Friday, December 17, 2004
We wander past several other shops, and you lead me in to a small coffee place. We sit, and you order coffee for both of us. After the coffee has arrived, you remind me, gently, of the fact that I am supposed to be taking better care of myself and eating right. "But I'm on vacation," I protest. "So that's your excuse?" you ask. "It doesn't sound like a good enough reason to stop taking care of yourself to me."
I stare into my coffee cup, waiting for the coffee to get cool enough to drink, and appreciative of the warmth it is transferring into my hands. I know you're right, but every once in a while I really wish you weren't. Usually when I already feel guilty because I have done something you don't think is good for me.
We sip our coffee in silence for a few minutes, neither of us seeming to want to be the first to speak. I glance up at you, and meet your gaze. I look away, and then back. Your eyes haven't moved, and I know you're waiting to hear just exactly why I thought that dinner was a good idea. I try to explain, but every word makes my choices seem more and more poorly thought out. There were plenty of other options that I could have chosen, even if I didn't want to have to leave the room again that evening. I did, after all, have to go to a store to get the soda and pretzels in the first place. I could have made better decisions. And I know it.
My voice trails off in the middle of a sentence, and I put out my hand. You take it, and I move closer to you. You put your arm around me and remind me that you are just looking out for my best interests. As if I didn't know that already. As if you haven't always had my best interests at heart. As if I couldn't always trust that you would do the right thing. And I feel awful.
You look at me and tell me that it is time to do some shopping. We finish the coffee, and instead of taking me to the ladies room so I can slip on the panties, you take me directly back to the store. You know I am going to be embarrassed to go in there and try things on without panties, and you know that it will help me remember not to question your wishes in the future.
You pick out some things you like, black, lacy, tiny. We go toward the dressing room, and you ask if I will be coming out to model them. The staff (very kindly) recommends against this, and suggests that if you need to see the fit, that you accompany me into the dressing room. We take the items, and go behind the curtain. I am absolutely mortified that the staff know you are in there with me, and try to do what is necessary as quickly as possible. You put out a hand and slow me down. "We aren't in a hurry here. We need to make sure these fit properly."
I try on the first item, a black lace garter belt. I have pulled up my dress to put it on, and you take the hem and continue pulling it up and over my head. You aren't going to allow me any modesty at all. I stand there awhile you walk around me, looking at the fit. You reach out and run a finger over the lace, and past the lace onto my skin.
I stare into my coffee cup, waiting for the coffee to get cool enough to drink, and appreciative of the warmth it is transferring into my hands. I know you're right, but every once in a while I really wish you weren't. Usually when I already feel guilty because I have done something you don't think is good for me.
We sip our coffee in silence for a few minutes, neither of us seeming to want to be the first to speak. I glance up at you, and meet your gaze. I look away, and then back. Your eyes haven't moved, and I know you're waiting to hear just exactly why I thought that dinner was a good idea. I try to explain, but every word makes my choices seem more and more poorly thought out. There were plenty of other options that I could have chosen, even if I didn't want to have to leave the room again that evening. I did, after all, have to go to a store to get the soda and pretzels in the first place. I could have made better decisions. And I know it.
My voice trails off in the middle of a sentence, and I put out my hand. You take it, and I move closer to you. You put your arm around me and remind me that you are just looking out for my best interests. As if I didn't know that already. As if you haven't always had my best interests at heart. As if I couldn't always trust that you would do the right thing. And I feel awful.
You look at me and tell me that it is time to do some shopping. We finish the coffee, and instead of taking me to the ladies room so I can slip on the panties, you take me directly back to the store. You know I am going to be embarrassed to go in there and try things on without panties, and you know that it will help me remember not to question your wishes in the future.
You pick out some things you like, black, lacy, tiny. We go toward the dressing room, and you ask if I will be coming out to model them. The staff (very kindly) recommends against this, and suggests that if you need to see the fit, that you accompany me into the dressing room. We take the items, and go behind the curtain. I am absolutely mortified that the staff know you are in there with me, and try to do what is necessary as quickly as possible. You put out a hand and slow me down. "We aren't in a hurry here. We need to make sure these fit properly."
I try on the first item, a black lace garter belt. I have pulled up my dress to put it on, and you take the hem and continue pulling it up and over my head. You aren't going to allow me any modesty at all. I stand there awhile you walk around me, looking at the fit. You reach out and run a finger over the lace, and past the lace onto my skin.
