The Half-Naked Truth
Epiphanies are a funny thing. They are triggered by simple words or actions that you would otherwise ignore.
I say this in remembrance of an incident that took place on a bus not too long ago. Perhaps it was a display more than an incident really, but I leave you to decide. I was on my way to Spanish Town from Half Way Tree. Being pressed for time, I had to forego, albeit quite heavy heartedly, the air conditioned comfort of a JUTC bus. A taxi was out of my price range at that time so I was left with only one other option; taking a coaster. It offered the eager passenger the discomforts and reckless speed of a taxi for the price of a JUTC bus. It was the perfect compromise. On this particular day, the bus drove on the boulevard instead of the usual Molynes Road. As is customary, the conductor queried the destination of every man, woman and child within his hearing. “Spanish Town!?” He got lucky on several occasions, one in particular standing out. She had to step carefully when ascending the bus, not because of any physical malady or any obstacle in her way but because of what she was wearing. I don’t remember anything else but I remember the skirt. Saying the skirt was short would not do justice to the situation. It was well above knee height, barely being below her pelvis.
It was a mere few inches shy of being a wrap-around panty. All eyes were glued on her as the show was about to begin. Only middle seats were available at this point and they were substantially lower than the regular bus seats. She eyed the seat, calculating, I believe, how best to pull off the mammoth task of sitting down. Her skirt may have been short, but she still had a few inches of dignity to maintain. After careful consideration she held on to the skirt (a term I use loosely) and went in for the traditional style of sitting. Back turned, posterior positioned towards seat and knees bent. No good. Half way through the execution, she stood back up. By this time, the snickering had started in true Jamaican fashion. Round two: Seat vs skirt. She decided for an untraditional move little seen in such situations.
Holding on to the back of the seat with her right hand, she turned to the side and attempted it yet again while holding the skirt with her left hand. Once again it was no good. She tried it again with the sides reversed but the results were pretty much the same. As you might have guessed, the audience was truly amused by this time. In a last ditch effort to save face, she combined her two techniques. She went in again with her back turned and when she reached that critical point she turned to the side, pulling down the skirt as she went along. Success at last. She sat down, knees tightly clenched and a slight look of embarrassment spreading across her face. The bus audience, being fully appreciative of her creative display, awarded her valiant efforts with loud peals of laughter.
It was after enjoying a hearty round of laughter that it came to me. Our women are a mere fad or two away from being completely naked. I felt like I had been Paul on Damascus road and now the scales had fallen from my eyes. All the signs pointed to it. Media and pop culture prophesied and promoted it and not so slowly but surely, we are fulfilling it. In a sense, our women are practically naked already. Take leggings for example. Oh those leggings. Those tight fitting, body hugging, almost see through leggings. The shorter the top you wear with it, the more the curiosity peaks. Not the imagination, but curiosity. Some curiosity may even peak larger than others. Imagination, in this day and age, is a thing of the past. Why imagine it when it is already right in front of us? It doesn’t take much to see the gluteus Maximus falling through the bottom of the shorts, the buxom bosoms popping through the top of the blouses, not to mention the perversely printed unmentionable that peeks through the front of the leggings. If that still leads to too much of a stimulant for the already limited imagination, then perhaps a trip to the beach is necessary. It has become a matter of bare as much as you dare. After all, who gets tattoos and piercings just to hide them or goes to the gym five days a week to keep the toned body covered? In this world, it is stiff competition for attention so the fluffy and even the shaggy divas haveto represent as well. They will squeeze into any and all tight spaces in order to outdo their skinnier nemeses and squeeze they do.
It is a competition that men graciously encourage and thoroughly enjoy. Only God knows how you can make a bikini even smaller than it was before. We should start calling them bit-too-teenies. That seems more fitting. Whenever my friends and I go to the beach, they always spend a good portion of the time “fattening their eyes.” They are, of course, males. Who can blame them really? I myself must confess to the occasional glance. I usually have company with me so it has to be limited to but a glance. To not look is to not be a man. It is like a sixth sense. We feel the pull of exposed flesh and our eyes draw us to the source. We don’t always want to look. In reality, some people really have no place being exposed. Justice would be better served if they left everything to the imagination. Sadly, no such luck. We must accept the good with the bad. Our sixth sense does not discriminate against the saggy, the baggy, the wrinkled, the folded, the scarred, the cellulose-riddled or the otherwise plain disgusting. We might not like it when we see it, but we have to look just the same.
The reality is that inside every man there is a pervert, the difference being the degree. Used as a noun in today’s cultural setting, pervert describes anyone who expresses any form of sexual deviancy, preference or inclination whether it is in word or action. Basically, every red blooded heterosexual male. Some men wear their perverseness on their sleeves, baring it for the world to see. For others, it reacts to stimuli. Double D’s have been proven to be great stimuli. You show a dog a bone, he salivates. In this case, the man might end up being the one showing the bone. In essence though, these women that ridicule men for their admiration of their outermost parts are plain hypocritical. True, some men are not very tactful and will render comments that leave so much to be desired but essentially, you asked for it! I fail to believe that a woman spends an hour in the shower and a next hour and a half in front of the mirror just so she can be ignored. True, you may not be vying for the attention of every man, but you still dress expecting attention so deal with it. Our women leave little to be desired and too much to be admired yet they have the gall to call men perverts. If you cover yourself with honey, what right do you really have to complain if you attract flies? I draw the line when personal space is invaded but at the same time if you display a product, you can’t blame the curious consumer for wanting a closer inspection. This would be a good time to mention that my comments, in some cases, take exception to those women who take time to make themselves look good without sacrificing dignity or modesty. You still appeal more to the imagination than you do the curiosity. The exception, however, doesn’t forfeit the rule. On a serious note though, it is a hard time to be a man. A heterosexual man at least. That’s the only one I can speak to. I don’t know if those on the other side of the scale are drawn to the exposed underpants, tight fitting shirts and tight jeans. I can only speak about what I know and what I do know is this; men are drawn to the physical. They may not like your attitude, but they will still admire your body. It can’t be helped. It is encoded in our DNA. Dogs will bark over bones, so imagine what they will do for meat. Men cannot help but to look.
The irony of this generation is so thick it can be cut with a knife. We are waking up more and more to the cries of feminists and supporters of gender equality (something I believe to be a farce but that’s for another article) yet the psyche of our women still seem to be stuck in another era. The display of flesh and promiscuity takes precedence over intellect and a good personality. Women want men to see them for who they are, yet they insist on first showing what they have. Who wants to choose a mystery box when they have an open gift right in front of them? Which man is going to go searching for heart and mind when he is first greeted by breasts and legs in more quantity than at KFC? All things considered, I anticipate a future rise in the stock price of cling wrap. It seems like the next logical step in the world of fashion. It fits the body perfectly; it can be customized and it shows enough to garnermore than adequate attention. It will be a fast paced dress for a fast paced world. Who has time for conversations and wooing and getting to know each other? Not in this world. Show me what you have and if I like it, we’ll work something out. Sure takes the hassle out of it. As a matter of fact, I am considering investing in a line of bottle cap blouses. They’ll be big enough to cover the areolas and will have a Gucci or Baby Phat strap that keeps it in place. More brands will likely be included as sales inevitably increase. It would be a perfect complement to the cling wrap. The panties are still in the embryotic stage. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to get the dental floss to cover everything it is supposed to. It will come to me eventually. Until then, I have my eyes glued to the horizon, looking for the change and wondering what it will be wearing.
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