It Suits Me


suit

When my fellow Crusader, Underdaddy, suggested I interview my clothes, it seemed a bit odd, even for him. But then he said: “Interview the Sex Suit.” The Sex Suit is my three piece suit that I don’t mind telling you, I look good enough in it to earn it the aforementioned moniker. It’s been verified by people and stuff.

So, smelling a just-so-crazy-it-might-work plan, I took my cub reporter notepad and I set out for some answers.

The Sex Suit had requested to meet at a hotel bar nearby. A long storied place called Speaker’s Corner, it’s known for clandestine meet ups and awkward first dates. The Sex Suit had made it clear it was partial to the selection of gin, and I figured a few drinks would really get it going.

When I arrived, Suit was at the bar, bending the ear of Deborah, a townie well known for her tinnitus and bad dentures. She’s a nice lady, but prone to a maudlin drunk. I was pleased to see she was smiling warmly, no sign of sorrow to be seen.

I approached the bar and Suit wrapped up it’s chat with Deborah, and turned to face me. It had to be said that Suit looked fantastic. Perhaps it was the dim lighting or the undercurrent of misguided hope that hung in the air. Or maybe because it was the Sex Suit.

It shook my hand warmly as I took a seat.

“Well,” Suit said. “I was wondering if we’d ever get a chance to sit and talk, just the two of us.”

“I reckon you can knock it off your bucket list,” I said with a chuckle.

Suit waved two fingers at the bartender, who poured two gins and brought them over.

“You know,” Sit mused. “Some people say gin tastes like pine, but I say it tastes like dancing.”

“If my own history is any indication, I’ll have to agree. And speaking of history…”

“Ah, yes,” The Sex Suit said. “I was wondering, were we going to reminisce over the times I’ve gotten you laid?”

“Well, I mean, I figured we might.”

Suit chuckled warmly, and then tut-tutted.

“A bit on the nose, hm?” Suit said.

There was a sly glint to the buttons on its vest, and a roguish knot on its tie. Of course, a double Windsor.

“Well, you are the Sex Suit, after all,” I said. “You could say that’s a bit blatant.”

The Sex Suit tsk-tsked, and wagged a finger at me.

“You think far too linearly,” Suit said. “If you’re just looking at sex as some physical thing, that it’s nothing more than the result of the chemicals in your brain affecting your urges and impulses, then you’re missing quite a bit.”

“I totally understand about having a connection with someone, how that can make it more than all of that.”

Suit drew a straight line in the air.

“So linearly.”

The Sex Suit finished its drink, and motioned for another.

“You’re thinking in two dimensions. Sex, in all its glory and power, operates on a minimum of five dimensions.”

I ran through a mental checklist. Width, height, depth, and time.

“How do you figure it’s five?”

“That’s only if you take out breathable cotton,” Suit said with a knowing wink.

“So you’re telling me that cotton is its own dimension?”

“Well, it is the fabric of our lives,” Suit said, and then started to giggle more than a little drunkenly.

I looked on the other side of the Sex Suit and saw three empty glasses, not counting the freshly finished one in front of Suit. It must have noticed the look on my face.

“Now, now, I know my limits,” Suit said. “I wonder if you could say the same thing.”

“Excuse me?”

“That time at summer camp. Or at that sleep over. At least half of college.”

I felt my cheeks flush with heat, and words started falling out of my mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I spat out. “Nothing happened, not that I’d know what you’re talking about.”

Suit smiled and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“It’s ok,” Suit said. “Remember sex is more than sex, more than chemicals smashing together. Why else would your heart jump when you think about certain things?”

I put up a hand defensively.

“Look, I figured we could talk over a drink. Maybe talk about that time in Springfield—“

“That was a great night,” Suit said.

“It was.”

“But that night doesn’t change history. New impulses don’t erase old ones. People are fluid, shifting things, after all. They’re only static if they try not to change, and that’s kind of sad.”

“Look, it’s not like I’ve ever done anything with a guy—”

Suit arched an eyebrow.

“It’s not like I’ve done much with a guy.”

Just as I saw Suit start to raise a second eyebrow, I motioned to the bartender for another drink.

“Not quite the breezy chat about past consequences you were expecting?” I could hear the hint of a smile in Suit’s voice.

“No,” I muttered. “I can’t say it is.”

“That’s dull behavior when you think about it,” Suit said. “Going on and on about what you did with whom. Be better than that. Be honest about what you want. At the very least, be honest about what you wanted once.”

The Sex Suit leveled its gaze at me. Just as I thought I would start to quail under its weight, it smiled, and the weight lifted.

I counted the empty glasses around us. I could tell there would be a few more, at least, before the night was over.

We’re switching it up this week here at the Crusade – we’re posting pieces based on a one-word prompt: “interview.” Check back every day to see where the next writer takes it.

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