text: As usual, he kept his distance all night, until the moment he didn’t. Tonight I am standing next to his bed - freshly showered and groomed in tight denim shorts, because I am pathetic - when he leans over to kiss my thigh just above the knee. I’m talking about DJ Shadow or Cut Chemist or myself but he seems fascinated by my thigh. He pets it like a mid-sized dog he is unsure of, and I keep talking because that’s all I know how to do. Fast-forward to 11:30 - or maybe 1:30, or 2, who fucking cares - and he has slipped inside of me to great effect. The mild-mannered chemical engineer is gone, replaced by a 28-year-old newly baptized Southern Baptist who would like me to pull his hair. I wore my new push-up bra tonight, on purpose, so I am pleased when he pulls me atop him and un-buttons my shirt. My tits - hiked up and heaving - mirror the sudden roundness of his eyes. As my decolletage bursts forth he moans, reaching for them, and for a moment I am proud. Not of my c-cup tits - though they deserve their own accolades, at least for another year or two - but of my follow-through. Two hours I spent in that pink fucking dressing room, subjecting my chest to round after round of torture perpetuated by a $300 stack of 83 percent nylon. I worked 3.2 hours for a billion dollar corporation to pay for this moment, for the guy who’s mouth is on my mouth to look down and say, yeah. Those things. It’s probably best not to think about these things in this manner.