Mr. Blackwell Lives Here

I am not so much into stockings.

Last winter, I got into thigh-high socks. I wanted to keep my legs warm, but somehow the tight-nylons-hugging-the-crotch thing seemed constricting.  So I got into socks. I mean, it wasn’t like I was wearing dresses that much. Not in winter.

But a few days ago I decided to wear a dress, and I threw on some thick cable-sweater designed stockings with it.  I thought this was all well and good, but apparently…

I WAS WRONG.

Mom?” Pudding said shortly after I made my way from the shower to the kitchen, swinging from the refrigerator door handle and looking at me skeptically, “what are those?

What are what?” I asked.

On your legs. Are those leggings?” he said.

No,” I replied. “These are stockings.

Oh,” he said somewhat disdainfully. Then he stopped swinging on the door handle and leaned against the door to give me and my stockings a rather long perusal.

I’m not feeling them for you so much,” was the pronouncement.

Oh?” I said, laughing. “YOU…aren’t feeling them.

That’s not what I said,” he persisted. “I SAID, I’m not feeling them so much. For you.” And he stalked off.

I’m supposed to give him points for honesty, right? As opposed to telling him to fuck off? Right?

Just asking. For next time.

 

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