Intimate Apparel
Last night , for some reason, I decided I needed a cock ring.
It's peer group pressure, I suppose. All the cool kids have them. Willie, Paul and James Have 'em, with extras on hand for guests. Randal and Julio have amased an extensive collection to go with every mood and scene. Joe displays his jumbo ring on a dogtag chain around his neck, and even Jill keeps one on her keychain, a momento of a former love and a glass slipper for a future handsome prince to fill. So I went down to the Gear Box, the leather shop in the basement of the Bike Stop. One of the two owners was there. Always accomodating and helpfull, he extends a generous candor which keeps me from making expensive, embarasing mistakes, (like the harness which looked intended to keep me teathered to mom 's wrist and out of traffic, or the lace up leather shorts which more resembled a truss) He consulted with me at length, and proffered suggestions, then assisted me into my selections. With his own hands, he demonstrated that the requisite finger could be inserted alongside my soft cock, then stroked my dick to full hardness(assisted by some other shoppers) insuring that it wouldn't be too snug. He said I'd make a good cockring model. The thoughtful consideration, serious focus and the strangely public intimacy of the endeavor sent my mind back to my home town in Southern New England, to High Street, and Maggies Lingerie.
The lettering on the plate glass storefront spelled out "Maggie's" in gold script, and block letters below further indicated "foundation garments". Inside, a small staff of chubby middle aged ladies wearing half glasses on beaded chains and cloth measuring tapes around their necks, meticulously fitted a "full figured" clientel. This was where my mother purchased the gravity defying underwire engineering marvels which held her enormous bosom aloft, their broad straps straining across her back like latex bridge trusses. Lift. Seperate. I was taken back into the fitting room(six year old boys can't be left to run wild through intimate apparel) and sat there on the carpeted floor playing with a white matchbox convertible while they worked.
Maggie herself carefully measured my mother, consulting with her at length over fine points of fabric, color and features. I watched through a gap in the velvet curtain while she waddled purposefully back out into the showroom. She ascended a short step ladder to a lucite faced compartment on the wall. From her perch, she selected the appropriate cup size and configuration, and returned to the back, assisting with straps annd buckle adjustments after mom had holstered her breasts.
Even the layouts of the two places are similar configurations; racks and cubby holes along either side of of a narrow boutique, a register on a glass case perpendicular to the entrance on the short front wall, and dressing rooms in the back. The level of personal service is similar too. The resemblance ends there. Maggie's was a feminine, soft and pastelly environment of maple, glass, and pinky beige terrazzo, stocked with lacy wares in shades of white, "nude", "peche",and "coffee". Satin gloves and lace hankies filled the sales case. The gear box is black, and decorated in the hyper masculinized aesthetic of leather drag. The walls are black painted brick, the floors unvarnished grey planks. Dull steel warehouse shelving displays shinny black leather and matt black rubber, twinkling with silver buckles, chains, and studs. Arranged with military precicion, bottles and tubs of lubricants, ungents and inhalents are organized next to a rainbow of hankies, looped through chains and shackles.
I was there for a cock ring. The Gear Box's glass case is stocked with rings in many materials and styles; stretchy nubbed black and gumdrop colored rubber and silicone, neoprene, snapped steerhide, and weighted doughnuts of soft calf. All had their appeal, but I had my heart set on something to set off the metal detectors, a flat cylindrical band, in polished stainless steel. After all the try ons and rumination, the owner and I decided that they didn't have the right size in stock. Oh well, if I havn't gotten bored with the idea, I'll try again next week, after the next order comes in.
Maybe try on those rubber chaps, too.
It's peer group pressure, I suppose. All the cool kids have them. Willie, Paul and James Have 'em, with extras on hand for guests. Randal and Julio have amased an extensive collection to go with every mood and scene. Joe displays his jumbo ring on a dogtag chain around his neck, and even Jill keeps one on her keychain, a momento of a former love and a glass slipper for a future handsome prince to fill. So I went down to the Gear Box, the leather shop in the basement of the Bike Stop. One of the two owners was there. Always accomodating and helpfull, he extends a generous candor which keeps me from making expensive, embarasing mistakes, (like the harness which looked intended to keep me teathered to mom 's wrist and out of traffic, or the lace up leather shorts which more resembled a truss) He consulted with me at length, and proffered suggestions, then assisted me into my selections. With his own hands, he demonstrated that the requisite finger could be inserted alongside my soft cock, then stroked my dick to full hardness(assisted by some other shoppers) insuring that it wouldn't be too snug. He said I'd make a good cockring model. The thoughtful consideration, serious focus and the strangely public intimacy of the endeavor sent my mind back to my home town in Southern New England, to High Street, and Maggies Lingerie.
The lettering on the plate glass storefront spelled out "Maggie's" in gold script, and block letters below further indicated "foundation garments". Inside, a small staff of chubby middle aged ladies wearing half glasses on beaded chains and cloth measuring tapes around their necks, meticulously fitted a "full figured" clientel. This was where my mother purchased the gravity defying underwire engineering marvels which held her enormous bosom aloft, their broad straps straining across her back like latex bridge trusses. Lift. Seperate. I was taken back into the fitting room(six year old boys can't be left to run wild through intimate apparel) and sat there on the carpeted floor playing with a white matchbox convertible while they worked.
Maggie herself carefully measured my mother, consulting with her at length over fine points of fabric, color and features. I watched through a gap in the velvet curtain while she waddled purposefully back out into the showroom. She ascended a short step ladder to a lucite faced compartment on the wall. From her perch, she selected the appropriate cup size and configuration, and returned to the back, assisting with straps annd buckle adjustments after mom had holstered her breasts.
Even the layouts of the two places are similar configurations; racks and cubby holes along either side of of a narrow boutique, a register on a glass case perpendicular to the entrance on the short front wall, and dressing rooms in the back. The level of personal service is similar too. The resemblance ends there. Maggie's was a feminine, soft and pastelly environment of maple, glass, and pinky beige terrazzo, stocked with lacy wares in shades of white, "nude", "peche",and "coffee". Satin gloves and lace hankies filled the sales case. The gear box is black, and decorated in the hyper masculinized aesthetic of leather drag. The walls are black painted brick, the floors unvarnished grey planks. Dull steel warehouse shelving displays shinny black leather and matt black rubber, twinkling with silver buckles, chains, and studs. Arranged with military precicion, bottles and tubs of lubricants, ungents and inhalents are organized next to a rainbow of hankies, looped through chains and shackles.
I was there for a cock ring. The Gear Box's glass case is stocked with rings in many materials and styles; stretchy nubbed black and gumdrop colored rubber and silicone, neoprene, snapped steerhide, and weighted doughnuts of soft calf. All had their appeal, but I had my heart set on something to set off the metal detectors, a flat cylindrical band, in polished stainless steel. After all the try ons and rumination, the owner and I decided that they didn't have the right size in stock. Oh well, if I havn't gotten bored with the idea, I'll try again next week, after the next order comes in.
Maybe try on those rubber chaps, too.
posted by circleinasquare at 11:24 PM
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