When you dress yourself, you tell a story.
Your panties can tell one story, if you intend anything about your selection to be visible under, through, above what goes on top of them. They can tell another if they’re not visible to me (yet). And yet another, if they’re never going to be visible to me.
So, too, your bra. Does the strap peek out? Is the texture visible through the top? Can its edges be seen? Does it press your breasts together, up? Does it simply provide support? Or keep your nipples from poking out?
And the rest: if you wear tights and a short skirt, if you wear a sundress and no tights/leggings. If you wear yoga pants, or jeans.
If you wear (as the woman sitting to my left is), black heel boots up to her calves, over black leggings that extend up to her lower thigh, over black but transparent stockings… and a form-fitting cotton minidress that just extends to the bottom of her ass… you are telling a story.
Just what story your clothes tell only you can know. There’s a long history of piggish men imagining that “provocatively” dressed women are “asking for it,” that the story their clothing tells is, “I want you to fuck me.” Certainly, that’s the story such men would imagine the woman to my left is telling with her clothes.
But I don’t think so.
I think she’s telling a different story. I imagine the story she’s telling is this one: “I am a sexual being. My body is a source of pleasure to me, and to those lucky few I select to enjoy it with me. It gives me pleasure to be reminded of just how attractive my body is to others to feel the various edges of what I reveal – to feel the upper edge of the leggings that reach to my thighs, to feel the lower edge of my dress, to feel the air on my thighs in between. To feel the tautness of the cotton fabric stretching over my breasts, over my hips, and to know that as I feel those sensations, they are transmitted visually to the world. I delight in the appreciative glances I get, and am grateful that the cost of obtaining those appreciative glances is, in this day and age, in this big, sophisticated city, limited to a few obnoxious comments or intrusive leers – which don’t really bother me that much, anyway.”
I have no way of knowing if this is, in fact, the story my neighbor is telling. Can you offer any insight? How do you think I did?