Dear Bobby

Dear Bobby,

I bought a dress today. A black one. It's tight, which of
course means that I won't be wearing any panties underneath.
Not that it matters to you. I've met somebody else. Well,
maybe "met" is the wrong word. But I've had a chance
encounter with a man and now things have changed. I'm sorry,
but that's just how it is.

After school Ashley and I ducked into Nordies to see if we
could find a dress for Saturday night. I was looking for
something special. For you. I was ready Bobby. I told my
parents that I was staying at Ashley's and I got paid
yesterday and I booked a room at the Hyatt on Fullerton and I
stopped by CVS and I was going to drink a few wine coolers so
that I wouldn't back out. I might have grabbed your cock on
the dance floor and begged you to fuck my brains out or maybe
I'd have slipped a key into your shirt pocket, whispered
"room five ninety six," and sauntered away just like Audrey
Hepburn with no fucking panties underneath.

But at Nordies Ashley pointed out this guy. She thought it
was funny. Some creepy dude holding a purse and leaning up
against a rack of giant old lady underpants and bras. He was
perving at my thong and my belly button and he was wearing a
vest and he would glance away casually whenever I looked over
at him. And guess what. I fucking liked it. Because this guy,
some random turd with a wife and a belt that matched his
shoes, this guy who probably has a daughter at Jefferson,
this middle-aged asshole who has never seen me before in his
life, this semi-disgusting guy with a god-damn moustache,
this guy was actually appreciating me. I could tell. He
enjoyed the way my pants hugged my giraffe legs. And he
noticed how the knot holding my shirt up was one simple tug
away from disintegration. I bet he could even tell that my
Nine Wests were hand-crafted in Italy or Rome or wherever
just by the way they transformed my hideously oversized
hooves into pretty lickable feet.

I know, you don't give a fuck about some creep who's probably
at home right now masturbating to distorted fragments of a me
that could never be his.

But he did what you never do. What you probably never will
do. I mean, do you even remember what I was wearing the night
we met? I know, I know, you liked the way my breast brushed
up against your arm. But did you happen to notice the
cashmere sweater that clung to those breasts? I didn't think
so.

At Nordies, I found the ultimate classy-slut-dress, pulled it
from the rack, pressed it firmly against my body, and turned
to Ashley for confirmation. I asked the same question that I
always ask.

"Do you think Bobby will like me in this?"

Do you know what she said?

"I'm sure he would like you better out of it."

How fucking true.

Good bye Bobby.