apr 1st 2025
His eyes locked on the visor, he asks the clerk a question. “Do you have any of this one I could try on?”
The alarm clock snapped him out of the dream, and he slapped a hand on the oversize snooze button, half hoping he’d finally break the damn thing. He’d managed a few hours’ sleep, at least.
Wonder why you keep having that dream, hmm?
“Fuck’s sake, let’s not start that again.” He was about to start up the coffee machine when he happened to glance at his phone’s calendar. It was Saturday — he had the day off.
Shrugging, he settled for a can of soda pop, taking a cherry cola out of the fridge. As the cold, bubbly liquid poured down his throat, it started waking him up, almost as effectively as any double espresso.
Wish fulfillment. That’s what Freud said about dreams.
At that, he suppressed a chuckle. “So what’s your diagnosis, then? Penis envy?”
Somewhat surprisingly, the voice had no answer, and he was able to sip his soda in peace while gathering up the dirty clothes, a handful at a time. He even showered and shaved without more than the odd comment in the back of his mind. It wasn’t until he had dressed (in a tee shirt and sweatpants) and brushed his hair that it piped up again.
Your hair’s getting pretty long.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
You sure spend a lot of time brushing it.
“That’s so it doesn’t get all tangled.”
Remember that time at the grocery store, where that old lady saw you from behind and called you “ma’am?”
He chuckled. “She said she wasn’t wearing her glasses.”
Wonder why you felt all tingly afterward?
“Look,” he sighed, “could you just lay off for one day? Just this once?”
Though he didn’t want to hear the voice, as it went quiet he was struck by how strange the empty, silent room sounded. Or rather, didn’t sound.
What to do with the rest of the day? He could watch some more Galaxy Quest, but he didn’t want to burn through it too quickly; the shutdown could easily continue for another month or two, and there was no sense in binge-watching if it left him with nothing to watch afterward.
Then an idea hit — gently, like a hand knocking politely on the doors of perception. An idea that would kill a few hours, give him an excuse to leave the apartment, and maybe even put paid to the nightly reruns of his subconscious.
He dialed the number for the sex shop. 555-LOVE. Corny, even by advertising standards; but clearly, by worming its way into his brain, it had fulfilled its intended purpose.
The phone rang twice before an androgynous voice answered. “Thank you for calling Indulge.”
“Hi,um...” He swallowed nervously. “What time are you guys open ‘til?”
“We’re open 9:00 AM to 9:00 PM, seven days a week.”
“Thanks.” Hanging up, he was surprised that business was steady enough to keep those hours; but then, there was probably always a thriving market for vibrators and flesh-lights. A brief hunt for a paper face mask, and he was out the door.
* * * *
The drive was familiar enough, though tinged with a bit of discomfort at how quiet everything seemed. Not quite as thoroughly deserted as the time he’d driven to the ATM a few weeks after the shutdown started; but still much calmer than usual.
At last, the gaudy red-lettered sign rose over the hill, and he pulled his car to a stop in the nearly empty parking lot. Upon entering, he was greeted by a punk wearing a clear plastic face-shield — the same one from The Dream, except their hair was blue instead of green. “Hello, ma’am. May I see your ID?”
He was already fishing the card out of his wallet before he thought to correct the clerk. “Um... It’s sir, actually.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” The punk nodded at the date of birth on his driver’s license, and held up a small white device. “The hair, and the mask covering your — but I shouldn’t have assumed. You okay with a quick temperature check?”
“Sure. And, uh, it’s okay. Honest mistake.”
You don’t seem very upset at being called “ma’am.” Again.
He was about to reply out loud to the voice, but the chirp of the infrared thermometer brought him back to the moment, where there was a human person he could talk to instead. Not that he actually did this for a few minutes.
“Do you guys sell, uh... outfits?"
“Outfits?”
“Yeah, like... lingerie, leather stuff. Rubber, things like that.”
“Oh, yeah! Right over there.” The clerk pointed to the relevant section — about a third of the store’s floor space. “Most of our leather is just harnesses and such, but we’ve got a decent selection of latex.”
Up to this point, he’d been able to rationalize the day’s events. It wasn’t that weird to dream about this specific store, or even this specific employee. He drove by the place all the time, and he’d probably seen the punk taking out the trash on at least one occasion.
But now, here...
a mannequin wearing a shiny suit, seamless but for the laces crisscrossing up the back. Head-to-toe rubber... except for the face, which was a gas mask with a large bubble-shaped visor.
As in The Dream, his eyes locked on the visor, he asked the clerk a question. “Do you have any of this one I could try on?”
The blue-haired punk looked up from their book. “Think that's the last one, but I can take it down for you.”
And before he knew it, the suit and its mask were draped over his arm, and the clerk was showing him to the fitting room. “You'll have to leave your underwear on, but once you get suited up I’ll be happy to help you lace it up in the back. There’s some baby powder on the shelf next to the mirror.”
“...baby powder?”
“Yeah, to help you get the suit on. Keeps it from sticking.” The clerk raised a heavily pierced eyebrow. “New to rubber?”
“Guess so.” He closed the curtain, and stripped down to his boxer briefs. Even with the powder soaking up the sweat on his skin, it was a bit of an ordeal to carefully ‘peel on’ the tight latex. Apparently his subconscious had skipped over that part of The Dream.
As the other leg finally stretched over this own, he was struck by the color of the suit. His dreams usually tinted everything a sort of generic hue — like a less extreme version of his grandmother’s monochrome dreamscapes, a side effect of all the hours she spent watching black-and-white TV in the 50s. The version of the suit in The Dream was similar, a nondescript blackish gray. But this one had a light blue line running up the outside of each leg, reminding him of a racing stripe.
Slipping his arms into the opera-glove sleeves of the bodysuit was even trickier; and even once the gloves were pulled snugly over his fingers, the way the rubber tugged them flat felt very strange. Fortunately, the chest was much easier to slip on. At this point, he saw that the ice-blue racing stripes continued up the stomach and chest to the collarbone, forming a kind of angular hourglass outline.
Then came the mask. This part of the ensemble was fairly easy to put on, after a little trial and error adjusting the head straps. The suit had a rounded hood to slip over the wearer’s head, but he decided to leave it off so he could remove the mask more easily.
And now it was on, and he drew the curtain aside. The clerk stepped over, pulling the laces tight, cinching the suit around his waist like a latex corset.
Owing to the number of times he’d dreamed it, the view in the mirror actually wasn’t surprising. The suit didn’t just cling to his body — it reshaped it. His hips and ass were curvier than ever, accentuated by the ever so slight pinching of his waist. His flat chest was framed and supported, giving the impression of a nice, tight little handful. Even his shoulders seemed narrower, his hands more graceful, his feet less ungainly.
The clerk grinned at him, nodding their approval. “Suits you, sir...”
He paused for almost a minute, waiting to wake up... but it wasn’t The Dream, and it didn’t end. “What’s the price on this suit?” he finally asked, almost shouting to be heard through the gas mask.
“Fifty bucks, plus tax.”
“That’s it?” He was hardly a connoisseur of fetish wear, but that price seemed a bit low.
The blue-haired punk’s grin widened. “My boss marked it down, ‘cause we’ve had it for over a year. He wants to sell it fast, before we start having any problems with dry rot.”
“Speaking of, do you have, like... cleaner or conditioner for this?”
“Yes!” They snapped their fingers. “You just reminded me.” The clerk ducked down behind the counter, lifting several stacked milk crates and rummaging through them. When they stood back up, it was with a small blue-tinted plastic bag in their hands. “This is the stuff that came bundled with the suit. Sample size renewing spray, sample size pheromone spray, body powder, and instruction book.”
“Sorry, did you say instruction book?”
“Yeah, for the inflatable bits. Also the dong sock — it’s reversible, so you can use it kinda like a condom, or like a vaginal condom.”
Don’t even pretend you don’t want to try that.
“You take debit?”
The punk nodded. “You wanna take a few minutes to change, or—”
“Actually, I’ll wear it out.” He grabbed his tee shirt and sweatpants, and slipped them on over the rubber.
“Cool beans.” ■