Short Skirt Sunday

It was actually a month ago. October 29th. I didn't go to church that day. Actually I haven't been going to much lately. But the original Short Skirt Sunday was many years ago. Every year I remember it. And every year, the disparity that it represents shows me that I'm either one step closer, or one step more distant from God than I was.

I was watching Joyce Meyer on TV this morning while getting ready for work, and she was talking about how she wasn't interested in people's behavior in church. It's what they do at home, behind closed doors, that really matters. Church=Best Behavior. Home=The Real You. I thought she was right dead-on with that. That's what got me thinking about Short Skirt Sunday.

I realized that in the 10+ or so years that I've been going to church I've been struggling. Which is, of course, as it should be. The whole point is to identify the good parts and the bad parts of one's self, to sort them out, and then elevate one side over the other.

I realized that Church vs. Home was really an just extension of outward appearances vs. inner thoughts. "Home" is how we behave when no one's looking. "Home" is what we're thinking while we're sitting in the pew looking all spiritual and Godly.

Short Skirt Sunday.

As I started getting more deeply involved in my Church, I started serving in youth activities--teaching sunday school, leading confirmation groups, chaperoning youth events. I said that the youth are the future leaders of our church. I said that they need a spiritual education and guidance. I said they need to know God. I said I wanted to be part of that. But while I was saying all of this I was thinking something else entirely.

Sitting in the pew one Reformation Sunday I noticed one particular red haired girl who came in wearing a short black skirt. I had noticed her many times before. One of the youth I 'served.' She always stood out. As the service went on I noticed a number of other girls in short skirts. By the time the service was over I had counted nine. All middle and high school. All short skirts, most of them black.

So while I was listening quietly, reverently, singing, praying, sharing the peace and taking communion... While I was on my best Church behavior, I was thinking...

Damn, these girls are fucking hot.

And every year I remember. And every year I wonder what that says about who I really am.

What dreams may cum

I had one of those dreams last night.

It started out an anxiety dream. You know the ones... You're taking a final exam and you realize you haven't attended a single class all semester. Or it's closing time at the restaurant. You're not allowed to lock the doors until the last customer leaves, but as long as the doors are open you have to continue letting people in. And they just keep coming.

In this one I opened my front door to walk the dogs and before I could get the leash on them they bolted. Gone. Totally. Miles away in an instant. No clue what they were after. So I'm walking through the neighborhood looking for them. I need to get them back before they do something regrettable. Or before the neighbors complain.

Dreams are amazing in how you can be in totally familiar surroundings and suddenly they change to someplace you've never been before but you still think if it as that place you know. Or you can be interacting with some one you know, but the face and body you see belong to a stranger--it's not X, but at the same time it is.

I entered a forest and started climbing a steep hill (familiar unfamiliar surroundings) searching for the dogs. Suddenly I remember the wolves. I feared for the dogs because there were wolves. They were big dogs, but they were domestic. They wouldn't be able to defend themselves. When I reached the other side of the hill I saw the pack. In the distance at first, but ambling toward me, a pack of five grey wolves. They took no notice as they passed me, but still I was afraid.

I continued down. Past a pasture with a barbed wire fence. In it was a huge, angry bull. The bull snorted. It grunted. It charged the fence to get at me. Again, I was scared. But it couldn't get past the barbed wire. I inched slowly along until I was a safe distance away, then continued looking for the dogs.

Then I came to a thicket of heavy overgrown brush. I pushed my way through. There to my right was an old VW Beetle. It was painted baby blue, but had been neglected for many years. The brush grew in and around it. Just past it, the thicket opened up. There I stood on top of a huge boulder, looking down at a house. The wall of the house was entirely glass. The better to enjoy the view, my dear. In the clearing between the house and the bolder was a woman. Middle aged. Auburn hair. Naked. Not nude. NAKED. Big tits and a shaved pussy. Not clean shaven though. It had been a few days, at least. I could tell by the way she carried herself, by the way she fondled her tits with one hand and held her cunt with the other, that she was proud of her body. She had reason to be.

She was looking up at me. She said something about what I was wearing. Something complementary. That's when I noticed what I had on. A wife-beater and boyshort panties. (Check the archive for more on the panties. I don't know why I like 'em. I just do.) I responded something unintelligible. She came closer to the boulder opening up to me as she approached. I stepped off the edge and slid down to where she was.

Then she was lying on the ground, her legs were spread, and I was kneeling beside her rubbing her pussy. She was very wet. She said something about her husband, George, and I look up at the house. There through the window I could see a man, scruffy and unshaven, sitting in a chair, also wearing a wife-beater, and khaki pants, watching TV.

"That's George?" I asked.

"Don't worry about him," she responded.

So I didn't. I continued fingering her. Rubbing her clit with my fingertips, fast and hard. I wanted to do more. I wanted to eat her out. I wanted to fuck her.

Instead I woke up. Looked at the clock. 5:30! Time to hit the treadmill.

White with blue stripes

There's so much more that I don't remember about that day than I do. But what I do remember remains one of those precious little vignettes, there in the back of my mind for me to pull out every once in a while and ponder... and savor.

All in all, there were somewhere between 10 and 15 kids ranging in age from seven to 17 running around the house that day. My siblings, my cousins who were visiting for the day, a couple neighborhood kids, and her. She was a friend of one of the cousins. If you're familiar with large families, you understand the chaos. A lot of talking. Even more shouting and yelling. A lot of running around. Very short attention spans. My first notice of her was fleeting.

I had just come home for work. I walked into the back yard, into the middle of the family gathering. There was everybody. Adults drinking and talking. Kids running and screaming. And there she was. The two things that struck me were, one, she was a stranger. I had never seen her before. And two, she was wearing a top that belonged to my little sister. White with blue stripes, zip front, little hood that was purely for style. I noticed it because I always noticed when my sister wore it. It was a very cute top, and even then I had a thing for the 'zip-front, nothing underneath' look. The third thing I noticed was that she herself was very cute.

The afternoon went on. I couldn't begin to relate the interactions she and I had, but I'm sure you're very familiar with childhood flirting. The awkwardness. The uncertainty. The offhand remarks that are supposed to sound like innocuous conversation, but are actually screaming "please notice me."

By the time the sun went down and most every one had moved inside, she and I were looking for an excuse to be alone. "I'm going for a walk." "I'll go with you." A silent prayer that no one else wants to come along.

When we got back, we found a quiet place in the side yard. There were no chairs, so we sat on the grass. Several moments later, we were lying down. Her on her back, me beside her, on my side with one hand across her stomach.

The kisses were soft. We were still very unsure of the situation. We talked. Finally I worked up the courage. I moved my hand to the zipper and just sort of fingered it for a moment. She didn't say anything. I slowly lowered it. Still she didn't say anything. I kissed her, and as I did I reached in and placed my hand on her small breast.

Now she spoke. I don't remember the exact words but I do remember their meaning. "Please, no." I smiled. I know it was a disappointed smile. I said ok. I returned the zipper to it's original position. I kissed her again. She kissed me back. And then she said something else. She said the words that have stuck with me all these years. The words that are probably what's kept this memory alive for me and prevented it from becoming one of those lost moments of youth - gone and completely forgotten. She complemented me. She told me how 'really nice' I was. I asked what she meant and she said...

"Most boys don't stop the first time I ask them."