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There was once a man who claimed he’d been assaulted
by a woman’s underwear. Invited back for coffee,
he’d walked into the kitchen where ranks of brassieres
and panties hung from a ceiling trap in readiness
for ambush. Stockings brushed his cheeks, hooks
and buttons snagged on his hair, straps and ribbons
tied him to a place he’d longed for always without knowing.
As a fine layer of lace wrapped itself around his eyes,
he was breathless, helpless at the pink coal-face
of femininity, and fell into a beautiful swoon.

When he woke, he was captive. His life became
a sweet. slow undoing and re-doing of those fastenings
and – or so the story goes – the coffee never came.

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