Can Never Change Her Stripes
I don’t know where striped stockings were first declared vogue. I’m told that it goes back at least as far as the Middle Ages, where the public consensus at the time was that stripes went hand in hand with deviance.
That makes sense, I guess. Court jesters and cartoonish witches and macabre feminists and goth kids through the ages of pop culture have often been drawn up in striped stockings since…
It doesn’t really matter where they came from. It’s the fact that they’ll never leave me now.
It’s been years since Charlize, but she in particular always stays with me. Especially since that stupid style never fails comes back around.
I can’t explain to you why I love a girl in striped stockings. I just find it irrevocably sexy.
Yes, Charlize had a hold on me while she was there. It wasn’t really all that serious in the conventional sense, nor did it last very long. But my pull towards her was stronger than it should have been.
Still, I can’t, and probably will never be able to tell you whether I like the stockings because of her, of whether I liked her because of the stockings. The two are one in the same in my memory now, impossible to separate.
I remember one night in particular when Charlize paid me a visit. It was raining, because of course it was. The girl was a cliché in every way I could possibly draw her… She showed up on my doorstep, her long black hair plastered to her face by the downpour. Her makeup had started to blotch the underside of her eyes. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she did her best not to shiver, though I knew she must have been freezing.
She was an absolute mess.
And I thought she was the most stunning creature ever to grace my stoop.
I invited her in without hesitation.
And for years I couldn’t figure out why.
It was only after I had pulled her inside, tugged her boots from her soggy feet, and pushed her hair aside to join her mouth to mine. After I lifted her skirt and found her wetter than her clothes. After I pushed her panties aside and slid my fingers as deep as they could go into the well of her curious darkness. After I rubbed her to oblivion and she drenched me with her mysteries. After she put her boots back over her damp socked feet, kissed me on the cheek, and walked back out in to the night…
It wasn’t until well after I let her go and gave it a good think that I finally realized the striped stockings she had been wearing that night. As if I’m stuck looking through the prison bar spaces of those sopping wet stocking, I haven’t been able to lose sight of that ever since.
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This story was written as my final piece at #Smutathon2018 a filth-fuelled 12-hour marathon where 8 of us have furiously compiled words and photos on sex and smut to raise money for the Abortion Support Network. Consider donating to the cause here.