The Gap

So finding myself put to the task by the man who likens himself to a relative, I had no arousing tales of port-o-potties. And I wondered how rays of light could be so erotic and surmised it was the thought of my bare ass against cotton that could put a smile on his face. Or was it the handprint left behind along with the sting?

So this one is for the ninja who has kept me company in the sun while letting me take drags of his smoke so I can still claim I am not a smoker…

I used to love the Gap. Yes, that uber-trendy store that has proliferated like Starbucks. And it’s not because of the cotton twill cargo pants or the fleece hoodies that last but one season. No, it was never about the clothes or the ads featuring celebrities who haven’t stepped inside the store. And it wasn’t because Sharon Stone wore a Gap turtle neck to the Oscars.

For nearly a year I got to love the Gap until I was banned. Technically I think the term is 86ed. I am not sure it’s all Gaps but it certainly includes one particular store in which I was told never to return. I discovered the Gap in the heat of a lustful affair. He lived with his parents and I lived with too many roommates. And he wore Gap clothing. It all started innocently enough with a simple trip to a simple store to buy “the basics”. As we perused the store, I felt conspicuous in my motorcycle boots and pink hair. And we clashed as he pulled out jeans and shirts that looked exactly like the clothing he was wearing. Not wanting to be left alone in what felt like a page from 1984, I followed him into the dressing room. I had assumed I would wait near the entrance of the dressing room area when he motioned for me to follow him inside.

The four walled room was complete with a 3-way mirror and a door to the floor along with a neon-colored button to summon for assistance. I am not sure if it was the fluorescent lighting or the whiny voice keeping time to the beats that attempted to be known as music that got me so charged up. But as I watched the khaki cargos slump to the floor, I found myself pulling him close. Sitting on the rejected items, I found the bench to be the perfect height as I cautioned him to keep his voice down.

We began to have a weekly rendezvous at the Gap. And with each meeting we became more and more adventurous in the little room now filled with wool as the weather changed. I often wondered if the cameras caught our little secret and if anyone ever watched.

Then it all came to an abrupt stop. Perhaps we were being too inconsiderate, it was the holiday season after all and people actually needed a dressing room. The knock was loud and the voice even louder as we were asked if we needed any assistance. I remember my friend breathlessly answering, “No, we are fine”. The staff person knocked again, but this time told us we needed to vacate the dressing room. We dressed and then opened the cardboard door only to find ourselves face-to-face with one of the salespersons and what I assumed to be the manager. The manager looked disapprovingly at the both of us and told us she knew what we were doing and that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I turned reflexively away so she didn’t see my smile or hear my giggle. She then asked me if I thought this was funny. Truth was, it was funny, so I responded, “yes”. The manager turned even redder and told us to leave. She emphasized the fact that we were no longer welcome in the store and that we were not to return.

Unfortunately, without the Gap, we really had nothing in common. It’s now been years since I have entered this American clothing staple. I often wonder if the store still holds the same titillating power and whether my picture is located near every cash register under the word “86”.