Seconds And Irregulars : 6

A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Under every guilty secret, lies hidden a brood of guilty wishes.

– George Eliot

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While Laura was busy initiating Camille into the mysteries of Fit-4-U clothes, Ozzie lounged at home, blissfully alone, enjoying the dolce far niente – the sweet feeling of doing nothing at all.

His body hung limp, draped over his well-worn recliner, his lazy bones fully horizontal, his eyes aimed squarely at the television screen. Although he'd placed himself in the optimal TV-viewing position, and though the television's remote control lay squarely in the loosely-curled fingers of his slack right hand, he wasn't watching TV. The TV wasn't even on.

Ozzie felt that he'd earned a rest, and right now he was getting it.

It's not clear – not even to Ozzie himself – what he might have done to earn this rest, but he had a strong sense that it was due, and he meant to enjoy it.

In that moment, passive, inert, untroubled as he was, Ozzie resembled nothing so much as a ragdoll. Or perhaps a he might bring to mind puddle of mercury, lying flat and undisturbed because he had nowhere to go, nowhere to even drip or flow away. If Ozzie didn't have the physical need to breath or blink, he wouldn't be moving at all.

By a perverse paradox, Ozzie felt in that moment a supreme sense of achievement. Here and now, in exactly this state, he saw himself as an exemplar of man at his absolute best. After all, wasn't this, here, the destination the tadpole hoped to find, when it climbed free of the primeval ooze, and began its slow, labored ascent up the evolutionary ladder? What greater good had man created for himself than this: to repose in peace, unmolested by man, beast, or weather? To have surpassed the need to hunt or forage his food? To make fire by snapping his fingers or by turning a dial, rather than by batting rocks or rubbing sticks together?

Ozzie was sophisticated enough that in his languid slothfulness, he wasn't even hoping to fall asleep. He didn't want or need to sleep right now. Even sleep was something to do, and Ozzie wanted nothing to do.

And yet, as indolent as he appeared, his mind was busy at work, turning over and over a single question: He pondered, as he had been pondering, whether a cold beer might be worth the walk downstairs to the kitchen, even at this early hour. He considered a corollary to his question: he debated, as he often debated, whether a small fridge might be a wise investment, an astute addition to his office... Could the time saved by not having to walk downstairs, present a decent return on investment? Would it be deductible as an office expense?

Of course, he had to consider what Camille might have to say about it... if she knew. If she knew. Here was another question worth pondering: Was there a way that he could install a small fridge here in his office without her knowing? Without her even seeing?

It might be possible. It was something to consider.

Inevitably, his fanciful visions of cleverly-executed millwork were interrupted. The outside world intruded.

In the midst of Ozzie's mental meanderings, the doorbell rang. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Or was it bing-bong?

Ozzie cocked his head and listened. Camille usually called it on her way to the door, the way baseball players do. She'd sing out, "I've got it!" although the sound of her footsteps on the hardwood floor usually sent the same message.

This time, though, she didn't call it. This time, there were no footsteps.

Ozzie rolled his eyes and sighed. "CAMILLE!" he sang out, making three syllables of her name. "DOORBELL!" (As if she hadn't heard.)

After a pause, the doorbell ding-donged once again.

"CA-MEEE-ULLL!" Ozzie yodeled, "SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR!" (He made "door" into two syllables as well. It carried farther that way.)

After another pause, the doorbell rang more insistently: ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!

"Oh, God damn it," Ozzie muttered. "Do I have to do everything in this house?" He stood up, knowing he could project a louder shout standing than he could lying. It had something to do with diaphragmatic breathing.

"CAAAA-MEEEE-ULLLLL!" He bellowed. Long tones. He listened. Nothing. "Ah!" he reminded himself, "She's not home."

The doorbell rang again, and Ozzie, feeling badly put-upon, trudged downstairs, shouting, "I'm coming! I'm coming! Jeez! Keep your hair on, will ya?"

It was Saturday morning. Didn't everyone feel the sacredness of the hour? Why, how, did someone dare to interrupt his well-earned rest by leaning on his bell?

Ozzie prided himself on being a great explainer, and as he approached the door, an exposition, a speech, a dressing-down assembled itself in his mind: whoever was out there, whatever miscreant defiled his doorbell on a Saturday, would soon receive a Great Life Lesson, laid out in bullet points with clever turns of phrase, fit to be featured as soundbites in the memory of this person forever after...

Good and ready to "let them have it," Ozzie took a deep, generous breath of air and whipped the door open with one mighty movement, so he could lead with the element of surprise. Shock and awe, or something like it.

 

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Surprise!

Ozzie was set to deliver a big surprise to someone, beginning with a startling reveal. Namely, himself, a man dressed as the very picture of indolence: barefoot, clad in a faded pair of baggy gray sweatpants. Sweatpants that did not skimp on the baggyness. These were pants that had long ago left disreputable in the rear view mirror. The legs hung limp, lax, sagging: a pair of long, lifeless shapes. Above that, a white t-shirt that had seen better days, with a neck stretched out so far, you could legitimately ask whether its wearer could step into the shirt and pull it up to his shoulders. Then, naturally, a bristly, scratchy, unshaven face and neck nearly completed the look, along with his crowning glory: a tousled, unkempt bed-head of hair that cried out for a brushing, at least by the fingers of one hand, if that weren't too much to ask.

Garbed in that way, suited perfectly for the occasion, which (he thought) required him to explain to some random, empty-headed noddle, the sacred duty of weekend indolence.

However, today was going to be a day of great turnabouts, and the first turnabout was happening right now.

it wasn't Ozzie who delivered the surprise: the surprise was delivered to him.

In the single second when he whipped the door open, Ozzie understood a trio of facts in a single moment.

First of all, it was UPS who delivered the surprise. He could see the letters, plainly written, on the truck at the curb.

Second, even without the literal clue giving it away, he was tipped off by the uniform of the delivery person: specifically by its color, famously known as Pullman Brown, a trademark of the United Parcel Service.

Last of all, the delivery person herself: the characteristic shorts and short-sleeved shirt of her uniform did nothing to hide the fact that the courier standing on Ozzie's doorstep was a strikingly beautiful young woman with skin the color of caramel, round high cheekbones, long luxurious eyelashes, a bewitching smile and two full red lips.

Not only was her smile beguiling, her stomach was flat, and her breasts were perfectly symmetrical half-spheres. This woman, Ozzie felt and perceived, was one of the very rare cases of an allure, a charm, a beauty in which there was no room for improvement. There was nothing any man, any lover of the female form, could possibly want to change.

Ozzie's ire dissolved in a microsecond.

The driver apologized for her insistent ringing, but Ozzie would have none of it: "Oh, no, oh no! You have nothing to apologize for! It was all my fault! I should have answered sooner!" Then, confiding, "See, my wife isn't home, but I didn't realize she was out..."

While he babbled, she handed him a tablet and a stylus, and pointed. He signed as spoke: "and it's a big house, you can see... if you need to stop for a moment... if there's anything I can do–"

"No, that's everything!" she chirped, and while he searched his brain for a follow-up, for a hook, for a clever one-liner, she was already down the walk and back in her truck. His brain couldn't kick into gear. Like his body a moment ago, it was inert. Not even idling. Completely disengaged.

He watched her walk, he watched her go, he watched her check her itinerary, and then – oh, the lost opportunity! – he watched her drive her neat brown truck drive down the street and away.

It never occurred to him, not even once during or following their entire exchange, that he was standing on his front steps in his pajamas, in need of a shave, and not smelling his best.

Still, he found consolation by telling himself that he'd come close, oh so very close, to convincing that attractive young woman to come inside... very nearly lured her into his parlor... and who knows what would have followed?

If we consult the objective reality, the delivery person was well practiced in (1) leaving the package, (2) getting the signature, and (3) getting the hell out. She sized up Ozzie the instant he opened the door, and every one of her subsequent actions pointed like an arrow to her driving safely away.

Ozzie, still dreaming of the pleasures he falsely believed were so nearly in his grasp, almost closed the door on the entire reason for her visit: the box!

It wasn't a small box, either. A neat, clean, cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a perfect cube, three feet high, three feet wide, three feet deep.

Ozzie sighed. Was *he* supposed to carry it inside? He made a mental note: he could have, should have, asked the young woman to carry the box inside! Next time, next time! If the situation presents itself again.

But then again, if that young woman could carry the box, it certainly couldn't present a problem for Ozzie.

He bent his knees, got a good grip, and straightened up. The box wasn't heavy at all! What on earth could it be? So big... so light... He gave it a little shake and heard a light whisper, a soft frou frou, the rustling of what sounded like clothing inside.

To his utter astonishment, the sound caused Ozzie's breath to catch in his throat, and brought a sensation like a burst of butterfly wings inside his chest. The feeling was one of excitement, even joy (!), but tinged with a light dose of fear.

What kind of sense did that make?

Ozzie stopped at the bottom of the stairs, near the doorway to the kitchen. He still had the box in his hands, but hadn't bothered to check who sent it.

He glanced down at the label. "OVERNIGHT EXPRESS" it read. The next line made his mouth go dry: "Fit-4-U – Home of the Guaranteed Fit!"

"Guaranteed fit, my ass!" he growled, but even so, he was impressed by the level of service. For a free item, they'd sprung for free shipping, and not only that, but overnight shipping! It couldn't be cheap.

He shook the box again and heard the same tantalizing, hushed swish of clothes softly shifting inside. There came the stirring in his chest again, but not as strong as the first time.

I've got to take a look, he told himself. Got to see if it lives up to the pictures. He hauled the box easily up the stairs, into his office.

He ran back downstairs to the kitchen, for a knife to open the box with, and for a beer, to help clear his thoughts.

 

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In no time at all, every surface in Ozzie's office was covered by a piece of the maid costume: the skirt and the petticoat were spread like two fans over his recliner; the intimate apparel lay across his desk.He closed his laptop, and for some reason, set the tiny pair of shoes there. The bodice and blouse ended up on a second chair, and the empty box got shoved awkwardly into the corner, by the door.

It's interesting to note that when Ozzie unpacked the pieces of the costume and carefully laid them around the room on display, that he didn't touch a single item with his bare hands. He didn't realize he was doing it; it was a completely unconscious thing, as though he might somehow ruin the clothes by handling them too roughly or incautiously. He used the light, white sheets of crinkly paper in lieu of gloves, protecting the clothes from his touch.

It should be said that Ozzie considered himself a real man; a man's man, in fact. A model for other men to measure their masculinity by. He had never been a person with the least interest in clothes. He could certainly admire a woman's clothes, but not the individual pieces themselves; what he saw, what he liked to see was the ensemble, the total effect. A woman's appeal was composed not only of what she wore, but how she wore it; how she moved underneath it. Her hair, her face, her figure, and of course a dozen other elements that, summed up, gave her an allure, a charm... and a come-hither look didn't hurt, either.

But no, Ozzie never, ever, commented (even to himself), "My, what a cute little skirt!" or "What an elegant pair of shoes she's wearing!" No. That would be unthinkable. He was never aware of the details, of the pieces that made up the look; Ozzie only arrived at the end, when the total was already neatly summed, and he'd say, "What a babe!" or even "Hubba hubba" (although that last phrase was a private joke; never something he said out loud).

That said, the garments that lay all around Ozzie's office undeniably arrived at the hubba hubba level all on their own, even without a woman inside them. They were so extraordinary that after he'd spread them over every flat surface in his office, Ozzie didn't dare touch them. They were too beautiful. He marvelled over them, with a feeling akin to awe. The words chic and luxurious came to mind... words he'd never had much use for, until now.

The quality of the cloth and the workmanship astounded him. "And these are supposed to be irregular?" he murmured to himself. "They look perfect to me!"

Quite pleased with himself, and pleased with his haul, Ozzie took a step back and a swig of beer. Nothing like a long-neck bottle, as a beer-delivery system, he quipped to himself.

But then, he scowled. The beer... it didn't taste quite the way it should. It didn't have the usual taste. There was a mildly sour aftertaste, like walnuts gone bad, and another sip of beer didn't wash the taste away. It struck him with a sense of dismay, and he blamed the clothes! Clearly, spending time with those clothes had somehow influenced him, tainted him, and tweaked his senses. Elevated them somehow. Just enough that he perceived his own coarseness. Which was ridiculous! He wasn't coarse! Where did that word even come from? Still, ridiculous or not, he didn't like the feeling. He didn't want to stand in that light. He didn't enjoy this feeling of self-consciousness he was somehow (and hopefully temporarily!) acquired. But how could the clothes do this to him?

Because it had to be the clothes, after all.

He'd been breathing it in, all these minutes... a scent, maybe? or something not-quite-a-scent. An essence? Could it be pheromones? Could clothes even do that? Whether clothes in general could or could not, these clothes were breathing out an influence into the air... Not roses, not lavender. Something far more subtle and magnetic. And poor Ozzie had been drinking it in all this time.

It beguiled him; gave him a sense of having transgressed, of having intruded and stepped across a threshold into a sanctum sanctorum. A place meant for women only, that men could never see, where men were not allowed... a forbidden place, like a women's clothing store. Yet now he was inside such a place! And he found himself alone.

Like an atheist standing naked
in a church
at midnight Mass
on Christmas...

at the Vatican...

in the Pope's own personal chapel
full of fear, excitement, and guilt...

with the eminent possibility of being discovered,
and once found out,
of being struck by lightning
for having violated sacred ground.

Then... feeling all of that... even so...

After swallowing hard
Ozzie reached for the panties...

He wanted to pick them up, to examine them, to see whether he could get to the bottom of things... not only of this crazy "guaranteed fit" but also of this strange witchcraft at work on his brain. His hands trembled over the finery, but his hands... look at his hands!

Ozzie ran to the bathroom and washed his hands well. Front and back. They didn't look dirty, but you never knew. Then he washed them a second time, just to be sure. He dried his hands with a fresh, clean towel, then used the towel to dust off the front of his clothes, just in case. He returned to his office – feeling better prepared – and with extraordinary care and attention he inspected each piece, one at a time, working his way around the room so he'd arrive last at the panties themselves.

To his surprise, the cloth didn't stretch. None of them. Or at least, there was no significant stretch. There was less "give" in the material than he expected. It was soft, yet strong. Except for the bodice, which was firmer, harder than the other clothes; it was reinforced somehow. As he turned it over and traced the boning with his fingers, he realized that the midsection had a built-in corset. Interesting, he observed with a smirk, a *corset* for clothes with a "guaranteed fit." Seemed like a contradiction there, didn't it! Ha!

With that observation, Ozzie thought that he'd found the trick, or at least gotten on the trail, of this supposed "guaranteed fit" balderdash. Of course it fit! he told himself – once you squeezed yourself down to the right size!

Naturally, he was wrong. He couldn't have been more wrong, as we will see! But at least he was happy.

From the corner of his eye, Ozzie spotted an envelope he'd missed, still lying in the delivery box – actually, *two* envelopes! One contained three pairs of stockings, which he draped with exaggerated care over the television set.

The second envelope contained two pairs of ankle socks with lace ruffles: one black pair, one white pair. He set both pairs on the seat of his desk chair.

At that point, with the feeling of a man who's done a day's work, he took another swallow of beer and surveyed the field. Ozzie congratulated himself on acquiring such a fabulous costume for FREE! It was an incredible find. And if it actually fit Camille – or even Laura! – even better!

Then he caught himself. Yes, it would be wonderful if the outfit would fit Camille, if he could get her to wear it. If wishes came true, he'd wish for that. He'd love to see her all dressed up, all sexy, covered in frills and ruffles and lace. Smiling, bending over, fluttering her feather duster at him like a real coquette. Or was it a croquette? No, croquette was that game with mallets. In any case, he could easily picture it, and the picture greatly pleased him.

Unfortunately, he had to remind himself, the idea was NOT to dress Camille, or even Laura, in this outfit. The point of this exercise was proving that Fit-4-U was a crock, a scam, a great big stinking load of hooey. These clothes weren't supposed to fit either woman. For Laura, they'd be too big. For Camille, they'd be too small. He needed to keep that mind.

Then Ozzie was struck by a sudden thought: he needed to face facts, here. It never occurred to him before this moment, but perhaps Laura was as much a dupe as Camille. It was entirely possible that she sincerely *believed* this guaranteed-fit nonsense. She was certainly gullible enough. He'd be doing both women, Camille and Laura, a big favor, a huge favor, by opening their eyes in this way, with this outfit.

Up to this point, Ozzie hadn't truly picked up and handled any of the garments. Yes, he'd taken them one by one from the delivery box, and laid them out to see, but that was a simple, mechanical act of unpacking. And yes, he'd inspected the material of each garment, but only to test for stretch, for give. Now he took a step further into the experience:

He picked up the panties in his hands, and found himself drawing a deep, slow breath. Now his eyes and fingers were seeing the thing together, with full attention.

After verifying once again that there was no real stretch in the fabric, and very little give, he rubbed the magilon between his fingers. He trailed it sensuously over the back of his hand.

So, were all of these garments made of magilon? Everything from the underwear to the shoes?

Apparently. So the labels would lead you to believe. Was it truly possible for a single fabric to be rendered in so many ways?

He lifted the underwear towards his nose, to smell it. It had almost no scent at all, except for that indefinable, subtle, almost imperceptible note.

And then, he froze in horror – he had very nearly rubbed the panties on his face! Good thing he stopped in time! His stiff, bristly beard might rip the delicate fabric to shreds! And then what would he do? How could he ever explain the state he almost reduced them to?

He ran back into the bathroom, meaning to give himself a quick shave, but as he stood at the sink, he caught a whiff of himself, and decided that a quick shower was in order.

There was no point in getting his body odor on the clothes, if he hadn't done so already. Women have such sensitive noses! Camille, for example, always made a point of asking that a certain mechanic not work on their car, because the man is a smoker. It's not as though he smokes in the car when he works on it, but she claims that the smell of it is on him, on his clothes – that it transfers to the car, and then – here is the absurd part – that it further transfers from the car onto Camille's clothes–

"And it takes weeks for the reek to come out!" she'd cry.

With that in mind... and purely from an excess of caution, Ozzie stepped into the shower and gave himself a thorough scrubbing. In a moment of ingenuity, he decided to use Camille's shampoo and body wash, so that any scent she detected would be her own. Clever lad!

While he was under the shower, Camille's body wash made him think about Camille.

What if she suddenly arrived home while he was in the midst of... whatever it was he was doing?

Well... it's not as though he's doing anything wrong! He'd explain the idea, the experiment. She'd get it. She'd have to see it. He'd bring in the word FREE as soon as the conversation would allow. That would certainly win points.

It would probably also help if he presented his plan as a hypothesis, as a test, just an idea. He'd be *magnanimous*. He'd say IF I'M WRONG... IF YOU'RE RIGHT...

That would be good. It would be non-threatening. An open-handed offer.

Besides, she'd know, she'd be able to see right off, that the clothes weren't meant for HIM. She'd know he'd never put a stitch of women's clothes on his body.

And besides, too: haw haw haw, none of those pieces would fit him anyway!

And ding, ding, ding by the way! Point taken against "guaranteed fit" right there! Not even out of the gate and already in the lead!

He stood at the sink, dripping wet, and gave himself a swift, free-handed shave. Miraculously, he came out of it without a scratch.

As he dried himself, Ozzie walked back to his office. It didn't make sense to put the clothes he'd been wearing back on. He knew that in Camille's mind, he'd be transferring his old smells, the ones he just got rid of, back onto himself. So he stood, towel around his waist, and, breathless, picked up the panties.

For some reason, he needed to clear his throat several times. Then he closely studied the material, as though he hadn't looked at it twenty times already..

It felt so fine, of such high quality... The pants were dark gray, not-quite transparent. They seemed woven from water, or air... something ineffable — whatever that meant. He was sure that women's clothes weren't all like this. Camille had some sexy items – silk and satin, he thought, (if they aren't the same thing?), lace, transparent, and all that... Some of Camille's lingerie was absolutely, heart-stoppingly sexy – but nothing she owned was quite this calibre. And, judging simply by eye and memory, these were far smaller than anything he'd ever seen Camille wear.

Gingerly, still not trusting whatever bristles might remain, he lightly touched the cloth to his face for a moment.

Then he wafted the item across his chest, and down his inner arm. He couldn't help but gasp softly. He'd never had an experience with clothes that was anything like this.

He stepped into the hallway and listened for any sign that he was not alone. He heard nothing. He glanced out the window. No sign of Camille's car. Good.

All clear...

Breathing raggedly, unevenly, he rubbed the underwear against the smooth skin of his inner thigh, and heard himself whimper with pleasure. He'd never made that sound before. Never in his entire blessed life.

What followed, was images... pictures that came, unbidden, into his mind: in his mind's eye he saw Camille and Laura, naked, struggling, heads down, hair hanging loose around their faces, unable to get the lingerie over their hips. The images were quite vivid. More true-to-life than life itself. Ozzie licked his lips, and – he couldn't help it – he began breathing hard. Harder. Deeper.

Then came the forbidden temptation, the unthinkable thought: what if he, Ozzie, tried on the underwear? Well, not really "tried it on" – Ha! That would be impossible! What he meant, was, what if he just slipped it partway up his leg? Say, as high as his knee? If it would even go that far! "Guaranteed fit," he whispered to himself, laughing coarsely and groaning for no accountable reason. After all, his thigh was bigger around than the tiny leg holes in this little bit of cloth! His legs are too big, too manly and muscular. None of this fluff, this frippery, could possibly contain his frame.

The bra, for example, had no chance at all of ever circling his chest. He laughed to himself. And the bodice? With its boning? He could wear it as a hat!

Ozzie kicked away the towel that lay bunched up at his feet. Standing in the midst of all those feminine frills and furbelows, fingering the pristine, virginal intimates, he stopped. No. He couldn't do it. He couldn't desecrate these clothes! They were too delicate. They were far too fine for a lout like Ozzie.

And then, despite his inner dialog, holding open the lovely lingerie bottom, he lifted his right foot and took his first real step into the world of women's clothes.