14 years. I’m quite certain that I was 14 when I first discovered the pleasure of a skirt. What I don’t remember is how it started, or why I did it, but at one point I took the skirt out of my sister’s closet, and my heart started beating faster. Because I knew what I was about to do. I was going to put on that skirt. A strange combination of feelings: tension, excitement, shame. This was absolutely inappropriate, but I think I was alone at home.
It was a white satin skirt. Super soft and super smooth satin. I remember exactly what the fabric felt like. I even associate a spring-fresh scent with the skirt. It was a wide skirt up to just over the knee, and it fell so nicely into pleats. The fabric caressed my legs as I walked with it. I also felt a bit exposed. I thought I was so pretty with it when I looked in the mirror.
I remember wearing that skirt a lot in bed when I went to sleep. Then no one could see me anyway. I loved the feeling. So I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I hid the skirt. It wasn’t a skirt my sister would miss, because she had worn it just once for a dance performance.
I also remember one day I forgot to hide that skirt. My mother was a housewife and made the beds every day. When I cycled home from school, I thought about it. My heart started beating faster again, this time in terror. I had to think of an excuse. When I arrived home, my mother didn’t say anything, but when I was in my room doing my homework, she came in. In hindsight, I think she was nervous herself. She started tidying things up first. I don’t think she even knew how to start. Yet she asked, “What was that skirt doing in your bed?” I think she was really scared. That something would be “wrong” with me. My excuse was that I had wrapped the dog in it (our dog used to be allowed to sleep in my room). That’s where the conversation stopped. Maybe she didn’t believe the excuse, but she would rather believe it than find out the truth.
I also remember a holiday with my grandparents. I then spent many days in bed. With that skirt on. Secretly. And a red top. There was a mirror in that room, and sometimes I looked at myself, in that outfit I loved, but nobody was allowed to see. At such a moment, my grandmother came into the room. I shot backwards, and (probably) blushed. I quickly said that I had wrapped a sheet around me, and fumbled up the skirt a bit. My grandmother didn’t go into it. Probably she knew better, but she didn’t want to see the truth. Did she tell my mother? I don’t know, and I’ll never know, because she’s not around anymore.
Which reminds me. A wide white midi skirt. I don’t have one in my wardrobe yet.