“I am NOT gay, I like girls. I really, really like girls. I am NOT A SISSY.”

He was panicked, frightened and close to tears. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not… a sissy… I just might have a strange fetish.”

That fascinating disclosure emanated from my then eighteen-year-old nephew, David, while he was standing in front of me in the middle of my own bedroom.

~ ~ ~

I am the Chief Executive Officer of a financial company located on the umpteenth floor, high up in one of those tall buildings in Lower Manhattan. We are a small operation compared with the Wall Street powerhouses but we serve a loyal cliental and perform with enough business acumen and insight as to garner respect, even down here among some of the world’s best financiers.

In an area of town some describe as the pulsating heart of the city’s financial empire, our building is located at the corner of Nassau and Pine Streets, a block north of the New York Stock Exchange and a block east from the historic Trinity Church. A convenient location; where corporate sin and spiritual salvation are within an easy walk of each other.

My nephew David is the son of my sister Janice and I have known David since he bawled his way into existence, three weeks prematurely at the Oneonta General Hospital in upstate New York. My sister Janice is married to a man who manages a fancy ski resort up there in the Catskill Mountains. While my sister embraced the pastoral rolling hills of Delaware County, I chose the concrete roller coaster of the New York City business world. Both of us are happy and content with our respective choices.

Janice and I converse often on the phone and visit each other when the mood strikes. Her mood generally strikes when she feels the need to descend upon the seasonal sales events in Bloomingdale's up on Fifty-Ninth and Lex while I occasionally settle for the quietness of her home for a brief respite from business. I do stress ‘occasionally.’

Picturesque countryside it certainly is, but rolling green pastures, quaint farms, and the questionable delights of rural perfumery; the ever wafting agrarian scents of stables, wildflowers and eau de bovine rockets my hay fever into orbit. I find it somewhat distracting to appreciate the gentle pastoral surroundings with a Flonase inhaler inserted in my nostrils.

Janice’s home may provide a temporary place to decompress, but my heart and soul will always remain firmly embedded in the cosmopolitan concrete of Manhattan.

In this particular instance, a phone chat with Janice informs me that her only child, her brilliant son, David, has just successfully graduated from Oneonta High School. She goes on to tell me that David has been accepted into Fordham University in the Bronx, starting with the fall semester. The reason for her phone call being, could I possibly accommodate David with temporary shelter and sustenance for a few weeks while he finds himself some student quarters near the Uni.

Of course, Janice’s inquiry was also her not-so-subtle way of determining the suitability of my home before subjecting her darling boy to my care. What my sister is really inquiring about is whether I am currently sharing my bed and kitchen table with anyone. She knows that ever since my ultra-brief and forgettable marriage of a few decades past, I have lived alone in my four-story three-bedroom townhouse in Midtown Manhattan. I assume that in deference to her son’s upstate innocence and delicate sensibilities, she is scouting out the territory regarding the possibility of my being ‘shacked up’ with someone.

A quick check of the single body indentation in my pillow and mattress would have confirmed my status at that time was decidedly lover-less and unsullied. I was not currently shacked up with anyone, and furthermore, it was none of her damned business.

So I said, "sure, no problem, send the kid on down and I'll provide him with a temporary roof and food for a week or two."

Several weeks later, my nephew stepped off an Adirondack Trailways bus and into the Port Authority Bus Terminal on West Forty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue. I had already spoken with David on the phone prior to his leaving home instructing him to simply grab himself a cab and have the driver deliver him to my address.

I could not help thinking, ‘Welcome to the big city young David, and stand by for an education.’ The education to which I allude to would include the relative cloistered safety of a college campus and academic education as doled out by Fordham University, but more importantly, the more practical education received from living for a year or two in metropolitan Gotham.

David and I are not strangers. I have entertained his mother and father many times over the years, and likewise, I take the occasional trip upstate, so it was far from David’s first trip to the city. He and his mother visit a couple of times a year, his mom goes shopping and David usually hangs around me.

Actually, the last time that David and his father visited the city and stayed with me was only four months earlier. They came down to see the National Hockey League playoffs between the New York Rangers and the Boston Bruins. I admit I like ice hockey so we all went and had a good time.

My nephew David is an attractive young man, a compatible blend of my sister’s English-French genes and her husband’s Swedish ancestry. He is slender, close to being six foot, blonde and blue-eyed, but noticeably on the shy side. He might be quite the lady’s man someday when he grows up and gets dry behind the ears.

On his arrival, he quickly made himself at home in one of the guest bedrooms. I fixed sandwiches and we sat around the kitchen nattering about family things for a while. David always enjoys wandering around my house. It is a Victorian four-story brownstone that has its own unique history and charms; I would not wish to exchange it for some soulless condominium.

His favorite room is my home office and library where he can always find something to read and he enjoys the photographs hanging in there. There are several photographs of his mother and me taken when we were young and one of him with his parents taken when he was fourteen visiting the Bronx Zoo. There are also many miscellaneous photos of me taken when I was in France and when I lived in England for a while.

“Who is this woman in this picture with you?” He called out from the library.

I looked at where he was pointing. It was a photograph taken in Central Park, of me in the company of a slender young woman with long flowing light brown hair.

“She is a good friend,” I replied. “Her name is Jeanie.”

For his first full day in the city following his arrival, I took David to my downtown offices for a few hours in the morning. He seemed fascinated by the comings and goings, the different offices, phones ringing, computer screens blinking and printers humming.

For lunch, I took him down by Battery Park and we sat on the benches nibbling hero sandwiches and drinking sodas as he looked out towards the Statue of Liberty and watched the Staten Island ferries coming and going from the terminal. It also made a nice change for me; at least I was not entertaining a client or stuck in some working-lunch business conference.

Assuming that busy offices were not his idea of exciting surroundings I told David that I would cut him loose so he could wander about downtown for a few hours by himself while I worked the afternoon. At his age, he ought to be able to tell north from south and streets from avenues. Nobody can get lost in Manhattan. Surprisingly, however, he wanted to return to the offices with me, saying how there were great views of the city from the windows. Okay, no problem.

A little after five o’clock I had had enough. A few associates and staff continued working the phones and faxes, as it was still mid-afternoon on the West Coast. After leaving the building, David and I descended into the bowels of the New York subway system and joined in the forced physicality of a crowded, rush hour Lexington Avenue Express uptown to where I live. It is a short trip.

David seemed thrilled by the city and its prospective new challenges.

The morning of day two, after I had fixed a juice and bagel breakfast, I took off for my office leaving David at home with his college paperwork scattered across the kitchen table along with lists of possible student apartments near Fordham University.

It was a busy morning at the office and I spent most of my time arguing on the phone with someone in San Fransisco and placating someone else in Chicago. Perhaps it was it the other way around; anyhow, it was one of those mornings. Either my diplomatic skills were failing or my new shoes were too tight. Whatever the reason; come lunchtime I had a thumping headache and felt the need for escape.

I thought perhaps I would collect David and find a nice sidewalk café in midtown to relax and talk over his plans for college accommodations.

I made an executive decision.

I am allowed to do that.

As the office walls appeared to be closing in on me, I prescribed a mental health break for myself. My staff was going about their tasks in their usual exemplary fashion so there was very little I could do at my desk that afternoon that I could not accomplish while goofing off at home or relaxing at a midtown café.

So I was feeling smug with myself. I would trip the old psychological safety valve and flee the financial jungle for the remainder of the day.

So I enter my townhouse at a little past noon, and lo and behold, I walk into… what?

What is it they say about never going home unannounced!

It appeared that during my morning absence, my visiting nephew had absorbed himself in something other than finding himself some student accommodation. It was patently obvious that he was absorbed enough not to hear me returning home because I discovered my nephew standing in the center of my bedroom.

While I considered his presence in my bedroom alone to be a significant invasion of my privacy, the fact that he did so while wearing one of my office skirts and a pair of ankle-strap high heels did rather beg some further explanation.

I am seldom without words, but this qualified as one of those times.

~ ~ ~

I should have stayed at the office.

Now I am a city girl and perfectly at ease living in a cosmopolitan environment, which means I have a collection of friends and acquaintances that most assuredly would be considered eclectic and multicultural. They encompass most ethnicities, genders, professions, eccentricities, religious beliefs, colors, sizes, stripes, and persuasions.

Someone walking down Fifth Avenue wearing a gorilla suit, or the naked cowboy busking in Times Square wearing a guitar and jockey shorts does not faze me one iota. Seeing a male with a full beard and mustache wearing a halter-top and miniskirt is also no big deal to me. I fully accept the fact that the world is full of, he’s, she’s, and wannabe whatevers.

Proof, I think, that I am far from being a prude.

However, I most certainly have strong feelings about honesty and personal privacy.

Observing the state of my nephew, my first instinct was anger. I really did not want to deal with this. I wondered if I could do a Doctor Who and step back a day in time. Where is a Tardis when you need one!

I did think that some kind of a massive screaming fit was in order. I work hard and have a business to run and I do not want to deal with this.

It really isn’t fair.

What I wanted was to kick off my painful new shoes, plop my behind on the sofa and quietly sip something atomically alcoholic while listening to some soothing classical music. Special emphasis to be placed on the soothing aspect. It was for sure not the moment for Gustav Holtz, seven-movement orchestral suite, The Planets, but perhaps a muted string quartet playing, Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker ballet might be more appropriate.

The Nutcracker! How Freud would have loved that.

It was not going away, my headache or skirting David.

One immediate solution rushed to mind.

I seriously considered screaming a few choice obscenities at the top of my lungs and then kicking him, base over apex out of my home and onto the city sidewalk. He could just sit on his suitcase while I called his mother to come down and retrieve his silly ass.

Undignified perhaps, but a quick resolution and effective.

David had not moved an inch since I first discovered him. He stood frozen in place from sheer fright.

I left him standing there seemingly comatose and walked through the bedroom and into my walk-in closet. Everything appeared to be in order. On the left wall were hung my business suits, straight office skirts, and blouses. The right side wall for my dresses; light summer frocks, ankle-length formals, casual skirts, and slacks. The back of my closet is shelved and pigeonholed for my sweaters, shoes, purses and various accessories.

It was on my return to the bedroom that I noticed that all of the dresser drawers were partially open. The top drawers contain undies and bras, the middle drawers my full and half-slips and the bottom drawers hold my stockings, pantyhose, and nightgowns.

The open dresser drawers leaped out at me. They signified the grossest invasion of my privacy.

My emotional status moved from simple annoyance to extremely angry.

I walked back into my bedroom, took a deep breath and calmly walked around my nephew in a slow circle looking him over carefully from his ears to my high-heeled shoes.

“So what am I to surmise about this?” I finally asked him.

He was ashen-faced and did not respond.

I continued to circle around him. “So David… young nephew of mine. Is there something about you that I ought to know? In the few short hours that I have been at my office has my nephew David stepped out for the afternoon and been replaced by my niece Dorothy?”

He stood frozen.

“Is there someone else lurking in my bedroom closet and I have stumbled onto a private moment?”

David opened his mouth but no sounds emerged.

“Do you have a boyfriend lurking under my bed?”

He stuttered something unintelligible.

“SPEAK UP DAVID!”

“I am NOT gay, I like girls. I really, really like girls. I am NOT A SISSY.”

Not a sissy he declares, and yet he has the temerity to be standing there wearing my clothing.

“Are you a panty-boy? David wants to be girly! Do you wear your mom’s skirts and panties at home, do you?”

He seemed immobilized and in shock.

“Well, DO YOU?” I snapped.

He was frightened and close to tears. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“No, I don’t wear my mom’s things. I’m not… a sissy… I just might have a strange fetish.”

If his appearance alone failed to elicit my curiosity, the whispered, `I might have a strange fetish’ seemed to invite the need for a tad more clarification.

Oh, he actually thought that he ‘MIGHT’ have a strange fetish! Let’s see now; he was standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing one of my office pencil skirts and a pair of my three-inch heels and he thinks that he MIGHT have a strange fetish! Good grief was THAT ever a priceless observation under the circumstances.

In this humble layperson’s opinion, there was no ‘might’ about it.

David’s tall slim build meant he has a good few more inches in height than I do. On average the hemline on my business skirts usually hit me about two-inches above the knees. On David, that hem went up considerably higher.

The skirt fitted him just about perfectly, mid-thigh hemline and snug around his waist, backside, and hips.

I could also see the edge of something white and lacy underneath.

“What’s underneath the skirt?” I asked.

“A p-p-p-pair of your panties and a s-s-slip” he stuttered.

“Oh, well that’s a relief. Nice to know you are not suffering from being under-dressed then.”

He stood still and unresponsive.

“So, David. Why are you dressed like this?”

David gave me an extremely stupid, lop-sided grin. “It was just for a laugh.”

It was at that moment when I lost it.

“DON’T YOU EVER BULLSHIT ME, YOUNG MAN!” I yelled.

“When I ask you a question, I expect a straight answer. Now, why are you wearing those clothes? Are you a transvestite, gay or simply gender confused today?”

Whether from my rare outward display of anger or his own stupidity, he seemed unable to respond.

“Okay … let’s find out what you have on here.”

“No Auntie, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“LIFT UP THAT SKIRT!”

He reached down, took a hold on the hem and pulled the skirt up over his hips and onto his waist.

“Oh, my. Well isn’t that just too cute.”

Underneath the skirt, David was wearing one of my narrow, lace-hemmed, white nylon half-slips.

“Now lift up the slip!”

He clutched the hem of the slip and pulled it up onto his waist.

I beheld a pair of white nylon hi-waist panties that matched the slip.

From his waist on down he displayed the full ensemble. A black pencil skirt, accompanied by a white half-slip and white satin panties. As a crowning touch, he also wore a white garter belt.

Now wasn’t that just darling?

My skirt and undies; I felt violated.

I really wanted to kick him into the street and throw his suitcase after him.

Then he started crying. He looked positively mortified, vulnerable and pathetic standing there.

What do I do?

Okay… I was a big girl and so I swallowed down the anger and tried to deal with the situation rationally. It was not as if I didn’t have a few friends that cross-dressed.

However, this was a little close to home.

I walked around him again. The situation presented some farcical observations as in when I saw the girdle he wore. “You do know of course that you don’t require a garter-belt when you are not wearing stockings.”

“I... know Auntie. I… j-j-just wanted to wear it.”

His wearing that garter belt without hose jarred my sensibilities. It simply appeared ludicrous to me, which in itself, considering the overall situation, was ludicrous in itself.

“You are also wearing it back to front.”

I absolutely cannot explain why, but I stood behind him, unhooked and removed the garter belt. Then twirling it slowly in the air, I continued my inspection.

“Aside from that fashion faux pas, I notice that you did choose for yourself a matching half-slip and panty set. Top dresser drawers, right side, David?”

He nodded.

David did not move an inch. He remained immobile, standing there clutching the slip and skirt up around his waist. The bulge in the panty made by his private parts was minimal. Probably shrunken up underneath his armpits and caused more by sheer fright than cold.

I stood in front of him and gestured with my hand that he should lower the bunched up clothing.

“Pull those things down, David. I think you would agree that this situation calls for a little chat?”

He let go of the slip and let it fall to where the lace hem circled his legs about six inches above his knees, then wriggled the pencil skirt over his hips and smoothed it down over his backside and legs.

“Should I t-t-t-take these things off Auntie?”

“No, for the moment stay as you are and follow me.”

I walked into the living room with David trailing behind me and took a seat on the sofa.

I pointed to the easy chair opposite me.

He sat as any male would sit with his feet planted flat on the floor and knees about twelve inches apart. I could not help feeling amused watching him.

“Close your legs, David. Under the circumstances, it isn’t thrilling for me to be looking up my own skirt.”

He moved his feet and knees together and smoothed the back of the skirt underneath him. I wondered if he had unconsciously done that, or was emulating me.

“Alright, David. Before you put yourself back on the upstate bus, give me ONE good reason… WHY?”

He took in a deep breath and replied in a rush. “I love you, Auntie… I always have.”

Oh, my aching feet. Well, I had not expected that for an answer.

~ ~ ~

I have often looked back on that moment and questioned my own incredulity. It was the simplest answer he could have given me, but one I would never have entertained.

My immediate impulse was to laugh, but I am forever grateful that I did not. His admonition served as a valuable point of personal comeuppance for me being confronted by that which I least expected.

Now, what was I supposed to do?

I mean, I can except that most eighteen-year-old boys are, at any given moment of the day or night, ninety-seven percent hormones accompanied by three percent brain cells and that three percent resides in the little head hanging between their legs. I get it. Now, where do I go with a rather pathetic, ‘I love you?’

Was I simply unable to grasp the notion that he was actually being serious or did my cynical interpretation of his admonition see it as a conniving way to elicit sympathy?

If the sentiment is genuine, when someone uses those words to you in that manner for the first time, don’t you rather hope they are spoken over a nice glass of bubbly in a fancy restaurant, or while gazing at the moon after a long kiss?

Not usually while they are wearing your clothing.

Moreover, not by an adolescent nephew.

I am a broad-minded individual who was trying to evaluate the situation in a thoughtful manner. With friends and acquaintances, you make room for their idiosyncrasies or dismiss them from your life.

With family… that is a little trickier.

This turn of events was a bit close to home and seeing him wearing my clothing certainly made me overly sensitized. Let me be honest here. I felt violated.

If I cut to the chase, the immediate solutions appear simple and obvious. He forgets college and returns home directly, or I communicate with his mother and arrange for him to stay at some reasonably priced hotel near the university. In that case, I will have to conjure a reason as to why David can no longer stay with me.

However, this is my nephew David.

I am not naïve and I understand male curiosity. I have even known a few individuals who obtained their dubious pleasures going through laundry baskets. My mind hastens back to college dorm life and public laundries, and yes, I understand all of that pheromone claptrap.

While I cannot recall my ever wanting to dig through a person’s laundry in hopes of discovering a worn pair of jockey-briefs, I guess some others may have. I am reasonably intelligent but I do not have a panacea for all of life’s little bumps and wrinkles,

So what about David?

Is he a kid, an adolescent, teenager or young man? He is neither one by itself, and he is all of them together.

I asked myself if I was a little paranoid. Was I worrying unduly about having to hide my laundry, and affixing locks on my bedroom door? That if freed from the restrictions of his own home, will he simply dress up in my clothing and go parading down the street?

No, from his frightened demeanor, I did not think he was inclined to take his little problem public.

I needed to come to grips with my skirted nephew.

“I won’t lie to you David. I am extremely upset. So talk to me, young nephew. Pray tell your old Aunt why you are wearing my clothing.”

I waved a cautionary finger in his face.

“And don’t ever bullshit me, young man. Start telling me the truth or get back on the bus and head back to the hills.”

The frozen petrified look softened a little and for the first time looked directly at me. “I am so sorry, Auntie. It is because I love you. I always have since I was a boy. I admire you so much and wanted to be like you.”

“By wearing my clothing? And when exactly did this epiphany occur?”

“It was the first time I saw you in your world.

“My world is… what exactly?”

“If you remember when me and mom came down and stayed with you for a vacation when I was twelve. Mom spent a lot of her time shopping so some days you would take me with you to your work. I was so really, really knocked out seeing you.”

“Really, really?”

“Yes, that is when my fascination with you started, seeing you at your work.”

All this nonsense is from seeing me at my work! Good grief, he was sounding like a time and motion expert and I had been under observation. I was beginning to feel more like an object than a human being.

As it happened, David was just warming up.

“Yesterday when I was at your offices, it was so wonderful being with you. I saw the respect people gave you. It was awesome. As you walked through those offices it was, 'Good morning Ma’am, yes Ma’am,' 'Good Day Ma’am…' 'London Office on extension line three Ma’am,' 'they are meeting in the conference room when you are ready Ma’am.' Like… wow, Auntie. You weren’t just some silly actress in some stupid television show, you were so real. This crazy city with all those slick-suited corporate types and you are right there. You are my Aunt and doing it. You are so very… real. You are my hero. To me, you are everything.

Oh, my. What was this? Auntie worship week?

His level of excitement picked up as he rushed to explain.

“When I graduated from Oneonta High School, I purposely applied to Hunter and to Fordham colleges to be in the same city as you. I hope to get my degrees in business administration. Er… I even hoped that I might work for you someday.”

I really, really did not want to listen to this. What I really wanted was to throw these damn shoes into the garbage and make myself a stiff drink.

David continued, “I loved watching you yesterday. I always wanted to feel what it’s like to be you.”

“By wearing my clothing and doing what exactly? Dressing up and playing businesswoman?”

“No, Auntie. Not just a woman.”

“Not just a woman?”

“It’s you, Auntie. You are so much more… you are smart, you are so self-confident, and you are wonderful. When I was with you in your office yesterday, I could not take my eyes off you. I watched you walking through your offices… I… er… have a thing for your skirts… er… something in the way your skirts snap when you walk.”

“Oh?”

“I mean it isn’t just a clothing thing,” he hastened to explain. “My mom wears dresses and skirts but it never affects me the same way as you do. You have a powerful presence. I know that when you walk into a room and regardless of who is there, you instantly own it. I’ve seen it, Auntie; I’ve seen you fill the room with your positive attitude, intellect, humor, and self-confidence.”

My eyebrows elevated to a most expressive location, about one inch above where they usually reside.

“So… this is some kind of a one-man junior admiration society?”

“Yes, well no, I mean yes in a way,” he responded emphatically. “You are so self-assured, so respected… you always look beautiful to me in your offices. Your nice blouses and power skirts…”

“My WHAT? My power-skirts? What pray tell is a power-skirt?”

“It is the way you walk.”

“What is the matter with the way that I walk? Am I sashaying down the hallways all hips and backside?”

“No, I didn’t mean that… I mean… you walk… strong.”

“Oh, it’s the dominatrix thing, all leather, and rubber, whips, and chains optional?

“God no, Auntie. I mean like a confident woman who knows herself and who isn’t afraid of anything or anybody. I can’t explain it... what I mean… the way your hips move... so… skirty…”

“Ah… and all that is in… what you called it, my power skirts?”

“Yes,” he replied as if that had resolved the issue for all time.

Fascinated now, my curiosity outweighing caution, I had to ask. “Forgive your old Aunt, David. It may be my advancing senility but I appear to be missing something here. So exactly why you are sitting there wearing my clothing?”

“Er… I wanted to feel that power.”

“By wearing my skirts?”

“Yes.”

“And a slip and panties to go with it?”

“Yes… it is all… you.”

Then it started. The verbal avalanche, words tumbling out in a rush, words falling over themselves in a frantic effort to make me understand. To understand something that made little sense to me, but perfect sense to him. He told me what he admired most about me. The emotional dam had burst, his secret was out and there seemed to be no stopping him.

“My favorite thing in the whole world is watching you walk and sit in your tight office skirts. When you cross your legs, I can hear the zip sound as your nylon hose brush each other and I hear your skirts swish against your hose and I see just a bit of the pretty lace hems on the nylon slips you always wear.”

He became more animated with his need to elucidate.

“I love watching you tug your hems and smooth your skirts down and your heels. I love that you always wear high heels, usually, three-inch black, patent leather pumps and I love watching your… bust jiggle under your blouses.

He was on an unstoppable roll. The words spilled out, the unabashed confessions of an aunt-worshiping young nephew. What was I going to do about this rather silly state of affairs?

What was I to think? There was no doubt that I was highly perturbed by his behavior, while another part of me wanted to laugh at his youthful silliness and quite simply dismiss this as some adolescent adventure.

I am looking at him, seeing his embarrassment, his physical discomfort and willingness to confess his fascination. Is it a sexual curiosity, a simple transvestite experiment? He is risking all manner of retaliation, not the least of which is my sending him back upstate to his mother with a full explanation of her son’s behavior.

I took my advanced degrees in Finance and Business Management, not psychology. However; if you live long enough in this world you are by default the beneficiary of an education into life and people. I have been persuaded over the years that there is no such thing as ‘normal.’ We provide our own psychological measuring stick. We always consider ourselves normal, and it is everyone else that has questionable peccadillos, never ourselves.

So a reasoned voice inside my head tells me that from David’s perspective and motivators... I suppose his behavior makes perfect sense… to him.

It is a power thing… but with some heavy sexual ramifications.

Power skirts! Well, I suppose it was a relief knowing that he wasn’t simply some dull ordinary run-of-the-mill pervert. ‘Power skirts’ eh. Well, you learn something new each day.

All right, so I was forced to grant him some credit for honesty, but his behavior still warranted some equally forthright admonishment.

I locked eyes with him to make certain that he was looking and listening. “Let me make this perfectly clear, David. I do not like sneaks; I cannot abide dishonesty, and skulking around behind my back. It is just too damn creepy.”

“I am sorry Auntie… I shouldn’t have…”

“You are correct, young man. You should not have! At least not without talking to me.”

“How was I going to talk to you about it Auntie? Just ask if I could wear your skirts?”

He sat bent forwards in the chair with his elbows on his knees and face sunk into his hands.

Fate moved its huge hands and spared us both from trying to follow that question.

The phone rang.

Could you believe it was my sister Janice? What timing, go figure, an alignment of the planets. I could not even begin to talk to her, so I took the sensible solution. I abrogated my responsibilities and chickened out.

I handed my nephew the phone.

“Here David, your mother wants to speak with you”

I honestly thought David was going to pass out. I was willing to bet a sow’s ear purse to a Gucci handbag that he had never spoken to his mother while wearing panties and a skirt before.

I left it to him to chat with my sister and walked into my kitchen. It was definitely time to indulge in something extremely alcoholic. I tossed a small ice cube into a large glass followed by a stiff portion of vodka and a dribble of ginger ale.

Then I stood in the kitchen and looked back into the living room.

Now if you wanted to see something incongruous – this was it.

I watched as David got up from the chair and began nervously walking around the living room. He was talking on the phone with his mother, while dressed… as what? Me?

At that moment, I could not honestly tell you if the sight was ludicrous, pathetic or flattering. All in the eye of the beholder, I suppose, but at that particular moment, it was I doing the beholding.

I had at least determined for myself that David presented no threat to me. Naturally, that is a major concern for any woman who lives ostensibly alone. I was not afraid of David. At that moment, he may have been six feet of confused silliness, but I knew that he posed no great physical threat to me. However, there was a trust factor to be determined.

I did use that time for one singularly aggressive act. I took off my tight new shoes and threw them into the garbage bin. Then carrying my vodka and ginger ale I wandered back into the living room and returned to the sofa.

David’s end of the conversation was winding down with a perfunctory, “Yes Mom. Auntie is helping me and I am looking for a place…”

He said his goodbyes and returned the phone to the coffee table. I had little difficulty seeing the bulge of his penis clearly outlined in the front of the skirt, and the spots of moisture appearing on the material.

“Suffering a Viagra moment?” I inquired.

He looked down at the front of the skirt. “I am so sorry Auntie. So sorry. Your skirt… makes love to me.”

“My skirt makes love to you? And what, my dear nephew, in plain English, does that mean?”

“Er… your skirts make me hard.”

“So my clothes provide masturbatory stimulation for your excitement?”

“It’s the power, Auntie. Your skirt-power. Your clothing makes me want to… you know.”

Oh yes, I was beginning to appreciate the, ‘you know’.

He smoothed the skirt down with his hands, over his hips, thighs, and across his backside, trying to avoid directly brushing himself across the bulge swelling up in the front.

“Oh, Auntie," he continued. "The tightness of your skirt around my tummy and hips… knowing that this is what you feel when you wear it... when you walk through your office and when you sit.”

He became more agitated, walking around the room constantly brushing his hands across the skirt, smoothing it down across his backside, hips, and thighs while chattering excitedly.

“Oh, Auntie. Your skirt makes love to me… your panties are soft against my… thing… I can feel your slip moving between the panty and skirt. The front of your skirt presses against me… oh, Auntie… it feels beautiful!”

David was not behaving girly or acting feminine. No mincing around with girly mannerisms, but it was plainly obvious that he was over-dosing on tactile sensations. There was definitely some auto-reflex in action there. I was beginning to appreciate the particular nature of his fascination.

The front of the skirt was tight across his stomach and his growing erection was bulging significantly under the material. With every movement he made, the clothing brushed against him and the more his penis stiffened the more tactile contact he had with the clothing. He did not need to touch himself; the movement of the tight skirt and soft lingerie underneath was actually masturbating him.

I admit to being very fascinated

“So you are turned on by skirts?”

“No, I am turned on by YOUR skirts, Auntie. I love your office skirts and your legs and heels and… er… your… er… bottom."

“Bottom?”

“Your bottom Auntie… you know… your bottom.”

“Oh, MY bottom.”

“Oh yes, Auntie. Yes, your… bottom… oh, my god… yes, your bottom, your ass, your skirted ass. When I look at your ass in your tight office skirts, it gives me an instant erection. Your skirts hug the curves of your ass and stretch tight across your cheeks… and… your ass moves under your skirts and your skirts move around your hips and legs…”

He became extremely agitated, constantly smoothing his hands around and across the skirt. He was very absorbed, intoxicated by tactile sensations. He never stopped feeling himself, and never stopped talking.

“…And when you sit and cross your legs, I can hear your stockings rubbing together as one glides over the other… then the hem of your skirt rises up a little and the lace hem of your slip shows… and I love seeing the hem of your slips and…”

In conjunction with the obvious physical stimulation, he was hyperventilating.

“DAVID… TAKE A BREATH”!

However, David was away somewhere in his own head. He stood to face me but he was not seeing me sitting in front of him. He was in a world that he had fashioned.

He hands played around the waistband of the skirt, then down across his hips and back up. He was stroking the material, sometimes with light fingertips and then with the flat of his hand, pressing and smoothing the material with his palms. He reached down and ran his fingers around the hem, he felt every single inch. He never stopped caressing the clothing.

He had stopped pacing the room and was standing directly in front of me. The shape of his penis clearly defined in the front of the skirt. Clearly defined is, of course, a gross understatement. In a fuller skirt, his penis would have had the freedom to fall outwards and tent the front, but the office pencil skirt he wore, held his penis close to his body. There was no tenting, just an incredibly large erection that was swelling by the second.

To say that his genitals were swollen would be a grossly inadequate description

From his display, I assumed that his normally erect penis would point nearly vertically upwards, straight up against his abdomen, but the tight waistband of the skirt denied his penis room to extend further upward, and so it slanted sideways across his stomach towards the top of his hip. With a little more room to expand, his erectile tissue had taken full advantage and continued to engorge and expand. His scrotum also appeared swollen as it bulged below his shaft.

I wondered briefly if the side seams on the skirt might separate. While my overeating in one of my favorite Italian restaurants may occasionally challenge them, they were not designed to enclose an erect penis.

David chattered constantly. It was not particularly directed at me, I was simply a non-participatory observer. His eyes had taken on a distant, almost glazed appearance, he was dwelling somewhere in his private world of corporate offices, power venues, skirts and I suppose Me. At least the Me of his fantasies.

His voice was soft, sounding like whispered prayers.

“So beautiful… so beautiful… your skirty, skirty hips and ass…

“Oh… oh…”

It was inevitable, so why was I surprised.

He stopped caressing his clothing and began fumbling frantically with the button at his waist, trying to unzip the skirt and take it off. It was much too late for him to undress. He stopped fiddling around with the zipper and made a quick grab for his crotch as his knees began to buckle. Tightly grasping the front of the skirt, he squeezed his penis hard through the material trying to stop his orgasm.

He emerged from his trance-like state. “Oh, Auntie… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

The strength to stand deserted him, and almost in supplication, he sank down onto his knees facing me.

In spite of his desperately clutching fingers, it was impossible for him to prevent what had begun. His sexual relief could no longer be denied; he gave me an anguished look and removed his hand from his crotch.

David was knelt in front of me, his hips bucking in unison with his penis thrusting against the constrictions of the skirt. His penis throbbed, twitched, and then began ejaculating large amounts of semen into the panty he was wearing. Enough semen to instantly leak through the panty and slip to the front of the skirt.

The only sound in the room was his rapid breathing coupled with an almost inaudible whispered mantra, “Oh Auntie… oh, Auntie… oh, Auntie…”

As his ejaculations diminished, he slowly sank back onto his heels. The entire front of the skirt was wet with semen.

~ ~ ~

I had watched this entire episode in utter silence.

Was I disgusted by this display?

Oh, I admit to finding an element of sensual romanticism to his attentions. God forbid we are pilloried for our fantasies. In the great scheme of things, it was relatively harmless and poetically it certainly made for a fascinating image. A noir drama featuring my young nephew, who had knowingly crossed an invisible but palpable line. Albeit unintended, he had ejaculated to exhaustion in front of me.

Was I disgusted? No. I was a mature person. There are certainly worst things in the world than witnessing a man ejaculating.

I looked at him kneeling there in a soaking wet skirt. He remained immobile for many minutes, the torpid aftermath of his fevered activities, and so I allowed him time to recover.

After many quiet minutes, I quietly asked, “Now what am I going to do about you?”

All fantasy fled, reality crashed in upon him. “Oh god. Don’t tell my mom. Please, please don’t tell my mom! She… just wouldn’t understand any of this.”

I could not suppress a rueful smile. “Oh, and you think that I do?”

If I accepted my nephew’s word that he did not dress at home, then I would have to agree that my sister would not understand her son’s performance. Knowing how tight-laced my sister Janice is, I could almost prophesize her reactions. She would first suffer a major conniption fit. It would most likely start with her frantically crossing herself, praying, and then bouncing off the ceilings. She would then call the neighborhood priest to perform an immediate exorcism of David’s bedroom.

I also had no doubt what so ever that an attempt at spiritual cleansing would be followed by, ‘So long Fordham University, hello Army boot camp for David’.

Getting up from the sofa, I walked out of the living room and into my bathroom. I took a large bath towel from the railing and returned to where he still kneeled on the floor.

“You need to get yourself cleaned up. Here, put this around yourself.”

I threw him the towel and he caught it as it hit his chest. He then slowly he eased himself up from the floor. He was a mess. Perhaps it was his age but his production appeared to have been substantial and unrestrained. He had soaked through three layers of clothing, panties, slip, and skirt.

He blushed and wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Well, you know where the shower is, David. I suggest you clean yourself up.”

I watched as he walked crouched over into the guest bedroom with the towel clutched around him. Well, what was I to think? A part of me expected to laugh at his silliness, to dismiss this as simple sexual experimentation, and yet… looking at him, seeing his embarrassed discomfort and yet his willingness to confess his fascinations... He absolutely knew that he was risking all manner of retaliation, the least of which would be my sending him packing back upstate to his mother with a full explanation of her son’s behavior,

It also occurred to me that from his perspective and motivators… his behavior made perfect sense to him. It really was a power thing… with heavy sexual consequences.

While I could understand fantasy, my being an object for his masturbatory fantasies was a role I was uncomfortable with, at least, while he resided under my roof.

Now did I buy into all that ‘power-skirt’ stuff he was handing me?

That one is a yes and a no.

Where I am inclined to agree with him is that while working in the city over the years, I have certainly seen a few females that I would describe as power-skirted, the majority of whom appeared to be some hard-nosed individuals. I can fully appreciate the strength taken for any female to succeed in a male-dominated business world, and in self-protection, it can make you thick-skinned, abrasive and at times obnoxious.

The trouble is, along with the power-skirt usually comes one hell of an attitude. The vast majority of them have something to prove and go about proving it on a minute-by-minute, twenty-four hour a day basis. In short, it makes a fair amount of them some cast-iron bitches. Regardless of my nephew’s observations and fantasies, I would hope I am not in that category. I truly would not wish to be typecast in that manner or viewed in that harsh of a light.

However, I was willing to accept the obvious fact that David had a long-running crush on his dear old Auntie. It is not that unusual and is not against the law. In fact, it is fairly common. After his mother, I am the closest related female adult in his life.

~ ~ ~

While David busied himself in the guest bedroom, I spent some time rearranging some items in my walk-in closet.

When I walked into the guest bedroom David was wearing his more conventional jeans and a tee shirt. He closed up his suitcase. “I’m ready Auntie, er... I’ve packed my things, and I can walk over to the bus terminal from here.”

I was amused to see that he had neatly folded my soiled skirt, slip, and panties and placed them on the chair by the bed.

He tightly gripped the handle of his suitcase and looked at me. “Auntie... will you be calling Mom now?”

“We will talk about possibly calling your mom later. Now put your suitcase down and follow me.”

David gingerly walked behind me as if he was walking through a minefield. I led the way through my bedroom and into the walk-in closet.

“David. Now, do you see the clothing hanging in this section that I have separated out from the rest?”

He looked where I was pointing. “Yes, Auntie.”

“Well in that section you will find a few skirts that I have not worn in a long time. Some I have outgrown, some have missing buttons or stuck zippers or that I have simply grown tired of wearing. On the floor underneath there is a small cardboard box containing some undergarments in a similar condition.”

David’s eyes grew very wide.

He looked at the group of clothing hanging there, then looked back at me, and back again to the clothing rack.

“I don’t understand, Auntie. Aren’t you kicking me out and calling Mom?”

“No, I won’t be calling your mother, at least not at this moment. I do not want to be responsible for your failing university before you have ever attended, but David... and this will be a big ‘but’, we shall be having further discussions on the issue of your fascination and you can expect some very firm rules regarding your behavior while living here, and most importantly, my privacy.

“You mean… I’m staying?”

“As per the original plan, David. We shall work on obtaining you suitable student accommodations. Meanwhile, you will adhere strictly to my rules while you are here.”

As if he were in a trance, he made his way slowly to the clothing rack and ran his hands across the items hanging there.

“You mean… these clothes… are for me?”

“For you, yes. I do not intend for you to ruin my best clothing. In this way, you will have your own.”

“Oh, Auntie…”

“Oh, and, David…”

He looked back at me.

“You will find a couple of dresses hanging up there as well…”

~ ~ ~