He had one tattoo of a lobster that was semi-kitschy, but beautifully inked. (Even as I also realized that being a skinny — if smelly — white girl offered me a societal baseline of self-love security.)And in addition to him loving sex like a doberman loves steak, he also proved to be the least hung-up human on bodies that I’ve ever met. But amid delectable foreplay vagaries that were jarringly intimate — namely armpit and rump nuzzling (how wonderful to have someone kiss all your shadowy bits) — I was still brushing up against a hang-up that in truth, I didn’t even know I was harboring. Or really, just my period.“And if a man shall lie with a woman having her sickness, and shall uncover her nakedness; he hath discovered her fountain, and she hath uncovered the fountain of her blood: and both of them shall be cut off from among their people.” — “They question thee (O Muhammad) concerning menstruation.
(You could see the minuscule hairs on its tail.) He was friendly and outgoing — if neurotic and selfish — and his big laugh barking out between big white teeth was something to behold. I liked chipped, crooked teeth and dirty calloused feet. Say: It is an illness, so let women alone at such times and go not in unto them till they are cleansed.
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When my sister, searching for images of her favorite British pop stars, accidentally typed “Spicy Girls” into Yahoo, the search results made her run, shrieking, from the family computer. “It is probably no coincidence that this sea change comes on us at a time when AIDS lurks in the alleyways of our lives,” a writer for The Nation mused in 1993.