And that is why I am so de-lighted with my new pinkish
moulin rouge-esque boy-shorts! ALL HAIL THE BOY SHORT!!!!!!
For whom does the bell toll? Let it be for the thong-thong-thong!!!!
There are those who would bow down to Spanx...and I can
understand why...but I just cannot get with paying 30 bucks
for a pair'o'panties.
The boy short, while certainly not cinching and packing
your feminine extras, does away with the dastardly pantie
line and presents one in an "I can escape you if I need to"
kind of light. And that, combined with their "old timie" feeling,
launches me straight into a world of fantasy that the modern
world just cannot bountifully enable with its flash and vigor,
its already stretched sexual limits, its sex-ting
and "as much as you can eat" porn.
Speaking of porn, I dreampt that The Neighbor Man
invited The Man and me over and porn magazines
were strewn around his toilet.
A note about where we live: I moved to this tiny beautiful
French village (900 people) to get relief from my broken
marriage, and, within 1/2 a year, I fell for, and moved in with,
The Man who has lived here for many years. The village is well
traveled, being on the Chemin de Compostello, and it has all
the modern thingie bobs, but it is definitely lacking in height
(everyone is pretty short) and a certain cultural curiosity.
I speak in huge generalities, to be sure, but it is a cause for
celebration when I come across a local house that has actual
"art" on the walls. Mostly you find posters or paintings of
seascapes, countryside...and family photographs.
So, to have the friggin' amazing luck to fall upon The Neighbor Man
is beyond, dahlingk! He is of the same make as the people with
whom I lived for years in a Chicago where house. Scruffy, Stinky,
Guitar-Playing, Dumpster Diving, Art Making, Fun Having,
Roll-Up Cigarette Smoking, Light Drug Using.
And Ladies, like many of these types, he is hot, too.
We became fast friends, he and I, when my heart was
a frog frying on a river rock. I spoke hardly any French
but I would sit by his fire while he and his posse played
and sang Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel and smoked
out the dog and the neighboring chickens. He was part of
my life being saved. I love him.
Since that time his beloved has left him cold.
But that is a another story for another time.
He, I am sure, would appreciate the panties.
As does The Man.
The sexual world of whom I plan on rocking tonight.
Now I shall take a walk in the snowy paths of France
(ha! Vancouver----crazy ass sh*t!)
And I leave you with a little beauty:
PS: class issues regarding art and culture
to be addressed in later posts.
Worry. Not. Y'all.
The captain will land the plane.