Grunts

At first it was sincere excitement, I had finally found a quality pair of pants. The rarity of this should be noted––for me to find a pair with the right fit, loose but not saggy around my bulbous ass and thighs, is hard enough as it is, but to find ones that also stretch––this was momentous. I told the cashier that it was tough to decide between the “Modern” and the “Classic” fit but that I thought I ultimately made the right choice. He was surprisingly dismissive, responding only in grunt, which forced me to dive into greater detail.

“You know, sometimes you just need a little more space for your legs and I really believe the Classic fit does that for me.”

Grunt.

“I mean look at the stretch on ‘em! Look at how far I’m squatting down! Look! These are brand new! Didn’t even have to break ‘em in!”

Grunt.

“And this colour, what is it, like a deep navy? This is perfect. Not dark enough for the sun to bake my legs when I’m outside but dark enough to hide any stains.”

Grunt.

“You know how when you pee but you don’t pee it all out and you dribble a bit in your pants? I do that sometimes. I don’t think it’s a prostate thing. Either way, no one will be able to tell in these!”

“What? Yah, sure, they’re nice pants.” He finally conceded. Satisfied, I paid and left.