(Note: The above illustration is copyright Gil Elvgren,  but is not of my Roxanne)

A Tribute to Gil Elvgren by Jamie Joy Gatto   She is posing for me: a calendar girl who was sketched, painted, poised seemingly ready only for me, except she was created in 1960, before I was even born. Roxanne's lush body cannot be found on the pages of men's magazines today. No, nothing this voluptuous, tender, soft and real exists on today's slick, glossy pages. What airbrushing now covers, Elvgren, the artist, has revealed as a true woman with paints and brush, breathing, so lifelike. Real enough to be touchable, kissable, fuckable, even lovable. Ah, Roxanne! Roxanne is my retro Miss February, all peaches and roses. Her skin is a lush, velvet spread of coppery beige, the perfect redheaded complexion. Her hair is impossibly red, not fire, nor

Her cheeks are blushing, as are her scarlet, blossoming lips. These are lips you not only want to kiss, but you want to watch move, to watch eat, to watch speak. These are lips you want wrapped around your dick, your clit, but only after worshiping their fine plumpness, their ruby redness, and perfect shape. They are forever upturned in the slyest way, ready to quip a sexual phrase, a cute little joke, a "Hello, big boy..."

Elvgren instinctively knows it's often what you don't see that drives a person wild. Roxanne playfully holds her lavender robe to one cheek. Ruffles of light purple chiffon cascade down her angled body, barely cover her ample breast, hide her cute little navel, fall across her redheaded quim. These are erotic parts you cannot see on the page, but you know they are there just from what the artist has skillfully left out of the picture.

Roxanne is wearing nothing but a single pair of lacy, sheer lavender panties, which match her robe. You can see her luscious skin right through every lacy detail of the fabric, the delicate seam. You can see it all except for that confounded robe which covers her there, her beautiful redheaded pussy. Lips like sugar, wet with desire, wet for every man, for everyone, wet for me.

Her legs, too, are skillfully formed: just enough meat to make them curve in the exacting places. Her thighs, a little heavy and definitely lush, are ready to spread open. Her calves, slender and curved to perfection, end in petite, shapely feet sporting slip-on satin heels adorned with pink fur pom poms. Even her shoes were made for fucking in. No woman would dare wear such delicate heels out of the bedroom. And with Roxanne, you wouldn't want her to ever leave your bedroom, now would you?

Her brown eyes are forever wide, admiring the length and girth of our cocks and clits. Her red-tipped nails are always ready to take the tip of our sex tenderly into her mouth. She'd swallow us all whole, and never let us go until we came, and came, over and over again.

And, oh, Roxanne, how we long to take away your lavender robe, to let our hands fall across your perfect peachy breasts, to suck upon your coppery nipples, to bury our faces in your perfect round navel, to find your hard clit with our tongues. 

How Elvgren loved to tease all us horny folks. Oh, Roxanne why can't you be real? Thanks, Gil Elvgren, for making Roxanne belong to us all, to everyone, forever.

Copyright © 2001 Jamie Joy Gatto. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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