Be it Dreamhost or the Dream Weaver song, I had both in mind when my Macworld almost crashed on me because my girlfriend sent me over 30 raw photos fresh from her camera, as attachments. I usually zip them. "Alan November," she kept saying for some reason. I went out to the Twelve Palms Mall and decided to also get string bikinis for myself and our intimate weekend that is coming up."Laure Manaudou, Ron Paul, Mark Driscoll," kept popping up on my mobile's RSS reader. The last thing Janet wants me to be is Britney Spears, so I opted out of Victoria's Secret and headed to get my favorite, Escada. My Facebook account is dormant, so is MySpace. I feel luxuriantly more mature and lipstick-lesbian than their populations.
I have not finished musing over the allure of the fishnet hosiery. I think it is the minimalistic nature of the fishnet that is confining, defining, and directing the lusting' observer's eyes into predefined openings. A sort of forced voyeurism. I am Janet's Sapphic Humbert Humbert.
Escada will look great on me, accentuating my hourglass, gym-conditioned Rubensian voluptuousness - no excess fat spoiling the calf lines, no cottage-cheese-looking cellulite upsetting girlfriends' expectation of my hips, when all of the above are intertwined in Kadie Lang-made-shameless wrestling match, when all of the above is embracing a slightly anorexic siren who dazzles heterosexuals with her flouncy Fifth Avenue skirts. I understand the fapping loners staying up late night watching blue video snippets, wherein the camera captures, from a longitudinal point of view, a siren like me, wrapping her legs around an impatient lover, the legs bent at the ankle, resulting in accentuating the calf look, the hips' feminine indescribable softness, the unearthly lines of the pelvis-to-the-bosom line. That is me in everyone's clip. I love it.