The Bodysuit Returns

I thought we’d buried bodysuits,

deep in the drawer of shame,

beside the belts that pinched your ribs

and chokers with no name.

Back they come, all sleek again,

on hangers looking smug,

promising a smoother shape

then giving you a tug.

At first, of course, you felt divine,

pressed neat from bust to hip,

until two drinks, a toilet queue,

and denim lost its grip.

Inside the cubicle began

the old familiar war,

one knee against the sanitary bin,

one shoulder on the door.

Somewhere beneath your waistband

lurked the little metal trap,

three poppers full of confidence

and not a decent map.

Fingers searched in darkness,

temper frayed and knickers twisted,

while outside, girls reapplied their gloss

and shouted what you’d missed.

Many a woman gave up there,

with dignity half gone,

tucked the treacherous flap away

and simply carried on.

Swimming, that’s the feeling,

not glamorous or rare,

just permanently poolside

in inappropriate underwear.

Now the fabric’s softer, yes,

more breathable, more kind,

less like municipal leisurewear

with vengeance on its mind.

Still, structure tells the truth of it,

whatever brands may claim:

a crotch with tiny fasteners

is nonsense by another name.

So welcome back, old bodysuit,

with glossy modern pride.

I’ve lived through you already.

This time, nothing gets to hide.