Originally Posted …. May 2006
Hey guys, when’s the last time you actually walked in to a Victoria’s Secret store? OK, let me rephrase that … Hey, guys, have you EVER walked in to a Victoria’s Secret store? BobLee did recently and survived to tell you all about it. …. and an ANDRE BROWN UPDATE)
Blondie somehow got herself on an mailing list for “a free pair of underwear” at the aforementioned infamous naughty lingerie establishment. She gets this card in the mail every Fall and she goes in and picks up her free pair. They put it in this cute little pink bag with cute little pink tissue paper. “Pink” is a pretty common color at Victoria’s Secret. … pink … red … and black … that’s it … EVERYTHING is Pink – Red – or Black.
Victoria, of course, is hoping once she lures you into the store, her minions will ensnare you in their retail web.
Wonder if Orvis or Bass ProShops have ever tried that trick. Come in and get a free pair of boxers and maybe while you’re here buy a fly rod or a portable duckblind.
We were “malling” recently, just the two of us sans Kid. As we passed Victoria’s, she remembered the card offer. She dug around in her Kate Spade knock-off rucksack for the better part of a half hour while I coped a free ride in a massage chair. “Ah Ha … here it is!” … and we headed in.
It never occurred to me that I was crossing a special threshhold until I was all the way in. I confess, for all my worldliness, I’ve never been in a French whorehouse, but now I know what they must smell like. It wasn’t nearly as bad as a “beauty shop” … those places are awful. I hear if you inhale too much of that “permanent smell” your scrotum will fall off. I believe it.
There were three others of my gender in the store. A big ol’ fella in his mid 60s and effecting a decidedly agrarian persona. He seemed to be concentrating on some faraway place apparently fearing if he let his eyes fall on the lingerie displays he might “lose control” if you get my drift. He was not at all comfortable and was muttering a mantra that sounded like the batting averages of the 1967 Red Sox in alphabetical order … his version of mental saltpeter in his mashed potatoes I suppose.
There was a young fellow in his early-mid 20s with who I assumed was his fiancee or girlfriend. They were laughing and giggling so I figured it wasn’t his wife. Maybe they were picking out her honeymoon trousseau, but neither of’em looked like the type that would have ever heard the word “trousseau”. He was wearing a ratty ballcap and she was wearing a t-shirt from Myrtle Beach. She wasn’t a candidate for a swimsuit calendar nor was he anyone you would mistake for a GQ cover boy. Come to think of it, all of us in the store fit into that category … EXCEPT Blondie, of course. “Hey BobLee, whatchu doin’ hangin’ with Suzanne Somers?”
The 3rd guy was an accountant/corporate finance type … early 40s … khaki slacks, topsiders, golf shirt … no nonsense expression like “Hurry up. I need to recharge my Blackberry.” The woman he was with was likely his wife as they took considerable pains not to touch each other. I noticed she was purchasing assorted “red things”. Maybe after he got his Blackberry recharged he would turn into a macho stud muffin and tear those “red things” off of her with his teeth. She had a resigned expression. Maybe she used to hope so too but that was too many “I gotta work lates” ago. Oh well. Maybe he’ll blow out an aorta from high blood pressure and she’ll have better luck the next go-round.
Now me … I was cool. We had been looking around about seven minutes when Mizzus whispered in my ear “you’re writing a column about this aren’t you?”
“Heck no. I was just wondering if they had this pink crotchless teddy in a 46-long.” They didn’t.
Blondie got her free panties in the cute little pink bag. The assistant manager that waited on her was blond, dressed in black, slightly zaftig and with noticeable cleavage highlighted by a push-up bra … available in three colors (pink, red or black) and comes with a little audio thingie in the “v” that plays “Hey Jude”.
Blondie knows my various perverted fantasies but she insisted in going thru the store saying “do you like this” … “how bout this one”. I had already scanned the room and there were no Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader outfits and the one Rachel Welch autographed animal skin bikini from 1,000,000 BC was marked “Display Only – Not for Sale ”.
We left and went to buy a chocolate candied apple. I considered dropping back about 10 steps and yelling “Hey that’s Suzanne Somers and she stole those panties from Victoria’s Secret” … but the impulse passed.
Later, as we snuggled under our flannel sheets, I hummed a few bars of Hey Jude … Blondie laughed. I hope you and your Mizzus laugh together under flannel sheets.