The bra strap

My bra strap is carefully placed across my shoulder blades – for there must not be any upturned parts. Be careful with the hooks, the motherfuckers never get themselves right when they are really supposed to. Be careful, I repeat, set them nicely and don’t let them come off at satanic timings. They have a habit of doing that. My bra strap – dangling below my shoulder joints like a necklace adorning my arms. Thank god for my full sleeved sweater that I don’t really have to put them back on place and be embarrassed by the slutty displacement of these unintentional tools of she-wants-it-so-badly. My bra strap – the simplest tool of seduction; its visibility through my translucent shirt either makes me desperate or someone with a smart sense of clothing. Pair its exposure with the hair on my arms and I will be both sexy and disgusting at the same time. I, being a mammal, hair is of course not acceptable. My bra strap -a fascinating object for you to ogle and a catalyst for your luscious comments, is also a welcoming source of hush-hush conversations between my acquaintances. Take me to a corner and let’s play some dumb charades about how my modesty is lying vulnerable with a thin strap of clothing. My bra strap; Funny fellow I tell ya! It simultaneously oscillates between being an object to be hurriedly hidden away and something whose total absence is a huge controversy. My bra strap – the mother of the red marks on my shoulder, the reason behind my suffocating breasts, my constant battle against the cruelties of gravity and the disfigurement of my chest. What would I do without it? What would I do with it? My bra strap – a carefully blurred image in a Bollywood movie – either an overestimation of its capabilities or an underestimation of Indian crowd. My bra strap – an unabashedly circled part in a fashion magazine deeming my underclothing as a wardrobe malfunction.  My bra strap – a perfect right swipe for a low neck shirt or my low waist jeans.  Accessorize it with my stained pants or sanitary napkins; the outcome is an explosive publicity. Speaking of menstruation, how dare you talk about it loudly in front of your male colleague, huh? How dare you carry those pads without covering it seven layers of opaque wrappings? My bra strap – don’t limit it with physical entities; it goes well with the question of how I lost/did not lose my virginity or how does a woman touches herself or how she likes watching porn or how she can smoke and swear with an extraordinarily shameless vocabulary or can wear jeans despite being middle-aged and not having a flat belly. My bra strap – exists like those boys dressed in pink or the ones who are five feet two inches tall or the ones who like other boys or the ones who wear sleeveless T-shirts or the ones who have waxed legs or those un-chivalrous feminist ones who believe in splitting the bill on dates and not sending the first text always.

My bra strap, the blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, is just a bra strap. Mind if we devalue it a little?


Author’s little note: This article has been written as a prequel to another article named The Bloodstain as a part of The Bullshit trilogy.



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