Tights…microscopic nets of torture.

In a burst of feminine energy related to hormones and my bodies strange biological desire to be rooted or something, yesterday I threw aside my usual attire of jeans and t shirt in favour of a skirt, a skirt people, a white one no less on the first day of the curse which translates to me being the ultimate feminist rebel. It all seemed like a great plan, until I had to squeeze my leg arms into a pair of tights. Like, 32 kg of leg meat being pumped into sausage netting without the benefit of the metal spout popular with sausage makers.

I am the seal/dolphin trapped in the tuna net, and I have trapped myself in there voluntarily. My main issues are as follows;

  1. Sitting on plastic chairs in the summer, I’m referencing a long buried school memory of brown poc-marked chairs, much like the texture of my own face at the time. The teeny tiny hammock mesh interacting with the chair surface to create a special kind of hell, only increased by being ‘healthy’ of thigh and the heat. The plastic tights combining on a molecular level with my skin causing my legs to look like the surface of a tiny Chesterfield.

2. Tights attempt to entirely separate ones top and bottom halves, much in the same way that farmers separate man sheep from their testicles using a piece of string. Obviously the tights I managed to find this morning were ‘control top’. I was under the impression that was like the opposite of a power bottom, which explains a lot of the messages I’ve been getting on my fake gaydar profile, but I digress. In certain circumstances these ‘control top’ tights are a necessary evil, weddings and court dates (as long as no food is consumed) and nights requiring LBD’s where they are necessary to maintain the impression that there are no organs in your midsection and definitely no cellu-notso-lite on the backs of the thighs. That coupled with makeup is my take on catfishing since you might meet me babein’ it 80’s style sporting a velour choker and a figure hugging dress, but the rest of the time I’ll be wearing jogging bottoms, truly. And my retainer obv.

3) Let’s take this journey down to the feet shall we. I am a very moist person. This has its up’s : -Insert well designed pull quote from my ultimate fave, Jerry Blank ‘I’m plenty wet’. And down sides. After a day with my clam-jam hooves shoved into netted plastic bags, they come out deformed, with toes closer to each other than they have any business being and with the smallest forced under the others like some kind of Lord of the Flies scenario. There’s a Piggy pun in there somewhere. Not only that, but they smell pretty much exactly like a pot noodle. Which usually sends me straight to the mecca of pot noodles, the corner shop. Do people ever buy pot noodles in a supermarket? It seems like a low impulse control kind of purchase. Oh and the flavour is green for anyone who wants to know.

This foot rot issue extends to sexy lingerie type leg bags too, stockings etc. Which is probably why women keep their shoes on during sex when they wear them. Shit, that’s so true, this is what you call a eureka moment people.

So tell me:

  1. How do tights make you feel? Perhaps there is some weirdo out there who likes wearing them?
  2. Is wearing thick school grade woolen tights a no after the age of 30?
  3. Tights that look like suspenders…Is that misinforming? What is that?
  4. Why is there so much foot action in lesbian porn?….or so I’m told…by a friend…who is not me.
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