The smooth, sweet smell of new leather. Heady with memories of my father's jacket, stolen from the basement when I was 15. Memories of punks, Lucky Lager, mickey's of Smirnoff, ancient condoms left in the pockets.
Leather, meant for motorbikes, for long journeys, to send the eyes up to the top of the thigh, stopping just below the curve of the ass, contained in tight, tight jeans or highlighted in barely-there bikini bottoms. Painted-on leather, hems brushing the top of ass-kicker black workboots, or slick black vinyl heels. Leather, smelling like adventure, like sex, like rebellion.
somebody buy me some damn leather chaps.
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... I really miss my leather jacket that I acquired from my family, and wish I had chaps too. *sigh*
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