Posts

Showing posts from September, 2012

Supermodel Summer Has Ended and so now I MUST BLOG!

Because everything starts with food and I want pizza.  The other day I had melted ice cream and salt and vinegar potato chips for dinner.  Do you think I’m lying?
I have subscribed to a tumblr called “Hot Black Girls.”  There are a lot of hot black girls. Mostly they are naked and “spreading.”  I’m not a big fan of the spread.  Vaginas look like aliens to me.  (self-hate?) I am fine with all the boobs though.

Naked black girls.  Lots of different tones.  Gradient rainbows.  I am liking black women more and more in my life.  By “liking” I think I mean “attracted to/admiring.”  I don’t know why I am telling you this.  I am figuring life out one black naked lady at a time.

Stepping stones.

Lots of discussion about “alt lit.” I sit by the river on a rock and I stare at the river and watch everything floating by.  I only take breaks to swat flies away or to study the ground for good skipping rocks.  Otherwise I sit, and I watch and I listen.  I am also on the river. I am also floating by.…

SUPERMODEL SUMMER!!!

FOUR SUPERMODEL STORIES by Dewitt Brinson



Supermodel: A Fairytale

A fan once mailed me their pinky finger.
I stay in a lot of hotels, but I never book the rooms. Someone else books the rooms (my agent, maybe?) and always under an alias. I was Mrs. Winters in Spain a month ago and Miss Tapitan in New York last summer.
Miss Tapitan wore a lot of furs. She had almost no suitors come up to her room. She rarely went out. Of course, that’s New York. Room service. Room service. Room service.
Service. Serve us. Sir Vice.
I went to Serbia for a shoot once. I met a man. God, he was unbearable. Always talking. Always unaware of the news. A man who doesn’t know what’s going on the world today is a boy. But I liked that he was not pretty, yet still asked me out.
Most of the time the only ugly dudes who try to get anywhere with me are photographers. Everyone else is beautiful. Sometimes I forget that people can look any other way. Sometimes I forget I’m hired because I’m pretty.
Actually, I forget…

SUPERMODEL SUMMER!!!

Image
You’re Ugly When You Come                                                          By Alana Noël Voth
A famous rock star saw my picture in Playboy and called. He said he couldn’t wait to meet the sexiest looking girl on Earth. I said I’d have a drink with him. Four days later, we eloped.
From “Hot Girl” by Jet Calloway (number one song in nine countries) Hot girl, teen dream, beauty queen I want you. Sweet tease, wet dream. I want you. Hot thing, sex machine, main squeeze. I got you.
When I was twelve, my dad left. I didn’t take it so well. I was depressed. But I was also sorry I scared Mom like that and promised I wouldn’t hurt myself again. In school, I wanted my male teachers to love me. I paid attention to what they said, smiled, raised my hand. I got good grades. When I was fourteen, I discovered a supermodel, Kate Moss, and wrote a poem about her, “Waif,” and submitted it to a contest and won third place. I was devastated I hadn’t won first. My composition teacher, Mr. Macky, hugge…

SUPERMODEL SUMMER!!!

The Water Runs Rose sga
Perfect skin, a harsh white light illuminates no discrepancies. Rich wondrous eyes scan the shelves. Various vegetables are enlightened.
Television shits sound from the other side of the large open room. Voices significantly too excited shout the praises of multiple strips of pork affixed atop a hamburger. Hot liquid cheese product holds everything in place.
Soft, delicate ears prick up, caught by claims, intrigued by lust. ¨ Desire flows through elegant arms. Slight fingers tap at the steering wheel and high priced boots tap the floor. An electronic vocalization makes confirmation.
Bright white teeth sink through bun, bacon, cheese and beef. Animal grease adds to the congenital glisten of full fleshy lips. A waifish body tingles as sugars and proteins begin to metabolize.
Drivers seat all the way back, long limbs outstretched, the toes past the pedals and fingers reaching just short of the back window. One hundred seventeen pounds begin to feel like another ni…