I got this fancy new job in restaurant land. The dreamy
owner poached me from the Magic and before I knew
it I'd traded in my seven-inch stilettos for stylish
flats. Now I'm hobnobbing with smartass service industry
types and mixing with lots of bourgeois designer purse
carriers. It's fun and the drinks are much stronger.
It's called clarklewis. It's on Water Avenue
by OMSI. The chef, Morgan, makes the best food I've
ever put in mouth. His gnocchi is the sexiest experience
I've had this year. And the tomatoes--finally in season--swamped
in the most orgasmic olive oil and paired with little
anchovies cooked in vinegar... Oh my God they should
make a soundtrack of people tasting clarklewis' food
and sell it to girls who do phone sex: "Ohhhh. Mmmmm...
Ohhh my Gawwwd..."
But this column ain't about clarklewis, it's about
cleavage. Ass cleavage.
Panties are for pussies, folks. I'm swimming with
the swans now--the long lithe women who are 6' tall
in their socks, who have flat-ironed beach blond hair
and wear little kitten heels. And superduper low jeans.
I took a poll at my new digs. Which would you rather
see: somebody's neon green or ratty mauve g-string
underwear lurching out of assland or a nice bit of
crack snuggled between two soft hills of flesh? Well,
the swans are showing the crack, and it is my job
now to make sure people in-the-know know it.
I suppose I should qualify this: it is never sexy
to see crack on a dude or a fat chick. However, it
is always worse to see a g-string (especially on a
dude). The g-string implies that the pussy is tightly
wrapped, the anus unnecessarily abraded, the hipbones
hemmed in by elastic.... Ew! A g-string hanging out
is so tacky, so plebeian, so gross. It makes me wanna
grab my little knife Guinea Pig bought me (in Sicily
that means you're engaged) and cut the strings and
rip it out. Crack, on the other hand, denotes a freewheelin'
hedonist, a devil-may-care babe who takes boat trips
on the Nile with Christian Louboutin and eats and
drinks nothing but oysters and vodka for days at a
stretch. Raw pussy next to denim is as sexy as Morgan
Brownlow's gnocchi. Which brings me to cameltoe.
I love cameltoe. Again, I'll qualify this: it's gotta
be on the right girl--gotta be a sorta seventies swan
in tight cotton jeans or slacks that fit just-so in
the ass... Would that Michelangelo lived in these
times (and wasn't queer) to paint it! Give me a little
blond babe, swaddled in snug turquoise cotton capris...
Cameltoe RULES. It's like that barely discernible
bulge in a guy's Levi's. Like the ice cream man tootin'
his horn, promising sweet refreshment. Yum.
However! If there is a g-string sneaking out or even
a hint of pantyline, I'm outta there. Panties are
for pussies. This August, don't forget it. And come
try the gnocchi at clarklewis. Word to the wise: the
"Peach" is the best chick drink in town.
a good time call: ratemycameltoe.com