A nice bit of skirt

A couple of years (ok, maybe a few years) ago I fell in love with a skirt, totally despite myself and my stupid fashion prejudices of the time. It's a panelled, stretch denim number that's fitted at the top then flares out, mid-knee, in a fishtail affair (Alright, three inches below mid-knee, my being a short-arse cow) A UK size 16 so it's really too loose to be as fitted now but I will never, ever part with it. Even if I, in a fit of stupidity-induced coma, were to succumb to the current fetish* to attain a size 0 body and never eat again, I would still keep this skirt. Beloved readers, this is a magic skirt.

It never comes out of the dryer without the hem flicking up randomly and it's a bastard to iron, normally the kiss of death for my wash-and-wear lifestyle, but the redeeming qualities of the magic skirt are, like orgasms, multiple and very, very good. Not only does it lend itself to any v-neck I wear with it, it's a nice shade of used denim, comfy as a cuddle and stays just the right temperature no matter the weather.

The magic part of it though, is the spell it casts over men. Oh yes, this piece of cotton and lycra has the power to make men lose all strength in their knees and turns even the most muscular thighs and calves to cotton wool.

Men become desperate to talk to me upon sight of the skirt but stumble over their words, as if their brains are being squashed up and tongues pushed out by the sudden wild dilation of their pupils.

Their hands openly display the internal war raging between desire and decorum; first advancing, drawn towards the skirt then retreating suddenly when logic slams them like a car door to rake through hair, fidget with keys or wave money at a bartender.

The magic skirt is also a thief. It actually steals oxygen. Just as they most want to puff up their chests and impress the skirt, the mere presence of it means they can only breathe in shallow, laboured gasps. It can be quite frightening to watch and at times I've had to excuse myself for a few minutes to remove the skirt from their sight and allow them to catch their breath, although strangely the asthma-like noises become even louder in the time it takes me to walk to the ladies or make a phone call. I think the back of the skirt has more power than the front which is handy really, that sort of effect combined with my usual proud display of cleavage would surely kill men stone dead as the blood rushed to their centres and everyone knows the deceased are terrible company.

It was cheap and it makes me cheerful every time I wear it. Every woman should have one.




*The trend for which, by the way, is led by gay, male couture designers so wake the fuck up, girls! Of course they think the curve of tits and hips are unattractive, they only see beauty in lads! Personally I believe that it takes a real man to design clothes for a real woman and D&G (Dicky and Gobby) just don't make the grade.