A bit of Skirt
Provoked by a visit to a salsa club
I had hung there waiting amongst the other skirts in the shop, but I was longer, taller and thinner that they were, dark and mysterious — waiting for my special lady. I was not like the others, short and flirty, bright and tarty — no, I remained aloof, silent and demure, hanging back, ignoring the gaudily painted fingernails and grabbing hands of Essex girls, not flapping like the others.
Then she came, my lady, carrying her elegance for all to see — in the cut and coiffure of her hair, the simple restraint of a white blouse clasped by a silver scorpion brooch, her long legs stretching into black trousers, smooth and sculptured along their length — gliding on rails of sophistication, her head high above the others.
She had no eyes for the cheap tarty numbers, I was there waiting for her — my expensive price tag like a diamond necklace adorning me. Her long fingers reached out, slowly, at first hesitantly, edging intimately towards me — first touching and then stroking my fabric — only slightly coarse against her alabaster skin — the perfect combination of smooth, and a gentle roughness to polish her skin. She stroked my length, picking me out, admiring the sassy way I swung from side to side — resting me over her arm, inhaling the smell of new fabric mingled with the musk of her perfume — holding me up to the sun to see the little stars of light glittering through my weave.
Our first intimate moment, holding me against her legs, stroking me smooth against her thighs — a swaying of hips as she watched us dancing in perfect unison in the mirror, I hug her thighs.
Like the first date, the rush of falling in love, our union still unconsummated, but unable to resist the headlong pressing of fabric upon flesh. How calm she was, pretending that she did not want me as much as I her, as she sauntered off towards the changing rooms, teasing other prospects, but with me unashamedly in her arms.
Once there, safe behind the changing room door, safe from disturbance, unzipping and peeling her trousers down; stepping out of them with long ivory legs, perfectly shaped, slim but still pleasantly plump and firm. Unsnapping me from the chastity of my hanger, and then wrapping me around her, skin and cloth meeting, charged with electricity. My buttons fastened so that I held her waist, gently but firm enough so that she was secure in my embrace. My dark length stretched out along the arc of her legs, in the same way that her black hair hung down the arch of her back. I held her, constrained her, but she had the escape of the split where I wrapped around. She watched and smiled, flashing her leg in the mirror, ivory against ebony.
We left the shop together, I concealed under plain cover, shyly keeping our union a secret. She had promised me that the coming night would be our first outing together as a couple, and I could hardly wait. I longed to embrace her waist, and lie against the warmth of her thighs.
Showered and smelling of fresh perfume she came for me, innocent in her bathrobe with hair bundled on her head. Slipping the robe off, I was around her waist, snug, hugging, kissing her thighs as she walked across the room. Then we were together, beneath the warmth of her long coat, heals clicking our heartbeat along the road.
We arrived at the Salsa club, and I jealously eyed the other skirts from beneath the length of our coat. But they were nothing like me, flighty, unreliable little scarps — they didn’t have my stature, my cut, the elegance of simplicity. We teased them, my lady stepping slightly forward to flash a knee and below a calf of perfection — I the cloak of her beauty.
Inside, with coat removed, I was displayed, sublime and mysterious, the mystery I held hinted at by flashes of calf as we sailed across the floor. Together on the dance floor, the rhythm we enslaved, as her legs danced in time to the music, and I too danced swishing from side to side — flashing ivory as we played our piano tune together in time to the beat — rising in crescendos to settle back into a gentle march before rising again.
Other skirts and trousers hung back around the edges, watching, afraid to venture out onto the dance floor, afraid that they could not make music like us. Occasionally we stopped to rest a moment, a pause between our symphonies, my mistress to take a drink to replenish her reserves, but I was insatiable. Yet something strange happened, she began to loose her co-ordination, to drift out of time, and our rhapsody became the music of a child stuttering with her scales. I tried to support her, hugging her, holding her upright, but I was not strong enough — forced to accompany her in swaggering marches across the dance floor.
The he came, accompanied by a pair of trousers that did nothing for me — old and tatty, a little bald and thread bare, not even properly washed. He held me around the waist, or was it her he held, a little roughly, leering. I wriggled, trying to escape, but she smiled at him and that was our undoing.
I tried to persuade her otherwise, to hold her, keep her to myself, remind her of the music we had made, of what we’d had, but it was not enough. Desperately from side to side I swished, in time to her legs, our piano keys playing great arpeggios, but it was not enough. The trousers came and ingratiated themselves against me, horribly coarse, rubbing against me. I tried to flee around the backs of her legs, but I could not escape, held as I was by my waist.
Our dance had now turned into a slow funereal march, walking slowly in time, I sadly and unwillingly following the steps of the trousers. Then it was over, the music had stopped, and I thought perhaps I had been saved, but it was not to be. He led her away, arm around my waist, trouser leg rubbing familiarly against me. What could I do? He led her and she followed — into the back of a taxi, paying no heed to me.
Now sat on the seat I was relieved to be away from those trousers, but his hand came, a horrible, coarse, hairy hand, gnarled, with rough fingernails — pawing me, the coarseness catching against my delicate fibres. But he did not want me, it was the mystery within, his hand found my opening and weaved itself in between the folds of cloth, until I felt the back of his hand rubbing against me, just as gnarled, just as coarse. My lady whimpered, and I whimpered too.
Then the taxi stopped, and his hand left me in peace, to be replaced by the insistent rubbing of smelly trousers yet again. Up the stairs we went, her leg flashing between my folds, each step a pale memory of how we had once danced. Now in the bedroom where she had first put me on I felt stubby fingers struggling, shaking a little, not used to my delicacy, trying to undo my buttons where I embraced her. First one, and then pulling and struggling, almost breaking the threads, the second, and I fell down onto the floor in a crumpled pile, bereft of life as she flopped down onto the bed.
Minutes later, I was startled by the final insult; the trousers I had been trying to avoid all night came flying across the room to lie on me. They mauled and molested me all night with their presence, their smell, their grime and filth penetrating the very weave of my fabric — a stain that I would never be able to wash away.
In the morning, she came for me, beat me to take the creases out of me, but it was never the same between us again.
