— Edith Head
This is the story of a pig-headed man who tries to prove a point
animated by his misunderstanding of dress sizes,
and more generally, by his inability to listen to others,
particularly women,
and especially, his wife.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Camille loves a good party the way a mermaid loves water. It's her element; where she lives and moves and draws delight.
Tonight's party is especially delightful. Mark and Laura's house is the perfect setting: open, expansive, spread out over many backgrounds, levels, vibes. It's beautiful, yet comfortable. It's photogenic, like a house from a architectural magazine, and yet it's welcoming and easy. You instinctively, immediately, feel free to wander anywhere, from the raised area above the living room, out through the French doors to the ample patio outside, onward and outward to lush backyard beyond, or directly downstairs to the dance floor in the basement.
So many guests! Such a mix of known and unknown faces! You might spy an old friend across the room, and spend the rest of the evening trying to make your way over to them, only to find yourself waylaid at every step by a familiar or half-familiar face. Despite the crowd, despite the mill and press, it was (almost magically) an environment where you could easily step into a quiet corner and talk for hours with a single soul, if that's what you wanted. Or... you could bounce – as Camille's husband Ozzie loved to do – floating through the crowd like a pinball, hitting every bumper -- where the bumpers are little groups of people and their small conversations. Ozzie would ping over, interrupting one conversation after another, tossing off greetings and one-liners, then moving on with faux regrets ("sorry! can't stay!").
While Ozzie danced across the surface of the partygoers, the way a water-bug zig-zags impossibly over a pond, Camille did her best to dive in, again and again, connecting as best she could. Her heart was set on catching up, renewing acquaintances, squeezing hands and arms, kissing cheeks, giving and receiving hugs...
She wasn't overwhelmed. Not in the least. She loved every moment. It gave her energy. Running her hands over the warp and weft of the social fabric renewed her. Rubbing elbows was her way to recharge.
Still, even mermaids every so often need to catch their breath. Which is why she spontaneously found herself at the top of a short flight of stairs, her hand on the railing, collecting herself as her eyes danced over the crowd below.
There and then, for the first time that night, she frowned.
Camille loves her husband, Ozzie, but right now there was nothing she wanted more in the world than to give her man a hearty smack! on the side of his foolish head.
He'd done his ricochet from one conversational node to the next, until he finally ran out of people to bump into. He stood in a bare patch of floor, unaware of Camille's eyes upon him, in that brief moment unsure of what to do with himself. But only for a moment.
Ozzie is (quite unconsciously) a not-quite-comical character. He could be amusing and fun if only he quit trying to be charming. Right now, at that very moment, he saw himself as utterly suave, completely irresistible; the local embodiment of Bond, James Bond.
On the contrary! In spite of being clean and well-dressed, Ozzie looked like nothing so much as a hobo who'd just climbed down from a well-worn, wooden boxcar: a hobo who'd found a rumpled suit and a suspiciously clean white shirt, and dressed himself in them. His bandy legs bowed and rocked; his lanky frame settled to his left, following the tilt of his oversized head.
Ozzie had – if we can continue for a moment the image of the man as a well-dressed hobo, a hobo who'd spotted a fresh-from-the-oven, god-bless-America apple pie cooling on a window sill, a hobo whose mouth watered with anticipation – Ozzie's "pie" in this circumstance being a young woman, a member of the catering staff, who was currently engaged in looking for champagne glasses in need of topping up. For that purpose, she held a towel-wrapped bottle with two delicate hands at the height of her chest.
Ozzie stood behind her, cocking his foolish head this way and that, estimating, admiring, considering... imagining his chances (which, objectively speaking, were nonexistent at best). Whiskey glass in hand, he leisurely took in the view from behind: studying the young woman's legs, her derriere, her trim waist, and last of all her hair, which hung in loose, frizzy, untamed curls halfway down her back.
Ozzie's ogling was as unwelcome a sight as a dead fly tumbling down from the sky to land with precision on a pristine dish of vanilla ice cream – in this case, Camille's metaphorical ice cream. Without meaning to, she let out a loud huff of disapproval – which Ozzie was too far off to hear.
Laura, the party's hostess, rolled up alongside Camille and followed her gaze.
"Don't worry, hon. It's harmless," Laura told her. Without meaning to, Camille shot her a half-offended glance, so Laura quickly added, "At least, that's what I always tell myself."
Camille shook her head.
"Men are like dogs..." Laura began.
"Right," Camille agreed. "They are. Ozzie's looking that girl over, as if he was going to buy her. Like she was a horse or something."
"She's not all that," Camille added in an unkind tone. "She's just young."
"Don't be catty!" Laura teased, with a smirk and a gentle elbow. "Anyway, Ozzie hasn't got a chance. I know for a fact that that girl has a boyfriend any woman would drool over. I'll point him out to you later."
Camille answered with a sigh. She wanted to turn away, but at the same time couldn't close her eyes to her husband's foolishness and potential embarrassment. She glanced at Laura and realized that – at the same time – she didn't want to appear too concerned. She didn't want to give the impression that she and Ozzie were having "issues." And so she tried to tweak the conversational direction; at least a little. She aimed to give it slightly less personal tone.
"I wish men could have that experience," she said. "... of being looked at like a piece of meat." She managed to keep the edge of resentment out of her voice.
"That wouldn't work." Laura responded. "It wouldn't help at all. Men would *love* being seen like meat, being treated as sexual objects. In their minds, it would work in their favor."
Camille smiled in a distracted way. She'd blundered into a conversational dead end, and she didn't like it there. Laura, seeing this, sensing it, gave the conversation a decisive turn: still about Ozzie, but not about Ozzie on the prowl. "Has Ozzie spoken to Mark at all tonight?"
Camille shook her head. "Not that I've seen."
"Is he avoiding him?"
Camille shrugged.
"Is Ozzie still working in that same–"
"Yes," Camille cut in.
"You know that Mark has a great job that's just waiting for Ozzie. It'd be perfect for Ozzie; Ozzie would be perfect for it. But Mark's gotten tired of offering. At this point Ozzie's got to do the asking. But that's all he's got to do! All he has to do is ask, and the job is his."
"I know," Camille said.
"It would mean more money, a better commute..." Laura tempted.
"I know," Camille said.
"Then why won't he take it? Why can't he ask?"
"It's his stupid machismo!" Camille answered. "I'm so tired of it."
Laura nodded, "Yeah, I know what you mean. I figured as much."
"He's so friggin' obstinate! It's idiotic male pride, you know?"
Laura smiled. "Believe me, I get it. Ozzie is so competitive! If he worked for Mark, he'd feel as though Mark had beaten him somehow; as though Mark had gotten the better of him."
"Right."
"He's always tried to compete with Mark, even in things he wasn't good at!"
The four of them, Mark, Ozzie, Laura, and Camille had been through high school and college together. Ozzie and Mark were both athletes: Ozzie, football; Mark, basketball. Even though they played in different arenas (literally and figuratively), Ozzie always felt that any achievement of Mark's undermined his own.
"Remember when Mark joined the chess club?"
"... and Ozzie tried to learn chess just so he could show him up?"
"But he had to give it up when he couldn't win against the thirteen-year-old girl next door."
The two shared a quiet laugh. They sipped their drinks.
Then Laura offered, "You know, you could get a job at Mark's company, yourself. If you want. It's great money."
Camille blew out a long-suffering breath. "I can't. Ozzie's pride."
"It covers you, too?"
"Unfortunately. There'd be no peace at home if I went to work for Mark."
At that moment, the young caterer sensed Ozzie's intense attention. Or perhaps she picked up the subconscious telegraphy between the three women. In any case, the young woman realized that someone was standing behind her. She turned, and caught him before he had time to cover his naked leer with a mask of conviviality. Having no other prop or protocol ready, she lifted the bottle of champagne toward him, as if offering to fill his glass. He responded by raising his whiskey glass. He shrugged, as if to say I've got the wrong kind of glass, can't you see? He smiled, in the firm belief that women found his smile beguiling.
Instead, the young woman – not in the least beguiled (nor even mildly charmed) – nodded politely and treated him to a flat, professional smile. Then, without the slightest apparent haste, she stepped through a gap in the crowd. It closed behind her, and she disappeared from view. In the meantime, Ozzie only got as far as opening his jaw, not-quite-ready to deliver some hackneyed, unconvincing pickup line.
"Wow," Camille chuckled. "I'm impressed. I wish I knew how to vanish like that when I was young."
"When you were *young*?" Laura echoed with a laughing smile. "What are you now?"
"Oh, you know," Camille replied, waving her hand dismissively.
"No, I don't know," Laura countered. "You haven't hit thirty, yet. Don't start waving the white flag!"
"I've already hit 31," Camille pointed out, lowering her voice as she spoke.
"And so?"
"It's worse than thirty! I expected a crushing crisis when I hit the big three-oh. Instead, it was nothing! The crisis came a year later. Thirty-one really gave me a sense of the years slipping away from me." She shook her head.
Laura laughed. "You're crazy! Take a look at yourself! You haven't got a wrinkle! You haven't changed a bit since college! I'll bet you can still fit into your cheerleader uniform, can't you!" Camille looked away, hiding a smile. Laura followed up with, "You can, can't you! You still have it, right? Don't tell me you don't try it on, every now and then!"
Camille responded with a look, a smile, and a twinkling eye.
Laura rounded it up with: "One thing I do *know* you still have, is that all-American, young cheerleader look!"
As the two women traded banter, they didn't notice Ozzie approach. Just as he entered the outer edge of overhearing, Camille confided, "I don't know about young cheerleader look, but I do know I can still fit into a size 8."
"See? That's what I'm saying!"
"And you," Camille continued, "You obviously have NO trouble slipping into a size 4 – that's what you are, aren't you?"
Laura chuckled, "If you only knew!"
Camille didn't think there was much to know about it: Laura seemed to have poured herself into a slinky sheath dress, the color of milk chocolate, overlain with the subtle image of a orchid flower, done in lighter browns and dark muted greens. Even her slightest shift from one foot to another made all her curves shift as well, from her toes to her shoulders.
Ozzie, by this point, was part of their circle. "What're you two talking about?"
Laura offered, "I was just saying that Camille still looks like a college cheerleader."
"Oh my God!" Ozzie exclaimed, "You both do!" (Missing an obvious opportunity to pay his wife a compliment.)
Then, sticking his foot deeper in his error, he asked, "Do you two still have those outfits? You've got to try them on! Especially you, Laura! Oh my God, that's a sight I'd pay to see!" And as if suddenly remembering his wife was standing there as well, added, "The both of you! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"
Getting no response from this, Ozzie took another tack: "Hey, so, you two were just saying... talking about... numbers? What was that? Well, anyway, how about this: you're a pair of tens, the both of you! Huh? How about that?"
Camille responded in an even tone. "We were talking about dress sizes."
"Huh?"
Laura explained, "She's an eight and I'm a four."
Ozzie's eyes danced back and forth, the movement underlining the difference in height between the two women. The poor man felt out of his depth now, so he asked, rather absurdly, whether there was a women size six at the party.
Camille responded drily, "I wouldn't know."
Ozzie: "Hmmph." If he had any social savvy, the poor chump would have simply wandered off at that point, with or without a pretext. He could have quit while he was still ahead. Instead he opened his mouth again and made things worse.
"It's a great party, Laura, a great party. You and... Mark... really know how to do it. But you know what would kick it up a notch? If these servers, these wait-people, if they could wear something, you know, a little more form-fitting? Can I say that? That's okay, right? I mean, like, tight t-shirts and short shorts, or miniskirts. And the men, the male wait-people, wait-men, whatever you want to call them, you women could decide. Maybe the same? Tight shirts, short shorts?" He laughed, slack-jawed. "Not my area."
Again, the women didn't respond.
By now, even poor clueless Ozzie realized that he needed an exit from the scene, so he drained his glass and held it up to show that it was empty.
"What are you drinking?" Laura asked.
"It's whiskey," he replied. "Called Yellow Dot? – never heard of it before, but it's great stuff."
"Yellow Spot," Laura corrected.
"Come again?"
"It's called Yellow Spot."
"Naw, I don't think so," he responded, laughing, "Maybe I'd better go check." And with that he wandered off, waggling his empty glass by way of explanation.
"Sorry about that," Camille offered, once her husband was out of earshot.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Laura responded. She watched as Ozzie snaked through the crowd, moving with determination toward the bar.
"That thing about tight shirts and short skirts, though..." Camille began, then: "I don't think there's a skirt short enough to make Ozzie feel uncomfortable enough–"
"–or vulnerable enough–"
"–to make him understand."
The two women paused in silent agreement. Then Laura asked, "Hey, are you the designated driver tonight?"
"No," Camille replied. "But I'm sure Ozzie will be fine to drive – as long as he doesn't have to blow into a breathalizer."
"Oh!" Laura reacted, with a look of concern. "If he can't pass a breathalizer, he shouldn't be driving. You should drive, or I can call you a cab. You can pick up your car tomorrow."
"Look," Camille confided, "I know you're right, but I can't ask him – or even worse, I can't *tell* him. If I do, we'll end up arguing the rest of the night and well into tomorrow."
"What if *I* ask him?" Camille proposed.
Camille shrugged. "Give it a shot! Can't hurt."
She watched as Laura drove through the crowd, separating the multitude like an icebreaking ship, driving through the floes. She quickly caught up with Ozzie and broached her argument.
She couldn't help it, though: she groaned aloud as she watched Ozzie foolishly flirt with Laura. He was constitutionally unconscious of the fact that had no chance whatsoever. His ignorance was part of his character, a flaw or a feature, as much a part of him as his lanky, bow-legged frame and his oversized head.
Laura's husband, Mark, appeared beside Camille, at her elbow. He gestured toward Ozzie with his chin and commented, "Don't worry; it's harmless." He added, just as Laura had: "At least, that's what I tell myself." Then he laughed.
"I didn't realize my thoughts – or feelings – or whatever, were so obvious," she told him, and shivered.
"They aren't, really," he told her. "What I said – it just seemed like the right thing to say." He laughed. "Anyway, if it wasn't harmless, what would we do?"
"I don't know," Camille replied.
"I guess we'd have an affair, you and I," he joked. Or was he joking? She shivered again. "I mean," he added, "There'd be a kind of symmetry... but hey! I'm only joking! I can't see Ozzie and Laura..."
"Oh, no, of course not!" Camille exclaimed, floundering.
Mark rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it and made a gesture of pushing the topic away, with both hands.
Then: "You shivered!" he observed. "Twice! Can I get you something to wear? A sweater? A jacket? A shawl? Laura always says that shawls keep her warm, but it seems impossible to me."
Camille was confused by the changes in Mark's conversational direction, and couldn't find anything to say. She wondered whether she should make an excuse and walk away? She was saved by Laura's rapid return. "Success!" she announced. "You and Ozzie will take a cab home!"
"Great!"
"Honey, Camille is shivering," Mark informed his wife.
"Oh, hey!" Laura exclaimed with a huge smile. "I have just the thing! I have a jacket that you absolutely have to try!"
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Kate Murphy, You're Not Listening
Camille was flat-out astonished when Laura announced that Ozzie agreed to take a cab. "Are you sure you heard right?" she asked her friend. "Ozzie said that?"
"Yep! He sure did."
"I'm so... He never..." She blinked in disbelief. "I mean, Ozzie... you know that he's a little pig-headed–"
"A *little*?" Mark laughed, but it was a friendly laugh.
"Yes!" Laura insisted, triumphant. "He said you two would take a cab home. His exact words were Might as well play it safe!" She glowed, pleased at her success. "I appealed to his vanity: I think I made him feel like a hero of discretion," Laura boasted.
"Discretion?" Camille echoed. "Discretion? That doesn't sound like the Ozzie *I* know."
The three friends chuckled. Camille was pleased, but at the same time, she felt a glimmer of doubt. "Thanks for doing that, Laura, but let's not mention this any more, okay? Especially to Ozzie. If somebody else hears and repeats it to him, or if anybody, you know, flat out says that Ozzie drank too much to drive, he might feel that we've thrown down a challenge."
"Right. That would be very much in character for Ozzie," Mark agreed. "It would give him something to prove. He'd drive home, come hell or high water, and he'd likely even throw back a couple more drinks just out of spite."
"Exactly."
Camille declared she was going to bite her tongue. Mark and Laura, for their part, agreed to avoid the topic.
The evening was cool, and Camille shivered again, sending Laura dashing off to fetch something warm for her friend, as promised. She returned in a few moments, holding a fashionable dark-green jacket. Camille loved the color, the cut, the look of it right away, but given the difference in size between the two women, it was clearly impossible that something belonging to a woman as small as Laura could ever fit Camille. "It's beautiful..." Camille began, but Laura cut her off.
"You don't think it will fit," Laura smirked.
"I can SEE that it won't fit," Camille retorted. "It's as plain as day! I mean, look at it! The shoulders are way too narrow." She held it up to her body, making her point. "I couldn't even drape it over me without looking silly."
Laura waved away Camille's objections, and briefly explained the brand, Fit-4-U. "It's guaranteed to fit," she said, and repeated the phrase several times.
"That makes zero sense," Camille replied.
"Just try it on," Laura urged, still with the same smirk.
Camille remained incredulous. She was by no means a big woman, but the jacket was clearly not big enough for her. She wouldn't have bothered to try it on if it weren't for Laura's forceful insistence. Camille's attitude abruptly changed as soon as she slid her arm into the sleeve. The garment not only felt incredibly comfortable, it also gave her the familiar sensation one gets from clothes that are exactly your size. The moment the unmistakably too-small garment settled on Camille's shoulders, everything fell into place – neatly, perfectly into place! Camille touched the shoulders, astonished. She buttoned up the jacket in front – unbelievable! It was as if the jacket had been tailor-made for Camille herself!
She blinked several times, open-mouthed with surprise. She tried to speak, but no words came to express her bewilderment.
Laura, quite pleased with herself and the success of her apparently magical jacket, grinned and nearly danced with delight.
Time passed. The party continued. Other conversations were had, and Camille received many compliments on the borrowed jacket.
When the party began to break up, Ozzie ambled up to Camille, who happened to be talking with Laura once again. Ozzie made a bit of silly small talk, and then (after a glance at his watch) announced to Camille that their Uber would arrive in five minutes.
Laura's eyes twinkled, but she wisely made no comment.
Ozzie was about to take Camille's arm to lead her to the door, but stopped stock still before taking a step. He turned and looked Camille up and down, as if he hadn't noticed her before.
"Were you wearing that jacket when we left the house?"
"No," she replied. "It's Laura's. I've only borrowed it."
Ozzie nodded in approval. "Fits you perfectly," he commented, and once again looked the jacket up and down.
"Told you!" Laura crowed, with a huge smile. She ran her hand over Camille's shoulders and patted her back, admiring the fit. "You can bring it back tomorrow," she said. "when you come for the car."
"You can't let her keep it?" Ozzie joked. Or half-joked?
"Nope! Sorry. That jacket is very special to me."
Once outside, Camille took Ozzie's arm to help her navigate the white-gravel driveway. "Great party, huh?" he commented, and once again stopped in his tracks so he could turn and look her over. He seemed unable to take his eyes off the jacket.
"Yes," she agreed. "Nice people, excellent food..." She felt good: about the party, about Ozzie agreeing to not get behind the wheel, and about the lovely jacket that fit her so perfectly. What put the cherry on top, so to speak, was Ozzie's behavior: he almost never paid her compliments, and he *absolutely* had never before declined to get behind the wheel after drinking.
"So... that jacket...," Ozzie puzzled, pausing in his steps once again at end of the driveway, "You said it's Laura's, right?"
"Yes."
"So how in the hell does it fit you?" He scratched his chin and took a step away from her, staring, taking her hand to give her a half-twirl left, then right. "It fits you to a T! Like it was made for you! How is that possible?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, honey, no offense, but Laura is kind of small. Smaller than you. I don't think ANY of her clothes could fit you. Right? I mean, what – those numbers you two were saying earlier – you're an eight and she's a four, right?"
He chuckled to himself. "Of course, you're both tens! You know what I'm saying?" He laughed at his own joke, and as he did, he clicked his key fob to unlock their car.
"Uh, Ozzie? I thought you said we were taking a cab. I mean, an uber."
He scoffed. "I just said that to keep Laura off my back. Jesus Christ! Sometimes that woman can be a merciless nag! Do you want to take a cab? Do you feel unsafe with me behind the wheel?"
"No, no! I'm fine with you driving."
"You sure? You didn't put Laura up to asking me?"
"No, of course not! Why would I do that?"
"Okay," he said, "it's not a problem! It's fine!" Gesturing broadly with both arms he offered, somewhat forcefully, almost menacing, "... because if you WANT to take a cab–"
"No, I don't want to take a cab! Ozzie, I'm perfectly fine getting in the car with you."
"Okay. If you're sure."
"I'm sure. Absolutely sure." To demonstrate her agreement, she got into the car and fastened her seat belt.
"Make sure you've got that seat belt good and tight," he told her. "Just in case I run a red light or drive into a tree or flip the car over or something."
"I'm fine, Ozzie. I'm fine."
He started the engine with a roar and made quite a noise, fumbling as he put it in gear. Before pulling away from the curb, though, he took another look at the jacket.
"You know, I have to say – that jacket, it really suits you. It's a hell of a jacket. You ought to keep it." He nodded several times to add emphasis.
"You really think so?"
"I just said so, didn't I? And you know, being a man, I don't usually notice clothes, but that one–" he nodded three times, full of approval.
Then he pulled away from the curb like a shot, abruptly cutting off an oncoming car as if it wasn't there. Camille bit her tongue.
Even so, in spite of not feeling completely at ease with Ozzie behind the wheel, she was pleased with his compliments about the jacket. He was right: Ozzie never noticed things: new clothes, a new hairstyle... that sort of thing usually blew right by him. But he was right, totally right, about Laura's jacket. It did suit her. It suited her perfectly. She was going to have to get one of her own. Maybe in a different color?
Ozzie stirred in his seat. "But, what I don't get–" he began, actually squirming as he drove, and continuing to shoot glances in her direction, "is, how can that be Laura's jacket. Did she buy the wrong size or something?"
What Camille should have done at that point was feign innocence. Or – even better – she could have simply agreed with his mistaken assertion. If she'd only left it there, if she hadn't responded to Ozzie's questions, he would have been happy with the idea that Laura had bought the wrong size. He'd go on to repeat it, pressing it on Camille over and over, laughing at Laura's mistake and Camille's good fortune, and Camille would have to keep on repeatedly agreeing, though she knew he was dead wrong.
That would have been the wise thing to do: that would have been the way to keep the peace.
Unfortunately, that's not what she did. Like Ozzie, Camille had consumed a drink or two, and the alcohol, combined with Ozzie's compliments, relaxed her, lowered her guard, and she inadvisably repeated the phrases Laura told her. "This is a Fit-4-U jacket. It's a guaranteed fit."
"What?" he scoffed. "Guaranteed fit? Guaranteed for the person it's made for, you mean. It only fits the person it was made to fit."
"No," she replied, a bit feebly. As she spoke, she began to realize her mistake. She hadn't quite believed, or fully understood, Laura's explanation, and now she was in the unenviable position of defending a phenomenon she didn't understand.
"What, then? It's guaranteed to fit her AND you?"
"I guess so."
"And what about–" here Ozzie named a plus-sized woman of their acquaintance– "Would it fit her too?"
"I don't know!"
"You don't know?"
"Well, I guess so... I mean, I guess not! I don't know!"
He laughed scornfully.
"I'd like to read this so-called guarantee," he said, shaking his head. "I mean, you two – you and Laura –" grinning, he shook his head at their female foolishness "– have you *seen* this guarantee? Have you read it?"
"No."
"What it is – what it must be – is that you can keep returning it until they send you right size, or the customer just gives up and keeps the damn thing, whether it fits or not. Like this one–" He gestured toward the jacket. "Laura bought the wrong size. She can't wear it, so she's passing it to you."
"No," Camille protested. "She wants it back. Tomorrow."
"Right."
"Look, Ozzie, I saw her try it on. It fits her perfectly, the same way as it fits me."
Ozzie came to an abrupt stop two yards past a stop sign. "Honey, that's just impossible." He reached over and felt the fabric between his thumb and index finger. Then he took a bit of the sleeve in both hands and pulled. "Weird. It's not stretchy."
"Right – it doesn't fit by stretching."
"Then how *does* it work?"
Camille hesitated, took a breath, then admitted, "I don't know. It just does."
Ozzie frowned and gave his wife the look one gives an idiot. "Look, honey, either the thing stretches, or it's your size. There's no way that it can fit you both. It's impossible. It's against the laws of physics, am I right?" A sudden thought came to him: "Hey, when you saw her try on a jacket, are you sure it was *this* jacket? I mean, think about it: it must have been a different jacket, another jacket – one in *her* size, right?"
"No, Ozzie, it's the same jacket."
Ozzie huffed impatiently and pulled further into the intersection. He didn't bother checking for cross traffic. Luckily, there was none. "Come on! Think about it, honey, think about it! There had to be another jacket!"
Camille pictured the moment, then shook her head.
"Look, you two were standing by the front door. There were piles of coats around you."
Camille again shook her head.
"No, we weren't near the door. We were at the top of those little stairs. There weren't any other coats around."
"You just didn't see," Ozzie scoffed. "She and Mark, they did a switcheroo, and you fell for it." He thought for a moment, then, nodding, came to a new conclusion: "It's a trick. It's a practical joke. Probably Mark's idea of a joke. The asshole."
He pulled into their driveway a bit too fast, and screeched to a halt inches from the garage door. He fumbled with the remote, opening the door.
"What a pompous jerk that Mark is, huh? Thinks we're stupid, that we'd fall for something so..." He huffed impatiently, waiting for the garage door to fully open.
He turned to look at Camille, and realized, to his utter bewilderment, that she was in emotional retreat. She had shut down. He'd pressed her too far, too hard. But he couldn't help it! He was right! That's was the important thing! Camille would come to see it, in the morning, after she'd slept on it.
Still, he felt he should throw her a bone, hold out an olive branch. But what?
He pulled into the garage, easing the car in gently, with what he believed to be light-handed finesse, moving forward until he felt the soft resistance of their trash barrels, which he pressed and compressed against the garage's back wall until the lids popped off, flipped in the air, and clattered to the floor.
Jaw set, lips pressed tight in a firm line, Camille released her seatbelt and began to open her door. Ozzie stopped her by resting his hand on her arm.
"Listen, honey, you know what? You know what you ought to do? Keep the jacket. Fuck 'em. Right? Fuck 'em. Fuck the pair of 'em. Keep the jacket."
She didn't reply. She looked at him, her face devoid of expression. The corner of her eye twitched. Then she turned away, left the car, and walked into the house before he switched off the car engine.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Unfortunately for himself and Camille, Ozzie couldn't let go of the argument. He could see – quite acutely – that he'd somehow offended Camille, though he couldn't understand how. He was right about the jacket: so what was her problem?
When he entered the kitchen from the garage, he was ready to return to the charge, but Camille was already more than halfway up the stairs. He quickly gulped down a glass of water, nearly choking on it in his haste, then ran up the stairs after her, following Camille into their bedroom. Camille was there, silently changing her clothes, getting ready for bed. She walked into their bathroom and began wiping the makeup off her face and eyes.
The green jacket lay on the bed next to Camille's other clothes. Ozzie touched it; he ran his fingertips lightly over its length. Even he could sense that the material was unusual. It felt... nice. It was a positive pleasure to touch, which surprised Ozzie. It surprised him more than a little. He was a man! He wasn't used to having feelings about clothes.
Ozzie walked to the door of the bathroom and leaned against its frame, lolling his head into the little room so he could talk more intimately with Camille. He licked his lips, a little uncertain how to begin, or rather, how to restart the topic. Best to start off with a compliment.
"You know, honey, that jacket really suits you."
She paused for a moment in cleaning her face. She didn't look at him or respond. After a few seconds she went back to cleaning her eyelids.
"You ought to keep it," he suggested once again. "Teach Mark a lesson."
She shot him a quick glance, but again didn't respond.
"The guy is such a prick. I mean, really. To pull a prank like that–"
Camille had completed her toilette. She noisily and abruptly closed and replaced all the bottles and jars, shutting the medicine cabinet and her vanity drawers with a bang. She turned to Ozzie and informed him, "Mark isn't a prick, and it wasn't a prank."
"But, honey–" he protested.
"Look," she said, cutting him off. She picked up the jacket and held its shoulders against hers. "Can you see? The shoulders – they're narrower than mine. This would exactly fit Laura. This is her shoulder width. Do you see? But *I* just took it off, and you saw yourself that it fit me as though it was made for me."
"It's obviously some sort of optical illusion," he lamely protested.
"Bullshit," she responded testily, and held the jacket out towards him. "You try it on, Ozzie. You try it on and see."
"What!?" he recoiled as if she'd offered him a rattlesnake. "I'm not going to put that damn thing on!"
"Why not? It would settle the argument for good, wouldn't it?"
"Hell no! No – I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to wear women's clothes, for gosh sake! Forget it!"
Camille huffed in exasperation. "Are you serious? You're not going to try on the jacket? Even if that would prove this thing, one way or the other? It's either going to fit you, or it's not!"
"It's not going to happen!" he exclaimed, his face reddening. "I'm not going to wear women's clothes!"
"Oh my God," Camille muttered. "Sometimes you are such an idiot!"
Ozzie felt that he'd somehow lost ground, but there was a principle at stake here: there was no way he could possibly wear on a woman's jacket. No. Camille wouldn't be able to resist telling her friends, and her friends would tell their husbands... Ozzie would never be able to live it down. He'd be teased for the rest of his life. A man, a real man, would never do such a thing. So he returned to a more logical route:
"Guaranteed-2-Fit," he read on the label. "So how does it work? Do they have some super-accurate measuring app that you load in your phone? Do they give you unlimited returns until you get the right fit?" He shook his head. "That's not a sustainable business model. Suppose EVERYBODY returns everything, over and over. What if you keep sending the clothes back, every time you receive them? Just for a joke. Pretty soon the company would go broke, paying for all that shipping."
"That's not how it works," Camille muttered as she hung up her clothes, including the jacket.
Unaware that he'd already lost the battle, Ozzie pressed on. "What if you're built like an offensive tackle: six-six, four hundred pounds, and you order clothes that would fit me? Or vice versa? How does the guaranteed fit work then?"
If Ozzie only had eyes to see, he'd understand that Camille was like a volcano, dangerously close to erupting, already smoking, flashing fire, giving off low rumbles of underground thunder. The poor man was oblivious.
Camille, without looking up, told him, "It's some kind of advanced technology. That's all. The clothes adjust when you put them on."
Camille was used to giving Ozzie the benefit of the doubt. She was used to making excuses for his hyper-masculine comments and behavior. In the present moment she put the blame on his having one too many drinks. Also, Ozzie hadn't had the experience of putting on the too-small jacket and seeing it fit to a T. She had. She knew it seemed impossible, but at the same time she couldn't deny her own experience. She understood Ozzie's objections, and felt them herself to some extent. Unfortunately, Ozzie's harrassing, condescending, scoffing skepticism drove her into a defensive position. Ozzie's pressure made it impossible for her to give in, or to admit that he had a point.
By now, Camille was finished with the discussion, and she was ready for bed. Ozzie was still half-dressed, his shirt unbuttoned, his belt hanging loose, one shoe off, one shoe on.
He reached into the closet and grabbed the jacket and its hanger. "Here," he said to Camille, reaching across the bed to her. "Put it on. I want to see this self-adjusting thing for myself. I need to see it happen. Go on."
He shook the jacket at her, insistently, but Camille didn't take it. Instead, she picked up her pillow.
"I don't want to argue about this anymore–"
"Who says we're arguing?" he cried. "We're just talking! Just having an intelligent discussion! A little give-and-take!"
"Fine. I don't have the energy for this intelligent discussion. I'm tired. I've had enough. I'm going to bed."
"Wait, wait!" he called, as she turned toward the bedroom door. "Where are you going? You're not sleeping with me? Come on! You're not mad at me about this stupid Fit-4-U crap, are you? Seriously?"
In a calm, placating tone, but one that barely hid her exasperation, she told him, "Ozzie, you've been drinking tonight, which is fine. I have no problem with that: I want you to enjoy yourself with our friends. But you know and I know that when you drink, you snore, and when you snore, I can't sleep. I need to get a good sleep tonight. Okay? That's all."
"Okay," he agreed, tentatively, losing all his bluster. "If you're sure you're not mad at me."
Camille walked over to him, kissed him on his cheek, hugged him, and assured him (lying, naturally) that she wasn't angry AT ALL. She was only tired, okay? She trudged down the hall to their guest room, armed with a pair of battle-tested ear plugs and her own down-filled pillow.
As soon as she'd settled into bed, Ozzie opened the guest-room door. "Hey, just checking: you're only here because of the snoring, right? It's not because of the jacket?"
"It's not because of the jacket," she assured him, inwardly gritting her teeth.
"Okay, good," he said, with obvious relief. "Because it's impossible, right?"
She held her breath, her body rigid, until he shut the door and walked away.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Merle Haggard, Hobo's Meditation
Ozzie went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. Sometimes alcohol had that effect on him. It was strange; it made no sense. Most of the time, nearly all the time, when he drank, he'd sleep like a fallen log. He'd lie down and sink deeply, directly, immediately into dreamland. Other times – not very often, thankfully! – but other times, like tonight, the alcohol would keep him awake for hours. Wide awake. As if it was the middle of the day. He had no idea why or how, but here he was again. Awake, alert, with no possibility of sleep.
He kept checking his phone. Time dragged like a lame tortoise. Only twenty minutes has passed since Camille went to bed, but it seemed hours.
So he turned on the light. He examined that god-damned jacket. There was only one label. It read:
Fit-4-U
Womens Shacket
100% Magilon
Hand Wash Only
Guaranteed 2 Fit
"Shacket?" he said aloud. Oh, the foolishness of women! "What the hell is a shacket?" He examined the material, running his hands over it. It was different. Special, somehow. Really... well, it didn't seem manly to admit it, but the material was a delight to touch.
"Weird," he commented to himself, aloud. "So, so weird."
He carried the jacket – or shacket, rather – into his office and fired up his computer. First he looked up "shacket" and found it was, basically, a jacket. "They could have just said so!" he murmured.
Then he looked up "magilon."
The search came up with a page full of results, all of the links pointing to the Fit-4-U website. He clicked on one at random.
"Oh!" he exclaimed to himself, "It's an online catalog!"
With one look at the site, Ozzie forgot completely about shackets and magilon. The phrase guaranteed fit fell by the wayside. Here was something far more exciting, far more titilating! Ozzie was sucked right in. Open-mouthed, he pored over, drooled over, gasped at the pictures of bewitchingly attractive models and irresistably sexy clothes.
Several times he had to slap himself on the chest to remind himself to breathe.
There were clothes of all kinds: dresses, short dresses, minidresses, shorts, short shorts, booty shorts, sportswear, bathing suits...
Ozzie was awash in a superabundance of female beauty. He couldn't stop licking his lips; his mouth kept going dry, while the website, the online catalog, seemed inexhaustible.
Now time was moving quickly. The first moment that he looked up at the clock, an hour and a quarter had passed. It felt like five minutes. The next time he looked up, another 45 minutes had shot by... and Ozzie needed to use the bathroom. (Another side-effect of the alcohol.)
He trotted to the bathroom in the hall, because it was the closest.
He hustled back to his office and continued to explore Fit-4-U. The question of the impossibility of the guaranteed fit was all but forgotten, especially when he came upon the Costume section. Some of the selections were practically pornographic. Sexy Nurse! Sexy Santa's Helper! Sexy Policewoman! And then, he discovered the Cosplay section. At one moment he was moved to moan aloud, but quickly caught himself. Camille was two doors away... it wouldn't be a good idea to wake her while he was investigating.
Ozzie began breathlessly saving pictures to his hard drive, for future reference. His heart was pounding, and he thanked God that Camille was a deep sleeper.
Next he carefully perused the lingerie pages, listening with one ear for Camille's footstep in the hall... and then... spontaneously, the thought of Camille brought the glimmer of an inspiration... An idea began to form itself into a plan: a plan that would prove once and for all that the "guaranteed fit" claims were pure nonsense, nothing but a crock...
He returned to the swimsuit offerings, and made a note of the models with figures far more generous in the breast and butt than both Laura and Camille. He also bookmarked models that were taller, slimmer, more statuesque.
His idea was pretty simple: he'd order something that couldn't possibly fit either woman. "And then they'll see!" he cackled.
He leaned back and imagined each of the women struggling to get into those– oh my God– those sexy strips of tight clothing...
... and then his flight of fancy fell heavily to earth when he saw the prices. Damn! Financially intimidated, he was almost ready to abandon his plan, when he realized that he hadn't bothered to click on the link to SALES.
Of course! Why would he have ever looked at Sales? That's the sort of thing that women do.
Camille, for example, was always going on and on about sales: how this store or that store was having a sale. How she'd bought such-and-such on sale. Ozzie, naturally, found her recitals boring and irritating. If something that supposedly cost $200 was now "on sale" for $50, didn't that mean that it really cost $50 in the first place? Of course it did. "Sales" was another word for scam.
But now, now that he was nearly ready for fork over his own money to prove a point about clothes... well, there was no point in throwing away good money, when any old Fit-4-U product would do, right?
The SALES link brought him to a submenu with the choices CLEARANCE / SECONDS / IRREGULAR.
"Seconds?" he read aloud, puzzled.
And then once again, right then, he had to pee.
He dashed into the hallway, and this time very nearly physically collided with Camille, who was coming out of the bathroom.
She was sleepy, moving slowly, while Ozzie was antsy, full of beans, nearly dancing with the need to relieve himself.
"What are– what are you doing up?" he asked her, trying to sound casual, but failing -- he sounded nervous, he gave off strong guilty vibes.
"I had to pee," she said. "What else would I be doing up?" She gave him a suspicious look. "What are you doing up?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" he answered, a little too quickly. "Just couldn't sleep. That's all. Heheh."
She rolled her eyes, shook her head and turned to go, but he stopped her. "Hey," he called. "Hey, can I ask you something? I'm curious about something. Quick question: What in the world are seconds?"
She blinked, irritated, but even so, she replied, "Tick tock, tick tock. That's seconds."
"No, no... not seconds on the clock... seconds! You know?"
She frowned. "It's when you've already eaten your share, but you load up your plate with food all over again." She gave a puzzled gesture. "Why are you asking me that in the middle of the night?"
He scoffed impatiently. "No, no, not food! I'm talking about cookies!"
"Cookies?" she repeated.
"What did I say? No, no – stupid me! I didn't mean clothes! I meant cookies. I guess I'm still a little drunk. No! Clothes! I meant clothes! Clothings! I mean, clothes."
She blinked and blinked again. "Clothes? Why are you asking about clothes in the middle of the night?"
"I'm still curious about this... Fit-U-Up craziness. I think I'm onto something."
She drew an incredulous breath. Her eyes widened, full of fire. She glared at him, a menacing gaze that could melt cast iron. She turned, without saying a word, and returned to bed.
"I guess she doesn't know," he muttered as he stood at the toilet. "Can't admit when she's wrong. Too proud to admit it."
He returned to his computer and read the following explanation of Seconds and Irregular Items:
At Fit-4-U, we're proud of the high quality of the clothes we create.
That said, thrifty shoppers have found a gold mine in our Factory Seconds and Irregular items.
Our Factory Seconds are brand-new, never-worn products with a small or slight visual defect.
For example, a minor stitching error, a slight discoloration, an imperfection in the fabric.
Whatever the flaw, we guarantee it to be slight; easily missed by all but the keenest eye.
Naturally, our seconds come with our guarantee of flawless fit.
Our Factory Seconds are sold at a discount that aims at pleasing the thriftiest shopper among us.
Irregular merchandise on the other hand, are items with which no visual flaw was found,
but may have unspecified issues relating to fit.
Our irregular items come with a *modified* version of our fit guarantee.
While every article of clothing we sell *is* guaranteed to fit, the fit of an irregular item can be somewhat... unexpected.
It may require a little time, a little patience, and oh! – dare we say it? – An open mind may help, above all.
Keep in mind that the behavior of our irregular items is unpredictable, and carries a definite element of risk.
However, ALL of our clothing and accessories are, in the end, guaranteed to fit, even our irregular items.
Please note that some of our irregular items are free. In general, the lower the cost, the greater the risk.
Remember: None of our irregular items may be returned.
Also, no refunds will be given for irregular items.
Always ready to find fault, Ozzie observed to himself that for symmetry's sake they should have explained the Clearance category as well.
He made his way through the pages of seconds, but it was uninspiring. He couldn't find any of the supposed defects. He also couldn't see much of a difference in price.
The Irregulars were disappointing as well: there were plenty of them, but most of the items were only accessories. He did pause for a few minutes over a pair of shoes. Shoes would certainly prove his point, wouldn't they? It was physically impossible that a single pair of shoes could fit both women. Right? It would be like Cinderella, wouldn't it. Or the opposite of Cinderella? Maybe both. Anyway, he was fairly certain that Laura's feet were smaller than Camille's, but then again, he wasn't 100% sure. Was there a way he could find out? Could he possibly ask, as if it was a simple matter of curiosity? He couldn't see how. He might come off as a foot fetishist, and that wouldn't do.
What it came down to, was the money, once again. It would be a shame if he wasted his God-given money on a silly pair of shoes if both women had the same size feet.
And then– !
He clicked on the next page, and saw the very last of the irregular items.
His jaw fell open.
It was a costume. Not only a costume; it was a FULL costume. And not only a full costume, but a french maid costume, the fantasy of every red-blooded, heterosexual man's man. There was the built-in corset, the short, shiny, wavy, black skirt, covered by the smallest, laciest, whitest apron possible. Under the skirt, but plainly visible, it had the white petticoat with a double set of ruffles, and up top, the white frilly blouse with its short, puffy sleeves and low, daring neckline. Ruffles and lace everywhere. Femininity rampant. And not only that – not only ALL OF THAT: but it came complete with a ridiculously tiny pair of shoes and three pairs of knee-high stockings, each one capable of provoking a full-on coronary event.
Ozzie very nearly had an orgasm just looking at it.
And then, to top it all off, the price: THE PRICE!
The item was FREE by God! With free shipping.
Unbelievable!
And... only one left in stock? Could it really be?
He was ready to order it, but then stopped himself.
His heart was in his throat, but Ozzie had to check one thing: just one more thing.
What size was this costume? If it fit either woman, it wouldn't quite prove his point, would it.
Nearly trembling, heart pounding like a bass drum, Ozzie ran his eyes over the product description until he found it.
Size six.
Excellent! Too big for Laura; too small for Camille! It wouldn't fit both of them... either of them... neither of them... Oh, whatever!
It was the wrong size for everyone, and that made it perfect!
The maid costume hit every checkbox, every single one! It was a bona-fide miracle.
AND, it was sexy as hell. Maybe after he proved his point to Laura and Camille, after he'd driven an nail into this "guaranteed fit" bullshit, he could find a woman who fit EXACTLY into the costume.
Oh my God! THAT would be the cherry on top!
And what if she could clean their house? Wearing that outfit? Or... even better... what if she could pretend to clean their house? When Camille was not at home? Ozzie leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, breath still. He was paradoxically paralyzed with excitement.
Now that he'd found what he'd been looking for, a great tiredness flowed over Ozzie. All the excitement, all the palpitations, had worn him out. He just had to order the damn thing, and then he could go to sleep.
He clicked on the item, filled in his address, checked this, clicked that, and it was done, except–
Except for a huge Disclaimer, Warning, and Acceptance of Risk that filled the screen. Ozzie groaned. He glanced at the text – it began by asking the customer (Ozzie) to acknowledge that the irregular item he was about to purchase was "untested in certain respects" and "may have unpredictable side-effects" or "might possibly, in a small number of cases, function in ways similar to items at Fit-4-U's highest production range, cost, or value..."
Ozzie, irritated, tried to click his way past the screen, but the "Accept" button was grayed out, and the Escape key had no effect whatsoever.
After several unsuccessful trials, Ozzie at last discovered that he was obliged to scroll through the entire Disclaimer, Warning, and Acceptance of Risk screen by screen, as if he was actually reading every line. Of course, he wasn't reading the damn thing at all, but if he wanted to acquire the maid costume, there was no other way.
Once he reached the end of the message, he was able to click "Accept" and was rewarded with a THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER screen.
Exasperated, exhausted, and a little exhilarated, he turned off his computer, made one more visit to the bathroom, and – with a satisfying sense of accomplishment – threw himself bodily onto his big bed, alone.
Now he could fall asleep.
Ozzie rolled over, onto his back, chin in the air, mouth wide open. He dropped like a stone into dreamland, while in this world he snored like a champion, deep and long and loud, all night long. Camille, who (as we said) had armed herself with a set of earplugs, and had separated herself from Ozzie by two closed doors and a length of hallway, was already deeply asleep before Ozzie let loose his deep-throated clamor. In spite of all that, in all her dreams that night, Camille heard the sound of a distant train: An endless freight train, without beginning or end, that rumbled and roared past waterfalls, landslides, and explosions as it barreled through the darkness. Its wooden parts creaked; its metal parts screamed as it leaned perilously through steeply-banked turns, but nothing in either this world or the subconscious could stop or slow that train. In her last dream of the night a series of careless trainmen spilled two dozen billiard balls in every single boxcar. The colorful ivory and acrylic spheres racked, clacked, and rolled across the bare wooden floors, sweeping from one end of the car to the other, in perfect alignment with Ozzie's rhythmic rattle, and pausing near the tops of the hills each time Ozzie's breath stopped. A pregnant silence fell across the land while the train hung in perfect stillness at the crest of the hill, waiting... then abruptly careening madly down like a juggernaut's car, the moment Ozzie at last broke the silence by drawing a death-defyingly loud and powerful snort of air and woke the dog next door.
The train, and every trace of it, vanished in the morning, when a beam of sunlight poked through the bedroom curtain and struck Ozzie in the eye, waking him with a gasp of surprise.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Harry Houdini
Despite the night-long rumble of distant trains, Camille slept very well. She woke refreshed, although with a definite aftertaste of irritated indignation. She hoped Ozzie had forgotten or gotten over his pig-headed disbelief in the Fit-4-U jacket's guarantee.
She dressed quickly and quietly, and armed with her car keys and wallet, tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen to fetch a grocery bag. Bag in hand, she stealthfully climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom she shared with Ozzie. Camille fully expected he'd still be sleeping off last night's bout of overeating and excessive drinking. Instead, she found her husband standing at the bedroom window, holding the curtain open just enough to peek down at the woman next door as she stretched before her morning run. At the sight of Camille, Ozzie made the face of surprised innocence, pretended to look at the sky, and let the curtain drop.
"I didn't expect to see you up," she commented.
"Yeah, the sun woke me," he explained. "Hit me right in the eye. I might need a nap later."
She nodded and held up her prop, the grocery bag. "I'm going food shopping," she lied. "Do you need anything? Anything from the store?"
He thought for a moment, then replied, "Naw."
Scratching his lower belly, he wandered into the hall, on his way to his bathroom.
Camille took the opportunity of his absence to grab Laura's jacket and stuff it into her bag. She wanted to get it out the door without Ozzie seeing it. She was in no mood to restart last night's fruitless discussion.
In the garage, before getting into her car, she took Laura's coat from the bag and once again held it against her shoulders. It was clearly too small for her. The shoulders were too narrow; the sleeves were too short. She tried it on, and once again it fit as though it was made exactly for her! Camille shook her head. It was the strangest thing. Inexplicable. And yet, undeniable.
Undeniable to anyone but Ozzie, that is!
On her way to Laura's house, Camille came very close to blowing through a stop sign and colliding with another car. She hit the brakes just in time; her car screetched to a neck-snapping stop. The other motorist, frightened by the close call, honked his horn vigorously and excessively.
The event made Camille realize how tense she was: her jaw was clenched; her fists were tight, white-knuckled, on the steering wheel. Why? Because she was angry with Ozzie! Why did the man have to be so obstinate? So obtuse? So condescending? So insensitive?
Honestly, Camille had the same questions about the jacket as Ozzie had, but his know-it-all insistence and his demeaning attitude made it impossible for her to agree with him.
Now that she was alone, without his belittling, pointed tone to offend her, she began to wonder whether, in the end, Ozzie was right. Was this business with the jacket some kind of prank that Laura was playing on her?
Even so, even if it *was* a trick, how on earth did it work? It couldn't possibly be an optical illusion, as Ozzie suggested. Virtually everyone at the party had seen Camille wear it. The jacket fit her; it had nothing to do with her eyes. It was all about her body. So what was the trick?
When she arrived at Laura's house, Laura put on a pot of coffee and set out some light biscuits. The two of them sat in Laura's sunny kitchen and talked about last night's party, trading gossip, observations, and anecdotes that began with Did you know... or Did you see... There were plenty of exclamations of surprise, revelations of who slept with whom, and who might not know what their wife or husband was up to...
Finally, when they were done skirting the issue. Camille produced the jacket from her bag.
"Oh, yes!" Laura acknowledged. "My jacket! Did you like it? Or did you love it?"
"I love it!" Camille replied, "but what's the trick?"
"Okay," Laura began. "Here we go. Hang on to your hat, Camille, because there is no trick."
"Then what? Then how?" Camille turned up both hands, bewildered. "It fits you, it fits me... I tried to get Ozzie to try it on, but he wouldn't!"
Laura laughed. "If he had, the jacket would have fit him, too."
"But that's impossible!"
"I know," Laura replied, with a shrug. "But what can you do?"
"But no! What kind of answer is that? Come on! Is it some kind of joke? It's like a magic trick, right?"
"Magic?" Laura repeated. "If you mean like stage magic, then no. And it's not a joke. I mean, at the prices they charge, it's not a joke that could go very far."
The two went back and forth for a bit, until finally Laura opened her laptop and showed Camille the Fit-4-U website.
At first, Camille was distracted, entranced by the clothes themselves. They were exquisite; current fashion or timeless looks, and the more she saw, the more she wanted.
"But this is just like any other website that sells clothes!" she pointed out. "See? Right here, there's a dropdown where you pick your size. I mean, why bother, if all of it would fit anybody anyway?"
"Okay, so, the answer to that is, I don't exactly know. I have some ideas, but what I *do* know is that the fit is guaranteed."
"And how does that happen? Do you get unlimited free returns until they send you the perfect size?"
"No, not at all. See, the fit is guaranteed. If you buy something from them, it will fit you. There are two ways it can happen – well, three, actually. It might fit you, right out of the box. That *has* happened to me."
"And the other two ways?"
"One, the most common one, is that the outfit changes to fit you, the way this jacket does. The other, which you pay more for – sometimes quite a bit more for! – is that the outfit changes you, to make *you* the perfect fit for the clothes."
"Come on, Laura, that's impossible!"
"Both of the things I said are impossible, if you think about it."
"Okay, but then how does it work? I don't get it."
Laura hesitated. She drew a breath and paused before answering. At last she said in a low voice, "I don't like to think about that."
"What do you mean? What's that supposed to mean, that you don't like to think about it?"
"What do I mean? I mean that I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. This works for me, so I'm not going to ask questions that I might not like the answers to."
"Like what, for instance?"
"Listen, Camille. When I was a little girl I saw this cartoon on TV. There was a centipede walking along, with big, goofy cartoon shoes on all hundred of its feet. Then this ant comes up and stops him. He asks, How do you keep your legs from getting all tangled up when you walk? The centipede thinks for a bit, and finally he admits that he doesn't know. He never thought about it! The ant runs off, and the centipede tries to take a step, but now that he's thinking about which foot goes first, he starts tripping all over his own feet."
Silence followed.
Camille wanted to object, but she was puzzled and unsure how to follow up. So Laura did. She touched Camille's hand lightly, and in a quiet voice said, "I don't want to use the M word."
"The M word? Magic?"
Laura sidestepped the question, and said, "Do you remember how you commented on my still being able to fit into a size four? I have a couple of Fit-4-U outfits that do that for me. After the kids, my hips got kind of wide – do you remember? You must have noticed... Anyway, I have a pantsuit and a dress that... correct it for me. I put them on for a day or so when I need to tune up my figure."
"You're joking."
Laura made a motion of crossing her heart with her finger. "I swear that I'm not. Look – I have a Fit-4-U bathing suit that I don't dare wear. It turns me into a bimbo: huge breasts and ass, teeny-tiny waist, toothpick legs... It's unbelievable. I don't dare wear it."
'Why not?"
"Because as soon as I take it off, the effect vanishes, and it's so dramatically different from how I really look... it would raise too many questions."
Once it was mentioned, the bathing suit proved too strong a temptation, and soon the two women trooped upstairs so Camille could give it a try.
The suit itself was a heart-stopping design: a one-piece electric blue outfit with a bold white stripe. The cleavage was cut very low, and the two strips that covered the breasts mainly covered the wearer's areolas, leaving the sides of the breasts bare.
Camille was astonished and delighted at how easily the suit slid up her legs, over her hips, and onto her shoulders. So far, it seemed no different from any other well-fitting bathing suit in her size.
But when she turned to look at herself in the mirror, she gasped. She stumbled. Her jaw dropped.
Her breasts had grown so large, it took two of her hands to cover one of her breasts. They were enormous, but not comically so: they were firm, with zero sag. She wiggled her shoulders to make her breasts sway. Then she bounced on her heels and watched them bob.
Her derriere, too, was far larger than that of the average woman, and it shifted, jiggled, and swayed as she walked.
"The only thing it's missing is the blonde hair and the swollen lips," Camille commented, not realizing that she'd already moved past her questions of is it real? and How does it work? She was enchanted by the effect.
Laura carefully chose a pair of four-inch heels (making sure they were the type that only caused a temporary alteration). Camille slipped them on, as easily as if they were her very own pair of house slippers. Then, the jacket from last night.
"It all fits me like a glove!" she exclaimed. Then she stripped, and Laura put the identical items on her smaller frame.
"Now they fit me like a glove!" she pointed out.
After a few more experiments they returned to their ordinary clothes, and went back downstairs to the kitchen to give more study to the catalog.
"Okay, so sometimes the clothes change to fit you, and other times they change you to fit the clothes..."
"That's right."
"Where do you find that in the product description? How can you tell which is which? I don't see any indication of the different effects."
"Well," Laura admitted, "there are a few little clues, but they aren't 100% reliable. What I do is I try to make my best choices. I put them all in my shopping cart, and then I call customer support and go over my order with them. That's how I make sure I'm buying what I *think* I'm buying."
As she spoke, she pulled up the page for the jacket. "See? This one just gives you a size. Usually when it's like that, it comes in the size you ordered, but it will change to fit whoever puts it on.
"On the other hand, if it says desired size or something like that, it will come in that size, but it will change you, if need be."
"And how do you know if it's a permanent change or a temporary one?"
Laura thought a moment, blew out a breath, and called up the bathing suit page. "Look here at the description. If you read carefully, you can make an educated guess. See? Here, when it talks about the bathing suit, it says while you're wearing it, you'll feel like a sex goddess...
"It's kind of a code. Get it?"
"I guess so."
"Also, the cost is a clue. Like I said earlier: The ones that change you cost more. So if you find yourself balking at a price, it's probably one of those."
"Why all the guessing games? Why don't they come right out and say?"
"I don't know. I don't know. Probably it's for legal reasons. Oh! That reminds me! One thing to keep in mind that when you're on the phone with customer support: you have to be careful what you ask and how you ask it. If you're polite and if you pay attention to what they say and how they say it, you CAN find out what you want to know."
Laura closed her laptop. As she did, one more thought occurred to her. "There's one more thing to keep in mind: sometimes the support people themselves don't know."
Camille's jaw dropped open. She didn't have any more questions, but she had a lot to take in.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– George Eliot
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.
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.
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.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– George MacDonald
He got a bit farther than he expected. A tiny bit farther. The panties slid up, without a hitch, all the way up his calf, as far as his knee.
And there he stopped. Thoughtfully, cautiously.
He didn't want to stretch the wee thing out, after all. How could he ever explain the result? Imagine, having a pair of women's underwear with the left leg hole normal-size, and the right leg hole stretched out of all proportion. They'd be ruined. He'd have to toss the panties in a landfill and claim that the costume arrived without them.
But then he'd have to discard the bra as well, wouldn't he? They're a matched set, after all. It wouldn't make any sense for the outfit to have one but not the other.
Unless... but no. There was no such thing as a "Bottomless French Maid" costume. Maybe there should be... maybe he should search the web? But he doubted he'd ever find such a thing.
Then, too, he had to consider the strong possibility that Laura and Camille would consult the Fit-4-U website. They'd insist on checking the product description for lingerie. Ozzie shook his head. If he knew anything about women – and he knew A LOT about women – that's exactly what Laura and Camille would do. Once they get an idea in their heads, it gets stuck there, like a nail. They simply can't let it go. Yes, for sure: they'd go looking, just to satisfy their minds. Women do that sort of thing.
So he stopped right there, with the underwear dangling absurdly just below his right knee. He looked down and laughed. What made it truly absurd was the waistband: it was so tiny! He stepped his right foot through the right leg hole, which pushed the pants down around his ankles. The waist was so small, that even with his legs together, he could only raise the garment about three inches up his shins.
"Oh, guaranteed fit!" he declaimed in an overdone Shakespearean mode. "Wherefore art thou, guaranteed fit? How now, brown cow? What say you? What-ho! What?" And he burst out laughing at his pitiful attempt at wit.
Still chuckling, he sat his naked butt on the floor of his office, and decided to defy fate and pull the panties as high as they'd go, just to document the failure of the fit. After all, if he could show that they didn't fit – well, that was exactly the point, wasn't it?
He easily got the pants as high as mid-calf, and smugly thought he'd finished there.
But then – what on earth? He didn't try; he didn't stretch the waistband or pull on it at all, but suddenly he felt a little slack, and was able to slide the pants – still with ease, without the slightest effort – as far up as his knees.
"Well, there's the limit, then," he observed, but once again he was wrong.
Holding his breath and not forcing the issue... doing his best to not strain the fabric by pulling or stretching it, he found the waistband now loose enough that he (oh so gently!) was able to raise them even higher on his legs... and soon the underwear sat comfortably at mid-thigh. After blinking several times in astonishment and incomprehension, he discovered he was able to proceed... inches at a time... until he arrived just below his groin.
Gasping in disbelief, he got up on his knees. "Ohhh boy," he whispered. "Ohhh boy. Okay. This has GOT to be the limit. This HAS TO BE as far as they can possibly go."
As if he'd spoken the magic words, he felt the waistband loosen again, and he was able to pull it up another inch. Then another. Until, eyes wide in fear and amazement, he tucked his manly bits inside the panties, and found to his utter astonishment that the panties effectively covered his gear and tackle, hiding it completely from view.
"It's a... what the hell! It's a... damn! It's one hell of an optical illusion!" he breathed, nearly unable to get the words out.
He looked around him at the walls of the room, knowing already that he wouldn't find what he was looking for: a mirror. There was no mirror in the room. Why would there be? Men – real men – have little use for mirrors.
Ozzie stood to his feet, and doing so, realized he was unexpectedly able to cover the last mile, easing the panties over his butt, and pulling them all the way up in front as well. It took no effort whatsoever. For a few moments Ozzie stood stock still, wordless.
What have I done? he asked himself. Have I stretched the damn things out of all recognition? How on earth could that teeny-tiny bit of cloth come so far and cover so much?
It was crazy! Absolutely crazy!
Wildest of all: The damn panties made it look as though he had nothing between his legs! Nothing!
And his legs – the illusion somehow included his legs! Did they really look thinner, slimmer than usual? They couldn't. How could they? It would be impossible! No underwear on earth can alter the shape and size of your legs! It had to be his imagination... a what-they-call a suspension of unbelief. Without meaning to, without wanting to, he'd given in to a weird optical illusion.
He did recall Camille talking about certain clothes having a "slimming effect" – could this be what she was talking about? Naturally, Ozzie had no experience in that area. He'd never looked for, never experienced, a slimming effect in the clothes he wore. He never gave any credence (or honestly any ear) to the existence of a slimming effect, but maybe there was such a thing after all! Maybe this was it! Could Fit-4-U's trick boil down to this? It did make some kind of sense that clothes could alter a person's appearance – a person's legs in this case – it could make them appear slimmer, slenderer. But then again... could it possibly go to this extent? It was almost supernatural, as though *his* legs had been replaced with someone's else's legs, or else been re-shaped, re-formed... transformed?
Ridiculous!
Another weird, almost inexplicable detail: His legs didn't just *look* different; they felt different as well. He found, and couldn't deny, that his long lower limbs were remarkably smooth. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt... well, not just his own skin, but anyone's skin... so sleek, so soft, so... could he say... touchable without blushing?
But THAT, he concluded after a moment's thought, at least THAT he could explain (albeit incorrectly). It had to be the effect of Camille's body wash, he told himself. The one he used in the shower. Wild, just wild! He'd have to remember to never touch that body wash again – it not only made his legs smooth; it made them look downright girly! and he couldn't have that! He'd have to roll around in the dirt or something later on, just to cancel out the effect.
But these panties... He ran his hands appreciatively over his hips and thighs. These panties were the damnest things! If you looked at his crotch, the panties made him look like a girl! Just a smooth mound there, where (in reality, he knew!) hung an impressive set of man-parts, ready for action. Built for vigorous service.
And his ass! The panties had some kind of trick going on out back as well. His butt, which was usually a flat, uninspiring affair, now (if his hands were any judge) felt full and round and perky! Did the damn things give him a bubble butt?
No, of course they didn't! How could they? It was all an illusion. A trick. The appearance of a bubble butt. It had to be. What else could it be?
Ozzie struggled to explain away his experience. His skeptical mind could not brook Fit-4-U's claims. They were simply impossible. And yet, he'd managed to slip on a pair of impossibly small underwear. Women's underwear. How did it happen? How did it work? He needed to find a rational way... a rational way to explain it away.
Obviously, the garment stretched. It gave way until it fit. But... didn't that validate the very thing he meant to disprove? Even though Camille insisted there was no stretching involved. Apparently, she didn't know.
Regardless of stretching or not stretching, how could the damn things hide his manly bits? How could they puff up his derriere?
Was it some sort of mind control? Was there a hypnotic effluvium given off by the garments? If so, was he really wearing the underwear? Or was he in a trance state, wearing nothing at all, only *believing* that he'd tried on the panties?
No, no. That was too far-fetched. The fact was, the clothes stretched until they fit. And somehow were able to sculpt the body. To visually sculpt the body. To change the *appearance* of the body. It's not as though his legs and hips and balls had changed, or disappeared! That would be absurd. Absurd to even say it.
Then came a surprising realization: he'd been wearing the panties for a few minutes now, and they felt like... they fit like... like magic! he wanted to say. I could wear these all day! he exclaimed to himself. He'd never worn clothes this comfortable before! The damn things feel absolutely perfect!
But I can't be wrong! he hastened to assure himself, doubling down on his doubts.
He knew that his next logical step would be to take off the underwear and see whether it resumed its previous smaller size, or whether it was now all stretched out and worthless.
That would be the next logical step, yes.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The panties were so damn comfortable! He wondered whether he could get away with wearing underwear for the rest of the day – or from now on, for that matter.
Of course he couldn't! He was a man! But still... it was a thought. A consideration. Maybe Fit-4-U made men's underwear?
But NO! He couldn't give in. Fit-4-U was the enemy, the scammers. He needed to prove it.
In any case, their clothes were a little pricey.
He paused. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on his forehead. It was time to gather his thoughts. What was his current status? What were his next steps?
His current status? He was wearing a pair of women's underwear, and it fit like a dream (unfortunately!) What had he done wrong here?
He was missing something. Yes, missing something! That's what he'd done wrong here. He should have used a mirror! If he'd had a mirror handy, he could have watched the process; he could have seen what was happening, and in an instant he'd have gotten to the bottom of things.
The bottom of things, he chortled to himself. Heheh.
He needed a mirror. He could have gone into their bedroom and used Camille's full-length mirror, but he didn't think of it. The only mirror he ever used was the one above the sink in the hall bathroom. So that's where he went.
He stood at the vanity, turning his head this way and that, trying to get an good angle on his legs, on his groin, on his butt. Of course the view was hardly adequate, but it was enough to confirm what Ozzie's hands had already told him:
Smooth, slim, girly legs? check.
Perky bubble butt? check.
Smooth Mound of Venus in front? check.
It was puzzling, powerfully puzzling, the way his man-parts were effectively erased from view.
"You know," he told himself aloud, "These would be perfect for those guys who like to dress like women."
He paused, looking at his face in the mirror. Was he shorter? Wasn't his head usually higher in the mirror than this, when he shaved?
Of course not! He replied silently, brushing away the absurdity of his observation. He probably didn't remember right. "And it's probably because I'm barefoot," he reasoned; ignoring the fact that he was barefoot the last time he looked in the mirror, and the time before that, and the time before that.
Okay. The next step ought to be the bra. He could stand in front of the mirror and keep his eye on what happened, as it happened.
He fetched the bra and returned to stand before the sink.
Holding the two ends of the band, he found that the bra only went halfway around his chest. He lowered his hands and took a look at himself. He had a good chest. A manly chest. He had a decent patch of hair on hischest. Not a forest, but a discrete, manly assertion of available testosterone.
Ozzie looked down at his hands, which rested on the marble top of his bathroom vanity. He still held the bra strap in both hands, and discovered that if he laid the thing out straight, end to end, it was nearly the same width as the marble counter. Great! Now, not only did he have a mirror to aid his observations, he also had an objective measure so he could track the stretching-out!
He held the bra strap against his chest and stared in the mirror. The two flimsy breast cups dangled empty, useless.
Ozzie took a breath and felt his hands slip backward, an inch on either side of his chest. Open mouthed, he snatched it away from his body and held it against the front of the sink.
The size hadn't changed.
What?
He picked the bra up and tried to stretch it. It didn't stretch. He held it once again against the sink. Same size as before.
Okay. He pressed it against his chest, and once again felt his hands slip back an inch. Damn it! Holding it against the sink, he could see that the bra hadn't changed an iota.
What the living hell?
He was stumped.
Then he remembered how Camille sometimes put her bra on backwards: she'd hold it with the cups behind her so she could more easily do up the clasps in front. That done, she'd turn it around, bringing the cups in front, and slip her arms into the straps.
If Ozzie did the same, he'd be able to watch as the bra changed size.
And so he did. Holding the two ends of the bra strap in his hands, facing the mirror, he stared at the gap. His first two efforts had, inexplicably, apparently lengthened the bra's strap, so that the ends reached more than halfway around, despite what his improvised yardstick told him. As he watched, simply holding, not pulling, not tugging, not stretching, he could see the two ends, the two clasps, creeping toward each other. It was the weirdest thing. His mind was truly blown.
When the gap shrank to a mere six inches, he snatched it off and slapped it down with urgency against the front of the sink. It was still the same length! What on earth was going on here?
It must be snapping back when I take it off, he told himself, but as soon as he articulated the thought he knew how absurd it sounded.
I mean, because... seriously, he reasoned with himself, just brainstorming here, but... the only other possibility is that my *chest* is shrinking, but THAT can't be happening.
He started at his torso in the mirror. Did he look any different? Of course not! Why was he even asking the question?
On the other hand... he really should have used his phone to take a picture of himself, a picture of his chest. In fact, if he HAD taken a picture, he'd know right away whether he'd lost a few chest hairs in the last couple of minutes. Even if THAT is something no bra can do. It didn't pluck them off; he was sure about that. He would have felt that, had it happened.
In the end, he watched the gap between the ends of the bra strap narrow, narrow, narrow, until they met and overlapped each other, allowing him to join the clasps.
He worked it around his body, bringing the cups in front, and slipped his arms into the straps. His brain was in whirl. Ozzie was so distracted that he didn't notice the apparent movements of the bra straps as they achieved their perfect fit.
Ozzie felt beaten. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't manage to work up even the most implausible BS... he couldn't explain it away.
And he left the bathroom in a daze, missing the most remarkable transition so far, and one he would have had trouble ignoring: the skin of his chest smoothed and filled out until he had a lovely pair of soft, pillowy breasts, resting snugly in Fit-4-U's perfectly fitting bra.
He did sense a sudden movement in his underwear. It was hard to describe; it was a definite shift... as though his balls had rolled in some dramatic way. It didn't hurt; it was just weird, as though a snake took a swift slide between his legs. He shivered and shook off the feeling, although he did reach down to run his fingers over the front side of his panties. They still fit as they did before, which is to say, perfectly. He ran his fingers around the waistline, then around the leg openings. He slid both hands down his backside and shivered at the exquisite feeling. Was it possible that the underwear made his butt more sensitive? Was that even possible?
Somewhere in what he'd experienced, Ozzie assured himself, was the proof that the "guaranteed fit" was not real. He didn't know where. He didn't know how. In spite of his assurance, Ozzie's conviction lost a lot of ground today, and even in what happened yesterday. He was bothered by the memory of Laura's jacket. It didn't work the way this costume worked – at least, not so far. Camille didn't go through any visible adjustments. Laura's coat didn't move around on her body. All she did was put it on. It simply fit, and fit perfectly, without preamble. It was different. Somehow it was different from what he was experiencing here.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Kate Spade
What a disappointment! Ozzie, fully expected this experiment would be simple, easy, a walk in the park. He believed that exposing Fit-4-U as a sham and a fraud would be as straightforward as trying on a garment that DIDN'T fit, and that would be the end of it. So far, that's not what was happening. The pieces that had the least chance of fitting him – the lingerie – were not only perfectly in place on his body, but also were the most comfortable clothes he'd worn in his life. Much as he didn't want to admit it, he liked the fit so well, he didn't want to take them off.
And yet... he sighed as he surveyed the rest of the maid costume. There had to be something here that didn't fit. Something that he could wave in Camille's face and say, "SEE?"
It was discouraging. He pulled on the ankle socks, since they were so tiny. Of course, he had the same experience as with the lingerie.
Oddly, it never occurred to Ozzie that his foot actually shrank, in the same way that his legs and chest shrank, in response to the clothes. It continued to frustrate him. He kept imagining he was inches away from discovering the secret, only to find he was more distant than before.
It was only natural that he wouldn't see the simple solution. Who ever heard of people's *bodies* changing to suit the clothes they wore? No one! It was always the other way around: you choose clothes that fit. There was also the option of altering the ones that don't. Altering the clothes, that is. If anything changed, it was always the clothes.
"I feel like I've fallen down a rabbit hole," he said aloud, complaining to himself as he cast a bewildered look at the array of clothes that surrounded him.
Dispirited, he hardly knew what to try on next. "The damn thing ought to come with instructions!" he groused. More or less at random, he picked up the blouse, a white item with short puffy sleeves and ruffles around the breasts.
The experience was a repeat of what happened before: his arms became more slender, his shoulders narrowed. Even his hands changed. It was maddening. In Ozzie's mind, he watched each article of clothing expand, lengthen, grow... but if he measured it by holding it against a piece of furniture, he'd see that the clothes hadn't changed at all. Still, he could not draw the sum.
Even though Ozzie plainly witnessed every change as it happened, in real time, he steadfastly refused to believe that it was his own body that was changing. He clung to his feeble excuse of optical illusions and the slimming effect despite all evidence to the contrary. Even the lovely pair of breasts, framed perfectly by the bright white ruffles and lace of his blouse, and supported with panache and confidence by the magilon bra, he eyed them with dismay, but refused to believe they were actually a part of him; that those two perfect pillows were his own; that everywhere that Ozzie went, those breasts were sure to go.
Another thing that Ozzie was too caught up to be aware of, too pig-headed to realize, was the fact that he couldn't resist putting on one piece of the costume after another.
There was no going back, either! Once he donned a part of the maid costume, he didn't consider for a moment taking it off again.
His eyes were on the shiny black bodice, but his hand caught hold of the bright white petticoat. Unsure of the order of operations, he hefted one, then the other, picturing one going on, then the other. How could he know which way was the right way?
In the end he figured that the bodice came next... but how, exactly? Naturally, he wearily observed that the damn thing looked small enough that he could wear it as a hat. The lesson was getting tiresome. Yes, each item looked too small, but somehow fit. This one, though, this one might finally be the exception. After all, as he noted earlier, it came with ties, and a built-in corset. The irony of a corset with a guaranteed fit was not lost on our Ozzie.
Relying on his previous experiences with the magilon clothes, he didn't bother to loosen the bodice's ties. He slipped both arms inside, and worked his head and shoulders into the chimney. He wiggled, he wormed, he writhed his way inside until...
... he got stuck! No! No!
Ozzie fell into a full-blown panic. He couldn't get out of the damn thing! His hands were well out of the tube of cloth and boning, high up in the air above his head, so they were useless in helping him escape. He couldn't reach down or back with his hands, ironically free as they were. If he clenched his hands, if he closed his fingers, they held nothing but air.
He threw himself to the floor and thrashed about in a mad frenzy. He tried to drag the side of the bodice against the floor, against the chair, against the wall. He rolled himself into the hall and tried to get some friction off the carpet.
Nothing worked.
Breathing hard, he stopped and lay still. What was he going to do? What could he possibly say, if Camille found him like this, in this state.
He was stuck. Well and truly stuck. "Caught, like a rat in a trap!" he exclaimed.
But what to do? What to do? If Camille did come, she'd have him out in a moment. She'd just tug the damn thing off him. Ozzie racked his brain. There had to be a way! If only he could work his shoulders free...
He must have looked ridiculous, lying there on the floor, dressed in a tiny pair of gray panties, a matching bra, and two white socks with frills around the ankles – while his upper body was cocooned in a cylinder of cloth, reinfoced by boning, held tight by a long, criss-crossing lace.
It's like a fucking Chinese finger trap! he observed morosely. Seems like, the harder I try to get out, the tighter it squeezes me.
Was that the way out? The same way you free yourself of a finger trap? Relaxing? The trick to the finger trap was to relax; to stop fighting and pulling. The helical braids of a Chinese finger trap squeeze tighter and harder, the more you pull on it.
Could that work? This wasn't the same kind of thing; after all, it wasn't braided. It was just a tight tube of... of what? Of magilon. Whatever the hell *that* was.
Still, it was worth a try. Ozzie rolled onto his back and took a few long, slow breaths. Then, as he exhaled, he tried to squeeze his upper chest and shoulders smaller, to bring the skin of his back inward, then the same in front. Could he work it down his body? No – his breasts were in the way, whether they were real or not.
Ozzie kept at it, slowly, patiently, breathing slowly, doing his best to make space between his back and the bodice, his shoulders and the bodice. Then, an inspiration: he pushed his head down toward his chest, like a turtle retracting. Then he pressed his face against the material, and tilting his head back, dug in with his chin, pushing up. Progress! At last!
Now that he'd found the trick, he kept at it, patiently, fighting to keep the panic down, because it was still there, ready to overflow and overwhelm him.
At long last, once he'd freed his shoulders, it wasn't too hard to get his head and arms free.
He celebrated by shouting various swear words, imprecations, and incoherent babbling while he shook off the unpleasant sensation of being trussed up.
He ran downstairs to grab a beer, for comfort's sake. While he stood in the kitchen in his underwear and ankle socks, popping open the beer bottle, he became acutely aware of the sliding glass door that stood next to the refrigerator. There was no one there, and the door only opened to their backyard, but even so... if someone caught sight of him like this...!
He dashed back upstairs with his beer, still terrified by the experience of being swallowed up by the bodice.
While he drank, he considered the thing. He recalled seeing Camille often stepping into a dress, even if seemed far more logical to put it over your head.
Could he do the same?
He pulled the bodice to himself, and first, before anything else, he loosened the long shoelace-like tie, thus enlarging the corset to its maximum diameter.
He *did* want to put the thing on; he had a positive desire. After all, the bodice was shiny and black and cool as all-get-out. Plus, as he'd noted earlier, there was the built-in irony of a corset with a guaranteed fit. The thing was made to squeeze a woman into a smaller size! What kind of "fit" guarantee could it have?
The back of the garment was effectively split in two parts, each having a set of eyelets running down the length, and joined by a long black lace, like a larger, finer version of a shoelace. Like a shoelace, it criss-crossed down from top to bottom, leaving the loose ends dangling.
Ozzie, in no way anxious to repeat his imprisonment, undid the lace as far as physically possible, rendering the bodice a huge drum-like shape. He stepped into the center before he began tightening the lace, taking in much of the slack, until the bodice was large enough to pass over his hips without touching them.
The fitting of the bodice was a lot less dramatic than the other pieces so far. Ozzie took in the slack in the corset's lace, at first so the bodice would stay in place and not fall off. Then, bit by bit – and not looking for a tight fit – he kept working the criss-crossed laces from top to bottom until he ran out of slack. Once he reached that point, he tied them off at the bottom.
Ozzie felt more at ease about the bodice now – this time, he knew his way out.
Next came the petticoat, which fastened by a simple pair of buttons. It took no effort at all to put it on. After all, the work of shaping Ozzie's waist was done by the bodice, so here he simply did up the buttons and was that was it! Since the petticoat spread out, umbrella-like, Ozzie missed the effect it had on his hips: making them wide enough that he could rest his hands on them.
The skirt followed; the apron after that. Each fit immediately, since they followed the petticoat.
That left only the shoes, and the shoes revived Ozzie's hopes of at last finding something – one thing, at least! – that didn't fit.
"Here," he said to himself, as he lifted one dainty foot (already altered by the little ankle socks!), "this will be like Cinderella... or one of her wicked stepsisters! These shoes were made for a child! A small-footed child, at that!" But to his dismay, his foot slipped in with ease – as though the shoe was created specifically for his foot. The second shoe followed suit.
Astonished, unable to speak or even think, he tried to stand up straight, and had to whirl his forearms in circles to keep his balance. What was the point of these heels?
Of course, you, the reader, you understand perfectly well a fact that hadn't yet penetrated Ozzie's thick skull: None of the clothes had changed. Not one iota. It was Ozzie's body that changed, part by part, until HE became the perfect fit, the guaranteed fit for the French Maid Costume he'd been rash enough to order.
By now, his transformation was nearly complete.
Wobbling back and front, waving his arms to keep from falling, he tried to get a look at his feet, and nearly fell on his face. Even if he'd mastered standing in high heels, he couldn't look straight down to see his feet. The fullness of his petticoat lifted his skirt to almost twice the width of his body. So he lifted one foot, meaning to bring that foot in view, but instead he found himself hopping on his other foot, unable to stop until he crashed into the wall.
He wedged his backside into the corner formed by his recliner and the wall, and hanging on to his props, he was able to raise his foot and take a look.
Now, finally, as he gaped, open-mouthed, stupified, he began to catch a glimmer of what had really happened: his body had changed.
And yet, he resisted. He couldn't accept it, not even the idea of it.
In Ozzie defense, what happened to him was simply impossible. We can't judge him too harshly. After all, if you read such a thing in a story, you'd say it was implausible. You'd throw the book down in a huff and leave it there.
Ozzie didn't have that luxury. He was still in the thick of it, and his adventure was only beginning.
Right now, for instance, he managed to keep his balance and take a few steps, realizing as he did so that the shoes were remarkably comfortable!
"It's the damnest thing!" he exclaimed aloud. "These are the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn!" He took a few experimental steps here and back again. "I don't know why women complain so much about wearing heels!" he declared. "I could wear these things all day!"
He did feel a touch of embarrassment about his spontaneous declaration. These were, after all, womens clothes that he was enthusing over. But at the end of the day, Ozzie was alone.
And yet, he did have a sense of shock. He had a sense of how far he'd come down a road he never intended to take.
And worse of all, he had to admit that there was something at work that he didn't understand. He didn't understand it at all.
Well, now he'd put the costume on, in its entirety. (Or so he thought!) His next logical step would be to take it all off and see what state the various pieces now found themselves in.
Remembering his bizarre experience with the length of the bra band, it would be smart to take measurements of each piece while on his body, and then after taking them off.
Camille, he remembered, kept a measuring tape in the junk drawer in the kitchen. It was the soft kind, meant for measuring hips and waists and clothes.
And so, Ozzie manfully trooped toward the stairs in his tiny high heels, taking small steps, lifting his feet high.
Since his full skirt blocked his view of his feet, Ozzie came dangerously close to tumbling down the stairs before he'd even begun his descent. He saved himself by grabbing hold of the newel at the top of the handrail. Then, carefully carefully, he eased his toe forward until he found the edge of the stair, and working blind in that way, made his way down.
After negotiating a half-dozen stairs, Ozzie caught a glimpse of his legs, from the knees on down, in a mirror hung opposite to the stairs. At first he froze, thinking he'd seen a cute young woman. He felt attracted, but at the same time afraid of being discovered.
Of course, in the next moment, he knew it was himself, his legs, his feet, and – descending by degrees – he was able to take in the sections of his new body: first: toes to knees, second: knees to waist, third: waist to neck–
and there he froze. It was too difficult to take in.
Until that moment he hadn't had any sense of how small the bodice had taken in his waist, or how breathtaking his breasts had become. But the sexy, elegant hourglass created between the belling of the skirt, the contraction of the waist, and the presentation of those pert, perky breasts – framed as they were by white ruffles and tasteful lace trim – was undeniable.
The view filled him with dismay. He took his hand from the bannister to feel his new mammaries. They were sensational. Perfect. Not overlarge. In fact, they were somewhat small, which made them all the more appealing. Like a twin pair of apples. "But they're... real!" he whispered, shocked and amazed. "They can't be!"
His legs, too, were as he thought: long, smooth, slender – and hairless! How had that happened? "It must be that damn body wash!" he growled.
At the end, as he descended farther down the stair, his head came into view. In a sense, it was the worst part of all, because it didn't match the rest. His head was his big old, goofy Ozzie head. His head was always oversized, but he never resembled a bobblehead doll as much as he did now.
"Too bad the damn maids don't wear hats," he groused, meaning to joke, but even he didn't see the humor in it – or the error in it.
Ozzie was not a man who cried often, if ever, but he certainly felt close to tears right now.
"Gotta get this damn thing off," he told himself. But first, the measuring tape.
It took a bit of fumbling and searching and digging around in the junk drawer. After all, it was a catch-all. In the end he did find it: a soft yellow tape with metal tips on each end, inches marked out in large black numbers.
While he was here, in the kitchen, it wouldn't hurt, he told himself, if he brought a beer along with him when he climbed back upstairs.
In other words, the kitchen gave Ozzie the idea of beer, and the idea of beer made him think of the bathroom. Ozzie needed to pee again.
There was a half-bath off the kitchen. A little tight, but he managed to shove himself in there, with his full skirt all around him.
Facing the toilet, he lifted the front of the skirt, holding it high, as high as he could. He didn't want to ruin the merchandise by peeing on it, did he!
And then... when it seemed that things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse... Ozzie tried to hook his thumbs into the top of his panties, but he couldn't get a grip. Each time he flicked his thumbs down at the waist, they'd pass over it without getting a grip.
"What the hell?"
He tried pinching the material, but that didn't work either. It was as if the panties were painted on.
He ran his hands around the leg openings, but there, too, the underwear behaved like a second skin.
It wasn't that the underwear was tight; not at all. It was as though it had become a part of him.
"Fuck!" he shouted. "Let me out of here!"
Fumbling absurdly, he knocked one of his funny bones on the bathroom door jamb. Clutching his elbow, he had to back out of the littlest room. His dress was so full, it didn't allow him to turn around.
Once out, back in the larger space of his kitchen, he tried to kick off his shoes. No go. Clutching the counter, he reached down and grabbed his right foot. No matter how hard he tugged or twisted, the damn shoe would not move. "It's like it's glued on!" The left shoe was equally resistant.
Now, Ozzie was well on his way to freaking out.
He tried to untie the apron. No go. He tried to untie the goddamned bodice. It was a simple knot, like the knot he used to tie his shoes, but it wouldn't come undone. He snatched up a pair of kitchen scissors and tried to cut the apron, but it didn't work. He couldn't slide either scissor blade under the material. The petticoat, the blouse, wouldn't unbutton, and the skirt was impervious to cutting.
"I'm fucked," Ozzie observed, and stepping over to a support post they were unable to remove during renovations, Ozzie knocked his head against it: once, twice, three times. It didn't help anything.
He clenched his fists and shouted at the top of his lungs, an inarticulate cry of frustration and dismay. Then he clattered around the whole first floor, examining himself in every mirror he could find, large or small, and in every mirror he saw the same desperate man, caught in the same predicament.
He crumpled to the floor, an adorable arrangement of white lace frills and black, shiny, silk-like material. Well, he was *almost* adorable – he still had his big, fat Ozzie head.
Then, he remembered: he'd left a beer on the kitchen counter. He ran to it, opened it, and returned to his seat on the floor.
He wasn't the kind of man who'd let despair get in the way of a cold beer.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
By the time Ozzie finished his beer, he was no closer to a solution. However, he had worked through what he'd say to Camille, once she arrived.
On the one hand, he'd feel compelled to admit – or at least to SAY – that the Fit-4-U guarantee was real; that it worked, and (worst of all!) that he'd been wrong.
Naturally, all those admissions would come bundled with the unstated proviso that Ozzie WASN'T wrong; that he still intended to prove that Fit-4-U was a total sham and a scam, but – given the circumstances – pleading guilty to all charges was going to be the easiest way out of this jam.
As much as he disliked mouthing those three words, at the same time he had to recognize that his saying, "I was wrong," would help soften up Camille's reaction, whatever it happened to be.
Certainly she'd be shocked. Certainly she'd wonder about Ozzie's commitment to his manhood.
Even so, his motive for continuing to put on one article of clothing after another was clear and easy to understand, especially for a woman: Ozzie had hoped to find at least ONE item that didn't satisfy the Fit-4-U guarantee. Obviously!
After he and Camille negotiated their way past THAT topic, Ozzie would point out that he couldn't get the damn clothes off. That, at least, was something the two of them could work on together. He didn't see how Camille could resist a challenge like that!
Every so often, while he waited, Ozzie would fuss with the clothes, trying to lose at least some part of the outfit, but to no avail.
The underwear was the most vexing. He could touch it; it had a texture quite different from his skin. It hadn't become a part of him. His skin felt like... well, it felt like skin. Soft, smooth skin. The underwear, on the other hand, felt like cloth. Fine, high-quality cloth. And yet there didn't appear to be any seam, any place where he could slide even as much as a fingernail underneath.
AND he still needed to use the bathroom. Luckily the need wasn't desperate. Yet.
So... what to do? What to do? Was there anything he could do before Camille arrived home?
Hopefully she'd arrive home alone, without company.
Just think – what if Laura came along! That would be the absolute worst! That would be the end. The end of everything. Ozzie would never be able to show his face in town, not ever again. He and Camille would have to move, wouldn't they. Find a new city in another part of the country. Far far away. Get a new job, a new set of friends.
Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.
He thought about the website, the Fit-4-U website. That's what got me into this mess, he told himself. Then, a thought: Maybe they could get me out? Maybe they had a Frequently Asked Questions page. Maybe they had Support documentation. Something like this... there'd have to a clue. There'd have to be a remedy. It was definitely worth a look.
Ozzie got to his feet and approached the stairs. Again, his skirt blocked his view of the first step, so he eased his little foot forward until it encountered the first riser, and holding the railing, carefully, attentively climbed the stairs. Going up was much easier than coming down, although when he got to the top, he put his right foot up to step on the next step... which wasn't there. He was already on the top step. His foot came down heavily and he almost stumbled. It felt as though he'd been pranked, which didn't help his mood.
Naturally, vexingly, when he sat at the desk, his skirt popped up, touching his breasts. It wasn't in his way – he had no trouble seeing the screen; he could type; but it was annoying to have that mass of fabric standing up like that, reminding him of his (apparent?) female anatomy. Every time he moved, the skirt rubbed the underside of his breasts. And for some inexplicable reason, he was quite conscious of the fact that his legs and crotch were exposed. It was absurd for him to worry over such thing; someone would need to be crouched into a ball under his desk if they wanted to see his underwear. And what did Ozzie care, anyway? It wasn't like he was a girl, for gosh sakes.
In any case...
As it happened, there was a FAQ on the Fit-4-U site, but there was not a thing about clothes getting stuck to the wearer's body.
Ozzie clicked around. He looked at the site map. He examined the links at the bottom of the page. And finally, he quit ignoring a message floating at the top.
In a narrow banner across the top of every page, there was a link for "Support." He clicked there, and found a page that promised all sorts of support. None of it quite suited Ozzie: he didn't want to send a message and have to wait for a reply. An irritating little window kept floating into view. Every time Ozzie shut the little thing it popped up somewhere else. "And did you know?" the little window inquired, "You can use our ChatBot at any hour of the day or night, any day of the week? Just click on the blue balloon on your lower right."
Ozzie huffed and sighed. The ChatBot was probably a good idea. Ozzie didn't feel up to calling a phone number and discussing his predicament with an actual human. It was too embarrassing. Even if... as he suspected... this supposed "chatbot" was more than likely an underpaid employee, sitting at a desk, typing, pretending to be a computer.
They think we're idiots! he told himself, shaking his head.
Even so, he clicked on the blue balloon. A long, narrow window appeared, with the following text:
Hi! I'm the Fit-4-U ChatBot, Powered with A.I.! I'm happy to assist you!
First, help me understand what kind of question you have!
Please click one:
Fit
Returns
Billing
Delivery
Other
At the bottom of the little window was a space to type, so Ozzie typed "Can't take off clothes" and he hit RETURN.
The bot replied,
Thank you!
Help me understand what kind of question you have!
Click one:
Fit
Returns
Billing
Delivery
Other
Annoyed, this time, Ozzie clicked on "Fit". The bot replied by asking,
Do you have a problem with the fit of our clothes?
Please click one:
Yes
No
He clicked Yes. The bot asked,
Is your Fit-4-U garment too big or too loose?
Please click one:
Yes
No
He clicked no. The bot asked,
Is your Fit-4-U garment too small or too tight?
Please click one:
Yes
No
He clicked no. The bot replied:
Great! Glad to hear it! Do you need help with anything else today?
He typed "Can't remove clothing"
The bot replied.
I don't understand. Please try again. What can I help you with today?
Ozzie typed, "The clothes are stuck on my body!" The bot replied,
I don't understand. Please try again. What can I help you with today?
Growling, Ozzie typed, "HOW DO I GET THE DAMN CLOTHES OFF OF ME?"
This time the bot replied,
It looks like you need to speak with a member of our staff.
You can reach our Customer Support desk 24/7 at this number:
A phone number followed.
Ozzie harrumphed and scoffed loudly. He never called support numbers. Not if he could help it. The so-called support staff usually had no idea what they hell they were doing. Unfortunately, this time Ozzie didn't have a choice. So he punched the number into his phone. The call was answered after two rings.
"Hello? This is Fit-4-U support, Avery speaking. Do you have a question or problem with a Fit-4-U product?"
"Yes, yes, I definitely do."
"I'll be happy to help you. Can you tell me to whom I'm speaking?"
"Ah–" Ozzie hesitated. "Do you mind if I don't tell you my name?"
Avery didn't miss a beat. "No, of course not. I'm here to help. What can I do for you?"
Ozzie took a breath and out rushed the whole story. Everything. The words poured out of him nonstop, like a water gushing from a broken pipe: beginning with Laura's shacket and his suspicions about the guarantee, to the late-night order of the maid costume, to trying it all on (but only to make a point, mind you!), and finally to not being able to take it off. The moment he started babbling, he couldn't stop until he reached the end. He had no idea how long he went on, unloading the entire emotional escapade, but Avery listened patiently, without interrupting, except to occasionally murmur, "I see," or "Oh, my" or some other signal of interest.
When Ozzie finally stopped to catch his breath, Avery summed up the case in a sentence: "The problem is that you ordered a French Maid costume, and now that you're wearing it, you can't take it off."
"That's right," he said. "You make it sound simple, but it's a nightmare, I'm telling you!"
"I'm sure it's quite distressing," she assured him.
"Can you help me?" he asked. "What the hell can I do?"
"I'll do my best!" she replied in a bright tone. "But first, can you tell me your order number?"
"My order number?" he shouted. "My ORDER number? Listen, I already told you: I ordered a French Maid Costume last night. That's my order!"
"I understand, sir," she replied, "But we have many French Maid Costumes. I need your order number so I know exactly what we're working with."
"Oh," he said, in a quieter tone, thoughtful. Then, intrigued: "You said you have many French Maid Costumes? How many kinds of French Maid can there be?"
"Well, sir," she replied. "You'd be surprised. We have two or three that could actually be worn while cleaning. As far as costumes and other maid outfits, We have well over a dozen different versions and variations, and..."
"Hey," he interrupted, and asked in a confidential tone, "Hey, Avery. Just out of curiosity, do you have a... Bottomless French Maid Outfit?"
"Yes, sir," she replied without hesitation.
"Really!"
"Yes, really, sir– In fact..." he could hear her typing, then: "We have *four* Bottomless French Maid outfits. Four different styles... with varying degrees of... uh, daring, I guess you could say. You can find them by searching for bottomless french maid on our website."
"Oh! Yes. I'll do that. I'll, uh–" Ozzie told her, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah. I'll definitely do that... later."
"Very good, sir," she said, sounding very much like Stephen Fry's Jeeves. Ozzie missed her faint gibe. He was busy telling himself, I'll do that later... tonight.
"Okay, now!" he said, returning to the charge. "So what do I do?"
"You can tell me your order number," she repeated.
"And where on earth do I find my order number?"
"There should be a copy of your order in the delivery box. Is the box close at hand?"
"Yes, it's right here," he said, "but I've been through it several times and I'm sure there's no..." He put the phone on speaker and set it on his desk. A quick look in the box uncovered a hair ribbon and a choker tangled together, and a neat 8.5x12 sheet with the words YOUR ORDER at the top of the page. "Oh, here it is! Got it!"
"Great! Your order number will be in the upper right corner. Can you read it to me?"
Ozzie, pedantic, cleared his throat and in a condescending tone pointed out. "Yes, I see what you're calling the 'order number', but – just a quick FYI – this isn't, strictly speaking, a number. It's numbers and letters mixed together."
"Yes, sir," she said. "That's a good observation. It's actually a hexadecimal number. Do you know what hexidecimal means? It uses the letters A through F for the values 10 to 15."
"I know what a hekka-dekkama number is!" he barked. Angry, a little stung in his vanity, he read off the order number as quickly as he could: "14180a18-00a1-R! That's the order number! Did you get it?"
Of course she didn't get it, so he repeated it with painful slowness, as if he was speaking to an idiot child. Then he told her, "I'm sorry, but I can't help but point out that R is not hekka-dekkama. You said A through F. The letter R comes much later in the, uh, hekkama." He felt quite superior, having caught her out.
"No, sir, of course you're correct. The R simply means that this item is irregular." Then, after a pause, with a slight tone of surprise: "Oh! I see this was one of our free items!"
Ozzie's ears pricked up that. "What are you trying to imply?" he demanded, a low warning in his voice.
"Nothing, sir, I'm not implying anything at all. It's only that–"
"It's only what? That you won't help me because it was free? Is that what you're saying?"
"No, sir, not at all! I'm happy to help! It's only that... irregular items are, by definition, unpredictable. I'm sure that's why you're having trouble with it."
"Unpredictable?" He tried to give an experimental tug at his underwear, but was still unable to get a grip on it. "Are you saying that this – what's happening to me – that you didn't KNOW it would do this? Are you saying that this kind of thing has never happened before?"
"Oh, no, sir, I'm not saying that at all! In fact, I'm quite sure we've encountered this situation before. Not with this item in particular, but... Let me see... if you could give me a moment..."
While Avery consulted her computer screen, Ozzie blistered and complained, "I don't understand how you can manufacture clothes that are, for all intents and purposes, practical jokes at best, and humiliating TRAPS at worst. And you send these sartorial boobie-traps willy-nilly, out loose in the world, to make fools out of people, preying on their trust and... their naivete! Can you explain that to me?"
"Sir, that's not our practice. That's not what we do."
"Oh ho! Oh ho! No, no, my girl! That IS exactly what you do! It's what you've done, right here, right now! It's what you're *doing* to me! Tell me, how many people in this great country of ours are stuck right this minute, unable to free themselves from some ungodly outfit you've saddled them with?"
"Honestly, and I'm sorry to say it, but I believe that you are the only person at this moment who–"
"Only me? Only me? Is this some kind of sick practical joke, at my expense? Is this personal somehow?"
"No, sir. Not at all! If I could only explain–"
"Go on, then!" he said, leaning back in his chair, causing his skirt to pop up even higher (to his irritation!). "Explain."
"The costume that you received, the one that you're wearing, is not our *regular* costume. And I have to admit, the full-price costume is a bit... expensive. However, if you had THAT version of the outfit, you'd be able to put it on and take it off as much as you like, without any difficulty.
"However! *This* version has a defect." She paused. "It doesn't behave the way the full-priced item would. And that defect caused us to mark it IRREGULAR."
"Can you tell me why," Ozzie asked, interrupting, "If you knew that this outfit was going to get stuck on me, why didn't you just get rid of it? Or when you sold it, why didn't you put in a little note that said, Hey, watch out! if you put this thing on, you won't be able to take it off again! I mean, why didn't you do that? It would have taken all of five minutes to drop in a warning like that."
"Because we didn't know it would behave in exactly that way," she replied.
"Oh, bullshit!" he exclaimed.
"Sir–"
"You said that you've seen this before: that this outfit gets stuck on people!"
"No, not this outfit. It's a rare thing. It doesn't happen often, but it has happened with other irregular items..."
"So what can I do? I'm waiting for you to help me."
"Okay," Avery said, taking a breath to steady herself. "Can I ask you, are you wearing the entire costume at this point? The complete outfit?"
"What the hell difference does that make? Do you want to know whether I look like a complete idiot? Is that what you're asking?"
"No, sir, of course not. What I'm trying to ask... what I want to know is: if you look in the mirror, do you see yourself completely transformed?"
"Transformed?" he echoed, incredulous. "I'm not transformed! I'm just– These damn clothes make me look like a girl, for cryssakes!" As he spoke, he walked to his bedroom and consulted Camille's full-length mirror. "I look like a goddamn girl!" he bellowed. "Except for my head. It makes my head look huge, in comparison! I look like one of those idiotic bobblehead dolls!"
"I see," she responded, gently.
"You see?" he repeated, full of anger. "Do you fucking SEE? I am stuck in these stupid clothes, do you understand? Stuck! And I need you to tell me how to get out of them!"
"Yes, sir, I'm trying to help you do that. We're going to get you out of those clothes. Do you mind if I start a video session, so I can see that state of things from your side?"
"Hell, no! There's not going to be a video session, or pictures, or any tom-fool thing like it! There's no need to make this any more complicated than it already is! All I want, all you have to do, is tell me how to get these goddamn clothes off!"
"Yes, sir," she responded, but her patience was wearing thin.
"You know," he informed her, "these clothes – if they're going to do this, if they're going to... to behave this way... they ought to come with a warning."
"Yes, sir," she agreed. "You said that. And they DO come with a warning. As you're well aware, irregular items come with an element of risk." He balked, but she pressed on. "AND, with irregular items, the lower the price, the higher the risk. Free items have the highest risk level of all. You know this."
"No," he retorted, "No. I do not know this. I am not well aware. Don't talk rubbish. All I did, was order some clothes. An outfit. A costume. How in hell was I supposed to be well aware?" He snorted dismissively.
"Do you recall, before you were allowed to place your order, you read and accepted our disclaimer?"
Scoffing loudly he shot back, "I didn't read the damn thing! Nobody–"
"But you accepted it, sir," she cut in. "Your acceptance is recorded in our system. You agreed to the Acceptance of Risk."
He floundered. She was right: he had agreed to the damn thing, whatever it said, without reading it. Still, there had to be something he could object to... so he asked, "Why is the risk higher... I mean, why, if it costs less, is the risk higher? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"
"Because it's a gamble," she explained. "The full-price version is, frankly, quite expensive, but what makes it expensive, beyond the quality of the clothes, is the effect that the costume has on the wearer. The full-price version only does what you expect it to do: it does exactly what you paid for. It's the quality of the clothes, and the overall effect."
She paused and ventured to say, "It sounds like your outfit has a marked effect on you. Am I right?"
Ozzie didn't reply. He was thinking, looking for a hole in her explanation.
"So...," she continued. "Someone who wants the look and feel of the full-priced version AND the effect it creates, but doesn't have the money to afford it, they can take a gamble, they can assume a little risk, and go with the irregular version. If there is one."
"What do you mean, If there is one. Don't you always have irregular items?"
"No, irregular items are rare. In any case, hopefully the person who orders an irregular item is ready for the risk, whatever that may be. In your case, unfortunately, you feel quite, um, inconvenienced–"
"–I should say so!"
"–but at the same time, you can't argue about the price. In fact, the effect that you're experiencing... if you wanted a full-price item that would do the same thing, have the same effect on you, it would cost a pretty penny. But if you're willing to gamble... to accept a certain level of risk... you can get the same effect. Sometimes for free!"
"Why would anyone on earth want clothes they can't take off?"
"No one would. That isn't what I meant, sir."
"Then what–"
"You *will* be able to take them off if you work with me, sir."
"Fine! Then let's quit farting around, and tell me what to do! That's what I've been asking you for, this past hour or whatever it's been!"
"First of all, the fact that you can't take the costume off yet – I want to be sure you understand that if you bought the full-price version, you wouldn't have this difficulty. And that this difficulty is part of the risk you willingly accepted when you ordered an irregular item. Do you acknowledge that?"
"Oh, so it's my fault now?"
"No, sir, it's–"
"Are you calling me a cheapskate?"
Avery permitted herself a soft sign, but after biting her tongue said, "No, sir, of course not. I'm just explaining. This is part of the unpredictability and risk that you–"
"Explain this to me: how am I supposed to go to the bathroom? Am I supposed to wet myself? I can't get these damn panties off!"
Instead of giving a direct response, Avery asked, "You said that your head is unchanged, is that correct?"
"Nothing is changed!" he shouted. "It just makes me *look* different!"
"But your head– your head still looks the same, as it always does?"
"Yes, of course! Why do you keep asking me about my stupid head? It's right there, looking like it always does! It didn't go anywhere!"
"Okay..." she said, forcing herself to use a gentle tone (and beginning to get more than a little frustrated; she had to fight to keep her cool), "there is a hair ribbon and a choker that came with that outfit. It sounds like you haven't put them on. Am I correct in saying that?"
"Who gives a good goddamn about a hair ribbon!" he shouted. "You're not listening to me! I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM! Do you get it? Do you get it yet? Hello? Is anybody home there?"
Avery closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths. Maybe she could try another tack. "Sir, could you give me a moment to consult our Knowledge Base?"
"Of course!" Ozzie replied, with mock equanimity. "Please do!" Under his breath, he muttered, Knowledge Base, my grandmother's ass!
Naturally, Avery heard him, and her cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment.
She held her breath for a moment before responding. "Let me see – "Okay," she said, after a bit of typing and a bit of reading. "If you're not willing to complete the outfit–" he began to bluster, but she pressed on, pre-empting him– "it's possible that another person could help you out of those clothes. It's possible. Again, irregular items are unpredictable, but we have seen this work in another case like this, so it's possible that it could work here, now."
He scoffed. "Another person? Another person has to see me like this? Fuck that! Tell me, Avery: can *you* come here and get me out of this situation? You're another person, aren't you?"
Avery closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment before responding. He heard her typing. "Let me see – You live in Schenectedy, is that right? did i pronounce that correctly?"
"Yes," he responded tersely.
"I'm not sure that it would be helpful," she told him. "It would take so long for me – or for anyone from Fit-4-U, to reach you, that... well, it makes more sense for someone, anyone, physically near you, to help you."
"And what if they can't help me?" he objected.
"If they can't help you, it's unlikely that anyone here can help you, either," she answered, at the limit of her patience. Then, as he began to speak, she cut in: "Look, I'm telling you: you need to wear the whole outfit, the whole thing, including the hair ribbon and the choker, and if you do, the problem should resolve itself!"
Avery quite justifiably felt a burning anger, an anger that Ozzie fed and stoked throughout the conversation. Avery was known to her colleagues as a person of great patience and tact, and she had a great faith in her ability to win over the most difficult and annoying clients. But Ozzie was too much, even for Avery. She could see that she was dangerously close to losing her temper, and thought it might be wise to either cut the phone call short, or kick it upstairs to her supervisor.
What she didn't realize, was that while her patience was being steadily worn down and frayed thin, Ozzie was also banking his fire. He wasn't a patient man to begin with, and he was always on the lookout for an opportunity to put his foot on the neck of another person. Any other person.
Avery was still talking, but Ozzie was no longer listening. He was pretty much an expert in not listening, and he decided that his little cup of wrath and resentment by now had overflowed and drowned out every word Avery said. Ozzie told himself that he was "fed up to here," and in desperate need of physical relief, and for those reasons, felt fully justified in lighting into the poor woman, explaining that he wasn't about to embarrass himself by asking any man, woman, or child, cat on the face of God's green earth for help, because he'd never live it down.
From there, he quickly descended into threats and insults, some of them quite vile and highly offensive. He treated Avery to all the bitter, acrid bile he had in store, and he had plenty. He described legal actions he might inflict upon Avery personally and all of Fit-4-U as a company. He predicted that dire economic calamity would follow her and everyone she knew or would ever come to know, and that he, Ozzie, would not only take possession of her house and her car, but also of her entire paycheck from now until the end of time.
Avery had never experienced as much vitriol in her entire life as Ozzie unloaded upon her in those few minutes. Ozzie indulged himself by unleashing every barb, every bomb in his arsenal of humiliating and personal attacks.
Once he warmed up to it, Ozzie let himself be carried off into paroxysms of acrimony and misogyny – carried so far that he wasn't aware at which point Avery ended the call and fled from her desk, trembling and in tears.
A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
– Harry Houdini
Camille's brain was topsy-turvy as she drove home. Laura's explanation of Fit-4-U was frankly bewildering. Of course, the explanation was complicated by the fact that neither woman believed in the M word. Then again, Fit-4-U didn't seem to require belief or any particular attitude. The clothes just worked.
In retrospect, though, it was nearly impossible to believe: that she and Laura had each worn the bimbo-making bathing suit, and experienced the radical shape-change that ended the moment they took the suit off. There was no reasonable explanation for that! Absolutely none!
She was irritated at having her credulity strained and stretched so far. She couldn't escape the feeling that it was all a prank Laura was playing on her.
At the same time, Laura wasn't the sort of person who played pranks... and she did say that if Fit-4-U *was* a joke or a trick, it wouldn't be a trick that would go far, because the clothes were on the expensive side.
She was also irritated that the website itself didn't explain how their clothes worked. The closest they came to any sort of self-justification was a line of small print at the bottom of the home page, that read "A wholly-owned subsidiary of Spells-4-U."
Which was pretty much a slap in the face.
Spells? No. The idea didn't sit well with her. There were no such things as spells. Dizzy spells? Sure. Magical spells? No frickin' way.
Even so... she knew what she was going to do. Quietly, without telling Laura or Ozzie or anyone, she was going to choose an item from the website: something where the effect would be incontrovertible. Maybe a sheath dress, or a pair of shoes. Or a bathing suit! She'd order it, she'd try it on, and see. If it didn't work– well, there was a guarantee! She'd get her money back. Best of all, no one would ever know that she'd ventured a try.
Camille would have loved to talk it through with Ozzie. In spite of his faults, Ozzie was down-to-the-dirt practical. He'd have observations, speculations, thoughts. With him, it would be easy to remove the taint of the M word, to peel back the hype, sniff out the truth, and simply take the clothes on their own terms.
Unfortunately, Ozzie had already ruined that possibility. His reaction to Laura's jacket was full of mockery and condescension. All of his remarks belittled her, belittled Laura, and insulted Fit-4-U.
On the other hand... he had admired the jacket. That was a first for him. That was almost magic in itself.
When Camille arrived home, she found the house strangely quiet. The TV wasn't on. Neither was the radio. She knew Ozzie was home; his car was in the garage.
Maybe he was asleep?
Or was he up to something? Probably spying on the woman next door, she thought, rolling her eyes. As if he had a chance!
Whatever he was up to, she could sneak upstairs and catch him in the act. It was funny the way he'd jump away from the window, or slap his computer shut, or throw a towel over his lap, feigning child-like innocence.
Camille crept slowly, quietly up the stairs and down the hall, avoiding all the creaky spots. She peeked into Ozzie's office and found a sight so unexpected, she nearly shouted in surprise. Her jaw dropped open in astonishment.
There, on the floor, sat a young woman, her head down, her body and limbs curled into – it must be said – an adorable pile of slender legs and arms, adorned in black satin-like clothes, trimmed witth bright white ruffles and lace. She wore an outfit that Camille recognized as one of Ozzie's relentless fantasies: a French Maid costume.
In spite of her shock and surprise, Camille had to recognize that the outfit appeared, at least at first glance, to be of ver high quality and a rather perfect fit. It had to be expensive.
At first she was too perplexed to speak or move, but when the power of speech returned, she put all the steel and authority in her voice that she could muster and demanded sternly, "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"
Imagine how baffled and disoriented she felt when the trim little feminine figure looked up from the floor. The head that sat atop the lovely little body was absurdly, comically outsized – and not only that, but the face, the head, the hair was unmistakeably Ozzie's!
"Ozzie, is that you?" she cried.
"Who else would I be?" he shot back, his voice heavy-laden with misery.
"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "What the– Tell me: What the hell is going on?"
"Oh, Camille!" Ozzie wailed, "This isn't what it looks like!"
"It's not?" Camille replied. "I'm not sure what it looks like, Ozzie! I'm not sure at all!"
"Well...," Ozzie ventured, his furtive nature reasserting itself, "Whatever you're thinking, it isn't that."
Camille put her hand to her head. She pulled Ozzie's desk chair into the middle of the room, and sank into it, fearful her legs would give way from under her. She felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under her, literally and figuratively.
"Help me out here, Ozzie," she told him. "What on earth is going on?"
"Oh!" he groaned. "The main thing is... God help me! The main thing is, that I need to use the bathroom!"
"The bathroom?" she echoed. "Ozzie, are you out of your mind? If you have to go, just go!"
"Maybe I have lost my mind," he said, sighing heavily. He lifted his face and looked into Camille's eyes. "What do you see when you look at me, right now?"
"I see a slim young woman in a sexy maid costume," she said, "with your big, stupid head stuck on top."
"Oh, hell," he breathed. "So it's real." He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then said, "Can you help me?"
"Help you?" she repeated. "Ozzie, first YOU have to help ME, here: tell me what in the name of Jesus is going on here?"
"I can't get this damn thing off!" he said, pulling fussily at his skirt. "I put it on to prove–" he interrupted himself with a deeply frustrated growl. "I wanted to prove that this whole Fit-U-Up thing was a load of crap."
Camille caught a glimmer; she was beginning to understand. She asked, "And how did that work out for you?"
"Like hell!" he replied. He actually trembled a bit as he admitted, "I have no idea how these damn things work, but somehow these clothes – and your crazy body wash – make me look like a girl! It's insane!"
"Okay," she said in a gentle voice. "I'm sure the body wash has nothing do with anything, but If this outfit is upsetting you so badly, why didn't you just take the costume off?"
"Oh, why didn't *I* think of that!" he shouted, in a voice loaded with bitter sarcasm. "Aren't you listening to me? I can't take it off! It won't let me! It won't move! See?" To demonstrate, he tuggled on one end of the bow that tied his apron. "It doesn't budge!" Camille, thinking he was faking, reached out and tuggled on it. Puzzled when the knot didn't give way, she tuggled even harder, to no effect. She tried the same with the knot at the bottom of the bodice: again, no result.
"And now I have to pee," Ozzie went on, "but I can't budge the underwear! I am this close to just letting go and peeing myself."
"Well, don't do that," Camille replied. "But listen, it's impossible that you can't just slide the underwear off. Come on!"
"Look!" Ozzie demanded, lifting the skirt and its petticoat, revealing the panties. It was a good thing that Camille was already sitting down. If she hadn't been, the revelation of Ozzie's intimate transformation would have knocked her flat on her butt. "See?" he asked frantically. "See? See?" as he tried to get a grip on the underwear. His fingers passed over the garment as easily as if it were a tattoo. Camille could barely take it in; her unbelieving eyes were focused on Ozzie's smooth groin.
"Can I try?" Camille asked, greatly puzzled and more than a little frightened. The changes she underwent at Laura's were astonishing and fun, but nothing like this! She never crossed the gender divide. Here, apparently Ozzie had, though he didn't seem to realize it.
What was stranger? Camille wondered, the fact that he'd altered his body so drastically, or the fact that he didn't see that he'd changed?
"Oh, yeah," Ozzie agreed, "give it a shot." He remembered in that moment that Avery had told him that another person might be able to help. And she was right: Camille easily got her fingers into the leg holes, and she slid the panties down... but only as far as his Ozzie's knees. Somehow, they refused to go any lower.
Unfortunately, she had no time to explore, to try to work the panties down any farther.
But if Camille was surprised by the profile of her husband's privates when they were covered by his panties, she was beyond amazement and disbelief at the sight of the naked truth: Ozzie's genitalia were completely altered. His man-parts were gone without a trace, and in their place was a fully appointed mons veneris: a perfectly formed genital configuration, suitable for even the most discerning women on earth.
Ozzie was totally oblivious to both Camille's consternation and its cause. His single focus was on the fact that he was now free to relieve himself. Gripping the arm of his recliner, he managed to stand upright, and off he waddled knock-kneed to the bathroom, his knees more or less bound together by the panties.
Camille heard him lift the toilet seat cover. It banged against the tank. She called out, "You'd better sit down, Ozzie!"
"Why?" he called back, amused at her intervention..
She paused for a moment. She scratched her head. Then she called, "Because you don't want to pee all over the petticoat and the skirt. Hang on – I'll help you." She ran inside the bathroom, turned her husband around, and gathered up the skirts behind him as he sat. There followed a great hissing sound, a tremendous spray, accompanied by Ozzies's rapturous sighs of relief. "Thank God!" he cried. "Woo! I really had a full tank!"
"I can hear it," Camille replied, humoring him. She was stupified. She knew that Ozzie was pig-headed, but she had no idea he could be this obtuse. He really had no idea of the extent of his transformation – or that his body had changed at all. Once the hissing sound stopped, Camille tore off some squares of toilet paper and tried to hand them to Ozzie. He wouldn't take them.
Amused, he asked, "What's that for?"
"To wipe yourself. What else?"
He laughed. "Men don't need to do that," he said.
"Humor me," she replied, and before he could object she reached down and patted him dry.
"Wow," he said, and half-joking, "I liked that! Maybe you can do that for me, from now on!"
Then, as he stood, still chuckling to himself, not thinking at all, he pulled the underwear back up, over his derriere, and settled it in place. "Oh, God damn it!" he exclaimed. "I should have taken the damn things off!" But his attempts to pull them back down again failed, exactly as they had earlier.
The two of them returned to Ozzie's office. "Now tell me," Camille told him. "What on earth happened here? Where did this outfit come from?"
"Listen," he told her. "Could we get a couple of beers to drink while I tell you the story?"
Out of habit, Camille almost got out of her seat to fetch them, but she stopped herself. "You're the maid," she said. "You go get them."
Ozzie paused at this minimal inversion of roles, but he realized that he had some explaining to do, and giving in a little at this point could earn him a bit of goodwill. So he clomped into the hallway and down the stairs, still unused to the heels that were stuck on his feet.
While he was out of the room, Camille collected her thoughts. She hadn't missed the fact that Ozzie's arms and legs were slimmer, more feminine, and completely free of rough, mannish hair. The heels did a little to hide the fact that he was now shorter than Camille. If his head was proportioned to his brand new body, he'd be more obviously petite. She also hadn't missed the fact that he sported a cute set of breasts... to say nothing of the entire set of womanly plumbing installed between his (her?) legs.
As shocking and inexplicable as these alterations were, the strangest thing of all had to be Ozzie's blindness. He simply didn't see any of it. Somehow he'd worked out a way of *not* seeing what was right in front of his eyes. He explained it all away.
She knew the man was pig-headed, but this relentless voluntary blindness surpassed all bounds.
As she listened to Ozzie carefully climbing the stairs, she was thankful that Laura had given her a rundown on Fit-4-U. Otherwise, she'd be fit to be tied! As it was, she was freaking out pretty badly, but not so badly that she couldn't hide it from her husband.
When he clomped back into the room, Ozzie carried an entire six-pack of beer, along with a pair of glasses (thinking that a little show of civilization might win him some points). He popped open one bottle and poured a glass for Camille. "I thought this might help," he explained, then poured a glass for himself.
He made an odd picture, with his delicate female frame and his massive Ozzie head. Camille was dying to take a picture, but she knew he'd violently object.
"Why hasn't your head changed?" she couldn't help asking.
"Changed?" he repeated. "Why would it change?"
"Every other part of you has," she answered.
He laughed. "No, no. See? They've taken you in, those Fit-4-U clowns! Nothing changed. I'm still the same old Ozzie. It all just looks different." He gestured at himself, at his body. "It's an illusion, see? The clothes make me look different. It's like the slimming effect you always talk about, but a la grande!"
When he sat down, Camille took a closer look at his legs. "Did you shave?" she asked.
Ozzie, who was busy taking a large sip of beer, missed the direction of her attention. "Did I shave?" he touched his cheek absently. "Yeah, sure. I just, uh, felt like running the razor... I never got such a close shave! Feel!" and he leaned forward, offering his cheek, which she (humoring him) ran her hand over and pronounced it smooth.
"So what happened here?" she asked.
Ozzie, now that the worst seemed to be over (meaning, his discovery by Camille and his relief in the bathroom), relaxed. He leaned back and took a healthy swig of beer. He explained how puzzled and provoked he felt by the mystery of Laura's jacket, and how he looked for a Fit-4-U product that wouldn't fit either woman. "This outfit," he boasted, "is a size six! Too big for Laura, too small for you!"
"And you figured that if it wouldn't fit either of us–"
"–it would prove that the guaranteed fit was a crock!"
"Okay," Camille said, treading carefully, "But now... you see that it fits you... and it looks like it fits you perfectly, right?"
"Yes!" he agreed, smiling.
"So, if it fits you, doesn't that prove that the guaranteed fit is real? Haven't you just proved yourself wrong? I mean, there's no way you could fit into a real size six. A woman's size six."
"No, of course not," he said.
"So... you think you've proved that you're right? That it's all a crock?"
"Yes, of course!"
"How?"
"Well," he said, looking around the room as if the answer to her question was written somewhere... if only he could find it. "I don't quite know," he admitted, "but as soon as I take these things off of me, I'm sure I'll understand how."
"Okay," she said, although the situation was far from okay.
Then the two of them then set to trying to remove the outfit, or any piece of it. They first struggled with the shoes, which didn't budge.
"It's like they're glued to your feet!" she exclaimed. "Did you put anything like glue inside, before you put them on?"
"No, of course not!"
Camille fetched a shoe horn, but wasn't able to slip it in behind Ozzie's heel.
"It's a good thing these shoes are so comfortable!" Ozzie quipped.
"Are they?" Camille asked.
"Oh, yes, they are! The whole outfit is incredibly comfortable!" he enthused. "I have to say that these are the most comfortable clothes I've ever worn, as weird as that sounds."
"It does sound very weird," she agreed.
None of the garments were movable, not even minimally. Not even the underwear, which Camille had successfully lowered earlier. "It's the craziest thing!" she conceded, as her fingers slipped over the lingerie without catching hold.
"You know, the one thing I don't understand," Ozzie mused, "is that jacket: it didn't change the way you look; it simply fit you, right?"
"That the one thing you don't understand?" Camilee replied in disbelief.
"These things–" here he gestured at the costume he was wearing– "they change the way I look. That's different, right?"
"Yes, very different," Camille said, distracted. She remembered Laura's explanation about the two different fits: one where the clothes change to fit you, and the other where the clothes change you to fit.
"Ozzie," she queried, "do you mind if I call Laura, to ask about this?"
With a look of horror, Ozzie gripped her arm like a steel vise. "No," he said in a decisive, intense voice. "No calling Laura! Why would you call her?"
"Because she might understand. She knows Fit-4-U. She might be able to help."
"I don't care. If she knows I did this, she'll tell her asshole husband, and I will never live this down."
Camille rolled her eyes, but let it go.
At the same time, she remembered one of Laura's remarks: that the clothes that change you, change your body, cost MORE than the other type. A lot more. Which meant that this costume had to be fairly pricey.
"Ozzie, how much did you pay for this outfit?" she asked.
His face it up at that. "Oh! I forgot to tell you! I did REALLY WELL in getting this one! It was FREE! Completely free! It even came with free shipping!"
"Are you kidding?" she asked. "That makes no sense. No sense at all!"
"It was a whatchacallit," he explained. "Seconds... or irregulars, or something."
"Oh," she said, recalling. "That's you asked about seconds last night."
"Yeah, heheh."
"Huh. Can I see it?"
Ozzie frowned, not understanding. He gestured to the clothes he was wearing.
"No," she said. "On the website."
He tried to return to the page, but it was no longer available. "Oh, yeah," he said. "This was the only one in stock."
Camille began clicking around the site. "But it was a Second?" she asked.
"No, it was Irregular." he said. "That's why it was free."
Camille read through the explanation page, taking in all the things that Ozzie missed or ignored. Words like unexpected, unpredictable, and the phrases an open mind may help and a definite element of risk.
"Did you read this?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah," he replied, waving his hand dismssively. "And when I bought the thing, I had to scroll through this long, stupid disclaimer and – what, uh – acceptance of risk. Can you believe it?"
"Yes," she replied. "Yes, I do believe it."
He gave her a look, slack-jawed, laughing. In his mind, only geeks and nerds and other losers read disclaimers and agreements on the internet.
"Don't you see the risk?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah," he said, getting it, at least for a moment. "Yeah, I guess so."
She slapped her forehead and slid her hand over her eyes. "Oh, Ozzie!" she moaned.
He shrugged. "Listen, none of this is my fault. It's them. Fit-4-U did this. It's their responsibility. They have to fix it."
"Do they?" she asked. "You accepted the risk, right?"
He made a pfft! noise and laughed scornfully. "We can sue. We can sue the pants off them."
"Before we do that–" she cautioned– "before we start suing anybody, there are other things we can try."
"Like what?"
"Like..." her eye drifted to the computer screen. "We could try calling Customer Support."
"Oh, Customer Support!" he exclaimed in a voice full of scorn. "I tried that! Total waste of time! I talked to an idiot named Avery. She was no help at all. Didn't listen to me, didn't know her ass from her elbow. And then, the bitch hung up on me!"
Camille recoiled at the sound of the B word – understanding in the same moment why Avery hung up.
"Do you mind if I try calling them?" she asked.
Ozzie opened his hands in a gesture of magnanimity. "Go right ahead," he said. "be my guest! I'm warning you, though: it will be a complete waste of time!"
"That's okay," Camille assured him. "But I have to try it."
"Oh," he remembered, reaching into the delivery box. "You're going to need the so-called order number, here. It's not strictly speaking a number, but you know–" he made a face to indicate that the Fit-4-U crew was a passel of idiots.
Camille glanced into the delivery box. It was full of light packing paper, and amongst the paper was something that appeared to be a hair ribbon. It featured ripples of black and white lace, tangled up with some other item... possibly a choker? For no particular reason she picked it up, hefted it in her hand. It weighed nearly nothing.
Her gaze travelled from there to Ozzie's absurdly large head, and she wondered...
"Do you mind if I leave the room while I talk to them?" she asked.
"No, why would I? Honestly, I don't want to listen to those morons."
"Okay. Don't go anywhere," she joked.
"Dressed like this?" he asked drily. "Where could I go?"
"To clean somebody's house," she answered with a grin.
He made a rude noise as she ran downstairs, chuckling to herself.
Camille called Customer Service. Purely by chance, Avery answered. On the second ring.
Yes, the very same Avery. After her extremely distressing call with Ozzie, Avery left her desk, ran downstairs, and left the building by the back door. There, alone, where no one could hear, she balled up her fists and screamed with rage and anger – something she never did. Avery knew she was a good person; a patient person. She always tried to be kind, and prided herself on her ability to navigate through the upset feelings of clients with issues. It gave her an immense satisfaction when she converted a frantic or angry customer into a happy one.
Now, to have her empathy and forbearance thrown so rudely back in her face... it stung. It did worse than sting. It hurt.
Avery sat on a wooden crate and cried for a while. She'd never dealt with a caller who was so rude, so insulting, so demeaning.
After she'd cried enough, dried her eyes, and wiped her nose, Avery composed herself, brushed off her skirt, and went directly her supervisor. Avery poured out her wounded, deeply-offended feelings, and delivered a heavily-censored version of her conversation with Ozzie. Her supervisor listened sympathetically. She assured Avery that even though calls like this did happen, they should not and would not be tolerated. She asked Avery to write a summary of the conversation, leaving nothing out, bad words and all. She further instructed Avery to forward any calls from that number directly – or any abusive call, for that matter – to the supervisor on duty.
Finally, she offered Avery the option of taking the rest of the day off, but Avery refused. She squared her shoulders and bravely returned to the phones.
Camille's was the first call to come in, and her first words were, "Avery? I believe you spoke with my husband earlier. I don't know what he said, but I'm pretty sure it was unpleasant and undeserved. I'll speak to him about it, and I'm really sorry. There's no excuse for his behavior."
Tears sprang to Avery's eyes. She did her best to be gracious. Camille aimed to be as conciliatory as Ozzie was offensive.
After the niceties were exchanged, Avery ventured a guess that Ozzie was still in the same predicament as earlier. In the time since the call with Ozzie, she'd been able to gather her thoughts, and was better prepared to explain.
"First you have to understand how the regular, full-price costume works," she told Camille. "If your husband bought that one, instead of the irregular one, he would have been able to put it on and take it off as much as he liked, whenever he liked. All of it, or any part."
"And would it change him? The way he's changed now?"
"Yes," Avery replied. "Definitely. That's what makes the outfit so expensive. We actually have another version, that costs a lot less. It *looks* the same, and it's the same high-quality workmanship and materials, but that version that will only fit you. It won't change you."
"Okay, I get that," Camille acknowledged. "But what's the story with your irregular items? Why do you make an outfit that gets stuck on the a person? It almost seems like a practical joke."
"We don't make irregulars on purpose," Avery informed her. "And they're not jokes. They're mistakes. They're defective. In the end, they do what the expensive version does, but... there can be problems. Hiccoughs."
"Why do the irregular items stick on people like this?"
"They don't. I mean, that's not the... okay. See, irregular items are unpredictable. They do all kinds of funny, weird things. In the end, they get to the right place, but they don't go directly there. And you know, this costume you have... next time he puts it on, it might do some other thing entirely. Or it could simply behave itself, like the full-priced version. There's no knowing until you try it on."
"I don't think anyone's going to try that costume on after this," Camille told her. The two women laughed. Camille asked, "Can I send it back? I'm a little afraid of having it around!"
"Oh, no. We don't give refunds or accept returns on irregular items."
Camille then explained that – besides the obvious problem of being stuck in the clothes, there was another puzzle: while Ozzie's entire body from the neck down, was slender, delicate, and feminine, his head was enormous (in proportion) and distinctly male.
"I tried to tell him!" Avery protested, "I explained several times that he hadn't put on the whole outfit. We've seen this before, with other irregular items! But he wouldn't listen. It sounds like he's not wearing the hair ribbon and the choker. Those two items finish off the outfit. They complete the look. And the transformation."
"Are you saying that once he puts those last two pieces on, he'll be able to take the whole outfit off?"
"Oh, yes!" Avery answered. "Of course!" and after a pause, she added, "If not right away, then eventually."
"Eventually? How long is eventually?"
"Judging from our Knowledge Base, maybe thirty minutes or an hour? It's hard to say. The longest wait that's been reported was ninety minutes."
"Okay, so an hour and a half? I guess that's not so bad."
"If it's a little longer, don't worry. You can always call back if you want reassurance, but honestly, all that's required is a little patience."
Camille gave a scoffing laugh. "Patience isn't Ozzie's strong suit, so this little exercise will do him good."
Avery made a neutral, noncommittal sound.
Camille, with a sudden thought: "And then, as soon as he takes the outfit off, all the physical changes will disappear, right? He'll go back to being plain old Ozzie, with all his... bits? And pieces?"
"Oh, yes, for sure! All the physical changes will go away! If they don't disappear immediately, don't worry! They'll all go away eventually."
"Eventually? Again, eventually? How long is *eventually* this time? Is it ninety minutes like before?"
"I can't say," Avery replied. "Not exactly."
Camille could almost hear Avery smiling. She could sense that the young woman was enjoying a bit of schadenfreude as she delivered this portion of the news.
"Let me get this straight: until the effects wear off – whenever that happens to be – my husband's going to look like a sexy young girl?"
"Yes. If the changes don't revert immediately, then yes, what you said will be true."
"But... but... Ozzie is a man! He has a job, and a life, and all–" she couldn't find the words; they caught in her throat "–as a man! He's a man! I mean... what is he supposed to do? He can't just show up at work as a petite little hottie and tell everyone Hey, boys! I'm Ozzie!"
"I understand," Avery acknowledged in a gentle tone, "But keep in mind: The outfit, the costume, was designed for women. He took a risk when he put it on."
Flustered, Camille scratched her head. "So, what you're saying is, we won't know whether the changes will stick, and if they do, how long they're going to last?"
"I'm sure they'll go away eventually. Remember: It is possible they'll disappear immediately. But right now there's no way of knowing."
"Can you at least give me an idea of how long it's going to take for him to go back to normal?"
"No, I'm sorry. I wish I could, but I simply can't. I mean, as I said, he *might* just take it off and be himself again, right away. Our irregular items are unpredictable."
Camille frowned. "Avery, please. Can you at least give me a ballpark estimate? How long could he be stuck as a woman? Are we talking days? weeks? months? What's the worst-case scenario? Could he be stuck this way forever?"
Avery laughed. "Oh, no, it can't be forever!"
"It can't? Are you sure about that?"
"No – it can't! At least, it's never happened. It's never been reported. Not so far, anyway."
Camille had to sit down. She tried to get a grip on herself and find out the facts. "Well, if it's not forever, how long could it be? You must have some idea."
"I can check our Knowledge Base," Avery replied, typing. As she searched, she said (repeating), "Okay, so if this was the regular, full-price version of the costume, the change would only last while you were wearing it. That's all. You take it off, and the changes disappear."
"I got that," Camille acknowledged, getting a little testy. She understood perfectly: She'd experienced exactly that kind of change at Laura's house, when she tried on the bimbo swimsuit.
"Does your Knowledge Base tell you about the free, irregular version? How long does that change last?"
Avery blew out a long breath. "See, it's not like we have an irregular version of this costume very often. This might be the first one. I'm looking at issues with irregular items generally, and honestly, there's no telling. That's why it's irregular, see? Irregular items are unpredictable. I'm sorry that I keep repeating that, but it's the key feature of these items."
Camille could hear Avery's mouse clicking.
"Okay, on the occasions when changes didn't disappear right away, the shortest reported instance in our records was a day, a single day. The longest instance was four months."
"Shit!" Camille gasped. Her face went white.
"But that's why it's irregular!" Avery explained. "Most of the people who order these outfits *want* that effect! They don't see it as a problem!"
"What's the average duration?" Camille asked, feeling that she was at sea, grasping at flotsam to keep her head above water.
"I'll have to, uh, have to figure... um, give me a second... Keep in mind, these are only our reported cases... People who are happy with the change don't call. But anyway..."
Camille could hear Avery scribbling as she whispered numbers to herself. Then, at last: "The average reported duration for a transformation is 24 days... three weeks and three days. But you know, as they say, your mileage may vary."
When Camille didn't respond, Avery again tried to explain, repeating: "See... this is why that item was marked Irregular. Because it's unpredictable. If this was the regular full-price costume, he'd be able to take it off and put it on again as often as he liked."
"I know, you've said that," Camille responded. "Twice, maybe three times. But tell me: why on earth was this costume free? I mean, any idiot could order it and get themselves in a whole heap of trouble!"
"Yes, that's true. That's VERY true. But that's the idea of the irregulars: it's a gamble. You have to be willing to take the risk. That's why we warn people before they complete their order. We explicitly say, the lower the price, the higher the risk. Before you can finish your order, you have to read a disclaimer and acknowledge the acceptance of risk. Your husband did that. I can see it in our system. If a person can't handle the risk, if they want to avoid the risk, they need to spend a little money, or a lot of money, and get the full-price outfit."
Camille blinked, mouth agape, trying to process all that she'd heard. Avery gave her a little space, to let it sink in.
Until, after a long period of silence, Avery gently asked, "Can I help you with anything else today?"
"No, thank you, Avery," Camille responded. "I think that's everything."
"Okay, then. Thanks for calling Fit-4-U, home of the guaranteed fit! Have a lovely rest of your day!"
"You betcha," Camille said, and ended the call.
She looked at the ceiling, drawing a slow breath. Directly overhead, on the floor above, Ozzie sat, sucking down a beer, dressed like the cutest, most petite maid imaginable – with the biggest, dumbest head in creation.
Camille rubbed her left eye, groaning softly. Another fine mess, she told herself.
Then she took the logical next step: She did the only thing she *could* do: She called for backup. She called her best friend, Laura, and told her, "Laura, you're not going to believe what happened today!"