I need this pair of gold leather pants. This hot pair that called to me from the storefront window. The kind of pants that wrap themselves around your thighs like they’re holding on for dear life. The kind that make your butt look high and round like a bubble, holding in the jiggle but giving just enough bounce. The kind that make the men fall back and clutch their chests and say “Dat ASSSSS do’!” as you flounce on by.

I need these gold leather pants so sharp they have their own attitude. A ‘round the way’ kind of pair, the kind that smacks their gum real loud, swiveling the neck while playing with their braids. The kind that would cuss you out if they could talk, just because you stared at them too long or not long enough. The kind that flips their weave with their long fake nails, painting shiny MAC lip gloss across full lips.

These leather pants are sassy, like the black best friend in a romantic comedy who never gets the lead but carries the whole show. Gossiping at the tops of their lungs so the old lady in the back of the bus tut tuts her disapproval, kissing her teeth and shifting and shifting and shifting in her seat so that everyone knows that she feels put out. But these pants don’t give a fuck. These pants do what they want.

They are young and smooth and supple, these gold leather pants I want. They hug my curves like a Porsche hugs the road…I imagine. With them clutching on my hips, riding the waves of my legs, I will walk taller, stand straighter, stare down a man on the other side of the club with a come hither in my eyes. They’ll make me important, I’ll be somebody.  Who’s that?! they’ll ask, in them hot ass leather pants? And they’ll watch me strut by, whispering quietly into their drinks, dat assssss do’…

I need this pair of leather pants. I’ll rock them until they wear thin just where my thighs kiss, until they crease and crack with age, used up, washed out, the seams coming undone. Threadbare. You can tell those used to be a hot pair of pants people would say, but they wouldn’t care. They’d still be pouting, swaying, sashaying, reminding you of the crazy life they lived.

And how they would have lived! They’d have kept time with the swinging of my butt as I danced, been peeled off and tugged back on a thousand times, been caressed by strong hands, lain crumpled on the floor of a hot stranger’s house in a glorious rumple of stiff golden cloth. The things they would witness, the heat they would create, the friction so goo-oo-ood. Hot damn!

But not yet. These gold leather pants, my gold leather pants, we’re eyesing each other up. I’m checking them out, they’re checking me out. I see you, they say, with a tilt of the chin. I see you, I think, with a smug little smirk.

We’ll fit together, these pants and me. This is what I tell myself as I lay on the floor of this changing room, trying to use the force of the earth’s gravitational pull to get them over my hips. I pull and I tug and I squeeze and I huff and I puff and I suck my gut in!

But…

I am rejected. The pants refuse to budge. They are too bad-ass for me.

I slowly peel the gold leather pants – someone else’s gold leather pants — off my legs and put my old, battered jeans on and sigh a deep sigh as I make my way out of the changing room, my dreams a little shattered, my head hanging low.

But then I raise my head and I see it, hanging there, calling to me. A red leather jacket, smoking hot! A jacket that says, it’s me bitch! as it tosses its long blonde weave. A jacket that says, I have arrived.

I need this red leather jacket!

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