The Women...
I’ll be real fucking honest. I have yet to travel throughout the world and assess this statement to the fullest, but I’ve been to enough places in the States to give it a bit of breath. California is blessed in abundance with some of the most beautiful women that have ever blessed these baby blues. There’s a reason that Biggie rapped about them, a reason Kiedis sang about them, and a reason that Mr. Hank Moody will constantly fuck himself into trouble over them. And whether it’s the sun or the waves that carve their curves, or it’s the idiosyncratic allure of both that merely concentrate them there through some metaphysical, cosmic attraction, they are their own breed of beautiful. A statement, of course, especially exemplified through my experience in San Diego. From the sexpots at State, to the sultry suits Down Town, the tattooed temptresses en el Parque Norte, the uppity bitches in the Northern Beaches, and all that I missed in between, some California girls, in the words of one herself, really do have that shit “on lock”.
You haven’t always seemed to feel that way.
I know, I know, that’s something I’ll get to. Shit.
As it goes, befittingly, a gentleman at a bar in Cairns would be the first to ask me a question I’d hear a good number of times during my travels, after his initial inquiry, “are there really girls in California like there are in that one Katy Perry video?”
My response to this question was then and there, preceded with a poignant vacillation, that was succeeded by a notably awkward hesitation, and thereon conceded with an emphatic nod of affirmation.
Quaint...
The nod itself, accompanied by a smile of humility that spread across my face and lifted my spirits as they were able let go of a burden I’d been carrying for far too long.
“Yes...”
His eyes widened, and he asked if he could visit.
“Anytime, man,” I spoke into the bench of that bar, as thoughts of those girls swam circles in my head like the beer I swirled in the glass before me. I was left a little lightheaded and lighthearted by the movements of both, and laughed.
And though that conversation was fleeting, I still find myself chuckling about and reflecting upon that brief bit of banter every time that video comes on and my eyes go glazed and glue to that screen. Mostly on account of how heavily loaded that question turned out to be for me. I had been the one who was asked the question, and somewhere on the bridge between reticence and concession, had come away from the exchange with a bit of epiphanic information that was rather unexpected. I was graced with the luxury of also being able to dump a bit of baggage over the railing. The second time I crossed it in Melbourne was even more cathartic.
We’ll cross it when we get to it though, where it belongs, in Cairns.
Fair enough...
Anyway, the point is, to provide for some frame of reference. I feel fairly confident to assert that I was spoiled as shit by the scenery In California. Not to say there aren’t gorgeous women in all of the other places I’ve traveled to in the States, there are. I suppose I’ve just found something especially enticing in the essence of some of California’s queens. And when you step foot into the court of one of those major shoreline cities there, they and it, seems to surround you with a prolificacy that leaves your head spinning in ways that your neck didn’t think was possible. So, for me to make my way from California to another point on the globe, eight thousand miles elsewhere, and find myself spun halfway to vertigo by the abounding beauty that strides along Sydney’s sidewalks, I think speaks to the incredible caliber of hot that constitutes that city’s army of sirens.
And I’m not even accounting for the bombshells we'd see in that backpacker bar. They’re an entirely different story altogether. I’m simply accounting for the other women who have become a part of Sydney as much as Sydney has become a part of them. Some, whose beauty is part of what makes that city such a beautiful sight to see. The ones Kevin and I became familiar with in the CBD.
From the way their black skirts hug their hips, to the way their hair is pulled tight to the back of their heads--or even the way that slightly transparent fabric in some of their business blouses offers rather innocent evidence for your less than innocent imagination with the display of slender silhouettes--their style is rife with sex in the most sophisticated of manners. In fact, I might find more merited representation in saying that it screams sex, just in a voice that is void of vulgarity or extraneous volume. No lurid cosmetic compounds, no skirts that look like they actually might have initially been manufactured as elastic headbands, and no amount of cleavage that calls desperately for the attention of all on-lookers. Their chic is poised and pro from head to toe, and still beckons like a beacon, sans such showy fashions. And not that I have any problem with the aforementioned trends, I’m a fan of all fashions as long as they fit--especially the vulgar at times--but I think there is definitely something special to be said for a woman who can embody sophistication and elegance and still exude an air of eroticism that carries your cognition to the most carnal of places, far from sophistication and elegance. Like if Aphrodite were to take on a profession as a Museum Curator, or a Professor of Law or Literature. Or perhaps, for a more perceptible analogy, the sleekly suited knockouts from that Robert Palmer, ‘Addicted To Love,’ music video. There was nothing sexually explicit about those women, yet something about them and the way they moved sucked your attention through that screen, left you boner-fied, and all subsequent daydreams doused in depravity for periods long after they left your sight. And of course by ‘your,’ I mean ‘my,’ I suppose I’m just hoping that a few other viewers can concur. There’s a reason that video became a classic.
Appositely, there were days I spent walking around Sydney that felt like there might have been a city-wide casting call for that video, just with less make-up. And I loved that--the whole, ‘less make-up’ thing. Anymore make-up on them would equate itself to throwing graffiti up onto a Michelangelo. And the fact that they know that, is just a sliver of the self-assurance that adds to their appeal. I suppose part of what makes them so uniquely sexy, is a certain confidence that emanates from every inch of their existence. It saturates every aspect that accounts for their appearance, and every move that they make. As if they are fully aware that their ways make waves, but they’re ones they’ve mastered with ease, through the grace of their natural talents, and would have no problem mastering anything else, even in high-heels. They don’t need all that make-up. They don’t need to spend too much time trying to look beautiful. They know that they already are, and any extended effort would be superfluous, and hinder their other efforts and daily conquests, whatever they may be. And when the clack of their stilettos on the concrete commandeers your attention to the sultry legs that throw them forward, it does so in away that warns against leering for too long. A practice that place left me prone to. They strut those sidewalks like catwalks, and had the dog in me running the length of the leash of my conscience.
And I’m not saying at all, that collectively Sydney’s women are any more stunning than California’s, nor California’s anymore so than Sydney’s. They are both incredible in their own ways. And I guess the assertion of such striking natural beauty, en masse was an approach we just took in as a breath of fresh air for two kids hailing from the land of Hollywood highlights and synthetic sexy.
“These women are gorgeous.”
“I know man, and it’s like they’re not even trying.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think that I’ve seen one pair of obnoxiously sized implants, or any implants for that matter yet.”
“If all Australian women are fundamentally this hot, I can’t wait to see what other parts of the country look like.”
“Fuck that for now, I just want to see what the beaches here look like first.”
“Good call.”
No comments:
Post a Comment