Part II of Highlights from our out of town visit, or, The Adventure of the Leather Dress:
First, I’m allergic to wool. Yes, that does mean that most of what my friend Wendi knits is “death” to me. She has to sanitize the house for me, but luckily my allergy to wool seems to be contact only. I must touch the stuff, so she just hides most of her yarny goodness in the other guest room and I have to not touch her current project. Though the plaid on the loom is actually cotton so it’s safe for me. Yay! What does my allergy to wool have to do with the adventure of the leather dress? Funny you should ask.
There is a restaurant near our friends that is fabulous. They took us on one of your last visits. It’s a Moroccan resturant and very authentic in it’s decor. I was sitting beside Wendi on the low seats and suddenly said, very early in the evening, “Why are my thighs itching?” Wendi turned to me with wide eyes and said in a horrified voice, “Wool! It’s all wool!” I stood up, because underneath my jeans was handwoven wool. It was everywhere, covering every surface that was sittable. This was a problem for me. I was itching through my jeans, not good.
Daven spotted the only non-wool in the place which was a leather ottoman, the real kind, low and wide and actually workable for sitting at the low table since I was as short as I am. Though, sitting close enough to eat from the big shared plates with my hands, which is how you’re supposed to eat everything, meant I had to hunch forward with my legs very wide. It was a very guy poise, and glad I was that I had not worn a dress. Though, Daven, discovered that a kilt has similar problems since we gave the nice, lady-like seats to our spouses. Now, Jon began the night beside Daven on the lower bench like area, but when I had to move we had to reshuffle and suddenly Jon was sitting with the Wendi, and Daven and I were very guy as we hunkered over the low table. Me, because I was sitting on a low stool, and him because at 6’ 3” and wearing a kilt, he had to hunker down so he didn’t flash. It’s much harder to be a gentleman in a kilt than it sounds sometimes. Jon has also discovered those moments. Since they were both wearing kilts it was just a matter of which of them had the problem, and since Jon was the guest as far as Daven was concerned it was only fair to take the hit. Good host.
The food was great, the belly dancer was lovely and since Wendi has a background in belly dancing she could tell us for a fact that the woman knew how to dance. It was all so good that Jon and I requested to go back to the restaurant, but we did puzzle about the wool. Would the handy leather footstool be available? The only other option would be me sitting on everyone’s lap alternately as their legs got tired. It’s at least a four hour meal since it’s seven courses. But as amusing as sitting in people’s laps would have been it was entirely too five-year-old for me. Couldn’t possibly.
Wendi came up with the solution, I should wear leather. That way the ottoman could be there, or not, I’d be my own protection. Problem, none of my leather covered enough of my legs. Most of my leather is fetish leather and it’s sort of designed not to give full coverage. At a fetish event, cool, as lingerie at home, very cool, as actual protection from itchy wool, not so good. So, I ordered a leather dress from North Bound Leather which is a place Jon and I have bought several things from in the past. I saw the dress as a reward for finishing the last hard deadline, and as Wendi said, “It’s pretty armor.” Indeed that was the idea.
Carri, my good friend and assistant, helped me order it on line, and here’s where the adventure begins. She got a notice that the dress was out of stock and it would take two weeks to get it made. I needed it that Saturday. She raised calm hell, and they agreed to see if they could rush it through since nowhere near where we ordered the dress did it say it was out of stock, or that it would take two weeks. If it had said that on the same page we would have ordered something else. It’s supposed to come on the day we leave, Carri gets a notice that it’s not going to make it. An call to Daven and he agrees that having the dress Fed-Exed to their house is the solution. All good, all fixed, so we thought. In the mean time the restaurant contacts Daven and tells them they’re full for Saturday could we move to Sunday, he moves the reservation, because Sunday gives the dress a better chance of actually arriving. Friday morning there was a knock on the door and the dress was delivered. Relieved, I actually only unpacked it so the wrinkles could unfold. I didn’t try it on because I wanted to enjoy having the dress, and I was now afraid to try it on. Something told me that the relief would be short-lived, and indeed, very short-lived.
Though, the dress had looked tight through bodice and like a whole dress on the website, in real life, not so much. It was an over-dress. What does that mean? It means the bodice barely covered both my breasts let alone held them in, one bend over that low table and I’d be waaay too up close and personal with the food. The bottom of the dress, even after both the inside and outside tie were tied, tight, opened to my crotch when I sat down. There was no way to hold the dress closed. I wore it downstairs because they wanted to see it and Daven makes leather kilts and skirts. If anyone could help fix it, it would be him, but he thought what I feared, no fixing that, at least not in time for the dinner. Crap. Part of the problem was that though it was a size that I’d bought before there, the bodice was not made for someone with my chest. We looked at the website together and discovered that the model wearing it wasn’t being held in place, but did not have natural breasts. The breasts probably would look just as high and tight and sort of squashed with nothing over them. Mine, being a-natural, didn’t work that way. Real breasts move, sometimes a lot, and you gotta be careful how tight the packaging is or you have moments of glorious embarrassment.
As luck would have it though, we were going to this great bra and lingerie shop that we visit every time we go down there. It’s one of the few stores that have pretty things in sizes that fit both Wendi and me. When you measure your cup size in triple “e” to “g” you need a specialty store. Wendi at 6’ 1”, and me at 5’ 3” have different issues once cup size is conquered. I’m 32 inches across the back and ribs which means finding that kind of cup size in that small width is a true challenge, but this store is up to that challenge. Now, though, I had more to shop for than just bras and panties. I needed an under-dress for the leather so I didn’t flash. Jon and I found a lovely black lace negligee, I guess it would be called. It worked perfectly under the leather dress and was long enough that it hit below the nearly ankle length dress so it suddenly looked like an outfit. I put black lace bra and undies with it so that everything helped camouflage everything else, knee high boots and my pretty armor was complete. Wendi helped continue the black lace theme with a lovely blouse under her velvet jacket, with the skirt and the boots, and her champagne blond hair atop her head we all agreed she looked like school mistress does bondage. Very fetching.
The night of the dinner and the back of me is covered in soft leather from shoulders to feet. Daven and Jon also opted for black jeans and left the kilts at home. We were all safe from embarrassment, at least from our clothes. It’s been my experience that life is full of embarrassing possibilities, all you can do is try to stay ahead of the obvious ones. Dan and Heather, good friends of Daven and Wendi, met us at the restaurant. We’ve met them several times now and find them delightful. May I add that Heather is almost exactly the same height as Wendi, which means of the six of us three of us are over six feet tall. Jon is 5’ 8” and Dan is a little taller, but not quite six feet. Regardless of how you slice the baklava, guess who was shortest person in our party? No, really, guess.