. "Stick with red. Blue. Jewel tones. Don't get black; that's boring."

"Not that anyone but me will see them," I pouted, pawing through the thongs. They felt like undercooked pasta.

"Not the point, girl. You'll look fucking hot, so you'll act fucking hot. That's how it all starts." She let a wrinkle of worry appear on her determined forehead. "Look, I get it. It's hard to date. Granted. But when's the last time you got laid?"

I thought back. "Six months, at least," I guessed, "that guy I met at the supermarket."

"Yes. And how many dates did you get?"

I shrugged. He'd been so bland, a very forgettable man. "Five? Six? We fucked, oh, twice?"

"Exactly," she purred, like Hercule Poirot at the end of a book, "because you were wearing granny panties. So please. Take it from me." She smiled. "Jewel tones. Get the sexiest ones."

"Yes, mother."

"Good." Already Cheryl was glued to her phone again, the curse of a mother with young kids who also happens to be a lawyer. "Shit. I have to take this. It's important. Buy the fucking thongs."

"Okay." I watched her no-ass sashay rapidly toward the broad, glassy Secret Whispers doorway, knowing she'd take the call out in the mall itself. Cheryl didn't mind being a spectacle, but she didn't like to do work shit around her friends. I frowned down at the tangled silky mess and dragged out a lacy confection in brilliant purple, holding it against the outside of my shorts.

"That'll look amazing." The voice had the clear, confident ring of the kind of girls Secret Whispers always hired, the kind who were unconsciously sexy enough to let you know you were not. "Perfect for your skintone. And, of course, we've got a matching bra in stock. You look like about a C, obviously... 37?"

"About that. Uh, thank you," I smiled, turning toward the salesgirl, and that's when I froze completely. "Um."

She smiled cutely and stared a hole in my shirt. "Maybe closer to a D, actually." But I was paying no attention at all to her, because Disaster stood right beside the chirpy sales associate: Disaster, and Humiliation combined in the same person.

He smiled at me now, that innocent smile he'd always done so perfectly, the one that had gotten him out of countless allegations of cheating in his math and science classes. He looked amazing in a male version of what the salesgirls wore, expensive black pants and shirts tailored close. "Oh my god. Hi, Ms Temple."

"Um." I could feel my face melt, it was so hot. I knew I'd be solid scarlet from my hair down to my belly button. "Hello, Jason."

"Those are on sale," the girl continued, as if Jason and I weren't staring at each other in mingled horror (from me) and smugness (from him). "Let me go pull some bras for you. Jason? Just answer any questions she might have." The girl's tone sharpened when she spoke to him, and I understood at once: she was training him.

Fuck me. Secret Whispers had hired Jason Breitman.

"If you don't know the answers to her questions," she went on, "that's fine." She nodded at me, woman to woman, even though I'd probably been able to legally drink the year she'd been born. "He's new, ma'am, but we all have to start somewhere right?" Her eyelashes swept the air, she batted them so hard. "I'll be back in a sec."

The rest of the store seemed to expand until it was gone, completely gone, leaving just me and Jason standing there by the bins of womens' underwear. "Jason. Holy shit," I blurted, completely confused. "You, uh, you

work

here?"

"That's right Ms Temple."

I scrambled, my mind flailing, searching uselessly for something pithy to say. That's how I was known at school: I was a wisecracker, a jokester. Punny. I was

not

a bashful spinster, melting down in the middle of an underwear store. I cleared my throat and forced a smile. "You're working here. What, did they run out of women to give jobs to?"

His smile grew. "I'm a diversity hire." That's why we'd always gotten along, because Jason was a wiseass too. He cocked his head, plainly expecting a laugh, but when I gave him one it came out shrill. "I mean, it's obvious I'd apply here."

"Why's that?"

He shrugged. "It's an underwear store with a bunch of female employees." His eyes glittered. "It's a great work environment for a guy like me."

I looked down at my shoes, wishing he'd go away. But I'd been his guidance counselor for four years, and he was used to bantering with me. Jason Breitman was a born salesman; had been the kind of kid who'd show up after school and probe his teachers, seeing how far he could push them, whether they'd be receptive to his wheedling.

He'd found his guidance counselor quite receptive. I'd enjoyed his conversation, the snap of his wit, his intelligence. Well, not so much intelligence; more like

smarts

. This kid was street-smart. And I wasn't, so I'd let him sit in my office sometimes when I knew he had a free period, or after his AP exams, or whenever.

But that was then, in my office, where I was in charge. Where I was a staff member and he was just a student. This was now, where he'd just watched me pick out some sexy underwear. I was playing defense, and I knew him well enough to know he'd realize it. I cleared my throat. "A guy like you."

"Yeah." He smiled that lopsided smirk of his. "You know me. And girls."

I shook my head, still looking down. Indeed I did know him. Jason had been the subject of many, many rumors at the school, especially once he'd become a senior and turned eighteen: rumors about him making out with Amy Pesci, the Spanish teacher. Rumors about him spying on the girls' locker room. Rumors like he'd gotten the senior class president pregnant. Like he'd fucked Gretchen Barry out behind the dumpsters. Like he'd gotten a blowjob from Ms Linnea, in the PE department, and I'd never believed any of those rumors... until Linnea had mysteriously and rapidly resigned on the last day of school.

I found myself nodding. "I think I do know you, Jason."

"Yeah, I think you do." Still, the store seemed vast, incredibly distant, with the two of us alone like actors on a stage in an empty theatre. He snapped his fingers. "Wait! I've graduated. You're not my guidance counselor anymore. So I can call you Audrey now."

"No, you cannot." At least my voice was steady

now

, my head bobbing up with that glare every school staff member has perfected. I took a breath and forced my voice to calm down. "It's bad enough that you know what underwear I'm buying."

He nodded down at the bin. "I don't think I'd have guessed these were your style, honestly."

"They're on sale," I protested, feeling a smile sprout from my lips. It was an incredulous one, amazed at his confidence.

He chuckled. "The whole store is on sale, Ms Temple, all the time. That's the gimmick." I read satisfaction in his eyes, now that he'd made me smile. It was a look I'd seen often from him. Hell, almost every adult in the building had seen that look from Jason Breitman. He had that way about him.

I had to say it. "I don't usually wear these kinds of things, honestly. My friend told me to get them."

"They're great thongs," he nodded smoothly, "and I've been reading the employee handbook. I'm all ready to tell you how comfortable they are. Want me to go through the features?"

"No, Jason, I do

not

need you to tell me anything about wearing a thong." I cocked my head, fidgeting with the underwear in the bin. "Out of curiosity, have you made a sale yet?"

"This is my second day out here on the floor, Ms Temple," he chuckled, eyes glittering. "The training wheels are still on."

"I just... it won't be awkward? Selling underwear to women?"

He stood there, the cocky little jerk, and that smirk branded my soul. "You just heard me try to sell sexy underwear to my old guidance counselor. Trust me. I'm ready to go." He laughed. "But then, we have a history of discussions about underwear."

"Stop that!" My smile was still there, his insolence making me strangely euphoric. I shook my head. "I bet you

are

ready to go." It just came muttering out, as unexpected to me as it probably was to him, but it did nothing to budge his smile. His trainer was coming back with some bras, so I caught his eye gratefully and warmed my smile. "It's nice to see you."

"I

just

graduated. You saw me last week."

"Yes, but you know how it is. Once summer starts? It's like a whole new world." I laid a hand on his forearm, one of those things I do naturally. "You'll be great. This'll be a great resume builder, Jason."

"It's more than that, Ms Temple." He spoke fast and low, getting it in before his trainer showed up with her oiled smile. "It's a great place to meet beautiful women." His wink brought another blush out of me, but before I could think of a reply, the salesgirl was on the attack.

"So. I have several models here, at different price points..."

* * *

Cheryl glanced back over her shoulder as we left the store, my shopping bag swinging thoughtfully. "Jesus. Are they hiring

men

to work here now? What's that, some kind of social-justice thing?"

"Apparently." I was having a hard time seeing, as the mall's harsh skylights washed over me. Secret Whispers was always so dark! "He said he was a diversity hire."

"Yeah? You talked to him?" She gripped my arm quickly. "Look at you!"

"Nah. He just... I mean, his boss was helping me. He was just there with her. I think we exchanged like five words," I lied.

"Well. I didn't get a good look at him, but I'm all in favor of Secret Whispers getting some men in the stores." She cackled. "Maybe they can help out in the changing rooms!"

"You're such a slut," I laughed. She wasn't, really, but she certainly had been back in college. And she still acted like she was. Cheryl was a very, very different person when her husband was around.

"What?" she shrugged. "Nookie in the changing room. It's a tale as old as time, girl." She checked her phone again. "Fuck. Another call."

"I don't even know why I bother going anywhere with you."

"It's because you like watching me flirt."

I just shook my head. Because what the hell do you say to

that?

* * *

Strange though it was, odd as it seems, and borderline scandalous as it may sound, this was not the first or only time I'd had to associate Jason Breitman with underwear. Because, as he'd pointed out in the store, we had a history of that kind of discussion.

I remembered it later that day, as I scrolled through my work emails and deleted all the older shit. It's a guidance counselor's lot in life to collect a whole lot of email, and I tried to stay on top of it when I could. I tended to be savage with my DELETE key at times like that, but as I went merrily scything through all those emails, one of them held me up as my mind drifted.

It was an email from Jeff Bacon, heading up the math department, complaining about a certain young man who'd been ditching his class to

"go see his guidance counselor." He misses most of every class,

the email fumed.

He can't possibly have that much to legitimately see you about.

Well, of course, the guidance counselor in question had been me, and the student had been Jason Breitman. Like a lot of seniors, he'd decided he was finished caring about school around mid-April, and had been seeking ways to ditch the classes he didn't like. Some of them hung out in the gym, or the library, or under the stairwells, or back in the custodial office buying drugs from Mr Nubitsky. They snuck under the bleachers to fuck their girlfriends, or they just went ahead and disappeared, walking home.

Probably to fuck their girlfriends.

Jason, instead, had come down to Guidance to kill his time. Often, I'd sent him away; I

did

have work to do, and there were always other seniors likewise clamoring to escape math class. But Jason, it had to be said, was fun to be around and interesting to talk to, so I admit I let him stay in my office a few times too often.

But after Bacon's email, it had to stop. "Jason, honey," I'd explained to him that day as he'd sprawled in one of the chairs across my desk, lounging in the May sun through the windows, "you can't keep ditching math and coming here. Mr Bacon is starting to notice."

"He's boring." He'd yawned, arms stretching high, and leaned dangerously back in my chair.

"Keep your chair on the floor, honey, or it'll tip over." I'd noticed his shirt had ridden up, offering up more than a hint of smooth abs and a dark, impudent trail of hair; I stopped my eyes before they looked any lower. "And pull up your shorts."

"What?" He'd tipped the chair back down, but his sprawl kept his belly exposed. He looked in my eyes and weaved his fingers behind his head. "What's wrong with my shorts?"

I still didn't look. "They're low."

He glanced down at himself. "Oh come on, Ms T, it's the style now. Half the girls in this building walk around showing more skin than this."

He was right, but this was my office. "Not in here, talking to me. Your boxers are showing, Jason," I told him evenly.

"You can?" He seemed genuinely surprised, peering down. "No you can't. Those are my shorts."

"The, like, the waistband," I spluttered, waving vaguely at his body. I was getting annoyed, but also embarrassed. Standards are difficult enough to enforce in schools with loose dress codes; it's much harder when there's a gender difference, and even worse when the kid is as confident as Jason was. "Look, just pull your shirt down."

"They're red," he'd smiled, "if you want to check."

"I do not want to check, and you're being terribly inappropriate." He'd known I wasn't mad, not really; I was not a person who ever really got mad at students. "Pull your shirt down and then get back to math class."

He'd done it, with that floppy smirk of his, and now I was staring at that Jeff Bacon email, thinking about how angry he must have been to send it, and how completely unimportant it was in the larger context of life. As if it mattered that Jason had skipped a math lesson in the bright May of his senior year, when he'd already earned enough credits to graduate, and passed all his state tests, and gotten into college. And when he'd already done the calculations to figure out how hard he had to work in Bacon's class to pass with a C.

He could certainly do

that

much math.

* * *

I don't know why I went back into Secret Whispers the week after.

Well, that's not quite true: I went back in for more thongs, because Cheryl had been right. They fit me perfectly, and I was liking the attention I was getting in leggings. But I didn't know why I went back to

that

Secret Whispers.

I do know I wasn't unhappy when I looked in from the mall and saw Jason Breitman working. I also know that as soon as I realized I wasn't unhappy about that, my mind blanked out. Because I didn't want to think about why. I skirted the watch-repair kiosk outside the Lego store, took a deep breath, examined my hair in the reflection of the Secret Whispers window, and headed inside before it occurred to me to wonder why I gave a rat's ass what my hair looked like.

But I did care.

He caught sight of me at once, I could tell, he and the two other employees scanning the door like people at an auction, searching for the next Banksy. Which clearly wasn't me, because all I got out of the three of them was a smile from one of the girls, a nymph who managed to look devastating despite the black outfit. It disappointed me a little when Jason didn't come sailing right over to meet me, and I was still pretending not to care when he found me by the thongs about two minutes later. I knew he was coming from behind me, and told myself not to turn around. "You're back."

"I am." I squared my shoulders and tried to calm my breathing. I still didn't know why I was there, nor what I was looking for, nor why I was nervous. But only because I was refusing to ask myself those questions. I was playing this by ear, listening to my instincts. "Your employee handbook was right, Jason. These are great thongs."

"If you like those, there are other options too, Ms T." He'd stepped up beside me now, close, the two of us bent over the thong bins. I could hear the smile in his voice. "We carry a full range of all kinds of things that'd fit you. All colors, too."

"Even red?" Finally, I looked up at him; he stood smiling down in that off-center way of his, tall and lithe. Quite out of the blue, I found myself remembering that line of hair on his belly. I managed a smile, not yet ready to flirt smoothly: I was rusty after so many months, and this kid had been my own student until a week ago.

Wait. Had I just admitted to myself I was trying to flirt? With Jason Breitman? I made my lips move, my throat croaking out a sound. "I think I remember you saying red was your thing."

"It is, but that's not the point." His smile gained more confidence, if that were possible. "The point isn't

my

thing, Ms Temple. The point is

your

thing. You're the customer."

"Oh?" I knew I was smiling, and I hadn't even meant to. Instinct, it seemed, was a double-edged sword. "And you're the salesman. So what's 'my thing', Jason?"

"I think that's something I should ask you, Ms T."

"No no. You're making a sale." He wasn't the only one gaining confidence. "So. Sell. What do I want?"