Looks More Like Scrubbing The Floor Rather Than...

" I think it'll fit but okay," said Allen. I pushed the buggy to the mens fitting room with Allen close beside me.A man about Allen's age stood behind the fitting room counter. "How many items do you have?" said the man."One," said Allen holding the dress up so the man could inspect it."Is this some kind of joke?" asked the man."Is it illegal to try on a dress?" said Allen. Allen's chest popped out. I prayed the clerk would shut his mouth before Allen shut it for him."No, I suppose it isn't," said the man and he led Allen to an empty fitting room then busied himself at the counter.A few minutes later, Allen stuck his head out of the room."Ready?" he said."Let's see!" I said. By now I was getting excited!"Tada!" shouted Allen as he threw the door open and stepped out from behind it. The man at the counter glanced up from his work just as Allen twirled around in his dress. "I... beg your pardon," stammered the man, no doubt intimidated by the big brown biceps stuffed into Allen's dress. Being only fifteen, there was nothing romantic or sexual, I was just intrigued by the tall, very different boy I had just met. We quickly struck up a friendship. Unfortunately, my parents moved across the country soon after and Thomas graduated and joined the military. Despite the distance and obstacles, we remained close, with emails and phone calls. He came to visit a few times over the years for short periods, but we never spent a substantial amount of time together. Over the years, romantic feelings had begun to arise, but Thomas is a strict Catholic and I was raised Baptist and we let our faiths prevent us from acting on our feelings. I quickly moved on, dating other men and eventually getting married. Thomas never dated and never had any real relationships. He remained a virgin at thirty, a fact which I consistently teased him about, but secretly admired. I had given my virginity, as so many do, to someone who did not love, care for or respect me and regretted it. After eight.
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