You can fuck her. Just don't fuck with her.

Alisa Lapierre lives in "open carry" state—"open" being the operative word. No concealed weapons on this young lady. The only thing she's wearing, aside from a necklace, a few bracelets and anklets, is a pink holster for her gun and ammo belt, where she also carries a knife, some mace, and wallet.

Occasionally she wears pink cuffs on her wrists and anklets and/or a small steel collar—she says it enhances her protection.

Yep, she has nice long hair, decent bare tits, cute bare derrière, bare vulva, and cute high-arched bare feet—clean but for some of the dirt from walking around barefoot.

She has an animal's instincts, or at least a well-developed intuition. You could almost swear she's reading your mind, or at least emotions and intentions—like that Star Trek character Deanna Troi.

If you're intentions are friendly, she'll be friendly. If you just want to look at her, maybe gawk at this nekkid pretty lady—go ahead—it's a free country—somewhat at least—just don't be a pest. If your smile masks an intention to harm her, you might wind up temporarily blind from whatever she sprays in your face, a knee in the crotch, and maybe (as a dedication to Chuck Norris) a footprint-shaped bruise on your face—if you're lucky.

She's probably the kinda gal Camille Pagllia dreams of.

Hard and sweet: Camille Pagllia would like to meet.

Mindful of maintaining fitness, she doesn't drive a car as much as walks, maybe takes a bus or bicycles—she's got a pink bike she sometimes rides, occasionally causing men to walk into utility posts and in one case a guy to crash into the car of some woman to busy texting her Facebook update on her iPhone to notice him coming. (No injuries, just to the pride of the two drivers.)