The Trunk of Memories

Some time ago, I found a trunk in the attic of the old family country house. Inside the trunk I found a dress from the mid-nineteenth century, faded and gnawed by moths, spread out on a bed of dust, and a sealed envelope. I took the dress and put it in the air and in the sun; I opened the envelope and I read:

"This is the stage dress I wore at the Rijeka theater for the show" La locandiera ": I was Mirandolina. Those who have found it will probably also find on the bottom of the trunk a thick layer of strange dust: it is what is left of the crinoline.

I loved the theater props man. Or maybe it's better to say that he lit my senses like never before. He liked me too. Much. There was a moment of the show in which the curtain closed for a few seconds and reopened with me motionless in the middle of the scene to recite my monologue at the end of the first act. During the dark and closed curtain, I took the position and also the props man under my skirt. I had the foresight not to wear underwear.

The curtain reopened and a projector was rekindled on me.

Ninety seconds of indescribable pleasure began.

I played and felt the eyes of the audience on me while under the crinoline of my skirt the tongue of the props man stroked my clit; I moved the upper part of my body with the grace of a lady in the eighteenth century, while the smallest hole widened beneath the fingers of the man; I gave the final of the monologue the emphasis needed to close the act and the sobs of the orgasm made it difficult to speak.

Dark. Curtain. End of the first act.

Your great-great grandma”