Aunt Jane’s Skirt
by
Skinnie Stallion
The embarrassment was excruciating. How could he have been so foolish? How had he not heard her on the stairs?
"Oh Andy, don't cry. I don't mind, honest," said his Aunt sincerely. "There's nothing to worry about."
"You won't tell anyone, will you?" he pleaded, still hanging his head in shame, unable to face his Aunt.
"No, of course not. It's just between the two of us."
"Thank you, Auntie."
"And a word of advice, Andrew, if I may...."
"Yes, Auntie?", he said finally turning to look at her.
"You need to remember, Fullerton Hall is a bit of a creaky old house. I could hear you in my bedroom down in the Drawing Room. And when there were clicks, I kind of guessed what you were doing. I've walked across that parquet floor beside my closet often enough to know what a pair of heels sounds like."
"Sorry, Auntie."
"No need to say sorry, Andrew. You should just have asked if you wanted to try them on. And can I suggest that while Jimmy Choos look good, I think you'd better in Louboutins."
"Really?!" asked a surprised Andy.
"Would you like to try a pair? The red ones or the white ones? Either would go well with blue denim. Start with the 100s, I think you'll find them a bit easier to start with."
“Hundreds? What are they?” asked Andy, putting on a quizzical face.
Aunt Jane furrowed her brow. “I think you know quite well, young man. I know how much you follow fashion. Ladies fashion.” Andy blushed, if that was possible given his current shade of embarrassment. ‘Hundreds are how Louboutin refer to the heel height of their shoe. One hundred millimetres or about four inches. Personally, I prefer one twenties, but hundreds are good for everyday wear or if I’m in business meetings all day.”
“Yes, Auntie, I did know,” he admitted.
“I thought so. You spend so much time looking at my heels or admiring my friends’. Sometimes you get quite distracted.”
“Sorry, Auntie. It’s just a thing I have. I just like the look of heels. There’s something about them.”
“And you wanted to try for yourself?”
“Er, yes.”
“And the skirt? My skirt?”
Andy had hoped his Aunt would forget about the skirt. His embarrassment returned, only worse. “Er, well….” He couldn’t find words. How could he tell her that he really wanted to try on one of her skirts? “I wondered whether the heels would look better with a skirt than jeans.”
“Oh, is that so.” Jane looked at the array of skirts spread across her bed: a black maxi leather, a black knee length leather, a black pencil leather, a black mini leather. “You like black then?”
“Yes, Auntie, it goes with anything.”
“Black leather?”
Andy paused before replying. How could he say that he loved the way leather accentuated the curves of his Aunt? “It’s so shiny,” he retreated to a more anodyne answer.
“But not as shiny as latex. “I see you wanted to try my black pencil latex.”
Andy’s head hung in shame. “Er, yes. Latex is so… so,” he was momentarily lost for words. He wanted to say, ‘so tight, so shiny, so figure hugging. He wimped out: “…so … so.. special. Sorry, Auntie.” He was close to tears.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Jane said. He looked so sorrowful and ashamed. She just wanted to hug him and hold him. But inwardly she was relieved. Finally, he was admitting to himself his true nature. With no prompting from her, he was finding his feminine side. There was no point in telling him that she’d heard him in her bedroom on other occasions. She’d guessed he was going through her closets and drawers. But today she could tell it was different. He’d spent so long up there and then the click of heels on the wooden floor. Time for a chat with her nephew.
“But Auntie…..”
“No buts, daring. And nothing to worry about. You look great in that skirt. It suits you.”
“What, Auntie? You’re not annoyed?” How could she not be annoyed at finding him standing in her bedroom wearing one of her expensive William Wilde skirts and a pair of her Jimmy Choos? “I feel terrible.”
“Terrible for trying on my skirt? Or terrible for me finding you in my skirt and heels?”
“Just terrible,” he cringed. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Tears were starting to fill his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done it Auntie. I’m sorry, Auntie.”
“It’s OK. Nobody’s hurt. No harm’s done,” Jane tried to reassure him. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m so sorry,” he continued to bleat.
“Don’t cry, darling. I understand darling really.” He felt her hand against his waist. “There is something exciting about wearing Auntie’s skirts isn’t there?” Andy whimpered an acknowledgement. Jane continued, “Something she has worn close to her skin ……. that smells of her.”
Andy turned away. He didn’t know what to say. How could she know? How was it possible? Had she seen him holding her skirts close to his face, inhaling the aroma of leather, breathing in the heady scent of latex, and thrilling to her intoxicating fragrance that permeated all her garments. He adored his Aunt. He loved how she looked. He loved how she was: charming, witty, youthful, graceful, elegant, stylish and, he had to admit, sexy. The embodiment of sexy. She might be thirty years older than him, but she had an allure. An allure like no other woman he’d ever met. He loved being with her. He loved their games together. He always loved the way she’d let him play with her make-up. Would wearing her clothes make him more like her? Would wearing her clothes make him more like how he wanted to be for her? He wanted to be pretty for her, ever since she let him experiment with her make-up when his parents were away and he came for a sleep over.
He waited to be scolded. “Sorry, Auntie.” The tears came back. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh Andy, don’t cry. I don’t mind, honest,” Jane repeated. “I really don’t. I always thought this day would come.”
“What?” A surprised and relieved Andy turned to her, his face brightening. “But how?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Call it an Auntie’s intuition.” Inwardly she thought, ‘That and hearing you rummaging through my things. That and the way you read my copies of Vogue and Harpers. That and the way you play with my make-up and admire yourself in the mirror. That and what you draw in your sketchbook.’ He’d always been a very special boy.
“Really?”
“Yes, honey. Now, why don’t you try on that pair of Louboutins? But I think we should go with black. You can try red or white later, particularly if you decide to go back to wearing your jeans for the rest of afternoon. And we can do better than scruffy white t-shirt. Let’s see what you look like in some different tops.”
“Yes, Auntie,” he said in disbelief. “Can I? Can I really?”
“Yes, honey, but first I’m going to do your make-up. We need to see what you really look like if you’re going to be trying on skirts and dresses.”
“And Andrew?”
“Yes, Auntie?
“You know that concert we’re going to next weekend?”
“Yes, Auntie. The Eras Tour. How could I forget?”
“Well I think I have the outfit for you.”
