Yellow Polka Dot Bikini(s)byPositiveThinker©
"She was afraid to come out of the locker. She was as nervous as she could be. She was afraid to come out of the locker. She was afraid that somebody would see. Two, three, four, tell the people what she wore. It was an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini that she wore for the first time today. And itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow polka-dot bikini, so in the locker she wanted to stay."
Did you ever hear a song that stays with you all day, much like the song, the Girl from Ipanema or that infernal song sung by Jose Feliciano, Falice Navidad, that every radio station and every mall plays over and again during the Christmas holiday season? Once those songs get in my head, I can't remove them if I tried. That's what happened to me with this Itsy, Bitsy, Teenie, Weenie, Yellow, Polka Dot Bikini song, after I heard it playing on my car radio. It was driving me nuts. That was all I thought of when walking or driving or eating or sleeping. Then, I got an idea.
I had been thinking of writing another story for Literotica's Summer Lovin' contest but, like most people, I couldn't think of a story. Suddenly, I had an idea to write a story about, what else, a bikini. Only, not knowing anything about bikinis, except for the fact that I really like them, when worn on a hot body, I needed to do some research to write the story. Unfortunately, sometimes when investigating a story, I get too caught up in the research and I get a little too close to the story. That was exactly what happened with this story.
"Paul, whatever happened to hello Dave, how are you? Are you busy? Did your mother not teach you proper telephone etiquette?"
"Hi Dave, how the fuck are you? You busy?"
"Nah, I'm just lying on the couch, flipping channels, and drinking a beer, while waiting for the game to broadcast."
"I need you to come with me to the mall."
"The mall? We haven't gone to the mall together, since we bought those walkie-talkie radios in the 9th grade."
"Oh, yeah. I can't believe you remember that. Wow, can you believe that was 15 years ago? So, will you come with me? C'mon, I need a wingman."
"I remember you told the guy at Radio Shack that you only needed to buy one walkie-talkie and he told you that they were only sold in pairs. He thought you were crazy, especially when he asked you why you only wanted one walkie-talkie and you told him you didn't want anyone listening to your conversation."
"I can't believe you remember that shit. Yeah, that was funny. So, will you go with me to the mall?"
"Nah, you know I hate shopping. I dumped Rita because she was always dragging me to the mall to buy shoes. I buy everything online now. I can't remember the last time I went to the mall."
"C'mon, Dave, it will be fun and I promise I won't buy shoes."
"It depends what you're going to the mall to buy. I'll only go if you're buying a big screen plasma TV or tools that I can borrow. You know how much I love tools."
"I really don't want to know how much you love tools, Dave."
"Holding a quality tool in my hand makes my penis bigger."
"Too much information, Dave," I said really not wanting to know how much Dave loves tools.
"A power tool is the next best thing to ejaculating," he persisted in telling me.
"You can't borrow my power tools anymore, Dave."
"Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. I just love tools and how the heaviness of them feel in my hands."
"I already have a plasma TV and all the tools that I need."
"So what are you going to the mall to buy?"
"A bikini? Who's the lucky girl? Was it that woman you were with last night? I didn't know you were already intimate with her, you lucky bastard."
"Then, can I have her? She's hot."
"I'm not intimate with Elizabeth, yet, but I will be soon."
"So, you're two timing her already? Are you buying a bikini for that blonde at Starbucks? I told you she likes you. She's always staring at you and she gives you more coffee than she gives me, filling your cup right up to the brim. She's seductively sexy. Why she works at Starbucks and not at the Pink Pussycat is beyond me."
"Not all good looking woman with hot bodies want to strip off their clothes in front of a bunch of horny guys, Dave."
"Who is the bikini for, then?"
"It's a surprise."
"Well, the only thing that I like better than bikinis are surprises and since this trip has both elements, I'll go."
"Great. I'll pick you up in fifteen."
Dave and I arrived at the mall and I scoured the directory for the location of a bathing suit store. Perfect. Up on the second level, away from all the foot traffic was the Brazilian Beach Bikini Boutique. Any bikini shop that has Brazilian Beach in the name, must have the best bikinis, as Brazil has the best women wearing the tiniest bikinis.
A beautiful blonde buttonholed us at the entrance of the store. I've known Dave since we were kids and, in the way that he was leering at her, it was obvious to me what he was thinking. He'd love to see this beautiful, blonde babe in a Brazilian beach bikini and bone her later in the back of the boutique.
She attacked us in the way that a woman selling perfume or lingerie attacks men, who wander into their store, unsuspecting of their sexually beguiling selling tactics and unprepared for their confident determination to take no for an answer. This orchestrated sales behavior was our personal payback for the way that auto mechanics and used car salesmen prey on women.
"May I help you," she said directing her question to me and taking a step away from Dave's leering stare.
"I need to buy a bikini."
"As you can see, we have a large selection in every style, color, and fabric by every designer," she said, while turning to wave her hand in the way of a Price Is Right model displaying a showcase. "If you can't find what you like off the rack, we have a designer shop that can custom create any bikini to suit the body of your wife or girlfriend."
"Wow, I've never seen so many bikinis in my life," said Dave, while holding up a nearly transparent white, string bikini and giving me the thumbs up sign.
"What style bikini do you have in mind?"
"Style? I figured a bikini came only in one style, a top and a bottom."
"Oh, no," she laughed. "Bikini designers would have hissy fits, if they heard you say that about their bathing suit fashions. Allow me to educate you. We have bikinis to not only fit anyone but also to flatter any shape body. We have bikinis that will make butts appear smaller and breasts appear larger. We also have a full selection of one-piece bathing suits, as well."
"I'll take a bikini to go, please, one that makes breasts appear bigger," said Dave.
Not even looking at him, she ignored him and focused all her attention on me.
"I had no idea, that buying a bikini would be so complicated" I said, suddenly feeling glad that I was a man and not a woman.
"Let's start with the color," she said. "What color would you like to see on your woman? Does she have a favorite color?"
"I never gave color a thought, either," I said. "I didn't realize that buying a bikini was going to be this time consuming and this difficult. When I buy the swimsuit that I'll wear for the next ten years, I just look for my size, medium, and am out the door within 5 minutes."
"Yes, but you're a man and men don't generally care what they look like when out on a beach."
Wow, that was a slap in the face. Only someone who looked as hot as she did could get away with insulting me like that. Suddenly, I wanted to fall to my knees and ask her to strip me naked and show me how to be a better man.
"You have a point there," I said thinking of what Dave wears to the beach, a Speedo bathing suit that shows every bulge.
"Let's start with size, then, shall we," she said giving me a forced smile.
"Size? You mean, small, medium, large or extra large?"
"No women's clothes are much different than men's clothes. What bust size does she wear?"
"Bust? You mean, chest," I asked moving my hands around my chest, as if measuring a tree that I was about to take down with my chainsaw.
"She's talking about the tits, sorry, cup size," said Dave with a shit eating grin, "like a 36DD," he said holding his hands in front of his chest, as if he was feeling honeydew melons, again, at the supermarket, while staring at her breasts.
"Yes, it would be the same size as her bra," she said taking another step away from Dave and closer to me.
I paused before answering her question, as to what size I needed. Enjoying the quiet moment, knowing how frantic everything would be once I gave her my answer, I imagined that this must have been the same silence that existed just before the big bang exploded the universe. First there was nothing and then God created everything, including this beautiful and bodacious, blue-eyed blonde standing in this Brazilian Beach Bikini Boutique.
"I take a size 46," I said flashing her my best sincere smile, while blinking my eyes really fast.
She looked at me before looking at Dave. Professional in her demeanor, as well in her appearance, she didn't miss a step in her stride to make a second sale. I was proud of her salesmanship and thankful that she didn't summon security.
"Will we be fitting you, too?"
"Of course, Sugar," said Dave with a limp wristed wave and with his other hand on his extended hip, while giving her his best gay impersonation. Figuring that I was goofing on her, no doubt, I knew Dave was just playing along, but the saleswoman thought he was seriously gay. "Wait, no, I was just kidding. I'm not buying a bikini," he said, after the saleswoman gave him a knowing look.
"Dave," I said pulling him away. "What's your name," I asked the saleswoman?
"Jennifer," she said looking down at her nametag to make sure it was still there and giving us both an excuse to stare at her rack.
"Jennifer, please give us a moment," I said dragging Dave away.
"I'll be right over there," she said pointing to a rack of bikinis a few feet away, without turning from us to look where she was pointing. She stood there watching, without ever taking her eyes off us.
"Dave, c'mon, I need you to go along with this."
Dave and I have been in some tight jams over the years and the word choice of 'I need you to go along with this' was our man code to help a buddy out when in a jam.
"She's going to think I'm gay," said Dave in a hoarse whisper, while moving his hand back and forth in front of his mouth, as if he was giving a blowjob.
I knew he was upset because he was hoping to hit on the saleswoman and ask her out on a date. Only, after reading her body language, in the way she rebuffed anything that Dave said or did, by moving away from him, he'd retain more of his dignity if he feigned being a gay man.
With the saleswoman watching us, especially after seeing Dave motioning to me that he wanted to blow me or wanted me to blow him, she surely figured we were gay lovers, who enjoyed cross-dressing. Not that all cross-dressers are gay nor that we were gay and/or cross-dressers, but for the purpose of researching this story to write it, this is the in-depth and secret research that I needed to do to learn more about bikinis.
"Dave, please, I need for to go along with this," I said again.
"Okay, but it's going to cost you."
I reached in my pocket to finger how much cash I had on me. I figured maybe he wanted to drive my new car for a week or a month. Whatever it took, I needed his help. I couldn't do this alone.
"What's your price?"
"Playoff tickets," he said with the smug confident assurance that he just won the grand prize.
"Playoff tickets? I take you to every game, buddy. There's no one else I'd like to see a game with than you, Dave."
"My new girlfriend, Debbie, you met her last night at the bar. Well, she's really into baseball. She has signed team jerseys of nearly every player on the team. She'd really be impressed, if I took her to a playoff game, if you know what I mean," he said doing the motion again with his hand as if he was getting a blowjob.
I looked over at Jennifer watching us. She must have figured this is how two gay men communicate, by motioning with their hands and giving one another the universal sign for a blowjob.
I recalled Diane, Dave's type of woman, bleached blonde with big tits and a mouth that she can't help but insert her foot in, whenever she opens it, which is all the time because she never closes it, while snapping her bubblegum. Then, I wondered how much time she spent on her knees to get all those jerseys autographed.
"Yeah, sure, Dave. You got it. I'll give you both my tickets, but you have to go through the whole process."
"Process? What do you mean the whole process?"
"Don't worry. I'll explain later."
"Paul, psst, wait, what process?"
"We're ready to be fitted Jennifer."
"Right this way," said Jennifer showing us the way to the dressing room.
As if giving a baby a pacifier, as soon as we walked inside the dressing room, Dave quieted down. No longer upset about trying on bikinis or giving further concern about the next step in the process, he was more concerned with ogling nearly naked women in the dressing room.
There were women in all manner of undress being fitted for bathing suits. Some of the women covered their nakedness with their clothes, but there were others who didn't care if we saw them topless. Based on the fact that they didn't have any tan lines, they were the nude beach type, no doubt. Yet, why bother spending all this time being fitted and wasting all this money for a custom bikini, just to remove it, as soon as you hit the beach? I'll never understand women.
The only guys in the dressing room, Jennifer must have explained to the women shoppers being fitted for suits there with us that it was okay because we were both gay. Furthest from the truth, the last time I was gay, I mean, happy, was when I was out with Elizabeth last night.
Nonetheless, Dave was in his glory and at this point, while leering at all the topless women in their panties, he no longer complained what he had to go through to help me with my research. We stripped down to our underwear and waited for Jennifer to bring us selections of bikinis in our size. Of course, Dave had a huge erection that tented his briefs. Jennifer brought us bikinis in every color of the rainbow, nearly every fabric, and style.
Finally, she delivered me the bikini that fit me like a glove. With the style and pattern, it even made my cock look bigger. It made my cock look so big that it should have come with a warning sign that read, smaller objects inside may appear bigger from the outside. I was glad that I had taken on this research project. It was an eye opener what women must go through to buy a bathing suit.
Only, when I stepped from the dressing room, Dave was already out in front of mirror admiring the bikini he chose to wear. From the huge selection of bikinis we had from which to chose, it was funny that we picked the same, itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow, polka dot bikini.
Now, normally, with women, they'd never buy the same bikini as their friend. Yet, since we were guys, manly men, macho, muscular men, what did we care? All we knew is that our cocks appeared huge, perhaps because of the yellow background with the black polka dots.
With our bikinis picked out, the next stop was the Brazilian Bikini Wax Beauty Salon. Accustomed to giving women bikini waxes, we assured the woman who gave us the wax that we were gay lovers and not perverts looking to get off from her seeing us naked and touching us, albeit with rubber gloved hands, while waxing our naked bodies. She agreed to wax our bodies. Only, she seemed to take great pleasure and a sadistic enjoyment in her job of giving us pain, when removing the excess hair from our hairy bodies.
I remember the first time that I took my dog to the vet to get his shots and to have his nails clipped, he let out this howl that tore out my heart. You would have thought the Veterinarian was skinning my dog alive. Never have I heard an animal scream so loud, that is, until she stripped off Dave's hair. Dave howled the same loud, high pitched sound, while having his body waxed, that my dog made when being treated by the Vet. She waxed his chest, arms, underarms legs, and, you know, other private areas that needed to be waxed, when wearing an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie bikini.
After realizing the tortuous feelings of being waxed myself, I think the United States should seriously consider changing their prisoner of war tactics from water boarding to bikini waxing. Have you seen some of the hairy bodies of those Middle Eastern terrorists? I think they'd give up whatever information the CIA and FBI needed, after the first waxing strip was torn from their hairy body.
Actually, it felt good to be hair free for once in my life. Only, once the hair started growing back, I couldn't scratch fast enough or hard enough to stop the itching sensation.
Finally, the last leg of my research for this story, Dave and I hit the beach wearing our sexy bikinis. You would have thought we were naked from the attention we received from the hordes of people at the beach, the same whistles and catcalls that I imagine women must have to experience when strutting their stuff on the beach.
Walking as if we were hot models, I needed to know how a hot woman felt when walking the beach with an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie, yellow, polka dot bikini. We were the hit of the beach that day and that was how I was able to write this story.