"I love the smell of leather in the morning", she said to her old flame as he sat down on the scuffed cherry vinyl seats. It was 7 in the morning on a Saturday, he told her he wanted to take her out for strawberry pancakes. He was a motorcyclist, very dapper, incredibly charming...always had perfectly coiffed hair, was the perfect gentleman, yet had a dark, almost sinister streak. He was the type that would open the door for you, take off your blonde mink coat, and fuck you hard on the cold kitchen floor...smeared blood red lipstick and all.
I take my glamour every day with a dose of vulgarity - whether it is a 6-inch black snakeskin stiletto, black lace (or latex!) undergarments, or just a wicked sense of humor - an unexpected vulgar streak is infinitely more seductive than plain as day, in your face whore-ishness ;) Not that I have a problem with that...its just so obvious and painfully unimaginative. I have a problem with anything generic.
More on that later...let's stick to fashion ;)
|1950's college girls - that hair! Those dresses! The hats!|