As the wind stroked my stocking-clad legs, itbrought back the tingling sensation and woke up my little buddyagain.I stepped out of the boutique, close... and locked the place up.I gave the door a final push to ensure it was truly locked. Iminced my way down the short staircase and joined into the busycrowd to make my way to meet my parents.PART TWOI walked briskly and my needlepoint heels were clickingfuriously on the stone pavement. My short, but fluffy skirtrelentlessly stroked against my. Well, I’m owning that shit. It is my fault. My anatomy is weird, and so is my brain. Phallic bits of plastic (or glass or wood or organically harvested rainbows or whatever the newest fad is) just don’t inspire me. They don’t reach the right spots. Doesn’t matter if they are realistic enough for you to think some dude must be sitting in a bathtub full of ice right now crying inconsolably, or if they look like something that modern art installation enthusiasts might buy for half a million. More

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