What can I possibly say to excuse this?

She looked at him and shivered. She was no simpering, modest miss, but the sight of him could cause a hardened harlot to swoon. He was perfection. A good twelve inches of hard, cold aluminium, at least a size 15. He was a deep midnight blue, and his surface, burnished by years of yarn sliding sensously over it, glowed in the dim lamplight. She looked down at her own frumpy plastic body, a pale, unattractive shade of light purple made more hideous by its obvious seams and sickly translucency. And she was a P, for goodness sake! A man of his caliber should have a svelte 00 steel by his side. What could he possibly see in her? She pushed that thought aside as he gently slid his tip into her hook...

...yeah, that's all I have. I think it's probably bad enough, don't you?