Mike's tights story - I

by Mike

This is Mike's first post as a member of the editorial team, so a big welcome to Mike!
This is Part 1 of a 3-part series.

Following the recent heated debated about ‘acceptance’ I could not help but think about my take on this subject and how it became ‘accepted’ that I wear tights as a man.

Wearing tights is not a ‘right’ or a ‘privilege’ but a personal choice. As with all personal choices the level of commitment is an individual matter. Each of us set our own limits within which we feel comfortable.

Breaking this down to my own personal experience it appears to me that the stages of acceptance were – school days, as a young man, and now – adulthood. This account is my childhood days remembered.

When I first starting wearing I was most ‘comfortable’ alone at home. I knew then, that it would not be ‘acceptable’ for a boy of 14 to wear his mother’s tights. My parents would simply not accept it. But I looked forward to the couple of hours after school when I could wear them before my parents came back from work whilst I was supposed to be doing my homework. Off came my shorts and socks and on went a pair of my mother’s tights – much too big for me. They came up to my armpits – and on went my shorts and socks again. As the regulation school uniform knee socks slid down during the course of the afternoon, more and more tight clad leg was exposed. I loved it. Looking at myself in the mirror I had convinced myself that in the right light the tights (they must have been sheers, skin tone) are sometimes not noticeable. This was partly true, maybe, but looking back I also think it was a large dose of wishful thinking involved.

My nylon gene had taken hold and I loved the experience till some years later (I was now about 16) I was sitting at the kitchen table doing work on my final school exams wearing only a long t-shirt and tights (caution had gone to the wind as I became more confident wearing alone at home) when I heard the key in door! I was trapped! My mother had come early for whatever reason. My heart missed a few beats. I pulled the chair right up to the table so my legs could not be seen. My mother came in and unpacked some shopping oblivious to my situation. She then busied herself in the sitting room. I thought it would be safe to make a dash, unseen, to my room to get some trousers on. But, as I was scampering down the hall, my mother stuck her head out of the sitting room and said in a tone of voice which showed her boredom of the subject: ‘If you are going to wear tights – please buy your own, and cover yourself up – you look disgusting’.

As I sat on the end of bed – my head held in my hands I wished that I had never been born! Why didn’t the world just open up and swallow me? How much embarrassment could I take?  As I was recovering from what I was sure was the most embarrassing moment of my life so far and as I felt the hot flush, that had overcome me, slowly disappear I went back to face the music in the kitchen. My mother was sitting there with a cup of tea and had placed a cup opposite her awaiting my arrival – I dutifully sat down.

I cannot recall the exact conversation verbatim at this point but I do recall that we had agreed that:  a) I could wear tights, providing I bought from my pocket money. (My efforts to negotiate an increase failed!), and b) I was not to walk around the house without shorts and c)  I was not to wear in front of my father (whom we both knew would disapprove) or in front of any callers who might come to the house.

So it was that my wearing was accepted. Better said: ‘tolerated’. At least this was a beginning of ‘acceptance’, and something, which I could build on – and did – but that is a story for another time.

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