Adjusting Amanda

An excerpt from the diary of Damian Weekes

WHAT turns me on? I'll put it as briefly as I can. It's a woman having trouble with her hosiery.

You must have seen them. The colleague at the business conference, who briefly turns her back to the assembled company to assume that peculiar, undignified and (to me anyway) amazingly sexy crouch whereupon they scrabble wildly at their waste, with a loud snap of resettled elastic, before turning guiltily back towards the meeting, with flushed cheeks. The peculiar gait known as 'the stocking two-step" where a woman a woman fiddles desperately to correct her errant hosiery, all the time trying to avoid giving the public the impression that she is masturbating. The superficially elegant lady who, as soon as she thinks she is unobserved, begins smoothing her hands along her thighs to take of the slack of sagging nylons, and avoid the dreaded "elephant knees".

Stocking trouble in all its many shades and echoes, combinations and parameters, is balm to my perverted soul. From concertinas at the ankles to the shuffling waddle that tells of a sliding pantyhose crotch, all of it sends me into a paroxysm of desire. Bags at the knees or folds at the ankles. The tugging of a short skirt to hide an inadvertent flash of control-top, the burrowing up under a skirt to refasten a snapped garter, the twisted stance as a seam is straightened. You can keep your blindfolds and whips, your leather and leopardskin, your tight jeans or your peekaboo bras. Give me a recalcitrant pair or nylons and Paradise is mine.

Like anyone, I think about my sexual fetish a lot. It forms the basis not only of my sexual gratification, but also functions by way of a hobby. I have, for example, a copy of nearly every pantyhose or stocking ad that has been shown on TV in the last four years (I didn't own my own VCR before then). My favourites are the ones that show the folly of wearing the opposition's product. The scowling face of the woman too parsimonious to purchase X's pantyhose (the brand being advertised), as she tugs at her loosely-nyloned legs. The growls of frustration as she observes a fast-spreading run. The apologetic grimace as she yanks on her hose at the snobbish garden-party. These facial expressions do more for me that the pouting, come-to-bed look of any Ribald centrefold. Of course, the ad agencies always making sure that the better looking of the women in the ad is wearing the "proper" brand, but you can't have everything.

And there's magazine ads too. Not only the modern ones in Cleo, Glamour, Cosmopolitan and even good old New Idea, (I don't have to buy them myself... thank heaven my sister, Kelli, hasn't moved out of home yet) but the older ones in dog-eared copies of publications from the sixties and seventies, that can still be found (and virtually given away) in second hand book shops and charity sales.

The best period for these ads is the time when pantyhose first came out, for in those days (here's some nylon lore for you - who says fetish-lit can't be educational) hose were extremely prone to cascading downwards. Lycra hadn't been invented. (And as a digression, for the rare lady who might be reading, Lycra hasn't fixed the problem entirely either... fit and quality are still what determine whether or not you're going to get nylons that stay put) and, in those pre-feminist days, looks counted even more than they do now.

And then there's movies. "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof" (with Liz Taylor in a scene that would be forever engraved upon my memory, even if I didn't have it on video), "The Graduate", "Heat and Dust" (a much neglected one, this last), and more than one sitcom features a girl giving the occasional smooth to her nylons when performing that all-important last minute preening before meeting her date. There's a very good episode of "Frasier" where Roz hauls her hose up at the waist, and the fact that it doesn't contribute to the plot in any way makes me suggest that the director of that series is a kindred spirit.

My point is, the tracking down of all these, the way that I have carefully catalogued them, edited out the superfluous bits, arranged them so that they are artfully grouped, all the waist-hitches at one end, the smoothing of legs another, has given me as many hours of pleasure as the philatelist rearranging his stamps, the numismatist with his coins or the gambler with his systems and form guides. Add to these my six scrapbooks full of hosiery ads, (all carefully mounted with old-style stamp hinges), my meticulously kept diaries recording the observations of women seen hitching up their hosiery (even, I blush to admit, Kelli's difficulties get recorded here), my computer hard-drive full of downloaded pictures and my index of great stocking scenes from literature, and you will see why rainy days hold no terror for me.

On the contrary, sometimes I think that the learned essays and discussions I hold with myself within my head during the long nights (is fit or quality more important in avoiding sag? Will stockings with garters ever return to the mainstream. Can a long-leg girdle prevent pantyhose from falling?) are as interesting to me as the actual visual stimulation.

There's nothing like a good obsession for passing the time!

It occurs to me that I have spent a disproportionate amount of time on these meandering thoughts, but there is a reason, apart from the enjoyment it has given me. You see, my... What should I call it? My ability? Power? Talent? Well, the thing I do... is a direct result of over a decade steeped in all facets of brooding over, cogitating upon and celebrating the phenomena of unruly nylons. It is not only my main use of the ability, but also its source, a neatness not usually found in life.

It is an ability I had for many years before I dared use it, and which even after I dared, I never did much, because I deemed it unreliable. It wasn't until I realised just what conditions had to be met before its efficaciousness could be guaranteed that I felt secure enough to practise it in anger. And the way in which I first discovered this is as good a subject as any for this, the first excerpt from my memoirs.

*****

It was my last day ever as a store clerk. I did not know at the time that it was my last day (or, no doubt, I would have been far happier), nor did I know that it was, in that much overworked phrase, the beginning of the rest of my life. All I did know was that it had not been a good day.

My morning trip on the bus, for example, had been barren. Normally, the long periods spent standing, with one had firmly gripping shopping bags or briefcases and the other hanging on for dear life to a roof-strap means that women have no means whatsoever to control their rebellious hosiery, (and the vibrations of a bus also mean that thigh-highs have to be particularly tenacious in their grip to stay in place), and I was often treated to an incident that would eventually find its way into my diary. A flash of control top, a set of saggy knees (sitting on bus seats also tends to encourage this), a discreet hitch that only a particularly observant or obsessive watcher (me, for example) would notice... Public transport is a wonderful thing.

But this morning, not so much as a single brief running of a hand along a thigh, a single crease on an ankle, or a tiny hole or run. In order to break the drought, which had lasted for over a week (this was a Friday, and the last significant disarrangement I had seen had been the Thursday of the week before, a plump middle aged woman yanking at her waist band) I had deliberately lingered on my way to work.

A woman that I had seen hastily duck into a shop doorway had raised my hopes (amongst other things) but discreet and careful observation had shown that she had only required a wind-shield, in order to light a cigarette. I had then followed a woman for five blocks, having seen her skirt lifted by the wind to reveal what I thought was a control-top only a few millimetres from her hem, hoping that time, skirt-ride and hose-sag would bring it into more than fleeting view, but the skirt had stayed stubbornly in place, and by the time she disappeared into an office building her modesty was as intact as when I had first seen her.

When arriving at work, I had deliberately spent time discussing trivia with Sarah, the office switch girl, who was known as a frequent battler with her hosiery (It's a fact. There are some girls that never have stocking problems, some that experience the phenomenon only briefly, and a sadly too rare group that seem to be unlucky all the time, and Sarah was one of the last named. Bet you can't guess which sort I'd like as a regular girlfriend!)

But today, even Sarah's pantyhose were determined to deny me my simple and harmless pleasure, and my quick glances down showed not a trace of disarrangement.

And then, all day, the customers' hose had proved similarly unco-operative. Or rather, too cooperative. I had deliberately lingered around women looking at displays, hoping that when they stood up after bending, their knees would betray the poor fit of their hose, but had had no luck at all. Even Zita, the manager of my section (who was at the more frequent end of the middle group of hose-trouble frequency) was wearing slacks.

So when I was summoned, just after lunch (which I had spent wandering town, desperately and fruitlessly seeking Nylonic imperfections) to the store's personnel office, I was already not in the best of moods.

It is not my intention to go through, in detail, the conversation that took place. That times were hard, that they were very sorry, that it was nothing personal.

If this were a movie, of course, the conversation, the sympathetic cliches, would be in the background, while a voice over in my own dulcet tones would be continuing the narrative. So indulge me, reader, and imagine the knell of the doom of my retail career sounding in the background, while I prepare the ground of what is about to come. And while Amanda, the personnel manager raves, I'll bring you up to date with the other thing you need to know. My talent.

*****

At the tender age of ten I had been taken to see a stage hypnotist billed as Simon DeVille. It was shortly before what Kelli and I refer to still as "the big D", and relations between my parents were strained. In fact it was probably because my mother disapproved of such entertainment that my father had insisted we go along.

I had, of course, no way of knowing that the ridiculous antics of De Ville's "victims" were carefully scripted and staged (at that time I even thought that professional wrestlers were performing actual sport, and used to wonder at Kelli's ability to predict the winner, even if it were a competitor that, at that time, was being beaten to a pulp), and, to be blunt, the whole thing fascinated me. The other acts shown that evening (apart from a group of chorus-girls, all dressed in hose, for I had sneaked the occasional peek at Kelli dressing, and my obsession was in the early stages of development) have long faded from my memory. But De Ville is as fresh as ever.

In the months that followed, I had done all that I could to emulate him. My school friends, parents, Kelli, visitors to the house, all were potential victims of "The Great Demona." I tried, and failed, with them all. But I had the occasional success, too. And I soon learned that the circumstances had to be right. Being obsessive in more than just my nylonic fetish, I had carefully recorded every humiliating failure, and (in block capitals and underlined in red felt tip) my few triumphs. And it came to me eventually that there was a certain unifying circumstance in all of the latter.

One was where I had managed to get Kelli to raise her hands above her head, and not drop them until I said so, and which I was able to test by lifting up her skirt, which guaranteed that she was not simply humouring me by pretending to be at my mercy. That day had been when we had received visitors, friends of my mothers from her work, and one of the women had been tugging at her hose (this was in the very early days of my fetish, and it perhaps says something about me that I remember her visit so well!)

The second was a friend at school, a creature named Michael Rinnegan, a boy even more nerdy and outcast than myself. That day, (which was about six months after the Kelli success) our maths teacher, Mrs Miller, had been fighting as particularly virulent case of hose-creep, and I had already counted three tugs (plus two unconfirmed, as they had taken place behind the cover of her desk) and afterwards, at recess, I had managed to get Michael to give me not only his lunch, but also a much coveted copy of Playboy that had been circulating through our small circle for ages, and which Michael was wont to rent out at a block of chocolate for a half-hour. I of course wanted it for a picture of a girl nude except for a pair of extremely wrinkled thigh highs, though I didn't admit this, and pretended to drool over the naked breasts and flashing vaginas like any other boy.

The third time, had been Julie Elston, which was the nearest that our class had ever had to glamour. Julie was the only girl in the class to wear make up, or nylons (the rest clung firmly to their white ankle socks), and this alone would have been enough to make her the focus of many fevered nights in my fast developing imagination.

The day in which I succeeded in hypnotising her was not one of those days, she had her socks on, for it was sports that afternoon, but nonetheless I was able to get her to tuck her skirt into the back of her pants, and then, at a post hypnotic suggestion from me (I had been reading up on the terminology and methodology) return to class with it still hitched up in that position, completely forgetting that it was I that had told her to do so, until a teacher had told her of her disarray... whereupon Julie had shown embarrassment that was obviously not faked.

These few successes came amongst a great many failures, and as the years went on, while I was able to gain a higher percentage of successes among the failures, I was never able to realise my dream of becoming another Simon DeVille. But I did come to realise the unifying factor in all of my successes... which you, reader, (with the benefit of hindsight) have no doubt already realised. That I was able to call upon my full powers, and gain control, if, and only if, my libido was at a time of high stimulation.

*****

So imagine, if you would, that I am sitting in Amanda's office, that she is coming to the end of her spiel, holding out her hand to shake, and handing me a weeks wages in lieu of notice. The store was far too mean to run any sort of superannuation scheme, and to me it didn't seem much reward for two years of faithful service - but frankly, what the hell could I do?

It should be remembered, though, that I was not in the best of moods. Too much of a gap between stocking-difficulty-sightings tended to make me bad tempered, and being sacked (though a part of me was already exulting... I hated the job) was adding to my melancholia and anger. And without any conscious violation I heard a voice... Which, with a shock I realised to be mine... asking, well wasn't there any sort of payout... it wasn't as if I was being sacked for misconduct, was it?... surely a weeks' wages was paltry, in view of my past excellent service.

And then, Amanda did something which changed my life.

"I'll check, if you like," she agreed. There was a sour, and highly satisfied expression on her face. She knew damn well that there wasn't, and the bitch just wanted the joy of telling me so. She got up from her chair, her blonde hair swaying along with her earrings and her buttocks under her tight, short red business skirt, as she bent to retrieve a copy of the relevant regulations from the bottom draw of a filing cabinet.

Despite my mood, I shot her a quick look when her back was turned, for in some respects I am as other men, and whatever her faults, Amanda was something of a looker. Long legs, a tight bum, a little flat chested, but trim enough and a confirmed hose wearer, though as often as I had looked I had never seen her experience any difficulties with them. And then, when she straightened up, I gave the (for me) reflex glance at her knees. And my heart skipped a beat.

Amanda was wearing tan coloured hose, and the action of bending had caused them to bag at the knees. True, they were not particularly badly wrinkled... there was simply a crease or two, very light, and probably only I would have noticed it. But nonetheless, their perfection was impaired, and it had been a long time between delights. At last... My drought was broken. And here was I, alone with this beautiful woman with sagging hose... the very stuff of my desires and dreams! A wave of lust shot through my psyche...

But it didn't displace the anger that was already there. I was mad... mad as hell. They had sacked me, after two years of faithful service, and I was in no doubt that it was because it was within a few months of my 21st birthday, when I would be due to receive an adult wage. It was this combination, of libido and anger, that caused me to do what I did. And which changed my life for ever.

"See, here it is," Amanda said, smugly, pointing to the relevant clause with a sharp, overly manicured fingernail, "a week's notice, or wages in lieu of."

"That can't be right," I replied, and, unknown behind my conscious mind, I was coming to a decision. I took off my watch... merely a cheap thing from a thrift store, for a store clerk's wages are barely above the minimum... and without at the time knowing why, lifted it up. She ignored the actions of my hands, concentrating on looking me in the eye, for she was damned if a mere counter jumper was going to overawe her, the head of her department.

"That can't be right, Amanda," I repeated, and it was only now, when the watch was already swinging in my hand, catching the light of the muted, concealed strips, that I realised what I was doing.

Had I had to think about it, I would never have tried it. I would have walked out of there, with a weeks wages in my pocket, and signed on at the welfare office the following Monday.

But now, I had started, and it was too late. I was swinging the watch in front of her eyes, and, once again unconsciously, had lowered my voice to the measured, monotonous tone that I had used when practising my hypnotism.

Thirty seconds later, her eyes had taken on that dull gleam. I had her!

The form, which I had been asked to sign (no one ever refused to do so, presumably this would have meant one did not receive the paltry weeks remuneration) had a space, listing the amount given to me. It was, no doubt, a form of receipt.

I named an amount a hundred times that listed. And I instructed her to key that amount into the computer.

And had to fight from gasping in amazement when she did so.

And it was with a blank expression on her supercilious face that she printed the form, and handed it to me, now with two extra noughts after the figure in the dollar column.

"I will take it in cash, please," I said.

And there was a click at the door, and in walked the manager. My heart stopped. He took one look and walked out.

He hated to be there for sackings. That was what underlings were for.

Why she had that much cash on the premises, I do not know. I must have had the whole week's takings, for the store only banked on a Friday night, when a security van came to pick up the banking. Presumably they were too tight-assed to pay for one every day. I felt like a thief, a robber, and morally at least I was. But legally, I knew even at that moment, that I was in the clear. Did I not have a form, detailing that that very amount was due to me, with Amanda's signature prominent upon it? I stuffed the money into my pocket, and prepared to leave, before she woke up.