The magazine flew to the wall with a slam. Julie in her adrenaline haze saw the wooden coloured legs of the model slide against the wall, paper scrunched and cracked. It didn't make her feel any better that the bimbo in the magazine.. who should have been her by the way.. was no longer in her face anymore.
Inside, Julie was every woman provactively posing in a magazine. Inside, she wouldn't just be in her lingerie should she find herself ..waiting..on a bannister. The wood a stark contrast to her warm flesh..no she would be naked, nothing between the wood and her pussy.
She couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't pretend that it was okay to be a staid librarian, sat primly behind the counter, stamping books sometimes hearing a patronising remark. She loved her job, loved the smell of paper, loved knowing that someone was reading someone' else's art, their life, their heart. But it was far away from her dream of glamour. She wanted to be out in the world, sailing oceans, knowing if she could get sea sick or not, discovering what food she liked the most, having an illicit encounter with a cultured man in a musuem or an art gallery, waking up to the hot sun and learning life as it happened. Instead, she was waiting to earn enough money for that happen. As politically incorrect as it was, when her friends at school once joked she should marry a very rich man, she agreed. There was something erotic and sexy knowing your needs were provided for. And knowing you were protected. And the sex, they would say, what if he was rubbish in bed, she had a dirty enough mind at the age of 14 to know how she could get his dick hard, play with herself in front of him, watch porn together, masturbate each other off, she knew sex was a work in progress.
So what if she liked to dress respectably. She had a short frame but a sculpted, curvy figure. She liked to wear coats with belts cinching her waist, her toned legs in denim and long boots. Underneath she could never wear panties for all anyone knew. She liked to have her breasts supported and she liked to have clothes fitted to the pronounced small of her back and suprisingly pert bottom. She just didn't feel the need to show it off, prefering elegance over thin pointy heels and trendy clothes. The subtlety outside, the beauty of knowing one colour against another, was a contrast to the immediacy she felt underneath her clothes, it went deeper than her walk, her makeup, it was more vital and prominent than anyone could ever know.