Note to readers. Edited by Patricia Marie Allen
This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.
Copyright… are you kidding?
 

It was late and we called it a night. I was in bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I thought about my near future. And about what dad had said.

I was in the middle of the musing about what it will be. And then an insight popped in my head and I couldn’t chase it away. I couldn’t go shopping with dad. Or could I? One of the rents on my side isn’t just a cardholder. If only that, they could give me some cash and I could go to Walmart.

Why dad? Or rather, why not mom? Was she ashamed to be with me in public? Like she wanted me to help but instinctively she saw it like perversion. Why was she so eager to pass my first bra-buying trip to dad?

It was already almost dawn when I fell asleep. But it wasn’t the real sleep. I was rather dozing.

I woke up when I heard a movement in my parents’ bedroom.

I met dad in the kitchen with his cup of coffee. It was rather a mug. There was “DAD” on it. This mug was my present for Father’s day.

“Will you go with me to the mall today?” I wanted to remind him. But it sounded like I was whining.

“Sure,” he replied. “How could I miss it? It’s an important day to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah… It is,” I confirmed.

I was kinda stuck at home. According to mom and dad, I couldn’t go outside without a bra. I could. But not far. Like to visit Alice. But it was an early morning after the prom night. No. She’d in bed still.

I tried to watch TV. TV at eight in the morning? Only for kids. Not kids like me kids but kids like toddler kids. Ewww… Or sport. Or news.

I was nervous. I didn’t know why. But it was like that. I determined we had no magazines at home. Only two issues of National Geographic in the living room. One twenty-four years old. Older than me. But still glossy. Another was only ten years old. I guessed they were like design elements. A few years ago we had a Sears’ catalog as old as those magazines. But Tiff used it for some class project. So only magazines were left.

I flipped their pages first. Then I read an article about Lucy. I was about to look for more on the net. But mom was at home at last.

“Will you go with me to the mall?” I asked. “Instead of dad.”

“Is your father busy today?” she inquired.

“No… No, he isn’t. I just… thinking… maybe you… like it more…” I tried to suggest.

“Not now,” mom begged. “I’m dead. Maybe later… if dad can’t.”

“Ok. No prob… I’m good,” I assured.

Nothing new. Good or bad. I still wasn’t sure why. But mom didn’t want to go. A. Cuz I’m a boy. Or B. She’s tired. Or both.

It didn’t take long for dad to come home. He didn’t have his coffee.

“Time is money,” he said.

We rode his car to the mall.

I was sure we were about to go to Victoria’s Secret. Like a classic place of extreme femininity. Where any masculinity would be defeated.

No such luck. Dad guided me to some store. I didn’t make it what the store’s name was. Dad led me to the far, far end with ladies’ underwear. It was named lingerie.

I was right. Dad had no idea where to look. And what to look for. I was about to browse through what was on the racks but he dragged me to the checkstand.

“We need the bra,” he said to the saleslady behind the counter.

“For Ronnie here,” he added pointing his index finger at me. Though both rents insisted pointing the index finger at someone was impolite. Very. Scandalous almost.

Well. I could understand him. He was in enemy territory. But so was I.

“Moment, plzzz…” said the saleslady and motioned her hand over her head and a younger assistant approached.

“Hellooo, my name is Lizbeth. How can I help you?” the younger saleslady introduced.

“We need the bra for Ronnie here,” dad recited again. He’d learned that line by heart probably.

Lizbeth turned from dad and looked at me. Like a cat at a mouse. Or Winnie-the-Pooh at honey. Your choice.

“Oh…” was her first reaction. She squinted measuring me from head to the waist and then back again to my eyes.

“I know you,” she said at last.

Shit! It was the last thing I wanted – to meet someone I know. Or someone who knew me but I didn’t.

“You are Steve’s girlfriend,” Lizbeth declared.

“Huh?” dad cocked his head and raised his left eyebrow. I don’t know how he manages to do this. To raise only one eyebrow that is.

“Oh!” Lizbeth said again. She covered her mouth with a hand as to prevent escaping some top-secret information. “I don’t…”

“Ok,” I interrupted, “we are friends.”

“Ah…” dad said.

“You know him. Steve, I mean,” I turned to dad.

“Sure,” dad confirmed.

“So?” I turned to Lizbeth.

“Huh? Yes… Sorry… What size and style?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “This one is my first.”

“Oh… Really? Let’s go to changing room,” and she turned toward the changing rooms.

We were about to follow her. Lizbeth stopped and turned around.

“Stay here, sir,” she said to dad. Her “sir” sounded like the most derogatory word as she’d said it.

Dad stayed at the counter. We both entered the first unoccupied changing room.

“Undress, please,” she said.

I hadn’t much to undress, just a tee. Not the same as the day before but scoop neck again. Only navy this time.

Lizbeth measured with tape my chest and breasts. She groped one breast gently.

“Falsies?” she rather stated than questioned.

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

“Very smart of you to start with small size,” she said. “Boobs’ fairy isn’t equally generous to everyone. But it doesn’t mean one has to go overboard. I remember my friend; she was as flat as a plank. And one day, good morning America! she’s with D-cup. It wasn’t funny. Rather pathetic.”

Lizbeth wrote numbers down and declared, “23B.”

“What style?” she asked after a while.

“Dunno…”

“I’d recommend full cup. The full cup looks like there is something real inside. With some padding. More volume more fun. Maybe some push-up. Just a little hint there may be a cleavage one day. No wire. Falsies don’t like it. And a lot of lace cuz it’s summer.”

“Ok,” I nodded.

“How much your daddy is ready to pay?”

“Not much, I guess. What I wear is my sister’s hand-me-downs,” I explained.

“Falsies are rather expensive. Professional grade,” Lizbeth remarked.

“Alice did a dress for herself for prom night. She wanted me to be her dummy. I’m flat so she offered falsies,” I said. “So those are really not mine but Alice’s.”

“Who the hell is Alice?”