Good morning little schoolgirl, can I come home with you?
Tell your mom and your papa, I’m a little schoolboy too.
– Sunny Boy Williams, Good Morning Schoolgirl
I played this song a lot when I was younger. Perhaps it was always going to happen, my dad is a massive blues fan, and it’s an absolute standard.
The version I became borderline obsessed with featured Jeff Beck on guitar – accounting for the captivating, almost discordant opening riff which gave me an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. And the lyrics, of course.
I had a school uniform kink from an obscenely young age. Whenever I saw a grown adult don short trousers and badly knotted tie (and this is England, it’s almost a national pastime), my eyes almost lit up. Something about the veneer of innocence barely concealing maturity, experience and sexual allure. I wanted to be that girl, giving you the eye whilst seeming prim.
At eighteen I head to university and the all-important nightclub event, the school disco. I photograph myself looking shy and vulnerable and label this look as ‘the gymslip mafia’. I will don school uniform for two other costume parties, and somehow no one notices that I seem to have a very limited imagination.
I recognise the power of the visual. The appeal of the short-ish skirt, the promise of fresh white underwear beneath. I’m very particular, very fussy. I spent a year buying and discarding various pinafores that didn’t live up to my gymslip fantasies. I don’t approve of so-called ‘sexy’ schoolgirl kits or costumes. A school blouse does not tie at the waist, and a school skirt does not fall at mid thigh, And really, it shouldn’t be tartan either (see? I’m hardcore.)
So there I am. clean black mary janes and long navy blue socks on my feet. the socks stop at mid thigh, my pinafore falls just below my knees. A pale grey blouse and a black cardigan, both of which distance me from my old school colours. I wear my school tie, of course. Authenticity is key. I’ve procured badges, made myself Head Girl AND a Prefect (Star pupil, butter wouldn’t melt, innocent and trustworthy, such a girl does not harbour impure throughts or dark fantasies).
Incidentally I was a Prefect at school, but everyone was a fucking Prefect. There was something of a dearth. Anyway. Then there’s the hair. Bunches or pigtails, something to grip. Underwear and make up choices are up to Him. He decides if I am pure or wicked. Saint or sinner.
The air of the schoolroom extends to my tastes within the D/s dynamic of my relationship, too. Corporal punishment, standing in the corner and writing lines all features as forms of discipline He has used and will continue to use to improve my behaviour.
And long may that continue.