In Praise of Summertime Girls

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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.

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New Voice, New Room

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typebabe.gifI find writing inaugural posts really difficult. It feels kind of like the digital equivalent of being the new kid at school at the first dance of the year. I sit here on the page, awkward and knees agape, and hope I’m wearing the right clothes and not sticking out too badly, or at least if I am sticking out, it’s in a good way. There it is: here I am, presenting myself in all my self-conscious glory for your desired approval.

For the past two years, I’ve been writing a blog named pretty dumb things (prettydumbthings.typepad.com), and I’ve really enjoyed it. But to be completely honest-something to which I strive, however occasionally to my own detriment-sometimes just like you begin to feel a bit confined in your apartment, I’ve begun to feel a bit hemmed in my own pretty dumb prose. I was, therefore, very excited to receive an offer to write here, on Sappho’s Girls, and I jumped at the chance.

Anyone who has read my blog with even a passing level of attention knows that I’m currently monogamously involved with my boyfriend. But that astute reader also knows that I’m a woman of catholic erotic appetites, with a varied and tawdry history, and a polymorphously perverse imagination. I’m looking at my writing here at Sappho’s Girls as a place where I can share naughty little bits that my boyfriend-and the regular readers of my blog-needn’t be privy to. Here, it’s just between you and me and our lovely labia.

In my life I’ve loved women. I’ve had girlcrushes, requited and not. I’ve fucked chicks for fun, or they’ve fucked me, or we fucked each other. There was fucking between women, in short, and I was one of them. The eminent Dr. Kinsey proposed that human sexuality operates on a sliding scale. Mine has always seemed to me more like that horse in the Wizard of Oz that gently blushes lavender, pink, grey, and electric blue. My erotic self does more than slide along a linear scale; it changes colors. I find it interesting to be surprised by its new shade.

I write like a traveler without an itinerary; I write unsure where I’m going to end up. That mysterious journey doesn’t preclude, however, some idea of what I’d like to see along the way. I plan on looking at some fantasies and some dreams-something about this girl I saw perched on a high stool has recently snagged my attention, for example; she had on a very short worn denim skirt and these wicked black lace tights; when she fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing her legs, I could see her little white panties flash-flashing; it’s an image that has glommed onto the walls of my mind-I plan on revisiting some old experiences too, you know, taking a long lingering look at blast-lasses from the past. And I want to stop and rest, too, and practice a little onanism, sing a few paeans to my g-spot, gaze at my navel, and maybe some slightly more austral bits, all juicy and dark.

We’ll see how it goes. I would love some feedback from you, the readers. Comment here or drop me an email at prettydumbthings@gmail.com. I’m all ears, except for those parts that are my eyes, my lips, my fingers, and my so on. Thanks for joining me on this new voyage; let’s find us some saucy fun.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

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