In the merry tradition of GOD DAMN IT I’MMA WRITE EVERY DAY, Intern IMed me this afternoon in that wonderfully persistent way he has of “gently” reminding me I have shit to do.
I hate it when he does that.
Conversely, it’s also wonderful, perfect and the reason I ship cookies to Toronto.
He asked me, conscientiously, about my brief love affair with Smirnoff Ice this afternoon (we never need mention it again) and somehow I answered some question of his to the tune of “I miss feeling sexy.”
Yeah, I don’t know how it got there either.
(I’ll have you know I have a disgusting urge to start this next sentence with “irregardless,” but because I am not the scourge of the Earth, I will spare you. I think we can blame the Ice.)
No matter the method, we began to talk about the concept of sexy.
I don’t know if you regularly have conversations about “sexy” with hot-blooded 16-year-old menfolk, but I do, and, arguably, I’m pretty good at it. Insofar as I haven’t yet done anything illegal, scared him off or even talked dirty.
God, I’m good.
Perversely, the whole conversation became a thought exercise that’s entirely too difficult for my personal expectations as to how I spend my time.
Complex thought exercises that require patience, focus and reliance on my internal thesaurus? Not what I signed up for.
Nevertheless, Intern is incredibly good at his job and I decided to play along while watching Annette Benning’s eyebrows dance through “The American President.”
(Right, football, sure, uh huh.)
I’ve talked about being alone before — and about how it’s the right choice for me now. That was months ago and, no real surprise, it hasn’t changed. But “alone” doesn’t necessarily have all that much to do with “sexy.”
I feel sexy when I towel off after a hot shower, warm and plumped up from the water and heat.
I feel sexy in those moments between wakefulness and sleep at night when I go to bed.
I feel sexy after two poor man’s black velvets at my local dive bar, or a few glasses of champagne outside on the deck.
I feel sexy when I awaken after an unexpected nap or on a morning I’ve turned the alarm off.
I feel sexy when I hug the cool pillowcase on my squishy pillow to my belly.
And I feel all of that on my own, with no input from anyone else.
But we all know there’s a very different sensation involved when your “sexy” stems from someone else.
Not that it doesn’t exist in a vacuum — but you’d be hard-pressed to feel sexy at someone else’s touch without that someone else.
I feel sexy when my lover washes, brushes or plays with my hair.
After all, it’s my hair we’re talking about here.
I feel sexy when holding a conversation with my lover using only my eyes across a room.
I feel sexy when my partner has done or said something right, righteous and good — that pride fills me with a warmth I couldn’t call chaste.
I drank today more than I have generally in the last few months. (Shut up, I’ll pay for it tomorrow.) And I felt sexy for it, if stupid in beverage choice.
And I missed it. That social sexy. Actively, consciously, physically.
I’m still not sure if I’m ready to unleash the whole Mer-lada on any one man any time soon — I mean, really, that takes some planning, logistics, supply chain — but I do know:
I’m bringing sexy back.