Stocking Stuffers

by Sara James

  Those girls at the mall had just been walking to work, enjoying each other’s company. What did that have to do with sex?

  The answer, he realized, was “nothing.” It had nothing to do with sex. Nothing they had done had justified his calling them whores, even as an easy punchline. If that was Holly’s point, it was a good one. Until that moment, he couldn’t grasp what was so offensive about a simple joke. Now he got it. It wasn’t about the joke itself, weak and in poor taste though it might have been. It was about the underlying idea that women were a commodity for men to consume. That women’s sexual desirability was an ongoing choice, signifying a promiscuity that they enjoyed flaunting.

  But it wasn’t a choice. It was just who and what they were. Those three girls hadn’t chosen to be young, good looking women any more than Max had. The clothes were a uniform for their job, not a “For Sale” sign. Anything else he imagined of them was just his own prejudice.

  More than a little ashamed of himself, Max stepped into the shower and began to wash his body. He used up a lot of soap and shampoo before he felt clean. As he scrubbed, he did his best to ignore his smooth, hair-free skin, his many curves and the soft flesh that seemed to be everywhere. He rinsed off using cold water.

  After he was done, he stepped out of the tub to stand on the towel he had prepared. He grabbed the largest towel and began drying himself off. The warmth of the plush towel on his gooseflesh-dimpled skin was a welcome comfort. Self-conscious of his nudity, he wrapped the towel around his torso. While the technique was the same as wrapping one around his waist, it seemed more significant when he tucked the free end in at his cleavage instead of at his hip. Short as the towel was, only covering his hips and upper thighs, he was still pleased he was able to wear it to conceal his body. His full breasts seemed to agree, holding the towel up almost entirely on their own.

  He took the second towel with him to the bedroom, drying his thick mane of wet hair as he went. He considered wrapping his hair like he’d seen women do in ads and on TV, but he quit after two failed attempts, throwing the damp towel in his laundry basket instead. It didn’t matter. He would brush his hair out and use the hairdryer he owned but seldom used on it soon enough.

  Stalling, he removed the clothes from the box one piece at a time and arranged them on the bed. He set the box aside. Looking down at the clothing, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. He didn’t like the order, so he rearranged everything from left to right in the order he would put each item on. He looked at the clothing again, nodded, inhaled, exhaled and swallowed

  It was time.

  He pulled the towel open and let it fall to the floor. Not giving himself time to think, he picked up the thong and stepped into it. He shuddered as he pulled the thin waistband over his hips. The way the fabric slid into place between his legs was unsettling. He stepped to the side with one foot, widening his stance and squatting slightly while adjusting the fabric. It didn’t help. No wonder some women called it ass floss. That was a good description for how it felt. It did cover the necessary bits, but only by the smallest of margins. The triangle of white lace at the front veiled the topiary that was his pubic hair without fully concealing it. All in all, he felt more naked wearing it than he had before he put it on.

  So be it, he thought to himself. It was going to be covered by leggings, petticoats and a skirt soon enough. No one would be able to see it. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so he hoped.

  He picked up the bra next. All he could see at first was a tangled mess of straps, cups and the chest band. Everyone knew how a bra worked, but it took him a few moments to figure out how to orient it and how to hold it. Letting it hang from his fingers while he checked to make sure it wasn’t inside out, he considered how to put it on. He put it down on the bed again with care. Picking it up again by the band instead of the straps, he put it around his narrow waist like a belt, cups at his back, the closure at the front, checking three times to make sure the band wasn’t twisted before attaching the hooks to their respective eyes. Turning it until the cups faced forward, he put his arms through the straps and lifted it into place.

  While he couldn’t have expected any other result, he was alarmed by the way the cups lifted, embraced and defined his breasts. Instead of trying to slide into his armpits, they were now front and center, pressed together, seeming even larger and rounder instead of being their more natural teardrop shape. Like the thong, the lace fabric did little to hide his areolae or nipples. They, in turn, pointed off in odd directions. He reached into each cup in turn, lifting and resettling each breast so they rested in the cups in a way that seemed more natural.

  He turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror. It was not a surprise that he looked like a lingerie ad. Both the thong and the bra seemed to be the right size for his body. “32F it is, I guess” he admitted in his lilting, soprano voice. Looking at his reflection, he wouldn’t have guessed he was larger than a D cup. Well, maybe a DD.

  With a shake of his head, he went back to getting dressed. He put the leggings on next, since they had to go under almost everything else. He put them on like pants. Or rather, he tried to. As tight as they were, they resisted being pulled into place, stretching like a rubber band when he tried to pull them up. While they had a lot of give, he began to fear he would rip them. It took some trial and error to figure out he should use his thumbs to gather each leg into a ring of fabric before putting his foot in and spreading the fabric up his leg a little at a time.

  He could feel his jaw clench in chagrin. It was just like putting on pantyhose. Memories of his mother demonstrating for his sisters how to put on pantyhose rose up unbidden. It was an unwelcome reminder of what was at stake if he couldn’t find Holly at the mall this time.

  Next came the petticoat. He stepped into it and pulled it up. The light fabric it was made of had alternating layers of red and green, complementing the leggings. He wasn’t sure how high to pull up the elastic waistband. Putting it at his hips like he was used to wearing his pants and underwear was clearly too low. The ruffles extended from his thighs when worn like that, which looked really wrong. With the waistband at his smallest part of his waist, the layers of fabric didn’t begin until the widest part of his hips, which still seemed too low. Pulling the waistband up let the ruffles conceal all of his hips, but left his groin and rear end exposed. After some thought, he decided to trust the tailoring of the outfit and pulled it down so the waistband was at his natural waist. He worried about having it on sideways or backwards, but there was no tag and no obvious front or back.

  Next came the dress. He was already wearing far more feminine clothing, but this was the item that made him pause. Once he put it on, the skirt would float above the fabric of the petticoats, giving him the illusion of even wider hips than he already had. The neckline was modest enough to conceal all but a hint of cleavage. Even so, it would still expose more of his upper torso than he normally bared anywhere except the beach. The wide fabric straps at the shoulders would hide his bra straps with ease, but would also leave his arms bare, another thing he never did in public unless he had his shirt off at the beach. Fingering the fabric, he could tell that it was stretchy. It was intended to cling to his torso and bosom to maximize the allure of his curves.

  The thought of putting it on felt like crossing a boundary. Once on the other side, he wasn’t sure if he would be allowed to return.

  The phone rang, making him jump. “Shit,” he swore. “Now what?” He took several steps towards the living room before remembering that his voice had changed. Answering the phone himself wasn’t an option.

  It rang several more times while he waited before the machine picked up.

  “Hey, Max.” The voice belonged to Katie, his youngest sister. Four years younger than him, she was a stay-at-home mom at twenty-nine, married to a lawyer named Will - his name and profession an endless source of good natured ribbing - that provided a good life for her and their three kids, all girls. “Mom made me promise to call you. Call
her before you leave so she knows when to expect you. You know how she worries. I know you have to work on Thursday, so I’m not going to nag you to spend the night on Christmas.” There was a brief pause. “The girls would love some extra time with their favorite uncle, though, so you might want to take that into consideration.”

  “I’m their only uncle,” he whispered back, sick with the thought of his feminine voice being the one that answered her. It was a running joke between them. Will’s only sibling was a sister, so Max was the girls’ only uncle.

  At least he hoped to be their uncle again soon. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. His throat wanted to close.

  “Mom said you won’t be home in time for dinner,” she went on. “Hope you get in before the kids have to go to bed. Love you, Brother. See you soon.” There was click followed by a beep from the machine as the line went dead.

  After that, the apartment was silent for several long minutes while Max got control of his emotions.

  Walking back to the bed, he picked up the dress and put it on. The wide, black belt went over it around his waist, cinching it smaller much like the corset had. He put on the shoes with the high, thick heels, curled toes and the bells at the tips, keeping his balance by force of will. He put on the elf hat, much like a Santa hat except that it was green with red trim instead of red with white trim. He turned and inspected his reflection in the mirror. His hair was still wet, but other than that, he looked just like one of the young women that worked in Santa’s Village at the mall. Even his makeup was still intact, which seemed like further proof it must be magic.

  He took the hat off and went to the bathroom. He dug out his hair dryer and plugged it in. Using his brush, he began by running it through his damp hair. Once he worked the tangles out, he held the brush in one hand and the hair dryer in the other, using them in combination to turn his hair into a silken, glossy mane. He let his mind go empty while he worked. He refused to dwell on the past or the future. His whole world narrowed down to drying his hair and getting himself to the mall.

  Done, he put the hair dryer and brush away and walked back to the bedroom. He used it as an opportunity to practice walking in heels, but the thick heels didn’t seem that challenging to him. Then again, he was focusing all his attention on each step, which he didn’t normally have to do. At least they fit, he thought, which was the first time in days that had been true of his footwear.

  He picked up the hat again. From inside, two things fell out. One was a set of clip on earrings. The other was a set of stick on elf ears. Beyond caring about the constant stream of new surprises, he put them on before adding the hat.

  Putting on his coat and grabbing his car keys, he left the apartment behind. He left in a rush, not wanting to give himself time to reconsider.

  Hours later, Max’s ankles were sore from walking in the high heels, he’d been ogled at least twice by every straight male over the age of puberty and he was running out of hope that Holly would keep her word.

  It was crowded, but not as much as on the weekend. Part of him had expected the majority of the shoppers to be procrastinating men doing last minute shopping. There were plenty of those, but there were an equal number of procrastinating women to balance them out. They all had a mild look of panic on their faces as they scanned the windows of each store they passed as if looking for a lost child.

  Expecting Holly to disapprove of his wearing a bulky coat, he’d left his locked in the trunk of his car, bringing only some cash and his car keys inside with him. It had been a cold walk inside. Only after he warmed up had it occurred to him that he didn’t have any pockets or a purse. With no place else to put the cash and his car keys, he’d had to put them in his “lady purse,” as his sisters called it, meaning tucked into his bra. The bills folded flat and were easy to put between the fabric of the bra’s cup and his skin. His keys were a bigger problem. Those were buried in the depths of his cleavage to hold them in place, as well as to conceal the bulge they would otherwise make. While it hid the keys from view, the hard metal pressing into his tender flesh was less than comfortable.

  As expected, men hadn’t been shy about looking at his body. Most tried to be subtle, but it was hard not to notice the constant tiny glances. Each look was like a tiny, dry, reptilian tongue licking his skin. All he could do was endure it. Real women put up with it all day every day. He could manage it for a few hours with ease. He put on a vague smile and walked from one end of the mall to the other.

  Fear faded to anxiety, then concern, then boredom. Reviewing the text of the last card in his mind, he did his best to “put on a show.” He added a spring to his step as he walked, letting his chest bounce a little, adding a little roll to his hips to draw men’s eyes. More men looked openly and stared longer, but Holly didn’t appear to end his humiliation.

  With nothing else to do but walk, wait and try to fulfill the spirit of Holly’s message, he made a point of acting girly. He fiddled with his long hair. He practiced walking like a model on a runway. He looked at many of the vendor’s display cases, bending from his hips instead of at the knees. He flipped his hair behind his shoulders. Anything he could think of to make himself seem more feminine, he tried.

  None of it worked.

  When hope was fading, he gave up trying to guess what Holly wanted him to do and just wandered from store to store. At first he went to places he liked to go, such as the music store and the video game store. In both of those places, the sense of being watched by men redoubled. A girl elf in leggings and short skirt in the video game store was a definite mistake. He stayed less than two minutes before becoming so uncomfortable with the slack-jawed stares of the shoppers there that he fled. Most of them were young men that seemed stunned to find a woman in their midst. In retrospect, going there dressed as in such a provocative outfit was an obvious mistake.

  He got a soda from the sub shop at the food court and sipped it until it was gone as he wandered. That led to a trip to the ladies room where he had to deal with both a line and a busy public toilet that contained multiple stalls as well as the sounds, smells and presence of a variety of women he didn’t know.

  Five o’clock was coming up fast. It was less than an hour away. A pit began to form in Max’s stomach as he was forced to consider what he would do if the mall closed without Holly showing up. He supposed he would go home and see if there was a new package waiting for him under the tree. Somehow, that didn’t feel right to him. Woman’s intuition? he mused with wry amusement, letting the thought lift the corners of his mouth.

  He was approaching Santa’s Village for the umpteenth time that day. On his first few laps, he worried about being confronted by the employees, asked why he was wearing a copy of their costume. He shouldn’t have worried. It turned out that all the female employees that worked directly for the mall were wearing them. Even the male employees except for the security guards were wearing a version of them. The mall employees assumed she worked in Santa’s Village and was on a break, while the Santa’s Village employees thought she worked for the mall. Either that or no one cared about one more person dressed up as an elf for the holiday.

  As he drew closer to the festive display, he felt eyes watching him from behind. By that time it was a very familiar feeling. He looked over his shoulder as he did each time, hoping to see Holly.

  He instead found himself being followed by a group of young men. They seemed to be in their mid-twenties. Too rough looking and too old for college, they seemed to be enjoying the view Max was providing them. Their laughter could be about anything, but to Max, if felt directed at him. As close as they were and as loud, he should be able to hear what they were saying. Instead, there were a lot of whispers and muttered comments followed by loud agreement, laughter and high-fives.

  The last time Max had felt this way was as a kid. He’d been walking home from school when he found himself being followed by an aggressive dog that had escaped its fenced yard. It had trailed behind him, teeth bared and growling, large en
ough to outmass Max. He hadn’t dared turn his back on it, afraid that it would bite his calves and hamstring him. When it lost interest and stopped following him, Max had run home crying. It had taken a lot of effort by his parents to keep that incident from turning into a more general fear of dogs.

  Unlike the dog, Max didn’t dare keep his eye on the men. Looking at them would just encourage their attention. He doubted they would do anything, not here, not in such a public place, but that wasn’t the point for them. He’d seen this in college all the time. Some guys just seemed to think singling a woman out and talking to and about them like they were pieces of meat was good sport. If the woman seemed withdrawn or uncomfortable, that was almost as entertaining as a positive reaction. Any response at all was seen as a victory.

  As Santa’s Village drew closer, Max realized he was following his own previous footsteps. He was approaching the exact same spot where he had been following the three women. It was where the frumpy, harried mother had glared at him, where the husband had winked at him before being cowed by a glare into submission. He was steps away from where he had said the words he wanted so much to take back.

  As if on cue, one of the men behind him said, “Ho, ho, ho.” All of his friends brayed laughter as if it was the best joke in the world.

  Max’s insides shriveled up into a tight ball of mortification. So this was what if felt like to be the recipient of a comment like that. His skin felt filthy, like the membrane of a used condom, dirty and disposable. He knew then that he didn’t need to add any wiggle to his walk, or fiddle with his hair, or bend over so men could inspect his rear end. This was the show he’d been intended to put on. Putting himself on display wasn’t necessary. All he’d needed to do was be female and present. For some men, the wrong men, that was all that was needed. Like the men that were following him.