My Red Dress
I bought my red dress at a vintage shop. Spotted her shuffled in a line of other dresses marked bridal and evening, but my red dress cannot blend in. Does not know how to hush.
I look just fine in my red dress, even though I am not what most would call a red dress-wearing woman. My red dress is very generous and quite forgiving as she cinches my impossibilities. Calls my modest curves dangerous. My red dress knows how to make a mountain out of a molehill.
My red dress was made for mountains. Was sewn stitch by stitch for someone with BREASTS and I mean voluptuous breasts, the breasts that really look like hard melons pushed together, Austin Powers, Oh behave! kind of breasts.
My red dress was made for a woman with the impossible curves of Jessica Rabbit. A woman with an hourglass figure that simply cannot wait. My red dress is made to show off the long, slender neck of a swan, and the spindling elegant legs of a spider. My red dress has long streams of crimped fabric and curls of sequins, that glitter in slashes and sparkle from where she ends at the knee down to the spiked heel of the red stiletto one really ought to wear when wearing my red dress.
My red dress is meant to go places. Meant to lounge seductively on pianos smoking cigarettes with those long, Audrey Hepburn style cigarette holders while some man in a fedora tickles out a love song. My red dress is made for dancing — salsa, or tango, something Spanish, something spicy with hips, flare, and gusto. My red dress is meant to laugh and touch passionately and give herself to some bedroom floor, in a slip, for the fall of love.
My red dress is a story just waiting to unfold, a memory not yet made hanging in the shadows waiting for her time to pounce, hiding in the dark the woman I could be if only I would wear my red dress.
