So one weekend earlier this fall (I forgot to blog it at the time, but it's worth telling), Pirate and I were driving down a country road in his new/old 1973 AM Vantage. It was a beautiful, clear day; great day for a run in The Big Car.
I was dressed up, wearing a purple dress with longish (mid-calf) A-line skirt with buttons all down the front, proper stockings, and heels. (This is important to the punchline, I swear.)
I was sitting in the bucket seat to Pirate's left, my right leg crossed over my left at the knee. (There's a lot of leg-room in that car. me likes.)
We hit a stretch of open road, and with no traffic in sight, Pirate put the boot down. That car moves. It doesn't strain, it just responds. I felt myself pressed backwards into the seat from the acceleration. As the car thrust forward the hem of my skirt, which had been just resting at the top of my right knee, was also pulled backwards toward the seat, causing it to slide up my leg and reveal my thigh and the top of my stocking.
Pirate, upon seeing that the acceleration of the car was responsible for uncovering the smooth, firm, muscled flesh of my thigh, declared proudly: "I am such a man."