4 comments/ 68979 views/ 2 favorites Erotic Closure Ch. 01 By: MasterTiberius "Never crowd youngsters about their private affairs—sex especially. When they are growing up, they are nerve ends all over, and resent (quite properly) any invasion of their privacy. Oh, sure, they'll make mistakes—but that's their business, not yours. (You made your own mistakes, did you not?)" Lazurus Long Diary Entry: January 13th, 1977 Summary of 1976: Thoughts about Aunt Sarah I can remember when I was younger and staying for a long summer weekend at my Aunt's. Sometimes I would head to the basement to watch TV or explore in the back of the storage area in the basement recreation room for my older cousin's long forgotten toys or board games looking for something to occupy my mind. But amongst the organized stacks of old belongings there they were hanging from the cord strung parallel to the floor joists – my aunt's lingerie. Aunt Sarah was a bit older than my parents but even in the mid-1970s had not adopted the then relatively new fashion convenience of pantyhose. From the clothes line it was evident she still wore nylon stockings and, even though she had a fine figure she, for some reason, wore panty girdles or open bottom girdles with her stockings. In fact, just about everything about Aunt Sarah was a throw back to the 1950s, as if she found this era in keeping with her value system, sense of morality, and ethics. Her's was a time when men and women were sexually repressed and experimenting with a new morality coming from the 1950s and 1960s in no way reflected in the values of "Leave it to Beaver" and "The Danny Thomas Show". She consciously reflected her conservative values in the hair, clothing, lingerie and other interests she practiced and believed. The specific moment that triggered this passion and interest in my Aunt and her intimate attire was preceded by an experience I had 2 week previous to this visit. On a long bike hike out into the country my friends and I had stopped at a large culvert to take a piss and as we entered the culvert we found a stash of old Penthouse magazines in a plastic bag wedged under some rocks beside the culvert. Somebody, probably about our age had hidden them there to retrieve them later and delight, as we did sitting in the deep grass of the drainage ditch that day, in the scantily clad women portrayed in the January, February and March 1976 editions of Penthouse. I remember that most distinctly...that there was some sort of cosmic symmetry to the fact that we had found 3 consecutive monthly issues of Penthouse! What a find for young men! It was a window to a new world and as we sat in the grass and pretended to have seen all "that" before our eyes widened to this whole new world of the naked female body. For me it was a seminal experience. I had seen in one of the pictorials a wonderful; some would say by today's standards, rubenesque blonde women dressed simply in a black 1 inch elastic band garter belt and black Cuban heeled stockings with a back vertical seam. I was in love. I loved the way the dark sheerness of the stocking met the welt of the stockings and became a stark demarcation line to the soft sinfully milky whiteness of her thigh. I loved the way the garter straps extended perpendicular to the waist band on the belt accentuated her curves: how the stark straightness of the elastic straps only served to round and soften her feminine features. I simply adored how the stocking caught the soft light of the sun and accentuated her ankles, calves and thighs and made more of what was a stunning woman...well more! More of what I began to realize I wanted to see and experience this – That was for sure And now here I was looking up at Aunt Sarah's nylons and foundation wear drying in the still air of the basement. The stockings were carefully pinned to the cord with small bits of cloth so the pins did not mar or damage the stockings. They were of such a fine material you could look at them and not tell that the material was a tube of nylon. It was like you were looking through a slightly tinted piece of single pane glass. The coffee colour contrasted to the virginal whiteness of her girdles, and, since she had removed the garter clips to hand launder these items, the way they stayed up in this particular lingerie style was a mystery to me. What I remember most was the temptation to touch them. I wanted to feel their texture and discover what they felt like to run over my palm or across my fore arm but fear of discovery was to prevent me from acting and as my cousin was getting curious why it was taking so long to retrieve his 'Risk' board game he called to me and I snapped out of my momentary reverie and let the temptation of its titillation pass until such time as I could act on it. Since I was staying in the hotel room with my entire family I would sadly have to wait for the return to home before I could rid myself of the all too immediate and erotic images in my mind. The bad news was that we all went out for dinner that night and Aunt Sarah, in her peculiar way, was able to dress like a sexed up Jean Cleaver. She was wearing a pink patterned afternoon tea dress and I realized, like a bolt of lightning had struck me in between the halves of my brain, that this is why she had the figure she had! For heavens sake it all made sense now! In order to have such an hour glass figure she had to be wearing a girdle and with a rushing realization I saw that she was wearing the very stockings I had only hours before been admiring. I have to take a moment and back up or this experience will not make sense to you... You see my family moved to a relatively progressive and economically viable part of our province. It was not far from Toronto but it was growing and had new schools and from the influx of families new and fairly liberal attitudes about social, economic and political issues. But Aunt Sarah and my Uncle lived in what I would characterize as a provincial backwater. The downtown was at night a smashing clash of multi-hued neon and there were two old style movie theatres in full and viable operation were as we had already lost our downtown theater to a multiplex with modern seating and stereo sound. They even had an operating soda fountain and the two taverns still honoured (and you need an appreciation of previous Ontario liquor laws here) the old law providing for the patrons to use a separate entrance for men and women. So you can see that I was from a relatively small 'el' liberal background from a highly urbanized background and Aunt Sarah was from some rare form of June Cleaver's universe albeit transplanted to eastern Ontario. The nearest and best characterization I can give you is the movie "It's a Wonderful Life". Watch that movie and you will know what I mean. Add to this that Aunt Sarah's family were scions of the county community active in business, church and small 'c' conservative politics and you can see that poor Aunt Sarah had to comply and meet some very Edwardian expectations of behaviour. Not a lot of people understand the English cultural and political influence on Canadian culture and even at this time in the mid-70s my Aunt's town was one of many pools of Tory moral sensibilities in Ontario. Even at my unsophisticated 18 year old mental development and sensibilities this contrast of cultures...this clash, as it were, of the new and the old was oddly compelling. Here was an attractive woman related to me through marriage that looked so damn sexy and yet...unconventional... because of the fashion and attitude time warp she immersed herself in. From that moment I wanted to be near her. I used that opportunity, which was to stretch into many opportunities over all our family visits in the next decade, to sit beside my Aunt and get to know her. I was a chaste and respectful admirer of her beauty and poise and even though I wanted to extend this relationship in my mind to a rather undignified and undeveloped masturbatory expression of lust I never acted on it. I simply would find ways and means to steal downstairs in their house to see her lingerie drying carefully in the basement or breach the sanctity of the matrimonial bedroom to smell her perfume and body powder. I had yet to create in my mind and substance the true needs of a fetishist. I did not crave her clothes or presence or desire to possess her sexually. All in needed was momentary but predictable transitory contact with her and the items of clothing that I so closely associated with her. Luckily for me our family shared a predictable stream of social interaction over all of the major holidays...Christmas every second year, one long weekend a summer and one weekend winter skiing vacation were all typical events that gave me opportunities to satisfy my need. All told I could count on 3 times a year I could be with my Aunt and stand, at some point during the visit, mesmerized looking at her lingerie. Erotic Closure Ch. 02 The more you love, the more you can love — and the more intensely you love. Nor is there any limit on how many you can love. If a person had time enough, he could love all of that majority who are decent and just. Lazurus Long Diary Entry: Summary 1980 (Aunt Sarah) It has been a while since I have written specifically about Aunt Sarah. Time has passed and so have the circumstances that impinge of family life. I am older, more mature, more developed in my mind and body. And tragedy has struck our family: My Uncle, Aunt Sarah's husband, is dead from a catastrophic accident. Through that time of turmoil I reflect on and now realize I had suppressed some of my feelings and longings for Aunt Sarah but I am compelled now to write about them as a means of clearing the air. I want to put a name and face on my desire. My Uncle's death only served to bring me closer to Aunt Sarah and I began to feel guilt for my casual feelings I had generated in my interest in my Aunt and the mode of that interest. I was not simply a friend or family member interested in her well being and grief. I was now a man that could see many different sides to my Aunt that no one else could see. With some shame mixed with selfishness and need I wanted to be more than a nephew to her. I wanted to console her: To be her special confidant. I am compelled to admit, like some drug addict, that I, at the height of the tragedy, sat in that church at that time of grief thinking about that stolen moment not hours before when I had crept downstairs, like Dr. Jekyll to his lab, to pander to my basest instincts. I needed my Aunt Sarah fix. I HAD to see her under garments. I needed to know what she was going to wear at some time in the near future and if I would be lucky enough to recognize the style, cut and colour of her stockings. I was relieved that at the funeral I did not see what I had viewed hung in the basement but on the drive home from the funeral and wake I had an opportunity to muse and reflect on several singular moments. The times I yearned for most was Christmas for at that time at Aunt Sarah's home the greatest opportunities existed to go downstairs on some pretext to retrieve a chaffing dish or an old jazz album would offer the glimpse of my desire. I would often get a visual fix by seeing several stockings and girdles hanging to dry or lying in a pile to be hand laundered. The stockings changed in hue slightly: honey, charcoal, coffee, nude and off-black would greet my wondrous and hungry eyes and slake that visual thirst I had come to crave at regular intervals. Her lingerie began to reflect the changes in her body as well. For in the past there were only panty girdles and open bottom girdles had been supplemented by full body open and closed bottomed girdles. As always virginal white was the main colour but now she was wearing nightshade gray, light yellow and beige girdles hung from that cord. I began to understand why Aunt Sarah took so long to go "to the ladies room." It had to be a somewhat onerous process to disrobe almost completely to attend to her needs. This delay only served to increase my curiosity and desire. Curious to know about a woman's intimate ministrations in all aspects and desire because the delay acted as a catalyst for my imagination as I sat at some restaurant with my family waiting her return. Sometimes I would become so distracted in my musings that I missed conversations directed at me and I would blush in deep embarrassment if they only truly knew why I was not paying attention to the repartee rolling round the dinner table. Thinking back from my last entry about Aunt Sarah I remember these singular moments in my quest for visual enticement: Aunt Sarah in a boat in a summer weight white blouse and, unbelievably, a mid-length pencil skirt, totally non-nautical attire, jumping to the dock in crepe soled shoes and the flash of stocking seam as she bent down to tie off the line. Going to the Opera and opening the passenger door for my Aunt and as she slid out of the seat her dress rising and glimpsing her stocking top. Her hand rushing to correct this most sinful of displays and in a flash the image gone from sight but etched into my mind forever. Morning one day at her home when everyone was out early except for Aunt Sarah and I. I was eating cereal in the breezeway and she was passing through in a thigh length nylon dressing gown and through the sun shine I could see the outline of a lace full body girdle. Moments like these were the fuel, like an atomic pile being activated slowly, that sustained me from one family get together to another. As these moments were rare I reveled in the opportunities that presented themselves to ingratiate myself with her and become her favourite nephew – not all that hard since I am an only nephew – and given her tacit and, later to become, obvious pleasure in having me be near her. The odd time our bodies would touch outside of the obligatory greeting and leaving hugs – a momentary brush against her thigh as we sat on a bench seat in a restaurant would sustain me for months. Through all this experience and momentary reward it was my secret. I only had one secret I held closer to me than this and no one knew either secret. I had no Confessor...no entity to share this with but the stark whiteness of paper and blue ink of my Journal. There was no longing for I knew that what I desired was met by what I would garner from my infinitesimal machinations to see only objects that represented her. I never got drunk and acted inappropriately to Aunt Sarah or stole a touch on the nape of her supple neck as I hugged her. For everyone, save me, I was the example of what was once called courtly love. I was mildly chivalrous and attending but never fell into a saccharine sweetness of behaviour that would expose my true feelings. My admiration for Aunt Sarah was perfect in its intent. There was only desire satisfied by the self-imposed strictures I had created. I look forward to seeing Aunt Sarah soon. Christmas is just around the corner!