Ballet Tights

God, I hate tights!!! Come to think of it, I hate tights almost as much as I hate God… but that’s another story. ‘Pantyhose’ my American friends call them; at least that name is as ugly as the garment itself which must have been invented by a man to torture women. Men do that a lot… mammograms; cervical smears; bras. Though come to think of it, almost every man I’ve known has rolled over and salivated when his fingers discovered the band of bare skin above my stockings. So perhaps it was a puritan man with a mission to protect the virtue of womankind who did the deed. I haven’t owned a pair of tights in years, but there was a time when it seemed oh, so grown up to be wearing them in place of the over-the-knee black socks that were a staple of my private girls’ school uniform.

We were Upper Sixth-Form prefects and proud of it. It’s a strange year, Upper Sixth, perculiar to the British education system; Year 13 it’s called in State schools… a year in which we’d both turned eighteen but adult freedoms were still beyond the horizon of university.

Janette had been one of my closest friends during the turmoil of our early teenage years and we had shared angst and ecstasy, hope and disappointment, romance and heartbreak. Now it was our lot to share the responsibility Gaziantep Otele Gelen Escort for forty Fourth Form girls (yes, our school was determinedly traditional so would never have called them Year 10 girls) on their Christmas trip to the Ballet.

Carmina Burana is amazing; one of my all time favourites. The Birmingham Royal Ballet’s interpretation was seductive and exotic with lush sets and stunning costumes. We sat high in the Gods, perched like Gods ourselves looking down on the world… and it was HOT; hot from the lights; hot because we were close together in plush upholstered theatre seats; hot because, well… Carmina Burana is HOT! Especially to teenage girls with raging hormones; and hot because we were wearing tights.

As the interval arrived, Janette and I were both fanning ourselves with our programmes, looking at each other and making I-need-some-air faces. I grinned at Janette, then lifted the hem of my skirt and fanned my legs; she giggled and leaned towards me whispering, “I need to let some air get to me; come to the ladies”.

There is always a queue! I thought about nipping into the Gents… it’s not as if I hadn’t done that before, but this was a school trip so I went off in search of a Coke and a loo with a shorter queue, leaving Janette to prove that patience is a virtue.

I pressed the glass of iced Coke against my forehead. It felt sooo good. It even tasted good and I wished I could have grasped the glass between my thighs; it was time to make my way back to my seat though. As the ‘five minute’ bell was sounding, I hurriedly nipped into the loo by the bar and quickly found a vacant stall. Tights round my ankles and knickers at my knees, the feeling of freedom and freshness flowed over me and I let my head fall back and savour the breeze at the top of my legs. Ring… ring… ring… one minute! I yanked up my knickers and squirmed a bit at their cold dampness. I know ladies ‘glow’ but when tights are part of the equation, glowing doesn’t quite cut it… I had obviously been sweating. Then disaster! My finger nail went right through my tights making a ladder to my knee.

Cursing under my breath, I took off my shoes and wriggled out of the deamon hose, instantly feeling indescribably better. So, back on with the shoes, smooth down skirt, hook damp knickers out of my bottom… and then my wicked streak kicked in. I lifted my skirt hem, hooked the waistband of my knickers with my thumbs and slid them down my legs, past my knees, then stepped left foot… right foot, out of my panties and tucked them into the sleeve of my blouse where we all kept our handkerchiefs.

I reached my seat just as the lights were going down and plopped down into it next to a refreshed looking Janette. “I thought you got lost” she hissed, and she squeezed my leg just above my knee. I grinned, looking down and realising Janette had bare legs too.

“Ooooh… naughty girl”, I said, exploring her knee with the tips of my fingers, “I guess we had the same idea!”

Janette’s eyes glinted in the theatre lights and, as the music began and the curtain rose, she put her hand on mine and slowly drew it up her thigh, stopping with my fingers just under the hem of her skirt. She looked me straight in the eyes with a longing expression and pulled my hand just a little bit further. I gasped, feeling a blush begin in my cheeks, travel down my chest making my nipples scrunch up and pooling in that squdgy place low in my tummy. Her smile was beautiful as she slowly and very deliberately moved my hand back down her bare thigh and onto my own lap.

I was melting inside, and not from the temperature anymore. I took Janette’s hand once more and opened her fingers in my lap, reached into my sleeve and placed a piece of warm, soft cotton in her palm, closing her fingers over it. And as realisation dawned on her face I whispered, “I guess we really are very alike… and very wicked”.