Fontane Measures Me

As a young dude I had a great-aunt who was one of the owners of a prestigious men's store in the central city. It was the sort of store where the salesmen are snobs. Everything was overpriced and a little too classy. Each year on Christmases and birthdays "Aunt Ethel" invited me to come down and be fitted for her gift to me -- whatever nice clothing she and my mother decided I needed. Typically slacks and a dress shirt for church. Maybe a fancy sport shirt.. 

 

As I began high school I joined Debate and began traveling to big tournaments with the team. Ethel was so proud of me that she threw in suits, blazers, expensive shirts and multiple ties. It was sometimes embarrassing. Thanks to Ethel, whenever I got properly cleaned up I was dressed far beyond my age and social status.

One of the fitters at Ethel's store was Fontane, a young guy himself. I never knew if Fontane was his first or last name. He was an apprentice in the alterations department, not much older than I was. In keeping with the class and dignity of the store, Fontane habitually called me "Mr. Regi."

Being a luxury store, all the pants and jackets had to be altered for an exact fit. Ethel always turned me over to Fontane, who was slightly fruity in his gestures and movements.

Beginning around the time my body started firing cumshots, I found myself anticipating my fittings in a strange way. Fontane was a pro with his yellow tape-measure and his sharpened sliver of white soap. He measured every possible dimension, marking lines on the fabric with his soap. And those measurements included a guy's touchy area -- the inseam.

So when it was time for fitting I put on the new threads and Fontane began his work. Toward the end of the session Fontane would say "Now the inseam, Mr. Regi."

I would slightly spread my legs for the measurement. Fontane knelt on the floor. He carefully positioned one end of his measuring tape beneath my balls while stretching the tape downward and determining just how long the seam should be. Sometimes he had to wiggle his hand to get the tape in exactly the right spot in my crotch. He would look up at the top of the tape, his eyes at the same level with my groin. Occasionally he apologized: "One moment more, Mr. Regi," while his moving hand almost, but not quite, gave me an accidental feel.

While this was going on my young dick would steadily enlarge due to the proximity of Fontane's hand to my crotch, resulting in a funky tingling that made the inside of my balls itch. And was it my imagination, or did Fontane enjoy holding that tape against the underside of my gonads? Was he completely innocent, or did he get a kick out of me hiding boners while his hands were all over me for the measurements?

For months at a stretch I never saw Fontane--only twice each year--but he and his tape-measure were part of my fantasies when I enjoyed my nightly celebration of maleness.

 

I remember a certain year because Ethel insisted on me having a lavender shirt. The pants that she chose to go with it were the darkest purple you can imagine, almost black but giving away their purple sheen when the light hit them in a certain way. Fontane took one glance and said, "A tie, Miss Ethel! I know just the one!" He raced to a rack and came back holding up a bizarre necktie in several explosive splashes of purple, violet and mauve. I remember thinking, "Oh God, Fontane! No!" but Fontane and Ethel and the younger salesmen were delighted.

Fontane grabbed up everything and hustled me into a fitting room. "I can't wait to see all of this on your frame, Mr. Regi!" he bubbled. I stripped to my underpants. Fontane held out his arms to take each item as I removed it. Then he quickly unpinned the new shirt and assisted its sleeves onto my arms, followed by sliding lengths of unhemmed purple slacks up my legs and around my butt. Finally, in a sort of triumphant manner, he shook the tie out and held it around my neck with one hand while stretching the bottom of it down below my beltline with the other. 

And there he stopped, tie in hand, the back of his fingers inadvertently resting directly against my fly, a strange expression growing on his face. 

I had a boner rising inside those obscene purple pants. I was erect because after so many fittings across so many years, I would silently and subconsciously think "Touch me a little higher, Fontane. Feel what's there. I've been hard all the way to town, looking forward to the brief second when you would measure my inseam and stir up a tingle in my balls."

Fontane's fingers, stretching the necktie downward, carelessly rested against the critical organ this time, the stiff, erect organ. Fontane stopped breathing. His face began to redden. Perhaps he had just now realized where his hand was and exactly what he was perceiving in those purple pants.

Suddenly he stepped back a pace, released the bottom of the tie and jerked his hand away from my crotch. "Hmm," he said anxiously. Then "Hmm," he repeated, apparently at an embarrassed loss for words. His face was now fully blushing with a deep crimson. Then he took a breath and spoke.

"Well, it happens to the best of us, Mr. Regi." His eyes flickered toward my fly and back. "To the best of us. Now let's fit these lovely trousers, shall we?"

When I got home from that fitting the first thing I did was change my underwear. I had not ejaculated, not in the strict sense of producing an entire load. However, a tiny trickle of "essence of boy" had escaped my stiff peter while Fontane was trying "not" to touch it. Probably two or three slimy drops at most. The accidental ooze left its viscous wetness in my underpants and on my skin, a sticky souvenir of that year's encounter with Fontane, the first of several interesting experiences that we would later have in the store's locked fitting rooms.

Sometimes when I got a boner in an inconvenient situation I'd remember Fontane's nervous observation: "Well, it happens to the best of us, Mr. Regi. To the best of us."

Regi Sharp