Galeria de Erika Love

Found out it's National Underwear Day at one in the morning and decided immediately that this called for a private fitting. Want to help me pick the next pair?

Even before the sun cleared the buildings the heat was already unbearable, so I stepped onto the balcony with nothing on and let the warm air find every inch of me. What would you do if you were the neighbor who noticed?

The whole apartment smells like coffee and warm skin, and I can't remember why I thought I needed clothes today. Want to come keep me company before the day starts?

Jazz loosened something in me last night and I woke up before the alarm with my fingers already between my thighs. Want to watch me make up for sleeping alone?

Lollapalooza is streaming on my TV and somehow the bass made it through the screen and straight into my body. Tell me you'd rather be here than in that crowd.

It's almost midnight and I gave up pretending I was going to sleep — sheets kicked off, fingers wandering, and now I can't stop thinking about someone watching me finish what I started. Want to see how far I went?

Thursday afternoons hit different — you're close enough to the weekend to taste it, but far enough that pretending you're already there just sets you up for disappointment. So I'm sitting with the tension instead of rushing past it, and honestly it's kind of a nice place to be.

There's a specific kind of surrender that happens around noon on a Wednesday — when the ambitious morning to-do list meets the reality that maybe today is just for soft things, and that's okay.

I've been staring at this blank content calendar for twenty minutes, and I think I finally get why artists talk about the terror of the empty page. It's not that I don't have ideas — it's that I have too many, and choosing one feels like betraying all the others.