My sister and I were young
teenagers when our parents befriended a married couple quite a few years our
parents’ juniors. The younger brother of a family friend, the man owned a local
shop that specialized in children’s and teens’ clothing. Naturally mother took
me to his store to buy my outfits.
The wife, possibly in her
thirties, looked like a teen herself. Perky and petite, she usually remained
quiet, while her husband did most of the talking. The couple attended many of
my parents’ parties, where liquor always flowed freely.
Whenever adults visited our house,
we kids were expected to hug them and sometimes kiss them on their cheeks. The
man in question, however, did not greet us in the way we were accustomed.
Instead of giving us the typical peck on the cheek or forehead, he insisted on
kissing us on the mouth, and he did it with soft lips. As a fourteen-year-old,
I did not grasp why he gave me the creeps, but my sixteen-year-old sister
nicknamed him Mushy Lips.
At around the same time, I
finally sprouted the bare beginnings of breasts, so downtown Mother and I went,
in search of my first brassiere. We naturally went to Mushy Lips’s store.
Mushy Lips greeted us effusively.
“Hello, there! How are my favorite customers?”
Mother said, “Fine.”
“And how’s my little Bobbie
today?” he asked. “Got a big kiss for me?”
I stepped back.
Mother pushed me forward. “Give him
a kiss, Bobbie. He’s glad to see you.”
His soft, fat lips pressed mine. Yuck.
He held his face close to mine
while he asked, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you today?”
“Um, er,” I stammered, unable to
speak while his dragon breath huffed in my face.
Mother spoke up. “It’s time for
Bobbie’s first bra.”
“Ah.” Mushy Lips looked down at
my practically flat chest. “A training bra, I presume?”
“Yes, a training bra,” Mother
agreed.
Mushy Lips led us over to a
counter and gleefully pulled out an array of teen-appropriate bras with their
little stretchy cups. Practically dying of embarrassment, I picked out a beige
one and a white one that I liked.
“Only two?” Mushy Lips asked.
“You’ll want to try on more than that.” He pulled out a few lacy numbers and
even a see-through net bra that I would never have picked. “Try all these on.
You never know which one you’ll like best.”
Mother agreed. “Do what he says,
dear. Try on as many bras as you’d like.”
I held up two pieces of
underwear. “These are the only ones I like.”
Mother contended, “Try on all the
others, too. I’m not coming all the way back downtown just on your whim.”
Mushy Lips handed me five or six
bras. “Now go over there to the dressing room. Take your time and try them all
on,” he instructed. He turned to Mother. “Bernice, make yourself comfortable here.”
He pointed to a chair near the left side of the narrow store, while I walked
toward the dressing room on the far right. Before I entered the dressing room,
Mushy Lips excused himself and ducked through a dark doorway under a sign that
said Stockroom: Do Not Enter.
I locked the dressing room door, hung
the bras on a hook, stripped off my dress, and peered into the full-length
mirror. It reflected my barely noticeable breasts. I felt silly buying a bra,
but I felt a little grown up, too. I admired my body in the mirror awhile before
I took the first bra off the hook.
While I tried on one bra after
another, I heard shuffling footsteps outside the room, but when I peeked out the
door, I saw Mother still sitting in the same place. Each time I tried on a new
bra, I heard shuffles behind the wall, but with no windows to worry about, I
decided not to concern myself. Mushy Lips had a store to run, and I knew he was
probably at work in the stockroom.
As soon as I dressed and emerged
from the dressing room, the shopkeeper popped back into the store area, even
more gushing than he had been when we walked in. “So what do you think?” he
asked.
“I still like only these two,” I
said.
“Okay,” he said, smiling. He took
Mother’s money, gave her a receipt, hugged her good-bye, and leaned down for a
good-bye kiss from me, again with his mushy lips.
A few months later, a boy from
another school invited me to his high school formal. We did not call the events
proms, back then.
On the night of the occasion, I
dressed in a new taffeta frock. While I stood in the foyer waiting for my date
to arrive, Daddy took photos of me and then went back to doing whatever he was
doing.
Mother, however, told me I could
not leave until Mr. and Mrs. Mushy Lips dropped by. “He wants to see you in
your first gown.”
“Why?” I asked. “We didn’t buy the
dress at his store.”
“I think he has a little crush on
you.”
“A crush? Why would he have a
crush on me?”
Mother scoffed, as if I should
understand.
I didn’t.
Still, I had to wait for Mushy
Lips to appear. My date arrived with the couple that was our double date. We all
stood around, shifting from one foot to the other, until Mushy Lips came bounding
up the front steps two at a time.
“Where’s your wife?” Mother asked.
“She couldn’t make it,” Mushy
Lips said breathlessly, “but I wouldn’t miss this.” He turned to me. “Let me
see the whole picture,” he insisted, indicating that I should twirl around.
Right there in front of my date
and another couple, I had to twirl like a beauty queen on display, while he
ogled me with more appreciation than even my parents had shown. I tugged at the
strapless gown and felt embarrassed.
“Approve?” my mother asked.
“Maybe,” the man said. “One more
twirl for good measure.”
Again I turned around like a jewelry-box
ballerina. When I finished I pleaded, “May I please go now?”
“Okay,” Mushy Lips said. “Now you
be good.” He leaned over and mashed his lips on mine, right there in front of
everyone. I wanted to disappear.
I learned to avoid being home
when my parents gave a party if Mushy Lips was attending, so I did not see him again
after that last embarrassing encounter. He continued to be friends with my
parents, though, so they mentioned him occasionally. Four years or so passed
before Mother told me the man had closed his clothing shop and opened a hangout
for teens, complete with music, video games, and other entertainment. My baby
sister, by then a teen herself, frequented the alluring haunt and spoke of it
with enthusiasm.
Another year passed before I
learned that a young patron had charged Mushy Lips with molestation. When I
heard of the charges, the Mushy Lips picture came together like a jigsaw
puzzle.
Years earlier, when I had tried
on bras as a young teen, he had ducked into the dark “stockroom,” and from
there he probably watched me like a Peeping Tom. Maybe the mirror was a one-way,
or perhaps he had drilled inconspicuous holes in the wall. No doubt he was a
predator when he insisted on scrutinizing me in my first strapless gown.
Without any question, he kissed my sister and me like we were his lovers, not the
naive teenagers we were.
One more piece fell into place,
as well. His petite wife looked like a teenager. Of course!
Right before Mushy Lips went on
trial, he died of what I was told was a heart attack. I now suspect it may have
been a well-timed, covered-up suicide, but I’ll never know. When I saw his
widow shortly after his death, though, she seemed happily independent.
Parents today have more awareness
of pedophiles, but I grew up in a time of innocence. Thankfully for me, Mushy
Lips did nothing worse than kiss me inappropriately and scrutinize me. I’ll
never know what he did to the girl who filed charges against him, but I’m proud
of her for standing up for herself. I wish I had done the same many years
earlier.
For more stories about my many encounters
with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button
next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and
Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in
this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect
people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as
best as I can recall it.
Book Doctor Bobbie
Christmas is also the author of Write
In Style: How to Use Your Computer to Improve Your Writing.