Good girls don't.

In high school I was the consummate good girl; I had books instead of boyfriends. I was extremely shy and went mute if a boy tried to talk to me. This ensured I actually did reach sweet 16 and never been kissed. As a teenager I regarded s*x as a playground for adults and knew it was something I wasn't ready for. And so it was that when Brian P got a little too aggressive with me in his dad's F-150 after we went to the movies, I punched him in the face (thumb on the outside of my closed fist, just like my dad taught me when I was 8 and asked him to teach me how to fight) and walked three miles home with no coat in the snow.

In spite of my well-guarded virginity, I was as fascinated with s*x as anyone else my age. If not moreso. When I was 12 I was asked to babysit a neighbor kid for an entire weekend. The Vances were Ivy-league educated and their reading material consisted entirely of the New Yorker magazine. Having neglected to pack reading material for my weekend I found myself with nothing but droll articles to peruse once I'd tucked my young charge in for the night. While searching for something good to read, I came across Our Bodies, Our Selves. This book actually had an entire chapter explaining, with illustrations, how to m*sturbate. I shut myself in the guest room, fascinated, and started comparing myself to the illustrations. I was so startled by the discovery of my clitoris that I wouldn't touch it at first. I'd only poke at it with the eraser end of a pencil. Ultimately I discarded the pencil and tentatively explored a part of my body I hadn't ever known was there. A book showed me how to have an orgasm, and I haven't stopped touching myself since.

I compulsivey worried that I was too fascinated by s*x, but this didn't stop me from m*sturbating with the intensity and unabashed frequency of a red-assed monkey in the zoo. I rubbed up against my Raggedy Ann doll's foot as a child, having no clue what I was doing or why, only enjoying the sensation. I climbed a favorite tree in Germany specifically to straddle its delightfully bumpy branches. When I was 13 we made the move from Kentucky by car. I pretended to sleep in the very back seat of the caravan, silently pleasuring myself under a towel.

There was no Internet for me when I was a teenager, but there was Stephen King and his at times rather deviant s*x scenes. I had a thing for horror novels, and while my parents limited my viewing of R rated movies even into my late teens (I was prone to nightmares and sleepwalking after watching even the most mildly scary movie), I was never restricted in what I read. I was dedicated to horror novels instead of romance novels, but they were no less lacking in detailed descriptions of hard core f*cking. I was always rather delighted by this, as it felt like I was getting away with something terrible right under my parents' noses. The walls of my bedroom were lined with books, but only I knew which ones contained the favored well-read s*x scenes which had me thrashing in a frenzy in my bedsheets at night.

When I was 16 I was allowed to have a television in my bedroom. I hardly ever watched it, as books were always my entertainment of choice. But I made an exception for Showtime After Dark. At around midnight Showtime switched to soft-core p*rn, and I was a fan. The movies I watched made quite the impression on my young, virgin mind. Particularly a movie called Lady Chatterly's Lover. I was especially taken with a scene in which Lady Chatterly, wearing a lovely white gown with a full, layered skirt, is walking on the grounds of her estate and comes across the groundskeeper, who, like some kind of animal, is bathing himself outside of his small cottage, standing in the grass with a sponge and a hose in broad daylight. When he sees her spying on him he gets dressed and approaches her, and they become lovers. At one point he throws her down on the bed, her skirts flying up in a cloud around her, and dives under her skirts between her legs.

That scene in particular made quite the impression. Having always been shamelessly girly in terms of appearance, I was quite taken with the notion of wearing layers of soft material, only to be ravaged by somebody eager to dive underneath it all and torment me with his tongue.

I love Netflix, and I became an even more loyal subscriber when they added their "Watch Now" feature. Granted, most of the "Watch Now" movies aren't anything I'm interested in, but every so often something interesting appears. Every so often being today, for example, when I saw Young Lady Chatterly had been added to their selection.

I have seen plenty of p*rn since I was 16 years old watching Showtime After Dark. But seeing that this particular title was a point and click away from instant viewing had my heart pounding hard in my chest. I hesitated, worrying that I wouldn't find it as erotic at 34 as I did at 16. This didn't stop me from revisiting a movie boasting s*x scenes I have kept in my top ten fantasy favorites.

It didn't disappoint. I felt exactly the same excitement all over again when I saw poor Lady Chatterly in her lovely white dress, not exactly minding her own business, and that brute of a man having his way with her.

And so it is that this is one of my favorite things to imagine, when thinking of Kiwi. He has a thing for stockings, and I like to imagine pairing the stockings with a long, layered, Lady Chatterly skirt. I want him naked, like the groundskeeper, and I want to feel his big hands pushing the layers of skirt up, over the expanse of skin where stocking turns to flesh, his fingers touching me with his gentle, attentive grace that reduces previous encounters to the rough fumblings of adolescent inexperience. I want his handsome face between my legs, cradled by my thighs and whisper soft layers of skirt. I want to wrap my stocking-clad legs around his bare waist when he violates me.

But I shouldn't get so detailed. It's not that kind of blog.