I’m too sexy for my clothes (not)

I was on a mission. Those comfy old shoes with the Velcro fasteners were down at the heels and in true senior fashion (cheap and tender footed), I would rather get them re-soled than break in a new pair.
I headed through the mall in search of the shoe repair kiosk with my wife, the Pearl of the Orient, trailing 35 yards behind.
As I rounded the corner, I heard her shout at me that I could pick her up right there when I was finished. Great, I waved back, and hurried on my quest.
“It closed just last week. Nobody gets shoes repaired anymore,” I was informed by the information kiosk attendant.
“But, but it’s listed on the information stand at the entrance,” I protested, waving my old shoes in frustration.
“That’s tough. And please, sir, don’t threaten me with those smelly old shoes,” sneered the attendant as the roaming security guard sidled over our way.
“A problem here?” he inquired as he smartly slapped his truncheon in the palm of his hand.
I said no and headed back to find the Pearl. The rent-a-cop followed at a not-too-discreet distance.
When I reached the location where the Pearl and I had parted company, another conundrum presented itself. It was a lingerie store. Not a staid, matronly one but a lace, black and red, skimpy one, proudly proclaiming, “Three pairs of sexy panties for $20.”
Gawd, what to do? The security guard came around the corner. I hurried inside, glancing quickly for the Pearl and anyone else I might know.
“I don’t want ‘Three pairs of sexy panties for $20.’ How about a garter belt?” I quipped, trying to hide my discomfiture as I continued to scan for the Pearl.
“Three pairs! Twenty pairs wouldn’t make you sexy, and a garter belt just isn’t you,” shot back the clerk, smirking broadly, as I scanned deeper into the recesses of this den of erotica.
“Your wife is way in the back, looking at bras,” she directed, correctly guessing the purpose of my quest.
The Pearl appeared from around a display explaining she was getting a fitting, would be a while, and I was to wait outside with the debit card.
“Get out!” was her parting directive.
I hurried out. The security guard loitering by the gourmet coffee shop continued to eye me suspiciously. I didn’t know how long the Pearl was going to be but I definitely wasn’t going back in.
Finally, a bench across from the shop opened up and I sat down staring at the floor. Someone was staring back—not only the security guard, but someone else.
Then it hit me. It was the twice life-size poster of the model in the window wearing not much more than a smile. We made eye contact. I blinked. She did not.
It became hypnotic. I ignored the security guard. I lost my inhibitions and we stared at each other! I don’t think I’d seen anything this exotic since the Pearl burned my stash of Penthouse magazines.
Soon I was comparing each passing female to the poster. They simply did not measure up. I received a few withering stares back, but not from the poster.
Our relationship lasted for a half-hour or so. The security guard, meanwhile, answered a call on his cellphone and approached.
“Better move along, sir. That’s enough ogling!” he ordered.
Luckily, the Pearl emerged at that moment and reading the dazed look on my face, took me in tow back to the car so I didn’t get run in.
I’ll have to check that mall next trip to see if the shoe repair has re-opened.

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