When I picked up the phone a low, velvety voice asked, “Do you have any pleather or wetlook dresses?” It was a normal enough start to a conversation in a sex shop. In response to his request I headed towards the wall beside the cash register where all of the tight black lingerie hung. In my head I called it the Goth wall. It also contained a few BDSM items, like whips, door restraints, satin blindfolds and a ball gag with conveniently placed air holes.
I scanned the clothing racks and began describing dresses that fit the description. All of them were black, skin tight and made of synthetic material. Perfect for clinging to a writhing body on the dance floor, in the dungeon or hog tied on a queen sized bed. The first dress that I described was short with thin black straps. Small metal clasps ran up the center of it and a small piece of the same material was attached to the bottom, serving as a skirt. Two sets of the same clasps ran down the front of the skirt, which if undone, I imagined, would reveal bare thighs leading to a bulging crotch. Even though the voice had a gentle, feminine tinge to it, I was sure that the individual was born male. I imagined a thin, wiry man, with soft, pretty features, wearing this constrictive, plastic number. I had barely finished describing the dress to him when he asked for the style number.
He paused for a moment, looked up the garment online, and began to assess the merits of the dress based on whether he could have a seamstress modify it to attach a restraint chain. This made me wonder who would control the chain, because whenever there is a restrainee there is always a restrainer. He made “hmmmm” sounds of approval as I continued describing dresses, and voiced his opinions, which were mostly complimentary or nonexistent. I had never noticed how many plastic looking outfits we had but I kept discovering more and more hidden on the racks behind others. Most were plain and tube-like, with low necklines and shorter hemlines.
He began asking me specifically which dress I would prefer, and the tone of urgency in his voice revealed that this tight little number was destined for a higher, naughtier purpose. It seemed to carry more weight than your average night on the town, or in the bedroom. Also, his attention to detail was quite infectious and brought out the descriptive nature in me. I mean, as a writer, wordplay is my instinct, and this was the perfect playground for saucy descriptors.
But the more dresses we discussed the more details he kept dropping about the purpose of this outfit, and the more interested I became. It had been a slow day in the store up until then, with only a trickle of customers coming through the doors. This mysterious call was quickly becoming the highlight of my morning shift. And the more erotic clues he dropped the more I felt like a detective hot on the trail of a secret sexual scandal.
For instance, when I relayed the price of an article of clothing he brushed the matter aside and said, “It doesn’t matter.” When I asked if he had a budget in mind he remarked that there was none, and explained that his main dress had been custom designed by a seamstress and cost over $700. He called it a confection of sorts, which I kept picturing as a dessert-like delicacy. Kind of like a cream puff or a frosty cupcake, but in lingerie form. He described the piece as a see-through tube top, layered with multiple tiers of pink crinoline, like a sexy, Victorian maid outfit. A naughty treat just waiting to be gobbled up, which I soon learned, was exactly the point.