Honestly don't know what it is about the Maine girls but they do it to me every time. Maybe it's cause it's my roots - the real me - where I come from but gosh if the blonde hair doesn't tumble around the shoulders and the cut-off jean shorts wrap ever so sexily around the round bottoms and the bosoms peek just-slightly-not-so-subtly out from beneath the threads of another spaghetti strap tank top.. It's the skin, too. The golden tan juxtaposed beside the bleached out 'locks and the swing-swing-smile-swing of the hips and the mouths and the..
Goddamn them Maine girls. They can be as skank-ho as your average NYC slut but it's in a totally different way. Somehow it's more innocent and naive though they'd still eat me for lunch and spit out the bones.
Every once in awhile they're is a keeper. A nice as-yet-undisturbed young one or maybe one that's older - old enough that she's been around the block once or twice, knows where the crack houses are, and knows enough to avoid them now. It's those one's the hit me right in the solar plexus, takes the wind right out of my pipe and I'm smoking from a vacuum until I can get my senses back.
Never is there a better place to see the sights and sounds of seductive Maine girls than the beer garden at Old Hallowell Day where people come out in droves to celebrate the simple things in life: Maine, Fireworks, Beer, and Summer. I honestly can't imagine better things to be celebrating and so it's these girls that I can identify with so well without even exchanging a single word with them. I can watch them off across the patio talking in high-pitched chatter, running around exclaiming excitement when they discover yet-another-friend has shown up at the bar, and just generally glowing under the twinkling stars of a clear sky, lighting up the night with their laughter as if it were dawn.
Like most lights these girls attracted the bugs. Guys in swarms drinking their beers pretending as if the event was all about hanging with their bros and drinking some brews when in all reality every last one of them is looking, out of the corner of their eyes, as the lights go dancing by. Sometimes you can see, as if a big mosquito lamp, a girl draw in one - maybe two guys.. the friend following the friend. A joke my father once said was that everytime you hear a mosquito lamp zap it comes in pairs cause one bug goes in and it's friend follows him to try and save him. And so it is with the women of Maine trailing men behind them and sometimes, occasionally, if you're lucky, taking a liking.
They aren't always the most well travelled or the most wordly or the most educated. They aren't always the smartest or the quickest or the brightest. But what they are is often down to earth and normal with common sense that only comes from living in rural America where girls are sometimes known to change their own brake pads and, gosh, know where to find their dipstick (on the couch with a beer watching football).
The beauty in this world comes in it's variety and the one type you find in Maine is one type I will forever be enamoured with. I can't say why, maybe it's just in the water, but they are some of the most beautiful women in the world through their simple smiles and the sass of a knowing smirk.
And gosh I love 'em.
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the guys: philogynist jaime tony - the gals:raymi raspil
