The first time I saw Marilyn Monroe she was in her iconic air-vent pose, but balanced on a surfboard. The sea-breeze billowing through her skirts, there was salt on her smile. She was tattooed onto the broad and freckled back of Dawn, a 50 year old who worked backstage at the cheap pantos I was in as a child. That was how I learnt the freeing might of female sexuality; she made the sweat that rolled down her back waves for Marilyn Monroe to surf over.


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