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Rubenesque She Called My Curves Rubenesque she called my curves, perhaps with a little envy shading her cool gills green as she smiled, Mona Lisa style, and her whippet legs, spindle arms became a cradle for my lush bosom and my thighs. I marvelled at the care she took to straighten the lovely curls out of her long hair, blonded without sun, wondered at the cheeses she ate that would slip through her like water or rain. She loved the hand-me-downs I tossed her - those girl clothes that wouldn't feel my dewy woman's frame under their fibres again. I grew fat on the goodness of life and love, grew happy to frolic naked, wend my way through furniture strewn with paper and perfumed by the scent of our bodies where we sat and ate celery soup, minted with peas and buttery toast that slipped through her so that she said "I'm still hungry," and made more buttery toast I did not eat, weighed down as I was by envy of her figure, trapped in bulbous flesh which, with a flick of straight hair, she labelled "Rubenesque" handing me my beauty in a cup.
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