The Unlucky Camisole

A year or so ago, I was occasionally seeing a man in his early 30s. We did a fair amount of kissing and finally made plans to take it to the next step. In the intervening days between making plans and the proposed execution of them, I went shopping and got a cute, black camisole, well, perhaps more like a slip, since it barely covers my upper thighs.



I was so excited about my camisole because I knew I could hide all the dialysis gauze, tubing, and tape beneath it. I would also figure out a way to squirrel away the insulin pump and its tubing. The camisole, I thought, would make me look sexy and like a woman without any encumbrances. Then if I just kept all my gear in place, hidden under my camisole, everything would go smoothly, and sex might be possible. That was my plan.

Well, the big day rolled around, and instead of finding some place to be alone together, this young guy instead wanted me to sit at a coffeehouse and watch him work on a script he was writing about his life as a strip club DJ. I saw him a few times after that, but just in passing. If he wasn't any more interested than that, I really wasn't interested either.




Last October, I spent a week in Tuscon with a man with whom I had had some wild dealings years ago. Sometime in 2005, he tracked me down through a magazine for which I was writing. I was very excited to hear from him again and really wanted to see him, to rekindle the flame. But he waited and waited and waited--nearly three years!--to show up at my doorstep. By that time, I wasn't nearly as excited as I had been three years earlier. But we stayed in contact, and so I went to visit him at his home. He treated me as if I were his sister. Though we shared his bed, nothing happened. So I gave the black camisole a try. It did nothing for him, and he suggested I better put something more on so I wouldn't get cold. Strike two.

Strike three occurred today. Someone I've been seeing off and on for a few years. Someone whose company I really enjoy and who really enjoys mine. We've had a few polite kisses, nothing more, but recently we've talked about how much we like each other and how we'd both like a lot more. We made plans for this afternoon "to see what happens." So, once again, I pulled out my black camisole and carefully selected my outfit.

Around 1:30, he canceled our rendezvous, saying he had gotten a call and needed to get to a job site to fix a problem.

I just got a thought: Why save this beautiful camisole for a man? I'll just wear it any damn time I please because it makes me feel sexy and it's so slinky and delicious on my skin. So what if no one else sees it, no one else touches it and feels it and smells my scent on it! It's a pleasure and a delight for me. In fact maybe I should get a red camisole and a fuschia pink one and another in dusty rose or soft peach. I could prance around my bedroom, wearing a camisole, and no one would be the wiser. That might be a helluva lot of fun. No doubt much more fun than with an uninterested man!