It’s black, plain, and simply cut. The supple, matt fabric clings flatteringly against my chest and stomach, without managing to make me look like I’ve been vacuum-packed into it. Its thin granddad collar leads down to a satin ribbon-edged v-neck, which reveals a hint of generous cleavage. Yet it, that shirt of mine, doesn’t make me look slutty or tarty, just, well ... tempting. Or so I’m told. Perched on the edge of my bed, I stare at my favoured garment, hooked over the bedroom door, waiting to be placed with its colleagues amongst the clutter of my ultra-stuffed wardrobe. I can’t help but smile as I recall the hands that have run over that shirt. Men’s hands, women’s hand, delicate hands and calloused hands; digits that have dared to trail around the neck-line, perhaps lingering over, or accidently straying onto, the flesh beneath. Rather than shove it in with its fellow garments, I have an irresistible urge to hug the material to me, to feel its soft sheen against my skin.
What do You think about The Best Of Kay Jaybee (2012)?
