Sunday, March 2, 2014
The prompt for last week's Wicked Wednesday was "Balance" I was inspired to write a post based on an experience that I had on a night out very recently. Unfortunately due to the imbalance in my life at the moment I was not able to post in time for the prompt but I still want to share my thoughts with you all so here they are.
It wasn't as if the dress I was wearing was frumpy. It wasn't. I had chosen it because it was not frumpy. But it did match the other criteria; it was for vanilla wear. Not pure vanilla wear, the kind that required clothes that you can't see down, up or through, but for wearing in public, around normal people who may look at my cleavage and appreciate but who were not then going to take the time to look elsewhere.
I had chosen the dress because of the cleavage. It was revealing enough that it was impossible to wear a bra underneath. It showed a good bit of front cleavage, but an interesting addition was the side boob display. I wasn't displaying myself for just everyone but I knew that certain people in my party would appreciate the not so subtle hint of what lay beneath the fabric.
Cleavage display was where the sexiness ended. I had owned this particular dress for a while. It had chosen it because of the cleavage display properties. It had sat in my cupboard on many occasions because of it's other features. The fabric was cheap synthetic, it sat OK but on warm nights it tended to itch a bit. The pattern was beige and red, an interesting combination that looked nice. But it didn't pop. It wasn't a dress that said look at me. And it came down well past my knees.
Dresses that come down past the knees can be very sexy, mostly if they are sheer or clinging or flowy. This dress wasn't any of those things. But it was nice, and it was appropriate despite the fact if barely covered my breasts. It wasn't appropriate for parent teacher interviews, or for wearing to church but it was appropriate to wear among the general population and that was what counted at that time.
After dinner we went to a club. I had brought another dress to change into, one that definitely wasn't appropriate for dinner but was entirely appropriate for the venue we were heading to. I had planned to change it would have taken me all of five minutes to change but everyone I was with assured me I looked fine, that the dress I had on was sexy enough and that in time it wouldn't matter. We are all naked underneath right. I was feeling compliant, my day job required me to be in control and dominant all the time. On the weekend I liked to relax, part of that was just going with the flow and doing what I was told without thinking about it too much. So I didn't change.
People told me I looked nice and sexy and all the rest of it, that the dress was sexy but I was achingly conscious of being the only person in the room who was wearing a dress that went past my thighs. Except for the woman wearing white pants. She looked like she should be at a yacht club not a swingers club. Unlike me she didn't care, she was feeling the sexy and it showed on her face.
The night went on and I had some sexy fun with a sexy man. I am still amazed about the way my vagina has its own opinions about which penises it likes. Once she and I were on quite close terms but at the moment I think she feels a little neglected. It was good to make her smile again. As I went through the post coital dressing routine I considered ditching the dress and just wandering around in my knickers and shoes. I knew that a lot of people would appreciate it but I was concerned about rules in the main bar area. I wasn't in the right headspace to buck the system, so I dressed.
Later my friend and I watched a very sexy girl pole dance. I commented that she needed someone to show her how it was done. My friend said to me,
"Well off you go then."
My reply, "This dress doesn't do pole dancing."
With that I was dispatched to the car to change. I wasn't really conscious of how much I wanted to be out of the dress but as I stepped out of the club door and walked towards the car I was stripping. I didn't care that I was walking through a parking lot. As I stood beside the car I pulled the dress down over my hips and stood there in the headlights of a passing taxi rummaging on the back seat for my other dress. I really didn't care all I cared about was being appropriately dressed.
The difference was amazing. Suddenly I was the woman in the white pants who didn't care what other people were thinking. I was rocking the sexy. My dress made no difference to anything anyone said to me. It did not bring all the boys to my yard and it didn't turn every head in the place. It didn't make Mr Fix it act differently, he had already had his way with me when I was wearing the frumpy dress.
What it did do was get me on the dance floor to give Jake a lap dance and to gyrate hips with Mrs Fix it until we noticed that our respective husbands had stopped paying an appropriate amount of attention. By then we were starting to acquire a small audience but once I caught them discussing hardware the show was over!
Why did a dress make so much difference? Mrs Fix It's theory is that the first dress belongs to Mrs Biology Teacher, although it is certainly not appropriate teacher attire. The second dress was entirely Gemma. She is right of course. Sadly Gemma has spent far too much time in the closet recently. I hadn't realised until that point how much I missed her. Lying here writing this has been as cleansing an experience as cleaning the linen cupboard. There are people in the world who will understand what I mean by that comment.
It is time to address the balance and bring Gemma out for a spin now and again.
at 3:15 AM