This is a story about an experience that I had when I was fifteen years old, living at home with my parents in our suburban home in England. It's been a while since I've posted a long story, and so I'd like to welcome back visitors old and new, and perhaps direct newcomers to my earliest entries from June 2011 that explain a little more about my time growing up and how I came to understand my obsession for tights and women's clothes.
This particular post is about a Saturday afternoon waiting by myself for my parents in the large department store in our town, when I happened to see and overhear a teenage girl and her mother shopping for some new tights. Watching them, discreetly, from a little distance away browse and eventually make their choices was an intense, arousing and incredibly memorable experience - so much so that I can recall the scene and how it unfolded in front of me even now, many years later.
The Story - With Some Interesting Asides
Because of my fetish for tights they’ve always captured my full attention in all sorts of ways, and this has been the case since I was five or six years old. A walk past the simple rack of plain tights in my local supermarket became a weekly highlight for me as a boy - as well as the source of my very first pair of tights as I’ve already described in an earlier post from 8th June 2012. My supermarket visits were thrilling for a few moments each week when I accompanied my mother to do our weekly shop, since I got a minute or two to stare and inspect all the fabulously fascinating hosiery packages without arousing any suspicion or it seeming strange. It’s weird to look back and think that as quite a young boy of six or seven years old I wanted to look at the packets of tights and feel excitement about them - but I genuinely did. Tights then were a constant and very vivid part of my internal landscape, and my curiosity and interest in them was insatiable then, as now.
Back in those days I absolutely loved getting a furtive chance to look at these impossibly enticing and exciting items that were exclusively female. Thanks to my visits to the shops, as the weeks of my boyhood went by I would gradually get more familiar with the vocabulary of hosiery: Scanning and learning about the different sizes and styles, learning the words and brand names which were new to me then but are second nature to me now:
Denier, Sheer, Control-Top, Firm-Support, Light-Support, Sandal-Toe, Sheer-To-Waist, Hold-Ups, Stockings and, eventually, Opaques. Then, the brands... Pretty Polly, Aristoc, Kaiser, Bear Brand, Christian Dior, Wolford, Jonelle, Fogal.
I would know all of these and fully understand them before I was ten years old. How many other boys knew about this, and how many girls knew, for that matter! I did know, and I wanted to know even more! The larger clothing stores in the middle of town also afforded me a glance into this exotic, feminine world that I secretly craved to to be admitted to.
I genuinely used to sit and imagine scenarios whereby I would be allowed to try on and try some tights for myself, so desperate was I to experience them. I must have prayed and wished to wear tights every day from the age of six or seven onwards - right through my teenage years. As a young boy, lying in bed at night, I imagined fancy dress parties where I’d have to wear tights as part of my costume - or school plays where I’d be forced to put on tights like so many of my classmates had before - much to my envy. I also devised many elaborate scenarios that would allow me to wear some tights without any shame - including one where I was forced to wear a pair home from school by my teacher, as I’ve described in an earlier post on the 7th June 2012.
Another elaborate fantasy (one of my favourites) saw me left for a couple of hours alone with a dressing-up box full of tights and female clothes at an imaginary friends’ or relatives’ house. In the fantasy, the family whom we were visiting just happened to have a daughter the same age and build as myself - seemingly with a similarly extravagant tights obsession of her own! This meant that I’d be left alone in her room to play whilst she was out for the day, and, without anyone’s knowledge, I could open and wear anything I wanted to from her treasure chest of a dressing-up box. In my mind, I’d get the chance to let all of my dreams come true.
I’d be a rabbit, a bumble bee, a cat, a princess, a schoolgirl, an angel, a ballerina or a fairy - in each case dressed in tights, leotards a tutu or anything else to complete the outfit whilst my mother and father chatted downstairs oblivious to my cross-dressing indulgences. The fantasy always allowed me to try everything I’d ever been curious about on - before pulling my jeans and jumper back on and going back downstairs. The dressing-up box was safely filled again and the relatives none the wiser as I emerged from the girl’s bedroom. It was a perfect scenario without any risk or shame - being tucked inside my head.
“Did you have a nice time playing upstairs? Jessica’s got some lovely toys up there hasn’t she, she wouldn’t mind you playing with any of them. I must say you’ve been very quiet! Have you been having fun?”
“Oh yes thank you - I’ve had a brilliant time. Can we come again please mum?”
Whilst shopping with my mother I would often be led close to, or even next to the hosiery aisles in the clothing stores in town, and I absolutely loved it when she would linger in the vicinity of the tights. That was my chance to feign boredom, but secretly fix my eyes and feast upon the displays and packaging - rows and rows of cellophane wrapped packets of tights and plastic mannequin legs sheathed in the latest styles and colours of tights on sale. This was more exciting than any toy or sweet shop. The frisson was increased by the fact that I knew my obsession had to be nameless and kept concealed, and this added to my frustration and the mystique of my beloved, unobtainable tights even more.
My ‘tights antennae’ were incredibly sensitive then as they still are now - I could pick out the word tights (or other exciting feminine words like leotards and swimsuits) mentioned in conversations at school like nothing else, with far more effort and interest than I ever managed about football or films, toys and games. There were occasions when I flushed with excitement and giddy jealousy in a school corridor at the words being said around me. I heard my female classmates casually remark that they were wearing their new tights that day because their mum had bought some last weekend, or, that they’d brought their new red leotard into school to wear for aerobics in PE class because it looked better with her black dance tights that they already had. Whenever I heard tights being mentioned or shown, my heart started pounding, my excitement rose, and later, once puberty had started to make its impression I would become aroused too.
Wherever I came across tights I’d be fascinated and drawn to them, in as much as I could be, as a boy. I remember being absolutely obsessed at one point in my teens over a Pretty Polly television advert. It featured a beautiful girl in a vintage open-top Jaguar driving through the countryside. We were treated to a close up of her smooth black legs emerging from the tailored hemline of her immaculate short skirt - she was wearing ‘tights’ of course - only for her car to then break down. The bonnet now up - she leans over and inspects the engine. We then see her remove one of her stockings and use it as a replacement fan belt - showing the potential strength of these delicate objects as well as their cosmetic appeal.
I’ll talk more about the advert and others like it in a later post, but it stuck with me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I loved the opening shot of her legs poking so beautifully from her skirt. It was one of my first lustful pangs as my adolescent hormones began to make themselves felt. I was very attracted to her but also incredibly jealous and curious. How on earth must it feel to wear tights and a skirt like that, never mind in an open top car on a sunny day?
I also recall a feeling of disappointment that her ‘tights’ turned out to be stockings. I do like stocking very much and have tried them with suspenders and as hold-ups on many occasions, but they don’t hold the same magnetic allure of tights, and I was sad to see that the lady in the advert wasn’t wearing tights - because I definitely would have worn them myself, had I only had the chance.
Back in the 1980s, in order to see the advert again I would watch hours of commercial TV and use the VCR to record endless unnecessary comedy and quiz shows with the hope of capturing the Pretty Polly advert. I did eventually succeeded, but it was a bittersweet experience as I only had the chance to watch it back, alone, on a two occasions before the tape was ‘blanked off’ by my parents. Still, thanks to Youtube, I can watch it as many times as I like now - although I do still have a dusty VHS tape in my garage that has a whole number of slightly different tights advert on it dating back to 1988!
On a similar topic, I once unintentionally uncovered a college friend’s fetish whilst in my final year at university - thanks to a stray VHS tape. I‘ve never mentioned this to anyone before, and subsequent Internet research has shown me that his obsession was not as unusual as it seemed to me at the time.
One evening back in 1993, I was living with four other boys in a rather grubby student house. I was trying to find a film that I’d recorded a few days earlier, and was going through a pile of unlabelled, black cassettes by the side of the TV. (You remember those, I’m sure.) I’d tried one or two unsuccessfully, and had done the usual thing of ejecting them and putting them on the other side of the TV to eliminate them from the search, when I came across something unexpected on screen.
Instead of it being a film or music programme, or even a very poor quality porn movie that always lay with the other tapes, I found footage of an old TV show where contestants were being covered in gunge. I was about to fast-forward to see if anything else was recorded, but after a moment the tape shuddered, and a nearly identical clip appeared - a clip from the same old Saturday evening game show where the contestants were trapped in a glass booth and showered in slimy gunge. I thought this was a bit odd, and then a second later, footage appeared from another old kids’ show of a girl being hit in the face with a custard pie. The clip was repeated over and over, so that two minutes of tape went by with the same clip being repeated - of the girl being hit again and again. My quick visual fast-forward and rewind search through the tape made a pattern emerge. For minute after minute, clips of girls being hit by pies, thrown into water, covered in gunge and so on came on the screen. It was clearly a rather rough compilation of similar material. At the time I thought this was strange, and so I put the tape aside and resolved to ask about it later. These days there are dozens of websites devoted to these messy fetishes, and I have stumbled upon them at some points before, but back then this seemed rather peculiar.
One of my housemates, Chris, admitted that it was his tape later that night. He seemed quite unembarrassed and said that he loved seeing girls being made messy - so much so that he collected video clips and had even sent off for some compilation tapes. I quizzed him a little about this, and he reassured me that the thrill was seeing the womens’ humiliation but not seeing them in any pain. (That so makes it ok!)
Needless to say that I didn’t mention my own fetish, but it struck a nerve when he told his story, and said that he’d felt excited about seeing custard pies since a very early age, and his fascination had never gone away. He’d even been told off by his parents for being glued to Saturday morning TV. Rather than go out and play in the fresh air he’s been glued to the screen in the hope of seeing something exciting - for him this meant a girl being hit by a pie or covered in custard. It all seemed a bit close to the bone, since I could recall doing exactly the same thing - spending hours hoping to see the sexy advert for Pretty Polly, and spending even longer fantasising about being the lady in the commercial - hardly something normal for teenage boy.
So, whilst I’d seen custard pies hundreds of times on TV and in commercials, they’d never raised anything except a chuckle from me - for Chris - they’d been his tights equivalent. I empathised and imagined his ‘pie-antennae’. Whereas mine were set to focus on tights and transvestism, his were set for other things. If he’d been in in the department store on the afternoon described below, he might well have tuned out of the conversation between the good looking woman and her daughter. For me though, my ears pricked up, my heart began to pound and my eyes couldn't leave them for a second. I was about to be in exactly the right place at the right time and I lived off this experience for weeks. Here’s what happened...
The hosiery department had three rows of products lined up on display, meaning that there were two aisles you could stroll down and see nothing but heaven all around. The tights and stockings were all presented in cellophane packets, as such they were all lined up in neat rows and tiers, so that the five or six different variations of sizes or colours could be presented in neat, vertical columns. Tights are still presented in much the same way in most high end stores today, although it’s more common for opaques to be wrapped in cardboard wallets and hung, rather than blister-wrapped like the tights always were back then.
This day was in April or May - I remember clearly it being springtime because the weather would have a bearing on the conversation I was about to overhear. Whilst I had been to the shop once or twice in the past few weeks, I had last had a good look at the tights close to Christmas time, thanks to my mother doing some gift shopping on the ground floor in December. Whilst we’d been around the perfume, gifts and handbags - shopping for aunts and elderly relatives, I’d managed a good few minutes of secret gawping at the wonderful display of tights being lined up for the party season. Time was short on that previous visit however, and the store was busy and so my sightlines from a distance were blocked for most of the visit. We’d also been moving around the store too quickly to really get a proper look, or at least a proper look that didn’t make it evident that I was visually browsing the womens‘ tights.
Despite the lack of a proper opportunity to look properly, my eyes were drawn again and again to some large black and white packets of Christian Dior tights - they were black sheers with sparkly, Christmassy glitter shot through them. They’d been promoted to the head of wintry display for obvious reasons, and I felt a pang of longing and curiosity. Just imagine if I’d only been going to a party that Christmas as a girl, I’d have been able to chose a lovely black dress and team it with the sparkly tights. Just what would they feel like on your legs - taught nylon and glittery flecks against your skin?
That spring day the glitter tights had gone, and a range of neutral shades and sheers had taken their place on the top of the display racks. For once, I had a little time alone waiting to meet my parents and so I’d made my way to the lower floor to get a proper look at tights - all from a safe, discreet distance of course. Later, in my early twenties, I would gather more courage and actively browse the hosiery aisles of high street stores and supermarkets for myself when I was feeling particularly obsessed or hungry for my feminine fix of nylon. I was surprised once I’d actually done this for ten minutes or so how easy it was once you’d calmed down. I was occasionally noted by other female shoppers with a quizzical or disapproving eye, or even grinned at or given a conspiratorial wink or smile by a lady on one or two occasions - I loved it when that happened! Mostly however, I was ignored - just as nearly all women would be ignored if they were browsing the rows of socks in the men’s section of the store.
At 15 years old though I was mortified by fear of being caught, and so I had worked out ways of looking at the tights from a safe distance, I’d pretend to be browsing at cards or gifts, but in reality my eyes would flash upwards to scan and luxuriate in the the rows and rows ow of wonderful tights. God, how I adored the photos on the packets - dozens of gorgeous female legs sheathed into every shape and form of nylon your could imagine. Sometimes you saw then entire lady - usually curled in such as way as the emphasise her legs, whilst many packets cropped the images to reveal the tights by themselves, or perhaps a shapely pair of legs in some heels, or perched on dressing table stool. They were all sensuous and seductive, and I would have loved to have spent hours going through them all myself, reading every detail on the packaging and memorising it.
I couldn’t go up to the tights myself yet, but I did manage to find a brilliant spot close by where I could see as much of the first aisle as I wanted. After a few moments, a girl of about 14 or 15 - clearly the same age as myself (although I didn’t recognise her) came into the aisle. I can just about remember her now. She wasn’t very tall, but was head-turningly pretty with shoulder length curly blonde hair. She was wearing a pastel green Benetton sweatshirt and tight blue jeans with white Reeboks, (trust me - this was the epitome of cute, feminine casual in 1987 - remember Marty McFly's girlfriend Jennifer in Back To The Future?) and I was in love with her before I’d come to the realisation that she was browsing the tights for herself. My pace quickened, my face burned and I tried to make myself look as natural as possible whilst not wanting to release my eyes from her for a second.
No more than a minute later, her mother appeared and the two stood together in front of the hosiery displays. I couldn’t yet hear what they were saying, but the occasional pointed finger and the heads moving slightly told me that they were in discussion about the tights - choosing them together. I was now not only transfixed, I was flushed with excitement and I was soon as hard a bone, involuntarily erect like I’d never experienced before.
The girl’s mother was good looking as well - taller than her daughter by two or three inches and wearing a light coloured flowery dress with matching court shoes - with sheer tights underneath. After a moment or two more they moved closer and turned around the end of the aisle so that they were now six feet or so closer to me. Without making it too obvious, I shifted my own position and strained to hear what was being said as I raised my eyes to see them at closer range. The two lovelies seemed the absolute epitome of beauty, femininity and sexiness to me - wonderful looking pretty females smiling and chatting to each other naturally. They alone would have made my day, but the fact they they were looking at tights intensified the experience a thousand times over.
Once I’d tuned in to their speech through the background noise of the store, the experience would become even more overwhelming. Whilst this is of course a paraphrased version of the conversation I heard, this is pretty much what I heard the mum and daughter say as they chatted in front of the tights that day. The mum was leading the conversation...
- Yes, we must get you some more for school and the weekend. All your school tights are looking a bit tired and they’re too young for you as well. The navy blue ones are here... look - there are the small ones - see if there’s a multi-pack.
- These are thinner than mine - these aren’t school tights, they’re real tights. Is it ok for me to wear these to school now?
- Yes ... you’re old enough to wear sheer tights now for school instead of woollen ones - Look .. 15 denier are normal tights ... sheer ones like like mine (gestures towards her shins)
- Yeah - I know - I had some black ones last year, remember? The black ones I wore last year - they laddered on my knee straight away they were so thin.
- Yes you’ll have to be careful, they’re a lot easier to ladder - I spend half my life watching for chair legs and filing cabinets so that my tights don’t run halfway through my day. You should take a spare pair about with you so you don’t end up looking like a tramp. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone in laddered tights. I always have some in my bag just in case. Thinner tights will be better now that it’s getting warmer too.
- Shall I get this pack of three? They’re blue, size small...
- Yes - get the Pretty Polly ones, they’ll last longer than the cheap ones. Ohh, look at these - they’re those summer tights - they’re brilliant. I’ll have to get some for you as well, Jasmine. Last summer, remember your father and I went to his office garden party and I wore my peach dress? Remember?
- I love that dress. Could I borrow it?
- For Jane's wedding, yes you can. But last year, it was threatening to be a burning day and I didn’t want to be too hot, but I I needed to look nice and so I wore these tights with it after all. They were brilliant. Lots of the other wives had gone bare legged and once the sun went it they all looked so pale. I was so glad to be wearing tights when it got colder and we had a huge walk across the car park and down the drive to get to the marquee. My feet would have bled to death without my tights as well, I was so pleased to have them on..
- I love wearing tights too. Can I get some more ... l like these.
- Yes, those look fine. Choose some more and then we’ll go.
My ears burned, my face flushed and my mind ran into overdrive. I was so excited and aroused to have heard the mother and daughter speak in such a natural way about tights. I played their words over and over again in my head, and for days the words and the memory of the two females browsing all of those wonderful tights in the store didn’t leave my head.
I remember being incredibly envious as well - I fantasised about being the mother in her peach dress and sheer tights - enjoying the coverage on a tepid summer afternoon wearing heels all day. I imagined myself as the lovely blonde daughter, pulling some smooth blue Pretty Polly tights on each morning for school, instead of my socks and shoes. I fantasised about going to Jane's wedding (whoever she was!), pulling on some this legendary peach dress after slipping into my neutral, sun-kissed sheer tights.
I ended up sneaking up to my room and wearing a pair of my own 15 denier navy blue tights for hours - wearing them in bed with a tee shirt, feeling my arousal return again and again. It was certainly quite an afternoon's shopping.