It was the trousers that did it. Normally I’d buy a pair of
loose cotton joggers, especially if they were for just lounging around the
house, which is what I do most days since they made me redundant from the
factory.
I wear clothes for comfort these days and ever since my
stomach started spreading and my butt cheeks started drooping, looking cool and
fashionable were the last things on my mind; but for her I’d be willing to
squeeze this aged, aching body into a two sizes too small rubber cat suit.
I never knew her name. She works on the discounted clothing
stall at the local indoor market where they sell everything from nylon
underpants to fashion shirts at two for a tenner. She was there when I called
in to buy a new pair of trousers for a job interview I had to attend. Nothing
fancy, not that they sold anything fancy, just a pair that were clean and
presentable with a waist I could grow into and that weren’t too long in the
leg.
I have short legs you see. 30 inches. Which considering I’m
6.2 is pretty unusual in a guy, but perfectly normal if you’re a male in my
family. Just another fault I inherited from my father along with premature
baldness, sticky out ears and a nose that’s shaped like a coat hanger. Not that
it bothers me, not anymore. Some people would let defects like that really eat
away at their self confidence and make them angry and bitter, but not me, why
should it? The truth is I always hated my father and I’ve always enjoyed being
single so what do I have to be bitter about?
So there I was, just browsing the half price rail for
anything in my size when she breezed around the underwear display like it was
something she did everyday, which to her, I suppose it was.
Her smile was the first thing I noticed, it started in her
eyes and finished in a warm sensation in my groin that stayed there for most of
the day.
“Hey, you ok there? You need any help?”
There she was looking up at me, with those eyes, and that
smile, and she obviously has no idea how wonderful she is. So I smile back and
the stall and the other customers melt away, and now we’re on a beach far away
from here, her with her smile and me with my stumpy legs; and I’m looking at
her and a stray hair falls across her face and I reach over and sweep it away
from her cheek with the back of my hand and for an all too brief a moment
nothing else exists in this world apart from me and her.
“What size are you looking for?” and before I can answer
she takes a step back and devours my body with her eyes. At least if this were
a porn movie that’s what she would’ve been doing, whereas in reality she was
checking to see how fat my stomach was.
“48 inches, right?”
48 inches. Jesus, why did I have to be so big? And why did she have to be so young and so
bouncy and so obviously out of my league. She was perfect. Big blue eyes
surrounded by a frame of shoulder length yellow hair that was almost as pale as
her skin. I did consider answering with a joke. Something along the lines of,
48 inches! Are you talking about my waistline or my cock? Or some other equally
witty reply that would’ve had her doubling up with laughter and helped her see
me as more than just another penny pinching overweight customer out for a cheap
pair of trousers, but I didn’t. I just laughed for no particular reason like most
guys do when they’re talking to a pretty girl who’s half their age, and said,
“Yep 48 inches, you guessed it just right.”
“Ok,” she said, “let’s see what we’ve got.”
Then she turns away and begins expertly flicking hangers along
the rail with her perfectly manicured fingers, before pulling out a pair of
white flannel slacks with no zip and an elasticated waist.
“What about these?” she said, fingering the price tag.
“They’re only £5 in the sale having been reduced from nearly £20,” and then she
showed me the label to prove she wasn’t lying. “See?”
Yeah, they look great,” I lied, because in reality they
looked anything but great. They looked like something my Granddad might have
worn when I used to visit him in the old folks home when I was a boy. They were
plain, they were dull and they were made of flannel, and they certainly weren’t
the type of thing you could wear to a job interview; even if it was only
collecting trolleys at the supermarket for minimum wage.
“Would you like to try them on? We don’t have a changing
room as such but there’s a room at the back you can use.”
And before I have the chance to reply she’s taken the trousers
and I’m following her past the underpants and towards the back of the stall,
and she’s opening a door, handing me the hanger and gesturing me inside.
Except it isn’t really a room at all, it’s more of a cubicle
with a toilet and a small dirty sink, and even though I have no intention of
disappointing the girl by not buying the trousers I figure the least I should do
is try them on. So I hang the flannel slacks on the door, pull off my trainers
followed by my joggers and pull on the new ones.
They’re horrible, and they’re so long in the leg I have to
pull them up over my belly button to stop the cuffs dangling on the floor. So
I’m just about to take them off, go back outside and tell her how much I love
them when I suddenly realise I’m desperate for a pee. Now where the urge came
from I have no idea because I only went an hour or so ago but my guess is it’s
a psychological thing. I mean, there I am standing in a bathroom surrounded by
all that water and porcelain and my subconscious mind has kick started my pipe
work and released a few valves and now suddenly I’m standing there in my new
pants and I’m desperate for a pee.
Normally being desperate for a pee isn’t a problem if you’re
standing in a bathroom, but normally the girl of your dreams isn’t on the other
side of a thin wooden door with her perfect smile and her heaving bosom and her
cute little ass, and I know if I do take a pee and my aim isn’t perfect,
absolutely dead on, then she’s going to hear the tinkle and the splash and
she’ll know that only a few feet away a middle aged man that she has absolutely
no interest in dating is inside taking a piss, and my ego just won’t allow that
to happen.
So I did what any self respecting guy would do if he was
desperate to go the toilet and her didn’t want anyone to hear. I put a few
sheets of toilet roll on the ground so I wouldn’t dirty the knees, kneeled
down, pulled my trousers and underpants down past my balls, hung the little guy
over the porcelain and let nature take its course. And that’s exactly what I
was doing when she knocked on the door.
“You ok in there?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’ve been in there a while?”
“No no, just trying them on. I’ll be right out,” I
grunted, and I would have been right out except no matter how hard I tried I
just couldn’t make it stop. So there I am, kneeling in the cubicle for what
seems like an eternity, but is probably only two or three minutes, waiting for
the flow to slow to a trickle, before giving it a quick shake and stuffing it
back in my trousers and underpants with the urgency of a guy who’s just heard a
police siren outside a brothel.
“Ok, let’s see how they look?” she said.
“Yeah sure, just give me a sec,” I say, scrambling to my
feet and readjusting myself. Once I’m satisfied there’s nothing stick out an
odd angle, or bulging where it shouldn’t be bulging, I pick the toilet paper up
from the floor, drop it in the pan, put down the seat to hide any incriminating
evidence, open the door, and swagger outside.
“So what do you think?” I said, performing a spontaneous
twirl that I regretted immediately. Twirls really aren’t a great idea when you
have a belly the size of mine and its going to carry on twirling long after the
rest of my body has stopped. So I held out my arms and struck a pose instead,
“They’re a little high in the waist but I think I can pull them off.”
“Erm, yeah they look ok.” She said, and that’s when I notice
she’s staring at my groin. Except, unlike my fantasy she isn’t staring at my
groin with animal lust, and she doesn’t look as though she’s about top push me
back inside the cubicle, lock the door, and ask me if there’s anything else I’d
like to try on for size while slowly slipping off her panties. No, she’s
scrunching up her nose and looking at me with a mixture of contempt and disgust
I haven’t seen since the last time I undressed in front of a woman. And that’s when
I glance down and see exactly what she’d been staring at.
A large circular piss stain has appeared at the crotch of my
new trousers where I obviously haven’t shaken the little guy properly, and rather
than waiting a few minutes, it’s decided that’s the perfect moment to seep
through my underpants, and reveal itself to the girl of my dreams in all its
piss stain glory.
“Oh shit! I’m sorry,” I said, covering my groin with my
hands and retreating back inside the cubicle.”
“It’s ok, it doesn’t matter,” I heard her say, “but you do
know you’ll have to buy them now don’t you?”
But isn’t what you think,” I said, hopping on one leg as I
desperately tried to pull the pants off. “It’s not like I’ve pissed myself or
anything. I must have splashed some water on them when I was washing my hands.
Honestly, I’m a right clumsy fucker I am,” and then I laughed a little too
loudly, like it had all been a big joke or something, and I’d actually meant to
humiliate myself in front of a girl half my age.
Only there was no reply from her this time. So I finished
getting changed, folded up the trousers so the stain was hidden from view, took a
deep breath and cautiously stepped outside.
She wasn’t there, she’d gone back to the counter and was
busying herself, or rather, pretending to busy herself by rearranging the sock
display, and as I walked towards her wondering if there was anything I could
say to help salvage the situation, she said, “Would you like me to put them in
a bag so they don’t drip on the floor?”
I just nodded, dropped the trousers in the carrier bag as she
held it open, paid the money and left. Confident, that I would never visit that
stall to buy a new pair of pants, ever again.
