Most of downtown Honolulu was just taking their morning coffee break, but I was just easing into the day. Again I had consumed too much beer the night before, trying to ease the pain of having a girlfriend thousands of miles away. We would be together again in just a few months, but my sudden decent into single-hood had taken a toll far costlier than I had anticipated. Beer and a clutch of cats were my only companions at night, and neither were good company.
One benefit to this arrangement was that it gave me plenty of time to explore the secret side of my sexual self. My sex life was split in two, the halves seemingly never to merge. There is nothing strange about a guy in college having a girlfriend, although I did have a reputation as a romantic soul who more than most of my friends pursued long-term, meaningful relationships. I did not just date women, I all but married them. I was crazy about women. I adored them without limitation. Life without one was hell. Sex with one was pure joy. Yet so far I had never had a girlfriend who so much as came close to fulfilling the other side of my desire. More to the point, I lacked the courage to reveal what that desire was. I was convinced that my other self was a weakness which if revealed would poison any relationship. To fulfill that part of me I had to do it alone.
As I walked across the Manoa campus my thoughts hovered vaguely around my secret self. I was still too sleepy and hung over to pursue a full blown fantasy in all its scrumptious detail, just fragments lurking about inside my head, veiled by clouds.
My stroll was accompanied by a gentle throbbing coming from the tip of my cock, still tender after a long bout of what qualified as self torture the night before. Like the beer, this had become all too frequent an occurrence, and no more satisfying. By the time the day was done it was all I could think about, and the long road to orgasmic release was rich with pleasure. When at last I allowed myself to cum I literally screamed with pleasure, and for several minutes afterward I would shudder amidst the glow of total relief. It was when the pleasure faded that I came face to face with my loneliness, which robbed me of whatever joy the event had bestowed.
I felt as though I could not possibly do the same thing with a woman. Doing what I did that night, exactly what I did but with a partner, was literally unimaginable. In fact, all I could imagine back then, twenty-odd years ago, was doing the same kinds of things to a woman. That had always been my greatest desire, yet even that seemed impossible. For years I had been waiting to meet the right woman, one who already wore the clothes that baited my desire, one who sought the kind of experience I longed to give her. No different really than a shy young man afraid to try for a goodnight kiss at the end of a first date who is blessed by a girl who comes to his rescue. I was unwilling to be the instigator, to ask a woman to wear what I liked.
I was addicted to a collection of fantasies so arousing that I felt helpless to resist them, yet all the evidence I had gathered so far pointed to the conclusion that there was no basis for my infatuation. If someone had observed that women did not get off by having their hair set on fire I would have had no difficulty in agreeing, but even though I sensed that the same was true for what turned me on I could not stop thinking about it.
Way back then I had no understanding as to why my special interests aroused me. What I longed for was for a woman to experience mind blowing pleasure, to launch her into that strange, floating world where what feels almost excruciating is wrapped with pleasure in such a way that she desperately wants it to stop and yet to go on and on and on. It was the woman's experience I was focused on, not mine.
When I acted out my fantasies it was the woman's role I played. The result was so good that I could not comprehend how a woman could resist being turned on by the clothes that turned me on, and satisfied by the things that satisfied me. So far I had found nothing to corroborate that idea, but nothing that made it clear I was all wrong, either.
As I approached Spalding Hall I knew I was very early, my habit being to get a cup of coffee from a vending machine along the way and use the time to study and wake up.
I got there before the crowd had gathered. A few earlybirds like me were there, sitting on the benches on the lanai (patio) outside the lecture hall. There was one bench half empty, the other half taken by a coed who appeared to be absorbed in reading her notes. My first reaction was to leave her be and sit on the steps. It wasn't my style to hit up on women, not out of feelings of superiority but out of fear. Then I realized what she was wearing and I stopped dead in my tracks. It was a scene right out of my fantasies.
My body was in full panic meltdown. The way I reacted, she might as well have been a lioness sitting there, or some slimy alien from mars. Despite this rushing panic my mind was going full tilt trying to figure out how to make something out of what was obviously manna fallen from heaven.
The woman was very attractive. Freu-freu teased hair all fluffy around her head. Great bone structure, very fine and fragile looking. Perfect makeup, long painted nails; even her toenails were red. Definitely not the kind of woman I felt comfortable pursuing, but ever so much the kind I longed to have. The kind of woman who I was sure would take one look at me, wrinkle up her nose, and turn away. But, of course, it was her clothes that were making me melt into a puddle of goo.
Her blouse was blindingly white, kind of baggy, and obviously made of thin, silky fabric. It wasn't sheer, but almost. It didn't shine like satin, but almost. Long, puffy sleeves and a very low, softly curving neckline. The way she was sitting, with her back straight but bent forward slightly from the waist, her blouse pulled rather tight across her back, and I saw no telltale signs of a bra strap. A cool Manoa morning, a silk blouse brushing over bare breasts. Heaven!
But it was even better than that. Her legs were draped in glistening dark blue fabric, the exact same shade as the silk skirts and dresses I had been passionate about from all the way back to elementary school days. It wasn't just the color I noticed. It was the sheen, and the way the fabric was moving softly around her ankles.
For years I had been fantasizing about those slinky, shimmering, slithering dresses I had seen as a child. Whenever I spotted a girl in a blue dress or skirt I would wish that it were silk, that the feel of it against her body was tickling her half to death and that she was loving every secret moment of it. Suddenly, after several years of seeing nothing that even came close, I was a few yards away from the most perfect example I had ever seen.
I knew I had to do something, but I felt totally unworthy of her. In the movies this was when the orchestra swells up in a sweeping melody, but what I got was the raucous cacophony of the players warming up in the pit. Desperately I kept telling myself to go over and sit down. Act nonchalant, say hello, talk about the class, the basketball team, even just the weather. My feet remained glued to the cement.
As I stood there frozen to the sidewalk staring at her like a starving man she shifted slightly, lifting one leg and draping it across the other. In a flash I saw that it was not a long skirt she was wearing, but pants. Everyone wore bell bottoms back then in the early 70's, but I had never seen anything like hers. The movement made the loose folds of fabric jiggle and swirl around her calves, and the sight of it mesmerized me. Gradually the realization that she was wearing pants sank in, and I almost started to laugh as the implications unfolded in my feverish brain.
For years I had clothed my fantasy women in dresses or skirts, imagining them willingly bound and helpless as I gently stroked their silk clad bodies, inundating them with intense yet highly pleasurable tickling. They would laugh themselves breathless, but when I paused to give them a rest they would sheepishly ask for more. That was fine when all I cared about was tickling their ribs. As I matured I became interested in tickling their cunts, and dresses were fine before I knew that a woman's vagina was not a few inches below her navel.
When I discovered my error in physiology I had struggled with how to tickle a woman's cunt, the ultimate spot that would blend tickling and sex until they fused into one gigantic explosion of ecstasy. Lifting her skirt and using a soft feather was one possibility, but I found it much more exciting to imagine myself stroking the silk, my belief being that the fabric would make the tickling sensation much more intense. As irrational as that may sound I dwelt upon it in great detail, but I found the idea of having to push the skirt in between her thighs and up to her crotch somewhat lacking. Now, staring at this goddess of sensuality, the solution hit me like a bolt of lightning.
Not only did it jolt my brain, it kicked me in the ass. I forgot most of my fears, walked right over to her and sat down. Acting as if nothing special was going on I opened my textbook and pretended to read. Drinking my coffee was a nightmare, because my hand was shaking so bad.
She smelled wonderful. I can't begin to remember the scent, but it was a perfume that radiated femininity, the kind of fragrance you expect to encounter when you open a women's lingerie drawer. And she was so clean. So perfect. Her clothes looked fresh and new, her skin glowed with a delicate pink undertone. Her face was just too cute to be real. She was not one of those tiny, bony, size three types. Not fat, or even plump, but she was obviously tall for a Japanese, with wide hips and beautifully curved thighs. At one point she straightened up to stretch a little, drawing her blouse over her front enough to reveal a perfect set of breasts and a smooth belly with that little bit of fat that I find so appealing. I also noted with great interest that where the white silk spilled down over her breasts I could clearly see the lumps of her very erect nipples. I can't believe that I didn't moan at the sight.
At first glance the pants seemed to be made out of the same kind of nylon fabric used for slips and nightgowns. I could just make out the same kind of texture, the look of a fine, tight knit rather than something woven. But, it was different. The disparity was in how it looked where it hung down in deep, loose folds from her knees. If it were lingerie grade nylon it would have floated more when blown by the breeze, but this stuff hung down smooth and didn't float at all, suggesting that it was heavier. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, the fabric flowed effortlessly around her legs every time she moved or a gust of wind blew past. It was like the difference between a piece of strung hanging from the branch of a tree and the same string with a handful of leaves tied to the end. Both would swing back and forth in the wind, but the plain string would kind of float around while the string with the leaves would remain taunt and move more purposefully.
One thing I had finally gotten to play with a little bit was basic, everyday lingerie. My girlfriends wore nylon slips and panties, and there were times when undressing after a date segued right into sex play. It felt so incredibly good to snuggle and fondle a woman wearing soft, smooth nylon, even though it was to my fantasy silk like Chablis is to cognac.
I found it hard to believe that women could wear nylon lingerie all the time. Whenever I touched it, especially when I was naked and held my nylon clad lover close to me, the feel of it against my skin made me rock hard and desperate for action. It had struck me as ironic that while in my fantasies such things drove my partner wild, and even caused her to suffer from unquenchable desire, the reality was almost the reverse in that it was I who was inflamed by what my partner wore. If women reacted the way I did they would be going around all the time drenched in pleasure and seething to have sex. No man would be safe getting into an elevator alone with a woman wearing a nylon slip!
My solution to this discrepancy was to conclude that the look and feel of the nylon used for women's lingerie was pegged to feel nice and feminine to a woman, and that it aroused men sexually more than women because straight men respond to its feminine nature and straight females do not. It aroused me so much more than the average guy because it hinted at the stuff of my fantasies. The fantasy silk of my childhood dreams was also feminine, only to a far greater degree, and the operative characteristic was its feel far more than the way it looked. A woman wearing such fabric would be constantly stimulated, in the form of delightfully delicate tickling, and this would keep her aroused the entire time she wore it. Besides this super-sensual quality the fact that it exaggerated her femininity transformed her into a superwoman, not in the sense of strength or nurturing but in her ability to seek out and enjoy her erotic self.
Staring down at this women's blue pants I could not help thinking that this was just the kind of fabric I had been dreaming of. A super-sensual version of everyday nylon. A fabric that bathed her body in constant pleasure, ticklish and erotic pleasure, that if the pleasure were any stronger it would be impossible to endure without restraints.
The longer I stared, the more immersed I became in the event. Rarely had I had the opportunity to look at what it was that aroused me. In fact, it had been about six years since I had seen anything that suggested so accurately the ticklish silk of my fantasies. I began to imagine what she would be feeling sitting right there next to me on that sunny but cold Manoa morning if what I wished to be happening were true.