T-shirt, Socks… and Someone Else’s Pants
A mini-memoir story [5/52*]
She gave me a come hither finger crook, smiling seductively. As I was walking to the bed, she tossed her jeans out from under the covers. I stood for a moment looking down at those jeans on the floor, grinning. Her ass looked so amazing in them. I was completely taken with the idea of discovering how her ass looked out of them.
As I looked back up, she began lifting her t-shirt off, lips forming a kiss at me before her face was obscured. My pulse was racing and I felt a little light-headed. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful, soft-red hair with black streaks, cut in a bob, a bit longer in front where the ends curled up sometimes touching her smile.
I was standing right next to the bed, shuffling off my own jeans. I caught the shirt she tossed at me. I smelled the familiar citrus on it. I had no idea what the name of the scent was, but I knew it well from the times I had spent kissing her neck. Like Pavlov’s dogs, it now evoked a physical response from me.
She continued to smile at me as she slowly reached behind her back to unlatch her bra. I had to take a deep breath. I’d seen her in her bra before, felt it’s material against my lips and the palm of my hand, ran my tongue around the small bump her stiffened nipple made.
I was standing there in my t-shirt and socks when she slipped the unhooked bra off.
I wasn’t cool, I wasn’t suave, and I wasn’t very experienced, but I was mature enough not to be dumbstruck by breasts, in general, but I knew beautiful, knew it then, know it now. I stood mute and stunned for an awkward moment.
I knew she had small breasts, I’d had them in my hands before, albeit bra-bound, but they were a little more substantial than I had realized. I didn’t understand why she was self-conscious about them. They were perfect and lovely, exactly as they were. I could only stare. She was so goddamn beautiful it bordered on the surreal in that moment.
She crossed her arms over her bare breasts in confusion, smile gone.
No, no no! I managed to stammer. You’re just so… god, you’re so pretty. I’m sorry. Though my lame muttering didn’t deserve it, the smile returned to her face, if a bit less confident than before. She lowered her arms, exposing her breasts once more, but no longer presenting them, as such.
Sometimes I really fucking hated myself. It seemed a situation did not exist that I couldn’t knock the shine off of.
I smiled at her while continuing to awkwardly stand there. I still had my t-shirt on. I’d been picked on mercilessly as a kid for being chubby, and getting completely naked in front of someone scared the shit out of me. She knew it made me uncomfortable and she knew it would eventually come off, I just had to warm up to it, so she didn’t make an issue of it.
Her breasts had the additional effect of causing me to completely forget I was still wearing socks. I must have looked like an idiot. At least she couldn’t see them from her vantage. I think I could have had fuzzy hippo slippers on at that moment and been completely oblivious to it.
I was still smiling as she began pulling the covers back. I took the hint and slid under them with her, forcing myself to ignore her breasts as I began kissing her passionately. I could feel them pressed against me, but it was different, they were softer and moved to the side now that they were free to roam about. I was incredibly turned on by that, but not as aroused as when I felt her nipple through my shirt, rubbing against me.
I was kissing her deeply, moving from her lips to her neck to her ears and back back again. I loved kissing her. She was pressing herself against me in little waves. I worked up the nerve to cup her breast with my hand, stroking little circles around her nipple with my thumb.
She made a little gasp and laid back, both of us smiling and breathing heavily. She gave the hem of my t-shirt a little tug. I was ready to take it off now. She pushed back the covers to remove her panties, except she wasn’t wearing panties.
In my defense, she could have been wearing the bottom half of a gorilla costume and I would not have been any less turned on. She was so beautiful and I just wanted to be in that bed, naked, with her.
I mentioned before how I can fuck up any situation. It’s amazing, really. I am, and always have been, my worst enemy, and at times I truly do hate myself so fucking much that I want to punch my own face, except that would also be myself, who I hate, punching me, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving that asshole the satisfaction.
What she was wearing were white boxer shorts with black cow spots, like a Holstein. It was so unexpected, so surreal, so out of nowhere, and, honestly, it was also really, really cute.
She blushed, furiously, from her face down to the tops of the breasts she was now hurriedly covering. Get out, she said with quiet menace.
What? I tried to make sense of what just happened. She wasn’t having it. I felt the bottoms of her feet against me suddenly.
Get OUT! she yelled as she kicked her legs with a surprising amount of force, shoving me right over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Get out! Get Out!
She was rising up from the bed with a sheet wrapped around her like some Greek goddess of vengeance. I frantically started reaching around on the floor looking for my underwear.
GET OUT! she shrieked, reaching for the table lamp. Without another word, I grabbed my jeans and dashed for the door. I was expecting that lamp to come at me any second as I fumbled to get the door open and myself on the other side of it.
I pulled it shut behind me and heard her turn the locks. I was a confused mess. I held up the jeans I’d grabbed. Hers, of course. I was standing in the hallway of her apartment complex in a t-shirt, socks, and holding the wrong pants.
Under my breath I said every curse word I knew.
I hesitantly knocked on the door. I’m sorry, I said, with my face pressed against the door. After waiting for a moment with no response I said, louder, I grabbed the wrong pants, can I please get mine?
I heard the locks turn and the door opened as far as the chain would allow. Give me mine and you can have yours, she said with a flat voice. I handed her jeans through the narrow opening. She snatched them and shut the door.
Seriously? God! I’m sorry! Why are you doing this? Please give me my pants. Please? The door opened again, still limited by the chain, and her hand poked out holding my boxer shorts. She flung them past me, then withdrew her hand, shut the door, and turned the locks.
You can’t — I stopped and hurriedly pulled my shorts on as I heard people coming up the stars — you can’t be serious! I tried to keep my voice low, but loud enough for her to hear me. Come on! Why are you so mad at me!? Please, I need my pants. My wallet and keys are in them. What am I supposed to do?
I got nothing but silence.
Please, I’ll never — a couple had topped the stairs and were walking past me to their apartment while giving me suspicious and disapproving looks. Hi! I said, giving them a little wave and what I hoped was a disarming smile as they passed. I was getting the paper and locked myself out, yep, have a nice day! Once they moved on I pressed my face back to the door, I just need my pants and I’ll go and I’ll never bother you again.
I called the cops, she said through the door.
What!? Why would you do that!? No answer. Hey, I said, knocking on the door. I waited. Nothing. I was getting very antsy about the cops. Part of me was pretty sure she was lying, but the other parts of me remembered that when a woman calls the police on a guy, he gets hauled away, regardless. There was no way I was going to end up in a holding cell, in my underwear, if I could help it, so I, in my t-shirt, boxers, and socks, headed for the stairs.
I had no phone to call someone to come get me. I couldn’t even try to brave the bus in my underwear. No money, no bus pass. I couldn’t call a cab, and trying to hail one dressed in underwear and socks is futile for several reasons; looking like a crazy person is one, and having no where to have a wallet stuffed, which would tend to indicate an inability to pay, is another.
I did feel grateful that I had switched to boxers years ago. This situation could have been worse. A man can look (relatively) cool in boxers walking around. I mean, it does get strange looks, and you have to damn well make sure the fly is buttoned, but it’s still a manly look. You can make a slightly embarrassed grin and people are like Tsk, tsk, you need to be more careful and quit these shenanigans, young man, now go home and get some pants!
Briefs/tightie-whities, however, seem to evoke some sort of primal fear and/or revulsion in people who tend to get the fuck away from you fast. They aren’t remotely casual or reserved about it. People will run, hop shrubberies, and even push unsuspecting by-standers between themselves and you, like a human shield, in an effort to avoid contact at all costs.
While neither is an ideal situation, walking around pantless in boxers seems to indicate you lost your pants and probably have an amusing story about it. Walking around pantless in briefs tends to give off a demented pervert who wants to rub against you and possibly wear your skin as clothing vibe.
That was my silver lining as I walked block after block in shame. I eventually did the only other thing I could think of. I stuck out my thumb.
The ridiculousness of someone stopping for a hitchhiker in the city was not lost on me. I was just too shit-on feeling to care. Aside from my feet hurting after stepping on random bits that end up on a city sidewalk (I made a note to update my tetanus shots, asap) and the humiliation of walking around the city in my underwear, I had really liked her.
I hadn’t been with her for sex. It’s certainly something I wanted, but it wasn’t an end goal. I was perfectly fine to have that come along in its own time when it was right. I had been with her because I thought about her constantly between seeing her, she made me laugh, her smile gave me butterflies, and I just really loved kissing her. I still had no clue why she lost it the way she did, but I as much as I had wanted to be with her, I was already marking this one a total loss.
That was all sinking in as I walked. I was crazy about her. I (previously) loved every minute I spent with her. I felt my eyes getting damp and I had to sniff a few times.
With a force of will, I dried that shit up. I looked like enough of a lunatic without adding snot and tears to the mix. I didn’t need a 72 hour psych hold on top of everything else. I kept walking. I was miserable enough inside to numb me somewhat to the outside. I knew people were looking at me. I knew I looked like an idiot. I just kept my eyes forward and walked.
I did, however, eventually get a ride. A small moving company pickup was stopped at a light where I was waiting to cross. A middle-aged Latino man leaned out of the passenger-side window and asked what the hell was going on with me. I was trying to rattle off a quick summary of the last few hours when the light changed. Instead of continuing on, the driver made a right turn and stopped beside the curb.
I gotta hear this, he said, so I told him my story. The middle-aged man and the white-haired driver, also Latino, got a few good laughs out of the telling. I didn’t mind that. I’d have laughed too. Where you tryin to get to? he asked. I felt a wave of relief pass through me.
Any chance you could get me to Lincoln and Evans? I asked, hopefully. He looked at the driver and shrugged his shoulders then turned back to me.
Hop in the back, there’s some moving blankets you can sit on.