And Remember: He’s A Pulitzer Prize Winner

From Stephen Hunter’s latest piece on female flesh in the Washington Post:

    Brother, sister, child and pet, do I mean the taut glory of the outer thigh? Do I mean the curves where it’s all streamline and suggestion, where the promise is the faintest vapor on the air? Do I mean a neck? Take it from me, brother, necks are okay. Oh, and what about that meadowlike expanse across the back, from the shoulder line down, with its muscular tides, its shallows, its occasional pools of limpid viscosity. Do I mean that?

One tipster called it “creeptastic.” HuffPo’s Rachel Sklar says:

    Hunter’s piece is as meandering as his lascivious around down the female body, going from simple appreciation of the variously-exposed female form to waxing nostalgic about how flesh was hidden away during his day, encased in the nefarious and unforgiving confines of girdles which taunted him like so many impenetrably-locked chastity belts: “The elasticity of it represented control, structure, the secret bindings beneath the pleated skirts…The panty girdle’s primary function seems to have been to quell the jiggle. It was to deny flesh its fleshiness.” OH NO! GIVE ME FLESHINESS OR GIVE ME DEATH! Also, the phrase “splurge of thigh” is used.