The new trousers

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.