Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

The new jeans grab his balls in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t really comfortable then, and he still isn’t now. Still, the tightness makes him feel sexy.

He has a newfound swagger as he walks out of the dressing room. But, I can still see his hesitance underneath his new clothes. Or, maybe it’s his testicles being slowly pushed back inside of him.

On the shorter side of average and broad-shouldered, he doesn’t fit the new male image (we’re not allowed to say “metrosexual.” It isn’t 2005 after all.) I push the sale anyway. It’s all we have. I search for a compliment. You look 20 years younger? You look fantastic? You look taller? You look like the offspring of a rock star that mated with a boy band and crawled out of a pool of hair gel?

“These are on sale. I’ll hold them at the register for you. I have the perfect belt to pull it all together.” I reach for a piece of worn leather dangling from an over-sized chunk of metal, stamped with a PBR logo.

He checks out. I push the guilt away, hoping that his new purchases will sit in his closet, while he favors his over-washed jeans and threadbare t-shirts that he’s had since high school.