What Things Are Made Of

Lingerie Show

64 Lingerie Show She does the hip-cocked, hands-behind-head, I-just-happento -be-standing-here-in-pink-thong-panties grin. She does the hand-on-thigh, you-know-I’m-braless-under-my-blueteddy , Hello there. She does the baby-doll-in-seethrough -nightie, stunned by the soft slap of her own sexiness. We guys are doing I’m-just-here-with-my-pot-gut-bad-tieweak -drink-and-half-a-stiffie, or Don’t-know-how-I-got-herebut -I’ve-seen-better, or I-came-in-for-a-Scotch-and-sawthis -chick-so-fut-the-whuck-I-stayed. I think she loves being the one bunny in a pen with mangy coyotes, three-legged bobcats, crush-backed snakes. She’s still a virgin here, smashed on estrogen, sky-high on her new curves, no idea what men think of flesh they pay to see. She could be a coed cutting Comp, a receptionist with “glamour” photos in her Hyundai’s trunk, or Daddy’s girl, wiggling free from his estate with guesthouse and Olympic pool. Behind a model’s makeup and insouciance, her smile pleads, Love me; so the world will break her heart. Maybe I’ll pass her in Safeway one day—hair hacked off, waist thick, three kids screeching for Captain Crunch, not Cheerios. Penthouse could call to offer a side slot (so few issues, so many girls): five hundred bucks for some pink shots. Maybe I’ll see her on TV, or offering out-call massage in some weekly throwaway. She could get a PhD, and lock away the photos Goatee Geezer’s taking now: proof what a prize she used to be. “See,” she’ll tell her husband, “I was almost beautiful”— this shining girl caught in the world’s high beams; Fame, in his black limo, whispering, “Baby, every road leads up from here.” ...