skirt, dress, sex
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For most women, this sort of thing tends to occur earlier. For me, it happened when I was a month shy of my 25th birthday. The man was one of my lecturers. He had spoon fed me a story about ‘recognising’ me as the woman he’d been waiting for his whole life. Something about the way I looked in “that skirt” had caused a resonance, he said. It is only now that I realise, with belated clarity, the part of him that vibrated in tune with my skirt. I yielded to the gooey flippy feeling this produced in my nether regions at the time. That was, after all, the same voice that had sexily draped itself over silky words about lots of clever things. When he asked if he could touch me, I shakily said yes.

It was not long before we were lying in my bed. “You’re wearing too much clothing,” he said, with little irony. I took it off. His mouth felt strange and hollow. The whole experience was strangely perfunctory, except perhaps for the fact that, in my terror, I was as dry as paper. He didn’t come, and neither did I. I had never come, except for that one time when I was running up hill in those tight shorts. His anti-depressants prevented him from coming, he said. Then, quite out of context I suppose, he said “I’m going to marry you”.

This, of course, wasn’t true. I believed it for long enough, though. Long enough for him to get what he wanted. I do regret wearing that skirt.


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