Story fragment

I like to write stories.  Whether they're any good or not is another thing but I keep trying.  In any case, I wrote an introduction to a character based on my experiences growing up on Long Island in the 80's.  I hope you enjoy:

I remember the first dress I obsessed about. I can't remember the age I was but I was very young. Maybe 10. Maybe younger. My parents were going out. I forget where. Maybe it was a restaurant. Maybe it was at a friend's house. These are not the details that matter and so I've let them go. The only thing I remember well was the dress that my mother was wearing. It was a deep purple velvet dress with a thin metallic gold belt. The velvet felt rich to the touch, like a dense syrup. It was such a warm, welcoming feeling, so much better than the Toughskins jeans and t-shirt I was wearing, which felt like sandpaper by comparison. The velvet shimmered in the light. Subtle patterns of gradated shades of purple would undulate as my mother moved. I never cared about the clothes I was wearing, but I loved that dress. Whenever I could, I would sneak in my mother's closet to feel it again. It was my chance to touch a cloud.

Whenever I did that, I couldn't help but feel some guilt. Going into your parent's closets felt like I was invading their privacy, especially if it's the son going into his mother's closet. I felt like I was doing something wrong, so I would only chance a visit when no one was around. Since I was so young, I didn't get as many opportunities as I wanted. It was frustrating. After all, it was just right there in the closet, just a few steps from my room, and I definitely wasn't going to stop. I loved that dress too much. When the gears in your head constantly grind away on a stubborn thought it eventually produces a new idea; what would it be like to wear it?

Wearing it would of course be a bigger risk. Getting caught in my mother's closet would be bad enough, but I could always say I was looking for something, but being caught wearing it would be disastrous. But I really felt the need to wear it, so I made a plan. I would go to her closet, take the dress, roll it up underneath my shirt, and move quickly to my room where I would close the door and dress in privacy. My parents didn't mind that I closed the door. I was too young to have girls around, and the internet wasn't created yet. I also had no video games in my room, just music and books, which suited me fine. If I could get the dress in my room, I would be so happy that I wouldn't even care that I would have to find a way to sneak it back to the closet. All that mattered was getting to wear the dress.

At this part I think I would have to relate how I sneaked the dress to my room the first time, but I've forgotten that too. Another unimportant memory paved over. But I do remember putting on the dress. Suddenly my skin felt alive... tingly... as if it was experiencing happiness. I felt my body through the velvet. I lovingly stroked my chest, my belly, my ass and legs. To feel that softness on my body, wherever I touched, made me feel special. Most of all, though, I felt comfortable wearing it. It was smooth and gentle, not scratchy and coarse like my boy clothes. It's as if clothing manufacturers purposely chose rough textiles to toughen you up so you can “be a man”. But if being a man meant having your skin scoured by your clothes so you grew accustomed to them then I wasn't interested.

I walked around the room in it, swishing to and fro. There was no mirror in my room, which is probably for the best. I might've been put off by seeing a pudgy boy in my mom's dress. But it was enough to parade around in my room, enjoying the lushness of the velvet on my body and the freedom of movement I had in the dress. I was so happy. And then I was caught.

The thing about quelling an obsession is that the feeling doesn't last and you have to push further to get that feeling again. So you end up taking more risks so you can get a bigger feeling of satisfaction when you get away with it. One day I decided to wear the dress underneath my clothes to school. I put it on, smoothed out any rolls, and went downstairs. My mom, as it was her custom, was straightening me up some more. She lifted my sweater and I heard a surprised “Oh!”. Panicking, I raced to my room to shut the door to get rid of the evidence. My dad caught up before I could shut the door and he had me pull down my pants, and down flowed the skirt of the dress. My dad firmly told me to take it off and then closed the door. Knowing I was caught, and feeling like I did something wrong, I took it off. My dad came in later to talk to me. He wanted to know why I did it. I honestly really didn't know myself, so I couldn't give him an answer. Being from a Roman Catholic family, he asked me if I wanted to see a priest. I told him no. He then made me promise I wouldn't do it again. I told him I wouldn't. It seemed the only way to end the conversation.

Unfortunately promising not to do anything never really works out as you're left with the need. My mother, interestingly enough, would start buying more velour pullovers for me. She said she knew I liked soft things. I was appreciative, but it wasn't enough. In my room, I would wear my pullovers as skirts and tie the sleeves as a belt. This was convenient because these were my clothes, but it felt wrong. Also, my mom started to notice that the necks of my sweaters were all stretched out. I didn't have a good explanation for her. I stopped, but that was because I knew I would start wearing her clothes again.

And so I did, multiple times. And of course I would get caught again, but I got away with it more than I got caught so I figured it was worth it. I couldn't stop and I didn't want to. This would continue for as long as I lived there.