I had no idea that thirteen could feel sexy,
until you caught me staring at your breasts
and insisted I try on your red lace push-up bra,
then swiftly slipped out of hooks and straps
as I reached out a giddy hand, averting my eyes, but not really.
I don’t know if I was more embarrassed by your immodesty,
your bare nipples, or my cherry-tannined flush.
Regardless, I brazened it out, and fingered the soft fabric,
still warm from your skin,
silently applauding the wondrous potential it embodied,
then slid into hooks and straps
and stood profile in my bedroom mirror.
Enamored with their fuller shape,
pressing gently at the suggestion of cleavage,
I remember slowly approaching my reflection,
until I could feel the breath of my own image,
while you made fun of my “mirror face”
(that theatrical pursing of lips,
head tilted slightly back,
eyes narrowing into invitations).
Ah, the things we suddenly know how to do,
by virtue of red lace and an audience.
(by Andrew Pearce “The Wishing”)