I imagine that every grown woman, who regularly wears a bra, has an itchy spot, right in the middle of her back. Or a scar. Or both. Maybe not. But lots.
I have never seen the scar on my own back but right under the bra closures I have grown a pimple more than once and, unseeing, scratched it open because it was bugging me.
A western woman's repeated scarification. The mark of the Brassiere. A mark she cannot see, only feel. Her lovers can see it. Her lovers can help her scratch it.
But we are a visual species and unless we go to considerable trouble to see a reversed image of this tiny scar on our backs, it is as unreal to us as the back of the moon.
Imagine. Our own personal scratch crater.