The Skirt

I mean, it is not as if I usually buy chainstore clothes. No, I go for something a little less obvious; the dress or outfit to be found as a one-off in the smaller boutiques. Not the sort of thing one is likely to meet every other day in the high street.

I can remember the first time it happened very clearly. She had just come out of the hairdresser’s as I happened to be passing.

She was young, attractive, had a good figure, an excellent complexion and she knew how to carry herself. She swung into the street with an air of complete confidence. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in life and was determined to get it. And she would be very choosy, not one to fall for the first fellow in trousers.

She would take her time, leave nothing to chance, choose coolly and carefully, just as she chose her clothes. And in any partnership, she would have at the very least an equal voice.

f479_170gnrsxdskirtpage1.jpgBut none of these reflections occurred to me as I saw her emerge from the hairdresser’s door. No, what caught my attention was the skirt, the long patterned skirt swinging about her thighs as she strode purposefully up the street. It was my skirt. Well, not quite, because I was well aware that my skirt was still hanging in my wardrobe in the bedroom of my flat, only twice worn since I
had bought it at the little shop whose proprietress had assured me that it was an unusual buy. No doubt she was right. I knew her well and I had always been guided to my entire satisfaction by her in the choice of my clothes. Nevertheless, here it was flowing about the legs of this young woman, contributing as did everything else about her to her undeniable attractiveness.

And I felt a small thrill because she had chosen what I had chosen. We had something in common, she and I, a similar taste in clothes, for what had impelled her to buy that skirt for herself was no doubt exactly what had motivated me. We shared the same feminine taste.


I watched her as she walked along the street until she passed from my sight, noting her appearance and all those attributes which I had already described.

I wondered idly who she was, what she would think if I approached her and told her I also possessed a skirt exactly the same as she was wearing, how much I liked it, how much I enjoyed wearing it, feeling it wrapped around my legs, billowing in the breeze as I walked, its silky smoothness caressing my nylons and the gentle swishing sound it made.

The memory of that brief encounter has remained with me for a long time now, although I have never seen her again. And with the memory the same thrill returns, especially when I wear my skirt. It gives me an extra confidence; I walk with more self conscious pride, head held high, breasts proud, hips swaying.

At times I have changed my wardrobe, had a good clear-out, consigned the unfashionable to the charity shop and the worn out to the textile bank, but I could never part with her skirt. It remains in fashion. It is still very beautiful to wear…

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