3D SexVilla 2


scent, redux

In the most recent issue of Filthy Gorgeous Things, I wrote a piece about scent. My editor in her infinite wisdom changed the original title, which had been something horrible, to a line from the text, "We Are Mammals Under Our Thin Skins." Here's an excerpt:

I wish I had scratch-and-sniff remembrances for all my favorite lovers. I imagine thin cards, slick and white and vaguely clinical. A swift scratch on the rough patch and the sudden call to mind of this one, his roasty rosy odor; or that one, her perfume of strawberry and algae; or that one, [...]

mi dica

If you're the kind of person who enjoys thrilling to my dulcet tones and poorly accented Italian, you can also listen to this here:

Mi dica

“Mi dica,” the woman in the panaficio says to me. She juts her chin for emphasis. “Tell me.”

Mi dica. Tell me. It’s what the salespeople who spend their workaday lives behind counters say here, or what they say to you once they recognize you. When you’re a stranger, they just say hello. 

“Salve,” they say. They say, “Buon giorno”; they say, “Buena sera.” Sometimes they cut it to the quick and say merely, [...]

ovunque, ma qui

The wood is wet. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. The wood is wet despite my purchasing of a large, sturdy and reinforced tarp the exact color of the Green Bay Packers. It’s wet despite my diligent carting of it via wheelbarrow down the steep, stony incline to the villa. It’s wet despite my careful stacking of it in neat piles according to shape and size on the villa’s porch. It’s wet despite my thoughtful piling of it next to—but not too near to—the tiny fireplace that burns said wood, my sole source of heat in this stony Tuscan lonesome. 


in praise of roman men

For those of you who like it aural, I made a voice recording of this post. Forgive the vocal stumbles toward the end; I couldn't bear to read the whole thing again.

4_3_11 9_36 PM

 If walking through Rome doesn’t make you want to divide and conquer, you need to take a look at your testosterone. Those hills undulate around you like a heaving bosom, like parted thighs, like dimpled buttocks. The cypresses stand proud and erect like so many martial pricks. The river runs through it, wet and mossy smelling. I have spent the past two decades in New [...]

stand back. woman with a sword.

Oh, Dr Who. You showed such promise with the creation of Dr River Song. Whatever happened? Whither the love for the single, childless, middle-aged woman?

I realize that I react as a single, childless, middle-aged woman myself, and that my reactions to your most recent episode, “The Girl Who Waited,” speak as much about you as they do about me; my anxieties; my nightmares; my things that, while silent, go bump in the night. And yet, even as I recognize that I view this episode through my own “Rory-cam,” that is to say lenses that show you what you [...]

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