I’ve always had a thing for legs. When I was around fourteen, I distinctly remember reading a copy of my dad’s Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and gawking at the smooth, tanned legs of the woman on the cover; her body brightened by her orange swimsuit, her feet curling together in the foreground of the picture on the sand of the beach where she sat. She looked at you with the coy, jaded look women are meant to have in these photos. I wondered, at that time, if I would ever be this close to a stunning female’s legs in real life and if she would ever look at me like so.

Let’s fast-forward five years.

My buddy Jason and I sat on the porch outside a house party in November, watching the partygoers exit. We were drinking scotch on ice and I was numerous sheets to the wind. Jason burped. “I’m gonna flunk that test tomorrow,” he said. I watched the legs of the girls wandering outside. A few of them stumbled on the doorstep like drunken high-schoolers (which was basically what we still were, as freshmen ages 18 to 19), some of them were helped out by their equally smashed, wonky boyfriends (or guys who wished they were their boyfriends), and others exited smoothly and without any help, thank you. Many wore those tight black silk pants that is a continuing fad among the hip middle class female set. But a surprising number wore skirts—short skirts—although it was a cold night. Read more »