"He sure cleans up nice . . ."

One of my in-laws is a large, burly outdoorsman who wears muddy workboots all the time and absolutely hates dressing up. Whenever they have to go somewhere, he waits until the last possible minute before wrestling himself into his suits and ties.

A shame, too. Before the pandemic, he and his wife would go to formal functions all the time at country clubs, so he has a decent collection of suits, shirts, dress shoes, ties--silk, wool, crisp cotton, and aromatic leather, all smelling a little like him.

It is somehow all the more erotic, imagining a rough, rugged kind of guy trying to squeeze into the elegant conformity of a suit and tie, the way the structured garments constrict his body, forcing him to fidget in his fine shoes, or tug at his collar, complaining about the supposed lack of freedom that these garments inflict upon him. Somehow, a person who is perfectly comfortable strapping on a pair of workboots can't stand keeping his feet contained in the soft embrace of cordovan, or his neck encircled by crisp cotton and silk.

I may or may not have sneaked into his closet to try on his shoes.

An image from the golden age of Tumblr.