My Favorite Shirt Ever

About two and a half years ago I had one of my most romantic impulses. The memory of it came to mind this morning moments after I woke up, and it hasn’t completely left my thinking since. So, I guess it’s time to write about it in my blog.

Two and a half years ago I had been dating this nice guy for five or six weeks. Though he was significantly older than I was, I felt this real connection with him, and the connection spawned a wonderful affection. One Friday evening he drove us back to my apartment after an evening of playing bingo, among other activities, at a small festival. Who would have thought that I would be especially mesmerized by a man with whom I could play bingo? But believe it or not, that was exactly the case.

As I would usually do, I asked him to come in. I closed the door behind him and clicked the lock. I then told him straight-out that I wanted him to stay the night. I was a little nervous, but I said it hurriedly and in one breath so my voice would not falter, and the words would not sound too timid. It was going to be our first night together, our first encounter into full love-making. Of course it was not just the bingo that brought on my invitation, we had been seeing each other for well over a month, and I thought the appropriate time had arrived. The gentleman was very nice about it. He carefully placed his hands onto both of my arms and asked me if it was really what I wanted. I remember looking him in the eye and nodding.

The next morning when I woke up, I was instantly wide-awake, not a bit groggy as is usually the case. It was like when I was a little girl waking up on Christmas morning, full of adrenaline. I quickly looked over to my left, to my visitor. He was still sound asleep. I sat up in bed and glanced around the room. I saw his pants lying over the seat of my little bedroom’s only chair, draped over the back of the chair was his plaid flannel shirt.

A few days before, I had seen a photo advertisement for a man’s dress shirt, but in the picture the shirt was not being worn by a man, but rather by a slim, alluring, and otherwise nude lady. I thought the ad was very sexy. In fact, I knew immediately that I had to recreate it, best I could.

I tiptoed out of bed, slipped into the shirt, buttoned a lone button, and crept out of the room. I went into my kitchen and began making my gentleman caller a breakfast consisting of coffee, two eggs, wheat toast, and vegetarian bacon. It might sound odd, but the shirt was just perfectly too large for me. The sleeves were a few inches too long, the body of the shirt was sensuously unconfining. On a couple of occasions I had worn dresses and gowns costing hundreds of dollars, but I never felt so sexy as when I was preparing breakfast while wearing nothing but that $25 flannel shirt.

Fifteen minutes later I put the breakfast upon this old, ugly metal tray and delivered it to my guest in the bedroom. He was half awake when I arrived and so a mere fingertip touch was enough to open his eyes. As I had hoped, he was both flattered by the breakfast, and very pleased to see me in his shirt.

Subsequently, not every detail went entirely according to plan that morning. Although the gentleman did not complain, I could see that he was not particularly enamored with the veggie bacon; information I made sure to remember on my next visit to the grocery store. And before the breakfast was concluded, his work duties summoned him via cellphone, which we both found painfully disappointing. I had hoped we could spend at least a few romantic hours together, but it was not to be, at least not on that morning.

But being engulfed in that sublimely over-sized shirt met all my expectations. And now two and a half years later, this confirmed romantic is convinced that someday she will have the opportunity to once again slip into a gentleman’s shirt, some blissful weekend morning.  

.