That Black Shirt Again

Last week’s HNT featured two things, the beautiful Suze and a black cotton shirt. I’m rather attached to both :).

Loving a person or thing can be seen as irrational. Let’s face it, love is in itself a weird concept for all animals except humans and possibly some higher primates. I think many animals demonstrate a kinship or kindness for each other, that I suppose could derive from their existence in a herd, pod or pack. This in itself is, I would contend, based on a tendency, amplified by natural selection, to be part of a group means that survival is easier.

Swans mate for life, but his has more to do with a strong bond between parents making for better survival chances for the young. Cygnets whose parents bond so closely and cooperate in their upbringing must have an advantage.

Love however goes beyond that. It makes people do things that defy logic and reason. However in humans I think some of this can be explained by empathy derived from our intelligence and the concept of self. That is we all want someone to care for us and mutually want to care for someone. If we feel their pain and can respond to it then our partner can do likewise. In supporting each other the ties between us strengthen and become part of each of us.

That said I think there is an irrational, no perhaps a better word is inexplicable, element to love. Something that can never be explained and indeed never should be explained. It is the closest thing I can identify as proof that this otherwise miserable, violent and often repugnant species called Homo Sapiens actually have a soul.

So, back to the shirt. The only person to hit the nail on the head re the shirt was Always Aroused Girl. She said it was the shirt I was wearing when we first met. It was.

The shoes have worn out, the jeans went threadbare and fell to pieces, but the shirt survives. It will never be thrown away. That shirt was bought one month before I met Suze, for a work colleague’s birthday pub crawl. I was wearing it when Suze first clapped eyes on me. I was wearing it when we first kissed. And yes we’ve fucked while I was wearing it a few times too.

Because of all that it has a significance above its physical existence. It is part of my life, Suzanne’s life, our life together. It is a collection of cellulose fibres and a few polycarbonate disks. It is faded from washing and a couple of buttons are missing. And there will never be another shirt like it.

When we first got together we spent a lot of time in cinemas. And although we’ve had some pretty good times in the cathedrals dedicated to the great god Hollywood we never actually got it on in one.

The nearest we came was watching a dire Don Johnson Film called “Hot Spot”. Within the first ten minutes we knew it was going to be appalling. Rather than leave and brave the cold February air we decided to stay and get intimately acquainted with each other.

It started with kissing, hands traversing our bodies, alive with anticipation. Discretely of course, the usherettes were mainly ensconced in the staff canteen or out the back having a crafty cigarette until they were compelled by necessity to sell over-priced ice-creams and bags of Revels to the punters. However just occasionally a disinterested spotty youth would meander up and down the isles making sure that the audience were behaving.

It was a midnight screening so the auditorium was virtually empty. We quickly became bolder than usual and the trusty shirt was tugged out of my jeans to allow Suzanne’s hand access to my stomach, where her nails traced an intricate dance. She worked her way up until she reached my chest, circling each nipple in turn and pinching each slightly before moving on.

We both slid low in our seats, pity they didn’t recline. I suppose people like us are the reason for that :).

I, and read carefully cos I’m quite proud of this, managed to unfasten her jeans one-handed and slide my hand inside. Unlike now where the garden is neatly trimmed she was as nature intended. The warm thicket of pubes was humid with her moistness already and I could smell her indescribably delicious aroma as my hand slid into her panties and my index finger insinuated its way into her hot slit. There was very little room for manoeuvre, she wiggled a bit creating just enough space for me to massage her clit.

To have slid her jeans down would have been inviting discovery, expulsion and possibly a chat with the local constabulary.

I was hard and soon dribbling, my cock pointing down the leg of my jeans, straining against the fabric, creating a growing pool of sticky damp fluid on the inside of the denim.

We continued this slow motion pre-coitus for the duration of the film. My obvious discomfort at my cocks continued confinement led to Suze releasing my trapped member by unfastening my jeans so my oozing glans poked from the top of my boxers and dripped its sticky issue on my stomach. She toyed with my cock and the growing lake of clear pre-cum throughout the rest of the film.

As the credits rolled and with a quick shuffle to adjust our wardrobe before the lights came up, we were off. Suffice to say that was not the only action the shirt saw that night. I’ll tell you about what happened on the journey home later this week.

So what inanimate object means that much to you and why. Because I’m really interested.