text by CATHERINE DESPONT
America, you never see her naked. That’s not to say she doesn’t shed her clothes, or that they aren’t cut to reveal. Sometimes they’re so tight I can barely form a thought, but when she peels them off, I’m never satisfied. She’s protected by a kind of chastity belt of perfect tan and sparkling cream, of lip gloss and nail varnish and perfume; her hair is straightened, or permed, waxed or shaved, sometimes all of the above. I want to shut the lights out just to feel her without distraction, but she won’t have it. She’s prepared a whole seductive song-and-dance, meant to seem un-choreographed, that involves tripping in heels over the carpeting to turn on a favorite mix to which she’ll jiggle and sway, lighting a candle here, turning a lamp down there: it’s the theater of the perfect mood, and she can’t…