Women in Uniform


Suggested Audio Candy:


[1] Sweet Tee “I Got Da Feelin”

[2] Roxanne Shanté “Go On Girl”



What is it about women in uniform that infatuates me so? I know I’m not alone in my delight; most men in possession of a pulse share my enthusiasm and it’s the reason why Cosplay is such a unanimous hit around the world. I’m not massively fussy about which in particular; whether administering a shot or writing out a ticket for parking too long in a tow-away zone, there’s something more than faintly arousing about them. Nowadays women too are a lot more open to admittance that it can rev their engines also and why the hell not? Place a naked man and woman side by side and I know which one I would rather leer at. With men there are too many loose threads, unsightly ballbags, and fuzzy shoulder tufts to appear attractive. Sure, I’m biased, I hold my hands up, but I’m also the one with the quill in his hand right now. So without further ado; nurse my bed pan needs changing.

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I’m not speaking of the haggard old wench who roots through your follicles in search of head lice during kindergarten; it’s the ones that nurse you back to health which hold the appeal. The reality of it is that there are just as many male nurses as female nowadays and much of the time the ladies ain’t quite what the doctor ordered. But there’s always one; the one we pray will be fitting our catheter. White stockings. What can be said about white stockings other than hubba hubba bonzai? They signify the three S’s: serenity, sterility, sexuality. Whilst clearly the lattermost which fascinates me most; the other two play their part in providing a safe environment to fantasize within. Nurses are tasked with ensuring that our stays are comfortable and incident-free. We trust their healing hands and our recoveries are aided by the moments when they lean across us to hand us the remote control, thus affording vantage of their matching lingerie. I would adjust my bed’s gradient to get a closer look at their wares and, even if my face ended up pressed into their cleavage, they would never once lose their temper. “You are a naughty boy” translates to “pound my pussy hard you rowdy rapscallion” in the mind of an evolving adolescent. In forty years I have never once extended my hospital stay overnight but have always imagined what really transpires once that curtain is pulled across.


Next up is the air hostess. The catalogue lies more often than not; we imagine flight staff to be up-and-coming porn starlets with tight little derrieres and playful grins when, in reality, they often look more akin to bulldogs chewing wasps and hardly raise a smile. The Mile High club would appear to be rather an exclusive group and intelligence would suggest that it is the hostesses who run the whole racket. However, nobody mentions the abysmal in-flight meal they brandish or the fact that they can’t seem to navigate the duty free trolley through the aisle without significant elbow damage. All the blame cannot be left at their door step; back-to-back journeys must be take their toll and they’re not there solely for our benefit. But it’s never quite what we’re expecting; a little light relief from sitting hunched in economy seating next to a man who believes it is his divine right to claim both armrests. Still, it’s fun watching them point to the exits and inflate their life-jackets. It’s here that one’s mind is required to go into overdrive.


Fuck the police. Not my words; my home town is Corringham and a million miles from Compton bitches. However, I have felt the long arm of the law on a couple of occasions and both times it put the fear of God into me. Some of the nicest people I have met have been in police uniform and some unlikely friendships have been formed but that doesn’t make the emergence of sirens any less blood-curdling. It was whilst back at the station that I was first tasked with the dreaded one-on-one strip search and I left that evening with my dignity in tatters. I think it was the moment I was asked rather forcefully to lift my testicles, turn around, and spread ’em that murdered my spirit most. The superintendent was hardly a sight for sore eyes but it could have been so different had Glynnis Barber signed in for a shift that night. Men like nothing more than being naughty and part of that is our need to be submissive and accept our punishment from the fairer sex. Why else would handcuffs be introduced into foreplay so habitually? Lock us up and throw away the key; so long as you read us our rights in your very best Stevie from The Fog dialect. We will cum peacefully. It’s a fair cop.

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Headmistresses drive me wild with desire. School is such a hellish locale for the most part; filled with uncertainty and harsh lessons. However, the prospect of being particularly impish and winding up queuing outside her office was just too tantalizing to pass up and I frequented there hoping to be placed over her knee and scalded. Actually, that’s not factually correct, my headmaster was all terror and no titillation but, in my mind, I imagined him to be 5″7, female, brunette, and smelling like lavender cloves rather than mothballs. I am both dom and sub; dependent of context. It’s 50-50 all the way. But, should I be really naughty, then it is only right that the punishment fit the crime. Reprimand me and I shall gladly become your bitch; scratch, slap and even cut with a sterile instrument and I shall purr like a kitten and request that you tickle my tummy. I always particularly enjoyed French lectures; not because I desired to learn as my attention span was far too short for such superfluous pursuit. Instead I would ogle my teacher and I’m fairly assured she loved every second glance by the way she crossed her legs. I hung out for a glimpse of le chat but she always ensured that shadow obscured my vantage. I would try and lure it out with a ball of wool but it never materialized, affording it just the right level of ambiguity to ensure that I was last to vacate my desk when the bell rang for recess, on account of my light head and augmented special purpose.


Let us not forget schoolgirls. This is nowhere near as nefarious an obsession as it can appear. Let’s be frank shall we? Alright, I’ll be Frank, you be Colin. Pig tails, over-sized lollipop or interchangeable bubble gum, knee-high stockings, school blouse tied in a knot above the bellybutton…what isn’t to find arousing? It also reminds us of our own innocence; a time where the first twinges of our sexual curiosity begin to manifest. It’s a personal darling of mine if I’m honest; the kind of homework I have no issue with burning the midnight oil for. As fantastic as a woman dressed in school uniform is; there is one thing it cannot feasibly compare to…two women dressed in school uniform. What could be more harmless than a little light exploration between friends? Fuck it, throw in a random pillow fight and I’ll bring the marshmallow fluff on principle alone and maybe even a manually-operated whisk for good measure. Just talking about it makes me want to resit my exams.


Time to let the nuns out of the convent. That’s right; nothing tickles my pickle more than a rabbit in a habit. Years of watching nunsploitation flicks finally wore me down. We’re not talking Sister Act; as much as I hold Whoopi Goldberg, Kathy Najimy and Maggie Smith in lofty regard, their confessions aren’t nearly illicit enough for Keeper. We’re talking the real confessional loiterers; the runts of the litter. Forget any vows of celibacy and instead focus on how adeptly a sister can lick the barrel of a magnum. It’s fiercely erotic and much of that stems from the fact that we know how wrong it actually is. There is one guarantee from watching a nun lift her veil and that is seventies bush. I’m all for pruning, especially when the pig-tails come into play, but there’s something gloriously primal about a woman who leaves her garden to flourish as opposed to breaking out the mower. The Brazilian is too much of an afterthought for me; it’s all or nothing in my book. Nuns traditionally air on the side of all and you’ll never see me complaining.


One of the joys of being a high-flier is that you are often appointed your very own secretary. You can’t argue with that logic. Fraternization in the workplace is generally frowned upon and will see you under inquiry faster than OJ. However, there is something alarmingly sensual about a woman in glasses sat behind a typewriter. It has nothing to do with the old chauvinistic viewpoint that women are there to serve men; that’s ridiculously antiquated and I never bought into it for one picosecond. It’s more that it shows intelligence and there is no greater aphrodisiac than a little wisdom. Now that typewriters have become surplus to requirements, the allure of the secretary has somewhat vanquished. But I, for one, would have no complaints about working late in the office if she stayed back too, just to help with clearing my in-tray you understand.

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Finally we arrive at the prison warden or ironically named screw. Alas, a childhood watching Prisoner Cell Block H did me no favors here. It’s hard to get aroused by Vinegar Tits or The Freak, especially with Lizzie Birdsworth popping up unannounced. Thankfully, the eighties also provided a glut of low-rent women in prison movies and this reinstated my faith in the judicial system tremendously. If I was engaging in a spot of role-play, as has been known to happen from time-to-time, then this would be my least likely choice but I still wouldn’t say no to a lock-in. Offer me a choice however between a sexy screw and a luscious amazonian woman wielding a broadsword and it becomes time for my parole. Maybe it’s the fact that I know the kind of immoral shit that transpires in the shower block when the soap bar drops. Look what happened to Edward Norton. Nasty, real nasty.


Dressing up is more fun than a disco eel on illuminated floor tiles. It allows us to be somebody different; step away from ourselves for a moment and become whoever our heart desires that we be. Whatever your preference; it can be a liberating experience and one which I would participate in without procrastination. My dreams tend to be a rather seedy locale; filled to overspilling with all manner of nurses, air hostesses, police women, headmistresses and tenth grade teachers, schoolgirls, nuns, secretaries, screws and amazonians. That’s the only reason why I spend 33.3% of my life in slumber and the same reason why I wake for shit each day. I raise a chalice to women in uniform, partly out of reverence and partly to conceal my erection. Now where did I leave those handcuffs?


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