The Magical Jacket

Lesson number one in the traveler’s handbook for Las Vegas includes the suggestion to never buy anything in a casino store. Still, to get the blood flowing in my legs after feeding $200 into the bar-top video poker machine, I’ll peruse the fancy shops. Sometimes it’s fun to play “Name that Price” in the Rolex store. I can enjoy my little walk while heeding lesson one: DON’T BUY ANYTHING.

I stumbled upon a John Varvatos store. I like his style, although I’m not quite the wafey, high-haired twat I used to be. Men deal with this the same way women do—go up one size and avoid whites and stripes. I browsed. I exposed a few tags and hid my shock. Then, the logic override unit arrived. She was skilled and adorable. I was fucked.

“Hey there, handsome. Ooh, you smell good. What are you wearing?”

“Old, Old Spice.”

“Ha, ha. You are not, silly. Smells like Creed.”

“Well played, my love.”

“So, I’m dying to see you in this lambskin burnished jacket we got in today.”

“You are?”

“Come with me. Here. Feel this. Soft, huh? Please, try it on.”

“How much is it?”

“Just try it on. Come on. Play along. It’s going to look amazing on you.”

She smiles, giggles, and flirts with the best of them. Like when a stripper flirts with me, I’m aware that there’s zero chance she’s interested in anything but that lump in my back pocket. Still, I try it on. It looks and feels great. It’s $1800. No fucking way.

“Wow. I’m speechless. That’s looks incredible. Women won’t be able to keep their hands off. You had better warn the missus.”

“Oh, I’m not married. Here with an employee. She’s hot, but there’s no sleeping with the employees, ya know?”

“Well, I don’t work for you. Tee, hee.”

“Really? You’re killing me.”

This banter went on and on. I finally peeled myself away, without removing my wallet. Then, like that bowl of M&Ms, it drew me back. I bought the jacket. She gave me a business card. Wrote her cell number on the back. Said she was coming to SD soon, and I should call her.

Right. Oh, and I failed lesson one, horribly. FML

Well, roll forward a month, and sure enough, when I wear that jacket, women pet me. It’s like I’m a fluffy puppy. She was right. Does she really want to hook up with me here in SD? Nope. Is it worth 1800 bones to be stroked? Perhaps. Hey, at least I know my weakness and have learned to live with it instead of beating myself up.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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