Walking In
Saturday afternoon, solo mission to Nordstrom at Alderwood. Debuting sexy mini dress in public for the first time: black lace long sleeves over a bustier, a slit that climbs all the way up my thigh, sheer black stockings, black-to-red gradient patent heels. Head to toe, the outfit says: don’t mess with me tonight — unless you’re coming home with me. I leaned against a pillar by the entrance and blew a kiss at a passing guy. He nearly walked straight into a clothing rack. I had to bite my lip not to laugh. This outfit is deadlier than I thought.
The Dress Racks
First stop, the women’s section. I bent over the racks to look through the dresses — ass up, the slit falling open to flash a long stretch of leg. Out of the corner of my eye, a guy pushing a cart was staring so hard he almost rammed a mannequin. I straightened up, tossed my hair back on purpose, and smiled at him. His ears went red. The best part of shopping alone: every pair of eyes in the place is mine. No sharing.
The Salesgirl
A salesgirl in a red mini skirt came over, looked me up and down, and wolf-whistled. “Girl, that outfit — are you going husband-hunting tonight?” I laughed till I couldn’t breathe. She held a dress up against me, our heads pressed together, giggling like schoolgirls. “In that, the boy at the register won’t be able to make change tonight,” she said. “Then I’d better buy more,” I said, “keep him busy.” She doubled over laughing, stilettos tapping against the floor.
The Mannequins
I wandered into the mannequin display and posed between the gowns — one hand on my hip, the other on a mannequin’s shoulder, lips pouting. A woman passing by raised her phone: “Can I take a picture? You look more like a model than the models.” I struck a pose and thought: the mannequins are plastic. I’m alive — and I blow kisses. Plastic can’t do that.
The Display Table
I leaned against a display table, one knee bent, heel lifted off the floor, all loose and lazy. A couple walked past — his eyes glued themselves to my legs and wouldn’t let go until his girlfriend pinched his arm hard enough to make him wince. I nearly burst out laughing and had to look down, pressing my lips together. Inside I was glowing: the dress slit is officially a boyfriend-killer.
The Stockings Trick
I sat down by the display to “pull my stockings” — really just resting my feet, because these skyscraper heels are murder, but god, they’re gorgeous. One leg stretched out, I fussed with the laces, looked up, and caught an old gentleman filming me on his phone. I winked at him. He yanked the phone down so fast, his face went red as if he’d had two shots. I grinned to myself: go ahead and film, grandpa — I don’t charge royalties.
Walking Into the Crowd
I stood up and walked straight into the foot traffic. The AC caught my hair; I swept it back with one hand, chin up, heels going click-click-click down the aisle. Two young guys ahead stared openly; one of them wolf-whistled. I walked past without a glance, but inside, my little self was spinning in circles: shopping alone means walking like it’s a runway. Nordstrom is my catwalk.
The Shirt on the High Shelf
Cutting through menswear, I spotted a shirt hung way too high and couldn’t reach it on tiptoe. A cute guy nearby reached up and got it down for me — our fingers brushed as he handed it over. “Wearing that in the men’s department,” he said, smiling, “should be illegal.” “Then why’d you help me?” I asked. He scratched his head: “Illegal or not, I had to.” I held the shirt up against myself in front of him. “Cute?” “Cute,” he said — but he wasn’t looking at the shirt. I hung it back, waved, and walked off, leaving him standing there grinning.
The Christmas Tree
The big Christmas tree was still up in the atrium. I leaned against it, one hand on a branch, one leg stepped forward, the slit aimed right at the camera. A mom with her kid hurried past, covering her son’s eyes. I blinked innocently: ma’am, I’m dressed perfectly decently — the lace is a little sheer, but that’s called fashion. Your son will understand when he’s older.
Running Into My Bestie
Resting on a bench in the atrium — and look who shows up: my bestie, in a white mini skirt, every bit as hot as me. She plopped down and leaned into my ear: “Babe, in that outfit, if I were a guy I’d be taking you home tonight.” I covered my mouth laughing. “Too bad you’re not.” She rolled her eyes: “I’m a girl and I’m still swooning — those legs, that waist.” We cracked up together while passersby stared. Shopping alone and running into your bestie — what are the odds.
The Art Installation
After we split up, I drifted over to the art installation. Hands clasped behind my head, I stretched long and lazy, my waistline pulling into one long curve. A foreign uncle with a camera came over, speaking broken Chinese: “Beautiful lady… photo? Very beautiful.” I said yes; he snapped away and showed me the viewfinder, thumbs up. I thanked him, thinking: Sexy dress in front of modern art — a walking masterpiece, honestly.
The Shoe Section
The main event: shoes! I sat on the fitting bench, legs crossed, showing off my black-to-red gradient heels. A salesgirl in a black mini skirt knelt down — knelt! — to hand me another pair to try. She looked up, grinning: “That pair is already lethal. You want deadlier?” “When it comes to lethal,” I said, “the more the merrier.” She laughed so hard she had to go grab two more pairs. I tried on pair after pair while she crouched beside me, slipping them on and off my feet — service so attentive I felt almost shy. In the end I bought the deadliest pair.
The Cosmetics Counter
Shoebox in hand, I wandered to the cosmetics counter, picked up a true-red lipstick, held it to my lips in the mirror, and winked at the camera over my shoulder. The boy behind the counter was staring so hard he forgot the powder compact in his hand. I walked over and waved the lipstick in front of him: “This shade with tonight’s outfit — hot enough?” He nodded like a bobblehead: “Hot. Way hot.” I bought it; his hand shook giving me the change.
The Bag Wall
That wall of handbags was too photogenic to resist. I picked up a black lambskin mini, held it to my chest, turned sideways, and smiled back at the camera. Next to me, a girl was whining to her boyfriend: “I want that bag!” He glanced at the price tag and his face went green. I put the bag back fast and slipped away — I can’t be somebody’s “other girlfriend” benchmark, that’s just cruel. But that bag really was gorgeous. Noted in my little book: coming home with me next payday.
The Fitting Room
I grabbed a few dresses and ducked into the fitting room; the curtain didn’t quite close, so I peeked out and waved over the salesgirl waiting outside — she was in a champagne satin slip dress, too hot to be selling clothes, more like walking a runway. “This zipper’s stuck, help?” She slipped in, tugged the zipper, her fingers tracing lightly down my back — I shivered. She laughed: “With your body, everything looks good. Come out and let me see.” I stepped out; she circled me twice and nodded: “Buy it. Tonight you’re the hottest thing in this store.”
The Escalator
Heading down to check out, I rode the escalator, hand on the rail, looking back down. The escalator sank slowly, my skirt swaying softly, hair falling over one shoulder — several people looking up froze mid-step. One guy looked like he wanted to hit on me; he opened his mouth, then couldn’t quite do it, and by the time we reached the bottom I’d already walked away. Hitting on someone takes courage — and in this outfit, the courage requirement is maxed out. Most guys don’t qualify.
The Checkout
At the register, I propped both elbows on the counter, chin in my hands, and slid my card over with a smile. The cashier boy’s hand froze mid-swipe; he glanced up at me, then down again fast, ears burning red. Handing me the bag, he said quietly: “You look… really beautiful today.” “Thank you,” I said. “You’re pretty handsome yourself.” He blinked, then smiled like a kid. I walked off with my bags, thinking: today’s haul wasn’t just shopping — it was a whole day of feeling good.
Bestie, Again
Ran into my bestie again on the way out, two big bags in hand — clearly she’d scored too. We linked arms and headed for the doors, her emerald satin dress next to my black lace, turning every head in the place. “Next time we do this again,” she said, “you handle being gorgeous, I’ll handle carrying the bags.” “Dream on,” I said. “Next time you wear something even spicier, and we’ll see who gets hit on first.” She howled laughing, and we click-clacked out of the mall swinging our bags like we’d just walked off a runway.
Finale
Dark outside, the Nordstrom sign glowing behind me. I headed for the parking lot with my spoils, walked a few steps, then turned back and blew the store a kiss. Solo afternoon, by the numbers: asked for my number three times — gave it out zero times. Complimented more times than I could count. Bought one pair of heels and one lipstick. Ran into my bestie. I slid into the car, kicked off the heels, pressed the gas with bare feet, and thought: wearing this again next time. See you next week, Nordstrom.
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