On 10" x 12" of Jade in Newsprint

I adore the marketing & advertising folks at American Apparel. We have the same taste in women. I can be found, mouth agape, ogling their print ads on a regular basis. Today, however, they’ve outdone themselves. On the back page of today’s free “Metro” newspaper is Jade, the summit of hotness. She’s easily the hottest model I’ve seen in 6 months. (In New York, that’s kind of a long time because everyone’s gorgeous, so one is never deprived of eye candy for long.) She personifies every fantasy I’ve ever had. She’s what is typically referred to as a natural beauty, one who needs no make-up, no elaborate hairstyle, no lighting concept, nothing added. Natural beauties are sold “as is.” They’re often considered equally at home on a beach or at a cocktail party, and there’s little pretension to their persona. They glimmer and shine gently, from the inside out. I am defenseless in their presence.
In the ad itself, Jade is clad in a yellow mesh tank top, and the fabric looks a lot like boys basketball shorts. As a typical lez-thlete, that works for me big time. Should she know how to correctly use terms like, “in the paint,” “moving screen” and “soft hands,” I will propose marriage. Her arms aren’t overly toned and I love that. Women have naturally sexy, soft flesh, yet somehow the toothpick look is always in. Who’d rather lie in bed all day with a splintery popsicle stick than a warm, padded pillow? Sadly, Jade’s yellow mesh tank is not see-through. (Double-layered? Shelf bra?) However, upon careful inspection, I can proudly report that Jade’s nipples appear to be a significantly darker shade than her lips. Quelle surprise! I am titillated. During my long, arduous boob gawking career, this has occurred but once or twice. It’s a profound rarity, perhaps a phenomenon. Evidence is piling up. Jade is a real live angel. One with a fierce tattoo on her left arm, too. Grrr. Even if it’s a temp or fake, Jade, I think you’re just the right kind of edgy. I may be a bed-wetting liberal, but I like my edgy moderate. After all, I’m 30. What was cute and daring at 23 is now borderline pathetic, or maybe I’m the only one my age who feels like that when trolling the aisles of Urban Outfitters for whatever says, “This age-appropriate, slightly bohemian style comes naturally to me. Notice I wear it like my own skin.” Ugh. It's a curse. New clothes, priced like couture, that scream ‘chic, worn before I was born’ look like ‘I’m an internment camp refugee. May I eat the lint in your pockets?’ on me. While everyone else looks trendy, relaxed, hip and cool, I have to hide in the corner because I'm attired in the same fashion as a homeless leukemia patient.
But I digress. Back to Jade. Let us travel south of her equator to what she’s sportin’ on her bottom half: a tiny pair of black, terry briefs. They appear to be the smallest shorts known to man. And they are a solid 4 – 5” below her navel. Her skin is perfect, nary a blemish, scar or blotch. It’s probably the kind of skin that acquires tan effortlessly, and she probably oozes sexy when she sweats. She’s got some Latin in her somewhere. In contrast, when I sweat, which is constantly, my milky complexion turns sour. Like a junkie, my face puffs up, and my cheeks look like a 2-year old’s first experiment in red water color. To the untrained eye, the subject appears incredibly nervous or very ill. That’s so not hot. Not to mention that I’ve got a scar for every step I’ve taken, forward or back. But Jade and I do share one thing in common. We both have beauty marks. She’s got a great one off-center on her chin and another on the inside of her left arm, barely above the moderate tattoo. Under the tank and undies, could there me more? Is God so generous? I’d be honored to do research, you know, for the progress of science. Jade would be mapped to within an inch of her life. My beauty marks, however, aren’t placed so well. I’ve got one on the top of my right foot. What good is it there? There’s a good one way up my left thigh. I like that one. I’ve got a bunch of them on my stark white belly. (In sunlight, I actually glow like one of the aliens from the pods in “Cocoon.”) My face is a disaster zone. Freckles, a scar or 4, beauty marks, blemishes galore, sun spots, cream cheese…Save me, Dr. Z! I’ll never forget that the ones on the inside of my arms once caused a friend’s Mom to exclaim, “My God, what are those things?” Again, so not hot. I used to fear short sleeves the way regular kids feared getting abducted by whoever took Adam. Or worse, getting molested by the guy in the ice cream truck.
I’d like to thank the following for giving me Jade today: Bless American Apparel. Bless the ad sales department at ‘Metro.’ Bless Jade’s parents for procreating. Bless the jerk who said to Jade, “You know, you could be a model.” Bless the stylist for this photo shoot. Bless the 8-fingered woman in Mongolia who made Jade’s outfit and bazllions more exactly like it for $.37/hour. Bless whoever designed camera lenses. Bless Jade’s agent for letting her keep her brows nice and thick. Bless you, Jade. Please don’t spend your entire career doing blow, smoking too many cigarettes, eating only spouts & catsup if the moon is half full. Be nice. Everyone hates bitches, but when the bitch in question is tall and perfect and gorgeous and her shoes cost more than a year at Cornell, she could get shot in the face. And don’t go giving that shit away either, baby. Adopt strict admissions standards, so your reputation is known around town: "It's almost impossible to get into Jade." I regard your body as the picture of perfection, and I’d treat it as I would an irreplaceable gift. You should, too.
Hey, if you ever want to picnic in Central Park or go to the batting cages at Chelsea Piers, give me a holler. We could talk or not talk.