Dennis and Steven sat on the wooden slatted bench, both still wet from the shower. They had worked the evening shift at the foundry from noon to 8pm and had just washed off the grime.

“Did you see the football last night?” Steven asked.

“Fucking Villa break my heart. Two up at half time, give away two goals in the second half and then fucking Giles gives away a penalty right on the whistle,” Dennis sighed.

“I watched it at the Holte,” Dennis added as an afterthought.

Dennis and Steven both had second jobs to supplement their income from the foundry which paid the minimum wage. In 1986 the steel industry was not doing well and jobs were scarce and wages low so Dennis worked four nights a week at the Holte public house.

“I saw the girl in the blue denim skirt again last night,” Dennis said, his voice a whisper even though they were alone.

“Oh aye,” Steven mumbled scratching his skinny chest absentmindedly.

Dennis was besotted with the girl in the blue denim skirt.

He saw her sitting on the low brick wall that ran along the laneway inside Aston Park. She was no fashion model by any means but there was something about her that intrigued Dennis. She probably got that little blue skirt at Tesco and the cheap fleshtoned tights she wore on those long shapely legs probably came six pair to a packet. Her blouse was mauve satin and she sometimes wore a denim jacket that matched her skirt.

The cheap high heels she was wearing were scuffed. Dennis’s mother had told him when he was younger that only tarts and brides wore white high heels and she was no bride.

“That’s where the brasses ply their trade Dennis, on the wall at Aston Park but you know that,” Steven interrupted Dennis’s reverie

“Never saw you as the type to frequent prostitutes Dennis,” Steven sounded disapproving.

Dennis hardly heard. He was imaging the girl in the blue denim skirt swinging those legs as she sat on the wall. Those legs clad in cheap but sexy tights. The Americans call them pantyhose or pantihose which he preferred, with a little circle instead of a dot above the i. Dennis thought that the word pantihose sounded so much prettier and sexier than tights which sounded dowdy and well ... British.

Dennis had always had a thing for girl’s legs in pantyhose for as long as he could remember. He’d sit on the doorstep and watch the girls in their short skirts walk down Summer Lane and ogle their legs. When he’d teased himself beyond restraint he’d race upstairs and open the locked drawer in his bedside table and pull out his collection of tights. They were mostly his mother’s and his older sister’s discarded hosiery although he’d nicked a couple of pairs from his Aunt Wendy’s washing basket.

Aunt Wendy was cuddly and pretty and had a nice round arse and long legs which were never bare. Dennis would slide a nylon over his engorged cock and lift the gusset of Aunt Wendy’s tights to his nose and begin to slowly masturbate, dreaming of Aunt Wendy’s fat arse and long legs.

His mum and his sister both wore cheap natural-coloured pantyhose in six-packs from Tesco to work at the hairdressers. The pantyhose were nothing fancy and didn’t have the sheen and glossiness of the more expensive nylons that they wore when they went out on the town. But there was something about the plain, lustreless pantyhose that Dennis preferred because they still felt delightfully soft and sensuous against his skin.

“I know she’s a brass,” Dennis came out of his reverie.

“But there’s something about her. She’s not what most would call beautiful but she’s definitely attractive in that way that some middle-aged women have when they wear too much makeup but wear it right. She’s got that flaming red hair that I like and her skin is like ivory. Her clothes are cheap and she’s obviously been around the block a few times but I’m infatuated with her. And those fucking legs! Those long fucking legs!” Dennis sighed.

“Sounds to me like you’ve really got a thing for her,” Steven sniffed and reached into his locker and pulled out a packet of Consulate and offered one to Dennis.

Both men sat on the wooden bench quietly smoking.

“If Polly finds out she’ll kill me,” Dennis sighed wistfully breathing out a cloud of smoke.

“Oh aye,” Steven replied, studying the end of his cigarette.

Dennis was still a virgin when he met Polly. Polly had reputation for being easy but Dennis didn’t care because when Polly went down the pub she was always in full makeup, hair teased out, legs clad in sheer nylons, tits out and proud, short skirts, tight blouses and fuck-me-heels ... everything Dennis dreamed of.

As it turned out and is often the case, Polly wasn’t easy at all; her reputation was judged solely on her looks.

It took Dennis five dates to get a feel of her tits and another five before he got his hands in her sexy, satin knickers and that was as far as he got before their wedding night.

“Come on Poll. Look what you’ve done to me. You’ve got to help me out here,” Dennis would beg at the end of the night, both of them in the back seat of his Morris Minor with the windows fogged up.

“I told you I’m saving myself until we’re married,” Polly whined.

Dennis climbed back on top of Polly and kissed her again. Her tits were out, the nipples engorged. Her skirt was hiked up and the expanse of her nylon-sheathed thighs on display. She’d let Dennis stroke her through her transparent white nylon knickers but refused to let him go any further. Whenever he’d try to put her hand on his cock she’d shrug him off.

Dennis realised that his cock was still out of his flies and was rubbing on Polly’s pantyhosed leg and he took full advantage of the situation and humped away at her legs while he kissed her, leaning down now and then to suckle a tit. Polly didn’t seem to mind, in fact she was breathing heavily. The feel of the pretty girl under him, the smell of her cheap perfume, her creamy tits out and available for him to suckle, her long legs wrapped around him and his engorged cock rubbing on the inside of her silken-encased thighs was bliss.

Dennis stuck his tongue in Polly’s lipsticked mouth and wriggled it as a fluttery, delightful sensation radiated from his groin and he realised that he was about to orgasm. Ropes of hot creamy semen splashed onto Polly’s thighs and Dennis nearly passed out with ecstasy of it all.

Polly was laughing and grousing at the same time. Trying to push Dennis off her and scissoring her legs to assist her which did nothing but excite Dennis further as her nyloned thighs brushed against his pulsing, erupting penis.

“Go on yer dirty little bugger!” she whined when she finally managed to push Dennis off her.

He knelt between her legs with his pecker poking out of his trousers feeling a little ashamed of what he’d done but still in the afterglow of his orgasm. Polly would never tell him but she was rather proud of herself that she had managed to bring him off without surrendering her virtue.

“You’ve ruined me best sheers!” Polly whimpered as she dabbed a handkerchief at the puddle of cooling spunk on the top of her legs.

“Give em to me then,” Dennis blurted out and wished he hadn’t.

Polly gave him a strange look and Dennis blushed. Maybe he had gone too far.

“You want them? Well you can bloody well have em, you perv,” Polly teased him, kicking off her heels, rolling the nylons down her legs and dropping them in his lap.

“And don’t think you’re getting any slap and tickle like that anymore until we are married,” Polly snapped in a huff.

The reality was that Dennis kept those pantyhose in the glove box of his Morris and when things became too heated Polly would acquiesce and put the leg of one the nylons over his turgid pecker and bring him off. All the time complaining but secretly quite excited.

“Yer a strange, dirty little bugger Dennis,” she’s tide him as she ran her fingers up and down his erect cock encased in the silky slippery nylons.

It always thrilled her when she felt his cock became rigid and begin to quiver and pulse then the end of the nylon stocking would became dark and damp as Dennis began to ejaculate and suddenly a creamy bubble of jism would pop out of the gauzy fabric and run down her fingers.

Polly delighted Dennis on their weeding night in the hotel room in Blackpool when he helped her out of her wedding gown and found that she was wearing a white suspender belt clipped to tan, fully-fashioned stockings. He fucked her for the first time still dressed in her satin slip, suspender belt, nylons with her white high heels kicking in the air. Her squeals of delight as he rogered her repeatedly was music to his ears.

She knew what Dennis liked and Polly always wore nylons and would wear them to bed when she was in the mood. She’d lie on the sofa dressed in her short pink nylon nighty with tan pantyhose and pink satin knickers teasing him until he picked her up and carried her upstairs or if they couldn’t wait he’d shag her right there on the sofa.

But the years passed and Polly became more interested in Cadbury’s chocolate and Coronation Street than she did in slap and tickle as she called it. Sex became a chore for her and she’d lie back and let Dennis rut on top of her and then she’d roll off her nylons and toss them on the floor, pull up her knickers and roll over and pop a chocolate into her mouth and open her Mills and Boon.

Dennis lost interest in Polly as the short pink nylon nighty gave way to a woollen full-length dressing gown and the ‘naughty nylons’ as she used to call them gave way to bed-socks and the sexy satin knickers evolved into saggy cotton granny-panties and as her arse got wider and her legs got fuller.

They’d have a perfunctory shag on Friday nights just to prove to each other that was still romance in their marriage but Dennis knew that Polly’s heart wasn’t in it. With no kids to burden them they’d spend Saturday afternoon down the pub and holiday once a year in Spain. Dennis started nicking nylons from their friends’ laundry baskets when they went visiting and he’d get his jollies off imagining his mate’s wife wearing the nylons that he was masturbating into.

The reality of was that most of his friends were caught in the same rut.

Then one night after his shift at the Holte public house he decided to take a shortcut through Aston Park and he first saw the girl in the blue denim skirt.

“So this girl then ... this brass ... she’s hardly a girl the way you describe her,” Steven took another drag on his ciggie.

“Well no. She’s a grown woman of course; probably about the same age as me. But you know, if they’re a good sort, you call them girls don’t you?” Dennis’s face burned with embarrassment when he uttered the term girl.

“Oh aye,” Steven voiced his agreement.

Dennis blushed because he knew the girl in the blue denim skirt’s secret.

He made a point of using the shortcut most nights as he walked home after his shift at the Holte Public House and she was usually sitting on the wall. He would look at her furtively and she always smiled back at him. Those perfect white teeth framed by red lipsticked lips, her pretty blue eyes embellished my black mascara and eye shadow, her attractive face framed by that flaming red hair made his heart flutter.

She was tall and skinny with not much of a bust. Most of her height came from her long shapely legs which was the first thing Dennis had noticed. That warm smile made Dennis’s heart skip and he remembered when Polly used to dress like that. Now she wore dowdy, shapeless house dresses, opaque winter tights and flat shoes and seldom bothered with ‘the slap’ unless they were going out.

After a late night lock-in at the Holte pub where he had partaken of four pints of Ansells best bitter and a couple of whisky chasers Dennis finally got the courage to talk to the girl in the blue denim skirt. She was swinging her legs and smiling at him as usual as he approached the low brick wall. A couple of other working girls were talking and smoking just up the road from her, their occupation apparent from their micro-mini skirts, high heels, black stockings, heavy makeup and teased-out hair.

The girl looked a little surprised when Dennis stopped on the path and turned towards her but she remained smiling.

“What you doin’ then?” Dennis felt awkward and stupid for saying what he’d said but the girl kept smiling at him.

“You know what I’m doing luv,” she grinned at him.

Up close Dennis could smell her cheap but exotic perfume and see that her makeup was particularly heavy. Her red hair was a little unruly, possibly because she’d been with a punter. Her handbag and cigarettes sat on the wall beside her and she was holding a hairbrush. He noticed that her long fingernails were ruby red just like her lipstick. They had to be false because they were perfectly manicured. She was wearing her usual mauve satin blouse, unbuttoned at her décolletage and he could just make out the red lace of her bra. Her breasts were very small and the blouse was tight fitting.

The blouse was tucked into her blue A-line miniskirt and he noticed that the hem was a little frayed. In his mind that was how he described her: a little frayed around the edges. Up close he could see that she was no beauty but there something compellingly appealing about her. Her clothes were cheap and well-worn, her heels scuffed, her lipstick smudged a little and she had a little hole in one leg of her pantyhose with a ladder running up her thigh. Her cheap nylons wrinkled at her knees.

If anything her tawdry appearance made Dennis want her even more.

“So how’s business?” Dennis felt like a right twat asking her that.

“You know how it goes luv. Now the pubs are turning out things will pick up,” she smiled lasciviously at him.

Her voice was dusky, her Brummy accent thick. She reminded him a little of Kay Parker, the Brummy girl who went to America to become a porn star, but without her tits.

It was then that it dawned on Dennis that there was something different about this woman: the deep pitch of her sexy voice, the subtle but noticeable Adam’s apple, her long frame and flat chest. She was a tranny!

Dennis turned away and hurried down the laneway out of the park and turned onto Fredrick Road heading for Clifton Road and the safety of his council house.

Once inside his two-up-two-down terrace house Dennis caught his breath and fell into the big easy chair and stared at the blank television set. Another easy chair sat beside his, the impression of Polly’s fat arse imprinted on the cushion. The place smelled of fish and chips, vinegar and Cadbury Bournville Cocoa. Polly had long ago turned in and he could hear her faint snores coming from upstairs.

Dennis tried but he couldn’t get the image of the girl in the blue denim skirt out of his head. The smell of her perfume, the image of her strangely compelling face in all that makeup and of course those long legs clad in cheap pantyhose.

He closed the door leading to the upstairs bedroom and unlocked the cabinet behind his cheap laminated vinyl-cladded bar and rummaged through his porn collection until he found what he was looking for: a video tape of Kay Parker in a film called Night On The Wild Side. In most of the scenes she was wearing stockings and having sex with both men and women.

Dennis had to put the telly on mute as he lay back in his easy chair with his trousers around his ankles with a pair of Pretty Polly nude tights held to his nose. He’d filched them from his sister’s washing basket when he’d gone to the loo in her house only two days ago and the pungent smell of her vaginal secretions and feminine hygiene spray were still fresh.

He watched a mature Kay Parker lying on her back with her long, stocking-sheathed limbs wrapped around a handsome young man who was vigorously rogering her. He wrapped the foot part of the pantyhose around his rigid cock and began to stroke it but immediately when he did so the face of the girl in the blue denim skirt leapt into his thoughts and try as he might to concentrate on the face of Kay Parker, head tilted back, eyes closed, and mouth wide open, strained with lust, he couldn’t stop thinking about the sexy tranny.

Despite his efforts Dennis couldn’t climax and he frustratingly tossed aside his sister’s pantyhose and waddled over to the bar with his trousers still around his ankles. He scattered his porn collection on the shag pile and picked over the boxes until he found what he was looking for: a copy of Tranny Streetwalkers. It was the only tranny porn in his extensive collection. He had bought the video on a whim, more out curiosity than anything else.

He fast forwarded past the foreplay and oral to a scene where a sexy transvestite was standing up facing a brick wall with her skirt hiked up, her knickers around her knees while a punter shagged her forcefully. Her overly-made up face was contorted in pleasure and pain as the man slammed his iron-hard rod in and out of her backside, causing her to rise up on her heels as he slammed her into the wall every time he thrust. The only disappointment was that the prosy was wearing fishnet stockings which didn’t really appeal to Dennis.

Not that it stopped him reaching for his sister’s nylons and rubbing them on his cock. He didn’t smell the crotch because he wanted to remember the smell of the perfume of the girl in the blue denim skirt.

Dennis timed it just right and when the man in porno pushed the tranny hard against the wall and jammed himself all the way inside her and filled her anus with his seed Dennis exploded into the pantyhose, his spunk bursting thought the nylon and spattering the two easy chairs with creamy dollops of semen.

Dennis lay back in the chair exhausted, lit by the glow of the television set. He hadn’t noticed that the door to the staircase was opened just a crack and Polly’s beady eye was watching him.

He was suffering post-coital tristesse and felt ashamed of himself. He dabbed at the blobs of spunk with his sister’s nylons, wiped his cock and put it away. He took the tape out of the VCR and put it back in the box and carefully stacked his porn collection back onto the shelf in the cupboard behind his pathetic little bar. He took off his shoes and tiptoed upstairs and undressed in the dark and slipped into bed beside Polly dressed only in his underpants.

“How was work luv?” Polly mumbled, sounding half-asleep.

“The usual. I had to work the lock-in but a few extra quid always comes in handy,” Dennis whispered guiltily.

“You work hard at the foundry luv. I don’t know why you have to work at the pub too,” Polly muttered.

“Most of us work second jobs luv; that’s just how it is. Good night,” Dennis kissed the back of Polly’s hair which smelled faintly of cooking oil and cocoa.

They both drifted off to sleep.

“So this brass then ... you ever been tempted? She sounds like she might be something you’d fancy,” Steven asked, lighting up another cigarette.

Steven was in no rush to go home because he lived alone.

“Tempted yes but I never intended to follow through with it,” Dennis lied.

Dennis started to take the long way home down Bevington Road to avoid Aston Park after his shifts at the Holte public house just so he wouldn’t have to see the girl in the blue denim skirt but she haunted his dreams. He found himself thinking of her at the most inopportune times and would have to sneak away to masturbate. Dennis would take out the tape of Tranny Streetwalkers whenever the opportunity arose and watch it to feed his masturbatory fantasies. He even thought about the girl in blue denim skirt whilst he was shagging Polly during their weekly leg-over.

Polly wore nylons and a silky nighty to bed and had put on makeup and perfume for their weekly love making session and seemed to be more enthusiastic. Her sudden interest in sex baffled Dennis but he didn’t know that Polly had caught him masturbating whilst he watched Tranny Streetwalkers on the night Dennis had spoken to the girl on the wall at Aston Park. She tolerated Dennis’s fascination with stockings and tights and knew all about his porn video collection but she was alarmed by his new fascination with tranny porn and tried to make an effort in the bedroom.

But Dennis’s compulsion to see the girl in the blue denim skirt would not go away and after a week he was back to taking his shortcut through Aston Park looking for her and he was disappointed if she wasn’t there. If she was there she would smile at him and he would wave at her and race home to his copy of Tranny Streetwalkers.

After another lock-in and more Dutch courage he felt emboldened and when the girl in the blue denim skirt beckoned him over, curling her long red fingernails, he went to her. She was sitting on the low brick wall as usual smoking a menthol cigarette.

“Do I scare you?” she asked smiling sweetly at him, her pretty mouth accentuated by her red lipstick.

Dennis studied her face again. There was no doubt that there was something alluringly attractive about her despite the fact that he knew what she was. She was wearing her usual ensemble and his eyes were drawn to the frayed hem of her denim skirt and those long legs. No ladders in her pantyhose tonight; they looked fresh out of packet, cheap mass-produced Tesco pantyhose that for some reason fascinated him.

“Do you like my legs? Most of the punters like my legs. And my arse of course,” she startled him a little by hopping down off the wall.

She turned in a circle in front of him illuminated by the dull streetlights and then hopped back on the wall, nestling her buttocks into the bricks to get comfortable.

For the brief moment that she was standing Dennis was able to appraise her. She was tall and statuesque, slim built but she had a nice behind accentuated by the short skirt and he guessed that’s why she wore it. Her flaming red hair framed her overly-made-up but intriguing face, she had budding breasts which Dennis guessed were really just the padding in her bra. And of course she had those legs that just went on forever.

Her mannerisms were very feminine and from a few feet away she could easily be mistaken for a real woman; it was only when scrutinised up close that her ruse was revealed.

“Yes and yes,” Dennis answered.

“Sorry,” she looked puzzled and lit a cigarette.

“Yes you scare me and yes I like your legs,” Dennis answered.

She patted the wall beside her and Dennis hopped up, feeling a little lightheaded to be sitting so close to her, inhaling her perfume. The first thought that ran through his mind was: ‘what if somebody sees me?’ but he knew he was being silly. Who did he know that knew him that would be out walking the streets this late at night, especially in this area?

“Want a fag?” she offered him her packet and he took one and lit it.

“You want to shag me don’t you?” the brass said with a whimsical smile on her face.

“Yes and no,” Dennis replied, staring at his shoes.

“Yes because you really fancy me and wonder what it would be like to shag a tranny and no because you’re worried about regretting it after,” she lifted his face and looked him the eyes.

Her eyes were beautiful; deep blue accentuated by her mascara and eyeliner and her lips were full and red and her hair fell around her face just right and Dennis wanted to shag her more than he had ever wanted to shag any other woman.

Dennis nodded.

“Come on then,” she spun around on her pert buttocks and dropped down on the other side of the wall.

Dennis caught a glimpse of the satin knickers that matched her brassiere and he wondered what was inside them. Whatever it was she did a good job of hiding it because she flashed him a perfect ‘V’ with no detectable bulge. If he’d seen the outline of a cock and balls in those knickers he would have made a run for it.

She stuffed her cigarettes in her purse and waited patiently for Dennis to make up his mind.

“How much?” Dennis asked meekly.

She laughed and her dusky voice sounded musical, almost like Bonny Tyler.

“They always ask how much, especially if they’re comparing me to the other brasses,” she waved a hand at the three other prostitutes leaning against the wall further along the path.

“Well it’s a tenner for a blowjob and twenty for a shag but because it’s your first time and we are sort of friends I’ll let you go for free this time,” she was almost laughing as she said it.

“Do I have to wear a rubber?” Dennis blurted out and immediately felt stupid.

By asking her that he’d implied that he was up for it and he was far from convinced that he was going through with it. He really wanted to and was becoming concupiscent just thinking about it, the protuberance in his trousers a visible indication.

“You’re married I take it?” she nodded at his left hand where his wedding band gleamed dully on his ring finger.

“And you haven’t been with any of the other brasses?” she nodded at the small gaggle of prostitutes further down the path.

They weren’t really questions, she was simply stating the obvious but Dennis nodded balefully, a little ashamed of himself.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Up to you luv. I’m freshly douched and I go to the clinic for a check-up every month,” she was rummaging in her purse putting her cigarettes away.

“But you went back there,” Steven sounded interested in Dennis’s tale and seemed in no rush to leave the change room.

Everyone else on their shift had left the premises already but the battering and clanging sounds of the foundry could be heard through the walls of the change room.

Dennis had not revealed to Steven that the girl in the blue denim skirt was a transvestite and he had no intention of admitting it.

“Yeah I went back there. Just to chat her up you know. She seemed like a nice girl despite her occupation and we had this little, I don’t know, sort of like a kinship. I’d wave at her and she’s smile at me so yeah I stopped and spoke to her again after one of the lock-ins,” Dennis was comfortable telling the half-truth.

“So what happened? Did you shag her?” Steven was obviously engrossed in the tale that Dennis was telling.

“I chickened out,’ Dennis sighed.

“Oh aye,” Steven sighed, a little disappointed that the tale had come to naught.

When the girl told him that she douched and was a regular at the VD clinic Dennis lost his bottle and turned away and strode quickly down the pathway leaving the girl in the blue denim skirt standing on the other side of the wall a little gobsmacked.

“You’ll be back,” she called after him, her sultry voice ringing in his ears.

And he was.

A week later after another lock-in; this time determined to consummate their relationship.

But she wasn’t there and he was bitterly disappointed. He stood next to the wall where she usually sat, a small accumulation of menthol cigarette butts on the grass indicating her presence.

“You looking for a girl luv?” one of the other brasses had seen him and fancied her chances.

Dennis looked up to see a middle-aged woman, plump but pretty, her blonde hair teased, her makeup heavy. She was wearing the obligatory miniskirt and high heels, her legs sheathed in black seamed nylon stockings, the welts of her hosiery on display. She was smiling seductively at him and in different circumstances Dennis would have been tempted.

“No thanks,” Dennis replied a little bashful.

“You looking for Charmaine?” the woman’s smile suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of reproach.

Dennis said nothing. He kept his head bowed and studied the white filter-tips in the grass stained by red lipstick.

“Perv!” she hissed and turned away.

“She’s shagging some old codger in the shed,” she called back at him snarkily.

Dennis sighed. He looked over the low wall to a group of low buildings lit only by a yellow pole light a little distance away. He knew that the prossies sometimes used it for ‘knee-tremblers’ if the punters didn’t have a car. He also knew that he should give up and go home but he had just enough booze inside him to embolden him.

He hopped over the wall and walked slowly over to the buildings belonging to the park’s greenkeepers. There was a toolshed, a workshop, a garage for motorised gardening implements and a tiny wooden building they used as a tea room and change room. A faint light was coming from the grime-caked window.

Nervously Dennis crept up to the window and peeked inside. What he saw both shocked and excited him.

The girl in the blue denim skirt was lying on her back on a mattress on a rickety cot. She was fully clothed but her blue denim skirt was hiked up and a man in a brown suit with his trousers down around his ankles was lying between her long legs which were wide open and elevated, her high heels jiggled as the man thrust himself in and out of her.

Dennis could just make out her face in the dim light of table lamp. Her face was blank but she was encouraging the man, her arms around him, rising to meet his thrusts and her beautiful red-lipsticked mouth mewled obscenities into his ear, coaxing him to finish.