Growing into the Job, Post 539: Retail Therapy, p13

I stood quietly at the edge of the lingerie department of Hera’s, an anchor store at this new retail place - the Vendare Center. My hands were folded in front of me, and I was basically trying not to be noticed. I was a 4’2” guy and I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention - I‘d just had, uh, more than my share of ‘attention’ in one of the dressing rooms in the back where my three companions had just had their way with me. For the fourth time today. Me being left in their care by my girlfriend Melissa had not only ramped up their maternal urges, by seemingly more every passing hour, but other urges as well. 

The girls - Lakshmi, Aubrey and Josie - had drifted deeper into the racks, their laughter and bright voices slipping between the silk and velvet like perfume through lace. It didn’t feel right to follow them into the bras. I thought, modestly, that I ought to give them some space. They were shopping - giggling over sizes, styles, and how their bodies had been changing. I tried not to listen too closely; it didn’t seem right.

But that was when my phone buzzed.

I blinked, tugging my new ‘Bebihon’ phone from the front pocket of the soft, thin pajama pants that the girls had just bought me. They’d made me soil the joggers I’d been wearing earlier. Its preview screen showed me an alert:

New Message
From: Inviata Delseno, Incarnato by Lucia
Subject: Let’s Talk Manikin

My heart gave a little stutter. An email? I didn’t get a lot of those these days. Late last week Melissa had given me this phone, which filtered out any texts or messages that its embedded AI thought Melissa should review first, and limited my ability to respond without her approval. It was all for the sake of my safety, was how she explained it, in this world that seemed more and more predatory towards men of my nature and, uh, stature. But the alert here meant I could read this message, and it wasn’t grayed-out so maybe I could even reply myself.  

Might not sound like a big deal to you, dear reader, but these days I took what I could get. 

I glanced back toward the girls; I could see their heads over the clothing racks. Aubrey was saying something which had Josie doubled over laughing. Lakshmi, head tilted, was watching them both like a patient schoolteacher. They hadn’t noticed me step back yet. 

I turned slightly away from them, flipping the phone open and holding it closer to my chest. I tapped the message and felt a little rush of excitement. Inviata was the manager for Lucia Antonucci, the bosomy model who had started her own clothing line and who Melissa and I had met last night. They had a business proposition for me and were maybe reaching out about it. 

The message loaded. I had barely noticed myself start walking.

From: Inviata Delseno, Incarnato by Lucia
Subject: Let’s Talk Manikin

Dear Doctor-

Lucia and the team were absolutely thrilled to meet you and Melissa last night. You made quite an impression - your presence, your grace, your authenticity.

We know it is a lot to consider. Becoming the face of Incarnato’s Manikin line is no small thing. It would place you, quite literally, in the center of fashion’s future.

As discussed, you would receive full modeling credit and creative recognition, a generous contract (managed by Melissa), and priority placement in new releases of our Carrier Dress Collection.

Has your team had time to consider?

We’d love to move quickly - we’ve already had a number of preorders from influencers just from the mockup. Seems like you’re about to go viral again :)

Warmly,
Inviata Delseno
Incarnato by Lucia

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I’d already walked past a mannequin display of a massive woman in leather and heels, a blank-faced male mannequin barely half her height aside her, and hadn’t even looked up. I’d strolled into another department, and past another mannequin with a baby harness strapped across her chest, something small nestled inside, peeking from between her molded cleavage. I didn’t notice, or slow down. Instead I walked deeper into Hera’s - past vibrant carrier dresses displayed like flags of conquest, past another display with a quote above it in cursive gold:  ‘He fits where we make room.’

I barely saw it. My heart was fluttering.

The thing was…I shouldn’t have been feeling this excited. I should have, honestly, thrown this email out. If I had any dignity left I would have blocked them, told them I wasn’t interested in being reduced to a novelty, a charm, a fashion trinket. There was something else, though, something quieter and more cretinous, insidious and curling at the edge of me like steam around a drain.

They value me. And that was rare these days.

I stopped in front of a rack of fluorescent bikinis and did not even blink, screen still open in my hand. My thumb shook a little. I looked at the words again.

In the ‘center of fashion’s future’…‘priority placement’…

Which meant… what, exactly? Top shelf? Front display? And did I want to go more viral than I already had? I could just picture it, some giggling influencer in a creamy silk dress, leaning into the camera to show off me, nestled down in its built-in bust-window like some prized accessory? ‘Priority placement’ in the ‘center of fashion’s future’. 

It should have made me want to vomit, but it didn’t. Instead, it made me ache. It brought embarrassment, yes - humiliation - but not the kind I wanted to run from, but rather the kind that made my breath catch…and made me start to harden in my pants. 

And then there was the money. The email had a link to the proposed compensation structure. I didn’t bother to tap it; it wasn’t important. It would detail fees, royalties, bonuses for appearances, merchandising rights. Except all of it would be routed first through Melissa’s representation firm, which would be established to, uh, represent me.

But still, the numbers would be there. And they’d be a lot bigger than what was currently in my bank account - which was hovering close to nothing. That would help, maybe give me at least some modicum of agency in a world that had seemed to have been pulled out from under my feet recently. And, I had to admit, there was something about the idea of making Melissa proud, of being a little business asset in her portfolio…it twisted in my stomach like some dark comfort.

I shouldn’t reply. Not without Melissa. Not without checking. She might get mad. 

But standing there right then, still tingling from what had happened in that dressing room, clothed by women into soft pajama pants like some nursing home inmate, I felt hollow. I wanted to matter…even if it was as a toy.

I took a breath.

Then I typed:

Hi Inviata,
Thanks for following up.
I’ve thought about it, and I’m in. Let’s go ahead and move with this. Looking forward to hearing the next steps.

I paused, considering how I’d sign this. Then I whispered to myself, “Fuck it.”

-Dr. Vulni

And I tapped. I hit send.

There was a tiny whoosh as the message flew off - a little blue bar sliding across the screen - and for one second, I felt electrically alive. 

And then the world tilted.

It started behind my eyes - a flash of brightness, like I'd stared at a lightbulb too long. Then came the nausea, slow but mean, crawling up my throat like seawater.

I felt sudden regret, like maybe I thought I’d just slipped some leash, but found my throat choked by another. Like I thought I’d done something just for me, and that was a mistake.

I blinked, swaying slightly. The too-bright bikinis swam before me in waves of lurid color.

God. Oh no,..

It was happening again.

I pressed a hand to my stomach. My knees felt watery.

I’d felt this before, and had at first blamed a bug, or something I ate. Maybe nerves. But I knew better now. Or, rather, I was starting to know. It was her, Melissa. Her presence, her scent. I needed it, that warm, floral perfume that I could never quite name. And not just hers anymore. The girls, too. I wasn’t smelling them now, I wasn’t feeling them; they were too far away, and my body knew.

Plus: had I just done something that’d make Melissa mad?

I staggered slightly, putting a hand out to a nearby rack - the silky cup of a swimsuit top brushing against my palm like a kiss.

Where are they?

I turned, trying to orient myself.

Racks. Displays. Lights that felt too bright. Ceilings too high. Women everywhere, tall and beautiful and confident, gliding between aisles like birds of paradise. But…but…none of them were mine.

My pulse skittered.

I turned again. Which direction had I come from? I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been reading. Wandering. Alone.

I started walking. Not quite running, but faster than before. The dizziness was on me - chasing me like a shadow. My vision narrowed.

There was a table display - camisoles stacked like pastries - and I caught sight of my reflection in a mirrored pillar behind it.

Jesus.

I looked tiny. Not just short. Small. My gray polo hung loose around my shoulders, the collar too big. My pajama pants clung to my thighs like hospital scrubs on a sick kid. My limbs: scrawny. My face: pale, sweaty. 

I swallowed - and nearly gagged. My throat was dry, too dry. My stomach twisted again.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself, “okay, okay, you’re fine…”

But I wasn’t. I was spiraling. I needed her, I needed them. I needed the girls. Their voices. Their perfume. Their warmth and protection. The feeling of Josie’s hand anchoring me. Lakshmi’s steady touch on my shoulder. Aubrey’s quiet hum behind me like a protective halo. “Where are they?” I muttered, looking around like a fourth-grader separated from his field trip group.

A woman passed me - tall, poised, holding a shopping bag - and did not even glance down. I felt invisible. The floor felt far away. My head spun. Every rack looked taller than before.

I walked faster. Turned a corner. Another corner. Was this the same section I’d just passed?

It was hard to tell. Everything looked like a maze of soft walls and mannequins posed in those serene, powerful postures that seemed to speak down to me, all saying the same thing: ‘you belong to us’.

And then a voice, a real one:

“Ooooh my god, look at this one.”

I froze.

Laughter. Sharp, sweet, and not necessarily friendly.

Four - no, five - young women, maybe in their twenties had rounded the corner ahead of me, deep in the swimsuit section. They were gorgeous and of course, to me, tall. One had blue lipstick. And they were all looking straight at me.“Heyyy, little guy,” one purred.

“Are you lost?”

They started to approach.

I took a step back.

“Oh, don’t run…”

“…we won’t bite.”

One smiled brightly, two others circled behind me. They surrounded me so casually I almost didn’t realize what was happening until I couldn’t back up anymore.

The one with the blue lipstick was first. Her arms, like all her friends’, were bare, taut, wrists ringed with gold bangles that jangled like soft laughter. She smelled like coconut.

“Ooooh,” she purred, leaning in. “Look at this little guy. He’s so small.”

“Where´s your mommy?” “Yeah do you want us to help you look for her?” “She must be so worried.”

I turned - and there was another. A redhead with a headband and hips like an S-curve, her top cropped just enough to show a little line of freckled abdomen. She had glossy pink lips and long acrylic nails. 

“He’s cute,” she said. “Like… stupid cute. Is this a doll?”

“No, he’s real,” said a third girl - tan, busty, eyes lined in glitter. She wore some kind of white athleisure set, skintight and sheer in places it shouldn’t have been. “I saw him on GirlToob last week. That’s him.”

A pause.

“That’s Dr. Vulni.”

My stomach twisted.

Blue Lipstick blinked. “Wait - what? This is the shrinking guy? The doctor?”

“Yeah,” said Glitter Eyes. “You know, the one with the girlfriend who carries him around? He used to be normal-sized.”

Redhead gasped. “No way! This is him? That’s soooo crazy. You’re here?”

Another girl, blonde, licked her lower lip absently, then tilted her head. “Dr. Vulni,” she said, almost experimentally, as if tasting the words. “That’s adorable.”

I swallowed hard.

The dizziness was getting worse. My mouth tasted like pennies. My knees wanted to give.

They were so big. All of them. Legs like pillars, shoulders that blocked out the overhead lights. I barely reached any of their chests. I could feel the heat of their bodies around me, the warmth of breasts and thighs in all directions, their scents clashing - floral, fruit, sweat, perfume - intoxicating, but nauseating.

They were too close. Too much...

“I… I need to…” I mumbled, trying to find an exit between them, but the blue-lipstick girl stepped casually into my path.

“Nuh-uh, don’t run off now, little man,” she teased. “We’re fans.”

“I’m n-NOt-” I tried, but my voice cracked. I sounded like a boy trying to lie about wetting the bed. My head was spinning. My breath was shallow. I felt another sweat coming on. I had to sit down. I had to find them. I had to find-

“Where’s your mommy, Dr. Vulni?” Glitter Eyes giggled. “Isn’t Melissssy here with you today?”

Redhead leaned in. “You want me to be your mommy? I’ll keep you nice and warm.” She bounced her chest for emphasis. It jiggled like jelly.

The girls all laughed, and a blonde crouched down to eye level. Her face was beautiful - sharp, symmetrical, utterly unreadable.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered. “Are you scared?”

My eyes were wet. Oh God. I was going to cry. Not now. Not here.

I tried to turn, but they were everywhere. Jokes flying over my head like birds. Fingertips brushing my shoulder. A thigh now pressed against my hip. I felt like I was shrinking again, right in front of them. Blue lipstick put her hand on my shoulder. 

I was going to vomit.

I needed Lakshmi. Aubrey. Josie. I needed…

My lips parted. My throat worked.

“M-M-M-Muh-”

And then-

“Hey! What are you doing with him?!”

A voice had rung out across the lingerie department, clear, loud, and fierce: Josie.

The girls surrounding me looked her way. Blue lipstick took her hand off my shoulder and as her eyes went wide she called out:

“Omigod what’s wrong with her hai- MMMPH!!!”

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