The Truth Behind Boot-cut Jeans
by Scott D. Parker
Without a doubt, the worst thing about being a teenaged faun is you can’t wear shorts. You can’t go swimming, you have to get exempted from PE, and playing any sports is simply out of the question.
And how do you hide your cloven hooves? Boot-cut jeans. The best invention for the faun community since those hidden gated ranches that dot the country.
So what do teenaged fauns do for fun? The mall. That’s all there is. You go to the mall, you walk about, and shop. Boring as hell after the first few months.
I was wandering listlessly at the mall that day when I saw those jeans. It was the same brand as mine, same style, same distinctive curvature at the base. My heart palpitated and my horns tingled as I adjusted my ball cap. I drew in her fragrance. She was a faun.
Almost at the top, I reached out to touch her, get her attention. Somehow, still don’t know, I lost my balance. I bumped her and her hoof slid on the escalator step. She righted herself but the cuff of her jeans caught in the narrow slit where the steps disappear. Her jeans ripped, exposing her beautiful, downy legs.
Women screamed, babies cried, men stood with mouths agape. The police took her away. They found our community and rounded us up.
I am an outcast here in the camps. But at least I can wear shorts now. I really hated jeans.