Satin unlocked in him something buried deep inside. The silky touch of that wondrous material made his skin sing and his nerves burn with delightful yearning.
He still remembered the first time he felt it. He was a teenager, rummaging through his parents' things in that small window between when he got home from school and when they got home from work. He never knew what kind of treasures he'd unearth in their chest of drawers. Once he found a Polaroid picture of a naked woman, a healthy bush between her legs, her toes pointed skyward, her back arched painfully.
He was just learning the mysteries of women when his hand swept across the soft, slick fabric of his mother's slip. He stopped there, his fingers caressing, a crackle of electricity running through him, grounding him to the spot. From that moment he'd never be the same.
The years went by and he still maintained a spot in his heart for the touch of satin but he'd never go so far as to say he had a fetish for it. He appreciated when his girlfriends and lovers wore satin panties or lingerie. When they did he'd do everything he could to keep them in their satin garb as long as possible, even preferring it to the soft suppleness of their bare skin.
In his middle age he lost his mother to cancer and visited a therapist to work out his grief. No matter how much he wanted to open up to his doctor, he couldn't do it. He felt stymied. He went week after week, just touching on cursory issues like what he was doing at work or books he'd been reading. No matter how hard he tried, he could never go deeper.