Since1982 wrote:Way to fold, melt and give up. Before either person even put any article of clothing on. You should go buy her a whip and harness for better mind and body control of you.
Don't be so hasty to jump to judgment; there is likely more to this than immediately meets the eye.
It's worth recalling that in most relationships what happens tends to be consensual. Now, sometimes it's a case of a mutually-arrived-upon set of behaviours and sometimes it's a case of "easier to put up and shut up" than cause a ruckus. We do not know the precise case here, so there's no point in demonising one partner at the outset.
Now,
as presented, there is a case, potentially, to be made for fear on the part of his wife -- "What will society think of
me if my husband wears a
skirt?" -- and that, sadly, seems moderately common, mainly because it's us (guys who wear skirted garments) who are "thinking outside the box". That act can be downright terrifying to some, so some sensitivity is required. Not all of us are lucky enough who have partners who know us well enough and who are confident enough in their own position to accept the risk of being seen with a "radical thinker".
The "facts on the ground" tend to indicate that nobody really cares. This facet came up yesterday when I decided to go a visit a bartender friend of mine who used to work at my local watering-hole but has since gotten his own place. The hamlet i live in is a fairly sleepy place, and my sartorial sense seems well-accepted; yesterday took me to Leominster which is considerably more gritty than here, and I seriously contemplated ditching the
skirt for trousers -- until, that is, the temperature got up into the low 30s (C) and I would have cooked in the car. So, a
skirt it was -- a
purple tiered
skirt with some mesh and lace trim paired with a blue and
purple Hawaiian shirt -- and a bag because this rig has no pockets and I was also carrying the pager from work (which requires offboard optics because my onboard ones are getting a bit stiff with age).
I confidently walked into this decidedly "male" bar (no pretense of "lounge" or "pub" whatsoever), was immediately recognised by the proprietor, plopped myself down at the bar, ordered myself a Guinness (this guy has class, no matter where he goes), and spent a couple of hours "shooting the bull" with him and other customers. Guess what -- there was not one, even a single, comment on my attire. The sky stayed firmly affixed above, the Sun came up this morning (making a returned rooster crow in the back room), and I went to work the same way I've done for the past 30 years, with 1+ of those actively opting for skirts now and then. The ground didn't even shake.