The Skirt
by Mykola Dementiuk
from Married People
I'm not going to let my no wife of mine look like some cheap fucking whore showing-off her ass in public! he screamed.
You're a fucking idiot! she screamed back. And I'm going to wear what I want!
You do, and you'll be walking the streets where you belong!
It was pointless; they'd have the same argument all weekend. Since she bought the skirt on Friday evening after work, and he saw her trying it on he started bitterly decrying its length. He flared at the idea she'd be showing off her knees to every creep on the street and displaying them when she sat down to every pervert on the subway.
She bit her lip and put the skirt back in the store shopping bag, thinking perhaps he was right, after all, she was a married woman (but without kids), and maybe the skirt was too risqué (it was two at three above her knees when seated), yet when he moved the shopping bag from the bedroom and set by the front door for her not to forget to return it on Monday, she blew up.
She bitterly pulled the skirt out, removed the price tags, and tossed the shopping bag aside. He flared and stormed out of the room, though a few times she saw him lingering before the open closet that weekend, pretending to check on his shirts and slacks on his side of the closet, but his eyes scanning and lingering and scrutinizing each piece of clothing on her side.
I'm gonna wear the fucking skirt if he kills me! she thought to herself.
Not that the skirt was so outlandish or provocative that she'd be propositioned or induce hardons once she stepped out the front door; hell, she had enough of those in her closets already.
Even before they'd married, she agreed to get herself made-up in hooker/slut/bimbo outfits he got her. And not questioning him as to why he received every Frederick of Hollywood and their imitator's catalogs, pouring over each one.
He'd select outfits, measuring and remeasuring her breasts, waist and hips; carefully place an order, repeating her sizes, making sure the colors were correct. No substitutes, please! And making her wear them as soon as they arrived.
But who was she showing off for, only him...
Spiked heels, cut-out bras, crotchless panties, garters, mesh stockings, and micro-skirts that were merely a hint of wrap-around cloth.
With her ass cheeks shaking, her hair puffed and teased, her tits high on her chest, her face slathered in makeup and lipstick, she walked, sit, bent over, that she finally squatted atop him to take in his load from his frantic masturbation as he gaped wide-eyed at her.
She was his personal porno slut, his bimbo, his whore, his wife, and he didn't want anyone else imagining her otherwise.
Hands off! Private property!
And that's what the skirt was all about: someone else might suddenly be attracted to her, might like what they saw, might want what he now owned and would never relinquish.
And his jealousy and possessiveness were crazed enough to imagine her actually being for someone else the sex-crazed show-off slut he had created for himself in private.
Better keep off, motherfucker! he always thought.
Idiot! she cursed and snapped the skirt out of the closet. I'm wearing it to work tomorrow whether you like it or not!
You do and you're not getting back into the house!
Asshole! she screamed, as he stalked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
She was bitter for a few moments then smoothed the skirt and clipped it by the waist to the pins of a suit hanger. She draped a flowered blouse over the skirt and hung the two on the closet door.
There's be no fucking tonight, she knew; as there had been none the previous night, which was just as well.
What did he think she was, his own private usable and reusable whore whenever he wanted one?
That's exactly what he thought. Well, if so, then he'd have to pay to get it, just like every john.
Did he think it was so easy to simply brush off their arguments of the day, then reward him by letting him fuck her that night? And how could he even attempt to kiss her when only a few hours ago that same mouth of his had spat out nothing but curses and insults?
That was the problem with their marriage: he'd treat her like shit than fuck her like a dog.
All the sex they ever had was not a matter of sharing, of love, of respect, but of conquest, manipulation, and getting the better of her.
Dress up like a whore, parade like a whore, get treated like a whore. Do this, do that, now suck me off, you cunt! And don't even pretend to have a mind of your own...
Is that what a woman swears to when she promises to honor and obey? To be the charge and whore of her protector/husband/pimp?
And what is the unspoken promise of a man's marriage vow? To use, abuse and dispose of his property as he wills? Behind his I Do's does he triumphantly mutter: You bet I fucking will!?
As usual, he rolled atop and fucked at dawn. No preliminaries, no foreplay. His alarm rang, he awoke, and much like most people head for the bathroom upon stirring, he simply rammed in his morning hardon and relived himself into the first receptacle at hand.
Thank God for Little Miss Toilet Bowl, eh?
There was no pleasure in these morning fucking's: she remained dry and comatose, as he ejaculated with the selfish angry woman-hating greed of a rapist or a chronic masturbator --nothing erotic or sexual about it at all. Once done and spent, totally forgotten, at least by the user and abuser.
When her alarm went off, he was already gone and the first thing she noticed was the skirt gone from the closet door.
Bastard! she cursed, leaping out of bed. Fucking bastard!
The flowered blouse was on the floor, the skirt hanger tossed on a chair, with a long thin brown thread clung to one of the pin holders she had clipped the skirt to --he had simply yanked it off unconcerned whether the skirt ripped or not.
Or maybe that was his intent, to rip it the way he ripped into her every morning.
Bastard! Take the fucking skirt, you creep! Probably wants to wear it himself, the fucking faggot! Thirty-two dollars I paid for it! Thirty-two fucking dollars!
But she'd show him, she'd fucking show him, and everyone else too!
She washed, put on makeup (heavier than usual), and opened her bottom dresser drawer, the Frederick's drawer.
She glanced at the microscopic panties, uplift bras, mesh hose, ribboned and lace-frilled garters, swatches of cloth sold as skirts, 49.95! Cup-less bustiers (now where's the logic in that?), pants as skintight as the pantyhose, and hot pants just slightly larger than the microscopic panties.
She stepped into a black panty which covered her crotch, her pussy hairs sprinkling over the top and sides of the tiny satiny cloth. The uplift bra she laced around herself held her bosom high on her chest, the cleaving and bulbing heaviness of her breasts deep and pulsing, the nipples hard and stiff.
Since her legs were long and tanned (lotion-ed) she ignored the various-pattered stockings and pulled on a bright micro-skirt.
If it was the first time she wore the skirt, there'd be no way she'd be able to leave the house, but just a month ago, when the micro first arrived from Frederick's, he had taken her out for a hesitant midnight stroll down Lexington Avenue.
They sauntered past hookers dressed no different from her, past johns as horny and disrespectful as him, and fleeing from cop cars which periodically scattered the whores, pimps and johns into various alleys, hallways, and side-streets.
Can a husband be arrested for showing off and treating his wife like a whore?
She wriggled into the micro and looked at herself in the mirror. The micro hen was aligned with her panty crotch and when she turned around curve of her ass-cheeks arched and dipped below the edge of her skirt line.
She sighed and sat down on the bed. Her bulbed black crotch gleamed like an eight-ball under the cued hem line of the pink micro skirt. Her eyes watered.
Never mind being raped on the way to work, or gangbanged by the bosses, clerks and mailroom guys once there, why was she raping herself by being controlled by her husband, visually, mentally, physically?
How long had she let it go on like this? The comatose morning fucking's, the dressing up for him, the show-off parading on midnight streets?
How long before he actually sold her and watched her making it with someone in a sleezy Lexington Avenue hallway?
She sadly wiped her eyes, undressed and scooped up the street-whore clothes and flung them unfolded back into the bottom Frederick's closet, kicking it shut with her foot.
She donned regular panties, pantyhose, and a full bra, then picked the blouse he had flung aside and hung it in the closet.
She retrieved a business-suit outfit and a plain white blouse with a sewn-in little blue flower pattern on each corner of the blouse collar, the only decoration she allowed herself.
She slipped on a long black skirt draping inches beneath her knees and the hip-length loose black jacket disguised whatever big bosom attempted to stress itself.
A wide blue bow around her neck and white wool anklets with running shoes on her feet completed the tame obedient secretarial/working-girl look.
They'd love her at the office...
She studied herself in the mirror: professional, serious, strictly business, ready to take on the world, or at least eight hours of it on a typing keyboard...
So, was this the real her? From a hooker to a matron? Which one was she?
She suddenly spotted the mirror-reflection of the brown torn thread taunting her from the empty hanger on the chair. She cursed, grabbed her shoulder bag and stormed out of the apartment.
The morning sun streamed brightly into the building lobby and through the front glass doors as she saw t-shirted and bluejeaned people walking past.
She sighed, stepped out of the building and froze.
Her face grimaced in anger and sadness: the short brown skirt she was planning to wear that morning lay atop an open garbage can smeared with coffee grounds, grease, eggshells, and other food scum that been discarded by other tenants.
He couldn't just get rid of the skirt he had to show it to the other tenants. He had to savage it, rape it, destroy it, be rid of it. Her lips and teeth were clenched tight.
A teenaged girl in a short summer shift walked past, her braless breasts poking at the frail flowery material, her bare shoulders and arms shimmering in the sunlight, her young round ass weaving back and forth under the flower-print shift. She walked past.
But she studied the fading girl, then looked back at her stained skirt in the garbage. It was beyond washing or laundering, it looked like some of the Lexington Avenue whores at dawn.
But hell, she brightened, I have other short skirts upstairs, don't I? And anyway, this fucking yuppie outfit is too hot for today!
She glanced at her watch. It was getting late, but so what? By the time she made into work her boss, and everyone else, would probably have alot more to say (and look at too) besides, What kept you?
She smirked and nodded her head.
What did keep her so long? And would it ever keep her again?
She kept smiling looking after the teenage girl disappearing down the street, then once more glanced back at her battered skirt. She turned from the garbage can, re-entered her building and hurried up the stairs to change.
Jesus, I'll show them! Oh yes, I will!
****
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