SoMa Literary Review - Clothes Horse

Clothes Horse

By Kemble Scott

Henry grasped the fabric and let it caress the palm of his hand. From across the store, they looked like ordinary blue pin stripe slacks on the rack. He was surprised to find them so incredibly soft to the touch. He wanted to take the pant leg and rub it against his cheek, but he was sure that would cause others to stare.

He didn't want that. At least not now.

The tag said the cloth was wool. Henry smiled at the idea that such luxury began with ordinary twine. The price had one zero too many, of course. Just about everything did here in the shops at the posh San Francisco Centre. He found a pair in his size and tossed them over his shoulder with the khakis he'd found earlier.

"Can I help you?"

The voice came from behind. Henry could have sworn he felt the man's breath on the back of his neck. How close was he standing?

Henry turned, composing an unpleasant visage for the clerk. "I suppose it's too much to ask that you update your Michael Kors," he sneered. "That same ugly print has been on display for six months."

"I...uh... I'm sorry sir, I'll be happy to..."

Henry raised his hand to cut off the clerk. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the poor guy. The clerk was an innocent bystander, young and freshly scrubbed like a Mormon, just doing his job trying to make a commission. Henry had been down this road far too many times. You had to give these eager ones a good slap, or they'd pester you until, God forbid, you actually bought something.

"Is your watch broken?" Henry asked.

The clerk, clearly puzzled, checked his wrist. "No, I don't think so."

"Really? That's strange. Because that tie you're wearing looks like something from last season."

The clerk's face flushed red. "I'll just let you shop at your leisure," he said, his voice cracking. He nodded his head in a slight bow and backed away.

Mission accomplished. The clerk would keep his distance from now on. It wasn't Henry's natural demeanor to be so cruel. After all, he was merely a waiter himself, and probably only a year or two older than the clerk. He always considered himself pretty amiable. Any other time he might chat up a guy like that, maybe grab a beer and share some laughs.

Not today. In these situations it was best to create the ruse of master and servant. All of his plans would fall apart if the clerk came nosing about at the wrong moment.

From the corner of his eye he spotted the sign for the Changing Area. Henry took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. He could feel his heart starting to race. Calm down, he told himself. If he acted anything other than nonchalant, he'd arouse suspicion. He watched as a blond in his early thirties headed through the doorway, three shirts on hangers in his left hand.

Henry followed. At the end of a long corridor he faced a thick maroon curtain. He pushed it open and walked inside. It was a small, brightly lit room, an octagon of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. In the center was a square leather bench, large enough for at least four at a time to sit and spread out their clothes.

The blond had already taken off his shirt and stood reviewing himself in the mirror as he tried on a cream-colored top stitch from his selections. He had a slim, athletic build that the form-fitting top seemed to worship. When he finished buttoning he gave himself a smug grin of approval.

As the blond turned to take in the view from the side, Henry unzipped his jeans and slid them down to the door. He stepped out and placed them on the bench. He'd planned carefully for this moment, making sure to wear the grey A&F tee that reached to just below his bellybutton, allowing a slight trail of hair to point the way.

His briefs were preternaturally white, waist size 30. They weren't too short. Henry didn't like the idea of exposing too much skin.

The blond coughed.

In the reflection of the mirror Henry caught the man looking. Henry took quick mental notes of the blond's reaction. He wanted to be able to recall the details later to savor the memory. He'd done this dozens of times, never knowing just what to expect. Men always stared. How could they not? The responses ranged from awe to disgust to shame to envy.

More than once a guy had made a gesture, indicating he wanted to do more than simply gape. But Henry only wanted them to see it, to take note of how it made them feel. It wasn't that his underwear was too tight. Even loose boxers would probably be revealing. He was simply blessed beyond all reason. Perhaps a freak of nature. An old girlfriend once said he was better endowed than Harvard.

Henry went through the motions of trying on the pin stripe slacks, hitching them at the waist for only a moment in order not to interrupt the show for too long. The blond put on the second shirt from his stash. He grimaced when he noticed that he'd buttoned it up wrong, off by two holes when he got to the top.

"That's a look I haven't seen before," Henry joked.

The embarrassed blond swallowed hard, tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. He quickly undid the buttons with nervous fingers. It appeared as if he was about to say something, but when he opened his mouth only scratchy sputters of air emerged. The blond grabbed the shirts and bolted for the other side of the curtain.

Speechless. Nervous. Certainly distracted. On a scale of one to ten, this time registered about a six. Henry wished the scene had lasted longer. These encounters were always too short.

He cocked his head and stared at himself in the mirror. The underwear was a perfect fit, exposing a contoured outline only slightly less telling than being completely naked. The white cotton felt silky at his fingertips as his mind wandered, wondering if Neiman's was busy this time of day.

Kemble Scott is an editor at SoMa Literary Review. He's the author of the bestselling novel SoMa.