![]() To me at 16, Michelle Tea sounded like some sort of sex millionaire. I couldn’t imagine not remembering the appearance of a naked woman in my bed. ![]() I particularly remember her description of one relatively understated float in her parade of lovers and/or lovers of a woman she was seeing (that it’s hard to remember which should evoke the grandeur of the parade.) She wrote that she saw the sleeping woman’s mousy brown head poking out from under a blanket, and couldn’t recall when the sight had become a common occurrence. ![]() In high school, Michelle Tea’s memoir/novels Valencia and The Chelsea Whistle flooded my virgin imagination with hope and lust for the adventures I had to look forward to as an adult queer. ![]()
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