AWAKE AND FULLY DREAMING

It just didn't seem quite right. She looked at herself in the mirror again, then concluded that like a fun-house speculus there was distortion. Those thighs. Chubby. Yet when she felt them with her hands, they were firm. Yes, she knew that as a woman she had been conditioned to overestimate fatness, to think of herself as too hefty by far. Especially when compared to blonde reptiles, supermodels, fashion-plates, Barbie, and Tinkerbell. Good lord, Tinkerbell had such a narrow waist! And there was something distinctly obscene about a preteen fairy with Marlene Dietrich gams and enormous cups. Was Disney aware of how twisted the image was? How much damage they were doing to young women?

Still. One hundred and three pounds. She couldn't possibly be overweight.
And nothing wobbled when she walked, instead the flesh looked firm, tense, and taut.
She pulled sheer black stockings over her legs, admired the sexy effect in the mirror, then thoughtlessly sabotaged it entirely with a calf-length skirt.
That, and the fluffy sweater to emphasize the bosom made her look impossibly nineteen-fifties and unintentionally quite innocent.
About the only thing missing were bobby-sox.

Her mother did not say a thing when she left the building. In the past, mom had insisted that she put on more colourful clothes, be more femmy. And had bought her items that nobody in their right mind should wear. Her mother, she had realized years ago, had no taste whatsoever. And crucially mistook 'normal' for 'streetperson'. The trauma of being dressed by that woman for so many years still took its toll, not in shuddering screaming nightmares, as you would expect, but in casual rebellion against a too girlie image. Comfortable jeans and slacks that could be put on without a struggle, loafers, buttoned shirts, and dull hair ribbons.
She always looked neat, but usually far too sane.
Nothing frilly at all. No Hello Kitty tat.
The merest smear of lipstick.
Wire-rimmed specs.

Underneath the clothing it was an entirely different world. Many of her undies were over-the-top sexy, riotously edged in lace, dark silk contrasting with ivory, high leg openings, accents, tucks, and the perfect maidenly fit. Scandalous, beautiful, and expensive.
Yeah, the image she showed the world was restrained.
But her unmentionables were just divine.
And gave her confidence.
A secret spice.


THE LILACS ARE BLOOMING

On an entirely different note, this blogger is wearing cotton boxers with lilac stripes. These, likewise, give confidence and a secret spice. Even if the pants and shirt make me look like a sensible middle-aged man, albeit one who is vulpine and fairly trim -- in keeping with my restrained collegiate image -- underneath it all I am swanning about in clean and comfortable masculine underwear. Cotton feels so nice against the skin.
There is no reason you would know that.

But in the same way that you can now imagine what I might look like while loafing around the house, I am imagining someone neat and far too sane, with absolutely no Hello Kitty tat anywhere.
Still not fully dressed. But in good though riotous taste.
Also, perhaps, the merest smear of lipstick.
Silky, satin, and moisturizing.
Gypsy Scarlet.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================