What started out as an ordinary closing shift in the lingerie department quickly turned into a serious WTF moment. Pretending to organize a panty table toward the walkway, a man approached me from behind, smelling like Jim Beam’s finest. He was tall and really good at commanding attention with his silver highlights and deep, velvety voice. He looked like a young Sean Connery, but weathered with a sun-beaten tan. “Are you with a customer?” he asked, eyeing my breasts. I followed his stare before asking what I could help him find. He quickly led me over to our high-end French collection — and wasted no time revealing that he was after “hot sexy” and desired only black.
Repeating his words in my head, I waited as he studied the sheer crotch of a pair of panties. He was thorough and clearly on a mission, examining every last inch of fabric. “I have open crotch as well,” I smiled, looking over the row of diamonds imbedded into his wedding band.
“Open crotch?” he asked, looking amused. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I paused, trying to articulate the cut of the thong. “There’s no liner, just thin fabric that sits on the side of the…,” I struggled as he stood in awe, remembering my own moment of surprise when the panties first graced the sales floor.
It’s called an “open gusset,” I continued, trying to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.
“An open gusset,” he repeated, also laughing.
“Yeah, like a split crotch for…you know…parts.”
I couldn’t bear to try and explain the panty anymore and promptly led him over to our Hanky Panky section, hoping a visual would seal the deal; time was ticking and I was ready to close up shop.
I watched as he held up the thong. We both stared at two long pieces of lace finely stitched into a V-shape with just enough room to frame one’s exposed bits. It was evident the purchase was a no-brainer as he quickly traded in for a size small and handed over the thong for me to hold onto while we continued to shop. From there, I proposed a matching bra, also sheer in all the right places, and a perfect mate for the bottom half.
“What cup size do you need?” I asked, sifting through an arrangement of black lace bras. His eyes darted back and forth from our mannequin’s perky, lace-covered overture to a fellow bra fitter’s breasts packed tightly into one of our T-shirt bras. “Um…I don’t know, she’s actually about… your size,” he finally replied, not the slightest bit subtle about his assessment… or eye contact, which wasn’t unusual for men shopping in the lingerie department; most needed all the visuals they could get in order to make a purchase and flee the scene.
Climbing the alphabet, I found his match. “I’m happy to giftwrap them for you,” I smiled, moving toward the register in an effort to keep our exchange purposeful. He stopped to look over a rounder of cotton bathrobes.
“I’d like to get one of these too,” he began sorting through sizes. I couldn’t help but think about how different his items were. I mean, shit, every woman needs a cozy bathrobe, but what happened to the “hot sexy” he requested just moments before? Frankly it was none of my business, but I was far too curious — and suddenly confused after he handed me a size large bathrobe my grandmother would wear… with a pair of jet-black thongs. The combo just didn’t make sense. Plus my commission was on the line and I had rent to pay.
“Are you sure you don’t want to consider a small or medium bathrobe since you’re buying a small panty? They run really big.” He struggled to respond to my question, looking at me as if I was the definition of naivety. I waited while he found his words.
“The robe is for my wife and the lingerie is for someone else… if you follow,” he narrowed his gaze while handing over two credit cards. “And if you could ring them up separately before gift-wrapping them that would be great.”
Hovered over a table in the stockroom, I prepared the bra and panty set first. I felt uneasy laying the panties flat against the tissue paper, and not because I couldn’t figure out what to do with the thong’s cumbersome design as I moved it around the inside of the gift box five times, but because my customer’s candor was a little out of the ordinary— and hard to swallow. Helping someone gather their good intentions over cup size guessing games was a weekly task; I was used to men buying lingerie for other women— and modest cross dressers after years in the biz. However, just when I thought I’d heard and seen it all, I was hit with my first split transaction and it stopped me dead in my tracks.
I knew nothing about his life — or his marriage. He was a stranger, shopping for merchandise, and I had a job to do. But it was awkward. His response, combined with his flagrant gaze, was too honest, jarring really. It was hard to imagine that one woman would be tying up her new bathrobe while the other woman slid her bits into a new pair of panties… all for the same man. It really got me thinking. Maybe she was privy to her husband’s infidelity and my internal conflict was provoked by nothing more than my biased assumption. Things happen for a multitude of reasons. Shit can go sideways. We can fall out of love, or perhaps find a new one. We stop communicating. We love the wrong people too hard, which can lead to a beat-up heart, lengthy bar tabs, and feelings of time wasted.
Of course there’s the flip side of the coin and much can be said for the potency and magic of true, lasting commitment, however and wherever it’s found. In all fairness, my customer was a human being, openly shopping for two women I knew nothing about. Who was I to pass judgment? And as a coworker delivered a sheer black bodysuit for me to add to the bra and panty set, I couldn’t help but compare the two gifts one last time, sure as hell hoping that my bathrobe — and gusset, never get separated.