Then, like a tiger ontoits prey, the dress leapt off the floor onto my back and fed itselfforcefully over my arms as I thrashed, stumbling around the room, tryingnot to break my neck in her heels. It pulled its two sides together andthey slowly merged, blurring into one and covering me back up, onceagain entombing me within its slippery, tight little grasp, and I fellto my knees in the middle of my bedroom with my hands tightly graspingat the neckline, breathing heavily and feeling very sick.What the Hell was happening to me? Why was I the one trapped in this?Then my phone rang. It was Chantelle."You likin' my dress?" her cheery, scouse voice didn't help."What the fuck have you done to me, you bitch?" I snarled throughgritted teeth."Careful, babe. You don't wanna get het up in that underwear 'cos it's areal bitch," she laughed. "I should know! I was wearing it yesterday,remember? They've definitely gone from my wash basket!"I shuddered as I was reminded that the clothes I wore now,. Perhaps it grew over time from some chemistry between us; perhaps we had always had it buried within our characters.History suggests something of the kind had always been inside me waiting for an opportunity to come out but I can never be sure. What do know is that I am not a jealous person; something within me knew that if it ever happened and I knew about it everything would be okay.I remember one particular evening when we had been married about three years. We were in bed together reading letters from readers of an English magazine called "Fiesta" as we had often done before. The pictures in the magazine were almost exclusively of naked young women so did little for Kate’s arousal but the letters from both men and women about their particular sexual proclivities were much more effective.I had always doubted whether the letters were true or had been made up by an anxious editor struggling with a deadline but reading the intimate secrets of other peoples’ lives aroused us both.I.
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