Robes were always a part of our fantasy, what they did or did not reveal, how they fell from the shoulder. An appetizer, David would say, his fetish, one of many. Not the terry cloth variety, not those heavy spa things. The robes of our fantasies were light, floaty, like the long, turquoise silk with the mandarin collar or the pink gossamer with the pink ribbon sash, the sash servicing a multitude of sins all on its own. Sometimes they were black, bitchin, crazy sexy. I love black robes, I own two, and I’m sitting outside in the dark with one on now. I can’t put one on without thinking about him, about his hands and tongue moving underneath the fabric. Underneath was whatever he wanted, gentleman’s call and our combined imaginations–and we were very good at imagining things.
photo credit: isadorabelle.deviantart.com