I obsessed about it for weeks beforehand–what would I wear? What would I say?  What would I do to prevent getting embroiled in sexual degradation?

I mean, I had seen the videos.  Young, very young women in the barest of bikinis seemed to have lost leave of their position in front of the crowd, in front of the camera, and could be seen doing highly inappropriate things with their posteriors for all posterity.

I would go ordinary places and mentally remind myself that the cashier, the pedestrian, the librarian had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

They did not know that the very chubby, very middle-aged, nearly hairless specimen of womanhood before them was a “bikini contestant.”

Ultimately I had to let go of any shred of dignity to do this.  Or so I thought at the time.  Not because I planned to do anything untoward.  No.  

I had to fold up and discard notions of dignity because it wasn’t a bikini contest, it was a sexual cattle call.  And as heifers went, I was past my prime.

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