I admire tucks in women, whether fixed like wrinkles hemmed in around their eyes, or fleeting like a leg folding warmly around yours. Each tuck holds a secret in its recess, of age or amorousness, pinched into place by a lifetime of smirks, creased by a person’s urge to close in on herself. A smooth complexion makes me think of a stiff, straight lover. I will have the punching bag, please – the young, raped face.
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