Dear Diary: What Do Pants Feel Like?
September 30, 1846
Virginia is a dream. My family’s farmland a haven from the infested soil of our homeland, and the famine that brought us here.
Since arriving in America, the sun shines brightly on my future. One can smell the freedom in the air, which brings with it a feeling of empowerment I have never experienced in my 28 years spent in Ireland. And yet, with this newfound freedom I bear a heavy weight upon my breast, for I now have a new obsession.
I long to know what pants feel like.
I see the men stroll about, each leg wrapped in cloth, meeting at their loins, blanketing their manhood, and I wonder what it must feel like. Restraining? Possibly. Empowering? Most definitely. Why else would the men feel such confidence when they lack so much? The pants must enchant them. They enchant me, too…
I see my father’s trousers lying on the floor as he bathes at sunset, and more than once I have tiptoed to them, placing one foot into a cuff, only to flee at the sound of father sloshing, afraid he has exited the tub. Young Conan’s pants are too small for me to fit into, though it is not for lack of trying. Mother watches the laundry with such a close eye that I dare not, even for a moment, steal away with the knickers.
One day soon I will pull them up over my child-bearing hips and feel the security of the slacks.