“It began for me when I was twelve, back in 1978. At the time, the area I which my family lived had a great atmosphere and a genuine sense of community spirit (not anymore, alas). It was the custom for the ladies of our neighbourhood to put on a bit of an amateur ‘variety show’ (not sure if they have ‘variety’ in the US) in the local church hall. There would be a little singing, a few jokes, a little bit of (very amateurish) conjuring and the like. It was all very light-hearted. That year, at the end of the show, the curtains were pulled back to reveal a line of can-can dancers – the wives and mothers of our neighbourhood! The taped music started, and a dozen or so ladies began their high kicks, flashing their stockings and suspenders (all black) and their knickers (a variety of colours – whites, pinks and yellows). I was instantly spellbound. Straightaway my heart began to thump. I simply could not believe what I was seeing; there were ladies I knew (including Mum!) neighbours and the mothers of friends, kicking up their legs and wiggling their big round bottoms, all clad in gorgeous briefs and hosiery. The act finished to thunderous applause and cheering.

“That night I couldn’t get the images out of my mind – I was a stockings addict at twelve! I didn’t get much sleep that night either, as my parents’ bedsprings were squeaking away for hours: I wasn’t the only one turned on.”

“My story is a little different. I started out hating stockings with a passion. Growing up in the thirties until the age of about six, and before graduating to knickers, most boys in winter were forced to wear cotton or wool stockings with their shorts. The stockings were awful. Never long enough so there was bare thigh between the stocking top and shorts. They were held up by a single garter in front, or perhaps a pair of garters in a Y on a single strap. The garters were suspended from an over the shoulder bodice. The girls wore wool stockings too, but theirs were much longer, and moreover held up with a four-strap garter belt. I complained to my mother that my stockings should be longer, but to no avail. How happy I was to graduate to knickers. I got over my hatred of stockings-but that’s another story…

“My aunt was baby-sitting me at her house shortly after I shed my awful stockings. She was a slim, attractive widow in her early forties. She was always casual about putting on and adjusting stockings; they looked really good on her. In the bathroom were hanging to dry stockings, lingerie and a corset. I touched and felt her underwear, and loved the touch. As I turned to leave, my aunt was standing there smiling in her slip with a pair of stockings in her hands; she was obviously about to put them on. She asked if I liked her underwear. I stammered that her stockings were so much nicer than the ones I had had to wear. She asked if I would like to help her put on her stockings. I was trembling but somehow said yes. She showed me how to pull them carefully up her legs and fasten the garters to get straight seams. She then asked if I would like to try on some stockings. She said she had some that were short for her that would probably fit me. She had me remove my knickers, and put a wide garterbelt on me. Then, she watched while I put on the stockings, and carefully fastened the garters. She asked how I liked the stockings; I just loved them. It was the beginning of a long love affair. She gave me the garterbelt and three pairs of the stockings that were too short for her, saying that she wouldn’t and I shouldn’t tell my parents. Whenever she babysit for me after that, I would always put on the stockings. I still love them.”

“My fixation on women in their underwear, especially seeing their legs in stockings, was fixed forever in me by my aunt, when I was 10 or 11. I was staying at my aunt’s one time. I was sitting at a table when she came in, wearing only a white corselette with dangling suspenders. My heart was pounding, and I tried not to look as I heard her open a drawer. It was the drawer of a dresser behind the couch (which was actually a pull-down bed where I had spent the night). I glanced back and saw her sliding a shiny bronze coloured stocking up her long leg and fixing it to the hooks.

“She caught me looking, and I blushed and turned away. Next thing I know she has walked up beside me, pulled out a chair that is next to me, put her bare left foot on it, and slowly slid on the other stocking. She took a long time about it, drawing it up her leg, hooking the chocolate-coloured stocking tops with the rubber and metal clasps, and slowly smoothing out any wrinkles, working her hands up her leg from ankle to thigh. I was close enough to see every wrinkle in the nylon, and to hear the rasping sound the nylon made as it slid up her leg. I tried not to look, but kept glancing out of the corner of my eye.

“She was talking about banal things, like the shopping expedition we would be going on and things like that. But when she brought her foot back down and moved away to put on her dress, I noticed she had an ironic half-smile on her face.”