Carol was my girlfriend in high school. She was a delightfully pleasant young lady who wore garters and stockings.
Alas, those innocent and alluring days are gone, victimized by pantyhose, spray on tans, or just plain old convenience. Perhaps more than a little neglect. The memory of such feminine delights, however, does not fade.
The fully furnished and carpeted basement of Carol’s home was a wonderful place to engage in regular bouts of teenage necking, which we did as often as her parents would allow. They allowed and santioned such extracurricular activity simply by staying upstairs.
Carol and I would settle in to their large, over-stuffed sofa chair to, uh, converse–and moments later proceed to enjoy personal expressions of affection for one another. All the while her parents watched television upstairs.
The sound of creaking stairs and shuffling shoes served as a warning to us that household adults were on the way down, and we would quickly disentangle our entanglements to continue our, uh, conversation.
Polite and proper young girls of that age wore panty girdles and stockings for no known reason to young men except to be touched and stroked, which Carol allowed. At least, to a degree. My eager and inexperienced fingers were allowed to stroke their way to the tops of the stockings and touch the garters, but no further.
Our relationship was and always remained chaste, though we dated off and on years later.
Carol was special in ways she did not fully understand and I did not appreciate at the time. Timing, as they say, is everything. When I was ready to settle down, she was not. When she was ready to settle down, I was not.
The memories of that era are good, rich, full of common sense restraint and sensual allure. Carol, thank you for those moments, your smile and warmth and kindness. And your garters.