The Centre of Attention
When I was a boy, my sister and her friends got a great laugh at my misfortune as they’d pin dress patterns and material to my varied limbs and other parts of my submissive body. They would busy themselves in deep, animated debate as to what was working and what was causing their designs to go wrong. If I moved without instruction, I would be snapped or snarled at and, once again, my cowered reaction would be the target of their collective mirth.
If I had a penny for every time my delicate skin was punctured by their over-enthusiastic machinations, I’d be able to, well, I’d be able to have a couple of well-deserved pints.
I was begrudging; always complaining, maybe by the way I stood in protest, or the turn of my mouth, or the way I wouldn’t look at them; the quintessential victim.
How I’d love to be there again, even for the few pin-pricks, or the ribbing from my sister’s friends. I see none of them now; hear no laughter or furious debating. They are gone from my circle of existence. I thought that included my memory too, but now I know it only takes something simple, like a magazine photo, to bring it all back. I loved being the centre of attention. Still do. Though now, I tend to wear my own clothes.