Mushy Lips

          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.