Damn you super-cute Reformation dress that I bought and can never wear without purchasing some crazy undergarment-shaping-bodysuit-contraption for way too much money. DAMN YOU. There you were, black, stretchy, below-the-knee, adorable neckline; flirting with me from your home on the interwebs. Now here you are, hanging lonely and unworn, in my closet, out of sight but not often out of mind. Every once in a while I pick you up, stroke your soft fabric, disrobe and give you one more shot… And again you fuck me. Your soft and stretchy jersey highlighting every bulge. Your neckline just low enough to make nearly any type of support garment immediately detectable. Yes yes, I can imagine scenarios where I wear you only within the privacy of my own home, perhaps for some lucky visitor, because of course I can’t wear a bra — probably not even underwear, certainly not my preferred Spanx to eliminate the chafing between my thighs. But is that really the best I can hope for? DAMN YOU.