Last night I told Amanda I might get up early to write, down in the hotel cafe.
She had nodded approval but said she wanted me to wear my white stretchy top. During our week here she’s been hand’s off on dressing me in the mornings, part of her realization she wouldn’t be able to “mistress me” during this time.
Except when she does.
The white stretchy top is one of a few clothing items she packed for “Shae show,” as she puts it. There hasn’t been much time for Shae show. Apparently now there is.
It’s a tight nylon/spandex top that molds to my body like a coating of cream. It’s also slightly transparent, not so much as to create social unrest, but enough to prompt public looks and stares.
“I think people should know you have boobs.”
“I don’t think anyone would doubt that,” I replied.
“I think they need more visual evidence.”
She said she was going to try to sleep in, for which I am glad. I think she is tired — spent from everything in recent weeks.
As for me, I couldn’t sleep past four-thirty. So I am here in the hotel cafe at 5:30 a.m. with a cup of strong coffee.
Wearing a white stretchy top.
Other coffee drinkers now have ample proof that I am a woman. Amanda will be relieved.