Dear Nettie Harris,
I don’t know who you are, but I am super into your epic body hair. Though you only entered my life but one short day ago, I’ve already spent the entirety of that time researching you, closely examining photos of your unshorn beav (there are almost zero clothed photos of you to be found on the web, so it’s not even my choice, really), and studying family trees to determine what aristocratic lineage you are the hipster offspring of. Much to my surprise, the internet wizard gods tells me you are not an heiress; rather that you are a former devout Christian who accidentally stumbled into nude modeling after becoming pregnant at 18 and wanting photographic evidence of that glorious, glowy incubation period before your body was permanently marred.
Now, here you are, all oddball quirky au-naturel, the type who can make gently stained floral granny panties look super sexy while twirling topless in slow motion to “Spooky Kind of Girl Like You” by The Zombies in a dimly lit, slightly dingy bathroom; the kind of girl who can make a guy cum just by giggling and grabbing her crotch and lip synching into a toothbrush. You know the genre of woman who makes everything seem so uncomplicated and effortless, like a perfectly disheveled top knot that takes most of us a painstaking hour to accomplish but you just actually climb out of bed looking like that, goofy neon scrunchy and all? Basically, Nettie, what you’re doing by being all alternative and cutesy but still tomboyish and edgy is flipping the bird to all of us prudish day-jobbing-slaves who have internalized some arbitrary moral objection to having our pussies and tits all over the internet (my tits might be on the internet in one or two places, don’t tell my mom) because our feminist role models have instilled in us the belief that we should get ahead on big brains and merits and hard work and not on our bodies. And I bet you still identify as a feminist, which is just that much more ironic.
If I am really going to make a thorough assumption about you and your lifestyle, I’d go ahead and bet a whole gluten-free pizza on the fact that you subsist mostly on (non gluten-free) pizza topped with mixed meat medleys and pepperoncinis and that you chug non-diet soda and slather Sriracha on everything and yet still maintain your slim but shapely figure. Or maybe you’re a vegan who likes to roller blade. Oh, the theories…
Well, speaking of soiling (I’m going all the way back to the dirty panties with this reference), before I get busted by the IT guys for trolling bush porn, I should probably wrap up this correspondence. But, to any of my trust fund friends, New York socialites, Vice contributors, and pals of Terry Richardson who may know Nettie personally, and who might be reading this, please tell her that I appreciate her muff and the work it’s doing for our country. That’s all.
(Photos via Terry’s Diary)