Naked San Franciscans

Today’s heat has the ordinarily black-clad denizens of San Francisco’s financial district stripping off their customary garb of woe and reaching pale-limbed for that colorful whatever they’ve been saving. For once we’re a motley crew of riotous colors pouring out of the Muni tunnels and across the sidewalks, sandals crowning glaring legs that haven’t seen sun in years. I am no exception of course, but I have enough freckles that occasionally I pass for having been exposed to the sun in the last decade. My legs, while blinding, are conservatively covered to the knee. I’m a tall girl, and frankly, if I wear a truly short skirt, I look like a felony. I haven’t done it since I was 19 and had the excuse of idiocy. On my walk to work I saw more cleavage and bare leg than I've seen since the last time I went to the Hustler Club. Seriously. It was intense. A lot of it was bad. Then there’s the issue of the sun dresses. Some feral prankster invented the folded-under skirt and set it loose on the general public. Some foolish fashion-forward women then donned this singularly unflattering garb and hit the streets, having the dubious distinction of doubling their size instantly! Oh, and there was a girl on the train in a sun dress that literally was pleated under the breasts like a baby doll and then sewn around the bottom with a three inch band of fabric that was – tight to her legs. So, that means she was wearing a pear. I could tell she was skinny, but she looked like she had the worst pregnancy belly/unfettered pear-ass I’d ever seen. I felt for her. Tonight I get to go get session number four on my back! Huzzah! I think there is very little that I prefer to the prick of the needle. That sounds bad, and I mean it the way it sounds. Take that, PTSD gods! I heart Paco, and I heart my tattoo. It’s really coming along. I love when I put on a dress and see the canopy of flowers sketched on my shoulders. I can’t wait to see the finished piece, but at the same time, I am enjoying the process. This kind of severe body modification (and that is precisely what it is, it turns out) takes time to get done, and frankly, time to get used to. I smile in the mirror and sneak peeks of myself and prance around nude in the mirror whenever possible. It’s refreshing. Now, if I could just stop grinding my teeth off in the night….