How I Ended Up With Way Too Many Dresses From Ann Taylor and Why It Is Difficult to Explain It to My Husband

[Angela]

I'm heading for the dressing room when I'm intercepted by Trudy; she has blonde hair, which I usually don’t like, but it's dark enough that I think I can make an exception, and she's wearing a slim fitting cream colored dress that reminds me of the chenille bedspread my grandmother had when I was a child, although this dress is somehow also like lace, and I can't help wondering how it feels.

Soon she's assisting me with my shopping and fetching all sorts of things for me to try on, which fit remarkably well (even though she never asks my size), and she's always there to work the zippers on the dresses and check the snugness of the skirt waists with a cool finger that glides across my skin smoothly from one side to the other, back and forth.

Well, then she goes about slipping those fingers into the armholes of every lovely summer dress I try, to see if they might bind (of course), and it does not tickle at all, and her hands skim down my sides and back to smooth things in case there might be wrinkles - and there are a few, particularly one stubborn set on the upper part of my right breast, and  - honest to god - she even tests the edge of my bra cup to see if it is padded, in case that might be the reason the crease won’t smooth down (she says), standing behind me as we both face the mirror, my eyes on her hand, trying to discern both our thoughts.

I try another dress and Trudy begins to straighten and tie the belt, circling her arms around my waist to find its ends, and as she's bent toward me, I look down and ask her if she liked to play with Barbies when she was a little girl, and she blushes an especially becoming dusty shade of pink.  She says yes, so I ask her why, and she blushes again and says modestly, “I like to make things pretty," sort of avoiding eye contact (but not indifferently), while fiddling there at my waist the entire time; I believe I could have rested my hand on her shoulder or touched her hair - if I'd been blessed with the nerve.

She starts to rise and softly exhales, and I realize I've been holding my breath, but I quickly inhale anyway, and the breeze from her lips tastes like candy. 

[Toby Tucker Hecht]

I'm running out to Ann Taylor's...  This is so amazingly sensual.  I love the touch about the Barbies.

[Paul de Denus]

I don't know if you could explain it to a husband but he most certainly would feel it/ sense it / enjoy it and admire it. Men generally wouldn't openly experience this.

[Gita]

Well that does it. No more online shopping for me. Oh to be so lucky as to find a real-life Trudy.

Thank you for a most enjoyable reading experience.

[Bill Floyd]

If I were your husband, this would explain a lot--and I'd start tagging along when you went shopping.  

Seriously, though, this was breath-catching.  Your description of the uncertainties of sexual tension is recognizable, relatable, and visceral.  I feel like if eye contact had been made, the very air might've caught on fire.

[Jeanette Cheezum]

This is a beautiful portrait you paint on our 6S canvas.

[Robert Crisman]

If you publish this shopping will never be the same for millions of women.

[Teresa]

I've never had such luck.  There aren't enough Trudys in Texas.  I would have just melted, like when someone brushes my hair or massages my back, only with this sort of Trudy attention, it's not so much a sensual pleasure (unless maybe I was ovulating or Trudy was Angelina Jolie who isn't even a human but sex with a head) but the depth of their attention that mesmerizes me.  I feel the same way about someone dusting surfaces as if they're holy, or writing beautiful cursive with slow liquid movements.  I watch cooking shows sometimes for this reason, to watch hands make love to things, or infomercials to witness absolutely convincing fake people touch, rub, and point with perfect French manicures.  Would you please ask Trudy to come to Texas and spend some time with me in my closet?  I don't always know how to dress or what really fits.  Truly.  LOVE this.

[Mike Handley]

Delicious.