I have seen Laura's underwear. It is just a thing really. You stand beneath someone, holding the chair that is perched on the table and she is wearing a short skirt and you get to see her underwear. This is how these things happen and seriously, there is nothing untoward about it. They are just white knickers, hiked up over one cheek like any underwear and I feel nothing special despite your quips that I might blog about it. Perhaps it is disappointingly romantic, but I am more likely to find an erotic charge in the coy glances across the coffee machine or over a nice afternoon scotch on the back deck. More interest in fact when I saw her art and understood that she had more to say than I had expected.
I know that she is young and beautiful and that I am nothing but my own sexuality hardened to a brittle crust around an empty place, but I can't bring myself to make any more of it. Maybe it is the season, the pummeling of the customers, the fact that I am an old leery lady by comparison. Maybe it is because I am making an effort not to sexualise my friends. Still I saw Laura's underwear and she knew it and he made a joke about it and it did indeed become a blog post and here that post is now.