Ripped Jeans


There are some clothes, no matter how advanced or decayed their state is, I just can’t get rid of. I won’t pay attention to the warning signals : women’s round eyes signaling my outfit is way too outrageous or men’s inquisitive stares, as they obviously interpret the tears in my pants as an invitation to get to know me.

Every time I selected the clothes to be removed in order to clear some wardrobe space (which would be filled again in the blink of an eye), somehow, there was always this one pair of jeans I ended up taking back from the donation bag to put back on immediately, like to excuse myself to them. Just like make up sex can be so good after an altercation, the softness of the fabric and the memories I carry in it brings me to a tactile orgasm. The places I have been to, the smells that got impregnated in them, the people who deserved to be smacked from touching them and the ones that I let carry on, the mosquitoes and the douchebags they have kept at distance. Wow, how comfortable my pants are. I’m sure some of my own collagen has ended up weaved into the cotton, after uncountable hours of rubbing on my skin.

They were initially black but now they have this unique dark-blue-grey tint. They anonymously presented themselves to me. No brand or production tag could be found on them, which makes me idealize that they were made with love by a well paid and respected worker in a beautiful atelier with plants and no fluorescent bulbs.

On the seams, the fabric has been flattened so much that there is a silky shine to it. The crotch gives this perfect boyish baggy attitude. My hands fit in the front pockets without stretching anything. The back pockets are gone but their shape remains visible as they were sun-printed in, showcasing my plumped butt under which the rips dangerously circle the back of my thighs, making me forcibly choose when appropriate to twerk.

The straight leg might soon not cover my shins anymore as the knee rip is coming full circle. They were with me for numerous years and waist sizes. Only fatality will separate these Sacred Jeans from me. I’m sexy in them, badass because I dare to wear them and look nothing like a punk. Feeling so chic when I’m covered with something that, on its own, has nothing seducing makes me laugh, especially when I think about stuck up people who make themselves suffer all day up in a downtown tower in some butt-tightening-impossible-to-breath-in-high-waisted-viscose-thing. Oh yeah, and the waist of my awesome trousers is 3.5 inches down from the bellybutton, sometimes sliding down to 4.3 if I’m frugivoring a heat wave day away. Yeah, that’s pretty darn close to the bushy-me.

 I’m sure other ripped jeans wearers, beaten boots kickers or whatever other ragged thing one may be fanatic about will understand me, as most of them won’t take the initiative to consciously say : “I let go of this [thing] as it embodies the past and I wish to separate myself from all the experiences attached to it, therefore I now say bye”. Or more realistically : “man, this thing is destroyed and f****, get this out of here.” I mean, for sure it does happen to go through an awesome purging trip to start anew the accumulation cycle. And isn’t it lovely when some friends want your stuff, so you know it’s available close-by if you were ever to change your mind that got hyper frenetic during the purge. 

The first person I knew who never renewed his wardrobe was my dad. He didn’t really give a shit for appearance, except if it was about me showing a little bit too much skin. (Is my pants description demonstrating a reactionary behaviour to parental authority on my part?) Otherwise, I’d never see him in the weekend out of his weekend outfit, no matter how many years went by. While I tend to find this sort of behaviour redundant, blasé and pas ben ben chic, I can understand that there is some comfort that comes with clothes that have been softened by the constant wear and washing, the chemical smell of dyes having completely left the fabric and the little holes allowing thumbs to come out or the skin to breath more at the armpits. I guess it’s cool to never have to look for these items as they’re most often where expected : on the body.

Back in high school, I disliked having to say to my dad : “you’re not taking me to the mall wearing that coat” when I’d get ready to go meet with friends who inevitably were wearing the brands in fashion at the moment (i.e Ecko, Sean John, Fat Farm – or whatever). I’d feel uncool in my on sale wardrobe that bore no brand tag. I did not care that not taking for granted expensive clothes as a basic need may be good for my education. 

And yet, as I used to be horrified when my mom would come back from the Salvation Army with something she was happy to find there, I eventually became a second-hand shopping addict for a time. That made me take a different look at my parent’s behaviours : they did act in a way that preserves nature. They are not perversed by the fake luxury ideas of buying new products polluting the world and financing big corporations, and so on.

Another friend had taken on to never wash his pants as they fitted him perfectly and could not be equaled with any prestigious designer jeans. Feeling like a punk-rock star, he’d freeze his pants to rid them of bacteria and odors, but would never let them be handled by an agitated and anxious fabric-dissolving washing machine that would dissintegrate the pants before he could live all that he meant to experience with them. 
There are in total maybe three or four people I’ve met who were proudly wearing glasses which either lacked a branch or a nose ridge.
While I’ve never critically needed my glasses to see my hands raised in front of me, I would say I find the idea of broken branches and unbalanced glasses hanging on my nose pretty scary. I’m too afraid of things getting in my eyes I guess. Just like I’d never bike with a whistle in between my lips. What if I fell and swallowed it, or worse broke all my teeth?! 

Walking with destroyed shoes also has the potential of being very dangerous. I walked in my favourite boots whose heels were thinned out, and then got caught by the rain, making it impossible not to slip (hello Montreal hills !). The same happened at a time when I twisted my ankle and walked with crutches. I guess I’m too passionate a walker, as even when four-legged, the cement literally ate the rubber part of my crutches, which I only realized once I fell face forward as the crutches failed to grab the ground.

I was happy one time when my friend stopped at my house, as I decided my evening mission would be to take advantage of her presence to motivate me to pile a number of items in my donation bag, or to offer them to her.

She was good company, but no help at all. When I showed her those sacred jeans I’m talking about, wondering if that night was the magical night when I’d be ready to let go, she suggested : “keep them for gardening?” to which I enthusiastically agreed. That night, nothing was added to the donation bag. 

But now I wish I threw them away. Later that evening, wearing the pants I’m rambling about, I headed to my friend’s party. People were chilling in the plounge, some in the kid’s pool on the terrace and others bootyshaking on the dancefloor, which got more and more popular. I used to proudly believe that I had been conceived on a dancefloor in some hot Cuban-like party to justify my thirst for dancer’s sweat. Quickly getting in the mood, I two-stepped my way through with the help of my hips hitting side to side to push the people a little bit.

The guy I noticed to be very cute came by me and a few seconds later, we were moving in perfect harmony, his body embracing my curves and his hips following mine. All around us people were so high and flirting and touching, our temperatures rised and I felt a dangerous pulse in my lower belly : I was horny. 

Our dancing got very erotic and I got out of my head, completely carnal. I didn’t care if the other ladies would dissaprove, I was letting his hands slide and grab on any inch of my skin which was accessible to him. The rips in the jeans eventually got handy. Making his way in the big wholes, right under my butt, his finger found the opening to my sacred garden. I did not push him away and forgot to measure how discrete we were. This went on for some time until I reached for his zipper.

When my hand pulled his underpants away, I felt that I had a déjà vu, but made nothing of it as I thought what I consumed was responsible for creating that impression of familiarity. I teased him some more and then he made his member slide into my pants. Right then I heard someone scream : “MICHAEL, HOW COULD YOU !” 

Just to make the moment perfectly akward, someone had just kicked the speaker so there was no music to cover the scream. Every one turned to Michael, who was trying to get in me. I turned around and was stunned : my ex-boyfriend somehow took the place of the other guy I was previously dancing with. He tried to pack himself in his pants quickly, caught his penis when he fastened the zipper up and looked absoluetly embarrassed and in pain : ” (Ouch!) Maria, it’s not what you think…(Argh!)” . She said : “you told me it was really over with her” to which I furiously nodded in agreement.

I immediately felt like puking, as this was too much drama for me, I drank too much and had sworn to never ever, ever, go back (for sex) to an ex. “Maria, I’d never let him do this if I knew it was him…” bad comment on my part, people looked at me dazzled “is she stupid or what?!”.

I guess I didn’t look too smart right then, but that’s when my participation in the scene ended. Maria stormed out of the room and Michael followed her, calling out her name with his hand still on his zipper. I tried to come up with some better line to save my face, but did not have to, as the music was put back on and the episode seemed immediately forgotten.

But it wasn’t. The bad surprise of being penetrated by someone I never wanted to see again wasn’t enough.  I was in a cafe enjoying a nice ice-cold drink to freeze my hungover when I heard guys at a table behind me: “Dude, check this out my friend filmed this girl at Tee’s place getting fingered and fucked on the dancefloor!  Hollyyy…”

I projectile-spitted the coffee out of my mouth and ran out of the place. As soon as I was home, I found the scissors, removed the pants and cut them to pieces : alas it was separation day!

Nessa, back in Montreal, was shocked when someone made her realize that all she ever speaks with, writes with, shares ideas or shoots interrogations at the world with are the same 26 letters arranged, or not, in assembles. Alas, that realization didn’t help her scatterbrained intellect to find center.


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