On reflection, it all came down to nylon —
stockings, bras, pants.
Of course there were the other things —
swing of buttocks, flap of breasts,
a whole shape of arc and indent.
But, somehow, it was the synthetics,
hitched nylon, an erotic mechanics,
that set us light years apart.
What did we have when we undressed?
Socks. Jockeys. A string vest.
But when they stepped out
of shoes, blouses, and skirt —
voila! The French maid: that circumflex
of taut stocking-band; knickers
sheeny as a courtesan’s; the stripper’s
unhooking acrobatics; and the Lautrec
girl stooping as puckered hose slithers.
They held us in a man-made scissors.
The Woman Underneath by Robert Maitre
]]>