Denim

I do not wear jeans. I do not own any. But one day at the Kew, back in the summer, I somehow ended up putting on a pair of D's jeans. I typically wear waist 32 or 33 trousers, though ever since I gave up smoking two-and-a-half years ago my weight has been gradually increasing. But D, though slim, is hippy, and I could wriggle into her jeans, just.

I was stoned, which helped, but even so I was taken aback by the inner transformation that this really rather modest outer transformation effected. I felt very sexy, felt like flaunting my cute butt, felt altogether much rougher and younger and New Jersey than normal. Interestingly, I also felt more like being fucked in the ass, so whatever exactly was going on it was not straightforwardly and stereotypically masculinizing.

I have donned the denim with D subsequently, with similar effects. The last time D and I were at the Kew, I wore her jeans for a good while, while fucking D and eating her out. This was again in a mirrored room, as the first time I wore them. Because I am usually without my glasses at these times, and especially when eating D's cunt, I do not get quite the benefit from the mirrors that D does. She loves me in jeans, loves to watch my ass moving in them as I fuck her. And I confess, from the blurred glimpses I get, it does look pretty sexy.

I wore jeans as a teenager, so for me I am sure that there is an erotic flashback element to the excitement. If I think of myself in jeans making out, my first real love, Roz, springs to mind. Small, hard-bodied, smart as a whip, she was the first girl who seemed to feel sexual desire and register sexual pleasure in a way that was real - before that, it seemed only a struggle to get the girl to do things that she didn't want to do, even if she pretended that she did. A reminds me of Roz very much.