You stain the glass with your leer, your provocation filthy against the pristine window, disinfected and buffed to sparkling transparency.
Posed in flammable nylon, you are the supposed epitome of desire; an uunattainable level of glamour mere mortals can only dream of. Vacuous, pert and pretty, you are an airbrushed fantasy, your appeal only lasting as long as a schoolboy wank. With dead eyes staring out ahead to nothing, your limbs are long and bronzed; selling a product made by tiny fingers for very little pennies, sold for megabucks.
If you could speak, much more than your body would be revealed. You’d bare your soul. You would surely say how this expensive tat is itchy , uncomfortable and irritable on the skin, sometimes causing infections.
Surely, that’s Victoria’s real secret – the best kept one-and Amy’s, Beth’s and Tracey ‘s too.