“Does the garment ever come off?” I asked, relieved to see Emily smiling as she kindly accepted a no-holds-barred exchange.
“Like during sex?” She smiled again, giving me a coy look.
“Yes.” I didn’t hesitate to respond, shamelessly imagining missionary position.
She laughed, reaching for another bra to try. “The garment does come off,” she finally replied. “I’m not a robot!”
I liked her response.
“There are a lot of misconceptions about the Mormon Church and our undergarments, trust me!” she resumed with certitude.
Stepping forward, I helped fill the bra cups again, lightly pulling on the garment’s bottom edging. I appreciated Emily’s willingness to share as I learned about her values and beliefs. We couldn’t have been more different, living two drastically different lifestyles, with two radically different mind-sets. Perhaps it was what made our exchange so interesting and worthwhile and unexpected. A devotee to a rigid set of rules, and a roving eccentric without any. The discomfort was inevitable.
“Are you familiar with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” she asked, delivering a mouthful.
“Um, no, not really,” I replied, mentally trying to organize LSD into LDS as my freshman year of high school came rolling back in waves. “Have you been a part of the church for a while?” I asked, helping create a “yes” pile as Emily handed over bras that she liked.
“Uh, sort of,” she replied. “I’m a baptized convert from Seattle.”
“Me, too!” I exploded with excitement.
“You are?” she asked, surprised, darting her eyes down to my cleavage-packed double-Ds I strategically placed between a few unfastened buttons.
“No, no, I mean, I’m from Seattle, too.”
“We’re actually here visiting friends,” she said, assessing her nipples in the mirror. “You grew up in Seattle?”
“Yeah, about twenty minutes south of the city. It’s a lot different now.”
“I started out at Holy Rosary.” Her soft nature started to shift.
“No shit,” I replied, again doing a fine job of knowing my audience. “How did you ever become—” barely left my mouth before Emily interjected.
“A Mormon wife?” She took a second to gather her thoughts. “I fell deeply in love,” she said, laying three flesh-toned bras into a pile on the chair. “This was his life and there was no changing it, so I found a way to make it work for me, to commit wholeheartedly. And I’ve never been happier.”
I appreciated her conviction.
“Wow.” I nodded, totally enamored. “That’s a pretty big compromise.”
“Yeah, it’s caused a lot of tension with my family, my mom especially. She thinks I need psychological help.”
“That’s tough.” I followed her gaze to the ground, wondering if she was worn from the permanence of it all. “She doesn’t understand that you’re happy?” I asked.
“It’s not what she wanted for me. It’s always been about her.”
“And that’s why you chose you,” I replied.
She took a minute to think about my comment, again staring at the ground.
“Well, you can’t choose your family, right?” she said, looking to break her stillness. “But then ... you can.”
I instantly drifted off, thinking about Seattle’s boxed suburbia and how much I wanted nothing to do with it. Every inch of its unfurled despondency had run its course, pushing me as far away as I could get. My mom died downtown. Her mom died in a room across from the Narrows Bridge, right off Interstate 5. A duck bit my finger at Treasure Island Park, causing me to bleed into the holes of my Wonder Bread. I didn’t want Seattle; I just wanted my dad, and I hated how the two came together.
But there was something about Emily’s presence that compelled me to choose, like she did. She chose love, even under its most stringent shadows. She gave its potency and madness the power to guide her, trusting every overlay of its command, as scary and beautiful and life-altering as it was. Emily’s good love liberated her, and I could feel the realness and truth surrounding us, which was exactly what I thought about when I thought about love. Deep, authentic love. Intoxicating love. Vulnerable love. And as I continued to acknowledge the sharp contrast between us, quietly pondering her pledge, I suddenly felt as free as a bird, floating into the unknown on a new level of consciousness, wanting everything chosen love had to offer, but without the pamphlets and polyester garment.
Staring at Emily’s winning pile, I offered a last call for nipple pads. “I’ve got gels and petals,” I said, gathering her purchases. “They might feel cumbersome at first, but you’ll get used to them.”
The wheels started to turn while Emily put the pieces together, layer by layer.
“Let me try the bras first and see how they look,” she replied with a confused expression after I held up a set of round gel pads designed for extra-large areolas and voluminous nipples.
“I get it.” I smiled, guiding her over to the line for the register. “Next time.”
Merchandise covered every corner of the department. I lost count of how many times our store operator had to get on the loudspeaker to tell our thoughtful sale shoppers that the store was closed. She even gave everyone exit strategies and kindly thanked them for shopping with us. But people continued to wander around as if we were invisible. It was maddening, which is why I was so relieved to see Farah’s and Yvonne’s names printed along the closing hours on the schedule. Neither of them put up with it, ruthlessly turning customers away so that we could move down the departing checklist and call it a day.
Rachel and Michelle had already left for the evening; therefore Chase had free rein to sprawl out on our velvet couch next to our half-naked mannequin, Mary Beth, and wait until we had completed our tasks.
“How many times do you think these were tried on today?” I asked, folding the elastic band of a pair of Spanx into the clips of a plastic hanger.
“With panties, ten. Without panties, fifteen.” Farah stood counting money from one of the tills.
“Seriously?” Chase perked up from the couch.
Noting the time on the clock, I hustled to put merchandise away.
“Uhhh,” Yvonne groaned, approaching the register. “We still have a customer.”
“What?” I chucked a pair of panties on the counter, knowing it was me who forgot to double-check all the dressing rooms. “Tabitha?”
“Yep,” Yvonne replied with a side snarl. “I’ll call the operator and let her know.”
Hesitant to walk back into the dressing rooms for fear of losing my cool, I stood by the entrance and waited for Tabitha, but she never came, so I was forced to intervene.
“Hello,” I said, softly pushing on the door after I noticed that it was cracked open.
“We just finished,” Tabitha said anxiously, moving to the side.
Staring at her customer with one of Yvonne’s side snarls, I noticed prickles of dark facial hair and a prominent Adam’s apple covered with golden self-tanning streaks.
“Did you find what you needed?” I asked, promptly changing my tone once I realized the customer was really uneasy and half-naked in a pair of small satin shorts.
“I think so,” Tabitha replied again. “We weren’t totally sure on the size.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” I turned toward the customer, hoping to move things along.
“Something smooth that I can wear under dresses and skirts,” a deep voice filled the room. “Something with shape.”
Studying the customer’s slender frame and lopsided wig trimmed into a bob, I quickly assessed the pile of control garments and noticed that our top-selling Spanx body slimmer was not in the pile.
“What about something that goes up to your bra band?” I asked. “It covers all of your stomach.”
“I looked for one, but I think we’re sold out,” Tabitha cut in.
“I’ve go
t one,” I replied, gathering a handful of hangers. “Hold tight.”
Finding Chase still lounged on the couch next to a very white Mary Beth, I interrupted his light snooze and gestured for him to leave.
“You should probably go,” I said, tugging on his tie. “I think our customer needs a little privacy.”
“Really?” he asked, more curious than anything.
“Does she understand we’re CLOSED,” Farah interrupted loudly while placing a stack of frayed bras into a plastic bag.
“Yes,” I replied, helping Chase up from the couch.
Hurrying to pull the last body shaper from the “customer holds” rack, I noted a size medium on the tag and dropped it off for Tabitha, discreetly motioning for her to move faster.
“Thanks for shopping with us, we are now closed,” the operator rambled on from overhead.
We all hovered by the registers, waiting. Farah prepped each one of the money bags, Yvonne delivered alterations and tidied up the department, and I padded down the racks, making sure all the hangers were even so that nothing looked noticeably out of place for when Michelle arrived in the morning.
“What are we doing?” Farah asked, agitated, as she started to pace the department.
Finally, Tabitha and her customer emerged from the dressing rooms, holding the entire store back from going home in addition to a pile of sale bras, ten high ticketed Hanky Panky thongs, two garters, a flesh-toned body shaper, and a black silk negligee.
“I’m so sorry, thank you for your patience,” our late-night shopper pleaded nervously. “I’m trying to figure all of this out and I ... I ... I ... don’t know what I’m doing. I’m ... so sorry.”
The sound of the stutter made my stomach sink as panic surrounded the space.
“It’s okay.” I repeated three times, trying not to stare at the shiny beads of sweat making their way down the customer’s multi-shaded forehead. “It’s okay.”
Flustered from the presence of our store security, Tabitha rushed to complete the transaction.
“Nine hundred and fifty-two dollars,” she said, quickly prepping a shopping bag. I moved toward the front of the department, hoping to calm any uneasiness while the others roamed close by, observing the customer’s trembling hands.
The intensity of the situation was troublesome and markedly palpable, causing me to feel heavy-hearted for our customer as the struggle became clearer. The words “I don’t know what I’m doing” led me to believe there was something going on inside Tabitha’s customer that was far bigger than I could grasp in such a short time. My observations, however, brought me to an unexpected rumination on the complexities of gender identity, and what a profoundly internal experience it can be for so many people. My job was to make sure that all the things needed inside of a dressing room, like access to comfort, privacy, and even femininity remained constant, at least for the most part. If I learned anything in the lingerie department, it was how humanly negligent it is to create assumptions about the character of another human being. Our quiet dialogues had undeniable depths. Support was needed. And just when I remembered to have Tabitha pass off a business card, the customer sprinted out of the department like one would during a track-and-field event or an armed robbery. I’d never seen anything like it. The swift flight flashed in my peripheral, leaving me, and the remainder of my restless team, speechless.
Later that evening, at my apartment, never in a million years did I think I’d have a Mormon on my mind while pulling myself together with some G-string thongs and shimmery body lotion. Emily’s garment came back with a bang, strangely guiding me through every bullet point on my checklist before Chase’s house, regrettably earning the sharp rescue of a BIC razor and Skintimate’s Raspberry Rain shave gel. My shit was on fire. But my intentions were clear.
Somewhere within the bulk of our exchange, in the private confines of a dressing room, Emily gave me the confidence to choose what felt right for me. Her commitment to love—and her own sexuality—made the pulse beneath my fearful thinking dissipate for the sake of experiencing something, and someone, freely. And the irony was far from lost as I unraveled deeper parts of her promise, which didn’t seem free at all, considering her chosen scriptures. But that’s what made it infinitely her own. Every word, every line, and every shoulder-capped garment. She chose to own it for herself. Every day.
freedom calls
Standing half dead next to a table of sale panties, I watched as shoppers continued to fill every last section of space. Their movements steady and pulses still flying high, making the store vibrate for another long week of retail paradise. Freedom couldn’t have been more on my mind as the light at the end of the tunnel began its slow flicker.
“This is Pamela,” Michelle said, irritably grinning as she marked my tired stance. “And she would love a bra fitting.”
“Yes, of course,” I quickly snapped out of my daze. “Right this way.”
Inside the dressing room, and without delay, Pamela began to take off her tank top and bra, exposing what was left of her breasts after advanced breast cancer. “Lots of good cocktails and a double mastectomy,” she said with her hands out. I instantly picked up on her definition of a “cocktail,” having remembered my mother’s oncologist calling chemotherapy the same thing. Maybe it was an easier way to swallow the blow before sinking into a lonely imprisonment.
I stared at the remains of her chest with its deep, dark, pink scars.
“I’ve got my prostheses,” Pamela said, proceeding to take out two large silicone breast forms from the cups of her bra. I examined the floppiness of their existence, as well as the light brown color of their flesh-like layers. Everything about the prostheses looked “normal” with a fairly realistic representation of the nipples. And though an abundance of breast forms lined the corners of our stockroom, it was the first time I actually saw their functionality move alongside a woman, a young woman, who’d been prey to some of the cruel and barbarous certainties of illness. I was at a loss for direction, even though Pamela’s presence made me feel otherwise.
“I don’t usually assist with prostheses fits,” I replied, still staring.
“I’m not filing anything with insurance,” she replied. “It’s been a nightmare, and I’d rather just buy new bras and have the alterations department take care of the cups.”
I stood staring at a prosthesis as she held one in the palm of her hand.
“Will that be okay?” she asked, suddenly worried.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” I replied quickly. “Let’s get your bras done first and then I’ll grab the alteration tickets.”
Somewhat apprehensive, I continued to follow Pamela’s lead, quietly admiring her control. The last thing I wanted to do was mess up a prostheses fit.
“These are double-Ds,” she said. “I’d like to try a couple of your pocketed bras first to see if I like them.”
“36, 38?” I guessed correctly on the band.
“38,” she replied. “To go with my new double-Ds.”
Repeating her size out loud to myself, I immediately started to assemble an array of styles that would be easy to sew pockets into. I grabbed non-underwire smooth cups, T-shirt bras closest to her skin tone, half lacy numbers, and then precut prostheses bras from our stockroom per her request. Studying the first batch of bras, I envisioned where the pockets would go, hoping Pamela had enough to work with as we found ways to place her adhesive.
On my way back to the dressing rooms, I noticed a woman modeling lingerie for a man pacing the entrance. She spoke in a high pitch that became increasingly louder the more string-sized merchandise Yvonne brought back for her to try on.
“What do you think, baby?” she asked the man, flaunting a white lace bodysuit.
“I like it,” he replied, resting his arm against the wall as he slowly moved his eyes along her well-toned body. “I like it a lot, baby.”
Quickly moving my stare away from the customer’s well-groomed sites,
I noticed Pamela waiting for me outside the door.
“I’ve got some choices,” I said, lining the bras along the bar from pre-pocketed options to the collection of strays I picked out.
I paused while she looked over each one of the bras, cup by cup.
“It used to be so easy,” she muttered, unhooking one of our prostheses bras first. Its thick straps and vintage-like pattern were a stark contrast to the black semi-lace bra I threw into the mix.
“Can I ... do anything?” I hesitated to ask, feeling as though my help wasn’t needed any longer. Pamela had a process, profoundly different from my own, and I wasn’t sure where I belonged. One of the scars on her chest reminded me of an expressionless face with a straight mouth. It was clear that her body had been broken into—deeply and unjustly.
As I stood stationary, watching her place the finely tapered edges of her prostheses into the pouches of a bra, I couldn’t help wondering what was going through her mind, especially after our hallway model addressed her man-friend for all to hear.
“My boobs look awful in this!” She yelled. “Ugh, sooo gross!”
With the door handle in my hand, I froze midstance as my stomach plummeted to the floor. I have a woman who just lost her breasts. Oh my god.
“You mind helping me with the straps?” Pamela interjected, welcoming me to stay.
“Uh, yeah, sure, absolutely.” I turned back around, my heart beating in distress.
Together, we adjusted the placement of her prostheses by moving them up and closer to her sternum. They felt cooler to the touch, having been out in the open and away from her body.
“Wow,” she said, brushing the ends of her dark brown hairpiece from off her shoulders so that I could tighten the straps. “These are my boobs.”
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