by Caroline Wolfe
(10/24/07)
On a whim, I stop for the "2 for $20" sidewalk sale. Made-in-India dresses hang in the August heat in
front of the boutique. I can't help but rifle through and quickly settle on one suitable for work. Another, a bright pink which usually isn't my color, will do for a swimsuit cover-up. Just ten bucks a piece, I don't even bother trying them on. At home, the air-conditioner fails, and my bedroom sweats in the humidity. With little spaghetti straps and a plunging neck-line, the pink dress seems the best choice for as little on as possible. But my extra-support, white bra looks absurd with its wide straps and three-hook back rising above the hot-pink material. I rummage through my lingerie drawer and find a rarely worn nude-colored bra with thinner straps. A bit small, it presses my breasts together in an accentuated cleavage. I slide the one-size-fits-all pink dress over my head. The little bra disappears under the soft cotton. A full row of tiny buttons, the kind you don't unbutton, and an embroidered pattern run down the front. A small tie in the back creates a waistline, while the above-the-knee, full skirt passes the twirl test. I stand in the mirror and judge the results.
"Wow," my husband says when he comes home. He pulls me into him, smiles and kisses me passionately. Unused to seeing me reveal so much neckline, he is taken by surprise. I feel beautiful and sexy, the pink dress unleashing an inner sensuality that had grown increasingly elusive over the years.
The pink dress becomes my weekend and after-work favorite. I mow the lawn in it, cook meals, take the dogs for walks, and sit out on the deck after sundown catching the breeze while listening to late summer frogs. My husband reaches out and touches me often; he brushes his hand against my breasts, teases my cleavage with chopsticks before dinner and lifts the flowing material to caress my thighs when our teenagers aren't looking. I feel renewed, a blossoming sexuality bursting with desire.
"Let's go skinny dipping," I suggest late one sweltering night. The fan does nothing but push hot air over our bodies as we lay in bed unable to sleep. I toss off my night shirt and underwear, pull the pink dress over my naked body and sneak down the sleeping hallway. The pool water shimmers blue-black under the stars. I slip out of the dress and leave it in a heap on the deck. The water soothes, washes away the stifling heat. I float on my back, nipples erect in the gentle lapping waves. We are young lovers sneaking out after curfew. We roll our wet, slippery bodies against each other. He enters me while I am weightless in his arms.
"I love you," we tell each other giddily, all the while keeping one eye on the house to make sure we don't get busted.
Back in bed, hair wet on my pillow, we make love again. This time, the leverage of our headboard drives our rhythm of need. Finally, we sleep.
"Let's go for a motorcycle ride," my husband suggests, the heat wave still dragging on. I'm wearing the pink dress and decide not to change clothes. The kids are off with friends, so I grab my helmet and hop on behind him. I tuck the flowing skirt under my thighs to keep it from flapping in the wind.
In the reflection of his silver helmet, I can see my sun-kissed bronze chest and shoulders. The wind exposes the little bra underneath. I lean my body into his back and feel the vibration of the machine rumble against the thin white cotton of my underpants. I press my knees against his hips and run my fingers up and down his chest. With each passing mile of country road, with each gentle farm, with each scum-covered pond, my desire for him builds. The pink dress flutters, and I want nothing more than to stop and make love right on the side of the road.
Sensing my excitement, he turns the bike into an abandoned factory. Bricks crumble from unstable walls, vegetation grows out of cracks in the parking lot. He pulls behind the aging structure. The engine shudders with tiny pings as we take off our helmets.
Sitting on the seat of the bike, careful of the heated exhaust pipes, he unzips his jeans for me. I lift the folds of my dress, pull my underpants to one side and sit on top of him face to face. My feet balance on the pegs and the pink material flows down around us, hiding our private act underneath. We sit, clenching, feeling, and driving. I rock back and forth, feel the metal buttons of his Levi jeans, squeeze hard as he erupts inside me. My release comes in deep waves. Laughing and crying, I kiss his eyelids, his sweaty forehead. I am alive with life and love, grateful for the pink dress that unlocked my youthful spirit still strong inside.
Soon after, the summer ends and the cool breeze of fall signals that it is time to put the dress away. Neatly folded on top the summer shirts and shorts, I caress the embroidered fabric smooth, then, close the trunk and click the latch shut until spring.
On the bed, in a stack of sweaters, a pink angora catches my eye.
