Some men are just born stupid.
Carlene could testify with her right hand raised to God and the left on the good book that her husband, Lenny, had been born with the disease and it had worsened with the years. Proof was held between her thumb and forefinger like a dead rat in the form of a pair of bikini underwear. They damn sure didn’t belong to her. Hells bells she couldn’t get one leg in those tiny little things. And they did not belong to Lenny, either. Even if he had become an overnight cross dresser, his ass wouldn’t fit into that skimpy pair of under britches, not even if he greased himself down with bacon drippings.
They were bright red with a sparkling sequin heart sewn on the triangular front. They’d come with a matching corset with garter straps and fish net hose. Carlene recognized them because she’d designed the outfit at her lingerie shop, Bless My Bloomers. They belonged to a petite, size-four brunette with big brown eyes that giggled like a little girl when she saw herself in the mirror wearing the get-up.
Carlene dropped them back into Lenny’s brief case when her cell phone rang. The ring tone said it was Lenny but she was still speechless and staring at the scrap of satin in her hand.
The brunette who’d bought the red-satin outfit had told her that she and her sugar daddy were going to Vegas and she wanted something that would make him so hot he’d be ready to buy her an engagement ring the next week. What was her name? Bailey? Brenda? No something French because Carlene remembered asking her about it. Bridget…that was it! Bridget had been to Vegas with Lenny. How many other trips had he taken a bimbo with him and how many had been ten or fifteen years younger and a size four—for God’s sake?