Chapter 3: Sally Henderson

The diary continued, and of course, I was fascinated by the regular mention of me and of our relationship.

"Dear Diary,

It seems to me I must try to guide C to be good at many things, as his father was. I want him to have the chance to grow up to be the same extraordinarily interesting, thoughtful and exciting person as David was. How can I help him though with all those "man" things? I'm a fair athlete, but not in sports he's likely to be interested in. Still, there are plenty of things we can do together. Quit worrying."

And a few pages later, the stunning comment:

"I don't want him to grow up with a lot of sexual repressions. Best thing is total honesty and openness about it. I wonder how his father became such a completely delightful lover. How can I help him? Good grief ... oh, well, still young for that ... I think!"

The diary continued with what had been called "The Sally incident" around our house. After all these years, my face flushed with the embarrassment of that moment. I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling as the memories flowed back making my ears burn all over again. I could still hear the voices, and a wry smile came to my lips. I put a pair of bright pink panties I had been holding on my chest.

"And did he have a mirror?" my mother asked.

"Well, I don't really know. We didn't find one. But Sally told her mother that..."

"But, Mrs. Jenkins, how can you punish him on the basis of an accusation without proof?"

"I know, but Mrs. Henderson is quite upset, you can understand..."

"I'll have a talk with him, of course, but..."

All this I heard with my ears ringing and my face a cherry red color. Mom had been called to school because Sally Henderson overheard me bragging that I had looked up her skirt with a mirror. I was actually only bragging to a friend, I hadn't really done it. Though it had been on my mind since an older boy had claimed to have done the deed.

I expected the worst when we got home but Mom was calm when we sat down across the kitchen table to have our talk.

"Now, I'm not condoning you looking up little girls' skirts. And you mustn't do that, by the way. I don't know if you did or not, of course," she agonized. "Did you?"

I shook my head.

"Well ... I know boys are curious ... you know, at your age... " She stared out the window a moment.

"Try to not ... get me called down to school anymore, O.K?" She tousled my hair and pulled me close and I knew the lecture was over. She wasn't sure I had done it and wasn't sure what to do with me if I had.

"So when you have curiosities ... ask me? O.K? I'm a girl, you know! And I will answer anything for you; you know that! Right?"

Then she giggled. "Have you been looking up my skirt? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," she screamed! Then we were both laughing. I rolled my eyes at her, which prompted a feigned slap on my hands and then another laugh into her clasped hands.

"Really, Charley, promise me, no more episodes with Sally!"

"O.K."

But my curiosity about the secrets hidden under their skirts remains to this day. What is that urge in us? A woman crosses her legs and our eyes fly to their thighs, hoping for the glimpse of what? A triangle of white, or some pastel shade, perhaps a floral pattern in silk softly covering a rounded pudendum. But it is completely irresistible to all men who are still alive.

And I WAS looking up my mom's skirt, to answer the question accurately. Probably more assiduously that any other. And I had more opportunities with her, too.

I remember lying on the floor watching TV or reading, for example. Mom would come along vacuuming and I would glance up, seeking that flash of the white kite-shape high up in the shadow of her thighs. Becoming bolder, I would lie on my back and pretend to read, and perhaps get a view of her round nylon-clad thighs and the round, full shape of her bottom captured in taut pantyhose and pink panties trapped under the stockings.