It was a hazy, lazy, crazy day of summer that found me on my way to the local Post Office to mail a package of gifts for my sister's fast-growing youngsters long overdue and verbally promised on several occasions.
The last time I had actually been in a real Post Office was the week before Christmas on my twenty-first birthday to send my stack of greeting cards to friends and relatives alike. That was the last year I sent actual cards out for the holiday because with the advent of the age of the internet, I had reverted to electronic communication because it was less stressful and a whole lot cheaper.
I considered the difficult choice of wearing or not wearing make-up because it invariably took me at least another half hour to apply what I liked to call my "standard application". I only had two other variations on the normal make-up process. That was the "quickie" make-up job that was good for picking up some things at the shops or taking the wash to the laundromat knowing there would be only other females on the premises all caught up in their own little worlds and not paying any attention to me at all. Then, there was the "works" which consisted of a complete layering foundation and specialized projects for my eyes, hair, and lips that required the utmost concentration to meet my stringent standards of cosmetic excellence.
Whenever I did the full-length application, I liked to stick in an adult tape into the video displayer and watch the performances of various well-matched males and females show their stuff for my enjoyment. I have to admit the horizontal hijinks was enough to inspire me to a more skillful make-up job because I wanted to look "perfect" for meeting Mister Right in some chance encounter.
I decided that the Post Office was one of those places where the magic could happen and one never knew who they would meet and it was always best to put the best foot forward in such matters. Of course, in this instance, it would not be a foot but my cosmetically altered face with perfect skin tone and color and my skillfully applied lipstick that sent out romantic vibes welcoming interested males to come a little bit closer.
It was embarrassing to be hit on in such situations but in all honesty it was a lot more distressful if I was not hit on because my make-up was not quite right.
I knew right away I had made a miscalculation in selecting my short swirling skirt that looked so nice when the breeze was blowing slightly. By the time I reached the local post office, the wind had picked up enough to actually lift my thin skirt up to waist in the back several times making me walk slowly like an injured duck with my legs at an obscene angle. I almost lost my hat a second time and entered the post office with one hand on my knickers covered bum and the other on the top of my head like I was doing some sort of kinky routine for masculine enjoyment.
The female post-mistress was not behind the counter this day and I must admit I did not know the exact reason for her absence. The man behind the scales was decidedly good-looking and much more muscular than you would expect to find in a person in a clerical position. The nameplate on the top of the counter simply stated "Mark".
Of course, I immediately noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring and didn't seem to have that certain harried look that married males acquire even after only a few months of married life. He was one of the still "wild" males with that look of willingness to try anything once and wanting to practice his technique with as many females as possible just to make sure he had proper skills in horizontal exercises.
The line was relatively short but long enough that I had a good amount of time to look him over carefully before it was my turn to stand in front of him, making up close and personal eye contact and hoping my partially exposed bosom would draw his attention with modest attractiveness rather than my unfortunate display of knickers when I first entered the door followed by a blast of hard-driven cold air.
I was more than satisfied that his line of sight was far below normal eye contact and I felt my nipples stand up a little perkier under his welcomed scrutiny. It bothered me a little that the obviously married man standing behind me was a bit too close to my bum and I was glad there was no wind inside to raise my wayward skirt up above my undies like it had outside on the street. It occurred to me that he must have witnessed my shameful exposure of feminine secrets and I was thankful that I had donned my special French knickers with the lace trim and had even finished them off with garters and my black tights that acted to keep the cold off my sensitive thighs and knees. I knew I should have probably worn my full length pantyhose to also keep my pussy and backside covered from the cold but I liked the freedom of having bare skin on my thighs between my knickers and my tights despite the weather outside.
I was mortified to discover that I was short on cash when it came time to pay the handsome postal clerk. He looked as uncomfortable as I and it brought me to the brink of tears thinking that I would have to start the process all over again after returning home for the small amount needed to finish the transaction. The annoying lout behind me tapped me on the shoulder and I was ready to blast him for his dratted impertinence when he explained in a calm voice,
"I can let you have the difference, luv, there is no point in making it a major issue. I will give you my address and you can mail me the money or stick it in my postal box when it is more convenient."
All I could do was simmer with a sense of being beholden to a complete stranger and it bothered me no end that he was the same filthy ogler that had taken a good gander at my French undies right at the doorstep of the post office. It was on the tip of my tongue to refuse out of sheer sense of pride but he reached past me and put the remaining amount on the counter top and before I could say another word, the postal clerk stamped my package and it was in the bin and out the door so fast that it made my head spin.