The outfit that I wear when I shoot ropes all over myself is of the utmost importance. They range from white New Balance sneakers with mid-high white socks, my “Micky does it best” novelty T-shirt that I got from Disney World, to a leather, zip up cowboy jacket with lacey frills dangling from the arms and chest. Today, it was a latter kind of day.

I swiveled to my walk-in closet on my rolling desk chair, rubbing my hands together in anticipatory glee. Already you’re probably thinking to yourself, all this for just a quick bust? Well, I assure you, this is all part of it. I can’t do it, unless I do this. So just shut the fuck up and listen.

I rifled past my banana costume, my Evil Kenevil black leather jacket, and my white button up dress shirt, and laid eyes on the one. There it dangled from the white plastic hanger, in all of its lacey, leathery, cowboy glory. I swear to god a chorus sung in my ears and the sun shot splintering daggers through the window that danced off of the beautiful and majestic collared zip-up jacket. Yes, I thought, there she is.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a semi right then and there. I would also be lying if said I haven’t completed myself in a similar situation during previous sessions.  I had to be delicate here, lest I end the night in a premature disappointment.

I slowly grabbed the jacket, my hands were shaking, and I held it out before my eyes. I stroked the laces, rubbed the fabric between my fingers, I smelled the musty, comforting leather. I slid my arm through a sleeve. It was nice and warm in there, I thought about living inside the dark, warm, wet confines of the sleeve hole. It sounded nice. Alright Jenkins, I told myself, slow your roll. I slid my other arm in and zipped it up.

Well, I’m not ashamed to say that the jacket felt so right zipped up against my body that I had to show it off. I tucked my Johnson up against my pajama pants waist band and hobbled down the stairs.

My wife and kids were playing Sorry! In the living room. As soon as they saw me it was all gasps, laughter, and glee with the kids. My wife looked away. She seemed concerned for some reason.

“Mommy! Look at Daddy! We have to take his picture!” The kids screamed.

She looked away and cleared her throat.

“Come on Mommy! Take Dad’s picture!”

She sighed and grabbed her phone. I struck a pose. But when I gazed upon the glory of the leather sleeve, I got lost in the fabric. And the laces! Oh my God! There are so many of them! And the fit! The sleeve holes dangled just the perfect amount from my wrists.

As soon as I heard the camera shutter, something bad happened. I tried to keep it together, but a soft moan escaped my lips. My wife slammed her phone down and went upstairs.