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July 20 - July 25, 2020
My peers should judge me by my performance, not my looks. “That is so lame,” I said, scrunching my face in disgust and indignation. But God help me, in truth I was thrilled. Oh. My. God. Someone thinks I have an awesome body!
According to my female coworkers, the ranger holding pressure on the leg wound was a philanderer of the vainest kind. True to form, during my first week on the job, he deliberately flexed his bicep under my fingers when I grasped his upper arm to tell him something. I liked it—the bicep. It was the right size, plenty firm, and full of promises a man ought to keep. Ah, but this splendid muscle came attached to a super-competitive ranger with political connections and Machiavellian ambitions. A wise woman gives a man like that a wide berth. I, on the other hand, shook a red cape in front of him
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Mary was a talented rock climber, she was a ranger, and it was the 1990s. If she wanted to risk her tight little tush by hanging it out over the edge of a three-thousand-foot-high cliff, she had the Equal Opportunity Act–given right to do so.
Ugh.
There was only the rock and how it made her feel—like a virgin. Cheek, chest, belly, hips. She was closer to it than she’d ever been to anybody. She clung to it for dear life and begged it to never let her go. Her crotch tightened as she looked down at the air between her and a field of boulders. Her fingers caressed the warm granite, searching for that sweet spot.
"Like a viiiiirgin, rock climbing for the very first time."
On the front of this climber’s helmet was a cartoonish work of art—a pair of shapely female legs spread wide. The space between the woman’s legs was a mountain. The summit of this mountain, at the peak of the inverted V made by the woman’s legs, was the “pinnacle” of female anatomy—a
Why are mountaineers like this?
In photographs it looks benign—a vaguely volcanic mound of mud with a cervix-like hole on top—but
WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?
