Taking Measurments

Often it seems guys who come in to buy lingerie for their ladies will pick and choose the associate most like their partner, so it's easier for them to ask us for the size we wear. It's a little annoying, because it puts us in a position of being evaluated on our bodies when we prefer things to be nice and impersonal.  Today we had an older guy come in. He smelled vaguely of unwashed goat, and kept to himself for the most part. He had a baseball cap and what appeared to be a hearing aid over a faded tattoo. He wandered by himself for a while, and we left him to his own devices. After a while he came up and started asking me about arousal and tightening gels. It was a conscious effort not to wrinkle my nose, he was breathing this horrible sick goat smell in my face. Don't get me wrong, I like goats. I grew up on a farm and most summers were spent running wild with the horses, goats, chickens, and dogs. But this smell had only a hint or goat, or perhaps a mortally ill goat. Or a goat wounded in battle whose wound is festering. I'm getting off topic.

Anyway, so the more he talks the more clear it becomes that he's a terrible human being. He curses an inordinate amount. I cuss for emphasis, but his every sentence was punctuated with curses. And it's not just that he's swearing, it's that every time he refers to his partner, it's: that fucking bitch. After creams he looks over toward lingerie and says, "Maybe I'll buy an outfit too, not that the fucking bitch ever wears them. She must have 80 fuckin' outfits that she's never even worn, that I fuckin' bought." I smile crookedly and shrug, saying something along the lines of, what's sexier than being naked? He ignores me and proceeds to lingerie undeterred. I try to drift away but he begins to mumble a vehement stream of cussing that I can tell I'm supposed to answer and I reluctantly trail after him. He ends up in front of a lace magenta outfit and asks if it comes with panties. I check the back and assure him it does. He mumbles and bitches about sizing, saying mediums are always too big, and smalls too small. He then gives me a look I'm familiar with and says she's about my size. But this part was new: instead of just looking me over like a hank of meat, he says, "Do you mind?" and starts reaching for my waist. I'm a very small person, I've met people who can almost span my waist with their hands, and he looks like he could accomplish it. His hands are wrinkled and spidery, his fingers are quite long, and he's reaching out toward me, hands slightly yellowed with age, dirt beneath the nails.

For one horrifying moment all I can see is these yellowing long fingers coming toward me, but my reaction left nothing to be desired. As soon as he asked, I stepped back and said, "I do mind actually." He clearly hadn't expected so firm a response. His hand hovered like questing roots and he then decided to pretend that he'd never meant to lay hands on me at all, and instead sized me up from a small distance away instead. My look was less than courteous and he snorted and began bad-mouthing his partner again. "Gimme the fuckin' medium, the fuckin' bitch can bring it back if she has to." I looked at him coolly and didn't say much more.

My mood improved when a little while later a women took some of our flavored lube sample and spread it on the back of her hand to feel. She brought her nose close and said to her husband, "I think these are scented." Me and my assistant manager looked on trying not to laugh. Neither of us told her they were flavored. If pictures of fruit on the front of the bottle aren't enough, what is?