Unselfconscious

It is not terribly uncommon for older women to not give a single fuck about being naked in front of me. When asking for help in dressing rooms they'll unselfconsciously shuck off all their clothing and stand around waiting with old lady boobs right in my face. Sometimes younger women, but mostly older. I had one in today. She came in with a big poncho looking coat, and a huge purse. She wasn't actually that old, maybe her late forties. I let her poke around for a bit then came over to offer help. I realized immediately that she was the sort of person to ask questions and then interrupt before you fully answer. I also realized that the odd smell permeating the store was her. She smelled like a blend of mint and nag champa, two smells that should never be paired together. The sharp mint clashed with the earthy nag champa and it was a nearly instant headache.

She asked, "Are these the only corsets you have?" And I said, "ye-" "I'm looking for a corset, I'm a 38DD, what do you recommend?"  I gritted my teeth and gestured to the black corset she was holding, "Well, the one you have will be good for a larger cup, because it has-" "I really want one in green." I looked at the wall, which is all black corsets. "Well we have-" Her phone starts ringing and she assures me she has to take it. I breathe out slowly and retrieve our one green corset, and start unlacing them so she'll be able to try them on. I went over to where she was on the phone and held up the green one with a question in my eyebrows.

She nodded enthusiastically and I went away to hang them by the dressing room. After I enjoyed a respite from her smell and her restless questions she got off the phone. I smelled her before I saw her and turned with a smile. "Okay, so have you tried on corsets before?" She didn't even answer me, she just turned and started pawing through the lingerie racks, leaving destruction in her wake. "This is pretty, do you have it in other colors?" I trailed after her, my anger writhing around like an impotent snake in my chest, "Yes, in red." I went to show her but she'd already forgotten she'd asked. Clearly the most important thing to her was not the answer to questions, but the act of asking them, and always being the one talking, because she chattered away like a magpie. Finally she was ready to go into the fitting room. "Okay, so with the corsets, I'll help you with the laces, one has a zipper, the other has clasps on the front. I've undone the laces, so just fasten them on, and I'll pull them tight." She wasn't listening, she was getting undressed. "Should I leave a bra on?" I grimaced as her back was turned, "Well, it's-" but it was already off.

She picked the black corset first, the one with the zipper. She started trying to pull it over her head and I made a frustrated sound, then checked myself. "It has a zipper on the side, you just undo that, and then zip it up." She barely seemed to hear me, but did as I said. Her bust was in no way close to a 38DD, but women hate to hear that sort of thing, so I showed her in the mirror how to pull on the cords. She chattered and complained about the fit the whole time and when she was fully laced in declared immediately that it just wasn't what she wanted, and it was too loose on top. I showed her how her back fat was pulling together unattractively, and how it couldn't be tightened more, and she had the corset off in a flash as I was still bent to unlace it, her boobs swinging like pendulums under my nose. I took a step back, trying not to get hit in the face, trying to look away without seeming rude.

She had just as much difficulty with the next one, bidding me hover by the open door. Despite my wish to flee, there was no one else in the store to help, and she didn't even care that she was exposed with the door partially open. She complained and squirmed her way into the green corset, unable to understand the clasps. Like the first one, her bust wasn't big enough to fill it out, but I refrained from comment. Like the sound of angels descending from heaven the door rang, and I apologized and said to call me should she need me.

She prowled lingerie barefoot, leaving her parka and purse in a heap in the dressing room so I couldn't close the door, but I washed my hands of her and let her do as she pleased until she left, leaving nothing behind but a pile of lingerie to rehang and a lingering smell of mint-nag champa.

Buying the Clothes off Your Back

For secret Santa, one of my (now ex) coworkers Marina knitted me a neck warmer. We had a delightful little interchange where she knitted it right in front of me without my knowledge and then fretted when I said I didn't want just another scarf for secret Santa. It's beautiful, the perfect shade of green to bring out my eyes, with little brass buttons for show, it's one of my favorite articles of clothing. It was also incidentally the first piece Marina ever gave away, which makes it even more special. I receive a lot of compliments when I wear it, because sometimes you find something that just conveys essence of you, like your personality distilled into clothing or accessories and people can't help but notice.

So wearing it at STORE one day, a lady compliments me on it. I smile and thank her and gesture back towards Marina. "She actually made it for me." The lady exclaims and comes forward to examine it. I feel like she's sizing up my neck in order to study how best to rip it out, but I stand still and let her, She says, "may I?" and without waiting for permission touches my neck warmer to feel the fabric. I'm itchy with the need to flee this situation, since this lady is right in my face. Not only that, but I'm very possessive of my things, I don't like the idea of her hand oils over my lovely new neck warmer, but I can't growl at her to step back while on the sales floor. She nods absently to herself, and another coworker pipes in that Marina sells them. I had been about to announce it was the first piece she gave away, and unique, and shut my mouth quickly. Marina nods frantically and the lady says, "Well, I wouldn't want green, but charcoal gray would be nice. I'll take her number or a card if she has them. Of course I'd really want to try yours on first." I ignore that comment and go to write down Marina's number while she haggles with the woman over price.

I hand her the number and she says, "Okay, now I'll try yours on." I can't vocalize the reasons why I hate that idea, because none of them sound very logical. Foremost is this woman's unshakeable faith that she can just buy the very clothes off my back. Second to that is my possessiveness and the intimate nature of the neck warmer. It sits right around an area that is very private, and vulnerable,  and it keeps it safe, and warm. Taking it off and letting this strange bossy woman try it on makes my nerves grate. But I can see that Marina is excited by the idea of making a sale of her own, and I can't explain why this feels so horrible, so I go with the lady over to a little mirror we keep and pull the neck warmer over my head and hand it to her. She stretches it over her own head and it obviously a little disappointed that it doesn't look as good on her as it did on me. I'd like to explain that the reason it looked good was that it's an extension of me, that it connects to me on a level it will never connect with her. But I don't, because then I'd be a crazy, so instead I just hold up the little mirror until she says that one in gray would look better on her and hands mine back to me. I can almost feel it readjusting to me as I put it back on, wondering why I let a stranger handle it, and I croon reassurances at it.

Shh, baby, I'm here now

Roofies?

There's a particular mold of person coming in recently that I've been finding quite disturbing. It's always the same pattern. It's a middle aged east-Indian man, and he ignores me initially when I greet him. After a brief tour of the store, he comes up and demands help. "I am looking for something." I don't know if it's a regional thing that they're looking for, but all four men that have come in have quite heavy accents. "What is it you're looking for?" I ask politely each time. "I'm looking for drops." And each of them has mimed an eye dropper. I get this a lot, where people are looking for a thing by name, or some obscure description. The best way to hone in on what they want is to ask, "What do you want it to do?"

"It's for the lady. It makes her... more, in the mood?" I think it over and bring him to topical creams and gels. "These are mostly liquids, they go on clitorally to make her more sensitive and aroused. Is this what you're looking for?" He listens carefully with a little frown. "She drinks this?" In alarm I shake my head, "No, it goes on the skin." I mime rubbing it in on my hand. His frown deepens. "No, I want drops that go in her drink." He mimes the eye dropper again. I get a little suspicious and take him over to the drink aphrodisiacs. They come in little shots that say SEX SHOTS. "She can drink these if you want a liquid aphrodisiac, they're good for energy and arousal. Something like this?" He shakes his head. "No, I want drops, they go in the drink and make her aroused." I frown at him and shake my head, uncomfortable with the implications. "No, we don't have that." He gives a little exasperated sound, and I make one last effort. "We have pills, that are good for arousal, but no drops." "Show me that." So I take him around to the pill case and explains about the pills. "She can take these for arousal." He shakes his head in an immediate negative and turns to me, "I'm afraid you are not understanding me."

Unimpressed, I recite, "You want drops that you can put in a woman's drink that will make her aroused, not a pill that she has to take, or the shots." He nods excitedly and I shake my head, "We don't have that. They sound illegal." Typically at this point they'll go back over the areas I've shown them, consider the options, then leave, usually after asking once more if I'm sure we don't have drops. Oh gee, you asked me several times what you wanted. Oh wait, you wanted drops that you can dose women with to get them in the mood? Oh thooose drops, of course, why didn't you say so? We keep those over here.

So far this hasn't happened to anyone but me, but I swear the next time I'm just going to say, "Oh roofies?" And when they say yes I'll call the cops on them.

The Monsoon

So, this week hasn't been great. I definitely try to keep the sad parts of real life off here, but this is something you can totally enjoy with some Schadenfreude. Late at night, right before I was falling asleep my roomie comes in. I call him that because until the week before he'd been my boyfriend. "There's something in the walls. It sounds like creaking, or maybe chewing. Come listen." I make a face, "I would, but the kitten is under the covers on my feet." If you ever have a kitten under the covers on your feet, don't ever give it up. It's magical and fluffy. He gave up and went away for a minute then comes back. "No, the kitten has to move, you need to see this." Griping loudly I gently move her away and clamber out of bed. He leads me to the bathroom, where water is dripping down all along the door jamb.

Groaning and griping, since it's 1am, I grab my boots and jackets and set out a plan, "Alright, I'm going upstairs to find out what the hell our neighbor is doing. Try to set out towels. I'll be back." So I tromp up the stairs and start knocking insistently. Before too long, I feel really bad, cause it's late, or early however you spin it, and the neighbors might not deserve to hear my ruckus. Each knock echoes across the dimly lit hallway, and I can well imagine people scowling in their beds at my knocking and occasional pleas of, "You're flooding our apartment...!" I can hear movement and a TV behind the door, but no one answers me, and I give up. I hear a fire alarm start in a nearby apartment. I walk back downstairs and the roomie is meeting me halfway looking agitated. "What?" I ask. I wish I hadn't. He showed me that two new leaks had started, and that fire alarm going off was ours. With mounting irritation, I scrounged up the emergency numbers and call in for maintenance. A sleepy voice answers after a minute, "Hullo?" I hope it's just the fact that I've just woken him up, but he sounds a little like that one retarded cousin everyone has. "Uhm, it's raining in my apartment, and the fire alarm won't go off, we think it's shorted out." There's silence and a distinctly autistic voice says, "Really?"

"Yes, it's dripping out of our smoke detector, and door jamb, and several other places." He tells me he'll be a few minutes, and hangs up. I reenter the apartment, and start checking around the area for more leaks. I find a huge puddle and retrieve a bowl. It soon becomes apparent that bowls alone aren't doing much good, since the splashing is getting everywhere. I retrieve towels and then we hunker down to wait. It's awkward. Me and the roomie try not to make too much eye contact, and the blaring fire alarm just went on and on. I was also having inner ear trouble, so each klaxon shriek of the ungodly machine was like a parrot thunking nails into my head with it's beak while shrieking a song in which every note is wrong.

We twiddled our thumbs waiting for the maintenance guy and I share my fear with the roomie that he's a bit slow. My suspicions are confirmed when he arrives after 20 minutes. We let him in and he checks that water is indeed pouring from the door jamb of the bathroom door, from the smoke detector in the bathroom, and on the other side of the door in my bedroom. "I'm gonna go find out what's happening. I'm really new. I've only been here a month, and everyone is on vacation." This unwelcome news sinks in as he leaves. Updates came sporadically. After some thumps upstairs the water seemed to slack off in the hallway. We were heartened until we heard a spout in the living room. Alarmed, we set up a huge bowl under our hanging light fixture. If you've never seen a small waterfall coming from a working light hanging precariously close to two computer desks, count yourself lucky. The alarm shrieking came in threes and in a lull waiting to find out what would happen and dispirited, I suddenly started laughing. The roomie looked over curiously. "You know that story Charlie tells, the one he made up, how in high school I missed the bus and walked through the rain, bursting through the door with a crash of lightening to yell, 'I. Hate. Penises!'" He gave me a sad half smile and nodded. "Well, I keep assigning single syllable words to the fire alarm to make me hate it less. Sounds like it's yelling, 'I. Hate. Dicks.'"

"Not funny?" He shook his head and we fell back into silence. It probably would have been funnier if I hadn't been leaving him because I like girls. The maintenance worker came back and at this point it's been about an hour of this shrieking, with a monsoon taking place in the living room. "That's really loud. Lemme see if I can stop it. Just gotta get my ladder." He left. He was gone for about 15 minutes, the walk upstairs being about a minute. He returned and pulled off the shrieking pile of useless wires that I would have happily incinerated. He fussed with it for a few minutes, looking increasingly confused. He poked at it with his screwdriver, making almost obscene little, "Uh!" sounds as he did so. We stared at him with both hope and dismay. He looked over, "Do you have a flashlight?" A frantic search ensued and it was established that we did, but with no batteries. "Okay, I'll go get mine." Dispirited we watched hm leave. He returned almost twenty minutes later. At this point, the devil machine was screaming, "Hate. Your. Life!" He had his flashlight but I realized immediately he had forgotten his screw driver.

When he mentioned it, rather than let him leave we assured him we had one. Pressing our screwdriver into his hands we hurried him up the step stool. As we watched him fiddle a torrent of water gushed forth from the fluorescent light in the kitchen. It was the steadiest stream yet, and I jumped past him to place our biggest bowl and towel under it. As I was placing the towel the emergency sprinkler near the hanging light fixture sprang a leak just as big. I meeped in panic and hastened to move my work bag, and laptop. While touring through the bowls and pots I noticed water was dripping down from the light switch in my bedroom. Discouraged I set a towel under it, knowing there wasn't much to be done about that one.

At the two hour in hell mark, the man finally manages to disable the fire alarm. Me and the roomie both sag with relief. Finally able to effectively communicate we thank him profusely, and I'm getting over my prejudice because I'm so goddamn grateful that the klaxon has stopped. "Are the leaks getting better?" We gesture around. "They're moving, most of the bathroom has stopped, but the living room is now housing two small waterfalls." He nods worriedly, "We finally found the guy upstairs." The way he said it made my ears perk up. "What was wrong with him? Was he stoned?" He scowls at the thought of our upstairs neighbor, but shakes his head, "I can't really say. But he had left his bathtub running, and couldn't turn it off." He repeated that everyone of importance was on vacation, but that they'd come and reinstall the smoke detector the next day, and check the water damage.

Because of his reticence I am convinced the neighbor was either injecting himself with black tar heroine, or was practicing auto-erotic asphyxiation, and passed out.

The next day we discovered this in the bathroom, and I needn't illustrate cause this is the real godamn wall, and that's horrid. The water got under the paint, leaving this behind.

But that wasn't the end of it. The monsoon would have one last revenge. I was at home two days after the rainstorm, and had just collected all the towels from the last reluctant drips. I went in the kitchen to make myself a desperation sandwich (this is a sandwich made of two ends of the loaf, because there's no bread left in the house). As I was putting on the finishing touches, the light went out for a moment and then I had water dumped on me, and sprayed across the kitchen. I leaped a foot in the air trying to understand what had happened. When I finally looked up, I saw the case of the florescent light had come unhinged, dumping the last of the water that couldn't escape through the cracks onto the floor. I put out one last small bowl, and couldn't enjoy my desperation sandwich, because I was convinced water had gotten on it, and the water turned most of the towels brown and left gunky soap suds in the bowls. If I ever see the man upstairs coming or going I'm just gonna punch him in the face.