- CASE STUDY: Plus-Sized LOVE and LUST
- WEB COPY
Standing in line, she ponders, wonders and agonizes for what seemed like hours. “Why didn’t he kiss me?” The residue from the night before sticks to her memory. With out apology or concern, she begins to adjust her garter. One of the six hooks, hiding beneath the veneer of her day job, had become undone. She hikes up her skirt. “I tossed my hair,” she mumbles. A small corner of her black patent G-string screams for attention. To everyone, she is invisible. Her phone rings. On the other end, a voice simply says, “Can I see you tonight?”
The spicy nature of her relationship was legendary. Every New Year’s, Jax would throw a little “Bam!” into the vat of love she shared with her beau. This year, black satin was the secret ingredient. Hugging the curves and shadows of her petal soft skin, she chose a strapless corset that flirted with his boiling point. It had spaghetti like strings up and down the spine that gave his nimble fingers a partner to dance with. Jax and her beau had a very hot new year.
As the ball fell, so did her expectations. Every new year’s eve was the same. “I love you honey” and a kiss. Jax clung to the idea that 2007 was gonna be different. Her confidence, textured in black satin, hugged the curves and shadows of her petal soft skin. Come hell or high water, his hands would untie the black spaghetti like string that tamed her passion. “This year I’ll ask him”, was her New Year’s Resolution.
The night before was like no other. James Brown dripped from the speakers. Shrewd joy danced between swirvy columns of hard, soft and the occasional very soft body. Jax was her name. Available was his. Again and again beads of sweat disappeared behind the tenderness of her black leather corset. This was her weapon of mass devotion. Jax named it “Lucile”. Desi and Lucy were the polaroid of love. And on this nite, her blouse with the opacity of a Macon county screen door, was set to stun. He was THE catch. Before long, she knew that Lucile and a flute or two of Dom P. would wash away his inhibitions. This New Year’s, they were Siamese. Joined at the hips.
The magazine butterflied as it crashed against the mirror. Entrails of subscription leaflets fluttered to the sticky floor. Two mile-high litres of Polish Vodka caught and cradled the glossy remains. ALL LIES. ALL EYES. ALLIES she began to scribe on the slick veneer of the hotel bar. No worries thought the barkeep; she only uses lipstick no. 43. It’s organic. And Claire was infamous for having a tube or two tucked in the lacy corner of her 38 double-Ds. This time was no different. Soap and water, again, will erase her memory.