In The Game, or Of It

An excerpt from the diary of Damian Weekes

YOU would have thought that with total freedom from boring work, and all day to wander round town seeking ways to gratify my fetish, the sightings would have multiplied beyond the dreams of avarice. Not a bit of it!

Oops! Perhaps I'm going a bit fast here. Maybe you don't know who the heck I am, or have never seen the excerpts from my memoirs that occasionally appear on these pages. And therefore, the paragraph above will appear to be little better than gibberish! Well OK...

My name is Damian Weekes, and (symbolically enough) shortly before my 21st birthday, I discovered that I possessed a certain power. Well, I say discovered... I had known I had it for more than a decade, but never quite had the courage to put in into practice. It wasn't until I was suffused with anger, at what I considered somewhat cavalier treatment from my former employers, that I overcame my natural hesitation and decided to use it. Some of you will know that this resulted in not only the loss of my virginity, but also one of the best gratifications of my particular fetish that had ever come my way.

As to my fetish. Well, let's say that despite the marvels of modern science, that had managed to put a PC in every den, a CD player in every car and a mobile phone on every hip pocket, they have yet to invent... how can I put this, and please do correct me if I'm wrong ladies... a pair of pantyhose, thigh-highs or stockings that can be guaranteed to stay in place for a full day's bending, stretching and walking! And it is this lamentable failure on the part of modern manufacturers that gives me my delight, my libido and my joy!

No doubt a psychoanalyst... if I had the money to afford one... would ponder long and loud over the origins of this perversion. Could it be, he would wonder, the attention that a series of wrinkles draws to the calves, knees or ankles? The sense of vulnerability that sagging hosiery imparts to the most confident of women? The latent race-memory of silk stockings from the eighteenth century? Or did I experience my first orgasm while watching a doting aunt, mother or nurse repair the damage that gravity had wrought to her cheap nylons?

But, (in most cases) you probably aren't an analyst... and you're reading this, for reasons best known to yourselves, in order to hear about what I did to gratify my fetish. For you are no doubt thinking (as I did, waking from my slumber the Monday after my last day ever as a retail assistant) that a man with a wrinkled-pantyhose fetish, the ability to hypnotises any women he wishes, and freedom to do as he chooses all day would spend the rest of his waking life in an orgy of twisted Lycra, baggy nylon and exposed control-top.

But again... not a bit of it, though it wasn't for the want of trying.

It didn't take long for the truth to sink home.

For you see, gentle reader, there is one obvious truth about my unusual taste. Unlike, say, a leather-freak, an admirer or large breasts or a BDSM aficionado, my fetish, by its very nature is one that relies upon something going wrong!

Let me put it more simply... you will, if you seek long and hard enough, find a lady (or gentleman) willing to put on a frogman's outfit, bathe in a vat of baked beans or give you an enema. But no woman, (at least, I have yet to meet an exception) actually wants her pantyhose to creep down. In fact, from Elizabeth the First onwards (There's documentary evidence for this, by the way) to the present day, women have fought long and hard to avoid such an aberration.

So even if a woman should be unfortunate enough to be experiencing this delightful manifestation of the laws of entropy and gravity, she will do all that she can to correct the situation. Even if she has fought a day-long battle with her hosiery, for me to get lucky relies upon me encountering her during that delightful temporal sweet spot between her hose having been pulled up the last time and enough downward creep having occurred for her to decide another adjustment cannot be delayed any longer.

The number of pairs of legs I must have looked at (and believe me, I looked at many) which, had I but seen them a half-hour before would have displayed bagging at the knees or ankles, and had I the means to follow them around would undoubtedly have revealed the same a further half-hour after I had encountered them made me weep. The following around was not an option of course... apart from the danger of the woman in question taking offence, there was no way of knowing which particular women was suffering the problem.

And it was while lying on my bed one evening, Red Hot Chile Peppers on the stereo and a box of the Colonel's finest by my side, that I began to curse my power. Since the incident with Amanda, I had had no success at all, and it was worse, I felt, to have never had the power than to have it, but never have the chance to put it to any use.

"I'd gladly swap it," I said, out loud, (Not that I'm giving to talking to myself as a rule, but frustration does funny things) for telekinesis. Or a magic gun that zaps elastic! Or X-Ray vision... the things that women must be doing behind the closed doors of a washroom or elevator, and which I, by my gender, was totally barred from observing, made me weep. If only my local town would take a leaf from "Ally McBeal"!

"Wish I had X-Ray vision" I sung along, to the sounds of "Californication", a little muffled since I had my mouth around a drumstick of Hot'n'Spicy at the time. And this gave rise to a delightful fantasy of me, standing outside the door of a public bathroom, while inside, blissfully assuming that she was unobserved, Jennifer Jason Leigh was tugging at a saggy pair of nylons, pivoting to check herself in the full-length mirror set above the sinks, and cursing the invention of hosiery... and Jennifer was followed in quick succession by Jane Seymour, Jessica Lange, Kim Basinger and (for whatever my other faults I am no racist) Whoopie Goldberg.

I was, of course, a bit slow in those days. The many obvious answers (and I can hear you mumbling them to yourselves under your breath right now) did not occur to me... not until I had drifted into a troubled and frustrated slumber, and the delightful power of the subconscious had taken hold. But sleep is a wonderful thing, and by the time I had woken up the next morning, a solution to my problem was the very first thought that sprung into my head. And by the time I had drunk a quick coffee and hopped the bus into town, the details were almost complete.

All it took was the final refinements, which I was able to hone over an apple slice and a second cup of creamy coffee, taken in a restaurant exactly opposite the establishment that was to be the scene of my operations.

There was an obvious answer, you see, to the difficulty of me, a man, being barred from the female bathrooms. And no, it was not disguising myself as a woman (if it were, these memoirs would be being published on a very different website... try Suzie's Transformation forum, if you're interested). Nor did it rely upon me drilling a glory-hole for myself. Too risky.

This was far safer, and simpler.

If the mountain would not go to Mohammed... or, dispensing with metaphor, if I could not go where women went to adjust their nylons... then the women who needed to adjust their nylons would have to be induced to come to me. Or somewhere that I could go. Discretely hidden away, of course, so that I could see without being seen. And where I was perfectly within my right to be.

Eager to put my newly conceived plan into operation, I drained the last dregs of my coffee and made my way out of the restaurant, dodging cars as I scurried across the road outside.

*****

There must be few less attractive callings in life than that of a security guard. Hated by all, forced to remain at a desk all day, in an outfit with all the disadvantages of a uniform and none of the prestige, and, worst of all, having to act as an information board for those too stupid or lazy to refer to the less animate version riveted to the wall opposite your desk. But it was the last clause which, of course, made it possible for me to carry out this project.

His name, a tag pinned to the pocket of his shirt informed me, was Charlie. His manner, I soon learned, was sullen and arrogant (Not, I must say, a universal property of such... I have met many who are friendly and helpful,) and his intelligence, I was pleased to see, was average or above. For some reason, I have always found, stupid people are amazingly difficult to hypnotise. No such problems with Charlie.

I was, of course, forced to interrupt my routine twice as new entrants to the building passed by, for me to be caught in the act might be as disastrous as a woman caught adjusting her hose... but within ten minutes after enquiring the location of an office that I knew damn well to be on the seventh floor (at the same time casually removing my wristwatch), I had him under, and was able to test that he wasn't, for some reason known only to himself, faking, by having him remove a fifty pound bill from his pocket and handing it over to me.

I returned it, by the way, for he had done me no harm. In fact he was about to be of considerable assistance.

It was a simple enough thing I asked him to do. Simply, in answer to the relevant enquiry, to inform the querent that the female washroom was out of order, and that, as compensation, the men's was at their disposal. Had the situations been reversed, this would have caused some inconvenience, for as my male readers will know, one does not always want the bother of locking oneself into a cubicle to perform one's duty. But, lack of sanitary-equipment dispensers apart, a woman is perfectly able to make use of a men's washroom, with no ill effects.

He then, at my command, wrote out a notice to this effect in his own rather spidery handwriting, and pinned it to the door of the ladies washroom. And, as a final touch, he was instructed to forget he had ever seen me, for I planned to be closeted for a long time, and had no wish for him, with the best of intentions, to come looking for me thinking I had suffered a fatal blackout as the hours passed and I did not emerge!

Within fifteen minutes after entering the building, I had secreted myself away inside a cubicle carefully selected to give myself, by means of the crack between the door and the wall, the best view of the area outside. I chuckled to myself with delight... for here I was, a sleazy voyeur, yet practising my calling with total impunity... for I had every right to be in a men's washroom, after all. With a broad smile, I settled down to await events.

*****

Two hours later I was ready to give up.

I had deliberately selected this particular establishment as one with a small (if I may use this expression) customer-base! A genuinely public establishment, while receiving as far greater volume of traffic, would be of little use to me, as at any given moment it would contain one or more members of my own gender - which would not encourage the female visitors to do what I wanted to watch them doing. I needed a washroom where the visitors would be widely spaced apart, ten minutes or more between them.

Well, in this respect I certainly got my wish. And more! Either the inhabitants of my city possessed particularly strong bladders, or the inhabitants of the building had set up a force shield, for in the two hours, I had not made a single sighting!

Man after man had come in, used the troughs, and departed. There had been, in the whole time, ten or so women, three of whom had been too ugly to bother with, and rest of which, while fixing their hair, touching up their make up and in one instance tugging down the jacket of her suit at the mirror (and so starved of excitement was I that I even allowed myself a little frisson of delight over this) had not so much as looked down at their legs. Most of them, I reasoned, if their errant nylons did need correcting, would take the opportunity to empty their bowels and/or bladders at the same time, and perform the necessary adjustment in the cubicle. What I needed was a woman who came in just to fix her hose!

I had got as far as undoing the bolt on the door to leave, when I heard the unmistakable tap tap of heels on the concrete floor. For some reason (though it would have been perfectly OK to do so) I did not wish to be seen, and quickly refastened the bolt and stayed put.

And I am glad I did!

For one thing, she was gorgeous in her own right! Slightly plump, perhaps, and not as tall as I would have liked, but with cascading red-gold hair that went well with her Pre-Raphaelite appearance. And she was well-dressed too, in a tight green suit with gold buttons and tan hose, high heeled shoes and carrying a handbag that matched the suit. A lovely touch.

Upon entering, she made no move to enter a cubicle, but went straight to the mirror where she began to primp, retouching her make up, fluffing out her hair, and flicking (I assume) mascara-residue from her lashes. It was what she did next that made me gasp.

After a quick look round (for this was, after all, a place where men might enter) she bent and began to pull up the hem of her skirt. My breathing stilled. By wriggling her large hips, and gathering the fabric of the garment, she managed to bunch it up to a level almost to her waist.

I strained my eyes. What on earth was she wearing? It looked as if she had tied some sort of sash around her waist, under her clothes.

Was she pretending to be pregnant, I wondered, in order to con a few months' maternity leave out of her employers? Was it a particularly feminine form of money-belt? A concealed weapon?

Whatever it was, it was black, and trimmed with lace, and sitting well above her buttocks, to reveal a pair of lacy, cream-coloured panties that were wrinkled and folded enticingly under her taut pantyhose. So well had my vision adapted to the muted lighting conditions within the washroom that I had no difficulty in seeing the dark seam of her hose curving between her buttocks, or the reading the writing on the sticking-up tag of her panties.

As I watched, she grabbed the black mass of nylon and began to wriggle it downwards, gyrating those beautiful hips from side to side, an annoyed expression (reflected, of course, in the mirror) on her face. She tugged and pivoted, lengthening and smoothing the material, which I could see now, of course, was a slip.

As she gradually pulled it back into line, her skirt dropped with it, resting on her hands, revealing less and less of the black slip as she went about her work. She was close to finishing, (and I was close to ejaculating in my pants) when there was the sound of more heel-tapping from the door, and my peach-cream Venus looked up almost guiltily as a tall blonde woman entered the washroom.

"You OK there Janet?" The newcomer asked, and "Janet" looked around, her face taking on an apologetic expression.

"It's this damn slip!" She moaned, continuing to wiggle and shift. "The stupid thing's been creeping up on me all morning! It's driving me mad!"

"Yes," agreed the newcomer. "Annoying, isn't it, when they do that!"

"And it happened at the meeting too," Janet continued, as she finished her exhibition and yanked down her skirt, smoothing it at the sides. "I'm sure Brian and Rick saw it all bunched up! It's so embarrassing!"

"Isn't there some sort of a spray you can get, to stop that happening?"

"I tried it. It doesn't work!"

I could see that Janet's face was flushed. She was, no doubt, embarrassed at having to admit her predicament, even to another woman.

"Static cling has got to be the curse of womankind," she wailed.

"That and slipping bra straps," the other woman laughed, and Janet dutifully joined in.

I added a tape recorder to the camera that I wished I had thought to bring with me! "What about sagging pantyhose?" I almost shouted, but managed to refrain myself.

*****

After that delightful little incident, I had to give things another half hour at least! And it was as if Janet had broken my drought, for shortly after I saw a sight that delighted me amazingly.

It was another short woman, but even more soignee than Janet, in her black sweater and expensive-looking leather skirt, and dark hose that emphasised her shapely legs. She had black hair, cut short, and a small pert nose that did something to reduce the almost frightening efficiency of the rest of her appearance.

As with Janet, she made no attempt to enter a cubicle, but instead headed straight for the mirror and began to touch up her lipstick, pouting into the mirror, making the sort of faces that will be familiar to any man that has watched a woman put on make-up.

After an inordinately long time (for I was terrified that someone else would come in before the lady had had a chance to do anything "private") she pivoted at the mirror, looking at the rear of her waist. As if coming to a sudden decision, she undid her zip and pulled the waistband of her skirt open.

I could see that her sweater must have become bunched around her middle, for she smoothed the excess material into her waistband, pushing it down with the flat of her hand, and looking up now and then at the door to ensure that no-one else entered the washroom. Finally, she refastened her zip and the rear clip of the skirt and lifted it up, diving up underneath it to grasp the hem of the now properly tucked in sweater and, with much gyrating of her hips, tugged it down until it was sitting tightly over her pert breasts.

Then, with her skirt still rucked around her waist, she bent and began to smooth her hose.

I drew breath, so loudly that I fear it must have been audible outside. This was what I had come to see.

The pantyhose were not, as far as I could make out, wrinkled, but I assumed she was a woman who regarded attention to fine detail as important, and she began to tug, pinching the material at her calves and tugging it upwards, following this action by smoothing along her legs with her hands, taking the material right up until it was almost at her crotch.

Under the pantyhose, she wore a skimpy set of black thong panties, more lace than material. She gave a final hike of the pantyhose, flipped down her skirt, picked up her bag and left the washroom, heels tapping. I punched the air in delight.

Perhaps I should have left then, while I was ahead.

But within a quarter hour of the last visitant (the boredom punctuated only by three men who came in to piss together and conducted a long elaborate conversation about the chances of some football team or other) there came a woman even more amazing than the last.

She was, I'd estimate, somewhere in her mid twenties. A blonde, of more or less average height, with the kind of "peaches and cream" complexion usually associated with upmarket British women, what were known at the time as "Sloane Rangers." Given that the heir to the British throne had recently married such a girl, the look was very much in fashion at the time, though this girl deviated from the "Sloane" look by having her hair in shingles rather than the pancake look such girls favoured, a "retro" variation much followed by Edenglassian girls at that period.

In fact, my first thought was that she looked more like the kind of girl one saw in old black and white movies. She was obviously going more for Lillian Harvey or Virginia Cherrill than Lady Spencer, if that means anything to you. The illusion was continued by her make up, with heavy mascara and Kohl around her eyes, lipstick slightly redder and brighter than late 20th century fashion really demanded, and a tight black dress, that folded and shimmered as she walked, clinging amazingly to her well-shaped legs. The hem sat about half way down her thigh, and it was perhaps more suited to a party than a business environment, but you can be sure I wasn't complaining!