I sometimes look around the lift in the mornings and think, cunts, every one of you. Often, it's just me and the girls, all shorter than me, like being buried up to my neck in sand. Regularly, I am the only male in a lift full of females, all clutching their bags, all gazing up at the floor numbers, with a thick, fresh face on - spak filled and lacquered. I think my cock retracts at the thought, realisation, observation xx the stronger sex - feeling like a pelvic floor exercise as the turtle retreats back into his shell. (Even red-blooded boys do - they may not want to fuck us, but they sure want a healthy dose of Y around to remind them of their pack. Boys like boys around them. It's true. Mates. Buddies. Give us a hug!) How many pelvic floor exercises does it take to make a man grow a clitoris?
I cast my eye around the lift and wonder how many have a little spoof burn at the backs of their throats, from the mornings au voir, or have a wet itch in their lingerie, from frisky boyfriends who just couldn't be dissuaded? All those beavers tucked away behind lace and nylon; pink, lemon and white. Sprayed and dusted; lavender, musk and orange blossom. Plucked and manicured; poked at and pushed at to be perky.
I glanced up at the floor numbers changing slowly on the green digital display and breathed in deeply, holding it on full breath.
The longer I stayed in that lift with those woman, the closer I became to being a Barbie doll, all smooth down there.
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