I am a fishnet girl.  Until recently, I never considered them sexy – for me they were subversive, punk rock accessories.  They were edgy when paired with stompy boots and short skirts.  They were my “fuck you to social conventions.”

I preferred them torn and tattered.  The first time I dropped acid, I was wearing purple fishnets over green tights.  I spent a lot of time that night just staring at the pattern and colors. Later a friend slid a light stick between the two layers, and even though light sticks are cold light, I swear I could feel the green glow on my skin.  I was fierce and wore fishnet shirts with black bras and walked through Hollywood to nightclubs and parties.

I recently had a lover who expressed an interest in fishnet, and I rarely turn down a chance to explore someone else’s fantasy.  I bought a new fishnet bodystocking. I wore it with a short skirt, no panties, and we met for dinner.  It was a new experience for me to consider fishnet as something sexy.  The pattern was stark against my legs, as we walked out of the restaurant together.  I’d always loved the way fishnet look against my skin, but now it wasn’t subversive or edgy, at least not in the same way – now it was sexy, naughty, and a tiny bit dangerous without panties.

Back at his place, I discovered the feel of it.  His hands caressing my flesh through the netting, which pressed the nylon threads into my skin, at times the fibers dug into my flesh, leaving bright red lines or delicious pain. He bit and sucked my nipples through the netting, again, pitting my flesh against the sharp threads of the net.

I kept the suit on the entire night, well with a few tears opening up the gaps in the net.  The netting chaffed and cut into my thighs as I straddled him.  It caught on my hard nipples, tugging at them with more intensity than any metal clamp of sharp teeth had ever provided.  Afterward, he still watched me – his fingers tracing the lines of the fishnet over my skin, his eyes following his fingers.

I think I took it off before I went home, tossing the suit carelessly into my purse.  I know it is still in my drawer, next to my silk stockings, lacy panties, and bits of lingerie.  As I run my fingers across it, as I search for a particular pair of panties of the missing mate of a stocking, my skin tingles for that cutting pull of it.