Men in Tights

"He's someone you could imagine capturing a bear with a butterfly net while having a refrigerator strapped to his back." THAT was a description a good male friend of mine once gave of my ex-husband, which is a vague way of saying that my ex was very powerfully built, and it serves as an introduction to what I'm about to say next. My ex-Y was a catcher in baseball. (That, and both a center and linebacker in football.) He played little league and high school ball. If not for bursitis in his right elbow, something that hit in his last year of high school, I'm certain he had enough talent for the major leagues. That is to say, I never saw another catcher like him except in the majors.

Tabatha's Cat-O'lantern

What does this have to do with Halloween? Well, I'm getting there.

If you've never dated a catcher, then you might not know that they have well developed derrieres and legs, particularly if they started catching early in life. (I've been in relationship with three--that is, all of my long-time relationships have been with catchers. And no, it was not something I planned. I don't have a catcher fetish. They find me. Though, I'm determined to make a beeline out of the ballpark the next time someone reveals, "I was a catcher.")

One Halloween my ex-catcher, one-time husband decided to attend two parties dressed as a killer bee... of Saturday Night fame. (Click on this link.) Real killer bees were transplants from Africa, let loose in South America and destined to migrate to the U.S. Saturday Night Live had quite a fun time spoofing them and the media fear mongering. And so the stage was set for me and my husband to make him a killer bee costume and turn him into a desperado.

We bought him a toy rifle, a white long-sleeve t-shirt, which we dyed black, and a pair of women's queen-sized black opaque tights. We fashioned a bandolier out of two webbed leather belts (his and mine), which sported tiny cigarillos instead of bullets, and I made him a bee body out of yellow polyester and black felt and some padding. Killer bee antenna had yet to hit the market. So I suggested that we start with a thin tortoiseshell head band (my ex was a dark-haired red head and so the tortoiseshell disappeared into his coloring). He had the bright idea of using two tiny springs, which he stretched, and two ping pong balls, which he colored with black magic marker, and he Super Glued the combination onto the head band. The end result was a set of antenna where the balls gracefully jiggled while staying relatively erect; they were less distracting than the TV version but still good for a giggle.

Once our costumes were assembled (mine being a story for another Halloween) and donned, we headed out for the first of two parties. The first was with his fellow graduate students, their partners, and the bulk of our friends, and the second was with my fellow co-workers. I was not prepared for his reception.

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My ex-Y rarely ever wore shorts unless he was playing basketball at the local gym, typically with people he didn't know except as fellow basketball enthusiasts. So virtually no one saw the legs that filled out his Levis.

And trust me, you'll just have to use your imagination because I wasted precious time searching for comparable legs online and the only legs that came close were the ones to the left. (See tinamikela.com--one of the online companies selling tights for men--so you can buy a pair for your special someone.) My ex-Ys calves were rounder, much more powerful and perfectly shaped, like a ballet dancer's. I've never seen a man with nicer, shaplier legs. Pure esthetic beauty and power--a hard combination to beat when it comes to eye candy.

So, prior to these parties, I was the only person who got to gander at his legs and have the opportunity to appreciate them. And appreciate them I did. It just never occurred to me that others rarely if ever got the opportunity to do the same.

Believe me when I say, his legs in black tights were not lost on women at either party. They were like bees to honey on a cold day, keeping the hive a toasty 93 degrees, hot. While his male friends, in their envy, made fun of him, I stood with them on the sidelines where we had been relegated. I had to. I couldn't even get close to my husband--the worker bees, drawn to a man in queen-sized tights, were that thick.

Lesson learned: If you are not interested in your husband becoming sexualized in the minds of all of the women in his life, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT encourage him to wear tights in public, particularly if he has killer legs. And if he wants to wear jeans in the hottest weather? Do as I did, don't give him any grief. Encourage him keep his hidden assets hidden.