Katie and a Man's Shirt

No one who reads my idiotic blog actually knows me so I'm going to bare my soul a bit. Anonymity allows such things.

I woke-up on this morning, Sunday morning, and as has been the case for about ten months now, I woke-up alone. Since I am a confirmed romantic, my mind traveled back to a morning about four years ago. At approximately 8AM on that day I awoke alongside a man whom I had been dating for a “sufficient amount of time”, and we would continue in a relationship for the next three years. We were at my newly-rented apartment, having just spent our first night together, and while I was wide awake with my heart in full flight, he remained asleep a few inches away.

As I lay there, I noticed his clothing draped over a nearby chair. I immediately had this urge to climb out of bed, slide into his shirt, and make breakfast for my overnight visitor. It is kind of a cliché; a woman wearing nothing but the gentleman’s shirt on the “morning after”. I wonder where such a custom might have begun. Titillating television ads? A movie perhaps? Wherever the fashion started, I just had to continue it. So I climbed out of bed, tiptoed to his clothing, and slipped into his shirt. I remember buttoning a single button, one of the middle ones.

It seemed to me that the men’s shirts in the cliché were traditionally white, long-sleeve, dress shirts. A necktie was occasionally involved too. The shirt I donned was a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and there was no tie. But it was plenty too big for my frame, so that part was correct. And there in the garment’s fibers was a faint scent of men’s cologne or after shave, which met with my approval. So though not everything was precise, overall it made for a pretty healthy turn-on.

I followed through on everything. I traveled to my kitchen, and began brewing a pot of coffee. I set a skillet on the stove and put on several strips of veggie bacon, and three eggs. As I poked at the sizzling bacon with a fork, I would occasionally caress and stroke the shirt. I had never found the task of preparing breakfast so stimulating as I had that morning.

I put the food on a tray and delivered it to my guest in the bedroom. He was half awake when I arrived and so a mere fingertip touch was enough to open his eyes. As I had hoped, he was both flattered by the breakfast, and very pleased to see me in his shirt.

Subsequently, not every detail went entirely according to plan that morning. Although the gentleman did not complain, I could see that he was not particularly enamored with the veggie bacon; information I made sure to remember on my next visit to the grocery store. And before the breakfast was concluded, his work duties summoned him via cellphone, which we both found painfully disappointing. I had hoped we could spend at least a few romantic hours together, but it was not to be, at least not on that morning.

But being engulfed in that shirt met all my expectations. And now four years later, this confirmed romantic is convinced that someday she will have the opportunity to once again slip into a gentleman’s shirt, some blissful weekend morning.