TITLE    : Observations
STORYID  : observations
SUMMARY  : Thoughts concerning erotica.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2013-09-27
CATEGORY : reviews-and-essays
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |erotica|


By covering the human body, by concealing its contours and features, by clothing its form, we make fantastic and mysterious what would be otherwise familiar and mundane. A man or a woman, unclothed, is a god or a goddess, an elemental and primeval creature that harkens back to the innocence of the Garden of Evil, but such a figure is also animalistic and sexual, displaying, in lieu of blouses, breasts; instead of trousers, penises or vaginas and buttocks. We know that we are naked beneath our clothes, but our dress allows us to pretend otherwise, to be surprised, even delighted, at undress.

To be nude is to be open, to show one's charms, in all their naked glory. Not only face and hands, legs and feet, but breasts, pubes, vagina, penis, testicles, and buttocks are also displayed, for any and all to see. We can focus our eyes wherever we please, upon nipples, navels, pubic hair, labia, scrotum, or, perhaps, even an anus, now and again. We can admire the sweep and curve, the arch and bow of flesh and the openness of legs normally kept closed. (It helps, immensely, when, naked, we smile.)

A nude is more than his or her own flesh, more than his or her posturing and pose; a man or a woman, naked, is part of his or her environment, and his or her beauty is informed and enhanced by his or her surroundings.

Examples?

Against windows before which a gauzy curtain has been drawn, a woman's delightful nudity is highlighted, and she becomes more than mere naked flesh: she is deified. She looks down, to her left, seemingly holding her breath, expectant of something ineffable. Her arms are at her sides, her legs together, thigh against thigh, the slight dimple of her sex a cleft within the smoothness of her hairless crotch. A strand of pearls falls diagonally across her chest from her right shoulder; parted in its descent by the nipple of her left breast, the string falls behind her hip. One wonders: why stands she here, thus, naked but for a strand of pearls? She is Mystery in the Flesh.

Behind her, shelves, a table and chairs, a marble floor all aswirl, and a yellow cloth that might as well be vinyl as silk, bright as butter and full of draping folds. She commands center stage, naked but for the bright red collar, worn like a bow, and matching gloves and knee-high sox whose lower halves are thick as boots and whose upper halves are nets, the better to catch a lover with. Her body is milk-white and smooth, her hair, worn in a long ponytail, dark chestnut-brown. She is young, but old enough to know the excitement that her nakedness doubtlessly arouses as she stands, buttocks resting against the tabletop, her arms to her sides, balancing her, her legs crossed at the knees. She invites us with her open gaze, advertising herself as a present, tied with a bow the color of which matches the coverings of her hands and legs. The yellow cloth is a halo, contrasting with the deep-red carnality she wears, in bow, in gloves, and in stockings--and in her white and naked flesh. We may invent our own stories to account for the shelves, the table, the chairs, the cloth--narratives matter not a whit, for she is the plot and the theme, the conflict and the climax, all in one.

Breasts are different every time we see them, not only in themselves, but in their exhibition: in profile, they appear different than they do seen head-on; to see them from above is an experience not merely opposite, but entirely different, than seeing them from below; suspended, they are yet again not merely renewed, but new. Even when they are so small as to be little more than nipples, breasts are born again. They never grow tiresome, because, each time they are seen, they are original and newborn. (The same is true, of course, of women's buttocks.)

A woman's body is not only curves, but angles; in fact, the female form is more angular than the male's: with bent elbow, a woman indicates her breast; a bent knee points out the triangle between her legs; a hand lies along a thigh, emphasizing the leg's display; a horizontal forearm contrasts with a vertical pair of buttocks or breasts; hands on hips call attention to the thrust of hips; crossed legs draw the gaze to notched pubes; hands spread at either side of her sex center the eye upon her labia. Women's angular frames, conspiring with slopes and curves, reclaim the wandering eye a thousand thousand times, renewing and reigniting both admiration and desire.

In vain attempts to capture the secrets of woman's loveliness, male (and, sometimes, female) poets compare them to flowers or fawns, finding gold in their tresses and apples or roses in their cheeks; their breasts become hills, their vaginas valleys, their buttocks the shape of the butterfly. Women are blossoms, baby animals, landscapes--and beautiful mysteries unfathomable and unnameable, even in verse and rhyme. 

A woman takes us with her breasts, or, should we approach from behind, with her buttocks; her loveliness catches us, whether we are coming or going.

Women bewitch us with their beauty, charm us with the spell of their glamor, and we are theirs.

A woman's strength is in her looks.

A woman is superior to a man.

Women dominate men, but they do so with such subtlety, grace, and sophistication as to make mere men think that it is they, the captive, who have captured and they, the ruled, who rule!

It is impossible for a man to look upon a naked woman without becoming erect, and his erection testifies to the power of woman's beauty, for it proclaims her might.

To become erect is to be overcome.

A woman is lovely even as a torso, headless or otherwise: her breasts, her sex and her buttocks are all that are truly necessary to men, although a face is fine, too, for fellatio, as are hands for masturbation and massage.

A pair of buttocks, firm and tight, above a pair of stockings dark and ornate: here is the formula for a love spell powerful enough to drain a man of his vital element.

Even in a library, a librarian is naked beneath her clothes.

Outdoors, a woman's nudity is magnified.

Breasts of any size, or none at all, adorn a woman; there is no "right" or "wrong" regarding such d&#xfffd;cor.

In a field full of wildflowers, she, romping naked, is as free, and as carefree, as the wind; indeed, she is the wind.

The wind is in her hair, and her hair is in the wind, and her hair is the wind, as the wind is her hair.

All verse begins and ends with a woman's naked flesh.

She wears but the rope of her captivity, a belt about her waist, and is naked, otherwise, just the way she wants him to want her.

In offering mouth, hand, breast, vagina, and buttocks, a woman claims a man.

Legs extended outward, thighs in opposite directions; knees bent; calves facing one another; toe against toe: the shape she shapes is the shape of she herself, considered as a cunt.

Blonde hair, milk-white naked flesh, stockings pale and pink produce, collectively, an erection and the need for relief.

There is no relief but release.

Untying a bikini, top or bottom, signifies release, and freedom is release; consequently, tying the same article suggests both bondage and captivity. Women bind themselves that they might unbind themselves, tie themselves inside false skins that they might slough off their pretense at modesty.

Breasts, with nipples instead of eyes, would be absurd, were they not gorgeous.

A stare is an invitation. A smile is an invitation. An erect nipple is an invitation. A bare breast is an invitation. A vagina, especially wet, is an invitation. A pair of buttocks are twin invitations. However, a man should always knock before he enters.

A stare is the offer of a contract. A smile is the offer of a contract. An erect nipple is the offer of a contract. A bare breast is the offer of a contract. A vagina, especially wet, is the offer of a contract. A pair of buttocks are both offers of a contract. However, a man should always read the fine print before he signs the dotted line.

To think pink is to think hard.

There are two breasts for the same reason that there are two buttocks: a man has two hands.

What is disrobing? Display? Drama? A gift? An invitation? Release? Empowerment? Self-expression? Consent? Revelation? (The latter, I think, it is always, whatever else it may intend.)

Men may stand at attention, but women command attention.

Women, be careful: men are loaded; men are explosive; men are apt to go off, even half-cocked. Sexually, they are as dangerous as nitroglycerine, and even a little bump and grind are apt to make them go off.

Women drool semen.

A woman's arms, folded behind her head, make a pillow fit for intercourse.

When a woman interviews a man, she does so with her eyes, her breasts, her legs, and her buttocks as much as she does with her mouth and her brain.

Men do not look into a woman's eyes when her breasts are bare.

A woman's hair is her crowning glory, but it may also be a frame for the beauty of her face.

In the sunlight, women do not need jewelry.

A thong has an open secret: its wearer is an empress who has no clothes.

A thong's biggest contribution is its color, whether it is hot-pink, banana yellow, jet black, blood-red, deep purple, or as many hued as the rainbow that lesbians sometimes wear.

When she bends forward at the waist, her forearms upon the boardwalk rail, the sea rolling in upon the shore endlessly, every man wants to mount her, to bathe in her salty ocean, to penetrate the eternal mystery of her liquid womanhood.

Thongs celebrate the naked glory of the feminine derriere.

A vagina, overflowing, is a cataract of sperm.

A strap-on dildo, whether red or purple, pink or green, blue or gray, silver or gold, and whether worn upon the groin or chin, is as handsome, in its own way, as any phallic ejaculation of manhood ever wrought, by nature or by man.

Breasts and boobs are not the same--or are the same as nakedness and nudity.

Observations never stop, for every image of woman--and of man--produce insights, epiphanies, revelations both puerile and profound. Therefore, future posts, concerning the beauties both of women and of men--and of those delightful creatures that are both and neither sex, exclusively, transsexuals--shall no doubt be shared with those who care to meditate upon the deeper implications of sex and gender, nakedness and nudity, and the holiness of erotica and the erotic mind.

