I went to the mall with my wife the other day. She had some shopping to do and I was just wandering around, doing guy stuff. I found myself standing outside the big window of a sporting goods store looking at bowling balls, exercise equipment and miniature trampolines. I wasn't really looking for anything special; it just seemed like a more masculine place to hang out than Wilson's Leather.
There was a crowd gathered around a large open area near the cash registers and I meandered inside to see what was going on.
What I saw were several large, gray exercise mats and two young women in skintight, pink workout clothes doing an energetic jazzercise routine to the beat of some techno tune. The crowd was responding enthusiastically and the girls were playing to the crowd. They were quite effective.
As I watched I became aware of two things. First, I had such a strong erection I had to put my hand in my pocket to help disguise the bulge in my shorts. Second, most of the other men in the audience had one hand in their collective pockets. A few young jocks apparently didn't give a damn and made no attempt to hide their desire.
After about fifteen minutes, I limped off in moral outrage and disgust.
Unfortunately, my embarrassment about my erection kept fueling it's potency. And it was virtually impossible to hide my discomfort in the thin jogging shorts I was wearing. And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.
Then I noticed the lady in the next aisle over looking rather oddly in my direction. I had been trying to look casual and I was holding a spool of 90 pound fishing line, pretending I had a purpose other than hiding. Someone had opened the packaging on several spools and while I was trying to avoid her gaze, I spun around too quickly and they snagged together, clattering off the shelves and bouncing around my legs.
I bent to try to catch or retrieve the bouncing, unrolling spools of line; turning a couple of more times in my haste. Somehow, my legs became entangled in the line and in the confusion my hand was no longer covering my embarrassment and it pushed tightly against the thin material.
There was no way to salvage my dignity. But being a guy I tried. Casually, I picked up a fishing pole in my left hand and ran my right hand thoughtfully along the shelf. As I did so, I felt a sudden, sharp prick in my index finger. A fishing hook. I immediately put my finger to my mouth to sooth the pain and felt another sharp prick in my lower lip. When I tried to pull my hand away from my mouth the pain knifed through both finger and lip and I found my hand was stuck there.
"What the Hell!" I mumbled through my fingers in panic. I began whirling around like a dervish, not knowing which way to turn or what to do next. I noticed the lady in the next aisle give me another very hard look and scurry off in pursuit of a more peaceful shopping experience. I had other things to worry about.
"Can I help you?" A voice said behind me and I kind of hop-turned to see the speaker. She was a pretty redhead, wearing one of the store's logo shirts. Behind her, apparently drawn by the noise, were the two jazzercise girls and most of their audience. "Damn, Mister, What'd you do to yourself?"
She leaned closer for what I thought was a better look. I didn't notice how pale she was. She wasn't leaning. And she kept on going. At the last moment she tried to grab at me but only got hold of my jogging shorts.
When I looked down I noticed the blood for the first time. It seemed like the entire front of my t-shirt was drenched in it. From what I could see of my arm and stuck hand, they were also. I still held the fishing pole in my left hand. I couldn't move my legs because of the fishing line and the hapless clerk had her arms encircling my ankles, my shorts resting on the tops of my shoes. My manhood was waving in the wind.
This was the moment my wife chose to return. She stared at me for a second and said, "Let me guess. You're doing guy stuff, right?
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