On the second grade playground, two "play-leaders" of a higher grade, got into an argument over who the cutest second grader was, me or Gwen Guererro. The play-leaders in question were popular twin cheerleaders. I can't remember what the outcome was, but that was the day that I learned a lesson that would stay with me forever.
I am cute.
Unfortunately, that is not the healthiest lesson to learn nor the healthiest place to learn it. Yet, this new found knowledge was not lost on me. However, it did lie dormant until I got boobs.
From adolescence to my early 20s, I used my boobs and my cuteness for evil. I had no code of ethics, and everything was fair game.
That was a regrettable time, and the ethical backlash was so intense it resulted in my hiding under layers of baggy, unwashed, unisex attire until I felt that I had somehow paid my penance.
Now, my work keeps me mostly covered up. And when I get a chance to release the combination of confident 2nd grader and 25 year old sex beast, it is so explosive that people who see me every day don't recognize me.
It is a phenomenon I call closet bombshell.
