It was going to happen, a wardrobe malfunction that is.
As stories like this usually go, it started at the Woolworth sale. After making a dive for the 20% off pile, I discovered a gorgeous dark blue dress. It fitted like a treat, my boobs looked good, it was classy. Why look at the length, right?
The dress stayed in the back of my mind for the next few days, and I was more than excited to finally have a chance to wear it.
The night arrived. Classy cocktails at a, relatively, classy bar (this is Durban, ok?!).
I slipped the dress over (thankfully) a pair of grey stockings and headed out.
I parked without event, reached for my bag, got out of the car and moved my hands down the back of the dress to make sure it wasn’t hitched up in the stockings.
I touched thigh far too quickly.
Attempt number two.
What was this stupid thing caught in?! I could feel the stockings round my waist.
Panic set in.
Inwardly, of course.
A woman never panics outwardly, that’s for ladies.
I dashed across the road and sauntered as casually as I could into the bar.
He wasn’t there yet, so I crept into the loo to survey the situation.
Boobs – still looking great
Waist – niiice, no sign of that doughnut I ate for lunch
Butt – still non-existent
Thighs – Heelloo !!!
Damn, you could see the part of the stocking where it starts to streeeetch over the upper thigh.
For the first time in my lift I was thankful for my non-existent white girl ass, at least the back wasn’t showing more than the front.
My grandmother wouldn’t approve, but it’d do.
I reapplied my lipgloss and went out to order a tequila.
The date itself was lovely. No mention or sidewards glaces were made towards my thighs. And, to their credit, they were very well behaved.
In fact, to prove it, the shirt was permanently allocated to the dress section of my cupboard. Imma do that again 😉