George Tysh

Something to be learned about completeness cannot be taught,
sharing the limitation of one-handedness, mangled versions of
ourselves take part in the scene between us. It isn't really
M. speaking from a large leather chair, crossing her legs,
telling the story of no panties, how she never wears any, but
breathes slowly in a corset for a friend. I'm not her though
I'm also not me. Footsteps go by outside. M. shows me her
legs in a severe pair of high heels. Someone's voice filtering
through the walls, embarrassingly clear, tells me to bend over
the desktop and M. does the same, our hips touching, we look
down at her ankles, she's proud of them. But M. wants tips on
the best nylons to wear, the tightest corsets, etc., I think
we spend hours like that, talking like that, looking one at the
other.