“Yes.” I nodded slowly, still looking at myself in the mirror. “I think I do.”
“So, are you ready to try on clothes?”
I nodded.
“Very well,” he said and slipped the robe back over my shoulders. “This way, please. I think we are done measuring.”
“Measuring?”
He nodded to the glassy sensors in the flooring and walls. “Of course, Monsieur. I must know your physical dimensions, just as you need to know your spiritual ones.” He peered into my face. “Yes, I think we are ready.”
He led me back out to where the women were seated. It was a little disconcerting to be in public wearing not much more than a robe, but it was not that much different than the sauna, if I did not count M. Roubaille, his assistants, and everybody besides me dressed to the teeth.
“With your permission, ladies,” he addressed them, “we will begin.”
He undraped another mirror and stood me in front of it. I was afraid for a moment that he was going to whisk the robe off and leave me standing there in my briefs again, but instead he took a pair of beige slacks from a hovering assistant and helped me slip them on under the robe. I felt better with pants, but the feeling did not last long as he then stripped off the robe and left me standing in front of the mirror wearing only the slacks. The mirror was angled slightly so I could not see the women seated just to my right in its reflection, but I could sense their eyes on me. M. Roubaille tugged the seam and smoothed the fabric over my backside in an oddly impersonal manner—as if he were dressing a mannequin. They looked good, fit well, but Brill summed it up when she said, “Too old.”
Stepping back, M. Roubaille nodded and said simply, “Yes. Indeed.”
He reached out and plucked a different pair of slacks from another assistant’s hands. He slid the beige pants down my legs and handed them off while helping me into the second pair, a nicely tailored pair of twill slacks in a chocolate brown. I stood there for a moment, looking at myself barefoot and shirtless in the mirror.
“Too formal,” Beverly offered.
“Hmm,” M. Roubaille said, thoughtfully. “You may be right. How do you feel about denim, M. Wang?” he asked.
“Denim?” I asked, still contemplating the twill in the mirror trying to decide what Beverly found formal about them.
“Yes, denim. What are commonly referred to as blue jeans?”
“I like them very much.”
His assistant produced a new item and M. Roubaille helped me out of the twill and into a pair of dark-blue denim jeans. They were buttery soft—as if they had been washed about a hundred times, but were not the least bit faded. They had an absolutely perfect dark-blue color. The pants slipped up my legs and across my rear like they were made for me. I felt the soft fabric hug my thighs and settle low around my hips. They had a button fly instead of a zipper and as I struggled with the unfamiliar placement, I spotted the white cotton robe lying across the chair where M. Roubaille had placed it after I had tried on that first pair of trousers. Suddenly I became conscious of all the people in the room who had watched me get into and out of several pairs of pants. I heard what sounded like a soft whimper from the direction of the couch, but I did not dare turn my head. I hurriedly finished buttoning the jeans and looked at myself in the mirror trying to ignore the flush of red that flooded my face and naked chest.
Roubaille turned me this way and that so I could get a good look in the mirror, and I heard Brill say, “I think those will do.”
Diane added, “Oh, yeah.”
After the briefest of pauses, Bev said, “I don’t know. Could he try on the twill again, just to compare?”
I lost it then and started laughing. They were obviously enjoying themselves. If they wanted to watch, some little imp inside of me wanted to give them something to see. I turned and looked back over my shoulder at the mirror, so I could see the way the denim hugged my butt. I brushed a hand across it ever so slightly.
“I think these will do nicely,” I announced to the room at large. Then I turned to face them and trailed a hand down across my stomach until my thumb hooked into the waistband and my fingers just hovered over the buttons. “Do you think they fit?” I asked them. While my fingers drummed nonchalantly.
Diane repeated a breathy, “Oh, yeah.”
Brill cleared her throat and added, “Definitely.”
Bev just grinned with a very hungry looking glint in her eye.
M. Roubaille’s assistant on the other side of the couch just nodded. Her eyes were quite large and fixed on my fingers.
“Do you have something suitable in the way of a shirt, M. Roubaille?” I asked.
From the way he smiled, I got the impression that he enjoyed the performance much as I did—perhaps more. “I believe I do, M. Wang.”
He slipped a long sleeved selection in pale pink cotton up my arms and across my shoulders. It was not the smooth cotton I expected but a richly textured oxford cloth. “Pink?” I asked skeptically.
“Trust me. Few men have the ability to wear pink. You are one of them.”
I shrugged, slipped it on, and buttoned it, slipping the tails into my jeans. I felt the women’s eyes on me as I slid my hands down into my pants.
He had me stand still for a moment while he walked slowly around me, tugging and adjusting. He unbuttoned one extra button on my shirt. “You can get away with this,” he murmured with a sly wink.
I turned to face my audience again, letting the fingers of my right hand slide up to the collar of the shirt and then play across the exposed upper chest where the extra button was undone. “Do you think this makes me look too girly?”
The assistant standing behind the couch shook her head vigorously.
Diane cleared her throat before speaking. “Girly? Ah, no.”
Brill added, “If that’s girly then I’m on the wrong side of the fence.”
Bev just grinned some more.
He had me sit in the chair and handed me a pair of navy socks with padded toes and heels along with a pair of low boots. The boots were made from an amazingly supple leather with a soft cafe au lait color and a brushed finish that made them seem almost like a smooth suede. They slipped on easily and fit perfectly. I stood in them and stepped to the center of the room. They had just a bit more heel than I normally wore, but the extra two or three centimeters made me stand a little straighter.
“You need a jacket and a belt,” Roubaille said. “But how do you like this so far?”
I shook my head in admiration. “These are such simple clothes, but they fit so well they seem almost elegant.” Grinning I added, “But the real audience is over there.” I nodded to where Brill, Bev, and Diane were seated.
He smiled. “They seem to approve, Monsieur.”
“I have a belt, perhaps,” I offered. I stepped back into the changing room and pulled the boy toy belt from my pants on the chair. It had been made especially for me and held a sentimental value beyond the actual belt and buckle. The leather slid smoothly through the belt loops and the golden buckle with the black dragon head rode perfectly on my lower stomach.
“An excellent piece of workmanship,” M. Roubaille admitted. “And exactly the right touch of whimsy. Now, for the jacket.” He held open a coat for me to slide into.
I slipped my arms into it and he pulled it up across my shoulders. Again, he surprised me with both color and texture. The coat was made from a very narrow-wale, lightweight corduroy in an olive green. It was very close to a neutral color, but picked up the pink in the shirt and countered it beautifully. It was a double-breasted cut with wide lapels and a rounded collar like the old time sailor’s pea coats. It even had big, anchor-embossed black buttons. It was light enough that I could wear it around the station without getting overheated, but when I pulled it closed and tried the buttons, I could feel the warmth begin to build up. If I were ever stuck on the docks, this would certainly keep me warm enough.
“Ladies?” I asked. “Will this do?”
I displayed it for them, buttoning and unbuttoning the jacket. I could not resist and even slipped it off entirely and slung it over my shoulder for full effect. M. Roubaille suggested what he called
