April 23, 2011

It was never common for me to wear
panties in church; the fact, simply
stated, is that I like the way my
naked ass feels on a freshly washed
cotton skirt. Mom once caught me

drying a fresh easter dress out on a
clothesline in the backyard. Struck
by some feeling, some sentiment
she could only describe to my father

as “divine,” she teared up, watching
me from the kitchen. My hand hurt;
she squeezed it so tight during the

service. I sparkled my eyes and beamed
at her, secretly keeping them peeled

for some horny Catholic boy who might say ‘yes.’



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