I stared down at the slim knees, covered with glistening nylons. "All dressed up and no where to go". I had read it somewhere...in one of my favorite books probably, but the statement was not to my liking. It had no aesthetic connotation, but it was true. The knees, peeping out from the yellow suit, uncrossed themselves. A spot of coffee dripped on the right knee it was hot and wet, it was filled with sensitivity, pas- sion, and knowing. "One Master Passion swallows all the rest". I had read that somewhere too. How well it could be applied to her.

The day was beginning a foot from my pulsating body. Through the crack of the closed venetian blinds, I saw the mild truck pass and the women hanging their silks and satins on clothes lines beneath the radiant sun before the inspection of people, and I was envious but the loneliness was not desolate for I had her - with- in me, and she clothed me with the frills of woman- hood, and she held me in the staves of maidenly slen- derness.

The day was before us. There were no classes at the university, and my wife would work until four o'clock. Georgia was ever so happy to rustle her skirts about the apartment avec la coeur de la femme. She anticipated these long days of pleasure when my wife's clothes would be carefully spread out on the bed for her. She would dance arount the sheets, dain- tily picking up this slip, examining it, folding it, spreading it again in its place; holding the transparent red panties in her two hands and rubbing them gently, throwing them into a heap; and then there were the dresses... nylon, cotton, evening attire, nursing uni- forms, tight skirts and smooth sweaters. She also de- lighted in specualting about ways to make some of the clothes fit her. Several dress zippers would not close, so she pinned the dress tops or wore sweaters which cov- ered her swelling breasts. Later in the afternoon, she would have to go back into hiding, but now she was the woman of the house having a hot cup of coffee, with

me.

She sipped the hot liquid and turned the pages of her Femme Homme scrap book. Pictures of her friends from all over the world were pasted in it. expressing themselves with the same rustling satins and silks

50.