Lipstick & Miniskirts

by John Dylena

  I violently shake my head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. The middle of the exhibit floor is not a good place to pop a boner, I remind myself.

  Focus… focus… try not to think of dem titties…

  The arousal subsides and I let out a sigh of relief. Of all the days of the convention, today is the one I need to be the most focused. This is the first year that I didn’t get a ticket for preview day, a testament to how crowded this convention has become and how stupid the ticket sale process is now. Any respectable collector would say that preview day is the best day for exclusive hunting. The convention normally runs from Thursday to Sunday, but preview day is the Wednesday prior. It’s a half day of sorts, where the attendance is low but all the booths are—mostly—set up and operational. When the convention is in full swing, like how it is today, the aisles can get pretty packed, which makes maneuvering from booth to booth troublesome.

  Not that my size has anything to do with it. There’s just too many people here.

  I casually hold onto the straps of my backpack as I make my way to another row. I see a lot of familiar booths and even recognize some of the owners. Some of them always make me chuckle, like the wig booths that sell the bright, neon-colored hairdos of anime characters. Having watched countless animes myself, I’ve seen main characters with hairstyles of every color of the spectrum.

  I pass by a booth that has two booth babes in front, both of them brunettes of similar height wearing identical costumes, which of course includes some kind of corset that enhances their curves and cleavage. Their legs are covered in torn fishnets in a sort of punk-goth look. They’re wearing heavy-looking black leather boots with shiny buckles and a platform that looks to be several inches thick. The two women show no signs of being uncomfortable in the clunky footwear, but then again, it’s only the first day. I whip out my phone and take a quick picture anyway.

  Almost immediately after taking the photo, I get nudged by someone behind me and nearly drop my phone. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened, but as much as I like to grumble about it, there’s nothing I can do. It’s a fact of life here at the con, that oftentimes you need to squeeze by people. It can be a nightmare for folks who are claustrophobic or agoraphobic. You sign away your personal space when you enter the exhibit hall.

  Up ahead I notice a crowd. Which means one of several things are occurring: there’s a top-quality cosplayer getting their photo taken, there’s a celebrity walking among the plebs, or there’s some kind of giveaway at a booth. The celebrity sightings are rare, unless they’re at a booth doing a signing. Most of the celebrities that walk the floor do so incognito, so that man in a Boba Fett mask that I just walked by could be Brad Pitt for all I know. As I get closer to the crowd I notice that it was what I figured it would be for: a hot cosplayer.

  The hired security are shouting their usual nonsense of “take your pics and keep moving,” or “don’t block the aisles,” and what not. As annoying as it is, I’d rather hear them yelling than have the city’s Fire Marshal shut down the convention because of some crowd violations.

  I slide into the photographers’ circle and take my phone out. But when I go to take the photo I can’t help but stop and stare.

  This woman can’t be real.

  Of all my years attending comic book and video game conventions, I’ve seen my fair share of perfect, ten out of ten hotties. Women that make the Playboy models look like crap. Cosplayers with perfect bodies, flawless makeup, and costumes that look straight-off-the-set professional. I can easily see why this woman has attracted such a crowd of both amateur and professional photographers.

  I recognize the outfit. It was already sexy enough to begin with—much to the chagrin of feminist SJW nerds—but the cosplayer took it even further. The top is cut lower, the heels are higher, the material tighter… how she was ever allowed in here astonishes me.

  Not that I mind of course. I regain my composure and take multiple photos as she turns and playfully poses. The cameras are eating her up and she is loving it too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is the focus of feminist attack blogs complaining about how they’re trying to get away from the sexual stereotype and here this woman is.

  What I wouldn’t give to have some one-on-one time with her.

  To top it all off, as I—regrettably—leave the cosplayer, I see a mother and her son walk past. The kid, who is probably right at that age where he starts looking at women in a whole different light, is up on his tiptoes to see the babe in costume. The mother, on the other hand, has an appalled look on her face and immediately turns and starts walking in the other direction, dragging her kid along with her. He cranes his neck to get one last look at the cosplayer before they disappear into the crowd.

  It’s not even noon yet and I think I’ve hit the jackpot. The problem with how densely packed the convention is, is that you can easily miss a good amount of booths just because there’s so much going on and you’re constantly having to keep moving.

  I have never seen this booth before, but while I have seen other booths like it—they all seem to sell the same items—this one just looks interesting. It has a little doorway. From what I can see from the aisle, it has an odd assortment of stuff I’ve never seen before. While most booths are wide open with everything visible, there are some that are enclosed like this—little stores within the exhibit hall.

  But what really makes me curious is that I seem to be the only person to notice it. The booths on either side are abuzz with attendees, and it’s the same with those across the aisle. I reach into my backpack and flip to the booth directory.

  Strange, it’s not on there.

  I inspect it some more, and out of the corner of my eye I see one of the security guards staring me down. He’s about ready to open his mouth and shout at me to move out of the center of the aisle, so I quickly stow the guide and squeeze through the narrow booth opening.

  “Huh,” I say aloud. “Bigger on the inside.” It isn’t necessarily roomy, but from the outside, the booth didn’t look big enough for even someone like myself to browse through. In fact, I can extend my arms all the way out.

  “Can I help you?” The little voice comes from behind me. I turn to see a little old lady sitting on a chair. On a small table next to her is a cash box and an iPad with a card reader, which is something I’m not expecting from a woman as old as she is.

  “Sorry, just browsing,” I say, scratching my head.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she replies as she turns her gaze back toward the book in her hands.

  I’m at a total loss. I recognize nothing in the store and there is nobody else in here but the two of us. I look out of the small door that I walked through moments ago and I can see people passing by. The convention is going on as usual outside this dark, strange little booth. Some light from the exhibit hall is creeping in, but other than that, the only other lighting in this dark booth are little electric candles set up. As I take it in, it feels more and more like I’m in some back alley shop in a fantasy world like Harry Potter.

  Everything the woman has for sale is neatly arranged. There are a couple little tables, a rack of books, and a small glass cabinet. It has a very antique shop vibe to it, but it still bothers me that I don’t recognize anything. Nothing has a price tag on it either.

  “Where did you get all this stuff? I don’t know any of it.”

  I grab one of the books off of the spinning rack and examine it. The cover is hard leather, smooth, but definitely shows signs of aging. The paper inside has yellowed and has that iconic musty smell. Come to think of it, it looks more like some kind of spell book than a novel.

  Maybe it’s some kind of Dungeons and Dragons manual?

  I only have a brief chance to look at the text before it is snatched out of my hands.

  “That’s not what you want,” the old lady says as she gingerly returns the book to its place on the rack.

  “I don’t?” I cock my head to the side and watch as she i
nches her way around to the other side of the glass cabinet. I walk up and place my hands on the glass as she bends down and slides open the back. Moments later she places a flat, rectangular package on the surface in front of me, and even before she opens it to reveal the contents I know what it is.

  “You like science fiction, no? With scantily-clad women, humans fighting aliens?”

  I nod. “I’ve always been a fan of that old-school sci-fi. It was always full of action and adventure, good guys versus the bad guys, sexy space babes, and all that.”

  That’s the problem with today’s science fiction. Everything has become so politically correct. There’s no more sexualized women who are purely eye candy. All the feminists get so pissed and rant and blog and complain. I miss those days.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll like this rare space comic from the 50s—”

  My eyes go wide. “From the Golden Age of science fiction?!”

  The old woman smiles as she carefully opens the cardboard sleeve and pulls out the comic encased in clear plastic. A million scenarios run through my head, and most of them lead to the same thing: a rare, vintage, comic book that I can sell for shit-tons of cash. In the blink of an eye I envision myself selling it, moving out of my shitty apartment away from my shitty roommates, to a place of my own. Maybe I can even find a hot model girlfriend who’ll dress up for me in slutty costumes.

  They like rich guys right?

  My eyes feverishly scan the comic as she removes it. Then as fast as the dreams come, they vanish. Instead, my excitement is replaced by confusion.

  “What is that? I’ve never heard of that one before.” I lean in closer and read the title aloud. “Far Out Space Tales! Val Quinly and the Treacherous Tenants on Planet T!”

  “Old and rare!” the lady says, gingerly flipping the comic over to show the back side.

  “Lady, what is this? No way is this legit. Sounds like some kind of parody. You don’t have any Action Comics or anything? Something, you know… actually worth something?”

  I try not to laugh at the comic in front of me. Don’t get me wrong, the cover art is actually kind of cool, but the whole thing just screams of pulp trash—something hastily produced during the Golden Age in hopes of becoming a big thing. It happens time and time again. Whenever a book or comic makes it big, many try to imitate it with dreams of financial gain.

  “Well, the cover is pretty cool and the lady is smoking hot,” I shrug.

  It is your typical pulp sci-fi cover: the background is some desolate alien planet, with stars littering the black sky and a retro-futuristic spaceship all chrome and shiny. There are some menacing aliens that look like they came straight out of Star Wars lurching toward the sexy heroine. Who I’m assuming is Val Quinly, a smoking-hot blonde with boobs the size of melons that are barely contained in her skintight outfit.

  Her outfit is a one-piece bodysuit, similar to the outfits of the Playboy Bunnies, with thigh-high, high-heeled boots, and long gloves that go almost all the way to her shoulders. The suit leaves little to the imagination, highlighting her curves. Almost all of her ass is exposed in the thong-like back of the suit, and the skin exposed between her hips and her thighs is covered in black fishnet. The outfit is colored bright pink with purple trim. Around her wrists and ankles are shiny gold bracelets and a matching gold collar around her neck. Her hair is long and blonde, pulled into a ponytail with a matching pink hair band. Her eyes are a sky blue and her lips are thick and plump with glossy pink lipstick that matches her outfit.

  “She looks more like a hooker than a sidekick.”

  “And it comes with a free button!”

  I let out a little chuckle as the old lady places a round metallic button on the glass next to the comic. I pick it up and inspect it, sliding my thumb across the smooth glossy surface. On it is a single planet with a ring around it, like Saturn, with a dull gray background. The planet and the single ring that surrounds it are the same colors as the woman’s outfit on the cover, with the planet being pink and the ring purple. She wore it on her hip, much like the Playboy Bunnies wear their name tags.

  That’s when I realize the lady never brought up the cost of it at all. I look at the comic one last time and do my own silent appraisal. It definitely looks like it was produced in the 50s, and it is in great shape too. No scratches or creases, and it doesn’t even look like it’s been opened once.

  Most I’ll probably pay is like twenty dollars for this.

  “How much?”

  The lady remains silent for a few moments, tapping her chin in thought.

  “How about twenty dollars?”

  I laugh. “Seriously?”

  She shrugs and her wiry finger moves to the cover to tap on the blonde woman. “Trust me, you’ll like this one.”

  Normally, I’d pass. For the past several years I’ve always come to the convention on a strict and limited budget. There’s just so much awesome stuff to buy here that I can’t afford to buy everything I want. However, I just got my bonus from my job, so this year is something special, and I can splurge some.

  Besides, it’s only twenty dollars. Not like I’m spending a hundred or more on it.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I hand the lady a crisp twenty-dollar bill and she puts the comic back in its cardboard sheath and hands it and the button to me. I put the comic in my backpack and walk out of the little booth with the button in my hand.

  It is when I nearly bump into another crowd of people that I realize I have been zoning out. I wasn’t even in the same row anymore. I freak out a little when I realize that I might have missed a booth, so I backtrack until I recognize some of the booths and return to the aisle where the old lady’s booth was.

  “Well that’s weird. I could’ve sworn it was here.” I look around and double check the tables. I am in the right spot, only instead of where the entrance to the lady’s booth is, there is just a gap in between the two booths on either side, with a little caution tape up to prevent folks from wandering in.

  Maybe she’s in a different row?

  I scratch my head and discover that I’m still holding the button. I step aside out of the middle of the row and slide off my backpack and put it on the floor in front of me. Just as I am about to put the button on my backpack with the rest of the buttons, pins, and patches from conventions past, I get the urge to wear it on my hip like the lady on the cover. A lot of attendees wear their rare pins and buttons to show them off.

  “Ah what the hell, let’s do it! Maybe a hot chick who knows of this comic will see it and it can be an icebreaker!”

  I stand back up, slip into my backpack with practiced ease, and attach the button to the waistband of my pants. Seconds later, I’m back to my routine of navigating the endless rows and completely forget about the button on my waist.

  Fuck, it’s warm in here.

  I tug on my shirt collar and pull at the bottom of my shirt. Sure there are a ton of people in here, but normally the exhibit hall has their industrial-strength A/C units turned up to maximum. Otherwise it would be a sauna, and with how bad the body odor of some attendees tends to be, the exhibit hall would smell like a dump on a hot summer’s day. Though it is the middle of summer, and it is hotter than normal, but I’ve never felt this warm before.

  Maybe I’m coming down with something? No that’s never happened.

  I’m a convention veteran. I don’t get the “con flu.” I have a beefed-up immune system. Besides, I did drink one of those vitamin C boosts just in case. I’m warm, but I’m not sweating. It’s a different kind of heat, like the kind you get from a nice glass of whiskey. It’s almost like… an erotic heat.

  Come to think of it, I do feel a little turned on. That cosplayer from before maybe?

  An image flashes into my mind’s eye: the woman from the cover of the comic I bought from the strange old lady.

  What was her name again? Val Quinly?

  The warmth rises and I startle myself when I brush past a metal frame and get an elect
ric shock from it. My pace slows to a stop and I close my eyes as a sharp pain pierces my head.

  God, my head fucking hurts. Fuck, what’s happening? Why is it so fucking hot in here?

  I take a swig from my water bottle. My mind is racing as I try to convince myself that I’m not dying. These feelings are strange sure, but they’ll pass. There’s no need to raise any alarms or call 911 or anything. Just a little dehydrated and my allergies are acting up. That’s all it is.

  “Is the A/C off or something?” I mutter to no one in particular. I get some strange looks, a shrug, and one guy just saying it’s because of all the bodies, but for the most part I’m ignored.

  Maybe it’s because I’m out of shape.

  I tug at my shirt one more time only to discover that it feels loose on me when a moment ago it was a little tight but not too snug. I feel my shorts start to drop and I pull them up.

  I did wear a belt, right? My shorts only do that when I’m not wearing a belt.

  I check and I am wearing a belt, but the second I let go of the waistband I feel them start to sag again. Annoyed, I slide out of the stream of people and step in behind one of the massive concrete pillars and adjust my clothing. I pull my belt tighter—much tighter than I’ve ever pulled it—only to discover that I am noticeably thinner.

  What the ever-living fuck is going on?!

  A surge of heat travels through my body, enough to make me audibly moan. I immediately cover my mouth and look around in sheer panic, hoping no one heard me. Fortunately, my strangely erotic outburst is lost in the cacophony of a million different conversations and the too-loud noise coming from the many videos played by the all the booths.

  The heat rising inside of me is making it hard to think and focus. I lean against the concrete pillar, breathing heavily, and I once again recoil from a static shock.

  Another pain spikes in my mind. It’s getting harder to think.