Chapter Two

I am with my gorgeous girlfriend Ashlee Rox inside the changing room of a Victoria’s Secret. As her willing guest. I’m to be her bikini shopping consultant, I guess. Hmmm. Bikini shopping consultant. Does one need a degree for that.

Ashlee tosses her purse down on the wooden bench, hangs her bikinis, a colorful tangle of fabrics, fasteners, liners and bling, on a hanger.

Without a beat, she kicks off her sandals, turns her back to me and pulls off her purple tank top. Her black bra strap cuts across perfect, slim, slightly muscular, flawless shoulder blades.

The “turns-her-back-to-me” part seems ineffective, though: due to the three mirrors surrounding us – front, left side, right side – the front of her torso is as clear to me as her back. And, oh, what a front.

The blonde hair flowing across slender shoulders, teasingly touching the front of her bra. Her large mounds snug inside a satiny black fabric. There’s no hint of anything nipular: this is a support bra, and there’s a lot there to support.

I had my 18th birthday recently. I think I am being given a late present.

Ashlee is all cas, as in casual. She smiles, nods to the phone.

“Hit my playlist, babe.”

As I reach for her phone, she reaches for the button in front of her shorts, relaxing them as they drop an inch. The front flies open, revealing just the top of black panties with tiny black lace. I look back to the bra and think: “Color coordination matters.”

She pulls the shorts down over her athletic, slender legs and pulls bare feet from them on the floor. Her legs are quite pale, though, I notice. So are mine, for that matter. It’s still early Spring. We’ll have to use a high SPF when we go to sunny Saint Maarten.

(With her family. If she can convince them I'm her asexual friend and not, you know, the BF. Sheesh! It's all in chapter one,)

With one bare foot, she kicks the shorts atop her purse.

I’ve managed to hit the play button on her Pandora. I hear a horn riff. What a minute… is this…? It is.

“You Can Leave Your Hat On.”

Her hands whisk behind her back for the bra hook. She unsnaps it. The bra relaxes but the cups still hold tight to those round orbs of orbiting awe.

Her attitude is slightly vacant. as if I’m not even really there. And it’s all happening quickly, the way it would be if she was trying things on and nobody was around.

But to me, it is happening in slow motion. Like, five frames a second.

I’ll speed it up back up for everybody else. The bra falls to the floor; her breasts are fabulous. Nipples like pink quarters. The panties fall quickly; there’s a blonde tuft. Her butt is like two small soccer balls. (I was always a soccer fan.)

“Oh, wait,” she says, pulling her panties back up. “I have to leave these on to try these on,” reaching for a bikini from the bunch. It’s a yellow sunflower pattern. She untangles it quickly from a hanger and pulls the strapless top across her breasts, pulling the strings behind her.

“Tie this for me?” she asks.

“Happy to be of service,” I say, stand, and begin to tie.

She manages to pull the sunflower bottoms on as I do so.

She puts her hands on her hips, and takes herself in. I’m beaming. This really shows off her abs.

“Kind of sunflowery, don’t you think?,” she says.

I must immediately develop an aesthetic for floral prints, I guess.

“Um. I... it’s… I think it’s pretty.”

“Pretty underwhelming.” She is looking at it harshly.

“It looks great,” I say, too loud.

She starts to pull the bottoms off, when:

TAP! TAP!

There’s a knock on the dressing room door.

“How we doing in there?,” says a too cheerful sales clerk.

“Fine,” we both say at once.

The moment hangs.

Ashlee looks at me with mock surprise. Was I not supposed to reveal I was in here, too?

“Just got in here,” Ashlee says, cheerfully, as if to cover.

There’s a beat.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the sales clerk says, with just the right amount of snark.

“We have chairs for waiting out here,” she says, throwing that in, walking away.

I can’t help myself. I have to respond.

“We’re going to Saint Marteen,” I say from behind the door.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Ashlee says.

No response.

“Here,” Ashlee says. She reaches up to the tangle of swimsuits on the hanger. From it she pulls out a… man’s swimsuit. Red boxers-style. With tiny surfboards and waves bouncing along black trim.

She hands them to me.

“Your turn,” Bad Ashlee says.

My eyes go wide.

“My turn?,” I say.

“Sure,” she says. “I think they’ll look great on you.”

Her eyes twinkle.

Gulp!

I guess it's my turn.

End Chapter 2