Brains are fast movers, and no time was elapsing at all between his explosive answer to my question and my mind conjuring up the memory of the men's clothing conveniently located in my closet.
I think my mushy skull-filling had decided to take in this stray pup before I had, or maybe it was, as a romantic might speculate, the motivation of my fist-shaped blood squeezer. Or it was the craving, as a sex fiend might speculate, of the opulently scented wiener clamp situated betwixt my legs. I couldn't say.
But I had a few key articles of boy apparel in my house. They belonged to my ex-boyfriend, of whom this story shall make no further mention, but be it known I have no qualm with the man aside from our mutual incompatibility. May his life prosper with love and joy and stuff.
Anyway, I kept some of his clothes that he had given me and liked to wear them sometimes. Not for paltry sentimental purposes, nor for some sick game of multiple personality disorder in which I dress as him in a twisted scheme to steal his soul through a vague occultic notion of identity theft by slipping on someone's old jeans.
Though that would be fun, if the subject in question were a more interesting specimen whose soul might be desirous of slipping on. No, instead, I would wear them on days I was feeling particularly butch, and wanted to go to the grocery store dressed as a mean dyke in hope of offending a few sexually repressed Republican old farts. I don't think any of them noticed or cared, dang it.
Funny how I had no fear at the thought of permitting a disjointed stranger into my home, but I was shy about actually asking him in and inviting him to wear clothes that had my stink on them. I was hesitant in my eagerness, and did not want to blow my cool. Maybe he was a thief and a rapist. So be it. So was I, pretty much. I sure didn't want him to think I was a dork, though.
"You got clothes?" I asked him, and tried not to blush at bringing to light his state of undress.
He stepped closer. "I haven't, I'm sorry," he said, and did seem sincerely sorry about it.
"I have some stuff you can try on, if you want." I felt like such a lameass. "You can come in and put them on, and then you won't have to worry about getting arrested for indecent exposure. There are people round here will call the cops for it, you know." He listened patiently as I nervously rambled. "Yeah, some girl a friend of mine knows got in trouble for getting her mail in her underwear."
I coughed and stopped myself from recounting every anecdote regarding public nudity I had in the caches of my memory. "Well, then, come on in." I gestured at the door with my head and started inside, where he followed me.