London James

libertine + SOuthern Belle + Femme fatale

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With a name like London James, I may confuse some about my beginnings & influences. London is a land of magic, royal palaces, the rise & fall of empires, afternoon tea— undoubtedly my favorite city. Together with James, a traditionally male nom de plume, the name brings masculine undertones, which I have always found attractive for women.

A southern romantic born in Europe, I always thought men would be my downfall. But in Minneapolis, I rise without the sharp buzzing of an alarm clock matching the hustle & bustle of the city. Still, at night I often hazily dream of other eras, as if I’d had past lives. I embrace the paradoxes: Southern Belle & Femme Fatale… Libertine & Ingenue.

I’ve always loved the slow pace of the deep south, where the tea is sweet & the g’s drop off like the endless summers. Summers spent lazily by the lake, the nights made for smoky bonfires & illicit stories of high school conquests. I loved the opulence— the beautiful houses, expensive cars, etiquette classes, the elite politicians you rubbed elbows with. It’s also where I learned how to throw a football, to camp, & caked my jeans in mud keeping up with the boys who mocked, “No girls allowed.” Where am I now?

Bewitching with my honey brown eyes & smooth olive skin, reliving kisses stolen in dimly lit hotel rooms as thrilling as those few sips of beer I’d sneak as a teen by the lake. Of course, I prefer scotch or bourbon now, & I’ve got the husky voice of a jazz singer to match, quick to excite. My grandmother, a true Steel Magnolia, believed that a cut of the eyes could say more than any words, but that the most beautiful voice was that of an educated woman from the South. I can run hot like August in Savannah & smile like the sun. When I laugh, I laugh so hard I cry tears straight from the Mississippi.

I’ve got a body reminiscent of those back roads you love: curvy & unrestrained, the lingering scent of cottonwoods & magnolias calling you. I’ll want you cupping my heart-shaped face in your hands, hooking your fingers into the belt loop of my jeans & pulling me in close. My hips & my thighs are meant to hold onto, too— like those carefree days in your youth. You remember?

And when you run your fingers over my untamed mop of thick, curly brown hair, I’ll look at you, leaning in closer, & with a wry smile, I’ll say, “The higher the hair, the closer to God.”