I visited Victoria Secret this weekend. Everything was on sale. There was more merchandise on display that normal. Lots of color. Lots of customers. Mostly under the age of 15.
I rummaged through the panties first. There was hardly anything to them. They were so skimpy they would barely fit a Barbie doll. There was a new line called “Naked.” No kidding.
Then I looked at the bras. There was everything from animal prints to metalics, from push-ups to push-outs, and everything in between.
They were even selling corsets. Not the old fashioned type that turned a woman blue from asphyxiation. Vicky’s were red and black and belonged in a cabaret act.
I noticed two courageous husbands in the store. One stood by the bikini panties looking stunned; the other was waiting by the bras. His eyes grew to a size 36-DD while waiting for his wife.
“It looked like a feeding frenzy in there,” my husband said when I came out.
“There’s nothing there for a woman with a figure,” I said.
“Or a woman with a conscience,” he said.
Calvin says, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in an animal bikini.”