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  A growing obsession for black tights
  
     "Hello."
     "Hello Mark, it's Andy, NO! Don't say anything.
  It's happened, I've had an affair. I just need to talk to
  you and for you to listen. I hate phones, I've always
  hated phones but I just couldn't bare to say any of this
  to someone face to face. I'd just start seeing Emma's
  face, or my son's. Oh God, my son. . . 
     It was the black tights which did it, I always
  knew they would. There is a point at which love makes
  itself known and the split second before is so close to
  obsession, so desperately close to something nasty and
  unnatural, it scares me. I'd begun to feel that way about
  the tights, they were the last thing I saw before I'd close
  my eyes at night. The girl in the driving range was sweet
  enough, she even asked me out for a drink. I was
  flattered but not tempted. It wasn't HER that I was
  attracted to, just her tights. How can two yards of nylon
  do this to a man. But then again, what sort of a man am
  I? A git. That was how I described myself, wasn't it?
     You were right, there must be something
  intensely gittish within me for doing this. Poor Stanley
  staring up at me, from his little shit-stinky cot, I can't
  say sorry, he can't even talk or understand to forgive.
     And Emma, how on earth can I tell her. My
  faithful wife, the mother of my child, the barer of all our
  woes. She'd divorce me on the spot and her father, my
  God, he'll hunt me down. Over every glass of Whiskey
  and every shared meal, you can see the glint, the hint of
  violence in his eyes. But her mother, her mother's
  worse, sort of like an embittered  version of the
  daughter. Years of violence, mental torture and mind
  numbing boredom have turned her into a kind of
  avenging angel. I'm just scared. I know.
  
     But back to the beginning, I hear you yearn,
  what have you DONE? Is there any way to cover this
  up, to salvage the situation? Well, Mark, I've thought
  about it. But a lifetime of this? A lifetime of wondering
  whether it'll creep out, whether I'll give the game away
  or whether the  object of my desire' will make herself
  known.
     The tights were causing friction at home. I'd
  nipped into M & S and bought a pair, lying to the
  assistant that they were for Emma. I slipped them on in
  the bathroom and pulled my trousers over the top. The
  tightness, the feel of hair pressed tight against my skin, it
  all did nothing. I don't know what I had been expecting.
  Some kind of transvestite thrill I suppose, but all I felt
  was ridiculous. I tore them off and slipped them into my
  pocket, realising that if Emma found them on me I
  would have some explaining to do. I dropped them into
  a bin outside work, with some sweet papers from the
  car.
     So it wasn't the tights themselves that I was
  attracted to, or the girl at the range. But the image of
  slender black covered legs persisted, compelled, began
  to dominate me and I started to feel like some modern
  day Masoch. A twisted pervert, often appears normal, I
  have found. Suddenly, with my mind thus distracted I
  found myself fitting in at work, accepted, praised and
  for the first time in my life a person that people wanted
  to get to know. There is a morbid fascination to
  watching a man self-destruct and I'm not sure if it was
  obvious or mere instinct that drew people towards me.
     Emma had become more lenient too, but all the
  time I knew that there was this danger, but I couldn't
  tell the form it would take. It will disappoint you when
  you hear how staggeringly typical and cliched was the
  form in which I fell.
  
     Blond hair, shoulder length, straight, blue eyes,
  long eyelashes, waif-like physique. A slender blue-eyed
  blond was my downfall, damn my lack of imagination.
  She walked into the office, for an appointment about the
  restructuring later in the year. We talked and she just
  laughed, such white, perfect teeth. She knew
  Worcestershire, had grown up there, and we talked and
  joked and even got some work done. There was
  something strange about our banter, it was as though
  she knew me already. I was talking in the same way and
  about the same things I'd tell you, or Emm. 
     It was late, we were the last people in the office.
  She rubbed her eyes delicately with her little fingers.
  Then, calling it a night, she wished me well and turned
  to leave. It was then that I noticed her legs, they were
  long, pale, clear and tightless.
  
     The next day she came in again, at quarter to
  seven in the evening, just as I was about to call it a day
  and lock up. She was wearing a buttoned up woolly
  coat, from which stretched those perfect legs, hidden by
  black tights.
  
     I have no idea how she knew, or if she knew.
  But we made love quickly and quietly. Afterwards I
  looked into her eyes and I knew that my marriage was
  over. This had been a mistake, but it was a mistake
  which wouldn't fade or go away.
  
     And now I wait, and every phonecall makes me
  jump, and cringe. My stomach churns and my digestion
  is shot. I feel like hot poisonous gas is building up
  within me and that there is no way for it to escape. I find
  myself watching Emma, watching for signs in me. I
  question her fidelity, Stanley's parentage, I lay the blame
  on my upbringing and I wait for my slip.
  
     What happened to the girl? I don't know. We
  didn't speak that day, or since. I've asked around but I
  don't want to call attention to myself. Always balancing
  and always about to fall. If Louise doesn't give me away
  then I know that I will.
  
     I've got to go now old boy. . . No, I meant what
  I said, DON'T talk. I can't talk about it yet. Pray for me
  Mark. No. . . pray for my son. Pray that it all happened
  in a dream and that tomorrow it will have passed. I need
  your help, but I don't know what you can do. But
  without help I don't think I'll get through.
  
  Goodbye."
  
  
©1999 Mark Sexton