The main manikin in question doesn't show off any more skin than those skinny framed models at Victoria's Secret: "One lady she has a problem with the one mannikin that has big breasts. It's not fair."

You get so lonely at times that it just makes sense.  You sneak home in the middle of the night with a female manikin, discarded only hours earlier behind a Macy’s on the Boulevard.  She’s the best one I’ve seen, hard body, perky breasts, even nipples if you can believe it.  I get her home, ducking in under the security light, and as for the jogger, I’m sure he didn’t see anything unusual.  She’s in pieces and I have to make two trips.  She hides her weight too well.  I drop her torso into a chair, put her legs in the bedroom, and pour two glasses of chardonnay.  She’s shy at first but loosens pretty quickly.  We talk about all the clothes and perfume she modeled before she got laid off.  All she had to do was stand there looking dynamite. 
I tell her about my day teaching freshman writing, about a student accusing me of insanity when I introduce to them a homophonic translation.  Then I tell her a joke about a legless woman on a wound swing swirling on a hard lover.  I tell her about how she makes him promise not to leave her there afterward and to help her redress.  “Most men leave me there after they come,” she says.  “They listen to me calling for my father, as their backing out.”