I often watch my daughter as she prepares for a night out. She is a pretty girl, just nineteen; has quite a striking, slim figure and attractive elfin-like face, the sort of girl whose looks turn heads. I am proud to be seen with her, proud to be her mother…but sometimes I have thoughts which shame me.
I take an interest in how she dresses when she is going to ‘hit the town.’ I do this because I habitually try and think her how others might see her. I try to imagine what they are thinking.
She is not in the habit of dressing ultra-provocatively, but she does favour short skirts and hold-ups. Her stocking tops are not quite in view as she walks, but if she sits, I am reasonably sure that a viewer might get a good flash. On top, she is small enough not to need a bra, but not so egg-like as to go unnoticed.
Part of me worries about what people might think, but another part of me wants people to look and think. That part of me somehow wants her skirt to be shorter, her top thinner and tighter, and her lipstick (God forgive me) sluttier.
I admit, when I see her go out like that or similar, I envy her the attention that I just know she will get.
I am envious of her age and all the myriad possibilities that go with it. My particular obsession (yes, I admit it), is the attention her youth, looks and dress can create. And of course, the humiliation that jealousy brings.
Whenever she leaves the house, I can’t help but imagine her in some random pub full of men all on the lookout for a woman for the night. They are not looking for romance or anything meaningful. What they seek is sex. Easy, sleazy sex. A fuck.
They are, I shamefully hope, seeking a girl just like her.
I imagine such men looking at her. Men whose eyes will crawl over her body like fondling hands. Men who will imagine what her young, firm body is like under her clothes, men who will imagine touching it, kissing it, and yes, fucking it.
I have seen the way men look at her when we (say) walk down a street, the ways eyes flash from me to her and then linger. Eyes that stay with her, eyes that are lost to me forever. Those men, I can almost see inside their head, see them imagining her naked, having sex, perhaps sucking their cock. Some men disguise their looks quite well, but the practiced eye can always spot them. Others don’t even bother to hide it. They openly stare and don’t try and conceal what they are thinking.
It is at times like that that I fantasise about being her. I think about myself in that pub. But not as myself…as her. With some differences. My skirt is scandalously shorter, clearly showing my hold-ups as I stand at the bar. My nipples are quite clearly visible beneath my sheer top. I keep my hands by my sides, and if people brush by, they will skim against my tits, making them even harder. I find I like that feeling a lot, that feeling of strangers pushing up against her/my breasts.
At these times, I feel like I am split into three portions. I am in that moment being her. I am also standing across the room in the head of some man who is seeing her. And of course, I am sitting in my armchair at home giving myself a non-too-gentle rub.
The men I imagine are always of a type. Older than her. Significantly so. And not her type (or mine either come to that). He could even be married, a habitual creep; let’s add in overweight with chronically bad teeth for good measure. His eyes are all over her/me. ‘We’ are acutely aware of it but don’t discourage him. Quite the opposite, don’t we stick our chest out that little bit more? Don’t we give him that smile? Don’t we hold his gaze so long he can’t have any lingering doubts about our availability?
He might stare back or perhaps comment to whoever he is with. Maybe he is with another man, and they will both look over to check ‘us’ out. Perhaps they will exchange a few dirty comments about what they would like to do if only…
But commenting is never enough for me. Or them. Sooner or later (and preferably sooner) he will come over with some shit-cheesy line. And we reply that yes, of course, he can buy us a drink. Of course, he can. Deep inside, I know the guy is buying that drink for what he thinks of as a down payment on a fuck. A fuck with a girl who usually is way, way out of his little league. But isn’t this his lucky night? He is IN!
I sit at home and watch that movie in my head. He smiles, he makes strained jokes and eyeballs our tits at every opportunity. He glances at his watch because he knows he must be home by midnight or wifey will be asking questions. He needs to push things along if he is to get what he wants. He doesn’t want to lose this chance. He has waited a long time for a girl like this.
He asks, as casually as he can manage, if she has her own place. No, she replies she lives with her mum just up the road.
He hides his disappointment and thinks he might have to settle for a grunter in the back of his company BMW at the rear of the Methodist Chapel.
That is when I/we give him a pleasant surprise. ‘You can come back for a cup of coffee if you like’, and we touch his arm and look into those baggy bloodshot eyes. ‘Don’t worry about mum, she will be in bed. And anyway, even if she’s not, bedrooms have doors, don’t they?’
He swallows hard, almost spills his drink. ‘Your mother won’t mind?’
‘Mind? She will love it. Her room is next to mine. I think that she loves to listen in, especially if you are loud and talk dirty. I think she likes to rub one off while she listens…’
But in my head movie, she/I never gets him ‘home’ for the simple reason that I have usually cum hard by then and am back in my own body. And feeling guilty for my thoughts. I think of her out there in the night and wonder what is really going on. Are men looking? Of course, they are. Is she encouraging them? Part of me hopes not. Really hopes not. But that other part of me hopes so.
I really am in bed when she gets in. She is always alone. But just for a few seconds, I wonder if she has been on any back seats bending herself out of shape to get his cock inside. Maybe she has been fucked up against a brick wall with her knickers around her ankles, or maybe sucked some smeggy cock in a shop doorway, perhaps she has spent the evening in the bed of some older, married man whose wife is out at her Italian Cookery course. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Of course, I dismiss these ideas as soon as they are born. But deeper down, there is a small part of me that feels a kind of guilty disappointment.
Then I feel guilty for stealing her look and life for my fantasy…
But it won’t stop me. It is too ingrained now.
I am not suggesting that men don’t look at me anymore, they do. They just seem to see her more. So yes, I am jealous. Very jealous.
But then again who wouldn’t be?