Flirty streetwear at the Nasty Gal shop

Disclaimer: No, I’m not an affiliate for Nasty Gal, but I should be!!

Are casual clothes headed this way? Finally! I’m too young to have participated in the bra-less, halter top, no-HIV, half-shirted 1970’s. It finally looks like street fashion is doing a pivot back to cute + sexy and it’s about time. This fashion company just got on my radar: Nasty Gal. Despite the name they have some workable outfits!

my caption

“So is that a Bible in your pocket?”

Read on for more innocence… Continue reading

Topless Book Club Lives My Art


You know you’re getting old when some of your most prized and adventurous moments from your 20’s can now be accomplished in a fucking reading circle.

Meet the Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society. My awesome Facebook buddy K.Z., who might just know my work better than I do, sent me this HuffPo link to a story about a 95% female book club that meets around Manhattan, goes topless, and reads books together.

Read on for more book club (NSFW)… Continue reading

Jenny Scordamaglia: More than the Queen of TV Nipslips

When I originally posted about Jenny Scordamaglia for the Emmeline’s Possé I thought she was a goofy, funny, sexy oddity. I was proud to have ‘discovered’ her in an internet full of hotties jockeying for attention.

Believe it or not, it’s hard to find new members for the possé — they can’t merely be attractive and prone to nipslips. They have to have something more going on. Jenny Scordamaglia is a good example: She’s sweet, charismatic, committed to her beliefs, and a fabulous interviewer. Obvious possé material.

It turns out I completely underestimated the scale of her… extroversion. She’s a phenomenon!

If you can resist a nipslip, it's a "nopeslip."

If you can resist a nipslip, it’s a “nopeslip.”

Here’s the angle: Jenny Scordamaglia dresses like a phone sex advertisement, but she chats you up like Ellen Degeneris. Whether you’re at the Cool Car Expo or Art Basel Miami, when she zooms through your eye-line with her microphone and a thousand-watt smile, you drop your jaw. When she puts you in front of the camera, you’re charmed and bedazzled.

In her videos, her subjects forget everything going on below her chin. Once, one of her interview subjects posted a video link on his Facebook page. His friend commented: “Good job keeping your eyes up!” and “Maintaining eye contact like a boss.”

Watch a few more videos: You might just begin to admire American manhood. She’s a walking neural-elasticity test. She’s what happens when your wet dream suddenly slaps you in the face and asks, “What motivates your creative process?” All that American manhood can do in this situation is disengage the babymaker circuit, and answer.

Is Jenny Scordamaglia the Queen of Nipslips?

Recently a Miami blog found the courage to ask Jenny Scordamaglia the hard questions nobody really wondered about:

Girl, do you know what’s going on?

Answer: She does.

So where’s the healthy dose of body shame?

Answer: It’s just my body. It’s just anatomy. These are just nipples.

Why don’t you use double-backed tape?

Answer: It gets messy and doesn’t work. (I bet more men wished more women agreed!)

The blog post doesn’t ask the crucial question: Does Jenny Scordamaglia go commando in those tiny skirts? Lucky for you, there is a broad scholarship on this subject. The unauthorized “highlight reels” come and go, but they’re not hard to find! Here are two links that will probably break soon:

You might as well go ahead and subscribe to her youtube channel or follow her on Twitter. You might click for the nipslips and the short skirts, but you stay because she’s simply awesome. (Via MiamiNewTimes Blog.)

Need inspiration?

Here are my erotic stories about sexy, public women.

See all my books.


The Dinosaur Among the Sylphs

I started writing this last semester when I went back to school, but I thought it was too confessional and weird to publish. What changed is that I need to post something on my blog.


I have a problem with these boring, frumpy college co-eds around me.
(c) Can Stock Photo

In my Southern college, all the white college-aged women have boy’s names: Addison, Wes, Douglas, Charlie, Jo, Blake, Cody, Terry, Adrian, Sean, Ainsley, Dylan… it’s ridiculous. To differentiate the women from the men, the women add a second name: Charlie Jo, Cody Blake, Adrian Margarette, Dylan Dylan.

Still confused?

Don’t worry. The men walk around with names like Ashley, Lynn, Sal, Terri, and Jo, so you can distinguish them from the women.

When I introduce myself, Southerners often take one of my married names as my second name (I have three that I like to use, and a few that I avoid). Lindsey-Flinch Bedder. In the South, that’s either very feminine, or very masculine.

I relocated from New York years ago, and though I still visit the Big Apple, I should really be used to some of these Southern nuances by now. I’m practically a Southerner, or so I thought until I went back to school.

Im rushing to class

Lindsey rushing to class…
Going Shopping by wallyir // morguefile

Addison was a nice girl in my undergraduate class. Nice, in that she would talk to a thirty-something dinosaur like me. I have to keep reminding myself that last year, Addison could have been in f*cking high school. I’ve found that young adults are both extremely conservative and judging, and extremely willing to make new friends. In 15 minutes with Addison, I could go from being hugged to being ignored.

Early into the semester, she said something like: “Lindsey-Flinch, what is with your clothes? Don’t you have anything without sequins? Don’t you have something baggy, or that covers your ass?”

“What’s wrong with sequins?”

“When I see you, it’s always boobs and legs and ass.”

“And sequins.”

“You’re like the Internet, Lindsey-Flinch.”

That was awesome. “But you can’t get me with a Tiny URL.”

She gave me a blank look.

I tried again: “I’m totally search friendly. I can take a lot of args.”

This is what I hate about my life. I can always tell when people are almost through with me. When the conversation gets awkward and stays awkward, they want to disengage and I get bored, and veer into tangents, amusing nobody but myself.

After a flood of talking I’ve lost my breath, so I have to stop and catch up. This is actually a thing, and I take drugs for it (drugs that Addison would pay $20/pill for). It’s called flow; it used to be called perseveration. It took me decades to realize what was going on.

Anyway, I didn’t want to see that look in Addison—the “she’s not one of us” look that normal people get. So I usually tried to keep her comfortable during our encounters.

“You asked a question and I should answer it,” I said intensely, to lock her back on. “This is my New York wardrobe. Look at all the girls in this class, and the guys for that matter. You Southerners are fucking boring, you have no idea about sexy. You Southern girls are nuns until the party starts, and then you’re sloppy.”

I followed with maybe three minutes of good material about how Southern girls like her were clueless, sexless, and unfeminine, except when playing dress-up. Then I saw that she was taking this seriously.

“Oh crap, you were listening to me?”

She nodded.

“Long story short,” I finished. “I never get to wear my New York clothes in Tennessee.”

She seemed hurt. “I don’t think I’m unfeminine, Lindsey-Flinch.”

Yay! This was going to be a back-and-forth!

Starting about fifteen minutes after I first stepped on campus, I had strong opinions about the prevailing college co-ed fashions. I told her she might as well be wearing a burkha. Running shorts and baggy t-shirts are how you disappear into crowds of girls wearing shorts and baggy t-shirts. What’s feminine about that?

“You only have breasts if your baggy t-shirt snags on a door knob.”

She looked down at herself.

“Not you, personally,” I amended. “You’re different.”

She glanced away from me, suddenly interested in something else. I knew I could get her back if I just made her understand my position: “People like you don’t have the guts to fill the space you occupy. Not you personally. Everybody wimps out and I hate you. Them, I mean.”

When I finally had to catch my breath, I replayed what I had just said. I had called her boring, sexless, and gutless. So she had that to digest. What she didn’t know was that my opinion had already shifted. I’m argumentative, so when I say something, I immediately go against it.

Addison was actually beautiful—sylph-like, smooth-skinned, dressed like a kid, balanced on the cusp of womanhood. She was a flower that could fall either way, based on her mood. When I wear shorts and baggy t-shirt, I don’t look like I’m on any kind of cusp. Also, men ignore me more often.


Professor, do I absolutely need to take this test, or can we just hang out and talk?
WomanMove1 by xenia // morguefile

Addison may have wanted to sting me back. She said: “So you’re not trying to hook up with the professor? Because that’s what people are saying.”

“Of course I’m trying to hook up with him, Addison! Have you seen him? I’m much further along than you other girls, I can tell you that, for sure.”

“My name is Addison Beakely, not just ‘Addison.'” [Names changed to protect the innocent.]


“The professor always stares at you!” she hissed.


This is me before I brush my hair.
(Actually I have more material for another camel blog post. Anybody interested? Anybody? I mean camel-TOE blog post.)
Camel by jdurham // morguefile

“Obviously. Professors love nontraditional students. We have life experience, we work harder, we know we’re women.” I fluffed my hair out, and then was forced to add: “We have pencils and cracker crumbs in our hair. Great for when we’re stuck in the elevator.”

“So you’d hook up with him for grades?” .

“Heck,” I said, “I’d hook up with him to excuse a tardy. I’d hook up with him for Taco Bell! But I’m married. I’m closed for business. I can put on seasonal displays for window-shoppers, but the doors are locked.” I followed with some prepared stuff about Jade Gates and mollusks while her eyes glazed over.

I remembered that in polite conversation, you ask about other people. “What about you, Addison? Are you fucking your professors?”

She blurted something that indicated outrage. I couldn’t follow but it included a word like “choady.”

As far as I can tell (I’m great at reading people) she wasn’t really angry. So I told her: “Lose the burkha and wear a miniskirt next week.”

“I don’t have a burkha, and there’s nothing wrong with burkhas.”

“Come to class in a miniskirt and I’ll pay you five dollars.”

She stared at me.

“And wear something with heels, not hooker heels but regular ones.”

“For money?”

I nodded happily. I swear I saw the boy on the other side of her desk nod too.

“For money,” she said again.

“Cold hard Ke$ha.” Because I was running this thing in my head based on a story I’m writing. Here is the premise:

© Tax Credits / Flickr creative commons

© Tax Credits / Flickr creative commons

A broke college co-ed discovers an envelope full of cash in her mailbox, and a “receipt” for wearing a flouncy skirt and a gaping-open blouse on campus the day before. A mysterious organization will pay her a “scholarship” whenever she dresses a little sexy.

She gets a list of what she can wear, with prices. Miniskirt $20, Heels $10, Makeup $5, etc. It’s entirely optional. If she’s interested, she can try for some big-ticket items like seducing a stranger.

What wins out? Money or propriety? Being broke or being the class hottie?

“Think about it, Addison,” I said. The professor had just walked in and the class was quieting down. “It’s homework for being a woman.”

The professor saw me and gave a little wave.

Addison rolled her eyes. “You’re the worst friend ever.”

But next week she wore the skirt.