Hilary's Test

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Hilary, an out-of-work tailor, said he'd do anything for a job. Little did he realise how quickly that view would be tested.
Hilary's Test
by Charlotte Dickles

"You're a man," she said.

Hilary Jones grinned to cover his guilt. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice," he shamelessly admitted.

"But this job is for a seamstress in a corsetieres," she said. "It's exempt from the Sex Discrimination Act. It's for women only."

"It didn't actually say 'Women Only' in the ad," he said, "but I do realise I was pushing my luck in coming here. But you've seen my CV; you must think I have the qualifications you want, or you wouldn't have asked me in for interview." For once, he thought, his first name, Hilary, had worked in his favour. "Why don't you give me the interview and if you think I'm suitable, then perhaps we could find a way to work around the issues?"

Tracey Clarkson – at least, Hilary assumed it was her as she hadn't introduced herself – shook her head and swept an arm to indicate the small shop, with the work area at the rear. "You can see the impracticalities of a man working here. Clients come in to discuss intimate details of their bodies, they don't want to find a bloke leering at them. On the other hand…" She broke off, not wanting to tell him that on paper he appeared better than any female she'd seen so far.

"On the other hand," Hilary prompted.

"The interviews last only a few minutes," she said, having quickly decided it was completely impractical to hire a man for this job. She'd have to make do with one of the others. "Most of the time is spent on a test, and you wouldn't want to do that."

"I'm quite willing to do the same test as anyone else," he said. "I've worked as a tailor for decades; I'm not going to be embarrassed by a bra or a foundation garment."

It was Tracey's turn to grin shamelessly at him. "We'll see about that," she said. "Over there," she indicated two chests of wide, flat drawers at the rear of the shop, "are the presses which contain all the separate-sized pieces of the bras and corsets we make here."

Unlike the other interviewees, Hilary actually got up from where they were sitting and walked over and opened a few drawers, noting their contents. "It's all nicely labelled," he said. "Often the arrangement of these kinds of drawers is hidden in the mind of the person who was previously doing the job. It means you can't start sewing any item until you've spent hours categorising what's in there"

"This is my mother's shop," Tracey said. "She lives in the flat upstairs. She knew she was going to be in hospital for a long time and she arranged things so someone else could take over. But she was suddenly admitted last week, before she had chance to recruit anyone. I've had to come over and try to sort things out."

"Are you in the same business?" Hilary queried.

"Heavens! No. I'm an investment banker." Seeing his look of query, she added, "but I did work here when I was a girl, so I know my way around."

"Are you going to manage the business?" Hilary asked. As an interview, he seemed to be asking more questions than she was. Still, it was establishing a rapport between them, essential if he was going to convince her to employ him. And he'd been out of work for so long, he'd do anything for a job. Little did he realise how quickly that view would be tested.

"Mum's quite poorly," she said. "I've taken time off work for the next few weeks. We'll just see how things work out. But that's an aside; we need to get you started with the test – that is, if you want to go ahead with it."

"Like I said," Hilary said, "I'm not going to be embarrassed."

"OK," Tracey said. "The major income for this business is making made-to-measure bras for larger sized women – and I'm talking about cup size rather than band size – anything from DD upwards."

She was mistaken, Hilary thought, if she'd hoped to faze him by mentioning porn-star cup sizes. He nodded, trying to appear intelligent, and said, "I understand bras of that size cost a fortune. I guess that nowadays, producing a high-priced, low-quantity speciality is the only way a small business like this can compete against factory production."

"You obviously understand the economics, but I suggest you have little idea of the problems our customers face on a daily basis."

Hilary nodded. "That's true," he said. "But then in honesty, I bet most of the women who applied for this job have little concept of what it's like carrying breasts of that size."

"All of them, actually," Tracey said. "They were all so slim, damn them. That's why I devised the test. Each applicant has an hour in which to make a bra of their band size, but for an H-cup. After they've made it, they have to wear it, and I have some silicon bra enhancers so they feel the real weight they have to carry." She smiled sweetly and was rewarded by seeing his mouth gape slightly. "You did say you wouldn't be embarrassed by undertaking the same test, didn't you?"

Delightfully, he blushed, and she could see stupid male pride fighting itself – whether to admit defeat at the first hurdle against a woman, or to overcome all his stupid male prejudices by putting on a bra. Which was a shame, really, she thought, as he seemed to have some good ideas. Far better than the gormless women she'd seen so far, but a man working here would never work out.

"An hour seems a bit short in which to produce a quality bra for the first time," he said, clearly looking for a suitable excuse to leave. "I suspect your mother took that time after decades of experience."

"Some of the applicants have asked for extra time at the end to complete the task," she said, "which I have given, provided I thought they weren't wasting both my time and theirs." In fact, most of them had produced absolute junk. "But the key question is whether you're prepared to wear the bra with enhancers to mimic the weight and feel of real breasts."

He grinned again. "You certainly took me by surprise," he said, "but it seems a very fair and a very useful test. If we can't experience what our customers are experiencing, how are we going to deliver something they really need?"

"Then you'll do it?" Tracey was incredulous, if not to say a little shocked that a man would do such a thing. Did she really want this kind of weirdo working for her anyway?

"It's only an item of clothing," Hilary said.

"The silicon enhancers are not really clothing," she said. "Actually, with you having no breasts to start with, I think you'll probably have to wear the Bustlet to get you up to an H-cup."

"What's a Bustlet?" he asked.

"It's like a skin-coloured crop top with built in breasts. You can inflate them from the tap so it's adjustable for a range of cup sizes – ours is the larger model so it goes from DD up to H. It's very realistic." The very idea of a man putting on breasts was repugnant to her, but having virtually tricked him into this, she could hardly backtrack. But, she would definitely not be employing him.

***

"I've pretty well finished," he said to her, just over an hour later. "Here, what do you think?" He handed over the best made bra by far that she'd seen during the tests. In fact, it probably equalled the quality of those made by her mother.

"That would certainly be acceptable," she said. "Now the test is whether you're prepared to wear it."

"I wouldn't have started the test if I wasn't prepared to complete it," Hilary said. "Do you have the Bustlet device you were talking about?"

Tracey had already gone upstairs to the stockroom where it was kept, and she'd inflated it with water until it was an H-cup. "I've left it in the kitchen upstairs," she said. "You can change into the Bustlet and put on the bra up there. I've left a pot of gel with it, which you need to spread over your chest, shoulders and back before putting on the Bustlet. It minimises the perspiration you'd otherwise have.

"Fair enough," he said, and made his way upstairs to Tracey's mother's flat. The Bustlet was prominent, resting on the kitchen table. The huge breasts looked absolutely gorgeous; they were incredibly heavy as he lifted them from their box. Hell, he could hardly believe he was going to be wearing them in a few minutes. But first, there was a pot of red gel he had to smear all over his upper torso.

***

The bra fitted him like a glove. Even so, it was a hell of a weight to carry around, and within seconds the bra straps were digging troughs into his shoulders.

"I think you'll find," Tracey said as she inspected the fit, "that you have fitted conventional narrow straps on this bra, rather than the wider straps that this weight demands. Wear that bra for a few hours and you'd see why you wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Apart from that I can tell you that you have completed the test and the bra is very satisfactory. I have some more interviews to conduct, so I'll let you know the result within a week or so."

Hilary knew a brush off when he saw one. "But you confirm I've satisfactorily completed the test and I get the idea you haven't been over impressed with the other applicants. I can see that my sex is a problem, but how about if I worked at night, outside shop opening hours?"

It was certainly an idea, but after thinking about it for a second, Tracey shook her head. "That would be no good. Customers come in to discuss the fit of their current bras and the seamstress needs to examine and understand the changes that need to be made. I'm sorry, but I don't see how it could work out. Now, unless you want to go home like that, you'd better go upstairs and change out of the Bustlet."

Trying to fight off the depression that inevitably followed a job rejection, he pondered the weight of the breasts stuck on his chest. Was bra cup size the same as the US cup measure of half a pint? If so, each breast would be – he worked through the bra sizes on his fingers – five pints, he decided. Well over a gallon between them – say ten pounds, permanently hanging from your chest. No wonder, large women were prepared to pay so much for a comfortable bra.

Not being used to undoing a bra behind his back, he removed it the reverse of the way he'd put it on; he pulled down the straps off his shoulders and slipped out his arms, then slid the bra slightly down his torso. This left the entire weight of his breasts unsupported by anything except his shoulders, which rapidly began to ache. Then he rotated the bra around his torso until he could unclip it.

He sat at the kitchen table for the next bit, letting his breasts rest there, whilst he fumbled at the lower sides of the Bustlet to get his fingers between Bustlet and skin. Except that the two appeared to be joined together. After trying several times, he called down the stairs. "Tracey, I'm having problems removing the Bustlet. Do you think you can help me, please?"

"Men," she good-naturedly grumbled as she came up the stairs. "Can't they do anything?"

Except that she had the same problem, and her finger nail was a lot more painful than his as it appeared to scratch a hole in his side.

"Ouch!" he muttered.

"You wimp. You should try having a baby.

"It's strange," she continued. "Mum was slipping this on and off several times a day when she was working. She never had any problems. It must be the gel. I found a new pot for you to use, which looked a lot nicer than the pot she had been using. I'll get hers and we can see if they're the same."

When she brought it back, it was clear the two were different: one was green, and the other, the one Hilary had used, was red. Hilary grabbed the pots and read the labels.

"It says it's long-term!" he yelled, holding up the red pot. "I'm stuck in this forever."

"Don't be silly," she said. "It won't be forever. I'm due to go to the hospital to see my mum now. I'll ask her about it."

"But you said the Bustlet was adjustable. Can't we completely deflate it?"

"Not until you've removed it, since the water valves are on the inside. But it's a large size anyway, so even if we could, it would only reduce to a DD-cup. I suppose you'd better stay here whilst I go and see my mum."

"Of course I've got to stay here," he said. "I can't go home like this."

"No," she agreed. "I suppose you can't. You'd better put your bra back on, and I'll get you a dressing gown you can wear."

***

"Mum says you're stuck in it for two weeks."

"Two weeks! You are kidding me. What am I going to do?"

"Mum and I agreed we had better give you the job on a trial basis, and you can stay here, in Mum's flat. At the end of the trial, we'll keep you on provided your work is satisfactory. Actually, this little difficulty nicely overcomes the problem of employing a male seamstress."

"It does?"

"Mum says the company who produce the Bustlet also make a thing called a Hiplet, which gives a man wide hips and a big bum, and keeps your nasty male bits under control. We'll also need to get you some clothes to wear and a wig. The really good thing is that your H-cups will go down very well with our customers, who know that you'll understand their needs."

"I suppose so," Hilary said, nodding agreement. Actually, he'd worked that out before putting on the gel, after reading the label on the pot. It was clear Tracey wasn't going to employ a man and he'd taken the high risk strategy of getting stuck inside the Bustlet. Heavens knew what would have happened if she'd thrown him out!

For Tracey, it had also been a risk. He could have failed the test as badly as the others, but she'd trusted her instincts, as she did in her investment banker job. It had taken her ages to find the pot of red gel, and then carefully remove the extra label her mother had stuck onto it, marked, in thick red felt tip capital letters, 'Permanent Gel. Do not use'.


THE END


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