I honestly can’t remember the last time someone took my clothes off. I’m talking about those precious moments, just before sex, when I’m more than okay with a person slowly unbuttoning my freshly ironed shirt, and it tumbling onto their un-hoovered floor, because they’re the one who removed it from my body.
But it was only recently, when I was swapping stories with some girlfriends, that I realised I couldn’t actually recall a recent encounter when someone else had taken my top off. It was such a concerning thought that I genuinely began worrying I might develop some kind of arthritis — years of having to fiddle about with your own buttons will do that to a girl.
More, here.
