I've a new piece on Filthy Gorgeous Things, and in it I undress men with my eyes. And then I dress them with my words. And then I undress them just because I can. And then I hold outfits up and go, "hm," thoughtfully. And let them stand around naked, fidgeting.
It's a piece on male dressing for FGT's ornament issue and it begins thusly:
I once fucked a man solely because I saw him changing from his civvies into his bartending clothes and caught a quick and dashing sight of him in his purple low-rise bikini underwear. It was 1984, and at 21, I had never seen a man in anything but either my previous boyfriends’ white Jockeys or my dad’s frighteningly ugly flappy boxers. That bartender’s provocative grape bikini undies got him laid, if only that once.
And yet even as these grape bikini manties held a magical power over my jejune erotic imagination, they also neatly represent a paradox, and that is this: It’s simply easier to be half-naked and hot as a woman than it is to be half-naked and hot as a man.
If you want to read the rest--and I strongly suggest that you do--go here and continue. Then come back here and leave a comment because I care what you think. I also like it when you follow me on Twitter because sometimes all that stands between me and total meltdown is how many followers I have.
(Photo is of Milan designer Isabel Mastache's now infamous penis pants. I found the photo here, but it's all over the Web.)