The breathtaking body of a woman was hanging six stories high in Times Square today. Her face was a mystery to me, taller than the highest reach of the sixth story splendor. Still, I could see the tips of gently curled blonde-brown hair, teasing her shoulders. She was wearing only skin. Squared matte nails scratched another skin, the skin of a man. The man represented the brand. Black and white shadows and curves, hers, reached down into his Calvin Klein boxer briefs to find and fondle, to rub and tug with her smooth slender touch.
All I could think about after seeing her was the brand.
My likeness is for men, but her breasts, her butt, her stomach tight around her ribs and back goosed my skin. The shadows of her hid in corners of my mind while I swept around city corners, past storefronts for Guess, Levi and Hanes. His chisels sent tingles to my limbs, like a fingertip brush when I’m lost deep in thought. My mind was in knots about the brand, not the bodies. I felt my underwear rub the denim between my legs, the friction creating warmth, the warmth drawing pictures of the billboard pair; I’ll only ever buy Calvin Klein.
The shadows falling into fissures of muscle, the brand. The heat from friction, skin to skin around corners, the fold of her into him, not bodies, just underwear. I’m a Klein customer, drawn in by this massive billboard. Thinking only about the brand, not the beads of sweat our bodies together will create. I’m staring at the underwear, the perfect stitch, that color gray, her nipple barely shaded away.
A fictitious note from Calvin Klein:
Dear Consumer, Just buy the underwear, that’s all we’re trying to say.