It’s spring again and you’re feeling it, aren’t you? The return of the sexy. Just this morning you caught the Sun staring unabashedly at those long, lean recently loofahed legs and, although you may not want to admit it, you know he expects something in return. Go ahead and drop that strap.
A little lower.
That’s right, sexy came early this year and you feel it. Your skin is softening, your muscles are tenderizing and your fingers have made no less than five attempts this week to hijack your insightful political essay for HuffPo into a filthy, bodice-ripping anime for YouTube. Come back to the light, serious writer. Neither Gingrich nor Romney is among the sexy.
Unless one of them is wearing chaps and an Arnold mask. Oh, yeah.
This is my third year for sexy on TNB. Year Trois. “Trois” is French for three and everyone knows that the French are sexy. They wear haute couture and kiss in multiples and keep secrets mystérieux. They have special booths on the street corners, next to the mimes and the crepes. These booths collect orgasmic light and recycle it back into the power grid to illuminate things like bare, naked bulbs and chocolate shops. Paris is fueled up to 69% by le sexy. It’s a fact. Look it up.
Caution: the sexy hits without warning. In the park, in your car, in the produce section of Safeway standing before the mangoes. That’s right. Pick one up. Slit it open with your thumbnail and slip that peel down. Say it out loud: mango. Lick long at the luscious, saturated flesh and pull back with your teeth. Pay no attention to the old lady watching you from the cauliflower. She feels it, too – the return of the sexy. She has her own history with lust and with vegetables. Sink your teeth in and smash it down with your tongue. Make them ask you to leave.
All over the northern hemisphere people are gearing up for sexy. Oklahoma girl is getting a French manicure, Copenhagen girl is getting a Brazilian, and Hong Kong girl is buying a new see-through Hello Kitty backpack.
Over in Iran the mullahs are stealing glances at the shariff’s daughters. Be careful, bearded one—you could lose an eye for that. Losing an eye is not so sexy.
Unless you have an eye patch. Oh, yeah.
The sexy is all around us. Just last week, I saw a man driving down the street in a pickup truck. He was wearing a bicycle helmet while driving because he knows that protection is sexy.
As writers, we rely on the sexy. We bask in it. Let it wash over us. Sometimes the sexy inspires us to do crazy things, like this video I made about the photo shoot for the cover of my upcoming book, Devangelical. TNB Arts & Culture editor Megan DiLullo even dressed up like an Elvis fairy at one point during the photo shoot while Anthony Camera worked his magic behind the lens. Sadly, when we checked the footage later (taken by the amazing Bridget Johnson), Fairy Elvis was not there. Illusiveness is sexy, too.
Our leader, Brad Listi, knows how to be sexy. If you haven’t checked out Other People yet, you’re missing out. His interviews of other authors are both deep and inappropriate. Plus, he’s wearing a gas mask in the graphic. Rrrrrrowr.
No fair. You already knew the answer. It’s you, sexy.
A month ago I went to Denver with sexy Nigerian-American poet Uche Ogbuji to see Jonathan Evison read from his NY Times bestseller, West of Here, at Tattered Cover. Johnny wore a fedora and drank beer from a bottle on stage while he read because he is a genuine kind of guy both on a stage and off. Afterwards, he went out and had a drink with several of us at a pizza place that smelled like wet paint. We didn’t think that odor combo was particularly sexy, but Jonathan did. Just goes to show, there’s no accounting for when the sexy will hit and, sometimes, a slice of latex laced pizza just does it for a man.
And just look at all you sexy TNB readers and writers out there. Bringing whole worlds to life with a mutually beneficial relationship between your minds and the tips of your fingers. Pull back those curtains and let the Sun illuminate your face as you toy with that glowing rectangle in front of you. Make that Sun jealous. He knows he can’t compete.
So, go on. Twinkle, twinkle little star, there’s no question what you are. Because damn, what you are…is sexy.