(300 BCE, a garden glazed with moonlight. I plucked the three hairs between my breasts, Sweetheart, and wore an off-white plunge top with a tiny gold skirt over a thong that dug into my butt crack. I laid a T-shirt over my long hair and ran a clothes iron over it to turn my hair into satin. I shaved the hairs between my navel and cunt. I shaved the hairs at the small of my back. I shaved the hairs on my knuckles and toes. the club was called MOJO and played desi hip-hop that reverberated at my gullet, my world a cube of bass and rum and disco lights. In twenty-first century India I am pale-skinned, walking into a glass cabin toward four suited men who nod at me approvingly from behind a long desk.)
#Young eliza schneider hot legs skin
Fairness cream = light skin = beauty = confidence = job interview badassery.
#Young eliza schneider hot legs professional
(Ten years ago, when a popular skin-whitening cream in India started receiving criticism for propagating problematic ideas of female beauty (light skin = husband), the cream’s new TV ads started showing how the cream leads to women’s professional success. I laughed then, turned to my side, my clit erect, when you said, “Why is it so dark? Why isn’t it pink?” Sweetheart, that afternoon I lay on my back in a black bra and nothing else when you kneeled at my knees and pulled my legs apart, said, “Hmmm,” to my blue-black cunt that opened like a carnivorous flower. (Today my lips are fissured, purple wine in their cracks.) Musicians barely appeared on the roads anymore and when they did I wanted to tell them, “Don’t leave, please.” “Told you so,” you told me.Īcross the wine stain, a Rajasthani man in khaki pants and a tucked-out shirt played ravanhatha that sounded like weeping. The station smelled dense-your mouth at the end of a night of partying, Sweetheart, when you wanted to have sex and I turned to you, eyes wide and desperate, said, “Kiss me first,” but we couldn’t because alcohol had dried our mouths. someone had emptied a bottle of red wine at the exit of the bus station, the stain like the line of hairs between my navel and cunt. Kenyon Review Award for Literary Achievement.Developmental Editing Fellowship for Emerging Writers.
The Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers.
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