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| Lycra, like foot binding, moulds unyielding flesh into supposed perfection. Body eaten into submission by diet clubs and exercise now pampered to impress the one whose every movement in another room, tunes your senses. Soaps, creams and perfumes. Smoothing, buffing, polishing. Soft, clean hair, still slightly damp. Twist and turn to fasten undergarments never designed to be topped by clothes, but only to whisper invitation to seduction. Sit close to him in the half light, a casual caress. Plan accidental glimpses of what lies beneath a carelessly fastened robe as you fill his wine glass. He glances at you, then yawns and switches channels reaching for the TV guide. Don't cry. Take your glass and say goodnight. Embaressed, humiliated, climb the stairs to another lonely night. |
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