"I cannot hold it."

"I cannot control it."

This evening, a young woman -- slightly round with a curvy belly and a very full chest -- emerged from a boutique's dressing room wearing a charcoal-coloured knit tank top. The sweater was a soft cashmere; it was cute and fit her well. It was the first in a range of fashion pieces she'd modelled that wasn't greeted with head shaking from her boyfriend.

The young man was short, with a tired face and a tracksuit jacket. He smiled.

"Now imagine if," he began, but instead of finishing the sentence, he used his hands -- fingers extending straight up, palms facing each other -- to trace a much narrower silhouette in front of her body.

"Imagine that," he proposed, "with those?" He pointed to her breasts, then gathered the tips of his fingers on his puckered lips. He made a kissing noise as he flicked the fingertips toward her.

Her face turned to stone, then crumpled slightly. In a small voice, she said: "That wasn't nice."

He said: "No, I didn't mean it like that, you know." He reached out for her, and she said, again, "That wasn't nice."

He hugged her. "You know I didn't mean it like that. You have some great parts." He said, "I think I just need something to eat. Let's get something to eat." So she crumbled a little more, and he kissed her lips instead of his own this time.


TRACK LISTING: Britney Spears, "I'm a Slave 4 U"