The Little Black Dress

The Little Black Dress


Back when my husband and I were still dating I made the mistake of asking him the most loaded question any woman can ask a man. No, not “Do you love me?” but “What is your fantasy?” Remember, we were still dating, so there was a possibility that I might fulfill this depending on how depraved it was. He gave me a surprising answer; he fantasized about being seduced by a woman in a rubber dress and boots. Okay, maybe I am just easily surprised, but I though “Oh hell, I can do this; it’s not too weird”.

Well he deployed with his unit the next week; leaving me to plan for this event for the next six months. As small as our town is we do have a lingerie shop that stocks such items; it is hidden on a small street in Remerton and only patronized after dark by local residents. I parked my car at a restaurant nearby and walked through the back way to get there like every other local does. Sure enough she did stock an entire wardrobe of rubber clothing; obviously my new love was not the only freak in town. For $49.95 plus tax I purchased a pantyhose sized package with a shiny rubber clad seductress pictured on the front, plus it came with a roll on of “rubber shine” to give it that “wet” look. The salesgirl told me to roll it on after I got the dress on. She stressed that part, and later this would come in handy. I drove home and threw the package in a drawer and waited for my sweetheart to get home.

In June he arrived home safely. I gave him a few weeks to rest up before I sprung my surprise on him because I am thoughtful that way. Finally the designated night arrived. My son, the Jimster, was at his Dad’s for the weekend. My stomach looked flatter than usual. It was time to roll that dress out. I slipped into the bathroom while he was involved with the History channel, dress and boots tucked under my arm. When I opened the package the strong smell of rubber wafted out, actually it smelled like a new shower curtain, so I opened the window. The dress came with instructions, which was a bit intimidating. “Make sure exposed skin is dry. Remove all lotions and apply talcum powder to all areas”. I got a towel and buffed off all the glitter lotion I had just liberally applied. I patted powder lightly on to my skin and stretched the dress over my head. It was about the size of a bicycle inner tube in diameter. Damn, why didn’t I look at it before? I got it over my head without pulling out too much hair, it felt like a giant rubber scrunchie, but I got stuck mid chest. I managed to get an arm down and reached for the baby powder to ease the transition. The dress had rolled up like a vacuum cleaner belt around my chest and was squeezing off my oxygen. I managed to escape and decided to bring it up from the bottom instead. I stepped in and started easing it up a centimeter at a time, pausing to powder myself liberally every two inches or so. I was starting to resemble a breaded cutlet and the powerful rubbery stench of the dress was making me dizzy. I got it up enough to where I could stretch the halter strap around my neck and turned to the mirror to view the dangerous seductress I was sure I would see.

I did not look one thing like the girl in the picture on the package. She had curves; I was completely flattened into a dusty black rubber tube. Turning to the side was not much better; my boobs were not flattered by being squashed downward by rubber. I fluffed, puffed, rearranged, and still things were not looking good. Plus there was powder all over this horror. Time for the “rubber shine”; maybe that was what was missing. I screwed off the top and started to roll the shine over the dress. It smelled like Armor-All and turned the powder to grayish sludge, plus it was greasy. This was not going anywhere like I expected, but there was no turning back now. I was now sweating from the exertion of wrestling on the dress, covered with baby powder and lemon scented silicone. I fixed myself up as well as possible, slipped on the high heel boots, and exited the bathroom to get my man. What I then learned was that any step caused the dress to snap up like a broken window shade, landing around my waist and compressing any stomach and rear fat into a bulging horror. Pulling the hem down I began to glide toward the living room like a bound foot geisha. I made it to the bedroom door and knew I did not dare to try to get any further.

I posed in the frame of the doorway and whistled to get Chuck’s attention. He had better still be awake after all I had just gone through. He turned around in his armchair, coffee cup in hand and gasped with what I hoped was lust. He got up and started heading toward the bedroom, and I glided as quickly as possible to the bed before the dress attacked again. I arranged myself on the bed holding on to the hem with my greasy hand; trying to get a deep breath. He flopped down next to me, and ran his hand down the front of the dress. “What is this stuff?” he asked as he wiped his hand off on his jeans, “What’s that smell?” “Never mind that” I purred, “How does it look?” He answered by trying to pull me closer without actually touching the dress again. It was then that the heat of the moment was shattered by the embarrassing sound of a huge fart. It was the dress. It formed an air bubble between my ribcage and naval that expelled an explosion of sound every time I moved. I rolled back on to my back and pressed the bubble again. FFFLLLAARRPP went the dress. I began to laugh hysterically. I had spent over fifty dollars and an hour in the bathroom to purchase a very unsexy whoopee cushion. I amused myself for several minutes making the dress expel air and laughed so hard I began to snort. My husband looked disappointed as the moment for him was most definitely gone for the evening. “Why do you smell like a tire?” he asked. “Never mind” I answered “Let me get this thing off, I’ve got to have a shower”. “Need help?” he offered hopefully, still trying to salvage the mood.

I struggled out of the dress as much as I struggled to get in it. You will sweat in a rubber dress on a hot South Georgia night, no matter how low you set your air conditioner. I am sure I probably could have found a use for that awful dress, maybe to patch the garden hose or tires. We never discussed the abysmal end of my husband’s poor fantasy again. I had killed it dead in that dress. It turns out later that he had never seen a dress like that on a “real” woman, only in a magazine and that explained quite a bit. I thought about explaining the art of airbrushing, and that they probably cut the dress up the back to mold it to the model in the photo, but that was just stabbing the already dead horse past dead. Sometimes I know when to let an issue go, and this was one of those times. Sometimes silence is good in a marriage, and things left unspoken should remain so.