I
"We are such stuff as dreams are made of..."
Prospero, from Shakespeare's The Tempest
Prospero was much more than a magician. He was a prophet.
In our dreams we invent ourselves, for all deeds and all desires are allowed. Dreams hurt no one, no one but the dreamer.
I begin this history to confess to you, my willing and understanding readers. Yet this memoir is also bent upon revelation. Revelation of the many rousing things in heaven and earth of which Hamlet's friend Horatio never dreamt. But I do dream of such things, and shall share them with the world!
I won't deny this is obsession. It is as compelling to me as eating or breathing. Some folks are connoisseurs of wine, or lovers of nature. My passion, no less enthusiastic, happens to be a woman's thighs. As a result of my... fervor, I have become a virtuoso. A gourmet.
Thighs are enticing, a fleshy edible delicacy, and just as we carefully arrange food on plates to whet the appetite, women dress to accentuate their succulent, sexy drumsticks. They wear high boots, short skirts, fishnet stockings...
And, thank heaven, they wear knee socks!
II
Do you remember when first you grappled with the magnetic and mouth-watering charm of thighs? I vividly recall my first stirring for the luscious legs of Carol Ann Antonio.
It happened when I was in the fifth grade at Holy Name, a Catholic grammar school. Those uniforms! God, who dreamed up those uniforms? For eight years you spend day upon day confined with young, blooming girls in short plaid skirts, stiff white blouses and, in our case, navy blue knee socks. All the colors of the rainbow, and the only visible skin is knee and thigh! For eight years nothing but knees and thighs... knees and thighs!
At first you hardly notice. Then somewhere along the way you find yourself stealing long, curious glances when the girls sit or (paradise!) bend over to retrieve a lost pencil. You suddenly find yourself lost in a forest of thighs and knees and navy blue socks, but you don't mind at all.
Carol Ann and I were working on a project for religion class. We were to present a short skit depicting the expulsion of Lucifer from heaven (don't think I haven't grasped the irony). Naturally, I was the fallen angel, while Carol Ann played my nemesis, Michael the Archangel. We practiced our performance over and over. She was quite the choreographer, so we had many moves to get straight. It was during these rehearsals that I felt the first tectonic shift in my feelings for my dusky haired, knee-socked partner.
At the climax of our short piece Michael was to hurl Lucifer to the ground, to dramatize his fall from grace. We were both determined to make it as authentic as possible. Carol Ann wanted me to struggle hard, and to fall even harder.
Fall I did.
As we praticed and pretended I began to relish the weight of her body on top of mine, the thickness of her hair as it fell forward and brushed my nose, and the warmth of her breath on my face. Best of all, during this ardent fight with my angelic tormenter my hands always ended up in the most heavenly places. Now, you must comprehend that she and I were mere children. We hadn't yet any conscious inclination toward sex or desire. Besides, we were inmates in a CATHOLIC school. Sensual drives were sinful and forbidden.
Nonetheless, when Carol Ann straddled my hips and I had my hands on her strong, tanned thighs, I knew there was something more to life. And to Carol Ann. There was racing blood, an odd shortness of breath, and the enduring heat of her legs above those dark blue stockings.
Always thighs – knees and thighs, knees and socks and thighs...
