Archive for the ‘Underwear model.’ Category

Incoherent?

No, there is no such thing as an incoherent prayer,

nor the plaintive rantings of an earnest heart.

Listen, read, carefully,

tune out the background noise,

connect the dots,

wade through the confusion,

and maybe you will understand.

Maybe.

If you do, let me know,

I’d appreciate the insight (I feel like I’m stuck on square one).

Sigh.

*Shit!*

Enlightenment,

like a new pair of shoes,

takes time to fit.

… 

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“I’m sorry, I’ve been ranting, pontificating, rambling, not making much sense. I tend to do it when I’m posing…”

“No!” he said emphatically and smiled. “No, you’re the only sane voice I’ve heard all week. Please, keep talking, I like the sound of your voice, it helps me work.”

“Really? When it comes to work, I prefer silence.” She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, short rapid movements: time to get back into character.

“Okay, right, smile! Now can you cup your breasts? Left hand, right breast, right hand, left… You got it, baby! Excellent! Pout. Mmm Hmm. Yes! Now raise your left eyebrow… *Yes!*…”

Go easy on him, forgive his ambivalence, show some grace: when he doesn’t jump up and down with excitement and joy at your clothing gift for him, no matter the price.

He’s a man, after all, and the only clothes he cares about are women’s clothes and,

one way or another, depending on the kind of man he is,

generally he only cares when women’s clothing is off the woman.

Off.

Yes, off.

Then it’s on for him.

Happiness ensues, so he hopes and believes.

So, show some grace and some skin, then he may be pleased.

When it comes to gifting, less can surely be more.

The borderland, the fine line,

between desperation and motivation,

despair and resignation,

inspiration and lunacy.

 

The borderland, the fine line,

between recognition and destitution,

appreciation and defecation,

ignorance and bliss.

 

The attractive young woman stands on the stage in her pure white underwear. She takes another drink of pure water from her clear plastic bottle. She swallows. Waits, eyes shut. A pause. She hits the sweet spot, feels a coolness then a flush of warmth, and she lets go, releases her bladder, her inhibitions. She urinates in a torrent, the piss seeps then rushes through her panties, the liquid runs down her legs. By now she is detached from the situation but, if anything, she feels a strange kind of pride, she smiles involuntarily. The hollering from the assembled crowd rings through her ears, a blur of men cheering, her eyes find hard to process, through the mist of tears. They’ve got what they paid for. She turns and walks away.

Ah, the key to success for the underwear advert: make it seem as if the models are about to take off their underwear, to rid themselves of the very garment they are promoting. A strange, inverse logic for the marketer. But, of course, sexiness sells, and provided your models are attractive (aren’t they always generally so?), the suggestion that the pretty, young things are about to get naked appeals to most consumers. The rest is up to the imagination. 

Porn in your mailbox, right next to a leaflet about grass cutting and a power bill. The beauty of it is that the guilt rests with you, you sick prick, it’s you who’s having the fantasy about seeing the model naked.

Ah, the power of suggestion. The power of perversion. The power of condemnation.

Sigh, you hope your wife can’t feel the vibe coming out of you as you skip through the underwear pages and pretend to be interested in the kitchen appliances (in privacy, later, you’ll linger longer where the advertizers really want you ensnared – that girl’s crotch, covered, just (but for how long?), her breasts about to be yours as she lifts her top up, up, up … oh, lord, you’re hard, you hope your wife doesn’t notice the bulge in your pants!).