Chuck Young
The page has a number of creases and folds; its gloss chipped and dulled. A woman riding a bike is shown. Her head is turned. She is glancing at the camera over her shoulder (the picture having been taken from behind). The look she gives is coy and forgiving. She wears nothing but a short khaki trench coat, her nude backside propped up slightly, hovering over the dark brown seat. And there, hugging the smooth round cream of her buttock skin, fighting to contrast itself against the blur of the background, is this small line of splayed out brown hair that seems to split her perfectly into two halves.
It’s the mystery and the taboo of that hair that excites me. As a child, I have no way of knowing what kind of physical pleasure can possibly be derived from such a sight. I just know instinctively that something larger than myself exists there.
We all start somewhere.
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Chuck Young writes in English.