I roll my shoulders slightly forward to release the tension on the spaghetti straps and reflexively unsnap my bra, slipping it from my shoulders. I note Oma’s approval as she hands me a fifty-year-old piece of silk. It slides down over my forearms, down the insides of my toned upper arms, and down the swell of my breasts, where it’s hem deliciously lingers, trapped by my nipples. Gravity carries its delicate lace hemline over the tips as the fabric falls to its full length with a whoosh!
“Oh!” I exclaim, caught off-guard by the thrill.
Oma laughs, a laugh like wind-chimes in a summer’s breeze, “yes, my dear, it is silk, really fine silk, and you will have to get used to enjoying that feeling without giving any outward appearance that you are enjoying that feeling.”
Oma, my Oma.
“The panties, Oma?” A simple question but one which diminishes me and magnifies my Oma.
“They, my dear…” Oma is behind me now, her hands are on my bare shoulders, her fingertips barely touching my bare skin as they move down the center of my back, across my shoulder-blades, down my sides, down the turn of my hips, to rest on my pelvis… “They, my dear, are immaterial if you are going to wear a full slip. Choose one of two, either bra and panties with a camisole or a full slip with whatever panties make you feel comfortable, confident, in control.” She pulls me to her from behind, the soft skin of her arms pulling me into her safe and warm embrace as her strong hands cross and rest on my tummy.
It is a lingering embrace, a lovely, lingering embrace.
Her chest is leaning against my back as she stretches to whisper “nothing is quite so exciting to a man as your confidence. You exude the sensuality you feel and control. Do not tease yourself more than you can contain. I find that the silk is enough. Do you?” I nod, my eyes closed, “yes, Oma, it is enough.”
She releases me, spell broken.
I feel her sliding her dress up my right arm. I reach back and slide my left arm into the sleave so that Oma can pull it up over my shoulders.
Oma leaves me there. I reach to begin buttoning. “No, my dear, wait a moment.” She sits on her bed, folding her right knee over her left, dangling a two-inch heel, letting it sway mesmerizingly back and forth in the brightly lit room. “Take a moment to smooth the silk before you button… Slow, in control, confident.”
I close my eyes, placing my hands on my breasts, at the collar of Oma’s slip. Beneath my fingertips, that flawless silk lace and its accompanying solid fabric. I instinctively pull my long, thin fingers back, arching my hands so that only my upper palms rub my hard nipples as I smooth the silk across my chest. Oh, that momentary delight!
My hands slide down to my rib cage, down across my tummy, down the turns to my hips, down my hips to my upper thighs.
Oma nods approvingly. I do not need to see her to know this. Fifty years before, she was me. She stood before her Oma, being coached on the art of the hunt, building on the groundwork laid down since she was a little girl, all of it culminating in a fifty-year marriage to my Opa.
“Now, the buttons.” I reach for the top one, immediately recognizing my error. My eyes fly open, but she is smiling warmly, amused by the mistake and my reaction, her right eyebrow raised in a question. We need say nothing for me to know. My fingertips skip that button, and the next, resting on the third.
Oma nods approvingly.
One by one, I button Oma’s dress, my dress, pulling it up a little to reach the last two. I gather the cotton together with the cloth belt, buckling it into its delicate silver.
“How tight, Oma?”
She stands, crossing the short space to me atop her heels like a trapeze artist. Would I ever be as graceful as she is, perched daringly above the abyss?
Her fingertips are between my belt and my hips.
“No, that is right, just enough to pull the fabric above tight but not so much as to make you uncomfortable, my dear.”
Oma takes my left hand in hers and leads me to the bed. We sit, me beside her as she hands me her heels.
“They go with this dress” is her simple statement. Seeing my apprehension, she continues “yes, I know, but there is no presentation quite like that of a young woman in heels.” I slip them on, crisscrossing my legs as I buckle each. Oma places her hand on my knee and gives it a little push so that my thighs are pressed closely together, my right over my left.
“Let me show you something…” her practiced fingers slipping across my knee to the hem and then up to the bottom button. “Open two buttons if you expect to be sitting in a place you can be seen and keep them closed if you expect to be standing more of the time.”
Oma slips two buttons from their sheaths, sharpening my claws.
“See how the cotton drapes from your knee now, revealing more of your calf.”
“Stockings, Oma?”
She smiles. “Outside, in the warm sun?”
Confidence is born of the confluence of comfort and daring, revealing and withholding what we wish.
“Let your routine be your stockings. If you wear them, wear them daringly.”
I can feel him enter the room, feel him searching for me. I can see in Oma’s eyes that he is beside the pocket doors somewhere on my left. I resist the urge to acknowledge it, the slightest Oma glance confirms that I am right to ignore him, to let him search for me in the crowded room.
His voice is perfect, calm but having an impatient undertone as he is greeted. He is courteous but not looking for any of the pleasantries which are so necessary in times like these. He wants me, needs to see me, breathe me in, ravish me and I want him to want this, to need this as well.
I feel my beautiful boy’s eyes upon me. He is drinking in a vision of me. I hear his footfalls, his clumsy tread from hardwood to carpet… three strides… He is behind my chair. I admit to having to quiet my heart and restrain myself from looking around.
“Miss Emily… It’s great to see you!” as I turn, he gives courteous greeting to Oma, but his eyes barely leave me for her. Our eyes meet. I take him in in one glance. The JC Penny white shirt fits him well and the blue blazer does not, bought to be a little too large so that he won’t have to buy another as his shoulders do their final filling out. Khaki pants, brown shoes, clumsily polished over the laces, all draped over powerful shoulders, arms, and back.
He looks like his daddy, a good man.
“Could I trouble you to keep Emily company while I catch up with someone, Bobby” Oma intones.
He could not have agreed or sat more quickly.
Bobby is leaning in to me, his eyes fixed on my face. I reach out with my left hand and gently touch his folded hands, a practiced gesture that elicits a reflexive, bold response as he opens his hand and his palm to clasp mine. His hands are rough, calloused, grease and dirt permanently embedded in them. No matter how much he should wash them, the will never been truly clean.
I lean back, taking Bobby’s hand with me, resting his downward facing palm on my upward facing palm, on my bare knee. Oh, the joy of catching that flutter of uncertainty and desire in him as I do so.