I've Hit Bikini Bottom

Excuse me if my writing is a little “slurred” today. You see, I went bathing suit shopping earlier and have spent the last few hours drowning my sorrows.

I was feeling fine before I left the house. The jeans I wore hadn’t been washed in a wearing or two (may have been six or seven, but they are perfectly stretched out and they have been “airing”) so the looseness level had me feeling groovy. "Victoria" was doing her job up top (ssssh! It’s a push-up secret) and I hadn’t had anything to eat in like twenty minutes, so the bloat in my pooch was manageable.

I walked into the specialty bathing suit store with my head held high and I still had my mojo as I began browsing. Then, the saleslady asked if she could help.

“I can do this myself,” I tell her.

She’s about fifty, her hair was set with curlers and teased approximately a week ago and she is bending her head looking at me above her halfie glasses when she says, “That’s not how it works here.” Then she takes my hand and walks me towards what she thinks is appropriate for my figure. I start tensing up when we hit the “Miracle Suits.”

“I was thinking of a two piece.”

There’s the disapproving look again, head bent looking up at me above her halfie glasses (did I mention the string that keeps them resting above her boobies when she slips them off?). “Fine,” she says, “We’ll go to separates, that way you can have a small size on top and a bigger one on the bottom.”

“Wonderful,” I’m thinking, perhaps I should just slip into the dressing room now and kill myself.
She gathers twenty seven separates in four seconds.

She’s like an octopus on speed. “Here, try these on,” she barks at me. “Let me see the ones you like.”

I close the curtain, I have my shirt off, then my bra and just as I achieve nakedness above the waist, she swings open the curtain and shrieks. “How weeeee doing?”

“We? Me and you? Or me and my breasts?” I don’t say any of this out loud but I’m screaming it inside my head. I do say, “I don’t have anything on yet. You said show you what I like. I obviously don’t like anything yet.” I feel like Linda Blair in a bad prison shower scene.

Instead of exiting the curtained area she says, “Here, let me get that for you.” Now, she is touching me and closing my top. Her hands are cold and I believe she has been marinating in her brand of perfume for about a month. She hands me bottoms. I start putting them on over my underwear. “Honey, lose the underwear,” she says. I reply, “That’s not hygienic.” She shows me the sticky removable hygienic panty liner on the bottoms. I see the paper but that paper is like fly paper. It scratches and if you have a remnant of a pubic hair it sticks to it and rips it off. Also, how hygienic is it if someone else just tried on the same bathing suit and put their vuv up to the crotch flypaper? And further more, I do not feel like showing her my vuv and I want her to get the hell out. Again, I don’t say any of that, I’m just screaming it in my head. I do say, with my head bent and pretending to look at her above my invisible halfie glasses, “The underwear stays.” Now we’re facing off like Clint Eastwood and another gunslinger in a shootout. “Okay,” she says, "But we won’t really know if weeee have the right fit.

Again with the “We.” Who's wearing this thing? And, “The right fit?” What exactly does that mean? That's solar systems away from looking hot or fabulous. That's a phrase one should use for orthopedic shoes, not bathing suits!!

I’m in front of the mirror in a bikini with my thong showing through. From behind she reaches into my top and adds a pad. I didn’t see it coming. “This will help,” she says. I grab her other arm with a Bruce Lee move before she can touch the other boob as if to say, “I got it honey,” and I insert the pad. My 34 “nearly A’s” just became “A and a halfs.” It helps a little. “Turn around,” she says, but I don’t need to turn. I can see my ass in my peripheral vision as it and my thighs are one. Besides, it’s not really my ass anyway, it’s Marge’s (you know, the “Vuv Fom Whence I Came”) and I am just carrying it around for a while. No need to look.

“I’m good,” I say. “I’ll take this one.”

“You don’t want to try on more?” she asks incredulously. “No, I have a root canal I'm dying to run to.” Okay, I'm lying, but that would be more pleasant than trying on another suit with the bathing suit nazi.

She nods as if she understands. “Well, I think you got the right fit with this one anyway, doll.”

I manage a half smile and contemplate asking if she's free for jean shopping next week....

From Bikini Bottom, this Vuv wishes you a glorious weekend.