July 10, 2007
In Praise of Summertime Girls


mar-5172th.jpgThe really fantastic thing about summer, and it nearly goes without saying, is the marvelous paucity of clothing. The sheerness of the fabrics, the slenderness of the straps, the floatiness of the skirts, the way that the summer air itself becomes more of a garment than what we put on in the morning.

Women walking around in deep v-cut t-shirts, their breasts puddling like liquid mangoes all ripe and juicy. Blackberry nipples. Apricot aureoles. The sweet peachy down of the cleft of an ass. The succulent slipperiness of persimmon labia (though now I’ve undressed the ubiquitous woman in question, without her permission, and slipped her metonymically into autumn fruit. That is so unfair). The long downward-sloping plane of the abdomen, rounded gently as the bottom of a watermelon.

Summer is the time of edible women. Girls tall and cool, dripping sweet like popsicles. And girls short and plump as dusky plums, with mysterious and sheeny-slick skins. Tasty chicks you want to lick from instep to eyeball, just because they look so good standing there in the summer sun, backlit maybe, their gauze skirts flirting with translucency. Only their eyes behind their sunglasses are shuttered tight as windows in Guadalajara at noontime; only their eyes are icy and off-putting.

The other day, a Sunday, I saw a girl struggling with both her many-sectioned paper and a broken strap on her sandal. She was across the street from me, sitting on the curb, paper under one arm, bent over and attentive to her recalcitrant footwear. She was wearing a white shirt and a red skirt, a flippy red skirt whose hem had a mind of its own, or perhaps it had a mind of my own.

As she sat on the curb, her legs splayed as a greyhound puppy’s, her attention diverted by paper and sandal and maybe a cup of coffee too, juggled there in the balance, her skirt did its own interpretive dance in the wind. It blew up, it fluttered down, it played flashy-flash with the girl’s white panties. All of 9th Avenue could see it; the long bumble-bee line of taxis, the guy sweeping in front of his meat store, the couples holding hands, and me, walking my dog slowly on the other side of the street.

She was completely oblivious, this girl. Her skirt-dance, her panty-flash was no posing starlet’s trick. No cameras went pop! to capture her upskirt beauty. She was just fixing her sandal there on the curb, the wind having its wanton way with her tomato red skirt, and her too distracted to be bothered with fighting it.

When she fixed her sandal, when she stood, I felt a momentary sense of loss. This happy sight, serendipitous as it was, had come to its close. She was now earthbound and single-purposed, bringing her paper and her coffee home, maybe, or bringing it to someone else. Perhaps she had left someone in bed. Perhaps she was returning to him or her or them. Perhaps the skirt would soon find itself unwound and abandoned as the string of a child’s yo-yo as she and her fine body found themselves immersed in some other play. When she stood, it was sad.

But then, huzzah! She dropped something, something small, something white, something fluttered in lazy geometric arcs to the ground, and she paused and bent over to pick it up. As she did, another playful gust of wind blew up the back of her skirt, exposing her fine, fine white pantied ass to the street, to the taxis, to the guy sweeping the street, to the couples holding hands, and to me, walking my dog. Happiness once more.

Guileless, unmindfully, the girl stood and went on about her day, and I too went about mine, warmed once more to the possibility, the pleasure, the cherry tomato charms that are girls in summer.
 


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