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Dating in a push-up bra

His head rests on my chest. We are naked, but he is unaroused. My push-up bra with extra padding lies on the floor. Was it a form of womanly deceit to hoist my small breasts up in cushioned cups, a bit of self-promotion to the coveted size C I’ve always longed for? Earlier in the evening when I tipped back a martini with extra olives, his eyes locked on my falsified feminine pillows. Now in bed together, I think of signposts, yellow and black, which warn of wet, winding roads ahead. But mine bears a straight line.

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