A man I loved wore old school white Jockey underwear—Don Draper white.
That was hot.
In his early forties, his butt was starting to droop just a smidge.
That was hotter.
He saw things like that in me too.
I'd like to go back and tell that to my 17-year old self—sitting on a dock sun-drying after a swim in Lake Cowichan.
Pleasure is not just for young bodies.
I said farewell to that part of me working in a French restaurant on Queen St. W. in 1988.
I was 25.
There was a poissonnière with a darkness in his eyes I'd never seen before.
I packed that shit up quick.
A beautiful young woman told me once of cooks at a Toronto restaurant referring to her and a female co-worker as strippers (I mean no disrespect to any working woman). That kitchen was in the 'Top Ten.' State of the art cooking.
Madonna or whore, some men can't get past it.
Of course, there were men in my life. But I learned to keep it outside city limits.
I was once dropped off with a long kiss at a kitchen door. A cook saw it and took it to the brigade. It got dark.
Once I sent a note hoping its destination wasn't the last laugh of the night.
Brave heart beating.
I was good at erasing my sex. It kept me safe. That's not the same as being one of the boys.
Most of those cooks couldn't imagine it.
A ripe juicy peach in their midst.
Soundtrack - 1988
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